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- Things Are Looking Up
- The Toad
- Wonders of Winter
- A Visit from a Goshawk
- The Hawk and the Titmouse
- More Recent Articles
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Whenever my husband and I walk together in the woods, he is looking up and I am looking down. Up because he is thinking about his woodlands: which trees need thinning, which need to be allowed more light; down, because I am looking for anything that might grow on the forest floor: wildflowers, mosses, lichens, mushrooms, rocks.
Looking down keeps me from catching my toes on surface roots and fallen branches. (My husband is much more sure-footed than I.) But I have decided to look up more often. There’s so much to seeclouds, sky, the stars, bats and birdsthat require leaning back and looking up.
In winter, cloud action has a different energy from that of summer; look up and you will see. The wind in the earth’s troposphere can be quite severe, and when it is, "lenticular" clouds appear more often. These clouds are lens-shaped, concave and smooth with curved tops like a lens. They occur more frequently over tall mountains and out west, but do happen here, just not as often.
One day a few weeks ago, I watched as three lenticular clouds became thinner and more stretched out over the course of 90 minutes. How long they had been there I didn’t know, but they are known to last quite awhile due to their location in the upper atmosphere and strong, circulating winds that swirl around mountain tops.
The smooth, rounded shapes may even pile neatly, one on top of another, making layered lentil-shaped clouds. Add a touch of color as occurs sometimes due to light and dust in the air, and…magic! Going back to my high school meteorology lessons, the more frequent denizens of the sky are delightful also, a sky full of mackerel cirrus or pink cumulus clouds make any day better. Look up.
Last September, in that too-brief time when summer-like conditions returned, I witnessed a spectacular sight that was seen all up and down the Asquamchumakee or Baker River Valley just south of the White Mountains.
Planting bulbs with my back to the sky and Carr Mountain, a light shower began just as the sun was setting in the west. I moved under an ancient apple tree waiting for the rain to pass. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but sunlight continued to spill over the low mountains to our west.
Suddenly, a rainbow began to appear in the northern sky, first faint and then full strength color arcing across the horizon. I dashed for my camera and got some great shots. At times it was a double rainbow and lasted much longer than usual. The combination of water droplets and sunlight at a low angle made for an amazingly bright and vivid rainbow.
The immediacy and rarity of such a sight left me feeling as though I alone had viewed it. Later, in speaking with others from up and down our valley, I was amazed to discover that many had shared my experience across at least three towns. Now, I was not alone but a member of a special club. Good thing I looked up, or I would’ve missed it all.
Looking up can also reap views of intrigue and adventure in the bird world. While looking up the other day I was fortunate enough to see a light-colored hawk being chased by several crows. The insouciance of the hawk with its mocking, leisurely glide and the raucousness of the harpy-like crows made me laugh out loud.
Later, studying some field guides to the birds, a northern goshawk seemed the likely upstart I would not have seen if I hadn’t looked...up.
Last winter, while filling a bird feeder I heard a slight noise from above, and when I looked up there sat a barred owl in broad daylight and in all of its feathery glory. I watched it for more than an hour from the relative warmth of my shed door as it waited patiently for mice and other prey. When it dove, it did so with a sureness and speed I wouldn’t have imagined. And, when it ascended to its perch, a tail dangled from its mouth. Breathtaking! Look up.
Sometimes, the reminder to look up comes from the source of wonder itself. While I was loading the birdfeeders again, a hairy woodpecker skimmed the top of my head as it dove from one tree to a nearby bush to feed on suet. I still remember with a shiver down my back the thrum of his wings, and the swoosh! of skimming feathers. Whether or not he meant to “buzz” my head, I felt as though he did mean his warning peek! for me and me alone! Translation: Look up!
Communing with nature resonates throughout our lives and enhances our days on this earth. That special connection to nature reminds us as humans we aren’t alone on our planet and in our natural environment. To reaffirm this, I’ll continue looking down but also occasionally remind myself to look up.
By Helen Downing, Master Gardener
The Toad perched on my birdfeeder in early February, his beak in the air, eyeing the mealworms I put out every day for the bluebirds, was actually a robin. I called him Toad because he stood there giving me the quiet stare of a toad.
The robin is the first sign of spring, but it certainly wasn't spring. I didn't realize this robin sighting was going to turn into a confrontation. Sure he'd eat from the feeders, I figured, probably go for the suet. But before he left, we had quite a skirmish, and that robin learned to count to three.
Our first encounter happened as I was sitting in my observation chair on a snowy day, surrounded by bird books and needlepoint watching the large flocks of pine siskins and counting the adorable bluebirds posed on the mealworm station. Swoosh, chirp, chirp, chirp, and Toad had scared away the bluebirds and was sitting on the edge of the dish with three mealworms in his beak.
"Oh, this could be a problem! But maybe he'll go away," I thought. But another swoosh and he was at it again. My first concern was that he might stay all winter and it was only February. At the rate he ate mealworms, I'd have to use our 401k to feed both him and the blues. Anxiety was taking over. I was going to have to come up with a plan to get this bird to move on.
Possible solutions ran through my brain. Could I screen him out? (But how would the bluebirds eat?) Maybe lure the blues to the back of the house with another mealworm station? (Not sure they would find it.)Try to feed each species at different times of the day? (Birds can't tell time.) I was getting desperate as days went by and Toad kept making his attacks.
When all seemed to be lost, it dawned on me: Maybe I could train him to take only a few and then leave.
I knew he could see me in the window, as he had tried several times to stare me down. (He usually blinked first.) What if I could get him to count to three, the number of worms I'd allow him to take at any single swoosh? Worth a try.
First attempt, Toad came to the feeding station, perched on the edge and looked at me. He took one worm, paused, and looked at me. He did it again with a little more confidence, still giving me the eye. One more attempt, and I jumped at him waving my arms. He flew off.
Within five minutes he was back again, looking for me in the window. I was there. He moved in for the first mealworm and paused back on the edge. The second attempt went well, but with the third he took the mealworm, looked at me, and before I could yell, he was gone.
The next day dawned cold and clear. I heard his chirp, chirp, before 6 a.m. Not yet ready for battle, I snoozed until 8, knowing there weren't any mealworms in the dish. At 8, I put out 20. Toad had been eyeing me from the gutter, appearing to casually admire the view while secretly making plans for his next meal. Swoosh, there he was. He made his first attempt, then confidently caught his second and third. With the third in his beak, though, he didn't leave, just sat there looking at me. When he moved in for a fourth, I yelled! Stunned, he took off.
Well, Toad was smart but not as smart as I was. He figured out when there was no one in the window, it was open season-push out the bluebirds and party on. I decided to slow down his gorging by propping something human-like in my chair. Out came an old three-foot-tall stuffed doll that had belonged to my daughter.
While the doll didn't have my personality, she did fill the chair, giving a fairly good impression. Now the acid test: Will she scare off Toad?
For the next two days, the doll worked pretty well. Toad took his three mealworms, and I didn't have to yell at him. We even got into counting together, one and he looked up, two and he looked up, and three and he took off.
Wow! Maybe this was going to work. The doll in my chair slowed down the decimation of mealworms, and Toad had learned to count. For now, we'd struck a detente.
Unfortunately, Toad figured out the doll trick, and I was back to square one. What was I going to do now? I didn't have to come up with a new strategy.
Toad suddenly disappeared. He simply vanished. No more chirp, chirp. Gone. I must say I was a little hurt. Why would any bird leave such a choice location? But the blues were back and everything returned to normal.
By Suzy Martin, Master Gardener
For Christmas my grandsons (with some help from their Dad) made me a bird feeder. The design is simple: an open frame about a foot square with a screen on the bottom, suspended from the four corners by cords that attach to a loop about two feet above the frame.
We hung the feeder on a small branch of a young beech tree, high enough so we could just reach to fill it, high enough (we hoped) to be out of reach of the deer, and far enough from the trunk to discourage the cat from exploiting the situation. The south-facing windows both upstairs and down provide a front row seat for observers. We poured a couple of quarts of sunflower seeds onto the screen and awaited the verdict of the intended beneficiaries.
In no time a flock of finches arrived. They mobbed the feeder, and those who couldn’t get the first bite waited impatiently, an unruly crowd pushing and shoving, a flying dance among the branches. The tree, in midwinter, sprouted feathered leaves, flying off all at once for no apparent reason, only as far as the adjacent maple. Soon they were back, twittering and competing for a place at the banquet.
Chickadees and tufted titmice hang around, taking a turn when the finches depart for a spell. Occasionally a nuthatch visits, although he seems to prefer the fancier and less crowded feeder outside the kitchen window.
Watching the finches is endlessly fascinating. On my window is a small feeder, only large enough for two or at most three birds at a time. Sometimes one will decide he is king of the castle and aggressively defend his throne, even sacrificing opportunities to feed as he fends off interlopers. But eventually he also flies off, and another, and yet another take his place. The little feeder requires frequent replenishment.
Winter is a special time on our hill. When the leaves drop in October, the view changes markedly. Sunrise, masked in summer by the foliage, can be dramatic, and it comes late enough that 7 a.m. risers like me can enjoy it. The distant hills and small lakes become visible. The lakes, blue before they freeze over, later appear as white, open spaces.
We who love winter are thought a bit odd by those who complain endlessly of the cold, snow and ice. But the changing seasons are a source of constant wonder. No other season offers anything that compares with the brightness of a moonlit night on fresh snow. Shadows of the bare trees create a chiaroscuro on the open field. The structure of the landscape is visible from the road stone walls, icy streams, boulders. The fields of 19th century farmers reveal themselves, although most are overgrown now, often with mature trees.
A true sign of spring, in mid-February, is activity in the sugar bush. A warm sunny day brings the sap up in the maple trees, and sugar makers get ready for the year’s first harvest. Deer trails course through the forest, reminding us of the constant life that inhabits what may seem a dead landscape.
The goldfinches, mobbing my feeders, begin to discard their drab winter plumage for their yellow garments, in preparation for spring rituals. The chickadee whistles his spring song, sometimes even on a warm day in January. The piliated woodpecker loudly declares his territory with a persistent drumbeat and occasional screech. Neighbors report flocks of robins, and even a bluebird is heard by the beginning of March.
Some years, a cold, snowy March brings January (and the mobs of finches) back in earnest. But it also brings the sun, brighter and warmer, shining through the south-facing windows, giving the furnace and wood stove a rest for several hours during the day.
I know the snow will melt, the skis will return to the basement, and the streams will awaken, roaring through the sugar bush. Making an expedition to check the sap lines becomes an adventure with a sometimes-soggy interlude.
Spring birds will return in earnest, and the finches will find food in the forest, while newcomers, the red-breasted grosbeak and the oriole, will honor my offerings, joining the ever-present chickadees and nuthatches and the charming tufted titmouse.
By Carolyn Baldwin, Wildlife Coverts Cooperator
I’d finished brushing my teeth. Glancing out the bathroom window I saw it a magnificent bird of prey, perched quietly on a tall tree at the edge of the woods. I keep a pair of binoculars at the ready for just such sightings they came in handy now. Oh, what a grand creature!
When it turned its head slightly to follow the path of a blue jay, a dark streak above the eye showed clearly. The breast and tail were light; what I could see of the sides of the body appeared gray. Most of the legs were covered by feathers as the bird sat in the bright sunshine of a bitter cold day. I hoped these markings would be enough for me to identify the bird. For now, I was just enjoying the sight of it.
The blue jay wasn’t alone in keeping tabs on the predator. A second jay was cawing from a nearby tree. The first one sat for a while, cocking its head at the much larger bird, then flew right in front of it to another tree. After a while, it flew back, again, directly in the line of vision of the hulking light gray ghost. Clearly, the jays wanted to harass the hawk, but it refused to rise to the bait.
Meanwhile, all around were goldfinches, chickadees and titmice. They appeared totally unconcerned about the sharp talons and ripping beak poised not far above them. They continued feeding at my many feeders, arguing among themselves, and moving rapidly from one feeder to another. A chickadee or titmouse would grab a sunflower heart then fly off to a tree to feed. The finches jostled one another then suddenly flew off to sit atop the tall fir near the house. There half a dozen swirled around, startling each other off branches before the entire lot returned to the feeders. Clearly they didn’t see themselves as brunch.
Indeed, they were so small that each one could serve only as an hors d’oeuvre to the larger bird. It would take more than a couple of finches to fill that stomach. Suddenly, a movement low to the ground caught my eye. A gray squirrel was cautiously moving down the trunk of a fir. The mammal was in the shadow, with the trunk of the tree between it and the hawk. I doubted that even the clear eye of the predator could see this movement. The gray shadow quickly hopped across the snow and under the low, spreading branches of another fir. There it could wait out the threat in safety.
Our house sits in an ideal spot for wildlife watching. The area immediately around it has been minimally cleared some tall trees removed for safety and sunshine in the frontbut we’ve left or planted many shrubs with pathways of growth leading into the surrounding woods. Below, to the northeast, is a beaver impoundment home to herons, snapping turtles and many birds, as well as the beaver families who maintain two dams and several lodges. Visitors include otter, deer, bear, moose, fox and bobcat. The interaction and antics of the animals have provided us with many hours of pleasure.
The pleasure of this visit continued. After watching for a while, I ran into the next room and grabbed the camera. Snap! Got it! Yet the bird seemed content to stay for a while longer, so I quickly dashed to the camera bag and swapped lenses the zoom would really bring it in and allow me a better opportunity for identification.
For the next 10 minutes, I snapped and watched. The jays continued their mildly annoying tactics. Finally, the hawk had had enough. As I watched, it spread its wings, pushed off from the branch while adroitly turning 180 degrees, then flew off into the woods, threading its way between the branches as easily as I stitch together a seam. The jays discontinued their vigil and joined the small songbirds at the feeders below.
The pictures I’d taken were clear. The bird did indeed have a blackish crown and cheek with a clear white stripe over the eye. Based on the known size of the nearby blue jay, we estimated the predator’s length as two feet or more. Its light breast and gray back indicate it had to be a northern goshawk. A giant compared to the tiny chickadees and finches, it appeared regal and august as it sat above them, surveying the domain.
I hope I see it again soon.
By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener
Glancing out of my observation window in the living room, I saw a grey ball of feathers looking somewhat like a tufted titmouse, but this one had no tufts. The tiny bird had flattened his tufts, making himself as small as he could by hunkering down next to a branch on the lilac near my window. His eyes were as big as saucers; dark round pools of fear looking straight up at the sky.
Looking out the window I saw that Stumpy, the Eastern grey squirrel who lives in my backyard feasting on the remains of the feed from the birdfeeders, was also frozen in his tracks near the bird feeder, looking straight up. Hmmm, what’s up here? There was no one at the bird feeder; no sounds of goldfinches squabbling as they usually do or woodpeckers zipping in and out.
Living in a rural/suburban New Hampshire border town, I had never witnessed such behavior at my bird feeders. My birds fly in and out like most seed-loving birds, fight over the best spot, and in general have a good time. At night, I might have the occasional skunk or raccoon digging around my foundation for grubs or a deer or two munching on the hostas. That’s about all the wildlife I see, unless you count the turkeys and doves and the invasion of chipmunks that everyone has. But this behavior was different.
Gladly dropping what I was doing, I picked up my camera and headed for the screened porch, quietly watching the little titmouse wishing he were the size of a walking stick. I think if I’d tried to pry him lose he wouldn’t have let go.
Scanning the nearby trees, I saw ita hawk, looking cool and confident of his next meal, perched on the branch at attention, slowing turning his head to take in the view. My camera in hand, set on continuous shutter speed, I found him in my screen and started shooting. Click, click, click. I must have gotten 30 exposures before he took off.
Looking around again for him, I saw him swoop, and Bam! Yellow, black, and white feathers drifted down from near the birdfeeder as he flew upward, the tiny body of an unlucky goldfinch hanging from his beak. Stumpy was still flat on the ground with one eye towards the sky and the titmouse was still holding fast to his branch.
The fear in the body of the titmouse told its story. The appearance of a hawk shadow causes these precious little birds to hide with fear and exhibit abnormal behaviors such as allowing me to photograph him so close, when he would have normally flown at the mere sound of the sliding door opening.
So who was the guy terrorizing my feeding station? From the field guide and my digital photos, a Cooper’s hawk, a small 14-inch by 20-inch, with a tail rounded at the tip. But what was he doing here in my suburban backyard? In the 10 years we've lived here, I’ve never seen a hawk, and according to the guide these hawks prefer deciduous forest near open fields for their hunting grounds, not backyards.
Reading further, I learned that some Cooper’s hawks have discovered the backyard bird feeder as a hawk supermarket.
But the fear Stumpy displayed puzzled me, as he looked to me to be too big for a small Cooper’s hawk to even think about having for dinner, especially since Cooper’s hawks aren’t normally found in suburban areas where a lot of squirrels dine at bird feeders. Reading further, it appears small mammals are also on their menu as hawks with sharp beaks tear the flesh of their prey rather than gulping it whole like owls, making any live animal they can carry fair game.
After the attack and the settling of the feathers, the titmouse slowly turned his head to survey the trees, released his vise-grip on the tree branch, shivered as if he had dodged a bullet, and flew away to live another day. Stumpy, not as alarmed by the Cooper’s Hawk as the titmouse, straightened himself out, scratched his fur and starting looking for more leftover bird seed. Gradually the squabbling goldfinches came back, as did the woodpeckers and chickadees. Bird life was back to normal.
By Suzy Martin, Master Gardener
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