I'toomisttayi Ksisskstaki

IIII ) llllll Magpie Roost (12Mar11)

1614 Walking out the back door and heading down for a dusk excursion in our home coulee. With today's warm weather, I just can't sit inside any longer. But I feel a bit naked, having determined to travel light and leave my camera gear back home. Only so much an iPhone can do in that regard

1632 It was a sloppy, muddy mess walking along the dirt road to get out here on the coulee ridge. But as soon as I got onto the grass, that all changed. Along the particular ridge I'm walking, there are several lichen-covered stone cairns. Impossible for me to know whether they were set like this pre-colonization, or whether a farmer who used to work this ridge piled them here. I suspect the latter because they are all at edge of drops into the coulee draws, they're not grown over with sumac, and they don't seem sunken enough. Still, I'm just a short walking distance from an ancient turtle effigy with some of the same ledge-side characteristics. And if the farmer did put them here, no doubt these rocks belonged to tipi rings or other effigies in the past

1706 I head to the farthest draw first, the one dropping down from the turtle effigy, because this is one area I haven't scoped out too often, and I'm always hoping to come across one of the coyote dens. It's a massive area though, this draw, and would require many visits over a period of years to get to know thoroughly. It's walls are fairly steep, though not by appearances. Only in trying to descend do they reveal their true nature. My drop into this draw begins on a brushy drift, where I come across a white-tailed jackrabbit, still very much in his winter fur. Below this brush is an area of tall canary grass, which means there's plenty of moisture. It's probably where the drainage from the rim comes close to the surface. On the lower outskirts of this canary grass, I flush four gray partridge into flight. They are moving in pairs, so I suspect them to be couples

1742 Running along the bottom of the draw is a dense ribbon of chokecherry and hawthorn. It's hard to navigate with my large body, but there are signs that the ring-necked pheasants have no problem maneuvering through. When I first hit this brush, I encounter three female redpolls, and as I cluts my way through, a chickadee follows, giving alarm calls. Right before the chokecherries open to the river at the base of the draw, I find several trees in a tight cluster that are obviously serving as the night roost for some bird, I suspect Derrick's magpie friends. The slender, lower branches of these trees are just dripping in white dung stalactites

1813 At the river, I move downstream, stopping by the shoreline beaver lodge before heading up the next draw. The Oldman is still pretty much iced-over, though there are a few, small open holes, and there's significant puddling on the surface. There are no open holes at all by the beaver lodge

1835 The draw closest to the beaver lodge will lead me straight back home. The climb is a bit more forgiving than the one I descended. But there's a deep crevasse at the bottom for the first third of the way up, thick with chokecherry and dogwood. At the top of this crevasse is a small spring. I'm checking out this spring when I notice a lot of magpie calls suddenly erupting just a little ways above me. It's Derrick's friends, coming in to a communal night roost in some brush by the coulee rim, about half way up the draw. I try to sneak up for a closer look, using a hill to shield myself from their vision. Of course they eventually notice me though and take wing, twenty or more birds, passing over into the next draw, the one I descended. I wonder if they're at those poo-covered chokecherries. A few minutes after they depart, a lone bird comes looking for them, giving triple calls. When they don't respond, it glides away down to the river, giving more calls, in search of them

IIII ) lllllll I'toomisttayi Ksisskstaki (13Mar11)

1449 Sspopiikimi - even though it's only been a week, feels like I haven't been here in forever. Today's the first occasion since winter started that I haven't felt the need to wear snow pants. Not that it's especially warm... I've just walked the west length of the pond and it's still entirely frozen-over. But after the chill we've experienced, a degree or two above zero feels pretty comfortable

1525 I move immediately to the owl wood, thinking that if they're not here today, perhaps I'd walk upriver to the next patch of forest, to see if I could find them nested there. The owl wood is fairly flooded with snow melt, a good test of my waterproof hiking boots. And when I get to the leaning tree, sure enough there's one here. I think it is one of last year's babies, either that or the skinny male. He's small for a great-horned, and he allows me to pass very close underneath him. No female though, that I can find, certainly not on the nest. All the more reason to suspect that this is one of the yearlings

1543 As I move through the owl wood, there are quite a few geese passing over head, small groups of twenty at most, sometimes only a single couple, but many waves. From the direction of the high-level bridge, I hear a familiar sound - the aapsspiniiksi are fighting over claims to each of the eight concrete bridge anchors that are far enough out into the river to have appeal as nesting sites. Indeed, when I arrive on the scene, there are seven couples all shouting out their respective claims and raising an uproar at any of their kind who pass overhead

1623 A male merganser, miisa'ai, flies low over the squabbling aapsspini just before I walk away from the bridge. It appears he's headed far downriver, so I move back into the owl wood to explore a rotting log I'd noticed on my way through the first time. Finding nothing of interest in a cursory check of the outer layers of the log's wood, I continue on and eventually pass over the levee to the south-pond spring. Here I find not only the merganser, but two male goldeneyes as well. They're all fishing, the goldeneyes faring a little better (I suspect) than their returned arrived friend. While the merganser paddles about in the small expanse of shallow springwater, ducking his head under to look for fish, the goldeneyes take long dives under the ice to the north of the spring. Several times as I watch, I see the merganser observing the goldeneyes, swimming up to the edge of the ice where they're diving, and even dipping his head to have an underwater peek at their activities. Why the merganser doesn't give it a go himself, I've no idea. Probably he doesn't like the idea of having ice over his head

1641 The sight of the merganser at the spring gets me curious as to who might be found along the ribbon of open water at the cutbank where I suspect the kingfisher is living (though I haven't seen or heard from her for at least a month). I walk over that way, dropping down from the levee to find more flooding. They coyotes took down a deer here recently, and the magpies cleaned it, nothing but tufts of fur remain. As I come into view of the water ribbon, I startle a goldeneye pair. They whistle-wing across the river to another open site, and there they land close to two male goldeneyes

1705 With the overcast skies, daylight in the coulee is already dimming, and along with it the birds are beginning to sing. It sounds like there are many species in the forest main, but when I again cross the levee and drop down into the trees I find just one - the European starling. The forerunners of the migration have returned. They are mimicking the songs and calls of catbirds, redtail hawks, killdeer, and a whole assortment of southern birds I don't recognize

1734 I hike through the forest main and back up onto the levee at north-pond. Fro

This vantage, way across the ice I spot what appears to be I'toomisttayi, the first to dive, a beaver at a little hole an impossible distance from the lodge. This I have to see up close! I rush to circle around north-pond and get over to that bit of open water. At some point when I'm not watching, the beaver slips back under the ice. But indeed he was here. I find freshly chewed pieces of bulrush at the site. Hoping he'll emerge again, I set up the video camera and move toward south-pond, where there's a lone goose vociferously laying claim to big island. Yes, yes, yes, the seasons are absolutely shifting

1751 On my way back from the goose, I count my strides from the point where I'm parallel with the ksisskstakioyis to the bit of open water. If my stride is a meter long, Iitoomisttayi swam more than two-hundred and seventeen to reach this access to open air. An incredible accomplishment!

1801 Well, doesn't appear as though he's going to dare that swim again right away, so I'm heading out very satisfied with the events I've witnessed

Kakanottsstookii Incubates

II Kakanottsstookii Incubates (4Mar11)

1058 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - Heading down to the floodplain in this cold and snow with just a few flexible items of agenda. First, I want to return to the log that paahpakssksisii showed me a few weeks back, where all the delicious borer larva live. Then I want to check on the owl nest and see if anything's shaking yet. And finally, I'll walk the brush of the oxbow drainage and maybe come home at the end of the day with a porcupine or rabbit

1021 Pretty certain now that the moon we've arrived at is Piitaiki'somm, and that the one we've just passed was Saommitsiki'somm. I was fully expecting a rapid thaw at the end, that the owls would start nesting, and the swans return. It never happened. Instead, the deep freeze returned, and so my figuring is that it was the deceptive moon that comes around every four years or so. However, by my records, the last Saommitsiki'somm we had was three winters ago, right at the end, pushing Matsiyikkapisaiki'somm into summer (as it will be this round). One of my phenology students reported the other week seeing that the bald eagle nest on the west Buttes held a single egg. But the egg disappeared before his next visit. So at least that pair of eagles were giving it a try. Perhaps they then realized that the weather would not be favorable, an are waiting to start over this moon

1116 The hike down the slope is fairly uneventful. Everything is covered in blinding-white, fresh snow, that's still falling. With the exception of one set of recent coyote tracks, I've been squinting my eyes, observing very little, and just focusing on maintaining my footing

1151 At the tree-line, where coulee slope meets the upstream end of the floodplain, I come across two porcupines. As I might have expected, given all the snow, they are high in the cottonwood, munching on bark. Within sight of them is my grub log, and I set to work trenching into the rotten wood with a strong knife. Not long into my search, I hear the familiar tappings of a hoary woodpecker. A female had come out to join me in the search for borer larva. But unlike myself, she is searching high on the cottonwood trunks... and is probably having greater success

1234 After forty minutes of digging, I've found only one borer larva, plus a hibernating caterpillar and beetle. But I can't give up, I know they are here. It was a mistake to leave my crowbar up at the vehicle. A hunting knife just isn't very conducive to tearing apart frozen logs. All the while that I work, the taps of the woodpecker and the gnawing sounds of the porcupine eating bark remind me that I'm not alone, just inept

1334 Another hour of gouging with the knife turns up only three more borer larva, plus another caterpillar and a centipede. I photograph the latter together with the previous caterpillar and beetle, hoping eventually to learn more about the many insects who utilize these logs. They are no doubt indebted to the borer larva who weaken and bring down these trees in the first place. I'd like to continue my search, but it is slow going for minimal reward. The best technique I've learned so far is to simply watch the hoary woodpeckers and break open the logs immediately where they're feeding. Next time I return, it will be with the crowbar. For now, I want to check on the owls before ascending the slope again

1423 The snow has ceased, the Sun is out, and nesting season has officially begun at Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko!! Mother kakanottsstooki is incubating on the same canopy platform above the forest meadow that she uses every year. I scout around a bit for the father as well, but can't seem to find him. All the same, I'm excited. I wait all winter for this day - the surest sign that, no matter how cold it is, the summer is approaching, and the owls know it

III Flatheaded Borer Larva (5Mar11)

1308 Heading to Sspopiikimi soon, to check on whether there's any nesting activity in the owl wood. Looking forward to seeing all the newborns to come, emerging into a world comprised of the bodies of their ancestors. I am sometimes very aware of this reality at the pond. When death touches us, it is traumatic, so too for all the animals. Our current way of negotiating this trauma, us humans in North America, is to experience the loss, shed our tears, and then give some strangers a lot of money to manipulate and eventually hide the body. I won't get into details, because it's sick and depressing, and we all know the few legal options we are allowed. But what I see at the pond is something of a beauty that generates out of the trauma. When an animal passes away, there is very little the family can do other than mourn over the deceased, as Mahoney and I have witnessed on occasion. Take for instance the beavers. They normally die of old age or accident rather than predation. After the mourning, their bodies may sit in the water for a season or more, with family members passing by every day. Eventually, little by little, their bodies become the water and the other animals who live there. Everything in the beaver's world is made up in part from it's ancestors, and the ancestors of all the other creatures who reside there. It is the same for us, except that our world has been robbed of all the recent ancestors, their bodies crypted, contained, disallowed to become us. When I walk around at the pond, I see that all the death is becoming life. There's something about this phenomenon that's so powerful, I can't even find words to describe it

1427 Sspopiikimi - bitter cold, with a freezing breeze, the kind of day I'd as soon stay indoors, were it not for my curiosity about whether the kakanottsstooki couple of the owl wood are nesting. I've just walked the shale trail of the west bank, passing signs of recent human, dog, coyote, deer mouse and vole activity

1506 Aside from a lone coyote trail and a ring-necked pheasant rooster who takes wing as soon as I drop into the owl wood, there is no recent sign of animal presence here at all, not even that of mice. The latter might explain why a thorough search from one end of the wood to the other, and back again, turns up no owls either. I look especially carefully at both nesting platforms, but the birds are nowhere to be found and, as such, I can only assume that they've opted to nest elsewhere, as they did last year. They could be farther upstream, or on the other side of the river. Perhaps we'll be lucky though, and find that they've set up in the old hawk nest above the wet meadows. That will be the next site I check

1523 When I rise out of the owl wood onto the levee walk, I see that the open water crag on the Oldman River has shrunk considerably. This brought my thoughts immediately to the south-pond spring. So before heading into the forest main, I go to investigate. As predicted, the open water of the spring has shrunk as well. It is now only a foot square at most. There's no way our wintering kingfisher could be hunting here now. Her only option might be to hover on the wing over the open river crag, but I very much doubt she'd have the energy to do so in this freeze. The scenario does not bode well for her. I wouldn't be at all surprised to find her deceased in one of the cutbank cavities

1601 It was a nice thought, that the owls might take up in the old hawk nest... but they have not, and I know of no other platforms around Sspopiikimi that would be large enough for them. I suspect they are still near, perhaps just across the river. With that ticked off my list of possibilities, I next turn to deciding whether to look for the kingfisher in her cutbank chambers, or whether to open up an interesting looking log that has lots of borer holes. I choose the latter, and for the next while dig through layers of wood and borer waste. I find no poplar borer grubs, but I do come across another, larger, unidentified beetle larva, very alien in appearance - with a large, flat head and long white body

1626 Not wanting to entirely dismiss the issue with the kingfisher, I decide eventually to walk away from the log and go check the cutbank. I'm glad I do, because what I find is that the bit of open water that one of the magpies showed me some time back, which I assume would have resealed, has actually extended to span a good distance along the cutbank where I'm sure the kingfisher lives. In other words, as the spring and mid-river crag grew smaller and smaller, the bit of open, running water along the sharp cutbank has grown. Why it has done so, I cannot explain, but I'm sure the kingfisher's still alive as a result. I make a cursory check of some of the cavity nests in an attempt to find her, but leave those directly above the running water alone, not wanting to fall in

1745 After the cutbank, I return to work on the log, finding another of the same unidentified beetle larva, as well as a fully pupate (though very dead, judging by it's hollow feel) adult poplar borer. As I work, dusk begins to take over the coulee, and with frozen toes I determine finally to make my way back to the car and depart

Note: Upon returning home, I did some internet research and found that the longer larvae I saw today belong to the flatheaded or metallic poplar borer. This is the beetle that I’ve simply been calling “poplar borer” all along, and the one we see in adult form quite often at Sspopiikimi. The beetle that actually carries this abbreviated name, and that which the hoary woodpecker showed me the larvae of at Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko, is a longhorn. We’ve never seen the adult form of that one, but obviously it too is around

IIII Reading The Signs, Working The Surface (6Mar11)

1303 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - beautiful day, cold but not too cold, and sunny. We had planned to go to the pond, Mahoney and I. But she hasn't been feeling well lately, and so I'm by my lonesome again, heading down the big slope at the confluence

1325 Only half-way down from the coulee rim, and already I can feel my energy quickly draining away. I won't be looking forward to climbing back up again later. For now though, I need to push those thoughts aside. As I descend, I'm noting all the tracks: white-tailed jackrabbit, coyote, mule deer, vole, deer mouse. Figure today might be good for trying to follow some of these to the coyote den location. If I find a really fresh trail, I might just give it a shot

1348 The only fresh tracks I find (i.e. those made after the snow ceased this morning) are from a porcupine. I pick them up in the sagebrush flats and follow them right to the treeline. The animal is sitting in the same cottonwood where I saw her two days ago. The other one who was down here, on a neighboring tree, has vacated, and his trail covered over. I do want to follow the flood canal this afternoon, in search of other residents of this forest. But I can't help stopping off for now at the main grub log. Digging through these few old logs the last couple weeks is like treasure hunting. I can't even guess what hibernating insects and larva I might find today. Each session is teaching me more and more about the variety of life that depends on these borer-felled trees. There are hundreds if not thousands of such logs in this old floodplain

1506 My very first stab at the log brings out something I'd hoped to find, after yesterday's revalation that there's a distinction to be made between the poplar borer and the flatheaded or metallic borer. I had only ever seen the former in it's adulthood, and so was intrigued that the boring larvae here at Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko differed from that at Sspopiikimi. It seems the poplar borer is a long-horned beetle I've never really encountered. But today, right off to bat, I find on in it's pupating chamber, dead and dry just like the metallic one I found at Sspopiikimi yesterday. In any case, the confirmation of this beetle's presence keeps me digging deeper and deeper into the bore chambers at one end of the log, and before I know it an hour has passed in which I've found only several hibernating centipedes and a fly... though I must say, I was pleased with the fly, something new. I was beginning to feel like a gambling addict, continuing to pour my energies toward to very occasional pay-off when, almost ready to leave, I decided to break off some wood at a different spot on the log. Immediately, I found two large borer larva within an inch of the surface. This made sense. The woodpeckers never worked as deep as I have been. I would think that a borer in the latter, fatter stages of it's larva youth would tend toward the surface, where it could easily escape after pupating. Now I want to check more of this near-surface region to test the hypothesis

1544 Yes, this is indeed one of the keys... sticking close to the surface and moving only over that part of the log featuring the most borer holes (and not incidentally that with wood more easily plied, but not yet eaten to dust), I was able to find five more fat borer grubs in no time at all. I also found adult pupates of both species, lending some credence to the notion that this near-surface is where the older larva migrate to. I am satisfied now, and ready to move on, perhaps testing this technique on other logs elsewhere

1638 The Sun is low on the horizon, painting everything in the coulee gold on one side, casting long shadows on the other. I have been walking the oxbow canal, thick brush full of sikaaatsisttaiksi, with the occasional kai'skaahp gnawing bark in the canopy above. As I've gone along, I've kept an eye out for more logs with signs or borer and recent woodpecker activity. There has been a downy woodpecker following me, and each time I stop to survey a log it laughs mockingly. I'm currently experiencing some auditory hallucinations, a very subtle chorus of the summers past, crickets and other insects, birds who haven't returned yet. It's almost ghostly. Two sounds that are not hallucinated though are the honks of geese following the Oldman River, and the triple-call of a nearby magpie. Is the magpie tattling to me about the presence of some nearby animal? Or is he telling another predator about me?

1721 I follow the magpie's voice, but it flies away at my approach. All the same, I leave a few strips of bacon that I've been carrying in my pocket for these, my favorite of birds. I set the bacon exposed on a stump and head out of the forest, toward the coulee cliffs. Just as I'm about to ascend, I see one last log with all the signs - borer lines and holes, and recent woodpecker digging. I use the surface scour technique and move along the most visibly active side of the log, and quickly turn up half a dozen more grubs, one of them the flat-headed variety. Unfortunately, at one point I also break through to a hollow center, or not so much hollow as filled to the brim with nesting material of a deer mouse, mostly the cottony heads of Canada thistle. Checking the end of the log, I now see where it's entrance is, and I feel bad about having broke through it's wall... although it is a very long chamber, six feet at least, so I'm sure the mouse family will get by

1759 The hike back up to the coulee rim is every bit as wearisome as anticipated, but one foot over the other eventually delivers me to the top, and I'm glad I decided to come out, because - as with almost every visit I've ever made - the place has taught me something today

Four Forays In Central Park

IIII ) llllllllllllllllll Pale Male And Beauty (23Feb11)

0606 Central Park - I felt my body being violently shaken at about forty- five minutes ago. Perhaps it was a ghost, or Mahoney (who happened to be messaging me just about then to encourage my rising), or maybe it was just that part of me waiting to see the park at dawn. Either way, my timing is perfect. One of the pale hawks is waiting for me at the tree-line

0650 I don't know if it's Pale Male or Pale Beauty. I'll have to compare my photos with some of the ones Marie Winn has online later. But at first I think it might be a long-eared owl. I can't believe my luck that it's one of the hawks I've hoped for years to see. I watch him / her for a good half hour, taking playful passes at squirrels right in front of me. It never has any intention of eating the squirrel, I know, because at one point a squirrel approaches the hawk on it's perch and the bird opens it's mouth, as if to just let it in, and then backs off

0709 At present, I've lost the hawk as it swooped south between the trees. I'm heading in that direction, but there's now a whole chorus of birds to pay attention to. Several dozen of the voices are coming from the brush right beside me, all juncos with the exception of one small, black bird about their same size. A jay passes by as I watch these small birds, and there is someone else, high in the canopy above, making a honking sound

0732 There is a pond straight down from where I entered the park at 77th Street, and when I reach it, I begin following the shore counter sunwise. It's iced-over, but there's a small bit of open water not far along, and here I find about fifty mi'ksikatsi and a pair of aapsspini. There are some evergreen trees on a hill close by, so I move to those next, hoping to come across one of the owls. No luck with that, but the sign here says I'm in Strawberry Fields. And indeed, there is The Dakota, right across the street

0739 Now I am fairly freezing, and starting to feel guilty that Joe and Sheen are back at the room sleeping away this beautiful morning. I have several more dawns here to take advantage of. I'm going to head back and wake them up, if they're not already out of bed

1837 What a treat. I marched through the Rample, across the park to 5th Avenue and immediately spotted Pale Male on his nest. And not only him, but a photographer on an adjacet roof taking pictures of him, and an older man down at ground level near me, sitting on a bench, wearing a black beret with a beetle pin on the side, and obviously watching the bird as well. The latter gentleman (whose name is Kenneth) had the look of a park regular, so I introduced myself, we got to talking, and before I knew it we were in The Boathouse with a whole crew of elder naturalists, eating Margaret's homemade muffins. They meet every evening to visit at The Boathouse, talking about the animals of the park, and of anything else. Kenneth thinks the hawk I saw this morning was not Pale Beauty, but one of the ex-wives. He and Margaret told me all about things they'd watch with Pale Male raising and teaching the young hawks - how he sits and memorizes every rodent nest in the area; how the baby hawks have to learn to let go of sticks, because the first time they grab one their muscles seize like they're making a kill, and they don't know how to un-seize them; or how the babies have to learn to eat small birds from head down, rather than the other way around, where the feathers get in the way. They told me about likely places to look for the long-eared owls on Cherry Hill, and about how the squirrels eat one kind of acorn before winter, then another kind during winter after they've cured in underground caches. I even got to post an update in their big book of sightings, which has been part of The Boathouse for who knows how long. Very cool experience. I'll definitely stop in to visit with the group again before we leave. But for tonight, Sheen and I are off to watch Phantom

IIII ) llllllllllllllllllll Cardinals And Red-Bellied Woodpecker (26Feb11)

0705 Central Park - woke a bit later than anticipated, but still early enough to catch the morning chorus of sparrows and starlings as I drop down into the park at 77th Street, across from the American Museum

0718 I move past the cluster of trees where I saw the hawk our first morning here, and am crossing the bridge on my way to the Ramble when, off in the brush, I catch a glimmer of red. There's another cardinal couple here, hanging out with several white-crowned sparrows, sorting through the leaf-litter in search of seeds. There used to be cardinals in Blackfoot Territory, or at least that's my theory... I've seen them in the Beaver Bundles. But they are a tobacco-loving bird, and I suspect they vacated when the planting ceremonies stopped

0730 Two steps further and I find a pair of house sparrows who've taken up in a little cavity formed at the trimmed branch of a tree. The male moves in and out of the cavity, while the female stays mostly inside, occasionally peeking out. I figure they must just be staking a claim in preparation for the upcoming nesting season

0750 Eventually I pass through a stone archway into the Ramble proper, an area of brushy woodlands over hills of bedrock that must really be something to see in summer, fairly quiet in this season. There are streams coming off the rocks here, feeding the lake below. Some of this water follows the concrete pathways, making for slick, icy conditions. I follow a trail through the Rambles along the east edge of the lake to Bow Bridge. I think it's the place where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks did that scene in You've Got Mail. Atop the bridge, there's a really nice view over the lake toward Pale Male's 5th Avenue nest

0808 This route takes me toward the falconer statue at Cherry Hill where, in the nearby fir trees I am told, there've been recent sightings of long-eared owls. I want to see these owls before we leave New York if I can, having only ever encountered just one in the coulees of Sikoohkotoki. As I climb the hill toward the two trees, there is a raucous sound I recognize immediately as the strong voice of corvids. I'm hoping they're yelling at the owls. I cross a fence that I'm not supposed to and move in. There are no owls in these particular trees this morning, but the voices I heard belong to five or six blue jays, who are in themselves a welcome sight for me. They are searching the earth and grass around these trees for insects (I presume), and they are joined in their efforts by a couple robins

0840 After the jays, I continue to wander around the area, moving in a winding path toward the Boathouse. I hear one of the hawks calling from somewhere in that direction. I witness a dog fight, the owners chasing after them and yelling at one another. I meet a local birder looking through glass at the pine trees on one of the hills. He too is searching with no success for the long-eareds

0910 Figured I might as well check the bird log at the Boathouse while so near, see if there've been any reports of the owls in the last couple days. No such luck, the last entry was my own. So from there I enter the Ramble again to begin moving making my way out. Not far into the forest, I hear a call that's completely unfamiliar to me. Searching the trees, I find that it belongs to a red-bellied woodpecker, first I've ever seen

IIII ) lllllllllllllllllllll Shovelers On The Lake (27Feb11)

0652 Central Park - the morning chorus is underway as I drop down off the end of 77th Street into the trees. Among the voices I hear are quick chips and rhythmic loops of cardinals, the slow (low) chirps of the house sparrows, the alarming calls of blue jays and, somehwere in the distance, a mourning dove. I'm taking a different route this morning, sunwise toward what they call the Turtle Pond. I want to see how it compares to Sspopiikimi

0720 Of course it is nothing like back home. Turtle Pond of Central Park is walled on it's southwest end by tall rock cliffs, topped by a small castle. Suddenly I remember this place from a walk I took with Mahoney, fourteen years ago. There is an island here, which is no doubt an important nesting ground for geese and ducks, with so many dogs around. And the north end of the pond opens to a wide lawn, a ballpark perhaps, where I imagine the waterfowl would feed. As I sit on a little dock typing this, somewhere out over the lawn I hear cries of a redtail

0745 I hike around the perimeter of the pond and up to the castle, Belvedere Tower. There are blue jays, house sparrows, and starlings galore, but I never see the hawk. From here I move directly into the Ramble, and I'll begin making my way to the Boathouse. There are signs that warn how environmentally sensitive the Ramble is, and yet the park conservators have cut down every tree they can find that has heart rot, full of wonderful hollows that would have made great nest cavities for a variety of birds and mammals

0827 My walk down to the Boathouse is fairly uneventful. Once there, I stop to make an entry in the bird log, listing all the species I've seen here this week. But no sooner do I leave than I spot, on a bit of open water along the north end of the lake, five northern shovelers amidst a group of mallards. I loop around Bow Bridge to get a closer look, and it's a good thing I do, because there won't be another chance... as soon as I near the ducks, a golden lab goes plunging into the lake after them, and the shovelers take wing

0910 I conclude this morning's hike with my (by now) usual fruitless search of the Cherry Hill and Strawberry Fields trees. Still no long-eared owls, though on this west edge of the lake, where the water seems to have thawed a bit this week, there are now many shovelers amidst the resident mallards

IIII ) llllllllllllllllllllll The Last Morning (28Feb11)

0747 Central Park - I can't see out of my left eye this morning, not clearly by any stretch, even with corrective lenses. One day I'll probably be blind. But between now and then I can see, at least one eyed, and I can learn to recognize the voices that last, and what they're singing

0751 This is my last morning in the park, maybe forever, but I doubt it. There is unfinished business here that I plan to check in on this morning before returning to the hotel, showering, and catching a cab to Laguardia. It's wet this morning. The skies rained for me, in the few hours I slept, the park is grey, cold, completely in shadow, beautiful really

0755 I come into the trees at 72nd Street, at Strawberry Fields, after stopping at the Dakota, at the little tunnel to the courtyard where John Lennon was killed. The Dakota security is quick to push tourists away, because people still live there. I ask the guard this morning, "How many people would you say stop here every day, because of what happened?" He shrugs and says he doesn't know. "A lot?" I ask. "A lot," he agrees

0808 Flood warnings for New York, Mahoney told me last night. I believe it. The rain is pouring down. All the same, I climb the mud and rock slopes of Cherry Hill beyond the falconer statue. As far as I can see, the owls aren't here, but I don't look hard. There is however a human being, one that has been here every morning, but who I've failed to mention. Not exactly homeless, as clearly he lives at this hill. Most mornings, he sleeps out on a patch of grass between the bedrock, which must offer nice exposure to the night sky. Today he is curled up in a sleeping bag under the tree where I've been directed to look for the owls. Given the rain, I feel his resilience deserves reporting. He's more real in some ways than most of us

0829 After the hill, I wind my way along paths to the Boathouse. My constant companions are the immigrant, now naturalized, house sparrows. It's strange to me that a winged being should choose to live in Central Park, amidst all this daily commotion. But then, they probably stay here for the same economic reasons that so many human beings do, and in that sense we have something in common. No doubt the house sparrows here today are descendants of several Central Park generations, enjoying the comfort and connection of their childhood homes. I wonder what they could tell me about this park, what it is to live here, and what has changed in their memory

0850 The Boathouse has clean public washrooms, so I stop in to use them, as well as to check the bird log. Someone who posted after me yesterday spotted a screech owl at 100th Street in the park

0900 From the Boathouse I head into the Ramble to walk counter-sunwise around the lake. With yesterday's warm weather and all of this morning's rain, the ice is rapidly melting away. Huge swaths are open from east to west across the lake, and I would be very surprised if they closed again before next winter. This is how the systemic thaw occurs. And strangely enough, most of the mallards here are standing on the remaining ice ledges, as if - like my own stroll here this morning - they want to experience it one more time before it's gone, even though they never loved it in the first place