Tattered Wings And Starving Hawklings

I Tattered Wings (27Aug11)

1800 Sspopiikimi - much can change in a week at the pond, and it's been that long since our last visit. Walking in to take our seats on the west cutbank across from the Ksisskstakioyis, all is noticeably quiet. The sikohpoyitaipanikimm family appears to have moved on, there are far fewer butterflies, only the dragonflies and grigs remain, and the mi'ksikatsi families in the wide south pool

1835 As we wait for the ksisskstakiiksi to emerge, a single mourning dove alights on a perch formed from one of the sticks of their lodge, and warms itself in the final bit of direct sunlight before the shadow of the coulee envelops the pond. Once warmed, the dove flies down to the edge of the Ksisskstakioyis for a sip of water, then wings away. I begin wandering the west bank in search of insects. As during the walk in, I notice primarily grasshoppers and dragonflies, the wings of the variegated meadowhawks and pale snakeskins all tattered. I also see a green leaf-hopper, a cabbage white butterfly, and a pink-edged sulfur. The season is definitely winding-down

1908 After a full hour's wait, the first beaver finally makes an appearance... there are ripples in the water around the lodge, and soon it is floating out above the food cache area. Judging by its size, I figure it for a yearling. It floats quiet, then dips underwater and reappears again briefly just below us before again rolling under and out of sight

1921 As we wait to see if the beaver will return, I suddenly feel a twinge of itchy pain on my sandal-exposed toes. Looking down, it appears to be a bee, and I instinctively reach down and knock it away. My hasty response has critically injured the animal, and now I pick it up by one wing and see it is not a bee after all, but a deer fly. The itchy pain must have been the effect from when it sliced into my toe to get the juices flowing that it intended to feed on. Meanwhile, another beaver has emerged, swimming toward the midpond cattails

1937 With so little to note for presences, perhaps I should focus a bit on absence. Four that we've been accustomed to seeing and hearing, and who were certainly around last week but not evident this evening are the robins, tree swallows, nighthawks and catbirds. I've no doubt there's still some of them are still around, but they're sure not making themselves known. This time of year, we often get blue herons and yellowlegs at the pond. But the waters were high almost all summer, and have still not receded to a level that would make it profitable for the yellowlegs at least to stop by. I don't know that we will see wigeons here as the season closes either, for there are no coots around to dive and retrieve the milfoil they enjoy. And the milfoil itself, being so far submersed, never bloomed to our knowledge

2006 The merlin has come in for his evening meal, perching on the same pole he usually uses, at the edge of the golf course behind us. From this lookout, he spots dragonflies and quickly swoops down over the pond to grab them. On one such dive, going particularly low, the merlin startles a beaver into splashing. The ksisskstaki have been coming and going from their lodge, making runs to both north and south-pond. I'm kind of surprised that they're not bringing home any food for storage, after all the boughs and saplings we saw them towing over the last couple weeks

2029 The merlin makes several successful dragonfly grabs before it's dark enough that we feel compelled to leave. And just before we stand up, a yellow-jacket comes to lick raspberry tea off the rim of Mahoney's cup. We pack up and hike to the vehicle, with one of the beavers following us half-way, and as we pull out we find that the hawklings have not gone so far away after all. They are standing at the roadside of a ramp leading onto the highway, picking grasshoppers off the plants. This ramp is normally quite busy, but lucky for the hawklings there's construction on its route down the coulee slope, and it will be closed for some time to through-traffic

II Starving Redtail (28Aug11)

1109 Could be an interesting day... we're at breakfast with the family and have just been told the location of an injured hawk. So Mahoney and I will drop the kids downtown with some money and roll out to attempt a rescue

1330 I just caught the injured hawk... it was able to fly a very short distance, so its wing can’t be that bad... on our way to the Birds of Prey Center, with Mahoney holding it as we drive

1626 That's three for three successful rescues we've participated in this summer. That hawklet waited for assistance on the side of the road in this brutal heat for a full week. Can you imagine?

IIII Is It Appropriate To Save A Starving Hawk? (30Aug11)

Over the weekend, Mahoney and I were informed of a hawk that had been standing on the side of One Spot Road for at least a week, apparently injured. As soon as we heard this news, we drove out to help the animal. We found a fledgling who was weak and unable to fly, so we picked it up and drove it to the Birds Of Prey Centre in Coaldale, where they specialize in rehabilitating and caring for hawks, eagles, and owls. When we arrived at the Centre, workers there assessed the hawkling and told us that it was not injured or sick, but rather starving, and that they would fatten it up and see to its release. It surprised me that a young hawk would starve in this region that seems so rich in voles, mice, grasshoppers and the like. It made me wonder whether their food sources might be so diminished by our industries that parent hawks are finding it difficult to adequately nourish their young. So yesterday, I sent an email to Marie Winn, a nature writer from New York who is famous for her work with hawks and the wide network of experts and enthusiasts she’s brought together in dialog, to inquire as to whether she knew if fledgling starvation is normal, or if there is any indication that this is a growing trend. She forwarded the letter to John Blakeman of Ohio, who has expertise in the matter, and he responded as follows:

“This morbid occurrence is rather common in August and September, as hawks in their first summer are no longer being fed or guarded by their parents. Many have not yet learned and perfected sufficient hunting and killing skills to maintain weight. So yes, these birds are in the process of starving. And it’s common and normal. Only a fraction, between 20 to 40% (sometimes fewer) of [those] fledged ever survive their first year, and starvation in late summer and early fall is a prime lethal factor. Survival of the fittest is at work.”

This morning I relayed this information on Facebook, along with a suggestion that this is the kind of situation where we humans might make ourselves useful and assist the hawks. The question was raised though, if we were to do so would it be an irresponsible interference with nature? Inferring from the last sentence of Blakeman’s response above, there are folks out there, including some who devote their lives to learning from these animals, who believe just that. I observe that there are several ways people typically approach this ethical dilemma…

On one extreme, there is the “survival of the fittest” and/or non-interference approaches, which are anchored in many cultures, and basically espouse the same response: that humans should not mess with the natural flow, regardless of how cruel it may sometimes be. If we go out of our way to save starving hawklings, then we risk contributing to an unnatural over-population of these birds, and also a weakening of their species. Hawks fledglings who are not developing in time with their parents’ care, if helped along by humans, might in the future breed young who are equally maladapted.

On the other extreme, there are those who espouse the “stewards of the planet” approach. These folks generally believe that we humans were created by a higher power explicitly to be the caretakers of the nature on Earth, and that this nature was “given” to us. In other words, we are like terrestrial gods, and it is our responsibility to tend to all of these species that we have been charged to care for. In more secular circles, this approach translates as a discourse of management, and assumes that we can in fact understand the intricacies of biological systems to such a degree that our purposeful interferences can be carried out to their benefit.

In between these two extremes are found the more complex positions, and they are incredibly varied. Here is my opinion…

I do not espouse the non-interference survival of the fittest philosophy, because I believe it carries with it a fundamental misunderstanding of adaptation. To me, adaptation is about fitness within an eco-social matrix, not simply who lives or dies in the short-term, or whose genes get passed on to the next generations. In this eco-social schema, the most adapted species are those whose very lifestyles support the most expansive diversity of life.

Beavers, for example, are animals who I would consider to be among the most adaptive in our eco-social networks. Every major aspect of their way of life benefits others. Their homes and dams are microhabitats for a vast host of smaller life, insects and the like, who inhabit the mud and rotting wood. Many passerines frequent the beaver lodges and dams in search of these smaller critters to eat. Other animals – muskrats and geese for example – nest in the tops and sides of these lodges, and are in this manner more safe from predators than they might be elsewhere. When a beaver fells a tree or bush, or digs out a piece of bulrush or cattail root, it very often results in the plants responding by sending forth several new shoots, such that you end up with more willows, poplars, and reeds as a result. The water held back by their dams and channelled laterally by their canals create wetlands that thousands if not millions of species depend on for their very existence.

Now… the beaver may not purposely set out to assist all of these others, but their way of life supports this network naturally, and to me that is the epitome of high adaptation. I believe we have the tools to consciously shape our own human ways of life in similar synergic manner, such that everything we do could promote biodiversity. And in this, I am not talking about that extreme position of stewardship. I do not believe that our purpose here is to tend or manage other species or ecological systems. We are NOT intelligent enough to understand those systems in all their complexity, though there is a certain extent to which we can, and in my opinion that limitation resides in phenological studies. We are capable of recognizing the annual patterns of behaviors of plants and animals, as well as some of the relationships between any particular species and the others with which it is directly connected. When the complexity goes beyond this, however, when the effects of the life of one species carries through others in indirect ways, or when more than one species’ lives act in concert to produce a phenomenon, then we’re out of our league, the intricacies of the system are too much for us to fully appreciate. It is for this reason that I do not identify with stewardship and management discourses.

What we are capable of managing appropriately and responsibly is ourselves. Our activities. Our ways of life. This is the area where we can do applied work that will benefit others and may some day carry us to becoming a highly-adapted keystone species within wider (yet localized) eco-social systems. This is where phenological study becomes imperative, because in order to manage ourselves to the maximal benefit of others we need to be able to recognize both the normal patterns of behavior in order to seize opportunities where we might in some way assist (like with the starving hawklings), and also any dynamic changes to these patterns (like the ibis moving further north) so that we can assess whether our activities are prompting these changes (which in this case they are) and manage ourselves responsibly (which in this case we are not).

So to me, the important question is not whether we should interfere with nature to assist a starving hawkling. Perhaps consider this… when a beaver makes a dam, it is interfering with nature, and it is justified in doing so partly because that interference supports its life. The beaver creates that dam so that the waters will swell, forming a pond around its home, giving it protection from predators and safe access to lots of food. But if all the dam did was support the beaver’s life alone, would this trait have lasted the test of time? The beavers’ dam-work creates a habitat that supports the lives of thousands of non-beavers, and it is my opinion that nature selects for this kind of adaptation. The more benefit your species’ way of life brings to those who are not of your species, the more likely nature will keep you in the picture long-term, because then your life becomes integral to the vitality of the eco-social system. Like the beavers, we too are a part of nature and are justified in our interferences partly because they support our life. However, if we fail to manage our activities strategically, in ways that have a positive impact on biodiversity, do you think nature will keep us around?

Worst case scenario: We recognize that many hawk fledglings die of starvation, so we set out to assist any birds we find in this condition, and after several future generations it leads to the hawks having a greater dependence on us, and so we have to change our lives to suit the needs of the hawks… we have to become much more aware of them, we have to learn where all their nests are, we have to watch for those who are starving in the fledgling stage and ensure that they are fed adequately until they can catch their own food… in other words, we have to strengthen our relationship to the hawks, recognize that their existence is important for our own and for the life system, and utilize the gifts that we have as humans to support that mutuality… I’m not convinced this scenario is a bad thing

IIII ) llll Kakanottsstookiiksi Return To The Owl Wood (3Sept11)

1903 Sspopiikimi - and then comes a day when it's no longer warm enough for just shorts and a t-shirt, and a buff sleeve returns to warm the neck. The temperature dropped to just two degrees above zero last night, and we are here to walk, survey, and check in at the garter snake hibernaculum. We expect all the reptiles are moving home, having babies, settling down for the season

1918 Hiking in along the north cutbank, we see the mallard families are still here, feeding midpond. So too are the kingfishers, grasshoppers and dragonflies, especially the paddle-tailed darners. The remaining flowers are minimal, but there are hairy golden asters, tufted white prairie asters, goldenrod, showy aster, and a few rhombic-leaved sunflowers. The spiders, it seems, have some business at present. Many of them are crossing our path, several varieties of wolf spider and some harvestmen, and there are occupied funnel webs in the grass

1948 We try to move hastily to the hibernaculum, given that the shadow of the coulee rim has already crossed both the pond and river. Quickest route is via the shale trail on the levee. It's so quiet here now. The only birds we see in the forest main as we pass are a few western kingbirds, though doubtless there are others concealed in the still mostly-green canopy. Coming to the south end of the forest, high above, we witness a large group of hawks in migration. There are close to forty of them, by rough estimate, too high up to discern species, at least by our untrained eyes, but my understanding is that broad-winged hawks will travel in such close aggregations. Nearby, in the owl wood, we hear the begging calls of an immature great-horned. It is followed shortly by the typical call of one of its parents. I wonder if they have returned here at this time to eat the garter snakes who will be traveling this way in-route to their rocks. Or the owls might be keeping an eye on the chokecherry and bulberry bushes, all in fruit and attracting small birds, porcupines, raccoons, and deer mice. When we reach the hibernaculum, there is nobody around. Either they haven't started arriving yet or we're just a bit too late in the day

2023 We decide to try locating the owls, skirting around the perimeter of their wood. A whitetail doe crosses our path, but our efforts to find the birds are fruitless. They see us, we never catch sight of them, and by the time we get over to the area where we originally heard the begging calls, they strike up anew from over by the hibernaculum. The family has moved silently without our notice, and it's getting dark now. We head over to the wide south pool of the pond. There are swarms of male mosquitoes surrounding us, and a catbird crying from the currant thickets. Out on the water, we find one mallard family surface skimming for their evening meal, another already going to sleep on the big island

2048 We walk the west length, past the Ksisskstakioyis, to the parking lot. No merlin this evening. One of the beavers is out and upset about our trespass. He whacks the water with his tail a few times to demonstrate his frustration. If his family is caching their winter food, it hasn't crested the pond surface yet. We're expecting to see it taking shape soon though

IIII ) lllll First Rattler At The Hibernaculum (4Sept11)

1500 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - it's a warm day after a few nights of near freezing temperatures, and I've come down to check on whether the rattlesnakes are returning to their hibernaculum

1520 I hike straight down to the den without pause, wanting to look in on the snakes before anything else. But I've not failed to observe that the insects are enjoying the warm afternoon. Most of the activity is focused around the yellow blooms of gumweed and broomweed, with pollinators and predators galore. I also see that, along the sections of trail with some clear ground, both the black and green-morph cowpath tiger beetles are hunting. While the river-bottom below remains rather green, the grass and other foliage of the coulee slopes has dried and returned to more earthy tones

1552 Sure enough, the first snake has returned, heard but not seen rolling into the main entrance as I step near. The grass here, though dead and dry, has not been matted down by basking serpents yet. There is at least one here, the sound of a rattler scrambling to safety is unmistakable. My question for the season is whether any young will be born of the extended family who live here. Last year, there were only unexplained abortions. Unfortunately, while checking in on the third entrance to the den, I experienced another unmistakable and familiar sensation... that of a yellow-jacket wasp injecting venom into my flesh. It had crawled up and perhaps got stuck under the hem of my shorts, just above the knee. My hopes for a rare, sting-free summer have been dashed. The vengeance of the wasps and bees upon me continues, now thirty-three years since my childhood offense

1631 Leaving the hibernaculum behind, I hike down to the hawthorn brush at the edge of the floodplain to download the latest images from my game cam. Surprisingly, there've been no coyotes moving through this trail for at least a few weeks. Those I find photographed are the mule deer, porcupine, mountain cottontail, ring-necked pheasant, and my first shot here of a brown thrasher. While flipping through these photos on my little viewer, yet another wasp comes to bother me. There's something low, by my stomach, they're after. But their attention makes me uncomfortable. I'm in no mood for another sting today

1719 I start making my way back up the slope, popping on a macro lense and stringing my camera around my neck with the intent of taking lots of insect photos during the return hike. My first and last stop is at a large, fuzzy, light-brown caterpillar I've never seen before. It’s making a mad dash along the trail in front of me, and comes to rest eventually in a bit of rocky shade. The whole while I'm trying to take pictures of this caterpillar, another yellow-jacket is hovering around me. I'm glad to get off a couple decent shots, so I can walk away. But the wasp harassment doesn't end. They are landing on my hands, on my camera, hovering in front of my stomach. I decide finally to just put my camera back in my pack and march non-stop back up to the rim. In a way, it’s fortunate that I do. Just as I come over the last crest, I find Reg Ernst walking away from the parking lot, carrying a white bucket and a snake stick. He'd been brought out to relocate a rattlesnake that had wandered (rightly) into one of the new suburb developments nearby. I talk to Reg briefly, updating him on the one rattler who's returned to the natural hibernaculum, and reminding him of our discussions from last winter, that I would like to do some volunteer work with the snakes, whether it be research or relocation. If anything should ever happen to Reg, I’d like to be able to take over the work on their conservation here

Red-Fly Appears When Hawklings Fledge

IIII ) llllllllllll Hawklings Leave The Nest (13Aug11)

1639 Sspopiikimi - I'm sitting on the north cutbank, a feature I've yet to arrive at a better name for, where it seems like only yesterday I was watching insects on the coneflowers and thistles, now completely played out. The only blooms to see here at present are the occasional alfalfa, tufted white prairie aster, and inconspicuous absinthe

1645 Many plants are drying out, the grass already starting to yellow. There are at least some gold leaves on all the poplar trees. Walking in, I saw that the first leaves had even fallen, though compelled to turn and drop prematurely due to extra weight and lost nutrition associated with the development of petiole aphid galls. So many signs of winter's approach, but summer's not over yet. From where I sit, I can hear the hawklings of Ayinnimaoyiiyis calling for their parents, and I expect to find a mourning dove hatchling in the forest on my way to see them. There are lots of dragonflies in the air, and clinging to the tops of the absinthe around me. One of the nighthawks still calls in display above

1713 Moving on around the tip of north-pond, past all the floating wood from the old boardwalk, where a spotted sandpiper hunts for insects, I see other flowering plants. There are the two sweetclovers, yellow and white. There are tall goldenrods and rhombic-leaved sunflowers. And there are clematis. Only a smattering of the clematis flowers have started to seed. Most of them are still brilliant white, and being visited by honey bees and ants

1719 I have my eye out for painted turtles, but there are none basking on the north end. Those I do see are only briefly lifting their heads above the surface before diving back below. Mahoney and I released a turtle here a few days ago, one that - while perfectly healthy - had been deposited at a wildlife rehabilitation facility in Mohkinsstsis. We figure there must be a painted turtle population, unknown to the herpetologists, somewhere in that vicinity. In either case, it's living here now and, having memorized the unique broken pattern of one of the uppermost plates on it's back, we'll be looking forward to crossing paths with it again

1745 I drop down into the forest main and hike through to the wet-meadows so I can check my game-cam. Not to surprisingly, it hasn't been visited over the past week. It is positioned in a large clump of all-male bulberries, so there's no fruit to draw the animals. And since nesting season is pretty much over... I probably won't see significant action there until winter, when it becomes one of the few places at the pond for good concealment

1800 Leaving the camera and moving back toward the forest, I'm set upon by one of the parent hawks. This makes me suspicious, and when I come within view of the nest my thoughts are confirmed. The hawklings are not here. They are no doubt flight-training between trees in the forest, and I'll have to wait and listen for their cries if I hope to see them

1813 I sit patiently, waiting for the hawklings' begging calls, or for the sounds of a mobbing, and watching the canopy for any movement. At one point, I walk over to check on the dove nest. The pair of eggs are still being incubated. I notice that the spurge hawk moth larvae are gone, orobably off to the next stage of their development, subterrainian pupation. Sitting down on a log again in the shade of the forest, I hear a hawkling cry. They are north of me

1848 I hike slowly back through the forest main, taking just a couple steps at a time, scanning the canopy at every stop. I never hear the hawkling's voice again, nor does the parent bird return. All along the route there are house wrens, mourning doves, catbirds, yellow warblers, eastern kingbirds, cedar waxwings, and dozens of flickers. The latter are being scared up from the ground, where they must be feasting on some kind of insect. Climbing the levee again at the forest's north end, I even come across a yearling wandering garter snake, but no hawks

1909 Not wanting to give up quite yet, I follow the levee trail, watching the trees until I come to the bend around the wide south pool. Both of the aapsspini families are here. But as I arrive, the Four Square family in particular come flying down off the golf greens in a group. If what we have witnessed over the last five years visiting this place holds true, they will not be long for the pond. Also on the water, there are eight mallards, all with drab plumage, very likely one of the clutches born here this summer, only now these duckings are hardly distinguishable from their mother. There is a kingfisher hunting  the south spring, and robin fledglings picking their way along the mowed strip on either side of the shale trail. I have this sense that we've missed out on a lot of learning opportunities here this summer, that our study has stagnated, and I'm recognizing only the same general events we've witnessed before, on evenings when we took more time sitting still on the banks and watching

1947 Missing the good'ol days, as it were, I decide to conclude my visit this evening sitting by the water's edge across from the Ksisskstakioyis. It's not the same without Mahoney, but perhaps she'll do this with me tomorrow. I sit and watch a young member of the ksisskstaki family tow a good-sized willow sapling along the nearest canal and down in front of the lodge. It reminds me that they'll be building a food cache at this very location soon, if this willow is not itself among the materials being pegged in at the base. One of the parent hawks has returned, sitting in a tree behind me, above the golf greens, crying out to the fledglings, who could very well be in the trees above the greens themselves. I wait for more beavers to emerge, but none do. A large, blue paddle-tailed darner passes by on it's way south. The water tonight is calm and reflective, save for the little raindrop-like ripples made when the aquatic beetles surface, or the heads of turtles poking up now and then. This light, this calm, this seat, this is the pond that I love

IIII ) lllllllllllll Mi'ksoy'sksissi (14Aug11)

1751 Sspopiikimi - we're sitting on the west bank across from the Ksisskstakioyis this evening. The first beaver just appeared, and is swimming up the closest wet-meadow canal. We can see one of the three hawklings perched on a large branch a few trees south of the Ayinnimaoyiiyis, mostly red in color and occasionally crying. It's been a long time since we've come here and sat still

1816 When the beaver returns, he's towing three items - a poplar sapling, a rabbit willow, and a bulrush stem. Like yesterday, he dives on this side of the lodge, in the position where they usually build their cache. As he goes under, he loses the bulrush and it's left floating in front of the lodge. Just as well though if they are starting to make their winter store, because the bulrush layer can't be fixed until there are willows planted into the mucky bottom of the pond

1820 The hawklet has stopped calling, and Mahoney uses glass to look across to the edge of the forest main. It's still on its perch, and she thinks the other two are still in the nest itself. Meanwhile, I can see the mallard family and the smaller aapsspini family off in the wide south pool. No sign of the Four Square aapsspiniiksi yet. A turtle rises to the surface briefly below us, and some dragonflies amass in a little pocket of sunshine atop the prickly roses. A kingbird lands on the Ksisskstakioyis, sits for a minute or two, then flies across the pond and past us to the golf greens

1838 Where the kingbird lands, a family of flickers follow, four fledglings and their mother. Like the kingbird, the mama flicker alights on a wire running low between posts that demarcate (in human eyes only) Sspopiikimi from golf course. From this perch, she watches as her young ones search the grass for insect morsels. While they're eating, one of the hawklings in the nest begins crying out in begging fashion. A spotted sandpiper hunts briefly in the mud of the Ksisskstakioyis, and then the (same?) beaver appears again and moves back up the canal

1851 We're watching the Four Square aapsspini family, who've just come down into south-pond from somewhere on the golf course, when a raucous of hawkling cries breaks out. We look over only in time to see one of the parents depart from the nest, immediately mobbed by a few smaller birds. The parent hawk flies north, out over the river, and probably came in through the forest from that side too, which accounts for why we didn't notice right away. We don't know whether food was dropped off or not... the hawking out on the neighboring branch makes no effort to return to the nest, and her siblings continue to cry after the parent leaves. Now as the cries begin to wind down, the beaver has returned again carrying another poplar sapling, this one big and leafy, but still brought underwater and out of sight

1926 There is a period of quiet, when nothing more happens than a repeat visit of the sandpiper at the Ksisskstakioyis, who soon flies off to the south-pond peninsula. Then all at once the lull ends. It begins with one of the beavers swimming out toward our shore with a small, weathered log, which it leaves floating while dropping underwater. Then just a meter in front of us, Mahoney notices a strange insect alight on a flowering stem of buckbrush, a very large, furry, and bright-red fly the likes of which we've never seen before. It is Adejeania vexatrix, in the western science vernacular, but I think we'll just call it mi'ksoy'sksissi, or red-fly. It moves off before I can get a focused picture of it, so I stand up to pursue it, and at the same time Mahoney decides to take a walk back to the parking lot to fetch her sweater. Just then, two beavers come out of the lodge and swim over to investigate, floating like logs below us and sniffing in deep breaths. Not wanting to startle them, I sit back down, and no sooner do I than two female mallards opt to paddle past me and up the same canal the beavers have been using. They are followed by a huddle of seven grown ducklings, who themselves chose to take the old subpond canal. The two beavers are still floating around, occasionally rolling underwater. Unbeknownst to me, a third beaver slips up the canal after the mallards. I sit still, and can see that Mahoney is on her way back. As she approaches, one of the parent hawks glides in and lands on a power pole behind us, yelling out to her babies, who return the call in their own immature voices. Now with the hawk yelling and Mahoney walking the trail, the beavers start getting upset, and the one nearest Mahoney splashes the water with her tail. The hawk continues to scream as Mahoney reclaims her seat, and the annoyed beaver twice swims by to splash at us again. Meanwhile, the third beaver who'd gone up the canal returns with a big clump of rabbit willow, and the seven grown ducklings emerge again from the subpond. As we watch the ducks and beavers, the hawk cries cease, and when we look back again the parent is gone

2025 One of the ksisskstaki climbs up on the south wall of the lodge with another small weathered piece of wood, and sets it down against that wall. This action marks the beginning of another round of calm. Once the beaver slips back into the water, the only animals left to watch are the ducklings. They precede north toward us, but then cut into the reeds of the wet meadows, and slowly and sneakily move over land and under cover to pass around our position, not wanting to cross within direct view even though we're on the opposite side of the pond. As the shadow of dusk moves over the coulee, I make one last attempt at finding the red-fly, checking a larger patch of buckbrush behind us. Only a few of the plants are still flowering, and on one of these I catch a fleeting glimpse of the insect, but it has seen me first and wings away. Again a beaver climbs up on the lodge with a small, weathered stick, this time placing it on the north wall and, being as how all is on shadow, we determine to leave. As we walk out, we are lucky to observe one of the parent hawks dive down onto a wide, mowed pathway leading to the parking lot. Again I'm reminded that, while the mow outright killed many animals, it has at least facilitated the needs of a small selection of others

IIII ) lllllllllllllllll The New Dock (18Aug11)

1107 Sspopiikimi - it's a cool overcast day, and I couldn't see wasting it indoors, so I've come to the pond to take advantage of the opportunity and try to get some learning underway while it's so comfortable

1114 One of the first things I notice walking in is that a new feature has appeared at north-pond. The humans have been up to more of their nonsense, and have decided to construct a dock as an intrusion into the north-pond bulrush patch. It is sitting right over-top of the specific patch of reeds that the coots on this end have nested in every year since we've studied at the pond. It's open on its south side to one of the favorite little pools that the beavers created so that they could feed on bulrush roots while concealed by the cover of the surrounding reeds, and it exposes the turtles who bask on floating planks around this pool for the same protection it provides. The dock is made of metal, plastic, and PVC compounds whose colors, textures, and uniformity clash in relief against the nature-made backdrop of the pond. Obviously, I am not excited about the presence of this pontoon, but I suppose this is my perception, my biases, and we'll have to wait to learn how the animals will respond and adapt to it

1202 I sit on the dock for a bit, writing my initial impressions, and surveying this new feature. The plastic floats that serve as the actual dock itself must be giving off fumes of some sort. They seems to be attracting flies and yellow-jackets. On the upside, I'm finding already that this walkway will allow us easier access to study aquatic life. I can see beetles and snails from this vantage point that would otherwise require slogging through in waders. It also allows me a closer look at what some of the birds are up to. As I sit here, a cedar waxwing stops by, moving from reed to reed, plucking something off the seed heads of the bulrush. So I suppose there are benefits to having this dock here, at least selfish ones. I'll be curious to learn whether any of the coots or redheads dare nest here again though... or if they do, what kind of abuses they'll be subject to by human visitors

1225 Eventually I am drawn away from the dock, toward the voices of the hawk fledglings, who are in the trees at the edge of the golf course. Arriving minutes later at the scene, I find one hawlkling up in a tree, a second hunting grasshoppers on the ground, and a third calling from not far away. I'm sure it is by no coincidence that sikohpoyitaipanikimmiksi nest such that their fledglings begin moving out right in time with the peaking grig season. These birds will follow their grasshopper diet south and feed in this manner for all of what is our winter. So the fledglings needn't bother struggling learning how to catch small mammals just yet

1308 Eventually the hawklets cross back over the pond to the trees around Ayinnimaoyiiyis, and I start my quest to locate one of the mi'ksoy'sksissiiksi that Mahoney and I observed here a few nights ago. At that time, the red-flies were visiting buckbrush flowers, and so I've been walking the west length, carefully surveying all the buckbrush stands. Along the way, I've photographed dozens of insects, some I know and others I need to learn about. The buckbrush flowers themselves are being tended to mainly by honeybees and their drone fly mimics, but there are other bees and flies as well, and a whole host of grasshoppers, butterflies, dragonflies and damselflies as well. Unfortunately though, none of the brilliant red-flies I'm looking for

1358 At the wide south pool, I move down onto the peninsula to learn what's new there. I find mating cherry-faced meadowhawks on the rocks, little orange european skippers in the alfalfa, and the largest group of water beetles I've ever seen. Not surprisingly, there are bank and tree swallows on the scene, swooping out over the water and plucking meals at their leisure. From there, I round the wide pool, following the shale trail along the levee, and am now down into the forest main to survey some of the buckbrush here

1444 Like the west length, the forest main produces no red-flies either. Perhaps it is an insect that prefers the dusk, or maybe it was just a rogue passer-through (we've never noticed them before). But what the forest lacks in red-fly, it makes up for in other ways. One of the things I've hoped to see are the hatchlings of the last mourning dove brood, and that has now occurred. Mother dove took off with such a start that one of the hatchlings was turned upside-down and unable to right itself, so I gave it a helping hand. The hawklings, for their part, on seeing me, took fairly graceful wing and moved yet again to the opposite side of the pond. And there were many insects, including what might be small moth cocoons and beetle pupae on the white sweetclover, as well as the recently transformed seven-spot lady beetles

1509 Coming out of the forest at north-pond, I am again presented with the sterile new plastic dock. It might not be so terrible in the long run. Maybe it'll grow on me. I can imagine Mahoney and I sitting out here during the evenings amidst the reeds, watching some of the nests of early summer. Still, I'll also remember sitting up on the north cutbank looking toward the nests in these reeds and not having to suffer the sight of such a foreign distraction

IIII ) llllllllllllllllll Evening With Hawklings (19Aug11)

1855 Sspopiikimi - on a warm, calm water evening, Mahoney and I have set up our low chairs on the west bank across from the ksisskstakioyis, with one hawkling standing on a pole just behind us, and another calling from their old nest by the forest main

1906 Wow... we're only sitting here a few minutes when the hawkling closest to us flies down and lands on the ground right beside us, not ten meters away, and begins feeding on grasshoppers. After a couple bites, my rock-hound friend Duane from Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko comes strolling down the shale trail with his wife and daughter, scaring the baby away to a nearby tree. But the human family having passed, she's come back to land on the nearer pole and I suspect will come down beside us again

1931 The three hawk siblings call back and forth to one another from their respective perches. While we wait for another grasshopper to reveal itself to the hawkling nearest us, there are other things happening on the pond... a ksisskstaki emerges from the lodge and swims toward north-pond, two mi'ksikatsi females move past us in the same direction from the wide south pool, and the seven ducklings come toward us from mid-pond, moving in the same obtuse V formation they'd used when much younger, then switched to a near-shore line formation once they'd noticed us. A bald eagle passes high overhead, moving toward the river. And presently a second ksisskstaki has appeared, floating like a log between us and the lodge. There is no sign of either aapsspini family, it appears their flight training concluded and they've moved on

2008 One after the other, the hawk parents come to land at Ayinnimaoyiiyis for the night. When the first arrives, a hawkling flies over us from the golf greens to follow. Now there is only one baby still on our side of the pond, and it is perched on a pole back near the coulee slope in the other side of the golf course. The ksisskstaki who'd swam north has returned as well, towing a leafy poplar sapling and diving with it below the water in front of the lodge

2023 We're waiting for the remaining hawkling to move to the roost, but instead it drops down onto the golf greens, again to eat grasshoppers. No sooner does it come to land than a merlin appears out of nowhere on the pole near us, a mountain cottontail hops out of the buckbrush immediately behind our chairs, and three coyotes begin yipping and howling from the coulee slope. The hawkling finishes its grasshopper meal and flies again, landing on yet another pole just a ways north of us. Mahoney is walking over that way to watch her while I remain back at our seats, where the kingbirds have begun calling to one another and making short, dancing flights out from the cottonwood trees

2045 Eventually the last hawkling glides over the pond to join its family, and I'm almost sure the observations with them are complete for the night. But after ten minutes or so, one of the parents departs from the group, moving toward the coulee slope, and it is followed by the hawkling, who again lands on the pole just north of us. Meanwhile, from the nearer pole, the merlin has made two short flights out over the pond to snatch dragonflies invisible to us, until that is he lands again to eat them

2053 When the merlin makes his third successful dragonfly capture under dusk's heavy shadows, and the two hawks still haven't returned to the nest, we decide it's time to take our leave. It's been a wonderful evening at the pond, so inspiring that we may return come morning

IIII ) llllllllllllllllllll Grasshopper Parasites (21Aug11)

0954 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - arrived this morning in deep contemplation about the changes I'd like to make in my life, a bit at a time, all the small but significant decisions we make every day that ripple through our ecosystem. Just on the route from my house to the coulee rim, less than a mile distant, I noticed two discarded plastic water bottles on the roadside... one that looked like it was chucked out a window, the other standing straight as if it had just been set down. It's not the sight of litter that disturbs me, but the reminder of our disposable use of material culture. Across the road from here, a farmer is cutting hay in a field no doubt full of rattlesnakes, since this coulee is where most of this region's harmless reptiles are relocated. Why couldn't he wait for them to move back to the hibernacula, or at least employ some kind of system to have a couple hands walk out in front of the blades to ensure minimal damage to threatened species? It's these simple decisions, opting for responsible action, that we really need to start adopting

1013 The aapsspiniiksi are flocking up now. Arriving at the coulee rim, a group of twenty three passed overhead, moving between stubble-fields. The dominant color of the season is yellow: yellow sweetclover, broomweed, gumweed, and sunflowers, not to mention the burning blades of grass and turning poplar leaves. Today I remembered to bring my small root-digger (a.k.a. crowbar), so I can collect onions on the way down

1027 In less than ten minutes, still at the rim, I'm able to harvest enough wild onions that I can't hang onto the batch with one hand. Depositing these onions in my car, now I'm ready to start walking

1122 It's slow going, at least for me today. It takes a full to get halfway down the slope, stopping constantly to observe the insects who are tending to the gumweed. Most predominant are the black blister beetles and a small orange and brown butterfly whose name escapes me. There are also several varieties of bees and flies on these flowers, and they are what capture most of my attention, as I need photographs of them in order to research their identities. The road dusters are finally out in full force now, and the two-striped grasshoppers are fat with eggs, as I learn cleaning a few for later eating. Funnel-web spiders have taken over all the burrow entrances claimed by black widows earlier in the season. And the only birds I'm seeing or hearing are the western kingbirds

1154 Before I reach the river-bottom, the mid-day heat is on and I'm damp with sweat. It must be that the onions and dotted blazing stars have two blooms a season. Both were among the earliest flowers of summer, and both are out again at present. Walking through a patch of dry, played-out sweetclover, I can see that this might be an easier feature in which to nab grasshoppers. They're abundant here, and there's relatively few places where they can seek concealment. I leave them for now though, continuing on to the base of the slope, and the brushy draw where I keep my game-cam. The images for this week are all pheasants, cottontails, and deer. The fawns are growing up nicely. There is also a small, brown bird in one of the shots, but I'll have to identify it at home. All around the brush by the camera, there is maanikapii going to seed. I haven't picked any this summer, and will definitely want it should any viruses get in my system this winter. So I grab a decent bundle, and the. Continue to the river

1236 At the Oldman, I employ the "keep cool on a hot day trick"... I soak my shirt in the river, and put it back on for the climb upslope. When I again pass through the dry sweetclover, I'm able to catch quite a few grasshoppers while on the move. I notice a small lesion on the abdomen of one of the two-stripes, just a little red dot that suggests to me the work of an ovipositor. This is enough to prompt a release of the animal, because I certainly don't want to eat anything suspected to be full of parasites. It's a good thing too, because not five minutes later I find another with the same marking, and fairly zombified. This time, I pop off the head and, sure enough, maggots come climbing out of the body

1311 The sight of the parasitic larvae turn me off to the grasshopper idea, at least for the moment. I am noting how labor intensive their acquisition is, for the amount of potential protein gained. It would perhaps be better to invest the energy into catching fish, or something a bit higher up the food chain. But it's grasshopper season after all, and they're only here in any abundance for this brief period each year. I clean the ones I've collected and hike back up to my vehicle. The heat is tiring me out. I'm ready to seek shade and a cold glass of water. But I feel like I've accomplished something... I'm bringing home onions, maanikapii, and some grigs. And I've had an opportunity to further my phenology study at the same time. Who can complain?

Late Nests As Leaves Turn

I Leaves Begin To Turn (29Jul11)

1959 Sspopiikimi - it's a breezy dusk, and the shadow of the coulee rim has already crept over about half the pond, though we've enough daylight remaining to at least take a stroll around

2011 We are greeted by a depressing sight as we make our sunwise round... there are yellow leaves in almost all of the western cottonwoods. It feels like they only just unfurled their green canopies, and already all too soon they will drop. It is, after all, the beginning of Pakkii'pistsi Otsitsi'tsspi, the second to last summer moon. It seems we are to have no currants or saskatoons this year. All the berries are stunted, hardly existent at all

2053 Despite the turning leaves, the forest is otherwise lush and pleasant. There are tall goldenrod and clematis in bloom, as well as white sweetclover and maanikapii. In the trees and brush, we see house wrens, cedar waxwings, least flycatchers, northern flickers, and a fledgling downy woodpecker. The spurge hawk moth larvae are still at work eating the leaves and flowers off their favorite plants. We even find a couple on the sweetclover and brome. Many are bloated and fat at this point, but there are still others not long from the egg. They look so exotic in their bright colors, with the large red spikes at the base of their tails. Poisonous to eat no doubt, given their constitution for leafy spurge. All the same, I can't resist petting them. Of course we also check in at Ayinnimaoyiiyis. The hawklings are growing so fast. With summer nearing its conclusion, we'll be expecting flight training soon

2136 In true dusk's shadow, we walk the shale trail along the west length of the pond. The two aapsspini families are still here, though tonight we're missing one from the Four Square family, probably one of the yearlings who were helping their parents. My mind is still very much on the new mapping project, though this evening's hike has been a bit too hurried for the kind of reflection needed. Perhaps in the next day or two we can return and take our time

IIII ) lll Effects Of The Annual Mow (4Aug11)

1719 Sspopiikimi - it's been several days since our last visit and, pulling into the parking lot, I see that in our absence the city sent someone out here to mow large swaths parallel to the pathways. I guess my first focus of the evening will be to survey the damage

1822 It takes me an hour to hike the full course of the mow, which runs in a five-foot swath following the shale trail around the entire circumference of the pond. Fortunately, the death toll isn't nearly what it has been during such mows in previous summers. I find the remains of just one garter snake and one mouse, where usually there are several of each. As always though, it's difficult to even conceive of what the impact has been to smaller creatures. No doubt thousands of insects have met their end at this year's blade, and who knows how many deposits of their eggs among the plants. One of the large thatching ant hives has been mowed, and the survivors are busy rebuilding. I've seen no road dusters yet this season, and they are often one of the hardest hit. There are now two-striped grasshoppers, I saw a few on the path along the way. My attention was directed toward the clippings though, so I did not stop yet to make note of all the other live insects about. At one point, I crossed paths with both aapsspini families. The Four Squares are still short one adult, as they were when we last saw them. Also, I noticed that the ayinnimaikoaiksi are starting to call from their nest. Curiously, one of the parents swooped me when I was all the way on the opposite side of the pond from them. Now I'm entering the forest main, and headed purposely their way

1903 Now moving at a more appropriate pace, I'm hardly into the forest when my attention is drawn to the tall goldenrods. They are in bloom, and there are flies visiting their flowers. But there are also two other insect events underway here. The one is that some of them now exhibit the classic, spherical goldenrod galls, which means they are bearing the maggots of goldenrod gall flies. I've never seen one of these flies yet, to my knowledge, but I'll be on the lookout this evening. Secondly, and perhaps related, there is something causing the leaves at the terminal end of some of the plants to gather together and curl. I'm not sure what this is about. Like last year, I take the time to investigate a few of these, finding a small cocoon with a drab-colored worm hidden in just one of the leaves on only a single plant, but not in any of the others. All the while as I look at these plants, there are a couple house wrens chattering nearby

1942 I am sitting in the duck blind when I write the goldenrod notes. As I do, I notice that there are dark little bees with almost-white patches under their abdomen moving in and out of some of the cracks of the wood. These, I assume, are an indigenous species. Looking into the cracks they're entering, I see some yellow, almost lichen-looking material that nearly fills the gaps to the surface. I assume this is their hive, or rather where their eggs are being deposited, as there are too few bees here to really consider this structure a "hive" in the same way as honey bees, yellow jackets, hornets or ants. I sit on the ground to watch them at close range, as the come and go, and perform work I don't understand. Because I am sitting so low and still, the birds of the surrounding forest don't know I'm here. Twice I am visited by very startled birds, a pair of robins and a single flicker. Perhaps they know of these bees as well. And their appearance reminds me of the new mapping project... while this little nook may have been built to serve as a duck blind, in the minds of these bees and forest birds it is other things altogether

2012 Initially we saw but one... then we learned there were two... and now I can confirm there are three ayinnimaikoaiksi. I'm sitting down in the grass beside some buckbrush (which isn't nearly enough cover) watching the trio. They are now large enough to climb out, awkwardly unbalanced, onto the small branches supporting the nest. Every time their parents call from the distance, they take up a mimicked call themselves. I wait patiently a half hour or so, hoping to observe one of the parents bring in a meal. But when the moment does come, I am immediately spotted, and the adult bird wings off to sit in a neighboring tree and scream at me. I give it a few more minutes all the same, but the Sun is dropping behind the coulee rim now, and I don't want to keep these hawklings from their evening meal. Best to move on

2035 I figure I'll head home at this point, so I walk straight from my seat below the Ayinnimaoyiiyis toward the main forest trail. Along the way, I come across a patch of buckbrush with a small black currant bush growing out of it. Unlike so many of the other berries, these ones are large, dark and ripe. I'm popping a few in my mouth when out of the buckbrush flushes a mourning dove. It's the kind of escape flight that tells me right away there's a nest here. Sure enough, when I peek in the spot she came out of, there's a little grass pad between two logs on the ground, and a pair of white eggs. Pretty late in the season for these guys, must be a second or third brood

2056 From the dove nest, I move through the forest without further event, and climb out onto the shale trail on the levee at the north end. To my surprise, the aapsspini families are here too. They'd have never come up onto the levee, except now there is such a wide strip of mowed grass... they can see around them now, and so they're taking advantage of it. Another lesson in varying perspectives. As I pass them, a kingfisher darts over to the pond from the river, and a nighthawk begins to call from above. Soon I'm back at the car, and looking forward to visiting again in a day or two

IIII ) llll Lupine Bugs (5Aug11)

1821 Sspopiikimi - We arrived about a half hour ago and have just walked the west length, which is no doubt known by the majority of residents for the short grass hunting ground of the adjoining golf course, or the dense patches of lens-podded hoary cress along the cutbank (a wild mustard that is food and/ or breeding grounds to many)

1825 Along the path there are dozens of cabbage white butterflies flitting about, mating and depositing eggs on the hoary cress. There are also small golden dragonflies, the two aapsspini families, a single member of the ksisskstaki household paddling around near the lodge, and a pair of still-breeding redwings whose nest we're not going to disturb. Sitting at the bench beside the currant and bulberry patch at south-pond, the female redwing is making an appearance. She's arrived with a beak full of grasshoppers and, after brief hesitation, flies into the brush below us to feed her hungry, chattery hatchlings

1857 We round south-pond and cut through the forest main to sit again in the grass below Ayinnimaoyiiyis and observe the hawklets. Unfortunately, one of the parents is here when we arrive. He or she comes winging low overhead as we approach, but is quickly mobbed away by tree swallows, and is now somewhere out over the coulee rim, screaming in frustration. No chance we'll see a feeding. We won't stay here long. Besides, it is humid tonight with zero breeze, the mosquitoes are taking their toll

1932 With fair warning of the immanent storm, which we can now see forming over the coulee rim, Mahoney and I move down onto the wet meadows to download the images RYECAM02 has captured over the last couple weeks in the bulberry brush. The i'naksaapis plants surrounding the brush have grown tremendously. If I didn't already know where the entrances are, it'd be doubtful I'd find them. Also, the water that had created an island of this place through most of the summer has receded, and is now only ankle-deep. We are expecting to find a lot of images, given how long we've left it. Disappointingly, there are only five, and none with anyone identifiable at a glance. Over the camera's sensors, a spider has woven a thick screen of silk and attached eggs

1948 Moving again through the forest main toward north-pond, we wind our way carefully through the stands of white sweetclover, leafy spurge, tall goldenrod and brome, trying not to disturb any of the larger insects clinging to the stems. There are swollen spurge hawk moth larva, sulfur butterflies, thousands of damselflies, and a brown assassin species called a lupine bug that we recall seeing last year at this season. By the time we climb the levee at north-pond and are able to look a bit further west, it appears as though the storm has split and is going to pass around us. Still, we hike back to the parking lot and prepare to depart. On one of our car doors there awaits a huge promachus robber fly, a welcome sight to conclude this evening's visit

IIII ) lllll Wood Nymphs And Grigs (6Aug11)

1713 Pitsiiksiinaikawaahko - I've come out this evening prepared for a very slow trek down and back up the coulee, with one thing in mind, and that is gathering food. Though it appears our berries are going to be minimal to null this year, there remains all kinds of possibilities, especially for daring to experiment with omnivorousness in its fullest

1721 I'm hardly twenty meters from the parking lot when I spot a patch of medick black with seed. This will be my first stop, to pluck the seed bundles like berries. All around me there's a hum of bees visiting the still-flowering yellow sweetclover. And clinging to the stems of grass amidst the medick are seven-spot lady beetles, frozen in the midst of pupation

1805 I fairly clean all the seeds off the one patch of medick, leaving a neighboring patch alone, and then head downslope toward the hibernaculum. Along the way, I net grasshoppers, focusing particularly on the somewhat larger two-striped species. There are fewer grigs here than I'd expected, though in a few weeks they should be in their full glory. The majority of what I see flying around this evening are small golden dragonflies and common wood nymph butterflies. The latter are particularly dense around a patch of Canada thistle, which is also attracting black blister beetles, several species of fly, and the Hunts and Nevada bumble bees. I find, in some grass near the thistles, a pair of Hunts bumble bees mating. And as I sit here writing these notes near the hibernaculum, a large female Nevada bumble arrives, goes purposefully underground beside me, and surfaces again a few minutes later to fly away

1838 The ridges surrounding the hibernaculum are skunkbrush country. And though some of the bushes are already played out, others are still laden with their sticky, citrus berries. I wander around, collecting what I can. It's too bad I left my small root digging crowbar in the garage, because the onions are now perfect. Might have to bring my traditional foods students around this week to harvest some. While I wander, I notice several new plants in bloom - purple and white prairie clovers, and evening stars. The ma's is now completely dry, their stems soon to be detached from the root. A nighthawk is calling in display from above

1925 The skunkbrush keeps me busy for a while as I wind my way down one ridge, then another, until I at last reach the sagebrush flats. Here, in a pocket of hawthorn following a small draw down to the river, is RYECAM01. It's been at least three weeks since I last downloaded images off of it, and tonight I'm not to be disappointed. There are beautiful pictures of coyotes, pheasants, whitetail fawns, catbirds, porcupines, and cottontails. All the usual suspects, but still nice to see

2039 After my stop at the game-cam, I descend to the banks of the Oldman, and there set to work netting minnows. It would probably be easier to just set a minnow trap, and perhaps I'll do so next time I know that I can come down two days in a row. If made right, such a trap might also succeed in nabbing some crawdads. There are bird-eaten remains of these crustaceans littering the banks. Anyway... with a couple dozen minnows secured, I again ascend the coulee slope. Most of the insects, save for the bees, have already gone relatively dormant, clinging to the plants and turning round to the opposite sides of the stems as I pass by. I find, as I go, that it's probably more difficult to net grasshoppers in this state, at least this soon after sundown. They are keenly aware of my gaze, and in the split seconds it takes for my eyes to focus and confirm what I think I'm seeing, they register the threat and hop down toward cover at ground level