BRING IT ON!

So the cute furry beaver was now the big bad enemy. (See entry for March 30.) He was eyeing the woods, and he was getting a little cheeky with the tail slapping, too. We called Trapper Ben.

WANTED!

“Do not kill the beaver. Do not hurt the beaver. Just relocate the beaver where it will be happy.”

Trapper Ben was on board with all of this, but he didn’t own a live trap big enough for this dude. We had to buy one. Guess the price.

Did you guess $450? I looked at my checkbook and pondered that beaver’s life. I looked at the woods. I bit the bullet.

The trap was huge and heavy. Trapper Ben set it out with some tasty treats that appeal to beavers––corn leaves, carrots. He knew right where to put it vis-à-vis the lodge and the pile-o-scat. So we waited. And waited. We met with Trapper Ben and affirmed our desire to live-trap the animal. He knew all about the satellite dens cut into the pond bank under water. That’s where beavers house their yearlings while they raise the new batch. He rerouted the pond run-off pipe because running water sends a message to beavers, and its beaver brain responds, “Damn! I must build a dam!”

The food remained in the trap. The trap remained unsprung. The lodge grew into the Mackinaw Hotel. There were more stumps in the woods. The summer was drawing to a close. When I kayaked around the colossus, I could hear baby beavers squealing and mewing in the lodge. Awwwww. Awwww, my foot! We were about to host lots more beavers!

By September, we were growing weary of the battle. One day I was walking around the pond and found that a beautiful, tall oak had been felled. It was likely 50 years old. I called Ben.

There was a knock, I opened the front door, and Ben stood on the front porch.

“Kill the little bugger! Kill them all!” I shouted. I waited for the regret. And right on cue, there it was––I regretted paying $450 for a trap! Nope, the pelts in summer aren’t useful. I read your mind.

And kill the buggers he did. I asked him not to show them to me; I felt bad enough. They were big, he reported, as in 60 lbs. of big. And numerous.

Finally, I had to look. Did I feel bad? Yeah, a little, even though I had done everything I could to give those guys a chance. But beavers reproduce like the rodents they are, while it takes a tree somwhere in the neighborhood of 50 years to become 50 years old.

Ben dismantled the lodge so it wouldn’t be colonized by future beavers. It took him all day, and apparently it wasn’t an easy task. Ben looked like he had wrestled those beavers out of there by hand. The lodge was impressive. There were three levels, and each level had two doors of its own. Okay, so then I felt a little bad. They are amazing beasts. They will be just as amazing over on the English River when they can't get through our new fence below the pond.

Tree Killer!

To see a wonderful video on beavers building a lodge:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VuMRDZbrdXc

TIPPING POINT

Each year, without fail, we have one special guest, some sort of beast we’ve never seen before. It becomes our focus as we learn about it and enjoy observing it. One year we had an orchid in the woods, but just that once. One summer we had the Green Herons. (See March 17-20.) Before that we were inundated with dragonflies of every kind and color. I’d never spotted a warbler, then two years ago a flock took up residence beyond the pond.

 Last spring we hit the jackpot. There was evidence of a beaver in our pond, and I’d never seen them at work. I was excited.

Because the water was so high last year, small trees that once had been around the pond were now in the pond. They were about a yard or two from shore. Some of those trees, which would rot anyway, had been downed by a beaver, leaving a field of freshly sharpened pencils sticking up out of the water. A tall tree would be down on the water one day and gone the next.

The beaver was taking these logs to a small island at one end of the pond. In dry years, the island is part of the shore; in wet years, it becomes isolated. It’s a big mound of earth with several huge trees and some underbrush. The beaver, working efficiently, simply added logs to the island rather than starting a lodge from the ground up. I watched day after day as our drowning willows and poplars disappeared, and the lodge took on surprising proportions.

Take a whiff––this is my place!

 I didn’t catch sight of the beaver for a while, but I knew it was there. When I paddled my kayak around the  island lodge, there was a pungent aroma very appropriate for a huge rodent. They make a pile of not-so-jazzy scat on the shore nearby as a way of claiming their territory. I'm glad we go with house numbers.

One night I walked, flashlight in hand, down to the dock where I had left my glasses. When I reached the pond there was a massive smack, then I could see water splash four feet in the air. It took a minute to get my heart rate back below 200. I got the message. This is my pond at night. 

How cool is it to see a beaver lodge built right before your eyes? And without losing any trees from our woods at that. These guys were cleaning up our pond––that was a bonus. Excessive dead trees and leaves are not good for pond water.

I did catch a few glimpses of the beaver. Once he let me drift quite close to him. When I pushed my luck, he dove down, and I saw him disappear under the island. At times like that, I cannot imagine living in the city.

Then one morning I spotted something a couple of yards up the hill in the woods. It was the pointy stump of a large tree. Not a little tree. Not a tree in the water that was going to die anyway. There were still trees in the pond the beaver could have harvested, but he had gotten greedy. He’d taken down a beautiful, viable tree.

At that moment, 


Interesting, cute, industrious beaver 

became 

Evil, destructive enemy of the people. 

War was declared.

Tomorrow: Bring it on!

ack ack ack ack ack ack ack     PARSNIPS   ack ack ack ack ack ack ack

Remember parsnips, those nasty, acrid wanna-be carrots that sit on your uvula and repeatedly kick you in the gag reflex? When my mother said I had to sit at the table until I ate all of my parsnips, there was only one reasonable response. “Then this is where I’ll grow up.”  Well, it turns out there’s something even worse than parsnips! There are attack parsnips. 

Meet the Wild Parsnip, aka Pastinaca Sativa. Sounds like Silvio Berlusconi’s latest love interest, but he’d regret that liaison.

Here’s what you need to know about Wild Parsnips:

1.          You do not have one Wild Parsnip. If you have one, you have 

             thousands.

2.         You cannot kill a Wild Parsnip.

3.         A Wild Parsnip will laugh at you if you try to kill it.

4.          They disguise themselves as Queen Anne’s Lace.

5.          No matter how mad you get, you don’t want to touch them.

Ever.

Oh, you may think it’s no big deal to touch a Wild Parsnip. You grab one and say, “What’s the big deal?”  Indeed it is a big deal, a big deal called photodermatitis. 


Wild Parsnips have chemical components called furanocoumarins. (That’s probably why parsnips taste so nasty.) Furanocoumarins get all excited when hit by UV light; they are photoactivated. Touch a parsnip, let the sun shine on the spot it contacted, and that area will become red, begin to itch, and then blister. The itching will not be a problem for long; that’s because the pain that follows will make you forget about it. If you get a good exposure you can erode your skin and deeper tissues.

We have been lucky not to have invasive Mustard Garlic in our woods, but Wild Parsnips have crept across the county. They love the ditches and sunny fields.These plants start out as flat rosettes on the ground. They put up tall stems (3-4 feet high) with leaves and then multiple yellow flowers. You can dig, pull, mow, cut, burn, and spray these plants. Then you can listen to them snickering. They just call in reinforcements. Most people let them do their thing, but I have a need to eradicate parsnips of any kind. I do admit that one of the silliest things I ever uttered was, “I got them all this time!”

I guess there’s some poetic justice when The Girl Who Wouldn’t Eat Parsnips ends up being haunted by Wild Killer Parsnips for the rest of her life.

For a photo gallery of Wild Parsnips, cut and paste this ginormous address:

http://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view?back=http%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3F_adv_prop%3Dimage%26va%3Dwild%2Bparsnips%26fr%3Daaplw&w=531&h=425&imgurl=www.wiseacre-gardens.com%2Fplants%2Fwildflower%2Fwild_parsnip_foliage.jpg&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.wiseacre-gardens.com%2Fplants%2Fwildflower%2Fparsnip_wild.html&size=139KB&name=Wild+Parsnip+-+f...&p=wild+parsnips&oid=f97531296510b13d02ab3eff29c4be81&fr2=&no=8&tt=2030&sigr=123mlvhfe&sigi=123a4dk6q&sigb=12mlku2sj&.crumb=Suv5Qbrozs7

THE BRIDGE PARTY

When we got married I made a deal with the groom: you quit smoking, and I’ll learn to play bridge. He quit many times, but each time he fell off the tobacco wagon, I figured I was off the hook. Our dental insurance covered the only bridges I ever came near.

Eventually he really did quit, and I––stonewalled. All the bridge players I know always, always, always say, “We just play for fun. It’s not that serious.”  Then they proceed to snarl their way through the game, kicking their partners under the table. They end up not speaking and get divorced. I’m more of a euchre girl. If you trump your partner’s ace, it’s justifiable homicide. Other than that, it’s fairly relaxed.

I never kept my end of the bargain. That creates some internal conflict, but I can live with it. Guilt and a shredded self-concept are preferable to learning how to play bridge.

I was on my way home from a trip last summer when my husband informed me there was going to be a neighborhood bridge party that very night. We don’t have a neighborhood. And the closest neighbors don’t have that telltale musty smuggy smell of the bridge player. And besides––he knows I can’t play bridge. I figured he was kidding.

There was a bridge party all right, but it was Bridge, Iowa County style. After a year out of commission, the bridge over the Black Diamond Road was finally going to open the next morning.

The bridge over Old Man's Creek––open at last

In a matter of minutes,  60 people from a 5 miles radius arrived for a bridge opening party. They came on bikes, in cars, and on 4X4s. They ranged from the wrinkled newborn to the wrinkled octogenarian.
Tailgates dropped and Weber cookers, 8 ft. tables, beer coolers, and chairs appeared. There was pea salad, glorified rice, 7 layer salad, bean dip, burgers, chicken, rolls and mostly there were pies oh my. It was wonderful to have the bridge open. It was inspiring to have the bridge open while eating cherry pie.

A realistic man, my husband gave me credit for being at a bridge party, and our long-standing deal was satisfied.

HALE BOPP

If you were banished to the prairie, do you think you’d miss the bright lights of the city? You need to know there are some hefty compensations out here. The sky is so dark that you feel as though you’re walking through the thick canopy of stars, not under it. The horizon is actually visible; unobstructed sunsets and sunrises are delivered daily.

To get us off to a very good start, the first year we lived here the Comet Hale-Bopp appeared at the end of our lane. (Ordinarily if the sky turns green, it’s not a good sign. We have special basements for that in the Midwest.) We had our own personal comet show. We set up two folding chairs in front of the garage doors and peered at the green sky for a couple of weeks. Hale Bopp was not subtle––no one ever said, “Hey, Clarice, you think that’s that comet thingee over there?”

If I had noticed a new comet, I’d have hesitated to mention it anyone. But Mr. Hale and Mr. Bopp did not hesitate when they spotted this beautiful display within the constellation Sagittarius. They reported it to the Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams. I am certain that would not have occurred to me, because I was unaware that there was a place to report “transient astronomical events.” This organization gathers such information and sends out telegrams!

It's a good thing I didn't know about the Central Bureau  other transient events appeared to me––that Coot, the crop-duster, a floater––they all look the same to me until they’re pretty darn close. Imagine the headline:  Williamsburg Woman reports duck to Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams.

Turns out Comet Hale Bopp was anything but a new comet; people in ancient Egypt set up their folding chairs in front of the Pyramids and watched it.

We all can be happy that Mr. Hale and Mr. Bopp didn’t hail from my hometown, a little German farming community in Michigan. Comet Reimenschneider-Eisenbeiser probably wouldn't have caught on. Now Comet Pickleseimer, that’s a different story,

To report your own transient astronomical events:

http://www.cbat.eps.harvard.edu/index.html

More on Comet Hale Bopp:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comet_Hale-Bopp

THE BOMBS BURSTING IN AIR

We started having Fourth of July parades in the early 70s when our children were toddlers. The neighborhood kids decorated Big Wheels and wore super-hero capes. When my husband added a margarita bar to the lemonade stand,  parents were overcome with patriotism, and the parade grew exponentially.

A bike parade around the block out here in the boonies would celebrate both July Fourth and Fifth, so we switched to a picnic. Over the years it turned into a huge all day and evening picnic. Our house, two decks, sun porch, and driveway are packed with friends and some people we haven't yet identified. One year we were gone, and some people came anyway.

The highlight of the July Fourth picnic is Bruce’s Fearsome Fireworks show. This man who lets everyone cut in line, who chats politely with robo-callers, is not the least bit worried about filling his trunk and back seat with totally illegal fireworks. He scans the mega-firework stores along I-94 in Indiana, scoping out who has the biggest inventory, who has the wildest explosives. Once inside, his inner-pyro takes over. I am surprised at the size and scope of explosives that they will sell to a senior citizen. These are not snakes or firecrackers; these are mortars that can bring down planes heading into Cedar Rapids International Airport, things that burst and then burst again, that squeal and shower sparks over the pond.

We have a 20-acre field that is perfect for setting up a major fireworks display. The crowd sits in the driveway at a theoretically safe distance. One thing about an Iowa field in July: it is tinder dry. It’s not quite as dry as our cedar shake roof, but dry nonetheless. I spend the day on the bucket brigade, carrying water to each little site he has selected.

I admit it: I am not a calm spectator. For example, I do not like the sight of Bruce and my nephew staring at the Whirling Spike of Death, their faces just a few feet away, trying to decide if the fuse is really lit.

Nor do I not like the 32” tall Annihilator Rocket being aimed at a row of my closest friends.

At our last Fourth of July party, Bruce set up a huge area packed with whizzers, bombers, zippers, and such for the finale. His display far outdoes most of the small towns around us. At least this time he put up a sheet of plywood so he could dive behind it after the fuses were lit. Thank goodness for that. 5 seconds. 10 seconds. 20 seconds. The crowd leans forward into the dark night. Then––and this is no surprise–– he cannot help himself. He simply must come around to see what’s taking so long. That’s exactly when the Iowa County Apocolypse occurs. Just in time, he dives like Mark Spitz, narrowly escaping a Crackling Fireball Colonoscopy, a procedure not covered by Medicare.

The Finale as I remember it

My voice echoes across the prairie. “Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuce!”

And from next to me there comes a little voice, full of indignity. My friend’s 6 year old, standing there with his hands on his hips, says, 

“He’s doing––

                           the best––

                                                that he can!”

A good point. Somehow a very frightening point, but a good one nonetheless. 

WOODLAND CREATURES

I appreciate the the soft brown eyes of a doe peering over the fence in the morning while I make coffee. I never grow weary of the bright lights that fill the trees in the morning sun––the red cardinals, yellow finches, and blue indigos.

Not quite as elegant––or expected––was the giant sow who waddled out of the woods before breakfast one morning. Ten little ones followed her, shooting out of the underbrush one by one. Home delivered bacon, the stuff poetry is made of.

PORCINE HAIKU

Ten pink baby pigs

Little sawhorses running

Front back front back front

Not into haiku? Then watch piglets run at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--LeOoohGrM&feature=related

Trying to remember what you learned about haiku in seventh grade?

http://www.toyomasu.com/haiku/

CLOSE ENCOWNTERS  

In town I loved to go running early in the morning, but a woman running alone needs to take precautions. Cross the street if the hedges are tall. Run under the streetlight if there’s a figure walking in the shadows on the sidewalk. Head for the nearest porch if a car slows down. Other than that, it was a great way to start the day.

Running in the country has its own challenges. The road surface includes 6” ruts, fist-sized rocks, and slick mud. There are no shoulders. If a car comes, you can hope they have good manners or you can dive into a ditch full of rancid water. That aside, I decided to give it a shot.

The stars still filled the black morning sky as I ran to the end of the lane.  I took in the fresh cold air and headed down the first long hill. I ran to the highway, about 1-1/2 miles, and turned around. There were no stalkers or hedge dwellers, and I was able to hold my breath while hurrying past a pungent pasture.

Suddenly a loud snort raised me right out of my tennies. A black cow in the dark is not easy to see, but I spotted him when a white cloud of warm cow breath floated skyward with that snort.

When I recovered my own breath, I settled back into a comfy pace and stayed on alert for any further cow encounters. That’s when a Red-tailed Hawk rose up out of the ditch screaming and flapping its powerful wings. I hit the gravel and covered my head.

The round, red edge of the sun came over the horizon, and a peachy, gray sky bloomed as I ran down the driveway.

I will take cow snorts and hawk screams over human marauders any day. 

BIG WHEELS KEEP ON ROLLIN’

The sun was warm, the hammock soft, the iced tea cold. It would take a lot to make me move. Like seeing a prehistoric beast on the siding next to me. He was only  
1-1/2 inches long but oh so cool––cool enough to entice me out of my cozy nest.

He wasn’t colorful. In fact, he was quite homely. And it’s not like he had a great personality, either; he just sat there.

It turns out I’m very lucky I didn’t give that little fellow a nudge or turn him over. I’d likely have a scar to show for it. This prehistoric-looking monster was a Wheel Bug, and they do not have good manners.

If you’ve seen a bug with a  cogged wheel on his back, you’ve seen a Wheel Bug. They’re the only insects in the U.S. with that feature. Experts say the wheel doesn’t appear to have a specific purpose, but come on! Its purpose is to be cool!

Another nifty feature of the Wheeler is that it has two upper jaws and two lower jaws. It has a long head that ends in a really long beak, and he folds that back under himself. This insect caught all the breaks––he even has two eyes, one compound and one simple.

Amazingly well endowed as he is, you don’t want to be at a family reunion for the Wheel Bugs. They belong to the family called Assassin Bugs. This is where the long beak comes in. The Wheeler sticks it into anything soft––moth, caterpillar, you, me––and injects its saliva. The saliva has an enzyme that first paralyzes its victim, then dissolves everything inside it. The dual-action beak then becomes a straw, and the Wheeler sucks out a bugilicious smoothie.

Assassin bugs  kill many insects that farmers are happy to be rid of, but unfortunately they don’t discriminate; they kill Lady Bugs and bees, too. If they bite the farmer, he will suffer a vicious wound that can take weeks or months to heal, and it leaves a scar. The bug won’t come after you if you leave it alone, but don’t be irritating it.

Wheel Bugs lay 2-400 eggs that will go through 5 stages of metamorphosis. Even in those nymph stages, they can lay a hurting’ on you. After the female lays the eggs, she dies, but not before she kills her mate. I told you––bad manners.

Even though this bug is advantageous, I wouldn’t want to be its spin-doctor. It’s got a lethal bite, it’s cannibalistic, and one more little thing––if you bug this bug, it will turn around, pop out its orangy-red anal sacs, and blast you with a foul-smelling substance. 

Robert Gates, are you listening? Imagine a tank that can send out a long straw, dissolve the enemy, drink it up, then turn around and blast any survivors with a nasty smelling brew. And all you got are drones?

To see a wheel bug take on a bat:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmV6TjVNZGM&feature=related

SNAKE IN THE KAYAK

Not many days in the country

Are humdrum,

But a snake in the kayak

Is quite a conundrum.

You can roll it and shake it

From starboard to port;

The snake will just head for

The stern with a snort.

Try pounding, try yelling,

Try using a stick;

Threaten his life;

Give the kayak a kick.

The snake in the kayak

Does not plan on leaving;

Kiss your paddle goodbye,

And get on with your grieving.

LIFE ON THE FEEDLOT

We are surrounded by farms. To the west, a thousand-head of cattle merrily graze  on a thousand acres. To the south, a hog confinement graces the horizon. Heading north we find two llamas guarding a herd of sheep. Head east and  you get all of the above plus an Amish farm with over a hundred goats. That, by the way, is a lot of Mason jars full of canned goat meat. Across the English River you’ll see emus racing around their pen. If you go to Sunday dinner at their house, do not ask for the drumstick. So here’s an invitation: come to my neighborhood, climb up on a big platform, pick up a bullhorn, and announce, “I am a vegetarian.”

In truth, I pretty much keep that information to myself. If someone is about to plop a steak on my plate, I mumble something about my vegetarian status. While I consume my fair share of soybeans, farmers around here cannot contain their disgust towards us "meatless whackos."

I can’t imagine demanding that a carnivore explain why she eats meat, but vegetarians are grilled, broiled, and ridiculed, sometimes by people we hardly know. It’s open season, as though I am going to the bank and personally withdrawing everything from their farm accounts. Mothers put their children behind their legs as though I'm going to force a  rutabaga on them. Go to the Volunteer Fireman's fund-raising breakfast, and before you can speak, they throw bacon, sausage, and ham on top of your pancake. A three-meat breakfast is an expectation.

I don’t push my food beliefs on others. I’m not always greeted with the same consideration. When they ask me why I don’t eat meat––and they always do––I say I won’t eat an animal if I wouldn’t kill it myself. I don’t go into gory details about why I wouldn’t kill it or why I won't let someone else do my dirty work. That's because they have already moved away from me shaking their heads.

The farmer who owned the nomadic herd (see entry for March 7) came over for dinner one evening. When he finished eating about 3 pounds of sloppy joes, he looked up at me and said, “Thought you didn’t eat meat.” 

“I don’t,” I said.

“What’s this then?”

“That’s soy protein.”

“Is not,” he said. Then he emptied the bowl of Mrs. Miller's Sloppy Joes, vegetarian style, onto his plate.

Just beyond his place, at the end of our road, is a very nice woman who farms alone. She grows crops and tends cows come rain, shine, or miserable blizzard. She’s frisky, strong, and warm-hearted. One weekend she called and invited us to come for dinner on Saturday night. She’d invited all the neighbors. “We’re having turkey, gravy, and potatoes. If you want vegetables, bring your own.” I figured I could do without them for one meal. Besides, she makes the best cherry pie in Iowa.

I will never live here long enough to understand the country paradox. A farmer will fight to save a lamb during a difficult birth. He'll spend the night freeing a heifer trapped in a washout on Old Man’s Creek. Then, he'll turn around and slit the animal's throat.

Your Easter Ham?

Still, I won’t make an issue out of killing animals, not until I go home and change out of my new leather shoes.

THE SUMMER OF GREEN HERONS

PART 4: GREEN HERONS AS ART

Green Herons are funny, entertaining, surprising, and always beautiful. Their emerald sheen, brilliant rust, black and white feathers are breathtaking. They can assume a compact, ovoid shape or elongate that graceful neck. The head and beak create a variety of angles––chin tucked against the breast, twisted to peer over the shoulder. This is a moving, constantly evolving work of art. Here is a tour through the Gallery of Greenies

Emerald as rich as the greenest sea

The graceful neck at 5 days and 3 weeks

                                                    

Regal in rust

Perfect balance

Parallels on the hypotenuse

Light on the white

Soft colors, gentle shape

Graceful stalking

The emerald ballerina

So ended the summer of Green Herons. It's as though Cirque du Soleill dropped onto our front 

field and performed every evening for our personal viewing pleasure. But better. Quietly. 

Naturally. Once in a lifetime.

THE SUMMER OF GREEN HERONS 

PART 3: WHATCHA DOIN’?

Green Herons have one purpose in life: make lots more Green Herons. To do that, they must stay alive. And to do that, they must eat and not get killed.

Eating is easy at first. Open up, and mom or dad stuffs something in. But within weeks, the little ones must learn to find and catch food independently. The ideal Green Heron buffet features bugs, fish, and small animals.

A Green Heron stalks its prey along the shore, from trees, and on the wing. It pulls its head back and shoots that long neck out like a blow dart at some poor fish lolling about in the shallows. It also scoops dragonflies out of the air.

But surely the most amazing thing about Green Herons is that they use bait to catch their dinner. They actually find some little scrap, a feather, or a small insect and float it out on the water. When a frog or fish comes to check it out, zap! That pointy beak brings home the bacon. There are precious few animals that use bait to obtain food. Surely you remember those junior-high social studies films called Man––The Tool Using Animal!  We thought using tools differentiated us from other beasts. Not only was it sexist, but also a bit cocky. I’ve seen a Green Heron fish, and I’ve seen friends and family fish in the same pond. This pea-brained bird can rightfully sing, “Anything you can do, I can do better.”

One way Herons protect themselves by leaving; flight is a definite advantage in a war with a raccoon. 

They blend nicely into the leaves, so hiding is another defense. 

Having a spear on the front of your face is surely useful in battles with smaller pests. 

And the cry of a heron may give some pause.

Sometimes Green Herons form small rookeries; we’ve had 3-4 nests on the pond at one time. Mom and dad both tend to the young, but you need good eyes to tell one from the other. The pair sticks together through the season and sometimes longer. They may raise several clutches during a summer. If Green Herons can hang together while raising two or three families in a few months, perhaps they can challenge us at more than fishing.

Tomorrow: Part 4: The Art of Being Green

To hear a Green Heron:

http://www.enature.com/fieldguides/view_default.aspsortBy=has+audio&viewType=list&curFamilyID=219

THE SUMMER OF GREEN HERONS

PART 2: THOSE PESKY TEEN WEEKS

Since a green heron goes from egg yolk to responsible adult in four weeks, it doesn’t get much time to wallow in adolescence. It has places to go and feathers to grow. First come those spiky practice feathers, then the adult finery. When those lovely emerald feathers come in, the young ‘un needs to preen away the baby fuzz. That is a lot of work. It’s fortunate they have a long, flexible neck and tweezer beaks.

When you’re built like an ostrich, you’re not exactly aerodynamic. Watching 10-day-old Green Herons learn to walk is like watching the Flying Wallendas do a show after Rush Limbaugh has slipped something into their breakfast shakes. They tumble through the willows, grabbing a twig just in time. They walk out on a branch until it bends, flap their wings furiously, and stumble back to the nest.

Mom is still providing meals at this point, and the babies raise a hullabaloo when she comes in for a landing.

As I paddled to one side of the tree, they’d scamper to the other side. I’d row around, and they’d hurry back. But within a day or two, they simply ignored me and went about their business.

There is so much for a Green Heron to learn in the weeks two to four. Flying. Procuring food. Procreating. Avoiding predators. About that predator thing––one morning there were just three herons in the tree. I searched the branches, the nest, the ground, the pond. No trace of those little ones. Sad to report they never were seen again. A raccoon, coyote, or hawk had a tasty dinner. It's not always easy to deal with animal behavior; sometimes they act just like humans.

Tomorrow: Green Herons, Part 3: Whatcha Doin'?