Monarch butterflies go through many changes in during their short lives (Photo: Vicki DeLoach, Creative Commons license)

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This week’s focus on the holidays of two major religions, not to mention some events in my own life, had me thinking about endings that actually turn out to be the start of something new and unexpected. My spiritual vocabulary is more deeply rooted in the biological than the Biblical, so when I think of metamorphosis and renewal, I think of Lepidoptera.

Butterflies and moths are the very model of adaptation, moving through many transformations during the course of their lives.  These shape-shifters begin life as an egg. With the possible exception of avid gardeners, most of us don’t often see, or at least notice, this stage. Once they emerge as caterpillars though, their bright colors, wild patterns, and wavy gait are eye-catching, as are the web-tents spun by certain species shortly after they hatch. Moth caterpillars are usually fuzzy, so if you find one that’s smooth, you’ve probably got a future butterfly on your hands.

And speaking of hands… before you start picking up caterpillars, you should know that some of them sting. Their fuzz includes hollow quills connected to poison sacs; when touched, reactions can range from mild itchiness to severe pain, dermatitis, or even more systemic problems.  I’m speaking from personal experience here, and this is a rather embarrassing confession. It’s no secret that most wild creatures try to blend into their surroundings, so when you see a brightly colored, very conspicuous animal, there’s a good chance it has a more than adequate defense system. A wildlife biologist, of all people, should know that. I do, and I did. But I had never seen a Io moth caterpillar before and wanted a closer look. My curiosity got the better of me and I let down my guard. Only after I had allowed it to crawl onto my hand did I begin to think, “Hmmm… probably not a good idea.”  Good ol’ hindsight… always there just after you need it.

But I digress.

Caterpillars continue their quick-change artist life with five molts, called instars, during which they wriggle out of their too-tight skin. Finally, they find a place to hang out for a while and a different kind of skin, called a chrysalis, forms. Moth caterpillars usually prefer the added protection of a silken cocoon.

Inside the chrysalis/cocoon, a radical transformation takes place, something miraculous, even when you realize it can all be explained biologically. A death, of sorts, that must take place for something new to be born. A leap of faith. Does the caterpillar know, somewhere deep down in its DNA, that there’s more to life than being an earth-bound eating machine? Do caterpillars dream of life on the wing?

Now that I’m in my 50s, I’m starting to realize I’ve got quite a lot in common with Lepidoptera. I’ve experienced my own series of instars, breaking out of old skins when they became too restrictive and claustrophobic. And there have been times spent in the cocoon as well, wondering what, if anything, lies ahead, and how much longer I’ll have to wait to find out. Life, after all, is about taking chances… letting curiosity, excitement, optimism and wonder take the lead over caution, even if that means sometimes you get stung. I haven’t yet managed to escape the law of gravity, but I’m still dreaming of flight.

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author. Thanks to the following individuals for making their photos available for use under a Creative Commons license: Eric Heupel (monarch egg), Sarowen (Io moth caterpillar), Sid Mosdell (chrysalis photos), Rob Ellis (emerging monarch), and Rob and Jane Kirkland (just emerged monarch).

American black bears sleep through much of the winter, setting their alarm clocks for April (Photo: Pat Gaines, Creative Commons license)

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Obviously, she hasn’t looked at the calendar recently or Mother Nature would know the vernal equinox has come and gone, and there should not be tiny snowflakes drifting past my window on this grizzled April morning. It’s enough to make a gal want to hibernate a while longer. Crawling back into my quilted den, thoughts turned to ursine sleepyheads cautiously probing the air with a fur-covered nose, vacillating, as I am, between warmth and a grumbling stomach.

The abdominal alarm clocks of American black bears (Ursus americanus) are beginning to clang. Further north and west, the bears settled in to snooze 6-7 months ago. Because fall foods such as acorns, hickory nuts and beechnuts, and other high-calorie treats are usually more abundant on my side of the continent, East Coast bears don’t tend to head for bed until November or December. The night owls of the family, they may be light sleepers as well; Virginia winters are comparatively mild, so during warm spells bears may rouse and emerge to forage.

There used to be some debate over whether or not bears actually hibernate, although that particular argument seems to have been put to rest. When ground squirrels and other small mammals hibernate, their body temperature drops to near freezing. When hibernation was defined solely in terms of temperature reduction, bears did not qualify as “true hibernators.” Once researchers discovered it’s a depressed metabolism that drives the temperature loss, and that bears do undergo significant metabolic changes that allow them to den for over 7 months without eating, drinking, or producing liquid and solid waste, our understanding—and definition—of hibernation changed; it now includes bears.

Dr. Michael Vaughan, a professor in the Department of Fish and Wildlife Conservation at Virginia Tech and Director of the Virginia Bear Research Center in Blacksburg, dreamed of learning even more about hibernation and how it might offer clues to improving human health. When people are sedentary due to an injury, illness, or even space travel, it can lead to osteoporosis. Bears, on the other hand, experience some bone loss during their long periods of inactivity, but they also continue to create bone. By examining the hormones that play a key role in bone formation and breakdown, Dr. Vaughan and his team are trying to unlock the bears’ secret to keeping bone cell production on autopilot during bed rest.

How can bears nap for so long without heading to the refrigerator (which, in the case of a bear, would be the great frozen outdoors beyond their den) with a case of the midnight munchies? By following the Boy Scout motto: Be Prepared! Many Homo sapiens have to work hard to keep from gaining weight, but it’s a different story for Ursus. They can’t just saunter up to the counter at McDonalds^® and start super-sizing. Even for urban bears, who have access to restaurant dumpsters, it can be a challenge to pack on enough fat stores to survive the deep sleep. A male black bear needs to gain as much as 30 pounds per week, so autumn preparation consists of attempting to consume 10,000 to 12,000 calories—the equivalent of 18-21 Big Macs^®—per day.

Compared to that, motivating myself to throw back the covers with the promise of French toast for breakfast sounds downright… slimming.

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author.

The great blue heron is a patient angler (Photo: S. Pisharam, Creative Commons license)

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Racing past a nearby pond, I mistook the bird for an art installation.

I realized my error quickly enough once I downshifted. Then again, there’s just something so painterly about a great blue heron (Ardea herodias). The graceful, sinuous lines; the aqueous blues and grays; the plumage, evocative as a brush stroke. The unhurried disposition that creates a pose of every posture. The stippled scene was realism and impressionism all at once.

Slow, prehistoric wing-beats call to mind the cave paintings of Lascaux and Altamira. The great blue is one of the more easily identified birds in flight, partly due to its size—a 6-foot wingspan is hard to miss—and partly because of its silhouette, reminiscent of a textbook pterodactyl: neck folded back on itself in a compressed S; a contrail of long, slender legs.

Statuesque as an adult, the stalk-and-strike hunter spends much of its life standing still as stone.  Balanced as bronze armature, this is a kinetic sculpture that moves imperceptibly, and yet, as you watch… you can feel the potential energy of that cocked, cursive neck building in your own musculature, grown taut with anticipation. Patience personified…

waiting…

waiting…

waiting…

and THEN…  the spring detonates with blinding speed, blasting the javelin bill through the water’s surface and into the target!

The spear is dragged back from the depths as a squirming fish-kabob. Or, perhaps, a canapé of frog, salamander, crab, or crawdad… would you prefer a vole, garter snake, duckling, or dragonfly? Heron menus include far more than seafood. On occasion, large prey will be consumed bite by bite. A tedious process and, as every angler knows, if you want to increase your catch, you need to keep your line in the water. So, more often, there’s a flip of feathered head and neck, then dinner is swallowed whole. Or not. That narrow neck can accommodate a surprisingly wide load, but in the hurry to put the catch in the creel, herons have been known to choke on a too-big meal.

I know the feeling. I gobble down the items on my to-do list—even tasks like “take a walk.” I channel surf when I should take the time to savor the canvas before me. Taking a deep breath, I tried to quiet my mind, and settled down to watch… and wait.

Dining, fishing, or appreciating a living, breathing work of art—these are pastimes that can’t be rushed.

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author. Thanks to Len Blumin, who made his “catfish dinner” photos available for use under a Creative Commons license, and who reports that this particular bird’s eyes were NOT bigger than its stomach, or it’s throat, and it lived to fish another day. S. Pisharam’s original photo can be seen here.

The red fox is a canine with many cat-like characteristics and behaviors (Photo: Matt Knoth, Creative Commons license)

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Gazing blearily through coffee steam, a ghostly figure wafting through the early morning haze caught Lisa’s eye. “At first, it was just a ginger-orange and white shadow, and I thought, “Oh, no… another stray cat.”

The specter became more substantial as it moved closer. “I saw that it wasn’t a cat after all. It stopped at the edge of my patio and began to watch me. There we sat, two redheads—one natural, one augmented—staring straight into each other’s eyes.”

An understandable case of mistaken identity. The red fox (Vulpes vulpes) has some strikingly feline features: a sleek, slender-boned physique; long, sensitive whiskers; flexible paws with partially retractable front claws; thin, dagger-like canine teeth; and a tail that accounts for 1/3 of the animal’s total length all contribute to the illusion. Add to that eyes with vertically slit pupils and you start to understand why it’s known as the “catlike canid.”

Their hunting strategy is felid, too. Dogs tend to rely less on stealth than on detection, particularly by scent, and endurance. Canids often hunt in packs, using a tag-team approach to run down prey.  Cats, with the exception of African lions (Panthera leo), are solitary hunters who stalk and ambush prey with an explosion of speed. Dogs are relay runners; cats—and foxes—are sprinters who dispatch dinner with a quick, sustained bite, in contrast to the multi-wound or bite-and-shake method employed by most canines.

Biologists suggest that the behavioral similarities between foxes and cats are the result of convergent evolution: the development of an identical trait in unrelated lineages. Comparable adaptations, they explain, arise when species occupy similar niches—insect, bird, and bat flight is a commonly sited example. Foxes and small felines prey on the same species, so one would expect to see analogous hunting strategies.

Seems reasonable enough… but it’s harder to explain some of the red’s other felid behaviors. Their young hiss and spit like kittens, while adult vocalizations include cat-like shrieks and mewing cries. And then there’s the “lateral threat display.” You know it as the classic Halloween scaredy-cat pose—back arched, fur erect. See it and you immediately think, “cat,” not “dog.”

We humans like categories. You’re hip-hop or honky-tonk, freak or geek, fact or fiction, apple or orange. Pick your pigeonhole, please, and kindly stay in it. So what are we to do about a creature who refuses to comply with our “either/or” worldview?

If you’re an urban wildlife enthusiast, you smile and shake your head in wonder at the boundless diversity of this bright blue gem of a planet, and your luck to have landed on it.

If you’re a taxonomist, you lay awake at night, grinding your teeth.

Email your wildlife questions to NDN and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to “Like” NDN on Facebook!

© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author.

Snails are gastropods--a word that translates as "stomach-foot" (Photo: Sally Crossthwaite, Creative Commons license)

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Stepping onto the sidewalk for a pre-breakfast stroll with Dash, my terrier, I saw a shimmering calligraphy on the concrete up ahead. Now, I live in a large apartment community in a college town so I’ve learned that it’s important to watch where you step on Monday mornings, but this didn’t look like party residue. Since it resembled writing, I thought for a moment it might be chalk—a message decipherable only by Greeks (the collegiate variety)—but that wouldn’t explain the silvery quality of the text.

Finally, I drew close enough to solve the mystery. It wasn’t writing at all. The weather had finally turned warm enough—temporarily, at least—for the local gastropod to take a stroll along a slime trail.

Can you stroll when you have no legs and only one foot?

Stroll, stride, saunter… call it what you will. Snails get from point A to point B by gliding along a secreted track of mucus that hardens into a kind of Slip ‘n Slide^® when exposed to air. The animals ride waves created by a band of muscles in the foot that travel from the tail to the head, surfing along the slime, over the roadway, through the woods, and up the walls of grandmother’s house.

Snails secrete a mucus trail that serves as a kind of slo-mo Slip 'n Slide® (Photo: Krstnn Hrmnsn, Creative Commons license)

Progress appears painfully slow to bipeds and quadrupeds, but the meandering trails suggest snail excursions are all about the journey, not the destination. You have to admit, they never rush—unlike many of their harried human neighbors.

Of course, it’s a smaller world for some. An average speed of 0.03 mph must be fast enough for a garden snail to get where s/he needs to go (snails are hermaphroditic, meaning they have both male and female sex organs, so s/he is particularly apt here).

Before you dismiss the lowly snail as too pedestrian to warrant admiration, you should know that the National Science Foundation supported a research collaboration between the University of California at San Diego (USA) and Stanford University (USA) to better understand the locomotion of snails and slugs, their shell-less cousins. The goal was to create robots that mimic snails, propelling themselves up and down walls, along ceilings, and across other challenging surfaces.

An examination of the mucus trail has proven fascinating as well. When common periwinkle snails are traveling along a vertical surface, the secretions have more adhesive qualities than when the animal is moving along a horizontal surface; the chemical structure of the mucus changes depending on the demands of the route.

But wait—there’s more! A study by researchers at the University of Sunderland (UK) found that snails conserve energy by reusing slime trails. They will retrace their step to return to a previous resting site—a much safer strategy than hoping to stumble on an appropriate new location in time to avoid the dehydrating rays of the sun. Snails will also follow the trails of their cohorts to find dinner and a date. Essentially, they’re playing follow-the-leader.

From where I sit, it looks as though a snail’s life is all fun and games… and what wouldn’t I give to see a group of gastropods do the Hokey-Pokey?

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author.

Considered an emblem of spring, the American robin is a year-round resident in some parts of North America (Photo:Di Qiu, Creative Commons license)

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Walking near the central drill field on campus earlier this week, I happened upon the beginning of a mid-afternoon performance to celebrate the arrival of spring. The American Robin Ballet Company had taken their places on the lawn, dark taupe cloaks and carmine waistcoats vivid against the peridot-and-buff turf. They appeared frozen in place, waiting for the orchestra’s opening chords. Then all at once they began to move, not in sync but each using the same choreography.

Step… step… step… then a brief, brisk run… plié… relevé. Repeat.

Adagio (step… step… step)… allegro (step,step,step)… plié… relevé.  Repeat.

Actually, if you think about it, it’s natural to see robins and other songbirds as dancers. For one thing, they are almost always on at least demi pointe—what you and I might call being on our tippy-toes. That’s because what we think of as the bird’s foot is actually only toes, and what we might initially think of as the knee is actually the ankle.

But for the corps de ballet in this show, function is as important as form. It may look like a dance but in fact it’s a hunt… or a very stylish way to shop for groceries. Take your pick.

The appearance of robins is considered by many to signal the arrival of spring; however, in some parts of North America robins are year-round residents. In winter they may form enormous nighttime roosts of over a hundred thousand individual birds. There is strength—and warmth—in numbers.

In spring and summer, after pairs have formed for pas de deux, males and females participate in the care and feeding of their offspring. However, females sleep on the nest, warming eggs or nestlings, while the males continue to gather each evening to sleep at the roost. As young robins gain their independence, they leave the nest and join the males at night.

Robins are territorial, but unlike many birds, males are more protective of their mate and nest site than of feeding grounds, which often overlap. So while cardinals and even hummingbirds are known for aggressive intraspecies defense of food resources, it’s not unusual to see groups of red-breasted dancers on a single grassy stage, even at the height of breeding season.

When a robin stops suddenly, stands stock still, cocks its head to one side, dips slightly, then rises for another series of steps, the audience may assume the bird is listening intently. But ornithologists believe robins are actually looking for signs of digging that reveal the location of a worm. They—the birds, not the ornithologists (well, maybe some of the ornithologists)—consume other invertebrates, such as snails and insects, and a wide variety of wild fruits. Exactly the kind of high-protein, high-fiber, low-fat diet ballerinas and danseurs need to remain light on their feet. I could almost hear Martha Graham…

“Places everyone… and five, six, seven, eight… GRAND JETÉ!“

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author. The bird skeleton drawing, from Illustrations of Zoology by W Ramsay Smith and J S Newell (1889), is in the public domain.

The wood frog has a large North American range (Photo: Garrett and Kitty Wilkin, Creative Commons license)

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My mole Tboy (that’s spy, not insectivore) tells me Valentine’s Day has had its intended effect on the wood frog population in southwestern Virginia. On February 18^th the first early-bird male appeared at a nearby pond, floating patiently and quietly. Four days later, 50 guys had found their way to the gene pool and were warming up for karaoke and the start of happy hour. Any time now, the ladies will arrive and that joint be jumpin’!

The watering hole has been silent for the last few months. Winter is a time for amphibians to lie low. Really low. Aquatic frogs hibernate on or partially buried in the mud at the bottom of ponds and lakes. Terrestrial frogs, including the wood frog, hibernate on land. Some burrow down below the frost line, but wood frogs are not adept diggers so they seek out crevices in rocks, crawl beneath a log, or just huddle in the leaf litter.  These hibernacula don’t always make for a cozy inglenook. When the temperatures drop below freezing, so do the wood frogs. But not to worry—wood frogs have what it takes to best Old Man Winter.

Antifreeze.

No, I’m not talking about well drinks. A high concentration of glucose keeps the frog’s vital organs from freezing, so even though the animal stops breathing and doesn’t have a heartbeat, it’s not dead. As soon as things heat up again, the frog thaws and life goes on.

Wood frogs in amplexis—male is on top (Photo: Richard Bonnett, Creative Commons license)

The wood frog club scene is cool. That’s because it usually begins in January or February, sometimes before the ice has disappeared from vernal reproduction pools. The whole rave lasts for about two weeks. A female steps onto the dance floor—I mean into the water—and a male grabs her and holds on tight. The process is called amplexis. That’s Latin for embrace. Yeah. Kind of like the way sumo wrestlers embrace.  Because once the male has her in his arms, he’s not letting go without a lot of… persuasion. Sometimes not even then.

The process is highly competitive and not without hazards. “Satellite” males hang out beyond the water’s edge so they can grab a gal while she’s in transit. In this way, he avoids jostling with the boys at the pool while also scoring a ride to the party. Also, male wood frogs are stimulated by movement so they’re not always discriminating about who they grab. Sometimes they grab the wrong species of frog, and sometimes several males will grab the same female. This can cause her to be squeezed to death or drown.

But, assuming there aren’t any bar brawls, the female will lay large masses of 1500+ eggs, choosing a site where they receive sunlight and protection from predators. When she releases her eggs, the male—who has been waiting for this opportunity and is now in the perfect position—fertilizes them with a sperm-containing fluid and soon the eggs begin to develop.

Eventually, the tadpoles hatch and begin their metamorphosis, absorbing the nutrient reserves in their tails to fuel their makeover.

Time to head for the forest and get on with the serious business of making a living. Last call! (Until next year, that is).

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author. Egg mass photos by Richard Bonnett; metamorphose photos by Brian Gatwicke. Thanks to all the photographers featured in this post for making their photos available for use under a Creative Commons license.

Blue jays keep a close watch on their neighborhood (Photo: Rick Leche, Creative Commons license).

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JAY!  JAY!  JAY!

Uh oh. I’ve been spotted, and the guards have ratted on me.

“Halt! Who goes there? Thought you could just slip past, did you? Not on my watch. Hey everybody—look! Look! Over there!”

Steller's jay (Photo: Allan D. Wilson, Creative Commons license).

Every non-human ear in the neighborhood takes note. It feels a bit like being caught at an awkward moment by the paparazzi. But I don’t take it personally. I know everyone who wanders past is subject to the same protocol—people, cats and dogs, hawks, snakes, you name it. Jays take sentry duty seriously. Any real or imagined threat to the forest citizenry is duly noted and announced.

Western scrub jay (Photo: Len Blumin, Creative Commons license).

Jays are part of a large family. Their Corvidae cousins include gray jays, nutcrackers, crows, ravens, and magpies, as well as some species we’re not that familiar with in North America–choughs, treepies, and jackdaws. In the Americas alone there are over 30 different species christened with some variation of the “jay” brand. The five scrub jays (Aphelocoma spp.) and the pinyon jay (Gymnorhinus cyanocephalus) closely favor one another, but two members of the North American branch have made striking and unique sartorial choices. Once you’ve seen a Steller’s jay (Cyanocitta stelleri) or a blue jay (Cyanocitta cristata), you’ll never mistake them for any other bird.

Florida scrub jay (Photo: B. Walker, Creative Commons license).

Of course, they’re not really blue. It’s just a trick of the light called a schemochrome. If you find a blue jay feather you can watch the color disappear and reappear as you roll the shaft between your fingers, changing it’s position relative to the sun. These forest defenders are high-tech.

When they’re not spying on everyone, jays pitch in to give the next generation of trees a head start. Okay, that’s probably an accidental community service. Jays bury acorns and then fail to use them all at snack time. The seeds germinate and—poof!—you’ve got a new oak tree. If society benefits from your actions, intentional or not, shouldn’t you get some credit?

Pinyon jay (Photo: Tony Randell, Creative Commons license).

Despite their public service efforts, jays have a reputation as bad birds. Maybe it’s the black mask some of them wear. More likely, it’s the abuse of power so often attributed to their ranks. Eye- witnesses tell of raids on the nests of other birds for eggs and hatchlings, but one extensive study of blue jay feeding behavior found only 1% of jays had evidence of eggs or birds in their stomachs. You’ll also hear stories of jays who trick fellow backyard residents into leaving the feeder by mimicking hawk calls. Now, I can’t deny that some bullying does occur. Think of it as the price of protection, if you must. But judge not, lest ye be judged. Keep in mind that both Steller’s and blue jays have complex social systems and tight family bonds.

Birds, like people, are rarely all good or bad. Whether the scale tips to the right or the left depends on your point of view. Life isn’t always black and white, or even shades of gray. Sometimes, it’s not even blue.

Email your wildlife questions to NDN and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to “Like” NDN on Facebook!

© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author.

During the breeding season, in February and March, female skunks may spray males when they're no longer in the mood (Photo: Dan and Lin Dzurisin, Creative Commons license)

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You’ve got questions, NDN has the answers.  Tricia asks, “Do skunks let go with musk when fighting each other or only in response to non-skunk threats?“

When it comes any question about skunks, I turn to my favorite expert on the Mephitidae family, Dr. Jerry Dragoo of the University of New Mexico’s Department of Biology.

“Skunks usually don’t spray unless they fear for their lives; some skunks are easier to scare than others. Usually during a skunk to skunk encounter the combatants will go through a series of displays and threatening behaviors. There may be some screeching or other vocalizations. The encounters usually end peacefully with one animal retreating. Some times the two may actually fight. There will be biting and rolling and again, more vocalizations. This too usually ends peacefully with the loser backing off,” he explains.

But there are some exception. Occasionally, adult male skunks will kill juveniles so young skunks are more likely to feel their life is at stake and spray if they encounter an adult.

Intraspecies spraying can also occur during the breeding season. According to Dr. Dragoo, “Females may spray males. The breeding behavior of striped skunks may seem like fighting. If the female is receptive the ‘fight’ will continue until she has bred. She may mate with multiple males during breeding season. However, when she is done, she may spray at a male to deter unwanted advances.”

Nothing says “I vant to be alone” quite like an atomized sulfur cloud.

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author.

Meadow voles are sometimes referred to as mice and moles, but there is a difference (photo: Leo Papandreou, Creative Commons license)

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Winter weekend mornings are perfect for catching a little extra shut-eye, but my fur-covered drill sergeant thinks it’s important to rise and shine on schedule, seven days a week. I can’t seem to dissuade him from this mindset.

There’s a snooze button on clock radios and even on my iPhone, but wire-haired fox terriers don’t come with that feature as standard equipment. Snug in my blanket burrow, my sympathy for small, ground-dwelling creatures is renewed every time Dash excavates me from beneath the covers and insists, “GET UP! It’s time to OPEN YOUR EYES!!”

Once we’re out the door he begins to search in earnest for that one perfect piece of real estate on which to make his mark. This takes some time—Dash has strong feelings about the importance of a job well-done—so as we mosey along, I often find myself absent-mindedly scanning the terrain as well (although I use my eyes instead of my nose, and not with the same objective).

We had a warm spell in Southwestern Virginia this past weekend. The glaciers that formed when snowplows cleared the parking lot after the last storm had nearly disappeared, so there was more to see than just an expanse of dingy white. That’s when I noticed etchings in the dun-colored grass near the pathway.

At first I thought the scribbles were the result of melting ice, but somehow that didn’t feel right. I took a closer look…

…and began to develop a hypothesis:  meadow voles. But if a vole was the engineer behind this winding road, where was the signature grassy-igloo nest?

Aha—I knew it! And not just one… there was a second nest.  I could read what had happened as if a book lay open before me. A heavy blanket of white stuff gets shoved over the curb to form a snowy fortress, just waiting for an intrepid rodent willing to do a little mining. Food and building materials close at hand, there’s no need to venture out into a world filled with hungry predators.

Meadow voles (Microtus pennsylvanicus) claim many an alias: meadow mice, field mice, round moles, meadow moles. They are neither moles nor mice, but they are closely related to the latter. Moles are insectivores. Mice and voles are rodents, and there are physical similarities. Voles have shorter legs and tails than mice, but it’s dentition—their teeth—that caused mammalogists to set them apart from others gnawers. The upper cheek tooth row is relatively long compared to other rodents, and the third premolar has some distinguishing characteristics.

(Taxonomists are a crowd that believes the key to life is in the details.)

As soon as Dash finished his business, I dropped him off back home so I could take a closer look—you can’t sneak up on a rodent with an inquisitive terrier in tow. Camera in hand, I examined the carefully arranged, perfectly spherical, palm-sized mound of dried grass and wondered… had the nest become a nursery? Had the vole family tree added another branch? I listened carefully, but if a creature was stirring it wasn’t loud enough to register in my ears. The weather forecast for the following day called for a precipitous drop to more seasonal temperatures… would the nest prove warm enough without its outer ice-cave shell?

Oh, who was I kidding? I’m a woman of the natural world and I could see the writing on the sod. What had once been a well-camouflaged hideaway now looked like a treasure map for predators. If the other companion canines in our neighborhood overlooked these nests while on their quest for bladder relief, it’s unlikely the raccoons, opossums, and even tree squirrels in the woods just beyond the pavement would be so clueless.

I’m a tender-hearted soul, I’ll admit. But I’m also a biologist, and therefore an equal-opportunity empathizer. I hate to think of those vulnerable pink babies being gobbled down, but I wouldn’t like to see a starving raccoon either. Some creatures die so other may live. It’s the way of this world.

But while they are alive, in the course of going about the business of living, voles make a unique if fleeting mark on the world that can be discovered and appreciated by anyone who will open her eyes.

Thank you, Drill Sergeant Dash, sir!

Have a question about wildlife and other next-door nature? Send an email and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to “Like” NDN on Facebook!

© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author.

The male downy woodpecker is a dapper urban resident (iStock, used with permission)

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Rushing out the door, I went over the list in my head. Workout pants and layered tees—check. Running shoes—check. Coat, hat, gloves—check. Keys and sunglasses—check. MP3 player—check. Everything was in order as I pulled out of the driveway.

Or so I thought.

I’ve been on an extended trip to visit friends and family due to a use-it-or-lose-it vacation situation. Whenever I visit St. Louis I try to make a few calls on the Power Valley Conservation Nature Center, a 112-acre suburban oasis created by the Missouri Department of Conservation with hilly trails perfect for raising my heart rate for 30-40 minutes. But as I stepped out of the car and began to assemble my gear I realized with dismay I’d left behind a critical component—my earbuds.

The thought of a run without my workout mix, and without any caffeine in my system either, was disheartening. I need the motivation of a musical pulse. But I didn’t have time to go back to the house so I set off anyway, prepared to suffer.

About 10 minutes later I realized I was running to a faint headbanger beat. At first I thought someone who had NOT forgotten their audio equipment had the volume on their iPod turned up to 11. Once I realized the thumping came from the woods themselves, though, it wasn’t too long before I spotted the drummer, dressed more appropriately for jazz than heavy metal in the stylish black-and-white houndstooth jacket and jaunty red cap of a male downy woodpecker. In spite of the bird’s diminutive size—no more than 6” from head to tail-tip and weighing in at an ounce or less—his wardrobe set him apart on that overcast day from the slate-and-silver hickory bark.

Downy’s are capable of making a noise disproportionate to their size. When a woodpecker is looking for a mate or claiming a territory, the sound of drumming needs to carry; building a nursery cavity using a beak as a jackhammer isn’t quiet either. But if you’re in the woods and the beat is more bongo than bass, hunger is probably acting as the drummer’s muse. A gentle tap, tap, tap betrays hollow spots beneath the bark where wood-boring insect larvae wait.

Woodpeckers can really stick out their tongues (Florida Center for Instructional Technology, used with permission)

Once dinner has been detected, things get… interesting. That short chisel of a beak hardly prepares you for what’s inside—like many other woodpeckers, the downy has a barbed, sticky, and flexible tongue that’s so long it wraps around the skull when at rest. If ever there was a bird ready-made for rock ‘n roll, it’s the woodpecker. Gene Simmons has got nothin’ on these headbangers.

The whole tone of my morning changed in an instant. It’s so easy to carry a personal soundtrack wherever I go that I forget about everything I normally tune out when I turn up the volume. As a result of my oversight, I suddenly had a standing-room-only ticket to a great live performance, one I would surely have missed if this excursion had proceeded as planned.  My run could wait. I stayed for several encores and gave that downy an enthusiastic round of applause as he flew off toward his next gig.

Have a question about wildlife and other next-door nature? Send an email and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to “Like” NDN on Facebook!

© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author

Red-tailed hawks incorporate power lines and poles into their hunting strategy (iStock/BirdofPrey, used with permission)

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Great-Uncle Al was a creative man. A resourceful non-conformist.  That’s a euphemistic way of saying he was a hustler.

Al never let logic or credentials stand between him and the chance to earn some cash. His resume, so to speak, read like a script from the popular movie and radio serials of his day in which, week after week, the hero would undertake some preposterous adventure.  For example, Al worked for a time as a pharmacist during the Great Depression. Creativity, in this case, included spinning a fictional tale about his educational background—he never attended college and I’m not sure he even completed high school—and a tragic fire in the hall of records at his fabricated alma mater. It wasn’t a dangerous job for Al, but I shudder to think of the risks taken, unknowingly, by his customers. Every prescription must have been a cliff-hanger.

I hadn’t thought about Al for a long time, but while traveling by car from the edge of the continent to the middle for the holidays, I found myself reminiscing about the stories my dad and his siblings used to tell during gatherings of the clan.

I think it was the pole-sitters.

I must have spotted over a hundred red-tailed hawks during my 650-mile drive. Finials perched atop lamp posts and utility poles. Hoping for a meal, just like Uncle Al.

Flagpole-sitting was a fad during the Roaring Twenties and the early days of the Great Depression, a popular test of endurance for someone who would attempt to roost on high for weeks or months at a time. The sitter would negotiate a fee prior to the attempt, or an assistant on the ground below would collect money from spectators. To Al, it must have looked like a much easier way to earn a stake, or a steak, than working as a day laborer.

The hawks I saw along the highway were also looking for an easier way to earn a living, but they were hoping to collect their meal ticket in the form of pocket gophers, not pocket change.  Just as well. I didn’t observe a single gawking crowd. I did spy several birds diving for dinner although, at 70 mph, I wasn’t around long enough to tell if it was Hard Times for the predator or the prey that day.

Some other birds of prey will hover and soar, taking a proactive approach to grocery shopping. But unless they’re quite hungry red-tailed hawks use a wait-and-see strategy. They have keen vision so a telephone pole provides an excellent vantage point to watch for the movement of small mammals below, and standing uses fewer calories than flying. Laziness or efficiency? I guess it depends on your personal work ethic. I know my great-uncle would have admired those raptors.

Al’s days as a pole-sitter were brief, and I doubt he set any records. From what I can tell, he was a man of action and a distinctly social animal. Not a sitter by nature… unless you count a barstool. Besides, flagpole-sitting was a short-lived craze.

For people, anyway. Next time you’re out for a drive, stop texting long enough to scan the telephone wires along the side of the road and you’ll see it’s still as popular as ever among red-tailed hawks, who tend to be a bit less gregarious and a lot more patient than Uncle Al. Besides, hawks aren’t songbirds. They have too much dignity, and the cars speed by too quickly, for a chorus of Brother, Can You Spare a Dime.

Have a question about wildlife and other next-door nature? Send me an email and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to “Like” NDN on Facebook!

© 2011 Next-Door Nature — no reprints without written permission from the author.

A Virginia opossum braves the snow to look for an early evening meal (iStock/twphotos, used with permission)

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A dusting of snow earlier this week made it easy to see who’s been out and about in the neighborhood. Bird tracks don’t provide much insight into genus and species, but opossum tracks are recognizable enough. Several of them—or maybe it was one very busy guy or gal—live along a favorite walking route of mine.

Opossums are down with life in and around town, in part because they are the penultimate omnivorous opportunists. In addition to their “traditional” cuisine, which features insects, small vertebrate animals, wild fruits (including persimmons, a special treat), and carrion, ‘possums are known to take advantage of uncovered garbage bins (not without risk, as they often fall in and become trapped) and bird feeder spillage. They’re not shy about venturing through a pet door now and then either, especially if there’s a beckoning bowl of kibble on the other side. This can come as quite a shock—to both parties—when the homeowner wanders into the mudroom or kitchen expecting to say good morning to Garfield or Odie.

If ever there was a creature in need of a good spin-doctor, it’s North America’s only marsupial. The Aussie cousins—kangaroos, wallabies, koalas, sugar gliders, even wombats—have somehow garnered a higher charismatic ranking than poor old Didelphis virginiana.

Their long snout, gray fur, and naked tail cause many city and suburb folks to mistake them for rodents, and this may be the root of their public relations problems. I remember a wildlife center phone conversation with a woman who was surprised when an opossum wandered through the pet door into her laundry room.  Eventually, I was able to calm her down a bit and convince her she was not dealing with a freak-of-nature rat, but my attempts to help her appreciate the natural beauty standing in front of her dryer fell on deaf ears.

Startled Woman: I’m sorry, but I can’t even stand to look at him… he’s just so UGLY!

Indignant Wildlife Biologist (that would be me): Well, ma’am, he’s probably thinking the same thing about you!

Not one of my finest Wildlife Hot-Line moments, I know, but the words were tumbling off of my tongue before I had a chance to bite it. I happen to find opossums quite handsome. Still, there’s no denying that rodent resemblance. If you are mouse-and-rat adverse you’ll probably never come to think of ‘possums as pretty.

There’s another problem—it’s a common misconception that ‘possums are clumsy, dirty, and not all that bright, with poor vision and hearing to boot.

Don’t believe it.

Personally, I think any species that’s managed to survive relatively unchanged since the Cretaceous deserves a little more credit. Modern humans arrived on the scene nearly 90 million years later, so perhaps we should be a little more respectful of our elders.

Opossums are actually quite clean. They carefully groom themselves during and after eating—even the babies. When it comes to the acuity of their senses, common knowledge has it all wrong. These marsupials have excellent hearing and can easily detect the rustling of prey hidden under dry leaves or tree bark. A wildlife rehabilitator friend who works extensively with opossums tells me they evolved with a focus on olfactory sensitivity and, as a result, have an extraordinary sense of smell. Their sight is about average for mammals, but because they are primarily nocturnal, their eyes are adapted to working under low-light conditions. Our daytime is their night and, as a result, they can appear rather dazed and confused in sunlight.

Kind of like me when I’m up past my bedtime.

© 2010 Next-Door Nature — no reprints without written permission from the author.

Striped skunk (© Jerry Dragoo, used with permission)

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There’s a wonderful word—one of my favorites— to describe creatures that are active at dawn and dusk. Crepuscular. There are plenty of them, so the great outdoors gets lively when the light is low, making dusk and dawn excellent times to see wildlife.

That is, unless you’re in a car.

Challenging light conditions can conceal an animal near the road and reduce a driver’s response time when something darts out. While driving at twilight, it’s important to scan the shoulders for movement or for the telltale shine of eyes reflecting headlights. Vehicles are a constant threat to wildlife and my time at a rehabilitation center provided more than enough evidence of that. I should know better. But, lost in thought on my way to the mall, I didn’t see the striped skunk until he had sauntered into the middle of my lane.

It wasn’t a major thoroughfare so I had the road to myself, and I wasn’t going very fast. I had time to cede the right of way. Good thing, because I knew better than to expect this black-and-white tough guy to blink. In fact, he stopped and turned to stare down my Subaru.

Ever since he was a kit, the rest of the world has maintained a respectful distance—why wouldn’t he expect an automobile to follow suit?

If there’s enough time, skunks will usually give those who cross their path fair warning. According to mephitologist (skunk scientist) Jerry Dragoo of the University of New Mexico, a whole series of threat behaviors may occur before Pepe le Pew resorts to using the big gun. Striped skunks will stomp both front feet, charge forward a few steps and then stomp, or back up while dragging their front feet before spraying the object of their wrath. They can discharge their weapon while looking you in the eye, using an over-the-shoulder stance or even a handstand.

I’ve heard stories in which a skunk was taking his or her time crossing the road, or was dining on some previously flattened wildlife, and clearly saw the car coming. Drivers have reported observing the kind of threat posturing described by Dr. Dragoo, although they may not recognize it as such. As their vehicle gets closer and closer, they wonder why the animal just stands there. Surely it will scurry off the road… any second now!

Instead, the skunk holds its ground, takes aim, and fires… and in the process becomes another scavenger’s meal.  Gone, but not forgotten.  Not until the fragrance fades, at least.

I’ve got good skunk karma, I guess. Either that, or this particular stinker was feeling mellow. Thirty seconds of holding my breath… then he decided to continue on his way and I escaped getting doused. My luck ran out a few minutes later at the mall, though. Still thinking about my skunk encounter, I never saw that perfume saleswoman stamp her feet.

Have a question about next-door nature? Send me an email and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to friend NDN on Facebook!

© 2010 Next-Door Nature — no reprints without written permission from the author.

Amy lives in a large, planned community and the neighborhoods are separated by natural areas covered with walking trails and ponds. She and her family regularly see armadillos, rabbits, frogs, toads, lizards, turkey vultures, egrets, great blue herons, and plenty of insects. Amy, who’s new to the area, has been surprised to see so much wildlife in such a developed area, but her neighbors take it all in stride.

Including the ones who carry their homes on their backs, apparently.

“The turtle was moving from one natural area to another, and a truck was kind enough to wait for her to pass,” Amy explained. “Pretty smart! If she had crossed outside of the roundabout, I believe the truck would have been traveling too fast to slow down.  Our speed limit is 25 mph, but it is a busy street and almost no one (including me, I must admit) goes the speed limit.  It was just amazing to see!”

© 2010 Next-Door Nature — no reprints without written permission from the author.

Cedar waxwing feasting on crabapples (©iStockphoto.com/Greggory Frieden)

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A few weeks ago Pat in South Carolina mentioned she was watching the local songbirds get drunk on wild grapes, and I was immediately transported back in time to my days as director of a wildlife center in Houston, Texas. For a few weeks every year, the cedar waxwings would show up by the cardboard box-full and the rehabilitation clinic would turn into… well, a different kind of rehab center.

A flock of cedar waxwings in Kerrville, Texas, USA (Photo: ©Anna Crull, used with permission)

With their handsome, distinctive plumage, even a newbie birder can easily recognize this species. Their yellow tail- and red wing-tips look as if they’ve been dipped in sealing wax—thus the name. With a range that covers much of North America, waxwings aren’t rare but they’re not as common as some of our iconic backyard birds, so it’s always a bit of a thrill when they’re in the neighborhood. They travel in flocks—sometimes with 40 or more individuals—searching for pyracantha and privet, choke cherries, mulberries, and any other tree or shrub that bears sugary fruit. Once they’ve gobbled up every last berry, they move along without a backward glance.

Unless the fruit is spiked.

It’s not a matter of someone trying to contribute to avian delinquency. Temperature fluctuations during fall and winter and the presence of wild yeasts often will cause fruit to ferment in situ. Migration and colder temperatures make for voracious birds and the waxwings are carbo-loading as fast as they can swallow. They don’t seem to notice some of the berries pack a punch. When you weigh slightly more than an ounce, the alcohol content doesn’t have to be very high to do the trick. Next thing you know, birds are careening around on the front lawn like New Year’s Eve.

It can look rather comical but it’s no laughing matter. Many inebriated birds are seriously injured or are killed when they fly into cars and windows.

Good Samaritans across the county scoop disoriented birds into cardboard boxes and head for the nearest wildlife rehabilitation center. There, the birds are given a head-to-toe, beak-to-tail examination and any injuries are treated. Most of the patients are simply allowed to safely sleep it off in a warm, dark room before being released to continue their travels… although they probably have a doozy of a headache.

Do the birds in your neighborhood have you organizing AA (Avian Alcoholics) interventions? Share your story in the comments section below! And if you have a question about next-door nature send me an email—the answer may turn up as a future blog post. Don’t forget to friend NDN on Facebook!

© 2010 Next-Door Nature — no reprints without written permission from the author.

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© 2010 Next-Door Nature — no reprints without written permission from the author.

Urban Canada geese flying through a neighborhood (©iStockphoto.com/Bruce Smith)

See the geese in chevron flight, a-flapping and a-racing on before the snow
They’ve got the urge for going, and they’ve got the wings to go.
~ Joni Mitchell, The Urge for Going

Vaguely aware of dusk approaching, I was sitting at the kitchen counter grading homework. Normally, I don’t like to stop in the middle of a paper, but I heard a clarion call that made me bolt for the door without a second thought—the rasping two-note hank-honk, hank-honk of Canada geese.  For me, this sound is the very essence of autumn and wanderlust, and I responded instinctively.

My disappointment at not being able to sprout feathers and tag along was tempered by the fact that I could tell this particular flock wasn’t going very far. They were resident geese, a relatively new concept that refers to birds that hang around all year long. The urge for going, it seems, does not reside in the heart of every Canada goose.

Scientists used to think migration was an undeniable impulse. This idea gained strength following experiments in which some species of wild birds were raised in captivity under circumstances that prevented them from experiencing environmental signals, yet they continued to behave like their uncaged brethren. For example, when allowed to fly, they demonstrated a preference for the same direction as the migratory path their species-mates were navigating. The urge for going is strong among many birds, including warblers and vireos, northern pintails and blue-winged teals. Canada geese, however, seem able to take migration or leave it, at least those living in the burgs and ‘burbs.

Wildlife biologists are supposed to take a dim view of anthropomorphism, but when I observe a flock of resident geese at this time of year my overactive mind hears an urban waterfowl couple discussing their winter travel plans, ala Pixar:

Goose (voiced by Betty White): Dear, I’ve been thinking… wouldn’t it be nice to skip the move down south and just stay put this year?

Gander (voiced by Robert Duvall): Now, Mother, what’s gotten into that feathered head of yours? We can’t just skip migration! It’s a tradition in our family that goes back more generations that anyone can count! What would the rest of the flock say?!

Goose: Some of the flock did stay behind last year, you know, and it worked out just fine. Travel is so metabolically expensive… maybe it would be smart to consider a staycation. Just think about it. That’s all I ask.

One feature of the urban landscape that makes winter survival easier for resident geese, even in northern states, is the heat island effect. Cities have a lot of thermal mass. According to the U.S. EPA, evening temperature differences can be as large as 22°F (12°C). That means lakes and ponds freeze over less often—an appealing feature for waterfowl. And the food supply at a park or on a golf course is plentiful year-round.

When faced with the question, “should I stay or should I go?” more and more geese are choosing to stay. And why not?

How did I know the geese winging past my door were year-round neighbors? Migrating geese can be seen flying high and fast unless they’re heading down to rest and refuel. My geese were flying low and slow, gaining altitude only when necessary to avoid colliding with power lines and apartment buildings. Knowing I’d see them again if I keep my ears open, I bid them goodnight, said hello to the nearly full moon, and stepped back inside to grade… and dream of flight.

Have a question about wildlife and other next-door nature? Send me an email and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to friend NDN on Facebook!

© 2010 Next-Door Nature — no reprints without written permission from the author.

Gray squirrel (© Jim Isaacs, used with permission)

High winds and rain here in Virginia earlier this week have left once-vivid foliage tossed and trampled on the ground like Election Night confetti. The red-orange-yellow pallet of October is shifting to browns, taupes, and grays. With the hyperbole of early autumn behind us, bare boughs and blue skies offer the perfect opportunity to pull back the leafy curtain for a peek “behind the scenes.” All you need to do is step outside… and make the leap from two dimensions into 3D.

Sure, we all know it’s a three-dimensional world but, with the exception of a flight of stairs now and then, our days are usually spent in a forward-backward-left-right routine. Skeptical? Spend even a few minutes watching a gray or fox squirrel ricochet through some timber and I guarantee you’ll feel like your days are spent in Flatland.

Unlike many mammals, squirrels make it easy for wildlife watchers. They’re not shy, they’re active during the day, and much of their activity occurs within the visual field between our feet and our face. Of course, while we keep our feet planted firmly on the ground, squirrels do not, and when they bolt up the bole into dense foliage they seem to disappear like a campaign promise. What good does it do to look up?

In parts of the country that have both squirrels and seasons when the trees go au naturel, craning one’s neck can be more rewarding during the fall. That’s why I’m trying to cultivate a new habit when out for a walk. Whenever I catch myself contemplating my shoes, I lift my eyes and scan the trees, starting at about the same level as the roof of a two-story house. Try it yourself. See those seemingly accidental wads of leaves and twigs, about the size of a football, caught in the gutters formed by branches? Those are squirrel nests, also known as dreys.

Dreys in a silver maple (© N. Hawekotte, used with permission)

Squirrels aren’t as famous for their engineering skills as are beavers but maybe they should be.  It can’t be easy to build 20 feet or more above the ground on a foundation that sways with every breeze. Construction begins with a platform of woven twigs, followed by a spherical framework secured to the base. Leaves, paper, and moss are used to fill in the gaps and create a snug, weatherproof abode with two doorways—a main entrance and a hidden escape hatch. The exterior may look a little rustic but the décor is luxurious. Lined with fur, feathers and other cozy furnishings, it’s the perfect cocoon for a cold winter’s night.

Close up of a drey (© N. Hawekotte, used with permission)

Squirrels don’t hibernate but they do lie low during inclement weather. When the mercury drops or the snow starts to fly, a group of females may crowd into a single drey to share the warmth–kind of like a slumber party without the pajamas, pizza, and prank phone calls.

As spring approaches, the dreys serve a dual purpose as nurseries for the new crop of infants. I realize not everyone is a fan, but if you’re a squirrel aficionado and want the scoop on where to enjoy watching for youngsters when they venture out to explore the world and bounce among the branches, now’s the time to make note of which trees are littered with messy nests. Just think 3D… without the funny glasses.

Have a question about wildlife and other next-door nature? Send me an email and the answer may turn up as a future blog post. And don’t forget to friend NDN on Facebook!

© 2010 Next-Door Nature — no reprints without written permission from the author.

Few people know though that I also “camera hunt.” Yep, I am a “shutter bug!” I am also a really big fan of the Colorado Division of Wildlife’s  Colorado Outdoors Magazine. It is flat out awesome! Always packed with great tips and advice, and some of the best photography that exist anywhere. In view of the latest assault on freedom and liberty by the FCC? Please take note, that this is only an opinion, and further, that I make no money, or take recompense in any kind from the Colorado Division of Wildlife, any subsidiaries and so on, in any way. I will say this though. If you have an outdoors person in your life? This should make one heck of a gift!

Hint hint hint…

COLORADO DIVISION OF WILDLIFE 2010 CALENDAR NOW AVAILABLE

Looking for a “wild” Christmas gift for the sportsman or wildlife enthusiast in your family? For the first time ever, Colorado Outdoors– the official bimonthly magazine of the Colorado Division of Wildlife–proudly presents the “2010 Colorado Division of Wildlife Calendar.”

Featuring the same stunning photography found in Colorado Outdoors magazine, the 2010 calendar provides hunting and fishing season information, as well as detailed descriptions on watchable wildlife happenings and festivals around the state.

Calendars may be purchased online (http://wildlife.state.co.us/wildlifestore) or by visiting your local Division of Wildlife office. And at $6.95, they are a steal. Limited numbers are available. Get them while they last.

For more information about Division of Wildlife go to: http://wildlife.state.co.us.

Most of the year elk hang out in single sex groups.

Every year male elk (bulls) grow a new set of antlers. Typically, males drop their antlers in late winter while new antler growth occurs throughout the summer. Their antlers grow a furry like substance called velvet Velvet is a sensitive skin filled with blood vessels that provide antlers with vitamins and minerals essential to their growth.

Come fall bull’s antlers reach full size. Bulls scrape or rub off their velvet by violently rubbing their antlers on trees. As fall moves forward bigger older bulls herd up their harem or group of female elk (cows) to prepare for breeding. This period is referred to as the rut.
A bull elk starts to gather his harem in early fall

Throughout late September and October bulls challenge each other to establish dominance. Older more powerful bulls typically end up with harems of 20 or more cows while the younger bulls still hanging around the herd are called satellite bulls. The rut lasts for about a month, during this time the bulls are the most vocal, bugling to establish dominance and attract cows.

Recently we were fortunate enough to find a large elk herd with a monster 7X7 herd bull. This thing was HUGE! It was obvious this large herd of 70 plus elk was in the height of the rut. The herd bull was bugling loud and working hard at herding up his harem. It was quite the site watching nature’s beauty at its best…. best of all… we are bringing it to you in high definition.

So turn the lights off, grab some popcorn, and check out our latest a.m. Colorado episode:
(for full screen click on the icon with 4 arrows at bottom right hand corner of the frame)

For those of you who hunt elk I took the liberty of creating an MP3 audio file from this video. Feel free to listen to it here (click the play button):

If you’ve never been lucky enough to hunt elk in Colorado but want to… Here is some information to get you started:

first of all you’ll need your Hunter’s Education Card

second, you’ll need to decide on a method of take: archery, muzzleloader (black powder), or rifle

third, you’ll need to decide on a time and place… this is where it becomes tricky… especially if you’re from out of state… but don’t worry. There are many resources out there to help you decide. The first and foremost is the latest Colorado Big Game brochure This brochure is your “go to” for all regulations regarding big game. It lists all big game species, seasons, and GMU’s (game management units). Colorado is separated into GMU’s so before you apply for a license you must decide which GMU you want to hunt first.

Colorado is the only state in the nation where unlimited “over the counter” (OTC) elk licenses are available. This means, anyone (except convicted felons) can walk up to any license agent and purchase an elk license that is good for unlimited GMU’s all over the state with out having to go through a draw. OTC licenses are available for archery season and 2nd and 3rd rifle season.

If you want to hunt in Colorado this should get you started… CDOW’s PlAN YOUR HUNT PAGE is a good resource as well. for more information visit the CDOW website or call the CDOW call center at (303)297-1192 (M-F 8am-5pm MST) GOOD LUCK!

You can catch them in the rut (mating season) starting in November and sometimes extending into January… and if you’re really lucky you may find a couple big rams head-butting to display their dominance. We got lucky and saw a couple… what a sight that is. It reminds me of Oklahoma drills during football practice.

After countless days searching and capturing these interesting mammals we put together the latest episode of a.m. Colorado:

Due to I-70′s obnoxiousness, I had to replace every piece of audio you hear in this video.

Prairie chickens are unique little birds that stomp their feet, puff their orange cheeks, and strut to attract mates. Filmed on a spring morning in the Sand Hills of Yuma County, Colorado.

Species Profile:
Range in Colorado: Greater prairie chickens are fairly common local residents in the sandhills of northern and central Yuma County, extreme eastern Washington County and extreme southern Phillips County.
Habitat: They prefer mid-grass sandsage grasslands on sandhills, mixed with cornfields (Evans and Gilbert 1969, Van Sant and Braun 1990).

History: Between 1973 and 1993, Colorado’s greater prairie chickens were listed by the state as an endangered species. In 1993, the birds were delisted to threatened and in 1998 they were delisted to a special concern/non-game status. Through DOW recovery efforts, which included cooperative habitat projects with eastern Colorado landowners, greater prairie chicken numbers have grown from a low of 600 birds in 1973 to an estimated fall population of 10,000 to 12,000 birds, which can easily sustain a limited harvest.

Go to it.