Category Archives: posts about nature

May 17, 2011

male hummingbirds: big pricks, little birds

By borealbilly

i would like to set the record straight, once and for all:  i am not a birder.  in fact, i couldn’t tell the difference between a mourning warbler and nashville warbler if my life depended on it, save for the dark patch on the male mourning warbler’s upper sternum and its ground-level hopping in boreal forest wetland patches.

what i do know is that male hummingbirds are pricks. 

no i.d. necessary. it’s all about behavior, baby.

the first hummer arrived at my house on friday.  in response, i hurriedly boiled some water and sugar and let cool, while cleaning and sterilizing the feeders.  i thought about a plate of cocktail wieners, but opted for pure sugar-water, knowing how it’s provided so much energy (and several root canals)  for me over the years. 

the first hummer was a male ruby-throat  and once the “nectar” appeared, he has taken it upon himself to defend the prize with dizzying u-shaped flights of disdain.  i thought disdain only applied to my take on tourists, but this guy has even my disdain beat by several kilometers. 

one would think that a female hummer, sauntering up for a bit of energy, would be welcomed by the male in search of a little tryst, but that is not the case.  instead, he chases her away because she (conceivably) could down the whole quart of sugar-water and where would that leave him? 

with nothing but an empty feeder to defend.

a couple of summers ago, i had 14 hummers jousting over 2 feeders.  it was my summer of hummers.  it was dangereous to step out on the deck, for fear of being impaled by a hummer beak.  nikky thought i was a big pussy but to me, a hummer beak is no different than a shank in prison. ..sooner or later, you are going to feel its sting.

the first male is still hanging out and you can tell he is full of himself…sitting in the ash, preening and rousing his feathers, feeding on a whim, then it’s back to his “i’m so important” preening.  occassionally, he shits on my deck.

when a new hummer moves through and sees the feeder, he no doubt says to himself  “this is the weirdest fucking flower i’ve ever seen, but dammit, it’s full of nectar.”  whereupon, the resident hummer takes umbrage to the new arrival, flies after him, then throws in a couple of territorial flights to tell him “that’s what i’m talking about, bitch.”

i guess i’ll just have to get more feeders.  of course, i could take the one down, but then my back yard entertainment value is reduced by about 90%.  so yes, there will be “nectar a-plenty,”  my hummer friends. 

you little pricks.

Leave a comment | posted in Owls and the Owler, posts about nature

April 24, 2011

an evening even the robins couldn’t ruin

By borealbilly

after the sun set, but before it was replaced by darkness, everything was perfect.  the winds died, the clouds disappeared and there was less run-off noise in the landscape than anticipated.  there was enough light to watch the woodcock spiral up several hundred feet and return to earth in stoops and stalls before getting back to the importance of peenting.  a grouse dined on swollen aspen buds. a snipe winnowed across a bog, whose tussock sedges have been loosed from the bonds of winter.  but then, the robins started in and you know what? 

i don’t like robins.

they are like the ungrateful houseguest who bitches about the food, or the view, or the host.  when they finally shut up, i am sure their last conscious thought was “i can’t wait to get up in the morning and bitch some more.”  if any species can throw cold water on a nocturnal, springtime evening, it is the robin.  i mean, their scientific name is turdus migratorius.  turdus…good one, mr. linneaus. 

last night,  just as ambience was tilting in my direction, the robins wouldn’t stop.  and it isn’t like saw-whet singing ethic (“okay guys…i’m singing here, stay the fuck away from where i’m singing from”…).  no, robins congregate and so, it effectively turns into group bitching. 

deep breaths, owlman.

darkness is the great equalizer though, and soon the robins were stilled and the night shift began.     

twice, the space station passed overhead.  there were meteorites and the stars were not bleached out by moonlight.  it was warm.  it was calm.  i was absolutely wired on caffeine and sour patch gummy bears. there were owls. 

at one point, i realized how easy this used to be.  not easy as in, “stay up all night?…no problem.”  but easy as in, the owls used to be right there.  once, there were boreal owl nests i could observe from my truck.  once, there were no panoramic vistas because the horizons were blocked by forest.  once, i could go weeks without seeing anyone on the back roads.  once, cross-country journeys to distant owls defined a challenge i never refused.  but, a good night then, driven by the internal machinations that i  had to find owls, has been replaced by the realization that a good night now means i actually enjoy being where i am, when i am…in the middle of everywhere. 

when the clock tickled 0130, and the gummy bears had lost their magic,  i was done.  only the 45 minute drive stood between me and blissful sleep.  twelve saw-whets and the first drumming grouse of the year (very, very unusual…this late), the woodcock, the station, the grouse in the aspen, the zodiacal light, the stars, the planets, the isolation, the stinky fleece, the roar of released water, the smell of the earth, the screaming back, the common goldeneyes, the musk of mustellids, the fresh unblemished snow, the wisps of winds through white pines,  and another night in the boreal forest that even the robins couldn’t ruin.

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April 23, 2011

winter, i cast thee out

By borealbilly

it isn’t that winter keeps reappearing, it’s that it does so in an unusable form.  wet, sloppy snow and indecisive temperatures.  too warm for fleece and too cold for bermuda shorts hiked up to my rib cage.  today, being outdoors is far less desirable than sitting in my chair with the raw cookie dough and a pair or comfort waist jeans pondering life and the stanley cup.  

winter is now a post-it note, reminding us of its power and indifference, and its ability to take us back to the below zero temperatures of january when, if only for a brief moment, we wished for warmth and green; the moment we surrendered.    

winter is a bitch.  

rocky is gone.  whatever took him from the clutches of decay, did so before the 2″ of snow fell overnight.  no tracks.  no good-bye. 

twenty minutes ago, the first yellow-rumped warbler showed up at my house, eager for the quick energy a trip to the suet cake delivers.  they will come in waves now, the first warblers to test the waters of springtime, thousands of miles from their wintering grounds.  gotta love the migrants.    

tonight it’s back to owls after a reprieve last night.  the 2-5 inches of snow the arrowhead received has melted along the shore, but with the melt, all the little draws and culverts are alive with water.  with the water comes the background noise.  with the background noise comes the owler’s need for absolute focus and concentration to pick up the hint of song in the noisy departure of winter (again).   

time to coffee up and put away the cookie dough.

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April 22, 2011

good-bye rocky

By borealbilly

somewhere in the inner sanctum of glorious sleep this morning, i heard the ravens.  they were gloating as only corvids can, shouting to the world that death had begun yet another tenderizing process on the sickly sweet flesh of a former north woods denizen. 

awaking did not stop the commotion.

i sauntered to the window and 3 ravens were tearing into something that wasn’t there the day before.  i grabbed my binoculars and saw the raccoon.  dead.  it’s eyes already gone, its fur plucked to expose the soft underbelly that every mammal shares.

then, i remembered sensitivity and insensitivity and thought, “well this is fitting.”

i wish i could make all this up but i can’t.  instead, these are the unique permutations nature hurls into its “life formula”.  given patience, everyone has the opportunity to observe them.  it’s called “letting stuff happen”.  it explains why i sat for hours in an a) observation blind; or b) beneath a nest tree and did nothing but scribble notes into a write-in-the-rain notebook while fending off a) black flies and hangovers; or b) hypothermia.

once one has put in his or her dues into field biology, everything else seems effortless. 

i gotta truck full of patience.

i am assuming the weakened raccoon came back overnight and searched for some scraps then, on its way back to the forest, gave up.  i look at it two ways:  i have closure and there is one less raccoon to contend with.  let’s call it a win/win situation.  oh, and there’s a bonus:  now i get to watch the raccoon gleaned of its viscera and fat and meat, unless of course, a wolf comes in and just takes it away (most likely scenario).

with spring, the closure of one life will give way to the young of the year and soon, the raccoon won’t matter.  life will go on…sometimes in my back yard but most of the time, somewhere else.

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