Lately I’ve been lurking at Perennial Garden in Hyde Park, a favorite spot of mine. Right off where the pavement turns in I found a bush where butterflies hang out. I’ve learned it’s called “butterfly bush.” It’s an invasive species, so I don’t recommend it for your garden. (Try something native, like butterfly weed.)
Some days the bush is visited by butterflies. At other times I see more little moths. One day to my surprise a hummingbird whizzed in and out. I’m not sure it even stopped. It (or another) did the same thing the next day, never when I was ready for a photo.
After the hummingbird sightings, I started thinking that my life would be complete if a hawk, or hummingbird, moth showed up. I’d seen only one once before, near the Cascades in Ann Arbor, Michigan. It was a fancy, not even a hope. The next day my jaw dropped when one of these little garden fairies buzzed in. Now I wish I hadn’t waited until August to start my lurking.
My life is complete. Until I figure out how to get better photos or get my camera over there. By then it will be September.
Champaign to Anna to Giant City State Park to Heron Pond to Fern Clyffe State Park, then home
May 23, 2014, late evening
J. and I set out for a brief return to Shawnee National Forest and the Cache River. Other than visiting Heron Pond, I didn’t have a plan.
We made it to Champaign before stopping. I forgot that Champaign is a few miles east of I57, so we overshot it.
After breakfast at Le Peep, we were on the road again. We had to bypass some of last year’s distractions, like Amish Arcola and Rend Lake. We did leave the expressway for Mattoon and a quick stop at a place I hate to leave: Common Grounds. Closer to our destination, in Mount Vernon we detoured to a Toyota dealer and a car parts store to look at the malfunctioning lower glove compartment. We also took a break at the Post Oak rest area, which with its bridge and trees is scenic and soothing. I remembered it from last year.
Post Oak rest stop
This time we focused on the more civilized western part of Shawnee, with home base at the Davie School Inn. Built in 1910, this elementary school is now a distinctive and very comfortable bed and breakfast — if the sight of a student desk and other holdovers from the school don’t traumatize you with memories.
Davie School Inn
Our host described Anna, which we’d been to before, as “just like Mayberry” (that is, there’s no need to freak out if you leave your car unlocked for a few minutes — or more).
Giant City State Park
May 24, 2014
I’d been intrigued by the name and description of Giant City State Park. As it was already late afternoon, it was nearby, and our host recommended the park’s lodge for dinner, it seemed like a great place to use the daylight we had left. On the way, we stopped in Makanda at what in any other place would be called a strip mall, only this was a rustic building carved into a hillside, and its stores were mostly local art and other tourist shops, with an ice cream joint in the middle. I loved its charming hillside location and unpolished design. You realize how sterile urban and suburban big box and brand shopping is when you see something like this.
Makanda, Illinois
We inadvertently took a hilly, twisty back way into Giant City State Park. These aren’t words I usually associate with the flat, bland Illinois landscape, so it’s like being in another world.
Giant City State Park has numerous trails, and I tried to find the one that was popular and not too difficult. (There may be a correlation.) After wandering around a while, we came upon the Giant City Nature Trail head, past a picnic area overrun with happy, screaming children.
This didn’t sound like something I couldn’t handle (although I wouldn’t be sure until the end). We were lucky because we weren’t swarmed by mosquitoes.
The “giants” of Giant City are huge rocks with “streets” between them, the natural antonym of a model scale urban canyon.
By far the most popular trail at Giant City, this 1 mile trail is home to the famous “streets” of Giant City. You’ll walk on a mulched trail with wooden walkways at difficult spots. There are some strenuous uphill portions on this trail. Take this trail to view a diversity of plant habitats from creek bottomland to dry blufftop. This is also a promising trail for seeing the largest woodpecker in the United States, the pileated woodpecker.
Illinois Department of Natural Resources
The giants are beautiful and impressive, and we would have stayed longer if we weren’t running out of daylight for photos and time to get to the lodge for dinner before it closed. After we passed the Giant City “streets,” I was even nervous that we wouldn’t be back to the trail head by dark — I wasn’t prepared with this convenient and easy-to-follow map.
I moved as quickly as I could over the more strenuous uphill portions and somewhat rougher terrain. Earlier we’d seen a woman who was in the final stages of pregnancy, and I’d marveled at first that she was going to attempt the trail, but then her family detoured back to the parking lot, so they saw only the sandstone bluffs.
When we got back to the trail head, I noticed the sign said Fat Man Squeeze was closed due to snake activity. I realized later we hadn’t inadvertently disrupted the snakes. Even if we had spotted Fat Man’s Squeeze (we weren’t sure), from the looks of the photos it would have been a miracle if I could have gotten even my arm through. For a lot of reasons (mainly the distance between us), the snakes will remain safe from me.
Like Starved Rock Lodge, Giant City Lodge was a CCC project and has a similar rustic, roughly timbered feel (although the construction style may be different — I’m no expert). It’s decorated with specimens of various taxa that have been treated by a taxidermist — deer, fish, ducks, etc. Food and drink were welcome after the long, tiring day, and so was the classroom with the Jacuzzi shower and bath at Davie School Inn.
Heron Pond
May 25, 2014
After a big breakfast, we set out for the Barkhausen-Cache River Wetlands Center to get better directions than I had for Heron Pond, although on the way we spotted a few signs pointing to the pond. I’m glad we stopped at the center not only because having directions helped us to find it (what you’re supposed to pass through, how far to go) but also because for a little while we could watch the barn swallows and hummingbirds forage.
I’m not sure where we went wrong last year (I think we just gave up), but although Heron Pond is a little out of the way, with the signs and the directions it’s not hard to find. The final approach, however, is down a narrow, single-lane gravel road whose shoulders have been cut away so there’s a good drop on either side with not much room for error. We were in luck; we had just started down it when a car came toward us, so we didn’t have far to back up to get to a point where we could let them pass. I wonder if the road is being made wider, but I can’t say.
The road is long enough to make you wonder if you somehow missed the pond but eventually you do come to a crude parking area, and the trail head is clearly marked. The trail itself is easy, and we stopped to take photos at several spots that didn’t make me think of what I was looking for, but were scenic on their own. The sign at the trail head was a good clue, as was the bridge we crossed soon after starting out — I’d seen it in a video of Heron Pond.
Although we didn’t see wildlife galore, we did occasionally see movement, which in one case gave away the location of a lovely leopard frog. I’m assuming he’s of the southern variety.
While the first part of the trail is more open and the water looks like a conventional creek (or “crick”), soon we started seeing swampy areas to the left, with denser vegetation. By this time, though, the fatigue from the up-and-down Giant City trail was hitting me hard. The experience helped me understand the descriptions given by people with disease-related fatigue. My legs felt like heavy dead weights that were getting harder and harder to move, even when walking on level, even surfaces. As at Lusk Creek Canyon the year before, I told J. I couldn’t go any farther if I were to be able to make it back to the car. Also as at Lusk Creek Canyon, when we hit a signpost (in this case a fork), he left me so he could see how far off the destination was. It turns out that Heron Pond wasn’t much farther, although that is relative when you’re fatigued and hurt all over. I plodded along until we finally reached the Heron Pond boardwalk, where adorable anoles were one sign that we weren’t in northern Illinois anymore.
As one woman passed us, she asked if we’d seen the cottonmouth (copperhead?) under a tree we’d passed. No! I’m disappointed we missed it — I’d been hoping to see a snake, although last year we’d been told they’re elusive.
Years ago, I’d read Marjorie Zapf’s Mystery of the Great Swamp, set in the Okefenokee of 50 to 60 years ago. n the hot, humid air that would be more typical of summer than spring in northern Illinois, Heron Pond looks like something you might find in Georgia — a tiny, northern, less wild Okefenokee. In the book, though, you see the world from Jeb’s eyes as he poles a canoe through trees covered with Spanish moss. When I read The Mystery of the Great Swamp as a child, all of it — the swamp, the canoe, the venomous snakes dangling from the trees, the birds, the dappled lighting and the deep shadows, the profound stillness and subtle sounds as the animals carried on with life — all of this was deliciously alien to my imaginative child-self. I was young enough to think I was Jeb, poling through the silent but not still Okefenokee, in search of answers to questions no adult understood or admitted. I didn’t love the ending because it wasn’t an ending for just Jeb or just me; it felt like an end to something bigger and critical to life itself — the unknown. Without mystery in life, what’s left?
Heron Pond isn’t large or remote enough to harbor the Great Swamp’s mystery — nor, of course, is the Great Swamp. It’s lovely, peaceful, and otherworldly, though, especially after the hours spent passing through central Illinois, if you can imagine the other tourists and, in my case, the pain and fatigue away.
Despite the humid heat and the sun, we stayed a while , then J. wanted to head toward the state champion cherrybark oak. So did I. By this time, my legs felt like they weighed one hundred pounds each, and every step was a painful effort — so painful that I broke into tears and became and even more miserable travel companion. At least I got a lovely photo of the champion cherrybark oak and for a moment I was Jeb — in a 52-year-old woman’s body, chronic condition and all.
Before we passed the Wetlands Center on the way back, we picked up a high-profile, slow-moving farm vehicle in front of us. As he headed toward a large turtle parked in the middle of the lane, I cringed, expecting to see the big guy flattened. The farm vehicle, however, passed over it, so high off the ground on its giant wheels that the turtle was in no danger as long as it stayed in the middle. After the vehicle passed, the turtle, which had been hunkered down, stood as high on its legs at it could and began to hightail it across the road. I’ve never seen such long legs on a turtle. Later my hair stylist pointed out what should have been obvious to me — the turtle was trying to keep its body as far from the hot pavement as it could. I hope it made it to a nice cool spot nearby. As for the vehicle, after a convenience store stop, where we had lost it, it found us again, but finally it pulled off the road at a farmhouse a mile or two away.
Further along the road what I could swear was an otter crossed in front of us. It had the low profile and short legs of an otter and walked very differently from the only beaver I’ve seen walking (in Kankakee River State Park).
The plan had been to squeeze in another activity as it was not much past 4, and there would be daylight for a while. I didn’t have much left, however. After a rest, we went to El Jalapeño in Anna for dinner. By this time, beautiful clouds had built up, and thunder rumbled in the air, but not much came of the threat except the opportunity to relax all the sore muscles and stiff joints.
Fern Clyffe State Park
May 26, 2014
Monday (Memorial Day) came, and it was already time to return — after another hearty breakfast, of course. Before we left the Jonesboro area, we stopped at Hidden Lake Bed and Breakfast and learned that they had indeed sold the property in two parcels — the main building as a private home, and the guest house as an inn — and that they were getting to move within a month or two. I’m glad I was able to enjoy the amazing breakfast room overlooking the array of bird feeders and a brief walk around the hidden lake last year.
Because time was short, we made only a quick visit to Fern Clyffe State Park, seeing a dead coyote along the way. At Fern Clyffe, the waterfall that had not been running on my previous visit in late May 2013 was not running. One of visitors, who lives nearby, helpfully informed us that after a good rain it had been running the past weekend. Curses.
The rest of the drive back was uneventful. We stopped in Roger Ebert’s university town, Champaign, for a second Memorial Day visit to Café Kopi, another comfortable place that’s hard to leave. By the time we pulled over at the Main Line Station rest area, storm clouds had developed around us, just like last year at the same place. This was the third beautiful trip that ended in rainy or stormy weather — almost as if the weather were trying to brace us for the return to work and reality, to bring us back from the mystery of the great swamp to the banality of everyday life.
With the recent rain, J. thought Saturday, April 20 would be a good day to visit Starved Rock State Park — we might have a chance to see waterfalls powered by spring rains.
It sounded like a good idea. I’d been working from home during the rain, and when I looked out there seemed to be only the typical puddles — the kind you expect to see after a little rain. I’d seen flood warnings and heard about some flooded basements, but I had no concept of how much rain there had been or how bad the flooding was. This journey would open my eyes.
We met at Starbucks in Homewood (RIP, Caribou Coffee) and set out, making a few stops along the way — the surprisingly lovely Three Rivers rest stop on I80, where one of the vending machines sometimes includes Milk Bones for the well-traveled pooch, and Ottawa, Illinois.
Our planned stop in Ottawa was Foothills Organics, which was moved recently from a house in Utica. On the way there, we noticed a pretzel shop. After stocking up on organic fruits, berries, vegetables, grains, and assorted goodies, we tried amazing pretzel-wrapped hot dogs — but not before checking out a happy cat lying in the window of the neighborhood law office. Who wouldn’t love a town where lawyers have set up a window seat, house, and toys for the resident cat in their office and where you can get hot dogs wrapped in buttery pretzels?
Not a legal beagleDidoughs in Ottawa, Illinois (no more)
Next stop — Utica, the gateway to Starved Rock State Park. After passing through Utica, you cross the Illinois River via a box girder bridge.
We didn’t make it through Utica, however. At the Willows Hotel, the town had turned into a lake, with an emergency boat and vehicles parked at its edge. Shop signs and lawn ornaments were half submerged, and at our feet a hose ran from the basement of a nearby house, spewing water back into the flood. I read later that flood stage is 21 feet and that the water had topped out at 33 feet. I’d never seen a flooded town before except in photos, and I was stunned by how far into town the river had encroached. Never could I have imagined it traveling that far.
Flooded Utica, Illinois
Going through Utica was out without a boat, so we turned toward Oglesby, where we could cross the bridge.
On arrival at Starved Rock Lodge, we saw that the road to the Visitor Center was closed, which is not surprising as the center is downhill from the Lodge and is separated from the water by a grassy picnic area. Update: Later I saw a photo of the Visitor Center partially submerged.
The Lodge’s front desk people told us that part of Matthiessen State Park was open, so we went there, walking down the many, many, steps that lead to an area above the water. Because the footbridge was muddy and ankle deep in water in places, I steered us to the left down an easy and mostly dry trail. Along the way, we heard a great horned owl calling, the traditional, “Who, who, who cooks for you?” I’ve heard them in the area before, but they remain elusive to the eyes. This one sounded distant.
We reached a point where you could cross the water to get to the rest of the trail, but I was out of steam, so I sat gingerly on the front edge of a bench tilted rakishly back while J. went on. While he was gone, a a young couple came from that direction. I told them they were headed toward the stairs and parking lot. “Oh, good; we are really lost,” the woman said. They must have been circling back without realizing it.
J. soon came back just as a middle-aged couple came along from the direction of the parking lot. A fallen tree lay above and across the stream, and the man decided it was meant to be a bridge. He wasn’t too sure of himself, though, and stopped halfway across. His wife didn’t seem too pleased. If the tree had become dislodged from the loose, sandy soil, he would have fallen onto a bed of rocks below, joined by a crashing tree trunk. I did’t want to see it, so I left just as J. took photos of the man posturing and of the couple.
More adventurous than IMatthiessen State Park
It was a glorious spring day in a glorious place, just what I needed to stave off growing stress and unease.
Lately I’ve felt like the Energizer bunny — I keep going and going and going. The difference is that I have neither its energy nor its resources. I don’t know what I’m running on, but it should be part of any national energy plan.
On Saturday, September 8, I went to my first physical therapy session. Objectives: Reduce lower back pain and increase walking endurance. I walked the half mile to AthletiCo, where the therapist explained my problem using a model spine that had lost its stiffening rod. I know how it feels. Its nerves protruded between its disks, and I don’t have to imagine what it would feel like if they were pressed due to lack of space — I feel it every moment from my hip to my foot.
The therapist tested the strength and flexibility of some key joints and then I was allowed to relax on a heating pad for 10 minutes of near bliss negated by the next step of a hard knuckle massage that I swear left invisible bruises. At this point, I’m sure I was thinking that gorillas and chimps have the right idea — walking upright is overrated.
Next came some easy exercises designed to open the spaces in my spine and strengthen my core. Everything hurt, but the time I left to walk the half mile home, I did feel better. Real? Or psychological? I do know the compressed nerves are real, that’s for certain.
After another half-mile walk (to the Metra station) and a half hour of my train neighbor’s cranked-up music, I landed at the Homewood Starbucks to wait for J. We made another false start, this time west instead of north, before he aimed his new car toward Indiana Dunes, that traditional recreation favorite of University of Chicago students and many others. As is typical of me, I never made it there while I was a student — too busy wallowing in my inability to keep up with classes and too afraid to let go of whatever soil I was then rooted in. But on this Saturday in 2012, 30 years later, I arrived at the Indiana Dunes Visitor Center. Here I managed to take the ranger in the gift shop aback with three digits’ worth of purchases (all I can say in my defense is that more than half was for a birthday gift).
Chellberg Farmhouse from sideChellberg Farm barn
The next stop was Chellberg Farm, which up until recently was a working farm of sorts, or at least it had animals. Alas, all life is gone, and all that remains is a vintage farmhouse and outbuildings, the former equipped with not-so-vintage cameras to keep an eye on the tourists. The woods behind the house are lovely, dark, and deep, lush with growth with the darkness mottled by sunlight — a great place for a walk.
Road to Cowles Bog
We headed toward Cowles Bog, which is actually a fen. A densely tree-lined road continued past the parking lot, guarded by a gatehouse and a gentleman in uniform. Down this dark lane lies Dune Acres, population 183, which seems to be open only to residents and their guests — a truly gated community. As pretty as that narrow passage is, that’s not how I would choose to live.
Cowles Bog area
We walked only about three quarters of a mile into the woods before I had to give up. This isn’t like me, but it’s the new reality — little to no endurance.
Beach at Indiana Dunes State Park
Next on the itinerary was the state park, where we saw the dunes for the first time. A tiny Chicago lay across the water, slightly hazy but illuminated by the setting sun. With the version of summer that ends on Labor Day over, the beach was sparsely populated, and signs warned of a dangerous rip tide.
Pavilion at Indiana Dunes State ParkChicago from Indiana Dunes State Park
A couple of young Mennonite families picnicked near the parking lot, although the adults spent most of their time chasing down a couple of energetic toddlers. Oh, to be two with toes in the sand and not a care! And to be able to remember it, too.
Before seeking dinner we detoured to the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair Homes of Tomorrow, which we could see dimly in the deepening dusk. They were under renovation, but they reminded me of something I’d picture from The Great Gatsby. In the meantime, the lake and the lake grasses were beautiful against the dying light.
We found a restaurant in nearby Chesterton, Octave Grill, and waited out the wait for a table at the Dog Days Ice Cream Parlor. This last was the kind of place that I wish I had nearby here in Hyde Park, but it wasn’t busy. J. had plenty of time to chat up the owner.
And so home after an exhausting, exhilarating day.
Saturday, January 28, J. and I set out for the first day of Eagle Watch Weekend at Starved Rock State Park. Last year, we’d seen dozens of bald eagles from the Illinois Waterway Visitor Center, but this winter remains unusually warm. (As I write this, it’s 42 degrees Fahrenheit; last year on February 1 northern Illinois and Indiana were bracing for the 20 or more inches of snow that would shut down most of Chicago the next day).
With the morning temperatures at just about freezing, the light snow that had fallen the night before made driving and walking hazardous, but it was expected to melt as the day warmed. With the river wide open, there’s no reason for the eagles to cluster on Plum Island near the dam — so they don’t.
After picking up tickets for the World Bird Sanctuary program at noon, we caught the trolley to the Visitor Center. As we expected, only a few birds were perched on Plum Island and the opposite shore. At one point, I saw three in flight, but soon lost even them against the bright sky and dark trees.
At last a small drama began. Two of the eagle-eyed raptors spotted a fish, and one captured the prize. That’s when the battle began, as the second hungry bird harassed its successful competitor, who, despite being buffeted and flipped, clung to its meal throughout the tumbling chase. As Benjamin Franklin famously noted as one of his several objections to the bald eagle as the emblem of the new United States:
For my own part I wish the Bald Eagle had not been chosen the Representative of our Country. He is a Bird of bad moral Character. He does not get his Living honestly. You may have seen him perched on some dead Tree near the River, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the Labour of the Fishing Hawk; and when that diligent Bird has at length taken a Fish, and is bearing it to his Nest for the Support of his Mate and young Ones, the Bald Eagle pursues him and takes it from him.
Despite the relatively balmy weather, the wind off the river was brisk, and I was glad I’d bundled up. I often wonder how the hungry eagles along the river perceive the chill and if they get weary of it, despite their adaptations.
We returned in time for a quick snack at the Lodge’s café, then headed to the World Bird Sanctuary program. For me, the highlight was the snowy owl, who flew over my head two or three times. The first time, she banged my glasses with her jesses. On her next flight, she brushed my hair with a wing. My neighbor, who found the whole experience thrilling, exclaimed, “She likes you!” The white-necked raven continued their tradition of rewarding $5 or greater donations with a medallion, beaked over to you. When someone handed him a rare $20, however, he was reluctant to drop it into the bin, and it took his handler several persuasive words to get him to relinquish his prize.
Afterward, we returned to the Visitor Center, but there were still just a few eagles, which mostly stayed put. At one-point, a loaded low-sided boat appeared near the opposite shore, and all I could think was how horrible it would be to fall out into that cold, cold water. I could almost feel it closing over me. Clearly, I’ve been spending too much time reading The Greenlanders.
Our next and final planned event was the Illinois Raptor Center program at 4 p.m. The birds, including a snowy owl and bald and golden eagles, had had a long day and were a little stressed, but the speaker was in fine form. While explaining what differentiates raptors from other predatory birds, he mentioned the great blue heron and how dangerous they are to handle — the only birds, he said, for which they don safety gear. As he held up a great blue heron skull with its long bill, he said, “Think of this as spring-loaded scissors with a brain.”
With a few good photos and a few such tidbits embedded in our brains, we headed back to Chicago, where snowy owls have been spotted during this year of the snowy owl irruption.
On Sunday, November 13, I met J. at the Starbucks near the Homewood train station, where we began our trip to Jasper Pulaski Fish and Wildlife Area in Indiana. Here each November and December thousands of sandhill cranes congregate on their way south to Georgia and Florida.
As with some of our visits to other state areas, most of the journey was pretty straightforward until the very end, at which point we couldn’t figure out where or how to get in. We ended up on gravel roads, with no sign of an observation tower or, more urgently, a loo. Finally we parked in a small lot and walked back toward the road, where J. flagged down a passing car whose driver happened to know exactly where to send us. What a relief — in every sense. I have to admit that every step of this quarter-mile walk was excruciatingly painful for me thanks to the worst sciatic flareup I’ve had. (By Monday night I wouldn’t be able to walk and would have to take a cab home from work.)
At last we found the cranes in a nondescript field, the primary feature of which seems to be the lack of human habitation and farming activity. I haven’t read much about the habitat here, but it must offer a comfortable food supply, for the herd of cranes had been joined by another herd — one consisting of several dozen impressively sized deer. It was hard to tell which herd the observers, which ranged in age from under 8 to about 80, found more interesting. Don’t suburbanites see enough deer in their backyards? There’s something special about seeing them in the “wild,” as it were.
In my state, I’d forgotten to bring my binoculars from the car, so I didn’t get a good look at the flock; they kept their distance. I’m not sure how J.’s photos will turn out.
Then, about an hour before sunset, more cranes started to fly in, in groups of about six to eighteen. They kept coming and coming and coming, tapering off only as the twilight deepened, many flying overhead, delicately silhouetted against the sky and croaking in that eerie way sandhill cranes have. When I’d first walked up, I had heard them before I’d seen them.
Not for the first time I thought about how the country must have been 200 or 300 years ago, when some bird congregations could number in the hundreds of thousands or even millions. Now the only limitless species seem to be the European house sparrow and the European starling. Even so, the little groups coming in for the night were a wondrous sight.
I had been surprised by the number of people spending their Sunday with the cranes (although several seemed to be keeping up with various football contests) and by how many, like J., stayed until it was too dark to take photos or to see the cranes.
On the way back we stopped at a restaurant where we seemed to be the only patrons, a place that still offers a smoking area (still used, judging from the pervasive odor that I’d hoped to forget someday).
Like much of Illinois, Indiana is flat and featureless. I’ve always been glad to book trips on Amtrak trains that pass through Indiana primarily during the darkest night hours, when all that can be seen are the circles of light at countless stations, warehouses, depots, parking lots, and small businesses and industries. That’s true elsewhere in the east, but at least a place like Pennsylvania can boast forested mountains and burbling (if polluted) creeks. Earlier, while passing the trailers (singles and doubles) and the decaying farm houses and deteriorating barns, I thought of all the beautifully maintained, neat farmhouses and barns nestled on bucolic lanes we’d passed in Wisconsin and I could think only one thing:
Cows must pay better than corn and industrial farming.
Ten years or so ago, I took a class on journal writing. I think that was the topic (I may have taken a separate one on nature writing). One exercise was to describe our dream house.
This was an interesting idea to me because, as an introvert who had lived in a mobile home for 18 years, then a shared dorm room, then a shared apartment, then a rundown studio at the time of the class, my dream was not of a specific house or style, but simply to live in one like “normal” people. To have an upstairs and a downstairs — my favourite concept. To have an attic and a cellar and the mysteries those imply. To have a front yard and a back yard — private outdoor space. To have some accessories, like a gazebo and birdbaths. I would have been happy, however, in anything that could reasonably be called a house.
Yet when it came to writing this piece, which was intended to be an exercise in free writing, that is, writing what occurs to you as it occurs without any imposed structure or editing, I could not think of a dream house. I could think only of a dream home, deep in an old forest — an old forest like those that haunted my favourite fairy tales.
I don’t think I have what I wrote any more; if I do, it would be hard to find. I do remember the idea, however, because it’s the same idea I’ve always had, yesterday, today, tomorrow.
There is an ancient forest. The trees are tall. Their canopies touch each other and the sky, blocking it out. It may be midday up there and in the outer world, if there is one, but here it is an eerie, quiet twilight.
The forest floor smells earthy, damp, and rich with decay. It’s black and cool and soothing, teeming with life and the remnants of death. If you look closely, you can see the soil move as the living processes the dead in a cycle of untold age.
Nearby, a brook babbles along over rocks, occasionally turning into a miniature waterfall. The canopy is not so dense along the edges of the brook, so the water brokenly reflects the midday sun and clouds. Still, there are many shadows and still pools. Like the soil, the water is cool, just right for wading as long as you watch out for sharp rocks. One of the best places to stand is at the top of one of the miniature falls, looking down, or at the bottom of one, feeling the refreshing water splashing your feet and up against your legs. There are fish-shadows darting about, while water striders delicately walk the surfaces of the still areas and mating dragon- and damselflies buzz over the surface. Once in a while, a frog leaps in surprise in the wet grass along the edge. A large cloud passing by overhead occasionally covers everything with its shadow and a temporary chill.
Not far from the brook the forest becomes dense with brush that is hard to walk through. It opens into a younger woods, with a pleasant walking path. It is still shady, but the ground is sun dappled. There are whisperings and stirrings as small animals and birds move about, and a snake sprawls carelessly across the empty path, warming itself in the sun. The woods are mostly quiet, though, but they will become noisy later in the afternoon with bird and insect song.
Suddenly the woods open into a meadow of tall grasses and wildflowers, awash with sun. Older trees with short, thick trunks surround it; they have not had to struggle for light and air like their deep-forest counterparts. The grasses are perfect for lying among; they are cool and hide their refugees well.
In the southeast corner of the meadow there is a small stone house. The doors, one on each side, are made of dark, heavy, weathered timbers. The windows are small and leaded, making the inside of the house feel cool and somewhat dim, but shafts of sunlight form pools of heat on the worn wooden floors and colourful rugs. There is a deep, comfortable chair, pulled up to an open window. An insect hum from meadow fills the room, almost but not quite drowning out the running water nearby. Sometimes the sound of a woodpecker drumming floats into the open window, which also draws in the cool, flavorful air of late spring.
There are wood, knotty shelves filled with books everywhere. Some books are piled on the floor in a few places as though someone had just been studying them, but most are arranged on the shelves. Some are leaning over a bit on their neighbours, as though they are tired of not being picked up and read.
In the kitchen, the plates are made of pewter, which is dented and worn from use. An Aga cooker dominates the small room lined with dark wood cupboards. A tea kettle and teapot look as they have just been returned to their places.
There’s a tiny dining nook with a heavy table brightened by an erratic bouquet of wildflowers from the meadow and woods. Two places are set, but one chair is more worn than the other. A short, dark hallway leads to a little bedroom, soon to be darkened by the shadows of the trees that both overlook and guard it.
A door from the hallway opens onto a path that heads into the woods. Although it’s a clear path, it’s not an easy one as it goes on. It’s tempting to follow any of the many side trails and to get lost in the depths, which are dark and cool and tangled. No one has ever found the end of the main path — if there is one. No one has explored all of the side trails. They wait for someone to find what they lead to — lakes, mountains, valleys, vast vistas, fairy lands.
It’s just past midday now, and it won’t be long before the surrounding trees throw their shadows over the meadow, transforming it into a pool of vague menace. The deepening darkness brings with it the sound of life — birds and other animals torpid with heavy breakfasts and noontime warmth slowly roused and becoming restless with timeless urges as the evening and night approach. They chirp, chatter, and rustle in discrete phrases, always sounding alone and lonely.
And then it is night, under the watch of the virgin white full moon.
Plovers (Charardriidae) are plumpish small to medium-sized shorebirds, ranging in size from 14–41 cm to 34–296 g. Males are usually slightly larger than females. They are found virtually worldwide except for areas that are permanently frozen.
Plovers inhabit coastal, marshland, inland, river, and grassland to mountain and tundra regions. Their underparts are usually light colored, often with striking features on the head and neck. Despite its bold color patterns, their plumage is disruptive, and individuals blend into the background when they stand still. Body feathers molt twice a year, once after breeding season, with flight feathers molting once.
They have rounded heads and large eyes. Their legs, which can be black, flesh-colored, red, or yellow, are medium to long, and they are quick runners and strong fliers. The hind toe is small or absent. Most species have short, unwebbed front toes. There are 62 species in 10 genera.
The plover diet consists of terrestrial and aquatic invertebrates (including adult and larval insects, crustaceans, mollusks, and worms) and occasionally berries. For migratory species, the wintering ground diet differs widely from the breeding ground diet. With only one exception, the white-tailed lapwing, plovers do not wade in water in the same way or to the same extent as other shorebirds; most walk in damp areas or along the water’s edge, while some species are adapted for feeding in more arid areas away from water altogether. They use their keen eyesight to spot prey, then quickly run forward to catch it.
Plovers pair on or shortly after arrival at their feeding grounds. Some species nest in colonies of several hundred pairs, while others nest in small groups and defend relatively large territories. Displays are important in courtship, as evidenced by ornaments such as crests; prominent, colorful facial wattles; and well-developed wing spurs in some species. In the air, they twist, plunge, dive, and hover, while on the ground they run, wing-drop, tail-fan, and bow and curtsey, especially the males during scrape making, accompanied by much vocalization. The male creates scrapes on open, bare or slightly vegetated ground, and the female chooses one in which to lay.
Typically, with a few exceptions, four large, pear-shaped eggs representing 50–70 percent of the female’s body weight are laid over one-and-a-half to four days. Both parents usually incubate the clutch, beginning with the last egg laid. For smaller species, incubation is 18–22 days; for larger, it is 28-38 days. Both eggs and young are well camouflaged and are vigorously defended by the parents. Plovers are noted for their broken-wing display, by which the adult feigns a broken wing in an attempt to lure potential predators away from the nest. Natural threats to nests include flooding, especially if the nest is close to the water, and predation. The young are precocial and fledge at 21–42 days. Juveniles molt a few weeks after fledging.
Within a species, northern populations tend to migrate, while southern populations are virtually sedentary. Plovers migrate in flocks of thousands. Before migration, they acquire lots of subcutaneous body fat.
Exhibit and Collection History
The sand, or true, plovers (Charadrius), which are at the lower end of the size range, are found along sandy or muddy shores, along rivers, and inland in fields. Most true plovers feature a black chest band, black forehead, and black band from eye to bill. Sand plovers in zoos include the endangered shore plover of New Zealand (C. novaeseelandiae); the endangered piping plover of Canada and the U.S. (C. melodus and C. melodus circumcinctus); the killdeer of southern Canada-northern Chile (C. vociferus); the snowy/Kentish plover worldwide (C. alexandrinus); the Kentish plover of Mexico, Peru, and Chile (C. nivosus); the ringed plover of the Old World (C. hiaticula); Kittlitz’s sandplover of east, central, and south Africa (C. pecuarius); the Australian plover of south Australia and Tasmania (C. rubricollis); the semipalmated plover of Alaska (USA)–Argentina (C. semipalmatus); and the chestnut-banded sand plover of Kenya and Tanzania (C. venustus).
Vanellus plovers, or lapwings, are medium-sized plovers found primarily inland in most tropical and temperate regions, except North America. Lapwings often have a crest, wattles, and/or wing spurs. Vanellus plovers can be found in zoos worldwide and generally seem to breed well in captivity. Representative zoo species include the white-headed plover of south and west Africa (V. albiceps); the grey-headed lapwing of Siberia-India and Southeast Asia (V. cinereus); the northern lapwing of northern Africa and Eurasia (V. vanellus); the southern lapwing of South America (V. chilensis); the crowned lapwing of southern Africa (V. coronatus); the crowned plover of Ethiopia-Angola (V. coronatus coronatus); the long-toed lapwing of Sudan-Zimbabwe (V. crassirostris); the red-wattled lapwing of Southeast Asia and India (V. indicus and V. indicus atronuchalis); the masked lapwing of Australia, New Guinea, and New Zealand (V. miles); the banded plover of Australia and Tasmania (V. tricolor); and the spur-winged lapwing of northern Africa-Southeast Asia (V. spinosus).
The Pluvialis plovers are the largest. They breed at freshwater marshes and grasslands in upland and tundra regions of the Northern Hemisphere. The American plover, P. dominica dominca, is known for its long migration from the Arctic across the Atlantic to Argentina and across the Pacific to Australia. One population flies from Alaska to Hawaii, a distance of 4,500 km. Pluvialis plovers found in zoos include the greater golden plover of Europe and Asia (P. apricaria); the lesser golden plover, found virtually worldwide (P. dominca); the aforementioned American golden plover; the Pacific golden plover of northern Siberia-Australia (P. fulva); the New Zealand dotterel (P. obscura); and the black-bellied plover, worldwide (P. squatarola).
A species not in these genuses found in several zoos around the world is the blacksmith plover of south Angola-Kenya and Natal (Anitibyx armatus), which had been classified previously as a Vanellus plover.
Conservation Organizations and Partnerships
Past threats to plovers have included egg collecting and trapping of adults after breeding season, especially in Europe, and hunting. Current threats to plovers include loss and degradation of habitat, development of nesting areas, human disturbance of nests (for example, destruction by recreational vehicles), and hazards such as flooding.
In 1986, the Great Lakes population of the piping plover was listed as endangered, while the Northern Great Plains and Atlantic Coast populations were listed as threatened in the same year. The Northern Great Plains population became a front-page story (and a commemorative U.S. postage stamp) in the mid-1990s when Lincoln Park Zoo (Chicago, Illinois, USA) and the Milwaukee County Zoo (Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA) were asked to participate in an egg rescue from plover nesting grounds in the upper Missouri River Basin after near record precipitation and above-normal mountain snow pack caused high basin runoff and threatened the loss of an entire breeding season.
Under the direction of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, 30 eggs were collected in North and South Dakota. Detailed records were kept on each egg that would help keep track of the birds throughout their lives.
At this time, four adults hatched from those eggs reside at Lincoln Park Zoo. Two offspring, both female, one from each pair, have been sent to the Milwaukee County Zoo to be paired with piping plovers there. The successful reproduction of this species in captivity provides hope that zoos will learn enough about plover management and husbandry to save and preserve not only the piping plover, but other declining plover species as well.
Further reading: Johnsgard, Paul A. The Plovers, Sandpipers, and Snipes of the World. University of Nebraska Press. Lincoln and London, 1981.
Perrins, Dr. Christopher M. and Dr. Alex L. A. Middleton. The Encyclopedia of Birds. Facts on File. Oxford and New York, 1985.
ISIS abstracts.
“Lincoln Park Zoo helps the Piping Plover.”
2001 An edited version of this article was published in Encyclopedia of the World’s Zoos, April, 1, 2001, winner of the Outstanding Reference Source award for 2001 from the American Library Association.
