nature Archives • Page 6 of 10 • words and images

Mauritius kestrel (Falco punctatus)

Posted on November 17, 2011 by dlschirfSeptember 10, 2019

The Mauritius kestrel (Falco punctatus), endemic to Mauritius in the Indian Ocean and the island’s only bird of prey, is the world’s rarest falcon. Its known population had been reduced to two breeding pairs by the early 1970s, when it became the world’s rarest bird. It has been studied since 1973, when conservation efforts began to prevent its extinction.

The Mauritius kestrel is a distinct island form, with males averaging 130–140g and females 160–170g. Adult females and immatures are indistinguishable by plumage. The kestrel occupies a niche similar to that of accipiters in its natural habitat of mature evergreen subtropical forests. With short, rounded wings and a dashing hunting technique, its morphology and behavior also demonstrate convergence with accipiters. Diet appears to be partly variable, depending on interrelated factors such as habitat, availability of prey, and season, as well as the ability, experience, preference, age, and sex of the individual. Its nickname, “mangeur des poules,” is inaccurate. Intensive studies in the 1970s revealed that prey includes lizards (primarily Phelsuma geckos), birds (primarily grey white-eyes, Zosterops borbonicus, and introduced common waxbills, Estrilda astrild), and insects (primarily dragonflies and cicadas, along with cockroaches and crickets). Although grey white-eyes were considered the single most important prey, geckos were thought to form 50 percent of the diet, and, during October/November 1981, 94 percent of 218 identified prey items brought to one nest were geckos.

Pairs appear to require a territory of up to 150 ha. Courtship activity begins in September and October, with eggs (usually three) being laid between October and January in a cliff hole. Most first clutches occur in late October. The female is the primary incubator, and the eggs hatch after about 30 days. The young remain in the nest until about five and a half weeks old and are partly dependent on their parents for several months, longer than is typical in temperate-zone kestrels. Parents tolerate young birds until the next breeding season, when they are driven away. Both sexes are mature at one year old, but do not necessarily breed.

The Mauritius kestrel was never abundant, although it was reported in the 1850s that it was “plentiful wherever the indigenous woods exist.” Before Mauritius was discovered, it probably occurred throughout the island. Between 1820 and 1840, it was found mainly in the extensive forests of the island’s center as well as in southwestern coastal areas. Its range continued to contract and, by the 1950s, it was restricted to the remote forests of the southwestern plateau. They are now restricted to an area no greater than 50 square kilometers in the southwest, which features cliffs and ravines.

There are many causes for the kestrel’s decline, including chronic loss of native forest habitat and the degeneration of remaining forests as introduced plants invade them, their seeds spread by native and nonnative frugivorous birds and mammals. The kestrel’s favored prey items, including insects, geckos, and passerines, all have declined; the density of Phelsuma geckos depends largely on the density of native trees and shrubs. Grey white-eyes, an ecologically generalized species, are less common in the remaining native forest than in more disturbed areas of mixed vegetation. Introduced diseases, predation by introduced species, human persecution, pesticide contamination and natural disasters such as cyclones have probably taken their toll as well. Inbreeding in such a small population is also a concern.

Exhibit and Collection History

Mauritius kestrels can be found at the North of England Zoological Society’s Zoological Gardens, Upton-by-Chester, U.K. (one male, one female); Paradise Park at Cornwall’s Conservation Park, Cornwall, U.K. (one female); Durrell Wildlife Preservation Trust, Jersey, U.K. (five males, four females, and one offspring); and Paignton Zoological & Botanical Garden, Devon, U.K. (one female), and The Hawk Conservancy, Hampshire, U.K. (one female), for a total of six males, eight females, and one unsexed offspring.

The Mauritius kestrel has not always done well in captivity. As an island species, it is susceptible to alien pathogens. Necropsies performed on captive individuals have revealed problems such as sinus infections, hepatic lesions, respiratory infections, oviduct conditions and infections, and the presence of DDE, a metabolite of DDT. Genetic deterioration may also be a factor.

Conservation Organizations and Partnerships

In 1973, a World Wildlife Fund (WWF) project, managed by the International Council for Bird Preservation (ICBP) and with the financial support of the New York Zoological Society (NYZS), was begun to study the kestrel and to attempt to save it from what must have seemed like certain extinction. The project has operated in conjunction with the Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust (JWPT) and with the active participation of the Government of Mauritius. In 1984, the project became part of the Mauritius Wildlife Research and Conservation Programme (MWRCP). The Peregrine Fund also plays an active role in conservation of the kestrel.

Conservation measures have included captive breeding and reintroduction, legal protection, public education and awareness programs, and habitat preservation in the form of the Macabé/Bel Ombre Nature Reserve, created in 1974 and covering 3,594 ha. The Mauritius kestrel is listed on Appendix I of CITES, to which Mauritius is a party.

Techniques used to promote the kestrel’s survival have included removing fertile eggs from the wild, substituting plastic dummies, and returning the hatchlings to the mother; supplementary feedings of mice to maximize egg production; and double clutching (removing the first clutch to encourage production of a second, a strategy that proved to work well with American kestrels).

In 1994 on the Ile Aux Aigrettes off the coast of Mauritius, in what must have been a frustrating moment of irony for conservationists, a Mauritius kestrel ate a newly hatched offspring of a recently reintroduced pair of Mauritius pink pigeons, the world’s rarest pigeon. The kestrel was captured and removed to a forest site on Mauritius.

From a low of two breeding pairs in the 1970s, the Mauritius kestrel now numbers a wild population of 350 individuals. Releases of captive birds have ended, thanks to the program’s success and the dedicated efforts of many organizations and individuals. The population is monitored carefully during the summer breeding season, and monkeyproof, cycloneproof artificial nesting boxes are placed in selected areas. Young are tagged and measured. The kestrel is still a highly endangered species; to ensure its survival, its population will have to be managed carefully for the foreseeable future.

Further reading:

Collar, N. J. and S. N. Stuart. Threatened Birds of Africa and Related Islands: The ICBP/IUCN Red Data Book, Part 1, third edition. Cambridge, U.K. and Gland, Switzerland, 1985.

Newton, I. and R. D. Chancellor, Conservation Studies on Raptors, based on the proceedings of the Second World Conference on Birds of Prey, April 1982, ICBP Technical Publication No. 5. Norwich, England, 1985.

The Mauritius Wildlife Foundation. http://www.maurinet.com/wildlife.html.

ISIS Abstract. September 1999.

Chicago Tribune. “Botanists Battle to Avert Repeat of Dodo’s Demise,” 2 December 1988, and “Rare Falcon Likes His Pigeon Rare, Too,” 10 October 1994.

2000
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.

How Birds Keep Warm

Posted on November 17, 2011 by dlschirfDecember 31, 2018

Red-winged blackbird in spring, back from migration

Thanks to greeting card artists, the birds most of us associate with the holidays are the beautiful northern cardinal and the comical black-capped chickadee. That’s no coincidence — while many of their feathered brethren take off for warmer climes in search of a steady food supply, cardinals and chickadees are among many species of birds that can tolerate a white Christmas.

This should surprise us — after all, in docent training and basic biology, we learned that a small body size means a relatively large surface area, which in turn means that smaller warm-blooded animals need to eat a lot to maintain their body temperatures. Cardinals and chickadees certainly qualify as small. How do they (and other snowbirds) survive the cold?

The answer is simple and amazing at the same time — through a tremendous variety of adaptations. Let’s look at some of them.

Check out the chassis. We know birds are designed for flight, but many of their structural adaptations also help to conserve heat. How many times have you pointed out to your tour groups that, while fennec foxes of the desert have large ears to allow excess heat to escape, Arctic foxes’ tiny ears help them to preserve their body heat? Birds have taken this one step further — no external ears from which to lose heat. Their tails consist of feathers, not flesh. Their lower legs and feet are tendinous, meaning no exposed fleshy parts. Even their bills are made of horn rather than skin. And don’t forget their feathers. Not only essential for flight, feathers, when fluffed, trap an insulating layer of air (one method our chickadee friends use to stay warm on bitterly cold days).

You could have knocked me over with a feather. Many northern species have more feathers in winter than in summer. Smaller birds have more feathers per unit of body weight than their larger compadres.

Eating like a bird. You may remember that a calorie is actually a unit of heat. Because birds have a high metabolism (high rate of heat and energy production), their foods of choice tend to be rich, e.g., seeds, insects, rodents, fruit, and nectar. Their blood glucose level is about twice that of a healthy human, which induces their higher metabolism. A bird, especially in cold weather, would not do well on a low-cal, low-fat, low-sugar diet. And, of course, some birds, like penguins (some species of which survive the extreme cold of the Antarctic), have a thick, insulating layer of body fat, but this doesn’t mean they’re fat, per se. Think about it — have you ever seen an obese bird?

Excuse me. Is this spot taken? You’ve no doubt seen a branchful of dark-eyed juncos, feathers fluffed, huddled tightly together, and thought, “How sweet” or “How cute.” But the juncos aren’t being cuddly or sociable. They’re simply joining forces to combine and conserve body heat. Chickadees, woodpeckers, and nuthatches (all common winter residents in Chicagoland) sleep in holes or hollows in trees for shelter; a dozen or more bluebirds will cram into a nesting box to sleep. Evening grosbeaks, cardinals, and crossbills roost in coniferous trees, taking advantage of densely needled branches. And birds such as ptarmigans, ruffed grouse, and snow buntings will sleep under loose snow. While that may not make sense to the casual observer (after all, snow is cold), the temperature two feet under the snow may be significantly warmer than air temperature. In Alaska, if the air temperature is -50ºC, the temperature under the snow may be a relatively balmy -5ºC. That’s still cold, but a bird is more likely to survive at that warmer temperature.

Nap time. Well, not exactly, but when it becomes chilly, some species, including hummingbirds, swifts, and poor-wills, will become torpid at night — conserving food energy supplies by lowering body temperature and rate of metabolism. (Mourning doves, during bitter cold or storms when they’re unable to feed, don’t become torpid, but may lower their body temperatures.) Torpor is not without its dangers — a torpid bird is more vulnerable to predators since it can’t react quickly to danger, and coming out of torpor requires a lot of energy.

Keep your cold feet to yourself! When it’s cold, birds frequently perch with one foot tucked in their belly feathers. (Not only does this keep that foot warm, but it means that much less exposed to the cold.) Ducks will sit on ice with their feet underneath them, protecting their bodies from heat losses. Many birds tuck their horny bills into their feathers during bitter cold, and have air sacs under their skin that may keep them warm with a layer of insulating air.

Brrr. You shiver when it’s cold; so do birds. Most birds, including chickadees and pigeons, shiver as a short-term adaptation to cold. Shivering converts muscular energy into heat. Of course, there’s a problem with that, too — the bird has to replace the lost energy at some point by eating.

Isn’t that special? Many birds have special adaptations to cold. The arteries and veins of the feet in ducks and geese lie right next to each other. The outgoing arterial blood warms the incoming venous blood, so the blood returning to the bird’s core is already warmed. Penguins also have this adaptation in their flippers (wings) and legs.

Mine mine mine. Some northern finches, like evening grosbeaks, can store large amounts of seeds in their well-developed crops, thus helping them to maintain their high metabolism overnight. Just before dark, hoary and common redpolls will fill a special storage pouch in their esophagus so they can digest the food (usually a particularly rich item, like birch seeds) overnight. Their high rate of energy intake means they can survive colder temperatures better than any other passerines (perching birds or songbirds).

Birds are marvelously adapted for what our climate throws at them, but not all birds can tolerate cold — at least not for very long. Between the combination of cold and lack of food, migrating birds caught in sudden cold weather may suffer a mass die-off. Stories are told of people and animal protection organizations collecting stricken European barn swallows en masse, feeding them mealworms, and shipping them by air and rail over the Alps to sunny Italy, so they could continue their journey southward on their own. That’s why we aren’t doing hummingbirds a favor by providing them with food past Labor Day — if they’re enticed by an easy, generous food supply to stay here too long, they won’t be able to escape weather that’s too cold for them. Even torpor can’t save them from a chilly autumn in Chicago.

Sources:

Ehrlich, Paul R.; Dobkin, David S.; and Wheye, Darryl. The Birder’s Handbook: A Field Guide to the Natural History of North American Birds. 1988.

Perrins, Dr. Christopher M. and Middleton, Dr. Alex L. A., eds. The Encyclopedia of Birds. 1985.

Terres, John K. The Audubon Society Encyclopedia of North American Birds. 1991.

2000
Originally published in The Ark.

Name Game

Posted on November 17, 2011 by dlschirfDecember 31, 2018

Docents frequently ask me, “What is the difference between a pigeon and a dove?” In my usual helpful way, I always reply, “Two letters.”

“Pigeon” is derived from a Middle French word meaning “young bird”; “dove” is assumed to be derived from (via Old and Middle English) an Old High German word meaning “dove.” There is a tendency to call smaller pigeons doves (jambu fruit dove) and larger birds pigeons (Mauritius pink pigeon). The point is, these common names do not signify a difference in taxonomic classification between pigeons and doves. For example, the common city birds we call pigeons are also known as rock doves.

The American robin is a good example of how birds are named and why common names are confusing. The European robin is a small thrush with a bright red breast that it displays to frighten or startle predators. The English fondly call this bird “Robin Redbreast” (Robin is a diminutive form of the name Robert). When the English emigrated to America, they named our larger thrush robin, too, although it is clearly not the same bird. In fact, homesick Britons throughout the world call any bird with a red breast a robin, whether it’s a thrush or not. (The English in America also missed their hedgehogs, which may explain why they called the woodchuck a “groundhog.”)

In the same vein, European settlers applied the name “bunting” to the cardinal grosbeaks, which are not particularly closely related to buntings. Ironically, most of the New World’s true buntings are called sparrows.

Another example of confusing names are the warblers. The warbler family is native to the Old World. In general, they are small, very plain birds with musical songs (hence, “warbler”). On the other hand, the wood warblers, found in the New World, are often very colorful when in their nuptial plumage ( for example, yellow warbler, cerulean warbler, American redstart), but their songs would not, shall we say, win a Grammy.

Of course, you have the opposite situation, too. When an American thinks of a solitary lake in Minnesota and its haunting sounds, the beautiful common loon instantly comes to mind. Upon hearing the very same cries, a Brit thinks of the common diver. Guess what? The common loon and the common diver are same species — they, like great gray owls, reindeer (caribou), and many other animals, are found along similar latitudes in both hemispheres and are familiar to many transcontinental cultures. In this case, the British name is more accurate; the loon’s adaptations for diving are second only to those of the penguins. The loon is so specialized for diving that adults cannot walk on land (they have to maneuver along on their breasts), and they require a long runway to take off. The bigger (and deeper) the lake, the better. Incidentally, the word “loon” is of Scandanavian origin (and is no relation to the Middle English word “loon,” meaning “crazy” or “foolish”). Given the number of Scandanavians who settled in Minnesota and other northerly parts, it’s not surprising that the North American bird has been dubbed with a Scandanavian name.

The bottom line is, don’t worry too much about those common names. After all, is the pronghorn antelope really an antelope?¹

¹No.

2000

Everything You Need to Know about Periplaneta americana (American cockroach)

Posted on November 17, 2011 by dlschirfMay 20, 2020

It’s from one and one-half to two inches long (not counting the antennae, which are longer than the body) and is a beautiful dark golden brown in color. It’s one of Chicago’s most numerous (if nontaxpaying) residents. It’s the American cockroach.

Cockroaches are found virtually everywhere. The first time I saw an American cockroach, my reaction (which I suspect is typical) was, “That’s it! I’m finding a place where I will never have to see one of these things again!” A little research revealed that even a move to the research stations of Antarctica would not be far enough — the scientists, no doubt inadvertently, brought Periplaneta americana with them. Roaches have even trekked to Greenland. So much for getting away from them. Research has shown people will tolerate as many as five American cockroaches in their homes per week. (I would like to know who the subjects of that research were!)

Most of us think of cockroaches as dark, disease-carrying, scuttering insects that should be obliterated. Because they are more active at night and in dark places, we attribute all kinds of nasty traits to them, including evil. The truth is, the cockroach is simply a biological organism and has certain environmental and nutritional needs, just as more charismatic nocturnal animals do. After all, white-tailed deer are active mainly at night and provide a home for deer ticks, which in turn carry debilitating Lyme disease. Yet, when you see a deer, chances are you still say, “Awww, isn’t that cute?”

Let’s debunk a couple of these myths, by the way:

Myth: Cockroaches are afraid of light.
Reality: Cockroaches prefer darkness, but are not afraid of light. They do run when you wake up and turn on a light, but not because of the light. They are extremely sensitive to surface vibrations; they can detect a movement of less than one-millionth of a millimeter. They are reacting to the air currents and surface vibrations caused by your movement, not to the light.

Myth: All cockroaches are filthy, disease-carrying bugs.
Reality: Cockroaches carry many diseases only because they tend to congregate in warm, damp places like sewers and pipes where they pick up disease organisms. A cockroach like the Madagascar hissing cockroach, which lives in a natural habitat, is not the same threat to other animals as our Chicago friends. According to the Audubon Field Guide to Insects and Spiders, it is a myth that cockroaches transmit diseases to humans.

Of the thousands of cockroach species, only a handful, including P.a., are considered to be pests. Most cockroaches (for example, the Madagascan hissing cockroach mentioned above) live in natural environments, filling a niche in their habitat, and rarely have contact with humans. The Madagascan lives under the detritus of the forest floor, munching away on decayed organic material, a niche that is very similar to that of the millipede.

Our Chicago varieties are for the most part pests. There is the German cockroach, which is small, numerous, and often visible. The Oriental cockroach is a black, one-inch insect and does not seem to be as common as the German and American. By the way, the names of cockroaches generally are incorrect. The Oriental and American cockroach most likely originated in Africa or South Asia. The German cockroach probably emigrated from West Africa. Another of the American cockroach’s common names does provide a clue as to how they became so widespread — ship cockroach (Captain Bligh described techniques used for killing them on the Bounty). Another nickname for the American cockroach is the Bombay canary! The most famous name for the American cockroach may be that publicized by humorist Dave Barry in his weekly column — the state “bird” of Florida. In spite of these names comparing P.a. to a bird, the American cockroach is only medium-sized when compared to some other species.

All three species consume foodstuffs and crops, act as vectors of various diseases, and carry parasitic organisms that are dangerous to man and domestic animals. They leave a noxious odor on the food they contaminate with their feces; they cause allergic reactions in humans through four means:

Direct contact
Inhalant
Injectant (from bites)
Ingestant (from ingesting food that has been partially eaten by cockroaches)

That said, however, the main problem people have with cockroaches is emotional. Other insects, for example, fleas and mosquitoes, are far more serious vectors of disease in man and livestock. Locusts cause far more damage to crops.

Why do cockroaches live with us in this love-hate relationship? They require warm temperatures and high relative humidity (between 40 and 50%). Even in climates like Chicago’s, our homes provide both in abundance. They are omnivorous, eating bark, fruit, vegetables, termites, young bedbugs, and parasitic mites. At one aquarium, they ate reptile eggs. They’ve been known to gnaw on people’s feet, hands, and more delicate areas, causing abrasions and allergic reactions. Under overcrowded or stressful conditions, cockroaches will even eat each other, usually recently molted nymphs, copulating pairs, and injured adults — in other words, the most vulnerable. The contents of our cupboards suit them just fine. If you are one of those people who believe that a good housekeeper who keeps food tightly sealed and crumbs cleaned up will never have roaches, think about the following table, which shows how long (in days) American cockroaches can survive without food and/or water:

	Males	Females
No food or water	28	42
Dry food, no water	27	40
Water, no food	44	90

Researchers believe the female survives longer than the male due to greater fat reserves (perhaps at least one thing we as humans can relate to!). The point is, no one can avoid cockroaches simply by trying to be immaculate. The cockroach’s food requirements are simply too minimal.

Although cockroaches may bother us, they have their problems, too. Several animals prey on cockroaches and their larvae and eggs, including some spiders, parasitic mites, beetles, ants, amphibians, reptiles (primarily geckos and anoles), birds, and mammals. One Peruvian bird, Troglodytes audex, is known as the cucarachero because of its cockroach consumption. The bird removes the head and wings to down the insect. Believe it or not, man is another cockroach predator. Cockroaches and their eggs are consumed by people in Australia, Thailand, China, Japan, and other parts of the Far East. They are eaten as food and for medicinal reasons.

As in other insects, many tissues of the cockroach can regenerate themselves, including eyes, antennae, cerci, and exoskeletal features, all of which regenerate over a number of molting cycles. The American cockroach is used in endocrine research because they can regenerate their prothoracic gland, a useful feature.

Cockroaches are unique among insects in that they can regenerate their legs in “all-or-none” fashion in a single instar (an instar is the period between molts). In other words, the leg either regenerates in one shot, so to speak, or it doesn’t. The new leg is not a replica — it is smaller and has only four segments rather than the original five. As the cockroach goes through several molts, the new leg does grow larger. This is a good adaptation for the cockroach, because two points along its leg yield easily to tension. (By the way, the only other insect that is known to regenerate a body part in all-or-none fashion is the butterfly, which can regenerates its wing imaginal discs.)

You’re no doubt curious about the love life of the American cockroach. In a three-dimensional vertical space (between your walls comes to mind), males live above the females. When the female is ready, she emits a sex pheromone, which makes the male come a-runnin’, so to speak. The stronger the scent, the straighter his path toward her. The female exhibits a calling pose — she lowers her abdomen slightly and spreads her 8th and 9th terga (dorsal plates) so the underlying tissues are exposed. When the male antennates her, she assumes a motionless stance. The male turns 180º, raises and flutters his wings, and moves backwards. The female must be receptive — courtship is a conflict situation in which there is a high potential for aggressive responses. (In addition, remember that mating cockroaches are vulnerable to the cannibalistic tendencies of their cronies.) In some encounters, the female mounts and the male attempts copulation; in others, the male attempts copulation without female stimulation. During her four-year lifetime, the American cockroach can produce 1,000 offspring. Cockroach nymphs are well developed when they hatch, resembling miniature adults, but it takes a full year and several molts before they reach maturity.

You probably don’t like cockroaches any more than you did before, but maybe you can look at them a little more objectively — they breathe, they eat, they drink, and they produce young, just like any other animal, all the while paying us the ultimate compliment of sharing our taste in both food and housing.

Sources:

The American Cockroach. William J. Bell and K.G. Adiyodi, editors. Chapman and Hall Ltd.: London 1982.

The Biology of the Cockroach. D. M. Guthrie and A. R. Tindall, editors. St. Martin’s Press: New York 1968.

2000
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: Flat Rock Journal

Posted on November 15, 2011 by dlschirfNovember 20, 2023

Flat Rock Journal by Ken Carey. Not recommended.

After reading two pages of glowing reviews (and even a comment about Carey being a successor to Thoreau), I was expecting a well-written, thoughtful book centered on nature, the forest, and the life within. Instead, Flat Rock Journal struck me as more of a tribute to one man’s ego.

The book got off on a bad foot for me when Chicago-born Carey buys a clunker car to begin his quest for nature and life in the forest. It struck me that, 100 years ago, this would not have been an option at all and that it seems a strange way to get around when there are alternatives, such as cycling and walking, that bring one closer to the earth. Next, he runs into the woman who will become his wife on the Berkeley campus with whom he makes love on some bleachers. He sees this as a spiritual moment and her as a strong woman with no fears, while in reality it comes across as young people doing what comes naturally to young people. One also wonders why these children of nature did not find some grass under a tree.

Carey and his wife move to an old farmhouse in the Ozarks, where they have few conveniences (although, of course, they can’t seem to get by without a truck and eventually a gas-powered refrigerator). Carey’s day in the forest gives the reader little real feel for life, but does provide insights into his perspectives, which are at best centered around himself rather than the world around him. He says that a day in the forest helps him to rid himself of assumptions, the baggage of the world, what have you. He then describes clouds, storms, lizards, rock formations, birds, trees — everything in sight — in purely anthropmorphic terms as though he can’t grasp that this is part of those unnecessary, irrelevant assumptions.

He talks about the copperheads that live around the long-abandoned house he buys as “intruders” without seeming to understand that it is his family that is intruding on them. He kills them, albeit regretfully, as a danger to his young children, not seeming to understand that this is how humans have always justified killing so-called “pest animals.” When he can no longer take killing them, he pollutes the atmosphere and uses nonrewable resources by driving them elsewhere so they are not underfoot. He is surprised when they return; he doesn’t even seem to know the basic biology of territoriality that man and his fellow animals all have at heart. When he pets them in his lap and they relax, he thinks this is a sign of friendliness (whereas someone a little more in tune with the mind of reptiles — and I put myself in this category — understands how much reptiles like a comfortably warm spot, like a lap). This kind of anthropormophising is a grave injustice to nature, and anthropomorphising is a large part of what we do that disrespects nature and leads to environmental trouble and imbalance.

Carey also has a fair amount of contempt for urbanites who don’t understand the country and nature, and who exploit “cheap country resources” to lead lives that of excessive consumption. He has a blind side to his own consumption and to his own lack of understanding. He does not absorb nature or sit back and appreciate it; he consistently forces his own predispositions onto it.

He believes environmentalists are wrong to assume that man and nature cannot coexist, and that man has the unique capacity to improve the earth, although he doesn’t really explain how. (I would have liked at least one example of a building, structure, or anything that is manmade that “improves” nature, but one is not forthcoming.) He and his wife produce a large family, which, while well within their rights, is unnecessary in this country of low child mortality and long life spans, and surely even Carey can acknowledge that it is a combination of excessive consumption and overpopulation that will be the downfall of nature. He can happily live on many acres in a forest, but doesn’t seem to think that, if all 280 million Americans tried to follow the same lifestyle, basic as it is, there would be no wild left — all would be farms, gardens, and watering systems simply to accommodate the volume of people.

He seems to think that depression is something that one shrugs off with the proper attitude and that too much of depression is blamed on “childhood” or “somebody else.” This reveals only his profound ignorance of clinical depression as well as issues of child physical, emotional, and sexual abuse.

His pseudospiritual ramblings are more annoying than enlightening. They are not the type of beliefs that can be universally felt, but are based on his own approach to his own readings, thoughts, and feelings. They are frequently contradictory to both common sense and a sense of wonder.

I was looking forward to a book that would make me feel like I was part of the forest, part of the Ozarks, part of the world. I have read the works of many environmental and nature writers who put their egos in the back seat and channel the beauty of the woods around them with minimal interjections of self, and those are the works that transport me, move me, and help me renew my own touch with my world and with all that inhabits it. This is not it.

Despite the glowing blurbs, which make me wonder if reviewers put any thought into their reviews, this book is not worth the time when there are so many more thoughtful, eloquent writers out there. It is apparently out of print. I can understand why.

29 July 2000
Copyright © Diane L. Schirf

Book review: A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail

Posted on November 13, 2011 by dlschirfNovember 12, 2022

A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail by Bill Bryson. Recommended.

Bill Bryson is known for his wry humour, and this is my first experience of it. Bryson gets it into his head to walk the famous Appalachian Trail. He is joined in this venture by Stephen Katz, an alcoholic, troubled, overweight friend who’s an unlikely candidate as a hiker/mountain man but who, with his many foibles, adds a much-needed personal touch.

Bryson covers a lot of territory — literally and figuratively. He talks briefly about the birth and history of the trail, hazards that range from bears and lethal viruses to unforgiving weather and deranged murderers, the decline of forest species, acid rain, the maps developed of the trail, its disputed length, the shelters along the way, the Forest Service’s love affair with road building, the National Park Service’s love affair with inefficiency and mismanagement, the people they meet on the trail and off the trail in small towns and tourist trap cities, pack weight, food, and how what you do is walk. We also learn a great deal about Katz that make him both likeable and not at all likeable. I suspect he is someone who is interesting and funny to read about, but who is infuriating in real life. His nonchalance when Bryson is convinced there are bears nearby is a high point.

Bryson is charming, witty, aggravating, and snobbish. If you can see the humorous side of bureaucracy, small-town and rural America, and what was once known as Yuppiedom, you will appreciate his running commentary on The downside of the book is that it hits an anticlimax shy of 2/3 through and never recovers. Perhaps this is symbolic of how walking the trail is.

This is not an Appalachian Trail “how-to” book, nor is it for the serious hiker or nature lover who expects to find out vicariously what it’s like to hike the trail. It’s a dryly funny commentary on humanity that happens to be a walk in the woods.

16 March 2002
Copyright © Diane Schirf

Blue Spoon Cafe, Natural Bridge and Aztalan State Parks, Wisconsin

Posted on October 10, 2011 by dlschirfAugust 11, 2024

More adventures in America’s Dairyland, October 8, 2011

During our first trip to the Baraboo area of Wisconsin, J. bought a $35 state park permit that expires at the end of the year, so use it he must. That’s why we ended up on I94 to Wisconsin again, this time centered on the Prairie du Sac/Sauk City area.

Thanks to Yelp for iPhone, on Saturday morning we landed at the Blue Spoon Creamery Café, where you order and get a number, and your meal is delivered to your table. While J. stood in the short line, I sought the outdoor seating that I’d read about — Blue Spoon has three terraces overlooking the Wisconsin River, and I found a perfect spot on the middle terrace, with lovely views of the river and the railroad tracks.

Railroad tracks?

Railroad tracks run between the lowest terrace and the river, but, judging from the height of the weeds between the rails and the nonchalance of those who strolled by occasionally, they seem to be abandoned — a perfect Rails-to-Trails Conservancy project. Somehow the rails added to the scene’s interest. I wondered when a train last rumbled behind all those buildings on Prairie du Sac’s main street.

After lingering for a long time over breakfast and coffee — who wouldn’t in such a perfect spot and in such perfect weather? — and getting coffee beans to go, we stopped at a tiny farmers market on a lot between two buildings across the way. Because of its size, the offerings were slim but surprisingly varied, from produce and cereals to jewelry and a locally roasted coffee. Which meant more coffee. I have enough to start a small business.

The next stop was next door at the J. S. Tripp Memorial Museum. The Tripp has a large collection of preserved birds, donated years ago by taxidermist Ed Ochsner. It’s probably the closest I’ll get to a golden eagle, which looked like it could have carried off whole villages. It’s mostly feathers, but they make its head look almost as large as a human’s. The saddest pieces were the tiny spotted deer twins and baby ducks.

The museum features a working Royal typewriter with round keys. The proprietor told us the kids try to type on it like they would on a laptop and are surprised by the force and effort it takes to punch the keys. His view is that manual typewriters required so much movement that carpal tunnel didn’t become an issue for those pioneer typists — it’s the small, repetitive motions that cause or exacerbate CTS.

Near the typewriter is a proof press(se) with wood type, along with samples of newspapers partly in English, partly in German. In addition to photos, furnishings, clothing, knickknacks, and the like, the museum, like others of its kind, features Civil War arms and regalia. These exhibits make me think that, if there isn’t one already, there should be a database of history museum and historical societies’ holdings — not just, say, those of the Smithsonian and other large institutions. It sounds like a formidable undertaking, but with Internet communications, digital cameras, and database and other technology, along with agreed-upon standards and willing volunteers, it could be done. It probably comes down to time, money, and value. A formidable undertaking indeed.

As we were getting ready to leave, our new acquaintance pointed out a winery across the river, halfway up the hillside — another reason to consider returning.

Finally we left for the next destination, Natural Bridge State Park, getting lost a few times along the way. We did pass a few cows here and there, but not as many as I might have expected in America’s Dairyland. I’ve seen more in New York and Pennsylvania, albeit in spring and summer.

At Natural Bridge State Park, we saw a middle-aged couple returning from the trail and asked them how far to the bridge. The man answered in time, not distance, saying it was about five minutes away and telling us that they’d learned there’s a cure for everything in plants (signs along the trails indicate how Native Americans used various plants medicinally). His tone was at the advanced end of skeptical. He must not know where aspirin and quinine come from.

An hour plus later of slowly climbing up a long, steep, eroded trail and stairs to an overlook and taking many photos, we were skeptical of his five-minute estimation. After a while, we ran into people evidently on the return trip who told us the bridge wasn’t much farther. I was at a point where I wondered if I could get back down the steeper, narrower parts of the trail, or if I was going to have to be carried or, more likely, airlifted out. Not that this is an especially difficult trail for most people, who strolled past us on their way out, but my knees and ankles don’t appreciate the physics of even slightly steep descents, especially when the trail is narrow, tilted, or eroded unevenly. I was very glad to have worn hiking shoes and to have brought a trekking pole — I needed both.

At last we arrived at the natural bridge at about the same time as a couple coming from the opposite direction. From these people and others, we learned that the trail forms a loop and that we must have taken the longer way around. When I mentioned that my knees don’t like steeper descents, the male half commiserated with me — that’s why they’d taken the shorter, easier way.

The bridge, the largest in Wisconsin, was lovely and impressive in the afternoon sun, but it saddened me to see the silly graffiti carved into it. We’re not talking Shakespearean sonnets, just juvenile “Rick rules” and “Jordan and Jillie” type graffiti — nothing anyone wants to see now, let alone 500 or 5,000 years in the future. I’m sure this has been going on for countless generations.

After a prolonged photo session, we continued down the trail, which descended in several places, although not as sharply. After about 10 minutes or so, we could see and hear signs of the parking lot through the trees. We really had taken the long, hard way — and I’m glad we did, and that I did without complaint. I proved something to myself.

A middle-aged and an elderly woman approached us and asked a few questions. I firmly told them to veer right. I was thinking that if they went left, they would end going a really long way around another loop the trail had led to. J. was beside himself and after they left (veering right) insisted I was wrong. I realized we were talking about different splits and that he was correct — they had gone the wrong way. So I hustled after them, surprised by how far they’d already gone up the wrong trail. They were already thinking of turning back or perhaps had — I’m not sure — and I felt guilty as I watched the older woman gingerly pick her way down. I stayed in front of her so at least I could steady her if she couldn’t make it. I tried to explain my error and apologized profusely. The younger woman said they were starting to wonder and she didn’t blame me — she thought there should have been directions. We had found a sign — as we were returning. All’s well that ends well, and neither I nor the older woman had to be rescued!

Next on the list was Aztalan State Park, an hour and a half away — that is, if you know where you’re going. There were long stretches during which the cellular network disappeared, which made the various map apps useless. We did pass some points of interest, including what appeared to be a church in the middle of nowhere. According to a sign, which J. noticed in passing (twice), it was a church museum. I’m not sure it was open. It’s one of those roadside oddities that might pull you in if you have time and and an interest in the unusual.

I did break J.’s heart by insisting we bypass Rustic Road (Lane?), which might have worked as a route, and might not have. I’m convinced he’s a sucker for marketing and was hoping to find something especially picturesque on a road called “Rustic.” I thought we’d see more frame houses and tidy yards. While the rolling hills aren’t quite the equivalent of Pennsylvania’s Central Alleghenies, overall the look is similar, only neater and more affluent.

As we were passing through a small town that I thought (hoped) had to be close to Aztalan, somehow J. spotted a coffee shop called the Daily Grind. How his radar picks up coffee shops while he’s driving I’ll never know, nor do I want to know. We stopped there, ordered drinks, and crossed the threshold into the connected pottery shop.

AFter a few more miles and false turns. we arrived at Aztalan around 5 o’clock, an hour later than I’d expected. At this time, we could experience this historic site with its restored Mississippian mounds in the waning daylight. First, J. couldn’t resist spinning a wheel to power playback of an educational recording about the site, while I cranked an old-fashioned pump connected to a drinking fountain. I wasn’t thirsty, but was fascinated to witness the result of my labor come out of the fountain and the excess disappear into a drain in the earth. The water had a taste, as water close to the source often does.

It’s not something I think about often, but there is something marvelous about working and seeing the effort tangibly rewarded. As so little is left that requires labor — even the simple task of dish washing for most is delegated to a machine — I wondered if that’s part of why gardening, scrapbooking, crocheting, and other manual arts have surged in popularity in the online age. It’s physically and spiritually satisfying to create something by hand — or to tease water out of the ground. As a novelty, it felt great. If I had to do it for drinking, cooking, cleaning, and bath water every day in every kind of weather, I wouldn’t be so enamored.

We ascended a couple of the mounds, which overlook a strangely featureless landscape. It’s not flat like much of Illinois, but nothing stands out, except the mounds and palisades, and the lines of trees. Only a few visitors were about when we arrived, and the dog walker and kite flyer disappeared before sunset. Not seriously, I wondered if the local sprouts used the mounds for sledding, and J. said, “Until hand reaches out from within the mound . . .”

As the sky grew darker, the colors became less distinct, and the scene more somber. It seemed a good time to leave the mounds and their histories in peace, undisturbed.

More misdirections and an urgent stop or two at gas stations, and we were in Lake Geneva, where we had reservations at the Baker House. The fine weather continued into the evening, and people seemed to be wandering about in search of a party. At the Baker House, the atmosphere was almost busy, loud, and crazy enough for the Great Gatsby. J. was disappointed not to get a table in one of the elegantly appointed rooms, but the enclosed porch, while close to the musicians, was almost calm.

After a little walk near the lake, finally we headed homeward. Although it should have been a two-hour drive here, it took more like three to four, including a half hour nap in the parking lot of a doggy day-care center. A full, full, rewarding, and exhausting day.

Chain O’Lakes State Park (Illinois)

Posted on October 2, 2011 by dlschirfNovember 16, 2024

For a good couple of hours, right until we were halfway through Barrington Hills, Saturday’s destination was a mystery to me. I hadn’t quite heard the name and knew only that it was northwest, generally toward Volo Bog and Moraine Hills State Park. We made a few wrong turns and a few stops, including Fratello’s Hot Dogs, which has to be one of the best hot dog/hamburger joints I’ve stepped into — including strawberries in the strawberry shake.

At last I understood we were headed for Chain O’ Lakes State Park, about which I knew nothing. Having a name in mind made navigation easier, although the jaunt through Barrington Hills was an education in itself, an exposure to a way of life nearly as alien to me as almost anything I could imagine on another planet. Because we got off track so many times, I told J. I envisioned the local police being inundated with calls from nervous property owners about the 2004 blue Toyota Corolla pulling uninvited into their posh driveways. Even when we’d backtracked to the correct area, Google Maps us to the back gate for Chain O Lakes, which was closed. As J. suspected, we zigged when we should have zagged.

At last we arrived, at around 5 o’clock — leaving enough time to check out the little store and to look around a bit. We took the first and most obvious trail we found, which led into the woods. We headed in the general direction of what we thought was the nearest lake other than Grass Lake, which is where we’d parked. At one point, we emerged from the woods into the yard of a trailer at a campground, where a mix of expensive and not-as-expensive trailers, some basic pop-up (tent) campers, and a handful of pitched tents were ensconced in neatly delineated grounds. The place looked full or nearly so, and a pair of little girls raced past us joyously on their little pink bicycles, giggling and screaming. Enjoy it while you can — that obliviousness to the cares of life will never come again, at least not for me.

With some directions from a helpful camper, we found the road, crossed it, and made our way back to where I’d thought we should have gone. I rarely trust my instincts, although sometimes they’re right. Not always.

After passing through another campground, this one a little less upscale than the first but almost as full, we came to the colorful shores of Turner Lake, where it was really hard for me to deny that summer is over and autumn is here. While the trees are not at the height of color, and there’s still some green mixed in, the few photos I took are clearly autumnal. I wonder if I’ll have this much difficulty accepting winter when its time comes. I did find out later that Turner Lake isn’t part of Chain O Lakes.

By this time, it was getting too late to do much more exploring, especially as we took a few false turns walking and ended up needlessly wandering through more of both campgrounds than was necessary. An elderly woman at one of the better trailers told us the trail went into the woods at the next spot, and we made it back to the parking lot in a combination of twilight and moonlight. After trying to figure out if there was a way to walk around Grass Lake and shopping at the store (and depriving some camper of chicken and dumplings soup), J. tore himself away.

While driving through Fox Lake, we decided to check out Dockers for a potential future visit. When we found it, J. spotted fireworks across the lake, and I noticed a swan surrounded by an entourage of Canada geese. While the inveterate extrovert chatted with the only people sitting outside at Dockers, a couple, I sat on a bench near the water and watched the fireworks and the waterfowl in one of those perfect moments that soothe my fretfulness.

The plan had been to eat at the haunted Ole St. Andrews Inn, but when J. saw a Walker Bros. in Lake Zurich that was still open (with only one other group of patrons), there we landed for a delicious and ghost-free end to a lovely fall day.

Owl Prowl at Thorn Creek Woods Nature Preserve

Posted on September 17, 2011 by dlschirfSeptember 17, 2023

Last Friday a Thorn Creek Woods Nature Center volunteer left me a voicemail that that evening’s Owl Prowl was off due to rain, postponed to the 16th. As we talked to our guide and others, we learned it wasn’t the rain so much as the result of it — muddy, slippery trail conditions, especially as part of the trail passes through a floodplain.

The volunteers had quite a spread of materials, from handouts to illustrated bird books open to pages about the species we were to hope to hear and/or see — the eastern screech owl, the barred owl, and the great horned owl.

We waited a while for latecomers and no shows. As we were about to set off, a couple with a teenage daughter said she wasn’t feeling well and they’d have to drop out. From the look of her, either she had cramps (I know the feeling), or she’d watched one too many gory horror movies set in the woods and didn’t think setting out on a hike at twilight with a bunch of strangers was a good idea. With our leader and trailer, there were about 14 of us. Surely only the most observant of owls would notice us!

It was past sunset when we did set out. Our guide tried to teach us to use our peripheral vision to look ahead, yet spot trail obstacles like tree roots, fallen trunks or branches, and steps, as well as to look beyond the most prominent foreground objects in the waning light, to use three-dimensional vision to see in the distance in the growing darkness. That I could do, but I couldn’t keep my head and my eyes directed up. Even with looking down in daylight and seeing everything clearly, I tend to walk trippingly — and I’m still plagued by a fear of falling while walking. I did try, though.

At a second stop, our guide tried to show us how to walk more quietly {“stalk” Native American style) by putting the outside ball of the foot down first rather than the heel and rolling the foot in. I tried this, too, slightly more successfully if not consistently. It’s tiring if you’re not used to it, as she pointed out. I also found it’s hard to coordinate all these different ways of doing things — stalking with head up, using peripheral vision, looking into the distance while being aware of the immediate surroundings and obstacles. I’m afraid I lapsed quickly into my usual head-down shuffle. No matter — neither the owls nor anyone else in the woods was fooled.

At one point, most of us heard a branch snap to the right, which we agreed must have been a deer. J. began whispering that there’d been news about eight escaped convicted killers — as though that would make me nervous.

At one point, J. and I are certain we heard a “hoo hoo” or something similar in the distance, although our leader had not. I looked up and around and took in the tangle of branches, leaves, and mysterious shapes against the sky, which seemed brighter than I would have expected, but didn’t see any owl shapes or movements. When we stopped, our leader would do a fair impression of owl calls, but if any owls were about they weren’t fooled into giving up what they were doing to return the calls. I was reminded of a visit to Starved Rock State Park earlier this year. While I was waiting along the trail for J., out of the near silence a great horned owl (I think) began to call from a spot not far off. After several calls, spaced widely apart, they ended as abruptly as they’d begun. I couldn’t have told you the distance or direction; they seemed to be disembodied in the stillness.

As we walked I noticed my night vision is not as good as I remember — but then my memory could be faulty. At a few points, not always in the thickest or darkest patches of woods, I began to be overcome by a feeling of panic because I couldn’t see anything and of vertigo, that the world was tilting and that I was going to lose my balance. Blind and unbalanced — just what you want to be when walking in the woods and over narrow boardwalks and bridges in the dark.

We had been asked not to bring flashlights, which would disrupt our night vision. Our leader and trailer each carried one for emergency use only. That’s why I was surprised when now and then I seemed to see a bit of light coming from behind me, just a flash, enough to help me get or keep my bearings or to see the person in front of me. At times these flashes or hints of light seemed like the disorienting visual tricks that sometimes accompany a migraine, and they made me feel almost queasy.

We walked back relatively quickly and noisily, with many calls of “step!” and “tree root!” for the benefit of those behind. Despite the difficulty I had seeing at times and the resulting disorientation, I was amazed by how bright the sky remained nearly two hours after sunset but before moonrise, which would have been obscured by the cloud cover anyway.

After coffee and cookies and just as we were about to leave, we learned what had really happened to the preserve’s north bridge, which is out and is being rebuilt. I’d assumed that it had become rickety and precarious with time and weather; even now, the remaining south bridge exhibits unevenness and a disturbing tilt. It came up in conversation that the north bridge had been in better shape than its sibling and was being replaced only because someone using tools had systematically dismantled it. One young woman with blue-streaked hair exclaimed grimly, “They’re lucky I didn’t see them because I’d have killed them.” That seemed to be the universal sentiment. I’m trying to imagine what nasty impulse could have prompted such a destructive outburst of energy, which had to have been carefully planned, coordinated, and executed. The perpetrators haven’t been identified.

If only the owls, deer, coyotes, and other animals could talk. I assume they can’t use tools.

After running a quick errand in Park Forest, we settled down to a late dinner at the Chicago Dough Company — not pizza this time, just sandwiches. What a relief. I’m ashamed to say I could not have taken one more step.

Encounter at Thorn Creek Woods

Posted on September 5, 2011 by dlschirfMay 30, 2022

For Labor Day, I convinced a somewhat reluctant J. to meet at the University Park Metra station for a walk in the nearby Thorn Creek Woods Nature Preserve. Before setting off down the trail (a different one than before, closer to the road), we decided to go on the Owl Prowl advertised on a flyer posted along with others by the parking lot, as well as the Garlic Festival in October. (Alas, the Owl Prowl would be postponed a week due to muddy conditions.)

To me, the autumn equinox, not Labor Day, is the harbinger of fall, but some leaves are starting the process of fading to the browns, yellows, oranges, and reds of autumn. Those on the ground are undoubtedly a mix of last year’s and this. The Flamingo pool will be closed on the 12th. Summer feels over before I knew it had begun.

This was a great day for a walk, not hot, not chilly, not wet. Periodically the sun peeked out to cast a lovely play of rays and shadows among the leaves. A stiff, persistent wind had been rattling around Hyde Park, but at Thorn Creek Woods it was relatively still except for sporadic moments when it would abruptly pick up as though in the vanguard of a storm, but then it would just as abruptly die down. That on-and-off wind rustling through the drying leaves also reminds me of fall.

Aside from a few birds like robins and a chipmunk or two, the most interesting life forms we found were a variety of mushrooms growing on the trees, ranging from beige white to red orange. I missed these last; J. is the mushroom whisperer. I wish he knew how to find slime molds, too.

Perhaps because we’d started out on the further trail, it seemed to take longer to get to Owl Lake, with J.’s chats with fellow walkers and stops for photo opportunities and my need for sit downs combined with the greater distance. Finally, my energy flagged and my lower back said, “Enough!” so we turned back short of the lake — probably just short, too. We were to be rewarded, though. This time J. spotted deer to our right. At first I saw just one, but based on the supposition that you rarely see just one of a herd animal like the white-tailed deer, I found the others that J. was already photographing. This little group, perhaps a half dozen does and juveniles, were spread out a bit.

I was sidling down the trail, thinking I’d passed the last deer, when something to my left caught my attention. It was a buck. It was a young buck. It was a young buck in velvet, bloody strips of skin hanging from his spikes down his face and nape. He was just off the trail, no more than six to eight feet from me, and he looked almost as startled as I felt. I restrained an exclamation, and he restrained an apparent urge to charge.

I broke the spell when I whispered, “Come here,” hoping J. could get a photo (he did, but not a closeup). Clearly realizing I wasn’t talking to him, the buck turned and picked his way through the undergrowth, eating some of it voraciously like the young animal he appeared to be. Growing antlers takes a lot of energy.

I’d never seen a buck in velvet, even one with starter spikes, and am sure J. never had, either. That alone made the trip and the walk worthwhile.

At the Chicago Dough Company in Richton Park, we were treated to a pleasant surprise — a buy one pizza, get another free deal. We walked out full of dough and with lots of good leftovers as well as an extra pizza.

And so ended the last holiday weekend until Thanksgiving, set in the heart of cold and darkness when the short, relentless gray days do not beckon me outdoors so temptingly but when hot chocolate and great books call me.

words and images

🇺🇦✏️✒️📚📔🌜dreamer 🌕 thinker 🌕 aspirant📱📷🚴‍♀️🏕🍄🌻

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