Caught Pretending

Caught Pretending

            Recently, my daughter and I tried to pawn ourselves off as serious birders.  We should have known better because in no time the real birders blew our cover.

            A good friend and a true birder, invited us to go to a meeting of the Kansas and Oklahoma Ornithological Societies held near Kenton, Oklahoma, which is right in the midst of Black Mesa.

She knows the region surrounding Black Mesa, Oklahoma, draws me like a magnet draws iron filings.  I am not certain why this area speaks so loudly to my spirit, but it does, loudly and clearly.  Anytime I have a chance to visit, I can pack and be ready to load up in less time than it takes to make a ham sandwich.

I explained to my friend that, although I love to watch and feed the birds out in my yard, I am not an expert birder,   Duh!  She has experienced several outings with me in tow, so she knew that.  What better way to get into the spirit of birding though than to take me to one of my favorite spots on the planet!

She assured me I could not embarrass her, so I hustled about finishing my end of the year, pre-graduation duties.  As I scurried from one task to another, I made mental lists of necessities one might need when birding.  Binoculars came to mind and a bird book appropriate to the area, in addition to sleeping bags, sunscreen, water bottles, and cameras.

We left in the early evening and arrived after midnight.  I could not wait to awaken to the sun rising over the mesa and to breathe in the piñon and sage scented air.  After stumbling from my bunk to find the latrine, I discovered early rising birders outside the cabins, looking diligently among the rocks and bushes on the mesa for various rare birds. At that point I quickly realized the first thing I had forgotten to pack.  My binoculars.  Bad move if I wanted to be seen as a serious birder. 

Numerous participants mingled among the buildings gazing through their binoculars at unusual sightings flitting through the sagebrush and over the rocks.  I could barely see shapes, let alone identify critters.  Identify critters!  Oh, no! I had left the bird book at home on the shelf also! 

Not an auspicious beginning, I thought to myself.  These people were serious.  They owned high-powered binoculars and each one carried several identification books.

 I did, however, have a water bottle.  Feeling guilty, I did not want to tell my  friend about my forgetfulness until we were well on our way.  No reason to give her a reason to turn around and head back to Kansas until we had found some Indian pictographs and seen the dinosaur tracks.

            Shortly after breakfast, we joined a caravan that wound around the mesa into Colorado throughout the morning.  Birders stop regularly we discovered.  Before we had warmed the engine up, we were peering into the distance looking at a specific kind of woodpecker unique to this area.  At this point, my daughter and I could not keep the secret of the missing binoculars and books any longer, but our friend did not kick us out and leave us in the middle of nowhere.

            Soon after this stop, we reached a point where we got out to hike to view the birds.  At this time, my daughter and I revealed our true natures.  Everyone there looked up into the trees, bushes, and sky for interesting birds to watch. While they looked skyward, we had our noses to the ground, checking out rocks.

            Yes, our true love is looking for rocks, and Black Mesa has millions of them to examine.  At first, we tried to be discreet and pretend we noticed all the bird varieties every one else kept raving about, but one really serious birder kept giving us funny looks.

            The rest of the morning proceeded much like this.  We stopped and hiked.  The birders walked with necks crooked back, eyes to the sky and tree tops.   My eighteen-year-old and I tried.  We really did, but our necks crooked down of their own accord, and we kept spotting great rocks we had to kneel to examine.  When we found the canyon with the Indian pictographs carved on the rock walls, we left the birders and hiked in for a closer look.

            Soon afterward, the lady I mentioned earlier, the really serious birder, made a point of walking close enough to comment, “Exactly why are you here?” 

            At that point, I knew she had my number.  I had to confess.  I explained we came on false pretences.  We really do love birds, but we love rocks even more.  And even more than that, we love Black Mesa.

 However, something must have rubbed off. Or my friend had an ulterior motive!  Now that we are home again, I find myself listening very carefully to birds’ songs.  I catch the thrashers’ mockingbird-like repetitions.  When I hear a phoebe call, I wonder, is it a true phoebe or a chickadee?  I notice the birds flitting about even more than I did before.  Maybe birds are more interesting than rocks. . . 

Cheep Entertainment

Cheep Entertainment

Do you want some cheep entertainment?  No, that is not a typo.  I really mean some cheep entertainment. Get a bird feeder and set it up close to your favorite window.

Years ago, my husband asked what I wanted for my birthday.  I told him I wanted a bird feeder by the dining room window.  That was the beginning of a wonderful fascination.

 

Feathered guests joined us at every meal--that is unless we ate after dark--which sometimes happens in the winter.  Most of the time, we had numerous avian friends frolicking at their feeder and entertaining us as we ate.

That feeder was so close to the house that we literally had a birds-eye-view of our little friends.  As humans can be, some were loutish in their behavior as they hogged the seeds and scared more timid birds away from the feeder.  Others were polite and dainty as they ate.  Cardinals and house finches were our favorites while blue jays and starlings won the lout award.

            Over the years we discovered one feeder was not enough entertainment, and we now have four set up.  They are further from the window, however, so perhaps the numbers make up for the distance.

Currently, we have a cardinal pair that drop in to feed several times a day.  In the morning the male works really hard at being photogenic as he, looking like a Christmas card cardinal, perches in a cedar tree.  When the ground is snow covered, he really puts on a show as he darts from branch to branch, causing small avalanches to fall from the heavily laden branches.  His mate is more subtle; but she, too, likes to put on a show for us by perching daringly on a fragile overhanging branch before she goes in to feed.

In addition, we have innumerable house finches, pine siskins (a delicate little bird that is engaging to watch), nuthatches (which crack us up because they crawl up and down the tree trunk upside down), juncoes, and chickadees.  I’d like to tell you I can identify every single one of them by name, but I can’t.

As the seasons change, we sometimes have newcomers that drop in for a short time as they migrate somewhere else.  The gold finches, towhees, and cedar waxwings are my personal favorite temporary visitors.  The waxwings are particularly interesting because they get drunk on fermented berries and sometimes, unfortunately, run into the windows or the trees.  They usually recover from their stupor and take off in search of more berries. Until I saw this with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed that some birds have a fondness for the “sauce.”

During bad weather, our feeder is like O’Hare airport as birds angle in for position to land or take off.  All four feeders are deluged with multiple species, and under such stressful conditions, they seem to get along better.  No one wants to waste energy trying to knock someone else off the perch.

Naturally, the squirrels like our feeders, too.  I know some people don’t like to waste seeds on the squirrels, but they add such humor to our day with their acrobatics and their tormenting of the dog that I will gladly buy a little extra so they can join our feathered friends.  In fact, we like the squirrels so much  we toss an ear of dried corn into the feeder every now and then just for them. 

The bird book sits on a counter near the table, and I keep a trash can full of seed available year round for my birds. When I think back, that first feeder was the best birthday present I ever received.  I am easy to buy for now.  Just get me another feeder and 100 lbs. of black oil sunflower seeds.

Bombs Away

Driving home from work today, I noticed a hint of a new hue, a titch of red, emerging in the trees that line Big Creek along Old Forty.  I slowed to get a better view, and after looking closely, I saw red fruit emerging on the many mulberry trees that dot our landscape.  My first thought was it seems a bit early for the mulberries to ripen.  My next thought was oh no.  It is purple splotch bomb time.

Not only do insects like those luscious berries, but birds do too, with decidedly undesirable results.  Everywhere I look during mulberry season, I see purple splotches splattering cars, lawn furniture, windows, porches, the dog’s back, and on infrequent occasion, a human head!

I know humans studied birds for years to determine how we too might fly.  From looking around our place, I wonder if tactical bombing instructors use the same technique to learn new bombing strategies. 

The idea of carpet bombing undoubtedly occurred to some poor military tactician who had the misfortune to stand in the wrong place when a flock of birds hastily digested their mulberries during a quick take off.  It would not take long to put two and two together to dispatch a group of bomb-loaded planes with a common target.

Stealth bombing must have been modeled after the more stream-lined birds that swoop in for a morsel and then fly a direct pattern over a strategic site.  Most recently, that would have been a spot on my car door that we could not avoid as we exited and shut the door.  It didn’t take long to interpret out my daughter’s squalls of disgust as she rapidly wiped her hand up and down her pant leg after closing the door. 

Stealth bombing also comes into play when birds sight in on the human head.  No one is safe.  Golf courses, picnics, baseball games, and gardens are all certified bombing ranges.  The human head in the open with a clear invitation--Hit me--Hit me--Who can blame the bird? 

Unfortunately for the splatted upon, some birds come with sighting devices that would amaze the Pentagon or the Chinese, and that poor human head is done for.  There is no gracious way to exit a group of fellow bystanders after a fully loaded bird hits ground zero.

Be warned!  Beware of low flying birds.  Consider them armed and dangerous.  For your own protection wear a hat at all times. 

Beware of Lowing Flying Birds

            I inherited a lead foot from my mom.  For years I had a terrible time remembering to let up on the gas pedal, and, like most young people, I had to learn the hard way.  Fortunately, I did not get an excessive number of speeding tickets or hurt anyone else, but I did collide with a low flying pheasant on more than one occasion.  Frankly, the speeding ticket would have been less expensive.

            It took only two such collisions involving two new and expensive headlights and the casings around them to convince me that 55 mph on Old Forty was plenty fast.  At 55 mph, I not only see oncoming pheasants, but I can anticipate deer movement better.  As a result, I have not had another wildlife/car wreck for more than a decade.

            In both those cases, those pheasants flew right in front of me essentially asking for what happens when something hurls itself in front of a speeding automobile.  As I said, I changed my ways, and the pheasant population has gone up accordingly.  It had been so long since I even scared a bird, I had not thought about these gruesome incidents.

            During Thanksgiving week, though, a turkey attack reminded me.  Only this time the situation occurred in reverse.  As I drove slowly out of the drive trying to enjoy the early morning sun, I heard a strange phuttering from behind the car. 

            I looked around and could not place it until I began edging forward again, and three low flying turkeys coming from behind dive-bombed my Explorer like kamikaze pilots.

 Heading east on a special turkey mission, they must have traveled from the creek behind the house.  Startled by the commotion of three heavy bodied birds lumbering directly over my car, I stopped the barely moving vehicle and watched as the lead bird came from the rear, right over the rack on my Ford.  He dipped low right in front of the windshield and nearly touched the bug shield in front of the car.  The other two played it safe and maintained more height, but they looked like big-bellied WW II bombers zipping over. 

            Though I often see turkeys strutting about, scratching for goodies and occasionally rising to roost, I have not seen them fly quite like I did that day.  Once they buzzed me, they stayed on pattern, barely flying above two barbwire fences and a patch of weeds until they reached the bottomland along the creek. 

            Intrigued, I watched them for a while, enjoying the luxury of a little extra  free time in my day.  I thought perhaps something (like a coyote or bobcat) alarmed them.  But once down among the weeds and trees, they resumed typical turkey behavior, strutting, scratching, and pecking. 

            I guess they had a mission, and I happened to get in their way.  I cannot think of anything else that explains the strafing run unless they knew the date.  It happened to be the day before Thanksgiving, and they may have been doing a little premature celebrating that they were not among turkeys defrosting in refrigerators in the neighborhood. 

           

           

              

Barn Kittens

Remember the childhood story about the country mouse and the city mouse?  I loved to read that book as a little girl.  Why it appealed to me, I don’t know.  However, since late this summer my daughters and I have had the opportunity see observe the differences between country cats and town cats.

We have always had a house cat, but since we moved to the country we have learned a hard lesson.  Spoiled house cats should never go outdoors, or they become some passing predator’s dinner.  Since we learned that lesson, we no longer let our newly acquired house cat out to roam the country side.

Our cat has his own charms, but because he is a spoiled house kitty, he has dull wits, as is the case with most town cats.  Sure, they have to worry about crossing the street and watching for “Brutus,” the neighboring pit bull, but it isn’t like being a country cat that constantly must be alert for predators on the ground and in the air.

During this past summer we got study our neighbor’s barn kitty.  Unlike many barn cats, this one likes humans as long as they meet her on her own terms.  When we first met her, she was days away from birthing five mewling kittens.  Eager for affection, she let us pet her and bring her little treats.  But always, always, she watched and listened.  Never did she give in 100% to the pleasure of a good scratching.

After the birth of her babies, her vigilance increased.  Though glad to see us, she didn’t want us messing with her offspring.  When we accidentally discovered their nest in a hay stack, this momma moved each and every one of her babies to a new spot.  Once again, she welcomed our visits but made it clear she didn’t want these humans involved with her kittens.

Every time we came bearing little treats, something her owner said was fine, she guardedly crept out to see us.  As usual, she greeted us with purrs and ankle rubbing, but the whole time we waited there, she watched the sky overhead for hawks and owls and jumped to run at any strange noise or movement on the ground.  What an alert little momma!

We eventually learned she had moved those five kittens into an old barrel hidden in the recesses of the barn.  Bravely, we took our flashlight and peered into this barrel.  I don’t know what her criteria was for picking a hiding place for her little family, but this was a good one.  The little guys couldn’t crawl away and get in trouble, and the barrel was mined.  Yes, mined.  Mud dauber nests lined the barrel.  No intelligent human or anything else would reach down into that barrel to touch one of her babies.  How she got each baby into the barrel without injuring herself or the kitten I don’t know.

I worried that the insects would sting her or the kittens, but I never saw evidence of that.  What I worried about next was how this scrawny, little momma cat, who didn’t fatten up no matter how many goodies her owner and my girls brought her, would get her babies out when they fattened and grew. 

I shouldn’t have worried because when it was time, she had those babies out of the barrel and tucked away in the crevices between hay bales.  We could hear their squeaky mewings, but we couldn’t see them nor could any other creature, hoping to find an easy meal.

Momma continued developing her friendship with the girls and me.  She learned to recognize our voices or our engine, and she would come cautiously running as she heard us approach the barn.

 Eventually, she let us see her kittens.  Respectfully, we looked and complimented her on her fine job of producing five beautiful babies.  By now their eyes were open and they wobbled comically about their limited world.  Watchfully, she made sure they didn’t wander too far.  Two of the babies looked like her, two were little calicoes, and one was a midnight midget.  The midget was half the size of the other kittens, and we worried about that one.

While the other kittens grew larger and braver, the tiny one stayed close to the nest.  For a while we hoped it would make it, but nature deals roughly with the weak and eventually that baby disappeared.  Of course, we missed it, but by then momma let us gently pet her remaining babies.

Always cautious, she hurried them away at any unusual sound or movement.  In my mind, I compared her to our cat, who doesn’t worry even when his head is inside our large dog’s mouth--something that should concern him greatly.   This little country cat had lived this long and kept her kittens alive because of her wariness. 

We found frequent evidence of her own predatory nature littering the barn floor.  A piece of bunny fur here and a blue jay feather there told their own stories of creatures that got a bit too comfortable.

Whatever happens to the wise little barn cat, we have enjoyed her and learned from her.  She wants the same thing every momma wants--for her children to be safe.

Autumn Uglies

Those of us who share our country homes with abundant wildlife populations love spring time when we get to see all the babies.  Nothing is cuter or sweeter than a newborn fawn unless it is six or seven baby raccoons following their mom to the creek.  On the other hand, nothing is funnier looking and yet more charming than a flock of recently feathered turkey poults as they try to catch grasshoppers as they follow their momma through tall grass.

This spring and summer provided particularly wonderful viewing moments from my dining room window that looks over Big Creek.  Our outdoor watchdog passed away last fall, which meant momma deer, momma coons, and momma turkeys could safely bring their babes right into the back yard on their way to the creek to drink.  Sitting at the dining room table with cup of coffee in hand, I got to watch the mothers wander the shallow creek to drink their fill or to browse on overhanging branches while their babies nursed contentedly, totally unaware I spied upon them every day. 

This continued for several months, allowing me to grow more familiar with each family and to learn their favorite times to come to water or their favored pathways to and from the creek.  The fawns went from spotted, frolicsome infants to adolescent does and bucks with adult coloring.  The baby raccoons grew from kitten-size to adult-size critters over the summer to the point I couldn’t really tell mom from babe any longer. The young turkeys grew adult tall but haven’t yet filled out. 

Because it is the wild, there was some attrition.  A favorite doe lost one of her fawns to something in the wild—illness, coyote, car…who knows.  Several clutches of turkeys went from many to few over the hot months.  The same happened to pheasant hatches as the drought and the heat took its toll on these young families.  While that brought a moment’s sadness, it didn’t ruin my summer peeping.

Recently, I had to drive cross-country to a town several counties away.  This meant leaving at daybreak and driving during prime critter movement time where I would spot so many more animals than I get to at home.  I saw so many adolescent families of turkey, pheasant, prairie chicken, deer, coyote, and foxes on these morning jaunts that it made me think of the weeks I spent watching the newborn creatures on our place.  Like human infants, they are so cuddly looking at that stage.   Of course, that is why stuffed animal manufactures create infant, not adolescent, imitation wild critters for the marketplace.

After spending two mornings looking at family after family of adolescent turkeys, coons, pheasants, deer, foxes, and coyotes, I wondered who would want a stuffed creature that looked that gawky and gangly?  It reminded me of those years when our daughters went from precious, pudgy little first graders with missing teeth to awkward pre-teens whose new teeth were too big for their features and whose spindly legs and arms did not match their trunks.  Then, like the creatures in the wild, our gawky cygnets turned into beautiful swans with well- proportioned bodies and attractive features.

While it was easy to watch the changes as our daughter went from adolescence to adulthood, I have to pay closer attention to the creatures with which we share our acreage.  Once fall arrives with hunting seasons, wild animals go to cover so it takes a closer eye to see those changes.  If I am lucky, I might see one of my grown up wild things herding adorable youngsters to water next spring.

Armadillo Tales

            Sometimes you look at a creature, and you wonder how exactly did it evolve into the beast that it is.  The kangaroo and platypus come to mind, but they are Australian creatures and who can account for the animal adaptations down under?  The one I really wonder about is one I see squashed all too often on the sides of Interstates in Oklahoma and Texas.  The armadillo.

            Just a few weeks ago I spotted an immigrant armadillo flattened on I-70 in Trego County.  How it got this far north I don’t know, but he must have brought friends because my husband saw another road kill armadillo on I-70 in Ellsworth County at about the same time.

            Just as African Killer bees keep moving north from South America, it appears armadillos are on a march to add to the road kill numbers in northern climates.  These little guys must not know anything about our winters, or they would keep their hairy little scutes where they belong, in southern climates.

 

Perhaps they should reconsider their march north since farmers and ranchers love armadillos about as much as they love prairie dogs. However, these prehistoric beasties won my heart years ago when I was a young college student in western Oklahoma.  I accidentally discovered their unusual ability to leap four to six feet vertically from a standing position in order to frighten their predators.  What athlete would not die to have a vertical like that of an armadillo?

            Imagine driving down an isolated highway late at night and noticing a bizarre creature waddling across the road. Looking at its funny snout and ears and ovoid body on short legs with long claws, I thought aliens might have invaded.

 A relative newcomer to Oklahoma, I had only seen armadillos in magazines such as National Geographic.  And I probably hadn’t seen many of those articles.  Any way, I spotted this odd creature in the road and slowed down to a near crawl.

  For lack of definitive sexual identification, I will call this creature a “he.”  Thinking he would hurry on across the road as I slowed down, I decelerated even more.  This had a similar effect upon the varmint in the road.  Only he decelerated to the point where all motion stopped.  Rolling forward a bit, I stopped too. Then the real show began.

 

Thank goodness I had my brights on so I got the full effect of his antics.  That armadillo leapt straight up in the air, a good foot above the hood of my old 66 Plymouth.  My headlights reflecting off his eyeballs added an eerie component to his comic jump.  Well above the hood of my car with that football-shaped body and those four clawed feet angling out, he hovered like a basketball player hanging in for a tough lay up. Once more alien invaders crossed my mind.

In different circumstances that armadillo would have ended up as road kill.  Because he surprised me on a little used road where I could slow down and ogle strange creatures in my path, his jump simply surprised the two of us with no damage done and a new fan won.  Had we been on a busy Interstate, his timing would have sent him leaping to an abrupt and messy end.

I have never see an armadillo since that doesn’t trigger the memory of my first introduction.  That high steppin’ fella charmed me so that I fell in love with these little guys that have been around in one form or another since prehistoric times. 

Since then, I began collecting armadillos.  Often times strangers spot my collection and ask what I might have asked nearly 30 years ago.  What is that creature? What fun—I can share the many odd facts about this immigrant to the New World.

The nine-banded armadillo living in the southern United States has several unique characteristics that have enabled it to survive its slow march north into our country.  Besides the obvious physical adaptation of the hair covered “shell” that protects the soft parts of its body and its amazing jumping ability, the armadillo is a reproductive marvel.

Like some marsupials, the female can delay development of the fertilized egg until conditions optimum-for-survival exist.  Nine-banded armadillos almost always bear four same-sex young.  According to James Michener’s book Texas, the female armadillo can also determine which gender of young she will bear.  I haven’t found a verification of that particular fact, but if true, then these creatures have abilities some folks would pay millions to possess.

Despite the bad rap these critters get in the agricultural community, they still charm me.  I like the idea of scaring predators away with an amazing jump and a funny face.  I also admire anything that can select when it delivers its young and what kind of young.  Now I just want one more chance to sneak up on an armadillo and watch it rise and hover.  However, I don’t want to meet it on the Interstate.  I want both of us to survive the experience unharmed.

Eggs and Antlers: The Joy of Discovery

One thing I hated about leaving childhood was outgrowing the Easter morning search for hidden eggs. Until I discovered shed hunting, the adult equivalent of a child’s Easter egg hunt, I didn’t know a person could have so much fun finding dropped antlers hidden by tall grass.  My husband introduced me to this spring ritual soon after we met. Discovering that first antler thrilled me the same way finding treasured Easter eggs had.

Any Easter Bunny worth his salt knows to hide an egg so finding it is nearly a miracle.  Well-camouflaged eggs require a hunter’s eye to zero in on miniscule differences between the hiding place and the colored cackleberry.

Mother Nature and male deer practice the Bunny’s trickery on a less sophisticated level when it comes to hiding antlers.  By late winter, grasses lose their green and most of their winter russet and gold to turn a tawny bone-color.  Tall, sere grass blends with bone-colored antlers, hiding them perfectly until a person practically steps on them.

Bucks that don’t become menu items during hunting season lose their antlers somewhere between January and March.  Sometimes both beams shed at the same time, or the buck drops one antler at a time.  As a result, experienced drop hunters know to keep looking for a second prize in the near vicinity of the first.

Once an antler drops, the fun begins.  The best part about this seasonal activity is it isn’t over in one morning.  Throughout the shedding season, different deer may drop antlers near the place where one was already found, so shed hunters may return to a site several times to find treasure.  We once visited a location near Casper, Wyoming, where herds went year after year to shed their racks.  We found freshly dropped antlers as well as weathered beams.

Just as some Easter egg hunters are luckier than others at finding eggs, some antler hunters are luckier.  Part of this has to do with how often these folks search, but some people have the eye.  Over the years, I have found a few antlers while my husband has found many.  We know some shed hunters find even more. 

I always hoped to find enough to build a deer antler arch similar to the elk antler arch in Jackson Hole. 

 Without a lot more work than my spouse and I have put into this, that isn’t going to happen.  However, I wouldn’t mind taking a lesson from friends who turn their finds into lamps, playing pieces for checker boards, buttons, drawer and knife handles, and wine racks.  Regardless of whether I become an antler artisan or not, I love feeling the childhood thrill of searching for a well-hidden object.

And the Oscar Goes to the Bull Snake

A couple of years ago, we replaced the windows in our house.  I expected extra dust, noise, flies, and the inconvenience of having an open window on a hundred degree plus July day, but I didn’t expect an Oscar quality actor to drop in.

One thing about living in the country, something unexpected always happens.  Because of our remodeling project, I faced one of my most dreaded fears—a snake in the kitchen.  Reading in the living, surrounded by my three dogs and my daughter’s two dogs, I was enjoying a quiet summer morning out of the heat.  Suddenly, I heard an unexplained large thump, and all five dogs began a frenzied barking at something in the kitchen.

I dragged them out of the house and returned to see what seemed like a monstrous-sized coiled snake parked in the dark shadows of a little desk in our kitchen.  Due to the poor lighting, I had to depend on sound and shadows to make a decision about the kind of snake faced me.

In full coil and rattling like a baby on steroids, the snake hissed and thrust its head my direction, raising my blood pressure and heart rate to alarming levels.  Unfortunately, that little desk happened  to be between the garage entry and the back door, which limited my choices about how to deal with this slithery surprise.  While I didn’t know much except that my heart felt like it was going to beat its way out of my chest, I did know I didn’t want that snake going anywhere else to surprise me later.

 All this time, I was frantically trying to call the resident game warden for professional assistance.  Naturally, he was teaching a Hunter Safety class and had turned off his phone.  Then I tried to call my daughter and her husband at Home Depot, but they didn’t answer either.  At this point, I realized I had to deal with this issue on my own right then or worry every time I opened a drawer or closet or when I slipped out of bed each morning. 

My first thought was a shotgun blast would do the job, but then I realized I would ruin the floor we had  replaced a few years earlier.  I work too hard to finance replacing a perfectly good floor, so I had to consider other resources.  That brought to mind the hoe on the other side of the door just feet from that angry snake.  I would have to go the long way out the front door to retrieve my weapon of choice.  But how did I keep the snake right where it was?

I wanted that snake in one spot, unable to crawl away, so I got close enough to tick Mr. Hiss Pot into a risen coil while I dashed to the bedroom for a pair of shoes.  Once I had my shoes on the right feet—try to put your shoes on when you’re in panic mode, I feinted at the snake again, making it stand on its tail so I had time to rush out the front door to the garage to get a hoe.

While I grabbed the hoe, my daughter called.  Hearing my shrill voice and the words snake in the kitchen caused her to pass the phone off to my son-in-law who grew up on a farm where he has dealt with more than his share of snakes.  He calmly told me to throw a blanket or a basket on top of the snake to confine it until I could decide exactly what to do.

Once again, I tormented the snake into standing up mode so I could race to the back bedroom to grab an empty laundry basket.  With basket and hoe in hand, I returned to the shadowy kitchen to face every woman’s mortal enemy since the time of Eve.

Still uncertain exactly what kind of snake I combatted, I took precautions to avoid a bite.  Thankfully, my aim was better than usual with the basket, and I covered the creature with the first toss.  That gave me a moment to catch my breath and prepare the coup d’état for when it stuck its head out from under the lip of the basket.  I suspect the snake knew what was coming, but it was all over before any of us could think about it.  Lizzie Borden had nothing on me that morning.

After my heart slowed to a rhythm that allowed me to hear nothing but the refrigerator running, I could tell my reptilian intruder had taken his last breath.  When I lifted basket off the still writhing but nearly headless body, I realized I had witnessed one of nature’s greatest acting performances.  That foolish bull snake should have never taken on the persona of a rattlesnake.  I might have been willing to forgive its intrusion and give it a lift outside.  As it was, that day was its greatest and final performance.

Finding a Lost Ocean

An Ocean

For nine years I lived within five miles of the Pacific Ocean.  I breathed its salt air, I lived for the invigorating breezes that freshened every morning and evening.  As often as I could, I stood with my toes in the foaming ocean water and looked West into infinity. As I stood there, infinity rolled back to me on the white wash of  the returning wave.  I thought I would never be able to live anywhere I couldn’t see and hear the continual rising and falling of the water.

Surprise, surprise.  Life is notable for bringing change. It wasn’t long after I had stood at the water’s edge for the last time, wondering how I would ever live away from it that I discovered the answer to my question. When my family moved to Oklahoma,  I reeled and foundered, trying to adjust and find a way to survive far from the ocean I loved. 

For months, I simply hung on to my memories and listened to audio tapes that replicated the sea’s pounding thunder.  But after a while, I began to look around.  A college friend had a balcony apartment overlooking a wheat field.  One day I sat on the porch and watched the wind move through a nearly ripened wheat field. Those of you who have done the same know what I saw.  An ocean, an ocean of wheat rolling over the prairie. Once again I watched infinite waves roll in, one right after the other.  My friend who had grown up on a farm was puzzled by my fascination, but former sea dwellers recognize what I found that day.

Many years later, far more than I ever spent living near the ocean, I still miss the grey- green water capped lightly with foam.  I miss the rising and falling of the tides, the waxing and waning of the waters.  I miss the roar of the sea, the feel of the tangy wind against my face, the discovery of delicate shells beneath my feet. 

But I don’t miss them too much.  I have discovered that I now live in an ancient sea bed.  I find shells in my driveway and on the hillside by my house.  I find shell imprints in the thousand limestone posts and blocks dotting the countryside.  But even better, I have found the sea again. 

Walking the country roads of Kansas, I listen only a short while before I hear the echo of ancient waves carried on the wind.  When I stand on a hill overlooking somebody’s wheat field, I can imagine myself standing at the edge of infinity listening to a roaring tide pour in. Wave after wave of rolling wheat reminds me that eons ago, this land where I now stand teemed with sea creatures great and small.

As I walk into the wind, I hear an ocean within as my own blood pounds and pulses in tune to the clamor without.  This child of the sea stands rooted to an ancient seabed, feeling the pulse of eternity on a Kansas hillside.

Amorous Owls Outside My Window

            In Native American tradition, the January moon has many names, including the cold moon, the moon of strong cold, the moon when limbs are broken by snow, and the frozen ground moon.   Because of an adventure outside my bedroom window a few years ago, I think of the January moon as the moon when great horned owls whisper of love.    

  

 Several years ago, I learned to look forward to a nightly serenade provided by a pair of amorous great horned owls.  As I lay in bed in our dark bedroom, I could hear the male’s deeper hoots and the female’s slightly higher pitched responses as they courted one another somewhere not too far from our window.

            While I frequently see these large hunters flying at dusk and dawn in search of food, the intimacy of listening to their courtship rituals night after night provided a gift I have hoped to experience again each January since.  Despite my annual anticipation, the birds haven’t cooperated, so this year when I heard an owl hooting about ten o’clock one evening, I thought Mother Nature had granted my wish. Unfortunately, it appears that was just a territorial hoot and not a prelude to love.

Three years ago, lying snuggled safely in the darkness of my room, listening to these birds whispering sweet nothings to one another night after night, I imagined them bowing and preening between  whispered love calls.   I confess it was difficult to imagine birds better known for roles in horror movies and as harbingers of death as tender love birds, but based on this pair’s nightly January conversations, these owls had an affectionate side. 

            Their love talk went on for a week or two if memory serves me correctly, and then the evenings quiet down considerably.  In another four weeks or so, the dialogue assumed a family- oriented tone. I heard the female soothing fuzzy owlets with gentle noises I can’t quite describe, but which frequently put me as well as her offspring to sleep.  If I managed to stay awake listening to her and the babes, the raucous little noises finally shushed into a silence. Occasionally Mama Owl’s babies tended to fuss as much as mine had, and I heard them squabbling (I wonder if their nest gets crowded as they grow), followed by mama’s gentle gurglings as she calmed them for nth time. 

On occasion, things got alarming when the female owl served up dinner right outside the bedroom window.  Listening to more than one last will and testament of a rabbit or some other rodent destined to feed these birds, I found my own stomach turning at the thought of meat so rare.  Those noises tended to disturb sleep, rather than soothe it, but I could tell by the uproar that the young birds got pretty excited knowing momma had delivered a prairie-fresh dinner.

Part of what made these moments special was the fact they don’t happen year round or even every year. The courtship was so short-lived I had to pay close attention to catch those sweet nothings before they were over and done.  Likewise with the rearing of the young, within a month or so the young fledged and their murmurings and rustlings were memories.

Despite the fact I experienced this great horned owl courtship only once, I listen carefully each January, hoping that once again, a courting pair of owls will make me privy to their annual love songs and the rearing of their young.  

Amber Waves

           Upon learning that my family was reverse migrating from Southern California to Oklahoma, I spent many of my remaining California hours standing either on a sandy beach or on the Huntington Beach pier looking over the Pacific.

Looking at and listening to the continual roar of that green-gray water as it rolls onto the sand, one wave pounding right after another inspires awe.   Power and mystery roll into one at the edge of the ocean.

 I can’t imagine being Columbus and countering the popular belief that the earth was flat. That had to be terrifying to sail out on only faith that the water would go on and on. 

Anyway, I think you get the point that the ocean intrigues me.  I loved it from the day I first saw it.  I loved dancing in the shoreline foam. I loved body surfing, especially diving through those taller than human waves and riding their crest back to shore . I loved simply floating out past where the waves break and  letting myself rise and fall on the great swells.  Most of all I loved watching the hypnotic motion of the waves.  If I never got to swim in the Pacific again, I could be happy if I could watch the waves roll over and over onto the sand.

After we made the great move and I adjusted to a new high school, I learned to look forward to the beautiful sunsets and walks on the open prairie.  In time, I discovered that I really loved the open space and the endless horizon we have on the plains.  However, I never got done missing the surging waves of the Pacific.

Imagine my surprise several summers into my “plains experience” when I happened to be standing on a hill overlooking a ripened wheat field in mid- June.  I saw wave after wave of amber grain rolling across an infinite prairie.

  I had my waves again.  I even had the roar.  Standing on a hill in Kansas on a windy day, you can hear the pounding of an ancient sea.  As the wind blasts past, its roar is no less awesome than that of the mighty Pacific. 

Since that day, I have learned to anticipate the wheat getting tall enough to blow in continual swells.  I enjoy at least a month of rolling waves before the combines do their job.  It’s not the Pacific, but it is pretty darn close for one month out of the year.  It even makes me look forward to the wind.          

Major Alfred Gibbs’ Mark on Ellis County

Due to its central location between Forts Leavenworth and Wallace, Hays, Kansas, hosted numerous famous military men who earned their gold stripes and leaves fighting the Mexican- American War, Civil War, and Indian Wars.

These soldiers left their mark on our landscape in the names of forts, towns, parks, streets, and university buildings.  We would have forgotten one such site except for its mention in the letters and diaries of Albert and Jennie Barnitz, later collected and edited into Life in Custer’s 7^th Cavalry by historian Robert Utley.

Barnitz mentions serving at Camp Alfred Gibbs in letters dated from April through July of 1868.  He states Major Joel Elliott, who later died at the Battle of the Washita, named the outpost after their Commander, Major Alfred Gibbs, stationed at Fort Leavenworth.

Gibbs, born in Astoria, Long Island, New York, was the son of mineralogist George Gibbs and grandson of Oliver Wolcott, Secretary of the Treasury to Presidents George Washington and John Adams.

A graduate of the United State Military Academy, he was no stranger to the frontier as he served in the Mexican-American War and the Apache Wars.

While he served in New Mexico, Confederate troops captured Gibbs. Following his parole and exchange, he served under General Sheridan as a commander of infantry and cavalry regiments in many Civil War battles. These included the Battle of Sayler’s Creek three days before R.E. Lee’s surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox Court House, which Gibbs witnessed.

Though a Brevet Major General during the Civil War, Gibbs served his final duty as a major the 7^th U.S. Cavalry Regiment at various forts around Kansas from 1866 to 1868. He died at Fort Leavenworth the day after Christmas 1868.

While some recall Gibbs as the inspiration behind the well-known 7^th Cavalry Band, fellow soldiers knew Gibbs for his interest in military trivia and stern discipline.  Captain Barnitz alludes to this sternness in a journal entry dated April 16, 1868:

…all the officers of the regiment who called on us, as well as others at the Post, expressed themselves as highly solicitous that my company should be the one selected to stay,--but it proved otherwise.  Capt. Yates (“Co. “F”) was patronizing to General Gibbs and the Adjutant [Lieutenant Moylan], and in consequence obtained the “post of favor”—if not of honor.  I was the only company commander who was married, and should therefore, according to established usages of the service have been selected to remain, if I desired to do so, (and my wish in this matter was well known)—although I did not go personally to Genl. Gibbs, as perhaps he expected…

Gibbs’ life intersected with critical events that formed our nation.  In Ellis County history we recognize his role as namesake of Camp Alfred Gibbs, an outpost housing several companies of the 7^th Cavalry that later fought both at the Washita and the Little Big Horn.

Planting a Little Shade

If you’ve looked at vintage Ellis photos, you know our town had even more big trees shading yards, parks, and walkways than we have today.  Seeing those old photos made me wonder about trees I see growing around town.  Fortunately, I didn’t have to look long before I found some history of tree culture in Ellis.

In the earliest Ellis Headlight newspapers, the editor frequently called upon citizens to plant more trees to beautify the town.  Some of the earliest photos of Ellis’s Edwards street, which is now 9^th Street, reveal that Ellis rose from dusty prairie.  There wasn’t a tree to shade a horse while a person went into the mercantile to shop.  The town needed trees.

Over the next few years, the Ellis Headlight promoted tree merchants and tree planting with missionary zeal.  In March of 1882, Daniel Griest had 20,000 cottonwoods for sale.  I suspect many of their descendants and maybe a few original plantings offer a branch for a swing or  bird nest in Ellis today.

 Not long after that report, the editor nearly shouted from the local page that the Meserve property on the Smoky Hill River sported a peach orchard with 3,500 healthy peach trees planted.  I’ve eaten some tasty homegrown peaches in Ellis, but apparently the weather wasn’t suitable to maintain a large orchard.

In October of 1882, a Topeka nursery sent a salesman to Ellis to promote ornamental and fruit trees. Among others, they advertised black locust and catalpa trees.  This explains how towering catalpas with big heart-shaped leaves, frilly orchid-like blossoms, and long bean pods ended up in our dusty prairie town.

Choosing a tree to suit  the western Kansas climate is a challenge even today.  The catalpa provided a great choice for early homesteaders.  It was drought and wind resistant.  It grew fast and provided plenty of shade.  Its wood made strong fence posts, a boon in the early years of settlement.

In the spring, frilled white catalpa blossoms rimmed with purple dots perfume the air with their sweet scent, attracting bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds.  The beauty and scent had to be a blessing to settlers who missed this part of their eastern memories. 

In the fall, catalpas produce long bean pods that dangle from branches.  Some consider these yard litter, but imaginative children turn them into swords, pendulous earrings, and supplies for pioneer journeys.  They add interest to autumn scenery and food supplies for overwintering critters.

Ellis’s landscape has changed several times over the years, from barren plain to heavily treed village to town with fewer trees but ample shade.  Imagine a pioneer woman longing for a shady place to while away an afternoon.  When that tree salesman promised a fast growing survivor that might make a good fence post, her husband, eager to please his wife, got out his spade to plant an exotic looking tree that folks in Ellis enjoy today.

Yucca--Native Superstore

Native Superstore and Tenuous Miracle

Native to the Great Plains, Yucca, or soapweed, grows from Mexico to Canada. Often used as an ornamental planting in xeriscapes, this spiky plant punctuates prairie pastures, hillsides, and blowouts. Because western Kansans see yucca so frequently, they do not give much thought to this miraculous plant that was a superstore to many Indian tribes.

Its nickname soapweed describes one of its main uses. Indians such as the Lakota and Blackfeet used its sudsy roots to create a hair rinse that killed vermin and prevented hair loss. Kiowa Indians claimed a yucca solution cured a variety of skin ailments. Southwestern tribes also used this plant as a hair and body wash as well as for other purposes. Some Navajo weavers still prefer to launder wool fibers in yucca suds.

Not only are yucca roots good for cleansing the outside of the body but brewed properly, a tea made from its roots also works as a laxative to cleanse innards. Several sources state consumers need to use moderation when drinking such teas because of the cathartic properties. According to both the Navajo and the Lakota, yucca root tea brewed a specific way and sipped by laboring mother eased childbirth.

While the roots offer numerous benefits, other parts of the yucca are edible when prepared properly. Early blossoms are a nice addition to a salad. Kiowa Indians roasted and ate the pre-bloom emerging stems, which look like a big stalk of asparagus. Many Southwestern tribes still use banana yucca fruits in their cooking today.

In addition to yucca medicinal, hygiene, and dietary purposes, native people used its fibers to weave sandals, ropes, cordage, nets, and other necessities. Some individuals interwove turkey feathers into the fibers to make warm blankets. At numerous sites, archeologists have documented paintbrushes and hair combs made of yucca leaves. Bound yucca leaves created drills used to start fires. Weavers boiled parts of the plant to create different dyes. Multi-functional, this plant improved life for many early residents of the Great Plains and the Southwest.

Ornamental and functional, yucca plants have another interesting characteristic. Unlike many plants that depend on windblown or indiscriminate insect pollination, yucca species depend on the yucca moth to reproduce. The moth visits the yucca at night and collects pollen in her mouth from the stamen. She then flies to another blossom to lay her egg and deposit the pollen ball onto the blossom’s pistil. Since her larvae eat only yucca pod seeds, the moth and the yucca are mutually dependent for survival. In regions of the world where yucca moths do not exist, yucca plants cannot reproduce naturally.

What looks like a rosette made of spiky swords surrounding a stalk of creamy blossoms each spring is actually a superstore of products. In addition, this plant and its tiny pollinator remind humans of nature’s delicate balance.  This common plant’s existence is a tenuous miracle.

Great Plains Miller Invasion Is Bear Feast

Great Plains Miller Invasion Is Bear Feast

Most of us living in western Kansas open our mailboxes or newspapers to find multitudes of miller-moths hiding in dark crevices. After slapping at the annoying creatures, we scrub away miller dust that  their wings deposit. If they escape, they squirt orange fluid that scientists call meconium to provide an idea of its ingredients. Most people can’t find anything good to say about this insect invasion except, “Thank goodness they don’t eat fabric, wood, or carpets.”

In pre-miller life, these invaders were army cutworms that sometimes wreaked havoc in winter wheat fields and alfalfa patches. In high population years, cutworms assume the “army worm” custom of massing in Biblical plague formations to travel over fields or highways. 

After they mature in spring, they tunnel into soft earth to pupate. Following a three to six week period underground, they emerge as flitting moths, squeezing their way through door and window cracks to slink into inviting darkness.

Fortunately, they do not hang around all summer. These are high elevation, cool weather, wildflower- nectar loving creatures. They migrate from the plains into the high reaches of the Rockies. By August, life balances itself, and army cutworm moths that survived this journey may build winter fat stores of four-legged eating machines.

Grizzlies and black bears love miller-moths. Recall that these insects love dark crevices. Vast mountain rockslides provide innumerable hidey-holes for migrating throngs. Bears follow them to boulder-strewn slopes to feast. According to researcher Hillary Robison who observes bears in and around Yellowstone Park, “It’s kind of like a salmon stream. We’ve seen bears feeding within several hundred yards of each other. . . .”

Some people with sensitive noses may notice unpleasant odors coming from dead moths. This scent results from a high fat content that turns rancid when miller-moths die. This ½ calorie of fat content per moth draws grizzlies to high mountain slopes and triggers their focused digging into rocky crannies. Bears can eat up to 40,000 moths a day.

Robison’s research examines how far Yellowstone moths travel from Great Plains farmlands and reveals an unexpected connection between the Great Plains and bear survival in Yellowstone. Of interest to Yellowstone tourists, silvertips looking for moths in high elevations each summer will not be inclined get in trouble bothering summer park visitors at lower elevations. According to Robison, “If they are spending a month up in these Yellowstone moth sites in the summer, they could eat close to half their needs for the year.”

While I don’t like moth dust, orange splats on the woodwork, or having winged hordes fly out of my newspapers, I have a new appreciation for these metamorphic wonders. I enjoy knowing miller-moths that hovered about my yard light help fatten grizzlies for winter hibernation.