The Swan

If I were to make a collage of my childhood memories, there would be many images of swans. I read and reread my volumes of Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Andersen, eyes tracing every line of the old-fashioned pen and ink illustrations. I especially remember the story of The Seven Swans, bewitched brothers who could be restored to human form only through the long suffering loyalty of their sister. Her task was to remain mute while knitting seven shirts out of nettles. Who of us hasn’t felt kinship with the ugly ‘duckling’, hoping, as he did, to someday find that niche where we feel right and true and beautiful--swanlike. I owe my love of nature in great part to my paternal grandmother. The backyard of her modest home was separated from a large city park by just a narrow alley and hedge. It was magical to slip through a gap in the hedge, holding my grandmother's hand, and enter a vast world of huge trees, squirrels, fat goldfish, fountains and flowers. We spent hours walking the paths where swans glided to and fro across a lake. Nana died more than 40 years ago. She is forever connected in my heart with swans.

Alien Invaders

Alien species, non-native species, exotic species. These are plants, animals or other organisms that have been abruptly (compared to natural migrations) introduced to an ecosystem, usually by human doings-often accidentally, but sometimes intentionally. This phenomenon has caused dramatic changes worldwide, and continues to do so.

I recently learned that many of our most familiar "wild" flowers are non-native and have been around for centuries. Seeds hitched across the Big Pond with early European immigrants. Each summer I'm happy to see the 6 foot tall flowering spikes of fuzzy leaved Common Mullein that stand at attention like soldiers reviewing a parade. What country girl hasn't picked a bouquet of Queen Anne's Lace and marvelled at its umbrella of tiny white florets?

These roadside weeds are rather benign, but for an example of negative effects, one word: kudzu. A noxious vine, kudzu strangles and smothers everything in its path. It was aggressively planted by the U.S. government in the 1930's for erosion control before it was discovered that in our humid southern states it grows just too well.

European starlings (Sternus vulgaris) were brought to North America by a man who wanted to seed our continent with all the birds that are mentioned in Shakepeare! The descendants of the original 75-100 birds released in New York's Central Park in the 1890's now number more than 200 million. Starlings have voracious appetites, migrate in flocks of up to 100,000 birds, and have contributed to the decline of the bluebird, purple martin and tree swallow.

Not all non-native species are home wreckers, but those that are earn another moniker: invasive, although this term is passing out of favor in ecological circles. (Truth be told, a native species may be invasive as well, meaning it rapidly colonizes an area, such as the Maryland state flower, the Black-eyed Susan. )

By any name, an exotic invasive species does not "smell" sweet-- but through no fault of its own really. In its homeland, it probably evolved to be in relative harmony with its surroundings. But transplanted to a new environment, it may have few or no natural predators, no competing species, and other species may have no natural resistance to it. The result is imbalance and perhaps irrevocable degradation of indigenous flora or fauna.

Since species are interdependent, when one species goes it can take others with it in a chain reaction. This dynamic has severely impacted the vulnerable islands of Hawaii. Seventy three percent of U.S. extinctions have occurred in Hawaii. Feral goats, pigs and sheep are some of the worst offenders there.

We learned how wolves benefitted the ecosystem when they were eradicated (by homo sapiens) from places like Yellowstone. Without wolves, elk proliferated and began overgrazing vegetation, which in turn affected other species, increased erosion, and impaired water quality. The ecosystem there is now mending due to the much publicized, and controversial, re-establishment of wild and free wolves.

Growing to 60 feet, the American Chestnut was formerly a dominant tree throughout our eastern forests, until a blight hit it early in the 20th century. The culprit? -- a variety of chestnut brought here from Asia that had resistance to the blight. Scientists are working to develop resistant strains of our native tree in hopes of restoring the chestnut to its former place as king of the forest. Doing so could have a substantial impact on mitigating climate change.

It is sobering when I consider not only changes I've witnessed in a half century of outdoor wanderings, but just recently. This past spring I saw infestations of garlic mustard in shady glens along the Potomac, choking out trillium, mayapples (see photo left), jacks in the pulpit, and other delicate native wildflowers that were flourishing only a few springs ago.

From my childhood, I remembered the path at Cunningham Falls State Park as a magical tunnel formed by the delicately needled branches of eastern hemlock trees. Wanting to get an early start on sharing my love of nature with my grandson, I took him there when he was only one year old. The magic remained. While perhaps not as plentiful, the hemlock branches still drooped gracefully above us like tiers of shyly lowered eyelashes. My grandson is now almost five years old. On a recent solitary visit, I felt like a survivor on a battlefield. The skeletons of eastern hemlock trees littered the forest floor or stood gray and silent like ghosts.

In this heavily used park, where biodiversity has already been severely diminished by grazing white-tailed deer, I suspect the hemlocks may have been even less resistant to the Wooly Adelgid-an introduced aphid-like pest. To add insult to injury, Japanese Stilt Grass was making rapid headway in crowding out native Lady ferns. (Where's Waldo the fern?) The overall effect was one of barren sterility.


Young families walked past me as I stood shell-shocked. They were blissfully unaware of what they had missed. But I knew, and mourned their loss. Especially on behalf of the children.

At my feet, a huge black beetle scurried at a surprising pace across the path to avoid being trampled. He frantically pulled some leaf litter over his head and body, obscuring not only himself but his own vision. Although tempted, I didn't disturb him. I knew how he felt.

ABC Wednesday

To Be Born

Have you ever seen a just-born child? The small figure is luminous--so infused with the energy of becoming that the outlines of his or her body appear to waver like a mirage. Even the most cynical of us can't help but be awed. The word miracle rises to the lips.

I had a similar experience on a dragonfly foray with a naturalist friend last Saturday.
We were at a low water bridge on the Cacapon River in Morgan County, West Virginia. It was one of those days in May that foretell the heat and humidity of July. We seemed to have entered a giant incubation chamber, for life was hatching all around us.

Cool water from weeks of spring rain flowed between banks of freshly leaved trees, newly sprouted grasses, and wildflowers budding or in bloom. The sun's rays danced through the air, setting all things green ashimmer.

Tiger and zebra swallow-tailed butterflies flitted in small clouds and flocked to sip at puddles. Their wings looked impossibly fragile. Not a tatter or speck of dust marred the patterns of creamy yellow, pale celadon and inky black. A drop of columbine red punctuated the base of each wing like the dot of a exclamation mark.

A green heron with a watchful eye rimmed in gold perched motionless on a snag midstream. Flashing scarlet helmets and bars of black and white, two male red-bellied woodpeckers alighted at the base of a sycamore. They hesitated, artfully askew on the pale trunk. I imagined them as bright enameled jewelry adorning the breast of a 1940's screen siren.

Dragonflies had recently passed through their metamorphosis from aquatic larvae to airborne adults. They cruised the river's edge like miniature hovercraft. Each was escorted, in perfect formation, by the image of a watery twin.

Low to the ground, tiny native bees meandered here and there to gather nectar. A brown water snake slithered through the shallows. All the while, the insistent murmur of American toads played as background music.

My friend snared an Applachian Jewelwing damselfly with her net. It was an immature male--still only half dressed in its armor of emerald green. She gently folded its wings to meet above the thorax and passed it to me. The finely veined gossamer was slightly damp and clung to my fingers.

The word nature descends from the Latin nasci "to be born." Capturing bits of data is often the goal of observation in the field. There is a special excitement as another piece of a giant puzzle slips into place. But what I most enjoy is seeing the world as if revealed for the first time. Deep in my bones, I sense the truth of how all of us--plants, insects, animals, humans--are made of the same stuff. We are born from the same mother. My heart flutters as I whisper a single word: miracle.

A Goose with a View

While poking around in the woods next to the C & O Canal towpath for a good photo of Virginia Bluebells, I disturbed this Canada Goose (branta canadensis). He was immediately on the alert, honking in a threatening way, and eyeing me with suspicion. Movement above by his mate drew my eye to the top of the old railway support.


The female goose peered over the edge of the concrete to see what the ruckus was about but didn't move from her spot. I guessed she was nesting on the top of the structure.



The goslings are going to have quite a drop when they are ready to venture forth. But you have to admire this mama's ambitious choice of site. The eggs should be well protected from skunks or raccoons. However, crows and ravens also consider goose eggs a tasty tidbit--might the eggs be more exposed in this spot? Once the goslings leave the nest, (if they survive the drop) the Potomac is a short stumble down a bank and they will be waterborne.



Typically the female Canada goose chooses the nesting site, builds the nest and lays the eggs, while the male defends the territory from other animals including other geese. Isolated spots with good visibility are preferred. Despite being trailside, this pair's nest is over 10 miles down the towpath from Williamsport, with a grand view of the river and any cyclists or nosy amateur naturalists approaching from either direction.

Canada goose nests are not elaborate and are rather quickly thrown together: weeds, twigs, pine needles, grass or moss are assembled in a mound then rounded out and molded into shape by the goose's body as she nestles in. The average clutch has five eggs but might include up to nine. It would have been fun to watch the nest building process at this spot.

Canada geese are monogamous and most pairs mate for life. Life spans can range to over twenty years. I wonder if this pair has successfully nested here before. If so, do the other geese recognize that they have "dibs" on this site? Or perhaps they are upwardly mobile newly-weds producing their first brood. They remind me of the red-tailed hawks who famously nested high above New York's Central Park adjacent to Woody Allen's penthouse--with their very own 'deluxe apartment in the sky.'

Reading Thoreau and Edwin Way Teale. How thrilling to feel we are communing across the decades when I observe something of nature, try to describe my perceptions in words, then shortly thereafter read what they have written in the same vein that validates my experience.
On a birding outing on the Potomac recently I saw a young eagle fly overhead, and described its "princely glide" to capture its seemingly self assured and stately motion. Teale referred to sighting an eagle gliding back and forth in a manner so steady "it appeared as if riding on rails." On the same trip I spotted the facing silhouette of a bluebird perched in a faroff canopy, but couldn't identify it without using my glasses to see the blush breast and blue wings. Teale wrote of the bluebird's "round shouldered" attitude which was spot-on with what I saw. Next time I'll recognize it without my glasses! (Field glasses, that is, I will still need my prescription lenses or contacs!)
Reading "Walking" last night Thoreau comments on seeing ducks on the water in spring. First he "saw one bird, then suddenly there were three." That is exactly what occurred when I saw the Hooded Mergansers on the Shenandoah. One bird was visible since the other three were diving unbeknownst to me. I glanced down to raise my glasses, the divers had surfaced! It is reassuring to know these writers whom I revere saw and appreciated the same animal behaviors that are available for me to witness and enjoy.

Bird Sighting on the Shenandoah

I went bird watching this afternoon along the Shenandoah River. A dank, dark and dreary day. The light filtering through the monotonous cloud cover was flat and made everything else look rather flat too. The river was slate grey lacking any blue or green to reflect. Wild life was few and far between but I did make a few sightings and practiced identification.
I used my car as a blind, pulled off whenever I saw motion on the water, and rolled down my window to use my field glasses. This worked well, as the birds seemed to feel totally unthreatened. I saw many groups of Canada Geese waddling along the shore, upending in the water, or standing motionless on the flat rocky areas midriver. I also saw two species of diving ducks.
Two pairs of Hooded Mergansers were feeding out in the middle of a wide expanse of the river. Each duck completely submerged beneath the water when it dove, but one drake was always left alert and watching, like the periscope on a submarine. The Hooded Merganser drake has striking black and white bars on his wings and shoulders. He has a sail shaped white crest flaring back from his black head. The crest can be that can be raised or lowered which was startling and confusing as I tried to make out the "shape" of the birds head--it kept changing! This was the most exciting find as these birds are "fairly common" as opposed to "common."
At one spot protected from the wind by high banks, several species were congregating in leisurely groups where a cluster of flat rocks formed an ersatz archipelago. Five or six pairs of Common Mergansers appeared to doze with their bills turned back and hidden under their wings, while other pairs paddled calmly back and forth nearby. Mingled in were the everpresent geese, and mallards. Mallards are "dabbling" ducks per Peterson, so now I have the word for their bobbing pattern of feeding, they quickly upend to snap a morsel than right themselves like a rubby ducky in a bathtub. I have seen them diving too when a tidbit is out of reach.
I saw one little shore bird skittering along nearby--It was pale colored and seemed to have 3 dark rings around its neck, but the most similar looking bird in My Peterson Guide of Eastern and Central North America had two rings: a Kildeer?
I tried to interpet the behavior of three crows that flew down to the rocks after surveying the scene from a nearby tree. They appeared to be honing their beaks on the rocks, or perhaps attempting to scrape some substance off of them? One crow would be "honing" while the other two kept watch in different directions. A small mess of starlings fussed around this scene as well, flying up to perch in the trees, then soaring across the rocks, alighting briefly, then back up again. The Mergansers, although "common" were very beautiful. The males had immaculate white breasts and flanks, glossy black-green heads and bright red bills and feet. The females had ruddy brown feathery crests that I found in very good taste with their dress of muted grey.

This site has a great photo of the Hooded Merganser and you can listen to its call. Sounds like a frog, very strange! http://www.ducks.org/hunting/waterfowlGallery/61/index.html
Here is some interesting information about the Common Merganser. They are the first duck to move north in the spring and the last to go south in the fall...
http://www.seaduckjv.org/infoseries/come_sppfactsheet.pdf