Wordless Wednesday

Happy Holidays

Wishing Everyone a Peaceful and 

Joyful Holiday Season.

Violation - On So Many Levels

One of the many perks of living nine miles from the main road, in a national forest, is the opportunity to enjoy an abundance of wildlife right in the backyard.  We have enjoyed watching the animals that share this space with us, particularly the deer that stroll through our patch of woods almost every evening and morning for the six years we have owned this property.

Yesterday morning was no exception.  A doe and two yearling fawns have been coming by regularly, so when the weather dipped to the teens the other day, we put out a seed block that doubles as a squirrel and raccoon feeder too.  The kids nibbled away for a few minutes and slowly followed their mom up the trail that leads out of our yard, to cross a dirt road and into the DBNF, about 300 feet up the hill - if that.

My husband was coming from the music studio out back to the house when the shotgun blasted, so close and so loud that he hit the dirt and checked himself for  gunshot.  I was in the house vacuuming - and still heard the shot loud and clear over the roar of our very old, very loud Hoover.  I ran outside to find my husband cursing at a white pickup truck paused on the dirt road just above our house, where the deer cross.  The truck lingered for about 2 minutes and drove off - probably carrying one of 'our' deer with it.

We haven't seen the deer since, so we don't know which one, if any, lost its life.  Since it was a sniper ambush from a truck, probably at very close range, we're fairly certain at least one was killed.  There was only one shot. The survivors probably have run for their lives and won't be back for some time now, if at all, so we'll just have to wait and see.

Just to be clear here, I'm not totally against hunting, when done properly and for a good reason.  I come from a hunting family, though I admit I'm becoming less tolerant of it by the minute.  This was not hunting.  This was an ambush from a vehicle - and way too close to a house.  Snipers in a truck, without honor and without any dignity at all. The same sort of morons who killed a deer a couple of weeks ago, hacked off the meat they wanted, and left the rest of the carcass by the side of the road, covered with a piece of plywood.  Like that would hide it and what they'd done from the rest of the world.

We reported this shooting, but one of the misfortunes of being so far away from town is that law enforcement can seldom arrive quickly.  No matter. I do believe what goes around, comes around, so these lowlife cowards will have to deal with the consequences of their dastardly deeds someday.

There will be more deer, and they will eventually continue to use the trails that cross our yard, as they have long before people came here, and probably will long after we're gone.

Postscript: 6:14 PM.  Apparently, the truck sniper was not a good shot! "Our" deer returned this evening, a little more skittish (good!) but otherwise unharmed.  We still find the behavior of those "hunters" inexcusable.

Sweet Sparrows and Thoughts

I sat with my coffee in the quiet predawn hours this morning, thinking on the events of the past few years and the many changes that have taken place in my life.  At the first sign of morning light, the sweet call of a white-throated sparrow came from the blackberry bushes in the yard, just outside the window.  It's one of my all-time favorite bird songs (hermit and wood thrushes are first) and seemed to fit perfectly with my mood.  The song of this beautiful sparrow is both melancholy and hopeful, sorrowful and triumphant.

The chips and songs increased with the light, and soon I could see several WTSPs on the ground under the feeders - along with the usual contingent of tufted titmice, Carolina chickadees, goldfinches, and white-breasted nuthatches making the first visits.  In the not-too-distant past, my early mornings were usually taken up with opening nets, preparing the station for the day's banding, and watching out for black bears. Sitting here quietly relaxing and watching birds as the sun rises seems somehow irresponsible.

How things have changed.  I now spend more time quietly observing, in a much more relaxed atmosphere, usually with a cup of coffee and a notebook within reach. I've just received a new digital camera as an early Christmas gift, and a tripod is enroute.  I have two feeding stations set up, one in front of the house and one in the back yard, with room to spare for many more - and no worry about bears taking them down in the night.  We've decided to add cracked corn for the squirrels and deer feed for the ones who seem to know our backyard is safe from hunters.  Word travels quickly in the forest.

Do I miss banding?  I'm not sure.  Having done it for so many years, I think I do. I miss handling the birds, being up close, having those photo ops for cool birdy pics.  But I also find myself really enjoying more and more just quiet observation, and the option of sleeping until sunrise if I want to. I'm reading and studying more about the Nature (and history) of where we live.  I really want to be able to know the animals, plants and trees right here, right outside my door.  I was appalled to discover how many of them I didn't know, or had forgotten over the years. And how much I take for granted in that area.

I admit, after so many years of banding, it's a curious thing to not be.  But I think it won't be difficult to get used to a different approach.

Oh, I can still band if I want to begin a station here, but when I begin to consider it,  I find myself thinking  that I've probably contributed enough to the migration monitoring studies and all the data that accompany a banding program. I find myself thinking I would rather focus on sharpening my awareness and observation skills, and not disrupt the trusting relationship with the wildlife that seems to be developing here.  I owe it to the chickadees and goldfinches that practically land on me as I'm filling the feeders, to keep that peace and trust between us.

How odd that seems, and how perfectly right.

Cranes Over Kentucky

As a bander, I'm accustomed to thinking migration is over by the end of October, but a few days ago I was reminded that some birds are still on the move when I spotted a small flock of sandhill cranes flying over the highway near our house.  My sighting was confirmed by other local birders who reported seeing the cranes as well.

This morning, I read that the whooping cranes of Operation Migration were in Kentucky.  

You may remember the movie Fly Away Home, where a flock of geese  are taught to migrate by following an ultralight aircraft.  The folks of Operation Migration teach captive-bred cranes to migrate, and at this writing one flock is on its way from Wisconsin to Florida.  They are passing too far to our west for us to see them, but what a sight it must be!  Check out their website for all the details, and a blog where you can track the progress of the flight.

Full Circle

Last Sunday, we took my 90 year old father-in-law out of the assisted living/hospice care facility for a change of scenery. Dad's health is failing and his short-term memory isn't quite so sharp anymore, but his eyes teared up when we drove the 45 minutes to the Big South Fork area and the Barthel Mining Camp where he was born.

Dad always told people he was born under a rock in the mining camp - and now we understand what he was talking about. He was born in one of the cabins that clung to the cliff under this rock wall. The cabin Dad was born in is long gone, but he says it was very similar to this one, which is part of the restoration in Barthel.  The camp and nearby Mine 18 are now a historical site in the Big South Fork National Recreation Area.

Dad was born and raised here and like his father, worked the coal mines.  The only way out was to hike up the mountain or scale that rock wall.  Dad said they didn't get out much.

This is the view looking from where the cabins and store buildings are, toward the only way in to the camp other than the railroad.  The road (now paved, of course) comes in along the side of this mountain of rock.

It's difficult to get the perspective from this photo, but it's several miles from the camp to the top of the mountain.

There were about 45 houses in the camp when Dad lived there.  This row of restored buildings were the camp store, the bath house, and on the end, the motor house.  The mines were located behind the buildings.

Barthel is open to the public now as a historical site and in the summer, a steam train tour takes visitors from  nearby Stearns into the mining camp. We couldn't really tour the buildings or the mine because Dad couldn't leave the car, but I will go back and have another look soon.

In the meantime, we have a new appreciation for what life was like for this man and his family.  We'll try not to grumble so much anymore about little inconveniences like no cell phone signals or slow internet service.  Life is good.

Too Much Turkey

Joe Dirt.....relaxed.