The second wave

Setember 20, 2013

Fall migration, for many of the bird-obsessed like myself, is the best time of year to be in the field.  Spring may bring males in peak breeding plumage and song, but the sheer numbers of birds make fall migration more spectacular for  me.  Especially given the eccentricities of Florida’s seasonal variation in bird diversity (low breeding diversity, high wintering passerine abundance and diversity, highly variable numbers of migrants making landfall in the state during spring migration), fall migration is to many Floridians what spring migration is to those further north – the end of a period of relative bird paucity.   Our summer bird fauna is the analog to their winter bird fauna.  Of all of the neotropical migrants that pass through Florida in the fall, warblers are for me the glamour group.  Don’t get me wrong – I get jazzed about any new arrival, but nothing gets me as excited as seeing and photographing warblers.

It’s pretty simple, really.    Bright colors, high diversity, and the challenge of identifying immature and female birds all combine to make this family my favorite.   Adding to their allure is the fact that warbler migration is such an extended phenomenon, lasting from mid-summer until nearly true winter.   The seasonal trends in abundance of the different warbler species passing through or wintering in Florida are as diverse as the birds themselves.

Common yellowthroat male.  This is most likely a first-winter bird based on the somewhat poorly defined mask.

Common yellowthroat male. This is most likely a first-winter bird based on the somewhat poorly defined mask.

We are now in the midst of what I consider to be the second wave of warbler migration – the influx of migratory populations of common yellowthroats into the state.  I saw my first migrant common yellowthroats a little over a week ago, and this morning at Tiger Bay State Forest, they were the most abundant of the warbler species.  Their numbers will continue to rise for the next week or two.

Common yellowthroat female.

Common yellowthroat female.

Although 43 species of warbler can be found at one time or another in the state (this includes the most likely extinct Bachman’s warbler), warbler migration in the peninsula is dominated by a relatively small number of species.    In my experience, fall warbler migration can be categorized as a series of 4 waves of birds passing through the state at different times.     The figures below are based on data I collected at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area in Lake County between 2000 and 2006, and should be interpreted with some caution – they are certainly not representative of the entire state, or even the entire peninsula.   Any general conclusion is only as good as the sample it is based on, and my bird censuses at Emeralda constitute a biased sample.  I think it’s a fairly decent proxy for warbler migration through the interior of the peninsula, since the 7000 or so acres comprising Emeralda contain a decent variety of many of the terrestrial and wetland habitats in central Florida.  But not all major habitat types are represented – scrub, sandhills, and flatwoods are all absent from Emeralda, for example.   Although ovenbirds were regular fall migrants at Emeralda, I never saw them there in the numbers there that I sometimes find in other upland habitats like scrub.  It also seems clear to me that there is a fundamental difference between warbler migration at some coastal locations and those inland.  In the seven years I did weekly bird censuses at Emeralda, I rarely encountered some warbler species that can at times be fairly common at coastal locations; this group includes species such as hooded and worm-eating warblers.

Seasonal abundance of the five most common warbler species at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area in Lake County.  I found around 25 species of warblers there over the years, but these 5 were far and away the most abundant.

Seasonal abundance of the five most common warbler species at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area in Lake County. I found around 25 species of warblers there over the years, but these 5 were far and away the most abundant.

The first wave of warbler migration at Emeralda  begins in late July, and peaks in September, and is due to two species with roughly similar timing of passage – prairie warblers and yellow warblers.   I’ve mentioned the spectacular numbers of yellow warblers during fall migration at Emeralda in a previous post, emphasizing that the high daily counts (over 100/day on good days) are probably somewhat unique to the specific combination of habitat characteristics there.  Prairie warblers are much more generalized in habitat choice, and can be abundant early in the fall migration period in just about any habitat, including scrub.

Prairie warbler, from Ocala National Forest.

Prairie warbler, from Ocala National Forest.

 

Yellow warbler, from Occoquan Bay NWR in Woodbridge, VA

Yellow warbler, from Occoquan Bay NWR in Woodbridge, VA

The second wave is just beginning – the arrival of the common yellowthroats.   This species is particularly interesting to me because it is one of the few warblers that breeds in Florida.  Though fairly catholic in choice of breeding habitat (ranging from freshwater marsh to pine flatwoods), the population of breeding birds is dwarfed by the influx of migrant birds from northern populations, as seen in the graph below.

Seasonal abundance of common yellowthroats at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Seasonal abundance of common yellowthroats at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

The third wave occurs in another couple of weeks – the arrival of the palm warblers, many of which will spend the winter in the peninsula.   I’ve been hearing reports of small numbers of palms showing up in the last week or two, though I haven’t seen any yet.

Palm warbler, the third wave of warbler migration.

Palm warbler, the third wave of warbler migration.

Finally, the fourth and final wave is the appearance of the yellow-rumped warblers, which will begin appearing in late October and continue to increase in numbers for the next several weeks.   Butterbutts will become so abundant that they totally dominate the wintering warbler community, much to the displeasure of some birders.    Picking through a flock of dozens or hundreds of yellow-rumps in attempt to find something “good” hidden amongst can be a challenge.   The appearance and ascendance of the yellow-rumps also marks the end of major warbler influx into the state.

Yellow-rumped warbler, the fourth and final of the warbler waves.

Yellow-rumped warbler, the fourth and final of the warbler waves.

It’s hard to harbor negative feelings about the super-abundant yellow-rumps, though.   While birders in most of eastern North America are pleased to find a handful of yellow-rumps on a winter birding trip, winter birders in Florida can count on finding as many of them as we could want, along with smaller numbers of 6 or 7 other warbler species on a good day.  And that ain’t too shabby.

Seasonal changes in warbler diversity at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Seasonal changes in warbler diversity at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Reconnoitering the rim

September 14, 2013

Taking photographs is one of my main reasons for going into the field.  The most important reason is, of course, to see fascinating flora and fauna, and perhaps learn a bit about how they make their way through the world.  But capturing images of at least some of the plants and animals runs a close second.  Those images are almost entirely for my own purposes; only a very small fraction are ever seen by anyone other than me.  So maybe it’s not a big deal that the most stunning image I’ve experienced in some time is one that I will never be able to share.   Driving north on SR19 through Ocala National Forest on Saturday morning, about 15 minutes before sunrise and a mile or so north of Silver Glen Springs, I saw an animal crossing the road a couple hundred yards ahead of me.  No other traffic in sight.  The telltale trot told me immediately it was a coyote.   I don’t see coyotes often, and truth be told, I don’t get that excited about mammals in general.  Stinky nocturnals, for the most part.  But I adore dogs of every size, shape and temperament.  Seeing a wild dog is for me a pinnacle experience.

It was during that transitional period between dawn and the full light of sunrise, when colors are beginning to become apparent, but still somewhat muted.  I was on the coyote in no time, and she maintained her steady lope across the road and onto the shoulder, about a fifteen foot wide swath of mowed grass, ending where the dense ground cover and low vegetation of oaky scrub began.  As I passed her, now slowed down to maybe 30-40 mph, she stopped at the edge of the shoulder, turned broadside to me, and watched me as I drove past.  I locked eyes with her.  Then she turned and was gone.  I don’t know exactly what happened to my neurochemistry at that moment, but I’m pretty sure it involved a massive flood of several happy neurotransmitters.  Dopamine, adrenaline, oxytocin – who knows?   As I drove away from that brief but intense moment, I felt changed, and elated in a way I don’t often experience.  Privileged.   That image, that moment of looking into the eyes of “God’s dog”, will be forever burned in my brain.  I couldn’t  help but wonder later what was going on in the coyote’s agile mind.   For me, it was a feeling of intense awe and admiration.   For her, I can only guess.   Curiosity, for sure, probably a bit of fear, and if coyotes have anything like a collective unconscious or shared genetic memory, perhaps a big dose of disgust and mistrust over the way humans have for centuries abused and tortured these beautiful little canids.   Hard to imagine a better start to the morning, even if I have no photograph to document the moment.

Ocklawaha Lake from the Kirkpatrick Dam

Ocklawaha Lake from the Kirkpatrick Dam

Ocklawaha Lake, aka Rodman Reservoir, was my first destination, and from there I planned to explore some new roads along the northeast rim of the forest.  Several weeks ago I discovered serendipitously that one of my favorite roads through the forest, FR11, continues over the Kirkpatrick dam that forms Ocklawaha Lake.  The dam was built as part of the abandoned effort to build the Cross-Florida Barge Canal across the peninsula in the ‘60s, and it remains controversial, pitting environmentalists who would like to see the dam removed to restore the Ocklawaha River to a free-flowing state against sportsmen who wish to protect the outdoor recreation opportunities it provides.  I just wanted to see migrant birds.  I was hoping that some of the floodplain forest in the area would be teeming with brightly-colored warblers and other neotropicals.   A couple dozen or so herons and egrets (great blues, little blues, snowies, great egrets and a single green) and dozens of vultures, who seemed to regularly roost on the dam and along the road that crosses it, were the only birds I could turn up there.

Snowy egret and great blue heron. Ocklawaha Lake

Snowy egret and great blue heron. Ocklawaha Lake

Dubbed "Sand Land" by some creative soul on Panoramio, this scrub barren on FR 11 just south of Ocklawaha Lake is the result of off-road vehicle abuse of the scrub habitat.  Even though vehicular use of this tract is no longer permitted, it remains in this degraded state.

Dubbed “Sand Land” by some creative soul on Panoramio, this scrub barren on FR 11 just south of Ocklawaha Lake is the result of off-road vehicle abuse of the scrub habitat. Even though vehicular use of this tract is no longer permitted, it remains in this degraded state.

Forest Road 74 crosses Forest Road 11 just south of Ocklawaha Lake.  I drove west on FR74 into unexplored territory.   A mobbing response by a small flock of passerines included several towhees in various states of moult and dishevelment, a couple of prairie warblers, and some residents like Carolina wrens and cardinals.  A bit further down the road, a second mobbing flock was more diverse, and contained several northern parulas, a yellow-throated warbler or two, scrub and blue jays, and a distant Empidonax flycatcher I didn’t come close to photographing.  I was pretty pleased with myself just to be able to ID it as an Empidonax; identifying it to species, without vocalization, is outside of my skill set.

Male eastern towhee, still looking sub-prime from his post-nuptial molt.

Male eastern towhee, still looking sub-prime from his post-nuptial molt.

Female northern parula

Female northern parula

Leaving that flock, I spotted a medium-sized snake stretched out in the bare sand of the scrub alongside the road.  Black racer.  Surprisingly, he let me drive to within 10’ or so without bolting.  As I moved slowly to get the camera into position, I was holding my breath that I wouldn’t spook the racer before I got off at least a few shots in this delicate, diffuse morning light.  Black racers are pretty easy to find, but not easy to photograph for me.  These are intensely visual snakes, and I suspect in my entire experience with the species, I’ve only seen them a few times before they have seen me.   A much more common experience is to spot one while glassing the habitat for whatever, only to realize the snake already has a visual lock on me.   From distances up to 30-40’ away.   These snakes don’t miss much.  On the occasions when I’m fortunate enough to watch one hunting my backyard and gardens, I’m always struck by their awareness of their environment, periscoping frequently to elevate their head above the ground cover and assess their surroundings.  Typically, any quick movement on my part precipitates a rapid retreat to cover by the snake.   Which is exactly what this racer did the first time I tried to inch a bit closer for a better shot.

Black racer basking

Black racer basking

Black racer

Black racer

Black racer periscoping.  From my yard, hence the noxious St. Augustine grass

Black racer periscoping. From my yard, hence the noxious St. Augustine grass

FR 74 leaves the forest a couple of miles west of FR 11 and passes through private land; I took FR09 south to get back into the sparsely traveled roads of the national forest.  Another fine mobbing flock in an ecotone between oaky scrub and sand pine scrub was the best of the morning – perhaps 15-20 birds, including scrub jays, towhees, prairie warblers and northern parulas, a white-eyed vireo, tufted titmice, cardinals, a woodpecker or two, Carolina wrens.  The usual suspects.   And ovenbirds.  Once again this weekend, they were chewking from dense cover in nearly every mobbing flock I encountered.

Florida scrub jays

Florida scrub jays

Prairie warbler

Prairie warbler

Immature female eastern towhee molting into her first adult (basic) plumage

Immature female eastern towhee molting into her first adult (basic) plumage

Ovenbird

Ovenbird

FR 09 in this area is notable for another reason – topography.  Not much by most standards, but enough to allow extended views of the surrounding habitat mosaic.  The presence of actual hills and draws in the forest is always a welcome surprise.

Topography (of sorts) on Forest Road 09

Topography (of sorts) on Forest Road 09

From FR 09, I took FR70 back to the east.   Soon after passing into one of the large tracts of clearcut sand pine scrub, I saw a large, dark raptor flying low across the landscape and swoop up into the top of a lone sand pine that had been left standing.  Profile and flight pattern didn’t look like the raptors I see most often, but as soon as it perched I could see the ear tufts.   A great horned owl, hunting (?) in broad daylight, on a sunny morning, around 10:00 a.m.   That’s something I don’t see often.  Until earlier this year, I’ve always thought of great horned owls as a “bird of the day” species.  Typically I see them only a few times a year.   Since June, I’ve seen great horned owls at least 10 times in a half-dozen or more different locations.  The serendipity of birding.   

Great horned owl, hunting at mid-morning.

Great horned owl, hunting at mid-morning.

Great horned owl youngster, from earlier this year at Lake George Conservation Area

Great horned owl youngster, from earlier this year at Lake George Conservation Area

Some time around 1100, I made it back to familiar ground; FR 70 intersects FR11 just north of the Riverside Island tract where I have had such good luck finding red-cockaded woodpeckers this year.  None today – it was far too late in the morning and too warm for much bird activity, though I did find a pair of American kestrels hunting in the same open sandhills tract where I have seen them before.  Almost certainly a breeding pair; I haven’t seen any migrant kestrels yet this year at the spots where I usually find them.

Forest Road 70 where it passes through an isolated live oak hammock amidst the sandhills

Forest Road 70 where it passes through an isolated live oak hammock amidst the sandhills

While driving south on FR11 through majestic mature sandhills, I was watching some mixed roadside clumps of goldenrod and evening primrose for pollinator activity and noticed the reticulate wings of some rather large insect in the foliage of one of the primroses.   It was one of the larger species of antlions (Myrmeleon sp?) that had been snagged by a nearly invisible green lynx spider (Peucetia viridens) only moments before.  It was still oozing hemolymph from the spider’s puncture wounds, and it seemed to still have a glimmer of life in its many eyes.   Green lynx spiders – what fierce predators those lovely arachnids are.  There don’t seem to be any size limits or taxonomic boundaries on the prey these oxyopid spiders will tackle.  Tough luck for the antlions and myriad other prey taxa.

Green lynx spider (Peucetia viridens) with antlion prey

Green lynx spider (Peucetia viridens) with antlion prey

From a coyote to a lynx – a good morning for the predators, and me.  If I continue exploring new forest roads at my current pace, I should have thoroughly traversed the forest by the time I’m ready to retire.   Ocala National Forest – the gift that keeps on giving.

Chewk!

September 8, 2013

That was the signature sound of the scrub while I was exploring a new area of Ocala National Forest this morning.  Indicative of the vastness of Ocala, I spent over four hours driving/birding on one forest road.  Forest Road 05 between the Big Scrub on the south and its intersection with Hopkins Prairie Road (FR50) on the north spans only about 15 miles as the crow flies, but it kept me occupied for the whole of the morning.

Communal roosting cluster of zebra longwings, Heliconius charithonia

Communal roosting cluster of zebra longwings, Heliconius charithonia

My first stop of the morning was Sunnyhill Restoration Area, just north of CR42 and east of Starke’s Ferry.  Not much happening there, though I did see a small cluster of roosting zebra longwing butterflies (Heliconius charithonia); I had heard of this communal roosting behavior of zebras before, but had never seen it.  The three dew-covered compatriots were still a bit too chilled out to begin their daily activity.

I left Sunnyhill and headed north of CR42, back into Ocala National Forest.  I’ve spent almost no time in the southeastern corner of the forest, so this was all new and exciting territory for me.  I started east on FR14, but after about 10 minutes of driving straight into the sun, my keen sense of light told me this was no good.   So I took a shot and headed north on FR05.  Hell of a shot.

Forest Road 14

Forest Road 14

When birding/photographing from the car, N-S roads are my preference in the morning, as the driver’s side scenery is drenched in beautiful early morning light.  Ideally, the road passes through a variety of interesting habitats, and is lightly travelled.  FR05 was exemplary on both counts.  In the course of the four hours spent there, I didn’t see another vehicle on the 12 or so miles south of State Road 40.   Which meant that I could feel free to ignore normal road conventions and drive on the left side, which is closer to the habitat and critters in the direct morning light.

A several hundred acre tract of clearcut sand pines

A several hundred acre tract of clearcut sand pines

Diversity of habitats?   As everyone’s favorite twit might say, you betcha!  The mainstay of Ocala National Forest is scrub and sandhills; FR05 is biased towards the former.  Scrub in all its variants is interspersed like a mosaic along it’s length.   Great orthogonal  tracts of recently clearcut sand pine scrub, regenerating oak-dominated scrub in a variety of states of maturity, and uniform even-aged stands of sand pine scrub were all there, as well as nearly every intermediate between those habitats you can imagine.  Some bits of sandhill as well, but none of the majestic mature tracts like those found in some other parts of the forest.  Nestled in among these habitats are a rich diversity of open, wetland habitats – some ephemeral, some permanent.   FR05 passes by several small to mid-sized lakes, and many shallower depressions that harbor grass-dominated prairie habitats.   These little mini-grasslands surrounded by fringing tracts of hammock, scrub or sandhills sometimes take my breath away.

FR05 where it passes between mature sand pine scrub and clearcut scrub

FR05 where it passes between mature sand pine scrub and clearcut scrub

The low structural diversity of mature sand pine scrub doesn't support as great a diversity or density of birds as more recently disturbed sites.

The low structural diversity of mature sand pine scrub doesn’t support as great a diversity or density of birds as more recently disturbed sites.

It may not look all that appealing, but this scrubby oak stage of scrub regeneration can be absolutely teeming with passerine birds at some times of year.

It may not look all that appealing, but this scrubby oak stage of scrub regeneration can be absolutely teeming with passerine birds at some times of year.

But back to the birds.  As has been my experience in the Hopkins and Juniper Prairie sections of Ocala, the greatest diversity of both resident and migrant passerines was in the oak-dominated, regeneration phase of scrub.  The sand-pine dominated tracts were mostly devoid of activity, though towhees and white-eyed vireos were still singing there.  In the oaky scrub, though, I found several excellent flocks that held migrant warblers.  Not a great diversity, but excellent numbers.   Prairie warblers turned up repeatedly, sometimes 4 or 5 birds at a time, but that wasn’t the species that gave me the warm fuzzies this morning.

Grassy prairie, one of the wetland depressions along FR05

Grassy prairie, one of the wetland depressions along FR05

Yellow-throated warbler

Yellow-throated warbler

Yellow-throated warbler

Yellow-throated warbler

Prairie warbler in scrubby oak

Prairie warbler in scrubby oak

Which brings me back to the subject – chewk!  Learn that call, and you’ll get a true index of the abundance of ovenbirds during their peak of passage through the state.  Ovenbirds were everywhere this morning, though I only saw about 5 or 6 individuals.  I heard at least 20 more.  Once one bird begins uttering this distinctive alarm call, any others in the area are likely to vocalize as well.  I saw/heard no ovenbird singles this morning.  There were always at least 2-3 birds chewking, sometimes more.  But damn, those little dudes do not like to come out in the open.  They have achieved maximum skulkitude.   So while I got dozens of photos of prairie warblers, I got only a handful, at too great a distance, of the ovenbirds.

Ovenbird, author of the chewk call.

Ovenbird, author of the chewk call.

The prairies and ovenbirds were the dominant birds of the morning, but I also turned up yellow-throated and pine warblers, northern parulas, a summer tanager, and 3 or 4 yellow-throated vireos, a couple of which were still singing.  That’s always a tough bird for me to find, either in the breeding season or migration.  They kept their distance, though – no killer photo ops.   It was a respectable contingent of migrants along with an abundance of the permanent residents (lots of Florida scrub jays) – FR05 goes on my To Visit Again list.

Eastern towhee, female.  A resident breeder of the scrub.

Eastern towhee, female. A resident breeder of the scrub.

Florida scrub jay family groups are fairly common along FR05.

Florida scrub jay family groups are fairly common along FR05.

Zay Prairie, a lovely temporary wetland on FR05.  I can't think of many places where you see sand pine and sabal palms in contiguous habitats.

Zay Prairie, a lovely temporary wetland on FR05. I can’t think of many places where you see sand pine and sabal palms in contiguous habitats.

Zay Prairie

Zay Prairie

The morning ended on an especially high note, once again due to a herp.  As I drove south on the northern section of FR05, just south of its terminus at FR50, I saw a lizard in the entry road to the parking area for the Lake Eaton sinkholes trail.  I was thrilled to find as I approached it that it was the Florida scrub lizard, Sceloporus woodi.  This endemic species is restricted to scrub, and found only in Florida, in contrast to its more ubiquitous cousin, the eastern fence lizard, Sceloporus undulatus.   Fence lizards still get me excited, but it had been years since I had seen a scrub lizard, and the first chance I had to get digital photos of one.  And though this guy was basking in full sun in the middle of the road, he allowed me to approach within a few feet and fire off a couple hundred frames before he eventually headed for cover.

Sceloporus woodi, the Florida scrub lizard

Sceloporus woodi, the Florida scrub lizard

No better way to end the morning than with a cooperative squamate.

Sceloporus woodi

Sceloporus woodi

 

“I hope it was a bad one”

September 6, 2013

It’s not a good time to be a pigmy rattlesnake at Tiger Bay State Forest right now.  Actually, it’s never really a good time to be a pigmy rattlesnake in Florida.  Folks do love to kill snakes.  But pigmies in particular seem to have more than their fair share of haters.

I was driving north on Indian Lake Road this morning, looking for migrant birds or pretty much anything else that was out and about in the Rima Ridge section of Tiger Bay State Forest.  It was an interesting morning; not a ton of birds around, but migrants are picking up a bit.   A half-dozen or more prairie warblers, a couple of ovenbirds, a yellow-throated and red-eyed vireo – none killer birds, but it’s always nice to see some migratory movement.  It’s coming.

Prairie warbler

Prairie warbler

On one long straight stretch between Scoggin Lake and Danny Hole Road, I noticed a dark squiggle against the shellrock surface about 50 yards ahead of me.  Stuck out like a sore thumb.   As I approached it, I was delighted to see it was an adult pigmy rattlesnake crossing the road.  As is typical of pigmies on the move, they tend to stop locomoting and freeze when they detect a potential predator heading their way.  This guy had stopped on the left side of the road.   As I photographed him and changed position a couple of times, he never moved.  Also typical.  After a minute or two, I noticed a car heading southbound on Indian Lake Road, still several hundred yards north of me.  I repositioned my car to the far right and waited by the snake.  As the driver approached, I motioned to her with an open palm, as in slow down, and pointed repeatedly to the snake on the road.

Sistrurus miliar_09062013_05_Tiger Bay RR

She ran right over it.   She pulled up beside me, rolled down her window, and gave me a lovely smile.   She had no idea what I was motioning about.

“Ma’am, you just ran over a snake”

Her radiant smile didn’t dim a smidgen.  “I hope it was a bad one”,  she said cheerfully.

“There are no bad ones”, I started to say, but kind of trailed off in dismay and disgust.   To her credit, she apologized, but I think it was more because she sensed I was a bit upset than because she actually felt remorse about the snake.   She wasn’t cruel or evil, just clueless.

As she drove off, I watched the snake crawl laboriously off the road.  Not dead, obviously, but hurting.   Hard to imagine that a tire rolling right across that snake’s head and thorax didn’t do some serious injury to internal organs.  But at least it had a chance.

Pigmy rattlesnakes can show amazing recuperative powers.  When we were doing pigmy rattlesnake research back in the ‘90’s at Lake Woodruff NWR, we found a pigmy that had nearly been cut in two during mowing of the levees.  We left it where it was, sure it would die, but were amazed to find that snake several months later completely healed.  We saw that snake numerous times in the next couple of years, and admiringly spoke of it as the “lawnmower pig”.

I find it kind of depressing that so many people consider snakes unworthy of any kindness or empathy.  I can’t think of any other  group of organisms  that is uniformly held in such low regard by the masses.  I can’t imagine these exchanges ever taking place:

“Ma’am, you just ran over a bird”
“I hope it was a bad one”

“Ma’am, you just ran over a bunny rabbit”
“I hope it was a bad one”

“Ma’am, you just ran over that little girl’s kitten”
“I hope it was a bad one”

This recently killed pigmy rattlesnake was on a road where I almost never see vehicles.  Ant food.

This recently killed pigmy rattlesnake was on a road where I almost never see vehicles. Ant food.

Well, you get the idea.  Hard times weren’t limited to that one pigmy this morning.  A bit further north, on Danny Hole Road, an infrequently traveled two-track, I found another pigmy, this one dead in one of the wheel ruts, already partially consumed by fire ants.   As I was returning south on Indian Lake Road, I spotted yet another pigmy in the road, and when I got closer, I saw that it had just been run over in the last few minutes.  A Forestry truck had passed me going north just a few seconds before.    This one was still alive, but nearly unable to move.  It feebly gaped a bit at me, did a tongue flick or two, and tried to crawl away, but the loop of intestine protruding from the side of his body was was stuck to the shell rock, and the poor little dude was pretty much immobilized.  And destined to die.

The third pigmy of the morning, still alive, but not for long.

The third pigmy of the morning, still alive, but not for long.

 

Nearly dead, but he still had enough attitude to gape at me.  Notice the loop of gut sticking out his body just in front of the vent.

Nearly dead, but he still had enough attitude to gape at me. Notice the loop of gut sticking out his body just in front of the vent.

So it was a three pigmy morning, but not in a good way.  All three snakes were adults, and I strongly suspect all three were males.  This is the beginning of the mating season for pigmy rattlesnakes, and the males are out cruising for chicks.  All mating by pigmies takes place in the fall; the female stores the sperm over winter, and then releases it the following spring to fertilize her just ovulated eggs, which will develop into adorable little pigmy rattlesnakes to which she will give live birth in August.  Nearly a year after the initial mating took place.  Another amazing aspect of pigmy rattlesnake life history and natural history.

When I consider the attitude of so many of the snake haters and killers out there, I tend to agree with Bud (Harry Dean Stanton)from Alex Cox’s 80’s classic, Repo Man. 

A well-behaved bird

September 2, 2013

Bird photography is challenging to me on several levels.  There’s the obvious – you have to find birds and get pretty close to them.  You have to pay attention to lighting –  a crippling view of a bird in the deep shade or other marginal light is still likely to produce a mediocre photograph.   There are the mechanical elements of taking the shot – placing the focus precisely where you want it, increasing or decreasing the exposure from what the camera has chosen if the light conditions warrant it, choosing a fast enough shutter speed to freeze whatever action there is (if you actually want the action frozen and not an artistic blur), and so on.   To me, the most interesting challenge is the riddle of bird behavior.  What is the subject likely to do next, how does that affect the quality of the photograph, and can you modify his behavior to increase the odds of getting a decent shot?

Ovenbird

Ovenbird

Back in the Paleozoic era of bird neurobiology, I remember hearing a catch-all explanation for bird behavior: “Birds are stupid because they can fly”.   The idea, which makes some sense in a simplistic way, was that because of their ability to rapidly escape so many threats and undesirable situations by flight, birds had not been selected to evolve the same levels and types of intelligence as the exalted mammals. Well, as George Will would so emphatically enunciate, birds are certainly not stupid, though they sometimes engage in behaviors that may seem so to a human observer unaware of his own Umwelt.   A male bird endlessly attacking a reflection of himself in a window or mirror is one of the most common examples.   Self-aware primates are an arrogant bunch, and loyal to our taxon; the traditional view on bird intelligence was that they were inferior to mammals in nearly every aspect.  Sorry to break it to you hairballs of the vertebrate world, but by a number of measures birds are significantly more intelligent than mammals.   More species of birds form and use tools, for example, than do mammals.  Way more. Small birds routinely outperform small mammals in a variety of laboratory tests requiring some form of intelligence.

Barn swallows

Barn swallows

One of the reasons bird behavior intrigues me so much is because I so frequently try to manipulate bird behavior to increase my photographic prospects.  Most birders do – we put out feeders, which modify movement patterns and feeding dynamics of local birds, we put up artificial nest boxes, we produce silly noises, called “pishing”, to attract small birds, yadda yadda yadda.   I use playback of alarm calls and owl vocalizations all the time to bring birds into closer view.  Playback is simply a high-tech application of pishing, eliciting a predator-seeking behavior (mobbing) in many species of birds.   The number of photo opportunities I have, especially with smaller and more furtive birds, is increased exponentially by using playback and pishing.  Another way of phrasing that is that not many of the bird photos I take are of birds I just happened to find doing their thing in nature.  But it happens.

Bank swallow

Bank swallow

I did a pretty routine circuit of several local patches this morning, and was having a nice but not terribly exciting morning when I hit Blackwelder Road, preparing to close the loop and go home.  It was half-past good light, and I had some shots on the SD card that might be okay.   I had seen my first ovenbird of the fall and got some distant photos, and had taken my first-ever shots of a bank swallow preening on some power lines with a large group of barn swallows.  I saw a gorgeous red-shouldered hawk, a bit too far for really decent shots, who was particularly coppery on the breast, sitting on a rustic branch decorated with lichens and air plants.   Got pics.  Nothing spectacular, but better than nothing.

 

 

Red-shouldered hawk

Red-shouldered hawk

Blackwelder Road runs only a couple of miles between Lake Winona Road and SR11.  It is a twisty Florida country road, with 6 or 7 right-angle turns as it travels through an interesting mix of habitats – lots of abandoned orange groves along with a few active ones, a couple of lakes, pastures, and patches of hammock and scrub.  I was rounding one of those 90bends when I thought I saw a bird sitting on a downed log in the field on the left.  Medium size and earth tones were about all I really got as I first passed it.   Probably a mourning dove.  Not a typical place for a single mourning dove to perch, though.  When I backed up for a better look, it turned out to be a female northern bobwhite.

From the first series of shots.  I thought at the time this was as close as I would get.

From the first series of shots. I thought at the time this was as close as I would get.

I find bobwhites to be pretty spooky and wary in general.  I figured she would flush as soon as I tried to approach her, so I was surprised that she stayed put as I backed past her, then pulled back up slowly looking for an angle.  She was in a brushpile in an abandoned pasture; the pasture was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence and dense vegetation up to the top of the fence.   The first challenge was to find a gap in the vegetation through which I could shoot her, if she stayed.  Which she probably wouldn’t.

Closer.

Closer.

Long story short (sic), she sat on that log for about 20 minutes as I continually repositioned myself, gradually moving closer to her until I found the best light angle and an opening.  I probably stopped and started the car 6 times, and slowly changed position, while she sat on the log.  And I mean she literally sat – she was totally chill.  She knew I was there, but was not alarmed enough to even get up on her feet.  Sweet.  Totally unexpected, but sweet.  Fortunately, Blackwelder Road doesn’t get much traffic. I would have seemed like a moron to a disinterested observer, if there had been one, repeatedly changing my position, driving on the left side of the road, immediately after a 90o bend that has poor visibility going into the turn.   But so what?  It’s for a bird photograph.  That trumps logic and reason.

NOBO_09022013-35_Blackwelder Rd

NOBO_09022013-53_Blackwelder Rd

In the 20 or so delightful minutes I spent with the little hen, I heard a variety of quail chittering and peeping from the surrounding vegetation.  I suspect she was tending her brood, picking a higher vantage point from which to keep an eye on the kids and look out for threats.    Apparently I wasn’t considered a threat.  Eventually, she leisurely stood up, looked around a bit, then hopped down to the ground to join the pack.

Just before she joined the kids.

Just before she joined the kids.

Yet one more reason to love birds – they’re such good parents.

How a snake made my day

August 31, 2013

The urge to take nature photographs is in some ways a curse.   I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the APA’s  Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders includes wildlife photography as a distinguishable variant of OCD.    My frequent field/photo buddy John and I were talking about this just a couple of days ago.  John’s camera body had become frozen in Err mode; no matter what he did to it, it continued to flash the generic error message and would do nothing else.   He was a bit distraught about the prospect of going into the field to look for critters without a camera.  I share his angst.   I have trouble separating any aspect of natural history study from the compulsion to take pics of the object of my interest.   I’m sure I would be a better birder if I occasionally ditched the camera and just looked at birds.  In fact I do that when I teach Ornithology and lead field trips, but only because the mental dexterity required to look for birds, communicate effectively with the students, and try to take photos simultaneously usually exceeds my limited mental resources.   I lead those field trips with a small amount of trepidation that some amazing photo op will present itself during the trip and I won’t capture it.   Another downside of the photography bug manifests as a sense of incompleteness on those occasions when I do go into the field to natural historize and take photos, and no photo opportunities are to be had.   Any time spent in the field is still incomparably rewarding, but for me it’s diminished somewhat if I don’t get at least a photo or two that I find satisfactory.

That was the state of affairs this morning, as I hit the road to try to find some fall migrants.  Preferably warblers.  Armed with my brand new DeLorme Atlas and Gazetteer, the plan was to hit some reliable spots and maybe explore some new ones.   What a resource that volume is – my old copy, which I probably paid something around $15 for more than 20 years ago, was terminal.  The covers were ripped and detached.  Several of the individual maps for areas I visit often were also torn loose and stuck between the still-attached pages.  Still, maybe the best $15 I’ve ever spent.  I’ve used and abused the hell out of my old Gazetteer.  So I finally sprung for the $25 to buy a new one.  I’m not the most digitally connected guy on the planet (don’t own a smartphone), but I do make frequent use of Google Earth to plan trips into new areas.  The wealth of information available from aerial imagery is truly stunning.  Still, I like using good old-fashioned paper maps.  There’s something very comforting to me about having a detailed map on the passenger seat when I’m visiting a site for the first time.  Unanticipated benefit of the upgrade – many of the roads, and other aspects of the landscape such as boundaries of state and federal public lands, had changed since my old one was published.  Who knew?

Worm-eating warbler

Worm-eating warbler

I hit a couple of my favorite patches close to home soon after sunrise; the entrance road to Lake Woodruff NWR, Chuck Lennon Park in DeLeon Springs, DeLeon Springs State Park, but not much was happening.  There were a few decent birds (let’s be honest; there’s really no such thing as an indecent bird) around, but absolutely nothing happening photo wise.  I saw my FOS worm-eating warbler at Woodruff, but never came close to getting a photo of that handsome little parulid.   One of the not uncommon migrants that is on my photo want list.  I have some mediocre, ID-level shots of these understatedly elegant little warblers, but am still waiting for that primo photo op in spectacular light. Not this morning, though.  So even that sighting, of a warbler I don’t see very often, was somehow lessened in impact because I had no tangible evidence of having seen it.  And I think for me that’s a big part of what photography represents – a  hunter/collector approach to the natural world.  When I see something that excites me in the field, I want a trophy to commemorate the occasion.

Chuck Lennon produced a handful of passerines, but all were common species, and most were residents.  A red-eyed vireo or two, several northern parulas, blue-gray gnatcatchers, cardinals, Carolina wrens, and so on.  A bunch of killdeer were on one of the baseball diamonds, but way too far away for photography, and therefore of limited appeal.  Nothing of note at DeLeon Springs, though I spent only a few moments there.  Too many people.

Next on the agenda was the Bluffton area of Lake George State Forest, a site I’ve visited only a few times in the last year or two.  A few birds moving, but all the same stuff I’d seen earlier.  It was around 9:30 or so by this point, and I was getting bummed.  I hadn’t taken a photo yet, and the magic light of morning was done.   On sunny mornings, for me the best light for wildlife photography starts about 30-45 minutes after sunrise (I’m not a fan of the overly warm “golden light” that sometimes occurs right after sunrise; white birds that appear yellow or even orange don’t appeal to me much), and lasts until no later than an hour and a half after sunrise.   I’ll still take pics after that period, but the richness and accuracy of color and detail continue to degrade as the morning wears on.   Never mind the fact that I was having a perfectly lovely morning in beautiful habitats, seeing some cool birds and neat flora, and just in general soaking up the outdoor experience; I was still dissatisfied at some fundamental level because I had no photos to show for my morning.

The only bird I photographed today, a prairie warbler

The only bird I photographed today, a prairie warbler

DeLorme on the seat beside me, I left Bluffton and headed for new territories.  Riley Pridgeon Road travels north from SR40 through some parts of Lake George State Forest I’d never been to.   Which is always cool, but the several miles of forest roads I drove were similar to other parts of the forest I’ve been to – a lot of fairly young pine plantation, which is structurally pretty simple and uniform, and consequently low in bird diversity.  Patchiness and ecotones increase diversity.  I picked up my first prairie warblers of the morning, and even got photo ops of one, but they were marginal at best.  In the dappled light of a winged sumac shrub, I knew they would be cluttered and unevenly lit.  Happy to get them, but also still dissatisfied with the morning as a whole.

Volusia Bar Road

Volusia Bar Road

By 10:30 I was thinking about calling it quits and heading home.  I had taken Volusia Bar Road to its dead end near the shore of Lake George, and passed through some fantastic looking habitat, so I was kind of jazzed about the prospect of coming back when there were actually BIRDS present, but they weren’t happening just then.  In particular, I found about a quarter-mile stretch of the road bordering a slough, surrounded by a dense 15-20 foot high stand of  red maple, with direct morning light.  It reminded me very much of a similar piece of habitat at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area where I consistently saw good concentrations of warblers and other migrants when birds were moving.   Definitely a spot to return to later in the season as the magnitude of migration increases.  No evidence of that this morning thought.

Cottonmouth

Cottonmouth

So returning eastwards on Volusia Bar Road, I was ecstatic to see a big snake crossing the road ahead.  My first looks were strongly backlit – all I could tell at first was that it was a heavy-bodied snake.  I’ve been hoping to find an eastern diamondback crossing the road for the last several years, and for a second or two it seemed like this might be it.   But the habitat was pure cottonmouth, and as I got a bit closer it became clear that’s what it was.  No matter.  Big, beautiful, healthy-looking snake, completely exposed, in no hurry to get across the road – photo ops.  Here’s what I’d been looking for all morning.

Agkistrodon pisc_08312013-05_Volusia Bar Road

Agkistrodon pisc_08312013-02_Volusia Bar Road

Cottonmouths can be common as dirt in the flatwoods and their associated roadside ditches, depressions, and swales that hold standing water at times, so it wasn’t like it was some amazing rarity I’d turned up.   After pigmy rattlesnakes, cottonmouths are the most common venomous snake in central Florida.  Back in the late ‘90’s, before the catastrophic summer of wildfires in ’98, Terry Farrell and I used to make frequent trips to Tiger Bay State Forest in the spring to find cottonmouths.  Road-cruising up Gopher Ridge Road, we would at times find as many as 30-40 cottonmouths in an afternoon.  From the road.   Most were in roadside ditches and pools that were shrinking late in the dry season, concentrating the small fish and tadpoles into a dense stew of snake food.   Cottonmouths would gorge themselves on the hapless fish, which in the final stages of pool shrinkage, had absolutely nowhere to escape to.  The snakes would at times prise nearly dead fish or tadpoles out of the damp mud.  Unfortunately, the wildfire summer of ’98 drastically changed the ecological dynamics and hydrology of that section of Tiger Bay, so such fantastic aggregations are no more.

Agkistrodon pisc_08312013-38_Volusia Bar Road

 

Agkistrodon pisc_08312013-15_Volusia Bar Road

So I had tons of photos of cottonmouths, doing things vastly more interesting than crossing a road.  But on this particular day, for me that animal might just as well have been a first Volusia County record of a canebrake rattlesnake or something similarly spectacular.   And she was totally cooperative.  She let me drive to within about 10’ of her for my initial bout of record shots, and then stayed right where she was while I jockeyed the car back and forth to catch her from several angles.  She was acutely aware of my presence, tracking me visually and tongue-flicking occasionally.  But she wasn’t threatened at all – not once did she do the signature cottonmouth gape, vibrate her tail, rear to strike, or show any other sign of an aggressive or defensive response.  Cottonmouths (and pigmy rattlesnakes) have gotten a bad rap for their supposed aggressiveness; they will certainly go bad ass when forced into a defensive situation, but they would far rather stay chill and crawl away without any fanfare.  Whit Gibbons and his colleagues at the University of Georgia’s Savannah River Ecology lab have documented the mostly amiable responses of cottonmouths to human provocation.    Pigmy rattlesnakes are similarly demonized as being overly aggressive, but that just ain’t so either.

After our photo shoot, she crawled slowly off the road using the concertina style.

After our photo shoot, she crawled slowly off the road using the concertina style.

So to any of my friends among the serpent kingdom who might be contemplating crossing that road I’m traveling at some point in the future, I say this:  Go ahead. Make my day.

Habitat is everything

August 27, 2013

Yellow warbler female.  Chuck Lennon Park, DeLeon Springs.

Yellow warbler female. Chuck Lennon Park, DeLeon Springs.

I tend to think of most birds as being more specialized in their choice of habitat during the breeding season than at other times of year.   One of my favorite groups of neotropical migrants is the warblers.  Many warbler species breed mostly in one habitat, but occur in a wide range of habitat types during migration.  Cape Mays, blackpolls, yellow-rumps – all are breeding birds primarily of spruce-fir forest, yet when passing through Florida on their way to or from the tropics, they can be found at times in pine forests, hammocks, disturbed areas, gardens, and so on.  In the case of the ubiquitous yellow-rump, I’ve seen them on numerous occasions foraging in aquatic habitats along with palm warblers, gleaning insects off of floating mats of water lettuce.

Yellow warbler, Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Yellow warbler, Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Yellow warblers are, for me, an entirely different story.  This morning while doing a quick scouting trip for my upcoming Ornithology field trips, I saw my first yellow warbler of the season. This species has one of the largest breeding ranges of any North American warbler, extending from the Carolinas up into the maritime provinces of Canada, all across the prairie provinces and through most of Alaska, and down into the mountains of Mexico and Baja California. In Florida, they breed only in south Florida and the Keys, nesting in mangroves.  Throughout the rest of the state, they are transient migrants only.  In recent years, I’ve seen yellow warblers very infrequently in Florida, and nearly always as lone individuals.  It’s always been a puzzle to me why I don’t see them more often.

Yellow warbler, Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area.

Yellow warbler, Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area.

That hasn’t always been the case, though.  For nearly seven years, between January 2000 and October 2006, I conducted weekly bird surveys for the St Johns Water Management District at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area, and when yellow warblers were passing through, I saw them in huge numbers.  During August and September, they were often the most abundant migrant I saw, sometimes in numbers of more than 100 in a day.  All but one of the photographs here are scans from old slides taken when I was doing the Emeralda surveys.

It wasn't uncommon to see as many as 10 yellow warblers in one tree, though getting them all in one photograph is challenging.

It wasn’t uncommon to see as many as 10 yellow warblers in one tree, though getting them all in one photograph is challenging.

The graph below shows their pattern of seasonal occurrence and abundance at Emeralda; each point represents one day’s census, and the fitted line is an average of all 7 years’ data.  A couple of things stand out.  One is simply abundance.   Yellow warblers are among the earliest of the migrating warblers; they first show up in late July, along with the first prairie warblers, but they usually far outnumbered the prairies.   The second striking feature of this figure is the complete absence of migrating yellow warblers in spring.  Never saw one.  This coincides with the conclusions of Stevenson and Anderson in The Birdlife of Florida; they categorize yellow warblers as an uncommon to rare spring migrant, and the number of structure-killed specimens is overwhelmingly biased towards the late summer and fall.   It seems that this species takes different migratory pathways in spring and fall.

Seasonal pattern of yellow warbler abundance at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Seasonal pattern of yellow warbler abundance at Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Still, that doesn’t explain why yellow warblers can be so overwhelmingly abundant at one site, and so hard for me to find at others.  I think it’s due to their unusual degree of habitat specificity when they are migrating.  The areas where I reliably found them at Emeralda were fairly uniform, though Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area contains a diversity of habitats.   I almost always found yellow warblers there at ecotones between open hammock or willow thickets and nearby wetlands.  My survey route at EMCA included several miles of levee roads passing through this type of habitat.  I don’t recall ever seeing yellows actually in the many patches of hammock scattered along my route, only at the edges.   Edges and proximity to open wetlands (wet prairie, marsh, impoundments) seem to be the keys to attracting yellows when they are passing through Florida.

Yale-Griffin Canal levee, Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area.  The fringing willows and extensive surrounding wetlands provide ideal habitat for migrating yellow warblers.

Yale-Griffin Canal levee, Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area. The fringing willows and extensive surrounding wetlands provide ideal habitat for migrating yellow warblers.

I don’t bird much in those kinds of habitats these days, now that I’m no longer one of the privileged few that has unfettered access to drive through Emeralda when the yellows are passing through in large numbers.   My people don’t do wetlands much.  Unless there’s a levee or boardwalk passing through them, any kind of wetland is pretty much off-limits  to those of us who travel on four wheels.    That’s not how we roll.

Yellow warblers in willow.  Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area.

Yellow warblers in willow. Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area.

When I’m birding in late summer and find clumps of willows or a woodland edge up against a wetland, I’m always looking for yellows, but have never found them anywhere else in such abundance as Emeralda.  It’s probably a matter of scale.   Emeralda is a relatively big chunk of contiguous habitat (over 7000 acres), the largest proportion of which comprises wetlands and impoundments.  These wetlands are surrounded and bisected by miles of levees, many of which produce exactly the sorts of habitat conditions the yellows seem to crave.   One part of my census route, the levee paralleling the Yale-Griffin canal, was nearly two miles long, bounded on the north and south along most of it length by shallow impoundments, and featuring a corridor of dense willows along nearly it’s entire length.  There were nearly always yellow warblers there in August and early September.

Yellow warbler, Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Yellow warbler, Emeralda Marsh Conservation Area

Conservation biologists stress the importance of preserving big chunks of habitat, and decry the fragmentation of habitat into little postage-stamp sized pieces surrounded by completely dissimilar, often developed, habitats. Even though floristically and structurally small tracts may be virtually identical to larger pieces of habitat, they don’t maintain the same levels of diversity as large, undisturbed areas do.   Habitat selection by migrating yellow warblers illustrates that point beautifully.

The immensity of it

August 24, 2013

It’s taken me a lot of years living in north and central Florida to fully appreciate the vastness and diversity of Ocala National Forest.  I first became aware of what a huge tract of undeveloped, relatively pristine habitat it is when I first moved to Florida, to attend grad school in Gainesville.  I’d guess that during the 9 years I lived in Gainesville, I visited the forest maybe a dozen times or thereabouts.  Not much.   I’ve lived in DeLand for a couple of decades, but it’s only in the last couple of years that I’ve begun a somewhat concerted effort to comb the forest roads and get to know it a little more intimately.  It’s these recent efforts, kind of nibbling around the edges, that have made me truly grok how much of it there is to see. And I’ve barely scratched the surface.  I’m beginning to get a better feel for the eastern parts of the forest; the Juniper Springs Wilderness, Hopkin’s Prairie, Riverside Island, the Paisley Road and nearby sections of Alexander Springs Wilderness, and so on.  But the northern and western parts of the forest are still pretty much a big black box.

Regenerating scrub with some ancients behind.  Forest Road 06

Regenerating scrub with some ancients behind. Forest Road 06

It’s surprising that I’ve spent so little time exploring Ocala National Forest until fairly recently.  In the first couple of years I lived in DeLand, when Terry Farrell and I were going through our young hooligan phase of faculty development, we spent many, many afternoons road-cruising the Paisley Road region, looking for snakes, birds, lizards, insects, cool plants (but only the cool ones; just looking for plants isn’t particularly challenging), and the nearest Kangaroo Mart from which to pick up our next six-pack.  But only for the passenger, because drinking and driving is so wrong.   We made the dubious decision at some point to replace road-cruising and having fun with doing field research on pigmy rattlesnakes, which occupied a significant chunk of our free time for the next decade.   So Paisley Road and all the other enticing destinations in Ocala went on the back burner.

Paisley Road

Paisley Road

Even some parts of the forest relatively close to DeLand remained unvisited until recently.  Case in point — Forest Road 06.  This minor forest road is only 5 or 6 miles long, but is divided into a north section and a south section by a stream of variable depth and unknown substrate flowing across the road.  Terry and I cruised the northern section of 06, accessed by taking the Paisley Road about 4 miles north of its intersection with SR42 in Paisley, many times;  I bird there solo once or twice a month during fall and winter.  But I’ve never had the nerve to try to ford the stream.  Up until last year, I’d never investigated the south section of FR06, even though I pass its intersection with State Road 42 all the time when driving to the Paisley area.  When I finally drove this fairly short stretch of well-maintained sand road, I found a delightful variety of habitats there, including some extensive tracts of regenerating scrub still bearing hundreds of snags of the mature sand pines that grew there before it burned sometime in the last few years.  Full of red-headed woodpeckers, flickers, and other woodpeckers as you would expect, but almost apocalyptic in its feel on a gloomy, fog-bound morning.

Sunrise in the scrub graveyard. Forest Road 06

Sunrise in the scrub graveyard. Forest Road 06

Forest Road 06 and the Paisley area was my destination this morning.  I was hoping to dig up a few migrants, but not really expecting it.  Mostly, it was an exercise to try and hone my bird-spotting skills a bit before my fall term Ornithology class begins in earnest and I have to lead a dozen sharp-eyed kids on bird quests.  If memory serves me correctly (rarely does), when I first began teaching Ornithology it seems like I was always the first to spot distant birds.  In recent years, students have been beating me to the punch on a regular basis.  Maybe it’s not about me at all; perhaps students are more field-competent these days.  Probably not.  Whatever, I want to be on top of how ever much game I have left once the field trips begin.

Scrub with chalky bluestem, Andropogon virginicus var glaucus

Scrub with chalky bluestem, Andropogon virginicus var glaucus

Foggy morning.  If I tried really hard I could almost convince myself there was a bit of chill.   Slow-rolling up FR06 a little after sunrise¸ listening to Trampled by Turtles, totally grooving on the melancholy music and somber surroundings.  Experiencing that spiritual recharging I think so many of us feel when we are in nature.  Not much happening with birds, but that’s cool.  It’s the immensity of it, the entire experience.

Eastern towhee, male

Eastern towhee, male

I spent some time photographing Carolina wrens and eastern towhees, both species tattered from their ongoing molt. But as a wise photographer (that would be you, Bone) once told me, we take what we’re given.   Scattered along the roadside I saw several clumps of chalky bluestem, Andropogon virginicus.   Beautiful plant – I just noticed it a couple of months ago.   I thought on the first time I saw it that it must be quite uncommon, or I would surely have noticed it before.  My attempts at ID were unproductive; it was identified for me by my Consulting Botanist.  Now that I know what it is, I see it everywhere.  It’s that plant thing again – too many of them, and far too much similarity within some groups.

Eastern towhee female and male

Eastern towhee female and male

Carolina wren

Carolina wren

Carolina wren

Carolina wren

A bit further up I spotted a fox squirrel doing its syncopated lope up the roadside, and I slowed down a bit to try and stalk.  He immediately headed up the nearest pine, and for the next 15-20 minutes we played a game of patience.  He picked a comfortable perch and watched me.   My initial intent was to wait until he got tired of waiting in his isolated tree, and photograph him as he descended the trunk, perhaps posing on a picturesque branch or stub on his way down.  My capacity for self-delusion never fails to surprise me.  I can’t sit in one place for longer than five minutes tops if nothing is going on; every time I started the car and eased up the road a bit closer, he climbed higher to a new comfortable perch.  I gave up in less than half an hour. He totally kicked my ass.   I actually felt bad for the little dude – he had really skeevy looking skin lesions at several spots.   Raw, open wounds.  I’m guessing they’re emergence sites of bot fly larvae that have become inflamed after the parasites dropped.  Whatever, they’re pretty gross, and can’t be very comfortable for the little man.

Fox squirrel.  A good-looking animal from this angle.

Fox squirrel. A good-looking animal from this angle.

Notice the open lesion on his side.

Notice the open lesion on his side.

Seemed comfortable despite his skin issues.

Seemed comfortable despite his skin issues.

Look at me getting all verklempt about one parasite-ridden fox squirrel, when I shoot gray squirrels in my yard by the boatload.  Go figure.

Chalky bluestem

Chalky bluestem

Chalky bluestem

Chalky bluestem

Winged sumac, Rhus copallina

Winged sumac, Rhus copallina

A syrphid fly in the genus Palpada, feeding on winged sumac flowers

A syrphid fly in the genus Palpada, feeding on winged sumac flowers

Plant it and they will come

August 18, 2013

A Polydamas or gold-rim swallowtail that has just emerged from its chrysalis.

A Polydamas or gold-rim swallowtail that has just emerged from its chrysalis.

This is a Polydamas swallowtail, Battus polydamas, one of the tailless swallowtails.  Up until a few years ago I had only seen them on a couple of occasions, and then only briefly.  Now I see them every summer for months on end; sometimes there are a half-dozen or more flying around my yard.  The reason for this quantum leap in the frequency with which I see them is easy to explain – I planted their larval foodplant in my garden.

This freshly emerged adult had a purple powder on his head and thorax.  No idea what that is.

This freshly emerged adult had a purple powder on his head and thorax. No idea what that is.

By itself, that’s not surprising at all.  One of the prime directives of butterfly gardening is to plant a variety of plants that are hosts to the caterpillars of the butterflies you’d like to attract.  It works.  What is suprising to me, though, is that these Polydamas swallowtails,  which by my reckoning are pretty uncommon, so rapidly find new patches of larval host plant and exploit them.

Pelican flower, Aristolochia grandiflora, blooming with Senna bicapsularis, Christmas Senna.

Pelican flower, Aristolochia grandiflora, blooming with Senna bicapsularis, Christmas Senna

I bought the house I currently live in a little over 5 years ago, and like most new houses in typical subdivisions, the landscaping was pretty bland, generic and mostly non-native.  So I began planting for wildlife, concentrating on plants that provide nectar for insects or hummingbirds, fruits for birds, and caterpillar food for a selected set of lepidopterans.  One of those plants was Aristolochia grandiflora, or pelican flower, an aggressive vine native to the Caribbean and Central America.  Polydamas swallowtails, as well as their close relative the pipevine swallowtail (Battus philenor), are highly specialized feeders as larvae, feeding only on pipevines in the genus Aristolochia.  I’ve never seen any of the 7 native species of Aristolochia that occur in Florida.   Of the two native Battus species, I see pipevine swallowtails far more often than Polydamas, but still don’t consider them common.

Polydamas swallowtail eggs. They seem to normally lay them in small clusters.

Polydamas swallowtail eggs. They seem to normally lay them in small clusters.

Within a few months after the pelican flower vine I planted started growing vigorously in its second year, the Polydamas swallowtails found it, colonized my yard, and have been a continuous presence every summer since.  Sometimes there are so many caterpillars they almost entirely defoliate my single vine, which covers most of a 4 x 6’ trellis.   One of the  advantages of rarity in a plant is that it makes it unlikely that specialized herbivores will find and consume it.  Escape in space and time is what ecologists sometimes call that strategy.   Polydamas swallowtails seem to have countered that rarity strategy pretty effectively with their incredible ability to find and exploit these widely scattered plants.

The question that remains unanswered for me is, how do they do it?

Mating pair

Mating pair

Female laying eggs on pipevine

Female laying eggs on pipevine

Young Battus caterpillars that have just shed their first-instar exoskeleton.

Young Battus caterpillars that have just shed their first-instar exoskeleton.

Early instar Polydamas caterpillars.  They are gregarious when small, but become more solitary in later instars.

Early instar Polydamas caterpillars. They are gregarious when small, but become more solitary in later instars.

Middle-instar caterpillars

Middle-instar caterpillars

Late-instar Battus caterpillar

Late-instar Battus caterpillar

Late-instar larva of Battus polydamas everting the osmeterium

Late-instar larva of Battus polydamas everting the osmeterium

Chrysalis

Chrysalis 

Eclosing adult.

Eclosing adult.

Whatever the answer, I’m glad they do. The caterpillars are big honkers when approaching pupation, sometimes boldly tiger-striped. As is typical of swallowtail caterpillars, they have a pair of fleshy horn-like protuberances (the osmeterium) that they can evert from their head when alarmed. They exude a not-unpleasant, to me, odor that may repel some potential predators. It’s also been suggested it looks like the forked tongue of a snake, which may afford the caterpillars some protection through a form of mimicry. So the caterpillars are cool to have around. Then there are the adult butterflies. What an entertaining lep to watch these guys are; they are like rockets, zipping from foodplant to nectar source at what seems to me to be among the fastest flight speeds seen in swallowtails. They never stop – even when nectaring, they are constantly hovering, just barely supporting their weight with extended legs. When not feeding, the males are like jet pilots engaged in dogfights with their high-speed chases, stoops, and climbs. They also frequently chase other butterflies, and sometimes even small birds that dare to cross their airspace. Bad ass.

Polydamas swallowtail nectaring at Salvia coccinea

Polydamas swallowtail nectaring at Salvia coccinea

The closely related pipevine swallowtail, Battus philenor.  I've had them in my gardens a few time, but not as frequently as the Polydamas.

The closely related pipevine swallowtail, Battus philenor. I’ve had them in my gardens a few time, but not as frequently as the Polydamas.

 

LIFER!!!

August 14, 2013

I’d rather have someone “ram hot spikes up my tail”, as Mojo Nixon so eloquently put it, than drive on I-4 through Orlando.  How people do that every day will forever be a mystery to me.  Because they have to, I guess.  Nonetheless, I subjected myself to that ordeal yesterday to see some different habitats and some birds I don’t see often.  Or at all, in the case of the snail kite.  My buddy John Serrao and I made the trek to Osceola County to look for some of the birds of the Florida prairies and the extensive wetlands of central Florida.  He ventured on the way down that since our previous few trips had all featured some pretty spectacular sightings of one type of raptor or another, today’s trip should follow suit.  Prophetic.

Prairie cattle_08142013-04_Joe Overstreet

Early morning cattle pasture on the praries of Joe Overstreet Road.

I’m not a twitcher or chaser, or much of a life lister.  The last life bird I saw was the Flagler County Cassin’s kingbird first spotted by birding guru Michael Brothers earlier this year.  But I didn’t go chasing that bird; it was in an area I bird occasionally anyway.  Before that, I’m not even sure what my last lifer was.  Maybe a purple swamphen I found at Emeralda Marsh back in 2004.   I get my birding rocks off by trying to intimately learn a handful of sites relatively close to home.  I rarely drive to locations further than 50 miles from my home; 10-20 miles is more typical.  I’m a patch birder, in the current jargon.

Still, I’m more than a little embarrassed to admit that after more than 3 decades of living and natural historizing in Florida, I had never seen a snail kite.

Dry prairie_08142013-02_Joe Overstreet

Dry prairie. Joe Overstreet Road

I’ve been hearing and reading about the sometimes fabulous birding and photography opportunities on Joe Overstreet Rd., on the east side of Lake Kissimmee, for decades, and have had a longstanding intention to check it out.  A pair of posts by Facebook friends and birders in the past week with excellent photos of a snail kite taken at the boat ramp at the end of Joe Overstreet finally prompted me to take the plunge and make the drive.  We survived I-4, but had absolutely no fun doing so.

Osceola County, and in particular Canoe Creek Road and Joe Overstreet, was a delight.  Almost like visiting a new life zone for me.  It’s been decades since I have spent any significant time in these dry prairie habitats.  Most striking to me was the sense of space and openness afforded by these savannah-like grasslands and wetlands.  The mosaic of distinct habitats and ecotones delimiting them is so different from the sites where I do most of my birding, less than a hundred miles north.  Open mesic flatwoods, perfectly formed and symmetrical cypress domes, depression wetlands, shallow eutrophic lakes and ponds and the live oak hammocks fringing them – they all come together to form a gorgeous landscape.  Truly a case of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts.

Cypress dome surrounded by prairie.  Joe Overstreet Road

Cypress dome surrounded by prairie. Joe Overstreet Road

Our first drive down Joe Overstreet, during the prime hour or so of morning light, produced no photo ops at all other than habitats and landscapes.  The primary target, the boat ramp snail kite, was nowhere to be found.  We passed a pair of crested caracaras high in a roadside pine along Canoe Creek Road en route to Joe Overstreet, but the viewing conditions were so backlit and marginal we didn’t even stop to check them out.  We’ll get them on Joe Overstreet for sure, we assured ourselves.  Our first pass produced no birds of extraordinary interest, though.  Lots of cool stuff – many eastern meadowlarks and loggerhead shrikes, some common aquatic stuff at Lake Kissimmee, and a ton of Eurasian collared doves along with the mourning and ground doves, but no caracaras or kites.   Several indifferent white-tailed deer were along the roadsides, but they are mammals after all, and not really a cause for much excitement.

Eurasian collared dove

Eurasian collared dove

White-tailed deer

White-tailed deer

Three Lakes Wildlife Management Area, just a few miles down Canoe Creek Road, was very much like Joe Overstreet with respect to bird finding.  Very cool habitats and ecotones, but no distinctive birds.  We ran into one small mixed-species flock in one of the hammocks that included both male and female American redstarts (my FOS male redstart), a prairie warbler or two, a northern parula, several blue-gray gnatcatchers, some titmice, and the ever-present Carolina wrens.  No lifers there though.

Palmetto prairie.  Three Lakes Wildlife Management Area.

Palmetto prairie. Three Lakes Wildlife Management Area.

Prairie warbler in the hammock.  Three Lakes Wildlife Management Area

Prairie warbler in the hammock. Three Lakes Wildlife Management Area

Open mesic flatwoods.  Three Lakes Wildlife Management Area

Open mesic flatwoods. Three Lakes Wildlife Management Area

Lake Jackson, with lotus (Nelumbo lutea) in flower.

Lake Jackson, with lotus (Nelumbo lutea) in flower.

Further east on Canoe Creek Road, we checked another boat ramp on Lake Marian reputed to sometimes host snail kites.  Nothing there.  We were treated to great looks and decent photo ops of an adult bald eagle in a pine tree, in the company of a large flock of molting boat-tailed grackles.  Still, a lovely but thoroughly vanilla morning to that point.

Bald eagle.  Canoe Creek Road

Bald eagle. Canoe Creek Road

WHIB_08142013-06_Canoe Creek Rd

White ibis. Canoe Creek Road

The second trip down Joe Overstreet as we passed it on our way north did the trick.  As soon as we approached the boat ramp, both of us spotted a brownish raptor on one of the dock pilings.  Many of those pilings bore empty apple snail shells or opercula, so clearly this is a favored feeding spot of the snail kite.  And there it was.  We nearly micturated all over ourselves.   For the next 15 minutes or so, we were treated to wonderful, close views of this incredibly specialized raptor.   We decarred and cautiously approached the kite, now sitting at the top of small sabal palm growing right by the boat ramp.  The bird, either a female or immature (I’m leaning towards immature) paid us absolutely no mind other than to curiously peer down at us.  We had extended looks at that bird, albeit horribly backlit, from about 20 feet away.  We had absolutely crippling views.  I feel particularly well qualified to label them as such.  Eventually the kite flew down to one of the pilings to give us eye-level views in full front lighting.  When it finally flew off, the characteristic white rump was like a beacon bidding us farewell.    SNKI_08142013-33_Joe Overstreet RSeveral purple gallinules, a limpkin, two caracaras bathing in a cattle watering trough, flocks of hundreds of cattle egrets wheeling and swirling amidst some skeletal live oaks, a wood stork, and a very entertaining hatch-year loggerhead shrike trying to solve the puzzle of how to eat a large darner dragonfly were icing on the cake as we left Joe Overstreet.

Juvenile snail kite.  Joe Overstreet Road

Juvenile snail kite. Joe Overstreet Road

SNKI_08142013-04_Joe Overstreet R

Juvenile snail kite. Joe Overstreet Road

SNKI_08142013-25_Joe Overstreet R

Juvenile snail kite. Joe Overstreet Road

Cattle egrets

Cattle egrets

Wood stork

Wood stork

Young loggerhead shrike with prey

Young loggerhead shrike with prey

To quote Jeff Spiccoli, “Awesome.  Totally awesome”.