More Adorable Rodents of Montana

Looking at my recent entries, it seems I have developed a preoccupation with rodents. The truth is that I like rodents as well as I like any wildlife. Mostly I just like any wildlife that lets me get real close with my camera.

I'm remembering a Patton Oswalt line. "I like porn. Because I can get porn."

But I do like yellow-bellied marmots, and not just because I can get pictures of them. A marmot is nothing more than a nicely colored woodchuck that lives in a group. And living in groups, yellow-bellied marmots (Marmota flaviventris) are a lot more noticeable than our solitary eastern woodchuck (Marmota monax) is. Eastern woodchucks generally reveal themselves only first thing in spring, when they're ratty and moth-eaten and hungrily vacuuming up clover in tiny median strips, or the rest of the year, when we find them taking dirt naps on highway shoulders. Marmots are also bolder, perhaps because having many eyes watching out makes them feel more secure in revealing themselves. Perhaps they aren't as heavily persecuted in the wild West as woodchucks are back East.

My affection for woodchucks is sincere; I have a number of wonderful woodchuck stories. The people who lived on our Ohio farm well before we bought it used to take in injured and orphaned wildlife. I'm thinking it's something in the water. Anyway, they had a pet woodchuck that loved to play. Its favorite game was to be slid on its back across the kitchen floor, caught, and slid right back, like a hockey puck. You have to love a rodent that likes to do that.

On our way to Yellowstoen, we stopped at Pompey's Tower, a state monument to Lewis and Clark along the Missouri River in Montana.

William Clark's signature, on the rock of a stack called Pompey's Tower. It was named for the toddler son of French-Canadian expedition cook Charbonneau and his Native American wife, Sacajawea. Lewis and Clark took a huge shine to the child, who they nicknamed Pompey, and named this promontory after him. He was the expedition mascot. I would think a toddler would be a bit of a liability on the push into the Northwest Territory, but Sacajawea must've stocked up on disposables and Tupperwares full of Cheerios before they took off. By all accounts Pompey was a happy baby, even though he was probably chewing on a bit of dried bison sinew instead of Pepperidge Farm Flavor Blast Pizza Goldfish.

Wild rock pigeons flapped and moaned from their nests along the flank of Pompey's Tower.


At the park below, we ran into a little colony of yellow bellied marmots.

They had burrows at the base of the huge cottonwoods along the river.

They peeked out and then came out, perhaps to see if we had any food to offer. Note the white brow band--distinctive.

Also distinctive is the pot-bellied profile when the animal sits up to take a look around. Awwww!

At this point, I was jonesing bad for a fix o' Chet Baker, having been away from him for a whole week.
So when a marmot spraddled out in what we call the frogleggin' pose, I melted.

They seemed to know I meant them no harm (or know that I thought they were meltingly adorable) and relaxed visibly after a little while.

At last, a little babeh marmot peeked out from his cottonwood fortress. Melting, complete. Just another bit of fauna I would love to have in Ohio. Magpies and marmots.

Tanagers and Badgers, Oh My!

In this cold, rainy spell, our Montana friends had a big flock of western tanagers in their backyard, feasting on suet cakes. What an amazement, to see them whirling around the feeder, a blur of orange, yellow and black.

Female western tanagers are more modestly attired.

No modesty in this rooster ring-necked pheasant! Another bird I could never take for granted, extravagant in its beauty. I don't mind that they came from China. I'm simply amazed that they took hold here.

Speaking of amazed...one of my unspoken goals for this trip was to see a badger's face. I'd seen their disappearing carpetlike bodies as they dove into North Dakota ditches. And I'd sadly stroked the fur of one who'd been shot at the mouth of her den, doubtless leaving kits to starve. Oh, I wanted to see their faces, alive and doing badger things.

While on the road to John and Durrae's, we were advised to be on the lookout for a badger den where they frequently see the animals during the day. We found the den...and there were two little faces at the entrance.
Oh joy, oh rapture. Badgers, alive, beautiful, doing what badgers do.

Though we kept a discreet distance and viewed them through the spotting scope, the female badger seemed perturbed by our scrutiny. She took her kit up the long hillside and under a barbed wire fence into another pasture, throwing dirty looks over her shoulder the whole way.

The kit is in front, sniffing the air...you will need to click on the photo to see its face. Badgers!
What a thrill. One of my most-wanted North American animals, finally seen well. I wish we'd make more room for badgers in this world. They are the coolest of weasels, great broad-shouldered trundlebeasts.

I turn now to the better glass of Bill's fixed 300 mm. Canon telephoto with its 1.4 doubler for these two shots:

Here's Mom in lovely profile, and the kit turning away. Badgers have the neatest ears, great big things set low on the sides of the head, as befits a burrowing animal. I'm sure there are neat adaptations to keep from getting dirt down in them, too.

See how the mom looks faded, while the kit looks newly-laundered?

File this next photo under "you had to be there." While the badgers were trundling up the hill, a western tanager came down and landed on a boulder to watch them pass by. You can just make out the grayish spot of their backs to the left of the tanager. It's not much of a photo, I know, but the waving flax and gray-green grasses, the undulating badgers and the brilliant color accent of the tanager all combined to lay me low. You really did have to be there, in that fresh cool wind, seeing live badgers humpeting up a hill.


I love Montana.

If you're in the Parkersburg, West Virginia area this weekend, please come by tomorrow, Friday, September 10, to see our new quintet, The Rain Crows, perform from 7 pm-10pm in the Blennerhassett Hotel's lovely rose garden. Bill and I have been working doubletime to pull together a very promising lineup, which includes bassist Craig Gibbs, formerly of Hoodoo Hand, and two former Nashville session musicians, singer/keyboardist Wendy Eller and drummer Jeff Eller. We're rehearsing as you read this, no doubt. Hope to see you there!

Magpie Madness

How better to define and excite a beautiful landscape than with a bird of paradise?

Those who live among black-billed magpies may become inured to their charms. It would take centuries to inure me to a bird this magnificent.

John and Durrae moved to Bozeman from Pennsylvania. They've lived here almost as long as we've lived in Ohio--17 years or so. But they still love the magpies.

They love them so much they buy big bags of cat food to keep them fat and sassy.


Well, who wouldn't want to see something like this on their deck a couple of times a day? The air rang with their jaunty jake-jake calls.

Note the bit of kibble in mid-gulp on the right-hand bird...


I could have spent days capturing flight images of magpies through the sliding glass doors. Had it not been cold, I'd have loved to open them and sit just inside, the house as my blind.

These birds are one big flash pattern. Pure white primary feathers are rather rare; generally the flight feathers of birds are dark, because melanin strengthens them, and the primaries, being propellers, take the brunt of the wear. They do have a nifty black picotee edge, which I'm sure helps with preventing too much wear. You can see that edging in Photo 2.

The pied coloration of magpies has to do with sending visual signals over vast open terrain, with gathering one's compatriots for raids and mischief. Nothing translates like black and white in these huge, often low-contrast spaces.

Magpies are a gift to the Montana landscape. Though I'm sure our nesting songbirds would disagree (magpies have an appetite for eggs and chicks), a few magpies sure would dress up the meadows of Ohio. Bet they'd love Zick Dough.

A Montana Haven

On our way to Yellowstone, we stopped at the home of friends outside Bozeman, Montana. It was a gray, rainy, cold day, but the birds and animals that flock around John and Durrae's didn't seem to mind. Their yard was a western wonderland for these Ohioans.

Let's just start with the view out the living room window.

and proceed to the lazuli bunting just outside the kitchen window screen.

Ah, but there was more to come. This little Richardson's ground squirrel (everyone in Montana calls them "gophers," even though they aren't...
charmed me with her muzzlepuff cleaning routine.
Kind of a shrinky prairie dog, they are pretty much everywhere in eastern Montana, running across the road, tails straight up in an exclamation point. When I first visited Montana as a 12-year-old, I wept for each one my sister's car hit. I cried a lot those first few days. And then realized that I didn't have tears enough for all the gophers with a death wish.

It was nice to see one close up, to see the sweet animal in what so many perceive as brainless video-game targets. I wish I understood what makes them decide to cross a deserted highway just as your car comes careening through at 75 mph.

There was much more to be enjoyed in John and Durrae's yard...

For a Moment, Happy

All too soon, it was time to head east, back to North Dakota. Oh, it was hard to leave Montana, so we made one last stop at Makoshika State Park, which is a paleontological site southeast of Glendive.

We never found the dig or any fossils, but the scenery was terrific. Transformative. We drank in the evening, making the most of Montana's midnight sun, when it stays light until almost 11 pm in June.

A mule deer doe came walking carefully up a draw, her attention ahead of her.

Her huge ears swiveled side to side as if she were apprehensive of ambush.

Oh, the light was so beautiful. I could see myself painting the scene with her just so, touching light across the grasstops and casting the foreground in deep violet shadow. Oh, to have world enough and time...for now and for the foreseeable future I'm painting birds, but someday...deer.

Suddenly she vaulted into space.


She pronked high, looking for danger.

Her springy tendons and slender, resilient legs carried her high up into the air, over and over.




She wasn't so different from my daughter, whose lightness I envy as I grow closer to the earth.


The grace in these children comes alive when they are allowed to gaze out over miles of wilderness. It turns into something electric, something beautiful, infused with the spirit of the landscape.


I couldn't stop trying to keep some of it for the coming winter. And now I'm glad I did.

There is a thought scrabbling around in my head that's hard to catch and contain, so it's going to come out in pieces. It's about happiness, that most elusive of human emotions. If emotions were birds, happiness might be a rail, skulking through the dark reeds of dissatisfaction.

You can take trips with your family, and think back on them, and think, "Yeah, that was a great trip. I was really happy out there in Montana."

And what I'm thinking is: Why does that feeling have to be remembered as just part of a great trip, isolated in occasional memories, floating out there on its own? Why not look at that trip as part of a continuum of good things, an integral part of your great life, and think of it when you step back to take stock, as we so often do?

Because this is your life, this moment in Montana. And these are the people you love most.


And you set up a camera on a tripod to record this moment, this evidence that you were happy for a while.


Believe it. You are.

These are the gifts that wilderness can give to us. Small wonder we turn to it again and again.

Bob's Bluebirds

It is a rare privilege to be shown a place that is special to someone. Visiting Bob Niebuhr's mountain bluebird trail not far from Great Falls, Montana, I think we may have seen the most beautiful bluebird box trail on the planet.

The Man himself, author of beauty and grace, written on the land in bluebirds fledged from his boxes.
A caravan of cars snaked from the Mountain Bluebird Trails conference site to Bob's turf, and we hopped out to check boxes along the way. And to breathe. Oh, the air was so sweet and cool.


Mountain bluebirds are bigger than either western or eastern bluebirds, and they often lay clutches of six pale blue eggs. Being broad of shoulder, they need an entry hole that's 1/8" bigger than their smaller relatives, too.

Some three-day-old mountain bluebirds.


Mountain bluebird babies are lovely, smoky brown and even-colored, unlike our dappled gray eastern bluebird babies. These are about 13 days old.

I loved seeing my first mountain bluebird babies, but I was blown away by their surroundings. What heaven it would be to have an excuse to drive Bob's route once every week.

We compared notes on development and predator deterrents. The Science Chimp always loves to talk shop with other bluebird box landlords.

And of course, she had to get her nose into every box.

As did Science Chimp Junior (this was taken in North Dakota.)

Everywhere on Bob's trail, wildflowers nodded in the breeze. This was the finest stand of prairie smoke I'd ever found. A few lupines add their blue.

Not sure what this is. It looks a lot like a Gaura I planted in my garden this year, but it's much denser and more compact. Yoo-hoo, Caroline from South Dakota?

A natural garden.

Ever dream of having that Montana ranch, brushing out a brood mare's tail, and riding out each morning to watch the sun ascend over the rolling hills?

Me, too.

Tree swallows were gettin' busy, too, enjoying Bob's lodgings.



Mountain bluebirds hovered and dove on grasshoppers.

Heavenly, the only word for their blue. Well, maybe celestial. Same meaning.

Wonder if anyone would pay me to live out here and run these boxes when Bob got tired of it? No, he already has good volunteers who help. Rats. And he doesn't show any signs of getting tired of it.

I'd do it for nothing, anyway.

A northern checkerspot stops in its meadowbouncing.

More prairie smoke.

A shy larkspur

and some lupines.

A neighbor brings two little grandsons, still in their jammies, on his four-wheeler, to chat with Bob, who seems to know everyone. Liam looks on in envy.

Bill of the Birds gazes out over the expanse.
I try not to imagine this place in the dead of winter

preferring summer meadows and birdsong to howling blizzards.

And so it will stay in my memory, always June, with the song of warbling vireos

and lonely barns against the sky

and Bob fixing a loose roof on a bluebird box

sending thousands of new bluebirds out into the Montana skies

making the world a more beautiful place with every mile he drives.

I salute you, Bob Niebuhr, and all those who work for bluebirds. Thank you for bringing our little family to Montana, to find ancient runes and hunker down in tipi rings, to float down the Missouri River. You've made a place in our hearts that we will always come back to. Thank you for all you do to bring beauty to the land. You are appreciated.

last two photos: Bill Thompson III