Pretty Ducks, Edible Flowers and Birds, Birds, Birds: Strandfontein

I have so darn many photos from my South African safari that it's easy to miss some real goodies in trying to throw a lasso around the whole thing. Flamingos are real lens hogs.

With those Vargas girls in the foreground, it's hard to look at anything else, but there are so many other things to see at Strandfontein!

The marshy dikes were rich with bulbs, all in frenzied spring bloom.

We saw these enormous caterpillars in several places on the Cape. All I could do was enjoy them, without being able to put a name other than "Roscoe" on this creature.

Glorious thing. And don't miss the beetle halfway down the stem.  You'd swear it was a hummingbird-pollinated flower, but it's probably after sunbirds.

Her name is Ruth, but we were all calling her Rootie, as her family does, halfway through the trip. She has the same tendency to go plunging in after things that I do. So we were up to our necks in wild gladiolas. Fantastic!

Rootie set this shot up and I poached it. Sour figs, as purchased, and the ice plant flower that becomes a sour fig when it goes to seed! The plant, Carpobrotus edulis,  also known as sour fig, highway ice plant, Hottentot fig, or pigface, creeps prostrate across sandy dunes, and it's quite common. We saw  chacma baboons eating the flowers and developing fruits. I was concerned about the sour fig harvesting until I saw how many of the plants were on the dunes. Reading a bit, I learned that it's a horrid invasive in California and the Mediterranean, creating ice plant deserts on dunes. It's given to invading on disturbed sandy soil. I still think it's cool that somewhere back in time, somebody figured out you could dry the seedheads and get a delicious treat out of them. Wonder if anyone eats them in California? Perhaps we need to graze more.

Wild pelargoniums reminded me so very much of my wooly rose-scented friends of yore. They were aromatic, but nothing like the scented ones I grow. 

It's not hard to see why Strandfontein has such fabulous bird life. That's a bay right there, and the wetlands are the silver line inland, near the horizon.

 The fillymingos don't have far to fly to get to the rich lagoons.

Those vertebral bumps again! I love seeing skellingtons under all those feathers. 

 And the sudden spread of brilliant salmon wings,

which seem somewhat modest for the size of the bird, until you remember this bird is all neck and legs and featherlight hollow bones. Try this: cover up the neck and legs with your finger, and those wings are in perfect, gooselike proportion to the body size. Plenty.

Greater crested terns, Hartlaub's gulls, and Egyptian geese rest on a platform seemingly built just for preening and roosting.

Levaillant's cisticola sings monotonously from a shrubby lookout 

while his mate hauls cattail fluff to a hidden nest.

The little marsh warbler (yes, its name is little marsh warbler, and no, I'm not capitalizing it) who eluded us for minutes on end finally and inexplicably popped out for a portrait!

Everywhere, yellow-billed ducks (sort of the Cape equivalent to a mallard) sprang quacking from the reeds.

Like the mallard, a supremely beautiful bird to be so common. Lucky, we are.

And out in the lagoons, the pink showgirls preen. We bade farewell to Strandfontein and headed for the southernmost point on the African continent, to gaze out over the southern ocean and dip our toes in it, too. You have to do that when you're in South Africa!

I'm going again in September 2016, and I'd love to have you along. 

Click here for details.

And What Kills the Killer?

If these fitness trackers you wear like a lojack do anything, it's get us out, even when the sky weeps and the chill goes to your bones. I'm thankful for that, though I'm having a heck of a time reaching my daily quota (10,000 steps) when trying to get over a cold. In decent weather, I fly past that picayune mark  every day. 

We went out for a slog through the shredded wheat meadows, trying to keep the dog clean by walking on grass. (I'd just washed him after a muddy run down Dean's Fork). 

It was a day without much visual promise. And those are the kind of days you want to watch out for.

We were coming up the middle path in our field when we all saw this thing lying in the middle of it.

It had been rained on, but by the size and content it seemed to be an owl pellet, a big one.

I started speaking in tongues, the gibberish my family is used to hearing when we've found something BIG. Do you see what I see? I was jabbering in something other than English.

That's the entire foot of a raptor.  In the pellet of an owl. I know it's a pellet because there's very little odor and the bolus is made up entirely of bone and a few digested feathers. It's pretty fresh and quite cohesive. If this were a coywolf dropping, which by its size it'd have to be, there would be colored fecal matter acting as a binder, obscuring the bone fragments, and stinkin' up the place. Plus, I can't see a coyote crunching a raptor's foot down whole. What mammal would swallow talons like that? I mean, besides a Labrador retriever? that was for Floridacracker.

My mind was jumping all over the place. Though I had already figured out whose pellet it was, I was mos def going to figure out whose foot it was. I tried to imagine any owl gagging down the entire needle-taloned foot of a raptor. 

The only owl I could see being able to do that with any aplomb is a great horned. Nope, just can't see a doe-eyed barred owl gagging down a raptor's foot. 

My first thought was that it might be a barred owl's foot, since great horneds are known to prey on all smaller owls. It's a tough world out there. 

By the time we made it back to the house, I'd been turning that pellet over in my hand, and I'd figured out that this was not an owl's foot. How? 

These. These are two rows of scutes, or scales, that run down the tarso-metatarsus (the visible yellow part of the leg) of a hawk. Owls have feathered tarso-metatarsae. The part you can see is covered with fine hairlike feathers. What few scutes they show are all on the foot proper. The exceptions are some of the fishing owls, but they're in Africa, not here. The possible owls here in a meadowy-wooded part southeast Ohio are great horned, barred, screech and saw-whet, and they all have feathered shanks. 

So it's a scaly-legged hawk, with rather long toes. Bird-catching toes.

Bill asked, "You think it could be a Cooper's?"

Synchronicity being the word of the day (remember I'd just photographed that blazing beauty in the birch an hour earlier), I replied, "I think you've got it."

If this was a Coop's foot, it was a big Coop, a female. Just a hunch. I'd have to make some measurements to confirm it.

I thought about how the kill would have been made. The great horned owl, detecting a slight movement or sound from the Cooper's hawk, who was perhaps sleeping tucked into the Virginia pines on our oil well road. Owl flying soundlessly closer. Hearing her breathe, hearing her settle her feathers. Planning its kill. Coming in from behind, strong talons closing around the hawk's skull. Bringing her to the ground, severing her spinal cord with a single nip. The Coop may never have known what took her. I hope she didn't. For what else could kill a big strapping female Cooper's hawk? And how else to do it, but by surprise, in the night? She who surprised songbirds all her life, now facing the last great mystery, and ending up in pieces in an owl's pellet. Egad. I'm glad I sleep in a bed, in a room, in a house, under blankets.

This, amazingly enough, is not the best thing I've ever pulled out of a great horned owl pellet. On the shore of Selden Cove, Connecticut, under  huge hemlocks now long dead at the sucking mouthparts of wooly adelgids, I found the carving block of a great horned owl. And there I found a pellet that had the entire, intact skull and hard beak of a belted kingfisher. Swallow THAT. Great horned owls are the honey badgers of the sky. Great horned owl don't care. She's hungry.

Because I am a Science Chimp, and have been properly permitted to make and store specimens salvaged from window and road kills for most of my life, I happened to have on hand a specimen of Cooper's hawk, and I remembered that it was a large immature female. 

I called out to the kids, "Come down here by the washing machine and I'll give you a lesson in bird foot ID."  Phoebe replied, "Let me tweet that first, and I'll come down." Which made me laugh. She has made a Twitter account called (pardon me) @ShitZickSays

which has a rather intermittent feed, since I'm not the one tweeting away. I have no power there. But I do find it amusing, to have it revealed occasionally what my kids find amusing about me.

I pulled out my Cooper's hawk skin.  Laid the pellet next to it. Talon size looked real good. The big talon you can see in the pellet, that still has its outer sheath, is the inner front toe of the bird's left foot. The one you're seeing clearly on the skin in my hand. That's the killing toe.

Started dissecting the pellet. It smelled, disgustingly and surprisingly, of turkey. Turkey! And Phoebe agreed, recoiling, her nose wrinkling. This gory remnant should not smell like something I eat. I was so glad we'd finally finished the last of the leftover turkey soup from New Year's. I think it's going to be a good solid year before I want to smell turkey again.  Couldn't get it off my fingers...I remember my specimen prep days...yep. That clinging smell. Bleh!

photo by Phoebe Thompson

Back to science. Measured the talons, just to be sure.

photo by Phoebe Thompson

Perfect match. Not only did we have a Cooper's hawk's left foot, but we had a female Cooper's hawk's left foot. The talon in the pellet was ever so slightly longer than the immature bird's talon, which might mean it was an adult bird, but that's farther than I want to take my avian CSI. The foot belonged to a female Cooper's hawk. And that, my friends, is some nice sleuthing. Helps to have the reference resources right on hand, down by the washer...

Even the metatarsal length was perfect. This was a big female Coop. That's a foot-long ruler there. Dorsal view

and ventral view.

Look how perfect that foot is next to the specimen.

Here are the scutes, gleaned from the pellet, that initially told me it was a hawk's leg and not an owl's. I'm holding them up to the hawk's leg so you can see how perfect is the match. 

Just for fun, look at a male sharp-shinned hawk in the same setting.

He's 10" long to the female Cooper's 18 3/8".

Just the foot size difference is astounding. And we get so confused, trying to tell them apart.

Based on what I see on bird ID forums (10 gazillion photos of Cooper's hawks in people's backyards, all of them asking for ID, over and over and over), I have proposed to rename Cooper's hawk "FAQ Hawk."  Think it'll take?

The Cooper's hawk's head.  That rusty flammulation is typical, as are the fine, teardrop breast streaks. Young sharpies look messier, more boldly streaked, and lack the orange flaming.

And her label. Here comes the synchronicity again. Look who collected it. Well, picked it up dead. My dad, Charles Dale Zickefoose, on December 22, 1983. I was 25 and already well versed in skinning and stuffing bird specimens, thanks to experience both in college and in Amazonian Brazil, where I prepared specimens for a small museum at INPA (Instituto Nacional de Pesquisas de Amazonas). I remember her crop being dead empty, no fat reserves, nothing left of her breast muscles, either. She'd burned herself up trying to survive. HY means hatch year. I've got total length (TL), wing chord (WC) and other measurements. A pitiful 12 oz-- a well fed female Coop should weigh 16 oz or more.

On the flip side of the tag, badly oiled by age and fat in her skin, is her story. I found that a small twig had pierced her right eye, blinding her. She was probably diving into thorns to get a bird, James Bond style, and that simple accident ended her career.

I was so honored that my father would think of me and pick her up and bring her to me that I painted a life-sized death study of her, freshly dead. I'd show it to you, but I gave it to my brother. It's nice. I did a lot of death studies back then, learning from the birds how they are built, how things work and go together.  She did not go to waste. Someday she'll go to the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, where they already have probably 150 Zickefoose specimens in their collection.

Here's one from that period of my bird-painting life, a pied-billed grebe that hit a wire in the night and plopped dead onto a golf course in Connecticut. You can imagine what the Cooper's hawk looked like, and see what I learned about it just by painting it, dead. Click on it to read the writing. It's life-size. I still have a penchant for working exactly life-size. It makes sense to me. Look how small the wing is for that dense, compact bird! Look how the legs work--like oars at the stern. Look at the bird of this hour.

I'm still writing everything down, still picking things apart. And that grebe is still with me, like the hawk, stuffed  with cotton and with all its data intact on a tag. I'll save the hawk's leg, too, because it tells a story, and that's what I do.

I watched my little family make their way back to the house on this dreary afternoon.  I lagged behind, shorter of leg, always behind; and now carrying my precious find. 

But I was all lit up with discovery and curiosity, and burning with the certain knowledge that my Dad is still with me, placing inspiration right in my path.

This just in from Facebook friend Steve Huy:

 A friend and mentor of mine, recently departed, 
had studied raptors at the Appalachian Environmental Lab at Frostburg State in MD. His name
was Floyd Presley.

he told me that he was surprised at the number of Cooper's hawk remains they found in barred owl nests

apparently barred owls have a knack for picking off sleeping coops

We don't always know the whole story. We can pick at the edges...

A Gift, Hurled from the Other Side

I was sitting at the drawing table, trying to keep my spine straight as I finished the last of a tedious couple of months of edits and revisions to a how-to book I put together 15 years ago. One doesn't really "write" a how-to book. One puts it together.

 I entered the last edit on p. 230, pasted in the painstaking revision of a six-page Resources section, every entry and detail of which had been obsolete, and sent the dang thing off to the publisher. Don't get me wrong. It's a good book. How-to's just not my bag, never was. 

I took a deep breath and started a status update for Facebook, the little crutch/reward system I lean on when my work threatens to grind me to powder. 

"Just finished an incredibly tedious, months-eating rewrite, edit and update of Natural Gardening for Birds, a book I put together 15 years ago for Rodale Books. The thought that I might now...

And before I could continue with 

get to do something I want to is a heady one...

a great big dark shadow swooped through the feeder area just to my left. A roar of wings as doves and finches, sparrows and cardinals exploded in panic. I was off the drafting stool, lunging for my camera, and sock-foot skidding to the foyer window before you could say COOPER'S HAWK!!

My first photo was diagnostic, but not stellar. I was skidding to a halt, after all. So was she.

My second photo was The One. Jesus Mary and Joseph what a beautiful killer she is, clasping the branch with her crooked yellow hands, her eye ablaze, her outer tail feathers exclamation points!!!

Sure, there are branches crossing her, but I love this photo. She's landed in that birch like she was hurled there.

 She's just alighted and she's already planning to leave. Might as well go for it, might get lucky.

My third photo is her leaving in pursuit of juncos and white-throated sparrows.  She wound up diving right into a brushpile Bill created about a month ago, literally dove into the center of it trying to get a sparrow. Came out empty fisted, beat deep into the woods. Total elapsed time from seeing the blur of her incoming rocket to her departure: about four seconds. Raptors make my heart beat faster. Accipiters make it fibrillate.

It didn't take long for a big smile to creep across my face, as I looked at the photos and it hit me that my Dear Old Dad was mighty proud that I'd finally shoved that damn book across the finish line (again), 15 years after I did it the first time. 

And maybe he sent that beautiful Coop to say Huzzah! and Life Goes On! and Join the Party! and maybe just Hello, Julie. I'm here. You are accompanied.

He works with hawks. Hawks are his apports, the gifts he sends me from the other side.

I didn't know that word until my friend Charles taught it to me today, as we compared notes about synchronicity and messages from the departed. Far, far too many perfectly timed gifts arrive on his doorstep and mine to be chalked up to happy chance.

And the synch-up contintued when my friend Caroline from South Dakota (via New York) posted a link today to an interview with photographer Ken Van Sickle. Everything he said about photography resonated deeply with me.  Perhaps my favorite thing he said was 

"If you were there when the Hindenburg caught on fire, and you took a picture of it, that’s a great photograph. But you’re not a great photographer, because you can’t repeat that in everyday things.

"What a great photographer does is, they are consistently able to make something in a style that’s personal to themselves. My pictures don’t depend on extreme sharpness. They depend on the composition and on the subject and on the way I see it."

If you'd like to listen to his brief but spectacular interview, go here, to PBS News Hour's page.

I don't pretend that my Cooper's hawk shot is a great photograph. There's no composing a photo when you have your camera set on center auto focus, and the hawk is perched in front of you for perhaps two of the four seconds it takes you to get off your ass, grab an 8-pound rig, and skid down a hall and into a foyer. You center the thing on the bird, hold your breath and try not to punch the shutter button too hard. You punch it on the first shot, squeeze it on the second and third, and the hawk does the rest. Time's up.

However, I was there  and I did have my camera so in my view this qualifies as a Hindenberg moment. And that, and my Dad sending me a honkin' big adult female Coop as I was running my victory lap, is plenty enough for me.

More hawkish synchronicity in the next post. I'm not leaving South Africa behind. But every once in awhile the present bursts out of the woods, grabs me by the shirtfront, shakes me down and demands an audience.