Solstice Celebration

I took a celebratory walk down the entire road, a total of 3 miles down and 3 miles back up, on June 21. I was celebrating the Summer Solstice, and it was going to be a scorcher, so I started well before sunrise in the cool of the night. I wanted to be in the arms of Dean's Fork when the sun came up on the longest day of the year. It had been so hard to come by, this feeling of peace. The boot was always hanging over my head, ready to drop. The thought that the next time I visited, the beavers might have been shot and their dam ripped out again made going on my favorite hike a proposition fraught with anxiety. I never took a whole breath until, peeking through the shrubs and trees, I saw water where it should be.

And now...now I could believe it would all still be there when I came to see it.

The reflections on the water, the sun coming through fresh leaves, the songs of thrushes and catbirds all around. The sweet warm breath of June, wafting across awakening meadows. The insect choir.

The first Rosa carolina smiling from the moist ditches, their scent pure attar of rose, the scent that sends me through the weeds and down to my knees to inhale it.

My boon companion by my side, or more properly pulling me along. Constantly reminding him not to pull, occasionally having to put the lead on the clip on his chest (It's the Walk Right front connect harness, and it's great). He hasn't learned not to pull because I praise him when he pulls me up the hills. The same thing that helps on hills annoys me on a straightaway. Any dog would be confused.

He's on a lead because there are just too many temptations for a ramblin' man on Dean's Fork. 

The chitter of chipmunks, the sudden thumps and windy cries of deer...all would take him down their trails.

The apports kept coming on this auspicious day. My third barred owl feather of the spring, not far from where I found the belly feather on our last trip. This is probably a primary covert--a very stout long shaft on a short strong feather. This feather is rooted in the fused finger bones of the owl. That one pale spot on the vane says barred owl, as does the cool umber-brown color. You can't feel it, but the whole thing is very soft and downy. That's how I knew it was an owl feather--that and the large size. Stoutness of shaft tells you a lot. It tells you how big the bird was, and where on the bird the feather came from.

I had already figured out through concerted Chimping and staring at it that this was a barred owl primary covert, but it was fun to get confirmation from this photo from the Rouge River Bird Observatory blog.

See the feathers the bander's thumb is on? Those are the primary coverts.  Thanks, Rouge River Bird Observatory! And thanks to whomever tossed that feather down in my path. Dean's Fork is rich in spirit. It's always leaving messages for me to find. And today, I was ringing like a struck bell, open to the joy, because I finally felt I'd been able to accomplish something here.

I walked on farther and found a clump of fur in the road. Now that was interesting. 

I feel I have a few choices here: fox, coyote or bobcat. The hair is wavy, but not crimped, which makes me lean away from canid and toward bobcat. There are no obvious guard hairs, which also makes me lean felid. The gentle tawny color sure works for bobcat too. I rubbed it between my fingers and was reminded of the one and only time I'd ever touched a bobcat--the kitten I took in for a brief time. Its fur had a dense, wooly hand--without the filmy silkiness of domestic cat fur-- that surprised me. 

I found this clump of hair in a stretch where, in favorable conditions, I almost always find bobcat tracks. I've tucked it in my little deerskin pouch with its bit of wool from Miracle, the white bison in Jamestown, ND. It has power I can feel, the kind of power I need. 

My Solstice beaverdam celebratory shirt: I BELIEVE. Empowered. Badass bunny hugger.

As it always does when I turn around on a sunny morning, Dean's knocked me flat. Oh what will I do when that black barn falls down? Photograph its ruins, I suppose. I hope it stands forever, or at least outlives me. Slate roof, swaybacked but still solid. Big brown bats within: poopin' up a pile. 

The yarrow is out today, and the yellow sweet clover. 

But the sweetest surprise of this solstice day was running into Brad and Becky and their three youngun's, who flew and drove great distances to be with their dad on Father's Day. Brad and Becky are well-known naturalists in Marietta. And here they were, come to see the beaver pond on Dean's Fork. This was a first for me. I've never run into another naturalist here unless it was pre-arranged, usually by me. 

I was so amazed I asked if I could take their photo. And it made a pretty nice family Father's Day portrait!

I had to ask how this wonderful family knew to come here. Well, they'd found out about it via my blog! That made me so happy. Dean's Fork needs love from people who care, who won't toss beer cans, dump their gutted deer carcasses (yeah, I see what you do), poach, or rip up the road "muddin'." Ugh. To that end, I talk to everyone I see here, if they'll talk to me. That's how you build community, how you let them know you're watching.

When I got home, I saw the first chicory opening by my mailbox.

Stop, June! It's all too beautiful.

Like a Cat in the Woods

March 2, 2020, couldn't be any more different than March 2 of 2019. Last year, today was a Sunday, and Wendy and I were hosting the biggest birthday music party we could humanly pull off, for Bill. We all knew it would be the last birthday he'd have, and we wanted it to be the best one. And it was. Beloved musicians drove and flew from all over and that man played as if he were possessed, all day and into the night. He said it had been the best day of his life. Now, Bill was given to hyperbole, but we knew he meant it, and that it was true. And why not? His favorite friends were there, playing his favorite music, and everybody was freely showing their love for him. He was playing like the devil had gotten into him. And, of course, it had.

He was on fire, inside and out, and it was beautiful and sweet and terrible to see. Music was his reason for living, and man, did he live all that day, that wonderful day. I'll never forget what he said later, recalling that day. "I swear, I could go, and if there was gonna be music, I'd rise up and play another twelve hours. It means that much to me."

Today was different. It was quiet and cool and drizzly and there was nobody here but me and Curtis. I was thinking about him off and on, thinking about his birthday tomorrow, wondering how to mark it.

The cardinals pippering, the doves rocketing, the goldfinches careening, the yard exploding. A dark blue bullet swooped in, doing an elaborate loop-de-loop with a bird practically as large as he. Though their forms were no more than blurs, I knew it had to be a tiny male sharp-shin chasing a mourning dove. They climbed higher and higher, and the dove turned over in flight and stooped toward the ground, and the sharpie threw out one foot and snagged it like a cocklebur snags your sleeve. And they both tumbled to the ground, head over tail, and everything went silent. 

I grabbed my binoculars and my big camera and slipped downstairs and out the sliding door. I peeped over a rise and there he was, glorious, mantling over the captive dove. A full adult male sharp-shinned hawk, a damned rare bird any more. Oh joy. He will eat today. Much as I love mourning doves, having been mama to three, I wanted this hawk to eat today.

He wanted to fly away, but he couldn't, because he had to kill the dove first. I took two shots and retreated the way I'd come, head down, showing him I meant no harm, that I'd leave him in peace to finish the job. No photo was worth spooking him off his hard-won meal. The thing to do in this delicate situation is to get out of there.

Once inside, I raced up three flights of stairs to the birdwatching tower. The windows were streaked with rain, and I had to shoot at a terrible angle through two panes and rain too, but it was worth it to leave the little hawk in peace.

It may look like he's just loitering around, but he's squeezing that dove for all he's worth. Killing  takes more time than you'd think.

As soon as the dove was subdued, the little hawk tried to take off with it. And it was clear that this was not going to happen. A mourning dove weighs around 4.2 oz. A sharp-shinned hawk weighs around 5 oz. FIVE OUNCES. How does it cram so much fire and life into five ounces of flesh, bone, feather and nerve? Barely, that's how. Sharpies are all fire, all nerve.

Time and again the hawk tried to move his prey, and succeded only in making a couple of feet of headway. It wasn't clear the dove was dead yet, anyway.

 Ack. Are the doves' eyes open? Yep. Hard to watch, but watch I must.

It was interesting to see the predator suddenly vulnerable, now re-cast as prey. The sharpie desperately wanted to get into cover with its catch, knowing that he could himself fall prey out in the open. All it would take would be a passing Cooper's hawk, and he could lose both the dove and his life.

It was an impasse. I was settling in to watch him take his meal from the tower window, hoping he could pull it off without being attacked himself.

Suddenly, the sharpie took off, leaving the dove behind. What the heck? I followed him with my lens to the lone Virginia pine in the backyard.

There he sat and craned his neck, looking concerned. Instinct swung my lens back to where the dove lay.

And I saw with unbelieving eyes the tawny brown reason the sharpie had spooked.

The cat approached softly, stalking, unsure that the dove was really dead. Cats are careful. Cats are not rash.

And when it bent to take the bird in its jaws, the dove's wings stretched out in a last convulsion, a farewell to everything. Almost tenderly, the bobcat gathered the bird up.

Every cat owner has seen their pet with this look on its face. This is mine. Nobody had better try to take it from me.

The beautiful thief glanced around, the dove that had seemed so huge and unwieldy to its original captor, now but a trifle in its jaws.

Mixed emotions, the order of the day. I was heartbroken to see the sharp-shin robbed of such a fine meal, a meal for days. And I was absolutely thrilled to see a bobcat in my yard once again. I hadn't seen one in the yard since Curtis came on the scene. I was delighted to think that bobcats still stalked the margins, watched the feeder action. (And I had just been wondering this morning where the Norway rat who'd suddenly shown up had gone to.) I marveled that the cat came in, likely having seen me out in the yard just minutes earlier. And yet it did. I marveled at everything. I wondered who had sent these incredible things to me. The show goes on, and somehow I'd been here for it.

It turned, as cats will, on a soft pivot

and solemnly bore the dove away for good.

The cat simply melted into the woods and vanished. I have gone through my many bobcat photos but I can't say I recognize this animal.

It was just a bobcat, on a cool drizzly day in March, a day that was much different than this day one year ago. A day for reflection, for grief, for missing someone so special.

How I wish he were still here to see this, to see us. I still don't understand why he had to leave.

But he has melted away, like a cat in the rain-wet woods.

The sharp-shin bent to pick the feathers off his feet, wiped his bill on the pine branch, and flew off down the orchard.

He made another pass at the feeders just before it got too dark to see, but he didn't catch anything. 

Who's That (Cat) Lady?

Sorry to make you wait for this. I got it written and then couldn't get it posted. Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.

When we last left Zick, she was on all fours at the sliding deck door, head and camera sticking out of her big warm blind of a house into crisp 22 degree air, fffreeeaaaaking out at what she'd been blessed to see this morning. 

One bobcat in the meadow had transmuted into two, and the second cat was putting on a nice greeting display, clearly pleased to meet up with Cat #1.

 

If I could be sure of anything, it was that these two animals knew each other well.

There was not a whiff of aggression at their meeting. Just pleasure, or at the very least, a friendly tolerance of each other's presence.

 

I'd call this a social yawn. It's certainly not a snarl, nor did I hear a yowl. 

Just hello, how are you? Now I'll be passing on by. I don't know if it was this next shot that made me think I was watching a female passing a male--pretty cute the way Cat 1 watches the walk-by and licks its chops. To me, that's just the aftermath of the yawn. Bill, on the other hand, to whom I always spill the hottest, freshest animal news, had this read: "He's checkin' her out."

The second cat kept walking, and the first stayed put. But Cat 2 didn't go far. Just this far. 

Cat 1 continued grooming itself, the essence of cool.

Cat 2 walked down to the border of the meadow and looked back its length.

 

then, praise the benevolent Nature Gods, it sat down. I was dying to get a face portrait of it, as I had of Cat 1.

 

This view from the deck door was a bit obscured so I jungle-crawled back to the picture window. 

And it looked right at me. Click. Gotcha, Kitty.  Now maybe I'd be able to work a little magic. Because magic is what I like best. 

Identifying individual animals is becoming an obsession of mine. It's one of my favorites.

 Look at the big dark blotches on the cheek ruff, hanging like dangly earrings to each side. That's not something every bobcat has.

We'll come back to those. 

For now, just click on the photos and luxuriate in this beautiful, beautiful wild creature, come to grace our lives. They look best embiggened, so click and go through them.

 

They were just a stone's throw away from each other. 

Cat 2 looked around. I think I like this shot best. All those doo-dads on its fur. The earrings, the bars, the spots, more bars, more spots. Can you believe this walks my field, and sits in the frosty morning light to be adored and admired? I still can't.

Cat 2

Compare with Cat 1, who has striped cheek ruffs, but no big blotches. No lower neck bars like Cat 1. What a gift it is to have a wild cat so ornate, that a Science Chimp like me can hope to tell one from another!

Cat 1

 Cat 2 dozed for a few moments, then got bored.

 

It got up, and, looking like a mini-hyena, sloped off toward the multiflora rose mess on the meadow border. 

 

 I clicked away, wanting to record every bit of it, even its south end. I wanted to keep this encounter in my files and my heart forever.

Cat 2's exit did not go unnoticed. Cat 1 hurried to get up and follow!

 

and, amazingly, the two of them took the same path into the dense woods. 

You can see Cat 2 as a dark shape in back, while Cat 1 is just entering the brush. 

 

 And with that, the show was over. I'd had Cat 1 in view from 8:03-8:07 AM, when Cat 2 arrived. And they both disappeared at 8:12:34. Nine minutes of pure bobcat-worshipping bliss. It felt like an eternity. Time seemed to stand still.

Now you understand why I leap up from the drawing board and run through the living room so many times each day, especially in the morning.
There might be something out there.
There usually is!

About that magic...It was time to look back through my photos. Here is James, from August 17, 2016.

JAMES-2016

 James is an absolutely beautiful bobcat. Heck, they all are. What jumps out at me is the large white muzzle patch beneath his pink nose. While Cat 1, below, has two small white spots there, its dark whisker tracks go all the way across to the center line. Cat 1 also has a dark crescent on its chin, and a strong midline up the forehead. James lacks these marks. No match there.

CAT 1

 Let's look at Cat 2 again.

CINDY DEC 10 2018

Well, well, well! Hello, Cindy! You look exceptionally lovely in winter fur.  

CINDY-AUG 2017

  Here you were in August 2017, and you're wearing your dangly earrings. You have the strong V on your little white chin; the flames over your eyebrows. Sidebars on your chest, too. I'm so very glad to see you again, my dear.

CINDY AUG 2017

So Cat 2 is Cindy. Who is Cat 1? 

I don't know. I looked at the only other good bobcat face shot I have, which is off the MeatCam just a few hundred yards down the meadow. It's a huge tom from March 5, 2018.

And the dual stripes on its cheek ruffs tell me it's neither James, who has a single cheekruff stripe. nor Cat 1. This cat has a much whiter muzzle than Cat 1.

 Obviously, we got us some bobcats up here, even though actual sightings are months apart. The thought gives me a delicious shiver. So does the March sunshine in this beautiful photo. Thank you, C., for loan of this camera. It is being put to good use.

Once I figured out that Cat 2 was Cindy, I assumed Cat 1 was a male. And yesterday, it hit me...On what evidence? The more I thought about it, the more I realized I had none. Assumptions are not much good in nature sleuthing.

Yes, they were happy to see each other, relaxed and traveling together. And it is December, the start of bobcat mating season. But that doesn't automatically mean these two are mates. Thinking outside the box, Cat 1 could  be Cindy's son or daughter, though I couldn't see much, if any, size difference between them. (Cindy is about 2 1/2 now; she was a yearling in 2017). And I just don't get a heavy-boned, thick-jawed tomcat feeling from Cat 1. But maybe Cindy's a bobcat cougar. 

Heh.

Much as I scrutinize the photos of Cat 1's south end, I can't see a hint of the jewels so nicely displayed in James' and Trail Cam Cat's photo. Jury's out on Cat 1's identity. The more I look at it, though, the cuter it gets. Maybe it IS Cindy's kitten!

CAT 1

But you may be sure the Science Chimp will be watching, perfectly content to get a piece of the puzzle every few months. And trying not to be led by assumptions.

And there are several months of fresh trailcam photos yet to look at, too. I put a little beef roast end out just last evening, and the camera was still firing away. 

I think it's a good bet there will be bobcats on the card when I finally find time to download it. Full-face identifiable color shots, doubtful, but hope is what it's all about.

There are not enough hours in the day to fully appreciate this place. Not even close.

 

This may be my last blogpost for awhile, but it's a doozy, so it's a good one to leave for awhile.

xo 

jz