Posts Tagged ‘spring’

Pasque Flower

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Wednesday, May 2nd, 2012
Wildflowers

American Pasque by Lisa Densmore

Location: Red Lodge, MT

I declare it officially spring. Of course the calendar declared the start of spring at the March equinox, but for me, it happened two days ago. While taking an early evening walk around my neighborhood, I decided to cross a dry irrigation creek split in two by a 4-foot high narrow grassy ridge. Based on its flat, well-trodden crest, the local White-tailed Deer have used it as a walkway into a clump of tall shrubs about 50 feet away. Luckily, they haven’t strayed close to the edges. Just at the point where the ridge-top goes from flat to vertical, I spied a clump of lilac-colored Pasque flowers (Pulsatilla hirsutissima or Pulsatilla patens), then another and another. What a delight!

Wildflowers

Pasque by Lisa Desnmore

This is my first spring in Montana. I had never seen a pasque flower, which is so named because it blooms around Passover and Easter. It’s also called a May Day flower for the same reason. It reminds me of an oversized version of the purple crocuses that poked their heads above the ground in my New Hampshire garden as the last crystals of snow melted into the earth, but they aren’t related. Pasque flowers are wild tundra anenomes, that blooms throughout the northwest and Alaska. It is the state flower of South Dakota. Though more than one flower stem can emerge from its woody taproot, it propagates by seed. If you look below this lavender beauty’s showy 3-inch flower, you can see its silky hairs along its short stem, which helps insulate it from the inevitable early spring cold snap.

wildflowers

American Pasque by Lisa Densmore

Pasque flowers were used by the early Blackfoot Indians to induce abortions and childbirth. Today, it is a homeopathic treatment for cataracts, but this is in the category of “don’t try this at home”. Excessive ingestion of this toxic plant can lead to heart failure. I would rather have my heart beat pick up a little whenever I see this ground hugging flower, not only for its colorful display, but also because it signals warmer weather and a greener landscape close at hand.

wildflowers

Pasque by Lisa Desnmore

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Curious, Crazy Crossbills

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Friday, April 27th, 2012

Red Crossbills by Jack Ballard

They’ve shown up in my life at odd places and times. They’ve visited my feeder when I lived in the pine-covered hills near Billings, Montana. I’ve watched them sipping droplets of melting snow from a vertical snow bank in the parking lot of Harriman State Park in Idaho. They are colorful birds and very strange.

For starters, Red Crossbills (loxia curvirostra) have a crazy bill just as their name implies. The mandibles cross over one another, giving the beak the appearance of a twist-tie tacked onto the face of a bird. Ornithologists point out that the bizarre beak of the crossbill is quite useful, aiding them in their quest for the nuts of evergreens, their primary food source.

Breeding among crossbills doesn’t follow the usual pattern of springtime mating. Rather, the birds mate when they discover a robust source of mature cones in evergreen trees. Crossbills may breed almost any time of the year, except when periods of daylight drop below 12 hours in the fall. Given an adequate cone crop, breeding may resume as early as January, or about the time days lengthen to more than 10 hours.

Eight different sub-species or “races” of crossbills have been identified north of the Mexico border, distinct populations differentiated by various flight calls. Birds from separate flight call races do not normally breed with each other, maintaining a high degree of genetic isolation between the various flight call sub-sets. Male crossbills have reddish plumage while females sport more yellowish or olive tones. Sightings of these curious birds are as transient as the cone crops they follow, making it ever a treat to set eyes on a crossbill.

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Catkins on Aspens

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Wednesday, April 18th, 2012

Catkins on a Quaking Aspen by Lisa Densmore

Location: Red Lodge, MT

I always smile at the thought of catkins, one of the sure signs of spring. These delicate two-inch fingers hang from every branch of the Quaking Aspens by my deck, but they don’t last long. I noticed the whitish bits of fluff on Monday. By Friday, the few that remained clung to sporadic twigs like dry, shriveled worms.

A catkin, also called an ament, is actually a skinny, gracefully drooping flower cluster with either very tiny or no visible petals. Its name comes from the Dutch word, katteken, which means kitten’s tail. They look like the tail of a miniature kitty and often feel as soft.

Many trees and shrubs bear catkins in the spring, including birch, alder, willow and hickory, though not all catkins arch downward. In some plants, only the male flowers cluster in catkins (the drooping kind). Others have female catkins, which are usually smaller, rounder, upright and turn into nuts later in the year. In yet others, such as Quaking Aspens, both male and female flowers are in catkins.

Aspen trees are “dioecious”, which means each tree is either male or female, unlike most trees, which are “monoecious” (both sexes occur on the same tree). Both male and female aspens produce catkins in early spring before leafing out. Pollinated female catkins release microscopic hairy seeds in early summer weighing about 1/10,000th gram. If the wind doesn’t quickly deposit the seed on a moist spot with favorable soil and weather conditions – pretty low odds in the Rocky Mountains – it won’t germinate. That’s okay. Aspens propagate mainly by growing new shoots off their root systems.

Do you know other species that proliferate in multiple ways?

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Too Warm, Too Soon

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Tuesday, April 3rd, 2012

Brown Trout by Jack Ballard

By now the record-breaking warm temperatures of March is old news. By March 22 over 6,000 record highs were toppled across the United States for the month, 710 falling in a single day. Here in the northern Rockies we didn’t see quite as dramatically hot temperatures as in the Midwest or the East. Nonetheless, daytime high temperatures ranged from 10 to 20 degrees higher than average for March.

Golfers, anglers, joggers and tennis players are loving it. Evidently migrating birds are too. By early March I’d spotted my first bluebirds and meadowlarks. Red-winged Blackbirds came even earlier.

Red-winged Blackbird, adult male© Greg Lasley/VIREO

Those birds, like humans, may be living with a false sense of security. A quick look at record low temperatures for my home town of Red Lodge, Montana, reveals it can still plunge below zero (F) well into April. Such a devastating cold snap could have dire consequences for small songbirds and the budding trees whose sap is already running freely.

But thus far, the most troubling aspect of the unseasonably warm temperatures involves the snowpack. With nights barely reaching freezing or not creating frost at all, the snow banks around town have all but disappeared. The mountain snowpack is diminishing as well, something that generally doesn’t occur for another couple of months. If the snow goes early, mid to late summer may see little water in the creeks and rivers. The rainbow, brook, brown and cutthroat trout of Montana’s rivers are particularly vulnerable to low water. Less water in the streambed means what’s left is warmer. In years of low flow, the water can become so warm as to become lethal to trout.

In reality, it’s too early to worry. April and May can bring substantial snow to the high country. Everything might turn out fine, but I’m guessing the trout have their fins crossed.

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Recalling a Curlew

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Friday, April 29th, 2011


Among the small delights of spring are all the firsts, the initial sightings of various migratory birds: first robin, first red-winged blackbird, first meadowlark. Driving home a few evenings ago, I spotted another first — my first long-billed curlew of the season.

Curlews aren’t uncommon to the foothills of south-central Montana, but they’re not one of the regular residents, either. I’m always delighted to spy a curlew. Every sighting of one of these winsome wanderers of the grasslands triggers a singular memory.

It was a warm evening in late June. I rode in the back of the pickup with a mongrel dog and my younger sister. The shadows were long on a gently waving sea of emerald grasses. Black angus cows grazed placidly in the pasture. At the wheel of the pickup my dad steered slowly through the herd, assessing the animals’ health, but mostly, I think, enjoying one of those serene, soulful moments that made the long hours and short wages of ranch life worthwhile.

Suddenly, two birds erupted from the grass in front of the bumper. “Curlee, curlew” came their calls from beaks the length of which I’d never seen on any feathered creature. The pair flew eastward for a short distance, then banked and came swooping back over the pickup so close it seemed I might reach up and pluck one from the sky.

The memory of those buff, mottled forms is still as sharp and salient as it was on that magical evening nearly four decades ago. It’s shaping up to be a good summer. I’ve already spied a curlew.

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Handsome and Hairy Harbingers

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Wednesday, April 20th, 2011


We all have our waymarks that guide us through the seasons. For me, one sure sign that winter is fading is the appearance of Bombylius bee flies in sunny woodland patches. I’m not the only one: early western entomologist Frank Cole described them as the “hairy and handsome harbingers of spring.”

The Bombylius I watch for is Bombylius major, the Greater Bee Fly. They look like little plush toys, with a long, thin, proboscis. They are common across North America and also occur in Eurasia. Their early spring activity is timed to coincide with that of solitary bees, such as those in the genus Andrena. As adults, Bombylius feed on nectar by hovering over early spring flowers. But their larvae are parasites in the nests of solitary bees, feeding on the food stores and larvae of the hosts.

Thus, one sees adults Bombylius prospecting for the burrows of solitary bees before the holes are sealed up. I’ve watched them searching for burrows, investigating what I presume must be likely-looking (from a bee fly’s point of view) holes, the forceful breeze from their wings tossing and scattering grains of soil as if a tiny tornado was attacking a square-inch patch of ground. It would seem most straightforward if Ms. Bombylius just went directly into the nest burrow, but I suppose that the hosts have all sorts of defenses against such an intrusion. Instead, the female Bombylius hovers over the hole and flicks her eggs inside. Females of many bee fly species pack sand grains into a special abdominal chamber so that they stick to her eggs. Presumably this gives them heft or prevents dessication.

Other bee flies in the Bombyliidae family occur throughout the spring and summer. Many are parasites on bees like Bombylius major, others target grasshoppers, tiger beetles, moths, or other insects. Some bee flies are very convincing bee mimics and all, to me, are fascinating!

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Au Revoir, My Friends

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Tuesday, March 29th, 2011


A second winter of feeding the local turkeys is near its end. The spring hunt begins on April 9th and continues through the end of May. If the hunt doesn’t scatter them the primal call to breed and nest will soon irresistibly send them up into the surrounding hills. They won’t go far, but go they will. We hoped that the offer of free corn would keep them around last summer. We were utterly disappointed.

Still, two days ago I re-filled the feeder with 250 pounds of corn. I also spread another fifty pounds on the ground but there’s no trace of it today. There is such a thing as a free lunch and the turkeys take advantage of it while they can.

It’s a blustery March afternoon, too warm to be Winter, too cold to be Spring. It snowed half-heartedly last night but all that fell has melted, leaving the ground damp and cold. The skies look as though they’d like to try again but haven’t the energy to do anything more than threaten. The sun is barely visible through the clouds and will drop below the west rim of the canyon in less than an hour. A northern flicker whinnies and drums atop a tree that stands on the banks of the creek. Magpies squawk back and forth to each other from the oak brush. A robin calls, house finches sing, a pair of ravens fly silently overhead, but the turkeys are quiet and not to be seen.

I walk to the barn, remove a fifty pound bag of corn from the tack shed, slit a long gash in it and then heave it over my shoulder, leaving a trail of corn where ever I wander. I throw the empty bag in the back of my truck, walk to the feeder and activate it. The feeder makes a noise the turkeys well know and they respond promptly. Nearly two dozen birds emerge from the brush along the creek and sprint across the pasture to the feeding ground. I know there are more but they make me wait. Turkeys are remarkably bright but seem to be very much creatures of habit.

At 6:30 p.m. the feeder begins the first of its three scheduled evening broadcasts. Chaos erupts. A horde of turkeys emerge from the creek bottom, dozens more whoosh in from the east, and a multitude of the birds scamper through the oak brush, down the steep hillside to the west. This west-hill group seems to have the largest toms. Based on the length of their beards and the size of their spurs, some of these males are at least four years old. I marvel, thinking of the hunts they’ve survived, of the winters they’ve endured. Most of the birds, male and female alike, are content to eat but one of the toms begins to strut, and then another. It’s too dark to use my camera but I refuse to let the laws of physics deter me. I do not know if the birds will remain when I next return. I want photographs as well as memories. The birds are many and they devour everything: all of the corn thrown by the feeder, all of the corn I dropped from the bag, any stray kernels that might have been missed from earlier feedings, heaven only knows how. I watch them wander away, through the growing gloom, and I wonder which of these birds and how many will return in November, when food again becomes scarce and winter again lays claim to the canyon.

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Posted in Entries by Lu Giddings | 1 Comment »

Red-winged Blackbirds: First Sign of Spring in Northern New England

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Thursday, March 24th, 2011


There are many signs of spring that excite people here in northern New England. But perhaps the best sign in the bird world is male Red-winged Blackbirds. Each spring in March when I hear that first male calling in singing from the brown cattails around the pond I get terribly excited. For several days each year the Red-winged Blackbird, a very common bird, become my crown jewel. Males always arrive ahead of the females, trying to stake out the best territories to defend so they can attract the best females.

Spring arrival dates over many years and a broad geographic range can be great way for us to track and understand potential climatic effects on bird migration. For example, from 1960 to 2002 Kathleen Anderson recorded the first date each spring that migrating birds were seen on her property. Researchers at Boston University wanted to find out if a naturalist’s diary could be valuable for detecting potential changes in phenological events like spring migration.

For over 50 years Anderson has lived on a 100-acre farm just south of Boston. Everyday she is on her farm she records the birds, flowering plants, butterflies and amphibian choruses she encountered. Her observations were not systematic, but gathered as she enjoyed a walk or simply from the back porch.

Five bird species showed significantly earlier arrival dates including, Wood Duck, Ruby-throated Hummingbird, House Wren, Ovenbird, and Chipping Sparrow. The strongest trend was for Wood Ducks, which arrived on average 32 days earlier than they did when Anderson first began recording her sightings. Hummingbirds arrived 18 days earlier. Redwings arrived about 2.5 days earlier. Overall, 22 of the 24 species they examined showed trends toward earlier spring activity, an overall average of 8 days earlier.

A few years ago John Simpson gave me nearly 40 years of daily bird records that his late mother, Nancy Simpson, dutifully kept each day at her house in southern Vermont. I took a look at Red-winged Blackbird arrival dates from 1966 to 2004 in her bird diary. From 1966 to 1990 there was a trend toward earlier arrival dates at her house. Then, from 1990-2004 the trend changes to a later arrival time.

Redwings also have advanced their nesting times. An examination of nearly 5,000 nest records from across North America collected from 1951 to 2000 show that females are laying eggs 7.5 days earlier over the 50-year period.

This year, with record-breaking snows in Vermont, I saw my first red-winged blackbird a bit later than the past few years, March 10th. I saw the first one on March 7th in both 2009 and 2010. In 2008, another very snowy year, they didn’t arrive until March 11th. Someday perhaps my annual records will shed more light on the marvels of bird migration.

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Ancient Iris

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Wednesday, March 16th, 2011


Reaching for the sky
Messages grow on the wind.
Earth connects with heaven
So tells my observations and the ancient wisdom of old. This flower had many uses including medicine made from its rhizomes, cordage made from its leaves and symbols created from the flower’s influence over the soul and mind. This plant’s name comes from the Greek word “iris” for rainbow, owing to the many colors of flowers found in this genus. No surprise, finding that the flower is associated with the Greek goddess, Iris, who was associated with evaporation as well as messages that could be heard between the two “worlds” of water and clouds. This particular iris, our Florida native, iris hexagona, is found during our dry period, along the fresh water edges of creeks, ponds and swamps that always retain some amount of dampness year round. Its bright green leaves herald our early spring while bird watching distracts me long enough to be surprised when I see them bloom. Its’ bloom is mesmerizing. Looking for the recognizable parts of a simple flower, I see instead flower parts that come in threes: three blue falls (sepals) with a yellow splash called a signal because it indicates the direction a pollinator takes to find the prized nectar; three purple style arms supporting three flared blue style crests; and, three blue and white standards (upright petals). This flower is said to have inspired the Fleur de Lis and is often seen as symbolic of wisdom, faith and hope. In southwest Florida when this monocot starts blooming you know that the pace of growth has quickened. So if you can avoid the hay fever from the oaks, pines and palms, enjoy the light flowery fragrance and listen to the messages of spring!

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