A Coyote Primer

We were in South Lake Tahoe a few months ago and one sunny midmorning I looked up and saw a pair of coyotes casually walking down the middle of a residential street. They were a handsome pair, beautifully marked and from all appearances, well fed. They passed at a distance of 25 ft and one of them made solid eye contact with me. There was a penetrating wildness in those yellow eyes and no hint of fear or concern. Instead, I saw a calm confidence worn by an animal on his beat, not looking to cause problems, just securing the borders and ensuring all was copasetic. The coyotes weren’t in my territory. I was in theirs. It reminded me of a photo I once saw of several deer standing on a roadway in a woodland with a caption that read, “There are no deer on the road. There is a road in the forest.” 

From the time of the first European settlers we have held a sanctimonious obligation to rid the land of wild things that we deem threatening or competitive. Predators have always topped the list and the claims against them are often exaggerated, but it is nonetheless widely held that eagles take lambs, hawks and foxes take chickens, bears and wolves and lions take cattle, and coyotes take almost anything. Through the ages we have launched organized attacks against them using poisons, traps, bounties, and guns. And as many top predators were extirpated or nearly so, the coyote has not only prevailed, but thrived. Their response to control efforts was simply to have larger litters. 

A few years ago, my brother, who still lives in our hometown, called to say he’d been seeing red foxes walking the sidewalks and hearing them scream at night. He suspected a den near a creek that drifted through the heart of town. I found the report incredible until I learned that coyotes were moving into red fox rural territories and displacing them, forcing ole Reynard to find new accommodations in suburbs or even the hearts of cities. 

Perhaps no other predator has proven itself more resilient to persecution or more adaptable to ever changing habitats than coyotes. Their diets are highly opportunistic, shifting on a whim to whatever is most available and most easily obtained. Fresh meat is fine, insects are fine, as are frogs, lizards, fish, fruit, or roadkill. The number of coyotes that cause legitimate problems with domestic livestock are few, and in instances where control measures are justified, not all have to be lethal. In one study, a farmer suspecting that coyotes were killing livestock found a solution in feeding the canids scraps collected from a local butcher. Coyotes kill to eat, but only when it’s the easiest way to eat. 

The first time I heard a coyote yipping and howling was on a college field trip out west in the mid 70’s. I knew then they were expanding their range, adapting to new habitats, even drinking out of swimming pools in high rent districts of Southern California. And though their occupied areas and populations were predicted to grow, I was yet surprised when we began hearing and seeing them regularly in Indiana. They had been here a while but in low numbers, particularly in the northern half of the state, so to me they seemed out of place. They are native to the western two thirds of the US and historically associated with lands carved with dry gulches, graced with wind sheared rock, speckled with cacti— out west, where the deer and the antelope play. 

But coyotes were not to be restricted, and since the 1950’s have expanded their range by 40 percent and now occupy every state other than Hawaii. Here in the heartland it’s breeding season for canids, a time when males are preoccupied and may display behavior considered abnormal. But what is normal for a coyote? What living wild species has better demonstrated a capacity to push the boundaries of normality? 

What a wise and remarkably determined animal. A keystone predator well established in our midst, doing what keystone predators do best: maintaining balance and diversity in what remains of our wild landscapes. 

Oh give me a home where the coyotes roam 

Which is a home most anywhere today 

Because the coyote, it seems, has the wisdom and means 

To live wherever it may 

It would not be constrained to a western range 

Within borders defined on a map It would not be defeated, controlled or deleted 

By poisons or guns or traps 

So live on, wise canid, we’ll not take for granted 

The hinterland balance you bring 

And will share your delight when in stillness of night 

You raise your voice to sing.

Waning Winter

It’s three degrees down in the hole this morning but it could be the beginning of the end.  The forecast calls for a high of 37, the first above freezing temperature in weeks, and more of the same fills the 10-day.  Successive days with frigid temps are important in an ecological sense.  Life in our part of the world has adapted to deep cold and so it plays a role in everything from insect control to seed germination.  And genuine cold has a way of bonding us together even as we demonstrate independence.  Bonafide winters weave their way into our culture, get preserved in our paintings and the music and poetry we write.

Goodbye, sweet cold.

You leave with blessings untold

And memories to hold.

In the days ahead we’ll watch as roadsides of white are reduced to dirt splattered piles of slush.  Ice on the river will break apart in rising waters, pristine powder blanketing woodlands will become blotched mosaics of grey and white.  The ski trail will turn to mush.

Don't pass me by, don't make me cry, don't make me blue

'Cause you know, winter, I’ll always  love you

I really hate to see you go

You know I love the snow

Don't pass me by, don't make me cry*

Our furnace puked last night so this morning we joined a lot of Texans who are still without heat. It’s not a code red, the furnace only runs briefly on the coldest of nights after the warmth from the wood stove has waned.  There is a simplicity and reliability in a wood stove that is rare today: give it a chimney, feed it some wood, it warms.  There are no relays or computer chips, no external power requirements, and few moving parts. It just performs, and most delightfully.

It’s no fun to be cold

But worse to be hot 

Cold can be reconciled with clothes

But even with none

Hot cannot

Our driveway is on an uphill slope to the county road.  With frigid cold and a good snowpack there is suitable traction.  But as thaw comes the packed snow becomes a sheet of ice covered with a film of trickling water.  There is no standing on it, let alone driving, and we become stranded until further notice.

The snow grows thin

In an icy interim

While the world awaits 

Beyond our gate

We are stranded without skates

We skied today, early, while the track was solid and the glide long and smooth.  We moved leisurely, locking in the scene and memories of the season, marveling at the still fresh mounds of white hummocks at the creek edge, the vegetation laced with frozen mist, the smattering of animal tracks.  We took it all in, as if paying respects to a dying friend who lived not long enough.  In places, the ski track held a glare of ice from yesterday’s sunshine, and such was the case on the only downhill run on our loop.  Our skis sounded like Olympic luges as we quickly reached speeds threatening our capabilities and control grew marginal.  We remained vertical but not stylish.  It’s good there were no onlookers. 

In the spruce patch we found remains of a red shouldered hawk which had been dispatched by a great horned owl.  It was in the precise location where we had found one a few years ago during a similarly satisfying winter.  All the evidence was there: the headless carcass, the feathers strewn about, the meat picked cleanly away by something clearly lacking teeth.  We’ve had a pair of owls and a pair of red shoulders in the area for a while, but last night there was a disturbance, an interruption, and a magnificent energy transfer from one key predator to another.  

It occurred to me, out there breathing air delivered fresh from the arctic via the polar vortex, that I might inhale a bit of argon or some component of the atmosphere that had passed through the lungs of a polar bear or musk ox, and in that way was connected to the occupants of a wild and desolate place far away.  Is that the fragrance of windswept frozen tundra I detect?  And when I touch the ice on a frozen Spring Creek am I not, in that instant, tangibly linked to every great ocean and ice sheet on earth, touching the shores of every continent, traveling all the great rivers, meandering up tributaries to their trickling origins? How connected it all is, how obvious a minor disturbance affects the whole.

There once was a bear in the arctic

And the warming there made it cathartic

So we shared some argon

Found connection to build on

And together sought war against Exxon

*Credit Ringo Starr

Whimsical Winter

Atop an old utility pole next to the pond is a wood duck house with a feathered grey face peering out the entrance hole. A screech owl. Over the years almost all the boxes are used by woodies, occasionally by starlings, and rarely, owls. We take no issue with a screechy laying claim to a box. They are most welcomed. 

It was cold this morning, -9 degrees, so the recent snow is being preserved fresh as new. On the ski trail there was little evidence that much of anything has been on the move since the blizzard. A few deer tracks, but no sign of cottontails or squirrels or smaller rodents. I’m sure, under nearly a foot and a half of snow, the mice and voles are having a hay day, going about their routines, tunneling their way to food. A thick blanket of white not only provides a layer of excellent insulation but allows them to stay hidden from the sharp eyes of predators, like owls. 

I read that in winter a screech owl eats about a quarter of its body weight in food every day, which amounts to around two plump mice or four chickadees. No doubt, under current conditions birds are making up the bulk of the owl’s diet. I picture a chickadee at roost, absolutely motionless in heavy cover. Nearby, the screech owl sits on a perch, alert, scanning its territory. After a time the chickadee flicks its tail, just once, a tiny adjustment, but enough to blow its cover. The owl bobs its head, calculating its approach, then swoops in silently and discreetly for the kill. It’s tough out there, where a flick of a feather can prove fatal, where the odds of survival can rely as much on luck as strength. 

A lot of folks in Texas aren’t feeling very lucky today. Millions are without power following the storm that fed our blizzard and sent freezing temperatures all the way to the gulf. Water pipes are bursting, the electricity grid collapsing, natural gas lines failing. Cold-stunned sea turtles are being rescued by the thousands and moved to a convention center to be gradually warmed. Welcome to the Anthropocene. 

There are dozens upon dozens of birds at the feeder. In an explosive moment they flush and scatter, and a Cooper’s hawk alights nearby. A single nuthatch left behind is rock still, like a roosting chickadee. Keep that tail steady. 

Near the house, the deer sniffed out the lush rye cover crop in the vegetable garden and pawed through the snow and tore the place up not unlike a bunch of hogs. The precise outline of the garden is now easy to see. The rye will be fine, the deer found sustenance, all is well. 

On our ski-about we came across a murder of crows raising a raucous. As we neared, a great horned owl flushed and flew about 20 feet overhead, the crows in hot pursuit. Crows are known to mob owls relentlessly and in the doing they perpetuate a long held grudge, because once upon a time an owl killed a crow and crows do not forget nor forgive. 

Female great horns are very likely incubating eggs, which seems an incredibly odd thing to do in midwinter but they do it anyway. The mated pair share incubation duties or one brings food to the other at the nest. The eggs cannot be exposed to cold or left unattended for more than a few moments. On these cold, snow packed winter nights, a great horned owl must experience the same challenges as a screech owl in securing food, with small rodents being scarce on the menu. Crows, being the wizards they are, have cached food so it’s readily available. In this way they can stay well fed, full of vigor, and always ready to terrorize hungry owls for the sheer joy it brings. 

So go the days of winter, where mystery and delight and wholesome entertainment lie just beyond the window. Spring will come soon enough. Already, the lengthening days have stimulated a few birds to sing, but by most measures we are in deep winter. And just beyond earshot of political news and mutant viral strains and a host of worldly concerns, the drama of life and death in the natural world is playing out. It’s there in all seasons, but somehow commands more respect and appreciation when times are harsh, when snow is deep and ice thick and we’re wrapped in genuine cold. We’re invited to be aware and engaged, alert to a whimsical world of intrigue and balance, and see our role in it.

Waiting on a Blizzard

It’s nine degrees this morning.  Snow is falling in tiny, delicate flakes, so the entire landscape is viewed through a fine linen curtain.  It is round one of a predicted one-two punch.  This afternoon we’re to see the heavy stuff, up to two inches an hour, with gusty winds from the north.  Whiteouts and deep drifts are promised. A blizzard warning has been issued for the first time in years.

For folks outside Indiana, those downwind of the Great Lakes, those of the northern prairies, the northeast, the high mountains, such news might be met with a casual raised eyebrow.  But here in the heartland it is serious business, and everyone is consumed with hopeful anticipation, fear, or dread.

It’s a big storm, a real beauty, taking in all of Texas and streaming northeast clear to Vermont, lighting up weather maps with warnings over its entirety.  Meteorologists are orgasmic.  Climatologists see another extreme event brought on by a warming planet.  

Along the river this morning the geese are huddled in groups on the edge ice, bills tucked under wings, snow gathering on their backs, waiting.  There is feverish activity at the bird feeders.  It seems every breathing thing is on high alert, preparing, knowing.  In the coming days many wild species will be walking a thin line between finding shelter and securing food.  In the UP of Michigan, whitetail deer seek relative comfort from deep snow and cold winds in cedar lowlands, where they will sometimes starve with food being just a few yards away.  Warmth of any kind, it seems, trumps hunger when energy reserves are exhausted.

The news people say it’s an unprecedented storm, blasting records across its path.  Snow covers beaches in south Texas and is piling up on palm trees, covering shrubs in full flower.  “Unprecedented” is used a lot to describe weather these days as we see a planet shifting to a new era.  The jet stream and the polar vortex are behaving outside their norms.  Perhaps the gods of snow, Uller (Norse), or NEGAFOO (Inuit), are having their say.  It took only a portion of the global population, those of us supporting massive industry and waste, to pull off the inconceivable and alter a climate that has been millions of  years in the making, but we did it, and the real consequences of our actions are coming to light.

We skied today into a stiff north wind, our eyes narrowed by snow, our groomed trail covered with fresh powder.  The thermometer rested at 11°, and in the first mile we felt the sting of cold through our clothes. But then everything changed and we were warm, blissfully warm, and our skis floated effortlessly.

Such delightful experiences don’t happen in hurricanes, tornadoes, wildfires, or floods.  These events, while impressively powerful, leave a path of destruction, lack aesthetic appeal, and are not fun to play in.  But snow, with its lofty whiteness, its muffling quiet, its ability to bring squeals of delight from kids of all ages, stands apart.  A blizzard is just a hurried effort to transform grey landscapes to sparkling white, to put smiles on young faces.

Some of us might get snowed in, our roadways impassible.  Some will lose power, homes will grow cold, pipes will freeze.  There will be inconveniences.  But on a list of extreme weather events, none will be more gorgeous.

Of Mouse and Man

We live in an old farmhouse where resident mice are a fact of life.  Generally, they are deer mice, a species typically associated with woodlands and scrublands. As mice go, they are good looking, with sleek brown and white fur and black, beady eyes. They are at home in our home, having ready access through the crumbling mortar of a field stone foundation.  They run jubilantly to the interior, seeking out the deepest recesses, feasting and basking in relative warmth and comfort.

They are an invaluable part of the web of life, providing a necessary and abundant food source for a host of predators from snakes to raptors to coyotes.  Even within the confines of our house the mice are certain to occasionally fall prey to the fox snakes inhabiting our crawl space.  Sometimes the mice push me beyond my tolerance so I join the ranks of predator and declare war, engaging my weapon of choice: the Victor mousetrap. Open seasons vary in length and frequency, depending on the relative abundance and destructiveness of mice, and the law of diminishing returns applies, so in every proclaimed season I remain engaged until efforts no longer yield acceptable results. 

And so it was a couple weeks ago when I opened a pantry door in the basement and found a shelf fairly littered with mouse turds and the shredded package remains of more than a pound of pasta.  I deployed a line of Victors and over a period of several days the perpetrators, or at least the bulk of them, were brought to justice. The pasta was replaced and peace restored.

Then more recently I opened a desk drawer and found a quantity of uneaten niger seed piled on a notepad.  I set a Victor, baited with a dab of peanut butter and topped with niger.  It went untouched.  A couple days later a similar pile appeared on my desktop so the trap was relocated, but again ignored.  It occurred to me I was trying to attract a mouse at a cache site, a place where food was being stored for later consumption, and this mouse was not in feeding mode.   This was a new experience which, to date, has not been resolved, and the mouse remains at large.  

On our back porch is a granary of sorts containing a consistent inventory of black oil sunflower, niger, and cracked corn used to replenish bird feeders.  A virtual mouse smorgasbord. Often, when my mouse tolerance is tripped, it is there I lay the Victors, usually with favorable results.  

During this glorious and persistent winter we are cross country skiing on a daily basis.  I keep my ski boots on a rug in the office, a full 30 feet from the granary. Overnight, one of my boots was filled with a strong half cup of sunflower seed.

A study found that a deer mouse can carry about 10 grains of wheat at a time in its cheek pouches.  I would estimate a single black oil sunflower seed to be two to three times the size of a grain of wheat, so it follows that a mouse might carry four or five sunflower seeds at a time.  Through a little investigation (the type reserved for mouse researchers and those delightfully retired with abundant time on their hands) I learned there are approximately 600 sunflower seeds in a half cup, so the mouse in question could have made 150 round trips from the granary to the boot.  At 60 feet per completed trip, the total distance covered would exceed 1.7 miles.  If we give the mouse three seconds to load up, plus ten seconds round trip travel time, the half cup cache would be filled in a little over half an hour.  All of this, while impressive and interesting, does nothing to address the issue of sunflower seeds in my boot and a mouse still on the run. 

I am reminded of a time back in the day when I was a working biologist and had a client who was having a love affair with bluebirds. He had installed several nest boxes, one of which had been claimed by a house sparrow.  I had recently written an article about the aggressive nature of this exotic sparrow and how it often outcompeted bluebirds for nest sites.  My client, a retired military man with a square jaw and the demeanor of a drill sergeant, had embraced a singleness of purpose and was hell bent on terminating the sparrow.  When I met him he was dressed in full camo which appeared freshly ironed, and was describing a blind he’d built close to the birdhouse occupied by the enemy.  On multiple mornings he had taken up position in the predawn, waited patiently, but failed to meet the objective.  He relayed his experience speaking through clenched teeth.  I am unsure of the final outcome.

So it is with us and the wild species with whom we share the planet.  We establish tolerances, define limits on acceptable behaviors, implement control measures when necessary.  And sometimes we’re bamboozled, made fools by animals we consider far less intelligent.  Bravo to them.

Woodlot Woes

There’s a parcel of land between us and town that was recently sold and now has activity involving excavators and bulldozers. A woodlot occupying an acre or two came under attack and is no more.

I try to consider the motivation for such action.  Maybe the new owner felt a need to make his mark, provide evidence that the land was in new hands and is being improved.  Maybe he feels pressured to maximize profit after investing big bucks in good, tillable land.  I know nothing of him.  I’m sure he and I have things in common, things that would become obvious over some good craft beer, but I have a hunch we might differ in our attitudes towards land use.

Before wreaking havoc on the woodlot he probably considered existing timber value, but thought little of the probability of morel mushrooms or spring wildflowers.  There was probably a relatively thorough survey of mature tree species, but less than a casual glance at the understory.  There was unlikely an inventory of resident birds, an evaluation of habitat, or a value assigned to existing or potential sequestered carbon.  

Given the wooded tract was located on flat, well drained, productive soil, it seems reasonable to think it has never been cleared.  Ravaged by fire: probably, logged: yes, grazed: perhaps, but never mechanically cleared.  Good woodland converted to row crop agriculture is rarely abandoned.  The little woodlot conceivably had existed in one wild form or another for thousands of years.

Recent studies have shown convincing evidence of an amazing communication network in forest soils (and all soils, potentially).  The network is made up of mycelium, the vegetative part of fungus that appears as masses of tiny white filaments.  It’s long been understood that mycelium aids plants in nutrient absorption, but new data indicate it also allows communication between and among plants, and specific nutrients and carbon are shared as a result.  Stress is likewise communicated, so plants warn one another of potential threats and respond with appropriate defense mechanisms. When forests are logged by clearcutting, the functioning mycelium is broken down and the subsequent new generation of plants can be ravaged by disease and insects.  It’s not difficult to imagine the chaos inflicted to a soil network when bulldozers and soil conditioners enter the scene.

It’s just a side note of interest; I doubt a woodland has ever been spared out of respect for its soil mycelium.  But I wonder if the new owner would be at all impacted by our observing fewer birds over the decades as fencerows and woodlots have been cleared and habitats lost.  I wonder if there was a momentary pause to consider that only about 20 percent of Indiana’s original forests remain, that the value of woodlands has been dramatically elevated in light of climate change, or there might be some remnant of spiritual justification in just letting a piece of land be.

Recently our state senate passed a bill that withdrew protections of wetlands.  If the bill passes the house, farmers and developers can drain or fill sodden lowlands without permits in hand and without the burden of mitigating responsibilities.  The value of wetlands is solidly recognized, more so in recent years, and while they once covered 25 percent of Indiana’s land area, only four percent remain. Lawmakers nevertheless determined that private landowners will do the right thing with respect to wetland conservation without mandated guidelines.

There is widespread opposition to government regulation, but few would say we were better off when rivers caught fire, cities were choked with smog and bald eagles were endangered.  It appears we need guardrails to keep from destroying ourselves, or to destroy ourselves more slowly.  Some of us need a government scapegoat so we can save face and not look like a tree hugger or weirdo environmentalist while doing the right thing.  Most of us know, but might be slow to admit, that regulations often save us from ourselves, and in a democracy, policy reflects the preferences of society.  Or should.

Current regulations don’t forbid removal of most woodlots on private lands and ledgers don't include columns for songbirds, carbon storage or spiritual welfare.  There are no guardrails on this one.  For anyone owning woodland, the path is theirs to choose.

February 7

It was cold today.  Subzero overnight, low single digits for highs.  We picked up another shy inch of snow, the light, fluffy stuff that resembles dandelion seed.  When it’s this cold snow squeaks underfoot and offers a degree of traction even on ice.  This morning I paused for a moment on the porch to fill my lungs with cold purified air and felt a rush equivalent to a double espresso.

After a hearty breakfast we skied a couple laps around the north field and a few more on the pond perimeter.  We were dressed minimally but were toasty warm.  There were fresh tracks of otters and muskrats, squirrels and deer.  The creek froze overnight with a layer of crystalline ice.  Cold.

The afternoon was spent baking bread, preparing pizza dough, filling the wood box, feeding the stove.  Outside the sun was bright and a light wind swayed dormant grasses and remnant seed heads of hydrangea.  Birds were heavy at the feeders.  The kitchen was warm, the water pipes unfrozen, the music from the bose sweet.  With daylight fading we stepped into skis again and headed out.  It was cold, delightfully cold.  We made an extra couple laps on the pond as evening set in. We didn’t want to quit.  

The kitchen smells of fresh baked bread.  Seasoned potato wedges are ready for dipping in ketchup laced with fermented peppers.  Home canned green beans are simmering with fresh onion, juicy beef patties are flattened on searing cast iron.  Outside it’s cold, bonafide cold.  I love it so.  All of it.

Cold and COVID

Today we got our first shot of COVID vaccine and welcomed the opportunity.  My buddy, Charles, says he’ll wait awhile, it’s too early.  His hesitancy is reinforced or perhaps rooted in the counsel of his older sister, a lifelong nurse who believes the vaccine has not had enough time to be proven, its potential side effects yet unrecognized.  I try to explain that it can only work if we all participate, but my words are for naught.  He can ward off sickness with his mind, he says, and has 69 years of experience to back him up.  Such facts are not to be tampered with.

It’s ten degrees this morning, twenty in town.  Our house is in a hole, a natural frost pocket where cold settles on clear and calm winter nights.  I once ran a test and found a ten degree difference between the house and the county road up the hill.  It’s oddly satisfying being in the hole.  There is something purifying in deep cold and we welcome it, but only for short spurts.  If it lingers too long it seeps through walls and across the floor so our feet get cold and pipes freeze and the appeal is lost.  But for now it’s good, and the long term forecast says more is coming. The cross country ski trails we broke a couple days ago will be slick and fast today, so my stiff, overworked triceps need to get over it.  Exuberance awaits.

We went to grad school in the snow belt of Lake Superior where the attitude towards winter was markedly different than anything we’d experienced.  There, winter would arrive and it snowed frequently and substantially, perhaps 300 inches before the season called it quits, and life would go on through the thick of it.  There were no mad dashes to the grocery, no rush to stock up on bread and milk.  The stores would be open, the roads reasonably cleared, school would be in session.  There was a level of calm expectation and preparedness as the season arrived, where outside the snow belt there was uncertainty and apprehension.  Maybe those living further south only think they dislike snow when in fact it’s the lack of predictability and reliability that’s the problem.  Not knowing if winter will be snowy and cold makes planning more difficult and less certain.

The vaccination process was smooth and efficient.  Lee and I had appointments ten minutes apart, showed up early, and were out the door before our appointment times expired.  We’ll go back in a month to complete the process, then we wait and see if the world complies.  Finding a remedy to the virus is like every other problem— each has a solution. We needed a vaccine and developed two in record time. Then we needed to get it administered, which got off to a dismally rocky start so there are now COVID mutations and hybrids and the finish line might be moving backwards.  The virus struggles to mutate when it lacks hosts, so we need total participation. Does this not make sense, Charles?

I’m not a good skier but I get through the process so long as the turns are on fairly level ground. Today the blazed ski trail did not disappoint.  The glide was good, the kick secure.  I stopped midway and took my pulse just by being still and listening to my heartbeat.  By the end of the second lap I could feel sweat rolling down my arms.  The sun was bright, the snow covered in diamonds. There was no sound but the squeak of poles pivoting in icy snow and the swish of skis moving through a world of white. Exuberance.