I am still “coasting” from my week at Bluebell Springs.  It had been such a long time since I had the opportunity to put myself into a virtual wilderness setting that I almost forgot what a joy it is to observe close up the work that God’s creatures are carrying on every minute of every day while we putter around in our cars from work to home to the store  to restaurants and to whatever else we do.  While I am back in the office, a part of me is still celebrating the wonder of creation in that special place.

I was especially taken by the birds this time.  Two families of geese with goslings born two weeks apart were fattening up on the lawn and on the special treats Jim tosses out each evening—so he and Bev can watch the fascinating interactions among the geese, the ravens, the Steller’s jays, the cowbirds, the red-winged blackbirds, and the sparrows as they compete for food.  A family of mallards has also taken up residence in their refuge too—drawing the attention of a mink that has been drooling over the ducklings.  Eagles patrol the shoreline as well, but none came in for a meal of tender bird flesh while I was there. Fortunately the goslings are all big enough to be almost beyond the capacity of raptors to handle—besides being diligently guarded by very protective parents.  Jim and Bev feel they could almost write a book now on goose parenting, by which they have been profoundly impressed.

The swallows, however, drew my attention the most.  Two species have found a home at Bluebell Springs: the violet-green swallow and the barn swallow.  They do not know where the violet-greens are nesting, but there is no doubt where the barn swallows are nesting: all over their buildings.  Jim has to keep washing off the mud daubs near their windows since they learned the hard way how easily bird lice will migrate to humans as soon as the birds have fledged.  He has given them the upper reaches, however, so that a number of families now claim Bluebell Springs as home.  And “claim” is the right word.  You do not claim them as your birds; they claim you as their humans.  One evening my brother and I were looking out of two adjacent windows at a barn swallow perched on the roof hardly four feet from our faces.  And it was looking back and forth at each of us with trusting eyes that seemed to say, “Aren’t we all having a great time?”  When Jim went out with his John Deere or I took my car down the beach road we were both accompanied by the swallows feeling as though we were direct descendants of St. Francis.  Ostensibly they were hunting bugs, but it was fairly apparent that they were playing with us, and enjoying it immensely.

In the morning and evening, the blacktail deer joined the birds in celebration of life at Bluebell Springs.  And at the close of dusk, the swallows perched and allowed the bats to take over the night shift of clearing insects out of the air and from the surface of the pond.  Winged life that clearly did not find this place a refuge was insect life!  This fact was highlighted one evening when a foolhardy dragonfly came in to “harvest” bugs with the birds.  It was too big for the swallows, but the red-winged blackbirds knew a tasty treat when they saw it.  Two of them went up like fighter interceptors and then fluttered in the air like ungainly hummingbirds trying to pick it out of the sky.  To the dragonfly’s great relief, it had the speed and agility to manage an escape and a rapid retreat into the firs, hemlocks, and cedars of the surrounding forest.

My experience at Bluebell Springs was a feast for the eyes—and the soul.

See you outdoors!

Dean

Sunday I put up two hummingbird feeders—motivated by the discovery that hummingbirds were visiting the patch of catmint in the center of the cul-de-sac in front of our condo.  We don’t see them often around our place, which, because of the abundance of shade, is devoid of flowers.  And, frankly, Michigan is not the hummingbird capital of the world.  East of the Mississippi, there is only one type: the ruby throat.

When we lived in Southern California several years ago, we were spoiled: we’d typically draw six different species to our feeders: Anna’s, Allen’s, Costa’s, Rufous, Calliope, and Black-chinned.  And they were royal entertainment.

In order to be generous, we hung two feeders on the opposite sides of a long patio overhang.  That’s when we discovered the ungenerous nature of these delicate creatures: they don’t like to share if they can help it.  I guess it’s in the genes that when hummers discover a source of food, they stake their claim to it and then spend hours every day chasing away other birds—even, or maybe especially, “birds of a feather.”  Some tried to claim both feeders and raced back and forth each chasing off the “owner” of the other.  We would spend much leisure time watching these wars—often commenting that they would not have to take in so much nectar if they learned to live at peace with each other.

I was surprised one day when I was taking down a feeder to refill it.  One of the brazen little birds came and hovered up to within six inches of my nose, seeming to say “take your hands off my food, buster!”  I could have easily snuffed out its proud little life but instead laughed at its audacity.

Then I realized how much this was like people getting into the face of God, angry at being deprived of that they consider theirs—not seeming to have a clue that without God they would have nothing.  That the bird didn’t understand that a temporary loss would ultimately be gain was also like people and God.  Isn’t it a wonder also that God tolerates our pride and audacity?

Our heavenly Father often takes things away from us in order to give us more—or perhaps end a dependency that’s ultimately harmful for us.  Maybe it’s His way of moving us on to some other area of service.  One thing is sure: we can trust our loving Father to do what is right, even if we don’t understand the way He takes.  It is good to be reminded of this by reading again the words of the prophet Isaiah:

Isaiah 55:6-11. Seek the Lord while He may be found, call upon Him while He is near; let the wicked forsake their way, and the unrighteous their thoughts; let them return to the Lord, that He may have mercy on them, and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon. For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways, says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts.”

See you outdoors!

Dean

Friday was the third of a short string of sunny warm days which came to an end today:  our April showers have returned.  But I was able to get outside and experience some of the wonders of early spring in our neck of the woods.  One of the most dynamic of the spring things is the mating and nesting activity of the birds.  I have three nest boxes in our Juneberry tree, one of which is a gourd that has been claimed by a pair of chickadees.

Since the chickadee is my favorite backyard bird, I’m happy about their moving in.  I like their joie de vivre: their obvious zest for living.  They are so tiny and vulnerable that you’d think they’d live with a dread sense of jeopardy—always looking over their shoulder for danger.  Instead they are filled with a curiosity and boldness that amazes me.  It’s like they have said to themselves, “Ain’t nothing we can do about being small and easy targets; so there’s no sense in wasting life in a state of worry.  If we die, we die; so let’s live life with gusto.”

So Friday I was standing at my potting table getting things ready for spring and gently “pishing” to see if I could catch the attention of any and all nearby birds.  Pishing is a trick birders have used for years to call birds to them, but no one seems to know where the practice came from.  Its typical form is like hissing “Shhh” with a P in front of it.  A variation is the sound you make when you want to call someone to you to tell them a secret: “Pssst.”  It can be loud or soft.  Loud, it must sound like a bird in distress.  Soft, it seems to raise curiosity.  No one, of course, knows exactly why it works.  If you want to read about it and other forms of calling birds, pick up the book The Art of Pishing by Pete Dunne and published by Stackpole Books.  It highlights several ways of attracting birds by mimicking their calls.  On the cover are the photos of two birds: the chickadee and the tufted titmouse.  These two just can’t seem to ignore pishing.  One spring I did the call loudly in my old orchard—while concealed in a tall bush.  Within five minutes, ten different species of birds had come to check it out—including, to my delight, a brilliant yellow warbler.

As I was working and pishing softly, it was hardly a minute before my pair of chickadees came over for a visit.  One alighted on the corner of the potting table about three feet from my elbow.  The other perched on a branch about four feet above my head.  In response to the sound they tip their heads much like a dog does when it hears an unusual sound.

Later in the day, I decided to take a walk in the woods to check on the progress of spring.  Our church sits on a piece of land that was once a mature woodlot.  Much of the woodland remains, but since we are fairly new to this church, I had never walked the woods before.  My stroll was a joy, with new-life discoveries every few feet.  Trout lilies (adder’s tongue) were coming up in profusion, and patches of brilliant white bloodroot and the smaller Canada anemone could be spotted at a significant distance.  Spring beauties were everywhere.  And there were also some large patches of wild leek, the broad leaves of which provided the first swatches of green on the brown forest floor.

Birdlife was abundant and loud.  Above a vernal pool echoing with the sounds of spring peepers and chorus frogs, a large congregation of common grackles had found a number of nest holes, and the whole group was squeaking and crawking like a dozen garden gates in need of oiling.  Walking away from that cacophony, I was able to pick up the territorial call of a tufted titmouse.  It sounds like the typical whistle you make when calling a dog, only slower and with two or three notes instead of four.  It is an easy call to mimic.  And the titmouse does not like to be mimicked!  Within a few minutes, he was in a tree straight over my head.  Not only was he scolding me, he was fluttering his wings to let me, his supposed rival, know that I was encroaching on his territory.

These sorts of outdoor delights come only once a year, and I enjoyed them to the full.  The experience has energized my entire weekend.

See you outdoors,

Dean

When I left for Northern Ontario a week ago, it was unusually cold.  And by the time I was a hundred miles into my five-hundred-mile trip, it was snowing.  Yet some bird signs of spring were there: mostly male red-winged blackbirds already at their post over their chosen nesting sites—and looking a bit harried by winds that were throwing single-digit wind chills at them.  The stiff winds also made the four-mile drive over the Mackinac Bridge a bit of an adventure.

Here and there a few geese and ducks had already separated from their migratory flocks into pairs—or even flying alone looking for a mate.  These lone waterfowl were certainly drakes or ganders, since the females are definitely NOT alone at this time of the year!  Not a single robin was yet to be seen

But, man, what a difference the big weekend warm-up made!  The most obvious spring bird sign along the still snowy verges of the northern highways on my way home was hungry crows and ravens who were feasting on the carcasses of deer and other road kill the warm-up was gradually revealing and thawing.  Deer that had survived the heavy snow and the hunting season were converging in large herds on fields of emerging corn stubble and meadow grasses.

By the time Tuesday morning came around it seemed as though spring was “busting out all over.”  Robins were already working the lawns in spite of the fact that the worms were still several inches below the surface struggling to get up through the recently frozen sod.  A row of crabapple trees was being relieved of its old fruit by a large flock of cedar waxwings and a lone male bluebird was heading into the old orchard to pick out one of its many nest holes.

In fact, some of the gnarly old apple trees have been incorporated into the landscape of a golf course and a couple commercial buildings.  So the country club is amiably shared in spring and summer by golfers and bluebirds.  In the fall, however, the sharing is not as amiable: dozens of geese, many of them newly matured goslings, grazing on the grass, pecking at fallen apples, and creating unplanned golfing hazards.

This morning, though chilly again, the birds were still active—especially the male cardinals singing and bragging on the tree tops or chasing each other around and through the bushes and shrubbery.  And the robins too are staking their nesting claims in the orchard, which will be a virtual bird nursery in another month: brown thrashers, goldfinches, yellow warblers, chickadees, mourning doves, song sparrows, cardinals, and robins.

I will be sorry when this tiny urban “wilderness” is finally sold off and developed.

See you outdoors!

Dean

“I’ll bet there are a hundred good hiking sticks in that patch of woods.”
“Look along the fencerows there; it looks like the red-winged blackbirds are back.”
“Boy, those blue jays are really in a dogfight with that hawk.”
“That blazing red maple sure makes a pretty picture against that white barn, doesn’t it?”

My statements like this as driver of our car got me grounded by my wife.  They convinced her that my AFD is getting worse.  My “Attention Fixation Disorder” really doesn’t bother me, but Marge has come to the opinion that the disorder is not good and could even be terminal—for both of us.  “I have an idea,” she said, “why don’t you let me drive so you can watch nature.”

Actually, I soon found that to be a very good idea, especially in the spring when the outdoors comes back to life here in West Michigan.  Did you know that the male red-winged blackbirds come north up to three weeks before the females?  They do that in order to find, claim, and fight for the best nesting areas—ones near water and preferably occupied by dense clumps of cattails.

So in late March, the red-wing fights begin.  The striking males with their bright shoulder patch of red and yellow stake out their claims with loud songs and then fight anything that approaches their claim be it other males, crows, hawks, or humans. Since being a tease was handed down to me by my father, I sometimes like to bug these territorial males by making a move across their unmarked boundary lines just to see how aggressive they might become.  And let me tell you, once the females arrive, you can be sure your approach will be duly noted, protested loudly, and attended with skydives that stop about six feet short of your head.

Cold northern winters keep my disorder somewhat in remission; but come March, twinges of it begin to turn my head away from the potholes in the street and hard-packed ice still laying skid traps on the road.  Which are the very things Marge believes I should be giving my attention to.  But AFD is a hard taskmaster, and when it wants to attend to something, it will.  So about the time the red-winged blackbirds return, my AFD returns as well.

Marge and I have learned to cope with it pretty well, I think: when wild nature comes into view through the car windows and my attention begins to fixate on its many facets, I simply allow her to drive.  Because she is a good driver, we can both relax.  She watches the road, and my gaze can stay fixed on the wispy cirrus clouds overhead, the deer grazing at the edge of a bean field, or a red-tailed hawk dodging crows near the horizon.  Comments from the seat beside me about a Hummer behind being too close to our rear or the woman ahead who apparently does not have plans for the day are usually not enough to keep me from fixating on those parts of the natural landscape that always fill me with a sense of wonder.

See you outdoors!

Dean