A Northwoods Almanac for 3/15/19

A Northwoods Almanac for 3/15-28, 2019 

March – The Trickster

            Native Americans often refer to the coyote as “the trickster” for its ability

to teach through ways that aren’t straightforward, often using trickery to deliver its message. One Native American resource says this: “Don’t be fooled by the coyote’s way: . . . there’s a hidden wisdom for you to reap. Be aware of the roundabout ways of the coyote totem and its teachings.”

            I suspect – well, I know – we could apply the “trickster” label to the month of March as well. I can’t think of any other month that plays more with the weather, often tricking us into thinking spring is coming only to then hammer us with snow and cold. It’s an emotional roller coaster, a yo-yo like journey through the days leading to the real-deal of spring.

At the same time, I think there’s some wisdom, some teachings we’re meant to absorb through all this capriciousness. Hal Borland in his book Sundial of the Seasonssays this about March:“There is a succession in the days, now, that quickens the human heart. Whether they are gusty days or days of calm, chill days or days of deepening warmth, they have the air of change. No twodays are alike . . . But the very indecision is itself the mark of change . . . Growth is there in the earth, at the grass roots, at the twig ends. The green world is waiting, already in the making where the mysterious chemistry of sap andchlorophyll has its origins. And the heart responds, already sensing the seedling, the new shoot,the Summer's dappled shade.”                        

Spring is indeed in the air. Red-winged blackbirds and American robins almost always appear in Manitowish around spring equinox, even if the snow is deep and the wind biting. Eagles are busy rebuilding nests, ready to lay eggs usually by the end of the month. Male ravens are displaying to females; bowing and spreading their wings and tail, making gurgling or choking sounds, and snapping their bill. In flight, they dive and roll, makinghalf-rolls onto their back, but occasionally making full rolls and even double rolls. 

Mammals, too, are mating, from squirrels to muskrats to otters to bobcats.

So, March, the changeling, lives to propel change. It speculates and gambles every day with creating new life, veers, vacillates, fakes us out, but inexorably shifts the world into new life. And it’s all there to see if we look for what it offers. 

We humans usually don’t like change, but March swirls it all around us. Perhaps the lesson every year is to accept it as a symbol of all life, which ultimately is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and often beyond our comprehension.

Porcupine Wins Again 

On a recent ski outing, Rainy, my sister-in-law’s young Australian shepherd, decided to try her first taste of porcupine. We heard a yelp ahead of us, and she came running back around a corner, mouth and chest full of quills, in pain, and with complete confusion and fear in her eyes. I held her tight and Mary started pulling the quills as fast as she could. Rainy yelped with each one extruded, and with the worst embedded ones, literally screamed. Our Australian shepherd, Zoe, who was also along, “helped out” by empathetically joining in the choir, crying, too, with every quill removed. 

Forty or so quills later, and with some we just couldn’t reach under her right shoulder, we knew we had to get her to a vet. So, holding her right foreleg out to her side, she limped on three legs over a mile back to the parking lot, lagging behind us even when we were skiing as slowly as we could.

After finally reaching the car, we had her to the vet in Minocqua forty-five minutes later, where she was sedated and the rest of the quills were removed.

It was traumatic, as we know it’s been for so many others whose dogs failed to transfer the essential DNA trait of “Porcupine = BAD”. 

Over all the years we’ve had dogs, three others also attempted a porcupine snack and found it not only wanting, since they got none at all, but also shocking.

            Porcupine quills are exquisite little daggers. Each quill is adorned with between 700 and 800 barbs along the 4 millimeters or so nearest its tipfor instant burrowing into the victim’s body. The quills, stiff, thick and hollow with a spongy interior,number in the tens of thousands and cover every inch of a porkie’s body, with the exception of its face, belly, and the undersides of its limbs and tail. Excellent swimmers, the air-filled quills help keep porcupines afloat, and also, I suspect, provide excellent insulating winter warmth. 

Porcupines aren’t looking for a fight with dogs or anyone else, and go to some lengths to deter an attack. If an attacker approaches, a porcupine hunkers down with its head away from the danger,erects its quills, and then broadcasts a unique and very pungent warning odor from a patch of skin called the rosette on its lower back. If a predator has ever encountered a porcupine before, the odor is intended to trigger a retreat (I hope Rainy reads this). And since smells constitute a rich language for most mammals, one would think dogs would read the signs.

 The quills also contain a fluorescent material that brightens the quills at night when the most predators are afoot, adding an additional warning sign. 

These evolutionary adaptations help ensure a safe infancy and relatively long life for the adult. One radio-tagged female in New York’s Catskills, for example, lived for twenty-one years.

Fishers are the primary predator of porcupines in our area, but quills have been found embedded in coyotes, cougars, bobcats, foxes, lynxes, bears, wolves and even great horned owls. These predators kill a porcupine by biting its unprotected face or by somehow flipping it over to expose the vulnerable belly. 

A study of a porcupine population in the Great Basin desert of Nevada reported what happened when a single mountain lion started preying on porcupines. In a 3-year period, the population plummeted from 82 porcupines to just 5. Apparently, instead of avoiding the quills, mountain lions eat the porcupines whole (can you imagine?), and accept the consequences. Mountain lions autopsied in Oregon routinely showed quill tips embedded in their gums.

Rainy is doing fine now, but we wonder what her next encounter with a porkie will engender – fear (please!) or an attempt at revenge.

Sightings

Debbie and Randy Augustinak in Land O’ Lakes have three pairs of pine grosbeaks at their feeders. 

This is worth noting because pine grosbeaks continue to be a rare sighting this winter. We had three females/juveniles visit our crabapple trees on 3/2, but they only stayed a short while, and then were off to a better restaurant. A few days later we found the remains of a bird, likely a mourning dove, near one of our feeders. So, we clearly have a predator somewhere in the vicinity which may be limiting our songbird visitors. I get it. I, too, tend not to eat at places where I’m worrying something will eat me.

Cherie Smith sent a photo on 3/8 of a saw-whet owl sunning itself in her Lake Tomahawk backyard. She noted, “And were the chickadees and nuthatches harassing him! I’m hoping he was just taking advantage of the sun’s warmth and not sick or starving because of this terrible snow depth.”

photo by Cherie Smith

Kay Rhyner sent a photo of an all-white gray squirrel in her Hazelhurst area backyard. That gives her the trifecta for color variations in gray squirrels – she has black, gray, and now white.

photo by Kay Rhyner

Howard P forwarded a photo of a gray jay that has been frequenting his yard in Minocqua. These days, gray jays are very hard to come by in our area. They seem to be retreating further north where the winters are more consistently very cold, a necessity given how they store food in the fall for eating throughout the winter. 

Finally, Bev Engstrom in Rhinelander won an international award for her photo of a female cardinal – a very well-deserved congratulations to Bev! 

Website!

Mary came across a website that provides the latest sightings, along with pictures, of birds seen at hotspots around the country – check it out! https://www.waxwingeco.com/index.php

Celestial Events

            The BIG upcoming celestial event is, of course, spring or vernal equinox on 3/20. The day seldom has anything to do with the arrival of spring in the Northwoods, but it does signify the shift from 6 months of longer nights than days to now 6 months of longer days than nights, and that’s very, very welcome indeed! The sun will rise in the due east today and be directly above the equator.

            March 20^thalso marks the full moon – the sap/crust on snow/crow moon. Woody Hagge notes in his 46 years of keeping ice data on Foster Lake in Hazelhurst that this is the earliest date for ice-off he has ever recorded, occurring in 2012. 

Somehow I doubt we’ll equal that record this spring.

            On 3/26, look before dawn for Jupiter about two degrees below the waning gibbous moon. 

Thought for the Week

            “Above all, do not lose your desire to walk: Every day I walk myself into a state of well-being and walk away from every illness; I have walked myself into my best thoughts.” – Soren Kierkegaard

A Northwoods Almanac for March 1 - 14, 2019

A Northwoods Almanac for March 1 – 14, 2019  

Depth and Character of Snow

            Shoveling roofs has been the exercise du jour of the last few weeks. If anyone had any illusions about how deep the snow was, the shoveling cured all of that. What I learned up on our roof was that the snow had four layers – an initial ice layer on the shingles, a several-inch layer of compressed snow on top of that, a layer of thick ice on top of that, and then 24 inches or more of lighter snow – the icing on the cake. Undoubtedly, chiropractors have found themselves in heavy demand this week, as have couches for splaying upon after total exhaustion has set in.

shoveling the roof got much easier on 2/24

            Yesterday, 2/24, we were blessed with another foot or more of snow, and I’m now lowering my eyes whenever I walk around my house so as to avoid seeing the roof. Ignoring the issue always solves it, right? We snowshoed today, 2/25, breaking trail, and it was way more work than it was fun.

            Deep snow is either a curse or a blessing for wildlife. For animals outfitted with enormous feet well out of proportion to the rest of their body – think snowshoe hare, lynx, and caribou – the depth of snow serves to slow down their predators and/or their prey while seldom hindering them at all. These animals were made for snow.

The ability of an animal to basically float on the snow surface is determined by the efficiency of their foot-surface-to-body-weight ratio. A lightweight animal with big feet is well-adapted to deep snow. Compare a cottontail rabbit to a snowshoe hare, for example. A cottontail’s hind foot is 3 inches long and 1 inch wide, while a snowshoe’s hind foot is 5 inches long and 3 ¾ inches wide. A bobcat’s front foot (a cat’s front foot is larger than its hind foot) is 2 inches long and 2 inches wide, while a lynx’s is 3 ¾ inches long and 3 ¾ inches wide – nearly twice the size of a bobcat’s. A coyote’s front foot is 2 ½ inches long and 2 1/8 inches wide, while a timber wolf’s front foot is 4 ¾ inches long and 4 inches wide, nearly twice the size of a coyote’s. Caribou have large circular and spreading front hooves that are 3 ½ inches long and 3 ¾ inches wide compared to a white-tailed deer’s front hooves which are 3 inches long and 1 7/8 inches wide. For deer, the rule of thumb is that if snow reaches 18” deep, they yard up, because the energy lost struggling through deep snow exceeds the energy they can get from available food.

            A tall chest height helps to further reduce the energy needed to wade through deep snow. A moose stands on long, thin legs that permit it to keep its body out of the snow, thus reducing the energy it needs to get around. A bear, with its short legs, would move like a small bulldozer through deep winter snows losing enormous amounts of energy as it tried to find food, thus its need for hibernation.  

            But it’s not just the depth of snow that matters to wildlife – it’s also the character of the snow, the wetness or dryness or crustiness. Ruffed grouse, for instance, dive into deep snow on very cold nights to conserve energy. They need deep, light snow for their roosts. Heavy, wet snow, or hard-crusted snow makes for unsuccessful and painful entries and exits.

            And for all the rodent species whiling away the winter hours under the snow, a deep lightweight blanket provides the best insulating blanket.

            The snow we received last Sunday (2/24) was forecast to be heavy and wet, but at least around us, it came down rather fluffily, good news for many wildlife species, and good news as well for we roof shovelers. 

Sightings

Twenty bohemian waxwings appeared on one of our crabapple trees in Manitowish on 2/15. They spent an hour or so consuming the fruits, then left, and we haven’t seen them since.

Jeff and Rosie Richter in Mercer have had 40+ evening grosbeaks and 50 or so common redpolls attending their feeders since the second week of February. These species remain quite uncommon throughout the Northwoods and the whole state this winter, so although they are spending far more money on bird seed than the rest of us, they are darn lucky!

A starling hung from one of our suet feeders on 2/24 in the midst of the blizzard swirling around us. This may be the earliest starling we’ve ever had at our feeders, and if I can presume a judgement, perhaps the stupidest.

Art Foulke has had a northern junco at his feeders in Manitowish Waters all winter. Given that juncos are ground-feeding birds, I imagine its engaging in some internal dialogue this week. Bruce Bacon in Mercer also has a couple juncos visiting his feeders, as well as a northern cardinal.

David Foster in Natural Lakes has several male and female pine grosbeaks visiting his feeders, species which are also quite hard to find this winter.

Kay Rhyner sent photos of a pair of red-bellied woodpeckers working on her suet feeders in Hazelhurst. 

In Manitowish, we are supporting at least 22 blue jays, along with 8 American goldfinch, and the other usual suspects like both species of nuthatches, mourning doves, etc. Still no grosbeaks, siskins, or redpolls, but I’m betting next week will change our luck.

Celestial Events

            It’s March! For planet-watching, look after dusk for Mars high in the west and setting around midnight, and that’s it for planets after dusk. Before dawn, however, the planet-watching picks up! Look for Venus low in the ESE, Jupiter rising in the SE, and Saturn rising in the SE.

            Early this morning, 3/1, look for Saturn just beneath the waning crescent moon. Tomorrow morning, 3/2, look for Venus just above the moon.

            As of 3/3, the average high temperature for Minocqua reaches 32° for the first time since 11/27. Minocqua averages 265 days with high temps above freezing. 

            New moon on 3/6, and daylight savings time begins on 3/10. Spring ahead!

Canoecopia

            Canoecopia, the world’s largest canoe/kayak show, takes place in Madison from March 8-10. If you’ve never attended, it’s an amazing event. We’ll be there! Hope to see you.

Thought for the Week

            Mary and I ski and snowshoe as much as we can in the winter, and, like me, she writes of our experiences. She wrote this story in 1995:

            “Stepping into the ski bindings, I wedge the three pins in and clamp them tight. With the pole straps looped around my wrists, I slide forward. Kick and glide, kick and glide, shuffle through the deep snow, then glide again where the snow is packed and firm. I slip down the little hill near the house to the edge of the marsh, and angling the skis along the bank, drop down onto the ice. Stems of tan sedges protrude from their hummocks and wave well above the snow. Just inside the entangling, vile clusters of alder, the rabbit tracks are thick. 

            The early February sun shines palely in the late afternoon, its warmth not exceeding 10 degrees nor slowing the brisk westerly wind. Gusts fling the new snow high into the air like white ghosts, eddying and whirling above the river. A thin strand of tracks crosses and re-crosses the river, a coyote's recording of its nighttime journey.

            In a broad white band, the frozen river ribbons out, curving and bending between the snow-sculpted banks of the marshes and the high ridges of pines. The boundary between river and shore softens and disappears beneath the snow. I ski along this border, sometimes on the river, often on the marsh, and skirt the deep cut away banks where the quickness of the current could keep the ice thin.

            Where the snow lays deep and powdery, only the wooden tips of the skis emerge from the snow. They skate beneath the surface like two small animals tunneling together, one burrowing forward and then the other paralleling its course.

            Leaving the river edge, I cross a section of marsh and ski onto the slough ice.  The skis glide easily on the open smoothness of this frozen backwater.  At the far side of the slough, the riverbank rises steeply.

            I ski among the large white pines. The wind seems to be caught far overhead in the branches of the trees, and I'm warmer for their shelter. I skate among the trees with ease. Beneath these pines, 70 years ago, my Grandparents built a cabin. It was constructed of timber from the land and built for those hot summers when their children could swing on a rope from the big pines and land splashing in the river. All that remains now is the rusted-out shell of my Grandma's cook stove and, farther along the bank, the caved-in root cellar.

            Skiing along the trails through the overgrown fields and then beneath the rich canopy of old pines, I smile to think of my Mother and Grandmother skiing here on their long, dark, wooden skis 65 years ago. 

            My family and I have lived in my Grandparent's old home one-half mile upstream from the cabin site for eleven years. This is where my Mother and her siblings were raised, where my Mother grew to love the river and the land.

            Frequently, in the warm months, my family and I paddle the river. We explore the land through the seasons, but most thoroughly in the quiet, snow-covered realms of winter. On skis and snowshoes we discover a world my Mother and Grandparents knew.

            I hurry home to my eight-year-old girl and tell her to get her skis, and we will ski on the marshes and through the woods just like her Grandma did when she was eight years old.  

            Back out in the pines, we talk about Grandma, how she snowshoed, skied, fished, even hunted. And rapidly our skiing takes on another dimension. Just as the old pines watch us now, they've seen the passage of many people: my Mother, Grandma and Grandpa, the fur traders before them, and the Natives before them. My girl senses this, and asks how old the pines are – ‘Were they here when Great Grandma and Grandpa lived here?’

Mary Burns and Zoe skiing in 2019

            ‘Yes.’

            She thinks on that awhile, as do I. She is gaining a sense of place, something I have been blessed with since my childhood. And she, in her youthful, passionate, bordering on overly-dramatic way, says, ‘I always want to live here.’ I can't remember, but I am sure I must have said the same thing to my Mother years ago. I can only hope my daughter has a child who says the same thing to her someday under these pines.”