Tough Little Birds

As days lengthen and the sunshine strengthens, I start dreaming ahead toward spring.

We all have our favorite signs of the new season, I’m sure, and one of mine is hearing the sweetly whistled trill of a yellow-rumped warbler, and then catching a glimpse of their “butter butt” as the namesake patch of color is revealed. Yellow-rumped warblers are some of the first of our summer breeders to arrive and often seem in no hurry to leave. That’s because they don’t need to migrate all the way to Central or South America to find insects to eat. Instead, they survive the winter by nibbling on the fruits of wax myrtle trees common in the southeastern United States.

This yellow-rumped warbler was preparing for fall migration while the weather was still warm in September 2019. Photo by Emily Stone.

Still, we don’t expect to see them by the time temperatures plummet and blizzards blow in. That’s why Museum volunteer Jan Sharp was both surprised and worried when she spotted a yellow-rumped warbler in her yard in Clam Lake, WI, on December 4, 2021. An avid birder, Jan started posting updates and observations to the Chequamegon Bay Birding Facebook group right away. Her posts revealed a mix of hope and trepidation for the bird’s predicament.

On December 21, Jan made detailed introductions on Facebook, and explained her efforts to help the warbler survive:

“This is Myrtle. She's a yellow-rumped warbler. She's not supposed to spend the winter here. She's supposed to be only as far north as St. Louis. She's a first-year female, and I guess with the warmish fall we've had, she missed the memo about migration (or is sick or hurt). She likes the nuts and berry suet, and sunflower seed (shelled).

“She's gutsy, and smart, and skulky. And I've put little grass-lined huts out for her, too (I doubt anything will use them). I doubt she'll make it through the winter, especially if we have more polar vortexes. But I admire her spunk and will to live. Pretty amazing creature. (And she's a new record on the Clam Lake Christmas Bird Count!)

This is Myrtle, a young, female, yellow-rumped warbler who struggled to survive winter weather far north of her typical range. Photo by Jan Sharp.

 

Over the course of several weeks—and several extreme temperature swings—Jan kept us all posted on Myrtle’s feeding schedule, the level of fluff in her feathers, the condition of her tender feet, and her interactions with other birds. Then, on January 20, the news came,

“Sadly, I believe Myrtle is no longer with us. I have not seen nor heard her all day. She had a shaky foot yesterday morning and I felt it was a red flag as the cold seemed to get to her feet first. And with the -19 degrees F this morning, I think the cold weather finally took its accumulated toll. What a survivor. I celebrate her grit, her brains, her persistence, and her resilience.”

Meanwhile, as Myrtle was failing in her battle against a Northwoods winter, huge flocks of redpolls were moving in. These little brown birds have been whirling under bird feeders across the region in much higher numbers than usual. It’s an irruption year for several species of northern seed-specialist birds. (No, not an eruption, although sometimes I do imagine a volcano of boreal forest in Canada spewing forth a feathered ash cloud.)

A bird irruption, according to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, is a “movement of northern-wintering species to the south in years of low food availability.” When trees produce fewer seeds in Canada, the grosbeaks, siskins, crossbills, waxwings, finches, and nuthatches come here to eat.

This year, redpolls are the most common out-of-town guests at my feeders. With a jaunty red cap and rosy breast to brighten up their brown and white stripes, they are very welcome. For weeks, if not months, I’ve been watching them flutter over the snow surface scooping up the delicate seeds of birch. Now, with the blizzard, they’ve come to my feeder and are nibbling at sunflower hearts right along with the chickadees.

Common Redpoll on a tree branch in winter, Kenai National Wildlife Refuge, Alaska
By Lisa Hupp/USFWS - https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=251704623743122&set=a.221378263442425, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=114623684

Even as temperatures drop again, I’m not worried about the comfort of these little friends. Myrtle may have needed our concern, but repolls are built for the cold. Remember, the Northwoods are south for them! Each autumn, just when we’re pulling sweatshirts and down vests out of our closets, the birds increase their insulation. Redpolls grow about 31% more feathers by November. Then they take a hint from ruffed grouse—by diving under the snow to stay warm. Their tunnels can be over a foot long and four inches under the surface. For such a tiny bird, that is impressive!

Even while buried in the snow, redpolls can keep eating. There’s a pocket in their neck where seeds collect and then trickle down into their stomach. These seeds fuel the bird’s metabolism and allow them to maintain their body temperature without a mid-nap trip to the refrigerator. With all these adaptations, tens of millions of redpolls survive in their rugged homelands surrounding the Arctic Ocean at the top of the globe, and we get to enjoy their visits every few years.

Myrtle was impressive because of how long she survived in the cold against all odds, without the right adaptations to get her through. Redpolls are equally impressive because their adaptations are built to help them thrive in those same, challenging conditions. They are all tough little birds.




Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is now available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.

Feeling Young and Feeling Old in Nature

Tailgates opened and closed, and women chattered as we milled around the parking area after a snowshoe hike. I stood in a sort of receiving line as the hike participants—mostly retirees—stopped by to ask a few more questions or share a recent encounter with nature.

One woman, with a sparkle in her eye, just wanted to thank me “for making us feel young.” I thought back to the steep hills and sometimes uneven trail, the cold wind off the lake, and the stiffness that was already creeping in to my (much younger) lower back. “Oh, the fir-rari and mentioning C.S. Lewis,” she said in response to my questioning look.

I smiled, happy to know that she also appreciated two of my favorite teaching tidbits. “Firs are flat and friendly, and they have racing stripes like a FIR-rari,” I’d lectured with a smile while holding a sprig of balsam fir. The stomata (doorways for gas exchange) in their needles are sunken in to two whitish stripes on the bottom of the needles. It’s something to look for if you’re comparing the fir with a spruce.

C. S. Lewis is the author of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and inventor of a magical land called Narnia. I read The Chronicles of Narnia series many times over as a kid. Earlier in the day, after we’d talked about the actual science of the Subnivean Zone (visit my blog if you need a refresher), I’d spotted a place where a mouse had popped out of the subnivium, hopped across the snow, and then re-entered through the little space next to a fallen log. “Look, it’s a wardrobe!” I’d stage-whispered to the people closest to me in line, referencing one of the magical portals into Narnia.

While neither of my jokes were the laugh-out-loud type, even moderate chuckling can help us relax, improve circulation, and reduce pain. Learning new things keeps your brain happy and healthy, too. Those benefits, and others, combine to make us feel younger. I thought back to the article I wrote about sliding—while I was in the midst of planning a sledding party for my 40th birthday—and how being playful with friends made us all feel younger. Play is essential to kids, of course, and increases survival. Play also benefits adults—essentially by making us feel like kids.

Papa and Zac discover something new together. Photo by Emily Stone.

Later, as I sat on the yoga mat in my long johns, feeling old and stretching out sore muscles before they stiffened up completely, I thought about the contradictions. Outdoor adventures can be physically taxing, but being out in nature mostly makes me feel young. Jumping in a puddle, sliding (purposefully) on ice, splashing in the lake, squishing mud between my toes, talking about animal poop, laughing about the gross, ridiculous, or amazing things that animals do, or even just soaking up sunshine brings a lightness to my spirit.

“What makes you feel young in nature?” I asked friends. With shining eyes, one woman told me a story about skinny dipping in a private pond, blue sky and sunshine, and no one else around for miles. The fun of letting your curiosity and imagination run wild—especially if you have an actual kid with you—popped up several times. Experiencing awe and wonder were recurring themes—their health benefits supported by data. Another friend mentioned the wind on her face, and the way that you can escape from societal expectations in the woods and just be yourself—more like the unselfconscious, unburdened days of childhood.

As for nature making us feel old, several answers revolved around the sadness of not being able to do favorite activities anymore. Sometimes the changes aren’t in our bodies, but in the places we love. Childhood haunts are paved over, and a favorite lake turned green with algae. Planting and growing things came up, too, since the life cycles in our garden plants are so short, and becoming a gardener can also mean taking on the role of your grandmother.

Grandma and Zac plant the garden. Photo by Larry Stone.

I also think about my age in relation to critters who live fast and die young. Many moths and butterflies complete their entire life cycle in a matter of weeks. If they are one of the generations who must survive the winter, then their life might last a whole year, with a long dormancy in the middle. The flowers they feed on also race through life. Many songbirds and small mammals can’t live more than a single decade, while here I am starting on my fifth one!

If I want to feel young, though, I look up. In the shade of a centuries-old white pine, my daily doings seem smaller in scale. And then there are the stars. A human at any age is young within the universe.

One of my wisest friends boiled it down to the fact that: “When I feel joy, I feel young; when I don’t feel joy, I feel old.” For him—for many of us—nature is that reliable source for joy.

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is now available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Visit our Mysteries of the Night exhibit before it closes at the end of February. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.

Why is grass green?

Why are most plants green? The answer is more complex—and unknown—that you might think. Photo by Emily Stone.

I felt a little sad last week as I peered through my computer screen at the sixth graders clustered in front of the web cam in their classroom. I first met most of these kids in Miss Bonney’s 4K classroom at Drummond Elementary School many years ago. In those days, I would bring a MuseumMobile tub full of furs, bones, books, toys, or a giant turtle shell into their circle on the carpet. Sitting there among the wiggling, adorable children, I envisioned them growing up to be little naturalists. I also recoiled reflexively when the kid seated next to me sneezed. Oh, the days!

As the kids moved up through the grades, I taught them about spiders, brought them owl pellets to dissect, and even dressed them up as fish. Even as we were focused on one subject, they’d blurt out questions about something completely different. If there was time, I’d answer whatever questions they threw my way, often with unbridled enthusiasm for their curiosity and the incredibly weird nuances of nature.

Last week, though, was my final MuseumMobile visit with these students. We spent thirty minutes discussing the results of their goldenrod gall dissection experiment. Then, hoping to capitalize on the rapport I’d developed with supporting their curiosity over the years, I asked, “What questions do you still have about nature?”

After a long discussion about why wolf scat would or wouldn’t be exciting to dissect, I noticed a kid in the back who had been raising his hand throughout. When called on, he asked “Why is grass green?” A giggle rippled through the class. Was he being a smart aleck, I wondered? But he’d waiting politely until he was called on, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. It’s a surprisingly interesting question.

Grass is green because it contains the pigment chlorophyll, of course. The chlorophyll is there to conduct photosynthesis. And it appears green because that wavelength of light is reflected back to our eyes. I gave them a quick explanation of color and vision.

And then our time was up. But the question was still niggling at me. Didn’t I read something once that pointed to a more nuanced answer? It was time to go Googling.

The first basic search turned up exactly what I’d always been taught, and what I told the students. Chlorophyll looks green because it absorbs blue light and red light and reflects green light.

Then, an article from the Journal of Biological Education caught my eye. “Chlorophyll does not reflect green light – how to correct a misconception,” read the title. The author, Olli Virtanen of the University of Turku in Finland, did some tests on the reflectivity of leaves, and determined that leaves look green not so much because they are reflecting green light, but because they are so very good at absorbing red and blue light.

All of this seems like a little bit of semantics to me, so I did a some more digging.

An article in Science confirmed that chlorophyll, in partnership with carotenoid pigments also in leaves, absorbs almost every single photon of red and blue light. In contrast, the leaves “only” absorb 90% of green photons. If light isn’t absorbed, it must be reflected, right? The nuance seems to be that leaves aren’t reflecting ALL the green light; they are just reflecting more of it than the other colors of light in the spectrum. Even though green light might just be the “leftovers,” our eyes are really good at seeing green because it’s at the center of our visible spectrum.

But that isn’t the only way to answer the question, “Why is grass green?” There’s another angle, best understood by turning things around and asking, “Why aren’t leaves blue or fuchsia or any other color?”

At a chemical level, it probably has something to do with the fact that the molecule of chlorophyll has magnesium at its center. A molecule of heme (the pigment that makes our blood red) is very similar…except that it contains iron. I’m not sure what effect those metal ions have on color, but surely they do something.

We can also think about color in terms of its role in making photosynthesis effective. A few sources purport that the Sun gives off less green light, and that’s why it’s beneficial for plants to reflect light of that color. That’s not true, however: the Sun radiates as much or more energy in green wavelengths as in the others.

Maybe the Sun is giving off too much green light for the plants to handle? Nathaniel Gabor, a physicist at the University of California, created a model to help understand the problem. He found that by using mostly red and blue wavelengths of light, chlorophyll is feeding itself a steady diet of photons—just enough to power photosynthesis, and not so many that the cells are damaged by excess. The stable stream of photons is maintained even as sunlight flickers through the canopy in varying amounts. If plants focused on using green light, they would be alternately overwhelmed by and starved of energy.

If we ask the question with evolutionary history in mind, a few more hypotheses pop up. One is that ancient organisms who filled the oceans before chlorophyll came onto the scene did focus on using green light—and filtered it out of the surface waters. Red and blue wavelengths were all that were left to power photosynthesis. Also, blue light penetrates most deeply into the ocean and would be the best source of energy down there even without green-light competitors above. At some point, tides turned, and the red-and-blue-light photosynthetic organisms became dominant—eventually creeping out of the oceans and into our lawns.

So, why is grass green? Science isn’t 100% sure yet, but at least I can be proud that my MuseumMobile students know how to ask interesting questions.

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is now available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Visit our Mysteries of the Night exhibit before it closes at the end of February. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.

Hemlock and Paper Birch: An Odd Couple

At the trail intersection I turned left, looked up, and paused for just a moment to appreciate the dark green lace of the hemlock thicket in front of me. Several “redwoods of the east” towered elegantly in a grove. Beneath them, broken-topped boles wore the same dark brown furrowed bark. And filling in between were young hemlocks of all ages lending a shimmer of green to the mostly black-and-white forest.

This is one of my favorite spots along the trails of the Forest Lodge Estate. Mary Griggs Burke, the Cable Natural History Museum’s founder, bequeathed her 872-acre retreat on the south shore of Lake Namakagon to the Forest Service for research and education. Northland College manages access. I often guide hikes. The crunching of a dozen snowshoes behind reminded me that I wasn’t alone in this special spot.

Why is a grove of bushy baby hemlocks so special? Here in northern Wisconsin, we are at the far edge of eastern hemlock range. Just a few outliers exist farther west and north, but the heart of their habitat extends up Appalachia to the northeast. Perhaps the trees just haven’t had time to migrate back after the most recent glaciation plowed them away—only 14,000 years ago or so—or maybe the moisture runs low as the rain shadow of the Rocky Mountains creeps in across the plains. Even in places where hemlocks are abundant, white-tailed deer often nibble the young ones to death and regeneration can be spotty.

We admired the thicket—that has somehow escaped the deer—and breathed in the magical, primordial air (is that being overly dramatic?). Then a bitter gust off the icy lake set us moving again.

Just around the corner two grayish, old paper birch trees caught my eye.

At first glance paper birch and eastern hemlock are about as different as trees can get. There’s the bark, of course: smooth, pale, relatively thin and peeling, vs. thick, dark, corky ridges. Also their leaves, and the fact that birches lose their broad, bright green suncatchers each fall while hemlock holds on tight. Hemlock holds onto life a lot longer in general—growing for hundreds of years—while birches live a more human-scale existence of mere decades.

Over those centuries, the acid in hemlock needles washes nutrients out of the soil, while the rapid decomposition of birch leaves results in soils enriched in Ca, Mg, K, Mn, Fe…an alphabet soup of minerals.

One of the first things I learned in botany class was that hemlocks are the most shade tolerant tree in their range, while paper birches are at the other end of the spectrum, only exceeded by aspen and pin cherry in their demand for sun. Plus, paper birch is near the southern end of its range here but extends north to the edge of the treeless tundra. In contrast, yellow birch’s range, shade tolerance, and ecology more closely match that of hemlock—so much so that “hemlock-yellow birch” is an official cover type. 

I wouldn’t have been surprised to see yellow birch in this forest, and yet here instead was its sun-loving relative growing among the hemlocks.

A few more steps down the trail, I spotted one of my favorite teaching spots. Under heaps of snow were the spiked turrets and sloping sides of a hemlock stump, likely rotting since 1888 when this area was clearcut by the Northern Wisconsin Lumber Company. From that stump rose a slender young hemlock tree, only a few inches in diameter and maybe twice as tall as me. And, brushing away the snow, I revealed another piece in the puzzle: the grayed bark of a long-dead birch tree, it’s knee still hooked over the edge of the old stump where it had once grown, too. Not even steps away, this odd couple had almost been hugging.

This scene tells not of the trees’ differences, but what they have in common. Hemlocks bear their seeds in tiny cones, not unlike the cylindrical catkins of birch, which are just more fragile and ephemeral. And inside each structure are tiny seeds flanked by papery wings. Those seeds mature in late summer, and drop throughout the winter, sometimes skittering over crusty snow in a race to get farther from the crushing shade of their parent tree. While both species produce lots of seeds almost every year after they reach age 15, they face equally poor odds that any one seed will ever germinate, survive seedlinghood, or become a new tree.

Inside this tiny eastern hemlock cone are even smaller seeds that need a little bit of luck to ever become a tree. Photo by Emily Stone

The tiny seeds contained within hemlock cones are winged -- almost like mini maple seeds. Photo by Emily Stone.

Inside the cone-shaped catkins of birch are their tiny, winged seeds. Four-pointed bracts protect the seeds until it all falls apart. Photo by Emily Stone.

One thing that increases the odds of successful germination in hemlock and the birches is a lucky landing on the spongy surface of a rotting log or stump. Here—like on my friend who died in 1888—the moist environment, relatively warmer temperatures above ground level, and protection from pathogenic fungi—result in a cozy nursery. Without the benefit of a nurse log or nurse stump, the trees would need bare soil, consistent moisture, and a lot more luck. 

Nurse stumps are warm, damp places where seeds of hemlock, birch, and more can find a slightly more hospitable place to germinate. As the stump rots away under the new tree, roots often form funny looking knees. Photo by Emily Stone.

With that in mind, maybe it’s not so crazy to think that the hemlock grove we passed earlier—where they have somehow, against the odds, sprouted like crazy—does have a little magic in the air.

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is now available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Visit our Mysteries of the Night exhibit before it closes at the end of February. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.

Admiring Pileated Woodpeckers

Conversation hummed around the office as Museum staff chatted with an old friend. I couldn’t stay focused, though. Movement outside the office window had caught my eye, and it was too good to ignore. “Hey!” I broke in. “There’s a pileated woodpecker outside the office window!”

These big, red-capped woodpeckers aren’t uncommon in the Northwoods, but it did seem a little special to have one right outside. Conversation paused and we all turned to look.

Male pileated woodpeckers like this one have both a red crest and a red mustache. Photo by Joshlaymon - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https.commons.wikimedia.orgwindex.phpcurid=70700524

With a body length of up to 19 inches and a wingspan up to 30 inches, pileateds are the largest woodpeckers in the United States. Which is why it was a little odd that this guy was dangling almost upside down from some rather spindly boxelder twigs in a posture more suited to a chickadee. Sure, they only weigh 11 ounces, but that’s still 22x what a chickadee weighs. Twigs bent and bounced as his big bill nibbled at something.

While conversation began again, I kept watching. I could identify the woodpecker as male because in addition to his red crest, his mustache (scientists call it a malar stripe) was also scarlet. On females, this cheek stripe is black. But what was he eating?

Typically, carpenter ants and their larvae constitute anywhere from 40% to 97% of a pileated woodpecker’s diet, with beetle larvae, fruits, nuts, seeds, and even poison ivy berries rounding out the rest. None of those foods seemed logical for his current location. Golden-crowned kinglets find enough tiny caterpillars frozen onto winter twigs to fuel their 0.19 oz metabolism. Ruffed grouse get their energy from eating tree buds, but have a gizzard to grind them up and special bacteria to break down the cellulose. Boxelder seeds are toxic to horses, but have been reported as an emergency food for red squirrels. “Hey, buddy,” I wanted to shout, “What’s for lunch?”

Most of the time, we see pileated woodpeckers on big, dead trees. First, they listen for the sounds of insects moving and chewing, then they use their chisel-like beak to excavate rectangular holes, or sometimes just shred an area of punky wood. Then, they extend their barbed tongue into the hole, use it to grab a 6-legged morsel, and retract it into their mouth.

With how noisy a woodpecker’s drumming can be, I’m a little surprised that they are still able to hear such quiet sounds. I suppose there are a couple reasons for this. First, their loudest drumming is reserved for communication. When you hear their resonant tapping echoing through the forest, that’s a message to other pileateds that a pair is defending a territory. While pileated woodpeckers defend the same territory all year, they are less vocal about it in the winter. Feeding happens every day, of course, but feeding is usually much quieter and sounds like dull thuds—if you’re even close enough to hear it.

Second, woodpeckers don’t just use their tongues to extract prey; tongues also protect their brain by wrapping around the back of the skull. A Y-shaped bone called a hyoid apparatus helps support the tongue and helps it extend—and also acts like a seatbelt for the brain. Even the structure of their beak is important. The upper half of a woodpecker’s beak is longer, but the bone inside extends farther into the lower beak. The lower beak ends up taking more of the impact and transferring force to the body instead of the noggin.

In addition, woodpeckers have less space and fluid between their brain and their skull. While this may seem counterintuitive, it helps reduce movement of the brain during pecking—the same type of movement that gives humans a concussion in a fender bender. All of these adaptations help protect the woodpecker’s brain and hearing while they pound on trees.

It's easy to find evidence of pileated woodpeckers feeding this time of year. Piles of wood chips accumulate under trees where pileateds are active, and even their past exploits are more visible without leaves in the understory. Weathered snags perforated by woodpecker feeding holes are always fun to see. They illustrate well the meaning of the woodpecker’s genus name Drycopus, which comes from the Greek for “tree cleaver.”

Wood chips on the snow indicate recent activity in the winter woods. Pileated woodpeckers create these rectangular holes in order to get at insects. Nest holes have a much smaller entrance. Photo by Emily Stone.

So, whether you spot a pileated dangling awkwardly from twigs or pounding away at a trunk, I hope you pause your conversation, take a moment, and admire them.

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.

Sharp Eyes

Winter often brings moments of delight when clean drifts of snow become the canvas for nature’s artwork. If not lost in the tunnel of my thoughts, I might notice the shadows of twigs making purple lace across the white or the detail in a papery seed or frost-lined track. Sometimes it helps to have a friend along to make their own unique observations.

Earlier today I began digging through folders to find photos of those winter delights. Soon I’ll share them with local artist Janet Moore’s “Wheel of the Year: Four Seasons” class. This virtual class will be meeting nine times over this coming year to create a unique piece of art chronicling the seasons in your own woods.

Janet Moore's sugar-maple-themed Wheel of the Year. Course info here. 

Just outside my office door, coworkers were exclaiming about delights of a different kind. A generous Museum member has given us a few boxes of old books. I expected the nature guides from the 1950s, and big stack of Sigurd Olson’s books, but mixed in with those were cloth-bound covers with shiny gold lettering and copyrights dating back to the 1800s.

I lifted one off the pile, enjoying the texture of the midnight blue cover and the history implied by frayed corners. Sharp Eyes gleamed in gold. Was this a story about far-seeing raptors? Or hyper-focused wolves? Inside, the subtitle gave more clues: “A Rambler’s Calendar of Fifty-Two Weeks among Insects, Birds, and Flowers.” So this was a book about phenology—the study of when specific events happen in nature from year to year in a specific place. The short chapters and black-and-white illustrations reminded me of my own Natural Connections books.

As I skimmed the introduction, a sentence caught my eye.

[Sharp Eyes is] “a cordial recommendation and invitation to walk the woods and fields with me, and reap the perpetual "harvest of a quiet eye,” which Nature everywhere bestows; to witness with me the strange revelations of this wild bal masque [masquerade ball]; to laugh, to admire, to study, to ponder, to philosophize between the lines—to question, and always to rejoice and give thanks!”

I chuckled a little at the verbose style of the era, but felt a kinship with the author nonetheless. We write in the same genre, and with the same purpose. I took the author up on the invitation, but who were they?

Skimming past a few more rambling pages, I found his signature at the bottom: W. Hamilton Gibson, Washington, Conn., July 10, 1891. Quick research told me that Gibson’s father’s death forced him into gainful employment as an insurance salesman, but that lasted less than a year before he turned back to writing about and illustrating nature. I can’t say I blame him.

With a glance to the snowdrifts outside my window, I flipped to the last section of the book, where a whimsical version of WINTER endured a blizzard on the page. How would Gibson’s observations in western Connecticut compare to mine?

WINTER section heading by W. H. Gibson from his book Sharp Eyes.

“But both boys and girls may well put aside their sleds for a walk with me this morning,” wrote Gibson. “This snow is good for something else than coasting…” Oh is it now, I chucked, thinking back to how much fun I’d had writing about the natural history of sledding.

“Those who like a good story-book will do well to study the snow, for they may indeed read it like a book. It is a great white page storied with the doings of the little wild folk which few of us ever see.”

by W. H. Gibson from his book Sharp Eyes

I nodded in agreement, thinking of the many photos of mouse and bobcat tracks that now filled my folder for Janet’s class, and the wolf tracks still visible on my driveway.

“They write their autobiography day by day…but they are not responsible for all the singular hieroglyphics to be seen on this great white page. The wind often takes a hand, and after a light, fresh snow-fall plays pretty pranks with the drooping stems of some of the withered grasses.”

Last winter I struggled to find something kind to write about the gray squirrels that attacked my bird feeders, but Gibson had no such prejudices, and wrote,

“On almost any genial day we are sure of him if our eyes are sharp enough, and our manners sufficiently decorous…Let us observe our squirrel carefully. There he goes in graceful bounds across the snow, his sensitive plumy tail in every movement expressive of its homage to the line of beauty.”

After that I had to set the book aside and tackle other projects. But this was a happy moment of connection. I know I’ll join Mr. Gibson on another walk again soon. This blue-coated man with gold trim will be a friend who will help me make unique—if also longwinded—observations through all four seasons.

Gibson illustrated his own books in great detail, including this sketch of the bracts of birch catkins on the snow. Illustration by W. H. Gibson.

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.

Wolf!

I love coming home.

It’s not those feelings of comfort and familiarity I’m looking forward to, though. I’m eager to see which of my many wild neighbors have walked down my driveway!

An inch or two of snow on top of the last pass of the plow truck provided excellent tracking last weekend, and big tracks quilting the median had me bouncing in the driver’s seat. After parking, I walked back to investigate. There, within a few dozen feet of the house, I spotted the first tracks. Four toes. Claws. Roughly the size of the palm of my hand. Could it be? This would be a first for my yard…

Wolf tracks are roughly 4 inches long and wide. Coyote tracks would be closer to 2.5 inches. Photo by Emily Stone.

The animal tracks disappeared under my wheel tracks, and then reemerged—still within sight of the house. Four toes. Claws. Roughly four inches long.

I was forming a guess in my mind—a hopeful identification of my new neighbor. Do you have a guess yet?

Wolf!

Northern Wisconsin has hundreds of wolves. The DNR’s maps of wolf packs show a dense mosaic of territories. Neighbors to the east have had wolves on their trail cams. I’ve seen tracks just two miles south of my house in the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest, and on all of the ski trails I frequent. But, ever since I moved in 11 years ago, the general wisdom was that the high density of homes, resorts, and activity around Lake Namakagon was too busy for wolves.

Of course, in nature, saying “always” or “never” is a tricky business.

As I followed these tracks back out of my driveway, they wandered in and out of the wheel tracks and back and forth across the median. By the time they led me directly in front of my trail camera, my head was buzzing with excitement. Of course I grabbed the memory card. Shadowy figures appeared in the dark photos, looonng legs trotting and tail relaxed. This semester I’ve been teaching 3rd graders how to identify a wolf and a coyote, and there was no question in my mind who this canine was!

My trail camera captured this wolf as it walked out of my driveway after taking a nap in the woods. Photo by Emily Stone.

At 9:22 p.m. a wolf walked into my driveway. At 2:01 a.m. a wolf walked out of my driveway. And then, 12 seconds later, another wolf! The tracks were messy enough that I’d been suspecting more than one animal, but this was my first real proof.

At the end of my driveway I found the snowbank sprayed with yellow urine at about the height of my knee. Wildlife biologists and trackers call this an “RLU,” short for raised leg urination. This is a form of scent marking—the sign of a wolf claiming his territory. Female wolves also scent mark, but are more likely to squat when they pee, and the mark appears lower down. There wasn’t a paired RLU here, though—no evidence of a female joining in. What does that mean for the relationship status of these wolves?

Next, I went back to the place, just out of sight of the house, where the wolves had wallowed through the snowbank and into the forest. Strapping on snowshoes, I followed.

Over logs, under balsam thickets, and past a frozen wetland we traveled. Numerous trees had been sprayed with yellow. Wandering, dispersing wolves tend not to scent mark. If they are just exploring or passing through, there’s no reason to waste energy claiming space for their own or risking discovery by another wolf who is willing to defend their territory. This many RLUs most likely means that these wolves are planning to live here and want to deter any rivals from intruding. I might be seeing evidence of these new neighbors again!

Where did they come from, I wondered? Wolves have been known to travel over 500 miles to find a new territory, but the density of wolf packs nearby suggest that a recently matured wolf may have simply budded off from his natal territory, found a quiet corner of the forest nearby, and befriended another loner for company, or in the hopes of being able to breed.

Finally, only a tenth of a mile from my house, under a balsam thicket, were two icy bowls in the snow. The warm body of a wolf had rested in each, compressing and melting the snow. From the trail cam, I knew that the wolves had passed through on a night when the temperature plunged. They might have sought this protected area, on the south side of a hill and under conifers, to take a five-hour nap in the bitter cold.

I was thrilled to find two icy wolf beds at the end of their tracks. Wolves simply curl up on top of the snow. They only spend time in a den when having pups. Photo by Emily Stone.

Tracks led into the beds and then back out, retracing their steps all the way back to my driveway. Where they went from there is anyone’s guess. I couldn’t pick up the trail again after they hit the road. I’ll be watching for them, though. I’m hopeful that my woods are part of their territory now, and (like me) wolves seem to enjoy coming home.

The wolf's RLU and my Private Drive sign in the background are essentially saying the same thing to our own species! Photo by Emily Stone.

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.