The Chaos of the Flock

              Flocking behavior in birds is chaos, though seemingly organized, and always like magic. For centuries scientists, philosophers, and laymen have searched for the mechanism causing the concerted movements in a flock; God, magic, magnetic fields? Most assuredly it has something to do with the first and many recent studies point towards the latter too. Whatever it is, it’s incredible.

              This was a lot to ponder after just one cup of coffee while watching such a flock in the chill this morning. My flock was incessantly loud, mostly black-and-white, of varying sizes, with some browns thrown in…yep, geese. It was primarily Snow Geese (“blues” included) with a smattering of Ross’s Geese and Greater White-fronted Geese, often known by the moniker, “specklebelly”.

Snow Geese in Lawrence County, AR

              This morning, I was the only human around along a deserted stretch of recently flooded highway. I had 15000 geese all to myself! The flock, most likely multiple flocks, spanned from right next to the road to a half-mile out. Since it was early, they hadn’t had a reason to disperse for the day yet. As I stood watching in awe and taking photos, the flock would come to life and shift around in response to some suspected disturbance. This happened several times, sending small groups up into the air to circle over me and back to the main flock.

Ross's Geese (the smaller ones) flying point for Snows (the bigger ones)...an interesting lineup.

The feeling of a flock taking off and circling back over you is indescribable. The only time the geese are caught out of concert is while on the ground. All is calm, with the normal level of cackling and squeaking as the busybodies wander across the field eating, greeting, and probably arguing. A mere split-hair second of silence ensues which the brain barely has time to register before the flock explodes. Wall to wall wings rise in a deafening roar from the ground where, seconds ago, all was calm. Somehow the chaos is organized, all geese rising and flying in generally the same direction. Specklebellies and snows were in their own micro-flocks moments before, but species no longer matters as all fight for survival.

Fight or flight? The answer is almost always flight for a Snow Goose.

Often a response is a false alarm and the birds return to start the process over again. Layer after layer, plane after plane the geese, landing gear extended, descend in a graceful glide back to their fun. But happy endings sometimes don’t come to pass and after such a violent response today, I knew better. The sentry on duty was sharp in spotting a Bald Eagle. At the beginning it can be hard to locate the source of the confusion amidst, well, the confusion. It’s not long before the eagle shows itself via parting the Goose Sea. It dives on a slow snow and bam! Goose and eagle crash to the ground kicking and gnashing, but it’s too late for the goose that already has blood running down the clean white feathers of its neck; eyes crazed and fearful as life quickly escapes it. The eagle half flies, half drags its prey to the far edge of the field where it dines for the next hour. The other 14999 geese form “V”s and disperse into smaller flocks to bide the rest of the day.

              I’m not squeamish and am, therefore, always on the eagle’s side. The trauma and excitement of nature is exhilarating, not to mention when you’re in a blizzard of Snow Geese the entire time.

"Blue" & standard Snow Geese returning after a false alarm.

              The characters of this adventure were discovered the afternoon before, in equal number, but in smaller daytime flocks. With wind and clouds rolling in, the geese were restless. Watching them I had my introductory lesson on responses elicited from different raptors. Snow Geese, always in danger, seem to know what can and can’t take down one of their kind. Sometimes, though, a sneaky harrier has the ability to send flocks careening off, but they soon realize the mistake and come back. Red-tailed Hawks also enjoy this special talent. It was one of these flame-tailed bullies that had its fun with a flock. The raptor cruised over calm geese, then playfully dove on them sending birds scattering like a wave as it flew the whole flock through. Just some good, clean hawk fun!   

              It was this same flock that experienced drama from two more eagles the following morning. The first eagle, startled by my approach took off across a field where geese enjoyed the crisp dawn. It was on a mission to make it to some far away perch and the geese seemed to know they were in no current peril. The eagle however, was joined by a greedy foe that didn’t like its presence. A fight of the talons ensued over the flock, which scattered (in nearly the same direction). The geese went NUTS and the eagles paid them no mind as each tried to claim this prime territory. The fight continued amongst terrified geese and eventually disappeared over the horizon. This flock was smaller, but still nearly 8000 strong. The goose-fattened eagles couldn’t possibly have eaten them all, but like a diligent shepherd the second eagle had protected his flock. 

Bald Eagle...always watching.

              My thoughts quickly drifted back to flocking behavior and how the geese seemed to move in one body, even in the frenzy of mass takeoff. For a final few minutes I was lost in the blizzard again before snapping back to my own reality.

              It’s amazing to think Snow Goose populations were once so depleted that hunting them had to be ceased. In just about a hundred years, populations may be higher than they ever were, even wreaking havoc on their tundra breeding grounds. Despite the ecological issue they’ve made of themselves, I still count myself fortunate to enjoy a species that has rebounded all too well.

Blue morph Snow Geese coming in for landing.

For the crisp black-and-white snow goose:

"Winter is a study in half tones, 

and one must have an eye for them, or go lonely"

--Donald Culross Peattie, An Almanac for Moderns, 1935

For more of my recent photography, visit www.pbase.com/mpruitt/recents.

Walking a Winter Woodland

I'm not much of a cold-weather person. As a matter of fact, sometimes I think Arkansas is too far north for me, but for some reason the allure of the winter woods draws me in. Year after year I find myself waiting for it to get cold so I can go on an renewing ramble. What it is that makes me able to shutter the cold from my mind during such a walk could be described as nothing short of a miracle. Those who have ventured behind the screen of gray trees in winter know this certain magic is strong. There's something about a crisp winter day that puts a spring in my step and creates a Lewis and Clark-esque drive for discovery. I try to take in all of this discovery, inspired by the "saint-terrers" (saunterers) or holy-landers that Thoreau wrote of in Walking; basically his treatise on how to get the most out an outdoor wander.  Personally, a successful saunter only happens through nature (and birds, of course).

As with each season, a new suite of birds can be found in winter, spicing things up for a few months before it's time for another changing of the guard. Some of the tiniest birds (ahem...kinglets) move south for our mild winters to escape the harsh cold further north. Though I must say, they've had a balmy time in Arkansas this year. For most of December, we saw unsavory temperatures in the range of 65-70°F.

Probably my favorite winter resident and always a ball of energy: Golden-crowned Kinglet.

With such warm temperatures, it's not hard to see how something so small could survive the winter, but what happens when nights drop into the teens or lower? Well, down jackets are some of the warmest available and where does down come from? Birds. It all has to do with feather placement and thermoregulation. Pretty amazing! On a recent, cold CBC I observed a Least Sandpiper keeping warm. It went into a sort of trance and shivered on and off for several minutes, then snapped out of it and went on feeding in the mud flat. Just one of several ways birds are able to keep warm in the dead of winter. Small, high-energy birds can also survive frigid nights through something called torpor. Torpor is a low-energy state where their temperature and metabolism drops and renders them virtually helpless, but alive through the most bitter cold. Being snuggled up in a knothole feels just like a warm bed. Well, maybe not quite. Onward to more discovery!

After a long night, a winter's day is turned into an energetic frenzy: sun shining, baby blue skies, and birds everywhere. On many-a-day like this, enjoying a warm rock in the sun is an absolute must. Doing just this, I close my eyes and listen. Some birds, like the White-throated Sparrow, sing in the winter, carrying me to their lives in Canada five months earlier where a northern summer brought bugs and babies. Others emit contact calls that are easily overpowered by the slightest breeze or rustling leaves. Listening to these calls can give the birds away to a tuned-in naturalist and provide a more rewarding saunter than just ambling through the woods. Hearing the birds is one thing, but finding them can be like an advanced Where's Waldo picture which is why I sometimes keep my eyes shut, reveling in the sounds a little longer...I never was one for Waldo's follies.

One of the finer looking White-throated Sparrows.

That said, my favorite Winter Waldos are the woodpeckers. All of Arkansas' woodpeckers are year-round residents to an extent and are best seen in winter when there aren't leaves obscuring your view or babies to keep them busy. One recent walk brought Pileated WP, Downy WP, Hairy WP, Red-bellied WP, Northern Flicker, and Yellow-bellied Sapucker; quite a spread and all but two species. I bet some of you didn't know we had so many options in woodpeckerville! Back on my rock I listen for soft pecking, bark hitting the leaves, or the occasional and more obvious calling/drumming. Some, like the sapsucker, can't be found using my conventional methods and require more sleuthing for a good view. Finding a sapsucker usually starts at a sappy tree like maple (of which there are many in my Ozarks). A ring of fresh holes in the bark, running with sap, speaks of a nearby sapsucker. This sap attracts a buffet of insects on a warm day for the bird to come by and pick up at a later date, sap and all. A heck of a meal!

Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. Just one of four species found in North America (the others all occur out west).

Woodpeckers are some of the most interesting birds to watch, even if it's just because they can constantly beat themselves against a tree and survive. (They accomplish this in part with long tongues that wrap around their skull and act as a cushion, by the way). Onward to more discovery!

Sauntering on, I come to a nice brush pile, the likes of which can add wonder to a wander. At face value it appears unused, but I know better, especially after hearing a White-throated Sparrow singing from this direction a few minutes ago. Standing still behind a tree, I watch as it comes alive again with said sparrow and some allies. From nearby deadfall I catch a quick movement. After countless seconds of scrutinizing the limbs, I see it again: a tiny, chocolate brown skulker. It could be none other than a Winter Wren! This little guy could stand with both feet on a quarter and is part of a complex found in northern forests the world over. It's here for a limited time only and I can't get enough. Wrens are all extremely charismatic and full of character. This particular wren found pleasure in tearing apart an old vireo nest, probably looking for mites or other insects. As a diligent observer, this was not the first time I'd seen a wren do this, but it's always a privilege to be privy of such behaviors. Like the contented White-throat, the Winter Wren is sometimes compelled to sing by a warm ray of sun, cocked tail and all. His trilling melody is one that could reverse the cloudiest of foul moods.

Winter Wren, the smallest of 11 North American wrens, give or take a rarity here and there.

Contemplating the Winter Wren, I realize he's been replaced by a Hermit Thrush. Seconds later the wren shows up near my leg. I'm spotted, an alarm is raised, and it's back into the brush for all the birds.

Eastern Screech-Owl enjoying a quiet, sunny moment
in an ever-brown post oak.

When you can find joy in simple things, every wander can be rewarding, but it's not every wander that brings a top-shelf reward. As one who loves (and researches) owls, my greatest rewards usually lie with them. Seeing owls during the day is a great, but rare, reward. Being out after dark is usually a must, which isn't high on my list in the winter...except during the field season. Some of my greatest night-time memories have come thanks to owls. I recall a certain late winter night with Great Horned, Barred, and screech-owls all calling nearby. Each pair no doubt courting. There's just something invigorating about the mystique of a night-time saunter and never knowing what lies ahead in the darkness. 

In the first chill of late fall, I've been blessed with two successful field seasons of a project on Northern Saw-whet Owls, a species previously thought to be a winter vagrant in Arkansas. Talk about mystique! I've learned so much about the owls and what's probably my true calling. We captured 22 individuals this season and each one affected me the same way the first one did in 2014. This pint-sized denizen of the north woods has almost undoubtedly been here all along, just slipping through the cracks by way of its secretive nature.

Northern Saw-whet Owl during a calm moment after capture.

My point is simple; when you step behind the faithful screen of a winter woodland, there's no telling what you'll find. There'll be knowledge for sure and, if you look hard enough, things that you've never seen before. Always rejuvenation from the bore some find in winter, too. I've never thought of myself as a Romantic, but with inspiring "saunters" through nature and the hope and misty eyes a warm saw-whet in the hand brings, I may need to check that definition. Giving into the definition for now, I'll end with a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson: "...In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth."--Nature, 1836. I guess the Spanish conquistadors were looking too hard for the Fountain of Youth they never found, because here it is in all it's simplicity.