​One beautiful blue and gold afternoon late last fall, Iren and I wandered through a nearby arroyo. As always we were on the lookout for whatever might capture our attention. Both of us were desert “beachcombers” by nature, each with her unique preferences.
 
On a steep hillside amidst some scree I glimpsed an uprooted cactus clinging, somewhat desperately I thought, to the slope. Almost all of its roots were exposed. How had it gotten there I wondered. It appeared to have tumbled down the mountain, or perhaps it had been pushed by water or trampled on by cattle.
 
I recognized the cactus immediately because even in its desiccated state I could identify the species; it was a Claret cup cactus, a native to the area, and a wild hedgehog that was very dear to my heart.
 
I had first seen one of these beautiful cactus blooming at Iren’s the June before last. The color of flame, I thought it was a summer solstice vision.
 
The following spring I planted my own claret cactus in the ground after I moved into the casita and after it bloomed for a few days in June some creature feasted on the startling deep orange fruit. Eventually one of my gophers munched down its roots. One morning late that summer my spiny friend simply toppled over dead. I was bereft... Out of all of my wild dug cactus this one was my favorite.
 
In it’s present state the cactus in front of me was shriveled almost beyond recognition. The poor plant had a steel gray cast to it. Neither Iren nor I held out much hope for life but I couldn’t resist bringing it home anyway.
 
I have been a plant gatherer all my life, paying particular attention to flowers, herbs and plants that are native to a particular place. Around my house in Maine I have transplanted so many herbs and wildflowers over a period of thirty plus years that my land is literally awash in wild species from other micro-climates in this area.
 
Returning to the casita with my thorny friend I decided to plant it in a pot next to the other cacti that had survived the attentions of my wily gopher, teaching me in the process that it was useless to plant anything in that dirt without an underlying screen to protect its roots. Every wild cactus I had was now living in a pot.
 
That first night I left the cactus roots in water; the next morning I placed it lovingly in a frog pot and left it in a protected place by the southern wall where it remained all winter. Every single day when I came out the door I gazed at that very dead looking cactus, willing it to come back to life. I never gave up hoping…
 
Early in March I noticed that the cactus seemed to be absorbing water because it’s wrinkles were starting to smooth out. Next the cactus took on a pale greenish cast, and this was when I realized that my rescue had been successful – this cactus was going to live!
 
However, nothing prepared me for what happened in April. One morning I discovered a small reddish bump on my cactus. My spiny friend was actually going to bloom!
 
Soon there were seven bumps that matured into seven tightly closed teardrop blossoms.
I knew from reading that this hedgehog cactus could grow in clumps as much as 3-4 feet across, and that the brilliant blood orange or scarlet flowers – depending on the soil type - often covered the entire plant. Someday, I must witness a whole colony of these cacti. If anyone knows of one in our area, please let me know!  
Even though I had already returned to the North County before the cactus flowers actually opened I saw pictures of mine. I didn’t mind not seeing them – these flowers were emblazoned in my mind, and besides, this reclamation story has such a happy ending! 

In Abiquiu, late one March morning, one glorious yellow swallowtail visited my narcissus, grape hyacinths and my glowing cactus garden. I watched this one butterfly with deep pleasure mixed with concern remembering years of Tiger Swallowtail abundance. These beautiful insects used to arrive in such numbers….
 
Swallowtails have always been one of my favorite butterflies and over the period of a lifetime I have raised many eggs to the adult stage. Two mornings ago while walking up a woods road here in Maine I was delighted to see 10 swallowtails “puddling” (the most I have seen in years). Puddling occurs when the swallowtails gather together to drink from small oases that are filled with salt deposits, and I have only witnessed this phenomenon in the spring.
 
With the catastrophic decline of all insects, seeing these delicate creatures become more of a gift than ever before.
 
I cannot tell the difference between eastern and western swallowtails but both are found in wooded or riparian areas.
 
The 'tails' and bright blue and red eyespots, that most of the butterflies within this family are adorned with, are a form of 'back to front mimicry' that helps to confuse visual predators. Birds will strike at these eyespots, and often get nothing more than a fragment of wing, leaving the vital parts of the butterfly unscathed.

There are a number of other characteristic traits shared by members of this family. Eggs are dome shaped or smooth and globular, and usually laid singly on the host plant. In the Southwest, cottonwoods, willow, fruit trees and chokecherry are host plants; in the north, poplar, black cherry, hemlock, fruit trees, chokecherry and alders are favorite egg laying spots. In the garden growing anise, parsley, dill, or sweet fennel attracts this butterfly. I noticed the swallowtails loved the wild purple mustard flowers in Abiquiu. Here in Maine I see them on the flowering crabapples and Queen Annes lace (wild carrot). The larvae are smooth skinned, and greenish and eggs are laid underneath the leaves. Early instar larvae often mimic a bird dropping. All possess an organ called an osmeterium that discharges a foul scent that discourages visual predators. 

Another form of protection that all swallowtail larvae use is to simply drop off a plant on a silk cord that these wily insects manufacture themselves to escape predators.

It is estimated that perhaps one in hundreds of eggs laid by each female actually makes it through the four stages to adulthood.

Once hatched the larvae grow rapidly; eating, defecating, and resting in between each molt. The later instar larvae have large inflatable eyespots towards the front end of the body, which supposedly mimic a snake's head, and presumably warn off visual predators. These are gorgeous creatures.

In about three weeks the caterpillars are ready to pupate and spin a chrysalis around themselves. They will remain in the pre-pupa stage for about a day before becoming  swallowtails who rest while drying their wings unless diapause occurs.

Diapause is believed to be a 'risk-spreading' strategy in an environment that may or may not provide enough host plant material for another generation right away. Individuals are mature and ready to breed when optimal conditions exist. 

If you ever find swallowtail eggs (the internet has excellent images for the curious) try to raise them. It is impossible to relate how exciting it is to watch this entire process unfold and I recommend it to anyone as one of Nature’s routine miracles. 

I first fell in love with the fiery red and gold trailing nasturtiums that grew in my grandmother’s garden when I was a small child. I believe it was my mother who first put the flowers in salads making each summer meal a festive event.
 
Both my mother and grandmother were gardeners, so I grew up with plants indoors and out. I participated gathering all kinds of ripe seeds and pods including wrinkled bright green nasturtium seeds that looked to me like tiny human brains that shrunk to half their size as they dried on screens in my grandmother’s attic. Later the seeds were stored in paper bags until spring.
 
The awe that I experienced touching any seed as a child is still with me. That each one carries its own story, its own DNA (protein) signature, and the form the seed will take, is a miracle worth reflecting upon.
 
The first flowers I ever planted were nasturtiums that came from my grandmother’s garden. I prepared little rock crevices that lay against a giant granite boulder on Monhegan Island, my first adult home in Maine. Located 16 miles out to sea, this tiny fishing village was flooded by tourists in the summer. When people walked up from the wharf passing by my house, they often casually plucked the flowers I cared for so tenderly. Putting up a sign made no difference and I was too young to feel tolerance for these interlopers, eventually moving my precious nasturtium patch to another garden behind the house!
 
Although I used the leaves in salads I had a hard time picking the flowers, preferring instead to enjoy the feast by sight.
 
As soon as my two boys were old enough, each summer they bit off the fragrant flames, even as a multitude of bees and hummingbirds vied for sweet nasturtium nectar. Sometimes, when childhood friends came over, my sons would pick and eat a nasturtium creating quite a stir. Other children were amazed. No one ate flowers!
 
My children are long ago grown and gone and I am still planting nasturtiums some fifty years later.
 
Last year, I planted the few seeds that I had brought with me from Maine, here in Abiquiu. I also ordered some from a familiar catalog that specializes in organic and heirloom seeds. I grew my own in a large pot, and planted the others directly into the ground on the east side of the house. The nasturtiums in the pot had yellowing leaves and yet the seeds from both were equally abundant.
 
However, the nasturtiums I planted in the ground held more moisture after watering, providing my house lizards with giant green leaves that both lizards and buds thrived under during the monstrous July afternoon heat. When the vines finally began to trail in early August the plants were festooned with a riot of color, much to my joy and delight. Nasturtiums were still blooming well into November.
 
To this day, I rarely break off and eat a newly blooming flower as sweet as they are to the taste, although I regularly use the pungent peppery leaves in salads.
 
Saving seeds from year to year was simply part of what I did without thinking about it until I began to write and celebrate my own rituals (almost 40 years ago now).  After making that shift I incorporated nasturtium seed gathering as part of my fall equinox thanksgiving celebration. Every year I invoke both my mother and my grandmother in remembrance and gratitude for their legacy – a long and unbroken line of growing these flowers and saving their seeds. Someday, I hope to find someone who will carry on my nasturtium seed story after I am gone.
Both the leaves and petals of nasturtiums are packed with nutrition, containing high levels of vitamin C. Ingesting these plants provides immune system support, tackles sore throats, coughs, and colds, as well as bacterial and fungal infections.

Nasturtiums also contain high amounts of manganese, iron, flavonoids, and beta - carotene.
Studies have shown that the leaves have antibiotic properties; they are the most effective before flowering.
 
Nasturtiums are native to South America; they are not an imported species, perhaps lending credibility to the importance of sticking to native plants during this time of Earth’s most difficult transition. They are known as a companion plant. For example, nasturtiums grow well with tomato plants. In addition, they act as a natural bug repellent so I always have small patches of them growing around my vegetable garden. Aphids are especially attracted to them leaving more vulnerable plants alone. Rabbits and other creatures aren’t tempted to eat their leaves or flowers because of their sharp flavor, yet these trailing vines attract many pollinators. Bees of all kinds love them. Although nasturtiums are frost sensitive, I note that even after germination the little green shoots with hats simply hug the ground if the weather turns inclement. Unless the temperature dips below the mid 20’s nasturtiums always bounce back. In fact even a hard frost won’t take all the adult plants at once because their vining habit protects some of the seeds and some flowers. I always end up pulling the vines and the very last flowers before all are withered (this is when I consume the flowers after picking a small bouquet for the house). For all the above reasons I think these tough and tender vining plants have a good chance of surviving in the face of Climate Change. 

About two weeks ago my dogs and I had a glorious experience in a remote well wooded area. I had identified fresh bear sign and the three of us were following bear tracks into a steep gully when we came upon a young golden brown bear who emerged from behind a boulder to regard us with curiosity. When I spoke to him/her quietly the bear watched me intently; I lost time. Unafraid, the youngster eventually meandered on.
 
 And then, twice in the last week, I attended presentations during which people literally winced and moaned when the subject of Black bears was raised.
 
As a researcher who conducted a formal fifteen year academic study of these remarkable animals, I experienced the usual crushing dismay that Black bears continue to be perceived as such a threat to humans, when the truth is that they evolved as a prey animal, and remain so today. Black bears are cautious around humans unless they have been terrorized by them; then they avoid people at all costs. A human has a one in a million chance of being killed by a Black Bear; one is 17 more times likely to die of a spider bite.
 
How has the Black bear become such a perceived threat to humankind, especially in this country?
 
 One reason is that we are a culture that is hell bent on keeping the outdated “man against nature” paradigm alive. This perspective pits humans against all nonhuman species with a vengeance. In addition, the unconscious psychological mechanism of projection allows people to ascribe human killer tendencies/evil onto hapless animals giving us permission to kill them indiscriminately. We also imagine that we are separate and superior to every species but our own. How else could we continue to destroy the planet that is our home without whose resources we could not survive?
 
Of course, this cultural attitude of senseless fear of Black bears in particular (and all wild animals by extension) is also generated in this country by powerful special interest organizations like the NRA that deliberately uses the myth of the killer bear for its own benefit while pontificating that we have the “right” to bear arms, regardless of character or self responsibility. This current explosion of men with guns has created a crisis of monumental proportions at the cost of lives, human and non-human alike.  
 
One critical lesson I have learned in my life is to watch what people say and what they actually do. If there is a split between the two, pay attention to what these folks do and not what they say – talk is cheap. The so called state Wildlife organizations say they are interested in caring for/saving animals but what they do is to make money from ordinary folk and support hunters who slaughter animals as a matter of course. These people also expose their colossal arrogance/ignorance by stating as “truth” that all wild animals need to be managed by humans when animals have been around for 350 million years and humans for about 200,000 years. How utterly absurd.
 
There is something deeply repellent to me about the state fish and game folks who want us to slaughter bears for “fun” and for trophies, rarely for food. In fact, here in New Mexico, the head of a black bear is the symbol for our state wildlife organization.
 
There are a number of theories that attempt to address why bears in particular are so feared by humans. One of the most popular (not scholarly) of these is that humans were originally prey animals so we “instinctively” fear black bears and all wild animals. In this way of thinking the story is written into our DNA. The problem with this theory (and please remember that theories are intellectual ideas, and not truth with a capital “T”) is that it contradicts a multitude of children’s studies that indicate just the opposite – namely that very young children appear to be universally drawn to wild animals, especially bears, and are not afraid of them. There are many European children’s fairy tales that focus on the special relationship between bears and children. The helpful bear saves, protects, or imparts hidden knowledge to the children (especially girls) – like how to trust one’s instincts. In this country Native peoples honor the bear as a great healer/protector. Children who are afraid of animals have been taught to fear them by the adults around them.
 
And this brings me around to the power of the image to influence human perception. Look at any hunting magazine and you will note the frightening predatory look of the animal on the front cover. In Maine I used to dread August not just because it ushered in bear hunting season but also because in every store the covers of all the hunting magazines portrayed a GIANT Black Bear as a vicious bloody killer roaring with a huge open mouth full of teeth (contrary to popular belief, bears don’t roar at all). Exaggerating the size of an animal to generate unrealistic fear is something that every hunting magazine and state agency routinely does. Most adult male Black bears run about 250 pounds and yet these magazines/agencies always use the pictures of the exception to the general rule - the one that weighs 400 pounds - and is probably a captive animal. Most Black bears don’t survive long enough in the wild to attain a weight that even approaches this number, because the majority are shot as yearlings or sub adults. Yet, these horrific images work on us below the threshold of our awareness especially if we have no relationship to the wilderness and the wild animals around us. We have all been socialized/inculcated into a culture that supports the idea that any wild animal is “automatically” dangerous to humans. And creating mindless fear and revulsion for profit is something advertisers do well.
 
In reality Black bears are extremely shy, intelligent, curious animals that learn to avoid people unless people choose to befriend them as I did. My trust-based study was based on my ability to develop a personal relationship with any bear that would tolerate my presence and allow me entrance into her/his world. Needless to say, many would not. Too shy.
 
What I discovered early on was that Black bears always clearly communicated what they needed/wanted from me. My initial challenge was learning to understand their language. For example, most bears needed me to respect their need for space. Even the bears that chose to interact with me let me know when I got too close by huffing or slapping the ground, twig, bush, tree with a paw. I learned quickly that talking to them quietly relieved their anxiety. When badly frightened, Black bears moan like children, or do the opposite, hiss/chop and slap branches while hugging the upper limbs of their trees which they co–evolved with. Too often a bear’s anxiety is interpreted as aggression. It’s worth repeating that the Black bear evolved on this continent as a prey animal who was/is totally dependent on tree cover for protection (Infant bears begin climbing shortly after birth, exploring the den, long before they emerge in the spring).
 
In New Mexico we have a population of about 6000 Black bears that live in remote mountainous terrain, always close to some kind of water. If you happen to meet a Black bear while hiking, please don’t panic. Speak quietly to the animal and give it the space it needs to go on its way. For anyone who is really terrified of bears it is useful to carry a whistle. When blown the bear will disappear in an instant, I promise you.  

According to The Guardian, and every other source I consulted, krill (zooplankton) have suffered an 80 percent decline beginnings in the 70’s and currently creating a starvation scenario for many marine animals from whales to penguins.
 
A recent article in The New York Times states that we have also lost 80 percent of the insects on the planet. Insects and krill (zoo plankton) are at the bottom of the food chain and the loss of these animals on land and in the water is nothing short of catastrophic because all other life forms including humans depend on them to survive.
 
On land the insect loss is directly tied to insecticide use. In the water, pollution (partially due to insecticide use), and increased industrial fishing for krill are culprits.
 
Human induced Climate Change is also a fundamental factor.
 
How is it possible that we are unwilling/unable to face the fact that we are actively engaged in the process of our own self - destruction?    
 
I am writing this article on May Day. The cottonwood trees are feathered with pale green leaves, emerald green shoots and wildflowers abound. Gardens and fields are being tilled and planted. Adequate rain has blessed us creating seemingly unbelievable abundance. The river is a raging brown torrent ripping away the fragile shoreline; the acequias are running. The earth continues to celebrate renewal even as life on this planet becomes more threatened with each passing day.
 
Lately, I have been thinking a lot about the marine biologist and author Rachel Carson probably because I have had only one tree frog singing through the cottonwoods. I feel the loss of the abundance of these amphibians keenly, recognizing that pesticides are to blame. I have also spent time in gardening places where all sorts of deadly chemicals are still being sold much to my raging disbelief.
 
My relationship with Rachel Carson stretches back to my childhood. I remember being so proud of the fact that I could read her book “The Edge of the Sea” at age twelve and understand everything she said. After moving from Monhegan Island to Southport Maine as a young mother, I discovered that Rachel Carson’s cottage was situated in the woods just behind my house. Although she died five years before I moved to Southport I suspect her influence on me lived on fueling my need to speak out as an environmental Earth activist, even now.
 
Rachel Carson, writer, scientist, and ecologist, grew up in the rural river town of Springdale, Pennsylvania. Her mother bequeathed to her a life-long love of nature and the living world that Rachel expressed first as a writer and later as a student of marine biology. Carson graduated from  Chatham University in 1929, studied at the Woods Hole Marine Biological Laboratory in Massachsuetts, and received her MA in zoology from Johns Hopkins University in 1932.

She began a fifteen-year career in the federal service as a scientist and editor and rose to become Editor-in-Chief of all publications for the U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

Carson wrote pamphlets on conservation and natural resources and edited scientific articles, but in her free time she wrote her first book, Under the Sea Wind. In 1952 she published her prize-winning study of the ocean, The Sea Around Us. She won a National Book Award, a national science writing-prize and a Guggenheim grant, which, with the book’s sales, enabled her to move to Southport Island, Maine in 1953 to concentrate on writing. This book was followed by The Edge of the Sea published in 1955. Together, these books created a biography of the ocean and made Carson publically famous as a naturalist and science writer. Carson resigned from government service in 1952 to devote herself to her writing.

Carson’s prophetic Silent Spring (1962) was written in response to the chemical pesticide use that became rampant after World War II. She also recognized that pesticides were killing her beloved birds. The book was first serialized in The New Yorker and then became a best seller, creating worldwide awareness of the dangers of environmental pollution.

Silent Spring suggested that the planetary ecosystem was reaching the limits of what it could sustain. She challenged the practices of agricultural scientists and the government and called for a change in the way humankind viewed the natural world. Carson   courageously stood behind her warnings of the consequences of indiscriminate pesticide use despite the threat of lawsuits from the chemical industry and accusations that she was too emotional and grossly distorted the truth (criticisms I too have endured as a nature writer – at least I am in good company).
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Carson was also attacked by the chemical industry and some in government as an alarmist, but continued to speak out to remind us that we are a vulnerable part of the natural world subject to the same damage as the rest of the ecosystem.

Outlining the dangers of chemical pesticides graphically, the book eventually led to a nationwide ban on DDT after Carson’s death, and sparked a movement that ultimately led to the creation of the US Environmental Protection Agency.
 
From my point of view probably the most important aspect of Carson’s writings is her view that human beings were just one part of nature distinguished primarily by their power to alter it, in some cases irrevocably.
 
Unfortunately, except for a few folks and some Indigenous peoples, these ideas with respect to species equality and the human ability to alter the earth’s ecology permanently are not part of the dominant cultural reality, especially in this country.
 
It is difficult for me to wrap my mind around the fact that up to the present we continue to export DDT and other toxic chemicals to third world countries like Mexico and South America, apparently believing that the toxicity in their water, soil and air will not have an effect on us while those of us who can afford it buy organic whatever.
 
Silent Spring was written in 1962 and almost 60 years later  pesticide use continues unabated. It is rarely mentioned that now we have even more lethal chemicals to use in our backyards. As far as I can tell the EPA was left behind somewhere back in the last century. By conservative estimates we have lost 50 percent of the non-human species on earth. How can we continue to believe that we will be able to survive these losses? We are on the edge of our own extinction.
 
As I walk out the door into this glorious blue, green, and gold May Day I am heartsick. Every year we draw closer to  ‘silent spring,’ the one without renewal. 

April’s second spring moon was almost full as she rose through the cracks of the cottonwoods. The acequias were filling across/down the field and a small amount of rain had fallen two days earlier. Diminutive lime green leaves feathered the trees. I was just walking in the house when I heard the call.
 
I stopped dead in my tracks, stunned. Then wondered if I was having some kind of audio – hallucination. A paracusia, or audio hallucination is a form of hallucination that involves perceiving sounds without auditory stimulus.
 
After all, it had three years since I had heard one of the most beloved sounds that I associate with spring…I kept listening, sat down on the steps, my ears on fire. The unmistakable trill.
 
After a timeless pause, the practical side of me took over. I entered the house, got my recorder, and began recording the song.
 
I have been listening to the musical trill of tree frogs since I was a child, and I knew this song by heart. A gray tree frog was singing just beyond what I call the magic portal, a natural cathedral framed by bowed cottonwoods that opens into the next field.
 
After about an hour of listening and recording even the skeptic in me was forced to accept that this really was a gray tree frog. Sadly, I never heard a female’s answering call. It was also clear that this male frog was not being challenged by other tree frogs (who call out to establish territories as well as to attract females) because there apparently were no others in the area.
 
This latter fact did not surprise me. All frogs have been endangered since the 1960’s and many have become extinct.
 
“In Silent Spring” written in 1962 a brilliant and dedicated biologist, and true “mother of the environmental movement” warned us about the Great Silence that was about to descend upon us as a result of indiscriminate pesticide use, and no one listened.
 
Frogs and toads are the canaries of water, land and air. Because they breathe through their skin they are indicators of the massive amounts of pollution we are allowing to consume our planet “forgetting,” of course, that eventually these pollutants will kill humans too (the ultimate dis-connect).
 
Just before I went to bed that night I opened the door and heard the solitary tree frog crying out to the moon.
 
The next morning I compared my recording with the songs of grey tree frogs online, and of course they were identical.
 
For two days I researched every New Mexican tree frog and listened to about 50 recordings and came up with nothing that sounded like the recording I had.
 
How could this be? Grey tree frogs are denizens of the wetlands and forested areas of the northeast – east of the Rockies.
 
Meanwhile, my beloved gray tree frog is still singing his heart out even during the day, something I have never heard any of the Maine gray tree frogs do unless rain or heavy mist blanketed the mountains. At these times they sing periodically.
 
As of this writing, even in the wind my little friend is still calling – the voice of yearning crying out in the wilderness… Three days in a row.
 
At present I have no answer to this particular mystery and welcome any commentary the reader might have.
 
What follows is a little natural history on these one to two inch frogs that come in every shade of gray to green, depending upon the vegetation they inhabit.
 
The gray tree frog's scientific name is Hyla versicolor. The frog’s ability to alter its skin color also changes with respect to the time of day and the surrounding temperature. When my brother and I were children we would capture these frogs and place them on leaves, lily pads, wild grasses, bark, lichen etc. just to watch how fast they could change color! Their skin becomes much lighter at night and darker during the day.
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Gray tree frogs hibernate in the winter by taking refuge in trees. They survive sub -zero temperatures by producing glycerol to "freeze" during which time they also stop breathing while still being able to maintain interior metabolic processes. A virtual miracle, that.

Supposedly the gray tree frog's range covers much of the eastern United States, from northern Florida to central Texas and north to parts of southeastern Canada but obviously, some of these frogs are moving west, or were here in the first place. Tree frogs are an arboreal species that occupies a variety of wooded habitats. They are most often found in forests, swamps, on agricultural lands and in wooded backyards.

All need access to trees and a water source. I don’t know when it occurred to me that I am surrounded by the perfect habitat here as well as in Maine. When gray tree frogs are young and newly metamorphosed, they usually remain near the forest floor tucked into bark, detritus, or high grasses; later they transition to the forest canopy. As an adult I have captured some that like to hide in the rough bark of the white pines next to my brook (Maine).

Adult gray tree frogs mainly prey upon different types of insects at night because they are nocturnal. Mites, spiders, plant lice, snails and slugs are common prey. They may also occasionally eat smaller frogs, including other tree frogs. They search for insects in trees, where they can climb vertically or move horizontally with their fantastic  toe pads that cling like suction cups.
The males begin trilling in early spring, shortly after emerging from hibernation. In the mid-range areas males begin calling in late April to early May. In Maine I don’t begin to hear them until late May. Males call to females from trees and bushes that are usually close to overhanging streams or standing water.

The exact timing of breeding for gray tree frogs varies based on temperature and their location throughout the range. Most reproduction takes place early on, although the musical trilling lasts from late April to early August (May through September in Maine). Individuals may mate up to three times in a season.

Males are very territorial and will fight other males to defend their area. Fights may last 30 to 90 seconds and consist of wrestling, shoving, kicking and head butting until the subordinate male retreats. Females are sexually di-morphic (bigger) and initiate mating by approaching a calling male.1,000 to 2,000 eggs which are externally fertilized by the male. Since actual mating occurs while the frogs are floating in water, eggs are deposited into the water in small clusters, attached to a reed or some kind of floating debris. Tadpoles usually hatch after three to seven days, depending on the water temperature. As youngsters, these frogs are painted scarlet or orange-vermilion with black blotches around the edge of the crests, so unlike other species they are easy to identify. Bodies and tails are patterned with many specks of black and gold. Like most tadpoles, they eat algae and organic detritus found in the water. Tadpole development depends on water temperature and is variable, but vernal pools must have standing water for some time, a real challenge here in Abiquiu.

After three days of trilling this poor little frog must be exhausted. I can only hope that there is one female that will hear his call… 

Every time I think the Evening Grosbeaks are thinning out or even migrating en mass, they return. I have had a huge flock of these golden birds on my porch all winter and spring. Every morning the air is flooded with raucous finch bird song.

According to many sources these beautiful birds are nomadic in southern areas but their presence here has been consistent. Irruptions (or rapid increases) of these birds in fall and winter are a common response to changing food supplies. Perhaps they stay around here because I feed them (as so many people do), but even with a stable food supply they will leave eventually. Western populations migrate to higher altitudes to breed sometime this spring and then return to the lowlands during the winter.   

In the Northeast, where I come from, the summer arrival of the grosbeaks is an event not to be missed because they migrate north to breed and are gone again within three months. In the last few years the bountiful flocks have been absent, having been replaced by a few breeding pairs. No one knows why Grosbeak numbers are in decline but apparently this downward trend holds for much of the US. While the pattern of decline is clear, the potential causes are murky unless one factors in the usual, Climate Change and insecticide use. I do know that these finches have adapted to having a regular supply of sunflower seed by growing a larger beak.

Evening Grosbeaks interest me because they are an example of a bird that migrates in a limited way, (altitudinal) and one who also makes a long distance seasonal flight.

 Migration is the patterned movement from one place to another that occurs in birds, mammals, fish, reptiles, amphibians, insects and crustaceans. Migration may also occur at the cellular level.

Migration can occur seasonally or just once in a lifetime.  Birds like grosbeaks migrate to find food and to reproduce, but I can’t find any data on why these birds move from Abiquiu to higher altitudes to breed when there are extensive cottonwood canopies  around here and a regular food supply, so there must be other unknown factors.

It’s important to distinguish between birds that migrate seasonally for food and reproduction from those who are forced to leave one place for another because of human induced habitat loss, and Climate Change. Is it possible that one of the reasons the grosbeaks move to the mountainous ranges is to escape the heat?   

Like scientists, I have been intrigued by migration because we know so little about how birds and animals know what they know, and because, unfortunately, whatever capabilities animals have developed over millennia are also being interrupted  in ways that we can barely comprehend.   
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Multitudes of studies indicate that 1,800 of the 10,000 remaining bird migrating species probably use a wide variety of mechanisms to navigate, including the stars, the sun, olfactory (chemical) cues, internal circadian rhythms that change in response to the seasons, and Earth's magnetic field. Controversial field theory may also offer an explanation. But the point is, we don’t really know. The mysteries of bird migration continue to haunt me with questions I can’t answer.

Here are a few examples of the ways bird migration has changed over the years:
1. Evening grosbeak migration patterns are shifting.
2.  Some Canadian geese migrate seasonally; others remain in some states year-round.
3. Lesser black-backed gulls began appearing regularly in the New Jersey area in the 1970s, and  are now fairly common winter visitors.
4. Sandhill cranes that used to migrate to Florida for the winter have stable winter populations in the state of Tennessee, and this year we had whole flocks of these birds who spent the winter here rather than moving further south.
5. Not all Rufous hummingbirds migrate to the tropics for the winter. Some are now flying south to areas like Alabama and Florida to remain there for the winter.
6. Barn swallows habitually migrated to South America during the winter but at present they also nest there in addition to moving north to breed.

We may not know how migration works, but we do know the patterns of migration are changing and that Climate Change is a reality. My fervent hope is that somehow most species, who are all our “elders” – humans, after all have only been around for 200,000 years - (plants for 450 million years, animals for 350 million years) - may possess strategies that we can’t even imagine to survive the damage that we have brought upon all living things, including ourselves.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

I have developed a fascination and a deep respect for the Great Tailed Grackle as a result of making regular visits to Walmart. I began feeding these birds bread crumbs this winter because I like them so much and because I wanted to observe these clever characters hopping about dodging automobiles and people who apparently don’t have much use for them. Some always hang out on the roof with the fake owls that were put there to scare them.
 
I wonder how many people have actually looked at the Great Tailed Grackle because both sexes are quite stunning. The male is glossy black with an ecclesiastical purple iridescence. He has a long, keel-shaped tail, massive bill and yellow eyes. The female is about half the size of the male and looks as if she’s been dipped in brown oil; she has a smaller keel shaped tail. The visual characteristic that stands out the most to me is the brilliance of those bright yellow eyes. These birds radiate intelligence!

And, in fact, studies that have been done on these birds reveal that they are adept at problem solving (even from a human point of view).

For example, the Grackles problem-solving power was tested by posing glass cylinders full of water with bits of food floating just outside the birds reach. To grab the morsels, the birds had to drop in pebbles to raise the water levels. After a number of trials most of the Grackles figured out that dropping pebbles into the water raised the water level so they could feed. They also learned that it was usually more efficient to use heavy pebbles to reach the snack, but if provided with too large stones the birds turned back to small pebbles to reach their goal.

Another test done had even more dramatic results. Silver and gold tubes of food were presented to the grackles but only the gold tubes had peanuts and bread in them. The Grackles immediately chose the gold tubes, but when the food was placed in silver tubes the birds instantly chose them. These tests reveal not only problem solving ability but also the birds’ flexibility in terms of learning.

Its important to note that Grackles outperformed three species in the crow family (Corvids).
This desert-adapted bird doesn’t need much beyond food, trees, water, and its own wits for survival. Once confined to Central America, the species began moving north 200 years ago, and now covers an immense region from northwestern Venezuela up to southern Canada. In 1900, the northern limits of its range barely extended into Texas; by the end of the century it had nested in at least 14 states and was reported in 21 states and 3 Canadian provinces. This explosive growth occurred mainly after 1960 and coincided with human-induced habitat changes such as irrigation and urbanization.

Where people have gone, Great-tailed Grackles have followed: you can find them in both agricultural and urban settings from sea level to 7,500 feet that provide open foraging areas, a water source, and trees or hedgerows. In rural areas, look for grackles pecking for seeds in feedlots, farmyards, and newly planted fields, and following tractors to feed on flying insects and exposed worms. In town, grackles forage in parks, neighborhood lawns, and at dumps. More natural habitats include chaparral and second-growth forest.

Great-tailed Grackles are loud, social birds that can form flocks numbering in the tens of thousands. Each morning small groups disperse to feed in open fields and urban areas, often foraging with cowbirds and other blackbirds, then return to roosting sites at dusk. This evening routine includes a nonstop cacophony of whistles, squeals, and rattles as birds settle in for the night.

As near as I can tell Grackles forage almost anywhere and will eat almost anything. What this says to me is that these kinds of birds have learned to co – habit with humans in very ingenious ways that must include being able to deal with pesticides.

During the last month (March) I have noted that there are fewer Grackles hanging around the parking lot. One reason for this absence may be that during the day some birds are moving into more rural areas to feed. In addition to country foraging and prior to actual nesting, both males and females begin to collect material for the nest site about four weeks before actual breeding begins in April.

Nesting occurs in colonies of a few to thousands, with the nests often placed close together. The actual nest construction is done after this period of “gathering,” which although not mentioned in any of the sources I consulted, must be related to the mating process.  The females choose the nest site, and often “borrow” nest-building materials from other females. The nest is made of grass, twigs, reeds, and mud and is woven by the female in about 5 days in a tree, shrub, or hidden in marshland vegetation placed anywhere from 3 to 30 feet off the ground or water. Nest size varies from four inches across to 13 inches deep.

The female will lay 4 to 7 eggs that are pale greenish brown with blotches. The young are ready to fledge in a month. Mother is responsible for brooding and feeding. During this period some male Grackles may guard the nest while the female forages. In contrast some others may pair with a second female during this time leaving the female to manage on her own.

Curiously, fewer male than female nestlings survive. Adult male survival may also be lower than adult female survival, which would result in a female-biased adult sex ratio.

Although there is considerable overlap in the distribution of the three species, the Common Grackle occurs throughout the eastern United States and Canada, the Great-tailed Grackle is found in the Midwest and south/western United States, and the Boat-tailed Grackle is confined to Florida and coastal areas of the Gulf states and the eastern United States.

The Grackle is protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, which as far as I can tell, means practically nothing. People routinely haze, shoot, or use pesticides to eliminate these birds but their numbers continue to increase. In this time of great uncertainty due to Climate Change and continued overuse of lethal pesticides I can’t help but feel reassured that some non – human species will survive, and whenever I spend time with the Walmart birds I feel flickers of hope rising. I am already looking forward to seeing the Great Tailed Grackles once again flooding the Walmart parking in Espanola by the middle of May.

We are approaching the spring equinox, historically one of my favorite times of year. The wheel is turning as the sun’s light grows more brilliant and the sunrise occurs further to the northeast. The night sky is sparkling with cracked stars. Venus shines low in the east… The other notable change is that here anyway, a pair of White - winged doves are starting to sing at dawn. I can also hear other dove songs in the distance. When the couple retires to the Russian olive after feasting on cracked corn, Lily b, my African (European) Collared dove peers out at them. The melodious “who who who hoooh” sound or one of its variations (depending on the species) is music to our ears.
 
My love affair with doves began when I was a child. I used to draw and paint stylized white doves on scraps of paper after watching them flutter to the ground to feed outside my grandmother’s window. As an adult I often had a hundred (Mourning) doves feeding on seed that I scattered outside my back door. At a Jungian conference in Assisi, Italy in the 80’s I was serenaded from dawn to dusk by thousands of doves and pigeons including pure white doves.
 
When my father died suddenly, soon after one of these trips, a white dove appeared with the Mourning doves and stayed around for exactly one day before disappearing as mysteriously as s/he came. That same night my father’s brother, my uncle, bit into a tiny stone dove that was hidden in his pasta; that white dove - stone remains on his son’s mantelpiece to this day. I didn’t know until recently that the white dove is a Ring neck dove mutation.
 
The spring after my father’s death I acquired a dove of my own, an African collared dove who is closely related to the European Collared/Ring neck and White winged doves who live around here. Lily b has been a free flying house bird for 28 years. He has traveled back and forth across country a few times in the back of the car always without a cage. He has also made a number of excursions into the wild but he always returns by his own volition. He has also survived three mates, two of which lived a normal life span of 8-10 years like our wild doves do here…
 
Like me, Lily b does a lot of bird watching. He spends most mornings these days perched on a basket or windowsill peering out at the White winged doves. The White winged doves do not favor Lily’s company as he discovered while flying around outdoors one morning early last summer. He had been enjoying a sun bath on the open porch before making a brief foray into the trees. Undaunted, Lily continues to converse with his avian relatives with great enthusiasm. Lily b is a very democratic bird!
 
White winged Doves live in dense, thorny forests, streamside woodlands, deserts full of cactus and, more recently, urban and suburban areas of the southern U.S. They tend to breed in the interiors of forests rather than near the edges. White-winged doves now breed as far north as Oklahoma so the species is moving northward and the breeding range extends south to Panama and east to Cuba. Wherever they range White winged doves prefer places where nesting habitat is interspersed with feeding habitat, like grain fields or desert cactus communities. In the winter, White-winged doves are found throughout most of their breeding range as well as in the southeastern United States, and some individuals wander widely across the continent.
The White-Winged dove eats mostly grains and other agricultural crops like wheat, sunflower, milo, corn, and safflower. They also eat fruits and large seeds and seem predisposed toward large seeds perhaps because of their large bills.
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 In some desert areas this dove often feeds on the fruits of cactus, and visits their flowers for nectar. White winged doves are important pollinators of the giant saguaro cactus, a fact that fascinates me because I don’t think of doves as pollinators. They also commonly feed above ground level on berries and raised bird feeders although they won’t feed on my porch; I have to throw corn over the railing. Like many birds, these doves consume small stones and sand to help with digestion. They also eat snails as a protein source and bone fragments for calcium.

Males choose the nesting territory while the females select the specific nest site, preferring a protected tree branch located in the shade. They gravitate towards woodlands, particularly along streams. Around here during the summer they prefer the Cottonwoods.

The male gathers twigs and brings them to the female, who constructs the nest over a couple of days. Made mostly of sticks, the nest also may have weeds, grasses or mosses arranged in a flimsy bowl about 4 inches across. Doves in general are very casual nest builders and nests rarely survive one season. Although the rule is that two white eggs are laid and gestated for about three weeks these doves may have a couple of broods a year.

White winged Doves walk along tree branches and on the ground; they fly in a swift and straight path. Courting and nesting males will occasionally strike bills and slap wings with each other, but they mostly defend their perches and nests by using an aggressive call or flailing their wings and tail. Males perform courtship flights, spiraling up into the sky and then back to the branch they started from in a stiff-winged glide. They also bow, puff up their necks, or fan their tails to entice females to mate; White winged Doves are monogamous. When a predator comes to call they may feign a broken wing to lead the intruder away.

 By far the most dangerous predator to these doves is man and in this part of the Southwest White winged doves were hunted almost to extinction. Today their overall populations are still declining because of habitat loss.

I was surprised to read that most of those nesting in the Southwest move south in fall because we seem to have a stable, though modest year round population, perhaps because we feed our birds or, more likely, because of Climate Change. Migration, when it occurs, is early in both seasons, most birds arriving by March and leaving in September.
Each year I am on alert for the first coos from the local population of doves because for me they usher one of nature’s certainties, namely that spring is on the way even if snow or silver frost covers the grasses in the field. The flutter of dove wings and melodious cooing creates a symphony I wouldn’t want to live without. Lily b and I find a deep pleasure in each moment that these birds grace our yard.

We know from fossilized records that the Sandhill Cranes are one of oldest birds in the world, and have been in their present form for 10, 30, or 60 million years (depending on the source). They have apparently maintained a family and community structure that allows them to live together peacefully and migrate by the thousands along Nebraska’s central flyway twice a year.
Sandhill Cranes mate for life, and in the spring the adults engage in a complex “dance” with one another. During mating, pairs vocalize in a behavior known as "unison calling." They throw their heads back and unleash a passionate duet—an extended litany of coordinated song. Cranes also dance, run, leap high in the air and otherwise cavort around—not only during mating, but all year long (Even young birds dance and throw sticks and grasses into the air while jumping around enthusiastically).

In their northern habitat, the female lays two eggs a year in thick protected areas at the edge of reed filled marshes. Before nesting these birds “paint” their gray feathers with dull brown reeds and mud to reduce the possibility of being seen by a predator. Born a couple of days a part, the second chick rarely survives. The remaing fuzzy youngster that might make it through the first year stays with its parents for about three years before reaching sexual maturity and striking out on its own, but even then the adult stays within the parameters of its extended family, and it is these families that comprise the flocks of cranes that we see flying together. During migration, a multitude of these families travel together by the hundreds or thousands. There are no leaders and often it is possible to observe what looks like an unorganized random flock (but isn’t) or diagonal thread made up of cranes flying (up to thousands of feet) above the ground.
 
In every watery roosting place there are a few cranes that remain awake all night alerting their relatives to would be predators, and in fact I have been awakened during the night by crane warning cries that sound quite frantic and are higher pitched than normal. I think it’s significant that these very ancient birds have survived so long in their present form. Could it be because they understand the value of living in community, perhaps acting as models for humans who, for the most part, seem to have forgotten what genuine community might consist of? 
 
Most recently these birds have been a presence in my life since last November when they first arrived, I believed for a brief stopover, before moving south to places like the Bosque del Apache to spend the winter.
 
When I first came to New Mexico almost three years ago I was astonished and bewildered by their haunting collective cries even when I couldn’t see them which was most of the time during the same fall month…
 
This year the cranes not only stopped by but many decided to spend the winter here much to my great joy, perhaps a result of Climate Change which is shifting their migration patterns and created conditions like the extreme drought that dramatically lowered the level of Red Willow River over this last year.
 
My hypothesis is that the resulting shallow riffles (one of which just happens to be below my house) provided many cranes with the safety they needed to roost there all winter long. For three precious months I listened with awe and wonder to pre-dawn crane murmuring and on sunny mornings watched huge flocks of cranes take to the air with their haunting br-rilling cries. Every night I stood outside to listen to that same contented collective murmuring just before dark as the cranes settled in for the night.
 
When they are all talking to one another during the day (cranes need to be in constant contact with each other/family members) it is hard to distinguish one voice from another because listening to the whole is a symphonic masterpiece. But this winter I slowly learned to identity various cries by listening carefully to smaller groups as they took to the sky. The highest pitched voices belong to the youngsters, the lowest and most full-bodied calls come from the males, and the females speak in tongues from the middle.
 
Sandhill Cranes are omnivores and feed in wet meadows or in shallow marshes where plants grow out of the water during the warmer seasons. They prefer a diet of seeds and cultivated grains but also include berries, tubers, crayfish, frogs, small mammals, worms and insects. In the field next to me I think they fed on wild sunflower seeds and native grasses.
 
As previously mentioned Climate Change is shifting migration patterns. Some groups are now spending their entire lives in one place like Florida (these are endangered), others are no longer migrating further south than Tennessee, although they also fly north in the spring. It is unusual to have Cranes living in Northern New Mexico, although I understand from local fishermen that a few have occasionally remained here throughout the winter. I recently learned that Sandhill Cranes have even been observed in parts of Maine.
 
Their normal migration routes take them from Mexico as far northwest as (eastern) Siberia, into the Canadian Shield and Alaska to breed with one major stopover in Nebraska at the Platte River where 600,000 cranes meet to rest themselves for a month before making the last leg of their arduous and dangerous seasonal journey (another group that settles further northeast makes a stop in Mississippi). In the fall all northern populations will make the trip south for the winter because of inclement weather and lack of food, stopping again to rest and feed at the same places.

​New Mexico and Texas have the dubious distinction of being the first states to legalize Crane slaughter and now every state along their central flyway except Nebraska engages in spring and fall hunting. We can thank the state Fish and Wildlife organizations for “managing” the crane population by issuing licenses to kill these magnificent birds to bring in even more money when these organizations are already extremely well supported financially by the NRA and our taxpayer dollars. A Caveat to those that don’t know: All State Fish and Wildlife agencies, that purport to support wildlife have a deadly hidden agenda: to kill birds and animals at their discretion.
 
Although at present these birds appear to be maintaining a stable population the low survival rate of even one chick a year alerts us to the fact that uncertain survival rates and delayed reproduction factor into the difficulties inherent in crane conservation, and to that we must now add Climate Change – the ultimate unknown. It is prudent to recall that by conservative estimates we have already lost 50 percent of our non – human species.
 
When I first began to hear the Cranes I never imagined that I would start to see them or watch them make gracious descents into a neighboring field at all times of the day, every day for months. Watching them cup their six - foot wings, drop their long legs and spread their tails as they parachuted to the ground is a gift that I have never taken for granted. A solitary musical rolling rill, a haunting cry that raises the hair on my arms is a sound that now lives on in my mind and body.
 
Spring migration has begun and the largest aggregations of cranes are moving north. Some days the bowl of blue sky feels too empty, but some small flocks are still visible especially during the early morning and again at dusk. I noted the sudden loss of the largest flocks just before this last full moon and wondered if these birds also migrated at night. Further research confirmed that Sandhill Cranes sometimes do migrate after dark during the week before and after full moons.
 
A few days ago the Core of Engineers opened the dam raising the river - the protected riffles below my house disappeared, so during this last week in February I am without the morning joy of listening to nearby pre-dawn murmuring, but can still see and hear some Cranes flying by.  According to my friend Barbara R. some flocks are still at the Bosque del Apache, so hopefully we will be hearing their haunting cries as these last Cranes fly northward. It isn’t until April that all Sandhills reach the Platte River …
 
Pueblo people say that humans were once Cranes who lived in the clouds… they came to earth and danced for joy in the rain… Cranes also watched over ceremonies and remain a part of some Indigenous rituals today.  Additionally, Sandhills act as Guardians for the People easing transitions from life to death and beyond….
 
Cranes are Elders in every sense of the word, ancient relatives and they continue on, some adapting, others following scripts or patterns that stretch back to antiquity. The way they live, migrating out of seasonal necessity, returning to home - places, celebrating through community and song in life and death is a way of being that embodies flowing like a river… And for that, their magnificent beauty and inherent wisdom, I thank them.

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