Thursday, April 18, 2024

Ayeli Alohi

A perfectly ordinary roadside, along U.S. Highway 29 just west of Hartwell, Georgia.


There have always been roads here, and this particular spot was considered the Center of the World by the Cherokee people. As the sign by the Georgia Historical Commission notes, tribal councils were held here, and it became a venue for trade with white men from Augusta. I'm guessing that before that, it may have been a trading location with the Muscogee (Creek) Indians, and if so stickball games were likely played here as well.


Business still goes on here; visible behind the D.A.R.'s stone marker is Fabritex, a company specialising in structural steel fabrication. The factory was closed when we passed by, so I didn't have the opporunity to ask if any of their people are of Cherokee ancestry.


The Daughters of the American Revolution and the Georgia Historical Commission have obviously left their markers here. I'm not sure who put up the red-and-white signboard, but it looks like a Cherokee quilt pattern, so perhaps it was The People themselves.

The Commission sign also tells of a passenger pigeon roost located here back in the day. We didn't see pigeons breaking tree limbs or darkening the sky, but there were eastern bluebirds and chipping sparrows.

It may be diminished, but the world goes on.


[Some gentlemen from just down the road in Athens, on what feels to me like a similar theme:]

Wednesday, April 17, 2024

Southeastern (?) American kestrel


Jessa photographed this rather confiding spike (tiercel) American kestrel in a meadow flanked by pines near Millen, Georgia. He definitely noticed our approach (by car), but after giving us a cursory glance went back to scanning his surroundings for prey, one foot tucked up in an obviously relaxed posture.


Something about the bird struck me as a bit different, and I'm reasonably confident—though I cannot prove—that this is Falco sparverius paulus, the Southeastern kestrel.


F. s. paulus is a non-migratory subspecies limited to the coastal plain from South Carolina to Mississippi or possibly Louisiana. The only reason for uncertainty here is timing: during the breeding season, their ranges appear to be separate, but many individuals of the nominate subspecies co-occur with paulus in the winter, and we saw the bird in March.


That being said, Millen is definitely within the range of paulus, and the pine savanna habitat is right as well. I'm going with my intuition here. And while Jessa was concerned that her photos might not turn out, I particularly love this ever-so-slightly unfocused shot, with pines in the background, for its sense of place:


Monday, April 15, 2024

The ditches of Cockspur Island

In 1829, the U.S. Army began work on a "Third System" fort on Cockspur Island, near the mouth of the Savannah River. One of the engineers sent to work there was a recent West Point graduate, Second Lieutenant Robert E. Lee of Virginia. One of Lt. Lee's duties was to create a drainage system that would allow the soft ground of Cockspur—so low-lying that it often disappeared at high tide—to support the fort's massive masonry walls. The canal below, and the brick structures in the succeeding photos, represent part of that system.


Lee was transferred back to Virginia in 1831, and two years later the stronghold was named Fort Pulaski in honour of Casimir Pulaski, the Polish cavalry commander who had perished at Savannah in the American Revolution. The fort was completed in 1847 but did not see service until 1861, when Georgia seceded from the Union and Governor Joseph Brown sent troops to occupy the fort; upon Georgia's joining the Confederate States, Fort Pulaski became a Confederate military installation under the command of Colonel Charles H. Olmstead. 


In the intervening years, Robert E. Lee had had an illustrious career with the U.S. Army, and having reluctantly resigned his commission after Virginia's secession, he became first the commander of the Provisional Army of Virginia and the Virginia State Navy, and then a full general in the newly-formed Confederate States Army. Although he would later come to his greatest fame as commander of the Army of Northern Virginia, and eventually General in Chief of the Armies of the Confederate States, in late 1861 and early 1862 Lee was in command of the Department of South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida, and as such responsible for coastal defenses in those states—including, of course, Fort Pulaski. 

Lee's professional opinion, shared by most of his peers at the time, was that Pulaski's walls—eleven feet thick—were invulnerable against even sustained artillery fire. In the words of U.S. Chief of Engineers Joseph Totten, "You might as well bombard the Rocky Mountains." In consequence, nearby Tybee Island, deemed too isolated to be defensible, was abandoned by Confederate forces and subsequently occupied by the Union Army. Lee's own assessment of the situation, offered to Col. Olmstead, was that "they will make it pretty warm for you here with shells, but they cannot breach your walls at that distance."


For nearly four months, Union and Confederate naval forces contended for control of the Savannah River as the Federals sought to establish and then tighten their blockade of Savannah. Meanwhile, Brigadier General Quincy A. Gillmore, himself an engineer who had taken a keen interest in naval rifled guns, was establishing artillery positions on Tybee Island. Like the engineers who had built Pulaski, Gillmore's men had to contend with marsh that could easily swallow cannons, but they had the additional disadvantage of working in combat conditions. They worked mainly at night to avoid artillery fire from the fort, braving alligators and mosquitoes to build corduroy road and gun platforms, then hauling the heavy guns to their makeshift emplacements. 


On the 10th of April, 1862, Gillmore's batteries commenced the bombardment of Fort Pulaski from Tybee Island. Thirty hours later, with the fort's walls breached and one of the powder magazines exposed, Olmstead recognised his situation as hopeless and surrendered the fort. (His sword now lies in a display case at Fort Pulaski National Monument.)

In much the same way that the battle between the ironclads USS Monitor and CSS Virginia just two months earlier had signaled the end of the age of wooden warships, the Battle of Fort Pulaski demonstrated that Lee and Totten had been wrong, and that existing coastal forts were obsolete in the face of rifled artillery.


But while Lee had overestimated the strength of Fort Pulaski's walls, the drainage system he built here remains a testimony to his engineering acumen, and that of the Army engineers generally. Fort Pulaski consists of an estimated 25 million bricks, built on a wooden platform with poles sunk up to 70 feet into the mud of Cockspur Island. And while the masonry walls ultimately were no match for rifled Parrott and James cannons, we were told that even now—195 years after construction began, and 177 years after its completion—there are still no cracks in its foundation. 


Sunday, April 14, 2024

Tybee Island Light

Jessa and I were in Savannah last month, visiting with good friends from my university days. From a spacious flat on Broughton Street downtown, we spent several days enjoying this very walkable coastal city's beautiful neighbourhoods and waterfront, Low Country cuisine, and a fine selection of wines. (Jeff is a sommelier, and generously volunteered to arrange a private tasting based on our own tastes, and pushing the envelope a bit.) A wonderful visit, but mostly not intended as fodder for the blog.

Partly because Jessa was experiencing double vision during our trip (nothing to do with the wine), we didn't do much photography in Savannah proper, but I snapped a few shots at Tybee Island Light. Unfortunately,  the lighthouse was closed on the day of our visit—actually, it seemed that just about everything on Tybee was closed on Tuesdays—so all I can offer is external photos.

Tybee Island has had a lighthouse since 1736; the current structure of brick is its fourth iteration. (A more complete history is available at Wikipedia.)


[Boat-tailed grackle on the railing. This is a coastal species, but we see the closely related great-tailed grackle in Nebraska; in fact there's a very reliable location about three miles from our house.]

The keeper's house dates to the early 1880s. Jessa would want me to point out the functional exterior shutters, a must in coastal areas. No architectural feature annoys her more than purely decorative shutters.




Saturday, April 13, 2024

Rutledge Falls

Rutledge Falls is near Tullahoma, Tennessee on Crumpton Creek, a tributary of the Duck River—or at least it was until the Duck was impounded by the TVA to create Normandy Lake c. 1976. The land here is in private hands, but the landowners generously allow visitors to enjoy this splendid waterfall. 










Photos by yours truly, for a change.

Tuesday, March 26, 2024

Such a slender thread

Over the years I've written this blog, it has become less and less focused on current events, but I can hardly fail to take notice of the collapse early this morning of the Francis Scott Key Bridge in Baltimore. This hits close to home; I may be an expat, but I'm a Marylander to the core, with a bottony cross tattoo on my shoulder and Old Bay in my veins, and Charm City will always be home.

I last laid eyes on the Key Bridge in 2022; I can't remember if Jessa and I crossed it during our last visit in August, but I saw it from the air in May, and even from thirty thousand feet recognised it instantly and knew I was home. Not only have I crossed the "Car-Tangled Spanner" countless times, but I've long been interested in Fort Carroll just downstream, built in the late 1840s and early 1850s by an army engineer named Robert E. Lee, some two and a half decades before he became the president of my alma mater.

I've also spent a fair amount of time—more than most Baltimoreans, I suspect—staring at the underside of the Key Bridge. Peregrines nest and roost there, and I've watched them through a spotting scope from Fort Armistead at the southern end of the bridge. At this writing, there are at least half a dozen people missing under circumstances unfavourable for survival, and obviously I am concerned for my fellow citizens, but I hope no one will mind if I also worry for "my" birds and mourn for the loss of their home.

#BaltimoreStrong

Thursday, December 28, 2023

NAFA 2023

Some of Jessa's photos from the weathering yard at the NAFA field meet in Kearney last month...









...and one from the field: Stekoa at Pawnee Lake on the first day of the meet.


Wednesday, November 15, 2023

A hunter and a hunter's moon

Haggard red-tailed hawk—with some Krider's ancestry, I wager. It doesn't appear so in the photo, but IRL the tail shone nearly pink, enough so that we turned the car around for another look. Lots of white on the head, too.


The grey sky, hayed field, and partially-bare cottonwood tree are all redtail habitat, and make this photo emblematic of autumn in Nebraska. Taken somewhere in Custer County, near as I can figure; we covered a lot of ground that day.


Later that evening, a full moon (or nearly so) rising orange over I-80 and disappearing behind low cloud cover. Photos, as usual, by Jessa, but getting out there is a team effort. 


Sunday, November 5, 2023

What's the rumpus?

Jessa and I returned from the store one afternoon to find a troop of blue jays apparently losing their minds out behind the house. A certain amount of Cyanocitta high spirits we're accustomed to—blue jays evidently like being blue jays, and noisy is just part of the recipe. This was louder, and angrier, than standard blue jay raucousness, so while Jessa put our purchases away, I went out back to see what had them so riled.

Arriving at the alley, I discovered that it wasn't just the blue jays on high alert: a small flock of robins, a pair of red-headed woodpeckers, a downy woodpecker, and a yellow-shafted flicker were all mobbing an unseen predator. I was expecting a Cooper's hawk or a great horned owl...but instead found this sleepy eastern screech-owl trying to take a nap on the telephone wires.


Trying, but not succeeding. I rang Jess on her mobile to come out with the camera, and after a bit of grumbling—she had just got her shoes off—she joined me; all of these photos are hers, by the way. And while I can't really know, I think the owl may have appreciated our presence, as the avian crowd dispersed a bit and things quieted down a little. 


We hear the trilling of screech-owls on a fairly regular basis on our evening walks around the neighbourhood, but we see them far less frequently, and usually not for very long, so this was a treat.


Eventually we too departed the alley, leaving the owl to its nap, and hopefully a successful evening's hunt.