Rock squirrels

A common, easily-observed denizen of the Southwest, the rock squirrel has been variously classified as Sciurus variegatus, Citellus variegatus, Spermophilus variegatus, and Otospermophilus variegatus. This taxonomic indecision doesn't seem to have resulted in any identity crisis for the squirrels; they're quite confident to be themselves.

In fact, where acclimated to people, they are cheeky little beggars, approaching people quite closely. (At one point, while I was lying on my belly for a better angle, a squirrel I was trying to photograph spotted me, ran directly toward me, and climbed across my back.)

This can be problematic, as plague—Yersinia pestis, the Black Death itself—is firmly established in parts of the Southwest, and frequently carried by fleas on rock squirrels.

Apart from any disease risk, handouts of junk food tend to be bad for individual squirrels. Their normal diet includes fruit, nuts, and seeds, but also meat and eggs when they can get them. Many of the squirrels we observed were gorging themselves on juniper berries—check out the bulging cheek pouches in the second photo below.

In some ways, rock squirrels appear to be intermediate between tree squirrels and the other ground squirrels. Their tails, for example, are far bushier than those of most other ground squirrels, and while it's not something they do frequently, they can climb trees quite well. On the other hand, their "checkerboard" pelage, with fine barring or spotting on the mantle, is a trait shared by some other ground squirrel species, notably the California and Arctic ground squirrels.

Rock squirrels will retreat to their underground dens during cold snaps, but most likely do not hibernate. They are not colonial in the fashion of prairie dogs or some other ground squirrels, but do emit an alarm call (a loud chirp) upon spotting predators. These include coyotes, rattlesnakes, and several species of diurnal raptor, most notably red-tailed hawks, ferruginous hawks, and golden eagles. Even human-acclimated squirrels are wary of potential threats, actively scanning their surroundings in the midst of daily activities such as grooming and foraging.

Just in case you haven't seen enough yet, here follows a gallery—a rogue's gallery, if you will, for there is something roguish about these critters—of rock squirrel photos. (All photos in this essay were made by yours truly, and if this seems like a lot, trust me when I say that I'm going easy on you people. There are dozens more where these came from.)

Western bluebird

Not even the prettiest of the Sialia...still gorgeous.
 

Realm of the mountain sheep

Wolf Creek Pass is in the mountains southwest of Denver. It is one of the most lovely areas in North America, and peregrine falcons nested there for  centuries.... From the tops of those cliffs you can see one of Colorado's most pristine drainages. At the lower end of that drainage, near the highway, is the headquarters of the development company that wants to turn it all into a ski resort.

—Dan O'Brien, The Rites of Autumn, 1988

[Photos by Mark & Jessica, who are happy to report that some wildness and beauty yet remains.]

Amateur hour

You see, gentlemen, not only have your own efforts failed, but you've rather queered the pitch for everyone else.

—from the film version of Frederick Forsyth's Day of the Jackal

Also in the San Luis Valley, Ellie spotted this juvie redtail hunting prairie dogs (Gunnison's, I think), and making a bad show of it. I'm guessing it was mice and not Cynomys that carried this hapless bird through the Colorado winter to March...and in my mind's eye, I'm picturing an adult ferruginous hawk perched in the distance, seething...

Fellow travelers

Every spring (well, almost) we make a pilgrimage in late February or early March to the central Platte River Valley to observe the sandhill crane migration. This year, we were headed to Arizona, and all we managed was a single pass through our primary route near Doniphan, and we saw not a single crane. "All posing for pictures up on the Interstate," I muttered. So we were especially glad to find a few en route, in the San Luis Valley between Alamosa and Del Norte. Colorado. But for the snow-capped peaks in the background, this could have been Nebraska.

[Photos by Jess]

Symphony

The last day of my hawking season was such a bust that I won't discuss it further, but the one before that...

We went to Cottontail Lake, just Stekoa, the dogs, and me. Lake still frozen, but starting to break up. Place utterly deserted except for ourselves, and the brief visit of a game warden. We started several of the namesake critters; Stekoa put in a couple of nice wingovers, finally caught one in a fast tailchase. All to the accompaniment of The Sound.

It was present from the moment we exited the car, and continued intermittently throughout the afternoon, but periodically changing in character. At times it sounded like a living thing: a dove, a great horned owl (though we later did hear a pair of the real thing duetting), a humpback whale. At other moments it partook of inanimate objects: a piece of sheet metal, held by the edges and bounced; a breath of wind across the top of an empty Coke bottle. Full of harmonics, it emanated from seemingly nowhere and everywhere at once.

It would be tempting to describe the sound as otherworldly, but it was very much of this world, arguably more than any other sound out there—the crunch of gravel under the warden's tyres, the ticking of his engine, the swish of my beating stick through grass, the click of the dogs' tags, the jangling of Stekoa's bells, even the distress cry of the captured rabbit—for while all of us who move on the earth make sound, this came from the earth itself.

It was the sound of the breakup, the tympanic groaning and rumbling of great slabs of ice flexing and tearing and cracking and rubbing one against the other. The song of winter yielding to spring.

[Photos by kind permission of Pat Stull, there a couple of days later.]

Small brown hawk as silver lining

I don't like the flu. I don't want the flu, and I don't like it when my friends get the flu.

But if my friends must get the flu, let them at least be skilled photographers whose backyards are visited by Cooper's hawks when they're home from work. These photos courtesy of Pat Stull.

Thanks for sharing, Pat. Some of the best raptor images ever captured by an ailing man in his pyjamas.

Use only as directed

Some of the instructions and warnings on the Bayou Classic boiler/steampot that Jessa got me for Yule:

• Sober adult operation ONLY!
• ALWAYS operate in an open area a minimum of 10-ft from buildings, trees, and overhangs.
• NEVER use under any roof or overhang.
• NEVER allow children or pets near the cooking area during and after use.
• NEVER! No barefeet [sic] or sandals while cooking.
• ALWAYS wear protective mitts, gloves, goggles and long sleeve clothing when cooking.

I can see the logic behind each and every one of these admonitions, but let's be honest: Everyone knows the crabs, crawfish, shrimp, etc. will be cooked under the carport with a passel of kids and dogs running underfoot. The cook will be wearing shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops—well, shorts, anyway—and drinking beer. That's just how it's done. That's arguably how it should be done.

"The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers."

—William Shakespeare 

NFA field meet, January-February '15

Hmm, maybe we should have waited a week...

We did have a contingency plan in place for inclement weather, but didn't exercise that option, and in the end the weather dominated the latest Nebraska Falconers' Association field meet, held this past weekend in Kearney and neighboring Elm Creek. A mix of mist, drizzle, rain, sleet, and snow kept things varied, but uniformly damp, on Saturday. We actually found good numbers of cottontails, but had little success catching them with wet hawks. Of the five redtails and one goshawk flown, only one redtail—Oliver, a passage tiercel flown by first-year apprentice Adam Jones—caught a rabbit, and that was after a hunt of less than two minutes.

Adam let Oliver take his time feeding on the kill, so the rest of us took a break and snacked on homemade spring rolls, brought by associate member Don Nguyen. After flying a few more hawks—and visiting with Bob Noble, down from Long Pine for his first meet in several years—we dined at Luke & Jake's Bar-B-Q in Kearney, then retired to the meet hotel, where guest presenter Kirk Hohenberger screened Raptors At Risk and gave a brief talk on raptor electrocution and power pole safety.

Some members left on Saturday evening, despite the worsening weather, and that proved to be a good decision. Those who left late Saturday night or on Sunday morning faced a harrowing drive home, thanks to icy roads and white-out conditions which prompted numerous road closures across the state. For the few of us who remained, with winds steady at 30 mph and gusting even higher, hawking was of course out of the question, but we did gather in Greg Mikkelsen's room to watch hawking videos shot by Kirk in his home state of Montana and on holiday in Scotland.

I'll leave you with a few photos I took on Saturday, despite the wet conditions.

[Adam Jones and Oliver]

[Chris Podraza with passage merlin, still in training]

[Chris Remmenga with Krieger, passage goshawk trapped in Minnesota]

[Krieger in flight]

Ginger binger 2015

It's taken me a few days to find some computer time (happily, I am getting some time in the field with hawk and dogs), but we recently did our annual ginger-beer tasting to ring in the new year. Rather than do another massive copy/paste session, I'm going to link to the last one I posted (three years ago?!?). Please click here for background; Shakespearean ginger quotes; a primer on DGAs, GGAs, and GBs; and, of course, tasting notes on various ginger ales and ginger beers.

All caught up? Okay, here are notes on a few new entries (and one update), as compiled by yours truly, along with wife Jessa, daughter Ellie, and guest taster Susan Farrell (Jessa's mom):

NEW: Bruce Cost Ginger Ale, from Brooklyn, New York, follows a well-established pattern of American ginger sodas in that the label is somewhat misleading with regard to category. I would classify this as a true GB, cloudy with bits of real ginger, and made with cane sugar. Apparently the eponymous Mr. Cost is a restauranteur who has written a ginger-based cookbook, so I'd be interested to know why this one is labeled a GA, but no matter. The soda itself is quite good, and we'll go back for more.

We also sampled two flavour-added variations from Bruce Cost. The first adds passionfruit and turmeric; notable for its bright yellow colour, the taste was more subtle than we had anticipated. The other is blended with jasmine tea; the resulting drink is (unsurprisingly, I suppose) tea-coloured, and quite refreshing. Apparently there is also a pomegranate and hibiscus flavour, but that one eluded us as we shopped.

NEW: Rocky Mountain Soda's Golden Ginger Beer is instantly recognizable for its brown bottle— award a point for honouring tradition—with bright-yellow label featuring a mule-deer illustration that would not look out of place in a nineteenth-century book on natural history. The drink, too, is unique, in that the use of beet sugar is specifically highlighted; this is a break from the cane-sugar standard, but let's award another point for using local ingredients! While this is as spicy as some GBs, I'm going to classify this as a GGA on the basis of colour and clarity. There are also some citrus notes, and our consensus was a bit of earthiness as well. (Ellie: "It tastes like the forest somehow.") Enjoyed by all of us, and another we'll likely buy again.

UPDATE: Goose Island Spicy Ginger, which became an instant favourite when we reviewed it three years ago, has undergone a re-branding (though the change to the label is subtle enough that I couldn't say when). Apparently it's WBC Spicy Ginger now, part of the WBC Craft Sodas line from WIT Beverage Company. Still a very good GGA. 

(Incidentally, WIT has also acquired III Dachshunds root beer and orange cream soda, both of which I've enjoyed. It's unclear whether III Dachshunds beers are still available in Wisconsin.)

Oops, I've overlooked one. Not sure if this counts as NEW or as an UPDATE, but there's now a Cock 'n Bull Cherry Ginger Beer, with real cherry flavour to go along with the real ginger. Still in brown glass, but with a red-and-white label in place of the familiar red-and-black. Comparable to the Reed's Cherry Ginger Brew, with perhaps a slight advantage to the Cock 'n Bull.

Happy New Year, and we'll try not to let another three years pass without adding some new reviews.
 

Somewhere between Holland and Panama

a) ...lie the Azores
b) ...would be a good title for a world-music instrumental
c) ...is one of the spots we've been hawking lately

Just a few mobile-phone pictures to show I'm alive. These are really grainy; do not click to embiggen.

[A tree favoured by hunters]

[Mantling over a rabbit]

 [Après la chasse, on my old block made by Eddie Hall]

Her heart's in the Highlands

Hawking this afternoon was over and done in five minutes: the dachshunds plunged into a blackberry-and-gooseberry thicket, a rabbit ran out the other side, and the redtail caught it easily. Under such circumstances, it's often tempting to continue in search of another, but Stekoa's been slaughtering mice and voles with abandon of late, so I was especially grateful for the rabbit and thought it better to end the day on a positive note.

On the brief walk out of the woods, we flushed a large whitetail doe, who materialised from another thicket and bounded, flag high, across the campground road and then up and over a hill planted in little bluestem. The puppies gave chase, but I called them off and we returned to the car, where I finished feeding Stekoa. Maxine stayed close by, ever alert to the possibility that the hawk might drop something remotely edible, but Anya (who in any case tends to lose out to Max when such bounty does fall) apparently sneaked off while I was preoccupied: the next time I saw her, it was at a distance, as she trotted contentedly back from the hillside beyond which the doe had disappeared. As I watched the little huntress slipping through the grass which so nearly matched her coat, I thought of these lines by Robert Burns:

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer

[The whole piece, as sung by Karine Polwart:]