Smoky Mountains salamanders

The Great Smoky Mountains are sometimes called "The Salamander Capital of the World". On an individual basis, salamanders (known colloquially as "spring lizards") outnumber all other vertebrates—birds, bears, fish, raccoons, humans, bats, deer, etc.—in these mountains. But it's not just that there are lots of salamanders here—there are many different kinds of salamanders here: twenty-five to thirty species, more or less. The "more or less" depends on who you ask, and when: several currently recognized species have been lumped with other, more widely-ranging species in the past, and some experts believe that there is more splitting to be done. There is a consensus, however, on one fact—the southern Appalachians, and the Smokies in particular, boast a greater diversity of plethodontids or lungless salamanders than anywhere else on the planet.

The Jordan's salamander (Plethodon jordani) is endemic to Great Smoky Mountains National Park; another species, the imitator salamander (Desmognathus imitator) is restricted to the Smokies and the adjacent Balsam Mountains. Because mountains have much in common with islands, these and several other high-elevation amphibian species may be particularly vulnerable to global warming: as the climate grows warmer, their habitat shrinks; with nowhere to go but up, they might eventually run out of space if current temperature trends are not reversed. At present, however, the Jordan's salamander is quite abundant within its limited range. The imitator is somewhat less so, but that is to be expected: it is a Batesian mimic taking advantage of its similarity in appearance to the unpalatable Jordan's; this form of mimicry is most effective when the mimic is relatively uncommon and predators are more likely to encounter the genuine (distasteful) article. Interestingly, though, only some imitators look like Jordan's; where imitator salamanders co-occur with Santeetlah salamanders (Desmognathus santeetlah) or Ocoee salamanders (D. ocoee), some individuals look like those species, which predators are not known to find aversive.

...All of which goes to illustrate a basic point about plethodontid salamanders: they're confusing as hell. Hardly any of these species are uniform in appearance, most look very similar (in some guises) to other species, many hybridize at least occasionally, and even if you're a professional herpetologist with DNA samples and a fully-equipped lab, no identification will be forever beyond dispute because salamander taxonomists agree on very little. Evolution is an ongoing process, after all, and not always conducive to neat little boxes.

With those caveats in mind, let's take a look at a couple of low- to mid-elevation 'manders.

Spotted dusky salamanders (Desmognathus conanti) are widely distributed across the Southeast, and are generally found at lower elevations in the Smokies. These were found at Laurel Creek, between Townsend and Cades Cove, on the Tennessee side of the park. (They were captured in water and placed on the sandy bank for photographic purposes, then returned to their stream.)




The next two photos might also represent D. conanti—note the similarity of color scheme if not pattern—but I believe they are in fact seal salamanders. Seal salamanders (Desmognathus monticola) also occur across the Southeast and are (surprise, surprise) quite variable. Stephen Tilley and James Huheey, authors of the handbook Reptiles & Amphibians of the Smokies, explain the common name: "Individuals are often observed during the daytime, posed on wet rocks in the spray of rushing streams with their heads raised to create profiles reminiscent of a seal's."



These next photos are definitely—well, you know, more or less definitely—seal salamanders. Still more variation here: dark grey with red markings...



...and nearly black. Incidentally, all of the photos I've attributed to seal salamanders are in situ shots from a single location on a small tributary creek of the Little River near the park entrance at Townsend.


By the way, if I've given the impression that scientists who study salamanders are contentious, it's only fair to point out that their subjects are as well. The dusky at lower left in the picture below (again, from near the park entrance at Townsend) had better be careful: seal salamanders are not at all shy about eating other salamanders, including their own kind.


A few tools to take with you for a salamandering expedition (this is not necessarily a comprehensive list):

• River shoes—something that can get wet and retain good traction. Felt-soled wading boots might be the perfect choice.
• Flashlight or headlamp for night-time or other low-light conditions. Red or green LEDs are the best choice, as they will not affect your night vision and tend not to disturb the animals.
• Clear plastic cups—indispensable for gently catching specimens, especially in the water. All amphibians in the park are protected by law, so be sure to return each individual to its capture site.
• Camera, preferably with a macro lens or setting.
  
• Tilley and Huheey, Reptiles & Amphibians of the Smokies, published by and available from the Great Smoky Mountains Association.
• C. Kenneth Dodd, Jr., The Amphibians of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, published by the University of Tennessee Press and also available from the Great Smoky Mountains Association.
• After being fed upon by mosquitos, you'll want something to stop the itch. But I do not recommend DEET or other chemical repellents to prevent mosquito bites: salamanders and other amphibians are sensitive to such chemicals, which are readily absorbed through their moist skin. Do the 'manders a favor: deal with mosquito bites after the fact.
  

Hide and seek

Taken along the banks of the Middle Prong of the Little River, near Tremont:


The spider was nearly the size of my outstretched hand. (I buy my gloves in size XL.) The kind of arachnid that might bring to mind Shelob or Aragog.


But did you notice the moth?

Sanctuary

Last summer, we built a fence had a fence built around most of our yard, which was a sizeable investment but a huge quality-of-life improvement, especially for the dogs. It also had the unintended benefit of providing a couple of sites for new niche gardens. This is the Great Smoky Mountains garden we built for Susan. [Click to embiggen.]

It's impossible, of course, to replicate an ecosystem dominated by dramatic terrain and huge trees, especially in such a tiny area (approximately 3'x6'). Instead we decided to let the tiny area work for us by focusing on microhabitat, selecting plants such as one might find growing in the understory of the Smokies' forest, perhaps alongside a cold freestone stream. The forest itself is merely suggested by the shade provided by the fence.

[Jack-in-the-pulpit, wild ginger, and black cohosh]

[Bird's-foot violet]


[Bleeding-heart]

[Solomon's seal]

[Spiderwort]

Besides those pictured, plants include ferns, turtleheads (both pink and red), bee balm, and cinquefoil. Most are Smokies natives, but we also made use of cultivars and, in some cases, close relatives as stand-ins. Water, another essential element of the Smokies, is provided in the basin (fiberglass, but with a convincing slate finish) and further suggested by the river rocks that "flow" from its foot.

The garden was started last year, and has become fairly well-established; our biggest challenges have been remembering to water frequently (this is a lot thirstier than our prairie garden) and keeping the dogs from trampling it too badly. Anya and Mandie are the main culprits; Max is usually content to doze on the porch of the mudroom nearby.

Soon to come: some photographs of/from the real Smokies.

The kids are alright

Following up on a theme previously established by Patrick Burns (Terrierman's Daily Dose) and the Querencia crew, "The Kids Are Alright": Today's example is Mitchell Renteria, family friend and frequent photographic contributor to Flyover Country.

Mitchell already has at least one professional credit as a photographer, having illustrated my hawking-dogs article in International Falconer magazine a couple of years ago. He also interned for a semester with National Geographic photographer Joel Sartore. And Mitchell, who is considering a career with the National Park Service, is even now on his way to a summer internship at Yellowstone. Not a bad resumé for a kid who just graduated from high school!

A couple of pictures from the archives:

Milkweed seedpod. Gorgeous lighting.


Golden river. This photo has incredible peace-inducing properties. It's been the background on my computer since the day Mitchell sent it to me; I share it now with the hope that everyone who sees it will sit and sigh and lose track of time for a few moments at least.

An artist's return, a re-enactor's kit

I've been derelict in my duties with regard to blogging. Will try to catch up soon. Meanwhile, here's something I've been meaning to post for at least a month or two...

As some of you may know, my Uncle David's career as an artist [click here for examples of his earlier work] was very nearly derailed by Parkinson's disease. After a 20-month hiatus, he took up his brushes again—and then ripped apart his basement to create a new studio: "Man, was that a lot of work. Everything is ten times more difficult when you have this blasted disease...so you really appreciate any accomplishment."

With "this blasted disease", one must be cautious about tempting fate, and David is well aware of the possibility of relapse, but things are going well for now and he continues to paint. Below is his latest: This piece, done in egg tempera, is entitled "13th Virginia Infantry" after the unit with which my brother re-enacts. The accoutrements are Greg's as well.

Organized at Harper's Ferry, the original 13th Virginia was Col. A.P. Hill's regiment, and one in which a substantial number of Marylanders served. Its re-enacting counterpart, as I think I've mentioned before, is involved in historical education as well as fundraising for flag and battlefield preservation. Greg and Uncle David have a mutual passion for history, and I know both would be pleased to think that this piece might do something to raise awareness of the many fields of conflict that have been and continue to be lost to suburban sprawl in the Baltimore-Washington-Richmond megalopolis.

And speaking of conservation, both Uncle David and my cousin Scott exhibited pieces (David's "Rain Barrel", Scott's "Balance") at an Earth Day art show hosted by the Howard County Conservancy and organized by Greg Mort. Will update here if I can find links, but no luck so far.

Oil and water

If the mysteries of the Great Plains have a heartland, it is the Sand Hills of Nebraska. The Sand Hills stretch two hundred miles east to west, from the valley of the North Platte in the south to the Black Hills and Badlands of South Dakota in the north. They are one of the great deserts of the world, an American Rub al Khali or Gobi. A desert in disguise: walk out of Valentine, Cody, Whiteclay, Chadron—one of those ephemeral little Sand Hills cow towns whose main street looks like a painted stage set with nothing behind it—and dig. Beneath the brittle grass and the thin smoke of soil, you hit sand; you are standing in a sea of dunes. And if you dig deep enough, you will come to an even stranger realm: a vast ancient subterranean ocean, the 156,000-square-mile Ogallala Aquifer, with more water in it than Lake Huron. A sea inside a desert wrapped in a green prairie.

—Rob Schultheis, The Hidden West

If you're anything like me, a figure like 156,000 square miles is a bit abstract, Lake Huron hard to picture out of context. Take a quick look at the map and then come back here.

Okay, now another quote from The Hidden West:

The last time Martha went home to visit, she found her father sitting at his desk with a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's and a mess of farm journals and scientific reports. It's all over, he told her. Sand Hills cattle ranching's dead. We've got maybe thirty years left, and then the whole business is going to dry up and blow away; from Denver to the hundredth meridian, this country's gonna look like Afghanistan. The dirt farmer and the rancher's gonna be as gone as fifty million buffalo, as dead as Crazy Horse, as rare as a set of jackalope antlers.

Martha Schaller's father was contemplating the drying up of the Ogallala Aquifer through overuse, the mining of fossil water for thirsty crops like corn and lawn grasses. But overuse isn't the only thing threatening the aquifer, and thereby the economic and ecological underpinnings of this region.

TransCanada has proposed to build a pipeline (Keystone XL) through the Great Plains: a 36-inch crude-oil pipe running from Hardisty, Alberta, to the Texas Gulf Coast. Nebraska would be a 254-mile link in the project. The draft environmental impact statement has been completed; the public comment period closes in mid-June and will be followed soon thereafter by the final EIS. Until recently, this looked like a done deal. But if there's an upside to BP's recent/ongoing Deepwater Horizon disaster in the Gulf, it's that people are taking a closer look at safety issues.

At a recent meeting in York, Nebraska—click here for the Lincoln Journal Star's article—attendance was up compared to a previous meeting in Fairbury, presumably because of growing awareness of the situation in the Gulf. "For the life of me," said one landowner, "I can't see how they can even consider this pipeline and take the chance of it ruining the groundwater in Nebraska."

Unfortunately but perhaps inevitably, those with a financial stake in the project—and here I'm going to include politicians, who typically have a tough time saying "no" to projects that stand to bring in revenue—are viewing things much more rosily:

"TransCanada agrees absolutely that it's a very critical resource for the state of Nebraska. And that's why we're taking steps to make sure we don't jeopardize it with this pipeline." —TransCanada official

"I think TransCanada is second to none on safety and environment." —union representative

"I think they're a good company. I trust them to do the job." —county commissioner

"I'd say I'm reasonably comfortable." —state senator

The obvious problem here is that plenty of people had confidence in BP and its partners in the Gulf before things went catastrophically wrong, just as plenty of people trusted Exxon before the Exxon Valdez ran aground in Prince William Sound. Now, I'm willing to grant that everyone involved in Keystone XL is well-intentioned, that TransCanada's surveyors and engineers and technicians are competent, that in all likelihood nothing will go wrong. But the nature of the petroleum industry is that no one—no engineer, no corporate executive, and certainly no politician—can guarantee nothing will go wrong. [Link to an (incomplete) list of oil spills.] And the consequences of failure in this environment, even if the risk of failure is small, are simply too high.

If oil gets into the Ogallala Aquifer, there will be no volunteers cleaning the beaches of tar balls, no Coast Guard to deploy oil-containment booms, no practical recourse at all that we can count on—because the whole thing is underground. TransCanada will do its best to act (in public) like a good corporate citizen while (behind the scenes) seeking to limit its financial liability. Politicians will point fingers, convene hearings, and inevitably someone will describe the breach as "unforeseeable". And although everyone will agree in hindsight that the economic benefits of Keystone XL were not worth it, it will be too late: "From Denver to the hundredth meridian, this country's gonna look like Afghanistan."

Lacrosse miscellany

From Baby Blues by Rick Kirkman and Jerry Scott:

"Where were their mothers?" Iroquois moms could be found on the sidelines, cheering on their sons (always sons back in the day), and most likely betting on the game. Taboos against wagering on sports, to the extent that such taboos exist, are a purely Western convention.

On the rampage at last

Back in the autumn, I took a sabbatical from coaching the Lincoln Rampage lacrosse team in order to concentrate on my falconry. (Which worked out, more or less.) At the same time, my coaching partner, Greg McManus, decided to step down as head coach and assume a more administrative role with the club. The team hired former Nebraska Cornhuskers coach Nate Hoeckelmann to fill our shoes, and things have worked out well.

Nate has coached at the high school and college level for over ten years, and brings not just Xs and Os but also more discipline: he really knows how to run a practice and make the best use of the available time. And, as Greg and I had foreseen, the kids have now come into their own: led by a couple of seniors and a large crop of juniors (and backed by a brilliant freshman goalie in Will Ehrman), they now have the confidence that they belong on the lacrosse field. As of right now, they are 11-2 and ranked #1 in the state by West Side Lacrosse, with one more regular-season game to go before the playoffs start next weekend.

I've attended several of the Rampage's games, and it's wonderful to see them playing so well and winning games, an accomplishment that eluded us for so long. But if I'm honest, it's difficult as well: why couldn't they play like this when Greg and I were coaching? I suppose we will have to content ourselves with the knowledge that ours was a younger, less-experienced team, and with Nate's assurances that the present team's success is laid on the foundation that we built. We started the program from scratch, taught the fundamentals, and (I hope) instilled a love of the game that will last.

Meanwhile, I've not given up coaching altogether. The next frontier: girls' lacrosse in Lincoln. I've been asked by the club to coach a girls' team at the high-school level; we didn't have enough players to field a team this spring (which is probably just as well, considering how busy I've been), but we'll try again next year. And I'll be somewhat involved in youth lacrosse as well...

The pipeline

The quality of high-school lacrosse in the area depends largely on youth programs to teach the sport to younger kids. We hope to resurrect youth lacrosse in Lincoln this fall; meanwhile, Ellie and her friend Amelia are playing up in Omaha again. A few photos from last season follow.

[Ellie: game face]


[Going for the ground ball...]


[...and winning it]


[On the wing, awaiting faceoff]


[Sportsmanship]


[Postgame: Ellie and Amelia]


You heard it here first

Last May, writing about my favorite Major League Lacrosse team, I referred to them as "the Baltimore-then-Washington-but-now-playing-in-Annapolis-so-let's-just-call-them-Maryland-or-maybe-Chesapeake-Bayhawks". I don't know if someone with the organization was reading Flyover Country or not, but they are now officially...the Chesapeake Bayhawks.

The itinerant Hawks have struggled to draw crowds in a lacrosse-saturated market. Their first home venue was Homewood Field at Johns Hopkins University (I attended their first game, which was also the league's opening game); subsequent home fields have included M&T Bank Stadium (home of the NFL's Ravens) in Baltimore as well as on-campus venues at Towson University, George Mason University, and Georgetown University. They are now in the second year of a three-year contract with Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium at the US Naval Academy in Annapolis. According to Lacrosse Magazine, the team's new management deliberately adopted a regional approach: "If you don't include any of those cities, you alienate somebody immediately, " says Bayhawks president Brendan Kelly. "We wanted to encompass the whole market. The Chesapeake Bayhawks. It was really a no-brainer, kind of a play off the New England Patriots."

Mr. Kelly, I hope the new strategy (which includes youth clinics and alumni games between local college rivals) pays dividends. I'll do my best to make it to at least one game this summer. And if you did get the idea for the new name here, there's no charge. I'm just happy to be part of the team...

Wrapping up

Yes, the Salt Creek Tiger Beetles will be back this summer. More to follow (eventually), so check back.

The Subaru tribe?

What constitutes a community? Definitions vary, but surely common interests, along with geography, can play a role.

I attended my first Nebraska Subaru Owners' Club meet over the weekend. There were over 40 Subarus present, most of them turbocharged Imprezas. (Mine was the only Outback.) Naturally, I neglected to bring my camera. But this video, I think, captures the spirit of the local Subaru community:



My wife (who happens to drive a Honda) is skeptical about the notion of a Subaru community, and even more so about the notion of a Subaru culture. ("Soon you'll be your own race," she muttered sarcastically.) But obviously many of us enjoy associating with like-minded people, be it for a leisurely cruise, a spirited drive, or a day at the track. (All three of which were features of my weekend.) Some of us make a point of waving at other Subaru drivers, or, more interestingly, of parking next to other Subarus. To improve our chances of meeting the other drivers? So the cars themselves can "hang out together"? Just because they look good together? I preferentially park next to other Subarus, but even I can't tell you why. Maybe Susan's right, and it's sheer madness—albeit a harmless, shared, community-minded madness. Like many other groups, Subaru enthusiasts have their own terminology which, while serving primarily as shorthand, also distinguish insiders from outsiders: As someone put it recently, "Every group has its Muggles."

I think some car brands (Subaru, Jeep, arguably Volkswagen) inspire a sense of group identity, while other companies (Honda, Toyota, Chevrolet) are perhaps too big, too anonymous to do so. (Though individual offerings from these companies, the Chevrolet Corvette for example, may have their own followings.) For many drivers, a car is just a car. But for others, a car makes itself so useful that it seems to take on a personality of its own, becomes familiar in the full meaning of that word.

Why I'm choosing to write about this, I'm not sure. Perhaps this is just the blogging equivalent of a slow news week. But a weekend of motoring has me musing on the nature of community and the origins of tribalism, so I'd be glad to hear some thoughts from readers.

Grace under pressure

When angry, count four. When very angry, swear.

—Mark Twain

Obviously someone at the Lancaster County Sheriff's Department is doing well with their training. Here, Deputy Ryan Schmuecker counts more than four (about ten, I reckon) and manages not only not to swear but even to be polite: "You want to pull your vehicle forward so that it's not on top of mine anymore, please?"



HT to the Lincoln Journal Star, kudos to Deputy Schmuecker for his incredible composure, and best of luck to all of us who have to share the road with the idiot in the SUV.

(PS to the Journal Star: the GL series is built by Mercedes, not BMW.)

Another eagle

Speaking of Ellie and eagles...

Shortly after our return from Idaho, she took this shot of an adult bald eagle perched in a small tree not far off a lightly-traveled dirt road.


Why here? She zoomed back out for context:


It was calving time—we had already seen several tiny newborns on our drive—and the eagle was doubtless hoping for (or may have already found) a stillborn calf. Of course, some ranchers seeing an eagle dining on a calf might assume the eagle was the author of the calf's demise rather than merely the beneficiary, so we didn't feel bad at all that the eagle flew off, apparently made nervous by our stopped vehicle.

Meeting Luigi

This is a harpy eagle, Harpia harpyja. Harpies, among the the largest raptors in the world, are native to the rainforests of Central and South America, where they hunt monkeys, sloths, and other arboreal mammals. Their stout, powerful feet can exert over 500 pounds per square inch of pressure; their largest talons are roughly the size of grizzly bear claws. They can lift approximately three-quarters of their own body weight and, like many raptors, routinely kill animals many times their own size.


This is a smallish primate (who also happens to be my daughter) tidbitting a harpy eagle. Don't try this at home, kids.


Ellie is under the watchful eye of Peregrine Fund biologist Jim Willmarth, who I first met over a decade ago when I was doing some summer work with the P-Fund in Montana. He kindly gave us a behind-the-scenes look at The Peregrine Fund's World Center for Birds of Prey in Boise.

This eagle, Luigi, is an eight-year old male, raised at a captive-breeding facility in Panama and originally slated to be a breeding bird. Things didn't work out with his intended mate, a particularly aggressive female, and due to his own exceptionally easygoing temperament he became an educational bird—an ambassador for his species, which has been threatened by shooting as well as habitat destruction. [Learn more about The Peregrine Fund's work with harpy eagles here.] Luigi is exceedingly well-manned, playful and very cognizant of his own strength; we watched him gently push Jim's hand aside where another raptor (my redtail Stekoa, for example) might have footed in earnest. Jim also told us of tidbitting Luigi with a piece of liver; Luigi refused to take it, apparently believing Jim to be injured, until Jim showed him by moving it around that it was separate and not a piece of his own flesh.


Ellie, always an admirer of raptors, is now positively smitten with harpy eagles, thanks to Jim's generosity and Luigi's approachability. I'm sure there are plenty of Panamanian and Belizean kids who will grow up with an appreciation of harpies thanks to their own early encounters with Luigi. It's easy to become discouraged about environmental education when it's done badly—and trust me, I've seen it done badly—but done right, it just might be the silver bullet.

photoblogging: Snake River

Ellie and I visited the Morley Nelson Snake River Birds of Prey National Conservation Area near Kuna, Idaho—600,000 acres of mostly BLM land encompassing the Snake River gorge and surrounding plateau. This is high-desert country dominated by winterfat, sagebrush, and sparse grasses (along with, unfortunately, introduced Russian thistle or "tumbleweed", Salsola spp.) and supports a large population of Townsend's ground squirrels and black-tailed jackrabbits, which in turn support large numbers of raptors as well as a notable concentration of badgers.

View from the canyon rim.


The first step's a doozy.


Ellie, also shooting scenery.


Were I a serious photographer, I could have spent the better part of the day shooting this one sculpted volcanic rock.


The view downstream.


I managed not to get any usable hawk photographs, but we did see red-tailed hawks, ferruginous hawks, golden eagles, American kestrels, and of course several prairie falcons. The largest concentration of nesting prairie falcons is here in the Snake River NCA. (The largest wintering population, incidentally, is in the northern Sandhills around Valentine, Nebraska.) Prairies dine almost exclusively on ground squirrels when they are available, switching to horned larks and other birds at other times of the year. Other notable sightings included a number of ravens and Say's phoebes. And I feel obliged to take note of a population of what, in other circumstances, I would simply call pigeons; in this place, living on cliffs and surrounded by such deadly neighbors, I will accord them their formal name of rock doves.

Here, on or just outside the NCA, is a ferruginous hawk nest: bulkier than a redtail nest, in a mere twig of a tree that redtails would never use. This nest is conveniently located in the middle of a large prairie-dog town—"close to shopping", as a real-estate agent might say.


This is Mecca, a pilgrimage that every falconer should make at least once in his or her lifetime. I hope to make it back before too long.

The brick

No storyline, just a few snapshots of a big female gyr x peregrine at play.

The better to see you with, my deer

The Nebraska Department of Roads (in any other state it would be the Department of Transportation) plans a deer fence along a four-mile stretch of I-80 between Lincoln and Omaha in order to reduce deer-vehicle collisions. Everywhere else, of course, motorists (and deer) will have to take their chances as usual.

Another approach: kill 'em all. (Fortunately, this proposal has been modified extensively following an outcry by deer hunters and others with values that go beyond the purely economic.)

I just want to see the critters. To that end:


That's a pair of Hella 500 driving lights (packaged as "sport activity lights" for the Subaru Baja) and a pair of Hella 550 fog lights on a Rally Innovations lightbar. When everything's switched on, the road is lit up like Memorial Stadium. (A big thanks to Chris Cook at PTC Factory Outlet, Chase at RI, and Lael Cleland at Lael's Import Performance.)

[Tom Ford at Top Gear describes Hellas: "think tiny suns trapped in glass".]

It was twenty years ago today...

The Specials perform "Free Nelson Mandela" on Top of the Pops. I defy you not to dance in your seat to this one.



Hugh Masekela, "Bring Him Back Home".



Tracy Chapman, "Freedom Now".

NFA field meet, February '10

I'm starting to wonder why we (Nebraska Falconers' Association) have field meets in February, as each one is smaller than the last. (If the trend continues much longer, the meet will consist of me walking around talking to myself—in other words, a normal day's hawking.) This year's count was three birds flown: two redtails and a merlin.

[Ed Fitch with one of his gyrs. Regrettably, we didn't get to see them fly, as Ed arrived rather late on Saturday, but it was good to see Ed. Photo by Pat Stull.]

Nick Morris, a first-year apprentice from Fremont, lost his first redtail earlier this season when it was chased off by a bald eagle. (No telemetry.) Undaunted, he trapped another redtail, this one a nice-looking and strong-flying tiercel, in December. They had already caught nine rabbits before the meet, and on Saturday added number ten. (And yes, he has telemetry now.)

[Nick trades Ted off the rabbit. Photo by Pat Stull.]

Stekoa also caught a rabbit, and then I made a mistake. I tossed him a small piece of food to trade him off the rabbit, then took a bit too long to put the bunny away and offer him another piece on the fist. Done with his snack, he flew up into a cedar and refused to come down for the second installment...so we were forced to keep going. (Oh noes!) Eventually he caught a second cottontail, got two more chunks of meat, and was done for the weekend.

[Stekoa. Photo by Pat Stull.]

But the highlight of the meet for me was flying Wakulla. We've done quite a bit of training in the field by now, but she'd had limited opportunities to fly at birds, and I was feeling a bit frustrated. In truth, she didn't seem that much faster than a kestrel. Where was the vaunted merlin speed? Had I allowed her weight and condition to slip too low? Those worries have now gone away.

[Wakulla and me. I'm in the sunglasses; Wakulla is the good-looking one in the full hood. Photo by Eric Johnson.]

We set out Saturday afternoon (before bunny hawking, actually) to find some quail. Local falconer Chris Podraza, currently without a hawk, was serving as the guide and obtained permission for us to walk a farm just west of Grand Island. We ambled along a creek lined with cottonwoods, Wakulla hooded on my fist, until Nick flushed a covey of eight or nine bobwhites. Marking the put-in, we then unhooded Wakulla and kept walking. When a pair of hidden bobs flushed, she dropped off my fist, leveled out just above the ground, and turned on the jets. She soon disappeared around a corner, but some of the others had a better view of the flight and told me she had pitched up immediately above the spot where the birds had dumped into cover. Encouraged, we continued to work the brushy cover upstream, letting Wakulla fly mostly from the trees; as singles, pairs, and trios flushed, we were rewarded with several hard flights, quail rocketing through the trees with Wakulla in hot pursuit. Each time they escaped by the narrowest of margins, and finally I called Wakulla down to the lure for a well-deserved reward. She wasn't even breathing hard.

With all the hawks flown, we retired to El Toro restaurant for a Mexican dinner that couldn't be beat. After trudging through the snow all afternoon, we were beat. But the most exhausted member of the hawking party had to be Maxine, who had not only accompanied Stekoa on his double-rabbit hunt, but also helped the rest of us flush quail! She's turning out to be quite an enthusiastic bird dog—not that I ever expect her to point, but she can sure flush like a spaniel. She really is the best hawking dog I could have asked for: she loves to hunt, and truly respects the hawks—not just the redtail, who could hurt her if they ever came to blows, but also the merlin. My trust in her is complete, extending to leaving her alone with Wakulla both in the car and in the hotel room. I certainly wouldn't try this with most dachshunds! (Including Anya, which is why she was left at home.)

[Travel buddies: Max and Wakulla. Photo by yours truly.]

As for Sunday, there's not much to tell. Nick and his hawk had already gone home, and Stekoa was too heavy to fly, so we took Wakulla out in the afternoon for another go at quail. Chris spotted a covey huddled under a cedar in a small woodlot, and Wakulla got two chances: one on the initial flush, and then a reflush on some birds that had put in on the edge of the woods. But once they were gone, it was pretty much over. Chris correctly pointed out that it would be a mistake to continue hunting too late into the afternoon, especially with colder weather moving in (bobwhites rely on each other to keep warm, and once busted, a covey needs time to regroup), so we called it a day.

Fallout

A stressful drive along US-34 from Lincoln to Grand Island this afternoon, thanks to a snowstorm last night and this morning—not that the highway itself was snowed in. Indeed, the fact that it was so well cleared was the problem, as flocks of horned larks (Eremophila alpestris, known in Europe as the shore lark) had abandoned the open fields to congregate on the shoulder of the roadway. I drove past—or rather through, as they flushed for every approaching vehicle and darted every which way—literally hundreds of flocks, each composed of hundreds of birds. I slowed for each flock, which made the trip longer and no doubt annoyed the drivers behind me, but evidently not everyone did slow down: the highway was littered with dozens of roadkilled larks. The carnage reminded me, strangely enough, of Christmas morning, after the kids have opened their presents but before anyone has cleaned up all the little bits of brightly colored paper.

It might seem odd to some that the larks would keep returning to the roadway when it is so obviously dangerous, but the fact is that life is dangerous for larks. They are birds of wide open spaces; merlins and prairie falcons hunt them every day, and there is no avoiding them, no place to hide except in the anonymity of the flock. I suppose they must perceive cars as just another predator. The difference, of course, is that a falcon must expend a great deal of energy and effort to secure a lark, and once successful, bears away its prize to dine. Cars and trucks can kill larks wholesale, and to no good purpose.


Because of their tendency to flock and their preference for open country, horned larks are vulnerable not just to traffic, but also to collisions with wind turbines, cell phone towers (and their supporting guylines), and fences. It's a good job they're so plentiful, because death by misadventure—in bulk quantities—is a common fate.

With all this death at the hands of humanity, it's interesting that should my merlin happen to catch a lark—one—I could conceivably be charged with a felony. Happily, that is changing: the new federal falconry regulations recognize that trained hawks are birds, free agents with minds of their own, not remote-controlled airplanes under the direct influence of the falconer. Strict liability will give way to considerations of intent, which is as it should be: deliberate poachers can still be prosecuted, but falconers will no longer live in fear of an unintended but completely natural event being blown out of proportion.