Wood Turtle

Bashing Windows

No, this is not another tirade about Microsoft’s monopoly on computer operating systems and all the peripheral software programs that they blatantly plug. It’s about birds bashing into windows of human buildings. This is a significant cause of bird deaths in this country. Millions of birds are also killed (usually at night) when they fly into the sides of high-rise buildings, radio towers, and windmills, generally during their migration flights.

We have had far too many birds crash into our windows over the years. As they fly towards the house they see the windows reflecting the sky behind them. Unfortunately, nothing in birds’ evolutionary history has prepared them for knowing that window reflections are not soft sky, but hard glass. Few sounds make us wince as much as that of a bird’s headlong crash into the window. Too many of them have died instantly of a broken neck. Others experience internal injuries or become so shocked that they soon expire. A minority recovers and flies off, but I’ve read that even many of them later succumb to their injuries.

I have read about taping silhouettes of large birds of prey on windows to discourage small birds from coming near them, but I don’t want to scare them away, so I rejected that approach. I’ve also read about placing screens or closely-spaced lengths of twine a few inches in front of the window. I tried the twine, but birds still bashed into the windows. After trying a few other failed schemes, we came upon an approach that has worked very well: We attach small tree branches on the outside of the windows. This seems to give the birds the impression that there’s a tree there, rather than open sky, so they are far less likely to smash into the window. In fact, many times a bird will land on one of these branches, giving us a wonderful close-up view of them. Bird-window crashes have dramatically declined. Additionally, the branches look kind of attractive—especially if I search for pretty dogwood sprigs.

But a few birds do still try to thread their way acrobatically through the branches and bash into the window. Fortunately, most of them now fly much slower, since they are negotiating the narrow openings, so it’s more of a glancing blow and they usually immediately fly off. A very few become stunned enough, that when we go out, we find them lying upside down, panting in shock. We’ve learned to gently pick them up, bring them inside, and place them in the dark confines of a cardboard box. In a little while they tend to recover and begin fussing inside the box. We take them back outside and release them. It’s a wonderful sight to watch a just-dazed bird perkily fly away.

Eastern Towhee

Silence: No Such Thing

We often hear people speak of and write about the experience of silence. It’s one of those words that is used rather loosely and in widely different contexts. To some people silence is a place of peace, to others it’s threatening. We have songs like “The Sound of Silence” and movies like “Silence of the Lambs.”

In no case, however, can we really experience true silence; rather, it’s varying degrees of quietude. By definition, silence is “the absence of sound,” and sound is the ear’s sensation to vibrations in the air. There is always some vibration of the air, even if it’s so small that we can’t hear it. A dog barking several miles away will still send pressure vibrations to us, but the sound level may either be below our threshold of hearing or may be masked by other nearby sources of sound.

Even in the quietest place in the world there are still vibrations in the air (and thus sound). (Now, if I were to stick my head out the window of the Space Station, I’d surely hear no sound, as there is no air. I could then say that I truly know what silence feels like, just before my head exploded.) The quietest place on the planet that we could find ourselves would be an anechoic chamber; it is a thick-walled room that acoustics scientists use to measure very quiet sound sources. It’s extremely disorienting to spend more than a couple of minutes inside one, since it seems to be absolutely silent, and we are used to constant sound, whether loud or subtle.

Even in an anechoic chamber, however (where any airborne vibration level that might exist is just too low to be heard), our ears will pick up subtle vibrations inside our body (blood pulsing, lungs expanding) and interpret them as sound. So let’s speak of degrees of quietude, rather than silence—which is in practice unattainable.

I recently read A Book of Silence by Sara Maitland, in which she described her resolute efforts to find and experience extremely quiet locations. She found that when she became immersed in (near) silence she experienced a kind of sensory depravation that created dramatic psychological and emotional shifts. She wrote that one becomes much more aware of what the mind is doing in such cases—in fact, one is forced to deal with feelings and thoughts that are normally too submerged to get in touch with. It can be scary, it can be exhilarating, it can be transforming. One can come face to face with one’s true nature in such a state of mind, after all the usual surface distractions are stripped away. In fact, this is exactly the state of mind that meditators seek.

I live in a very quiet location in the woods. I moved here partly to get away from the noise and bustle of the city. I came here to touch and enter those very quiet moments that expose me to deeper truths. The more I experience quiet, the more I value and seek it. Silence, however, is a state I’ll never get to—at least not until after I let go this material body.

Just-built Wren Nest (ready for eggs)

A Cornucopia of Firewood

We have heated the house with wood for three decades now. That’s a lot of trees cut down, sawed into logs, split, and carried into the house. As Thoreau and others have written, firewood is very efficient, because it warms you several times—once each when you cut it, split it, haul it, and then burn it. These are all various forms of sweat equity one must invest when heating with wood. To burn good quality firewood one must do a good job of planning ahead, so that one first cuts solid wood and then gives it adequate time to dry. My success at doing so has fallen short a few times. It’s any wood burner’s ambition to have a winter’s pile of firewood neatly stacked, as much as a year ahead of time.

The last couple of years we have been blessed. An aging neighbor (older than I!) had someone come in, cut down several trees, saw them into logs, and haul them over next to his hydraulic splitter. He called and invited us to come and get the whole enchilada, as long as we split and stack him a small pile for his use. What a bargain! All we had to do was split the logs and haul them home. We ended up with nearly three years’ worth of firewood—a greater backlog (no pun intended) by far than we’ve ever enjoyed.

But all good things (as well as bad) do come to an end. This year we’ve had to go back into our own woods to cut down a few trees, saw them into logs, split them by hand, and haul them home. The amount of sweat equity called for is far greater than for what our neighbor offered. We’ve been spoiled. It’s a far scarier job too. A chainsaw is both a crucial and dangerous tool. One slip and… Trees weigh many hundreds of pounds. One slip and…

When I began this job of collecting firewood I was not yet 40. At that age one can lift heavy loads, swing a splitting maul, and still go out dancing till midnight. As I am closing in on 70, however, collecting a winter’s supply of firewood requires many more hours of effort, a hot bath to sooth my tired muscles, and no thought of dancing anywhere but to bed.

A young fellow visited us recently. He had lots of interest in and questions about the labor-intensive way we live. After he’d cased out the homestead and considered our age, he asked, “How much longer can you keep this up?” Since then we’ve chuckled repeatedly at his query. We have no definitive answer, except maybe, “Until we can’t, and we pray that that will be several years from now.”

Mama Cardinal on Nest

Feeder Newcomers

Watching the familiar mix of birds at the feeder, I can become captivated by their routines. After a period of time, the pecking order is clearly established, so the avian interaction dynamics settle into a predictable pattern. Certain species—such as the cardinals—come at the same time each day, so I begin to anticipate their arrival. The smaller birds—chickadees, titmice, and finches—appear at random times of day, but their behaviors are usually quite repeatable, as to which ones dominate and hence how they will behave.

So I also fall into a pattern—looking forward to certain expected activities and enjoying the show. As to feeder hierarchy, in general, the larger the bird, the more likely it’ll rule. The smaller birds will quickly retreat, perching on a nearby branch, and wait until the bigger guy is done. I don’t often understand what all is going on, but as I become familiar with their routine, I increasingly pick up on subtle details. It calls for the classic birder’s technique: watch, watch, watch.

But now and then a newcomer enters the picture and the dynamics change—especially if the visitor is large. Although we have many blue jays in the area, they have yet to come to the feeder. I guess we’re fortunate, since jays are the bane of many folks who feed birds; they can hog the offerings.

I recently observed a blue jay fly to a branch just above the feeder. The other birds fluttering about for their meal must have attracted him; he was probably investigating what all the fun was about. Upon his arrival the behavior of all the small birds abruptly changed. They had been busily flying back and forth, grabbing a seed, and swooping a short distance away to chop at the nut inside. They knew that the usual bigger birds would pretty much ignore them, so they could freely continue their activity. But how about this imposing stranger? All the little eyes became locked upon the jay. They gave him plenty of space—even putting the feeder between themselves and that big blue guy, when they could.

The jay would flit to another branch—seemingly trying to figure out the action. Each time he moved, the smaller birds moved, keping their distance, giving him a wide berth. The red-bellied woodpecker, however, being about the same size as the jay, ignored the newcomer and blithely continued his meal. In time the jay flew off and the little birds immediately resumed their normal feeding habits.

It didn’t seem to me that the smaller birds showed any real fear of the jay—just respect. It’s as if they knew they wouldn’t be hurt, if they politely stayed out of the way. The jay just needed to be heeded, not to be feared. To my mind that’s one of the admirable qualities of animals: they don’t unnecessarily hurt each other, as humans often do. A human bully will sometimes harm another person or animal out of spite, just because he can. An animal harms only for a good reason.

White-spotted Sawyer Beetle (bores in oaks)

Three Mentors

We often find that our passions were once stimulated by a teacher, whose message touched a resonant chord in us—either because it came along at just the right time or that it awakened a latent inquisitiveness in us. Maybe either the career we chose or the interests that we eagerly pursue were suggested by this person. Maybe we found ourselves wandering about with little direction and the path became clear once we met the teacher.

Three literary naturalist writers have become my mentors in recent years—individuals who wrote about the natural world and who have inspired me. They’ve given me ideas and a direction in which to point myself, as I try to respond to the example they have set for me.

John Burroughs wrote in the mid to late 1800s, Hal Borland wrote columns for the New York Times in the middle of the 20th century, and Bernd Heinrich is a biologist who writes today. All were keen observers of the natural world that surrounded them. All lived in remote regions of the woodlands of New England and all wrote in an engaging personal manner, describing their special encounters with the natural world.

All three of them stayed home—choosing to become deeply and intimately familiar with their personal neck of the woods—rather than travel and describe the wonders of far-flung locations. Although I find it fascinating to read the marvelous experiences of a vagabond like John Muir, his stories are more like travelogues than the deeper encounters told by my mentors. While Muir’s descriptions are wide and not very deep, my mentors’ explorations are deep and detailed.

These three wordsmiths were attentive watchers; they kept a “sharp lookout,” in Burroughs’s words. They logged many hours observing the flora and fauna immediately about them—becoming increasingly familiar with their locale. They noted details and asked themselves questions and sought underlying reasons. When the unexpected happened they increased their scrutiny, realizing that a deeper understanding was waiting them, if they could figure out the anomaly.

These men were humble before nature. They knew they were surrounded by the sacred and they treated their world reverentially. They became so absorbed and awed by nature that they literally became a part of it. Animals sensed their respect and sensibility, allowing them access to their world and often treating them as members of their community.

Inspired by my literary mentors, I try to practice the disciplines they have taught me. They’ve shown me the wisdom of reading prodigiously—soaking up the knowledge that others have gained and thus not waste time rediscovering simple truths. But they’ve especially taught me to keep a sharp lookout, so that I begin to pick up on the details of the fascinating lives of the many critters around me. Give me three lifetimes and I’d make some real headway.