Chrysemys picta; the Painted Turtle

picture by Franch, W.L.

Identification: 

The painted turtle is normally spotted on or near water. His smooth upper shell or carapace is a dark muddy color; almost a greenish, brownish black. His lower shell can range from yellow to orange, encompassing shades in between. He can be about twelve inches long from nose to tail, but tends to be seen in a range of smaller sizes. He can not pull his head and limbs entirely into the shell as box turtles do. Painted turtles have paint like streaks of yellow, orange, and red on their necks and chins, from which they derive their common name. 

As an undergraduate I had the good fortune to receive a liberal arts education. Less than three centuries ago this would have been a monumental scholastic undertaking, requiring at the outset an ability "extempore to read, construe, and parse Tully, Virgil, and the Greek Testament; and to write true Latin in prose and to understand the rules of prosody and common arithmetic, and bring sufficient testimony of [my] blameless and inoffensive life."* Fortunately, by the time I arrived on the scene, standards of higher education had loosened considerably. Academia found no trouble accommodating a middle-of-the-road intellect such as myself at one of her average-to-decent centers of learning where diplomas are awarded freely with little regard to one's ability to construe and parse Tully. 

While Tully and the Greek Testament were sorely neglected in my assigned course of studies, one shouldn't presume that a more modern notion of the "liberal arts" did not factor into the character of my intellectual development. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. While students at other institutions frittered away the hours amassing lucrative skills in fields such as technology, engineering, and business; I developed penetrating insights into human nature through classes sporting titles like "deconstructing community." It was during this time that I was introduced to the argument that descriptive language is an inherently violent social enterprise due to its limiting nature. Although malicious stereotypes illustrate this most effectively, one can also suffer heinous violations at the hands of those who unthinkingly hurl compliments and well-wishing. As is frequently the case, "the media" is often scapegoated as an egregious offender in this subtly brutal practice. For evidence of this, we need look no further than the painted turtle. 

Impossible Expectations; Cruel Disappointments

From ancient times western culture has painted the turtle into a corner. Though the larger reptile family has been cast as villainous knaves, humanity has said to the turtle, "nothing against you friend, you are alright by us." Snakes burst into human history by beguiling us into giving up immortality and boundless pleasure. The turtle (or more accurately tortoise) on the other hand, first made his mark by besting an insufferably cocky rabbit with dogged persistence. Few people are likely to respond well to being called "lizard like." On the other hand if we were to say, "oh don't mind Rita, she's just a turtle" it might prove a bit of a head-scratcher, but certainly no basis for outrage on Rita's part. 

Over the millenia, humanity's approval of the turtle only grew. Yet this reached dizzying heights of excess with my generation. While our parents and grandparents may have fondly considered turtles to be potential childhood companions, we began to see them as much more. We learned from the mainstream media that turtles could; under the right conditions, master the english language. We were lead to believe they were surprisingly agile. Not only this, but they had a sense of humor analogous to that of the average American 6-10 year old. They developed an appreciation for pizza. Totally out of keeping with their previously observed preferences, they asked that small fish not be included with their pizza. They practiced ninjitsu. They fought crime.

If one approaches the painted turtle expecting all this, disappointment is inevitable. Even after careful instruction, the most accomplished of turtles will fail to demonstrate the basic rudiments of ninjitsu. If you rely on them for protection from criminal master minds in sharply edged armor and their disembodied brain sidekicks, you may be placing yourself at risk. 

The Painted Turtle; Still Worthwhile (& how to Observe)

Relinquishing the fantasies of youth is difficult, yet ultimately rewarding. Once childish dreams are put aside, one can appreciate the painted turtle as he is. Though his real life existence may seem superficially less glamorous, it is actually quite fascinating. 

The painted turtle is a water turtle; as such water is where you are most likely to find him. If you hope to spot him, quietly approach a pond or gently flowing stream anytime from late spring to fall. First look for fallen trees, stumps, or rocks that extend above the surface of the water. Often times you may see him resting atop these basking in the sun. If you approach too closely or too quickly, he is likely to become alarmed and scuttle off into the water. 

If you don't immediately spot a turtle there is no need to fret. Place yourself by the bank, preferably near the aforementioned stump or log, and sit still. Try not to think about seeing a turtle, as this may lead to impatience. Instead, take in the whole scene, noticing each plant, insect, cloud, bird, etc. Doing this, the waiting experience itself will become pleasant and intrinsically rewarding. Soon, you may very well see a painted turtle arrive on the scene. If he is not ready to climb out of the water, you may see him poking his snout just above water, or staying near the surface in order to bask. 

The turtle sunbathes or basks because he is cold blooded. He needs an external heat source to keep his body temperature sufficiently high enough to move around, digest food, and go about his other turtle business. He gets this from absorbing the suns rays. Do not fear for his health, he will not get skin cancer. Nor will he become overly wrinkled and look elderly while still in midlife.

When the turtle is sufficiently warmed up, he turns to other pursuits, including hunting his food and laying eggs. He eats both plants and animals, enjoying fish, crayfish, water dwelling insects, tadpoles, and more. Of course, he also must be careful to avoid being eaten himself. Although his hard shell provides some degree of protection, determined predators can find away around this obstacle. Hawks, herons, raccoons, and others all will prey the painted turtle. Once the turtle has mated, the female will dig a hole, and lay her eggs inside. She will then cover the hole with her hind legs, and leave the young turtles to their fate. Despite this, child protective services has no need to intervene in the turtle family. The young will hatch and make their way without the careful guidance of a responsible adult.

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When the weather becomes to cool for the turtle, he will do something similar to hibernating. He will burrow down into the mud, sometimes deeper than two feet. Then, he stays down there until milder days return. His behavior is a little different from mammals, who will sleep throughout their hibernation. With the turtle it is more like just being very still.

Overall, the painted turtle is an unassuming patron of our local waterways. Though popular culture has inflated his reputation, his ego has suffered no such effect. He continues to add a bit of color to our ecosystem, and remains a staple of our summer waterscape.

painted turtles basking on a log

Further Study

 

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 3-Pak (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II - The Secret of the Ooze, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III) 

* Franlin B. Dexter, "Regulations at Yale College," Biographical Stetches of the Graduates of Yale College with Annals of the College History, New York, 1896, Vol. II, pp. 2-18.

Bufo americanus; the American Toad

Identification:

This toad is common in the northeast. He ranges in size from less than an inch to a over three inches. He is most often a shade of brown, but is sometimes more reddish or greenish. He has wart-like bumps on his skin. The toad is most frequently observed in the evening when he attempts to cross roads or lawns. Although the name is highly suggestive, I rarely spot a toad sitting on a toadstool.


The Toad and I, the Toad and You, the Toad and Us

The American Toad is everyman. Perhaps this is uncomfortable. When pondering nature we may be more prone to identify with eagles, killer whales, and tigers. In our more pensive moments we may feel the poet Rilke speaks to our souls, almost penetrating the fog that obscures our rightful place in the cosmos as he muses:

...I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years,
and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm,
or a great song.

Note the glaring omission of the American Toad from amongst these wondrous possibilities.

Never one to duck controversy, I will argue that even the poet himself most likely bore more resemblance to Bufo americanus than to either a falcon or a storm. The toad embodies life as it is, warts and all. He is stout, easily damaged, and almost wholly lacking grace or elegance. From the time of his nonage, death and failure stalk his every move. Most specimens will not make it through the first five weeks of life as a tadpole. Things get only marginally better for those who successfully metamorphose. Though the toad can live for over a decade, most perish within two years. They are frail and prized as a delicacies by snakes. Their warty appearance has made the very name "toad" a byword for ugliness and repulsive mannerisms.

Despite these challenges, the toad persists. He hurls himself awkwardly into the unknown with artless pitiable hops. He struggles to eek out a living, dining on insects and worms. All the while he sings. In this he defies the world that treats him casually. His small life may little impact the indifferent earth. He may be gone in an instant. Yet in the spring he calls out across the still swamps and ponds, raising a strident refrain of hope and renewal.

Are we not like toads? Are our lives not brief? Do even our greatest civilizations not fall to dust and undecipherable whispers on stone? Rilke may envision himself raging over the seas like a thousand year storm, yet is not a thousand years a mere instant? I for one would be happy to call the toad my brother. My victories are like his, over mere worms and flies; trifles in the cosmos. A man must hold this knowledge in his depths, yet still toil, strive and sing as does the toad. Indeed if a man would be a storm is he yet a man? If a man know he is a toad, perhaps he is a man, and more.

The Toad; Warts and All

Having addressed the toad's larger significance, I will move on to some of his particulars. My treatment of an animal is never complete without assessment of the common wisdom, and comment on divers oddities. This leads me to the first major question; will touching a toad give you warts? Be assured, it will not. While the toad has bumps on his own skin, these are not contagious. He does have the ability to release a toxin through his parotoid glands, located in the two large bumps behind his head. However, this toxin will not cause warts or anything like instant death. To a human the toxin is merely an irritant. It is advisable that you avoid rubbing the toad rigorously into your eyes and mouth.* Some sources suggest that you wash your hands after handling toads. While this is a sensible precaution, I would also recommend not becoming too alarmed if you do come in contact with Bufo americanus. I spent many a happy hour in my childhood carousing with toads and never suffered ill effects.

The toad is a nocturnal animal. You may well see him during the day, but he is most likely hopping somewhere to escape the cruel sunlight and hunker down for a snooze. He is also not a big fan of cold weather, and burrows into the earth to hibernate for the winter.

Unlike many frogs, the toad strays from water after he is finished his tadpole days and becomes primarily a land dweller. Of course, being an amphibian he must find some source of moisture to absorb through his skin. Despite this, he does not confine himself to the banks of ponds and streams.

Handling and Care

In researching this piece I was a little surprised to find that the toad has built himself a reputation as a desirable pet. Now I certainly don't question the judgment of anyone who enjoys his company. As a child, I caught quite a few toads. However, with age my enthusiasm for interfering in the toad's daily life has waned. In general, I think he is best left alone. If you catch him you will notice he is likely to urinate on your hand. Obviously, he does so because the experience is unpleasant to him, as would be our own handling by well meaning cyclops. It is true, the toad may live longer in captivity, and his bodily needs may be effectively met. Still, he is a wild animal and his place is with his own. Certainly I do not judge, and you may do as you will. When I see a toad on my walks I still invariably stop dead in my tracks. Yet these days I quietly observe him only, carefully giving him no cause for alarm. I let him hop off nobly to his fate, and I remain behind, thankful for his inspiring example.






*obviously, popping a whole toad into your mouth and swallowing, or otherwise consuming a toad is most inadvisable, and would be beyond the pale in wanton disregard for both the toad's health and your own.

Further Reading

 

The Wind in the Willows

Siala sialis; The Eastern Bluebird

Identification:
The Eastern Bluebird is a small thrush with mostly blue feathers. It is light reddish brown on the chest, and has a white belly. Adults are a little over five inches. It has a cheerful call which can be heard here. Females are a bit more dull and grayish than the males.


Bluebird Habits

The bluebird is a lover of border regions. He particularly likes to perch at the edges of fields, meadows, or lawns. He can be seen making numerous short flights across these spaces hunting for insects. Numerous bluebirds are often spotted near specially constructed houses or "blue bird boxes" built to accommodate their needs. These are sometimes grouped along trails, allowing for ample sightings. the Sialis diet is not too different from what you might imagine for a typical songbird; various bugs, seeds, berries, the odd worm etc etc. Common wisdom maintains that meal worms are a species favorite, and that providing these can be instrumental in attracting bluebirds to a yard.

The bluebird is a year round inhabitant for much of the lower northeast, but ranges farther north in the summer. He is not averse to roughing it a bit, and can be seen enjoying snow in quite a few photos. His mating arrangements are rather liberal, resembling what some might call "open marriages." Pairs generally keep up appearances by sticking together for the kids, but take bluebird lovers on the side.

The Bluebird of Happiness (or Despair)

It's no wonder the blue bird has been pegged in the collective imagination as herald of all things joyful. The sight of an energetic sialis in full flight, his plumage sparkling in the morning sun, can soften even the hardest heart. Watching his short bouncing flights from fence to roof, to branch to wire over cropped fields stirs our spirits. We recall, or even feel for the first time our own sense of resilience and optimism. This is all well and good.

As you first begin to engage more fully in nature, quieting your movements and opening your eyes to your surroundings, the presence of bluebirds will become more apparent. You will spot them where once you saw only trees, wires, or "birds" of a generic and undistinguished manner. So many are content to stop here. The bluebird will make you smile. Its giddy call will be ataractic, lulling you with the seductive whisper "all is well."

My friend, all is not well. Nature's avian display of innocence and light bears us bittersweet tidings of joy and grief. While he seems well established and secure in his numbers now, the bluebird's history is one of tragedy and loss. To know the full measure of his sorrow, we must hearken back to earlier times.

Centuries ago the eastern woodlands of North America were variegated with a dazzling array of brightly feathered birds. On late summer afternoons flocks of sunny goldfinches weaved through the balmy air, narrowly avoiding collisions with scarlet tanagers and blindingly orange northern orioles up for their seasonal visit from the lower Americas. The azure bluebird was right at home in this psychedelic avian mix. True, here and there some duller sorts crept in. The grackle was never far off. The loathsome brown-headed cowbird ever threatened the sanctity of nests. Yet by and large this was a perfect time to be a charmingly colorful songbird.

Alas, this idyllic landscape was soon marred by the encroachment of some particularly reprehensible European birds. Notable among these are the house sparrow and common starling. Both were intentionally introduced in order to bring a bit of old world culture to the "new" continent. In the starling's case, their introduction was part of a deranged scheme to bring all birds mentioned in William Shakespeare's work's to America. If only one of Shakespeare's eloquence were alive to lament the darkening of our skies with dismal flocks of these unsavory creatures.

These winged stormtroopers of drab were relentless in their advance. They bullied, harassed, and overran our native species with gleeful abandon. They were particularly cruel to our innocent bluebird, usurping his nests and driving him from his ancestral home. Had they mastered the use of tools they would no doubt have put his young to the sword and salted his fields.

The bluebird population declined. He became less and less visible. Soon children were born for whom he was but a story, a portrait in a field guide. Fortunately, conservationists and bird enthusiasts found new hope for our embattled friends. Specially designed birdhouses were erected that keep out the hated starlings and house sparrows, and provide sanctuary to bluebirds.

Gradually the bluebird's numbers increased. Nowadays they can be seen flitting about by any observer with a bit of patience and knowledge of where to look. Still, all is not well. Our backyards still teem with invasive sparrows. While the bluebird maintains a healthy population, his sightings fall within the more common backdrop of plague-like starling flocks, sometimes stretching from horizon to horizon.

Thus, the bluebird bruits happiness, but also sorrow. We feel rightfully blessed when seeing him alight, but our joy contains the seeds of grief. We know his life is precarious, and he perches upon a razor's edge. On one side life; carefree, full of song and delicious insect meals. On the other; oblivion. We see this and it tasks us. Will we look within ourselves and see our own mortality? Will we see the fleeting nature of worldly pleasures? Will we learn to live fully, allowing both the joy of creation and the grief of loss to flow through us like ocean waves? Or will we fall? Perhaps raging against the starling horde, and the house sparrows' song of death. Or perhaps blinding ourselves to the pain; contorting our faces into pantomimes of grotesque but inauthentic happiness; ignoring the gorgeous frailty of nature in favor of chipper platitudes or modern convenience. Though the perils of obsessive gloom seem well marked, we must recall the Dane's sage warning that "for despair the most cherished and desirable place to live is in the heart of happiness." And so, the bluebird sighting does more than just momentarily lift our spirits. It brings face to face with ourselves, and calls us to probe the deeper mysteries of humanity.

Further Reading

The Sickness Unto Death: A Christian Psychological Exposition For Upbuilding And Awakening (Kierkegaard's Writings, Vol 19) (v. 19)

Pomatomus saltatrix; the Bluefish

Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Licensing information.

Identification:
As his name suggests, this fish has a blueish tint, with a lighter underside. While the young "snapper" blues are often between six to ten inches, adult fish can be over thirty inches. A bluefish over twenty pounds would be considered large. Fish have sharp teeth, and a forked tail. The spiked dorsal fin is about halfway back, giving the fish a sort of "large forehead" look.

The bluefish made his cinematic debut in the popular sequel, Jaws 2. In a particularly poignant scene, sheriff Brody spots a dark mass moving beneath the waves towards a crowd of bathers. Alarmed, he cries out to the swimmers, ordering them out of the water. He sprints to the surf, firing his pistol into the ocean. He believes he is shooting a prowling great white shark.

One of the more level headed beach goers points out his error. The shape is no shark. It is "just" a school of bluefish. The vacationers' facial expressions shift from terror, to relief, to disgust. The sheriff is shamed. Those bathers, and the predictably bullheaded town administration disdain and mock him for his vigilance. Again, it was "just" a school of bluefish.

Yet those truly worthy of disdain, if not merely pity, are they that underestimate the hazard posed by just such a school of Pomatomus saltatrix. Yes they can laugh. Yes they can jeer at the trigger happy simpleton of a sheriff. But had they exposed their fingers, toes, noses, etc. to the bluefish's raw fury, I expect they'd offer a more measured response. While Carcharodon carcharias has gained a reputation for maneating and boorishness, pound for pound he is less impressive than the fierce saltatrix. This bantamweight is the ocean's true undisputed terror.

I once witnessed my elder brother, a career military man and paragon of masculinity, laid low by a twenty inch bluefish. It took no more than a quick flop of the tail and cavalier snap of the old canines to wound him deeply, necessitating a trip to the E.R. complete with stitches. The bluefish thinks nothing of meting out such punishment. In this he bears little resemblance to so many fellow fishes in his weight class. The average fish is a poltroon, who avoids interacting with humans at all costs. These turn and make frantic retreats when encountering the mere shadow of the ominous Homo sapiens. Naturally, the bluefish spurns their company, unless he plans to eat them.

The Bluefish; an Impressive Fellow

The bluefish claims several braggable physical assets and characterological features that endear him to the amateur naturalist. Should you find yourself in the company of fishermen or beach goers, you can quickly establish your scientific credentials by expounding on this fish's virtues. While he is often dismissed by those who know him as only "a bit too oily" for the average palate, there is mileage to be gotten out of extolling his strengths. For one thing, he displays an admirable athleticism. He is capable of rapid accelerations and respectable vertical leaps. His swimming style is aided by his unique swim bladder, which can increase or decrease the amount of air it contains more rapidly than any other fish. This allows him to make sudden changes in depth.

The bluefish is also to be lauded for his cosmopolitan nature. Not given to provincialism, he ranges throughout the world's temperate oceans. He will also travel in unusually large schools. These can sometimes reach lengths of over a mile.

Of course, no account of the bluefish is complete without mention of his voracious appetite. Bluefish society frowns upon finicky eaters. He has two simple criteria for determining the merit of a potential meal. A) Can he see it? B) Can he fit at least some of it in his mouth? Yes, he will eat almost anything, though he primarily dines on fellow fish. In keeping with his other "pathy" traits, he is not averse to cannibalism. Ties of blood and kinship are all well and good, but nothing that should make one miss a meal.

Lest anyone make too much of the bluefish's penchant for violence and aggression, it's important to remind ourselves that despite my strongly anthropomorphic language, the bluefish remains a fish. While cannibalism and unbridled hostility would be somewhat off putting in a roomate or next door neighbor, they serve the saltatrix well in his daily struggle for survival. He is truly a marvel of predation. On the few occasions when I do swim in the ocean, I am more than happy to share the waters with this magnificent fish. Should I spot an approaching school, I will give it a wide berth, but view it fondly none the less.

Further Reading

 

Blues 

Tibicen canicularis; the Dogday Cicada

Identification

The adult Dogday Cicada is a thick bodied insect ranging from 1-2 inches long. He is black mottled with greenish areas on his body. He has two large veiny wings that when closed extend past the point of his tail. He uses odd membranes on his abdomen called timbals to make a buzzing sound. This call is quite loud and can be heard indoors when your windows are up.

The cicada nymph looks like a beetley alien. They are brown.

Discarded skin of Cicada Nymph
image by Fir0002, flagstaffotos.com.au
license information

Insect Envoys

I have a soft spot for the dogday cicada. I view him as a gentle ambassador from the insect world. While in standard practice the more insect averse only offer this role to ladybugs and fireflies, I'd suggest the cicada as an ideal candidate. He's non-threatening, clumsy, and tolerates human handling reasonably well. In an animal class plagued with ghastly appearances, one does well to harbor a few such genteel types. While the average insect looks like something that might swoop down in ships from the far off Omega Nebula and enslave our race, the dogday cicada clearly has no such aspirations. Were he an alien, he would undoubtedly be the kind who visits peaceably, only to leave misty eyed and disheartened at the lack of human progress towards universal harmony.

The Dogday Cicada; What's not to Like?

The cicada has many qualities which merit our esteem. For one, he frequently performs his metamorphosis (molting is probably the more accurate term) in plain view, in a timely fashion. Unburdened by affected modesty, or a dithering nature, the cicada will transition from the nymph stage to the adult stage in a matter of hours for any onlooker who wishes to observe.

Image by T. Nathan Mundhunk. Uploaded from wikipedia.

The cicada also refrains from eating as an adult. While he munches roots and sap as a larva, he rarely does so to an extant that causes plant damage. As an adult, he prefers the higher pursuits of singing and mating, passing his days in a jovial fast.

As mentioned above, the dogday cicada is generally tolerant of human handling. I normally advise against handling wild animals, but should you gently grasp the cicada by the sides, he will not offer much in the way of objections. If you then place him on your shoulder, he is likely to idle away a few pleasant minutes perched there before taking flight.

Is he a Locust?

The cicada is sometimes mistakenly called a locust. While he is related to grasshopper cousins, he himself is not a locust. We'd be better off were this label no longer misapplied. The term "locust" conjures up images of biblical plagues. We picture vast swarms engulfing and destroying crops; perhaps driven by Pazuzu, Babylonian demon of the southwest winds as depicted in John Boorman's underrated picture The Exorcist II; the Heretic.

No, this is not the way of the dogday cicada. Eating nothing, he can hardly be considered a menace to crops. Moreover, I find any links to Pazuzu tenuous at best. Perhaps the term locust results from the pseudo swarming behavior of the periodic cicadas. These cicadas leave the ground and become adults in intervals. Some "arrive" every seventeen years, some every twelve, etc. They tend to be numerous, and thrill us all with their antics.

His Plight; Pathos and Empathy

It's no secret that the dogday cicada is not the most graceful of winged organisms. While the seraphim perhaps occupy the upper ends of the aesthetic ladder as applied to winged flight, the cicada tends to hover around the bottom rungs, just edging out the turkeys. His large size and clumsy flight make him an easy target for predators. His life is fraught with danger from hawks and the monstrous cicada killer wasp. Truly, we must feel for the bumbling cicada as he makes his way in the world. He is what is called an "R-strategist," meaning that his species survives simply by having lots of children, despite his various deficiencies. As a grateful descendent of Irish Catholics, I can hardly fault his approach. If there are to be insects in the afterlife, I feel confident that the dogday cicada will be chief amongst these. His time on earth is purgatorial, and we should count ourselves lucky to befriend this unassuming fellow who gives no offense, and nourishes so many.

Odocoileus virginianus; the White Tailed Deer

Identification: It's a deer. Chances are, if you are in the Northeast and see a deer, it's a whitetail. They're brownish to rusty brownish. Sometimes the males have antlers. They vary widely in size; being anywhere from 90 to over 300 pounds as adults. The babies; also called fawns, have spots for a while, and possess a level of cuteness just below that of baby seals and piglets. As the name suggests, they have a tail that is white on the undersides. It often sticks up when they jump, which is among the better things they do.

The Whitetail; Familiarity Doesn't Quite Breed Contempt

When it comes to animals frequently seen in suburban settings, the whitetail's size makes him something of a formidable standout amongst his peers. While one easily becomes inured to the sight of frolicking squirrels, or even the odd groundhog, something about a 110-300 lb mammal seems to cry out, "lo, I exist," despite the best efforts of our minds to lightly regard all that lacks novelty. Size has it's appeal. One might easily dismiss the neighborhood child who scampers across the backyard in pursuit of a lost ball, but should his 200lb father pull up a lawn chair and plop himself down on the back porch we are apt to question the implications of his presence. So it is with the whitetail.

Never mind that; to put it gently, there is not a great deal happening between his ears, we'll still suck in our breath and marvel momentarily as he bounds across the yard at his top speed of 35-40 miles per hour. Meanwhile, we hardly think the common crow; by far his intellectual superior, worth any "oohs" and "aaahs" whatsoever. Shallow beings we all are. At least those of us who did not attend nature camp as children, or have similarly enlightening formation experiences.

The Whitetail; Impressive, Yet Flawed (as all are we).

Of course, the more we know of our friend the whitetail, the more we both admire his gifts and become aware of his failings~ much in the same way that many a student of Roman history has come to admire Cato the elder for his austere simplicity and opposition to decadence, yet frown upon his abilities as a husband. We admire the whitetails marvelous adaptation to the grazing, herbivorous lifestyle. He's constantly vigilant as he patrols the borders of treeline and marsh, treeline and field, treeline and backyard etc. One gets the feeling that a predator would be hard pressed to catch this deer unawares. Yet, in his vigilance of treeline and highway, he often seems to overlook the threat posed by thousands of pounds of metal hurtling by at tremendous velocities. He blithely hops in front of these in an unbecomingly cavalier fashion. Could he talk, would likely say, "no coyote here, all is well, excuse me while I prance among these vehicles."

True, the average male may boast of an impressive rack of antlers, depending on both age and nutrition. This adds to his imperial presence, and is useful in butting away other would be cervine lotharios. However, the male also attracts females by scraping away at vegetation and mixing glandular excretions with urine. Much as we might prefer to imagine him engaging in witty banter and spontaneous displays of floral generosity, this is not his way. Also, if you ever come close to a deer of either sex in the summer, you will find them a bit smelly and covered with flies. To be fair, we'd smell a good deal worse and attract more flies if left unbathed for weeks at a time in the woods.

Whitetail Parenting (Little Factual Information Provided)

The does, as far as I can tell, having both watched them in the wild and viewed the motion picture "Bambi" are excellent mothers. And who wouldn't be with the dear (ha ha) heart melting cry bleated by the young fawns. A kitten's mew is nothing alongside this delicate bleat. The fawn's cry is most apropos to our ongoing purpose in these pages, namely, to sound intelligent when discussing the natural world. As mentioned before, fact in and of itself, does little to impress the listener. A fact related to cherished emotional cues packs much more of a punch. Thus you might easily impress a new mother or grandmother by favorably contrasting the sound of her infant's cry with that of the whitetail fawn. She will no doubt be pleased, particularly if you are carrying on your person a device enabling live demonstration. I feel confident your audience will be both delighted and edified.

Dryocopus pileatus,The Pileated Woodpecker

Identification: Around 18 inches long, black feathers with white under the wings, white stripes on the neck, and a pointed red crest. The males also have a red mustache.

The Pileated Woodpecker; an Exceptional Bird.

All woodpeckers are nice. There's something quaintly endearing about smacking one's face into a tree day in and day out. Furthermore, they tend to be presentable birds, donning various combinations of black, white, and red feathers to good effect. True, some add yellows and browns, but always tastefully. Of these already likable avifauna, the pileated is the stand out specimen. His size alone sets him apart from others, and his brilliant red crest provides an easily recognized mark of distinction.

Outwitting the Fates

If my theory is to be believed, the pileated woodpecker should not even exist. Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. To better support this bold claim, I'll provide some background.

After a life spent familiarizing oneself with the natural world, it often follows that one develops not only a deep reservoir of factual knowledge, but also some ideas about the underlying trends, patterns, or rules shaping the universe. Newton discovered gravity. Darwin helped launch the much maligned theory of evolution.

Although I'm no Darwin, I have made a few observations about one peculiar pattern that seems to hold sway in the animal kingdom. It goes something like this:

The more interesting a species, the greater its probability of being extinct.

It's true, the natural inclination is to dismiss this as a facile platitude. Does blue whale not chug along in the depths? Are not the sloths in the trees? Does chubby nerpa not cheerfully navigate the cool waters of Lake Baikal? Please, carefully consider my arguement, and do not let these colorful outliers becloud your judgement. Consider:

Animal Status

Tyrannosaurus Rex: Extinct
Giant Sloth: Extinct
The Dodo: Extinct
Giant Wombat: Extinct
Marsupial Lion: Extinct
Elephant Bird: Extinct
Triceratops: Extinct
Megalodon: Extinct
Saber Tooth Tiger: Extinct
Flesh Eating Kangaroos: Extinct
Sphinx: Extinct/Never existed

I do not wish to belabor the point. My gist is this; a reasonable man should no more expect to see a giant woodpecker with a blazing crest allight on the branches of the temperate deciduous forest, than he should have to worry about velociraptors devouring his young. Yet the pileated woodpecker persists. How is this? I will tell you. Although magnificent, the pileated is nonetheless the drab cousin of two more flamboyant woodpeckers. The raven sized Imperial Woodpecker dwarfed his pileated brethren for centuries before departing this world for good. The Ivory-billed woodpecker outdid the pileated in size, striking plumage and elegance of beak. If he has not yet vanished from the North American forests, his continued existence is certainly far more precarious than that of the pileated. Thus the pileated woodpecker has managed to escape so far the cruel wrath of mother nature, who hews her fairest children that they might not too long stand above the rest in a very mixed perhaps unworkable metaphorical sense.
Numbers alone have been in his favor. Had he not been blessed with two more glorious cousins to slake the jealous appetite of wondrous Nature who suffers not the exquisite to dwell long on the earth, he too would surely have met his end. For now, the day of reckoning is delayed.

In General

Although these higher truths should always be the end of our inquiries, one does well to master the more trivial information pertaining to any beast, tedious as this may seem. The pileated woodpecker loves to eat ants. He bores massive holes. He prefers older taller trees, and can often be spotted with his mate. A true gentleman, he mates for life. He is particularly at risk from larger owls, and destruction of habitat. On Christmas Eve he can speak in the tongues of man.*




*not yet confirmed by scientific observation.