This video from a home in Venice, Florida made the news last week. Apparently, alligators think turtles are incredibly delicious! This one is certainly determined…
ErinI coddiwomple through life, guided by my love of nature and insatiable curiosity.
The diversity in coloration and even facial markings of Blue Jays is quite remarkable. There aren’t any plumage or size differences between the sexes, nor do they dress up for breeding season like other species. But each individual is slightly unique. I suppose as a communal bird that helps them tell each other apart?
As you may already know, their feathers are not actually blue. The blue we see is the result of light refracting through special structures on the feather barbs. The intensity of the blue is controlled by the amount of melanin, which is actually a brown pigment.
Apparently, Nature does not adhere to the What You See Is What You Get (WYSIWYG) principle.
This Eastern Gray Squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis) decided its best course of action was to pretend to be a statue, “Nothing to see here, folks, I’m just a branch!”
If you look closely you can see my silhouette in its eye. Now don’t fret, my zoom lens afforded me that opportunity while I still maintained proper social distancing. I didn’t linger long before slowly backing away and allowing the squirrel to resume its busy lifestyle.
We’re all just walking each other home.
~ Ram Dass
Look Out Mice!
Remember the poor beleaguered owlet that was taught a very powerful lesson about the daytime pecking order? Well, I was fortunate last week to stumble across the whole family.
Since the daytime temps and the humidity have been rising I’ve adopted a more crepuscular lifestyle; on the beach before noon, back to my house for lunch, then some sort of outdoor activity in the two hours before dusk.
The benefit to a nature stroll at that time of day is that wildlife viewing opportunities double: the diurnal animals are making the best of the remaining daylight before going home to rest, while the nocturnal ones are emerging and preparing for their night.
From right to left: I first located and spent time admiring one of the parents. I can’t be 100% positive but it seemed like the smaller of the two parents, so I’m going to call him Dad. Several soft chirps let me know there were other owls nearby. Then I spotted an owlet alone on a limb in the next tree over. Dad spooked when people walked by and I followed him to the top of a nearby pine where he settled next to another owlet. As I returned to the trail, I found Mom in a tree near the first owlet. Unlike the other day, this time the parents were keeping a good eye on their babies.
All I can say is, look out mice!
Be the Light
It is far better to light the candle than to curse the darkness.
~ William L. Watkinson
While this is filed under Funny Friday, I’m using the label with the slightly odd and creepy definition and not in the haha way. The only other thing I more disturbing than random, weird baby dolls in strange locations is clowns. Any clown, anywhere, any time. <Full body shudder>
It can be rather challenging to get a decent shot of a Carolina wren (Thryothorus ludovicianus) as they are rarely still. The genus certainly earned its name, Latin for reed jumper, which takes into account the species’ preference for riparian areas and incessant movement.
Found in most every woodland patch in the eastern US, this is our second largest wren (after the Cactus Wren, denizen of my old stomping grounds). Though I didn’t get a photo, there were three fledglings eagerly awaiting their parent’s return under a nearby bush.
I was fortunate to find a couple Florida Fighting Conch (Strombus alatus) shells on my beach recently. The sturdy, butterscotch-colored shells are surprisingly heavy for their size.
This is a smaller relative of the West Indian Fighting Conch (Strombus pugilis). Though both share the territorial male behavior that earned them their names.
The rest of the time, the snails live peacefully in the intertidal feeding on algae. They are edible but since these only reach about 5″ they aren’t really worth the hassle. Besides, I’d rather have them out there keeping the algae under control!
Looking back on it, I can see that even though there were times when I felt my life was meandering wildly, I often ended up exactly where I needed to be. Case in point, the summer of 1999.
That year I drove from Tucson to Alaska on a wing and a prayer in late May. Unlike previous summers, I had not pre-arranged a job. Thankfully, I had a strong track record working with national park concessionaires in food and beverage. I arrived at the small cluster of lodges and restaurants near the main entrance to Denali National Park on a Sunday and I was in uniform working for the Denali Princess Wilderness Lodge by Wednesday.
As the last employee to join the team I was given the least lucrative shifts but I didn’t complain, I knew I was fortunate to have the gig. There was no way I was admitting defeat and returning home early. It was an awfully long way to drive just to flame out! And, full disclosure, I doubt I would’ve had enough money to make it back anyway.
I was a recent college graduate, who majored in a field that wasn’t exactly lucrative. To make matters worse, though I’d dreamed of being an archaeologist since childhood, partway through my studies it dawned on me that I didn’t have any desire to actually work in that field. Too late to change direction, I stuck with it, rationalizing that my Masters degree would be in my preferred field. (Spoiler alert: I never did go back to school, life had other plans.)
During my second week of work, a scruffy man ambled in during happy hour. He was clearly not one of the “cruisers” (most of the customers at the Lodge were retired folks who had added an inland excursion to their “dream” Alaskan cruise).
I am not exaggerating when I say he could’ve been a Jack London character in a story about the Klondike Gold Rush. He was a true sourdough; full beard, worn and stained denim overalls, with gnarled, hard-working hands, and a tired air about him. After a long swig of beer he placed his right fist on the bar and ordered another one.
As I delivered the second mug, he pulled his right hand away and said, “That oughta cover it.” There on the bar were two, small gold nuggets.
He watched me with a keen eye, judging my reaction. For a second, I was dumbfounded. Thoughts flashed rapid-fire through my brain: “Was it really gold? Do locals pay with gold? Should I demand cash? What was an ounce of gold worth? How could I weigh it?” Of course, I could answer none of those questions and instinctively, I knew it wasn’t about the gold, it was about my character.
I quickly realized there was only one thing I could do to gain his respect (and for some inexplicable reason, I wanted it); I swept the nuggets into my pocket and paid his tab with my tips. My action was acknowledged with a slight nod of his head. Apparently, I passed his test.
I couldn’t blame him for challenging me that way. By all appearances, I was a young, blonde woman fresh from the Outside (as Alaskans call the lower 48), indoctrinated in the belief system of the American Dream. The latter was something I would later learn that Foster had strong feelings about.
He became one of my regulars and he’d regale the bar with his outlandish stories: peeing outside in the winter when it was so cold that his urine froze in mid-air and tinkled on the snow like tiny pieces of glass, the wolf that followed him on his trap line and gobbled up whatever Foster would share but never stole from him, the grizzly bear that ate so much salmon from his drying rack that he fell asleep on his doorstep blocking Foster in his house. I was never sure what to believe but up there, outrageous, tall tales were generally true.
When I wasn’t busy behind the bar, our conversations took on a more philosophical tone. Foster was adamant that I not jump on the hamster wheel of American life, where working just to buy bigger and better things took precedence over everything else. My views were filled with the naïve hopes of youth (some version of peace, love, and happiness), while Foster’s beliefs were scarred and burnished through tragedy.
He eschewed material things, he derided the “rat race,” and he vehemently despised people who bobbled through life without asking why. For some reason, it was imperative to him that I learn these truths. I already wasn’t exactly a follower of that lifestyle, I mean, I drove by myself to Alaska, sleeping in the back of my truck that I had converted into a camper. Clearly, not your typical young woman.
Piece by piece over the summer, I learned that Foster had been a successful businessman in Chicago, with a wife and two kids in the suburbs, living the American dream. All that destroyed when a car accident killed his family. After a full day at work, and a long commute, he pulled up to an unusually empty home. The blinking message light on his answering machine an unwitting indicator of life-altering news.
Since nothing else mattered any more, Foster walked away from everything. Literally. He left the house full of belongings, didn’t even bother locking the door. Not caring if he lived or died, Foster headed to the middle of the Alaskan wilderness to fight his demons and God.
Apparently, he won those battles because I met him thirteen years after. His was a sparse life; he resided in an old boxcar he’d found and eked out a living running trap lines, taking photos, occasionally working on the Al-Can pipeline, and panning for gold.
Tenets of belief are formed in different ways, some are definitively shaped by a crucial experience, while others build through chance moments, layer by layer like a pearl. That summer, I was the fortunate recipient of Foster’s hard-won wisdom.
We stayed in touch for a few years after, though eventually our long letters were reduced to holiday cards and then ceased altogether after I moved (yet again). I wonder about Foster from time to time, and I hope he is still up there, surviving in spite of the odds, and sharing his unique perspective with whoever will listen.
After all, Foster, more than anyone else I’ve met knew what Horace meant when he said, “Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.” “Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow.” It’s been over twenty years and I still carry Foster’s nuggets with me, both the gold and the wisdom.