This was going to be a story about pileated woodpeckers. But then historical events intervened, and I couldn’t ignore them. We’ll get to the woodpeckers, I promise, but first we’ve got a journey ahead of us…

The hot March winds buffet the jet as we thunder skyward, shattering the quiet of the dry tropical forest below and spewing hot gases of ancient sea life. I crane my head and say a silent goodbye to the Huatulco landscape that has become a second home to me. We’ve already rocketed higher than the Cerro Huatulco; the dry course of the Arroyo Todos Santos slips by in an instant and then we’re banking towards the coast, a wide wide turn over the tierra natal of my partner and generations of her family. Goodbye for now, my loved ones, que Dios los cuide. 

Santa María Huatulco is out of sight now, but I left part of my soul in the tiny garden in front of our house, and I know Carito and our family will keep it watered while I’m gone. The tomatoes are still green, but we harvested epazote this morning before we had to go to the airport, and yesterday I planted sugarcane from grandfather Teo in a crate along the street.

Saying goodbye

Banking, the jet keeps banking, then levels out again, paralleling the coast. The water has dropped even more in the Laguna El Zarzal, where I watched a black-bellied plover (Pluvialis squatarola) on the mudflats in December, within the protective circle of the mangroves. We race over La Crucecita and all of the tourist hotels and sprawl of Bahías de Huatulco, the golf course at Tangolunda, the mouth of the Río Copalita where the collared plovers (Anarynchus collaris) hide in the sand.

We bank again and the landscape keeps shrinking into anonymity as we set course towards Ciudad de México and points north. By the wee hours of the morning, if all goes well, I’ll be in Missoula, Montana. I keep my eyes glued to the window and trace the Río Copalita upstream to Santiago Xanica, where the first oak forests begin and Zapoteco is still a living language, and then I’m lost for a time, without landmarks as we cross the pine forest, mountains and narrow valleys, so many mountains, of the Sierra Sur. Goodbye for now, Santa María Huatulco.

A critical time

This is no routine trip. We’re two months into the second Trump presidency in the US, and all of the reports I’ve been seeing make me fear that my country of origin is plunging into a dictatorship. Some of my Republican friends and family members interpret things differently, and still believe that Trump is fighting corruption and has everyone’s best interests at heart. I really wish I could believe that. A few days before my flight, Trump’s police arrested 261 immigrants in the US, accused them of being linked to a violent gang—no evidence, no trial—and shipped them to a hell-on-earth prison in El Salvador. When a federal judge ordered them to turn the planes around, they ignored the order. “Oopsie, too late,” posted Nayib Bukele, the dictator of El Salvador. 

By the time I reach Salt Lake City and am ready to pass through US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, I have a pounding stress headache.

Finding our shared humanity

I pass through customs without incident, shielded (so far) from Trump’s terrorism by my white skin and my American passport. A security agent jokes lightheartedly with his companions about DOGE, the informal agency Trump has illegally created without congressional approval through which Elon Musk, the world’s richest person, has been dismantling federal agencies, favoring his own companies, and accessing sensitive information about taxpayers. I’m relieved to see the human side of these security agents, relating without aggression to the passengers they’re screening and making jokes in the face of it all. As Trump tries to convert my country into a fascist police state, our shared humanity—immigrants, citizens, police officers—is a vital defense.

I think of my companions on the flight from Mexico City, an older man from Michoacán who has lived many years in Oregon and his wife from Pinotepa Nacional, Oaxaca, who is visiting the US for the first time ever. It took them three years to get her immigration documents approved. Their courage in crossing the border at this time gives me strength, and I hope they make it through without problems.

The resistance

I arrive in Missoula with a cautious sense of hope. This doesn’t feel like a community defeated by two months of attacks on democracy, humanity, and nature. If anything, I sense that the storm—as Trump and his ultra-rich backers show us the extremes of sick human behavior—is bringing us together. Community is resistance. Kindness to our fellow humans is resistance. Saying no to fascism is resistance. And nurturing a healthy connection with the earth is resistance.

And so — I connect anew with this Missoula earth and community that I love. I chart my steps forward, to live towards a thriving world connected to nature even as those afflicted with the sickness of greed and power would destroy it. I talk with my partner from the wintry cusp of a Montana spring and feel the tug of mangoes ripening in the hot March winds. And, as I ground my being once again in my relationship with this Missoula earth, I remember the pileated woodpecker family I got to know here last spring…

The pileated woodpeckers

It’s mid-April along the Clark Fork River when I first see the pileated woodpeckers (Dryocopus pileatus). The cottonwoods are flowering and the red-osier dogwoods haven’t leafed out yet. An occasional mourning cloak (Nymphalis antiopa) or Milbert’s tortoiseshell (Aglais milberti) butterfly flutters through the air. The tapping of the male pileated woodpecker is barely noticeable in the cottonwood (Populus balsamifera) the pair has chosen for their nest along the river channel. I watch him for maybe 20 minutes, perching on the outside of the dead snag and tap-tap-tapping on the trunk, periodically tossing out beakfuls of wood chips.

Finally I hear a kekekekeke call in the distance and he responds. A few minutes later, the same call and response again. And then comes the caller, the female. She lands on the far side of the nest tree. He flies off. She sidles over to the hole and starts the same excavation process. Tap-tap-tap, quietly. Toss toss toss, silently.

I look up the nest-building process. Three to six weeks in Oregon, reports Birds of the World. 23 days in Kentucky. Goodness!

Three weeks minimum for a pair of pileated woodpeckers to build a nest. Three weeks beating away at a stubborn dead tree, chipping a hole with a durable bill, constructing a fortress for the nestlings. Talk about dedicated parents.

Excavating a home

Two days later, I visit the pileated woodpeckers again: a sunny morning after a brief rainstorm in the night. The female is on the outside of the nest tree as I carefully approach, working on the cavity. But I get distracted by the ducks feeding in a riffle along the river—mallards (Anas platyrhynchos), gadwalls (Mareca strepera), and two green-winged teals (Anas crecca). When I turn back, the female is gone.

Fifteen minutes later, the male flies in, following the river upstream, and begins a long labor of tapping and tossing. The hole is already deeper than the last time I watched him. Still perching on the outside of the trunk, he now has to reach deep for wood chips. Many times I can only see the tips of his tail and wings, poking subtly out of the hole.

He is notably quiet, especially compared to the northern flickers (Colaptes auratus), which I can hear calling every few minutes from the surrounding forest. Finally, through pure luck, I’m able to capture a few of his calls.

Land of the pileated woodpeckers

Sitting here among the cottonwoods and red-osier dogwoods, the other sounds of this landscape gradually seep into my bones. A song sparrow (Melospiza melodia) gives long performances nearby, his melodic song of whistles and trills forming the backbone of the morning soundscape. One of his song perches is among the branches of a red-osier dogwood near the riverbank. Another one is higher, in the canopy of a young cottonwood. In the distance, another song sparrow answers from the far side of the river. 

The deciduous forest of this floodplain is extensive, an expanse of gray cottonwood trunks towering above an understory of tall dogbane (Apocynum cannabinum), goldenrods (Solidago spp.), and invasive grasses. The cottonwoods might look drab to some eyes in this still-leafless season, but for wildlife habitat they’re incredible, providing food, cover, and nesting cavities. I can hear the signs of this bounty in the mid-April soundscape: the pileated woodpeckers aren’t the only cavity-nesters here. Several northern flickers call and drum periodically. Red-naped sapsuckers (Sphyrapicus nuchalis), recently arrived from their winter range in northern Mexico and the southwestern US, give their slowing-down tapping from dead branches, defending territories across this forest. A group of tree swallows (Tachycineta bicolor) swirls along the river, giving their liquid calls.

The voice of the pileated woodpeckers

The male pileated woodpecker remains quiet most of the time. Once, a northern flicker lands nearby, then thinks better of it. The pileated begins calling forcefully and follows the flicker, warning him off, then returns to his nest tree. Another time, as the song sparrow choruses in the background, he calls without any inspiration that I can see, the powerful kekekekeke that lets the whole forest know a pileated woodpecker is around. 

Mostly I just hear his quiet tapping, barely audible over the noisy conversation of the river.

Further reading

Bull, E.L. and J.A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), version 1.0. In Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, USA. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pilwoo/cur/introduction

The post Journey to the pileated woodpeckers: earth connection in a critical time appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Esto iba a ser una narración sobre los picamaderos norteamericanos. Pero entonces intervino una situación histórica, y no pude ignorarla. Vamos a llegar a los picamaderos, te lo prometo, pero primero tenemos un viaje por delante…

Los vientos calurosos de marzo golpean el avión mientras subimos hacia el cielo, rompiendo la tranquilidad de la selva baja caducifolia por abajo y emitiendo gases calientes de la combustión de organismos marinos ancianos. Mirando hacia afuera, le digo un adiós silente a la tierra huatulqueña que se ha vuelto un segundo hogar para mí. Ya hemos ascendido más arriba del Cerro Huatulco; el lecho seco del Arroyo Todos Santos pasa en un instante y entonces estamos girando hacia la costa, un giro amplio sobre la tierra natal de mi pareja y generaciones de su familia. Adiós por ahora, mis seres queridos, que Dios los cuide.

Santa María Huatulco ya ha desaparecido de la vista, pero dejé una parte de mi alma en el jardincito frente a la casa. Sé que Carito y nuestra familia lo van a mantener regado en mi ausencia. Los tomates todavía están verdes, pero cortamos epazote esta mañana antes de ir al aeropuerto. Ayer sembré caña del abuelo Teo en un guacal al lado de la calle.

Despedidas

Girando, el avión sigue girando, luego se nivela de nuevo, yendo en paralelo a la costa. El agua se ha bajado aún más en la Laguna El Zarzal, donde observé un chorlo gris (Pluvialis squatarola) en el barrizal en diciembre, rodeado por el círculo protector de los mangles. Rápidamente pasamos La Crucecita, todos los hoteles turísticos y la expansión urbana de Bahías de Huatulco, el campo de golf por Tangolunda, la boca del Río Copalita donde los chorlos de collar (Anarynchus collaris) se esconden en la arena.

Giramos de nuevo y la tierra sigue disminuyéndose hacia la anonimidad mientras fijamos el rumbo hacia Ciudad de México y lugares más al norte. Antes de la madrugada, si todo va bien, voy a estar en Missoula, Montana, EU. Sigo mirando a través de la ventana y trazo el curso del Río Copalita aguas arriba hasta Santiago Xanica, donde los primeros bosques de encino empiezan y zapoteco todavía es una lengua viva, y entonces me pierdo por un rato, sin puntos de referencia mientras cruzamos el bosque de pino, las montañas y los valles estrechos, muchísimas montañas, de la Sierra Sur. Adios, Santa María Huatulco.

Un tiempo crucial

Esto no es ningún viaje normal. Ya llevamos dos meses de la segunda presidencia de Trump en Estados Unidos, y todos los reportes que he estado viendo me hacen temer que mi país de origen está cayendo hacia una dictadura. Algunos de mis amigos y familiares republicanos interpretan las cosas diferente y siguen creyendo que Trump está luchando contra la corrupción y tiene los mejores intereses de todos en su corazón. Quisiera poder creerlo. Unos días antes de mi vuelo, la policía de Trump arrestó a 261 migrantes en Estados Unidos, los acusó de estar vinculados a una pandilla violenta—sin evidencias, sin juicio—y los llevó a una cárcel diabólica en El Salvador. Cuando un juez federal les ordenó regresar los aviones, lo ignoraron. “Ups, demasiado tarde,” publicó Nayib Bukele, el dictador de El Salvador.

Al llegar a Salt Lake City y estar listo para pasar por el Servicio de Inmigración y Control de Aduanas de Estados Unidos, tengo un dolor de cabeza horrible por el estrés.

Buscando nuestra humanidad compartida

Paso por la inmigración sin incidente, protegido (hasta ahora) del terrorismo de Trump por mi piel blanca y mi pasaporte estadounidense. Un agente de seguridad bromea con sus compañeros sobre DOGE, la entidad informal que Trump creó ilegalmente sin la aprobación del Congreso a través de la cual Elon Musk, la persona más rica del mundo, ha estado derrumbando servicios federales, favoreciendo sus propias empresas y ganando acceso a información sensible sobre las cuentas bancarias e historia de salud de los ciudadanos estadounidenses. Me alivia ver el lado humano de estos agentes de seguridad, interactuando con los pasajeros sin agresión y bromeando frente a la situación dura. Mientras Trump intenta convertir a mi país en un estado policial fascista, nuestra humanidad compartida—migrantes, ciudadanos, policías—es una defensa crucial.

Pienso en mis compañeros en el vuelo de la Ciudad de México, un hombre mayor de Michoacán que lleva varios años viviendo en Oregón y su esposa de Pinotepa Nacional, Oaxaca, que está visitando Estados Unidos por la primera vez. Tuvieron que esperar tres años para obtener su permiso migratorio. Su valentía en cruzar la frontera en este tiempo me fortaleza, y espero que hayan pasado sin problemas.

La resistencia

Llego a Missoula con un sentido cauteloso de esperanza. No da la impresión de una comunidad vencida por dos meses de ataques contra la democracia, la humanidad y la naturaleza. Al contrario, percibo que la tormenta—mientras Trump y sus aliados ultrarricos nos muestran los extremos del comportamiento humano pervertido—nos está uniendo. La comunidad es la resistencia. Los actos de amabilidad a nuestros prójimos son la resistencia. Decir no al fascismo es la resistencia. Y cuidar una conexión sana con la tierra es la resistencia.

Y así — me conecto de nuevo con esta tierra y comunidad missoulienses que amo. Visualizo mis siguientes pasos para vivir hacia un mundo floreciente, conectado con la naturaleza, aunque los que están afligidos con la enfermedad de la codicia y el poder lo quisieran destrozar. Hablo con mi pareja desde la orilla helada de la primavera montanense y siento el llamado de los mangos madurando en los vientos calurosos de marzo. Y mientras arraigo mi ser de nuevo en mi relación con esta tierra montanense, recuerdo la familia de picamaderos norteamericanos que conocí aquí la primavera pasada…

Los picamaderos norteamericanos

Primero conozco a la pareja de picamaderos norteamericanos (Dryocopus pileatus) al lado del Río Clark Fork a mediados de abril. Los álamos negros (Populus balsamifera) están floreando. Las hojas de los cornejos colorados (Cornus sericea) todavía no han emergido. De vez en cuando una mariposa velo de duelo (Nymphalis antiopa) o una mariposa de Milbert (Aglais milberti) pasa aleteando. El golpeteo del picamaderos norteamericano macho apenas se nota en el álamo negro que la pareja ha escogido para construir su nido al lado del cauce del río. Lo observo por unos 20 minutos, posándose vertical en el tronco muerto y golpeteándolo, pausando regularmente para sacar bocados de astillas.

Finalmente escucho una llamada quiquiquiquiquí en la distancia y él le responde. Unos minutos después, se repite la misma llamada y respuesta. Y entonces la hembra llega, aterrizando al lado lejano del tronco. Él se echa a volar. Ella se acerca al hueco y comienza de nuevo con el proceso de excavación. Golpetea la madera sin hacer mucho ruido. Tira las astillas en silencio.

Investigo sobre el proceso de excavar un nido. Suele durar de tres a seis semanas en Oregón, según Birds of the World. 23 días en Kentucky. ¡Órale!

Mínimo tres semanas para que una pareja de picamaderos norteamericanos construya su nido. Tres semanas golpeando un árbol muerto obstinado, cortando un hueco con sus picos fuertes, construyendo una fortaleza para las crías. Pienso en qué tan dedicados son estos padres.

Excavando un hogar

Dos días después, vuelvo a visitar a los picamaderos norteamericanos. Es una mañana soleada después de un chubasco breve en la noche. La hembra está perchada afuera por el tronco, trabajando el hueco, mientras me acerco con cuidado. Pero me distraen unos patos que están alimentándose en un tramo ondulado del río—patos de collar (Anas platyrhynchos), patos frisos (Mareca strepera) y dos cercetas alas verdes (Anas crecca). Cuando vuelvo a checar el tronco, la hembra ha desaparecido.

Quince minutos después, el macho llega, siguiendo el río aguas arriba. Comienza una labor larga de golpetear y tirar astillas. Ya el hueco está mucho más profundo que la vez pasada. Él todavía está excavando desde afuera, pero ya tiene que agacharse mucho para sacar astillas. Muchas veces sólo puedo ver las puntas de sus alas y cola, apenas sobresaliendo del hueco.

Está notablemente callado, especialmente en comparación con los carpinteros de pechera comunes (Colaptes auratus), los cuales puedo escuchar cada par de minutos desde el bosque alrededor. Finalmente, por pura suerte, logro grabar unas llamadas del picamaderos.

La tierra de los picamaderos norteamericanos

Sentándome aquí entre los álamos negros y cornejos colorados, los otros sonidos de esta tierra se filtran poco a poco hacia mis huesos. Un gorrión cantor (Melospiza melodia) da interpretaciones largas cerca de mí, su canto melodioso formando el estribillo del paisaje de sonidos mañanero. Una de sus perchas está entre las ramas de un cornejo colorado en la orilla del río. Otra está más alto, en el dosel de un álamo joven. En la distancia, otro gorrión cantor contesta desde el otro lado del río.

El bosque caducifolio de esta zona inundable es extenso, un paisaje pintado por los troncos grises de los álamos que ascienden sobre una capa baja de cáñamo americano (Apocynum cannabinum), varas de oro (Solidago spp.) y gramíneas invasoras. Para algunas personas los álamos podrían resultar aburridos en esta temporada sin hojas, pero para el hábitat de la vida silvestre son árboles increíbles, aportando alimento, abrigo y cavidades para la anidación.

Puedo escuchar las señales de esta abundancia en la banda sonora de abril: los picamaderos norteamericanos no son las únicas aves que utilizan cavidades acá. Varios carpinteros de pechera comunes llaman y tamborilean de vez en cuando. Los carpinteros nuca roja (Sphyrapicus nuchalis), recién llegados de sus tierras invernales en el norte de México y el suroeste de Estados Unidos, dan sus tamborileos desacelerados desde ramas secas, defendiendo territorios a lo largo de este bosque. Una parvada de golondrinas bicolores (Tachycineta bicolor) se arremolina por el río, dando sus llamadas líquidas.

La voz de los picamaderos norteamericanos

El picamaderos norteamericano macho sigue excavando, generalmente en silencio. Una vez, un carpintero de pechera común aterriza cerca. Inmediatamente decide mejor no quedarse. El picamaderos empieza a llamar fuerte y sigue al carpintero, advirtiéndole que no piense en regresar. Después, el picamaderos vuelve al árbol del nido. Otra vez, mientras el gorrión cantor da su estribillo en el fondo, el picamaderos llama sin ninguna inspiración visible, el quiquiquiquiquí poderoso que avisa al bosque entero que un picamaderos está por aquí.

Pero por lo general sólo escucho su golpeteo quieto, apenas audible sobre la conversación ruidosa del río.

Leer más

Bull, E.L. y J.A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), versión 1.0. En Birds of the World (A.F. Poole, editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, EU. https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/pilwoo/cur/introduction

The post Viaje hacia los picamaderos norteamericanos: encontrando calma bajo estrés appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Es una tarde a finales de abril cerca del Río Clark Fork unos kilómetros afuera de Missoula, Montana, EU. El canto del cáñamo americano (Apocynum cannabinum) no es nada obvio, a diferencia de los tordos sargentos (Agelaius phoeniceus) que están cantando desde los álamos temblones (Populus tremuloides) al otro lado del río. No llama la atención como los gritos de los estorninos pintos (Sturnus vulgaris) que están anidando en las cavidades de los álamos negros (Populus balsamifera). Pero el cáñamo americano tiene un canto también, un estribillo que toca con el viento. Lo puedo oír esta tarde mientras los tallos muertos del año pasado susurran en el aire, raspando las hojas secas de su vecino el alpiste (Phalaris arundinacea).

Conocer a las aves es flotar por un rato, imaginarnos la vida con alas, cantar en celebración. Conocer a las plantas es algo más lento, más quieto, pero igualmente poderoso. Tener una conexión con las plantas es echar raíces, vincularnos con la tierra. Las aves nos cuentan de migraciones; nos invitan a pensar globalmente, superar fronteras, reconocer hábitats y quizás olvidarnos por un tiempo de los grandes costos ambientales de viajar en avión mientras intentamos imitar sus vuelos. Las plantas nos invitan a ir más despacio, arraigarnos en nuestra tierra local, respirar y perdurar en el movimiento circular de las estaciones.

El cáñamo americano y la herencia cultural

El cáñamo americano tiene una herencia cultural que lleva generaciones incontables por el continente norteamericano. Desde hace más siglos que puedo imaginar, varios pueblos originarios usan las fibras duraderas de los tallos para hacer cuerdas. Cuando yo era niño en la parte central de Carolina del Norte, aprendí esta práctica antigua de torcer fibras vegetales para hacer cuerdas. Había un parche pequeño de cáñamo americano ahí por la terracería que daba acceso al sistema de desagüe. Ya reconocí la planta, pero no sabía cómo cosechar sus fibras en ese entonces. En su vez, torcía una cuerda mucho más débil de las hojas del tule (Typha sp.) que crecía en un humedal local.

Años después en Montana, leyendo el libro de Tom Elpel Foraging the Mountain West, finalmente aprendí cómo procesar las fibras del cáñamo americano. (También puedes ver una explicación en un video por Sarah Corrigan de Roots School aquí). Una vez visitando a mi mamá en Missoula, Montana, conocí a un parche lindo y extenso del cáñamo por el Río Clark Fork. Ese invierno recolectamos los tallos secos de color borgoña. Le mostré a mi mamá cómo torcer una cuerda, y pensé en todas las generaciones de personas que han recolectado esta planta y que la han agradecido por todo lo que da.

Luego, mientras tomaba clases universitarias en línea durante la pandemia de covid, seguí haciendo cuerda del cáñamo americano y la usé para tejer una canasta en forma de espiral con las agujas del pino ponderosa (Pinus ponderosa). Antes del fin de la pandemia, el cáñamo y el pino se habían transformado en una canasta de cosecha.

Brotando

Y todo eso me trae de vuelta a abril de 2024. Mientras los tordos sargentos y estorninos pintos cantan de la primavera al lado del Río Clark Fork, los tallos del cáñamo del año pasado me susurran en el viento. Debajo de los álamos, aún no puedo ver ningunos brotes nuevos. Sólo están las semillas a punto de partir de sus cápsulas, llevando paracaídas delicados de seda, suspendidas de los tallos del año pasado, que cantan con el viento.

Sobre las gravillas al borde del río, sin embargo, el sol ya ha calentado la tierra pedregosa. En la base de los tallos muertos, retoños nuevos han comenzado a brotar. Decido prestar más atención a estas plantas este año, tomar notas. ¿Si me detengo para observarlas, qué van a enseñarme?

El crecimiento de mayo

La próxima vez que logro visitar al cáñamo, es una tarde a finales de mayo. Un chubasco está azotando las gravillas, tamborileando sobre la grama (Agropyron repens) y perlando las hojas nuevas del cáñamo. Las plantas han crecido rápidamente en el último mes. Aquí donde el sol calienta las gravillas, los nuevos brotes rojos ya tienen más de 30 centímetros de altura. Los tallos muertos del año pasado, ya blanqueados, siguen erguidos al lado.

Ya los chipes amarillos (Setophaga petechia) han completado su viaje migratorio y regresado a los álamos. Los playeros alzacolita (Actitis macularis) llaman frecuentemente en la orilla del río. Para el cáñamo, es la temporada de crecimiento rápido hacia el cielo. Los brotes tiernos saltan para arriba con todo el abasto de energía que guardó la planta el año pasado. Pero cuando entro en la sombra del bosque debajo de los álamos, veo que los brotes del cáñamo siguen muy atrasados, con sólo unos cuantos centímetros de altura. Aquí encuentro también los nuevos brotes del orozuz silvestre (Glycyrrhiza lepidota), empezando su propia carrera hacia el cielo.

El colibrí

El chubasco pasa. Las aves alrededor del cáñamo se mueven de nuevo y continúan con sus cantos. Estoy mirando dos carpinteros nuca roja (Sphyrapicus nuchalis) en un cornejo colorado (Cornus sericea), agarrando áfidos de las hojas, cuando de repente aparece un colibrí unos 15 metros en frente de mí. Es un zumbador garganta rayada (Selasphorus calliope), una hembra con los flancos anaranjados, y se está cerniendo en los extremos de los tallos del cáñamo del año pasado. ¿Qué rayos podría estar haciendo ahí?

De repente, pienso en una posibilidad: ¿está recolectando la pelusa de las semillas que permanecen, usándola en la construcción de su nido? Me apuro para sacar mi cámara, pero no logro enfocarla bien y se va el colibrí. Me deja preguntándome si realmente vi lo que pienso que vi. Unos minutos después, regresa ella y se percha en una rama del cornejo colorado. Sigo esperando que visite el cáñamo de nuevo, pero simplemente se echa a volar, desapareciendo. Espero varios minutos más, pero no vuelve a visitar. Me deja con un misterio.

Una araña entre los tallos

La próxima vez que visito, son mediados de junio. Una cigarra está cantando desde los álamos arriba del parche de cáñamo. Unos papamoscas del oeste (Contopus sordidulus) chiflan desde arriba, y una araña negra del tamaño de un grano de mostaza espera en su telaraña de múltiples capas. La telaraña está suspendida de la estructura de un tallo descolorido de cáñamo del año pasado. Está salpicada con las polillas diminutas que la araña ha atrapado. A unos metros, una libélula (Plathemis lydia) descansa sobre otro tallo envejecido del cáñamo.

Los nuevos brotes han crecido muchísimo durante el último mes, así como sus vecinos las gramíneas y el orozuz silvestre. Los tallos todavía están flexibles y verdes, las hojas al tamaño completo pero tiernas aún, sus venas pálidas haciendo un fuerte contraste. Enfocado en la araña, paso sin suficiente cuidado y lastimo una hoja, de la que sale una gota de savia lechosa. Esta savia sabe muy amarga, una pista fuerte a los que se comieran esta planta: ¡Soy fuerte medicina, no me comas!

El cáñamo americano sobre las gravillas

Donde el cáñamo crece sobre las gravillas en la orilla del río, los grillos de primavera (Gryllus veletis) están cantando entre tallos de cáñamo americano que alcanzan a mi cintura. Como era de esperar, este parche sigue adelantado en comparación con el cáñamo en la sombra. Los tallos están echando ramas y los botones florales ya están visibles. Los playeros alzacolita cantan al otro lado del río mientras toco la menta (Mentha arvensis) que está creciendo debajo del cáñamo y respiro su fuerte aroma refrescante.

Hago planes para checar al cáñamo de nuevo en julio. Quiero pasar un día o más observando los insectos que visiten sus flores. Pero el verano se me escurre, el otoño también, y yo migro al sur con los chipes amarillos a la tierra natal de mi pareja en Oaxaca, México, los costos ambientales de viajar en avión siempre presentes en una esquina de mi mente. El cáñamo americano se queda, arraigado en las gravillas del río. Una parte de mí se queda con él.

Pasos lentos hacia las plantas

El cáñamo americano no crece aquí en Oaxaca; su distribución termina en el norte de México, desiertos y montañas lejos de aquí. Extraño este amigo familiar. Poco a poco, estoy encontrando mi lugar aquí, haciendo nuevas amistades. Incluso con las plantas. En mis caminatas en la mañana o en la tarde, tomo fotos de las que me llaman la atención e intento aprender algo de ellas. Muchas personas me dicen los nombres locales, y trato de recordarlos. Aprendo, se me olvida algo y aprendo de nuevo, poco a poco, cosas pequeñas de la riqueza viva de la sabiduría tradicional oaxaqueña, los usos y relaciones con las plantas locales.

En nuestra casa, también, las plantas me están ayudando a arraigarme. No hay espacio para un jardín, pero estoy haciendo composta con nuestros desechos orgánicos y algunas hojas caídas. La mezclo con la tierra que las lluvias llevan a la calle para llenar maceteros y guacales. He plantado el jengibre que nos dio el abuelo Teo, rábanos, albahaca, tomates, hierbabuena y un bejuco de maracuyá que me regaló mi amigo Joel. Saqué las semillas de los tomates y las fermenté antes de plantarlas: tres variedades, una roma comercial y dos de tomates criollos locales. Las primeras matas ya han empezado a florecer. Quizás habrá tomates antes de que yo tenga que regresar a Montana a mediados de marzo.

Con las plantas, está bien ir poco a poco: ellas están justo aquí, pacientes, esperando a que aprendamos. Como dicen mis amigas Cat Raan y Syd Morical, las herboristas que fundaron la organización Wild Wanders en Missoula, cada paso lento hacia las plantas es un acto de sanación, para nosotros y para la tierra.

Los escarabajos del cáñamo americano

Mientras sigo leyendo más sobre el cáñamo americano, encuentro un artículo escrito por Mary Ann Borge, una naturalista basada en Nueva Jersey que ha hecho el tipo de observaciones de insectos del cáñamo que no logré hacer en 2024. Comparte fotos de la variedad de abejas, mariposas, escarabajos y moscas que ha visto visitar las flores. Su artículo también me introduce al escarabajo del cáñamo americano (Chrysochus auratus), un herbívoro de verde iridiscente que se especializa en estos cáñamos y sus parientes. A ver si veo un escarabajo de éstos este año.

Las fuertes fibras del tallo del cáñamo nos dan cuerda y mecate. Nos conectan a esta planta, a la tierra donde vive y a miles de generaciones de tradiciones indígenas. Para mí, el cáñamo americano se ha tejido en mi vida por los recuerdos de mi juventud, las fibras de mi canasta de cosecha, los hilos de esta historia, mi gratitud por todo lo que esta planta me enseña y todo lo que nos da. El cáñamo me invita a arraigarme en mi tierra local.

Arraigarse

Mi aprecio por esta planta ha crecido con cada visita, y un mundo entero ha empezado a mostrarse. Tallos muertos cantando en el viento de abril. La seda de un nido de colibrí, la estructura que sostiene una telaraña. La percha de una libélula, las fibras duraderas que me conectan a la tierra. Para mí, el cáñamo americano se ha vuelto parte del latido del corazón de este bosque.

Las plantas nos esperan con paciencia—por donde estemos—invitándonos a ir más despacio, a echar raíces, a respirar y ajustar a lo largo del ritmo circular de las estaciones. Su invitación es un canto, leve pero firme. Los tallos del cáñamo americano susurran en el viento de abril. ¿Lo puedes oír?

Leer más

Borge, M.A. (2014, 8 de julio). What good is dogbane? The Natural Web. https://the-natural-web.org/2014/07/08/what-good-is-dogbane/

Corrigan, S. (2017, 9 de noviembre). How to harvest and process dogbane for natural fibers. Roots School. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5vPyRWGvDs

Kimmerer, Robin Wall. (2013). Braiding sweetgrass: indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge, and the teachings of plants. Minneapolis, MN: Milkweed Editions.

Oregon Department of Transportation. (2011, 21 de septiembre). Soft as silk — strong as steel: the living heritage of Apocynum cannabinum. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xgfQzpwnn0

The post El canto del cáñamo americano: conociendo un mundo vegetal appeared first on Wild With Nature.

It’s an afternoon in late April along the Clark Fork River near Missoula, Montana, USA. The song of the tall dogbane (Apocynum cannabinum) isn’t obvious, like the red-winged blackbirds (Agelaius phoeniceus) that are singing in the aspen grove on the other side of the river, or the European starlings (Sturnus vulgaris) that are nesting in the cavities of the cottonwoods. But the dogbane has a song, too, a song it sings with the wind. I can hear it this afternoon as last year’s dead stalks whisper and rustle in the breeze, brushing against the dry stems of its neighbor, reed canarygrass (Phalaris arundinacea).

To know the birds is to become weightless for a time, to imagine life with wings, to sing in celebration. To know the plants is something slower, quieter, but equally powerful. A connection with the plants is rooted in the earth, grounded in place. The birds tell us of migrations, invite us to think globally, to transcend borders, to recognize habitats, perhaps to forget for a time the major environmental costs of travel as we try to imitate their journeys. The plants invite us to slow down, to become rooted in our local soil, to breathe and flex with the circular motions of the seasons.

Dogbane and cultural legacy

Tall dogbane holds a cultural legacy that stretches back for countless generations on the North American continent. Indigenous people have used its durable stem fibers to make string and cord for more lifetimes than I can imagine. As a kid in central North Carolina, I learned this ancient practice of making cord by twisting the fibers of plants. There was a small patch of dogbane along the dirt track that provided access to the neighborhood sewage line. I recognized it as a fiber plant, but I didn’t know how to gather its stem fibers then. Instead, I twisted a much weaker cordage by splitting the leaves of the cattails that grew in a local marsh. 

Years later in Montana, reading Tom Elpel’s book Foraging the Mountain West, I finally learned how to separate dogbane fibers from the stem. (Sarah Corrigan of Roots School gives a video explanation here). Visiting my mom in Missoula, Montana, I got to know a beautiful, thriving patch of it along the Clark Fork River. In the winter we gathered the dry burgundy stems. I showed my mom how to twist dogbane string and I thought of all of the generations of people who have gathered this plant and thanked it for its gifts. Taking online college classes during the covid pandemic, I twisted dogbane during my writing and anthropology classes and used it to sew bundles of ponderosa pine needles into concentric spirals. Before the pandemic ended, the dogbane and ponderosa pine had become a gathering basket.

Emergence

And that brings me back to April 2024. As red-winged blackbirds and starlings sing their songs of spring along the Clark Fork River, last year’s dead dogbane stalks whisper to me in the breeze. Under the canopy of cottonwoods, no new growth is yet visible, just the delicate silken tufts of dogbane seeds spilling out of their capsules, suspended from last year’s stems, singing with the wind.

On the gravel bar at the edge of the river, though, the sun has heated the rocky earth. At the base of the dead stalks, new dogbane shoots are just beginning to emerge. I make a goal to pay more attention to these plants this year, to write about them. If I stop to notice them, what will they teach me?

May growth

The next time I’m able to visit, it’s an afternoon in late May. A rain shower is pummeling the gravel bar, pattering on the quackgrass (Agropyron repens) and forming glistening beads on new dogbane leaves. The plants have grown swiftly in the last month. On these warm, sun-exposed gravels, the new red shoots are more than a foot tall. Last year’s dead stems, bleached to whitish tan, are still standing next to the young growth.

By now the yellow warblers (Setophaga petechia) have completed their migratory journey and returned to the cottonwoods. Spotted sandpipers (Actitis macularis) call frequently at the river’s edge. For the dogbane, it’s the season of rapid skyward growth, tender sprouts springing upwards with a supply of carefully-stored underground energy. As I walk under the cottonwoods, where the microclimate is cooler and shadier, I can see that the new stalks are still far behind, only a few inches tall. Here I find the wild licorice (Glycyrrhiza lepidota), too, the young shoots just emerging and launching their own race towards the sky. 

The hummingbird

The rain shower ends. The birds around the dogbane become active again and resume their singing. I’m watching two red-naped sapsuckers (Sphyrapicus nuchalis) in a red-osier dogwood (Cornus sericea), gleaning aphids from the leaves, when a hummingbird suddenly appears 15 yards in front of me. She’s a female with buffy flanks, a calliope hummingbird (Selasphorus calliope), and she’s hovering at the tips of last year’s dogbane stems. What could she possibly be doing?

Suddenly, I connect the dots: is she harvesting the little bits of seed fluff that remain, in the process of constructing her nest? I scramble for my camera, but I have trouble focusing it and then she’s gone. I’m left wondering if I really saw what I think I did. A few minutes later she returns and perches on a red-osier dogwood branch. I keep hoping she’ll visit the dogbane again, but instead she flies away. I’m left with a mystery.

A spider among the stems

The next time I visit, it’s mid-June. A cicada is singing from the cottonwoods above the dogbane patch. Western wood-pewees (Contopus sordidulus) whistle repetitively, and a blackish spider the size of a mustard seed waits in its multilayered web. The web is suspended from the scaffolding of one of last year’s white-bleached dogbane stems. It’s dotted with the remnants of tiny moths that the spider has trapped. A few yards away, a common whitetail dragonfly (Plathemis lydia) finds a perch on another weathered dogbane stalk.

The new dogbane has grown incredibly in the last month, as have its neighbors the grasses and the wild licorice. The stems are still supple and green, the leaves full-grown but tender, their pale veins and midribs strongly contrasting. Intent on the spider, I brush past too hastily, injuring a leaf, and it beads up with milky white sap. The sap tastes very bitter, a powerful hint to would-be herbivores: I’m strong medicine! Don’t eat me!

Dogbane on the gravel bar

Back at the sunny gravel bar, spring field crickets (Gryllus veletis) sing among waist-high dogbane shoots. Predictably, this patch continues to be well ahead of the shady dogbane. The upper stems are branching and the flower buds are already emerging. Spotted sandpipers call from the other side of the river as I run my hands through the wild mint (Mentha arvensis) growing under the dogbane and breathe in its rich, pungent scent.

I plan to visit the dogbane again in July, to spend a day or more watching the insects that come to its flowers. But the summer slips past, the fall too, and I migrate with the yellow warblers to my partner’s natal earth in Oaxaca, Mexico, the environmental costs of air travel nagging at the back of my mind. The dogbane stays behind, rooted in the river gravels. A part of me stays with it. 

Slow steps towards the plants

There’s no tall dogbane here in Oaxaca; its range ends in northern Mexico, mountains and deserts away. I miss this familiar friend. Little by little, I’m finding a place here, making new acquaintances and friendships. Including with the plants. On my morning and evening walks, I take photos of those that call my attention, attempt to learn about them. People tell me the local names and I try to remember them. I learn and forget and learn again, little bits and pieces of the incredible living richness of traditional plant knowledge, uses, and relationships. 

In our house, too, the plants are helping me put down roots. There’s no space for a garden, but I’m making compost with our food scraps and fallen leaves, mixing it with dirt that washes down the street, filling pots and wooden crates with homegrown soil. I’ve planted the ginger that grandfather Teo gave us, radishes, basil, tomatoes, hierbabuena, a passionfruit vine that my friend Joel gifted me. I scooped the tomato seeds out of the fruits and fermented them before I planted them: three varieties, a commercial roma, and two small local tomates criollos. The first ones are starting to flower now. Maybe there will be tomatoes before I return to Montana in mid-March.

Little by little is okay with the plants: they’re right here, patient, waiting for us to learn. As my friends Cat Raan and Syd Morical, herbalists and founders of Wild Wanders in Missoula, Montana like to say, every slow step towards the plants is a step of healing, for us and for the earth.

Dogbane beetles

As I keep reading more about dogbane, I find an article by Mary Ann Borge, a New Jersey-based naturalist who has done the sort of patient insect-watching that I didn’t get around to in 2024. She shares photos of a variety of bees, butterflies, beetles, and flies visiting dogbane flowers. Her story also introduces me to the dogbane beetle (Chrysochus auratus), an iridescent-green herbivore that specializes on dogbanes and related plants. I make a note to keep my eyes open for dogbane beetles this summer.

Dogbane’s strong stem fibers give us cord and rope and can connect us to this plant, to the earth where it lives, to thousands of generations of indigenous traditions. For me, dogbane is woven into my life in the memories of my childhood, the fibers of my pine needle basket, the threads of this story, in my gratitude for all that this plant teaches me, all that it gives. Dogbane invites me to become rooted in my local soil.

Becoming rooted

My appreciation for this plant has grown with every encounter, and a whole world has begun to show itself. Dead stalks singing in the April breeze. The silk of a hummingbird nest, the scaffolding of a spider web. The perch of a dragonfly, the strong fibers that connect me to the earth. For me, dogbane has become part of the heartbeat of the cottonwood forest—and are there dogbane beetles in this Missoula patch, too?

The plants wait for us, patiently—wherever we are—inviting us to slow down, to become rooted, to breathe and shift with the round rhythms of the seasons. Their invitation is a song, soft but steady. Dogbane stalks rustling in the April breeze. Can you hear it?

Further reading

Borge, M.A. (2014, 8 July). What good is dogbane? The Natural Web. https://the-natural-web.org/2014/07/08/what-good-is-dogbane/

Corrigan, S. (2017, 9 November). How to harvest and process dogbane for natural fibers. Roots School. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5vPyRWGvDs

Kimmerer, Robin Wall. (2013). Braiding sweetgrass: indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge, and the teachings of plants. Minneapolis, MN: Milkweed Editions.

Oregon Department of Transportation. (2011, 21 September). Soft as silk — strong as steel: the living heritage of Apocynum cannabinum. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xgfQzpwnn0

The post The song of the tall dogbane: fibers at the riverbank appeared first on Wild With Nature.

When you compare the birds of a manicured lawn with those that inhabit a grove of chokecherries, the difference is stark. The lawn might support a few starlings and robins. Perhaps, late in spring migration, a handful of desperate Swainson’s thrushes might stop by. The chokecherries, on the other hand, support an intricate community of life, from two-tailed swallowtail butterflies to dozens of species of songbirds. When the fruits ripen in late summer to a deep, juicy black, they attract cedar waxwings, Townsend’s solitaires, western tanagers, American robins, and house finches. Meanwhile, throughout the growing season, the foliage supports a diversity of insects – and the birds that eat them. Flitting among the leaves, you can find Wilson’s warblers, ruby-crowned kinglets, yellow-rumped warblers, and warbling vireos. 

When we consider the diversity of life around us, it’s easy to see a lot of bad news these days. We’ve lost 2.9 billion breeding birds in North America over the last 50 years. Scientists have reported steep declines of once-common insects. But by making a few simple decisions about what we plant in our gardens, we can be part of reversing these trends. In our yards, parks, and neighborhoods, we can provide homes for the birds, bees, and caterpillars. But doing this isn’t just about avoiding extinctions – it’s also a lot of fun.

This article is focused on plants for bird-friendly gardens in the western half of Montana, USA. If you live elsewhere, the specific plants will be different, but the general recommendations will be the same.

Getting started: habitat for birds

Every species of bird is unique in its life story. The habitats it uses, the foods it eats, where it nests, whether it migrates – all of this varies. Nevertheless, all birds need food, shelter, water, and safety from predators. Plants provide excellent food and shelter – especially particular species of plants that are native to the local landscape. But before we get into the specifics of these plants, let’s consider water and predators. 

Some birds, such as American kestrels, can get most or all of the moisture they need from their food. Otherwise, birds need to drink water. Including a source of water in your garden, such as a regularly cleaned bird bath or a backyard wetland, can attract birds to drink or bathe.

Watch out for predators

What about predators in our yards? Outdoor cats are incredibly deadly for neighborhood songbirds. In the United States alone, cats kill well over a billion birds a year. This number is so large that it’s almost unimaginable. But there are a lot of outdoor cats in the United States: around 50 million pets, in addition to as many as 100 million feral cats. Managing outdoor cats, especially feral ones, can be a contentious topic. But keeping your own cats indoors is a relatively easy step to take. By doing so, you’ll help ensure that your bird-friendly garden doesn’t become a death trap for songbirds.

Windows may not be predators, but they’re another deadly neighborhood hazard for songbirds. In the United States, they’re estimated to kill over 350 million birds a year. An article by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology gives an overview of this issue and discusses several solutions. Of these, Acopian Bird Savers are probably one of the most elegant. This is an unobtrusive, low-tech design that consists of vertical rows of cords, spaced four inches apart, that hang from the outside of the window. You can make your own out of parachute cord or bamboo, or you can order them online.

Including different habitat features

Broadly speaking, all birds are associated with one or more of three general habitats: forest, prairie, or wetland. What habitats make up the larger landscape surrounding you? The answer to this question will shape the possibilities for your bird-friendly garden.

Is your home in the middle of a Douglas-fir forest, or is it in a valley-bottom subdivision? Clark’s nutcrackers probably won’t visit your garden unless you have patches of conifers close to you. Similarly, you probably won’t attract marsh wrens or Wilson’s snipes to your yard unless you live very close to a wetland. Meanwhile, many prairie birds need relatively large patches of grasses and herbs. So unless this describes the area around your house, you probably won’t have grasshopper sparrows or western meadowlarks in your yard. Many birds of thickets and forest edges, on the other hand, will readily use yards during migration or the breeding season. And, of course, there are a variety of birds that use more than one of these habitats.

In general, in order to make your yard more inviting for birds, it’s worth considering components of all three habitats: forest, prairie, and wetland. A small water feature probably won’t attract Wilson’s snipes – but, once again, a bit of water in the yard will allow birds to drink and bathe. A prairie patch the size of a front yard is unlikely to bring in grasshopper sparrows, but it will offer important seeds and insects for thicket-edge birds such as chipping sparrows. And patches of native shrubs or trees, such as chokecherries, provide food and cover for a wide diversity of migrating and nesting songbirds.

Why native plants?

You’ve probably noticed that I keep mentioning native plants for birds. Why does this matter? you might be wondering. Perhaps you’ve noticed that robins and Bohemian waxwings often eat the fruits of Russian-olive (Elaeagnus angustifolia), a frequently-planted invasive that escapes from cultivation to compete with the cottonwoods and willows along our waterways. Or you might have noticed a house finch or pileated woodpecker pecking at an apple, another non-native fruit. 

Yes, there are non-native plants that certain birds will use. But, all things considered, native plants are far superior for our birds. Why? It comes down to food – and, specifically, insects. Doug Tallamy, a researcher who has spent decades studying birds and insects, writes that 96% of North American land birds rely heavily on insects during the breeding season. Soft, juicy caterpillars are especially important. And whereas native plants have coevolved with native insects, non-native plants are comparative deserts for insect diversity.

A non-native plant like Russian-olive may still provide fruits that feed a few species. But in comparison with a chokecherry or another native plant, it’s much less useful for most of our birds. If you want to attract an abundance of birds to your yard, then native plants are the way to go.

Okay, which plants should I plant for the birds? you’re probably asking. Here are some recommendations for western Montana, organized by the foods they provide.

Native plants for insects

What sorts of native plants provide our birds with the most insects? In order to give region-specific recommendations, Doug Tallamy and Kimberley Shropshire teamed up with the National Wildlife Federation to create an interactive website, searchable by zip code. For each zip code, this tool predicts the number of caterpillar species that different native plants will support. And in North America, it turns out, wherever you are, just a handful of native plants support most of the caterpillars.

Around Helena, Montana, willows are at the top of the list. These shrubs host up to 309 species of caterpillars – juicy protein packets to feed our nesting birds. Many of our native willows grow in wetlands, but Scouler’s willow (Salix scouleriana) and sandbar willow (Salix exigua) are common species that often grow in somewhat drier areas.

Cottonwoods and aspens are also high on the list, hosting up to 245 butterflies and moths. Among the cottonwoods are black cottonwood (Populus balsamifera) and plains cottonwood (Populus deltoides) – but keep in mind that these trees are notorious for dropping branches. Meanwhile, quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides) forms thickets from underground rhizomes. For these reasons, cottonwoods and aspens are best-suited for larger yards. 

Chokecherry (Prunus virginiana) and American plum (Prunus americana) are thicket-forming shrubs that are excellent for bird habitat. (They support up to 227 species of caterpillars – and check out this article for an exploration of other miniature insects that live on chokecherries.) However, if you live in an area with a high risk of bear conflicts, keep in mind that chokecherries and plums can attract bears when the fruits get ripe in the fall.

Birches, alders, and pines

Our native birches host 211 species of caterpillars. Water birch (Betula occidentalis) is a small tree that often grows along streams; paper birch (Betula papyrifera) gets much larger. And birches do more than just provide lots of insects. Their trunks (like those of cottonwoods and aspens) also make popular homes for cavity-nesting birds like black-capped chickadees and house wrens. (If you don’t want to wait for your trees to grow, the Cornell Lab of Ornithology also provides thorough instructions for nest box construction.) The related thinleaf alder (Alnus incana) is a large shrub or small tree that hosts 196 species of butterflies and moths.

Among the conifers, pines (Pinus spp.) are important for caterpillars, supporting up to 188 species. Around Helena, ponderosa pine (Pinus ponderosa) and limber pine (Pinus flexilis) are good options. However, keep in mind that they grow to be rather large trees. Also, depending on your surroundings, you might not want to plant them near your house due to fire risk.

Goldenrods, strawberries, and more

What about herbaceous plants? For caterpillars, goldenrod is at the top of the list, hosting 65 species. Common goldenrods in Montana include giant goldenrod (Solidago gigantea), Canada goldenrod (Solidago canadensis), and Missouri goldenrod (Solidago missouriensis). These plants are commonly blamed for late-summer allergies, but this is a myth: the culprits are typically ragweeds (Ambrosia spp.), which bloom around the same time.

Other herbs that support substantial numbers of butterflies and moths are native strawberries and sunflowers. Wild strawberries (Fragaria virginiana and Fragaria vesca) are low-growing; they may not compete well with taller, more vigorous plants. Sunflowers, on the other hand, are both tall and vigorous. In Montana, common sunflower (Helianthus annuus) is an abundant annual that often grows along roadsides. We also have two common perennial species, Nuttall’s sunflower (Helianthus nuttallii) and Maximilian sunflower (Helianthus maximiliani). 

Lupines and sagebrushes are also worthy of mention, supporting up to 40 and 35 species of caterpillars, respectively. Silvery lupine (Lupinus argenteus) and silky lupine (Lupinus sericeus) are a couple of Montana’s common lupines. Sagebrushes are very diverse in Montana and include shrubs such as big sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata) and silver sagebrush (Artemisia cana) as well as herbs such as fringed sage (Artemisia frigida) and white sagebrush (Artemisia ludoviciana). 

Native plants for fruits

I’ve already mentioned chokecherry for the diversity of insects that it hosts. In addition to the insects, this shrub is also a phenomenal fall fruit resource for cedar waxwings, American robins, and many other birds. And besides chokecherry, there’s a wide selection of other native fruits that attract birds, from July onwards through the winter. Many of these plants also host a notable diversity of caterpillars (though they support fewer species of caterpillars than the shrubs and trees I’ve already mentioned).

Red-osier dogwood (Cornus sericea) offers clusters of small white fruits from mid-summer through fall. Gray catbirds and white-crowned sparrows are among the birds that feed on them. This medium-sized shrub also has brilliant red fall foliage.

The native currants – such as golden currant (Ribes aureum) and bristly gooseberry (Ribes setosum) – are some of the earliest fruits to ripen in the summer. They provide a tasty snack for birds and people alike. Serviceberry (Amelanchier alnifolia) is another popular summer fruit for cedar waxwings, western tanagers, and thrushes. 

Elderberry, snowberry, and more

Blue elderberry (Sambucus cerulea) ripens in the fall, as does western mountain-ash (Sorbus scopulina). The snowberries – common snowberry (Symphoricarpos albus) and western snowberry (Symphoricarpos occidentalis) – also ripen in the fall, but their fruits stick around through the winter. So do the wild roses, such as Woods’ rose (Rosa woodsii) and Nootka rose (Rosa nutkana). Silver buffaloberry (Shepherdia argentea) is a great fall fruit that sometimes remains through mid-winter. Note that this is a large, thorny bush, though, and separate male and female plants are needed for pollination.

Rocky Mountain juniper (Juniperus scopulorum) is a tall shrub that provides winter “berries” (actually fleshy cones) for Bohemian waxwings, Townsend’s solitaires, and American robins. Keep in mind that juniper, like silver buffaloberry, has separate male and female plants, so you’ll need both in your general area for pollination to occur. Juniper is also highly flammable – so it’s probably not a good idea to plant it in areas with high fire risk. Montana also has two lower-growing juniper species that provide options for smaller spaces: horizontal juniper (Juniperus horizontalis) and common juniper (Juniperus communis).

Native plants for seeds

Many birds – such as American goldfinches, American tree sparrows, and pine siskins – commonly feed on seeds. In the case of sparrows, it’s often hard to see exactly what they’re eating, since they feed on the ground. Nevertheless, a few seed-bearing plants are especially noteworthy for the birds they attract. Montana’s native sunflowers – the annual common sunflower and the perennial Nuttall’s and Maximilian sunflowers – reliably attract goldfinches and pine siskins when their seeds ripen in the fall. Our pines, such as ponderosa and limber pine, feed nomadic groups of conifer-seed specialists such as red crossbills and Clark’s nutcrackers. Thinleaf alder, water birch, and paper birch provide winter seeds that often attract common redpolls and pine siskins. And many other native plants, from asters to grasses, also produce seeds that various finches and sparrows may use.

Native plants for nectar

What about hummingbirds? These tiny, beloved hoverers often catch tiny insects – so providing habitat for insects is important to them, too. In addition, they’re well-known for their nectar-feeding habits. A variety of native plants with long, tubular flowers are popular hummingbird plants. These include orange honeysuckle (Lonicera ciliosa), yellow columbine (Aquilegia flavescens), scarlet gilia (Ipomopsis aggregata), beebalm (Monarda fistulosa), and the penstemons. Among western Montana’s common penstemons are Alberta beardtongue (Penstemon albertinus), fuzzy-tongue penstemon (Penstemon eriantherus), and small-flower beardtongue (Penstemon procerus). In addition, some of the plants I’ve already mentioned for insects or fruits – such as golden currant – are popular nectar sources for hummingbirds.

Obtaining plants

Where can you find these plants? Some local nurseries, such as GardenWerks in Helena, carry a limited selection of native plants. In addition, I was able to find three retail nurseries in western and central Montana that offer a wide selection of natives: 

• Blake Nursery, Big Timber, MT: https://www.blakenursery.com/
• Center for Native Plants, Whitefish, MT: https://centerfornativeplants.com/
• Pipilo Native Plants, Charlo, MT: https://www.pipilonatives.com/

(A fourth nursery, Southwest Montana Native Landscapes, has unfortunately closed, though it still shows up on a Google search.)

To find out more, I contacted these nurseries and asked them which plants they stock, of those I list in this article. Find their responses here.

In addition to these retail nurseries, there are a few other commercial sources of native plants in western Montana. For larger projects, the Montana Conservation Seedling Nursery and Great Bear Native Plants accept wholesale orders. And if you want to start your own plants, Native Ideals sells locally grown seeds for a variety of Montana species.

Note that certain nurseries that don’t specialize in native plants may “stretch” the concept of “native” to include species that aren’t from Montana. For example, Penstemon strictus is sometimes sold as a native plant, but it grows in the wild in the southern Rocky Mountains and doesn’t reach Montana. When in doubt, look a plant up on the Montana Natural Heritage Program’s Montana Field Guide to learn about its status in the state, or check out the Biota of North America Program’s county-level range maps. These maps are organized by genus and show the distribution, by county, of all wild and naturalized plants in the United States.

The bird-friendly garden

Is this a comprehensive list of all of the plants that are important for bird-friendly gardening in Montana? No! I’ve neglected to mention native maples (Acer spp.), raspberries (Rubus spp.), hawthorns (Crataegus spp.), and many others.

When it comes to growing habitat for birds, there are always more plants you can add. But even if you do nothing more than add a patch of chokecherries and a handful of goldenrods to your yard, where previously there was just lawn, you’ll have made a good start. As the chokecherries leaf out in the spring, wait for the yellow-rumped warblers to appear, hunting insects. When the fruits ripen in the fall, look for the flocks of cedar waxwings and robins. And if you have the space in your yard to include all of the plants I’ve mentioned here, along with a water source… in a few years, your yard will be a paradise for birds.

This story was produced with support from the Gold Country Master Gardener Association.

Further reading

Acopian Bird Savers: prevent birds from flying into windows. Retrieved from https://www.birdsavers.com/

American Bird Conservancy. (2013, January 29). Outdoor cats: single greatest source of human-caused mortality for birds and mammals, says new study. Retrieved from https://abcbirds.org/news/outdoor-cats-single-greatest-source-of-human-caused-mortality-for-birds-and-mammals-says-new-study/

Biota of North America Program. (2014). BONAP’s North American Plant Atlas (NAPA). Retrieved from http://bonap.net/NAPA/Genus/Traditional/County

Center for Native Plants. (n.d.) Our most bird friendly species. Retrieved from https://centerfornativeplants.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/04/cnp_plantselection_birds-1.pdf

Cornell Lab of Ornithology. (2016, December 5). FAQ: Outdoor cats and their effects on birds. Retrieved from https://www.allaboutbirds.org/news/faq-outdoor-cats-and-their-effects-on-birds/

Cornell Lab of Ornithology. (2023). All about birdhouses. Retrieved from https://nestwatch.org/learn/all-about-birdhouses/

Cornell Lab of Ornithology. (2023, February 24). Why birds hit windows – and how you can help prevent it. Retrieved from https://www.allaboutbirds.org/news/why-birds-hit-windows-and-how-you-can-help-prevent-it/

Friends of the Mississippi River. (2022). Goldenrod or ragweed: which causes allergies and which benefits pollinators? Retrieved from https://fmr.org/updates/conservation/goldenrod-or-ragweed-which-causes-allergies-and-which-benefits-pollinators

Loss, S.R., Will, T., Loss, S.S., & Marra, P.P. (2014). Bird-building collisions in the United States: estimates of annual mortality and species vulnerability. The Condor 116(1):8-23. Retrieved from https://bioone.org/journals/the-condor/volume-116/issue-1/CONDOR-13-090.1/Birdbuilding-collisions-in-the-United-States–Estimates-of-annual/10.1650/CONDOR-13-090.1.full

Montana Natural Heritage Program. (n.d.). Montana Field Guide. Montana State Library. Retrieved from https://fieldguide.mt.gov/default.aspx

Narango, D.L., Tallamy, D.W., & Shropshire, K.J. (2020). Few keystone plant genera support the majority of Lepidoptera species. Nature Communications 11:5751. Retrieved from https://www.researchgate.net/publication/345818119_Few_keystone_plant_genera_support_the_majority_of_Lepidoptera_species

National Wildlife Federation. (2023). Native plants (by zip code). Retrieved from https://www.nwf.org/NativePlantFinder/Plants

Rosenberg, K.V., Dokter, A.M., Blancher, P.J., Sauer, J.R., Smith, A.C., Smith, P.A., … Marra, P.P. (2019). Decline of the North American avifauna. Science 366:120-124. Retrieved from https://www.birds.cornell.edu/home/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/DECLINE-OF-NORTH-AMERICAN-AVIFAUNA-SCIENCE-2019.pdf

Sánchez-Bayo, F. & Wyckhuys, K.A.G. (2019). Worldwide decline of the entomofauna: a review of its drivers. Biological Conservation 232: 8-27. Retrieved from https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0006320718313636

Smallwood, J.A. & Bird, D.M. (2020). American kestrel (Falco sparverius), version 1.0. In Birds of the World (A.F. Poole & F.B. Gill, editors). Ithaca, NY: Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Retrieved from https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/amekes/cur/introduction

Tallamy, D.W. (2019). Nature’s best hope: a new approach to conservation that starts in your yard. Portland, OR: Timber Press.

The post How to grow a bird-friendly garden in western Montana appeared first on Wild With Nature.

Cuando comparas las aves de un césped cortado con las que viven en un parche de capulines (Prunus virginiana), la diferencia es fuerte. Tal vez el césped mantendría a unos estorninos pintos (Sturnus vulgaris) y mirlos primavera (Turdus migratorius). Es posible que, al final de la migración primaveral, unos desesperados zorzales de anteojos (Catharus ustulatus) pudieran pasar por ahí.

Los capulines, por otro lado, mantienen una intrincada comunidad de vida, desde la mariposa cometa xochiquetzal (Papilio multicaudata) hasta docenas de especies de aves. Cuando las frutas maduran a ser jugosas y de color negro profundo al final del verano, atraen chinitos (Bombycilla cedrorum), clarines norteños (Myadestes townsendii), pirangas capucha roja (Piranga ludoviciana), mirlos primavera y pinzones mexicanos (Haemorhous mexicanus). Por otra parte, a través de la estación de crecimiento, las hojas mantienen diversos insectos – y las aves que los comen. Puedes ver chipes corona negra (Cardellina pusilla) revoloteando por las hojas, así como reyezuelos matraquita (Regulus calendula), chipes rabadilla amarilla (Setophaga coronata) y vireos gorjeadores (Vireo gilvus).

Cuando consideramos la diversidad de la vida cerca de nosotros, es fácil ver varias malas noticias en esa época. Durante los últimos 50 años, hemos perdido 2,9 mil millones de aves reproductoras en Norteamérica. A la vez, científicos en varias partes del mundo han reportado declives rápidos de insectos que solían ser comunes. Sin embargo, al tomar algunas simples decisiones sobre lo que vamos a cultivar en nuestros jardines, podemos contribuir en revertir estas tendencias. En nuestros jardines, parques y vecindarios, podemos proveer hogares para las aves, las abejas y las orugas. Y hacerlo no sólo tiene que ver con evitar extinciones – también es algo muy divertido.

Este artículo se enfoca en las plantas que podemos cultivar para las aves en la mitad occidental de Montana, EE.UU. Si vives en otra región, las plantas específicas serán diferentes, pero las recomendaciones generales serán las mismas.

Empezando: el hábitat para las aves

Cada especie de ave tiene su propia historia de vida. Los hábitats que usa, dónde anida, si emigra o no – todo esto varía. Sin embargo, todas las aves necesitan comida, abrigo, agua y seguridad contra los depredadores. Las plantas – en concreto, especies particulares de plantas nativas al paisaje local – ofrecen buena comida y abrigo. Pero antes de que pongamos atención a los detalles de estas plantas, consideremos el agua y los depredadores.

Algunas aves, como los cernícalos americanos (Falco sparverius), pueden conseguir en su comida más o menos toda la humedad que necesitan. El resto de las aves tienen que beber agua. Si incluyes una provisión de agua en tu jardín, tal como un baño de aves que limpias regularmente o un humedal pequeño, puedes atraer las aves a beber o bañarse.

Ten cuidado con los depredadores

¿Qué hay de los depredadores en nuestros jardines? Los gatos domésticos al aire libre pueden ser increíblemente letales para las aves cantoras en los vecindarios. Sólo en los Estados Unidos, los gatos domésticos matan a más de mil millones de aves cada año. Este número es tan grande que es casi inimaginable. No obstante, hay muchos gatos domésticos al aire libre en los Estados Unidos: cerca de 50 millones como mascotas, además de hasta 100 millones de gatos ferales. Manejar estos gatos, especialmente los ferales, puede ser un asunto de disputa. Pero mantener tus propios gatos dentro de la casa es un paso relativamente fácil. Haciendo esto, vas a hacer que tu jardín no sea una trampa letal para las aves cantoras.

Las ventanas no son depredadores, pero son otro letal peligro para las aves cantoras en el vecindario. En los Estados Unidos, se estima que matan más de 350 millones de aves cada año. Un artículo por el Cornell Lab of Ornithology resume este tema y presenta algunas soluciones. De estas, probablemente los Salvapájaros Acopianos son una de las más elegantes. Este discreto diseño de baja tecnología consiste en hileras verticales de cuerdas, separadas por cuatro pulgadas, que cuelgan del exterior de una ventana. Puedes construirlos por ti mismo usando cualquier cuerda o bambú, o puedes comprarlos en línea.

Incluyendo características de hábitats diferentes

Hablando en general, todas las aves están asociadas con uno o más de tres grandes hábitats: el bosque, la pradera o el humedal. ¿Cuáles de estos hábitats forman el paisaje cerca de ti? La respuesta a esta pregunta va a influir en las posibilidades para tu jardín para las aves.

¿Vives en el medio de un bosque del ayarín (Pseudotsuga menziesii), o en una zona residencial en el valle? Los cascanueces americanos (Nucifraga columbiana) probablemente no vayan a visitar tu jardín a menos que tengas parches de coníferos cerca de ti. Igualmente, es probable que no vayas a atraer ni saltaparedes pantaneros (Cistothorus palustris) ni agachonas norteamericanas (Gallinago delicata) a menos que vivas cerca de un humedal.

Por otra parte, la mayoría de las aves que viven en las praderas necesitan relativamente amplios espacios abiertos con gramíneas y hierbas. Por eso, a menos que esto describa el área cerca de tu casa, es probable que no tendrás gorriones chapulín (Ammodramus savannarum) ni praderos del oeste (Sturnella neglecta) en tu jardín. Mientras tanto, varias aves de matorrales o de los bordes de los bosques sí usarán jardines durante la migración o la estación reproductiva. Y, por supuesto, hay varias especies que usan más de uno de estos hábitats.

Generalmente, para hacer que tu jardín invite más a las aves, vale considerar componentes de estos tres hábitats: el bosque, la pradera y el humedal. Es poco probable que un estanque pequeño atraerá las agachonas norteamericanas – pero, otra vez, el agua hará que las aves puedan beber y bañarse. Tampoco es probable que un pequeño parche de pradera mantendrá a gorriones chapulín, pero ofrecerá importantes semillas e insectos a las aves del borde del matorral, tales como los gorriones cejas blancas (Spizella passerina). Y los parches de nativos árboles y arbustos, como los capulines, van a proveer comida y abrigo para diversas aves migratorias y reproductivas.

¿Por qué las plantas nativas?

Probablemente te hayas dado cuenta de que sigo mencionando las plantas nativas para las aves. ¿Por qué eso sería importante? podrías preguntarte. Tal vez hayas notado que los mirlos primavera y los ampelis europeos (Bombycilla garrulus) suelen comer las frutas del árbol del paraíso (Elaeagnus angustifolia), una planta invasora frecuentemente cultivada que a menudo escapa del cultivo para competir contra los álamos y sauces nativos en nuestras riberas. O quizás hayas observado un pinzón mexicano (Haemorhous mexicanus) o un picamaderos norteamericano (Dryocopus pileatus) picoteando una manzana – otra fruta no nativa.

Sí, claro que hay plantas no nativas que algunas aves usarán. Pero en conjunto, las plantas nativas son bastante superiores para nuestras aves. ¿Por qué? Tiene que ver con la comida – y específicamente, los insectos. Doug Tallamy, un investigador que ha pasado décadas estudiando las aves y los insectos, escribe que el 96% de las aves terrestres norteamericanas depende muchísimo de los insectos durante la estación reproductiva. Las orugas blandas y jugosas son especialmente importantes. Y mientras que las plantas nativas han coevolucionado con los insectos nativos, en comparación las plantas no nativas son un desierto para la diversidad de insectos.

Puede ser que una planta no nativa como el árbol del paraíso siga proveyendo frutas que alimenten algunas especies. Pero comparado con un capulín u otra planta nativa, es mucho menos útil para la mayoría de nuestras aves. Si quieres atraer una abundancia de aves a tu jardín, las plantas nativas te ayudarán mucho.

Dale, ¿cuáles especies debo plantar para las aves? podrías estar preguntando. Acá están algunas recomendaciones para el occidente de Montana, organizadas según los tipos de alimento que proveen.

Plantas nativas para los insectos

¿Cuáles plantas nativas les proveen la mayor cantidad de insectos a nuestras aves? Para hacer recomendaciones para regiones diferentes, Doug Tallamy y Kimberley Shropshire colaboraron con el National Wildlife Federation para crear un sitio web interactivo que se puede buscar por el código postal. Por cada código postal, esta herramienta predice cuántas especies de orugas cada planta nativa mantendrá. Y resulta que, en cualquier región de Norteamérica en la que estés, solamente unas especies de plantas nativas mantienen la mayoría de las orugas.

Cerca de Helena, Montana, los sauces (Salix spp.) encabezan la lista. Estos arbustos acogen hasta 309 especies de orugas – jugosos sacos de proteína para alimentar nuestras aves reproductivas. Muchos de nuestros sauces nativos crecen en humedales, pero Salix scouleriana y Salix exigua son especies comunes que suelen crecer en áreas más secas.

Los álamos (Populus spp.) también son muy importantes para las orugas, manteniendo hasta 245 especies. Entre ellos están las especies Populus balsamifera y Populus deltoides – pero fíjate en que estos árboles son reconocidos por caersele las ramas. Otra opción es el álamo temblón (Populus tremuloides), pero esta especie forma matorrales por sus rizomas subterráneos. Por estas razones, los álamos son más apropiados en espacios grandes.

El capulín (Prunus virginiana) y la ciruela americana (Prunus americana) forman matorrales y son arbustos excelentes para el hábitat de las aves. (Albergan hasta 227 especies de orugas – y ve este artículo por una exploración de los otros minúsculos insectos que viven en los capulines). Sin embargo, si vives en un área con alto riesgo de conflictos con los osos, fíjate en que los capulines y las ciruelas pueden atraer osos cuando las frutas maduran en el otoño.

Abedules, alisos y pinos

Nuestros abedules nativos (Betula spp.) mantienen 211 especies de orugas. La Betula occidentalis es un árbol pequeño que suele crecer al lado de los arroyos; la Betula papyrifera es un árbol mucho más grande. Y los abedules hacen mucho más que sólo proveer un montón de insectos. Sus troncos (como los de los álamos) son sitios populares para los nidos de las aves que anidan en cavidades, tales como los carboneros cabecinegros (Poecile atricapillus) o los saltaparedes comunes (Troglodytes aedon). (Si no quieres esperar hasta que tus árboles crezcan, el Cornell Lab of Ornithology también provee instrucciones detalladas de montaje para las cajas nido). Además de los abedules, el aliso gris (Alnus incana), una especie pariente, es un arbusto grande o un árbol pequeño que mantiene 196 especies de orugas.

Entre los coníferos, los pinos (Pinus spp.) son importantes para las orugas, alojando hasta 188 especies. Cerca de Helena, la Pinus ponderosa y la Pinus flexilis son opciones buenas. Sin embargo, recuerda que crecen para ser árboles bastante grandes. También, dependiendo de tus alrededores, podría ser que no quieras plantarlos cerca de tu casa por el riesgo de incendios.

Varas de oro, fresas y más

Y ¿qué tal las plantas herbáceas? Para las orugas, la vara de oro (Solidago spp.) encabeza la lista, albergando 65 especies. Varas de oro comunes en Montana incluyen Solidago gigantea, Solidago canadensis y Solidago missouriensis. A menudo se culpan estas plantas por alergias al fin del verano, pero esto es un mito: típicamente los culpables son las plantas del género Ambrosia, que florecen a la misma vez.

Otras hierbas que mantienen números grandes de mariposas y polillas incluyen las nativas fresas y girasoles. Las fresas (Fragaria virginiana y Fragaria vesca) se mantienen bajas; puede ser que no compitan bien con plantas más altas y vigorosas. Los girasoles, al otro lado, son tanto altos como vigorosos. En Montana, el girasol común (Helianthus annuus) es una abundante planta anual que suele crecer al lado de las carreteras. También tenemos dos especies perennes comunes, Helianthus nuttallii y Helianthus maximiliani.

También cabe mencionar los lupinos y las artemisas, que respectivamente alojan 40 y 35 especies de orugas. Algunos de los lupinos comunes en Montana son Lupinus argenteus y Lupinus sericeus. Las artemisas son muy diversas en Montana e incluyen tanto arbustos, entre ellos la Artemisia tridentata o la Artemisia cana, como hierbas, por ejemplo la Artemisia frigida o la Artemisia ludoviciana.

Plantas nativas para proveer frutas

Ya he mencionado que el capulín mantiene una diversidad de insectos. Además de los insectos, este arbusto también provee frutas. En el otoño, el capulín es un recurso fenomenal para los chinitos, los mirlos primavera y muchas otras aves. Y además del capulín, hay una amplia variedad de otras frutas nativas que atraen las aves, desde julio hasta el invierno. Muchas de estas plantas también albergan una diversidad notable de orugas (aunque apoyan menos especies de orugas que los árboles y arbustos que ya he mencionado).

La Cornus sericea ofrece manojos de pequeñas frutas blancas desde medio verano hasta el otoño. Los maulladores grises (Dumetella caroliniensis) y los gorriones corona blanca (Zonotrichia leucophrys) están entre las aves que las comen. Este arbusto de media altura también tiene un llamativo follaje otoñal de rojo oscuro.

Las grosellas nativas – tales como el Ribes aureum o el Ribes setosum – son algunas de las frutas más tempranas al madurar en el verano. Ofrecen una merienda sabrosa, tanto para las aves como para gente. El guillomo (Amelanchier alnifolia) es otra querida fruta veraniega para los chinitos, las pirangas capucha roja y los zorzales.

Saúcos, perlitas y más

Las frutas del saúco azul (Sambucus cerulea) maduran en el otoño, así como las del serbal (Sorbus scopulina). Las bayas de las perlitas – Symphoricarpos albus y Symphoricarpos occidentalis – también maduran en el otoño, pero siguen siendo disponible a través del invierno. Esto es el caso también por los rosales, tales como Rosa woodsii y Rosa nutkana. El arbusto Shepherdia argentea es otra buena especie cuyas frutas a veces permanecen hasta medio invierno. Sin embargo, nota que este arbusto es grande y espinoso, y se necesita distintas hembras y machos para polinizarlo.

El enebro Juniperus scopulorum es un arbusto de gran altura que provee “bayas” invernales (las cuales realmente son piñas carnosas) para los ampelis europeos, los clarines norteños y los mirlos primavera. Fíjate en que el enebro, así como la Shepherdia argentea, tiene distintas hembras y machos: vas a necesitar los dos en tu área general para que la polinización ocurra. Además, el enebro es altamente inflamable – así que probablemente sería una mala idea plantarlo en áreas con alto riesgo de incendios. Montana también tiene dos enebros de más baja altura, el Juniperus horizontalis y el Juniperus communis, que proveen opciones para espacios más pequeños.

Plantas nativas para proveer semillas

Varias aves – como los jilgueritos canarios (Spinus tristis), los jilgueritos pineros (Spinus pinus), los chingolos arbóreos (Spizelloides arborea) y otros gorriones – a menudo se alimentan de semillas. En el caso de los gorriones, generalmente es difícil ver exactamente lo que comen, dado que suelen alimentarse en el suelo. No obstante, algunas plantas son especialmente notables por las aves que sus semillas atraen.

Los girasoles en Montana – el anual Helianthus annuus y los perennes Helianthus nuttallii y Helianthus maximiliani – atraen de forma fiable los jilgueritos canario y pinero cuando sus semillas maduran en el otoño. Nuestros pinos, como la Pinus ponderosa o la Pinus flexilis, mantienen grupos errantes de aves que se especializan en las semillas coníferas, incluso el picotuerto rojo (Loxia curvirostra) y el cascanueces americano. El aliso gris y los abedules proveen semillas invernales que suelen alimentar los pardillos norteños (Acanthis flammea) y los jilgueritos pineros. Y varias otras plantas nativas, desde las asteráceas hasta las gramíneas, también producen semillas que varios pinzones y gorriones pueden usar.

Plantas nativas para proveer néctar

¿Qué tal los colibrís? Estas minúsculas y queridas aves suelen cazar insectos diminutos. Por eso, plantar el hábitat para los insectos les importa a los colibrís también. Además, son bien conocidos por su predilección por alimentarse con néctar. Varias plantas nativas con flores largas y cilíndricas son populares con los colibrís. Entre ellas están la Lonicera ciliosa, la Aquilegia flavescens, la Ipomopsis aggregata, la Monarda fistulosa y las campanitas (Penstemon spp.). Las campanitas comunes del occidente de Montana incluyen el Penstemon albertinus, el Penstemon eriantherus y el Penstemon procerus. Además, algunas de las plantas que ya he mencionado por los insectos o las frutas – como la grosella Ribes aureum – son fuentes populares de néctar para los colibrís. 

Cómo obtener plantas

¿Dónde puedes encontrar estas plantas? Algunos viveros locales, como GardenWerks en Helena, tienen una variedad limitada de plantas nativas. Además, logré hallar tres viveros minoristas en la parte occidental o central de Montana que ofrecen una amplia variedad de plantas nativas:

• Blake Nursery, Big Timber, MT: https://www.blakenursery.com/
• Center for Native Plants, Whitefish, MT: https://centerfornativeplants.com/
• Pipilo Native Plants, Charlo, MT: https://www.pipilonatives.com/

(Un cuarto vivero, Southwest Montana Native Landscapes, lamentablemente ha cerrado, aunque todavía parece en una búsqueda de Google.)

Para aprender más, me puse en contacto con estos viveros y les pregunté cuáles plantas tienen, de las que he mencionado en este artículo. Encuentra sus respuestas aquí.

Además de estos viveros minoristas, hay unas fuentes comerciales adicionales para plantas nativas en el occidente de Montana. Para proyectos grandes, el Montana Conservation Seedling Nursery y Great Bear Native Plants aceptan pedidos mayoristas. Y si quieres germinar tus propias semillas, Native Ideals vende semillas localmente cultivadas por una variedad de especies nativas a Montana.

Fíjate en que algunos viveros que no se especializan en plantas nativas a veces “extenden” el concepto de “nativo” para incluir especies que no son realmente nativas a Montana. Por ejemplo, a veces se vende Penstemon strictus como una planta nativa, pero esta especie existe en estado salvaje sólo en el sur de las Montañas Rocosas y no llega a Montana. Si hay alguna duda sobre una especie, búscala en el Montana Field Guide del Montana Natural Heritage Program para aprender más sobre su situación en el estado, o revisa los mapas al nivel del condado presentados por el Biota of North America Program. Estos mapas se organizan por el género de planta y muestran la extensión, al nivel del condado, en la que reside cada planta salvaje o naturalizada en los Estados Unidos.

El jardín para las aves

¿Es esto una lista completa de todas las plantas que serían importantes para cultivar un jardín para las aves en Montana? ¡Claro que no! No he mencionado los arces nativos (Acer spp.), ni las frambuesas (Rubus spp.), ni los espinos (Crataegus spp.) ni muchos otros.

Si queremos cultivar un buen hábitat para las aves, siempre habrá más plantas que podemos añadir. Pero aun si no hicieras nada más que plantar un parche de capulines y unas varas de oro donde antes sólo había un césped cortado, habrás empezado bien. Mientras los capulines abran sus hojas en la primavera, espera hasta que los chipes rabadilla amarilla aparezcan, cazando insectos. Cuando las frutas maduren en el otoño, busca las bandadas de chinitos y mirlos primavera. Y si tienes espacio en tu jardín para incluir todas las plantas que he mencionado acá… en pocos años, tu jardín será un paraíso para las aves.

Esta historia fue producida con apoyo de la Gold Country Master Gardener Association.

Leer más

Acopian Bird Savers: prevent birds from flying into windows. Recuperado de https://www.birdsavers.com/

American Bird Conservancy. (2013, el 29 de enero). Outdoor cats: single greatest source of human-caused mortality for birds and mammals, says new study. Recuperado de https://abcbirds.org/news/outdoor-cats-single-greatest-source-of-human-caused-mortality-for-birds-and-mammals-says-new-study/

Biota of North America Program. (2014). BONAP’s North American Plant Atlas (NAPA). Recuperado de http://bonap.net/NAPA/Genus/Traditional/County

Center for Native Plants. (sin fecha). Our most bird friendly species. Recuperado de https://centerfornativeplants.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/04/cnp_plantselection_birds-1.pdf

Cornell Lab of Ornithology. (2016, el 5 de diciembre). FAQ: Outdoor cats and their effects on birds. Recuperado de https://www.allaboutbirds.org/news/faq-outdoor-cats-and-their-effects-on-birds/

Cornell Lab of Ornithology. (2023). All about birdhouses. Recuperado de https://nestwatch.org/learn/all-about-birdhouses/

Cornell Lab of Ornithology. (2023, el 24 de febrero). Why birds hits windows – and how you can help prevent it. Recuperado de https://www.allaboutbirds.org/news/why-birds-hit-windows-and-how-you-can-help-prevent-it/

Friends of the Mississippi River. (2022). Goldenrod or ragweed: which causes allergies and which benefits pollinators? Recuperado de https://fmr.org/updates/conservation/goldenrod-or-ragweed-which-causes-allergies-and-which-benefits-pollinators

Loss, S.R., Will, T., Loss, S.S., & Marra, P.P. (2014). Bird-building collisions in the United States: estimates of annual mortality and species vulnerability. The Condor 116(1):8-23. Recuperado de https://bioone.org/journals/the-condor/volume-116/issue-1/CONDOR-13-090.1/Birdbuilding-collisions-in-the-United-States–Estimates-of-annual/10.1650/CONDOR-13-090.1.full

Montana Natural Heritage Program. (sin fecha). Montana Field Guide. Montana State Library. Recuperado de https://fieldguide.mt.gov/default.aspx

Narango, D.L., Tallamy, D.W., & Shropshire, K.J. (2020). Few keystone plant genera support the majority of Lepidoptera species. Nature Communications 11:5751. Recuperado de https://www.researchgate.net/publication/345818119_Few_keystone_plant_genera_support_the_majority_of_Lepidoptera_species

National Wildlife Federation. (2023). Native plants (by zip code). Recuperado de https://www.nwf.org/NativePlantFinder/Plants

Rosenberg, K.V., Dokter, A.M., Blancher, P.J., Sauer, J.R., Smith, A.C., Smith, P.A., … Marra, P.P. (2019). Decline of the North American avifauna. Science 366:120-124. Recuperado de https://www.birds.cornell.edu/home/wp-content/uploads/2019/09/DECLINE-OF-NORTH-AMERICAN-AVIFAUNA-SCIENCE-2019.pdf

Sánchez-Bayo, F. & Wyckhuys, K.A.G. (2019). Worldwide decline of the entomofauna: a review of its drivers. Biological Conservation 232: 8-27. Recuperado de https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0006320718313636

Smallwood, J.A. & Bird, D.M. (2020). American kestrel (Falco sparverius), versión 1.0. En Birds of the World (A.F. Poole & F.B. Gill, editores). Ithaca, NY: Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Recuperado de https://birdsoftheworld.org/bow/species/amekes/cur/introduction

Tallamy, D.W. (2019). Nature’s best hope: a new approach to conservation that starts in your yard. Portland, OR: Timber Press.

The post Cómo cultivar un jardín para las aves en el occidente de Montana appeared first on Wild With Nature.

December 7, 2022

When it comes to birds around Missoula, Montana, the Fort Missoula Ponds have a reputation. 

“When you fly over Missoula, you can see these really large bodies of water,” says Jim Brown. 

Once the site of a gravel quarry, the ponds have become a magnet for ducks, shorebirds, and many other creatures. 

In the winter, when the ponds are frozen, the bird activity gets much quieter, just as it does anywhere in Montana. Nevertheless, seven of us have shown up on this snowy afternoon for a bird survey, led by Jim Brown of Five Valleys Audubon Society. It’s a chance to see what’s out here in the cold – and to remember all of the creatures that will be returning in the spring.

We’re just getting started when we spot a red-tailed hawk gliding over the snow-covered grasses. It flares its wings and plunges, landing in the snow. A few seconds later, the hawk is airborne again.

“He’s got something!” Cindy Swidler exclaims. Sure enough, we can see a small rodent – perhaps a vole – in the hawk’s beak. The red-tail flaps back to a ponderosa pine, landing in the top to eat its catch.

From Smlk̓͏ʷsšná to Place of the Killers

Just beyond the pine where the red-tail has landed is the hill known in Salish as Smlk̓͏ʷsšná, a billion-year old block of quartzites and argillites rising sharply above the Bitterroot River. More recently, settlers gave the hill its English name, McCauley Butte. Across from us to the east, on the opposite side of the ponds, is Fort Missoula itself. The Fort, established in 1877, is a newcomer on this landscape compared to Smlk̓͏ʷsšná Butte. But it, too, has a name in Salish. The Fort is known as Sx͏ʷplstwé, “Place of the Killers.” It’s a reminder that Missoula rests on Salish land – land that was taken by military force, not given freely.

And between the Place of the Killers and the striking hill known as Smlk̓͏ʷsšná or McCauley Butte, nestled against the Bitterroot River, are the Fort Missoula Ponds. These two large ponds, ringed with sandbar willows (Salix exigua) and black cottonwoods (Populus balsamifera), are more recent additions to the landscape, the aftermath of a gravel-quarrying operation that mined the river rocks from this area. 

The property known as the Fort Missoula Ponds consists of 86 acres, a mixture of open water and reclaimed grassland. In 2020, the City of Missoula took ownership of the site. For now, the area remains surrounded by a fence and closed to the public. In 2023, the City plans to hold a public input process and decide the future management of the site, considering things like wildlife habitat and recreation.

231 bird species

But even before the City acquired the property, it had become well-known among Missoula-area birders that the Fort Missoula Ponds were special. For six years now, birders have been bringing their spotting scopes and observing the wildlife attracted to these ponds, viewing from outside of the fence. Over that time, they’ve reported an astounding 231 bird species here – making this by far the most species-rich site known for birds in all of Missoula County. 

This impressive list is based on observations that local birders have submitted to eBird, a global platform for tracking and sharing bird sightings that is managed by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Many of these observations are supported by photos. Nevertheless, the City of Missoula was looking for a more robust, consistent survey of the birds using the Fort Missoula Ponds. Was this site really as amazing for bird habitat as the eBird data seemed to suggest? 

So in spring of 2022, the City gave volunteers from Five Valleys Audubon Society permission to access the area and conduct a series of formal bird surveys. And so far, Jim Brown tells me, the Five Valleys Audubon surveys have matched very well with the eBird data.

“In a way, for the City’s sake, that substantiated the eBird dataset,” says Jim.

A diversity of ducks

Today, following our most recent period of subzero temperatures, the ponds are thoroughly ice-covered. Any ducks that are sticking around the area have shifted to the nearby Bitterroot River. But as soon as the temperatures warm in the spring and open water reappears here, the waterfowl will be back.

“As soon as these ponds open up, there’ll be stuff in them,” Jim tells me. 

The eBird list for the Fort Missoula Ponds includes a whopping 33 species of ducks, geese, and swans that birders have seen here over the past few years. And among them are some notable rarities, including long-tailed ducks and surf scoters.

“These are unusual, ocean-going ducks,” Jim continues. 

Around Missoula, this is one of just a few places that birders have found these rare sea ducks.

Winter at the Fort Missoula Ponds

A few black-billed magpies fly out of the willows, flashing their black and white wings. A northern flicker bobs past in flashes of orange and brown. We can see a few rock pigeons perching on a power pole to the north.

It’s the quiet season out here, for sure – but there’s still activity around us. Two bald eagles fly past, an adult and an immature. They seem to be having an argument, diving at each other in midair with their talons extended. They sweep northward in their silent dispute, skimming across a panorama of snowy blue mountains.

The ponds froze fast this year.

“It got cold all of a sudden,” says Jean Duncan.

The cold came so fast, in fact, that a western grebe got stuck in the ice, deprived of the long runway of open water that a grebe needs for takeoff. Last week, the Five Valleys Audubon birding team found it trapped in the ice. But then it disappeared – and today, there’s no sign of it. The group speculates that a bald eagle came in and scavenged the unfortunate grebe.

Along the river

Now we’re past the frozen ponds and approaching the Bitterroot River, flowing tranquilly past the cottonwoods that line both banks. The Salish word for the river is Nstetčcx͏ʷétkʷ, which translates as “Red-osier Dogwood Waters.” And indeed, there are many red-osier dogwoods (Cornus sericea) growing among the cottonwoods here, along with wild rose, hawthorns, and more willows.

Cindy Swidler tells me that farther downstream, there’s a great blue heron rookery in the cottonwoods. Heron rookeries are an incredible sight to behold. To me they look prehistoric, these arrays of massive stick nests high in the trees. During the breeding season, it’s easy to find the impressive gray birds standing or sitting on their nests. 

Don’t get too close, though: heron rookeries are sensitive to disturbance from humans. During the spring and summer, too close of an approach can cause the herons to abandon their nests.

The heron rookery isn’t the only special thing about this river corridor.

“It’s a tremendous area for breeding birds,” Cindy says. “Tremendous.”

Based on the eBird data, just a few of the summer birds commonly found at the Fort Missoula Ponds include calliope hummingbirds, spotted sandpipers, and red-naped sapsuckers. There are gray catbirds, warbling vireos, and eastern kingbirds. The grassland supports western meadowlarks, vesper sparrows, Savannah sparrows, and western bluebirds. It’s a bewildering diversity, far too much to list here – much more than the handful of birds we’re finding on this wintry day.

Life among the cottonwoods

Now we’ve stopped to look at a cottonwood where beavers have been gnawing on the trunk. We can tell the chewing is recent, because there are fresh wood chips on top of the snow. An old Bullock’s oriole nest is hanging from a limb – the sign of yet another of those summer birds that Cindy was talking about.

Kristi DuBois points out another cottonwood, the top of this one dead and broken. 

“Nice woodpecker holes up there,” she comments.

Cottonwoods are very important trees for wildlife, hosting not only woodpeckers and many other cavity-nesters, but also western wood-pewees, least flycatchers, red-eyed vireos, and an incredible diversity of insects. 

We continue farther along the cottonwoods, passing a flock of black-capped chickadees hunting for food in the willows. A narrow wildlife path leads us down to the edge of the river. The water slips past smoothly, and here the winter birding starts to get a bit busier. A belted kingfisher chatters in the distance. Then we notice three common mergansers, drifting near a gravel bar. Eventually they climb out of the water onto a small island. The mergansers mostly hunt fish, though they may also catch other aquatic creatures such as crayfish and frogs.

“They seem to make little runs off of that spit and come back to it,” Jim observes.

A mallard hen paddles amiably against the current nearby. Then we spot three common goldeneyes, diving actively near the mergansers.

Managing for wildlife

The river – and the cottonwoods and red-osier dogwoods along it – make the area around the Fort Missoula Ponds extra-special. More than just an isolated block of habitat, this area is part of an important wildlife corridor that follows the river. Upstream is land owned by the University of Montana. Downstream is a minimally-developed parcel which hosts Learning with Meaning, an educational organization. Beyond that, a conservation easement protects much of McCauley Butte itself. And across the river, just a bit farther downstream, is Maclay Flat, a large public natural area managed by the US Forest Service.

The Fort Missoula Ponds provide a key link in this habitat corridor. 

“It’s a great opportunity to restore an old gravel mine into a productive natural area,” Jim says.

Management for wildlife habitat and recreation can be a tricky balance. 

“There are a lot of people, understandably, that want to come enjoy a pond,” Jim says. 

But in the case of a site that’s so important for birds, Jim maintains, finding this balance is critical. Too much human traffic can drive the birds away. That’s especially true during the warmer months, when the ice has melted from the ponds. Too much love from pedestrians isn’t the only worry: off-leash dogs during the warm season would be especially damaging for wildlife.

“A lot of these migrants that come through here are very sensitive to human disturbance. If you don’t manage that, you’re going to lose them,” says Jim.

Migration at the Fort Missoula Ponds

The diversity of spring and fall migrants that use the Fort Missoula Ponds is especially stunning. Several years, hundreds of snow geese have stopped here. Five species of grebes pass through here commonly, and sometimes birders have spotted a less-common sixth species, the Clark’s grebe. The shorebird diversity is impressive: 18 species have turned up here. And when it comes to warblers, migration brings not just common species such as yellow-rumped and Wilson’s warblers, but also occasional, notable rarities like a black-throated gray and a magnolia warbler. 

Jim explains that Five Valleys Audubon Society hopes that the City will be able to develop public trails in some areas here. Wildlife viewing blinds along the trails would allow the community to see this amazing diversity of birds up-close, while minimizing disturbance to the birds. At the same time, for the sake of the wildlife, the Audubon chapter advocates for maintaining some completely undeveloped areas to serve as safe spaces for this incredible diversity of feathered visitors.

A late migrant

We’re getting ready to leave the river corridor when Jillian Leblow spots a flash of movement as a small songbird flies into the top of a willow. It immediately disappears from sight. We wait several minutes, but it’s as if the bird has vanished entirely.

From the split-second glimpse that I got of its flight, I think it was probably a chickadee. Someone else in our group expresses the same opinion. But Jillian is patient. The rest of us have just about given up when she spots it again, very backlit in the top of the willow.

“I think it’s a ruby-crowned kinglet!” she exclaims.

Ruby-crowned kinglets are insect-eaters that typically migrate to the southern U.S. and Mexico for the winter. After weeks of intense cold, it would be truly surprising to find one in Missoula still at this season. Jillian and I race off towards the willow, changing our angle so the sun isn’t shining directly into our eyes. As we approach, I hear a quick, harsh chatter – the call of a ruby-crowned kinglet! The bird flies into a nearby hawthorn and we both get a definitive look at its white wingbars, olive-gray body, and pointy bill for insect-hunting. A ruby-crowned kinglet indeed!

“I always feel like that’s the benefit of waiting,” Jillian says. “Was it a chickadee?”

In this case, it was something far more unusual.

Herons and American tree sparrows

As we walk back towards the cars, two great blue herons flush from the ice of the ponds. Even in their opaque winter stillness, the Fort Missoula Ponds are attracting birds. Are these two herons some of the same individuals that nest in the rookery here in the summer?

We get back to our cars: today’s survey is over. But then I notice that the weedy mound of dirt near our parking area seems to be crawling. Among the scraggly kochia (Kochia scoparia) that covers this mound, a flock of birds are feeding. They’re American tree sparrows, crisp and beautiful in the stark elegance of their plumage. And they’re giving us an excellent look.

Here we are, seven birders, standing awestruck in an unmarked parking lot at the edge of Missoula. The tree sparrows are busy and unafraid, picking seeds from the ground and from the tops of the kochia plants. One comes even closer to us and works on the crested wheatgrass seedheads, flying at them and bending them down to the snow. There, it proceeds to peck away, stocking up on calories for the cold nights ahead.

Biodiversity at the edge of Missoula

This has been a relatively quiet afternoon for birds – the sort of quiet that we can expect during the cold winter season. But even so, it’s clear that the Fort Missoula Ponds are one of Missoula’s special places for wildlife and nature. We’ve gotten to see tree sparrows gathering seeds, a red-tailed hawk hunting voles or mice, and great blue herons flying up from the frozen ponds. We’ve seen a beautiful cottonwood stand with woodpecker nest holes and at least one oriole nest, hints of this place’s summer abundance. And I’ve gotten to make friends with a remarkable group of Five Valleys Audubon Society volunteers – people who care about this place and can see its potential for wildlife and for the community in the years to come.

In the grand sweep of time, the Fort Missoula Ponds are very recent happenings on this landscape. Sandwiched between the ancient hill known as Smlk̓͏ʷsšná and Sx͏ʷplstwé, the Place of the Killers, these ponds are younger even than Fort Missoula.

But even in the relatively short time of their existence, the birds have found them and responded. The Fort Missoula Ponds area has become a biodiversity hotspot at the edge of Missoula. In a time when, all around the world, wildlife habitat is disappearing rapidly, these ponds provide a ray of hope. And with thoughtful management, they will become even more important for wildlife and the community in the years ahead.

For updates on the birds at the Fort Missoula Ponds, or to volunteer with future bird surveys, get in touch with Five Valleys Audubon Society.

Further reading

Lewis, R.S. (1998). Preliminary geologic map of the Montana part of the Missoula West 30’ x 60’ quadrangle. Montana Bureau of Mines and Geology Open-File Report 373, 1 sheet, scale 1:100,000. Retrieved from https://mbmg.mtech.edu/mbmgcat/public/ListCitation.asp?pub_id=11220&

Murdock, Joshua. (2022, 6 Jul). Birders eye prime habitat at Missoula’s Knife River Ponds. The Missoulian. Retrieved from https://missoulian.com/news/local/birders-eye-prime-habitat-at-missoulas-knife-river-ponds/article_df543aec-64c4-5a0b-bcee-61e2bdf8c8a8.html

Séliš-Ql̓ispé Culture Committee. (2019). Nɫʔay, place of the small bull trout. The Missoula area and the Séliš and Ql̓ispé people. Retrieved from https://plateauportal.libraries.wsu.edu/system/files/atoms/file/2019-05-28%20N%C9%AB%CA%94ay%20Missoula%20Valley%20sign.pdf

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November 17, 2022

It’s a cold, sunny morning in the parking lot of Missoula’s Greenough Park. There are eight of us gathered here, carrying binoculars or magnifying glasses. We’re here for the Montana Natural History Center’s monthly naturalist saunter. Our goals for the morning are simple: be curious, observe, and get to know some of the stories of this place.

It snowed lightly last night. Now the thermometer at the airport reads 23°F, but it’s probably colder here, in the narrow valley of Rattlesnake Creek. 

I was in a hurry this morning, and now I’m mentally kicking myself for arriving so unprepared. I ran out of time to put my boots on. Instead I’m wearing a pair of worn-out hiking shoes and just two light coats. The only camera I have with me is my phone. My gloves are lightweight and slightly damp from the day before. But if a song sparrow can survive a whole winter out here with nothing but its feathers, I can probably be out here underprepared for an hour or two.

Naturalist Ser Anderson is leading this morning’s saunter. It’s is an opportunity for us all to get to know the winter landscape better. Whenever we’re out in nature, we all bring different perspectives and notice different things. 

“It makes this a really valuable experience to gather together,” Ser says.

Dippers and chickadees

It doesn’t take long to see this in action. By the time we’ve been walking for a minute, we’re already learning from each other about the creatures of this urban park. We stop at the footbridge over Rattlesnake Creek, where Ser has seen a pair of American dippers nesting for several years. Ser scans upstream and down, looking for a well-camouflaged, stream-dwelling gray bird with a buzzy call. But the dippers seem to be in another section of the stream today. Ser tells us that they see dippers here year-round. If Rattlesnake Creek freezes during a cold spell, these cold-hardy stream-dwellers will move downstream to the Clark Fork River. Otherwise, they seem to prefer foraging in the smaller streams, such as Rattlesnake Creek. 

Nate Johnson notices a narrow line of tracks across a snow-covered island in the creek. Could these be dipper tracks? It’s a thin trail through the snow, and the prints seem to alternate with each other. The trail is much too narrow for a mink or a muskrat, and the pattern doesn’t look right for a deer mouse or a vole. We can’t be sure, but an American dipper seems like a good guess.

While we’ve been scanning the creek for the elusive dippers, a mixed flock of black-capped chickadees and pygmy nuthatches has been keeping us company, flitting around the trunk of a large cottonwood near the creek. It’s another mixed-species winter flock, something we can expect to see frequently through the rest of the winter. Besides chickadees, nuthatches, kinglets, and woodpeckers, Ser mentions that they sometimes see jays joining these mixed-species groups.

Birds and plants in the cold

The wind is blowing plumes of snow off of the crest of Mount Jumbo above us. In spite of the sun, it’s cold. My toes are starting to complain. The rest of my body is asking me why I didn’t put another coat on this morning. I’m nowhere near the slippery slope towards hypothermia yet, but the morning would have been much more comfortable if I had planned ahead a bit more.

The cheerful calls of the chickadees seem to mock my discomfort. If they’re cold, they aren’t telling me. And even more amazing are the dippers. They plunge and swim through the ice-cold waters of the stream throughout the winter. For the dippers, this penguin plunge is their buffet: caddisflies, mayflies, other aquatic invertebrates, and perhaps even small fish are their year-round foods.

We stop to look at a patch of common snowberries (Symphoricarpos albus) growing next to a young grove of Norway maples (Acer platanoides). This unusual mixture is part of what makes Greenough Park interesting, Ser tells us. 

“It’s a fascinating combination of native species and non-native species,” they say.

Native plants like snowberry, yarrow, and cottonwood mix with garden escapes like Norway maple and European mountain-ash (Sorbus aucuparia). It’s a reflection of how much we’ve changed the landscape, colonizing it with houses, European plants, and pavement. But it also shows us how resilient native plants can be. A half-wild park like Greenough can be a refuge for biodiversity. It’s not pristine – but compared to a lawn or a parking lot, there’s a lot of habitat here.

Snowberries and hawthorns in Greenough Park

Fruits still hang from the snowberries in luminous white clusters. What eats snowberry fruits?

“Not much until they’re desperate,” Ser tells us. They’ve seen pine grosbeaks eating these fruits in January, when there’s not much else to eat. Indeed, this seems to be one of the biggest advantages of snowberry fruits. They may be mealy and mildly toxic to humans – and apparently they’re not especially tasty to birds – but they stay around throughout the cold season. Unlike the fall fruits, like elderberries and chokecherries, snowberries are still here when the cold gets bitter and any calories are important, whether they’re especially tasty or not.

Fall and winter fruits continue to accompany us on our meander through Greenough Park. We stop to look at a snow-capped nest in a hawthorn (Crataegus sp.). It’s conspicuous now that the leaves have died back. A bulky cup woven of grasses, it’s perched high in the hawthorn, close to the main stem. It’s the size of a large orange, almost directly over the busy pedestrian trail. Winter nest identification is a difficult skill, and no one in our group is very experienced with it. But based on the size, construction, and location, we suspect that this nest belonged to a pair of American robins.

The hawthorns in the park seem to have lost their fruits already. Did the birds eat them this fall, or was this just a bad year for hawthorn fruit set? Ser reminds us that, besides fruits, hawthorns offer a variety of other advantages to wildlife. Black-billed magpies commonly build their bulky stick nests among these thorny branches, where they’re well-protected from predators. And northern shrikes may impale their prey – mostly mice and voles – on the thorns.

Red-osier dogwoods and Rocky Mountain maples

Just a few yards from the hawthorn, we take a look at a red-osier dogwood (Cornus sericea), its deep red branches standing out against the snow. Its small, bitter white fruits are gone already. But earlier in the fall, Ser often sees pileated woodpeckers eating them. It’s a comical sight. The bulky, red and black woodpeckers can’t perch upright on the slender dogwood branches, so they tip upside down as they snatch the juicy fruits. And the pileated woodpeckers aren’t alone. Around Helena, I’ve seen white-crowned sparrows, American robins, and black-capped chickadees stocking up on red-osier dogwood fruits during fall migration.

But that season is past now. Half a foot of snow covers the ground, and the dogwood branches are bare. But even in the winter, we can learn to recognize these bushes by the personalities of their branches and buds. Ser points out that the winter red-osier dogwoods can resemble another of our native shrubs, Rocky Mountain maple (Acer glabrum). Both have branches that depart from the stem in opposite pairs, and both can have beautiful, reddish twigs.

So how can we tell these two apart? The buds provide one secret. Red-osier dogwood buds are elongate. Ser describes them like a pair of tiny prayer hands. Rocky Mountain maple buds, on the other hand, are rounder and fatter, protected by more bud scales.

Getting to know the bedrock

We slow down again as we pass by an exposed rock outcrop, jutting out towards the trail. Marilyn and Don Cook admire the rocks and marvel at how they came to be here. 

“My mind stops functioning past a few thousand years,” Ser says. It’s a similar experience for me: the immensity of geologic time is impossible for me to truly comprehend. But even though none of us are geologists, and our understanding is limited, it’s worthwhile to take a look at this outcrop. We notice that the rocks are arranged in rusty orange strata that dip towards the south. 

Later, I look at a geologic map and learn that this outcrop belongs to the Snowslip Formation, a layer of sediments laid down over a thousand million years ago. Tipping rock layers like these are a common sight in the Rocky Mountains. Originally, these rocks were deposited in level layers, the sediments carried off of the eroding mountains. But over time, immense and slow pressures tipped them, angling them southwards, as regional forces faulted and folded the bedrock up into new mountains.

But even without the geologic map – and without the ability to imagine a billion years – we can tell that these rocks are offering a unique habitat for creatures in the present. The south and east faces of this outcrop are bare rock, baked every day by the sun and scoured by rain and gravity. But where the rocks extend northwards in an overhang, where the water drips slowly and the sun doesn’t shine, a miniature garden of mosses and lichens are growing. In the early spring, perhaps the American dippers will venture here, gathering these mosses to build their sheltered nests under the footbridges that cross the creek.

Greenough Park’s waxwings

A soft, high-pitched chorus in the cottonwoods draws our attention away from the rock face. It’s a flock of cedar waxwings, their pale yellow bellies glowing in the morning sun. Ser spots a couple of Bohemian waxwings with them. Once in a while, we can hear the musical trills of the Bohemian waxwings mixing with the softer lisps of the cedars. It’s a different sort of mixed-species winter flock than the chickadees and the nuthatches: these birds are focused on fruits.

Cedar waxwings nest here in the summer, and some of them remain around Missoula through the cold season. They group up in the winter and shift their diet, from mostly insects to almost entirely fruits. The Bohemian waxwings, the larger, grayer cousins of the cedar waxwings, are strictly winter visitors to Montana. They nest in the boreal forest, moving south as the weather gets cold. Like the cedars, now they’re very focused on fruits.

So what are the waxwings doing in the top of this cottonwood, perching among its bare, fruitless branches? We notice a pattern of movement: a few at a time, the waxwings are gliding down from the cottonwood into the undergrowth. At the same time, others are flying back up to this conspicuous perch. Sure enough, as they land again, we can see that the waxwings are carrying bright orange fruits in their beaks. They’re feeding on the European mountain-ashes – one of those garden escapes that is common in Greenough Park. And if the waxwings are any judge, it seems that the mountain-ash fruits are tastier than the snowberries. Presumably, this flock is digesting their meal high up in the cottonwood so that they can watch for sharp-shinned hawks, merlins, and other predators. 

Elderberries and nightshades

Fruits and birds continue to accompany us as we wander through the park. We stop to look at the elderberries (Sambucus cerulea). The transition from fall to winter happened so fast this year that we can still find clusters of their powdery-blue fruits, drooping in the cold. Normally, the birds clean up the elderberries before winter arrives.

We pay attention to the hollow, pithy elderberry stems. They break off easily, giving these shrubs a rather disheveled appearance. But though they may not look very tidy, the elderberry stems are important. While many of our native bees nest in the ground, an important assortment spend most of their lives in twigs just like these. For example, bees in the genus Ceratina may overwinter in elderberry stems, hidden from sight, waiting quietly for spring to arrive.

We can still hear the waxwings trilling and lisping as they feed on the nearby mountain-ash fruits. A black-capped chickadee flits past us, probing busily for insects and spiders among the shriveled brown alder leaves that still hang from the branches. A song sparrow gives its chimp call from the thicket near us.

A slender, woody vine droops with shiny clusters of juicy red fruits near the trail. What is this? It’s bittersweet nightshade (Solanum dulcamara), a relative of tomatoes. Native to Europe and parts of Asia and northern Africa, it’s mildly toxic to humans. From what we’re seeing today, the birds don’t seem very interested in it, either. But as we’ve already seen, the birds’ interest in different fruits can change greatly through the season. Near Helena, I’ve seen white-crowned sparrows eating nightshade berries in the fall. And Ser thinks they remember seeing song sparrows eating these fruits, as well.

Hints of mammals

Snowberries, mountain-ashes, red-osier dogwoods, nightshades – could there possibly be more types of fruit in Greenough Park? Then we pass by a small apple tree hanging over the trail. Yes, that’s right – a domestic apple in this semi-wild park. How did it get here? Did a bird plant it? A bear? A person? 

In any case, no fruits are left on it now. Some branches are broken out of the top, and we can see a series of deep scratches gouged in the smooth bark. 

We debate who the culprit might be. Could it be a raccoon? But we agree that the accumulation of signs – fruits gone, branches broken, and heavy claw marks – seems to point towards a bear.

The claw marks in the tree are another sign that far more is happening in this park than we’re likely to see in one morning. In fact, it’s likely that each day we’re here will bring us different stories.

Alysha Goheen lives near Greenough Park and comes here almost daily. Recently, she tells us, she was excited to see a pair of raccoons traveling along Rattlesnake Creek during the daylight. She’s seen raccoons here before – including, on one memorable night, a female with eight kits – but to see them during the day is something unusual.

“It’s really nice to be able to come out here daily throughout the season,” Alysha tells me.

Learning the stories of Greenough park

Today, we’ve seen neither raccoons nor their tracks. It seems that they’ve stayed denned up since last night’s fresh snowfall. Alysha’s story of the raccoon is yet another illustration of the benefits of a naturalist saunter like this. All of us have developed a more thorough connection with this park today because of each other’s perspectives and stories. From Alysha, we’ve learned of the neighborhood raccoons and their habits. Ser has brought us the stories of the American dippers and a thorough appreciation for the park’s diversity of fruiting shrubs and the creatures they support. Marilyn and Don have reminded us to wonder at the unfathomable, billion-year-old stories of the rocks we stand on. And Nate has shown us what may well be dipper tracks along the stream.

Even on a cold, wintry morning, the stories we can find when we saunter outside are endless. Next time, I’ll make sure to dress a bit more warmly. But although my fingers and toes are slightly stiff, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss this morning. Today I’ve gotten to connect a little bit more with the place where I’m living. I’ve made some new friends and gotten to see their passion and curiosity as, together, we celebrate the beginning of winter in Missoula. Next month, I hope to be back. What stories will we encounter in December? Maybe I’ll see you there.

Further reading

Lonn, J.D., McDonald, C., Sears, J.W., & Smith, L.N. (2010). Geologic map of the Missoula East 30′ x 60′ quadrangle, western Montana. Montana Bureau of Mines and Geology Open-File Report 593, 2 sheets, scale 1:100,000. Retrieved from https://mbmg.mtech.edu/mbmgcat/public/ListCitation.asp?pub_id=31350&

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