21 de junio de 2023

Vine a Spokane Bay en el solsticio de verano sin ninguna intención de escribir algo nuevo. Remando por Hauser Lake, en la parte oeste de Montana, desde la casa de mi amiga Margaret, mi idea había sido, más bien al contrario, escapar de mi oficina en la casa y mis varios proyectos de escribir. Pensé que tal vez encontraría inspiración entre los seres silvestres para presentar otro artículo a una revista para publicación.

Pero cuando mi kayak y yo llegamos a la bahía bajo un inquieto cielo gris, con las golondrinas risqueras (Petrochelidon pyrrhonota) y los vencejos pecho blanco (Aeronautes saxatilis) volando cerca al agua bajo el taciturno banco de nubes, algo sobre el día y el lugar y su diversidad de vida me hizo querer compartirlo.

En parte, fui inspirado por el blog de Chris Helzer, The Prairie Ecologist. Chris, basado en Nebraska, escribe con curiosidad sin remordimientos sobre la vida cerca de él, su pasión por las criaturas y acontecimientos innumerables llevándolo de una planta a un insecto en una manera que me hace tener la esperanza que algún día tendré la oportunidad de deambular en la naturaleza con él. Entonces gracias, Chris, por la inspiración. Que disfrutes mis contemplaciones naturalistas en uno de mis lugares especiales, Spokane Bay. 

La botánica en la bahía

Apenas había entrado en la bahía y ya se me había distraído de cualquier objetivo que pudiera haber tenido. La brisa, soplando débilmente desde el sureste tras una tormenta, empujaba mi kayak contra una ladera inclinada con cara al este. Tomé unos minutos para apreciar la diversidad de plantas ahí.

La ladera era una mezcla inquieta de plantas nativas y no nativas. Todas contaban una historia sobre la interacción de humedad y sequedad, rocas desplazándose, la dispersión de semillas y el crecimiento improbable. Cerca del borde del agua, la invasiva dulcamara (Solanum dulcamara) estaba en plena floración, sus flores en lindos racimos llamativos de estrellas de morado profundo. En el otoño, las flores se convierten en bayas rojas nauseabundas y jugosas que los gorriones corona blanca (Zonotrichia leucophrys) comen, dispersando semillas de las que germinan plántulas nuevas para formar matorrales de enredaderas que desplazan a las plantas nativas del borde del agua.

Cerca de la dulcamara estaba una balsamina nativa (Impatiens sp.). Hay dos especies en Montana, Impatiens ecalcarata e Impatiens aurella, las cuales se pueden distinguir cuando florecen. Las dos son poco comunes, conocidas como Especie de Atención Potencial y Especie de Atención, respectivamente. Sin embargo, he visto las dos en el Valle de Helena.

Más alto en las rocas estaba una especie nativa de Mentzelia, probablemente Mentzelia decapetala, aquella planta que atrapa insectos y cuyas flores abren al atardecer que conocí el verano pasado. Cuesta arriba estaba una franja del pasto espiguilla (Bromus tectorum), sus cabezas de semilla secándose. También había unos tallos del beleño negro (Hyoscyamus niger), una frondosa planta bienal, llamativa y altamente tóxica, que prefiere crecer en el suelo perturbado.

Golondrinas en la lluvia

Mis observaciones fueron acortadas por las primeras gotas grandes de lluvia cayendo desde la tormenta inminente. Empecé a remar fuerte a través de la bahía hacia el muelle. Remaba cara al viento que de repente se hacía más fuerte, las olas abofeteando la proa de mi kayak y salpicando mis lentes con agua.

Llegué a la orilla y busqué refugio bajo un viejo sauce (Salix fragilis) antes que el chaparrón empezara en serio, soplando a través de la bahía en suaves cortinas grises. Las golondrinas permanecían muy activas, bailando por el aire y rozando el agua, haciendo descensos aleteados y planeos ascendentes entre las gotas de lluvia. La mayoría de ellas eran golondrinas risqueras, las cuales anidan en las rocas una cuarta de milla lejos. A veces vi golondrinas verdemar (Tachycineta thalassina), alas aserradas (Stelgidopteryx serripennis) y ribereñas (Riparia riparia) también. Los vencejos pecho blanco, que aparentemente anidan en los riscos más aguas abajo, se habían ido.

Pronto me encontré sentándome en cuclillas al borde del agua bajo el sauce, donde el frondoso dosel verde desviaba la mayoría de la lluvia. Estaba intentando, con poco éxito, capturar el baile de más de treinta golondrinas sobre el agua. Era un baile hecho aún más mágico por saber que muchos de nuestros insectívoros aéreos están en declive. En Montana, por lo que sé, tenemos casi ningún dato cuantitativo sobre los posibles declives a largo plazo en los insectos aéreos que las golondrinas necesitan para alimento. Sin embargo, he escuchado anécdotas inquietantes de algunas personas que han vivido en el área por mucho tiempo. Dicen que los números de insectos salpicados en el parabrisas al manejar han caído mucho en las últimas décadas. En cualquier caso, el baile de las golondrinas es algo especial para mirar.

Sin palabras

¿Cómo se puede capturar la biodiversidad en una historia? Después de media hora, la lluvia había pasado cuando vi una golondrina bicolor (Tachycineta bicolor). La monótona luz gris tocaba su espalda de azul reluciente mientras sobrevoló el agua, casi rozando las ondas. Ya había visto cinco especies de golondrinas acá en una sola tarde. Había cientos de especies de plantas, varias de ellas nativas y otras no, cada una con su propia historia.

Los cantos de los praderos del oeste (Sturnella neglecta) hacían eco llorosamente desde el otro lado del lago. Una polluela sora (Porzana carolina) relinchó, escondida en el humedal de espadañas (Typha sp.) donde el arroyo desembocaba en la bahía. No hay manera en la que pueda capturar este lugar en una historia, decidí, ni quiero. Este lugar, y otros como él, existen y viven y respiran fuera de estas palabras. Y eso es parte de su hermosura. Pero lo que sí puedo hacer es celebrar este mundo vivo que respira cerca de mí. Les puedo agradecer con palabras inadecuadas a estas plantas que hablan a través de donde escogen crecer, a estas golondrinas que bailan como atletas sobre las ondas. Y tal vez mis palabras te inspirarán a buscar tus propios lugares especiales, a aprender de las criaturas allí y encontrar maneras de agradecerles por todo lo que nos dan.

Con esos pensamientos, otra vez dejé de listar y describir todo. (Pero sí hice una lista de aves, y al fin de la tarde había alcanzado a 39 especies.) En vez de listar toda la vida cerca de mí, deambulé, pausando donde mi curiosidad me llevó. Me tomé el tiempo para escuchar, oler y apreciar. Altamente recomiendo días como esto.

Desde los chinitos hasta la Lewisia

El árbol del paraíso (Elaeagnus angustifolia) aún florecía, aunque la lluvia había lavado la mayor parte del olor empalagoso de sus flores. Detecté un nido relativamente plano de palos en medio de las ramas y me retiré inmediatamente. Un par de chinitos (Bombycilla cedrorum) estaba cerca, dando sus trinos, y sospeché que el nido podía ser el suyo. En efecto, con unos 30 metros de distancia, fui recompensado con una vista breve de uno de los adultos volando al nido.

No quería acercarme más y perturbarlos, pero esperaba sacar una foto del nido. Por eso tomé la mala decisión de subir a una ladera demasiado empinada para verlo de arriba. Subí con éxito, pero el nido desapareció, bien escondido entre las ramas.

Pero el ascenso me puso a la misma altura de un mirlo primavera (Turdus migratorius), por turnos acicalándose y cantando desde otro sauce. También me dio una buena vista hacia la desembocadura de Spokane Creek. Allí nadaba una flotilla pequeña de patos de collar (Anas platyrhynchos) y patos frisos (Mareca strepera). El ascenso también me puso dentro de una pradera de alta calidad. El suelo estaba alfombrado de la planta Selaginella densa, parecida a un musgo, y muchos líquenes. Había césped de Agropyron spicatum y arbustos de Artemisia tridentata. También me emocioné al ver las flores de la Lewisia rediviva, sus hojas ya marchitadas por el verano.

De la pradera al humedal

Caminé con cuidado a través de la ladera, ojos alertos para insectos inusuales u otras criaturas. El sol había emergido de las nubes y las golondrinas estaban más altas. Ya había proporciones casi iguales de golondrinas risqueras y verdemar, aún volando a baja altura sobre los relieves de la ladera y la superficie de la bahía.

Seguí deambulando de aquí para allá, informalmente buscando insectos interesantes, pero encontrando pocos durante esta tarde relativamente fresca. Paré para fotografiar las flores de la Phacelia linearis en la ladera yerbosa y su pariente perenne, la Phacelia hastata, con sus matas del color lavanda en una cuesta de esquisto.

En el humedal de espadañas, miré un gorrión cantor (Melospiza melodia) cantando con su cabeza levantada contra un fondo del euforbio (Euphorbia esula). Revisé las flores de los rosales nativos (Rosa woodsii) y el lindo pero definitivamente no nativo cardo de almizcle (Carduus nutans) buscando polinizadores. No vi ningunos—tal vez no hacía calor suficiente. Pero mientras tanto me resbalé en las plantas, mojadas por la lluvia, alarmando a un venado cola blanca. El venado se levantó de su encubrimiento y saltó por el humedal, sobresaltando a un par de cercetas alas azules (Spatula discors) de un remanso.

Las golondrinas

Unos abejorros con franjas anaranjadas en el abdomen, los cuales sospechaba eran la especie Bombus huntii, visitaban la Phacelia hastata. Pero las golondrinas estaban teniendo mucho más suerte que yo en encontrar los insectos. Volando sobre la bahía y la ladera en un patrón de tráfico que cambiaba constantemente, sus números seguían aumentando. De 30 durante el chaparrón a 50, a 80: ya había hasta 40 golondrinas verdemar. Fue fácil ver sus espaldas de verde aterciopelado y sus rabadillas blancas mientras pasaron rápidamente por arriba. No me tomó mucho tiempo para cambiar mi enfoque completamente a las golondrinas.

Pero las golondrinas eran increíblemente veloces, y mi cámara dolorosamente lenta. El lente redujo el fluido baile aéreo de las golondrinas verdemar a un borrón poco interesante. Traté de sacar fotos de la Phacelia con mi móvil, yo tumbado barriga abajo sobre las rocas puntiagudas, intentando capturar las manchitas rápidas de las golondrinas en el fondo. Si usas mucha imaginación, puedes verlas.

Y entonces, algo cambió. Por unos minutos, y por razones que aún no entiendo, las golondrinas verdemar empezaron a aterrizar en la tierra expuesta de la ladera. Dos o tres aterrizaban a la vez sobre el parche de Phacelia hastata. ¿Obtenían minerales? ¿Materiales para anidar? No sé. Pero finalmente pude sacar unas fotos aceptables, unos recuerdos que aún no le hacen justicia al asombro del baile de las golondrinas.

El baile de las golondrinas

Unos minutos más tarde, una agrupación vespertina de golondrinas empezaba a formarse. Primero había 15, y entonces 30, posándose en los cables de luz. Otra vez saqué mi cámara. Podía ver cuatro especies en el cable: golondrinas verdemar, alas aserradas, risqueras y bicolores.

Conté el número de golondrinas en el aire otra vez más antes de irme esa tarde. Una ráfaga del viento había subido a la ladera y un remolino de golondrinas saltó dentro de ella, evidentemente agarrando insectos. Conté rápidamente por múltiplos de diez: 130 golondrinas, llenando el espacio aéreo sobre la bahía.

Cuando me fui de Spokane Bay esa tarde, me fui enamorado de las golondrinas. Me fui pensando en jejenes (cerca del fin, finalmente atrapé un enjambre de ellos en mi gorra) y los otros insectos que las golondrinas comen. Y me fui esperando que, cien años en el futuro, aún haya tantas (o aún más) golondrinas, llenando el cielo sobre Spokane Bay.

Leer más

Spiller, K.J. & Dettmers, R. (2019). Evidence for multiple drivers of aerial insectivore declines across North America. The Condor 121(2). Recuperado de https://academic.oup.com/condor/article/121/2/duz010/5497088

The post El baile de las golondrinas en el solsticio appeared first on Wild With Nature.

June 21, 2023

I came to Spokane Bay on the summer solstice with no intention of writing something new. Paddling up central Montana’s Hauser Lake from my friend Margaret’s house, my idea had been, if anything, to escape my home office and my many writing projects, perhaps to find inspiration for yet another magazine pitch among the wild creatures.

But as my kayak and I reached the bay under an unsettled gray sky, with cliff swallows and white-throated swifts foraging low under the brooding cloud bank, something about the day and the place and its diversity of life made me want to share it.

In part, I was inspired by Chris Helzer’s blog, The Prairie Ecologist. Chris, based in Nebraska, writes with unapologetic curiosity for the life around him, his passion for the myriad creatures and happenings taking him from this plant to that insect in a way that makes me hope I’ll get the chance to wander in the field with him someday. So thanks, Chris, for the inspiration. Enjoy my naturalist musings at one of my special places, Spokane Bay. 

Botany on the bay

I had barely entered the bay and already I was distracted from whatever my mission for the day might have been. The breeze, pushing gently from the southeast behind a storm cell, was pushing my kayak up against a steep, rocky east slope, and I took a few minutes to appreciate the plant diversity there.

The slope was an uneasy mix of native and non-native, all of them telling a story of the interplay of moisture and dryness, shifting rock, seed dispersal and improbable growth. Near the water’s edge, the invasive bittersweet nightshade (Solanum dulcamara) was in full bloom, a strikingly beautiful array of deep purple stars. In the fall, they develop into nauseating, juicy red berries that the white-crowned sparrows eat, dispersing new seedlings to form viney tangles that displace native plants from the water’s edge. 

Near the nightshade was a native jewelweed (Impatiens sp.). There are two species in Montana, Impatiens ecalcarata and Impatiens aurella, which are distinguishable when in flower. Both are rather uncommon, listed as a Potential Species of Concern and a Species of Concern, respectively, and I’ve seen both in the Helena Valley.

Higher in the rocks was a native blazingstar, probably Mentzelia decapetala, that evening-blooming insect trapper that I got to know last summer. Farther upslope was a band of cheatgrass (Bromus tectorum), its seedheads drying out, and a few stems of black henbane (Hyoscyamus niger), a leafy, striking and highly toxic non-native biennial that likes disturbed soil.

Swallows in the rain

My observations were cut short by the first few heavy raindrops from the impending storm. I started paddling hard across the bay towards the boat docks, pointed into the suddenly stronger wind, the waves slapping over the bow of my kayak and spattering lake water onto my glasses.

I reached shore and took shelter under an old crack willow (Salix fragilis) before the rain shower began in earnest, blowing across the bay in soft gray curtains. The swallows stayed active, skimming within a foot of the water, dancing in fluttered stoops and ascending glides among the raindrops. Most of them were cliff swallows, which nest on the rocks a quarter of a mile away; occasionally I saw violet-green, northern rough-winged, and bank swallows. The white-throated swifts, which apparently nest on the higher cliffs farther downstream, had departed.

Soon I found myself squatting at the water’s edge under the crack willow, where the leafy green canopy deflected most of the raindrops, trying with limited success to capture the dance of thirty-plus swallows over the water. It was a dance made even more magical by the knowledge that many of our aerial insect-eaters are declining. In Montana, to the best of my knowledge, we have virtually no quantitative data on any potential long-term declines in the aerial insects that these species depend on for food. I have heard disturbing anecdotes, from several long-time residents, though, that the numbers of windshield-splattered insects have declined very substantially in the last few decades. In any case, the dance of the swallows is a special thing to behold.

Beyond words

How does one capture biodiversity in a story? Half an hour later and the rain had moved on. I spotted a tree swallow, the flat gray light catching its shining blue back as it skimmed over the ripples of the bay. Five species of swallows catching insects here, just on this single afternoon. Hundreds of species of plants, many native and others not, each with a story of its own. 

The songs of the western meadowlarks echoed plaintively from across the lake and a sora whinnied invisibly from the cattail marsh at the mouth of the bay. There’s no way I can really capture this place in a story, I decided, nor do I really want to. This place, and others like it, exist and live and breathe outside of these words. That’s part of their beauty. But what I can do is celebrate this living, breathing world. I can thank them with inadequate words, these plants that speak through where they choose to grow, these swallows that dance athletically over the ripples. And perhaps my words will inspire you to seek your own special spots, to learn from the creatures there, and to find ways to give back to them.

With those thoughts, I once again stopped trying to catalog and describe everything. (Though I did keep a bird list, and by the end of the afternoon it had reached 39 species.) Instead, I wandered, pausing where my curiosity took me, taking time to listen and sniff and feel and appreciate. I highly recommend days like this.

From cedar waxwings to bitterroot

The Russian-olive (Elaeagnus angustifolia) was still flowering, though the rain had washed most of the sickly-sweet smell from its blooms. I noticed a relatively flat nest of sticks at mid-level among the branches and backed off. A pair of cedar waxwings were making buzzy calls nearby, and I suspected that the nest might be theirs. Sure enough, from 30 meters away I was rewarded with a brief view of one of the adults flying to the nest.

I didn’t want to get closer and disturb them, but I was hoping to get a photo of the nest. That led me to the ill-advised move of scrambling up a far-too-steep bank to get a farther-away view from above. The nest obligingly disappeared, well-hidden among the branches. 

But the scramble put me at eye level with an American robin, alternately preening and singing from another crack willow. It also gave me a nice view towards the mouth of Spokane Creek, where a small flotilla of mallards and gadwalls were swimming. And it put me in the midst of a high-quality native grassland carpeted with dense spikemoss (Selaginella densa) and lichens, dotted with bluebunch wheatgrass (Agropyron spicatum) and big sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata). Here I was excited to see a few bitterroots (Lewisia rediviva) blooming, the leaves already withered away for the season. 

Grassland to marsh

I picked my way gingerly along the grassland slope, eyes alert for unusual insects and other creatures. The sun was out now and the swallows were higher, almost equal numbers of cliff and violet-green swallows now, skimming the contours of the hillside as well as the surface of the bay.

I continued to putter here and there, casually looking for interesting insects, but finding little on this relatively cool afternoon. I stopped to photograph the linearleaf phacelia (Phacelia linearis) flowering on the grassland slope and its perennial relative, silverleaf phacelia (Phacelia hastata), in lavender clumps on a loose shaly embankment. 

In the cattail marsh, I watched a song sparrow throwing his head back in song against a backdrop of leafy spurge. I checked for flower visitors on the native Wood’s rose (Rosa woodsii) and the gorgeous but emphatically not native nodding thistle (Carduus nutans). Not warm enough, perhaps—nothing was there. I did slip on the rain-damp vegetation while taking photos, though, startling a white-tailed deer, who leapt up from hiding and bounded across the marsh, flushing a pair of blue-winged teal from the backwaters.

The swallows

A couple of orange-banded bumblebees, which I suspected were Hunt’s bumblebees (Bombus huntii), were visiting the silverleaf phacelia. But the swallows were having much better luck finding insects than I was. Flying over the bay and the phacelia slope in an ever-shifting traffic pattern, their numbers kept increasing. From 30 during the rain shower to 50, to 80: 40 violet-green swallows alone, velvety green backs and white rumps on prominent display as they whizzed past. It didn’t take me long to shift my focus almost entirely to swallows.

The swallows were impossibly fast, though, and my camera painfully slow. My lens reduced the smooth aerial dance of the violet-greens to an uninteresting blur. I tried taking cell phone photos of the silverleaf phacelia, lying on my stomach on the sharp rocks, trying to capture the darting specks of the swallows in the background. If you use a lot of imagination, you can see them there.

Then something shifted. For a few brief minutes, and for reasons unknown to me, the violet-green swallows began landing on the exposed soil of the slope, two or three at a time, above the silverleaf phacelia patch. Were they finding minerals? Nesting materials? I don’t know. But at last I was able to get some halfway recognizable photos, some mementoes that still don’t really do justice to the wonder of dancing swallows.

The dance of the swallows

A few minutes later and an early evening swallow aggregation was beginning to form. There were 15, then 30 of them, roosting on the power lines. Out came the camera. On the line, I could see four species: violet-green, northern rough-winged, cliff, and tree swallow. 

I did one final count of swallows on the wing before I left that evening. A gust of wind had swept suddenly up the slope and a swirl of swallows dove into it, evidently snatching prey. A quick, rough count by tens: 130 swallows, filling the airspace over the bay.

When I left Spokane Bay that evening, I left enamored by swallows. I left thinking about midges (towards the end, I finally caught a cloud of them with my hat) and the other insects that swallows eat. And I left hoping that, a hundred years from now, there are still this many (if not more) swallows around, filling the sky over Spokane Bay.

Further reading

Spiller, K.J. & Dettmers, R. (2019). Evidence for multiple drivers of aerial insectivore declines across North America. The Condor 121(2). Retrieved from https://academic.oup.com/condor/article/121/2/duz010/5497088

The post Solstice wanderings and the dance of the swallows appeared first on Wild With Nature.

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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