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Adaptation

July, like January, is the most extreme month of its season, and during both months I must adapt to challenging weather if I want to walk our trails and observe wildlife.

Black birches in the forest of Plummer’s Hollow

Black birches in the forest of Plummer’s Hollow (Photo by Dave Bonta on Flickr)

In January, when the wind is howling and it’s ten degrees Fahrenheit, I wait until mid-morning to venture outside swathed in several layers of clothes.

In July I try to be abroad by 8:30 a.m. dressed in as little as possible. That used to mean shorts and a tank top, but since ticks arrived on our mountain, I pull on long, beige-colored, Permethrin-soaked pants, which I tuck into light-colored socks, and a long-sleeved shirt over a tank top. Then, I put a wide-brimmed hat over my short hair and I’m off.

But last July the heat and humidity on many days was more debilitating than usual. Even 8:30 was too late on many July days for someone as heat-averse as I am.

The morning sun through the fog over the First Field

The morning sun through the fog over the First Field (Photo by Dave Bonta on Flickr)

We’ve been told that humans, plants, and wildlife must adjust to our changing climate. In that spirit my husband Bruce suggested I get up at 5:00 a.m., grab a cup of coffee, and go, instead of rising an hour later, preparing and eating breakfast, and following my normal hour of back and neck exercises before venturing outside.

That’s how I became a connoisseur of sunrises. Most dawns I rushed the quarter mile up to the spruce grove and Alan’s Bench at the top of Sapsucker Ridge. One morning the sky was golden and lit up the trees along the trail. On another, a rosy-fingered dawn predicted a clear, hot day ahead.

Near the end of July I watched the sky turn from gold to rose and finally pink before I reached Alan’s Bench. A sudden light flashed on the horizon as the sun appeared over Nittany Mountain, heralded by the drumbeat of a pileated woodpecker and the “witchedy, witchedy” of a common yellowthroat. As soon as it crested the mountain, I looked away from that burning eye that makes life on earth possible.

An ovenbird in Chester County, PA

An ovenbird in Chester County, PA (Photo by Kelly Colgan Azar in Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Instead, I sought the sanctuary of the forest as it filtered the fierce light through its green film of leaves.

Although birdsong dwindles in July, I listened to the dawn singing and calling of ovenbirds, red-eyed vireos, scarlet tanagers, eastern towhees, Acadian flycatchers, eastern wood-pewees, hooded and black-throated green warblers in the forest and common yellowthroats, song and field sparrows, indigo buntings, northern cardinals, Carolina wrens, cedar waxwings, and gray catbirds in the fields and yard.

One charmed morning I was serenaded by a chorus of wood thrushes as I walked down our road. The thrush music echoed in the outdoor cathedral of hundred-year-old trees looming overhead. I gave a silent prayer of thanks for their songs and hoped I would live to hear them another year. (I will embed a brief YouTube video of a singing wood thrush.)

On that same dawn walk I startled two does and two fawns that were standing in our stream. The fawns disappeared up the road bank while the does remained watching me for a few seconds before following their offspring.

A black rat snake

A black rat snake (Photo by Tom Walsh in Wikimedia, Creative Commons license)

I also found a black rat snake sprawled across the road. At first I thought it was dead, but as I stood above it and suggested it get off the road, it twitched its tail and curled up, looking as fierce as it could manage. I stepped carefully around it and continued on my way. Later, after the sun’s red disk shone through the trees and I retraced my steps, the snake had vanished.

Not all days were steamy. Early in the month, I devoted several cooler mornings to taking our 11-year-old granddaughter Elanor on our longer trails, several of which she had never hiked, before she and her parents set off for new lives in Arizona. I didn’t want her to forget the green lushness of a Pennsylvania summer. On one such walk, several almost grown turkey poults flew up in front of us. On another I pointed out blooming rhododendron, wild hydrangea, wood nettle and black cohosh along the road.

But Elanor was most impressed by the abundance of baby cottontail rabbits and adults in our yard, especially one attracted to our veranda. In fact, its cement floor proved to be alluring to a variety of small mammals including chipmunks that seemed affronted by Bruce and my sedentary presence on the veranda.

A long-tailed weasel

A long-tailed weasel (Photo by Bryant Olsen on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

We grew accustomed to sitting on our veranda chairs without speaking or moving as rabbits and chipmunks crept closer and closer. One morning, after I returned from my walk at 6:30, we sat there silently gazing at First Field. A long-tailed weasel emerged from beneath a forsythia bush next to the veranda and started toward the chipmunk burrow in the lawn at the far end of the veranda. When I turned to Bruce to see if he noticed the weasel, it dashed back the way it had come.

We remained silent, and a few seconds later, it ran on to the end of the veranda. Again I turned to Bruce and again the weasel retraced its steps. This time it didn’t come back. Bruce didn’t see it either time, but I even glimpsed its white underparts the second time around. This happened the day after my birthday, and I was grateful for my belated gift of a brief moment with an elusive creature.

Four eastern phoebe chicks in their nest

Four eastern phoebe chicks in their nest (Photo by jeffreyw on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

On our front porch a pair of eastern phoebes had built their second nest. One early July evening, while Elanor was eating dinner with us on the porch, the four nestlings became four fledglings as one after the other flew over our heads chirping.

Even our back porch was attractive to wildlife. One night I left a planter of house plants I had washed out on the porch to dry. The next morning I found a hole dug in the dirt and muddy raccoon prints on the porch floor.

And of course we had our usual bear sightings. Early in the month our son Steve, driving up our road in the afternoon, had a young cub run in front of his car halfway up the mountain. Near the end of the month, as I reached the top of Sapsucker Ridge, I heard a crash from a tree and caught a glimpse of a bear running downslope toward the interstate.

These glimpses I have of the lives of wild animals and birds are often tantalizing and sometimes I can only guess at their intentions. But I did solve one mystery and its perpetrators.

Norway spruce cones, including one in the lower right on which part of the cone scales have been removed

Norway spruce cones, including one in the lower right on which part of the cone scales have been removed (Photo from the Plant Image Library in Flickr, Creative Commons license)

One hot, humid morning inside the Norway spruce grove, I noticed dozens of still-immature spruce cones that had been clipped from the tops of the tallest trees and stripped of their overlapping cone scales. The scales lay in golden-beige heaps at the base of the trees.

Never before had I seen this even though the trees have had mature cones for years. But the acorn crop had failed for two years and I suspected hungry gray squirrels were after the two seeds at the base of each scale. Fourteen days later I spotted a gray squirrel climbing up a cone-laden spruce tree, proving to my satisfaction that they were producing the piles and scatterings of diamond-shaped cone scales throughout the grove.

Later, I read in North American Tree Squirrels by Michael A. Steele and John L. Koprowski about a study they did in North Carolina of longleaf pine cones. They found that even though the cones of most conifers don’t fully mature until October, they are already nutritious by late July when squirrels sometimes have little else to eat. The North Carolina fox squirrels stripped the longleaf cones the same way our gray squirrels had stripped the Norway spruce cones, by starting at the bottom of a cone and rotating it like an ear of corn as it gnawed off one cone scale at a time.

At the end of the month, after a much-awaited rainstorm the previous evening, I walked Laurel Ridge Trail listening to the same but much quieter suite of singing birds—scarlet tanager, eastern wood-pewee, and red-eyed vireo. I picked up a bird’s nest lined with thin stems and plastered with lichens. The exquisite little nest had blown from a high tree branch in the storm and had been constructed by an eastern wood-pewee.

Later, as I approached our yard, I noticed a male American goldfinch crying on and on from our electric line. Then a large raptor lifted off a yard tree and landed on a low black walnut branch. It was an immature Cooper’s hawk still peering around in search of prey and providing a close look at the white streaks above its eyes and its reddish breast and belly.

As soon as the hawk flew off, the goldfinch was quiet, and a gray catbird and several other birds began calling as if giving an all-clear signal.

July may often be an uncomfortable month to be outside, but my many glimpses of wildlife make every sweaty, buggy walk worth the effort.

 

 

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