Serenity

October 31, 2010
Zimmerman, MN

Sunrise brought a beautiful morning to the Wildlife Drive at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge. There was a chill in the still air, the sky was clear, and the streaming sunlight illuminated the frost clinging to the prairie grasses as though they were lighted from within. My morning as a volunteer Roving Wildlife Interpreter was looking like it would be very peaceful.

I stopped to chat with one of our regular visitors. We noted that the summer birds were all gone, leaving the refuge particularly quiet, and that on this peaceful morning we hadn't seen much wildlife beyond a collection of trumpeter swans near the entrance and a red tailed hawk stationed in a distant tree.

As we parted the visitor said "It's time to get on with today's dose of serenity. I love this place. It keeps my life from getting too complicated."

Immediately I was reminded that underlying all of our nature-oriented activity is a quest for serenity. We often overlook serenity when we talk about our nature connections, yet it is is the most potent cure nature offers the flagging human spirit.

The dictionary defines serenity as being calm and tranquil. I experience it as a kind of floating above the details of life's busyness, a complete state of relaxation while still being aware of my surroundings but not much else. This is a step beyond the active searching, observing, thinking parts of the mind. Our nature-oriented activities such as hiking, photography, drawing, or driving bring us close enough to serenity that we can feel it rubbing out some of our cares. But true serenity means letting go of even these activities and basking in a feeling of being alone with ones self and being at peace.

So the next time you're driving around fruitlessly searching for a turn-on in a nature venue that really reaches out to you, stop. Try floating in the ambiance of the place. Just enjoy being here at this moment in a place that holds off the bustling concerns of your usual life. With a little exploration you'll probably find a special spot where you can experience serenity, an easily accessible place not too far away from where you live. It will be your secret hide-out, your anchor in a world that too often seems insanely busy.

The Case of the Curious Eagle

Late July
Zimmerman, MN.  U.S.A.

I was close to finishing my morning as a volunteer Roving Wildlife Interpreter at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge. As I rounded the bend to the last section of the Wildlife Drive, near the Stickney Pool eagle nest, I saw a small brown animal form lying in the middle of the road ahead.  My first thought was “muskrat” for it seemed about the right size and color. My second thought was that it had been run over by one of the visitors who passed me on the Drive during the morning. That was difficult to believe because all the visitors on the drive this morning had been traveling slowly, looking intently for wildlife. People who enjoy nature that much don’t run over animals.

Instinctively I pulled onto the verge and hopped out of the truck intending to get the dead muskrat off the road. Then I got a surprise. I wasn’t dealing with the carcass of a muskrat but of a young river otter. It’s not too unusual for muskrats to get run over on the highways of our marshy area, but I have never seen an otter, young or adult, killed on a roadway. Or anywhere else for that matter.

The young otter was lying on its stomach in an otherwise normal position. The fur was dry except for a few wet spots on the back. There was sand, probably from the road, clinging to the fur of the back.  The carcass seemed to be completely intact with no indication that it had been run over. I picked it up and turned it over. There was no visible sign of what had killed it. The body was still soft as though it had not been dead very long.

I carried the dead otter to the roadside and laid it at the edge of the grass where it would be safe from passing cars. As I did I thought “Wow. If we can get the body to a taxidermist before it spoils it will make a wonderful exhibit for our visitor center.”

Dead young otter after it was moved off the Wildlife Drive.

I stood up, looked around for a few landmarks to pinpoint the location of the carcass, then snapped a picture of the otter for no particular reason. As I made my scan of the area I noticed an adult bald eagle perched in a dead tree about thirty-five feet behind me.

This was a piece of  luck for sure, a photo op with an eagle that wasn’t the usual quarter mile away. I had my camera in hand. I figured if I moved slowly I could easily snap a picture before the bird flew.

But the eagle didn’t seem to be concerned about my presence. In fact seemed curious about me. So I took my time, walked down the road a bit to get a better angle and experimented with a few camera settings. The picture below gave me the satisfaction of feeling I  had a good portrait of the curious eagle.

Picture from a lucky close-up photo shoot with a bald eagle.

       

When I got back to the truck I called Lizzy Berkley, the refuge biologist, and told her about the otter carcass and shared my thought that it might be useful in an educational exhibit. She was unable to come out to retrieve it just then but said she would have somebody pick it up.

When I checked in the next day to see how things worked out I learned that someone had indeed gone out to retrieve the little otter. But the otter was gone when they got there. Lizzy figured a coyote or some other animal probably made a meal of it.

Then came the great “Aha!”  Mystery solved! I knew how the otter died. That eagle hadn't been hanging around because it wanted to be in a photo shoot. It hadn’t been at all curious about what I was doing with my camera. It had been curious about what I was doing with its lunch.

Suddenly I had a complete picture of the otter's last moments. In my mind's eye I saw it climbing out of Stickney pool to cross the Wildlife Drive. I saw the eagle watching  from its aerie on the other side of the pool. For the eagle this was like having pizza delivered to the front door.

I imagined the eagle swooping down and almost felt the impact of those sharp grasping talons as they ended the otters life in a merciful instant. The eagle probably didn't get a good grip. The body rolled over from the impact so that sand from the road stuck to the wet fur on its back. And then as the eagle struggled to get the kill airborne a truck with a guy with a camera came round the bend. What better to do than fly up to the top of a nearby tree, there to wait for the intruder to pass. And when he did not pass but stopped and picked up the near gratuitous meal, it would require some close watching. And the watching was almost palpable. I imagine that when I left the eagle waited a few cautious minutes, then swooped down, reclaimed its meal and flew it home.

Thus ended another chain of natural events at Sherburne refuge: eagle fed; otter population controlled by nature; Roving Interpreter left with a good story and some pictures. A win for two out of the three participants. And two out of three is pretty OK, at least in the natural world.

Bluebirds

August 29. The Eastern bluebirds have started their migration south. It's an annual event that I look forward to here in east central Minnesota. Bluebirds don't migrate in large flocks as some birds do. They seem to prefer traveling in groups of about 30. Their migration is spread out over several weeks, with groups arriving and leaving constantly. Amazingly this entire southbound movement seems to organize and pace itself like a parade. I have never been aware of hosting two groups at the same time.

One might ask how I know that I'm seeing migration and not just the same group hanging around. I have no scientific proof that the birds are migrating, just educated guesses and inferences. On numerous occasions I have noted the birds arriving from the north. They fly across the acre of prairie to the south of the house and alight in the staghorn sumac and pagoda dogwoods that border the line of trees at the end of the property. They flit back and forth and seem to be finding food in the shrubs. They appear to be energized, reminding me of a group of youngsters gathered together just before some exciting activity. Some pairs chase one another around aerial twists and turns. Some may visit the birdbath. Some land on the roof of the house and then dive down into the vegetable garden or the prairie grasses.

But in an hour or two the group is ready to move on. And this is where the second inference comes in. I have got in the car and followed them.They don't make great soaring flights. They just move on a short distance to the next stand of trees and shrubs.  I've followed them as they travel directly south on 112th Street for about a mile. Then they have another little party. And when I've driven further down 112th Street I've encountered other bluebird coteries, all presumably following the same route.

Three years ago I put up a bluebird house and each summer I have had at least one brood of bluebirds. This year there were two broods, perhaps three. Since the youngsters hang around one soon loses track of who's who. It's such a pleasure to see the spiky speckled young ones stationed on our deck while the parents are out on their never-ending search for food. Eventually the young ones follow the parents on their foraging missions, but parents and juveniles always return to use the deck as a reconnaissance platform.

One fun-filled event is watching the parents coax a youngster to take that first flight. I have seen a young bird emerge to stand on top of the family home while the parent coaxes from a nearby bush. Perhaps it is hunger that finally adds courage to wings. Eventually the flight is made and after those first few yards there is no lack of confidence for the next short jaunts. The youngsters quickly disappear into the shrubbery, not to reemerge for a couple of days. Presumably during their absence they have been safe from predators and have become stronger and learned a few survival skills.

I have bluebirds all summer and I think it is because I have the bluebird house. Perhaps bluebirds like to stay near where they were hatched as long as the food supply is good. And that's where my appreciation comes in. I have a little happy moment every time I see a bluebird dive down into the peppers, tomatoes, beans, and cabbages in pursuit of some unfortunate insect. Sometimes there is a little chase on the ground, but the bluebird always wins and I say "Thanks! That's one less reason to resort to some toxic insecticide." I imagine that in the course of a typical summer day my bluebirds pick up a few hundred insects. And I imagine that is part of the reason I've never had a big insect problem in the garden.

I started out writing about the bluebirds' fall migration, and that includes a ritual that has to do with the house. I've seen it lots of times with each new group passing through. The house is like a magnet that draws in bluebird attention. Some land on top of it. Others flutter around it. Many will land on the front and stick their head inside. Some will actually enter for a minute or so. The excitement is so great that one bluebird will push another bluebird off the front of the box so as to get a peek inside. I have even seen two bluebirds trying to stick their heads in the entrance at the same time.

Why would bluebirds heading south be excited (yes, that's the operative word) about a nest box that won't be of any use until next spring? I can imagine that as they travel south they build a list of available sites for the next spring nesting season. That might seem like a stretch, but we know birds have all kinds of uncanny abilities, including the ability to return to the same nesting territory year after year. So why not a list of sites to check out in the spring? I just hope that when they come back I won't have to mediate any disputes between potential residents. In the past I've observed that they always have such squabbles, which can go on for a while, but the birds can settle the affair without any help from me.

The Ghosts of Banning

During an early June visit by my friend Mike from Atlanta, GA, we decided to look in on Banning State Park near Sandstone, Minnesota, an intriguing place I last visited more than 30 years ago.

The park, just off Interstate 35, about midway between Minneapolis and Duluth, is not a primary destination for most folks. They whiz on by at 70 per, completely unaware of the park as they head for Duluth, or for their lakeside cabins further north, or for recreation on the north shore of Lake Superior. Banning State Park stretches along the rockbound  Kettle River but it has no lake for recreation. Since most Minnesotans prefer their watery recreation in boats on lakes, Banning's rapids on the Kettle River are left to the kayakers.

Banning, in Minnesota's "Big Woods" biome, is covered by cool dark maple and oak  forest with a few pines mixed in, quite a contrast to the open prairie biome where I live. Entering the Big Woods habitat is, for me, like a venture to another country.

Some orange hawkweeds welcomed us to the park with their bright cheerful flowers. I have seen this invasive European plant as far south as the Florida panhandle but nowhere is it as lush and beautiful as in Minnesota's "Big Woods".  I once read that the ancient Greeks gave this plant its name because they believed hawks got their excellent vision by eating it.

We relaxed as we rambled on down a wooded trail, protected from the hot sun, checking the inhabitants along the way.

We passed a feasting chipmunk that paid us no attention.

And a garter snake who also seemed unconcerned, and even curious about us.

Numerous newly hatched Canadian Tiger Swallowtail butterflies added color to the scene. This pair, engaged in a little courtship activity, were so intensely focused that they did not show the usual wariness of the species.

The trail along the river brought us to arresting landscapes of trees, rocks, and water.  It's a good place for a photographer.

And a great locale for many species of dragonflies and damselflies.

Michael Birnbaum photo

The Kettle River is relatively smooth and placid where it enters the park.

Then it pours over layers of the local red sandstone and swirls around boulders as it moves down the course it has carved through other sandstone layers over thousands of years.

At one point a boulder, polished smooth by the endlessly abrading river, reminded us of a large animal trying to clamber up the river bank.

From a high spot we looked down on a lone empty-handed fisherman  enjoying the sun and the river even without a catch.

 

The river exits the lower end of the park through Hellsgate Rapids, a challenging stretch of whitewater for Minnesota kayakers. During our visit the water was a low normal, but a rise in river level can turn these rapids into a treacherous challenge. Here's a link to an example of what these rapids can be like on a good kayaking day.

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4gB3EWiSJY&feature=related



What makes Banning especially interesting is the fact that it once was the site of a small town focused on a single industry, the quarrying of the local red sandstone for building blocks. The red sandstone is found in lovely old courthouses and other buildings throughout the region.

The quarrying business supported about 400 residents from 1892 until the quarry closed in 1910. Over the next decade the town of Banning faded away, and now nature has reclaimed the townsite and is obliterating the last traces of the human activity of that era.

One hiking trail follows the old roadbed along the working face of the quarry, the area where slabs of rock were cut away from the vertical exposure. The picture below shows holes drilled by the long gone miners. They are visible in the stone and look like long stripes.

Waste fragments of quarried sandstone were left beside the trail. The size of the trees that have grown up since the quarry closed gives some idea of how slowly trees grow in this northern climate where they bear productive green leaves for about four months of the year.

Michael Birnbaum photo

The river trail passes by some of the old quarry buildings looming up like ancient Mayan ruins in the jungle. The standing remnants of the quarry powerhouse exude an aura of mystery. How many people spent their days tending the machinery in this building a century ago?

One view of the powerhouse evokes the sense of an ancient abandoned temple.

Michael Birnbaum photo

Thirty years ago there was a power house dam here. It has since been removed to free the Kettle in its downward course to the St Croix River.

The remains of the crusher building near the powerhouse reminds one of a European castle remnant.

The large slabs from the quarry were cut into finished product on these sliceways. Can you see, in your imagination, the men who labored here dressing out the stone to make uniform building blocks?

 

A large eyebolt, part of the sliceways,  shows very little rust after more than a hundred years. One can conjure an image of the men who installed it taking pride in a job well done with no thought for how long their work would outlast them.

 

As we walked the trails I saw more than the ruins of a long dead business. I envisioned men carrying lunches as they walked to work. I could see the ghosts of quarrymen cutting rock on the quarry face with tools and techniques as old as this ancient industry. I could imagine children running along a path, shouting and playing tag. I could see and hear the steam engine crews and the engines themselves hauling away the finished red blocks on the railroad tracks that were here then. These hard working people, largely unknown in their own time, and completely unknown to us, must have had children. Their grandchildren and great grandchildren must still be among us, probably knowing little or nothing of the details of the old way of life at Banning. Only these ruins and the ghosts we conjure remind us they were here. As we pass by we should thank those long forgotten residents for the red sandstone buildings we still admire today, more than a century later.

A New Bird at the Feeder

Feeding backyard birds is one of the joys of life. A naturalist recently reminded me that birds will survive very well if we don't feed them. The real reason for feeding them is the pleasure we get from watching them. And so the closer the better.

Our feeder, a house warming gift from our friends Mike and Natalie, is mounted on our deck about six feet from our sliding glass patio door. Thus we get the full pleasure of being close up and personal with our flying guests. Like this red-bellied woodpecker, a constant presence in our cold east central Minnesota winters. I love watching the gawky way woodpeckers check out the feeder before they start their meal.

In the summer we have a wide variety of guests. The house finches (below) are a common source of brown and red couture. Then there is the yellow and black of the American goldfinches, and the blue of the indigo buntings, and the red, black, and white of the rose-breasted grosbeaks. It's not quite a symphony of colors on the deck, but a least the equivalent of a chamber orchestra.

Recently we discovered we have been missing the antics of a gluttonous night feeder. I caught this flash picture of it one evening.

The following evening our night visitor came back about the same time and I was able to call her a her because she had three babies trailing along behind. As a would-be biologist I should be detached but I have to admit they were darn cute. At this point I was glad to have raccoons on the deck rather than the black bears that completely destroy some feeders in the area. Still I wasn't happy as I watched Mom empty out the feeder. Then she was gone with her little family. But obviously she didn't get all the seeds because sometime later Dad showed up to finish the job. With his hand-like paws he was able to reach in under the plastic sidewall and scrape out the last of the seeds.

I did not want to spend a fortune feeding raccoons nor did I want to encourage them to hang around and become a destructive nuisance. Our feeder is well mounted on the deck so it would not be convenient to bring it in at night as folks living with black bears have learned to do. What to do?

The old red pepper remedy came to mind. I recall reading in a course somewhere that hot pepper is only distasteful to mammals and does not cause a problem for birds. So mixing some hot pepper in with the bird seed is supposed to discourage mammalian diners. Lucky me, I had a bumper crop of hot peppers last year and dried and crushed enough of them to supply all of Domino's for a least a month. So we peppered and we waited.

The first night Mom ate for a little while, then shinnied down the deck post and took off so quickly she left one bewildered baby behind. (Apparently she came back for it later.)

We watched and waited but we had no raccoons for the next several days. "Problem solved" I rejoiced. "I'll just continue with the pepper for a while to make sure Mom gets the point."

Several evenings later I looked out and Mom was back. And she was gobbling up the peppered feed as though it was very tasty. Perhaps she went to Mexico during her absence and learned to appreciate the spiciness of hot pepper. Now the babies were big enough to get up on the feeder too, and Mom was sharing her largess with one of them.

So much for the red pepper idea. Maybe it works with deer, but I don't expect we'll ever have them on our second story deck.

Not to be completely foiled we did work out a way to stop the raccoon gluttony. It engenders the idea that wildlife was here first and whenever possible we should find a way to coexist. Each morning now we put out only as much feed as we think the birds will eat in a day. The raccoon family may find a few leftovers when they come around at days end, but I don't think they'll be bragging to their friends about the bird seed buffet they've discovered at our house. And we can feel good knowing we are not contributing to a raccoon overpopulation problem by feeding them.

The Siege of the Spiny Baskettails

May 23, 2010. As I navigated he Wildlife Drive at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge today I was confronted by clouds of hungry two inch long Odonata. They showed no fear, and refused to get out of my way. I figured that no matter how slowly I drove some might die on my radiator grill. On the other hand to stop would be a commitment to spending the whole day sitting on the drive since they seemed to be hovering and darting back and forth with no particular purpose or direction to their travel. I got out of the truck  to get a closer look. They were everywhere.

These large insects were flying endless loops, back and forth, at heights from about four feet up to ten or twelve feet above the road. Looking up I could see them dashing back and forth through my visual field. They filled the sky like the aeroplanes one sees in old war movies.

 Odonata Darting, Looping, and Diving Like Aeroplanes in an Old War Movie

A number of them were perched on a roadside stick. With my close-up butterfly binoculars I was able to identify them as Spiny Baskettails (Tetragoneuria  spinigera), one of Minnesota's earliest dragonflies.

Spiny Baskettail Dragonflies Resting. Perching Posture 
Is Often A Clue in Identifying A Dragonfly Species.

Spiney Baskettails are among the earliest dragonflies to emerge in Minnesota. They appear in May and by midJuly they will be gone. But other species which emerge later will take their place plucking insects out of our air. Dragonfly species have definite time slots during which they emerge, feed, mate, and die. And like all other living organisms, each species has particular habitat requirements if it is to complete its life cycle: ponds, lakes, slow moving streams, fast moving streams, sand bottoms, mud bottoms, water acidity, and oxygen level are some of the characteristics that define dragonfly habitats. This is just one of the ways these marvelous creatures have been differentiated to increase their chance of survival.

I remember once spending a half hour watching members of four different dragonfly species patrolling a length of a leisurely flowing Florida stream. I was fascinated to observe that each species kept to it's own part of the stream habitat and used a unique flight pattern to cover the area. Three of the dragonflies defined their foraging territory by the height they flew above the water, and it never varied. The fourth patrolled only the area where the grassy bank met the water. One dragonfly never strayed into another's foraging space. Each of the three dragonflies patrolling over the open water had its own particular zig-zag pattern which it repeated again and again. In this regard dragonflies live much like forest birds where each has its own preferred foraging height, food, and behaviors, referred to as a niche. But not all dragonflies patrol continuously, Like some birds, some dragonfly species prefer to perch, then pounce on a passing meal. And like birds, dragonflies can be very territorial, with a dominant male chasing away all male intruders. Some male dragonflies guard and protect their mate while she is laying her eggs in or around the water.

As a little kid I was somewhat afraid of dragonflies. Their long sleek bodies made me think that they could sting. Their size made me think the sting would be mighty painful. Their quick erratic flight made me think there would be no way to elude one that wanted to sting me. All of these scary myths were reinforced by the kinds of folk beliefs and horror stories kids like to share.

Damsel flies, the other major component of the order Odonata, were in some ways scarier than dragonflies. Their bodies were longer and slimmer, even more suggestive of a stinger than a dragonfly body. I grew up in the age before swimming pools were common and these guys sometimes induced a little fright as they hovered around us down at the swimming holes on the local creeks.

Damsel Flies, Smaller Relatives of Dragonflies, Are Every Bit as Interesting.

Today I know that dragon flies and their much smaller relatives, the damsel flies, do not sting or attack people. I know that their Latin name, Odonata, means "tooth" and refers to the toothed lower lip that dragonflies (and their water-dwelling nymphs) use to grab and grasp the species they prey upon. Adult dragonflies eat mosquitoes and other flying insects they capture in midair. Close up I have actually heard a perched dragonfly munching on a captured prey insect. Dragonflies  can capture even the fastest flying insects because they are amazing aerobatic fliers, able to make high-speed turns that seem to be right angles and they are the only insect that can truly hover and even fly backwards.


With all these fascinating characteristics its no wonder people love learning about dragonflies and have organized societies to observe and study them, much as they have organized societies to observe and study birds. Here are some internet resources where you can get more information about dragonflies and damselflies. Keep in mind that with an estimated 5,000 dragonfly and damselfly species in the world, of which about 435 are found in North America and  more than 100 are found in Minnesota and Wisconsin, opportunities for observation abound.

A major resource for beginners and experts.
http://www.odesforbeginners.com/resources/res-organizations.aspx

Dragonfly Society of the Americas
http://www.odonatacentral.org/index.php/PageAction.get/name/HomePage

United States Geological Survey
http://www.npwrc.usgs.gov/resource/distr/insects/dfly/index.htm

Another good source of dragonfly information is the online Wikipedia, keywords Odonata and dragonflies.


For interested Minnesotans: The MN Odonata Survey Project
http://www.mndragonfly.org/resources.html

Any internet search will turn up lots of dragon fly books. For a beginner the best books are generally field guides focused on a local region because it is too easy to get lost and discouraged with the more comprehensive books. 

An excellent field guide for Minnesota and Wisconsin residents is:
Mead, Kurt. Dragonflies of the North Woods. Duluth: Kollath+Stensis Publishing, 2003.

The Case of the Lazy Snake

April 18. The northward bound warblers are passing through Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge at this time of year. The Woodland Trail, a walking loop along the Wildlife Drive, often a good place to spot these frenetically flitting fliers, called me in for a short hike. The patch of woodland was surprisingly quiet, a temporary ornithological desert. So in keeping with my motto "It's the small stuff that counts" I found enjoyment in checking the greenness of the spring moss along the path and the emerging shoots of woodland flowers to be.

I was so focused on the plant life that I almost missed something moving twenty feet down the trail. It was a gopher snake, also called a bull snake because it is one of the largest snakes in North America. Gopher snakes are non-venomous snakes that have a diet high in small mammals, thus are extremely valuable for rodent control. While these snakes do a very good rattlesnake imitation when threatened, I have been able to get quite near to them in the wild without arousing their "fight or flight" mode by simply being quiet and moving very slowly, or not at all. To read more about these most interesting animals go to:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bullsnake

I slowly walked up to where this snake stretched out across the trail. Unfortunately it saw me coming, turned back, and disappeared behind a fallen tree that paralleled the trail. I could hear it rustling through the oak leaf litter and quickly determined it was going my way. Sure enough it reemerged ten yards further down the trail, apparently still determined to cross over. How are you as an observer? Can you spot the snake in the picture below?

Gopher Snake Emerging Downtrail

 

 I stood still to let the snake cross without disturbance. It's scales, beautifully patterned in brown, black, and gray, reflected the bright morning sun.  I estimated the length at close to six feet, the diameter at about two inches.

 Usually when we meet snakes they are hurrying away from us and our meeting is fleeting. I decided this snake was hunting for lunch and by being unobtrusive I might have a great opportunity to get some interesting pictures. Once I had watched a Florida coral snake as it went about its foraging, but that had been for just a few short minutes before it disappeared from sight. This was going to be different. This snake was in no hurry as it rustled through the oak leaf litter flicking its tongue in and out with a rhythm as regular as a metronome. And it was oblivious to me, so here was an opportunity to find out what everyday life is like for a snake this size in the wild.

The snake poked it's head under the leaf litter here and there, then withdrew and altered course a bit. It never went more than a few feet from the trail, so following along was easy.

Gopher Snake Paralleling the Trail

At one point the snake entered a crack in a hollow downed tree. I expected to see it come out with some unfortunate rodent in its jaws. I gripped the camera tighter in anticipation. Ready, focus, ---

Gopher Snake Exploring A Hollow Log

But my anticipation vanished as the snake made a U-turn somewhere in the log and reemerged, passing over its own middle section like some Chinese acrobat.

Gopher Snake Reemerging from Log

We traveled along the trail together for another ten minutes. A lot of poking around under piles of rustling leaves and a few more leisurely excursions over and along more downed trees turned up no lunch.

 More Downed Trees to Explore

We came up to another fallen oak, and again snake started exploring along one side, poking its head under the snag wherever there was space. I began to wonder how much longer we would have to spend before finding lunch. Snake had the answer in just a few minutes. It found  a patch of bright sun shining down through the newly leafing trees. There it curled up, piling itself on top of itself in the center of that sunny spot. Then it rested its head and went to sleep. At least as far as I could tell it was asleep. I waited about five minutes but the snake was as still as a stone. I walked up the trail for about fifteen minutes looking for birds, but found only a few American robins. On the way back I noted the snake was still in the same sunny spot. "Get up and get moving you lazy snake" I thought as I walked past on the way to my truck. Then I was struck by the realization that the snake was enjoying the gift of spring sunshine every bit as much as I was. Maybe next time we'll have a successful hunt together.

A Good Place for A Nap if You're A Snake

A Good Monday Morning

Monday, April 12. This didn't feel like the old "Oh no, the weekend's over" Mondays of my career work days. I got up in a  state of happy anticipation at 5:00 AM   :>(   with a commitment to assist in the weekly waterfowl survey that spans the spring migration season at Sherburne National Wildlife Refuge. Another survey will be conducted during the fall migration. But for now this would be a new experience for me and I savored the thought of facing yet another venture into the natural world. :>)

At our rendezvous point Refuge Biologist Lizzy Berkley and I swigged some warm coffee to fight off the morning chill then hopped into her white refuge truck. We bounced and jounced along miles of the internal "roads" that wander across the refuge. We navigated across parts of the refuge inaccessible to the public during the March 1 - August 31 sanctuary period set aside for breeding and nesting. This comprises most of the 31,000 acre refuge area. As we started out we were watched by many curious, inquiring deer scattered through the oak savanna areas. At one point a large wide-eyed white tail, ears erect, stood in the road facing us directly, didn't move for what seemed a long while in animal time. I was as curious as to what her animal mind might be doing as she probably was about our presence in her living room.

Along the way we encountered groupings of not so common ducks, some up close. As Lizzy did the counting I recorded her information on a special tally form. Here are a few of the species we saw:

Hooded Merganser Male

 

 Photo by Doug Greenberg on Flickr


Greater and Lesser Scaup

Lesser

Photo by Kenneth Nanney on Flickr

Buffleheads

Photo by Phil Armishaw on Flickr

 At times we did a bit of conferring. Part of the fun was pointing things out to one another as we moved along. In the tall-grass areas we passed several congregations of wild turkeys with males strutting their stuff for the choosey, seemingly nonchalant females. In one area three males were attracting a goodly band of ladies while off in the distance another male strutted all alone. Suddenly realizing he was missing the action he folded his fan and ran at top speed to join the party.

We saw a number of eagle nests with parents in residence; seven immature (one-four year old) bald eagles in a group; plus numerous mature eagles here and there; trumpeter swans and Canada geese in the early stages of pairing and nesting; tons of coyote tracks; a mink running down the middle of the road ahead of us, ducking into the cattails and then running beside us; and some elusive, ephemeral pasque flowers finishing their early spring tenure.

 Pasque Flowers

 Photo by Su Johnson, Friends of Sherburne NWR

 In several ponds we spotted beavers swimming along as busy as - well, beavers.  Some of the hidden little pond and marsh areas seemed to call out for us to stay, relax, and be plucked out of the normal flow of time. But we had a mission. By the end of our three hour survey I realized how truly lucky I am to have many incredible opportunities to volunteer at Sherburne Refuge.

If you're in our area of east central Minnesota you might find a volunteer opportunity at Sherburne NWR that will add a deep sense of satisfaction to your life. There's plenty to do. Check in at Exploresherburne.org for more information.

If you live elsewhere, check for opportunities on your home turf. Since the US Fish and Wildlife Service manages over 500 refuges there's a good chance you live near one. If not, there may be a nature center nearby that would like to have your help. Right in your own backyard you might find a place where you can make a satisfying contribution while finding respite from the noise and busyness of everyday life.

This blog focuses on learning about nature through experience rather than just through adult-level intellectual lessons. I recently found an entry on another blog that emphasizes the fact that a child's curiosity and determination to experience nature can be stronger than an adult's plan to teach a nature lesson. If you like the idea of kids learning about nature I think you'll enjoy this post.

http://www.wildaboutnatureblog.com/2010/03/27/kids-in-the-woods/

Joe Barefoot and the Suet Ball

Much of this blog has been about nature experiences that children can encounter on their own. But there is one place where adults can provide important guidance to youngsters. That's in the area of getting familiar with backyard birds.

Experiencing:

My grandmother, in whose kitchen I seem to have spent half of my young life, had a large spreading double flowered Japanese cherry growing in the yard behind her kitchen. In the spring the tree was a mass of large, drooping light pink flowers, as solid as an umbrella. It engulfed me in a happy feeling of peacefulness just to stand under it and look up into the solid pink canopy. I have never known another tree of any kind to flower so copiously.  Hanging from the center of the canopy of flowers was a bird feeder which "Gram" kept full all year long. But in the spring that tree was an unforgettably beautiful backdrop for the visiting birds. Picking up on "Gram's" interest in birds I soon became familiar with all the common birds in the neighborhood. I would stand at her kitchen window mesmerized by the comings and goings and the intermittent squabbles of her feathered visitors.

Then in fourth grade Joe Barefoot launched me on a lifelong bird feeding venture of my own. Joe Barefoot (Mr. Barefoot in the classroom, Joe Barefoot to the town folk.) was a traveling media person in our small town. This was decades before the word "media" meant more than oils, pastels, etc., so I don't know what his title actually was. He traveled from classroom to classroom in our elementary schools with a movie projector and reels of film that served as magic gateways to the world beyond our limited horizon.This was in the years when television was no more than a novelty for early adopters, so when Mr. Barefoot came to our classroom one could sense the excitement. Nobody was about to take the slightest action that might annoy the teacher and cancel our show. I recall movies about Eskimo and African cultures, agriculture and the geographical wonders of the world. But the real thunderbolt Joe Barefoot threw at me came the day he carried in a mysterious brown paper bag along with his projector. He talked about feeding birds, then opened the bag and pulled out a round ball on a string. It was a suet ball packed with seeds. Next he tilted the bag toward us and showed us the bird feed within, a mixture of sunflower seeds and millet..

In the next breath he announced that he could get these items for us at lower prices than those in the store and that if we wanted to feed the birds he would take orders and make deliveries. I think the seed price was something like pennies a pound.

I rushed home that day and begged my mother to let me order some seed. Now my family didn't have much money and didn't buy anything that wasn't necessary, but on this occasion my mother agreed - provided I paid for half out of the little green money can on my closet shelf. I was elated.

I set about designing a bird feeder. From somewhere I got some one inch boards. My buddy Bruce got a saw, I got a hammer and nails.  We cut boards and pounded together a bird feeder in his garage. By the time the seeds were paid for and delivered my feeder was painted brown with floor paint and  hanging in the little jack pine along our back walkway, right over my little wildflower garden. I can still see it in my minds eye. It was a terrific feeder that lasted for years. Reflecting back I still wonder where I got the  know-how to design and build it.

Soon I had the cardinals, bluejays, juncos, titmice and other local characters coming out of nowhere to hang out at my feeder. My mother relented and started buying the feed, and I was launched on a lifelong habit. I have been hanging bird feeder ever since. During the years that my wife Mary and I were RVing full time I designed a clear plastic feeder to hang on the ladder on the back of our trailer, right up against the one way window. Over the years we saw dozens of bird species a nose length away, birds that were never seen around my original Pennsylvania home. I owe the long departed Joe Barefoot a big thank you.

Now that I'm living in east central Minnesota the number of winter bird species at my feeder is limited. But here is the main cast of characters that show up at the feeder just outside the kitchen patio door.

The Red-Bellied Woodpecker

The red-bellied woodpecker is my favorite winter bird. I don't know why. I just love the sharp color pattern and the exaggerated woodpeckery behavior of this bird. It seems to broadcast an attitude of being in charge of its world. The picture directly above clearly illustrates how a woodpecker uses its tail for a prop.

 

The Hairy Woodpecker

The hairy woodpecker and the similar looking downy woodpecker spend a lot of time at the feeder.

A Visiting Chickadee

Researchers claim the chickadee is America's favorite bird. I don't doubt it. They are so bold and friendly that I've actually had them land on me while sitting quietly in the woods. Besides they're never ending seed transfers from feeder to tree bark are amazing to watch.

The White Breasted Nuthatch

The white breasted nut hatch as well as the chickadees provide endless entertainment as they hold a sunflower seed under one foot and peck it open- a crafty maneuver. The nuthatch is not as accommodating as the chickadee and will often drive other birds away until it decides to leave.

Dark Eyed Juncos

Life wouldn't be the same in snow country without the dark-eyed juncos. These sparrows are one of our most numerous winter residents according to our annual Christmas Bird Count. In summer ours move north but they always return just before the winter snows.

Knowing:

By observation I've learned that the term "pecking order" really means something in the woodpecker family. Pecking order is determined by species size and is, in decreasing rank: pileated, red-bellied, hairy, and downy. If a woodpecker is on the feeder and a higher ranking one shows up, it leaves almost immediately. It usually goes to a nearby perch and politely waits til the bigger guy takes off. On the other hand, if a higher ranking woodpecker is already on the feeder a new arrival will find a perching place to wait, or else leave the area. It's fun watching these birds pull rank on each other all day long. In the long run everyone gets fed.

Like many who feed the birds I've always had a warm feeling inside as I've thought about helping them survive. I recently learned that birds don't need to be fed in the winter. Nature has equipped them for survival even in our near arctic winters. But if you do feed them they'll repay you with hours of enjoyable watching.

Cold Snake, Warm Pocket

Somewhere along the way to adulthood we learn about cold-blooded animals, those that cannot produce and conserve enough heat to stabilize their body temperature. Most of us get this as a piece of abstract knowledge. Here’s how I learned about it first hand.

Experiencing

It was a late September day. A clear blue sky formed a beautiful canopy over a chilly morning as I set out for French Creek to see what was happening. I elected to take the short cut across the grassy field next to the cement mixing plant even though I risked getting wet in the dewy grass. But this would be just one more time I wouldn’t mind getting my shoes wet until I got home and faced an irate mother.

As I entered the field I found the ankle-high wild grass, now reduced to autumnal brown, wasn’t wet at all. It was covered with white frost and it made a pleasant crackley crunchy sound as I stepped on it. I walked for a ways then turned back to see how far I’d come. The morning sun shining toward me at a low angle gave the whole field an interesting glow of brown frosted with white. And there were my footprints, each one a dark patch in the grass, irrefutable evidence that I had passed through and destroyed the pristine view that had existed just minutes before.

Continuing on my way, scanning the ground ahead, I saw a garter snake stretched out in the grass. I expected it to take off as I got closer but it did not move even a little bit. I was now beyond the reflexive “kill all snakes” attitude of my Froggy Pond days and was curious as to why this dead snake was here in the open. I walked over and gently pushed it with my toe. It didn’t move. I bent down and picked it up. It felt cold and it was very stiff. I figured it had frozen to death.

For some unknown reason I decided to take the snake with me, perhaps for close up examination later. I folded it up and put it in my pants pocket.

Before I reached the far side of the field, which was about a hundred yards, I felt movement in my pocket. The snake wasn’t dead as I had assumed. Though I was no longer into killing snakes, having a live one in my pocket was a little scary. I carefully reached in and brought out the snake. In human terms I would describe it as groggy, maybe hungover; moving, but very slowly.

So the snake had just been cold, not dead. I found a small bare patch of ground and put the snake down where the sun would shine directly on it. Then I squatted down and waited. It wasn’t very long before the snake, still moving very slowly, wiggled off to enjoy the rapidly warming day.

Knowing

Today I know that nature provides a wide array of survival mechanisms for both plants and animals that face cold-weather during part of the year. Some warm-blooded mammals eat heavily, put on fat, and hibernate for the winter. These sleeping mammals always maintain a body temperature high enough to keep their metabolic processes running.

Snakes cannot maintain a minimum body temperature in cold weather and this makes a world of difference in how they cope with northern winters. The snake’s equivalent of hibernation is a process called brumation.  In brumation the snake’s metabolic processes slow down as the temperature goes down. At the height of winter a snake’s metabolic rate may be close to zero. This means there is no digestive process going on: any food in a snake’s gut will not be digested but will decay over the winter, probably with fatal consequences. Hence unlike mammals that eat more and more to build up a supply of fat as the weather gets colder, snakes eat less and less as fall comes on. As the snake’s metabolism slows down it has a decreasing ability to move. Garter snakes find a place to hide during this vulnerable period of immobility; it can be an animal burrow, a cave, a sheltered space under an outbuilding or a hollow under some big rocks. Typically many garter snakes will find the same sheltering place in a process called denning, which may include a dozen, a hundred or even thousnads of individuals depending on the surrounding habitat. It is said that it is an amazing sight to see garter snakes emerging enmasse from a large den as they all regain their mobility at the same time. It’s something I hope to witness some day.

photo by EcoSnake on Flickr

Garter Snakes Emerging from a Den

My garter snake was probably in a temporary state of immobility because its temperature, and hence its metabolism, was lowered by the frost. I imagine the snake waking up in my pants pocket that morning was no less surprised than I was.

Bone Dog

Here's another reminder that the natural world isn't always pleasant to the adult mind but that kids left to pursue their natural curiosity aren't constrained to dealing with just the pleasantries. As an illustration I'm rolling out another memory of a situation from my childhood just as it happened. If you're finding this post really bothers you, please skip it.

--------------------------

The Experiencing:

One day on my way home from checking out Froggy Pond I turned off into one of the grassy fields that was just slightly higher than the railroad tracks. I had no real reason for turning off except curiosity. But come to think of it, that was about as fine a reason as one could have for walking into a field of autumnal brown better-than-knee-high grasses full of whirring brown and yellow flying grasshoppers. At the top of the three-foot incline I surveyed the unexplored land. It was pretty flat. About twenty feet away a small wild cherry tree caught my attention. Not because it was there, but because it had an old piece of cotton clothesline hanging down from a point about three feet up the trunk. I figured some other kid must have discovered this field before me and had built something there, something that needed checking out.

I loped over to the tree and looked down to where the rope trailed away into the grass. There was a skeleton lying in the grass. I bent down to have a closer look. It was the skeleton of a dog: clean and white, which I now know means it was probably at least a few months old. The rope was fairly well deteriorated too, but I could still see the loop that had at one time been around the dogs neck.

In a matter of seconds I was overwhelmed by the questions running through my mind and some very bad feelings that went with them. How did this dog get here? How long ago? Did somebody tie it to this tree and leave it to die? I couldn't image anyone doing that. Yet the rope was definitely tied around the tree. It couldn't have been accidentally snagged behind a running dog, which I wanted to believe in preference to thinking of this as a deliberate act. Could somebody have tied the dog here, gone away for a while, and then forgot about it? No matter how I tried I couldn't find a reasonable explanation. My mind was unwillingly captivated by a picture of this dog patiently standing and uselessly barking and barking for someone to come.

The mind looks for escape hatches in the midst of true horror. In the midst of my bewilderment I found an escape of last resort. I recalled a black lab my maternal grandfather used to have. It was at a time when I was so small I didn't have more than a general memory of it. As I got old enough to understand things I asked my mother why my grandfather didn't have the dog anymore. She told me he had bought it for hunting and when the dog turned out to be useless for hunting he took it out and shot it. At the time that haunted me as a very sad death of a good dog that could have been fun to have around for a long time.

But now as I stood looking down at bone dog this same recollection gave me the escape I sought from my confused frustration. Somebody had tied this dog to the tree and shot it. Perhaps it was sickly, dying anyway, and the owner didn't know what else to do. In any case it died quickly. That must have been what happened. That was bad to think about, but not as bad as picturing a slow lingering death.

Now I wanted to know more about bone dog so I squatted down in the grass to examine the remains. From the size, the shape of the skull and the remnants of hair still visible in the grass I knew bone dog had been a collie. I looked for any evidence that bone dog had been shot, but I didn't see any obvious bullet damage in the skull. Then I figured that bone dog could have been killed with a shotgun blast which might not leave visible damage in the skeleton. After all when my father brought home rabbits and pheasants from his hunting trips they had only a few tiny pellets in them.

I had never dealt with a skeleton before so I spent time just looking at how bone dog had been put together: backbone, ribs, leg bones all were just about where they should be. In fact looking back now I'm surprised that the skeleton was intact. Apparently no predators or scavengers had pulled bone dog apart.

My final act was to pick up the skull and look at bone dog face-to-face. I wiggled a canine tooth and it came out easily. Then I could see how it had been set into the jawbone. Finally I laid the skull and tooth back where I had found them and took my leave of bone dog. For some reason I have never recounted this episode to anyone until today, even though it has popped up to the level of consciousness at various times in my life.

The Knowing.

Probably the most powerful lesson from my encounter with bone dog was that human nature could be unfeeling. The idea of leaving a dog to die was untenable. But even if bone dog had been shot in some merciful way he/she at the very least deserved a respectful burial.

At the material level I learned something about how animal skeletons are put together. At the time it was just interesting information to a curious, exploring kid. Sixty years later I see that it was an early indication of my lifelong interest in biology. And had I been taught to stay away from such things as bone dog I would have missed out on an important learning experience along the path to my later professional life.
And I still say “I’m sorry for whatever happened to you bone dog and sorry that I never knew your name. But I thank you for the lessons.”

Apples, Wasps, and Nascent Love

You may recall that early on in this blog I stated that human nature is certainly a part of the natural world though we seldom think of it that way. Here's an example of what I meant by that comment. First the "Knowing" part.

Nature seems to have decreed that boys and girls grow up seeing the world through different filters and reacting to it in different ways. That's not surprising since biologically the genders have significant differences as well as similarities. In fact in many species the male and female live out their lives quite separately, only getting together to mate. The need to reproduce in humans typically brings couples together for mating and then an extended time of child rearing. So the little boys who don't like little girls and the little girls who stay aloof from little boys have to merge their worlds at some point so they can live together and ensure the next generation. Nature takes care of this melding very nicely in our prepubescent years. Our first moves toward the opposite gender are asexual and arise from some shared activity.

And now the "Experiencing" part.

With me it happened in the summer between fourth and fifth grade when a new family moved into one of the large old brick houses up the street. Since we shared our town with a large army hospital the arrival and departure of families was a common happening. The Bishop family had two initial attractions that drew me right in: they weretwo beautiful boxers that my dog-loving side couldn't resist. Getting acquainted with the dogs meant getting acquainted with the two sisters who were always out in the yard at the same time. Mediated by a love of dogs my relationship with Sandra Bishop and her younger sister soon developed into a genuine playworld friendship.

I can't recall what all we did through those days of late summer. I just recall that Sandra was an outdoor type girl who wasn't about make-believe tea parties in the living room. And as the summer went on I realized that she was very pretty. Now the Bishops had two hugh old apple trees out beyond the kitchen. No one tended them, yet they managed to put out a good crop of sweet gnarly apples. Now one of my greatest talents as a boy was tree climbing. I had proudly conquered just about every decent sized tree for a half mile around. The branches of big apple trees are arrayed for easy climbing. The Bishop's apple tree was not a challenge to me at all so I couldn't resist the temptation to get an apple right from the tree. But how surprising and exhilerating it was the first time I went up it to find Sandra climbing right beside me. This was the first of numerous expeditions. As I demonstrated my lack of fear, and she matched it, we soon got into the habit of going as far out on a limb as we dared, picking an apple, then chomping away in our shadey bower, talking about who knows what.

photo by donsutherland on Flickr

Apples, A Member of the Rose Family

Now I was still a boy and into the type of teasing that little boys dish out to little girls in lieu of knowing how else to show they are beginning to care. In our case it came when we noticed dozens of unusual large wasps hovering just over the grass every warm sunny day. These were not the common paper wasps that built nests under our eaves. These wasps were larger and more colorful.

Periodically one of these wasps would descend into the lawn where it would move awkwardly through its grassy thicket. We would bend down close to see what it was doing. Then I got a great idea, one of those challenges that only a male brain would contrive. With a quick motion I grasped a wasp with thumb and forefinger on each side of the abdomen, much like holding a pencil. I held it up so we could examine it closely. We could see the little stinger going in and out vainly trying to find a target. Then the next idea struck. I pointed the stinger toward Sandra and told her she'd better run. She did, in that knowing way that said she understood the game. If there had been real fear she would have run into the house instead of running circles around the lawn pleading with me to stop. Later I showed her how to safely catch a wasp, and to my delight she was a perfect student. Now she had a weapon as good as mine and the running in circles ceased in favor of a logical truce between friends.

Schooldays came and then winter. Sandra was in a different classroom, there were no more apples to be picked, and I walked to school and she apparently didn't, so our closeness faded into a lull to match the season. Then came the day that a neighbor announced that Sandra's father had been transferred again and that they were gone in that mysterious way of military families. There were no goodbyes, only a crushing disbelief that the friendship I had automatically imagined stretching into my future was not to be. Much later there were memories. To this day, as much as I have looked, I have never again seen wasps like those of my apple tree summer. Nor have I ever tried to catch wasps that way again, although I know I could. My sole connection with those sweet apple summer days is that I have a wonderful loving daughter named Sandra, just a bit tomboyish, a lover of dogs and animals in general, and determined to be outdoors whenever she can.

Froggy Pond Part 3

I am flagging my final memory of Froggy Pond with a reminder that nature is not always pretty, nice, neat or cute. It is what it is - raw biology, relentless geological change, and elements of climate and weather that pay no heed to our human frailties. Children allowed to explore the realm of biology uninhibited by adult concepts of “scarey“ or “not nice“, are interested in just about everything. Gooey, stinky, mushed, dead, bloody, and a host of other “not nice” adult signal words have no place in the mind of an intrepid young explorer. Learning by exploration will concretely define these words in due time. It is with this in mind that I introduce the following section by warning those who have never experienced more than the pleasant intersection of nature with human nature that they may find it disturbing.

 Froggy Pond was a mecca for garter snakes. I'm sure they came there for the fresh water and a feast of tadpoles. One side of the little hole we called Froggy Pond was composed of intertwined roots of overhanging shrubs. Every few minutes a garter snake, sometimes two, would come up out of the roots at the edge of the little spring hole and freeze for a few moments in a shape something like a question mark. In an instant they would disappear back down into the tangle of roots.

CaptPiper photo on Flickr

Eastern Garter Snake

Like everyone else in our world Bruce and I knew that snakes were bad critters and that the only good snake was a dead snake. Top that off with the boyish challenge of "getting" one of these fast moving creatures and you have the essence of this story. We were not about to try catching a live snake by hand so we scrounged around for ammunition. Garter snakes were pelted with sticks, stones, and chunks of black railroad cinder. We temporarily distracted them, so that we had to wait longer between their reappearances, but for the most part they just ignored us and went about their business as usual. Finally Bruce, always the more adventurous and daring of our duo, got a decent size stick, crept round behind the spring hole and dealt a mortal blow to the next snake that popped up. Bruce collected the snake and brought it over by the tracks. We solemnly examined it from end to end, noting the stripes, the little eyes, and the mouth. Had we though to open the mouth and look at the almost invisible row of very tiny pin-like teeth we would have realized this snake couldn’t do any harm. But that was a lesson for another day. At the moment we were filled with the idea that we had done a good thing, and we were trying to convince ourselves that we really had accomplished it. I proudly held the dead snake by the tail as we walked home through the hot summer afternoon. Bruce dropped off at his house and I continued on alone. A block from home I passed the house of my other best friend Lew. His visiting aunt was sweeping off the little portico by the side door. “You should see what I have” I called out to her. I‘m sure there must have been a tone of pride in my voice. “What is it?” she asked as she put down the broom and descended three steps. I held the snake up as she approached. “Ewwww! A snake!” So exclaiming, she bypassed the steps, ran up the grassy bank, entered the house and slammed the door. I was completely baffled by her reaction. After all the snake was dead.

When I got home I showed my mother the snake. She didn’t like snakes but at least she had encountered them in her life time and wasn’t afraid of a dead one. She simply told me I’d have to bury it. I folded the snake and for some unknown reason wrapped it in cloth. Then I dug a hole six inches deep in the place where we dumped the coal ashes from our furnace. It was easy digging. After dropping in the snake and refilling the hole I placed a brick as a marker. I carried on my normal life with my friends for about two weeks. Then one day, out of the blue as they say, I wanted to know what was going on with the snake. I got my mother’s trowel, removed the brick, and began the exhumation. I carefully unrolled the cloth with no particular expectation as to what I would find. The snake had changed. It was green. I rolled it back up in the cloth reburied it and never dug it up again. Now I had some idea of what happens to dead things when they are buried. All knowledge can be rated on two scales: interest and importance. The knowledge I gained from this venture was certainly interesting to me but I’m not sure how it rates in importance. I’ve never had a specific need for it, yet in the long run it became part of my understanding of the natural processes of life, death, and recycling in nature.