On the Airspeed Velocity of an Unladen Swallow

A late April cold snap, complete with pushy wind out of the north and an overcast, dreary morning. I didn't think there would be many birds on the Greenway to see given the conditions (I wasn't sure I wanted to be out there long myself), but as I've found when I make assumptions about nature, I was mistaken.

All the usual suspects were out and about: red-winged blackbirds, Eastern meadowlarks, cardinals, Canada geese, mourning doves. None seemed fazed by the strong wind that made my eyes water and drove my hands into the pockets of my too-think spring jacket. Occasionally a grackle would appear to stall out in midair flying into the wind, but somehow they found a little extra oomph, or a lull in the wind allowed them to keep moving.

At the wetlands, the water  was choppy and leaden gray, the surface sprinkled with the remains of leaves jutting up in the shallows. The near shore was empty save for the antics of a couple dozen swallows.

They kept low to the surface of the water, with their narrow, pointed wings maneuvering deftly to snatch invisible insects from the air. They would spend a minute or two flying into the wind, barely moving forward and sometimes hovering against the gusts as they darted and juked to glean their prey from midair, then wheel around to fly back several yards with the wind only to turn around and repeat the process.

They were mostly tree swallows, with their snowy white bellies and nearly-black backs (there was not enough light to show the brilliant blue iridescence that lurked in their feathers). I caught sight of a single barn swallow, with its unmistakable long forked tail and rusty belly.

It was a pleasant surprise to get such a close glimpse into their habits; so often they are moving too quickly and too high overhead to get a good long look at them (much less decent photos). So I suspect I should be thankful to that cold, pushy wind for driving them down to my level and slowing their movement to allow observation more my speed (that is, slow).

The Charming Chickadee

Who doesn't have a fondness for the acrobatic, omnipresent black-capped chickadee? They've got it all in a tiny, boisterous package: good looks, an outgoing demeanor, and a fondness for sunflower and other seeds commonly found at backyard feeders. As an added bonus, they are year-round residents in Iowa so they help brighten our short winter days with their cheerful presence.

With their black and white blocked heads and distinctive buzzy chickadee-dee-dee call, chickadees are easy for even novice birders to pick out of a crowd. This call alerts both chickadees and other species to danger, and the more dee-dee-dees you hear, the greater the perceived threat. Males will often engage in a territorial call-and-response, with each two-tone, whistled fee-bee emanating in succession from a different shrub some distance away.

A chickadee's diet varies throughout the year, with insects being favored in the summer when they are readily available. During the winter they may switch to seeds and berries, and they also appreciate some nice calorie-dense suet to help them through sub-zero winter nights. Chickadees are relatively fearless and can sometimes be coaxed to take seed from a human hand (though I have never had the honor).

Like their close relative the tufted titmouse, black-capped chickadees are cavity nesters and may make a home a a suitable nest box or an old woodpecker hollow, although they can also (surprisingly, given their rather diminutive bills) excavate their own nests. Females will lay 6-8 eggs and both males and females will help raise the young.

I can't get enough of watching energetic little chickadees picking individual sunflower seeds from a feeder, carrying them to a nearby branch and whacking it repeatedly with their pointed black bills to get at the tasty nutmeat inside. They will also cache seeds in bark or among leaves to find up to several weeks later. There may be more going on in those tiny heads than we can imagine!

Our "Alternative" Parks System

Occasionally, I do wander places other than the Sycamore Greenway. We are fortunate in Iowa City to have city and county officials who understand the value of parks and natural spaces, and invest in them accordingly.

 One has only to look at the Terry Trueblood Recreation Area for an example of an amazing new park developed by the city, or any of the number of improvements that are planned to other parks in area. F.W. Kent Park is a fantastic place to wander, one of many parks and trails managed by Johnson County Conservation.

And yet, there's more! You can explore several properties in and around Iowa City that are owned by the Bur Oak Land Trust, a private nonprofit that owns and maintains eight properties in Johnson County and works with landowners to identify areas that can be protected in the future.

Their properties are open to the public, with trails for hiking, birdwatching, and botanizing. You may have wandered into Pappy Dickens from Hickory Hill Park, or visited Shimek Ravine on the north side of town. Other properties are a bit off the beaten path but well worth the trip, such as Big Grove near Solon, which was swarming with butterflies just steps from the parking area.

Bur Oak Land Trust works extensively with other local groups and offer programs throughout the year, including the popular Prairie Preview, the upcoming Family Day at Turkey Creek, and the summertime Music on the Prairie.

Shimek Ravine

Pappy Dickens

While I adore our city and county parks and love that my taxes help to support them, I also appreciate having another way to help preserve valuable areas for everyone to enjoy. Donations to Bur Oak Land Trust help their mission "To protect and conserve the natural areas of Johnson and surrounding counties for future generations." There are also numerous opportunities to volunteer at work days, removing invasive species and helping maintain the properties.

I think of them as our "alternative" parks system, operating side by side with our public parks and performing a parallel function to enhance opportunities for everyone to enjoy the outdoors.

A couple of the charming fungi at Big Grove.

The Mustachioed Gentleman

Male, with black mustache

Many birds display some form of sexual dimorphism, with the males and females easily distinguished by their appearance for at least part of the year (males may molt their fancy plumage and appear similar to females during the winter, like our goldfinch). Cardinal males are bright red, while females are mostly brown with red highlights; male and female mallards have very different coloration, as do many finches. Robins show a more subtle difference, with males appearing more vibrantly or deeply colored compared to the somewhat washed-out females.

Red spot on nape

One of my favorite examples of sexual dimorphism is the Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus), one of our big, beautiful woodpeckers. Northern Flickers are soft brown in color, with a barred back, speckled breast and a red heart-shaped spot on the back of the head. In the east, you will see a bright yellow was on the feathers under their wings and tail (known as "yellow shafted"; in the west you will find a "red shafted" race instead, which are red below their wings and tail, and also lack the red mark on their nape).


The best part: you can tell males from females by their mustaches! Males in the east have black mustaches whereas females have no mustache (the western race has red mustaches instead of black).

Female

Unlike other woodpeckers, you will generally find flickers feeding on the ground, chowing down ants and other insects (supplemented with berries and seeds during winter). I've often mistaken them for robins from a distance, until they take flight revealing a bright white patch on their rump. Their call was first described to me as sounding like a "jungle bird," often noted as a repetitive "ki ki ki ki" with increasing intensity.

The Greenway has been swarming with flickers the past couple of weeks, and my silly tradition is to greet them appropriately as Mister or Missus as our paths cross. I never fail to feel a little thrill when I see a flicker, whether it is the first or the fifteenth of the day.

Yellow shafts and white rump

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

There is nothing better than a long walk on a sunny spring day. Just after dawn, a little frost still lingers on the grass and you are happy you bothered with the hat and gloves. All the neighbors greet you: robins and cardinals, song sparrows and downy woodpeckers. The brisk air carries a hint of warmth with the sun, but your breath still puffs little clouds.

A few desultory shots with the camera; nothing new, but you never know who might turn out to strike a stunning pose so you click click click at even the robin poking around in the grass nearby. "What a pretty white eye ring he has," you muse
before wandering off in search of the meadowlark you hear singing in the distance.

Eastern meadowlark

Brown-headed corwbird convention

You catch sight of the meadowlark in a tree east of the trail and trek off the path to circle around and get a shot with the rising sun behind you, shining off the bird's bright lemony breast as his beak gapes in song. Eventually either he or you grows bored and takes off again.

It seems like every treetop is occupied: mostly individual red-winged blackbirds singing and calling, but the top of one tree sports a half-dozen brown-headed cowbirds. They cluster near the top, taking turns calling and puffing their feathers out. They come off as a bunch of Sharks and Jets, young toughs posturing to claim a prime street corner through song and dance. One by one they fly away until a single bird is left in sole possession of the tree.

Further south, the wetlands. A few shots of the waterfowl, but the sparkle of sun on the water, though stunning in life, overwhelms the view.  You turn your head at the right moment and see a heron flying--no wait, its neck is extended straight out. It's one of the sandhill cranes!

Sandhill crane

You look around and think, it doesn't get any better than this. The sun has warmed the air enough that you unzip your coat, take the hat and gloves off. At random intervals you hear a pheasant chock chock first from one direction, then another but you can never quite track them down for a photo. Is this how a hunter feels? Is it harder to shoot a pheasant with a shotgun or a camera? You smugly conclude camera (ignoring the fact that you couldn't bear to shoot a pheasant standing immobile ten feet in front of you with a gun, so wouldn't that logically be the more difficult shot?).

The Canada geese catch sight of you and sound their alarm, and a cluster of birds take off from the water flying northwest. click click click. They are against the sun, so you can only see their silhouettes: longish necks and bills, and longish tails (for a duck). A tentative ID of double-crested cormorants--neat!

Double-crested cormorants?

The water is flowing at the Great Snail Crossing, and the snails are...crossing. Where do they go? Do they always cross west to east, with the flow of water or are they sometimes heading the opposite direction? If you look closely, you can see delicate brown striping on some of the shells, and the threadlike eye stalks. Their little rounded humps mimic the rippling water as it streams over pebbles, cracks and snails to empty into the wetlands. 

The Great Snail Crossing

Finally turning back towards home. The sun dodges behind a cloud and the hat and gloves make another appearance. Briefly, for the sun is not inclined to be shy on this spring day. Your pace picks up as you return along the same path, tired and happy and ready for the rest of the day. One last stop--click--to capture that photogenic stump that always catches you eye, and then you are ready to return to the regular world.