Christmas Bird Count 2012

Counting birds (instead of shooting them) for 113 years and beyond...

Good old Frank Chapman had it right back in 1900 when he suggested a bird "census" as an alternative to the annual "side hunt" that had routinely claimed the lives of many feathered animals.  I personally have been participating for a mere 10 years, and this particular count was the wettest one in my short association with citizen science contribution.  It rained and rained all day on December 15th, 2012 with a temperature of 47 degrees as the high of the day.  I stayed in "Area 20" as my one-mile "square" of the 15 mile count circle managed by Andrea Szymczak.  Carl Schroeder acts as Wisconsin's CBC Regional Editor for data.  I was on my own this year as Barbara needed to be at work on that particular Saturday and I'm almost certain that in the end, staying warm and dry was just fine by her; however I know that she would have if she could have gone along to be with me.

I began my search for random avian life along the south bank of the Menominee River Parkway just south of State Street in Wauwatosa on the easternmost "edge" of Area 20.  Despite the gray skies and miserable conditions I tallied some Dark-eyed juncos and Mallards, with a pair of Ring-billed gulls out in the drizzle and cool of that particular CBC morning.  On my way back out, I encountered three individuals walking towards me on the woodsy path.  They looked just like birders. In fact, they were when I asked them what they were "up to" on this wet morning.  Interestingly I did not expect to encounter anyone else on this stretch of the CBC, as one must first "register" with the count chairperson beforehand.  It turns out that this group was part of a larger group on the bluff-side of Doyne Park led by Urban Ecology's Timothy Vargo.  Somehow he had his small group of soggy bird-watchers walking through a combination of CBC areas, and claimed to have "told Andrea" this planned route in the week prior.  I pointed out that I had "done" Area 20 for the past three years and that (while I was glad to see company) that perhaps it might be problematic if his group just moseyed through several areas "counting" birds that may have already been accounted for by the area leaders.  Well, ultimately...that's for the "experts" to sort out; I just knew I was "official" in my area, and that all I could do was to continue my organized census in the constant rain. With a round of handshakes for his group of fellow well-intentioned birders I climbed into my trusty WPT, eventually leaving them as they walked northward towards who-knows-where - counting the birds they saw for who-knows-what eventual purpose.

A stop inside Calvary Cemetery next to the freeway that also abuts a strip-joint property called Monreal's Encore scored me another group of juncos, Northern cardinals and a half-dozen Black-capped chickadees.  I marveled at some of the elaborate graffiti scrawled against a retaining wall and listened to the disjointed echoes of a microphone-narrated ceremony to honor fallen war veterans that wafted through the rainy mist across four lanes of traffic on I-94 from the direction of the distant but impressively expansive, civil war era (36,738 graves) Wood National Cemetery.  I mused that those patriotic umbrella-wielding folks with their uniformed attachment were also getting pretty soaked, but for an even grander cause than I was currently involved with.  I respectfully paused to attempt to glean the purpose of the solemn rainy-day gathering, but was unable to distinguish the exact meaning due to the distance, and the constant splashing of the cars and trucks on the rain-soaked freeway.  I moved on.

The remainder of the day's count went fairly routinely with one exception; a surprise encounter with a homeless person "living" in an encampment deep in the woods between (upper) Vliet Street and (lower) Juneau Ave.  In a small, grassy woods-clearing just below an Milwaukee Police vehicle facility (on approximately 48th and Vliet streets) there's a small City tot-lot with a swing set planted in a bed of wood chips. I walked past it as something deeper in the woods caught my eye. I began moving towards the color.  I almost blindly wandered right into a bright-blue, tarp-created, homeless domicile out of sheer careless curiosity. As I crunched on the wet branches and high-stepped through the leafless bramble; I saw sudden movement.  I froze. A black-jacketed figure wearing a fuzzy-rimmed hood, hunch-walked towards a pile of soaked newspapers piled on a stump and began riffling through them with some purpose unbeknownst to me.  I peered into my drippy and foggy binoculars and spied the sprawling homeless "spread" that had a lot of miscellaneous items scattered around that looked suspiciously as though they might have been "liberated" from the surrounding neighborhood. As I stood watching from a distance leaning against a large tree trunk, I saw a newer looking green ten-speed type bicycle wheeled out from the brush, and this unlikely bicyclist  proceed to actually "lock" it to a nearby tree.  (Apparently there's no honor among the homeless either.)  

Now perhaps this particular unfortunate situation is somehow known and tolerated, however if my home was located in that cozy Milwaukee neighborhood, it would majorly creep me out knowing that while my small children were at play on the tot lot swings in that clearing, that there was a disgustingly grubby human lurking nearby in the woods with some of my stuff possibly collected from my own back yard.  I debated stopping in to tell the police in person however I envisioned a hassle with that scenario, so I sent an anonymous email "tip" instead.

I drove the remainder of my route in a serpentine fashion, cutting up one street and down another with my window open as much as I could tolerate the wind and raindrops; listening.  I was rewarded in the Washington Highlands neighborhood with a random Red-bellied woodpecker call and four different groups of House sparrows, noisily cheeping deep within clumps of weather-protective shrubbery.  I called it quits just as daylight (gray as it was) began to fade into dusk.  I was wet and tired, ready to tally up my sightings for the day.  I later emailed my results to Andrea and skipped the post-count festivities at the Schlitz Audubon Center for the dryness and warmth of the apartment and the equally warm company of Barbara; the 2012 CBC was now only a memory with only the day's census results to view.  That was just fine with me...I did my part and felt glad to have assisted in even the smallest of ways.   The data collected by observers over the past century allow researchers, conservation biologists, and other interested individuals to study the long-term health and status of bird populations across North America. When combined with other surveys such as the Breeding Bird Survey, it provides a picture of how the continent's bird populations have changed in time and space over the past hundred years. 

Next year; why not join me?  

Email me your interest for 2013 -  birdstud@birdmilwaukee.com

Hiking the Appalachian Trail...The MOVIE

SMOKY MOUNTAIN MEMORIES

YOU asked for it...now HERE it is!

The MOVIE!

Enjoying a Rising Son Along the Appalachian Trail - P1

"A son is a mirror to the face of his father; be always mindful of influence and behavior which may  forever be reflected." 

As you know if you've read any number of these blog entries; you get a mixed bag of content.  At times the subject is strictly about birds and bird-like information, and others it's hard to separate my musings from the story-line.  This latest entry is the wistful celebration of a fortunate Dad (who just happens to like birding).  I hope you find it entertaining as well as informative.

I've always tried hard to find ways to say, 'yes' to opportunity.  Surely not everything turns out the way it started in theory, but that's not a good excuse to not try something.  So it was with the plan.  Plan "A" was crafted carefully over the months after the initial "let's do it" was agreed upon.  My son Nelson and I decided to hike and camp the Great Smoky Mountains together in July of 2012.  We began with the idea some six-months prior, and I slowly filled in the missing pieces to make it happen.  He arranged his busy schedule to carve out a week of precious time and I did the same thing.  The trip began on the sixth of July in the early hours of that Friday morning.  We were to drive all the way to Pigeon Forge, TN and spend the night.  We'd head out of the highest point in Tennessee, Clingman's Dome the following morning as early as possible.  The trip was to take about four and a half days and cover over 45 miles.

After loading up the WPT with our backpacking gear, (mine was mostly borrowed) and some extra overnight clothing; we started the six hundred and sixty six mile drive.  The weather had been extra hot in the weeks prior; in the record-breaking ranges, and the day promised as much.  The compulsory stop for gasoline and a McDonald's steak, egg, and cheese bagel sandwich was also accounted for and executed.  I had previously "Googled" for directions to our overnight destination and had also printed them out.  Technology advances (such as Nelson's I-Phone) had practically made that process archaic if not quaint.  All one needs to do now is tap on the touch-screen of their handheld communication device of choice, and instantly (via GPS) your exact whereabouts are digitally displayed along your intended route.  Nelson, along with being a (almost 23 yr-old) recent undergraduate bearer of two music degrees; is also an accomplished passenger-navigator.  As a result, we had no problems with our directions to the southeastern edge of Tennessee.  Traveling around the traffic-challenged city of Chicago is however another matter for another blog.

Dumping the contents of my borrowed (exterior frame) Gregory backpack on the hotel bed; I sorted through the miscellaneous flotsam to determine just how to shave off a few of the over 45 pounds I had loaded into and onto the pack.  Now I'm not exactly in the greatest of physical condition, but I was fairly sure I could "handle" the weight, as it was (of course) strapped to my back.   However the more times I hefted it behind me, the less certain I was becoming of the poundage VS the distance(s) to be carried.  I also worried slightly about an unforeseen dislocation or nagging back strain.  Ultimately about a dozen instant meals were left behind as well as some extra "meal bars."  That shaved about four pounds off my total, but planning for a five-day hike meant extra gear was anticipated.  Confident we had what was necessary for the adventure, we walked down the steep driveway and across the six-lane, jam-packed in both directions, street to the Tony Roma's of Pigeon Forge for one last civilized dining experience (complete with beer, of course).

My oldest son Nelson is cool.  I know I am dating myself when I use that phrase, but that is just what he is.  He might disagree with me because he's pretty hard on himself at times in a perfectionist manner, but trust me; I know "cool" and he is it.  This is a kid who has been mostly on his own for the better part of five years since high school while getting his education.  He's experienced quite a slice of humanity in his short life.  He likes almost everybody and they like him after meeting him.  I am proud of his accomplishments in his chosen field of music (he primarily plays the saxophone) and I am impressed with his ability to smile in the face of adversity.  He has a clever sense of humor along with a positive outlook on life.  He tells me often that, "life is too short not to enjoy it."  Nelson is in great physical shape.  He runs as well as using his bike to get back and forth to work.  I knew he'd be just fine; it was me I was worried about...

The next day held several surprises on the way to the beginning of the trail-head we had chosen.  First, mother nature had decided to deliver an aggressive storm in the days prior to our arrival.  The area was littered with the remnants of downed trees and limbs.  Our drive to the Sugarlands Visitor Center was quite a bit longer than the 18 miles it was supposed to be.  We were preempted first by an horrific traffic accident in the small village of Sevierville on Wears Valley Rd. that (as we later discovered) had tragically claimed the lives of three family members killed in a head-on traffic accident.  While we waited in line on the narrow and twisting section of road, we met Curtis Clarke from Allstate Insurance (who was attempting an 8:00 appointment) and had the unique and unexpected opportunity to sample the original "Grandmother's Cathead Biscuits".  Nelson had volunteered to gather the tasty breakfast while Curtis and I stood watching the long line of cars and flashing emergency vehicles in the distance.  Nelson returned with a bag containing two small biscuit-sandwiches.  He explained that "Cathead" meant literally the SIZE (or as they say down here, "s'aahs") of the biscuit and how he chose differently when provided the facts. The biscuit sandwiches (bacon and cheese, and sausage) were nonetheless delicious. An hour had passed with no movement, so with the aid of his I-Phone, we eventually navigated a new (unorthodox) route past the lengthening line of stopped vehicles.

Unbeknownst to us, the only road from Cades Cove to Sugarlands was closed and blockaded against through-traffic due to multiple downed trees.  We arrived at the "T" intersection and proceeded left.  The flashing lights of the National Parks Service vehicles and arms-crossed  officials standing on the roadway told us the unfortunate truth. This caused us to have to backtrack our entire route all the way into Pigeon Forge.  The accident was still in place as the State Patrol performed their triage and diagnostics of the disaster, so around the detour we navigated once more; finally pulling into Sugarlands around 10:30.  So much for the early start we had tried to get.  I filled out a back-country permit with our preliminary destinations for each day.  This listed the exact day and campsite we expected to overnight in for the entire week.  We each visited the restrooms and the gift shop before getting back in the truck to drive the 23 additional miles up to Clingman's Dome.  Up, up, up we drove to just about the 6000 foot mark to the parking lot.  I unlocked the three Masterlock padlocks on the gate of the WPT and we each claimed our individual burdens of gear.

The blazing sun was shining brightly at this extreme altitude and the temperature topped 90 degrees as we mingled with the dozens and dozens of giddy families who had driven up and parked with a far different expectation in mind. Nelson shouldered his pack with youthful ease, and a typical Nelson (this is so cool) grin.  I grabbed mine and labored it to my back; shoving my arms clumsily through the twin straps.  The 42-pound block of stuff on my back whispered into my ear, "what a fool you are Devereaux...ha, ha, ha..." as I began to trundle up the unforgiving side of Mount Crumpet.   But first, we needed to fill our water bottles...but how?

(This is the end of part one...)