Certain groups of birds seem to invite a degree of lumping by the public when it comes to their descriptions. It's not to fault observers necessarily; the birds themselves can be difficult to separate into species, they being so frustratingly similar to their kin. "Seagulls" is one of my personal favorites. There are many species of gull in North America, even here in North Dakota. None include the word seagull in their name yet the usage of it remains customary. Another commonly used collective noun is "sparrow." There are about 25 sparrow species regularly seen in North Dakota.
I'm typically not a person to sit still when it comes to being in the out-of-doors. Fly-fishing was a sport which occupied a significant portion of my personal time earlier in life. Rare was the instance when I wasn't continually working up or down a river. So it is with birding; non-stop walking or driving is pretty much my modus operandi, slowing only to scan surroundings before moving on. For this reason I'm not sure I would be a very effective bowhunter if it meant sitting in a blind for hours at a time.
It's called the "universal solvent," if I can maintain the thin threads of foggy memory from high school science class; so named for its unparalleled ability to dissolve more substances than any other chemical. What magical compound occupies such a lofty perch? Water, good old H-2-O. This wonderfully adaptable stuff covers no less than 71 percent of the earth's surface which, oddly enough, is roughly equivalent to the ratio of water in the human body. All forms of life -- at least the ones we are aware of -- require water in some form.
From a still and benign assemblage of cluttered stones, plants, and grass, a pale form moves haltingly. Soon it becomes apparent to the onlooker that this is some sort of animal. Details fill in, a head with a short black beak and black eyes, somewhat longish yellowed legs, it's an overall tan-colored critter with blacker flecks of feathering along its back. It's a bird alright, a buff-breasted sandpiper (Tryngites subruficollis) to be specific, but where it was a few moments before its movement gave away its position, is puzzling. The answer, of course, is simple.
Several winters ago I found myself in Colorado just a stone's throw from Guanella Pass. This location - aaccording to Holt's A Birder's Guide to Colorado--was the best one in winter to find white-tailed ptarmigan (Lagopus leucurus), a grouse-like bird which had thwarted my every attempt at seeing it. Despite the fact I had lived three years in Colorado well prior to this occasion, frustratingly, I had not encountered this alpine specialist. A few miles below the pass, wind-driven wisps of snow were leaping horizontally from the mountain top; a poor omen if there ever was one.
Motel maids are not usually considered integral to the success or failure of an economy. Likewise perhaps, the garbage worker, the septic tank emptier, and the busboy could be similarly lumped. Yet without the service these and other somewhat undesirable jobs provide, our entire system begins to strain and eventually break.
It all starts with green plants. They are the direct beneficiaries of the sun's benevolent and life-giving rays, magically, silently divining sugars from light energy in a process known as photosynthesis. Without this organic alchemy wondrously taking place every hour of every day around the earth, virtually nothing else would exist. The food chain or web or however you defined it in school, wholly depends upon step number one: the presence of green plants.
I buy more books than I read. I'd like to think I will get around to them all at one point in my life but let's be realistic, I won't. Two things conspire against me in this regard. One is available time, or at least the perception of available time. There never seems to be enough of it. The other is waning interest. That's right, too often what is appealing to me one day slowly becomes less so over time and so another book sits unread, destined for a future library donation. However, two recent additions to my collection moved to the top of the reading list upon their arrival.
Mention the phrase "invasive species" in the presence of a biologist and she'll usually respond with elevated blood pressure, a knitted brow, and a less-than-friendly stare. And for good reason; all manner of mischief and mayhem detrimental to native habitats and wildlife typically ensues once uninvited genies get out of their bottles, so to speak. There are countless cases from around the globe and the problem is ongoing, but even locally we have examples.
"I doubt it." That was my answer to the question, "Do you think these caterpillars are eating lichens?" Sure there were quite a few of them crawling on the large lichen-encrusted rocks on a beautiful piece of native prairie south of Woodworth last weekend, but the idea just didn't fit the paradigm I had of moth and butterfly caterpillars. Self respecting lepidopteran larvae are supposed to eat leafy plants, I reasoned. Stuff like willows, hackberries, stinging nettles, and milkweeds are supposed to facilitate the tremendous growth of caterpillars.