Minimalist Adventure with Scrub Sparrows.

Escapism? Or are we Celebrating the Opposite?

We stewards spend our years partly in the tropics and partly on the arctic tundra, without a lot of travel time or petrochemical expense.  

 

Our secret? When we see the rough-legged hawk, a visitor from the high arctic, hunting voles over Somme Prairie, we are transported. The prolific voles and the vole-regulating raptors are there because of our work.

Physically, we’re in Northbrook, Illinois. We volunteer as stewards in tallgrass prairie, savanna, woods, and wetlands. We do deeds and think thoughts informed by Henry Thoreau, May Watts, Aldo Leopold, and Rachel Carson. But our text for today is from Emily Dickinson?

 

There’s no airplane like Internet

To take us lands away.

 

Well actually, she wrote:

 

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away …

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll – 

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul – 

 

Our consciousness travels. Every fall, some of “our” birds migrate to the Amazon, and others from the tundra migrate south to here. Our minds travel with them and we feel profound connection with (and have a helpful impact on) the lands they’re coming from and going to. Scarlet tanagers that nest in Somme Woods winter in Central America and the Amazon. In winter we restore their breeding habitat and read about and study them. How do we cut brush rightly to improve their lives here?  Our summer Somme Prairie dickcissels winter in the savannas of Venezuela and Columbia. As we Google those places, we know that the South American winter ecosystem depends in part on our work here, as the Somme summer ecosystem's balance depends on the conservation by others, caring for those birds' winter habitats. We feel united and are united.

 

Most people don’t know that scrub sparrow (or tundra sparrow) exists. We should change that, to everyone’s benefit. Among the few who know them, they’re sometimes called “LBJs” – little brown jobs – lumping them with other species into dullness. (For some details, see Endnote 1.)

 

Tundra or scrub sparrows thrill me. Here comes a still photo … then I introduce a drama from a few days ago … and its video: 

 

Photo taken at Montrose Bird Thicket by Kyoji Nakano

As the drama commenced, two of us stood still while fifteen tundra sparrows performed closer and closer, until one was at our feet. They secure the grain from the tops of the tall grasses in a clever way. It's especially impressive when they're feeding on Indiangrass: they fly up, grab hold near the top of the stem, ride it down to the ground, then eat. As birds and grass go up and down, the flock looks like popping popcorn. No other birds have been visible in the savanna today. For a while (before I took the video), the tundra sparrows were so tame and trusting that they were closer to my feet than my feet are to my head. My colleague Eriko and I talk quietly.

S: It's as if we weren't here.

E: Maybe they've never seen a person before.

S: They think we're something like caribou.

E: This is one of my life's richest bird experiences. 

S: It's an honor. We planted the seed of the grasses they're eating. 

E: They'll bring some of this sustenance back to raise their chicks in northern Canada.

The tundra sparrow is a precious thing in many ways. This flock has been at Somme all winter. They are the only bird that lives in the Somme grasslands this time of year. (See Endnote 2.)

If you can watch this perhaps obscure video in a peaceful setting on a large screen, 

you may get some taste of the magic. 

Otherwise, you’re invited to step out into the winter ecosystem and experience it firsthand.

[This video doesn't work on some people's computers. 

If that happens to you, you can also try the Facebook version.]

Yes, winter is a relatively good time for being inside, reading, playing music, writing, researching, and getting ready for spring (as fall gives the pleasure of anticipating a great Winter. 

 

Yes, I enjoy more inside time in winter than any other season. I collaborate on scientific papers, write these posts, read, and do such normal inside stuff. But I’m out working the wilderness every afternoon. I used to ski, but now hardly ever do. My time being steward and partner with the ecosystem is just too pleasurable and rewarding. I cut brush, broadcast rare seeds on snow, enjoy laughs and insights with friends, and eat bacon and eggs cooked in a skillet on the bonfire; I need the energy and love the taste. (It’s the only bacon I ever get these days.)

 

Tundra sparrow with young. I found few photos of tundra (or "tree") sparrow nests and none showing their nesting landscape. (See painting and other tundra bird habitat photos in Endnote 1.) It would be wonderful to visit the tundra, although I understand it is flat, endless, and not easy to walk on. The ground is often spongy with deep lichens, mosses, sedges, wildflowers and shrubs (that are typically six inches or a foot high, max). It's said to be insanely mosquito-filled.  I'm happy to delight in these birds here over the winter and study their habitat on the Internet.  

Working together, we stewards say “let there be light” – with our brush cutting. “May the diversity of life return!” we say – as it was created and as it evolved in such abundance. Too, we prophesy that spring will bring good, as we focus on the moment, now, tallgrass winter.

 

Endnotes

Endnote 1

What this post calls the "scrub" or “tundra" sparrow is called in most books the “tree sparrow.” Many birds are misnamed, but this one ridiculously so. We find them feeding and spending the night mostly well out in the tall grasses. In spring they'll return to breed in "open shrubby vegetation on tundra, which is illustrated below in Sibley's Guide to Bird Life and Behavior: 

The birds that nest with them in that habitat are listed by Sibley as the redpoll, parasitic jaeger, willow ptarmigan, and “shorebirds.” A lot of the so-called shorebirds are also questionably named, as they don't need shores; they need open spaces; and beaches are often all that’s left as they migrate past us. For much of their histories as species, many of them migrated north every spring, feeding on burned prairies. Talk about "open." Many nest well away from water, out on the tundra. Examples include: red knots, ruddy turnstones, golden plovers, yellowlegs, and Hudsonian godwits.

A nesting associate of our tundra sparrow, this Hudsonian godwit stands here in tundra habitat. It winters in southern Argentina and Chile, making its living there on mudflats and wet grasslands. 

Red knot - another "shorebird" on its nest in the tundra. 

Parasitic jaeger on nest. Once again, we don't see a lot of trees in this "tree sparrow" habitat. But it's a pleasure to see the landscape our sparrow friends will return to. It would be great to go there, but perhaps a lot of work. 

Endnote 2

The winter bird species of the Somme preserves are actually mostly permanent residents: chickadees, cardinals, mourning doves, goldfinches, blue jays, nuthatches. But most of these “permanent residents” spend most of their winter freeloading at back-yard bird-feeders, so we don't see them. The species we most see in the preserves are four or five species of woodpeckers.  Migrants from the north are mostly juncos (in the woods) and tundra sparrows (in the grasslands). Tundra sparrows are typically the most abundant winter bird in Somme Prairie Grove. They’ll be replaced in the summer by song and field sparrows. Until the restoration matures, winter walks in the now fully open Somme Prairie reveal few birds, except possibly a hawk hunting voles. Four Somme raptors are permanent residents, red-tailed and Cooper’s hawks plus great-horned and screech owls. (The Cooper’s hawks also spend most of their time around bird feeders. But they’re not eating seeds and suet.)  

 

Endnote 3

Is winter the least fun of our six seasons? I suppose I’d say “yes” to that – if you asked me in May or September. But truly, my favorite season is always the one I’m in. We relish true winter only in January and February. March and April are Early Spring. Then we note some birds start singing their spring songs, the return of early migrants and the opening of buds, while we enjoy what's left of the winter that was. 

 

You call this "work"? Our "free aerobics" improve the planet. 

Additional Acknowledgements

Rough-legged hawk photo by Sandra Rust

Hudsonial godwit photo by Francesco Veronesi/Wikimedia Commons

Red knot photo thanks to Nature Picture Library

Parasitic jaeger photo by J. Del Hojo/Lynx

Thanks to Eriko Kojima for proofing and edits. 

Bonfire Visitor

Two non-conformist Hermit Thrushes have a mysterious habit of visiting us at restoration bonfires in winter. 

Why are you here?

For years at Somme Woods, one would show up in winter around the bonfire toward the end, as the crowd drifted away. We'd never see it at any other time. 

This year, one has shown up thus at the end of our Saturday work sessions at Shaw Woods. See more about this species in All About Birds.

According to standard sources, most thrushes winter in the Amazon or Central America. But some of the Hermits may winter as far north as the Ohio River - Kentucky, Missouri, and the very south edge of Illinois. Even so, we're far north of their regular winter range. (In the summer, we're far south of their breeding grounds.)

At the bonfires, they seem quite tame. They seem to be finding insect prey uncovered and/or warmed up by our work. They also seem like kind of friendly colleagues, even if we don't know quite what their presence means. 

Acknowledgements

Thanks to All About Birds for both photos and good info.

Thanks to Eriko Kojima for proofing and edits. 

Love Among The Woodpeckers

I had a little big experience in early January. See YouTubes and photos below, but it was so much more than they show. To try to put this drama into words: 

At first, three downy woodpeckers, in stylized fashion, danced and sang their hearts out - most spectacularly. Then one "got voted off the island." 

I watched for about 15 minutes. I'd never seen anything like it. Very fast, very precise, it reminded me of David Attenborough videos from the tropical rain forest. I realized that a lot of the magic of the exotic tropics is how hard people work to get great video. This performance was as spectacular as the Attenborough miracles, but would anyone go to that much trouble to record it? And if not, do we lose a lot of potential love/respect/constituency for the needy temperate ecosystem? 

Please, someone, make compelling videos, YouTubes, TikToks and more, to help We The People learn to care for the ecosystem near us as much as it deserves and needs. 

Nothing I can find on-line comes close to what I saw. The best I could find was some sweet dancing by flickers - marred by the photographer scaring them from time to time. But it basically held only a vague hint of the dramatic performance I saw. 

It was a warm day in the "dead" of winter. The birds had amorous thoughts of spring. When my downies were a splendidly operatic threesome, there were crescendos of passionate calls and feather-flourishes from all three. Winter is the time for pairing up. Then, once one of two competitors was chosen, the dance began in earnest. 

They'd face each other, often on horizontal branches, and with lightning speed crane their heads and bodies from side to side, striking various dramatic poses, in unison, or each going precisely the opposite the direction from the other, almost too fast to watch, singing their impassioned soprano duet all the time. 

LesleyTheBirdNerd has a nice piece on the downies, but for drama, I'm sorry, it pales. You probably already need to be a BirdNerd to want to watch it? What I saw deserved both Spielberg and Attenborough.   

There is a video of red-headed woodpeckers mating. But the interest comes mostly from handsome plumage. The videographer missed the dancing and caught only "the act" - which, in the bird case, has little prurient interest - or any other kind. 

I did find a video of woodpeckers doing a pale version of what I saw. I this case, pileated woodpeckers danced (with nice technique, but less obvious passion) on Thomas Shue's gravel driveway. 

Thanks, Thomas, a treat. But the world of conservation needs more, if people are to get excited about our temperate ecosystems. The planet needs us to fall in love with (and have our lives be inspired by) what's near and dear to us.

Parental advice from downy woodpeckers: 

"About 2-3 days before the young fledge, the adults will reduce feeding in order to encourage the young to leave the nest. Adults will continue feeding and teaching their young for as many as 3 weeks after the young leave the nest."

The Woodpeckers of the Somme Preserves

Somme has rare species and impressive numbers, in part because so many trees have died of elm and ash diseases and in part because stewardship kills many invasive trees in the process of improving prairie, savanna, and oak woodland habitat. Let's enjoy elevated numbers of woodpeckers while we can ... and let's continue good stewardship to assure good habitat for all, into the future. 

Red-headed Woodpecker

This beauty had been called the fastest declining bird species in North America, because its savanna and open woodland habitat is degrading so fast under the onslaught of invasive trees and shrubs. No red-headed woodpeckers were seen at Somme during the early years of restoration. Once Somme Prairie Grove savanna restoration was well under way, a single pair showed up and raised young. But the big woodpecker triumph was at Somme Woods. Though these 200+ acres were slower to get opened to healthy sunlight and biodiversity, now that the zone stewards are making rapid progress, four pairs nested last year. Wonderful. 

Photo by Lisa Musgrave. In this species, both sexes have completely red heads. 

Northern Flicker

Northern flicker is listed as a species of concern by the Bird Conservation Network, mostly because the natural habitat of this ground-feeding, ant-eating woodpecker is sharply reduced. It can breed in yards and parks, if pesticide levels are not too great. LesleyTheBirdNerd has a nice piece on them. 

Pileated Woodpecker

Not expected at Somme, this crow-sized woodpecker has started showing up fairly often. Keep your eyes out for something big. Photo by Lisa Musgrave.

Hairy Woodpecker

Downy on left. Hairy on right.
The hairy looks a lot like the downy. To tell them apart, the main clues are the overall size, size of bill, and the calls. The hairy is deeper-voiced and does "a rattle like a kingfisher." (Also, the downy has black dots on its white outer tail feathers. The hairy typically does not.) The the photo below Lisa Musgrave captured a still of hairy woodpeckers doing a similar mating dance.

Red-bellied Woodpecker

Red-bellied woodpecker rarely has even a hint of red on its belly. Some people call it "red-headed" - which wouldn't be a bad name, if another bird didn't already have it. This head has its kind of orangy red on the back and top - not on the sides and front. 

Yellow-bellied Sapsucker

Eriko Kojima points out that there is another woodpecker that, though not regularly seen, is a constant presence at Somme - and indeed, most places that have trees. We mostly don't see these birds; they just pass through in spring on their way to the northern forests; instead we see the lines of holes they leave in trees. 

Sapsuckers eat the tasty inner bark of trees and drink the sweet spring sap. They return to their lines of holes after a while to eat more - especially the insects attracted to that sap. And after they do all the work, many freeloaders join them. These feeding stations are said to be important to early migrant hummingbirds under some weather condition. Warblers, kinglets, orioles, squirrels, and other join in the banquet - though the sapsuckers sometimes patrol their lines of food founts and drive others off. The handsome culprit with a mix of old and recent holes is shown below:

Credits and references

Opening photo of downies dancing by Lisa Musgrave. Lisa writes: "There was a lot of chirping, but the most obvious part (to me) in all the woodpecker courting was the neck stretching, left and right, back and forth, as they circled the tree truck. Then they would fly to another tree and start again. It was fun to watch!"

Parental advice thanks to: Wild Bird Watching. 

Flicker, red-bellied, and downy/hairy photos courtesy of AllAboutBirds from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology

Photo of old sapsucker holes from Nature Watch.

Photo of actual handsome sapsucker with holes thanks to blog.nature.org. 

Thanks for proofing and edits to Eriko Kojima and Kathy Garness.

Boxing Tree. Boxing Meadow. Bound for Glory.

We begin with an undistinguished photo. I was tempted to label it "photo of nothing much." But it's the setting for a drama.

Indeed, soon this scene will be transformed to this:

... a grass roots magic trick and adventure.

On the morning of December 26th, Boxing Day (see Endnote 1), a cohort descended on this area, to do good, as we perceived it. Though delicately covered with morning dew, the nasty shrub up front in the first photo is buckthorn. Once the most common tree and shrub of this 85-acre Forest Preserve, a nasty and malignant invader, it now survives here mostly in narrow strips where the preserve borders a road. Today we'll expand the good and drive back the bad yet further. 

In the middle of the buckthorn and other invaders is one woody plant that we will spare from axe and saw. The blue and white ribbon identifies this young oak as a tree-to-save.

For some of us, this year-end event is an annual ritual. Others are here for the first time. We start with a circle and share thoughts about ecology, safety, and goals. In all today, we are 44 people - showing up for a drama, workout, and mitzvah (see Endnote 2). 

Covid was still with us. We don't know whether to wear masks or not. Some do; some don't. Out here in the free-flowing air, we feel safe. 

A ten-minute hike brings us to the work area, and pretty soon a bonfire is eating cut brush.

Somme Prairie Grove was an oak savanna ... and is becoming one again. No "pristine" tallgrass savannas survive. This site (alongside a few other lucky remnants) is in rehab. It has progressed enough that it was recently honored (and permanently protected) by legal dedication as an Illinois Nature Preserve. The core of its 85 acres is rife with uncommon young oaks, native grasses, orchids, butterflies and birds. They have names like prairie dropseed, eared false foxglove, Edward's hairstreak, purple twayblade orchid, and willow flycatcher. 

We too are diverse. Here balding, famous, and irreverent photographer Mike McDonald throws an armload of slain brush on the fire. His dramatic and fun book, "My Journey Into The Wilds Of Chicago" includes a photo or two of Somme. 

As the day proceeds, there is a certain amount of laughter, socializing, questions, suggestions, and regular actual human interactions. Below, at right - chemist, writer, and zone steward Christos Economou talks with performance artist and Morton Arboretum Adult Learning Programs guy Robb Telfer. Christos wrote some of the early Bell Bowl Prairie alarms. Robb published the first big expose on what was happening, influentially in the Chicago Tribune. Robb masked and Christos not, they rest from work a moment to plan and plot more initiatives for this important mission. (Save Bell Bowl Prairie!)

I was impressed by a young woman (below) who, on this winter day, dressed in a tee-shirt. Behind her, in regulation safety-helmet and chaps, Estelle Ure with quiet electric chain saw cuts stumps low so they won't trip us up. 

Next I notice the young woman throwing an invasive trunk into the fire like a javelin.

No one was in the way, so why not? (We hear that this mighty warrior actually went to ecosystem restoration summer camp in Michigan. Yes, apparently, there is such a thing.) 

Once the brush is cut and shortened, it gets dabbed with herbicide, so it won't re-sprout.

Once the brush was cleared around it, this baby oak - which could end up to live three or four hundred years - seemed so precious that one person proposed that we name it. Many engaging names were suggested, but when Joe Handwerker came up with the Boxing Tree, a blessed murmur of consent arose. It will henceforth be Boxing Tree. And it will not stand in bare dirt as it does now.

On Friday, December 24th, Eriko, Christos, and Katie finished assembling our Somme 2021 ecosystem seed mixes. 

Don't be fooled by the grocery bags. These are hundreds of rare, local species, hand gathered, now in twenty-three carefully crafted mixes. Tomorrow we will spread "wet-mesic closed savanna" seed under this tree and "wet-mesic open savanna" seed in nearby in the newly-under-restoration and newly-named Boxing Meadow. Following this drastic cut-and-herbicide operation, we will also need to ward off various kinds of infection by weeding and possibly scything invasives for two or three years. But we can see the future, because we know how to provide this short term intensive care. It will be rich with diversity here, as in the photo below, or a similarly rescued bit of ecosystem. Thanks to this recovery, the species populations on the whole site will be that much more numerous, robust, and sustainable. 

This precious site has been restored mostly a half-acre or so at a time, over the decades, on days like this.

Rare butterflies, gentians, salamanders, pollinators, and perhaps even future generations of people thank us, in their inchoate ways. Or at least that's what we feel. 

What a day!

Endnotes

Endnote 1

Boxing Day seems to be kind of a ridiculous holiday. I've long heard it mentioned without knowing what it was. In fact, it's a product of imperial British income inequality - a holiday for servants who have to work on Christmas day. They get a box of presents on the next weekday. Thus, Boxing Day is the day after Christmas - unless it falls on a weekend, which changes it to Monday. So today, being the Sunday after Christmas, turns out not to be the real Boxing Day after all. But we have no intention of forfeiting the fun. It was Boxing Day to us. We'll take any excuse for a celebration. This treasured young tree and bit of soon-to-be-seeded ecosystem will be Boxing Tree and Meadow from now on. 

Endnote 2

A mitzvah is an individual act of human kindness in keeping with religious law. The word conveys a sense of heartfelt sentiment beyond mere legal duty, as in "you shall love your neighbor as yourself" (Leviticus 19:18). In this case, our neighbor is the Somme Prairie Grove ecosystem: more than 500 species of plants and uncounted thousands of animal species (many very small) along with probably-many-more-rare species, yet smaller, often-symbiotic: bacteria, protists, fungi, algae and others. Biodiversity of future importance to the planet recovers here.

Our one species had been unintentionally wiping out this diversity, mostly over the last century. Tis the season to do some good for it. If you might like to volunteer, for an extended such season, check out the Somme Preserve volunteer schedule. 

Or raise awareness and take part in sharing ideas at the Somme Community Facebook page. 

Acknowledgements

Photos by Stephen Packard and Eriko Kojima.

Thanks to Eriko Kojima for proofing and edits. 

 

Faith In Seeds

At site after site, seeds turn out to be crucial to restoring healthy and naturally diverse ecosystems. 

Seeds for "Mesic Woods Turf" - before they're mixed.

Carrying bags full of specialized rare seed mixes, we walk through an irregular and partly blighted landscape, recently cleared of deadly brush. In the original sense of the word, we broadcast handfuls of tens of thousands of seeds, from big to tiny. There’s the tactile feeling of those valuable and beautiful plant embryos. The smell of dirt and fresh air and the vision of recovered richness … all this motivates and inspires us.

We broadcast seed mixes in the Somme preserves. It’s hard work, a lot of moving parts. We’re switching back and forth among 14 different seed mixes, according to slope, wetness, amount of tree canopy, and more. The seeds we’re broadcasting represent thousands of hours of dedicated, unpaid work by perhaps 100 people. When we finish, our GPS tracker will record that we’d broadcast those seeds over 1.8 miles. From time to time we exchange thoughts. Eriko said, “I’m so happy to start these seeds on their journeys … and just in time for Rosh Hashanah!”

Really? Rosh Hashanah? She’s of Japanese ancestry and religiously a Bahá’í? I grew up sort of Christian. But I got her meaning: let's celebrate at every opportunity. Life is good!

 Finding and gathering is the hardest part. Here 12 Leiberg's panic grass seeds are more-or-less in focus by an edge of prairie dock leaf and silhouetted against Black-eyed Susan petals. Leiberg's is one of the most important, hardest to spot, rarest, and rarely gathered species in restoration. Few will notice it. And yet, it's key to the structure and sustainability of a high-quality grassland. 

"Hard work" doesn't mean "not fun." There's space for deep conversation and pleasant banter. A photo of Emma Leavens and Eriko Kojima seed gathering at Shaw Woods and Prairie catches the spirit pretty well. The context goes a long way toward ensuring happy work.  

When we see hepatica in bloom, we love its beauty, but we're equally inspired by those seeds we see forming where the petals have dropped. They'll go in our spring seed mixes. 

And soon, the big fall seed season will begin. Young and old will all chip in at so many worthy prairies, woods, and wetlands across the region. It's becoming a Rite of Passage of the Seasons.  

And yet, our happiness is not matured until the seeds are broadcast and resurrect themselves as new generations of healthy and sustainable life. They are coming attractions.

Seeds rule!

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Eriko Kojima, Christos Economou, and Kathy Garness for proofing and edits. 

Two Tiny Wildlife Adventures

We of the Somme Team write plans, reports, histories. The little report below seemed fun to Eriko who suggested it be a blog post.

It’s not earth-shaking, but there’s always a bit more to learn. 

 

When I was scything in Fourth Pond Meadow (FPM) yesterday I had two adventures.

 

Well, three really, as Sai joined me later on, and we had a chance to talk about what’s going on with his son and the trip to Germany. And the new seed mixes, and how they might apply to FPM. Sai and I looked at the area between the open planting and the wooded “pool” – on the west. It’s interesting, strange looking, begging for seed … and to have more shade removed. It’s worth more of us thinking about it.  

 

But for my two wildlife adventures:

 

1) There was a certain amount of hotness and sunniness, so I decided to do my work in sort of a transect line, crossing FPM and facing away from the sun as I worked, and then circling around through shady, poorer-quality areas to get back to my starting place, and watching carefully where I put each step and selectively scything another line across FPM. 

 

(It’s increasingly rich and beautiful there, by the way. I found many scattered purple prairie clovers, smooth blue asters, prairie docks that have “teen-age” looks to them, and a few leadplants and small skullcaps, in this are that was nothing by brush and dirt before we cleared and seeded it, and hundreds, probably thousands of dropseed grasses, compass plants, quinines, etc. etc.)

 

On one of my circlings-around through the rough areas, I came across one of Rebeccah’s little burn scars, from the small brush burned last fall, and it was still covered by small black remains of coals. And since it’s easier to walk through nothing as opposed to thick rank weeds, I put my foot forward, over the apparently empty black, but, at that point, three (at least) tiny, tiny toads jumped off the coals and into the green. They had been so invisible. So perfectly toad-camouflaged. I wondered, what brought them there. Food? Warmth (from the sun on the black). Or what? But they were unquestionably precious.

This is not one of those toads, of course.
They were the size of one of this child's fingertips. 

2) Sometimes as I made these plow-through-the-weeds re-set trips, I scythed a bit as I went. To make it easier to walk. And to see what plants were down there. Sometimes I’d find a Riddell’s goldenrod or a boneset, and I’d give the area around them a bit of bonus scything. At one point, as I walked and cut, my scythe opened a view to a bird’s nest - which then exploded - at least two energetic dark fuzzballs escaping me and my scythe. I backed up. The parents put up an impressive fuss. They were indigo buntings. The birds seemed mature enough that the parents will find and feed them and they’ll soon be on their way. But I was sorry to burden them with this additional handicap. Indigo buntings really like our results - if not our ongoing work. 

This is not one of the buntings I saw, of course.
This photo, by Lisa Musgrave, is of a Somme bunting singing, to defend a territory, in which he and his mate can raise members of the next generation.

Endnote

 

To restore nature is respected and pure. Destroying it is nasty and evil. But there are trade-offs. If we didn't scythe, some thuggish invasives would degrade and possibly eliminate the new, healthy habitats we work to create. So, we're as careful as we know how to be, but we accept as a necessary cost that we will sometimes unintentionally disrupt the lives of some small neighbors.

And speaking of little lives, we also sometimes allow kids to do stuff that kids do. Mostly they're there in the fall or spring, so birds' nests are not the issue. But they turn over logs and pick up salamanders and toads (and even snakes sometimes), and we mostly think that that's part of the healthy childhood of someone who may end up being an inspired scientist ... or a person who likes nature and has more of a feel for the Earth and its living things. 

A wonderful purist once told me that he wouldn't contribute to conservation organizations that showed photos of people holding frogs or butterflies or other animals. It showed disrespect and dominance, he said. I understood his point. Indeed, I appreciated it. But there are trade-offs. Most of us at Somme hope more kids take part in more nature, in their own ways, within reason, of course. 

2021 Big Bird Year

Photos by Lisa Musgrave (with a Sandhill Crane adventure by Sai Ramakrishna)
 
It’s been a “big breeding bird year” at the Somme preserves. 
 
Topping the list is the arrival of many pairs of dickcissels at Somme Prairie – for the first time prairie birds have bred there (or anywhere in the North Branch forest preserves) in our decades of stewardship. 
 

 
Many males set up territories and sang their hearts out. More and more, this site is becoming big enough to be “a real prairie” for animals. Credit goes to many: Forest Preserve staff for recent contract clearing of the last of the invading trees … and decades of volunteer stewardship.
 

         Somme Prairie (red)      Somme Prairie Grove (orange)    Somme Woods (yellow)

Across the railroad tracks in Somme Prairie Grove, we were inspired this year to find at least two breeding pairs of red-headed woodpeckers (said to be the fastest declining bird species on the continent). Just a few years ago they arrived in the savannas here, for the first time in decades. Now they’re a striking, showy, and frequent presence. They often talk to me for some time when I arrive ... and fly up close ... sometimes lurking on the back side of a tree trunk ... sometimes boldly out in the open. They seem curious. Or protective? 

Savanna and prairie birds need different habitats. Dickcissels, bobolinks, and such prairie species don’t breed in the “Prairie Grove” because they can’t handle the “Grove” part – the trees. Many species are so finely tuned that they succeed only within strict habitat quality limits. Prairie species can’t cope with the predators that perch and hide in trees. But the savanna species are the fine-tuned masters of the scattered trees habitat. The black-headed youngsters will emerge from their nest holes soon.
 
Another champ this year was the orchard oriole. Also a savanna specialist that didn’t show up for decades, not until the habitat was good enough, and in early years we saw only a few immature birds. 

Both Baltimore and orchard orioles breed at Somme. Unlike the orange Baltimores, the orchard oriole male is a deep brick red. The females are a greenish yellow (as opposed to the female Baltimores, which are orange-ish yellow, if you want to be technical).  

This year at least three pairs wove their hanging nests and raised their chicks here. Both parents feed the chicks, and the family group stays together until fall migration. Those chicks have already fledged, as shown below: 

Our biggest surprise in Somme Woods was a pair of sandhill cranes for a couple of weeks in May, normally their breeding season. Sai Ramakrishna first discovered them and photographed as best he could with his phone. They spent some time walking through the open woods and then approached First Pond, where Sai was studying the vegetation. (The pond had been nearly impenetrable cat-tails; with restoration, it was now diverse and compact bur-reeds, sweet flags, sedges, and forbs.) The cranes began doing ritual mating behavior, jumping, hovering, bowing, dancing, and tearing up vegetation and tossing it dramatically. They weren’t shy about it either; the pair drifted close to where Sai was standing, performing all the while. (Sadly, his phone ran out of power half way through.)

Red-winged blackbirds began screaming at the cranes, dive-bombing them mercilessly, and sometimes landing on their backs to peck them. Three male red-wings are in the photo below, but there were often half a dozen hovering over the cranes. All males - perhaps because the females were on nests, guarding eggs? Cranes are known to eat eggs and nestlings. 

At least twice we saw the cranes pluck clumps of dried vegetation from the reeds. It seemed like they were destroying red-wing nests. Perhaps these two species aren't comfortable nesting close to each other? 

A few days later, a group of three cranes was seen foraging in the Somme Woods ponds. That threesome was kind of a giveaway. This had not been a nesting pair. They had been playing or practicing. Cranes are long-lived birds, and one or two year olds have a lot to learn. They don’t attempt to reproduce in their first few years. Cranes that are too young to breed typically stick together in small flocks. 

Later, Lisa snapped this photo of one of those cranes, hunting for food in the savanna and open woods of the recently-burned Somme Prairie Grove: 

The other big Woods surprise was a pileated woodpecker. One was seen repeatedly over a few weeks. A study estimated that these huge woodpeckers need a minimum territory of 320 acres. The Somme/Chipilly complex is 700 acres of forest preserves. But a lot of it is not yet good pileated habitat. Still, it’s good to know that they’re checking it out. Maybe next year?

Somme Woods and Prairie Grove seem to be especially fine woodpecker habitat. In addition to at least five pairs of red-headed woodpeckers (appreciating both the savannas and open oak woodlands) and uncountable northern flickers (another species of conservation concern), these sites have large numbers of red-bellied, hairy, and downy woodpeckers, in part perhaps because of the large numbers of dead trees (ash and elm trees killed by disease and invasive trees killed by fire).
 
Other birds that posed splendidly for Lisa in 2021 include:
 

One of the "success stories" of the Somme preserves has been that of the hummingbirds. They appreciate our abundance of flowers. 

A decade ago, Somme was the opposite of a success story for the scarlet tanager. An occasional pair tried to nest in Somme Prairie Grove, but it never seemed to work out. Then our big push for oak woodland habitat in Somme Woods stole the tanagers away from Prairie Grove. 

Even after the tanagers head back to the Amazon and Central America for the winter, we feel their presence as indicators that our efforts seem to be achieving quality woods habitat. They also continue to remind us that when some birds win, others lose. As the tanagers lost their habitat in Prairie Grove, they increased from zero in Somme Woods to three, four, and five pair, now breeding regularly. Yes, the improved habitat for savanna birds decreased tanager habitat in Prairie Grove, but the work in the Woods more than made up. Similarly, the great-horned owls that once nested and hunted in Somme Prairie have lost that habitat, but they're thriving in the savanna and woods. 

Lisa finds great-horned owl nests every year in Somme Prairie Grove and Somme Woods. Owls don’t build nests but typically “re-cycle” the previous year’s red-tailed hawk nest, as above. She lays her eggs in February and typically spends some of her incubating time in a nest rimmed with snow. It’s his job to bring her enough food to keep her warm during this unusually early start to the breeding season. 

The kestrel (also called sparrow hawk) is a kind of falcon. These fast-flying raptors eat mice, small birds, and often grasshoppers. Since apparently-over-abundant mice chop down and eat a large percentage of some of our endangered prairie plant species, we vote that Somme's kestrels concentrate on mice.

This year the kestrel parents nested in a hole in a tree in the northwest corner of Somme Prairie Grove. They use old woodpecker nests. They fledged at least two young this year. The parents and young have been screaming and dare-devil flying, all over the open parts of the site for a couple of weeks now. Since they hunt on the wing, unlike the great-horned owl, they also spend a lot of time at Somme Prairie. 

 

The American woodcock is a kind of sandpiper that breeds in savannas and open woods. They’ve recently begun nesting in parts of Somme Woods where large areas of invasives have been cut. Like the great-horned owl, they’re one of Somme’s earliest nesters. Sometimes the incubating female is nearly covered with snow for a day or two, but she toughs it out. 

Their nests regularly have four large eggs. As soon as they hatch, the chicks are ready to walk around with their mom, looking for food. Both the eggs and the chicks are well camouflaged and in danger when people walk off trail in woodcock habitats in spring. They can and do get stepped on. 

If a woodhen flies up in a labored, weird way after waiting until you’ve nearly stepped on her, she’s trying to lure you away from her chicks. Don’t move your feet until you’ve studied the ground for little tykes like this. Back off! But it’s okay to take a photo if you’re careful.  

Finally, a photo worthy of the wood duck. These beauties are regulars in the Somme Woods ponds - and are also often seen sitting high on big limbs in the oaks. Nesting in tree holes, they appreciate both ponds and open woods. We occasionally see the somberly colored female with her line of ducklings, after they take the big jump out of their nest hole, as she leads them through the woods toward the safety of the ponds. 

Congratulations to Lisa Musgrave for a spectacular year of bird photos.

Congratulations to all who've worked to restore habitat here. Every bird shown is indebted to you.