Native bees do the heavy lifting

A sunny roadbank covered with a spring-blooming fleabane known as robin's-plantain, Erigeron pulchellus. The flowers of this species, and the similar Philadelphia fleabane, E. philadelphicus, lure scores of interesting native pollinators.

I have a massive archive of natural history photographs, and have learned to not let them pile up without curation. Nonetheless, a bit of a backlog has accumulated and I've been trying to spend some time each day whittling away at them. When everything is neatly labeled and placed in the appropriate folder, I can lay hands on anything in no time flat. Anyway, today I was working through an unprocessed folder of stuff from Shawnee State Forest (Scioto County, Ohio) from April 26 of last spring (2017).

Reviewing these images reminded me of the hour or so I spent prostrate on the ground, watching and photographing a constant procession of tiny native bees to the fleabane flowers. And once again, I was reminded just how vital these largely unnoticed insects are to the health of our native plant communities.

A small sweat bee in the Halictidae family (I think) works over the tiny button of disk flowers of a Philadelphia fleabane.

Nonnative honeybees, Apis mellifera, are certainly the best-known pollinators among the general public. However, these social hive-dwellers are probably of little consequence to the pollination of our native flora. While they certainly do visit native flowers, their role in pollination of these plants is probably not critical. Honeybees' primary importance is in pollinating nonnative plant crops. It's the myriad native bees and other insects, mostly ignored, that do the heavy lifting when it comes to pollination of native plants.

Note the pollen grains adhering to this sweat bee (take my names with a grain of salt; there are numerous very similar families of bees and I won't masquerade as an expert). By just lying in this spot for 10-15 minutes, I could watch a nonstop procession of hardworking little bees stopping by.

The underside of this bee is totally cloaked in a dense layer of pollen. One can only imagine how many flowers it has successfully cross-pollinated. Multiply this worker by tens of thousands (millions?) and the scope and scale of its species' value to plants, just in the 65,000 acre Shawnee State Forest, becomes apparent.

This book is a must for anyone with an interest in our native bees. Written by Heather Holm, it contains a wealth of information about the identification and natural history of our various groups of bees, along with great information on native plants. Get a copy HERE.

Mink punks muskrat, scares ducks!

The tranquil waters of the pond at Char-Mar Ridge Park in Delaware County, Ohio. I made my second visit to this site yesterday, and left scratching my head as to why I've not been here more often. It's only 20-25 minutes away, and the place can be a goldmine for bird photography. There is a fantastic roofed observation blind - where I made the shot above - and it's one of the best-sited blinds that I've seen. Not only is it in a great location, but is positioned such that the light, especially in early morning in spring and fall, is ideally suited for lighting subjects on the pond.

UPDATE: A little while back, I wrote a piece about another Preservation Parks of Delaware County site, Shale Hollow Park. That column, which appeared in the Columbus Dispatch and which I shared on this blog, HERE, touted the virtues of the park district and its holdings. I am pleased to say that one week later, Delaware County voters overwhelming approved passage of a park levy continuation, along with a small increase, by a 62% to 38% margin. People do like their parks and wild spaces and we need to do all we can to support effective conservation organizations.

Back to the subject at hand. A stunning quartet of hooded mergansers - two drakes bookending a pair of hens - steams along between underwater fishing forays. They, and numerous wood ducks, were my primary quarry on this day. Persistent autumn foliage is still tinting the water with color, making for nice waterfowl photo ops.

When I arrived at the blind shortly after sunrise and cast my eyes on the scene out front, one of the first thoughts that I had was "this looks perfect for a mink!" These aggressive weasels love to hunt along shorelines of ponds, lakes, and wetlands, and I've seen them in such settings numerous times. Here would be a great potential photo opportunity if one of the tubular beasts would make an appearance.

Sometime later in the morning, a fellow photographer, Victoria Koroleva, appeared in the blind. I had not previously met her but had seen her work on Facebook. One of the great things about Zuckerberg's massive social media outlet is it often "introduces" people before they actually meet for real, and this was one of those cases. At some point I verbalized my mink-aura feelings to Victoria, and it wasn't much later that she exclaimed "look! a mink!"

The mink appears, just across a narrow arm of the pond. This was a wonderful opportunity to observe the beast without it being alarmed, as it didn't know we were there. Mink, for all practical purposes, are raging psychopathic homicidal well-furred mammalian slinkies. They rapidly bound about with an exaggerated undulating gait, exploring all nooks and crannies and prepared to pounce with murderous intent as soon as a victim shows itself.

The mink rapidly moved along the bank, poking under logs and occasionally pausing to scan its surroundings. Interestingly, on a few occasions it dove into the shallow water along the pond's edge, temporarily disappearing from sight. I think I know what it was looking for.

Soon after the mink turned a corner of the pond and vanished from sight, we saw a muskrat rapidly swimming towards the middle of the pond from the immediate direction of the mink. Once it got out there, it paused and just floated motionless low in the water for five minutes or so. I'd not seen this behavior from a muskrat before, but it wasn't hard to decipher what was going on.

I imagine the mink's underwater dives were to search out and enter the burrows of muskrats. The latter often create subterranean lairs with the entrance under the water. Mink are said to be quite fond of muskrat meat and are more than capable of killing them. I suspect the mink nearly caught this 'skrat unaware, and the rodent fled to deeper water and a strategic advantage. It's probably a very lucky muskrat.

After a while, the muskrat paddled back to shore and hauled out on a log. And there he sat for quite some time, not moving a muscle and casting wary glances about before finally disappearing.

As the mink continued its shoreline rampage, it eventually got into a sheltered cove at the rear of the pond where many of the ducks retreat. The fowl apparently didn't like the ferocious weasel either, and suddenly a cloud of ducks skittered out of there and onto the pond's open waters, including this pair of gadwall.

It's fascinating to watch the dynamics of a situation when a dangerous alpha predator appears. Just about all of the animals go on alert, or outright flee to safer spots. The mink was a wonderful addition to an already fantastic outing, and to watch it in action, acting naturally, was a huge perk.

Earthstar fungus

A bizarre but strangely showy earthstar fungus, Astraeus spp. (probably A. hygrometricus) graces dry sandy soil in the Oak Openings of northwest Ohio. From my experience these interesting fungi are not very common, and thus always a treat to come across.

Although I've got - as always - an abundance of material, it's been tough to make time to share much of it here. Lots of things going on, including some big new endeavors that are taking much time. More on that stuff later.

Back on October 19, I made an all too rare foray into the biodiverse habitats of the Oak Openings just west of Toledo, Ohio. This expansive sandy region, carpeted with prairies, wetlands, and savannas, is a treasure trove of unusual flora and fauna. I have spent untold hours in this region, but not much time in recent years. Thus, it was great to connect with local natural history enthusiast and fellow blogger Kim Smith and venture into a new addition to The Nature Conservancy's fabled Kitty Todd Preserve. Our main target was the day-flying buck moth, Hemileuca maia, which occurs there in big numbers. There were plenty of distractions along the way, one of the most notable being this cool fungus.

One of the dry, open sand prairies hosted dozens of earthstars, and naturally it was incumbent upon us to stop and admire them, and make some photos. This fungus resembles a starfish, or perhaps a muted ground-dwelling flower clad in tones of ocher. The whitish central disk or ball contains the spores, and the one in this image has already ruptured. The jagged opening in the center of the puffball is where the windborne spores exited en masse.

While the earthstars often grow on barren sand or dirt, they'll sometimes be in or near mosses such as this haircap moss in the genus Polytrichum, which makes for showier photo ops. And we're all about showier photo ops here.

I fear this bit of photographic expression might be getting a bit overplayed but what the heck. Here is the same photo as the previous, but "twirled" using a recipe of various Photoshop trickery. It does look pretty cool if you ask me, but the fungus sans the artistic license probably looks even cooler.

Nature: Long-flying godwits make rare pit stop near Toledo

A juvenile Hudsonian godwit at Maumee Bay State Park

Columbus Dispatch

November 5, 2017

NATURE
Jim McCormac

The average American flies about 1,500 miles per year. That figure is dwarfed by the travels of certain birds.

In mid-October, I spent time with one of the world’s great long-haul migrants, the Hudsonian godwit. These Pinocchio-billed sandpipers travel more than 10 times the average annual air miles of jet-assisted humans.

Rick Nirschl, an ace naturalist in Toledo, had reported Hudsonian godwits from Maumee Bay State Park, just east of Toledo. As I had business in the area, I stopped to look for the birds.

Soon after arriving at the park beach, I heard the distinctive calls of godwits. The slightly comical sound is like an amped-up kitten putting the hurt on a squeaky toy.

Three of the big shorebirds soon materialized, whooshing by at high speed as they investigated the situation before setting down. In flight, the godwits revealed their striking black-and-white wing pattern and long, powerful wings.

Eventually the godwits gracefully landed in shallow water just off the beach and began preening. I and fellow photographer Kim Smith went prostrate on the sand to minimize our profiles, and soon the birds had wandered into close range.

While clicking photos, I admired the handsome birds. The Hudsonian godwit is the smallest of the world’s four godwit species, but it’s still hefty. It dwarfs our best-known shorebird, the killdeer, outweighing that species by a factor of three.

Perhaps the godwit’s most-striking feature is its huge bill. This long, upswept appendage is probably a third of the length of the bird’s body. A feeding godwit often plunges its beak deep into the mire, seeking small invertebrate animal life.

The bird is named for Hudson Bay, where the first specimen was procured in the early 1800s. Fieldwork in the intervening two centuries has shown that this species has small, widely scattered breeding populations in boreal and arctic regions of Alaska and Canada.

The bird is named for Hudson Bay, where the first specimen was procured in the early 1800s. Fieldwork in the intervening two centuries has shown that this species has small, widely scattered breeding populations in boreal and arctic regions of Alaska and Canada.

Pioneer ornithologist John James Audubon said this of the godwit: “I had never seen it in the flesh, until I went to Boston in 1832, when I found specimens of it in the market late in September.” Mass harvesting of easily shot shorebirds decimated the ranks of many species, and the practice continued well into the 20th century. Hudsonian godwit numbers may have never fully recovered from the indiscriminate shooting.

The trio of birds we saw, one of which is pictured with this column, were juveniles born somewhere several thousand miles north of Ohio last summer. Adult godwits depart breeding areas before the juveniles. In a mind-bending feat of migration, the young birds make their way to the other end of the world, unguided, thanks to a genetically encoded GPS system.

It’s possible the godwits we saw flew from Maumee Bay to northern South America — an epic flight of several days and several thousand miles. Eventually they will join others of their ilk in Tierra del Fuego province in southern Argentina.

Most godwits fly over most of the U.S. and other populated regions, hence the relative scarcity of observations. When they do stop to refuel, birds often spend several days feeding and fattening up for the long flights ahead.

Protection of wetlands used by godwits in migration is vital to their conservation, just as much as is protection of breeding and wintering grounds. Scores of other species also benefit by preserving these wetlands.

Naturalist Jim McCormac writes a column for The Dispatch on the first, third and fifth Sundays of the month. He also writes about nature at www.jimmccormac.blogspot.com.

Calliope Hummingbird in central Ohio!

A hatch-year male Calliope Hummingbird strikes a pose. Small but tough, the hummingbird was feeding actively yesterday in 39 F temperatures. It frequents feeders and gardens at a home in Delaware County, Ohio, about a half-hour north of Columbus.

Fortunately, the wayward hummer appeared at the home of Tania and Corey Perry. Tania is a birder, and knew right away that the hummingbird was something special. For a while, the identification was up in the air, which isn't surprising. The Calliope Hummingbird used to be placed in its own genus, Stellula, but has recently been submerged into the genus Selasphorus, which includes Allen's, Broad-tailed, and Rufous hummingbirds. The latter two, especially, are quite similar to the Calliope in subadult plumage. Rufous is the default "vagrant" hummingbird here, with dozens of records and birds turning up annually. There is but one Ohio record of Allen's Hummingbird, from late fall/early winter 2009. Ditto the Calliope Hummingbird - only one record, from Chillicothe from October 28 - November 1, 2002. So in a case like this, the Rufous Hummingbird would be the go-to suspect.

As I understand it, birder Bryan Sharp, who is familiar with Calliope Hummingbird from time spent out west, saw photos and pegged the identification, thus triggering many cases of rarity fever. I was traveling and out and about, but returned yesterday to various messages informing me of the find, and as it's only about 25 minutes away, shot up late in the afternoon. It was a treat to clap eyes on a Calliope Hummingbird again. The little sprite is the smallest bird found north of the Mexican border, weighing less than a ping-pong ball.

Fortunately Tania kept up the feeder late into fall, and her supply of sugar-water forms the nucleus of the bird's turf. It is amazingly tame and perches for extended periods on a wire by the feeder, or in an adjacent lilac bush. The bird has been present for the better part of a week.

I also want to make note of the Perrys' generosity. A rarity of this magnitude generates an avalanche of interest, and is sure to attract lots of visitors. Tania and Corey have briefed the neighbors, organized parking, and delineated a convenient viewing area which will offer wonderful views of the hummingbird. Would only all backyard rarities appear at the homes of such gracious hosts.

The little fellow offers another interesting pose. It's hard to grasp just how small these elfin puffballs are until one is seen in person. As a point of comparison, in terms of weight it would take 31 Calliope Hummingbirds to equal a Blue Jay. Or 2,444 of them to match a Tundra Swan. The Calliope Hummingbird averages about 15% smaller than our familiar Ruby-throated Hummingbird. That's dinky.

I spent much time watching the wee beast like a hawk through my camera, awaiting telling postures. Such diligence allowed me to capture this pose, which shows the tail well. I knew that Allen Chartier, a hummingbird bander and expert, would likely be able to definitively age and sex the bird from shots like this, so I sent some along to him. Allen's prognosis: hatch-year male, based on the shape and coloration of the retrices (tail feathers).

As I write this, at 1:20 pm on Wednesday, November 1st, the bird is present and being observed. Presently it is rainy and about 42 F. The weather is supposed to be rainy/overcast for a few days, but with temperatures warming into the 60's F over the next few days. Small they may be, but Calliope Hummingbirds are tough as nails, breeding in western montane regions where evening temperatures regularly plunge to freezing or below.

Map courtesy Birds of North America Online

This range map shows just how errant our little hummingbird is. But it is part of a well-established pattern of western hummingbirds appearing far to the east of their normal ranges. There have been a number of Calliope Hummingbird records east of the Mississippi River, and I'm kind of surprised it took 15 years to generate another Ohio sighting following the inaugural 2002 record.

An excellent place to keep apprised of this hummingbird's status is the Facebook Ohio Chase Birds site.

Park in Delaware's backyard abounds with birds, beauty

Shale Hollow Park, part of Preservation Parks of Delaware County/Jim McCormac

Columbus Dispatch

October 29, 2017

NATURE
Jim McCormac

When I was a kid, my parents regularly packaged my brothers and me into the car and up Route 23 we went to Delaware. My grandparents lived there, and from our Worthington home it was a scenic 20-minute ride through the countryside.

Now, the northern reaches of Columbus nearly commingle with Delaware. There are few wild places left along the corridor.

In 2014, Preservation Parks of Delaware County acquired a surviving gem halfway between Columbus and Delaware just west of Route 23. On a recent glorious October day, I met Delaware County resident and spider expert Rich Bradley at Shale Hollow Park.

It wasn’t my first visit. I’d ventured there in the early ’80s, when then-landowner Ed Postle hosted a wintering northern saw-whet owl. I made another visit 15 years or so ago, when efforts to acquire the property were starting.

Now, fortunately, the 211-acre park encompasses the best of this wild area.

A bit more than 2 miles of trails bisects the richly wooded site, and visitors will soon forget they’re a short car ride from heavy development. Shale Hollow is well-named. Big Run Creek, a tributary of the Olentangy River, incises deeply through large banks of shale.

Noteworthy are numerous massive concretions. These geological oddities resemble stone cannonballs, and they dot the shale banks and creek bed.

Near-vertical cliffs tower over the sinuous stream, and the steep slopes and ridge tops are carpeted with massive oaks and other timber.

Biodiversity abounds, and it took us 15 minutes to move on from the parking lot, as the trees around the nature center teemed with feathered life.

In our three-hour foray, we tallied nearly 40 species. Especially noteworthy were six species of woodpeckers, including the crow-sized pileated woodpecker. Several winter wrens worked tangled root masses along the stream. This Lilliput weighs just 9 grams and measures 4 inches.

Tiny golden-crowned kinglets flitted high in some spruce. Yellow-rumped warblers worked the berries of various vines, and a yellow-bellied sapsucker tapped its Morse-code beat. A large flock of migratory American robins alternately bathed in the stream and serenaded us with autumnal whisper songs.

Rich found interesting spiders under nearly every rock and log, and uncovered a red-backed salamander. Architecturally ornate coral fungi adorned a mossy stump, and we noticed a young buck white-tailed deer watching us from high atop a bluff.

I became enamored of the jaw-dropping scenery and scrambled about, seeking the perfect vantage point. There were many, it turned out, and I returned with a catalog of photos that few might suspect were taken in such close proximity to the big city.

Delaware County is one of the fastest-growing regions in the country. It’s vital that parkland is set aside now, while it can still be. New development nearly encircles Shale Hollow, and 10 years from now, it probably wouldn’t have been possible to make this acquisition.

I’ve watched Preservation Parks of Delaware County since its infancy, and I am impressed. Their holdings now include 10 parks totaling 1,066 acres. They encompass some of Delaware County’s best natural areas, but much work remains. Protected lands are less than 1 percent of the county’s 457 square miles.

On Nov. 7, Delaware County voters will be asked to approve a 10-year renewal levy to ensure the continued growth and efficient management of the county’s parks. Approval of the levy would mean a brighter future for county residents, present and future.

Naturalist Jim McCormac writes a column for The Dispatch on the first, third and fifth Sundays of the month. He also writes about nature at www.jimmccormac.blogspot.com.

Hudsonian Godwit, Franklin's Gull, and going facedown in the sand

A pair of Hudsonian Godwits rocket by at Maumee Bay State Park, hard on the shore of Lake Erie just east of Toledo. I visited this spot last Wednesday, with the big sandpiper being a primary target. Uber-birder, photographer, and all-around naturalist Rick Nirschl had been reporting godwits from the area for a few days, along with many other interesting species. Besides, I just don't get into that neck of the woods nearly often enough, and there are always interesting finds to be made. So, in the golden light of late day, I connected with local photographer and naturalist Kim Smith (see her blog HERE) and set out in search of robust sandpipers.

As always, click the image to enlarge

A Dunlin tends to its plumage. The chunky little sandpiper is in basic (winter) plumage. It's quite the different looking beast after molting into alternate (breeding) plumage. Then, it transforms into a coat of rusty-red above, and rich black below. It was once known as the "Red-backed Sandpiper".

Anyway, a large flock of several thousand gulls was roosting on the beach, with small numbers of shorebirds hanging around the periphery. We slowly stalked towards the group, being cautious not to flush or alarm the birds. Finally, after getting close enough, we dropped prostrate on the sand. Before long, this Dunlin and a group of his compradres - and one Least Sandpiper - flew into the water's edge directly in front of our position and in perfect light.

I could not believe our luck! Not only were there excellent photo ops of the little sandpipers, but the godwits - there were three - had been flying about and foraging on distant parts of the beach, and I knew the big sandpipers might well be lured in by these smaller sandpipers. Shorebirds like to pack up together, and our Dunlin were essentially acting as decoys to possibly lure the godwits right to our position.

Flat on my belly on the sand - thanks Kim for the photo - and ready for action. This, by the way, was a nasty chunk of sand to flatten oneself on, due to all the goose scat. But one must do what must be done. Note my shadow, pointing right in the direction of my quarry, and the soft golden glow of the light of day's end. Superb conditions.

My Gitzo tripod has quick-release tabs that allow the legs to splay out perfectly flat, allowing my camera rig to be only 6-8 inches above the ground. There are at least three great advantages to shooting in this position:

1) In such a posture, the birds no longer react as they would to an upright potentially threatening humanoid biped. They often go about their business as if you weren't there, and often approach closely. I would have never gotten the images that I did if I remained standing and shooting with the tripod nearly fully extended. Not disturbing your subjects should be rule #1.

2) By getting down on the ground, the photographer is at eye level with the subjects. Such a perspective is often unbeatable, as we shall see in some of the following images.

3) From an extremely low position, the reflections of your subjects in the water often melt into a pool of quicksilver - an awesome look, and I'll share an example further on.

Sure enough, our trusty little Dunlin decoys worked like a charm! It wasn't long before I heard the maniacal squeaky-toy calls of the godwits in flight, and seconds later the trio of birds plunked down with the Dunlin - right in front of our location! This was fantastic "good luck", although not due just to "good luck". Knowing the habits of your subjects helps immensely in being at the right place at the right time.

Right away, we were treated to stellar opportunities to create images of these large, sensational sandpipers. The godwits paid us no mind and went about their business of tidying feathers, resting, and foraging.

The bird in the previous shot was much in need of grooming, and here it sets about making those feathers right. Hudsonian Godwit ranks high among the world's most amazing birds. There are not many - the total population is estimated to be around 60,000 individuals. Here in Ohio, they're rare migrants, nearly all juveniles - like these birds - in late fall, with the majority occurring along Lake Erie. They are phenomenal world travelers, nesting in scattered locales in the North American arctic and migrating to the coasts of southern South America for the winter. As I write this, five days after making these images, these godwits are possibly already in South America. This species is capable of long-haul nonstop flights that can cover a few thousand miles. It is known that significant numbers of Hudsonian Godwits rest and refuel along James Bay in Canada after departing nesting grounds to the north. Many of these birds then fly nonstop to South America - an amazing journey in excess of 3,000 miles!

This photo is completely uncropped. Bird photographers will seldom carp about being too close to their subjects, but in this case I was decidedly over-lensed. I was shooting with the Canon 7D II mounted to Canon's fabulous 800mm f/5.6 lens. The 1.6x crop factor of the 7D means the lens is effectively a 1280mm lens. At times, this super telephoto did not allow me to leave the blank space around the edges of the bird that I would have preferred and sometimes I could not fit the entire bird in the image. But, I am not complaining.

A near macro view of the bird above, showing its scapular, covert, and contour feathers. This is an advantage of being close - cropping down to such fine detail, without pixelating the image.

One last view of one of our beautiful subjects, using its long bill to plumb the sandy depths.

A 1st-cycle Franklin's Gull sits placidly in the quiet waters of Deer Creek Reservoir, southwest of Columbus in Pickaway County, Ohio. I visited this area last Saturday morning, as Deer Creek and vicinity always produces something of interest. I was mainly there to go after sparrows, especially Le Conte's and Nelson's sparrows. As it happened, it was the first day of waterfowl season and the marshes sounded like WW III. That destroyed any possibility of quietly stalking the marshes for sparrows, so I headed to the state park beach. And hit paydirt as five Franklin's Gulls were loafing about with a few dozen Ring-billed Gulls, a smattering of Bonaparte's Gull, and two Herring Gulls.

It was a mirror image of the tactics employed to stalk the godwits a few days prior. I sidled onto the beach, dropped to the sand and worked my way towards the birds using a slight ridge of sand as cover. Before long, I was plenty close enough without alarming the birds at all.

Earlier, I made note of the advantages gained by shooting from a prostrate position, including the melting of reflections into a quicksilver pool. That effect is evident in the above image. One other comment about this photo. The gull is at nearly the perfect angle, and posture and angle is everything when making shots of birds. I watch my subject like a hawk, ready and waiting for it to subtly adjust its position. Note how the back of the bird is canted slightly my way, and the bird is looking slightly my way - maybe a 5-10 degree cock of the head. Perfect.

One of the young Franklin's Gulls plops into the water. This beautiful small gull is sometimes called the "Prairie Dove". I don't know that they look especially dovelike, but the prairie part fits. Franklin's Gulls nest mostly in the prairie pothole region of the Great Plains: the Dakotas and adjacent areas of the northern U.S. and into the Canadian provinces of Alberta, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan. They, like the godwits, are long-haul migrants and most winter along the Pacific coast of South America. They are rare autumn migrants in Ohio, and always a notable find.

Finally, as a bonus for an hour of lying in gritty sand, this adult Bonaparte's Gull rewarded me with a wonderful photo op. It came right at me, small fish in mouth, and gracefully landed in front of my position. I was ready for it and got this shot.