Field Trip for Bird Nerds

By Sarah Hatfield

“Look at the turtles! There must be over 80!” I spoke those words last week on a hike at Audubon. Jennifer, hiking with me, muttered “Such a herp nerd.” It is true, I confess to being a herp nerd – lover of all things slimy and scaly. I have another confession though. When push comes to shove, I’m still drawn to the feathered, first.

A bird nerd at heart, those magical creatures of both land and sky are still my first love. The sweet sound of a chickadee singing in the spring is an instant smile inducer. The song of the Tufted Titmouse coaxing the sap from the trees for its transformation into syrup almost sends me into delirium. Crows and goldfinches and woodpeckers and others round out the list of my daily dose of neighbors. I love it.

My trusty VW has never left the road, even as I screech “ducks!” and point to the sky. Binoculars are a resident of the backseat, along with my tattered and beloved bird guide. It takes a lot longer to get to work in the spring…there are so many birds to stop and see!

In case you’re looking for a great opportunity to go birding, I hear the Oak Orchard field trip is right up there at the top of the list. It is actually a trip that covers three separate areas – the 11,000 acre Iroquois National Wildlife Refuge, and two DEC parcels at either end, Oak Orchard and Tonawanda Wildlife Management Area. Together, there are over 19,000 acres of prime bird habitat. It is all sometimes collectively referred to as “The Alabama Swamps,” named for the town close by.

Mostly wetland, this is a great stopover point for migrating waterfowl – ducks, pipers, plovers, and others – as well as home to eagles, ospreys and geese, waterfowl, and wetland songbirds. Grasslands comprise much of the habitat as well, providing important nesting grounds for the resident birds.

The two DEC parcels are managed for a certain variety of birds, including some listed as endangered, threatened, and of special concern. Some of these rare birds include: Black Tern, Short-eared Owl, Pied-billed Grebe, King Rail, Northern Harrier, Sedge Wren, American Bittern, Red-shouldered Hawk, Common Nighthawk, Red-headed Woodpecker, and Prothonotary Warbler. Other species of note include: Bobolink, Eastern Meadowlark, Savannah Sparrow, Virginia Rail, Sora, Common Moorhen, American Coot, American Black Duck, Common Snipe, Great Blue Heron, and Green Heron.

I’ve never been there, mostly because I have this thing called a job. But I know that the birders here start getting antsy when this time of year comes. Everyone that comes in the door gets asked “Are you going on the Oak Orchard trip?” It seems like a rite of spring.

This year it promises nesting Bald Eagles, and the Buffalo Audubon has scheduled an eagle watch the afternoon of the trip. The count is usually 40-50 species of birds, which is great for a day’s play. But come dressed for the weather. The proximity to the lake makes it cooler and windier than other locales.

If you’re interested in tagging along, the great day is April 4th this year. Meet at Audubon at 7am or at the Park-n-Ride on Route 60 at 7:30am if you’d like to ride in the van. Of course, you need to call us and let us know you need a seat in the van. There’s a fee for riding in the van, $15 for members and $20 for non-members. If you’re planning on caravanning, you can meet us at either location and follow, but please call and register so we know to wait for you! The van will plan to be back in Jamestown by 5pm.

In case you’d like more information about the area, the trails, the birds you can see, and more, you can visit http://www.classicbuffalo.com/WNYOutdoors/IroquoisNWR.htm and get that information. Of course, there are always birds at Audubon, and we’ve been greeting the early spring migrants already with a crowd of over 150 Tundra Swans, and other waterfowl, Red-winged Blackbirds, Grackles, Canada Geese and more are arriving daily.

 

Change for Another Year

By Sarah Hatfield

The sun is shining. It is too cold to even go outside and stand for a few minutes with skin exposed, to soak up the vitamin D my body is hungry for, but it is shining. That feeds the mind, if not the body. It reminds me that winter will pass, the seasons will change. In fact, it reminds me that change is the one constant upon which I can rely.

Sometime it is regular change, like that of the seasons or a birthday. Other times I look forward to original change, like a trip to a new place or changing a routine to incorporate a new animal, a new person, or a new object. A few times there is a change in my life that I wish had never happened and I long for the days before that change. Such is the nature of the world, that all moves and morphs and redefines its boundaries, hopes, or self.

I had a birthday yesterday. This birthday will mark a tremendous year of change for me. In one of the longest winters I remember, change has hit me like an angry moose, leaving little room for thought of standing my ground. I have to change.

What does it really take to change? We talk about changing behavior all the time in the environmental field, to save the planet, save the whales and save the rainforest. Some people change, but some don’t. Others change their behavior over time, but not right away. Why? What would it take to change your behavior, your beliefs, your dreams, yourself?

In thinking about this, a lot lately, I’ve come up with one really good answer. Love. You’ve got to love something in order to change. It can be superficial love, or deep, everlasting love. But it seems to be the common thread.

Those who know me well know of my soft spot for animals. I love this planet and the living things on it, so I help when I can. Especially when it comes to things abused, neglected or abandoned by people. I freely give my resources to care for them because I value them, I love them.

Some are less sentimental, placing value not on the living animal as a being, but valuing it as food, as nourishment. For countless generations people have relied on animals for food, we still do. Thus, for some, protecting the forests and streams is common sense, for it harbors the food they value, that they love.

There is yet another, more detached group, that values not the animals’ lives or their bodies as food, but rather the money they bring in. While it seems harsh and inorganic to me, it is still a love, the love of money drives this behavior.

The step that motivates change is a threat or harm done to things you love. Expose a citizen illegally collecting turtles from the wild and I’ll work hard to hold the offender accountable for their actions. I’m sure if prime hunting land was slated for commercial development, those people that rely on that land will stand against that plan. Remove the animals that the game ranchers rely on to bring in their money from people looking to kill large animals, and they will fight to get them back.

Love is an agent, the strongest agent, of change. Threaten that which we love, and we will fight to protect it, often at an enormous cost. This is the reason there are extremists in every religious sect, in passion driven causes such as environmentalism and cultural awareness and civil rights. Those extremists, ironically, are the ones with the most love.

Senegalese poet Baba Dioum said it well, in 1937: In the end, we will conserve only what we love; we will love only what we understand; we will understand only what we are taught. That is, ultimately, why I teach – so that others will love as much as I do. I will teach more this year, about our planet and animals and plants. I will help others understand the world in which we live, in the hope that they will join with me in protecting it. I will teach about love and loss and the power of both.

Maybe winter is a good time for brooding thoughts. The combination of losing the man I love and a long, cold, winter has given me ample time to think and ponder. Of course, there is still much to work through. But to change, you need to love something. And you need to lose something, or fear losing something.

I am changed. I will continue to change. I will fight harder for this planet, for the animals and plants that can’t defend themselves, because I know what true loss feels like. I don’t want to lose the animals I love, the places I love, or the planet I love. The threats to the things I love are real and move me to action in many ways.

 

The Joys of a Birdfeeder

By Sarah Hatfield

I love my bird feeders. I can’t believe what joy they bring me this time of year. Especially this time of year, the antics and dramas at the feeder make me laugh. Its not just the birds though. All appear and are welcome at the feeder so long as they don’t destroy the feeders. Although even that I will forgive eventually.

The most regular visitors are the birds, obviously. Recently I’ve had a flock of Pine Siskins, bold little birds that are reluctant to give up their cafeteria, even as I step up to fill the feeders. They are much different than the other birds that visit, often coming in groups, rarely alone. They have a preference for the ground, but will perch on the tube feeders as well. Though not aggressive, they have strength in numbers and so seem to dominate the feeders with their flitting about and constant working of sunflower seeds in their beaks.

And the word siskin is such a playful word, like the perfect three year old – adorable and mischievous, it is easy to say over and over. Siskin, siskin, siskin. It is a wonderful word, and a beautiful bird.

I have a Towhee that has been hanging around the feeder as well. He doesn’t like the porch with its easy pickings. He prefers rather to bound about in the snow, flinging clouds of it with every wing beat. Flying low, he will skim the snow to safety of the hemlock hedge until hunger lures him out again. Often it is only his head I can see in the yard, but by such behavior, I know it’s him.

The regular crew filters in and out throughout the day. Chickadees, titmice, cardinals, nuthatches, juncos galore, doves, bluejays, and the woodpeckers. Not that these are birds to be overlooked. I like watching the dominance struggles between the elder juncos and the youngsters. And the nuthatch is a pretty brazen young man himself, driving any smaller bird off the feeder when he gets in his moods. The woodpeckers almost always arrive in pairs, as do the house finches.

The Carolina wrens are one of y favorites. They prefer the suet, but will occasionally pick at the seeds. Their rich golden brown contrasts greatly with the coolness of the season, and I just love it. They hop around on the porch and look quizzical. Unmistakable and so gorgeous.

Now most people would regard the red squirrel as a pest, but I have a weakness for them. Maybe it’s the white eye ring, or the fluffy tail. Or maybe it’s the way they hop and bound. But their antics crack me up and I’m thrilled to have two at the feeder. They have learned that the cats can’t get through the glass and effectively ignore them now, coming right up to the door. They have burrowed little tunnels through the snow, from sidewalk to feeder and shrub to shrub. Their footprints in the snow make me smile, without fail, every morning.

Another visitor is the opossum. It’s a young one, probably not a year old. Half its tail is black and half is pink. If night falls before the birds have cleaned up the seed, the opossum takes care of it. He is not a predictable visitor, preferring to stay holed up somewhere for the colder days, but when hunger drives him out into the snow I can count on his tracks to the compost pile and a fresh deposit of fibrous scat on the porch.

The raccoons are fair-weather raiders of the feeders. They do some damage though, so I have a tendency to bring feeders in when they are roaming about. The little ones are cute though, with such cunning eyes, you know they are capable of so much more than we give them credit for.

Finally, the unexpected visitor, the mouse. He’s so cute and little! One day I was watching the birds and he scurried up to the seed, grabbed one, tried to grab another but dropped the first one. He wasn’t quite sure what to do, so he ran over into the corner, ate one, then went back for another and scurried off the porch again. Not a site usually seen during the day, it was really interesting to watch him and his seemingly random behavior. Sometimes he would eat the seed, sometimes carry it to the corner. Sometimes he would run off into the bushes with it. Sometimes the birds chased him, sometimes he chased the birds. Cute in any case.

Thus bird feeders, at least at my house, are for more than the birds. And I don’t mind. Each is trying to survive, adapting to the presence of birdfeeders is an excellent survival strategy. And it gives me a reason to sneak to the door every morning and peer out to see who is benefiting each day.

 

Reflections

By Sarah Hatfield

Nature knows not that it is a new year. It is simply another day. A wintry one, cold and without foliage. There was a recent respite in the weather last week, one the birds celebrated with singing and a great show of squabbling at the feeders. Yet it is still a winter day. No matter that the humans on this planet have flipped a calendar page, popped open bottles of champagne, toasted, resolved, and celebrated. The daily struggles and joys of life continue as they have forever.

We choose an arbitrary day to mark a new year, a turning point, a time to look back and then look ahead. It gives us a sense of passing time, accomplishments and losses, perhaps perspective. We make resolutions to improve and progress. Why on January 1?

Maybe it is because we start our calendars with January and it seems logical. Or perhaps it is because in the middle of the winter season we need to refocus and re-inspire ourselves. Yet people celebrate the world over on the same day, though not all are in the winter doldrums. Some cultures and groups do not use January 1 as the start of their new year, though most do, and it is still an annual event. A year seems a long time to wait for a refueling of goals, and reflection of events past.

Reflecting is a process, after all. It is not something to be done in an hour or two, or even twenty-four. There are 365.24 days to peruse in your mind the year – the good, the bad, the sad and the hilarious. There are life changing moments and missed opportunities. There are the “almosts” and the “what ifs” and the “I wonders”.

Reflections are sometimes crisp and perfect, and sometimes riffled a little and left vague. It is like the difference in the mirror of a still pond and the fractured reflection of a babbling stream. The images we have, clear or hazy, are accurate in our hearts and souls. The meanings are now a part of ourselves, no less than our marrow and heart. To reflect on such a collection of thoughts takes more than one day. Often it takes a lifetime.

Reflection is the chance to turn an event into a guiding principle. To internalize a happening, absorb it, process it and mull it over until it makes sense – that is reflection. When that happens, we are better for the time we’ve taken to do so. A reflection in nature is simple and straightforward. It does not stray or add things that are not there. It simply shows what exists from a perspective we may not be able to see. On water, on ice, within a drop of dew or from an animal’s eyes, a reflection is the truth mirrored into our world. It is light.

In our lives, reflection is more complicated. Our brains must piece together the elements, both brash and subtle, to form the picture. Ultimately we see something that wasn’t there before, a detail, a movement, an element. It may lead to understanding, it may be simply an observation. We would have missed it without the reflection, though.

I love how the world is reflected in a drop of dew on a tree branch. I reach up and touch it with my tongue, so sweet. There are no straight lines in the world within a raindrop, all is curved. It is as if our world with sharp edges meanders, softens. The harshness and defined nature becomes more malleable and I find myself smiling at the change.

I can see myself, but I am upside down. I realize there are people that can explain the refraction and reflection with formulas using the curvature of the drop and the viscosity and other such technical aspects. I prefer to just dwell within that water droplet for a moment, suspended from the cigar-shaped bud of an American Beech sapling, and float.

There is much to reflect on this past year. I believe 2008 has been one of the most challenging years for me in so many ways. I have learned much. I have fought and cried and given up hope. I have made amends, forgiven, and healed. I have traveled, laughed, discovered, and loved. I have lived.

Sometimes I am still and clear like the reflections on the pond. The pieces fit together and create a stunning image. Life is whole and beautiful. Other times I am fragmented and wild, not able to make anything from the pieces that are my life. Life is disassembled, but still in a thousand pretty pieces. I can be amorphous, having no real shape, as the reflection in ice or curved and lithe, as seen through morning dew.

Blurry or curved, complete or fractured, my life is reflected in my memories, my stories, and the very principles that guide me. I did not wait for January 1 to reflect or remember. Nor will I wait for next year to flip the pages of my life in 2009. It will be a regular exercise, to ponder and wonder and peruse and absorb. Daily I will go about my life, surviving just as the birds do without knowledge of date or year. With such continual changes in perspective, I will grow, heal, recover, remember and resolve more naturally and holistically. Each element will change me. Each moment will reflect in my personality, my tears, and my smile. I will be 2009, each day as it passes, just as the reflection on the water is the world.

 

Holding on and Letting Go

By Sarah Hatfield

 

Once in a great while, we have the opportunity to experience true bliss. It could be a single moment that forever fills you with hope. It could be a series of moments that weave a story. It could be the spaces between moments that turn into a life. Whatever the case, it is unforgettable, intense, and infinite.

 

A very dear friend, one I was lucky enough to share a love with for three and a half years, died in a car accident last week. Ryan Exline was my best friend. He was my rock. He was my mighty oak.

 

Ryan and I met at Audubon. He was an Eagle Keeper, one of the fortunate ones to care for the magnificent bird named Liberty. He was an Animal Caretaker, keeping the collection of live animals in good health. He was a Summer Intern, teaching children to enjoy and appreciate nature. Audubon shaped him and helped him find the path that would lead to the creation of an exceptional man.

 

But Ryan shaped Audubon, as well. There are still campers that come and ask if Ryan is here, he was their counselor. Volunteers repeatedly asked me about him, how he was doing and told me to pass along how proud they were of him. He lent a sense of simple truth and integrity to Audubon. I was not alone in loving him. He was loved my many and by all.

 

Ryan and I spent most of our time together 600 miles apart. He was attending college in North Carolina and would continue on to graduate school there. “How can anyone last that long being that far apart?” you might ask, as many did. It wasn’t easy. In fact, there may not be words to explain how hard it was at times. We were going through one of our roughest times when he died. But nature played a huge role in sustaining us.

 

I looked at the sky the other night, shortly after his memorial service, and it was filled with stars. Bright ones, millions and millions of them. It was the first clear night in many. I wept. We had a star. It was the one that connected the handle of the Big Dipper to the dipper. We chose that star because we were two very different people, with two very different backgrounds, but together we formed something greater than we ever could alone. It was the same star, in North Carolina or Pennsylvania. We weren’t all that far apart when we would both look at it.

 

We had a special place in the woods that we would visit when he was home on breaks. It was a place we went to listen to the wind whisper through the poplars, watch bluebirds forage, contemplate the beauty of the world and the tenacity of our relationship. I will go there to talk to him, to fill him in on my life, to tell him I miss him and that my heart aches. He will answer through the wind that kisses my face and dries my tears. I will mourn him and he will wrap me up in sunshine and tell me that he is everywhere I look, that I’m not alone. Every frog, every snake, every unique pattern of lichen on a rock – that’s him, beside me, reassuring me that there is still a reason to smile.

 

During his Forest Biology class at college, he needed to learn the different trees. And so every week, he would send me a tree name and I would learn with him. We would walk through the woods and quiz each other. It was learning in a way we loved, immersed in nature, with it humming at our fingertips and beneath our feet. As I walk though the woods now, the trees will be sentinels to his memory, and I will whisper Fagus grandifolia, Prunus serotina, and Quercus alba like a prayer.

 

Throughout the county, indeed the entire eastern seaboard, Ryan will be there – Chautauqua Gorge, Hatch Run, Audubon, my backyard, a campground in Ripley, the Warren County Fair, the Blue Ridge Mountains, a cabin in South Carolina, Folly Beach, Assateaque Island, a little apartment in Durham, a family home on Route 957, a diner on Route 62 where we will never again share a cinnamon roll for breakfast. I’ll never hear him say good morning again, or good night. We’ll never again take a photo of our feet in the ocean. But he will be there.

 

Nature holds a soul much longer than a human body can. Ryan was my rock, and he will always be – the calm and steady presence in my life that no matter what whirlwind of emotion I was caught up in, I could count on him. Ryan will live forever, of that I am certain. For me, he is a rustling tree, a chorus of frogs on a spring night, an oak leaf in hand. He is lightning, and thunderstorms, and the perfect mushroom. He is the view from a mountain and the majesty of a forest. Ryan is the calm inside me when I stand at the edge of the ocean.

 

It feels like someone has stolen a large part of my future. Yet, I cannot begrudge anyone for wanting him, he was a genuine, kind, steadfast, and generous man. He was exceptional. And so as I grieve, I know his soul is content, cradled in the arms of oaks, and racing with bluefin tuna in the deep, vast sea. The bliss we shared has passed, the moments and stories and spaces are mine, and mine alone now. I am blessed to have had that time with Ryan. I am grateful that he lived his life in such a manner that the earth will pulse with his memory, and that through nature he will be with me every step of the way.

 

The Gift of Homemade

By Sarah Hatfield

“Here, I made this for you.” I love those words. I love that someone would take the time to make something for me. It’s one of the few actions in the world that actually make me feel appreciated and special – among a raise, visits from my family, and a real letter in my mailbox.

The art of making things seems to be a lost one. I can make cards, applesauce, mediocre curtains, and a mean pan of brownies. But that might be all. I can’t make a house from a stack of lumber. I can’t make a blanket from a ball of yarn. I can’t make yarn from the wool of a sheep. I can’t make a lot. My dad can make stuff. He can disappear into the basement, one that is chock full of stuff, and make incredible things. Useful things. Things that always make me smile, because of their uniqueness, their craftsmanship, and the fact that my dad made it.

Using your hands to create something from a raw material is a gift and a skill but can be learned. I learned how to make applesauce from my mother. Patiently, year after year, it was the same process. When I left for college, I knew how to make applesauce, and did – in a dorm room with an electric burner, a sauce pan and an empty wine bottle. It was the best applesauce I ever tasted because I made it, all by myself. Yes, I confess, I was proud of that pan of applesauce.

People tend to treasure things that were made for them by hand more than store-bought gifts. When there is an emotional connection, there is more value. I still keep, in a box of memories, clothes that my grandmother sewed for me when I was a little kid. I have a box of letters written to me from my parents. I have needlepoint pictures on my wall that my mother made from me years ago. Little things, even, useless now, I hesitate to let go – like an axe handle an old family friend made, not for me, but for another relative.

Homemade. Handmade. These words mean comfort and quality. They mean love and attention and sustenance wrapped into the folds of a quilt, contained in a quart jar of peaches, or residing in the latch on my kitchen pantry. Those words mean durable, well-made, and tough when applied to tools, a set of garage stairs, or a porch. I have things that no one else in the world has because they were made by the hands of my relatives out of a piece of junk turned tool turned keepsake. When I cradle those one-of-a-kind things in my hands, I know the patience, perseverance, and confidence from which they were born.

Innovation and creativity are two of the driving forces between handmade items. Throw some necessity in there and you’ve got a tool. A little love and you have a keepsake. Maybe a pinch of malice and you get a weapon. Handfuls of gratitude and you make a gift. Each handmade thing is different, it has to be. We are incapable of making the same things twice if using only our hands and heads. We strive to make it better, prettier, more purposeful, efficient, or bigger. A handmade gift captures a mood, an idea, a thought. It is as close to giving someone a piece of you as possible.

In that same spirit, Audubon hosts Homemade Holidays every year. We use recycled, reused, or natural materials to create little keepsakes to give to family and friends for the holiday. It’s a day to make something, with your own two hands, with your thoughts and creativity. And it’s a day to spend in the company of the people you treasure. This day is a great event for families to come and explore the exhibit and stop in and make a few gifts to take away.

This year the date is November 28 and it’s the Friday after Thanksgiving, as always. Admission is regular, adults are five dollars and children and members are free. There is a small donation for each craft, but nothing excessive. The Center is open from 10 am until 4:30 that day, so come and walk off a little of the turkey and stuffing on our five miles of trails. They will be decorated with winterberry and rose hips with a soundtrack of chickadees and rustling grasses, for a truly wonderful walk. The trails stay open until dark. And don’t forget to visit Liberty!

Originally published November 15, 2008.

 

Traditional Thanksgiving

By Sarah Hatfield

Traditions seem to abound this time of year. Whether it is the carving of pumpkins, traveling to see family, picking apples and making applesauce, baking, crafting, or hiking, those little actions, the repetition of history, connects us to our past and the paths we’ve trod. There are personal traditions, family traditions, and community traditions, but they all serve the purpose of reminding us about where we have been, what we have done, and who we have become.

The smell of Concord grapes saturating the air, rolling the windows down as I drive into my hometown regardless of temperature, inhaling and letting the sweet, fleshy smell inundate my brain and infiltrate my senses, that is something I crave every autumn. It is a rite of autumn, and the season has not started until I descend Route 89 into the town that molded me. The crisp, unbelievably sugary taste of a Sweet Delicious apple on my tongue transports me back in time, to bouncing through an orchard in a beat-up Land Rover, steering while sitting on my mother’s lap, anticipating the climb into the branches of an apple tree to harvest nature’s bounty. I can taste my childhood in the crunch of that apple. Traditions link us inexplicably to places, people and memories, for better or for worse, and we are richer for the experiences.

Families are amorphous, they grow and change and redefine their boundaries regularly. The ties that bind them together are strong. And so it is with the Audubon family, people who gather together once, twice or twenty times a year. Individuals come and go and change and grow, but the family has its roots in the place. One tradition that brings this family together is Thanksgiving with the Birds, held the Saturday before Thanksgiving, this year November 22. Audubon’s oldest tradition, this is a time when people gather to celebrate this harvest time holiday. Originally held outdoors, to include nature in the celebration, the dinner is now held inside. Diners bring a dish to pass and Audubon provides the turkeys. The soup pot, a tradition going hand in hand with the day’s festivities, is a conglomeration of clear-broth soups brought by people, mixed together in the pot and served as part of the meal. Some years it is excellent, others there is plenty left over! Yet traditions make this day what they are and the soup pot will begin that day at 11:30 am.

A featured speaker usually regales with tales, stories, or photos and this year is no exception. Gardener and writer Sara Baker-Michalak will speak and read some of her essays from her new book, The Garden Within. Sara is a resident of Dunkirk and has had her work featured in a number of publications. The Garden Within is her first collection of essays.

The volume is comprised of brief, reflective essays about the natural world found in Western New York. Interactions among the region’s plants, animals and weather all serve as invitations to see the wonders of nature and our own place in it.

The author says, “Mindful observation of the natural world provides the substance for my writing, and shapes my inner journeying. Lightscatter flashing across the chattering creek; autumn seed, wind-dispersed; old cobwebs beaded with tiny balls of snow—the valley is marbled with stories, clues, keys. These are my lines of inquiry.”

Join the Audubon family in its oldest tradition this year, perhaps beginning a tradition of your own! Reservations are required, so we know how many places to set. If you can’t make our Thanksgiving tradition part of your holiday, perhaps you can start a new tradition, like taking a family hike, making applesauce together, or having your own Thanksgiving for the birds. Audubon has birdseed available at locations throughout Chautauqua and Warren counties at the following locations: Asheville General Store, Herbs-R-4-U, Hamlet Farms, Howe’s True Value, Ekey’s Garden Center, Russell Veterinary Hospital, and Lakeview Gardens. Even if you can’t share in our celebration with nature for the holiday, stop and grab some birdseed and treat the birds to your own celebration.

Originally published on November 8, 2008.

 

Picking Up Leaves

By Sarah Hatfield

Leaves crunch underfoot, the earliest casualties of the season. Other leaves drift and tumble from above as I meander through the woods. Thoughts of autumn and leaves are virtually inseparable, like high school sweethearts celebrating 60 years together. It would be hard to define the season without referring to the color of leaves, the falling of leaves, the raking, crunching, and crackle of leaves.

The sumac bleeds crimson as the poplars catch it in a cradle of yellow. The light dances through blushing maples like ballerinas on a backlit stage. Like alter-egos, each leaf takes on a double life, one glowing with fire and passion and brightness, one giving way to dullness and fading into the landscape. Together they form a kaleidoscope of color that transfixes.

The change we see, the progression that marks the passage of time, is written in the formal script of chlorophyll, xanthophyll, anthocyanin, and carotene. This complicated cast of characters replaces each other and acts together to create the greens, yellows, reds, and oranges linked intimately with fall. Harvest gold and rich amber, ravishing crimson and delicious orange kiss the landscape, making this season one of unparalleled beauty.

A maple leaf catches my eye. I lean to pick it up, to examine the outline of pink around the veins, the hint of yellow surrounding that, green points that give way to tan, then brown. Reluctant to let such beauty go, I carry it with me.

Children pick up leaves. It is instinct, raw and unbiased, that causes those small hands to seek beauty, pick it up, hold it close and never want to let it go. Fistfuls of painted foliage, this may be their first lesson in fleeting beauty. So momentary, so ephemeral is the life of an autumn leaf, it seems fragile. Once in the car, or the house, it isn’t near as brilliant. We try to capture the color, the radiance, press it between the pages of a book. They retain the memory of their color, but not the truth.

Leaves are the powerhouse of the tree, they spend spring and summer capturing sunlight and using the above mentioned characters, they convert it to sugar, food that will fuel the tree not only through times of plenty, but the lean times as well. A tree can be identified to species with a single leaf, like a botanical fingerprint. Pick one up. Is the edge of the leaf smooth (entire) or jagged (toothed)? Does it have lobes or not? Do the veins look like fingers, all spreading from a common point? Identification is a science, it asks questions and answers them, and as a result, you will be holding in your hand one piece of a Sugar Maple tree.

It doesn’t answer why you picked it up in the first place. Science can never answer that. Was it the pink? The yellow? The shape? The pattern of color, the absence of color, the difference from the leaves around it, all those things may have made you stop and choose that leaf. Emotion was the driving force that brought your hand to the ground, to grasp between your fingers a single leaf – whether it was wonder, curiosity, appreciation, awe, or something even more powerful.

A child picks up a leaf because he thinks it is pretty. There is no greater reason to do so. That urge to hold it, to look more closely at it, to take it home and try to keep it is to believe that beauty can last forever.

Collectively, leaves have the power to amuse, entertain and spark imaginations. Huge piles of them invite youthful play. Thrown in the air, they are better than snowflakes and shooting stars for they fall over and over again, to smiles and laughter, the soundtrack of innocence. Buried within them, the earthy, moist smell envelopes and surrounds and a deep breath evokes a feeling of connection and permanence. Jumped in, amazement shows in their eyes as they realize the world is actually a soft place to land sometimes. Such an impact for such a simple thing, a leaf.

To celebrate the autumnal equinox, a friend asked for a phrase about fall that began with an “L.” So I replied “laughter as the leaves fall for the earth is looking forward to creating new life under a blanket of snow.” Leaves are the garment of choice for our vast northeastern deciduous forests. From a new spring green to the vibrant sumac red, leaves dress and make this area what it is. Leaves feed the ground-dwellers all winter long, under a blanket of snow, keeping them alive with simple cell walls and leftover sugar. Leaves feed the trees as they are broken down and their nutrients seep into the soil to reach the hungry roots. Leaves feed the souls of people as we amble through woodlands, marveling at colors with a fistful of beauty in our hands.

Leaves crunch as I walk through the woods and I stop. I can hear them hit the ground with a whisper, taking a greater role in the world. I smile, look at the collection in my hand, and let these ones flutter to the ground as well. To release such beauty back to the world makes me lighter, and I continue my trek laughing with the leaves.

 

The Enchantment of the Forest

By Sarah Hatfield

This is a season of balance, of harvest, of change. It is a time to celebrate as we stack our pantries and larders with home-grown food and apple pies. Ok, so most of us don’t actually put up our own food anymore. And most of us probably don’t pay attention to the length of the days until it is dark a whole lot more than it is light. Many things happen during this season we call autumn, or fall. Apples ripen, leaves curl and color, the birds molt their summer feathers, and the goldenrod tints the world yellow. We don sweaters and jeans, pick up rakes and stack firewood. Even in a time of balance, when days and nights are almost equal in length, it is a time of change.

Monarch butterflies no longer flit from flower to flower, pausing a little longer at milkweed. Rather they seem more driven, more purposeful in their flight as these days trigger them to head south, on a journey they know but have never taken. Their orange and black wings match the harvest colors and watching them is almost like watching summer fly away. Bittersweet but beautiful.

Another rite of the upcoming season, I spent a day picking up fallen sticks and branches from my yard, piling them in the fire pit this past weekend. After dark, I went out and lit them, savoring a perfect night under the stars, in good company as the crickets serenaded me and the bats danced in and out of the firelight, gobbling up the last few remaining insects. The bats are bulking up for a long winter ahead, storing fat for their migration or hibernation, depending on their species. Their faint chirps and squeaks made me smile last night, and I imagined that both the bats and I were enjoying one of the last, great summer nights together.

Soon the bats will head south to warmer climes or hole up in my attic, and I too, will retire to my wood-heated living room. The snakes and cold-blooded critters are not so fortunate in their winter lodgings, often burrowing into mud or underground burrows. Eastern Garters will be active a little longer, into mid-October, perhaps, searching out the last grasshoppers and worms, before they, too, disappear under earth’s blanket for the winter. After the food is gone, Garters, too, will seek shelter below the frost line, biding their time until the ground warms enough to coax them back out into the surface world.

Frogs have a few different strategies. This time of year, the Spring Peepers are experiencing autumnal recrudescence, which basically means that they are confused by the night-day thing and the cooler temperatures and they think its spring, so they sing. It is a joy to hear them in the fall, however odd it may be, though. Other frogs are also singing occasionally, but more and more as the season wanes, they will find places to survive the winter. Some burrow into the mud at the bottom of ponds, like Green Frogs and Bull Frogs. One of the more amazing survival techniques is displayed by the Spring Peepers. They actually burrow into leaf litter and allow themselves to freeze. They have such a high concentration of “sugar” within their cells, that while their bodies may appear frozen, the water in their cells is not and so they survive the winter this way, thawing as soon as the ground does.

Some animals are active all winter long, even though you may not see them. The beaver is one of those animals. It will spend the winter in its lodge, eating food it has stored in the mud at the bottom of the pond. It’s thick fur keeps it warm, even during frigid forays into the icy water. Even when the pond it calls home is completely frozen, the beavers are tucked into their lodges, cozy and comfortable.

 

A Bald Eagle Story

By Sarah Hatfield

I remember when I saw my first Bald Eagle. I was in Florida, I was in my early teens, and there is was, just sitting on a telephone pole. Right there! Sitting there! A Bald Eagle! It was exciting.

Eagles have made quite the comeback within my lifetime. Here at Audubon they soar over Big Pond on a regular basis. When I ask in a classroom how many kids have ever seen a Bald Eagle in the wild, most raise their hands. That stuns me. The whole idea that something was so rare and endangered is now common again challenges my assumptions of human nature, in a great way. The Bald Eagle is not just the symbol of our country, it’s a symbol of the capacity of humans to save that which is important to them, and to do it successfully. It is a lesson we need to remember in the face of such potential ecological tragedy. We can persevere. We can change our behavior, our actions, and our mindset.

The eagle was abundant in North America before settlers came, feasting on fish and small mammals. As humans began to enter their landscape, competition set in and populations of Bald Eagles began to decline. In essence, people wanted the same fish the eagles did, and general harassment was driving the population down. In the 1940’s the Bald Eagle Act was put in place to reduce harassment of the birds which reduced pressure on them. This is also the time at which DDT, a toxic pesticide, was becoming widely used. It entered the food chain at the lower levels and eventually worked it’s way up to the eagles. It interfered with the eagle’s ability to form eggshells, making them paper thin and crushing during incubation.

The Bald Eagle was listed as an endangered species in 1967 under a law that predated the current Endangered Species Act, formed in 1976. The Bald Eagle was placed on the national list on July 4, 1976. Through reduction of pesticide use, changes in pesticide formulas and a ban on DDT use in the United States, the Bald Eagle fought its way back and was officially listed as threatened, rather than endangered, in 1995. It is one of the few true success stories of an endangered species.

There are still a number of threats that eagles face, both natural and human-caused. Locally, there are always reports of eagles that have been found in need of help. Whether injury, illness, or happenstance, many of these eagles receive care at a local veterinary hospital that specializes in wildlife rehabilitation. Many are released back into the wild, some do not survive.

At Audubon, Liberty represents the species in all her glory. She is a non-releasable Bald Eagle. Arriving at Audubon in 2002, she has already been through quite a lot in her lifetime. She was found in Washington state with a severely injured wing. A resident captured her and took her to the local rehab facility. After receiving a year of care, medication, and physical therapy, they determined that her survival in the wild was unlikely. She entered into the captive raptor world and was matched with us, based on our needs. She was loaded into a carrying crate and put on an airplane. She arrived in New York and was then driven here to her new home. She has happily settled in and has become a feathered celebrity of Chautauqua County.

Liberty had her adult plumage at the time of her injury. This makes it impossible for us to determine how old she is. We hope she continues to thrive at Audubon for many years to come, but you can help assure that she has adequate vitamins, vet visits, and materials just by walking or running our trails.

The Annual Run/Walk for Liberty is on Saturday, September 27 this year. This is an event that helps raise money to care for Liberty, while encouraging people to get outside and enjoy nature and get some exercise. The Run/Walk begins at 10 am and registration is required, although you can register the day of the event from 8 am until 9:45 am. Al ages are encouraged to participate, but there will be children’s activities if the kids aren’t up for it.

Our sponsors, Jamestown Radiologists P.C., Lane Women’s Health Group, The Legend Group, Ada Ramsey, Spectrum Eyecare, and Bob Ungerer, make it possible to provide long-sleeved T-shirts to all pre-registered participants. We’re grateful for their support of Audubon and of Liberty.

Published September 13, 2008