xenogere

The plague year

Posted on Jan 5, 2009 by jason

It took little more than a few seconds after the new year began for many to realize 2008 had been a catastrophe of epic proportions.  A rather Grinch-like mood shuttled people through the holidays, an otherwise hectic and stressful time made worse by economic turmoil, emotional and psychological pressures, worries over what next horror would strike out from the shadows, and when the unrelenting gloom cloaking the world might peel back a corner and let in a wee bit of light.

Many with whom I’ve spoken or whose blogs I’ve read share a belief that 2009 represents hope, a hope rooted in a need for something different, a want for an outlook not mired in yet more bad news.  It glows with a demand-cum-expectation that 2009 be a year of change.  Whether that change manifests in reality seems to matter little.

I entered December with a growing dread.  My own battles with depression notwithstanding, I swirled around a chasm of darkness that pulled me in deeper and deeper.  Even as my birthday passed a few weeks ago marking my 38^th anniversary on this planet, dimmed became the light in which I had lived for some time.  And I did not know then any more than I know now why I became entrapped in such a lightless place.

Yet lightless it is and, although I felt it impossible, more lightless it has become.  Everyone has a different tale to tell as to why they enter this year with such a dim view of things.  I admitted in a comment at Annie’s place in mid-December that trials and tribulations lack a quantifiable sameness between people since “[e]very circumstance is different, every life a standalone event.”  It is for that reason alone that my own forlorn entanglement with this new year continues its relentless sinking no matter how much a collective hope now blankets whatever shared mentality we own.

But I do not share a part of that collective hope.  Not now, anyway.  Part of what made 2008 so sinister for me was my job.  What makes 2009 less hopeful still comes again from my job.  It robs from me every bit of life and time I call spare, and this month it does so at an even more cataclysmic rate.  I work three of the next four weekends.  I suffer through our on-call hell every three to four days.  I lose the whole of what is dear to the monster of what I abhor most: living to work instead of working to live.

Wiping away the employment Vaseline covering the lens of life clears the view only slightly.  I believe the fog of agony now taints the world far too much.  My first novel has languished beneath the guise of paying the bills and longs for the completing light of day; my second and third novels, both already in the works, wish for the first to move aside so they can grow and prosper.  The Kids deserve so much more than they receive from me, for they give me so much more than I can state.  Family and friends wallow in the wasteland of lost time that work consumes at an increasing rate.  I cannot quit, though, given the economic hardship befalling the world.  Finding another job proves more difficult with each passing moment.

What fiendish demon of the night holds my soul in its grasp?  What vile, ghoulish, devilish monster eats away at the very heart of me?

I plunge headlong toward oblivion, my spirit lost to the vacuous depths of despair.  I’ve been here before, been on this terrible path far too many times to count…  And I despise the course now resting before me.

A new year proffers little for me, but instead it takes more than the previous year ever imagined.

Welcome to the plague year…

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] Two eastern kingbirds (Tyrannus tyrannus) perched in a tree.

[2] A male gadwall (Anas strepera) floating on the still surface of White Rock Lake.

[3] Two non-breeding male ruddy ducks (Oxyura jamaicensis) slowly swimming away from shore.

[4] A snow goose (Chen caerulescens) perusing dry winter grass.

[5] A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) perched in a tree.

[6] An American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) perched in a tree.

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Miscellany and other mental detritus

Posted on Jan 4, 2009 by jason

Like an open thread from days gone by, only different…

Walk the Wilderness is a new blog I’ve only recently discovered, one full of photos and experiences from two people living and working in India, two people trying very hard to enjoy the vast wilderness surrounding them.  The images and accounts are magical, the latest being of an encounter with an Indian tiger.  I feel nothing but jealousy at such a magical moment, and the pictures make me long for a life far removed from the one I live.

Go.  Go now.  You won’t be disappointed with the majestic splendor so expertly captured and displayed, and you’ll long for the opportunities lived by two people willing to share them with the whole of Planet Earth.

— — — — — — — — — —

While continuing the move of images from my old photoblog, I realized a great deal of the categorization I used there didn’t fit with the simplicity of this journal.  It therefore behooves me to adapt in whatever way I can to accommodate that filing system.

But while trying to do so, I ran across yet another issue: the growing expanse of my life list.  Originally I intended to include links to the individual posts, yet splitting that out by kingdom has not reduced the growing size of each page linking to media representative of the species I’ve encountered.

How best to resolve that issue has vexed me these past several weeks.

Now I have the answer.  Or answers, as it were.

Not only will I migrate an adapted list of the categories from my old photoblog, but I will begin tagging life list entries so I can use a tag search to identify related posts.

Sounds like so much malarkey, right?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.

The point is that the life list links will be updated quickly with tagged searches that include all available media, not just individual links to each post, and the photoblog migration will add new categories to the existing post structure.

Most of this is hogwash to all but the anal among us.  For me, it’s a brief writ to outline how I can make sense of this growing diary.

— — — — — — — — — —

Only once have I visited the monarch butterfly colonies in Mexico during their overwintering stay.  The sight is profound, overwhelming for even the most uncaring amongst us.  The UNESCO Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve page explains why:

Every autumn, millions, perhaps a billion, butterflies from wide areas of North America return to the site and cluster on small areas of the forest reserve, colouring its trees orange and literally bending their branches under their collective weight. In the spring, these butterflies begin an 8 month migration that takes them all the way to Eastern Canada and back, during which time four successive generations are born and die. How they find their way back to their overwintering site remains a mystery.

The Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve World Heritage property protects key overwintering sites for the monarch butterfly. The overwintering concentration of butterflies in the property is a superlative natural phenomenon. The millions of monarch butterflies that return to the property every year bend tree branches by their weight, fill the sky when they take flight, and make a sound like light rain with the beating of their wings. Witnessing this unique phenomenon is an exceptional experience of nature.

The overwintering concentration of the monarch butterfly in the property is the most dramatic manifestation of the phenomenon of insect migration. Up to a billion monarch butterflies return annually, from breeding areas as far away as Canada, to land in close-packed clusters within 14 overwintering colonies in the oyamel fir forests of central Mexico. The property protects 8 of these colonies and an estimated 70% of the total overwintering population of the monarch butterfly’s eastern population.

The first time I ever saw this wonder, I stood and wept at the visage of such profound beauty, the collection of so many creatures that represent the greatest of all insect migrations.  And that’s assuming that billions of migratory lifeforms don’t actually represent the greatest of all migrations, of all life, everywhere.

Yet NASA offered satellite images last year that make me wonder how much longer this natural phenomenon will occur.  To wit:

Recently, scientists identified severe degradation of the forest habitat within the Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve in central Mexico using imagery from the commercial Ikonos satellite. [...] The degraded area is the site of the Lomas de Aparicio monarch colony. [...] Colonies typically cover areas of 0.25–2.0 hectares (equivalent to a circle with a diameter of 60–160 meters, or 200–525 feet). The area had been largely intact since at least 1986. Overwintering colonies have been documented there since 1996, but have probably formed there long into the past.

In the 2004 image, the beginnings of the logging operation are apparent in an area to the east of (and partially inside) the core zone. Based upon this pair of images, and a similar image taken in 2006 by the QuickBird satellite, scientists Lincoln Brower, Daniel Slayback, and Isabel Ramirez have determined that approximately 450 hectares (1,110 acres) of forest were logged between 2004 and 2008, representing 3.3% of the 13,552 hectares (33,410 acres) core zone of the reserve. The majority of this logging (290 hectares, or 717 acres) has occurred since March 2006.

Forest degradation—which progresses from thinning to clear-cutting—has been an ongoing problem throughout the reserve. Other logging incursions have destroyed several other prime overwintering areas within the reserve, making them unsuitable for monarch colonies. Based upon the degradation apparent in these images, it is unlikely monarchs will form overwintering colonies at this Lomas de Aparicio site in future years. If they do return, they will be subject to much greater environmental risks during their six-month overwintering stay. An intact forest canopy serves a critical role by protecting the monarchs from both freezing cold during winter storms and from excessive warmth during the days. If unprotected from the sun, monarchs dehydrate and also risk starvation: they burn substantially more of their fat reserves when they can’t keep cool.

The researchers are greatly concerned that the entire monarch butterfly migration and overwintering phenomenon in eastern North America may collapse in the near future if the Mexican government does not fully enforce the logging ban.

Viewing the satellite images from NASA provides a critical view of this devastating impact on the monarch colonies.  What’s left of several major sites is nothing short of devastation.  The land is now useless to the insects, and their options are growing shorter and shorter each year.

I offer this because I’ll post a monarch entry in the near future.  North Texas provides a funnel through which a vast majority of the monarch migration passes.    Each autumn the air becomes filled with butterflies making their way from northern territories to their overwintering spaces in Mexico.  And each autumn for the last few years, their numbers have grown smaller when compared to what has come this way for many decades already passed.

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On wings

Posted on Jan 4, 2009 by jason

Not long ago Mary spoke about the difficulty of photographing birds.  She wrote:

I recently read a remark from a blogger in New England, “…photographing birds is hard work.” I never thought of it that way. However, truth be told, a few days, weeks, or months pass and maybe several hundred photos get dumped before I nail a glorious, unedited series of shots. Yes, it’s hard work, struggling to maintain the virtue of patience and practicin’ cussin’ skills.

And she’s right.  Like the rest of nature, birds don’t respond well to the “Say cheese!” or “Sit still, damn it!” commands, or any of the other usual suspects in our repertoire of photography directives.

However, circumstances sometimes conspire in a way that provides opportunity to capture an avian moment more difficult than the usual image of something perched on a branch or swimming in a lake.  I mean birds in flight.

While many gull species overwinter at White Rock Lake, the ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) remains the most common.  Both adults and juveniles spend plenty of time fighting with the coots and ducks and geese for every little tasty tidbit that can be found.

And woe is the unsuspecting person who comes to the water’s edge with a treat hoping to birth an encounter with the other inhabitants.  Gulls will swarm in flight and will challenge almost anything that gets in the way of a free meal.

Rock doves (a.k.a. common pigeons; Columba livia) enjoy a permanent home around these parts.  Truth be told, after being introduced to North America, they made themselves at home anywhere humans live—just as they have around the globe.  In fact, rock doves are ubiquitous in the world and thrive in urban and suburban landscapes, and they have been involved with humans for thousands of years, something that makes it next to impossible to determine their geographic origin.

A veritable laundry list of heron and egret species live here.  The most elusive is also the largest: the great blue heron (Ardea herodias).  Yet this behemoth tends to stay with the rest of the pack.

There exists a firth stretching inland from behind the old paddleboat building where one these days can snag a canoe or kayak.  The lake’s arm that reaches behind that structure, though, is so far removed from the world of humans that it hardly seems possible to bridge the gap between them.  Egrets and herons of all sorts make this lagoon their home.  At the right time of day, it’s possible to see several dozen birds of many different species, including the great blue.

Loud.  Obnoxious.  Willing to travel with the pelicans when it’s feeding time in hopes of grabbing a free fish stirred up by the larger birds, a practice that has landed them in the gaping beak of more than one pelican.

The number of double-crested cormorants (Phalacrocorax auritus) explodes in winter as migrants find their way back to this wildlife refuge, an oasis tucked gently in the middle of Dallas’s far-reaching sprawl.  Morning, noon or night, these mouthy, large birds can be found at the water theater behind the Bath House Cultural Center.

With all manner of wildlife living and dying in the middle of the city thanks to this man-made lake and surrounding park, turkey vultures (Cathartes aura) thrive here alongside their less evident cousins, the American black vulture.  Although it might be hard to believe, I see more vultures here than I do when I visit the family farm in East Texas’s Piney Woods.

Turkey vultures are birds of prey.  Sure, they spend a great deal of time looking for meals that are already dead, but they don’t mind doing the dirty work themselves when circumstances warrant.  Nevertheless, it’s obvious they find it much easier to soar around overhead waiting for nature to set the table and cook the meal instead of doing it themselves.

The first time I discovered the heron and egret sanctuary behind the paddleboat area, at least a dozen great egrets (Ardea alba) sat about in the trees, some offering raucous cries when one of the others invaded their personal space.  Much wing flapping and neck stretching ensued, after which one of the birds would move on to another branch or another tree.

One marvelous trait of the great egrets in this area is that they are far more tolerant of people than the great blue herons.  That’s not to say one can walk right up and pet them; it is to say they’re easier to photograph, and not just because there are a lot more of them.

Hawks, eagles, falcons, merlins, owls…  When it comes to birds of prey, White Rock has them all.  The only problem with photographing them comes from the challenge of finding them.  While hunting, they stay high or out of sight; while resting, they stay tucked away in the dense woodlands; and when running from the local murder of crows who mob the larger species, they run like the devil no matter who sees them.

Red-tailed hawks (Buteo jamaicensis) perhaps represent the species most often seen.  Why that is I don’t know since there are so many others to be found if one looks carefully enough.

Back to ring-billed gulls.  Why?  Because I really like the way this photo turned out.  Nothing more complicated than perception…

And finally my two favorites from this series…

I stood at the shore in Sunset Bay and took pictures of every little thing that caught my eye.  Bright sunshine did little to assuage the chill wind sweeping in from the north.  Gusts blowing at more than 40 mph/64 kph had me resting against a tree so I didn’t blow over—something that had already happened more than a few times earlier in my walk.

Reeds and brush at the water’s edge swayed back and forth, but mostly the dry plants pressed themselves down while pointing south as the arctic air invading Texas rolled over everything in its path.  Once I realized all the blowing stems would make photography difficult from where I stood, I made my way to the pier jutting into the bay.  The sandbar reaching north from the jetty would keep water from spraying into my face, and at least the lack of plants would give me a clear view.

Regal bald cypress trees stand on either side of the pier’s entrance.  As winter steals their verdant splendor, the foliage puts on clothes the color of rust and falls to the ground, something that creates a soft blanket of deep orange and red.  The planks under my feet eventually became clear once I reached the place where the wind scoured from the surface everything not nailed down.

At the end of the pier where I wanted to plant myself, a young man stood atop his bicycle, his mouth agape as he stared at the American white pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos).  At least a dozen of them already occupied the sandbar, some sleeping, some preening, some standing and staring aimlessly as though unsure of what to do with their time.

Overhead, sweeping in from their breakfast hunt in the deeper water near the spillway, yet more of these leviathans soared in on wings held still.  Conservation of energy defines their flight, much like that of vultures and hawks and eagles, and windy days can both help and hinder this effort.  Moving from southwest to northeast, the pelicans could use the strong northerly winds to their advantage for both flying and braking.

I finally reached the end of the pier where the young man stood.  His red sweatshirt was pulled tight and the hood provided only the smallest space for his face to see out.  Yet hidden or not, the surprise on his face clearly mixed with glee as he watched a parade of pelicans fly right over him as they circled the bay once or twice before landing (in this sense, the wind didn’t help since many of them missed their first try).

The wood under my feet moaned and creaked as I stepped up beside him.  He immediately turned, his blond hair blowing against his face as his crystal blue eyes devoured the entire landscape before us.  “Wow!” he exclaimed, then he looked up to watch another pelican coast overhead.  “Look at the size of them!  I guess there really are fish in this lake.”

I burst into laughter.  That comment alone meant he was new to the area—or at least new to this season at the lake.

We chatted a bit about the pelicans, for no more than a few minutes, then he spun his bike around and headed back to land.  He quickly disappeared around the north end of the bay as he continued his ride.

Which left me to watch the remaining pelicans arrive for their afternoon bath and siesta.

I might add I came awfully close to falling in the water more than once as I tried to take pictures.  Bracing against the unrelenting wind with only the viewfinder giving me an idea of the world around me made for a greater challenge than I expected.

Thankfully Sunset Bay is rather shallow, the confluence bringing a great deal of sediment into the area that only gets swept away during spring floods.

But I didn’t fall in.  Instead, I wallowed in the privilege of seeing pelican after pelican fly close both above and in front of me, each one trying for a soft landing in the face of winter’s chill blow.  Only when my fingers could no longer operate the camera did I turn and walk away, a grateful and overjoyed man who couldn’t have asked for a warmer reception on such a cold day.

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Hello, World, yet again

Posted on Jan 2, 2009 by jason

I’ve rolled out the new theme for xenogere despite it not being ready for prime time.

Oh well.

What kinks and bugs remain will be worked out in the coming days.  For the most part, however, the new theme is ready.

Expect hiccups and modifications and a plethora of bumps along the way.  That said, welcome to the new xenogere…

Feel free to leave a comment here if you have issues or see problems, send me an e-mail if you can’t leave a comment, or scream bloody murder if either of those don’t work.

Also, don’t hesitate to speak up if you have recommendations or opinions on this update.

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Pardon the ongoing mess

Posted on Jan 1, 2009 by jason

As I mentioned already, I’m in the process of finishing up the new theme for xenogere.

Unfortunately, in order to do this, I have to make changes to the main site engine.  That is having an impact on the existing incarnation of the blog.

So please forgive the various messes springing up and ignore anything that breaks.  It’s all temporary as I hope to roll out the new theme today—but no later than this weekend if I run into problems.

Meanwhile, the site will look strange yet should work almost normally.

[Update] I need to break this post with an image too large for the current layout.  Sorry ’bout that…

[a juvenile ring-billed gull (Larus delawarensis) in flight.]

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A new year and a new theme

Posted on Dec 31, 2008 by jason

I won’t remind you how capricious I am, especially with regards to this blog’s design.

I launched xenogere at the end of 2002 and posted my first entry in early 2003 (that two-month span consisted of setting it up and tinkering with it until I liked it).  Since that time, I’ve changed the core engine once and the design three times.

Now I’m going to change it a fourth time.  The design, I mean.

I really like this theme, like the look and feel of xenogere as it stands right now.

But I’m never happy with such things for long.

As with the previous theme changes, you can expect this one to be traumatic dramatic.  Things will be quite different, as has been the case with previous transitions of this nature.

However, I also feel this change is worthwhile.  The new theme is quite different yet superior in many ways.  I’ll admit it’s the difference I enjoy most about this process…

A great deal of my recent search for a new theme stems entirely from images: I want to expand the content area so I can increase the default image size.  Right now images can be no larger than 500×500 pixels.  For a great many reasons, I wish to utilize 600×600 pixels instead.

The new theme will allow me to do that by increasing the overall fixed width of the blog.  Sure, I could code those changes into this version, but what would be the fun in that?

So over the course of the next several days—precisely when I can’t say with certainty—xenogere will once again undergo a metamorphosis.

Hopefully this update won’t alarm or upset anyone.  At least not too much.

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Quality time

Posted on Dec 31, 2008 by jason

The Kids provide endless entertainment and companionship.  Unfortunately, being cats, they don’t always provide the best photographic opportunities.  I can’t tell them to sit and stay while I setup a prime shot.  I can’t let them run about the yard while I capture some magic moments.  In truth, they keep me on my toes when it comes to photographing them.

When we’re playing, it’s near impossible to snap photos while keeping them engaged.  I try, though.  What I wind up with most often are pictures of empty spaces, unrecognizable blurs, my own feet or hands, a wall or the ceiling, furniture, and anything else except cats.  Such is the curse of holding a toy with one hand as I hold the camera out and snap photos with the other.

When they’re playing on their own, I can sometimes get up and grab the camera for some snapshots.  Usually, however, they react to my movement by stopping what they’re doing and running to me for attention or a bit of personal play.  I try to keep the camera nearby for such moments, but that’s not always possible (busy doing chores or eating dinner are two examples that come to mind).

There is only one time when taking photos is simple: when they’re still (sleeping, grooming, etc.).

The next best opportunity is quality time.

Quality time for us happens as often as possible.  It’s nothing more complicated than me sitting or lying on the floor.  It draws them in like flies to honey.

We play.  We show love toward each other.  We focus on the pleasure of just being with one another.

But that represents another challenge.  It’s our quality time; I’m focused on them and they’re focused on me, so photography is nothing more than a byproduct when possible.

That there are seven of them also means my hands are full with making sure each of them receives their due affection.

Nevertheless, I find the happenstance photos from such moments often capture the wild spirits and loving souls that swim within each of these fur persons.

Kazon.  What can I say?  He’s my baby.  When he realizes I’m occupying him surreptitiously in hopes of getting a picture worth the effort, he stops and looks at me with the adoration of a child.  He needs his love, his affection.  And he is a child, a big tomcat in stature with the mind of a juvenile who is always needy, always demanding of personal attention.

Kako.  As independent as she is wanting of Daddy’s time, she proffers a mix of disdain and greed.  Sometimes I can’t get her off my shoulders long enough to breath; other times she smacks me around and lets me know I’m invading her personal space.  I love the bitch that dwells within this feline.  She is both distant and close all at once, a dichotomy that defines the spirit of all cats.

Larenti.  He is fear made flesh.  I always knew he was abused, for his fear of hands and sudden movements makes this clear.  Yet as much as he wants to engage the other felines, he fears them as much as he fears humans.  A bit of play quickly turns to panic, and a moment on my lap in purring contentment becomes fleeing apprehension when one of the other kids joins us and gets too close, rests against him, gets too near his personal space.  Ah, but he loves his time with me as much as he loves the rest of The Kids.  For a young cat, he still has time to realize the potential of the life I’ve given him.

Vazra.  He lives up to his name.  Simultaneously amiable and demanding, he is a true king of felines.  He demands things go his way, he demands no one else do what he does, and he demands everyone acquiesce to his needs and wants.  His physical presence, as beautiful as it is, represents a mere shadow of his personality, a big and bold being who loves with the utmost compassion as much as he expects me to answer his every demand.  He’s a mirror of my own soul…

al-Zill.  The neurological damage he suffered before I rescued him ensures he’s a special case in the xenogere homestead.  Affectionate with a purr that can shake dishes off the table, he’s also a child at heart who remains at odds with the disconnect between his brain and his body.  But how he loves the other cats!  As much as he loves me, I might add.  Watching him lie with Grendel as he grooms his older stepbrother warms my heart as much as it does when he pushes his way under the covers at night, when he races to claim my lap, when he follows me everywhere while continually rubbing against me, and when he gives me kisses—sometimes incessantly to the point of pain.

Grendel.  A lifetime of ailments continues to take a toll on this alpha male.  He is Sponge, the cat who can never get enough petting, who can never spend enough time with me (although Kazon gives him a run for his money in that regard).  And while Grendel remains the chief of the watch, I myself lament seeing him weaken, seeing the tremors that plague him all the time now, seeing a great predator reduced to wisps of what once was.  He looks at me with frustration in this photo because I wanted him to pause long enough for a picture, yet I could only demand so much from him before I wept and held him and spoke to him with the utmost adoration.  His time is limited, something obvious by the continued downhill slide of his body.  So many memories wrapped up in this one cat whose flesh can no longer support the soul that made him master of our domain…

Although I tried also to grab a few pictures of Loki, all of them turned out as so much garbage.  He beat me profusely during this episode of quality time.  He ran about, punched me around, argued with me, and basically left me not one opportunity to immortalize his godliness within the digital confines of a photograph.  There will be other times, sure, but I’m sorely disappointed with myself for not being better prepared for his rambunctious and assaulting interaction with me.  For all the abuse I’ve taken from him over the years, I should have known better.

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Falcon

Posted on Dec 30, 2008 by jason

Three times in ten days I’ve seen a falcon hunting in the same area at White Rock Lake.  Between the Bath House Cultural Center and the north banks of the Sunset Bay confluence rests an area of sparse woods to the south, dense woodlands to the north, and a vast field of wild grasses and flowers sloping down toward the water.  The lake splashes happily to the west in view of the Peninsula neighborhood to the east.

Two walking trails run parallel and define the east and west boundaries of this field.  I’ve walked those trails many times, and I’ve walked through the field more often than I can remember.  It’s in this place that I’ve seen much of nature’s bounty, from innumerable bird species to wildflowers galore to reptiles and amphibians that would frighten most people, and that doesn’t include some of the lake’s various mammalian population ranging from skunks to rabbits and from minks to coyotes.

And I’ve now concluded this field marks the hunting territory of a male American kestrel (Falco sparverius).  I’ve seen him there on three separate occasions but always at the same time of day: mid-morning to early afternoon.

Our first encounter offered little in the way of photographic opportunities.  I spotted him as I walked toward Sunset Bay from the north (toward where the Dreyfuss Club once stood).  That put the low winter sun right in my eye—and in the lens.  I tried to snap a few pictures, though, with no success.  The best I captured proffered silhouettes of shadow that might as well have been a mockingbird.

Our second encounter mirrored the first in that I had walked all the way to Mockingbird from Sunset Bay and returned via the same path.  I spotted the kestrel perched atop the phone wires running alongside the field.  Oh, I tried to be sneaky and not put my gaze on him too directly, for I’m no fool in such matters: wildlife can tolerate humans better when they think you’re not looking right at them.  I veered off the path snapping photos as I marched quite loudly through dry autumnal ground cover.

He watched me.  That much I could tell.  And he watched me closely.  Yet enough activity took place throughout the area to keep him from primarly focusing on me.  Well, almost.

I approached while not looking at him except through the viewfinder.  Something about not seeing the forward-facing eyes of a predator looking right at you does wonders with creatures in the wild.  If only I had side-facing eyes like prey animals…  But I digress.

Too close for his comfort and forced to steer my body right at him because of the sun, the game was over as soon as I paused and turned.

He vanished beyond the bare treetops and I left feeling an opportunity had been lost.

Our third encounter mimicked the second in that I walked south toward Sunset Bay, and that time I decided to be less surreptitious in my attempt to photograph the predator.  I at first didn’t realize he was there likely because he was hunting.  Only after I walked through the thin forest atop the Dreyfuss Club hill did I remember the falcon, and it was then I turned and walked down toward the lake to see if I could find him.

It didn’t take long.  As soon as I reached the clearing, I saw a bird land atop a tree near the shore, a bird too large to be common.  (Let me add I don’t think any wildlife is mundane no matter how ubiquitous it is.  That’s why I take photos of everything I see; no matter how many times I’ve seen it, all of nature fascinates me as though I were a child seeing it for the first time.)

That image seemed arbitrary, nothing short of the first grasp at an ethereal ghost.  It would serve me no purpose other than to identify later what I had seen—assuming I never got closer.

But I did get closer.  And that was not a welcome turn of events so far as this kestrel was concerned.

He flitted into the still air and moved away, out over the field, and I feared I had missed my opportunity.  Even at great distance, however, he offered me something I hadn’t imagined: a brief hover-hunt example.

This species prefers the perch-and-attack method of hunting, but they also utilize the hover-hunt approach when they deem it necessary.  That usually means no agreeable perch can be found and/or winds are such that thermals can be utilized to preserve strength while hovering.

This bout lasted only a minute, maybe less, after which the bird dove into the tall dry grasses.  My approach from downhill meant he vanished.  I feared I’d lost him.

But not so.

As quickly as he disappeared, he climbed back into the air and landed on the phone wires.  And he was quite near where I started this pursuit.  Whatever he thought he was hunting on the ground apparently offered nothing of interest once he had it in his talons.

My climb back up the hill no doubt resembled a madman chasing headlights as they speed across a wall in front of turning cars.  First this way then that, first uphill then downhill.  What bizarre spectacle I presented to others…

I didn’t care, though.  I wanted a closer look at this beautiful creature, and pictures be damned!  (As I explained to Jenny today, there are times when diving into an encounter and witnessing it sans other concerns means a great deal more than capturing that one image for which publishers do battle.)

I no sooner got within my comfort distance (where I thought I could take a respectable photo given the lens I had on the camera) when I found myself witness to an increasingly familiar sight.

This bird knew one thing above all others: how to frustrate and tire me.  There I stood at the top of the field and the doggone falcon made a swift retreat back to the bottom, back to the shore, back to where I had first seen it.

So off I went, stumbling through the expanse of uneven ground sloping down toward the lake, and I laughed at myself for what I knew must be the kestrel’s internal joke.  The hill didn’t bother him, didn’t pose any problem for his travels, yet the up-and-down coupled with the down-and-up for a simple biped like me turned it into a battle against fatigue and strain.  How long would I endure this before giving up?

Back to the same tree where it all started, I again tried to act disinterested and unaware.  The kestrel watched me closely even as he continued scanning his range for prey.

As soon as I felt I had reached a spot where I could really capture its essence, off it went.  Uphill.  Away.  Easily.  And quickly.

I gave up.  I felt certain he laughed his tail feathers off when as he watched me walk away…

— — — — — — — — — —

Notes:

[1] I use my 55-250mm (35mm: 88-400mm) telephoto zoom lens when I go for arbitrary walks.  The ability to capture distant objects without giving up wider views appeals to my random nature.  But the versatility of the zoom feature means I sacrifice quality.  A true static telephoto lens would serve me better in such cases.

[2] Although I realize I need further investment in this camera, finances and the economic turmoil of the day means I also realize I should stay where I am for now.  I’ve spent a great deal of money on The Kids recently for medical care.  The increased cost of food and sundries also diminished whatever flexibility I might have had.  Nevertheless, at some point I know I need to acquire a better lens for distance shots.  Consider it on the wish list of things not to be realized for some time to come.

[3] Shame on me for not having a lens hood.  We’re not talking about a great expense here, right?  Nope.  Yet I’ve not purchased this inexpensive augmentation for some bizarre reason even I cannot fathom.  For the price of a tank of gas—if that much—I could solve a great deal of the flair and perpendicular light source problems I have.  Some of the photos above were cropped and processed in order to remove my stupid primate paw from the edge of the picture where I rested my hand against the end of the lens in order to block sunlight hitting it from the side.  I can be so daft sometimes…

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The black wolf of Juneau

Posted on Dec 29, 2008 by jason

This touched me deeply for many reasons: The black wolf of Juneau is back for the winter:

JUNEAU, Alaska - He lets out a piercing howl that slowly penetrates your chest. To human ears, it’s the sound of being alone. And the creature who made the cry probably is.

The locals call him Romeo. He’s a black wolf without a pack, a wild canine who’s often seen patrolling Juneau’s Mendenhall Glacier, the state capital’s signature recreation area.

Romeo baffles area biologists and naturalists with his refusal to find a pack or a mate, choosing instead to return each winter, clearly at ease with humans walking within a few hundred yards.

The story is more complicated than that.  And more profound, more touching, more mysterious.

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Views from the lake

Posted on Dec 26, 2008 by jason

White Rock Lake can be a marvelous and diverse place.  Each passing season brings a new dress to be placed on this urban refuge, and nature does enjoy putting on her finest at every opportunity.

A winter sunset viewed from Sunset Bay.  With temperatures well below freezing and a gusty wind blowing from the north, I hardly maintained control of my fingers.  They felt like so much cold clay fumbling with the camera.

The floodplain after spring thunderstorms.  The lake and the creeks from which it draws sustenance overflowed their banks following torrential rains that deluged the area.  The verdant life of the season made the surreal scene all the more majestic and divine.

A bench facing the lake with summer pouring down with unrelenting heat.  The oppressive humidity coupled with temperatures approaching the century mark begged for a tad of refreshing shade in which to shelter.  Finding a bench on the front row of the lake’s shore made it inviting as though made of ice.

Autumn paints the woodlands with gold.  This particular stretch of trees covers both the floodplain to the left and the hills to the right.  Amber, yellow and orange reign in this area betwixt the heat of summer and cold of winter.  A dash of sunshine adds the final piece to the puzzle.

Winter blankets the lake with snow.  My favorite footbridge, a creaking, splintered wooden structure draped over a creek, finds itself wearing all white as a powerful snowstorm leaves its mark on the world.

A rejuvenating spring sunset.  The shore beneath my feet, the lake stretching out toward the west, and downtown Dallas nestled quietly on the horizon’s left as clouds help the sun paint an unforgettable backdrop in the sky.

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