Category Archives: Nature Photos

Southern similarities

October 21, 2011 jason 5 Comments

The ongoing drought has significantly curtailed wildlife activity—well, curtailed wildlife numbers in point of fact. It’s been rather sad, what with an obvious dearth of critters being so obvious no matter what you’re looking for. Yet despite what I’d call a cataclysmic fall-off of insect numbers, there have been some around, and I don’t just mean the usual suspects (heck, even the usual suspects have been difficult to find, if not impossible).

Take this female ichneumon wasp (Compsocryptus sp.) for example:

A female ichneumon wasp (Compsocryptus sp.) perched on a leaf (2009_07_26_028013)

I know. I know. You can scarcely take your eyes off her stinger. “It’s so long!” you scream as you run away. “It’s huge!” you shout as you flee in the other direction. “Eek! Don’t let it touch me!” you holler from somewhere beyond the next hill, where in fact you’re still running.

But don’t be silly. She’s harmless. Her ovipositor is large, yes, but she’s really harmless.

Well, OK, keep running and screaming if you want, don’t bother me none.

At first I felt certain I’d seen this species before. In fact, I was convinced I’d even posted photos of it before. But I couldn’t find anything.

When I finally identified it, a species from the genus Compsocryptus, the name was so unfamiliar that I suddenly felt I probably hadn’t seen this southern species before, though ichneumon wasps (family Ichneumonidae) are so numerous that they arguably constitute the largest animal family with somewhere between 60,000 and 100,000 species worldwide, and at least 8,000 species of them in North America, so it’s easy to have seen one species and to mistake it for 10 other species when you see them, not to mention mistaking them for other types of wasps they sometimes mimic. Still, this one seems new to me, so we’ll say it is (although I don’t know the exact species, a common problem with ichneumon wasps since so many species are undescribed).

One thing I found interesting about her before she flew away (something she did right after I snapped the first photo, but oh well…) is the color pattern on her wings. It seemed terribly familiar to me, which perhaps caused my initial confusion about whether I’d seen this species before or not.

Then it hit me: Of course she looked familiar! Her colors and pattern are strikingly similar to another southern species, the scorpionfly (Panorpa nuptialis):

A male scorpionfly (Panorpa nuptialis) standing on gravel (2009_10_18_032492_comp)

Sure, there are obvious differences, but a quick glance would easily let someone assume either species was in fact the other. And I’m quite familiar with the scorpionfly (see this post for more on that species). I think my first thought, that I should know what the wasp species is, actually came from having the scorpionfly floating in the back of my head and aligning the physical similarities without knowing it.

So despite the ongoing drought, a killer drought that really put the brakes on wildlife activity, and despite the historic heat this summer that pretty much put the brakes on everything, I’m happy knowing at least a few new critters have wandered across my path.

A textbook photo

September 27, 2011 jason 6 Comments

Back in summer 2009 I spent several weeks monitoring a bird nest. Not just any bird nest, but the nest of killdeer (Charadrius vociferus), the shorebird species least likely to be associated with a shore.

Close-up of a killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) (2009_06_03_021880_n)

The few times I walked through the field where the pair nested, the adults gave me their best diversionary tactics, which is how the adventure began: their no-holds-barred displays to lead me, the predator, away from their nest. They showed me false brooding, the broken wing display, the threat display, and the ungulate display, though they didn’t treat me to their most dramatic move: flying into the face of an approaching threat, something that often scares animals into changing directions—away from the nest, of course!

Eventually I also captured photos of them standing guard over the nest, their last-ditch maneuver when a predator just doesn’t get the hint, and of course when the happy day finally arrived, I got to see the chicks as they hatched and left the nest, never to look back.

Close-up of a killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) (2009_06_03_021915_c)

The opportunity was too cool for words for many reasons, one being the opportunity to get some totally excellent photos and another being the learning opportunity, but the most important being the chance to experience nature as it happens, something I rather enjoy and much prefer to reading about it later.

One of the photos to appear in the first post linked above happens to be of the male giving me his best broken wing act. Killdeer have mastered this display, as you can see from the photos in that post, but the image in question I snapped as I walked slowly behind him, letting him feel confident his display was working. (It’s important under these circumstances to let the animals feel accomplished lest they abandon the nest due to failure.) The picture is this one:

A killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) giving the broken wing display (2009_06_03_021847)

All his acting skills are brought to bear, as you can see, and I let him win by leading me away from the nest and the eggs (seen in the second post linked above). I had by that time let them show me all their moves, and I wanted them to be there later as I continued to watch the nest, so we trailed across the field until he felt confident I wouldn’t find the nest, then off he flew. (Of course I already knew damn well where the nest was, but we must play our games.)

Almost a year later, I had all but forgotten the photo. But then the talented Seabrooke Leckie reminded me of it by showing off her own version, a colored pencil sketch that is rather impressive. I was glad someone had seen something in that photo and decided to work some personal magic on the scene.

Then in October 2010, I received an e-mail from Dr. Jack W. Bradbury, the Robert G. Engel Professor of Ornithology Emeritus in the Department of Neurobiology and Behavior at Cornell University. He said in part:

Dr. Sandra Vehrencamp and I are working on a second edition of a textbook entitled Principles of Animal Communication. We have a draft figure in which we want to show a shorebird doing a broken wing display and really liked your third (from the top) photo of a killdeer doing this display on your site …

Would you be interested in letting us use this photo?

Would I be interested? Does a bear… Well, yes, of course I’d be interested, and so I pursued the opportunity. After agreements were made and the file provided, I then had to sit back and wait. And wait. Because the book wasn’t to be published until summer 2011, precisely two years after I took the shot.

But now the wait has ended. I recently received my contributor’s copy of Principles of Animal Communication, Second Edition, and I’m thrilled to say it’s one more notch in my photographic belt.

As these things go, it’s a large book, but it’s a textbook, so I shouldn’t be too surprised by its bulk. Better than many of the textbooks I grew up using, this one is full color and thorough. It covers tremendous amounts of science and overflows with graphics, photographs and diagrams. It’s a mighty fine piece of work!

And there on page 574, in the section titled “Last-ditch prey signals to predators,” is my charming killdeer, right beside a skink showing off its recently detached tail:

As has happened with all my licensed photographs, this opportunity presented itself not because I went looking for the chance, but rather because the chance came to me, thanks to simple web searches bringing someone to my blog. It’s called crowd sourcing, and take it from me, it’s pretty damned neat!

I ain’t no predator, yo

September 22, 2011 jason Leave a comment

I’ve always said I would be a terrible hunter. And I don’t mean terrible as in I’d never kill anything; I mean terrible as in I’d be a nightmare for whatever I was hunting. That’s because I’ve spent years photographing wildlife and learning about wildlife, both activities having given me a tremendous understanding of animals, including how to get close to them, how to get them to come close to me, and how to make them either ignore me or feel comfortable about me being there. In the hands of a nature photographer and naturalist, these skills are paramount and rewarding, offering something better than what the biggest lens can offer (which is just cold distance rather than close-up experience). But in the hands of a hunter, these skills would be a terrible thing indeed.

She stood drinking from a dwindling pond when I first stepped into the open. I didn’t know she was there until she bolted up the game trail and stopped just beneath the drip line to watch me.

A female white-tailed deer (a.k.a. whitetail deer; Odocoileus virginianus) standing at the head of a game trail (2009_05_16_018743)

Although curiosity and human tendencies demanded that I turn to look at her, to identify her and determine her disposition, I denied those urges and kept my face looking forward and away from her. I let my peripheral vision do the work so I could accurately identify her location, then I slowly raised the camera, put it in front of my face held in both hands, and slowly turned only my head so I could get the lens aimed at her—and I turned only enough so I could look through the viewfinder without facing her directly.

With her tail held downward, she indicated she was not alarmed, and by her steady gaze she indicated she was curious about what I was up to but not yet ready to run for the hills. So I started meandering toward her, never moving directly toward her and never moving too quickly, and never looking at her to get my bearings or judge distance.

A female white-tailed deer (a.k.a. whitetail deer; Odocoileus virginianus) standing at the entrance to dense woods (2009_05_16_018739)

She never flinched. She kept watching me, always with tail held downward, her gaze constantly on me. I suspect she was confused about what I was doing and whether or not I was a threat. I never gave any predatory signals, never indicated I was even aware of her, so she stood her ground and observed.

A female white-tailed deer (a.k.a. whitetail deer; Odocoileus virginianus) standing at the entrance to dense woods (2009_05_16_018737)

I closed the distance by at least half, though I couldn’t judge distance without utilizing binocular vision; that would require looking directly at her, something I was unwilling to do. So I’m not sure how close I got, but it was much closer than I expected. And it wasn’t until I spooked an alligator—which in turn spooked me—that she finally turned and vanished into the woods.

Had I been a hunter, I could have killed her many times over. Thankfully for her and me, all I was shooting with was my camera.

— — — — — — — — — —

Notes:

Photos are of a female white-tailed deer (a.k.a. whitetail deer; Odocoileus virginianus)
I have nothing against hunting or hunters so long as the practice is done for sustenance and not sport; killing for pleasure is an indication that you have problems.
There are many tricks to approaching wildlife and/or making them comfortable with you. I will never publically discuss them in detail.
Depth perception is a function of binocular vision. Since I never looked at the deer except with one eye through the viewfinder, I really can’t judge how close I got, though I’ve been within six feet/two meters of one, a story I’ll share at a later time.
This entire encounter lasted less than ten minutes.
Were it not for that one dead vine hanging down and sometimes obscurring her face, these photos would be awesome.
I was stupid not to watch more closely at where I was walking. I would have noticed the alligator if I’d been doing so. I was lucky I didn’t walk up on a venomous snake, and I was lucky the alligator decided to flee when I invaded its personal space. Lesson learned.

Finding joy in others

September 16, 2011 jason 2 Comments

A nine-banded armadillo (Dasypus novemcinctus) with its face in the ground (2009_12_13_044466)

I stand on the patio wallowing in the morning’s cool temperatures with all the glee of a pig in mud. After the warmest summer ever recorded in the United States, one thing Texas deserves is a reprieve (and rain, but that isn’t in the cards), hence the recent cool spell is a welcome thing indeed.

Clickety-clickety-clickety-clickety.

The sound is quite evident. And approaching. Then along the sidewalk I see a rather large nine-banded armadillo (Dasypus novemcinctus) approaching. The drought has caused a dearth of insects, so armadillos have spent a great deal of time doing significant damage to gardens and landscaping. I feel no surprise seeing this creature; they’ve been making regular appearances for months.

I watch as it leaves the sidewalk and begins its pillaging of the area around my patio, weaving through the shadows and bushes, stopping to dig with fervency, burying its head in search of morsels. It mostly stays on the outside of the bushes, so I see little more than snapshots of it as it goes about its hunt for breakfast.

“Oh my goodness!”

It’s a woman’s voice, thick with a German accent. One of my neighbors. Standing nearby, watching. I was so wrapped up with the armadillo that I missed her approach.

Her eyes are wide, her mouth agape. She watches the animal with the fascination of someone who has just discovered cold fusion.

She sees me.

She begins asking questions.

I begin answering them.

She’s never seen an armadillo before.

She didn’t realize how big they could get.

She didn’t realize they had such enormous claws. “On all four feet!” she adds.

She didn’t realize their tails were almost twice as long as their bodies and looked like armor-plated whips.

She didn’t realize they really were covered with bony armor, little tanks built by nature.

She didn’t realize they could dig so quickly and easily. “They can dig a burrow faster than most people can catch them,” I explain, “literally disappearing right before your eyes.”

She didn’t realize how little they care about humans so long as you don’t bother them.

She snaps a few pictures with her cell phone. She keeps glancing at her watch and murmuring about how she’s going to be late to work, but it’s obvious she doesn’t care about that, not really.

Her eyes remain large and interested. She’s having an experience, a moment, and I both recognize it and appreciate it.

“We have nothing like this back home,” she says, then she giggles like a schoolgirl being told an awesome secret.

After perhaps five or six minutes, the armadillo finishes its raid in this area and scampers off in another direction.

Clickety-clickety-clickety-clickety.

It waddles along a different sidewalk and the woman watches with undisguised wonder, an ear-to-ear smile brightening her face.

She thanks me, says she really must be getting to work, thanks me again, and never moves or takes her eyes off the retreating armadillo until it vanishes behind a neighbor’s bushes.

She thanks me again, then finally turns and goes to her car. It will take me some time to realize she walked almost a block following the armadillo—from a distance, of course—until she caught up to it outside my patio.

Her morning started with the joy of discovery. And it was so genuine that I couldn’t help but catch a little of that joy from her.

— — — — — — — — — —

The photo is from a trip to the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge in December 2009. Because I never had a clear view of the armadillo my neighbor and I watched, I didn’t get any photos of the critter.

For the birds

August 30, 2011 jason 3 Comments

Close-up of a male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) standing on the pier (2008_12_07_001566)

I had a dream once. For the birds, I might add.

I dreamed I discovered a new species of warm-weather penguin. They were native to North America. And the reason they had gone unnoticed until now was because they existed in only one place: my patio.

And since my patio is private, the penguins had been left to their own devices.

But how had I not seen them before now? Well, in the dream my patio was a veritable jungle, with grass growing directly from the smooth concrete floor, tree branches sprouting from the fence railing and joists and latticework, and all manner of ivy and understory growth filling the area.

Yet it wasn’t just the penguins that I discovered. No, it was much better than that.

In the dream, I rolled over in bed and looked out the windows that line the wall. This is not at all unusual in the real world as it’s something I do all the time.

Nevertheless, the scene outside the windows was unfamiliar, all green and growing and wild, although in the dream this seemed perfectly normal, and as I watched, much to my delighted shock, a penguin hopped up from behind tall grass and settled near the window into what was no doubt a nest. (In truth, in the dream I seemed not to notice what brought the penguin to the window, although I knew inherently that it was a nest.)

And as I watched the bird and became increasingly excited, somehow knowing this was a new species, a most unusual thing occurred—as if seeing a penguin on my patio in the middle of Dallas, TX, was not already unusual.

The penguin settled into its nest even as a capuchin monkey knelt down beside it and began petting it.

So you see, beyond the discovery of this new penguin species living right here in Dallas—right here on my patio—my dream also included the discovery of a heretofore unknown colony of North American capuchin monkeys.

But it gets better! These discoveries, as marvelous as they seem, were made even more miraculous by the apparently unusual friendship between the two species. A relationship not seen anywhere else on the planet. Except on my patio.

And henceforth, my patio was always surrounded by observers and explorers, all interested in these magnificent discoveries and whatever other secrets the jungle of my patio might yet contain.

Most agreeable to me was that I never had to get out of bed to make any of the discoveries, nor to report them, nor to realize how these finds brought all manner of curious people and scientific types right to my home. In point of fact, all this happened without me ever having to leave the comfort of my own bed.

Now, I wonder what Freud would say about all this…