denebalgedi777

Well, it’s already Libra season and the equinox is past, so the autumn season has officially started, and this year the autumnal weather arrived at the same time as the astronomical season, not even off by a day. That’s rather uncommon around the Upper Midwest. It’s not uncommon to have a low-key summery pattern well past the equinox, and we had such weather right up to the equinox this year, but it turned on a dime after a large storm blew in the day after the equinox. I was on a long car trip that day and it was as hot and sunny as July. Only a few days later, the warnings of potential frost came to us. It’s notable, too, that this is perhaps the driest September on record in my region, surpassing even the very dry years of 2011 and 2012 that I well remember to this day.

With that abrupt change, it became clear that major changes are ahead. Since August there have been subtle signs. I watch the prairies closely since I’ve had the opportunity to do so firsthand. This came with the move to Wisconsin late last year. There are several restored prairies, including some right nearby. However, the general pattern in Wisconsin is that prairies are hemmed in by woods and hills. It’s not like western Minnesota or the Dakotas, where you can find vast grasslands stretching as far as the eye can see. Though once upon a time, treeless prairies did actually extend into Wisconsin and Illinois. As settlement increased, people grew skittish about burning and now heavy forests blanket the land.

The prairies have a notable shift as of late summer. Before, the bluebirds were a common sight, and they are a common sight still, but since that time they have been forming flocks of increasing size and staying closer to the residential areas than the open prairie. They will be southbound at some point, though no one knows the exact date, and they may leave by night. Possibly around the upcoming full moon, when they can fly by clear moonlight. The meadowlarks are now seen to be forming similar groups in the prairies themselves, and they too will return to the sunny southlands as soon as that mysterious hour of compulsion arrives for them. The song of the meadowlark is again heard plaintively in the meadows, mirroring the sounds of spring and early summer prior to completed breeding, but soon those meadows will be silent and sleeping for another year.

The most entertaining thing this year, relative to the prairies, was watching the succession of flowers throughout the year. It continued unabated from the time I returned home in early June all the way to the past few days, when the latest asters are in high bloom. It’s a process I’ve never had a chance to watch in such detail before. I used to visit places with restored prairies like Crow-Hassan Park Reserve in high summer to marvel at all the flowers on occasion, but there was nothing close by that would have allowed for season-long observation. Each part of the season is home to its own sets of species, and these in turn are followed by waves of others. The variety is such that I’ll have to turn to amateur botany in order to comprehend it all, but field experience is a great instructor.

The visitors to the yard continue to show who had successful years breeding, at least in our small corner of the township. At least one deer had fawns and they are occasional visitors. The turkeys here were moderately successful, raising a few pullets, but nothing like the flocks I have seen on occasion elsewhere. They also successfully bred in the nearby prairie, though they hide in the grass and it’s hard to tell just how well they did. The cardinals have fledgelings coming into the feeder just now, which seems rather late. As for songbirds in general, we seem to be approaching the time that only the species that stay the year around still remain. These include the daily visitors, such as chickadees and nuthatches (supposedly these were the only year-round species in the old days before bird feeding), blue jays, cardinals, crows, woodpeckers and finches.

There are signs of warbler migration in progress, though I’ve had but little time to watch it. I noticed them while walking in the woods yesterday. No other interesting visitors have made themselves known in recent times. The bear vanished without a trace in the summertime, and neither foxes nor predators of any kind are much in evidence. Save only, that is, for the birds of prey – I have heard great horned owls and barred owls calling in the darkness. Eagles have been seen again regularly also, especially around the river. These will all stay around for the winter, I believe. As will the waterfowl who forage in the farm fields after the harvest. There is at this time a permanent population of swans, ducks and geese who stay the winter in specific spots with open water, and forage all the day in the fields once they’ve been plowed, and so get fat from the waste corn.

Jupiter and Saturn are once again visible in the night sky, after an absence. I watched them many times last year through a scope in the autumn last year, living in the lake country. Now they are much farther apart than they were then, as Saturn is still in Aquarius and Jupiter is now in Aries. Nor are they drawing closer together, as both are now retrograde, along with several other planets, including Mercury. Mercury is in retrograde in Libra, and this retrograde event has been associated with considerable confusion and dissipation in my life. It usually has some effect, but this year it was especially strong, though not very negatively, just in a lightly troublesome and perhaps overly indulgent sort of way, as one might expect from the house of Venus. All the same, I am looking forward to its end, as I need to get on with some projects.

Though there is still much autumn ahead, including no doubt a ‘squaw winter’ and then an ‘Indian summer’, I always have the sense of the encroaching season of darkness before it arrives. One can’t really miss it in these parts; this is not a part of America that stays mild year-round. Instead, we suffer increasingly early darkness and increasingly harsh weather. Life begins to slow down, society to shut down a bit, and a more contemplative and solitary air takes over from the gregarious spirit of summer. It reminds me of the way of life of the Ojibways that perhaps we are unconsciously recreating: to form packs in the warm months and to split into atoms in the cold months. Times like these are congenial for meditation and the telling of stories, and those are topics that will be very much on my mind in the times to come.

Current Mood: pensive

In May when I last wrote in this journal, it was only at the very beginning of spring like conditions in the Upper Midwest. The rest of May had a more than average number of cool and wet days, and that persisted into June. However I do not have a full picture of the situation locally because I was out of town for more than 2 weeks since the last time I wrote. I ventured into the Lake Superior country for the first time since 2017 apart from brief visits to Duluth in the interim. This took me to Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. That experience will be worth its own entry in due time.

The spring migration this year was really remarkable. It was an endless procession of novelty and it only built from the time that I wrote the last post. However it was pretty clear by The time I left town that migration was coming to an end. We were beginning to see the species that will nest locally rather than move north. As soon as the waves of migrant warblers left, different ones moved in but they are the ones that take up permanent residence in the area. We also had transient waves of white-throated sparrows and such. As warmer weather came in, the Baltimore orioles were seen regularly, so I put out small pots of grape jelly for them.

On the novelty front, we had large numbers of indigo buntings into the feeder. In the metropolitan area, I would see these rarely during the migration time, but we had a dozen at any one time. We also had scarlet tanagers into the feeder as well, certainly a rare enough occurrence. Cowbirds started to move in and occupy the feeder in large numbers as well, and they have stayed into the summer. I have rarely had the opportunity to observe these brood parasites in the past, and they can be quite aggressive – for instance, they ran off the blue jays who would come into the feeder.

Another thing that really tells you that spring has arrived is the waves of rose breasted grosbeaks. In some ways, these oversized finches sound like robins. However, their song is more flowery and ornamental than a robin, whose song sounds plaintive by comparison. They took up residence in the spring but they have stayed into summer as well. I still hear the song of the tufted titmouse, but I see them much more rarely; undoubtedly they are on the nest. The yard also fills with the song of the house wren, a very liquid sound. And the large number of goldfinches first seen in the winter time stayed for the summer as well.

One of the more colorful visitors to the yard in summertime is the gray catbird. I first heard them while walking at the nearby prairie. Sometimes their call sounds like the meowing of a cat, which is why they are named so, but they also have a chattering improvised call during breeding season. This is an ever-changing comical stream of notes. I used to see them in the city as well, but it seems that the alternating field and thicket here is a very good habitat for them. Never could they be observed in such numbers, even at the parks in the city. We finally attracted a mating pair into the yard, and they have remained visitors this summer so far.

Summertime is oftentimes not the best season for bird watching. This is the season of the rearing of young. Trips to the marshlands looking for waterfowl might end in disappointment, as they become extra cautious at this time of year. But having a feeder makes all the difference, it scarcely matters what time of year it is, there will be a constant succession of birds through the area. The species will change along with the seasons and this is part of the fun. Walks in the area are also likely to turn up sightings. For instance, the impressive flycatcher called the kingbird can be seen in this area, never very far from the abundant patches of meadow. Once again I am impressed to note the amount of variance from my old locale, though it’s maybe a few dozen miles away and at the same latitude.

Overall, the Wisconsin side of the St Croix valley has not yet succumbed to the suburban development of the Minnesota side. This has left large continuous patches of nature for birds and other wildlife to breed in. And this reality is reflected in the much larger numbers of wildlife locally. It should be noted that urban and suburban parts of the Twin Cities still have a lot of nature relative to the development, but living here has given me a very clear illustration of just what a difference unspoiled nature makes for biodiversity in abundance. It also seems that anthropogenic landscapes like this one can be ideal habitat for a lot of different species. This is the "forest edge" biome created in agrarian regions. As I have pointed out in the past, The driftless area with its hills and valleys prevents the kind of strict monoculture that exists in some parts of farm country.

The only question mark with regard to this year is how harsh the summer will be. There was enough rain in the spring that the drought from last year was completely wiped out, and it was also cool enough that evaporation was not taking place. During that time the river was the highest I had ever seen. That has all changed now. This June has been generally hot and dry. Not quite so extreme so far as last year, but not encouraging either. Temps are several degrees above average, and rainfall is several inches below. Occasional winds have blown as well. At this rate, the Midwestern drought will return in a hurry. With July just around the corner, there is more than enough cause to be concerned. So far crops are not suffering, but the topsoil is dry, and the last thing we need this year is another piece of bad news – such as crop failure in the Midwest at a time when the world’s food supplies are already precarious.

Current Mood: calm

It is a sunny and unseasonably warm day in January as I write this. Since yesterday a front moved in, and since then, the weather is more akin to early spring than the middle of winter. The world seemed to know it too, as the entire landscape came alive with bird song and a burst of activity not seen since the warmer months. However, this being the upper Midwest, it would be foolish to assume such a condition will last for the rest of the winter. The next major cold front is only just over the horizon, and that's one assertion I will take to the bank.

However as we go into mid-January it's a perfect time for another installment of nature observations. Since starting this project I came to realize that doing weekly updates on local wildlife and conditions will greatly aid the understanding of seasonal dynamics and variations. No 2 years are alike, and in any given year part of the entertainment of natural observation is how that year represents a season in a different and totally unique permutation of events. This is even more true for my local area than many parts of the world, for we are inhabitants of one of the most changeable climates in the world. The upper Midwest in general and Minnesota and North Dakota in particular are known for extreme variability both from one season to the next and within seasons as well.

The word changeable describes the new year of 2022 quite well. The majority of the days since the New years have been frigid, however the streak was broken in the last two days by an unseasonable warm front. Locally I observed a high of 36° F yesterday and a glance at the thermometer outside shows that it is even higher today. This is a classic January thaw, and it is a more vibrant one than they actually predicted. It is premature to assume that this will herald an early spring. Another polar front is already brewing and the end of January is expected to be colder than the norm. When the whole thing is finished, I expect that the month of January will live up to its reputation around these parts for harsh conditions. Still, it is nothing like the static chill and blizzards of Januaries past like in 2019 and 2014.

Activity at the feeders picked up during the frigid days. Dozens of finches came in during that time. This also included the first sightings of redpolls for the year. During very cold fronts I have sometimes expected to see pine siskins or perhaps even a visiting northern shrike from more northerly climes. So far we have not had any of those visitors yet. On a brief trip before the new year I did see what appeared to be a flock of snow buntings northwest of the twin cities. Generally these far northern visitors are signs of a more severe winter, but so far there have only been intermittent visitors. It is a far cry from some other years when we had pine siskins staying for the entire winter owing to prolonged boreal conditions. For the most part, the wildlife has been the same as before-- The only major change is a lone male turkey has come to the feeder the past few days, while the previous visitors were a large congregation of females.

Yesterday it was nice outside, particularly after a long spell of extreme cold, and since I had an errand to run anyway, I went over to a nearby town to a city park that overlooks the river. The river appears to be largely frozen north of town, but south of the town there were large sections that were still open. In the open patches, a great number of swans were swimming around. They were occasionally sparring as well, and perhaps this aggression is a hint of the coming breeding season. Also, sitting out on the thin ice in between bouts of hunting, were at least half a dozen eagles. The afternoon air filled with the musical calls of the swans and of the eagles in flight. They were joined by more humble company, the many chickadees, nuthatches, and they always boisterous red-bellied woodpeckers, enjoying a very hospitable afternoon in the oak groves at the top of the bluff. As idyllic as this picture was, it was only a promise of the springtime to come, as we are only just entering the middle of winter in meteorological terms.

Other sightings of note included three eagles in the neighborhood adjacent to mine, and a red fox on a local trail situated in a restored prairie nearby. The former are always identifiable by their distinctive calls. We were alerted to the presence of the latter however by an unfamiliar series of barks and whines. For a number of minutes we were completely ignorant of the source, and confused as to who could be making such calls. It was only after we rounded the corner and saw the red fox out in the open that we realized. But as soon as it knew it had been observed, the wily creature disappeared into the high grass and was not seen again. It was probably stalking prey perhaps along with its family, as there are many rodents to hunt in tunnels through the snow out in the grasslands just now. Restored prairies are oftentimes home to Marsh Hawks and short eared owls but so far I've not seen any there.

The last two winters have been described as Dark Winters in political circles. But what they seem to have been, at least from the perspective of the natural world, is fairly ordinary. As I grow older, the incessant cold of the winters at this latitude sometimes seems monotonous. But even the bitter season is part of the pageant. There is always something worth seeing at this time of year. Yesterday, the bright sunshine from a sun still low in the sky, or the waxing gibbous moon rising in a bluebird sky were worth the price of admission. It has been clouding up at dusk pretty reliably, and the sun downs have been spectacular. Winter sunsets in the North country are wondrous to behold, like a fire blazing itself down into embers. As long as I am here to witness these things, I will continue to report on them. Half a winter remains, the rest before the rebirth of spring. We'll see what the remainder of the season brings.