The Beach in Winter and a Puzzle

Yesterday we visited Seapoint Beach in Kittery, Maine at low tide. I've mentioned many times that winter is the best time to visit the beach. Seapoint Beach is open to non-residents of the town from October 1 to May 14, so we all get to enjoy this wonderful beach. It is a favorite for dogs too, especially at low tide when there are vast expanses of beach for chasing tennis balls and other dogs, followed by a mad run into the tidal waves.

At low tide Seapoint Beach is a broad swath of dark brown sand and after rough seas often full of wrack--piles of various seaweeds and shells and tiny organisms that get rolled together at the high tide line. Yesterday the wrack line was wide and deep.

At the far end of the beach a spit of land juts out into the ocean, separating Seapoint and Crescent Beaches. The rocky shore along the spit collects fragments of shells and seaweed, and other debris.

Crescent Beach is steeper, with little sand, and mostly rounded rocks of various sizes. 

There is so much to see at the beach, both far and near. You can cast your eyes out into the ocean where buffleheads and loons and other wintering waterfowl swim and feed, and then beyond to ships and fog, and the mysteries of the sea. Close in, patterns in the sand and wrack change with every tide. The tides bring in bits of this and that, and sometimes you find a little treasure among the flotsam and jetsam. I found one such treasure that I've been pondering since yesterday. I offer it up as a puzzle to solve, as I really don't know what it is. Help me if you can.

It is a fragment of a skull, likely from a fish(?). The "snout" end is about 1.5 inches wide and the length from the snout tip to the widest part at the other end is 3.5 inches.

A Tiny Hint of Spring

Every February on a warmish, sunny day, I get the faintest hint of Spring in the air. Today was that day. It's just a tease mind you, as winter could continue for many weeks and with much cold and stormy weather. Today though, it felt like a transition, however small. Nearly a foot of snow still covers the ground, and yet there was a whiff of Spring in the air, carried in on a gentle breeze from the South. It was warm enough to forego a hat and the winter coat on the afternoon sojourn.

As Kodi and I finished a mid-afternoon walk, just as we turned into our driveway, a turkey vulture soared low over the trees. I could see its bald, red head with my naked eye as it peered down at us (although more likely it was smelling for carrion with its keen sense of smell). The vulture circled back a few times, soaring effortlessly, with the occasional few flaps of the wing to keep it on course.

Vultures were always more of a southern bird, but like the cardinal, Carolina wren, mockingbird, and tufted titmouse, their range is moving north. Still, it is unusual to see them during cold spells in winter. Thus, the vulture sighting over our house today, I took as a harbinger of Spring.

The seeds have been ordered, including a new one this year -- watermelon radish. Now, if that doesn't beckon for Spring. Cardinals are singing, barred owls are courting, and skunks have emerged in time for Valentine's Day to look for a mate. Love and visions of planting, if not Spring quite yet, are in the air.

Mute Swans

On Tuesday, a friend and I snowshoed at Wagon Hill Farm in Durham. A conservation area with extensive frontage on the Great Bay estuary. In winter it is common to see a pair or two of buffleheads bobbing and diving just off-shore, as we did this week. The bufflehead is a small, round duck that winters along our coast and in bays, then heads to far northern Canada to breed and nest in old woodpecker holes. The male has a large patch of white on the back of its glossy purple and green head.

While we watched the bufflehead, a large flock of Canada geese floated out from a small cove. Great Bay is a major winter refuge for ducks and geese, with 5,000 to 10,000 spending the winter. Buffleheads and other "diving ducks" dive down to feed on clams in the soft mud. The geese feed on eelgrass roots at low tide and fly off to cornfields during the day to find waste grain.

We stood looking out at the shimmering water, then noticed three large white birds floating in the water just off-shore to our right. These were mute swans. Buffleheads are small and cute, and a welcome winter visitor to the Bay. Mute swans are big and beautiful, but non-native, and therefore not so welcome in the Bay.

Mute swans cause trouble to native birds in a couple ways. They are highly territorial, chasing away all intruders from the bay, pond, or marsh where they nest. This makes good nesting habitat off-limits for native ducks and geese. Also, if you ever tried to canoe near a mute swan nest, you should know how to swiftly paddle away, as they will attack the canoe with their strong wings.

Adults hold their wings raised over their back when they swim, some suggest it is an aggressive posture. One of the three that we saw was swimming near shore with wings raised, keeping a close eye on Kodi as he wandered down to the water's edge.

Mute swans eat a lot of vegetation, pulling up vast amounts of aquatic plants by their roots, which can be destructive to the habitat. Around 1910, mute swans were introduced from Europe to adorn parks and estates in the lower Hudson River Valley. By 1936 they were living in the wild and their population has expanded up and down the east coast ever since. State wildlife agencies attempt to control their populations through removal of adults and shaking ("addling") eggs in the nest.

The mute swan's size, pure white body, and orange bill with a big black knob at the base are distinctive. They swim with their neck slightly curved and their bill pointing down. When they swim with their wings raised they do look like a water ornament. But perhaps one we could do without in the Great Bay.

A Pile of Feathers

I’ve been thinking about blue jays this winter. Small flocks of blue jays use to visit our bird feeders regularly in winter. They seem less common this year; just a handful of jays visited the feeder only once. On my regular outdoor wanderings, I’ve seen relatively few.

The blue jay belongs to the family Corvidae – along with crows, ravens, magpies, nutcrackers, and our friend the gray jay. Corvids in general tend to be noisy and gregarious, so the woods seem a little quiet with so few blue jays. Occasionally I find blue jay feathers scattered about or in a pile -- the leftovers from a woodland hawk’s meal. The feathers are strikingly beautiful, a reminder that blue jays are a handsome bird, often overlooked because of their sometimes brash behavior.

Jays are known to be noisy at times, especially when alarmed. They raise their blue crest when agitated. The blue jay is an excellent mimic; the red-shouldered hawk's "keeyuur, keeyuur, keeyuur," is a common part of its repertoire. Just as often though, blue jays are silent. They fly quietly across open areas, and move soundlessly near their nest. A pair of jays mates for life, with the male bringing food to the incubating female and then to the nestlings.

Blue jays favor acorns, stuffing up to five at a time in their throat and beak. They fly off, sometimes up to a mile away, to bury each acorn. This "planting" of acorns protects the nut from insects and other predators, allowing any forgotten acorns to sprout and grow into new oak trees. On occasion, blue jays eat bird eggs and nestlings, but mostly they eat nuts and insects.

I consider the blue jay a year-round resident bird, but actually many of them migrate. And no one really knows why they migrate. If it is too cold or there are too few acorns, some blue jays head farther south, but not all of them. Blue jay populations fluctuate a bit from year to year, and the west nile virus knocked them back several years ago. New Hampshire Audubon reports that blue jays are one of the species showing a long-term decline, unlike crows, ravens and gray jays, which are increasing or stable.

The blue jay is a favorite prey item for the Cooper's hawk and its numbers are increasing. I see them several times a year near our bird feeders. That may be why the blue jays stay away, less chance ending up as a pile of feathers. I do hope blue jays rebound, as I miss their beautiful blues and noisy chatter in the winter woods.

Mt. Pierce via Crawford Path

Hiking Crawford Path is always a marvel considering that in 1819 Abel Crawford and his son Ethan Allen cleared this path all the way to treeline. Then in 1940, Abel was the first to ascend via horseback the 8.5 miles to Mt. Washington.

The forecast for yesterday from the Mt. Washington Observatory was for sunshine from dawn to dusk. After Winter Storm Nemo dropped 1-2 feet of snow, it was a perfect day to hike into the high Presidentials. We chose the 4,312-foot Mt. Pierce, a steady but relatively easy hike up Crawford Path. Snow clung to the trees and hikers ahead of us had packed down a perfect snowshoe track.

Shadows and snow created beautiful scenes along the trail. For me, winter hiking is as much about pausing to enjoy the buds, birds, snow patterns, and animal signs, as taking in the grand views.

We were surprised at how few hikers we saw along the way. Perhaps many people were still tired from shoveling snow or were still trying to dig out. There were a dozen or so other hiking parties of twos and threes and a few solo hikers, but often the hike to Mt. Pierce is crowded with hikers. Many of the folks yesterday were continuing on to Mt. Eisenhower. They had a clear, if windy and bony path to the peak. Compared to a year ago, when we climbed Mt. Pierce, the visibility yesterday was crystal clear. Here's a comparison of the view in February 2012 and 2013. 

The short climb from Crawford Path to the top of Mt. Pierce was windswept, leaving mostly exposed rocks and ice. The views though, were spectacular.

When we reached the summit, a couple was getting ready to descend, lamenting that they hadn't seen any gray jays. No sooner had they dropped down out of sight, then two gray jays swooped in. Kodi was excited to see the jays, chasing them around the stunted spruce.

After a final look around the windswept summit and gazing out at Mt. Washington and its lower brethren, we too began our descent in search of a more protected spot for some hot soup and a sandwich.

Blizzard 2013

The blizzard of 2013 was slow to arrive yesterday. We waited with great anticipation into the evening. The winds were relatively calm and the snow was light when we went to bed. By morning the snow had arrived and was still falling. Wind whipped the snow into deep drifts.

Here are a few first photos. The snow at our bedroom window was piled high.

When we opened the garage door to venture out the imprint of the door was visible in the 2-foot high snow drift. Kodi couldn't figure out how to get out.

The snow in the driveway was knee-deep, and mid-thigh at the end of the driveway where the town snowplows had passed. Kodi porpoised his way through the snow.

Here is the driveway measurement as of 10 am today (Saturday).

Winter Survival

Two winters ago in February we stood atop Mt. Field in Crawford Notch under a clear blue sky. Snow covered the spruce and fir trees; the temperature was around 10 degrees Fahrenheit. It was a cold, beautiful day. We shivered and gulped down hot soup from our thermos. A couple of gray jays arrived in the small clearing as soon as we opened our packs to pull out snacks and sandwiches. The jays were not shy about coming in for a handout. I prefer to let them eat wild foods, but I do love to see them up close, especially among the snow-covered evergreens and against a deep blue sky.

Gray jays on Mt. Field

For a few minutes I forgot how cold it was, until my toes went numb. I’m always amazed at how cold we humans get, despite multiple layers of clothing, while many animals live outside year-round without much added layers. Our dog, and hiking partner, Kodi hikes to the top of 4,000-foot mountains in winter, without any extra clothing. He gets impatient with us, as we struggle to put on our layers of winter gear.

Happy Kodi atop windswept Mt. Avalon, without extra clothing!

Some animals adapt to the cold by migrating south, hibernating, curling up in a tight ball in a den until the weather improves, or putting on extra layers of fat, but our resident birds – like the gray jay – look the same and stay active year-round. So, how do they survive the cold temperatures and howling wind? And hasn’t it been excessively windy this winter.

To stay warm in our northern winters, birds shiver, limit their exposure to wind, and huddle together. Birds can reduce the blood flow to their exposed legs and feet to reduce heat loss (I’d like to have that adaptation, but then I’d have scaly legs). They also tuck their bills into their shoulder feathers. Often you’ll see birds sunning themselves; mourning doves commonly sit on a branch in our yard absorbing the afternoon sun. Perhaps most importantly, birds fluff up their feathers to create insulating air pockets, much like we wear a puffy down jacket.

Lastly, birds must eat, almost constantly in winter. The cute and curious gray jays eat just about anything: insects, berries, seeds, lichens, small mammals, nestlings, and of course raisins and nuts and other human foods. They eat dead things and are renowned as “camp robbers,” eating anything left out at a campsite. Gray jays have other curious winter adaptations. They begin nesting in mid-March, when the temperature is well below freezing. How that helps with survival in the north I don’t know. Gray jays have the largest salivary glands of any songbird; they use the sticky saliva to glue bits of food to tree branches, under bark, and elsewhere for later consumption and as a winter food cache. The dried cranberry that a gray jay took from our hiking friend’s hand might still be stuck to a spruce branch high atop Mt. Field, although apparently gray jays remember well where they cached their food.

A gray jay on Mt. Field flying in for a snack

In his wonderful book, Winter World, Bernd Heinrich writes about the tiny golden-crowned kinglet that winters in our north woods. Heinrich spent many hours in the cold to discover that kinglets hover at the end of small tree branches to feed on nearly microscopic caterpillars. He is in awe of their winter survival skills, as he sits inside his cabin, heated with a wood stove, while a winter wind howls outside. Golden-crowns have two nests, one after another beginning in mid-April, with up to 11 eggs per nest. Heinrich concludes that this adaptation is a hedge against their high winter mortality rates. The cold does kill. He concludes that kinglets have “…no magic key for survival in the cold and winter world of snow and ice. Those that live there are lucky and do every little thing just right.”