Tweed Wolf, The Eastern Coyote

Many years ago... Across a grassy meadow on the Kaibab Plateau in Arizona, a single hunter loped. I watched this carnivoran from a distance through my spotting scope, and momentarily I thought I was watching a fox. Then I realized the solitary predator was a coyote. I was on the north rim of the Grand Canyon, and I was watching my first western coyote while a sky blue Mountain Bluebird watched me in turn from a nearby perch. Why did I momentarily mistake this creature for a fox? Because it was noticeably smaller and daintier than the coyotes I was familiar with in my native New England. But why would this be?

"The idea of wilderness needs no defense. It only needs more defenders." Edward Abbey

Western Coyote (Canis latrans) Photographed by Jim Zipp in New Mexico

 

Eastern Coyote In Connecticut by Paul Fusco

Canis latrans. Eastern Coyote. "Tweed Wolf." Now common in New England, this icon of the wild is a relatively new arrival here. There are many people still living who were born before the Coyote came to New England. Before Europeans came to settle northeastern North America, the landscape of the region was mostly forested. This was not the habitat of the Coyote, a species that had evolved to prey on small mammals in the open grasslands and deserts of the west. The forested landscape of New England was the habitat of the White-tailed Deer and the Moose, and it was the home of the Wolf. Wolves once roamed virtually all of what is now the lower 48 states and nearly all of North America. Generally speaking, two species of North American wolf were historically recognized, the Red Wolf (canus rufus) of the southern and southeast United States, and the Gray Wolf (Canus lupus) in the west and northeast. It was long recognized however that the wolves in New England and southeastern Canada were smaller than the Gray Wolves of the west. These eastern wolves were considered a subspecies of Gray Wolf, and as such they were identified as canis lupus lycaon. Now the genetic evidence strongly suggests otherwise, that the eastern "Gray" wolves are a separate species, the Great Lakes Wolf (Canis lycaon.)

Great Lakes Wolf (Canis lycaon) USFW Photo

A predator's evolutionary course and success is based on the prey it hunts. In the northeast, the Great Lakes Wolf evolved to hunt the White-tailed Deer (Odocoileus virginianus). This was a species of the eastern deciduous forest. North of the White-tailed Deer's range, where the larger ungulate the Moose (Alces alces) dominated in coniferous forests, the Great Lakes Wolf range ended and it was replaced by the larger Gray Wolf. The Great Lakes Wolf is not large enough to hunt Moose efficiently. Its head and jaw are too small and lack the musculature to bite and hang onto the larger more powerful ungulate. This predator prey size relationship acts as a biological barrier against a predator species' range expansion. The predator can not expand into areas where reliable prey doesn't exist. So before Europeans came to America, The Great Lakes Wolf roamed the northeast, the Coyote loped across the southwest, the Red Wolf hunted the southeast, and the Gray Wolf howled throughout the west and the far north. The distribution of these carnivorans was determined by prey, habitat, and biological barriers in a natural balance.

White-tailed Deer (Odocoileus virginianus) Prey of the Great Lakes Wolf. Photo by Paul Fusco

Moose (Alces alces) One of the primary prey species of the Gray Wolf in eastern North America.  Photo by Jim Zipp

With the coming of Europeans came great and sweeping changes in the landscape and fauna of the northeast. The forest was felled and replaced by agriculture and grasslands. The wolf was feared and reviled and hunted relentlessly. Eventually no wolves were left alive in the northeast. The numbers of Moose fell as well, and the species' range withdrew northward. The predator prey balance was destroyed and the faunal diversity of New England plummeted. The wolves were gone. The predators that remained, Black Bears in small numbers in rugged mountain retreats, Gray Foxes in declining numbers, adaptive Red Foxes in increasing numbers, and Bobcats in small numbers, were no threat to White-tailed Deer that remained. The ecosystem of the northeast was forever altered.

 

Bobcat (Lynx rufus) in Connecticut. Photo by Paul Fusco.

The anthropogenic changes wrought on the northeast by the early Europeans were not to last unchanged either however. The open grasslands and agricultural lands slowly gave way to reforestation as farming and herding dwindled as major components of human land use. With the patchwork reforestation, and without a predator of ungulates, the White-tailed Deer flourished and expanded farther north than it had historically existed. Where once Moose fled before Gary Wolf packs, now White-tailed Deer existed untroubled by hungry carnivorans and soon the Deer population was larger than ever. The northeast was ripe for a large predator. But which one could exploit this open niche? By the twentieth century, wolves were greatly diminished or extirpated from much of their former ranges across North America. Not only had the wolves been been subjected to an organized slaughter by man, they had also starved as their prey dwindled. The survival of the Gray Wolf requires large numbers of Bison, Elk, Black-tailed Deer, Moose, and other large ungulates. These species's numbers also crashed as the new "Americans" moved westward. But one North American carnivoran could succeed in the now fractured and battered ecosystems of North America. The stage was set for the great success of the Coyote.

Coyote in Connecticut. Photo by Jim Zipp

 The combination of an altered landscape and the removal of the Wolf allowed the Coyote to expand its range. The Coyote preys primarily on smaller mammals than the Wolf. While large wolves do eat small mammals as well, the species can not survive without large prey animals. The wolf packs were gone, and Coyotes, though persecuted by man as well, moved in. The expansion was rapid. In the late 1800's and early 1900's the species reached Ontario west of the Great Lakes and then continued to rapidly expand eastward north of the lakes. It is believed that the expansion north of the lakes was pioneered by just a few individuals. While this northern route was being pushed rapidly eastward through Ontario, a slower expansion was also occurring south of the Great Lakes in the United States. This was partly due to a greater density of human occupation south of the lakes but there was a more ecologically significant factor in the disparate rates of expansion. The rapidity of the expansion along the northern route was greatly aided by a key factor, the Great Lakes Wolf. This species still existed north of the lakes and the pioneering Coyotes came into contact with them. One result of this contact was crucial to the Coyotes rapid success in the northeast, hybridization. But why should this happen now, why didn't it happen where Coyotes and Gray Wolves were sympatric in the west?

Recent genetic research is painting a clearer taxonomic picture of the canid species in North America. It is now believed that the Great Lakes Wolf and the Red Wolf may be more closely related genetically to the Coyote than to the Gray Wolf. Where the Gray Wolf and Coyote both existed, there appears to have been no successful hybridization. Hybridization often occurs where closely related species exist in contact with one another and one of the species occurs in small numbers while the other species occurs in larger numbers. An example birders will readily recognize is the decline of the scarce Golden-winged Warbler (Vermivora chrysoptera) as it hybridizes with the more numerous Blue-winged Warbler (Vermivora cyanoptera.) But this interbreeding does not seem to happen with Gray Wolves and Coyotes. The reintroduction of Gray Wolves to Yellowstone National Park and the slow natural repopulation of Gray Wolves in the northern Rockies in Idaho and Montana has not led to hybridization but rather seems to highlight the genetic and phenological differences between the species. The story was different with the contact of the few Coyotes among the Great Lakes Wolves in Ontario. Successful hybridization did occur. One result of this was a larger, more powerful Coyote, the Eastern Coyote. A "Tweed Wolf." This new form of Coyote came with new skills and advantages that were to prove very useful in the anthropogenic landscape of the northeast.

Wolf and Coyote in Yellowstone National Park. Photo from the blog Ecobirder.

The Coyote evolved to hunt small mammals in semi-arid and desert habitat. It did not hunt ungulates and it did not enter forests. It's head and the musculature of its jaw were not up to tackling White-tailed Deer. But with the hybridization with Great Lakes Wolf, the Eastern Coyote now is larger, shows sexual dimorphism (males are larger than females), and has proportionally larger and stronger jaws. This new jaw size and strength allows the Eastern Coyote to grasp a White-tailed Deer and hang on while the ungulate fights for its life. New behaviors were exhibited by the hybrid as well, it acted more wolf-like and readily entered the reforested habitat of the northeast. This northern hybrid expansion to the east far out-paced the southern route below the Great lakes, which was being carried out by essentially unaltered Western Coyotes. Eastern Coyotes reached Quebec in 1945, New Brunswick, Canada, in 1958, and Maine in 1970. It continued to expand eastward and then southward eventually wrapping around the Great Lakes and heading back southwestward. This expansion met up with the non-hybrid Western Coyotes moving slowly eastward forming a contact zone in western New York and Pennsylvania. The void had been filled, a large carnivoran had resettled the northeast.

Eastern Coyote in Guilford, CT. Photo by Bob Gundersen.

There remains a distinct fear and loathing of Wolves and Coyotes in some people. This is despite the fact that our most loved pet is the domestic dog (Canis familiaris), which is the descendant of domesticated Wolves. When the Eastern Coyote showed up in the northeast, people recognized they were bigger and acted differently than Western Coyotes. They called them "Coydogs," assuming these Coyotes had hybridized with domestic dogs. Genetic research has proven this to be untrue. While dogs and Coyotes can interbreed, the resulting hybrid has behavioral and biological disadvantages that create an evolutionary dead end. These hybrids (shown by genetic research to be extraordinarily rare) do not reproduce successful young in the wild. It was also thought that it might have been phenological plasticity that caused the larger Coyotes. Phenological plasticity is when an organism develops in different ways in different areas based on environmental conditions, such as Blue Jays being larger in the northern part of their range. Now we know it isn't "Coydogs", it isn't phenological plasticity, it is the Wolf within.

Coyote. Photo by Jim Zipp.

It is paramount that we strive to understand the natural world. Despite what some would have us believe, our survival depends on a healthy functioning environment. I also believe that our natural world has worth beyond any price. The howling of the Wolf once struck fear in us, and there are many who still would kill all the Wolves and Coyotes. This hatred of Wolves and Coyotes seems in some ways primal, and is certainly in no way rational in today's world. Why do humans see such malevolence in these predators, these progenitors of our dearest companions? Is it that some see in the Wolf all that is deplorable in our own nature? I don't know the answer. But I do know that the howling of Wolves and Coyotes is a most welcomed sound to me personally, and if these voices were no longer to be heard in the wilds of North America, it would be an incalculable loss.

"If the wolf is to survive, the wolf haters must be outnumbered. They must be outshouted, out financed, and out voted."     L. David Mech

Truly the call of the wild. Coyote in Connecticut. Photo by Jim Zipp.

References used in preparing for this entry include:

"Rapid Adaptive Evolution of Northeastern Coyotes via Hybridization with Wolves" Keys, Curtis, Kitchman. 2009.

"The Cranial Evidence for Hybridization in New England Canis" Lawrence and Bossert. 1969.

"Hybridization Among Three Native North American Canis Species in a Region of Natural Sympatry" Hailer and Leonard. 2008.

"Genetic Nature of Eastern Wolves: Past, Present, and Future" Kyle, Johnson, Patterson, Wilson, Shami, Grewal, and White. 2005.

"Legacy Lost: Genetic Variability and Population Size of Extirpated US Grey Wolves (Canis lupus)" Leonard, Vila, and Wayne. 2004.

"Widespread Occurrence of a Domestic Dog mitochondrial DNA haplotype in Southeastern US Coyotes" Adams, Leonard, and Waits. 2002.

An Old Freak, Much Laughter, and Cold Mist. Day 2

"The opposite of courage in our society is not cowardice, it is conformity." - Rollo May

Garfield Trail at low elevation. An easy stroll through deciduous forest

 The clouds were darkening and the light was failing as the afternoon was surrendering to evening. I truly felt the need to push onward on my trek to the Garfield Ridge Campsite high above me.The lower stretches of the Garfield Trail are fairly flat and rock free and allow for easy and fast hiking. Still, I had a 45 pound pack on my back, and this was the second 4,000 footer ascent of the day. So I was not feeling particularly strong and I did not want to run out of daylight before I reached the AMC campsite. As the day wound down many day hikers who had spent a beautiful October day in the White Mountains were now returning to their cars to head home. I stopped and spoke with each group of hikers I met. They all were curious about my destination. There is a sense of community among hikers that makes for easy conversation and a feeling of camaraderie. Most of the people I spoke with remarked that I had a way to go still to reach the Garfield Ridge Campsite, at least those who actually knew of its existence. The deciduous forest on the lower flank of Garfield Ridge was coloring up with the yellows and reds of the advancing autumn but the rich green of the summer still dominated.

Garfield Trail crosses Spruce Brook

 The hip belt of my pack kept slowly slipping lower as I went. I have fairly narrow hips and I have to cinch the belt very tight to try and keep it where it will bear weight properly. I could feel the skin under the belt chafing uncomfortably and I was sweating with the effort of the hike. I came to the crossing of Spruce Brook and gratefully splashed the cool mountain water on my face and neck. The simple comfort of the water rinsing the sweat and grime off my skin felt like high luxury. I repeated these ablutions over and over, not wanting the sensual pleasure and feeling of cleanliness to end. But rain was threatening and I had a ridge to climb, so slipping my hands into the straps of my trekking poles I walked on.

Early on the Garfield Trail. Easy slope and footing.

  When you are hiking the White Mountain trails you adjust your stride and pace to the footing offered up to you. Early on the Garfield Trail the trail bed is an easy slope with few rocks, allowing long strides and a fast pace. I took advantage of this to make good time. My mind often wanders far afield when I don't have to concentrate on my footing. As I strode along my thoughts flew to the people and events of my life, as music wound throughout the landscape of my daydreams. It is as if I was on two journeys, one physical and one spiritual, both winding and both long. Meeting a few more hikers leaving the forest interrupted both journeys. One man, with a tan that was too deep and bronzed to look like the honest burnished skin of an outdoorsman, who was also wearing the paratrooper type boots that only someone who had never been a paratrooper would buy, complained what an awful trail this was to hike. Thinking to myself that I could not agree with such a judgment, I replied "Oh yes?" "Yes!" was his emphatic reply, he assured me he had hiked all over the Whites and this was one of the worst trails he had ever hiked. I laughed to myself but politely bid him a good finish to his hike and I continued on.

Garfield Trail reaches the transition from deciduous to coniferous

Thoughts of the bronzy paratrooper hiker soon faded. The trail was entering the transition where the near total dominance of deciduous trees was giving way to more and more firs. The trail itself was getting more studded with rock and stone and a fine light rain was now falling. If the rain became steady I was in for an uncomfortable finish to my hike. And no hiker wants to establish a camp in the rain if he or she can avoid it. The growing worry that nightfall and rainfall would find me before I found the campsite spurred me on at the fastest pace I could manage. My breathe was hard and deep, the sweat flowed liberally, my hips burned from the pack, and my legs felt heavy. Perversely, I felt as alive as I possibly could.

The Spruce Forest of the higher elevations

The rain sputtered and failed. The light continued to wane however. My steps were no longer precise and fatigue was my constant companion, causing me to stumble a bit and stub my feet on the rocks that protruded from the trail bed like broken teeth. I started to look off the trail for possible spots to camp in case I could not make the campsite before dark. It is surprising how lonely the mountains can feel at the gloaming when you are alone. I pride myself on presenting a confident and reassuring face to others when things are going poorly, to help them feel more optimistic themselves. That doesn't work on yourself however. It's harder to buck up your own spirits. I was thinking that very soon I would need to break out the headlamp when I finally reached the trail junction that would take me to the campsite. The relief was very welcome.

The trail junction that heralded the end of the long day was nigh. A welcomed sight indeed.

Here I turned eastward and downward. Garfield loomed above me in the gloaming, but I would visit that peak on the morn. Now all I wanted was to get this pack off my back and set up camp. The trail dropped very steeply and I had to take it very slowly. Fatigue is a deadly enemy on steep rocky trails, and descending these with a heavy pack is damnably hard on knees. After a painful descent of some fifteen to twenty minutes I reached the spur trail that leads to the campsite. I had smelled woodsmoke for some time, and as I reached the campsite I saw several hikers gathered around a nice fire. These AMC campsites have caretakers during the summer season and I soon found him. He told what tent platforms were still available and after exchanging a few words I set off to find the wooden deck that would be my home for the night.

My one man tent was soon erected and preparations for dinner were underway.

The tents of my neighbors for the night on companion to my tent platform.

As I set up camp I had the opportunity to meet the other hikers who were using the tent platform next to mine. They were four young men in their late twenties. We soon had a conversation underway and in an act of immeasurable generosity one of the fine young gentlemen shared some red wine with me. Clearly they were some of the finest examples of humanity. When my tent was complete and I had eaten a simple fare, I joined the others around the fire. Soon we were sharing hiking war stories and laughing. About a dozen of us spent a pleasant hour dodging campfire smoke and talking in the night. I am of the opinion that standing around a fire in the mountains at night sharing good drink and telling tales could make the fastest of friends of the deepest of enemies. Ah , would that it were, would that it were... After this most enjoyable commune, I crawled into my tent and into my sleeping bag. The night was cold and damp. My bag was dry and warm. To sleep, perchance to dream.

The caretaker's tent at Garfield Ridge Campsite.

During the night I had seen the ghostly glow of moonlight through my tent. But daylight revealed that a cold mist had settled on the mountain, just a few hundred feet above us. There would be no views to be had today alas. After preparing to hike up to the summit of Garfield, I headed out. Many of my fellow travelers were up and about as well. The gathering splintered back into the disparate groups that had arrived separately last night, heading off in different directions with different goals. First I stopped at the natural spring below the campsite and then I followed several hikers up the trail back to the Garfield Ridge Trail.

The spring below the campsite.

Looking eastward toward Galehead Mountain and the Twins. The clouds loom just above Galehead but have encased the Twins.

The steep climb back up to Garfield Ridge Trail.

I had left my camp set up and was now just carrying a light daypack. This was a blessed relief. Still the steep climb up to the ridge trail soon had me huffing and sweating. It wasn't long before I reached the ridge trail however, and I continued onward towards the summit of Mount Garfield. The low hanging clouds soon enveloped me as I climbed. No one else was headed to the summit this morning. Mount Garfield has spectacular views of the Pemigewasset Wilderness, or so I have read. There would be no views today. Being in the clouds is like being inside a cold and clammy cotton ball. It was into this cold mist that I scaled upwards to the summit.

Into the mist. The scramble up to the summit of Garfield.

The summit of Mount Garfield used to have a fire observation tower. The concrete foundation still remains. Once on the summit I felt truly alone. Lost in a cold mist on a lonely peak. In all directions a cold white fog robbed me of the spectacular views of the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Yet in this cold mist, on this lonely peak, I felt the warmth of another goal achieved, another life experience had, another victory over myself. It is all too easy to take the easy way in life, never setting goals, never challenging oneself, never doing, never being. I was very glad to have made the effort. I could not see the view, but I knew it was out there, and I knew if I never passed this way again, I had passed this way once.

The old tower foundation on Garfield summit.

On Garfield Summit, in the clouds.

A cold mist hugs the summit

After spending a half hour on the summit it was time to head back and break camp. The return hike to the campsite was uneventful. There was no lifting of the clouds and the day seemed to grow darker rather than brighter. When I arrived back at the campsite all the campers had left. The caretaker was alone. I spoke with him for a while and learned he was originally from Connecticut as well. He was on his last day as caretaker and would be hiking out later, his tour of duty up for another year.

The night's campers were gone. A through hiker stops briefly at the shelter at Garfield Ridge Campsite.

 He had the latest weather forecast as well and told me heavy rain was headed into the region. So my trip was to end sooner than originally planned. I was disappointed that my long hike was cut short. But in life you have to make choices. If the most difficult choice I had to make this day was to keep hiking in the mountains in the rain or to head back the comfort of my Connecticut home, than I was more fortunate than many. It had been a good trip. I had climbed the Old Freak, met new fiends, laughed in the night, and stood on a mountain peak in a cold mist. Life could be worse, much worse.

The trail out. In the mist.

An Old Freak, Much Laughter, and Cold Mist. Day 1

"Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not words.Trust movement." Alfred Adler

The "Freak," Cannon Mountain in New Hampshire's White Mountains. Seen from Franconia Ridge.

I had visited the old Freak before, with my youngest daughter. Now I was back to climb it. The Freak is an obscure old name for a peak much better known now as Cannon Mountain, one of the White Mountains of New Hampshire and home to a famous ski area. My daughter and I visited the summit via the tramway that runs from the base of the mountain's north slope. I was on my own this time, taking an opportunity to hike new peaks and spend some time thinking. I am not one who likes to sit on a couch and self reflect. I need to put boots on and miles behind me to think long and clearly. This trip was an ambitious one, my plan was to hike seven mountains over three days. I would be carrying a heavy pack and camping at high elevation for two nights. Reality would fall short of my expectations, but that is the way of life at times.

The start of Kinsman Ridge Trail at the Cannon Mountain Tramway parking area. Ah, there's nothing a little tape can't fix!

The weather forecast was questionable for this trip, but I pulled the trigger and went for it anyway. As I stood next to my truck at the Kinsman Ridge Trailhead and scanned the sky, it certainly didn't look promising. The sky looked deeply troubled. Shreds of white clouds ran up and over the peaks like strips of torn silk pulled across the top of a chair, while a roiling blanket of leaden cloud loomed heavily above all. This hike was intended to be a quick up and down before I drove around to the real hike, up Garfield Trail and on to the mountains called The Bonds in the Pemigewasset Wilderness. So, with rain gear in a daypack, I headed up Kinsman Ridge.

The Kinsman Ridge Trail's northern terminus is very heavily water eroded.

Just as I started, two sunbeams broke through the clouds, and like theatrical stage lights, they ran across Franconia Notch and partway up the flank of Franconia Ridge before being sliced off by the racing clouds. A good omen I hoped. The trail's start was deeply water eroded and looked more like a gulley than a trail. Still, hiking up a mountain is much like living. Whatever the trail, the only way forward is to put one boot higher than the last. It is in this repetitive motion that, when hiking alone, I can lose myself in my thoughts. This trip was one I needed for just that purpose. So as I climbed, I thought of many things. The forest along the trail at low elevation was heavily populated with birch and hemlock. The hemlocks here in New Hampshire are not yet devastated by the Hemlock Woolly Adelgid which was introduced into North America accidentally. The adelgid is an insect that sucks the sap of tender hemlock shoots, and appears to inject a toxin that ultimately desiccates and kills the hemlock off. Here on Cannon's feet the hemlocks are spectacular, and a healthy dark green.

Echo Lake below the north slope of Cannon Mountain.

Winter Wrens, one of my favorite birds found along the trails, were in force on the lower trail and popped out often to "chup chup" at me while bobbing up and down. It was warm and humid along this lower section and I was sweating with the effort of gaining elevation. I am physically in decent shape, but mountain hiking always makes me feel as if I should be a whole lot stronger. The electric hum of the tramway could be heard starting up every 15 minutes as the cars traveled up and down, filled with tourist who would be unlikely to ever climb the old Freak on foot. This mountain is the former home of one of North America's most iconic natural formations. "The Old Man of the Mountain," the rock formation that jutted out over Profile Lake in Fanconia Notch, and which now graces the New Hampshire quarter dollar coin, (and the profile is still the background for the state's license plates) fell in the night in early May, 2003. Once forming a rugged profile of a man's face when seen from the northern end of the notch, the boulders that made up this visage now lie among the talus at the cliff's foot. The night he fell, two rock climbers who were sleeping nearby heard the rumbling death of the Old Man, though they did not know the momentous event that rumbling heralded. The trail I was taking would swing out over the cliffs above the Old Man's former place.

 Route 93 in Franconia Notch.

The ledges in the foreground are above the former Old Man of the Mountain's home. Across the notch are Mount Lafayette and Mount Lincoln.

It was not long before I reached the area above Cannon Cliff where the Old Man once lived. As I had climbed, the clouds had unexpectedly faltered and failed. Now blue sky largely domed Franconia Notch. Across the notch stood the ridge with Mt. Lafayette and Mt. Lincoln dominant among its peaks. Many hikers would be walking along that ridge as I gazed at it. Below me, at the bottom of the notch, a gray ribbon snaked north and south, route 93. The weak but persistent growl of cars, motorcycles, buses, and trucks reached all the way to my lofty perch. Behind me the herd of tram tourists would be ambling from the tram landing to the summit building and back again. I was certainly not lost in the wilderness here. Still the natural wonders around me held me on those ledges for longer than I planned to be there. It was with thoughts of the miles I needed to put under my boots before nightfall that I finally shook off my procrastination and I headed up towards the Freak's summit.

The summit tower of Cannon seen from the ledges above the Old Man's former site.

The trail had gotten busier as the morning passed. Now I was frequently passing day hikers and dogs. Dogs on the White Mountain trails are becoming more and more common. And it isn't just big breeds either. There are some remarkably short canine legs scrambling along the rugged tracks. Just below the summit of Cannon, the ridge trail I was walking meets up with the tourist path that leads from the tram landing. It is at this confluence that hikers and tourists intermingle on the stretch to the summit tower. One group in muddy boots and using trekking poles, and the other in gleaming sneakers or open sandals and carrying pocket books and video cameras. The hiking etiquette of letting faster hikers pass is absent in the tourist crowd, and I had to be patient as the people ahead of me ambled along with strides that fell far short of my expectations. Still, even glaciers end up getting somewhere, eventually. I took every opportunity to pass that I could. The tourists were generally very amicable, and smiled at me as I went by. However, there was one group of older people wearing motorcycle paraphernalia that looked somewhat offended at being passed. Ironic, I thought. At last I reached the summit tower and ran up the crampon pocked wooden stairs. The wind was cold on my sweaty back and I was feeling the passage of time acutely now, so my sojourn was brief. A few pictures and I was headed down with as quick a pace as I could sustain. The old Freak was my 36th White Mountain 4,000 footer summit. 12 more to go to complete my goal of hiking over all 48. If I live that long of course.

Franconia Ridge across the notch, seen from the summit tower of Cannon. Mt Lafayette is left of center and Mt Lincoln is right of center. Looking eastward.

Kinsman Ridge south of Cannon. North Kinsman is right of center and South Kinsman is center. When my young friend Mark and I hiked those peaks in March they were clad in snow in ice.

The return to the parking lot where my truck awaited was routine. One stride after another, one thought after another. The miles passed and the thoughts passed. Thoughts and miles are much the same. We travel through each to reach the next. Maybe we find ourselves somewhere better, maybe not. I believe we are free to choose the trails we walk, whether through the mountains or through life. Often we deny, especially to ourselves, that we do actually choose the direction our lives go. Too often we use words such as "I had no choice," to relieve ourselves of the admission that yes we did, or we fail to see our lives as our own to live but rather see our life's disappointments as the result of other people's failings. It is easier to accept that fate can not be affected by our choices, that we are on some sort of course whose path we can not alter, than to make the hard decisions to make our lives better, happier, more fulfilled, more purposeful. Often we chase the wrong things in life, and then blame others when we find ourselves unhappy with our lot. Life can be difficult, trust me I know. But life can be wonderful as well. You just have to choose the right path. It's okay to make mistakes, you'll learn more about life and yourself from your mistakes than you will from any triumphs. When you come to a fork on a trail, you need to open a map. When you come to a choice in your life, you need to open your eyes, your mind, and your heart. If all else fails, and you have kids younger than 20, just ask them. They'll know the answers to all your problems. After twenty they start to get stupider, like their parents.

Mount Garfield rises from Garfield Ridge. Seen from the summit of Mt. Lafayette on Franconia Ridge.

It was time to continue my journey. After a quick lunch by my truck, I drove northeast to my next trailhead. I would be hiking up Garfield Ridge by using Garfield Trail, just west of the Gale River. I would be camping at 4,000 feet at the Appalachian Mountain Club's Garfield Ridge Camp Site, just below Mount Garfield's summit. I took a few minutes to organize my pack and then shouldered the forty-five pounds that would be my home, food, and safety in the mountains. I met a hiker and his dog at the trailhead who had just finished a long trek in the Pemigewasset Wilderness and were awaiting a ride out. We talked a while and then I headed in. Do you ever notice how some people say they headed "out" when going into the wild lands? I don't see it that way. For me the wild lands are where we came from and where I choose to return to, a landscape of peace and beauty, a place of simple but wonderful truths, and a place of harsh realities. It is a place to find out who we are, or who we can be. For me, when I pass into the shadows of the trees, I am coming in. When it is time to return to the world of steel, concrete, and glass, Then I am heading "out."

The Garfield Trail is a wonderful and relatively easy mountain trail. It starts by passing through a stand of old hemlocks and pines. Here the heady scents of these noble trees greeted me. As I walked I soon spotted a Garter Snake by the trailside. The Garter Snakes here in the Whites are called Maritime Garters, a race of the Eastern Garter Snake. I decided to catch it and photograph it, but wearing a forty-five pound pack and catching a nimble reptile are not symbiotic human endeavors. I figured the only way to catch this guy was to do it quickly and clumsily, and let the snake have every opportunity to bite me.

Maritime Garter Snake.

So, burdened by my pack and moving like those films of the astronauts walking clumsily on the moon, I stooped and grabbed the snake by the tail. Promptly, and predictably, it bit me. Just the once though, and it quickly let go. Having introduced ourselves, we did a little photography. While I was taking pictures, an older couple stopped (ya older than me) and asked me if it was a Ribbon Snake. The next few minutes were spent in a pleasant conversation about identifying snakes and about what birds they saw in the mountains. The snake had little to add to the conversation, and frankly I felt it could have made a better effort. The couple then headed out to the parking area and I released the snake and continued along the trail. The sky, what little I could see through the canopy of dark green, was darkening and clouding up again. It was time to walk fast. The trip up the Garfield Trail would be a race against nightfall. It would also be a walk with many meetings along the way. I didn't know it then, but the night ahead held much laughter with newly met friends, and the morning would find me climbing into in a cold and lonely mist.

Acting Swiftly

"There were many grebes, making spreading wakes in the water as they swam, and I was counting them and wondering why they never were mentioned in the Bible. I decided that those people were not naturalists."
Ernest Hemingway writing of the Sea of Galilee in the Green Hills of Africa.

 The ability of birds to fly has always captivated the human imagination. In our dreams we soar over the landscape with the ease and freedom that by day, we envy in the birds. Vividly can I remember the days when I was a distance runner. On a good day I would glide nearly effortlessly over the countryside. I can no longer do this alas, but the joy of sprinting through the trees and the feeling of physical power was as addicting as anything I have ever experienced. I was confined to the surface of the earth however, any vertical movement I accomplished was dictated by the terrain I crossed. How must it feel to be free of such restriction? To be able to move in any direction, limited only by the speed of thought? I can only dream how it must feel. But Swifts, paragons of flight, need not dream such freedom. They live it.

Every Spring, here in northeast, the Chimney Swifts (Chaetura pelagica) return from their South American home. Briefly, from April to September, we are graced with these aerial masters. The spend nearly all their waking moments on the wing, landing only to roost or nest. They are creatures of the air, and indeed seem to be all wing. Their short, stubby tails and cigar shaped bodies, are eclipsed by long and elegantly curved wings. It is as if the Swifts fly on feathered sabers. To human eyes, which work in very complex ways with our brains, an optical illusion occurs when viewing flying Swifts. We sometimes perceive the wings acting opposite of one another, one being up and the other being down at any given moment, even though they aren't. An oddity created through their evolution and ours.

Long saber-like wings extend well passed the end of the Swift's stubby tail at roost. Note the tail feather's webbing stops short of the end of the shaft, creating "spines" that help the swift perch on vertical surfaces.

Swifts feed on the wing, drink on the wing, bathe on the wing, are believed to engage in play on the wing, and may even mate on the wing. They appear to have no ability to walk or hop on horizontal surfaces, and rarely perch on a branch. They land (or "cling" more appropriately) on vertical surfaces, and can crawl upwards or sideways. They are very social, roosting in large numbers. And according to Swift rehabilitator Jayne Amico,  they are one of the very few avian species to respond positively to being petted. Swifts inhabit our towns and cities, flying over us as we go to work, mow our lawns, go shopping, sit at an open air concert, or any of the myriad of activities that make up our earth-bound lives. Yet the average person knows little or nothing of these winged maestros. Indeed, most birders know little of them as well.

Jayne Amico holds one of the Swifts in her care.

During the breeding season they are found throughout most of the eastern United States, spilling into southern Canada. They evolved to nest and roost in vertical fractures of cliffs, caves, or the hollow carcasses of old growth trees. As mankind altered the landscape by felling the trees and building massive brick and mortar chimneys, the Swifts adapted and moved to these artificial trees, or to large open buildings. Swifts are extraordinarily social, roosting intimately in large groups.They nest as single pairs, but will sometimes tolerate non-nesters roosting in the same chimney. This has led to the erroneous belief that they nest colonially.

Chimny Swift. Photo by Jayne Amico

Within a couple of weeks of their arrival on the breeding grounds, they begin courting or pair bonding behavior. They fly in small groups of a half dozen or less, frequently in sets of three. It may be two males following a single female. It is during these "trio" flights that they display some of their most amazing flying skills, darting at high speed through trees, between buildings, or soaring high into the air. When two Swifts are flying in an apparent bonding flight, the trailing bird will sometimes snap its wings upwards and hold them stiffly still, forming a V shape. This is called "vee-ing", and it is done first by the trailing bird and then often by the the leading bird. Swifts have been observed flying very close together while vee-ing and even appear to be briefly copulating.

Swifts build their nests from small twigs grasped in their feet and broken from trees as they fly. Both birds in the pair do this. These twigs are then cemented in place at the nest site with the bird's sticky saliva, which is produced from a gland that enlarges during the nest building season.



They seem to favor the most sheltered and darkest location in a nesting structure. The eggs are laid when the nest is about half constructed, and construction continues during incubation. Construction completes before the eggs hatch. On average, it takes between two and three weeks to complete the nest.

The average clutch is about four eggs, which are white and semi-glossy.The incubation of the eggs is done by both parents and takes about 19 days. The chicks are altricial at hatching, naked and helpless. Amazingly, their feet develop quickly and they may be able to grasp the wall of their nest site as soon as one day after hatching. The chicks gain mass quickly and reach adult mass after about three weeks.



Feather tracts appear as dark spots under the pink skin at around four days and the feathers erupt through the skin at about one week. The eyes open around week two and fledging occurs at about thirty days. At around nineteen or twenty days, the nestlings leave the net and cling to the nest site wall. While clinging to the walls they spend much of their time exercising their wings. This builds up the flight muscles. Both parents feed the young. There sometimes are "helpers" that assist in the incubating of eggs, and the brooding and feeding of nestlings. It appears these helpers are young adult Swifts, or at least non-breeders.

Once fledged, the young may continue to roost with the adults or join them at communal roosts. The adults no longer feed the fledged young, who are now already masterful fliers. The number of Swifts in a roost can sometimes be very large. The following video is of the closely related Vaux's Swift (Chaetura vauxi), going to roost in Portland, Oregon, but the tornadic roosting flight behavior is the same for Chimney Swift.





These roosts grow as the nesting season ends. When the cool, stable atmosphere of beautiful Fall days come, the Swifts begin their long migration south. Little is known of their behavior on the wintering grounds, in the skies above South America. We in the northeast can only await their return the following April or May.

While they are nesting here in the northeast however, things sometimes go wrong. This is where rehabilitators such as Jayne Amico play a role. Swift nests can be dislodged by heavy rains and fall into people's homes. Or worse, they can be "swept" out by chimney sweeps cleaning chimneys. When this happens, they are sometimes taken to rehabilitators. All too often sadly, the dislodged Swifts are simply put in situations they can not possibly survive. The Swifts in Jayne's care are the lucky ones. She has mastered rearing and releasing these unfortunate individuals, or healing those that have suffered injury. It is far from an easy task, and no one should undertake it who isn't trained and immensely dedicated. I have had the good fortune to witness Jayne in action with Swifts, and I have come to admire her skill, dedication, and love for the birds she handles. I do not think I have ever witnessed the degree of professional knowledge and child-like affection that Jayne exhibits in ministering to her flock. Sorry, I couldn't resist the phrase. The following are a few pictures I took at The Mount Vernon Songbird Sanctuary last July when I visited with my daughter Janet and her friend Emily.

Nestlings in special care at the Sanctuary

Jayne feeds her Swifts in the purpose built feeding "chimney" at the Mount Vernon Songbird Sanctuary.

Four of the Swifts perched on the vertical walls of the enclosure.

Emily and Janet observe Jayne caring for her wards.

Sometimes it is necessary to hand feed individual Swifts that do not adapt quickly to the foreign process of taking food from a human.

Swifts, like many of the bird species in our world, are declining in numbers. There are few or no new chimneys being built that they can use for nesting. Additionally, many existing chimneys are being capped to keep the birds out. To my mind, many people love seeing wildlife, as long as it isn't on their property. The loss of these magnificent aerialists is deeply regrettable. In watching Swifts fly, we are able to witness what perfection evolution can achieve. What a dreary place the skies over our cities will be when they are no longer sliced by the Swift's feathered sabers.

To learn more about Swifts and what you can do to help protect them, visit ChimneySwift.org at:
http://www.chimneyswifts.org/

Rattle and Kink

"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts."  Rachel Carson

Black Rat Snake (Elaphe obsoleta obsoleta)

 The heat of a mid September sun was firmly clamped on the Walden Preserve in Salem, Connecticut. It was mid day and it was quite warm for the date. I had been feeling a bit beaten down by life recently, and not without good reason. I had also been ridiculously busy. The prior weekend I had taken my daughter and her friend Emily camping on Selden Island on the Connecticut River in Lyme. In order to do that, I had rebuilt a canoe the week before, designed and built a boat rack for my pickup truck (which I finished at 12:30 am the night before the trip), organized all the gear needed, loaded all the gear and three boats in the truck, paddled all the gear to Selden Island, set up camp, cooked all the girls meals, broke camp down afterward, loaded all the gear back into the canoe, paddled the gear laden canoe upriver to the boat launch (while the girls flitted by in agile kayaks), Loaded the truck back up, drove home, and unpacked,  cleaned, and put away all the gear at home. All this after working a full work week. Admittedly I love doing things for kids, but it had been a tough week. So today, with my daughter spending the day with her friend Rachel, I knew my psychological state was low and needed an immersion in the woods. So here I was, looking for Black Rat Snakes. That was why I was here at mid day, to increase my chances of finding these inky serpents soaking up the warmth of the sun.

New England Aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae). One of the beauties of Walden Preserve.

I had been walking the meadows and forest of the preserve for an hour or so, and I had been looking under rocks and logs for snakes of any sort, while singing Mark Knopfler songs to myself. This is the sort of behavior that can guarantee odd looks from passersby and the suspicious attention of law enforcement officials. This endeavor allowed me time to think about my trials and tribulations and to lose them in the forest, at least temporarily. However, my log and rock flipping would prove fruitless this day, well serpent-less anyway. I did unearth numerous Red-backed Salamanders, which I had to remove before replacing the rocks and logs, to avoid turning them into ex-salamanders. So, tiring of flipping things over, and liberally covered with the fecund earth of the forest floor, I decided instead to start walking hard and fast for the exercise. It wasn’t long before I was sweating liberally as well. It was at this point that I spotted a Black Rat Snake draped across a fallen log off the side of the trail. These beautiful black snakes are usually fairly slow and approachable. So slowing to a casual walk, I approached the snake with the expectation of simply picking it up. Apparently this individual fancied itself a track star however, and shot off at a pace that took me totally by surprise. Not one to be outdone, I sprinted after it. The snake was in its element and shot down a steep slope while winding through a maze of saplings and brush. As I ran through the undergrowth after it, and by “ran” I mean stumbled clumsily, I lunged repeatedly at its fast disappearing tail. Just when I thought it was mine, it was gone. I stood there, heart pounding, breathing hard, beaten in a race through the woods by a creature which had exactly no legs. Oh the indignation of it all.

Green Darner (Anax junius) Female. A common fall migrant dragonfly hawking prey over the meadows.

Accepting inglorious defeat, I continued on. I then happened upon a colleague from work who was walking with his two sons. They were admiring the recent gnawings of beavers on the local flora. I spent a few minutes talking with them and learning about air-soft guns and ferrets from the two boys. I think every boy should have air-soft guns and ferrets. Surely nothing could ever go wrong in a household with air-soft guns and ferrets? Well time was pushing on, as it is wont to do, so I said adieu and walked on. I was heading back to the parking area when I noticed a long black stick on the path ahead. It was an odd looking stick, it looked quite like another Black Rat Snake! A few years ago, my friend Hank Golet had sent me a picture of a Black Rat Snake he found in Old Lyme, which was doing an odd defensive/camouflage posture. It can only be described as “kinked.” I personally had never seen any of the numerous Black Rat Snakes I had come across do this, till today. There was this guy on the path ahead of me, and he was “kinked.” It was a nice sized adult, right around 5 feet in length, maybe an inch or two short of that.

Odd "kinked" behavior of Black Rat Snake.

Prepared for another possible dash, I approached the snake. This one however, remained motionless in its odd posture. I reached down, and as my hand approached the snake, the tail started to rattle among the leaf litter. This is another defensive bluff that several snakes perform, attempting to appear a Rattlesnake. Being just bright enough to know the difference, I was undeterred. I picked up the long ribbon of muscle that was the snake and felt its strength as it wrapped itself around my hand. The serpent made no attempt to bite me. Indeed, as I have experienced with Black Rat Snakes before, holding the snake’s head required just the lightest pressure. This species is generally quite easy and pleasant to handle. If I had relaxed my grip on a Northern Water Snake this much I would have been bitten in a heart-beat. Less than a heart-beat, actually. I draped the snake over my arm and as it wrapped itself tightly around my forearm, I felt the tail tip continue to vibrate against my skin, an odd feeling indeed.

The Black Rat Snake often offers little resistance to being held. My grip is very light. Try this relaxed soft touch with a Northern Water Snake and it will hurt your feelings!

The snake was still doing the false rattle with its tail while it was on my arm.

 The snake’s black tongue flicked in and out rapidly as it assessed its predicament. Contrary to popular belief, a snake’s tongue does not detect smells. The tongue is used to drag minute airborne particles to an organ in the roof of the snake’s mouth, called a “vomeronasal” organ, or "Jacobson's organ." This organ does the “smelling” and the tongue simply acts to bring the olfactory evidence to it. Much like how mammal’s use lungs to drag air to their olfactory organs.

Gathering data on its environment. The snakes tongue drags air particles to an organ in the roof of its mouth.

The scales around the snake's mouth have evolved to allow at least partial extension of the tongue without having to open the mouth.

I took a few minutes to photograph this denizen of the southern New England woodlands, and to appreciate its simple yet elegant beauty. I never tire of the silken feel of a large snake's skin. When I released it, it moved purposely, but not hurriedly, off into a trail side bush. It showed none of the speed of the previous snake that had left me in its dust. I wonder if that one has some Black Racer in it? I'd feel better if that were true!

Freedom. The Black Rat Snake heads for the hills.

It was time to head home. I had solved none of my worldly problems. But I was refreshed by my time in the woods. Feeling the snake constrict on my arm was like feeling the handshake of an old and dear friend. And of course, I now knew more about air-soft guns and ferrets. I wonder which of these I should get first?


To learn which snakes are present in southern New England, and some salient facts, download the Connecticut DEP publication "Snakes in Connecticut," at:
http://www.ct.gov/dep/lib/dep/wildlife/pdf_files/nongame/snkwebview.pdf