In Praise of Snow, Cold and (sometimes) Sunny

We've had quite a bit of snow and some really cold days up here in northwestern PA so far this winter. We're fairly used to that. Nothing earth-shattering or extremely health-risking. But when the temperature is -10 and the wind chill lower, one does pause when considering an outdoors excursion. There is beauty to be found in this cold, though, and I can never resist a quick trip through my backyard in search of a few prizes.

A warming sunrise through the icicles

Wind-blown drifts I can measure with a yardstick (24 inches, if you must know),

snow capped cone flower seed heads (echinacea purpurera),

and my pink heaths starting to bloom.

When the day is not great, I take a few gray bayberries in my hand and rub them between my fingers. Their delightful smell is all I need.

and no matter what, the winterberry (Ilex verticulata) shines this time of year.

And when the sun comes out, well,

a drift over on the roof become art against a crisp azure sky

and gulls become little white specks soaring high in an ethereal sea.

The sun warms without heat

I  enjoy the disheveled beauty of a magnolia pod

and the simple pleasure of watching a dry leaf blow across the frozen surface 

or finding these delicate bird tracks etched in the snow.

Winter is not always at home for me.

We've had trips to find snowy owls which have been popping up all over this winter much to everyone's delight.

This past weekend, Mike and I celebrated our anniversary in an Adirondack shelter in Oil Creek State Park. With tarps to close it in and a fireplace to warm us, it was a cozy night. The setting sun lit up the woods. Its glow held the promise of summer. 

It may be cold outside but, so far, the winter has been quite warm, really.

Rewards

Today was a good day. A day to savor every small bit of the garden that is still shining. A day for standing in the sunshine and drinking in the warmth of an October sun. No big swaths of color to thrill anymore. Just little treasures like this magnolia pod that has burst open to reveal its richly red seed.

And the finely described pinwheels of the sweet autumn clematis seeds (Clematis paniculata or sometime c. terniflora).

The one aster (Aster novae angliae) plant that bloomed pink rather than purple like the rest.

I'm still enjoying the morning glories that are still magnificent,

and a sedum that drapes softly over some european ginger.

There are still some roses

The marigolds that I plant each year in honor of my mother are still blooming without a care,

and the fat seed heads of the sunflowers are now a smorgasbord for the goldfinch and chickadees.

Every single one of these things are the rewards I reap for making a garden. I never take them for granted. But today I got to savor one big reward for a decision I made 12 years ago.  I like native plants and I like birds. I have made an effort to plant native shrubs that produce things birds like. Twelve years ago I planted a very small northern bayberry shrub (Myrica pensylvanica), as it was always one of my favorite shrubs for its waxy leaves and the smell of its beautiful, gray berries. I included it in the bouquets for my winter wedding.  I was delighted to discover a few years later that yellow-rumped warblers (a juvenile shown below) are some of the very few birds that can digest the waxy coating of bayberries.

Courtesy Cornell's http://www.allaboutbirds.org/

That small shrub I planted all those years ago, along with two more have now grown into a large hedge along with some winterberry (Ilex verticulata) and a summersweet shrub (Clethra alnifolia). 

This morning I spotted a yellow-rumped warbler in the yard for the first time ever. This afternoon I watched it land in the bayberry and eat a few berries. They came, they came!

This is one of the sweetest rewards of my life.

A Transformative Day

Last week I walked out the Gull Point, Presque Isle State Park, here in Erie. It stormed the night before and I was anticipating that storm bringing in some new shorebirds, perhaps some rarities. It was still pretty dark and windy as I walked out.

I was "disappointed"in the shorebirds I did find. Short-billed Dowitchers, Lesser Yellowlegs, Least Sandpiper, Semipalmated Sandpipers and Plovers. I had my heart set on godwits or phalaropes. I compensated by watching the Caspian Terns, a favorite of mine. Here's one bringing in a treat.

Things perked up when a juvenile Northern Harrier showed up. Jerry McWilliams explained to me that the rufus color on the scapulars (shoulders) was an indication of its youth. It flew persistently over the open sand plain of Gull Point looking for a meal.

 As I walked back to my car, I noticed signs of the approaching fall-poison ivy already starting to turn.

As I drove away from the trail head I was making plans for what I would do at home, but in a spontaneous moment I decided to stop at Leo's Landing (where the "Feather" installation is on PIAS) in hopes of finding some fall warblers. That turned out to be a momentous decision. 

Sitting on the ground, unable to fly, was a young Turkey Vulture, with some white down still visible on its back and sides. It was huddled at the base of a tree, obviously injured and barely moving around. I called Tamarack Wildlife Rehabilitation and Education Center, they agreed to take it and with their help I hatched a plan for catching it. Anne Desarro, a park naturalist generously agreed to help and soon arrived with gloves and tarps for securing the bird. I had a box in the back of my truck. After several attempts, we eventually cornered the bird and I wrapped it in the tarp. It calmed down in my arms. It felt much lighter than anticipated. In the process of the catch we both discovered that its injuries were far worse than we first thought; most of its right wing was missing. We both knew that Tamarack would probably have to euthanize it due to the severity of its injuries, but we agreed that I should still take it.

We put it in the ready box, secured the lid and I headed out for Tamarack. When I arrived, the rehabber on duty agreed when I explained the injuries. They deftly and gently prepared the bird for its last. 

The rehabber asked if I wanted to stay.  I learned many years ago that I should always stay at moments like this. I had a cat named Buster who was one of my greatest delights. He developed cancer and at the tender age of three needed to be put down. Thinking that I could not bear it, I elected to not be in the room with him when they injected that shot. I still regret that decision and will always feel that I abandoned him at his most vulnerable moment. And I learned that love is not selfish.

I said yes and reached out, putting my hand on the vulture's chest. It was breathing hard. Slowly, though, it became more shallow. Eventually its chest stopped moving. The room was quiet and filled with respect for such a magnificent bird that did not get to live very long. Eventually, the rehabber said to an intern, "you can let go of its legs now." 

We were done. It was done.  This young vulture may have never even had the opportunity to experience the magnificence of flight, of soaring high on a thermal. But it transformed my day from ordinary to extraordinary and I know the gifts it gave me will be revealing themselves to me slowly for years to come.