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Print Edition Date: December 12, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE OTHER SEASON

By Richard Leighton

The popular phrase “Season’s Greetings” reportedly began being used on Christmas cards in Victorian England during the early 19th century. In Maine during the 21st century, that phrase also could reflect a celebration of the opening of the state’s major scallop season in December and the gifts that this fishery brings to make our holidays economically and gastronomically happier.

It’s not unusual for families living along the coast of Maine to have fresh-off-the-boat scallops for dinner on Christmas and many other days. But I suspect that few scallop lovers here and elsewhere know much about the lives of those tasty mollusks and what it takes to get them to our homes and restaurants.

So, here are a few interesting facts about Maine’s special season for scallop lovers who never thought much about these shellfish beyond whether to pan sear or grill them or to go fancy and create an elegantly complex meal, such as coquille Saint-Jacques.

We have Atlantic sea scallops in our coastal waters. They’re much bigger (6- to 9-inch shell from hinge to top) than their cousins, the 3- to 3.5-inch Atlantic bay scallops. Sea scallops also live in deeper water than bay scallops, as their names suggest, and the bay species generally is not found north of Massachusetts’ waters.

Scallops are bivalve mollusks. Like other bivalves, such as clams, mussels and oysters, scallops' bodies are protected by the hinged shells from which the class of mollusks draws their name (from the Latin bis, meaning "two," and valvae, meaning "leaves of a door."). They filter seawater for both food (including phytoplankton) and oxygen. However, scallops live lives that are markedly different from those of their more reserved fellow bivalves.

Other bivalves basically are sedentary or burrowers. Scallops are free spirits that swim around in a wacky way. They propel themselves through the water by quickly opening and closing their shells with their powerful adductor muscles. They’re not graceful, but they get around the sea bottom in a workmanlike manner.

By the way, those fleshy white adductor muscles that propel the snapping scallops are the only part of the animals that most of us buy, cook and eat. Yet, strangely, we call those muscles “scallops,” ignoring the fact that scallops are wild animals that also have shells, numerous eyes, mouths, gills, glands, roe, and other parts that are thrown away at sea by fishermen. It’s like calling bacon a pig.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. ‘Tis the scallop season in Maine waters that we’re trying to describe. By Maine waters, we mean those that are subject to state laws and regulations. We’re also primarily concerned with “day boats” in those waters: the vessels that go out, fish and return in a day. We’ll only touch lightly on “trip boats” that go out and fish for extended periods.

(There are additional regulated seasons for scallop fishing beyond Maine’s waters within the national jurisdiction of the federal government. There also are some aquafarm-raised scallops brought to market. We’ll have to leave a detailed discussion of these for another time.)

Maine fisheries regulators issue a seasonal calendar schedule that controls coastal scallop fishing within the state’s jurisdiction. Maine’s coastal waters are divided in that schedule into different scallop fishing zones. Within these, days when fishing is permitted and daily catch limits vary. The regulators oversee the surveying of the scallop population in the fishing zones during the season and may suddenly change the schedule if there is a need to protect the mollusks.

The current Maine scallop fishing season includes hand-harvesting the mollusks by the relatively few fishermen who are licensed to don underwater gear and dive to the sea bottom to select scallops. These mollusks, called divers' scallops, usually command a higher price. The diving portion of the season began this year on Nov. 19 and is scheduled through next April 12.

The principal Maine scallop season, however, is the dragging season for fishing vessels. It began Dec. 2 and is scheduled through March 26. These vessels are equipped with a mast, boom, drag and often a temporary shelling house to shelter crew members who shuck and sort the mollusks at sea. Many of these vessels were lobster boats in the summer that have been reequipped for scallop dragging.

The vessel’s drag is the key component. It’s a form of dredge that is dropped from the vessel’s boom and towed across the sea bottom. (You can see one being hoisted, as well as a winter shelling house, in the accompanying photograph.) It’s basically a large purse net of metal, wood and rope that scoops up scallops. Metal rings in the drag must be large enough to allow the escape of immature scallops of less than the 4-inch legal length.

At sea, the drag is periodically raised and unloaded onto the vessel’s deck. Any remaining scallops below the four-inch limit and extraneous sea bottom materials are thrown back into the sea. The mature scallops are hand-shucked by the crew, and only the mollusks’ adductor muscles (their meats) are kept for sale. The shells and the rest of the mollusks’ organs (their guts) are thrown overboard.

There’s a practical reason why sea scallops are shucked on the vessel, rather than more efficiently collecting the scallops in their shells and returning them to a landed (and heated) facility to be shucked. The insides of scallop shells can pick up toxins that are harmful to humans, and there is no practical way that the mollusks can be tested aboard a vessel. Those toxins don’t grow in the scallops’ muscle meat that is kept by fishermen, according to experts.

Although they are very moist, scallop meats caught on day boats are called dry scallops because they are not packed in ice nor are they treated with anything on the vessel. They usually just are put in buckets that remain cold in the winter weather. The scallop meats on trip boats in and outside Maine waters are called wet scallops because they’re packed in ice that melts and soaks into them; they’re also apparently often treated with phosphates to keep them firm.

Fishermen on day boats sell their dry, wild-caught scallops to distributors who resell them through commercial outlets and websites. But many of these fishermen hold back some of their catch from each trip and sell fresh-off-the-boat scallops to neighbors and other friends for a favorable price.

If you’re lucky enough to have a friend who is one of those scallop fishermen, you might want to reserve some of the delicacies for a merry Maine meal.

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Print Edition Date: November 14, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: TIME TO TALK TURKEY

By Richard Leighton

Thanksgiving is just weeks away. It’s perhaps our nation’s most widely observed holiday, and many of us are already preparing for it. Yet serious questions are now being raised about how to celebrate it. The issue is whether serving a “traditional Thanksgiving turkey dinner” is the right thing to do.

Much of the discussion has been provoked by a recent small book titled “Consider the Turkey,” by philosopher and animal rights activist Peter Singer (Princeton University Press, 2024.) It asserts some shocking facts about the turkeys that many of us expect to eat on Thanksgiving.

There are many mysteries related to turkeys and how we treat them. It seems that it finally may be time to “talk turkey,” a uniquely American idiom that is a good mystery to start with. To “talk turkey” oddly means to discuss something frankly and honestly. What in the world does a turkey have to do with frankness and honesty?

Well, it seems that the saying resulted, at least in significant part, from a widely disseminated and questionable joke in the 18th or 19th century. The best explanation of the idiom’s origin that I found was reproduced from other sources in the June 3, 1837 edition of Niles’ Weekly Register of Documents, Essays and Facts (published in Baltimore), which began, “’Talking turkey,’ as we understand it means to talk to a man as he wants to be talked to,” and then went on to describe how “this phrase” was supposedly “derived.”

As characterized by the Columbia Journalism Review (CJR) in a 2015 article titled “Let’s not talk turkey,” the story in Niles’ Weekly Register was “that a white man went hunting with a Native American, and they bagged some turkeys as well as some less desirable birds, possibly buzzards or crows. The white man said something like, ‘You take the crow and I’ll take the turkey, or I’ll take the turkey and you take the crow,’ according to The Dictionary of American Slang. In other words, the white man was intent on keeping the good bird. The Native American supposedly replied, ‘You’re not talking turkey to me.’”

The CJR article noted that Niles’ Weekly Register was “one of the most widely circulated magazines” in the country at that time, and that it “may be responsible for spreading that story, right or wrong.”

We’ve come a long way since tales like that were considered funny and from when it was customary for many dads to stalk and shoot wild turkeys for their family’s Thanksgiving meal. Now, many of us drive to the supermarket and select the plucked and bound remains of an engineered, flightless, sumo-wrestler-version of a “turkey,” a man-made, short-lived captive that is hard to conceive as a real bird.

Which brings us back to the real birds that were there at the beginning. Wild turkeys are native to the Americas and originally were not found on any other continent. Reliable evidence shows that, by about the year 900, southwestern Native Americans had domesticated these wild birds. There are other reports of various indigenous peoples, including Maine’s Wabanaki people, interacting with turkeys throughout North America centuries ago.

But then the Europeans came. In the 1500s, Columbus discovered Honduran turkeys and conquistadors discovered Mexican ones. They apparently loved them because they transported some of these birds back to Spain for breeding.

The popularity of turkeys and their eggs spread quickly through much of Europe, including England. It was in Europe during those early years that the American birds were named “turkeys.” This was because they were incorrectly thought to be guinea fowl, a game species that Europeans usually imported from Turkey.

Then one of the strange twists in this history happened: The domesticated European turkeys returned to America as part of the animal stock and food supply of the British colonists who arrived in Massachusetts in 1620. Whether wild or domesticated turkey was on the menu of the colonists’ “First Thanksgiving” dinner is not known categorically, but most researchers seem to consider it unlikely.

Turkey generally was not considered to be a significant food for thanksgivings and other fall harvest festivals until many years later, after President Abraham Lincoln declared Thanksgiving to be a national holiday in 1863.

The turkey-for-Thanksgiving idea generally is credited to Sarah Josepha Hale, who was instrumental in convincing Lincoln to declare the national holiday. She was the editor of the popular 19th-century “Godey’s Lady’s Book,” which urged Americans to observe the holiday by having family dinner celebrations and suggested using her turkey dinner recipes for those dinners.

Thanks to domestic turkey marketers, after the Civil War, increasing numbers of Americans expected to have a traditional turkey Thanksgiving dinner on the fourth Thursday of November. (At the same time, the country’s plentiful wild turkeys were being hunted relentlessly to virtual extinction, but we’ll get to that later.)

The United States reportedly soon became the world’s largest producer and exporter of domestic turkeys. Virtually all of these birds are bred to be white-feathered because white feathers, when plucked, don’t leave ugly pigment spots on the bird’s butchered body. The birds also have been bred to be too heavy and malformed (much bigger breasts, much smaller and weaker legs) to fly.

The malformation of domestic turkeys also makes it impossible for them to breed naturally. Humans manually obtain semen from the frightened males and artificially inseminate the petrified females with it in reported processes that are too horrific to describe in a family publication. (But Singer graphically does so in his aforementioned book.)

The increasingly efficient commercial breeding of domestic turkeys reportedly has resulted in today’s Thanksgiving birds being almost twice the weight of those in the 1960s. Singer compares their rate of growth to that of wild turkeys: “At four months old, a male wild turkey will weigh no more than 8 pounds, whereas at the same age, a male turkey selectively bred for meat will weigh 41 pounds.”

Those lighter wild turkeys have their own horrific history, but it has a more pleasing, albeit ironic, ending. Wild turkeys were extensively hunted and eventually extirpated in many areas, including all of Maine. Major reintroduction programs throughout the United States in the latter 1900s not only restored wild turkeys in Maine and most states, it made burgeoning populations of them in some areas problematic for wildlife management.

Thus, we’ll finish talking turkey and wonder whether part of the solution to today’s concerns about the treatments of commercial turkeys and the populations of wild ones might be to eat less of the former and more of the latter.

Brooklin author/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American. His website is 5backroad.com.

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Print Edition Date: October 10, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: GOOD GOURD ALMIGHTY!

By Richard Leighton

October is when we eagerly take part in pumpkin patch rambling, pumpkin festival celebrating, pumpkin pie baking, pumpkin-spiced beverage drinking, pumpkin lantern carving, pumpkin weight competing, pumpkin regatta sailing, and pumpkin exploding – among other acts of pumpkin glorification. In fact, Maine and many other states soon will celebrate National Pumpkin Day, an annual occurrence every October 26.

Thus, October is when we answer with our actions the historic question: “What’s as American as apple pie?” And, that answer is an emphatic: “Pumpkin pie and everything pumpkin!” This month we prove that we’re not really apple people, or hot dog people, or even baseball or football people. Let’s face it folks, if we’re anything, we’re pumpkin people at heart.

In fact, pumpkins are native to the American continent, and thus more American than apples (which originated in Asia) or hot dogs (which originated in Germany). It’s time to put aside politics for a while and learn more about pumpkins, both the traditional orange ones and the newly fashionable white pumpkins. It’s in the national interest.

Pumpkins are the fruit of the squash flower and also considered to be gourds. Researchers reportedly have estimated that they were first cultivated in what is now Mexico about 9000 years ago.

Soon thereafter, Native Americans were growing this fruit throughout the continent and making it a staple in their diets. This food was especially important in Maine, where the cool climate was pumpkin-friendly and pumpkins, along with corn and beans, liked to be fertilized with dead alewives, fish that were plentiful and easy to catch in our waters.

Then, those pumpkin-ignorant Europeans came. Columbus reportedly described pumpkins in his journals and brought samples back to Europe, as did others who explored the continent and discovered what the indigenous people were eating. When our original European Colonists settled in, they became creative with cooking the native pumpkins.

There are reports of the Colonists cutting the tops off the grown fruits, removing the seeds and tangles inside and filling the hollow with milk, honey, and spices. Then, the stuffed pumpkins were put within hot ashes to bake. When done, the infused pumpkin contents could be scraped out and eaten with gusto.

Colonists also reportedly baked mixtures of pumpkin with spices and other ingredients in “coffins,” narrow pans that were lined with dough. The concoction was called a “pumpkin pie,” but the crust often was not eaten. (Many other fruits, vegetables, and meats then were made into “pies,” a word that may have originated from a farming term for piling things, like a “pie of potatoes” in a field.)

Speaking of potatoes, Irish-American immigrants get the credit for transforming pumpkins into lanterns here. The use of Jack O’ Lanterns reportedly originated in Ireland, where fierce, candle-lighted faces were carved into large potatoes and turnips. They were displayed to scare away Stingy Jack, a folklore character who would be out and about in the fall due to the Devil’s curse. When Celtic immigrants came here, they continued the tradition, but found it better to use grotesquely carved orange pumpkins to scare away Jack.

A properly prepared white version of this fruit likely would scare away Jack as well, but the palefaces have only recently become very popular. The latest white pumpkins apparently often are priced higher than their orange siblings, but many have smoother and thinner skins that are easier to paint and carve. They usually are purchased for ornamental decorations, but the innards of some varieties are eaten.

These white fruits originally may have been mutations of the orange classics, but they now are being specially bred for whiteness and sold under names such as “ghost pumpkins,” “Caspers,” “full moons,” “silver moons,” and “luminas.” You have to wonder whether they are just a fad.

One thing is sure, though: You won’t scare away Jack with an apple or hot dog. Nor can you use those icons for other wondrous things that we do with pumpkins in the fall. Farmers in Maine and across this country grow “giant pumpkins” for “weigh-off” competitions at October pumpkin festivals and fairs.  As far as I can tell, the Maine record still is held by a 2,121.5-pound monster that came in first at the 2021 Damariscotta festival.

Other carnival-like events are performed with these giant pumpkins at many of the fall festivals in Maine and throughout the country. Among these are “giant pumpkin regattas” in which Halloween-costumed people with paddles climb aboard hollowed, floating giant pumpkins and try to race in one of the most cumbersome (and humorous) sailing events ever conceived.

There also are “giant pumpkin drops” in which huge versions of these fruits are hoisted well over 100 feet and dropped into pools of liquids, onto old cars, or amid anything else that will enhance their explosive landings.

I think I need not explain further why, at least when it comes to fall celebrations, it’s more American to use a pumpkin than an apple or hot dog.

Brooklin author and photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. His column appears the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American.

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Print Edition Date: September 12, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: MAGIC DRAGONS

By Richard Leighton

September is when many of Maine’s most fascinating residents head south. I have in mind migrators that use their wings instead of automobiles or planes. But I’m not thinking of wings that are feathered like the southbound ospreys or covered with hairy scales like the southbound monarch butterflies.

I have in mind what are commonly called dragonflies, ultra-light insects that arguably are the world’s best flyers, human or otherwise. Many of these insects are now forming their swarms over Maine fields, getting the necessary strength in numbers to make their predator-plagued migration biologically sustainable.

During this month, look above fields for a long, moving shadow or simply hundreds of moving smudges reflecting light. Then, look closer, if possible with binoculars or a field scope. You very well might see masses of dragonflies that are swarming into formation and soon will be heading in the same direction like a World War II bomber squadron.

I’ll report on the relatively little that researchers know about these high-flyers and their migrations, but first a clarification is in order. What commonly are called dragonflies as a group actually consist of true “dragonflies” and “damselflies.” But, both are in the same scientific order, the ”Odonata” order. The true dragonflies (which are of the sub-order Anisopter) usually are somewhat longer and stouter than the dainty damselflies (sub-order Zygoptera), but most of these insects share the same habits and habitats.

These insects were feared as instruments of evil and injury in Medieval times. A leading theory is that they were named to reflect the legend of the devil turning St. George’s horse into a flying, dragon-like insect. They also were called “the devil’s darning needles,” “horse-stingers,” and “ear-cutters” of children who lied.

It’s true that the saying “they wouldn’t hurt a fly” definitely does not apply to dragonflies and damselflies; they’re voracious killers of flies, mosquitos, mites, and any other insect they can bite. Nonetheless, they wouldn’t and couldn’t hurt a human or a horse.

At least 158 species of their order (both “dragonflies” and “damselflies”) have been documented in Maine, comprising almost 36 percent of the number of species currently identified in North America, according to the University of Maine. Yet, new species are being discovered regularly. A comprehensive study of these insects has not been (and may never be) completed.

Notwithstanding the difficulties associated with studying dragonflies and damselflies, a number of these insects already have been identified as being in existential trouble nationally and globally. Maine lists three species as Endangered or Threatened and 26 species as of Special Concern. They are very sensitive to the degradation of the freshwater habitats that they often frequent, including droughts that can break their breeding cycle.

To gain information about the distribution, status, and habitat relationships of these insects in the state, a Maine Damselfly and Dragonfly Survey was initiated by the state’s Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife in 1998. It was a multi-year, citizen-science effort that discovered new species and produced data that still is being interpreted and studied in relation to similar efforts across the country.

Thus, it’s known that not all of these insects migrate from Maine. The larval and nymph stages of some overwinter and emerge in spring as winged insect predators. Apparently, more dragonflies than damselflies migrate, but the number of migrating species in each suborder doesn’t seem to be known yet. Nonetheless, there are two migrating dragonfly species that have been studied relatively closely, and their accomplishments are impressive.

In fact, the world record for length of insect migrations reportedly is held by a dragonfly, not a butterfly. That record-holder is the wandering glider dragonfly, which is found in all continents other than Antarctica. It’s about two inches in length, but its Indian and South African family members migrate about 4,400 miles each way over the Indian Ocean. (Monarch butterflies on our continent have been known to migrate about 2,500 miles each way.)

One of the most-closely studied migrators is the three-inch common green darner dragonfly, shown in the accompanying photograph. It is an abundant summer resident in Maine that has been reported to migrate 900 miles in some instances.

These and other species of dragonflies and damselflies are among the wonders of Maine’s famous summers. All of the adult dragonflies and damselflies soon will be dead or flying south. You might want to get a last look at them this month to store in your collection of beautiful summer memories.

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Print Edition Date: August 8, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: HIGH-SUMMER HOPE

By Richard Leighton

It’s August, a time to see a classic high-summer scene: multitudes of butterflies fluttering in the warm light of a sunny Maine meadow. Such scenes can be poignant for some of us, knowing that the butterflies and their glorious season soon will be gone this year and worrying whether there may be fewer of these frail flyers next year.

We’re lucky here in Maine to have a reported 120 species of butterfly. But these include some that are in trouble, including the world’s most regal free spirit, the monarch butterfly, a major flower pollinator. The extent of that trouble is concerning and confusing. Some slight hope has arisen recently, but it needs to be considered in context.

Let’s first take a closer look at the nomadic monarch species that we’re seeing this summer in Maine. It’s the only butterfly species known to make an extraordinarily strenuous and dangerous two-way migration of thousands of miles. And, we Mainers usually are at one end of that journey.

Over 90 percent of the world’s migrating monarch butterflies reside in North America, where they are divided into two populations. The vast majority of them are in the eastern migration, which is made up of the butterflies that live east of the Rocky Mountains. Each spring, the eastern monarchs flutter north in generational relay teams from central Mexico to Maine (and sometimes a little beyond).

In the fall, as temperatures descend, the last generation of monarchs in Maine ascends. They fly southward as far as central Mexico without reproducing until they get there. These long-distance champions from Maine and elsewhere in the U.S. are responsible for breeding the Mexican generation that starts the process again in the spring.

About one percent of the North American monarch population is in the remaining western population, which migrates mostly to California’s central coast region from Mexico. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has estimated that there is a dire 96-to-100 percent probability of the western species collapsing within 50 years.

Mass migrations are difficult for any species. But, if you’re a monarch weighing less than one gram (0.035274 ounces) and depending on tissue-thin wings to get you through fierce storms, the only word for your long-distance flight seems to be miraculous.

Many migrating monarchs are blown off course by a fatal wind, eaten by predators, and splattered by moving vehicles, among other traveling hazards. Those dangers to the butterfly have been increased in recent years by escalating climate change with its intense heat, droughts, violent storms, and furious fires. Even so, these are not the main threats to the monarch’s existence.

For decades, these beautiful creatures have been experiencing increasing difficulties in finding herbicide-free and pesticide-free flowers to provide them the uncontaminated nectar energy – the fuel – that they need for their journeys. Even more threatening is the apparent significant decrease in monarch habitat loss, especially the loss of common milkweed plants (Asclepias syriaca).

Plants in the milkweed family are the flora on which monarchs lay their fertilized eggs because the resulting monarch caterpillars will eat nothing else. These plants also have many nectar-rich blossoms that monarchs prefer. There are a few species of milkweed that monarchs can rely on, but the common variety apparently has been the most critical.

Documenting and deciding how vulnerable these butterflies are for the purpose of creating protective measures also has its significant difficulties. In response to a petition, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service found in December of 2020 that “adding the monarch butterfly to the list of threatened and endangered species is warranted but precluded by work on higher-priority listing actions” for the many other, more-threatened wildlife species.

By this administrative triage, the lower-priority monarch was denied protection under the federal Endangered Species Act. Since then, proposed legislation to protect some monarchs has been introduced in Congress, but apparently has not received serious attention.

There also has been confusing international action, but with some ironically hopeful results. (We’re getting to the small amount of good news now.) In December of 2021, the International Union for the Conservation of Nature added migrating monarchs to its Red List as an endangered species. (That listing is advisory and has no mandatory legal effect in the U.S.)

The IUCN listing was based on 10-year population models the validity of which were almost immediately challenged in a petition to the Union.  In September of 2023 – less than a year ago and after reviewing the original and other data – a committee of the IUCN modified the organization’s decision.

The committee ruled that the threat category for the migrating monarchs must be downgraded from “Endangered” to “Vulnerable.” The reconsidered data showed some stabilization in the form of declines that were slowing more than originally thought, slight population increases in some samples, and some stabilization of herbicide use and habitat loss.

Most hopeful was the IUCN committee’s nonbinding comment that, if the next monarch migration census shows a continuation of the recent trend, the species could be eligible for further downlisting to “Near Threatened” status. That status is defined as a condition that “does not qualify for Critically Endangered, Endangered or Vulnerable [status] now, but is close to qualifying for or is likely to qualify for a threatened category in the near future.”

That, of course, means that we should continue to be very concerned about the fate of monarchs, but that we may have more time than we thought to help these free spirits turn things around and continue to perform miracles in an increasingly harsh world.

For very basic starters, landowners who want to help should plant common milkweed and other butterfly-friendly flora, refrain from mowing fields in the summer, and think twice about where and whether to use herbicides and pesticides.

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Print Edition Date: July 11, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE FAWNS OF SUMMER

By Richard Leighton

One of Maine’s most beautiful animals reaches the peak of its beauty in its summer “adolescence.” I’m talking about white-tailed deer fawns in July and August. They’ve filled out from their bony infant awkwardness and have reached the age of graceful inquisitiveness. Yet, they retain the charm of the wide-eyed very young. They live their little lives in constant danger. Yet, they usually exude irrepressible joy.

White-tail fawns recently have been facing a new danger, the prospect of great harm due to climate warning, which I’ll talk about later. First, let’s consider some of the things that make summer fawns different and even more beautiful than their impressive parents.

Fawns are not just little deer. Their proportions are different from those of their parents; their coats and faces bear no or few brush scars yet; their leg glands are not exuding heavy substances yet; they emit no or little scent at the earliest ages, and their backs and sides are speckled with white spots that will disappear as the fawns get bigger and faster.

The absence of scent at an early age is a crucial form of negative camouflage. It makes it harder for predators with receptor-packed noses to find fawns. During their first week or so, the fawn will remain “in bed,” usually curled in stillness in a “nest” on the ground, mostly alone. If a doe births more than one fawn, each usually will have a nest separated well from the other. The doe may visit her offspring briefly once or twice a day for nursing or to move a fawn to a new bed.

Otherwise, mom stays far away while her offspring lies curled up alone, moving little, hardly making a sound, waiting for mom. Harsh? No. The fawn might be scent-free, but mom reeks of varying strong scents. If mom stayed at or near the nest, it would be much more likely that a predator would find her fawn at a time when it had little ability to flee or fight.

The temporary appearance of speckles on the fawn’s coat is a form of positive camouflage to make it harder for predators to see vulnerable fawns. When they’re curled up on the ground, their deer-like form disappears, and the spots break up any familiar pattern. In the woods, a curled-up fawn often blends seamlessly into the dappled sunlight on the ground. 

When they get a bit older and can enter the fields, but are not yet deer-fast, fawns often just stand still when a danger appears. Mom might dart off and draw attention away, but her offspring may try to disappear in plain view merely by not moving.  The hope (often achieved) is that the fawn’s randomized white spots are seen at a distance by a predator as just more of the many white summer field flowers.

Inveterate fawn watchers, when they see a doe bolt in a field, will focus on the area where the doe was, not where she ran. And, often, the watchers’ viewing will be boosted by binoculars, a spotting scope, or a long photographic lens. They’ll look for a hint of the reddish neckline or straight-line back and, especially, “flowers” that do not move in the breeze. Sometimes, even at a good distance, the “flowers” in the viewfinder turn into a pleasant surprise, as you have seen in the accompanying photograph.

Humans finding fawns are not the youngsters’ greatest threat. There are historic fawn-finders that are far more effective at locating and tearing apart a fawn. The fawn studies are neither numerous nor robust, but they indicate that only a minority of fawns survive their first few months. (In a University of Aubern study, 3 out of 14 fawns survived the summer.)

The confirmed studies of eastern and northeastern white-tails indicate that coyotes are the fawns’ greatest predator threat here, followed by black bears, and bobcats. Although it is hard to get confirmation in the wilds where they live, one would think that lynx also prey upon fawns in Maine.

There are two other significant causes of fawn mortality. One is abandonment by mom. In some cases, that is explainable by mom being killed or becoming injured; but the reasons for abandonment apparently can be complex and are not fully known. Another significant cause of fawn mortality is by the most indiscriminate deer killer on the planet, the automobile.

Which brings us to man-made, indiscriminate dangers to fawns. Recent studies (again, not as robust as one would like) indicate that climate warming may become the biggest threat ever to fawns. And, remember, most fawns already don’t survive for other reasons.

The numbers of summer days with temperatures exceeding 100 degrees are increasing and there are indications that the hot weather is adversely affecting the fawns’ milk supply, growth, and metabolisms. That is in addition to the damage done by drought to the availability of vegetation and water.

Growing up is not easy for any being. Yet, I wonder whether there is any creature that goes through the danger and travail of a summer fawn with such grace and joy of life.

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Print Edition Date: June `13, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: HIDDEN MIRACLES

By Richard Leighton

June babies are bustin’ out all over Down East Maine now – out of eggs, that is. It’s that leafy time when our birds are hectically busy tending their nests, incubating eggs, or feeding insatiable nestlings. These are wonderous sights for those who know how to see and enjoy them. Yet, most people will see little, if any, of these hidden miracles.

We’re at the beginning stages of one of the most incredible transformations of life ever attempted – the change from delicate egg to naked little screamer, to fuzzy inquisitive chick, to fully-fledged winged marvel. These new beings may have to fly thousands of miles south or have to brave a Maine winter without so much as a pair of socks. And, their creation and perfection is completed in three or four months! (For perspective, I remind myself that, at three months of age, I was trying hard to hold my head up.)

By the way, speaking of holding heads up, that curious broad-winged hawk chick in the accompanying photograph was born in Brooklin, Maine, during a prior June as one of a set of triplets. It and its siblings were raised by hard-working parents here and the entire family left the state the following September. They most likely were headed for Florida, Central America, or South America.

For those who might be interested in seeing more of the transformation of local birds from birth to fledging out, I’ve summarized below some of the tips given in birding advisories for finding and carefully observing bird nests and added some of the lessons that I’ve learned along the way.

The Preliminaries

The nests of large birds, such as eagles and ospreys, often are permanent structures that can be bigger than your average doghouse and usually are built without much regard for camouflage. They’re fairly obvious, at least to those who look up when they walk outdoors. The nests of small birds, such as hummingbirds and warblers, can be as tiny as a thimble or half a golf ball. They usually are not obvious to any human and care must be taken to find and observe them.

Whether large or small or in-between, it’s always a good idea to begin nest searching by doing some reading and video-watching about the nests of local birds and concentrating on the species that you know best, perhaps robins or bluejays. You also should ask local birders about nearby nests and how best to approach them. (Be prepared for a birder to refuse to help you if she’s not sure that you will be sensitive to the dangers faced by the nesting birds.)

Watch Closely

If you didn’t see birds building a nest in spring, you very well may see their efforts to fix up their homes at any time. A bird’s work is never done; be mindful of birds doing chores. If you see an osprey with a three-foot branch in its talons, or a robin with a mouthful of grass, or a phoebe flying with a colorful thread, it’s a safe bet that they’re not going to eat those things or feed them to the family.

On the other hand, if you see birds determinedly carrying obvious prey (for example, a fish, mouse, or caterpillar) instead of perching to eat it, there’s a fair chance that it’s a meal on its way to be shared with an incubating female or big-mouthed nestlings.

Focus on these feathered homeowners and try to see where they go, if you can. You may not be successful at first, but it usually takes more than one trip to get nests back to being just right and it takes many trips to feed nestlings. Be prepared for some smaller birds that always avoid going directly to their nest, a defense against being “tailed.”

Listen Attentively

Teach your ear drums how to target and zero in on sounds that are important to your quest. You can get better and better at this with practice. Many, if not most, male birds will mark their territories by song or call. That can help define an area to search for a nest, especially when mates call back. Homing in on a nest may be helped by the sound of sudden singing or excited chattering. There often are mutual greetings when a bird approaches its mate in the nest.

In some cases, females that are alone in their nests incubating eggs will call loudly for their mates to feed them or perhaps to just return for company. This is a frequent practice for incubating female ospreys. In many cases, the sounds of competing nestlings that want food stuffed down their throats are distinctive and obvious to those who learn to listen closely for them.

Approach Carefully

In all cases when nest searching, be aware that fragile life deserving of respect can be at stake. Unless there’s a very good reason not to, keeping a non-disturbing distance from nesting birds should be your aim. The last thing that you would want is to frighten the adults into abandoning a nest or to cause panic that results in a helpless nestling falling out of the nest.

How far a distance to keep is subjective and best determined by the apparent state of mind of the birds that you approach. I recommend that, initially, observers should intentionally get no closer than the greatest range of 10X power binoculars or 500-millimeter lenses. With some nests, it may be possible to drive a vehicle within range and observe or photograph a nest from within this movable blind. That often works well for observers of osprey nests here on the coast. But, don’t play the radio loudly.

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Print Edition Date: May 9, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: NOT TIME FOR TREE PARTY (YET)

By Richard Leighton      

Maine sometimes has to do things a little differently. You may have noticed last month that the federal government and many states took a traditional approach by celebrating and planting trees and other flora on the last Friday of April. That’s Presidentially-proclaimed National Arbor Day. But Maine wasn’t among those doing that celebrating and planting.

Maine is the most forested state, a state with a tree portrayed prominently on its flag, the home of some of the tallest and numerous trees on the North American continent, a state even described as a tree. We’re “The Pine Tree State,” for goodness sake. Yet, we don’t officially celebrate traditional Arbor Day.

Well, it’s not as bad as it seems. In fact, Maine has a better way for Mainers to celebrate trees and flora and you can participate in it this month.

But first, let’s put things into historical context. As the Arbor Day Foundation points out, “tree planting festivals are as old as civilization.” In 1872, however, Nebraska decided to formalize the process by setting aside one Arbor Day a year dedicated to planting trees. Subsequently, all states and many cities and towns reportedly created a similar day or period.

In 1972, President Richard Nixon declared that the last Friday of April would be National Arbor Day and most states now celebrate the planting day then or at another time in April. Maine was one of those April celebrators until 1978. But many Maine nature lovers were complaining that it often was difficult to plant anything here in April. The ground was often still frozen and sometimes covered in snow or being pounded by freezing rain.

Many Mainers thought that late May would be a better time here to plant and celebrate the importance of trees and other flora. Most famously, in the late 1970’s, a tree-loving sixth grade class and its teacher in the town of Dover-Foxcroft publicly lobbied the Maine Legislature do something about the situation.

The politicians listened and acted. They enacted a statute in 1977 that ordered Maine’s Governor to proclaim the third full week of May each year as Arbor Week in the state. That would be May 19 through 25 this year.

In that annual proclamation, the Governor must recommend that the public observe Arbor Week by “the planting of trees, shrubs and vines, in the promotion of forest growth and culture, in the adornment of public and private grounds, places and ways, and in such other efforts and undertakings as harmonize with the general character of the week.” The Governor must also recommend that the week be observed by appropriate exercises in rural and suburban schools.

A simple Internet search will reveal many local and state-wide programs related to the upcoming Arbor Week this month. The state, itself, is now promoting three of the largest programs. The first is Tree City USA, a program that basically promotes community tree management in the U.S. The Arbor Day Foundation, in cooperation with the U.S. Forest Service and the National Association of State Foresters, recognizes towns and cities across America that meet the program standards. Many Maine communities have been recognized as such and have created organizations that encourage residents to participate.

The second program being promoted by the state is Maine’s Big Tree Program, including its Registry of Big Trees. Since 1940, there has been a national registry of the biggest trees of both native and naturalized species. Maine also has its own state registry of big trees. These programs help recognize the importance of trees to our environment and quality of life. Maine encourages the public to measure big trees in the state and nominate potential record-breakers. The state even will teach you how to measure trees.

The third program being promoted in relation to this year’s Arbor Week is Project Canopy. Maine has a very active program to maintain and enhance urban and community forests. These efforts include, among many others, encouraging municipalities and others to manage and restore trees and forests to mitigate and adapt to climate change. Volunteers are always appreciated.

Of course, participation in public programs is not the only way to celebrate Arbor Day. The simple act of privately planting one tree seedling can be meaningful. It could be one of your most valuable heritages, something that you did that might help others for many years after you are gone.

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Print Edition Date: April 11, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: ADVICE TO BEAR IN MIND

By Richard Leighton

Maine contains the largest population of black bears in the eastern United States and April is the beginning of their most active period, according to state wildlife reports. This is not all good. In early spring, the bears are hungry, but there’s often not enough natural food for them yet.

If you have a bird feeder, greasy grill, garbage can, chickens, outdoor pets, or other potential bear-snacking opportunities outside your house, seriously think about removing them or otherwise making them bear-safe. Also, don’t keep an unscreened window or door open when the weather turns warm.

Black bears usually are fearful of adult humans. However, hunger has been proven to overcome fear in some of them and the more times an individual bear overcomes its fear of humans, the more brazen it can get. The discovery of a bear that has wandered into your kitchen or decided to sleep in your car or truck is no time to enjoy the wonders of nature.

Of course, seeing a black bear through a window or even at a distance in a field or the woods can be thrilling. And, knowing that they seldom attack humans can be reassuring. However, the operative word in the previous sentence is “seldom.” Confrontations between humans and black bears happen every year and they’re usually a bit too thrilling for most people.

There are recognized and evolving do’s and don’ts designed to avoid or ease confrontations between humans and bears. I’ll try to summarize the latest of them, based primarily on what Maine and other state wildlife officials now recommend. But first, let’s consider a few facts about the bears.

Black bears (Ursus americanus) are the smallest and most encountered of the three bear species in North America. (The other two species are the brown/grizzly and polar bears.) In the United States, wild black bears are the only species found naturally east of the Mississippi River.

Most adult male black bears range from 250 to 800 pounds in weight, with females ranging from 100 to 400 pounds. They can climb trees and many fences remarkably well and some reports say that their top running speed is 35 miles per hour. That is, we have here a hefty-sized, high-climbing, fast-running, strong mammal with big teeth, big claws and, often, a gnawing hunger. Keep that in mind while you review the experts’ suggested do’s and don’ts for bear encounters, below.

Before You Take a Walk in Bear Territory

In addition to removing temptations from around the house, many experts recommend that you have on hand a safety-latched can of bear spray containing liquid hot pepper (capsaicin). That product is especially recommended for on-the-belt carrying by those who take walks in potential bear territories. The spray causes pain, but will not permanently harm a bear or person. It is more effective than a gun, which may only wound a fast-moving bear and enrage it. Sprayed black bears reportedly almost always retreat.

When You Initially Encounter a Bear

If you see a bear (meaning adult, cub, or both together), stop walking; don’t panic; don’t offer your trail mix or other food to the bear. Make an authoritative sound that will startle the animal, but that does not indicate that you are going to harm it. (A loud “Hey!” has worked for me in several encounters.) If the bear flees, do not follow it.

If the Bear Doesn’t Flee Initially

Do not approach it. It’s a good sign if the bear stops walking, sits down, or stands on its hind legs to look things over – that means that you’ve probably encountered a thinking bear. Thinking bears are better fellow travelers than purely reactive bears. Do not run. Do not climb a tree. Back away slowly, turn slowly, and walk away slowly in the direction from which you came.

If the Bear Sees You and Comes Toward You

If you have spray, remove the safety on the can. Then, up the ante yourself by loudly yelling and throwing a stick, rock, or other object at the bear. Most black bears will then decide to avoid a confrontation and flee. Do not follow a fleeing bear.

If the Bear Exhibits Aggression, But Does Not Actually Charge

When they feel threatened, some black bears will “act out” to scare away the threat. They may blow, snort, pop jaws, stamp, and even do two-foot bluffed charges. (That’s what the young bear in the accompanying image apparently was doing to me.) Take the bear’s good advice and leave the scene in the ways indicated above. If the bear is uncomfortably close and you have spray, give the undecided bear’s face one burst. That should make it flee. (The experts say that the spray does not increase aggression, it dissipates it.)

If the Bear Charges and Attacks  

This would be an extremely rare aggressive black bear, perhaps an injured one. Such a bear likely will back off only if significant counter-aggression is shown. Do not play dead. Use as much spray as you can on its face and yell your most blood-curdling screams. If the bear makes physical contact, kick and punch and use anything you can find as a weapon to hurt it. Avoiding confrontations is a built-in black bear trait; you want to make the bear remember that.

Now that I’ve scared you, it’s time to calm down and realize that you’re probably more likely to be in a car accident than be attacked by a black bear. Go out and enjoy the woods and be thrilled if you see a black bear. But give the bear the respect it deserves. And, remove those bear temptations from near your house.

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Print Edition Date: March 14, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: FISH FROM AWAY MAKE THEIR WAY TO MAINE WATERS

By Richard Leighton

Next week a limited number of licensed Mainers will start catching and selling what is considered to be the state’s most valuable form of wildlife, if you judge value on a cost-per-pound basis. And, that wildlife will consist of squirming babies. And, those babies will be considered to be native Americans and native Mainers, although they were not born here.

Yes, the strange and uniquely Maine season for catching baby American eels is scheduled to start March 22 and remain open through June 7. These youngsters are known to many fishermen as “glass eels” and to scientists as Anguilla rostrata.  At this stage in their lives, the babies are about three inches long and transparent except for their eyes and backbone. (It is thought that the transparency is protective camouflage.)

Some observers and regulators also call the young, migrating eels “elvers,” while others say that the glass eels only become elvers when they are four to six inches long and turn opaquely yellowish like their larger parents. This may be a distinction without a meaningful difference.

Last year in Maine, according to state statistics, dealers paid licensed fishermen an average of $2,009.09 per pound for glass eels and bought 9,710 wriggling pounds of them. That works out to a total of $19,508,478 in annual value. The seasonal quota then and now is just under 10 (9.688) pounds per fishing license holder.

Maine is the only state that has a significant and closely-regulated glass eel fishery, perhaps because of our long coast, northern latitude, and diligence in wildlife management. The glass eel fishery in our state is second in economic value only to our lobster fishery. (It’s apparently legal to catch glass eels in South Carolina, but there is no significant fishery there, reportedly.)

Why are glass eels so valuable? The answer involves their incredible journey, difficulties involved in catching and protecting them, and Asian diets. Let’s begin with the journey, which most researchers believe is a migration that starts in the Sargasso Sea, where the mature eels spawn small larvae that soon grow into the swimmers that head for our shores.

These three-inch youngsters swim here in the Gulf Stream from Bermuda and beyond. They’re thought to be instinctively searching for the freshwater streams and ponds in which their parents matured after also migrating from the Sargasso with no one to show the way. How long the adults stay in the United States before getting the irresistible urge to return to the Sargasso is not fully known, but it reportedly was 10 to 20 years for some monitored eels.

In Maine, it appears that most glass eels are caught in “Fyke” nets, named after a 19th Century Dutch fish trap, and usually pronounced “Fick” nets. Fyke nets are expensive, large, thin-meshed funnel nets on long poles with a trap and capture bag at the end. They’re placed in the historic paths of the incoming eels, often at the mouth of a stream. Under Maine regulations, the young eels also may be caught with a dip net or a “Sheldon eel trap,” which is a netted or screened box trap that is named after its Maine inventor.

The glass eels caught in Maine are sold to dealers at fluctuating, market-controlled prices and then mostly resold to Asian importers. Most of the youngsters reportedly are sealed into watertight containers and flown to various locations in Asia, where they’re raised into adult eels and resold as delicacies for use in sushi and other traditional meals.

The tradition of eating eels has been especially strong in Japan, which was once known for its eel fisheries and its importation of many European eels. However, the populations of Japanese and European eels reportedly have been depleted to disaster levels and the European Union has prohibited the exportation of its endangered eels.

That depletion has created a market for Maine’s multitude of American eels. The demand has been high and the prices of the eels have soared. Since 2015, per-pound prices paid to licensed Maine fishermen for glass eels have been over $2000, except for the Covid epidemic year of 2020. There also has been some illicit black market and smuggling activity in the state that was the subject of enforcement actions.

Maine regulators keep a tight hold on this fishery and reserve the power to further limit the season or fishing conditions, should there be an environmental need to do so. Thus, the fishing season could be shortened at any time if there were a need to further protect the eels. That’s a risk that also contributes to the price.

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Print Edition Date: February 9, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

By Richard Leighton

Maine’s Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife is calling for birders, hunters, landowners, trappers, and other wildlife enthusiasts in the state to participate in a new Maine Golden Eagle Study. “We need your help!” is the Department’s message.

This “community science” project is being conducted in collaboration with the Eastern Golden Eagle Working Group, an international organization working to preserve the eagles in the east, and Conservation Science Global, a research-oriented conservation group.

There’s more information about the new study and its opportunities below. But let’s first consider the magnificent subject of the study: the eastern golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos), an endangered species in Maine. (It’s called an “eastern” golden because it has a western cousin that is virtually identical in appearance, but is genetically distinct.)

Expert descriptions of this bird often compare it to the bald eagle and usually our national bird comes in second best in those descriptions. Edward Howe Forbush put it this way in his magisterial study of New England birds:

In the olden days when falconry flourished in Europe the Golden Eagle was flown by kings. *** Comparing him with our national bird, the Bald Eagle, we find that he [the golden] seems built of finer clay. *** In the air he makes even a finer figure than the Bald Eagle; he soars grandly in wide circles, wheeling above the clouds, and his hunting is like that of the “noble” falcons. He hunts chiefly mammals and birds which he captures by open approach, speed and skill. At obscure heights he hangs suspended until an opportunity comes, when he closes his wings and shoots down upon his victim like an arrow from a bow, coming so swiftly as to take his prey by surprise, and striking it dead in an instant, while the Bald Eagle lives largely on dead fish and carrion or by robbing the Osprey.

Forbush thought that the golden eagle “typifies royalty” among birds. That impression is helped by the bird’s size. You might even be tempted to say that they are “king size” birds, except for the inconvenient fact that the female goldens are larger than the males, as is the case with most raptors. Let’s just say that goldens are “royal-sized.”

More specifically, eastern and other goldens usually are about the same size as bald eagles and sometimes a little larger than the average bald eagle. Forbush reported that the wingspans of the female golden specimens that he studied ranged up to 7.7 feet and their body lengths measured up to 4.4 feet, while the spreads of males ranged up to 7 feet and their lengths up to 2.9 feet. (He used inches, which I converted to feet.)

The body colors of goldens range from chocolate to tawny, with most adults having golden-brown highlights on the top and back of the head. At a distance, goldens can be hard to distinguish from large juvenile bald eagles that are not quite yet “going bald.” There are differences between the two birds of prey, especially in color hue, beak formation, and leg feathering, but these often are not apparent unless you get close to the birds.

And, it’s more difficult to get close to golden eagles than it is to approach the much more numerous and often brazen bald eagles. Yet, if you’re lucky enough to get close to one, it becomes obvious why goldens are among the world’s most admired birds. (See the accompanying image of a golden that was photographed at the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge in Maryland, where the bird was recovering from a wound.)

Goldens have a simple, regal beauty that needs no fancy or contrasting feathers to produce awe. Yet, they’ve had a tough time getting respect here and elsewhere. Throughout the last century, they suffered severely from shooting, trapping, and poisoning by pesticides and other substances.

The last regularly observed pair of breeding goldens in Maine disappeared in 1997. We are left with the hope that some of the birds still may be breeding here in the spring without being observed. Telemetry has tracked golden eagles in areas near historic Maine breeding nests during summer, suggesting that these sites might have hosted unobserved breeding eagles in the spring.

Some goldens have been observed residing in Maine during the summer and winter, mostly in the western and northwestern areas of the state. They also have been seen here in the spring and fall migrations in Maine’s western mountain migratory air corridor and occasionally in the coastal corridor, including above Acadia National Park.

Nonetheless, the extent of their occupation of nests, as well as the distribution, habitat use, and movements of the goldens throughout the year in Maine remain largely unknown. That’s where the new Maine Golden Eagle Study comes in.

At this time, the focus of the study is on the use of trail cameras to detect the presence of golden eagles and their habitat use and movement. The Maine wildlife managers suggest five primary ways for the public to participate at this time:

·         Help monitor a baited camera trap;

·         Provide a camera trap site;

·         Provide lead-free bait;

·         Report observations of goldens in Maine, and

·         Help publicize the study and its opportunities.

For more information and ways to sign up, use this link to the Maine Golden Eagle Study website: https://www.maine.gov/ifw/fish-wildlife/wildlife/species-information/birds/golden-eagle-study.html

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Print Edition Date: January 11, 2024

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: STARTING ANEW

By Richard Leighton

There are two things that happen in January that seem especially remarkable to me. First, for reasons not of our choosing, it’s when we begin our new calendar year -- in the cold, often-gray, middle of the winter on a day that is not otherwise of significance to us.  Second, in Maine especially, January is when we’ll most likely see our waters “smoking.” Neither of these things is what it appears to be and they are at least symbolically related.

As to the new year, for centuries yearly calendars began on dates other than January 1, including the calendars of England and her colonies in America. There is a rich history reported online of how January became our first month of the year, which I rely on here, especially the Britannica website history on calendars.

Most historians seem to blame our January new year’s date on the Romans. The Roman republican calendar originally started with March, the bringer of spring, as the first month of the year. However, the logically-minded Roman King Numa Pompilius, apparently unofficially, revised that calendar’s new year’s date to January 1 during his reign in 715-673 BC. He thought that the month of Janus, the Roman god of all beginnings, was more appropriate to start the new year than the month of Mars, the god of war.

It is not clear when this change was made official in Rome and its empire, but there is evidence that it took place at least by 153 BC. As the Romans expanded their empire, the use of their calendar expanded. Julius Ceasar introduced the new Julian calendar in 46 BC to change a few things, but he retained January as its first month.

After the fall of Rome in the 5th Century, Christian-oriented countries felt free to alter their Julian calendars to reflect their beliefs. The most common new year days in those countries were March 25 (Feast of the Annunciation) and December 25 (birth of Christ). Moreover, all of the Julian calendars had to be changed significantly due to leap year miscalculations and other problems.

The problems were mostly corrected by Pope Gregory XII in 1582. His Gregorian Calendar restored January 1 as the beginning of the new year, although he apparently did not have a high regard for the Roman god Janus. Predominantly Roman Catholic countries adopted the Gregorian calendar, but countries with Protestant and Orthodox Christian majorities were slow to accept it.

Nonetheless, they and even non-Christian countries eventually adopted it for international convenience. Great Britain and its American colonies converted to the Gregorian calendar in 1752, which is when January 1 became New Year’s Day here. Before that, spring-like March 25 was New Year’s Day in England and here.

As for our second remarkable January phenomenon, the month historically is Maine’s coldest and, thus, usually the best time to see our winter waters emit what we strangely call “sea smoke.” Of course, it’s not smoke that we’re seeing; it’s quite the opposite of smoke. It’s water vapor that forms when very cold air (e.g., below 10° F) wafts over significantly warmer, albeit cold, (e.g., 30°) water and through the thin blanket of relatively warm (albeit cold) air just above the water’s surface.  

Sea smoke is a bit like the mist that occurs when we breathe out on a very cold day, but it’s much more dynamic. It rises in fantastic, ever-changing forms – twisting columns, swirling wind devils, and fast-flying sheets of frost. It can create a seemingly prehistoric scene in which it appears as if the world is being recreated anew. See the accompanying image of sea smoke in Brooklin’s Naskeag Harbor.

Come to think of it, a month that can seemingly create the world anew with magical frost that’s called smoke may be as good as any to start a calendar year. But I don’t think that’s what Pope Gregory XII had in mind.

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December 14, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: MAINE’S TOP GUN PROGRAM

By Richard Leighton

This month we should get an indication of whether Maine’s top gun program has continued its successful production of the world’s best and most aggressive aviators. However, Tom Cruise fans might be disappointed to know that I’m not talking about the graduation of good-looking Navy pilots here.

I’m talking about good-looking Maine peregrine falcons that likely will be seen during the coming Annual Christmas Bird Count sponsored by birding organizations in the state. Yes, peregrines – the world’s fastest animals – have come back to Maine to breed and hunt, thanks in large part to state wildlife officials and civilian volunteers.

How these predators use speed, agility, and their natural weapons to hunt has been a fascination of falconers and birders for centuries. It also has been a more recent subject of scientific investigation and military aviation. (Interesting fact: The first Air Force Academy mascot was a peregrine falcon; now it’s apparently a larger gyrfalcon.)

We’ll get into the peregrines’ awesome hunting techniques and related physical adaptations later. But first, let’s briefly consider their tragic history in the United States and some data from the 2023 Maine Peregrine Falcon Program Report that was issued electronically last month by the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.

Peregrines were one of the bird species that were made nearly extinct in this country in the 1960s due to the effects of the pesticide DDT. They disappeared completely from Maine for more than 30 years. Regulatory and conservation efforts, including captive breeding-and-release programs, brought them back to levels that are considered successful beginnings today.

A total of 144 pilgrim peregrines were released in Maine between 1984 and 1997 and they began nesting here again in 1988. The species was taken off the federal endangered species list in 1999. Nesting peregrines are still listed as endangered in Maine due to their small numbers here, although peregrines that migrate through the state are not on the state list.

The Maine Peregrine Falcon Program is part of a government collaboration that seeks “to attain stable [peregrine] populations in Maine and contribute to metapopulation stability throughout the Northeast.”  Actions under the Program include monitoring and banding breeding peregrines, addressing potential threats to their population, and long-range species planning.

In 2023, Program implementers found 30 pairs of peregrines at 34 frequently observed cliff and urban (bridges and buildings) nesting sites in Maine. (Interesting fact: New York City, which has plenty of cliff-like buildings and slow-moving pigeons, is reported to have the largest concentration of peregrines in the world.)

Peregrines are about the size of American crows. They’ll hunt virtually any bird or bat that is smaller, equally-sized, or larger but vulnerable (such as geese) and occasionally will kill and eat other animals.

These falcons also have been known to defend their nests viciously against any animal of any size. They reportedly have killed snowy owls, red-shouldered hawks, and large snakes that approached their nests and they have terrified humans who got too close. Trails near their nests in Acadia National Park usually are closed when chicks are being raised.

Peregrines become the world’s fastest animals when they “stoop” (dive from high altitudes) onto their winged prey. They can achieve speeds in excess of 200 miles per hour in a stoop and one reportedly was clocked at 242 MPH. Watching a peregrine stoop on a feathery victim can create in a birder a strange mixture of awe and excitement about the predator, combined with dread for its prey.

As they warn on television, the following hunting and killing descriptions might be disturbing for some people who may want to stop reading here.

When a fast-plummeting peregrine reaches its prey, it usually avoids high-speed, full-body collisions. It frequently balls one of its taloned feet into a semi-fist and strikes one of the prey’s wing bones, which usually breaks. The wounded prey then tumbles (often screaming) to the ground or into the water, where the quivering victim is dispatched by the peregrine if the prey is still alive. (See below about their killer beak adaptation.)

These falcons also have been known to use their sharp talons to fatally rake the heads and bodies of larger flying birds. And, of course, they chase winged prey in level flight, catch it (or not), and – sometimes – use their amazing flying ability to eat part of the squirming prey while flying.

How can they do this? They have special adaptations for aerial warfare, some of which may be obvious from the accompanying photographic portrait of a falconer’s trained peregrine that was willing to pose for me.

First, look at the size of the peregrine’s eyes, which are crucial for their special hunting techniques. If our eyes were proportional to the peregrine’s, each of them would be three inches in diameter and weigh four pounds, according to Patrick Stirling in his book Peregrine Falcon. These falcons have retinal focal points that enable the birds to focus each eye independently on different prey at different distances, which is helpful when flying high above flocks of starlings, pigeons, or bats.

Now look underneath the eyes of the peregrine shown in the image here. That unusually large, dark “mustache” is called a malar stripe. It’s thought that malar stripes operate in bright sunlight to reduce glare and improve contrast sensitivity when focusing on prey from high above.

When a high-circling peregrine chooses a target to stoop on, it folds its wings tightly against its body and becomes a tear-shaped missile that gains tremendous speed and force as it plummets. It frequently uses its third set of eyelids (nictitating membranes) to clear its eyes when stooping.

Diving at speeds of hundreds of miles per hour creates air pressure changes that could endanger the lungs of a bird, but bony tubercles inside the peregrine’s overly large nostrils are thought to limit the flow of air to safe levels. (See the image again.)

Another, perhaps ghoulish, adaptation is worth pointing out. Peregrines have a sharp triangular “tooth” on each side of the upper bills (mandibles). All falcons (and parrots) have these, but hawks and eagles don’t. These projections are called tomial (cutting) teeth. They’re used by falcons for quick kills that sever their preys’ spinal columns at the base of their skulls.

That’s probably not the best place to end what is meant to be an uplifting column. Perhaps it’s time for one final, gentler thought about top guns: Don’t you think that the peregrine in the accompanying image is at least as good looking as Tom Cruise?

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November 9, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: COLD-PLATED CHANGE

By Richard Leighton

It struck me recently that Climate Change may soon be affecting even Maine’s license plates. Should the plates continue to depict black-capped chickadees (the state bird), common loons, and lobsters? These creatures reportedly are part of a migration of beloved and economically important species that are adapting to climate warming in Maine by heading north out of the state, while newcomers from the south (some of them nasty) are moving in.

There are increasing numbers of reports on species migration and modification due to climate warming in Maine. One of the earliest and most disturbing was published by the Natural Resources Council of Maine in 2015 and is titled “6 Species that Could Disappear from Maine Within the Next Generation.”

The NRCM report lists species that may disappear and species that may significantly diminish in number due, in whole or in significant part, to climate warming in Maine. The chickadees, for example, are moving north at an alarming rate due in large part to decreases in cold-loving yellow birch trees.

Similarly, our common loons reportedly are increasingly migrating north due to climate warming and other environmentally-related causes, according to the report. Moose, another iconic Maine symbol, are among the species of concern in the report. Their population is steadily moving north due in significant part to disease-carrying ticks that increase in number with warmer temperatures.

Snow-loving American martens and Canada lynx are expected by NRCM to decline and perhaps disappear in Maine as snow levels decline. Balsam fir trees also are listed as among the species that might disappear and be replaced by other tree species moving up from the south.

As the waters of the Gulf of Maine have been warming, Atlantic halibut have been going elsewhere and soon may be gone, the NRCM reports. Similarly, the Atlantic States Maritime Fisheries Commission reported this year that there has been a significant decline in young lobsters in the Gulf; their disappearance is reported to be “related to ocean warming and shifts in ocean currents … not overfishing.”

The University of Maine reported this September on an apparently related phenomenon: “In the Gulf of Maine, … larger fish like the thorny skate and cod have been shrinking over recent decades, with the average individual becoming smaller. Their species also are experiencing a decline in the number of individuals, and the smaller species of mackerel is increasing in numbers.” The phenomenon appears to be worldwide.

Birds always have been good predictors of the effects of environmental change, both positive and negative. The magisterial Birds of Maine (Vickery, et al., 2020), points out that, “As climate change alters (and to some extent, moderates) the winter environment, the abundance and distribution of Maine’s wintering birds are also changing significantly.” Of 120 bird species identified in Maine winter counts from 1966 to 2017, 23 are declining and 46 are increasing, it reports.

Bluebirds that were a winter rarity in 1970 are now abundant winter residents in many Maine communities. Overwintering bald eagles also have increased dramatically in Maine. Many declining winter species are waterbirds, including herring and great black-backed gulls that are adversely affected by the increase of marauding bald eagles in the state.

Of course, Maine is not alone in experiencing the well-documented pattern of shifts to the north by both beneficial and harmful flora and fauna. But I bet no other state is facing the risk of losing its famous chickadee, loon, and lobster license plates.

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October 12, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: IT’S HOOTING SEASON

By Richard Leighton

Mid-October in Maine is the prime part of “Hooting Season,” which is when specialized hunters seek one of the world’s fiercest predators. That is, it’s the best time for adventurous birders to go into the woods at night to hear – and maybe even get a glimpse of – great horned owls. These apex predators and occasional human assaulters do something unusual at this time of year.

Unlike many birds, male great horned owls reclaim territories in October, steal new nests from other big birds, and renew their courtship with their lifelong mates. During the courtship, the great horned male goes through ritualized and contorted pleading – nodding, bowing, and flapping while almost continually calling and cajoling his mate. She occasionally replies with higher-pitched encouragements, as if she’s whispering in the darkness, “Lovely, dear; don’t stop.”   But, for humans, this duet is far from being the most pleasing music in the bird songbook.

The courtship serenade usually is in the form of a series of “hoos” with variations being in the numbers, spacing, and emphasis: “hoo-hoo-HOO; hoo hoo.” However, just when you get used to the tone and tempo, there can be a piecing exclamation point in the form of a startling “Shriek!” that can make your hair stand on end. Mostly, however, the courting calls are a medley of mournful “hoos,” which contribute to the mythic reputation of these owls.

As for that reputation, Edward Howe Forbush says the following in his famous treatise on New England birds: “The Great Horned Owl is the most morose, savage and saturnine of all New England birds. We can hardly wonder that certain Indian tribes regarded this fowl as the very personification of the Evil One, or that they feared its influence and regarded its visits to their dwellings as portentous of disaster or death.” (By the way, this bird is said to be great horned, not because of its devilish reputation, but because it has feathers above its face that stand up like horns.)

Nonetheless, great horned owls are impressive physically. Forbush states that they’re New England’s “most powerful owl, exceeding Great Gray and Snowy owls in courage, weight and strength.” Female great horned owls, which generally are slightly larger than males, can exceed two chunky feet in length and weigh almost five pounds.

The eyes of these owls are among the largest relative to body size in the animal kingdom, helping them to see very well in darkness. Their hearing also is among the best in the kingdom; and, as with all owls, they have unique wing and feather constructions that enable them to fly silently and strike their prey a killing blow before their presence is suspected.

The intangible qualities of courage and power of great horned owls are also remarkable. They have been known to kill geese and wild turkeys that are much larger than the owls. They also have been seen attacking nesting bald eagles, driving them away, and stealing their nests. (Great horned owls almost never build their own nests.)

These owls are tough. They not only kill and eat porcupines, they also consider skunks to be one of their favorite foods. Great horned owls apparently are not fazed by being covered with skunk spray and they and their nests can reek of it. (That odor may also have contributed to the idea that they were evil spirits.)

While we’re on the subject of skunks, here’s a warning: If you decide to go hoot-hunting at dusk or in the dark this month, don’t wear a light-colored hat. There are documented cases of great horned owls seeing a slow-moving white hat, thinking it was a delicious skunk, and coming out of nowhere to deliver a powerful deathblow that ruined a good hat and did serious harm to an inquisitive head. These birds also have been known to attack humans who get close to the owls’ nests when the birds are raising young in late winter or early spring.

As you might assume about birds that don’t build their own nests, great horned owls find it convenient to grocery shop at farms and take unprotected chickens, ducks, cats, and other small animals. The greatest dangers to these owls were, at one time, farmers’ shotguns. However, they and other birds of prey are now protected by federal and Maine laws from any human harm or capture. If you hear a string of “hoos” near your home at night, don’t let little Fluffy out.

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September 14, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: A SHORT, BUT FAIR, HISTORY

By Richard Leighton

From late summer through early October – and especially in September – it’s nostalgia time throughout much of rural United States generally and Maine in particular. It’s when large and often temporary festival grounds provide old-fashioned recreation, education, competition, and, often, consumption of deliciously unhealthy food.

Yes, we’re in the midst of the time when communities come together at “country fairs,” also known variously as state fairs, regional fairs, county fairs, town fairs, and common ground fairs, among other descriptions.

Originally, “State Fairs” often were officially designated by a state and rotated each year among communities. Nonetheless, Maine’s Bangor and Skowhegan each still hold an annual “State Fair,” even though those events apparently are not officially designated as such.

In the rest of the state, North Waterford actually calls its event a “World’s Fair,” albeit “the world’s smallest world’s fair.” Blue Hill’s fair, always held close to Labor Day, is described as “a true ‘Down to Earth’ Country Fair.” And, the Fryeburg Fair, an October event, is billed as “Maine’s Blue Ribbon Classic Agricultural Fair.”

It’s thought that the concept of periodic community fairs may have derived from the ancient gatherings of travelling traders for the selling of goods, events that often were accompanied by entertainment of some sort. The Romans reportedly added a religious twist to such gatherings, which is why the word “fair” is thought to be a derivation of the Latin word “feria,” meaning festival or holy day.

The common and originating theme of rural fairs in the United States was agriculture. The festivals started appearing in Maine during the early 1800s. They initially were mostly educational get-togethers at which new farming techniques and equipment were featured and “how-to” lectures were delivered.

Also in the early days, there often were events involving such things as judging vegetables and fruits, canning, baked goods, sewing exhibits, plowing matches, and “pulling contests” based on how far one or more animals or pieces of equipment could pull heavy weights. (The photograph shown here was taken at an oxen-pulling event during the Blue Hill Fair.)

Harness racing at fairs reportedly became popular in Maine after the civil war, when the state encouraged farmers to raise trotting horses. A greater emphasis on non-agricultural entertainment began then, including the creation of “midways” at the center of the fairs that provided such things as adult and children’s games for prizes.

There also were “sideshows” in fairs and traveling circuses. These were events alongside the principal events that usually provided entertainment or “education” for a price. The sideshows often were sensationalistic and sometimes bawdy; many offered for a price an exploitive view of real or fraudulent people, animals, or objects that were considered odd in some way, such as “bearded ladies.”

After the introduction of the Ferris Wheel at the Chicago World’s Fair (Columbian Exposition) in 1893, ever-increasing numbers of mechanical “rides” were offered to thrill fair-goers. And, the country fairs, themselves, increasingly became popular subjects or backdrops for creative works.

For example, one of the most popular and historically significant motion pictures of all time was the 1945 production of “State Fair.” This starred Jeanne Crain and Dana Andrews and featured original music by Rodgers and Hammerstein. However, it was an adaptation of a 1933 film of the same name starring Janet Gaynor and Will Rogers, which, in turn, was an adaptation of a novel of the same name by Phil Strong.

Which brings us back to modern Maine’s Blue Hill Fair in Hancock County. Years ago, that fair was one of the inspirations for E.B. White’s 1952 classic children’s book, Charlotte’s Web, which features country fair scenes. (White lived in Blue Hill’s neighboring town, Brooklin, and reportedly attended the fairs.)

This year and last, the Blue Hill Fair featured a permanent educational exhibit that celebrates Charlotte’s Web and included a live pig named after Wilbur, the prize-winning pig who was saved from slaughter by the spider Charlotte in the book.

Of course, as with Wilbur, the looming question for country fairs is whether these heirlooms can be saved from the vicissitudes of modern life. Are they still relevant? It’s hard to find reliable data on the subject. Based upon what I’ve read, country fairs have shown surprisingly little decline, although there is some.

Many long-lived annual fairs seem to be doing well, in part by constantly adapting to the needs and wishes of their communities and by providing relatively inexpensive, unique family recreation with interesting educational options.

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August 10, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: TAKING THE PLUNGE

By Richard Leighton

Red-eyed youngsters are traveling at high speeds and often crashing in many Maine areas this month. However, there’s nothing to worry about. These youngsters are about two feet long and have almost a six-foot wingspan. Yes, osprey offspring are “fledging” all over the place and frequently crashlanding.

These “fledglings” are courageously jumping out of their often-very-high nests and trying to learn to become the dare-devil flyers that they’ll need to be to survive. (As you may know, a “fledgling,” basically, is a bird in its first suit of feathers that is moving about, or “fledging,” on its own. The word derives from the Old English word “flyċġe,” meaning “able to fly.”)

Unlike fledglings of some other species, osprey juveniles still need their parents to feed them during their first weeks of being out and about. That’s because the birds are almost exclusively fish eaters that usually obtain their food by plunging into the water at high speeds.

These “fish hawks” first must learn the basics of flying and landing on a branch or nest, which are difficult enough for a big bird. Once they learn rudimentary flying and landing, they must learn the intricacies of plunge-hunting to survive on their own. This type of fishing is quite different from the skimming and scooping techniques primarily used by bald eagles; it’s more like the fishing that much smaller belted kingfishers do.

There apparently is some evidence that young ospreys learn to plunge-hunt by watching and imitating their parents. However, it appears that plunge-hunting is instinctive to the birds, since ospreys that have been raised by humans and have never seen a feathered parent use the technique when released. They perfect it by continually practicing it and learning from their very many initial failures.

Ospreys usually hunt by circling over water. When they spot a suitable fish, they usually hover over it like a helicopter to make their diving calculations. Then, they tip over, plunge head down at high speed, flip to a talons-first mode at the last second, and often go completely below the surface, where they grab the fish with their talons, swim with their wings to the surface, and fly off.

As you can imagine, this technique is quite complex and even dangerous for a big bird. There are reports of ospreys misjudging their trajectory and breaking their wings on the water surface, as well as reports of ospreys misjudging the size of their prey and being taken to the bottom and drowned by a powerful fish. However, mature ospreys were successful at extracting a fish at least 25 percent of the times that they dove during reported studies, with a few veteran birds achieving a reported 70 percent success rate.

Such is not the case with our uneducated youngsters. There are reports of immature ospreys being unsuccessful on seven dives in a row, and never giving up. Their parents remain very supportive while the birds are learning their craft. Mom and Dad leave fish in the birth nest for their offspring and one or both often accompany the youngsters on hunts.

In August, the youngsters are about the size of their parents and usually use their home nest as a base while conducting frantic forays to learn what they need to learn for the fall migration. That trip south may result in a journey of thousands of miles of flying in varying weather. When the birds come back in about two years, their baby-red eyes will be adult-golden, and their fishing skills will be superb.

It’s worth noting that osprey parents are extremely protective of their offspring from the very beginning. It seems to be their nature. Mature male and female ospreys will defend their nest and the surrounding area by viciously attacking any intruder in their territory that might harm their young, including bald eagles and other ospreys that sometimes make a nesting pair’s life tragic. There also are reports of ospreys attacking humans that got too close to the bird’s nest.

On the other hand, there are reports of farmers trying to attract nesting ospreys because of the birds’ protective nature and their virtually exclusive diet of fish. The farmers learned that having an osprey nest within sight of the chicken coop kept Cooper’s hawks (the proverbial “chicken hawks”) and other bird-eating hawks away.

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July 13, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: WEEDS OF PREY

By Richard Leighton

Strange as it may seem, my thoughts recently turned to weeds in general and hawkweed in particular, both of which are more plentiful here in July than hot dogs. It all began when I tried to find a scientific or otherwise precise definition of the word “weed” for use in something that I was writing.

I learned that there is no widely-accepted definition for “weed,” although there apparently is almost universal acceptance of that word as a synonym for marihuana (which also has become plentiful in Maine since it’s sale here has been legalized; but, I digress).

If you search the Internet for a “botanical definition of a ‘weed,’” this is what you’ll get: “A plant growing where it is not wanted. It can also include plants that were not intentionally sown in a specific location or plants that are more competitive or interfere with the activity of people.”

All the many other definitions that I found were variations of this generalization, and some pointed out that plants such as hawkweed that are regulated as noxious in some areas are protected as valuable in others. To paraphrase the old saying, apparently one man’s wildflower is another man’s weed.

I’m a wildflower man when it comes to classifying orange and yellow hawkweed, perhaps the most numerous species of hawkweed in Maine. I’m a fan of these plants even though they are not native to North America and their common name of hawkweed presumptively defames them as weeds. The accompanying composite photograph shows their complex beauty, and their nomenclature is a good place to start to know a little more about the plants.

Let’s begin with their name. The U.S. Forest Service report on orange hawkweed states this: “Pliny, the Roman naturalist, believed that hawks fed on the plant to strengthen their eyesight and thus it became the Greek and Latin name for this and similar plants, called hawkweed.” (How a naturalist could conceive of hawks with vegetarian tendencies using their killing talons and tearing beaks to eat tiny petals or small leaves boggles the mind; but, I digress again.)

We are stuck with the fact that botanists gave one of these plants the common name orange hawkweed and the scientific name Hieracium aurantiacum; and, they named the other plant yellow hawkweed and gave it the scientific name Hieracium caespitosum. (Hieracium is derived from the Greek and Latin words for hawk; aurantiacum is the Latin word for orange, and caespitosum translates loosely into “turfy” in Latin.)

These plants also are known by other common names, although orange and yellow hawkweed are the most popular. The orange species also is called orange paintbrush, red daisy flameweed, devil's weed, grim-the-collier, devil's-paintbrush, fox-and-cubs, king-devil, and missionary weed. Yellow hawkweed also is called yellow king-devil, meadow hawkweed, and field hawkweed.

In Maine, hawkweed apparently is not listed by the State as noxious or invasive, although several other states do list the plants as such. The University of Maine’s Cooperative Extension advisors take a balanced view of the plants in their Bulletin #2584. The Bulletin recognizes that hawkweed can be a problem to homeowners whose lawns get infested with it and it can invade pastures and hayfields. In addition, it notes that orange hawkweed has a nasty habit of poisoning the nearby soil to prevent competition from other plants.

On the other hand, that Bulletin reports that hawkweed supports bees, butterflies, and a wide variety of other pollinators and that the plants can prevent erosion. It advises that, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If you don’t mind seeing these little yellow or orange flowers spring up above your grass and you are in low maintenance mode for your lawn, it’s not a problem. If you want a perfect uniform green grass lawn, then yes, you need to control it.”  

That Bulletin goes on to show how to control hawkweed in your lawn. However, it fails to mention whether eliminating hawkweed will adversely affect the eyesight of your local hawk population.

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June 8, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE SOUNDS OF HAPPINESS

By Richard Leighton

If you’re very lucky, several Bobolinks are now building their summer homes in a wild area near you and preparing to raise their offspring there. These birds are some of nature’s most joyous wanderers and a thrill to watch and hear.

The strangely-named Bobolinks have a troubled history and an uncertain future. Their numbers have continued to dwindle so dangerously that they’ve been designated as one of the Species of Greatest Conservation Need in Maine and many other states. You should try to see and hear them before they go the way of passenger pigeons. Maybe, if you knew more about them, you would even join in efforts to prevent them from disappearing.

To begin, you should know how to pronounce their odd common name: Bobolink. It’s “BOB-oh-link,” not “BOBO-link,” as some logically say. That name is a poor attempt to capture the indescribable sound of the bird’s call, which is a combination of liquid bubbling and contagious giggling that seems to express irrepressible happiness.

The bird’s Latin scientific name is, as usual, duller and most of us shouldn’t even try to pronounce it: Dolichonyx oryzivorus, which roughly means a long-clawed, rice-eating bird. In fact, the Bobolink is often also called the Rice Bird, which has been one of its problems, as you’ll soon see.

As for their appearance, Bobolinks are relatively small, at about seven inches in length. The male’s spring and summer breeding plumage is especially distinctive. (See the accompanying photograph.) He’s our only songbird that’s solid black below and largely white above. It’s as if he’s wearing a tuxedo backwards, according to the Peterson Field Guide. He also has a buff-yellow patch on his nape that looks somewhat like a cap that is slipping down.  

The female Bobolink is brown and striped and sparrow-like. She’s designed to disappear while sitting on eggs in a hidden ground nest. The male is designed to be a decoy; if you approach a nest, he’ll often come by and land fairly closely to you, do some jabbering, and try to draw you away from his hiding family with short flights or hops.

The fascinating history of the birds reveals opportunism and destruction, good times and bad. Edward Howe Forbush, in his magisterial three-volume monograph on New England’s birds (1929), appears to devote more pages to the Bobolink’s turbulent past than to the history of any other bird. I’ll try to synthesize some of his research for our purposes here.

When North America was forested, Bobolinks were birds of the eastern grassy river valleys and marshes, where they casually consumed the ample seeds and insects there. When European settlers came and cleared the land and sowed grass, grain, and rice, the birds’ food supply was vastly increased and Bobolinks eagerly followed the farmers west in ever-growing numbers.

In the process, many of America’s marshes were converted to rice fields, which the Bobolinks thought was a wonderful idea. However, rice growers were shocked when they discovered how much rice the Bobolinks and a few other less conspicuous species could eat. Bobolinks and those other species became known as Rice Birds and the targets for “bird-minders” who were hired to shoot or frighten the birds away. Capital punishment became the preferred penalty for winged trespassing.

In about the early 1900s, newly-rich epicureans in New York and other larger cities decided that the tiny Bobolinks were delicacies, and an industry evolved to satisfy the trendsetters’ demented demands for such things as a plate of assorted broiled or roasted Bobolinks.

Hunters with nets and/or shotguns would enter rice and other crop fields by day and at night with torches to catch or slaughter hundreds of thousands of the little birds for the market, while also arguing that they were protecting the crops. Forbush reports that, in 1912, one hunter reported that he “received 20 cents a dozen now for ‘shoot’ birds and 25 to 30 cents for ‘ketch’ birds.” By 1923, it was clear that the Bobolink population was decreasing fast.

The netting and shooting subsided considerably (but not completely) with the passage of protective legislation for migratory birds, but new dangers arose that have continued the steady decline of Bobolinks – mostly habitat destruction and loss, including the needless mowing of the birds’ fields during the nesting season and the commercial development of nesting fields and marshes.

Surveys show a 3 percent annual decline of Bobolinks in Maine from 1966 to 2017 and an 88 percent decline over a 50-year period for North America, according to Peter D. Vickery (Birds of Maine, 2020.)

The sounds of irrepressible happiness are becoming less and less audible each year. If that trend is not reversed or at least stopped, there will be an unforgiveable silence where the melodies of happiness once were sung.

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American.

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May 11, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SQUIRRELY SITUATIONS

By Richard Leighton

I had an encounter recently with the red squirrel shown here and it brought to mind a disturbing situation that needs to be talked about: These rodents are detested by many people and denominated as pests in this State under certain increasingly frequent conditions.

Let’s brace ourselves for a story that does not have a pleasant ending and take a closer look at the poor relations that we have with our neighbors, the American red squirrels (Tamiasciurus hudsonicus).

For perspective, let’s first try to imagine things from the squirrel’s perspective. While none of us wants a red squirrel to invade our house or garden and act like a squirrel there, the feeling is reciprocal: No self-respecting red squirrel wants a human invading its territory and acting like a human there. Red squirrels are very clear in communicating this to us. Most, including the one shown here, bark, hiss, rattle, snort, /or screech hysterically at a human who enters their territory and approaches them.

The main problem with our squirrel relations appears to be territorial. And, by territorial, I mean both the squirrels’ natural territory (which we may think of as also ours) and humans’ developed territory (which the squirrels may think of as also theirs). After all, their family was here before ours was.

We should remember that red squirrels are not just anti-human when it comes to protecting their natural territories. They’re equally nasty to other red squirrels that invade their territories. In fact, they will fiercely chase and viciously bite any competing intruder of about their size, including chipmunks. Except for mating and the raising of their “kittens” by females (which is happening now), red squirrels usually are territorial loners of the most antisocial type. It’s their nature; they can’t help it.

That’s not to imply that red squirrels do nothing to benefit others in their natural territories. Red squirrels play an important part in renewing our forests by burying seeds, especially spruce and other conifer tree seeds. They also are a good, albeit screamingly unwilling, food source for valuable predators, including owls, hawks, coyotes, bobcats, fox, fishers, martins, and ermines, as well as the occasional very large snake that meets a very small squirrel. The high fatality rate of red squirrels here is further increased by road traffic and their being subject to unlimited hunting in Maine, which brings us back to human interactions.

According to Maine wildlife management releases, “Squirrels are considered pests when they enter homes and buildings to nest; when they raid birdfeeders; when they feed on gardens, trees and landscape plantings; and when they dig holes in gardens and lawns to bury and retrieve food.” And, “Red squirrels are the most likely culprit inside homes, where they use insulation for nest building and sometimes chew electrical wiring.”

Although perhaps understandable from the squirrel’s perspective, realists have to admit that this kind of damaging behavior will not be tolerated by most people and neither will justifications of that damage based on conservation theory. On the other hand, contrary to what many squirrel detesters apparently think, shooting invasive squirrels is not always the best remedy, although it is allowed in Maine.

Maine wildlife officials support and promote the use of a so-called Integrated Pest Management (IPM) process at the governmental and individual levels. IPM is “a decision-making process that combines practical pest management strategies to prevent or control pests in ways that reduce risks to health and the environment.” It includes “acting against pests only when necessary” and “choosing the most effective options with the least risk to people and the environment.” The operative words are acting “only when necessary” (to prevent damage) and choosing the “most effective” options.

When it comes to controlling red squirrels, Maine has endorsed California’s IPM program for tree squirrels, which include California’s version of our red squirrel, the eastern fox squirrel (Sciurus niger). Under that program, actions designed to prevent the squirrels from entering our gardens, structures, and other developed territory are emphasized.

However, if squirrel removal should become necessary to prevent unacceptable damage, the use of killing traps is recommended by California (and apparently Maine) as the most humane and effective method for eliminating the rodents that are doing the damage. Capturing the squirrels in live traps and transporting them into the territories of other tree squirrels is discouraged as a potential spreader of disease and/or discord. Shooting, although one of the acknowledged methods of removal, can be dangerous for humans and result in unnecessary suffering by animals that are only wounded.

If you’re being troubled by red squirrels in your garden or home, I urge you to first try to solve the problem with preventative methods designed to keep the squirrels away from the parts of your “territory” needing protection. A simple Internet search of “preventing red squirrels” should get you started on discovering your options.

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American.

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April 13, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE ODD COUPLES

By Richard Leighton

If you like birds and enjoyed the play, movie, and/or television series called “The Odd Couple,” you’ll probably love what’s going on in many Maine marshlands right now. Yes, it’s time to see and ponder the complicated relations of red-winged blackbirds. The important females of that species are arriving throughout the State now to inspect the waiting males and evaluate the summer properties that the males are offering.

The costumes and characters in this avian romantic comedy may not be what most people might expect. Female red-winged blackbirds are not black birds, color-wise, and they do not have red wings (although they sometimes show a small daub of orange on their shoulders/forewings). They look like gussied-up sparrows.

Moreover, the larger males really don’t have what most people would call “red wings.” These otherwise all-black males have small red and yellow feather patches (“lesser and median coverts”) mostly under their shoulder feathers. The birds can flex these patches out into epaulets when they feel romantic or hysterical, two of their favorite emotions that sometimes are combined into a jealous tantrum.

Which brings us to what’s happening now in our marshlands and nearby areas where the northward-migrating redwings like to spend their summers. The males arrive first, sometimes as early as February, but usually in March or early April. They come here to stake out and fight for the best breeding territory that they can find and keep from other members of their brotherhood. It takes a while to sort out a hierarchy among the males to determine which will get the best properties. The process is loud and can be highly aggressive.

The females apparently want no part of this male melee; they wait until squatters’ rights have been decided.  When they arrive, the female redwings at first take charge. They decide which combination of available male and his territory will be best for them to raise their young before accepting one of the proposals. But there are complicating amorous factors.

Many egocentric redwing males like to have more than one mate nesting in their territory.  There are reports of males jealously protecting as many as 15 mates in their territories. Further complicating things is that many fickle female mates willingly make themselves available to other males that sneak into their primary mate’s territory.

This is not conducive to a quiet neighborhood. However, it might partly explain why male redwings are so excitable and aggressive. They not only attack each other, they attack almost any intruder, especially when there are eggs or chicks in their nest(s). I’ve seen male redwings give screaming chase to larger crows and hawks, including curious ospreys. Male redwings can get absolutely apoplectic when humans get too close.

There may be another reason why redwings have an attitude: Their habitats are disappearing, which brings more competitive stress and reduces the birds’ numbers. They are declining in Maine at a rate of 2.6 percent annually, according to Peter D. Vickery’s Birds of Maine (2020).

So, get out there and watch the odd redwings court while you can. But, don’t get too close.

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American.

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March 9, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: MARCH OF THE PROVERBS

By Richard Leighton

It’s March, the month that seems to have had more obscure proverbs written about it than any other month. These pithy predictions and old observations are fun to read, but we often need to know their historical contexts to understand them fully. My favorite, which often proves true here in Down East Maine, is “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.”

This proverb is so old that it appeared in a well-read book of “wise sentences and witty saying[s]” that was published in London in 1732, the year that George Washington was born. (I wouldn’t be surprised if our first President, a good farmer, uttered the quip many times.)

Most authorities think that the March lion proverb was intended to relate to this month’s winter-to-spring weather transition. However, others think that it relates celestially to Leo (the lion) rising early in the month and giving way to Aries (the ram or lamb) later.

A few think that the proverb originated as a veiled religious description of March as a “false spring”: an allusion to Jesus entering the world and becoming the sacrificial lamb who will eventually return as the Lion of Judah. However, this interpretation has a lamb turning into a lion, which is the opposite of the most popular version of the proverb.

Another obscure March proverb is “A bushel [sometimes a peck] of March dust is a thing that’s worth the ransom of a king.” Research reveals that this was a farmers’ observation intended to mean that, if it’s dry enough to produce a lot of dust, March (which often is a rainy month) will be good for the crops.

Some proverbs were clearer: “March winds and April showers / Bring forth May flowers”; “A peck of March dust and a shower in May / Make the corn green and the fields gay”; “A dry March and a wet May / Fill barns and bays with corn and hay,” and “Dry March, good for beehives and rams / Rainy March, beehives full of worms, and rams with colds.” 

For pessimists, there were “God save us from the end of March and the beginning of April”; “So many mists in March you see / So many frosts in May will be”; “For every fog in March there’s a frost in May,” and “If March is late in coming, June will suffer.” 

We’ll have to see whether the many proverbs about weather will remain mostly true as our climate changes. However, there are several other types of popular March proverbs that have interesting origins. Among these is “Beware the Ides of March.” This is the warning of Shakespeare’s soothsayer to Julius Caesar, who later was assassinated in mid-March (the “ides”), as predicted. The words have become a proverb for the conspiracy-minded that means we should beware of betrayal in mid-March or even at all times.

If we’re going to be cautious this month, we also should remember to avoid anyone who is “mad as a March hare.” Hares exhibit wild behavior when they breed in March, leaping erratically, slapping each other, and engaging in zany, zig-zagging chases. (I wonder if the creators of “March Madness,” the college basketball extravaganza, had this in mind.)

Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, originally published in 1865, reportedly was the first book to include a mad March hare as a character. The hare kept reliving teatime due to his faulty watch and may have been the inspiration for the movie Groundhog Day.

(As a noteworthy aside, I’ll remind you not to confuse Alice’s tea-loving hare acquaintance with a quite different character from that book, the “Mad Hatter.” The expression “mad as a hatter” predated Carroll’s book and was a reference to the fits of “madness” by many in the hat-making industry during the 19th Century. These fits were the result of mercury poisoning caused by the use of mercury nitrate to make felt for hats.)

However, let’s not end our month’s conversation by associating March with deadly betrayal, mad hares, and poisoned hatters. Let’s end with the hope that the folklore predictions for the rest of March come true this year and that we’ll experience increasing gentleness.

(P.S.: In case you were wondering, I actually took the accompanying image in mid-March, but in a prior year and in a zoo habitat.)

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

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February 9, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: TOUGH LOVE

By Richard Leighton

My thoughts these days naturally turn to doves, being a bird enthusiast who is looking forward to Valentine’s Day next week. Doves are the age-old symbols of love and are typified in Maine by our native Mourning Dove. However, the story about how this happened is more of a mystery than a romance.

First, there is the names puzzle: “The names pigeon and dove have exactly the same meaning,” according to the late Edward Howe Forbush in his Birds of Massachusetts and Other New England States. Thus, he states, “the Mourning Dove might be as properly called the Mourning pigeon,” but for the fact that it is not customary.

The Mourning Dove’s scientific name is Zenaida macroura, but it also commonly is called the Rain Dove. That’s because some people believe (incorrectly) that its calls predict rain, which is progress from the Native American belief that the calls caused rain. Even more curiously, the bird also is called the Turtle Dove because at times it looks somewhat like the bird is trying to withdraw its head into its body as turtles do.

Finally with regard to names, remember that our wild dove’s most popular name is spelled “Mourning Dove”; it’s not spelled “Morning Dove,” as some people think. The bird wasn’t named to reflect its early appearance every day; it was named to reflect its hauntingly low “cooah coo, coo, coo” call, the sound of someone softly grieving, trying hard not to make a scene.

Perhaps grieving is an appropriate response for the Mourning Dove – a symbol of peace and love, remember – to the fact that it is the most frequently hunted bird in the United States, according to the late Peter D. Vickery’s Birds of Maine.

There is another inconvenient fact about the symbolism that is associated with doves, according to Forbush: “Contrary to the general impression the dove is not altogether a bird of peace. The males of some species are very pugnacious in the breeding season, and bloody combats sometimes occur.”

Nonetheless, when it comes to being a symbol of love, which is what Valentine’s Day is all about after all, doves in general and Mourning Doves in particular are very affectionate to their mates. It’s a common sight to see a pair cuddling and preening each other. When courting, nesting, and raising a family, Mourning Doves are monogamous and reportedly often mate for life.

The ancient Greeks noticed the affection of doves and are given credit for originating the concept of doves being symbols of love. Those Greeks frequently depicted Aphrodite, their goddess of love, amidst flying doves or with a dove on her hand. The Romans followed suit when depicting their goddess of love, Venus. But, why were most of those doves depicted as being all white?

We have now reached a plot-twist in our mystery, and a disturbing one it is. When shown as symbols of peace or love, doves almost always are depicted as all white. Yet, there apparently are no natural doves that are completely white, except for the occasional albino.

The closest to being all white is the Ringneck or Barbary Dove (Streptopelia risoria), which carries a white mutation. These and other partly white doves are captured and bred domestically to manipulate their genes and produce all-white birds. Some, perhaps most, of the engineered white birds are then sold or rented for display or release at such things as weddings and other festive demonstrations.

The white birds that are commercially bred to be released at festivities are taught to be homing pigeons and marketed on the Internet and elsewhere as “Release Doves.” You can rent them to be released as a group and fly up and away at your party. It’s a dramatic sign of love or peace, but it has a macabre side.

Not all of these rented birds always make it home. Some get killed by hazards (power lines, cars, etc.) and some have inadequate homing instincts. Domesticated white doves are not good survivors in the wild, where food is not served to them and slow-flying white things are easy to spot by fast-flying dark predators.

Maybe that’s another reason why our Mourning Doves grieve softly.

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

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January 12, 2023

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SIGN OF THE TIMES

By Richard Leighton

Common Eiders have returned from the seas to take their winter vacation at Maine’s Blue Hill Falls, as they have for many decades. And, again this winter, the numbers in their “paddle” appear to be significantly fewer than in the prior years. This apparently is another bad sign of the times – a warning that these disappearing diving ducks figuratively are additional suffering “canaries” in our increasingly dangerous “mine.”

Common Eiders are the largest of Maine’s native ducks and among the most attractive. The males are distinctively patterned in white and black, and the females are a reflective bronze that can be dazzling in the right light. They also are ravenous eaters, which may be part of their problem.

They’ll gorge themselves on, among other things, clams, mussels, small scallops, crabs, starfish, and urchins when they can get them. Eider etiquette is not the most genteel either – they eat their mollusks whole, shell and all, and rip crabs’ legs off before eating the living crabs’ bodies whole.

Among the Eiders’ favorite foods are wild Atlantic blue mussels, which emerge at low tide clustered on rocks like a curious crowd. These birds will sit in front of a cluster and pluck off the live mussels like a gourmand eating a bunch of grapes; at higher tides when the rocks are submerged, they’ll dive for the mussels.

(This appears to be a good place for an interesting and relevant aside about natural justice. Famed ornithologist Frederick Howe Forbush reported on an Eider that had starved to death due to a heroic mussel that had everlastingly clamped shut on the bird’s tongue, preventing the Eider from eating.)

The aside is relevant because natural blue mussels and other Eider food favorites are disappearing here on the Maine coast. The suspected major causes are warming oceans and increasing human harvesting. And, ironically, Eider consumption is contributing to their own food loss. But that’s not all the birds need to worry about.

The numbers of Bald Eagles in Maine are increasing impressively and more of these top-level predators seem to be staying here all year. An apparent reason is that Maine’s temperatures are warming significantly. While blue mussels are a favorite Eider food, Eider ducklings are a favorite Eagle food. Eider ducklings also are a favorite food for Great Black-Backed Gulls, a large gull species that appears to be on the increase here as well.

There also are threats that always have persisted. Seals, sharks, and other predatory fish take Eiders at sea, and they’re gulped down in groups by killer whales in the Pacific Ocean. When nesting or otherwise on land, Eiders are taken by foxes, coyotes, wolves, skuas, as well as eagles and other large raptors. And, of course, Eiders continue to be a popular target for human duck hunters.

Let’s hope that history can be prevented from repeating itself. Eiders as breeding birds almost were extirpated in Maine and Massachusetts until laws were enacted to protect them and let them slowly build back their population. Now, those two states have the only significant breeding populations of these ducks in the lower 48 states, but those numbers are declining again. It appears that the decline of Eiders has not reached irreversible levels yet; but, in 2020, they were reported to have been reduced to their 1970 numbers after longtime gains.  That’s a discouraging sign of the times.

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

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December 8, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: TAKING A BOUGH

By Richard Leighton

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

I venture to say that, at this time of the year, Maine contains more good tippers than at any other time. It’s not because there are more generous restaurant-goers out and about in December. It’s because Maine is one of the world’s leading producers of balsam fir Christmas wreaths. And those wreaths begin with “tippers.” 

To those involved in this Maine cottage industry, tippers are people who (often in their spare time) harmlessly pick the choice tips of fir tree branches and sell them to wreath makers. The finished products are not only sold in-state; millions of fresh wreaths reportedly are shipped out of Maine each year.

Many Mainers do their own tipping and wreath-making for personal use, an activity that is relatively easy, requires very little equipment, and has the added benefit of being one of the best-smelling endeavors ever undertaken by mankind. (For those interested in making fir wreaths, the University of Maine has a good on-line tutorial showing how to do so: https://extension.umaine.edu/publications/7012e/.)

The making and use of celebratory wreaths has a rich history that predates Christianity and Christmas. It also predates Santa Claus, whose promotion enhanced today’s wreath popularity. The Romans decorated their Saturnalia winter festivities with wreaths and gave wreaths as gifts. Pre-Christian Northern and Eastern Europeans conducted non-Christian “Yule” winter celebrations that were decorated with candles and evergreen wreaths.

In the 16th Century, European Christians, especially Germanic ones, reportedly adopted many “pagan” Yule practices for their winter religious celebrations. Christmas Trees were adopted and decorated with small evergreen wreath ornaments. Larger wreaths decorated the Christian winter celebrations of Advent. The evergreen branches were (and are) considered to be symbols of eternal life.

Gradually, religious concepts were supplemented by secular “Christmastime” and “Holiday” ones, especially during the 19th Century, but the use and enjoyment of wreaths remained in both religious and secular spheres.

One of the most impactful secular influences on wreath popularity was the 1823 publication of Clement Clarke Moore’s A Visit From St. Nicholas (‘Twas the night before Christmas .…”), which featured Christmas wreaths in its illustrations. There also was the marriage of Britain’s Queen Victoria to Germany’s Prince Albert in 1840. She reportedly agreed to the widespread use in Britain of Christmas wreaths and other seasonal decorations and practices that were popular in Germany.

Today’s Christmas/Holiday wreaths on entrance doors have become beautiful universal symbols for what should be a universal sentiment: “Welcome!”

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November 10, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: NO REGRETS TURKEY DIDN’T FIGURE IN FIRST THANKSGIVING

By Richard Leighton

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

November appears to be best known for its Thanksgiving Day, which is perhaps our most democratic holiday. Yet, the holiday is most symbolized by a grotesque-looking bird that was slaughtered so that we could give thanks for it and other good fortunes.  Don’t get me wrong: I love turkey dinners and have a lot to give thanks for, but the combination of the two as a symbolic tradition seems tenuous and strange.

How did this tradition arise? No one seems to know.

Contrary to American folklore, turkey was not among the described foods in 1621 when our early European migrants sat down to eat with Native Americans in what was (much later) described as the “First Thanksgiving.” It is likely that turkey was not on that table that day. (A quick Internet search will provide authoritative information on this.) In any case, it appears that our first settlers did not promote the turkey tradition or even the idea of having a recurring celebration of wellbeing.

Some think that the Turkey-On-Thanksgiving tradition in the United States arose from the popularity of Charles Dickens’ 1843 novel A Christmas Carol, which depicted a turkey as the centerpiece of a Christmas feast in England. This seems unlikely – wrong holiday, wrong country, too many ghosts.

Others think, more plausibly, that the relationship was made in people’s minds by Sarah Joseph Hale’s popular 1827 novel, Northwood, which described turkey as the prominent part of a Thanksgiving Day meal in a New Hampshire farmhouse. (Relevantly, Ms. Hale’s energetic lobbying for making Thanksgiving a national holiday was part of the reason that Abraham Lincoln declared the holiday.)

I suspect that the tradition of having a turkey dinner on Thanksgiving has been promoted in large part by commercial turkey producers. However, those of us who love turkey dinners probably should give more thanks to the Native Americans who inspired the creation of the plump and juicy turkeys that are produced domestically today.

Nearly two thousand years ago, inhabitants of what is now the Southwestern United States and Mexico reportedly domesticated their native subspecies of the wild turkey, the only major vertebrate animal ever domesticated in ancient North and Central America. In the 1500s, specimens of these native birds were taken by Spanish explorers to Europe, where improved domestic breeds were developed.

In our Northeastern states, native wild turkeys were so abundant that domestication of them for food was not necessary. They became one of many mainstays of the varied diet of Native Americans here, including the four tribes of Wabanaki people (also known as the Abenaki and Wobanaki people), who have inhabited what is now Maine for more than 12,000 years.

Prior to the introduction of fowling pieces and other guns by outsiders, the Wabanaki and other native Americans apparently hunted wild turkeys primarily with bow and arrow and perhaps spears. More passive, baited devices also were used by them to capture turkeys and other wildlife; those included snares, pitfall traps (that the prey fell into) and deadfall traps (in which a propped-up heavy log fell on the prey).

As with other birds, Native Americans reportedly cooked turkeys by roasting, boiling, and stewing them. They sometimes were stuffed with such things as nuts and wild onions. Some tribes used turkey as a flavoring for soups and stews made primarily of other ingredients. Some also brined and smoked their turkeys and other bigger birds, then stored them for later consumption. 

Nonetheless, turkeys apparently were not a special food among the many foods that Northeastern Native Americans ate. The lives of these people depended on their hunting, fishing, gathering, and (sometimes) farming abilities in a wilderness. No matter what food they ate, it was cause for thanksgiving. Not a bad idea.

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October 13, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: AMERICAN SPIRIT BURNS BRIGHT IN PUMPKINS

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

By Richard Leighton

It’s October, the month of pumpkin patch rambling, pumpkin festival celebrating, pumpkin pie baking, pumpkin-spiced coffee drinking, pumpkin lantern carving, pumpkin weight competing, pumpkin regatta sailing, pumpkin hoisting and dropping and firing. National Pumpkin Day falls on October 26, a day celebrated annually in Maine and throughout the United States.

October is the month to definitively answer that important question: “What’s as American as Apple Pie?” and that answer is an emphatic: “Pumpkin Pie and Everything Pumpkin!” In fact, pumpkins are native to the American continent, and thus more American than apples, which originated in Asia. Let’s face it, folks, we’re Pumpkin People.

Researchers reportedly have estimated that pumpkins originated in what is now Mexico about 9000 years ago. Soon thereafter, many Native Americans were growing this squash flower’s fruit throughout the continent and making it a staple in their diets.

Then, those nosey Europeans came. Columbus reportedly described pumpkins in his journals and brought samples back to Europe, as did other explorers of our continent. When our original European Colonists settled in, they became creative with cooking the native pumpkins.

There are reports of the Colonists cutting the tops off the grown fruits, removing the seeds and tangles inside and filling the hollow with milk, honey, and spices. Then, the filled pumpkins were put within hot ashes to bake. When done, the infused pumpkin contents could be scraped out and eaten directly.

Colonists also reportedly baked mixtures of pumpkin with spices and other ingredients in a narrow pan that was lined with dough and called a “coffin.” When done, the coffin’s concoction was called a “pumpkin pie,” but the warm crust often was not eaten; it was just used to hold the desert. (Many other fruits, vegetables, and meats then were made into “pies,” a word that may have originated from a farming term for piling things, like potatoes.)

Speaking of potatoes, Irish-American immigrants get the credit for transforming pumpkins into lanterns here, as they did with potatoes in the old country. The use of Jack O’ Lanterns reportedly originated in Ireland and Scotland, where fierce, candle-lighted faces were carved into large potatoes and turnips. They were displayed in the fall to scare away the dishonest folklore character named Stingy Jack, who would be out and about at that time due to the Devil’s curse. When Irish immigrants came here, they continued the tradition, but used grotesquely carved pumpkins to scare away Jack (who apparently also immigrated).

As for grotesque, in more recent years, American farmers across this country have been growing “giant pumpkins” for “weigh-off” competitions at October pumpkin festivals and fairs.  As far as I can tell, the Maine record is held by a 2,121.5-pound pumpkin that came in first at last October’s festival in Damariscotta. (Perspective: This one-ton-plus fruit weighed more than the largest bull moose ever harvested in Maine. That bull was a record 1,330 pounds dressed, or about 1,767 pounds live!)

Going from the grotesque to the goofy, carnival-like events are performed with these giant pumpkins at many of the October festivals throughout the country. Among other events, there are “Giant Pumpkin Regattas” in which Halloween-costumed people with kayak-style paddles climb aboard hollowed, floating giant pumpkins and race. (Given the circular shape of these “vessels,” the races often turn into a hilarious, whirling pumpkin-bumping ride.)

There also are “Giant Pumpkin Drops” in which these huge squashes are hoisted well over 100 feet and dropped into pools, onto old cars, or amid anything else that will enhance their explosive landings. (I need not explain why, when it comes to these dramatic effects, it’s more American to use a giant pumpkin than a nearly invisible apple [or a very visible bull moose].)

However, we have to be careful not to confuse “giant pumpkins” with “The Great Pumpkin,” who also is native to America, but is weightless. The Great Pumpkin, as you probably know, is a benevolent spirit who always rises on Halloween from a pumpkin patch near you and delivers toys only to children who believe in the pumpkin spirit. At least, that’s what Linus sincerely reported in the comic strip Peanuts by Charles M. Schultz, and I’m not going to deny it.

The pumpkin spirit is an American way of life.

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September 8, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: BON VOYAGE TO OUR BRAVE SUMMER RESIDENTS

By Richard Leighton

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

Have you noticed that many of those huge nests on man-made platforms and in the tops of large trees are abandoned now? Just a little while ago, they were the homes of frenetic osprey parents trying to raise families of high-performance youngsters.

Ospreys breed in Maine during the spring and summer, usually raising a family of three big fledglings. However, September is the peak month for our “fish hawks” to go their separate ways and migrate south alone for winter vacations. Their goal is to make a perilous journey to their second homes many miles away. Thousands of them are on their way as you read this.

But, it wasn’t always this way. Life has improved for ospreys here during the 21st Century. As with bald eagles, the numbers of ospreys decreased to dangerous levels in the 1950s and ‘60’s due in large part to pesticides such as DDT in fish, which are ospreys’ almost exclusive diet. Since the banning of those pesticides, osprey and bald eagle numbers have resurged, creating an irony in Maine, where bald eagles are now driving ospreys from their nesting areas in some places.

Virtually all of Maine’s healthy ospreys migrate south, according to reports. The birds’ existence depends on their ability to plunge-dive for fish that are swimming near the surface of water. Freezing temperatures make diving into iced-up lakes and rivers impossible or dangerous, while winter diving into the sea becomes unproductive when many fish swim at lower, warmer depths. However, as temperatures increase due to Climate Warming, the odds increase for ospreys to become year-round Maine residents.

But now, our ospreys are seasonal residents and continue to undertake heroic spring and fall migrations. Researchers recently have been able to study those flights more closely, thanks to compact tracking devices placed on the backs of sample birds and organized Web-based census efforts. The result has been a trove of amazing and troubling discoveries about the brave birds.

As for the fall migration, we now know that the majority of our ospreys set out to spend the winter along the coasts and rivers of Central and South America, but many do not survive the trip. Among other reported catastrophes, the migrators get electrocuted by power lines, hit by cars and trucks, shot by chicken and fish farmers, and blown off course by hurricanes and other high-wind events.

Unlike many raptors, ospreys don’t rely on updrafts and thermal air currents to fly long distances. They are extraordinarily powerful flyers that usually fly early and late in the day when thermals are not much of a factor. And, ospreys are the only migrating hawks that dare to take shortcuts over deserts and vast expanses of open sea.

Also unlike other hawks, they don’t “fatten-up” energy reserves for migration; they eat when they can during the journey and some even have been seen “packing lunches” – carrying fish with them as they fly over inhospitable places.

Our northeastern ospreys usually fly south alone or in small groups, funneling between the Appalachian Mountains and the coast until they run out of rivers and land. Without hesitation, they fly over the Caribbean Sea to rest a bit in Cuba or other Caribbean islands. From there, they tack west and southwest over to Central and South America.

After arrival at their winter vacationland, the mature birds usually will relax in their already-established nesting areas. However, the first-time juveniles have to continue the grueling process by finding and defending a new territory. Some of them, through inexperience and hunger, will be tempted into nesting near one of the fish farms there. Those ospreys will never return to Maine.

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August 11, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: ONE OF OUR TOUGHEST BEINGS

By Richard Leighton

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

It’s mid-August, which is when one of the most difficult and dangerous journeys ever attempted by any living being is beginning in Maine. Monarch butterflies are starting to collect here for their annual migration to their Mexican winter habitat.

Be sure to get a good look at these beautiful creatures this month. You’ll probably see fewer of them in each coming year during your lifetime. That is, our monarchs are losing a difficult race for survival and the likelihood of saving them from extinction is questionable.

To be clear, it’s the migrating monarchs (Danaus plexippus plexippus) that we see in North America that are in trouble. They are a subspecies of non-migratory monarchs (Danaus plexippus) that mostly stay below our southern border.

In the United States, we have western and eastern monarch migrators. The western butterflies winter on the southern California coast and travel west and northwest in early summer. Our eastern monarchs leave their Mexican winter range in early spring and fly north and northeast; they breed along the way until a generation arrives in Maine and southern Canada in early summer.

Monarchs produce two or three generations of their kind in the summer. They lay their eggs on common milkweed leaves and the leaves of a very few other plants. The eggs become caterpillars (butterfly larva) that consume the plant leaves until the insects are mature enough to form a hanging (cocoon-like) chrysalis around themselves. In that green-gray chrysalis, the caterpillars are transformed into butterflies by a complex chemo-physiological process that borders on the miraculous.

Moreover, the last generation of our summer monarchs that come out of those chrysalises in August has a slightly different genetic makeup than the prior summer generations. Among other things, this last generation is born with genes that favor larger flying muscles and disfavor sexual distractions.

That’s because the altered monarchs in that last summer generation are the courageous pilgrims of the species. They will try, and some will succeed in, flying up to 3000 miles to a winter home that they never have seen.

How monarchs can get from here to their unknown winter range in Mexico and how new generations of them can get from there to their unknown summer range here is not fully known. Sun time lengths and angles, temperatures, magnetic fields, and other environmental cues apparently play a part. But, however they do it, the monarchs’ too-and-from migrations appear to crown them as the kings of unassisted long-distance insect travel. 

While much is unknown about monarch butterflies, one most compelling fact is glaringly apparent: The numbers of these migrators are decreasing precipitously. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature, the migratory monarchs’ population has shrunk by between 22 and 72 percent over the past decade.

Because of this continuing loss, the IUCN announced last month that it had placed the migrating monarchs on its Red List of endangered species. That endangered listing is welcome, of course. But, it’s by a nonregulatory monitoring body and many fear that it may be too little too late.

Monarchs are not yet listed as endangered in the United States, Canada, or Maine. In the U.S., monarchs were recognized as meeting the criteria to be listed under the Endangered Species Act, but were rejected for the horrifying reason that there were too many other needy creatures in line before them that were waiting (and dying) to be listed.

To the north of us, the monitoring Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada found monarchs to be endangered in 2016. The government of Canada is scheduled to consider the subject this fall and decide whether to list the insects as endangered and actually protect them nationally. If Canada does list and protect monarchs as endangered, that may encourage similar action in the U.S.

In Maine, monarchs are recognized as one of the “Species of Greatest Conservation Need” under the State’s Wildlife Action Plan. As far as I can tell, this wishful status has resulted primarily in encouraging people to replace lost monarch habitat by conserving land and planting common milkweed.

Pressure from conservationists continues to build hopes that significant government actions will save our migrating monarchs. Until that can happen, however, the fate of monarchs hangs on how long they can withstand continuing depletions before reaching an irreversible species tipping point.

Among other things, these butterflies are plagued by diminishing feeding and breeding habitats; harmful insecticides and herbicides, and Climate Change that ultimately brings droughts, violent rainstorms, extended freezing, damaging snowstorms (even in Mexico), and virtually uncontrollable forest and field fires.

Nonetheless, there is some, small hope for optimists. Pound for pound, that little monarch that weighs half a gram is one of the toughest beings we’ll ever meet. Ongoing efforts to plant milkweed may slow its destruction rate and a last-minute cavalry charge by concerned conservationists may be able to motivate politicians to provide meaningful protections.

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July 14, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: VISITING THE WATER NYMPHS’ WORLD

By Richard Leighton

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

Here’s a thought for those who are trying to overcome a growing compulsion to escape our surly and frightening “civilized” world. For me, and only from time to time, the key concept has been to just go ahead and really “escape” the clutches of daily life in the 21st Century.

And, again for me, there are few better ways to do this than to visit one of Maine’s many secluded native water lily ponds in July, when the flowers are at their peak of beauty and fragrance. Just apply a little sunscreen and bug spray, sit down, and wait for the lives in the pond’s small world to realize that you’re not a threat and resume their fascinating activities.

It's better to do this without human accompaniment, because you know that you’ll yield to the temptation to talk with a friendly companion, which will prevent you from escaping into the pond’s world. You’ll also want to do it in the sunny morning when the water lilies are opening themselves up. They’ll start closing as the day heats up or if it clouds over.

It’s when the water lilies are open fully that they exude most of their heavenly fragrance to attract the insects that will pollinate them and keep their kind surviving. After all, our native water lilies officially are named “fragrant water lilies” (Nymphaea odorata).

Of course, their species name, odorata, means fragrant. But, you may not have known that their genus name, Nymphaea, is derived from the Greek and Roman name for “water lily,” which, in turn, originated as a reference to mythological water nymphs.

Once you get accepted as part of the water lily pond world, some of the resident “nymphs” may reveal themselves to you and help you stop thinking for a while about such things as disease, money, politics, abortions, guns, and war.

Darting dragon and damsel flies likely will start zinging this way and that, like splinters of colored light, then land near or even on you. You may hear a green frog pluck his loose banjo string once – “unk!” – and then play the same single note again a few minutes later, “unk!”; or, a bull frog may call, in his very, very low voice, for another shot of his favorite beverage – “rummmm.”

You may be lucky enough to see a red-winged black bird land on a wobbly water lily pad to make a breakfast of the insects collected there. Look closely at the water beneath those floating lily pads, which are the plant’s leaves. They provide shade for fish, which sometimes show themselves in a swirl when things are still. 

And, returning to the water lily’s name, there is a high likelihood that you’ll be able to see a real water nymph on your visit to the pond. Just pick up one of the lily pads and examine its underside and stem closely – that’s where dragonfly nymphs and other aquatic invertebrates go to avoid our world.

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June 9, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: EAGLES FACE NEW THREAT

By Richard Leighton

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

One of the most dramatic wildlife recoveries in history was the last-minute rescue of bald eagles from their extinction by the widespread use of the insecticide DDT. Much to the joy of environmentalists, bald eagle numbers have been increasing significantly in Maine and the rest of the Northeast since at least 1990. But recently, that joy has been turning into increasing alarm over another apparent threat to our national bird.

The threat is lead poisoning from hunting ammunition.  Eagles are scavengers that commonly eat the carcasses of deer and other animals. Some of those carcasses contain the lead bullets that brought them down. There already is talk of seeking a ban on the use of lead bullets for all hunting.

There was a similar threat to ducks, geese, and other migratory waterfowl due to their eating hunters’ expended lead shot that had fallen in the birds’ habitats. Discovery of that threat resulted in federal and Maine prohibitions on the use of lead shot by those who hunt the birds; copper shot is allowed.

As to the lead threat to eagles, two recent studies are being cited with concern. One originally was reported in the February 17, 2022, issue of the prestigious journal Science. It found “unexpectedly high frequencies of lead poisoning” in a total of 1210 bald and golden eagles. The field work for this national study took place during the years 2010 to 2018 in 38 states, including a Maine bald eagle testing site.

The researchers found acute lead poisoning in 27 to 33 percent of bald eagles and 7 to 35 percent of goldens. They concluded that, “Use of lead in ammunition during hunting seasons corresponds directly … with the feeding” of bald and golden eagles. “Our data show a continent-wide temporal correspondence between acute lead poisoning of eagles and the use of lead ammunition.”

The second study is reported on in the current (Spring) edition of Cornell University’s Living Bird. The research originally was published in the January 2022 Journal of Wildlife Management. Its model estimates that deaths from ingesting lead ammunition lessened the growth rate of bald eagles by 4.2 percent for females and 6.3 percent for males. The model also indicated counterintuitive conditions that need to be explored.  

“Hopefully, this report will add information that compels hunters, as conservationists, to think about their ammunition choices,” coauthor Krysten Schuler is quoted as saying in Living Bird. That magazine concludes that, “Copper-based ammunition offers a nontoxic alternative to lead shot and bullets for hunters.”

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May 12, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: BEAR IN MIND SOME FACTS

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

By Richard Leighton

May is a restless month for black bears, Maine’s only bear species. They recently have come out of their winter dens and are just beginning their breeding season. You may well have been thrilled to see one already.

While seeing a black bear in the woods or a field can be a thrill, you should be aware of the recognized do’s and don’t’s designed to prevent that experience from becoming too thrilling. Keep in mind as you read this column that black bears seldom attack humans. But, “seldom” does not mean “never.”

I’ll summarize below what wildlife officials in Maine and other states suggest as best practices to be employed when encountering a black bear in its habitat. I’ll also add a few things that I’ve learned from such encounters. But first, let’s review a bit of relevant black bear background from the wildlife literature.

Black bears (Ursus americanus) are the smallest and most encountered of the three bear species in North America. (The other two species are the brown/grizzly and polar bears.) In the United States, wild black bears are found only east of the Mississippi River. Maine wildlife officials estimate that our state has more than 35,000 black bears, which is more than any other New England state.

Most adult male black bears range from 250 to 800 pounds in weight, with females ranging from 100 to 400 pounds. They can climb trees remarkably well and some reports say that their top running speed is 35 miles per hour. Keep in mind those facts – size, climbing ability, speed – while you review the experts’ suggested do’s and don’t’s for bear encounters, below.

Before You Take a Walk in Bear Territory

Many experts recommend that, if you intend to walk where black bears might be out and about, you should carry bear spray containing liquid hot pepper (capsaicin) in a safety-protected can. The spray causes pain, but will not permanently harm a bear or person. It is more effective than a gun, which may only wound a bear and make it charge. Sprayed black bears almost always retreat.

When You Initially Encounter a Bear

If you see a bear (meaning adult, cubs, or both together), stop walking; don’t panic; don’t offer your trail mix or other food to the bear. Make an authoritative sound that will get the animal’s attention, but that does not indicate that you are going to harm the bear. (A “Hey!” in a raised voice has worked for me in all of my four encounters.) If the bear flees, do not follow it.

If the Bear Doesn’t Flee Initially

Do not approach it. It’s a good sign if the bear stops walking, sits down, or stands on its hind legs to look things over – you’ve probably encountered a thinking bear. Do not run. Do not climb a tree. Back away slowly, turn slowly, and walk away slowly in the direction from which you came.

If the Bear Sees You and Comes Toward You

If you have spray, remove the safety on the can. Then, up the ante yourself by loudly yelling and throwing a stick, rock, or other object at the bear. Most black bears will then decide to avoid a confrontation and flee. Do not follow a fleeing bear.

If the Bear Exhibits Aggression, But Does Not Actually Charge

When they feel threatened, some black bears will “act out” to scare away the threat. They may blow, snort, pop jaws, stamp, and even do two-foot bluffed charges. Take the bear’s good advice and leave in the ways indicated above. If the bear is uncomfortably close and you have spray, give the undecided bear’s face one burst. That should make it flee. (The experts say that the spray does not increase aggression, it dissipates it.)

If the Bear Charges and Attacks  

This would be an extremely rare aggressive black bear, perhaps an injured one. Such a bear likely will back off only if significant counter-aggression is shown. Do not play dead. Use as much spray as you can on its face and yell your most blood-curdling screams. If the bear makes physical contact, kick and punch and use anything you can find as a weapon to hurt it. Avoiding confrontations is a built-in black bear trait; try to make the bear remember that.

Now that I’ve scared you, it’s time to calm down and realize that you’re probably more likely to be in a car accident than be attacked by a black bear. Go out and enjoy the woods and be thrilled if you see a black bear. But give the bear the respect it deserves.

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April 14, 2022

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: A BOBBED TALE

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

By Richard Leighton

Bobcats are resurging in Maine and now is one of the best times to see them, especially the males. In April, the males usually are back to patrolling their territorial radiuses of up to 60 miles after having mated in February and March.

However, it can be difficult to determine whether that tawny cat that you glimpse in the tree shadows or car lights is a bobcat or a Canadian lynx or even a large Maine coon cat. I’ll give you some tips on telling them apart after a bit of bobcat background.

Bobcats lead a hard, reclusive life. Bears, coyotes, foxes, eagles, and great horned owls prey upon them, especially their young; even male bobcats have been known to prey upon bobcat kittens. But, it’s we humans who appear to have contributed most to the cats’ distrusting dispositions.

Unrestrained hunting and trapping almost extirpated bobcats in Maine and elsewhere. Prior to the 1970s, these cats often were considered to be vermin that should be hunted down relentlessly. Gradually, however, the value of bobcats as predators, the benefits of natural diversity, and an interest in sport hunting of the cats changed the situation.

Maine and other states have adopted wildlife management techniques designed to maintain healthy numbers of the cats. (In Maine’s most recent bobcat season, they could be trapped only from October 31 through December 31, 2021, and hunted only from December 1, 2021, through February 21, 2022.)

The reintroduction into Maine of wild turkeys in the late 1970s is credited with being part of the reason for the bobcat resurgence here. Wild turkeys are a favorite prey of bobcats, but so are mice, voles, snowshoe hare, grouse, woodchucks, beaver, deer (small adult and young), reptiles, small birds, bird and reptile eggs, insects, and carrion, according to various reports.

Another reason for the resurgence of bobcats here, ironically, may be climate warming, especially in the southern two-thirds of the State. Although bobcats are small lynxes (Lynx rufus), these cats are low-slung and have small feet; they can’t hunt well in northern Maine’s deeper snow and do poorly when competing with Canadian lynxes (Lynx canadensis), which are built for snow. However, bobcats seem to be doing better and better as milder Maine winters creep north.

Which brings us to the first tip for differentiating a bobcat in the wild from a Canadian lynx or other large cat: Be careful. The fact that bobcats and Canadian lynx usually try to avoid humans does not mean that humans should try to get very close to them to see them better. Startled and sick bobcats and Canadian lynxes have attacked humans.

Next, play the odds. At least in the southern two-thirds of Maine, where there apparently are more bobcats than Canadian lynx, a relatively large, low-slinking cat with tufted Dr. Spock ears and flared 19th century sideburns is more likely a bobcat than anything else.

Size alone is not a good identification factor, however. Although adult bobcats almost invariably will be larger than domestic or feral cats, the bobcats’ size in relation to Canadian lynxes is not always different. Both can be about the size of a hefty cocker spaniel and some bobcats are bigger than some Canadian lynx.

The heaviest recorded bobcat weighed 76 pounds and was taken in Maine, according to the National Trappers Association. Nonetheless, most adult male bobcats are about three feet in length and weigh between 20 and 30 pounds; most females tend to be almost the same length and weigh 18 to 20 pounds, according to scientific reports.

Shape seems to be a better indicator of species than size. Bobcats usually are chunkier than their Canadian cousins, with shorter and stouter legs in relation to their bodies. But, in the end, it’s the tail tip that’s telltale.

Both cats’ tails seemingly have been “bobbed” too short. Nonetheless, the bobcat’s tail has a noticeable black spot at the top of the tail tip and white along the bottom of virtually the entire tail.  A Canadian lynx’s tail tip is black all around as if it had been dipped in ink.

Here's hoping that you’re lucky enough to see either a bobcat or a Canadian lynx at a safe distance today and that you can tell the difference. Even if you can’t decide which lynx you’re seeing, you’re still having a pretty good day.

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March 10, 2022

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: MIRACLE MIGRATION

By Richard Leighton

One of nature’s spectacular shows is now coming to Maine in ponds near you. Yes, the annual arrival of migrating wood ducks is now beginning. With a little help from their friends, these birds have made a near-miraculous comeback from virtual extinction here about 100 years ago.

The male wood duck generally is considered to be our most handsome and colorful waterfowl, if not our most handsome and colorful bird. He’s the reason that the species has the scientific name Aix sponsa, which is a combination of Greek and Latin words that loosely mean “a water bird dressed for a wedding.” His color combinations certainly would be head-turners at any wedding.

He has a crested head shaped like a cycling helmet, which is colored metallic green and blue that shades into purple in some light. His face and chin have graceful white streaks that divide his profile into colorful swoops. His beak is outrageously yellow, orange, white, and black. His eyes are otherworldly – red rims around red irises around a black dot of a pupil. He also sports a formal brown vest covered by small whitish polka dots.

The female wood duck is not very colorful, although she wears a very attractive white eye streak that resembles Cleopatra’s makeup. She’s primarily brownish gray. As with many female birds, she’s not colorful because she needs to be camouflaged when taking care of young and does not need color to flash a territorial claim the way her mate does.

Wood ducks prefer ponds, rivers, and swamps where nearby mature trees have cavities in which they can nest, although they will nest in man-made wood duck boxes placed in their habitats. Their ability to perch on branches in the woods – hence their name – is enhanced by sharp claws jutting from their webbed feet.

Although in their glory now, wood ducks have a tragic history. By the early 1900’s, they had been made virtually extinct in Maine and elsewhere. The primary causes of their demise were timber clearing and harvesting in their habitats and, especially, nearly year-round hunting for sport, feathers, and commercial food markets. (The birds reportedly are delicious.)

Many of the same techniques used for extirpating passenger pigeons, including trapping and mass-netting of the birds, were used contemporaneously to kill and capture wood ducks. (The last wild passenger pigeon probably died in the early 1900s; the last captive passenger pigeon died in the Cincinnati Zoo in 1918.)

In 1911, when wood ducks were on the brink of extinction here, Maine enacted a four-year protection period. It reduced their hunting mortality enough to allow the birds to survive until the significant protections of the 1918 federal Migratory Bird Act came into being. From 1918 to 1941, hunting wood ducks was prohibited.

The birds slowly came back to the point where they are now common spring and fall migrants in Maine and other states. They are part of why we should protect our wetlands. Maine allows the hunting of wood ducks in the fall and winter under highly regulated conditions, including a three-bird daily limit. The use of traps and nets for hunting these birds is prohibited, but falconry is allowed.

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February 10, 2022

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: NATIONAL BRRR-ds

By Richard Leighton

The numbers of bald eagles wintering in Maine have been increasing dramatically since 1990, according to recorded Christmas bird counts across the state. This good news is tempered by the concern that the increase of these top-link predators may be causing the decrease of some winter birds that roost below eagles in the food chain.

Bald eagles, our National Bird since 1782, subsist on fish when they can. However, they are not prideful when it comes to survival; they will take waterfowl, reptiles, and small mammals, as well as pick through roadkill and feast on meat from the carcasses of large mammals that have died in the woods.

In Maine, when inland lakes and many rivers freeze, the eagles there usually have to leave to find their food, which means finding open water that is suitable for fishing and hunting with talons. These inland birds often must decide between migrating south or taking a winter vacation on Maine’s seacoast or coastal islands. Climate warming may be influencing the eagles’ decisions to overwinter along our coasts in recent years.

Maine’s large coniferous trees in coastal areas can provide good perching for the big birds that need protection from freezing winds, rain, snow, and harassing crows. However, on a sunny winter’s day, a tall deciduous super-canopy tree might be preferred by some eagles for its warmth and unobstructed views, crows bedamned. Having a nightlife also seems to be an attraction for many wintering eagles; they will leave their daytime feeding perch to congregate overnight with other eagles in a distant sleeping roost colony.

When roosting at night, these birds reportedly can slow their own metabolic rate to reduce heat loss. And, most of their 7000 feathers are made of fine down that can be fluffed by the roosting birds to form cushions of insulating air that are warmed by the bird’s body.

However, the bald eagles’ primary adaptation to reduce heat loss in winter seems to be doing nothing during the day but watching the world go by – for hours and even days. This is not difficult for eagles; they gorge food when they can and store it in their crops. The literature cites eagles that have gone without fresh food for months.

Nonetheless, bald eagles must hunt and eat eventually. Fish is preferred, but 24 percent of the diet of wintering eagles on the Maine coast was found to be waterfowl, according to a comprehensive 1982 report. As the numbers of wintering eagles have been steadily increasing here over the years, the numbers of some waterfowl appear to have been decreasing.

That correlation has not been proved as a cause and effect fact, as far as I know. However, among the species that seem to have been regularly decreasing here over the same years that bald eagles have been regularly increasing are common eiders, our largest native ducks, and a favorite winter prey of eagles.

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January 13, 2022

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “In the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: WHAT A DRAG!

By Richard J. Leighton

These times are worrisome, but members of one important segment of Maine’s winter economy have something to smile about.

The Atlantic sea scallop fishing season opened in early December. Since then, the weather has been relatively mild, the scallops have been plentiful, and the fishermen have been receiving record high prices for their catches. The hope is that this good luck will last until the end of the season in March.

Yet, most people have only the vaguest idea of how these hardworking fishermen, male and female, accomplish the mysterious task of getting scallops from the sea bottom and on their way to our tables. Let’s try to demystify some of how this is done by the crews of our “day-boat” coastal fishing vessels.

These boats catch and bring ashore (they “land”) their scallops in one day and are the primary source of scallops caught here. Their scallops are the freshest. They’re called “dry scallops” because, due to the fishermen’s short trips, there is no need to pack the catches in ice to protect against toxins. Ice melts and can change the scallops’ taste.

There also are “trip-boat” scallopers who often are at sea for a week or more. They need to pack their catches in ice and, therefore, they sell “wet scallops.” However, they use basically the same fishing methods as day-boat scallopers.

(We’ll have to leave for a later time a description of the methods used by fishermen who dive in wetsuits and scuba gear to hand-harvest “divers’ scallops” and the practices of aquacultural “scallop farmers” who grow and sell the mollusks.)

A typical day-boat fishing vessel is shown in the accompanying photograph. She’s Dear Abbie:, a 38-foot vessel that moors in Brooklin. She’s owned and captained by Scott Keenan of Blue Hill. The photo shows Abbie:’s sternman, Tabor Horton, also of Blue Hill, inspecting one of the seldom seen aspects of scalloping. We’ll get to that in a moment.

In the summer, Abbie: is a lobster boat. In the winter, she’s reconfigured as a scalloping boat. That mast and boom are added. Many scalloping vessels, including Abbie:, also are reconfigured with temporary on-deck “shelling houses.” These huts provide protection from the cold for those who shuck the muscles out of the scallop shells and toss the remainders back to become seagull, fish, and crab food.

Although some gourmands eat the orange roe (female reproductive organs) and other scallop innards, the vast majority of Americans eat only the succulent white abductor muscles that open and close the mollusks’ shells. We incorrectly call those muscles “scallops” and usually never think about the complex body parts inside scallop shells that are aptly called “the guts” by many fishermen.

Speaking of complexity, let’s now turn to what Abbie:’s sternman is inspecting in that photo. It’s a New Bedford style trawling dredge that almost universally is called a “drag” by Maine fishermen. Primarily, the drag is a large “ring bag” that is towed as lightly as possible across the sea bottom to scoop up scallops.

The drag is made mostly of metal rings that are four inches in diameter to allow young scallops that are below the legal size to escape. The red area on top of the bag when it is dredging is made of large-meshed twine. It reduces weight, facilitates gear adjustments, and allows fish and small scallops to escape. Many of the drag’s other parts have esoteric uses and exotic names, including the apron, skirt, club stick, shoes, rock chains, sweep chain, and chaffing gear.

After a tow from the boom, the drag is hoisted up the mast, emptied from the bottom, and small scallops and other unwanted material are thrown overboard. The remaining pile of legal-sized scallops is sorted by size and shucked into containers for sale to a distributer who will start the food’s journey throughout the country and the world.

All of this is done within a framework that is highly regulated by the State. During this 2021-2022 season, fishing for scallops has been limited primarily to four specific days per week in each of three fishing zones. The State reserves the right to further limit fishing if there are indications that the scallop population needs more protection.

As of early January, there was a daily limit of 15 gallons of shucked scallops (“scallop meat”) per vessel. This limit also is subject to further restriction if there were an environmental need.

Many scallopers will take orders from neighbors and friends and sell them fresh scallops by the gallon from their 15-gallon catch. The price charged usually is about the same as the wholesale price that the fishermen would receive from commercial distributors.

Through early January, that “boat price” paid by distributors to fishermen ranged from about $18 to $24 per pound of scallops, according to Captain Keenan. The 15-gallon limit would average out to about 135 pounds of scallops, he said. Thus, catching the limit within a day’s (or possibly a long morning’s) work would be worth about $2430 to $3240 per each of the four allowable days a week.

Now you know why hard-working Maine scallop fishermen are smiling. 

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December 9, 2021

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: PEPITA’S GIFT

By Richard Leighton

There is more mystery surrounding the traditional red Christmas “flowers” shown here than there is relating to where Santa Claus gets his red flannel suits drycleaned.

Let’s begin with the fact that the big red clusters are not the plant’s flowers; they’re simply a form of the plant’s leaves known as “bracts.” They’ve turned red due to the darkness in which the plants are cultivated (a process called “photoperiodism”). You’ve probably never noticed the plant’s real flowers, which are partly hidden within the small structures in the center of the red leaf cluster.

Then, there is its name: Poinsettia. This is no derivation of an interesting Latin or Greek word. It’s just a derivation of Joel Roberts Poinsett’s last name. He was the first United States Minister to Mexico who happened to be a botanist during his off hours. In the early 19th Century, he found the plants in their native Mexico and began shipping them to the United States, where nurseries eventually popularized them.

When the plants first came here, they were simply and descriptively called “Mexican flame flowers.” (Their natural, non-manipulated color is deep red.) After being popularized with Joel’s last name, however, there was confusion as to how to pronounce “poinsettia.” It’s “POYNE-seh-teeyah.” Don’t turn that two-syllable “teeyah” into a one-syllable “tah.”

Those of us who have trouble pronouncing strange names are lucky that the plant didn’t keep its original Aztec name: “cuetlaxochit.” The Aztecs used the plant’s leaves to make purple dye for cosmetics and clothes and its sap (which is what we call latex) for medicine.

Returning to the plant’s more modern mysteries, there is a persistent rumor that poinsettias are fatally poisonous to humans and their pets. Not so, according to the Society of American Florists, which had the plants tested for toxicity. However, eating the leaves can cause some discomfort in some people and animals and touching the sap can give people with a latex allergy a rash.

Nonetheless, there’s no denying that poinsettias have become a popular Christmas decoration in Maine and throughout the nation. Why? There seem to be three leading theories mentioned in the literature, perhaps all originating from a common idea. First, in the 17th Century, Franciscan priests in southern Mexico began creating extravagant nativity scenes decorated with the colorful local poinsettias. That practice became popular with ordinary people.

Second, the plant’s radiating leaves were said by some to symbolize the Star of Bethlehem that reportedly led the three Wise Men to the child Jesus in the original nativity stable. And, the red color of that star was thought to symbolize the blood that Jesus shed.

Finally, there is the much-cited legend of little Pepita, the poor Mexican girl who couldn’t afford a present to give to the baby Jesus during Christmas. She made a bouquet from some wild green plants that she found along the road and laid it in her church’s nativity creche before Christmas mass. During the ensuing services, the plants miraculously turned bright red and, ever since, have been known in Mexico as Flores de Noche Buena, “Flowers of the Holy Night.”

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November 11, 2021

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE WET THREAT

By Richard Leighton

We may be having a Noah moment. A recent report on flood risks nationally and in each state has provided some shocking facts to add to the climate change information that many Maine comprehensive planners have been sifting through lately to determine whether and/or how to protect their communities.

The shocking report is titled “The 3rd National Risk Assessment: Infrastructure on the Brink.” It was issued on October 11 by the First Street Foundation, a non-profit scientific organization that specializes in flood research. The topline of their assessment is this: 25 percent – a full one-quarter – of our Nation’s “critical infrastructure” and 23 percent of our roads are now at risk of becoming inoperable or inaccessible due to flooding. And, flooding is increasing.

The critical infrastructure at risk includes emergency services (police, fire, medical, etc.), utilities, airports, seaports, streets and roads, and social structures (schools, government offices, etc.). First Street’s metrics estimate such things as the extent of flooding that would close down a hospital or make a road impassable to automobiles.

Our bad situation is likely to get even worse, according to First Street: “Over the next 30 years, due to the impacts of climate change, an additional 1.2 million residential properties, 66,000 commercial properties, 63,000 miles of roads, 6,100 pieces of social infrastructure and 2,000 pieces of critical infrastructure will also have flood risk that would render them inoperable, inaccessible, or impassable.”

The highest concentrations of flood risks in the nation were found to be in Florida, Kentucky, Louisiana, and in West Virginia. However, risks were found in all states. As for Maine, First Street found that there are 70,079 properties that have greater than a 26 percent chance of being severely affected by floods in the next 30 years; that’s a reported 11 percent of all properties in the State.

The Maine municipalities found to be at most risk are, starting at the highest risk, the following: Gardiner, Brewer, Skowhegan, Old Town, Auburn, Bath, Yarmouth, Bango, Lewiston, and Rockland. The Flood Factor application on the First Street website will allow you to see the reported flood risks for your individual property and community. (The accompanying image is of a violent storm that flooded part of Naskeag Harbor in Brooklin, Maine, on February 27, 2020.)

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October 14, 2021

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE BUZZ ABOUT APPLES

By Richard Leighton

October is the prime time to harvest many varieties of apples in Maine and this year it looks like there will be a bumper crop of the temptation fruits. Why so many? No one seems to know for certain, but there are wide-ranging theories.

On one extreme, there are the old-timers who say that Mother Nature knows in the summer whether the coming winter is going to be harsh and, if it is going to be harsh, she provides extra servings of apples and other foods for her wildlife to survive until spring.

On the other hand, Climate Change appears to have brought us a warmer and wetter spring and summer this year, which apple trees appear to like if they can survive the turbulent storms and flash floods that come with the Change. (What a warmer winter with more severe storms might mean to apple trees and humans is anyone’s guess, but we may find out soon.)

Nonetheless, there are many proud apple trees now showing off their ancient fruit. In Down East Maine, an unusually large number of these trees are “wild,” including the one shown in the accompanying image. These trees originated primarily from one of two sources.

First, many of the trees were planted in days of yore by landowners for food or, often more likely, to make hard cider; then, over time, they were abandoned; the hardy trees soldiered on alone. Second, there are the wild apple trees that have sprouted from seeds, usually those that have been deposited and fertilized by wildlife droppings.

Yes, fruit-producing apple trees can grow from seeds. However, their fruit does not produce a “true” variety. The seed-planted apple trees often produce fruit that is exceedingly tart compared to the apples of a tree that came into being by grafting from another tree. Thus, the successful planting of a seed from a McIntosh Apple will not result in a McIntosh Apple tree; it will create a genetically different tree that might produce apples that taste terrible to us.

Sometimes, those wild apples are so tart that even tough-tongued ruminants such as white-tailed deer immediately spit them out with a shudder, In fact, some older farmers here reportedly still call such apples “spitters.” Generally, however, most wild apples are a good winter food source for a wide spectrum of wildlife, including bear, moose, deer, raccoons, wild turkeys, gulls, and some songbirds.

However, there can be a problem when fallen apples ferment. It’s hilarious to see drunken wild turkeys at an apple-eating party wobbling, falling over, and seemingly giggling at each other. However, a few years ago, a big bull moose got mean drunk from eating fermented apples and terrorized an area of Anchorage, Alaska; a local newspaper named him “Buzzwinkle.”

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September 9, 2021

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: “EMPTY NEST” BLUES

By Richard Leighton

I’m suffering from a recurring, strange, literal version of the “empty nest syndrome.” That syndrome, as you probably know, describes the grief that parents can feel when all of their children have moved away from home. My problem is complicated by the fact that my “children” happen to be three adopted ospreys.

The ospreys were born and raised this summer in a nest high over Great Cove, here in Brooklin, Maine. As I have for the past four years, this year I photographed and reported on activity in that nest from spring through September. For descriptive purposes, I’ve always called the youngsters’ real parents “Ozzie and Harriet” in honor of the indulgent adult performers in the 1950s-‘60s television sitcom of that name.

Similarly, I’ve always named Ozzie and Harriet’s first two hatchlings “David” and then “Ricky,” the names of the troublesome children on that show. (The sex of an osprey hatchling can’t be determined without being intrusive, but I like to assume the sex for descriptive purposes.)

If a third hatchling appears, as happened this year, “she’s” named “June,” the month of her emergence from the egg. (I’ve never seen four youngsters in the nest, although that is theoretically possible.)

Initially, while Harriet was incubating her eggs in the early summer, Ozzie would visit the nest one or more times daily to deliver a fish for her. Sometimes, he would take her place and incubate while she took a short break. The same routine was followed after the eggs hatched in June, except that Harriet usually would carefully feed each red-eyed hatchling miniscule portions of the fresh fish – one sharp beak to the other.

By the end of July, all of the fast-growing youngsters had done many “osprey bounces” – holding their wings out to catch a breeze, rising 10 to 20 feet on it, and flapping back down into the nest. (That’s what June is doing in the accompanying photograph.) Soon thereafter, all youngsters were flying away from the nest, but returning to hang out, sleep, and eat Ozzie’s fish offerings. It takes a while for young ospreys to discover how to fish for themselves successfully, since they learn by instinct and trial and error.

By mid-August, the nest often was empty. David and Ricky had disappeared and Ozzie and Harriet often were winging it over the neighborhood together. However, the youngest osprey, June, was not yet as proficient at fishing as her older brothers. Sometimes, after too many unsuccessful dives, she would return to the nest hungry and beg loudly until Ozzie would appear with a fish for her – which she would grab and then fly away.

Well, it’s now approaching mid-September. Although I’ve seen and heard a few ospreys, the nest has been empty every time that I’ve checked it recently.  Maine ospreys generally migrate south from late August through October, but September reportedly is their peak month to leave. My exotic “children” may have begun their biologically-destined voyage, a journey that is dangerous for them and worrisome for me.

The latest research on osprey migrations is done with tiny satellite GPS transmitters strapped on the ospreys’ backs. We now know that many New England ospreys fly up to 5,000 miles, traveling over the Atlantic Ocean to the Caribbean Islands for a short rest and then to South America, especially the Amazon basin, where the fishing is good.

Some of that research indicates that the vast majority of young ospreys don’t return to New England in the spring, either because they go elsewhere or do not survive the ordeals of their first year. However, that research also indicates that the vast majority of osprey adults that migrate south from New England return here in the spring, often to the same nest. Experience counts.

I’m already looking forward to the next season of the Ozzie and Harriet Show.

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August 12, 2021

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: COLLIDING WAYS OF LIFE

By Richard Leighton

A study released this May by National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Fisheries is getting a lot of attention in light of current events. NOAA Fisheries measured “Gentrification” pressures in northeastern United States fishing communities, including nearby Stonington and seven other Maine communities.

Before trying to communicate a sense of this important subject, we probably need a few preliminary explanations of social science terminology (some would say “gobbledygook”). “Gentrification” has been the term of choice for most social scientists, but the word is a misnomer with implications of class-based arrogance and sexism.

What we’re talking about is change caused by people coming and going (demographic migrations) combined with money-related problems and opportunities (economics), mostly in less populated areas.

In terms of incoming people, some Gentrification pressures in Maine are being caused by “Rural Amenity Migration,” which is increasing numbers of people “from away” coming here, not primarily for economic opportunities, but primarily to improve their quality of life, including lessening the threats from pandemics and Climate Change.

Related is “Retiree Migration,” which involves increasing numbers of people who no longer work for a living moving here permanently to reduce their costs of living and/or to improve their quality of life. Retirees may pay taxes, eat in restaurants, and buy local goods, but usually they do not employ significant numbers of local people who need a job to enable them to stay in their community.

Migrators from away often love their new Maine homes and wish to participate in their community’s wellbeing. However, they also may have values and ideas about how their new community should look and be run that are different from those of original residents. For example, buying a large tract of land, building a huge house on it, and posting significant wooded acreage with “No Trespassing” or “No Hunting” signs may not be their longer-residing neighbors’ idea of quality of life.

A small coastal community’s picturesque working harbor may produce tourist dollars for a few months and attract property buyers who can afford to pay inflated prices for nearby residences. Nonetheless, this attraction can cause “Housing Disruption,” in which fishermen and other workers can no longer afford to live reasonably near where they work. And, in some especially problematic cases, it can result in the privatizing of properties that were traditionally used by fishermen and the public to gain access to the harbor.

A part of Stonington’s picturesque working harbor is shown in the photograph accompanying this column. That Town is facing some of the social pressures that must be studied more closely in Maine. It has only about 1000 full time residents and is suffering from significant Housing Disruption, according to the NOAA Fisheries study.

The study points out that Stonington’s economy, as with other Maine coastal towns, is “highly reliant on the fishing industry – half of the community works in fishing/agriculture or related fields.” And, the success of that economy is dependent on harvesting just one sensitive marine species, lobsters.

The Stonington economy could experience a significant shock, according to NOAA Fisheries, if (some would say “when”) the accessibility or quality of lobsters declines due to warming waters or if (some would say “when”) regulatory agencies impose additional significant restrictions on fishing to save protected marine life or for other reasons,

The bottom line on Gentrification seems to be that social change is an irresistible force that must not only be recognized and understood better, but it also must be anticipated and sometimes moderated or avoided, if possible. That likely will involve people of different backgrounds being able to empathize with each other better to make needed compromises for the betterment of all.

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July 8, 2021

In the Right Place: God Save the King

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

By Richard Leighton

The king of butterflies seems to be going the way of most monarchies. There appears to be a likelihood that efforts to save the monarch butterfly have been too little and too late, especially in the west. 

For many years, these beautiful creatures have been experiencing increasing difficulties in finding common milkweed (which is necessary for their life cycle) and pesticide-free flowers to fuel their migrations. To these dangers now has been added fast-escalating climate change with its significant plant- and insect-killing heat, droughts, violent storms, and furious fires.

Over 90 percent of the world’s monarch butterflies reside in North America, where they are divided into two migrating populations. The vast majority of them are in the eastern migration, which is made up of the butterflies that live east of the Rocky Mountains; they migrate each year in succeeding waves to and from the mountaintops of central Mexico. Maine is on the northern edge of the eastern migration.

About one percent of the North American monarch population is in the remaining western population, which migrates mostly to California’s central coast region. These western butterflies are living a perilous existence and likely will disappear soon.

The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has estimated that there is a dire 96-to-100 percent probability of the western species collapsing within 50 years. It also found that there is an 80 percent probability that the eastern monarch population will collapse within that time period. Those projections take into consideration current efforts to aid the butterflies.

In response to a petition, the Service found in December of 2020 that “adding the monarch butterfly to the list of threatened and endangered species is warranted but precluded by work on higher-priority listing actions.”

With this decision, the lower-priority monarch was denied immediate protection under the federal Endangered Species Act, which requires comprehensive national plans for the recovery of listed species. There reportedly are 161 other candidates waiting in the slow line ahead of the monarch.

The western monarchs likely don’t have enough time to wait for protection. They are almost all gone; only 2,000 of them were found this winter after intensive searches. The eastern monarchs almost certainly will disappear within most people’s lifetimes unless something major (and unexpected) is done to change our society’s selfish ways.

Current monarch preservation efforts, which pathetically have to rely in part on convincing gardeners to plant milkweed, are no match for the immense dangers that the fragile butterflies face. Among other actions, sizeable and safe land preserves need to be set up in their breeding and wintering grounds, as well as along their migrating routes.

In March of this year, a bipartisan group of western U.S. legislators proposed to protect the western monarchs under a Monarch Action, Recovery, and Conservation of Habitat Act. The bill in the Senate is S. 809; in the House of Representatives it is H.B. 1983. The lawmakers had introduced similar proposals in prior Congresses. However, as in the past, there have been plenty of doomsday press releases and not a bit of legislative action.

Take a good look at the accompanying image of a beautiful Monarch butterfly on flowering milkweed, the only plant that its caterpillars eat. Unless something unexpected happens, the odds are that you’ll be seeing fewer and fewer of both over the coming years until there comes a time when children ask, “Grandma, what were monarch butterflies like?”

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June 10, 2021

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: LIFE IN THE SLOW LANE

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

By Richard Leighton

Eastern painted turtles, such as the one in the accompanying photograph, are starting to bask in Down East Maine ponds now. In central Maine, midland painted turtles (a very similar species) are doing the same. We’ll get back to these gentle creatures, but first a few thoughts about turtledom generally in Maine.

We’re fortunate in Maine to have those two native species of painted turtles as well as six other types of inland (not counting sea) turtles. On the other hand, these turtles may not be feeling so lucky to be Mainers.

Part of the problem is that turtles are “cold blooded” and our northern climate is colder and more unpredictable than you might want if you were sealed into your home with no thermostat to prevent your organs from shutting down.

There also appear to be recurring changes to natural turtle habitat here due to farming, commercialism, deforestation, reforestation, “gentrification” of rural settings, and roadbuilding. Real estate buyers aren’t the only ones who have problems finding the right location.

Finally – and most timely – there is an inland turtle compulsion in June and July. The females leave their field ponds and other home grounds to bury their fertilized eggs elsewhere; then, they retrace those painfully slow steps to return home.

Evolution has not been kind to turtles when it comes to road-crossing skills. That’s why the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries & Wildlife has sponsored an excellent social media program on how to help nest-seeking turtles cross the road. (First Rule: don’t risk doing it in moving traffic.)

Now, back to our favorite Maine turtle, the eastern painted. Their principal activity these days seems to be basking in the sun. It seems settled that they and other turtles use the thermal rays to help regulate their temperatures. However, some scientists theorize that painted turtles also bask to absorb needed vitamin D and/or to kill parasites.

Painted turtles are discrete creatures: the male asks the important question by stroking the female’s face with his front claw; if she agrees, they’ll disappear into the depths of the pond and mate. Soon thereafter, she’ll begin that journey to find a nest site and lay her eggs. These will hatch in the fall, but the nickel-sized hatchlings usually remain underground in the shallow nest.

When the ground freezes, so do the hatchlings – their hearts and other organs cease to function, they get no oxygen, they’re virtually dead, and some do die if the nest temperature goes below 25 (F). (Mature painted turtles usually hibernate during the winter in the muck at the bottom of ponds, where they’re not likely to freeze.)

In the spring or early summer, the recently hatched turtles dig themselves out and instinctively seek a watery home. The mature turtles occasionally will rise to bask on warm April and May days, but usually return to the warmer bottom muck before nightfall. (The first painted turtle basker in our pond this year was on April 21.)

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May 20, 2021

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SHORT SHRIFTED

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post monthly in The Ellsworth American

By Richard Leighton

That cute little fellow in the accompanying photograph is one of our interesting, but poorly known, animals that is being threatened. Many of his kind are having troubles right now as they try to court, mate, and nest.

Let’s get to know him a little better before we consider the threat facing him. His name is one of the unusual things that makes him interesting: He’s a “short-eared owl” with a scientific name that means fiery horned owl: Asio flammeus.

He’s definitely an owl. However, he’s not fiery and he doesn’t have short ears or horns. He has small tufts of feathers on top of his head that he can raise, but often doesn’t bother to do so. Some bird-naming authorities, who apparently had poor vision or imagination, determined that those tufts looked like little ears. (They probably used the same process to determine that the feather tufts on his much larger cousin, the Great Horned Owl, looked like horns.)

Short-eared owls are more short-bodied than short-eared; they grow to about 15 inches long, which is smaller than a mature American crow. Their courtship involves extraordinary “flight fights” by the male and female, including an occasional talon tangle.

Perhaps most unusual (and maybe weird), the fast-flying male shows his appreciation of the female by making a barking sound and clapping his wings fast below his body as he whizzes by. This produces an odd sound somewhat like a drummer quickly striking his teak woodblock multiple times.

Short-eared owls prefer the openness of fallow (non-agricultural) fields and marshlands, where they can cruise at low heights at dusk and dawn looking for small mammals. They instinctively nest on the ground or in a low bush. If a human or other feared intruder gets too close to the nest, the female will use the old “injured bird trick” to try to lead the threat away from her eggs or young.

We’ve reached the time to discuss threats. The hunting and nesting habitats of short-eared owls are disappearing fast and so are the owls, according to bird census reports. At an increasing rate, the owls’ preferred areas are being bulldozed, planted, and/or sold for construction of residential or commercial sites. Maine has designated short-eared owls as “Threatened” and New York has deemed them “Endangered.”

To protect them on agricultural land, Maine regulators called for the creation of a Best Management Practices guide “to minimize negative effects of cutting hay/silage during the grassland bird nesting season.” That was in 2016. I have been unable to find such a BMP.

You should, at least, try to see one of these cute owls before they disappear from Maine.

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April 8, 2021

IN THE RIGHT PLACE:  VERNAL POOLS SPRING TO LIFE

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

By Richard Leighton

It’s time when you might want to take a spring break and sit around a pool to enjoy watching activity that’s on the wild side. Of course, we’re talking about sitting around a vernal pool.

These pools are created in the wooded lowlands by the rains and melted snow of March and early April. Most of them will go dry by summer. After all, they’re only “vernal,” which means “of the spring.” So now is the time to see them.

Vernal pools are where many amphibians and crustaceans must breed and grow to fulfill their important roles as insect eaters, foods for other wildlife, and sources of wonder and discovery for us.

In Maine, they’re an indispensable part of the life stages of at least three native amphibians: the Spotted Salamander (shown here), the Blue-Spotted Salamander, and the Wood Frog. These pools also are just about the only place where native freshwater crustaceans called Fairy Shrimp swim, which they do by backstroking upside down.

Some of the amphibious vernal pool creatures, including the Spotted Salamander, are “pool-specific” creatures. That is, no matter where they are, when the temperature gives them the signal that it’s time to mate and lay eggs, thousands of them embark on a nocturnal march to return to the pool in which they were born.

On such “Big Nights,” these tiny travelers often must scurry relatively long distances and cross roads to get to their family pool to engage in an orgy of breeding. Nature lovers with flashlights often try to give them a hand crossing roads and other difficult terrain.

Maine vernal pools that are determined to be of high value to wildlife are regulated as “Significant Vernal Pools” under the State’s Natural Resources Protection Act. Serious disturbances of such pools are prohibited and activities that have the potential to impact the pools may not be undertaken without a permit.

When you’re buying land to build on, make sure it doesn’t contain a significant vernal pool where you’re going to build. On the other hand, you’ll probably never regret having a vernal pool nearby to sit around during a spring break and watch the wildlife.

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March 11, 2021

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SOMETHING TO SING ABOUT

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

By Richard Leighton

Spring officially arrives next week and with it will come claims of seeing the first Robin migrating here. Well, thanks to climate warming and some other factors, it’s becoming increasingly likely in Maine that the Robin you see in March is one of the many residents that never left the State. During recent Audubon Christmas bird hunts in Maine, birders have reported seeing thousands of Robins wintering here.

If you’re not a birder, you probably just didn’t notice the increase in Robins that have become year-round Mainers. They usually don’t appear on bird feeders unless cut fruit or mealworms are served. (They can’t eat seeds.) 

They spend most of their wintertime here in trees and bushes eating the remaining berries. They don’t sing for a mate and usually don’t do their hopping around lawns and fields until spring thawing, when earthworms and insect larvae can be reached. So, they’re usually not very noticeable to the casual observer in winter.

Now that more Robins are not “from away,” it probably is a good idea to learn a little more about these good-looking neighbors. First, we should know their correct name; it’s not just Robin. It’s American Robin to avoid confusion created by our Nation’s first European settlers.

When they saw the bird, they called it a Robin because they mistakenly thought it was another form of the European Robin, which is a similarly colored, but entirely different, species. (It’s a Flycatcher.) In England, that European bird had been called Robin Redbreast, or Robin for short, since the 1400s. (“Robin” is a diminutive form of “Robert,” as in Robin Hood.)

To be even more precise about it’s identity, the American Robin was given a scientific name that would distinguish it from all other species and indicate that it was a migrating bird. Unfortunately, that scientific name has been a source of amusement to those who find scatological terms funny; it’s Turdus migratorius. “Turdus” means Thrush in Latin and our Robin is a member of that sweet-singing genus. The male’s spring song is lovely and often the last bird song that we hear at dusk.

Not only is their song sweet, we’re told that American Robin flesh is among the tastiest of bird flesh. They and passenger pigeons were once among the most hunted birds. Why those pigeons were extirpated and the Robins survived is still a subject of debate. Thankfully, Robins now are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. That’s something to sing about.

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February 11, 2021

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SAY IT WITH FLOWERS

By Richard Leighton

In less than a week, millions of women (and some men) in this country will be receiving a bouquet of flowers from someone who wants to show their love on Valentine’s Day. In part, this practice is the result of mass marketing that began in the early 1900s. It also is very much an extension of ancient customs.

In 1910, when the telegraph was becoming widespread, a group of smart American florists reportedly got together and called themselves the Florists’ Telegraph Delivery Association, or FTD for short. The idea was – and still is – to exchange orders among themselves so that they could give consumers the ability to send bouquets with messages almost immediately to lovers, friends, and relatives who lived many miles away.

A few years thereafter, the FTD adopted one of the most popular advertising slogans ever created: “Say it with Flowers.” That slogan concisely captured the essence of what cut flowers have been used for over the ages.  It also was an extension of a prior Victorian era craze of sending floral bouquets as coded messages to convey in “floriography” (flower language) strong or embarrassing emotions.

That Victorian craze got so popular and complicated that dictionaries and guides had to be written to explain the latest codes and what flowers were “in” and “out.” While red roses have always been a well-accepted expression of love, for example, floriography gave romantics a chance to be more creative in expressing themselves florally.

Reportedly, at one time, a bouquet of red chrysanthemums secretly meant “I love you” to Victorians and the hoped-for reply was a sprig of Jerusalem oak, which meant “I love you, too.” However, a reply of striped carnations meant “no” or “stop bothering me”; yellow roses meant “you are unfaithful,” and tansies meant “you make me sick” or “this is war!”

Of course, using flowers to communicate emotions is a lot older than the Victorian era. The Egyptian culture apparently was the first to use flower arrangements as early as 2500 BC for burials, processions, gifts to the gods and goddesses, and expressions of emotion to each other. The Ancient Greeks, Romans, and Chinese embellished the practices.

Conceptually, it doesn’t seem like there’s much difference between giving a goddess flowers when practicing adoration and giving a real person whom you “adore” a Valentine’s Day bouquet, maybe even an unusual one that speaks to her or him in floriography.

For example, the gladioli in the image that accompanies this column are named after a gladiator’s sword, due to the shape of their leaves. However, if our floriography guide is right, they also symbolize infatuation and send the message of “You pierce my heart.”

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January 14, 2021

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: HOWLING INTO THE NEW YEAR

By Richard Leighton

January is a good month for night sky watchers. The air often is cold, clear, and less polluted by particulates than in warmer times. In many areas of Maine, the winter nights also are less polluted by light emissions than in other parts of the country. That means, if you’re lucky, you’ll get a good look at the Full Wolf Moon’s rise and ascent on January 28.

You won’t see a wolf on the moon then, of course; but, you might wonder why that moon is famous for being named after one. And, if you dig into some of the historical and scientific facts, you might conclude that this month’s moon was wrongly named based on misunderstandings about wolves.

The Full Wolf Moon description, the most common American name of January’s full moon, comes primarily from The Old Farmer’s Almanac. It collected the translated or modernized English names assigned to each month’s full moons by Native Americans, American Colonists, and early European sources.

According to that Almanac and other sources, it was the American Colonists who named this month’s full moon the Full Wolf Moon. The name reportedly was based on the Colonists hearing wolves howl around their settlements when there was a full moon in January. Their basic concept apparently was that the full moon drives wolves a bit crazy in the harshest month of winter and the wild canines instinctively howl at the glowing orb then.

That idea that wolves howl at January’s (or any other month’s) full moon is false, according to available reports. Wolves howl night or day at any time to find other members of their pack that have wandered away and to warn members of other packs to stay away from their territory. They, like their domestic dog cousins, often will howl instinctively just if another wolf – friend or foe – does. Wolves, of course, also can see better in full moonlight, which sometimes might increase their urge to communicate greetings, warnings, and calls to come and hunt. The moon, itself, does not seem to attract or fascinate them.

However, full moons do seem to attract and fascinate many human beings, a species that has been expressing awe and strange opinions about them for eons. There also is some research indicating that moonlight can affect human sleep. Maybe the Colonists who blamed neighboring wolves for being moon worshippers were just sleep-deprived.

(By the way, the accompanying photographic image is not a lucky shot of the Wolf in the Moon who ate the Man in the Moon. It’s a composite of two of my images. And, while I’m making admissions, I ought to ‘fess up to the fact that the canine in that image is not even a wolf, which are in short supply here in Down East Maine. He’s a Siberian Husky named Bogie.)

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December 10, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: ‘TIS THE SEASON

By Richard Leighton

December may be the time for partridges in pear trees, but it’s a better time for sea scallops in dredges. These mysterious mollusks occupy a significant place in our winter fishing economy and in world history – much more than partridges do.

As for fishing, the highly regulated Maine scallop season began in earnest this month. Fishermen who have decided to stay on the water this winter have refitted their lobster boats into scallop boats. They’ve added a mast and boom for swinging out dredges (also known as drags) to scrape the sea bottom for scallops.

Dredges are complicated scooping equipment made of exotic metal, rope, and rubber parts, including an apron, skirt, clubstick, shoes, rock chains, sweep chain, ring bag, and chaffing gear. (See the accompanying image of a scallop dredge being hoisted in Brooklin waters.)

Some winter fishermen also dive off boats wearing wet suits and air tanks to hand-harvest prime “Divers’ Scallops.” Whether by dredge or hand, the daily limit per licensed fisherman now is 15 gallons of shucked mussel meat (the part we eat) or its unshucked equivalent. The harvest is monitored by regulators and may be further restricted for conservation purposes at any time.

Historically, scallops have been associated with the arts and religions for thousands of years. For example, Botticelli’s famous 15th Century painting of “The Birth of Venus” shows her landing ashore on a giant scallop shell. This was inspired by the ancient Greek legend in which the goddess of love, Aphrodite (later, Venus to Romans), is born in sea foam and carried on a giant scallop shell to Cyprus to be worshipped and ply her ways.

The ancient association of scallops with birth and rebirth was adopted by early (and current) Christians. Baptismal fonts have been in the distinctive shape of scallop shells (or included depictions of them) for thousands of years as a symbol of rebirth. Pilgrims walking to the tomb of St. James, the Apostle, carry scallop shells as a sign of holy pilgrimage (and as a sipping cup at fountains). The shells also became a symbol for the Methodist Church, apparently because three of them were on a religious coat of arms attributed to the family of Church founder John Wesley.

Religious and artistic symbolism aside, scallops probably have been popular for so many years because they are delicious and nutritious. They are high in protein, low in fat, and rich in vitamins and minerals. Marco Polo reported that scallops were being sold in China in 1280, Native Americans in what is now Maine depended on them as part of their seafood diet, and scallops are a popular menu item in today’s homes and restaurants. Around here, fresh-from-the-boat scallops also are popular as part of Christmas dinners.

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November 12, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: COLOR ME INVISIBLE

By Richard Leighton

You’ve probably heard people say that they “saw red” when they became enraged about something. You’ve also probably been told that the origin of that expression is that bulls get enraged when they see the red of a bullfighter’s muleta or cape. However, that’s a myth. Bulls have red colorblindness and don’t see the color red as something that is annoying by itself. It’s the bullfighter’s aggressive waving of the muleta and cape that enrages the animal.

So, you might reasonably ask, how is all this relevant to Mainers, virtually all of whom have never worn a fancy cape or dangled a muleta (at least in public)? Well, we’re now in prime firearms hunting season for white-tailed deer, such as the Maine buck whose image accompanies this column. Color is important to hunters and nonhunters in the woods.

Our deer suffer from the same type of color blindness as bulls – they don’t distinguish red or its orange and pink derivatives from their surroundings unless the color is moving in an unusual way. They don’t think that the brightest of orange colors is anything unusual; bright orange reportedly appears gray-green to them, like vegetation.

But, to most humans, some reds, pinks, and all bright oranges stand out among other colors, even if the colors are not moving. Therein lies an interesting story about hunter and public safety. (We rely here, in part, on the research of sportsman historian Dave Henderson.)

In the 1950’s, increasing numbers of hunters nationwide were roaming the woods with firearms. Accidental firearm injuries, including fatalities, to hunters and nonhunters had reached unacceptable levels in many places. Massachusetts game regulators decided to try to do something about the situation. They participated in a 1959 study based on the theory that brightly colored clothing that stood out to humans, but didn’t stand out to hunted animals, might increase safety.

The researchers discovered that red – a favorite pretest color – was dangerous: It was seen by hunter volunteers as black in shadows and was not seen at all in poor light. Also dangerous was Yellow, another pretest favorite: It became off-white in early and late light – like the rear ends of deer! But orange, if made fluorescent, was seen vividly by humans under virtually all conditions during hunting hours, while not perceived as vivid or human by deer.

In 1960, Field & Stream Magazine strongly promoted fluorescent orange clothing as a major safety development for hunters. Game regulators took note. That brilliant color is now often called “blaze” or “hunter’s” orange and is required to be worn by deer hunters in Maine and 41 other states. Of these states, six allow the option of blaze pink instead of blaze orange. The remainder of the states expressly and strongly encourage the use of blaze orange clothing. Use of this color on the clothes of people in the woods during hunting season reportedly has resulted in significant safety improvements.

Although hunters are required to wear blaze orange to avoid shooting each other, hikers, cyclists, and other nonhunters in the woods are not required to wear it to protect themselves. Nonetheless, savvy woods visitors (and their dogs) wear blaze orange accessories during the hunting seasons.

۞

October 8, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

 IN THE RIGHT PLACE: PUMPKIN POWER

By Richard Leighton

October is when 80 percent of the country’s pumpkin supply is available from growers, according to agricultural reports. Some of these pumpkins will be the subject of consumer pumpkin patch quests for “the right” pumpkin for home decorations, including Jack ’O Lanterns to scare away bad spirits. Some will be exhibits in “giant pumpkin” contests among competitive growers. Others will be the focus of bizarre and light-hearted festivals, including a famous Maine one described below.

However, the vast majority of these fruits are grown for commercial processing into foods and other things, including ingredients for pumpkin pie and bread. The reported origin of pumpkin pie is a Colonial American concoction, although the fruit, itself, originated in Central America and its name is derived from the Greek words for “large melon.”

As for the origin of pumpkin pie, American Colonists cut off the tops of pumpkins and removed the seeds and tangles inside. They then filled the insides with milk, honey, and spices and put the filled pumpkins within hot ashes to bake. When done, you could scrape the infused pumpkin insides into a bowl to eat and, maybe, there might still be some “pumpkin soup” left.

Jack O’ Lanterns reportedly originated in Ireland and Scotland, where they were made of large potatoes and turnips to scare away the folklore character Stingy Jack in the fall. When Irish immigrants came here, they started a tradition by using pumpkins for their Lanterns to scare Jack.

There are some pumpkins that would not be used to scare Jack, but could give him a hernia if he tried to steal any of them up. “Giant pumpkins” are the Sumo wrestlers of this fruit. They’re raised for size and weight and compete based on weight. As far as we can tell, the reigning (2019) Maine state champ is an enormous monster of 1,832.5 pounds raised in Jefferson, Maine.

Speaking of giant pumpkins, they are one of the focal points of the Damariscotta Pumpkinfest & Giant Pumpkin Boat Regatta in Maine. This quirky event is extraordinarily popular locally and has been given extensive national coverage on CBS and NBC, among other news outlets.

One of the most popular events of the Damariscotta festival is the Giant Pumpkin Drop in which huge pumpkins are raised high by a large crane and dropped on things like old cars to see what happens. The Regatta consists of races of giant pumpkins that have been dug out and customized with such things as wooden boat bows and swans’ heads and necks. Then, the pumpkins are put in the water and raced by human captains (some in costume) using paddle power or (in a different event) outboard motor power. There usually is plenty of extraordinary capsizing to please the cheering audience.

Unfortunately, Jack O’ Lanterns don’t scare away the Covid 19 plague, so the 2020 Damariscotta festival was cancelled. But, we hear, planners are optimistic that it will return in 2021.

۞

September 10. 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

By Richard Leighton

September is the peak month for the migration of some of nature’s most interesting winged creatures. We’re not thinking about warblers or other small birds with feathered wings. Nor are we thinking about Monarch butterflies with scaly-hairy wings. We’re thinking of creatures even tinier than that, with more complex wings. 

We have in mind dragonflies. Their structurally amazing wings are made of shiny chitin membranes and veins that enable some of them to migrate thousands of miles. That feat is one of nature’s wonders, yet it has been hidden in plain sight for eons.

During this month, look for a long, moving shadow, which may be in a broad line; then, look very closely, with binoculars or a field scope, if possible. It might be dragonflies swarming into formation or already aligned and heading in the same direction like a bomber squadron in World War II.

The world record for length of insect migrations reportedly is held by a dragonfly, not a butterfly. That record-holder is the Wandering Glider Dragonfly, which is found in all continents other than Antarctica. It’s about two inches in length, but its Indian and South African family members migrate about 4,400 miles each way over the Indian Ocean. (Monarch Butterflies migrate about 2,500 miles each way.)

The Wandering Gliders’ flight is fairly obvious, but tracking dragonflies over land for many miles, even with transmitters glued to them, has not proved successful. What has proved successful recently, however, has nothing to do with chasing a swarm of insects.

An imaginative test method first described in 2018 seems to be fairly reliable for determining dragonfly migration distances. It involves capturing a representative number of them and studying their wings in the laboratory.

The test is based on the fact that hydrogen isotopes in water become measurably heavier as you go south. Dragonflies begin as eggs in water, which develop into larval nymphs that swim around and absorb those isotopes. When the nymphs morph into dragonflies, the membranes of their wings contain measurable amounts of the absorbed hydrogen.

Thus, for example (and very basically), if you catch a dragonfly in Maine today and testing reveals it has Florida isotopes in its wings, it has migrated north in the spring from there as a southerner. Those southerners lay eggs here that eventually become dragonflies that will migrate from here back to Florida as northerners.

That test is how we know that the three-inch Common Green Darner Dragonfly, which is abundant in Maine, can migrate 900 miles from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico. (A local Green Darner with plenty of frequent flier points is shown in the accompanying photograph.)

Of course, not all dragonflies migrate. Before they die in northern latitudes, the full-time residents lay their eggs in ponds and the larvae over-winter to grow up as spring dragonflies. There also apparently are dragonflies that migrate only relatively short distances and stay put when they get to a place with a comfortable temperature.

Dragonflies were among the first winged insects to appear on earth, about 300 million years ago, yet we know comparatively little about them. That seems odd. Almost everyone who has seen their beauty and aerobatics seems to find them fascinating.

۞

August 13, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SUMMER PEACE

By Richard Leighton

One sunny day last week, I was at one of my favorite thinking spots. It’s beside an old, man-made pond that is now full of cat tails, frogs, fragrant water lilies, flitting dragonflies and damselflies, and two basking painted turtles that seemed to be in the same contemplative mood that I was. Suddenly, the word “Idyll” slid across my mind.

“Idyll” is a strange, old-fashioned word, which many Americans spell “Idyl.” When spoken, it can be confused with “Idle,” meaning lazy or inactive. (Maybe that’s what I was feeling when I thought of it!) It also sounds identical to “Idol,” meaning something (or someone) that (or who) is worshipped or admired. (I sure hope I wasn’t personalizing it that way.)

No, my old-fashioned “Idyll” is a powerful word that describes a happy, peaceful, simple experience. When used in literature, it typically describes a serene experience or place in the summer countryside. The roots of the name are based on ancient Greek poems, mostly short ones extolling the virtues of a rustic life.

Visual artists and composers of music, poems, and other literature often try to capture a personal Idyll in their art forms. The Siegfried Idyll by Richard Wagner, for example, is sweet and gentle music created for Wagner’s wife and named after their home in the country.

At the pond, I thought of how idyllic many different places in Maine are to many different people, whether full-time residents or visitors.  These very personal places have become more precious as we sit out a plague that is compounded by political confusion. For me at the old pond last week, however, I was able to briefly forget the current chaos elsewhere. That’s one of the reasons that I was there.

All I had to do was close my eyes; smell the water lilies; feel the sun’s warmth being washed away by recurrent sea breezes, and listen to a symphony of singing and calling birds, whirring and buzzing insects, and the occasional bassos of sympathetic frogs.

۞

July 9, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: DELIVERANCE

By Richard Leighton

Here in Brooklin, we take Fourth of July celebrations seriously every year. We usually have amazingly good ones that would make communities much larger than ours proud.

More specifically, our Independence Day mornings usually have started with summer and patriotic music played by our renowned Town Band under the maples on the Library lawn.

Then, the parade would begin, led by our veterans holding Old Glory high. They would be followed by imaginative theme floats and choreography by our residents; then came seemingly countless firetrucks and other emergency equipment from the area. They were followed by a convoy of antique and classic cars, restored military vehicles, and even all-terrain vehicles. Throughout, there would be individuals (with or without their dressed-up children and with or without their dressed-up dogs) who just felt like marching and waving.

The parade would end at the Town Green, where we usually would have more good band music; children’s games (including the popular “Dead Chicken Toss” with rubber chickens); classic car exhibits; fine rural dining (including freshly barbequed chicken, hot dogs, corn on the cob, and water melon), and – best of all – conversations with friends and visitors in the summer breezes.

But, this year’s celebration was different. It was a “No-Contact Parade” of emergency vehicles and antique and classic cars hosted by the resourceful Brooklin Volunteer Fire Department. The accompanying photograph shows part of that parade last Saturday.

Under the circumstances, this year’s no-contact celebration of Independence Day in Brooklin also was amazingly good. Those circumstances easily could have prevented any community celebration of one of our Nation’s most important holidays.

Perhaps, in this year of the plague, it is more important than ever to remember why Independence Day should be celebrated by grateful communities of people who share important and common interests.

Independence Day is a national holiday that celebrates the decision of the 13 American Colonies to vote for and declare independence from Great Britain and its dreaded monarchial form of government. We know that the vote occurred on July 2, 1776; when the Declaration of Independence explaining that decision was fully signed is debated. But, by later Congressional fiat, July 4 represents that date.

At the time, John Adams, a founding father and Declaration signer, wrote to his wife Abigail that the issuance of that document –

will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

The idea there that is especially apt now is that we should come together and celebrate “the day of deliverance” by leaders who greatly differed on many things but often could agree on the most important issues. It seems to us that today’s national executive and legislative leaders and would-be leaders should ponder the concept of deliverance and how to achieve it.

۞

June 11, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: A DAY FOR DAD

By Richard Leighton

Father’s Day will be celebrated nation-wide in less than two weeks. The holiday has an interesting history. However, let’s first set the scene by interpreting the accompanying image, which we found in our “Fathers” archive while researching this column.

We see in that photograph two booted and bucketed little girls listening intently to their Dad, who has just pointed out with his trowel something in the lowering tide at Brooklin’s Naskeag Point.

We were too far away to hear any conversation. However, we like to imagine that this father is lecturing his daughters about sandworms, hermit crabs, or some other denizen of the sea bottom. We also like to imagine that such conversations from him and the girls’ mother (who was nearby) were part of a two-parent effort to make the girls comfortable and inquisitive about science-based subjects and about learning in general.

It seems that today’s Dads are more like Moms of years gone by – and vice versa. That is a very good thing, which now brings us to a short history of Father’s Day, a holiday that was inspired by a woman and Mother’s Day. In 1908 or thereabouts, major retailers started to lobby for Mother’s Day to become a national holiday. They succeeded in 1914.

The next year, Sonora Dodd of Spokane started lobbying for a Father’s Day holiday in the state of Washington. She was motivated by memories of her father, a widower and Civil War veteran who raised her and her five siblings after his wife died in childbirth. Ms. Dodd mainly argued that, if you have a Mother’s Day, it’s only fair to have a Father’s Day. With a little help from retailers, she succeeded and the first state-wide Father’s Day was celebrated in Washington on June 19, 1910.

However, even though retailers and others lobbied for a national Father’s Day holiday, the idea didn’t take off. Some reports indicate that many fathers did not want a Father’s Day – it was too sentimental and commercial for them. There also were the many events in the 20th Century that strained fatherhood and parenting in general, including two World Wars and lesser wars, the Great Depression and lesser depressions, and significant demands for gender and racial equality.

Between the World Wars, there was a counter-movement to resolve the issue by turning Mother’s Day into “Parents’ Day.” But, it appears, most people (including retailers) hated the idea. The diligent retailers continued to plug for a national holiday honoring Dads.

And then – who would have thought it – President Richard Nixon surprisingly issued a proclamation in 1972 creating a national holiday known as Father’s Day. To be sure, he was having trouble with his reelection campaign and retailers were a part of his political base, but we like to imagine that he also was remembering days at the beach with his two adoring daughters when they were little girls.

۞

May 14, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

 IN THE RIGHT PLACE: MAY IS FOR ALL MAINE MOMS

By Richard Leighton

May is famous in this country for Mother’s Day. In the larger world, May also is famous among bird lovers for World Migratory Bird Day. This coincidence made us wonder which of our Maine migrating bird species has the best Moms.

The literature contains many studies of good and bad bird motherhood. Among the most interesting to us was a 2012 National Audubon Society parental ranking by Michele Berger. It listed mother ospreys as the overall best of all bird Moms, primarily due to their long care of their young and (with Dad’s help) their aggressive protection of their highly visible nests.

To be sure, ospreys are good Moms, but we would put them further down on our rankings of the best Moms. Our nomination for the best Maine Mom of the avian kind is the female mallard duck – yes, our most common duck that is shown in the accompanying image. She makes her own nest and usually lays 6 to 10 eggs, one a day. Then, while she’s incubating, her fancy-looking mate abandons her to go hang out with the boys.

This is when Mother Mallard’s dowdy brown outfit becomes a benefit: she blends into the spring groundcover as she sits alone for about 28 days on her clutch of eggs. She leaves the nest briefly and rarely, usually only to ease her aching muscles or to get a bit of food. Then, by some miracle of nature, all of her eggs hatch one by one during about a day-long period.

Mother Mallard huddles the newly born ducklings around her for less than a day while they dry and overcome the shock of breaking through their eggs and entering a large and strange world. Mom then leads them to water and calls them to follow her into it, where the ducklings realize immediately that they can float and swim and dabble for food the way Mommy can.

But, they can’t fly and fight the way Mommy can. Her ducklings still need her protection while they fledge into self-sufficient birds. This can take as much as two months. During this period, her ducklings follow her everywhere. When on land, Mommy Mallard will try to lead away predators by pretending to be injured. If that doesn’t work, she’ll often attack any perceived threat on or out of the water, sometimes to her fatal detriment. We’re proud to nominate Mommy Mallard as the feathered Maine Mother of the month.

۞

April 9, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE VERNAL VIRUS

By Richard Leighton

It’s spring here in our state-christened “Vacationland.” Yet, the tourists are being told not to take their spring breaks and vacations here. We’re being warned to avoid personal contact with those who don’t live with us, even members of our family and good neighbors. Daily reports on the latest increases in sickness and death have become routine, numbing – too awful to think about. The world-wide COVID-19 pandemic has reached us and we’re being changed in fundamental ways by fear.

Yet, many of us feel more fortunate than those who live elsewhere. Or, perhaps it’s better to say that we feel “less unfortunate” than they are. We have – almost all to ourselves – what makes Maine a Vacationland. We have a natural beauty in which solitude can help us find peace of mind, at least temporarily.

We were reminded of this recently as we watched a wood duck drake gliding on the still waters of our field pond. (See the accompanying image.) His grace reminded us of the many profoundly beautiful things in the world that are still there for us to see and think about and stay in the present. That duck also reminded us to re-read Wendell Berry’s The Peace of Wild Things, which has been an inspiration to us during bad times:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

۞

March 12, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SPRING UNSPRUNG

By Richard Leighton

The significant snowstorm shown in the accompanying photograph was taken on April 10 of last year, at the beginning of the Easter weekend in Brooklin, Maine. Stated another way, it’s time that we had a candid talk about Spring here in Down East Maine.

We have three Springtimes. First, we’ve already begun Calendar (Meteorological) Spring, which began March 1. Second, we’ll begin Daylight (Astronomical) Spring on March 21. Third, and most important, we’ll begin Maine Psychological Spring at some uncertain time before July, if we’re lucky.

Calendar Spring consists of March, April, and May in the United States and other countries in the temperate (Northern Hemisphere) regions. When putting together the Gregorian Calendar, it apparently was decided that there also could be four seasons annually based on meteorological temperatures. So, here we Mainers already are in Spring, meteorologically speaking, and not feeling anything special.

Not to worry. Scientists who keep track of the Earth’s spins and tilts in the Northern Hemisphere decided that a better first day of spring would be the March vernal equinox, notwithstanding what the season worshippers say. This year’s vernal equinox will come in nine days, when our daylight time will become roughly equal to our darkness time. That first day of Spring also will be the beginning of a daily increase in daylight for a while. Maybe some of us will be getting spring feelings then.

But not many, we would guess. Most of us wait for Maine Psychological Spring (MPS), which makes Maine special. It will arrive if and when we get that lilting feeling that could mean nothing but the arrival of the Real Spring that we know when we see and sniff it. This might be a few days in May or early June, which some people here will call “Spummertime.”

Our short-lived MPS is too individualistic to be named or defined by scientists. Perhaps we should rely on the considerable expertise of Maine funeral directors. They’re famous for knowing the time when our March and April mud has firmed enough and our ground has thawed enough to resume affordable outside burial services – “Spurialtime,” so to speak.

۞

February 13, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: A LOVELY THING

By Richard Leighton

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, which means that we’ll be inundated with ♥ images everywhere -- even on road banners in rural Maine, such as the one in the accompanying photograph. This iconic image isn’t an accurate depiction of a human heart, of course. It has become the international symbol for “love.” But how did this phenomenon come into being?

The short answer is that social historians aren’t sure yet. So far, they have debunked a number of widely held theories. Thus, we apparently can rest assured that the ♥ image was not inspired by a robust bodice in a tight-waisted dress; or human buttocks; or puckered lips; or female genitals; or courting swans’ necks, or the leaves of ivy or ancient aphrodisiac plants.

The conceptual roots of the symbol seem to be in the extraordinarily original idea that the slimy muscular pump that we call a heart also causes and receives our feelings about other people – “heartfelt,” sometimes “heart-breaking,” feelings. It seems that Aristotle is at least partly to blame here. He first opined that a sensing, emotional “soul” resided in our physical hearts and created desire there.

Poets then associated the physical heart with human love and other strong emotions. Ancient physicians also concluded that the heart was the cause of growth and the body’s healer. From there, it was a short step for later medieval thinkers to theorize that the heart also was the source of our ability to understand the world. However, there was no stylized imagery of such a heart yet, at least none on which historians agree.

But then, Christian thinking and art made an important contribution. About the year 1000, ardent devotees, mostly (but not exclusively) Roman Catholics, began to focus on what became known as “The Sacred Heart of Jesus.” They worshipped the once-physical heart of their savior as a symbol of God’s and Christ’s compassionate love for humanity.

Artists tried to depict this holy heart, but soon realized that an accurate depiction of the organ might be confusing, if not disgusting. They also were aware that earlier medical descriptions of the human heart mentioned that it had a “dent” in it. The artists began to simplify the heart, beginning with lumpy, conical, and pear- and strawberry-shaped objects.

Ironically, the mostly symmetrical images of the Sacred Heart were not without their gory aspects: they often depicted the chest of Jesus with an emerging, bleeding heart that was pierced by a crown of thorns and/or a Roman lance. But, heart depictions continued to be stylized into more balanced abstract images in which the dent became a small cleavage atop narrowing halves.

Thus, it was only a matter of inevitable time until the heart was stylized into perfect symmetry in coats of arms, on shields in religious crusades, in romantic literary illustrations of human desire and love, and on pages of Word® documents in which the author simultaneously presses Alt plus keyboard calculator 3 to express love. ♥

۞

January 9, 2020

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: WHERE THERE’S SMOKE, THERE’S NOT ALWAYS FIRE

By Richard Leighton

January here on the Down East coast usually is the best time to witness a spectacle that can be wonderful to watch from the shore and dangerous to navigate through while at sea. It’s usually in the form of a strange cauldron – an ice cold one – filled with smoke, like Brooklin’s Naskeag Harbor shown in the accompanying image.

What is that smoke? It’s “sea smoke,” a special form of fog that rises from the sea instead of descending to it. It happens only when conditions are right: usually when the air is below 10 degrees Fahrenheit and very cold winds are blowing slowly over warmer (but still cold) waters.

That’s when the rising air just above the sea’s surface gets rapidly colder to the point that it can’t hold all its water vapor. Some vapor condenses and evaporates out as smoke, the way the air above hot coffee or soup does. Then comes the beautiful part: the winds play with the smoke as it rises, creating a storybook world of mysterious swirling wisps and clouds that sometimes are dense curtains, sometimes thin veils.

Although this dramatic event usually is called sea smoke on our coast, it’s also known by many other names, including Arctic smoke; frost smoke; water smoke; steam fog; cold air advection fog; warm water fog, and evaporation fog. Some fishermen reportedly differentiate between “black frost” and “white frost” sea smoke – black when they can’t see through it and white when they can see ahead because the fog is low or thin.

The dangerous part about sea smoke has to do with ice formation (“accretion”) on ships that can jeopardize them, especially fishing trawlers that stay at sea for days in northern latitudes. Determining how this icing occurs, developing forecasting models for it, and issuing safety guides about it has become an increasingly significant part of the activities of the World Meteorological Organization (WPO) and others.

The most dangerous reported cause of ships “icing up” and foundering is very cold sea spray that arises as the vessel plows through the water in frigid winds. But, ice accretion from swirling sea smoke has been reported by the WPO as a contributing factor in some vessel losses and the main factor in at least one loss.

Think about that the next time you’re allured by the beauty of sea smoke.

۞

December 12, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: WHEN CULTURE MEETS HISTORY

By Richard Leighton

What should we call those green circles that have appeared on many doors and at driveways and other entrances? Should we call them “Christmas Wreaths,” or is that too limiting and insensitive to non-Christians? What about “Holiday Wreaths” – isn’t that also too limiting and insensitive to Christians (especially those who don’t know that “holiday” is a derivation of “holy day”)? What about “Winter Wreaths” – why wouldn’t that be more fitting for Maine culture, yet be consistent with history?

As far as culture is concerned, many Mainers hang their wreaths up in November and take them down when they’re sure that winter is over, which can mean April to some. Having a “Christmas Wreath” or “Holiday Wreath” withering on your door after New Year’s Day might be considered to be a sign of laziness. But, having a “Winter Wreath” withering there might be considered to be the display of a public “seasonometer.”
As for history, wreaths have been important symbols throughout recorded history. Using wreaths as crowns to glorify gods, emperors, athletes, and others is one interesting part of it, but that’s a story for another time. Using wreaths as symbolic decorations for celebrations is what we’re interested in now.

The use of wreaths for winter celebrations was widespread before Christianity. The Romans decorated their Saturnalia winter festivities with wreaths and gave wreaths as gifts then. But, it’s the pre-Christian Northern and Eastern Europeans who we have to thank most for what’s going on now around here. Their “pagan” Yule winter celebrations were decorated with candles and evergreen wreaths.

In the 16th Century, European Christians, especially Germanic ones, reportedly adapted many Yule practices for their winter celebrations. Christmas Trees were adapted and decorated with small evergreen wreath ornaments. Larger wreaths decorated their winter celebrations of Advent on each of the four Sundays before Christmas. The evergreen branches were considered to be symbols of eternal life. Four candles usually were added to certain wreaths and lit individually on each of the Advent Sundays, sometimes with a fifth lit on Christmas day.

Gradually, religious concepts of “Christmastime” were supplemented (some would say replaced) by secular ones, especially during the 19th Century, but wreaths remained in both dimensions. One of the biggest secular influences was the 1823 publication of Clement Clarke Moore’s A Visit From St. Nicholas (“Twas the night before Christmas …”), which featured wreaths in illustrations of Santa Claus. There also was the marriage of England’s Queen Victoria to Germany’s Prince Albert in 1840. She reportedly agreed to (some would say grudgingly allowed) the widespread use of wreathes and other seasonal decorations and practices that were popular in Germany.

۞

November 14, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: GET REAL ABOUT THANKSGIVING

By Richard Leighton

We have it on good authority that the quizzical look on the wild turkey in the accompanying photograph is because she’s wondering why so many of us are now arranging to have “traditional turkey” as the main course of our Thanksgiving dinner. It’s a good question.

As you well know, the Plymouth Colony residents hosted the original Thanksgiving feast in 1621 to celebrate their first successful harvest. However, you may not know that the Colonists and their Native American guests very likely did not taste turkey at that feast, according to the researchers who have investigated what was served then.

Turkey was never mentioned in the detailed descriptions of the foods eaten during the celebration. The records of eyewitnesses show that the main course was venison from several deer that the Wampanoag Tribe neighbors contributed. One listing did mention eating the catch from a “fowling” hunt; however, this “almost certainly referred to ducks and geese, which … could be taken much more easily than wary wild turkeys,” according to historian Andrew Beahrs.

Having wild or domestic turkey as the “traditional” main Thanksgiving course came hundreds of years later with the help of Mark Twain and other turkey promoters; but that’s a story for another time. We aren’t quite finished with what really happened during the feast in 1621.

The records show that there were more than twice the number of Native American guests than Colonists at that feast. This apparently is why another recorded (but often forgotten) first Thanksgiving event took place: the male Colonists paraded with their weapons in a display of might. Such an aggressive phase of the feast has not yet become a tradition, unless you count our “traditional” football games, department store sale jostling, and crowded Thanksgiving parades.

۞

October 10, 2016

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE EYES HAVE IT

By Richard Leighton

While trying to find out why mature male wood ducks have red eyes, we realized that the more important story is the unusual vision of birds – the creatures that have the largest eyes relative to their size in the animal kingdom.

But first, the wood duck story: researchers theorize that adult male wood ducks may have red irises to enable females of their species to quickly identify sexually mature males, so that they don’t waste valuable time on dark-eyed juveniles.

Vision is critically important to female birds when selecting mates. But what happens with those females that the guide books show as being identical in appearance to males of their species? We must remember that those books are written only for humans.

Birds can see reflected ultraviolet light on feathers that humans cannot see and – you guessed it – research shows that the appearance of males often is different from females as seen by birds, but not by us.

The placement of birds’ eyes also affects their vision and varies by their behavior. Those with a pair of eyes in the front of their head, such as owls, have binocular vision; this enables them to quickly judge changing distances when approaching prey. Those with an eye on each side of the head, such as wood ducks that swim in open water, have a very wide field of vision to detect predators at a great distance. The unusual placement of the eyes of ground-nesting American Woodcocks reportedly gives them an extraordinary field of vision of 360 degrees horizontally and 180 vertically.

Finally, the mechanics of birds’ eyes can differ according to their behavior. A high-flying Bald Eagle reportedly can see its prey two miles away and, as the bird dives at high speed, it uses special muscles to continuously change the curvature of its eyes to keep the scurrying rabbit or swirling fish in pinpoint focus. (Brooklin, Maine)

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September 12, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE FIRST JOURNEY

By Richard Leighton

We’re experiencing something akin to having a youngster leave home on the journey to adulthood in a difficult world. But, our experience is with the pictured young Osprey whom we watched grow up this spring and summer. (By the way, you’ll see that we think of this youngster as a “who” and a “her.” We feel that we know her too well to call her an “it” and, at this point, her sex is neither apparent nor important.)

What is important is that we haven’t seen her for more than two weeks. She’s seemingly gone south on that long, dangerous migration that we knew was her destiny. We worry about her, of course. Yet, at the same time, we know that she was brought up properly. She was her parents’ only fledgling and got plenty of attention. She should do well.

The research on juvenile Ospreys indicates that they do not migrate south with their parents. They take the long trip on their own, guided by a need that is not fully known. Why the youngsters choose to winter in a certain southern state, Mexico, Central America, or South America also apparently is not fully understood.

According to tracking data, most juvenile Ospreys will stay in whatever wintering area that they do select until they mature at about 18 months, but sometimes they’ll stay a year or two more before migrating back north. They usually migrate north back to the area where they were born and they usually migrate south to the wintering area that they originally chose.

So, although we didn’t get a chance to wish “our” youngster a bon voyage, it seems that we have a fair chance of seeing her again as a beautiful grownup one of these springs. (Brooklin, Maine)

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August 8, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: IN-FLIGHT FUELING

By Richard Leighton

What has the appearance of a hawk, the movements of a hummingbird, the fuzziness of a bumblebee, the wings of a dragonfly, the tail of a lobster, and the length of a credit card?

That would be the Clearwing Hummingbird Moth (Hemaris thysbe), which is part of the Hawkmoth family (Sphingidae). They’re very active around here now.

Clearwings are often heard rather than seen, due to their size and the blurry hum of their rapid wingbeats. They reportedly can achieve horizontal speeds of up to 12 miles an hour. However, it’s their ability to hover like a hummingbird that makes Hummingbird Moths special.

As you see in the accompanying photograph, they can hover in front of long-necked flowers such as those on Cow Vetch, insert their lengthy proboscises within the petals, and draw out nectar as part of an in-flight fueling maneuver. (We suspect that this ability makes them poor pollinators.)

The peek-a-boo parts of this species’ wings occur when these moths discard some of their wing scales early in life, perhaps as a camouflage feature to confuse predators. However, other species of Hummingbird Moths do not have see-through wings. (Brooklin, Maine)

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July 11, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: JACKS AND JENNIES RECONSIDERED

By Richard Leighton

This neighbor comes from a very honorable family, but doesn’t get the respect that he deserves. He’s a Donkey, you see. That means that he’s really an Ass, a descendant of the African Wild Ass.

We’ve been calling his kind Donkeys since Shakespeare and others began to associate his real name with stupidity and a slang description of part of the human anatomy that is not known for its intellectual prowess. No one knows for sure where the name Donkey came from, but some believe that it originated as a transliteration of this animal’s favorite greeting: “Dong-KEEE.”

Keep in mind that our amiable friend here is a legitimate member of the Horse family. Do not confuse him with a Mule. A Mule is the bioengineered product of a male Donkey (a “Jack”) and a female horse (a “Mare”). A Mule is bigger, stronger, and usually more docile than a Donkey, but Mother Nature took her revenge on Mules: they’re as sterile as statues. If you want Mules and not Donkeys, get yourself a Donkey first and keep him away from the females of his species (“Jennies”).

It’s Donkeys, not Mules, that play critical roles in the great writings of Judaism, Christianity, and other religions. They’re often symbols of suffering, service, and humility. In the New Testament, Jesus does not ride triumphantly into Jerusalem in a limousine or on a Mule. It was a reliable Donkey that humbly performed that service.

To be sure, Donkeys get mixed reviews in literature. In the older tales, they tend to be disparaged as slow and stubborn. In more modern literature, they often play very important supporting roles: Eeyore in A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh, Benjamin in George Orwell’s Animal Farm, and Dapple in Cervantes’ Don Quixote, come to mind.

Which, surprisingly, brings us to Andrew Jackson. He was derided as a “Jackass” during his 1828 presidential campaign and liked the insult, saying he was tough and strong-willed. Then, cartoonist Thomas Nast depicted all Democrats as Donkeys and all Republicans as Elephants, which became the parties’ symbols. As we enter the 2020 presidential race, let’s see which Party takes Eeyor’s advice: “A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference.”

(Brooklin, Maine) [Headline supplied by the Ellsworth American was different: “Don’t Be a Smartass and Confuse Donkeys, Mules”.]

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June 20, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SURVIVAL OF THE UGLIEST

By Richard Leighton

Double-Crested Cormorants continue to rebound after nearly being devasted by DDT and other contaminants. Increasing numbers of these summer visitors are now regularly flying V-shaped sorties up and down the Union River and lounging in colonies in our coastal coves and harbors.

This population increase does not make everyone happy. Cormorants, also known as Shags, are viewed by some as the porcupines of the sea: a species that causes more problems than provides benefits. These birds foul boats and docks and destroy vegetation with their droppings. They also “steal” fish; look creepy, and – according to a few old-timers – are bad omens.

On the other hand, some of us think that Cormorants should continue to have a place in this world, if managed intelligently. They’re fascinating in a grotesque way. Their hooked beaks, orange-yellow masks, crackled aquamarine eyes; and (in breeding season) feather-crest “ears” usually are not noticed by casual observers, who see just an ungainly black bird.

To be sure, Cormorants are ungainly above water. But, under the water surface, they belong in the Fishing Hall of Fame. They dive deeply and can stay under dark water for long periods; they also swim fast and peer long distances for fish and eels with those specialized eyes. Their muscular legs pump their two big webbed feet simultaneously and their short wings act as submarine rudders.

On land, Cormorants frequently just stand around in the sun with wings spread. They’re not surrendering. Their outer feathers are adapted to absorb water and repel air bubbles, which reduces buoyancy and creates speed underwater. Thus, Cormorant feathers get wetter than those of other water birds and need to be air-blown dry.

It’s not easy being a Cormorant, but they have found a way to survive. (Brooklin, Maine)

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May 9, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: ­­MASKED MARVELS

By Richard Leighton

It’s good to see Osprey pairs soaring high again above the Union River and coastal waters. Sometimes, they’re so high that we know that they’re above us only by hearing them loudly call out to each other. Their high-pitched greetings often sound like an interrupted whistle on a boiling tea kettle: CHEEyup, CHEEyup, CHEEyup!” 

 When we see the Ospreys quickly circle down to 30 or 40 feet above the water, we know that we’re probably in for a show. They’re our only raptors that can hover like a helicopter, which they do to zero-in on a submerged target. If they decide that all systems are go, they tip down into a wing-powered dive and crash into the water feet first with a big splash. Sometimes, they disappear for several seconds before emerging, usually with a very surprised fish in their talons.

 Of course, these hawks come equipped with specialized fishing gear. Their golden eyes can see through water better than most creatures; their nostrils can close under water, and their feet are weaponized wonders. They have a disjointed outside stabbing toe that the birds can reverse from pointing forward to pointing almost backward; this allows them to use two claws in front and two in back to carry fish securely. Their soles are barbed to grip their slippery prey and maneuver it in flight so that the fish’s head is pointed forward for better aerodynamics.

 Ospreys also are our only hawk that preys virtually exclusively on fish. In fact, they’re commonly called Fish Hawks or Sea Hawks. However, don’t confuse them with the namesake of the Seattle Seahawks in the National Football League. There’s no such thing as a “Seahawk” and that team’s live mascot actually is an African Augur Buzzard that doesn’t like the sea and eats mostly mammals and reptiles.

 Unlike Augur Buzzards, Ospreys migrate, often travelling hundreds of thousands of miles during their long lives. One wild Osprey reportedly lived to be 30 years old and another reportedly flew 2,700 miles in 13 days, from Massachusetts to its South American winter home.

 We welcome back our masked marvels to their spring and summer homes. (Brooklin, Maine)

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April 11, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: HOMELAND SECURITY

By Richard Leighton

April is when there are mysterious happenings that are “vernal,” meaning “of the spring.” One of these happenings involves strange activity in the “vernal pools” hidden in our wooded lowlands. These pools, most of which go dry by summer, are places where certain amphibians and crustaceans must breed and grow to fulfill their important roles as foods for other wildlife and sources of wonder and discovery for us.

Maine vernal pools are an indispensable part of the life stages for at least three native amphibians: the Wood Frog, the Spotted Salamander (shown here), and the Blue-Spotted Salamander. The pools also are just about the only place where native fresh water crustaceans called Fairy Shrimp swim, which they do by backstroking upside down.

Some of the amphibious vernal pool creatures, including the Spotted Salamander, are “pool-specific” creatures. That is, when the temperature gives them the signal that it’s time to mate and lay eggs, thousands of them embark on a nocturnal march to return to the pool in which they were born.

On such “Big Nights,” these tiny travelers often must scurry relatively long distances and cross roads to get to their family pool. Nature lovers with flashlights often try to give them a hand. But, of course, more profound protection is needed for their homeland destinations.

In Maine, vernal pools that are determined to be of high value to wildlife are regulated as “Significant Vernal Pools” under the State’s Natural Resources Protection Act. Non-trivial disturbances of such pools are prohibited and activities that have the potential to impact the pools may not be undertaken without a permit. (Brooklin, Maine)

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March 14, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE SEASON OF HOPE

By Richard Leighton

The problem with March here is that you can’t trust her. Her primary jobs are to bring us Spring and Daylight Savings Time, but she usually falls in love with Old Man Winter and carries on with him in the most distracting ways.

We had a big snowstorm last week, but not as bad as the white-out blizzard that you see in the accompanying image. That occurred on March 14, 2018 – exactly one year ago today. We’ll likely get more snow before April dances in, and maybe some after she gets here.

Technically, March is supposed to bring us two Springs. March 1 is “Meteorological Spring,” which is based on the annual temperature cycle and our division of the year into the four-seasons of Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter.

Most of us in this hemisphere, however, will accept March 20 as the first day of scientific Spring this year. That’s when “Astronomical Spring” arrives in the form of the March Equinox. During that Equinox, daylight and nighttime will last almost the same time. (“Equinox” comes from the Latin words “equal” and “night.”)

Frankly, Meteorological and Astronomical Spring are not that meaningful in the lives of those of us who like to think of Spring as a heart-lilting time of lushness. We prefer what might be called “Psychological Spring,” a Feels-Like-Spring season, which usually occurs here during a few days in June. (Brooklin, Maine)

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February 14, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: THE YELLOW TRAIL

By Richard Leighton

The late Mary Oliver was one of many poets and essayists who confessed to having a compulsive need to walk alone in the woods. She explained her search for such solitude this way: “I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.” 

Of course, such reverence is not reserved for poets and essayists.  Nor is it really an attempt to find solitude in the literal sense, nor necessarily a search for peacefulness. It seems that some of us need to escape humanity at times and be absorbed into a place full of different life – furry, feathery, leafy, and other – where we can see, feel, and think differently. Some of us also seek – just sometimes – a place where we can experience a mixture of wonder and mild fear that makes our life briefly seem fuller.

The local Yellow Trail is one place to go alone in winter to experience that anxious wonderment. It’s rough and icy and dark and even dangerous in spots for those who are not careful. But it’s where you can disappear into a quiet, non-human dimension.

It’s a place to have a staring contest with a barred owl and to realize suddenly that a patch of shadow contains a trinity of does, standing still, ears up, watching you with unblinking dark liquid eyes. It’s where you can travel back in time by tracking the journeys of small neighbors that also have chosen to come this snowy way. Mary’s prayers could have been answered here. (Brooklin, Maine)

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January 10, 2019

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: APRONS, CLUBSTICKS, AND RING BAGS

By Richard Leighton

It’s mid-winter, when most of our coastal water lobster boats have brought in their traps and are taking vacations “on the hard.” But not all of them. Some lobster boats undergo a maritime metamorphosis: they develop wings in the form of masts and booms and become scallop boats that fish in the cold.

Most of these winter fishing vessels trawl with scallop dredges, which are ingenious metal and twine mesh contraptions. They scrape the bottom for scallops, but have escape routes for fish and openings for removal of the mollusks by the fishermen (including women).

The dredging equipment has exotic terminology, including an apron, skirt, clubstick, shoes, rock chains, sweep chain, ring bag, and chaffing gear. Some vessels also are platforms for air tank divers who hand-harvest the most prized (and expensive) of the delicious mollusks, “Divers Scallops.”

Scallop fishing has been highly regulated in Maine waters since the mollusks got to nearly-endangered levels in the mid-2000s.  The season is scheduled for 50, 60, or 70 days, depending on zone. Those fishing days are spread over a few days each month from December into April, with some additional November dates available for diving.

The daily limit is 15 gallons (shucked on board) per licensed fisherman. However, the harvest is monitored and may be further restricted for conservation purposes at any time. (Brooklin, Maine)

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December 13, 2018

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: CHRISTMAS CAROL NEEDS TWEAKING

By Richard Leighton

Lately, we’re hearing a lot of The Twelve Days of Christmas. That’s the carol in which the singer’s True Love gives the singer gifts on each of the 12 days. Unfortunately, most of those gifts aren’t right for a Maine Christmas.

A major problem is that True Love apparently doesn’t know much about birds, yet half of the gifts are birds. Take True Love’s favorite gift, “A Partridge in a Pear Tree.” No self-respecting, seed-eating ground bird is going to stay in a fruit tree unless it’s nailed there. “An Eagle in a Pine Tree” would be a better first gift for us.

Things get worse the next day when True Love sends “Two Turtle Doves” – those are nothing but European pigeons; they could be invasive. “Two Mourning Doves” would work better here. To add insult to foreign trade injury, True Love next sends “Three French Hens.” There’s nothing wrong with our hens and buying local is good; “Three Maine Hens” would be a significant improvement when it comes to poultry-giving. Then, things get obscure: True Love sends “Four Calling Birds,” whatever they are (parrots with cell phones?). We should clear this up with “Four Cawing Crows.”

Next, the only sensible gift is delivered: “Five Gold Rings” (which we wouldn’t mind getting). But then, after this one day of sanity, True Love’s odd romantic impulses revert to birds: “Six Geese A-Laying” are sent. Delivering geese while they’re a-laying is bound to result in a mess on the porch, if not injury to the UPS man. “Six Geese Migrating” would be a little better and have the benefit of gifting a vision of free-range birds. Next, we have an unlikely winter delivery of summer birds: “Seven Swans A-Swimming.” For Christmas paddling gifts here, we need birds that can survive out beyond the ice; “Seven Loons A-Swimming” should do the trick.

These feathered offerings are just the warmup for True Love’s big, loud finish with performance gifts. There are deliveries of “Eight Maids A-Milking,” “Nine Ladies Dancing,” “Ten Lords A-Leaping,” “Eleven Pipers Piping,” and “Twelve Drummers Drumming.” With two exceptions, these are (just barely) acceptable for a Maine holiday party. However, we draw the line at maids a-milking and lords a-leaping in the house. We’d allow “Eight Teens Moon-Pieing” and “Ten Men A-Beering,” though.  That should patch this old thing up wicked-good.

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November 8, 2018

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: TURKEYS WITHOUT BORDERS

By Richard Leighton

November in rural Maine has become a month for avoiding Turkeys as much as for hunting and eating them. The wild ones roam freely in foraging flocks called “rafts.” It’s not unusual to see a raft of 20 or more Turkeys working a field.

They’re fun to see, but the ones that you don’t see – the ones in the brush alongside the road – can be problematic. Many Wild Turkeys are jaywalkers with a death wish. They dart across the road just when vehicles get within skidding distance. Turkey-related vehicle accidents reportedly are increasing here. Thank goodness these birds sleep at night.

We’re beginning to wonder whether Maine has been too successful in reintroducing the birds. The original colonizers of New England reported Wild Turkey rafts of more than 100 birds, which the colonists hunted relentlessly. By 1672, it was rare to see a Wild Turkey in Massachusetts.  But the birds remained numerous in the sparsely-settled north, now called Maine. As Maine became settled, the number of Wild Turkeys here diminished severely; by the 1880s, the birds were uncommon in much of the State.

After several unsuccessful attempts to reintroduce Wild Turkeys into Maine, a small imported flock took hold in the 1970s. That flock has now grown to an estimated 50,000 to 60,000 Turkeys and is continuing to grow, according to Maine wildlife officials. In a recent State survey, more than a third of Mainers responded that additional steps should be taken to reduce the State’s Wild Turkey population.

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October 11, 2018

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: STICKY BUSINESS

By Richard Leighton

It’s dinner time, but first we look out the window with a bit of anxiety to see if he’s back. He is! We’ve run him off three evenings in a row, but there he is again. We grab the broom and open the door loudly. He looks up and hunkers down into his Buddha pose, waiting to see what we’ll do.  He’s wild, but not fearful; he’s armed, but not aggressive. He’s a dilemma. He apparently thinks he’s our “Spiny Pig,” which is English for “Porcupine.”

We run at him shouting and waving the broom. He slowly gets on all fours and raises his quilled tail straight into the air – a defensive posture that reminds us not to get close. He turns and walks off in slow, waddling dignity. Perhaps he senses our profound weakness when he sees a broom instead of a rifle.

Porcupines can do considerable damage to trees and we’re not aware of any benefit that they confer on the world, except perhaps as a delicacy for large weasels. The State of Maine, a tree-conscious place, seems to be without much sympathy for Porcupines. Under our regulations, Porcupines are considered numerous and may be taken by licensed hunters in any way, at any time, in any number, except on Sundays or someone else’s posted property.

Nonetheless, there is the view that Porcupines were here before property rights and are part of a complex natural system that we humans invaded and don’t fully understand. And, there is this: sometimes they’re cute. But, not often.

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September 13, 2018

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

IN THE RIGHT PLACE: SHADOWS AND GHOSTS

By Richard Leighton

The fog is thick. There’s about 15 feet of visibility as we begin to pick our way along Great Cove’s rocky shore. Above the sound of the lapping tide we hear “Whump- Whump- Whump” – silence – “Whump- Whump- Whump.” We think we know what it is: big wings pushing and pulling heavy air, then gliding. Very near. We wait.

It emerges as a silent shadow almost directly over us: its legs and toes are perfectly aligned and its huge wings are extended straight out, a gliding swan dive that defies gravity; its war bonnet plumes are streaming from its prehistoric head; its long beak is a spearhead piercing the fog. Then, its wings move in large, rolling undulations -- “Whump- Whump- Whump.” It disappears in the mull. We’ve glimpsed a Great Blue Heron or the ghost of one.

Great Blues are the largest Herons in the United States and are common summer visitors in Maine. They breed and nest in dense colonies here, usually along the coast. However, there has been a noticeable decline in their nests and the State has listed the Great Blue as a “Species of Special Concern.”

In 2009, Maine wildlife officials initiated a continuing study to help find the causes of the Great Blue’s decline. There apparently have been no definitive results yet, but we have learned from the study that some of our Great Blues take their winter vacations in Florida, Cuba, Haiti, and the Bahamas.

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August 9, 2018

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

In the Right Place: Meet the neighbor

By Richard Leighton

Summer is when we often meet new seasonal neighbors, which usually is fun. However, the first meeting with this summer’s most intriguing new neighbor did not go well – he was in the process of destroying our birdfeeder. He’s the biggest Black Bear that we’ve ever had visit us; we guess that he runs well over 400 pounds. Watching a creature that big trying to munch tiny seeds would have been laughable were it not for the fact that he and we were eyeing each other at 40 feet and he had put our birdfeeder seriously out of torque.

But, he was true to his Black Bear Code. We yelled at him as if we were in charge and he loped away unapologetically. We eventually came to a neighborly understanding with him: we wouldn’t replace the birdfeeder and he wouldn’t come close to the house. He saunters by in our field at dusk every now and then, we wave to him and he seems to nod a “How’s-it-goin’?”

Maine contains more Black Bears than any of the lower 48 states. Black Bears virtually never attack out of aggression or even for protection of cubs, according to State Wildlife officials, Apparently, the few reported dangerous confrontations in the State virtually always relate to very hungry bears, available food, and panic by the bear and/or human.

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July 12, 2018

Editor’s note: Brooklin writer/photographer Richard J. Leighton creates the popular “in the Right Place” posts online about life and nature in Maine. He shares a post the second Thursday of each month in The Ellsworth American

In the Right Place: Thwack

By Richard Leighton

The Bald Eagle was chosen in 1782 as the emblem of the United States because of the animal’s majestic appearance, strength, and long life. However, this bird always has had its critics. Even Benjamin Franklin famously complained that it was ”a rank coward” of “bad moral character.”

Nonetheless, we suspect that most of the Bald Eagle’s critics have never carefully watched one soaring on its seven-foot wingspan high above a river, then banking severely, spiraling down fast in smaller and smaller circles, pulling up to skim the water, thrusting its talons straight out at the last moment, and plucking its prey with a splashy “thwack.”

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