Spring Creek Chronicles

The First Fawn

2011-06-11T16:05:00.131-06:00

The wily little antelope doe ambled on ahead through the dense prairie shrubbery, stopping periodically to glance back at me or to just shake off the pesky flies that are a constant for her species this time of the year.

Slowly dropping her head, she began to munch at the grass around her. Then, with equal calculation, she suddenly rose up, turned about and threw a long hard stare into the far distance to my left.

She was still pretty young, but already worldly wise in every trick known to her species. I knew it unlikely that anything lay in that direction she faced and that she was just "looking me off." The phrase is a football term where a quarterback, as he retreats to pass, looks away with exaggeration from the primary receiver -- hoping to mislead the defensive backs in their pursuit of the play.

"Clever.... clever." I thought.

For nearly two hours now I had watched that unmistakable style in her body language -- exaggerated stares to a distant ridge; quick glances back over the shoulder, first at me and then beyond. Occasionally she would break into a trot, covering maybe 30 yards, and then stop to begin the cycle again -- always moving in a circular pattern over several hundred yards.

This doe had a secret.

Somewhere in the endless sea of grass surrounding me was new and vulnerable life awaiting the return of motherly care -- one or maybe even two newborn fawns. Her behavior was part of that motherly care -- the meandering stares and encircling routines were all designed to lead me away from her secret in the grass.

I had been crouched in the same spot for about ten minutes now when I realized the doe had changed her pattern. She would stare right at me and then lift her head to look beyond. "Could it be....?" I thought. I began to scan my immediate surroundings.

Incredible! No more than two feet from the toe of my boot was a buck fawn -- curled in the typically circular posture with his ears down flat against his neck, perfectly still. Born during the night, he's been there all the time and done absolutely nothing to give away his position. I could have tripped over him.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

(above) During the first few weeks of its life, a pronghorn fawn will spend many lonely hours lying still in the grass like this while its tiny legs develop the stamina that will carry it like the wind across the grasslands, away from swift predators like the coyote. Notice the similarity in both color & texture between this fawn and buffalo chip beside him -- still another example of how these remarkable creatures blend into a wide open environment like the northern plains.

(right) At birth, a pronghorn fawn weighs 6-7 pounds and stands about 10 inches at the shoulder. Instead of the brilliant tones of the adult's coat, their colors are very subdued, helping them to blend more effectively into the grasslands.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Few animals possess the stealth of an antelope fawn. They can hide behind a blade of grass. At birth they lack the trademark and striking pelage of the adults and are instead a nondescript grayish brown with their hair running in curly waves. That brilliant, distinctive white rump patch is a subdued yellow. In fact, lying curled like this one today, he bore a striking resemblance in shape and color to the buffalo chip beside him.

This genius for camouflage plus his mother's discretion will be the little guy's chief allies during the next few weeks as, barely out of the womb, he enters the most critical period of his life. Like this morning, he will spend hours at a time lying flat and motionless in such a way as to blend perfectly into his prairie environment.

This fawn most likely had a sibling as multiple births are very common among antelope. If so, the doe will keep the two bedded separately, thereby enhancing the odds that at least one will survive this critical period. She will visit each one periodically throughout the day to nourish their seven pound frames with some of the richest milk known on this planet -- more than two-thirds the fat content of a dairy cow's milk.

Nurtured by this milk, these young spindly legs that now lack stamina will develop and soon carry the youngster across the prairie at speeds of more than 60 mph, leaving swift predators like the coyote far behind.

I glanced back at his mother. She seemed to realize I had spotted the baby as she took a few steps toward me and then stopped to cast a wary eye, though she didn't really seem upset. Stressing her was the last thing I wanted to do, so I needed to move away as soon as I could.

I rose up slowly. Using a camera with a wide-angle lens, I fired off several frames of the youngster as he lay perfectly still. Then I grabbed the rest of my gear, carefully moved off and crouched down again about 50 feet away.

I knew if I were patient enough, sooner or later the doe would get the toddler up for feeding and care, giving me great pictures of interaction between mother and child.

For another hour, the doe continued to browse for food, moving in a circular pattern about me. And then it all came together. She suddenly trotted straight over to where the little buck lay and he stood up instantly to greet his mother. I quickly focused on the two, but before I could press off a single frame, I heard a bleating sound similar to a baby lamb or goat. Thirty feet to their right, the twin (a doe) stood up in tall shrubs and stumbled over to her mother and little brother. Perfect.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

(above & right) If the doe has twins which is normally the case, she will bed each youngster separately about 100 yards apart to help insure that at least one will not be discovered by a predator. Four or five times a day the doe will return to each fawn's bedding site to give care and feeding.

(above) In one of the least glamorous aspects of antelope motherhood, the doe will also lick the anus & genitals of the fawn and consume its urine & feces as it eliminates. A pronghorn fawn has very little scent, save its body wastes and this act makes it more difficult for a predator to follow its trail.

(above) During this time a mother doe is usually on a high ridge where there is good visibility in all directions and rarely more than 100-200 yards away.

(above) Throughout the hiding period, a fawn's perspective of its world is limited to what it can see just beyond through the developing spring grass.

(above) And always lurking somewhere about during this time is the persistent coyote in search of a quick, but not necessarily easy meal as antelope does are known to even attack these cunning predators in an effort to save their young.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

We all have our ways of marking the passage of time, ways in which we catalog the events of our lives. For many Native American cultures it was observing the moon's cycles or keeping a winter count. For me, it is the coming of the antelope fawns. Every year, in late May or early June, I await my first sighting as I recall the first time in each of the previous years because I consider them to be among the most beautiful creatures of our planet.

This morning marks the first day of fawn season.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

(above) As the fawns grow older, they become restless and no longer able to tolerate the endless hours of hiding. At this point the does band together into "daycare" groups with more eyes to keep watch on the irrepressible imps.

(above & left) Amidst these groups, the fawns become fast friends as they run and chase about in daily activities that will help prepare them for adulthood.

(above) Now about ten weeks old, this little buck fawn is no longer fearful of wandering from his mother's side as he peeks through the sage to investigate new things.

(above) Spirited play develops between the fawns as they engage in antics that are actually practice for their adult years.

(right) After some fun and frolicking, this little buck stops for a cool drink at a prairie pond on a hot July morning.

(above) Again like most youngsters coming home from play, this pair enjoys a big lunch from their mother's dugs as they consume her extremely rich milk.

(left) And then it's down for a nice, long afternoon nap to top off the perfect pronghorn morning.

~30~

The Mists of May

2011-05-20T09:42:00.086-06:00

Slightly chilled and moist air fills my lungs in a thoroughly refreshing way as the fog crawls across the lake's glassy surface. My paddle breaking the water accompanied by the distant calls of a few Canada geese are the only sounds that reach my ears as my kayak silently glides along. The stillness of this morning is overpowering.

The place is Stockage Lake, one of the region's most photogenic bodies of water - and today the lake is fulfilling its reputation. Through the tops of distant pines the sun breaches the fog, casting shadows and reflections into the water's undisturbed face as its illumination colors the scene.

Known as fog shadows, this phenomenon occurs when fog is dense enough to be illuminated by light passing through gaps in a structure or tree and yet thin enough to allow a large quantity of light to illuminate points beyond, thus giving a three-dimensional effect to the shadows (the lead picture for this article is an excellent example).

The Mists of May have arrived.

May is a special time in the Black Hills high country as winter finally relinquishes its long grip on the land, bringing an awakening to all. The lakes along with valleys and ravines are encased and defined by mists and banks of fog whose beauty not only treats the eye, but also invigorates the soul with its mystery, its color and its absence of light. The time is one of revival.

Somewhat less romantically, the encyclopedia tells us that fog is the result of water vapor condensing into tiny liquid water droplets in the air when a cool & stable air mass is trapped underneath a warm air mass - such as what is happening before me this morning with the sun heating the air over the chilly lake waters. True and good to know, but scientific definitions like this one seldom speak the spiritual effects of a particular natural phenomenon, how it touches and feeds something from within us.

Even more important, I believe, are the effects of this marvel or any marvel of Nature on our imagination - how we perceive the landscape and ourselves within it. We are, after all, the only species on our planet capable of appreciating the artistry of Nature in this way.

And so on I go, gliding my small craft over the smooth & mirrored lake waters as I collect images of the events that stretch out before me, ever mindful of their effects. For I do wish to experience the landscape, not just observe it. That's what the Mists of May are about.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

(above) Forested islets and ridges are reflected in the waters of Deerfield Lake as the sky begins to open.

(above) The light of a full moon sets into the foggy mists of the central Black Hills' Sheridan Lake.

(left) A small peninsula on Stockade Lake is enshrouded by a growing fog bank in the dawn light.

(above) Dead pine trees in a former burn area are eerily lit and silhouetted in dense rain fog.

(left) Shore reeds begin to catch the morning light as the fog moves over a distant ridge on Deerfield Lake.

(above) A beaver quietly swims through the waters of Stockade Lake as fog shadows light the water behind him.

(left) A small group of whitetail deer feed in the growing light and fog of the limestone country just west of Custer.

(right) Cattails and reeds decorate this shoreline on Sheridan Lake.

(left) A slight breeze ripples the waters of Deerfield Lake as the sun begins to emerge.

(above) Fog begins to lift as sunlight moves across a small inlet on Stockade Lake.

~30~

Resurgence

2011-05-06T04:00:00.032-06:00

A myriad of sound fills the still young morning only a couple of hours after dawn. The distant gobbling of a tom turkey calling to the hens mixes with the continuous songs of meadowlarks as they perch on rocks or fly about in search of mates. The familiar beats and music of the sharptail grouse reverberate from the nearby lek where I have just been collecting images of this splendid ritual of spring.

Although refreshing at first, winter's silence does become somewhat monotonous after a time, making welcome the clatter that goes with spring. The seasons are about change, about things that are ever shifting. And our senses shift with them.

For these many months we have known the stark tones of winter along with its truly mystical light, but now our senses tire of the bare & brown landscapes beset with leafless trees, the snow and cold as winter makes another of its seemingly endless returns. Spring is about resurgence - of life, its presence, its sounds and its color. How our eyes long for color.

As I head down through the tall, withered grass of last summer, I scan across the grasslands for any sign of color beginning to emerge from beneath that sea of brown, a sea that appears infinitive as it stretches to the horizon. Usually by this time I've seen a couple of spider lilies or a pasqueflower, but all of the spring things have been late coming to the prairie this year, having been the same with the wildflowers. I feel like an ancient mariner or navigator searching an ocean for a land that he is not completely sure is really there.

Near giving up for the day, I continue on down the slope with my feet falling only on dried grassland. As I am about to plant my left foot, my eyes catch sight of a familiar pale lavender color just barely visible through the grass. The halts me in my tracks. "Can it be?" I wonder.

Dropping to my knees, I carefully open the grass to reveal its secret. And there it is - the blossom of a spreading pasqueflower. Another sure sign that spring will finally not be denied.

The spreading pasqueflower is indicative of the hearty perennials that flourish across this grasslands environment, being one of the earliest to appear and frequently before surrounding vegetation even begins to turn green. This ostensibly delicate little blossom pushes its way up through choking clumps of dead grass made even heavier by melting snows, giving the resurgence of color to an emerging spring. This is a moment by which to mark time.

Lying down in front of the pasqueflower, I gently push back the grass around it so as to get the best pictures. With blossoms of about an inch in diameter, it looked so lost fragile in all that expanse of old grass. It will grow no more than two inches tall, but yet its lovely lavender tones will come to dominate the prairie landscape over the next month or so, along with rich yellows, blues and purples as other perennials join the resurgence.

After clicking off several frames of the pasqueflower, I rise up and look about. Suddenly, my eyes are greeted with much more. I see small clumps of green grass now creeping from beneath last summer's remains. Green weeds here and a dandelion there. About five yards away is another pasqueflower.... and then another. As I continue on, I see even more. Funny how the discovery of one thing shows us how much more was really there.

Nature knows how to get the most for her buck.

"Nice To Be Here"

Nice to be here, hope you agree

Lying in the sun.

Lovely weather, must climb a tree

The show has just begun.

All the leaves start swaying

To the breeze that's playing

On a thousand violins

And the bees are humming

To a frog sat strumming

On a guitar with only one string.

I can see them, they can't see me

I feel out of sight.

I can see them, they can't see me

Much to my delight.

And it seems worth noting

Water rats were boating

As a lark began to sing

The sounds kept coming

With Jack Rabbit loudly drumming

On the side of a biscuit tin.

The Moody Blues

(above) The pale blossoms of the spreading pasqueflower actually bloom before surrounding vegetation turns green, appearing before most other prairie perennials. The state flower of South Dakota, pasqueflowers grow throughout the high plains.

(above) The starlily is another early season perennial that grows low to the ground from fleshy roots with leaves that are narrow and grasslike.

(left & below) Among the most colorful of the prairie's spring wildflower displays are the brilliant yellows of the hymenoxys with blossoms about the size of a dime. Below they are surrounded by the purple of the showy peavine.

(above & below) Varying in tones from pale pink to deep purple and blue, the bracted spiderwort is one of richest and most brilliant colored of the prairie perennials. The blossoms usually close during the heat of the day and reopen before morning.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

(above) Another of the May perennials, the pointed phlox has a short stem with fibrous bark. Its sharp pointed petals vary from white to rose colors.

(right) With stiff, evergreen and bayonet-shaped leaves, the yucca plant grows stout flower stalks that reach a height of 1-4 feet and blooms in early June. Many grazing animals enjoy yucca flowers.

(above) The tufted evening-primrose or gumbo lily grows along dry buttes and clay banks and is typically found in places like the Dakota Badlands. Native Americans created a liquid preparation for treatment of coughs and other respiratory ailments by boiling its stout taproots.

(left) The yellow blossoms of the Louisiana bladderpod grow on stems that attain a height of 12 inches or more. These plants are toxic to grazing animals.

(above & right) In the fading light of the day, the brilliant blossoms of the white penstemon(above) and the wild plum glow against the prairie sky.

(above) And while we wait for the spring color of the prairie to develop, we can still take joy in the tones of an incomparable prairie sunset.

~30~

Awaiting the King

2011-04-29T04:00:00.002-06:00

The light is just beginning to turn that wonderful honey amber color of early evening, right about six o'clock with maybe an hour of daylight left. It has been a wonderful spring day - temps in the high 60s, sunny and no wind. The days grow longer now, seemingly at a quickened pace.

A musical menagerie of bird songs and calls fills my ears as they resonate from all about - meadowlarks, robins, crows, mourning doves, turkeys, red-winged blackbirds, etc. Everyone appears to be applauding the day. Fitting how at sunset, life seems content to just celebrate itself - for its own sake.

Keeping me company with my thoughts is a group of eleven turkey hens busy feeding on the cracked corn that I throw out in an area of prairie grass and cottonwoods about thirty yards from the house - for their enjoyment and mine. I'm awaiting the arrival of the toms. They should be along soon as they are now at the peak of their display period. Already some of the hens have disappeared to begin building nests and laying eggs. Most of my turkey pictures come from this bunch as they all go about their business through the tall grasses and cottonwoods near the house.

This past winter brought change. During previous years the turkeys disappeared about early November despite my cracked corn meals and we didn't see them again until early March. This year they wintered with us as well, roosting in the tall cottonwoods nearby and staying plump on the corn. I have no idea what changed their pattern, but after a winter of daily feeding, they have become so habituated to me that I'm not sure I can call them wild turkeys anymore. I no longer use a blind to photograph them.

My attention is drawn back to the birds as I see the toms striding up and out of the creek draw. This bunch now includes four males, two large and mature ones along with two younger that were jakes or immature toms until this spring. Noticeably absent is the largest of the toms, one I call The King. Typically, he will make his entrance when all are present to observe.

The King is in fact one of the most photogenic toms I have ever seen - never a broken or missing feather in his fan, huge and stately with a bushy beard that literally drags on the ground when he feeds. Perfectly proportioned in every way, his display is nothing less than gorgeous. Each of the other toms falls off just a bit thought still making for nice images, but they are not this bird. And now that he has chosen to winter here, there is even less chance that a hunter will take him.

The young toms begin to display as they approach the feeding hens, showing smaller fans with the middle feathers standing taller and stubby beards. How they pale in comparison to The King. The older tom gobbles a bit, but soon all three birds are distracted by the corn and settle in with the hens for supper.

A loud and unmistakable gobble resonates from within the cottonwood trees, grabbing the attention of the birds before me. All three toms gobble back as I see movement coming through the tall grass. Enter His Arrogance, The King.

With typical flair and pomposity the great bird strides forth to greet his subjects, making the usual drumming sound as his secondary wing feathers drag across the ground. His huge fan turns one way and then the other as the lumpy folds of skin under his throat called a dewlap turn fire engine red and his head takes on a complex pattern of white and bluish-purple. The other toms step aside as this grandiose entrance is made. Elvis has entered the building.

(above & below) Two mature tom turkeys go into a full fan and display as they glide past one another in motions that are reminiscent of a ballet. The next several weeks will bring scenes like this one throughout the region.

* * * * * * * * * *

(above & right) Except for the tom's beard, an adult turkey replaces its entire plumage once a year with the molt taking place during summer when heat retention is not as important. The beard is actually a type of feather which rarely exceeds about 11 inches due to the wear they incur while dragging on the ground during feeding.

(right) In some respects the turkey's eyesight is superior to man's. They do not have to focus both eyes to see well, being able to look in opposite directions simultaneously. While birds in general cannot see as many color hues as mammals, turkeys are color sensitive as is proved by the way they react to the color changes in the head and neck of a gobbler.

(left) Despite Benjamin Franklin's well known preference for the turkey as our national symbol over the bald eagle, it's hard to imagine this profile having the same impact on the national seal.

(right) Like most ground nesting birds, the plumage is much more drab on the hen which suffers from much higher rates of predation because of the hazards of nesting and rearing poults.

(above) In spite of their weight, a turkey can shoot into the air from a complete standstill, moving away at 55 miles per hour. Their flight distances are short, however, maybe one-eighth of a mile before they fatigue quickly.

* * * * * * * * * *

(above & below) Gobbling is not so much intended as aggression between toms as it is the act of beckoning to the hens, "Here I am, here I am."

* * * * * * * * * *

(above & right) Winter makes frequent returns during spring on the high plains, even during the late days of April, but seems to have little effect on these birds' courtship activities as they will even strut and display in the falling snow.

* * * * * * * * * *

(left) The big tom continues his strut even as the day closes across the grasslands.

(above) As the final light of the day disappears, the turkeys fly one by one up into the tops of tall cottonwoods where they will roost for the night, free from the clutches of nighttime ground predators such as raccoons and bobcats.

~30~

Lingering Cautions

2011-04-22T04:00:00.004-06:00

I could feel the fixed stare of several pairs of eyes as they closely followed me while I moved from the front end of my truck around to the back and even as I quickly climbed into the box. The stares remained set upon me for a couple more minutes while I readied my cameras for the morning's work. Completing my preparations, I turned one of the cameras around to study this wall of shaggy beasts firmly entrenched about 30 feet away.

The eyes belonged to a group of nervous bison cows, most of them mothers to calves no more than ten days old. Typically, the cows had encircled an area 20-30 feet wide in which were confined a half dozen of the little golden tykes - now mostly napping - to protect them from potential predators. As I panned my lens past each set of eyes, there could be little doubt as to the fate of any creature foolish enough to attempt entering this circle.

This procedure of "circling the wagons" has been in use by cows like these since the days of the last ice age, a time when North America was roamed by numerous and huge predators like the short-faced bear, saber-toothed cat and probably a cheetah as well, just to name a few. Nearly all of those ancient marauders became extinct during the close of that last ice epoch, leaving creatures like the wold and cougar as the only predatory threat to bison with most of that being confined to calves and sick or injured adults. And even that pressure has been severely reduced with wolves and cougars being mostly eliminated from habitats where bison are typically found nowadays.

But time has done little to dull a bison cow's instincts as is evident this morning with their lingering cautions, as they are still responsive to ghosts from the past. And I only have to recall my one negative encounter with a bison for further proof - the time I was chased by a new mother cow and ended up diving under an old fallen cottonwood tree to escape her wrath.

This morning will present to such danger however, as the cows relax and go about their business - caring for interacting with their young. And while seated safely in the box of my pickup truck, I can go about my business, which is creating images of the lives of these great creatures.

(above) After a nine month gestation, a cow usually goes off by herself to give birth and then keeps the calf protectively secluded for a couple of days while the two bond.

(left) The calves soon become restless from the seclusion and very curious of their surroundings, prompting the mothers to rejoin the herd with their newborn.

(above) As the calves join the herd with their mothers, they begin to form close ties with each other that also include the usual antics & play typical of all childhood.

(right) As is with most infants, everything becomes a plaything for a bison calf - even a dried stalk of grass from last summer.

(above) A bison herd is constantly on the move and the young calves quickly learn to keep pace with the rest as falling behind leaves them vulnerable to predators during their first weeks.

(left) This little bull calf stretches as he rises from a long morning nap taken within the safe confines of the circle of cows.

(above) Weighing about 60 pounds at birth, bison calves between now and the first snows of late autumn will gain about six times their current weight in preparation for winter survival.

(right) A worried mother cow steps in front of her calf to cast an eye of warning on the photographer as the curious youngster peeks from behind.

(above) With her recently born calf following along as best it can, this cow heads across the grasslands into the orange sky of a prairie sunset.

"What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, man would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts, soon happens to man. All things are connected."

Chief Seattle

HAPPY EARTH DAY

~30~

Strange Land

2011-04-15T04:00:00.001-06:00

The light dusting of early morning snow has already diminished before an emerging afternoon sun that has quickly rubbed out one of winter's last attempts to hold off the inevitable. Once again the early spring sky is saturated with rich hues in the waning light of the day. Yet there is little warmth - only a swift, cold wind whipping across this lunar-like landscape, beating on the eerie rock formations like a blacksmith's hammer on his anvil.

Seated on top of a sandstone butte, I am waiting for the good light to return. Waiting is a big part of my job, one of the best parts I think. I get to sit and simply feel the character of places such as this one - Toadstool Park in the northwestern corner of the Nebraska Panhandle, set in the midst of the Oglala National Grasslands. Some call it the Nebraska Badlands.

The process that formed this haunting and surreal hinterland began about 30 million years ago. A broad shallow river washed over this region that - like much of early North America - existed in a tropical or greenhouse climate with high sea levels around the globe. Vegetation was widespread and lush. Huge conifers rose above a jungle of ferns, palms and other flowering plants. The stench of rotting plant matter was everywhere, smelling like a greenhouse at the peak of the growing season.

Then suddenly - on an evolutionary timetable - things changed.

The river, along with the tropical climate and vegetation, dried up and disappeared - leaving only ground water. Minerals carried by this ground water mixed with the sand and it became more resistant to the effects of constant wind erosion than the clays that lay beneath it. As this process continued over the eons, balls and plates of sandstone were left delicately balanced on the narrow pedestals, forming the "toadstools" and other startling rock formations that we see here today. Eventually, Nature would hew and sculpt herself a magnificent work of art.

And her work continues today. As mere humans with our limited scope and time reference, we tend to look at a phenomenon of nature and see it as something completed rather than the work in progress that it always is - and that we ourselves are too for that matter. A place like Toadstool Park dispels such a shallow notion. It is impossible to walk this naked, raw landscape and not sense the worlds that were here before ours - or not to imagine that other worlds will succeed ours. We are but a chapter in the story and life of Earth.

This park is astounding with its dreamlike panoramas and sandstone tops poised at seemingly impossible angles, like something that doesn't even belong on this planet. The isolation and loneliness of this land is actually its allure and causes no despair or loss of heart. Surely ancient people came here for reflection and reinvigoration - and so too can we.

Toadstool Park is a place for those in search of solitude. It is the stillness that is most engrossing, almost frightening. There is the slight sound of the wind amongst the pillars and through the valleys, but all else is still - like the Cambrian quiet that is "heard" in the Grand Canyon.

Such a strange land. I sometimes wonder why I am so attracted to places like this one - but then, I really know.

(above) Working with wind and ground water as her mallet and chisel, Nature began this work of sculpture eons ago during another time in the life of our Earth.

(right) The quality of light in Toadstool Park is stunning at any time of the day, but to fully appreciate it, one should especially experience the sunset. That amber light that concludes a day here gives an incomparable resolution to the gray, brown, yellow and green hues.

(above) The stark landscape and bizarre rock formations give Toadstool Park a look that is almost lunar, certainly more befitting of the moon's surface than what we usually see on this planet.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

"When I went to be alone at Djemila, there was wind and sun and a heavy, unbroken silence - something like a perfectly balanced pair of scales. And I would stand there, absorbed, confronted with stones and silence."

Albert Camus

"To have passed through life and never experienced solitude is to never have known oneself. To have never known oneself is to have never known anyone."

Joseph Wood Krutch

"Wilderness... The word suggests the past and the unknown, the womb of earth from which we all emerged. It means something lost and something still present, something remote and at the same time intimate, something buried in our blood and nerves, something beyond us and without limit."

Edward Abbey

"I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion who was so companionable as solitude."

Henry David Thoreau

~30~

Grasslands Music

2011-04-08T04:24:00.005-06:00

A trace of light steals across the broad prairie sky, emanating from a slight amber radiance growing slowly over the eastern horizon. The mantle of darkness lifts. Vague outlines of familiar forms - a distant tree against the eastern sky, the line of a far ridge - emerge from the dark's obscurity. Most things still remain enshrouded to the eye.

Laying my head back against the wall of my plywood blind I close my eyes and shut down my visual senses for the moment, drifting into the ongoing production.

The prairie is awake - and alive with a symphony of sound that is stereophonic as it broadcasts from the waning night. The song of a meadowlark here answers a chorus of howls from a coyote pack over there. The gobbling of a tom turkey mixes with the occasional bray of a wild burro in nearby Custer State Park. It is a time for the ears.

Muffled drumbeat-like sounds merged with others begin to dominate the predawn chorale, reverberating from the darkness just outside my wooden walls on this remote prairie ridge at the edge of South Dakota's southern Black Hills. "Fuh-duh-duh-duh-duh-dit. Fuh-duh-duh-duh-duh-dit. Chuk-chuk-chuk. Chuk-chuk-chuk. Chuk-chuk-chuk. Coo-oo. Coo-oo. Coo-oo." The music seems to be growing.

Suddenly the piercing howl of a single coyote knifes through the darkness - this one much closer. Panic ensues. I hear the furious beat of many wings mixing with a more urgent version of "chuk-chuk-chuk, chuk-chuk-chuk, chuk-chuk-chuk" - all quickly fading into the night. Then.... Silence. Not even a meadowlark.

Knowing that the music will return, I shift my cramped feet out in front of me and go on sipping coffee from my plastic car cup. To get here I dragged myself out of bed at 3:30 am and then hiked half a mile through the dark of a moonless night so I could be in this blind about an hour before sunrise. Why? - to watch and photograph the mating displays of the sharptail grouse.

One of the real treats of early spring across the grasslands of Nebraska, Wyoming and the Dakotas is the opportunity to observe these very striking birds as they put on one of nature's most spectacular displays of courtship behavior, usually beginning in mid March and running through mid May.

During the first hours of the day, the cocks and hens gather on a prairie ground called a lek - typically the top of a knoll or hill with good visibility in all directions. Here the males perform a spring dance in which they extend their white-spotted wings and six inch tail feathers, inflate purplish neck sacks and stamp their feet at a speed of about 200 repetitions per minute. Their foot motion becomes a complete blur, causing the "fuh-duh-duh-duh-duh-dit" automatic firearm sound, as they shoot back and forth across the ground like little powered toy cars - all to impress and gain favor with the hens. In other words - "pick me, pick me, I'm cooler than him." At times this competition becomes more than just display as the cocks go into fits of jealous rage, engaging in pitched battles as they jump on and even peck each other, sometimes even drawing blood.

In early May the hens begin nest building in areas with taller grass than what is generally found on the lek and, after a 24 day incubation period, hatch a brood in early June of 4-6 chicks. Soon after hatching the hen will move her brood back into areas of shorter grass where the youngsters will quickly grow and fledge on a diet of grasses, seeds and insects. As is with most ground nesting birds, the males play no role in raising the chicks.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The silence that had fallen around the blind is cut once again by the familiar beat of wings as the birds return to the lek in resumption of their business. Once more the music grows. I hear the meadowlarks and of course...."Fuh-duh-duh-duh-duh-dit. Fuh-duh-duh-duh-duh-dit. Chuk-chuk-chuk. Chuk-chuk-chuk. Coo-oo. Coo-oo."

I can see color now in the eastern sky as well as silhouetted figures scurrying about in the grass before the front of the blind. There is the usual chill of a mid April dawn on the northern prairies and a slight breeze, but none of the heavy gusting spring winds that tend to cut down on the birds' activities. A good photo day is coming.

"Fuh-duh-duh-duh-duh-dit. Fuh-duh-duh-duh-duh-dit. Chuk-chuk-chuk. Chuk-chuk-chuk." Even if I fail to get a single usable image this morning, the time is well spent just listening to the music.

(above) As the dawn light spreads across the prairie, a sharptail grouse male puts on his best show for the hens during the annual courtship display of one of North America's most striking birds.

(right) As is typical with most ground nesting birds, the sharptail male possesses a much brighter colored and more ornate plumage than the hens with these features becoming very pronounced during courtship displays.

(left) The hen's plumage is much more drab, giving her a natural camouflage that allows her to blend into her prairie surroundings. This advantage helps her escape the notice of ever persistent predators like eagles, badgers & coyotes while she is nesting and raising chicks.

(above) With their tall & sharply pointed tails fully extended, hence their name, these two cocks strut about each other with "mad dogging" stares like a couple of junior high school kids egging each other on for a fight.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

(above, right & below)

At times these rites become much more intense than just display and showing off with the birds fighting, pecking each other and even drawing blood.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

(above, right & below)

Spring snows are common on the great plains where winter does not easily relinquish its grip. But as long as the cold is not extreme or bitter, the grouse will show up at the lek and even display in the snow.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

(left) As spring moves on into May, grouse activity on the lek begins to wane as fewer birds show up there or stay as long.

(right) The appearance of a hen now on the lek is rare as most of them are busy building nests for the eggs that will soon be coming.

(above) A cock walks among fresh spring grass that is already tall enough on the lek to nearly hide this bird from the dawn light creeping across the prairie. The spring dances are almost at an end.

~ 30 ~

Sympathy with the Seasons

2011-04-01T10:33:00.013-06:00

"I wish to speak a word for Nature, for absolute freedom and wildness, as contrasted with a freedom and culture merely civil, -- to regard man as an inhabitant, or a part and parcel of Nature, rather than a member of society."

Henry David Thoreau

SPRING

(above) Freshly cleared of winter's ice, the waters of Stockade Lake now reflect the dawn light and become a painter's canvas for this beautiful Black Hills high country setting.

"Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders."

Henry David Thoreau

SYMPATHY WITH THE SEASONS

When Henry Thoreau first took up his now famous abode in the woods at Walden Pond, he called that excursion an experiment.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately," he said, "to front only the essentials of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

"Live in each season as it passes," advised Thoreau, "breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each. Open all your pores and bathe in all the tides of Nature, in all her streams and oceans, at all seasons. For all Nature is doing her best each moment to make us well. She exists for no other end. Do not resist her."

With this end in mind, we embark today on an experiment of our own -- The Spring Creek Chronicles. This endeavor will be a journalistic excursion, a sojourn in which we shall attempt to keep sympathy with the seasons. Through a combination of pictorial and written essays, Spring Creek Chronicles will observe the cycle of the seasons throughout the year in a way similar to what Thoreau did at Walden. The theme will be nature, what it did on a given day and what it meant to humanity. As Thoreau said, "It is in vain to write on the seasons unless you have the seasons in you."

Always, the Chronicles will be anchored by a strong visual orientation, with images from the Black Hills of South Dakota, the northern prairies and other great North American wilderness settings. Pictures will frequently take literary quotes and passages for their captions.

It is fitting that the last work of Henry Thoreau is"Faith in a Seed," -- how nature uses and disperses them, and the miracles nature derives from them. For Thoreau himself was a seed -- one that has germinated and blossomed to give shape to a unique genre and expression of American literature and one of its most important contributions to the literary world -- the nature essay.

It was Thoreau who -- by bringing about a synthesis of dissimilar and previously distant elements, such as private diaries, extended letters, scientific data and conventional essay forms -- sowed the seeds that paved the way for 20th & 21st century writers such as Aldo Leopold, Norman Maclean, Edward Abbey, Linda Hasselstrom and Barry Lopez.

The nature essay has become, as author and book editor John Murray describes, "a remarkably diverse and elastic literary form that is natural, loose and open in its structure with boundaries much broader than they have ever been previously... Just as nature grows, the literature is also growing. The three major themes of Walden -- communion, renewal and liberation -- continue to pervade the genre even now, at the dawn of the 21 century."

As we journey through the seasons of the years to come it is my belief that if the Spring Creek Chronicles can help us later think, say or write what Thoreau did of his own excursion, then something wonderful will have been accomplished.

"I learned this, at least, by my experiment; that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours... the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; for that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

May the Spring Creek Chronicles be part of such a foundation.

(above) In late March a western meadowlark heralds the start of spring from atop a small rock on a South Dakota grassland. For many who make their home on the prairies, the day they first hear the melodious song of the meadowlark marks the beginning of spring.

(below) This seemingly delicate little blossom of the spreading pasqueflower pushes its way up through choking clumps of dead grass to give the first color to an emerging spring.

"The eternity which I detect in Nature I predicate of myself also. How many springs I have had this same experience! I am encouraged, for I recognized this steady persistency and recovery of Nature as a quality of myself."

Henry David Thoreau

(below) Spring on the prairie is foremost a time of procreation with the courtship rituals and dance of the sharptail grouse being among the most spectacular. Although the antics are mostly display, the birds do become combative at times.

(right) A huge tom turkey does a full fan as he struts for the hens during another of the prairie's classic mating displays in the light of a setting sun on the edge of the southern Black Hills.

"Life consists of wildness. The most alive is the wildest. In literature it is only the wild that attracts us."

Henry David Thoreau

(above) Among the most colorful of the prairie's spring wildflower displays are the brilliant yellows of the hymenoxys surrounded by the purple of the showy peavine.

(left) The brilliant colors of the spiderwort blossom, about the size of a quarter, become a staple sight across the prairies by mid May.

(above) A recently born bison calf and its mother share a moment of bonding in the spring grass of Custer State Park where the birth of about 300 of these golden tykes takes place from late April to mid June.

"We need the tonic of wildness -- to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk. We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander.

Henry David Thoreau

SUMMER

"Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star."

Henry David Thoreau

(above) A rising sun begins the day with an equally firey sky over the South Dakota Badlands.

"This world is but a canvas for our imagination."

Henry David Thoreau

(right) In typical play, this little bison calf aggressively chews at a stalk of fresh grass on an early summer morning.

(left) Though many beautiful wildflowers are found across the North American prairies, among the most striking has to be the bluestem pricklypoppy which grows to a diameter of nearly four inches. This wonderful blossom opens shortly after dawn and closes with the heat of the afternoon sun.

(above) A summer moon rises over the pink and red bluffs of the Indian Creek Wilderness area in western South Dakota near the Stronghold portion of the Badlands National Park.

"To one whose elastic and vigorous thoughts keep pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning. It matters not the labors and attitudes of men, morning is when I am awake and there is dawn in me."

Henry David Thoreau

(left) A double-crested cormorant air dries its wings after diving for breakfast shortly after dawn at this prairie pond. These remarkable birds actually swim underwater to catch their prey.

(right) Now about six weeks old, this little antelope buck fawn has reached the stage of insatiable curiosity as he peeks through the sage at the photographer.

(above) A huge monarch butterfly takes a sweet reward from a sunflower during late summer in a Custer State Park meadow.

"Happiness is like a butterfly. The more you chase it, the more it will elude you; but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder."

Henry David Thoreau

AUTUMN

"The landscape is so handsomely colored, the air so clear and wholesome, the surface of the earth so pleasingly varied that it seems rarely fitted for the abode of man."

Henry David Thoreau

A golden aspen leaf floats down this high country creek in the central Black Hills as autumn comes to South Dakota.

(left) Early autumn marks the rutting time for "the prince of the prairie", the pronghorn or antelope, as the high plains are filled with this uniquely North American animal. Here, a buck makes his move on this doe.

(right) By late autumn, the Black Hills high country canyons near Blue Bell are filled with mighty centurions like this bighorn ram doing battle for the "hand" of the lady.

(above) The amber light of dawn grows as it spreads across this prairie meadow containing a single cottonwood tree in the southwestern corner of South Dakota.

"I am struck by the simplicity of light in the atmosphere of autumn, as if the earth absorbed none, and out of this profusion of dazzling light come the autumnal tints."

Henry David Thoreau

(right) Fallen leaves strewn this Spearfish Canyon hiking trail leading to Roughlock Falls in the northern Black Hills of South Dakota.

(below) The canopy of this huge aspen tree grove is ablaze with autumn color in the high country of South Dakota's central Black Hills.

"The hillside forest is all aglow along its edge, and in all its cracks and fissure, and soon the flames will leap upwards to the tops of the tallest trees."

Henry David Thoreau

(above) On their way south to wintering grounds in Texas and New Mexico, these sandhill cranes stop in for a couple days rest as the sun sets along the Missouri River flyway in central South Dakota.

"The brilliant autumnal colors are red and yellow, and the various tints and shades of these. Blue is reserved to be the color of the sky, but yellow and red are the colors of the earth-flower. Every fruit on ripening, and just before its fall, acquires a bright tint. So do the leaves; so the sky before the end of the day, and the year near its setting. October is the red sunset sky. Color stands for all ripeness and success."

Henry David Thoreau

WINTER

"Winter is thrown to us like a bone to a famishing dog and we are expected to get the marrow out of it... if its fruit is harder to get at, then it is no doubt the more concentrated and nuttier."

Henry David Thoreau

(above) In the southern Black Hills, two bison bulls engage in some winter play on a snowy morning in South Dakota's Custer State Park. Come July when their rut gets underway, tussles like this one will be much more serious.

"To make a perfect winter day like this, you must have a clear, sparkling air, with a sheen from the snow, sufficient cold, little or no wind; and the warmth must come directly from the sun. It must not be a thawing warmth. The tension of nature must not be relaxed."

Henry David Thoreau

(left) The final light of the day washes across one of the pillars of Slim Buttes as the sun sets on this pristine Harding County landscape in the northwest corner of South Dakota.

"Great winter itself looked like a precious gem, reflecting rainbow colors from one angle."

Henry David Thoreau

(below) Two bighorn sheep ewes cross the icy waters of French Creek near Blue Bell in the central Black Hills of South Dakota.

(left) Born during late May or early June, this six month old mountain goat kid pokes about in a winter landscape, feeding on lichens that grow on the granite rock surfaces. Come early spring, he will join up with a bachelor group of other billies.

(above) This icy formation was formed on Stockade Lake in the central Black Hills during early winter because of thawing and re-freezing effects.

"There are two different seasons in the winter; when the ice of the river and meadows and ponds is bare -- blue or green, a vast glittering crystal -- and when it is all covered with snow and slosh; and our moods correspond."

Henry David Thoreau

~30~