CAPABLE TO A POINT

Consider today's post a sort of photographic corollary to yesterday's confession regarding the challenge of trying to capture decent images of fast-moving northern rough-winged swallows as they erratically swooped and twisty-turned while feeding above the pool near the cottage. I made much of the difficulty of the task involved, given the decided limitations of my bird-in-flight capturing skills.

Gail, bless her heart, dear friend and faithful Riverdaze reader, thought I was merely being humble. Alas, I was not. I wish that were indeed the case. Modesty would have been an easier path than truth. But I know I'm technically capable only to a point. 

So here's visible, irrefutable proof of my admission's genuine honesty—two shots of the same turkey vulture as it recently circled over the yard. Notice how nice and crisp the images are—subject's eyes sharp, detail in the feathers? Should one desire a poster-sized print of either, suitable to mat and frame and hang on the living-room wall for friends and family to admire, they'd easily enlarge with no loss in quality…though why anyone would be possessed to do such a thing is beyond me.       

Still, their image quality corroborates my point: if the subject-in-flight is big enough, close enough, and sufficiently slow-moving, I'm a "get'r done" camera-totin' whizz! Should refrigerators or school buses sprout wings and take to the sky, I'll nail those shots. Guaranteed!

Zippy little swallows? Luck and dogged persistence are my only real hope. A man must recognize his limitations…

        

GOOD NEWS BUZZARDS

Unlike the negative connotations when chickens are involved…having your buzzards come home to roost is a good thing. At least from my admittedly critter-centric viewpoint. When I looked across the river and saw the multiple dark forms of more than dozen turkey vultures sitting, like a troop of black-robed Lammergeier throughout the top of a large hackberry, I took them as an omen of good fortune.

In normal years turkey vultures seldom show up hereabouts before mid-March. In fact, the legend of the Hinkley buzzards and their annual March 15 return to the ledges above the Rocky River, near Cleveland, is nowadays an offbeat news story of international fame. Buzzard Sunday, held the first Sunday after March 15, attracts tens of thousands of visitors. And just like clockwork, you can expect the big birds to be winging about overhead, visible stars in the celebration.

Though I live in the southwestern corner of the Buckeye State, which is a long way from Cleveland, the vulture's yearly vernal reappearance locally generally comes surprisingly close to mirroring the March 15 date of their more acclaimed Hinkley kinfolk. This year, however—which has proven an unseasonable anomaly from the get-go—the buzzards made it back early. Real early. I saw several vultures wheeling around over a nearby field nearly three weeks ago—which, at a month before, is the earliest date ever in my experience.

Still, buzzards over a field a mile from here and buzzards at roost across from the cottage are two different matters. I was absolutely delighted to see them back along the river once again. I've enjoyed roosting vultures on the island every year since moving here. The somber scavengers are now more than trustworthy spring harbingers—I'd like to think we've become old friends. 

So from one old riverbank resident to another…welcome home!

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WEIRD BUZZARDS BEHAVIOR

Sign or portent…or just two buzzards

seeking shelter from the rain?

We'd just returned from a long, exhausting day which began with mid-morning dental cleaning appointments miles from here, and ended after multiple subsequent stops, nine hours later. The sky was heavily overcast, dimmed to a premature twilight, plus it was raining—not hard, but enough that you could get wet if you stood around more than a moment. Naturally, there were groceries and other items to carry in—quite a few, actually.

I opened the back door and let Moon the dog out, then stepped inside to deposit sunglasses, sodas we'd been sipping since our last stop, and a bag of prescriptions we'd picked up at the pharmacy. Myladylove and Moon went around to the rear of the Jeep and began grabbing packages. I headed back out as they came in, retrieved my own armload of stuff, hurried back in—again passing Myladylove at the door while trying to step around Moon who'd decided to sit in the precise middle of the small rear deck—in the dry, of course—and observe all these semi-desperate to-and-fro relays.

A moment later, as I rushed back out, Myladylove and I almost collided in the doorway. "You're never going to believe this," she said. "Grab your camera!"

Luckily, the camera with an attached zoom was sitting on my desk, a dozen feet from the door. Whatever it was that had her cranked—sasquatch, naked kayakers, a UFO on the rooftop—I was now armed and ready to take its picture. I darted back outside.

Myladylove was standing in the drive holding Moon. The rain was coming down harder now and both of them were quickly getting wet. Moon had picked up on the sudden level of excitement. In addition, she is—to wildly understate the actuality—definitely not a water dog, rather one who abhors getting wet. So the combination of excitement and the rain had her bucking like a bronco—all sixty-plus pounds worth. Regardless, Myladylove, whose grit and pugnaciousness is no match for even an excited terrier, had clamped down on her collar and was hanging on regardless of a potentially dislocated shoulder. She pointed with her free arm. "Over there—on the fence."

I looked, and in the dimness, and saw what first appeared to be two large black blobs sitting on the wood fence that runs along the side yard. Looking closer at the blobs, I realized they were turkey vultures. "Buzzards!" I exclaimed, and began shooting photos.

What makes this so remarkable is not that the birds were vultures. There's a roost directly across the river channel from the cottage; we see buzzards every day. And it wasn't even unusual to see a turkey vulture in the yard—they often sit in one of the trees overlooking the river.

The really weird aspect was that they were sitting no more than 25 feet away, looking at us, sort of idly watching…and didn't seem in the least concerned or on the verge of becoming spooked. Normally, our resident vultures retain a decorous distance between us and them—and 25 feet is at least four times closer than any previous encounter. Moreover, we had not come upon them—they'd sailed in and settled on the fence in full view of Myladylove and a bouncing dog…and continued to sit as I took my shots.

Weird behavior…even for buzzards!

[Re. the photo: As I mentioned, because of the overcast, the light level was very low, almost twilight. The fence where the big birds were sitting is located under a huge, centuries-old sycamore—and even on the brightest days is always in deep shadow. My neighbor's lot, beyond the fence, is open, with willows on the background. I couldn't use a flash without risking spooking the vultures, which I didn't want to do. I was also too dumb to really boost up the ISO. With the photo-editing software I have, I can't crank up the light on the birds without also cranking up the light throughout the image—so what you see is the open area of the neighbor's yard looking unnaturally bright, just to give a bit of detail to the birds in the deep, dark shadows atop the fence. It was really much, much darker out. The rain is really coming down, too, which is also not apparent in the picture. Not much of a photo, frankly, but the best of the lot. Guess I was more excited about seeing my beloved buzzards at close range than I thought.]

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A VENUE OF VULTURES

One of the "buzzard trees" across from the cottage.

One morning soon, I'll look out one of the living room's river-view windows, and the tops of the big sycamores on the island across from the cottage will be empty. The last of the resident turkey vultures, with whom I share this stretch of stream for most of the year, will have packed up and departed for milder climes. I'll be buzzardless until next March.

When I moved here four summers ago, I didn't know one of the riverbank's bonus features was a clan of turkey vultures who roost nightly in the trees directly across the channel. I also didn't know I'd come to so enjoy their habits and company.

Turkey vultures are one of two vulture species in Ohio, the other being the black vulture, which is similar in appearance in overall shape, but a bit smaller and has a dark, rather than a red, turkey-like head. Another difference between the two is that black vultures hunt by sight, while turkey vultures find their meals of the recently deceased via their keen sense of smell—one of the few birds to possess such a highly developed ability of odor detection. A big turkey vulture has a wingspan of six feet and weighs upwards of 6 pounds. Their lifespan in the wild can exceed 16 years, and at least one captive bird passed the 33-year mark. They lack a voice box, so the only sounds they utter are hisses and grunts.

Lazing around, taking some sun, discussing breakfast.

There's simply no charitable way to put this…as looks go, turkey vultures are ugly. Not "cute" ugly, just plain old whupped-with-an-ugly-stick ugly.

But only on the ground. Put a turkey vulture in the air and there's no bird more capable and beautiful in flight. The blue sky was made for the soaring turkey vulture. To watch them tilt and turn, wheel and dip, almost never flapping their wings, yet holding aloft with grace and elegance and absolute mastery of form, it makes you believe bird and sky are nothing short of complementary elements, each created to showcase the other.

I can't begin to tell you how many hours I spend each year just watching those buzzards fly—riding the wind as if it were their's alone. More than any other bird I know, turkey vultures seem to delight in flying, to take great pleasure in their prowess—to experience a sheer joy while ignoring gravity.

Time and again I've observed them coming home in the afternoon. They appear high, little more than dark dihedral smudges against the bright sky canopy. Sometimes they wheel outward in great loops, spiraling, lifting, then swooping down—coming closer and closer to their roost trees. Before settling, they might make make only a single low pass, barely clearing the treetops, or they might elect to make several. They then often land and sit on a limb for while, only to abruptly leap back into the air and swoop and soar a bit more before sitting down again. They seem to take turns doing this—three or four or a dozen birds in the nearby air at once, circling, showing off, landing…to be replaced by other birds who do the same thing; trading moves like teenagers on skateboards: Look at me! Bet you can't do this! Oh, yeah…just watch!

Masters of the sky…

Buzzards are not early risers. They hang around the roost tree until midmorning, perhaps spreading their wings and catching a few rays of sun. When the spirit finally moves them to get their feathered butts in gear and head out to reconnoiter a bite of brunch, they take off in twos and threes—though if the weather is rainy, they might hunker down for most of the day. In the afternoon, several hours before sunset, they begin returning. Definitely not workaholics.

The first year I lived here, when the buzzards and I were just getting acquainted, I kept trying to estimate their numbers. Have you ever tried to count turkey vultures on the wing—coming, going, circling, soaring, swooping, constantly trading places? Or for that matter, buzzards finally settled in on their evening roost—dark shapes, like some sort of feathered fruit, glimpsed here and there within the dense cover of leaves and limbs?

Here's the one-word answer: impossible. My best count—what I, toward the end of that first season, figured to be a pretty good guesstimate—was somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five birds. Then autumn's leaves began to fall. Talk about surprise! The count rose from twenty-five to thirty, then forty, then fifty. Down the leaves came, up the count went. Sixty, seventy, ninety…a hundred! My Lord, just how many turkey vultures were sitting over there in the denuding sycamores? I hadn't been harboring a clan, I'd been harboring a legion!

The final tally, taken on the last morning before their disappearance, was 177 turkey vultures! And I'd be willing to bet that even with most of the leaves down, I still missed a few birds—possibly more than a few.

Home before the storm.

Alas, it's again getting to be about that time of year. Too soon my beloved buzzards will up and depart. It's like losing a bunch of old friends without getting to see them off and wish them well on their journey. I'll miss them every day until they return.

And the trees and skies along the river will be palpably empty, diminished by their absence.

AN UPSTREAM VIEW

This upriver shot is for the benefit of Weaver of Grass (see favorite blogs list) who asked, when I posted a similar shot a couple of weeks back (here), if I would take a photo of the same view once autumn's color had progressed. I don't know if today was the peak of the color here along the river—but it's surely close to that point.

I took the stream photo this morning, when I went out to make a shot of the island-roosting turkey vultures sitting and sunning in one of the big sycamores across from the cottage. I probably should have waited until the sun was higher, which would have made the scene less contrasty. As you can see, though, while there is a lot of yellow and rusty gold showing in the riverbanks vegetation, there aren't any reds. That's the usual case with reparian woodlands hereabouts, especially once the Virginia creeper vines have lost their twining scarlet leaves; most maples and such are on slightly higher ground.

Should the color hang around a bit longer and possibly increase, or if I manage a better upstream photo, I'll stick that one up on a future post. In the meantime…this is the upstream view from Riversong Cottage. (Yes, the buzzards are all looking downstream. There's just no accounting for taste in scenery…even among birds. Also, notice the bird in the lower left corner with his wings spread—taking some sun before the morning's flight.)

BUNTINGS, BUZZARDS, AND MORE…OH MY!

Yesterday afternoon I glanced out my workroom window and saw a pair of male indigo buntings darting about a dandelion-infested wild corner of the yard—a first for Riversong. Not that indigo buntings are uncommon in southwestern-Ohio. However, these pretty little birds, whose namesake color is the intense blue of a northern sky, are more inclined to hang around weed field edges and brushy openings, the thickets on either side of a scrub woods. A riverine corridor is not their usual haunt. The pair were not yet done with their spring molt, as evidenced by the grayish patches on their feathers. After a minute or so they flew around the corner of the cottage and out of sight, but I did see one of them—or a different male—a few hours later. And brief as their appearance was, I’m glad to add them to the list of visitors. Not only did I see those buntings yesterday afternoon, but I managed to get my lawn mowed…with my new lawnmower! You may recall from previous postings and frequent whining that I’ve been lawnmower-less since late last fall—a fact of tactical weakness which the grass may have realized recently. Or it may have been the cool weather and ample rain that induced it to grow like gangbusters. Whatever. Things had indeed reached a critical stage hereabouts. It was either buy a mower or break out the scythe and take in hay. Not having a barn for hay storage, I opted for the lawnmower. The problem is, it has been raining here since Thursday— either as light sprinkles or full-fledged downpours until mid-morning yesterday. Even the buzzards which roost on the island across the river looked miserable—an exceptional feat for a turkey vulture, who tends to look mostly dour and grim. They'd sit atop a dripping limb, wings half opened in a vain attempt to dry out, and give me the gimlet eye whenever I looked their way—as if the rain were somehow my fault! Once the rain ceased, I removed my new mower from its shipping carton, performed the “some assembly required” tasks, checked the blade for sharpness, filled the respective tanks with oil and gasoline—then waited for the exceptionally long grass to dry out to where I thought I might get the mower through it without undue clogging. Nothing like breaking in a new machine with a maximum test. In due time the intermittent sunlight did its work…and I did mine. The days of rain have given my hostas a real boost. The first of last week their green tips were barely poking above the ground; now they’re at least a foot high. It always amazes me how much a plant can grow once it really takes off. In fact, all my plants—including the ones I planted only a week or so ago—have benefited from the rain, including the mix of seeds I sowed in the bed I built near the back door. Thousands of tiny green speckles that promise to become a knee-high thicket of various bright colors by late-June. Naturally, the river is up and muddy, though not overly so; certainly not to worrisome height. In fact, I see this morning it has already dropped 6–7 inches since yesterday afternoon, though we’re supposed to have showers later this morning. As any riverside dweller can tell you, streams are not static landscape features. The cost of those idyllic scenes of a picture-perfect creek or river is learning to live with its moods, the regular ups and downs and discolorations. On the riverbank…life is never boring.