SNOW!

We got snow! Not the Big One, which had so many folks hereabouts dithering in dread and fear, while the rest of us awaited in gleeful anticipation…but a big enough snow to be fun—and breathtakingly beautiful. Somewhere between 7-8 inches here along the river; folks only a few miles to the north got more.

The bulk of the snow arrived sometime after midnight and before I got up and looked out just after 6:00 a.m. Prior to that, in spite of having snowed all day yesterday, temperatures throughout had hovered around the freezing mark, so most of the snow melted soon after it came down, while any that stuck was a wet slush…not quite 2 inches of the stuff when I went to bed. I was disappointed—I'd been hoping for a real humdinger belly-deep-on-a-bulldog snow. A blizzard would have been fine.

When I realized we did have snow, I knew the birds would be coming to the feeders in droves as soon as it got light—and knew the first order of business (before coffee!) was to make sure their breakfast table was set and served. It was still dark when I stepped onto the deck, but the cardinals were already in the big hackberry by the door, waiting impatiently for their meal. I swept an area near the base of the tree and tossed out several scoops of cracked corn. I made sure there were suet cakes in the wire cadges and topped up the seed feeders.

Even in the dark, I could see the river was full of slush. A wind was gusting, too; I hoped it held off at least long enough for me to make some photos of the fluffy piles of snow atop limbs and small branches.

I barely made it back inside the cottage before a dozen male cardinals and about the same number of females were on the ground and tucking into the fresh corn. Even on a morning when food would be at a premium and the key to survival, the redbirds beat their competition to the feeders by half an hour—and except for that lone junco, most species didn't show up for a full 45 minutes!

Once it got light—a glowing white since the sun remained hidden for much of the day behind cloud cover—the feathered mob moved in…woodpeckers and sparrows, finches, a wren or two, chickadees, titmice, more juncos and a lot more cardinals, starlings, a single blue jay, a pair of doves, nuthatches, and probably one or two others I've forgotten. Later the ducks, mallards, came up from the river and cleaned things off. I threw out a post-noon meal of corn, and another just a few minutes ago. No hungry beaks and bills.

Unfortunately, Myladylove had to report for work this morning. No snow day for her. Not that anyone who's lived in Alaska is intimidated by a few inches of snow…though she would have enjoyed the time off and the chance to get outside.

Moon the dog and I certainly had a fine day of it. I took photos. She loped and leaped, stuck her nose in the snow, wallowed, barked, wagged, and played like a pup. I love seeing my old dog frolic, though there's always a bittersweet recognition that time for her runs at a faster pace.

Late in the afternoon, the sun came out, putting a sparkle on the tag end of the day. So while the Big Snow I'd hoped for failed to materialize, we did get enough snow to make up for an otherwise dreary winter. And who knows…winter may not be done with us yet!

THE BIG ONE?

Snow's a'comin'!

That's what weather reports have been warning us about for the last couple of days. Everyone's been talking about it with dread or anticipation, depending on their attitude. And those with built-in storm-alert systems, such as bones which ache, joints that stiffen, or sinuses that clog, have been exchanging body prognostications with one and other as to when the storm will get here and how severe it is apt to prove regarding snowfall.

The weather professionals started out predicting 2-4 inches which was expected to arrive yesterday. Then the arrival time got pushed to last night and reduced to a half inch, with an additional 2-4 inches today. At 4:30 a.m. (thanks to a mistaken phone call) when I looked outside, the ground was snowless. Checking weather on my iPod before trying to get back to sleep, I found the revised forecast to be snow starting before noon, 4-8 inches of accumulation today, with an additional 4-6 inches tonight and 2-4 inches tomorrow. Now they're saying 3-7 inches today, an additional 3-7 inches tonight, and a final inch tomorrow.

The human oracles agree—expect the worst. This storm could very well be the "Big One!" The snowstorm of the season.

At least half the adults and all the kids are praying this turns out to be the case—the Big One—and the bigger the better. Snowfall amounts sufficient to invoke snow day rules for schools and many businesses have been few and far between hereabouts this time around. In fact, snowy days and total accumulation amounts have been under the average this winter. The usual freebie stay-at-home days have not provided those impromptu vacations everyone so looks forward to, and has honestly come to expect as due payment for all the rest of the varying weather a Buckeye has to endure through the year—from spring tornados to summer heat, and early frosts which kills and blackens your tomatoes before you get a chance to pick 'em.

Personally, I'm rooting for snow, snow, and more snow. Bring on the Big One. Let the winds howl and the drifts pile. Flakes as big as my thumbnail which float like goosedown, swirl sideways, or pour straight down. Give us a good old fashioned blizzard. A storm which blots out the far riverbank, sends droves of birds to the feeders, and makes the blazing hearth the living center of the cottage.

The good news is that it began snowing more than five hours ago. The bad news is that until the past hour, flakes were fine, wet, and not doing much of a job of sticking; even now, the ground is barely covered with white. Still, I'm not giving up my dreams just yet. Maybe this is only a prelude; or not even the music, simply the orchestra tuning up before the concert. I hope so. It's looking a bit more serious out there. Thank goodness! This has been a long, tiring, pressurized week of too much work, unexpected troubles, and not much fun. I could use some down time on the couch, stretched out before the fire, with a hot drink and a good book, Myladylove fiddling with some of her beadwork, safe and sound, and Moon the dog slumbering peacefully on the rug.

I'll let you know how it turns out…

SUBTLE SUNSET

When I went outside yesterday evening, I was hoping to see a sunset in the making. I'd spent the entire day bunkered in my writing room, working first on finishing a couple of deadlined pieces, then taking up a longer project I have going. From my deskside window, I have a good view of the river below the cottage, several bird feeders, and much of the side yard. But I can't really see the main area of the hill to the west, beyond the house and across the river, where the sun finally disappears. And because of the roof's overhanging eaves, I can't see much of the much of the sky in that direction, either. Unless it's a real show-stopper of a sunset—one of those which encompass practically the entire sky—I may not realize anything is going on.

I didn't really expect much, however. The day had been mostly cloudy, though not one of those with such a thick sky cover that it produces a sort of gloomy perpetual twilight. Just a medium-to-light overcast, though when I stepped onto the deck and took a look, still solid and unbroken, which in my experience, isn't what you want for good sunsets. I waited anyway, however, because I've been wrong before when it comes to making the call on potential sunsets.

Unfortunately, this wasn't one of those times. Over to the west the brighter area of the gray sky began to sink below the horizon. The light dimmed noticeably. Sundown, sunset, or whatever you want to term this non-show had apparently taken place. No dramatic sky shots this time around. Still, I had an itchy shutter-finger—so I looked around for something to photograph, hoping a string of geese, a few ducks, or even a lone heron would come flying along, as they often do this time of day, and give me a possible silhouette shot. Nada.

That's when I noticed the channel across from the cottage which, for much of the year unless the river gets really low, divides the single long island into two. The waning light—such as it was—seemed to catch on the surface, reflecting a sort of warm golden. sheen. Leaning sycamores stood pale, ghostly. There was both mystery and a bit of magic to the scene. I braced the camera against the deck rail and took a few photos. Then I zoomed in and made several shots of just the river's surface, hoping to capture some of the green-gold mix of water and light.

Sometimes—too often, I suspect—we go out looking for the spectacular, and end up missing the subtle. We seek the brightest and most colorful, that which is dazzling or gaudy…and in so doing, overlook the quite beauty all around. More and more, we as a culture—as individual people—seem to prefer flash over substance, perhaps because the first is easier to assimilate. We'd rather be wowed than moved…see a striking sunset rather than a soft afterglow.

The shame of it is, both can take your breath away…

QUACKED UP

If you'll excuse the cheap wordplay, I'd like to say I have my ducks in a row this morning. Actually, they have them themselves in a row across from the cottage. You might note how a couple are staring my way. You can take it from me that most of the rest are keeping an eye on things surreptitiously. This is not a matter of duck distrust, but rather duck decorum. The rowed-up mallards are all waiting for me to toss out a few scoops of cracked corn. Breakfast! We all know what's going on, yet most of the waddling herd believe that feigned disinterest is the proper demeanor; apparently it's considered unseemly behavior to appear too eager and attentive toward the hand that feeds you.

Fine. I'm willing to allow them their uppity moment. I'll fill the big feeders first with sunflower seeds. Then I'll take care of putting fresh suet cakes in the wire cages for the woodpeckers. After that, I'll sprinkle a bit or cracked corn on stumps and rocks for the cardinals and sparrows…and then I'll pretend to go back inside, duck severing apparently forgotten.

Will there be little gasps of alarm from the overlooked waterfowl? A round of anxious quacking?

I hope so. An occasional comeuppance does everyone good. "Lighten up, you mangy featherballs," I'll tell them when I reappear, grinning, a minute later. "It was only a joke."

Then I'll toss them their allotted scoops of cracked corn over the bank—and probably an extra one to make up for my good-humored trickery. One does not want to run afoul (or would that be afowl?) of one's ducks. The last thing I need is a line of moody mallards.

PHOTO FOOLS FROLIC ON FRIGID FORAY

Unbeknownst to me, Rich took this photo during one of the rare occasions when I could raise my cold-stiffened limbs up in an attempt to make a photo; unbeknownst to Rich, I have stolen his portrait and made use of it on this post.

The weather report called for a mix of sun and clouds. What Rich and I actually saw during our afternoon photo ramble was mostly the latter—though that wasn't any particular problem. Overcast days, with their soft, shadowless light are often ideal for picture-making.

Nope, it wasn't the quality or quantity of available light that tested our mettle, but temperatures that refused to rise above the single digits and a below-zero wind-chill born in some Siberian vodka cellar.

I freely admit that more than once while I was out there in the frozen fields, shivering and shaking, teeth chattering, spine warping, I thought we were either admirably dedicated or afflictively idiotic. Why else would grown men willing endure wind-driven cold that instantly froze the blood and cut to your spine like a razor-sharp machete? What excuse could be offered for facing harsh cold that demanded multiple layers of protective clothing, and a bitter wind that quickly numbed every inch of exposed facial skin?

Even bundled up we suffered, and the stiff, heavy outerwear and gloves added their own difficulties to the task of working and setting camera controls.

However, Rich, who's not only a fellow-father-in-law (his son, my daughter) but lately a budding photographer, had recently acquired a brand new zoom lens he was now hot-to-trot to field test. Everyone knows that when a fellow buys such a techno-toy, there's no better time than the present to check things out. If you are a would-be nature photographer, that means shooting birds or beasts or whatever flora you can happen upon while lurching around yonder winter wasteland. Unless one was willing to admit to being a slave to his survival instincts, and thereby earning the label of "weather wuss," the rules say exacerbating factors so terrible a polar bear would have thought twice about being outside, must simply to be ignored.

Of course, once you're actually afield, there are a few time-proven counter-measures the expert can employ to help alleviate such misery. Vehement railing and the occasional recourse to vivid imprecations are both permitted and understandable. Not that speech of any sort is truly possible when your blood is only a heartbeat away from coagulation and your tongue is a pink ice cube rattling between your teeth. Still, the linguistically determined should be able to express himself through sudden gasps, involuntary shudders, and all manner of pitiful groans.

Moreover, any test session conducted under such conditions not only assesses equipment, but simultaneously discloses the testor's capacity for self-abuse. Later on, of course, during the inevitable post-session reviews, it also reveals that individual's prowess at spin-doctoring—whereby such harebrained ordeals are retold so they sound like another round of jolly-good manly fun.

Indeed, that evening, after Rich and I had, with the table manners of timber wolves, consumed a few thousand sorely missed calories (hey, the body burns a lot of energy making the BTUs to keep itself within sight of that 98.6˚F standard) we stood in front of a roaring hearthfire, warming certain still-numb nether quarters. The afternoon's adventure had been recounted in detail if not accuracy.

Myladylove, savvy to the nuances of good storytelling and its frequent departure with truth, and also aware first-hand of the weather we'd faced, asked—logically, if not particularly tactfully—were we men, morons, or masochists?

I quaffed another half-pint of wine, grinned smugly, and knowing we'd doubtless proven ourselves, announced proudly and with all confidence…

"Two out of three!"

LOOK! UP IN THE SKY!

What an amazing sight!

At about 5:00 p.m. yesterday, as day gave way to night, something odd occurred in the western sky…a genuine jaw-dropping phenomenon. Giddy with astonishment at being witness to such a moment, I dashed for the camera and made a quick shot least no one believe me later on. Luckily, the photo came out. I've posted it above.

What's that? You're right, it is a picture of a colorful sunset. Huh? Well, yeah, that's the sky phenomenon I was referring to—around here lately, just seeing the sun has become a phenomenon. For weeks on end, the sky has mostly been the color of an old gym sock badly in need of a good dose of bleach. Sunrises and sunsets with or without color have been nonexistent. Carolyn, over on Roundtop Ruminations (see blog list) was just remarking on this absence a day or two ago.

Typically, you can count on January to serve up some of the finest sunsets of the year—certainly the best sunsets of winter and usually the best sunsets seen since the previous November. Coming and going weather fronts, frigid air, and broken clouds late in the day are contributory factors—none of which have been the case this January. Snows and frequent passing storm fronts, arctic temperatures, or sunny days have not been our lot. Instead it's been relatively mild, light in snow, some rain, more dampness than real cold, and cloud, clouds, clouds. Most days you had to take on faith the notion the sun—though currently invisible—was actually up there somewhere. But after awhile, you do begin to wonder…

Last evening's sunset, perhaps not the most spectacular one ever, was nevertheless pretty enough to dazzle me with its beauty…and like a drink of water after a day in the desert, greatly appreciated.

———————

BREAKFAST LOSER

A few minutes ago I watched this starling lose a turf battle to a red-bellied woodpecker who insisted it was, indeed, his suet feeder and was willing to back his claim with deranged fortissimo squawks and jabs from his lancet beak aimed directly at his opponent's speckled head. If I'd have been that starling, I have wilted under such a nasty barrage myself.

Share and share alike has no meaning in Bird World! Neither does sportsmanlike behavior. Survival of the fittest is as much in effect among the feeder set in your own backyard as it is on the veldt of Africa.

Which isn't to say anarchy rules. Okay, I know it seems that way among a gang of starlings, but trust me on this…they're not all squabbling all the time. If constant fighting and disorder prevailed, no one would get anything done, such as eat. Birds are like high RPM motors, their metabolism runs at a frantic pace. This requires near constant feeding—and especially so during winter, when it takes more calories to keep the internal furnace going. Sometimes, with some species, a singe day without sufficient food can spell death.

So, birds have worked out a sort of social hierarchy, a who-sits-where at the dining table. It's partly physical and partly tactical, with a certain measure of chutzpah thrown in. Some species, such as cardinals, want to belly up to the seed feeder and eat undisturbed, and they're not much willing to share the space—regardless of the feeder's size—with titmice, finches, or whoever else tries to join the meal. Chickadees, by contrast, are like highly efficient bank robbers…get in, get out—the longer you linger, the greater the risk. Nuthatches prove that size doesn't matter, they'll just flap in and unceremoniously stab anyone big or small. Even red-bellieds leave the nuthatches alone.

Starlings are like street-gang ruffians, at their most intimidating best when they're in a bunch. They'll still peck and protest when alone, but it's mostly bluster. Which is what I think the bird above forgot when he tried to defend his breakfast.

If you're going to talk-the-talk, you'd best be able to walk-the-walk.

—————————

Starling and female red-bellied woodpecker have a glaring contest…

The lady RBW ups the mean and moves his way…

…the starling knows his bluff has been called.

Male RBW tries to be nice—look what it get him…

…a starling in the face.