Reptile Rapture

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Snakes; I never had a truly concrete feeling about this slithery reptile. Squeamish? Not exactly. Adoring? Far from it. Fortunately, my experiences with these slinking species at the ACEC involved only a long-thought harmless kind: garter snakes.

Photo courtesy of Creative Commons

I’ve gotten quite acquainted with the garter snake folk around the Center. From lurking in canoes to creeping through a game of freeze tag, they enliven nearly every camp activity. My first encounter pushed my perception farther from the “adoring” end of the spectrum.  Imagine a gaggle of tween nature girls, anxious to participate in one of the most coveted activities during camp: canoeing. After completing what we’d assumed was a thorough snake-check, the girls were off sailing, in hot pursuit of a less threatening reptile. Minutes later, screams erupt from a canoe drifting in the middle of Will’s Marsh.                                    

                                                                                                                                                                                      “THERE’S A SNAKE IN OUR BOAT!” Counseling, cooing, coaxing, and still all were too overcome by fear to maneuver the canoe back to shore. It was rescue time. Mattie and I set out in our own canoe, equipped with rope and patience. Upon reaching the frightened vessel, Mattie valiantly tossed the snake to the safety of a bunch of Bull Rush, and we towed the girls to the safety of unconfined space not shared with a slithery stowaway. Here, the girls quickly shed the trauma of such an experience with the help of a turtle’s never-ending fascination. Luckily, no parents were alarmed, but rather tickled by the thought.                                                                                                                                                                                                                            After casual encounters with the creatures throughout my other days at the Center, I became more and more at ease in their presence. While on a lunch break, Carol captured a specimen that was to alter my opinion of them altogether. The young, adventurers of Raptor Rapture were playing in the amphitheater when a fragile garter wiggled through the game. Safely held in a mixed nuts jar, I took time to familiarize the little fellow, and, yes, even hold a snake for the first time. More delicate than an earthworm, he did not even match the width of my pencil. I measured him at approximately 8.5 inches; newborns (born live!) range in size from 6-8 inches, and are typically born between July and September, explaining the presence of such a tiny one.

While studying and building my relationship with the species, Mattie and I discovered that garter snakes are indeed poisonous. They simply lack the means to inject the venom into us, due to an unfortunate pairing of overly large gums and miniscule fangs.  After sharing my snake adventures with my family I learned that a rather unusual gene runs in the family: a fear of snakes. Perhaps the gene stops with me, and I will become the first crazy snake lady produced by a clan of squealing snake-phobics. 

Photo courtesy of Creative Commons

By Chrissy Webb, High School Naturalist-in-Training

(Not) Seeing Red

Photo courtesy of USFWS

As I wandered through the field adjacent to the road into Norm’s Island, I heard a strange call that was entirely unfamiliar to me.  It sounded like a weak Bald Eagle call, but, upon locating the bird that had made the call, I instead observed brown and gray plumage and a brown head.  Making an educated guess (not so educated as a later found out) I immediately thought of a Golden Eagle.  That was a truly amazing moment as I filled myself with (false) hope and excitement that I had chanced upon such an amazing find!  It was then that I heard the famous screech of a Red Tail Hawk fill the air as the raptor took flight overhead.  As I observed the magnificent Red Tail Hawk take flight and find the nearest thermal air column to utilize its perfectly designed wings, I could not help but to look for the distinct red tail.  But, to my surprise, it was not there!  Now I was truly stumped, for this particular Red Tail Hawk had not only made a strange call that I had never heard, but it also did not have the red tail as described in its name.   

Intrigued, I followed the Not-So-Red Tail Hawk as it made its way to the next dead cottonwood tree to search for prey.  Being a raptor, it had a curved beak and keen eyes, a perfect combination for hunting small mammals and birds.  I was able to see it in action as its long and wide wings helped it ride rising air columns and circle over a field full of prey without even flapping its wings.  Then, as if out of thin air, a second one appeared!  Now this one was practically the same bird, about 2 feet long with a wingspan of 4 to 5 feet and still no red tail!  It too made the mysterious eagle-like call in addition to the famous screech, and had seemed to join the other one in the hunt.  Now this was quite a sight, two elegant raptors in the hunt!  I was even more surprised when I observed one perch on a branch overlooking a field while the other circled overhead, as if they were spotting for one another.  I continued watching them as they worked their way through the woods, until, after what seemed like moments since I first spotted them, they flew off across the road over towards Lake Josephine, most likely in search of a young duckling.  

Photo courtesy of USFWS

 As I walked back to the ACEC, I could hear the Red Tail Hawks distant calls in the distance as dozens of questions and theories ran through my head to explain what I had just seen.  Upon returning, I quickly looked up the different calls of the Red Tail Hawk, and was rewarded when I happened upon the same call that I had heard.  The call that I had heard was the Red Tail Hawk’s mating call, thus solving the mystery of the unknown call and why they were hunting together. However, this still left the absence of the red tail unsolved!  But, as usual, a little more work revealed the truth.  As it turns out, Red Tail Hawks begin reproducing at the age of 2, but do not reach full maturity until the age of 3 or 4.  So the two that I had stumbled upon must have been old enough to mate, but not entirely mature, resulting in two very bland colored hawks and one thoroughly confused me.  All in all, I felt pretty good about my detective and reasoning skills.  After all, I did identify it as a bird pretty quickly, if I do say so myself.   

~ Jeremy Brooks, High School Naturalist in Training

Writings on winter

Last week at our monthly evening lecture series at the Audubon Center, the flames of my passion for nature writing were fanned during a presentation by Dr. Bernie Quetchenbach, professor of English and writing at MSU-B. Afterward, I revisited some of my old journal entries, and am posting one here that I previously shared on the Teton Science Schools graduate school blog in 2008.

I feel nostalgic reading it because it seems we have missed out on winter this year. Yes, we had a few days of snow and some intense cold, but it was nothing like a real Montana winter. We did not experience the length and intensity of cold that makes us feel hardy and strong as we brave the outdoors to shovel walkways, ski down powdery slopes, or simply get from home to the office to the grocery store. Surrounded by brown lawns and warm air, there was no reason to feel extra cozy and snug, no reason to take refuge in warm homes with hearty meals of stew. Without the toughening exposure of winter, spring feels unearned and less joyous. So, for the sake of a love of writing and a love of winter, I share with you the following.

Solitude. It creeps into the spaces between stillness and silence, framed by snow-covered branches in aspen groves. It seeps into my cells with each step that I take deeper into the forest, away from cabin warmth and human merriment.

The trees are slumbering, in a state of semi-frozen rest, which allows them to tolerate winter in Wyoming. The conifers with their evergreen needles, and aspens with their chlorophyll-laden bark, will jump at the first chance to photosynthesize in the spring. For now, all available water is frozen hard, and the trees have fortified their defenses against the biting wind and cold of winter.

I ski east toward the Gros Ventres under an ever-changing canopy of falling flakes. Stellar shapes dance earthward around me. I am seeking quietude this afternoon prior to my flight to join my family for the holidays. Over the last few weeks between Thanksgiving and winter breaks, the landscape around Kelly has changed remarkably. We are now entering the heart of winter, an especially quiet time of year. I have long been an avid fan of winter. Its harshness feeds the drive to survive and exposes the innermost nature of its inhabitants. All is laid bare, at the mercy of nature’s chilly grasp.

I stop short in my kick-glides as I enter the bottom of Coyote Gulch. The silence is overwhelming in contrast to the scrape and creak of my skis. My breath pools up in thick clouds of condensation in front of my face. On the hillside to the north above me a sizeable herd of elk have gathered. Standing motionless, I wait. Listening. Admiring the elk. Their strong limbs guide them through sage thickets and snowdrifts in search of the edible bitterbrush and willows. Several conjoined circular beds of matted grass dot the hill, evidence of a night spent huddling close together for warmth. A high bugle breaks the calm. I have startled the elk, and they are watching me with tense muscles, voicing their alarm and discontent with my presence. As if in agreement, a raven pair caws loudly as they swoop by directly overhead. Turning my head skyward, I glimpse the sun’s rays beaming from low on the western horizon. Pink, violet, and vibrant orange color the clouds that layer the sky.

I am witness to a truly wild scene. The power of this moment sends me into a reverie. I exist in a timeless trance, rooted firmly in place. Throughout the fall months I have become increasingly at home here in Kelly. I have delved into ecology, geology, and the development of my sense of place. Winter now brings a new perspective to my appreciation of these woods and meadows.

I realize I have stood here long enough in -12 degree Celsius ambient temperatures. The heat my body had generated while skiing has been rapidly lost through conduction in the frigid, calm air. I start moving again, blazing a ski trail that follows the fence-line along the boundary of the US Forest Service lands and Grand Teton National Park. I shiver deeply as the cooled blood in my extremities is re-circulated to my core with my motion. I am propelled forward faster by the drive to keep warm.

Rounding the bend to the north I realize that I am mid-way down the infamous After Work Bowl. There appears to be just enough snow to put my cross-country ski gear to the test with some telemark turns. I guide my ski tips downhill until gravity gently pulls me onto the slope. I weave through sage and exultantly yip-howl with joy. The freedom and grace of skiing is unparalleled. As I glide onto the flats, I turn to admire the scene once more.

I know I will be back soon to explore the enchanted world of winter. These afternoons spent alone in the woods transport me into a state of powerfully centering solitude. For now, it is time to return to my cabin. I whisper my thanks, and slip down the trail between lengthening shadows towards home.

Photo credits: mountain and stream shots by Pippi Fisher and Jill Fineis, elk by n fiore (creative commons)