Roads End Naturalist

Exploring the natural world as we wander at the end of the road

Welcome to our new website! We hope you like it. Please let us know if you notice something missing or that needs a correction. ~Mike & Melissa

  • Swampin’ Again

    Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

    ~Winnie the Pooh

    Well, if you didn’t know it before, you will know it now…swamps are Melissa’s (and my) favorite places to camp in North Carolina. And one swamp in particular, the “Amazon of North Carolina”, the massive swamps along the Roanoke River. So, a few days after paddling in Lassiter Swamp at Merchants Millpond State Park, we were off again to paddle a new stretch (to us) of the Roanoke swamplands – the Middle River. Our route over three days would take us down the Cashie River from the iconic Sans Souci ferry to Bear Run, a platform we had never camped on. Then downriver and up Conaby Creek to the Royal Fern platform. We had camped there before and loved it, but had a few concerns because the platform was obviously frequented by some bears which seem to like the taste of treated wood. All of the platforms have been recently renovated so we were anxious to check it out.

    Melissa readying the canoe at our launch at the San Souci Ferry (click photos to enlarge)

    After getting a shuttle for our truck from our local friend, Heber Coltrain, (he has helped us, mainly Melissa, with workshops over the years), we headed out on a windy afternoon on the Cashie. We tend to paddle slowly and without much conversation as we look for wildlife and soak in the surroundings…a beaver lodge here and there, the greening of the trees along river, and many birds.

    A large beaver lodge on the river bank
    Opening leaf bud of a Water Tupelo
    Immature Bald Eagle cruising over the river

    After passing through the so-called Thoroughfare, we eventually entered the Roanoke River, crossed it and docked at the Bear Run platform for the night.

    Bear Run camping platform

    The river is wide here and we sat out on the dock watching fish jump, turtle heads appearing seemingly everywhere, and the occasional bird flying downriver for their evening roost.

    Sunset from Bear Run

    The next morning we were up early and in the canoe as we had a long day ahead with a paddle distance of about 13 miles. We were just upriver from the Plymouth Mill, a major paper mill that has been a huge employer in the region since it began in 1937. It is now operated by the Domtar Paper Company and employs about 350 people. It seems as though the plant runs 24 hours per day based on the sounds we heard through the night. It produces softwood fluff used to manufacture diapers and absorbent hygienic products sold around the world.

    Plymouth Paper Mill

    We soon turned into the Middle River which has been on Melissa’s bucket list for some time. It is wider than many of the creeks we have paddled in the past and some sections looked like they may have been clear-cut in the not-to-distant past. One thing stood out among the trees – great quantities of Mistletoe. This semi-parasitic plant garners water and nutrients from its host tree by sending root-like structures into the tree’s vascular system. It can also photosynthesize some of its own nutrients.

    Clumps of Mistletoe on many of the trees along the river
    A wide view of a large clump of Mistletoe (though not as large as it appears in this pic)

    Melissa loves to explore side channels on any of our paddles so off we went on one along the Middle River. She suddenly exclaimed “Oh my God, look at that snake!”

    The huge snake lounging on a small swamp island

    We paddled closer and we couldn’t believe the size of this Cottonmouth. Definitely the largest one both in girth and length either of us had seen – we estimate it was about 4 1/2 inches thick and a little over 4 feet long.

    Side view of the thick Cottonmouth
    Close-up of the snake’s keeled scales
    The head of a large Cottonmouth – check out that pupil

    We spent a few minutes photographing and admiring this behemoth…what a beauty. As we departed, Melissa spotted another snake (btw, this is a skill she usually does not have, but she really owned it on this trip). A rat snake was clinging to the side of a tree trunk above the water. As we drifted by, it slowly worked its way very carefully to a knot hole and disappeared.

    A rat snake we saw crawling on a trunk along the river
    The rat snake’s tail as it glides into the hole

    Moving along Conaby Creek, we pulled into a small opening in the forest’s edge (Melissa calls these places “swamp rooms”). She spotted a Green Treefrog clinging to a stem. They have such a great pose.

    Green Treefrog covered in swamp debris

    While sitting out on the dock at Royal Fern, we saw a Barred Owl fly to a large tree branch and pick at something. It was tough to see in the fading light but we could tell it was something a few inches long and hung from the owl’s beak in a curved fashion. The owl flew to another tree and picked at the object. It kept flying around, carrying it, picking at it, and looking at us. We guessed everything from scat to crayfish claw to an amphiuma, but never really could tell.

    A heavily cropped image of the owl and its snack

    We were hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the beavers that had constructed the dams above and below our platform, so we sat out on the dock for a long time waiting. A nice Painted Turtle crawled up on the one closest to us and posed for a few seconds before one of us moved and it quickly slid back into the water.

    Painted Turtle

    Melissa finally spotted something in the water down beyond the beaver dam we had crossed. She whispered “mammal” to me, and we could then tell it was an otter cruising our way.

    A River Otter starts to cross a floating log and then sees us and our bright blue canoe in its path
    The otter gave a few snorts, looked around, and then decided to avoid us swamp intruders and turned back. Look at the size of that front paw!

    The next morning, we headed up Conaby Creek into a brisk wind. And it does seem that no matter what direction you go, you will always have to paddle into the wind. The sun broke free of the clouds and we enjoyed some great birds along the way. The Osprey were putting on quite a show with their sharp piercing calls and some great maneuvers as they either chased each other, avoided the harassment of Bald Eagles, or were hoping to catch a fish. We had one fly by us very quickly (the wind at its back) carrying a fish.

    Osprey toting a fish meal

    One osprey kept circling above us, so we stopped and drifted, hoping it had spied a fish and we might get to see its dive up close.

    Osprey banking as it looks for fish below

    They often hesitate or hover before starting their dive and as we watched, this one kept turning back to the same general area. Suddenly, it folded its wings and dropped. It isn’t easy to follow a rapidly diving bird while drifting in a canoe, but I managed to fire a burst of images and got one nice one as the Osprey was plummeting toward the water. My next couple of shots showed a calm water surface but no bird. Melissa saw it pull up just above the surface and veer off…the fish lives another day.

    Osprey diving toward the water

    One of the things we loved the most about the paddle along Conaby Creek was the abundance of large Bald Cypress trees.There were stretches with many big old trees along the shoreline including some that had unusual growth forms.

    Bald Cypress with unusual branching pattern
    Large trees growing out of an old bent over cypress trunk

    Conaby Creek gradually narrows and becomes a typical winding blackwater creek. We passed a few houses along the creek and knew we were getting close to our take-out spot – a recently opened canoe/kayak launch in Plymouth called Bear Track Landing. It had been an adventure with lots of wildlife, some windy paddling conditions, a few cases of human-derived noises penetrating our environment, but mostly just the sounds of a relaxing paddle in one of our favorite North Carolina habitats — a swamp.

    Posted by

    Mike Dunn

  • Song of the Swamp

    If prisons, freight trains, swamps, and gators don’t get ya to write songs, y’ain’t got no business writin’ songs.

    ~Ronnie Van Zant

    As part of our “farewell tour”, we drove up to Merchants Millpond State Park last weekend. When I was working with state parks, I fell in love with that place and its amazing wildlife and magical tree-scape of old-growth Bald Cypress and Tupelo Gum. Our friends, Floyd and Signa, retired park rangers, had invited us to an oyster roast which was much enjoyed and appreciated. Ironically, of the 20 or so folks there, two are bringing families to Yellowstone later this spring…indeed, all roads do lead to Yellowstone, especially for people that love public lands and wildlife. We camped Saturday night at the family campground and on Sunday launched our canoe into the still waters of the millpond.

    We joined a friend from Vermont that visits the park every year from his home in Vermont and paddled slowly up the millpond toward my favorite destination, Lassiter Swamp. Northern Parula and Yellow-throated Warblers provided the soundscape as we paddled with occasional sightings of other birds like an Anhinga, Bald Eagle, Canada Goose, and Great Blue Heron. When we entered Lassiter Swamp, we were alone, just our canoe and the sights and sounds of this otherworldly place.

    Melissa paddling as we enter Lassiter Swamp (click photos to enlarge)

    Lassiter Swamp is at the upper end of the millpond. A little over halfway up the millpond, the trees become less abundant and you can see a channel of deeper water meandering toward the swamp. As you get closer, you need to choose your way more carefully as some channels lead to dead ends into thickly vegetated areas that can make paddling difficult. But once you enter, you feel you are in a different world. Bald Cypress and weirdly contorted Tupelo Gum surround you, the gum trees having been deformed by the growths of semi-parasitic Mistletoe. It can be a ghostly landscape and, if you have that sort of imagination, there are monsters watching you from the trees. But to us, it is a magical place of unique beauty.

    Swollen tree trunk
    Sculpted tree bases
    The haunting beauty of Lassiter Swamp

    A short way into the swamp, I saw an American Bittern fly up off a large mat of aquatic vegetation. In rapid succession, three more bitterns flushed from that area. In all my years of paddling the millpond, I could not remember seeing a single American Bittern at the park, let alone four! One of the well-camouflaged birds landed after a short flight and was hidden behind some trees. We continued paddling and saw it catch something – a large crayfish!

    American Bittern tossing its crayfish snack

    We slowly drifted while watching it trying to swallow its meal. It appeared to want to dine alone and flew a short distance to a group of trees trunks.

    Bittern going through the fly-through at the crayfish fast food joint

    It landed after a short flight, giving us a great view of this beautiful bird and ts hapless prey.

    American Bittern right before gulping down its swamp crayfish salad

    We continued silently paddling upstream, absorbing the scene before us and listening to the quiet song of the swamp. Beaver sign was everywhere along the route and we occasionally had to paddle in high gear to cross over a shallow gap in a beaver dam.

    Beaver chew marks adorned many of the gum trees in the swamp

    It’s always advisable to look closely before crossing any dam, especially if it requires a brief disembark to pull the canoe across. You might find yourself in the company of another camouflaged swamp dweller, a Cottonmouth.

    One of three small-ish Cottonmouths we encountered

    We saw three of these snakes within about 15 feet of one another, all eyeing us without moving as we paddled by. Though venomous, they tend to not be aggressive, and, if you pay attention, you can enjoy their presence without any problems. We also saw a water snake doing its best imitation of a Cottonmouth a little farther up the swamp. I believe it was a Brown Water Snake though Northern Water Snakes tend to be more common here.

    A non-venomous water snake basking on a log in the swamp. Note the differences in the eye (round pupil when you zoom in here) and head compared to the venomous Cottonmouth.

    The occasional Wood Duck with its “oo-week, oo-week” call flushed out ahead as we paddled and the taps of woodpeckers echoing through the trees provided the percussion background notes. We soon spied some tiny ripples in the still water to the side and saw a dragonfly struggling on its back on the water surface, its wings adhering to the surface tension of the dark water. I lowered my paddle underneath and lifted it up and over to the canoe. I put a finger down and the insect grabbed on and turned itself upright. I placed it in the canoe to dry off. A few minutes later, I saw it vibrating its drying wings and when I put my finger close, it grabbed on, continuing to vibrate, and then took off. A swamp connection was now complete.

    The rescued dragonfly

    We finally reached a beaver dam that might require a portage and, looking at the time, we reluctantly turned back and started drifting along with the slow current taking it all in, perhaps for the last time. I glanced downstream and saw a River Otter poised on a bright green mossy log, staring at us. By the time I got the camera up, it had slid into the water and was swimming at us in typical otter fashion, head low, its face reflected perfectly in the black waters of the swamp.

    A River Otter provided a lasting memory for us

    And then, again in typical otter behavior, it bounced up and down in the water stretching its neck up and snorting at us before disappearing beneath the water with a plop.

    The otter getting a better look at us swamp intruders before disappearing

    It is amazing how far and how quickly they can swim underwater. The otter seemed to have tired of us slow swamp swimmers, and simply vanished, leaving us once again in our solitude. As we paddled back, so many memories of this special place flooded back into my head. They reminded me of how grateful I am this place is now protected as a state park. I was also thankful that people like Floyd and Signa and all the park staff I have known have been the caretakers of such magical places that continue to sing to all that take the time to listen.

    –The song of Lassiter Swamp will live in us as a treasured memory of this special place

    Posted by

    Mike Dunn

  • Farewell Eastern Columbine

    I’m glad the Covid-19 shutdown began in March. April is the best month to be home. Twenty-five years of gardening – not the traditional type of gardening; Mike’s gardening is more like an attempt to create a mountain cove forest in the side yard – has led to a beautiful array of native wildflowers. April is the best because, living in the woods, spring ephemerals, those small-but-showy wildflowers that bloom before the trees leaf out, do much better than more traditional garden plants.

    So when the world stopped and we all hunkered down at home, I found myself sitting on one of the larger rocks in the attempt-at-a-dry-streambed along the south side of our house observing wild columbine, Aquilegia canadensis.

    The drooping red flowers of our southeastern columbine almost seem to float above the ground, hanging from thin stems. They start as a nodding pale green bud, a bit smaller than your pinky nail. As they age, they expand and redden, and yellow pistils emerge from the tip of the flower, even before it is fully open. Bulbous, spurred petals extend upward as sepals open and stamens uncurl to release pollen. Spent flowers shed their sepals and petals, and the five ovaries, each tipped with a remnant style, rotate upright to eventually ripen into brown cups filled with poppy-like seeds.

    Columbine is the reason we moved back to the house that Mike and his ex-wife built. That mist of red flowers, hovering above dots of blue phlox and spears of foamflower, the scent of pinxter azalea in the air, and the wheat-tee-oh call of a hooded warbler echoing up from the ravine – I just couldn’t bear that this was something Mike had had to give up.

    It’s one thing to leave a house, even one you’ve designed to fit your style and wishes perfectly. It’s another to leave the living, breathing thing that is a garden. Especially when it’s filled with plants like trout lily and bloodroot that may take seven or more years to flower, and that now have spread with profusion through the yard, putting on a show to rival the wild places that it was meant to mimic. So when he had to leave, it broke my heart for him. And when the opportunity came to move back I didn’t hesitate, even though I knew it would never feel as much ours as his.

    In March 2020, Mike and I had planned a long-anticipated trip to Nebraska. This may seem as unlikely destination at that time of year, but as naturalists and wildlife enthusiasts, it was a perfect spot for us. Each year, hundreds of thousands of sandhill cranes linger along the Platte River on their northward migration from wintering grounds in the southwest to breeding areas in the north. The shallow, braided river bordered by wet meadows and cornfields provides the respite they require on the long trip: a safe place to roost at night and plenty of insects to refuel.

    For a period of three or four weeks, the evening skies are filled with the silhouettes of family groups of cranes, and the sound of their rattling calls echoes across the landscape. As they drop towards the river, they set their wings and kick their gangling legs beneath their body, resembling witches patrolling the skies on Halloween. Where one lands gently on the mud others follow suit until before long the river is teeming with birds calling to one another, jumping, and dancing. At times, they even seem to flow like the river as they seek a more favorable spot. They call through the night, settling a bit at times but never quieting, until at dawn, as the light of the rising sun highlights the red patch on their heads, they burst off the river with a crescendo of wingbeats and calls.

    Of course, Mike and I put off our Nebraska trip when the pandemic hit and things around the world closed down, even the isolated two-person riverside blinds we had planned to spend the night in to view the cranes. It took four years to find the time to reschedule that trip, but we finally made it in late March 2024.

    When we returned to North Carolina in the first week of April, we discovered that a tree limb had fallen on the deer fence that protects about an acre of our yard, the area that Mike had painstakingly planted and tended for so many years. It looked like someone had taken a weed-whacker to the garden. Almost every single columbine stem, emerging from winter dormancy and just beginning to bloom, had been eaten. We were sick at heart. One flower remained, floating on an elegant stem, hovering above the ruins of the garden. As the weeks of April went by, the columbine made an admirable effort, each plant putting on a few small blossoms. But the prolific display I had come to expect and love was not to be.

    Mike and I are together because of Yellowstone National Park. Years spent crafting and leading trips for educators together deepened a love for that place and for each other. On our very first trip together, we sat into the late hours of the night at a picnic table in front of the Roosevelt General Store talking about everything from our views on abortion to office politics to our hopes and dreams of one day living in a place as wild as Yellowstone.

     I’ve never quite been able to put my finger on what it is about Yellowstone, but it put its hooks into both of us. I think it’s something to do with the fact that we are just one small piece of the huge puzzle that is the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem and, in fact, we are only visitors there. Yellowstone belongs to the wildlife; it belongs to itself.

    There’s nothing quite like sitting silently in the sagebrush, its pungent aroma permeating the senses, watching a cow bison lick clean its newborn orange calf, umbilical cord still hanging beneath its belly. Or, weeks later, watching an abandoned calf struggle for days in an open meadow until one morning, ravens and magpies marked the area where the calf had been. We hiked out to the site and found the remains of a cow. Nearby lay the baby’s carcass, its legs ending in tiny hooves. It’s not an easy place, Yellowstone; but its wildness pulls us.

    And so, as we make plans pursue our longtime dream and move to Yellowstone, to see the subtle ways it shifts through the seasons with a depth our previous visits have not allowed, we will stay in North Carolina for one more columbine season. One more chance to see the clouds of red blossoms above divided leaves. One more hummingbird threading its long bill into the flower’s spurs, seeking the nectar reward deep within. One more chance to see the petals fall as the seeds ripen, then disperse.

    Posted by

    Melissa Dowland

  • Snow Birds

    Winter perches like a bird.

    Wings tucked in so the soul is heard.

    ~Angie Weiland-Crosby

    Another nice snowfall (it has been many years since I could utter that phrase around these parts). We probably got about 3 inches here and it was a nice fluffy snow (prepping us for our upcoming move to Montana no doubt).

    Our yard birds were quite active before and during the storm and I had filed the feeders in anticipation. The hot pepper suet was particularly popular and attracted the greatest variety of avian visitors. The only species that did not visit the suet that I saw at the other feeders (or elsewhere in the yard) were the Purple Finches and a Northern Cardinal. The Red-shouldered Hawk also stayed on its usual perch in the front yard and didn’t come back to see what all the fuss was about.

    Here’s a gallery of some of our wild neighbors during the snow. Birds on the cedar stick were photographed while I was standing next to our slightly open bedroom door. I could only stand there for short periods of time as I had to keep a fire in the living room fireplace to offset the heat I was losing:)

    Suet party – there has been almost constant action at the suet hanging on a post on the deck. I attached a cedar branch as a perch for the birds wanting to grab a bite so you will see mostly pics of the classic “bird on a stick”. Most birds will fly to the stick first and then hop over to the suet cage. Some, like the warblers, do it so fast they don’t give me much of a chance to press the shutter. (click photos to enlarge)
    American Goldfinch showing hints of its color change in preparation for spring (goldfinches stayed at the sunflower feeders and never came over to the suet)
    Dark-eyed Juncos have been the most abundant yard bird during the cold weather with somewhere around 40 seen at any one time feeding mostly on the ground. But the snow caused some to crowd onto the suet feeder whenever possible, though they seemed to defer to most other species and waited their turn.
    A few Yellow-rumped Warblers have been at the suet.
    The male Pine Warblers were pretty aggressive and usually pushed their way in even when other (often larger) birds were feeding
    All the other birds scattered when this Red-bellied Woodpecker came in. But he was quite timid and would fly off if I moved the tiniest bit
    We had 4 Eastern Bluebirds at times at the suet, but it was usually just a pair, with this female being the most tolerant of my presence.
    Unlike his larger cousin, this male Downy Woodpecker didn’t seem to scare off other birds when it landed. In fact, it could be a bit timid to approach if other birds were already feeding.
    A pair of Carolina Wrens came and went throughout the storm. I always love seeing these guys as I consider them the most neighborly of our yard birds.
    A less frequent visitor was this Hermit Thrush. They are here every winter and often visit the suet feeders in extremely cold weather.
    The Tufted Titmice tended to stay at the seed feeders (as did their constant companions, the Carolina Chickadees). They will visit suet but seem content to feed on sunflower seeds when there is a crowd at the suet.
    I never got a great shot of the White-breasted Nuthatch, but I wanted to include this pic so you can see the elongated toe and claw gripping the branch. That is a great adaptation for their trunk-climbing habit, offering a useful grasping tool, especially when going down a tree trunk as they often do.
    Our Red-shouldered Hawk has been a regular visitor. especially on a branch overlooking one of our wildlife pools. This pic was taken the day before the snow, but the hawk was back on the branch as I was writing this blog after the snow stopped.

    Posted by

    Mike Dunn

  • Grand Finale

    The song is ended, but the melody lingers on.

    ~Irving Berlin

    After leading my last group over a week ago, we decided to make one more trip to Pungo last Friday (it appears letting go truly is hard to do!). Our friend, Meghan, was with us and we decided to do a day trip for one last sunset show. And we are so glad we did. It was as if the birds were gathering to say goodbye. We got there about noon and it was a crazy warm day for being early February with temperatures soaring into the 70’s by mid-afternoon. Turtles were out basking in along every canal bank and Southern Leopard Frogs were calling in the wet meadows. Some swans were feeding in the fields out front but it was a swirling black cloud of birds further down the road that caught our eyes – Red-winged Blackbirds! February is the time the blackbirds form the largest flocks, perhaps in preparation for their migration to breeding grounds up north (some do stay in our area to breed but many move north).

    Large flock of Red-winged Blackbirds at Pungo (click photos to enlarge)
    A closer look shows the flock of mainly male Red-winged Blackbirds (black with red epaulets). But you can also see some females (streaky and brown), Brown-headed Cowbirds (shiny black with brown heads are males). There were also some Common Grackles in other photos of the flock. It s common for several species of blackbirds to be in these large flocks.

    We spent several minutes mesmerized by the swooshing and back and forth movements of the flock, at times startled into the air by a passing Northern Harrier. The sights and sounds of these birds is one of Melissa’s favorite things about Pungo in winter.

    Our friend, Meghan, wanted to see a river otter, so we started working on that goal after leaving the blackbirds. River Otters are fairly common here and frequent the roadside canals throughout much of the refuge. But they can be difficult to find on any given day. We parked and waked along a section of road closed to vehicles but passable on foot, hoping to see either a resident screech owl or an otter. No luck on the owl, so I offered to walk back to the car and drive around to the other end of that road and pick them up while they completed the walk. I got almost to the car and looked back and saw them squatting down by the canal far away. I watched and they didn’t move so I figured they had found an otter.

    When I got around to the pick up spot, they had not turned the corner, so I started walking to meet them and maybe get to see an otter myself. Sure enough, as I approached, an otter snorted at me and kerplunked as it dove. Melissa signaled there were four otters. They were between us and obviously wanted to go past me. I walked toward Melissa and that caused the one visible otter to go back in her direction and eventually gather with the others up under a large wax myrtle overhanging the canal bank.

    One of the River Otters checking me out and using this stump as cover as I walk past along the road
    Two of the otters hanging out on the shore of the canal under the branches of an overhanging wax myrtle

    The otters eventually came out, swam down the canal in their original direction and crossed under the road through the culvert.

    Three otters looking to see if we were still there
    They can’t help but play even when the those pesky humans are nearby

    As we walked back to the car, one otter stayed ahead of us in the canal for a time, occasionally poking its head up and giving us a snort.

    An otter trying to be inconspicuous under the aquatic vegetation

    Check otters off the list of tasks for the day. Now on to the front fields in hopes of seeing the real show of the day, the Snow Geese coming into the fields to feed. When we got there, there were a couple of hundred Tundra Swans feeding and a small flock of Snow Geese already there. It wasn’t long until a group of a couple of thousand Snow Geese came in and started circling and landing. We positioned our vehicle close to where the swans and Snow Geese were landing, but the clear skies made lighting less than ideal for photos of the birds. I kept wondering, “Where is the rest of the flock?”. In another 15 minutes, I had my answer as I called out, “Here they come!”.

    Part of a massive flock of Snow Geese on the horizon, headed our way

    –The birds swirl overhead and fill the sky as they circle the fields looking for the right place to land

    Birds filled the sky for the next 10 minutes, swirling in layers, crisscrossing the air space above the fields. Gradually, they began to settle in a flurry of wings and nasal squawks that were almost deafening. Folks nearby registered the noise level on an app on their phone and it was in the high 80’s. That is very loud and is comparable to traffic on a busy city street or a hair dryer. But, a much more pleasing sound and sight as thousands of birds swarmed above our heads and landed on the ground in front of us.

    Snow Geese flying in front of the moon as they approach the front fields
    Part of the incoming flock as it banked over our heads looking for a place to land

    Soon, it became thousands of dark specks in the air circling above thousands of white birds on the ground. The specks were flying in all directions, some in a huge swath of birds on the horizon, some in small patches of birds, landing gear down, searching for an open spot.

    Birds by the thousands filled the air and ground in front of us

    —Snow Geese landing in the field after circling for several minutes. Unfortunately, the wind caused a lot of noise in this video..

    The sunset created an orange hue across the horizon, highlighting the birds close to the source with tints of gold while darkening those further away into magical sky-dancing silhouettes.

    Snow Geese landing in the glow of the sunset
    As the sun sank further behind the trees, the dark shapes created an airborne eddy of black wingbeats

    At times, the birds were all around us, a churning sky full of wings and sound.

    –Snow Geese flying overhead against the backdrop of the moon

    The enormity of the flock was hard to grasp as time and again they would take off and fly in waves, this way and that, against the orange sky. Near the end, the closest line of birds on the ground was probably only 30 feet from us, voraciously gobbling the corn. You could hear a deep mechanical-sounding background noise reminiscent of a machine like a huge combine as the flock made its way though the corn stubble.

    At last light, the giant flock began to lift off and circle the field in preparation for returning to the safety of the lake for the night

    –The final spectacle of an incredible bird sunset at Pungo.

    At the end, we were all overwhelmed by what we had just witnessed. An amazing finish to a special day and to decades of learning to love a place. I’ve been going to the Pungo Unit for over 40 years (back when it was called Pungo National Wildlife Refuge). I’ve had the privilege of sharing days in the field here with thousands of others. We have walked quietly in the woods along “Bear Road” (back when that was allowed), watching swans fly in overhead while a trio of Black Bears strolled across a field flushing hundreds of Snow Geese as they went. We have helped biologists band swans for research with a once in a lifetime opportunity to hold one of these magnificent creatures in your arms until the biologists gathered the data and gave it back to you to release at the water’s edge. We have walked with the bears, watching them go about their activities and feeling the connection with animals that resemble us in so many ways. People have been amazed by the beauty and vastness of the sunrises and sunsets in this land of huge skies. And I have spent time alone (and with just Melissa) taking it all in. So many memorable highlights…The thrill of catching glimpses of the endangered Red Wolves that call this landscape home. Seeing the occasional ghost of the woods, the Bobcat, as they move in perfect harmony with the land. We watched otters play and catch fish, raptors search for and catch their prey, and a rattlesnake that surprisingly was active in January for a few years at the base of the same hollow cypress tree. And so much more, so many species, such beauty, such quiet. In my mind, there is nowhere in the East like it, so much so, that I once dubbed this place the Yellowstone of the East after my other favorite haven for wildlife.

    But, in winter, it has always been the birds that brought me back. The magnificent spectacle and abundance of feathered beings. The elegance of the swans, graceful with their soothing calls and seemingly calm manner (of course, watching them you soon realize they can squabble with the best of them). And the gregarious Snow Geese that come and go wth such energy and sound, dominating the sky and claiming it as their own. The combination is spell-binding and gives all who witness it a better understanding of the true meaning of the word awe. This will be my memory of this place, a place of awe and wonder and birds and bears. Thank you, Pungo, for feeding my soul for so many years.

    Posted by

    Mike Dunn

  • A Kaleidoscope of Butterflies

    On many trips I’ve led, especially ones where we see large groups of wildlife, someone asks about the collective noun for whatever species we’re observing. Whether it’s a romp of otters or a symphony of swans, it’s always fun to look that up and/or make it up (because “symphony” is not the legit collective noun for swans, but I think it should be… it’s way better than flock or bevy or lamentation).

    Apparently one of the options for a group of butterflies is a kaleidoscope. That word is quite fitting for the spectacle we witnessed on our visit to El Rosario Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary, our second and final spot to see the overwintering monarchs on our Mexico’s Magical Migrations Institute. El Rosario is the best known and most visited of the butterfly sanctuaries, and for the past few years at least, it has hosted the largest proportion of the monarch population overwintering in Mexico.

    My amazing co-leaders at the entry to the Reserve: Martha Fisk (Museum, left) and Jessie Birckhead (EcoQuest, right).

    As we approached the parking area for the reserve, the sky was blue and cloudless, a good sign for more flying monarchs than we’d seen the day before at Sierra Chincua. We quickly moved past the numerous stalls selling all sorts of butterfly-themed souvenirs, climbed a short set of steps, and hopped onto the horses that would take up closer to the roosting area. The trail was steep, and a few of the horses had quite a bounce in their step. This wasn’t to the liking of all the riders in our group, but I loved the ride and enjoyed checking out more wildflowers that reminded me of home on the trailsides. Again, the final climb was on foot and at high elevation. As we approached the roosting area, we started seeing monarchs flying here and there under the blue sky, some hanging on flowers to nectar, a few landing at the edge of a small stream to drink and gather minerals.

    A male monarch perched on vegetation. You can tell it’s a male by the two dots on the hind swings (scent poucnes).

    When we arrived at the area where the butterflies had clustered the previous night, the numbers flying over and around us crescendoed. In looking through my pictures and videos, though I took hundreds, so few of them really do justice to the spectacle we witnessed. Like at Chincua, there were branches of the oyamel fir trees just dripping with butterflies. And everywhere you looked there were butterflies in flight, some taking off from clusters, some returning. As the day continued to warm, there were more and more — low, high, among the branches, or landing on people and flowers and shrubs and the ground.

    There were many more people visiting El Rosario than Cihincua. I assume this was in part due to the popularity of this reserve, but also because it was a Saturday and more locals were able to visit. But, if you turn the audio on in any of these videos, you will hear very little human-created sound. That’s because, once again, there was a huge level of respect for the spactacle we were witnessing, and people were nearly silent as we stood in awe with our heads tilted to the sky, trying to take in as much as we could.

    My friend and co-leader, Martha, watching the monarchs.

    There were ropes around the area where most of the monarchs were, keeping people from getting to close to the main roost sites. A number of locals were working, keeping an eye on visitors and adjusting the location of the ropes as the butterflies formed new clumps. I spent much of my time as close as I could get to the roped off end of the trail, watching the butteflies come and go from the main roost trees. Eventually, it was time to head back down the mountain. Only then did I realize that there was so much more to see and experience behind me! As the butterflies had been taking off from their roosts, huge numbers of them had been seeking out sunny areas to rest and nectar just downslope.

    Even more more monarchs were flying in the sunny areas between trees.

    Perhaps best of all, at the small stream where we had seen two or three monarchs drinking and gathering minerals on our way up, hundreds had gathered!

    The gathering of butterflies in the muddy area along the stream.
    The number of butterflies nearly on top of one another, and so close to where we could observe them, was magical.
    The colors and patterns in their wings were mesmerizing.

    Of course, we all had to take selfies with the monarchs by the stream. This one is particularly special to me. I’m with Doug Clark, an elementary school teacher from Lincolnton. Just two and a half years into my career at the Museum, I had the opportunity to move into a role doing teacher education full-time (prior to that, I worked in the Naturalist Center and only helped with teacher workshops occassionally). Doug’s school was one of the first I ever visited in my new role as Teacher Education Specialist. I watched and learned alongside Doug as Mike taught the group of teachers about native plants and birds and monarch butterfiles, among other things. As part of the program, we helped establish a butterfly garden at the school. Doug has kept that garden up through the years (with some additional Museum help and new plants when it got herbicided at one point), and has tagged hundreds of monarchs with students and his own children over the years. As Mike likes to say, Doug is “doing it.” He’s doing the hard work, year after year. And he’s stuck with it, which is not easy to do with all the challenges facing teachers these days. Doug has been on a few local workshops with us over the years, but this was the first time he had applied to be part of one of our bigger Institutes. And what a perfect one to share with him. Thanks, Doug, for all you do for your students. You are inspiring the next generation to love the natural world, and that is one of the most important things anyone can do!

    As my last weeks as a full-time Museum employee are upon me, I’m spending a lot of time reflecting on my 20 years there. As with everything, there’s good and bad, challenges and joys. It’s been a kaleidoscope of experiences, people, and places. But at the heart of it all is what this moment with Doug exemplifies: it has been a true privilege to share the natural world with educators who are making a difference in the lives of others.

    Just one more picture of monarchs, because I can’t help it. They’re amazing!

    Posted by

    Melissa Dowland

  • My Last Group

    Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.

    ~Dr. Seuss

    Last weekend, I had the privilege of co-leading a group of folks to two of my favorite NC places, the Pungo Unit of Pocosin Lakes NWR and Mattamuskeet NWR. It was for a program sponsored by the NC Botanical Garden and New Hope Bird Alliance. Due to some scheduling issues, leaders from NHBA could not make it so I asked Melissa to be drive her car and be a co-lead. That was fitting that we got to do this trip together again given the many times we shared the teaching of educator workshops here in the past.

    Cold and windy describes the weather on the first afternoon’s outing. We didn’t get to Pungo until late in the day and settled in at the front fields of the refuge waiting for the snow geese to arrive (there were already thousands of tundra swans on the scene). And when they did, they did it in their typical grand style…

    -The spectacle of thousands of snow geese coming into the fields on the Pungo Unit

    You wait in anticipation of the huge flocks of snow geese and then you see them, squiggly gray streaks on the horizon. Soon they are overhead in a great swarm. They circle and circle, crisscrossing themselves in the sky until finally they start to settle in a noisy snow globe of birds. It was a stunning start to our time together.

    The birds were quite cooperative allowing me to get a number of photos of them coming in to land.

    Snow geese flying by as they search for that perfect spot to land

    I always hope to see the diminutive Ross’s Geese mixed in with the huge flocks of their bigger cousins, and with this many birds being so close (probably 100 feet away as they landed), it was a good opportunity. Can you spot the Ross’s Goose in the next photo (they are about 1/2 to 2/3 the size of a Snow Goose with a noticeably shorter bill).

    Look for the tiny Ross’s Goose in this photo
    Here is that another pic cropped to isolate my sought-after bird

    The next morning came early (earlier than usual for many methinks). A cold wind was blowing, and the skies were a dull gray when we arrived at Marsh A, my favorite sunrise spot at Pungo. There weren’t as many swans as I often see but the sounds were still mesmerizing. We decided to do a short hike in hopes of seeing a resident screech owl and were surprised when the Eastern sky started to glow, a brief tease of a sunrise that lasted only a minute.

    Sunrise on Marsh A

    After a couple of hours at Pungo, we headed over to Mattamuskeet. We spent considerable time looking through scopes at various species of ducks – gadwall, green-winged and blue-winged teal, Northern pintails, American widgeon, Northern Shovelers, ruddy ducks, among others.

    After a nice visit to the Visitor Center (where my favorite faux refuge staff stars in their “airboat” interpretive video – check it out next time you are down that way and see if you recognize her), we headed over to the New Holland Trail. Every time I visit this beautiful boardwalk I feel compelled to take the same photo at the same spot capturing the reflections of the cypress trees. I used to sell photos at the museum store and the staff frequently turned this pic upside down assuming it was a photo taken looking up at the sky.

    Cypress reflections

    Looking at the amazing lodge brought back a flood of memories of this wonderful place that has showed me (and countless others that were with me) so many beautiful skies and amazing birds over the years.

    The lodge at Mattamuskeet. Here’s hoping the funding is provided to open it to the pubic in the near future

    As is the usual plan, we headed back to Pungo for the final show of the day (hopefully another snow goose spectacle). Several of the participants had to leave early and missed a truly amazing scene. The birds were closer and I took way too many photos of birds landing.

    Blue color morph of a snow goose coming in for a landing.
    Some snow goose acrobatics
    Here they come
    One of my favorite pics of the afternoon – juvenile (front) and adult (back) blue snow geese landing

    And, once again, I found couple of Ross’s Geese to make my day complete.

    Pair of Ross’s geese moving left to right behind a couple of other birds

    There were numerous blast offs by the snow geese, occasionally from a fly-over by a bald eagle, other times for reasons known only to the goose that started it.

    Blast off of a flock of snow geese

    The end of the day brought so many amazing sights and sounds as the birds filled the sky above the fields that were also full of tundra swans.

    What a way to end it

    A full day of birds was a great way to finish something I had been doing for so long, sharing the wonders of the winter birds of Eastern North Carolina with others. What a privilege for all those years.

    –The skies above Pungo filled with black and white wings on our last evening

    Posted by

    Mike Dunn

  • A Monarch Pilgrimage

    Each breaking wave, each rush of the sea on the slope of sand, reminds me why these places of pilgrimage matter. They matter to me because in the long view, I do not.
    ~Terry Tempest Williams

    In mid-January, I had the privilege to take 12 exceptional North Carolina educators to Mexico. We had two primary goals: to see overwintering monarchs in the mountains of Michoachan and to witness the breeding behaviors of humpback whales in Banderas Bay. This experience was the newest Educators of Excellence Institute offered by the NC Museum of Natural Sciences. It was also my last Institute in my full-time role at the Museum. My first Institute was back in 2005, when Mike asked me to co-lead a trip to Yellowstone. If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know where that led… and that our love of Yellowstone is what will finally pull us away from North Carolina, and me from the Museum. Over past 20 years, I’ve been privileged to lead more than 30 Institutes for the Museum, mostly to Yellowstone and the Blue Ridge Mountains. But this year we had the opportunity to try something new in partnership with EcoQuest Travel, offering the Mexico’s Magical Migrations Institute.

    The awesome group of teachers were selected from a very competative pool of applicants to travel with the Museum on this trip. From top left to bottom right: Vanessa Garcia (Sampson County), Cindy Bredenberg (Chatham County), Krista Brinchek (Wake County), Kathryn Edwards (Martin County), Mika Twietmeyer (Durham County), Herminia Reese (Cumberland County), Doug Clark (Lincoln County), Beverly Owens (Cleveland County), Kate Highsmith (Cabarras County), Marcie Burke (Pitt County), Trista Williams (Swain County), and Meghan Baker (Buncombe County).

    At the very start of my career, when I knew next to nothing about the natural world, I got involved in monitoring monarch caterpillars at the site that would one day become Prairie Ridge (through Mike, of course). During the peak of caterpillar season (aka the late summer and early fall), we’d go out to a milkweed patch once a week and look at every milkweed leaf along a transect for monarch eggs and caterpillars, identifying the caterpillars to their particular stage of development (first through fifth instars, or molts). In the fall, we’d also take every opportunity we could to catch and tag monarch butterflies with uniquely-numbered stickers from Monarch Watch at the University of Kansas, a program tracking the migration of the adult butterflies.

    Through these experiences, I learned about the amazing numbers of butterflies that migrated to Mexico in the winter, but I didn’t anticipate having the chance to see them. So when this opportunity arose to not only get to go see this phenomenon, but to take a bunch of teachers along (who, by the way, are the best people in the world to share an experience like this with), I was thrilled.

    This is my earliest photo of a monarch caterpillar, a recently emerged third instar if my IDing skills are still sharp, taken back in 2006, my third summer at the Museum.

    Our group flew into Mexico City, spent a morning at Teotihuacan (which was really cool, but I truly am a naturalist so I’m going to skip that part), then headed into the Central Mountains of the Transvolcanic Belt. The high peaks in central Mexico provide just the right habitat for overwintering monarchs to persist through the tough times: cool (but not freezing) temperatures that slow their metabolisms down just enough but not too much, some sources of water and nectar, and towering oyamel fir trees to huddle against for warmth and shelter during cold nights, cloudy days, and inclement weather.

    Not the site of any of the monarch reserves (which are not above treeline), but we saw this stunning volcanic mountain as we flew over Central Mexico from Toluca to Puerto Vallarta.

    The overwintering generation of monarchs is special. Most adults live only about one month, but the generation that migrates to Mexico lives up to nine months! Shortening day length in the north triggers physiological changes (typically including a halt in reproduction called diapause) as well as the drive to migrate south. Solar cues, and perhaps a sensitivity to the magnetic field of the Earth, steer them in the right direction. And somehow, magically, they end up on a few mountaintops above 10,000 feet in Mexico. By the millions. That’s right, millions.

    We had two days at two different butterfly reserves. The first was Sierra Chincua Butterfly Sanctuary. As we drove up in our small bus, I was surprised at how familiar the landscape seemed. It had a hint of our North Carolina high peaks with coniferous trees and an herbaceous understory. But with more reflection, I decided it reminded me even more of the forests in the Pacific Northwest dominated by things like redwood, Sitka spruce and the like. Even though it was winter, there were many wildflowers blooming in the understory that, again, reminded me of species we see locally. There were vivid red pinapple sage flowers (the color reminiscent of cardinal flower) and lupines, among a variety of others. And the oyamel firs, taller than our Fraser fir or red spruce, actually reminded me of eastern hemlock with what seemed to be softer needles on the drooping branches of tall trees. But they did have those “friendly fir” upward-pointing cones!

    A flower that reminded me of fothergilla or willow.
    Oyamel fir cones

    To get to the monarch roosting site, we rode horses led by local guides (who were, of course, walking the trail at a much faster pace than I would have been capable of). This was a bit scary for some of our group, but I loved it! (Note to self: make friends with people who have horses in Montana.)

    Me and my trusty steed

    The last half-mile or so was a walk along a trail, with multiple stops to look at wildflowers (definitley not just to catch our breath). And then we walked into a grove filled with monarch butterflies roosting with wings folded, almost on top of one another, covering the branches and trunks of fir trees.

    There were probably 2-3 trees in our line of sight that were this covered with butterflies, plus many others that had fewer butterflies on them concentrated along a branch or two rather than the whole tree. This is taken with my 400mm lens and then cropped a bit; we were probably about 50 yards from them.
    The layers of butterflies on the trunks of trees was something I had really wanted to see. Again, this was taken from pretty far away, but it was amazing to see it and then to be able to zoom in closer in the pictures!

    Though we’d been in the sun for most of our drive to the reserve, as often happens in North Carolina’s Black Mountains, the tall peaks at Chincua made their own weather. For the majority of our time at the roosting site, the sun was covered with clouds. But for a few magical minutes, the sun came out and thousands of monarchs seemed to flow off the trees and take flight.

    I wish we’d had more moments of sun, because when the butterflies took flight, it was stunning!

    Though there were a number of people at the site to see the butterflies, everyone was silent nearly the entire time. We heard (and made) whispers here and there… guides quietly explaining the amazing migratory phenonmenon, breaths containing exclamations of joy at the sight. There was also a lot of non-verbal communication going on: pointing to ensure others noticed something special, eye contact filled with meaning (and tears) as we shared the awe of the experience. A poignant moment for me was when I looked across at another group and saw a young Mexican woman with a monarch on her head. I pointed at my camera, silently asking if I could take her picture. She nodded and grinned.

    An unknown friend with whom I shared an incredibly special moment

    Sitting with the monarchs, I wrote in my journal: “It is a pilgrimage.” Pilgrimage can be defined as “a journey to a sacred place.” Whether by plane, bus, and horse as our group traveled from North Carolina, or by car and foot as many of the Mexicans we shared this experience with came, the word pilgrimage perfectly describes our experience. Because, in the quiet of the oyamel fir grove with the sound of butterfly wings like a breeze on the air, we were truly in a sacred place.

    Posted by

    Melissa Dowland

  • Salamander Nights

    The real beauties of nature

    Whisper

    Instead of shouting

    ~Melissa Dowland

    For those of you not on social media (I posted some of this today on FB)…

    I cleaned out (removed excessive filamentous algae and some leaves) our two small wildlife pools last Friday in anticipation of the predicted rain, thinking it might be the first salamander run of the year.We went to bed early and the rains came (I regret not staying up a little later to see the salamanders on the move). Saturday morning, the bottoms of the pools were covered in spermatophores (it looks like little white blobs resembling bird poop all over the bottom of the pond). We were away the weekend (to Pungo, so I need to do another post on that spectacle), and late Sunday, the first eggs were laid. I checked Monday night, more egg laying. After a campfire Tuesday, I checked again and was pleasantly surprised to see yet more egg laying in progress. Here is a beautiful spotted salamander female from Tuesday night.

    -Spotted Salamander laying eggs (iPhone pic). Another egg mass is just to the right of her head. I place a few dead branches in each pool each year about this time of year as the females prefer to grasp a twig or some other vegetation and attach the egg masses to them. (click photo to enlarge)

    Next week looks like a rainy week so I am hoping to get out and see more salamanders moving into these pools. But, I really don’t know how all these larvae will find enough to eat. There are already a lot of egg masses. Good luck little guys!

    Posted by

    Mike Dunn

  • Our Busy Woods

    Life keeps moving, even when you can’t watch.

    ~Unknown

    While we have been busy on the road and having all sorts of appointments, the creatures of our woods continue with their busy lives. The trail cameras have recorded a lot of the usual suspects – deer, squirrels, and coyotes. But it is always fascinating to see what these denizens of our forest are up to. Turn your sound up and view at full size.

    I currently have 7 trail cameras out on the landscape, All are Browning cameras. I have 4 different models out there as I purchased them at different times as new models wth features I wanted became available. I think I have had 4 cameras die on me, but one of my originals (now about 4 years old) is still going strong. It has somewhat lower resolution video and has one distracting feature, at least from the perspective of certain animals…it has a tiny blinking red light when it is on. Most species either ignore this or quickly get used to it. But many carnivores like coyotes, bobcats, and foxes, are quite wary of this light as seen in their behavior when they get near one.

    –A healthy coyote reacts to the blinking light on my oldest camera. It seems they do eventually get used to it but it may take quite a while. I think this is one of the newer resident coyotes so it is still spooked by this camera.

    I have all my cameras set up to record a maximum of 30 seconds of video and then they shut off. If the animal is still there and moving, the camera starts recording after 5 seconds and that cycle repeats until there is no longer any movement. Night recordings are only 20 seconds in length by design. This coyote did something that doesn’t happen very often in front of a camera – it stopped and stood there for a long time. After a few minutes it jumped off the log and trotted off.

    –A gorgeous coyote pauses on a large fallen log and surveys the scene

    That log has been a hot spot of coyote activity these past two weeks. Here is one of the few clips where three coyotes pass through, seemingly on a mission (as they most always seem to be)

    –Three coyotes trotting by the big log. I think this is the new group in our woods..

    The log is also a favorite path for raccoons, squirrels, birds, and an occasional special guest.

    –A fox daintily crosses the log.

    Here’s a question for everyone. A couple of posts back I had a clip of probably this same fox. I called it a gray fox in that post because I didn’t see the typical white tail tip of a red fox. But now I’m just not sure. The dark front legs and the seemingly uniform color of the main body makes me think it may be a red fox with almost no white on its tail tip. Gray foxes usually have a dark tail tip which I also don’t see. The night time videos don’t relay colors so I have to use other clues. Please put any thoughts you may have in the comments.

    A camera on a tree along the creek bed keeps track of another favorite pathway for wildlife.

    –Another coyote pause, but this one was quicker.

    As I mentioned, there is a new coyote crew in our woods. They appeared a few months ago. One-ear and her mate had been the dominant crew here for a couple of years. We went about 5 weeks through December and early January without any sign of One-ear and I was beginning to think she had either moved on or died (coyotes can live 10-14 years in the wild, but I have no idea how old she was when I first recorded her on camera). And then this happened one night…

    –One-ear doing some serious territorial marking while another coyote (her mate or a young from last year?) looks on.

    After rains (or melting snow), this section of the creek forms a large pool because of the log jam below.That attracts all sorts of critters from raccoons to bathing crows to deer. Here, two nice bucks walk through the pool.

    –A pair of nice bucks wade through the pool. One stops at the “community mail” tree, a holly whose branches have been rubbed by countless deer exchanging scent notes. I think that buck is also getting ready to pee into the pool at the end of the clip. These deer would not be allowed in our neighborhood swimming pools as they frequently pee into the same water where they get a drink.

    Just downstream from that camera is another place where our intermittent stream tends to hold a nice pool of water after rains. This is a frequent site visited by our deer herd, whether to get a drink or just have fun.

    –Two deer enjoy splashing in the water after a recent rain. It is fascinating how much behavior we share with our wild neighbors.

    –Bucks also seem to be stimulated by water, and these two spent a few minutes testing each others’ strength. The rut has passed and the bucks are now hanging out in bachelor groups, but, just like boys on the playground, they seem to enjoy a tussle every now and then.

    This last clip is not from one of the game cameras,. I recorded this with my new mirrorless camera and lens this week while changing out the game camera cards. As I was walking, a female pileated woodpecker (she lacks the red streak on the cheek) took off from a log nearby and flew a short distance. I stopped and stood next to a tree and the bird started to come back in my direction, hopping from one log to another searching for insects.

    –This pileated woodpecker was hammering fallen logs looking for a snack. Just up the hill, a male pileated hammered on a standing dead tree.

    In this season of cold and stress for wildlife, our woods are still alive with critters trying to survive. Mating season for coyotes is upon us and that may explain the substantial number of hits on my game cameras the past couple of weeks. We’ll see what this next week of extreme cold will bring.

    Posted by

    Mike Dunn

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