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March 18th, 2004  Spring Seen, Spring Heard I am no longer confused by March in the Cariboo. I chucked all the old ideas about ‘in like a lion, and out like a lamb.’ Here, the saying applies to each and every day in March. Every day has the potential to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb - and vice versa. Sometimes a day bears witness to whole prides of lions cavorting with any number of sheep. Through it all the sun and birds keep nudging the winter-weary declaring ‘We’re back and things are gonna change!’ On March 16 at 7:30 am, I stepped from my back door and was greeted by the unmistakable caroling of a Robin hidden from view somewhere in the bug-killed, but still green pines. Across the fence, in the neighbour’s yard, another Robin chirped nervously. Overhead, it sounded like a thousand Pine Siskins were in full jabber. It seemed as if there was no more room on the auditory plane for another spring sound - yet through it all a dozen male Juncos trilled with a sound reminiscent of the bell tone on a new phone. Like a well-recorded music album each sound could be distinctly heard despite what some might have called the din. To soften the scene a light snow fell. In town Canada Geese called from the four points of the compass. On Birch Avenue, amid the canyons of towering shops, Goose calls echoed deceptively off walls. To show my gratitude for the return of each bird, I searched the sky for the maker of every ‘honk’ and said a silent thank you. I marched down to the park leaving the big city roar behind and was immediately bathed in wild silence. A Red-breasted Nuthatch called from atop a tall fir tree. Its Chickadee confreres backed its vocals with sweet mutterings of their own. As I crossed the purple bridge - that’s right a purple bridge spanning Bridge creek - I studied the waterway and saw it still locked in ice, stubbornly refusing to give up as much as a Dipper sighting. Lifting my eyes to the dark fir forest ahead of me, I saw medium sized birds leaving the ground and perching in the lower limbs. I brought my binoculars up but the darkness was impenetrable. I knew they were Varied Thrush from the dark places in which they lurked, as I stood, I also heard their telltale cheap tin whistle call. I pushed deeper into the forest where the snow still blanketed the ground to a depth of about mid-calf. There was no fear of leaving the hard-packed trail this morning because this was one of those rare mornings that sometimes happen in March. Due to the previous days warmth all the snow turned very crisp overnight and as a result even someone as sturdy as I could walk wherever he pleased. I took advantage of this condition by crisscrossing through areas I might otherwise avoid. I was a stones throw off the trail when I heard a Woodpecker drumming its spring ‘song’ on a tree. The sound came from the direction of a hydro right-of-way and I knew the drummer must have been using the power pole to send out his message. The sound continued as I walked toward it. Part of the reason I wanted to discover the drummers’ identity is that I have a theory that each Woodpecker species makes and recognizes their own kind by their drumming sound. I thought that by focusing I could acquire the ability to recognize various woodpeckers by their drumming sound. From some distance off I saw the percussionist clinging to a power pole. It was a male Downy Woodpecker. I stood and listened and wondered why I didn’t recognize the sound for what it was. Just last year I convinced myself that I could tell the Downy’s drum from the rest of the Woodpeckers. One season later and I was a little confused. I listened again and heard what I think of as the Downy rhythm. It sounds like a big wooden frog snoring - the drumming, being the inhalations, come about 7 seconds apart in groups of four. I wandered through a recently logged area and followed a deer trail in the snow. I heard Ravens squabbling across the creek and knew they were probably gathered around the cow carcass that I discovered last week. A sturdy, intermittent tapping caught my attention. From the force of the sound I suspected a Pileated Woodpecker. I followed the sound and my suspicions were confirmed. A female Pileated Woodpecker was 30 feet up in a live poplar hacking at it with measured whacks. I studied her work. She had marked out a circle on the bark and hacked through to the cambium layer. Now she tackled the hard inner wood. This didn’t look like a search for hidden grubs or carpenter ants. This looked suspiciously like nest building. A scratching sound came from behind me. I turned and saw a male Pileated sitting on another poplar tree. His work looked different. He appeared to be attempting to access a damaged area at the base of a limb, probably in a search for food. I turned my attention back to the female Pileated. Was she excavating a nest hole? I have never found an active Pileated Woodpecker nest. This would be a first. I made a mental note to write this event down on my calendar so that if it was the beginning of nest making I would have a clue to when Pileated’s begin such work. I forgot to mention that by this time the snow had stopped and the sun had come out in all its glory. Just another ‘in like a lion’ day turning to a lamb in the land they call the Cariboo. To e-mail Tom CLICK HERE To look at previous column CLICK HERE |
