Zen and the Art of Finding Wildlife part 2

Working our way through the live oak and sable palm hammock, we pause ever few seconds to listen and observe. Great tassels of Spanish moss drip from nearly every surface. A light breeze pushes its way into the forest, and the tails of the Spanish moss drift accordingly. Large scratches in the leaf litter tell the story of Osceola turkeys foraging in these woods. Big swaths of the forest floor look as though they have been tilled by a tractor, a telltale sign of wild pigs in the area. And between the pigs and the turkeys, what little concern I had for rattlesnakes drifts away accordingly – both being habitual snake eaters.

Barred owls are one of the most successful species of owls in North America. Once confined to the eastern deciduous forests, and especially those wetter regions of the American south, like coyotes, these birds have followed the spread of our civilization. From the great forest of the east, across the Great Plains they traveled in our wake all the way to the temperate rainforests of the Pacific Northwest.

Before us, before cities and suburbs and planted wind breaks, barred owls were stuck in the forests of the east. The Great American Desert, as so many pioneers referred to it, was a natural barrier that kept the spread of these birds at bay. However, as our civilization moved west, we created a network of forested areas they were able to follow, slowly but surely hopscotching their way across the continent over the last century. This is a problem, however. And it’s the typical story of mixing species artificially.

In the old growth temperate rainforests of the Pacific Northwest lives another species of bird very closely related to the barred owl: the northern spotted owl. The spotted owl is on the endangered species list, having been pushed to the edge of oblivion by industrial logging across the temperate rainforests of the northwest. Now, there is a new threat. Despite federal protection, despite millions of dollars that have been pumped into protecting old growth habitat and the rebuilding of their population, barred owls have moved into the forests and are quickly displacing the native spotted owl.

Barred owl and spotted owl. Both named for their physical characteristics. Both are about the same size. Both occupy a very similar ecological niche in the forest. And the newcomer to the woods has proven to be wildly more adaptable and successful at surviving in the degraded landscape of these once cathedral like and primeval forests than the native owl.

Environmental historian, Alfred Crosby, in his groundbreaking book Ecological Imperialism, refers to this concept as “portmanteau biota.” In a nutshell, this is what happens as a result of humans moving about the planet, redistributing species of plants and animals and fungus at a rapid pace. Sometimes it’s intentional, such as the case of corn, beans, squash, pumpkins, potatoes, tomatoes, and turkeys all being brought from the New World to the Old. Sometimes it’s unintentional, such as the case of Japanese chestnut blight that completely wiped out the American Chestnut.

At face value, plants and animals always seem to be pushing their boundaries and expanding their ranges. Generalist species, like humans and barred owls, are fluid enough to be able to move into a new place and adapt accordingly. Specialist species, like the polar bear and northern spotted owl, are not. Specialists require very specific parameters to exist. They have specific diets. They have specific temperature tolerances. Specific demands for house and home. These are the ones who have evolved to fully exploit a very specific ecological niche, and that’s it.

Now, ironically, we are in a situation in which researchers are shooting and killing barred owls to protect the northern spotted owl. Oh, the joys of playing God on planet Earth.

If the first part of the equation for finding wildlife is controlling our own sound, then the second part is understanding all the other sounds around us. For me, this is often more important than sight – especially in a forested environment where sight is limited to begin with. It’s also more important than all the nuanced factoids swirling around in my head from researching the ecology of my subjects. The forest speaks. We need only listen to hear her secrets.

There are so many things that we can learn from just being quiet. Songbirds have telltale calls when they are mobbing a predator, for instance. This predator could be an owl, a raccoon, a weasel, a bobcat, a snake, or a host of other species that they view as danger to themselves or their nests. Likewise, when all the birds in the forest suddenly fall silent, this is another indicator that all eyes are intently watching and waiting for something to unfold. Alternatively, if you know how to identify bird calls by ear, and you hear the calls of fruit eating birds, this will clue you in on patches of berries and the possibility of other species that eat those berries - like black bears.

Pileated woodpecker chicks imitate the sound of bees from within their nesting cavity when they feel threatened. Burrowing owl chicks (not in the forest, of course) imitate the sound of a rattlesnake from inside their burrows. Blue jays will often squawk like crazy when a large animal comes strutting into the woods, especially a deer, turkey, or bear – all of which compete with the blue jays for food to some degree.

Bull moose make a very specific grunting noise when they are on the prowl for cows in the rut, and this past Fall, while we were in Alaska photographing the moose rut, it was the faint sounds of grunting that tipped us off that a very large bull moose was walking along the edge of a creek we didn’t know existed, framed in gold from the paper birches. Deer snort. Foxes bark. Bobcats scream. Bears make a “woof” sound or gnash their teeth as a warning, and there have been many cases in which I suddenly realized I was within 10 feet or so of a bear hidden in the brush only because of these warning sounds.

Although we want to make sure that we move like ghosts through the woods when looking for wildlife, the fact of the matter is that the animals we seek are often deeply engaged in conversation or communication themselves. Knowing those sounds, understanding where and who they come from, and interpreting their meaning is a big part of the job description for us.

Personally, I have never found a barred owl nest without sound first tipping me off to its location. Begging barred owlets have a very distinctive call. Some call it a screech. Some think it sounds like a call of a gray squirrel. It can be faint. It can be high pitched. And thus, this is one of those sounds that starts to fall outside of the range of hearing for some people as they get older.

Hearing problems typically impact the higher end of the spectrum. Although we often think of other animals as having significantly better hearing than us, the fact of the matter is we tend to have better hearing at the lower end of the spectrum than most other animals. So, even if what is an unmistakable screech of an owlet to me is something you have a difficult time hearing, fret not because the reassuring sounds of the adults falls on the opposite end of the spectrum.

Do you know the sound of a dove? It’s sort of a low and mournful cooing. Ironically, I have been in the woods with others who automatically assumed this was an owl in the distance. The cooing of a dove and the soft but deep coo of an adult barred owl communicating with her baby can be very similar but are also distinctly different. This is where becoming a better naturalist equates to becoming a better wildlife photographer.

Bird sounds are all around us. Can you identify the species you hear? If so, then you can often home in on the core territory of a particular individual. Finding owls in the forest to photograph is the same way in this respect. If you can discern the difference between the coo of a dove and the coo of a barred owl adult to her young, you can reduce your search area to a mere 50 feet of canopy. If you can recognize the screech of a hungry owlet from that of squirrels and all the other sounds of a forest, then you can quite literally find yourself slamming on breaks while driving down a road with the knowledge that there are baby owls nearby. And because the screech is so much louder than the mothers coo, you can follow this call for up to a hundred yards through the forest to the general vicinity.

Annalise is hearing impaired and has been so since she was a child. She wears hearing aids. And yet, she is a card-carrying Audubon Master Birder. It never ceases to amaze me at her ability to pick out and distinguish all the different sounds of the forest when we are in the woods. “That’s the territorial call of a towhee. Listen over there, you can hear the descending notes of a downy woodpecker. No Jared, get with the program here, that’s NOT a titmouse. It’s a blue gray gnatcatcher. Duh!”

As someone’s hearing begins to go, she explained to me, they begin to get very good at trying to train their mind to isolate sounds. Being in a crowded restaurant, for instance, is nothing but a loud roar unless you can focus the mind and learn to pull the conversation someone is trying to have with you out front of the deafening background noise. Listening to wildlife is the same way. With a lifetime of having to isolate sounds, this skill is easily applied to the calls and sounds of the forest. As a birder, Annalise never thought she would be able to “bird by ear.” But going through the process of receiving her Master Birder certification, she learned otherwise. Instead of a handicap, her lifelong skill of isolating sounds became a superpower.

Step. Step. Pause.

To Be Continued. . .