The Thing with Feathers

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Juncos and friends braving the blizzard of 2016

When I was a little girl and people asked what animal I would like to be, which, for some reason, they did quite often, I would always answer, “A swan.” Likely I was influenced by fairy tale drawings (what was a castle, after all, without a swan swimming in its lake, preferably at sunset?) and at least a little by E.B. White’s The Trumpet of the Swan and Hans Christian Andersen’s The Ugly Duckling. The swan, to me, was the epitome of beauty and elegance, with a potential for a brilliant future, and, of course, it could swim or fly with equal grace.

When I grew a little older, I began to find the swan and bit too ostentatious, and, by the time I was a teenager, desiring total anonymity and feeling very small and frightened, I decided that I would rather be a mouse. Sometime in my thirties, although people had stopped asking, I decided again that I would like to be a bird, but not a swan. Instead, I would like to be a small bird, a common bird, one that is much stronger and and more interesting than people assume.  Maybe a chickadee, like those I watched endure Minnesota winters with cheerful fortitude, fluffed up among pine branches in their small black caps, or a junco, like a little gentleman in a gray tuxedo, so dapper and sprightly, even in the midst of a blizzard. I’m not sure, but I do admire them. And I wish that I could fly.

Because of my affinity for birds, I watch for them, and observe them, and, on a separate page on this blog, record them.  Today was a particularly good day for spotting birds at the Monocacy.  Besides the usual Robins, Red-wings, and Cardinals, I saw an American Goldfinch, an Eastern Bluebird, a few Tree Swallows, a pair of Canada Geese (accompanied, for some reason, by a bachelor Mallard), a Red-tailed Hawk, some noisy Crows, and a wading bird and woodpecker that were just too far away for sure identification.  Honestly, I was so distracted that I left quite a bit of trash on the ground. But, unlike the birds, it’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.  For now.

The Monocacy Rocks

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I should be writing about the fairyland that the wild blooming bluebells have made of “the island,” but it’s just too cold.  Instead, let’s talk about geology.

Referring to my copy of Roadside Geology of Maryland, Delaware, and Washington, D.C. by John Means (Mountain Press Publishing Company, 2010), I can tell you that the Monocacy River, which drains most of the Frederick Valley, is situated on Cambrian Frederick Limestone as it flows through the city and its immediate environs. As I walk with my sons along the river’s shores, sometimes under tall embankments created by years of flooding, we pick up lots of quartz and limestone.  My oldest son has become skilled at skipping the flatter pieces, even managing to eke out  5-7 jumps from large 5-pounders. Over the weekend we veered off our usual path and stopped at some very striking limestone formations that jutted out about 15 feet over the water.  While my son found huge rocks to roll into the river – the splash was marvelous from such a drop – I found a McDonald’s cup.  I hope it was iced tea that I dumped out of it.

Trash from the Past

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I guess I’ve always had a thing for trash: digging for it, documenting it, and treasuring it. While the blog’s subtitle calls me a “girl,” by now it should be obvious that I’m long past being any such thing, at least in externals. I’m old enough to have accumulated  a number of identities, and one of my favorite ones, one which I thought was never to be picked up again, was archaeologist.  In my twenties, I got an advanced degree in Greek, Latin, and Archaeology and did some digging for a few summers at some classical sites. It’s actually not as exciting a job as most expect.  While I was in the trenches, tourists often asked whether I had found any gold.  I smiled and said, “no,” because I understood that they meant the shiny mineral, but I had found some of my own gold: potsherds, pieces of glass, dirt floors, roads, foundations, and even a tiny marble head. In other words, I had found ancient trash. And, to me, it was fascinating.

The trash I’m finding today could be the treasure of tomorrow.  So should I feel bad about picking it up?  I’ve decided no.  What I find is shreds of plastic, tin cans, agricultural waste, bits of clothing, machine parts, et alia (see, I do know Latin), that has floated down the river.  Its lost its cultural context and, therefore, is of little future value for those who may wish to understand us, say, 1,000 years from now. In other words, there’s no need to give myself a pat on the back for leaving a yogurt container to be buried in the sand.

There are active archeologists (note the different spelling for those who work in North America…wow, I am such a geek today!) working along the Monocacy River.  In fact, there is a large Native American settlement off Biggs Ford Rd. that has been excavated multiple years by the Archeological Society of Maryland.  From approximately 1000-1500 AD, it was occupied by peoples of the Montgomery and Keyser Complex. For more details and pictures from the 2014 expedition, see the link below.

http://marylandarcheology.org/2014_Field_Session_Biggs_Ford.php

Oh, and it’s April, so happy Maryland Archeology Month!

 

Oh, Baby, Baby (Trees)

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Last summer, an intrepid group planted a number of saplings along a grassy shoreline of the Monocacy River, in an effort, I am sure, to restore the wooded habitat that development had destroyed.  They bolstered these young trees with stakes and corrugated plastic, likely to protect them from foraging White-tailed Deer (of which there is a herd of over twelve that roams my small part of the river), and rabbits (who eat my native shr-, oh, never mind, I’ll start sounding like Elmer Fudd). It’s equally possible, however, that they were hoping to strengthen them against flood waters, which wash over this plain at least two to three times a year. Sadly, I’ve found the corrugated plastic hanging from branches a half mile down the river.  Still, as you can see, there are lots of trees left, and their leaves are just beginning to bud in the March sun.

Weeds are Wildflowers

So, if you don’t treat your lawn, your neighbors will give you the stink-eye, but you’ll also have some lovely wildflowers.  The first of the season are blooming now, while grass is the dingy green of late winter.  Above, on the left, we have Bittercress (cardamine, either Pennsylvania, which is native, or Hairy, which is invasive) and, on the right, Persian Speedwell (veronica persica). You can find a a few paragraphs about these early wildflowers in Bryan MacKay’s A Year Across Maryland: A Week-by-Week Guide to Discovering Nature in the Chesapeake Region (The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2013, pp. 62-63), which is a wonderful book for anyone who likes to tramp around the Old Line State.  While he doesn’t specifically address the Monocacy River, he often discusses the Potomac, which the Monocacy feeds.

Still Life in Plastic Bottles

In the 6th grade, in response to my art teacher’s assignment, I drew a series of Sunkist cans in pencil.  I still have these sketches somewhere, probably in a bin of memorabilia in my basement, along with my accumulation of diaries, letters and photo albums.  Today, as I flipped bottle after bottle into my bag, I recalled those Sunkist drawings, and wondered whether I should add to them.  I’ve already got a great retro title: “Soft Drink Still Life: Still Awesome After 30 Years.” There would need to be a little updating, of course, like replacing the Sunkist can with a Vitamin Water bottle.  I got two of those today, in addition to the regular water bottles (mostly store-brand, but there was a large Evian one, too, because litter is a phenomenon that knows no socioeconomic boundaries).  Just in case inspiration strikes, I took a picture of them all before dropping them in the recycling bin.

UPDATE 10/28/16: I found the 6th grade drawings! And then promptly recycled them. This hobby of mine has encouraged me not to accumulate so much…stuff. I did photograph them for posterity, though:

Hidden Pictures

For convenience’s sake, I use a smartphone to take my pictures, which means that their quality is not very good, and, since my phone is the most basic model, I have no ability whatsoever to take a close-up unless I can get within a few feet of my subject.  This makes nature photography pretty much impossible, particularly if my subject is a skittish deer or a bird perched at the very top of a tree.  Nonetheless, I do try to capture an image every now and then, when I just can’t help myself, like today, when I heard the spring peepers for the very first time.  They’re here somewhere, very loudly trying to find this spring’s hook-up:

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Another loudmouth this time of year is the Red-winged Blackbird, which lords over the same wetland habitat along the Monocacy’s floodplain. I like listening to the Red-wings’ song, ranging from a harsh buzz to a liquidly trill, when they arrive in early March.  When I was a girl, I confused them with Orioles because of their flash of orange. Can you see the one singing at the top of the tree?

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Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Although springtime distracted me today, I did manage to collect a few plastic bottles.  I’ve considered inventorying these by brand or type of drink (water, soda, juice), but, unless someone makes a special request, I’ve decided that this would be rather pointless.  So, for now, I just recycle them.

 

The Process

Our stretch of warmth has continued, and the evenings are lengthening, which has meant that my walks aren’t so solitary anymore.  I should be glad that we’ve reached the magical 65-degree mark that pulls everyone from their homes, but I’m enough of an introvert (and self-suspected misanthropist) that I’m actually more anxious and annoyed. So, back to the trash.

Yesterday, my very first pick-up was large enough to fill my entire trash bag and force me into early retirement.  It’s just as well, because, as you can see in the first photo, the sun was setting by the time I finally wrangled the boys out the door.  There was only time enough to visit what the boys call “the hideout,”which isn’t really very hidden at all.  It’s just off a public trail, but so far below it that it can feel secluded.  The climb down to it becomes more treacherous after each flood, as the water erodes away the soft earth held together only by the roots of imperiled trees.  It is these roots that we must use to reach the hideout, and they make such uneven steps that I daily expect someone to twist an ankle. At the bottom is a stream, separated from the main river by a small “island” of trees.  The stream remains connected to the main river unless there is a drought, but the water flow is never tremendous. Unless there is a flood, I can wade across it in my green rubber boots, which is what I needed to do last night to retrieve my one large piece of garbage.

Under the roots of a decaying tree, half-submerged in the water, was a tangle of sticks, leaves and something else, white and, from what I could tell, plastic. (See the second photo, above). As I approached, I noticed tiny minnows shifting beneath the water, illuminated by the slanting light of the setting sun. My green boots sank in the mud and my movements, stirring up the muck of winter, quickly obscured them. To avoid falling into the slightly deeper water near the white plastic thingy, I used a stick to dislodge it from its nest of leaves and twigs.  It was heavier than I imagined, but I managed to toss it onto the rocky peninsula that extended from the riverbank, where I shook it out to reveal what we see in the third photo, a big old bag of Purina horse feed, weighed down by the gallons of mud it acquired on its trip down the Monocacy River.

After draining it as much as I could, I stuffed it in my trash bag, where it sat drying while I engaged in a few light-saber duels with my youngest.  His stick was less rotten than mine, so he won. I tried to persuade him that he should cheer me up by carrying the trash bag home, but he wasn’t buying that argument.  My arm still hurts.

The Great Blue Heron

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The Great Blue Heron is among the most regular of the birds I see along the Monocacy.  Regular, but not common.  The birds are tall, elegant and brilliantly marked and feathered.   Their size still takes me by surprise, especially when I’ve startled them into flight and they  appear suddenly beside me, strikingly prehistoric looking.  In them, I can see the relationship between birds and dinosaurs.  Just look at these heron footprints I found a few days ago, and for comparison’s sake, imagine your handprints in the mud alongside them.  Those footprints are bigger.

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Unfortunately, I’ve encountered one of these fabulous birds caught in fishing line that had gotten tangled in a tree.  It was, understandably, upset and not a little intimidating.  But, fortunately for the bird (and, for me, who would’ve been plagued by guilt), a daring man decided to stop, hazard his own skin, and cut it free. Fishing line (as seen in the photo above, attached to the interior of a beer can) is another thing that I find quite regularly along the Monocacy.  During the summer, the river is a popular destination for fishermen (and women, not that I’ve had any luck, which is another story) to dip their rods in the murky water.  Often they leave behind the styrofoam cups that held their bait and the cans, bottles and wrappers from their picnic lunches. Those bits of trash are annoying, but the fishing line is dangerous.

The good news is that it’s a piece of trash I don’t have to pick up and take home with me.  The city of Frederick has set up little stations to recycle the line at most locations where fishing is a usual pastime. That includes parks along the Monocacy, including Riverside Park under the Monocacy Avenue Bridge, which is the most accessible in the city.

 

 

Boats for Mice

It’s been warm and clear the past 2 days, which has allowed the recent floodwaters to recede and the debris left behind to dry in the sun.  As this happens, lots of bundles – leaves, grass and, often, trash, tightly bound by dried mud – appear on the tips of tree branches, like mittens. One boy I know likes to slide the bundles off and let them go down the river.  He imagines them as tiny boats for even tinier mice.