Quill's Bridge

December 21, 2015 was a very sad day for Natalie and I.  Our big, fat buddy, Quill, had to be put down.  

Quill's origins are a bit mysterious.  Our best guess it that he was a Siberian Forest Cat.  Tipping the scales at 16 pounds (he was once 18 pounds!),  he lived to the ripe old age of 15 years.  In fact, he may have been 16 years old.  We are not sure as Natalie acquired him from her piano teacher when he was five....or six....years old. We can't be sure.

We can be sure he was simply an extraordinary cat.  I know, I know, I know...everybody wants to say that their pet was the best one, but they're all lying. Quill was the best.  Anybody who met him was immediately captivated by his girth and his personality - both quite large.  Calm, affectionate, and simply awesome, he really was the best cat anybody could ask for.  That's a fact.  Snuggles were constant, his quirks were numerous, affection was a given, and his purrs were like gold.

Interestingly, he was not in perfect health.  About eight years ago, he was diagnosed as  a diabetic.  Now, I know some folks would have put him down right then and there thinking that diabetes in cats is somehow a horrible thing.

Nonsense.

Like diabetes in people, it is a very treatable condition.  A good diet and a simple regimen of insulin is all it takes.  

Well, not too long ago, he started to develop some kidney troubles. That can be addressed with diet, as well.  So we did it. Easy.  

All in all, I would argue that we took care of Quill better than most people take care of themselves.  

Sadly, despite our best efforts as cat parents, something diabolical was brewing in his noggin. This past Monday, two separate veterinarians diagnosed him with some sort of brain issue.  Tumor?  Lesion?  We'll never know.  The neurological impact was pronounced and frustratingly quick. His decline was over just a few days.  Further, something had changed in his body preventing his system from maintaining safe blood sugar levels. Despite the constant influxes of sugar, the levels stayed dangerously low.   

By Monday afternoon, arrangements had been made.  Quill was euthanized here in our home on Monday afternoon.  Natalie was holding him and I was holding her.  Needless to say, the whole situation was awful, but at the same time, it was comforting as we know Quill was no longer suffering from his brain condition.  

In fact, I would argue his last moments with us were, in an odd sort of way, grand.  

As a diabetic, high blood sugars would be a problem.  Sugary treats for him were out of the question.  Before I passed him to Natalie for the last time, he was literally swaddled like an infant and I held him like one.  The way he licked honey from my fingers is a memory this sappy cat-dad will have forever. The way he used his paw to pull my fingers closer  when I had shredded cheese bits made everybody present chuckle. His one last round of obnoxiously loud purring was wonderful because we knew he was comfortable.  

Popular culture now has a story regarding a rainbow bridge.  I honestly had never heard of it until friends expressed their condolences to us.   The general angle of the story is this: when pets die, they cross a rainbow bridge where they frolic and enjoy themselves in grassy fields on sunny days.  Upon the death of their owner, they meet again and continue on as companions forever...as it should be....

I'm sorry, but I have a problem with that story.

Rainbows are simply white light separated by a prism into its individual colors.  

You can't walk on a rainbow.  

But what if the bridge was made of cheese. Not just any cheese - sharp cheddar.  Natalie and I never had to sweep the cheese off the floor after a cooking session as Quill was always on the prowl.  

And what if, for a decorative flair inspired by the work of masons, his little treats were placed on the cheese bridge in a pattern called a Flemish bond.  Oh, and they're not just stuck there. They are mortared in place with his wet food.  Oh, and the wet food is something super-yummy and not his kidney-healthy wet food. After all, in Quill's new place, his kidneys and pancreas are perfectly healthy.  

Of course, if you have a bridge, there is often a body of water below it. A river or a stream.  For Quill, it's a river of milk.  But, not just  any milk.  It's the milk that's left over in the cereal bowl. You know, the super sweet stuff.

I have trouble, too, buying into the grassy fields thing.  During his supervised short forays outside (he was an indoor cat) he always tried to eat the stuff but never seemed to figure out that it made him puke.  Natalie and I had to watch that he never chowed on it.  

Hmmmm...what would be more to his liking?

Concrete.  No, seriously.  Concrete.  One of his favorite things to do on a nice sunny day was to lay on the warm concrete of the front walk.  Without a care in the world and his eyes squinted in the bright sunshine, he seemed like he could lay there for hours.  

And what might we find in the middle of Quills' concrete?  A couch. You saw that coming, right?  Specifically, a brown woven love seat, just like the one Natalie and I have in our family room.  It was certainly one of his favorite spots for his naps.  Not normally the frolicker, I suspect he would just chill for hours on his couch.

If he is really cool about it (and he would be because he was that kind of cat), he would lie in the middle of the love seat. That way, Natalie could sit to his right and I to his left...like it always was when we watched re-runs of the Big Bang Theory after dinner. 

I say "we", by the way, because it was the three of us together. Natalie, myself and Quill. Three peas in a pod. 

Thanks Quill.  You were the best cat.  If you find any grass growing in the cracks between the concrete, please don't eat it.  

(Special thanks go to Nat's mom for being a great part of Quill's time on Grosse Ile.  Thanks,  too, go to everybody who helped with Quill's cat sitting needs and his needs overall during the years - Nat's dad, my parents, and all the veterinarians and techs (Jess especially).  Thanks all....)

Birds And Brews, Eh?

This past week found me on the road.  Now and then, when I can, I sneak away for professional conferences and workshops.  This was no exception.  My supervisor, Kevin,  and I shot off to Perth, Ontario for a week.

Sure, I could tell you that I visited the Canadian Museum of Nature and that it was so cool you need to visit it, too.   Yes, I could tell you that I also visited the Canadian Museum of Civilization.  It was every bit as cool, if not more, than the Nature Museum!  I could tell you that Perth, Ontario, the location of the workshop, is every bit as quaint as it was when I was there 4 years ago.  

All that said, lets put work-related stuff aside.   Sure, I paid my own way and learned some things during the week, but lets address the real issues of this blog - birds and brews.

Beer first.  Beyond any doubt,  the best beer of the trip pairs with one of the coolest names for a beer I've seen in a long time.  Flying Monkeys Craft Brewer's Smashbomb Atomic IPA ( #1,405) is a must.  Period.  While their website is a clunky failure, their beer is not.  At 70 IBUs, this brew is made with 4 malts and 8 different hops.  Outstanding!  Get a bottle of this when you can and let those little, winged primates carry you off to beer bliss.  What a treat!

Of course, when you have a good beer, you have to have less-than-good beers, right?  If less-than-good is your game, head to the Clock Tower Brewery in Ottawa. I'm not trying to dog them too bad here, but the beer was, at best, average....or below.  Between the Clock Tower Red, Kolsch, Raspberry Wheat Ale, and the Wisarts ESB (#1,400-#1,403),  not a one jumped out as an above-average brew.  None of them.  A common theme seemed to be lackluster traits.  Nothing seemed to really power home - aromas were light, tastes were dull or lifeless. All beers left you thinking "What is going on here?"    In addition, a sampler is NOT supposed to be 8 oz glasses!  That is a not a sample. That is a half pint!  (For the record, Kevin and I were comparing notes. While he does not keep a spreadsheet, he can appreciate a good beer and knows "dull" when he tries it.  He and I are on the same channel here....)

So, while some of Ontario's brews were a bit disappointing, Ontario's  winter birding did not.  While the birds were not new for me, you cant really pass up the chance to see them. Plus, knowing they were new for Kevin, it was fun to play "tour guide", do the homework, and make sure he saw these winter gems before our trek home.

A few hours of conference "downtime" allowed Kevin and I to hustle east of Ottawa to track down some Great Gray Owls.  After heading to the known location, we found....uh, three of 'em...

Almost three feet tall, they are actually larger than Great Horned Owls, but they don't have much beef to them. While the Horned Owls are killing larger critters like skunks and rabbits, Great Grays tackle little mousies and the like.  Skunks? No way.  

They also have the habit of being pretty "tame".  Using a 400mm lens (which actually functions like a 560mm lens on my camera), staying low, and speaking with Kevin in hushed tones, I was able to secure a few nice photos.  

With the conference officially ending on Thursday night, most people left for home at dawn on Friday.  I totally understand.  A 500-mile drive can intimidate some. Not me.  With a comfy car, good company and good music, 500 miles is nothing.  Besides, Kevin and I had some stops to make. What was the point of rushing home?

Friday morning found us checking out a known location of a Boreal Owl. I can assure you I would not have seen this bird if I did not notice the "white wash" (poop) on the branches. In my experience, poop leads to owls, more often than not.  This poop was fresh. I mean fresh.  Still drippy and wet.  If the bird had pooped 4 seconds later, I would have missed it. 

For those of you who are not familiar with tiny owls, a Boreal Owl could be passed off as a Saw-whet Owl.  It has been done!  All told, the two are pretty similar in appearance.  A few key marks are obvious when you know to pay attention to them.  The silvery speckles on the forehead? Boreals only.  Look at the beak color, too.  "Bone" on the Boreal, while the Saw-whet has a black beak. This individual was a male. Such a tiny little thing...

It should be noted that we were instructed not to post the specific location on the Internet.  The bird's finder had big concerns about reckless photographers (as evidenced by horrible behaviors at the Great Gray Owl field) and other birding hacks harassing the bird and forcing it from the roost.  This bird's location is not public knowledge.

Knowing the Boreal Owl is one of North America's most wanted owl species, and knowing I always appreciate a good tip and like to share info when appropriate, I have decided to detail the location of the bird in direct violation of the finder's wishes. If you don't like my decision, tough.

The bird was in a tree.  This tree  was growing next to another tree.  These trees, in turn, were by a road.   The road intersected other roads. We weren't far from Perth. 

There you have it. Crystal clear and totally accurate directions.  Good luck with your search! 

After a few seconds of viewing (seriously, and two quick photos), we left the Boreal Owl to his siesta.  From there, our travels took us to a power-line cut south of Ottawa.  You've seen 'em.  Electrical lines running for miles across the country side slung between giant towers.  We were told to check a specific set of poles.

As you can see, the pole on the right does not match the pole on the left.  Bingo.

Northern Hawk-Owl!

Frustratingly, the poles were tall. I mean tall.  Miles tall, as far as I cam concerned.  The above shot was the best I could manage with my lens.  

So, with two outstanding birds in the bag, a course was set for Oswego, New York. Tucked conveniently on the southeast shore of Lake Ontario, the harbor was the next stop.  With the car thermometer reading a balmy 44 degrees, Kevin and I started scanning the waters.  

Why?

The bird on the left is sporting a ponytail. That makes it a Tufted Duck.  In short, the Tufted Duck breeds throughout the Old World - Britain east through Siberia.  Every year, a few (really...just a few) make their way to the New World. After crossing the vast oceans, they usually just plunk themselves down near the coasts somewhere. California. Alaska.  Maryland.  This individual, a female apparently, made it as far as eastern Lake Ontario.

It should be noted that the bird was especially cool as it was a my life bird!  #663, in fact.  It was a life bird for Kevin, as well (as were the Great Grays, the Boreal, and the Hawk-Owl).  That said, we had to work for it.  While we were onsite for over an hour, total viewing time was less than 5 minutes.  Despite the small-ish size of the harbor, it managed to disappear for minutes at a time. Very frustrating.  Plus, with hundreds of Redheads, Scaup, and a small mix of Gadwall, White-winged Scoter, Long-tailed Duck, Bufflehead, and Common Goldeneye, it was not like it was the only bird there!

I should also mention the air temperature was 44 degrees. The wind-chill was easily -148 degrees. Maybe even a million degrees below zero. I dunno.  It was bone-chilling and brutal.  Somehow, my right glove had been misplaced.  Yes, the above photo sucks, but that is because the lighting was poor and I could not turn any dials on the camera.  My exposed fingers, frost-bitten in minutes, turned black and auto-amputated. I was left with stumps. Tiny dials and teensy buttons are not easy to manipulate when you have no fingers. (On the way home, my fingers grew back. Amazing....)

So, a little business combined with a little pleasure, made for a super trip. My lists now stand as follows:
Ontario Birds: 248 species (nothing new added on this trip)
New York Birds: 112 species (from 106)
Life List: 663 (from 662)
Total Beers: 1,405 species

It is also worth knowing that the 'ole Chevy Cruze, once again, performed well.  Heading east, with a slight tail wind, miles per gallons averaged 44!  One couple drove their Prius to the workshop. They recorded "only" 45 mpg.  With a headwind on the return leg, the average for our 1,200 mile drive was a still stellar 38 miles-per-gallon.  
 
Suck on that, Toyota!

Day 11: June 24 - Mountain Tops and Desert Bottoms

Sunrise found us walking the campground in hopes of securing the still-needed Buff-breasted Flycatcher.  The walk of a few hundred yards to the Amphitheatre turned up nothing.  With spirits sinking, we hiked back to the car to munch Pop-tarts and juice for the hike to other campground locations where the bird had been reported.  With my head buried in the backseat looking for chow, a peculiar “chee-lick” was coming from the trees overhead.  For the next few minutes, we enjoyed fair looks as a Buff-breasted Flycatcher (Life Bird #662) zipped from tree to tree. At times, it was not one hundred feet from the tent.  Odd. 

Still needing Mountain Chickadee for Natalie, we returned to the summit.  Hiking a different trail versus the night before, within ten minutes, the eye-browed little bugger was putting on quite a show! 

Returning to the car (and soaking in the damage and subsequent rejuvenation from the July 2003 Aspen fire that engulfed part of the mountain), we stopped and gawked at the flight of a raven as it approached us.  Not 100 feet away, 8 feet off the ground, and to our left, we realized how big it really was.  In a quick second, we realized ravens don’t have yellow beaks and white stripes on their tail.  The Zone-tailed Hawk maneuvered with ease as it avoided dead trees before it disappeared over the cliff edge. 

I can assure you most birders in the North America who have recorded Zonetails have not had the pleasure of seeing what we saw that morning. Most folks have to study Turkey Vulture kettles and find the bird that is not a vulture; they look very similar.  I would argue that they are so similar that birders have called Turkey Vultures a Zonetail.  Easy to do, I think.  Or maybe the birder hims and haws.  They aren’t always sure. We were.   What a prized sighting.  We never even needed binoculars.  Awesome. 

Retiring from the mountain and hoping to not make arrogant bicyclists hood ornaments, we moved on to the Sonoran Desert Museum on Tucson’s west side.  Meeting Marge again, lunch and walking around the grounds of this outstanding facility made for time well spent.  A trip for a southeast Arizona newbie would not be complete without time here.  If you are going to look for birds in the desert, it just makes sense to understand how deserts function, doesn’t it?

The free-flight hummingbird enclosure is a trip.  I would highly recommend it for photographers.  The little sugar-fueled engines pose quite nicely. In many cases, I needed to back up as my lens was too big!  (Of course, this place would be great for the liars and frauds that infect the birding community.  It would be so easy to take a photo of one of these little gems and claim you took the picture someplace else.  I wonder if that has ever happened? Photographing a captive bird so you can claim it as a wild one? Oh, silly me. Of course it has...)

Right up the road is the west section of the Saguaro National Park.  More deserts. More fascination.  A quick stop at Signal Hill highlighted rock art likely pecked by the Hohokam Indians  (hoho-kum) a thousand years ago.  So cool.  Standing not too far off in the distance was a Harris’s Hawk.  It’s kinda cool to think about the ancestors of the hawk being there watching the Hohokam carve those stones.  Neat.

With the monsoon season approaching, afternoon thunderstorms were becoming more of a threat.  A powerful storm was off to the north and we got the rain.  (But with it comes one of the coolest experiences one can have in the desert – the smell after the rain.  I won’t even try to describe it. You’ll just have to try it for yourself.)  Coming down in sheets, birding, sightseeing and photography became kind of hard. Driving the roads, we started to appreciate some local folklore.

According to the Pima Indians, a grandmother lost her grandchildren.  Versions vary as to how this happened, but in the end, the children began the Saguaro Cactus.  That explains (in their mind, anyhow) how the cactus seems to take on an almost human physique.  With that in mind, I would argue that somewhere out there is a lost pugilist…..

Now, you might be thinking that we had been drinking before our trip to the desert to come up with that silliness. No. That came after….

Fine gourmet pizzas and beer were had at the ThunderCanyon Brewery in Tucson.  Deep Canyon Amber, Thunder Canyon IPA, Sandstone Cream Ale, and Windstorm Wheat (#1,269-1,272) were all average or better.  The IPA was the best of the bunch.  There is just something refreshing about a good IPA when the temperatures are brutal.

After dinner, we motored off to Scottsdale.  The night was spent at Marge and Diana’s house.

Day 10: June 23- A Lemon and A Lemmon

The day’s original plan involved taking two cars birding.  By the day’s end, we would move along while Joe and Corrine would return home.   Sadly, Joe’s situation reversed itself and he was feeling crappy again.  Realizing he needed to take care of himself and house guests can be a drag in times of duress, Natalie and I bid farewell. 

We were off to Montosa Canyon.  Right around the corner from Madera Canyon (it is a part of the same mountain range),  this place has been harboring Black-cappedGnatcatchers and a Plain-capped Starthroat for few days.  Granted, the reports were less than ideal. Folks more familiar with the hummer where getting it but were reporting short observation times (ie: nano-seconds) as it zipped past at light speed.  I guess if you are familiar with the species, that might do.  I wouldn’t know a Plain-capped Starthroat from a baseball-capped ball player, so we were hoping for a solid look.  Reports were mixed with the Gnatcatchers, too.  Some positive. Some not. 

Upon exiting the vehicle at the culvert (the landmark used for days), the wasps moved it.  Big.  And many.  One report suggested a birder was carried away and eaten.  Okay, not really, but they were huge (the wasps, not the birders).  I have been around wasps plenty and they are always distracting, but these were monsters. 

While they showed no signs of aggression, they were certainly inquisitive.  The car. Me. Natalie.  Once they landed on her back, all bets were off.   That now introduced the issue of the accidental sting.  If they land on you, you move to use your binoculars and, for example, the binocular strap pinches them, they will sting. I know. I’ve seen it happen.  Realizing that the risk was there and their abdomen was the size of a baseball bat, it took us less than three minutes to abort the plan.  Really.  Out and back into the car in three minutes.  For these Michiganders, birding under these circumstances was simply impossible.

Starthroats and Gnatcatchers will just have to wait.

Well, as you have probably heard, one should turn lemons into lemonade if life takes a bad turn. In this case, per the plan, we turned lemons into a Lemmon.

Mount Lemmon is found northeast of Tucson.  Driving from Tucson (2,300 feet above sea level) to Lemmon’s peak (9,150 feet above sea level) is the same as driving from Mexico deep into Canada.  As one ascends the mountains, habitats change and therefore, the birds do, too.  Driving the 27-mile Catalina Road to the top is a standard one-day route for birders.

Knowing target birds were high on the mountain, we quickly made our way to Rose Lake Campground.  After securing camp (luckily)and lunch, we birded the campground hoping to find Olive Warbler and Buff-breasted Flycatcher.  After about 2 hours, we concluded all specimens of both species had been sucked into Mitt Romney’s skull (otherwise known as a vacuum). The Buffys were breeding near the amphitheatre and we still couldn’t find them!  Damn it!

By 3:15pm, Natalie’s aunt Marge, a birder, had joined us.  (Marge’s partner, Diana, couldn’t make it.)   Driving down from Scottsdale for an afternoon of fun, we proceeded to gain altitude.  The thought was that the afternoon heat was silencing the birds again.  With cooler temps and a different selection of birds, perhaps things would change further up the road.

Literally driving as far as we could up the mountain, another Red-faced Warbler put on a show.  One can NEVER complain if a bird like this dances in front of you!

Further along the trail, a distant singing bird turned out to be an Olive Warbler!  Life bird #661 was in the bag.  Whew!  What a gorgeous bird.  Close enough to relish the finer details, but far enough to not bother with a camera, we all enjoyed one of southeast Arizona’s prized warblers.

Lots of color-banded Yellow-eyed Juncos were present, too.  In short, the color bands are unique to each bird. Researchers can track the movements and behaviors of each individual by paying attention to the band.

Of course, Yellow-eyed Juncos don't have to have yellow eyes.  That doesn't happen until they are all grown up.

 

After a quick bite in Summerhaven, the after-hours target birds included nightjars and owls.  More Whiskered Screech Owls and Mexican Whips.  No visuals.

Marge returned to Tucson for lodging while Natalie and I returned to the tent.  A Great Horned Owl was booming for part of the night.   I’m sure those little owls avoided our campground.  Big owls do eat little owls. They don’t “bump fists”, swap stories, and move along…..

Day 8: June 21 – Canyons and Emerald Green Gems

Rising almost 7,000 feet above the surrounding desert, Mount Wrightson caps off the Santa Rita Mountains.  The north flank of the mountain range has been carved by a stream over time and is known as Madera Canyon.  Like Cave Creek Canyon, this place is a must for any serious birder.

With Joe’s dental work looming in the afternoon (and Corrine needed to assist him),the plan was to bird the lower canyon as a foursome for the morning. By lunch time, it would be just Nat and I.

Things started off well when we finally scored Natalie’s Roadrunner on the drive to the mountain’s base.  While hardly rare in the region, you never know where you will see one.  Try as we might, we never heard him say “Beep Beep!”.

The lower canyon was not particularly birdy.  A highlight was the Bronzed Cowbird at what appeared to be the home of Bilbo Baggins. Known as the Madera Kubo, this Bed and Breakfast has a feeder station that a Wild Turkey also found enticing. 

By early lunch time, Joe and Corrine had left and it was up to Natalie and I locate one of Arizona signature birds.

Ascending the canyon on a series of switchbacks (part of the Carrie Nation Trail), we hiked at least a mile in.  I can’t tell you the altitude change, but we were getting up there.  The Sulphur-bellied Flycatcher was nice!

Right about the point when our notes told us to be on the lookout, the “barking” started.  Racing up the trail still further, we settled in to a wonderful viewing spot overlooking the wash below.

Granted, it took a few moments, but for the next 45 minutes, we enjoyed some pretty fine looks at three Elegant Trogons.  All were males and they seemed to be interested in finding nesting cavities.  

Throughout the rest of the day, we bopped around the Canyon.  At the low end, we managed brief glimpses of the most uncooperative Varied Bunting the world.  Elsewhere, we had more Painted Redstarts and Bridled Titmice.  The hummingbirds at the Santa Rita Lodge were cool.  Nothing new there, but you can’t be bored!

It wouldn’t be fair to mention birding in southeastern Arizona without mentioning the lizards.  Everywhere.  Big ones. Little ones.  Drab. Pretty. Too many for me to name here!

After a camp meal at the top-most picnic area, we settled in for our evening of owling.  Joe and Corrine had told us be on a bridge by 8:00pm for Elf Owl.  When we scouted the bridge in the morning, we joked about how the Owls are probably nesting in the hole in the sycamore tree that is right NEXT to the bridge.

 Elf Owls, by the way, are the smallest owls in the world.  Standing huge at 5 inches tall, they eat insects.   I have to think a mouse would kick the snot out of these little tikes…

Come 7:30pm, as we waited patiently, we could hear the tree hissing.  Okay, it wasn’t  the tree, it was coming from inside the hole.  Something has to be in there, right?  Trees don’t hiss.  At about 7:53pm (as I recall), a shadow whisked by.  Carrying a bug the size of an macaroni elbow, it slipped into the hole.  The hissing became loud, chirping and screaming fits and we immediately realized we were feet away from an Elf Owl nest. 

For the next 15 minutes, we watched as mom and dad slipped in and out of the nest to feed the hungry mouths.  No kids left the cavity, but there had to have been at least two nestlings in there.

Attempts were made to track down the calling Mexican Whip-Poor-Will. But like his brother in the Chiricahuas, it was not to be had.

With a long successful day behind us, we returned to Joe’s place.  We were hoping for a neat mammal sighting on the drive down the canyon. Mountain Lion or Coatimundi.  The best we could muster was a fat raccoon. Bummer. I didn’t drive across the country to see something I can see filing through garbage cans in my neighborhood.  

Day 7: June 20 - Sunrise and Smart People

Jupiter and Mars greeted us at sunrise. Before long, we found ourselves gawking at the Great Horned Owls (there were four) that were milling around the Visitor Center.  Some were fuzzy, showing beyond a doubt that they were youngsters. We couldn’t tell how old the Lesser Nighthawks were. They liked the lights of the Visitor Center just as much as the Border Patrol station!

A drive along the Auto-Tour turned up more Gambel’s Quail (common place in Arizona) as well as Black-tailed Gnatcatcher (not Black-capped).  Mom Verdin feeding the kids was cool, too.

Moving east back towards Tucson failed to turn up the Crested Caracara we had heading westbound. No matter.  We had great looks the first time!

Just west of Tucson is the Kitt Peak NationalObservatory.  The drive up to the peak is wonderful. 

The Mexican Jays gave us the chance to watch cool behavior.  They cache food.  They don’t eat it all on the spot.  They eat when they are hungry. If food is not available, they go back to locations where they hid it and munch away.  

So how do they know where they hid morsel?  They remember the location.  The location is marked with an object so they don’t remember the location of the food so much as they remember the location of the object that marks the location of the food.  Get it? 

In this case, I watched the Jay steal the postage stamp-sized Dorito from the guy at the other table.  The bird flew towards me, landed feet away, and proceeded to shove the chip into the gravel.  Within moments, he grabbed a woodflake and placed it EXACTLY where he put the food.  He’ll remember that woodflake for weeks to come.

If I was a jerk, I could have moved the flake 2 inches away.  Had I done so, he would never find the Dorito.

Of course, one doesn’t go here to just watch cool birds and neat behavior. 

One of the dominant features on the peak is the McMath-Pierce Solar Telescope. 

 Looking like something more associated with perhaps the mining industry, it stands over 100 feet above the peak.  The diagonal portion is over 200 feet long to the surface of the ground. It then continues hundreds of feet more below the ground. The McMath-Pierce scope is the largest of its kind in the world.   And we went inside. Okay, you can go inside too. Do it. 

Aside from the Mexican Jays and the occasional fly-by of a Turkey Vulture (no Zone-tailed Hawks, sadly), the birding was not spectacular.  But so what. We were walking in a compound that housed some of the brightest people on the planet using some of the most sophisticated equipment ever made.  It was truly awesome.  Sleeping by day (like the sign says), these folks are simply trying to unlock the secrets of the universe.  They want answers.  It is only fair to seek answers to questions. You certainly can’t go here and get the truth.

By dinner time, we were pulling up to the house of my buddy Joe and his wife, Corrine.  Enjoying retirement almost in the shadow of Madera Canyon, one of Southeast Arizona’s birding gems, the idea was to spend some days birding with them (Corrine is from England and quite the birder herself!).  Sadly, Joe had some unexpected dental work on the horizon so his birding opportunities were limited, but he was with us in spirit!