The Elusive Ringtail

The ringtail, named for its bushy, banded tail, is a small, nocturnal omnivore of the western U.S. and northern Mexico. Extremely agile, these cousins of the raccoon favor semi-arid areas with rock outcrops and open woodlands; there they hunt small mammals, birds and lizards and seasonally feast on nuts and berries. Since they are active primarily at night, ringtails are seldom encountered by hikers and campers.

Though often called ringtail cats, due to their size and behavior, they are not felines; once domesticated by miners to control rodents, they are also known as miner cats. Ringtails are solitary for most of the year but pair off in late winter or early spring to mate; the litter of kits (usually 2-4) are born in late spring and stay with their mother through summer. Dens are usually placed in small caves or rock crevices but ringtails are superb climbers and often rest in trees.

Natural predators of ringtails include hawks, owls, coyotes, fox and bobcats. Those fortunate enough to escape these hunters often live 7-8 years in the wild and have been known to live 15 years or more in captivity.

October Woods

October is, in my opinion, the best month for hiking through forests of the American Heartland. Then again, in my opinion, it's the best month for just about anything.

The cool air, warm sun, colorful vegetation and relatively dry trails offer ideal hiking conditions. While most of our summer birds have departed for the south, winter residents, such as juncos, yellow-rumped warblers and white-throated sparrows, drift down from Canada, joining the cardinals, chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, woodpeckers and other permanant residents. The raucous jabber of blue jays now dominates the birdsong but the yank of the white-breasted nuthatch is perhaps most typical of the autumn woodland.

The seasonal chill also increases the activity of our resident mammals, making them more conspicuous among the colorful trees. The fragrance of fallen walnuts, at times mingled with that nostalgic scent of woodsmoke, drifts through the forest and the sound of acorns, dropping through the canopy, envelops the hiker. For the naturalist, these sights, sounds and smells of autumn are especially inviting and, reluctant to leave the October woods, his pace slows to an amble.

The Social Nature of Man

We humans are social creatures. Many, if not most, of us belong to groups or organizations related to our hobbies, business, profession, school, religion, political affiliation or some other aspect of our life. Much of this socialization is for enjoyment while our participation in other groups may stem from a sense of obligation or commitment.

Whatever the personal reasons for socializing, there seems to be an inherent tendency in humans to associate with one another; perhaps this stems from the earliest days of human history, when cooperative behavior was essential to the survival of our species. While practical reasons for group participation and networking persist today, the need to belong to cliques, clubs or organizations is also likely of psychological importance for many humans.

Then there are those, myself included, who enjoy solitude and prefer to interact with others as individuals or, at most, in small groups. Some might define this trait as antisocial and perhaps there is some truth to that assessment. On the other hand, privacy and personal freedom are often threatened when group mentality reigns supreme and meaningful, intimate dialogue is too often lost amidst the tweets and texting of modern society.

Thoughts on Lake Superior

True to its name, Lake Superior is a landscape of superlatives. Bounded by 3000 miles of shoreline, it is the largest freshwater lake (by surface area) on the planet; indeed, Lake Superior is roughly the size of Maine. While its volume is less than that of Lake Baikal, in Siberia, it holds more water than all of our other Great Lakes combined.

We humans, with our anthropomorphic tendencies, often view Lake Superior as a magnificent yet powerful beast, prone to punishing gales; in reality, it is a complex aquatic ecosystem, enclosed within a glacial basin of ancient rock. While the lake has significant effects on the climate of the lands that surround it, Superior's harsh weather is primarily a reflection of its latitude and longitude; were it in the southern U.S., its reputation would be entirely different. In addition, the character of Lake Superior varies with location, a reflection of prevailing winds, feeder streams and its underwater topography, and its shoreline encompasses a wide range of habitats, including dunes, rocky beaches, cliffs, wetlands and mountainous terrain.

To know Lake Superior is to understand its complex web of life, its geophysical anatomy, its geographic relationships and its susceptibility to the effects of human communities that line its basin; this, of course, would take a lifetime. Having traveled along its southern coast over the past two weeks, I have gained a better appreciation for the spectacular diversity of this vast and beautiful landscape.

A Change of Latitude

After almost two weeks in the cool, scenic landscape of northern Michigan, we are back in central Missouri. It is warmer here and the autumn colors are just beginning to unfold but the terrain is hardly spectacular.

Nevertheless, it is a glorious, sunny day in the Heartland and I opted for a visit to the Eagle Bluffs Conservation Area, southwest of town; stretching along the Missouri River floodplain, it is an excellent birding area during any season and offers a pleasant mix of wetlands, fields and riparian woods, backed by the forested bluffs of the river valley. Today, hundreds of turkey vultures dominated the scene, gathering on levees to await the mid morning thermals; killdeer were also abundant and there was the usual cast of great blue herons, blue-winged teal, red-winged blackbirds, bald eagles, northern harriers and migrant shorebirds. A special treat was provided by a trio of sandhill cranes that circled across the refuge.

Following vacations to areas with magnificent scenery, many of us are dismayed to return to our familiar and seemingly mundane surroundings. But, as naturalists know, every region of this planet offers a tremendous diversity of native plants and animals; unfortunately, most people never bother to explore that natural bounty. Today's visit to Eagle Bluffs reminded me that the opportunity to enjoy the wonders of nature is always close to home.

Elk in Michigan

North American wapiti, more commonly known as elk, are generally associated with mountainous regions of the West. However, before white settlers arrived with their guns, axes and plows, these large herbivores inhabited much of the Continent. Nevertheless, I was surprised to see "Elk Crossing" signs in the northern part of Michigan's Lower Peninsula during our recent visit and have since learned that this is the largest free roaming elk herd east of the Mississippi.

Elk were extirpated from Michigan by the late 1800s due to a combination of over-hunting and habitat loss. Then, during the second decade of the 20th Century, efforts were made to re-establish an elk population in the Pigeon River watershed of the northeast Lower Peninsula; despite some initial success, poaching and the degradation of habitat proved to be significant problems. Finally, through the cooperation of landowners, the general public and the Department of Natural Resources, the Michigan elk population began to stabilize in the 1970s and has recently been maintained between 800-900 wintering individuals; habitat restoration and a strictly controlled hunting program have been instrumental in this effort.

While the reintroduction of a native species is, in general, a laudable project, it cannot be successful without both adequate habitat protection and a reliable means of population control. Since the State has no plans to reintroduce gray wolves and cougars in this region, population control falls to human hunters. Indeed, one wonders whether hunting and tourism proponents were the driving force behind this elk reintroduction program. The public surely enjoys the opportunity to observe these magnificent animals in the wild but, for all practical purposes, the State of Michigan has created a regional hunting preserve.

Falling Water

As we left the cabin this morning, on our final day in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, a light rain was falling. The Porcupine Mountains were shrouded in fog as we headed west on the Park's South Boundary Road. We stopped to take a short loop hike in the morning mist, trudging along muddy paths and weaving through the soggy vegetation; two small but scenic waterfalls, Overlooked Falls and Greenstone Falls, rewarded our perseverance.

In the westernmost section of the Park, we hiked along the magnificent Presque Isle River, stopping to view its three major waterfalls and a cluster of rock-walled potholes, scoured out by the relentless river and its cargo of abrasive sand. From there we headed further west to the Black River Valley, in the Ottawa National Forest, where a family of five bald eagles endured the chilly drizzle in the top of a dead pine; another group of spectacular cascades were spaced along this stream and a beautiful crescent beach stretched northward along Lake Superior from the Black River Harbor.

Despite the gray, damp weather, it was another enjoyable day in this land of water and rock. Heading toward Iron Mountain on Route 2, we traversed a final assault of heavy rain before the clouds pushed to our south and brilliant sunshine ignited the painted autumn forests of the Upper Peninsula. Tomorrow we'll head for Madison, Wisconsin, my wife's college hangout.