More on Whoopers

As promised, here's a little whooping crane trivia to go with a few more photos:

At this point, there is estimated to be about 350 whooping cranes in the wild, with the vast majority on the Gulf Coast of Texas, just north of Corpus Cristi in and around the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge. That number is, unfortunately, subject to change, however. Because of the extreme drought Texas has been experiencing, the water levels are very low in the whoopers' (as they're affectionately known) normal habitat, which means that they're having a hard time foraging for their favorite prey, crabs. There have been reports of at least 15 cranes dying on their wintering grounds, and that number can only climb as they make their arduous 2500 mile journey up into Canada for the breeding season.




Not all is negative however, as the true low point for these five-foot tall, 14-17 pound birds was in 1941 when there were only 15-21 birds left in the wild. In addition to the protections afforded the whooping cranes on the gulf coast, there have been several attempts to re-establish a second wild breeding population in Florida. The earliest involved placing whooper eggs in the nests of sandhill cranes, and while some did migrate, they failed to reproduce, so that effort was given up. Additional attempts include tries at a non-migratory flock, but that effort has been only marginally successful. The latest conservation efforts have involved the use of ultralights to teach the birds to migrate from Kissemmee, Florida up to summer grounds in Wisconsin, similar to the flock of geese memorialized in the movie "Fly Away Home."




Their seven and a half foot wingspan rivals that of NBA stars...







The above photo depicts the neck of the bird featured in many of these photos, five-year old "Scarbaby," so named because when he was a juvenile he was bitten in the neck by a snake. Initially, his head and neck swelled up and he was unable to eat. His parents, the Lobsticks (so-named because of the river where they spend their summers), delayed their migration until he was able to begin eating on his own, but then left. As an aside, Daddy Lobstick is now 30 years old, well beyond the 22-24 year average lifespan for whoopers in the wild. Scarbaby didn't migrate for two years, and conservationists feared that he would never do so. Happily, he finally met the right girl (the other crane featured in these photos) and began the annual commute as well.

Apparently, because of the extensive attention he received as a youngster, he is very comfortable under watchful eyes, and he and his mate are very accommodating to the boat tours that seek out whoopers at Aransas.



If you're still interested in more about whooping cranes and other birds as they migrate north for the spring, check out Journey North, which is designed for educators and their students. You can also browse Operation Migration for more information on those ultralight-flying, migration-teaching conservationists.

I'm back...

Laura has reprimanded me for completely ignoring this blog for too long, so I'm back to make up for lost time. Because we've covered quite a bit of ground in our travels, I'm going to bounce around a bit to get some of the photos out. Of course, Laura wants me to share some bird photos, so I'll start with that...

The following are photos of the whooping cranes we saw on a boat trip out of the Rockport-Fulton (Texas) area. I'll do a second post with more later today, and I'll try to share a bit more information about these endangered behemoths at that point.

Oh yeah, and just to give you an idea where we are now at, the RV park we're staying in is at the end of Lonely Street, behind the Heartbreak Hotel, and our RV site is on Hound Dog Way.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

This one'll be real short: I just wanted to wish everyone a happy and safe St. Patrick's Day.

For those of you who know our dog Meika, you know she occasionally enjoys a fine brew. Hey, she came with the habit- I just helped her refine her tastes. I'll leave you with a shot of her enjoying her traditional March 17 pint o' Guinness. OK, so maybe we shared the pint, but then she also got her taste of corned beef at dinner time...

In honor of the Iditarod...

Since the Iditarod is running right now, and it's the first year in a long time that we haven't been in Alaska to follow it, I thought that I would diverge from our travels for a bit. The following are photos I took at the 2007 ceremonial start in Anchorage.





For those that aren't aware, the Iditarod does a fundraiser called the Iditarider auction each year in which people can bid to ride with specific riders for the first 8 miles of the ceremonial start. When you see riders in the sleds, that's who they are. You may also notice that in some instances, the dogs are actually pulling two sleds. The second sled is manned by a handler for the musher and is used to slow the dogs down because they are so anxious to get running that the can get going too fast.




For several years, I was able to work the same spot at the Iditarod- 4th Ave. & Cordova (the benefits of seniority). There are several reasons I requested that location, not the least of which is the fact that I could watch the dog teams from the start, and I would get to see them take the first turn of the race onto Cordova, which sometimes proved interesting, as the photo above depicts. Again, those dogs are so anxious to run, and that, combined with the huge crowds, the excitement of the start, and a sometimes inexperienced handler on the drag sled, occasionally makes for some interesting mushing. I never had a team go up over the berm there, but there were some close calls that sent spectators scattering.


For those that think this race is cruel to the dogs, take a close look at these pictures- these dogs live to run. If you ever have a chance to go to the start of the Iditarod, do so. The cacophony of howling dogs who are practically jumping out of their skin to start running will forever dispel any thoughts of cruelty. These dogs are cared for in a manner similar to some of our top professional athletes. It seems that each year you hear of a dog or two dying on the trail. What you have to remember is that you're talking about well over 1000 dogs, and statistically speaking, it would be surprising if there were no problems over the three week period of the race. In each instance, the circumstances are closely scrutinized and a necropsy is performed to find a cause of death in order to figure out whether anything was done wrong, and what could be done better. Often times, they find that there was an preexisting condition or undiagnosed heart irregularity, much as we sometimes learn when an otherwise perfectly healthy human athlete tragically dies while participating in the sport that they love. Anyway, I'll step off of my soapbox now.



With that, I'll call it a post, and I'll get back to the travels next time.

Spring Flings

So you hear about these spring break dramas where these young kids "hook-up" for a brief fling and then head back to their respective parts of the country. Having never participated in this particular rite of passage, it's natural to wonder if it really happens, or if it's just the fodder of sleazy videos sold on late night TV...

Well, I now have first hand confirmation that it really does happen:


It starts with a little playful teasing, with the taller Eugene standing in water just deep enough so as to be out of reach of the object of his affection, in this case, a young UConn cutie by the name of Callie.


Next, they begin to feel each other out, searching for limits and possibilities...


Then, little by little, they let down their guard and become more and more comfortable with one another.


But alas, their time at the beach is short, and all too soon each must go their own way, with Callie returning to Connecticut, and Eugene off on his own journey.

To Eugene's credit, I have to say that Callie's "person" commented that he was quite the gentleman, and that he had clearly won over Callie with his willingness to allow her little victories in their tug-of-war. Sadly, this spring break story ends with our canine couple stealing longing glances out the back windows as their respective cars headed in opposite directions. Fortunately, alcohol is prohibited at the dog beach- otherwise we'd really be in trouble.

And all the while, as her step-brother's romance played out, tom-boy Meika was content to frolic in the sand and surf.


Just so as not to create too much concern for Eugene's mental well-being, here's a few more photos of him enjoying the dog beach:





Finally, I'll leave you with OG Meika leading her homies astray:



Next up: Florida Recap

Crazy People

Crazy, but looks like fun. These guys were out kite-boarding one windy day when we were coming back from kayaking over on Sanibel Island, and I had to stop and take some photos.

Birding Underground

February 21 was the Cape Coral Burrowing Owl Festival, and since Laura's all about the birds, we of course were in attendance to wander through the booths of crafts, various wildlife and outdoor groups, and the ubiquitous and numerous greyhound rescue groups. Fortunately, we were able to get through the small festival quickly enough that we did not end up returning to the RV with yet another rescued pup destined for the sweet life.

We then were off to the surrounding area in search of the elusive festival namesake. Well, I'm not sure if elusive is quite the right term... Basically, you drive around the neighborhoods of Cape Coral in search white PVC pipes cordoning off ten foot by ten foot plots which appear to be memorials to gophers of a Christian faith who weren't quite dead yet:


In actuality, the little crosses are perches for the owls, and the plots are intended to provide a buffer for the owls. Unfortunately, many of even the well-intentioned owl groupies seem to disregard that buffer in their quest to peer down into the burrows for the elusive feathered digger.


Even more unfortunate is the fact that others seem to have even more sinister intentions:


I mean, I know they're cute little buggers, but there needs to be a line drawn somewhere!

After viewing several of these plots with nary a glimpse of a feathered critter, we finally came upon one with a little feathered bump sitting next to it's perch. While keeping a respectful distance, I was able to approach enough to take the following picture (and quite a few others), without the owl voicing any concerns about my presence.



In fact, when it became clear after several minutes that the owl was perfectly comfortable with my presence, I encouraged Laura to approach closer as well. As Laura is the consummate experienced birder, I knew that she would be similarly respectful of the bird. I was, therefore, unprepared for her spontaneous and uncontrolled exclamation of "Oh, it's SOOO CUTE!" This, of course sent our feathered friend back to it's burrow, though it was not concerned enough to retreat further than the entrance, and clearly still was not particularly concerned about us:




I'll leave you with couple pictures of what Laura tells me is a willet in the surf, though I'm not so sure.


I mean, I've heard of the cowbird, but based upon it's stance, this one appears to be a cowboy bird:


Git along, little birdie, git along...

Next time: crazy people.