Burrowing-Owl Mural in Arizona

In response to our recent post on the challenges faced by burrowing owls, artist Teresa Dendy sent us photos of a burrowing-owl mural she painted in Phoenix, Arizona.

A tiny piece of Teresa Dendy's Phoenix mural of burrowing owls.

Teresa wrote, "My daughter and I helped relocate burrowing owls through an Audubon Society program. It has an over 90% success rate and we got to see the chicks. In honor of this program, the lovely dedicated people at Audubon, and these wonderful birds, I painted a huge burrowing owl mural along the Salt River in Phoenix. This is only part of the mural. I don't have a camera that captures all 70 feet of it."

Teresa's riverside mural isn't just beautiful; it also teaches people about burrowing owls' diet and habitat. Here are more shots that she shared.

Note the scale—it's not just 70 feet long but also almost 10 feet tall!

Teresa notes that burrowing owls have a "goofy charm" when parallaxing—that is, tilting and turning their heads to better see an object.

Burrowing owls in Arizona sometimes kill and eat sandsnakes, says Teresa, who studied the owls as part of the Audubon program.

Having lost other burrow options to human development of the land and the decline of prairie dogs (whose burrows they sometimes use), burrowing owls now sometimes nest in human-made objects like drainage pipes. Conservation groups even put those pipes (and other possible burrow replacements) out to help the owls.

Teresa included a chick in this portion of the mural.

Teresa the artist jokingly calls this owl "the critic." 

The volunteer work Teresa and her daughter did to help the owls is inspiring—an example of how all of us can find ways to help animals if we choose to. Many thanks, Teresa! —Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

Burrowing Owls in Florida

Thanks to Frank Garcia for this fantastic shot of a pair of burrowing owls. Frank took it at one of the busiest sports complexes in Broward County, Florida—and therein lies a tale about the fascinating but beleaguered burrowing owl.

Photo by Frank Garcia

These small birds, just 10 inches long and six ounces in weight, are longish-legged, ground-roaming owls that hunt in daylight and normally live in burrows abandoned by prairie dogs and ground squirrels, or (particularly in Florida) dug by the owls themselves. Such burrows and the the land in which to dig them are harder to find, however, in a landscape taken over by humans, which explains why as few as 10,000 breeding pairs remain and why some of the owls end up nesting in piles of PVC pipe or other human detritus (sometimes intentionally placed by conservationists to help the birds).

It's interesting to note that at breeding time, burrowing owls cover the ground near the entrance to their burrows with animal dung (which attracts dung beetles and other insects for the owls to eat) as well as human junk such as as bottle caps, cigarette butts and tin foil (which may send a signal to other owls that the burrow is occupied). According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, burrowing owls have an unusually high tolerance for carbon dioxide, a trait they evolved so they could survive CO2 buildup in their burrows.

I remember feeling sickened a few years ago when I read accounts of humans taking potshots at these embattled little owls (as a "sport") when the birds left their burrows. We all owe Frank our thanks for showing us how beautiful these owls are, and reminding us of their fragile status in the wild. (Burrowing owls are listed as a "species of special concern" in Florida.) Like many other amazing animals, these birds were here long before we humans came along. Let's hope they can survive us. —Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

Welcome to Spring

Happy first day of spring! And thanks to Gary Eagle for sharing with us this beautiful bluebird scene from the Hunter Creek Trail in Reno, Nevada.

Photo by Gary Eagle

A great number to remember today is 23.5. The Earth's axis has a 23.5-degree tilt, which causes our seasons to change as we circle the Sun. When the northern half of Earth is tilted toward the Sun, we in the Northern Hemisphere enjoy spring and summer; when it's tilted away from the Sun, we have fall and winter. (The seasons are opposite for those of you in the Southern Hemisphere.) Today—the spring solstice—is one of only two days (along with the autumnal solstice) when the Earth's tilt is neither toward nor away from the Sun. It's a transition day. From tomorrow until late September, we on the northern half of the globe will be leaning toward the Sun, catching its rays more fully.

The Earth's tilt varies by a degree or two over 40,000-year cycles, so the length and intensity of the seasons can change in certain locations over that time. All the planets in our solar system have some degree of tilt, ranging from Mercury at .03 degrees (no seasons on that tiny planet) to Uranus at 98 degrees of tilt (the Northern hemisphere there gets 42 years of summer followed by 42 years of winter—yikes!).

Here's to our good fortune in not having 42 straight years of winter or a different axis angle that would have tilted the delicate balance of life on our planet and prevented it from ever becoming our home sweet home. —Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

A Pause to Think of Brussels

Late last summer, on a journey to explore science, nature and natural history in Europe, Pamelia and I chose to go to Brussels. She had never been there. I had not gone since a Sports Illustrated writing assignment in the 1980s. We were eager to share the millennium-old city's famous mussels and frites, enjoy the world-heritage-caliber art nouveau architecture, taste the sublime chocolate and, not least, visit the Royal Belgian Institute of Natural Sciences, home to iguanodon dinosaurs and one of the world's best galleries on human evolution. 

The city of surrealist painter Rene Magritte now finds itself in the surreal world of modern terrorism.

Today's news of the horrific bombings in Brussels—senseless, heartless, pointless—has taken our minds and sympathies back to the city and people we fell in love with. That museum gallery of human evolution, with its beautiful renderings of the many hominin species that preceded Homo sapiens, had no model on display of the modern terrorist, a biological creature no different from the rest of us except in the twisted workings of its brain. Someday science will unlock the mechanisms and mysteries of the amazing three-pound thinking organ inside our skulls. Someday we'll better understand the chemical processes in the brain that lead a person to think that murder is a good thing, that vengeance is noble, that blowing up innocents is a path to eternal life. We're not there yet, and so we mourn victims on days like today. We hope that fear does not overtake reason and courage. We send love and deepest sympathy to the people of lovely Brussels.

Here's a slide show of some of our Brussels images, taken on the Eurostar train from London and throughout the city—on the streets, at food stands, inside the Institute of Natural Sciences, by a memorial chunk of the Berlin Wall, and by the European Parliament, where large outdoor banners listed ways by which poverty and lack of education in the world could be reduced. One of the banners asked, WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO DO? GET INVOLVED!  A thought for all of us to ponder.  —Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

Black Vultures and Armadillos

Many thanks to our Facebook follower Angela Williams-Tribble for sharing with us her beautiful photos of a bald eagle and a black vulture dining on an armadillo at the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge near Cape Canaveral in Florida.

Photo of black vulture, bald eagle and armadillo by Angela Williams-Tribble

Black vultures are the most numerous vultures in the Western hemisphere, though not as common in the U.S. as their cousins, turkey vultures, which are larger and have red heads. Black vultures lack the acute sense of smell that turkey vultures use in hunting, but they often let turkey vultures find a carcass, then join them (and even crowd them out) in feeding on it.

At one point the eagle tried to fly off with the armadillo, but it was too heavy. Photo by Angela Williams-Tribble

Look at the size of that talon. Photo by Angela Williams-Tribble

Because black vultures have no voice box, their vocalizations are limited to what the Cornell Lab of Ornithology describes as "raspy hisses and grunts." The oldest known vulture fossils go back 34 million years, so they've been hissing and grunting for a while now. It's amazing to think of the changes that vultures have experienced, adapted to and survived on the planet over those 34 million years (which is still just a blink of an eye in the 4.5-billion-year history of Earth).

And yes, there are armadillos in Florida. Competing stories attribute their arrival in the 1920s to everything from a circus truck that overturned and let two escape to a Marine who released his pet armadillos near Miami, but the tale that seems most firmly established claims that a pair escaped from a small zoo set up by Gus Edwards, the man who developed Cocoa Beach. Edwards had imported the nine-banded armadillos from Texas. All's that's known for sure is that Florida now has a lot of armadillos, which seems to suit the black vultures and bald eagles just fine. (More soon on the fascinating history of the armadillo.) —Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood

50-Foot Waves, the South Shetland Islands and Antarctica

(How did the two of us come to travel to Antarctica on a Russian oceanographic ship? What did we experience in the first two wild weeks of this adventure? For all the exciting photos and past installments, scroll down to earlier posts.)

Our new friend and shipmate Ruediger Loechner of Germany captured the feel of the awe-inspiring 50-foot waves, which towered over the ship. (photo by Ruediger Loechner)

"THEY'RE NOW CALLING IT A CYCLONE," One Ocean Expeditions leader Boris Wise told our group of Antarctic voyagers during dinner on the Akademik Sergey Vavilov on November 12. "The winds are over 50 knots. We're heading right for the eye of it."

That's a cape petrel, our most common traveling companion as we neared Antarctica. (photo by Ruediger Loechner)

Almost two weeks into our multi-stop trip from the tip of South America to Antarctica organized by the great British zoologist, wildlife photographer, writer and conservationist Mark Carwardine, Pamelia and I were getting close to the vast white continent—and also close to a massive storm, the second big blow of our voyage. We were seeing the Southern Ocean at its classic best, meaning wildest, and none of the hearty souls on board the Sergey Vavilov was complaining. We all loved the adventure. 

Let me pause to offer these words of reassurance to any of you who may be intrigued by the idea of going to Antarctica but are seasickness-prone: I am too. I learned during this voyage to preload on Bonine motion-sickness tablets, stick to my bunk as much as possible in high waves and endure jolts of electricity on the underside of my wrist from an anti-seasickness wristband that helped me immensely. I never got seasick—just a little queasy—throughout as rough a voyage as any you'll experience. So don't be deterred.

For three more days we rode turbulent seas—50-foot waves that dwarfed the 30-foot giants we'd gone through earlier—but thanks to deft navigating by our Russian captain, we avoided worse.  At last we arrived at the South Shetland Islands, on Antarctica's doorstep. We now were in a world of icebergs. Pamelia was about to set foot on her seventh continent and I on my sixth.

From every angle the towers of blue ice looked different. Much of the ice was many thousands of years old, compressed to a density and hardness that were hard to imagine.

Because of continuing waves, winds and weather, we could not go ashore for a day, but took Zodiacs through the icy world near Turret Point on King George Island in the South Shetlands. I've put together two photo galleries below, one made up of Pamelia and my shots and one of photos taken by fellow voaygers Ruediger and Eva Loechner. (Thanks again, Ruediger and Eva.)

During  two Zodiac expeditions, wind, cold and sudden snow squalls were part of the iceberg-watching experience. (photo by Ruediger Loechner)

Once back on board the Sergey Vavliov, we caught sight of another in a succession of whales that we had seen. I believe this one was a humpback. (photo by Ruediger Loechner)

photo by Ruediger Loechner

The next morning, November 14, we awoke to a 26-degree F air temperature, 30 mph winds and a 29-degree water temperature—the perfect Antarctic feeling for our expedition to Mikkelson Point, Antarctica. This would be the day Pamelia added her seventh continent. I'll let the photos below tell the story of yet another spectacular morning of exploration.

Pamelia was ready to go as we waited to board Zodiacs for the ride ashore at Mikkelsen Harbor. She had been hoping for decades for a chance to set foot on Antarctica.

The ride to Mikkelsen aboard Nate's Zodiac was bitterly cold, choppy...and spectacular. 

A lone Weddell Seal served as our Antarctic welcoming party. Weddells (named for British sealing captain James Weddell, who first saw them in the 1820s in the Antarctic waters now known as the Weddell Sea) have the most southerly distribution of any mammal. They're found only around Antarctica, and their range extends much farther south than the tip of the Antarctic peninsula, which we had reached.

I've mentioned how quickly and dramatically the weather can change in the Antarctic. Here at Mikkelsen it never stopped changing, from blowing snow to wild clouds to sun and back. The beauty was overwhelming.

The rolling terrain at Mikkelsen is home to breeding and nesting gentoo penguins, which were clustered in several spots.

As I've written previously, the 30-inch-tall gentoos are the third-biggest species of penguin after emperors and kings. They're long-tailed penguins closely related two other species that we would unexpectedly see at Mikkelsen in the hours ahead—chinstraps and Adelies; in the course of evolution their genus broke off from those of other penguins 38 million years ago.

As mentioned, the gentoos were mating. Gentoos lay two eggs, and males and females take turn (one per day) roosting on them for 34 to 36 days. 

Gentoos are quite vocal...

...and feisty.

Some of the gentoos already had laid eggs.

I saw only one, not two, in this nest. which may have been a sign that...

...a predatory skua might have stolen one. (photo by Ruedigger Loechner)

Pamelia later painted an ink study of this battle royal. Later I'll show you the time-lapse video she created while painting it. 

This was an emergency hut—the first we'd seen on our trip through thousands of almost completely human-free miles. That is an Argentinian flag painted on the side, a reflection of the closest neighbor on the South American continent. 

These are snowy sheathbills, scavengers that we had seen near several earlier penguin and seal breeding grounds. They'll eat anything from afterbirths to feces, which perhaps explains why they seem to spend so much time cleaning and grooming themselves. 

I love this shot Pamelia took of a swooping sheathbill.

Many of the sheathbills held one leg up to retain warmth in the frigid conditions. (photo by Ruediger Loechner)

Note the stunning bill and sheath. (photo by Ruediger Loechner)

Surprise! Suddenly a lone chinstrap penguin was wandering around.

Surprise! Suddenly a lone chinstrap penguin was wandering around.

Chinstraps are slightly smaller than gentoos and loaded with personalty.

They have amazing-looking eyes.

The chinstrap and a gentoo passed each other without incident—or even acknowledgement.

And who's this? An Adelie penguin popped up next—also a loner. Adelies were first seen in 1840 by French Antarctic explorer Jules Dumont d'Urville, whose wife was named Adelie. 

Adelies stand between 18 and 28 inches tall and have particularly long tails. Their numbers have been declining on the Antarctic peninsula (perhaps because of warming conditions and melting ice), but not (yet, anyway) in Antarctica as a whole.

You may have seen the horrific news story in February 2016 that 150,000 Adelies on Cape Denison in Antarctica had starved as a result of a giant iceberg that had floated in and blocked their access to the sea. The penguins had to make a 75-mile round trip on land to get food. The consequences of melting ice in the Antarctic could be dire for the planet as a whole, but sometimes they are localized, sudden and unforeseeable.

One of our new favorite birds became the blue-eyed shag, or cormorant. Pamelia took this amazing shot.

Our friend Ruediger matched that by capturing two of the blue-eyed shags in sync. Great shot. (photo by Ruediger Loechner)

As the morning began to wind down, we could see the Sergey Vavilov in the distance waiting for us.

We hiked back past the gentoo encampments.

As always, Charles Darwin was traveling with us and was exuberant about the naturalist discoveries he was making. He had become a regular on the ship and had even begun writing his own blog. Charles continues to explore the 21st century, and relive his life and career, as part of The Naturalist's Notebook team.

Pamelia took a shot of me with some of my gentoo penguin buddies. Neither of us could fully absorb the fact that we were standing in Antarctica, the last wild continent left on Earth. 

Pamelia took a shot of me with some of my gentoo penguin buddies. Neither of us could fully absorb the fact that we were standing in Antarctica, the last wild continent left on Earth.

 

STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT ANTARCTIC POST: We'll be taking you to Neko Harbor in Antarctica, our final stop on the continent before a voyage back to civilization through hurricane-force winds in the Drake Passage. Oh yeah. This story ain't over yet. —Craig Neff and Pamelia Markwood