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Category Archives: Wildlife

Farewell to Bristol Renaissance Faire

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Monday, Labor Day, September 1, J. and I made our last trip to 2008 Bristol Renaissance Faire. This time we arrived earlier than usual — early enough to pay parking and admission.

Thanks to the luxury of extra time, the first thing I did was to drag him to the jousting/exhibition arena. The timing was perfect because master falconer Ray Pena was beginning his talk. Although I know a fair amount about falconry (even beyond T. H. White‘s failed effort recounted in The Goshawk), I’d never seen a demonstration of raptors flown to the lure.

Pena explained how the birds are caught, handled, and trained. He emphasized that the falconer doesn’t force the bird to do anything (other than to be captive, of course). Birds are hooded to keep them calm; then, as they become accustomed to their surroundings, the presence of people, and the falconer’s voice, the falconer will touch them. As training progresses, the lure is baited. Later, it is not.

He removed the hood from the first bird, a female African saker (I think — I am not sure I heard correctly) falcon. The falconer uses the bird’s name, which should rouse it. At that point, the bird is ready to fly. He mentioned the challenge of the area — trees and cables, not to mention unfamiliarity — and the possibility of a bird getting lost or tangled. Pena said he places a radio transmitter on their tails prior to flight just in case.

Both the female and male saker (I think) falcons flew out of my sight and back and forth several times before attacking the lure. The male’s smaller size makes him faster and more maneuverable, so it’s not necessarily a hunting disadvantage. By the way, Pena has a sense of humor — the male’s name is Hunter.

As part of his introduction, Pena had talked about the origins of falconry, its hierarchy, and the role of birds and dogs in the hunt, but we missed much of that part. I think of falconry as a sport, but he made it sound like, at least for some at one time, practicing falconry properly was an essential part of food acquisition.

The third and final bird was a peregrine — female, I think. I’ve seen only one peregrine in the “wild” — when a co-worker asked me about a bird that had landed on a ledge across a narrow courtyard. Not only was it close enough to be easy for me to identify as a peregrine, but after a few minutes it tucked its head under its wing and fell asleep. I wondered if it was an after-breakfast nap.

After contributing to the upkeep of Hunter and friends, we watched the strength game (where you try to ring the bell at the top of a column) for a while. The young man running it issued several challenges to specific men, but we didn’t see anyone make it to “king” (we heard the bell after we had moved on, so someone mighty must have taken him up on his insults). J. and I remained inconspicuous intentionally; neither of us wished to be a mere “pustule.” A little girl tried the child’s version, swinging the hammer like a, well, girl and delivering a weak, glancing blow. Is this really a feminine trait?

After that we looked into the shops. I bought silver and onyx earrings at the Black Pearl as my sole indulgence. I didn’t hurry J. (much), so by the gate we caught a rousing farewell to the faire song. I wonder if the participants are relieved that their work is done after eight or so weekends or if they find it sad that their opportunity to be bigger than bland modern life is over. Most likely, it’s a mixture of both.

After a little side road wandering and tension, we were in time for dinner at Apple Holler and to see the goats on the bridge outlined against the twilight. A white chicken was wandering in the parking lot, so I approached it to ask if it was okay. It rewarded me with that wonderful low clucking growl that chickens use as a warning.

I ordered turkey for dinner.

Sand Ridge Nature Center

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Saturday J. and I headed to the Sand Ridge Nature Center, another part of the Cook County Forest Preserve District. This one is close to the train station in Homewood, which is why I suggested it. Of course, we took several detours and didn’t go there directly, making the convenience moot. My mood improved when I saw a bumper sticker in the parking lot that still makes me giggle: A cartoon pig says indignantly, “No, I don’t have any spare ribs.”

First, we walked through the building, which has a number of educational exhibits and herpetologic and fish inhabitants. The educational information was punctuated by “Fun Facts,” for example, the saying, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat” refers to catfish. I had never heard of one of the species on display, a musk turtle or “stinkpot.” Nearby in the same aquarium, a painted turtle sprawled catlike on partially submerged rocks. It had extended its front legs straight out, as relaxed cats do, and pulled its head into its shell so that it looked like a comfortable headless turtle.

A woman who had been cleaning offered to help us. She gave us a map of the trails and samples of insect repellent to get us through our walk.

Cook County government has a poor reputation, and I developed a poor opinion of government employees based on an experience years ago at the State of Illinois Secretary of State’s Office downtown. I went with a friend who needed something and who was the only person there on business. A woman came to the window and told us to form a single-file line. I said, “Oh, I’m not in line; I’m with her,” to which the woman replied, more firmly, “Form a single-file line.” It soon became apparent that she would not assist my friend until I was standing precisely behind her in line. Her behavior and attitude clearly didn’t make her happy. I could picture her at home, telling her family about the difficult person who made her day hellish by not cooperating instantly and forming a single-file line of two, and her family commiserating with her about the horrors of coping with John and Jane Public every day. Today, she would be a natural for the TSA.

All of this is to highlight that the Cook County Forest Preserve District employees we’ve met have been eager to provide a good visitor experience. They have seemed to like, even to love, their jobs, with no inclination toward mindless bureaucracy. I noticed, too, that the District promotes a new Chicago Wilderness program of which I heartily approve: “Leave No Child Inside,” which tries to get children away from their electronics into the great outdoors. (My proposal: A similar program for adults.)

The sky was overcast, so the butterfly garden wasn’t buzzing with activity. J. did try to get photos or video of a red damselfly that posed for him for several minutes.

We didn’t have much time and my natural bent is toward water, so we took the Redwing Trail that skirts a man-made pond. Around this pond were large, showy orange and pink flowers of a variety we had never seen before. We also spotted tiny powder blue flowers whose little protruding centers fascinated me.

From the direction of the pond I heard a bird calling and saw a flash of gray and white. Although I couldn’t recall the sound, I remembered that belted kingfishers call in flight and was pretty sure that that is what I’d seen. J. also got a quick look at it on the return trip. As always, I wished I had brought binoculars.

As it was a cloudy, humid, relatively still day, the mosquitoes were out in force in the woods. J. offered me insect repellent, which would have helped with my arms and legs, but a large proportion of the bloodsuckers chose to bite my posterior. Next time I’ll know to spray my pants ahead of time.

Apparently, the forest proper, or portions of it, is fenced, so when we went through the gate beyond the pond, I had to pay attention to the amount of time it would take to return before it would be locked at 4:30 p.m. The fence may be intended to keep humans out when the preserve is closed, but it serves another purpose — a sign asks you to close the gate behind you to prevent white-tailed deer from destroying the gardens.

The forest preserves may be overrun by deer, but the only wildlife we saw was a rabbit sitting in the middle of the trail. More skittish than its Flamingo relatives, it dove into the cover when it realized we’d spied it. I saw a few birds, but not many — generally, most birds prefer areas that are more open.

The sun made an appearance just as we came to an open space next to the trail, and J. took a photo at my request. On the return trip, I explained that one fantasy of mine is to live in a clearing in the deep woods, not unlike Hansel and Gretel’s witch. Slapping himself, J. commented, “If you could keep the mosquitoes under control . . .”

Despite his discomfort, when we came to the Lost Beach Trail J. wanted to continue. I demurred because it was close to the time I’d decided we needed to turn around and backtrack to avoid being locked in with the unseen and unheard but voracious deer. This proved to be a good call, because when we were about halfway past the pond it began to drizzle. Shortly after we returned to the building, the skies poured in earnest. I wondered if the cheerful woman we had met as she headed out had been caught in it and if she were still happy.

We looked at the animal posters on the wall by the offices. In one, a green heron was doing what green herons do so well — taking a frog for dinner. “Poor frog!” J. exclaimed. Indeed. In this particular photo, the frog, its midsection trapped between the heron’s upper and lower mandibles, faces the camera and sports a facial expression eerily like that of Kermit the Frog.

Outside again we watched a couple of male goldfinches in the prairie garden area. One alighted on a tall plant that slowly dipped under its weight while J. again tried to capture the Kodak (Nikon) moment.

In the parking lot, impressive amounts of steam wafted up from the pavement, drawn toward the sun that had reappeared after the hard rain. After a brief detour to Hammond, Indiana, as far in ambiance from Sand Ridge as it is possible to conceive, we ended up at a Fuddruckers for a meal that probably negated any good we had done ourselves by walking. J., along with some seven-year-old boys, had his fill (or at least of taste) of video games, then we returned to The Flamingo. I admit I teased Hodge with the salmon that J. had picked up on the way at Treasure Island.

The poor, tortured cat.

At Morton Arboretum

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Late yesterday afternoon J. and I finally made it to the Morton Arboretum — finally, because he has wanted to go for a couple of months. After a morning of solid rain, the weather brightened but remained humid.

On the way, I noticed several electronic signs that read, “State police enforcing motorcycle reckless driving,” which of course implies that reckless motorcycle driving is required by a law that state police enforce. I imagined the scene for J.: A state trooper pulls over a motorcyclist and says, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ticket you. You could have weaved in and out of traffic in that jam a mile back, but you stayed in your lane and, even worse, you rode at a safe speed for conditions. Next time, drive recklessly, okay?”

A car in the parking lot was sporting a “Cthulhu for President” bumper sticker, complete with a red, white, and blue, stylized, round-headed octopus. Later, we spoke to a priest or minister whose bumper sticker advertised, “Rev for hire.”

He was there because, like the Chicago Botanic Garden, Morton Arboretum hosts weddings, receptions, and other events, This day’s events imposed some restrictions (no conifer way), but we managed to get into the visitor center just before it closed to the public. A man at the counter helpfully lent J. a pair of scissors so he could open an over-packaged camera card. We also raided the gift shop before it closed (in J.’s case, also after it closed because he’s hard to budge from any store or spending opportunity no matter the hours).

The “Big Bug” exhibit by David Rogers closes today, so we saw the welcoming praying mantis as well as the ants, grasshopper, daddy longlegs, and dragonfly, all crafted from various woods. While we were admiring the dragonfly and the scenery around Meadow Lake, I heard a boy, probably 11 or 12 years old, complain repeatedly about the exhibit. “What kind of gratification are we supposed to get out of wooden bugs?” Clearly, he is one of those sadly cynical children who have much and appreciate little. One of the two girls with him, probably a sister, replied disgustedly, “Why are you being such a p . . . p . . . pe . . . pessimist?” After all my observations of poorly behaved or out-of-control children who seem alien to my own experience, it was a relief to see that sibling relationships haven’t changed. Charlie Brown’s Lucy lives.

Even better than giant insects are the real thing. I spotted a monarch flitting among the trees on its remarkably rich orange-and-black wings. Then we found a patch of prairie flowers buzzing with bumblebees of all sizes — some almost as small as the few honeybees among them, and a few robust giants whose wings even I could hear with my better ear. They scrambled quickly and deftly over the purple flowers, their pollen baskets loaded and their legs busily rubbing. Tomorrow when the destructive vortex of human ego threatens to suck me into its evil core, I must fight to remember the lovely, poetic toil of dozens of beautiful bumblebees.

Closer to Crowley Marsh, we encountered real dragonflies darting about like insect helicopters. Like butterflies and hummingbirds, dragonflies move so quickly and erratically that the beauty of their colors can be seen only in painfully brief flashes that leave you longing for move. I attribute this to Nature’s sadistic sense of humor — the same sense of humor that makes the stationery and easy-to-observe fly unappealing in appearance.

The other insect in abundance made itself felt when J. tried to take a photo of me with the “tree of the day” along one of the hiking trails. He had no idea why I was hopping from foot to foot, twisting, and squirming; he couldn’t see (or feel) the mosquitoes that were attacking my face, hands,legs, and rear. It will be interesting to see how those photos turn out — and I meant to be cooperative for a change.

Although we didn’t observe any birds of note — we saw mainly healthy-looking robins, including a young one posing on a sign — we did witness a turf battle between two male red-winged blackbirds. I imagine the secretive, demure females were watching the skirmish from hidden branches and saying apologetically to one another, “Boys will be boys . . .”

At about 7:45 p.m., an employee discovered us resting on a bench and let us know that closing time was nigh. I told J. that he’d found us so directly that I wondered, somewhat seriously, if there are strategically placed cameras. Even in a peaceful arboretum, I feel surrounded by the prying eyes of civilization.

Confusing construction threw us off our route, so we were at O’Hare before we knew it. The plan was to go to the Silver Palm, which J. had gotten into his head was near North Avenue and which I thought was closer to Chicago Avenue (judging by the address). During our rambles, we noticed Exit Chicago, a windowless punk and rock club painted black and sporting studs around its forbidding door. I envisioned a tough, intimidating, scary crowd. Look up their Web site and judge for yourself.

After a lot of driving around and a little tension fed by growing hunger, frustration, and, in my case, pain (Ignatius and fibroid friends were making their constricting presence felt), we finally found it — only to learn that the server he knows there had changed shifts and had the night off.

The dining part of the Silver Palm is an old rail car, which seems to me to be the place’s main attraction (the food being average). Nearly everyone, however, had opted to dine al fresco, which in Chicago is usually not as charming as it may sound. The Silver Palm’s outdoor clientele were seated on a cracked, uneven sidewalk just feet from busy, noisy Milwaukee Avenue. At least I could imagine the glorious days of train travel and service — or try to.

After J. left me with a pile of gifts (T shirts, note cards, postcards, a wooden spoon, etc.), I stripped and lay down, feeling tired but very relaxed despite pain and discomfort. Just as a feeling of well being and peace was threatening to take over, I heard an explosive sound and wondered if the end were nigh and whether I should get up to be sure. More followed, and then the lightning arrived — a 1:30 a.m. thunderstorm. At last it put me to sleep.

Wacky weather and dragonflies

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After I picked up Hodge, who, I am told, was well behaved (I assume this is relative to his typical behavior versus relative to that of a normal cat), I went to Bonjour for coffee and sat inside. I noticed some cloud buildup in the west, and the temperature seemed a bit cooler when I came out.

On my way back, the sky to the east was mostly sunny, but a dark cloud loomed directly overhead, and when I reached Hyde Park Boulevard at 55th Street, the westerly wind began driving large, scattered drops of rain into my back and backside. A couple across the street held their umbrella straight in front in a defensive posture, but when it’s this windy, you’re simply going to end up wet with a torn-up umbrella.

The light changed, and I continued on. East of Everett Avenue, the sidewalks were dry — they weren’t even blotchy from the large, erratic raindrops. I looked back to the west and saw that the sky was clear in the same spot where the black rain cloud had hovered just minutes before. I wondered if it had moved over the lake that quickly and had stopped spitting rain as it moved.

This evening the wind has picked up, knocking over the pool and lawn furniture with abandon. Now the temperature is comfortably cool, and I would like to sit outdoors a while longer even as I batten down tea glass, notebook, and everything else that seems weightless to the gusts.

When I first came out, I spotted an enormous dull green dragonfly with a purplish “tail.” It tried to settle on one of the evergreens, but at that moment the wind kicked up and thrashed the bush around so much that I thought the dragonfly had had to let go or had been beaten to death by the flailing limbs.

During a brief lull, I was startled to see it take off and fly straight toward me, just a foot or two away. I thought it would dart past me, but it latched onto me, right in the middle of my left chest area, if you can picture that. “Great,” I thought, “if anyone sees me they’ll wonder why and how I’m nursing this giant dragonfly. ‘Do you often walk around with a huge dragonfly attached to your chest?’ they’ll think, and perhaps even ask.” How could I answer that, asked or unasked? Fortunately, my dragonfly friend and I were quite alone.

I love dragonflies and normally would enjoy the opportunity to see one so close at rest, but this seemed a little too intimate. With an unconscious, indiscernible movement, I persuaded the dragonfly to seek shelter somewhere more stable.

Nonetheless, perhaps it will bring me better luck.

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