Tag Archives: wild turkey

Appreciating Prairie

“The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us, the less taste we shall have for destruction.” — Rachel Carson

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There’s a lot to be said for intentional displacement; changing one place for another that is completely opposite. I’ve found this as I’ve traveled to two “islands” over the past week. One, in Madison, Wisconsin…

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…the other a tropical island 1,500 miles south—Captiva Island, Florida.

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The Wisconsin “island” is a restored tallgrass prairie, marooned between neighborhoods and the busy Beltline highway that ferries people through this marvelous city.

uwmadisonarboretumcurtisprairie12920WM.jpgDubbed the “Curtis Prairie” at University of Wisconsin-Madison Arboretum, it’s the mother of all prairie restorations (or “reconstructions” or “prairie plantings” if you’d rather use that terminology). Touted as “the worlds oldest ecologically restored prairie”, the 71 acre prairie was planted in an old horse field in 1936.

UWMadArbCurtisPrairieMountainMintWM12920.jpgLast Thursday,  I had a lively discussion about prairie here with 150 passionate people who love and care for the natural world.  When I left, after two-and-a-half hours, I felt inspired and hopeful. Hearing their questions and learning about their work was a reminder to me that there are good people in the world, willing to encourage each other and put love, sweat, and energy into restoring tallgrass prairie.

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The other “island” I’ve traveled to this week is more known for pirates than prairie; surf and seashells instead of Silphiums.  To travel 1,500 miles from Madison, Wisconsin, to Captiva Island, Florida, is to be intentionally displaced.

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I appreciate displacement—not only because it puts me on a sunny beach in early February (after months of gray days in Illinois this season)—but also because it shakes me out of my routine. From prairie walks one day to beach walks the next is jarring. I went from admiring the scoured felted-looking milkweed pods on Curtis Prairie one day…

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…to picking up cat’s paw and olive seashells under the watchful gaze of a seagull on the beach a few days later.

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As I hike Captiva’s beaches, scolded by seagulls for not having scraps to toss, I miss the bluebirds that brighten the prairies with their blazes of color in February.

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But I marvel at the osprey nests high in their man-made platforms. This one had an  osprey standing guard, looking over the Gulf of Mexico.

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So  much larger than the abandoned nests I find on my prairie hikes!

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Curtis Prairie has its share of bird life. Those wild turkeys! They always make me smile.

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So comical and ungainly. Different than the shorebirds I see on the beach, but really, just  variations on a theme.

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Unlike the wild turkeys, the Gulf Coast birds are graceful in flight. I watch them for hours from my beach chair, putting down my paperback, shading my eyes against the sun.

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Each new bird in Florida gives me pause. There’s so much to learn! The trees and plants here are also alien, from the lush emerald and lime colored palms….

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…to the wind-stripped plants.

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Naming any of them is challenging. But puzzling over identifications is nothing new to me. Anytime I walk the winter prairie in an unfamiliar place, I find something I’m unsure about. On Curtis Prairie, I struggle to identify some of the plants in their winter forms, like these below. Sunflowers? Perhaps. Which species? Maximilian sunflowers, maybe? I’m not completely sure.

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Here on sun-washed Captiva Island, I miss my butterfly field guide at home on the shelf. My iNaturalist app helps, and later, returning to my hotel room, so does my butterfly facebook group. Gradually, I’m learning the names of a few of the unfamiliar tropical butterflies, like this white peacock.

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And the gulf fritillary butterfly.

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The butterflies nectar on brightly-colored blossoms, most of whose names are unknown to me. I do know the hibiscus, in its screaming reds, oranges, and pinks.

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But other flowers send me back to my iNaturalist app, puzzled and curious.

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As I walk the beach, admiring the butterflies and unfamiliar blooms, I think of my recent hikes on Wisconsin’s Curtis Prairie.

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Full of color in its own wintry way. Full of life and beauty, even under leaden skies. My winter hikes here and at my home prairies in Illinois are usually finger-numbing and sometimes, treacherous in ice and snow.  My beach hikes in flip-flops and shorts are a study in contrast.

Soon, I’ll leave this tropical island for home in Illinois. Back to the familiar. Back to hiking the “islands” of tallgrass that have been preserved or reconstructed, from a few acres to thousands of acres. Curtis Prairie Madison UW Arboretum Trails 12920WM.jpg

Hiking in Florida has been fun—and worthwhile. Intentional displacement always sharpens my attention; makes me aware of what I’ve left behind and perhaps, taken for granted. Displacement reminds me of the contrasts in the natural world that can be found, just a few hours plane ride away. This displacement broadens my perspective. Jolts me out of my complacency. Helps me become more flexible, more open to change.

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But lovely as Florida is, it’s not my “natural habitat.” Instead, it gives me a new appreciation for my landscape of home.

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The tallgrass prairie.

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The opening quote is from Rachel Carson (1907-64), whose words and wisdom live on in her books. Although her most famous (and earth-changing) book was Silent Spring (1962), my favorite is The Sense of Wonder (1965) published after her death. She also wrote compellingly of the sea in Under the Sea-Wind (1941); The Sea Around Us (1951); and The Edge of the Sea (1955).

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All photos copyright Cindy Crosby –prairie photos this week are from University of Wisconsin-Madison Arboretum, Madison, WI; all other photos this week are from Captiva Island, FL (top to bottom): path through the Curtis Prairie; Captiva Island beach trail; Visitor Center at UW-Madison Arboretum; mountain mint (Pycnanthemum virginianum);  Curtis Prairie; beach scene; common milkweed pods (Asclepias syriaca); beach with seagull (probably a herring gull, Larus argentatus); bluebird house on the prairie; osprey (Pandion haliaetus); unknown nest; wild turkey (Meleagris gallopavo) (photo taken this spring at UW-Madison Arboretum’s Curtis Prairie; shorebird, possibly a sanderling? (Calidris alba); unknown shorebird in flight; probably the royal palm (Roystonea regia); possibly American century plant (Agave americana); corrected to sawtooth sunflower (Helianthus grosseserratus)–thank you, UW-Madison Arb!; white peacock butterfly (Anartia jatrophae); gulf fritillary butterfly (Agraulis vanillae);  pink hibiscus (Hibiscus rosa-sinensis); possibly southern swamp crinum (Crinum americanum); Curtis Prairie winter colors; Curtis Prairie trails; shorebird, possibly a sanderling (Calidris alba); Curtis Prairie in winter.

Thanks to the Butterflies of the Eastern United State Facebook group for their help with my Florida butterfly ID! Grateful. Florida friends: I welcome corrections of my Florida flora and fauna identifications. I’m still learning!

Thank you to Gail and Jennifer for their hospitality and the wonderful folks of the Winter Enrichment Series at University of Wisconsin-Madison Arboretum this past week. Grateful.

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Please join Cindy at an upcoming event or class this winter:

The Tallgrass Prairie: Grocery Store, Apothecary, and Love Shop: February 13 (Thursday) 8-9 p.m., Park Ridge Garden Club, Centennial Activity Center 100 South Western Avenue Park Ridge, IL. Free and Open to the Public! Book signing follows.

Nature Writing and Art Retreat, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL, February 22 (Saturday) 8 a.m.-4 p.m. Cindy will be facilitating the writing portion. Sold Out. Waiting list –register here.

Tallgrass Prairie Ecology Online begins March 26.  Details and registration here.

Nature Writing Workshop (a blended online and in-person course, three Tuesday evenings in-person) begins March 3 at The Morton Arboretum. For details and registration, click here.  

See more at http://www.cindycrosby.com  

The January Prairie Blues

“The blues tells a story. Every line of the blues has a meaning.”
— John Lee Hooker
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“It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it. “
–John Burroughs

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It’s about that time of a new year when social media and newspapers take up stories about the blues. No, not the music. Rather, seasonal affective disorder; the general malaise of cold, gray days that dampens mood and motivation.

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Got the blues? Forget that trip to Florida to soak up sunshine.

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Instead, consider the prairie.

In January it offers its own particular brand of blues; a little antidote to blues of a more melancholy kind.

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Tune up with these “blues” for a moment or two; see if they chase the other blues away.  Follow me to the tallgrass.

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See how the mice stitch their tracks across the blue tint of the snow?

Consider the pale blue glints of ice crystals that briefly frost the grasses; vanishing in the hot breath of the morning sun.

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Marvel at the blue shadows in the snow, which form a background for the legato ripple of big bluestem leaves.

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Look up. Blue-gray clouds patch the prairie sky, filter sunlight. Trees and grasses change focus as blue sky appears, then disappears: Fade, then sharp. Fade, then sharp.

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A turkey flashes its iridescent feathers, shot through with silky blues. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

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Notice a  jet contrail or two faintly striped in misty white overhead. Moments ago, there were people suspended in space here, headed for who knows where—and who knows why. Their story is traced across the wide blue sky. It only calls for  your imagination to spin it.

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There is even a home for the littlest “blues” –those feathered harbingers of happiness.

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The tallgrass rolls out the carpet, all blue and white sparkles.

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Embossed with blue shadows that pool in tracks across the snow; a promise of adventure and new beginnings…

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…and, a reminder that the “blues” can be beautiful.  Who knows? You  may even come to love them.

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The prairie blues, anyhow.  The best kind.

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John Lee Hooker (1912-2001), whose quote opens this post, was a Grammy-award winning blues musician from Mississippi. The youngest of eleven children, he ran away from home at age 14 and eventually made his way to Detroit, where he found success as a guitarist, vocalist, and lyricist (although he was unable to read). He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (1991) and received a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award (2000). Listen to clips of his music on YouTube, including this rendition of “Blue Monday”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNl2wXE90vk&index=318&list=PLu_npSo2nvWSIjcaewEUE9O-gk3W1xnfS

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John Burroughs (1837-1921), whose quote from his book, “Winter Sunshine,” also opens this post, is honored as the father of the modern nature essay. The seventh of 10 children, he grew up in the Catskill Mountains of New York where he learned to love the outdoors. Burroughs later taught school in Buffalo Grove, Illinois, until he returned east to marry and work in banking. He continued writing, and eventually authored more than 30 books. He was a contemporary of the poet Walt Whitman, and kept company with John Muir and Teddy Roosevelt as well as other notables of that time period. Since 1926, the John Burroughs Association, founded in his honor, has awarded the John Burroughs Medal to the author of a book of natural history almost every year. Some of my favorite award winners include: Gathering Moss (Robin Wall Kimmerer, 2005); The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating (Elizabeth Tova Bailey, 2011);  Wind (Jan DeBlieu, 1999); The Control of Nature (John McPhee, 1990); and the classic, A Sand County Almanac (Aldo Leopold, 1977).

For a complete list of winners, see: research.amnh.org/burroughs/medal_award_list.html

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All photos copyright Cindy Crosby (top to bottom): on the way to Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; beach umbrellas on Sanibel Island, FL; blue sky with big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii), Belmont Prairie Nature Preserve, Downers Grove, IL;  ice crystals, interpretive trail, Fermilab, Batavia, IL; big bluestem (Andropogon gerardii), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; sky over the Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; wild turkey (Meleagris gallopavo), Curtis Prairie at The University of Wisconsin-Madison Arboretum, Madison, WI; interpretive trail, Fermilab, Batavia, IL: eastern bluebird (Sialia sialis) nesting box, Nachusa Grasslands, The Nature Conservancy, Franklin Grove, IL; sparkly snow with bee balm (Monarda fistulosa), Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; people (Homo sapiens) tracks, Schulenberg Prairie savanna, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL; heart-shaped deer (Odocoileus virginianus) track, Schulenberg Prairie, The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.

Learning from Leopold

We shall never achieve harmony with the land, anymore than we shall achieve absolute justice or liberty for people. In these higher aspirations the important thing is not to achieve but to strive.” –Aldo Leopold

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Getting to know prairie restorations and their communities of plants, animals, and people eventually leads to wanting to see the mother of all prairie restorations. Curtis Prairie, at the University of Wisconsin Arboretum in Madison, is the world’s first known prairie restoration. It’s more than 80 years old, and hosts about 200 different types of birds and 35 species of mammals.

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When I arrive in early December, the prairie is wrapped in fog. The temperature hovers between freeze and thaw, just enough to make the trails through the tallgrass slushy. My hiking boots slurp mud at every step.

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Some of the paths have been cleared; an invitation to explore.

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Whoever thinks December lacks color hasn’t hiked the Curtis Prairie.

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The reds of gray dogwood pushing into the prairie liven up the metallic gold, silver, and bronze of the grasses. Winter elevates some of the humbler, weedier native plants, like this Canada goldenrod below, to new artistry.

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As a prairie restoration steward, I don’t like invasive plants–plants that overwhelm a native landscape. I know too well the damage and havoc they wreak on a prairie. But despite myself, I admire the oriental bittersweet, twining in the tallgrass under the falling snow.  I remember combing the woods as a child with my mother and grandmother in the 1960s, raking vines from trees for Christmas decorations.  Now, I remove oriental bittersweet in natural areas for different reasons.

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It’s quiet on the prairie, except for the sounds of traffic in the distance. There’s not a soul out on the tallgrass trails today but me.

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Maybe no human souls — but I have company. A red-tailed hawk soars overhead as it scans the grasses for a mouse. About 20 wild turkeys skirt the edges of the prairie and savanna, then head for some nearby crabapple trees. Frozen fruit lies on the ground. They’re enjoying a little cold crabapple cider, no doubt, to spice up their morning stroll.

Gobble, gobble.

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I find the reds of the gray dogwood beautiful in the falling snow. But I know restoration managers are concerned about the encroachment of shrubs into the prairie here. My aesthetic enjoyment is another steward’s headache.

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I think of the quote by Leopold that opens this essay. There is joy and inspiration in seeing what restoration efforts like this one have accomplished. There is also reassurance in seeing that other stewards struggle with the same issues I do–native and non-native plants slugging it out for dominance on the prairie; the efforts to provide easy access for visitors during harsh weather;  the desire to foster an appreciation of the prairie in the colder months. The work of restoration is always a process.

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The amazing Curtis Prairie at the University of Wisconsin Arboretum continues to be a benchmark in restoration for all of us who care for and appreciate tallgrass prairies. Long may it stay beautiful and healthy.

Leopold’s words remind me that perfection is elusive. The important thing is to keep working towards our goals–for justice, for liberty, and for harmony with the land. May we all continue to strive toward attaining harmony, wherever we call home.

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Aldo Leopold (1887-1948), whose quote from “Round River,”(Journals of Aldo Leopold) kicks off this essay, was a professor at University of Wisconsin. He is most famous for his book, A Sand County Almanac, which is part of the foundational study of conservation ethics for many who work in prairie restoration and wildlife management.

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All photos copyright Cindy Crosby at Curtis Prairie, Madison, WI (top to bottom): entrance to Curtis Prairie; road through the prairie, trail through the tallgrass; Curtis Prairie in December; Canada goldenrod (Solidago canadensis); oriental bittersweet (Celastrus orbiculatus); gray dogwood (Cornus racemosa); wild turkey (Meleagris gallopavo silvestris); gray dogwood (Cornus racemosa)goldenrod (Solidago canadensis) rosette gall.