LATE BREAKING NEWS!

The red lines show the migration routes taken by the L3 Haplogroup

Hurrah! I interupt my prolonged diatrabe about my recent Minnesota vacation to bring you a late breaking news flash: My National Geographic Genographic Project results are in.
I am pleased to announce, that I belong to the genetic haplogroup: L3 (subclade L3e2).
Ok, now no doubt, you are wondering, 'what the eff does that mean?' It means I belong to the oldest, the first group of rebellious youngsters of humanity to say, 'Ef this crap, I'm outta here!'. It was my ancestorial group (L3 which mutated from L2 group) who picked up lock, stock and loin cloth to leave Mother Africa.

Yes, unlike my stay-at-home ancestors of the L2 or L1 haplogroup, it was my rebellious arsed forebearers that pushed and hunted their way out of West Africa to populate the rest of Africa (sub-sahara, north Africa) and northwest into the Middle East.
Yes. You may well pause here. As sobering a thought as it is, I may be a distant cousin of Osama Bin Laden. Actually, since every human alive is at least the 53rd cousin of any other human on the planet, Osama is YOUR cousin too, so put that in your genetic alphabet soup and blow on it.

Ticks 5, Claire 0

Yet another once-in-a-lifetime porcupine adventure

Sunday, May 6, ’07 Lifers: zero (sad); calories: 800-ish by 3pm (v. good); refreshing water: 2 quarts (not bad); ticks 5 (v. bad); units amusement/entertainment: 26 (so-so, was better prior to bog)

We were several days into our vacation. There is a point where a vacation becomes rather like a job at which you are required to soak up as much fun as possible – this becomes difficult if your primary supplier of ‘fun units’ are tiny feathered or furry beings, because the units are not always cooperative.

For example; the porcupine rattling its quills at me, as shown above was worth a whole load of ‘fun units’. For some perverse human reason, the more annoyed the porcupine, the more fun it is for me, an evil yet innocent human. Nothing I love more than a once in a lifetime chance to chase, and otherwise enjoy cuddly wild porcupines. On our Minnesota vacation I had numerous once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to enjoy porcupines.

There are times however when your ‘fun units’ are outright uncooperative, as when I was sitting on a back road in the Rice Lake Wildlife Refuge in the car and Don raced up, all excited.

‘I saw a Connecticut Warbler!’

For those who are not birders, I must tell you that Connecticut Warblers are a highly secretive species that runs around on the forest floor, hopping through shrubbery and over fallen logs, and avoids being sighted in the manner of a feathered Ossama Bin Laden.

‘A Connecticut Warbler!’ I echoed. Grabbing my binoculars and camera I was out of the car and racing (galumphing) after Don. He dropped down into a gully by the roadside and before I knew it, he was traversing a rather narrow looking log over a creek.’

“There’s a creek?” I asked as if the presence of such a thing was his fault

“Yes, but no problem. Take it slow.”

Really, he need not have told me to take it slow; there was zero danger I would cross at the gallop. I hesitated.

“I saw the Connecticut Warbler in the shrubbery, over there by…” said Don.

That was all I needed to hear – there was a lifer bird just ahead, a lifer that had eluded the entire birding party on my 2004 Manitoba trip. I catapulted forward and onto a log, as keen as a yellow Labrador after a downed duck. I latched onto the branch of the downed log, and quickly concluded if I applied any pressure whatever to the limb, it would crack; the branch was not strong enough to uphold the weight of a Red Squirrel much less me, loaded down with a half ton of camera equipment.

Don stood looking hopefully at me – an act probably unrivaled since Brando got an Oscar for the Godfather.

I felt the creep of especially frigid water into my socks; the log was sinking.

“SAVE THE CAMERA!” I yelped as I tipped over backwards, my arse landing in icy black bog.

Don made a valiant grab, taking the camera.

Looking around for the ice cubes, I was somewhat in shock to find myself seated in Mother Nature’s frozen sitz bath.

“COLD…” I squeaked, still shocked. “It’s fucking cold!” I've noticed that when my rear is drenched in ice water I take on the potty-mouth vocabulary of drunken sailors.

Grinning, and trying not to laugh - too loudly - Don gave me a hand to steady myself by and I managed to pull myself up and out of the bog.

“Ok, now where the hell did you see the damned Warbler?” I asked determinedly.

Though we could hear the bird singing in the distance, the distance between us and my lifer songbird was increasing. The irritating feathered tease of a bird was gone. I was stunned. I had paid my dues! I had earned my lifer Connecticut Warbler so why wasn’t it perched nearby, singing? Apparently dues have gone up.

As we headed back for the car I stopped to pull a Wood Tick from my leg and I began to wonder if leaches were the other Minnesota State secret.

I pause to mention there that ticks had become routine. A night hadn’t gone by that I didn’t precede my nightly tick-dislodging shower by plucking the odd, though probably appreciative Wood Tick out of my underpants. By now, many a flotilla of Wood Ticks had crawled, floated and back-stroked in the toilet back at the Geise B&B.

Chipping Sparrow

We returned to the Rice Lake area decided on a hike. We did not traverse more than a hundred feet when a tall, man in hiking shorts, outdoorsy looking, and with an air of adventure, marched in from the direction we were headed. He looked like a genuine granola loving, tree hunger. I could spot him for a birder byt he mint condition spotting scope with tripod slung across his shoulder.

I stood there smiling in what I hoped was a coy smile. My wet, cold drippy pants clung to me in an unflattering manner.

Having apparently sprayed himself with both mosquito and fat-old-broad-repellent, the man politely smiled back at me.

I croaked out the international greeting of birders everywhere. “See any good birds?”


The man looked at me and said “Wow”.
I’m not kidding nor was I halucinating, he really said “Wow”.

“Damn, I’m sorry,’ he continued, sounding abashed. “I’m staring.”

I felt my cheeks redden.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, still staring, “I’ve got ‘Big Lens’ envy.” He was staring at my Canon camera.

I looked down. I always thought my giant Canon 100-400 mm zoom lens with its sheath like hood was a phallic joke waiting to happen. I halted, which caused the long lens to bob up and down in a disturbingly obscene manner. I gave the guy a shy look as I crossed my knees and crossed my arms shyly over the lens.

Don had walked up now which meant I was no longer on chit-chat duty, Don could take over. Don told the the dude about the Sharp-tailed Grouse blinds and he told us he was on a business trip and he was using his free time to bird Minnesota and nearby Wisconsin. Earlier in the day he hit on a very ‘birdy’ area at the Crex Meadows Wildlife in Wisconsin, which is to day he ran into a fall-out of warblers and the like. He also said while up on an overlook in the refuge, he spotted a wolf, for which I was wild with envy. He strongly recommended we take the time to visit Crex Meadows. There was a jovial exchanging of maps.

After parting company we continued birding the Rice lake area one last time. We had another once-in-a-lifetime run in with this treed, blondie porcupine.

Blondie Porcupine

That afternoon we left checked out of the Geise B&B. We were off to south to Wisconsin and the Crex Meadow Wildlife area.

Common Marsh Marigold

As You Lek It (a birdy play in one act)

By the dawn's early light - a Sharp-tailed Grouse

4:08 AM; I lay sound asleep.

TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP....

e: ‘what the….?’ The tapping was at the door in my room at the Geise B&B. Through the dark I stumbled to the French doors. ‘effing stupid woodpeckers! Knocking on wood this early in the morning why I ought to strangle…’ I peeked through the curtains. Don was peeking back at me.

Don: It's after 4 AM!

Me: ARRRRGGGGHHH!

My alarm hadn’t gone off and we were on for our Sharp-tailed Grouse adventure, out to a grouse lek (dancing area) where the boy birds get ‘dance’ for the ladies, in hopes of nabbing a breeding partner, you know, like human men at a honkey-tonk bar.

In short order I was in the car and Don was driving off. I had done my part – I was in the blanking car; hair uncombed, shoes on my lap. I was thoroughly groggy and cranky. I don’t ‘do’ mornings very well, even when dancing birds are involved.

An hour’s drive got us to a plowed field where a blind awaited us; a crate covered over in tarping. We climbed inside and fumbled with ropes and bungy cords against swift early morning breezes to shut the door. Inside the blind we faced deluxe seating arrangements, a pair of pickle tubs. The tubs were upended for seating. The tubs were a size large, which meant no problem for Don: arse, size medium. It was rather a problem for me: arse, size XXXXXL.

On the way in a few birds had flushed so we knew the Grouse were out there, but it was a bit windy and maybe – maybe the birds wouldn’t feel like dancing and since serving them Jello Shooters was out of the question, there was nothing left to do but wait.

I sat, my camera at the ready, staring through a chink in the blind but nothing stirred. We stared for maybe ten minutes until it occurred to us we might be staring in the wrong direction. We shuffled our pickle barrels around and stared out the opposite side of the blind. Bingo! There were Sharp-tailed Grouse, scattered around the field stubble. The birds sat, looking indifferent, disinterested and disinclined to dance.

The sun was barely peeping over the horizon and I’d just about convinced myself that I might as well have slept until noon, cause these birds were obviously Methodist birds and there would be no dancing here.

Then suddenly, there a bizzare sort of moaning rose up from the field. 'Uuummmm!' Then silence. Uuummmm, ummmmm!' It was the birds. They sounded like constipated old men on toilets. Next there arose another noise, sort of a cross between a very loud hiccough and a turkey's gobble.
Poofed up and Ready to Booggie

Bottoms Up!

Now the birds leapt up and quickly ran up to opposing birds, forming several pairs of birds, beak to beak, heads leaning forward as if they were about to sprout antlers and butt heads. Their pointed tails were arched up, over their backbones, their wings spread so their primaries swept the ground. For a finishing touch, their purple throat pouches flared out and the birds began to drum their feet, looking like little toys, wound up and then suddenly turned loose.

Synchronized Dancing

Racing

Their feet drummed and rapidly, they circled each other. They covered the ground in the manner of skittering mice. Their feet hardly seemed to touch the ground as they just floated along, making their ridiculous noises, which could probably be translated into ‘put ‘em up, go on, put ‘em up!’, like the Cowardly Lion facing up to Toto. Some birds that had not found a sparing partner yet, ran up to other single birds. I half expected they would pull switchblades on each other. Then suddenly, birds dropped in their tracks. They flopped onto their bellies, beak to beak, flat to the ground, wings folded, looking thoroughly befuddled as they stared at their partners.

Don and I both thought we could hear the birds whispering, ‘That was a good one - d'you think the girls saw us?’

Apparently the cock birds had no audience of admiring hens. Maybe the available hens had gone off with the biggest, baddest cocks at the beginning of the breeding season, because we saw no hens at all.

I wish I could say I think the photos I got were the greatest ever, but they weren't. The birds were fast and my field of focus was narrow so the birds ran in and out of focus as I tried to capture them for prosperity. Oh well! Some day perhaps I will take a week from my life to huddle in a blind on a size XXXXXXL pickle barrel for another go at the funkiest Dance Party the prairie has to offer.