I’ve been poking around in the backcountry all of my life, usually with some specific end in mind. Most of the time I’m hoping to learn more about wild things: Wild birds and wild animals. Wild trees and wildflowers. Wild woodlands and wild waterways. I usually have a pretty wild time of it, too. This winter has been no exception. I’ve been getting to know a pocket wilderness in my corner of Canoe Country — the forested hills overlooking one of the swiftest reaches of The River. It’s been a fruitful season. I now know where the porcupines go to find shelter and food, where the foxes make their dens, and where the deer yard up when the cold begins to bite. I’ve also learned where the red squirrels cache their cones, where the chickadees and mourning doves roost, and where the turkeys scratch for food when the snow drifts deep. This local knowledge pays off. Because I’m on “speaking terms” with so many of the woodland’s full‑time residents, I’m quick to sense when something disturbs their forest community, and lately I’ve felt a thrill of apprehension in the air — a current of alarm, even of outright fear. It’s what I call a Macbeth moment, after the familiar couplet from the Scottish play:

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

And that’s exactly the feeling I got, starting about three months ago. Something wicked had entered the woods, and I wanted to find out what — or who — it was.

I didn’t have to wait long. One animal has eluded me in all the time I’ve been venturing into the backcountry, an animal with a well‑deserved reputation as a stealthy and cunning predator. Even my grandfather never got a good look at it, despite having spent a lifetime exploring the remoter corners of the southern Adirondacks. Grandad called this elusive killer the “Devil of the Woods.” And the way he spoke the name suggested that this was a title that deserved being set off in capital letters. It’s true that Grandad was known to embellish a story from time to time, however. I put that down to the years he spent taking big‑city sports into the woods and then having to entertaining them around the campfire in the evening when the trout weren’t biting. But there was something in Grandad’s voice when he talked about the Devil that indicated real respect. That said, Grandad never got very near to one. The Devil had always kept its distance, with the sole evidence of its presence being a darker shadow moving somewhere in the deep gloom of a spruce hell. Or a trail of tracks in fresh snow. Or the bloody scraps from some hastily bolted meal.

Other than these none‑too‑close encounters, Grandad knew the Devil only by reputation, a collection of trappers’ tales and local legends, handed down over many generations. And I knew the Devil only through Grandad’s stories. But at least I knew the name of the beast: the Devil was none other than the fisher, a cat‑sized weasel with a fondness for rodents, and one of the few predators willing to tackle a porcupine. In the end, however, all my knowledge of the fisher came second‑ or third‑hand.

 

Then, on a frigid morning in mid‑December, I finally got an inkling of what it was that was putting a little added chill in the air, deep in the hills overlooking The River. For the first time in my life I saw the track of a fisher.… Read more…

 
Send a Comment

 
This is a joyous time of the year for wildlife, and muskrats are no exception. The ice which has sheathed their world has begun to recede, releasing them from the constraints of the underwater realm and the toasty but dark and confining interior rooms of the lodge. Days are warmer, too, and though muskrats are usually active at night, they are creatures of the day and are as happy to bask in the sun’s rays as we are.

Muskrats are similar to beavers but are smaller, they don’t fell trees, and their tails are slim, not wide and flat. They live in wetlands just as beavers do, and thrive on the roots of aquatic plants. Their lodges are similar to beaver lodges in shape, but are smaller and built of the dried stalks of dead aquatic plants. Maybe because of their name, muskrats are an underappreciated animal, but they’re a valuable member of the wetland community. Our photographer Tony Jancek has been chronicling the comings and goings of a family of muskrats, and shares these photos of these busy little animals on their home pond.

 

Late winter is a fickle time. Days are warm, but at night the temperatures drop below freezing. The morning sun hasn’t yet done its work on the icicles twinkling from these crab apples and wild apples:

 
The apples which cling to trees in the old orchard near the muskrat pond will provide much needed food for migrating songbirds, wild turkeys, small mammals, and the deer. Meanwhile, as the sun kisses the water of the pond, a flock of mallards gabble as they preen and soak up the warmth.

 
One of the ducks notices movement. He spreads the word, and more heads turn. What have they seen? Looks like a mink:

 
The mink has come up onto the ice pan around a muskrat lodge and is sniffing around.

 
Minks are opportunistic carnivores, but he wouldn’t tackle a full-grown muskrat, and he isn’t going to find the lodge entrance above the water. And he doesn’t stay long, because someone’s coming:

 
A male muskrat has been out and about, inspecting his home waters, but now he’s on his way back to the lodge.

 
With the mink well away, the muskrat finds a comfortable place to sit in the sun, then has a good scratch and preen:

 
He’s hungry after all that work and grooming, so he reaches under the water and pulls up the succulent root of an aquatic plant.

 
Yummy. Soon he is joined by his mate. They touch noses in greeting before she goes for a root to eat, too:

 
HEY! You’re sitting on my roots! Move over…

 
She’s not going to be shoved aside and keeps eating, so he gives up and looks elsewhere.

 
Before long, youngsters join their parents. Here’s one of them:

 
The sun is shining, the family is gathered for a meal, and life is good on the muskrat pond.

 
Send a Comment