Archive for the 'It’s Only Natural! Birds, Geology, Wildlife & More' Category

Jul 09 2015

Confessions of a Turtle Taxi

Sittin in the Morning Sun

At first glance, the turtle’s world is very different from ours. Any creature that can spend half the year entombed in frigid mud, only to swim free as soon as the sun warms the waters above its temporary sarcophagus, doesn’t have much in common with you and me. Or so it seems. But appearances often deceive, and the apparent gulf between our lives and theirs is an illusion. We share the same earth. Breathe the same air. And we are equally dependent on the availability of abundant, clean water.

Water. It’s the turtle’s home.* And it’s also the paddler’s summer refuge. But our brief holidays from the daily grind are just that: holidays. However long we’ve been at the paddling game, no canoeist or kayaker is at home — truly at home — on the water. We’re visitors. Guests. Blow‑ins. Strangers in a strange land. Here today and gone tomorrow.

Yet this doesn’t prevent us from participating, however distantly, in the pageant of life in and around wild waters, even if our role is that of the onlooker. We are benign voyeurs. We do our thing. They do theirs. And then each of us goes his or her own way — they to attend to the serious business of raising their families and getting a living, we to continue our essentially passive (but always pleasurable) looking‑on.

Success in this watching game is mostly a matter of stealth. Splashing about and shouting back and forth between boats pretty much guarantees that we’ll see nothing. That said, even the quietest paddler will be hard‑pressed to take turtles by surprise. I seldom do. It makes no difference if they’re basking on a log, their backs toward me, seemingly lost in whatever species of reverie turtles experience. Long before I drift close enough to get a good look at them, they’ve sensed the presence of an unwelcome intruder and plopped into the water, leaving only a spreading web of ripples and an occasional bubble to mark their passage.

This preternatural alertness is easy to understand. Turtles are survivors. They even shrugged off the cataclysmic Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event that put paid to the dinosaurs. But we’re now in the midst of another great die‑off — one largely of our own contriving — and this time around, the turtle clan may not be so fortunate. The threats to their future include all of the usual suspects. Habitat destruction, commercial harvesting, the pet trade, introduced predators… Each of these takes its toll. Yet the greatest danger of all is one that dares not speak its name (not in the US Congress, at any rate): global warming.

Of course, there’s very little that I, as one person among seven billion, can do to check humankind’s pell‑mell rush toward the Exit, taking many of our fellow travelers on planet Earth along with us as we go. Nevertheless, I’m occasionally able to do something for individuals in danger of immediate harm, and whenever the opportunity presents itself, I do just that. Often the individual in question is a turtle in peril on the highway, spotted as I travel to or from a favorite backcountry destination by car or bike.

Which immediately raises a seldom‑heard question: Why does the turtle cross the road? … Read more…

Questions? Comments? Just click here!

May 03 2014

Buzz Off! by Pat McKay

Not long ago I spotted a European hornet, but I was disappointed that I didn’t have the chance to capture an interesting image. They are an impressive wasp. So today when I saw this one busy building its nest, I decided to set things to rights. Since I was just carrying the Panasonic GX7 with an Olympus 45 mm lens attached, I had to use a couple of Kenko extension rings and then get reasonably close to the subject. How close? Well, by my estimate I was less than a foot away.

I fired off a couple of frames using the on-camera flash, but the results were just terrible. I found an old piece of white styrofoam and decided to use it as a reflector. I held the camera in my right hand, the jury-rigged reflector in my left, and fired off another series of shots until the lady finally lost all patience and told me in no uncertain terms that it was time to move on.

Pat McKay European Hornet

When I got home I did a little online research and discovered the following: “[European hornets] are …defensive of their hive and can be aggressive around food sources. … Care should be taken when encountered in these circumstances as they may sting without warning. The pain from the sting may persist for several days with attendant swelling. If you are stung you may wish to seek medical attention.”

Photo details: Panasonic GX7, Olympus 45 mm, ƒ/6.3 at 1/60 sec, ISO 3200, stacked Kenko extension tubes (16 mm and 10 mm).

Pat McKay cycles and paddles around the Delmarva Peninsula, camera always in hand (or near at hand, anyway). Many of his photos have graced these virtual pages in the past — and with any luck, many more will do so in the months to come.

Questions? Comments? Just click here!

Jan 11 2014

‘Sno Place for a Lady:
An Errant Cyclist Does Battle With a Lake-Effect Storm

Northern New York sees its fair share of winter weather. Cold Canadian lows spin across the borderlands from November till April, dragging trains of snow in their wake. But it’s what happens after the lows move on that’s really interesting. Instead of clearing skies, we’re often blessed with lingering clouds and even heavier snows. Cross-country skiers and snowmobilers rejoice — so long as the groomers can pack and track their trails, that is — but motorists and cyclists are less enthusiastic. The morning commute now becomes a white-knuckle slog, and (for the cyclists, at any rate) every trip means dicing with death among the legions of drivers who think their phone conversations are more important than a cyclist’s life.

Happily, the cyclist almost always wins the toss, but it’s still not a game for the faint of heart. Which is why bicycles are a rare sight on northern New York roads in winter.

Who’s the villain in this set-piece confrontation? Not the chatterbox motorist, surely. Incompetent or downright hostile drivers can be found on every road in all seasons. No, the winter cyclist’s nemesis is something bigger. Something called the “lake effect.” Look at any map of North America. There’s a lot of water in the Great Lakes, and much of that water lies to the west of central and northern New York. Until the big lakes freeze — and this is happening less and less often these days — the chill westerlies following hard on the heels of Canadian lows pick up huge amounts of water vapor from Lakes Erie and Ontario. And when this water vapor subsequently freezes, heavy snowfalls are the all but inevitable result. These have been christened lake-effect storms.

Forecasters who are also skiers like to speak of the “lake-effect gun,” and it’s a good tag. When the gun is firing, the drifts pile up fast and deep. Some parts of the Tug Hill plateau routinely see snowfalls of several feet from a single storm, and the city of Syracuse — it lies just to the east of Lakes Erie and Ontairo — enjoys a reputation as the snowiest metropolis in the States.

You can easily spot lake-effect snow bands on the radar maps that are the centerpieces of most Internet weather sites. In the screenshot below, I’ve drawn yellow boxes around two examples:

On My RadarLES

The northern gun in this picture gets its ammunition from Lake Ontario; the southern gun, from Lake Erie. The city of Buffalo, which lies on the Niagara River that connects the two lakes, is therefore exposed to flanking fire from both quarters, even if it unaccountably defers to Syracuse in the overall snowfall stakes.

All well and good, you say. But what does a lake-effect storm look like from a less elevated perspective? Fair question. Living as I do in the northern Adirondack foothills, well to the east of the Tug Hill, I often dodge the bullet when the lake-effect gun is firing. Not always, though. The following scenario is more or less typical. I’m pedaling south, clawing my way out of the St. Lawrence lowlands, my panniers laden with groceries. I have clear skies overhead. The air is cold, but the sun is shining down, and the effort of climbing keeps me warm. Then, usually just as I mount the first step in the ascending staircase, the sun deserts me, hiding his face behind a thickening veil of cloud. The west wind — a gentle west-sou’west breeze when I started on my homeward journey — now backs another point to the south and flexes its muscles, blowing a steady Force 4, with occasional gusts to Force 7. A routine trip into town has suddenly become an adventure. Having no choice in the matter, however, I pedal on, hoping to beat the storm.

But luck is not on my side. Soon the sun is little more than a sickly white blob in an otherwise gray sky, and snow is blowing across the road. I rub my finger over my glasses to clear them, and this is what I see:

The Gathering Storm

Now the fun begins in earnest. My drivetrain has been accumulating rime for half an hour, and I’m down to three or four usable gears. The long gradient (the second step in my climb) steepens, and from time to time I have to stand on the pedals to make any progress. Rime is also accumulating under my fenders and on my brakes, but at least the constant clicking from my studded tires is muted by the deepening drifts.

And make no mistake, the snow is getting heavier by the minute. Visibility is down to a few score yards at best:

Whiteout

But then fortune smiles. The Adirondacks lie like giant boulders within the river of air, attenuating the bands of lake-effect snow and forcing them to writhe wildly about in their passage over the hills. And that’s what’s happened here. I’ve ridden straight through the storm. Now, as I prepare for my final climb — a mercifully short 18 percent grade — I can already see breaks in the cloud above me. They’re a welcome sight, indeed:

A Break, at Last

Later, having emptied my panniers, put away the groceries, and cleaned the worst of the gunge from my bike’s powertrain — an hour-long chore that’s unaccountably overlooked by those cheery souls who tout the carefree ease of bicycle commuting — I take a minute to walk down to The River, where I’m just in time to witness the dying gasps of the storm, its moisture all but spent and its sustaining gusts reduced to gentle zephyrs.

It’s a peaceful scene. But the guns of winter are seldom silent for long, and tomorrow is another day.

End of the Day



Further Reading



This article revisits a topic originally addressed on December 30, 2009.

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