In the late afternoon from 3pm – 5pm on November 13, a mother bobcat and her two half-grown kittens spent time in our Colorado Springs backyard. While the mother bobcat napped in a sunny spot in the tall grasses, the kittens played and explored. Here’s a glimpse into the daily lives of two bobcat kittens, at least for those two hours.
(Photo credits: bobcat kitten photos by author Melissa Walker, and mother bobcat photos by Les Goss, Melissa’s husband.)
(Photo credits: All photos by author Melissa Walker)
Our suburban backyard aspen grove, only 40 feet by 50 feet, is now quiet and mostly still. Summer’s songbirds have migrated south and nighttime’s cold air lingers until noon. Some mornings, the only motions I detect are the falling aspen leaves—spiraling and catching the sun’s rays like summer’s butterflies.
I have been captivated by butterflies this year. The book Chasing Monarchs by Robert Michael Pyle inspired my renewed interest in observing these eye-catching insects. The author encourages everyone to pay more attention to butterflies and to help these flying works of art to thrive. All that butterflies need to survive are habitats of native flowers, shrubs and trees that are pesticide-free. Even a window box of native flowers may attract and nourish a butterfly that needs nectar, especially since so many plants in our natural lands have been devastated by drought, wildfires and floods.
My observations began on March 14 when I spotted my first butterfly of 2013, a Mourning Cloak. With its velvety dark wings etched in bright yellow, the butterfly was a welcome sign of Spring. It fluttered over our small pond and into the aspen trees. I noted that the temperature on this early Spring afternoon had reached 60 degrees, the minimum flight temperature for butterflies.
All summer long, yellow Tiger Swallowtails decorated the air and flowers. I could never predict their flight path, when they would alight on a flower or disappear over the fence. The Swallowtails leisurely visited our purple coneflowers, sucking nectar through their hollow, straw-like tongues. They are well named with black stripes on their broad yellow wings.
It was mid-summer, July 18, when I first saw a Monarch butterfly, its wings boldly patterned in bright orange and black. Monarchs appeared occasionally from July through October, pausing to gather nectar on the coneflowers and butterfly weed, or alighting on the milkweed plants. The milkweeds are essential to the survival of Monarch butterflies because Monarchs lay their eggs exclusively on milkweed plants, and their caterpillars eat only milkweed leaves.
I didn’t expect to see many butterflies after the month of September, but I was wrong. On October 3rd, a Monarch and a Mourning Cloak fluttered through our aspen grove and dozens of light yellow butterflies nectared on dandelions. On October 10th, a Checkered White, with black checker-like squares on its wings, found nectar in purple asters that were still blooming in a sunny spot on the south side of our yard.
On October 21st when I stopped by the Garden of the Gods Visitor and Nature Center, I noticed a golden Rabbitbrush shrub that was covered with insects. As one of the last plants in bloom this fall, the Rabbitbrush was a magnet for scores of butterflies, moths, honeybees, flies and beetles. The butterfly that caught my eye was a Painted Lady, strikingly patterned in colors of orange, yellow and black.
I have seen at least a few butterflies everyday I’ve looked for them for all of October. Even this afternoon, November 2nd, as I walked through Rock Ledge Ranch, I saw one tiny yellow butterfly. It landed on the ground to gather the sun’s warmth, then took off through the split-rail fence and out of sight.
All of the butterflies will get through the coming winter in different ways. Some will lay eggs, then die, yet their offspring will emerge next year in the warmth of Spring. Some will survive the winter as a pupa inside its chrysalis, and remarkably, some will overwinter as adults in sheltered places. Most remarkable of all, the Monarchs will migrate all the way to southern Mexico, an almost impossible journey.
It is time to say goodbye to the butterflies as Autumn gives way to colder days. Clouds hide Pikes Peak, then clear to reveal winter’s snowy signature. Very soon, all the butterflies will disappear from our view…waiting to re-emerge on a warm afternoon next year.
When I was a young girl and first vacationed in Colorado with my family, I was astonished by the vast blue-sky views, the towering snow-capped peaks and the rushing streams. But what surprised me the most were the stars. Like every child, I sang the rhyme “twinkle, twinkle little star… up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky.” Now the song made sense. Here, the sky looked as if it were filled with glittering diamonds. I could even see the sheen of billions of stars in the Milky Way. Back in my hometown in Louisiana, the few stars I could see were more like pale pearls, and I had never seen the Milky Way.
About ten summers after my first encounter with Colorado, I worked as a riding counselor at Cheley Camps on the east border of Rocky Mountain National Park. Almost every evening was spent outside around a campfire, and I led weekly overnight camping trips via horseback. My horse that summer was named Stardust, a well-trained quarter horse the color of dark red bricks. Stardust had such an energetic walking gait that I had to rein her in often or we’d quickly leave the other riders far behind.
During the overnight camping trips, the stars were sometimes so vivid that the campers and I would find patterns in the stars and name our own constellations. The constellation I found looked like a horse galloping above the southern horizon, its head held high as it raced eastward. I named it Stardust.
Eventually, I consulted the star charts in H. A. Rey’s guidebook The Stars and learned that most of the stars in “my” constellation were part of the official constellation of Sagittarius, the Archer. Those who originally named Sagittarius had perceived a different pattern of stars in their own imaginations.
The clear nights of September are a great time to scan the sky for constellations and planets. During and after twilight, you will see brilliant Venus above the western horizon. About 9 p.m., you will be able to see Sagittarius and Scorpio just above the southern horizon, the Big Dipper and Little Dipper in the northern sky, and many other constellations.
I still think of Sagittarius as Stardust, and it is my favorite constellation. If it has been awhile since you’ve gazed at the night sky to look for patterns and shapes in the stars with just your imagination, the next clear night will be your chance. All you have to do is look up.
At first, I saw only expanses of sage and dry washes. No fences, no barns, no stables—none of the trappings associated with the horses I grew up with. But the horses out here are different. They’re wild.
“Out here” is the northwestern corner of Colorado. Last week, I went on a long-awaited field trip to look for wild horses with my brother Winston, who has observed them for several years. About 75 miles west of Steamboat Springs, we left Highway 40 and the bright green Yampa River valley and turned north onto Road 318, where a sign read, “Next Services 120 Miles” and the colors of the landscape faded. In about 15 more miles, we turned onto a dirt road at the south edge of vast BLM lands where the wild horses roam. The light sandy soils, low rocky outcrops and pale green sage reflected the morning’s bright sunlight and the sun’s rays began to intensify.
We lurched slowly along in the pickup, scanning the landscape. Suddenly, Winston called out, “There are the ponies!” Four sleek horses were knee deep in a muddy pond, pawing the water, the backlit splashes framing them in sunlight. We watched from a distance, taking care not to disturb them.
Winston had observed, photographed and named this equine family last year, in June 2012. With their distinctive colors and patterns, the horses were easy to identify. He had named the yearling with the bright white splotches Speckle Paint, the stallion Big Red, and the black mare with three white socks Three Socks. And, there was a new colt with them. Right away, I was ready to name it Blaze.
After splashing for about five minutes, the horse family left the pond, found a dry spot to lie down, rolled vigorously in the sandy soil, then got up and shook off the sand. They walked into the low sagebrush, slowly browsing on new shoots of grass growing near the base of the shrubs.
I was surprised that the wild horses looked as healthy as domestic horses. Their coats gleamed and they appeared strong and well nourished. Clearly adapted to the dry wide-open spaces, these wild horses are able to range far enough to find adequate grasses and water and somehow endure the bitterly cold winters.
By late morning, a relentless wind began to blow. For three more hours, we searched the treeless territory and spotted several more widely scattered bands of horses in groups of three to ten. We saw palominos, pintos, paints, roans, grays, bays, reds, black and white horses. Some were only 200 yards away, others barely visible with binoculars. Other wildlife along the way included horned larks and pronghorns—signature bird and mammal species of expansive grasslands.
An approaching storm cloud ended our day’s excursion into the harsh lands of Sand Wash Basin. As we made our way back south, four horses began to gallop near our truck, their tails held high, as they seemed to relish and race the wind.
Photo credits: With appreciation to my brother Winston Walker for all four photos.
For more information, visit the BLM website:
During this winter’s recent cold snap, the surface of our backyard pond froze, except for a small circle of open water surrounding the pond de-icer. The circular opening in the ice is beneficial to life below and above the frozen pond. Underneath, the fish and other organisms need the exchange of oxygen and other gases that the open water provides. Above the ice, many different animals make their way across the frozen pond to drink from the small circle.
An overnight dusting of snow reveals the tracks of several nocturnal visitors. In the early morning light, the aspen trees cast long shadows that seem to point the way to the circle of water. Before the sun’s warming rays can melt the evidence, I find the snowy tracks of a fox squirrel, a neighborhood cat and a raccoon. The raccoon’s tail, or maybe its foot, grazed the snow as it walked over the ice, creating drag marks.
Then, investigating the front yard, I discover one of my favorite tracks—a cottontail rabbit. As the rabbit hops forward, its large hind feet land in front of its smaller front feet, so its hind feet seem to lead, conjuring a confusing image. Other tracks reveal that sometime during the night or early morning, the cottontail crossed paths with a striped skunk, and the neighborhood cat crisscrossed its own path.
In the distance, I hear crows cawing, a northern flicker calling and house finches singing a hint of their spring song that will debut in a few weeks. They remind me that the Earth is continuing its circle around the sun and that the vernal equinox is only three weeks away. Soon, the possibility of finding snowy tracks will melt away and it will be time to put away the pond de-icer.
Photo Credit: All photos by author Melissa Walker
Note: Melissa recommends the book Scats and Tracks of the Rocky Mountains by James C. Halfpenny, PhD.
When a longtime friend gave me a Red Lion Amaryllis bulb in December, little did I know what an explosion of color it would bring to our home in January. Soon after I watered the bulb and placed it near a sunny window, the bright green leaves began to sprout. It took only three weeks for the flower stalk to grow 21 inches tall.
Then the Amaryllis began to bloom, unfolding its showy 6-inch flowers and bringing to life Ralph Waldo Emerson’s quote, “The earth laughs in flowers.” The portrait of the Amaryllis speaks louder than words. Enjoy.
Photo Credits: Author Melissa Walker took the first 7 photos; Les Goss captured the last 2 photos of the Red Lion Amaryllis.
As the last day of 2012 dawns, I am reflecting upon the many gifts and surprises of Nature. Fortunately, I recorded some of these in writing or with my camera. Others were so fleeting that, as Ann Zwinger wrote, they stayed “only long enough to be remembered.”
Almost three years ago, I chose the following quote by Ann Zwinger to be the theme of my blog – always something new to discover. In her book Beyond the Aspen Grove, Ann observed, “There will always be something new to discover: a minute moss never found before, a rabbit eating birdseed with the birds on a hungry November day, a bittern that stays only long enough to be remembered.”
Nature surprised me many times this year. I’ve selected four of my favorite discoveries to share today as 2012 draws to a close.
Red Fox Pups (as described in my blog on June 10, 2012)
In the afternoon, I spotted three fox pups just by driving down a shady street in an old Colorado Springs neighborhood. The juvenile foxes were fending for themselves, at least for a while, as no adult foxes were in sight. The adults were probably away from the den hunting for food for their fast-growing pups. One pup was lounging in the cool grass, while the other two reminded me of periscopes as they poked their heads out of two different holes in a broken sidewalk. A space under an old sidewalk had become a home for this family of red foxes.
The Volunteer Peach Tree
One mid-summer morning, I noticed a soft orange globe in the middle of our backyard aspen grove. From my kitchen-window vantage point, I was too far away to clearly see the object. Going outside to investigate, I laughed out loud as I discovered a beautiful, velvety peach growing on a very spindly tree. A squirrel must have taken a peach pit from our compost and dropped it in the shady aspen grove, not an ideal place for a peach tree to grow. But grow it did. My husband and I waited for the peach to ripen for about ten days, then plucked it for an afternoon snack. Yum!
A Great Blue Heron
September is the month for prospecting for the shimmering gold of autumn aspen leaves. Less showy, but also beautiful, are the russet and orange colors of the cattails, grasses and willows. While hiking north of Woodland Park between a meadow of tawny grasses and a ponderosa forest near Manitou Lake, a pale blue shape in a pine tree caught my eye. Perched on a branch of a ponderosa was a Great Blue Heron! The long-legged heron looked so out-of-place, yet it really wasn’t, as the lake was nearby. I simply had never seen a Great Blue Heron in a ponderosa before.
An Early Valentine
Yesterday, my husband and I took advantage of a partly cloudy Sunday afternoon to look for waterfowl and white-tailed deer at Fountain Creek Regional Park. The ponds had already frozen over, so we didn’t see the ducks and geese we’d expected. We did see a small herd of white-tailed deer, instead of the mule deer that we usually see on hikes in Colorado’s foothills and mountains. As we circled around one of the snow-covered ponds, a heart shape appeared at the pond’s edge. Someone had brushed away the snow to create an unexpected Valentine – a symbol of love that seemed to embrace the end of this year, and the beginning of a new one.
Photo Credits: All four photos by Melissa Walker
With this year’s warm fall weather, the yellow-gold leaves of the Plains Cottonwood trees clung to their branches well into November. On a bright, breezy morning, I took a walk on a cottonwood-lined trail that parallels Fountain Creek. Soon enveloped by a huge cottonwood, I paused to look up through its golden, heart-shaped leaves. The tree seemed to capture autumn’s blue sky in its upper branches. Then, when the wind blew, the blue-sky pattern would change, reminding me of a kaleidoscope, a wonder-filled toy of my childhood. Later that day, thinking of kaleidoscopes, I decided to find its literal meaning. In Greek, kaleidoscope means pretty (kalos) shapes (eidos). Perfect.
The patterns of leaves against the sky are not the only “pretty shapes” that the cottonwoods create. In the book The Thunder Tree, author Robert Michael Pyle describes another unexpected shape:
“There are stars in the cottonwoods. If you grasp a cottonwood twig, neither too green nor too rotten, and snap it at a wrinkled growth node, a perfect five-pointed star may be revealed on the broken ends. The star is the darker heartwood contrasting with the paler sapwood and new growth.”
Earlier this year in June, I also noticed an unexpected shape when the cottonwoods’ developing seeds, called catkins, were hanging from the branches. The reddish-pink catkins looked like jellyfish undulating on waves of air instead of water.
The huge Plains Cottonwoods are known as the giants of Colorado’s lowland rivers. One of the cottonwoods along the trail near Fountain Creek Nature Center measures 22 feet in circumference. These towering trees are in the willow family and grow only where there is a river, stream, spring or water near the surface of the ground. For the first inhabitants and travelers in this part of North America, the sight of cottonwood trees in the distance signaled “Water!” Wood for a fire, shade and drinking water were all available in a cottonwood grove.
Tall cottonwoods provide shelter and food for a wide variety of birds, mammals and other animals along Colorado’s low-altitude waterways. In the summer, warblers look for insects among the cottonwoods’ highest branches, orioles hang their woven nests in the middle branches, and muskrats burrow under the roots in the streambank. In the fall, migrating hawks perch near the treetops; in the winter, magpies soak up the sun’s warming rays on the east-facing branches; and in the spring, owls may nest in the hollows of the tree trunks. Cottonwoods—living kaleidoscopes, full of life.
Photo Credits: all photos by naturenarratives author Melissa Walker
A light breeze stirs the golden leaves of our backyard aspen grove, creating flickering shadows on the forest floor. Seated on our weathered wooden glider, I slowly rock back and forth long enough to feel in sync with the sights and sounds of autumn. I am taking somewhat of a risk by sitting here at this time of year with scores of ripe apples dangling just above my head. Gravity could win the tug-of-war any moment.
Scattered at my feet are bright yellow aspen leaves and faded red apples decaying in the sun’s warm rays. The buzz of honeybees and wasps, the “knack-knack-knack” of a white-breasted nuthatch and the “dee-dee-dee” of black-capped chickadees join the sounds of our suburban Colorado Springs neighborhood. A few blocks away, a house is getting a new roof, the steady pounding of nails adding percussion to the sounds of nature on this mid-October afternoon.
An unexpected sound suddenly draws my attention. I step up onto a rock to peer over our fence to see a four-point mule deer buck sparring with a smaller buck. The clacking of their antlers is very brief, as the younger buck backs down quickly, conceding the skirmish. Then, both bucks nibble at, and then devour several apples, their conflict seemingly forgotten. Harmony is restored to the golden afternoon and I reluctantly leave the aspen grove. The empty glider now looks lonesome, but ready to catch some falling apples.
Photo Credits: All three photos by author Melissa Walker
In mid-September while hiking at 10,000 feet in the Weminuche Wilderness Area, I stopped to observe a large hawk, a Northern Harrier, as it spiraled upward in the clear autumn air, buoyed by the rising morning thermals. About the same time, I saw a butterfly that I usually associate with springtime. It was a Mourning Cloak, lazily tracing figure-eights around the pale trunks of aspen trees. The bright yellow border of the butterfly was the same color as the shimmering aspens, as if the color rubbed off when the butterfly flew too close to the brilliant leaves.
This Mourning Cloak probably began its cycle of life in early spring after two overwintering butterflies mated and the female laid eggs. After hatching, the Mourning Cloak caterpillar feasted on the leaves of willows and aspens before pupating. By early summer, it completed its metamorphosis and emerged as an adult butterfly, feeding on tree sap for several weeks. Then the Mourning Cloak estivated, spending the rest of the summer in a dormant state. When I saw the butterfly, it had awakened from estivation to feed intensely during the warm days of autumn.
The morning was so still that only the hawk and the butterfly seemed to be moving. It was as if the Earth paused on this warm September day to mark the colorful climax of another year. Soon, the butterfly will hibernate and the hawk will migrate to lower elevations as the Earth continues it seasonal circle around the sun.
Photo Credits: Aspen Trees by Melissa Walker; Mourning Cloak via Wikipedia