Merrimack Valley Magazine

The Backyard Naturalist – Hunting Season

December 4, 2021 by Sarah Courchesne

Most of the time, “hunting season” refers to deer hunting specifically. That’s the default around here anyway. Gunfire is not rare at any time of year in my neighborhood; there are the usual exuberant, inexplicable nighttime volleys that seem to erupt out of sheer ballistic joy, and the metronomic rhythm of can shooting on Sunday afternoons. When it’s deer hunting time, there are new sounds: single gunshots sounding from the forests and swamps to the west and north of us, usually early in the morning or late in the afternoon, fading toward dusk. Deer and deer hunters are crepuscular.

I’m not a hunter myself, but I often curious about what is permissible to shoot at any given time here in New Hampshire. I’m partial to the oddities, the less prestigious quarries. I like to know when gray squirrel hunting season is, and crow season. I like to know what the bag limits are — how many you can kill per day — which for squirrels is five (but you may never hunt them in a cemetery), and which for crows is unlimited.

It’s strange, what you can hunt and what you can’t. Almost all birds in the United States are protected from human harm by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, but as Cornell University’s “All About Birds” website puts it: “Not all North American bird species are protected under the act. Birds that are considered non-native species such as the House Sparrow and the European Starling are not protected, and many groups of hunted or game birds, including ducks, geese, doves, and many shorebirds are subject to limited protection and can be hunted in season.”

The logic is circular: Some birds can be hunted because they are hunted. Some birds, it seems, just look like meat. I cannot dispute this in the case of the ruffed grouse. They are chicken-size, chicken-shaped birds, rounded, bosomy. Their Latin name, Bonasa umbellus, emphasizes maleness; the first part means “wild bull” and the second “umbrella,” for the ruff of feathers around the neck that is most prominent in displaying males. Actually, the birds seem matronly in appearance; even the males remind me of my backyard hens.

In spring, the male grouse attempt to attract mates by standing on logs or stone walls and drumming their wings against their sides, making a percussive rising and falling that sounds like the cantankerous rope-pull-start lawnmower of my youth, winding up and then failing to catch, over and over. There are surveys for these grouse drumming displays, where biologists and volunteers station themselves at designated roadsides and listen, and this helps scientists get a sense of their abundance.

Hunters do much of the citizen science monitoring work on grouse populations; a research program through New Hampshire Fish and Game asks them to submit feather samples and report what they find when they open the birds’ gastrointestinal tracts. This gives a snapshot of their diets. Last year’s report showed the contents were mostly catkins, alder leaves, fern leaves, birch buds, beechnuts, cranberries and beetles, slugs and mushrooms. After I read that list, it kept coming back to me for days, though I couldn’t determine why. Something about it raised a feeling of tenderness in me, a nostalgia that I could not place. Then, walking through the woods behind my house, it occurred to me that these grouse had been eating almost exactly the wild menus I used to create when I was a child, laying out berries and nuts on little leaf plates for creatures I hoped would come dine while I hid in the underbrush. I left that childish project aside as I grew up, of course. Turns out, I only needed to wait for a grouse to join me at the table.

The Backyard Naturalist – Wild Turkeys

November 22, 2021 by Sarah Courchesne

With the exception of a few pockets of old-growth trees on perilously steep, un-loggable slopes in the White Mountains, most of New England’s forests are second growth. Our entire landscape had been almost stripped of trees by the 1850s, the land cleared for crops and the trees used for lumber or burned as fuel. The stone walls running through our woods here are ghosts from farm fields abandoned in the late 1800s when New Englanders lit out for less stony soil in the Midwest. What they left behind was a land emptied of creatures such as wolves, mountain lions, beavers, deer, black bears and wild turkeys. It’s striking how some of those creatures have never returned, while others seem sometimes almost pestilential in numbers.

When I was in college, my ornithology professor pointed to the wild turkey as an example of a wildlife restoration project gone almost too well. He told us how their rebound in Massachusetts had been so successful that he practically had to shoulder his way through a crowd of them to reach his car every morning. His amused indignation as he described the scene made me grin. I pictured wild turkeys blanketing the car, pecking at their reflections in the mirrors, and the windshield wipers swiping, flinging the birds off in all directions to clear the view.

This madcap vision points to a very real phenomenon: the unexpectedly rapid expansion of the turkey population in the region. Wiped out by the end of the 19th century through a combination of habitat loss and unregulated hunting, wild turkeys would have been a rare and exotic sight for a New Englander as late as the 1970s. Multiple attempts to reintroduce the birds failed utterly; then some attempts succeeded. Still, according to the Massachusetts Division of Fisheries and Wildlife, by 1978, Massachusetts had a total turkey population of only 1,000 birds. Today, MassWildlife estimates the number of turkeys in the state to be somewhere around 30,000. This means that the explosion in turkey numbers occurred well within living memory for many of us, and the potential conflicts and friction points between us and them are not something we’ve had long to acclimate to.

Their population has grown not just in numbers, but in the habitats they can use. Other species long since driven out of the region (mountain lions, wolves) have failed to come back because they need broad swathes of contiguous forest with little human disturbance. Turkeys, on the other hand, seem to do all right in a patchwork of yards and small stands of trees. As long as they have cover, and some acorn- or nut-bearing trees for food, they are adaptable to a wide variety of New England landscapes.

The birds have happily moved into densely settled suburbs; Brookline has had some high-profile human-turkey conflicts in recent years. This is a theme in wildlife restoration: We want lost species brought back, but if they come back too well we get nervous. We seem to have this idea that wildlife ought to stay “over there” somewhere, mind its own business, not trouble us, our free-roaming pets, our unsecured trash barrels, or the birdseed set out for other, apparently more desirable, wild birds to eat. If you believe the media reports about turkeys, you’d think they were routinely kidnapping and savaging toddlers and the elderly.

It’s true that the birds are big and imposing, but kids have far more to fear from the neighbor’s angry terrier than from a turkey. Children born today will grow up in a New England full of these wild neighbors. Hopefully, as the years pass, generations of children will know these birds as their natural kindred, and as a sign of what humans are capable of when they take it upon themselves to heal at least a sliver of the wild world.

Jewelry from the Heart

November 2, 2021 by Kristin Cole

The ideal career is one that marries our skills and interests, and if we are lucky enough to find this career, our passion is often reflected in the quality of whatever we’re doing. A piece of jewelry made by Lisa Scala is a wonderful example of that kind of passion.

“My mom says that I’ve been making some form of art and collecting things from nature since I was a toddler,” says Scala, who opened Lisa Scala Jewelry, a retail gallery in Georgetown, in 2010. “By the time I was a teenager, I was planning to become a sculptor, but my dad suggested I try jewelry-making instead because of my passion for gemstones and fashion.” She even recalls the first piece of jewelry she ever made: a pair of sterling silver earrings.

Scala, a trained metalsmith, works with gold and silver, and many of her unique pieces feature gemstones. Her craft is inspired by the beauty of nature. “I love nature and have spent a lifetime enjoying its natural forms, both obvious and more subtle, [such as] the shape of a leaf or seedpod,” she says. “My collections reflect the natural world and its spiritual aspects.”

In addition to her focus on the natural and spiritual, Scala puts a strong emphasis on her own individuality as an artist and prefers to avoid creating pieces that stray from her distinct style. “If [customers] come to me because they like my designs and they want something that I can make, and I can be proud my name is on it, then that’s what I love to do. Ideally, I would just be making art jewelry and that’s it.”

One might expect that Scala, a full-time jeweler who has been recognized by prestigious art associations, might occasionally run out of creative ideas. But she says this is not the case. “It comes very naturally; I feel very lucky. There are more designs in my head than I can produce,” says Scala, who credits this to her enthusiasm for the craft. “I wake up every day to do what I love.”

In addition to a variety of jewelry offerings — including rings, earrings, necklaces, charm pendants, chains and more — Scala also works with healing gemstones that she says possess a range of beneficial properties.

“I recommend various gemstones to people who are looking for ways to make changes in their lives or achieve certain goals,” Scala says. “I’ve created pieces with stones meant to provide protection, positive energy and personal strength, to name a few. It’s easy to incorporate the healing power of gemstones into your life if you can do it by wearing jewelry you love.”

When the pandemic arrived, Scala wanted customers to continue to experience the “calming and healing” atmosphere of her shop, which also features essential oils and, of course, gemstones. A desire to share this healing vibe led to the creation of Goddess Boxes: seasonal subscription boxes that feature handmade jewelry, healing crystals and self-care items — all relating to what Scala has developed in her store over the years. The jeweler is also planning “Goddess Nights,” when people would be able to visit the store and connect with like-minded members of the community. “This isn’t just about a pretty piece of jewelry,” Scala says. “This is my passion to heal, connect and include people.”

As we prepare to put 2021 in our rearview mirror, Scala is looking forward to growing the “art jewelry” aspect of Lisa Scala Jewelry, personally creating more one-of-a-kind pieces and collections, expanding her team of jewelers, and spreading positivity through her passion.

“I won’t make a piece of jewelry if I’m not in a good headspace because I truly feel that my energy can be put into a piece of jewelry,” she says. “I want it to be everything I put into it, the customer can feel it, and I want that to be positive.”

Lisa Scala Jewelry
Georgetown, Mass.
(978) 352-8614
LisaScala.com

The Backyard Naturalist – The Pollinator Problem

September 28, 2021 by Sarah Courchesne

I had to replace my phone recently, something I am loathe to do since it depresses me with thoughts of landfills brimming with obsolete electronics, and inhumane conditions in lithium and cobalt mines across the world from me. To assuage some of this lowness, I looked for the most sustainable phone case I could get. The one I found came from a company that makes cases out of plant material. It feels like soft plastic, but apparently will degrade in a home compost pile within six months. Scrolling through the options, I saw all manner of graphics and images meant to invoke nature or at least some vague sense of eco-affiliated virtue. There were rivers and mountains and stands of fir trees, and there were bees. A gaggle of honeybees depicted against their hexagonal comb was named “Save the Bees.” I love honeybees as much as the next person, but I also know that they do not need saving.

Save the Bees campaigns feel right and good to people. There’s a vague and hazy sense that honeybees are in decline, and we should all plant flowers for them and even consider a backyard hive of our own. The muddiness in this well-meaning urge comes from an idea that “pollinators” is the same as “bees” and “bees” is the same as “honeybees.” A pollinator is any animal that carries pollen between flowers, thereby fertilizing the plant so it can produce fruits and seeds and more plants. Pollinators include bees for sure, but also bats, hummingbirds, flies and moths. In New England, there are several types of native bees that pollinate plants, including bumblebees, carpenter bees, and sweat bees. These native bees coevolved alongside our native trees, shrubs and wildflowers. Many are specialized for just a few plants. Honeybees, on the other hand, are European in origin, brought here by settler colonists, and are, decidedly, domesticated livestock. To say “Save the Bees” and mean honeybees is like saying “Save the Chickens.” Nothing wrong with honeybees or chickens, and if you want a backyard hive and your own honey, or your own coop and eggs, knock yourself out. Just don’t go thinking you’re helping wildlife.

bumblebees and Echinacea flowers close up

There is evidence that keeping honeybees can have a detrimental effect on native bees and other pollinators. Honeybees are generalists and will feed on almost any flowering plant. For more specialist native pollinators, this can mean less food, even to the point of starvation. If you landscape your yard with native wildflowers, hoping to support declining native pollinators, but then move in a hive of honeybees, you may have done more harm than good, drawing in the native insects only to have them encounter their preferred flowers with empty nectaries and some very full honeybees. A veterinarian and honeybee expert I spoke with last year told me she thinks people should choose one or the other — grow native plants for native pollinators or keep honeybees alongside domesticated, farmed plant species. This is what orchardists do, trucking in rented honeybee hives at pollination time for apple trees, or almond trees, or whatever crop they work.

Native pollinators are in trouble. They need us to limit our use of pesticides and to provide rich habitats of flowering plants rather than sterile lawns. Honeybees are not in trouble any more than dairy cows or any other purpose-bred domesticated farm animal. I don’t expect to find the kind of “Save the Bees” phone case I’d like — it would depict a brilliantly metallic, hovering, sweat bee on a purple aster, or a fuzzed, trundling bumblebee weighting a lowbush blueberry flower. But when I think of salvation, it looks something like that.

The Gulls of Appledore

September 14, 2021 by Sarah Courchesne

The Isles of Shoals archipelago, straddling the marine border of New Hampshire and Maine, is somewhere between 6 and 8 miles offshore. This curiously variable distance hinges on where you’re measuring from on the mainland. The close-in islands are easy to get to by boat, but, critically for the two species of gulls that breed there, they are almost impossible for mammalian predators to reach.

Gulls nest directly on the ground, like most seabirds. Islands make this a more reasonable strategy than it might seem. With no skunks, coyotes, or raccoons around, eggs and chicks are remarkably safe from attack. The main threat tends to be aerial; raptors make sorties and do eat gulls, but the gulls also fend them off a fair proportion of the time. These are ancient, predictable enmities, and it’s largely a fair fight. If a land mammal somehow gets on a seabird island, however, the carnage can be horrific.

Appledore’s gulls were subjected to this in 2004, when several raccoons turned up there. They ransacked the colony, eating or destroying nearly every egg and chick. Researchers on the island assumed that the adult gulls would return the following year and reestablish themselves, but the population never recovered to its previous level. It seems the massacre left many of them unwilling ever to come back and raise babies there.

Appledore Island. Photo by Glenn Prezzano.

The disruptive power of omnivorous mammals in a seabird colony is broad and deep. One of our volunteers reflected that the gulls must be under great stress all the time, since we humans are omnivorous mammals, invaders, walking within feet of the nesting gulls. Individual gulls vary in their tolerance for such disturbances; some are relatively calm and mainly yell their dissatisfaction. Others are quicker to alarm, and fly up from the nest and then drop down, attempting to hit the offending passerby on the head. They often succeed. Relations are typically tense between the human and avian residents of Appledore.

The gull study on Appledore is decades old. I first got involved in 2008, and once I began teaching a few years later, I began to bring out my college students as research assistants. I now co-lead the gull project along with my sister, Mary Elizabeth Everett. Through the generosity of private donors, we are able to fund summerlong internships as well as short-term field experiences for students from my home institution, Northern Essex Community College, other area colleges, and even from local high schools and middle schools. We are an eclectic bunch.

Our team’s work brings us into closer contact with the gulls than other humans on the island; we can’t simply pass by the birds. We trap them, take blood samples, and affix bands to their legs so they can be individually identified both on the island and wherever they disperse to once the breeding season on Appledore ends. The information we get from the public’s reports on these banded gulls illuminates the birds’ travels, but also their family units, social structures, mates and ex-mates. This is all, admittedly, a burden on the birds. The disturbances we bring into the colony every summer is profound. The students know we have to hassle and harass the birds in the name of science, but they also come to see the whole endeavor through the gulls’ eyes, and learn to see the gulls’ behaviors as reasonable and appropriate.

Students often start out skittish, flinching at every squawk, but they quickly adapt to the rhythms and signals. I have a picture of one of them, Dylan, standing in a calm and stable stance, holding a yardstick and facing a gull, its wings outstretched in a threat display, worrying the other end of the stick with his beak. Dylan’s task was to distract the gull while other members of our team fiddled with his nest. The gull’s distress in this interaction was clear. Dylan’s calm was too. This kind of settling in, of understanding, of appreciation for what these birds must tolerate from us, is a wonder to see. There is an otherness about the gulls, of course, an insurmountable communication gap, a language barrier between them and us. But there is also kinship. They are not of such a different kind from us that a person, measuring the distance between themselves and bird, finds it, mostly, bridgeable.

The Backyard Naturalist – Hunting Season

The Backyard Naturalist – Wild Turkeys

Jewelry from the Heart

The Backyard Naturalist – The Pollinator Problem

The Gulls of Appledore

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