Nature Note: A Naturalist's Travels Through Nature

I love old nicknames for birds. Whether they are folk names, sportsmans colloquialisms, or even names from other languages, learning how other groups of people identify certain animals and plants is always an interesting journey through the history of human culture and wildlife identification. The title of this post refers to an old folk name for a common yard and feeder bird, the nuthatch. Here in the northeast, we have two species of nuthatches; the white-breasted ( Sitta carolinensis ) and the red-breasted ( S. canadensis ). White-breasted nuthatch Red-breasted nuthatch Both species are perhaps best known for their tree-scaling ability that would make any free climber jealous of their skills. Many ornithologists have been equally amazed by the skills of the nuthatch. The economic ornithologist, Edward Howe Forbush noted in his Birds of Massachusetts that: "They seem to have taken lessons of the squirrel which runs down the tree headfirst,  stretching out his hi

Well, that went well! With the election season over in a big way, I can say with certainty that no one truly expected the orange man with wispy hair to win the highest office in the land. Those of us with blue hearts and political leanings sighed despondently at such news, so naturally, we all needed to escape after the election results of this past Tuesday. I did so by heading to Montezuma National Wildlife Refuge. I had a quest for myself and the goal was to find a rare visitor that had appeared on the main pond for several weeks this year. In fact, not only did I find one far flung traveler on this day, but two more graced my presence in and around Montezuma. The first target I sought was a duck. While that may not seem that exciting, the duck in question was a Eurasian wigeon ( Anas penelope ), a duck more at home in the marshes of Slimbridge than the backwoods of central New York. Despite living and visiting the UK frequently in my life, I had never gotten the opportunity to see

The sound of the ocean slapping the rocks of the causeway heralded the arrival of another car to the rutted parking lot. Over the sea wall, Horseneck Beach with its daredevil para-sailers danced over the distant swells while gulls dark and light swirled over the mile long spit jutting into Buzzard's Bay. Alison and I stepped out of the car and looked around. It was good to be home.* As we stood on the rocky shores of Gooseberry Neck in Westport, Massachusetts, we watched as sanderlings, scampered back and forth along the sands while being chaperoned by herring gulls. We sat on a few boulders that lead down the eastern side of the neck and watched the relay. The sanderlings would run towards the retreating surf to pick at the minute crustaceans and periwinkles that were caught in the pull of water and sand. After busily picking at the sands for only a few moments, they were chased back by the rushing waves to begin their relay again.  The gulls, being far less particula