Tundra Swan Song

Tundra swans. (NPS Photo/ Tim Rains/via Wikimedia)

Twice in the past week I've heard calling (you can't really call it singing) tundra swans here in southeastern Ohio. The first time was last Friday night just about dusk. I was sitting alone, watching a small bonfire in the fire ring on the hill near our garden when I heard the crazy, high-pitched voices of a flock of tundra swans in the dark sky overhead. Just as my face was breaking into a smile from the realization of what I was hearing—only the second record of tundra swans for our farm—the local coyotes started up, jolted into action I think by the weird, kind of doglike sounds, coming from the sky. I have no idea what the coyotes were thinking but it was a very cool natural catalyst connection.

Listen to a flock of tundra swans:

The second tundra swan episode happened this morning. Bird Watcher's Digest  intern Mollee B. and I were shooting some product shots in the BWD office parking lot when I again heard the swan's anxious yelps. This time it was daylight and, while screaming "HOLY [naughty word]! Tundra swans!" and racing across the lot to alert the BWD staff, I spotted the flock, high overhead.

The swan flock over the BWD offices. I think they came by to check us out!

We all ran out to the front of the building and everyone (except Ann, who ignored my screams—remind me never to go mountain climbing with her—and Dawn, who was out of the office) got to see them. A large V of more than 30 individuals!


I've only seen this species a couple of times here in Washington County, Ohio—usually along the Ohio River in winter. To encounter them twice in one week (and add them to the BWD office list) was a special treat!

Big Sit Meat Pile

Every year, in anticipation of the Big Sit, I get all jiggy with my preparations. This involves spreading mixed seed around the weedy edges of the yard, cleaning and filling the feeders, and hauling chairs, coolers, coats, cushions, Cheetos, chips, checklists, and things beginning with other letters, up to the tower where we conduct this annual exercise in birding/loafing.

And then there's the meat pile.

There are many, many packages of meat and meat-like products that go into our various freezers, never to be seen again. They live there in the frosty darkness, ignored by us, meal after meal and I believe these meats begin to grow resentful. This resentment makes them bitter and dried out. Before the seasons all recycle, these bits of food are good for nothing else but the meat pile.

The meat pile is in the middle of our meadow. It is, yes, you guessed it—a pile of freezer-burned and spoiled meat. I place it there hoping to attract our local resident red-shouldered and red-tailed hawks, and perhaps some passing, sniffing turkey vultures. The side benefit is that lots of other animals visit the meat pile. How do I know this? Check out the photos below.
As I set up the meat pile, removing the packaging, Chet Baker is always there in case I needed a hand/paw. Or a taste tester.

I set up a game camera, one equipped with flash and motion detecting lasers. It also works during the day, as the picture of my backside (below) shows.

The turkey vultures found the meat pile last year after just three days of full, hot, meat-rotting sun. Awesome! Yes, we keep Chet Baker away from the meat pile.

While doing the Big Sit last year, I was alone in the tower when a huge pack of coyotes began arguing in the meadow over the rights to dine at the meat pile. I took a photo of my face as the howling and growling was splitting the night air. It was so chilling hearing these sounds that it gave me goose flesh.
Here are a couple of images captured of the coy-dogs. I love how the camera gives the date, time, phase of the moon, and the temperature and barometric pressure, too!
Nice! Look how big this coyote is. Another reason to keep Chet inside!