The Middle San Pedro Valley sprawls across nearly one million acres of undeveloped, unfragmented land in southeastern Arizona. Its slopes and woodlands, bajadas and ridges have been rimed with frost every dawn under the abbreviated touch of winter’s Sun. Days are short. The land stands hushed and still with its seasonal absence of many birds, reptiles, and other forms of life. Nonetheless, there are many good reasons to get outside and walk the land. January and February have brought a few surprises, particularly in the way of unexpected sightings of locally uncommon birds.
In late January, five purple finches began frequenting our bird feeders, thinking they were well concealed within mobs of house finches and lesser goldfinches. My wife’s sharp eyes picked them out of the crowd. In 20+ years of avian record keeping in this valley, that was the first time we had ever seen purple finches. Another species that has been sighted sparingly here during the winter months is the American robin. For reasons that remain a mystery to me, we have been inundated with robins this winter. They bring me many fond memories of their near-constant presence during past summers when I lived in the northern states.
Speaking of thrushes, another bird that I had never seen in the valley before has arrived to grace the nearby riverbottom woodlands this winter – a Townsend’s solitaire. A friend and neighbor, Tom Talbott, first sighted one about a week ago in the forests along the river not far from our home. Tom is a highly skilled birder and a masterful wildlife photographer. A few days later, walking the same reaches of the river, a friend and I also saw a solitaire. News has been spreading of numerous sightings of this species in areas just a few dozen miles to the north.
A Townsend’s solitaire perches quietly in branches overhanging the channel of the San Pedro River. These elegant thrushes are common residents of timberline forests high in the mountains of western Montana, where I would meet them again and again as I led groups of hikers during the summer months. Their songs are unique and unforgettably angelic, like no other bird I have known. Photo courtesy of Tom Talbott.
Not far from the solitaire, we found this great horned owl snoozing within the branches of a Fremont cottonwood. These owls are remarkably capable predators whose list of possible food items exceeds that of any other North American owl. Among the creatures that great horned owls have been known to prey upon include insects, amphibians, various reptiles, mice, rabbits, domestic cats, small dogs, ducks, skunks, and even porcupines.
Mid-January brought us over an inch of rain in the valley floor during one winter storm. Rainfall amounts were much higher in the nearby Galiuro Mountains, resulting in a strong winter flow for Hot Springs Wash. Such flows during the winter months are rare.
The rain enabled millions of dormant London rocket (Sisymbrium irio) seeds to sprout, providing a new source of food for wildlife while greening the floor of this mesquite bosque with the glowing color of new life.
Large numbers of these small white puffballs erupted from the ground under mesquite trees after the rain. Fungi are becoming known as some of the most important organisms on the planet. The mycorrhizal filaments of many species of fungi form mutually beneficial associations with tree roots, for example. No forest on Earth can exist without such subsurface fungal alliances.
A hooded skunk wandered under my ramada one night, leaving its signature behind in the form of these tracks made in fine, dusty soil. Note the track pattern as the animal was walking at normal speed.
A closer look at the skunk’s footprints. Even though skunks are plantigrade mammals, the heels on their back feet often do not register in their tracks, as seen here. (The hind foot is to the left, front foot to the right.)
I discovered this torpid spiny lizard spending the winter brumating underneath a plastic tub that had been set outdoors on the ground. The lizard was found at ground level, not dug in below the frost line. Temperatures here routinely dip into the teens every winter. I was taught that reptiles must spend winters below the frost line, because otherwise they would freeze and die. I have also seen a pair of diamondback rattlesnakes spending the winter under a board in an open barn. Apparently, what I was taught cannot be correct – it seems clear that these reptiles can endure a fairly substantial amount of freezing.
Darkness settles over the land. Many miles from the lights and sounds of towns and cities, Arizona’s Middle San Pedro Valley sprawls wild and still. At twilight, only a faint poorwill and a pair of great horned owls can be heard. The coyote telegraph erupts and then fades as it travels from ridge to distant ridge. In contrast to the rich variety of summer sounds, an autumnal hush blankets the countryside.
At day’s end, dusk gently ebbs into darkness as a brilliant October moon emerges from the far shores of the eastern horizon. Here, in our mesquite bosque, the peace and comfort of the night suddenly give rise to a thousand voices raised in the jubilance of courtship. These are sweet, almost melodic sounds – October’s distinctive nocturnal biophony. Tree crickets are singing from the ancient trees, thousands of them spread across the valley floor, their songs a vivid proclamation of thriving life within an otherwise quiet forest.
This species of tree cricket sings from the tall mesquites in our bosque. Its ecology is intimately connected to velvet mesquite trees. These are small insects with a big voice.
I have come to love the sounds of these delicate, gossamer-winged insects. Long after summer’s insect frenzy, when most species have faded from the scene, tree crickets come to life in the coolness of October nights. The males raise their transparent wings, then call to the females by stridulating – in other words, they rub certain parts of their bodies together to produce a surprising volume of sound. Females are drawn to these love songs. The males go one step farther by offering their mates a special reward. After mating, metanotal glands located on the dorsal side of the male’s abdomen secrete a substance that the female feeds on.
Eight species of tree crickets inhabit southeastern Arizona, where they produce two generations each year. The ones singing in local October bosques belong to the genus Oecanthus. Each species has its own unique song. However, even among the same species, sound can vary quite a bit depending upon air temperature. The frequency (or pitch) of the crickets’ songs increases as temperatures rise and slows as temperatures fall.
A bizarre butterfly landed on my screen door last week – an American snout butterfly, Libytheana carinenta. Last year, large numbers of these butterflies erupted all over the valley in late summer. Snout butterflies use their strange shape to blend in with their surroundings. When perched on a plant stem, their elongated “snout” breaks up the outline of their bodies, resembling a broken twig or a thorn. The range of snout butterflies extends all the way to South America. They are known for migrating across landscapes in huge aggregations.
A study in camouflage, the American snout butterfly sports wings that blend well with tree bark and a unique body shape that helps to conceal the insect when at rest.
This summer’s plentiful monsoon rains have continued well into October. Since the monsoon began on June 18, our rain gauge has recorded an amazing 13.46 inches of life-giving rainfall.
One of the local washes experienced some large summer floods. I took a walk down this wash with a friend a few weeks ago, to have a look at the powerful changes wrought upon the land by the big floods. What we saw was in stark contrast to the wash I had known from walks during the past several years.
During recent times, this broad wash had been covered by a wall-to-wall effusion of burro bush (Hymenoclea) standing six or more feet tall with a galaxy of roots anchoring the bushes to the ground. The flood had erased most of that growth, leaving behind a clear streambed lined with heaps of debris – tree trunks, plant material, rocks, and more. The floor of the big wash had been totally rearranged, its topography and course markedly changed during a couple of events that lasted only days.
In places where floodwaters form swirling, circular eddies, holes are dug into the wash floor like this one. These depressions can be very large and quite deep. They often hold pools of surface water that can last for months after flooding, a valuable offering to birds, mammals, and other wild creatures in this desert ecosystem.
Powerful floods like these transport thousands of tons of boulders, rocks, gravel, sand, clay, and a wide variety of organic materials – whole trees, cacti, and other plants. Downstream, entire soil profiles are altered and built as sediments settle from the turbid waters. Cutbanks collapse, dropping great layers of soil into the roiling floodwaters, releasing seeds that have lain dormant from ancient times into the present-day ecosystem. Old genetics from times long gone may invigorate plant populations and enhance the genetic variability – and hence, the viability – of modern plant communities.
Most people would simply label this collapse of a stream-side cutbank as “erosion.” That is an accurate use of the word, but I see much more going on here.
Debris piles left along the stream banks can be very large, consisting primarily of tangled, broken bushes, parts of trees, and other plant matter. They provide shelter and denning sites for small mammals, reptiles, amphibians, and other creatures. Floods are not all bad – they are simply a natural, intrinsic agent of change, some of it beneficial, some not. People often label floods as “bad,” but that viewpoint roots in anthropocentric thinking, a myopic way to view our world.
The ecology of many native species of plants and animals actually depends upon flood events. The beautiful stands of cottonwoods that line the San Pedro River could not exist were it not for floods creating the specific conditions that their seeds require for germination. The riparian forests that accompany the river depend upon having their roots tap into subsurface aquifers. The aquifers get recharged when floods happen.
As floodwaters recede, the bed of the San Pedro River leaves records of local wildlife in the drying mud. Here, the patterning of fine surface cracks results from a place where the river water subsided very gradually with little or no turbulence, resulting in the deposition of extremely fine clay particles. As these clay deposits dry, they crack in characteristic patterns.
October typically brings us the last ophidian visitors of the year, most of them not to be seen until next spring. A beautiful gopher snake was here last week, and as I write this, a diamondback is curled up a short ways from my entry door.
An October gopher snake, crawling along the wall of one of our buildings. This one was a male, measuring right around 63 inches in length. Always welcome here, as are all snakes.The year’s last generation of pipevine swallowtail butterflies occurs in October. I found this gorgeous caterpillar recently – it is either in the fourth or fifth (last) instar of its development, after which it will climb a plant stem and metamorphose into a chrysalis suspended by a single loop of silk as it waits out the winter season. The leaves visible in this image are pipevine leaves, (Aristolochia), the only plant that these caterpillars feed upon.
October is THE month for seeing pinacate beetles (Eleodes spp.) – they are literally everywhere at this time of year, easily noticed because of their large size, slow movements, and diurnal habits. When they feel threatened, pinacate beetles stop moving and assume this head-stand posture. If the threat escalates, (for example, when a bird tries to grab the beetle), the beetles fire a noxious, very disagreeable fluid from the tip of their erected abdomen. Chemical defenses are very common among many insect species.
Just a few days ago, I noticed this small tuft of feathers laying on the ground. Immediately, I began searching the area for more, because such a find usually indicates that a bird was recently preyed upon somewhere nearby.
I soon found many feathers like this, their shafts intact. Intact shafts indicate feathers that were pulled out, not bitten and yanked out as mammals do. So this was the work of a predatory bird, likely a Cooper’s hawk that I have been seeing frequently of late. This was a special find, for these feathers could have come from only one species, a gilded flicker. Gilded flickers are relatively rare in local bosque habitats.
Arizona’s spectacular monsoon season is in full swing this year. Here in the Middle San Pedro River Valley, we have received 7.28 inches of life-giving rain during the past seven weeks. Life of all kinds is emerging, much of it empowered by this season alone.
The strikingly beautiful Gila monster pictured above was photographed by my wife Kathleen just days ago. (One more reminder to my readers: if you don’t see that image, it is because you are viewing this in your email. Always go to my blog site – https://ralphwaldt.com – to see this post as I intended it, without omissions.) It is one of many desert animals whose activity increases or otherwise changes as a result of monsoon weather.
The world we live in has been under deep duress this past year; the global pandemic, political division, economic hardship, and numerous worldwide catastrophes have all combined to make many people feel stressed and depressed. That is the anthropocentric world. A wider view – beyond the human-centric world that we pay so much attention to – encompasses the rest of the planet’s glorious and infinitely varied life. When I feel overloaded after viewing the day’s headlines, I can always find a source of solace, reassurance, and joy simply by abandoning the vicarious, shallow world of my computer screen in favor of the outdoor world. All it takes is a few steps outside. Sunlight, vivid green plants, lizards, trees, bird song, fresh air… the real world is medicine for the soul.
One does not need to live in a rural area like I do in order to tap into the natural world. I have a friend who lives in suburbia, along the fringes of the immensity known as Dallas-Fort Worth. He spends time in his backyard where trees, shrubs, and a garden bring life and happiness into his world. There are no bears, cougars, or Gila monsters in his yard like there are here – but there is a diverse variety of life. My friend focuses his attention on smaller creatures and other forms of life; insects, lizards, and flowering plants, for example. He photographs what he sees – things that most people never even notice. The photographs from his back yard are often stunning, revealing a world remarkably rich in life captured by a talented, artistic photographer whose sharp observational skills remind us that life is everywhere, and that life is beyond beautiful.
With those thoughts in mind, I offer a series of recent images taken during the heart of the monsoon season here in the Middle San Pedro Valley of southeastern Arizona…
My wife, Kathleen, encountered this Gila monster as it was attempting to cross a public roadway. She did the right thing – she pulled off the side of the road, turned on her hazard lights, and stood by, ready to usher the lizard out of harm’s way should a speeding motorist arrive on the scene. As the Gila monster made it safely off of the pavement, it turned to face Kathleen and her camera, then ambled off into the desert. The lizard was lucky this time. Large numbers of reptiles are killed on Arizona’s roads every day, many of them by people who are fast drivers and/or simply harbor callous attitudes towards reptiles. All it takes to avoid such losses is slower speed and a modicum of care for the life we share the planet with.
A single feather laying in front of our ramada had a story to tell: a great horned owl had landed there the night prior, likely as it pounced on a prey item.
Mornings that follow monsoon rain storms often reveal the nocturnal work of encruster termites. These tiny insects encrust plant stems (or in this case, mesquite beans) with a mixture of soil particles and viscous saliva, then feed on the encapsulated items. Termites are exceptionally important components of this ecosystem; they are very numerous, widespread, and perform a crucial ecological function by breaking down plant cellulose, thus returning essential nutrients to the soil.
Some two decades ago, I first tasted wolfberries – they were delicious. Native peoples gathered these berries as a seasonal food source. A large number of birds and mammals utilize them as a high-calorie-per-unit-weight food source, packed with natural sugars. This plant is of the genus Lycium.
Summer raindrops adorn the fresh blossom of an Arizona poppy plant, Kallstroemia grandiflora.
One of the valley’s most common summer wildflowers is also among its most beautiful; trailing four o’clock, Allionia incarnata.The emergent blooms of a barrel cactus. These cacti rely on summer rains for their annual reproductive efforts.
Silver-leaf nightshade – Solanum elaeagnifolium – always a joy to encounter, this native plant is grouped in the same botanical family as tomatoes, but it is not safe for human consumption.Tarantulas are common here, but can be seen with any frequency only during the monsoon season, when lower daytime temperatures and increased humidity bring them out of hiding. If left alone, these are harmless, innocuous creatures.
Caterpillars of the white-lined sphinx moth (and other native Sphingicampid moths) are very common sights during summers graced by monsoonal moisture. When mature, they reach a size approximating that of a person’s index finger.A few days prior, I encountered this mating pair of diamondback rattlesnakes just outside my shop door. Courtship and mating in this species is a process that can go on for several days.
Another diamondback appeared here last week, a large individual. This snake is quite rotund in the latter half of its body – I’d guess that it was a gravid female. Snakes are a valuable asset here, for they are a major help in controlling rodent populations. Mice and rats in southern Arizona could win gold medals for their ability to get into vehicle engines, where they cause frequent and very expensive problems. Puffballs sprout from the floor of our mesquite bosque with great speed after summer rainfalls. Puffballs are specifically designed to work with rain. First, an initial rain is required to soak the soil. This enables the spherical mushrooms to sprout above the surface. Puffballs quickly mature, then wait for the next rainfall to facilitate their reproduction. When raindrops impact a puffball, they cause a sudden increase in internal pressure, forcing thousands of minuscule spores to erupt (or “puff” like smoke) out of the hole in the top of the mushroom. By releasing its spores only in response to falling rain, the fungus assures that freshly moistened soil is available the enhanced survival and successful growth of its offspring. Pretty cool or what?
It has been quite a while since I crafted a new post for this blog. During the past month, my life had been turned upside down with growing trepidation over the presidential election. I was not in a frame of mind conducive to writing. Now that the election is over, I feel a huge sense of relief and renewed hope. This was an election not only for the people, but one that will benefit wildlife and wild places as well.
I walked a perennial reach of the San Pedro River recently. There was a new beaver dam, just a tiny one that was still under construction. Turkey, javelina, bobcat, deer, coyote, opossum, raccoon, and skunk tracks were visible in the mud along the stream’s edges. I was intrigued to find a set of feline tracks that suggested ocelot or jaguarundi, for they were certainly not made by a bobcat and were just as surely not left by a cougar, even a very young one.
A small, new beaver dam was discovered. This one was constructed using quite a few stones in addition to the usual combination of mud and tree branches.
October has finally brought some relief from the heat that so characterized this summer…109 consecutive, record-setting days of temperatures cresting at 100°F. or higher. The nights have cooled off and crisp air now graces our mornings. Our local woodlands have quieted considerably with the departure of many migratory birds, but there have been some amazing avian happenings here this month. A very rare event happened not long after the sun had set a few weeks ago. My wife, Kathleen, and I stepped outside to listen to the nocturnal sounds coming from the mesquite forest that surrounds our home.
We heard it almost at once, a mysterious, alien-sounding voice emanating from midway up in the trees, only a few dozen yards distant. It was certainly an owl, but not a species that we had ever heard here before. On many a night, we have listened to the calls of great horned, western screech, barn, and elf owls in this woodland, but this was something new, something distinctly different. It suggested a screech owl, but both of us readily agreed that it was not “right.”
I had a growing hunch, so we went back indoors where we consulted a very useful website (xeno-canto.org), one that offers a multitude of audio files for most bird species across the globe. The first species that we chose to listen to was a bird whose range barely extends into the United States, a bird that inhabits oak and conifer habitats high on mountain slopes in extreme southeastern Arizona…
As soon as we heard the recordings, we realized we had a whiskered screech owl hidden in the darkness of the tall mesquites only yards from our home! This was an owl that should not be here, for we live far from the high mountain slopes in the floor of a low-elevation valley. I believe that a major wildfire event from this past summer may provide the answer to this enigma. Less than 20 miles distant, the Bighorn Fire torched nearly all of the mid-to high elevation habitats off the face of an entire mountain range, the Santa Catalinas. Countless birds were driven off of those mountains, subsequently appearing in nearby places where they would ordinarily not be expected. For example, my friend Woody Hume, a very capable naturalist, told me that he had numbers of western bluebirds appearing at his place of residence not long after the fire. That is a species one does not expect to see during summer in the valley floor. Other such unusual species have been reported here this year. I would not be surprised if the owl that galvanized our attention had been living high in the Catalinas and wound up here, temporarily, as it looked for a new place to live.
A fully grown praying mantis crawls across my screen door. This is a gravid female, ready to lay her egg case, as evidenced by her swollen abdomen.
October and November brings new happenings in the insect world of southeastern Arizona. It is common to find adult preying mantises at this time of year. It is impressive to see one of these three-inch, bright green insects in flight. The individual pictured is an introduced species that has become widespread and firmly established in southern Arizona and other parts of our country.
