Being grateful for what we have is a wise way to live. With the advent of this new year, I feel an urge to share a gallery of original photographs that reflect that gratitude. It is a privilege to share habitat with the rich variety of living creatures that so grace this landscape. All of the following images, with only one exception, were taken within the watershed of the San Pedro River. All of the animals were wild and free when photographed. Meet a few of the 90 species of mammals that live here…
This bobcat (Felis rufus) was sitting quietly near a gopher mound, hunting pocket gophers. Eventuallly, the cat’s patience paid off as it nabbed a gopher that made the mistake of peeking out of its burrow at the wrong time.
Trail cameras tend to render very poor quality images, but they do allow us to see things we otherwise might not, like the fire in this bobcat’s eyes. A highly reflective layer of cells known as the tapetum lucidum enables exceptional nocturnal vision for all felines. The same trailcam recorded this beautifully colored gray fox – (Urocyon cinereoargenteus) a common predator here, but rarely glimpsed because of its nocturnal habits. Gray foxes are among the very few canids on Earth that can climb trees with ease. A coati (Nasua narica) exploring an old barn. This one was unconcerned with my presence – these are not shy mammals. Coatis are native constituents of the fauna of the Sierra Madrean Ecoregion. Here, they are close to the northern limits of their range.
When mammals grow front claws to lengths like these, it can mean only one thing – that digging is a prominent part of their lives. Coatis use their flexible, sensitive noses to locate underground food sources (mostly insects, grubs, and pupae), then employ their stout claws to dig out dinner.
When they are not raiding gardens or gnawing on the electrical wires in the engine compartments of vehicles, rock squirrels (Otospermophilus variegatus) play a valuable role in the local ecology. Equally at home in the trees or on the ground, this species digs deep burrows to live in. By virtue of their relatively large diameter, rock squirrel burrows furnish secure underground retreats for a wide diversity of other creatures.
This young Mearn’s kangaroo rat (Dipodomys mearni) had become trapped in our (always empty) swimming pool. This species is abundantly distributed in the valley floor, providing food for many predators and playing a valuable role in the ecology of local native plant communities via seed consumption and seed distribution.Coyotes (Canis latrans) are amazingly adaptable – they are among the few native mammals whose ranges have expanded considerably since the occupation of this continent by Europeans and other non-native peoples. They are also widely misunderstood and unjustly vilified by many people. Is ignorance bliss? Not in the case of the coyote.
I remember how thrilled I was to see my first javelina (Tayassu tajacu) – now I see them daily roaming through our bosque. This one had just finished taking a drink from the San Pedro River.
It would be a misnomer to apply the word “cute” to an adult javelina, but with respect to their tiny young, the adjective fits like a glove. Mother javelinas are both fearless and fierce when it comes to protecting their young, as all good mothers should be.
Desert cottontails (Sylvilagus audubonii) are quite common in this river valley, but they are not often seen due to their preference for staying in or near dense cover. Unlike precocial jack rabbits, cottontails dig burrows and care for their altricial young.
A Botta’s pocket gopher (Thomomys bottae) takes a quick, furtive look at the world of light. This mammal’s life is spent almost entirely in darkness. A keystone species, its role in our local ecology is of pivotal importance. I devoted an essay to this topic in The Life of the San Pedro River.
Here is what gives nightmares to any animals that think they are safe and secure deep in their burrows. Badgers (Taxidea taxus) are enormously powerful rapid digging machines, specialized to follow rodent burrows deep underground until dinner is served. They leave many holes in their wake as they roam large territories seeking food. Badger holes often plunge below the frost line. Their large holes can fit a wide variety of other animals and are used by numerous other species for shelter or brumation / hibernation dens long after the badgers leave them.
I will follow this post with a series of additional blog posts focused on birds, ophidians, and more in celebration of this new year of 2024.
It has been a very long time since I posted a new entry on this blog. I feel that I owe my readers an explanation. Why no new blog posts? I have been deeply depressed for months – and depressed writers don’t write. In terms of what has been causing this lasting depression, it is a small avalanche of things…the unjustified furor over the most recent presidential election. The insurrection – one of the most unpatriotic acts I ever known to mar my country’s history. The widespread denial of science by millions of Americans. The pandemic – ranking the United States as the world leader in Covid deaths – an inexcusable national embarrassment. Mass shootings -another ghastly national embarrassment, as we lead all other nations on Earth by a very wide margin with respect to such violent, maniacal acts. The mounting gullibility of our populace coupled with a concerted effort by millions to divide a great nation. The horrific war in Ukraine…and there is plenty more, but I will keep the rest private.
As it has been throughout my life, the world of nature has been a source of peace, calm, reassurance, and sanity during these deeply troubled times. I am so grateful to live far away from towns and cities in a rural setting where birdsong, wildlife, a lack of crowding, and sunlight feed my soul.
So, what is going on in the Middle San Pedro River Valley lately? The landscape is very dry, even by desert standards. The usual winter rains were both scarce and weak, resulting in an entire region whose mesquite bosques sprouted no green understory plants, a valley floor bereft of the normal growth of winter grasses, perennial reaches of the river receding, and uplands nearly devoid of spring wildflowers.
The bright crimson fruits of Christmas cactus, Cylindropuntia leptocaulis, bring color to a desperately dry landscape. This species is of special benefit to wildlife, for it retains these nutritious fruits throughout autumn, winter, and into the following spring, even in a very dry year like this one. Indigenous peoples made common use of the fruits of this cactus as a food source.
As far as avian life goes, I have never witnessed such a paucity of birds here, both in terms of species diversity and numbers. Numerous migratory species, birds that I have regularly observed every spring for 20 years, simply did not appear, or appeared in very low numbers. There were no back-throated grey warblers, no orange-crowned or Virginia’s warblers, no Empidonax flycatchers. I recorded the presence of only one Townsend’s warbler during migration, and there were startlingly low numbers of normally abundant yellow-rumped warblers. Rufous-winged sparrows, a common fixture here, are entirely absent from our property this year for the first time ever. On the positive side of things, we now have three dazzling male varied buntings visiting our water dishes daily, two more than any other prior year had provided. Our resident ravens, Mike and Mavis, hatched out a clutch of four a few months ago, just 100 feet from my office window. That brood fell victim to a group of coyotes on the very first night that they left the nest. The determined parents have since built a new nest on a nearby property, a place where the landowner is very appreciative of the local wildlife. Mavis is busy incubating her second clutch of eggs in a safe place…
Even the local reptiles – especially the snakes – have been few and far between this summer. A few weeks ago, one of our local diamondbacks appeared at our bird pond to drink and grab a feathered meal or two.
This western diamondback – a familiar individual – appeared in May, visiting our bird-watering pond.I have come to recognize several of the rattlesnakes whose ranges include the area close to our buildings. My sharp-eyed wife pointed out the distinctive, fused blotches on this snake’s tail. With close observation, nearly all rattlesnakes can be recognized as distinct individuals – the patterning and shape of the blotches on the back, and especially markings on the heads and tails of rattlesnakes make it possible to readily identify individuals.I have seen diamondbacks lay in wait at the edge of our little pond, but very rarely do I see them partially submerged like this.
During the hot months in southeastern Arizona, any water source attracts wildlife of all sorts. Simply maintaining a few water dishes does wonders for throngs of very thirsty birds, reptiles, mammals, and more. Our “bird pond” is nothing more than a shallow depression dug into the ground, fed by a trickling garden hose; very simple to set up and maintain. It would take pages of text to tell all the tales of the remarkable diversity of living creatures that have availed themselves of this water source over the years.
Box turtles have come out of hiding. This one waded into the shallow pond to cool off and rehydrate itself via some long drinks.A herd of well over 20 javelina visit here daily – here a mother drinks water from the pond while her youngster suckles milk.
Last, but surely not least, as I began to assemble this new blog post on the evening of June 10th, raindrops began pelting the roof! This was no “teaser” rain, no ten-second-this-is-all-you-get rain, but a prolonged rain that wetted the dusty ground and left small puddles in its wonderful wake. This is a rare event, so early in June. Desert life benefits from the gift of every precious drop.
Winter brings many changes to the activities of our local wildlife. Mule deer move into the mesquite bosques to feed and find shelter. Last year, a magnificent buck lived here, in the company of many does. On a late December afternoon, he stepped out into the light, his neck characteristically swollen in the midst of rut, muscles rippling beneath a sleek coat of winter fur, polished antlers gleaming.
During these stressful times when so many lives are being lost due to the pandemic, it is reassuring and soul-warming to witness death’s opposite: new life coming into the world. A few days ago, I looked out my window to see a herd of javelina, some of them less than 20 feet distant, heading for our bird-feeding area. At this time of year, this group of nearly 20 javelinas visits our place every day and also during the night – seeing them was no surprise, were it not for the newcomers. Several of the adult females had tiny young in tow, varying in age from one or two days to about a week.
Baby javelinas follow closely behind their mothers. Unlike many other native mammals, javelinas do not have a set time of year to give birth, but several females have appeared here recently with newborn young.
When javelina are very young, they often remain nearly hidden beneath their mother’s bellies. They are so tiny that it is easy to miss them as a herd wanders by. I have never pictured adult javelinas as cute or endearing, but a mere glance at one of their stubby-legged babies can quickly reshape one’s views. Those little buggers are, in a word or two, downright cute. They can become otherwise as adults, fouling bird watering dishes, forcing any attempt at gardening in this valley to include stout fencing, and eating much of the bird seed that we scatter for our avian friends. On one occasion, our dog was nearly killed when it charged directly at a full grown javelina. In a split second, the dog was howling in pain as it returned at top speed with a life-threatening gash. Javelina are powerful and deceptively quick. They are well armed with a set of formidable, self-sharpening tusks. The poor little dog simply did not know any better. I did not reach for a rifle after the event occurred. The javelina was simply defending itself; in my mind, it had as much right to be on our land as we do. “Our” land is a place shared with other life. Enough said.
A javelina explores the world with its mother only days after its birth. Female javelinas are protective of their young, as all good mothers are. It is wise to give them room when very young offspring are present.
A year ago, another visitor appeared on a cool winter morning, an animal in serious distress. A hooded skunk had been lured by curiosity to the edge of an empty pool on our property, where it slid down into the bottom, only to find itself suddenly trapped. The vertical walls of that small pool are 5 1/2 feet high. Skunks are not built to be high-jumpers or cliff scalers. Normally, I keep an escape ramp positioned in the pool; a long 2×6 board. I had removed it the day prior when I had cleaned some debris out of the pool, but for whatever reason, I had not replaced it afterward. As soon as I discovered the trapped skunk, I replaced the ramp, sliding it down into the pool gently so as not to put the animal into defense mode. It did not take long for the skunk to walk up the ramp, out of the pool’s clutches.
Empty pools are wildlife traps. A simple escape ramp can make all the difference. Such ramps are also recommended for livestock watering troughs, allowing birds and other small animals a way to get out. A small amount of kindness can go a long way. Here, the hooded skunk ascends its way to freedom.
Once free, the skunk began to amble about, seemingly unruffled by its prior confinement. It was searching for food, and hardly paid me or my wife any mind as it stood less than ten feet from us. I have encountered other hooded skunks in the valley before…every meeting with these creatures had left me feeling that they were utterly inoffensive and little concerned with my presence. Some neighbors reach for a shotgun when skunks come near their dwellings. Doing so shows a distinct lack of respect for other life and a lack of knowledge when it comes to coexisting with certain wildlife. Much like rattlesnakes, skunks are shy and inoffensive, unless they feel threatened. I know that if I were as small as a snake or a skunk, I would want some potent defensive measures. The rules are simple: maintain distance between oneself and such creatures and leave them alone. Maintaining distance assures one’s self protection. Leaving the animals alone and undisturbed shows respect.
Hooded skunks grow tremendously long tail hairs, a beautiful hallmark of their species.
Skunks bring special distinction to this part of the nation, for their kind are represented by four species here: striped, hooded, hognose, and spotted. Five species of skunks inhabit the United States. Only in a small part of southern Texas, southern New Mexico, and southern Arizonado the ranges of four of the five species overlap.
The skunk was in no hurry to run away after it was free of the pool. It wandered slowly, searching for food, as we stood watching less than ten feet away. This creature was mellow, inoffensive and beautiful; never once did we think we might get sprayed.
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.
