From January 6 to February 3, 1979, the Voyager I spacecraft covered a distance of 27 million kilometers during its approach of Jupiter.  A selection of photos from this period, taken at the same longitude each Jovian rotation (about once every ten hours) was assembled into a time-lapse animation by the folks back on Earth (click to watch):

Voyager I approaches Jupiter (NASA).

We’re accustomed to seeing photos of Jupiter as a beautiful but silent orb, and yet here it is, chaotic and tumultuous: a living planet, with gushing arteries of atmospheric clouds surrounding the swirling vortex of the Great Red Spot (a massive storm system several times larger than the Earth itself).

Voyager I and her sister ship, Voyager II, are still out there, thirty years later.  Still talking to us.  Still travelling.  What would you see, if you had an eternity to wander the vastness of space?

Botanical drawing is a very different process from that of sketching birds.  The juggling of bins, pencil, sketchbook and other gear while following small songbirds through the foliage, coupled with the frantic pace required to capture a moving subject, tends to leave me feeling burned out after extended sessions.  Kicking back to contemplate a quiet forest scene is the yin to the life sketcher’s yang.

It also makes you a much easier target for the mosquitos.

The Pileated Woodpecker is the largest and grandest of the Canadian woodpeckers.  Even non-birders are compelled to take notice when they see one, which isn’t often, given their relative shyness and preference for large,  mature forests.  Patience and persistance is usually all one really needs to find them, but far more often I’ll simply stumble across them by chance.  Such was today’s encounter as I hiked through the Guelph Arboretum, halted in my tracks by a familiar noisy call.  A male Pileated swooped in from the depths of the woods and landed in a dead tree not fifteen feet away, where he proceeded to drum rapidly with his heavy bill.  This was not a food-gathering exercise: the bird was making it clear to any other Pileated within earshot that these woods had been claimed.  A Pileated is a big bird and requires a lot of decaying trees to keep itself and its family well fed, so territorial displays such as this become more frequent during the breeding season.  This particular hollow tree had been carefully selected for its resonant properties, and when I passed by the same spot during my return journey I again found the same male drumming on his favourite perch.

Another woodpecker that I encountered during my hike was a male Northern Flicker.  Flickers have a call that is quite similar to that of the Pileated, and many a birder has followed them through the woods thinking they about to encounter the species’ larger cousin.  The call of a Pileated is best distinguished by the variance of its pitch, which will rise and fall during the succession of wuk syllables.  Flickers, in contrast, hold a very flat, steady pitch, and will draw out their call for a much longer period.

On Wednesday, I headed out to Bruce Caves to look for warblers.  Apparently I had allowed my guard to be lowered after a relatively bug-free visit to Isaac Lake the previous morning, as I deliberately neglected to go back into the cottage and retrieve the bug spray that I realized I’d forgotten as I pulled out of the driveway.  Stepping out of the car at the conservation area, I was immediately surrounded by an enormous cloud of hungry blackflies.  My unwelcome entourage accompanied me throughout the duration of my hike, and unsurprisingly I kept the visit short.

A male Black-throated Green Warbler sang from the treetops at the head of the trail — one of the most common warblers that I encounter on the Peninsula.  Further down, a Black and White Warbler crept up and down tree trunks in his endearing nuthatch-like manner.  A few sketches were enough for me, and the woods seemed rather quiet anyway, so I beat my retreat from the swarm.  Never delude yourself: insects, not humans, rule the planet.

On Thursday morning I dropped Loki off at my parents’ place (he loves road trips, but camping is a little rustic for a parrot) and drove down to Rondeau for two days.  Things were very slow in the park, and although there was a good variety of migrants, finding them took a lot of effort.  Compounding the problem were the vast numbers of Yellow Warblers, chipping and chasing one another about.  They’re pretty, lively birds, and delightful enough to have around, but after raising the bins for the hundreth time to find you’re looking at yet another Yellow Warbler you can’t help but sigh!

Magnolia Warblers were the second most common warbler I encountered in the park, though by no means abundant.  Their bold plumages are a delight to sketch, as distortions in markings can be one of the easiest ways to suggest the form of a bird.

Canada Warblers have a plumage that is similar to a Magnolia, and in my mind are even more handsome.  I love seeing these warblers head-on, as it makes the crescent of yellow that arcs over their lores look like their eyebrows are sliding off.  Wilson’s Warblers, on the other hand, lack any bold markings save their little black cap, making them resemble a small and sunny yellow catbird.  Combine this with their big black eyes, and they have the sweetest face of any warbler.

Waterthrushes can sometimes be tough to get close to, as they like to inhabit dense, bug-infested swamps and bogs.  Fortunately, the moderating effect of Lake Erie on the Rondeau climate keeps the blackflies at bay much later in the year than elsewhere in southern Ontario.  It also has the added benefit of encouraging the trees to leaf out late, making warbler watching a good deal less frustrating.

My target species for the trip, however, was one of our rarest and most spectular Canadian warblers.  The Prothonotary Warbler is named for the prothonotary clerks of the Roman Catholic Church, who were known to don golden-hooded robes.  They are one of only two wood warbler species to nest in cavities, and are pretty much exclusively found in wooded swamps and sloughs.  Habitat loss has led to a decline of the species across their northern range, and they are now listed as endangered in Canada.  Rondeau is one of the few places in Ontario where they still breed, and my chances of spotting one were quite good.  Sure enough, a male who had been regularly checking out the nest boxes along Tulip Tree Trail appeared in the early afternoon on Friday, enthralling a large group of birders and photographers who had gathered on the boardwalk.  He stuck around for a good twenty minutes, probing under tree bark with his long warbler beak and chasing off any Yellow Warblers that ventured too close.  I’d been concerned that, when I saw him, I’d mistake him for another Yellow, but no need.  This is one brilliant golden warbler, and my sketches certainly do not do him justice.

It’s been a long and tiring week, most of it spent happily outdoors chasing spring migrants.  My first excursion was north to the Bruce Peninsula, where I spent a morning at Isaac Lake wildlife sanctuary.  Being only May, and being mid-week, I had the entire reserve to myself — to wander the gravel road that passes through the marsh and seek out breeding birds.

As I returned to my car down by the bat boxes, a Belted Kingfisher swooped past with a dry rattle, landing in a nearby willow overhanging the water.  The bird’s slatey blue and white plumage immediately identified him as a male.  For once, it is the female, with her rusty belly band, that gives the species its name (an example of reverse sexual dimorphism).  I’ve often wondered if her more colourful plumage is in fact misinterpreted my human observers as such, with the ‘belt’ serving a more practical purpose (breaking up her form, perhaps), or if the male is indeed more colourful to avian eyes (most birds can see colours well into the ultraviolet spectrum, and many seemingly dull species are known to blaze in ultraviolet light).  But a look at the other two North American kingfishers — the Ringed and the Green — seems to dispell this, as in both species it is the males that sport rusty feathers (or at least, in the case of the Ringed Kingfisher, more extensive rusty colouration).

Belted Kingfishers are common birds along waterways throughout North America, and will remain in the same area year round if the water remains open.  Their nest is located at the end of a burrow, which can be up to fifteen feet deep and is excavated by the birds themselves in a suitable embankment.  Good nest sites and good fishing sites are not always found in close proximity, so the pair may maintain two territories — one to feed, and one to raise the young.  I spotted a kingfisher nest at Isaac Lake a couple of years ago from the viewing platform, sitting just above the water along the banks of the pond.  Territorial as they are, any kingfisher spotted in the sanctuary at this time of year would have to be a permanent resident, so it’s entirely possible that the burrow belonged to this particular male and his mate.  I’ll have to keep a look out for this year’s nest site come June.

I never did make it to Long Point this past weekend.  Saturday I had to work, and a late night out spoiled my plans to rise well before dawn the next morning and make the two hour drive to the park.  So after sleeping in on Sunday I headed out to the Currie Tract near Campbellville, to see what I could rustle up.

Trillium and Dandilion

Currie is an excellent spot for breeding Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, Indigo Buntings and Scarlet Tanagers.  It was still just a touch too early in the season for the latter two, but there were plenty of grosbeaks chasing one another about and warbling in the sumacs.

Unlike Pine and Evening Grosbeaks (two finch species also found in Ontario), Rose-breasted Grosbeaks are members of the Cardinal family.  Their cheery songs are quite robin-like, though clearer and slightly speeded up.  As birds of the forest canopy, they are easily overlooked, and often the only indicator of their presence is a creaky, distinctive squik that reminds me of a Downy Woodpecker’s call.

Down along the trail, I came across a pair of Eastern Towhees foraging on the ground.  Although they don’t look it, towhees are actually very large sparrows (Emberizids), and they tend to be among their family’s worst offenders for skulking about in thick cover where one can never get a good view.  Apparently no one had ever told this to the male of the pair, however, and he seemed largely oblivious to me as he kicked up leaves in search of a meal.  Several times I lost sight of him as I followed along, only to have him pop out less than a dozen feet away along the path.

While in the area, I decided to check out a nearby abandoned swimming hole sunken into a slope of limestone where I knew a Prothonotary Warbler had turned up the year before (still an empty tick on my life list).  I spotted a Canada Goose quietly paddling away from me as I arrived, and idly wondered if his uncharacteristic silence meant that a nest was nearby, but as a quick scan of the pond didn’t reveal anything I thought nothing more of it.  Circling around to the top of the rock face, I noticed first one, then two, then twelve Painted Turtles sunning themselves on the windfall trees and old floating tires.  A pair of Northern Water Snakes draped themselves over the rocks by the shore, occassionally dipping their heads into the water to look for prey.  The larger of the two was a good three feet long and looked as big around as my wrist, although generally harmless (I’m an incurable arachnophobe, something that bothers me in principle as much as the actual phobia, but snakes I’m thankfully rather fond of).

While I was herp watching, a pair of Eastern Phoebes swooped down to paste beakfuls of mud on the rock face just above the pool where they were constructing their nest.  I was about to start another page of sketches depicting the acitivity when suddenly I noticed, right smack dab in the middle of the pond, the rounded form of a Canada Goose atop her nest.  Now that I knew that she was there she seemed glaringly obvious, and yet the brooding bird, with her head pressed low to the surface of the water, was so effective at disrupting what my brain would normally have recognized as goose that I had completely overlooked her for the entire forty-five minutes that I had been standing there.  I knew that she would not move so long as I was in the vicinity, and aware that her eggs might need turning, I left her and her mate in peace.  It’s surprising, the things you don’t see — even when you think you’re looking.