linda spielman

Wild Turkeys

It’s a familiar sight these days: a flock of wild turkeys foraging in a distant field. Wild turkey populations have rebounded from a low point in the early twentieth century (caused by overhunting and habitat loss), and the birds have successfully reoccupied and even expanded their original range.

Turkeys spend lots of time on the ground, so we’re likely to see tracks as well as other evidence of their activities. With widths of 4 to 5 1/2 inches, turkey prints are too large to be mistaken for most other birds, and they also differ in structure from all but a few. The turkey track in the photo below has three forward-pointing toes which come together at a metatarsal pad. But unlike the tracks of birds like robins and sparrows there is no backward-pointing toe touching the ground for its whole length. Instead, turkeys may (more on the uncertainty in the next paragraph) have a spur situated higher up on the back of the leg. If you look in the lower part of the photo between the round impression of the metatarsal pad and the multicolored stone you’ll see the mark made by the spur. Because the spur indentation is angled to the right side we know that the track in the photo was made by the left foot. Canada geese differ from turkeys in having webbed feet and outer toes which curve inward. The three forward-pointing toes of the great blue heron can sometimes resemble those of the turkey, but instead of a spur the heron–like the robin–has a backward-pointing toe that usually touches the ground for its whole length and is almost as long as the other three.

Male turkeys are larger than females, so their tracks fall in the upper part of the size range. Another difference between the tracks of males and females is the development of the spur. Both sexes are born with small spur buttons on their legs, but the spurs of tom turkeys grow vigorously in the first few years of the bird’s life. In females the spur initials may develop into smaller spurs, or they may not grow at all. The size of the track in the photo–5 1/8 inches in width–plus the robustness of the spur indentation indicates that it was made by a male turkey.

In the next photo you can see two prints which measured 4 3/8 and 4 1/2 inches in width and lacked spur marks, indicating that they were made by a hen turkey. Even though there aren’t any spur marks it’s easy to tell left from right tracks, because the outer toe of a turkey is longer than the inner toe. In the track at the lower left the toe which points straight up is larger than the one which points to the right and slightly downward, so it’s a left print. At the upper right there’s a right track, with a larger outer toe (the one angled to the right) and a smaller inner toe (pointing upward and a little to the left). But beware: these differences are most clearly expressed on level, moderately firm substrates at modest speeds, and may not be as reliable under other conditions.

Spring is mating season for turkeys, so in addition to tracks you may find signs of the mating displays of the gobblers–strange undulating grooves like the ones in the next photo. These marks were made by the tips of the wing feathers as a tom turkey moved from upper right to lower left with its wings arched out and down. It left a few tracks at the lower left. And my dog added a few prints of his own to the composition.

A displaying turkey (shown in the photo below) is an amazing sight. In addition to spreading and dragging its wings, the gobbler fans out its tail, erects its body feathers, and shows off the engorged flesh on its head and neck. Several strutting toms may jostle around each other while the hens stand nearby observing and assessing. Those which pass muster will be able to mate, and in a month or so their offspring will begin to move around under the protection of their mother.

Birds are meticulous about caring for their feathers, and one way they do this is by taking sand or dust baths. Turkeys are no exception. A turkey in need of a dust bath seeks out a patch of dry soil and scrapes out a depression with its feet. It then lowers itself to the ground and rolls from side to side using its wings to throw dust over its body. At the same time the bird is fluffing its body feathers, spreading its tail, and even rubbing its head in the soil. When sufficiently coated with dust the bird rises and shakes itself off. It’s thought that dust bathing removes excess oil from the feathers and kills parasites. Good dust bathing areas are used repeatedly, leaving hollows like the one in the photo below. Feathers or scat are sometimes found around bathing sites, but the main species identifier is size. Turkey dust baths are usually more than a foot in diameter, while those of grouse or pheasants measure less than a foot.

Turkeys are one of those creatures that have returned to our northeastern forests after a long absence, and they’re well adapted to our habitats. They eat a wide range of foods, from seeds and nuts to insects and small vertebrates. They are strong fliers and powerful runners, and they are notoriously wary of potential danger. Beyond the occasional distant sightings we’re more likely to see tracks and sign than the birds themselves. But the occasional window into their lives is always a welcome find.

Sweet-Toothed Squirrels

It’s sugaring season, and the sweet bounty of spring is flowing. In sugarbushes all over the Northeast people are busy collecting the sap of sugar maples and processing it into maple syrup and other maple products. But we aren’t the only ones harvesting tree sap. Squirrels are also busy tapping trees, and the sugary nourishment makes an important addition to their spring diet.

You’ll find squirrel taps like the ones in the photo below on thin-barked branches or small trees. Black birch–pictured in the photo–and sugar maple are the most commonly tapped trees in the northeast, but they’re not the only ones. Sap containing sugars and other nutrients flows in all trees in late winter and spring when conditions are right. Sue Morse has documented squirrel taps on 23 different tree species.

To make a tap a squirrel turns its head sideways and uses its incisors to bite into the bark deep enough to penetrate the outer layers of sapwood. Sometimes, as in the photo below of a squirrel tap on a sugar maple, the resulting gouges make a dot-dash pattern. The dot is the spot where the upper incisors were anchored, and the dash is the cut made by the lower incisors as they were drawn toward the upper ones.

Both red and gray squirrels (and possibly also flying squirrels) make sap taps. Red and gray squirrels have been observed moving around in trees making numerous bites in rapid succession. But instead of licking the sap immediately they use a more efficient method, waiting until the water has evaporated and then returning to consume the crystallized maple sugar.

The squirrel tap on black birch in the next photo may have started as a simple dot-dash pattern, but it didn’t stay that way. It looks like the squirrel kept biting at it to make an irregular wound. The green surfaces are the cambium, the thin layer of living cells that produce wood and bark during the growing season. Just beneath the cambium is the wood formed in the previous summer. Its xylem cells are no longer alive, but they are connected end-to-end to form long tubes, and this is where most of the sap flow is located. Depending on the conditions, sap may also flow in the phloem cells of the most recently formed bark, located just outside the cambium. Once exposed, cambium tissue rapidly dies and turns brown, so I must have come upon this tap very soon after it was made. In the lower part of the photo you can see some dark brown bites that were made earlier in the same season.

Stems that are heavily tapped can take on a ragged appearance, as in the next photo of taps on black birch.

Once the growing season begins the tree attempts to heal the wounds. Cambium cells proliferate around the edges of the bared wood, and new callus tissue grows inwards. Small cuts may be covered in the first summer, but larger scrapes take longer. Tapping over several years can result in trees and branches covered with numerous callused scars, like those in the photo below of black birch.

So how does one find squirrel taps? Vigorous trees with plenty of exposure to the sun are preferred by the furry harvesters because they produce sap with high concentrations of sugars. Since most taps on large trees are too high for us to see from the ground, we’re limited to small trees or larger ones that have suitably low branches. But even if we find a big, healthy sugar maple with low branches it may not have any taps, because squirrels are choosey about the trees they tap. Individual trees may taste different because their chemical profiles aren’t exactly the same. Fortunately, wounds created by squirrel taps persist for months or even years, so if you locate a promising tree you may find evidence of sweet-toothed squirrels long after sugaring season is over.

When the Snow Gets Deep

One of the challenges in a winter like the one we’ve been having is tracking in deep snow. Our native animals are mostly well equipped to cope with such conditions, but the evidence they leave can be mystifying–animals may change their habits, tracks and trails may look very different, and the details we generally rely on for identification may be absent. But the lives of animals are still written in the snow. To read these stories we just need to acquire some new reference images and expand our tracking skills.

A red fox made the trail shown below. In the deep snow the direct register walk was the most energy efficient gait, each hind foot coming down in the hole made by the front foot on the same side. Compared to walks in easier conditions the fox’s steps were shorter and its trail width was greater. The animal lifted its feet cleanly out of the snow, leaving just a few drag marks.

The direction of travel, from bottom to top, is revealed by the sprays of snow which fell off the feet as they rose out of the holes and moved forward. Whether animals are walking or moving at faster gaits–as long as their movements are regular and smooth–snow falling from their feet usually lands ahead of the tracks. Only during sudden acceleration or changes of direction do we see snow pushed backward or to the side.

A coyote walking from left to right made the trail in the next photo. The snow was less consolidated so there’s a softer appearance to the trail. The details in the track floors are obscured by the snow that fell in as the feet were lifted out, and the animal’s feet skimmed the soft surface leaving drag marks. Looking down into the holes (which is always a good idea in this kind of situation) we can see the shapes of the forward edges of the animal’s feet. The overall shape of a coyote’s foot is oval or egg-shaped, but how should we describe just the front half? The best I could come up with is parabolic or bluntly arched. Whether or not there’s a word for it, this shape is characteristic of coyotes and red foxes, and also some dogs. And there’s another feature that is typically canine: in the very tip of the hole on the right you can see two small dents made by the leading claws–a dead giveaway for a red fox or coyote. Gray foxes usually have more rounded leading edges and less tendency to show claw marks. Being shorter legged than red foxes, gray foxes are more likely to leave drag marks, and dogs are also prone to dragging their feet.

These two trails illustrate the general appearance of canine trails in deep snow. Because walks in deep snow tend to be very close to direct register it may be possible to get rough measurements for track widths, and this, plus stride or step length, can help to separate coyotes from red and gray foxes.

Bobcat trails in deep snow may be quite different from canine trails. In the photo below a bobcat walked from bottom to top, and at each step it spread its feet as they went down into the snow, creating a sequence of interlocking triangles. As usual, snow obscured the details of toes and pads at the bottoms of the holes, but in the lowermost impression you can see that the forward edge of the track is widely crescent-shaped rather than parabolic.

Sometimes animals negotiating deep snow move faster, perhaps out of fear or maybe just playful antics. In the photo below a red fox bounded from upper left to lower right, leaving holes where its body went in up to its shoulders. There may not be much information inside the holes, especially if the snow is loose and movable as it was when the photo was taken, but their width provides a rough measure of the width of the animal’s body. The level of effort required for this kind of movement means that it can’t be sustained for long periods, so following the trail either backwards of forward will probably bring you to a change of gait.

In spite of their long legs, deer are not well suited for moving in deep snow. Their feet are small in proportion to their body weight, so they sink in deeply. Deep drag marks like those in the photo below are typical, and sometimes the tips of the toes can be seen at the bottoms of the holes.

In deep snow deer may limit their movements to trails they’ve already made, such as the one in the next photo, where they can move with less effort. If the difficult conditions persist the animals may limit their movements to very restricted areas which become crisscrossed with trails. These deer yards are usually found under conifers, where the snow isn’t as deep and the evergreen foliage traps heat. When deer yard up the available browse is quickly eaten, so they eat very little, reduce their activity, and wait out the winter.

For short-legged animals like porcupines, skunks, and muskrats the only option in deep snow is to bulldoze their way through. In the photo below a skunk struggled from upper left to lower right, its body plowing through the snow and its feet punching deep holes in the bottom of the groove. The small pits made by the feet, combined with the short strides and wide trail width are good indicators of the animal’s identity.

When temperatures fluctuate or sun melts the surface, snow can develop an icy crust. Sometimes this reduces the problem of movement, allowing lighter animals to move easily over the surface. But if the hardness of the crust varies or the animal is just a little too heavy, we may find scenes like the one in the photo below. A coyote attempting to cross a drift found that it wasn’t always supported by the crust. Where it broke through it left crisp outlines of its lower legs and spread toes.

Like other animals, rabbits and squirrels can plunge deeply into snow, and this can make it hard to identify their tracks. But the difference in the positioning of the front feet usually provides a clue to the animal’s identity. The next photo shows a cavity made by a gray squirrel bounding from lower left to upper right. Inside the hole there are two depressions, each one made by a front foot and a rear foot from the same side. The wide separation of the depressions and the equally wide entry and exit disturbances give the hole a boxy or rectangular shape.

Compare that to the next photo of a rabbit in deep snow, also bounding from lower left to upper right. Because the rabbit brought its front feet down on or close to the center line of the trail, the entry point (at the lower left) is narrow. The rear feet made a wide depression in the deepest part of the hole and left separated drag marks coming out. The result is a triangular cavity with the wide end opening toward the direction of travel.

Maybe the biggest hinderance to learning how animals move in deep snow is just getting out into the stuff. You’ll need snowshoes or skis, or at the very least good gaiters, to get close to the tracks. But if you spend some extra time arranging all your gear you’ll be rewarded with a deep look into the lives of animals in deep snow.

Fisher Frolics

After a long absence fishers have returned to our northeastern forests and made themselves completely at home. These medium-sized members of the mustelid family can travel miles in a single day at their habitual loping gait, shown in the photo below (direction of travel toward the upper right). At the lower left you see four separate prints; the sequence, starting at the left, is left front, left rear, right front, right rear. The next set is also made up of four prints, but it looks like just three because the left rear fell mostly on top of the right front. By the way, the arrangement you see on the ground is not the same as the order of footfalls, which is left front, right front, left rear, right rear for both groupings.

The addition of fishers is a benefit for our ecosystems, but aside from that, having fishers in the woods makes for some interesting tracking. If you follow fisher trails you may come upon spots, such as the piece of wood in the next photo, where the snow has been strangely disturbed and smoothed. A fisher came in from the left and rubbed its belly over the wood, depositing chemical signals from the scent glands in its skin. Fishers usually choose protruding objects for marking, and the process can involve some amazing bodily gyrations. Rubs are sometimes topped off with a little urine or scat, and the finished creations serve to communicate territorial claims or availability to potential mates.

Fishers are drawn to trees, and when travelling they often move from one tree to the next to investigate for the presence of squirrels, one of their principal prey items. So it’s no accident that the fisher that made the trail below headed directly to a tree. The animal was travelling at a double-register bound, leaving a string of paired impressions separated by relatively long spaces. A bounding fisher covers the spaces between tracks in graceful arcs and lands on its front feet almost, but not quite, simultaneously. As it lands it draws its body into a tighter curve, and the front feet lift off just as the hind feet come in to land where the front feet were. The animal then takes off from its hind feet in another arcing leap. By bringing the hind feet into the same holes made by the front feet the fisher conserves its energy when travelling in deep snow. Note that one of the impressions leads the other, and that the two hollows are close together and relatively large. Squirrels, and most other animals, also alter their gaits in deep snow for more efficient movement. If a squirrel had bounded toward the same tree its trail would also be a sequence of double impressions, but each hollow would be smaller and the two would be mostly even with each other and more widely separated.

Fishers are expert hunters. It’s rare to find a kill site, but it’s not uncommon to find a trail that reveals a successful hunt. In the photo below the prints of a bounding fisher go from left to right across the middle of the frame. Above each group of tracks you can see a slightly curved line carved into the snow. The fisher was carrying a prey animal in its mouth, probably gripping the back of its victim. Something dangling to the side, a foot or an ear, brushed the snow each time the fisher landed. Such marks can fall outside the trail or within it, but they always occur at regular intervals in synchrony with the predator’s gait. Random gouges made by wind-blown leaves or other objects may fall in or near a trail, but they don’t repeat in synchrony with the track groups the way the marks of a prey item being transported do.

Winter is mating season for fishers, and when a male and female come together the story is recorded in the snow. If you come across a wild-looking collection of tracks like those in the photo below check for size differences. Male fishers are generally almost twice as large as females, and their tracks reflect their greater size. In the photo, male and female tracks are mixed together near the tree, but the smaller tracks of the female can be seen by themselves at the lower left. This female was probably receptive (not always the case) because their prints were mixed together over a wide area.

Looking carefully I found some nice prints, shown in the next photo, which showed the size difference. A small female track lies to the left of a much larger male track, both heading from left to right.

I’ve already mentioned the fisher’s affinity for trees. The animals are excellent climbers, able to scale vertical tree trunks to get into hollows sheltering squirrel nests or attack porcupines clinging to upper branches. A fisher’s rear feet can rotate 180 degrees, allowing it to grip with its rear claws when descending head-first. You may find fisher trails that lead to and end at trees the way squirrel trails often do. And sometimes, if the snow is deep and soft, you might find a place where a fisher skipped the downward climb and leapt from the tree trunk. In the photo below a fisher jumped from a tree outside the frame at the upper right and landed in the upper right quadrant. There’s a rectangular hole made by the fisher’s body with four pits at the corners made by its four legs. To the right of the hole its tail made a curved gouge. Its first bound can be seen in the lower left quadrant.

When trailing fishers you might have to keep at it for a while–it’s amazing how much distance the animals can cover in a single hunting or mate seeking episode. But if you’re persistent you’ll be rewarded with fascinating evidence of of their daily activities.

Sorting Out the Small Rodents

Rodents are considered one of the most successful groups of mammals, so it’s not surprising that the northeast hosts many different kinds. They range in size from the tiny woodland vole (weighing an ounce or less) to the beaver (50 pounds or more). The small ones dominate, both in abundance and in their potential to confuse. Most of these little creatures are active in winter, so it’s a perfect time to get a handle on their distinguishing features.

The photo below shows a set of prints made by a red squirrel bounding from left to right. The five-toed rear tracks are nearly even with each other and set widely, their three middle toes parallel and their inner and outer toes diverging. The four-toed front tracks are set more narrowly and staggered, and their four toes are slightly splayed. Behind the toe impressions, the middle pads of both front and rear feet (analogous to the bumps over the knuckle joints in your palm and the ball of your foot) appear as clear indentations. The heel pads of the front tracks (like the heel of your hand) show in both right and left front prints, and the heel area of the right rear track (analogous to the heel of your foot) is a smooth elongation behind the middle pads.

Here’s a chipmunk group of four, with the direction of travel this time toward the top. The left front and rear tracks are partly superimposed, but the similarity to the tracks in the first photo is plain to see. This is what I call the rodent foot plan, and once you absorb it you’ll recognize it in other small rodents, including squirrels, chipmunks, mice, and voles.

But there are some variations which–if available–can be important in pinpointing an identification. The photo below came from the bounding trail of a southern flying squirrel, an animal similar to a chipmunk in body size (although lighter in weight). Compare the middle pads in the right rear tracks (the farthest to the right in each photo): in the chipmunk they’re well separated and form a sharp curve. The middle pads of the flying squirrel are closer together and form a gentle crescent.

If your reaction to that is, ‘you’ve got to be kidding!’ you’re not far off base. It’s a real difference, but snow conditions are rarely perfect enough to see that kind of detail. So how often can we be sure which small rodent made the tracks we’re seeing? Quite often, it turns out, because we have two additional diagnostic tools: trail width and habitual movement patterns. The tracks in the photo below, a white-footed mouse bounding toward the upper right and a gray squirrel bounding toward the lower right, are similar arrangements but are vastly different in size. In this case it’s easy to know which is which, but for less obvious differences, such as red squirrel versus gray squirrel, measurement of the overall width of the pattern, known as the trail width, can really help.

To measure the trail width of a bounding animal, imagine or mark lines parallel to the direction of travel which touch the outermost parts of the two rear tracks. Below you’ll see the same photo with lines delimiting the trail widths. Next, measure the distance between the two lines. The nice thing about this is that the trail widths of our most common small rodents fall into a simple size progression. In inches, trail widths for white-footed and deer mice measure 1 1/4-1 3/4; chipmunks, 1/1/2-2 3/4; red squirrels, 3-4 1/2; and gray squirrels, 4-6. At 1 3/4-3 inches the trail width for southern flying squirrels is similar to that of chipmunks, and northern flying squirrels, at 2 3/4-4 1/4 inches, overlap on the low side with red squirrels. Although trail width can be determined for any gait, the bounding gait so common in small rodents is especially suited to this measurement.

Habitual movement patterns are another useful tool for identifying small rodents. In the next photo a gray squirrel bounded at a good clip from bottom to top, leaving groups of four prints separated by relatively long distances. In each group of four the landing tracks of the smaller front feet are behind the take-off tracks of the larger rear feet. Bounding trails of red squirrels and chipmunks are similar in overall proportions. It’s not that these animals always make long leaps. If they’re moving slowly the distances between the groups of four can be smaller, and the hind feet may not pass as far ahead of the front feet. Compare the arrangement of the gray squirrel prints in the previous photo with that of the slower moving red squirrel in the opening illustration. The point is that the habitual travelling movement of these animals creates trails with characteristic four-track groupings and relatively large spaces between groups.

Compare the pattern above to the next photo, the trail of a southern flying squirrel, bounding from lower right to upper left. In this trail the larger rear prints are behind the smaller front ones, and the distance between the groups of four is smaller. In the trails of northern flying squirrels the rear tracks are often ahead of the front, but both species of flying squirrels have sacrificed strength for lightness and aerodynamic design and are unable to match the long leaps of their non-gliding relatives.

Snow depth can affect the foot placement of bounding rodents. To the white-footed mouse that made the tracks in the photo below the snow was fairly deep, so the groups of four are reduced to sets of two, each of the paired impressions made by sequential impacts of front and rear feet from the same side. All of the rodents I’ve been discussing do this when deep snow makes it more energy efficient. But even in these reduced patterns trail width can still be measured, as long as we make sure we’re looking at the actual tracks and not the larger openings around them. And like squirrels and chipmunks, mice make shorter leaps when moving less energetically. An example of mouse trails with consistently shorter leaps can be seen in the opening photo of last month’s article.

Meadow voles are chunkier and have shorter legs than white-footed mice, so they can’t make long leaps, but their trails are roughly as wide as those of mice. It’s not always easy to tell whether a bounding trail with short leaps was made by a vole or a mouse, but if the trail goes on long enough differences usually show up. A vole’s foot placement is rarely as even and foursquare as that of a mouse, and voles tend to make frequent shifts in gaits. It’s not unusual for an individual vole trail to vary among lopes, bounds, trots, overstep walks, and scurrying gaits that are difficult to categorize. In the next photo there’s a partly roofed vole tunnel meandering between the lower right and the top center. A vole traveled from the left side of the frame toward the tunnel in a bounding gait, with typical short leaps and uneven foot placement. The thin line in the center of the trail was made by the tail.

If you’ve made it this far in this treatise, you may feel like your brain is reeling. Believe it or not, I had to leave out many details, and I haven’t even addressed the issue of distinguishing small rodents from other small mammals. The important thing is to get started. Every time you work through a small rodent puzzle you’ll learn more. So be patient and persistent, and enjoy the eureka! moments when a few puzzle pieces fit together to form part of the larger picture.

Animal Artists

Nature is the original artist. Whether it’s the pattern of ice crystals in a frozen stream or a flock of birds wheeling together in the sky, we’re surrounded by striking compositions. And animal tracks are no exception. I’ve been photographing these works of art over the years, and I’d like to share some of my finds with you. For each one I’ll also include my deductions and speculations on how it came to be.

Those are mouse trails (deer mouse or white-footed mouse) that seem to pour out of the upper right corner of the photo below. In each trail the deeper landing spots are connected by lighter tail marks. The indistinct trail farthest to the right is older than most of the others. To the left of that one is a trail (superimposed on another older one) that looks like it is heading uphill, based on the shorter jumps and the angles of the tracks. The next one to the left (mostly centered in the photo) seems to be a single passage, and a few tail marks that go to the side (check out the small mark above the lowermost landing spot) tell me that the mouse was going downhill. The trails farther to the left are combinations of at least two passages, and it’s hard to say which way the animals were going. All of the trails radiate from a depression in the snow next to a tree trunk at the upper right of the photo. Openings like this allow access to spaces under the snow pack which are crucial for the winter survival of small animals.

The tracks pictured below were made in a warmer season. A toad walked through the mud and left some natural calligraphy. The direction of travel is from right to left, and the front tracks, with their four toes oriented inward, lie inside the rear ones. The curved lines were made as the trailing toes of the front feet occasionally dragged through the mud as they touched down. Toads often seem to walk on the tips of their rear toes, which is why the hind tracks look like curved rows of dots. The difference between the front and hind prints is best seen in the tracks from the left side (the lower ones) where there’s more separation between the two. At the extreme left there are two left rear tracks near one left front. It looks like the toad put its rear foot down lightly, picked it up and put it down more firmly nearer to the front print.

If you’re having trouble picturing how the feet of a toad could be positioned to make tracks like these, this photo of an American toad might help.

Snakes can also produce artistic creations. A garter snake made the designs in the sand shown below. The sinuous trail near the stones was made by simple forward movement toward the upper left. You can see several places where the tail must have lifted and the back end moved slightly sideways, leaving a ridge outside of the main groove. It’s harder to figure out what happened in the lower half of the photo. The wider flattened areas suggest sideways movement, almost as if the snake was having a good stretch. Do snakes do that?

Meadow voles bulldozing their way through shallow snow made the next work of art. You can see tiny tracks in the grooves, too many to have been made by just one passage. Tail marks show in a few places. The haphazard nature of the voles’ travel suggests they were searching for something edible, seeds perhaps.

A crow is the featured artist in the next photo. The bird landed at the lower center and walked toward the deep hole just above center. It must have dug around there, maybe in search of some edible item. (Or did it already have something that it put down and manipulated there?) It then turned to the right and took off, leaving a tail mark to the left of the hole and a pair of nearly symmetrical wing marks to the right. (If it had been landing instead, the wing marks would be next to or to the left of the hole.) There are some additional feather marks in the photo that are harder to figure out. The ones in the lower right corner that seem to drag down to the left may have been made when the crow landed. Just above those there’s another set of wing marks, and there are two more on the left side of the frame, one above and another below the tail mark. These are more of a puzzle, since they don’t seem to be connected with the landing or the take-off. Maybe the crow swooped around before it actually landed, or maybe another crow was harassing it.

I’ve saved my favorite one, a red fox track decorated with ice crystals, for the very last. This is an interesting phenomenon that occurs during very cold weather. When the track was made it would have looked normal, with a thin floor of compressed snow bordered by low walls of snow. After the fox stepped there the temperature stayed cold so the soil beneath the track, although frozen, was warmer than the air above. The warmth at ground level caused ice in the ground and the snow in the floor of the track to undergo sublimation and recrystallization. Water molecules became detached and formed water vapor, which moved upward and formed new ice crystals in the colder air just above. Since this was a slow process the new crystals had time to get much larger than the crystals in the original snow.

This same process gradually transforms solid snow at the bottom of a deep snow pack into a warren of tunnels and chambers. Remember the mouse trails in the first photo? The trails connected to an opening which gave the mice access to spaces under the snow pack created in the same way as the crystals in the fox track, by sublimation and recrystallization. You can read more about this process, called constructive metamorphosis, here.

Natural art is all around us, and expressed within this beauty are the lives and relationships of living things and the physical world they live in. It’s certainly possible to appreciate the art of nature on its own, without any deeper analysis. And if that is your inclination I encourage you to simply be open and drink in natural beauty whenever you can. But for me, understanding how nature works adds much more to my experiences of natural art. For instance, when I look at a track filled with ice crystals I both marvel at the delicate design and imagine how that design was created by water molecules drifting up from below and attaching to crystals at higher levels. I revel in both the beauty and the finely tuned interactions that produce it.

Looking On The Bright Side

The leaves are down, and the colorful spectacle of autumn is behind us. The forest has gone from a kaleidoscope of color to a narrow spectrum of browns and grays. But wait, what’s that pale streak glinting among the tree trunks? If you look closely you can see it in the center of the featured photo. Moving closer we can see that it’s a buck rub, bright wood laid bare by a hormone-driven male deer. This is rutting season for whitetail deer, and the bucks are roaming the landscape seeking receptive does. They leave their calling cards on living trees–anything from very young saplings to substantial trunks 8 inches or more in diameter. To make a rub the animal lowers its head and rakes its antlers up and down against the stem. Rough areas around the bases of the antlers work like files to abrade the outer bark down to the light colored sapwood.

The photo below is a close-up of the rub in the first photo. Rubs are usually between one and four feet above the ground, and their edges are often rough or stringy. Gouges made by the short tines near the antler bases are often present–look for them just above the debarked area. The brightness of the freshly exposed wood is what attracts our attention, and it may do the same for deer. But buck rubs also carry scent messages, deposited when the animal rubs its forehead against the newly bared surface. We’re not equipped to detect these chemical signals, but to a visiting doe they convey a wealth of information about the age, health, and even individual identity of the rub maker.

The light colored areas in the photo below have also been denuded of bark, but this wood was exposed by feeding rather than by rubbing. A porcupine climbed these yellow birch trees and chewed through the outer bark to get at the cambium, the living cells that produce both bark and wood during the growing season. There’s no mistaking this example for a buck rub, but porcupine chews are sometimes found close enough to the ground to be confusing. In both cases the light wood stands out against the bark, but there are several clues that distinguish rubs from chews.

Instead of a smooth surface, wood that has been exposed by porcupine feeding is textured by tooth grooves, and the margins are more irregular, as in the photo below. The tooth marks are just deep enough to reach the nutritious tissue, and are organized with a neatness that speaks of feeding efficiency. Along the margins of chews there are often tooth marks instead of the stringy fibers that mark the edges of rubs.

Beavers, like porcupines, rely on the cambium of woody plants for much of their winter diet. Being larger than porcupines, beavers’ wider incisors give their chews a more robust appearance. And rather than climb to access food, beavers bring the food down to their level by felling trees. The beaver that felled the log in the photo below stood on its back feet to feed, anchoring its upper incisors in the bark and drawing its lower incisors upward to scrape up the cambium. It moved systematically along the log, leaving the row of shallow upper incisor digs in the bark and the longer lower incisor marks below them. Like the porcupine, the beaver penetrated just deep enough to scrape up the nutritious cambium.

Not all bark chewers show this kind of efficiency. The sumac stem below was chewed by a rabbit, and its ragged appearance contrasts with the more orderly work done by beavers and porcupines. Rabbits only feed on small stems, and their chews show varying depths of penetration with projecting splinters of bark and wood. Like beavers they are limited to what they can reach from the surface they’re standing on, but if there’s a deep snow pack or heavy snow that bends branches down, rabbit chews can be found in some surprising places.

Here’s another kind of feeding that might catch your eye in the autumn woods. Woodpeckers worked on this standing dead tree to get at the insects in the outer layers of wood. The beak strikes left pits, partially lifted slivers, and gouges (best seen on the right edge of the tree). This kind of woodpecker work can be located at any height, and may even be found on downed logs, but unlike the previous examples, it only occurs on dead trees.

Here’s a final example of eye-catching brightness. As the weather gets colder, squirrels leave their leafy tree-top dreys and make nests in hollow trees or other protected places. They gather fibrous bark for nest lining, and in the process, leave freshly debarked wood for us to find. The dead, fallen branch in the photo below was stripped of its fibrous inner bark by a squirrel. Although there’s a vague resemblance to a buck rub, the position of the branch and its non-living status indicate squirrel work rather than deer.

When squirrels harvest fiber from woody plants they may leave another clue. In the photo below you can see the paired marks of a squirrel’s incisors. Much of the bark removal is done by pulling up long strips, but occasionally the squirrel leaves a bite mark as it grasps the bark with its teeth.

Squirrel stripping is also found on living stems–I’ve seen it on honeysuckle and red cedar–and these are more likely to be mistaken for buck rubs. But areas shredded by squirrels are often in places a deer wouldn’t be able to reach, higher on a trunk, within multi-stemmed shrubs, or on stems guarded by projecting branches. Deer prefer sites with straight stems and unobstructed approaches, and any small branches or twigs are usually broken off by the vigorous action of making a rub.

I love this time of year–the leaves are down, and I can see for greater distances through the trees. Many signs of animal activity are hidden by fallen leaves, but others have become more visible. And every once in a while a bright patch shining among the duller tones draws me in and opens up a new and interesting discovery.

Bounty From Above

The season is turning, and red squirrels are obsessed with gathering food stores for the winter. They will rely primarily on the cones of spruce, fir, and pine–and to a lesser extent on larch, eastern hemlock, and white cedar–for survival over the coming months. The squirrels’ preparations for the lean times ahead leave plenty of evidence. In the photo below the ground is littered with red pine cones. A few brown cones that fell the previous year contrast with the green of this year’s crop. When stored in a humid environment the tightly closed green cones will last through the winter without opening, preserving their precious seeds until a red squirrel pulls them apart to get at the nutritious nuggets inside.

The next photo was taken in a stand of Norway spruce, a tree that is native to northern Europe but was widely used in reforestation projects in the US during the twentieth century. Some of the trees in these plantations are large and produce copious crops of cones. The cones’ large size–some as long as eight inches–means they are a bonanza of food for red squirrels.

You can see another harvest in the photo below, this time the cones of white pine. Again, it’s the largest trees, the ones that tower over the rest of the forest, that produce the best crops of cones and attract red squirrels to harvest them.

These arrays of fallen cones don’t usually last long. After working in the tree tops to drop a supply of cones the squirrel descends and transports the bounty to an underground storage space, known as a larder. A red squirrel typically has a number of larders, often made by enlarging the natural spaces that form around large roots. Rock crevices and hollow trees may also be used, and cones are sometimes stored under fallen trees or even in abandoned buildings. Green cones stay tightly closed all winter and well into spring in these humid spaces.

The white pine cones shown in the next image were also nipped by a red squirrel, and these cones probably look more like the ones you’re used to seeing. There must have been an interruption before they could be transported to a storage cavity, because they’ve dried out and released their seeds. Our weather has been dry lately, so drying may have happened unusually quickly, making the cones useless for winter food. So if the seeds were released when the cones opened, where are they, you ask? Such a concentrated serving of edibles wouldn’t have gone unnoticed by birds and small mammals and would have been rapidly consumed.

I was curious about how the squirrels detach cones from branches. I imagined a a lot of yanking and chewing, which should have left tooth or claw indentations somewhere around the sides of the cones. But when I looked for marks, all I could find were small bits of exposed wood at the attachment sites. The photo below shows the lighter separation areas at the bases of some of the red pine cones I examined. On Norway spruce and white pine cones it was the same– all I saw were small separation wounds at the bases.

I realized I needed to see how cones are attached to twigs, and what I found suggests that nipping cones is pretty straightforward. In the next photo you see a red pine cone attached tightly to a twig. A squirrel need only bite through the attachment point by inserting its tiny incisors into the angle between the cone and the twig. This would produce a lighter colored spot at the separation point like the ones I observed on the dropped cones.

I’ve never seen this happening (how I would love to levitate to the top of a tree and watch!) but I did find a video of a red squirrel harvesting cones from a western pine, probably a ponderosa pine. You can see it here. (The clearest view starts at 2 minutes and lasts about a minute.) The squirrel perches on the branch and works from the back side of the cone, occasionally using its front feet but mostly just gnawing at the connection between the cone and the branch until the cone falls.

Finding the evidence left by these frenetic little creatures isn’t hard–just pay attention to what’s on the ground whenever you pass under conifers. You’re most likely to find signs of harvesting where there are middens (piles of discarded cone scales and cores) from previous years, since resident squirrels tend to keep the same territories year after year. And sound may guide you to a harvesting site. A falling cone lands with a thump; the bigger the cone the louder the thump. If a falling cone hits branches on the way down you’ll hear some plunks and bonks followed by a thump. Follow your ears toward the sounds and you’ll probably find nipped cones scattered on the ground and a red squirrel chattering angrily at you from high in the tree.

What’s Underfoot Makes All the Difference

I’ve been finding lots of coyote tracks lately, and as I go back over my photos I’m amazed at how different they can look from one another. It’s not that the substrates are radically different–just sand, silt, or mud. And to make my point I’ve narrowed down the gaits to just walks and trots. But still, no two tracks are alike. How can what seem like small differences in conditions give tracks such strikingly different appearances?

Moist, dense sand captured the tracks of a trotting coyote shown below, a front at the lower left and a rear at the upper right. The animal’s feet sank in just enough to show lots of details: the difference in size between the front and rear prints, the compact positioning of the toes, the greater depth toward the tips, and the alignment of the claws straight ahead. Both middle pads show only lightly, and the smaller pad of the rear print can barely be seen. In the front track there are small clumps of sand in the two leading toe impressions that were tossed there by the claws when the foot was lifted.

But all sand is not the same. In the photo below of a front print (for the sake of comparison I’ll stick with front prints for the remainder of this article), partial drying resulted in dark toe and middle pad impressions surrounded by lighter dry sand. I suspect that the sand was uniformly wet when the track was made. If the sand around the perimeter of the track had been dry when the coyote’s foot impacted, it would have lost its coherence and crumbled or flowed outwards. Instead pressure from the toes formed plates and fissures (known to trackers as pressure releases). Since nothing disturbed the track before I found it later that morning, these formations dried without disintegrating (although part of the ridge between the two leading toes did fall to the side).

In addition to the larger areas of dry sand there are tiny, light colored squiggles in the floors of the toe and middle pad impressions. These also indicate that the sand was wetter when the track was made; small bits of wet sand adhered to the coyote’s toes and middle pads (dry sand doesn’t do this), and came up as the foot was lifted. Being slightly elevated and also less dense, these particles dried faster than the packed floor of the track. You can see the same thing at an earlier stage of drying in the first image.

This kind of partial drying can often tell us how long ago a track was made. Dew creates wet soil surfaces, so tracks made early in the morning in substrates subjected to dew-fall look uniformly moist immediately after they are made. But on dry summer days the elevated parts begin to lose moisture quickly, and lighter colored halos form around the darker depressed parts of a track. As the substrate continues to dry the entire surface becomes lighter in color and the structure in the cracks and plates disintegrates, resulting in a track with softer edges and uniformly lighter color. Another round of dew-fall and daytime drying may reproduce the halo effect, but the softer edges usually give away the greater age.

The track shown below was made in dry sand, and any structure that existed within the sand disappeared with the impact of the coyote’s foot. Instead of forming plates and cracks in response to the pressure of the foot, the sand moved more like a liquid, producing soft outlines and rounded pressure releases. Although some detail was lost, the compact form of the foot and the triangular shape of the middle pad are still evident. If this track was moistened by dew-fall the night after it was made, it would look wet early the next morning and would develop a lighter colored halo as drying progressed. But the rounded edges would show that it was made at least a day earlier, when the sand was dry.

The photo below shows what fine, moist mud can do to reveal track features. The toes and middle pad are crisply outlined and show very little disturbance, suggesting that it was made at a walk. In front of and behind the middle pad (and a bit at the sides of the toes) there are impressions of the hair which fills the spaces between and around the toes and middle pad–in November, when I found the print, the coat was already thickening ahead of the cold weather to come. We even see the slightly pebbled texture of the skin, especially in the middle pad. This beautifully detailed print illustrates several important diagnostic features of coyote tracks: the trim outline with tightly held, forward pointing toes; the lack of claw imprints telling of shaping through natural abrasion; and the outline of the middle pad with its triangular forward edge and lobed trailing edge.

You may wonder why particles of mud weren’t lifted from the floor of the track the way clumps of sand were in the first two examples. After all, mud is sticky, isn’t it? It certainly is, and the stickiness shows in the narrow ridges pulled in by the toes and the middle pad. This is especially obvious in the lower edge of the left leading toe, the back edge of the right outside toe, and the back edge of the middle pad. But mud is also very fine-grained and has greater internal coherence than sand, so it doesn’t pull apart as easily, especially after it is compressed by the weight of an animal’s foot.

In the next photo the silty mud was not as wet and was much firmer, so the track is shallower and the toes and middle pad look smaller. It’s not that this coyote actually had smaller toes. It’s rather that less of the toe and pad surfaces touched the mud. Think of holding a beach ball and pressing it into soft beach sand to make a large circular impression, then compare that with pressing the ball onto a sidewalk where the contact area is much smaller. The outer toes look especially small, and the lobed trailing part of the middle pad is narrower compared with the same area in the previous photo. Another striking feature is the disturbances in the toe impressions. Cracks and displaced sections in the forward parts of the toes show that the foot pressed backwards against the substrate. These and the tiny punctures made by the leading claws suggest that the animal was moving with more energy (perhaps at an overstep walk or trot) than the coyote that made the track in the previous photo.

Finally, here’s a slightly quirky example of the way tracks can come to have different appearances. I found the print shown below on a truck trail that had been surfaced with pulverized rock quarry tailings. The coyote had walked through a stretch covered with fine white rock dust before it crossed the dried mud in the photo. The dust adhered to its feet and was deposited on the mud to make light tracks on the darker background. As in the previous photo, the toes and middle pad are relatively small and separated by wide negative spaces, but the diagnostic features of a coyote print can still be seen.

There’s so much to learn from tracks: how the track was made, what the conditions were like at the time, how old the track is, and what happened after the animal passed by. We can even get glimpses of some of the challenges in the daily lives of animals. Understanding the subtle (or not so subtle) differences in the appearance of tracks can help us to delve deeper into the myriad messages tracks carry.

River Otters: Living in Two Worlds

I’m fascinated by river otters. Well, I guess I’m fascinated by all animals, but otters hold a special appeal. We humans can relate easily to their playfulness and sociability. The otter pictured below was photographed at the Lindsay-Parsons Biodiversity Preserve in Tompkins County, New York. This expanse of ponds, meadows, wetlands, and forests is one of many protected areas managed by the Finger Lakes Land Trust. It’s open to the public and is a great place to watch otters. And even if an otter doesn’t show itself while you’re there, you’ll probably find evidence of its presence in the form of tracks, scat, or resting areas.

Photo by Scott Levine, Finger Lakes Land Trust

Scat (sometimes called spraint) is probably the most obvious sign left by otters. Their diet of fish, crayfish, crabs, freshwater and saltwater mussels, and even small mammals and birds brings with it indigestible parts which end up in fecal material. In the center and upper left of the photo below you see formed scat containing crayfish shell fragments held together by finer material. The roughly tubular shape of these deposits indicates that they are relatively recent. Under the influence of rain and weathering otter scat readily disintegrates into scatterings of the more visible parts, like the fish scales at the lower right.

Scat is an important means of communication among otters and is usually placed in significant locations, such as on trails between bodies of water, near dens, and at resting areas. Popular locations may accumulate scat of varying ages, and the collections become especially large when several otters are using the area. In the photo below large piles of scat lie in the lower middle part of the frame, and smaller deposits can be seen both uphill and downhill. The entire area has a trampled look, and in the upper part of the photo, slightly to the left of center, there’s a slight hollow that is relatively bare of debris. It looks like both a comfortable resting spot and a good lookout over the river below.

Otters are fastidious about keeping their fur in good condition, and in addition to grooming, the animals do a lot of rolling. This dry wash technique removes both grime and water, helping to maintain the insulating qualities of the coat. Rolling spots may be in conifer duff, grass, soil, sand, or even in snow. The animal that made the roll in the photo below came out of the water from the ice hole at the left. Around the edges of the roll the snow was pushed outward by the otter’s feet, and in the center it was flattened as the otter writhed on its back. There are some nice tail marks at the upper right. After it rolled the otter went right back into the water, leaving a few tracks and a body slide on the left side of the photo. There’s a great video here that shows the playful energy of a rolling otter.

Sliding is another favorite otter pastime. While the animals will occasionally slide downhill on grass or mud, sliding reaches its apogee in snow. On good snow an otter can slide down hills, on level terrain, and even up slight inclines, using its feet only when needed to keep the joyride going. And joyride isn’t an exaggeration. Otters sometimes make repeated slides, turning around and going back time after time to enjoy another go.

And then there are tracks. Otter tracks are similar to those of other members of the Mustelid family, with five toes arranged asymmetrically on both front and back feet. The animal that made the tracks in the photo below was moving from lower left to upper right. The first print at the lower left is the left front, the next is the left rear, then comes the right front and finally the right rear. This pattern of front-hind-front-hind, and the space separating the first group of four from the next group, are typical of the lope, the otter’s preferred gait. Another cogent detail is the relative sizes of the prints. The rear tracks (the second and fourth in each group) are larger than the front tracks, a feature that distinguishes otter tracks from the similar-sized tracks of the fisher. The otter’s hind feet are webbed, and the toes can spread widely to make optimal use of the webbing when swimming. There’s a hint of webbing in the right rear print in the first group shown below, but webbing doesn’t always show in tracks. And as you can see from the photo, tail marks may not be present. In fact they’re rare unless the animal is moving in deep snow.

When otters are in the area they usually leave plenty of evidence, but you may miss it unless you look in the right places. These include silty or sandy shorelines, grassy or forested stream banks, ice-covered ponds and streams, beaver dams or artificial dikes, peninsulas, and trails or elevations between bodies of water. As you observe these places you’ll get a feel for convenient travel routes, good rolling spots, and preferred resting areas. Bluffs of banks with easy access from the water and padded with soft forest duff are always good places to check and often have tracks, scat, rolls, or other evidence of otter activity. The places otters choose are often the places I’d pick for a pleasant lunch stop. Looking down on a river from such a spot I can imagine an otter emerging from the water, loping up the bank, and making a quick check of the situation. Perhaps it examines scat left by another member of its family group and adds some of its own to the collection. Or maybe it enjoys a short rest and a good roll before returning to the water for more foraging.

The aquatic part of an otter’s life is mostly hidden from us, but as soon as it leaves the water an otter leaves evidence of its life on land. Reading those messages can give us glimpses into the lives of these truly remarkable animals.