Tag: nature

Hoodlums on Wings

Ravens and the dark side of nature

He was perched on a wooden fence post, croaking  “Tok, Tok” repeatedly and seemingly to himself. From across the road, I could see his beak opening and his crown feathers flaring with excitement. He was looking at the ground, with one set of claws on a wire and the other on the post, and there was something in the yellow grass that held his attention. Though I couldn’t see what it was, I knew it was more than likely dead or dying.

Evening Raven in Ink. Artbyzt.

Maybe this assumption came because it was October and spooky things were already on my mind. But it was more than just that. This was a raven after all, a bird who makes a living on death. I’ve spotted many of them over the years, but never with such stark contrast, set against the classic desert panorama–a landscape bathed in sunlight, full of browns and reds, distant plateaus overlaid by brilliant blue sky. The raven here seemed superimposed, like a black hole in the galaxy or a gash in a painting. He was a visual assertion that despite an abundance of warmth and light, the desert holds space for darkness.

Of course ravens are rarely just fixtures on the scenery. Always up to something, they can be brash and loud, like rocks thrown into a pond. Usually, when their attention is captured, it means some opportunity or advantage is about to be gained. I’ve never seen them as casual observers, but usually on some task, either scavenging roadside or making murderous forays into the trees, with desperate little birds hot on their tail feathers.

One day I saw a large raven steal a house sparrow chick from its nest at the top of a telephone pole. The chick’s parents were dive-bombing desperately at the raven’s head, but were finally forced to quit after the baby was pulled apart and devoured right in front of them. Adding to the savagery was the raven’s nonchalance, like a teenager eating a Big Mac.

This neighborhood bully image is supported by the raven’s size. I’m not sure if many people understand how big they really are, at least as big as a chicken, if not bigger. Ravens are similar in appearance to crows, but larger, and their beaks are more powerful and shades darker. They have feathers that are not just black, but jet black, with a bluish tint that can only be seen when the bird turns at certain angles in the sunlight. This glare creates a metallic, even spectral appearance.

Still, the raven is not just a plunderer, scavenger, murderer. Anthropomorphism aside, he is also intelligent, which adds another level of intrigue. When you observe a raven, he’s also observing and judging you. Scientists have said that ravens have the intelligence of a two or three year old child, and there is even documentation of ravens using tools (mostly sticks and rocks) to obtain food and water, which is unparalleled in the avian world. When it comes to vocalization, only parrots can outperform the raven.

A classic horror comedy: “The Raven” starring Vincent Price and Boris Karloff.

With all this, it’s easy to see why ravens have long been part of Halloween decorations, horror movies, scary stories and the darker side of folklore. The famous poem by Edgar Allan Poe depicts, in a masterful way, the perception of trickery and the feelings of dread that are possible when encountering the raven. Such moments can feel more like interactions as opposed to just mere “sightings.”

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,”Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “are sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore–Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

One such experience took place when I was a child sometime in the mid 1980’s. I was on top of a houseboat on Lake Powell in Southern Utah. It was early morning, and the water in the high-walled cove where we had anchored was dark and still. The sky was just beginning to brighten, and we awoke to the smell of breakfast cooking on the lower deck. The owner of the boat, a friend of my father, had been coming up the stairs and back down, cleaning and organizing the boat. Suddenly we heard two ravens talking to each other on the cliffs above, with deep, gravely, voices that echoed across the canyon making them seem even more supernatural.

One little boy, still inside his sleeping bag, became quiet and began to stare into the sky. He was the boat owner’s son, and after a moment he couldn’t help but ask: “What are they saying Dad?” The innocence of the question was indelible.

“They’re saying, ‘Eat Johnny,” the father replied, with a mischievous smile. We all giggled, but little Johnny remained silent, his eyes fixed upward, his body frozen with fear. It was only later in life when I realized that “Eat Johnny,” was entirely within the realm of possibilites.

Edward Abbey depicted the raven’s adaptability as one of nature’s undertakers. In “The Dead Man at Grandview Point,” he described them rising  “heavily and awkwardly” from the bloated corpse of a man who had fallen victim to the wilderness.

Raven in Ink. Artbyzt

Despite my many observations, I had never actually handled a raven until just a few years ago. My kids had barged into the house one day, wide-eyed, to tell me there was a large bird in the garage. I went out and found a raven on the floor. She appeared to be an older bird, thinning, but still with vitality in her eyes. I couldn’t immediately tell if she had any injuries, but she’d obviously had her bell rung, probably from hitting a window, or the side of the house. She must have come in through the open garage door. I put on a pair of gloves and corralled her in a corner, scooping her up and holding her wings close to her body so she wouldn’t thrash. Then I took her out to the driveway, with open sky above us, and set her on the ground to see what she would do.

She looked at me for a moment, with those dark but shiny eyes that seemed to be sizing me up and drawing me in. Then, in an instant, she took off, lifting upward with big flapping wings toward a stand of nearby trees. Soon she had disappeared into a tangle of dead limbs and shadows. Never once did she look back to thank me. There was only a sense that she had made yet another escape and seized yet another opportunity.

For the Love of Lizards: A World Lizard Day Tribute

Masters of terrain, they enliven the desert like no other animal can

On a bright summer morning, near the 4th of July, I was navigating foxtails and prickly pear cactus, making my way toward an outdoor amphitheater in a small community park in Southeastern Utah.

The heat was tolerable, partly thanks to a nearby canyon which still had shade, a small creek, and a latent pool of overnight air. After about 500 feet of meandering, the dirt path soon diffused across several big slabs of sandstone, speckled with patches of green and orange lichens.

Perhaps it was luck, or just that my eyes were already primed for color, but I happened to notice something especially vivid and alive, some 30 feet away. Whatever it was, it was perched near the back row of the amphitheater. 

As I moved closer, I began to see the big collared lizard, warming himself in the sun.

The Eastern Collared Lizard. Photo by Z. Toad. (all rights reserved)

For a moment he watched me as I stood watching him. He seemed very self-assured, but as soon as he realized my presence he was gone in a blur, disappearing into a nearby crevice. It was as good a find as any reptile enthusiast could ask for. I was struck, perhaps more than ever, by the vibrancy of his markings that, in isolation, seemed more tropical than temperate.

I’ve had many such encounters with wild lizards over the years. It’s true that sometimes they can seem ubiquitous, commonplace or even pesky, but their prominence on the landscape has made them fine subjects for art and literature and historical accounts of all kinds.

John Muir, while following sheep through the Sierra, made sure to include lizards in his warm and detailed observations:

“Lizards of every temper, style, and color dwell here, seemingly as happy and companionable as the birds and squirrels…”

“The Whiptail” by Z.Toad, colored pencil.

Edward Abbey, too, seemed to find lizards philosophically useful, and as much a part of the wilderness as the rocks and sunshine:

“The lizard sunning itself on a stone would no doubt tell us that time, space, sun, and earth exist to serve the lizard’s interests; the lizard too, must see the world as perfectly comprehensible, reducible to a rational formula. Relative to the context, the lizard’s metaphysical system seems as complete as Einstein’s.”

As for Muir’s depiction of lizards as being “companionable,” I would say this is true, at least in my experience with Western species. Even the dreaded Gila Monster is mostly a gentleman, unless provoked. (Disclaimer: Do not attempt to prove this.)

In younger days, lizard catching was a regular part of my outdoor adventures. But it was a real challenge to actually get them in your hands. Most lizards seem to have speed woven into their DNA, and the hotter it gets, the faster they become.

Still, when captured, lizards usually relax dramatically, and only occasionally will they attempt to bite, and then for just a moment or two. Releasing a lizard back into the wild is easy, and sometimes they will even pause to say goodbye before jetting off.

A striped whiptail becomes docile after capture. Photo by Z. Toad.

As for hunting techniques, I started out catching lizards like a caveman would, using just my hands or maybe my hat. But after more failures than victories, I eventually learned to use tools, including butterfly nets and fishing poles with the line tied into little slip knots at the end. Bucket traps were an option too, but riskier and probably illegal.

Not all of it was fun and games, however. After several solid captures, I realized that many lizards detach all or part of their tails while trying to escape. And there was something about seeing an amputated lizard tail, bloodied and wriggling on the ground, that made the pastime seem less appealing.

These days, I mostly just capture photographs if possible. Lizards are very keen about spotting any movement, being always wary of predators, so it’s easier to get close to them if you move very slowly.

One of the hardest species to photograph are the whiptails, because they, in particular, are full of speed, and their movements are almost bionic. They rarely hold any position for long. Despite this, they’re probably my favorite desert lizard, because they look so much like bigger monitor lizards–or even miniature Komodo Dragons. In reality, whiptails are actually more closely related to the Tegu, a large lizard native to South America.

A blue-bellied plateau fence lizard oversees his kingdom in a Ponderosa forest. Photo by Z. Toad.

Whiptails occupy riparian areas, where willow, rabbitbrush and tamarisk are common. They are also the kings of dry riverbeds and trailside clumps of Gambel’s oak and Manzanita. Their presence can often be detected by their distinctive tracks in the sand, which consist of long continuous lines flanked by tiny claw marks.

As for the species at higher elevations (mostly the fence lizards) they can be more muted in color and athleticism, but they are respectable nonetheless. They can often be spotted on the tops of boulders, doing little push-ups as a type of signal to other lizards or even intruders.

One of the most amazing of the desert dwelling lizards is the Chuckwalla. It’s a species that was often considered food for native peoples in the Southwest. Chuckwallas are known for their ability to inflate their bodies inside rock cavities, wedging themselves inside and making it nearly impossible for a predator to remove them.

A fence lizard blends in with the surroundings, including fallen leaves. Photo by Z. Toad

With all the charming, and sometimes bizarre, antics that lizards can display, it’s easy to agree they deserve recognition. And this week, August 14th, is World Lizard Day, so it just made sense to write something about them. Ultimately, lizards are so admirable because they seem unwilling to go unnoticed, especially when compared to other reptiles, like bashful snakes.

As for the collared lizard, he certainly seemed to think he was something special that day. And how could he not when his territory included an amphitheater of all things? In retrospect, it was a perfectly poetic setting–the best of backdrops for one of nature’s true performers.