Snowy Run at Wallace State Park

We have a couple of healthy trail-running groups in the Kansas City area, but both conduct the bulk of their group runs on the Kansas side of the state line or south of the river, on the east side of Kansas City. That puts any of the group runs a minimum round trip of 1 hour and 20 minutes from my front door, and that distance usually keeps me from participating. I have to say that sometimes that bums me out.

There are advantages to being a trail runner in the northland, however. Most of the time, for example, I get the trails all to myself.

This morning I was due for a long run, but couldn't bring myself to plod 10 miles on pavement in the drizzle and fog. The trails at Smithville Lake, maintained by the Earth Riders Trails Association, would likely be closed due to mud. That left one little gem of trail running goodness: Wallace State Park.

Rocky Ford trailhead

Located right off I-35 near Cameron, Missouri, about 25 minutes from my house, Wallace State Park has enough single track trail to accomplish a 6-mile loop without any repetition. The trails hug creek beds and trace ridge lines, meandering through mature oak forest, passing by a few stands of tall pine, cedar outcroppings, and transitional habitat. The trails drain fast, so mud is rarely a problem, and they are so lightly traveled that most runs are conducted in complete seclusion.

The rocky ford

For the bulk of today's four-mile run, I created the first set of human tracks through three-day-old snow. As I went along, I tried to identify animal tracks in the snow. These included deer, opossum, turkey, squirrel, mink (see below), and a number of other fuzzies that I probably overlooked or failed to identify.

Crime Scene in the Woods

This was a fun little scene that distracted me from my run. I am given to occasional bouts of intent nature study:

Small-animal tracks in every direction, blood spattered and pooled in a swath of about 40 feet. Someone had a wild party here.

More tracks and blood, running from the trail to the creek. You can see that the predator was a low-slung mammal prone to sliding over the snow. This made me think river otter, but then I figured it was too narrow and the feet too small for that critter.

More blood. I never saw any fur or feathers, which makes me think the kill came from the creek (fish or frog, maybe). I also didn't see any different kinds of tracks that would have been caused by struggling mammalian prey.

Close-up of the predator's tracks. About 1.5 inch wide.

Another close-up of the tracks. I am going to guess that the perpetrator was a mink.

Human "sign" in the woods (made by me).

Jaeger

In the quiet space between the eye and the lens of a spotting scope, a spark of excitement leapt into my consciousness, ran down my brainstem to my spine, and settled around the pounding of my heart.

A brown bird on the water, half a mile away. Small head. Long, pointed wings. The shape reminded me of a Sabine's Gull, a bird that nests in the Arctic and spends the rest of its time over the open ocean. Some of the birds, usually juveniles making their first trip south, migrate over the center of the continent. In recent years, Sabine's Gull has become an annual fall visitor to Smithville Lake.

But this was not a Sabine's Gull.

Why? I asked myself, watching the bird ride gentle waves, its head high and alert. It's just not. Wait for it to fly.

My phone rang. It was my husband, just home from work, wondering where his wife and three-year-old daughter were. "I have a bird," I said. "It's a good one." He understands me after 15 years. The tone in my voice told him it was useless to ask when we would be home. He let me go.

Adrian played nearby. From the corner of the eye that was firmly affixed to the eyepiece of my scope, I saw her start off toward the rip-rap at the edge of the lake. "Adrian..." I breathed, warning her not to go. She ignored me. The bird raised its wings and all at once started across the lake, rising into the air. All brown at this distance. No distinctive pattern on the upper or underside of the wing. Definitely not a Sabine's Gull. It's — a — jaeger.

Until this moment, I had never seen a jaeger. Like the Sabine's Gull, this family of gull-like birds is almost exclusively pelagic, and they can even be difficult to spot from the coast. To see a lot of jaegers and see them well, one must get on a boat and travel out to sea. I have never been on a pelagic birding trip, but I have spent every fall and winter for the last ten years keeping an eye open for that one stray jaeger. Because, also like the Sabine's Gull, jaegers occasionally are found on inland lakes as they take a short-cut through the center of the United States.

The last time any jaeger species was seen in Missouri was 1996. Coincidentally, that sighting was also at Smithville Lake.

As I watched the jaeger gain altitude and, with remarkable speed, cover the entire distance of the main body of the lake (which is about one mile at its widest point), I dug back in my memory to find field marks that might help me separate the three jaeger species. But, because I have never tried to identify a jaeger before, the field marks were not lodged in my brain. I even had trouble recalling all three species by name. Parasitic ... Pomarine ... and ... and ... Long-tailed.

In their brown juvenile plumage, all three are very similar. I have heard horror stories about multiple birders seeing the same bird independently, and independently they each arrived at a different identification. Knowing the identification conundrum I was up against, I simply watched the bird and took as many mental notes as I could. And I occasionally glanced toward the shoreline to make sure my daughter had not fallen into the lake.

"Adrian, I have a really good bird here," I called.

"Good, Mom!" she said encouragingly, taking off her shoes to tiptoe across the rocks.

"Adrian, did you know you're my lucky charm?" I called. Three years earlier, when she was just four months old riding on my chest in a Baby Björn, we kicked up a Common Ground-Dove in a field near our home. It turned out to be only the sixth time that particular dove species had been seen in the state.

"Yeah, Mom," Adrian replied.

She has no idea, really, but—like the man in my life—she already knows that sometimes it's best to humor me when my eye is on my scope and my heart is in my throat.

Identification, misidentification

That first evening, I spent more than 30 minutes watching the bird fly. By then, Adrian had thoroughly soaked her clothes with lake water and we needed to go home. Before we left the parking lot, I wrote down everything I observed. After making a written description and sketching the bird from several angles, I opened my Sibley field guide, confident that I would have an identification—and immediately became lost. I had no idea what I had just seen. Parasitic Jaeger? Pomarine Jaeger? Long-tailed Jaeger? I did not know. But it was time to go home.

What is the allure of identifying a bird? Most people could care less about separating a House Sparrow from a European Starling. But for me—and a good number of afflicted others who call themselves birders—the presence of a difficult-to-identify bird can cause various symptoms including a gnawing sensation in the stomach, diminished appetite, difficulty sleeping, and lack of concentration at work.

In my case, the jaeger resulted in all of the above symptoms.

When a red sun cracked the horizon the next morning, I was standing on the shore of Smithville Lake, my scope panning furiously to keep up with the powerful flight of a bird in silhouette. I waited, heart pounding, for confirmation that my jaeger was still here, that I had re-found the same bird from the night before. At that moment, the bird accelerated toward an Osprey lazily flapping toward a cove. It strafed the large fish-eating raptor in an attempt to steal its catch. The Osprey wheeled, held onto the fish, and the jaeger—yes, still here—climbed back to a higher altitude.

I jogged along the shoreline with my scope and tripod on my shoulder, my digital SLR camera banging my hip and tangling with the strap on my binoculars. Finding a clear area of shoreline, I raised my camera into the sun and tracked the jaeger, which was following one or two Ospreys around the cove. It headed directly toward me, coming closer than I had seen it before, but it was silhouetted against the sunrise and I was determined to get a photo instead of raising my binoculars. Finally, it banked with its ventral side perfectly parallel to my camera's view. Click - click - click. I checked the photo preview on my camera's LCD screen. It was all black against the sky, but there was the tell-tale jaeger tail—rounded with one or two longer central tail feathers. At least now it was documented as a "Jaeger species".

Knowing I would have the sun in my eyes from this location for the rest of the morning, I made a fast ten-minute dash in my car to the east side of the lake, heading straight for a point that provides good views of the full length of the dam and several arms of the lake. I waited for about ten minutes before the jaeger finally flew into view. I centered it in my scope and panned as it crossed the entire distance of the lake. From that moment forward, I kept the bird continuously in my scope for over an hour.

The jaeger spent most of its time flying high above the tops of the trees on the horizon. It crossed the length of the lake many times. It dipped down to the water once, picked up a fish off the water, and stayed still on the waves while it picked at and ate the fish. Then it took off, rose into the sky, and began its patrol of the lake once again. In a heart-stopping moment, the jaeger's meandering flight became more focused and intent. It dropped low to water, and suddenly there was another gull in the scope view with the jaeger. Just as the jaeger pulled in close to the gull, the gull flared its wings with its back to me, and I gasped when I saw the bold upper-wing pattern of a juvenile Sabine's Gull. The Sabine's Gull wheeled away and the jaeger gave up the chase.

But the chance to observe the bird's behavior took a back seat to my attention to the bird's plumage. The jaeger stayed infuriatingly distant, making it difficult to interpret the colors and tones I was seeing relative to the bird's topography. I watched how color and tone of the upper wing changed when the bird was flying in a relaxed attitude, compared to sharp, banking turns or more aggressive flight. Light danced on the wing and underside of the bird, changing the way my eye perceived "white" or "buff".

Finally, the jaeger settled onto the water about 400 yards away and preened while resting. This was close enough to make out some finer details, but far enough away that some details were left to interpretation. I saw a small, dove-like head. Unstreaked breast. I scribbled notes blindly onto a small notebook while keeping my right eye pressed against my scope. The bill appeared to be one-half black, and it was small and fairly straight. I scribbled more notes. When the bird took flight once more, I had a sense that I might have been closer to a positive identification.

When I returned to my car, I pulled out my field guides, compared them to my notes, and reached a conclusion: Long-tailed Jaeger.

Uncertainty

What is worse than not knowing the identity of a bird? Thinking that you might have identified it incorrectly.

Immediately upon returning to my computer, I shared my one silhouetted image of the jaeger with the community of birders online. By the end of the day, others were calling into question my identification. I tried to stand by my original ID, but faltered in the face of my own inexperience. By Saturday, others had seen the bird and were posting pictures of the jaeger and sharing their own opinions. Some said Long-tailed. Some said Parasitic. Most shied away from a public declaration of its identification. All seemed to agree that it was not a Pomarine Jaeger, so at least we had made it 33 percent of the way toward a positive identification.

By Sunday morning—my husband's birthday—I was completely distracted in everything I tried to do. The following day, I was scheduled to take a group of birders in two pontoons out onto Smithville Lake for the annual "Smithville Lake Pleagic", which I started leading six years ago. I knew that if the bird stayed until Monday, we would have a good chance of getting close enough to get good photos and—hopefully—a good, solid, indisputable identification.

But for me, standing in the light of Sunday morning, Monday afternoon could have been a year away.

"How would you like to go on a boat trip for your birthday?" I asked my husband. He hesitated, but agreed to go. He knew it was useless to resist.

Rick and Adrian tolerate me

Rick, Adrian, and I rented a pontoon with the intention of taking it out on the water for two hours. At the two-hour mark, we had caught two tantalizing glimpses of the jaeger flying at a distance and then disappearing against the horizon, but I did not have the photos I needed. Feeling completely defeated and somewhat foolish and really selfish, I started to tell Rick to head for the marina—but then changed my mind: "No, try going that way." I pointed north. Almost immediately, we had the jaeger in our sights. And it was cooperating. The bird made several passes high over the boat as the pontoon's tiny, shredded propellor tried to keep up with the jaeger's amazing aerial speed. At last, the jaeger landed on the water.

Rick, driving the pontoon, eased up slowly ... slowly on the bird. I crouched at the front of the pontoon and clicked my camera incessantly. At a distance of about 30 yards, the bird took off, and there! I had the photo I had come for. Upper wing, under wing, flanks, breast, bill all visible in a single frame.

It flirted with our boat a few more times but never allowed a close approach, so we headed for the marina to avoid stressing the bird unnecessarily.

Looking at the photos on my camera's LCD on the way home, I said to Rick, "The bill doesn't look like it's half black. It looks one-third black." And I rattled off a few other identification points that I had learned over the last few days. "I think that means it's a Parasitic Jaeger."

When we returned home—in between putting our daughter down for a nap and rushing to make my husband a birthday cake—I quickly shared my photo with the online birding community, convinced that we now had the correct ID: Parasitic Jaeger.

But 90 percent of the comments that came back congratulated me on the identification of Missouri's fourth Long-tailed Jaeger!

The Annual Smithville Lake Pelagic

By Monday morning, I knew two things: 1) jaeger identification is hard and 2) I needed to get my hands on an excellent but out-of-print book, Skuas and Jaegers by Olsen and Larsson.

I also went into Monday having been reassured by a number of people that my original identification, based on my long period of study on Friday morning, had been correct, and that my photograph taken from the boat on Sunday verified that identification. But there was still a sense that doubt lingered among some other respected birders.

At 2 p.m. two boats with ten birders each set out from the marina to try to find the infamous Smithville Lake jaeger. After an hour of searching, we had not found the bird. A very small group of gulls was loafing on the water in one spot, and I suggested that we idle the boats in that area and attempt to "chum" with popcorn and cheese crackers. I threw out one handful of crackers. The nearby gulls reacted by flying closer to the boats. I threw one more handful of crackers. Someone on our boat shouted, "There!"

I turned around, looked up, and here came the jaeger, making that direct, intent flight straight at our boats.

The next 30 minutes have become a memory—solidified with photographs and video—that I will carry with me the rest of my life. The jaeger came to our boats and picked up popcorn from the water, only feet away. While shooting video of the bird with my iPhone, it circled us and was practically an arm's reach away from my face.

Long-tailed Jaeger, 20 September 2010
Smithville Lake (Smithville, Missouri)

No other rare bird that I have experienced compares with the Smithville Lake Long-tailed Jaeger of 2010. Each time I watched this bird—beginning with distant views on Thursday, building with the long, peaceful observation on Friday, climaxing with the birthday boat ride on Sunday, and concluding with naked-eye views of the jaeger at arm's length—a new level of detail was revealed. And although the gnawing in my gut, the distraction at work and at home, was tied to a personal desire to pin a precise name to a creature—by the time it circled our boats on Monday, its exact identification had become a quiet footnote. Instead, I gained an appreciation for individual perception, for subtleties in plumage and structure, for movement and behavior.

My desire to learn more overrode the need to assign a name. Every bird sighting should be like this.

Spider Webs: Resistance is Futile

Spider Web Resistance Rating (SWRR)

Level 1 — Low resistance to breakage, minimal adhesion. The spider silk brushes gently past your face, breaking easily and floating away. No spiders or dead bugs are evident on the web you just destroyed.

Level 2 — Slight resistance to breakage, moderate adhesion. The spider web will stretch for half a stride before breaking. You likely do not see the spider, as it is small enough to fear your presence and abandons the web at your approach.

Level 3 — Advanced resistance to breakage, strong adhesion. The spider web stretches considerably before breaking. Running through the web induces involuntary response of flailing arms and frantic wiping of face. You are likely to find the slower spiders stuck to your face or shoulder. The mummified remains of the spider’s kills are present, often sticking like black spit-wads to your arms, face, chest, and legs.

Level 4 — Maximum resistance to breakage, sticky as hell. In fact, the web may not even break. Spiders have lost all fear of large mammals and hold their ground. The spider is large enough that you make eye contact with the furry arachnid prior to collision. By the end of your trek, you are partially encased in multiple webs, dehydrated bugs, and likely have a few spiders writhing inside your shirt.

Level 5 — The spiders eat you. Runners getting a late start find your dehydrated remains suspended above the trail.

© 2010 Kristi Mayo

Cool bird!

Yesterday afternoon I received a call from birding buddy Doug Willis. His voice was slightly muffled in a way I have come to recognize as Doug talking on the phone while staring intently through a spotting scope. "I have a Pacific Loon in full breeding plumage at Smithville." A little over an hour later, I was standing in the warm sunshine by the old oak tree at Shelter 9, Crow's Creek picnic arm, Smithville Lake, watching the handsome black, white, and silver bird preen, stretch, and flap its wings.

I took a few embarrassingly fuzzy pictures by holding my Nikon DSLR camera up to my spotting scope to document the bird—only the fourth Missouri spring record. The images resemble those of the Loch Ness Monster, which is how all of my Pacific Loon digiscoping attempts over the years have turned out. Click here to see a picture from the Web that shows what the bird should have looked like under perfect photo conditions.

Pacific Loon, Smithville Lake, 3 May 2010.
Found by Doug Willis.

The Pacific Loon stretches its wing.

Since the 1990s, Pacific Loons have become a rare but regular visitor to Smithville Lake during fall migration, but Doug's May 3 sighting is a first for this location. Other spring Missouri sightings have come from southwestern Missouri: two reports from Table Rock Lake and one at Fellow's Lake in Springfield.

Seeing one in full breeding plumage is a particularly special treat, since they are usually in drabber gray-and-white dress during the fall migration. Pacific Loons breed in the northern reaches of Canada and usually winter in the Pacific Ocean. Some birds migrate straight south from Canada, which brings them through the Midwest. It stands to reason that those birds would make the return trip straight north from the Gulf of Mexico, or wherever they end up after passing through the Midwest—but either it doesn't happen very often or many birders are too busy watching the warblers and shorebirds that highlight spring migration to keep a close eye on reservoirs. (I suspect it's a combination of both.)

Later in the day Monday, Linda Williams reported as many as five Common Loons in the Pacific Loon's company. Apparently this bird was moving with a migrating group of this more common species, which nests as close as Minnesota.

Thanks to Doug for keeping me on speed dial in spite of the recent distractions (family, running, etc.) that have kept me from birding as much as I would like. What a cool bird!

Winter's Last Hurrah

This morning, I stubbornly set out on a run at the Smithville Lake mountain bike trails with two primary goals in mind: 1) test running with Rick's Nathan hydration pack to see if it's a good fit for future long runs; and 2) raise a big, glorious middle finger to Winter ("Snow on the first day of Spring? Ha ha! You'll never keep me inside!"). Uncharacteristically, I had no mileage or time goals in mind. I was just going on a run.

On the frosty 20-minute drive to Smithville Lake, I was mesmerized by the snow drifts piled in ditches on the north side of the road. Their cascading shapes and impossible crevasses were works of art. Where one could peer in through a narrow opening in some drifts, there was an icy blue glow—like the "blue ice" that one sees in glaciers. Stunning.

As I neared the lake, I had difficulty maintaining a decent speed as all along the roadside there were flocks upon flocks of birds—American Robins, Killdeer, Dark-eyed Juncos, Song Sparrows... I could have amassed a decent species list if I'd slowed down. Several Harlan's Red-tailed Hawks flapped by overhead. Crossing a narrow branch of Smithville Lake, an American White Pelican was clumsily chasing a first-cycle Herring Gull in a game of "go (gimme that) fish".

Gulls on the boat slips at Camp Branch Marina
(Photo taken 14 March 2010)

Then I "accidentally" turned south at the little town of Paradise and ended up at Camp Branch Marina. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of gulls swirled around the lake and loafed on the roofs of the boat slips. Pelicans paddled though the shallow water. I felt the spandex in my running gear pulling me toward the trail, as the sight of so many birds — representative of infinite possibility — pulled me to reach for my binoculars. I scanned the flocks of birds briefly, then finally gave in and drove promptly to Sail Boat Cove, when I tumbled out of my vehicle into the icy parking lot, turned my face into the 20 mph north wind, and struck out onto the trail.

I descended into the trees, found shelter from the strong wind, and lost myself in pure joy for 7 or 8 miles.

This was a day when the run could have gone on forever. I gave new meaning to the word "singletrack" — where the only track through the snow was my own. Well, the only human tracks. Innumerable deer, coyotes, foxes, squirrels, raccoons, and possums had gone before me down these trails. In the quieter areas, snow clung to the branches of the trees. In some particularly dense stands of younger trees, the effect that of a crystalline cathedral.

I lost myself in a way that allowed me to forget pace and effort. My body walked when it wanted to walk, and ran when it wanted to run. I would find myself clicking down the trail at a smooth and steady pace and think, "Wasn't I just walking a moment ago? When did I start running?" Then I'd turn my mind off and enjoy the sight of a Fox Sparrow in the tree above me, or the audible pleasure of Northern Cardinals, Eastern Bluebirds, Tufted Titmice, Black-capped Chickadees, and Golden-crowned Kinglets in full song.

By the time I regained the trailhead, I had no concerns about Winter making an unwelcome return on the first day of spring. It is all part of the pulse of nature and the passing of time, and I was grateful for the opportunity to move effortlessly through those woods on such as day as this.

Random Thoughts

The Nathan pack was wonderful.

I returned to the marina after my run and took notes on a first-cycle Thayer's Gull, a rarity that is becoming easier to find at Smithville Lake in recent winters.

Blindfolded

The air today has that soft, moist smell of spring. It wafts in through an open window. At home on a Monday, I am playing the role of full-time mommy as Adrian recoups from a fever and ear infection. We have laughed and played. Listened to the Mamas and the Papas as I beat out the rhythm with her Dora the Explorer tambourine. And we watched one of her favorite movies, Fly Away Home.

Silly faces on a quiet sick day at home

The movie is based on the true story of Bill Lishman, a Canadian who pioneered the method of teaching young birds their migratory routes using ultralight aircraft. The closing scene is full of lovely, sweeping images of the fictional main character, a little girl named Amy, flying the final few miles alone with her Canada Geese. The scene always makes me cry, but today it left a lasting sensation of longing deep in the pit of my stomach.

Migration. I spent so many years deeply engrossed in the northward and southward movement of wild birds. From mid February through late May, and then again from late August through early December, you could find me standing on the shore of a lake or lurking deep in the forest or walking through golden prairie grass—nearly every day—watching, waiting, discovering the wonder of migration.

Since Adrian came into my life, it has been more difficult to put my finger on the pulse of migration. And now that I am focusing much of my free time on training my body to endure a trail marathon, I am finding myself even more torn than before. Mother - birder - runner.

But even as I pour my energy into training, migration is happening around me. Last weekend, running the trails at Clinton Lake, I gleaned Yellow-rumped Warbler chip notes over the sound of other runners' footfalls. On treks around the neighborhood, Belted Kingfishers have uttered their toy machine-gun rattle overhead. And, of course, flocks of geese headed north and west speak the story of spring.

Drake Cinnamon Teal among Blue- and Green-winged Teal
Photo by Linda Williams

It's as if I am blindfolded in my bedroom—a place of perfect familiarity. I do not need to see migration to know that it is there. Sure and steady, the birds move on a calendar of their own, driven by daylight, magnetic currents, and low-pressure systems. March 1: the first Turkey Vultures glide in on a south breeze. March 15: Blue-winged Teal arrive, and among them a drake Cinnamon Teal bobs its head. April 1: the nasal call of a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher carries through the still-barren trees, though their buds are swollen and poised to burst forth with another year's foliage.

I'm not watching them, but I know they're there.

To know something so intimately, and yet only catch the occasional glimpse of it in passing... This is a beautiful but bittersweet sensation.

Dead from a bough

January 1, 2010 — Fat Ass 50k, Wallace State Park (near Cameron, Missouri)

Frozen toes, frozen nose, frozen water bottle. I cupped my hand around the spout on my water bottle and blew long, slow, warm breath into my hand. I turned the water bottle over and squeezed hard, then repeated the process a couple more times until there was a slushy sound and free-flowing water dribbled onto the snow. I took a drink and continued my seven-mile trek through ten inches of snow and single-digit temperatures at Wallace State Park.

There were just a couple miles left until I reached the warmth of my vehicle—and the ranger station where the Rissers (who put on the Fat Ass 50k at Wallace State Park each New Year's Day) provide an awesome spread of warm soups, chili, and cookies.

As I tried to remind myself that I was having fun (sure, I really was ... really), I noticed a small, reddish-brown lump in the middle of the footprint-pocked trail. I bent down to scoop up the Carolina Wren, its feathery weight barely noticeable in my palm. It had been dead long enough to be literally frozen stiff, its half-closed dark-brown eyes coated with frost. Running a finger along its breastbone revealed no layer of fat. These little dynamos are bundles of energy. Pairs will stay on territory throughout the winter, and will not hesitate to vocalize their displeasure if you get too close to their brush pile. But cold, ice, and heavy snow are hard on the Carolina Wren. In fact—thanks in part to the relatively mild winters of the 1990s and 20-aughts—their numbers have been increasing gradually since a series of hard winters almost completely drove them out of Missouri during the late 1970s.

This has been a hard winter.

I set the wren down in the snow a few paces off the trail and continued on, feeling a little more absurd for being outside on a day like this, in the undeniably severe cold, in the beautiful and deadly stillness of those blanketed woods.

Seven miles was enough. And at the end of the trail, there was a husband, a daughter, some warm chili, and conversation to warm life back into my nose and my toes.

Later in the day, I told Rick about the wren.

He said, "What's that poem? 'I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself...'?"

"Yes," I replied. "I believe that's how it goes."

All Alone

I took a short run on the Smithville Lake trails today. I headed south along the shoreline and danced with the rocks a little faster than I had intended. The Mute Swan, dubbed "Crook" last weekend by my fellow Birrunderers, fed quietly in a cove. Silent. "Mute," one might say ... And rather alone.

Last Friday's birrundering (that's "birding while running" for the uninitiated) was the first time I had run with a group since high school. It was a nice way to pass the miles. Shelley asked me if I always run alone on trails. Of course, was my reply. She told me she runs alone, too, but pointed out that some people think it is foolhardy to go out on trails alone. You're isolated. You're vulnerable. What if...?

Being on the trails never seemed strange to me, because my time spent outdoors—alone—goes back farther than that. I have spent the last 12 years looking for birds in quiet, isolated places. Standing on the banks of the Mississippi. Watching ducks for hours from the shore of Smithville Lake. Bushwhacking through cane stands along the Eleven Point River in Missouri's Ozarks. All that time spent exploring, and most of that time I was alone.

But it goes back farther than that. Before running, before birding, I was a little girl. An only child. Creeping through the woods behind my parent's house. Splashing through the creek. Sitting quietly beside the pond. A constant narrative ran through my mind, my imagination conjuring up tales of magic and adventure. Out on those back acres, I was alone.

So today, here I am. Running through a sea of fallen leaves, the golden sunset glancing off the lake to set the woods on fire. Just as I have always been. Yes: alone. But also surrounded by so many fantastic sights and constantly engaged in such adventure that the words isolated and vulnerable and what if... take on less importance. I tuck those words away, let them keep close company with my awareness and common sense—and I live in this one moment that was made for me. Alone.

Psycho Psummer 15-mile trail race

Feelin' fine at the start

The Psycho Psummer trail race has been the primary focus of my training since I got back into running regularly last February. I have never run a race longer than 10 kilometers, and prior to this stint of training, my longest training run was about 8 to 10 miles—way back in high school.

Over the months, I had a good stretch of building up mileage and maintaining focus on my training. My longest run was 12 miles on trails at Wallace State Park at the end of May. A week or so later, I "tweaked" my right ankle on those same trails, and ever since have had a nagging but mild stabbing pain just below my inside ankle bone.

In the weeks leading up to Rick's Western States 100 run, my training became a little more inconsistent as I experimented with resting the ankle, avoided running on the uneven ground of trails—and got caught up with work, preparations for our trip, and other extracurricular activities.

On our trip to California for WS100, my ankle became aggravated when I attempted to hike 25-lb. Adrian part way up the last mile to Emigrant Pass. At that point I knew that my ankle was going to hurt during my Psycho Psummer race, and the best I could do was try to ignore it.

So I came into the race feeling under-prepared, but determined to finish as close to 3 hours as possible. I had in my head a time of somewhere between 3:00 and 3:30, but was willing to accept anything the course and the weather had to throw at me.

Heavy traffic

It turned out to be a good mindset. The race began with the start-and-stop traffic jam of 200 runners funneling themselves directly onto single-track trails. I would think I had a good pace going, and then we would come to a near-standstill. Eventually the conga line sorted itself out and I actually benefited from being sandwiched into a group of runners moving at a pace right at the upper level of my comfort zone.


But the miles were dragging by. I kept glancing down at my Garmin Forerunner and marveling at how the time kept passing, but the mileage did not. I tried not to worry too much, but when Rick jogged up beside me after photographing runners at the top of Hedgehog, I pointed to my watch and asked, "Is that for real? Are we really only 4.5 miles into this race?" Almost an hour had elapsed.

Rick nodded. "But there's some more runnable sections coming up," he said. "It gets easier!"

Miles kept peeling off. But as I plodded along the long, exposed, uneven ground of the dam, the cranky ankle crashed my party. I had done my best to ignore it, but the clumps of grass and the slight uphill slope on my right side made it impossible to find good placement for my tender right foot. I went into a cool, quiet place in my mind to try to get away from the discomfort, forgetting each aggravating step as it trailed off behind me.

Summer Tanagers were singing in the woods. Northern Parulas. A Rose-breasted Grosbeak. I choked down a GU gel and swallowed half a bottle of water. As I headed up the new single-track and away from the dam, I heard a Prothonotary Warbler singing its sweet-sweet-sweet-sweet chant.

When I emerged from this haze, former Kearneyite Mike Prentice was standing at the edge of the woods dolling out water to thirsty runners. I said howdy. He said I only had a half mile to the next aid station. I took some fresh water anyway, and went on my way.

Again I was tucked in with a small group of runners, and was moving along at a comfortable pace. Soon the trail sidled up to pavement and I began the 3-mile out-and-back "Boy Scout Honor" section, which consisted primarily of gravel and pavement. The stable footing was a marvelous respite for my ankle, and I took advantage of it, happily glancing down at my Garmin when it beeped at the end of each mile to see that this mile had been faster than the last.

Forgiving gravel and pavement

On my return trip past Pat Perry's "man shower" aid station, I stopped for a while to talk to Rick, grab an S Cap, and scavenge for food. Inside the shelter, I found Stacey King hard at work making PB&J sandwiches. Those didn't look appetizing, and neither did the watermelon, but... Ah, then my eyes fell on a bowl full of little bite-sized chunks of orange melon-type stuff—I think it was cantaloupe. I haven't ever been a big melon-type-food person. But Rick had to drag me away from this bowl of delicious goodness.

"It's time to go," said Rick.

"But it tastes so good!" I mumbled, a little juice dribbling from the corner of my mouth.

"Then take some with you."

This seemed reasonable. I grabbed a handful and headed out the way I came, back up the pavement, across the street, and then down the trail into the Wyandotte Triangle.

Almost there. I know the Triangle—it's the turnaround for the Psycho Night 10k, which I have run every year since its inception. I relaxed on the single-track and my ankle felt good, but my legs were starting to recognize that I was now pushing them farther than they had ever gone before. I powerwalked a good portion, and took comfort in the notion that I was "almost finished".

As I came up out of the Wyandotte Triangle, I was pumped. Only a few more miles to go on a section of the course that I actually know pretty well. This section would throw at me the biggest mud pits of the day, along with some tough climbs and descents with large, loose rocks—but I was almost done and my legs actually felt pretty good. I cruised the downhill section away from the Triangle, passed a person or two, decided to try running through one of the mud pits instead of tiptoeing around it and Schlup! My left shoe stayed firmly planted in the mud as my legs continued on their path of forward motion.

I tried to laugh as I tiptoed back through the mud hole pitted with horse-hoof prints, retrieved my shoe (it took a few strong tugs to get the earth to relinquish it), and then tiptoed back to a slightly drier side of the trail to reapply the wheel. I tossed my bottle onto the ground, and as I attempted to unknot the wad of mud that was once my shoelaces, I glanced toward my bottle and noticed him: a little Three-toed Box Turtle chilling out in a water-filled horse-hole just his size. He stretched out his neck toward me and said, "Hey, man, take a break. You need to just sit down in the mud and reelax..."

A couple runners picked their way past me. I fumbled to tie my shoe back on and wiped my mud-caked hands on my thighs. "Sorry, Turtle, I need to finish this run."

The box turtle slowly looked away. "Whatever, man..."

The air had completely come out of me. I used the narrow, packed paths beat out by all the runners who proceeded me to make my way around the large mud pits, but the uneven ground and unstable footing was sending stabbing pain into my ankle. My legs were toast, so my uphills were reduced to a crawl. The ankle was screaming, so instead of taking advantage of the downhills I had to pick my way carefully down the rock-strewn bridle trail. I shuffled along at something that may have resembled a jog on the flatter sections that cut through cedar trees and scrub habitat.

Runners passed me. A man somewhere behind me was singing hymns about angels and heaven.

The trail flattened out and Canada Geese at the ranger's station honked. The woods spit me out onto pavement, and I shuffled down the hill and across the long, flat, open lawn trying to look somewhat strong for the camera that Rick pointed at me. One more final push around the shelter and over Raul's mats, and Ben rewarded me with an ice-cold soaking-wet bandanna across my shoulders and back.

Finish line — 3 hours 24 minutes

All the people I have watched from the sidelines were incredibly supportive of me as I made this first venture into trail racing. All along the course I would hear someone yell my name and in my haze didn't know who it was or where they were, but it definitely kept me moving forward. Familiar faces filling my bottle and offering me words of encouragement made the miles go by faster. And the congratulations and sweaty hugs at the end were perfection.

Laurie Euler, me, Debbie Webster

Later in the day, Shane Jones said to me, "You had this look on your face that said, 'How can anyone do 100 miles?'" No, I know how people do 100 miles—training training training, and the rare ability to disconnect one's mind from one's body and one's body from one's soul. As I came across that finish line, that look on my face that Shane saw may have been the look of wheels turning. Turning in the direction of thought: Not enough long runs this last month...Ill prepared for those last three miles...How many more miles of training would I need in order to do two loops out here...?

Common Ground-Dove

Common Ground-Dove
Brooke Haven subdivision, Kearney, Missouri (Clay County)
11 October 2007

This picture was taken with a Nikon D50 with a 200mm zoom lens through my Swarovski AT-80 spotting scope set at 60x magnification. There are certainly better ways of taking a picture, but I was working with what I had available at the time!

Smithville Lake Pelagic 2007

Sabine's Gull
Photo by Kristi Mayo

Three years ago, I suggested to the field trip organizer for Burroughs Audubon that it might be fun to take a pontoon or two out on the lake in the fall. It is something that birding groups have been doing for some time out on Carlyle Lake in Illinois, and, in fact, St. Louis-area birders Jim and Charlene Malone planted the idea in my head back in 2003 when they suggested that Smithville is similar in size to Carlyle. So, in 2005, I reserved a couple of pontoons and announced the trip. The boats filled immediately.

That first year we set out on October 8—a beautiful, crisp, cool morning... but one that yielded little species variety. Timing was perfect to enjoy the large Franklin's Gull flock (10,000+) that stages on the lake each fall, but we saw little else. It was just too late in the year to be finding Sabine's Gulls or phalaropes.

In 2006, I moved up the date to September 18 and scheduled the trip in the evening and on a weekday to take advantage of the evening gull roost and less boat traffic. We spotted an immature Sabine's Gull in a relatively short space of time and both boats got fantastic looks from 20 to 30 feet at the bird sitting on the water.

This year, the formula changed a little once again: September 22 was still within the window for Sabine's Gull and phalaropes, but this time we tried the trip on a Saturday. Add to that a perfect, blue-sky, 85°F day, and we were not alone on the water. Boats and jet skis were everywhere, and seemed drawn to the large flocks of Franklin's Gulls that attempted repeatedly to settle down on the water. Nonetheless, we were able to sidle up in both boats to a very cooperative immature Sabine's Gull, watched numerous Osprey catching and eating fish, and marveled at a Peregrine Falcon pummeling (but not killing) an American Coot in mid-air.

Here's a few photos from the excursion:

Brock Winkelbauer (pilot of the second pontoon) & me
Photo by Marsha Hawk

Sabine's Gull between the two pontoons
Photo by Kristi Mayo

We tried "chumming" with popcorn. This attracted the attention of a few Ring-billed Gulls, but there simply weren't enough Ring-bills around to create the feeding-frenzy we had hoped for.
Photo by Laura Gilchrist

Baby Huey and the European settlers

Today a Chipping Sparrow came to our yard with its "kiddo" in tow: a big, ungainly juvenile Brown-headed Cowbird. The young cowbird stumbled around in the grass, begging continually. The Chipping Sparrow, about half the weight of Baby Huey, hopped around frantically, diving after insects in an attempt to satiate the gaping, hungry mouth.

To the uninitiated, this would be a surprising sight. You might wonder if the tiny Chipping Sparrow had adopted the baby cowbird out of the goodness of its heart. Well, the Chipping Sparrow is certainly raising the cowbird as its own, but not by choice. The female cowbird is a brood parasite—she removes an egg from the nest of another species and replaces it with her own. Then, Ma Cowbird leaves the residents of the nest to incubate the eggs and eventually care for her progeny. When the egg hatches, the young cowbird usually dominates its smaller siblings for food and space. Despite a striking contrast in appearance and, often, size, the host parents continue to care for the cowbird... and within about 10 days Baby Huey leaves the nest and follows his adoptive parents, continuing to take whatever he can from them until he's ready to fly off on his own to make more little cowbirds.

I sat watching this scene through my living-room window as my own kiddo nursed. An image flickered through my mind of attempting to breastfeed a baby 50% heavier than me. I've felt sorry before for parent birds parasitized by the Brown-headed Cowbird—but this time I felt true empathy.

The unfortunate thing about Brown-headed Cowbirds is that they are only doing what they have evolved to do, but sweeping habitat changes brought on by—you guessed it—human beings have made it even easier for the cowbird to survive. Naturalists speculate that oodles of years ago, the cowbird followed the bison herds across the sweeping prairies, dining upon insects attracted to and flushed out of the grass by the grazing animals. Because the bison were nomadic, the cowbirds found it necessary to evolve the same kind of nomadic ways. As any nomad knows, however, it's downright tough to find time to pick out territory, defend that territory, build a nest, lay eggs, incubate eggs, and raise young. That could take weeks. By the time the young were raised, the bison herd could be many miles away. So, the cowbird evolved a better plan: let someone else raise the kids, and once they were full grown, they could catch up with the herd.

As with all things in nature, that tactic worked as long as a delicate balance was maintained. Balance, though, was not something that the European settlers excelled at. As the forests in the east fell to logging, the cowbirds took notice. Before, the cowbirds would only visit the nests of woodland species that utilized the edge habitat of forests. But today, most tracts of woodland are heavily fragmented. You can't walk too far into the forest before you're walking back out the other side. Cowbirds gained access to what used to be the deeper parts of the woods, and began to use the nests of some more delicate songbirds. According to Ken Kaufman's Lives of North American Birds, a female Brown-headed Cowbird is known to have used the nests of more than 220 species of birds, and she can produce up to 40 or even 70 eggs in a single season.

That's a lot of displaced songbirds. And that means the Brown-headed Cowbird is looked upon by many as a villain. But for Baby Huey's bio-mom, it's the only method of survival for her species.