Month: February 2020

Very quiet around the pond these days. Winter doldrums, we used to call them during our erstwhile sailing days. The clear cold winter skies sometimes yield a beautiful sunset. Its bright colors complement the muted neutrals of winter.

Most of the action occurs in and around the hanging bird feeder. Cardinals, goldfinches, woodpeckers, chickadees, and tufted titmice are the major customers. They need suet at this time of year for insulation. Some of the smaller birds climb right into the seed cage. I guess they never learned not to play with their food.

Of course, there’s always the prospect of a nocturnal blitz by a male bear. One who has eschewed the warmth of a winter burrow. Some are poor sleepers, I guess. We’ve wakened on more than one occasion to find our bird feeder strewn across the lawn and up the driveway. Smokey is not well acquainted with the social graces. Not even a thank you note.

Two turkey hens pecked their way into the yard today. Looking for some of Mother Nature’s cold leftovers, I assume. Finding little, they pecked their way out.

A few squirrels have been racing erratically around as though they had been quaffing jet fuel. Lacking GPS, they have apparently lost the acorns they stashed underground late last summer. Hard to believe. There was a glut on acorns at that time. They now appear to be very scarce. And, if squirrel behavior is an indication, very valuable. Hmm. Not sure what the exchange rate is for acorns these days, but maybe I should consider trading in some of my 401K assets for acorns. Maybe not.

A very light snow covered the Hideaway last night. And seventeen spine chilling degrees. Old Man Winter has put his heavy boot down on the Catskills with serious resolve.
Nonetheless, with the exception of the snow on the pond, it had sublimated into the thin frigid air by noon. Even after the air had crept to a balmy 35 degrees, six inches of ice kept a sub-zero grip on the snow. And there it still lies in a solitary white blanket, as the attached photos show.
Still, the intrepid critters of the Hideaway have, for the greater part, gone about life as usual. Those who haven’t resorted to flight or hibernation, that is. Wimps. I suppose one could count the fish among them. They lounge in the relative warmth of 25 to 35 degrees at the bottom of the pond. The dark slumber of a winter long dream.
A few does and a spike buck often drop by. They can easily go unnoticed until they move. Their winter gray wardrobe makes them almost disappear against the grays and browns of the winter woods.
“Spike“, as we call him with our usual flair for originality, should soon be losing his spikes. The rutting season being over, a buck’s testosterone levels drop, as do his antlers. And whatever. No, it doesn’t hurt. Or so I’m told. But word has it that it can cause some serious cervidian neuroses. And make it difficult for some bucks to get a date. Included in the following photos is half of an eight pointer’s erstwhile pride and joy. We found it abandoned on our property a few years ago. Is there such a thing as half of a neurosis? Or half of a date?
A morose old Tom turkey slumped through the yard yesterday. All alone. Testosterone a long fading memory. Must be a very drab life. But there is a bright side, of sorts. He doesn’t have to worry about his antlers dropping off. Gotta find joy where you can find it.