North on the Wing

by Bruce M. Beehler

  The Mississippian Mound-Builder culture spread out through the central reaches of this great watershed between 1100 and 1350 CE. The mound-building people here in eastern Iowa fashioned hundreds of mounds, some in geometric shapes and others that graphically represent turtles, bison, lizards, and, most commonly, bears and birds. Some tribal narratives held that the bear was the guardian of the earth and the bird the guardian of the sky. Excavation has shown that fire, too, was associated with many mounds.

  Perhaps the most remarkable construction is the Marching Bear Group, a linear assemblage of ten bears plus three birds. The true meaning of these thousand-year-old mounds remains a mystery. They were constructed by people of the late Woodland period, hunter-gatherers who prospered on nature’s bounty in the watershed of the Mississippi and mainly inhabited the environs of southern Wisconsin and Iowa. The last of the effigy mounds were constructed 850 years ago, when the people of the Oneonta culture came to dominate the region with large permanent settlements and new forms of pottery. Surveys of northeastern Iowa in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries documented more than ten thousand prehistoric mounds in that state alone. By the mid-twentieth century, fewer than a tenth of these had survived the widespread development of the landscape. Effigy Mounds National Monument was established in 1949 to preserve a small remnant of this important archaeological legacy.

  By 8 p.m., back at Wyalusing State Park, it was windy, cloudy, and cold. I had a hot meal and bundled myself in several layers of fleece, a woolen watch cap, and woolen gloves. High up here, bundled against the weather and looking down on the Mississippi, I was reminded of November days I’d spent at my favorite autumn hawk watch, northwest of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. The Wyalusing bluff top was as exposed as the typical ridgetop hawk watch, and just as chilly, too. Luckily, I had brought plenty of clothing in anticipation of cold in the far north. At my little campsite, I was serenaded by the singing male Cerulean Warbler and several Rose-breasted Grosbeaks—signaling that in spite of the cold weather, today’s movement of the sun across the sky had told the birds that yes, it was indeed spring.

  The predawn chorus started around 5 a.m. as a bunch of American Robins gave a weird short song in the full dark and then shifted into their typical longer, warbling dawn song. Finally, other bird species chimed in as the cloudy morning broke. I emerged from my tent at 6 a.m., and the same male Cerulean Warbler sang over my shoulder as I ate breakfast in the cold and windy morning. The Cerulean was yet another of my quest birds on its breeding territory.

  The Cerulean Warbler, a species in decline, is one of those migrants that everybody seems to search for. It is fine-looking and it dwells in the canopy of tall forest, which typically makes locating a Cerulean a challenge. The male, while it cannot compete with the beauty of the male Goldenwing or Blackburnian, is a demurely handsome creature, with sky-blue upper parts, white wing-bars, white underparts broken by flank streaking, and a neat, dark throat collar. The species breeds from northern Arkansas to southern Ontario but is found mainly in the heartland states of Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana. It prospers these days only in mature deciduous forest atop ridges, in places where oak and hickory trees grow tall (e.g., a place just like Wyalusing). To find one, a birder must listen carefully for the bird’s evocative, rolling, and musical song, which gives me goose-bumps when I hear it each spring: tzeed tzeed tzeed tzeed ti ti ti zeee?

  I continued my hunt for novel migrants and local breeding songbirds. On this morning, I visited the restored prairie along the Wyalusing entrance road, highlighted by a number of educational signs discussing the restoration. Here I found five species: Ring-necked Pheasant, Red-winged Blackbird, Field Sparrow, Common Yellowthroat, and American Goldfinch. A cuckoo gave a cadenced series of coo notes in sets of three—it was a Black-billed Cuckoo, rather than the more common Yellow-billed. Hearing this uncommon and declining Neotropical migrant got my blood pumping. What other oddities might be around?

  Standing in the restored prairie, I saw old pasture land in the distance, behind a little astronomical observatory set back from the entrance road. I wandered in to look for interesting grassland and edge habitats. Before going far, I heard the song of a bird I have heard only once before, in northern Texas. Here at Wyalusing, it was giving its rapid and buzzy zig-zagging song from a row of trees between two old fields. Its often-repeated song helped me locate the bird in a jiffy: a Bell’s Vireo.

  Absent from the East but widespread in the Great Plains, Bell’s Vireo also occurs in the arid Southwest. Its plumage is plain, like a cross between a Warbling Vireo and a Philadelphia Vireo, and this species, like the Warbling, is distinguished by that remarkable song. The rapid-fire series of musical notes is unlike that of any other North American bird, and its habit of repeating its song over and over makes the bird all the more distinctive. This singing male was being harassed by a male Ruby-throated Hummingbird, which repeatedly dive-bombed the vireo. The vireo remained in its low tree, singing, while I photographed it at close range. I had hunted for the species at Mingo in Missouri, with guidance from Mark Robbins, but without success; what a surprise to find it here in Wisconsin, at the very northeastern fringe of its breeding range.

  Sated with the sights and sounds of the vireo, I wandered farther from the main road into a series of large, unkempt, hilly fields surrounded by woods. Before long, I heard a single Henslow’s Sparrow singing deep in the grass of one weedy hill. But it was midmorning, and this species is an early bird. I would have more luck seeing this elusive species if I returned very early the next morning.

  I completed my midmorning birding tour of Wyalusing on bicycle. The state park supports oak uplands, prairie, and steep, forested bluffs that drop down to the two rivers, where wetlands and bottomland forest predominate. The tree community, from the top of the ridge to the bottomland, includes Black Oak, Shagbark Hickory, Black Cherry, White Oak, Red Oak, White Ash, Sugar Maple, Basswood, Ironwood, American Elm, Silver Maple, Eastern Cottonwood, River Birch, and Black Willow. At the end of my bike ride, I tallied my morning count of warblers: ten American Redstart, seven Tennessee, five Common Yellowthroat, five Blackpoll, five Cerulean, two Kentucky, and a Chestnut-sided—five species of breeding residents and two passage migrants, but only the Cerulean an addition to the quest list.

  At midday I reviewed the map and brochure for Wyalusing State Park and discovered, to my great surprise, that the park itself had held 107 Native American mounds when it was first surveyed in 1894. I wandered the roads and located a number of signboarded mounds, one in the form of a bear. The day fined up and the sun came out, but it remained windy and cool. Even at 2 p.m., I needed to wear gloves to work on my diary—the temperature was in the 50s. At the end of the day, I bathed in a shower house whose ambient temperature was 45°F. At 7 p.m., I’d finished dinner at my campsite, but that resident Cerulean Warbler male was singing its buzzy song every eight seconds nearby. Lots of other birds, too, still sang in the gloaming—orioles, wood pewees, and more.

  Wyalusing and Effigy Mounds lie in the heart of the Driftless Area (also known as the Paleozoic Plateau), a region noted for its deeply incised river valleys. Primarily located in southwestern Wisconsin, the Driftless Area also encompasses portions of southeastern Minnesota, northeastern Iowa, and northwestern Illinois—an area of sixteen thousand square miles. The region’s unusual terrain is the result of its having escaped the most recent period of North American glaciation. Retreating glaciers leave behind drift—silt, clay, sand, gravel, and erratics (loose boulders), plus unsorted material called till and outwash deposits from glacial meltwater streams. This area lacks all of the distinctive calling cards of recent glaciation; the only drift found here dates from more ancient glacial periods, reaching back five hundred thousand years. The Driftless Area is an eroded plateau with bedrock overlain by varying thicknesses of loess, or windblown sediments. And most characteristically, the rivers flow through deeply dissected valleys, along which the river bluffs stand tall and prominent. The se
dimentary rocks of the valley walls date to the Paleozoic Era. The area has not undergone much tectonic action, and its visible layers of sedimentary rock remain horizontal. Considering how far south the last glaciers advanced, this glacier-free zone is a geographic mystery.

  At 5:30 the next morning, I was back at the weedy fields behind the observatory, listening for Henslow’s Sparrows. Within a few minutes, I heard the voices of four singing males in the rolling overgrown grassland, but I did not see a single bird. Henslow’s is among many birders’ holy grails, a will-o’-the-wisp that seems always just out of reach. I’d hunted for it unsuccessfully for several decades and only recently had gotten to know the bird first-hand. Most prevalent in the prairie lands of the upper Mississippi drainage—Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, and Wisconsin—the bird is an old-field specialist that needs just the proper amount of thick, shrubby growth in a field to make it desirable habitat. Breeding populations of the species come and go as fields evolve through successional stages. Well-kept hayfields tended by farmers never have Henslow’s.

  Another reason for the difficulty of finding Henslow’s Sparrow is its voice. Its quiet, slurred single note of a “song”—sllinnk—is easily overwhelmed by the cacophony of a morning chorus, when virtually every other bird species has a louder and farther-carrying vocalization. The only similar vocalists in the region are two other uncommon grassland specialists: the Grasshopper Sparrow and Le Conte’s Sparrow. Yet another reason for the difficulty of finding Henslow’s is its behavior. It sings mainly before dawn and after dusk, and it hides quietly deep in the grass for most of the day. Late-rising birders will not find many Henslow’s Sparrows. This morning, I was here early, and I scored. But I had no luck with photography, given the poor light and the reclusive nature of the singing males. As a consolation, I did hear, once again, the noisy song of that male Bell’s Vireo on territory back in the tree row next to the observatory.

  From atop the grassy hilltop I also heard the tatatatat—tatat—tatat drum of a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker from a nearby woods, the distinctive staccato spring sound reminding me once again of the North Woods. The arrival of spring here could be seen in the abundant bloom of Black Cherry trees and Shadbush, as well as Northern Bush-Honeysuckle. Yet it remained cold: even at 8:30 a.m. it was 44°F, although not as windy as the preceding day. It occurred to me that I’d heard no frogs calling in the park—perhaps it simply was too cold for them.

  As I brought my bicycle back to the paved main park entrance road, a Meadow Jumping-Mouse, with its very long tail, crossed the road in several prodigious jumps. I counted up the numbers of warblers I’d seen today: four Blackpoll Warblers and a single Myrtle Warbler. These two passage migrant species typically represent the earlier half (Myrtle) and the later half (Blackpoll) of the warbler migration season. Their presence here confirmed that I was right in the heart of “warbler spring” as it flowed ever northward. Later in the day I’d see several White Pine sentinel trees outside the park: still more harbingers of the Northlands.

  CREX MEADOWS

  As I travel north from Wyalusing, the GPS takes me to both sides of the Mississippi, from Wisconsin to Minnesota and back to Wisconsin. The sky is deep blue, the air clear and fresh. The spring sun begins to warm the air; this Friday, near the end of May, is one of those days we hope will last forever. I stop for breakfast in the little Minnesota college town of Winona, named for the legendary first daughter of Chief Wapasha of the Mdewakanton band of the eastern Sioux. Five colleges and universities are here: Winona State University, Winona State College, St. Mary’s University, Minnesota State College–Southeast Technical, and the College of St. Teresa. I judge from this quick visit that Winona would be a great place to retire and perhaps teach a course every other semester. But I can’t stay to explore the town’s charms. I must move on, as I am on my way to northern Wisconsin to camp near Crex Meadows, a famous birding reserve in the northwestern part of the state, and well into wolf country.

  I stop in Saint Croix Falls, Wisconsin, on the east bank of the Saint Croix River, in search of lunch. Loggers Bar and Grill fits the bill. I sample local favorites: batter-fried cheese curds washed down with a Leinenkugel beer brewed in Chippewa Falls.

  In Grantsburg, Wisconsin, I headed to the visitor center for Crex Meadows State Wildlife Area. Adrian Azar, a young birder from North Dakota whom I’d met at Wyalusing State Park, suggested I see Crex Meadows, singing the praises of the large protected wetland and telling me that he himself would visit Crex Meadows on his way home. That was recommendation enough for me.

  The rangers at the center resolved my concern about finding an available campsite over the Memorial Day weekend. They pointed me to Governor Knowles State Forest, right on the banks of the Saint Croix River, a National Scenic Riverway, which had an abundance of open campsites. Here I’d spend the rest of the weekend camped along the river and reveling in Crex Meadows’ natural wonders, heightened by the prevailing rain-free weather, unlike the typical cold, misty, and rainy spring days of the North Woods.

  Before setting up camp, I spent several morning hours checking out Crex Meadows, some thirty thousand acres managed for wildlife and nature. The area is part of the northwest Wisconsin pine barrens, a large sand plain left from the retreat of the last glacier, eleven thousand years before the present day, and its extensive wetlands are a remnant of glacial Lake Grantsburg (we are clearly out of the Driftless Area). When Native Americans lived here, the area was a fire-prone brush prairie. The wetlands were drained in the 1890s, and in the early twentieth century, Crex Carpet Company owned much of the land and manufactured grass rugs here. The wildlife area was established in 1946.

  Autumn migration here is famous for its Bald Eagles, Sandhill Cranes, and many species of waterfowl. During the spring, birders come from far and wide to witness the communal mating display of the Sharp-tailed Grouse and to search for various rare marsh-breeding birds. Current management focuses on restoring the wetlands and prairies through deployment of a dike system, mechanical opening of closed forest tracts, and prescribed burns. Here is a prime example of the successful restoration of a major wetland resource after it had been essentially destroyed.

  At my campsite above the Saint Croix River, I was greeted by the voices of an array of songbirds on their breeding habitat: Wood Thrush, Veery, American Redstart, and more. The campground was mainly young deciduous forest with a scattering of White Pines, and the tent site was bracketed by two big stands of Interrupted Fern, a plant I knew well from summers in the Adirondacks. In the late afternoon, as I organized my camp before making dinner, the sun remained high, a pleasant breeze blew, and I looked forward to spending all of Saturday morning exploring Crex Meadows. Abundant black flies swarmed but did not bite; my head net was not yet required.

  I heard another song at the campsite, too: that of the Ovenbird, one of my quest breeders. It was surprising that I had not already located the species; this common and vocal bird breeds as far south as Arkansas, and winters from Florida to northernmost South America. Like the waterthrushes, it is a ground dweller, and it has the look of a sparrow: olive above and white below, with black streaks on the breast. An orange stripe adorns the top of its head, bracketed by two black racing stripes, and it sports a prominent white eye-ring. A common species of deciduous forests in spring, the Ovenbird makes the woods ring with its loud song: teacher teacher teacher TEACHER TEACHER!

  Another voice of a different quest species came to me here as well: that of the Chestnut-sided Warbler. It is a gaily colored inhabitant of brushlands and the edges of northern swamps and cutover woodland openings, breeding north to central Canada and wintering south to Colombia. The male is mainly dark above and white below, with a distinctive yellow cap, a black mustache, and a chestnut stripe down the flank. Its cheerful and rapid chattering song is reminiscent of that of the Yellow Warbler.

  At 5 a.m. Saturday, I was awoken by a loud dawn chorus of American Robins in the chill air (it was only 39°F). A croaking Common Ra
ven greeted me as I drove into Crex Meadows—the big black bird sailed right down the middle of the road and passed low over the car, its long, wedge-shaped tail prominent. All morning I traveled the huge reserve’s extensive system of gravel roads, stopping to bird favorable spots. Standing on a dike cloaked in early-morning mist, I listened to abundant birdsong. Cranes were bugling. Canada Geese were honking. Sedge Wrens and Grasshopper Sparrows chorused lustily from the grass. A Sora gave its strange musical upslur from the marsh. An Alder Flycatcher sang fee-BEE-oh. Loons and Ring-necked Ducks moved silently over the glassy water.

  And here I could see daytime migration! Dozens of small flocks of migrating Blue Jays passed overhead in waves all morning long. Their relentless flight northward reminded me of the migratory imperative—it’s like the tide, not to be denied. A single Veery, another northbound migrant, crossed a large swath of open marsh. I hiked the Phantom Lake Trail, where the many oaks were just pushing out their tiny, pale leaves, whose translucency reminded me of the wings of a butterfly when it emerges from its chrysalis: the start of a new life in early spring, here in the north country.