I'd been laid up for two weeks, recovering from hernia repair surgery, slowly going insane and driving my wife along, too. My doctor released me to return to work after two more full days off, which I decided to take advantage of by returning to the Pascagoula Basin for another try at walking the incredible habitat there. Third time's the charm, and all that crap.
I noticed on the drive down in the clear, cool predawn hour that the local creeks and streams looked more reasonable than they had the last two times I'd passed them; and the Leaf River, tributary to the Pascagoula, was within her banks as well, though still surging mightily.
I passed the bridge over the Pascagoula and turned off Mississippi Highway 26 into the 37,000-acre Wildlife Management Area (WMA) just after dawn -- a little later than I preferred, though I like to believe that the big woodpeckers rise later than their smaller cousins [Tanner noted that "The Ivory-bill was almost the last bird of those woods to arise in the morning." (The Ivory-billed Woodpecker, p. 57)].
It felt good, crunching along the familiar WMA road in my long-suffering pickup. I'd brought the kayak, just in case all that stood between me and a good hike/stalk was a few feet of water. Luckily, the sloughs had receded significantly, and my Nissan churned through them towards Hutson Lake, and the trailhead to Hollow Man Road.
Only one other vehicle was around, a shiny black Chevy, parked near the flooded natural gas station. After checking on the water levels at old Hutson Lake, I parked by the trailhead and set out. I'd planned on a slow, quiet walk all the way to the venerable baldcypress Hollow Man, locating a lightning-struck red oak along the way, which my brother Brian had discovered last fall. It was his suggestion to stake it out, knowing the Ivorybill's penchant for dying and recently-dead trees; upon the return walk, I would stop and stake out that tree for an hour, and see what might be seen there.
The Spring leaf-out is amazing. Visibility is greatly reduced.
I managed the "quiet" part of the walk easily enough. All or most of this bottomland has been flooded recently, as the Pascagoula breathed life into it, and washed away autumn's twiggy leaf-litter. The new green grass is yet soft and short. 100% DEET kept the nebulous clouds of bloodsuckers at arm's length. I moved slowly, taking the familiar territory in again. My thoughts turned as they often do to the Ivorybill, and I imagined this corner of the Pascagoula Basin was once a stronghold for the species, possibly up to the last selective logging of the 1950's; possibly, hopefully, now. This sector holds few equals in the WMA in terms of quality habitat, which is one reason I return to it again and again. I made up my mind as I walked to call the area, from Hutson Lake to Hollow Man, The Stronghold.
Not too far in, I was yanked out of my romanticizing. My walk had possibly been too quiet. In bear country, like the areas of Glacier National Park that I have hiked, one is encouraged to wear bells on one's gear and to be noisy in general, to give bears advance warning. Here, in the swamp wilderness of the Pascagoula, bears are not the primary concern, though the rumor of them is strong.
A large black boar trotted out of the undergrowth to my left and stood, blinking and swishing his tail, about twenty-five yards ahead of me. Very slowly, I retrieved my camera. Most of my shots did not turn out too well.
After a couple of minutes, the rest of the herd filed out behind him, and he led them westward, towards the River. I counted nine individuals, most of them young hogs around knee-high.
I believe I've encountered this fellow two or three times before, all in the same area: a crossroads between a network of sloughs to the west, and a long field and another network of sloughs to the east. I decided to name him Morgoth, the first Dark Lord in J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion.
Yeah, I'm a nerd, if you hadn't already figured.
This time of year, the bottomland is alive with bird life -- year-round residents, summer residents, and migrants bound for northern lands, all busy singing and catching insects. I made my way slowly on down the trail, stopping now and then to listen, and to watch the birds flitting about the trees. I heard at least one pair of Pileated Woodpeckers (PIWO's) calling to one another, in the forest to the west of the trail. Red-headed woodpeckers (RHWO's), normally noisy and conspicuous in the Stronghold, were largely silent and scarce; there were plenty of red-bellied woodpeckers (RBWO's) to take their place, though. Once, I got a good look at a male Scarlet Tanager, a species which (sadly, for me) merely graces this area in passage to its summer range to the north. I was also able to get a good look at a male Kentucky Warbler, and watched him for several minutes as he sang.
Then, to the west, I heard a distant kent. Now, these woods are simply stiff with blue jays, whose huge repertoire of notes and calls I am probably only partially familiar with. The kent call only sounded once, but it was different enough to get my attention. I listened for 2-3 more minutes, but did not hear it again.
I was not able to locate the lightning-struck oak, and after a while I approached the southern terminus of the trail. I checked in on the baldcypress Hollow Man:
Presently a nice swamp came into view on my left, an area my brother and I had explored on foot last autumn. Now it was full of slow-moving water. I made my way in, and due to the proximity of the swamp to some nice bottomland forest nearby, decided to stake out the swamp for an hour.
Not far in, I found what I believe to be a green ash tree, a species not terribly common in this area, unfortunately. High in the fork of the tree, I spied a large, oval-shaped cavity:
I noticed on the drive down in the clear, cool predawn hour that the local creeks and streams looked more reasonable than they had the last two times I'd passed them; and the Leaf River, tributary to the Pascagoula, was within her banks as well, though still surging mightily.
I passed the bridge over the Pascagoula and turned off Mississippi Highway 26 into the 37,000-acre Wildlife Management Area (WMA) just after dawn -- a little later than I preferred, though I like to believe that the big woodpeckers rise later than their smaller cousins [Tanner noted that "The Ivory-bill was almost the last bird of those woods to arise in the morning." (The Ivory-billed Woodpecker, p. 57)].
It felt good, crunching along the familiar WMA road in my long-suffering pickup. I'd brought the kayak, just in case all that stood between me and a good hike/stalk was a few feet of water. Luckily, the sloughs had receded significantly, and my Nissan churned through them towards Hutson Lake, and the trailhead to Hollow Man Road.
Only one other vehicle was around, a shiny black Chevy, parked near the flooded natural gas station. After checking on the water levels at old Hutson Lake, I parked by the trailhead and set out. I'd planned on a slow, quiet walk all the way to the venerable baldcypress Hollow Man, locating a lightning-struck red oak along the way, which my brother Brian had discovered last fall. It was his suggestion to stake it out, knowing the Ivorybill's penchant for dying and recently-dead trees; upon the return walk, I would stop and stake out that tree for an hour, and see what might be seen there.
Hutson Lake is in the upper left of this screenshot, just below Highway 26.
The Spring leaf-out is amazing. Visibility is greatly reduced.
I managed the "quiet" part of the walk easily enough. All or most of this bottomland has been flooded recently, as the Pascagoula breathed life into it, and washed away autumn's twiggy leaf-litter. The new green grass is yet soft and short. 100% DEET kept the nebulous clouds of bloodsuckers at arm's length. I moved slowly, taking the familiar territory in again. My thoughts turned as they often do to the Ivorybill, and I imagined this corner of the Pascagoula Basin was once a stronghold for the species, possibly up to the last selective logging of the 1950's; possibly, hopefully, now. This sector holds few equals in the WMA in terms of quality habitat, which is one reason I return to it again and again. I made up my mind as I walked to call the area, from Hutson Lake to Hollow Man, The Stronghold.
Not too far in, I was yanked out of my romanticizing. My walk had possibly been too quiet. In bear country, like the areas of Glacier National Park that I have hiked, one is encouraged to wear bells on one's gear and to be noisy in general, to give bears advance warning. Here, in the swamp wilderness of the Pascagoula, bears are not the primary concern, though the rumor of them is strong.
A large black boar trotted out of the undergrowth to my left and stood, blinking and swishing his tail, about twenty-five yards ahead of me. Very slowly, I retrieved my camera. Most of my shots did not turn out too well.
I believe I've encountered this fellow two or three times before, all in the same area: a crossroads between a network of sloughs to the west, and a long field and another network of sloughs to the east. I decided to name him Morgoth, the first Dark Lord in J.R.R. Tolkien's The Silmarillion.
Yeah, I'm a nerd, if you hadn't already figured.
This time of year, the bottomland is alive with bird life -- year-round residents, summer residents, and migrants bound for northern lands, all busy singing and catching insects. I made my way slowly on down the trail, stopping now and then to listen, and to watch the birds flitting about the trees. I heard at least one pair of Pileated Woodpeckers (PIWO's) calling to one another, in the forest to the west of the trail. Red-headed woodpeckers (RHWO's), normally noisy and conspicuous in the Stronghold, were largely silent and scarce; there were plenty of red-bellied woodpeckers (RBWO's) to take their place, though. Once, I got a good look at a male Scarlet Tanager, a species which (sadly, for me) merely graces this area in passage to its summer range to the north. I was also able to get a good look at a male Kentucky Warbler, and watched him for several minutes as he sang.
Then, to the west, I heard a distant kent. Now, these woods are simply stiff with blue jays, whose huge repertoire of notes and calls I am probably only partially familiar with. The kent call only sounded once, but it was different enough to get my attention. I listened for 2-3 more minutes, but did not hear it again.
I was not able to locate the lightning-struck oak, and after a while I approached the southern terminus of the trail. I checked in on the baldcypress Hollow Man:
This oak seems to be doing just fine out in the water of Hollow Man Lake. I'm not sure what species it is, but the leaf shape suggests to me a close cousin of the Southern red oak.
Location of Hollow Man.
I made my way back north up the trail, and decided to walk down a smaller trail that juts westward through a network of sloughs and swamp north of the lake. There I encountered a very nice young man, a turkey hunter, and the owner of the black Chevy I'd seen parked earlier. He had not seen any turkeys, or much of anything else.
Not far in, I found what I believe to be a green ash tree, a species not terribly common in this area, unfortunately. High in the fork of the tree, I spied a large, oval-shaped cavity:
The bark around the cavity looks worn and smooth, possibly from heavy bird or animal use.
I made temporary camp at the base of the ash, in a relatively dry pocket between it and a small beech tree. There I was afforded a fairly clear view of the swamp, and settled in for an hour with my water, Milky Way bars, and bacon jerky. A gray squirrel came out of the cavity and hustled away. After only a few minutes, my immediate surroundings came alive again, with great-crested flycatchers dueling, prothonotary warblers darting by, and a red-eyed vireo singing and hunting insects in the canopy above me for the duration.
During this time, I heard a series of knocks. Let me state here that until now, I have not, to my knowledge, yet heard what I could honestly consider Campephilus-style single knocks (SK's) or double-knocks (DK's). However, for perhaps around ten minutes of my stakeout of that swamp -- around 9:30 a.m. -- I heard both SK's and DK's, from two different sources: one from the north, probably within a hundred yards, and one to the south-east, rather more distant. The SK's and DK's were punctuated by longer sequences of knocks; for example (this is NOT exact, only my best approximation):
4 knocks + pause + DK + pause + 3 knocks + pause
There was no drumming. The more distant knocking to the southeast sounded, perhaps due to the acoustics of the terrain, like pistol shots, deep pop-pop's. I can not detect the knocks on the recording I made with my iPhone, only the incessant chatter of the vireo. I neither heard nor saw anything else of interest for the remainder of my stakeout, save the beauty of the swamp itself.
It began to get a bit warm -- the forecast high was 82 degrees (Fahrenheit). My hour stakeout was up, so I made my way back to the main trail; but I had not got very far when I heard a loud knocking to my left, in the direction of the nearer set of knocking I'd heard earlier. I determined the knocks I was then hearing came from a dead snag, the top of which protruded from a tangle of vines and small trees. Detecting movement on the far side of the snag, I moved closer to get a better view of what might be doing knocking, which did not include any SK's or DK's. I believed at the time that it was a woodpecker foraging.
For a very brief moment, the top of a head appeared in a gentle U on the opposite crown of the snag. My impressions are of a deep, velvety black colored-head, a hint of red at the back, and an eye that was either white or yellow. The eye stood out sharply in contrast to the feathers, in the manner of a hooded merganser drake. I saw no white feathers, and I could not see the bill. The bird dropped off the snag and quietly disappeared, in what I believed to be a generally northwestward direction (towards the River). I heard no heavy wingbeats [Tanner notes that the Ivorybill's flight is "noisy" (p. 58 of the monograph)].
In discussing the experience through online messaging with a friend, whose knowledge and wisdom on such matters I respect immensely, I came to the realization that my own memory of the event has become fuzzy, mixed in with images I have since scrutinized of Ivorybill illustrations. Now I question what I saw, as I am left primarily with impressions, not specific visualizations. The points I noted at the time -- the hint of red, no visible crest, the deep, velvety black, the eye, the bill obscured by the snag -- are what I remember, not necessarily the substance therein. I now consider the whole event with a good dose of skepticism; if I had brought along a sketchpad, and quickly set to paper what I had seen, it would have gone a long way towards reassuring me later that I was not (or was) a victim of trick lighting, or even wishful thinking. That will not happen again.
I also recall that I was pretty calm, not a reaction I've imagined I would have after an Ivorybill sighting. Nevertheless, I determined to follow the bird, hoping that it might have only flown a short distance. I proceeded northward along the trail a bit, hoping to find an opening in the brush that would allow me to follow the path of the bird, or to at least get a clearer view of the forest into which it flew.
Very quickly, I found a mature, live sweet gum with what at first appeared to be heavy scaling. This tree is visible from the trail, but for whatever reason, I have never noticed it on the many, many times I have passed by over the last couple of years. It could be that the scaling is recent. I hunkered down and threaded my way through a canebrake, some 20-30 yards, until I reached the tree.
The dramatic extent of the scaling blew me away, initially.
Note the dingy look, suggesting that the recent flooding might have been on the order of several feet.
The tree is very much alive.
I could find no excavation into the heartwood upon the bole.
Note the slight corkscrew pattern.
Scaling on one of the larger upper limbs. The limb is dead. I can't detect excavation upon it, though it is difficult to say for certain due to the height. I initially thought this might be older woodpecker work, but there appears to be possible residual "frass" (left by insect larvae) upon the heartwood, which should be absent in older work due to weathering.
The exposed heartwood is not soft or 'punky.' I was only able to drive the point of my machete into it about 1/4 - 1/2 inch.
The bark at eye level was tight. Nearer ground level, it was much looser, and some could be peeled away by hand. Note the insect larvae tunnels.
The ground around the base of the tree showed evidence of heavy rooting by hogs. There was evidence also that this area had flooded recently, likely during the past month.
Some of the pieces of bark I found nearby. Some pieces were several yards from the tree, and appeared to have been washed away by water.
As with the lower bole of the tree, some of the bark pieces seemed to be discolored by water, such as the large piece on the far left. Others, like the piece nearest my boot in this photo, showed no discoloration, indicating they fell more recently.
I have many questions about this tree. The slight corkscrew nature of the bark removal, plus the fact that it extends all the way to the ground, suggests to me that a lightning strike may have been involved, although there was no splintering to the wood, and no blackening, which I usually associate with such an event. There was no excavation into the heartwood. At this point I am not comfortable calling this Campephilus-style scaling, nor simply writing it off as the effects of a lightning strike, or some combination of the two. I hope to return to this tree for more scrutiny.
I made a short survey of the immediate surroundings, but found no other scaling.
My return hike was relatively uneventful, aside from a pileated woodpecker that swooped low overhead, and what I believe was a barn owl caterwauling from the direction of the River. I was back at my truck around 12:30 p.m.
Young ribbon snake near the northern terminus.
I have many questions about this day in the field, which was probably my most eventful one to date regarding evidence of Ivorybills. For that reason, and because of the rather sensitive nature of the subject matter, I've decided to limit (for the time being) views of this blog entry to only a few individuals I trust, and whose opinion I value; I will likely also edit this entry further, as my interpretation of the events warrant.
