Tiny Golden Jumping Spider, Who Are You?

Let's find out.

 I just flippin' love living in the Information Age. It is the perfect place and time for a Science Chimp to flourish and thrive. Even five years ago, if I had put my hand on the garden gate and seen a tiny iridescent golden jumping spider leap to the next post, I would have bent down, studied it, run inside to my woefully inadequate shelf of invertebrate field guides (well, they're great for big flashy butterflies, and the Kaufman Insect Guide has delighted me again and again, but I didn't have that five years ago), and I would have sadly concluded that it was a really neat little golden jumping spider and wished hard that I knew its true name.                                                     

  This thing was tiny and very shy and I had a devil of a time getting pictures of it.  They don't begin to capture its mystery and elegance. It looked like it was made of molten gold with a pinkish-lilac sheen that changed depending on how the light hit it.

I kept herding it around with my fingers and sticking the Canon G-11 right down on top of it and finally got some acceptable pictures before it disappeared into the marjoram, thoroughly disgusted at my presumption.

 

I stored the photos away until a golden Tuesday evening with the scissorgrinder cicadas competing lustily with lawnmowers and children laughing in the town green. An evening after a week of houseguests and cooking and wild wonderful music and pure fun. An evening when I could finally think about tiny gold jumping spiders and wonder what they might be.

I went to bugguide.net.  I typed "golden jumping spider" in the search box. And up popped matching photos of the gold jumping spider Tutelina elegans.  And I marveled that this could work. And marveled that I, an armchair Linnaeus, had already named it the same thing, minus the Latin. But the Latin is the key; the Latin is what will give me more. I have found out that they eat carpenter ants, but not a lot more. But that, at least, is a start.

My Webby peregrinations led me to a wonderful site tended by an old friend named Dick Walton.  Well, imagine that. I haven't seen him since the late '80's, at an Association of Field Ornithologists meeting where I was showing some very early paintings. He's making amazing videos of all manner of small creatures on his web site, Natural History Services. Here's his video of Tutelina elegans doing its thing. Watching it, you can appreciate the wonder of finding a tiny, shining golden-purple spider on a garden gate. Watching it, you can feel the enormity of knowing there's this huge, huge web of people pumping information out into the universe for no other reason than the love of knowing. Thank you, Dick. Thank you, Bugguide biologists. Thank you, Web. Thank you, Universe.



                                                                                                                                    

My Unseen Friends

My unseen friends leave me messages, often in the little cemetery on my running route. 

The red-shouldered hawk I sometimes see left me a beautiful tail feather not long ago. I stuck it in a crevice in the trunk of a dying red cedar as a hello to anyone who might see it.

One day when I was lying on the grass under this tree, the red-shoulder landed on a dead branch very close by. She didn't know I was there. The branch broke under her weight and that hawk sprang straight up in the air flapping like mad. I laughed 'til my stomach hurt. It's fun to see such commandeering, graceful, powerful creatures look silly sometimes.

I would love to see the owl who left this whitewash on an old stone. I can only imagine the creatures who people the cemetery at night.

I saw the first tiny fawn prints, along with its mother's tracks, in early July. The pockmarks are raindrops. This photo doesn't look like much, until you see how tiny they are next to my hand.

Yes. That's a fawn the size of Chet Baker, maybe smaller. I imagined it tottering through the mud behind its mama.

One morning I found the most perfect pile of bobcat droppings in the middle of the road, past the cemetery. I was so excited that I ran straight home to get my camera. The droppings were full of turkey feathers--poult feathers, to be exact, and I wanted to document that. 

All the way home I dreamt of the photo I would take of the turkey-stuffed bobcat poo. I climbed in the car with my camera and by the time I got back someone had run over my poo pile. 

RATS!

I moped for a little while and then decided to get up before light the next morning in hopes the bobcat had come back and pooped there again.

I ran with my camera in my hand the whole way, more than two miles. And when I got there, the angels smiled and there was another perfect turkey-feather-stuffed bobcat ca ca, put right atop the old pile.

And I got my photo.

 So don't go around saying you don't know anyone who gets up early to photograph bobcat crap, because you do. One of the good things about living this far out is you don't really have to worry about anyone seeing you crouching next to a pile of poop, getting the perfect shot.

I wouldn't care if they saw me anyhow. It's probably more interesting than what they're up to, which would be smoking and driving a car. You can see the feather quill in the squashed poo, and then the fresh stuff, put right atop the smashed pile. How kind of the cat. Must've smelt my disappointment when the first pile was run over.

These photos conjure up an image of a beautiful bobcat leaping high into the air to snag a football-sized wild turkey poult. Good eatin'!

Just because I found it online, here is a photo of a melanistic bobcat taken in Scioto County, Ohio, several years ago by a trail camera. I've seen three Ohio bobcats, but none of them have been midnight black. What an unutterably cool animal. I might not recover if I saw something like this.

No, mostly what I get to see is what my unseen friends leave behind. That's where the imagination kicks in.

Midwest Birding Symposium-Come With Me!

The Midwest Birding Symposium is almost here! In 34 days, close to a thousand birdwatchers will flutter down upon Lakeside, an idyllic resort on the shore of Lake Erie. It's coming. People are signing up like crazy. I would like you to consider joining the flock. So I shall seduce you with flowers, beautiful architecture, scintillating talks, groovy field trips and a certain charismatic Boston terrier.

This is my favorite birding event aside from the Big Sit, and for many of the same reasons. Most of all, I love seeing so many wonderful people, greeting and yakking with them at my booth. Lakeside is like this big beautiful Victorian summer camp, and seeing groups of birders sauntering through its quaint streets makes me happy. They're going from talk to talk.

About those talks. I sat down to make a list of the speakers I wanted to hear. I got a piece of paper, went to the Speakers link on Midwestbirding.org
and started writing. About halfway through, I started to chuckle, because I'd written every single one down as a can't-miss.

Last year I gave my talk in Orchestra Hall, with its lovely acoustics and intimate atmosphere. Perfect. But a tad small. We don't want to make anyone stand up.

This year, I'll face the cavernous expanse of historic Hoover Auditorium, along with a roster of wonderful speakers. I'm Al Batt's warmup act on Saturday night.

 

Imagine this place packed full of birders. Scary! Fun!  As it happens, Hoover's where I'll have my art booth. So I'll get to hear a bunch of awesome talks, and I'll get to see practically everybody as they come through. Yay! Come and say hi! Remember to blurt "BLOG!" if that's how we know each other. People won't look at you funny.

It's time to pack up the booth. I enjoy the challenge of using my Poor Man's Pickup, the cargo carrier I bought to haul Extra Stuff. Usually that means bales of straw or lots of bungeed garbage cans, but sometimes it means Fine Art.

 

 Many bungee cords, some strapdowns, some tarps and yes, some duct tape will be deployed.

Here's hoping for the same perfect winey-sweet September weather we enjoyed in 2009.

I'll have limited-edition prints and original paintings like this one from my upcoming book.

 

  It's called The Bluebird Effect: Uncommon Bonds with Common Birds.

It's due out in early spring 2012. 80,000 words and 320 brand-new color and pencil illustrations...it's been a thing. But it's done now and just about to go to press, and I cannot wait to hold it in my hands. 

I'll be taking the first pre-orders at this Symposium. If you pre-order The Bluebird Effect here, you'll get it before anyone else, and I'll be more than happy to sign it and personalize it as you request.

But enough of my yakkin'. Let me show you Lakeside as I know it and love it.

 

There's a lovely walking path that runs along Erie's shore, past gorgeous homes and luscious gardens.

 

 I walk and gaze and fantasize that Bill and I are sitting in those chairs, sharing a julep as we gaze out on the lake. But of course there would be many more dandelions in our lawn.

  

 There are almost no cars to worry about, just golf carts and bicycles, so you can walk anywhere. 

There are big green spaces with tantalizing squirtles.

We'll be bunking at the Hotel Lakeside, which I understand is full up right now. Liam is spooked by the ghosts that are said to walk its halls, but they're mostly just playing dressup with the sheets.

 

Both kids are hugely looking forward to it. Phoebe loves the architecture and the freedom of riding bikes anywhere she and Liam want to go.

 

Chet Baker loves the place, too. And he'll be with us, so this may be your chance to get your kiss from a very down-to-earth canine cyberstar.

 

As you can see, my Crazy Dog Lady priorities are in order. Chet first, kids second.

We'll all be signing our books, even Phoebe and Liam, who helped Daddy write and design the

Young Birder's Guide.

 2009's Authors' Event was really fun. Here's Lang Elliott, Sharon Stiteler, Paul Baicich, Bill Thompson III, Jim McCormac, Wayne Peterson, Lisa White and Jeff Gordon, all lined up to meet, greet and sign. I was sandwiched in next to Bill, because we both sign copies of several of his books that I've illustrated or helped on.

If all this sounds like fun, please consider attending. There's PLENTY of lodging space left, both on the Lakeside grounds and off, from humble dormitories to bed and breakfasts to cottages to hotels in nearby Port Clinton.

Click here: Lodging Options  

or

Email: hotels@lakesideohio.com 

or 

call: Lakeside's Steve Koenig at 

419-798-4461 x 230 or

1-866-952-5374

What I'm trying to say is It's Not Too Late to Regiser and PLEASE COME SEE US! You'll be so glad you did. Birders are the friendliest people anywhere. And this is such a lovely, smoothly-run event in a lovely, smoothly-run place. It has a huge and an insanely great vendor mart, too, so if you're thinking of upgrading your optics or picking up the latest, hottest books, clothing, or birding accoutrements, this is IT.

Come ogle the many gorgeous homes and gardens.

Come hang out with people who love birds. Come hear terrific talks and watch the sun rise over Lake Erie.

  Come chase fall warblers with people who also think that's fun. Maybe the Kirtland's warbler who graced 2009's event will stop by again. You never know what will show up on migration along Lake Erie.

Hey! I'm a Cape May!

Visit midwestbirding.org for every detail. Check the toolbar across the site's top for links to everything you could want.
 The Thompson/Zickefoose/Baker family is anxious to see you there.

We'll be gassing up down at the Sibley Mart on the way up. Only seems fittin'.

Runnaversary!

 July 30, 2011, was my one-year runnaversery. Having run almost seven days a week for a year, having been out in every kind of weather from weeks of icepack to sweltering 90's, I am more than a little pleased with myself for sticking with it. I've probably run almost 800 miles in the past year. Not a lot for a serious runner, but it feels good to write that. Good? It feels unbelievable, in the purest sense of the word.

I thought I'd lose weight. You'd think, reading this, that by now I'd be one of those sinewy stick women. Nah. Not an ounce lost. I gained several pounds of muscle. Oh well. But what I noticed once the soreness wore off was how much better I felt in my body. It was a revelation.

How could I not stick with it? I'm hooked, as much on this landscape and these colors, as I am addicted to the exercise.

 

Nothing is the same from day to day. Everything is different and new every time I go out. One fine morning the thistles will have bloomed.

 The colors change. Some mornings they're dull, some mornings they're glorious. I feel blessed to have this road stretching out before me, to have it almost all to myself.

I stay off the paved road. Gravel has proven much kinder to my feet and knees than pavement would be. But every morning I stop and look down at Carl's house, at the place where his beautiful leaning barn used to be. I listen for the catbird.

 Just before the birdsong died out (naturally, I'd add, for they're done breeding now), I started carrying a folded piece of notebook paper and a little pen in my pocket, and scribbling down the birds I heard singing every morning. It was a wonderful way to take my mind off the heat and the hills and the sweat and the toil. I write lots of other things on the paper, too--usually a few haikus every morning, or song lyrics, or ideas that come to me when my blood is pumping.

My personal best for the 2.8 mile daily run was 48 bird species on July 9, 2011. Because I am a nerd, I will list them here in bander's code, because anyone who knows enough to care what birds are singing on my road will probably be nerd enough to figure out what they are (Yes, KatDoc, I'm talking to you) and anyone who cares but can't figure it out can ask me. I love this list so much. It is pure, distilled essence of what makes Zick happy--getting out every morning, rain or shine, recording what I hear and see, and paying full attention to the wonders all around. Note that all these birds are breeding right around my house. That's not all that breed; the worm-eating and black-and-white warblers and many others aren't singing any more, but gee whiz! How's that for a chest full of treasure?

 EATO

AMCR

BLJA

ACFL

CHSP

FISP

NOCA

AMRE

TUTI

KYWA

RTHU

REVI

HOWA

BGGN

EAKI

INBU

EABL

HOSP

CACH

DOWO

AMGO

RBWO

EWPE

AMRO

SCTA

YBCU

YTVI

BASW

EUST

MODO

GRCA

WBNU

BWHA

BRTH

PIWO

CHSW

COYE

NOMO

BHCO

EAME

WOTH

YBCH

RSHA

WEVI

NOFL

SOSP

CAWR

EAPH  48 spp. 7/9/11  (PERSONAL BEST FOR RUN SO FAR)

It is a great regret of mine that I can't carry a camera every morning, but even the slight weight of my Canon G-11 is too much to want to haul. So on one particularly lovely misty morning I carried it along in my hand as I ran, and recorded some of the beautiful things I see every day, just to share it with you. It took hours. In the tree above is one of those beautiful things. Can you find him? If I had a soundtrack you could. Astute readers will notice that YBCH eluded me on July 9, though there were three pairs along my route. Ever-changing, never predictable. I bet I coulda broken 50 species with the chat and a raptor flyover. Oh well, next year. It keeps you thinking. Listening to birdsong, sifting one from the other, is my thing. 

A yellow-breasted chat, quacking and clicking and grunting and hooting his heart out.

I'm writing this post while waiting for Phoebe's nightly cross country training--45 minutes to the school, two hours for her training, then 45 minutes home. She loves it. And she's built for it, like a gazelle, unlike her little brick outhouse of a mama.

Whoda thunk just a year ago that running would become such a huge part of our lives? Needless to say, I highly recommend it. Yeah, I thought I hated running too--until I committed to it.

Welcome to My World

Every time I go out running, and that is every morning

I wish I could bring you along. But you are usually sleeping, or at least not in the mood to stretch yourself out and then get very sweaty. 

You would think I'd tire of this road, running it every day, but the fact is that watching it change its clothes and its soundtrack each day fascinates me endlessly.

There are always surprises. Sometimes it's the deep violet blue of the morning's first chicory.

 

Sometimes it's pink chicory. I know of five plants on this curve that are pink. I don't know how common that is, but it feels singular to me.

 

There's one intergrade that is a bewitching periwinkle bluepink.

Sometimes it's an eastern tailed blue mimicking a flying bit of chicory. I love ETBL's. They are a most friendly and confiding butterbug. You can see the tail on his left hind wing.

Sometimes it's a hayfield, suddenly cut, with meadowlarks circling overhead not knowing what in the world they should do. (They wound up leaving the next day, but that's OK, because I had seen their babies fledge weeks earlier). If there's one thing meadowlarks know about, it's haying.

 Sometimes it's an unexpected curve in a treeline that reminds me of England.

 Or black-eyed Susans against a misty tree scrim.

And always at my side Chet Baker, sweet companion of the morning and my life. In him I have a dogmometer. I can tell how hot it is by whether he's in front of me, beside me or yards behind. Over about 82 degrees and I'm liable to have to wait for the boy. Under 80 and he waits for me.

 We always stop and think at the cemetery. We breathe and sweat and are glad to be alive and not having a red cedar and pizen ivy growing up through our rib cages.