Pileated
The trail around Witch Hole Pond swoops mildly up and down, along the pond, through the woods. I was on skis, making my way slowly up a little wooded rise. The wind had dropped, and deep snow lay everywhere, on the pond, the trees, the carriage road, muffling all sound. There was only the faint hiss beneath my skis. And something else: a modest tapping.
I looked up into the trees. At this time of year there isn't much motion or color in the woods, besides the snowy branches moving in the wind, the deep cerulean sky beyond.
So he was pretty obvious, despite his discretion. The pileated woodpecker is a huge bird, nearly two feet long, with spectacular plumage. He's mostly dull black, but he has bold white stripes down his neck, and a showy black stripe along his cheek. An absurdly long chisel-shaped beak: he looks like a bird drawn by a child. On top of his head is a flaming scarlet crest, high and sharply pointed, like a medieval jester's hat. And there is something slightly foolish about him: he's a bit gawky, clambering jerkily around the trunk of a tree, fluttering away furtively if you get too close. Pileateds live almost entirely under the forest cover, almost never flying out into the open. They're shy. Usually, if you stop during a hike, hearing the tap-tap, tap-tap, and if you look around for the big black and white bird, he'll slide quickly around to the other side of the trunk, peering out to see if you're still there. If you are, he'll flap away, ducking through the branches, looking too big to fly between them. Maybe he'll give his dry, tuneless, clucking call.
But this one was bold. Maybe it was the wintry silence, the glittering snow, the still, cold, electric air. The sense of deep frozen quiet that February brings. Anyway he ignored me. He was perched halfway up a white pine, making a modest tap-tap, tap-tap, his big angular head nodding. The movement seemed offhand, as though he were just thinking about something. But these little taps were serious: pileated woodpeckers are the superheroes. This modest tapping was like someone holding a pickax by the throat, thudding it over and over. Pileated woodpeckers can drum at a speed of fifteen miles an hour, twenty times a second, and they produce a hole the size of a shoe-box with ease.
The pileated likes ants, particularly carpenter ants. He hops along a tree trunk, leaning close to it, sniffing for formic acid and listening carefully for anty sounds. He's good at this. During the summer, ants run along the top of the bark, or just underneath it, and the woodpecker picks them off one at a time. During the winter, carpenter ants are dormant. The entire dozy swarm settles all together in the heart of a tree. There they lie until spring, when they will wake up and start consuming the tree, unless they're discovered first by a wily woodpecker.
My pileated was after a swarm. He was hammering away with his chisel-shaped bill, sending out messy showers of bark and chips, and opening up a huge gaping hole of pale pinewood. He turned often to look at me, then back at the tree to chip away some more. Finally he hit something, down in the center of the tree. He stuck his head deep into the cavity, making little jerky movements, nodding and nosing. He was using his incredibly long tongue, which is agile and muscular, sipping up one sleepy ant after another.
He paused, pecked, paused, listened. He cocked his showy wild-striped head, then thrust it in again greedily, deep inside the cavity, to feast. He tossed out chips, dove in again, then turned to look at me, gulping down his breakfast.
I watched him for a while, drumming, dipping, shifting. Finally I started on quietly, leaving him there to feast in peace. But my movement scared him, and the tiny crunch of my poles in the snow, the rustling of my jacket were too much for him.
He drew his head back and opened his big black wings and flew off, low, through the branches, like a clumsy bomber. Furtive and quick, he vanished among the trees, calling his harsh, brief note.
Then there was silence, just the faint whisper of wind against the snow.
I looked up into the trees. At this time of year there isn't much motion or color in the woods, besides the snowy branches moving in the wind, the deep cerulean sky beyond.
So he was pretty obvious, despite his discretion. The pileated woodpecker is a huge bird, nearly two feet long, with spectacular plumage. He's mostly dull black, but he has bold white stripes down his neck, and a showy black stripe along his cheek. An absurdly long chisel-shaped beak: he looks like a bird drawn by a child. On top of his head is a flaming scarlet crest, high and sharply pointed, like a medieval jester's hat. And there is something slightly foolish about him: he's a bit gawky, clambering jerkily around the trunk of a tree, fluttering away furtively if you get too close. Pileateds live almost entirely under the forest cover, almost never flying out into the open. They're shy. Usually, if you stop during a hike, hearing the tap-tap, tap-tap, and if you look around for the big black and white bird, he'll slide quickly around to the other side of the trunk, peering out to see if you're still there. If you are, he'll flap away, ducking through the branches, looking too big to fly between them. Maybe he'll give his dry, tuneless, clucking call.
But this one was bold. Maybe it was the wintry silence, the glittering snow, the still, cold, electric air. The sense of deep frozen quiet that February brings. Anyway he ignored me. He was perched halfway up a white pine, making a modest tap-tap, tap-tap, his big angular head nodding. The movement seemed offhand, as though he were just thinking about something. But these little taps were serious: pileated woodpeckers are the superheroes. This modest tapping was like someone holding a pickax by the throat, thudding it over and over. Pileated woodpeckers can drum at a speed of fifteen miles an hour, twenty times a second, and they produce a hole the size of a shoe-box with ease.
The pileated likes ants, particularly carpenter ants. He hops along a tree trunk, leaning close to it, sniffing for formic acid and listening carefully for anty sounds. He's good at this. During the summer, ants run along the top of the bark, or just underneath it, and the woodpecker picks them off one at a time. During the winter, carpenter ants are dormant. The entire dozy swarm settles all together in the heart of a tree. There they lie until spring, when they will wake up and start consuming the tree, unless they're discovered first by a wily woodpecker.
My pileated was after a swarm. He was hammering away with his chisel-shaped bill, sending out messy showers of bark and chips, and opening up a huge gaping hole of pale pinewood. He turned often to look at me, then back at the tree to chip away some more. Finally he hit something, down in the center of the tree. He stuck his head deep into the cavity, making little jerky movements, nodding and nosing. He was using his incredibly long tongue, which is agile and muscular, sipping up one sleepy ant after another.
He paused, pecked, paused, listened. He cocked his showy wild-striped head, then thrust it in again greedily, deep inside the cavity, to feast. He tossed out chips, dove in again, then turned to look at me, gulping down his breakfast.
I watched him for a while, drumming, dipping, shifting. Finally I started on quietly, leaving him there to feast in peace. But my movement scared him, and the tiny crunch of my poles in the snow, the rustling of my jacket were too much for him.
He drew his head back and opened his big black wings and flew off, low, through the branches, like a clumsy bomber. Furtive and quick, he vanished among the trees, calling his harsh, brief note.
Then there was silence, just the faint whisper of wind against the snow.
Labels: February 2009, Maine
posted by Roxana Robinsonat
10:22 PM 0 Comments
