"Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter."
― Carol Bishop Hipps
But, for now, it's still pretty green out there. From summer-like weather just a week ago, we've seen steady temperature declines for a more seasonable October weekend. Instead of an anticipated vibrant foliage display, I sense a sudden leaf-drop in a few weeks. Wanting to sleep-in Saturday morning, I didn't hit the prairie until 8:30 AM when temps were still in the low 40s. The 10-day forecast shows 50s for the highs and a few frost warnings for nighttime ― perhaps rendering an end to 2023's tiger beetle season. This likely means for the remainder of the year (and winter) I'll return my focus to birds.
And since it's October, the sunlight looked good for finding and photographing sparrows. Alas, it was very breezy and I knew that would probably keep the birds from prolonged cooperative perching. Still, I managed to find a fairly good selection of sparrows and taxonomic allies:
Field Sparrow
Song Sparrow
Lincoln's Sparrow
Swamp Sparrow
White-throated Sparrow
White-crowned Sparrow
Eastern Towhee
Dark-eyed Junco
A puffed-up Field Sparrow, warming in the sunlight.
Song Sparrows were abundant ...
Probably a few dozen White-throated Sparrows ...
But fewer White-crowned Sparrows ...
Other songbirds included American Pipit, Horned Lark, Hermit Thrush, Golden-crowned Kinglet, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Orange-crowned Warbler, Yellow-rumped Warbler, Palm Warbler, Common Yellowthroat, Eastern Phoebe, Winter Wren, and many resident species.
A House Wren embarked on a quest through the labyrinthine world of dead logs. Its plump form, adorned with feathers painted in shades of muted brown, seemed almost inconspicuous against the backdrop decayed limbs.
A Red-bellied Woodpecker considers its next move ...
I won't return to Pheasant Branch until next weekend. Hopefully by that time there will be more sparrows ― perhaps with Fox and American Tree. To be sure, sparrowing isn't as good as it used to be there. I remember days during October when there were hundreds of White-throated and Fox Sparrows that would stage at the drumlin. For whatever reason, each fall there seems to be fewer of them coming through this part of Dane County. Naturally, it might also be on account of me not spending as much time birding as I used to, and I might be merely missing a big push of the birds.
Asters continue to adorn the prairie, but some are starting to fade and die back ...
A common critter sight this time of year, a Woollybear Caterpillar was the only insect I photographed. As a rule I tend not to meddle with wildlife, but I delicately coaxed the caterpillar to traverse a stick so I could get better photographs of it crawling from one end of it to another.
The species is actually Isabella Tiger Moth Pyrrharctia isabella. Some errantly believe the amount of brown and black hair on the larva indicate the coming winter's severity, but this is mere folklore.
What isn't folklore is what these caterpillars do to survive Wisconsin's harsh winters, by pulling an amazing physiological biochemical change to put glycerol into their cells used as organic antifreeze (cryoprotectant). Moving water out of their cells, it freezes in the extracellular space; the water expands as ice, and this saves the cell. The glycerol then keeps the caterpillar alive throughout winter. First its heart stops beating, then its gut freezes, then its blood, followed by the rest of the body. Essentially, this durable insect almost freezes solid, then thaws in the spring to pickup right where it left off, cocooning and becoming a moth.
In the heart of October, the natural world transforms into a symphony of autumnal hues and whispered secrets, beckoning the dedicated naturalist to explore its enchanting depths. As the leaves descend from their arboreal perches, they paint the forest floor with a mosaic of fiery reds, rustic oranges, and golden yellows. It is a time when the Earth itself seems to exhale, releasing its vibrant energy before the approaching slumber of winter.
All images © 2023 Mike McDowell