Overheard by Husband as he walked out of his office building, a guy talking on his cell phone, voice at normal volume as people streamed by,
"They seemed like nice people, until they showed me their Robospanker and Wheel of Sex."
This photo was taken in the staff restroom at work. Those are scorch marks (not soot) on the wall next to the commode; you can see for yourself if you click the second image, which is an enlargement of the boxed area in picture one. Sorry for the poor quality; I received some odd looks when I went in with camera equipment.
I inquired as to the health and well-being of all my co-workers. Everybody seemed to be walking and sitting normally, and nobody was willing to admit to producing these strange, fiery marks on the wall. Not via an uncomfortable intestinal ailment, not via some odd combustible ritual. It remains someone’s burning secret.
There are only two families of birds found just in the West Indies. One is the Dulidae, consisting of one species, the Palmchat (Dulus dominicus) of Hispanolia. The other is the Todidae, or todies, of which there are five species.
Todies are related to kingfishers and motmots, two of my favorite groups of birds, but are fetchingly unique. Todies are thought to have colonized the West Indies from the Yucatan of Mexico via Cuba. The Cuban Tody (Todus multicolor), then, is the “original” tody species, and the most colorful. Not clearly visible in this photo are the shocking pink flanks.
Todies are rotund, kinglet-sized birds with big heads, short tails, and long flat bills. They inhabit various forest types with fairly dense structure, since they typically make only short flights, engaging in a characteristic foraging maneuver known as the “underleaf sally.” Todies sit on a twig, bill uplifted, scanning nearby foliage. Then they dart out and scoop an insect off the underside of a leaf.
This behavior is not too unlike the conduct of motmots. But where motmots might be considered deliberate or even sluggish, todies appear eager and dynamic, “tiny verdigris busybodies” in the words of Thomas Barbour, who wrote Cuban Ornithology in 1943. Todies are remarkably vocal, emitting various beeps, buzzes, and ticks (you can view video clips here). They can also make a “wing-rattling” sound with their wings.
Yes, I’m getting to the farting part.
Todies have colorful nicknames on the islands where they are found. Puerto Rico’s tody sometimes goes by Medio Peso, or half dollar. The Handbook of the Birds of the World goes on to explain,
The Cuban Tody is often known as the Pedorrera, a rather malodorous term referring to the noise made when breaking wind.
Cuban Todies are common, and in my visits to Cuba I have seen — and heard — many. I assumed Pedorrera, which means “little farter,” referred perhaps to the rapid ticking call (although I’m not sure what ailment would account for such sharp, staccato flatulence), or the wing-rattling, which is a strong whirring sound that can sometimes be heard as the bird takes off. Either way, Cubans must have good imaginations, I thought, if they were reminded of passing gas by these noises.
My moment of enlightenment dawned one day while I was standing almost directly underneath a Cuban Tody as it scanned for lunch. No matter how many todies you see, you are always tempted to stop and watch these sprites, especially when one is right out in the open. It turned a bright eye on a bug, and zipped out, doing the old “underleaf sally,” returning almost instantaneously to the same perch. To my utter amazement (and, I’ll admit, delight), the move was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a nice, ripe fart!
The tody ignored the group just below it, even as we exchanged high fives at having discovered the origin of the nickname. Out shot the tody from the twig once again, producing another sound worthy of the finest whoopee cushion. The hilarity exhibited by the listeners proved too much for the bird, who moved into the forest. I’ve since heard other little farters earning their name, and it’s always a highlight. You have to be very close, and it seems the bird must execute a particularly quick, sharp move for the correct sound to materialize. There are many things to like about this cute and charismatic little bird, I almost hate to confess that this sound tops my list.
Famed avian ecologist Alexander Wetmore wrote in 1927,
If there be gnomes and elves in our world of birds, among them are the tiny todies, whose long, spadelike bills, light eyes, brilliant plumage and peculiar mannerisms make them the dwarfs and hobgoblins of the West Indian forests… their acquaintance is one of the greatest pleasures that comes to a foreign ornithologist traveling in their haunts.
This foreign ornithologist concurs completely.
Returning home, in a plane somewhere over Lake Michigan. Turn to the partially completed crossword puzzle in the in-flight magazine. The clue, two words, five letters: "A perp would cop this." Previous passenger has carefully filled in "AFEEL".
The long-anticipated response [1] to the Cornell Ivory-billed Woodpecker paper [2] has been published in Science, the journal that published the original paper, along with a response from some of the original authors [3]. The authors are well-known field guide author and artist David Sibley; birder and tour leader Louis Bevier; Michael Patten, Director of Research, Sutton Avian Research Center; and Chris Elphick, of the University of Nevada-Reno.
Sibley et al. argue that the video image and sound recordings, evidence presented in the original paper, “cannot be taken to confirm the species’ presence because they do not provide independently verifiable evidence.” Like woodpecker expert Jerry Jackson, the authors believe the bird in the video is a Pileated Woodpecker. Jackson wrote a thorough, thoughtful essay in the last issue of the Auk [4] outlining, among other things, why he did not believe the original Science paper provided enough proof. Although the Auk is a peer-reviewed journal, the Jackson piece was not peer reviewed, as it appeared in a non-scientific section of the journal entitled “Perspectives in Ornithology.” Just about everybody and his brother has weighed in on this topic, but the Sibley et al. paper is the first peer reviewed refutation to be published.
In the response, the subset of original authors argue that Sibley et al. are mistaken in their analysis. I needn’t go on, because, really, here’s the bottom line. The video is obviously not conclusive, or there wouldn’t be much debate. A plausible alternative for what appears on the video (that it is a Pileated Woodpecker) cannot be conclusively disproven.
In the Sibley paper, similar analytical tools were used to reach a different conclusion than in the original paper, akin to two researchers performing the same experiment and getting different results. Nor have the “results” presented in the first paper been replicated in two years of herculean effort. An in the world of science, a situation of this nature would generally be considered to be at the “back to the drawing board” stage. And I think that’s where the IBWO is at. Still awaiting rediscovery.
[1] Sibley, D.A., L. R. Bevier, M. A. Patten, and C. S. Elphick. 2006. Comment on “Ivory-billed Woodpecker (Campephilus principalis) Persists in Continental North America.” Science 311:1555a.
[2] Fitzpatrick, J. W., M. Lammertink, M. D. Luneau, Jr., T. W. Gallagher, B. R. Harrison, G. M. Sparling, K. V. Rosenberg, R. W. Rohrbaugh, E. C. H. Swarthout, P. H. Wrege, S. Barker Swarthout, M. S. Dantzker, R. A. Charif, T. R. Barksdale, J. V. Remsen, Jr., S. D. Simon, and D. Zollner. 2005. Ivory-billed Woodpecker (Campephilus principalis) persists in continental North America. Science 308:1460 – 1462.
[3] Fitzpatrick, J. W., M. Lammertink, M. D. Luneau, Jr., T. W. Gallagher, and K. V. Rosenberg. 2006. Response to Comment on “Ivory-billed Woodpecker (Campephilus principalis) Persists in Continental North America.” Science 311:1555b.
[4] Jackson, J. A. 2006. Ivory-billed Woodpecker (Campephilus principalis): hope, and the interfaces of science, conservation, and politics. Auk 123:1-15.
Nearly every field guide to trees that I’ve seen lists carvings on the trunks of American Beech trees (Fagus grandifolia) as a field mark. In my urban area, virtually every beech tree is inscribed with carved initials and declarations of true love. These inscriptions are known as arborglyphs.
While many hardwoods have smooth bark when young, the American Beech retains this wonderful, thin gray bark even when mature. It makes an irresistible surface for carvers. Beeches can live hundreds of years, reach heights over 80 feet, and have trunk diameters of greater than three feet. On old trees, arborglyphs become interesting cultural artifacts.
Some of the most famous arborglyphs are the Basque Tree Carvings, made (on aspen trees) by immigrant shepherds in the American West as they supplied mutton to early mining camps. In Georgia, there are beech trees reportedly carved by Cherokees along the Trail of Tears. Closer to home are beech trees carved in modern times as documented by Bev at Burning Silo. In fact, her post inspired me to drag this one out of the draft folder, where it has languished since last June, when I photographed the magnificent beech shown above, in suburban Detroit.
The most stunning thing about this tree, aside from its two-foot-diameter trunk and beautiful spreading crown, was the complete lack of carvings. The tree, and several others only slightly smaller, but remarkably just as pristine, were in a new park. It had once been farmland, long abandoned and reverted to woods. A crumbling hearth was nearby, and here and there a rotting post with rusty barbed wire nailed to it.
The beech trees weren’t carved, but the municipality had done extensive carving of this property — excessively wide paths had been bulldozed everywhere through the woods, large clearings brush-hogged every few hundred yards, several enormous soccer fields, all expanses of green grass, constructed where the woods had been abruptly cleared, letting direct sunlight splash over previously dim forest floor. It was sickening.
I’m not opposed to parks, and prefer them to shopping centers or McMansion developments. However, there was land available for sports fields that would not have required deforestation. The idea that a “well-planned” nature park requires 15-foot-wide trails with dozens of shortcuts so nobody has to walk too far, and large openings and clearing of underbrush so it doesn’t look too scary, just blows me away.
I know when I return this summer, what is left of this forest will have a completely new character. There was no invasive buckthorn, honeysuckle, or garlic mustard, but I will see them becoming established along the soccer field and trail margins. Delicate native wildlflowers, accustomed to moist soil and filtered light, will not have survived in the sunlit-baked ground. Ground-nesting Ovenbirds and treetop Scarlet Tanagers, both of whom require large unbroken woods and which don’t respond favorably to disturbance, will be gone.
And that glorious beech, whose smooth gray bark had only known the soft caress of a Wood Thrush’s song, will be scarred with letters and dates, epitaphs memorializing to future generations just when the splendor of this forest died.
(Here’s the summer 2006 update.)
An interesting paper in the most recent issue of the Condor, the journal of the Cooper Ornithological Society:
Miller, M. W. 2006. Apparent effects of light pollution on singing behavior of American Robins. Condor 108:130-139.
The author recorded the initiation of the morning song of American Robins in several locations in the eastern U.S. during the breeding seasons in 2002 and 2003. The sites varied in the intensity of artificial nocturnal light. Two historical data sets were also used for comparison. He found that there was a positive correlation between the time of chorus initiation, relative to civil twilight, and the amount of artificial light. Robins in areas with a lot of artificial light often began singing during true night, WAY before robins in low-light areas, which still began singing at times comparable to those recorded historically.
I thought the study design left a little bit to be desired. Individual sites were sampled (robin chorus time recorded) only 5 to 19 times. All sampling was done in the April to June time frame, and robins will nest later in the season. I'd like to see this study repeated with a larger sample sizes, at different periods in the breeding season, and in different geographic areas, as well as with different species.
Nonetheless, the results were more than just suggestive — there was a whopping difference in the time robins began to sing in low light areas (less than half an hour before civil twilight) and in high light areas (two or three hours before civil twilight).
Does this have biological implications? The author suggested some potential possibilities. Robins may have increased productivity if increased light enables them to forage for longer periods, or helps them seek mates. On the other hand, robins singing longer in brightly lit areas may be more vulnerable to predators or have increased energy requirements, and thus have lower survivorship.
I've often wondered about the consequences of what might amount to sleep-deprivation on urban robins. Around here in the middle of summer they are often active, or at least vocalizing, until it gets dark, well past 9:30 PM. Then they begin singing again as early as 3:30 or 4 AM. During daylight hours, they certainly appear busy with nesting activities. In light of the current study (pun fully intended), a time-budget analysis and productivity study of robins in rural versus urban areas would be really, um, enlightening.
I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about millipedes, even though there are an estimated 80,000 species on earth (only 10,000 named), with about 1,400 in the U.S. As a gardener and someone who is fond of peeking under rotting logs, I certainly encounter millipedes. Although these are small and non-descript, I recognize their important role as decomposers and their contribution to the nutrient cycle. And, well, that’s about the extent of my relationship with class Diplopoda.
Be that as it may, I could hardly ignore this whopper, nearly 20 centimeters, crossing my path in the Sierra Cubitas mountains in Cuba. Despite its 110 or so pairs of legs (name notwithstanding, no millipede has more than 750 legs) it had lost its grip on rain-slicked rocks and keeled over like an ungainly double-bottomed tanker truck.
A prod with a stick to nudge it upright caused it to immediately secrete droplets of liquid from pores on its sides. Nearly all millipedes have defensive secretions, and this one was excreting surprisingly copious amounts just from this good-intentioned provocation.
After walking away, I sighed. I knew that once I returned home, I would be unable to resist trying to put a name to this mega-millipede, and learn more about its haunts and habits.
Knowing virtually nothing about millipedes (caught flat-footed, so to speak), I had to first familiarize myself with the general types of millipedes: flat, plated types, bristly bark dwellers, ones that roll themselves up into balls, and an array of cylindrical kinds. The Cuban one was clearly a member of the latter. I further narrowed it down to large tropical cylindrical millipedes in the superorder Juliformia. Eventually I concluded this millipede was in the order Spirobolida, and the family Rhinocricidae, which contains genera that might be familiar to millipede fans in North America, including the species Narceus americanus, or American Giant Millipede. There are nine genera of Rhinocricidae in the West Indies, five in Cuba. I’m pretty sure this is in the genus Rhinocricus, but that’s only a semi-educated guess.
As for the secretions, the chemical composition varies across taxonomic groups. Spirobolida produce benzoquinones, noxious chemicals similar to what is sprayed by bombadier beetles. Aside from their ability to dissuade predators, benzoquinones can be pretty irritating to humans, causing mild burns and/or skin discoloration. The glands that discharge the secretions, known by the vividly descriptive term, “repugnatorial glands,” don’t merely weep, but allow some tropical species to actually squirt their arsenal two to three feet.
To warn potential predators of their distasteful discharge, some millipedes exhibit bright (aposematic) coloration. It is thought that the bioluminescence of some species, such as the Motyxia (order Polydesmida) of California, which produce cyanide, serves this same function.
Some predators don’t heed the caution. Monkeys have been observed rubbing millipedes on their fur. It turns out that the monkeys utilize the benzoquinones emitted by the millipedes as an insect repellent. Coatis, relatives of raccoons, actually use the distinctive odor of benzoquinones to locate millipedes. The coatis neutralize the toxin by vigorously rolling the millipedes on the ground. Then they eat them.
By the time I had learned all this, my Diplopoda curiosity had been sated. My fact-finding had consumed more hours than was prudent for me to spend. That’s often the case when I indulge my familiar compulsion to understand still another aspect of the natural world. Perhaps what I’ve uncovered will never serve me later in life. Or maybe this story has legs…
More resources:
I have a friend who continually passes on books to me. She’s much more inclined to read novels and literature than I am, so she has been largely responsible for much of my higher-brow reading the last few years. If it weren’t for her, I would be reading science books almost exclusively.
Bel Canto, by Ann Patchett, was the winner of the 2002 PEN/Faulkner Award, as well as several others. It has been sitting on my “to read” shelf for some time. The blurb on the back described the book as being about a lavish birthday party in honor of a powerful businessman, with entertainment by a leading opera singer, in which the entire group gets taken hostage. This seemed like a rather tired scenario that didn’t make me want to dive right in. Finally, I picked up Bel Canto, and could not put it down.
I’ve summed up the plot, and there isn’t a lot to add. The plot is not the attraction of this book, but is a framework for Patchett’s beautiful writing. At the risk of sounding trite or hackneyed, I have to describe it as vivid and lyrical, much like the soaring voice of the soprano who is a central character. The hostages include people of many nationalities, which allows Patchett to explore vastly different personalities. She manages to do so without resorting to any stereotypes. The improbability of the situation, which grows into a months-long stand-off, seems to get swept aside as you enjoy the hushed, subtle pleasure of Patchett’s prose.
There was really no satisfactory way to end this novel, and indeed the ending is abrupt and disappointing. I think it is a rare author that can write so elegantly as to completely overcome a thin plot and enthrall the reader. Patchett accomplishes this feat, and I look forward to reading more of her work.
Handbook of the Birds of the World, a project of BirdLife International published by Lynx Edicions, is an ambitious, stunning, detailed series of books which, when complete sometime around 2011, will illustrate and gather all the
essential information about every species of bird in the world. This will be the first work ever to deal with each member of an entire Class of the Animal Kingdom. So far, ten volumes have been published, and each is currently priced at $205US.
Even in my most cash-strapped days, I never felt guilty about purchasing books, especially fine reference books. Still, I had a hard time writing a check to obtain one of the Handbooks until this past Christmas, when I bought Volume 8: Broadbills to Tapaculos for my husband, justifying the expense because it was a gift, because it was the first volume to cover passerines (songbirds), and because it contains the treecreepers, one of hubby’s favorite groups of birds. As it turns out, I didn’t need all the excuses, it was worth every penny.
At 845 pages (with print requiring reading glasses, even at my tender age), this is certainly meant as a reference and not as a book to read cover-to-cover. But with its plentiful outstanding color photographs and sumptuous plates, it definitely invites — demands — browsing. And unlike the informative but often dry-as-a-fart Birds of North America series, the writing frequently sparkles.
Gnateaters are characterized as “obscure little spirits of the dim forest understorey.” The caption of one of the eye-popping photos of the White-plumed Antbird says of its subject, “With it’s unique facial ornaments and spry charisma, it is a joy to watch.” There are gems even amongst the technical species accounts, such as this description of the foraging method of the Ornate Antwren: “…rummages audibly…in a single leaf or cluster, probing by delicately inserting the bill, sometimes the entire head, into curls and crevices.” How often do you get to read delightful or evocative writing that conveys the author’s enthusiasm in reference or scientific works these days?
Each family is thoroughly introduced in many pages covering systematics, morphology, habitat, behavior, voice, food, breeding, movements, relationship with man, and status and conservation. The introductory material is lavishly
illustrated with truly amazing photos. High-quality plates and individual species descriptions follow, which include maps.
Front matter includes a Foreword entitled “A Brief History of Classifying Birds” (31 pages!) and an introduction. At the end is what looks like an exhaustive list of references and a thorough index.
I won’t live long enough to read this whole thing, but I have learned a great deal just skimming through it; nearly every caption or paragraph imparts fresh knowledge. I know that in a series like this, the quality can be very uneven depending on the authors and editors, but if the rest of the Handbooks are as good as this one, I’ll be sure to invest in further volumes.
Oh, yes. My husband liked it, too!
