by any other name.......

Rosa mysterioso

     My Mom's name is Rose. Between 1965-1995 she maintained a really nice hybrid-tea rose garden. So I grew up around roses, literally and figuratively.

     And then there's that mysterious rose tattoo that appeared on my right arm on July 04, 1976 – the day after our great nation's bicentennial – after a Hunter Thompson-esque trip to Leesville/Fort Polk, LA. I first noticed the tatto on July 05, upon waking up in my underwear on the parlor floor of my buddy Mark's grandma's house in the notorious little farming community of Point Blue, Louisiana. Wandering into his grandma's kitchen (headed for the bathroom) I quickly realized that it was not early in the morning, as I had thought. It was in fact after lunch; and I was greeted by not only Mark's grandma, but also a number of her friends – all gathered around the kitchen table, and busy playing cards, drinking whiskey-laced black coffee and smoking cigarettes rolled out of paper bags. "What's wrong, cher? You don't know where you are? What's dat on your arm?" We all had a good laugh. O but I digress. . .

     What I mean to say is that I guess I was destined to become a rose affectionado. And that really came to pass in 1990, when wife Lydia brought home our first antique rose. Now roses, modern roses included, are known for their fragrance; but for the most part, modern roses all possess a very similar fragrance. Very nice, but homogeneous. Each antique rose, on the other hand, possesses its very own unique fragrance, as well as its very own unique flower structure. The first time I sniffed an antique, I was instantly hooked. Aromatherapy is real, ya'll.

     Antique roses are divided into a number of classes, including Hybrid Musk, Multiflora, Bourbon, China, Noisette, Gallica, Moss, Tea, Hybrid Perpetual, Polyantha, and more. Think of them as fine wines, each variety and blend with its own distinctive characteristics.

     When planning for rose-gardening, almost as important as knowing individual cultivar name and classification is knowing individual cultivar bloom season. Bloom season categories include “ever-blooming” (blooms nearly year round, taking the occasional “rest” during periods of unfavorable weather), “twice-blooming” (usually during spring and fall), and “once-blooming” (usually in spring). And of course it pays to study up on old rose varieties/cultivars that do best in your particular region. One of the better resources for the lower South is Dr. William Welch's Antique Roses for the South (Taylor Publishing 1990).

     Presently, Lydia and I have about 22 “old rose” cultivars growing around our place. Here are some of our favorites:

the humble 'Old Blush'

     By 1000 B.C., the Chinese were already breeding fancy, double-flowered garden roses. The first of these everblooming China roses to reach the U.S. was 'Old Blush' in 1752. Because of its everblooming habit, because it is so sturdy, and because of its ancient lineage, I suggest that every Deep South antique rose collection should begin with this one.

uber-fragrant 'Champneys' Pink Cluster'

     'Champneys' Pink Cluster' is a noisette, introduced in the early 19th century. The noisettes were the first antique rose class to originate in the U.S.; and 'Champneys' Pink Cluster' was the first noisette to be hatched. John Champneys, a rice farmer in Charleston, S.C., crossed 'Old Blush' with a popular European Musk Rose, and BAM! Everblooming (thanks to 'Old Blush'), and perhaps the most penetratingly fragrant old rose that I know. You don't even have to lay your nose on a bloom. You'll be smelling Champneys' Pink perfume long before then. Our specimen is a willowy, 8-foot, vase-shaped shrub.

'Sombreuil' ..... saucer-sized blooms!

     The Tea Roses all originated from a native Himalayan species, Rosa gigantea, known for its superb fragrance and huge flowers; crossed with a China rose, and BAM AGAIN! You've got a heavy-flowered, heavy-perfumed, everblooming killer-rose. 'Sombreuil' (introduced 1850) is about as good as it gets – except for its bad-ass play-for-keeps thorns. It is a modest climber (8-10'), and blooms biggest/heaviest in spring, featuring saucer-sized blooms. Outside of spring, it blooms sporadically, and with flowers half or less the size of its spring offerings.

'Souvenir de la Malmasion'.....da' queen of 'em all

     Bourbon Roses arose (ahem) from a natural cross between 'Old Blush' and 'Autumn Damask' a European rose. The hybrid plant was born in a mixed rose hedge on Reunion Island (once known as Isle de Bourbon). The Bourbon class was then developed in France. The queen of this class is 'Souvenir de la Malmaison' (1843), named in honor of the empress Josephine (a' Napoleon), herself a fine rosarian, at Malmaison, her country estate outside of Paris.

Mysterious 'Maggie'

     Personally, 'Maggie' is my favorite Bourbon. In fact, it is my favorite rose, period. 'Maggie' is somewhat shrouded in mystery...sort of like my tattoo...experts believe her to be a Bourbon, but have no idea from when and where she might hail. Bill Welch is crazy about 'Maggie' too. He got his first 'Maggie' cutting (though he had no idea of her name at the time) in 1980, from a farmhouse near Mangham, LA. Welch says the flower fragrance is heavy with black pepper. Me, I get a heavy fruit scent from it. Real heavy/tangy; like maybe with a strong dash of apricot.

'Russell Cottage Rose'

     If I remember right, 'Russell Cottage Rose' was the first old rose that Lydia brought home in 1990. Originally introduced in the early 19th century, this Rosa multiflora (a Japanese native, I believe) hybrid is a once-bloomer; but oh what a once-bloomer it is! Lydia gets a raspberry vibe from its heavily fruit-perfume scent. I agree. Welch describes the scent as "intense Damask."

little Miss 'Clotilde Soupert'....petals thin as tissue paper

     Polyantha roses developed naturally, as hybrids between Rosa multiflora and China roses. During the 1860s, the French refined this class into “shrub roses” meant for use as landscape hedges. My favorite Polyantha is 'Clotilde Soupert' introduced in 1890. She's a 4' shrub. I was warned that her delicate blooms “ball” in rainy weather, but I went ahead and planted her anyway. And yes, her blooms do ball in rainy weather, but she's so damn worth it! Ultimately, she's such a prolific bloomer, especially in spring, that a set or two of balled flower clusters is no big deal. Just lop 'em off. Gorgeous.

a 25-foot wall of Rosa 'Trier' and Chinese Fringe Flower (Loropetalum sp.) protects our veggie garden from the west...................

'Trier's' medicine-y bloom cluster

     Talking about hedge roses, 'Trier' (1904) is the greatest of them all. She's got thorns as sharp and hooked as a blackberry's, but I love her anyway. She is one of the parents of the Hybrid Musk class. Welch's book lists 'Trier' as “5-7 feet” but in our blackjack clay, she morphed into a 9'x15' monster. She's a twice-bloomer, and her blooms possess a strangely medicinal scent – like maybe old-school, black cherry cough-syrup.

tails (heh) of bird love

adult male Northern Cardinal

(photo by Beth Erwin)

“...chestnut-brown canary, ruby-throated sparrow

sing a song, don't be long, thrill me to the marrow.”

--  Stephen Stills

     Down here in the bottomland hardwoods of northeastern Lafayette parish the Northern Cardinal flock comprises the backbone of our backyard bird population. I have no real idea about how many cardinals live and/or visit our backyard on a daily basis, but on one particular day this past winter I remember counting 36 males simultaneously perched in the bare trees and shrubs around our main seed-feeder station. So it's safe to say that we've come to learn a lot about Northern Cardinals over the past 28 years. But not everything.

     On the morning of April 8, as I sat with coffee on our back porch, I was treated to a slice of cardinal behavior that I had never before witnessed.

female northern cardinal (young)

(photo by Russ Norwood http://www.theperceptivist.com/)

     It all started when a couple of female cardinals lit in the little double-blush althea tree at the edge of the porch, about 12-feet from me.

foolishly-young Northern Cardinal

(photo by Russ Norwood http://www.theperceptivist.com/)

     Directly, a young male, doubtlessly bursting with love in his heart (and loins), careened into the althea, nearly knocking one of the females over upon landing. With the offended female flitting over to the adjacent Oriental buttonbush, the young male immediately turned his attention to the remaining female. Sitting about 18” from her, and staring ardently into her eyes, he stretched his big head as tall as he could, erected his crest as vertical as he could, and began swaying from side to side as he emitted his song of love: “See-ah Chee-ah Chee-ah...Chee-Row!Chee-Row!Chee-Row!Chee-Row!”

     She waited around for one encore before flitting away to the big cypress tree, unimpressed. The male immediately jumped over the the Oriental buttonbush and the remaining female, but she didn't even let him get started before joining the other female in the big cypress.

male Prothonotary Warbler (with black cherry)

(photo by Russ Norwood http://www.theperceptivist.com/ )

     To add injury to insult, a local male Prothonotary Warbler – obviously miffed that the young cardinal had unknowingly interloped upon his personal performance space – shot into the buttonbush and promptly nipped the poor youngster on the tail. Astonished, but still very much preoccupied with the females in the big cypress, the young male gave a quick startled look at the Prothonotary, who nipped him again; this time chasing him up and finally off of the branch he was occupying.

     Not only had I never seen a Prothonotary Warbler assaulting a cardinal, but I had also never seen a male cardinal's courtship performance – what with the swaying and erecting and singing what I had always assumed was an “alternate” territorial song. So now I'm thinking that the abovementioned song is actually the true courtship song, whereas the more common/familiar “Cheer!-Cheer!-Cheer!...Purdy!Purdy!Purdy!Purdy!”that most of us associate with the Northern Cardinal must be its territorial song – the song it uses to let other males and females alike know where his turf is.

     I tell ya', Nature just keeps comin' at ya', you know? No matter how often and how careful of a Nature-watcher one is, there's always something new waiting around the corner.

     Speaking of which, an even-more-amazing bird-love-event recently descended upon my buddy Larry Amy, who lives on Bayou Vermilion in the city of Lafayette. Larry's got a cool digital sound system for the house as well as the patio out back. So the other day he's sitting out back and he fires up a song by the Buena Vista Social Club through the patio speakers.

young Brown Thrasher

(photo by Beth Erwin)

     Immediately, a male Brown Thrasher begins scurrying through the backyard bushes, then jets up to a bare spot at the top of an old American elm – the highest/clearest/closest perch to the patio – and begins singing his head off.

     Now, Brown Thrashers are pretty shy and discreet birds. Unlike cardinals, they are not in the habit of popping up into plain sight – except, that is, during breeding season, when males will occasionally sit up at the tops of trees (usually limited to the early morning hours) and sing their beautiful mocking-bird-like songs.

     Sufficiently amazed, Larry turned the music off. The bird immediately stopped singing. Waiting awhile, Larry turned the music back on. The bird immediately started singing again. Larry told me about this. I suggested he try the same song on a succeeding day to see what happens. He did. And so did the thrasher. I asked him if he had tried any other songs besides the Buena Vista Social Club. He did. The thrasher did not.

rainmaker, rainmaker

rainmaker, rainmaker

the sky is gray, the ground is so hard

it's been cracked by the sun

rainmaker, you know my work's never done

– Steve Winwood/Jim Capaldi

     I guess the wheels really started turning on the morning of Tuesday, March 29 when I heard Traffic's “Rainmaker” spun on the local public radio station (KRVS...give it a listen...it streams on the www; and check out Traffic's music on youtube or wherever while you're at it...they're awfully good...) by master musicologist/producer/disc jockey Cecil Doyle. We hadn't had a decent rain here for nearly a month. The local plants and animals were begging for it. Pollen had saturated the air so thickly that it was coating cars/windshields/houses/sinuses on a daily basis.

     Most people give but little notice to such things; but farmers, gardeners, outdoorsmen, nature-watchers, and others whose livelihoods are directly affected by too much or too little rain are acutely aware of them.

     “Rainmaker” became my prayer that Tuesday morning. God, please make us some rain. Many of our plants had no sooner put on leaves and already they were flagging for lack of moisture. That morning the first of “our” Prothonotary Warblers had shown up at the house. He flew right up to the deck, sat on top of the old camelia there, and sang out his joy. Directly, he flew down into the coulee to check out his brown-painted-inverted-plastic-water-bottle house I had set on a pole some years ago. Then he flew into his old drinking/bathing dish that Lydia sets out on the porch rail for him and the chickadees. Oops. Dry as bone. Hmm.

By Tuesday afternoon the forecasted “scattered thunderstorms” fired up to our north. We received no more than a spit, barely coating the leaves of the local plants. Even so, it was enough for the Prothonotary to bathe in. Even before the drizzle had stopped, he had positioned himself directly beneath a big camelia leaf, half-fluttering his wings in an effort to spread the meager moisture at the sides of the leaf over as much of himself as possible.

By evening we hadn't received any more rain. It looked to be yet another “near-miss” Pacific frontal passage. We've had a lot of them lately. By 11:00pm, storms had again fired up to our north, lighting the sky with constant flashes, but nary a drop of rain on us. Bummer, man.

Then suddenly, 'round midnight, here it came. We finally got a good soaking – over an inch anyway. Yes! We'll take it. Thanks be to the Rainmaker.

The next morning I eagerly hit the back porch to see how the local plants and birds made out. The first thing that I noticed was that all of the newly-emerging leaves of the local trees and shrubs, which previously had been sort of eeking their way out of bud – as if they dreaded emerging into the dryness – had suddenly expanded by a factor of two or maybe even three. Despite a rather chilly north-northeasterly breeze, the Prothonotary was streaking up and down the coulee like a black-lab puppy, singing his lungs out. Overhead, four or five cardinals were leaf-bathing amongst the feathery, newly-emerged, water-coated leaves of a big bald cypress.

Then I heard a song that I'd never heard before – or at least had never noted before – a long, complex, mechanical trill, somewhat like that of the Winter Wren. Suddenly, the singer plopped up into the Oriental buttonbush ten feet away and right in front of me. With his back turned to me, he launched into two or three rounds of his awesome song.

Chipping Sparrow

photo by Russ Norwood  http://www.perceptivist.com/

    
     Wow. Not a wren, but a sparrow. A sparrow with fairly bright-rufous wings and a plain gray band below the nape of his neck. I had to see his face and breast. Borrowing from John “The Bird-whisperer” Conover's arsenal of bird-studying tricks, between pursed lips, I made two very muted, very tiny squeaking noises in quick succession, otherwise remaining motionless. The singer immediately turned to face me and fearlessly launched into another couple of rounds of song. Whoa. Clear, dull-gray breast and dark-brown crown, parted down the middle by a pale brown-gray line. A Chipping Sparrow, half-molted into breeding plumage.

     Once the sparrow departed to the big American hornbeam on the other side of the barn, I decided to follow him. I wanted to hear more. But as I approached the barn, I became distracted by the mighty bloom show put on by a wild hawthorn and a native florida-flame-type azalea that Lydia had planted many years ago. Whoa! What a difference a rain makes! Yesterday, both were still in tight bud.

left, Mystery Haw

right, Tommy Dodd's hybrid Florida Flame Azalea

detail: Tommy's Azalea

Mystery Haw

     That hawthorn presents a real mystery to me. Typically, the only wild hawthorn native to the bottomland forests of this latitude is the green hawthorn (Crataegus viridis; aka “hog haw”), but this particular tree, present since we moved here in 1982, has larger leaves and longer thorns than the green haw. Nearest I can tell, it might be a cock's-spur hawthorn (C. crus-galli) or perhaps a hybrid between green and cock's-spur. Regardless, it's a beaut.

native Swamp Privet (Forestiera acuminata)

Swamp Privet flower detail

     Heading back to the house, I noted one more rain-induced fancy-bloomer, the swamp privet (Forestiera acuminata). Not an invasive-exotic privet, the swamp privet is native to our region, but lives mostly tucked away in swamps and in very wet bottomland hardwood forests.

Water's the drink which stirs the plants which stir the animals...even the humans.

spring 2011

Red Buckeye by the Coulee in our Backyard

Love calls

Like the wild birds;

It's another day.

The spring wind blew my list of things to do

Away.

                                                                                                  – Greg Brown

….she was born in spring

          but I was born too late.....

                                                                                                    – Bob Dylan





After putting it off for a week, I decided to go out on 25 February and pull up a bunch of briars that were coming up around our pawpaw (Asimina triloba) and red buckeye (Aesculus pavia) trees next to the coulee in the backyard. To my delight, the local deciduous hollies (Ilex decidua) had just leafed-out, as had the red buckeye; and new leaves were just barely expanding out of their buds on the rough-leaf dogwoods (Cornus drummondii). Spring! Yay!

Funny, when I was younger I used to see weeding (especially briars) as personal penance – you know, like a comparative rooting out of my sins or something. Today, I see weeding as a privelige – a sacrament – another opportunity to get my hands into God. Yes, the real penance, as I see it today, is living in this world that we've created and rather thoughtlessly superimposed over God's world. Not too cool for (supposedly) thinking beings. Ah, but I digress . . .

Mayhaw

So, eighteen pounds of weeded briars later, I took a break to drink in the green – what little of it there was, anyway. You take what you can get when you get it, you know? Besides being my second-to-favorite color, green is the very background music – nay, the very anchor of our lives back here in the bottomland hardwoods of south Louisiana. By late January – when ninety-nine percent of your vegetation is deciduous – the freshness of winter has pretty much worn off, and things get to looking bleak . . . an unchanging sea of grays and browns.

Then suddenly, one day in late February, here come the leaves. Whoa! The Promise is renewed, and I didn't have to lift a finger for it to be so! Neither did the bugs who eat those leaves. Neither the birds and lizards who eat the bugs. It is indeed a time for celebration.....Anole lizards flip-flopping from trees to deck rails and what-have-you. Cardinals and mourning doves singing their lungs out and bringing seed gifts to their lady friends. Chickadees wandering around looking for stray hair with which to line their nests (I help them all I can; as do the dogs – unwittingly).

Carolina Cherry-laurel

Today – one week later – hackberry (Celtis laevigata), sweetgum (Liquidambar styriciflua) and southern crabapple (Malus angustifolia) have all leafed out. So one can almost say that green has at last balanced out the browns and grays. Almost.

Little-leaf Viburnum

And the blooms! Woodland phlox (Phlox divaricata) carpets the ground back around our main birdbath. Redbud (Cercis canadensis), cherry-laurel (Prunus caroliniana), mayhaw (Crataegus opaca), and little-leaf viburnum (Viburnum obovatum) are all in flower out front. Driving down the blacktop, buttercup (Ranunculus spp.) covers the overgrazed pastures. Yellowtop (Senicio glabellus) fills the littered ditches.

Eastern Redbud

Last night, under the darkness of a nearly-new-moon, out come the first fireflies of what we call “2011”.

The massive spring machine is rolling, never mind that most humans around here barely – if at all – notice it. Good thing it doesn't, like, need our permission or something in order to appear.

Woodland Phlox

Meanwhile, God sees our contrived/superimposed world, falling apart as it is, and goes, “(sigh)....kids....what're ya' gonna do with 'em? I told 'em not to eat that apple!”

Meanwhile, as Bob Dylan has mentioned, life goes on all around us.....

Hooray for spring!

real old lafayette

the Mayfield Point

(photo by Brad Mayfield)



As with many towns I'm sure, here around Lafayette, Louisiana we use the term “Old Lafayette” to describe present-day folks who embody the best qualities that our town is traditionally known for, which for Lafayette includes things like a dogged cheerfulness about life – even in adversity, a tolerance for others, a perpetual readiness to help others be they strangers or kin; and lastly, a perpetual readiness to celebrate – which here means we know how to cook the best kind of stuff, make the best kind of music, and dance the best kind of dances – summarized by an oft-heard Old Lafayette saying, “We know what's good, chere!”


In these days of fear and the paranoid reality that it tends to create, “Old Lafayette encounters have become more than a breath of fresh air; more like a much-needed shot of oxygen. But I digress . . .

Anyway, imagine, then, the faces of the two eleven-year-old playmates who happened to stumble across a tool used right in their “Old Lafayette” backyard – only the tool's owner's “Old Lafayette” existed 10,000-12,000 years ago. Uh-huh. Now that's Old Lafayette, ya'll.

The Mayfield Backyard; Bayou Vermilion Flowing in Background

(photo by Brad Mayfield)

That's precisely what happened to Jenny Mayfield and Tammy Byers back in the spring of 1974 in Jenny's backyard along the Bayou Vermilion. Bending down to look at the washed-over roots of an old hickory tree, Tammy found a Clovis point; a spearhead used by North America's first human inhabitants who arrived in “Lafayette” back at the end of the Ice Age.

Excitedly, they rushed rushed in the house hollering for Jenny's dad, Ben, to see it. “Duly impressed,” as Jenny put it, Ben followed the girls out to the spot where they had found it. According to Ben, he could see “its resting place was very clearly marked by a sunken impression, surrounded by a layer of moss and dirt, on top of a large root.”

Halfway Down the Bluff, 10-12,000 year-old Red River Strata is Exposed

(photo by Brad Mayfield)

The Mayfield house sits on a twenty-five-foot bluff overlooking the Vermilion Bayou, which widens to more of a river as it flows through southern Lafayette en route to its terminus in Vermilion Bay. Ben said the spearpoint was located at a place of an abrupt change in slope, which probably marks the “second bottom” of the bayou – the point to which floodwaters swell on a seasonal basis.

Oddly, Ben Mayfield mentions that the original hickory tree where the girls found the spearpoint was toppled by Hurricane Lily in 2004, at which time he aged the tree via ring-count. It was only 100 years old! So, this tree, as a chance-seedling happened germinate near the Clovis point, eventually bringing it up with its roots? That's what it sounds like, as I can't imagine flowing floodwaters powerful enough to carry that spearhead very far. Bayou Vermilion's flow is flat/wide/slow – even in the floodiest of times.

Ben further states that the spearpoint was found in a soil strata of “ochre-colored clay,” correlating to a time when the ancient/Pleistocene Red River ran through the course taken by present-day Bayou Vermilion.

Keep in mind that at different times during the Pleistocene/Holocene periods (1,000,000 – 5,000 years B.P.), both the ancient Red and Mississippi Rivers ran through the present-day channels of the Atchafalaya River, Bayous Teche and Vermilion, and westward across the Mermentau River Basin and into the Calcasieu and Sabine River system at the Louisiana-Texas border.

The Pleistocene, known as the “Ice Age,” was actually comprised of about ten successive 100,00-year Ice Age cycles whereby the Arctic Circle would basically migrate south into the present-day northern U.S., tying up massive amounts of water into ice and causing sea level to drop 100-300' .

These periods of glaciation were followed by interglacial periods whereby the ice to our north would melt, creating equally massive rivers of meltwater coursing southward into the Gulf of Mexico. These ancient rivers shifted around with each successive interglacial period, acting like bulldozers in pushing rock, sand, and mud southward and then wiggling east-west like the end of an untended hose, fanning the sediment to create our present-day river deltas.

It is said that at the very end of the Pleistoncene and beginning of the Holocene – about 5,000 years ago – the Mississippi River was flowing right here through south-central Louisiana. Its western bank was what we know today as the “Coteau Ridge” in St. Landry and Lafayette parishes, and the “Terrace” (pron. "Teh-ROSS" roll that "r" ya'll . . .) further south in St. Martin and Iberia parishes. At that time, it was carrying nineteen times the volume of water compared to the present-day flow of the Mississippi River.

By the early 1990s, local archeologist Thomas Marckese had gotten wind of the Mayfield Point, and wrote it up in Volume 19 No. 3 of the Louisiana Archeological Society Newsletter. In his paper, Marckese provides very good background to the Clovis People story in Louisiana. Keep in mind that Louisiana's oldest known Native American settlement is at Poverty Point in the extreme northeastern portion of the state. That site dates back about 1,000 years, and is considered among the oldest Native American settlements in the U.S. Contrast that fact with the Clovis period, which dates back 11,950-10,770 years B.P., according to Marckese.

Wanna talk about old? These folks were so “old” that they didn't make pottery -- hadn't been invented yet in this neck of the woods -- and lived many thousands of years before even the bow and arrow were conceived. They had no true settlements. They were nomads, chasing big mammals like mammoth, ground sloth, camel, and bison down with spears, which they threw with the aid of an atlatl or throwing stick. In the New World, Clovis point finds have been found from the Great Lakes southward through Central and South America to Equador.

In his paper Marckese mentions that the Mayfield Point is constructed from a fine, “waxy” grey flint, probably originating in present-day central Texas. Conventional archeology believes that locally, Clovis people headquartered there, probably following bison herds into present-day Louisiana on a seasonal basis. Marckese mentioned additional Clovis finds in Louisiana, stretching diagonally from northwestern Louisiana southeastward into south-central Louisiana, with local finds from Lawtell and Grand Coteau, (St. Landry parish), the present-day Lafayette airport (Lafayette parish), down on Cote Blanche Island (Iberia parish) – and now the Mayfield backyard in Lafayette – forming a line along the ancient Red River as it coursed all the way south into the Gulf of Mexico at the end of the Pleistocene.

The Louisiana Coast ca. 18,000(?) Years Ago

Pardon the Red Marks...

In this map that I lifted from Atlas of Louisiana – A Guide for Students (Milton Newton, Jr. 1972), you see a depiction of the shoreline of present-day “Louisiana” at some point toward the end of the Pleistocene (for some reason, 18,000 B.P. Sticks in my mind, though I can't find the actual date). Note how far past our present-day shoreline it goes, creeping well onto the continental shelf. Note the depiction of rivers corresponding to 150-mile southward extensions of our present day Teche, Vermilion, Mermentau, Calcasieu, and Sabine river systems.

And what of the terrain of all this additionally exposed late-Pleistoncene land? Not forested, but rather cool/moist prairie – similar to what we see through much of central and western Canada today. So Real Old Lafayette is where the buffalo once roamed – and mammoths, and giant ground sloths, and camels . . . and Clovis people. As Marckese stated, present-day south-central Louisiana, being the late-Pleistocene recipient of massive amounts of northern meltwater and sediment, made for a very fertile and diverse biotic community – certainly attractive then, in both climate and ecology, to early human hunters.

Turns out that Lafayette has been a happening place at least 218 centuries before the first Frenchman ever set foot here with his black iron pot and fiddle. . .

more on "salt birds"

sunset over Louisiana's outer continental shelf

(photo by Edward Watson)

“People” said that my last post ('sittin' in the pass of the bay') ended too abruptly. Probably so. I just 1) didn't have anything more to say on the subject at the time, and 2) am still reveling at the “look ma no editor” aspect of blogging. It is a refreshing thing, especially for those who write for a living....


Anyway, Dave Patton recently sent me a coupla more offshore bird photos; and Edward Watson sent in a beaut as well....all of which inspired this post.

Ring-billed Gulls....one of Louisiana's most common winter seabird species

Whenever you go out on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico with Dave Patton, there's an unspoken promise that you'll eventually end up chumming for seabirds. For many years, very little was known about Louisiana's offshore seabird population. It was a simple case of too few ornithologically-inclined people going offshore. Prior to 1970, biologist Jake Valentine (what a name, what a guy) was among the “too few” going out to do census work. By the mid-1970s, regular survey work began throughout the state's coastal barrier island system; and by the 1990s quasi-regular, far-offshore survey trips were happening.

big ol' barrel-chested Pomarine Jaeger (i think)

([unidentified] photo by Dave Patton)

Closer in to shore, several easy-to-view-but-rarely-viewed bird species spend substantial amounts of time along the Louisiana coast. Of these, Dave likes to look for the Jaegers best. “Jaeger” is German for “hunter”........ but perhaps “Meisterdieb” (German for “master thief”) would be a better name for these birds. Gull-like in most aspects, the Jaegers posses a swifter, more falcon-like flight style, which they use to great advantage in committing regular mid-air robberies of fish-laden gulls and terns. It's not like Jaegers steal food on occasion; that's what they do for a living.

Parasitic Jaeger

(photo by Dave Patton)

Three species of Jaeger are native to North America: Long-tailed Jaeger, Parasitic Jaeger, and Pomarine Jaeger. All of them nest up in the Arctic Circle, and all of them can be occasionally spotted throughout larger lakes and reserviors over most of the U.S. during fall/winter/spring migration periods. The best places to find them, though, are the nearshore waters of the Atlantic, Pacific, and Gulf of Mexico.

young Black-legged Kittiwake wheels toward the chum

(Photo by Dave Patton)

The Black-legged Kittiwake is another far-north breeder that turns up throughout most of the U.S. during migration periods. I use the term “turns up,” but in truth relatively few observers get to record Kittiwakes and/or Jaegers in the lower 48. Percentage-wise, the odds of running across one of these species during migration are substantially low.... unless you 1) own a boat or happen to know someone who owns a boat, 2) have a pretty good idea of what you're looking for, when to look for it, and where to look for it.

Here in Louisiana, that translates to nearshore Gulf waters, fall/winter/spring, with Dave Patton. And don't forget your fishin' pole.

sittin' in the pass of the bay

Hooded Mergansers -- gorgeous fish-eating ducks -- at Southwest Pass

January 26 dawned at a chilly (for us) 34F and a light north wind; but by the time we reached the Cypremort Point boat launch a couple of hours later, it had warmed considerably and it was nearly dead calm. The wind didn't know which way to blow.


Dave Patton and I have been watching birds together for about 25 years. By now, there ain't no more secrets to tell, so we mainly just enjoy each other's company. We don't get together as much as we used to, but we both hope that'll change soon. In fact, we're trying to do something about that today.

“More fishing” is definitely on my bucket list these days; and thanx to the influence of a mutual birding friend, Dave's thinking that way too. Dave's got a nice boat.

So he called me on the 25th wondering if i'd care to go fishing/birding down in Vermilion Bay. Oh yeah.

First thing, we putt through Shark Island and up to Mud Point and the infamous fishing hotspot called “the Trash Pile” in neaby Weeks Bay. My buddy Mark Manuel recently gave me a fine redfish/speckled trout rod that he built, and I went out and bought a cheap reel for it. I was hot to try it out, and the Trash Pile would be the perfect spot.

Dave's cleverly-constructed "leg block"... note matching paint job

Dave, on the other hand, had recently constructed a “leg shield” for his boat: a contraption devised to block the wind from coming in down under the windshield on his open-bowed bay boat.

We tested away and were happy with the results. But, alas, Weeks Bay was so damn birdless (and fishless) that it threatened to depress us both – on a perfectly beautiful day to be out on the water, no less. So by noon or so we're heading back east toward Cypremort Point and Dave's looking longingly at Vermilion Bay, to our south. To our amazement, the water was totally slick – smooth as glass – like some sort of glacial lake up in Canada, you know? Rarely does one get a chance to boat in such conditions along our coast. So Dave asks me if I felt like a ride to Southwest Pass – a 12 mile ride down to the foot of Vermilion Bay. I look at the water and go “yeah!”

The lower end of Vermilion Bay is blocked off from the Gulf of Mexico by Marsh Island. Marsh Island, a large barrier island, is aproned to the south and west with oyster reefs – miles of 'em. South of there, it's open Gulf.

Strange thing is that Vermilion Bay, like most bays in coastal Louisiana, probably averages no more than 5-feet in depth; and the open Gulf of Mexico to the immediate south of Marsh Island is proabably no more than 8-12-feet in depth. But the narrow cut between Marsh Island and the mainland of Vermilion parish – a cut known as Southwest Pass – is some 70-feet deep(!), literally carved through solid oyster reef via 10,000 years of strong tidal action between Vermilion Bay and the Gulf of Mexico.

En route to the pass, we decided that we ought to put in some Louisiana Winter Bird Atlas time in there, since the atlas season was on, and virtually no one birded Hellhole Bayou, the quad that contains Southwest Pass. Hellhole Bayou was data-starved, and we intended to rectify the situation.

Brown Pelicans sliding home....Safe!.....while the other team (American White Pelicans) yawns in astonishment.

Reaching Southwest Pass by about 1pm, we saw quite a few cormorants, pelicans, ducks, shorebirds, and what-have-you lolly-gagging around, on, and behind the reefs on both sides of the pass. Dave cut the engine, and we were immediately engulfed in this warm, sunny, near-perfectly calm setting.

The Scene....were it not for the bits of exposed reef, birds, etc., would you know which way was up?

 So nearly identical were sky and sea in color, texture, and temprement that all seemed to coalesce into One, leaving us with the feeling of being eerily suspended somewhere Within.

Suspended Somewhere Within...with my new pole/reel...i didn't know which way to throw it at the time.....As Captain Beefheart once exclaimed, "Do it start at the bottom, or do it start at the top?"

It's a hard thing to describe, I know; but certainly worth reporting. In fact, the only other time I've had that feeling was with Dave, on a Christmas Bird Count at Lacassine-Thornwell there in southern Jeff Davis parish. That day, it was the fog that disoriented – or more properly, misoriented us. That day, the heavily overcast sky merged with the fog and with the shallow water of a ricefield that stretched out before us for a half-mile or so. Suddenly we felt like we were floating somewhere Within. I remember the only way that I could gain some semblance of orientation was to look straight down at my feet anchored to the gravel road below....and even that short of a space was foggy!

Counting Green-winged Teal and Black-bellied Plovers behind a distant reef.

Necessity = Mutha of Invention

So calm was Southwest Pass that we found we could even operate a spotting scope from the boat! Of course we had earlier talked ourselves out of bringing along a tripod, reasoning that only an idiot would even attempt to scope birds from a pitching boat. But Dave did manage to bring his spotting scope in his camera bag, and necessity being the mutha of invention and all, we rigged an acceptable spotting scope mount using Dave's handy-dandy “leg-shield” anchored with bungie-cord onto his boat's bow rail.