Birthday Girl, Birthday Squirrel

Today's my 25th birthday! I've spent approximately 20 of those years fascinated by dead animals, and maybe one of these days I'll share some (embarrassing) childhood photographs of me posing with beach finds and my skull collection. For my birthday, Steph made me a beautiful painting that I'll share in a separate entry — but I was also gifted a present from the road on our way home from a hike.

 

This female gray squirrel had been hit by a car in our neighborhood. So recently was she hit, her body was still very warm and she was alarmingly lifelike. Her coat was thick and soft for the winter, and her hind feet resembled tiny, furry snowshoes.

 

One of her hind legs was badly broken by the impact. Other than that, there was no superficial damage to the rest of her body; after I skinned her, I observed that even her insides seemed relatively intact.

 

This evening, I put the gray squirrel's skinned body outside for the remaining gray fox. Hopefully, he will find it during his nighttime prowl and enjoy a tasty meal.

On the topic of roadkill, I've encountered several different species, just within our small neighborhood:

• Eastern Chipmunk (Tamias striatus)

• Red Squirrel (Tamiasciurus hudsonicus)

• Gray Squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis)

• Snowshoe Hare (Lepus americanus)

• Star-nosed Mole (Condylura cristata)

• Gray Fox (Urocyon cinereoargenteus)

• American Robin (Turdus migratorius)

• Common Snapping Turtle (Chelydra serpentina)

Some, like chipmunks and squirrels, can be unpredictable and hard to avoid. Others, like snapping turtles and gray foxes, not so much. People do drive at excessive speeds down our road, which is unfortunate, as this area is full of wildlife.

2012 in Dead Animals

Happy new year! It is January 1st, 2013, and here along the Chocolay River it's a bone-chilling 11°F outside. Looking back at this past year, I took an incredible number of photographs — both of dead animals and otherwise. As I did last year and the year before that, I'd like to showcase my favorites — and it was a little hard, this time around, selecting the best.

January

 

The winter months are tough for photography. The cold weather keeps me from going outside often, and the snow covers any potential subjects. The chilly temperatures also limit animal movement in general, so finding them dead or alive is a challenge. In January I didn't photograph any subjects "in the field" — but I did photograph my skull collection, a few of which are pictured here.

February

Like January, February is also a challenging month for photography. A friend's dog, however, provided me with a most tiny and delicate subject: a short-tailed shrew.

March

Photographing a pileated woodpecker was an incredible experience. After I was done photographing her, she was sent to the Bird Division at U of M's Museum of Zoology. 

April

After the snow melts — and before vegetation returns to the forest floor — spring is a good time to find the remnants of animals. 

May

2012 was unique in that I saw and photographed many animals that I'd never before seen so closely. This star-nosed mole was one of them.

June
 

 

Because Steph drove to Munising every day for her internship, she saw many dead animals along M-28 — which made the summer months full of photography. This doe, broken and bent into an impossible pose, was one of them.

July

  
This coyote was one of the most powerful subjects for me this past year, and the post I wrote about it is probably one of my favorites.

August

I do realize that this year-in-review post is a little canid-heavy, but that's because 2012 was full of coyotes and foxes. This gray fox pup, hit along Lakeshore Boulevard in Marquette, was a heartbreaking find.

September

In Autumn we spent a lot of time searching for mushrooms. An off-trail hike on Presque Isle Park revealed the bones of a deer long dead. 

October

At some point over the summer, a warbler struck one of our windows and died. It wasn't until October that we found out; by then, its body, undisturbed for months, had turned to a feathery skeleton. 

November

November was a busy month, and I didn't take many photographs. A drive south of Marquette yielded this roadkill doe, her fur covered in frost. 

December

The most emotional subject for me in 2012 was this gray fox, hit in our neighborhood. As I recounted in this post, Steph and I would see her trot by our house in the mornings and evenings, and she would leave her tracks in our backyard. She was one of two in a mated gray fox pair: since her death, the male has wandered onto our property, leaving his footprints in the snow. He has visited her body, as well, and I wonder if he knows whose it is.

I am hoping for 2013 to be a productive year, both in photography and also around the house. Though it seems like a long way off, spring is indeed coming, and with it, Steph and I will embark on a vegetable garden adventure in our own backyard. In addition, I have a backlog of animal skins that I must flesh and tan — some will become educational pieces, and others will be crafted into items of clothing. As always, I am looking to improve my photography, sharpen my artist's statement, and, most importantly, continue to educate by means of dead animals.

Snakes and Snakes

This week, Steph and I traveled to Traverse City and Ann Arbor, visiting our families for the holidays. While in Ann Arbor, we took a trip to the Museum of Zoology's new offsite storage facility, which hosts the University of Michigan's incredibly large fluid specimen collection. Back in April of 2011, I photographed a handful of mammals that were preserved in jars — this time, we got to take a peek at the preserved mollusks, fishes, amphibians, and reptiles.

It was fascinating — and a little sad — to see jars and jars of box turtle hatchlings, or, in a few cases, a single sea turtle head, occupying its own container. Some jars were packed with caecilians; others with newts. What really caught my eye, however, were the snakes.

While liquid preservation does a great job at keeping an animal's body intact, it does not often save the pigmentation of scales, skin, or fur. As a result, older specimens take on a pale, colorless appearance. That wasn't the case, however, for a few blue-hued snakes, whose coils provided an unexpected splash of color amongst shelves of ghostly specimens:

 

Perhaps what I like the most about the snake specimens is that their natural shape lends itself well to being in a jar. While mammals and turtles look awfully awkward crammed into a container, the snake specimens seemed to fit just right, their coils winding gracefully within the glass.

 

Refracted light, created by the curved glass and the liquid inside, also caused the specimens to take on a completely different appearance:

 

It's always such a treat to see what goes on behind the scenes at the museum! These photos cannot come close to representing the scope of how large the fluid specimen collection is — it is vast, and more than a little overwhelming.

Neighborhood Gray Fox

Shortly after moving back to Marquette in July of 2011, Steph and I were treated to a sight that I will not soon forget: it was around sunset, and we both just happened to look out our living room window — there, trotting through our front yard, was a gray fox. I had never seen one before, and I marveled at how swiftly it moved, like a shadow through the deepening dusk. Later, when the snow started to stick, we'd see the fox's tracks in our backyard and along the neighboring bike trail.

This year, especially in the late-summer and autumn, we spotted the gray fox several times. We decided it was likely a female, as we'd heard that a gray fox was raising her litter just a few houses down the street. She'd pass by mornings and evenings, invariably using the same path; her movement was more catlike than canine, and she walked with confidence, always seeming to know exactly where she was headed and why. One August morning, as she trotted down the street back toward her den, she paused to sniff a piece of garbage in the road; she then turned, squatted, and urinated on it. It was a fascinating display of fox behavior that one does not normally get to witness.

Having the opportunity to observe a gray fox was a special one, and knowing that our yard was within a gray fox's territory was even more special. 

*      *      *

On Monday morning, I pulled out of our driveway and made my way through the neighborhood, headed to work. I crossed the Chocolay River and turned down another street — and that's when I spotted an animal, dead on the side of the road. It was gray-brown, with a bushy tail, and I hoped against hope it was a stray cat, or even a raccoon.  It wasn't — it was a gray fox.

I pulled over, then crouched down beside the body. A snowflake landed on her snout. Her entrails had burst from her belly, but in the chill of the night, she had nearly frozen, minimizing the gore. Without a second thought, I lifted the body, and cradling it in my arms, I put it in my car and drove back home. 

Upon my arrival, both Steph and I lost it. I cried and cried, kneeling over the body, petting the soft winter fur. It didn't feel like it was mine to touch, or look upon so closely. Here was a fox, presumably the same one who we'd see now and then, a wild animal living at the edge of town. And now she was dead, and it almost felt as if the family pet had died. This was the neighborhood gray fox — it was a gutting, horrible thought.

The body went in the freezer and I went to work. I tried not to think about it, but the gray fox and her death dominated my thoughts for the remainder of the day.

As of this writing, a few days later, I still haven't fully recovered. I think of all the roadkill animals that I've seen and photographed; some of them affect me more than others, but this was the first time I was ever reduced to sobbing. It is, of course, because this animal was familiar to me — it wasn't just another anonymous raccoon on the side of the highway.

Today I decided to start working through some of my grief — in doing so I would begin to honor the life of this gorgeous, remarkable animal. The gray fox came out of the freezer this morning, and this afternoon, I photographed her. She was still very frozen: her front legs stuck straight ahead, and her nose, which had been pushed against the inner wall of the freezer, was off-center. Her eyes were frosted with ice.

The resulting photographs are haunting, disturbing, and beautiful.

 

 

 

Perhaps this gray fox is not the same one we observed. Time will tell: a winter storm is about to hit our area, and any tracks left in the snow will help answer lingering questions. Regardless of whether or not this fox was the neighborhood fox who called our yard home, I will grieve for her.

See also: Young Creatures, from July 11, 2012.

Frosty Doe

This is the time of year when many deer lose their lives: some by bullets, and some by cars.

Until this weekend, I hadn't photographed a deer carcass since the summer months. Between then and now, white-tailed deer have undergone their seasonal transformation: a thick, gray winter coat has replaced the soft, red-brown fur of the summer; the necks of bucks have swelled with the rut, and fawns have long-since lost their spots. Michigan's winter deer have a fluffier, bulkier appearance – a stark change from their slender, angular summer form.

The section of US 41 that runs south of Marquette toward Escanaba is a deer death trap: the two-lane highway cuts through farmland, spruce and cedar swamps, and plenty of brushy, forested area. It's a perfect habitat for deer, and many are hit by cars on this stretch of road. On a frosty, misty Sunday morning, Steph and I decided to take a drive down US 41, just to see what we could find.

 

Less than a mile into our trip, Steph spotted a deer carcass resting a little ways away from the road. It was a doe, and she had been dead for a week or two. Her initial spot of death was marked by a large pile of fur, but something – most likely a coyote – had smartly pulled her body a safer distance from the highway. The scavenging habits of the coyotes had twisted and compacted the doe; her legs were left in a bizarre, unnatural jumble of suspended motion.

Not yet reached by the light of the rising sun, the doe's fur was covered in frost. The coyotes and crows that had scavenged her body had cleared out her insides and pecked out her eyes, but despite the carnage, the doe looked to be at peace, laying on a bed of dry bracken fern and whisker-thin grass.

 

 

The shade receded quickly, yielding to the sun as it rose higher into the sky. In the few minutes that I spent photographing the doe, I watched as the frost melted into drops of water. 

 

When we passed by again, on our way back home, crows were arriving for their morning meal.