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.

Anatomy of Preservation

Here's a neat time-lapse video produced by the University of Michigan's Museum of Zoology, filmed in the Mammal Division – it shows the preparation of a bat specimen, from a body in fluid preservation to a mounted, articulated skeleton. Take a watch, and prepare to be impressed by the quick work of the bug room's dermestid beetles! You might also recognize some of the mounts on the wall...

Feed the Birds!

It's November – and in the northwoods, that means less sunlight, colder temperatures, and an influx of winter birds visiting the bird feeders. If you too have a bird feeder, you might notice the vast amounts of chickadees, nuthatches, and woodpeckers that visit immediately before a particularly chilly or snowy day. These incredible birds don't migrate south for the winter: they remain year-round, even through the coldest and darkest months. To keep their tiny bodies warm, they must eat constantly, and though there are plenty of natural food sources, you can help!

Suet cakes, usually made from bird seed and rendered beef fat, are a product designed for feeding woodpeckers and other winter birds. At first glance, beef fat might seem like a strange component to bird food – and in a way, it is. Many birds, however – including chickadees and woodpeckers – do scavenge the meat and fat from animal carcasses, especially in the colder months. Deer remains are an especially important source of wintertime protein; in cities and subdivisions, though, where there are few or no deer, cow fat – a waste product of the beef farming industry – becomes the alternative.

But before you go out and buy suet cakes for your winter birds, let's skip the rendered beef fat and talk about a little DIY project!

You'll need a medium- to large-sized, freshly-dead mammal, a few suet cake molds, a small amount of birdseed, and some peanut butter, if you really want to get fancy.

In the spirit of this blog, I used the fat from a medium-sized raccoon, found dead on the road. (During this time of year, many mammals – raccoons included – are bulked up for the winter, and the amount of fat they accumulate is really quite impressive.) After skinning the raccoon, I set aside about a half-pound of fat – enough to make two suet cakes.

Step One: Melt the Fat!

Stick the animal fat in a saucepan – ideally, one you won't be cooking your own meals in!

 

When the fat is first harvested, it's slimy, pink, and opaque. As it's heated, however, it turns a creamy color, becoming translucent before melting to a clear liquid.

It takes very high temperatures for fat to melt, so proceed with caution! It also takes time – be patient, and allow for the fat to melt almost completely before removing it from the heat. When there are only a few small globs of unmelted fat remaining, turn off the heat, and let the saucepan cool for at least 15 minutes before proceeding to the next step.

Step Two: Extra Goodies!

Though a solid block of animal fat is perfectly edible to birds, it doesn't hurt to add in some other tasty treats, as well. Before you mix anything into the melted fat, however, make sure it's not too hot. Drop a small amount of water into the saucepan: if it sizzles, the fat is still too hot! If not, you're ready for this next step.

Mix in a few tablespoons of peanut butter, if you'd like, then add in the goodies: sunflower seeds, peanuts, and even dried cranberries are a great addition to the diet of your backyard winter birds.

Step Three: Cool It!

Once all your ingredients are incorporated, it's time to pour the mixture into suet cake molds. I used the leftover packaging from store-bought suet cakes, but other homemade or impromptu molds will work, too – so long as they fit into a standard suet feeder.

Allow the suet cakes to cool in your freezer for several hours. They'll be ready to put outside the next morning!

Step Four: Feed the Birds!

Once it's completely solidified, place your homemade suet cake into a suet feeder and hang it up with the rest of your bird feeders. Don't be dismayed if the birds don't immediately flock in to eat!

Though I hung up the suet cake on Sunday, it wasn't until today that we observed birds feeding from it. This morning, Steph saw a female hairy woodpecker (Picoides villosus) eating the suet and took some photographs for me.

Whether you're a hunter with some leftover fat from your kill, or you have a habit of picking up roadkill from the curb, making homemade suet cakes is a rewarding experience, and one that your backyard winter birds are sure to enjoy!