While I haven’t traveled outside the White Mountains since those three camping trips, I have, nonetheless, enjoyed many a romp through our nearby wild lands. As such, for this -- and possibly the next article -- I would like to do a bit of “catch-up”-- and relate to you -- random observations that I have made during the period of time that runs from June 2019 to the present.

Let me start with an anecdote about something that took place early in the month of June --a time in which many local birds are well underway in their breeding cycle. This story pertains to a pair of Mallard ducks I had been watching for a couple of days and who had apparently chosen the shores of a small, local stream in which to conduct their nesting activities.

During my frequent walks along the stream’s banks, the peak frenzy of songbird courtship and nesting was occurring and I was especially happy to keep tabs on a pair of Painted Redstarts and a pair of Red-faced Warblers (two vividly colored passerines that are considered “southwestern specialties”). At a wide point in the creek there was a pool large enough to entice a pair of Mallards to set up residency. However, these Mallards appeared to be somewhat shy in getting past the initial, mate selection, phase of things.

In the early days of my approach to the Mallards’ pool, they habitually became nervous and typically flew off once I got too close for comfort. It fascinated me to watch the Mallards maneuver through the thick woods, as I generally consider Mallards to be pond and lake ducks. Because I didn’t want to give up this ritualistic morning route, I began to approach the pool in an especially stealthy manner. But, of course, the ducks always knew I was coming and, though they would delay their flight later and later into my advance, they nonetheless still vacated the premises every time I finally got too close to their pool.

One day, I decided to take a seat on a rock near the Mallard pool and quietly observe them for 15 minutes or so. This, they seemed to be okay with as they went about their presumably normal routine -- which was mostly dabbling for food and swimming close to each other in what appeared to be genuine affection.

Each day, I would sidle closer to the pool but would still stop to sit on a rock, log or the grassy slope so as to allow the ducks to get used to my presence. I knew that they had accepted me when one day they barely looked up at my approach and I was even more sure when, while seated near them, I couldn’t stifle a sneeze and thought for sure that they would fly when eventually the suppressed sneeze exploded out from me. But no, they merely elevated their posture in the water, ruffled their feathers and then went back to their dabbling, preening and mutual admiration of each other.

For several more days, I continued to monitor the pair. Eventually, the hen disappeared and the drake swam in lonely circles in his little pool. I wasn’t worried though, as I assumed that the female had finally moved into some nearby grasses to lay and incubate eggs. While Mallard hens prefer to nest on the ground, hidden in dense vegetation, they have been known to also nest in trees and even, occasionally, on the roof of an old, abandoned building.

The nesting cycle of a Mallard can entail the laying of one egg a day for up to two weeks. Only the female broods the eggs and her time on the clutch may last as long as a month after the last egg is laid. Perhaps, not surprisingly, my life took a few twists and turns during the Mallard’s long nesting cycle and my visits to the creek became less frequent. I did see the drake on a few more strolls but I never again saw the hen. Eventually the drake also disappeared.

Naturally, there is no way to know how things turned out for the mated pair. Given that their chosen nesting site was along a flowing stream instead of a standing water site such as a pond, lake or marsh, maybe they decided to move closer to more typical nesting terrain. Maybe a predator played a role. Because the site did not get a lot of human visitors and because the ducks seemed to adapt to my regular presence, I like to think that I wasn’t the cause of their potential failure to bring a new generation into the world.

One thing is for sure, both before and after I became acquainted with the creek-side pair and partially chronicled their progress, I did see many other Mallard couples successfully rear young elsewhere in the same general vicinity; granted, they all did so on local ponds, lakes and marshes. Some Mallard pairs even may have “double-clutched” (laying two, distinct batches of eggs); although that is uncommon in the Mallard world. I guess there is no real moral to this story -- maybe only that Nature is often mysterious and unpredictable.

Regardless, when I’m feeling slightly down about some silly thing and need to buoy my spirits, my mind often goes back to the sight of those two Mallards on that day that I shattered the silence of a tranquil early morning by erupting in an enormous sneeze. That the frightened ducks so quickly regained their composure both amuses me and makes me think that, for a little while, we got to know each other fairly well.

Let me now conclude this article with yet another bird story from during the timeframe of late Spring to early Summer. This account revolves around a feisty little bird -- the House Wren.

For many years now, because I’ve neglected routine yard maintenance, I have watched my property re-shape itself into a multi-layered, multi-dimensional, very complex mini ecosystem. Over the course of a few temperate Spring mornings, it is not uncommon for me to count nearly two dozen bird species in my third-of-an-acre lot.

In most of the recent years, a male House Wren has arrived early and established his territory on the property. His gushing, bubbling, rising and falling Spring song never fails to attract a mate. Soon, she has secreted herself in one of the many nooks, crannies or cavities that abound both in natural and in human-constructed spots around the yard.

Once her 3-6 young have fledged, they boldly explore the area with their parents and initially lump me in with the local stray cats and occasional passing Sharp-shinned Hawk as something to be harshly scolded and mistrusted. Happily, though, they soon seem to warm to my presence and often, when I pedal my bike up the crunching, gravel drive, there they are to greet me at the front gate.

As I put my bike away, I will “pish” to the wren family. “Pishing,” if you are not a birder, is when foolish looking humans try to pretend they are Dr. Doolittle and commence to vocalizing in such a way that it attracts and excites certain species of birds. Within my experience (and I learned the pishing trick as a teen-ager, many decades ago), pishing is most effective with chickadees, nuthatches, some warbler species, most jay species and, especially, with House Wrens. It’s like catnip to cats, in that they find it irresistible.

I’m sure that many folks have discovered that in our “senior years,” we often find that simple pleasures are the best. For me, one of those simple pleasures is to call (pish) to the House Wrens around my house and have them hop, flutter, dive and weave their way through the thick vegetation to where I stand calling them. It is all I can do to restrain myself from raising my palms upward, arms out-stretched, and beckon them like some latter day Saint Francis Assisi….

Twice,over my years here, I have had wrens find their way into my house. Once, one entered through an open door but I was able to catch him in a corner by launching a bed-sheet over top of him and then releasing him unharmed back outside. The other time, I was washing dishes and kept hearing some small, scratching sound somewhere behind me. Eventually I figured out that the noise was the sound of claws scraping on the glass and metal door that encloses the fireplace. The culprit: a House Wren that came down the chimney. Ho, ho, ho.

That little bird I was also able to trap into a sheet and release outdoors; no worse for wear. I did wonder if I might hear his next song incorporate the melody from: “Chim-chiminey; chim-chiminey; chim, chim cha-roo.”

Well, that about wraps up two natural history events from earlier this year. There were many more and perhaps I will try to write some of those up too, for the next installment in Outdoors Southwest. Then again, you never know when you might be propelled into some really grand adventure -- a first time trip into a never before described patch of wildlands. I must say though, at this stage of life, my very own backyard (or nearby neck-of-the-woods) is often times the place where I discover my most satisfying wild experiences.