I knew right away it would have to be a message of hope, this very simple story; in a way, perhaps I insisted on it…
It was during early July – a week of particularly sorrowful news: police shootings in Dallas, unspeakable violence going viral on video, racial tensions taut. I had just received an email that informed me of a double suicide within my Bering Sea tribe. That would be five now, familiar faces with strong ties to their own island, disappearing in their own despair; all gone in just a year and a half.
And the glimmers? They all started with a phone call from Fishers Island summer resident Bob Meyer.He reported a banded pigeon huddled beneath the telephone pole and osprey nest outside West Harbor.
It felt like the last thing I wanted to do on a Saturday evening, but the day had been a scorcher and thunder showers were expected to blow in, so I drove right away to meet Bob who was standing watch over this worn out feathered messenger.
Before I knew it I scooped up my now-passenger pigeon and headed home with the bird in the front seat, avoiding two unsettled ospreys circling overhead.
Swinging by the Village Market at closing hour I ran in and grabbed an empty Harpoon I.P.A. box from the help-yourself corner. I smiled, thanking the universe for any humor: I.P.A. – Island Pigeon Association.
By nightfall, tucked cozily in the box in a terrycloth nest, Harpoon sipped lots of water, poked and pecked at a bird seed mix with an added concoction of cracked corn, dry peas, grains, wild rice, even a plain Cheerio or two.
Clearly exhausted, this winged voyager would not fly. Looking like its city-pigeon cousins, Harpoon sat for days with feathers puffed up just outside my cottage under the shade of an elm tree.
While this particular naturalist doesn’t happen to have a pigeon coop set-up, the neighborhood soon found out there was a grounded visitor and kind folks took the bird under their collective wing by keeping a careful look-out.
Marj Beck texted one evening and asked if I knew about a banded bird and sent a photo of what turned out to be Harpoon at the school playground! I could’ve sworn the pigeon was nestled just outside. By 6 a.m. the next morning I rode my bike by the school, but there was no sign of my feathered friend. By 6 p.m. Harpoon appeared back at the cottage, perched under the elm tree. The next day, pedaling east past the Parade Grounds, I waved down school custodian Tommy Doroshevich who was mowing the lawn.
“Hey Tommy, did you happen to see a banded pigeon around the playground yesterday?
“Yeah! It sat all day right outside your classroom – the third and fourth graders you always visit – right there under the window, all day.
I thought it fairly amazing: a bird walking what looked like two football fields away and later returning “home.” Then I got goosebumps – the nice kind – when I remembered the date: the day my Mom had passed a couple years before.
I turned around and headed back home to catch Harpoon and decode the bright yellow band around its leg, labeled “49 IF NLI 2016.” I jotted the numbers and letters down on scrap paper.
The “NL,” which I supposed would be for “New London,” turned into North Long Island.
The “IF” originally was the “Iffy” sensation I felt while trying to locate Harpoon’s owner, but that turned into “International Federation.” It appeared my messenger was of thoroughbred racing stock.
So I searched the internet, piecing together lost banded racing pigeons of 2016 and flight distances across Long Island Sound and Fishers Island Sound. After a few emails and phone messages, I tracked down Tom Newman, the head of the North Long Island branch of pigeon fanciers. Our conversation was pleasant, and of course I made sure to add a few remarkable elements.
“I think this bird is a bit special. It survived two cranky ospreys, walked to the school playground AND back, thankfully outwitted the dog next door chasing a tennis ball through the yard AND there is even a ‘dove interest’,” I said. (Harpoon being a fancier too.)
Then Mr. Newman added his own remarkable element: Harpoon originally had flown from Smithtown, N.Y. I did my own quick calculating: 151.3 miles away, 2 hours 54 minutes – but that’s if the bird took I-95! Someone suggested the pigeon got blown off course and found Fishers Island.
But the question remained: Would Harpoon take wing and return to Long Island?
“Well, I know the owner and he’ll have to figure out how to get the bird back,” Newman said. “Does Fishers Island – I don’t even know where it is – does the island ship live (animals)?”
“Wait a second. I’m not packing this pigeon up to be sent UPS,” I said. “I think its owner should come pick it up. I don’t think it wants a life of competing and racing around anyways.” I was trying to be funny, but really wanted the owner to take some responsibility.
Days turned into weeks. I sent clever updates with photos to Mr. Newman, narrating Harpoon’s love affair with a mourning dove, documenting my first ever Amazon order of pigeon grit, how far the bird walked as it rejuvenated. I even confided that on my birthday, Harpoon happened to fly for the first time up to my open window – the nicest present.
If it’s true that home is where the heart is, then this creature must have felt comfortably at home because we formed a sweet bond – of hope I think it was. A simple pigeon trusted it would be cared for; in return, those heavy sorrows of early July that I has been carrying began to feel lighter with each day I spent with Harpoon.
One evening, three weeks to the day of Harpoon’s arrival, I leaned my bike against the cottage gate and gave my routine call of “Harpooooon,” with a bit of cooing.
Bursting out from atop the canopy of one of the tallest elms on Fishers Island, soaring and tumbling with what appeared to be effortless joy against a purple sky, there went Harpoon!
“May wherever you land feel like home,” I thought.
A Welcome Messenger Of Hope
Field Notes, From the FieldI knew right away it would have to be a message of hope, this very simple story; in a way, perhaps I insisted on it…
It was during early July – a week of particularly sorrowful news: police shootings in Dallas, unspeakable violence going viral on video, racial tensions taut. I had just received an email that informed me of a double suicide within my Bering Sea tribe. That would be five now, familiar faces with strong ties to their own island, disappearing in their own despair; all gone in just a year and a half.
And the glimmers? They all started with a phone call from Fishers Island summer resident Bob Meyer.He reported a banded pigeon huddled beneath the telephone pole and osprey nest outside West Harbor.
It felt like the last thing I wanted to do on a Saturday evening, but the day had been a scorcher and thunder showers were expected to blow in, so I drove right away to meet Bob who was standing watch over this worn out feathered messenger.
Before I knew it I scooped up my now-passenger pigeon and headed home with the bird in the front seat, avoiding two unsettled ospreys circling overhead.
Swinging by the Village Market at closing hour I ran in and grabbed an empty Harpoon I.P.A. box from the help-yourself corner. I smiled, thanking the universe for any humor: I.P.A. – Island Pigeon Association.
By nightfall, tucked cozily in the box in a terrycloth nest, Harpoon sipped lots of water, poked and pecked at a bird seed mix with an added concoction of cracked corn, dry peas, grains, wild rice, even a plain Cheerio or two.
Clearly exhausted, this winged voyager would not fly. Looking like its city-pigeon cousins, Harpoon sat for days with feathers puffed up just outside my cottage under the shade of an elm tree.
While this particular naturalist doesn’t happen to have a pigeon coop set-up, the neighborhood soon found out there was a grounded visitor and kind folks took the bird under their collective wing by keeping a careful look-out.
Marj Beck texted one evening and asked if I knew about a banded bird and sent a photo of what turned out to be Harpoon at the school playground! I could’ve sworn the pigeon was nestled just outside. By 6 a.m. the next morning I rode my bike by the school, but there was no sign of my feathered friend. By 6 p.m. Harpoon appeared back at the cottage, perched under the elm tree. The next day, pedaling east past the Parade Grounds, I waved down school custodian Tommy Doroshevich who was mowing the lawn.
“Hey Tommy, did you happen to see a banded pigeon around the playground yesterday?
“Yeah! It sat all day right outside your classroom – the third and fourth graders you always visit – right there under the window, all day.
I thought it fairly amazing: a bird walking what looked like two football fields away and later returning “home.” Then I got goosebumps – the nice kind – when I remembered the date: the day my Mom had passed a couple years before.
I turned around and headed back home to catch Harpoon and decode the bright yellow band around its leg, labeled “49 IF NLI 2016.” I jotted the numbers and letters down on scrap paper.
The “NL,” which I supposed would be for “New London,” turned into North Long Island.
The “IF” originally was the “Iffy” sensation I felt while trying to locate Harpoon’s owner, but that turned into “International Federation.” It appeared my messenger was of thoroughbred racing stock.
So I searched the internet, piecing together lost banded racing pigeons of 2016 and flight distances across Long Island Sound and Fishers Island Sound. After a few emails and phone messages, I tracked down Tom Newman, the head of the North Long Island branch of pigeon fanciers. Our conversation was pleasant, and of course I made sure to add a few remarkable elements.
“I think this bird is a bit special. It survived two cranky ospreys, walked to the school playground AND back, thankfully outwitted the dog next door chasing a tennis ball through the yard AND there is even a ‘dove interest’,” I said. (Harpoon being a fancier too.)
Then Mr. Newman added his own remarkable element: Harpoon originally had flown from Smithtown, N.Y. I did my own quick calculating: 151.3 miles away, 2 hours 54 minutes – but that’s if the bird took I-95! Someone suggested the pigeon got blown off course and found Fishers Island.
But the question remained: Would Harpoon take wing and return to Long Island?
“Well, I know the owner and he’ll have to figure out how to get the bird back,” Newman said. “Does Fishers Island – I don’t even know where it is – does the island ship live (animals)?”
“Wait a second. I’m not packing this pigeon up to be sent UPS,” I said. “I think its owner should come pick it up. I don’t think it wants a life of competing and racing around anyways.” I was trying to be funny, but really wanted the owner to take some responsibility.
Days turned into weeks. I sent clever updates with photos to Mr. Newman, narrating Harpoon’s love affair with a mourning dove, documenting my first ever Amazon order of pigeon grit, how far the bird walked as it rejuvenated. I even confided that on my birthday, Harpoon happened to fly for the first time up to my open window – the nicest present.
If it’s true that home is where the heart is, then this creature must have felt comfortably at home because we formed a sweet bond – of hope I think it was. A simple pigeon trusted it would be cared for; in return, those heavy sorrows of early July that I has been carrying began to feel lighter with each day I spent with Harpoon.
One evening, three weeks to the day of Harpoon’s arrival, I leaned my bike against the cottage gate and gave my routine call of “Harpooooon,” with a bit of cooing.
Bursting out from atop the canopy of one of the tallest elms on Fishers Island, soaring and tumbling with what appeared to be effortless joy against a purple sky, there went Harpoon!
“May wherever you land feel like home,” I thought.
Black-dotted Ruddy
FI MothsCommon name: Black-dotted ruddy, Fishers Island, NY, June 2017.
Scientific name: Ilecta intractata
Food: As caterpillars, black-dotted ruddy moths are specialist feeders, meaning they can feed on only one or two kinds of plants in order to grow and develop. Black-dotted ruddy moths feed on American holly trees, and can be a common inchworm in suburban environments where holly trees are planted.
Ecology: This species is attracted to artificial lighting, which can increase predation risk, disrupt behaviors such as feeding, flight and reproduction, and interfere with dispersal among habitat patches.
Black Zale
FI MothsCommon name: Black zale, Fishers Island NY, June 2017
Scientific name: Zale undularis
Season: Adults start flying in the Northeast in late spring and into September. Caterpillars are common by June.
Food: The caterpillars feed exclusively on locust trees.
Ecology: This dark-colored moth is able to camouflage itself against the bark of trees, whereas its caterpillars feed on the underside of leaves to hide from predators. The caterpillars are incredibly muscular, and when alarmed, will launch themselves from leaves to avoid capture.
Blue Dasher
FI MothsCommon name: Blue Dasher, Fishers Island, NY, July 2017
Scientific name: Pachydiplax longipennis
Not a moth, but too beautiful to omit. The blue dasher is one of the more common dragonflies in the eastern U.S. and one of the most striking. Like many dragonflies, this species is sexually dimorphic, meaning that the appearance of the individual depends on its gender. Only males develop bright blue abdomens, whereas females have an orange-and-black pattern instead. This is a fully mature male.
When adults perch, they tend to raise their abdomens in the air in what is known as the “obelisk” position. This is believed to be an effective way to minimize heat by allowing more wind to pass over the abdomen.
Common Spring Moth
FI MothsScientific name: Heliomata cycladata
Season: March-July
Food: Black locust and honey locust.
Ecology: As the name implies, these moths are common to see during the spring and into July through the Mid-Atlantic. Although small, they are quite beautiful.
Short-billed Dowitcher’s Brunch
From the Field, Video SnippetsDisplaying their breeding plumage, Short-billed Dowitcher’s pick through thick seaweed berms at low tide.
Curve-toothed Geometer
FI MothsCommon name: Curved-toothed geometer
Scientific name: Eutrapela clemataria
Food: Larvae feed on leaves of ash, basswood, birch, elm, fir, maple, poplar, willow and other trees.
Ecology: These geometers live in deciduous and mixed woodlands. Their scientific name derives from the Ancient Greek “measure” “the earth” in reference to the way their larvae, or inchworms, appear to “measure the earth” as they move along in a looping fashion. The geometer has two generations a year and is part of a very large family of around 23,000 species of moths.
Lucinda Herrick Photo, July 2018
Monarch Butterfly Caterpillar and Aphids
FI MothsScientific names: Danaus plexippus and Aphis nerri
Here’s a bit of hidden moth science, provided by entomologist Adam Mitchell, PhD:
Like animals, plants have an “immune system” and have a series of finely-tuned responses to specific stressors in their environment. When a leaf is chewed, signals are sent to the plant to create defenses that prevent further feeding. When, for example, a caterpillar chews on a leaf, the production of a hormone called jasmonic acid (JA) signals that kind of response. In contrast, when an insect feeds on the vascular (xylem-phloem) tissue of a plant, such as an aphid, a different signal is sent, and a different hormone is produced. This one is called salicylic acid (SA).
Generally, these different signals allow plants to focus specific defenses against specific threats. However, the production of one signal can sometimes prevent another. If a plant is already producing salicylic acid, it struggles to produce jasmonic acid. That is, if aphids are already feeding on a plant when a caterpillar begins to chew on the leaves, the plant cannot raise its defenses as effectively against the caterpillar as it usually would, because it’s already producing defenses to defend against the aphid.
Spotted sandpiper and sweet spots
Field Notes, From the FieldJuly 08, 2016
We all do it at least once, especially during these early days of July: we make an appearance here on Fishers Island.
On a recent early Saturday evening, in my neck of the woods on the western end of the island, the Munnatawket offloads another parade of cars, then a screaming helicopter touches down (for a minute I am tempted to “fume” too). A stream of invitees-to-cocktail-parties traffic moves down the Fort Wright stretch. Laughter wafts from mingling on porches and floats with the scent of honeysuckle seaward.
The birds chirp excitedly and prep for evensong and with the dimming sunlight, I smile, knowing we already have made other plans. South towards Elizabeth Field airport, parallel to the runway, a sandy sanctuary invites me. Oddly, but ever so humbly – because I never RSVP – there is a sense of my past moments living in the Pribilofs that I embrace here. Maybe it is revisiting with the innate and intuitive, but I find myself appearing in this special place often, mostly to observe and now, over the years, more likely with a sense of protective preservation.
I have been happy asking the town of Southold to send me more signage to mark delicate nesting areas of the island’sslowly but surely rising population of oyster catchers. I’ve been enthusiastically sharing unique sightings of the elusive shore birds; creating posters to suggest a ban on Mylar balloons; taking time to untangle tidal pools strangled with yards of ribbon; and diplomatically reminding beach combers to leash their dogs, while explaining just what healthy habitat a wrack line is. For me it is like being a steward in “stewardship,” and just NOT waiting for the “ship” part to come in.
And now sitting here peacefully this late Saturday eve in this sanctuary of sands on a sun-washed wooden plank, buried knee high in warm, smelly, salted seaweeds, I find my own sweet spot along waving sand dune grasses. A rarely seen Spotted Sandpiper appears and welcomes me as we share this moment.
Spotted Sandpiper and Sweet Spots
Field Notes, From the FieldSpotted Sandpiper
We all do it at least once, especially during these early days of July: we make an appearance here on Fishers Island.
On a recent early Saturday evening, in my neck of the woods on the western end of the island, the Munnatawket offloads another parade of cars, then a screaming helicopter touches down (for a minute I am tempted to “fume” too). A stream of invitees-to-cocktail-parties traffic moves down the Fort Wright stretch. Laughter wafts from mingling on porches and floats with the scent of honeysuckle seaward.
The birds chirp excitedly and prep for evensong and with the dimming sunlight, I smile, knowing we already have made other plans. South towards Elizabeth Field airport, parallel to the runway, a sandy sanctuary invites me. Oddly, but ever so humbly – because I never RSVP – there is a sense of my past moments living in the Pribilofs that I embrace here. Maybe it is revisiting with the innate and intuitive, but I find myself appearing in this special place often, mostly to observe and now, over the years, more likely with a sense of protective preservation.
I have been happy asking the town of Southold to send me more signage to mark delicate nesting areas of the island’sslowly but surely rising population of oyster catchers. I’ve been enthusiastically sharing unique sightings of the elusive shore birds; creating posters to suggest a ban on Mylar balloons; taking time to untangle tidal pools strangled with yards of ribbon; and diplomatically reminding beach combers to leash their dogs, while explaining just what healthy habitat a wrack line is. For me it is like being a steward in “stewardship,” and just NOT waiting for the “ship” part to come in.
And now sitting here peacefully this late Saturday eve in this sanctuary of sands on a sun-washed wooden plank, buried knee high in warm, smelly, salted seaweeds, I find my own sweet spot along waving sand dune grasses. A rarely seen Spotted Sandpiper appears and welcomes me as we share this moment.