The Bionic Bluebird Box

Less than a week ago, a magpie murdered the female from a nesting pair in my front yard.  The magpie ambushed her from atop the bird box.  The male vanished following the murder.

Yesterday, another male appeared at the bluebird box.  I watched him hover in front for a few seconds, inspecting.  He then perched on top for a bit, checking out the neighborhood.

The last thing I want is another murder on my hands.

About a month ago, I purchased a new bluebird box after a northern flicker hammered holes it the existing one.  I intended to replace the box then, thinking the nesting pair had abandoned the nest inside, but I soon saw the birds resuming preparations to raise a brood.

Yesterday, after seeing another bluebird showing interest, I decided to replace the nesting box.  But I added some protective features using metal from the soffit I tore apart for the sunroom addition and wood from my window replacement project.

I produced a kind of “bionic” bluebird box.

I extended the roof to prevent ambush attacks from above.  I added metal foils to the face of the box to prevent big birds from grasping the box.

Here’s to hoping it works.

Building the Box

The Final Product

—Mitchell Hegman 

Mountain Report

Stopped at the cabin to watch a bulldozer cut a road across my neighbor’s property.

Note to self: Nothing stops a bulldozer (See video below).

Drove deeper into the mountains and picked up five littered aluminum cans from the edge of the road.  Near the top of a mountain pass, I hopped from my truck to poke around in the understory.  About sixty feet in, I found a wood tick crawling on my pants.

Note to Self: Yikes!

End of off-trail hiking for the day.

Because I was without proper adult supervision (I was alone), I photographed another Indian paintbrush.  Also captured another image of my favorite mountain vista.

End of report.

Mountain Vista

Paintbrush

Bulldozer at Work

—Mitchell Hegman

The Depression Underlying Brilliance

I am often slow to recognize brilliance.  Someone had to (more or less) beat me over the head with Shakespeare’s writing before I saw the value.   I did not really appreciate my ultimate hero, Nikola Tesla, until I was knocking on the door of middle age.

Chris Cornell is my latest late discovery.  If you are unfamiliar, Chris was the singer and often songwriter for Soundgarden, Audioslave, and Temple of the Dog.

For some of you none of this may still not mean much.

Chris Cornell’s voice rings with authenticity.  More importantly, he displayed a direct connection with his deepest emotions and his songs.  According to Wikipedia:

He was voted "Rock's Greatest Singer" by readers of Guitar World, and ranked No. 4 on the list of "Heavy Metal's All-Time Top 100 Vocalists" by Hit Parader, No. 9 on the list of "Best Lead Singers of All Time" by Rolling Stone, and No. 12 on MTV's "22 Greatest Voices in Music".

Chris suffered from depression for his entire life.  On May 18, 2017, Chris committed suicide at the age of 52.  Posted today is one of many songs that clearly displays the depression underlying his brilliance.

Chris Cornell

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zdoXgGnKdc&list=RD4zdoXgGnKdc&start_radio=1

Murder

The female bluebird was murdered.

For the better part of a week, a magpie has been stalking around the bluebird nesting box in front of my house.  I shooed the magpie away several times.  Early in the evening on the night before last, I looked out and spotted the magpie clinging to the front of the birdbox and poking around the entry hole.

I rushed out the front door, yelling, and chased the magpie off.

Upon reaching the box, I found the female bluebird nearly decapitated.  Her head was hanging by a strand outside the box.  Her lifeless body remained inside the box atop the nest.

The bluebird had been dead for no more than a minute.  From what I could tell, the magpie ambushed her from atop the box when she poked her head out.

I removed the bird from the box, wrapped her up in plastic, and unceremoniously placed her at the bottom of my trash bin in my garage.

The male bluebird orbited around the birdbox for about fifteen minutes and then vanished.

Yesterday morning, I removed five eggs from the nest inside the box.  I stood there staring at the eggs for some time.  What to do with those?  They were cold as a stone now.

Fucking magpie.

I walked the eggs a distance down what we call Big Tire Gulch and placed them in a conspicuous place.  Their mother went unceremoniously.  The eggs go out shouting.

Five Eggs

—Mitchell Hegman

Two Views, One Flower

On an early morning walk down to the lake, I chanced upon an evening primrose.  We call them a gumbo lily in these parts.  As the proper name implies, the evening primrose blooms in the evening, stays open for but one night, and then wilts in the heat of the next day.  They rely on night-flying moths for pollination.

I consider finding a primrose in the morning the very best of luck.  They are big but quite fragile.

When I knelt down to capture an image, I discovered my phone was on selfie mode.  Normally this annoys me.  But this time I felt somewhat amused.  Just for fun, I thought I might try a photograph of me looking down at the flower and another of the flower looking up at me.

Evening Primrose

Me  

—Mitchell Hegman

Bitterroot Pairs

Some twenty or so years ago, as I picked up my camera and headed for the door at the sight of a five-alarm sunset, my wife asked: “Don’t you have enough sunset pictures?”

I stopped for a moment, considered.  “Nope,” I answered.  “That does not compute.”  I rushed out the front door and lifted my camera to the sky.

In the time since, I have taken hundreds more sunset photographs.  I never tire of dashing out to capture the next image.  Honestly, I can’t get enough.

The sky is my garden.

I have a similar obsession with wildflower photographs.  Every year, at the proper time of the season, I stumble out across various landscapes, bracketing images of this flower or that.

At present, I am circling around flourishes of bitterroot, our Montana state flower.  No two are alike.  Bitterroots offer shades of color ranging from nearly white to the deepest lavender.

They are always striking.

Posted are images of two pairs of bitterroots I found yesterday.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Protectors

I pulled a hose and sprinkler a short distance down the hill at the back of my house to water a few of the native pine trees.  As I stretched the hose to the farthest point, a conspiracy of ravens erupted in the trees not far below me.  Several birds began squawking from points unseen.  Two took flight and, while also squawking, swung back and forth the in the air above me.

“What’s up, boys?” I called out to them.

I stood there for a while, watching.  I expected the birds to drift away but they refused to relent.

“What are you hiding down there?” I asked.

Something in a cluster of older pines below me was of great interest to the ravens.  Curious, I dropped the hose and sprinkler and slowly descended the hill.  I suspected the ravens were onto a feast.  Maybe a freshly dead animal.  The closer I drew near the trees, the more agitated the ravens became.  And then I spotted the reason the ravens were acting so strangely.  Halfway up one of the trees a solitary and quiet raven perched near the trunk of the tree.

While ravens will generally not allow close approach, I was able to walk up immediately below the raven in the tree.

It occurred to me something was wrong with the raven.   The bird lacked the energy or the wherewithal to fly away.  The bird peered down at me.  I looked up at the bird.  I stood there for long while.

As a boy, I would have picked up a stick or stone to throw at the bird.  But this is a different day.  I waved at the bird and slowly climbed back up the hill.  The ravens in the air and ravens squawking from nearby trees—the protectors—quickly settled into silence as I ascended toward my house.

—Mitchell Hegman