Beauty of Earth Blog

Muskrat, Muskrat,
Candlelight
Doin’ the town
And doin’ it right in the evening
It’s pretty pleasin’

Muskrat Suzie
Muskrat Sam
Do the jitterbug out in Muskrat Land
And they shimmy
Sammy’s so skinny

And they whirl
And they twirl and they tango
Singin’ and jinglin’ a jangle
Floatin’ like the heavens above
Looks like Muskrat Love

Those are the opening lines of the soft rock song “Muskrat Love” (originally titled “Muskrat Candlelight”) by Willis Alan Ramsey. If you followed popular music in the 1970s, those lyrics might sound familiar. Two well-known groups recorded the tune: the band America in 1973 and Captain and Tennille in 1976, whose version peaked at No. 4 on the Hot 100 music chart.

You may be wondering, as I did at the time, why write a song about muskrats? Of all the creatures to make the subject of a song, why pick a member of the rodent family with “rat” in its name? That’s an association that doesn’t exactly create warm and fuzzy feelings. In the animal kingdom, they don’t stand out in appearance, swiftness, or grace. Now that I have gotten to know them much better, I am beginning to understand why they were a source of inspiration for the songwriter.

When we moved to West Dundee northwest of Chicago nine years ago, we didn’t realize we had moved to Muskrat Land. These semiaquatic animals always live by water, and there’s lots of water in these parts. Creeks, rivers, swamps, marshes, ponds, lakes, drainage ditches, and canals. If it has still or slow-moving water and is supplied with plants they love to eat, like cattails and bulrushes, you might find muskrats there.

In this past year of pandemic limitations, when Steve and I have spent more time than ever out in nature, we have seen muskrats so frequently they have become like good friends we miss when they’re not around. When we started visiting a local creek crossing to observe wildlife, we seldom stopped there for fifteen minutes or more without seeing at least one swimming about or climbing up the bank to munch on green grasses, sitting on its haunches and using its long-clawed front paws to hold its food. On several occasions we have see one along a small stream situated running parallel to a road in a residential area; at other times we’ve spied one cruising along the Fox River. And twice I have seen one in and along a drainage ditch next to the Fox River bike trail. In one instance it was eating grass a short distance off the trail and didn’t budge – or even look up – as I strolled past.

My most recent sighting was just one week ago. I had completed a walk at a favorite local forest preserve, and as I neared the parking lot, a fast-moving animal caught the corner of my eye. It was a muskrat I had startled in a grassy area near the edge of a marsh. I stopped and stood as still as I could. Since it hadn’t run far – only 20 feet or so – I decided to stand there to see if it would come any closer. Over the next ten minutes as I watched, it apparently decided I wasn’t a threat and came nearer and nearer, nibbling on green shoots each step of the way, until it was just six or seven feet from where I stood. I was glad that it stayed put when I slowly took out my phone, lifted it up, and took its picture. That experience was the closest I had ever been to a muskrat.

What did I see? In the bright sunshine out of the water, its fur was an attractive deep, rich, almost chestnut-brown color, and looked thick and luxurious. I felt a burning desire to bury my fingers into it. No wonder muskrats are trapped for their pelts to this day. Members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police still wear muskrat fur hats in the winter (at one point bowing to pressure from animal rights activists by replacing muskrat fur with a synthetic alternative, only to reverse their decision when the artificial material didn’t match the muskrat fur’s durabiility or warmth). I was charmed by the animal’s rounded, roly-poly appearance on land. (In the water, when they are stretched out for swimming, they look much more streamlined.) While its long black tail is hairless like that of a mouse or rat, it also looks strong and powerful, and at such close range I could clearly see the vertically flat shape that, with its snakelike motion, helps propel them through the water. The muskrat’s short snout gives it an approachable appearance, while its small, black beady eyes make it look almost comically suspicious. Overall, they make a pleasing sight in their unassuming way.

The more I learned about muskrats, the more engaging they became. The “musk” part of their name refers to an odorous (musky) secretion they use to mark their territory. Although they are rodents, they are only distant relatives of rats. They are most closely related to lemmings, voles, and hamsters. Spending much of their time in the water, they are skillful swimmers, with webbed hind feet for paddling. They can swim both backwards and forwards and can stay underwater for up to 20 minutes at a stretch. Their front feet feature long claws, which they use to dig tunnels. If they are in an area with steep banks or a dam, they dig a tunnel for their den that starts below the waterline and rises up to a chamber above, where they can stay warm and dry and raise their young. When a tunnel is not an option, such in as a marsh environment, they build lodges, or “push-ups,” which are mounds of vegetation and mud that rise above the water and also have an entrance below the waterline. In the winter, if food becomes scarce, they sometimes eat some of the plants comprising the inside of their lodge.

Muskrats serve important ecological functions. They are omnivores, but 95 percent of their diet consists of plant materials, which helps to maintain open areas in marshes that provide habitiat for aquatic birds. Geese and swans are big fans of these rodents. They consider their lodges prime nesting sites, with these advantages: their locations in open water protect the nesting female and eggs from land predators, and the birds can more easily spot avian predators that may be close by. Muskrats are also an important food source for a large number of species, including some mammals, reptiles, large fish, and raptors.

With wild adult muskrats having an average life span of just three to four years, how is it that the species seems so prevalent? Not only do I see them regularly in our immediate area, but I can see six or eight lodges scattered around one large marsh I often drive by. They are listed as a species of “least concern” by conservationists. The answer? They are prodigiously prolific breeders. Females can have two to three litters a year, with six to eight young per litter. Looks like muskrat love.

Nibbling on bacon
Chewing on cheese
Sam says to Suzie
Honey, would you please be my Mrs
Suzie says yes with her kisses

Now, he’s tickling her fancy
Rubbing her toes
Muzzle to muzzle
Now anything goes as they wriggle
Sue starts to giggle

And they whirl
And they twirl and they tango
Singin’ and jinglin’ a jangle
Floating like the heavens above
Looks like muskrat love

When is spring in its full glory? Is it when the trees have all spread their green canopy over the land? How about when the apple trees share the splendor of their delicately hued pink-to-white blossoms? Or is it when the first robin hatchlings peck themselves out of their temporary sky-blue homes? The answer is none of those. There is no sense of definitive arrival in nature, which makes the natural world an endless, ever-evolving source of interest.

Change is a constant in the natural world at all times of year, but in the hyperactive season of spring the changes are more like a continuous series of small but dramatic bursts. Day by day, moment by moment, everything is transforming. A rain shower will cause plants to spring up seemingly overnight. A warmer day will encourage wildflowers to open up, turtles to leave the water to doze on partially submerged logs in the sun, and insects to proliferate, which in turn attract flocks of insect-eating birds. Visit the same place often, and you will have a different experience each time. The riches are far more abundant than a lavish smorgasbord, where there are far too many foods to try, but it’s exciting to know so many options are there for the tasting.

This week Steve and I visited a beloved area nature preserve, our first visit there this year. We love this park because of its large size and varied habitats of open prairie, a lake, marshes and woodlands, which afford opportunities for seeing diverse flora and fauna. As we navigated a short asphalt path in a wooded area leading to the trails, right away we saw one of my favorite native wildflowers of the eastern U.S.: virginia bluebells. These gorgeous plants, which prefer the shade and moisture of deciduous woods, sport lovely blue bell-shaped flowers in clusters at the end of a long stem (up to two feet in length), a taller profile than many other woodland flowers. To me, their blossoms resemble miniature trumpets, grouped together like a merry band to blast a joyous fanfare to herald spring’s arrival. Adding to their appeal, they provide two visual shows for the price of one: before the blue blossoms appear, the blooms sport a lovely pink-purple color.

These are plants that like each other’s company. They proliferate readily when they approve of the conditions, often forming large patches of stunning blue and green when the woods are otherwise still relatively void of bright color. Here is a section of one impressive stand of bluebells we passed along the way.

In addition to focusing our gaze downward to spot blooming wildflowers, we also trained our eyes on the marsh waters, the air and the trees for bird life. As we strolled past a large marsh, we came upon some other birders (always easy to identify by the binoculars slung around their necks) gazing intently at the water. They told us some blue-winged teals were paddling in the middle of the marsh. Neither of us had seen this duck species before, so it was a thrill to point our binoculars on them. They prefer quiet, calm bodies of water, like small lakes, ponds and marshes, and are often found along water edges in concealed spots to find food. The blue wing of their name, seen on the males, was not visible to us, as it is most apparent in flight, but we enjoyed seeing their interesting plumage of dark-speckled breast and back, white crescent behind their bill and white patch above their rear. Here is one in flight, proudly showing the blue on his wing.

Spring is perhaps the best time of year to be a bird watcher. It’s migration season, when we welcome the many different species that return after spending their winter in warmer climes. Some of them are arriving here to stay in their local breeding grounds, while others are here for a brief visit before continuing to their more northerly seasonal home. Warblers fit into that second category. These small songbirds stop for a respite on their way from Mexico and Central and South America to their breeding territory in the northern tier of North America. Starting in mid-April each year we start to watch for them in local forest preserves and along the Fox River, as they are a delight. Males of many of the warbler species have strikingly colorful plumage that, despite the birds’ compact size, helps in their identification. Yet spotting and identifying them can still be a formidable challenge. Their small stature means that, once trees and shrubs fully leaf out, they are often well hidden among the foliage. In addition, they are most uncooperative viewing subjects: they never sit still. As insect eaters, they are always on the move, foraging for insects along the branches of trees and bushes or on the ground.

It was that sort of constant, restless motion of a small bird in a shrub that caught our attention during our walk. We stopped and concentrated, carefully following its rapid, unpredictable movements as it explored one bush after another. Suspecting it was a warbler of some kind, we weren’t sure until those same kind birders who pointed out the teals confirmed our suspicions: we were seeing yellow-rumped warblers. Affectionately called “butter butts” by some birdwatchers, the males of these gorgeous songbirds have striking plumage of blue gray, white and black, punctuated by brilliant patches of golden yellow on the top of their heads, each side and just above their tail. A western subspecies also displays that same bright yellow on the front of its neck.

These handsome birds are usually the first warbler species to visit our area, so they represent a welcome harbinger of the other beautiful warblers still to come. And during their spring migraton is the most exciting time to spot them in these parts. Like a number of other bird species, the male yellow-rumped warblers wear their lively, colorful plumage only during the breeding season. In the fall, they shed their spring and summer feathers – a process called molting – in exchange for a much drabber outfit. Instead of the bold contrasts of blue gray, black, white and yellow, the predominant color is a dull medium brown. The only showy yellow patch they keep is their namesake spot of golden yellow on their rump, along with a faint hint of yellow on their sides.

For warblers, as for other species that wear their showiest outfit during the breeding season, the objectives of this seasonal molting extend well beyond attracting a potential partner. Molting is a critical survival mechanism. Feathers are subject to a lot of daily wear and tear as birds fly and brush up against tree branches, for example. Just as we need to replace our worn-out clothing, they periodically need to grow a new coat of feathers to ensure they’re in optimal condition for flight and insulation. When the warblers are molting in the fall in preparation for migration and their plumage is a hybrid of their breeding and non-breeding outfits, they can be that much harder to identify.

As we watched the yellow-rumped warblers energetically flitting and fluttering and showing off their spring finery along the marsh shore, I felt grateful for this day to see them and wish them well on the remainder of their journey.

“I have a Bird in spring,” by Emily Dickinson

I have a Bird in spring
Which for myself doth sing —
The spring decoys.
And as the summer nears —
And as the Rose appears,
Robin is gone.

Yet do I not repine
Knowing that Bird of mine
Though flown —
Learneth beyond the sea
Melody new for me
And will return.

Fast in safer hand
Held in a truer Land
Are mine —
And though they now depart,
Tell I my doubting heart
They’re thine.

In a serener Bright,
In a more golden light
I see
Each little doubt and fear,
Each little discord here
Removed.

Then will I not repine,
Knowing that Bird of mine
Though flown
Shall in distant tree
Bright melody for me
Return.

When people learrned I had moved to Illinois after growing up in Connecticut, I often heard a comment like this: “New England is so beautiful. You must miss living there!” I did miss the wooded hills, rocky terrain and fall foliage splendor. Yet I have always appreciated one aspect of life in largely flat northeastern Illinois: the skyscapes. Growing up in a hilly area covered with trees that obscured most of the sky, I never saw a clear view of a sunset from my childhood home. When I lived in Chicago, I often saw spectacular fiery sunsets on my el ride home from work, and the Lake Michigan shoreline affords limitless views of ever-changing cloudscapes. Unlike where I grew up, where weather sneaks up on you, here you can often see it coming and going. I have stood in awe on a lakefront beach watching towering thunderheads billowing, expanding and climbing higher and higher over the lake. I love the sense of expansive space I experience here in the wide open Midwest.

Since moving to West Dundee northwest of Chicago, I have learned some parts of northeastern Illinois are not so flat. We live in the Fox River valley, which is graced by gentle hills sloping down to the river, and some years ago we discovered kames. Never heard of kames? I hadn’t either, until Steve and I visited a couple of area forest preserves that include this geological feature. Here are the basics on kames: As the glaciers retreated 12,000 to 15,000 years ago, the melting ice sometimes formed depressions or holes. The meltwater left behind large sand and gravel deposits in those depressions and, as the ice melted further, the deposits settled as mounds or small hills; the bowl-like depressions at the foot of the kames are called kettles. Over thousands of years, soil gradually covered them and vegetation took hold. The kames and kettles now stand as clear markers of the glaciers’ path through this region, as well as pleasing counterpoints to the overall level terrain.

The closest preserve with these kame features, Freeman Kame-Meagher Forest Preserve, is about a 15-minute drive from our house, west of the Fox River valley. As you approach the park from the east, you can see the kames rising up in the distance, rounded hills covered with trees or grasses breaking up the otherwise flat plain. This park is one of our favorite places to walk in the area, as it has a bounty of habitats. In addition to woodlands and oak savannas, it has an area of open grasslands. Throughout the park you find ponds, streams and marshes, affording opportunities to see waterfowl in addition to songbirds, like the bluebirds we often see flitting in a bank of shrubs in the grassland. It was with the hope of seeing nesting cranes that we visited Freeman Kame preserve this week. In the past we have seen sandhill cranes occupying a nest in the center of the marsh pictured below, which is situated between the woodland and grassy slopes. And it was in that marsh that, on a day last fall when cranes were migrating south, that we thought we might have seen a family of whooping cranes. The “whoopers,” as birders call them, are an extremely rare species that conservationists are working hard to bring back from the edge of extinction. We didn’t have binoculars on that fall excusion, so we couldn’t be certain of our identification, but on our visit this week we hoped to see some cranes there. This time we remembered to bring our binoculars.

We decided to take the long way around the hiking loop through the woods before reaching the marsh that was our final destination. Among the delights we spotted along the way were two logs poking up in a kettle pond serving as a sunbathing platform for painted turtles. One of the logs sported seven or eight small turtles congenially lined up in a row. From our spot looking down on them from the trail, at first they resembled mounded knobs on the log. Many of the woodland wildflowers are not blooming yet, but we saw an abundance of white trout lily. Some specimens were just starting to emerge, the pointed ends of their unusual mottled leaves of green and dark purple poking up here and there along the path. In places where more sunlight is reaching them, they were full grown and blooming profusely, forming pleasing bright patches of white.

When we reached our destination marsh, instead of nesting cranes we saw a Canada goose sitting contentedly on the thick stand of marsh grass that forms a small island in the water. We carefully scanned the marsh and its perimeter, but no cranes were to be seen. As if appearing on cue to mollify our slight dismay at not seeing any cranes, a kingfisher flew around the far shore of the marsh, cheering us with his merry, unmistakable chattering sound.

We made our way up the hill from the marsh on our way back to the parking area, pausing on the path where it overlooks a secluded woodland kettle pond. We have seen turtles there on occasion; in one instance last year we spied a large snapping turtle that was napping on a rock. Noticing a small group of waterfowl actively swimming around near the opposite shore, we trained our binoculars on them. What a wonderful surprise: they were wood ducks.

To my eye the most strikingly beautiful of all North American waterfowl, wood ducks are not a common sighting for us, as they prefer hidden ponds and marshes in wooded areas. Seeing a group of seven or eight of them was a first for us and a thrill. Near extinction in the early twentieth century from overhunting by man, wood ducks are now making a comeback and, thankfully, are no longer listed as an endangered species. From our location above them, we enjoyed several minutes observing them peacefully paddling about until something startled them and they took off, en masse, before settling back down in the far end of the pond.

Once again, when my wish for a particular sighting was not fulfilled, nature provided abundant riches more than sufficient to end any feelings of disappointment.