The following stories were broadcasted on “Field Notes”, a program on Montana Public Radio (MTPR) hosted by the Montana Natural History Center.

A Year of Birding in My Backyard 

Bird surveys in my backyard. I look forward to doing them every morning when I wake up. What species will I get today? Will anything new visit or fly over my acre while heading towards the Bitterroot River? Every day for one year, I spent 10 minutes counting bird species on my property no matter the weather—snowstorms, 100-degree heat, heavy rain. I found that some birds call my yard home year-round and some have appeared only once and I was lucky enough to see them. 

Spring 

To me, spring officially arrives when I hear the first Ruby-crowned Kinglet singing its long melodious song ending with “peeter-peeter-peeter peet!” This is usually the end of March. The Western Meadowlark’s sweet song also reminds me that the solemn gray winter has finally ended. House Wrens compete with Red-breasted Nuthatches and House Sparrows for the best real estate in the yard: a nest box mounted to a fence post protected by the cover of a 30-year–old apple tree. Who will win the coveted spot this spring? (The House Wren did.)

Summer 

In the evenings I eagerly listen for Common Nighthawks’ “peent!” call from high overhead. One peculiar time I found thirteen circling just above my hill. They were flying low enough to see their white throat patches, which was unusual. I had watched them for a long time when I noticed that one was missing its tail! It had a fantastic set of long, aerodynamic wings, allowing it to fly just as well as the others, but it was clearly missing an important piece of its body. A friend who studies nightjars told me that they sometimes “shed” all of their tail feathers when under stress. Common Nighthawks are already weird creatures but shedding their tail really takes the cake. 

Fall 

Mystifying honking from a mile away, coming closer—I see them! Sandhill Cranes, their outrageously huge wingspans allowing them to fly gracefully together in a “V,” instinct sending them far away. Good luck, I wish them. See you again in a few months. 

I lose the songs and the sights of the migratory songbirds one by one: the robins, kinglets, the Calliope Hummingbirds that love the bee balm I planted for them in my garden.

Winter 

I seem to notice the most bird activity in my backyard in the winter. The neighborhood is quieter, my mind is quieter, I have more time on my hands. I sit in my sunroom painting at a small table pushed against the sliding glass doors and look up occasionally at the five fruit trees and suet feeders hanging from them. Just about every day, a mixed flock of Pygmy and Red-breasted Nuthatches, Black-capped Chickadees, House Finches, American Goldfinches, Dark-eyed Juncos and sometimes a Downy Woodpecker appear, flitting around excitedly. Everybody has their place—the juncos feed on the ground underneath the huge Douglas-fir, the nuthatches and woodpecker excavate bigger holes in the dying cherry tree, the finches perch at the tops of the trees, sentinels for a potential Merlin or Sharp-shinned Hawk, and the chickadees hang from the feeders. They stay for only around 10 minutes (long enough for me to tally everyone) then move on together somewhere unknown. 

Red Crossbills seem to love snowstorms, where I count up to 60 individuals “kip-kip-kipping” as they fly together. Occasionally they land in the massive ponderosa pine trees and voraciously devour the pine seeds, twisting them open with their bizarrely shaped bills. I can hear as well as see the seed husks fall to the ground like papery rain. 

Over the course of 365 days, I tallied 65 bird species in my yard. Some, such as a Northern Pygmy Owl, a Lewis’ Woodpecker, and a Wilson’s Warbler, appeared only once, while others, such as a pair of Eurasian Collared Doves and several House Finches, I saw every day. So much is going on in our own yards if we spend a little time devoted to mindfully observing. So, go ahead, strap on a pair of binoculars, pull up a lawn chair, and enjoy the show.

Snow Geese Migration Over Placid Lake

By Elena Ulev

November 11, 2021. It was a wintery fall day- ominous, dark clouds hung low and snow fell intermittently. My husband and I drove an hour from Missoula to Placid Lake in the Seeley-Swan Valley where we bought a few acres several years ago. The property is a dream- widely spaced ponderosa pine trees, meadows with thousands of arrowleaf balsamroot flowers, an aspen grove and best of all, a spring that attracts a huge variety of migratory songbirds. We were planning on building a very tiny cabin ourselves and had an appointment that day to meet with the electric company.

We arrived at Placid Lake 30 minutes early so I suggested stopping at the south end of the lake to bird watch. I set up my spotting scope in the middle of the one-lane bridge where I could get views of the marsh on one side and views of the lake on the other. I immediately started seeing goodies: four Wilson’s Snipes running around on the muddy shoreline, two Common Loons floating together on the lake and a flock of Common Redpolls landing in a willow tree. Then more goodies: a raft of 28 Common Mergansers, a Townsend’s Solitaire singing its melodious winter song, and a Steller’s Jay squawking from an old growth western larch tree. 

Our 30 minutes were quickly up- it was time to meet the electric company. “I can’t leave this spot”, I said. “The birding is too good right now.” My husband, being a good sport and knowing how much I love bird watching, agreed to leave me there for an hour. 

While trying to identify a gull with my scope I heard a cacophony of honking birds in the distance coming closer. The honking sounded different from Canada geese. I stood there looking east, waiting, when I finally saw them- a flock of several hundred snow geese shaped like a giant check mark in the sky. As I watched them approach I felt all sorts of emotions at the same time- reverence, excitement and sorrow. I felt sorrow about climate change, sorrow about habitat loss and sorrow about the difficult weather they had to migrate in. 

The flock passed over and it got quiet again for about 5 minutes. Then I heard more coming. Another flock of around 500 geese approached and flew past. Quiet again for several minutes. Then more! This time there were 2 “v’s” of roughly 1,000 geese! I couldn’t believe my luck. Who else was seeing this? Was I the only one? Could my husband see anything on our forested hillside?  At one point a warden from Fish and Game pulled up next to me in his brown pickup truck. “What are you seeing?” he asked. “Hundreds, no thousands of snow geese keep flying overhead! I’ve seen 8 flocks so far! They’re migrating!” I was so excited that I think I sounded a bit nutty. Nonplussed, he told me that it was dangerous to stand in the middle of the bridge to bird. I obediently moved aside and as soon as he left I went back to my spot. I had to see more. I counted approximately 5,000 snow geese over a one-hour period that November day and it was the most spectacular birding experience of my life thus far. 

Snow geese migrate through Montana in March and November. In March, up to 300,000 geese use Freezeout Lake near Choteau as a staging area before heading north into Canada to breed. In November, they pass through again heading south to Texas, the Gulf Coast, northern Mexico  and California.

Fungus Flowers

By Elena Ulev

Striped coralroot, candy stick, ghost pipe and pinedrops. What do these plants have in common besides their fun names? They’re all “fungus flowers”, or scientifically speaking, mycotrophic flowers, and they grow in Montana. I rarely find them but when I do I feel like I’ve hit the botanical jackpot. 

The word “mycotrophic” literally means fungus nutrition. Most plants conduct photosynthesis and make their own food from sunlight, carbon dioxide and water. Fungus flowers, however, cannot conduct photosynthesis making them not only look bizarre but function in a bizarre manner. 

Fungus flowers rely on a fungal association called mycorrhizae for their food. This is how it works: fungi have an enormous network of tiny underground threads called mycelium that connect plants’ roots to each other. Think of it as a giant subterranean nervous system where the trees, shrubs, forbs, grasses, and mushrooms communicate with each other and help each other thrive.  The fungi’s tiny mycelium attach to the root systems of photosynthetic plants and help those plants obtain water and minerals. In return, the photosynthetic plants help the fungi obtain sugars helping them grow. Fungus flowers take this one step further. They tap into and parasitize the mycorrhizal fungi and the fungi get nothing in return. 

Last summer I found a striped coralroot growing beneath a Douglas-fir on my property in the Seeley-Swan area. I unknowingly pitched my tent too close and almost stepped on it because it was camouflaged amongst the duff. Finding the coralroot was very exciting for me and probably akin to how a rockhounder feels when they find an amazing rock. I felt compelled to admire it and touch it several times a day. 

Coralroot is in the orchid family and is named after its roots that look like clumps of ocean coral. It can grow up to 2 feet tall but the one that I found was only 6 inches tall. The stem is a maroon color with 10-25 pinkish flowers that have stripes. Spotted coralroot, which is also found in Montana, looks similar but the flowers are polka-dotted instead of striped.  There are only 7 species of mycotrophic coralroots in the United States and we’ve got 2 in western Montana. How lucky are we?!

I have been on the lookout for years for what I think is the most wonderfully weird fungus flower of all: candy stick. Alas, I’ve had no luck. They belong to the heath family and look like a candy cane with white and red stripes running vertically along the stem. They grow in lodgepole pine forests in southwest Montana and require the mycelium of matsutake mushrooms to survive. Candy stick is a potential species of concern, according to the Montana Natural Heritage Program.

I’ve never seen a ghost pipe, also known as a ghost plant, either.  It is a short white plant, growing only 4 to 8 inches tall with a singular nodding flower. They typically grow in clusters and require rich humus found in dark, shady forests. Ghost pipes rely solely on the mycorrhizal fungi of Russula mushrooms. First Nations people honored this plant for its medicinal and spiritual properties. 

I find pinedrops far more often than other mycotrophic plants. They are the tallest fungus flowers in the heath family, growing up to 3 feet tall. Last June I saw two fresh ones in Pattee Canyon growing beneath ponderosa pine trees and serviceberry shrubs. They were fleshy and had pinkish pendant flowers. More often, I find dried up pinedrops that are dark reddish brown and their spent flowers look like little nodding pumpkins.

Next time you’re hiking in a damp, dark forest, keep an eye out for fungus flowers. Their strange beauty is something to behold.