The Thick of Summer
On making joy in new seasons, and vultures
My ‘treehouse’ is built into the side of a hill surrounded by beech and oak trees. During the winter months, you can easily see where the split of spring-fed creeks converge to create a small waterfall jammed with leaf litter and small branches. The rock-lined stream then continues to the east winding through the hollow and the sky stretches wide over the forest. In summertime, you would only know the creek is there after a strong rain when the sound of rushing water permeates the air through the dense foliage. In summertime, to venture down the hill to explore is to leave behind a portal of blue sky above for the deep forest.
The hill is steep and the easiest path down is still knee-high with grasses disguising slippery moss-covered rocks and tree roots. Pay too close attention to your footing and you’ll likely walk face-first into a cobweb draped across the branches. The only way to completely avoid ticks might be in full beekeeper suit protection. Otherwise, just tuck everything and spray! Oh, and the humidity…the air not so different than a wet sheet. Once the trees leaf out, I rarely venture down the hill.
Yet every time I wander up to the open air in the cul de sac, I’m surprised at the dramatic difference in temperature and humidity…it’s a different climate.
When I lived in the Midwest (my entire life until I was 34), summer was a different kind of season. Bookended by Memorial Day and Labor Day, a Wisconsin summer in the 70s and 80s had a week or two of heat and humidity, but it wasn’t Southern humidity. Summer was a flash of delight after months of gray skies and brown mud. It was days on the lake and feeling the lull of waves before falling asleep; evenings lit by lightning, storms and bugs; tornado warnings and sunburn; swimming pools and sweatshirts after dark with katydids rattling in the trees. At least that’s what I remember.
Have a listen to one of my favorite sounds of summer!
Since moving to Tennessee in 2005, I have found the other nine months of the year entirely more enjoyable. January often brings a little snow but also daffodils. Winter hiking means refreshing temps, clear views through the trees, and fascinating details along the forest floor especially after a light rain. Spring teases in February, outdoor dining opens in March, planting begins before it safely should because, well, we just can’t help ourselves! Spring is one joy after another, as I have been gushing about for months with my writing here.
And since 2020, Spring has brought the return of the black vultures who have called my old barn their nursery for five years. With their return, I have found a reason to brush aside my summer woes and wave off the spiders and bugs. The hottest days of summer bring the hatched vultures out of the barn for their first glimpse of our technicolor world. Imagine… 11 weeks inside a dark 12’ x 6’ barn.. Then… awkwardly extending wings to get to the bright opening the parents have used all this time to mysteriously come and go.
2023 — Clover and with parent after a rain
And just like that, standing on my hill in the tall grass among the chiggers and ticks with sweat running down my face and steam fogging my glasses…just like that I suddenly love this summer season and all the magic it brings.
2023 — baby Clover sees the forest for the first time
Also 2023 — a parent shows Clover my bedroom deck where Miss Etta watches on…
In about 3-4 weeks (likely the first week of July), this year’s baby black vultures, Winkle and Apple, will make their appearance in the barn door. Usually one will make the effort a day or two before the other. But these soon-to-be fledglings that hatched on the same day are growing at a similar pace, so they may both make their way together.
The behavior patterns of the parents have become entirely predictable during this phase, just as during the time they courted, mated, and incubated the eggs. These days, the parents spend a little more time here during the day…resting on the barn door or walking along the fence. Whenever I see them fly to the fence, I run outside to ensure there is water in their mini-wheelbarrow.
They have also begun one of my favorite behaviors — the stomp stomp. While standing on the barn door or the fence, the parents will do a quick ‘stomp stomp’ with one foot, every minute or so for up to a half hour or more. Since black vultures do not have voice boxes and can make only limited sounds, this is one way they communicate with the babies. It’s a way to say, “Here I am.” The parents will do this for the next 3-4 weeks and the sound will help lure the babies out of the barn. Then, once the babies emerge, they will ‘stomp stomp’ on the barn door and fence whether the parents are near or far, “Here I am.”
In these weeks before their fledging, my forest is abuzz with instinctual activity. All the nests are being vacated. Baby carolina wrens hop together on the deck railing. Baby downey woodpeckers visit the suet feeder with a parent. The blue jays and summer tanagers have fledged. Scarlet tanagers fill the afternoon air with a stunning song I haven’t heard here in several years. The second brood of eastern bluebirds will soon flutter confidently from the nest box to navigate their new world. And butterfly milkweed lures colorful visitors throughout the day
Even among the cobwebs and stormy days, the bug bites and unwelcome surprises scratching in the crawl space, I am finding magic all around me. And finding my way back to things that bring me joy…swimming pools and lightning bugs and trips to favorite places.
All is well in this season.
All is well.
How amazing to have black vultures nesting so close to you, and getting that chance to watch their families grow up.