Sax Zim Bog

Last weekend Emily and I headed up North to check out some of the more unique environments in the wonderfully diverse state of Minnesota. 45 minutes or so northwest of Duluth is a few thousand acres of black spruce/tamarack bog known as the Sax-Zim Bog (named after two now defunct towns located in the vicinity). The bog's flora is comprised of largely the same species that checker the boreal forest for hundreds of miles to the north, and thus not surprisingly the bog is an excellent place to see birds that enjoy such boreal habitats. In particular, the bog is famous for its wintering population of northern birds such as great gray owls, rough-legged hawks and northern hawk owls. Although we missed out on these great birds, soon after arriving at the bog we found one of the most sought after of the bog's boreal birds: the boreal chickadee. He was not exactly hidden, as the bog had a few feeder stations nestled beside the road, and four birders had already stopped and staked out a particular suet feeder much favored by our special chickadee.

Soon the boreal chickadee arrived for his suet breakfast, and the birder paparazzi snapped away. Boreal chickadees look much like their cousins, the far more common black-capped chickadee, but have a beautiful powdery brown complexion instead of their cousin's black, and their call is noticeably more scratchy. Accompanying the chickadee at the feeders were flocks of common redpolls scratching in the snow and gangs of richly colored pine grosbeaks stuffing their faces with seed, along with black-capped chickadees, red-breasted nuthatches, hairy woodpeckers and even a few inquisitive gray jays. It was boreal bird paradise.

Driving slowly along the snow-packed roads, we spied a tall lump far across a snowy field perched high in a tree. I pulled out the scope and it became clear that we were looking at a gorgeous juvenile northern goshawk, the terror of North America's wilderness forests, a wild and manic bird that dives through the  trees in search of sizable prey such as ruffed grouse and snowshoe hare. Well, I don't really know if goshawks are truly manic, but I had recently read T.H.White's classic story Gos, about White's attempts at becoming an austringer. An austringer is one who trains and flies forest hawks like a goshawk (and related accipters like cooper's hawks and sharp-shinned hawks) as opposed to a falconer who hunts with falcons. And if White is to believed, to be an austringer is to work with a mad-man. Gos, White's hawk, was a beautiful feathered knot of fury. I stared across the snowy field at our delicately patterned lump, admiring her (she seemed too big to be a he) creamy white eyebrow, speckled breast and barred tail, and felt positively ecstatic to get such a good look at a bird normally hidden deep within the forest. We left her as a light flurry started to fall.

The rest of the bog was relatively quiet, with most of our sightings consisting of deer scattering across the road at our approach. But as we twisted our way through the southern edge of the bog we did stumble across three ruffed grouse perched high in a tree. Future goshawk food perhaps. The grouse, gorgeously patterned chicken-like birds, looked ridiculous, delicately balanced on slender bending branches as they reached for the very tips of twigs where the best seeds and buds were still uneaten.

Late in the afternoon we were cruising our last road through the bog when the sun finally came out. I stopped the car to look at all the tracks crisply outlined in the afternoon light. It was wonderfully still, the only sound coming from the gentle whistling of wind and rustling of snowy branches. Moose tracks pock-marked the snow amidst the bone-white birch trees. And out there somewhere a great gray owl, the sage of the boreal forest, sat hidden surveying his domain.