Though seldom seen, the toot-toot tunes of the northern saw-whet owl are signs of late spring in the high peaks of Southern Appalachia.  Rob Hunter/Hellbender Press

Though not on any formal breeding list, nocturnal nomads bring spring tunes to high Smokies

GATLINBURG — It’s a May evening and I’m standing at a pull-off on Clingmans Dome Road in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. My breathing is light as I close my eyes and listen intently for a singular sound on the crisp night air. I hold absolutely still to keep my heavy coat from rustling. The coat is necessary on nights at this elevation, even as Memorial Day approaches. 

This is not my first stop along the road tonight and my patience is beginning to wane. Just as I decide to turn back toward the car, the sound I’m seeking reaches my ears. 

Toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-toot-… 

Saw-whet owls are not officially listed as Smokies breeders, but a wealth of anecdotal evidence suggests otherwise.  Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency

Creature Feature: The Drama Noodle Oscar goes to … the hognose!

If you grew up east of the Rockies, your grandmother may have told tales of deadly “spreading adders,” dangerous serpents that would spread their heads wide when approached and chase down unsuspecting children.

These quasi-mythical creatures rank alongside the Jersey Devil and the Chupacabra for their legendary status, with a glaring exception: the mythos surrounding the “spread-head,” “spreadnatter,” or “blow viper” are based firmly on a real, though harmless animal — the eastern hog-nosed snake.

A window on ursine motherhood in Cades Cove

As I was descending a wooded hillside in the heart of Cades Cove on a June afternoon, a motionless black bulk caught my eye off to my left.

I turned my attention there, regarded the scene for a few moments, and realized the sprawling blur was a large sleeping bear. A few moments more of inspection revealed three cubs snoozing in the branches overhead.

A hellbender blends in perfectly against the rocks of a headwater stream.  Rob Hunter/Hellbender Press

Hellbenders get help in face of new challenges, increasing threats

Snot otter. Mud devil. Lasagna lizard. Allegheny alligator. For a creature with so many colorful nicknames, the hellbender is unfamiliar to many people, including millions of visitors to Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

Julianne Geleynse wants to change that. The resource education ranger is tasked with teaching the public about the natural wonders the park protects within its borders in hopes of mitigating damage to natural resources caused by the millions of visitors, young and old, who enter the park each year.

With a visitor-to-ranger ratio of around 170,000 to 1, communicating with visitors is an ongoing challenge that requires unique solutions. Feeding wildlife and littering are perennial problems, but sometimes new issues emerge. Such was the case in 2017 — and again in 2020.

Heedless craze wreaked havoc

In 2017, researchers in the park were alarmed to find that hellbender numbers in traditionally healthy populations had dropped. An entire generation of subadult hellbenders seemed to be missing. The most glaring sign of the problem was the presence of dead hellbenders where visitors had moved and stacked rocks in park streams. Moving rocks to create pools, dams and artfully stacked cairns may seem harmless enough when one person partakes. But when hundreds of visitors concentrate in a few miles of stream every day for months on end, the destructive impact is significant. Viral photos of especially impressive cairns can spread on social media and inspire an army of imitators.

Why does moving rocks harm hellbenders? These giant salamanders spend most of their lives wedged beneath stones on the stream bottom. They live, hunt and breed beneath these rocks. In late summer, when temperatures still swelter and visitors indulge in their last dips of the season in park waterways, hellbenders are especially vulnerable as they begin to deposit fragile strings of eggs beneath select slabs. Simply lifting such a rock nest can cause the eggs to be swept downstream and the entire brood lost. As the researchers observed in 2017, moving and stacking stones can even directly crush the bodies of adult hellbenders.

A barred owl peers from its winter hideaway.   Rob Hunter/Hellbender Press

February kicks off the season of love for region’s barred owls

The frosty woods may be relatively quiet today, but soon the hilltops and hollers will echo with deep, resonant voices.

Barred owls (Strix varia) are our second-largest resident owl here in the Southeast, second only to the great horned owl (Bubo virginianus).  With their fluffier plumage, doe-eyed countenance and round profiles lacking ear tufts, barred owls don’t have quite the fierce appearance of their more formidable neighbors. They’re also generally easier to observe. Often active in the daytime and fond of low perches, barred owls occasionally make themselves visible to lucky woodland wanderers. More often, though, they are heard rather than seen. Their breeding season may extend into summer, but courtship generally fires up in February and peaks in March. This is my favorite time to seek them out on the woodland slopes, usually near water, that they call home.

Barred owls are not easy to find per se, but they definitely make themselves more conspicuous when looking for love. Their best-known call is an eight-beat hoot often verbalized as “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for y’all?” with the final “y’all” drawn out in a dramatically descending, tremulous wail. They sometimes give the wail alone or as crescendo following a series of ascending hoots.

To hear any of these sounds echoing through a twilight woods can fill one with awe, but they give another vocal performance that is generally only heard when an amorous pair of owls meets up. This call, for lack of a better term, is often referred to simply as the “monkey call.”

A caterwauling cacophony of simian sounds explodes from a dense grove of hemlocks. Have chimpanzees escaped from the local zoo? Nope, just a couple of night birds seeking romance. People who hear these calls without knowing the caller are often understandably perturbed. More than once I’ve been awakened suddenly in my tent when such a liaison takes place in a tree over my campsite, and I can say it’s a bit unsettling, even knowing the avian source.

So when you’re walking in the woods over the next few weeks, keep an eye and an ear out for these lovebirds as they’re at their most vocal. And if you hear what sounds like a troop of monkeys hailing the setting sun, just remember that, more likely than not, you’re just hearing the music of owls in love.

Audubon has a 2-minute podcast for you to
‘Hear the Many Different Hoots of the Barred Owl’