Tag: grand lake

Brrrrr/Tweeeeet by Stephanie Kroepfl

Posted on by Jim Kroepfl
Fluffed-up blue jay in winter.
Fluffed-up blue jay. Photo by Bee Haven Acres

I’m now timing my walks with my dog Gage to coincide with the highest temperature of the day—or at least I try (I don’t need to explain to any local that our weather reports are probably created using a magic eight ball). Gage is “big boned,” weighing in at eighty pounds, and has a gorgeous, thick coat that I just may need to repurpose when she no longer needs it. Bears and marmots hibernate and hummingbirds migrate, but what happens to those brave birds that choose to winter here instead of Lake Havasu?

In the RMNP, over 270 species of birds have been documented. Once I got the idea for this article, I’ve been paying more attention, and I’m frankly astounded by all the different kinds of birds that are still around. But how do they manage to survive the winter? Birds aren’t exactly chunky; a large blue jay weighs 3.8 ounces and a chickadee tips the scale at just 0.44 ounces. How did their tiny, stick legs not freeze during our recent -20+ degree nights?

In reality, a bird’s legs and feet are covered in scales, not living tissue. And they have an adaption in their circulatory system where blood is circulated between colder outer areas and warmer inner areas, which is why a duck’s feet don’t turn into popsicles when they paddle the icy lakes. When roosting, birds will either stand on one leg and tuck the other in, or they crouch down and cover both legs. Birds produce more feathers in the winter, and they fluff them out to create air pockets for additional insulation. When they’re cold, they shiver to raise their metabolic rate. They also have oil producing glands which are used to coat their feathers as a waterproofer. At night, birds like crows gather in large flocks and crowd together in a small, tight space so they can share body heat.

And how do they find food? Chickadees, crows and jays have spent all fall hiding caches of berries, nuts and dead insects. These little geniuses can remember literally a thousand locations, whereas I can’t ever remember where I left my one phone. The term “bird brain” shouldn’t be an insult, it should be synonymous with Einstein. On very cold nights, a chickadee will stuff itself, adding 10% more body weight, and then go into a stupor and slowly digest the food to provide enough energy to survive until morning.

The biggest thing we can to do help our feathered friends is to put out food and water so they don’t have to use up their precious energy searching. I’ve never had bird feeders because, call me crazy, I’m not into daily bear visits. But now that the bears are busy dreaming of unlocked garbage dumpsters, I’m going to put out bird food. Try suet, which is like bird peanut butter, or seeds that are high in fat. And when you’re outside, look up and appreciate who is keeping you company this winter.

Originally published in The Boardwalk newspaper, Grand Lake, Colorado.

What is that Flash of White? by Stephanie Kroepfl

Posted on by Jim Kroepfl
Ermine
Photo by saxzim.org

What keeps astounding me is how many critters live among us that I’m obliviously unaware of. This week one evening, I was hunkered down in my office that looks onto the patio beneath the deck. A flash of white outside caught my eye, but after not seeing anything, I resumed my writing. Then it happened again—a white streak crossing the window at eye level. What the heck? It’s not like Grand Lake has laboratories that a white mouse could have escaped from to save itself from cosmetic testing. Then I made a point of watching. Unbelievably, I soon saw a creature jump onto the table and then dive into the three foot pile of kindling I’d collected for our winter fires. It was pure white and the very tip of its short tail was black. It seriously took my husband quite a while scouring the Internet to figure out that I just encountered my first ermine.

This little scrapper actually has three correct names. “Ermine” is used when it’s fur is pure white, which happens in the winter, and it’s called a “stoat” when it has reddish-brown fur on its back and white fur on its belly, which is it’s summer coat. It’s also called a short-tailed weasel. Ermine can be found in North America, Europe and Asia in the subarctic and arctic climates (when winter is just rolling in, it’s kind of daunting to face the fact that subarctic mammals thrive here). Due to the ermine’s warm coat, it doesn’t need to hibernate, which is also what made its fur a prized material for the royals’ collars and coat linings in Medieval Europe. Despite that, the number of ermine in the wild is still large and stable.

And, like it’s adorable cousin the otter, it’s a ferocious carnivore. It will feed on pretty much anything it can catch—including the voles that scamper under the snow and continue destroying our lawns all winter (gorge to your heart’s content, Whitey!). Their sleek, flexible bodies allow them to easily enter their preys’ dens and burrows. The ermine will kill the inhabitant by inflicting a bite to the back of the neck, suffocating it by crushing the connection between the brain and body. After filling its white belly, it will save the excess meat for later. Then, instead of returning to its own home, the ermine will take over the now-vacant burrow . . . and then decorate the chamber’s walls and floor with the dead animal’s skin and fur. Yes, they’re seriously the Buffalo Bill (think “Silence of the Lambs”) of the Rocky Mountains.

But this wily badass doesn’t only go after small mammals. I watched a heart-warming YouTube video of a stoat (it was summer) chasing down and killing a rabbit ten times its size. And, when it can’t manage to catch the rabbit, it resorts to hypnotizing it with a “dance” until it can deliver the killing bite. So, here’s my question: do I really want to fight off the ermine for kindling all winter, or do I just resign myself to buying firestarter?

Originally published in The Boardwalk newspaper, Grand Lake, Colorado.

Staying Cozy Under Our Ice Capped Lakes by Stephanie Kroepfl

Posted on by Jim Kroepfl

As I’ve discovered since first writing for “The Boardwalk,” whenever I begin with a seemingly simple question about nature, I end up learning more than I ever expected. This week, I was wondering how fish survive under the layer of ice on our lakes. From that, I delved into the fascinating world of fish physiology, oxygen, ice and limnology, which is the study of the biological, chemical, and physical features of lakes and other bodies of fresh water. I literally had no idea this field existed. All of these topics are co-dependent (in the good way) when it comes to finding an answer to my initial question.

First, as we all know, fish do not come to the surface to breathe air. Instead, they take in “dissolved” oxygen from the water. So, if the surface is frozen, where does their oxygen come from? Since ice is porous, it does not create an air-tight seal. Heavy gas molecules such as oxygen can penetrate the ice and dissolve into the water while other gases are pushed out. Oxygen is also created by the decomposition of organic matter on the lake’s bottom, and it’s brought in by streams, rivers and springs.

Even with those sources, the amount of oxygen does drop off when our scaled neighbors’ home is capped in ice. To cope with this, most fish slow down their metabolism, which lessens the amount of oxygen and food they require. They also reduce their activity level. Some species will move sluggishly, while others hunker down almost to the point of hibernation. For example, bluegill won’t eat all winter long, relying on fat stores they accumulated in the fall. Then, there are those wily, cold lovin’ fish that inhabit our lakes. Trout remain fairly active throughout the winter; in fact, the cooler water allows them to venture into the shallower depths they can’t tolerate in the summer. Hence, the advent of ice fishing contests.

But why don’t they become ice-encrusted fish sticks in these frozen waters? Aaaah, now we get into the fascinating ecosystem of a lake. In the summer, lakes are colder the deeper one goes. But in the winter, the exact opposite is true. Our thermally stratified lakes have a warm upper layer (epilimnion), a middle region (metalimnion) with a point called a thermocline, which is the transition where the water becomes very cool. The cold, dark, lower part of the lake is the hypolimnion. Our lakes are dimictic, meaning they turn over in the fall and spring. The fall turnover happens when the upper layer of water gets cold enough to make it so dense, it sinks below the middle and lower layers that haven’t cooled yet. This pushes up the warmer, lower water which, in essence, turns over the lake’s layers. In the winter, fish can survive in the deepest part of the lake where the water is cool, but still unfrozen.

Who’d a thunk it? I ponder about fish and become versed in limnology.

Lake Turnover Phases
Illustration by National Geographic

Originally published in The Boardwalk newspaper, Grand Lake, Colorado.