A Forest Alive

With the ivory-bills, wolves, and panthers in the old Singer Tract

by James T. Tanner
Illustrations by John Schmitt

The early dusk of winter filled the Louisiana woods and was beginning to darken the sky. All color was gone; the gray bulks of trees rose from the forest floor to lose themselves in a tracery of branches and twigs black against the sky. As their outlines gradually faded, we trudged along, now on the muddy trail and now through the open woods where the ground was firmer, picking our way around mud-holes and logs, vine tangles and big trees. Jack Kuhn walked ahead with a sack of groceries over his shoulder; I followed with another pack. We were going into camp for another season of studying the Ivory-billed Woodpecker in this forest. As we plodded among the trees, the uppermost thought in my mind was that it was good to be back in the woods again--good to be in a place that I had come to know well, in a forest that was still almost primeval, in a familiar wilderness.

What I want to describe is this wilderness and how it became familiar. The place was a wildlife sanctuary in northeastern Louisiana named the Singer Tract; it was well-known as the home of a few Ivory-billed Woodpeckers, and the only spot where I found these very rare birds in three years of hunting (from 1937 to 1939) throughout the southeastern states. My objective in going there was to study and learn about these woodpeckers, carrying on a research program sponsored by the National Audubon Society. Kuhn was my guide and helper, a man who knew the woods as no other man of my acquaintance ever has.

We--the woodpeckers, Kuhn, and I--lived in the forest, and I came to know it well. It was a bottomland forest of oaks, sweet gum, wild pecan, hackberry, and several other kinds of trees covering over a hundred square miles. At the time of my living there, almost all of this was virgin swamp timber, a beautiful forest with many big trees. The primitiveness of the area was its greatest charm. All the animals that had ever lived there in the memory of man--except the Carolina Parakeet and Passenger Pigeon--still lived there. The hand of man had been laid so lightly on the deeper woods and its inhabitants that it took an experienced eye to see the traces that had been made. The naturalness of the area became more real and impressive the longer I lived and the more I learned in the forest. First I learned where the bayous ran and the lakes lay, and how the forest itself varied from the low flat to the drier ridges, until I could travel in my mind's eye from one part to any other, visualizing every bit of the way. Then I came to know the changes of the seasons, and the trees and animals with them, until the patterns of place and season merged in a picture of the whole, a unity of earth and living things with a life of its own that had not been hurried or twisted by man but was proceeding as it always had.

Winter is the best time to learn of the forest and its permanent residents. The trees stand bared of leaves so that one can see and hear far. Cool weather stimulates traveling, and the low places are covered with water so that one has to learn the country in order to reach his destination without too much wading. Winter weather in Louisiana can be days of steady rain that floods the bayous and sloughs, or it can be bright and clear, cool in the morning but soon warmed by the sun that pours among the trees. The sun dries and crisps the leaves that carpet the earth. It accents the colors in the bark of various trees, so that the woods are subduedly gay. Reddish grays, slate grays, browns--the trunk of each species of tree has its characteristic color. Above the predominantly gray trunks is the maze of brown and red branches and twigs, and over all the clear blue sky.

Winter was the best time to search for ivory-bills. The birds were active and called frequently, their calls carrying far through the leafless forest, and the same bareness made it easier to see and follow them. We searched every day, trying to follow and count the birds before spring made it harder and also made it necessary to concentrate on nesting studies.

One December morning I started out well before daylight and walked through the dark woods to the roost trees of an ivory-bill. Barred Owls were hooting from here and there, and three of them flew from treetops, hooting as they went, near the ivory-bill's roost. By then, 6:30, a dim gray light illuminated the woods. I knew there was plenty of time, so I settled comfortably on a dry hummock. Brown Thrashers were just beginning to call. Soon White-throated Sparrows and a Winter Wren sang, a squirrel mewed, and a Carolina Wren called. At 6:45, the thrashers were very noisy, calling a hoarse, vigorous charr that welled up from the undergrowth. The sky in the east glowed rosy-pink, when suddenly and mysteriously the thrashers quieted. Three Wood Ducks flew over and then slanted down, twisting their way through the branches to land nearby in the water.

The next bird to call was a White-breasted Nuthatch. At seven o'clock came the whining cry of a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, the early riser among the winter woodpeckers. Soon after that a Red-bellied Woodpecker called and others answered immediately. One red-belly flew to the dead stub in which the Ivory-billed Woodpecker roosted, and drummed on the top. Almost at once, a female ivory-bill slipped quietly from her roost hole and jerked her way to the top of the stub, where she rapped and called a few times. Then she flew to another tree, and settled to preen herself, interrupting her toilet occasionally with a call or a sharp pound on the limb. Another ivory-bill answered from a short distance north, and then flew to join the first; it was another female, but judging from its appearance, a bird of the year. The two sleek black-and-white birds called and pounded a few times and then flew off together to begin feeding. I followed them on this day for threequarters of an hour as they moved from one tree to another, until they finally took a long flight beyond my sight, and I was not able to find them again.

Of the winter birds in the area, woodpeckers were the most conspicuous. Eight species were present: Ivory-billed, Pileated, Red-bellied, Red-headed, Downy, Hairy, Yellow- bellied Sapsucker, and flicker. Red-headed Woodpeckers were almost abundant in some years, while in others they were scarce, and then the Red-bellied Woodpecker was the most common. But whatever the species, the drumming, rapping, and vigorous calls of woodpeckers were to be heard in all parts of the woods from daylight to dark. Flocks of grackles were also conspicuous. Large numbers of them sitting in the treetops made the woods ring with their gurgles and whistles.

During the winter, the Wild Turkeys lived in flocks. On one December afternoon, when I was following the edge of a slough that happened to be called Turkey Brake, walking noisily because of the dry leaves, a single turkey suddenly flew up a short distance ahead. Immediately, about 50 more turkeys exploded from the ground and slanted upward to the lower branches, where they perched and peered around. As always, it surprised me to see such heavy-bodied birds fly upwards so steeply.

These same winter months were the best times to see and watch deer. They were especially conspicuous in December because they fed in the daytime and were kept continually on the move by the bucks chasing the does. Small trees that had been hooked and scraped by the antlers of the bucks were numerous. Also scattered throughout the woods were spots where the bucks had pawed the ground.

The most unusual mammals living in this forest were the panthers and wolves. Of panthers, I never saw more than an occasional track. Wolf tracks were more common, and the wolves also made their presence known by yapping and howling. The first time I ever heard one howl was at a fitting time, for I was more or less lost. It was December, and dusk had caught me on a dim and puzzling trail; I was just considering spending the night in the open, when a single wolf, not too distant, loosed a lonely mournful howl. "Nice company," I thought, and redoubled my efforts, successfully, to find my way.

My first look at a wolf did not come until several weeks later. I had been sitting for some minutes in a part of the woods where the undergrowth was thick with palmettos and vines, when I heard something coming toward me. Soon I glimpsed a black animal that seemed as tall as a small horse. As it came a little more above the palmettos, I saw that it was a coal-black wolf atop a log. It leaped to the ground and disappeared behind a tangle, going to the windward. I half stood to get a better look and saw him well as he crossed an open place about 30 steps away, apparently oblivious of me. He was handsome, powerful but appearing swift with deep chest and lean belly, self-confident and yet alert, completely black from tip to tail.

My observations of the larger mammals were usually little more than glimpses, but the smaller members of the tribe were frequently in evidence. Squirrels, both black and gray, leaped and climbed among the treetops, and skunks foraged among the leaves on the forest floor. Less commonly, we discovered signs of raccoon, opossum, rabbit, bobcat, and more rarely of bear.

Sometimes in February but usually in March came the first signs of spring--warm clear days, a tinge of green on the understory trees, and white blossoms on the haw trees. The first forest trees to sprout leaves were maples, elms, and sweet gum. The filmy green of the new leaves was punctuated by bright red splashes of red maple trees bearing seeds. The first change in the forest floor was the drying of the standing water that had covered much of the ground all winter; the water disappeared magically as the leafing and growing trees sucked it out of the soil. The ground became noticeably drier day by day, and the walking was easier as the paths firmed and the pools disappeared. But not for long was the walking easier. Soon the vines began to grow, green shoots fairly sprung across paths and became knotted on the other side, and tangles of greenbrier and buckvine raised themselves from the ground to lasso and snarl the traveler's foot.

Spring was the busy season for following Ivory-billed Woodpeckers. Like most birds, they are active and noisy in the early morning; consequently we did most of our searching then. The usual routine was to be up an hour before daylight, cook and wolf a quick breakfast, and be on the trail as soon as it was light enough to see the way. It was a wonderful time to be in the woods.

As spring progressed, migrating birds arrived and joined the chorus. The bulk of these songsters were vireos and warblers. A few winter residents like White-throated Sparrows and Hermit Thrushes remained until late, and it was odd to hear their north-woods songs mixed with the lilting songs of Prothonotary and Yellow-throated warblers.

Morning is the time of activity in the southern woods. As the spring day wore on, the birds became quieter, and there was no resurgence of song in the late afternoon as there is in the North. The birds fed a little more actively compared with the middle of the day, and there were snatches of song here and there, but nothing like that of the morning.

The evenings were quiet. After supper, Kuhn and I would sit on the front step of the camp, talking over the day's events and listening for the occasional sounds that come from the forest--a Barred Owl's hoot or the snort of a startled deer. Once we were idly watching a bat flitting about the clearing when a Sharp-shinned Hawk suddenly dashed in, snatched the bat in midair, and disappeared in the shadowed trees. Our talk was of the woods, not only of the birds and other wildlife we had seen but also of the little details that helped us form a complete mental picture of the forest. The location of trees that had fallen across bayous making a foot-log, shallow places where the river could be forded, ridges of tall timber clear of undergrowth that made walking easy, brier and cane thickets that were best to avoid. We talked of these just as Mark Twain's river pilots endlessly discussed the details of the river's course. Although learning of the ivorybill and its life history was our goal, the forest was our working place and we had to know it--to find our way, to travel quickly, to know where to search. Little by little as I lived there, the details and pieces fitted into the picture, until the sureness of my knowledge increased my enjoyment of the forest.

Whenever men are talking about the woods and relating their experiences, snake stories are almost surely to be told. Timber rattlesnakes were fairly common there and would appear from hibernation with the first green of spring. Occasionally one of us would have a close call, as when Kuhn, who was wading through some thick vines with his eyes glued to the treetops, accidentally stepped on a rattlesnake. The vines were so thick that the only place he could jump was straight up, and every time he came down the snake was still there. I do not know whether Kuhn finally jumped clear or whether the snake broke off the engagement, but Kuhn returned to camp that evening looking considerably whiter than his normal shade of heavy tan.

Although this was an old, virgin forest, it was not a uniform stand of big trees. Its appearance everywhere varied. In some places tall trees stood scattered over a sea of undergrowth; in others they grew so thickly that the floor below was almost clear of growth because of the heavy shade. There were openings clear to the sky, dense groves of young trees, and patches of mixed forest where trees of all sizes grew together. One reason for this variety was the fifteen or so species of trees, each with its own characteristics of growth, and another was the variation in the land from wet slough to dry ridge.

A more dramatic reason for the variety in the shape of the forest was age, and its follower, death. Big trees gradually lost their vigor until damage suffered from insects and disease outweighed the yearly growth; then they gradually died, from the top down, until only a rotten trunk stood alone. In so dying, they supplied food for woodpeckers, bare branches for flycatchers to perch upon, and finally let the sun through to the ground to nurture the bushes, vines, and new saplings. Other big trees died suddenly, falling to the ground of their own weight. More of these seemed to fall during spring than any other season, and oddly, more seemed to give way on days when hardly a breeze was stirring.

The fall of a big tree is a dramatic event, dominating for a brief moment all other events in the forest. The quiet of the wood is suddenly broken by a resounding crack, like a rifle shot, seeming to suspend all activity--everything waiting for what will come; then a series of loud snaps increasing in tempo and merging into a roaring crescendo as the tree crashes downward to hit the earth with a dull, echoing boom. The echoes quickly die away, but the forest still seems to hold its breath until gradually the birds resume their song, the normal quiet sounds return, and the listener collects his scattered thoughts. If one should go to that fallen tree, there would be the massive trunk flat on the ground, the top a jumble of broken and splintered limbs smashed flat by the impact. The odor of crushed leaves would fill the air, and the bright sun pour into the new opening.

Much was happening at once in the forest in spring. Migration and nesting merged together so that many birds were rearing young while others were still migrating. The early morning birdsong constantly changed in character. On a morning in mid-April when I first stepped out of doors, the stars were bright in a dark sky. A cardinal whistled once. By the time it was light enough to see to walk, a Chuck-will's-widow was calling and the chorus of cardinal whistles was swelling. A Wood Thrush slowly began to sing, and then opened up in full song as others joined him. Thrashers churred from the thickets, and then, as if at a signal, Northern Parulas began to sing from all around, making the treetops buzz. The chorus of songs was punctuated once by the call of a Pileated Woodpecker and the startled hooting of a Barred Owl. It was quite bright when the first turkey gobbled, the high, clear gobble of an old bird; he was answered by others in scattered places. The songs continued to increase until sunrise, and by then the woods were actually noisy with woodpeckers, chats, cardinals, vireos, and several species of warblers.

Spring flowed imperceptibly into summer-- the quiet season, when during most of the day the woods stood still in the shimmering heat. But beneath the quiet surface flowed a strong undercurrent of life, a current that now and then was seen and felt. During the brief early hour of daybreak, birds were active and sang shortly, the order of song changing little after the middle of May. Most of the forest birds such as the woodpeckers finished their feeding by midmorning.

In the forest were several similar lakes. All were long and slender, for they were old riverbeds, and rimming each was a colonnade of tall cypress trees standing in the edge of the dark water. During the summer day, Little Bear Lake, the largest, was a quiet place. Occasionally a white egret would glide down past the green cypress tops to alight on a snag in the water. In the clear early morning, alligators floated still at the surface--huge, scaly dragons fearing nothing but man. During most of the hot days these lakes lay peacefully under the sun, with surface unruffled by the breeze that brushed the cypress branches over the fish lying deeply below.

But on summer nights the air over the lake shook with the loud calls of several kinds of frogs and toads. Loudest by sheer weight of numbers were the tiny cricket frogs; these were on the floating duckweed and other water plants, one every two feet, sitting and beating out their rasping notes. Other frogs or toads called from the mud at the edge, from the trees and vines, and from the narrow cypress sloughs at the ends of the lake.

I made my way to where a small boat was beached, shoved it off, and paddled from under the black shadows of the trees out to the moon and starlit water. The beam of my flashlight swept across the surface of the water and caught a glowing coal that burned for a moment and then went out--the eye of an alligator that sunk beneath the surface. The chorus of frogs came from all sides. The forest stretched away for miles from the black wall of trees surrounding the lake, and although quiet except for a distant owl hoot, I knew that it was a forest alive, of growing bushes, vines, and trees; and in the forest and its bayous and lakes dwelled the countless winged or four-footed, crawling or swimming animals. There they all lived, for although it was a wilderness to these animals it was their world.

James T. Tanner studied the ivory-bills in this magnificent forest from 1937 to 1939, while he was a graduate student at Cornell. He had long hoped that the Singer Tract would be preserved as a national park, but that was not to be. Unfortunately, it was largely clear-cut in the early 1940s, destroying the last known stronghold of the Ivorybilled Woodpecker. When he returned in the 1980s to attend the dedication of the Tensas River National Wildlife Refuge, he discovered that his favorite area of primeval forest, Greenlea Bend, had become a flat, open soybean field.

 

For permission to reprint all or part of this article, please contact Jennifer Smith, Cornell Lab of Ornithology, 159 Sapsucker Woods Rd., Ithaca, NY, 14850. Phone: (607) 254-2497. email: jls39@cornell.edu