Bayou-Diversity

Always in late February when the first white crawfish reached two inches in length, a ritual began in the D'Arbonne Swamp that included my father, his cousin, and me, an adolescent youth in those years a half century ago.  The object of the tradition was to procure "smallmouth bass" for the deep, black skillet.

Since the founding of America, attitudes toward nature have changed and they continue to do so.  Early pioneers maintained a European mind-set, considering nature an entity to be conquered, civilized and rid of competing wild beasts as necessary.  The theory of manifest destiny reflected a theological belief that settlers were divinely appointed to "use" the earth for the enhancement of civilization, no holds barred.  Such attitudes eventually led to the decimation of Native Americans and the extinction or near extinction of several animals.

They were thought of as noisy mobs of rogues hell-bent on destruction.  They swarmed the grain fields and orchards of European settlers consuming the fruits of hard labor.  If they possessed redeeming qualities it was only after they were dead and skinned, either for decoration on women's hats or fried in lard for the table.  Linnaeus named them Carolina parakeets in 1758, and within that group there was a subspecies with slightly different colored plumage called the Louisiana parakeet.

That an old, time-marred box turtle in my hand today could be the same one held by my great grandfather on the edge of this swamp a hundred years ago infers a connection mystical if not spiritual.  Though unlikely, it is possible.

Nothing can brighten a gray winter day faster than a splash of crimson cardinals or goldfinches gathered at a window side bird feeder.  The popularity of bird feeding continues to grow, and a recent report estimates that 63 million Americans provide food for wild birds, spending more than $2.5 billion on birdseed and feeding supplies each year.

Seemingly unrelated political decisions often impact wildlife resources and lead to a cascade of unanticipated events in the most unlikely of places.  That U.S. policy in Iraq and Iran could suddenly influence my daily biological work in the spectacular Lacassine marshes of southwestern Louisiana is a good example.  The nexus involves humans' peculiar obsession with fish eggs, and the story line goes like this.

Thank you, O Lord, in this bountiful season for the five senses to relish your world.  

Thank you for the succulent smells of the fruits of the earth in the kitchens of our mothers and wives.

Thank you for the odor of rich delta dirt on a warm, foggy winter morning.

Thank you for the smell of wood smoke, especially that tinted with lighter'd pine.

Thank you for the stew of odors distinct to our rivers and bayous: cypress needles, primal water, life and life-to be.

Except for coastal marshlands and tallgrass prairies of the southwest, Louisiana was historically a world of forests.  Virgin stands of longleaf pine in the central part of the state, primeval bottomland hardwoods and cypress swamps, along with upland hardwoods and pines in the hill country were viewed by settlers as both daunting obstacles and coveted natural resources in the form of potential wood products.

The award for the Louisiana bird with the most misleading name should be conferred on the common nighthawk, also known as the bullbat.  No part of these monikers is accurate.  In the first place, they are not common anymore as long-term surveys show their populations in the United States have declined 61 percent between 1966 and 2014.