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“Build it and they will come” has become a mantra for conservation groups that view the creation of habitat as one of the most significant investments humans can make in supporting wildlife.

In some cases, building housing structures and adding them to the surrounding landscape, or habitat, is a vital component to a particular species’ survival. That’s certainly been the case in helping bluebird and wood duck populations recover and flourish for many, many years, and more recently it’s become en vogue as a means for helping bats, ospreys, chimney swifts and even some native bees, among other wildlife.

The dilemma humans in our culture face at times, however, is we don’t like playing the waiting game. If we “build it,” we want them – whatever the “them” are — to come now. In fact, right now. But unlike most people, nature isn’t always in a hurry, and animals certainly don’t work on a human being’s time schedule. Nature has its own rhythms and priorities, and human conservation is, after all, a practice with a long view of the future. Waiting is a required expectation and condition in most cases.

Dave Duit certainly knows a bit about waiting. The Nevada resident has come to expect it and teaches patience to those who share his interest in aiding one of those species that has evolved with a significant dependence on humans: the purple martin.

Duit put up his first purple martin gourd house about a decade ago, and it took five years before the first pair of martins moved in. Since then, he’s attracted dozens of nesting pairs to his backyard and seen hundreds of offspring produced. As founder of the Iowa Purple Martin Organization, he’s helped others around the state start or revitalize martin colonies.

“It just takes time,” he said. “Martins have strong site fidelity and the adults won’t leave their established site unless there is a bad predator attack day after day. The second-year martins from a nearby site are the ones that will usually start a new colony.”

As of last week, it appears that purple martins are finally beginning to establish a new colony at the site of a purple martin house, or hotel, between the lake basins at Ada Hayden Heritage Park in Ames. Duit and Dustin Haegele, an Ames High student at the time, constructed the house nearly three years ago and installed it at a prominent location at the popular recreational area.

“I’m very excited and happy to announce that there are two purple martin nests at the Ada Hayden martin house,” Duit said by way of email late last week. “One is for certain made from an older pair because of its well-built intricate construction. If it were a young pair it wouldn’t be as elaborate. This first nest has five eggs, which tells me it is an older pair. Younger pairs usually have less than five eggs in a clutch. … The other nest may be made by a younger pair. It has small green leaves placed in the cup of the nest, which indicates they will be laying eggs very soon.”

Duit said when an older pair nests in a new location other than its original colony, it likely means the two martins abandoned their old colony due to extreme mite infestation, which was not controlled by the landlord of their dwelling; continual predator attacks from hawks or owls; sparrows or starlings took over the site; or their clutch was destroyed by sparrows pecking holes in the eggs.

“Purple martins are 100 percent reliant upon human-made housing east of the Missouri River,” Duit said. “One of the reasons I started the Iowa Purple Martin Organization is to educate the public on the need for martin housing.”

But establishing a healthy martin colony isn’t limited to just providing a nesting structure, Duit said. It also means being a good landlord by trying to eliminate English house sparrows and European starlings from the site area; picking a safe location from predators, such as owls and hawks; perhaps putting a protective cage over the house; and cleaning out nesting cavities at the end of the summer.

If you do those things, and add a little patience into the process, you might just be rewarded. The site at Ada Hayden is a case in point.

“If these two pair successfully raise their nestlings to fledge, there is a strong likelihood that 10 to 20 percent of these new baby martins will return to the Ada Hayden martin house next year, while the other 80 to 90 percent will seek out new housing within the area,” Duit said. “That’s pretty exciting to me.”

And that’s one way how conservation practices take hold and wildlife populations can flourish and expand.

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More information on purple martins can be found at www.iamartin.org

Dave Duit is seeking volunteers to help monitor the martin site at Ada Hayden Heritage Park. If interested, contact him by email at daveduit@yahoo.com.

Dad, what’s wrong with that bird?

That was the question posed by our daughter, Elizabeth, as we walked down the sidewalk toward the car following church.

The bird in question was flopping about on the stone-covered walkway like a mortally injured gamebird shortly before gasping its final breath. With wings akimbo, the brown-and-white-colored bird with black neck bands indeed looked as if it was on its last leg, literally and figuratively.

It quickly struck me, however, as I looked up from the bird to see the concern on Elizabeth’s face that this wasn’t a struggle over pending death but rather a ruse in an effort to preserve life. Or, as the case may be, future lives.

As you may have already deduced from the description of what occurred or from looking at the accompanying photo that the animated bird was a killdeer, and he or she was simply doing what any killdeer parent does when it or its young are confronted with danger: feigning injury. Like some other species, killdeer will perform a broken-wing impression in an effort to draw attention away from its nest of eggs or its young. In our case, the killdeer was trying to divert our attention away from its nest — a simple depression in the rocks — and its contents: four tan eggs with dark markings.

It’s easy to be both impressed and amused by the antics of killdeer. They ardently utilize both vocal and theatrical expression to draw the attention of people or potential predators to themselves and then lead them on a wild chase away from their nest or offspring. Once they sense they have created a safe distance between the intruder and whatever they are protecting, the adult killdeer miraculously recovers from its “injury” and flies even further away, often with the predator in pursuit.

Killdeer are upland shorebirds that tend not to spend time at the shore. Rather, they prefer gravel roadways, mudflats, railroad edges and open fields where they feast on insects and occasionally snails, crayfish and worms. Killdeer are most closely related to plovers and spend the spring, summer and fall throughout all of the upper Midwest before migrating to southern states and Central America for winter.

The next time you see a boisterous bird dragging its wing and frantically calling “kill-deer, kill-deer,” don’t take the bait. Instead, carefully look around for a nest of well-camouflaged eggs or, if you’re fortunate, a small clutch of fledglings that look like stilted dandelions going to seed. Either way, you’ll be happy to have made the discovery.

We don’t see because we don’t look.

We don’t look because we don’t slow down.

We don’t slow down because we’re in too big a hurry to get on to the next thing.

Most of the time we don’t see the trees for the forest. One wonders if we even see the forest much of the time.

Maybe we should heed the wisdom in one of the lyrics of the old Simon and Garfunkel song “The 59th Street Bridge Song,” otherwise known as “Feelin’ Groovy.” “Slow down, you move too fast. You’ve got to make the morning last.”

Instead of “morning,” I’d interject “moment.” We’ve got to make the moment last.

Slow down. Look. Listen. Ask questions. Seek out answers. Be present. Be alert. Be all in.

It’s the only way we can begin to see and appreciate the trees for the forest, and everything else that’s beautiful in the world around us.

— Todd Burras

Pictured above: American toad, honey bee, creeping charlie, white clover, Kentucky bluegrass, dandelion. There could be others.

ELY, MINN. – Those of us who are in the business of trying to attract birds to our backyards by filling feeders with an assortment of seeds are familiar with watching the contents of those differently-shaped tubes, cubes and trays disappear.

But when a feeder turns up empty of its contents in the first light of dawn after being full at sunset the night prior, one can deduce there’s a high probability that the pilferer of seeds was likely a furry rather than a feathered friend.

Such overnight guests in Mid-Iowa most likely would be raccoons or opossums, which are primarily nocturnal creatures. In the Superior National Forest of northeast Minnesota where our cabin is located, neither of those mammals has made much of an inroad, yet, so a most likely culprit could be a black bear.

One late-night seed-eating creature found in both locations, however, is as stealthy as a fox but as seemingly gentle as a fawn. I’m talking about the shy and reclusive flying squirrel.

Unlike their name indicates, however, flying squirrels don’t actually fly; rather, they glide.

“In part, this is due to a large flap of skin (patagium) attached to its front and hind legs and sides of its body,” writes naturalist Stan Tekiela. “To glide, a flying squirrel will climb to the top of a tree and launch itself, extending its four legs outward and stretching the patagium to make a flat, wing-like airfoil. Its flat tail adds some additional lift and acts like a rudder to help maneuver objects while gliding. … To create an air brake for a soft landing, the squirrel will quickly lift its head and tuck its tail between its hind legs.”

Larry Dau, a Boone County resident who also owns a cabin in northwest Wisconsin, has been observing and photographing flying squirrels for many years.

“I have seen them glide in from more than 100 feet and even pick up altitude at the end of their glide,” Dau said.

There are two species of flying squirrels – the northern and southern – and while the squirrels that are frequent visitors to our cabin and Dau’s are the northern species, those living in Iowa are the southern species, said Jim Pease, emeritus associate professor of Natural Resource Ecology and Management at Iowa State University. Their ranges do, however, ranges overlap in many areas of the country, Dau said.

“The northern is known for being in the boreal forest,” he said. “In Iowa, they would normally be in the oak-hickory woods.

The two species of flying squirrels vary in length and weight, with the northern being slightly bigger at around 9 to 10 inches in total length and weighing about 3 to 4 ounces while the southern tends to be around 7 to 8 inches long and weigh roughly 2 to 3 ounces. Both species are active year-round and will often build a nest in an abandoned woodpecker cavity to raise their young. Both species also are omnivores, feeding on insects, seeds, nuts, catkins, eggs, mice, birds, mushrooms and other fungi.

“At the cabin, we have a mixed conifer and deciduous forest,” Dau said. “So we have lots of acorns and pinecones for them to feed on. At my feeders they come in for peanuts and sunflower seeds.”

No matter where you live, the chances of seeing them are slim.

“Rarely do they come out in daylight,” Dau said.

The best chance to possibly see one is to go outside after dusk and to listen for the soft bird-like calls of the adults, the high-pitched squeaks of the young or the sound of something scrambling on the bark. Shining a flashlight in the direction of the sounds might reveal a small brown creature with bulging eyes and a long tail. Often, they will freeze at the presence of light and you can get a good look.

“They move very fast,” Dau said. “Guests at the cabin are fascinated by their flights, quick movements and antics. They will watch them for an hour or two.”

Once you’ve seen a flying squirrel, it’s easy to understand why.

Watch them fly … or glide

To see video clips of flying squirrels, visit Larry Dau’s website: https://larryd.smugmug.com/Nature/Northern-Flying-Squirrels-Fall/

Todd Burras can be reached at outdoorstoddburras@gmail.com.

ELY, MINN. – Sunny fields of gold this time of year across the Midwest are the colorful result of uncommonly prolific common dandelions. In standing water of low-lying forests, potholes, bogs, swamps and ditches, however, the occasional “yellow brick road” through an often otherwise brown landscape is usually the result of spectacular masses of marsh marigold.

Neither a marigold nor a cowslip, marsh marigold is an annual wildflower that’s a member of the buttercup family. The name “marigold” comes from an old English world that means “marsh-gold.” As the name suggests, marsh marigold are water-loving wildflowers that like to “keep their feet wet.” They grow to a height of 1 to 2 feet, produce yellow upturned petal-like sepals that form a shallow cup and have thick leaves that are dark green.

Sig Olson, one of the country’s most renowned naturalists, conservationists and authors of the mid-20th century, called marsh marigold the “flower of the spring floods.”

In this region of the country in which Olson lived, where there is a seemingly never-ending labyrinth of lakes, rivers, streams and wetlands, marsh marigold abound during May.

“The earth was trying its best to cover its soggy desolation while waiting for the green of early summer,” Olson wrote in his classic “The Singing Wilderness.” “The butter-yellow mats that had come so swiftly would hold sway until other flowers began to bloom, adding a not of color and aliveness. But by the time the creeks were back to summer levels, the marigold would be forgotten, remembered only by trout fishermen as bedding in their creels.”

Closer to home in central Iowa, marsh marigold, though not so prolific as in some regions of the Midwest, can be found earlier in the spring with a little effort.

“They were in full bloom on April 23,” said Tom Rosberg, a prairie expert who lives near Colo and teaches at Drake University. “I cannot think of a population in Story County, but there could be. The closest one I know of is at Turtlehead Fen in Polk County.”

Steve Lekwa, a lifelong resident of Story County, said, “There used to be a little of it just north of the Prairie View pull-off on Interstate 35 south of Story City near the bottom of a wet draw. I haven’t been there in many years, though.”

Jimmie Thompson, an Ames resident who has conducted plant inventories throughout Mid-Iowa, said small populations of marsh marigold exist in the area, but others have been lost.

“Years ago there was a very small population on the west-facing slope overlooking Squaw Creek at the Northridge subdivision within the Ames city limits,” said Thompson. “But I think that population has been extirpated.”

Thompson said during his four-year plant inventories of Boone and Hamilton counties, he found a small population of marsh marigold at Bjorkboda Marsh in Hamilton County as well as a few places in Boone County. He said he has also seen a population of it at the south end of Brushy Creek State Park in Webster County.

Carl Kurtz, another prairie expert who lives near Zearing, said there is a little in the wet areas of his prairie, but it isn’t very prevalent around the area.

“I was hoping to collect some seed this year,” Kurtz said, “but am behind on that endeavor.”

At least there’s always next year.

Marsh marigold is past the blooming stage in central Iowa for the season, but make a note to look for it next spring. As Glenda the Good Witch of the North told Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz,” just “follow the yellow brick road.”

Todd Burras can be reached at outdoorstoddburras@gmail.com.