Out Home

The Dance on Monkey Mountain

The Dance on Monkey Mountain ON MY EDGE OF THE PAVEMENT a road-killed fox was being attended by a pair of crows. There was oncoming traffic and I was unable to swerve, and the wheels of the car passed within inches of the defunct Reynard. The crows calmly gauged my approach as they always do, floated up into the air as I passed under them, and dropped back down to their dinner. They had calculated my brake horsepower and closing speed with the acuity of an Indianapolis pit crew. They were in character, polishing off an adult red fox that had been unable to coexist with traffic. A red fox is pretty handy at coexisting with almost anything, but he's not as handy at it as the common crow. Few critters are. In thirty years of tooling along country roads, I have seen many sly creatures that had been, clobbered by cars: mink, coyotes, red fox, gray fox, white-tailed deer, bobcats, and even one lightning rod salesman. Plus a multitude of poor little goofs that never seem to adjust to traffic: a host of songbirds, sparrow hawks, cottontails, ground squirrels, and garter snakes. But nev139 The Dance on Monkey Mountain ON MY EDeE Of ntII ...nMENT. road_killed fox wa5 being allended by a pair of crows, There was oncoming traffic and I WaS unable to swerve, and the whffls of the Car passed within inches of Ihe defunct Reynard. The crow. calmly gauged my approach as they alwa~ do. floated up inlo the air as I passed under them. and dropped back down 10 Iheir dinner. They had calculaled my brake horsepower and closing speed wilh the acuity of an India_ napolis pit crew They were in character. polishing off an adult red fo>< that had been unable to coexist with traffic. A red fox i. pretty handy at c~xisting with almost anything, but he'. not as handy at it as Ihe common crow. Few critlel'll are. In thirty years of tooling along counlry roads, I have seen many sly crealures Ihat had been. clobbered by cal'll: mink, coyoles, red fox. gray fox, white_lailed deer, bobcats, and even one lightning rod salesman. Plus a multitude of poor little goofs that never seem to adjusl to traffic: a host of songbirds. sparrow hawks. cottontails. ground squirrels. ,md garter snakes. But nev_ 139 The Dance on Monkey Mountain ON MY EDeE Of ntII ...nMENT. road_killed fox wa5 being allended by a pair of crows, There was oncoming traffic and I WaS unable to swerve, and the whffls of the Car passed within inches of Ihe defunct Reynard. The crow. calmly gauged my approach as they alwa~ do. floated up inlo the air as I passed under them. and dropped back down 10 Iheir dinner. They had calculaled my brake horsepower and closing speed wilh the acuity of an India_ napolis pit crew They were in character. polishing off an adult red fox that had been unable to coexist with traffic. A red fox i. pretty handy at c~xisting with almost anything, but he'. not as handy at it as Ihe common crow. Few critlel'll are. In thirty years of tooling along counlry roads, I have seen many sly crealures Ihat had been. clobbered by cal'll: mink, coyoles, red fox. gray fox, white_lailed deer, bobcats, and even one lightning rod salesman. Plus a multitude of poor little goofs that never seem to adjusl to traffic: a host of songbirds. sparrow hawks. cottontails. ground squirrels. ,md garter snakes. But nev_ 139 140 JOHN MADSON er a crow. live yet to see a crow that had been hit by a car. Crows have a natural immunity to trafficI and experience gives them booster shots. Call it adaptabilitYI or skilled judgement in familiar feeding situations. But it/s more likely a deep and abiding case of the smarts. If the common crow isn/t the endpoint of current avian evolutionl he can/t be far from it. Sleekl hard-featheredl adaptablel and superbly generalizedl he/s a bird for all seasons. It/s as if the most practicall general features of the class Aves had been built into one birdl plus a low sense of humor and a raffish cleverness that is disturbingly familiar. Most birds behave like birdsI endearing themselves to us as a flash of colorl a burst of songl or a highl aloof vigilance. But crows may remind us of us-something that/s hard to forgive. I like crows. Ohl live hunted them often enoughl but this was never attended by any rancor and it always reinforced liking with respect . To hunt crows is part of an acquaintance processl and reveals many facets of crow character. To be mobbed by a raging gang of black banditti teaches one thing; stalking a lone sentinel teaches another. Like menl crows may yield to mob madness and commit insane indiscretions that range from mayhem to heroisml and within the hour they return to being keenl perceptive master of themselves and their world. The common crow is an animal of many parts that may be more clearly revealed to an ardent predator than a casual observer. My bond with crows began long ago during certain bitter winter evenings when we traveled together. For several winters at the tail of the Depression I market-hunted rabbits in central lowa-a grueling enterprise that resulted in a lot more seasoning then revenue. Among other thingsI it taught me that it/s a little easier to be famished and weary if you/re not alone. And when lid turn homeward at day/s end and face the miles of crusted snow that lay between me and supperl there were usually a few crows for company-seeming just as tired and hungry as I was. They would escort me in little tattered flocksl beating patiently into the bitter windl going home. The lights that were beginning 140 JOHN MADSON er a crow. I've yet to see a crow that had been hit by a car. Crows have a natural immunity to traffic, and experience gives them booster shots. Call it adaptability, or skilled judgement in familiar feeding situations. But it's more likely a deep and abiding case of the smarts. If the common crow isn't the endpoint of current avian evolution , he can't be far from it. Sleek, hard-feathered, adaptable, and superbly generalized, he's a bird for all seasons. It's as if the most practical, general features of the class Aves had been built into one bird, plus a low sense of humor and a raffish cleverness that is disturbingly familiar. Most birds behave like birds, endearing themselves to us as a flash of color, a burst of song, or a high, aloof vigilance. But crows may remind us of us-something that's hard to forgive. I like crows. Oh, I've hunted them often enough, but this was never attended by any rancor and it always reinforced liking with respect . To hunt crows is part of an acquaintance process, and reveals many facets of crow character. To be mobbed by a raging gang of black banditti teaches one thing; stalking a lone sentinel teaches another. Like men, crows may yield to mob madness and commit insane indiscretions that range from mayhem to heroism , and within the hour they return to being keen, perceptive master of themselves and their world. The common crow is an animal of many parts that may be more clearly revealed to an ardent predator than a casual observer. My bond with crows began long ago during certain bitter winter evenings when we traveled together. For several winters at the tail of the Depression I market-hunted rabbits in central lowa-a grueling enterprise that resulted in a lot more seasoning then revenue. Among other things, it taught me that it's a little easier to be famished and weary if you're not alone. And when I'd turn homeward at day's end and face the miles of crusted snow that lay between me and supper, there were usually a few crows for company-seeming just as tired and hungry as I was. They would escort me in little tattered flocks, beating patiently into the bitter wind, going home. The lights that were beginning 140 JOHN MADSON er a crow. I've yet to see a crow that had been hit by a car. Crows have a natural immunity to traffic, and experience gives them booster shots. Call it adaptability, or skilled judgement in familiar feeding situations. But it's more likely a deep and abiding case of the smarts. If the common crow isn't the endpoint of current avian evolution , he can't be far from it. Sleek, hard-feathered, adaptable, and superbly generalized, he's a bird for all seasons. It's as if the most practical, general features of the class Aves had been built into one bird, plus a low sense of humor and a raffish cleverness that is disturbingly familiar. Most birds behave like birds, endearing themselves to us as a flash of color, a burst of song, or a high, aloof vigilance. But crows may remind us of us-something that's hard to forgive. I like crows. Oh, I've hunted them often enough, but this was never attended by any rancor and it always reinforced liking with respect . To hunt crows is part of an acquaintance process, and reveals many facets of crow character. To be mobbed by a raging gang of black banditti teaches one thing; stalking a lone sentinel teaches another. Like men, crows may yield to mob madness and commit insane indiscretions that range from mayhem to heroism , and within the hour they return to being keen, perceptive master of themselves and their world. The common crow is an animal of many parts that may be more clearly revealed to an ardent predator than a casual observer. My bond with crows began long ago during certain bitter winter evenings when we traveled together. For several winters at the tail of the Depression I market-hunted rabbits in central lowa-a grueling enterprise that resulted in a lot more seasoning then revenue. Among other things, it taught me that it's a little easier to be famished and weary if you're not alone. And when I'd turn homeward at day's end and face the miles of crusted snow that lay between me and supper, there were usually a few crows for company-seeming just as tired and hungry as I was. They would escort me in little tattered flocks, beating patiently into the bitter wind, going home. The lights that were beginning OUT HOME 141 to glow in the windows of distant farmhouses were not for us. We belonged to no one but ourselves and to the bleak world whose graying land faded into grayer sky as evening came on, where nothing moved but a few wind-buffeted crows and a boy stumbling through the iron twilight. Most other birds had gone south; indeed, so had most crows. Those that escorted me were the toughest of a tough breedfriendless and persecuted with every man's hand turned against them, gleaning a hard living from a hard land. Like me, they had spent the day searching for the Main Chance-and like me, they probably hadn't found it. We were hunters and scroungers fallen on hard times together, heading for our home roosts after a day of deficit spending. Those crows didn't have much and neither did I-but for a little while there we had each other to divert our attention and ease the last long miles to home. When bluebirds and swallows return, I will always welcome them with relief and affection-but never with the respect that I hold for the crows that never went. Some general comments on a general bird: Crows are members of the clan Corvidae, of course, a tribe that includes all manner of scamps: the jays, jackdaws, rooks, magpies , and ravens. The common crow's full name, Corvus brachyrhynchos , may not flow off the tongue as do some scientific names, but it somehow fits the owner. Next time you hit your thumb with a hammer, try saying it fast several times. It's good substitute profanity and doesn't corrupt listening kids. Spanning twenty-four inches across his slaty wings, with a total body length of about twenty inches, the crow is probably our largest generalized bird. Most other birds his size are somehow specialized in structure and function, but the crow is simply an outsized songbird. His powerful beak is adapted to picking and pecking, and is as useful in predation and carrion-feeding as in field-gleaning. Almost anything that's edible-from seed to grub to nestling-can be crow provender. What with one thing or another, the common crow has the physical and psychological equipment to exploit almost any possibility that comes along. One day last summer I drove through Greenwich, ConnectiOUT HOME 141 to glow in the windows of distant farmhouses were not for us. We belonged to no one but ourselves and to the bleak world whose graying land faded into grayer sky as evening came on, where nothing moved but a few wind-buffeted crows and a boy stumbling through the iron twilight. Most other birds had gone south; indeed, so had most crows. Those that escorted me were the toughest of a tough breedfriendless and persecuted with every man's hand turned against them, gleaning a hard living from a hard land. Like me, they had spent the day searching for the Main Chance-and like me, they probably hadn't found it. We were hunters and scroungers fallen on hard times together, heading for our home roosts after a day of deficit spending. Those crows didn't have much and neither did I-but for a little while there we had each other to divert our attention and ease the last long miles to home. When bluebirds and swallows return, I will always welcome them with relief and affection-but never with the respect that I hold for the crows that never went. Some general comments on a general bird: Crows are members of the clan Corvidae, of course, a tribe that includes all manner of scamps: the jays, jackdaws, rooks, magpies , and ravens. The common crow's full name, Corvus brachyrhynchos , may not flow off the tongue as do some scientific names, but it somehow fits the owner. Next time you hit your thumb with a hammer, try saying it fast several times. It's good substitute profanity and doesn't corrupt listening kids. Spanning twenty-four inches across his slaty wings, with a total body length of about twenty inches, the crow is probably our largest generalized bird. Most other birds his size are somehow specialized in structure and function, but the crow is simply an outsized songbird. His powerful beak is adapted to picking and pecking, and is as useful in predation and carrion-feeding as in field-gleaning. Almost anything that's edible-from seed to grub to nestling-can be crow provender. What with one thing or another, the common crow has the physical and psychological equipment to exploit almost any possibility that comes along. One day last summer I drove through Greenwich, ConnectiOUT HOME 141 to glow in the windows of distant farmhouses were not for us. We belonged to no one but ourselves and to the bleak world whose graying land faded into grayer sky as evening came on, where nothing moved but a few wind-buffeted crows and a boy stumbling through the iron twilight. Most other birds had gone south; indeed, so had most crows. Those that escorted me were the toughest of a tough breedfriendless and persecuted with every man's hand turned against them, gleaning a hard living from a hard land. Like me, they had spent the day searching for the Main Chance-and like me, they probably hadn't found it. We were hunters and scroungers fallen on hard times together, heading for our home roosts after a day of deficit spending. Those crows didn't have much and neither did I-but for a little while there we had each other to divert our attention and ease the last long miles to home. When bluebirds and swallows return, I will always welcome them with relief and affection-but never with the respect that I hold for the crows that never went. Some general comments on a general bird: Crows are members of the clan Corvidae, of course, a tribe that includes all manner of scamps: the jays, jackdaws, rooks, magpies , and ravens. The common crow's full name, Corvus brachyrhynchos , may not flow off the tongue as do some scientific names, but it somehow fits the owner. Next time you hit your thumb with a hammer, try saying it fast several times. It's good substitute profanity and doesn't corrupt listening kids. Spanning twenty-four inches across his slaty wings, with a total body length of about twenty inches, the crow is probably our largest generalized bird. Most other birds his size are somehow specialized in structure and function, but the crow is simply an outsized songbird. His powerful beak is adapted to picking and pecking, and is as useful in predation and carrion-feeding as in field-gleaning. Almost anything that's edible-from seed to grub to nestling-can be crow provender. What with one thing or another, the common crow has the physical and psychological equipment to exploit almost any possibility that comes along. One day last summer I drove through Greenwich, Connecti- 142 JOHN MADSON cut, heading for LaGuardia Airport and the flight home. There was a big new office building in downtown Greenwich, and while pausing at a stoplight I happened to glance up at the roof. Far above the street at the edge of a lofty cornice was perched a lone crow. He was calmly surveying the confusion below, wondering how he could put it to use and looking as self-possessed as if he'd been in a Kansas cottonwood. I caught my plane and returned to St. Louis, bailed myoid truck out of the parking lot, and headed for Illinois. Naturally, I hit Lindbergh Boulevard just in time to be ingested by the 4:30 traffic. And as I inched along, I happened to catch a whirl of motion above a small tree in a nearby factory area. A lone crow was being harassed by a small gray bird, and as they flew over the traffic jam just ahead, I could see that the crow held an egg in his beak. Twice in the same day, a thousand miles apart, I'd seen crows busy being crows in heavily urbanized situations. It wasn't surprising. I've often seen crows in untidy downtown shopping centers at dawn, checking litter and debris. They commonly haunt manicured suburbs at first light (not usually making much noise about it), and I've seen them strolling across lawns on Chicago's near North Side only a few miles from the Loop. By full daylight, they're gone. Yet, crows are basically farmland birds with a yen for landscapes that mix trees, cultivated fields, feedlots, and pastures. They are rarely seen in real wilderness, where corvids are likely to be represented by ravens and jays. Old settlers in the midwestern states claimed that crows were rare on the early prairies, even along the breaks of the Missouri River. Crows apparently arrived in eastern Nebraska in the early 1860s, exploiting changes that were beginning to evict the indigenous magpies and ravens. The common crow flourished with the advent of prairie farming and the planting of windbreaks and tree claims; in the East, much the same effect was achieved as the vast expanses of original forest were opened by settlers. If it's true that there are more crows today than at the time of Columbus, then the golden age of crowdom must have been in the waning years of the nineteenth century when American 142 JOHN MADSON cut, heading for LaGuardia Airport and the flight home. There was a big new office building in downtown Greenwich, and while pausing at a stoplight I happened to glance up at the roof. Far above the street at the edge of a lofty cornice was perched a lone crow. He was calmly surveying the confusion below, wondering how he could put it to use and looking as self-possessed as if he'd been in a Kansas cottonwood. I caught my plane and returned to St. Louis, bailed myoid truck out of the parking lot, and headed for Illinois. Naturally, 1 hit Lindbergh Boulevard just in time to be ingested by the 4:30 traffic. And as I inched along, I happened to catch a whirl of motion above a small tree in a nearby factory area. A lone crow was being harassed by a small gray bird, and as they flew over the traffic jam just ahead, I could see that the crow held an egg in his beak. Twice in the same day, a thousand miles apart, I'd seen crows busy being crows in heavily urbanized situations. It wasn't surprising. I've often seen crows in untidy downtown shopping centers at dawn, checking litter and debris. They commonly haunt manicured suburbs at first light (not usually making much noise about it), and I've seen them strolling across lawns on Chicago's near North Side only a few miles from the Loop. By full daylight, they're gone. Yet, crows are basically farmland birds with a yen for landscapes that mix trees, cultivated fields, feedlots, and pastures. They are rarely seen in real wilderness, where corvids are likely to be represented by ravens and jays. Old settlers in the midwestern states claimed that crows were rare on the early prairies, even along the breaks of the Missouri River. Crows apparently arrived in eastern Nebraska in the early 1860s, exploiting changes that were beginning to evict the indigenous magpies and ravens. The common crow flourished with the advent of prairie farming and the planting of windbreaks and tree claims; in the East, much the same effect was achieved as the vast expanses of original forest were opened by settlers. If it's true that there are more crows today than at the time of Columbus, then the golden age of crowdom must have been in the waning years of the nineteenth century when American 142 JOHN MADSON cut, heading for LaGuardia Airport and the flight home. There was a big new office building in downtown Greenwich, and while pausing at a stoplight I happened to glance up at the roof. Far above the street at the edge of a lofty cornice was perched a lone crow. He was calmly surveying the confusion below, wondering how he could put it to use and looking as self-possessed as if he'd been in a Kansas cottonwood. I caught my plane and returned to St. Louis, bailed myoid truck out of the parking lot, and headed for Illinois. Naturally, 1 hit Lindbergh Boulevard just in time to be ingested by the 4:30 traffic. And as I inched along, I happened to catch a whirl of motion above a small tree in a nearby factory area. A lone crow was being harassed by a small gray bird, and as they flew over the traffic jam just ahead, I could see that the crow held an egg in his beak. Twice in the same day, a thousand miles apart, I'd seen crows busy being crows in heavily urbanized situations. It wasn't surprising. I've often seen crows in untidy downtown shopping centers at dawn, checking litter and debris. They commonly haunt manicured suburbs at first light (not usually making much noise about it), and I've seen them strolling across lawns on Chicago's near North Side only a few miles from the Loop. By full daylight, they're gone. Yet, crows are basically farmland birds with a yen for landscapes that mix trees, cultivated fields, feedlots, and pastures. They are rarely seen in real wilderness, where corvids are likely to be represented by ravens and jays. Old settlers in the midwestern states claimed that crows were rare on the early prairies, even along the breaks of the Missouri River. Crows apparently arrived in eastern Nebraska in the early 1860s, exploiting changes that were beginning to evict the indigenous magpies and ravens. The common crow flourished with the advent of prairie farming and the planting of windbreaks and tree claims; in the East, much the same effect was achieved as the vast expanses of original forest were opened by settlers. If it's true that there are more crows today than at the time of Columbus, then the golden age of crowdom must have been in the waning years of the nineteenth century when American OUT HOME 143 farmland as a whole possessed the somewhat ragged quality that Crow seems to dote on. It was a time of small family farms, diverse grain and livestock production, with young tree claims maturing on the prairies and remnants of original forest still surviving in the East. Crow moved into the new situations with the raffish abandon of a pickpocket at a Republican convention. Man cleared and toiled; Crow jeered and foiled. The black brigands committed outrageous acts of disrespect and got away with it, moving the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher to reflect: "If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows." Their brazen affronts to the American farmer are pretty well typified by the two Florida crows that were once seen perched on a cow's back. It was February, when Florida crows are scrounging nest materials, and each of the birds had a beakful of white hairs that had been plucked from the back of the cow. That cow probably wasn't flattered by the crows' attention, but it could have been worse. In areas of crow concentrations in Kansas, there are reports from angry farmers that newborn calves are being blinded and even killed by crows. At the same time, there are complaints of heavy damage to milo and winter wheat. Some depredations of crows,. however, may be more apparent than real. Although corn is claimed to be the favorite food of crows, a study conducted in five New York counties indicated that corn was less than fourteen percent of the crow's annual food-and most of that was taken during winter. In May, when corn is sown in central New York, it amounted to only one percent of the diet of crows studied. Other work has shown that confined crows preferred live mealworms to all other foods offered (including grain), which supports one biologist's finding that a single family of crows may account for 40,000 grubs, caterpillars, army worms, and other insects during the nesting season alone. In my field of game management, Crow has long been regarded as a prime spoiler-especially of waterfowl and pheasants. OUT HOME 143 farmland as a whole possessed the somewhat ragged quality that Crow seems to dote on. It was a time of small family farms, diverse grain and livestock production, with young tree claims maturing on the prairies and remnants of original forest still surviving in the East. Crow moved into the new situations with the raffish abandon of a pickpocket at a Republican convention. Man cleared and toiled; Crow jeered and foiled. The black brigands committed outrageous acts of disrespect and got away with it, moving the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher to reflect: "If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows." Their brazen affronts to the American farmer are pretty well typified by the two Florida crows that were once seen perched on a cow's back. It was February, when Florida crows are scrounging nest materials, and each of the birds had a beakful of white hairs that had been plucked from the back of the cow. That cow probably wasn't flattered by the crows' attention, but it could have been worse. In areas of crow concentrations in Kansas, there are reports from angry farmers that newborn calves are being blinded and even killed by crows. At the same time, there are complaints of heavy damage to milo and winter wheat. Some depredations of crows, however, may be more apparent than real. Although corn is claimed to be the favorite food of crows, a study conducted in five New York counties indicated that corn was less than fourteen percent of the crow's annual food-and most of that was taken during winter. In May, when corn is sown in central New York, it amounted to only one percent of the diet of crows studied. Other work has shown that confined crows preferred live mealworms to all other foods offered (including grain), which supports one biologist's finding that a single family of crows may account for 40,000 grubs, caterpillars, army worms, and other insects during the nesting season alone. In my field of game management, Crow has long been regarded as a prime spoiler--especially of waterfowl and pheasants. OUT HOME 143 farmland as a whole possessed the somewhat ragged quality that Crow seems to dote on. It was a time of small family farms, diverse grain and livestock production, with young tree claims maturing on the prairies and remnants of original forest still surviving in the East. Crow moved into the new situations with the raffish abandon of a pickpocket at a Republican convention. Man cleared and toiled; Crow jeered and foiled. The black brigands committed outrageous acts of disrespect and got away with it, moving the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher to reflect: "If men had wings and bore black feathers, few of them would be clever enough to be crows." Their brazen affronts to the American farmer are pretty well typified by the two Florida crows that were once seen perched on a cow's back. It was February, when Florida crows are scrounging nest materials, and each of the birds had a beakful of white hairs that had been plucked from the back of the cow. That cow probably wasn't flattered by the crows' attention, but it could have been worse. In areas of crow concentrations in Kansas, there are reports from angry farmers that newborn calves are being blinded and even killed by crows. At the same time, there are complaints of heavy damage to milo and winter wheat. Some depredations of crows, however, may be more apparent than real. Although corn is claimed to be the favorite food of crows, a study conducted in five New York counties indicated that corn was less than fourteen percent of the crow's annual food-and most of that was taken during winter. In May, when corn is sown in central New York, it amounted to only one percent of the diet of crows studied. Other work has shown that confined crows preferred live mealworms to all other foods offered (including grain), which supports one biologist's finding that a single family of crows may account for 40,000 grubs, caterpillars, army worms, and other insects during the nesting season alone. In my field of game management, Crow has long been regarded as a prime spoiler--especially of waterfowl and pheasants. 144 JOHN MADSON There/s no doubt that crows will watch the movements of adult ducksl and if an incubating duck is flushed within sight of crowsl they can easily find her eggs. Even though the duck covers eggs before leaving her nest to feedl this may not help if crows see her take off. It has been noted that duck nests with good concealment (by human standards) may be destroyed just as readily as exposed ones-in facti the better-hidden nests may even suffer the most crow damage. On one marsh areal only four ducklings hatched from two hundred eggs. Crows got the rest. Of over five hundred duck nests once studied in the prairie provinces of Canadal about half were destroyed before hatching. The crow led the list of predatorsl taking thirty-one percent of the nests. But in spite of such thingsl most game managers feel that crow predation is only the final stroke in a series of events that doomed eggs and ducklings from the start. During his classic study of the blue-winged teat Dr. Logan Bennett found "pecks of crow-destroyed [duck] eggsll around Iowa marshes-but noted that practically all of these had been promiscuously dropped before serious nesting had begun. They did not represent destroyed nestsl nor eggs that would have hatched. He also found that heavy predation on ducklings was most likely to occur during drought periods when large numbers of young ducks were confined to shrinking water areas. A ring-necked pheasant nest that is destroyed by crows is likely to be one that had problems from the beginning. For examplel a nest that/s barely hidden in a meager strip of fenceline grass between two open fields. Or a hayfield nest that is discovered in time by a farmer who mows around it and leaves it undamaged in a tiny island of unmown clover. To a passing crowl that little deviation from the norm is intensely interesting. And once he learns that such a place may hold pheasant eggsl he never forgets. The furies of Hell are transcended not by woman scornedl but by Crow enraged. A sample of that superfury was once loosed on myoid friend 144 JOHN MADSON There's no doubt that crows will watch the movements of adult ducks, and if an incubating duck is flushed within sight of crows, they can easily find her eggs. Even though the duck covers eggs before leaving her nest to feed, this may not help if crows see her take off. It has been noted that duck nests with good concealment (by human standards) may be destroyed just as readily as exposed ones-in fact, the better-hidden nests may even suffer the most crow damage. On one marsh area, only four ducklings hatched from two hundred eggs. Crows got the rest. Of over five hundred duck nests once studied in the prairie provinces of Canada, about half were destroyed before hatching. The crow led the list of predators, taking thirty-one percent of the nests. But in spite of such things, most game managers feel that crow predation is only the final stroke in a series of events that doomed eggs and ducklings from the start. During his classic study of the blue-winged teal, Dr. Logan Bennett found "pecks of crow-destroyed [duck] eggs" around Iowa marshes-but noted that practically all of these had been promiscuously dropped before serious nesting had begun. They did not represent destroyed nests, nor eggs that would have hatched. He also found that heavy predation on ducklings was most likely to occur during drought periods when large numbers of young ducks were confined to shrinking water areas. A ring-necked pheasant nest that is destroyed by crows is likely to be one that had problems from the beginning. For example, a nest that's barely hidden in a meager strip of fenceline grass between two open fields. Or a hayfield nest that is discovered in time by a farmer who mows around it and leaves it undamaged in a tiny island of unmown clover. To a passing crow, that little deviation from the norm is intensely interesting. And once he learns that such a place may hold pheasant eggs, he never forgets. The furies of Hell are transcended not by woman scorned, but by Crow enraged. A sample of that superfury was once loosed on myoid friend 144 JOHN MADSON There's no doubt that crows will watch the movements of adult ducks, and if an incubating duck is flushed within sight of crows, they can easily find her eggs. Even though the duck covers eggs before leaving her nest to feed, this may not help if crows see her take off. It has been noted that duck nests with good concealment (by human standards) may be destroyed just as readily as exposed ones-in fact, the better-hidden nests may even suffer the most crow damage. On one marsh area, only four ducklings hatched from two hundred eggs. Crows got the rest. Of over five hundred duck nests once studied in the prairie provinces of Canada, about half were destroyed before hatching. The crow led the list of predators, taking thirty-one percent of the nests. But in spite of such things, most game managers feel that crow predation is only the final stroke in a series of events that doomed eggs and ducklings from the start. During his classic study of the blue-winged teal, Dr. Logan Bennett found "pecks of crow-destroyed [duck] eggs" around Iowa marshes-but noted that practically all of these had been promiscuously dropped before serious nesting had begun. They did not represent destroyed nests, nor eggs that would have hatched. He also found that heavy predation on ducklings was most likely to occur during drought periods when large numbers of young ducks were confined to shrinking water areas. A ring-necked pheasant nest that is destroyed by crows is likely to be one that had problems from the beginning. For example, a nest that's barely hidden in a meager strip of fenceline grass between two open fields. Or a hayfield nest that is discovered in time by a farmer who mows around it and leaves it undamaged in a tiny island of unmown clover. To a passing crow, that little deviation from the norm is intensely interesting. And once he learns that such a place may hold pheasant eggs, he never forgets. The furies of Hell are transcended not by woman scorned, but by Crow enraged. A sample of that superfury was once loosed on myoid friend OUT HOME 145 Bruce Stiles, late director of the Iowa Conservation Commission, when he was a young game officer stationed along the Missouri River in the early 1930s. Late one day during the waterfowl season he was walking alone across one of the Missouri's vast sandbars when he found a crippled crow. There were geese in the area and Bruce was reluctant to fire a shot, so he tried to dispatch the crow with a pole cut from a sandbar willow. However, the makeshift club proved too light and resilient to do the job. And as Bruce chased the fluttering bird across the open land, lashing at it with the limber pole, the crow set up a clamor of pain and alarm. It was the time of day when far-foraging crows are beginning to converge on the great river roosts, and may loaf on the river's immense sandbars before flying to their roosts. Almost at once, angry crows arrived-materializing out of nowhere in the way crows will in such situations. The first shock troops quickly grew into a great mass of birds, their rage and frenzy intensified by the steady arrival of reinforcements. Within minutes, Bruce was the nucleus of a raging horde of crows. He never knew if there were hundreds or thousands; it was simply a roaring black cloud that engulfed him. He was being struck about the head and shoulders, and as he averted his face and shielded his eyes from attack, a striking bill laid open his unguarded cheek. Bruce was carrying a seven-shot 12-gauge gun, which was then lawful for waterfowling, and emptied the full magazine into the mass of birds. He loaded again, trying to protect head and face as he did so, and triggered another seven-shot volley. A 12-bore gun firing express loads at close range is a thunderous weapon, but the second volley had no more effect than the first-if anything, it only heightened his attackers' fury. Bruce beat a fighting retreat to the shelter of a distant willow thicket, and only then did the crows begin to draw away. I can half-remember the old tales of hunters who spoke with respect and wonder of the mob frenzy of embattled crows, warning of the risks that a lone gunner might face. I always discounted such yarns, regarding them as rural precursors of Daphne du Maurier's liThe Birds." But since then I have known OUT HOME 145 Bruce Stiles, late director of the Iowa Conservation Commission, when he was a young game officer stationed along the Missouri River in the early 1930s. Late one day during the waterfowl season he was walking alone across one of the Missouri's vast sandbars when he found a crippled crow. There were geese in the area and Bruce was reluctant to fire a shot, so he tried to dispatch the crow with a pole cut from a sandbar willow. However, the makeshift club proved too light and resilient to do the job. And as Bruce chased the fluttering bird across the open land, lashing at it with the limber pole, the crow set up a clamor of pain and alarm. It was the time of day when far-foraging crows are beginning to converge on the great river roosts, and may loaf on the river's immense sandbars before flying to their roosts. Almost at once, angry crows arrived-materializing out of nowhere in the way crows will in such situations. The first shock troops quickly grew into a great mass of birds, their rage and frenzy intensified by the steady arrival of reinforcements. Within minutes, Bruce was the nucleus of a raging horde of crows. He never knew if there were hundreds or thousands; it was simply a roaring black cloud that engulfed him. He was being struck about the head and shoulders, and as he averted his face and shielded his eyes from attack, a striking bill laid open his unguarded cheek. Bruce was carrying a seven-shot 12-gauge gun, which was then lawful for waterfowling, and emptied the full magazine into the mass of birds. He loaded again, trying to protect head and face as he did so, and triggered another seven-shot volley. A 12-bore gun firing express loads at close range is a thunderous weapon, but the second volley had no more effect than the first-if anything, it only heightened his attackers' fury. Bruce beat a fighting retreat to the shelter of a distant willow thicket, and only then did the crows begin to draw away. I can half-remember the old tales of hunters who spoke with respect and wonder of the mob frenzy of embattled crows, warning of the risks that a lone gunner might face. I always discounted such yarns, regarding them as rural precursors of Daphne du Maurier's "The Birds." But since then I have known OUT HOME 145 Bruce Stiles, late director of the Iowa Conservation Commission, when he was a young game officer stationed along the Missouri River in the early 1930s. Late one day during the waterfowl season he was walking alone across one of the Missouri's vast sandbars when he found a crippled crow. There were geese in the area and Bruce was reluctant to fire a shot, so he tried to dispatch the crow with a pole cut from a sandbar willow. However, the makeshift club proved too light and resilient to do the job. And as Bruce chased the fluttering bird across the open land, lashing at it with the limber pole, the crow set up a clamor of pain and alarm. It was the time of day when far-foraging crows are beginning to converge on the great river roosts, and may loaf on the river's immense sandbars before flying to their roosts. Almost at once, angry crows arrived-materializing out of nowhere in the way crows will in such situations. The first shock troops quickly grew into a great mass of birds, their rage and frenzy intensified by the steady arrival of reinforcements. Within minutes, Bruce was the nucleus of a raging horde of crows. He never knew if there were hundreds or thousands; it was simply a roaring black cloud that engulfed him. He was being struck about the head and shoulders, and as he averted his face and shielded his eyes from attack, a striking bill laid open his unguarded cheek. Bruce was carrying a seven-shot 12-gauge gun, which was then lawful for waterfowling, and emptied the full magazine into the mass of birds. He loaded again, trying to protect head and face as he did so, and triggered another seven-shot volley. A 12-bore gun firing express loads at close range is a thunderous weapon, but the second volley had no more effect than the first-if anything, it only heightened his attackers' fury. Bruce beat a fighting retreat to the shelter of a distant willow thicket, and only then did the crows begin to draw away. I can half-remember the old tales of hunters who spoke with respect and wonder of the mob frenzy of embattled crows, warning of the risks that a lone gunner might face. I always discounted such yarns, regarding them as rural precursors of Daphne du Maurier's "The Birds." But since then I have known 146 JOHN MADSON Bruce Stiles-and have often hunted crows over owl decoys. For pure, unalloyed hatred, nothing in nature can compare to Crow's attitude toward the large owls. Housecats and hawks can incite crows, but their fullest fury is reserved for their living nightmare. To Crow, a large owl is every dark and fearful dream come true. All of Crow's wit and wisdom is to no avail against the onslaught of Owl, and all crows know it. In the black midwatches of the night, a great horned owl will sweep through a roost like the Angel of Death, soft and silent and consummately deadly. Nor is it just a matter of one owl seizing one crow; the owl may strike repeatedly, feasting only on heads and brains. It is a nightmare that Crow remembers through all the daytimes of his life, regarding owls with a primal dread and hatred that most men have happily forgotten. When Crow discovers a great horned owl during the security of daylight, there is an instant clamor. From near and far, shrieking crows rally to the special battle cry that seems reserved for such times, crowding around the owl in a whirl of outrage. In full light they are more than a match for their enemy, and they press the advantage as Owl glowers at their insults, strangely reluctant to fight back. There is a running debate about whether crows actually strike an owl, but I have crept to within easy binocular range and watched crows strike feathers from the back of a wild, unrestrained great homed owl. (But never from the front, with those baleful eyes and terrible feet.) Crows could surely destroy an owl if they were willing to pay the price, but I've never heard of them doing so. Not a living owl, anyway. When one of my classmates in graduate college was doing pheasant research in northern Iowa, he sometimes managed to work in a bit of crow hunting. Early one fall he borrowed a mounted snowy owl from his major professor's collection, attached the owl to a tall pole, and erected it in a woodlot on his study area. The results were something less than spectacular; during most of the morning he never fired a shot. Come noon, he left the decoy in place and joined his farmer-cooperator at lunch. Five cups of good Norwegian coffee later, Chris returned 146 JOHN MADSON Bruce Stiles-and have often hunted crows over owl decoys. For pure, unalloyed hatred, nothing in nature can compare to Crow's attitude toward the large owls. Housecats and hawks can incite crows, but their fullest fury is reserved for their living nightmare. To Crow, a large owl is every dark and fearful dream come true. All of Crow's wit and wisdom is to no avail against the onslaught of Owl, and all crows know it. In the black midwatches of the night, a great homed owl will sweep through a roost like the Angel of Death, soft and silent and consummately deadly. Nor is it just a matter of one owl seizing one crow; the owl may strike repeatedly, feasting only on heads and brains. It is a nightmare that Crow remembers through all the daytimes of his life, regarding owls with a primal dread and hatred that most men have happily forgotten. When Crow discovers a great homed owl during the security of daylight, there is an instant clamor. From near and far, shrieking crows rally to the special battle cry that seems reserved for such times, crowding around the owl in a whirl of outrage. In full light they are more than a match for their enemy, and they press the advantage as Owl glowers at their insults, strangely reluctant to fight back. There is a running debate about whether crows actually strike an owl, but I have crept to within easy binocular range and watched crows strike feathers from the back of a wild, unrestrained great homed owl. (But never from the front, with thosc baleful eyes and terrible feet.) Crows could surely destroy an owl if they were willing to pay the price, but I've never heard of them doing so. Not a living owl, anyway. When one of my classmates in graduate college was doing pheasant research in northern Iowa, he sometimes managed to work in a bit of crow hunting. Early one fall he borrowed a mounted snowy owl from his major professor's collection, attached the owl to a tall pole, and erected it in a woodlot on his study area. The results were something less than spectacular; during most of the morning he never fired a shot. Come noon, he left the decoy in place and joined his farmer-cooperator at lunch. Five cups of good Norwegian coffee later, Chris returned 146 JOHN MADSON Bruce Stiles-and have often hunted crows over owl decoys. For pure, unalloyed hatred, nothing in nature can compare to Crow's attitude toward the large owls. Housecats and hawks can incite crows, but their fullest fury is reserved for their living nightmare. To Crow, a large owl is every dark and fearful dream come true. All of Crow's wit and wisdom is to no avail against the onslaught of Owl, and all crows know it. In the black midwatches of the night, a great homed owl will sweep through a roost like the Angel of Death, soft and silent and consummately deadly. Nor is it just a matter of one owl seizing one crow; the owl may strike repeatedly, feasting only on heads and brains. It is a nightmare that Crow remembers through all the daytimes of his life, regarding owls with a primal dread and hatred that most men have happily forgotten. When Crow discovers a great homed owl during the security of daylight, there is an instant clamor. From near and far, shrieking crows rally to the special battle cry that seems reserved for such times, crowding around the owl in a whirl of outrage. In full light they are more than a match for their enemy, and they press the advantage as Owl glowers at their insults, strangely reluctant to fight back. There is a running debate about whether crows actually strike an owl, but I have crept to within easy binocular range and watched crows strike feathers from the back of a wild, unrestrained great homed owl. (But never from the front, with thosc baleful eyes and terrible feet.) Crows could surely destroy an owl if they were willing to pay the price, but I've never heard of them doing so. Not a living owl, anyway. When one of my classmates in graduate college was doing pheasant research in northern Iowa, he sometimes managed to work in a bit of crow hunting. Early one fall he borrowed a mounted snowy owl from his major professor's collection, attached the owl to a tall pole, and erected it in a woodlot on his study area. The results were something less than spectacular; during most of the morning he never fired a shot. Come noon, he left the decoy in place and joined his farmer-cooperator at lunch. Five cups of good Norwegian coffee later, Chris returned OUT HOME 147 to his blind. A band of crows was just retiring with victorious jeers, the decoy had vanished, and the woodlot was white with a blizzard of owl feathers. Winter coming on. Time for the Grand Reunion. Some northern crows never do migrate, but the typical crow is as migratory as any other passerine bird and undertakes a journey that is as prompt and methodical as a robin's. It's not usually far. Few crows migrate more than five hundred milesgoing just far enough to assure themselves of food supplies that won't be locked up by prolonged snow cover. Most of the crows reared in the north tend to winter in our mid-latitudes between the 40th and 35th parallels. At the eastern end of this band there is a great center of wintering crow populations in the vicinity of Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries . One of the midwestern centers is near the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. A little farther west, large numbers of crows winter along the Arkansas and Missouri rivers. From early December to February, immense populations of crows concentrate in the regions that lie just south of winter and just north of spring. In 1886, ornithologist Samuel Rhoads said: "In winter a radial sweep of 100 miles, described from the city of Philadelphia and touching the cities of New York, Harrisburg, and Baltimore, will include in the daytime in its western semicircle fully two-thirds of the crows inhabiting North America, and at night an equal proportion in its eastern half./I Which wasn't true, of course. Similar claims could have been made all the way out to Kansas City, and beyond. The part to believe isn't Rhoads' flawed conclusion but the impression that inspired it, for the daily flights of crows to and from their great winter roosts might lead a man to say almost anything. Such roosts may be small in area, but huge in terms of occupancy. In 1886 and 1887, up to 200,000 crows occupied twenty acres in Arlington National Cemetery. There was a twenty-five-acre grove in New Jersey near Hainesport that held as many as 300,000 birds. In Pennsylvania, the twenty-acre Davis Grove in Montgomery County had over 200,000 crows. OUT HOME 147 to his blind. A band of crows was just retiring with victorious jeers, the decoy had vanished, and the woodlot was white with a blizzard of owl feathers. Winter coming on. Time for the Grand Reunion. Some northern crows never do migrate, but the typical crow is as migratory as any other passerine bird and undertakes a journey that is as prompt and methodical as a robin's. It's not usually far. Few crows migrate more than five hundred milesgoing just far enough to assure themselves of food supplies that won't be locked up by prolonged snow cover. Most of the crows reared in the north tend to winter in our mid-latitudes between the 40th and 35th parallels. At the eastern end of this band there is a great center of wintering crow populations in the vicinity of Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries . One of the midwestern centers is near the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. A little farther west, large numbers of crows winter along the Arkansas and Missouri rivers. From early December to February, immense populations of crows concentrate in the regions that lie just south of winter and just north of spring. In 1886, ornithologist Samuel Rhoads said: "In winter a radial sweep of 100 miles, described from the city of Philadelphia and touching the cities of New York, Harrisburg, and Baltimore, will include in the daytime in its western semicircle fully two-thirds of the crows inhabiting North America, and at night an equal proportion in its eastern half." Which wasn't true, of course. Similar claims could have been made all the way out to Kansas City, and beyond. The part to believe isn't Rhoads' flawed conclusion but the impression that inspired it, for the daily flights of crows to and from their great winter roosts might lead a man to say almost anything. Such roosts may be small in area, but huge in terms of occupancy. In 1886 and 1887, up to 200,000 crows occupied twenty acres in Arlington National Cemetery. There was a twenty-five-acre grove in New Jersey near Hainesport that held as many as 300,000 birds. In Pennsylvania, the twenty-acre Davis Grove in Montgomery County had over 200,000 crows. OUT HOME 147 to his blind. A band of crows was just retiring with victorious jeers, the decoy had vanished, and the woodlot was white with a blizzard of owl feathers. Winter coming on. Time for the Grand Reunion. Some northern crows never do migrate, but the typical crow is as migratory as any other passerine bird and undertakes a journey that is as prompt and methodical as a robin's. It's not usually far. Few crows migrate more than five hundred milesgoing just far enough to assure themselves of food supplies that won't be locked up by prolonged snow cover. Most of the crows reared in the north tend to winter in our mid-latitudes between the 40th and 35th parallels. At the eastern end of this band there is a great center of wintering crow populations in the vicinity of Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries . One of the midwestern centers is near the junction of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. A little farther west, large numbers of crows winter along the Arkansas and Missouri rivers. From early December to February, immense populations of crows concentrate in the regions that lie just south of winter and just north of spring. In 1886, ornithologist Samuel Rhoads said: "In winter a radial sweep of 100 miles, described from the city of Philadelphia and touching the cities of New York, Harrisburg, and Baltimore, will include in the daytime in its western semicircle fully two-thirds of the crows inhabiting North America, and at night an equal proportion in its eastern half." Which wasn't true, of course. Similar claims could have been made all the way out to Kansas City, and beyond. The part to believe isn't Rhoads' flawed conclusion but the impression that inspired it, for the daily flights of crows to and from their great winter roosts might lead a man to say almost anything. Such roosts may be small in area, but huge in terms of occupancy. In 1886 and 1887, up to 200,000 crows occupied twenty acres in Arlington National Cemetery. There was a twenty-five-acre grove in New Jersey near Hainesport that held as many as 300,000 birds. In Pennsylvania, the twenty-acre Davis Grove in Montgomery County had over 200,000 crows. 148 JOHN MADSON The immense winter roosts in the vicinity of Chesapeake Bay caught the attention of early naturalists, and both Wilson and Audubon wrote graphic accounts of some of the great crow roosts they had visited there. The general localities of some roosts have been used for centuries, and individual roosts may extend beyond the memories of the oldest men. The main criterion, of course, is shelter. Roosts may be in thick conifers-not necessarily large trees, but dense enough to give good protection during storm periods. Or the roosts may be in deciduous groves, and on some islands in the Delaware River the roosts were in reeds, coarse patches of grass, and low brushwood. The big Arsenal Island roost in the Mississippi River at St. Louis provided trees for roosting in ordinary weather, and during severe weather and storm periods the crows often spent the night on the island's snow-covered sandbars or even on the ice shelves that surrounded it. The greatest crow concentrations today are surely in prairie regions where gun pressure is light, human population is thin, and wintering conditions are ideal. There is a big catalpa grove in central Kansas today that is said to harbor ten million crows in midwinter. State Forestry, Fish, and Game Director Richard Wettersten found this hard to believe-until he saw it. "I don't know how many there are," Dick told me recently. "But when you get into a roost that size a few zeros more or less don't have much meaning. It's beyond comprehension, no matter how you figure it." The biggest crow roost I've ever seen was on the north side of Lake Fort Cobb, about fifty miles southwest of Oklahoma City. For years, crows had wintered there on a south-facing slope that was densely grown with jack oaks, few of which were much over twenty feet high. Relatively safe (it was on state parklands ), this roost was somewhat sheltered from northern wind and was in a region where peanuts and other crops were generally accessible all winter. We never knew how many crows there were in that roost. It was commonly held that there were at least eight million birds during the roost's peak occupancy during January, but Karl 148 JOHN MADSON The immense winter roosts in the vicinity of Chesapeake Bay caught the attention of early naturalists, and both Wilson and Audubon wrote graphic accounts of some of the great crow roosts they had visited there. The general localities of some roosts have been used for centuries, and individual roosts may extend beyond the memories of the oldest men. The main criterion, of course, is shelter. Roosts may be in thick conifers-not necessarily large trees, but dense enough to give good protection during storm periods. Or the roosts may be in deciduous groves, and on some islands in the Delaware River the roosts were in reeds, coarse patches of grass, and low brushwood. The big Arsenal Island roost in the Mississippi River at St. Louis provided trees for roosting in ordinary weather, and during severe weather and storm periods the crows often spent the night on the island's snow-covered sandbars or even on the ice shelves that surrounded it. The greatest crow concentrations today are surely in prairie regions where gun pressure is light, human population is thin, and wintering conditions are ideal. There is a big catalpa grove in central Kansas today that is said to harbor ten million crows in midwinter. State Forestry, Fish, and Game Director Richard Wettersten found this hard to believe-until he saw it. "I don't know how many there are," Dick told me recently. "But when you get into a roost that size a few zeros more or less don't have much meaning. It's beyond comprehension, no matter how you figure it." The biggest crow roost I've ever seen was on the north side of Lake Fort Cobb, about fifty miles southwest of Oklahoma City. For years, crows had wintered there on a south-facing slope that was densely grown with jack oaks, few of which were much over twenty feet high. Relatively safe (it was on state parklands ), this roost was somewhat sheltered from northern wind and was in a region where peanuts and other crops were generally accessible all winter. We never knew how many crows there were in that roost. It was commonly held that there were at least eight million birds during the roost's peak occupancy during January, but Karl 148 JOHN MADSON The immense winter roosts in the vicinity of Chesapeake Bay caught the attention of early naturalists, and both Wilson and Audubon wrote graphic accounts of some of the great crow roosts they had visited there. The general localities of some roosts have been used for centuries, and individual roosts may extend beyond the memories of the oldest men. The main criterion, of course, is shelter. Roosts may be in thick conifers-not necessarily large trees, but dense enough to give good protection during storm periods. Or the roosts may be in deciduous groves, and on some islands in the Delaware River the roosts were in reeds, coarse patches of grass, and low brushwood. The big Arsenal Island roost in the Mississippi River at St. Louis provided trees for roosting in ordinary weather, and during severe weather and storm periods the crows often spent the night on the island's snow-covered sandbars or even on the ice shelves that surrounded it. The greatest crow concentrations today are surely in prairie regions where gun pressure is light, human population is thin, and wintering conditions are ideal. There is a big catalpa grove in central Kansas today that is said to harbor ten million crows in midwinter. State Forestry, Fish, and Game Director Richard Wettersten found this hard to believe-until he saw it. "I don't know how many there are," Dick told me recently. "But when you get into a roost that size a few zeros more or less don't have much meaning. It's beyond comprehension, no matter how you figure it." The biggest crow roost I've ever seen was on the north side of Lake Fort Cobb, about fifty miles southwest of Oklahoma City. For years, crows had wintered there on a south-facing slope that was densely grown with jack oaks, few of which were much over twenty feet high. Relatively safe (it was on state parklands ), this roost was somewhat sheltered from northern wind and was in a region where peanuts and other crops were generally accessible all winter. We never knew how many crows there were in that roost. It was commonly held that there were at least eight million birds during the roost's peak occupancy during January, but Karl OUT HOME 149 Jacobs, then game chief of the Oklahoma Department of Wildlife Conservation, flatly denied that. "It's a ridiculous exaggeration ," Dutch used to say, "and I doubt if there have ever been more than four million crows in that roost!" How many were there, really? Pick a figure. My conservative training used to limit me to a million, but you could quadruple that and no one would argue. I only know that when I first saw it, it was one of those crowd phenomena that rank with July in Disneyland. We would stay at the Lakeside Motel just across the sandy road from the main roost, and sometimes when there was no moon I would sneak over into the roost to hear the universal mutter and babble that went on all night. From a short distance away it was like the sound of an ocean at flood tide, or night wind blowing through a forest of pliant trees-the ceaseless murmur of an indescribable multitude of large birds talking in their sleep. From closer in, it would resolve to low warbles that were strangely robinlike, or muted henlike cluckings and a wild assortment of grumblings and night-mewings, but rarely any caw fragments or anything that resembled conventional crow noises. The crow has seven pairs of syringeal muscles that give it a wide range of vocalization-and the subtle undertones of that range can be heard only in a crowded roost on a moonless winter night. It's been said that Satan never really sleeps. Nor do his imps, apparently. With the approach of day, in the limbo of light and darkness that my Ozark friends say is "before the crow and after the owl," the muttering would begin to take on definition. The roost was awakening. For about an hour the crows stayed put, shifting about and expressing themselves in a rising babble. It was as if they were staying in bed to organize their thoughts about the day's work, and in no particular hurry to be up and at it. If a few crows flew up out of the trees, the main host would shout angrily, telling them to get the hell back in bed and stop bucking for promotion. Finally, however, several thousand crows would take wing and begin milling above the main roost, yelling down at their comOUT HOME 149 Jacobs, then game chief of the Oklahoma Department of Wildlife Conservation, flatly denied that. "It's a ridiculous exaggeration ," Dutch used to say, "and I doubt if there have ever been more than four million crows in that roost!" How many were there, really? Pick a figure. My conservative training used to limit me to a million, but you could quadruple that and no one would argue. I only know that when I first saw it, it was one of those crowd phenomena that rank with July in Disneyland. We would stay at the Lakeside Motel just across the sandy road from the main roost, and sometimes when there was no moon I would sneak over into the roost to hear the universal mutter and babble that went on all night. From a short distance away it was like the sound of an ocean at flood tide, or night wind blowing through a forest of pliant trees-the ceaseless murmur of an indescribable multitude of large birds talking in their sleep. From closer in, it would resolve to low warbles that were strangely robinlike, or muted henlike cluckings and a wild assortment of grumblings and night-mewings, but rarely any caw fragments or anything that resembled conventional crow noises. The crow has seven pairs of syringeal muscles that give it a wide range of vocalization-and the subtle undertones of that range can be heard only in a crowded roost on a moonless winter night. It's been said that Satan never really sleeps. Nor do his imps, apparently. With the approach of day, in the limbo of light and darkness that my Ozark friends say is "before the crow and after the ow!," the muttering would begin to take on definition. The roost was awakening. For about an hour the crows stayed put, shifting about and expressing themselves in a rising babble. It was as if they were staying in bed to organize their thoughts about the day's work, and in no particular hurry to be up and at it. If a few crows flew up out of the trees, the main host would shout angrily, telling them to get the hell back in bed and stop bucking for promotion. Finally, however, several thousand crows would take wing and begin milling above the main roost, yelling down at their comOUT HOME 149 Jacobs, then game chief of the Oklahoma Department of Wildlife Conservation, flatly denied that. "It's a ridiculous exaggeration ," Dutch used to say, "and I doubt if there have ever been more than four million crows in that roost!" How many were there, really? Pick a figure. My conservative training used to limit me to a million, but you could quadruple that and no one would argue. I only know that when I first saw it, it was one of those crowd phenomena that rank with July in Disneyland. We would stay at the Lakeside Motel just across the sandy road from the main roost, and sometimes when there was no moon I would sneak over into the roost to hear the universal mutter and babble that went on all night. From a short distance away it was like the sound of an ocean at flood tide, or night wind blowing through a forest of pliant trees-the ceaseless murmur of an indescribable multitude of large birds talking in their sleep. From closer in, it would resolve to low warbles that were strangely robinlike, or muted henlike cluckings and a wild assortment of grumblings and night-mewings, but rarely any caw fragments or anything that resembled conventional crow noises. The crow has seven pairs of syringeal muscles that give it a wide range of vocalization-and the subtle undertones of that range can be heard only in a crowded roost on a moonless winter night. It's been said that Satan never really sleeps. Nor do his imps, apparently. With the approach of day, in the limbo of light and darkness that my Ozark friends say is "before the crow and after the ow!," the muttering would begin to take on definition. The roost was awakening. For about an hour the crows stayed put, shifting about and expressing themselves in a rising babble. It was as if they were staying in bed to organize their thoughts about the day's work, and in no particular hurry to be up and at it. If a few crows flew up out of the trees, the main host would shout angrily, telling them to get the hell back in bed and stop bucking for promotion. Finally, however, several thousand crows would take wing and begin milling above the main roost, yelling down at their com- 150 JOHN MADSON panions and making wild threats and promises. This would ignite a wild enthusiasm that could be heard several miles away on a quiet morning, and an immense canopy of crows would rise out of the trees and begin streaming out to the day's feeding points. They dispersed widely, often thirty miles or more, hunting that Main Chance. During the day their numbers were unimpressive , although we could always see a few crows feeding in fields, and bits of black embroidery in the high Oklahoma sky. But by late afternoon, the day's work nearly over, they would begin staging in hedgerows, creek bottoms, and woodlots, gathering by tens and hundreds for the return home. Their great numbers were again becoming apparent. This was not as obvious if there was a strong wind that kept the return flights close to the ground. But on quiet days the crows would come streaming in high, the flocks coalescing into clouds, and the clouds stretching in unbroken streams of black freebooters that sometimes spanned the horizons, growing ever denser as the dark legions converged on the main roost. On such days when they approached the roost area from on high, they might plunge almost straight downward for a thousand feet, and then flash falconlike with half-closed wings over treetops and fields. They would rarely go directly to the roost during clear, quiet evenings, but loafed in adjacent fields between sunset and bedtime, not settling into the roost until full dark. We've often wondered, watching a settling-in, if there is an order of seniority. Crows roosting in lower parts of the trees are often whitewashed by morning; can this be a sign of social ordering? And are the dominant crows the whitewashers or the whitewashees? As a whitewashee of some experience, I can't say much for being on the receiving end. But I can1t say much for roosting in a treetop, either. We were usually at Fort Cobb to hunt crows, which is not to say that we hunted the roost. This is simply never done by bonafide crow hunters who prefer to work miles from a roost with mouth-blown call and camouflagel meeting crows on ground 150 JOHN MADSON panions and making wild threats and promises. This would ignite a wild enthusiasm that could be heard several miles away on a quiet morning, and an immense canopy of crows would rise out of the trees and begin streaming out to the day's feeding points. They dispersed widely, often thirty miles or more, hunting that Main Chance. During the day their numbers were unimpressive , although we could always see a few crows feeding in fields, and bits of black embroidery in the high Oklahoma sky. But by late afternoon, the day's work nearly over, they would begin staging in hedgerows, creek bottoms, and woodlots, gathering by tens and hundreds for the return home. Their great numbers were again becoming apparent. This was not as obvious if there was a strong wind that kept the return flights close to the ground. But on quiet days the crows would come streaming in high, the flocks coalescing into clouds, and the clouds stretching in unbroken streams of black freebooters that sometimes spanned the horizons, growing ever denser as the dark legions converged on the main roost. On such days when they approached the roost area from on high, they might plunge almost straight downward for a thousand feet, and then flash falconlike with half-closed wings over treetops and fields. They would rarely go directly to the roost during clear, quiet evenings, but loafed in adjacent fields between sunset and bedtime, not settling into the roost until full dark. We've often wondered, watching a settling-in, if there is an order of seniority. Crows roosting in lower parts of the trees are often whitewashed by morning; can this be a sign of social ordering? And are the dominant crows the whitewashers or the whitewashees? As a whitewashee of some experience, I can't say much for being on the receiving end. But I can't say much for roosting in a treetop, either. We were usually at Fort Cobb to hunt crows, which is not to say that we hunted the roost. This is simply never done by bonafide crow hunters who prefer to work miles from a roost with mouth-blown call and camouflage, meeting crows on ground 150 JOHN MADSON panions and making wild threats and promises. This would ignite a wild enthusiasm that could be heard several miles away on a quiet morning, and an immense canopy of crows would rise out of the trees and begin streaming out to the day's feeding points. They dispersed widely, often thirty miles or more, hunting that Main Chance. During the day their numbers were unimpressive , although we could always see a few crows feeding in fields, and bits of black embroidery in the high Oklahoma sky. But by late afternoon, the day's work nearly over, they would begin staging in hedgerows, creek bottoms, and woodlots, gathering by tens and hundreds for the return home. Their great numbers were again becoming apparent. This was not as obvious if there was a strong wind that kept the return flights close to the ground. But on quiet days the crows would come streaming in high, the flocks coalescing into clouds, and the clouds stretching in unbroken streams of black freebooters that sometimes spanned the horizons, growing ever denser as the dark legions converged on the main roost. On such days when they approached the roost area from on high, they might plunge almost straight downward for a thousand feet, and then flash falconlike with half-closed wings over treetops and fields. They would rarely go directly to the roost during clear, quiet evenings, but loafed in adjacent fields between sunset and bedtime, not settling into the roost until full dark. We've often wondered, watching a settling-in, if there is an order of seniority. Crows roosting in lower parts of the trees are often whitewashed by morning; can this be a sign of social ordering? And are the dominant crows the whitewashers or the whitewashees? As a whitewashee of some experience, I can't say much for being on the receiving end. But I can't say much for roosting in a treetop, either. We were usually at Fort Cobb to hunt crows, which is not to say that we hunted the roost. This is simply never done by bonafide crow hunters who prefer to work miles from a roost with mouth-blown call and camouflage, meeting crows on ground OUT HOME 151 where both hunter and bird must be at their best. Our gunning was done far out along the flyways during the day, and never in or near the main concentration I can remember unproductive days when ten hours of effort earned us little more .than the sand in our eyes and the growl in our bellies, and other days when we grew slug-nutty from gun recoil. But f__'r some reason, more than anything else, I recall the Dance on Monkey Mountain. There is a singular mound rising out of the flat sandy country north of Fort Cobb. We never knew why it was called Monkey Mountain, nor did any of the locals, but it was obviously a checkpoint for the morning crow run. A friend and I were lurking in the Mailbox Blind early one day, not far away. There was a bitter, gritty wind gusting out of the Panhandle, sweeping up the flanks of Monkey Mountain as a flight of late-rising crows arrived. They appeared over the distant mound dipping and rising, hanging above the summit with a wild display of aerobatics, bouncing and rolling in the wind currents and sometimes seeming to fly backward. This first bunch of hot pilots was joined' by others until there were probably fifty crows up there, dancing in a stacked aerial ballet that must have lasted ten minutes. We'd never seen anything like it, and it puzzled us until my companion exclaimed: UWhy, 1/11 be damned if they don/t seem to be enjoying themselves!" It must have been crazy up there, some erratic and violent combination of wind currents above the summit. Yet, we were sure that those crows were not inextricably locked in currents from which they couldn/t escape. They were handling themselves with confidence and a great deal of inventive skill, master aerialists at play, wrestling with the wild wind out of sheer exuberance, like an airline captain doing aerobatics in a vintage biplane on his day off. Inevitably, a great roost draws the attention of men embittered by the real or imagined wrongs done them by crows. Most often, such attention is expressed with shotguns as landowners work over the big roosts in an effort to kill as many OUT HOME 151 where both hunter and bird must be at their best. Our gunning was done far out along the flyways during the day, and never in or near the main concentration I can remember unproductive days when ten hours of effort earned us little more than the sand in our eyes and the growl in our bellies, and other days when we grew slug-nutty from gun recoil. But Lr some reason, more than anything else, I recall the Dance on Monkey Mountain. There is a singular mound rising out of the flat sandy country north of Fort Cobb. We never knew why it was called Monkey Mountain, nor did any of the locals, but it was obviously a checkpoint for the morning crow run. A friend and I were lurking in the Mailbox Blind early one day, not far away. There was a bitter, gritty wind gusting out of the Panhandle, sweeping up the flanks of Monkey Mountain as a flight of late-rising crows arrived. They appeared over the distant mound dipping and rising, hanging above the summit with a wild display of aerobatics, bouncing and rolling in the wind currents and sometimes seeming to fly backward. This first bunch of hot pilots was joined by others until there were probably fifty crows up there, dancing in a stacked aerial ballet that must have lasted ten minutes. We'd never seen anything like it, and it puzzled us until my companion exclaimed: "Why, I'll be damned if they don't seem to be enjoying themselves!" It must have been crazy up there, some erratic and violent combination of wind currents above the summit. Yet, we were sure that those crows were not inextricably locked in currents from which they couldn't escape. They were handling themselves with confidence and a great deal of inventive skill, master aerialists at play, wrestling with the wild wind out of sheer exuberance, like an airline captain doing aerobatics in a vintage biplane on his day off. Inevitably, a great roost draws the attention of men embittered by the real or imagined wrongs done them by crows. Most often, such attention is expressed with shotguns as landowners work over the big roosts in an effort to kill as many OUT HOME 151 where both hunter and bird must be at their best. Our gunning was done far out along the flyways during the day, and never in or near the main concentration I can remember unproductive days when ten hours of effort earned us little more than the sand in our eyes and the growl in our bellies, and other days when we grew slug-nutty from gun recoil. But Lr some reason, more than anything else, I recall the Dance on Monkey Mountain. There is a singular mound rising out of the flat sandy country north of Fort Cobb. We never knew why it was called Monkey Mountain, nor did any of the locals, but it was obviously a checkpoint for the morning crow run. A friend and I were lurking in the Mailbox Blind early one day, not far away. There was a bitter, gritty wind gusting out of the Panhandle, sweeping up the flanks of Monkey Mountain as a flight of late-rising crows arrived. They appeared over the distant mound dipping and rising, hanging above the summit with a wild display of aerobatics, bouncing and rolling in the wind currents and sometimes seeming to fly backward. This first bunch of hot pilots was joined by others until there were probably fifty crows up there, dancing in a stacked aerial ballet that must have lasted ten minutes. We'd never seen anything like it, and it puzzled us until my companion exclaimed: "Why, I'll be damned if they don't seem to be enjoying themselves!" It must have been crazy up there, some erratic and violent combination of wind currents above the summit. Yet, we were sure that those crows were not inextricably locked in currents from which they couldn't escape. They were handling themselves with confidence and a great deal of inventive skill, master aerialists at play, wrestling with the wild wind out of sheer exuberance, like an airline captain doing aerobatics in a vintage biplane on his day off. Inevitably, a great roost draws the attention of men embittered by the real or imagined wrongs done them by crows. Most often, such attention is expressed with shotguns as landowners work over the big roosts in an effort to kill as many 152 JOHN MADSON as possible and drive the rest away. If they make a steady job of it, they'll probably disperse the crows and break up the main roost into a number of smaller roosts. In terms of actual decimation , it has practically no effect. During the 1920s and 1930s, however, an efficient method of crow-killing was devised in large roosts. At 4 A.M. on March 9, 1938, a crow roost near Sharon, Wisconsin , was dynamited, killing "well over 5,000 crows." But this was admitted to be of "small account" when compared to the great bombings in more southerly roosts. There was a time when Oklahoma roosts were regularly bombed in an effort, ill-advised or not, to control crop depredation . An Oklahoma crow bomb consisted of a crude sheet-iron tube about twelve inches long and three inches in diameter, with a wire hook at the open end. A stick of dynamite was inserted in this tube, and a couple of pounds of iron pellets poured in around the explosive. During the day, when the crows were gone, trees in the roost were festooned with bombs hung at all elevations; they were wired in series and detonated electrically. The blast came late at night when the roost was filled with sleeping crows. Sometimes, as in the Wisconsin shot, the circuit was closed just before dawn-and perhaps on a Friday night or early Saturday morning so that schoolchildren would be available to gather dead crows. Through all the annals of man's relentless persecution of wildlife, nothing can compare to the instantaneous carnage that occurred when a roaring storm of shrapnel and a wave of concussion swept through a crowded crow roost. Near Harrisburg, Illinois, a thousand steel cannisters containing dynamite and scrap iron were hung in a roost and detonated at one time, and next morning 100,000 dead crows were picked up. We haven't heard of a great roost-bombing for years, which isn't to say that roosts aren't still being destroyed. Our friend Floyd Kringer, an Illinois game biologist, believes that his crow populations are thinner than they were a few years ago-and he knows why. Back in 1951, Floyd and a friend checked the crow populations 152 JOHN MADSON as possible and drive the rest away. If they make a steady job of it, they'll probably disperse the crows and break up the main roost into a number of smaller roosts. In terms of actual decimation , it has practically no effect. During the 1920s and 1930s, however, an efficient method of crow-killing was devised in large roosts. At 4 A.M. on March 9,1938, a crow roost near Sharon, Wisconsin , was dynamited, killing "well over 5,000 crows." But this was admitted to be of "small account" when compared to the great bombings in more southerly roosts. There was a time when Oklahoma roosts were regularly bombed in an effort, ill-advised or not, to control crop depredation . An Oklahoma crow bomb consisted of a crude sheet-iron tube about twelve inches long and three inches in diameter, with a wire hook at the open end. A stick of dynamite was inserted in this tube, and a couple of pounds of iron pellets poured in around the explosive. During the day, when the crows were gone, trees in the roost were festooned with bombs hung at all elevations; they were wired in series and detonated electrically. The blast came late at night when the roost was filled with sleeping crows. Sometimes, as in the Wisconsin shot, the circuit was closed just before dawn-and perhaps on a Friday night or early Saturday morning so that schoolchildren would be available to gather dead crows. Through all the annals of man's relentless persecution of wildlife, nothing can compare to the instantaneous carnage that occurred when a roaring storm of shrapnel and a wave of concussion swept through a crowded crow roost. Near Harrisburg, Illinois, a thousand steel cannisters containing dynamite and scrap iron were hung in a roost and detonated at one time, and next morning 100,000 dead crows were picked up. We haven't heard of a great roost-bombing for years, which isn't to say that roosts aren't still being destroyed. Our friend Floyd Kringer, an Illinois game biologist, believes that his crow populations are thinner than they were a few years ago-and he knows why. Back in 1951, Floyd and a friend checked the crow populations 152 JOHN MADSON as possible and drive the rest away. If they make a steady job of it, they'll probably disperse the crows and break up the main roost into a number of smaller roosts. In terms of actual decimation , it has practically no effect. During the 1920s and 1930s, however, an efficient method of crow-killing was devised in large roosts. At 4 A.M. on March 9,1938, a crow roost near Sharon, Wisconsin , was dynamited, killing "well over 5,000 crows." But this was admitted to be of "small account" when compared to the great bombings in more southerly roosts. There was a time when Oklahoma roosts were regularly bombed in an effort, ill-advised or not, to control crop depredation . An Oklahoma crow bomb consisted of a crude sheet-iron tube about twelve inches long and three inches in diameter, with a wire hook at the open end. A stick of dynamite was inserted in this tube, and a couple of pounds of iron pellets poured in around the explosive. During the day, when the crows were gone, trees in the roost were festooned with bombs hung at all elevations; they were wired in series and detonated electrically. The blast came late at night when the roost was filled with sleeping crows. Sometimes, as in the Wisconsin shot, the circuit was closed just before dawn-and perhaps on a Friday night or early Saturday morning so that schoolchildren would be available to gather dead crows. Through all the annals of man's relentless persecution of wildlife, nothing can compare to the instantaneous carnage that occurred when a roaring storm of shrapnel and a wave of concussion swept through a crowded crow roost. Near Harrisburg, Illinois, a thousand steel cannisters containing dynamite and scrap iron were hung in a roost and detonated at one time, and next morning 100,000 dead crows were picked up. We haven't heard of a great roost-bombing for years, which isn't to say that roosts aren't still being destroyed. Our friend Floyd Kringer, an Illinois game biologist, believes that his crow populations are thinner than they were a few years ago-and he knows why. Back in 1951, Floyd and a friend checked the crow populations OUT HOME 153 along the Kaskaskia River bottoms in southwestern Illinois. On one route they made twenty-one stops and had "canopies of birds" over them at nineteen of those stops. But that was when the Kaskaskia bottoms were prime country. For example, there was one farmer who controlled a solid square mile of big timber in the bottoms-a tangled maze of little backwater sloughs and oxbow ponds, with broad flats of alluvial timber with huge burr oaks and soft maples. Today, that entire 640 acres of wild floodplain timber is gone, replaced by corn and soybeans. Floyd has no doubt that the local crow decline wasn't caused by shooting (he doesn't know of a single dedicated crow hunter in his territory today) but by habitat losses that have destroyed prime roosting and nest sites. There are still crows along the Kaskaskia, and doubtless always will be, but not in the numbers that were met there before the stream channelizers began making the world safe for soybeans. Are there fewer crows nationally than there were twenty years ago? Perhaps there are-although U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service reports don't tend to support this. The breeding bird survey that is conducted each June in the United States and parts of Canada indicates no significant change in the continental crow population from 1966 to 1974. There appeared to be a slight population upturn in the East and a slight downturn in the West during this period, but each balanced the other out. When a statistical regression is plotted for that eight-year period, the curve is flat-indicating no significant population change one way or the other. If these surveys are valid, is our impression of fewer crows invalid? Not necessarily. The apparent decline of crows in some areas could reflect a fragmentation of crow concentrations as a result of roost destruction, and a widescale reduction in the sizes of crow flocks. At any rate, recent federal regulations governing crow hunting don't actually reflect a decrease in the national crow population. When the U.S.-Mexico Migratory Bird Treaty was amended in 1972, Mexico insisted on specifically including Corvidae in an effort to protect certain jays. Crows were part of the package. As OUT HOME 153 along the Kaskaskia River bottoms in southwestern Illinois. On one route they made twenty-one stops and had "canopies of birds" over them at nineteen of those stops. But that was when the Kaskaskia bottoms were prime country. For example, there was one farmer who controlled a solid square mile of big timber in the bottoms-a tangled maze of little backwater sloughs and oxbow ponds, with broad flats of alluvial timber with huge burr oaks and soft maples. Today, that entire 640 acres of wild floodplain timber is gone, replaced by corn and soybeans. Floyd has no doubt that the local crow decline wasn't caused by shooting (he doesn't know of a single dedicated crow hunter in his territory today) but by habitat losses that have destroyed prime roosting and nest sites. There are still crows along the Kaskaskia, and doubtless always will be, but not in the numbers that were met there before the stream channelizers began making the world safe for soybeans. Are there fewer crows nationally than there were twenty years ago? Perhaps there are-although U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service reports don't tend to support this. The breeding bird survey that is conducted each June in the United States and parts of Canada indicates no significant change in the continental crow population from 1966 to 1974. There appeared to be a slight population upturn in the East and a slight downturn in the West during this period, but each balanced the other out. When a statistical regression is plotted for that eight-year period, the curve is flat-indicating no significant population change one way or the other. If these surveys are valid, is our impression of fewer crows invalid? Not necessarily. The apparent decline of crows in some areas could reflect a fragmentation of crow concentrations as a result of roost destruction, and a widescale reduction in the sizes of crow flocks. At any rate, recent federal regulations governing crow hunting don't actually reflect a decrease in the national crow population. When the U.S.-Mexico Migratory Bird Treaty was amended in 1972, Mexico insisted on specifically including Corvidae in an effort to protect certain jays. Crows were part of the package. As OUT HOME 153 along the Kaskaskia River bottoms in southwestern Illinois. On one route they made twenty-one stops and had "canopies of birds" over them at nineteen of those stops. But that was when the Kaskaskia bottoms were prime country. For example, there was one farmer who controlled a solid square mile of big timber in the bottoms-a tangled maze of little backwater sloughs and oxbow ponds, with broad flats of alluvial timber with huge burr oaks and soft maples. Today, that entire 640 acres of wild floodplain timber is gone, replaced by corn and soybeans. Floyd has no doubt that the local crow decline wasn't caused by shooting (he doesn't know of a single dedicated crow hunter in his territory today) but by habitat losses that have destroyed prime roosting and nest sites. There are still crows along the Kaskaskia, and doubtless always will be, but not in the numbers that were met there before the stream channelizers began making the world safe for soybeans. Are there fewer crows nationally than there were twenty years ago? Perhaps there are-although U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service reports don't tend to support this. The breeding bird survey that is conducted each June in the United States and parts of Canada indicates no significant change in the continental crow population from 1966 to 1974. There appeared to be a slight population upturn in the East and a slight downturn in the West during this period, but each balanced the other out. When a statistical regression is plotted for that eight-year period, the curve is flat-indicating no significant population change one way or the other. If these surveys are valid, is our impression of fewer crows invalid? Not necessarily. The apparent decline of crows in some areas could reflect a fragmentation of crow concentrations as a result of roost destruction, and a widescale reduction in the sizes of crow flocks. At any rate, recent federal regulations governing crow hunting don't actually reflect a decrease in the national crow population. When the U.S.-Mexico Migratory Bird Treaty was amended in 1972, Mexico insisted on specifically including Corvidae in an effort to protect certain jays. Crows were part of the package. As 154 JOHN MADSON a result, federal law now limits crow hunting in the forty-eight contiguous states to a season not to exceed 124 days each year. The states are given an option to set season dates, limits, shooting hours, methods of take, or whatever-but crows may not be sport-hunted during peak nesting periods or taken by any means except firearms, archery, or falconry. However, none of this applies to crow control in cases of actual or impending depredation, or wIlen crow concentrations may endanger public health. In an odd reversal of priorities, roost-bombing is not outlawed by the new regulations-which curtail the use of a shotgun and a dozen decoys but freely permit dynamite cannisters to be hung in the nesting groves and winter roosts of a protected migratory bird. It's all very confusing, but Crow will probably figure it out before we do. It is likely, and appropriate, that a coyote will use the bones of the last man as a scent post. Beyond that, it's just as likely that the bones of the last coyote will be picked clean by Crow. If any critter was designed to endure and ultimately prevail, it is Crow. Brigand and buffoon, forever adjusting and adapting and cocking a suspicious eye at the situation, he'll hang in there from sheer perversity, his own bird to the last. As poet Ted Hughes wrote: "Crow-flying the black flag of himself." And at the end, when Crow follows the long procession of species out of a world grown cold under its dying sun, he'll exit laughing. 154 JOHN MADSON a result, federal law now limits crow hunting in the forty-eight contiguous states to a season not to exceed 124 days each year. The states are given an option to set season dates, limits, shooting hours, methods of take, or whatever-but crows may not be sport-hunted during peak nesting periods or taken by any means except firearms, archery, or falconry. However, none of this applies to crow control in cases of actual or impending depredation, or when crow concentrations may endanger public health. In an odd reversal of priorities, roost-bombing is not outlawed by the new regulations-which curtail the use of a shotgun and a dozen decoys but freely permit dynamite cannisters to be hung in the nesting groves and winter roosts of a protected migratory bird. It's all very confusing, but Crow will probably figure it out before we do. It is likely, and appropriate, that a coyote will use the bones of the last man as a scent post. Beyond that, it's just as likely that the bones of the last coyote will be picked clean by Crow. If any critter was designed to endure and ultimately prevail, it is Crow. Brigand and buffoon, forever adjusting and adapting and cocking a suspicious eye at the situation, he'll hang in there from sheer perversity, his own bird to the last. As poet Ted Hughes wrote: "Crow-flying the black flag of himself." And at the end, when Crow follows the long procession of species out of a world grown cold under its dying sun, he'll exit laughing. 154 JOHN MADSON a result, federal law now limits crow hunting in the forty-eight contiguous states to a season not to exceed 124 days each year. The states are given an option to set season dates, limits, shooting hours, methods of take, or whatever-but crows may not be sport-hunted during peak nesting periods or taken by any means except firearms, archery, or falconry. However, none of this applies to crow control in cases of actual or impending depredation, or when crow concentrations may endanger public health. In an odd reversal of priorities, roost-bombing is not outlawed by the new regulations-which curtail the use of a shotgun and a dozen decoys but freely permit dynamite cannisters to be hung in the nesting groves and winter roosts of a protected migratory bird. It's all very confusing, but Crow will probably figure it out before we do. It is likely, and appropriate, that a coyote will use the bones of the last man as a scent post. Beyond that, it's just as likely that the bones of the last coyote will be picked clean by Crow. If any critter was designed to endure and ultimately prevail, it is Crow. Brigand and buffoon, forever adjusting and adapting and cocking a suspicious eye at the situation, he'll hang in there from sheer perversity, his own bird to the last. As poet Ted Hughes wrote: "Crow-flying the black flag of himself." And at the end, when Crow follows the long procession of species out of a world grown cold under its dying sun, he'll exit laughing. ...