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Pileated Woodpeckers Provide Summer Entertainment for State Park User
With its zebra-striped head, crow sized body, and maniacally raucous call, the pileated woodpecker is hard to mistake for any other bird. When it comes to woodland birdlife, the species ranks high on my list of favorites. But getting a close look at one is never easy. As elusive as a spring gobbler and as shy as an emerging morel, the pileated woodpecker is an inhabitant of the deep forest. A master at avoiding humans, this is one forest species that is more often heard than seen. Evidence of their passing is easier to locate. Most common are the feeding cavities where the birds have conducted their relentless, lifelong quest for carpenter ants. The equivalent of feathered jack hammers; pileateds use powerful chiseled beaks to whack away three and four-inch hunks of bark and wood. On a calm day, the noise can be heard for a quarter mile. Once the heavy work is done and the easy ants have been captured and swallowed, pileateds use their long sticky tongues to probe tunnels for fugitives. By the time the task is complete, hardwood trunks often bear ten-inch deep scars that measure up to three feet in length. Pileateds also attack rotting logs. When these excavations are finished, the fallen trunks are as completely shredded as if they had been visited by foraging bears.
From the woodpecker infested bayous of southern Louisiana to northern forests, I've been attempting to spy on pileateds ever since I saw and heard my first one at Yellow River State Forest in 1965. For more than thirty years I've dreamed of photographing an active nest. After several near misses and countless seasons of failure, my opportunity finally came last winter when DNR Conservation Officer, Bill Fribley called to say that he had located an active pair in the woodlands of Ledges State Park. It was late March and the pair had already excavated two potential nesting cavities about a hundred yards apart. Setting a ground blind near the most promising location, I was delighted to observe [and photograph] both adults as they visited the site. Although I'd been through the drill before, I had a good feeling about the future of this site. In order to avoid disturbance, I stayed away from the pair for the next two months. When I returned in late May, the territory was barely recognizable. Instead of stark and open, the forest had become closed, dark and green. I was delighted to find the pileated pair still on territory. Better yet was the fact they were busily engaged in feeding three offspring. Like the forest itself, the pair had undergone a profound change. Burdened with the responsibility of providing an endless supply of ants and ant grubs to their open mawed young, the adults had lost much of their wariness. As long as human intruders displayed a modicum of respect, the birds showed little concern and presented an ideal opportunity for close up study of this unique bird species.
When the weekend arrived, I returned for serious viewing. The sun was still rising on a perfect morning as I settled in behind the camera tripod. I had literally been waiting for years to enjoy this event and I planned on making a full day of it. To celebrate the occasion, I'd even gone so far as to bring my own ants for lunch. Actually, it was a collection of peanut butter filled celery sticks topped with rows of partially imbedded dark raisins. My wife, Carol refers to the taste treat as 'Ants on a Log.' All things considered, no meal could have been more fitting for the occasion.
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