Conclusion - Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker

It landed on the snag. I was, I must admit, too awestruck to even think about my camera. It was huge. The description fit. It hitched it's neck, and turned it, looking behind. I was later told by one expert on that bird that even an Ivory Billed Woodpecker probably could not do that. But then, he had never seen a living Ivory Billed Woodpecker, and this bird did that. As it walked out a limb, certain distinguishing markings were very clear to me. Unfortunately, my forgotten camera sat idle in my hands, and I just gawked.

      A pileated woodpecker has a white line running from it's head to it's wing, disappearing under its wing when the wings are folded, as this one was. The Ivory Billed Woodpecker's white line goes up onto the wing, and down the length of it.

      This bird had that white line, the full length of the wing.

      That marking was very clear to me. The first rays of the morning sun spotlighted the bird as he reached the end of the limb. My camera suddenly came awake, and I shot again and again. The bird flew. Afterwords, I went over what I saw and what I did not see in my mind carefully. The angle of my view was pretty steep. I had no memory of seeing the white shield on the back. I felt, at some point, though, I could have seen that. But, it was not in my memory afterwords.

I heard the "Bam, bam, bam, -- bam!" drumming sound, totally different from the Pileated wood Pecker, three more times that morning. Then it was time to go home. Deer season started up again the next day, and there would be hunters swarming this area, so I stayed away a few days.

I knew I would need all the help a great lab could give me with those pictures. From our professional days, I knew just the lab. I instructed them to "push" the film two stops. It was still very early in the morning for a film camera. I had no digital camera at that time. It was at about the time, 2006, when digital was beginning to take over, film was about to become a thing of the past.

It took several days, during which I knew I had the first modern day photo of an Ivory Billed Woodpecker. I was torn. Should I make it public, and risk an influx of people running the birds off? Or should I keep their secret, hopefully allowing them to make some sort of comeback in that very isolated place? The habitat was great. The Ouachita Mountains arose out of that river, with thousands of acres of pine timber. Down river about a mile, there was a very large plot of beetle killed pines, very attractive to large woodpeckers. They simply strip the dead bark off the tree, and eat the beetles underneath. Hundreds of acres.

      When the pictures arrived, I had the best books I could find in hand, showing all the markings. But, after studying the best photo, I knew it would not hold up. The bird had turned toward me, and the wing markings were indistinct. The best photo was not totally sharp.

I was still torn. I knew what I knew, but I had no real evidence. I decided to contact the man who was, it seemed, considered to be the world's expert on that bird. I discussed my situation several times with him, and I sent him my picture. After studying it, he said he needed a video. One questionable photo was not enough. While I knew I was lacking in proof, I did see that bird well, and there was not a bit of doubt in my mind. I bought a good video camera, and went to work. I set up several blinds, some with bait stations. About fifteen mornings that winter, I left home at twoAM, arriving in the river bottoms at daylight. But, to make a long story short, I never heard that particular drumming sound again, though I saw many Pileated Woodpeckers, and never another sighting. I downloaded the actual sounds of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, made over half a century ago, and amplified and broadcast them out. The Blue Jays went crazy. Their sound is similar. I videoed several birds responding to that call, but they all turned out to be a dead end. One particular bird that responded seemed to sound a little different. I only saw it through my video viewfinder, and my video only showed a few flaps of its wings before it disappeared over the tree tops. Since my only view was through the video view finder, I could tell little about the real size of the bird. I could not stop the action at a point where I could see markings that would tell me something. I called the expert. I asked him, "If I send you a video I have, will you call me back and give me an opinion?" He replied, "I'd be glad to, Pat." I sent it. A few hours later, I managed to stop the video at a critical point. Markings showed. I knew it was not what I had hoped. I waited to see if he was a man of his word. He never replied. Since he was not a man of his word, even to give me a negative answer, that told me a lot about this expert. That was our last communication.

     What I saw, and heard, that one morning in November just seemed to be there no longer.

The last morning I spent looking for the Ivory Billed Woodpecker, the Corps of Engineers did a control burn on my plot, and the fire ran me out. My blinds and bait stations were destroyed. I knew by now the Corps of Engineers were curious about what I was doing there so often, and a local farmer was also, seeing me drive by his house so often. He sent word to me, "If there are Ivory Billed Woodpeckers down there, I'll shoot every one of them." I sent word back, "If you can find one down there, you're a better man than I am." I decided it was time to drop this search, and let that totally isolated spot become isolated again.

      I knew I could never conveince anybody else with my lack of evidence. But I know what I saw, that morning in November. 2006. And to my dying day, I will always remain conveinced that the Ivory Bill Woodpecker was alive and well in the Fourche River bottoms in 2006. Their secret is safe. Maybe, that's as it should be. That was one difficult decision I didn't have to make. Making such a claim as I have made here, without proof, makes one seem to be somewhat of a kook, so I have since been hesitant to talk about this, and I have told few people. I felt they may have raised young that year in that hollow tree I saw the one in. But if so, they have moved on. I pray they are making some sort of a comeback in those thousands of acres of the Ouachita National forest near by. I won't bother them again. Six years have passed. I decided to tell it here.

The world needs to know.

Please do not ask for details about the location. I will not tell. That area is totally isolated, with no good reason for people to come in, except to deer hunt. It needs to stay that way.

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This story was the most read story of 2012.  Thanks for your time, and your attention.

Book Launching and Story Reading

My reading  of my story, "The Summer of my Broken heart," which until recently had been the most-read story of my blog, was recently read at Tales From the South at the Starving Artist Cafe in North Little Rock, Ar. It can be heard on the radio, KUAR 89.1 FM at 7:PM  in central Arkansas.on Valentine's Day. For other areas of the country, The Tales from the South program will be aired at later times. It will later be heard in many countries.
The video may be viewed at this link: www.youtube.com/talesfromthesouth2  Scroll down to the seventh reader.
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The official launching for my book, SPREADING WING was held at Wing, Arkansas, the small mountain community in which I grew up, in the beautiful old church I attended as a child. It was totally wonderful, one of my best days ever! I saw so many old friends of my childhood. My children, Corey and Kinley were there. They met Edith Turner, 90, a life long resident of Wing, who was my mother's friend. My mother passed away when they were infants. Now they are slightly one side or the other of 40. They just stayed close to her, hung on her every word, just could never let her go as she told them stories of their grandmother. Kinley said, "Holding her hand was like finally having the chance to hold the hand of my grandmother." Wow! Corey and several others, at great risk to life and limb, climbed up to the old classroom above. The stairs are long gone. This church was built in 1880, and that classroom has been unused for 70-80 years at least,  nobody living knows for sure. Maybe a lot longer. Nephew Ken Gillum stated, " It was like stepping back in time." The name of my aunt, Leta Lazenby, who had left Wing forever in 1930 was written on the chalk board. It was as plain as if it was written yesterday. Wow!
      The book launching went amazingly well. Those mountain and valley folks always support their own, even one away for 50 years. I'm sure many of them just remembered me as one of the Gillum young'ns. I've now sold out of the first printing, and printing number two is on the way to me. Of course, it's always available on amazon.com. And the Kindle conversion is for sale on Amazon too, US and Europe. Signed books are available in Arkadelphia at Covenant Book Store.
     A book signing has been scheduled for March 9th at the Hastings Bookstore in Russellville, Ar. 1 - 3 PM. Books will be available there as soon as my new order comes in. In Wing, Arkansas, signed editions of Spreading Wing can be found at Gilliland's Store  Wing is not shown on most road maps anymore, but is halfway between Rover and Briggsville on Hwy. 28, 13 miles from Danville. Across the road, wonderful pizza is available on selected days.
  I'll get back to part two of my Ivory Billed Woodpecker story next post. Thanks for Reading!   

Winter of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker

My brother Harold and I fished a remote and totally deserted stretch of the Fourche La Fave River one summer. The river ran low, and it was shallow there anyway, but I knew where the few deep holes were located, where the catfish just piled up during dry times in the heat of the day. 

In August of 2006, I was walking out from fishing that hole, and a very large woodpecker flew from a dead snag that had a large hole in it, near the top. I was struck by the bird's size, and its markings.

The Ivory Billed Woodpecker had been considered extinct for 50+ years. It is similar in size and appearance to a Pileated Woodpecker. The Ivory Billed Woodpecker is slightly larger, it's back is solid white, while a Pileated is dark on top with white feathers below. When this bird flew from me, it looked white on top of it's back, and larger than any Pileated woodpecker I had ever seen.

Barbara and I flew out for six weeks of wandering Europe a day or so later, but I spent a lot of time, while there, thinking about that bird. I also spent a lot of time hobbling on my bum knee from wading that river so much. This was just after an Ivory Billed Woodpecker had, in many people's mind, been spotted in eastern Arkansas. Positive ID never happened in eastern Arkansas, despite a long hard search by many scientists.

When we returned, there was a break between deer seasons that fall. The deer have returned to the valley in large numbers now. I knew deer season was about the only time anyone else ever went into that area and the split deer season was now closed, so I would be alone. I left home at two AM, and arrived in those woods just before daylight. Immediately upon exiting my truck, I heard a drumming sound I had listened to on old tapes of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. "Bam, bam, bam, -- bam!" This was one identifying characteristic of that bird. The sound seemed to come from the old snag I had seen before. It was immediately answered from the area of another large hollow snag I knew about. I waited until dawn broke, and, with my camera ready, I eased toward that first snag. I began to hear woodpeckers working toward me. Suddenly, a very large one flew into my vision. It was much faster than I had ever seen a woodpecker fly before, flying more like a duck. As it exited my vision, I could hear it's wing noises, also a characteristic of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!" It was at least one hundred fifty feet from me, but the sounds were very distinct. It was still too early, and dark, for a flying picture.

I quickly set up a blind at the large snag, and I waited, camera ready. A Pileated Woodpecker flew in, stayed awhile, then left. The sun was just beginning to peek over Fourche Mountain, which arose sharply out of the far side of the river.

Then IT flew in, and changed my thinking forever.   Continued
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A book signing for SPREADING WING has been scheduled for Hastings Book Store, Russellville, Ar. March 9, 3-5 PM. I hope to see you there!
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This is the most - read blog post of 2012

                                                  

The Chickens - Conclusion

Carrying that heavy basket full of eggs to the house, I had to walk through the territory already staked out by Old Jersey, our mean natured old milk cow. Every day, it seemed, she saw me going into the hen house with my empty basket, and when I came out, she was waiting. You ever tried to outrun a cow while carrying a basket full of eggs? Every day, again and again? But still yet, she never caught me, though my load of eggs sometimes were the worse for wear. Is it any wonder I developed that angry but timid, distrustful look reflected in that face at a very early age? Do you understand why I much preferred wandering the bottoms and the mountains alone?

The egg business played out in a few years. The scuttlebutt going around was, the main business was really selling a lot of chicken feed to the farmers. Lots and lots of chicken feed. The hatchery sorta took second fiddle. A plus was, all that chicken feed came in pretty cloth sacks, all decorated up to make shirts and dresses from. Mom and my sisters spent a lot of time on the old singer sewing machine. It was not uncommon for Mom to give Dad a few scrap pieces of feed sack material for Dad to try and match when he headed to Plainview for yet another load of chicken feed. And, during that time, we ate lots and lots of eggs and chickens. Also, later in high school, I taught myself to pole vault with a well seasoned pine pole I stole from the chicken roost. In addition, I learned to run fast at an early age. So, I guess all's well that ends well.
Dad dispensed with the chickens. He was growing up a pretty good herd of registered Polled Hereford cattle, concentrating on high quality young herd bulls for sale. And me, I began my stage in life as a cowboy without a horse. But I didn't fare a lot better than I did with the chickens. We had some mean cows there, too. And those big bulls just dared me to step into THEIR pasture. Those young bulls were just beginning to strut their stuff, and they badly needed someone small enough to intimidate. I was the natural choice. A really good counselor could have had a field day, helping me get past all my hangups and strange quirks I developed before I got big enough to look out for myself. But then, Wing didn't have any of those kind of people. I don't doubt that maybe a few of those strange quirks are still hanging around in my psyche today. Or maybe you have already noticed. 

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Don't forget the official book launching of Spreading Wing, Saturday Feb.2, Wing, Arkansas. At the Wing Community Church. Story readings at 2:00, signings at 1:00 and afterwards. If you want a tasting of Barbara's special cookies, Louise Gillum's wonderful pies, and Phylllis Kitchell's great candy, come early. While they last. My specialty, salt pork and biscuits, will be available throughout, I'm sure. Hope to see you there! Wing is 13 miles SW of Danville on hwy. 28. Two miles west of Rover. Most road maps don't show Wing anymore. I don't know why.

What's With All the Chickens?

I know, I know, I did tell you I would get right back to the “Best of 2012” series. But Barbara just put up “the chickens picture” on my wall page, and I feel the need to explain this to you a little. This little need I have to explain myself may well be one of those strange quirks I'm trying to clear up with this story. Bear with me! And, thanks for your time, and your attention.

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 Refer to chickens picture below. I know, pic should be at the top. But I'm just lucky to be able to get it there at all, much less where I want it. This is a two part story.

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Somewhere around 1947 or so, an enterprising businessman from Plainview, ten miles from Wing, came up with a good idea. Build a chicken hatchery at Planiview. He was a good salesman, and he sold a passel of farmers in Wing and the surrounding area on the idea of producing the eggs. Always searching for ways to bring in a little bit more money, Dad went into the egg business. This was along about the time cotton was on its way out in the valley as a money crop. That overworked land was playing out.

      Dad built a long chicken house. It was to the left of the picture above. To the right, closer to the end of the lane, was the huge barn that was built to house the Gillum/Compton/Turner super mule breeding project of the nineteen teens or so. The barn, by the way, was so large, it cost twice as much to build as the house we lived in. That business did well, before the depression, but that business played out also, when tractors came into common use, also along about that time. Old Murt, the only super mule alive when I came along, successfully sidestepped the glue factory until the late forties. I rode him bareback a lot, and an old, skinny mule without a saddle can be a hard ride. Ida' bout' as soon walk.

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      At the time of this picture, 1949 or so, the chicken house was stocked and producing. I was just getting old enough to work the chickens. That's me in the picture. Though, as I'm sure you can see, I was added to the picture later. But the time line of both pictures is right. Look at that face. Do you see a trusting, relaxed, laid back, self confident soul in that face? I'll come back to that later.

      That year, Dad needed a second generation of chickens coming on, to replace the six hundred some odd laying hens, along with a cranky, mean bunch of roosters. The hens were playing out, and getting just too tired to produce an egg a day reliably. And the roosters, each with a very large flock of ladies to attend to, ensuring those eggs were fertile, were playing out too. So the next generation was housed in the barn. These young chickens were producing some eggs, but the eggs were too small for market value. Thus we ate a lot of eggs. During the day, they were turned loose to forage for themselves, cut down on the feed bill. I can count about two hundred in the picture, but there were six hundred or so out there somewhere.

      I would like to tell you it was my job, every afternoon before dark, herding each of those six hundred chicken back into the barn to lock them up and protect them from the coyotes, coons, mink, foxes, etc. at night. Or, it might be an even better story if I told you I just started playing my little flute made out of a piece of fishing cane, marched down the lane to the barn, and they all just lined up and followed me in, a little trick I learned from The pied piper story. I just love to impress people. Actually, though, I can't say either of those things, because this is a true story. And, It's awfully hard for a Gillum to just outright tell a bald face lie, because of the Gillum Do Right Mechanism we're all infected with. So the actual truth is, we kept them shut up in the barn awhile until it became home. They came back in on their own at night. 

      My main job was gathering those eggs in a big, wire basket. Now, those chickens had big plans for those eggs. They planned to lay up about all the eggs they could sit on and keep warm, and eventually hatch out their own batch of baby chicks. Once they began to get the mindset to become a “settin' hen,”

they became very protective of their eggs. I had to steal many of those eggs out from under that mad hen. She would flog, squawk, and peck me. Then I went on down the line to the next nest. Those cranky roosters didn't like me one bit, either. I was invading their territory, and messin' with their women folk. I never knew when one of those cranky old roosters would be on my back, scratching, biting, and floggin'. And, it was not unheard of for me to approach a nest, only to find it occupied by a really big black snake, containing several egg-sized lumps in his belly.          .CONTINUED NEXT POST

The Wisdom of "Tuck" Hull

When I was young, about ten or so, Earvin "Tuck" Hull was one of my next door neighbors, as the crow flies. But in Fourche Valley, next door could mean a mile away, which was the case here. Earvin was a big time hunter and fisherman; it seemed to be the main focus in his life. The Game Warden, Bob Campbell, seemed to try to shadow Earvin a lot, apparently pretty sure he would eventually catch Tuck in an illegal situation. I have read in a book that he once did, when they were both young, and he hauled him to the jail at Danville. Tuck's brother, PC, went to Danville, and bailed him out, as that story went. But both were old men now, during my youth. It was common knowledge during my youth that Bob still chased Earvin, though I don't know how successful he was. I never heard of Bob catching Tuck in an illegal situation again.

      Tuck was fun to be around. He was a very good friend of mine, and told me lots of tales of his exploits. He often brought us a big batch of Buffalo, a rough fish with nice white meat but very bony, taken on one of his night time gigging trips. We ate them like candy. Since I was so young, my sisters just picked out those fine, forked bones for me. When they got tired of that, they just handed me small bites of wadded up cornbread, and I didn't know the difference. One day when we were talking, He told me, "If you will catch up a big jar of grasshoppers, and bring them over tomorrow morning, we'll go catfishing." Well, catfishing with Tuck was just about the most fun thing I could think of, so I got right on it.We arrived at the river just after lunch.

      There is a two or three mile stretch of the river that is very shallow. Even when the river runs normally, The water there appears to be only two feet deep or so. So, it was not a place where people normally fished, to my knowledge. That area was totally deserted, except during Deer season. And deer hunting was not very productive in that valley in those days.They had all been pretty well chased down and eaten up. A few would be ran out of the mountains by deer dogs and killed each season, But when someone legally killed one, it was big news. During my entire youth, I saw only one deer in those bottoms, though I spent most all of my spare time of my youth hunting, wandering and fishing there. Harold did kill one, just before he left Wing. He hid his gun under a log and carried it out. Harold went back to get his gun, and he couldn't find it. Dad went back with him later, and they looked again. Dad noticed a pile of leaves nearby, dug in it, and there it was. Harold must have been pretty excited when he killed that deer. Charley Bill Stout claimed his dogs were chasing it, and ran it over Harold, so it was half his deer, he said. So, Harold carried him a big batch of the meat.

      But Tuck showed me that day that there was more to that stretch of river, fishing wise, than met the eye to one not familiar with it. At intervals, several deep holes occurred. They were generally far apart, and the only practical way to find them was to wade the river for miles. But Tuck knew them all. And, he also knew that fishing there early or late in the day was not the thing to do, as I had always thought, where catfish were concerned. Early and late, the catfish ranged out in that shallow water, even in dry times, feeding. In the heat of the summer day, they came back to those few deep holes. And, since the river was low, food more scarce, they were still very hungry. Drop a big juicy grasshopper into the middle of one of those holes, and more often than not, a big cat was waiting.

     Earvin was using a fly rod. I used a long cane pole. We caught all the catfish we could easily carry out that day, some longer than my arm, something that I was just not used to in my fishing experience. I normally caught sunfish, perch, goggleyes, and mud cats. I memorized the hole locations, and after that I fished them regularly, though I had to walk many miles to do it.

      During years when grasshoppers were not readily available, my buddy and I discovered that if we rode to Danville with Dad when he went to buy cattle feed, or whatever, we could quietly sneak in the back door of the chicken processing plant, and we could usually pick up a gallon or two of the unusable chicken livers off the end of the conveyer belt before someone discovered us and ran us out. That worked even better. Those bad livers were destined for the garbage, anyway, so we never felt guilty about that.

Fifty Years Later -

      The river bottom in that shallow stretch  is just covered with big, slick rocks. So, I never get to fish many of those holes now. Getting there and back is too shallow for a boat, when the fishing there is good, in dry times. One has to get out and pull it most of the time. My knees just won't hold up to it. But one good hole is easy to get to, and I fish it regularly when the river runs low. Other people laugh at me when I head out catfishing around lunch time. But they just don't know, and where that hole is concerned, I just let them wallow in their ignorance. Lord knows, I spend more than my share of the time wallowing in that.