Northern Pileated Woodpecker

About a quarter of a century ago the chestnut blight appeared in Dutchess county and commenced eliminating these beautiful trees. A few skeletons still stand. I was cutting wood near a dead monarch on the hill one November day when a NORTHERN WOODPECKER lit on the barkless trunk almost overhead. He looked me over, inspected the tree, tapped it a few times, then left with a rollicking rattle. I sat down, lit the old pipe and slacked the reins of memory.

In more ways than one dreams are inexplicable phenomena and not the least mysterious thing about them is the fact they often have no connection with recent thoughts or happenings. In the heart of the Maine woods why should I have dreamed that I was jumping from tree to tree in the depths of an African jungle, pursued by gorillas shooting at me with automatics? The gorillas apparently could not climb while I was an adept at that game. My yells for help disturbed Jo, for as I awoke and saw him looking at me in the dim light, the sharp barks of the pistol continued.

"That's only old Log-roller outside tapping for breakfast."

"Tapping? You call that tapping?"

"Sure. We fed him last winter and he's back again. Forgot to tack up the chunk of suet I lugged in for him. It's daylight; might as well turn out now we're awake."

When I opened the door and stepped out into the clear morning air the Pileated Woodpecker flew from the cabin to a dead tree, sidled around back of it, peering inquisitively, his flaming head a vivid patch against the blackgreen conifers. When Jo appeared with the suet, the bird came fearlessly around into full view. Whether he recognized the difference between us, I don't know, but I'm inclined to think it was the glimpse of food which emboldened him.

Jo placed it under an old wire kitchen sieve while the woodpecker, ten feet above his head on the tree, watched as he fastened it securely and stepped back several paces. Then, backing down in a series of short hops, the bird went after his breakfast like an April bear, tearing out chunks as large as could be dragged between the interstices of the screen. In a few minutes his mate appeared, but she was much shyer, refusing to participate in the spread until we had retreated some distance.

"That's a three-pound piece of fat, and you can see how long it would last without the wire. Last year I had five pounds: it was later than this, along in November, and the camp-robbers had come down from the north. Between them they cleaned it up in three days. They'd have done better than that if the last of it hadn't been hard to get through the grating."

Our supply lasted, owing to the absence of Whiskey Johnnie (one of the many names for our friend the camp-robber) over a week. The morning after it was finished I trailed the male Pileated until noon. During the five hours he lit on one hundred and sixty-three different trees. Most food was obtained from the dead gray or white birches, two short-lived species of trees. On one stump he remained sixteen minutes, tearing off large sections of decayed wood and flaying the papery bark off in sheets. It was a thoro, workmanlike job of demolition, and when it was completed the ground was littered with debris for yards around. It was absorbing to watch this black-white-and-red dynamo in action, and altho he was but a dozen feet above the earth, there frequently would be a sliver of bark in the air before the preceding one had reached the ground.

Some evergreens attracted slight attention as they offered few lurking places for grubs. Two spruces hit by lightning and rapidly dying were carefully inspected on the sides where the bark had been slivered off in long strips. Small acorns, eaten whole, rounded out the insectivorous menu. About noon he disappeared into the large-mouthed cavity of a poplar — perhaps for his midday siesta, for in the half an hour I waited he did not venture a single inquisitive peek.

In flight the "Logcock" is a conspicuous figure, the white markings beneath flashing in regular sequence as the wings open on the rise — close on the drop of the characteristic looping Woodpecker curves. Sometimes these parabolas are accentuated almost to segments of circles, and accompanied by chuckling calls. Imagination does not require much to picture an old hen flying overhead.