The Art of Paying Attention: Regal Horned Lizard

Regal Horned Lizard  © Beth Surdut 2015

The lizard population around my house is so busy, so varied, that it’s difficult to choose just one to talk to you about.
On my way to the trash bin this week, zebra tailed lizards, who like big open spaces so they can keep track of predators, skittered, stopped, lifting their black and white-striped tails high and gently waving them, languidly, like underwater sea anemones, to let me know my presence threatened their delicate existence. Then off they ran in completely different directions.
Chunky Desert Spiny or sleek whiptails tend to scuttle for cover under rocks, into holes they’ve dug into sandy soil, up trees, under anything prickly or shady. There’s one particular spiny lizard who I call The Sentry, because he often watches me from the same spot just underneath the pink oleander hedge, his head turning slightly as he tracks me.

Regal Horned Lizard drawing © Beth Surdut 2015 colored pencil on paper

But not the Regal Horned Lizard. The operative word for this spiky, fringed, multi-colored, speckled, phrynosoma (that’s with a "ph") solare is SLOW.
Sloooow eaters, but no slouches, horned lizards are ant specialists that can eat as many as 2,500 harvester ants in a day. So stop with pesticides, bring on the horny toads, which are not toads at all.
The crown of horns on their heads is so indigestible, it can pierce through a snake from the inside as it tries to swallow the lizard.
And then, there’s the blood. If you look very carefully, you might see just a horned head poking out of a hole in the morning after a cool desert night. The lizard is letting the sun warm the blood in its head and when the blood is warm enough, it circulates through the rest of the body. While that is impressive, there is a defense mechanism right out of a science fiction movie. When threatened, this rather cute little beast can squirt foul tasting blood from its eyes. Not only is the action shocking, but also discouraging to a number of predators like foxes, dogs—the blood just doesn’t taste good.
And here was a Regal Horned Lizard right on my front stoop. Pointed and crenelated, stubby and shy, lizard was so intent on watching a grasshopper that neither one moved when I appeared. Patience, such patience, I thought as I stood next to the lizard, admiring him with my camera.

Regal Horned Lizard and Grasshopper, Tucson, Arizona  photo:©Beth Surdut

Grasshopper did not move.
My camera snapped at them.
Lizard glanced at me, then back to Grasshopper.
Snap, said my camera. Lizard did not twitch.
Grasshopper held his ground.
So smart, I thought. Grasshopper knows the speed of a lizard. (Because at that point I didn’t know I was looking at the slowpoke of the lizard world.)
Playing it safe, I thought. Oh, the wisdom of the wild.

I shifted my stance and Lizard lost his focus,
Didn’t squirt blood from his eyes, but scuttled into the blue agave whose spines would protect him from me.
 Grasshopper did not move. Closer inspection allowed. Surely, Grasshopper would leap now.
 But it is hard to leave when one leg is stuck to the pavement.
 Impossible to leave when you are desiccated, preserved, perfect, but dead.
The Regal Horned Lizard (Tumamoc in the language of Tohono O’odham) and I had patiently stalked a dead grasshopper.
Or had we? I called Research Scientist Matt Goode at the University of Arizona’s Desert Laboratory on Tumamoc Hill. He told me that, although it was possible the lizard was interested in the grasshopper, much more likely, lizard wanted to place his sticky tongue on the ants around grasshopper. Or, thought he was hiding from me, blending in with his fringed perimeter and rock-like coloration.
So even though I thought I was paying attention, in part because of what I’d learned about other lizards, it wasn’t just about looking, it was about looking it up.
I also checked in with the National Phenology Network based on the University of Arizona's main campus. Phenology–that’s "ph" like phrynosoma— refers to studying seasonal behavior in plants and animals, especially in relationship to climate. The Phenology Network coordinates Nature’s Notebook online, where anyone, including you, can sign up to log in their observations about species behavior. Scientists can then tap into our data to use for studies that can help define the future of our environment and these critters I so delight in sharing with you.
For more illustrated animal nature drawings, go to http://www.bethsurdut.com/critters.html
To hear the audio on NPR , where this piece was produced for Arizona Spotlight by Mark McLemore at Arizona Public Media, click https://radio.azpm.org/s/34256-the-art-of-paying-attention-regal-horned-lizard/
Like what you see? Interested in  telling your own critter  stories and learning  ways to pay attention?
Sign up for my workshop October 20 during Tucson Phenology Week at Tucson Botanical Gardens
Click to register https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1nqcGLzMjG2p8UoS36T021fVQJTtIkDRr4QtAAHTjR5Y/viewform 

The Art of Paying Attention: Harris' Hawks

My Art of Paying Attention illustrated nature series can be heard on NPR 89.1 in Tucson. 
Links to audio and more visuals bottom of this page.

Stuart Udall wrote, “Get to know the land and the messages it whispers to those willing to listen.”

This is the city. No whispers here. The sound of cars and machinery is pretty constant, although never louder than the birdsong.

I heard noises on the patio, thought it was that large brassy ground squirrel that’d been hanging around, so I’d walked out to look.

Whoah!

Fierce, the Harris’ hawk glared at me with cantaloupe colored eyes.

Unsettling to be that close to an angry raptor.

Harris' Hawk drawing © Beth Surdut (all rights reserved)

 Hissed at me as it flew to a eucalyptus tree to scold me for all the neighboring animals to hear. “Annnh, annnh, annh.”

Big. Intent. Used to winning, I could tell.

Lush russet legs, substantial talons and a beak that could snatch the cat away.

The hawk returned the next afternoon, “annnh, annnh, annnh,” as it flew overhead.

The cat, no fool, crouched by the kitchen door, watching through the screen.

A baby Anna’s hummingbird, old enough to flash crimson at it moved its head, young enough to be fluff, allowed me to stand near and watch it watch me.

The next morning, hawk flies in, perches on a telephone pole, dominating for only a moment before two mockingbirds give him what-for, screeching, scolding, pecking at his head and chasing him across the sky. "Annhh, annhhh, annnh,” I call as his small but mighty escorts persist, giving Hawk no chance to turn back.

Within a week, where there had been one Harris’ hawk, there were now four large birds, and I had their attention.  It was around 7:30 in the morning, 88 degrees on its way to 107, and I was standing alongside the road by my house, holding aloft what I assumed was theirs—a dove, its head barely attached. I’d heard loud repetitive wheezy calls—not the drawn out annh annh, anhh, instead it was hwee hwee hwee hwee-- two voices, maybe more, back and  forth like echoes in a canyon.  I spotted a twosome in a leafy eucalyptus, a third called from a backlit branch down the road, and a fourth on a utility pole-- a risky choice,

I dangled the surprisingly heavy kill by its feet, then set it down and moved away into the shade and waited. But no one swooped in as the heat of the day clung to me.

Harris’ hawks hunt in a group, flushing out the prey into the talons of the others. The alpha female might mate with two males and the offspring can stay around as long as three years. The four here are all large, but two often stay together and the other two are somewhat smaller.

Monsoon season has just started.

Late in the day, the hawks stand in the steady rain, wings spread like dark angels.

Lightning splits the sky as the raptors call to each other, heir voices bouncing around the darkening night.

“Hwee, hwee, hwee” leads my eyes to one hawk’s silhouette on a branch about a half a block away and 20 feet up. Closer, just above my neighbor’s house, 3 hawks huddle like Shakespeare’s witches amidst the metal coils and wires on top of a wood pole, intent on the kill the largest hawk is standing on and tearing apart. Must be something big—rabbit or ground squirrel--I see thick strands of guts hanging from the hawk’s beak.

The next day, with visions of electricity, water, and dead hawks in my head, I track down the number for the raptor protection program at Tucson Electric Power. In the early morning after that, I stand under the power poles around my house as Jim from TEP points out the protective coverings that have resulted in the raptor population being larger in the city than outside it. He explains that the coverings should keep the birds’ wings, with an average span of 40-47 inches, from touching the power sources on either side, causing the bird to act as a conduit. But what about the water? I ask, and he tells me that the mixture of birds and water can still mean death.

I’ve been in the city only a few months. My neighbors, who have been here for years, say, “The animals seem to find you.” I think not. I think I’m the intruder in animal territory.

The radio series is produced by Emmy award winner Mark McLemore, host of Arizona Spotlight. Audio and comments 

Prints from Listening to Raven, winner of Tucson Festival of Books Award for Literary Non-Fiction

Art of Paying Attention drawings including  bunnies, stinkbugs, hummingbirds and lizards

Critters on the radio

I listen to ravens, and paddle with alligators in wild and scenic places, but I know that true adventure can be found just outside your window.
Starting July 17, the first of my multi-platform The Art of Paying Attention Nature series will be airing on Arizona Spotlight KUAT Friday at 8:30 a.m. and 6:00 p.m. and Saturday at 5:00 p.m. My drawings of the critters I talk about will be featured on AZPM's website.https://radio.azpm.org/kuaz.azspotlight/ where you can listen anytime online.https://radio.azpm.org/p/azspotlight-features/2015/7/17/68383-the-art-of-paying-attention-the-rabbit-warren/
 
First up: The art of paying attention.Once you start looking, it is hard to stop.
Next week: Stink bug love. Warning: this piece contains graphic (insect) sex.
Find more drawings - and true stories - about spirited critters on this blog and at listeningtoraven.com

 http://www.bethsurdut.com/gallery-.html

An invitation from Raven and Coyote

Raven  Carrying the Compass of  My Heart

                                    www.listeningtoraven.com

Raven, Coyote and I walk together often, 
discussing who really created the Milky Way.  

Come with us. 

Breathe in the desert that sits in your mouth in the middle of the night, begging for water.

Listen to that moment when the compass stays in your pocket and you are, like all else,

a mote of dust sparkling in the sun. 

With ravens as the catalyst, the non-fiction essays, shared stories, and intricate drawings in Listening to Raven invite readers to observe, with unbounded curiosity, the wildlife that flies, crawls, and skitters along with us in our changing environment.

Share your stories. We love to hear them.

You can support the project by purchasing a print.

An informative interview about my work and award winning book-in-progress aired on Arizona Public Television March 3, 2014

https://originals.azpm.org/p/on-azill/2014/3/3/30806-award-winning-artists-expresses-admiration-for-ravens/?c=1501 and this radio piece aired March 7 https://radio.azpm.org/p/kuaz-featured/2014/3/6/30926-arizona-spotlight-for-march-7-2014/