Nature Boy has hunkered down for the winter. He’s packed on his extra layer of insulation — mostly former Doritos — and started viewing the latest lineup of odd British comedy talk shows.
When he runs low on chips or craft beer, he bundles up to brave the soggy outdoors to restock.
In many ways, Nature Boy seems to have modelled his winter-survival method on that of the neighbourhood’s grey squirrels.
Madame Squirrel, for example, might spend summer and fall stocking her pantries from the oak, hazelnut and evergreen trees in the yards around here, but when the cold snaps, she shifts to a lower gear. Wrapping herself in her luxurious fur tail — this season’s squirrel couture — she snuggles down in her cosy tree cavity for lazy days of napping, nibbling and squirrel Netflix.
When the temperature rises, she, too, emerges, bundled up in a fluffy coat. She visits some of her stockpiles of nuts, seeds and other bonbons — she has so many, she finds it hard to keep track — and chases away any cheeky Steller’s jays getting too close to her supplies.
Like Nature Boy, when she returns to her nest, her cheeks bulge with snacks.
The jay-bird, however, approaches the season differently. Unlike most other songbirds, he isn’t interested in tropical winter vacations, preferring to leave B.C.’s mountain forests to visit family on the coast. Call him a “songbird” to his beak and he’ll screech like Johnny Rotten. Or, if he’s in a good mood, he’ll merely taunt you with his repertoire of cat.
Our neighbourhood jay is cocky, bold and doesn’t mind taking the mickey out of anyone — particularly the likes of la-di-dah Madame Squirrel. He and his mates prefer bivouacking among the branches of conifer trees and fluffing up their feather jackets to keep warm. To survive a cold night, they need to fuel up during the day.
I suspect Steller’s jay is hanging around this winter because he’s found one of Madame Squirrel’s forgotten food caches.
The local geese have decided to stay put, too. When temperatures remain above freezing, the geese enjoy their polar-bear-style dips in the ponds at Beacon Hill Park or Panama Flats or in the Gorge. When the water freezes, the geese simply move onto the ice.
An overwintering goose snuggles into its super-insulated goose-down jacket, balancing yogi-like on one leg. Its legs have a built-in heat-recovery circulation system that transfers heat in the blood flowing down to the feet into the blood flowing up toward the body.
We know that honey bees shiver through the winter in their much-reduced hives. The honey they made and stored in the combs during summer fuels them through cold weather. However, solitary bees haven’t those luxuries — of either stored honey or company. Most solitary bees overwinter in their birth cells, either as new adults or not-yet-adults.
As for bumble bees, late-summer queens spend their fall feeding and fattening up. When the cold weather arrives, they head for a handy hole in the ground or nearby compost heap to hibernate.
Deer, of course, have no problem surviving any season in this region, provided they avoid municipalities undergoing culls. The garden buffets might not serve as many tasty blossoms or lettuces, but remain bountiful. The weather poses no challenge, either.
We’re not likely to ever see government notices asking us not to feed the deer, elk or other wild ungulates. Prince George-area residents received such a notice from B.C. Forests, Lands and Natural Resources this month, cautioning them against putting out hay, pellets or grain for the animals.
“Ungulates, as ruminants, have food requirements that vary seasonally,” the notice said. “It takes weeks for the bacteria in their digestive tract to adapt to changes in diet. A sudden shift from natural winter forage to supplemental feed can result in sickness or death.”
I can relate. Nature Boy is no ungulate, but suddenly switching out his winter diet of Doritos and ale for, say, carrots and broccoli juice can also result in sickness … or at least very bad humour.
