Let's go fly a (Mississippi) kite: feasting on cicadas at Belleplain

I hate cicadas. There. I said it. As a nature lover, I know I should appreciate them. I know I should marvel at the recent brood, which has emerged from the ground after a 17 year wait. And I know I should probably be thrilled by the otherworldly spaceship-kinda sound that indicates their presence in a stand of trees. I know all that, but I just don't like 'em. There you go.

When several of my naturalist Facebook friends started posting their cicada sightings and observations, I asked the question, "Which birds feast on cicadas?" One particularly enthusiastic friend practically shouted, "Kites!" The smallish (14 inches from bill tip to end of tail feathers) Mississippi kite and his larger (22 inch long) swallow-tailed cousin survive on dragonflies and cicadas they capture midair.

Only thing is, neither is an abundant visitor to New Jersey. They generally spend all their time south of the state, and though Mississippi kites have been making a very slow progression northward, it's still a big treat to find breeding pairs here. In any case, a handful of accidental visitors would be no match for the millions of cicadas emerging from their long slumber in the soils of New Jersey. We could only hope that word would get out on the kite network, and much as seafood enthusiasts head to shellfish festivals, these raptors would zoom up to the Garden State for a once-in-a-lifetime gustatory event.

And, indeed, it didn't take long before an observant birder announced a sighting at Belleplain State Forest in Cape May County. Not just one Mississippi kite made it up here for the feast: as many as 15 at a time have been spotted roosting in a dead tree along Lake Nummy. Neither Ivan nor I had ever seen one in New Jersey, let alone more than a dozen, so we weren't going to let this opportunity pass us by.

Belleplain is situated midway between the Atlantic and Delaware bayshores in upper Cape May County, in the lower range of the Pinelands. A fair amount of the 2000 acre property is designated for small campsites, and the kites were said to be visible from one of them in particular. We drove in, found a place to park at a trailhead near the side of the road and asked two passing hikers for quick directions to the campsite area. I was inclined to just head toward the most intense cicada hum, but Ivan preferred a more direct route.

As an entry-level Pinelands experience, you couldn't ask for a nicer venue than Belleplain. Pitch pines dominate the woods, and the sandy level ground is cushioned with fallen and dried needles and leaves. Plenty in interpretive signs are posted along the hiking path, alerting strollers to the plants and natural features around them. We even found a bit of history near Lake Nummy, which had once been a cranberry bog owned by the Meisle family before the state acquired the land in 1928. During the late 1930s, members of the Civilian Conservation Corps had actually dug the lake by hand where the bog had been, creating a new recreational feature while also planting scores of pine trees to re-establish the forest.

After a bit of unintended additional exploring, we found the (fortunately uninhabited) camping area and searched for the appropriate site from which to see the kites. Another birder was already at one of the lakefront sites, spotting scope poised. Hmm, I guess we found the right place. Indeed, we looked across the lake to the top of a tall dead tree and found a good dozen large birds visible to the naked eye. A quick glance through the binoculars confirmed it.

Watching the congregated kites seemed almost a bit voyeuristic, as several were passing the time by preening and grooming. Others would lift off occasionally, presumably to nab a cicada in mid-flight. In general, they seemed pretty happy with where they were, no worries about having to seek out food. We were able to study them to our heart's content, a rare opportunity in our own state.

So, I guess I have to give the cicadas credit: they brought us good luck with the kites. The luck for the cicadas, well, not as good.

Parvin State Park: more diversity in rural New Jersey

One of the big "gets" in New Jersey birding circles lately is the tufted duck, a medium-sized diver native to Europe and Asia. This fella has been hanging out on Thundergust Lake in Parvin State Park, so I stopped by  for a look after my visit to the Seabrook Educational and Cultural Center. It was a beautiful day, and I was able to spot the visitor from among a group of ring-necked ducks, who look very similar but for the head shape and the eponymous tuft.

It was my first visit to Parvin, and I was absolutely charmed when I arrived. Granted, it's the off season, but its placid environment was relaxing and refreshing, making it feel like the perfect place to cool off from the summer sun or go fishing during other parts of the year. Plus, its well-groomed parking area and entry gate feel like something out of the 1930s, for good reason, as I'd later discover.

As it turned out, the visit was a good complement to the Seabrook visit. Much like the vegetable processing town, this tranquil spot just inside the Pinelands was once a surprising hive of activity.

Parvin became a state park after land acquisitions started by New Jersey government in 1930, but it was without amenities until Civilian Conservation Corps workers arrived, sometime between 1933 and 1935. Over several years, teams of young men blazed trails, built log cabins with boat landings, and erected the picturesque entry pavilion and offices that welcome visitors to the beach. No Iron Mike stands on site to commemorate their work; the stability of their handiwork is monument in itself.

Not long after the CCC finished its work, Parvin entered what might be called its multinational phase. Though the dates and uses vary depending on which source you consult, the common link is that the park served as a temporary home for people whose lives were affected by World War II.

First, the Federal government capitalized on the park's remote setting to hold German prisoners of war sometime around 1942 or 1943. Some were transported to Seabrook to work, somewhat alleviating the wartime labor shortage.

The Japanese and Japanese-American history of the park is a bit less clear, but not surprising, given its general proximity to the large Issei/Nisei population of Seabrook. Some sources say Parvin hosted a summer camp for young Japanese American internees, while others contend that the property was used for temporary housing for those who'd left the internment camps after the war's end.

Finally, a contingent of Kalmyks stayed briefly at Parvin after their escape to the United States in 1952. The history of Kalmykia is long and complex, but these Buddhist Europeans had suffered the wrath of Stalin after they had rebelled against the Soviet Communist government. Many ultimately settled in the metropolitan Philadelphia region and the Monmouth County town of Howell.

None of this -- except the CCC work -- was even slightly evident when I visited. I wonder, though, how each of the groups reacted to living out among the pines. Did the Kalmyks yearn for the broad expanses of their homeland's steppes? Did the West Coast-based Japanese-Americans find the scrub pines to be adequate substitutes for massive redwoods? And did the Germans despair for the Black Forest?

One can only hope that none of them was visited by the Jersey Devil.

Iron Mike and the CCC

Ever have one of those weekends where you run into the same person in two different places, even though you didn't share your agenda with him, or, for that matter, even have plans set beforehand?

Memorial Day weekend was that way for us. Granted, it was three days instead of two, but still, it was kind of wild, especially considering the guy we ran into was Iron Mike.

We first met Mike on the grounds of the Montclair State School of Conservation, deep within Stokes State Forest. As you'll see, he really lives up to his nickname.

Mike in Stokes State Forest

Considering how firmly planted he seemed to be in Sussex County, we were surprised to run into him two days later at Roosevelt Park in Edison.

Mike in Edison

Both statues were accompanied by a plaque marking the statue as a representative of the thousands of Americans who participated in the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression. From 1933 to 1942, the CCC employed young urban men to plant millions of trees to restore the nation's depleted forests and prevent soil erosion. Besides providing good jobs to reduce the unemployment rate, the program enabled participants to help support their families, many of whom were living in poverty. Eventually, every state in the nation hosted at least one CCC camp, and the Corps' work extended to other wilderness activities like building roads, stocking rivers and lakes, and creating drainage systems to preserve valuable farmland. Many of their projects, including a litany of county, state and national parks, continue to make a positive impact to this day.

As I discovered through a little research, Iron Mike is the product of the effort of CCC alumni to increase awareness of the Corps and its impact. They're aiming to place at least one Mike in every state, and remarkably, Ivan and I found both New Jersey Mikes without knowing anything about the statue project. Stokes Mike has been there since 1996, while Edison Mike has gazed over Route 1 since 2003.

Not to quibble, but I found slight differences between the two iterations, explained perhaps by the seven year gap between their respective births. The Edison Mike is, shall we say, a bit more sinewy than his Stokes brother. Maybe they're cast from different molds, or perhaps the Middlesex County incarnation spent a little more time at the gym, but the variations make for a fun little game of observation. Go check them out and let me know what you think.

The Union Jack and deserting seamen: Sandy Hook's Halyburton memorial

Just before you get to Fort Hancock on Sandy Hook, you might see a smallish stone wall with a replica ship's mast just behind it. Topped by an American flag, the mast also holds the British Union Jack and the Red Ensign flown by the Royal Navy. Why is the flag of the United Kingdom being flown at what used to be a United States Army base?

The nearby Sandy Hook Lighthouse was commandeered by British troops during the American Revolution, but that doesn't have much to do with the story. Instead, this unusually-placed pole and monument memorializes the deaths of several crew of the HMS Assistance at Sandy Hook more than a year after the British Parliament voted to end the war and armed hostilities had pretty much come to an end.

Their deaths came not as the result of enemy fire or rough seas, but from the weather and possibly poor planning. The Assistance had been one of many British vessels stationed in and around New York Harbor, and in late December 1783 she was anchored in Sandy Hook Bay in preparation for the Navy's departure from the newly-victorious United States. Capitalizing on the proximity to land, several of the ship's crew decided to desert.

When their absence was discovered, the ship's captain ordered a recovery team to search Sandy Hook for the errant sailors. Led by Lieutenant Hamilton Douglas Halyburton, 12 crew members made their way to the Hook to begin their search on December 31. It's not clear whether they found any of the deserters; what is known is that Halyburton's group became trapped by a snowstorm, and all died of exposure.

According to the Park Service wayside marker near the memorial, the remains of the unfortunate party lay at the site of the memorial untouched until 1909 when workmen at Fort Hancock discovered them. They were moved to Cypress Hills National Cemetery in Brooklyn, which also holds the graves of Civil War Soldiers (both sides) and a memorial to the War of 1812. While the men of the Assistance are no longer present on Sandy Hook, the Depression-era Civilian Conservation Corps built a monument in their memory. The stone marker, made from local puddingstone, includes a plaque that tells the story of Halyburton and his search party, leaving out the part about the deserters.

You have to wonder: did the searchers find any of the deserters? If not, did any of the deserters survive? Could there still be remains of unhappy, frostbitten former British soldiers in the salt marshes of Sandy Hook?