White-tailed deer add an intrinsic value to the landscape — almost everybody likes to watch them.
But as forests once again began growing in Ohio during the early part of the 20th century, deer gradually returned along with them, only this time with strict hunting regulations in place to protect the herd. Fast forward to today, and whitetails are so numerous that they are common not only in rural areas but also in suburbs and even large cities.
It’s entirely possible I was a belted kingfisher in a former life. The ultimate introverts of the bird world, kingfishers only spend time with others of their kind when raising their young; other than that, they’re fishing.
It’s one of the most intriguing sights in all of nature. Whether from a perch or a hover, the bird folds its wings and drops like a rock, hitting the water with a splash. Within a split second, an opaque nictitating membrane — a kingfisher’s third eyelid — closes horizontally over the eyeball to help protect it under water. The kingfisher doesn’t spear the fish, but instead grabs it between its upper and lower jawbones.
The bald eagle has been our national symbol since the Continental Congress first adopted the design for the Great Seal of the United States, six years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. But it wasn’t officially designated as our national bird until 2024.
One of the largest bald eagle nests ever discovered was the Great Nest, located near Vermilion in the early 20th century. By 1979, however, there were only four nesting pairs of bald eagles left in the Buckeye State, their numbers having been decimated by poisonous chemicals accumulating in the environment, mostly DDT.
Think about a fast, maneuverable flyer in nature and likely a hummingbird may come to mind — so agile it can even fly backward!
Aggressive mini-predators, dragonflies and damselflies hunt their prey on the wing, capturing other flying insects such as small flies, mosquitoes (hooray!), and, at times, other dragonflies. Larger dragonflies can even take down swallowtail butterflies. And their appetite
is voracious.
Glotzhober cites an early 1900s researcher in Florida who had reared a cageful of houseflies to present to a large dragonfly of the darner family for feeding. “The researcher kept feeding the dragonfly until he ran out of flies, and all in one sitting,” he says.
You might see one while you’re driving down an interstate highway or a country road: a relatively small, robin-sized bird that you might not think much about until you realize that it’s hovering 50 feet or so in the air, intently staring down at the grassy road berm below.<
More commonly known in years past as sparrow hawks, kestrels measure just a foot or less in body length, but have a wingspan of up to 2 feet, which aids them in their unique hovering style of hunting.
Despite their small size, kestrels possess the same fierce, intense nature of larger falcons, such as the peregrine, which also lives in Ohio. Kestrels, however, are no match for peregrines’ speed. In level flight, peregrines have been clocked at 70 miles per hour, and in a steep dive known as a stoop, they can reach 200 mph — the fastest creature on earth!
Steve Pollick, the former outdoors editor for The (Toledo) Blade, even after decades of international adventures and more awards than he can count, remains one of the most humble, unassuming, approachable, and genuinely friendly people anyone could ever meet.
Born in Cleveland and raised in Fremont, Pollick displayed early interests in both the outdoors and writing. He soon discovered, through his high school English teachers, that he had an innate ability to break down complex concepts and make them easy for people to understand.
He graduated from the University of Toledo and earned a master’s from Ohio State, then went to work as a general assignment reporter for The Blade. His editors noticed his well-researched, accurate stories, and offered him the coveted position of outdoors editor. He jumped at it.
In the small Lake Erie waterfront town of Fairport Harbor, east of Cleveland, Sheila Consaul is a celebrity of sorts.
Consaul, a communications consultant, has painstakingly turned the lighthouse into her summer dream home in those 15 years since she ponied up $71,010 for it at a U.S. General Services Administration federal auction. She lives and works there from May to October, then returns to her winter home in Virginia for the remainder of the year. The following photos are a peek inside the historic light, which celebrated its 100th anniversary in 2025.
Even with more than 11 million people living within its borders — some 282 folks per square mile — our state is still known nationally for its excellent sport hunting and fishing opportunities, particularly for wild turkeys, Lake Erie walleyes, and white-tailed deer.
Just as amazing, however, are the staggering odds that individual wild animals face to survive to adulthood in our modern environment. Take the wild turkey, for example. Joe Hutto, author of the 1995 book Illumination in the Flatwoods (which was made into a PBS TV special, My Life as a Turkey), put it this way:
With the exception of humans, likely no other species on earth can control its environment like the beaver. They do so, of course, by building dams — creating habitat not only for themselves but for other wetland wildlife species as well.
The rodents are so large (weighing up to 60 pounds) and unrelentingly industrious (“busy as a beaver,” of course), sometimes it may seem their secret motto is “Dam the Humans!”
Until recently, the main solution to beaver issues has been to do away with the beaver; eliminate the beaver and you eliminate the problem, or so goes the theory. But that kind of thinking is slowly beginning to change. Many rural landowners enjoy having beavers on their property, along with other wildlife their ponds attract — as long as the beavers and their dams can be kept under control.
Decades ago, when I was a much younger man, I was a serious waterfowl hunter.
Large, handsome, fast-flying birds, canvasbacks were not exactly numerous during those years, but they were plentiful enough to be considered fair game. No matter how hard we hunted, however, we never bagged a single one.
I retired from duck hunting and sold the boat decades ago, but in truth, I never totally lost the desire to bag a “bull can,” as hunters call the male (or drake) canvasback. Recently, I realized that I’m not getting any younger, and I decided that if I’m ever going to do it, I should probably do it soon. And I knew exactly where to begin my “hunt.”
