Quill Pigs and Blue Jay Kabobs- A Five Course Meal

     This is a re-posting of a blog from 2009. Sometimes, I like to look back at old work. I hope you do, too. ' Tis the season for nostalgia!

    I love cooking shows.  One of my favorites is the cooking competition “Iron Chef,” in which a challenger competes against a previously chosen champion. The chefs must create a five-course meal in one hour using a ‘secret ingredient.’ At the last minute, the show’s creator, with a dramatic, theatrical flourish, reveals the secret ingredient. The competition points are based on flavor, presentation and creativity in the use of  said secret ingredient. Each course, including desert, must contain the secret ingredient, which can be something obscure like Sea Squirts. Often, the secret ingredient sounds incompatible with all of the necessary courses.
     I just watched an episode where asparagus was served as an ice cream. Asparagus used as an appetizer, deep-fried and adorned with a chip of fried pancetta made me drool, but they lost me on the green ice cream. So now, ladies and gentlemen, I reveal to you the secret ingredient - PORCUPINE!
   One of my favorite dishes made by my mother was “Porcupines.” There wasn’t any porcupine in it, only meat balls made with rice in them. The ends of the rice stuck out of the meat resembling the quills of the porcupine. As a kid, I loved the adventurous idea of eating a porcupine, though to date, I have not.
     Endemic to the Old and New Worlds, porcupines are the third largest rodents on the planet, coming in behind Capybaras and beavers, which are all edible (I’ve eaten Capybara and it’s delicious). Porcupine is generally only eaten in desperation as it’s fatty and mineraly tasting. The wood pulp, bark and leaves they consume are astoundingly high in potassium imparting that flavor to the meat. One of the reasons they are so destructive is that they constantly seek sodium to offset the potassium they consume. In addition to trees, they eat ax handles, gloves, or anything else that has absorbed salt from sweat.
     The word porcupine comes from the French porc d’epine or “thorny pork.”  Consistent with the reputation of the pig, the ‘Quill Pig” has a voracious appetite. Because tree parts have less than 2% crude protien, less than most breakfast cereals, porkies have to eat a lot! The greatest wild predator of the porcupine is the Fisher.  To avoid the quills, they circle the porcupine repeatedly biting its vulnerable face until it succumbs. A Quill Pig can have 30,000 spines, each with a viciously sharp point and barbed end.
     The quills of North American porkies are two to four inches long, but the African Crested Porcupine’s spines are eight to sixteen inches long!    Long ago, the shafts of birds’ feathers were used as pens called ‘quills’ for their resemblance to hollow porcupine quills. The African porky quill could surely be used as a pen. Porcupines do not throw quills, contrary to popular belief. When threatened, they raise the spines up to make themselves look bigger and will run backwards towards an attacker. Easily loosened from the porky the quills quickly lodge into the attacker’s flesh. Working their way inward at the rate of an inch a day, the quills can be fatal.
    There are reports of Great Horned Owls, Ruffed Grouse, deer, bears, pigs, even a trout, and of course, dogs with embedded quills. I have not found reports of any Blue jays with quills, so this one that appeared at my feeders, may be for the record books.
   Omnivorous Blue jays are also hogs of a kind. I have had an enormous flock of 30-45 of them at my feeders this past week. I’ve had to put food out twice a day to keep up with them and they have driven off most of the other feeder birds. To slow them down a little and to amuse myself, I took a whole peanut in the shell and tied dental floss around the middle, securing the end to the feeder. The Jays try repeatedly to take the peanut only to be hauled backward. It doesn’t hurt them, only humiliates them. I wouldn’t hurt them, no matter how much they ate. I wouldn’t hurt a porcupine, either, though they have chewed on my house in the past. However, I do wonder how they would all taste in a savory pie.

  

                                          A Blue jay kabob with quill skewer - yum!

With thanks to Wikipedia and Marty Stouffer's Wild America

1. Woods, Charles (1984). Macdonald, D.. ed. The Encyclopedia of Mammals. New York: Facts on File. pp. 686–689. ISBN 0-87196-871-1. 
2. Macdonald (Ed), Professor David W. (2006). The Encyclopedia of Mammals. Oxford University Press. ISBN 0-19-920608-2.

My Birthday Presents - Sparrows and Finches

Song Sparrow

As you may know, Monday was my birthday. Many of you sent to me birthday greetings, each one of which was a thrill. Thank you! My day could not have been more perfect. My darling husband served to me breakfast in bed. Our marriage is in the mature phase where we don't have to give any gifts to one another other than attention and a day of no expectations of the other. Both of my wonderful children called me and gave to me the greatest gifts of their time, thoughtfulness and love. They like me, too. To hear their voices is like seeing flowers open or birds singing in the woods for the first time in spring. Hear how sappy I'm getting with my advancing age? Deal with it. I went to lunch with one of my dearest buddies. She and I have known each other longer than we've known our own children. We've been through marriages and divorces. We've also hurt one another's feelings a couple of times really hard. But, we've patched it up and carried on. That's a bond not unlike having children. We sat on her deck drinking wine with the sun on our backs and talked for a couple hours about absolutely nothing. While we did, these little birds showed up to sing to me "Happy Birthday." I'm sure of it. 

Chipping Sparrow

House finches, female and male. Don't they know? "No line is safe to touch, ev'ah!"

                                   Dave Wright. CMP lineman

Dare To Compare - Raven & Crows In Dogfight

For a week or so, these three American Crows have been nesting in the woods adjacent to our house. They go back and forth, south to north along the shore line in search of material. Occasionally, I see them mobbing a Raven. The aerial combat which ensues is a dramatic dogfight.  This morning, I heard the Blue jays making a tremendous racket in the trees. That's always a sign that something really interesting is about, like a hawk or an eagle. I rushed out in my bathrobe, of course, to investigate. I could hear them, but not see them. Then I heard the crows join in. This meant that whatever was going on was BIG news for them to all join together to mob a threat. There was a magnificent cacophony of screaming, screeching, and cawing. This was punctuated with a Raven's "cronk, cronk." I thought, "Ah ha! This may be my lucky day! I'll get to photograph those crows dive-bombing a Raven!" And, sure enough, they all came zooming by. I could see that the Raven had some food item and that's what all the fuss must have been over. Close examination of the photographs revealed that the Raven had a rodent of the rat variety, or possibly a Red squirrel. I have heard the Raven in the trees in the same area where the crows are nesting. That's where it was headed with its furry morsel. I'm wondering if it also has a nest in those woods. So, I'm going to have to investigate that, but not in my bathrobe.

American crows are about 17" long. The Common raven is larger at around 24". These shots show the identifying difference in tail shape, as well. The crow's tail is straighter across the end. Ravens have more distinct wing 'fingers' and thicker bills. Double click on the image to the right and you'll see the rodent screaming for help.

Bald Eagle In A Desert Of Ice

Last night, the temperature outside dropped to zero with a brisk little breeze clipping around. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the stars twinkled. As much as I get worn down by days of clouds and gray skies, at least, when there are clouds, it's not so cold. Without clouds, we suffer from radiative cooling. You might think that this is because the clouds hold the heat of the earth in like a jacket, but that's not true. It feels warmer when there is cloud cover, because the clouds themselves give off heat, which 'radiates' back to the earth. We do feel their warmth, just like the heat given off from a wood stove warms us. Deep space gives off heat, too, but much less than the earth. We are a pretty cozy little planet, in spite of what it seems like in the dead of winter. On a cloudless night, if you look up into space, you can feel the heat leaving your face. If you hold a piece of paper between your face and the sky, you can feel the heat from the paper radiating back to you. The flimsy paper radiates more heat than the deep, dark cosmos.  I went driving around looking for birds and beasts to photograph yesterday, but everybody seemed to be in hiding. I could imagine them all tucked away into burrows and snug places, shoulders hunched to the cold. Perhaps they have little sleeping bags or at least blankets pulled tightly around them. To not see nary a bird nor beast on a whole afternoon's outing was quite discouraging and left me feeling even colder. I drove through the grounds of the local summer resort. Sebasco Harbor Resort boasts a golf course, spa, pleasure boat moorings and a swimming pool. The place is closed. All that remains is a desert of ice. The pipes have all been drained of water, heat off, pool empty. There's nothing more discouraging than an empty swimming pool. An empty pool always looks like defeat. But, overseeing all of the frozen assets was this gorgeous Bald eagle. Though it didn't look warm and fuzzy, it did give me a bit of feathered comfort.

Popham beach, Pond Island Lighthouse

Clematis In Snow

In case you thought I was kidding about flowers in my yard under snow, check this out! This clematis always blooms late into the fall. This year, it was still blooming and had nice fat buds visible in the photo on December ninth. In fact, it still does have nice fat buds, but now they are buried. You can see from the little brown dots on the petals that their tender flesh had frozen. If the sun came out again and it warmed up, I'm pretty sure that those buds would bloom. As it's blowing a steady fifteen miles per hour with horizontal snow from the Northeast as I write, I'm afraid there's not much threat of that. I'm not sure what the variety of clematis is. I probably picked it up from a nursery center clearance bin and got it cheap for lack of a tag. When a plant loses its pedigree, it no longer commands the same price. This clematis could be 'Prince Charles,' based on the color and petal shape. Do you suppose the Prince Charles would be offended to know that if he lost his tag he would be relegated to the orphaned plants bin? Would he continue to bloom under the snow, regal, frozen, abandoned? 

Waste Not, Want Not

One of my favorite things about Thanksgiving is the left-overs. In fact, my meal preparations are with that very thing in mind. I grew up in a family of left-overs, not just food, either. We had 'left-over' or hand-me-down clothes, shoes, used furniture (before that was fashionable), and so on. I was one of five children, so there weren't often left-overs from meals, but when there were, they were worth fighting about. I loved meatloaf as a cold sandwich better than when it was first cooked, probably because the grease had all disappeared back into it. One of my sisters would fight over the last tablespoons of cold baked beans for a sandwich; a cup of cold rutabaga with a dollop of mayonnaise was my idea of heaven. The only thing about left-overs I hated as a kid was Red Flannel Hash. Desperate to put enough supper on the table for all of us, my mother would round up every container of this and that from the dark recesses of the refrigerator, some of it inedible. She fried it, then threw in a can of beets to disguise the whole mess in a surreal, ruby colored heap. I wasn't a picky eater, but I dreaded seeing that on the stove. I shoved it around on my plate and dawdled while it got colder and more horrible by the minute. We were made to finish everything served to us, so I often sat for eternity until I choked it all down. Hell and the hash froze over at about the same pace. A couple of years ago, I went with new, Californian acquaintances to a gourmet restaurant where Red Flannel Hash was on the menu. They were enthralled with the name and asked the waiter what was in it. Implying that it was a unique creation by the chef, he listed the ingredients. Sure enough, it was the Red Flannel Hash of my youth with a big price tag, no more than garbage dressed up in beets, a culinary pig in a pinafore. My dinner partners ordered it, savored every morsel and exclaimed over its delightful "New Englandness."
Our Thanksgiving turkey will go a long way toward meals - croquettes, tetrazzini and soups, but I've got my limits. I'll have to be desperate beyond my current imagination to ever eat Red Flannel Hash again. At some point, I'll throw what remains out, though I abhor wasting food. I cooked trout a while back. I didn't like it, so my cooking creativity wouldn't kick in with an idea for what to do with it. The left-overs languished in the refrigerator. My guilt about throwing out good food was eventually overcome by the smell. A whole trout is not easy to dispose of, so I decided to toss it from our pier onto the rocks for the gulls. I don't randomly throw garbage into the ocean, but I thought the trout might as well feed something if not us and it was, after all, fish. I had hardly turned back toward the house when this eagle appeared, eager for the kitchen carrion. Do you suppose it would have responded so quickly to Red Flannel Hash?

                                                      

  "I'm in the mood for hash."

Not Your Grandmother's Loons

The classic, black and white Common Loon is a regular on calendars, wall paper borders, coffee mugs and any chachkee for the tourist trade in North America where there is a body of water. The haunting yodel, which only males produce, can be heard across lakes and ocean coves through out the summer. For some, the shrieking tremolo is frightening and sends shivers up the spine. For others, it's a familiar comfort, the sound of lakeside camping and fishing trips with your dad. Maybe that's why images of Common Loons sell so well. But, they aren't the only loons in town.There are five kinds of loons, Arctic, Pacific, Yellow-billed, Common and Red-throated.

A Common Loon eating a crab, non-breeding plumage.

Red-throated loons, non-breeding plumage.

...............................................................

Red-throated Loons, or Red-throated Divers are the most widely distributed of all the loon family. They are common on the cove where I live in the winter months. I saw five of them two days ago. I sat on the end of my pier for more than an hour to get these photographs. The sun was shining and it was just under 50 degrees. But, the wind kicked up coming off the water and it was COLD! Nonetheless, I had to sit very still for long enough that they forgot I was there. I looked like just part of the peir to them after a while. Each time I needed to move, to blow my nose or something, I had to wait until they dived. While they were under, I met my movement needs, being careful not to clunk on the deck. That would have vibrated down through the pilings into the water. Once, they resurfaced very close to me, so I could get these photographs.

"Is this my good side?"

Red-throated Loons are migratory. They breed and summer in the  arctic circle. Monogamous, they form long term pair bonds which can last a couple of decades. That's a better marriage record than most humans I know! Both sexes build a mud and stick nest on the ground and care for the eggs and young. Though the Red-throated loon is the smallest of all the loons, their young are ready to hit the water in a couple of days. This differs from Common Loons whose babies ride on their backs for a few weeks. All loons are water birds only coming on land to build nests and lay eggs. The legs of the Red-throated loon are set so far back on its body that it can not walk on land. Like all loons, they dive for fish, mollusks, amphibians and crustaceans. Into the 1800's, the Red-throated loon was used to predict the weather. When the "Rain Goose" flew inland and it's cry was short, the weather would be good. When it flew out to sea with a long, wailing cry the weather would be bad. Loons are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918 and some international treaties as well. Nonetheless, their populations are declining in some places. They have natural predators, but it's thought that fishing nets, habitat destruction and oil spills are the biggest threats to loons.


Thanks to Wikipedia for this information. Click here for more information about loons.

• Barr, J. F., C. Eberl, and J. W. McIntyre. 2000. Red-throated Loon (Gavia stellata). In The Birds of North America, No. 513 (A. Poole and F. Gill, eds.). The Birds of North America, Inc., Philadelphia, PA.

Don't Mind Me, I'm Just A Magpie

BLACK-BILLED MAGPIES are ultra common in Colorado. They are as everywhere there as Sea Gulls or crows, to whom they are related, are on the east coast. Though they are protected in the United States, they are regarded by most Westerners as a nuisance bird. I couldn't get enough of them! Their sharply contrasting feathers are visually appealing and they are quite gregarious. They are also very interesting. A University Of Colorado scientist, Dr. Marc Bekoff maintains that Magpies hold funerals for their dead. He saw four magpies by a dead magpie and recounted: "One approached the corpse, gently pecked at it, just as an elephant would nose the carcass of another elephant, and stepped back. Another magpie did the same thing. Next, one of the magpies flew off, brought back some grass and laid it by the corpse. Another magpie did the same. Then all four stood vigil for a few seconds and one by one flew off." In the journal, Emotion, Space and Society , he says "We can't know what they were actually thinking or feeling, but reading their action there's no reason not to believe these birds were saying a magpie farewell to their friend." Indeed. Magpies are also the only known non-mammal to recognize itself in a mirror, so why couldn't they have emotions? They are highly intelligent, adaptive birds that eat anything and will turn things over to look for food underneath. Their resourceful omnivorousness is why some people think they are a pain. They will eat the eggs of other birds, tear open trash bags and rob dumpsters. I like to think of myself as a kind of magpie, a flashy dumpster diver of the writing kind. It would be fitting if when I'm reincarnated that I come back as a magpie.

The most well known magpies in the east are Heckle And Jeckle of cartoon fame.

I could not have said it better myself!

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Aspen Lodgings, De'ah!

The first week of our 'Colorado Trip,' we stayed in Aspen with a family friend, who shall remain nameless for reasons of privacy. After all, not eveyone would want to admit to hosting David and I for that long! Ha! Our hostess could not have been warmer nor more gracious and we are deeply thankful to her. Her generosity granted us more time with my son (he stayed with us, too!) and an extraordinary place to stay. The home is situated on the side of what Aspenites call a 'hill.' In Maine we would call it a mountain. Shows what we know!  In Maine that hump would have the name of a governor or something. In Colorado it does not even get named at all. In the top photo, if you follow the winding road into about the middle of the frame, there is a gray-green, sage colored house. That's where we stayed with the following spectacular views of Aspen and Snowmass to the right. Snowmass village is tucked into the bottom left of the frame on the mountain landscape shots. If you double click on the photos, you'll get a full screen image where you can really see those details. Those mountains were what we woke up to every morning. The Aspen airport is near by and we watched small jets come in and out every night. They were fun to watch and had their own man-made beauty with the lights of the village at night. We could rarely hear them as the mountains seemed to soak up sound. We were frequently struck by the deep quiet. A Mule deer doe and two fawns were regular morning guests and peered into our windows, as if to ask "Are you from Maine?"

 

 Snowmass village to left, double click on image for full screen details

 

'Close-up' view

 Perhaps they were looking at me like that because I was naked. It was the first morning we were there and I was bumbling around in our bedroom trying to find stuff in luggage. If I had taken a bathrobe with me, that's what I would have been wearing when I took these shots, so I guess they qualify as 'Bathrobe Wildlife Photography,' my specialty. I suppose this begs the question "How is it that you could find your camera fast enough but not your underwear?" If you really have to ask, you wouldn't understand the answer.
 

Lonely in Leadville

David and I just came back from two weeks in Colorado and Utah where we were visiting my son. He was a fantastic tour guide and showed us places that a casual tourist would never see. Leadville was one of those places. We flew to Denver and then drove to Aspen (where my son lives) by way of Independence Pass. Independence Pass is a grueling, white-knuckled drive if you don't like heights. The road is miles of treacherous switchbacks through the Elk Range of the Rocky Mountains. 'The Pass' crosses the Continental Divide and by Halloween is impassible due to snow. Aspen is at the west end, and Leadville at the east end. Aspen is a glamorous, moneyed ski town (I'll post more on the wonders of Aspen later). Leadville is a depressing, dying mining town. Each end of the economic spectrum lies at either end of Independence Pass. From Leadville, it's a grinding climb to Aspen. Mount Elber and Mount Massive loom over Leadville bearing down with clouds full of cold snow. Ironically, in the late 1800's, Leadville was the second largest city in Colorado. With a population around 30,000, it was the most famous silver mining, boom town in the world. Mining and some vague tourism are the current primary income sources. Zinc and lead are mined there now, and they  still call themselves a 'boom town.' Several times a year, the mining company blows up parts of the hillsides so that ore can be extracted from the rock rubble during the rest of the year. The days that the blasting takes place are celebrated as 'Boomdays' with a parade, street fair, burro race and motorcycle rodeo. I'm sure that what little china lines the walls of the ramshackle homes of Leadville, chatters and shakes along with old laddie's knees when the explosions commence. Sunday morning breakfast is served on the courthouse lawn. I would find that small consolation to the terrifying industrial thunder. The Boomdays are commemorated with boulders painted with the dates of the blasts and drilled with detonation holes. The population is down to about 2,000 now, though at 10,200 feet elevation, it's the highest incorporated city in the country. The dismal town has fake storefronts to look like old time saloons and cheap, modular homes with 4-wheelers and wrecked cars in the front yards and on the way out of town, a long row of dated, gaily painted rocks. When Doc Holiday, an early resident died and the silver went, so did Leadville's glamor. The mountains of Colorado are magnificent beyond imagination. But repeatedly, I was struck by how impossibly difficult it must have been for early settlers to live there. I could hear the sounds of grief still in the mountains. On the outskirts of Leadville, in the woods, is this peculiar 'Valley Of The Dolls.' My son stumbled on it a few years ago when he got out of his car to take a leak. It is on private property posted with a menacing "No Trespassing" sign. Next to the Baby Doll Ranch was this odd chair in the trees. Chilling and disturbing, this was not an outdoor art gallery nor was it the least bit public, though I did venture past the No Trespassing sign to take pictures. I jumped back into the car saying "Let's get out of here," while checking my photos on my camera. As we sped away, David asked, "Did you get good shots of it?" "Oh yes, I did," I answered. "And did I mention that was where I was kidnapped and held as a sex slave in an underground bunker for 18 years?"  That's how creepy it was. Maybe the dolls were company for a lonely person, outside of Leadville, in the woods, a person driven mad by the crushing mountains.  

"To Everything Terns, Terns......."

In Small Point Harbor there is a boat mooring field. In that field is a float, on the float is a stack of lobster traps, on the stack of lobster traps on the float in the mooring field is a colony of Common terns. Can you say that ten times fast? I could not get enough of these terns and took scads of photographs. They are quite habituated to people as they are in the middle of the mooring field so I could get very close to them. The parents were bringing in little fish for the youngsters (click on the last photo to enlarge and you'll see that). Noisy, they utter a loud "kkkkeeeeey," as they swoop around. I love their streamlined bodies and sharply contrasted coloration. Plus, they are so gregarious! A bird after my own heart, indeed. I'm glad I don't own the boats that they favor for perching, though. What a mess they make!

Barn Swallows Versus Michael Jackson

     The Barn Swallow is the national emblem of Estonia. Their currency bears an image of a swallow. The Estonians were ahead of the curve on that, in my opinion. I wish our money had that kind of image, rather than those rusty old presidents whose hair makes them all look like madmen. When I’m commissioned to redo our currency, I’ll put these hungry mouths of Barn Swallow chicks in an egg-like oval in the middle of each bill. Swallows would also be good representatives on our currency as the most widespread swallow in the world, much like our influence, good or bad. For that matter, Michael Jackson should be on our money. Toss up: Barn Swallows or Michael Jackson. If a pool of school children was chosen from around the world, then asked to identify a Barn Swallow or Michael Jackson, which do you suppose they’d be most likely to recognize?
    Perhaps I could consolidate the two: a Barn Swallow in flight, harnessed and trailing Michael Jackson through the sky. Throw in a little Shakespeare, “True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings,” and you’ve got yourself a world class devolving dollar bill.
     All Barn Swallows migrate, some far as Argentina and South Africa. Swallow tattoos are a tradition amongst sailors symbolizing long journeys and safe returns. A sailor gets his first tattoo after traveling 5,000 nautical miles. These Barn Swallows occupy a friend’s barn here in Phippsburg. There are ten nests, each one with 4-5 chicks. They usually lay twice in a summer, so that’s about 100 baby swallows from that barn each year. The success rate of the broods is about 75%. That’s a lot of swallows! Sitting in the barn, watching them zoom in and out feeding their chicks practically requires an umbrella. The barn owner has every square inch draped with plastic and paper, a sort of canvas for the splatter, like a Jackson Pollock painting without the talent.
   Their mud pellet nests are repaired and reused for 10-15 years, but have been documented to have been used for 48 years! That’s a dilemma for a barn owner. The nests could be destroyed, forcing the swallows to rebuild. After all, what did Barn swallows do before barns? They nested in more precarious places, such as overhangs on cliffs. In the Northeast, they nest under Osprey nests. It’s a reciprocal arrangement where the birds of prey drive away other predatory birds while the swallows gobble up the flies accumulating in the rotten fish scraps in the Osprey nest. Barn swallows have thrived in our company and our safe structures for their nests. We also tolerate these flying guano machines for their fine dining on flying insects. Swallows have always been one of my favorite birds. Their zooming flight is like my mind - an elegant, dark thing tearing through a dim barn, resulting in a lot of crap.

Mallard X Mold

Mallards are our largest dabbling ducks. They are found everywhere from urban ponds and drainage ditches to large lakes. Up the road from us in Bath, there is an outdoor hockey rink. Every spring when the ice finally thaws, there is a pair of Mallards that hang around in the melt water. I look forward to them as a sign of spring. These ducks were photographed in the wild in their 'natural' habitat. The female below is clearly a Mallard and has the classic orange and black bill and dark eye line, elegant! We'll call her Maybelline. The male appears to be crossed with some other kind of duck. I'm guessing by his mottled cheeks that his parents were a mix of Mallard and domestic duck (Mallard X domestic) which is common. Or, perhaps since we've had heavy rain here for almost two weeks straight, it could be mold. Even ducks have their limits of how much water they can take! I vote for mold. I will confess that I didn't get out of my car for the shots. I had gone to a garden center and purchased plants for a customer. My car was as loaded as it could be with greenery. My car usually looks like it is operated by a headless driver because I'm so short. This day, my car looked as if it were being operated by shrubs. So, when I saw the ducks in the marsh as I was whizzing along, I was able to pull right up to them. They didn't take any notice of the moving bushes. I was able to put down my window and shoot through the four foot tall Japanese irises in the passenger's seat. Leon Leonwood of L.L. Bean fame couldn't have come up with better camo. than that!