The process usually goes like this. I find something that I think is interesting. I photograph it, measure it or do whatever it takes to record the thing, and then do some heavy research before committing the subject to cyberspace. More often than not I encounter my subjects by “accident” (although “by random discovery” might be a better wording choice). The other day I “randomly discovered” a Basswood tree adorned with seed clusters and, since I’ve always had a soft spot for Basswood, decided then and there to make them the subject of a future Naturespeak.  Welcome to the future.

Basswood seeds may not seem the stuff of close examination, but on a gray December day when nothing else is happening they provide plenty of grist for the mind mill. The fruiting structure of this plant is unique among northern trees. Unlike the winged seeds of maple and ash, where a winged appendage is attached directly to the individual seeds, the basswood uses a single wing to airlift an entire  cluster of seeds. Each fruiting cluster (called a cyme, in case you are looking for a scrabble word) is suspended from the branch by a single stem. A leafy wing (called a bract, in case “cyme” wasn’t good enough for you) is half-attached to this stem – the other half angling out to form a free wing.

Ideally, when the whole structure breaks free from the home branch the wing will give spin to the dropping cluster and carry it away from the mother tree. The first part of this journey, the vertical part, is a cumbersome affair.  The awkward rotation of the bract wing only manages to carry the seeds a few feet away – perhaps a tree length away if conditions are right. The second part of the journey, the horizontal part, is where the wing really does its thing. As the winter winds kick in, the bract wing functions as a sail to carry its load along the ground. Over a hard packed snow surface a basswood seed cluster can go for miles.

Some of you may recall that I already talked about this horizontal wind-surfing technique in a previous column, so I’ll leave that one alone and move on to the subject of seeds.

Basswood seeds are little brown nuts encased in a hard fuzzy nutlet. There are typically 6-20 per cluster. Individual trees will vary as to the shape of their nutlets and the specially endowed ones will have more than one nut per nutlet. I checked out the tree shown in the photos and was slightly disappointed to find that it was one of those standard “round nutlet with one nut apiece” trees. Exciting topic, eh?

Well, as the old adage goes, there’s more to a tree than round nutlets (what?). There are buds to consider. You’ll notice upon close examination that basswood buds are bright red (see here). Before continuing, see if you can say “basswood buds” three times fast. O.K., let’s continue. These brilliant basswood buds not only supply a good winter identification feature but they contribute to another potential tongue twister.  Brilliant Basswood buds become better by biting. They taste like peas, by the way. So, you can do a little basswood bud browsing before bypassing them.

One of the websites I researches went beyond this bud tasting advice and actually mentioned that the wood of this tree was “bland tasting.” While some of us may take occasion to down a few buds, not many of us are into eating wood – at least on purpose. I suspect that this entry was written by a beaver. The wood of the basswood is far better known for its wonderful carving qualities than for its taste although I suppose if you cooked it right and smothered it with enough gravy you’d end up with something edible for the holidays.

On a final note, there’s the matter of the Basswoods name. American natives totally disregarded the edible nature of the wood and instead made use of the bark. They would beat the snot out of the bark in order to expose the network of fibers within. These fibers were twisted into strong serviceable twine for making nets, baskets, and bags. The old fashioned English term for twine was “bast.” When this tree was given its Anglesized name the original term bastwood, or twine wood, was used. This term was eventually corrupted into basswood by other English speaking people who had a hard time talking while chewing wood.

Now you know why basswood has nothing whatsoever to do with fish. You would eat bass and would not eat wood.

The arrival of the icing season has put a whole new spin on life in the aquatic world. Creatures who were once at home in the transition zone where water meets air now have to choose between one or the other. Others have to accept the presence of an overhead  roof and the threat of oxygen depletion. All have to adapt, but then again that’s the way it has always been.

For the muskrat, the first layer of mid-December ice offered a new opportunity. For one Kent Lake (Kensington Metropark) ‘rat, the solid crust provided a base of operations for exploiting and harvesting a lush bed of aquatic plants (see above). Instead of venturing to and from an offshore plant bed, as he had all summer, this critter could now place himself directly over it. The submerged prize – probably some sort of tuber – was now obtainable via a short 30 second dive (see here) into an open lead of water. Eating could begin immediately after the muskrat crawled back out onto the ice. Such ice feeding sites are easy to spot, when the ‘rat is not there, due to the  fresh vegetation piled onto the ice.

I watched this fellow for the better part of ten minutes as he dove, rose, ate, and dove again. He stopped for a little grooming every now and then, but kept on task for the most part. Even though it was a bitter cold day with wind driven flurries, he looked quite happy with his lot – like a child who’d just discovered a bridge leading to a candy shop. As the ice thickens over the season he’ll have to maintain these open spots if he wants to continue. For now, however, life is good for a ‘rat on thin ice.

For another muskrat, the thicker ice layer on one of the Lake Erie Metropark lagoons forced him to remain submerged. He took advantage of the cold pack to do a little fishing. Fish become sluggish when trapped under the ice. Like otters, muskrats – at least our hardy Lake Erie ‘rats – frequently chase down and eat a few of these finny treats. The muskrat’s swimming abilities are normally more than a match for the fish but slower fish make for easier prey. Fortunately the ice was still thin enough to see through as one frisky ‘rat performed his piscatorial duties underneath the glassy ceiling (see below – a photo taken last year of the same situation).

After the muskrat left the scene, a very slow but very alive Painted Turtle could be seen crawling along the bottom. Among the most cold tolerant of reptiles, the sight of one of these reptiles under the ice is not all that unusual. It was a first for me, I have to admit. For this turtle, life under the ice will eventually require him to slow down. It’s not the cold or the lack of food that will grind him down- there’ll be plenty of dead fish to eat – but the lack of oxygen. Remarkably, Painted Turtles don’t need to surface as long as there is oxygen in the water. They can absorb the O2 through the skin lining their mouth and cloaca (yes, that’s the rear end) and, as long as they don’t do a whole lot, can survive on this.

Under solid ice conditions, however, the available oxygen supply eventually peters out. Turtles will then have to resort to anaerobic respiration- a process requiring that the creature literally begin digesting itself. Given the proper conditions a Painter can survive submerged in oxygen-depleted waters for over 5 months if necessary. A potentially fatal side effect of this process is the build up of lactic acid in the bloodstream. To get around this the turtle releases carbonate (calcium salts) into the blood stream in order to neutralize the acid. Most creatures don’t have enough extra bone in them to afford this costly procedure, but turtles can make use of their very substantial and very bony shells. By next spring, this wandering turtle will basically look the same but will weigh less. That’s a shell of a way to get by.

Many large bullfrog tadpoles share the Erie Marsh world of the Muskrat and Painted Turtle. As gill breathers they will depend upon the oxygen in the water to get them through the winter. Without any real bones with which to perform the “turtle trick” they resort to air gulping when O2 supplies are low. I watched a steady procession of tadpoles make their way to the “surface,” only to be halted by the thick  double layer of bubbly new ice. They groped about for a while until bumping into one of the many entrapped air bubbles. Then, probably after sucking in a bit of the gassy sweet stuff of life, they descended out of view. Theirs will be a long winter, but then again, they’re used to it.

Perhaps the most satisfying of thin ice scenarios involved several Canada Geese. These obnoxious birds are prime examples of the type of creatures which are forced to make a choice when they can no longer enjoy the benefit of swimming in the liquid water.

As witness to that moment in time when the ice was still forming on Washago Pond, I saw many geese pressed into making a choice. Many of them chose to stand on the land and avoid the water but when pressed these birds retreated to the water. They attempted to swim but found the water harder than usual and, after blundering about for a moment or two, soon broke through. Once in, they swam about within their mini-ponds (see below and here) until something in their pea-brained psyche told them move on. Their clumsy efforts and their ponderous weight prevented them from making any headway (see movie here).

The only way to final freedom was to resort to flying up and out until solid, albeit slippery, aqua-firma was reached. You’d think that they’d get the message. Mother Nature is telling them something.  Actually, they have several choices: they can die, leave, stand on the ice, or live under it (Admittedly the last choice will result in the first one). Real Canada Geese are supposed to migrate south to places where ice is not a factor. It’s their own fault if they stay here. The muskrat, tadpole, and turtle? Well, they have no choice.

It’s the second week of December and here in S.E. Michigan we are still looking for the season’s first real snow. Some look forward to it while others look sadly for it, but look we do.  There have been a few flakes flying about, but no real accumulation has occurred as of yesterday morning . Well, I am happy to report that the first “real snow” has finally arrived. It came in on the cusp of a cold Canadian wind in the form of a real Snow Goose.

Truthfully, this northern visitor actually showed up last week, but I didn’t see it until yesterday. A friend advised me that there was a lone Snow Goose hanging out with a huge flock of Canada Geese at the Washago Pond complex in Willow Metropark. I went out to find it and was rewarded after a short search.  I believe that half of the world’s population of Canada Geese have taken up residence on the lawn and in the slushy water of the complex. There were thousands of the feathered nuisances walking, honking, flying, and pooping their way across the landscape.  Spotting the solitary figure of a white bird among that sea of gray was more like spotting a grain of sand in a pile of pepper, rather than a beacon in a coal pile. O.K., it wasn’t that hard, but it took a while. I almost broke a sweat.

There is a good chance that this will not only be the seasons first snow but perhaps its only snow. Snow Geese are rare migrant visitors to these parts. A majority of these Arctic nesting birds descend down through the central plains to overwinter along the Gulf Coast and Mexico.  Their southbound routes typically take them well west of Michigan, with some populations veering to the east, but all in all they tend to avoid our middle Great Lakes country altogether. This is simply a fact and not a reflection on the efforts of our state tourist board, by the way. A few always manage to find their way here, however.

In nearly all cases when these birds show up in our region they are in the company of Canada Geese. Equally nearly (not good English, but so what) they tend to look a bit uncomfortable – like Dorothy realizing she is not in Kansas anymore. Perhaps part of this befuddled look is that “Fistful of Dollars” sneer that the species exhibits. One of the best ways to tell this bird apart from the similar Ross’s Goose is to look for the presence of an oval shaped area on the side of the beak where the heavy tooth-like laminations show.  Bird guides call this a “grinning patch” or a “smile,”  but I call it an “Eastwood do you feel lucky Sneer.” Snow Geese are grazers and they use these “teeth,” in combination with a stout tongue, to pull and cut tough grasses and herbs.

Another sure way to identify these birds is to look for a white goose with black wing tips (see below). There are other color variations, including the so-called Blue Goose form,  but the normally-colored ones are distinctively black & white.  O.K.,  I probably shouldn’t have said “normal” as if to imply that the blue ones are “freakish,” so I hope the S.A.B.G (“Society for the Advancement of Blue Geese”) doesn’t call me on this one.

Even though mine was a rarish sighting, Snow Geese are actually one of the most common birds on the planet. It is estimated that there are over 5 million birds on the Canadian breeding grounds alone and that the population is growing at an accelerated rate. Some near- sighted folks have actually pointed toward global warming as the cause of this boom. I’m not sure how that works, but no matter.

Perhaps agitated by globally warmed nerves, my Snow Goose proved to be an elusive beast. No sooner had I spotted it – and it me, than it launched skyward in the company of a few skiddish Canadians (one of which had a leg band – you can see it on the left leg of the center individual in the this  picture). They all took off over the tree line and headed toward Kansas.

Beech bark is more like skin than bark. At least one writer has described the trunk of this tree as looking like an elephant leg – providing a very descriptive mind picture for anyone wishing to describe the beech’s smoothish gray look. Elephants have wrinkled knee patches and other “saggy-baggy” parts, of course, but when it comes to color and general texture this is a very apt description. During the naked season this is the feature that helps the American Beech stand out when in company of rough-barked maples and oaks.

Just to be complete, I’ll mention that leaves are another winter feature of cold season beech trees. They, like many oaks (to which they are related), often retain their bleached dead leaves well into the season (see below). When these brittle remnants chatter in the cold wind, they are giving voice to the species. While some beeches may be verbally putting a finger up to their dry lips to say “Shh,” others are certainly hissing disapproval. They are reminding us that their bark is not a slateboard for graffitti expression. Unfortunately there are few mature beech trees living in our public places that haven’t been given this kind of  “initial treatment” (for another example see here).

Bark carving is not necessarily fatal to a tree but it can provide an entry point for fungus and disease organisms. There are dozens of decay agents just waiting for a way to gain access to the living portion of the beech tree. In addition to this threat there is a Beech Bark Disease going around. These risks alone should be reason enough not to do it. It’s not worth killing a potentially majestic tree, capable of living well over 200 years, just for the sake of a teenage infatuation!  For the most part, however, bark carving is more of a visual problem than a physical danger to the tree. The fact that most of these so-called signature trees are large-trunked individuals with well healed alphabet scars is testament to their resilience.

Beech bark is carvable because it exists as a thin parchment-like layer. Most tree bark consists of dead material that cracks and splits as the underlying living layer expands. Beech bark forms a thin living layer which stretches evenly as the tree increases it’s woody girth. The actual dead portion of the bark flakes off like so much dry skin. When letters are cut into the bark the tree is forced to create a layer of protective scar tissue called “wound cork.” Corky scars were originally intended by the Beech Gods to  form around natural graffiti damage such as bear claw marks and wind damage. Fortunately,  they serve well against un-natural marks as well.

The only good thing about beech tree graffiti is that it tends to be of a romantic nature. For the most part it consists of such heart felt sentiments as “Darlene Luvs Vaughn” or  hearts with “J.M. + S.C.” inside. Some carvings are simple minded efforts of folks like “Chuck.” A date often accompanies these initials. For instance, the aforesaid “Chuck” carved his name into a tree at Secor Metropark (Toledo, Ohio) on September 16, 1979 (see below). In the intervening 30 years since inscribing his great work of literature, Chuck’s letters have smoothed and widened.

The oldest beech bark carving I could actually read dated to the early 1960’s. I’ve seen oddly shaped scars that were once probably initials but were reduced to meaningless corky blobs -they might have said something like “D. Boone kilt a bar” or something like that but there was no way of knowing.   If left unmolested, beeches eventually render written words into abstract designs. This is a good thing. I’d bet that most of these carvings probably represented passing fancies anyway. “J.M.” probably ended up  marrying “S.S” or “B.K” instead of “S.C.” How could he have known that “S.C.” was a tree-hugger who dumped him right after finding out that he took a knife to her favorite beech tree!

Ah ha! Caught in the act. There was no way this White-footed Mouse could deny his guilt. He was convicted fair and square by a jury of two. Guilty to the charge of hoarding corn in the museum store room. Guilty of peeing on our T-shirt supply and scaring museum visitors. Guilty  of making at least one staff member scream like a little girl (she was actually a girl, but not a little one). Guilty of  stealing my Freshwater Drum teeth. And guilty of the most egregious crime of eating our supply of “Chips Ahoy” cookies and licking the rest! This last count was cause enough to inflict the death penalty upon this pale-footed marauder. The sentence: death by a two jawed Victor snap trap.

Justice was quickly delivered in this case. It was an open and snap shut case. It only took about 6 hours for the offender to find the trap and attempt to taste it’s tempting offering of peanut butter (there were no more “Chips Ahoy” available as bait). Late in the afternoon, a muffled snap, followed by a high – nearly ultrasonic – squeak, told me that the sentence had been delivered by the cold plastic jaws of rodent death. I knew that the crime spree was over when a long period of silence followed that short burst of activity. “V” was for victory of  Hominid over Peromyscid (that’s “Man over Mouse”).

Rounding the corner to retrieve the lifeless body and revel in my conquest, I was surprised to find that the criminal was still alive.  Expecting to deliver some clever barb like “Sic Semper Tyrannus Chippea Ahoyi” I was instead forced to say, in plain Downriver English, “What the heck!” Yes, the jaws of death had descended in a non-lethal manner and, rather than snapping his cookie stealing little neck, they had only secured him in a half nelson grip (see below). This appeared to be a very lucky mouse.

The problem was in the trap itself, however. Luck had little to do with it. I have a trusty Mcgill Mouse Trap that I normally employ in such cases. This baby has steely serrated teeth and a super strong internal spring. The McGill never failed to administer Scottish “moertus instantanea” upon small uninvited mammals. Faced with capturing this museum mouse, I hastily grabbed one of my secondary traps from home – a cheap plastic Victor modeled on the same plan as the older McGill.

Earlier in the month I used this same Victor trap to catch a shrew that was terrorizing my wife (I thought him cute, but I had to do the deed in order to keep my marriage intact). I say “catch,”  rather than “kill” the shrew, because the mechanism only managed to grab the poor little beast by his nose. Have you ever heard a shrew scream?  I was actually relieved. Since shrews don’t really damage anything, they don’t deserve the death penalty.  The indignant creature was delivered out the front door as he dangled nose first from the trap. He was tossed out into the darkness and scurried away through the leaves.

So, I should have known that this trap was a wrestler and not a killer when I set it for the museum mouse. Looking at the creature I was intrigued at the unusual white spot on his back. White-footed mice normally have a solid reddish brown back. This one had a significant white patch, a birthmark, that would have easily made him stand out in a criminal line-up if the situation came to that. The feature was slightly endearing  and my decision to release him was “instantanea.” For some reason I took pity upon this freak as if the spot made him underprivileged. I imagined a childhood full of mockery from his fellow mice (White-footed Mice can be cruel) and a forced exile requiring him to survive on old corn, cookies, and freshwater drum teeth.

When dropped out onto the leaves, the mouse froze in position as if not believing his luck (see above). Apart from holding his neck in at an odd angle, the freed mouse before me was an un-harmed creature now free to re-enter the wilds. Saved by a weak trap and a weak-minded trapper, he  bounded off into the field. Yes, now he was free to be crushed in the non-plastic jaws of a fox or the hemorrhaging grip of a Red-tailed Hawk. At least his would be a noble death.

The Mystic Aquarium in Connecticut has the largest Beluga Whale exhibit in North America (outside of the wild, that is). I visited with the facility’s three whales while in the company of a whole gang of fellow naturalists last week. Normally reporting on a zoo or aquarium visit is not my usual fare but this occasion offered something a bit different. We were allowed to go behind the fence and directly approach the waters edge where these wonderful white beasts live. One of the belugas, a milky white male named Inuk (“the old man”), spotted us and immediately approached to get a better view of the new set of humans entering his realm. He repeatedly rose his head out of the water and eyed us from only ten feet away and started to talk . Unfortunately none of us were fluent, or even remotely acquainted with his language, so we simply laughed back.

Apparently confirmed in his view that two leggers are incapable of speech, Inuk soon returned to his underwater ways and remained silent for the rest of our visit. Belugas are the only whale species equipped with a flexible neck (all other whales have fused vertebrae) and I’m confident he shook his head at our vocal ineptitude. Fortunately this human was equipped with a recorder and I was able to capture a snippet of his speech (listen here). Inuk’s utterings consisted of a set of two vocalizations followed by a breath of air from his blowhole. You’ll need to play it several times to get a full sense of this and you’ll need to excuse the giggling sapien noises along the way.

I considered this a rare opportunity to hear whaletalk first hand – without an underwater microphone or water column in the way. All whales vocalize and most use ultrasonic sounds to navigate. Their incredibly intricate sounds are meant for aqueous transmittal. Sound waves travel 1 mile/sec. in the water which is four times faster than air transmission. Water creatures, because they always have a full set of cell phone bars and unlimited minutes, tend to be a very chatty bunch. However, there is something magical about hearing some of these sounds dividing the dry air and striking the ear of a confirmed landlubber like I.

Belugas are creatures of the high Arctic seas that surround the north pole and kiss the northern shores of both North America and
Siberia. They get their name from the Russian word for “white one” but they are commonly known by sailors as “canaries of the sea” because of their talkative nature. Depending on who you reference, these bleached whales are capable of 11 different sounds ranging from whistles and clicks to a variety of trills,  mews, and bell-like tones.  Not a single one of those sounds is made with the aide of vocal chords or through the open mouth. Flipper (another species of toothed whale) wasn’t really talking in those old T.V. shows!

All toothed whales, beluga included, essentially talk through their blowholes. They control the air flow between a set of inner air sacs and then project these vibrations through an oily fat structure called the melon.  On the beluga, the melon is easily visible as the bulge on the forehead (see below). Incredibly enough, the whale actually alters the shape of this fatty melon in order to project the sound with pinpoint accuracy at a selected target- whether it be a food source or a bunch of ignorant two-leggers. You could actually see this oval mass vibrate and quiver as the speech was delivered.

Oddly enough, belugas do not have an open ear canal for listening to their own sounds. Their auditory canal is narrow and plugged with wax. The canal doesn’t even connect with the ear drum. Instead, incoming sounds are transmitted to the middle ear through a fat mass found in a cavity on the lower jaw. As you can see Belugas are fatheads in every sense of the word.

While we are on the subject of whale ears, one of the more fascinating aspects of our backroom aquarium tour was the chance to see “Steve.” Steve is a six foot nematode (roundworm) that was found in the ear cavity of a dead Fin Whale (see here and here). If you look at these pictures, by the way, Steve is the fellow in the container and not the one standing next to it. I realize this has nothing to do with belugas but I just wanted to share this for the sake of science.

At any rate, the only probable way that I could have communicated with Inuk’s inner ear would have been to stick my head underwater and grunt. Not only would that have been embarrassing to my fellow naturalists but would probably have resulted in some horribly disrespectful comment directed towards an intelligent being. Again, I remind you that I don’t know whalenese. Long ago the ancient Finlanders used to sing songs using a peculiar murmuring voice as a way to persuade belugas to come close to shore. Perhaps I can learn a few of these songs and be ready the next time I encounter a patient beluga.

If there’s one thing to say about gobies it’s that they are not evil. Yes, as an alien species here in the New World their existence threatens the delicate balance of life in the Lakes. Go ahead and Google the word Round Goby and you’ll be bombarded by page after page detailing the dastardly deeds of this finny villain. All of the bad press is certainly true – they eat fish eggs, out-compete native fish, and they are ugly (although this last charge is certainly not the most heinous). These destructive little Europeans are home-wreckers here in the Great Lakes. But, it is worth while to consider that back in their home world they are just another fish in their sea. They are, in fact, quite incredible little fish. This alone is enough reason to take a look at one of these fellows through un-judgmental eyes every once and a while.

The Round Goby is just another fish in the Caspian Sea- one of the largest bodies of enclosed water in the world.  It’s hard to say exactly – or easily – exactly where the Caspian lies because it is surrounded by so many countries. Let’s see, there’s Kazakhstan, Russia, Turkmenistan, Iran and a few more “stans.”  Back in the bad old days you could have simply said that they are from Russia (with love), but not any more. Gobies are also found in the Black Sea which happens to be bordered by the likes of  Turkey, Bulgaria, Romainia, Ukraine, etc., etc.  It is very possible that the gobies came to Lake Erie  in order to see what it was like to be in a place bordered by only two countries!  Admittedly, this is only a theory. This was a fish with no country to call it’s own. At any rate, there are at least five related goby species found in that region and all are stocky, tubular, and bottom dwelling (and all equally without a home country). Our little alien friend happens to be a very typical Goby.

I plucked our sample Goby (see above) out of the Lake Erie sand last month. This creature was waiting out a wind tide within the confines of a little pool of water under a rock (see below). He was very much alive when handled for these shots. The first thing to notice about this species is the compact structure and the bulldog facial features. The blue-gray eyes are located high up on the head and the mouth appears a bit over-sized. Gobies will eat anything that fits into that sizable maw – be it a bait worm or another fish of slightly smaller size. They are almost cartoonish is appearance (although not so funny if you are a bait worm or that other slightly smaller fish!).

Although you can’t see it in these views, the top fin has a prominent black dot on it which is employed as a signal beackon for “talking with” other gobies by semaphore. There are also two huge side fins, called pectorals, that flare out from just behind the head. The most unique fin feature is the pelvic, or bottom, fin that you can clearly see in the view below. This single fin is actually a pair of fins that are fused together to form a suction cup. None of our native fish have this bottom-hugging  feature.

Gobies have to stick to the bottom because they have no swim bladders to keep them afloat. They scurry along the substrate using their huge pectoral fins like legs. Whenever they achieve some height in the water column, after great exertion, they sink back to the bottom as soon as the effort ceases. I suppose I should mention that this individual appears to be so dark because it was a male in breeding color. Normally these fish are light brown with dark side spots, but males can turn dark brown or even black when in “the mood.” Even their eyes will cloud over with an iridescent glaze.

Apart from being interesting to look at, Round Gobies do reveal an unintentional good side to their alien nature. Here in their Great Lakes home they have proven to be a Godsend for Lake Erie Water Snakes, who eat them like popcorn. Small and large-mouth bass, along with Walleye, will also feast upon them. One fishing tackle manufacturer has even come out with a Goby-shaped lure as means to catch lunker fish.

So, as you can see, they’re not all bad.

I’ve been “on the road” lately and have had little time to post a significant blog entry (as opposed to a twitter tweet).  My recent travels delivered me through airports and cityscapes that are far removed from any inspirational wild place or thing. At least that was my excuse. But on one of my recent stops in Hartford, Connecticut I decided to challenge that idea. There had to be something of natural or historical interest here in the capitol of the Nutmeg State. I headed out of my hotel and ventured toward the largest green spot I could locate on the city map – venerable old Bushnell Park. Fortunately, the desired inspirational moment arrived well before reaching the park itself.

Just a block or so away from Bushnell, my gaze was drawn to an archaic looking wrought iron fence protecting a plot of burial ground adjacent to an old church building called Center Church. Everything about the place looked old -very old. As it turned out, the current church was actually the fourth edifice of its kind on that site. The first one was constructed back in the late 1630’s and this  “modern” building – the young upstart structure – was built in 1807! My thoughts on what was “old” and what was “very old” began to change.

It was the church’s gravestone studded hillock that really drew me in, however. The cemetery complex was tightly tucked within the modern town. A shimmering glass office tower walled in the north side while the constant hum of city buses defined the streetscape on the western border (actually, being an out-of-towner, I am not sure which direction was which in this case). Within the confines of the burying ground all trappings of modern society were held at bay. Here was a cluster of some of the most remarkable New England tombstones I had ever seen.

The stones spanned the centuries from the early 1600’s to the early 19th century, but most were of 18th century vintage. Not a one of them was straight, of course. Among the earliest was that of Andrew Benton who “dyed Ivly 31 Ano 1683” (see here ). “Ivly,” by the way, means “July” (“I” is an alternative form of “J” and “v” is the stonecarver’s version of the letter “u”.)  Sentiments carved into the brownstone ranged from syrupy to extremely sparse. One tiny stone bore only the name of “Katy Marfh” (again, “f” means “s”- her name was Marsh) while another waxed poetic with a rythmic reminder to the living by saying “as you are now so once was I.” I’ve included a few more photos of these stones for you to look at (see here, here, &  here ). We’ll come back some time later and discuss the meanings behind the flying skulls, cherubs, and urns topping these monuments.

By the time I was done viewing these incredible stones and thinking about some of the incredible lives they represented, my concept of “old” was really starting to morph. Some of the unmarked burials in this ancient ground are of native Pequot people who can claim original occupancy of this site. They represent “old old old” traditions going back a thousand years or so. But, long before the Pequot arrived, other nameless native groups lived and died on this spot for over the course of some ten thousand years.  Now I was getting to the “old old old old” category and in danger of thinking too much.

This train of thought continued to the level of the very gravestones themselves. A majority of the monuments were carved from native Brownstone quarried in nearby Middleton, Conn. This material was formed during the Triassic period about 230 million years ago at a time when North America and Africa were in the process of separation (Continental Divorce, you could say).  So, the stones which long ago were in-scripted with “Here lieth the body of…” were themselves formed during the age of dinosaurs. These rocks are really really very and truly old – perhaps the “oldestest” of the things I saw on the walk. For the sake of sanity, I decided not to include the sun in this mental exercise, by the way. It trumps all in terms of age.

Speaking of the sun, I left the graveyard and hurried down to Bushnell Park in order to take in the sights before that ancient star disappeared for the night. It’s not that I feared being in an old New England cemetery full of ghostly skulls and hollow-eyed angels after dark, it’s just that well… really, I had to be getting on. There in the park,  just before sunset, I stepped off the sidewalk and found myself treading over a golden carpet of Cypress & Gingko leaves (see below).

Both of these species are trees with ancient lineages. A forest floor covered with both of these leaves serves as a re-enactment of the dawn times. The Bald Cypress is a needle bearing tree (see below) which sheds its leaves like a deciduous tree come winter. It dates back to the Miocene era some 17-20 million years ago and it has remained relatively unchanged since that time. The Ginkgo (see fruit, leaves and seed here and here) has the oldest lineage of all. Leaf impressions of this species have been found in sediments dating back to the Permian.  Ginkgos were already old-timers by the time the dinosaurs arrived on the scene. And, oddly enough, they actually pre-date the formation of the brownstone formations by a cool 40 million years!

While I am fully aware that the actual trees are under 100 years old, it’s their family history that counts in this mental exercise. Members of their kind will likely remain to drop leaves on our tombstones long after you and I have entered the realm of “old older oldest.”

I will admit that the title of this blog sounds like one straight from the casebook of Sherlock Holmes – as in the “Case of the Creeping Man,” etc.  But this title instead refers to a case that has already has been solved and doesn’t require the services of that legendary sleuth from Baker Street. We know why the moth shivers, my dear man (as Sherlock would have put it).  He shivers to generate heat so that he can fly on a very cold day.  However, the very fact that there are moths that can fly on very cold days is in itself one of those mysteries of life that never fails to amaze, wouldn’t you say Dr. Watson? I therefore ask you to be the good doctor in this scenario and respond by saying “yes, Holmes, I guess it is a curious case of thermodynamic magic.”

It is a fact that there are a select group of moths living in the northern temperate zone that are actually active in the cold season and inactive during the warm season (see example in photo above). This frigid gang of Nacht-Vlinders , generally referred to as the Winter Noctuiids, completely reverse the normal life cycle of their fellow moths. They emerge as adults in the late fall and  live through the winter. Their eggs are laid and produce spring caterpillars but these ‘pillers “estivate” (or hibernate) through the summer and don’t finish up their business until the following fall. All of this is leading to the reality that these moths need to fly when the temperatures drop well below 50 degrees. In order to do so, they engage in thermogenesis.

Take a look at this video and you’ll see one of these winter moths preparing to fly on a recent 32 degree morning. I believe it is a type of Sallow Moth (see below). Don’t ask me exactly which kind of Sallow because I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t care, but I just don’t know and frankly haven’t had the time to track it down. In my defense, these things tend to be a bit non-descript in appearance and, …anyway, never mind we are getting off point here. This moth needed to get his body temperature up to around 86 degrees F before it could fly. That is the required minimum for flight muscles to work – it is also a 54 degree difference from the ambient air.

The necessary heat, in such a situation, can be generated by intense bouts of shivering – aka thermogenesis. On fairly warm days, it only takes a few minutes to get up to snuff, but there’s a whole lot of shaking needed as the temperatures approach the freezing mark. It takes nearly 30 minutes of shivering to reach the proper core temperature when the ambient air is 32 degrees F. Remarkably, these creatures are able to restrict the heat build-up to the wing muscles muscles only. Through a special set of internal vessels, the thing is able to keep the thermostat down in the abdomen, head, and feet. Because the body is covered with “hair” (actually modified scales called pile) the precious heat is retained.

Unfortunately, I never got a chance to see if this individual flew off. The morning sun beckoned me to other tasks. I’m confident he warmed up sufficiently enable himself to at least move into some protective shelter. Oddly enough these winter moths fly mostly in the evening when the sun is unavailable to provide any additional heat. As winter advances and the temperature falls well below the 30’s, our Sallow Moth will eventually retreat to the cover of the forest leaves and hibernate through the coldest months. Even winter moths can’t produce internal heat when the air is below 30 degrees F or so.

In the Case of the Shivering Moth, then, it’s all done with shivering  muscles, my dear Watson – the most elementary of means.

There are times when wild animals really don’t want our help. Sometimes they just need to work things out on their own and without our opposably-thumbed assistance, thank you.  Take the recent case of an American Bittern recently “recovered” in the Pointe Mouillee State Game Area marsh. Two birders encountered this bird last week. The sight of an American Bittern is always a welcome sight – especially given the fact that these secretive marsh birds are becoming rare (listed as a “special concern species” in Michigan). Add to this reality the additional fact that they are very hard to see even when standing in front of you. Because of their cryptic coloration and their preference for slinking through the shadowy narrow spaces under the cover of cattails and rushes, they can be downright ghost-like.  On top of all this, the find was notable because of timing. Bitterns, like most members of the heron family, migrate south for the winter. Some individuals venture all the way to the sunny climes of Central America. Mid Novembertime is well past the time to expect a lingering Bittern.

This Bittern find was marred only by the fact that the bird was apparently injured. It was stumbling though the grass and suffering with an “apparently broken right wing.”  The birders were able to get hold of it (getting the proverbial bird in hand away from the bush) and secure a contact number for a re-habilitator.  I had nothing to do with the details of this particular affair other than having the opportunity to give the creature a quick visual inspection. Frankly, I had never seen one this close and my “inspection” amounted to little more than taking a few detail pictures (see above and here).  Since healthy bitterns do not, as far as I know, willingly allow people – even birders – to simply pick them up I assumed the thing had to be  “hurt.” The “injured right wing” was held tightly by the birder and was not visible.  The bittern exhibited  no signs of pain or discomfort, but did look…well, indignant at best or pissed at worse. Hurt things need help, however. The bird was safely in the hands of a wildlife rehabilitator, some 40 miles distant, by nightfall.

A few days later, contact was made with the re-haber – a Ypsilanti area resident named Carol – to see how her fragile charge was doing. She responded by saying that the bird was doing very well and was, in fact, without injury. It had neither a broken wing or leg or broken anything, she said. There was no visible sign of trauma what-so-ever. It simply stood in the corner, flared out his wings, and lunged at her with deadly intentions every time she approached. Apparently the Bittern had either ingested some bad minnows or perhaps eaten a fermented frog. Whatever the case, it had been only temporarily “out of it” and the issue was resolved by a good healthy “dump.” It was perfectly healthy and ready to kill anyone attempting to “help” it again.

The decision was made to get the poor thing back to Mouillee as quickly as possible. I picked it up, neatly re-boxed into a cat-carrier(see here), and delivered the bitter bird to a nice cat-tailed spot at the game area.  The box shuffled only slightly during the entire return trip – the occupant making quick moves whenever my shadow passed over one of the ventilation holes. A pair of very intense eyes greeted me when I cracked open the box lid (see above). American Bitterns are known for their terrific cattail pose in which they point their beak straight up and align their striped features with the surrounding vegetation. They even have been known to enhance this act by rocking gently back and forth like the wind blown plants about them. But, bitterns can also assume a terrific threat pose if frightened or ticked. This bird was in classic tick mode with flared head feathers and opened wings (perfectly healthy wings I might add). The beak was raised and both eyes were focused forward at a single point in the universe – me.

Like a frightening jack-in-the-box, the bittern suddenly lunged forward out of the box while delivering a dagger attack at the position where I was (as in formally) standing (see above). It then retreated immediately and prepped for the next jab. It would be professional of me to say that I was prepared for such an explosive action but I was not professional. You’ll note the blurred action in the photo as I reeled backwards. Only via a very careful and remote manipulation by a cattail stalk was I able to gingerly open the second half of the lid enough to convince the flustered soul to finally leave his confines. It jumped the box and stalked off into the marsh. After one angry look back, it lowered it’s neck and melted into one of those shadowy narrow spaces between the cattails.

This was not one of those magic goodbye moments that you see in the movies. Good intentions mean absolutely nothing to a marsh bird.