Long ago the Lake Erie Islands were known as “Les Ile aux Serpentes” -a French name meaning “the Snake Islands.” Stories, nurtured since prehistoric times, centered on the abundant snake population of these remote islands. It was reported  by former Indian captive James Smith that the natives held a belief that the island snakes actually turned into raccoons every fall and that they returned into snake form in the spring. This belief was based on the abundance of both species at certain times of year. Another tale told of a lethal “Blow Snake” that haunted these isles. Over time, raccoons were recognized as untransmutable beasts and the islands slowly shed their ominous snaky nature. Although the rest of the 18 “Ile aux Serpentes” have been given non-serpentine names likes Gibraltar, Bass & Kelleys, one of them, a small piece of rock just north of Put-in-Bay, is still called Rattlesnake Island.

The islands are still heavily populated by snakes today. Perhaps the most celebrated residents are the Lake Erie Water Snakes.  This species is a subspecies of the mainland form of Northern Water Snake but they have been isolated from them since glacial times and are starting to take on a different appearance. Typical Lake Erie individuals have a washed out look which de-emphasizes their dark banding pattern. Because their entire population is restricted to the 25 sq. mile area of the islands they are considered a protected species.  “Water Snakes Welcome Here” signs (see here) are posted along the beaches to advise and inform island visitors and residents of this treasured resource. During my autumn vacation to South Bass & Kellys Island I didn’t really expect to encounter any of these unique creatures due to the late season. Fortunately, I was wrong.

Nearly every beach either had evidence of their presence in the form of shed skins (see above & here) or the creatures themselves. On the north shore of South Bass I nearly stepped on a very large individual basking on the sunny rocks. Neither of us were aware of each other until the last moment and each showed mutual surprise.  I shouted out a hearty verse of heavenly praise and he virtually lept into the air, beat a hasty retreat across the pebbles, and dove into the water – swimming a short distance then diving under the waves. At the time, I swore that he was a fully 5 feet long, but later re-considered this upon finding out they don’t get much over 3 1/2 feet long.   Later, I came upon a smaller one sunning on the concrete slabs along Put-in-Bay (see below and here). He quietly slipped back into his retreat before I could approach any closer.

I did find a dead individual washed up on the beach, but it was in near skeletal condition. This one did provide an opportunity to get a closer look, however. The mouth was a treat to behold. It contained no fewer than 80 needle sharp teeth – all of which pointed inward. Augmenting the outer rows of 10 teeth on each side of the mouth, a dual row of  40 teeth ran down the center of the upper palette. In other words, the roof of the mouth contained four rows of teeth amounting to 60 teeth! Water snakes use this armament to procure fish, but will use it upon human intruders if captured. A coat of anti-coagulating saliva on the teeth makes for a bite that will bleed like a puppy when inflicted.

The Ohio State University has been studying these snakes for decades. On one point of the island I came upon one of their “Snake Mats” at the foot of a cliff next to Bass Island State Park (see below). These prominently marked structures – really nothing more than flexible black floor mats -were laid out at regular intervals to serve as gathering places for Lake Erie Water Snakes. The spots are visited on a regular basis to capture and mark snakes for study. I will admit to looking under this particular mat, in spite of the clear directions to the contrary (although you will note that the partially obscured letters say “touch” ). I only looked a little bit, by the way. Since my daughter is currently attending Ohio State, I felt slightly entitled.

University research has revealed that the snakes are currently enjoying a population surge due to a surprising reason. Apparently, the introduction of the infamous Round Goby has served as a heavenly gift to this species. They eat them like candy and these alien fish make up nearly 90% of their diet in some locations.  Population estimates of 141 adult Lake Erie Water snakes per km. of shoreline have been proposed along with a total population of 10,000 individuals.

For now, the Erie islands will retain their position as the Serpent Islands.

October out on Middle Bass Island is about what you’d think. On a clear day there is no prettier place, but on a gusty cold day the place takes on a harsh edge. The island is well out into the gray choppy waters of Lake Erie. Here the prevailing winds are incessantly beating up on the west facing shore of the island even on nice days. With morning temps hovering just above 45 degrees, the setting certainly made for some brisk beachcombing.

Naturally I expected a solitary walk when I hit the beach at sunrise the other day. Certainly no-one else would be foolish enough to be out on a day like that. There should be plenty of uncontested fresh offerings in place. The wind had been blowing hard all night- sending waves rolling in at a steady pace. No sooner would one break and crawl noisily over the pebbled beach than another would break on the heels of the first. Each watery hit shuffled the loose limestone rocks as if they were marbles. The sound of a million mumbling stones clunking about for the millionth time was mesmerizing. A long rolled mat of water celery marked the high water line like a lazy emerald serpent. Perched upon that vegetative snake were bits of flotsam and jetsam cast up from Erie’s belly. There were scattered pieces of driftwood, a sizable walleye carcass, and a battered bill cap with an Interlake Steamship Co. logo on it.

I reached down to pick up the cap and noticed out of the corner of my eye that I was not alone there on the shore. Far up the beach, a pair of juvenile Turkey Vultures were also working this wind blown stretch. They were alternately picking away at a large eyeless Sheepshead and keeping their own eyes on me. Vultures are cautious creatures and don’t normally hang around when caught out in the open. I stopped to watch them while I still could. In the low light of morning, blurred by drifting clouds of wave mist,  they appeared downright prehistoric. Their wrinkled naked heads and jerky mannerisms gave them the look of  creatures that were out of the dawn of time rather than just the dawn of  day.

I couldn’t be sure if these were resident island birds or migrants from the far Ontario shore. Turkey Vultures migrate south during the month of October and the big flight was underway. Wherever they were from, these were probably nest-mates from earlier in the season. By next spring they would sport red heads and white beaks, but they both still had the pinkish gray skin head and dark-tipped beaks of youth (see here and here). The pair nervously shifted position to walk down the shore toward the carcass of another fish. After every step they looked back and occasionally ruffled their peculiar bottle brush necks. At one point the sun gleamed straight through their large nostril openings as if to highlight their extraordinary ugliness.

For just a moment, we three were the only creatures on earth in this wild place. I’ve seen thousands of vultures before and will see as many in the coming years, but my Bass Island buzzards seemed temporarily special. I tried to raise my camera one more time but the scene through my viewfinder emptied as the pair launched into the air and rose up on the high breeze. They turned eastward and glided out of sight over the treeline behind me.

I was walking the shoreline east of Port Clinton, Ohio last week and saw that the wind had created an extensive wind tide. This  effect, called a seiche (a Norwegian word I believe), involves a bit of bathtub science in which the lake basin acts like a tub of water being tipped by a prolonged western wind. A wall of water is pushed toward Buffalo and the western shore is left waterless. Winds up to 50 mph had exposed at least an 1/8 mile of open sand flats extending from the rock-covered shore to the harbor break walls (see here). The water level dropped by 8 feet in some places along the shallow basin of western Lake Erie. For some the phenomenon posed a temporary irritation but for others it posed a deadly trial. Totally aquatic beasts, such as fish, clams, and water plants are put to the hardest test. Open wind-exposed sand is hardly conducive to maintaining a wet life.

The sand substrate in the near-shore environment offers little even on the best of days. This habitat consists of a continually shifting bottom habitat. Only a few patches of water celery and a few scattered boulders provided any stationary cover. Nutrient rich waters make this place worth whatever effort is expended here. One of the tougher inhabitants of this zone – at least in this particular place – were large native calms (aka mussels) known as Floaters. Contrary to their name, however, they don’t float or even tread water. They pretty much remain in place on the bottom until prompted to move by hunger or boredom.  I came upon quite a few of these creatures out on the flats. All were attempting to dig down into the substrate to avoid the dangerous bout of dryness thrust upon them. Their efforts created winding trails carved into the hardening sand. Each trail ended in a partially entrenched clam (see here & below).

The problem is that mussels don’t move very fast. “Glacial” would be a good way to describe their pacing. When they do move they do so using a large white muscular foot that extends out and swells much like an anchor. The heavy mollusk pulls itself forward to the anchor point and repeats the process. A clam journey is measured in inches rather than feet. (You can see this foot sticking out along the lower right edge of the shell in the view below). Since they have the reaction time of a refrigerated snail, they can’t respond quickly to the lowering water brought about by a seiche. By the time they are thinking “hey, the water is going away- I’d better dig in…,” the water is already gone and they are forced to deal with hard-packed sand.

If they can bury themselves properly, they can survive for quite a while on the water entrapped within the tight lips of their mantle folds. Most of the clams I found were well on their way to security.

Unfortunately, one of the nasty realities in these parts are the colonies of Zebra Mussels that infest nearly every clam (see here and below). Zebras need a hard surface in order to carry out their devious plans to take over the earth. Out in the sand shallows, the protruding portion of the native Floaters provides a dandy place to set up shop. These colonies can get so large that they will literally rob their host of food and eventually kill them. One of the most disastrous long term effects brought about by Zebra Mussels is that they are reducing our native Clam population.

Every Floater I encountered was encrusted with Zebra Mussels. One very large individual (see above) was not yet totally buried so I decided to  scrape away every zebra I could as a small act of kindness. Life is tough enough without this extra added burden. This job was not an easy task given that the mussels were individually attached to the shell and each other via strong byssal anchor threads. Once the job was completed I ended up with a pile of over 100 zebra shells laying on the sand next to their former host (see here).

The zebra-less Floater probably didn’t even realize that she was lighter until long after her life-giving water had returned. This clam did not look at me with soft eyes and say “thanks” as I repositioned it deep in the sand. Since she has no eyes and only a quarter of a brain to render such an emotion, this is no surprise. But maybe, just maybe, this one will survive long enough to produce at least nine more clammlets in the future. This provided me a small measure of comfort out there on that cold Lake Erie sand flat.

If I’ve ever seen a prettier Painted Turtle I can’t recall. My wife and I were out for some early morning fishing on “our” lake when we noticed a turtle poking about in the vicinity of our bobbers. Pretty soon, my bobber went straight down and I set the hook in anticipation of our first edible sized perch of the day. Unfortunately, the creature at the other end of my line turned out to be a medium sized turtle. He was firmly hooked in the bony upper plate of his mouth and it took a long minute to pry the barbed tip out. We were both upset – he at being unceremoniously yanked out of his element and I at wasting a perfectly good worm. As I handled the creature, however, his intense coloration and perfect condition began to play pleasantly on my eyes and I slowly came to the realization this was the perfect example of his kind.

It is easy to take common things for granted.  I am as guilty as anyone of giving Painted Turtles the short shrift because they are so dog-gone common. Oh sure, I’ll still stop to look at them but will barely break stride to do so. They had become like deer and raccoons in my world view. But this one cleared the glaze from my eyes and re-introduced himself as living proof that every creature is worthy of consideration and re-consideration. Heck, if I were an East Indian or Australian, this would be an incredibly new sight. Blimey, as a Michi-merican I need to be reminded of that every now and then.

One look will tell you why this beast is called a Painted Turtle. Although there is a faint red racing stripe down the middle of the smooth carapace (top shell) and the individual scutes (plates) are lined with red (see here), the real paint job is evident along the bottom edge of the shell (see below). Here, bright scarlet shapes, set against a deep olive background, are accented with arcs of yellow dots. I’d say this pattern is vintage 70’s op art with a hint of Italian Miliflori.  Yellow facial markings and heavy leg and tail stripes add some clown like pizazz to what otherwise would be a plain olive and yellow reptile.

Two features mark this swimming harlequin as a male. First of all, the long red-striped tail extends well beyond the margin of the plastron (bottom shell). The placement of the cloaca, the turd end of the that is evident as a swelling about a third of the way along the bottom side of the tail, is key (see here). Physically this allows the male to mate with the female by curling his tail down and around here upper shell. The most telling marks of masculinity on this Painter are the long white-tipped toenails (see below). In the world of pond turtles only the males possess the long painted fingernails. They use them to attract females with “come-hither” waves and to tickle the sides of their necks.

Even the paddle-like back feet are works of adaptive art (see here). All of the toes are fully connected by a web and the innermost toe is reduced to a flipper. All the feet are used for swimming. The hind feet provide the propulsion and the front feet serve for directional and sexual orientation.

I slipped this fellow back into his element with some slight regret. The glassy surface of the lake reflected every detail of the cloudy morning sky above and the groves of fiery fall maples along the near shore. His introduction broke that mirrored stillness with a set of slow concentric ripples. The ripples were not long for the world and they quickly melted back into the smoothness. Both of us had other things to do.

We caught several large fish after this event and later cooked them over a roaring cedar wood campfire, but it was the one that “got away” that made the deepest impression of my day.

Don’t tell anyone, but I can walk on water. Mine is strictly a seasonal talent, mind you. I can only do it during the wintertime but my ability is real none-the-less. I happen to share this limited talent with a group of creatures called Water Striders. This group of insects restricts their water walking to the warm season only so you could say that we trade off talents so that we can cover the entire year. Oddly enough, their family name – Gerridae – is spelled exactly the same as my first name which is Gerry. You may think this coincidence, but I hardly think so. Beyond this remarkable set of similarities we share little else.

Water Striders have been called by many names. “Jesus Bug” is perhaps the most colorful, but they are often mistakenly called “Water Spiders.” They are neither divine or arachnoidal, however. They are simply true insects with six legs and three body parts plus an ability to defy gravity. Specifically Water Striders are classified as True Bugs. This means they have so-called half-wings with an inner hard and an outer soft portion, and they suck their food through a straw-like mouth. They share billing with the likes of stink bugs, box elder bugs, and the aquatic Giant Water Bugs.

Striders are aquatic insects but they can’t swim like their giant bug cousins. They are air breathers that live life on the delicate film at the surface of the water. Structurally they are adapted to this lifestyle by having four of their six legs elongated to distribute their weight. By so doing only limited contact is made with the meniscus layer of the water and the surface tension remains unbroken.  Should they accidentally break through this layer they would be trapped and suffer a drowning death. Life on the positive side of the surface allows them to skate about as if on ice and dine on other less fortunate insects that are ensnared by the water. they leap great distances like an Olympic skater if such a move is required to pounce on prey ( a move I have perfected during my seasonal water walking, by the way).

Their third pair of legs are reduced to grasping tools that look like tiny preying mantis appendages.  When a moth, or some other non-water creature, falls to the liquid surface, the striders seize it and proceed to suck it dry using their straw mouths. They are not restricted to live prey. Any dead thing will suffice as long as it has a juicy component. I caught this group of striders sipping the rotting slime off of a dead sunfish last year (see below). I’ll bet life doesn’t get any better than that, eh?

The striders off my Dollar Lake dock provided a great opportunity to get a closer look at my soul mates.  Apart from carrying on their daily business of water walking and sucking, they spent a good part of their time resting on the surface of the lily pads (see below).  If you look closely at this last shot you’ll notice a few things. First of all, there is a nymphal, or baby, strider in the center. Secondly you’ll see that one of the individuals has some red spots on it (look closer here). These are larval water mites hitching a ride. They will eventually drop off and carry on a completely aquatic life.

It was hard to tell if this parasitized water strider noticed his ruby-colored cargo. He showed no signs of irritation or annoyance and carried on as if nothing was amiss. Personally, I would be very irked. I guess a Jesus Bug can be much more forgiving.

Goldenrod crab spiders are well near impossible to see when in their proper place. When nestled in amongst the bright yellow flowers of a Goldenrod flower they become deadly masters of disguise able to grab visiting insects with impunity.  When outside of their flowery element, however, the creatures enjoy no cryptic benefits. It was easy to spot the individual pictured above because it was creeping across an expanse of subtle brown bricks. It looked more like a neon yellow lemon-drop than a hidden stealth killer. I’m not sure how this beast ended up climbing that wall, but the chance encounter provided a nice opportunity to appreciate her eight-legged glory.

This spider has a lovely bottom, you must admit. Those red markings give that ample bottom the appearance of a somewhat contorted happy face balloon (see below). The smooth body skin and lack of “hair” add to her slightly beguiling charms (once you get past those eight eyes, that is).

This beauty has rear legs which are significantly shorter than those in the front. The elongated first pair of legs are held open like the jaws of a trap until some unsuspecting prey ventures near enough to be ensnared in a deadly embrace. This physical feature makes them look very crab-like indeed. The fact that they tend to walk sideways and backwards only enhances this crabby image. There are hundreds of crab spider species and all share this distinctive appearance. It is also interesting to note that this eight-eyed creature actually has and un-equal set of eyes to match that un-equal legging set-up. One set of eyes actually points backward for the most part. This set is placed on the end of two short stalks located on top of the head. It would be tempting to suggest this rear-facing pair serves as hindsight when the crab spider goes into reverse, but I can’t back that statement up (pun intended).

These spiders do not make webs or wrap their victims in silk – they simply suck their victims dry, drop the empty carcass, and wait for the next meal to come flying in. They do utilize silk to lay down a safety line as they wander about.  As the blooms fade, the spider must change flower heads on a regular basis in order to keep up with the freshest flowers. Should they lose their grip and start to fall off the plant, their safety lines keep them from completely dropping to the ground.

Goldenrod spiders can change colors if they have to. If they venture into a patch of white mountain mint or aster, they can switch from yellow to white in order to blend in, although it takes around six days to do so. It takes over 10 days to switch from white back to yellow, so you could hardly call them quick change artists.  This brick walking example will never be able to match her new found background no matter how hard she tries.  If she was embarrassed at her predicament, she showed no signs of it. As I left her, she snapped into hunting mode and stood motionless with her arms open wide for prey (see below). Far from being crabby, she was obviously a cheerful optimist.

It’s not something that you want to do often, but it needs to be done. Every now and then you have to get hold of your captive Bald Eagle and give him a vaccination shot for his own good. The West Nile vaccine must be administered via a needle by a real veterinarian. This medication can’t be dusted onto his dinner rat or stuffed into the mouth of his filet o’ fish. When your eagle is not an “on the hand” type bird, that means you need to get control of him before your vet can properly poke him. Actually, the whole process is a bit different than you may think.

If you are a regular reader, you may recall that the Lake Erie Marshlands Museum received an injured captive eagle named Luc about two months ago. Since that time, the bird has adjusted nicely – eating like a pro, taking visitors in stride, and generally endearing himself to thousands of visitors. Like his free-roaming kin, Luc is at risk of contracting the West Nile virus. Unlike free-roaming eagles, however, captive birds can be treated and it is our responsibility to give Luc the best of care.  The West Nile Virus appeared on the North American scene about ten years ago. This nasty bug  is transmitted by mosquitoes and is amplified by bird hosts (Humans can contract it but can’t transmit it). Some 200 wild bird species have been recorded with the ailment, although crows and robins appear to be the primary carriers.  In short, West Nile can make it’s host very sick and, in the case of birds, can be fatal.  The recent death of a pair of eaglet chicks in the nest has been tentatively chalked up to West Nile.

It’d be nice to say that the current vaccines provide a complete chemical barrier against this virus. It ain’t necessarily so. The most widely used medication is a horse vaccination made from a killed virus called Fort Dodge something or other (can you tell I’m not the vet in this story?). “Our” vet, a raptor specialist named Andrew Granowski from the Canton Animal Clinic, has elected to use another type of vaccine whose name I won’t even attempt to repeat. According to Andrew, and a whole host of other specialists, there is little proof that either treatment is totally effective . But, they are better than nothing.

At any rate, the treatment requires a good close look at the “subject” so the experience is akin to a regular check-up. That alone is good enough reason to perform the task. Our bird already received his first shot three weeks ago and the occasion of his required booster shot provided an opportunity to get a few pics of the affair. Let’s just say that the first time went well. This second time, we had an audience. A family of three were gathered at the screen to watch the three of use (Paul Cypher was the third hand and cameraman). When told we were going to give Luc his shot, one of them said, “oh, does that mean you are going to shoot a tranquilizer dart at him or something?” When I told them that I was just going to walk in and grab him, they crowded up to watch – expecting some blood.

 Luc’s initial reaction to these check-ups is equivalent to that expected from any species – he doesn’t like it. He has free reign of his very large cage and has the ability to perform limited flying. The second he spotted me walking in with my giant gloves on, he lept from the perch to the ground and ran for the far end of the enclosure. Paul blocked his route as I crowded him to the nearest corner. Eventually, he dropped down and waited for me to make the next move. My grab was quick, but not what I wanted. I had to be satisfied with pinning him with his back on the ground with a firm grasp on his powerful talons (see below). During this whole sequence, the bird never made a noise or attempted any aggression what-so-ever.

In this awkward position, the vet was able to make a hasty examination of the eagle (see here) before I was able to free my left hand and cradle the bird in my arms (see below). At this point, the syringe was un-capped and the dose injected (about 1 cc) directly into the breast muscle to the left of the breastbone. Dr. Granowski rubbed the injection spot with his finger immediately before placing the needle. This gentle touch caused Luc to raise up his belly feathers to expose his skin beneath as if resigned to his fate.  Once the deed was done, Andrew looked him over and pronounced that he looked “very good”.

I held onto Luc for a short while longer as Paul took the opportunity to clean the cage up a bit. Luc is molting many of his old feathers and the down and tail feathers are scattered about the enclosure. You can’t do this when the bird is free-perched without un-nerving him. Apart from the wing problem, Luc is blind in his left eye and I was able to get a nice close look at the injured eye (see here). It is an old, albeit well healed, injury that looks like a torn iris.  You can compare this eye with his healthy one in the view below.

One can’t help but admire the massive hooked beak found on a Bald Eagle such as Luc. Of particular note in this close up view is the fleshy cere that surrounds the nostrils. Given the position in which I was holding him, you’d think he would have happily taken the opportunity to take a chunk out of my left breast (thank God I don’t wear a nipple ring!).  Luc took no such advantage and patiently waited until I placed him on the ground and he returned to his perch.  He has definitely earned my respect and I can only hope I have earned his.

If you walk around a fairy ring nine times, they say one of two things will happen. Either you will open up the portal to the elfin underworld (a place where midget gangsters hide, I guess) or you will neutralize any magical spells emanating from that ring. These are potentially contradictory results, but such is the way with magical things – they are ephemeral and subject to whim. I can say for certain that dizziness is the 3rd verifiable  result of walking around a  fairy ring nine times. What are Fairy rings, you dare ask? Well they are ring or crescent-shaped markings evident in grassy situations (see above). They are caused by fungi, not little fun guys.

For centuries, these circular patches have been assigned magical origins. Circular things are always of alien origin, aren’t they. Think of crop circles, flying saucer landing marks, and pancakes (yes, waffles are earthly but pancakes are heavenly). These patches, often seen in woodland openings or open wet lawns, are places where elves apparently came out to dance at night. Some fairy ring growths look like they had been trampled by hundreds of tiny maniacal feet while others look as if they were fertilized by pixie sweat. The English poet Michael Drayton expressed this belief when he penned these lines in the early 1600’s : “and in their course make that round, in meadows and in marshes found, of them so called the Fairy Ground, of which they have the keeping.” O.K., I didn’t quite understand that either, but it sure was literary wasn’t it.

In reality, the subterranean world beneath a Fairy Ring is populated by countless tiny mycelium forming a thready mat of fungal fibers. When moisture conditions are just right these fibers send up fruiting bodies called mushrooms. The mushrooms dance upon the earth for a few magical days until melting back into the earth. Oddly enough, scientists are a bit baffled by these structures and why they grow in circular patterns. There are over 50 species of mushroom that form Fairy Rings. Some leave a ring of dead grass after the mushrooms fall away while others leave a ring of super green grass to mark their location. In at least one scenario, the fungus mat uses up the nutrients in the soil and are required to expand ever outward in order to find new ground.

The recent rains prompted many local fairy rings to erupt into chorus lines (see above). As you can see, these elves are not especially tiny – they were, in fact, large white gilled mushrooms. Some were close to eight inches across and, although not towering in stature, were fairly tall. They were definitely lords of their rings! I couldn’t place the species, but they resembled a type called Chlorophyllum. The gills , the spore-bearing structures under the hood, were slightly purplish in color (see here and here). Whatever the type pictured here, they are of the green ring type. In this case, the breakdown of the mycelium threads produced a nitrogen rush which in turn provided a jolt of energy – a goose you could say –  to the late season grass. In fungal discussion circles, this is known as a type II fairy ring. In type I rings the grass turns brown.

Although Fairy Ring mushrooms have a brief magical appearance above ground, they live the most of their lives underground. Don’t be tempted to underestimate them or assign them any temporary nature, however. These thready colonies are long lived and massive in nature. Some of the older circles can encompass a huge area and contain miles of intertwined fibers. It is worth remembering that one of the largest organisms on earth is a colony of lowly mycileum threads (located in Michigan) estimated to be over 1500 years old and weighing over 21,000 pounds! Now those are magical numbers.

Tread lightly upon the next Fairy Ring you encounter lest your cloddy feet disrupt the gentle pattering of mycelial pixies.

There are over 40 species of Walking Sticks in North America, but I’m pretty sure that the one I encountered was the so-called Northern Walking Stick (Diapheromera femorata).  It helps to know that this is one of the commonest regional types and that it has been previously recorded in Michigan. Thomas Say, the great nineteenth century naturalist, named this particular species back in 1824 (along with thousands of other insects announced for the first time in his American Entomology). The different types all look pretty much alike to the untrained eye. When walking sticks aren’t walking, they are hard for any eye – trained or untrained -to see. Their combination of cryptic coloration, slender form, and slender habit all contribute to their ability to blend in and disappear. The stick insects are classified as Phasmids – a word based on the Greek “phasma” which means “spectre” or “spirit.”

The only reason I spotted this free spirit was that he was unsuccessfully attempting to mimic a black wire fence. Frankly he stood out like a sore thumb because fences are apparently not within their talent sphere. He was in proper protective pose when first encountered (see here)with the antennae and first pair of legs extended straight out from, and in line with, the rest of the body. The remaining two leg sets were set out at perpendicular angles somewhat imitating the angles of the wire.  Normally it is instinctive habit among these creatures to freeze into this position and let their coloration do the rest. Sometimes they will even rock back and forth in a rythmic manner as if blowing in the wind.

Once touched, however, they give up the cryptic thing and become running sticks. This one, although not breaking any land speed records, did well – considering he was formerly a dead stick! I fetched him (that’s what you do with a stick) and allowed him to circle around, over, and around my hand before transferring him to the security of a hanging grape leaf (see above and here). Once back onto a natural substrate, he stopped moving and began to consider a return to stick form. This allowed for some time for a little close observation before letting him resume his spectral life. 

It’s hard to see, but walking sticks are related to crickets and mantids. If you look real close you can kinda see it in their eyes. Apart from revealing itself as a Northern Walker, this individual displayed the proper traits of a male. The brownish coloration is typical of the gender as are the pair of mating claspers (see here) at the tail end. The head end (see below) is not much different from the rest of the body except for the presence of a pair of beady eyes and extremely long hair-like antennae. Females are much plumper than the males (no commento) and tend to be greener as well.

Sticks are forest insects. They feed on a wide variety of leaves, including tree and grape leaves, and spend nearly all their time in the tree tops until they die, along with the leaves they feed on,  late in the fall. About the only time that these sticks are on the ground is when they hatch out of their eggs in the spring. The females do not descend to the ground in order to lay those eggs but instead elect to drop them there from a great height. Each tiny egg is a shiny black & white capsule that looks like a miniature version of a dried bean.  It is said that when a large population of walking sticks are laying, the dropping eggs sound like raindrops on the dry forest floor. You could say that the sticks are planting themselves.

Nighthawks are part of a group of insect eating birds known as Goatsuckers. This less than flattering name originated from an archaic farmer belief that these fowl were to blame when their dairy goats inexplicably went dry. They were believed to sneak into the barns at night and suckle milk from the goats.  This belief, of course, had no basis in fact other than the observation that nighthawks were twilight creatures frequently seen hovering over farm-lots and that they happened to have very large mouths. Those mouths, however, are exclusively meant for scooping insects out of the air and not for draining earthly udders. 

Except for a few conspiracy-believing back-hills farmers who wear tinfoil helmets, no one suscribes to the goat-sucking theory anymore. Unfortunately, the name remains as the name of the order to which Nighthawks belong.  Common Nighthawks, the species native to our neck of the woods (see illustration here) are familiar summer residents. We’ll forget the fact that they are in a specific group of goatsuckers called the Nightjars – a equally confusing name – and, even though they are called Nighthawks, are not hawks. All this is fascinating, but my primary intention here is to put semantics aside and call attention to the fall migration of these birds.

Nighthawks begin their southern trek in mid-August and continue their flight into early-mid September. They have to go all the way to South America and cannot afford to tally until the temperatures drop and the leaves change color. Now is the time to look skyward to see large groups of of these slender winged birds overhead. Late afternoon and early evening is the best time to do this. Over the last few days I’ve seen about 35 birds, massed into separate groups of  10-20 birds, glide past the open window of sky framed by the walnuts in my backyard.

During this migration and during their standard year, nighthawks fly in the evening and roost during the day. Typically they rest out in the open on gravelly ground or leafless branches where their cryptic coloration keeps them well concealed.  I was fortunate to see one roosting the other day (see above).  Actually I was told specifically where this bird would be found and found it exactly where it was supposed to be. 

As you can see, the bird was “at one” with the branch upon which it was perched. It is difficult to see, due to my poor photo skills and its excellent camouflage abilities, but the bird is facing left with its large eyes partially closed. The white-speckled gray wing coverts are dropped down to blend in with the dead branch (see detail below).

This bird had instinctively chosen  to assume its position in the manner of all “crepuscular caprimulgids”. It perched parallel to the branch rather than perpendicular to it.  Studies have been conducted on this roosting behavior and several other common features have emerged – it’s almost as if this bird read the literature about it (no doubt using a nightlight)! They tend to roost in dead trees which are taller than the surrounding trees and they face in a direction away from the trunk.  If the chance offers itself, the birds will also face east.

This one adhered to all the nighthawk doctrines, but was facing in more of a westerly/southerly direction. This sucker was probably anticipating the direction of its evening flight towards Brazil and dreaming of nice long daytime siestas in the southern hemisphere.