Sept. 9    Button Bay, Vermont

Button Bay is on the Vermont side of Lake Champlain (named after the notorious Samuel de). By some this is classified as a “Great Lake” – except by those who actually live among the Lakes. It is a great lake, to be sure, but just not in the capitol letter sense. This long narrow body of water on the New York/Vermont border certainly has seen its share of human history from French-Indian War actions at Fort Ticonderoga & Crown Point to the War of 1812 Naval Battle of Plattsburg.

The very name of the place where we stayed at Button Bay stemmed from the English period when the British soldiers noticed the peculiar circular formations found about the place and declared “Why them looks just like button moulds, they do.” Metal moulds, or molds, were used to cast pewter and brass buttons.  According to the official word, Button Mould Bay later was simplified to Button Bay because the Mould part was too hard to say or explain. In other words, the Brits really meant to say “them’s buttons.” As a doubtful Michigander I don’t fully buy this.

There were many oval & round clay concretions found here and some do look remarkably like buttons but most simply look like blobs.  At the point itself, a barren piece of glacial scarred Ordovician rock (see glacial grooves here) there are quite a few true “button moulds” exposed in the rock (see above).  They appear to be iron based concretions with a softer material inside. They really do look like button moulds…er, molds. The soldiers were probably referring to these things. Why would they say mould when they meant buttons? I believe they meant what they said. One doesn’t see a spoon-shaped object and declare that it looks like a spoon mold – no, either it looks like a spoon or the mold from which is made.

Perhaps there is some linguistic thing going on here that I don’t understand so I’d better push the STOP button and let it drop before exposing my own ignorance. I did spot a pair of Daddy Long-legs (see here) on the rocks apparently arguing/discussing  the same issue (“thems buttons – no, them’s molds”…etc). Actually they were engaged in a more amorous endeavor but for the sake of visuals I will stick to my earlier statement.

The great Lake Champlain is down this year. It is really down, according to some of the locals, to record levels.  Multiple beach ridges – at least six – are exposed to create fresh-water tidal flats.  The place was attracting quite a few shorebirds picking through the exposed mire. Among the long-legged long-necked Greater Yellowlegs (see below) were pint sized Semipalmated Plovers (second below) and Semipalmated Sandpipers.

The Yellowleg name is pretty self-explanatory but the Semipalmated thing needs another “button mould” type explanation.  To be palmated means to be “hand-like”. To be semi-palmated literally means somewhat hand-like. In the case of these shorebirds it means that there is partial, or reduced, webbing between the front three toes – in other words their feet are more hand-like than duck-like. O.K. ,that makes more sense than the button thing.

These two small Semipalmated shorebirds are migrants making their way down to the warmer Gulf climes for the winter. The Semipalmated Plover looks like a Killdeer reduced in a shrinky dink oven – losing one of the neck rings in the process. It is in the same family as the Killdeer but looks more like a Killfawn.

One of the Semipalmated Sandpipers posed for me among the wave-washed rocks of Button Point.  I hate identifying shore birds because I am shore to get the identification wrong. There are far too many subtle points to consider. In fact, I might even call it a shorebird mold. In this case, I initially thought the bird was a Sanderling. It was very small and certainly looked like all those Sanderling pictures. As usual I was wrong – I think.

Because the bird was so co-operative I was able to take many shots of it (see above and here). This allowed me to take a closer look, after the fact, to note that the tiny fowl had back toes. Sanderlings lack a back toe and possess only three forward pointing (and un-palmated) toes. The Semipalmated Sandpiper was the only other thing fitting the fully-toed description.

Again I will need to push the STOP button and risk further ignorance exposure at this point.  Never publish a shorebird image unless you are willing to accept revision. I am therefore waiting for two revisions – one on my Button Bay theory and the other on this bird. Perhaps I should spend more time on vacation looking at the scenery rather than pondering such questions. At least the scenery is what it is – no more, no less.

Sept. 6   In the Adirondacks     

Although not exactly Rip Van Winkle territory, the Adirondacks of upper New York State certainly have that misty mountain Winkle feel. You could fall asleep here for decades and wake up to a place that looks exactly the same as it always was. We stopped at Eagle Point  State Park, located on Schroon Lake at the eastern edge of the Adirondacks on the Vermont side of the state, for an overnight stay. Schroon is one of those narrow north-south bodies of water carved out by the glaciers. The opposite shore is speckled with cabins but the un-tamed peaks behind them dominate the horizon. It is a deep cold lake that probably holds a lot of deep cold secrets.

My wife and I were pretty much the only residents of the park – this being very late in the season. The place was scheduled to close down for the year in just a few more days. This, of course, allowed for ample solitary exploration of the abandoned lakeshore the following day.  As expected, a singular loon was gliding the still lake waters in the morning (would it be a northern lake without one?) along with another solitary fisherman in the form of a human in a small aluminum boat.

As stunning as the scenery was, my attention was drawn to a pile of mussel shells on the bank bordering the sand beach. There were dozens of them in the cluster and all of them were cleaned out. Each had been opened and the valves remained connected by their hinge – “butterflied,” I guess you’d call it. This bore all the characteristics of a muskrat midden.

Muskrats are primarily vegetarians but they do not adhere strictly to this regime. They have to have a bit of bloody meat every now and then in order to stay interesting. Fresh-water mussels are one of their favorite guilty pleasures. Muskrats will pig down on mussel flesh whenever and wherever they are readily available. A purple nacred (that means purple mother-of-pearl) Sand Shell and a thin-shelled Paper Shell appear to be the most common varieties in this lake.

It is still somewhat of a mystery as to how muskrats open these things, but they do manage to force them open enough to sever the single muscle that holds the two shells together. On occasion, they will break the thinner shells in the process, but for the most part the only evidence left are some tooth marks marking the where the mussel was carried.  They rarely separate the two shells at the hinge. Because they are creatures of habit, the ‘rat will return to the same location repeatedly for their shellfish respite and thus these piles are created.

The only unusual thing about this muskrat midden was that it was located nearly 25 feet from the water. Due to the unusually hot summer, the lake level was obviously down by many feet. The original shore lapped at the base of the slope where the shells were deposited and it is likely that whatever ‘rat  built this shell temple did so in the early spring when the water was still up. “Eat clams while the water is high” is an old muskrat saying (original text: “wheep chip chatter gnash-chup”) and it certainly applied here.

Elsewhere in camp, squirrels were again part of the main show. I’m sure there were raccoons about (along with a few black bears) but the only garbage raider I saw was yet another portly Grey Squirrel. This one was trying to act innocent -like he was just using the edge of the dumpster as a perch -but I know he was eying the contents and was ready to dive in when I interrupted him. And talk about bushy tails. This one was certainly well-endowed.  It’s not a muskrat saying, but perhaps you’ve heard the one about “Big bushy tails means that a long hard winter is ahead.” Although this is a totally false concept,  it can be said with complete confidence that it means that winter will eventually get here.

A brightly spotted giant slug completed my morning discoveries at Schroon Lake. It was sliming along the Hemlock needle mulch looking for someplace to hide for the upcoming winter. Sure, it’s a bit early to take cover but slugs are not all that fast. It also serves as a reminder that this place is not entirely timeless because these are European introductions (and so, I remind myself, am I).

On the road to the Adirondacks and Vermont, I had the pleasure to see lots of things and think about what I might say and write about them. Convenient Internet is not a feature of the North Woods, however, and I was unable to translate any of this into timely blog entries. The Chipmunks were more than willing to transmit messages via the chip-chat network but I find that this type of communication tends to end at major roadway crossings. So, I did the journal thing and wrote down some thoughts with the idea that I would later post them into a set of “things I would have written” and treat them as part a stream of consciousness.  So, here are some of those things. I will post them every few days.

Sept. 4  Lake Erie State Park, New York

Here in the wild homelands of the extinct Erie Nation, the eastern end of the lake is vastly different from the western end of the beast. The rolling shoreline topography supports countless vineyards. The beaches lap upon slabs of table rock and dramatic sheer cliffs (see above scene). This place looks good – even in the pouring rain.

Sheepshead appear to be the dominant fish of these coastlines – they are, at least, the dominant dead fish in these parts. The beaches are peppered with their hollow dried carcasses. Each fish promised a unique crop of “lucky stones.”  Lest you sneer at poking about the dried innards of a dead fish, I remind you that a dead beach fish is only a few weeks removed from the simmering one upon your frying pan. I also remind you that the thing is dried and more like beef jerky than rotten sushi.

Lucky stones are actually ototliths, or ear stones. These pearl-like structures come from the inner ear of the fish and act as a balance aide. Some folks mount them in jewelry or carry them about in their pockets. While some are offered for the plucking from disintegrating skulls others have been naturally separated and can be found in the clean washed sand. I guess that the idea of a luckless fish producing a lucky ornamentsis akin to a luckless rabbit yielding one of its treasured feet.

On a more terrestrial note, the ornamental crab trees about the campground are Central Station for the resident squirrels. Fattened on the red fruits, both Red and Grey Squirrels are lazing about. The Greys are the larger, and portlier of the two. The belly overhang on the lackadaisical Grey Squirrel pictured below speaks for itself.  A particular Red Squirrel defensively hugged her branch upon spotting me (see above). This tactic only works when the danger is directly below, and not off to the side, so the stunt looked silly.

A single Red-headed Woodpecker stopped by to sample the fruits but was less than willing to put up with my presence. It pondered my bulk for a few seconds while perched in a nearby Red Pine (riddled with Sapsucker holes, you may notice). This splendid bird, even though in the same state of teror as the Red Squirrel hugging the branch, certainly looked more dignified.

I knew they weren’t actually marbles, but they fascinated me none-the-less. Scattered upon the ground under a spreading Red Oak tree were dozens of them – small globes nearly perfect in their roundness, They reminded me of those glazed clay marbles of old with their pinkish-maroon coloration and speckled appearance. All had some heft to them and this also lent itself to the marble analogy. Unfortunately, they were slightly too large to use on a Chinese Checker board and not quite heavy enough to engage a glass marbled foe in a round of parking lot Ringer.

That these were some type of Oak Apple Gall I was certain (at least as far as certainty can go when talking to oneself). Galls are structures created when an insect lays its egg in a plant stem or leaf and causes the tissues to swell up. Specific structures form on specific plants due to specific insects. With all that specificity going on there are thousands of gall-making insects that can be identified based on gall shape and host plant alone. We hardly ever see the actual insects because they are minute – to say the least. Oaks are especially prone to galls and Oak Apples are caused by eensy weensy wasps.

Given this complicated background it is not sufficient to simply identify an oak gall as an Apple Gall and get away with it. It is morally o.k. to do so (lightening will not strike you down, for instance) but slightly lazy. Unfortunately for you, I was not feeling lazy when I set about to write this blog.  You see, there are some 50 species of tiny oak apple gall-producing wasps in North America. These galls are divided up into spongy and hollow types. Lest you are getting a bit uncomfortable here please hang on – I am not that un-lazy as to go through the entire process.

Suffice it to say that Hollow Oak Galls look like the solid ones (see here) but the proof is in the holding. They can be speckled and luminous, just like the solid ones but slightly more oblong vs. round, but have no weight (really?). Hollow galls are mostly air (really, Gerry?) so they…O.K., I’ll stop. You get the point, But, I insist on showing you the incredible innards of a hollow oak gall (see here) just because I can.  The grub lives in the small chamber at the center of all those tendrils (see here).

The issue here is really about those original solid galls which I held in my palm. If I were continuing on the hollow oak gall thread I’d have to find out the exact type of the pictured examples and I’m not going to do that. No, the question is the exact identity of these solid marble galls.

The real surprise came in cutting one of these things open to reveal the deep liver color of the insides. Beads of “blood” actually dripped out of the cut as if slicing into a fresh Dik-dik liver. I’ve never actually cut into, leave alone seen, a real Dik-dik liver but it sounds so much more fascinating than saying a deer liver. Dik-diks are tiny African antelopes so they would have, presumably, tiny livers closer in size to a solid oak gall right?  I’m just trying to be visual here.

The juice content of these galls was so heavy that it prompted me to make a few gall prints on the back side of a receipt that I had in my pocket. The reddish color remained intact on the paper after it dried– a fact that should not be surprising when you consider that oak galls have long been a source of ink. The prints even revealed the central hollow chamber where the insect itself resides (see below).

A pint-sized grub came out of that center. There was no real way to reverse this step once completed. I suppose it possible, even if impractical; to tape the two halves together but in this case the grub was also cut in half. Let’s just say that if this had been a Dik-dik inside that gall it would have been rendered into a singular Dik. A dead Dik (at which point you should be saying Ha as opposed to Ha Ha).

Because the tiny wasp larva unwillingly sacrificed itself for the sake of education, he and I were committed to completing his story even if it hurts (more him than me). After some time I arrived at the correct identity and am able to tell you that this type of solid gall is called an Oak Acorn Plum Gall. Got that? The scientific name of the actual wasplet is about a mile long and it would hurt me to have to type it out. You can Google it if you really want to know.

Apart from the Dik-dik like nature of the galls they are unique in that they develop off of the acorn caps. Most, if not all, of the oak apples form out of the leaves.  The galls are about the size of the nut itself before they fall off.

The larva inside the other Plum Galls layered over the ground will eventually pupate and emerge as micro wasps about the size of the “o” on this page. They will generate a whole new crop of marbles next year and I will only cut one open if asked (you’ll need to ask twice). The question is whether you will Google that scientific wasp name or “Dik-dik liver” first.

You’d think that a windy wet day on the Lake Huron shore might prove to be anything but productive but it was. The low expectations were met for most of the walk. It was nice to hear the waves crashing onto the isolated beach at Tawas Point and, thanks to the misty rains, to actually be isolated from public crowds.  But there wasn’t much wildlife moving about. There were no shorebirds, sand wasps, tiger beetles or any of the sorts I usually seek out in these dunelands. There were dozens of Ring-billed Gulls standing on the open beach beyond the “no admittance” sign (where the endangered Piping Plovers are nesting). All were facing into the wind and the group was being supported on exactly half the number of legs normally expected of such a flock because they were all balancing on one leg apiece. A wind-battered Buckeye was the only flier other than some swallows who matched the wind gust for gust.

Perhaps because of the lack of activity, I was forced to look sandward at the track evidence. There were, of course, numerous web-toed gull traces. The simple three-toed pattern of multiple small shorebirds imprinted the edge of the inter-dune ponds. They followed the edge of the shallow water for the most part. Singular holes, created by their probing beaks, pock-marked the sand.

In some stretches strange hieroglyphic letters and wiggles also marked extensive stretches of the wet sand (see above and here). There was some micro-mole type creature living within these sand lines – tiny openings at the end of some of the trials proved as much. The raised grains were drier than the darker background and were clearly outlined, but some of the tunnels obviously continued down into the wet sand. By the looks of things, there were thousands of these tunnels and thousands of tunnel makers.

In places where the shorebird and hieroglyphs met, a third type of marking evidenced where the birds were working these wiggle marks with systematic thrusts of an open bill. They were starting at one end and poking millimeter by millimeter down the line until – whatever it was – was found, escaped, or the hole turned out to be dry.  I opted to try the same tactic.

Taking my finger and collapsing the tiny ridges, I became a giant sandpiper on this day. Many of the tunnels yielded nothing except, well, collapsed patterns in the sand. A fascinating few of the tunnel investigations resulted in a tiny explosion near the terminal end. In a motion quicker than the eye could catch something would erupt out of the tunnel – spreading a small shower of sand grains and leaving an opening.  There was no obvious creature landing in the nearby sand, however, and that was intriguing. It was difficult to catch on camera, but I do have a short video clip to show the incredible details (o.k., the mildly interesting details).

These were tiny holes – only a few millimeters across – so the critter had to be hard to see just by matter of scale. After a series of trials, I finally trained my eye to spot the fleeing tunnel makers. Not only were they micro-sized but also cryptically colored to blend into the speckled sand (see below). Their surprising trajectory took them well beyond expected range to about 4 or 5 inches from their starting point.

It was impossible to nab any of these things in hand (I needed a beak but was without one at the time). Pushing the full capacity of my camera zoom, I did catch a few images (see above, below & here). If this were an ocean beach I’d be talking about “sand fleas” at this point but this was an inland sea beach. These things looked like grasshoppers but nothing about this scenario, except the jumping, smacked of grasshopper.

Let me say that I enjoyed the ignorance created by this whole affair and the identity challenges were both thrilling and frustrating but, for the purposes of this blog and your patience, I will now cut to the chase and leave out the details of the chase. These burrowing creatures were Pygmy Mole Grasshoppers. Appropriately enough, this species is known as the Minute Pygmy Mole Grasshopper.  How’s that for being called a speck on a fly’s rear-end!

Only 4 mm long, MPMGs are the smallest of the cricket and grasshopper group and perhaps the oddest. They inhabit moist sandy soil bordering streams and lakes throughout the eastern U.S. and feed upon the algae growing between the sand grains. Up close, getting beyond all those cryptic patterns, they have scoop-like front legs for digging, reduced wings (so they cannot fly), and huge jumping legs.  The end of each back leg has a set of flattened paddles – no doubt for sand walking or swimming (see my drawing below).

Being confined to soil dwelling as they are, it is surprising that Minute Pygmy G-hops have such well-developed jumping legs. Yes, they are grasshoppers but they do not hop in the grass. You do not see moles doing much jumping do you? The ability to burst through the roof of a tunnel and “fly” through the air is a great predatory evasion technique. They are world-class jumpers at that. For such a creature to jump 5 inches is equivalent to a human jumping nearly 14 feet. Consider that the world record standing long jumper is Arne Tvervaag who sailed 12.17 feet back in 1968. Arne did not accomplish his task by bursting through a sand roof as far as I know.

Finding a useless fact, like the one just quoted, is easy and instantaneous on Wikipedia. Finding Minute Pygmy Mole Grasshoppers is not an easy thing. According the rest (non-Wikipedic) information out there the best, and only time, to locate them is after a rain when their tunnels become evident. It was fortuitous that I was on that wet Michigan beach to discover something I had no idea existed.

It’s hard to get excited about an animal which looks about the same when alive as when dead. The public perception of clams and mussels has been tarnished by this fact over many years and these creatures rarely make it into the limelight.  After all, it is considered good to “come out of one’s shell” and bad not to. Unfortunately a clam out of its shell is a dead clam (the first way to tell a dead from a live clam). Clams don’t flush like an exploding covey of quail when discovered, or take fin like a lunker trout tearing across a riffle. No, they just sit there and, if they are disturbed enough, simply “clam up” with one quick shutting motion. If they are dead, they don’t clam up (another way to tell the difference).

All of this is not to say that the perception is the reality. In fact, clams can be downright fascinating and even, dare I say it, ingenious. First of all, our clams are not actually clams at all. They are freshwater mussels – two shelled (bivalve) members of the mollusk clan.  Though limited in structural design, they display a wonderful array of shell design, pattern, size, and color and possess some of the best animal names ever. Where else can you see individuals named Pigtoe, Purple Heelsplitter, Three-horn Warty Back and Fat Mucket without going to a mafia convention?  And, I know this may be shocking, but they really do move.

You’ll never truly really appreciate any of this until you spend some time observing them (try doing that with a mafia gang and it could get you swimming with da fishes). The shallow waters of the River Raisin just north of the Telegraph Bridge offered just such an opportunity recently. Like I said earlier, these shellfish are not hard to approach once found and I found them close to the seawall lining the bank at that location.

The mussels of note were Wavy-rayed Lamp Mussels. True to nature, they were well embedded in the gravelly sediment with only the top third of their form exposed to the current. Because they are relatively immobile, their shells were covered with matted dark algae. They looked like the surrounding rocks for the most part. A set of pink “lips,” kissing the current as it were, were the only give-away. These opening, called siphons, are the in and out tubes for feeding and feces.

The forward opening is the incurrent siphon and it is the largest of the two. Edged with a fingerlike fringe and patterned with bold stripes, the incurrent siphon takes in food particles suspended in the water. The particles stick to the mucus covering and are conveyed to the internal mouth (not associated with the aforementioned fake lips).  The excurrent siphon blows out the filtered water and waste products. As you might imagine, the mussel usually tries to position itself so that the wastes are ejected downstream from the intake (in other words, never spit upwind).

The soft inner workings of a mussel are covered by a thin mantle of flesh. The mantle produces the hard shell which in turn protects the whole shebang. Wavy-rayed Lamp Mussels have an oval shell with a yellowish outer skin layer marked by darker ridges that follow the edge contour. These ridges are believed to be growth lines delineating the annual periods of growth (very much like those on a tree). The River Raisin Lamp mussels exhibited at least ten lines each and reflected a decade of living in the river – through periods of raisin and fall’n water (a local joke around here).

The Raisin River has been, in spite of its name, falling as of late due to the extended drought conditions. Some areas of the stream were getting too shallow for a mussel’s tastes.  I spotted one individual in the process of shifting his position downstream (don’t ask me how I know it was a male – trust me). It was attempting to haul shell over a rocky platform in the river bed. Extending a huge white foot from the parted shell, the mussel wedged the tip into a crevice, swelled the tip in order to anchor it into place, and then contracted its foot. This mussel muscle action acted to pull the shell forward.  I even have a video to show you this, but you must be patient while viewing it.

Patience pretty well sums up the life of a mussel and a mussel watcher. Perhaps this glimpse into the secret life of Lamp Mussels will shed some needed light on the subject (not a local joke around here yet, but perhaps it could become one!).

It’s about time to talk about butterflies again. Not that I’ve neglected the subject entirely, but it hasn’t come up as often as it probably should. It’s safe to say I was raised on the love of the scaly winged tribe and that I’ve never strayed from them as a naturalist. As a blogger, however, I will admit to being unnaturally swayed by birds and other such larger critters. Perhaps the reason might be that these types of things don’t usually require much background explanation and that I can be lazy at times.

It wasn’t laziness that prompted my latest trip out to the grassland park just outside Dundee – West County Park, or something like that. The trip was taken at mid-day and the day was already getting hot, so you could say that stupidity overruled laziness in this case. The place is wide open and exposed. Frankly, it was the wrong time to expect much of anything other than prairie plants (another subject I have neglected and one which shall remain neglected for some time to come).

Apart from spotting a few skippers of the Silver-spotted kind, a Buffalo Treehopper (look that one up because I don’t want to explain it right now)  and some Cabbage Whites, the one mile trek was approaching the self condemning “see, I told you so” stage as I closed to within 100 feet of my car. Yes, I also discovered a beautifully precise Goldfinch nest (complete with four beautifully precise eggs) but, given the introductory theme of this entry, I should not elaborate on this.

A petite yellowish butterfly caught my eye as it raised up off the trail not 50 feet from my car. There are a whole host of obscure grass moths that fit the description of this individual and I rarely take much notice. But because this one persisted in it’s giddy flight and kept close to the ground, my interest was piqued.  It flew like a butterfly. Most of the familiar butterflies in this size category are blue or dark in color (see, there is one of those requisite explanatory notes). Unfortunately, this mini-butterfly refused to land.  It remained on the path route but was causing me to retrace my route.  After what seemed like a quarter mile Will ‘O the Wisp chase, I gave up. I wasn’t THAT interested.

Returning to the original spot close to my car I was greeted by the sight of yet another example of this petite yellow creature. This one also flew but, praise to the patient Prairie Gods, it soon landed and allowed me to approach.  Now I can’t say that I knew the following fact right away but I found myself nose to proboscis with a Dwarf Sulphur. This, of course, needs further explanation in order to explain my delight.

This species is not an everyday resident in my neighborhood. Dwarf Sulphurs are common butterflies elsewhere but not at all common in Michigan. I could even go so far as to say they are quite rare in the state. It probably should be no surprise that I had never seen one before.

Also known as the Dainty Sulphur, Nathalis iole, and a few other names, the tiny butterfly is a member of the White family. It is related to Cabbage Whites & Clouded Sulphurs, those white & yellow flutterbys of mid summer fields.  They are half the size of their fellow Whites but share the family look. Overall a light yellowish white with a tendency toward bright yellow on the under portion of the forewings, the upper wings are marked with prominent dark patches fore and aft. Two clear freckles fill the space between the patches and serve as clear identifying marks.  Large eyes, furry body, and yellow tipped matchstick antennae complete the picture. They have the distinctive habit of flying close to the ground.

Dwarf Sulphurs are southern butterflies, ya’ll.  It is not unusual for southern insects to spread north every now and then in a phenomenon called an “irruption.”  A reverse of the human snowbird phenomenon, the summer irruptors move north and stay until the cold weather drives them back. They can not withstand our winters. The pattern of irruption is sporadic (say that last phrase three times and you’ll have a perfect morning tongue workout). In the case of southerners, extended periods of warm weather provide the main incentive. In other words, when Kentucky weather comes to Michigan the Kentuckians follow.  Buckeye Butterflies, another basically southern type, have been coming north nearly every summer in recent memory and are common county residents.

Unlike the Buckeye, the dainty Sulphur is not a regular in this regard. They are true southerners which are even rare in the buffer states such as Ohio (excuse my reference to Ohio as a buffer but it is the place where the south gradually fades into the north). The records in that state are scattered at best. There have been quite a few Dwarf Sulphurs spotted this year and my sightings up in Michiganland confirm that this is a genuine irruptive year.

So there you have it. A delicate small southerner makes the news – at least within the delicate small world of my blog.

The small pile of droppings at the far edge of the porch were a sure indication that a bat (or bats) were using the spot above it as a rest station.  I assumed the place was a “night roost” – a place where a feeding bat will rest in-between midnight forays. Such spots are used only at night and are fairly open (day roosts are in protected cavities, cracks, holes and otherwise tight spots).

Dropping evidence is often the best way to tell if bats are about. Big Brown Bat doo is mouse-sized (as in the size of mouse droppings – not the size of mice!) and full of beetle parts. You can see the shiny bits of exoskeleton and elytra (wing covers) as evidence that these bats are beetle specialists.  Little Brown Bat doo is smaller, as you might expect, but I won’t go further into this discussion because I do not know enough about the fine points of bat bowel movements to continue. Let’s just say that I know it when I see it and I always saw it at the edge of the porch.

There is an old hornet nest, the lower half missing, located directly above the dropping scatter. It was apparent that the bat was using this nest as a hanging point. Because it is in a protected location the paper structure has survived for at least three years.  Every time I visited the cabin I peered up into the folds of the old nest to see if a bat remained within its folds, but without any luck – well, that is, until last week.

On my last visit I cleared away all of the old dropping to see if there was any fresh activity. Over the course of the next 12 hours, four fresh droppings appeared at the spot. This was ample proof that the place was still in use. It did seem, however, that at least two of the droppings were deposited during the daytime, so my night roost theory was in danger. But, the fact remained that I could not see any daytime bat.

Curiosity finally got the better of me. I broke out a flashlight and a ladder and visually probed the dark spaces deep within the nest. My effort was greeted by a view of a pink ear (see here), a patch of silky fur, and the bony forearm (see here) of a single Big Brown Bat tucked deep within. The nest was a day roost after-all.

Structurally, the choice makes perfect sense. Hornet nests are constructed of durable wood pulp paper  and are layered. The inner space surrounding the comb is the perfect dimension for a bat body (they like full body contact with their dwelling surfaces). Because they are constructed by flying critters, they are also situated in places where there is plenty of air space beneath the nest for easy egress (and digress?). Of course, this nest would not have been suitable for any bat occupation until after the colony died off and after the lower half fell off.  I’m not sure there is any documentation for this type of roost in the literature, but here it is now.

The bats around Dollar Lake come out to feed around 9:30 pm this time of year (being 20 minutes past sunset). I was hoping to catch this fellow in action as he dropped out of the roost to start his evening shift. As other bats were spotted flitting about over the cabin at 9:30, my hornet-house bat remained in place. It shuffled around a bit, but made no forward movement. I figured it was my flashlight that was preventing his departure, so I backed off and tried to give the spot more of an indirect illumination. I temporarily left at 9:40 pm in order to restore my neck vertebrae after starring straight up for near 20 minutes. When I returned, he was gone.

As I mentioned before, this situation – the combination of bat and hornet house – is at least three years old and I suspect that the same bat has been using it each summer over that time. Since bats can live up to 30 years, this time span for an individual is not unusual. As long as I don’t knock down the nest and nature allows for it to remain in place, I am confident this night creature will return for many more years.  I will have plenty of time to observe him and to count his droppings.

The Five-lined Skink uses his head,

when keeping his predators fed.

He offers his tail

to insure they will fail

in eating his body instead.

The last time I saw a Five-lined Skink, it was peeking out from between the cushions of a pumpkin orange over-stuffed chair that someone had discarded along the edge of the road. As you might expect, it was the last place I expected to see one (one does not expect to see a lizard sitting in a roadside chair except, perhaps, in a Geico commercial). That one eluded further investigation and escaped as I tore through the chair. No, it was not a lounge (chair) lizard!

Granted, that experience wasn’t all that long ago but it was preceded by a lifetime of drought. I’ve seen these common reptiles in Kentucky and parts south, but I’ve never seen a wild one in Michigan. I’ve seen wild caught Michigan skinks in captivity, pictures of Michigan skinks, and even stories about where to find Michigan skinks but up to that recent chair incident that was about it. So, you can imagine my disappointment in getting only a Sasquatch glimpse of one.

As a native Michigander, I live in a state of lizard deprivation. We only have two species, although for all practical purposes we only have one with any regularity. The Six-lined Race-runner can be found in the thumb area (and possibly in the extreme S.W. dune country if I recall). There are no one, two, three-lined, or any other lined species found here. If the thirteen-lined Ground Squirrel were a lizard it might make up for all those missing Michigan stripes, but alas it is not. No, the Five-lined Skink will have to do and it would do just fine if it would only show itself every now and then.

Well, as you can see by my pictures, my drought has finally ended. While this incident is of true significance only to me, in this time of sharing all of one’s personal secrets on-line I feel compelled to share it with you. Consider this a “like” or “pin” or “a stick in the eye” or whatever, but consider it. I suspect you fellow Michiganders out there have led an equally lizardless life up to now and can feel my elation at pretending to be an Arizonan or a New Mexican.  In true Five-lined skink style this fine specimen turned up in one of the most un-expected of places – my own yard.  It was sunning on my Dollar Lake dock near West Branch.

I don’t need to elaborate on the reasons why this lizard is called a Five-lined Skink, but should explain that “skink” comes from the Greek “skinkos” which means lizard (as in “oh my goshish, Demetrius, theris a skinkos in the sinkos!). I shouldn’t, but I will, go on to point out that the presence of four legs, blinking eyes, and ear openings are all features that distinguish this creature from a snake.

My dock lizard was a younger individual as evidenced by its sky-blue tail. Mature skinks are paler in color, lack the blue tail hue, and have a reddish head that looks like a stubbed toe. My eye was drawn to that wonderful electric tail as the reptile dashed across the dock and threatened to jump into the rushes. I was extremely cautious in my approach, but every time I moved the skink shifted closer to the edge and waved its blue appendage back and forth (see short video here). This curious behavior has a very good purpose, of course. Skinks can sacrifice their tails in the event they are attacked by a predator and it will detach if roughly grabbed. The detached tail will continue to twitch and wiggle on its own as the owner makes its hasty escape. It will grow a new tail, so the loss is only temporary. By flashing that lure while it is still attached, the lizard is making sure that it – and not the body – will become the object of attack.

I eventually moved one step too close and the skink took a header into the weeds, but not before pausing just a second to dangle that blue tail out of the grass. Forget the fact that Five-lined Skinks are among the most common lizards in North America and forget the fact that they are distributed across the state and even the central U.P.  It has taken me over a half-century to catch a quality glimpse of one and I am satisfied. My next step is to put an orange chair out by the dock and see if it is tempted to come out again.

This recent bout hot summer weather has been murder on all living things and birds are no exception. While birds can’t sweat (they can pant), they can seek relief through shade and shower. Bathing is a popular pastime for hot little birds. Some smaller birds will hit the liquid five times a day. This is not just a function of cooling, however.  It is also a means of staying fit.  By washing off the excess preening oil, birds can prevent their feathers from becoming matted and thus maintain their avian attire.

Open puddles are safe bathing spots but they become harder to find in hot weather (they dry up!). It is no wonder, then, that a certain renegade puddle of water has become a “hot” spot for a whole host of birds lately. The location results from a faulty sprinkler system leaking water onto a low point of a sidewalk so the resulting puddle rarely dries up. Fully exposed to the sun, the water becomes quite warm from the effects of solar heating. I suppose the place is like a Roman bath. About the only thing missing from the customers of this mini-spa are little white towels, hairy chests and gold chains.

The diversity of avian bathers was remarkable. While observing the spot for only ten minutes (actually 11 minutes but who’s counting), I saw Cedar Waxwings, Indigo Buntings, Goldfinches (see above), Baltimore Orioles (see below), Yellow Warblers (all the rest of the photos), and lots of Robins. Even though there were many different kinds of fowl in attendance, all seemed to share a common technique.

Some birds were un-nerved by my presence (as would I, come to think of it) but most eventually waded in and, after modestly looking about, fluffed their feathers and bent down for a polite belly dip. A wild series of wing flapping then followed in which water was sprayed about with wild abandon. The head and breast were eventually plunged into the drink as multiple waves of liquid were allowed to roll down the back. After a repeat series of these maneuvers, at which stage the birds looked more like “drowned rats,” than birds, they flew up to the nearest branch to shake, fluff, and preen themselves back into shape.

I especially enjoyed the performance of a female Yellow Warbler who visited the “The Baths”. She proceeded as described above and completely let herself go by the end of the sequence. Like those who preceded her, she opened her mouth after the first dip and kept it open until the bath was done. I hate to assign emotion to any animal, but you’ve got to admit this looks like a very satisfied little bird (see photos).

Yellows are wetland birds and it is likely they do this kind of thing all the time in the privacy of the marsh but they don’t often show themselves. They dash about elusively and are more often heard than seen (saying “Tee Tee Tee Tiddly Dee”).  Seen in the act of washing, however, these little yellow birds – in fact all feathered fowl – are personalized. One can understand what they are doing and appreciate what it means to frolic in the water. I’d say they almost appear human but I won’t (say it, that is.)