As promised, I am forwarding a few pictures of the Rattlesnake and the Cricket Frog mentioned in the blog before last.  Please take a look here for the Timber Rattler (side view, top view, detail).  The tiny ‘lil ole Cricket Frog can be seen here.

  If you have time for one more picture, here’e one I didn’t talk about but can’t resist putting it in. While taking down camp in Greensboro, N.C. I came upon this fantastic looking little Micrathena spider.  It’s worth a good close look, but for now I’ll have to let the picture speak for itself.  The actual body size is only about 1/2 inch, by the way, so the camera is doing the up close “thing” for you.  Don’t worry, it’s safe.

Southern North Carolina

 Alright, this is where the picture connection stops.  I can’t get the proper internet to download my pictures, so words will have to do.

 We’re camping in South Carolina about three feet south of the North Carolina state border at a place called King’s Mountain State Park. The impounded lake here is a shallow weedy affair.  I ventured down to it’s shoreline about sunset last night and was treated to the sight of dozens of bats feeding on the midges rising fom the water surface.  They appeared to be Littel Brown Bats, but the dim light and the flittering forms made this an impossible thing to determine. Whatever they were, there were dozens of them overhead, around and over the lake.

  The nice thing about bats is that they are living bug zappers.  Standing in the silence of the evening, the only sound greeting my ears was the hushed fluttering of webbed wings and the occassional snap of bat mouth on bug.  More than once a fluttermouse dipped down to my level and snatched a mosquito out of the air. This is a very satifying sight and sound.

  Oddly enough, bats are among the noisiest of creatures, but their ultrasonic calls are out of our hearing range.  If I had remembered to bring my bat detector (I knew I forgot something), the clicking noise would register as a deafening chorus of echolocation.  They shout and wait for the sound waves to bounce back.  As the waves get closer together the target is marked and the aerial mammal zooms in for the snatch.  Little Browns use their wing and tail membranes to scoop the prey out of the air beofre grabbing it with their mouths.  From the looks of things this was a bad night for mosquitoes.

  Returning to lake edge this morning, I was greeted by another welcome sight.  A tiny Cricket Frog attempted a launch into the water. I intercepted the amphibian before it struck liquid.  Cricket Frogs used to be a common sight up in Michigan, but have disappeared over the years and are now very rare in the state.  Holding this micro frog carefully between my thumb and forefinger, I took great care not to harm it.  Cricket Frogs are literally the size of Crickets, so the entire beast could barely reach across my fingertip.  They are overall an even brown color with a bumply skin texture. 

  Long ago they used to be tree frogs and still retain the toe pads needed for that job. Now they reside in weedy shallow lakes and some day, way down the line, they will lose the pads and gain some webs.  Neither you nor I will be around to see this happen, so don’t hold your breath.

  Cricket Frogs don’t call in autumn, or else I would have heard them last night while bat watching.  Next spring, however,  my little captive will resume the “Crick Crick Crick Cricket Cricket Cricket” call that fits their name and appearance.  In the meantime, take two marbles and click them together and you’ll get a great imitation of the Cricket Frog call.

  I trust the Carolina mountains will offer up an array of wildlife and flora as the week goes on.  Persimmons and black Gum trees are attaining a beautiful ruby hue.  the persimmons are ripening and offering succulant Grey Squirrel fare. A Black Vulture circled overhead today and Mocking Birds are everywhere.

  Yesterday I picked a young Timber Rattlesnake off the road.  Apparently it was attempting to soak up some of the residual heat off the road before it was struck and killed by early morning traffic.  Although only about 12″ long, this beauty has all the marks of the species.  Its background color is pale cream overlaid with a dramatic series of dark red-brown “V’s” down the back.  A chalky cinnamon smear runs down the center of the back as if somebody touched it before it was dry.  Around these parts, the light colored versions are known as “Canebreak Rattlers” – which is far better than the scientific name of the subspecies which is Crotalus horridus atricaudatus.  Further north, this species becomes darker in pigmentation.  It really is a stunning snake, and I hope to forward some photos soon.

  I’ll get some time at the next campsite to view it in detail. In order to preserve the snake, we paid a visit to the local Walmart to buy some alcohol and a glass jar.  So preserved, the snake (which is in beautiful condition aside from being dead) will last for a very long time.  This is the method used by early naturalists and explorers  to preserve their collections, so I am tapping into a rich tradition here.  I’m sure Lewis and Clark would have appreciated the opportunity to explore a Walmart.

The Wandering Naturalist

 For the next few weeks you’ll be hearing from me while I am on the road.  Some might call this jaunt a vacation, but a naturalist vacation is usually a busman’s holiday. I’ll continue to do what I always do and see what the regional scene offers.  My ability to check in will depend on our ability to connect to a local internet server from time to time, since we are camping on this trip.  My blogs will be short and (hopefully) sweet and will be based on a series of photos. Think of these sessions as a series of postcards sent home by your wandering naturalist.

 Hi Ho from the Hockhocking Hills

 Our first destination was the Hocking Hills region of southern Ohio. A good afternoon and evening of nature study turned up a nice variety of sights and sounds. I can send you a few of the sights, but will have to leave the hooting Barred Owl, calling Pileated Woodpecker, and the Blue Jay mimicking the call of the Red-shouldered Hawk to your imagination.

   Ca Aw Aw

  Take a look at this Crow track neatly impressed in the dusty clay at our campsite.  Since this region is named after the Wyandot Indian name of Hockhocking, it is fitting to address the crow by its Wyandot name of Ca Aw Aw (after the bird’s call). The track itself is about 2 ¼ inch long and clearly shows the “three toes forward and one back” arrangement. Note how two of the forward toes are side by side while the third is angled away. We don’t get a chance to see bird tracks that often, so it’s good to examine one every now and then. These birds were frequent daytime visitors to the vacated camp sites and their marks were nearly as common as those left by the raccoons that pay nightly visits.

Look at me – I’m hiding

    The small river flowing through Hocking Hills State Park was largely dried up. Since the bottom consists of time worn bedrock, the only remaining water exists where the flowing element has carved out pockets over eons of time.  In these isolated pools, creek chubs, snails, aquatic insects, and frogs awaiting the return of the rains.

  A sizable Green Frog leapt to the safety of one of the deeper sanctuaries upon my approach.  In usual circumstances, frogs swim to the bottom leaf layer and hide out under their protective shelter.  They can remain under for a very long time, if necessary, since they can breathe through their skin. In this case, there were no bottom leaves to hide under, but the frog adopted the usual pose anyway. Here we see her spread eagled on the rock bottom some 12 inches under the water, but don’t let her know that!

Liver What?

  Behold the Liverwort.  This primitive plant clings to the surface of the rock where shade and dripping water keeps it eternally moist. The name recalls the ancient system of naming plants after the part of the body they are supposed to heal.  As you’d guess, this determination was arrived at by looking at the plant’s general appearance.  This one looks something like a liver, so…..  Yes, there is a bit of circular reasoning here, but I can’t do anything about it now.  The “wort” part of the name is old English for “plant.” Take a good close look anyway and don’t be tempted to eat it.

Pretty Nut

  Here is a somewhat useless “art” shot, but I wanted to take a shot of the White Oak Acorn in order to highlight its yellow hue.  I placed it on a background of gnarled Hemlock roots with an elm leaf and some purple sand from the nearby cliff.  Voila! A simple acorn becomes art.

Cliff Notes

  The deep ravines and overhang shelters that typify the Hocking Hills recall a time when things were much cooler than they are now.  During the last Ice Age, starting over 1 million years ago, northern plants such as the Hemlock, White Pine and Yellow Birch were forced to seek refuge south and beyond the reach of the great ice sheets.  The glaciers never made it down to southern Ohio. The ice retreated some 14,000 years ago and most of these plants followed the sheet north. A few remnants of these northern trees remained in the south, however, where high altitude or cool microclimates (such as here) favored their growth.  Here is a Yellow Birch clinging to the side of one of the cliffs – illustrating the sheer tenacity of such an organism to take root without the benefit of soil, or gravity.

Black Tiger

   There is nothing quite as stunning as a Tiger Swallowtail Butterfly.  Their bright yellow and black striping gives them a distinctive and instantly recognizable appearance. Take a look here and here, and you’ll see the all-black version of this swallowtail. Black Tigers are quite common, but are easy to confuse with the smaller Black Swallowtail. Closer examination will reveal the shadowy stripe marks on the ashy black wings when the sun hits them just right. This individual was showing the effects of a rough summer- having lost her “tails” and a goodly portion of her hind wings. She was in no mood to pause very long for a portrait either.

A Phasinating Phasmid

  Walking Sticks are closely related to grasshoppers, but really don’t look like them. Grouped in a related cluster of clever twig mimicking insects called the Phasmids, these stick bugs make a living by not being seen. Even their own cousins would as likely use them as a perch as invite them to the family barbeques. Here’s one that greeted me this morning (look here and here).  His cover was completely blown because he froze in place on the side of a white restroom building.  Later, when I placed him on a ripe Sassafras leaf, he stubbornly maintained his pose.  Perhaps he and the previously mentioned Green Frog are related?

  Each fall there is a migration of African magnitude taking place in S.E. Michigan.  It is as spectacular and awe inspiring as the herds of wildebeest and zebra seen on the Discovery Channel, although it goes on in silence and relative obscurity.  To see it you have to cast your eyes upward and peer into the autumn skies overhead.  Great hordes of raptors – hawks, eagles, falcons, and vultures – stream over our airspace on their southward journey.  These birds come from the Canadian Shield area and funnel over the mouth of the Detroit River by the tens of thousands.  From there they pour down over Monroe County on their way to all points south.

  This funneling point is located at Lake Erie Metropark near Gibraltar, MI. Here you will find one of the premier hawk-watching sites in the country – a place to view the N.E. sky and catch a glimpse of 17 species ranging from the delicate Kestrel to the massive Golden Eagle.  At this crossing point, counters identify the passing flocks and record some pretty impressive numbers.    

  Rather than continue with the superlatives of this spectacular phenomenon, I’ll direct you to www.smrr.net, the web site for the Southeast Michigan Raptor Research group that tracks this migration.  So far this season (which began on Sept. 1) there have been 122,989 hawks tallied, but for now I’d like to direct your attention to just four of these birds.

  We had the golden opportunity to reach up into the migration stream and snatch a few of the travelers during our annual Hawkfest – an event that celebrates this raptor passover. On Sunday, the second day of the event, a Broad-winged Hawk, two Sharp-shinned Hawks, and a Cooper’s Hawk were persuaded to pay us a visit.  These birds were trap netted (lured by the promise of a tethered Starling) and banded for research purposes.  Before being released, however, they were brought over to the Hawkfest location and introduced to a crowd of curious onlookers.

  First up was a Broad-winged Hawk (see here).  This species is truly the star of the fall migration.  Over 73,000 of his kind passed over our site on Saturday and 15,385 would make the scene by the end of this day.  This individual, approximately number 10,244 in the migrant count for Saturday- give or take a few thousand – is a full-sized but immature bird.  Broad-wings are the smallest members of a group of hawks known as the buteos. Adult birds are distinguished by a clearly banded black & white tail and a rufous red-brown chest. Once common in Michigan, these forest hawks have all but disappeared from the local landscape.  This Canadian bird (eh?) will make his way all the way to Argentina by the time his journey is done. Confident that his Spanish lessons were progressing, this senor was bid “adios” and propelled back into the migration stream.

  Next to the Broad-wings, Sharp-shinned Hawks are the most common September migrants.  There have been 3,490 recorded so far this year and on this day they were coming in at a rate of nearly 100 birds per hour.  Over one particular hour, counters ticked off nearly 400 birds.

  We persuaded two young (human) ladies to help us handle a matched set of these birds (see here for the male bird and here to see a female).  “Sharpies,” as they are known to the counters, are members of a class of hawks known as Accipiters, or “bird hawks.”  Of course as hawks they are “birds,” but that Nome de plume means that they eat other birds for a living.  Chances are you’ve seen one of these feeding at your bird feeder (on your feathered friends, not your seed!).

  Both of these temporary captives were immature birds as well, but the male was actually a 2^nd year bird. The larger female had the intense yellow eyes and brown streaked plumage that marked her as a first year bird.  In other words she was born this spring.  The male, literally on the other hand, had orange eyes and was gaining the adult plumage which consists of a slate gray back and a red-brown barred chest.  Should he survive into the following year, he will return north sporting bright ruby red eyes.  He has beaten the odds by making it into his second year, while she faces an 80% chance of not surviving until the return trip.

  The male bird had just eaten before his capture and his crop was bulging.  A feather was stuck onto his beak as a souvenir of that meal. We carefully wiped his hooked bill before the photo op and sent both of them skyward to resume their journey.

  Last up for our perusal was a female Cooper’s Hawk (see here).  She also represents the accipiter clan and is a close cousin to the smaller sharpies that preceded her. Like them, she will gain red eyes, slate back and red-brown breast by the time she reaches the age of three and, like them, her chances of making it there are stacked against her.  Many of her kind will stick around to feed on your feeder birds this winter, so please give her the respect she deserves – it ain’t easy being a ‘coop.  Accipiters have short powerful wings (see here) and long tails that allow them magnificent maneuverability when chasing their avian prey through the brush. Look here to see what’s left of a Mourning Dove after an encounter with one of these accipiters (you could say that this was a Mourning dove in need of mourning).

  There are far fewer Cooper’s Hawks in the natural scheme of things than the other two hawks mentioned – that’s just the way it is.  This fall only 78 have been seen flying over. On this particular September day only four made the count, so we were fortunate enough to hold onto 25% of the daily population.

  William Cooper, the 19^th century naturalist for whom the bird was named, would have been proud of his namesake as she was released.  After a few powerful wing beats, in order to gain some altitude, she let loose a stream of whitewash as if putting a punctuation mark on her opinion regarding temporary captivity.  A bird in the hand is good for the humans but two in the bush is good for the bird.

  The end of the long hunt is nearing completion.  Over the course of the year three intrepid hunters have relentlessly pursued their elusive quarry. The object of their pursuit is a legendary bear of unimaginable power, size, and ability.  Now, it appears that the fatal arrow has been launched from the lead hunter’s bow and driven hard into its mark. The Great Bear is fatally wounded and rich red blood streams from his side.  Drops of crimson fluid mark his route and they will soon lead to the spot where he will fall for the final time.

   We were not witness to the arrow’s path, but the drops of dried blood on the Virginia Creeper leaves are proof enough that the act has occurred (see here).  They tell us that now the time is ripe to re-tell the ancient tale and explain the reenactment of a ritual killing older than time itself. 

  Our story begins back in the misty era before people roamed the earth. Back then animals could talk just like you and I.  They also lived in wigwams and were masters of fire.  Why they have since lost all these skills is a true mystery, but of no importance to our tale.  It so happens that in a village, not so far from here, lived three great hunters: Robin, Chickadee and Gray Jay. Although all were exceptional, Robin stood out as the greatest hunter of bunch.

  Perhaps it was Chickadee who suggested it, but in time they came to a mutual agreement that they would attempt to slay the Great Bear.  Everyone who had attempted this ended up abandoning the effort in frustration or becoming prey themselves. Since our trio represented the greatest of all hunters, after all, this was their destiny.  So it came to be that in the very early spring of the year the three started out on their quest and entered the forest. Robin was to perform the kill, Chickadee was charged with carrying the large kettle in which they would cook their prize, and Gray Jay was to clean up after them both.

  The Great Bear, having just emerged from his winter sleep, was still groggy and did not detect the arrival of the hunters.  He was in the process of tearing open a termite infested log when their scent greeted his nostrils.  Not ready for the challenge, he turned and galloped back into the thicket where he was usually able to vanish from all pursuers.  He doubled back and prepared for ambush, but our hunters sensed the ploy and waited him out. 

  After several such roundabouts, the bear decided to head beyond the hills and lose his would be assassins.  He broke into a tireless gallop and soon left them miles behind.  Robin, Chickadee and Gray Jay dogged his trail, however, and always shortened the gap whenever the bear paused. At some point well into spring, the bear decided to do what he always did in such cases and he ran up into the skyworld.

  Now Robin, Chickadee and Gray Jay, being birds, launched into the sky right behind him and kept on his tail.  Throughout the balance of spring and into mid summer the beast was unable to trick or otherwise shake his chasers.  It was in very very late summer that Robin, the best hunter of the group, was able to get close enough to launch an arrow with his bow.  The shot was long and cursed by wind and cloud, but it flew true and dove deeply into the bear’s chest.

  Being a very great bear, he did not show any effect at first.  He kept running at a steady pace. The blood flow from the wound was just a mere trickle at first, but soon increased to a torrent.  Blood sprinkled down upon the green tree leaves below and marked his path.  Even the greatest of beasts will eventually run out of blood and our bear, drained of his last ounce of life, crashed to the ground and died.

  Robin was the first on the scene and he jumped upon the dead quarry and pulled the arrow out without thought.  Now, normally robin was always proud of the purity of his white breast and never allowed anything to soil its immaculate beauty.  In his exuberance he accidently sprayed blood upon his chest and stained it red – a stain that has remained to this day.

  Chickadee arrived on the scene, set down the kettle and danced with robin in celebration of their success.  When gray jay arrived it was his task to remind the two that there was much work to be done. The bear, he chirped, must be butchered and rendered and they must return to the village before winter.  They set about building a fire under the kettle and went to work.

  First, the great shag of fur was removed and the body cut up into pieces.  Each piece of the great bear was as sizable as the whole body of any regular bear, so the pot began to overflow. Bubbling yellow fat began to spill over the edge and drip down onto the green and red-speckled leaves of the trees below. Though it took some time, the bear was finally reduced to cooked meat, rendered fat and a hide large enough to cover a council lodge. Our hunters returned home with their catch and thus entered the world of legend.

  A few days after the hunters left the scene, all the dried blood and dried fat remaining on the forest leaves mellowed into a shade of even brown. 

  In honor of the passing of the Great Bear, nature re-enacts the story of the hunt every year.  Tree leaves bear the color of red blood and yellow fat before turning brown and falling to the ground. 

  Such is the gist of an ancient legend told by northern tribes in order to explain some of the mysteries of autumn.  You can now track the sequence and see the fresh blood and fat along with the dried browns of late autumn.  Knowing that some among you would be doubtful of the veracity of this tale, I here present some form of proof.  Peer into the night sky and find the constellation called the Big Dipper – a major part of Ursa Major, the Great Bear (see here for more than you need to know about this constellation).

  This grouping of stars has been associated with the form of a bear since, well, before animals could talk, I guess.  The Ancient Greeks, Hebrews and Arabics all share some sort of a “bear tale” revolving around this celestial pattern. In the Grecian story, the bear is part of the greater story of Callisto, and the beast sports a long tail (see here). 

  American Indians also point to this constellation as the outline of the Great Bear. Their story rightly acknowledges that bears do not in fact have long tails. The three stars forming the handle of the “dipper” or the tail, they will point out, are actually Robin, Chickadee and Gray Jay pursuing the bear. (In some Native lore, there were actually seven hunter birds that started out, but owl, saw-whet, blue jay and pigeon all dropped out and left the three finishers to complete the task. The four stars forming the hand and sickle of the Grecian Bootes constellation are considered part of the great bear in Mic-Mac country.)  The proof that I promised is to be found in the form of the second star – that denoting Chickadee. This is actually a double star, or to put it more clearly, the succinct evidence of Chickadee carrying his kettle.

  Go ahead, use a telescope and look for yourself. The astronomy books will call these hunter stars Alioth, Mizar & Alcor, and Alkaid and inform you of their position in the tail of the bear.  To some among us, however, we know them better as the three great hunters. Their position is part of the tale – not the tail.

 Whenever there is more than one of anything, that cluster is given a special name.  Take, for instance, a flock of birds or a peck of apples.  Some groupings, such as a pod of whales or a gaggle of geese, are standard parts of the English language but any reference to a murder of crows or a rabble of caterpillars, are rightly left between the pages of the dictionary.  How anyone could classify a group of caterpillars as a rabble is beyond me.  Can you imagine a surly gang of larvae ripping up the local bar?  I think not.

  Most things of small notice are left without official group names or are destined to share names with greater things. I feel that this leaves us free to declare that there can be a falsehood of pseudo scorpions or a school of trout lilies.  A lexicon of word police will not come to unplug our computers or a herd of mouses will not descend upon or homes in the form of a plague. With this in mind, I propose that a multiple grouping of Old Witch Grass should be called a “Mist” of Witch from now on.

  I admit it -I had to resort to trickery to keep you hanging on long enough to get to the point where we are talking about grass.  Grasses are not high on our interest list. Given the choice of “Caterpillar Rabble Gangs of New York” or “Witch Grass in Our Daily Life” as television menu items, I’m pretty sure the caterpillars would win out.  The same result would occur if I offered that choice here in print, so before you go please take a moment to look at this grass photo (ignore the goldenrod blooms in the foreground).

   Don’t you agree that a bed of witch grass looks like purple morning mist? The hazy presentation comes from the collective appearance of the branching seed heads.  Each seed head is called an inflorescence or a panicle. The individual plants are spindly looking (see here or at this official type picture here), but as a group – a “Mist” – they offer us some autumn color. Since the purple patches are easy to spot, you can appreciate this grass from behind the wheel of your car as you buzz down the highway, but consider stopping in for a closer look if you get the chance. This particular grass is called Common Witchgrass, Old Witch Grass, or Panicum capillare.

  The “panicum” part of the scientific name refers to the panicum, or millet like, seed inflorescence which takes up the entire upper half of the plant.  Eventually this branching top portion breaks off and rolls across the landscape like a tumbleweed – sowing a crop of seeds as it goes. A glance at this other picture will reveal the very hairy appearance of the leaves and the reason for the “capillare” name which means “hair-like.”

  Aside from our visual benefit, witch grass serves as food for small birds and a rabble of skipper butterfly caterpillars.  The birds eat the tiny, but numerous, seeds and the gangster ‘pillars eat the green growing leaves. 

  I’d like to spend more time with some details of this grass’s life, but I understand that I have probably pushed you beyond your limits of grass tolerance. The limits of my camera restrict the amount of detail that I can share with you anyway, so I’ll leave you with this stunning photomicrograph of a cross section of a Panicum grass leaf taken by someone else.  If nothing else it confirms that there is beauty in both the overall view and in the incredibly detailed view of this humble grass.  Here is a thing of beauty to a hungry Skipper larva. Here is a mere collection of cells that form a grouping called Witch Grass.

 I have a nicely bound edition of the American Naturalist of 1872 in my collection, and find it great fun to scan the pages between the marbled end sheets and rich leather binding for gems of wisdom.  On page 305 there is a small notice regarding snapping turtles which I found interesting. Here the editor quotes the great naturalist Agassiz who relates the following in the form of a typical nineteenth century run-on sentence: “The snapping turtle…exhibits it’s small cross like sternum, its long tail, its ferocious habits, even before it leaves the egg, before it breathes through lungs, before it’s derm is ossified to form a bony shield, etc.; nay, it snaps with its gaping jaws at anything brought near (while still in the egg).”  He goes on to reference another naturalist who “quotes as a remarkable fact, that the Chelonara serpentina bites as soon as it is hatched.”

  Though I owe much to such learned folk, I must respectfully disagree with their assessment in this case.  Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you just such a youthful specimen of Chelonia serpentina brought in to me the other day.  Take a look here and you will see a hatchling snapper probably less than a week old. This is not the first, nor shall it be the last, of these little gems that I have encountered over the years. Gentlemen of yesteryear let me assure you – hatchlings snappers don’t bite.

  While I can’t contribute anything to the proposal that these miniature turtles perform the act of biting at shadows while in the egg, I can definitively say they show no desire to do so when newly out of the boundaries of their shell. The whole thing becomes a moot point, when you get down to it, because a new born snapping turtle is so tiny that their jaws would have little effect even if they chose to use them upon our being. Once they gain a few years and a few pounds it’s a different story, but even this is greatly exaggerated.

  Earlier in the year, sometime in late May or early June, this mini turtle was planted as one of 20 -30 round eggs.  The responsible female, who we’ll call “Mom,” chose a site away from the marsh edge to dig a vase shaped hole with her hind feet.  Once her clutch of ping pong balls were deposited, she covered them up and returned to the water -leaving all the incubating duties to the whims of the sun.

  Deep within the nest, the soil temperatures determine which embryos will require pink or blue ribbons upon hatching.  Should any portion of the nest environment hover around 72 -82 degrees F, the eggs in that area will develop into males.  Those eggs which remain cooler or warmer than that range will ultimately turn into females.  Unlike you and I, who are either female or male from the moment of our creation, snapper eggs don’t finish up their genetic wiring until the oven is turned on.

  The new crop of snappers begins hatching out after 60 and 90 days in the cooker. This translates to an emergence time in late August through September.   Unfortunately, most don’t even make it to the hatchling stage because raccoons and opossums destroy the nests.  In some years, it is believed that virtually all of the snapper eggs are destroyed in this manner.

  Our turtle in hand, probably a female by the looks of her (ask me how I know sometime), made it past the pitfalls of development and laboriously dug itself out of the ground into the cruel world above. We can only hope that the rest of her nest mates were equally successful. Oddly enough, in colder climes some snapper young actually chose to overwinter in the nest and wait until the following spring to emerge.  Most of our S.E. Michigan turtles come out in the fall, however.

  At this stage of growth, you’ll see that she is about one inch in diameter – egg sized, in other words.  Her face and upper shell are covered with dried mud and her shell is flexible and leather hard.  While in the egg, her tremendous tail was wrapped once around the body and yolk sac, but now is free to trail on the ground (or flail in the air in this case). Upon hatching, a large yellow yolk sac was still attached to the belly and a tiny white egg tooth (for tearing open the shell) adorned her nose.  Now, a week after hatching, the egg tooth is gone and the sac re-absorbed.  The yolk sac scar is still plainly visible between the plates of her ridiculously small bottom shell (here, look at it again).  Soon the soft spot will disappear under the protection of the bony plates and the turtle’s bellybutton will fade into memory.

 Soon after this picture was taken, the turtling was released to the relative safety of the marsh.  I say “relative” because there are a lot more hungry mouths awaiting such a succulent little snack. Great blue herons, largemouth bass, mink, and even muskrats find the tender little snappers to be valid meal options. She will wisely seek the safety of the mucky bottom and hibernate there through the winter. 

  Hopefully, the next time we see her it will be a few years down the line and she’ll have added a little heft to her frame.  She will, at that point, no longer tolerate our handling and demonstrate in no uncertain terms why she is called a snapping turtle.

 When the mere maiden Arachne bested Athena in a Grecian weaving contest, she paid a terrible price. Athena was a goddess, after all, and those types don’t like being humbled. Unequipped with Star Wars wisdom (letting the Wookie win so that your arm remains in its socket), Arachne forged on and boldly won the day.  Later she suffered a severe Wookie thrashing and her pleasing features were mangled for life by Athena.  Although the other gods living on Deity Blvd. eventually took pity on her, they waited until she died to honor her with the role of weaver goddess.

  In the modern world, we know all hideous faced weavers as followers of Arachne and call them Arachnids: the spiders.  Never mind the fact that spiders have been on the earth for millions of years before there even was a Greece or an Arachne,  they inspire us to spin tales as fast as they spin their webs.  Consider the Banded Garden Spider, that spider of the season that produces those stunning orb webs along the field path.  Here is a large spider that elicits wonder even in those who normally get sweaty and make infantile noises around such beasts.

  I won’t shower you with photos this time.  Just take a look here and you’ll see the arachnid to which I refer.  She is a beautiful thing perched upside-down upon her carefully crafted website. This one just completed the process of turning a newly caught grasshopper into a burrito by wrapping it within a silk blanket and was about to deliver the coup de grace when I bumbled upon her.  She shyly abandoned her catch and dropped to the lower section of web in order to hide her face, but soon regained confidence and returned to her meal. 

  The Banded Garden Spider is a member of a select group of orb weavers known as the Argiopes.  They are the best of the best in a weaver’s world. Though their structures are only meant to ensnare insect prey, their simplicity of design seems divine (sorry Athena, but its true).  The radiating spoke of the web is made with non-sticky threads and the spiraling portion with sticky fibers of high performance liquid protein.  The center of the wheel is reserved for the huntress to await her prey.  She remains in contact with every spoke and instantly detects if an insect gets ensnared. You’ll see that her legs are held out in the fashion of a St. Andrew’s cross and paired in sets of two.  Our garden spider, though possessed with eight eyes, has poor vision so she relies strictly on touch.

  Often Argiopes create elaborate zigzag patterns down the center of their web as a finishing touch. This trait has earned them the name of “writing spiders,” even though their penmanship skills are limited to repetitious Z’s and W’s.  The real reason behind this behavior is believed to be the equivalent of us putting stickers on our porch windows to keep birds from crashing into them.  If a bird should blinder through one of these webs it is both destroyed and eliminated.  Argiopes eat their old silk in order to recycle the proteins into new silk. The loss of a web creates an additional workload, so the Z’s spell “Yield.”

  I came across one odd superstition about this web writing thing.  It is considered bad luck to mention the name of a loved one while standing next to an orb web.  The spider will hear it and incorporate it into its next web. This is apparently a bad thing.  Obviously, these folks have not read Charlotte’s Web (“Some Pig”).

  The web supporting the female in our picture had no such writing on it, so I could concentrate instead on her lovely features alone.  Her plump abdomen was delicately banded with black, white, and yellow striations – thus her common name.  The head shield area on the back of the beastess, was creamy white with a silvery hue – thus the reason for the Argiope name.  You see, Argiope was another one of those immortal Grecian entities.  She was a Naiad Nymph who lived on the slope of Mount Parnassos in Phokis. Her name is translated as “of the silver face” since she lived in a silvery mountain stream.

  Nymphs, like Argiope, were divine nurses of the young and protectors of girls and maidens. Arachne could have used one of these!  They saw it as their duty to insure that their charges safely navigated the perils of youth and attained adulthood.  Perhaps here is the best correlation between the water nymphs and the water-phobic spiders.  The life of an Argiope spider female is dedicated to getting her next generation through the perils of winter.

  The males certainly play a role in this game, but they are less than one third the size of the females and are rarely seen. By the end of summer, the females will construct a tough papery egg sac, shaped like a kettledrum, and place it along the edge of the web.  Just like Charlotte, she then dies.

  Safe inside the package she has provided them, hundreds of her yellow eggs – looking for all the world like tiny egg yolks sitting in cupcake holders – will remain safe until the following spring.  Most of them hatch before winter’s blast, but all remain inside until the proper time.

  The autumn Argiope is a lady on her last legs, but one nearing completion of a divine task.

 Golden September mornings and Burr Oaks go together like fine cheese and dry wine.  Both the tree and the time of year are best viewed through the crisp light of a new risen sun.  Although your free background music will be supplied by a chorus of crickets, your mind should summon up something more stately or complex- like a Bach piece- in order to complete the September scene.

  I ventured under the cover of one of these stately trees and found my thoughts taking the form of a pseudo Shakespearean soliloquy. I have no idea why, since I wasn’t wearing tights. “Now here is an Oak,” I pondered.  “Witness how it patiently supports its leafy exuberance with knurled frame and holds silent a deep wisdom wrought of the ages.  One by one she yields her mossycup seeds of wisdom to the wiles of the wind and scurrying rodent. Nary a nut will fall from her bosom that she does not mourn.”  Why Shakespeare and why Bach?  It’s just a tree for goodness sake.  Ah, but what a tree.

  Oaks rightly stand as symbols of strength and longevity. The Burr Oak is a champion among its kind. In early life it is among the fastest growing of the oak clan.  At the other end of the spectrum it achieves the greatest longevity of the bunch– over four centuries.  Throughout life these robust upland trees produce the largest of all acorns.  Each nut is capped off by a spectacular fringed cap which is responsible for the alternate names of mossycup or overcup oak. Now here is an oak.

  Neither J.S. Bach nor the Bard ever caught sight of a Burr Oak in their lifetimes, since it is an exclusive resident of the American Midwest and they remained on the other side of the pond.  Bach was a Burr-oak period composer, however…….oh, wait a minute, that’s Boroque – not Burr-oak.  Sorry.  Well, there are some Burr Oaks still around that began life during Bach’s lifetime.   

  Since Willie S. did know Latin, he would have known what Quercus macrocarpa means. He would have translated it as “The oak with the big seeds” but could not have said that he knew it well. There is absolutely nothing linking Bill Shakespeare to the tree, that’s just a neuron twitch in my own brain. Sorry about that one too. 

  O.K., let’s forget this course of discussion and take a look here to see what I’m talking about.  Here is a branchlet exhibiting two distinctive Burr Oak traits- big lobes and big acorns.  As a member of a group of oaks called the “white oaks, the Burr has leaves with rounded lobes. The outer portion of the leaf expands into a broad surface with shallow lobes while the inner portion of the leaf has deeply cut lobes. The acorns, the “macrocarpa” part, possess the aforementioned fringe caps topping a stout nut of about 1 inch dimension. 

  Let’s ponder that magnificent nut.  Burr Oaks begin to produce an annual crop of acorns beginning in their third decade of life. They reach their peak of production between the tender years of 75 and 150 and begin a slow decline in production over the next century or two or three.

Typical of the white oak family, the acorns mature over the course of one season and begin their earthly journey in September. 

  Larger squirrels like fox and gray squirrels often hasten this descent by cutting the nuts down.  Once on the ground they compete with deer, deer mice, and turkeys for the right to eat them. Weevils and all sort of micro life insure that most of the seeds never sprout. In part due to this heavy pressure, oaks tend to vary their acorn production from year to year. They will produce a heavy crop every 2 or 3 years and then follow it with a year of no production.  This tactic keeps the acorn eaters off guard and forces them to move around a bit.

  Such a long range seed bearing plan seems above the thinking capacity a dumb chunk of wood doesn’t it?  Maybe those mossycup acorns are seeds of wisdom afterall, but that just can’t be.  No way.  Perhaps I doth protest too much?

  NOTE: Take a look here of my newly drawn sketch, done in an old-fashioned manner, of the leaves and acorn of a Burr Oak. This is what happens when you listen to Bach.

You can actually hear the end of summer if you listen closely.  As August fades into September and we creep further into the month you’ll notice that something is missing, although it may not be dramatic.  Often we loose ourselves in the bustle of the season as kids return to school, politicians crank up their rhetoric, and disorganized groups once again become organized.  By the time we look up, the cicadas are gone. 

  Few people need to be introduced to the cicada. Although they may not be familiar with it by sight, they instantly raise eyebrows in recognition upon hearing their call.  Cicadas are those loud “buzz” bugs that fill the sultry late summer air. Their ear shattering mechanical rasping call is one of those quintessential sounds that define a season.  Cicadas do their thing during the hottest time of the year and are a good measure of the yearly cycle. Now that their time is waning, it’s a good time to stop and appreciate them before their time is up. 

  Yesterday I encountered one of these songsters.  Pictured (here and here) is a nice example of a species known as the Dog Day Cicada – at least I think it is. There are 155 kinds of these insects, so I have to admit that it could be a Linne’s Cicada.  Both are common in our area and both look pretty much alike. Sometimes, it just doesn’t really matter. When I am old and gray I will take the time to count tymbal ridges and measure wing angles, but for now let’s just pick one name and be darned with the consequences. I especially like the name of the Dog Day Cicada, so that’s what I’ll call it. The name refers to the “Dog Days of Summer” when it is most active. The Dog Days get their name from Sirius, the Dog Star, which is visible in the late summer constellation Canis major. Siriusly! This far more interesting than Mr. Linne’s bug.

  One thing that emerges from a close examination of these extraordinary bugs (and they are “true bugs”) is how beautifully made they are.  I would not be the first to recognize this fact.  Jewelers, especially in the Orient, have long depicted cicadas in all manner of elegant stone, ivory and precious metals. Take a look here at this magnificent modern design by Korean designer Wallace Chan and you’ll swear it will fly away.  Don’t swear, however, just gasp.

  Most of our regional jewels emerge annually.  The nymphs emerge out of the soil after a year or two of root sucking. They climb up the nearest tree and shed their skin to become flying insects.  The empty nymphal skins last long after the bugs that emerged from them are gone (see here). There is always a new generation coming out of the soil every season, although they are staggered.  

  Periodical cicadas emerge once every 17 years. There was a hatch this year in S.W. Michigan, but I missed it. The next time we’ll be able to get together to see these old timers in our area will not be until 2021 or 2024.  By that time I will be busy with tymbal ridges and wing angles, although my eyesight will probably be shot.  An annual cicada, such as my example, will do just fine.

  All cicadas have a car grill for a face (see here).  In fact they look very much like an Edsel or something of that vintage.  You’ll also notice that long piercing beak for sucking tree sap – a habit they do not shed with their last skin. Those of you that remember Edsels, by the way, are probably already old and gray and might be contemplating some tymbal ridge research. Maybe I should explain my fixation with that terminology, lest I lead you astray.

  Cicadas have achieved the level of “the world’s loudest insect” by their sheer instrumental prowess. The males “sing” by using two ridged organs – membranes really – called Tymbals.  These membranes are located under the wings on the first segment of the abdomen.  By counting the number of ridges (usually 8 or so) you can tell species apart, but you can do the same thing by listening to the distinctive drumming calls produced by those membranes. Each species has a slightly different version of “Wipeout.”

  The sound is produced by popping the tymbals in and out.  Superfast muscles attached to the center of each drum act to pull them in and allow them to pop back out as much as 50 times per second!  Since a goodly portion of the abdomen is hollow, the effect is resonated to ear-splitting intensity. Take a look at this diagram and I think it will help you see this internal arrangement. The caller can even increase or decrease the intensity of the call by opening a pair of flaps called operculums.

  It is worth noting that the term “superfast” is not mine, but a term used by researchers who are studying cicada muscles.  They are attempting to learn how these tiny fibers can achieve a pull reaction fully 50 times faster than our muscles and how they do it without tiring.  If their research pans out into a usable human application, I might be able to do more than one push up per minute.

  As a general rule, any animal that is a good talker is usually a good listener as well. Male cicadas use all this tympanal energy to attract females. The females do not talk, but instead concentrate on listening skills. They detect the love drum melody through a pair of smooth tympana close to the wing pits.

  As a human male, I find it singularly amazing that there are some females out there that listen more than they talk, but will not pursue that angle of thought.  I will, however, leave you with a fascinating feature of the male cicada.  Males, you see, also have big ears.  They need them in order to pick up rival calls.  How is it, then, that loud mouthed males don’t make themselves deaf?  They lose their ability to hear when they are talking.

  Yes, when a male cicada begins his call (a 15 second buzz saw, in the case of the Dog Day Cicada) the tympana become creased and so they can’t hear themselves.  I’m not so sure that’s an exclusively cicada trait, guys. 

  I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said?