I spotted a fine fat woodchuck yesterday and slowed down to watch her.  Unfortunately, she had already spotted me and was nervously making her way toward the den entrance.  The dirt pile marking her lair was only a few feet down the split rail fence, but she was in no rush to reach it.  Normally chucks race to their refuge at the slightest provocation. This one swaggered a bit and lashed her short hairy tail like a semaphore flag. With each step, the gesticulating tail action increased in intensity. 

  Three young chucks suddenly appeared out of the long grass and clustered about the den entrance. They turned briefly to assess the danger before diving into the comforting darkness.  Her pups secure, the matron ceased her tail flagging and followed them into the hole.

  A little further on, I came upon another family of woodchucks grazing in a field. This group was a good distance off, so I apparently posed no immediate threat. The large female sauntered about while her young directed their attentions to the tender greens at their feet. Upon reaching a small tree, she rose up on her hind legs and smelled a particular spot on the trunk. She then rubbed the bark with her chin and cheeks and dropped back to all four feet and continued on.  Later she gave the same rubbing treatment to a large rock above the den entrance.

  There is nothing remarkable about these two incidents but they do provide an opportunity for a bit of woodchuck chat. Chucks are an exceedingly wary bunch of mega-rodents and they don’t often “allow” you to watch them – it normally is the other way around. These sentinels usually spot danger long before it spots them.  The classic woodchuck sentinel pose, erect and upright on their haunches, is a well honed survival skill.  So, let’s take the opportunity while it presents itself.

  First of all, this is chucklet season – the time of year when you can spot the broods of little woodchucks (3-5 per pair) cavorting around their dens. Woodchucks have only one brood a year, and they grow up quickly (1 ½ months before weaning), so the opportunity is short. 

  The tail wagging, chin rubbing behavior can be explained by a brief look at the family album.  Woodchucks are squirrels, even though they’d prefer to keep it a secret.  Their squat badger like physique and short tail are features demanded by their burrowing lifestyle. Tree squirrels employ their bushy tails for balance and mood expression. A worried squirrel will lash its tail about as an expression of pure anxiety (kinda like nail biting). A worried mother chuck will do the same when concerned that her babies might be in danger.

  Tree squirrels can communicate through scent and have a variety of glands to deposit e-mails (excrement mail).  Squirrels rub their chins on branches to deposit oil and mark territory.  A rock rubbing chuck is performing the same ancient squirrel ritual.  According to a Cornell University website, woodchucks show affection for each other by rubbing cheeks “where their scent glands are located”. The chuck I observed was employing those very glands.

  Tree squirrels, of course, are also known for communicating through their constant chatter. The very name of the woodchuck comes from their propensity to engage in such squirrel talk.  Aside from the common name of Groundhog, settlers have long known the chuck as a “Whistlepig” due to its verbal barrages. In the Algonquin Indian tongue, the animal was originally named “Ot-chuck” in imitation of the call. Unable, or unwilling, to fully interpret the native name, settlers settled on “Wood-chuck” as the closest approximate pronunciation.  Unfortunately, this lazy European language thing has created a whole lot of misunderstanding over the years.

  Woodchucks are field dwellers and do not live in “the woods.” They are not made out of wood nor do they eat wood. As long as we are at it, they don’t know much about weather prediction either (The first woodchuck I spotted this year was wandering about over snow drifts on Jan. 18).

  All of this negative stuff doesn’t matter one wit to those smart folks over at Cornell.  According to their website, Cornell University hosts “the world’s only scientific source of disease free woodchucks.”  (Take a look at the article about their Woodchuck Farm here.) The scientists are attempting to unlock the secrets of groundhog chemistry.  It appears that these pristine chucks are providing insight into the treatment of Hepatitis B and Liver Cancer and might prove to be medical miracle mammals.

  As a side to their important work, the Cornell scientists have managed to come up with an answer to that age old chuck question.  You know the question, so I won’t repeat it here, but the answer is “about 700 lbs.”  Science marches on.

  Young Wilson stumbled upon the curious remains while walking the Lake Erie beach. The specimen was a section, nearly a foot long, of what appeared to be a tentacle from a sizable beast. There being no other parts lying about, he rushed back to Captain Dirk with his solitary prize and displayed it for his assessment. The crusty captain was tolerant of the youthful investigations of his son, but wished him to show more interest in affairs of the ship rather than the shore. He examined the specimen through squinting eyes and turned it about. “Certainly a mysterious thing, this,” he mumbled. “I’m not aware of any of the fish kind that would possess such a limb.”

  The other hands were engaged in net repair, so didn’t even look up when their lanky shipmate rushed by the tarring vats with his find.  Like their captain, the crew was accepting of the adventurous lad and often contributed to his cabinet of curiosities. They would attempt to identify his various finds and elaborate upon subjects about which they knew absolutely nothing.  Not one to elaborate upon such things himself, Captain Dirk turned to his resident blowhard to perform the duty. “Simms,” the captain called out. “What do you make of this?”

  The beckoned deckhand slowly rose from his labor and limped over. His face recorded a slightly worried demeanor as he approached. “What ever it is, Capt’n, I’ve nothing to do with it.  Now, Taylor over there was him that put young master Wilson up to it, I’m sure.”  “Simms,” Dirk responded, “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about. Look here at this curiosity and tell me if you’ve ever seen anything of the sort.”

  Upon beholding the specimen, the blood drained from the sailors face and his stubbly beard erected as his lips pursed. “Oh my, sir, it’s a frightful thing you are holding there. It surely is a piece torn from Nymphaea herself.” At this revelation, the seasoned captain and his juvenile counterpart registered the same expression of wonder – if this is part of an immense water creature, then what of the beast that rendered it so? 

  The tentacle was a leathery section of sun-dried skin (view it here). It was greenish brown in color and bruised like a rotten banana peel. What appeared to be sucker discs were rough textured ovals with three to five smaller pores beneath. Most of the inner muscle fiber was gone and what remained were but a few sinewy threads. It was obvious that this section was violently rent from the beast.

  “Where’d you find such a thing, young Wilson?” inquired the sailor. “Up the beach there,” responded the lad, but he hesitated briefly before continuing, as if taking in the gravity of his statement, “there at Deadman’s Point.” Simms took in a breath and his eyes darted from side to side. “Better keep this to yerself, lad.  The Nymphaea is only a legend. I’ve never seen her, but if it gets out that she really exists, well, there’s no accounting for the actions of sane men.” He addressed this last portion of the phrase to the captain. “They say she’s a Manitou of sorts that lures sailors to certain death. She beckons ships to wreck in the shallows. Her beauty is beguiling.”

  Captain Dirk shook his head and retorted “How can a creature with tentacles be beguiling, Simms?” The sailor hesitated for a moment and quietly whispered “that’s the part you don’t see until it’s to late.”  The issue was put to an uneasy rest for the remainder of the day and the tentacle was locked up for safe keeping. Simms feigned illness, so as not to be tempted into spilling the beans to his crewmates. Doctor Gillhouse was summoned the next day with the hope that he might shed some light on the matter while “curing” sick Simms.

  The portly doctor sauntered up the dock to the Mystery, Captain Dirk Wilson’s ship, early in the morning. Young Wilson greeted the bowler topped physician with bubbling enthusiasm. “Doctor Gillhouse, you won’t believe this one! I’ve found…” His statement was cut off as his father appeared above deck and loudly proclaimed his own greeting. “The patient’s in my room, follow me,” he beckoned while bringing a single finger up to his lips and darting a glance at his son.

    Inside the dark interior of the room, Simms was there sitting up and looking as well as an over-indulging simple minded Tar can look.  The real patient was quickly presented to the doctor before he could ask the nature of the sailor’s illness.  “Ah,” the healer proclaimed, “another treasure from the Wilson curiosity cabinet. I’d be happy to assess it after I treat your man here.” “There ain’t nothing wrong with Simms,” said Dirk, “at least nothing that an earthly man like yerself can treat. No, it’s this tentacle that requires some examination.”

  The good doctor was a man of letters, well versed in all scientific pursuits – including natural history. “Tentacle,” he snorted, “you mean this?” He picked it up and chuckled. “Why this is nothing more than a piece of Nymphaea odorata.”  Simms fairly exploded with pride and declared “You see, It’s exactly what old Simms thought it were. It’s a real tentacle from a real sweetwater sea monster!” Before the captain or the son could react, the doctor continued. “This, sir, is a tuberous rhizome from a Fragrant Water Lily.”

  “But you said it was from Nymphaea,” the dumfounded Simms shot back. “You used those very words, you did.”  Gillhouse then patiently explained. “My dear sir, ‘Nymphaea’ is the Greek word for Water Nymph – those virgin goddesses that lived in the aquatic realms – and it represents the genus name for water lilies. ‘Odorata’ refers to the wonderful smell put out by their early summer blooms – thus the common appellation of Fragrant Water Lily. This is the root, actually a rhizome or stem, from which the plant grows.”

  “Well, son,” sighed Captain Wilson addressing his son, “looks like Simms wasn’t completely wrong. The beautiful part is above the water, the lilies be found in the shallow bays, and the ugly part is hidden from the eye.  But it ain’t no sea beast.”  Simms offered a cock-eyed smile at his partial vindication and a blink at the young Wilson.

  “Yes,” the doctor pointed out on the specimen, “you can see here those ‘sucker discs’ as you call them are the scars where the leaf stems were. And see here, those clustered little holes underneath are where the roots came out. You might want to take a look in latest edition of King’s American Dispensary by Felter and Loyd.” He pulled out a massive text from his bag and thumbed to the relevant page. “Here it is…says that ‘the white pond lily has a blackish, large, fleshy, perennial rhizome…it is often as thick as a man’s arm.”

  Slamming the tome shut, the doctor declared “had a real illness been the purpose of my call, I well might have used a decoction of this root to cure you of digestive ills or as a poultice for a sore.”  He returned the book into his satchel and headed for the deck. Stopping at the doorway, he paused and turned back to the relieved trio. “Young Wilson, I expect that someday you’ll find me a piece of a real sea monster, at which point I’ll be very grateful and will consider my bill paid.  Good day gentlemen.”

  Eastern Cottonwood trees don’t get much respect. They are generally considered unsightly “weed” trees that grow quickly and fall apart quickly.  Their wood is weak and of poor firewood quality. This time of year they shed snowstorms of annoying fluff, and this appears to be their greatest offense to our daily lives.

  I have to admit, that as a child, I sacrificed nearly the entire space in my garden to allow a Cottonwood seedling to grow into a tree. Having kept track of its yearly growth (which was phenomenal) I considered the tree as a pet. It was probably 35 feet tall by the time I left home for college. My dad patiently waited out this phase of my life and finally asked for permission to cut the tree down – which I granted. (This was the same wonderful dad who also approved my hair brained scheme to start an oak tree plantation in that same garden.)

  I guess you could say that I am a true Cottonwood insider. Regardless, I would argue that all of the so-called negative traits are actually crucial to this trees charm.

  They grow fast so that they can exploit temporary habitats such as shifting sandbars, marsh banks and construction sites. Fast growth sacrifices wood quality and longevity, so they start to fall apart upon approaching their 100^th birthday. The wood is not good for firewood but is valuable for pulp production.  Cottonwood farms have sprung up around the country because they can be harvested on an 8-12 year cycle for paper pulp. 

  I won’t even elaborate on how these tall trees provide sites for the pendulous nests of Baltimore Orioles or how their wind hushed leaves lend softness to our summer days. I won’t even go into the fact that this is the state tree of Kansas. No, for now I’d like to concentrate on those dreaded Cottonwood snowstorms.  

 Those puffs of fluff are seed bearing parachutes. Part of the success of Cottonwoods is due to their ability to spread millions of seeds at a time (48 million according to one source, although I’m pretty sure this is an estimate and not an actual count). Starting in late May, the cotton storms fill the air and generate drifts of Santa beards and piles of smoke on the water. These puff piles are intended to sprout their seed cargos and create new trees in new places. Because many of these are sucked into our nostrils or adorn our carefully quaffed hair, their presence is unappreciated.

  The story begins in early spring when the trees flower before the leaves emerge.  The boy trees have boy flowers and the girl trees have girl flowers. Cottonwoods are dioecious which means “two houses” – one for each gender. These flowers come in the form of dangling clusters called Catkins or Aments. Catkin is to Ament as Jim is to James Tiberius Kirk. The Catkin name refers to the later fuzzy stage which looks like a cute little cat’s tail while the Ament name takes after the noble Egyptian goddess of air.  Since these flowers are pollinated by the wind, the latter term is much more descriptive (besides, cats already have a common marsh plant named after their rear appendage.)

  Once pollinated, the female flowers ripen into a cluster of bead-like capsules.  By late spring, these capsules burst open like popcorn kernels and expose their fluff endowed seeds to the mercies of Ament.  The seed themselves are tiny (1mm by 4 mm), but you can see them in each individual cotton tuft.  Take a look at my drawings (here and here) and you’ll see the appearance of this female puff generator.

  Cottonwoods flower over an extended period of time and therefore go to seed over an extended period of time.  This means that the “Cottonwood Time” lasts throughout the month of June – lucky you.

  In cruising through the internet for some gems of wisdom on how to deal with this tree cotton, I came upon a chat site in which a self proclaimed “Canuck” helpfully advised “do not inhale while driving through a cloud of cottonwood cotton.”  Another recommended that the material makes a great pillow stuffing. 

  One disturbing website entry pointed out the fact that botanists have now developed a “Cottonless Cottonwood.” A further check revealed that nurseries regularly stock these genetic freaks.  Convinced that a Cottonwood tree without cotton is like Captain Kirk without his Tribbles, I wasn’t so sure that this was a good thing. I soon calmed down upon further reflection.

  As long as there are some wild trees out there, we’ll always have the June snowstorms. I’m not so sure that the domestic cottonless trees are all that innovative anyway.  There have always been cottonless cottonwoods out there, they are called males.

  I drove around a bit on Memorial Day and took in a few of the sights. Folks were busy planting flowers, walking their dogs, unfurling flags, and firing up their grills. The fields were exploding with yellow Salsify and the Locust trees were laden with dangling white flower clusters. It was a grand day for a picnic and a feast for the naturalist’s eye.

  Atop a slight rise close to I-23, I spied a few picnickers assembled in a field for a Memorial Day feast.  They were only slightly taken aback when I stopped along the roadside to observe them.  A few unsure glances indicated that my presence was known, but the party was otherwise unfazed. The meal was wrapping up and it was time to sit about and soak up the mid-day sun. There were plenty of leftovers for a nosy stranger, but I chose not to approach any closer.  It appeared that venison was on the menu – dried venison with the hair still attached.  A garnish of putrid liver and a rope of leathery intestine completed the cuisine du jour.  

  These picnickers happened to be Turkey Vultures. They were feeding on an old road-killed deer carcass (see my sketch here). Actually, the deer in question was probably a road “injured” animal that survived long enough to walk up the rise from the road before collapsing. There wasn’t much left at this point, but one can never get all the meat off a good chunk of barbeque. As nature’s sanitation specialists, these birds were doing what they do best.

  Turkey Vultures are one of the largest birds in our area.  With their large dark bodies and naked red heads, they look very much like turkeys when hastily viewed on the ground – thus the name. In the air, however, their six foot wingspan and incredible soaring abilities put them in a class all by themselves. There are so many fascinating features of  this bird that I’ll need to leave that discussion for another time (take a look at this website dedicated to them).  A bird that has perfected the art of projectile vomiting and pees on its own legs certainly has my attention, but I am left considering a bigger question.

  Vultures are now a very common Michigan bird, but such wasn’t always the case. There is strong evidence that these birds have spread their range into our state only within the last century or so. Should there ever be a movie made about them, I can see that movie announcer guy narrating the trailer with “In a world where animal populations are in decline, one big black bird is on the rise and they’re coming after you.”

  You see, vultures are literally coming after us. Where ever we clear forests, build roads, and create farms they come after us. Farms produce dead livestock, roads create an endless supply of carrion and cleared forests have created a habitat for an endless supply of deer which in turn contribute to the endless supply of carrion.

  It is even possible that some that the northward expansion of these native southerners started back in the mid 1800’s.  During the Civil War, large Union army camps provided a trail of dead horses, slaughtered farm animals and other vulture-tempting waste leading north. Since 1850 and the end of the “Little Ice Age,” warming temperatures may have contributed to this expansion by creating a more suitable breeding clime here in the north.

  In Walter Barrows Michigan Bird Life (published in 1912), the Turkey Vulture was established, but restricted to, the lower two tiers of counties.  It was a regular summer breeding bird by then.  According to Barrows, “Jerome Trombley states that a pair nests regularly in a hollow sycamore tree near the River Raisin at Petersburg, Monroe County, and others pairs have nested in that vicinity.”  My picnicking quartet wasn’t located too far from Petersburg and may, in fact, be related to Mr. Trombly’s birds (or at least cousins twice removed).

  Today, this vulture is found throughout the Lower Peninsula and is a regular in the Upper Peninsula as well. It’s been a century of progress fueled by our ability to hit small animals and fixate deer in our headlights.

   Turkey Vultures still need to retreat south during the winter and get their fix of roadside armadillos.  It should be no surprise to find out that they now tend to follow our major roadways while journeying south. 

    A century and a half ago, my four picnicking buzzards (another common name) would have been an unusual site.  The vulture was not a common resident when Michigan became a state, and it is entirely possible that it may once again become uncommon within the next century and a half.  Now, that’s carrion for thought.

  I would not suggest keeping a June Bug as a pet. They play with your mind and evoke feelings of guilt. Even if your intentions were harmless –such as temporary confinement for observation purposes – the result is disappointment, boredom, and a sense of uneasiness.  

  Knowing this, I suffered a memory lapse the other day, and picked up a June Bug (actually a beetle, not a bug) that was bumbling his way across my driveway. It was newly emerged from the ground so every feature was brand new. The hard wing covers (elytra) were as polished as a freshly waxed Jaguar (the car, not the animal). Actually June Bugs look more like SUV’s in profile, but there was something sporty about this one.  I wanted to examine him more closely, so I imprisoned him in a Mason jar and set it aside for later.

  That night I peered into the jar and found my charge lying on his back with all six legs pointing up into the air. It did not respond to a tap on the glass. He rolled around stiffly as I tilted the jar and it dropped into my open palm with all the signs of full rigormortus. An hour in a jar should not be enough to kill anything, but the facts appeared clear enough. I was responsible for silencing a new born life.

  It was possible that this one had a deep psychological fear of Mason jars and couldn’t handle the situation. Or, maybe the reality of a June bug coming out in May was a bit too much to handle.

  Then one of the legs twitched.

  Perhaps it only stunned itself against the glass while flying around, or something. It slowly revived into full life and I gently returned it to the jar. This time I added an assortment of leaf food to tide him over.  The next morning, it was “dead” again.

  There in my palm, I was able to assess his hairy little chest (the thorax is finely covered with a hair-like coating), and the powerful pair of front digging legs. The latter feature is common to all members of the Scarabaeid family, by the way. There are over 5,000 species of Scarab Beetles in the world (1,300 in North America) and all have the robust “forearms” equipped with formidable prongs. My charge is a species called a Brown June Beetle – an upside-down and silent Brown June Beetle.

  The Sacred Scarab of Egypt is probably the best known of the bunch. The familiar form of this scarab is found throughout Egyptian iconography as a representation of Khepri – the god of the rising sun. According to legend, Nut – the goddess of the sky – swallows the sun every night and gives birth to a new sun (that’s “sun” not “son”) every morning. The new sun is rolled over the horizon by Khepri (you don’t have to take my word for it). In real life, the Sacred Scarab is a dung rolling beetle that pushes around little balls of camel poo.  This poo ball behavior reminded the Egyptians of Khepri’s dawn duty and thus the godly designation.

  Thanks to this mythic connection, scarabs have also taken on the symbolism of renewal and re-birth over the years. The fact that they magically emerge from the ground, after spending several years as a fleshy white grub, added to this resurrection quality.

  True to this prophecy, my “dead” scarab twitched back to life after a little prodding.  Perhaps it actually resurrected itself? It was a bit strange that this was happening just as the great golden poo ball was rising in the eastern sky.

  All of this was a bit unnerving, but things were coming back to me now.  In my experience, captive June Beetles play possum all the time! I’ve tried to use them for my school group presentations, but they don’t show well. An apparently dead beetle rattling around inside a jar doesn’t elicit a whole lot of wonder.  They won’t resurrect until grabbed and squeezed into action. Obviously this is not an animal with pet qualities (although it can do one trick really well).

  After four days of such pseudo-death performances, things were getting quite boring. It was time to let him go. Poured out onto my hand, it maintained the death pose. This time I grabbed him firmly between my thumb and forefinger and looked him straight in the eye. “I know you’re not dead,” I said.  “You’ve driven your point home and you are now free to go.” For a brief moment I contemplated testing out a report that June Bugs taste like “crudley made cane syrup” when cooked, but passed on the idea.

  In response to my statement, the beetle wiggled to life and issued a bubble of brown spittle from its mouth. June Beetles can apparently blow raspberries. I placed him on the ground and he plodded away at the same pace as when I found him. 

  The lowly Map Turtle is rarely on anybody’s turtle list. It seems that Painted Turtles and “Snappers” get all the attention.  I’m not sure why that is, because Map Turtles are very common (especially along Lake Erie), get really big (a foot or more in shell length) and have a lot to offer the curious eye.  

  I’d like you to take a look at a photo of one of these turtles here and then come back for closer look.  The “roadmap” appearance of the shell and body ornamentation along with the “keeled” shell ridge are two distinctive traits of this species. You’ll also see that the head is boldly patterned with two yellow eye-spots behind the real eyes and that the mouth is equipped with a powerful beak. Now, let’s take look at two unappreciated features.

   I spotted one of these well-named turtles contemplating a road crossing the other day. Fearing that his endeavor would surely end in disaster, I turned my car around and picked him up.  It was a handsome, and testy, little male with a 4.5 inch long shell.  He greeted my act of kindness with an open mouth and a willingness to remove a piece of my flesh. The males of the species have relatively small heads, but their bite is sufficient to crush snails – their primary diet. The gals, on the other hand, have massive heads with broad jaws that can crack open clam shells, so the female bite requires more respect. 

  I was struck by the marvelously adapted hind feet and plump slug-like tail of my little road kill inclined reptile. I drew a few of these features for you to look at because these are the kind of things that don’t show up in photographs.  It’s understandable that nature photos don’t normally depict the south end of northbound turtles, but regrettable. 

  The paddle-like hind feet evoke images of a sea turtle or seal flipper (look here and here). The individual toes are lost in the overall aquatic propulsion design and the webbing has taken over. What we have here is essentially a fin and thus the reason that Map Turtles are swimmers par excellence. When these turtles come out onto logs to bask in the sun, they often take on a spread eagle pose and stick these feet out as far as they will go. Like tree leaves, the paddle feet absorb much needed heat from the sun.

  Not quite as remarkable, but noteworthy, is the long fat tail that identifies my turtle as a male (take a look).  It looks like a plump green and yellow slug peeking out from under the jagged rear border of the shell. Over 20% of the overall body length is accounted for by this brightly striped appendage. This is one of nature’s great tails.

  For the sake of science, I should remind you that the male’s long tail is thing of necessity.  The anal opening is located near the tip so that it can be extended around the shell of the much larger female during mating

 Appreciation of nature often stems from attention to de-tails such as these and leads to the de- feet of ignorance

  Few living fish are as ancient in origin as the Long nose Gar.  They are “living fossils” who have changed little during their occupation of earth. They’ve shared the planet with the first great lumbering amphibians, survived the domination of the dinosaurs and tolerated the reign of giant Ice Age beasts. Mountains rise and fall, continents drift, and climates alter, but the garfish resist all change. They remain as a subtle constant in the earth’s tumultuous history.

  When in the presence of such sage veterans, we humans are wise to acknowledge that we are the new kids on the block. The fact that gars are universally considered as “trash fish” and hard headed fish destroyers by human fishermen smacks of jealousy. Faced as we are with the prospect of earthly climate change, perhaps we can’t shake the nagging thought that they will survive our reign as well.

  Such overly wrought thinking was a by product of my encounter with a group of Long nose Gar today. Cruising slowly past me in the shallow backwaters of a Lake Erie marsh, a large female was accompanied by three males. To say she was “accompanied” is really an understatement.  The males were all but stuck on her and mirrored her every move with exact precision. One male was actually postioned ahead of her, but kept pace with every gee and haw.

  Although small by gar standards (they can get up to 6 feet in length), this female was about 30 inches from beak to tail. The males were slightly smaller. She passed my observation point and led her contingent through the maze of cat-tail stalks. Their passage was clearly marked above the water by the twitching of the fresh green leaves as they bumped the stems along the way. After a few minutes, the group retraced their route and passed me again. As if on cue, they all rose to the surface like a pod of whales and gulped mouthfuls of air before sliding below. Their pace was slow and deliberate – exhibiting the patience that is the hall mark of gar existence.

  The males are waiting for the moment when she lays her eggs. She will soon hover over a bed of water plants and let loose with a hail of sticky eggs (which are poisonous, by the way) and the males will fertilize them as they emerge into the watery space beneath her. It is a gar tradition for the female to lead the group around for a while before all this occurs. I had neither the patience nor the time to see the actual egg laying, but I did appreciate the brief display.

  There are two species of Gar in our neck of the woods, the Long nose and the Spotted. Both are spotted and both have relatively long noses, but the Longnose exceeds its cousin in overall size and beak length. This fish (a.k.a. needle nose gar) has an extremely narrow snout armed with dozens of needlelike teeth.  They are ambush predators that grab small fish with a lightning fast side swipe.

  True to their “Patience is next to Godliness” motto, they spend their hunting time in suspended animation.  The prey comes to them. By the time the potential prey realize that the floating log is not a floating log, they are no longer “potentials”.

  I’ll not go into the details of Long nose Gar biology, but there are two things worth knowing about gars in general. First of all, they are covered with a solid interlocked suit of body armor made up of Ganoid Scales. These scales are structurally similar to teeth and are solid and bony. The scientific name for the Long nose variety is Lepisosteus osseus which literally means Bony Bony Scale Fish.  The Swiss biologist Linnaeus named this beast, so I guess he felt the need to drive home home the point point that this gar gar was especially especially bony.  Recalling the air gulping behavior of today’s gar gang, the second gar fact of merit is their ability to breathe air.

  Gars thrive in warm muddy waters (and cesspools) because they can live off of atmospheric air if necessary. They use their gills to derive oxygen from the water most of the time, but when warm water conditions create a low oxygen situation, gar will gulp air.  A specialized air bladder, directly connected to the mouth cavity, can function like a lung. This is pretty incredible stuff for a fish.

  I realize that I’ve probably just introduced yet another excuse for gar envy with this last garfact. Those gar haters out there can now claim that these relicts are invading “our” air breathing world. I ask you to take comfort in the fact that we are the invaders, not they. They are sharing their air with us.