Squirrels and ‘shrooms

Posted on August 3, 2014 by Gerry Wykes

It is easy to imagine the inner working of a squirrel’s mind. They can be excused for being continually distracted because nuts must certainly dominate their thinking. Why else would they stop in the middle of a street in the midst of heavy traffic? “Nuts, cars, danger, nuts, nuts, nuts, cars, nuts…” is not a healthy thought pattern (and one that usually ends tragically after the fourth “nut.”).

It is unfair, of course, to pursue this line of reasoning. Squirrels are multidimensional being – not as fascinating and deep as wolves or chimpanzees perhaps, but complicated in their own way. They are not all about nuts and would likely go nuts eating nothing but nuts. During the summer, when nuts are scarce, they become fungal connoisseurs and actively seek mushrooms.

Given that many of the top chefs in the world are fungal connoisseurs and are well respected for it, our bushy-tailed rodent friends are certainly worthy of elevated human perception. I wonder how many great chefs have been hit by cars when pondering culinary thoughts and ignoring traffic? This would be worth investigating. But I diverge.

The mushrooming skills exhibited by the local Grey Squirrels are something to behold. They eagerly devour any ‘shroom that dares to poke its gilled head above the ground and, I must say, look refreshed while doing it. I wouldn’t dare suggest that mushrooms often have a nutty taste lest any nearby squirrel goes postal at the mere mention of the word “nut” (at least in the month of July and August).

I am unwilling to taste the mushrooms that the Greys are currently harvesting in my yard. I therefore will not have to put myself in the position of declaring their nut-like taste. By general appearance they seem to be members of the Russula family. This large fungal group runs the gamut from being highly edible to bland to poisonous in terms of human consumption. The mushrooms in this squirrel discussion are gilled and have large reddish caps, easily crumbled, which are somewhat turned up at the edges on larger specimens. These caps are sticky and shiny when wet and often have pine needles or detritus sticking to them. Overall, this description matches that of the Blackish-Red Russulas (by the way, this is their actual species name and not one I just made up). It’s probably not worth mentioning, but this species is not poisonous but relatively inedible due to its “acrid taste.”

Our taste is has nothing to do with squirrel taste. Oddly enough, squirrels have no aversion to poisonous mushrooms so this is a moot point when it comes to edibility. One species of Russula, the Emetic Russula, is quite poisonous to humans but is eagerly eaten by Red Squirrels without effect (well, other than leaving them with a sense of satisfaction).

There are several color varieties of mushroom-eating Grey Squirrels about. All are the same species, but several are black and one is a “normal” reddish brown grey squirrel (or is it a blackish-red grey squirrel?). There is no particular modus operandi when attacking mushrooms, although they seem to go for the caps. One of them hung upside-down while devouring his prize while yet another served it up on the ground. It held the outer edge of the cap like a wheel and took bites out of the rim as it rotated. Sometimes they will simply take a few bites out of a standing mushroom and leave it in place.

I’m not sure why, but these fellows never seem to finish a whole mushroom. Often they’ll drop one, half consumed, and then move on to other things. I suppose it could be due to a mental distraction – perhaps feeling the sudden urge to cross a road or stopping to check the status of the ripening crop of nuts, but I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. It is probably due to the sheer abundance of the fungal treats and is equivalent to an overindulgent child leaving the pizza crust.

Walking Thorns

Posted on July 1, 2014 by Gerry Wykes

When the small Redbud tree/bush in my backyard sprouted thorns, I was delighted. Redbuds, known for their lavender spring flowers and symmetrical heart-shaped leaves, are not known for their thorns at all. In fact, these plants never possess real thorns – their branches and leaves are as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Some individuals do support mobile thorns from time to time and my pitiful little example tree was just such an individual. This, of course, I should explain.

The “mobile thorns” in question are insects called treehoppers. Specifically they are called Two-marked Tree Hoppers. One look at the adult coloration should provide enough explanation for the name (they have not one, not four, but exactly two yellow spots on backs). These critters, if not having a Masters degree in camouflage do have a two year Associates in the Arts. They avoid predator detection by pretending to be thorns instead of the succulent little juice boxes that they are. This deception would probably be more effective without the two-spot decor calling out for attention, but I suspect this was due to some ancient tree-hopper union specification and that I should not judge. Their ploy is good enough to work most of the time whereas I can’t always say that about my attempt to be a normal human being.

This species has a tall flat projection coming off of their thorax that performs the role of a “picker”. The outline of the head and wing covers, neatly tapers along the lines of the base of this pseudo thoracic thorn. The legs, all six of ‘em, can be tucked out of sight so that the edge of the body armor can merge seamlessly with the branch.

Behavior has a big part in pulling this fakery off. Thorns don’t move. Even though these tree hoppers can walk and fly, they chose not to do much of either. Instead they perch motionless on the plant stems most of the time just like the real thing they are trying to imitate. They orient themselves on the steams so that the points are directed downward, or inward, and when perching in group they all orient in the same manner (lo to the little fake thorn that chooses to point the other way).

This inanimate act, like the camouflage itself, is not perfect. When approached, or touched, Two-marked Tree Hoppers will shimmy to the opposite side of the twig and will continue to do so until a.) the threat is gone or b.) they are eaten by a predator who has at least an Associates degree in camouflage detection (or fake thorn detection) or c). they attempt to fly away and are eaten by a predator with only a 3rd grade education.

Those females who survive, and are lucky enough to mate with a male thorn, lay their eggs just under the surface of the twig using a saw-like ovipositor (egg laying tube) to insert her cargo. The nymphs, looking like the cicada relatives that they are, emerge and seek out the tender leaf stems where they insert their needle-like mouths and drink of the plant’s sap. It takes about a month to achieve adulthood, so these non-thorny young’uns seek the underside of the leaf for protection. They have a small nubbin of a fake thorn but this is not enough to be considered a thorn except by the dumbest of predators. A few were tended by ants which were milking them for the honeydew secretions (see below).

It is interesting to note that the nymphs line up just like their adult counterparts, even though it is for a different reason. The nymphs line up along the mid-rib of the leaf like Kindergartners queuing up for lunch (except that they don’t argue amongst themselves as to who is the line leader or the caboose or who took cuts or…)

When the magic day comes, and the nymph is ready for adulthood, they shed their final skin and walk out into the world with a glorious fake thorn. At first they are pinkish white but this soon darkens into the purplish black of maturity.

You’d think that all this plant sucking would harm the host Redbud (they also feed on Black Walnut, Shagbark Hickory, Willow, and numerous other trees) but most trees are man enough to take it. My little Redbud is taking its cargo of thorns like the little man it is. Well, actually it is not a little man but because the thorns on it are not real either, we can pretend.

An Oval Canvas

Posted on May 12, 2013 by Gerry Wykes

In common things considered we often can find some inspiration. Recently I was reciting the first line of Joyce Kilmer’s poem “Trees” to a 2^nd grade class as an example of simple poetry. While they were thinking on the level of “Roses are red, violets are blue, rotten meat stinks and so do you” I sought to inspire them with “I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree.” The immediate response bursting from the kid in the front row was an incredulous, and rather loud, “what the heck does that mean!”

Second graders do not varnish their thoughts – they allow them to erupt like fountains from their boiling kettle of brains. I was forced to explain how each tree has a story to tell in its twisting branches, gnarly bark and patterned leaves and that story is like a poem. They grunted some form of understanding and proceeded to write their “roses are red” poems anyway. This experience forced me, however, into thinking about other simple things and how they are complicated in their simplicity. Take eggs for example.

I will use the example offered by two random eggs offered up to me this Spring. The first was laid upon a bed of green moss at the base of one of my Maple trees. I noticed a robin sitting at an odd angle with her tail up against the trunk. She flushed at my approach and left a fresh, still very warm, egg sitting on the ground. I’m thinking that perhaps she meant to pass gas and accidently pushed out an egg instead. This happens, you know. The second example was a Red-winged Blackbird egg found floating in the water at the edge of a marsh. It could have been knocked out of the nest or plunked into the drink as the result of another avian gas attack. I thought “what the heck?” as I picked them up. Both are sublimely common and ordinary things yet poetic in their simplicity.

The intensity of color in my robin egg caught my eye anew. Everyone knows that robin’s eggs are blue, but it needs describing. For Tiffany & Co., their robin egg blue is officially described as Color 1837 and on the universal Pantone Color system it is close to shade No. 319. It is greenish blue as opposed to bluish green – neither royal, cerulean, nor sky. It is a perfect shade laid upon a perfect shape.

Although the background of the Red-winged Blackbird is also blue, the shade is much lighter and closer to Pantone No. 317 (Cornflower?). While the robin makes its impression by pure strength of shade, the Red-wing blows the mind with pattern. Thoroughly emblazoned with bold dark brown calligraphic squiggles on the surface, the shell exhibits several layers of décor like mysterious ancient cyphers over-written by newer scribes. While all robin eggs are virtually identical, no two Red-wing eggs are alike. Each is an original work of art.

Consider that all bird eggs are un-colored before they are laid. The pigment is applied to the outer part of the shell as the egg journeys down the oviduct and presses against glands located in the wall. Dark pigments are applied in a pattern determined by the twists and turns of the egg – like a mobile canvas being passed back and forth over a stationary Sharpie marker. Spots are created where the egg’s journey is paused and squiggles result when it moves. In other words, the journey of an egg from inner bird to outer nest is not a simple process. It is factory line of brushes, sprays, conveyor belts and tiny manipulating robots.

The squiggles on the Red-winged Blackbird egg are especially fascinating. With a little imagination one can discern a rabbit-headed snake, a long-tailed forest bird, a colonial style letter “G”, a perfect comma, and a crossed out line from a long lost hand-written Mark Twain manuscript.

There are some practical reasons for these shell designs – mostly based on camouflage and identity – but scientists have yet to fully explain the complexities of this simplicity.

It’s a shame that hatching baby birds have to enter the world as vandals by destroying all this shell poetry.

A Nearly Perfect Bird

Posted on April 13, 2013 by Gerry Wykes

I have spent the last few days chasing elusive little suckers around my backyard. The suckers in question were saavy woodpeckers who, as temporary visitors to my little chunk of earth, were wary beyond belief. It is fairly easy to sneak up on one of “my” resident Downy or Red-bellied Woodpeckers, but one must be exceedingly patient when closing in on a migrant Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. When a pair is involved in the scenario, each armed with a set of alert eyes, the task is made even more challenging.

In short, these birds can be a royal pain in the neck. Long periods of looking skyward will do that to a middle aged body. The pain of Sapsucker watching was well worth it, however, because these attractive and animated birds are doubly perfect – or, to be more accurate – doubly nearly perfect. How can one ignore perfection?

When the Sapsuckers are in town you can bet that spring is perfectly official – in spite of what your porch thermometer might be saying! The Yellow-bellied Sapsucker is the perfect bird to herald the arrival of the season. Robins and bluebirds, because they often stay through the winter, are not true spring sentinels. Virtually all of the Sapsuckers migrate south and spend their winter months in the Southern U.S., Mexico, and Central America. You can bet that the bird you are seeing in southern Michigan is a new arrival. Unfortunately our southern sucker-sighting season is short. They pass through our region on their way to their breeding territories in the northern half of the state.

Medium-sized members of the woodpecker clan, Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers have a nearly perfect common name. They are mottled black & white birds with red head features (the males have a red forehead and throat while the female lacks the red throat), but they do have a yellowish belly and feed on tree sap. Because they do not actually “suck” that sap we need to qualify the second part of their name, however. Sap-lapper or Sap-licker might be more accurate. They peck a line of shallow holes in tree trunks that look like the result of machine gun fire. These holes weep sugary sap and the birds make regular visits throughout the day to feed at their particular sap “wells.” Sapsuckers have a hairy tip on the end of their tongues which sops up the sweet liquid like a paper towel.

The sap-lappers hanging about my yard were very actively engaged in their profession. Covering a feeding territory which encompassed several backyards, the pair spent their daytime hours visiting the sap wells. It took about five to ten minutes to complete a feeding circuit. Upon arrival at a set of sap holes the birds rocked their heads back and forth like metronomes as they examined the weeping wells. Then they carefully probed selected openings with their furry tongues. Because they also eat the sap-seeking insects the sapsuckers made a few pecks to pick up these extra morsels. Each visit was short and they continued on their appointed duties without delay.

In my yard, the birds had sap works in my two Pecan trees (yes, I said Pecans) as well as several Black Walnuts, a Red Pine, at least one Red Maple and some of the large Cottonwoods across the creek. True to tradition, sapsuckers are not picky when it comes to sap trees. I can only imagine that each tree offers up a different taste similar, in human terms, to the perceived difference between a Stout and a Pale Ale. By the way, Sapsuckers do occasionally get drunk on tree sap when it ferments in the hot spring sun.

It is worth mentioning one more point about this pointy-billed sap connoisseur. The scientific name of the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, the one that really matters in official lingo, is Sphyrapicus varius. This name, a combination of Greek & Latin, literally means “mottled pointed hammer.” Now that is a perfect name no matter how you look at it.

The Fascinating Mr. Fox

Posted on February 17, 2013 by Gerry Wykes

I carefully cradled the shriveled fish in my fingertips and held it so I could read the label secured to the specimen with a small loop of string through the lower lip. The handwriting was executed in old-style ink and at one time would have been bold and easy to read. Now it was faded and the nature of the inscription made it even harder to read because it was in the form of a collection number, binomial Latin designation and a place name. It read “1507”, “Trachidermus alvordii” and “Grosse Isle.” I should probably mention at this point that the specimen was a Mottled Sculpin barely two inches long and that it was also over 160 years old. To misquote a famous philosopher: “When 160 years old you reach, look as good you will not.”

The thing that led me to this particular specimen, and a few others like it, was my current “research” on the history of the Detroit River. In searching for offbeat, yet interesting, facets of the river’s history I was drawn to the story of a few relatively obscure fish that were originally described by a Philadelphia scientist with the impressive name of Edward Drinker Cope. The Mimic Shiner, Sand Shiner, Fathead Minnow, and Brook Silversides were first published as legitimate species in a paper about Michigan vertebrates in1865.

You may have noticed (or not) that whenever you see a scientific name, apart from being a genus name followed by a species name, that there is a name and a date in parenthesis following the heady Latin/Greek terminology. These post names stand out because they are familiar looking – you know, like the name of a neighbor (unless you live next to Constantine Rafinesque). In the case of the Mimic Shiner, for instance, the fancy name is Notropis volucellus (Cope 1865). This means that Mr. Edward Cope came up with the official description in 1865. The specimens used for such descriptions are preserved as so-called type specimens – the first of their kind, you could say. In other words, they are important regardless of how common the species itself is.

Edward Drinker Cope

Now, please don’t go away yet. I don’t mean to bore you with the kind of thing that only science geeks get inflated about. There were several interesting things going on here. First of all, Cope himself is best known as a dinosaur hunter. He was part of the famous “Bone Wars” of the late 1800’s in which there was a flurry of fossil dino discoveries out west. That a dinosaur hunter would have concerned himself with fish is a fascinating thing within itself. But, there is another point of interest for a Michigander. In all cases the specimens used for these actual fish descriptions came from the Detroit River in the vicinity of Grosse Ile – my backdoor.

Cope did not venture to Michigan to collect these fish; instead he relied on collections made by other folks. This is where a Professor Manly Miles comes in. A Flint native – originally hailing from New York State – Miles became a professor of zoology and animal physiology at the State Agricultural College in Lansing (Michigan State University). He assembled a great collection of preserved animals at that institution and shared them with most of the prominent naturalists of the day- including E. D. Cope.

Rev. Charles Fox

Miles got his specimens from other people as well. This is where the Rev. Charles Fox came in. Originating from England, Fox moved to Grosse Ile in 1843 and officiated as an Episcopal Minister of the church in Trenton and St. John’s on Grosse Ile. He was an avid natural history collector and apparently sent many specimens to various institutions such as the Flint Scientific Inst. and the University of Michigan. Unfortunately he died young on July 24, 1854 after serving only two years on the staff at the University of Michigan as a lecturer in agricultural practices. This was after a series of unfortunate instances in which he lost a son and had his house burn down. Mr. Fox no doubt took some small solace in the collecting of his little fishes.

Douglas Nelson

Thus we are at the point where I contacted Douglas Nelson, the curator of the fisheries collection at the U of M with an interest in seeing if any of Prof. Fox’s specimens remained. In short they did and in long, I was allowed to examine them. Nelson was exceedingly helpful in this regard and even took the specimens out of their jars for handling etc.

Unfortunately, I was not able to see the type specimens for the shiners, minnows, and Brook Silversides mentioned earlier because they are carefully guarded (for the reasons I previously mentioned). There is little doubt that these fish were also collected by Prof. Fox and ended up in the Manly Miles collection. But, the free access to the ancient Sculpin and a cluster of 13 Three-spined Sticklebacks were satisfactory for my intentions.

Stickleback Specimens

Stickleback Specimen

I here present a few images of these fish which, because they could not have been collected later than 1854, are at least 160 years old. Their white pupils betray the fact that they were originally preserved in pure alcohol (formaldehyde is a much later invention). The presence of half a dozen labels in each specimen jar betrays the fact that these specimens are not ignored or left abandoned. They have been part of research over the years. In fact, the original name on the attached label for the Mottled Sculpin (the Trachidermus thing) has since been changed to Cottus bairdii (Girard 1850).

Mottled Sculpin Specimens

Yes, someone named Girard (Charles Frederick to be exact) had described this particular species in 1850. The original designation tag for the U of M specimen, probably written by Manly Miles (?) in the 1860’s possibly reflected that it was collected before 1850. Wow this is one old fish – a fleshy artifact from well before the Civil War.

Mink in a Candy Store

Posted on October 31, 2012 by Gerry Wykes

Mink are elusive critters. This is not to say that they are un-common – only that they are stealthy and rarely seen. Their public perception is that they are very rare (“I didn’t know we had mink here!”). This fog is carefully maintained by the BW&M -the Brotherhood of the Weasels & Mustelids but traditionally called the Brotherhood of the Wild & Mink by Mink types). It is a requirement for all BW&M members to be mostly nocturnal, slink about, and pursue their predatory habits with gusto. The truth is that mink are not rare. In fact, in some places they are very common.

If there is a trick to spotting mink, it is to spend an inordinate amount of time in their wetland haunts (they are water-loving creatures) and trust that one or two of the animals will be caught bumbling about in the daylight hours. All of my mink encounters have been of the bumbling kind where we both were bumbling about. My most recent encounter was by far the best.

Last month, around mid-day, I happened to be walking the sea wall along the River Raisin. The water was lowerin , as opposed to raisin, and large stretches were reduced to shallow riffles. Because of an extended dry summer, much of the river below the step dam has erupted into lush beds of smartweed and flowering rush.

This is not my usual “nature spot” and all hopes of being alone in this place have to be abandoned here, but it does offer some excitement (such as the very exciting mussel movement I brought to your attention some blogs ago). On this day, it appeared that the most interesting thing of the day would be Damselflies (I could insert a dam joke here, but will refrain). Acting as if they were full of summer vigor, dozens of Ruby Damselflies were cavorting. The males were engaged in a maneuver that can only be described as a butt dance in which they raised and lowered their assets to either attract females or ward off other males.

This would have been fine, but thanks to a human couple standing further up the shore/wall I was directed by their gaze to something happening in the river below. They were watching a mink dart back and forth out of the vegetation. I approached cautiously – as much to avoid spooking the mink as to respect the space of the folks engaged in nature observation. The people soon abandoned the spot to re-direct their attentions to the geese wandering through the grass (no comment), but the mink continued to act as if no one was near.

Even though this animal seemed to be breaking all BW&M rules by appearing in public, she was “pursuing predatory habits with gusto” (rule 6- sub paragraph B). In other words, food trumps all other rules in the brotherhood.

For some reason, whole bunches of fish were beaching themselves on the shelf rock in the shallow flow and our mink was nabbing as many as possible. They could have been spooked by the human couple I mentioned earlier and blindly bolted along this dangerous route to the next pool. It turned out to be a gauntlet in which only a few would succeed in passing. The mink would dash out, grab the nearest victim and promptly carry it back to a secret storage place back in the smartweed patch. Vanishing only for a second or two, it excitedly returned to grab another fish (see movie here)

The process was repeated again and again for over ten minutes. There was no time for eating – this was manna from heaven and was to be gathered and stored. I lost count, but she grabbed twenty or so – mostly smallmouth bass and a few sunfish – before the candy store closed.

Mink are not fish specialists. They prefer crayfish and mammal prey (especially muskrats) and fish typically only make up less than 15% of their diet. They also don’t tend to cache food – or horde it- as other weasels are wont to do. But, as we can see, there are no set rules in nature.

As the fish numbers dwindled, the mink wandered a bit further downstream in hopes of finding a few more. Because it was a small individual, I assume it was a juvenile and probably a female. A male would have been a third larger. She increasingly threw nervous glances up towards me with beady little eyes and finally opted to retreat for cover. I can only imagine the feast which followed over the remainder of that day. If this animal even looked at another fish for a few days I would be surprised (but then again BW&M members are a surprising lot).