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.

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).