The hollow in our dying Red Maple has yielded yet another crop of baby Red Squirrels. At least four of the little things are prancing about the yard, although it is hard to tell exactly how many there are. They are dashing about like so many sizzling onions on a wok – spastic balls of pure energy who will at times spontaneously jump into the air as if electro-shocked. They often engage in endless round-the-trunk chases.  About the only time they actually remain fixed to one spot is when they are dismantling walnuts. This is something they do well and often. It is in this endeavor that one can see that these rodents do have a serious side.

I could say that they handle walnuts as skillfully as a monkey handles a peanut, but that would be a silly thing to say because I’ve never seen a monkey handle a peanut. I do know that a monkey would not be equipped to handle a black walnut, but any squirrel with half a brain could probably handle a peanut better than any monkey. Now, you could teach a monkey how to use a hammer or a nutcracker to perform the task, but that would be cheating (and potentially dangerous to the trainer).  It is fascinating to see how my young squirrels – creatures of half a brain – have already mastered the ultimate challenge offered by the Black Walnut. No tools needed other than those gifted to them by the grace of the great squirrel gods.

Black Walnuts surround their seeds with a thick green husk. This coating turns rotten black once the nuts fall to the ground and this poses the first hurtle for any would be nut predator. The nut shells themselves are extremely hard and the nut meats within are compartmentalized and shoved into multiple nooks and crannies. This is the second and most formidable task for the nut eater to overcome. There is nothing easy about extracting walnut goodness. It is the tree’s intention, of course, to be difficult, but we can talk about that another time.

It was my original idea to time the squirrel’s nut processing procedure from discovery to completion, but this proved difficult. Not every nut gathered by the diminutive Red Squirrels was immediately eaten. Some were carted off to secret hiding spots and others were dropped while in transit.  Some were de-husked and abandoned when two individuals spontaneously combusted into a bout of “round the tree – you after me, me after you.” Others quit in mid-nut for no apparent reason. I did manage to put together a string of observations coming to the conclusion that it took approximately ten minutes to do the job. Ten minutes out of the life of one of these dynamos is a serious time allotment.

The greasy husk is plucked away in rather short time via a series of peeling bites. I do not know how these creatures avoid staining their faces, but they do. Then, holding the nut firmly within the full eight finger grip (Red Squirrels have surprisingly large front feet), the chisel-like teeth are employed to begin gnawing away the shell. Leverage is gained by hooking the top set of incisors into one of the many grooves within the surface of the nut and pulling up the lower teeth to meet them. The four incisors are exceedingly sharp-edged and literally “iron coated” (thus the yellowish orange appearance). Powered by strong muscles they cut through shell like butter. Unfortunately the sound of this activity is literally grating on the human ear. (I wonder how Red Squirrels would react to the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard?).

Once an opening is made into one side of the walnut, these same incisors scoop out the nut meats from every angle possible. The squirrels then turn the nut over and make a new opening from the other side. Sometimes they gnaw out a trough from one side to the other.  When they happen to enter the nut from the top, they simply chew away half of it in order to expose both nut chambers in the process. Red Squirrel work is easily identified after the fact (see above). And, because these squirrels are active throughout the nutting season their “work” piles up at the base of the tree.

There is very little nut left inside the shell carcass once a Red Squirrel has finished its task. I watched as a tentative looking White-breasted Nuthatch approach one of these empty shells. It carefully eyed the shell from all angles and then leaned forward to peck out a few scraps of nut dust. After a few more discouraged glances it flew off – there was nutt’n left for a self respecting nuthatch to hatch.

**NOTE: In case you didn’t see enough, I’ll post a few more Red-Squirrel movies  and pics in a few days.

It’s Halloween time and there will appear to be all manner of odd nature about. In truth, nature is no odder (or more normal) than usual this time of year but because we view it through seasonal glasses we see what we seek. In part, nature fascinates us because it fulfills and encourages our fantasies and legends.  I can’t attest to the reality of witches or ghosts, but I can attest to the reality of Witches Butter and Lotus Faces.  Both are real and un-real.

Wow, what did I just say? O.K., let’s address those Lotus faces. When American lotus leaves break down in the autumn they bend down to touch the water.  Due to the effects of breakdown, some of the leaves get strategically placed punctures in them that create faces – appearing like strange wrinkled ghosts poking out of the marsh which stare back at us like specters. No, they are not really ghosts but they are hard to ignore. I mean, we can’t control our imagination. I can’t tell you how many times my piles of clothing turned into monstrous forms in my dimly lit childhood bedroom. Pants draped over a chair were especially prone to metamorphose into lumbering ape-like beasts with horns. The forms would even appear to move if you allowed yourself to see it. They rocked back and forth and pulsated….whew, I’m getting creeped out just thinking about it. Please don’t tell me that I was the only child on earth with this affliction.

Out in the clear light of morning, you’d think something like a lotus leaf face would be anything but scary. They are dead leaves for crying out loud. But look into those eyes – or at least where those eyes used to be – and you might see them move.  There, did you see that!  In fact, I witnessed one of the “leaves” rise up over the surface of the water (compare beginning photo with photo below). It’s true that the water level dropped between these two photos, but that is entirely irrelevant.

Now, granted, the one face appears happy. It’s almost as if the lotus spirit is joyful at its release from its above surface responsibilities. It will live on through the winter as a tuber tucked snuggly in the muck and away from the bitter winds of winter. Unfortunately I’ve seen way too many movies where a happy ghost suddenly turns evil and attacks, so I will not trust it.  The second lotus spirit is just plain ghoulish. It has no mouth and possesses an especially blank stare. By day, these ghouls are frozen into place by the bright light of the sun, but who knows what happens to them at night. I will not walk by the Lotus Bed at night because I am sure they would pulsate and moan (probably with a high whispy tone).

There is another reason I would not walk the trail at night this time of year. Just up the trail from these Lotus Specters, there are a few wrinkled orange blobs situated on a dead branch. Like pumpkin-colored brains, or clusters of severed ears, the un-holy look of the Witches Butter fungus is enough to cause reflection.  The jelly appearance is deceiving, however, since these things have the texture of cartilage (like severed ears – just like I said).  These ear clusters are signs of rot.

Scientists will tell you that this rot is within the decaying branch. There are thousands of threads of wood-decaying fungus working to break down this branch. The Witches Butter Fungus is a parasite feeding upon these wood decomposing fungi. It is a fungus eating fungus – a cannibal. To those who first discovered and named this thing (and by that I mean the non-scientists) these blobs represented a rot of a very different kind.  They spring up, they say, wherever witches cast their spells.

Here at this branch a witch had cast some sort of evil spell. Perhaps she turned a chipmunk into a toad or a deer into a pile of pulsating night clothes. Who knows? Just to clear the air, let it be known that I am talking about bad witches here. Good witches leave piles of yogurt lying about.

I do know that this fungus is harmless by day. In fact, it is even edible to some degree. It is tasteless, but is said to add texture to soup (kinda like tofu).  Even at its worst interpretation, this stuff merely indicates the scene of a heinous deed, like blood at a murder site, so it is not heinous itself. Besides, witches never cast their spells in the same place twice, right?  Still, I choose not to pass by this place on Halloween night. It’s not that I’m scared or anything but the thought of an acorn-eating toad creeps me out. And, let’s not even bring up those Lotus faces again.

Autumn is on the wane around Dollar Lake and the brightest leaves of fall have already fallen. The oaks are just coming into their own brunt umber glory and a few crimson hued creepers are still putting on a show, but the peak is past – the bloom is off the rose – the check has been mailed.  Tucked away in the swales and peeking out from the birch lined woods, the Michigan Holly shrubs are just entering their season of glory. In fact, they will be on display through the winter.

I guess it depends from where you hail as to what you call this plant. In some parts it is called Black Alder and in others it is named Common Winterberry. In Canada it is called Canada Holly and it is probably no great leap of logic to assume that the name Virginia Winterberry originated in Virginia. If your name is Bob and this plant appears in your yard, then Bob-berry might be appropriate – not accurate, mind you, but appropriate. Technically, this scarlet berried shrub is called Ilex verticillata and that was the official name bestowed by Asa Gray in 1856. It really doesn’t matter, however, because in Michigan it is called Michigan Holly and, since I am from Michigan and my name is not Bob, then Michigan Holly it will be.

In a way, it also doesn’t matter what the stuff is called because it is so glorious. Holly Cow! Theirs is the combined effect of a thousand points of red merging into a solid swipe of crimson when viewed from afar. The vibrant colors come from the berries and not from the leaves.  As a Holly plant this one is a slight disappointment. The elliptical leaves go from green to dull purple to dead in a short time. They drop off without fanfare and don’t stick around to provide an emerald background for the red berries.  That is what hollies are supposed to do right? Well, this one may be lax in the leaf but it certainly makes up for this in berriness. The leaves would only get in the way.

At a casual glance, it might appear that these plants are strictly a wetland species but this is an illusion. They are known to grow in a wide variety of soil conditions ranging from wet to quite dry. At a closer glance, you will notice that those scarlet sprigs are widely spaced when in dry woods and densely packed when in wet conditions.  It is safe to say that they are at their best when in marshy swales where they will form dense thickets beneath the canopy of willow and spruce.

Because the Michigan Holly is a dioecious (where the male and female flowers are born on separate plants), only the female plants bear fruit. The males just stick it out all winter secure in the knowledge that they had something to do with this. At least you know that you can refer to the berry-producing individuals as “she” and the twiggy winter sticks as “he” (or, sir or madam if you prefer).

Birds especially enjoy the female of the species. Dozens of types (48 according to one reference) ranging from White-throated Sparrows to Ruffed Grouse feast on the feminine-produced fruits. Wild-eyed flocks of winter robins are especially fond of them.  I saw multiple gangs pillaging the local Holly shrubbery this past weekend.

Unfortunately, you and I are condemned to admire the Michigan Holly from a distance. Oh sure, you can pop the fruits to see the gushy orange interior or try out some artsy photography on the berry clusters, but you may not eat them. Like so many other wild fruits, they are poisonous to humans.  Delicious upon the eye, they are, but deadly upon the tongue.

“Why would anyone dump a pile of livers on stump in the middle of the woods?”, I asked myself. Not hearing an immediate answer from within (or, thankfully, without) I stepped off the trail to examine said “liver” pile. I went closer and could perceive the yellow veins coursing about the hunks of raw flesh, yet saw that these same veins spilled down over the wood and entered into various nooks and crannies of the stump. After a silent “whoa, that’s weird” I realized these things weren’t livers at all – they were liver-colored fungi. The yellow veins that gave the pile a definite organ-like look were the dendritic tendrils of a yellow slime mold feeding on the fungus. For the second time this year I was lured in by a slime mold on a stump (recall the chocolate tube slime mold from this past summer).

Without giving everything away, right away, this creepy yellow mat of stump veins belonged to a type of slime mold called a Fragile Slime Mold. When “fruiting” this species produces hundreds of spore cases which resemble bunches of yellow plastic grapes. To some these pod clusters look like insect eggs, so this type of slimy mold is often referred to as the Egg Shell, or Insect Egg Slime Mold.  In the plasmodial (moving) phase, however, they bear no resemblance to insect eggs what-so-ever. The name still applies regardless.

There is no other way to describe this particular situation (the pseudo- liver thing) without using the word “creepy.” In fact, there is really no way to talk about slime molds in general without using that word. These organisms are literally and figuratively creepy.  Slime molds are neither plant, animal, nor fungi. They are not even molds for crying out loud (“I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it an..y…..wait, that doesn’t make sense in this context does it?). They are basically blobs of cytoplasm functioning as an amoeba colony. In other words they deliberately move about seeking nutrients. Because they move relatively rapidly, they are… well…creepy!

One source described this ability to move as a chemical democracy. The detection of nutrients at one point will cause the “all for one and one for all” call to course through the being and it will send out feelers until the prize is reached.  It is a non-thinking response (I know people who travel 65 mph in a similar non-thinking mode). Although not land speed demons, some slime molds have been recorded moving at a rate of 1 inch per hour.  Many years ago, a slime mold actually solved a maze. Like a slow motion mouse it arrived at the “cheese” without error. Again, I say…creepy.

The Fragile Slime Mold pictured here was actively feeding. Once detected, the food source is surrounded and slowly digested with enzymes. One of the characteristics of this species is its tendency to spread out into bright yellow net-like reticulations.

NOTE: I invite you to read the following, and final, paragraph in your best (internal) Peter Laurie voice.  If you are not alone, but want to be, you can perform this exercise out loud.

Only hours after a heavy rainstorm doused the landscape, when it was safe from the drying effects of wind and sun, the plasmodium oozed out from the stumpy crevices and proceeded to take sustenance from the large rotting liver fungus. Twenty four hours later (see below) only a few snaky tendrils remained. The satiated creature had withdrawn back into its dark moist lair. All evidence of its existence was completely gone by the third day. But, it will be back (cue the synthesizer and end with a veiny yellow blast accompanied by Psycho music).

I wasn’t out to prove anything really. The day was getting long in the tooth and there wasn’t time to mount an expedition to the great outdoors, so I ventured out into my own back yard. We have an acre and a half with a sluggish “county drain” stream coursing through it. I try to keep at least a third of the property in wild state and a good portion of my wild blog material comes from there.  Mentally I always challenge myself to find something interesting within my little kingdom. This time I only took a few steps before spotting something of potential value within the realm.

A small insect, perhaps a half an inch long or so (about 13-14 mm for you Canadians out there or about two M & M’s for the rest of you) was perched on the siding. A small bug is hardly newsworthy on an average day, but this one appeared to be a grasshopper. As a rule, grasshoppers are in the medium to large end of the insect spectrum. They start out tiny but soon attain sizes well over an inch when mature. This example had the chiseled features of an adult grasshopper combined with the petite size of a nymph. It was, in other words, a Danny Devito among grasshoppers.

I had never seen such a micro-hopper before and was willing to bet that you (those Canadian and M&M eating readers out there) had never seen one either.  So, I snuck up as close as my close up lens would allow, snapped as many shots as I could, and succeeded in frightening the thing off. It launched off the wall and into the grass before I could mark its landing. It was gone for good.  But, I had my photo evidence and a description and that was enough.

My minor league back yard grasshopper turned out to be a type of Pigmy Grasshopper. There are eight species in Michigan and I can tell you with all honesty that these insects were about as familiar to me as Tessellated Darters (go ahead look that one up). In other words, not at all. Sure we all know about grasshoppers and how they fly and jump, live in dry upland fields, eat grass, and die off in the fall but these little fellows break most of the rules of grasshopperdom.  They do jump, but that’s where the comparison ends.

Take a good look and you’ll notice that this fellow has an overly large head, a peculiar flat pad on its back, and a very long point extending well beyond the end of the body. This projection is a part of the thorax called the pronotum. On a regular grasshopper it exists as a small pad at the base of the wings, but the pygmies take it to an extreme (flaunt what you have, I guess).  The wings on this species are small and relatively useless.

The coloration is so mottled that it is difficult to tell where one part begins and the other ends. I can’t be sure, but I believe this little tooter to be an Ornate Grouse Locust. The genus name for this species, Tetrix, is Greek for Grouse. Like a grouse, the Ornate Grouse Locust is well camouflaged.  Wow, don’t you feel better for knowing this? I know I do. Heck, before I walked out my back door I didn’t even know these things existed – leave alone living in my back yard. And, how about that Greek thing, eh? But, that’s not all! There’s more.

You Canadians have certainly heard the fable of the ant and the grasshopper. You know, the one where the grasshopper fiddled about as the ant labored feverishly to put away food stores for the winter. When winter came, the grasshopper begged food from the ant but was turned away to die in the cold. This fable reinforced the values of hard work and taught you to never let a talking grasshopper into your home. This tale also paid homage to the fact that all northern grasshoppers die in the fall (only their eggs carry on into the following year). Well, in the amazing form of the pygmy grasshoppers you have a group of hoppers that actually overwinter as adults. They breed in early spring and some of them may live two or more years.  Ants smantz!

Now, before you shake your head in wonder and disbelief, there’s more. Save that last jaw drop for this last set of facts. Grouse Locusts favor wet areas and feed on algae and organic material found in wet soils. This is not your typical grasshopper fare or habitat, but then again this is not your average grasshopper. I’m not saying that this species does it (it has been implied, however), but in other parts of the world these guys are reported to actually jump into, and swim, underwater to escape. That definitely is not a grasshopper thing to do, but then again these are not your avera….wait, I already said that didn’t I?

Please excuse me for getting so excited by a bitty bug. It’s just so nice to know that there is such an anti-establishment beast out there and that good things do occasionally come in small packages at your doorstep.

It was an unusual morning right from the get-go. It is customary, when at Dollar Lake, to drink our morning coffee out on the porch. There is no better way to start the day than to watch the fog lift off the still waters and witness the first rays of the rising sun strike the upper portions of the trees on the opposite side. It had been raining hard all night, but the daybreak looked promising and the clouds were parting somewhat. Upon grabbing my shoes to head outside (I am not a slipper person), I was surprised to find an acorn in the left one. Needless to say, it was not there when I took them off the previous night.  You don’t just get a large nut in your shoe and not notice it (like having an elephant in your pajamas). Because my shoes were inside the cabin, we can rule out a natural nut fall. No, this acorn was apparently a gift from the resident Deer mouse – a polite little creature that sticks to the high shelves and midnight corners inside the cabin.

The mouse had plenty of opportunities to gift such an acorn in the past, so it was odd that he chose this particular morning. He usually eats them and leaves the empty shell husks somewhere. In retrospect, the distinctive odor issuing from such a piece of human wear might have prompted him to place a deodorant nut in the shoe like a pomander in a drawer of linen. Nut aside, I ventured to the porch to view the dripping wet lake scene before me.

For the past few days, I have spooked a sleek black (gray) squirrel seeking white oak acorns in the yard upon opening the door. The door sticks a bit, so it pops when opened and causes the frightened rodent to speed to the safety of the nearest tree. There was no black squirrel on this morning, but a Fox Squirrel occupied the space instead. This too was a bit odd, since the Gray Squirrels outnumber the Foxes in this neck of the northern woods and I rarely see the latter type.

A chipmunk, cheeks stuffed with his share of acorns, gave me an especially guilty glance before dashing off to the shed.  Chipmunks always look guilty and nervous, of course, but this one seemed to be suffering from the effects of one too many espressos. Then I noticed it. There in the middle of the yard was the still silent form of a dead black squirrel (see below). Anywhere else, this would have been a common sight. The local roads are paved with nut-crazed flattened squirrels, but in my yard only the full formed nut-crazed variety are common.

My first thought was that it was shot, but there were no sounds issuing from the neighborhood that morning (no one was really around anyway).  The second thought was that it was stuck by a car and crawled to the spot to die, but in order for that to happen it would of had to drag itself over a half mile from the nearest real traffic road in the vicinity. Any squirrel that could drag itself that far with mortal injuries would be worthy of some sort of award (the golden nut memorial award). But in reality, cars don’t usually deliver wounds to creatures such as small delicate black squirrels, they deliver instant death. It looked as if this wet critter landed dead where he lay.

I ruled out the fox squirrel as a culprit (and, it goes without saying, the chipmunk and the mouse). If there is antagonism between these squirrel species it is the Gray Squirrels that attack the Fox Squirrels.  This left the death issue with two probable causes: lack of co-ordination or predatory influence. Squirrels do fall from time to time. Considering all the magnificent leaps they perform on a daily basis it is a wonder that more of them don’t come crashing down. If distracted by texting then this makes sense, but I know “my” squirrel doesn’t own a phone. The lack of a thumb also rules this out.

The final answer, at least what I think is the final answer, was produced by my forensic examination (after completing my coffee break, by the way). This little fellow had two pin prick holes in his hide – one on his thigh and the other in his gut. The gut puncture produced some internal bleeding. I believe this guy was attacked and severely wounded by one of the local predatory birds and either escaped or was dropped from a great height. Either way, we would end up with a dead rodent. The rain probably prevented the predator from recovering its prey, thus leaving me with the second nut-related gift of the morning.

There is one good suspect to answer for the guilty party. A Red-shouldered Hawk has been very active around the lake over the past week (see a long distance shot above). Red-shoulders are forest hawks which typically take medium sized mammals, snakes, and frogs for lunch. Our resident bird makes no attempt at secrecy and frequently announces itself – living up to the noisy reputation of the species.  On the morning of the “squirrel incident” the bird was silent, but every morning for the next two days, it was as vocal as ever. Listen to this set of Red-shouldered Hawk calls recorded at the lake (you will not see the hawk but should be able to appreciate the beautiful autumn scenery)

Without producing an actual bloody claw, I believe we have our squirrel killer on the strong evidence of motive and opportunity. This was no crime, however. The bird is only to be condemned on its sloppy technique and the squirrel for being edible.  Case closed – for now.

Probably the last thing I should have been looking for among the giant hemlocks of Hartwick Pines State Park were small things on the forest floor, but I was getting a neck ache. Looking down wasn’t just a relief; it was like bowing in a sacred place. Scattered shafts of sunlight illuminated patches of the forest floor like so many spotlights. One such brightened location contained a small beech tree. Like many of the underling trees with no hope of ever attaining the stature of the surrounding giants, this little beech looked weak and sparse. It stood out – glowed as a matter of fact – not due to a shaft of light but due to a startling coat of white fuzz covering the bark.

At first the coating looked like fungus, but it started to move as I stepped closer. There was no wind. The movement was generated by the fuzz itself. More properly, the fuzz was being moved by the swaying motion of the thousands of insects beneath it. Apparently they were attempting to scare me off but the effect was more mysterious and intriguing rather than frightening. It was like witnessing a mass of fairy dancers.

These swaying sprites were Beech Blight Aphids. The name is a bit unfair, however. Sure they are aphids, sucking insects of the Hemipteran order which specialize in Beech trees, but their collective actions rarely influence the health of their host tree. Occasionally an unsightly fungus can sprout from the sticky honeydew generated by an especially large colony but even that is not especially beech-threatening. Some of the less technical names such as Don King Bugs or Flying Mice are much more appealing and fitting (some generations develop wings and can fly – thus the second name). Hopefully I don’t have to explain the Don King reference.

The Don King fuzz covering these peculiar woolly aphids is a waxy creation produced by the insects themselves. They could be compared to wax flowers. In fact, the closest floral resemblance is to the crooked bloom of the autumn-blooming Witch Hazel.  As you can see in the photos, it issues out of the abdomen and is held over the arched back like a parasol.

A countless bunch of arched ends sporting a countless bunch of wax blooms acts as a fine predator deterrent.  The swaying thing adds to the “in your face” effect and probably increases the protective coverage as well. As a dance, the movement is a mechanical pumping more like a cheerleading move: “Give me an “S”, give me an “O”, give me a “B”- that’s  S.O.B. – Sisters of the Beech” (what did you think? Sons of a Beech? – most aphids are females). See the Swaying aphids here

The wax plumes are delicate and turn into a fine powder when touched.  Many of the insects also had a drop of sticky brown honeydew coming out of their hind end, so any attempt to disturb the bunch resulted in a micro-form of tar and feathering.

Beech Blight Aphids express themselves in September and October. In spite of their white woolly coating they will not overwinter in this state. By the time a dense layer of icy hoar frost replaces the living autumn frost on this tiny beech tree, the next generation of aphids will be nicely tucked away into the bark as eggs – the seeds of next year’s fairy dancers.

You probably noted that within these few paragraphs I managed to compare these creatures to fairies, fungi, boxing promoters, cheerleaders, Witch Hazel flowers, and frost. I do believe that is a personal metaphorical record. Hey, maybe it was the fairy dust!

Hawk identification, at its core, is a fairly straight forward thing.  Going by differences in body plan, pattern, and flight behavior one can basically separate one hawk from anudder (two have a much harder time, but that is a different story).  In it’s particulars, however, it much more challenging. There are many dirty secrets of hawk watching. Because birds within a single species can come in many different age plumages and adult color varieties there is no such thing as an “average” bird of any type.  Perhaps even more sinister, individual birds can alter their appearance by flaring tail feathers, bending wings, and fluffing feathers. They often defy any and all bird guide illustrations.  This latter fact also applies to us humans – I mean, compare your sad saggy face in the morning mirror to that at mid-day, etc.

The Red-tailed Hawk is a prime example of this “one hawk, many faces in the mirror” concept.  These large buteos (that is the raptor band they belong to – a hangover from the 60’s rock group) come in a rainbow of plumages and their immature stages lack the name-sake reddish tail, but their appearance changes dramatically depending on their mood.  A fluffed out bird looks massive when compared to a rain-drenched bird, for example.

A recently captured Red-tail (banded by Dave Hogan at our mid-September Hawkfest at Lake Erie Metropark) brought us an opportunity to see the “hawk in the mirror” effect.  This bird, an immature born earlier in the year, displayed a very un-Red Tail-like, but marvelous, crest.

This hawk was, to say the least, a bit peeved at being detained from his autumn migration – thus the reason for the flared crest. He originally altered his course to nab the bait Starling placed at the center of the banding net.  The next thing he knew, he was pinned to the ground under a net and gifted with a bright new aluminum band. Now, at the time of these photographs, he was being displayed in front of a hundred people and really not liking it.  A quick jab at his captor’s (Dave’s) hand drew some blood and he rose up to face all other takers.  Dave subtly stepped over to cover the rich red splat on the sidewalk (there were children about, you see) and continued to display his unwilling guest.

In a passive state, this fellow would not have shown any hint of a crest. When in an aggressive or intimidated mood, all the feathers on the back of the head go up like the hackles on a dog. The purpose is to look larger than normal and hopefully scare away any opponent. The effect is , well….,effective. I’ve never noticed the particular way the leading portion of the crest divides into two owl-like tufts and the white bases of the feathers gleam when viewed form the back.  When in this pose, the look approaches that of a Harpy. These South American monkey eating eagles have a prominent crest all the time.

The crest, combined with an open mouth and a fixed – almost cross eyed – stare, combined to produce an especially unusual appearance. All returned to normal when the bird was hefted into the air at the collective count of three.  Lifted by half a dozen powerful wing strokes he lifted over the tree line and vanished back into the migratory river of air.

In retrospect, it probably isn’t correct to claim this crested look as “un-Red-tail like”.  Having seen it and experienced it, I’d have to say that this bird was actually revealing his true wild spirit. This was a fleeting taste of raw nature.

I walked past it the first time. Something about the fuzzy white patch on the branch caught my eye, however, and I turned back to take a look. Instead of a fungus, as I suspected, a hairy moth presented itself and I was introduced to a Large Tolype. I only identified the creature after the fact – but, for the sake of narrative I want to cut to the chase. Let’s just say that it was not hard determining it’s identity due to the size and hairiness. Not knowing the identity right away actually increased my wonder.

Apart from the moth-like wings there was little to define this critter as a moth, leave alone an insect. I realize this is s a creepy thought, but my initial reaction was that it was a cross between a snow white spider and a Shiatsu. It appeared to have a few too many legs – the fuzzy “appendages” sticking out of the back end turned out to be abdominal projections (oh, you say, that clears everything up). The Shiatsu part, well, hopefully you can see that.  Even in a world of hairy moths, this one took the cake.

Based on the mysterious name, one might expect that Large Tolypes originate somewhere in Middle Earth (certainly lording over the small and medium Tolypes and fearing the huge Tolypes). I was unable to discover what “Tolype” means other than a cryptic genus name. The species name, “velleda” (Latin for veil) probably refers to the gossamer wings, but no one seems to know. Seeing this moth in its unique resting pose, I would propose that the veil reference might indicate how the thing hides its face behind a veil of hair. For some reason that makes me think of the Beetles tune – you know the one that says “got to be good look’n ‘cause he’s so hard to see.”  He does have feet down below his knees…  O.K., the fact that this moth is a she, not a he, makes the Beetle reference even more irresponsible on my part. Sorry. Maybe it doesn’t matter anyway because this moth was fascinating even before I knew what to call it in other languages.

It was apparent by the freshness of this specimen that it had just emerged from a cocoon. I surmised that it flew to this perch and sat the night out – a conclusion that proved completely wrong. When I stepped around the stick to get a different view, I realized that the cocoon was right in plain sight only inches from where the moth sat. The structure, a tightly woven brown bag of cardboard consistency, was nearly invisible underneath the angled portion of the branch (see last photo). A path of fine white hairs led from the cocoon opening to the moth.  This fellow was just out.

It might seem odd for any moth to emerge as an adult in late September, but this is the normal flight time for this species. Emerging as late as October, they have the ability to fly at temperatures as low as 40 degree F according to one reference. This also explains some of the hairiness aspect as well (insulation), but not all of it. Even the caterpillars of the Tolype are exceedingly hairy. They munch upon broadleaf leaves during the warm summer months and use their hairiness to obscure their profile.

Tolypes are in the same family as the more familiar tent caterpillars. Unlike the tenters, they are solitary and do not make a web nest as a larvae. But, like the tenters, they apparently overwinter as eggs and the adults become hairless stiff corpses by the time the snow flies (in other words, hair today-gone tomorrow). That family name, by the way, is mouthful -Lasiocampidae.  In idiot Latin I would translate it as “day campers who undergo laser hair removal” but I’m fairly certain I am mis-interpreting the hair removal part!

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It’s not my usual style to focus on “pets” because this is a nature – as in wild – oriented blog. My recent introduction to Velcro, however, forced my hand. First of all, because he was a rescued wild orphan, he was not technically a pet and I am not in danger of denying any of my card-carrying naturalist instincts. Secondly, Velcro may be the only one of his kind you will ever see. This means it is my duty to present him to you. In truth, I was actually swayed by the totally unprofessional and unmanly urge to declare “Awww, how adorable” when in his presence. This is one cute little creature and I will not allow myself to be the sole victim of his allure. Who is Velcro? He is a Southern flying Squirrel.

Discovered as an orphan some months ago, this miniature mammal was put under the care of the interpretive staff at the Stoney Creek Nature Center (one of the other parks in “my” Huron Clinton Metropark system). Under their able care he has blossomed into a healthy six month old flying squirrel. To describe him as active would not do him justice. Out of the cage and into the hands of his human handler, Velcro freely skitters up the arm and eventually down into the pant pocket of Supervising Interpreter Doug Spiller. There he pokes out his head and waits for a finger massage behind the ear. After this therapeutic repast, he’s back up on Doug’s outstretched hand. From that high perch he rocked his head back and forth in order to judge the distance to the next human standing in the room (see below) and then launched into the air . We were his trees and he was a flying squirrel, after-all. Anyone within six feet was a potential tree.

I became the landing pad on that first jump but the squirrel soon bored of me (that kind of thing often happens to me). He sought out the company of the all other human trees in the room before finally settling on one of my fellow interpreters, Julie.  She cheated, of course. Julie offered a fresh acorn in her outstretched hand and Velcro could not pass up such a prize. He worked on that acorn for the remainder of our visit. Fortunately, Julie’s ploy served to settle the thing down so that I could take some focused shots.

This was his first acorn, but he went at it like a pro – first popping off the cap and then proceeding to gouge out the meat. Doug mentioned that, even though he doesn’t eat them, Velcro has been in the habit of destroying pencil erasers in a like fashion. “There is not a pencil in this place that is safe” he quiped. We all laughed. Velcro had us in such a state of amazement that we lost sight of the fact that this animal could pee in our mouths at any moment (but that too would have been considered a cute thing, wouldn’t it?).

O.K. now let’s get past the “adorable stuff” and try to salvage the reputation of this blog (if indeed there is any reputation to save). It’s time for a reality check here. Flying squirrels are omnivores. So, you see, Julie was potentially risking her life in that room. These squirrels eat nuts and fruits, but they also take in insects and carrion. As a matter of fact, one of these squirrels actually killed and ate a Yellow-breasted Sapsucker that was confined with it! Thank God that the nut satisfied Velcro.

As a Southern Flying Squirrel, Velcro represents a species of rodent that doesn’t reveal itself too often. Officially called Glaucomys volans , a name which means “flying gray mouse” in hybrid Greek and Latin, these diminutive squirrels are actually quite common. They inhabit hardwood forest situations and prefer park-like areas with ample space between the trees. Some estimates put their average population at 2 to 6 per acre in good habitat. Winter populations can exceed 20 or more in a single tree cavity. But, because they are exclusively nocturnal (thus the reason for the huge eyes) they aren’t spotted too often. Thus they are considered scarce. It’s like a fellow told me the other day “You know owls must be very very rare”, he said “I never see any.” Of course, this was a fellow who went to bed at 10:15 pm every night. I did not bring up the subject of those “extremely rare” flying squirrels to this guy lest I ended up saying something insensitive.

To be truthful, I’ve only seen wild flying squirrels on one occasion (a bunch of young squirrels in a bluebird house nest), but I have heard them a number of times in the darkness. They chirp like birds. Considering that they engage in a type of flight, this might seem like a logical sound. Flying squirrels do not fly, but they do glide. Employing a stretchy flap of skin located between the wrist and ankle called the patagium, the creatures leap into the air, open up like a kite, and drift over to their desired landing point.  The flat tail serves as a stabilizer (not as a rudder) in much the same way as the tail serves on a kite.

Velcro did not need to use his flap while jumping the relatively short distance between the humans in the room. You can see the extra skin located behind his front feet in the accompanying photos. It is covered by a fine coating of hair lined with a neat racing stripe. A stiff cartilage rod, extending out from the wrist, supports the leading edge of the flap when extended. Otherwise it is folded back along the body.

It is worth noting that flying squirrels have been recorded in the wild as spanning gaps of 130 feet or more between trees.  Their flight path always takes a slight downward angle and is concluded by a quick upward turn just before hitting their spot Observers have noted that they often shut their eyes for part of the journey in order to avoid eye injury from passing twigs, etc. Any further distance and they’d need to wear a pair of goggles. Wait, I just had the image of a moose go through my mind…