I nearly stepped on it. The hairy brown creature visually melted into the sandy parking lot upon which it sat. Only the bright underwing markings called the stationary Silver-spotted Skipper my attention and saved it from a flattening experience. Normally these active butterflies dart off at the slightest movement – they skip about as if charged with an excess of morning espressos (thus the family name). It was unusual, therefore, that this fellow seemed so utterly focused that a lumbering giant did not disturb it. Either it was sick, drunk, or texting.  It was drunk…sorta.

You see, this butterfly was “puddling” – a male dominated activity which involves sucking up minerals and salts from the soil or mud (similar to football). So, you could say that it was drunk on mineral water. The sand was moist from recent showers and apparently offered an irresistible brew of salt and other soil leached minerals. During the mating season, male butterflies use this extra intake to help boost their virility. This late in the season, butterfly virility is misplaced. Silver-spotted skippers over-winter as pupae and the adults die off at summer’s end. Perhaps our hairy little fellow was planning on going out in a blaze of glory?

All guesswork aside, this puddling incident allowed me a chance to get a good close look at this, Michigan’s largest skipper. As a group, skippers are separated from the so-called “true” butterflies because of their moth-like characteristics. For starters, they have chunky bodies which are heavily coated with layer of setae (not hair) and relatively small wings. They flitter about nervously and never pause to glide like their wide-winged relatives. In some circles they are referred to as being “the least developed of the butterflies” as if they are Neanderthals in a world of sapiens.  They are not primitive, however – this design has fostered hundreds of U.S. species.

Other obvious skipper features are the hooked antennae and the large widely spaced eyes. The antennae are clubbed in typical butterfly fashion, but they have a distinct hook at the end unlike any other type of butterfly. The large eyes? Well they seem to impart a slightly more sophisticated look than seen on the mug of a Cabbage White butterfly or one of the other “more developed” butterflies.  And having a bigger head must mean something as well. I’m not sure what, but perhaps Silver-spotted Skippers are frustrated mathematicians stuck inside brutish hairy bodies.

I could not get over the density of the body “fur” on this individual (see above and detail here). Ignoring the scale of the photo (the skipper had a wingspan of around 2 inches) the creature looked like a winged muskrat. I’m sure that drinking too much mineral water on my part would assist my perception of flying muskrats. I know that licking sand would probably produce a similar result. A very un-muskratlike stripe pattern is apparent on the back if you examine it closely.

Finally, I leave you with the image of the tongue. It is a flexible hollow instrument through which the skipper sucks up nectar and/or mineral water with equal dexterity. Notice how the skipper holds it at 90 degree angle as if it were a bendy straw. In a way it is an ultimate bendy straw with flex points at every segment.

I left the puddling skipper to his own thoughts. I can only guess how he will spend his waning days, but I’m sure he won’t skip the good parts.

I’m not sure there is anything new to say about Spotted Jewelweeds unless I start making things up. Did you know that these plants will cure insomnia, urushoil rashes, and kleptomania? Well, they don’t – I just made up two of these things! Of course the insomnia and klepto things are ridiculous fabrications on my part, but the rash thing is not of my making. Urushoil is the substance produced by Poison Ivy, and Jewelweed has long been touted as a “cure” for ivy rashes. A persistent folk belief maintains that Jewelweed juice serves as a poison ivy antidote. Unfortunately, this has never been proven. There isn’t a lick of proof that the juicy crushed stems do anything more than cleanse the affected areas (as would water or grape juice). Yet, the idea remains.

You know, this plant really doesn’t need the false label as a Poison ivy cure to make it “worthwhile.” It has many many worthy – and tangible – attributes. Take the showy flowers, for instance. Late summer/early fall is the time for these plants to produce blooms of near orchid quality. The speckled orange structures looks like wrinkled cornucopias suspended on delicate threads. They have five petals, but they are hard to distinguish in their own right. One petal forms an upper canopy, two are fused to form a large lower lip, and two small lateral (side) petals balance out the presentation.

A long curved spur serves as a nectar receptacle.  Pollinators are encouraged to touch down on the ample landing pad and crawl deep into the flower to reach the rich nectar source in the spur (40% sugar content according to one reference). In so doing they are dabbed with pollen from a chandelier-like anther pad on the roof of the flower tunnel. Some bumblebees and yellow jackets, however, have been known to bypass this route and cut sipping holes directly into the spur itself.

You might be tempted to declare the before mentioned bee types as scoundrels (worthy of stinging remarks), but you should consider that Spotted Jewelweeds also produce non-opening green flowers that do not depend on insect pollination, thank you very much. These unassuming closed flowers are self pollinating. Called “cleistogomous” flowers, this neat Greek word means “secret marriage” and it implies exactly what you think about what happens behind closed doors on this plant. Take a look at the image below to see a few of these secret flowers above and to the left of the showy blossoms (I’ll leave to your imagination as to what is going on inside them!).

Both the self fertilized and “normally” fertilized flowers eventually turn into seed pods. These explosive pods are all that the Jewelweed really needs to capture our attention. If you have never popped a Jewelweed pod then you have not lived. If you have not done this repeatedly then you have not really popped a Jewelweed pod. I have put together a short sequence (view here) to show you what Jewelweed popp’n really is.

In short, the bean-like pods become pressurized as they mature (see beginning photo). They possess a central spring with four or five large triangular seeds attached. All it takes is the slightest external contact to set them off. In a blurred motion, the five parts of the pod suddenly separate and curl up to the tip. This action hurls the seeds hither and yon and separates the pod from the plant (see below). The actual hurling distance is only a foot or two, but it is dramatic.

When a pod is fully triggered is appears like a peanut. A drop of rain or even a brush of air will set them off. Thinner pods take a bit more coxing, but they too will pop with a little prompting.

So there you have it. Seek out your nearest spotted Jewelweed patch and go at it my friend. I challenge you to do this only once. Like ruffle potato chips you just can’t treat yourself to one. You will be doing the Jewelweed a favor (it reproduces exclusively by seed) and, in turn, curing any boredom you may have.

It’s getting late in the year for Michigan birds to still have young in the nest, but for a pair of Mourning Doves residing on a drain pipe outside Kensington Nature Center the season is still prime. Doves famously produce multiple broods per year and these doves are just putting the finishing touches on their third set of twins.  Fortunately, these prolific birds are very tolerant of human gawkers, so they are quite photogenic. Put these two factors together and you have a late opportunity to see suckling squabs.

Normally, of course, the term “suckling” would exclusively refer to baby mammals – as in suckling pigs or suckling Snow Leopards – because baby mammals suck milk from their momma’s mammaries.  This is a pretty exclusive club limited to haired organisms with teats.  Although lacking in teats, members of the pigeon family also produce a form of milk to feed their young. As a matter of fact, these birds go one up on the mammalian model by providing a physiological method for both male and female pigeons to feed their young in this manner. There ain’t no male Snow Leopard alive that could (or would!) allow his young to suckle upon him.

We waited for some time at the dove nest to see this milking action take place. I say “we”, because a small group of folks had gathered around the spot by the time the event actually occurred. All it took was one person staring up at the nest spot beneath the eave to attract my attention. Soon a few of my naturalist friends joined me, along with some additional patrons, to admire one of the adult birds and its two chicks (from this point on referred to as squabs). We had quite a conversation going on in our small group, although I was trying to concentrate through my view finder. Fortunately the birds didn’t seem to mind too much, but I was fearful that our action would deter the other adult, and blow my chance to see the milking.   Fortunately, someone finally asked “what do they feed their young?” and I mentioned milk.  For some reason this quieted things down immediately as all (except the naturalists) pondered over the potential location of the nipples on a bird.

I should have explained that pigeon milk is made of “desquamated cells sloughed off the germinal epithelium of the crop” but, in all honesty, I did not have that phrase on the tip of my tongue at the time. Pigeon milk is a curdy yellowish liquid secreted from the pre-stomach pouch known as the crop.  The substance is rich in protein and fat and compares favorably with cow’s milk. I found out later through my research, that it also smells like cheese. And, lest we forget within these few short paragraphs, both sexes produce and distribute it.

I initially snapped a few shots of the scene just to record the incredible ugliness of the squabs (they have big bright eyes, but their tubular nostrils are features that only a mother could love) and to admire their palatial nest. Mourning Doves are among the worst nest makers on the planet. They normally lay a pile of loose sticks down and call it “art”. These structures are normally so bad that you can look up through the bottom in order to count the eggs within (this number is always two, but you get my point). This nest, being the third in the same spot, was a solid mound of sticks rivaling any robin’s nest in the area (see here). There was nothing about this nest for the doves to mourn over, except for the fact that it was cemented together by ample applications of poop.

Eventually the other parent bird arrived on the scene. No one could be sure whether this was the male or the female, but in this case it didn’t matter.  The bird sat on the edge of the roof for some time and nervously bobbed its head up and down. We eventually backed away to a respectful distance and she/he then flew into the nest. The adults switched places. The new arrival prepared itself for suckling as the first flew off to pasture.

Upon facing its charges, the adult opened its mouth and both young stuck their beaks down her maw.  Doves suck up liquids, so it is no stretch to say that these young were suckling. Heads bobbed up and down for several uncomfortable-looking minutes as the hungry squabs eagerly ingested the crop contents. This was the first time that I have witnessed this act and I must say that I am glad to be a male mammal.

After the deed was completed, one of the squabs was left with a drip of liquid hanging off its beak and a seed stuck to the side of its head.  Mom/Dad looked relieved and peace settled upon the poopy nest and its occupants.

The explanation of the seed is simple. In practice, Mourning Doves only feed their young pure milk for the first 3-4 days of their existence. For the next period, from 4- 12 days, the parents begin to introduce an increasing amount of seeds into the mix. They gradually wean their swabs of milk entirely after 12 days and from that point on exclusively deliver seeds. Since these squabs were both well along, it is likely that only a quarter of this feeding act actually involved milk and that the remainder was seed based.  Sure, you could say that we weren’t witness to a true suckling event, but let’s not get all sucky about it.

By the way, the literature records that main feeding duty falls to the male parent after the squabs reach 16 days of age.  If the dad doves ever figure out how to produce their own eggs they could take over the world (if they develop teats, then we humans will also be doomed).

Macbeth was hallucinating, of course, when he envisioned the instrument of death before him and uttered “Is that a dagger which I see before me?” It was a bloody dagger. I, on the other hand, was not hallucinating – or if I was, it was a pretty bland hallucination – when I saw a dagger before me.  My dagger, which I saweth but a fortnight ago, was an American Dagger caterpillar (not instruments of death unless one attempted to shove several dozen up someone’s nose).

Dagger Moth caterpillars are remarkable looking beasts. It is hard to pass by one of them without exclaiming “what a remarkable looking beast.”  They are hairy beyond the norm, about 3 inches long at maturity, and equipped with multiple hair tuft antennae.  To be truthful, these larvae are not actually covered with hair. If these structures were true hairs then we’d looking at the world’s most bizarre mammal. They are technically called setae – hairs that are not hairs but hair-like.

The setae tend to be yellow on the younger caterpillars and often turn to whitish gray on the mature worms.  My example was a mature beast yet as bright a yellow as the day is long (whatever that means), so it a bit atypical in that regard.  The long black antennae-like tufts are called “lashes” (a term made up by the Revlon folks I believe). There are two sets of lashes on the first and third abdominal segments of the Dagger caterpillar and a single lash on the 8^th segment. These probably serve as sensory devices rather than beauty enhancement features, but they could be dual function attachments. For instance, I am fairly certain that Beyoncé has never walked into a wall and that we can thank her early warning lash system for that.

American Dagger moth larvae eat a wide variety of tree leaves. In my experience, they seem to prefer maples. Half consumed leaves littering the ground beneath a tree betray their presence long before the critters are spotted. Piles of barrel shaped poops on your car hood will also give them away. When actually discovered and touched, the caterpillars will bat their lashes and withdraw into a characteristic “J” shape. Further harassment will induce them to roll into a ball. They say that the hairs…er, I mean setae…can be irritating, so it’s best not to irritate a Dagger larvae too much lest he “sheddeth his prickly hairs into thee.”

The caterpillars eventually make their way to the ground in the fall and seek shelter under logs or boards. There they will form a cocoon and spend the winter as a pupae. This cocoon incorporates the body hairs into the silken wrap. Beneath all that fuzz, Dagger caterpillars are smooth green gummy worms. If Shakespeare had known about American Dagger caterpillars he would have penned “Beneath dense setae green nakedness we do see-tay.”

The adult moths, which emerge the following spring, are unassuming gray beasts which blend into their surroundings. Like other members of their ilk they possess a cryptic image of a dagger upon their forewings. This image is very obscure, to say the least, but it is the reason behind the family name (there are 70 plus kinds of dagger moths). I’m thinking that bad eyesight was involved somewhere.  If Macbeth saw this fuzzy image of a dagger floating before him, he would have said “is that a fuzzy blob I see before me…am I to commit murder by shoving these up the nose of my intended victim?”

It’s hard to get too excited about grass unless you are an aging hippie, a forage specialist, or a bored naturalist. In fact, once you take away the Hippie “grass” (and remove the disappointed Hipster from the conversation) you are left with a fairly small group of people willing to even talk about grass. Grasses don’t have the pizzazz that flowers and trees do. They are grass, after all. This is not to say they are unimportant or even un-interesting. No, this is to say that they are merely librarians up against pop stars. In fact, the planet could not support humans without grasses (or librarians). I am not here to preach, however. I only want to introduce you to one member of the gang and then move along.

The waning days of very late summer are a great time to meet up with one of the more impressive members of the grass clan called Big Bluestems.  They are hard to miss on account of their great height. At their peak this time of year, these towering plants can achieve heights in excess of 6-8 feet. They are one of the plants that gave rise to the “tall grass” designation for the Midwest prairies. These were the vast grasslands that once spread across the middle of the continent and fed the thundering herds of bison. Although the “vast” portions of both the prairies and the bison herds are long gone, the grasses still exist in eastern prairie pockets and many restoration projects incorporate them into the mix.  Big Bluestems are a crucial part of that mix.

The other “big” feature of the Big Blue is the part you cannot see without the aid of a backhoe or a back-mounted mini camera on woodchuck. The taproots extend as much as 10 feet down and the individual stems within any given area are interconnected via a rhizome system about 4 inches beneath the surface. Needless to say, this is a plant that sticks around once it is established (or re-established, as the case may be).

It is worth mentioning that apart from all the “big” things, the name of this plant also derives from the bluish cast of the stem (see above and detail here). This feature is evident on the portion of the stem around the swollen joints (a feature on aging Hippies as well, come to think of it). Even the flowering head is purplish blue (see above).

August is flowering time for the Big Bluestem. The plants produce multi-parted floral heads that appear like bird feet – giving rise to the common name of “Turkeyfoot grass”. There are typically three so-called “spiklets” on this floral head. Triggered into action by the shortening days of the month, bluestems dangle paired yellow anthers into the air and allow the wind to carry about their pollen (see below). Being tall, they easily capture whatever breeze happens by.

You know, there is more to tell, but I’d hate to pile on too much “grass talk” in one place.  I mean, Chippewa people once used the pliant stems for lashings and an Italian Monk with the impressive name of Fulgenzio Vitman was responsible for the plant’s classification, but let’s just leave this discussion where it sits and appreciate the Big Blue for what it is. It stands as a reminder that the grass is both greener and bluer on our side of the fence.

I recently ventured high up into the belfry (actually the attic) of a local building to see the bat colony residing therein. The presence of the colony had been known for some time, but I wasted no time in checking it out because the season is late and the gang might shift locations at any time. Initial reports indicated “20 or so” individuals, so I was hoping for such. Armed with a camera and a weak flashlight, I ascended the creaky pull-down ladder and entered the dark void above.

True to expectations the place reeked of guano – the pungent musty odor of a million bat droppings. In this black hot space the smell was, if not overpowering, definitely “hanging thick.” My flashlight flickered to life after whacking it a few times on my palm. The beam dimly illuminated a tight circular space defined by a block wall and a wood ceiling. Piles of guano covered the floor (see below). I swept the light across the upper wall to search for the bats. Unfortunately, there were only three bats in evidence but I was not disappointed.  They were Big Brown Bats who, in spite of their name, are only about 3 inches long.

Two of the individuals were hanging close to each other and the third was hanging tight to the far corner. All were suspended upside-down (how else?) near the top of the wall were it met the ceiling. The block surface was sufficiently rough to provide a grabbing surface for their feet and singular thumb claws. Although they were roosting, the bats were quite aware of my presence. They shifted and sniffed the air every time the flashlight beam hit them and skittered along the wall whenever the beam left.

In order to get pictures, I had to put the flashlight beam on them with one hand and get a focus fix through the camera viewfinder held by the other. My view of them was limited to the temporary flash of the camera. At one point, one of the little beasts smiled a gap-toothed smile as if to welcome me to hell (see beginning photo). I say this because after a few minutes in this space the heat was beginning to get to me. It was around 88 degrees F outside but well over 100 degrees inside. I could only imagine what sort of nasty fungal dust I was kicking up while in that pungent space.  The camera viewer was fogging up and my flashlight flickered nervously.

I wondered where the other bats had gone, since the earlier report was from only a week earlier. This question was answered when I turned to get closer look at the lone corner bat (see above). This fellow was lower and more approachable than the smiling pair. I popped off a few shots before he bolted. Literally running along the wall, the creature scurried to the top edge and then ducked into the narrow space at the top of the block (see below). It was then that I noticed the numerous dark “rub” spots where countless other bats performed the same procedure (see here). I believe most of the other bats were actually in the block wall itself. On this hot day they may have sought the slightly cooler outer surface.

After ten minutes I had enough and gladly left the inferno for the cool light space below. Along the way I gathered two dried dead bats that were on the floor. Both of the specimens were mummified from long exposure to dry attic heat. One of the bodies was that of a young bat (officially called a “pup” but who cares). This particular find was exciting because it indicated that this place served as a breeding colony at some point. I would have to return early next summer to see some living batlets (the breeding season is long over by this time of year).

As it turns out, there is another reason for me to return.  Later, down in the bright light of day, I re-examined my photos and realized that I had indeed encountered a blood-sucker in that dark hole. No, our Michigan bats are not blood-suckers (big browns specialize in flying beetles as a matter of fact) and there was no personal concern on my part other than ingesting too much poop dust during my investigation. In my pictures of the timid corner bat, however, there appeared the image of a wingless insect on the block immediately next to him. This was a “bat bug” (see enlarged image below).

Bat bugs feed on bat blood. Close relatives of bed bugs, they depend on regular blood meals to complete their growth cycle. In the absence of bats they have been known to sneak in a human meal or two, but members of the bat clan are their main fare. This individual appeared to be freshly full from a recent meal and was probably sneaking back into the woodwork when my camera pin-pointed him in the pitch darkness.

I will return to this colony next year and see if, along with recording baby bats in action, perhaps add a bat bug or two to my collection. I will place them next to my set of beaver bugs.

I was momentarily frightened by the discovery that teasels were monocarpic perennials. I was only trying to find out why nearly all the teasels I’ve been seeing lately had white blossoms when I ran across this singular fact. It was a simple question to address: “where have all the purple teasels gone?” That is all I needed to answer. But, instead I was faced with a frightening set of words I had not encountered before – or if I had, they were quickly forgotten.

The answer to the purple vs. white flower thing was easily answered. Quite honestly, before this year I had always assumed that the two are color varieties of the same plant. I was wrong (for at least the third time in my life). There are two species of teasel in our neck of the woods. Both are tall spikey-topped plants and both frequent waste spaces along roadsides and old pastureland. There are distinct differences in leaf structure as well, but the flower color is the most immediately visible difference between the two.  The purple flowered teasels are called Common Teasels (Dipascus fullonum) and the white flowered ones are called Cut-leaf Teasels (Dipsacus laciniatus).

Cut-leaf Teasel

I began noticing that all of the teasels this season appeared to be of the white variety and, frankly, the observation bugged me. Although I’d seen white ones before, I was more used to those of the purple hued persuasion. At any rate there was always a mixture. Craning my neck at every passing clump this year, I consistently spotted white ones. When I finally came upon a purple flowered example, the one I now know as the Common Teasel, I treated it like a rock star (which is a ridiculous thing, I realize). In short, I do believe that the Cut-leaved Teasels really hit their stride this year and made extreme advances into Lower Michigan.

Common Teasel

Now, back to that term “monocarpic perennial.” It sounds illegal or deviant in some way. I mean, if you labeled a person as a known monocarpic perennial you would cause some eyebrows to raise. But, as it is, the term is strictly botanical and simply refers to growth habit and not religious or fish-eating tendencies. Because individual Teasel plants only flower once then die, they might justly be called biennials (one year of growth, one year of flowering). Because they exist for years as ground-hugging clusters of leaves called basal rosettes, they act like perennials. But, perennials bloom every year as well. So, teasel time is framed within this specific term – also applied to century plants and the like – meaning something like “one seed producing year and that’s it.”

As it relates to the main question, however, this monocarpic discussion is not all that important. Teasels come in white and purple. That is the answer.

By the time August rolls around, most swallows are starting to think about leaving.  Long before other birds are even looking at their travel brochures, swallows are preparing for the big move. They are eyeing up the fares and booking their flights.  Of course, not all of them are – thus the use of the word “most” and the reason for this blog entry. I was surprised to find that quite a few Barn Swallows are still very much in a family way. This is a bit late by my estimation, but my estimation don’t count for much sometimes (either do my English skills).

These birds are still very much in evidence around their summer colonies. A goodly portion will be engaged in basking. Barn Swallows are creatures of the sun and take every chance they can for sun-bathing. The low angled rays of the August sun can take the edge off on these cooler mornings and the birds will spend an inordinate amount of time on east facing roofs and branches. Only the close approach of a passing human (and I mean very close) will stir them back into temporary flight.

A good number of the Barn Swallows flitting (and basking) about these days are young-of-the-season still fresh from the nest and new on the wing. They blend in with their adult companions due to their full size, but they possess the duller feathers and slightly befuddled look of youth. A few of the younger ones even retain a few down feathers but these birds are fully fledged and are pretty much fending for themselves. They are now capable hunters snatching all manner of insects out of the air or deftly plucking sips of water while on the cruise.

There are plenty of flightless swallows confined to the nest, however. One Barn Swallow nest tucked under the eaves of the Crosswinds Marsh shelter contained three eager chicks. These little fellows had a lot of growing to do. One bold nestling allowed himself to be seen above the rim of the nest and displayed the wide lipped smile of a very young bird. His cautious nest mates only popped up when one of the adults fluttered past – their bright yellow mouths agape. Their parents were anxious at my approach, but kept on snatching and delivering food to their hungry charges. As long as I retained my distance they would fly to and from the nest. There was a bit of urgency in their delivery and they appeared to be “fast-tracking” their young.

Based on the offering of one of the parents, these nestlings should be bulked up in no time. Hoisting a dragonfly bigger than his head, he did all he could to retain his grip while patiently waiting for me to back away. The dragonfly, a skimmer, was long dead but still an ungainly mouthful for a big-mouthed bird (sure they nest in barns, but one can easily imagine that they could swallow a small barn if given the chance). The adult bird could have polished it off in a few gulps if it had been a personal meal, but it was to serve as baby food. There were plenty more dragons in the marsh to gulp and only so much daylight in which to gulp them, so I retreated and left the busy parents to their late season task.

I am not a mushroom expert, nor have I ever played one on T.V. So, when a patron walked into the nature center, plopped down a small bag of large mystery mushrooms, and asked for some identification help, I was hesitant. He primarily wanted to find out if they were edible. “Everything is edible,” I said, “but it’s what happens after the eating that causes problems.” That was my way of saying that I was not going to be responsible for his death. “I can only recommend morels, puffballs, and pink-bottoms.”  I did promise to look into it, however, and give him a call if I found out a positive I.D. I kept one for closer examination.

These were big mushrooms – over 7 inches tall with yellow conical caps nearly 4 inches wide. Small elves could have sought shelter beneath their canopy and have plenty of space for a ceiling fan. The most striking part about them was their potato-like basal structure.

There are several ways to identify ‘shrooms. The wrong way – my preferred method – is to look at a bunch of pictures and see what matches. Unfortunately, mushrooms vary quite a bit depending on their mojo and the Chinese calendar (not really, but they are an arbitrary bunch of organisms). You can get some sense of color, shape, and growth habit with this method but it is only a starting point. The proper way to identify a mushroom is to survey its fine details and then combine the results of this visual checklist with habitat and seasonal information in order to take it through the steps of an identification key. This is a lot of work and the primary reason that I only eat morels and puffballs, and let other people eat pinkbottoms.

My actual method in this circumstance combined the above procedures. My theory is that a wrong and a right combine to make a “mostly right” (as long as the wrong is only misguided and not morally wrong or fatal!). At any rate, my method ultimately led to a nearly certain identification of these fungi as some sort of Amanita. This turned out to be mostly wrong and potentially fatal.

One of the first structural features to note on any mushroom are the spore-producing structures located on the underside. These examples were “gilled” (see above).  In other words they are divided into multiple hanging partitions that radiate from the center. There are many types of gills, but let it suffice that these were of the “gilled tribe.”  The central support stem was a relatively smooth column lacking any sort of collar (this was important) and the cap was smooth and relatively dry (another potentially important detail).

By far the most striking feature was the large basal structure evident on two of the mushrooms. Fortunately this fellow picked a perfect trio showing the stages of growth. This part is called a volva. It is a sac-like covering that protects the emerging cap and stem. These volvas were massive and surely would help me on my pathway of learning.  All of these features, including the low brow visual method, led me to think Amanitis. There was but one more thing to do.

I removed one of the caps and placed it on a white sheet of paper overnight in order to produce a spore print. The microscopic spores will rain down onto the surface and produce a near photographic image of the underside of the mushroom. One of the primary reasons for doing this is to see what color the spores are. Spore color is also an important diagnostic trait and one which you can’t really determine any other way. My spore print (see below and detail here) turned out to be a magnificent shade of cinnamon brown. The pattern recorded the intricate details of the gills and of the inner air flow within the cap (the result, no doubt of the tiny ceiling fan within).

The only problem is that Amanitis have white spores. This is not a variable trait; it is listed as one of THE traits of this large mushroom group. I was left with a wild series of gilled brown-spored possibilities including Hypholomas, Bolbitius, Stropharia, and on and on. None matched at nicely as the Amanitis. If I had only stopped before the spore print I would have achieved ignorant happiness.

Now I am unhappily ignorant and, frankly, don’t give a rip about the true identity of these things. I will not call this fellow back nor will I recommend eating them. I like the spore print, though, and feel that is reward enough for time well spent. I can take solace in being mostly right can’t I?

This makes the third blog in a row which either features or involves a spider of some sort but, dog-gone it, I just can’t ignore these things (even when they force me to eat some crow). On a recent evening walk with some friends, I came upon a splendid little gem of an arachnid called a Spined Micrathena. This individual was suspended upside down in the center of her finely made little orb web. In spite of the evidence to the contrary (in the form of a half dozen tiny midge corpses hung upon it) I reasoned that this web must have been freshly made. Most spiders make fresh webs at night and the hour was late, so I lapsed into lazy spider logic and claimed that “she will eat her web in the morning and spin a new one the following night.” Unfortunately, I had that part bass akwards. In the case of this species, they spin their webs anew at dawn and take them in at night – not the other way around.

I am glad to admit to this crow-eating event because it makes for one less mistake in the future (at this rate I will be perfect by the time I am 156 ½ years old!). My later research on the topic showed conclusively that Spiny Micrathenas are daytime hunters. They like flies. Although their circular orbs are quite small and finely made, they are centered between lengthy support lines (usually two parallel lines) that may span over 6 feet from end to end. They are known for extending these stout lines across trails and bridging the wide spaces available in open deciduous woodlots. This is why early morning trailwalkers should carry long sticks (and speak softly lest they ingest one of the spiny makers). They often leave these tie lines in place while renewing their orbs, so they can remain in position for up to a week in the absence of blundering humans or deer.

All this website stuff is fine and good, but the spider herself – the web surfer- is alone worth the price of admission.  My use of the term “she,” by the way, is due to the fact that the males do not make webs. The males of this species have small un-adorned bottoms and slink about in the underbrush hoping to connect with “she who has spines upon her rear.” It is the magnificently spined rear on the female that is her claim to visual fame.

When disturbed, these spiders will leave the orb and retreat to the cover of nearby vegetation via one of the main support lines. I caught my spider in the act of retreat – hanging upside down like a monkey on a tightrope (note the differing structure of each set of legs – they are not all of equal length). In this position, the five pairs of defensive spikes adorning the abdomen are well displayed. The structure is hard, so these spikes would be formidable barriers for hungry birds. It is also possible that because it resembles a seed, bug-eating birds may be fooled by the appearance.

Perhaps the most remarkable thing about these spiders is their ability to make sound. A number of spiders in the Argiope family, such as the Spined Micrathena, are capable of making a buzzing sound if appropriately ticked off. By rubbing a set of stiff hairs on the inner side of the back set of legs onto a ridged structure located on the inner abdomen, they can generate a low-pitched buzz. The sound plates, located on the so-called book lung covers, look like three dimensional fingerprints, but are is too small to see in my detail photo.

Unfortunately, I did not hear my spider speak, angrily or otherwise, on my evening stroll. I therefore challenge you to bring your ear close to the next one you encounter and you’ll likely hear it buzz just before it enters your ear. Go ahead, try it and let me know how it feels..er, sounds.