Nature’s Holiday table is set with a display of artfully arranged raisins and drupes (see above).  The invitations are out and the diners should be arriving anytime now. The feast, in this case, is one intended for over-wintering birds but the offering is not so far off from our own fare. A bowl of raisins, dried plums, apricots, and peaches will be a perfectly normal sight on the after-dinner coffee table from here on out. Next week marks the beginning of our consumptive season when it is time to get fattened for the winter. Food, therefore, is a very topical subject which is why I bring it up. “Bringing food up” certainly can have two holiday meanings, but I am strictly speaking of food that goes down and stays down!

  I am speaking about the over ripe fruit of wild grapes and Gray Dogwoods that will be heading down the throats of winter birds such as Robins, Cedar Waxwings, Red-bellied Woodpeckers, Yellow-rumped Warblers, and dozens of other avian species. Without this abundant bounty life for them would be in the pits.  These fruits have long passed their prime and are now shriveling under the influence of dry air, wind, and cold. They are being freeze-dried, as it were, and preserved for storage well into the winter months.

  My comparison of wild raisins to their cultured cousins is not very obscure since dried grapes are raisins – wild or not. Wild grape clusters are spare affairs with only a dozen or so berries in each cluster. Each aged grape is packed with tart goodness and about 5 seeds per package.  This is as good a time as any to remind the French that this is the lowly savage grape that once saved their collective wine butts many years ago. Yes, when French grapevines were dying out our native stock was used to save the industry.  They don’t bring this up too often (except perhaps in the spirit of the second meaning of the phrase).  I don’t know much about the French raisin industry, but I suspect it is second fiddle to the wine industry. Our birds happen to like wild raisins and that’s all that matters.

  Now, the drupe thing might have been more confusing to you. A drupe is a type of fruit that has a fleshy portion overlaying a single hard “stone,” or pit, which in turn encloses a seed of some sort. Peaches, plums, apricots and the like are drupes by definition and so are Dogwood berries. Large dried fruits are nature’s candy and so too are tiny dried dogwood fruits. White berries, held up by bright red panicles, are the easily identified crop of the so-called Gray Dogwood. Each berry has only a scant fleshy portion to offer, but they are rich in fat and make up for their individual deficiencies by fruiting in great abundance. Over 95 species of birds have been recorded eating these berries and numerous mammals have been known to get in on the act as well. I don’t know what the French would say about it, but dried dogwood is good stuff.

 On a final note, allow me to remind you again that this discussion of dry winter fruit will all come out in the end. Birds may eat these berries, and keep them down, but they eventually will, well, you know….let them go out the other end.  These “let out” packets will contain the grape and dogwood seeds that will grow into the products that will cover future winter dining plates. The grand cycle of life can be a very basic thing. The French know this but prefer to keep it under wraps.

 Everything about the November marsh was leaden and still today. A gray clouded sky issued sprinklings of granular snow but there was little wind to move the flakes about. The still water reflected the neutral shade of the sky above like polished metal. Any signs of life were welcome additions to this otherwise 2-D black & white photo-scape. A single muskrat provided that sign on this afternoon.

  The muskrat in question was engaged in a typically repetitious cycle of eating, swimming, and cleaning. It was so thoroughly engaged that it chose to pay very little attention to me. The creature knew I was watching it but ignored me as best it could. Even after a loud sneeze on my part sent it into a panic dive it quickly resumed its activity which was, like I said, eating, swimming, and cleaning. This is what November ‘rats do when they are not sleeping.

  I filmed the little guy doing his stuff (see above). His primary concern was a clump of cattails that had an exposed section of rhizomes at its base. Although all the upper leaves were dead, the underground stems and buds held the promised of starchy nutrition and some greenery. He repeatedly returned to the clump to chew away at the base, pull off sections of the rhizome, or nip off fresh shoots. After ripping off a mouthful of goodness he would bob back into the water and propel himself a short distance away to eat it. His dining spot was a carefully chosen spot about three body lengths distant.

  The eating process consisted of a series of skillful manipulations that amounted to peeling away the outer layers in order to get at the succulent core. His monkey-like dexterity was accomplished with nimble little four toed paws – each of which is equipped with pseudo thumb for leverage- and some carefully placed bites.  Watch this short video of the process (see Feeding Time) and you’ll get an idea of what I am talking about. Run this thing over and over again for the better part of a half hour and you’ll also get a sense of what I saw and of the critter’s dogged single mindedness. 

 So far I have covered the swimming and eating part. Now comes the cleaning part. Muskrats are among the most fastidious mammals you will ever meet when it comes to grooming. Every third or forth round trip on this day was punctuated with a bout of washing, primping, scratching, and stroking.  I’d explain it to you further, but feel that this video segment says it all (see Grooming Sequence here). I actually edited down this scene because, even though I know you’d be riveted by watching the full two minutes of this preening session, the photo site simply can’t hold that much excitement.  Perhaps someday I’ll release the full director’s cut, but for now this segment will have to do.

  A muskrat washes itself like a giant field mouse. The resemblance is to be expected because the two are closely related.  All this attention is necessary to keep the outer guard hairs water repellent and the dense woolly underfur fluffy and dry. Yes, the creature remained dry even though it was constantly going for a dip. A marvelous little aquatic creation this one – a well fed little chap on the inside and a clean one on the outside (see here).

  Two days ago I was driving down a long country road scanning the late afternoon countryside for signs of November nature.  The route was west of Saline and the gently rolling landscape was garbed in the muted browns and tans one would expect for this time of year.  Many of the fields had been freshly turned and their expanses of exposed black soil were still raw and moist. Against this backdrop, a flash of roadside green – a flash of tall roadside green – caught my eye.  It was a Mullein plant in summer mode.

  I did a turn-around and came back to confirm that my eyes had not deceived me.  Sure enough, what stood before me was a stately seven foot Mullein plant (see above) acting as if it were a sweltering August afternoon. It had recently completed the flowering cycle and was just beginning to set seeds. Every leaf was vibrant green and complete. You may not think this a remarkable thing, but when you consider that nearly every other Mullein plant in the region – indeed in all the north country -now stands dead and brown, there is definitely something going on with this individual. We’ve had several heavy frosts already. The pale brown foxtail grasses and withering goldenrods surrounding it are witness to this.

  Take a good close look (here) and you can verify what I am talking about. The leaves are untouched by Jack Frost and the slender brown pistil portions of each former flower are still in evidence. Normally, these biennial plants begin to grow in early summer from a leafy rosette (cluster of ground hugging leaves). The flowering stalks begin to peek out by mid July (see here an example from July 10) and come to full flower by August. Occasionally, some individuals flower into September but that’s about it. The Stalk, up to eight feet tall, bears yellow flowers and eventually ripens into a dark brown seedhead packed with rounded seed capsules. Once this final mission is complete, the whole plant dies and the next generation is generated from the scattering of thousands of tiny seeds. Just down the road from this late bloomer, all the other Mulleins were leafless stalks. They had followed the book. Apparently our green giant couldn’t read!

  As literate or illiterate plants, Mulleins have always attracted attention. It seems that nearly every human culture has given them a different name. Hig Candlewort, Ice Leaf, Shepherd’s Club, and Candlestick Plant are just a few of the varied labels.  I used to call them Dirt Spears because the dead stalks, when pulled up whole, performed admirably as hand-thrown missiles. The “war-heads” on these missiles were the exploding dirt clods which were glorious in effect when detonating on your former best friend’s back.  The candle name extends from their use as tallow-dipped torches – you know, those kind used by the angry villagers when they raided Frankenstein’s Castle.

 The common name Mullein apparently came from the Old English “Muleyn” which meant something that is woolen. This name is probably the most scientific of the bunch because it references the dense wooly pelt that covers the leaves of this plant. There is little doubt that this fur coating served to keep our late season plant in the green for as long as it has.

 I will be mentally pulling for the Saline Mullein to see if it survives the frosty weeks ahead. It has already beaten the odds in an impressive way. It is inevitable, though, that it will turn brown and die. When this happens, I’ll see if I can stop by and physically pull it up. Just for old time’s sake, I will then give it a proper send off and launch it into the air as a Dirt Spear.

   Listen for just a moment (The North Winds). Did you hear it over the earthbound sounds of blackbirds and robins? If not, listen again and focus your ear on something in the high background. It is the haunting sound of the North Wind coming down to rest for the winter. That cooing sound, barely audible but resonating, is the call of the Tundra Swan (see the responsible flock above). These northern visitors are the very essence of the great white north. Their arrival is a clarion call that the gentle part of autumn has past and the season will begin to bear some teeth.

  Tundra Swans migrate south to the “balmier” conditions of the lower 48 and arrive here by early November. Reared on the North slopes of Alaska, they retreat for the winter to the Great Lakes region and Chesapeake Bay. Several thousand annually seek refuge on the choppy waters of the Detroit River mouth and sustain themselves on the rich beds of Water Celery.

  Tundras are easy to identify (see here a small flock riding the waves offshore of Lake Erie Metropark). Large white birds with solid black beaks (each having a small yellow dot before the eye), erect positioning of the neck, and endowed with the gift of song, there are few birds to compare or confuse them with. The immature birds are sooty gray and tend to have pinkish bills, but are readily identified by their adult companions.  Trumpeter Swans are similar, but as of yet they are very rare members of our local flock. No, about the only bird that can fool the distant observer are the much larger Mute Swans.

  Mutes are non-migratory swans that hang about all year. They are naturalized European immigrants that form 100% of our summer swan population. From November through March, however, they are joined by their graceful and much more welcome northern kin.  The two rarely mix, as if there is some genetic pride that separates the two like oil from water. I’d assign the Tundras to the water role since they are, like the foamy waves, an integral part of the gray wind-lashed November aquaticscape. The Mutes are the oily ill fitting ones.

  Nonetheless, the Mutes do occasionally join in with the Tundras and this allows us to see a direct comparison (see here). Mute Swans have bright orange bills topped with a black knobs. They tend to hold their necks in a curved “ceramic” position and fluff their back feathers up with an aristocratic flair that betrays a hint of European snobbery. Mutes, despite their names, do manage an occasional grunt – a sound more like a painfully stifled sneeze than a dignified bird call.  About the only time they make a loud noise is through the generation of sound though their beating wings (listen here as a group of five pass by: Mute Swan Wingbeats ).

  The wind whistles through the primaries of the Tundra Swans as well, but it is their ghostly call that carries for miles on even the gentlest of breezes. Their breathy sound mixes so well with the wind because it is, as I have already stated, made out of the same ethereal stuff as the North Wind itself.

  I’m willing to bet that your mother told you about celery and waxed poetic on how good it is for you. I’m also thinking that you ate the stuff, based on her recommendation, and actually enjoyed it as long as it was slathered with peanut butter. I will even hazard a guess that you still like it and eat it. This is all O.K., by the way, but I need to tell you that your mother kept you away from the “other” celery. She didn’t do this with any evil intention but did so out of ignorance. You see, no one really cares or knows the truth about Water Celery. It happens to be good for you as well, but for different reasons.

  Water Celery, a.k.a. Tape Grass or Eel Grass, lives its life pretty much out of sight because it is a submerged aquatic plant growing in expansive beds just under the surface. Boaters know it as a summertime fouler of props.  Massive windrows of the strappy leaves roll up on shore after autumn storms (see here) and drape their rotting greenery over the beach sand and gravel. Detroit River/Lake Erie residents have a negative opinion of the plant because of this. In truth, the water celery is one of the most important members of our regional flora and it would be a mistake to dismiss it as a mere nuisance.

  With a name like Tape or Eel Grass, it’s no wonder moms don’t mention it to their children. No one really knows were the “Water Celery” name came from, but it is possible that a mom came up with it because it sounded better. The alternate names are better suited.  The tape-like leaves of this plant are anywhere from 5 to 9 feet long and are about 1/2 inch wide. They undulate in gentle current much like their other slimy namesake.

  In the above photo, I am holding a pair of mature water celery seed pods. These pods, looking for all the world like vanilla beans, deteriorate this time of year and discharge their cargo of seeds. The seeds are packed within a clear sticky gelatin that definitely does not remind one of vanilla (see here)!  Earlier in the summer, the celery sent forth a flower capsule attached to long slender stalk several feet in length. Only the very tip of the flower broke the surface and created a dimple on the water. Micro male flowers, released from the base of other plants, floated on the surface and literally fell into the female flower and pollinated it. Once fertilized, the capsule was withdrawn into the deep by means of a corkscrew action of the stalk (see here an example).

 All this is well and good, but the subject at hand is the relative merit of “goodness” for us humans. While eating the plant outright might be a last ditch survival move, the crucial value of this plant is as a food item for waterfowl. Ducks, especially divers such as Canvasbacks, Bluebills, and Redheads, depend on water celery for its high nutritive value – 19 species have been recorded consuming it.  Canvasbacks are so dependent upon it that the second part of their scientific name, Aytha vallisneria, is the Latin word for Water Celery. The web-footed clan are eating the leafy greens and the so-called “winter buds,” or tubers, which remain after the leaves are shed (see one here in the lower center of this detail view).

  Now, add to this the cover value for countless aquatic insects and the countless fish fry that eat those insects, and we have the makings of a V.I.P. (a very important plant). What keeps nature healthy keeps us healthy as well. Water celery is good for wildlife, the lake, and you – even without peanut butter.

   There is no better time in the Naturespeak cycle to talk Squirreltalk than Autumntime. One could go nuts on the subject because squirrels tend to be a very chatty group of mammals.  They have the audacity to tell us humans exactly what they think, so getting them to speak into a microphone is not terribly difficult.  Porcupines and skunks turn their back on you, shrews are ultrasonic speakers, and muskrats, well, they don’t say much of anything in public or private.  Deer blow air out their noses and stomp their feet like frustrated children because they really don’t know what to say.

  Squirrels bark. They bark out warning, they bark out danger, they bark out love between their brothers and their sisters all over the land. If they had a hammer, they’d do the same. They don’t have hammers, so they do it with their ample vocal chords instead. Squirrels come in many different sizes and types and they bark out their warnings with varying different pitches and tempos determined by body size. Allow me to introduce you to the Fox, Gray, Red, and Eastern Chipmunk, the four most common local squirrels, and you’ll see what I mean.

  All of this barking and carrying on is accompanied by an impressive range of tail motions. Often the tail follows the exact beat of the bark, but we’ll cover this at some other time.  The tree squirrels- the Red, Gray and Fox-usually assume a calling position which places them upside down on a tree trunk. Chipmunks perch up on a log and a take on a noble stallion position (one front leg up).

  Fox Squirrels (see above) are the largest and most common members of the group. These yellow-brown creatures are adapted to life in the patchy woodlots found in suburban landscapes and rolling farm country. Like grumbling old uncles, they have the lowest and most guttural voice in the family (Fox Squirrel Call). As a rule they are the least talkative, however, and prefer to duck quietly behind a tree trunk as opposed to noisily confronting the subject of their angst.

  Gray Squirrels (see here) are smaller than Fox Squirrels; 12-24 oz. vs. their 28-40 oz. cousins, but Grays are much more opinionated and tend more toward vocal confrontation than timidity. Mature trees and big timber are the usual haunts for this squirrel. Gifted with a wide variety of calls, their bark ranges from a chucking sound to an outright scream. One individual chewed me out while walking in the Berkshires of Massachusetts this past September (Gray Squirrel Call). This squirrel has a slightly higher tone than the Fox and has the tendency to lapse more into the prolonged, and slightly creepy, “uuuuuuugh” bark.

  True to their name, Red Squirrels (seen here in a typical barking pose) are indeed reddish. This trait, combined with their white bellies and small size (5-9 oz.), makes them easy to identify. They are also loquacious to the extreme. Whereas the Fox Squirrel is the grumbling uncle and the Gray Squirrel the opinionated brother-in-law, the Red is the shrill aunt.  At least five different kinds of calls have been recorded for these hyper little beasts. Here is one of my yard squirrels recorded in full complaint mode (Red Squirrel Call). Because the creature is so small, their bark is more like a Chihuahua chirp.

  If there is any member of the squirrel family that really needs no introduction, it is the Eastern Chipmunk (see here). It is the smallest of our four subjects (only 2-4 oz. when soaking wet) and the one with the highest voice (Chipmunk Call).  A chipping Chipmunk can keep up this banter at the rate of 100 calls per minute for as long as 1/2 hour, according to Baker’s Mammals of Michigan book.  Although I find this call comforting when doled out to the ear in small doses, like that of all the squirrel calls, it can get very annoying. We can only thank God that chipmunks don’t have hammers and that they retire to winter dens during the cold season!

  As a rule blackbirds are not highly rated on the public “good-o-meter.”  Mention a crow or grackle and you’ll get a raised eyebrow at best or a raised shotgun at worse (pointed at the bird in question, not you!). Given their tendency to engage in mob behavior and destructive grain eating binges this attitude is somewhat historically justified. Even among birders, the blackbirds are given short shrift. One simply doesn’t brag about seeing a Starling or a Red-wing Blackbird – they are considered common, vulgar, and borderline evil. You therefore might find it odd that I am bringing up the subject once again. After all, it was only a few short weeks ago that I inflicted the sounds of a Red-wing Blackbird mob upon your ears. 

  My present intention is to direct your attention towards a particular type of blackbird called the Rusty Blackbird. This bird noir is, in many ways, the polar opposite of its brethren. It is a blackbird worth noting and telling others about.

  First of all, Rustys are northern migrants who only put in a brief local appearance during the spring and fall travel seasons (see above). They breed only in the boreal wetlands of Canada from Lake Superior to the northern slopes of Alaska.  And, although they flock together while migrating, these gangs pretty well stick to wetland habitats for feeding and do not make a habit of gleaning farm fields. Even in their overwintering mode, they confine themselves to the wooded wetlands of the lower 48 east of the Mississippi.

  Rusty Blackbirds are well named. The males are basically black with rusty colored feather edges and the females are light rusty-brown all over (see detail here). The gals often have a light brow stripe and some deep reddish patches that give them a distinctive autumn dignity which they lack during the summer nesting season. Both sexes have piercing pale eyes (see here). Those eyes alone will separate them from Red-wing Blackbirds (which have dark eyes). Common Grackles (see here) have light eyes as well, but are easily separated from the Rustys by being larger and having much longer tails. Grackles also exhibit a flashy iridescence that is lacking in their smaller northern cousins.

  Before I introduce you to the call of this unique little B-bird, I’d like to give you one solid reason why you  should look and listen for them. Rusty Blackbirds are becoming rare. Since the mid-1960’s their numbers have declined dramatically. One website author has even gone so far as to claim that the species has “suffered one of the most staggering population declines of any bird in North America.”  Even though I think that kind of statement should be reserved for Passenger Pigeons, the implications are chilling. The “what” is apparent, but no one is certain as to the “why.”

  Birders and researchers both want to know when and where this blackbird shows up.  Sightings can be reported to the Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center where scientists are attempting to analyze why they are rusting away.

  Perhaps the quickest way to identify this blackbird is to hear its call (Rusty Blackbird Call). Often described as the sound of a rusty hinge, this description doesn’t do the call justice. A hinge creaks only once.  The call of the Common Grackle is more hinge-like. The Rusty Blackbird creaks in an ascending four-parted melody that might be written as “Kritch-A-Loo-Wee.” Birds don’t speak English, which would explain the improper grammar, but the phrase could be roughly translated as “It’ll do we.”  Listen to the individual recording again and then try out this group of Rustys (Gang of Rustys).  Now, compare the sound to a gang of Grackles gracking (Grackle Gang) and you’ll see the difference.

  Lend your eye and ear to landscape before the autumn winds silence these above average blackbirds. We can only hope that silence will remain seasonal.

 Life can be tough along the Lake Erie shore. The only consistent feature about this body of water is its inconsistency – in other words, it’s never the same lake two days in a row. One has to be adaptable to meet the daily, or hourly, shifts of mood. Short term water level changes can be the most challenging aspect for the aquatic organisms living in the lake’s near shore waters and coastal marshes.

  Wind tides, or seiches as they are officially known, will drain the water from this western shore within a few hours. Former lake bottom will lay exposed as extensive mud flats for hours or even days. When it is a stiff autumn gale that does the work, the exposure time will be frigid as well. The water eventually returns, of course, but at its own sweet time. If you are a slow gill breathing animal stranded on this chilly mud you can’t afford the luxury of “sweet time.”

  The native mussels that inhabit the mucky shallows can’t swim away with the retreating water like fish and aquatic insect nymphs can.  Even these swift co-habitants are sometimes stranded, so what’s a lowly clam to do? The only thing to do is to dig in with their large muscular foot and clam up.  Individuals like this Paper Shell Mussel (see above) are forced to seal themselves up within a watertight case in order to keep in crucial moisture. This gal (at least I assume it’s a gal based on her feminine proportions) was caught completely off guard and hadn’t the time to dig in before the wind tide struck her piece of Lake Erie bottom a few days ago.

  It was a relatively balmy Halloween day when this picture was taken, but the previous few nights were quite chilly. Her exposure time up to that point was already extending into several days and nights of what can only be termed “molluscan torture.” Although barely alive, she still had enough reserves to keep her valves (shells) shut. She yielded only slightly when I attempted to pry them apart (which I did only to make sure there was a living creature inside).

  Paper Shells are one of about 40 species of native mussels that live in the Great Lakes region. The waters of the Detroit River and Western Lake Erie are ideal environments for many types of these shelled creatures. Most mussels have thick rigid shells, but the Paper Shell has a very thin covering which cracks into pieces when the animal dies and the shell dries out – thus the name. On the living animal, light will transmit right through the shell and the fleshy creature inside (as seen here with a mid-morning backlight).

  Zebra Mussels, those alien mussels that have staked claim on all former native mussel territory, have inflicted havoc upon our local clam population. Because of this, natives such as the Paper Shell are worthy of some human sympathy. Wind tides are one thing, but alien biological tides are quite another.

  Since I couldn’t immediately purge the lakes of Zebra mussels, the only immediate favor I could render this clam was to toss it back into the drink. This was the least that a two footed creature could do for a one-footed fellow earth inhabitant. The water was some thirty feet away at the time and I made sure to plunk her an additional twenty feet out just in case.

  The water didn’t return to “normal” depth until yesterday. I doubt the mussel would have been able to stay clammed up for that long, but she probably has endured worse without my help.

 While minks are not actually vaporous spirits, they are ghost-like. They move along hidden wetland paths and rarely show themsleves. A mink sighting usually consists of little more than a chocolate brown flash. Such an encounter barely allows enough time to say, or think, “look, there’s a min…,” before the session is concluded. These elusive creatures also happen to be habitual wanderers who patrol large territories. Males can lay claim to several thousands of wetland acres or several miles of stream bank.  Females are more homebound, but 40 acre claims are not unusual for them.  Intercepting either sex at any single location within their stomping ground is therefore reduced to sheer chance.

  The usual methods for a curious naturalist to determine if mink are about is to hang around a wetland, in order to increase your chances of seeing one, or look for their tracks. By employing the first method I have been fortunate in seeing quite a few minks in the past few years.  Most of my glimpses have been just that – glimpses – but this past summer I was able to watch a nervous young animal pick away at the remains of a roadkill (see here & here). The slender figure eventually detected my presence and evaporated into the underbrush.

  Recently, I came upon the freshest set of mink tracks imaginable. They were in the form of a set of wet paw prints traversing over a metal culvert (see above).  The day being windy and relatively mild, it was obvious the maker had passed by only minutes before.  As I was taking the first photo, a movement to my right informed me that the tracks were actually only a few seconds old. A large male mink was walking the bank close to the water line only six feet away.

  The mink turned around and began to retrace its route.  I focused my camera on the wet tracks and waited for it to drift into my view finder (see here). Like an appartition, the creature suddenly appeared (see here) and looked nervously about.  I was positioned on a boardwalk overlooking the scene where he could not easily see me.  It seemed to be aware that something was amiss but chose not to look up. The fellow then melted away and was gone. My photo, like all spirit pictures, turned out to be slightly out of focus and ephemeral in nature.

  I lingered over the wet paw prints after the encounter and watched them dissipate. It took a little over a minute (see here, here, and here in sequence) before the culvert once again stood mute regarding the mink’s passage.

  Last month I was a speaker at a regional gathering of master gardeners.  My theme was a general approach to the natural history of the fall season. As part of my spiel, I presented the lowly woodchuck as one type of creature that spends the fall season preparing for winter hibernation. I moved on to other topics and eventually opened the thing up for questions. One gal, way up in the top row of seats, posed a simple question that stumped me for longer than it should have. “Mr. Wykes,” she inquired, “can you name one thing that woodchucks are good for?”  Knowing that these earthy members of the squirrel family are the arch enemy of all gardeners, I should have been prepared for such a challenge.

  I firmly believe that there are no bad plants or animals – only plants or animals in bad places. This means that “bad” fauna or flora are victims of circumstances. Weeds, for instance, are simply plants growing where they are not wanted.  Well, my immediate response regarding the woodchuck should have been on an equal keel to my definition of a weed, but I paused before giving my answer.  This set up an ominous chuckle among the assembled green thumbs before me as if I was confirming their perception of what must surely be a worthless beast. 

  “O.K., here’s one good thing,” I finally retorted.  “Woodchuck hides make good shoelaces.”  This answer hit the right spot with this group because of the obvious necessity of killing the chuck in order to get the hide, but it also raised many a quizzical eyebrow. Living woodchucks have incredibly tough skins. This fact, combined with their ability to turn around within their skins and land some viscous bites, makes them formidable foes when attacked.  In a deadly slapdown between a dog and a woodchuck, the outcome is never certain. Chuck skin is not impervious to human propelled lead, however. So when one was “removed’ from the garden in this manner it was often skinned and the tanned hide rendered into shoelaces. The laces were cut out of the skin as a spiral in order to get the proper lengths.

  Folks don’t make chuck shoe strings anymore as far as I know, but you might want to revive the tradition next time you see a dead one along the road.

  My shoelace response was only a stalling effort to come up with something genuinely enviable and good about woodchucks. Sure, they are personable – one chuck has more personality than five fox squirrels – but this means little to those who’d rather interview them with a tire or shotgun. The whole hibernation thing, now that’s something to think about. When asked if the audience would see favor with curling up to sleep through the entire winter, there were some head nods. No shoveling, driving on ice, and such. Woodchucks are one of a very select group of animals that can do this. Even bears can’t do this (they don’t hibernate).

  The best part, and may I say the clincher to my pro-chuck argument, is that these animals are required to eat like pigs and are required to get fat.  What say you humans to that, eh? Let’s forget for the moment that they are eating your garden plants, and focus on the reality that a skinny woodchuck is a dead woodchuck. Hibernation requires a lot of fat reserves.  For a brief moment many in the group could see some small comfort in a world without diets and their eyes momentarilty lost focus and gazed upward.

    Woodchucks literally become groundhogs over the course of the autumn. They will eat the leafy part of any green plant (see here) and take special delight in munching on acorns (see here this creature doing just such a thing). Records indicate that a typical animal can eat over a pound and a half of food daily. All this effort is geared to that late October/early November day when the time comes to enter the winter den and begin to live off that fat for a few months.

  I believe I left that group with at least a grain of admiration for Garden Enemy No. 1. I also left them with the following thought: When asked by the woodchuck wife if she looks fat, Mr. Chuck had better say “Yes” if he knows what is good for him.  Now that’s an alternate universe. Before somebody gets on me about writing a pro-fat piece, let me qualify my presentation with an acknowledgement that chucks don’t live very long and that even skinny people don’t live in holes.