I don’t consider myself a lucky person.  Yes, I am lucky to be alive and lucky to have a wife and three fairly normal looking children, but I mean lucky as in “the finder of valuable unclaimed things.”  I normally find broken jewelry and pennies, not dollars and diamonds. I picked up $35 on the ground once, but found out who it belonged to the next day and had to give it back. I was going to give the funds to a charity anyway – really I was.  Earlier this month, however, all that changed and I became a lucky man indeed.  I found a rotten bird leg.

   Tucked back under the boardwalk at Crosswinds Marsh, I spotted a patch of wet matted feathers framing a few articulated leg bones. Initiating the beginning steps in my forensic examination process, I snapped a photo (this is what I saw) before disturbing the scene. There were no other body parts nearby and the feathers were of the featureless down variety.  A bit of flesh clung to the remains but the most obvious feature was a metal band that encircled the shorter bone. Fortunately the bones were within easy reach, so I retrieved them from their resting spot among the cat-tails.

  I suspected the leg to be from a Canada Goose – call it a hunch (aided by the fact that the air was full of thousands of honking geese at the time).  In a typical year, over a million birds are banded for migration research and some 350,000 of those are ducks and geese – the rest being songbirds, raptors and the like. Given the large size of these remains and the wetland location, it was no great revelation of science to declare this dearly departed limb to be from a goose. 

  The band would normally be of great assistance in identifying the victim in this case. Federally licensed bird banders are issued specific bands from the facility in Maryland. They come in 23 standard sizes to fit everything from the insect-like appendages of a hummingbird to the massive meat hooks of a Golden Eagle. Each band is stamped with a unique eight or nine digit number along with the words “Avise Bird Band, Wash, D.C.” and “Write bird band, Laurel, MD, 20708, USA”. After a researcher crimps the band around the lower leg of his captured bird, he records the number and date, along with weight and species information, and releases the animal with its new jewelry in tow.  All of this information is sent to the Maryland banding lab. If the bird is later recovered, this I.D. number will link it to a specific place and time and allow researchers to learn a bit about migration routes and life spans.

  The band on my boardwalk find appeared to be a typical butt end aluminum job about 5/8 inch wide.  I wiped it off in order to see the numbers, but was confused by seeing the word “REWARD” in place of the “Write bird band…”  There was a six digit number beneath which almost looked like a phone number, but was one digit short on the exchange side.  A little more wiping cleared off the figure of “$100” as the reward amount.  This bird had a price on his head.

  The Maryland number wasn’t there, but I decided to contact the bird lab anyway to see if this thing was for real.  Sure, I wanted to report the information for the sake of science and all, but there was that bit about a cash reward that needed some resolution as well.  I have never heard of a Reward Band before and fully expected some laughter to come through the other end of the phone line.

  Before calling, I wanted to make absolutely sure that the victim was a Canada Goose.  I needed to sound very official when reporting my find.  Saying “I got me a dead burd and you owes me a hunnart bucks,” would come off as suspicious and blackmail-like. No, I’d verify the facts and report them clinically before mentioning the subject of blood money.  Then, after the laughter died down I would be able to take the practical joke news with scholarly dignity.

  My “Avian Osteology” text confirmed that I was in possession of the right tarsometatarsus of Branta canadensis – the Canada Goose. (I left the upper leg bone, the femur, at the marsh). My specimen measured 85 mm and fell neatly into the listed length range of 82 to 94 mm. for the species. Take a look here at a picture of the bone and you’ll see that it ends in three projections that would have articulated with three foreword facing toes.  This is the portion that forms the lower leg of the bird in life. In this case I had the banded right leg of a goose in advanced death.

  I placed my call to the bird lab and no one said “gotcha.”  My voice landed on the desk of Kim Magruder after three transfers.  She answered my questions about Reward bands and informed me that they were a regular “tool” employed by game agencies to prompt band reporting. She took down my location information and address.  “The lab will send you a certificate later on that will tell you about the bird and where it was first banded,” she said. I repeated my address, just in case she didn’t get it right, and thanked her.  Before hanging up, she then assured me that I would be getting a check in the mail. “Oh that?” I said, “well I guess that would be o.k. also, but I just wanted to make sure this thing got reported.”  I then repeated my name and address one more time – for the certificate, you know.

  I got a check for $100 in the mail exactly one week later (here it is, if you don’t believe me), but haven’t received my certificate yet. I’ll have to tell you the factual scoop on this bird some other time. Meanwhile, I’m thinking about tearing the check up. I mean, with the government in such financial straights and all it just wouldn’t be right?  Right?

  I was very surprised to find a small herd of reindeer in downtown Blissfield last weekend. Frankly, the sight blind-sided me because it was in downtown Blissfield and it was last weekend.  On the day of my visit the small southeast Michigan town was kicking off a Sunday afternoon Christmas shopping day of sorts.  While Nat King Cole crooned about roasting chestnuts from street-side loudspeakers, small herds of people were pausing to view some captive reindeer held within a red fence enclosure.  The weather was quite warm, the grass was quite green and the leaves hadn’t all left yet. So, you can imagine my reaction to this double shock.  A Christmas event on the 10^th of November supported by real reindeer? Given the situation, fake reindeer and a few high school kids dressed in elf suits would have been more appropriate.

  Strangely enough I got all giddy, in a Christmas sort of way, upon seeing these genuine beasts in a genuinely odd situation. I’ve never seen one of these things close up before. I crowded in among the children and stuck my nose through the fencing to get a good close look.  The only camera I had with me was on my cell phone so I took a few grainy shots in order to record the situation.

  The enclosure was divided into two parts with two animals and a human caretaker in each.  Grabbing the reins of the largest animal, a buck sporting a hefty rack, Dave Aldrich patiently answered innocent questions from the gathered admirers. A Toledo schoolteacher asked him where he had come from.  Dave answered in true straight man style by saying “the North Pole,” but he immediately started to chuckle and admitted “I just can’t keep a straight face when I say that anymore, we’re actually from Clare, MI.”  He flipped out a business card at her request.  He runs the Rooftop Landing Reindeer Farm in that northern Lower Peninsula community. Clare is appropriately known as the “gateway to the north” and is a situated three and a half hours from Blissfield.  This is the start of the busy season for him and the current event was definitely the earliest one on his Christmas schedule.

  The reindeer at his side was a full grown male weighing in at about 350 pounds (see poor quality phone cam shot here). It was named Dasher (yeah, o.k., well, whatever) and sported a dense light brown coat which graded into white sides and a hefty white mane. Dasher, er, the male specimen, stood about 40 inches at the shoulder and possessed the stature of a Great Dane.  The females in the other section were just over three feet high at the shoulder and were probably a hundred pounds lighter (see another crummy shot here).  One advantage of seeing these creatures first hand is to get an appreciation of just how small they really are. No doubt this is an adaptation to pulling sleighs over narrow rooftops.

  Reindeer are actually Caribou under the influence of domestication. Selective breeding has reduced their body size, given them varied coat colors, and flattened their faces.  Our North American Caribou are exactly the same species, but much heftier in size.  Caribou are arctic wanderers that range over the entire northern half of the globe, but in northern Europe they are called reindeer.

  In the Scandinavian countries, these animals have been domesticated for 7,000 years. It is from the Old Norse tongue that we get the original name of this beast which was simply called a “hreinn.” A Middle English “der”, meaning animal, was added later.  The resulting “hreinn-der” quickly became “reindeer.” This hackneyed name also made sense, however, in that they are members of the deer family that can be fitted with reins.  As reined domestics, they serve as beasts of burden, milking stock and meat (2,000 tons of reindeer meat processed every year according to a Sami tribal website).

  The Micmac Indians of Canada call the North American version of this animal the “Qalipu.”  We derived the caribou name from hacking up this label.  In that tongue, the name means “snow shoveler.” Caribou, reindeer, dashers -whatever you call them -are all equipped with widely splayed hooves perfectly suited for clearing away snow in search of crucial winter food. They survive the bitter cold darkness by feasting on the tiny lichens which coat the frozen tundra soil. Looking at these compact deer in front of me I was drawn to their snow plowing implements. Not only are their feet huge in proportion to their body, but they stand flat-footed with their dew claws in contact with the ground.  Take one more look here and gaze through the pixilated haze to get some sense of a pair of reindeer feet.

  Unique among members of the deer family, all sexes and ages grow antlers.  A pinto colored calf was enclosed with the male and already sported a set of long thin antlers – still covered in velvet.  The mature buck had an impressive asymmetric rack that branched out in many directions.  A huge palmate extension, known as a brow tine, jutted forward over the eyes.  The antlers exhibited by the two females were lanky simplified versions of the buck’s pair. Dave fielded many antler questions with practiced confidence.  Yes they drop off and re-grow each year.  No, the bucks don’t usually fight with them – the one with the biggest rack gets all the girls, period.  Yes, the females can use their antlers to run a wolf through when they try to get at her calf. “It’s not a pretty thing to see,” he concludes.

  They had several bundles of shed antlers stacked up against the side of the building next to the enclosure.  I bought a pair from Dave and pointed to the smallest set there.  He commented that most folks want the big buck antlers but accepted my desire to have a pair of the delicate female ornaments.  The pregnant does retain their antlers until the following spring and drop them within a week of giving birth in March.  These fine little wolf-killing antlers enable the female to chase away potential predators during those critical early hours when her calf is wobbly and unable to run.

  Dave didn’t mention that most of the male reindeer drop their antlers immediately after the rut in November. By the time Christmas comes around, the guys are normally antlerless.  This can only mean one thing – all of the reindeer leading Santa’s sleigh must be pregnant females!

 This being the second or third time that I’ve addressed the topic of native grasses, I beg your indulgence.  You might be one of those who happen to believe that people who bring up the subject of “native grass” more than once in a decade are desperately in need of a life.  I will admit that yelling out something like “Hey everybody, let’s talk about grass,” will either put an immediate end to a party or create a flurry of unintended interest.  No, I am not talking about “grass” dude, I’m talking about grasses – those skinny leaved plants that bind our world together.

  Before I continue, let me remind you that without grass, human life on the planet would be very different indeed.  Those early hominoids in Africa probably would never have thought about standing upright if it weren’t for the need to forage over expansive grasslands.  Corn, wheat, and rice are not only the three biggest food plants of all time but they are grasses.  You and I are slaves to grass – we grow it, mow it, and watch games played on it, and mow it again.  Our food animals are slaves to it – they eat it and we eat them (O.K., not everyone eats “them” but vegetarians eat “it” before “it” becomes “them.”) At the very least, we should be talking about grass much more than we do.

  In the interest of setting all things into perspective and restoring world harmony, I would like to call your attention to some unappreciated native grasses called Indian Grass & Little Bluestem. They are not food plants but do provide a feast for the eyes. They whisper with each passing breeze something about a glorious past. The beautiful fall hues and stories presented by these two plants are easily overlooked. 

  There is a particular stretch of Telegraph Road that runs from Monroe south to the Ohio state line that harbors a nice linear patch of these grasses. Most of the stretch exists as an unmown right of way for the rail line that parallels the road (see here). The tall light tan stems are those of the Yellow Indian Grass and the clusters of rich golden oak hued grass are called Little Bluestem.

  Up close, the stately Indian Grass presents a seed head (a panicle) made up of dozens of hairy little glume covered seeds.  (Take a look at this detail shot – it’s the plant on the far right). The bent bristles sticking out from each seed case are called awns. There is one of these whisker-like appendages attached to each seed. When the seed falls to earth, humidity changes cause the awns to straighten out and wave from side to side.  These motions act to burrow the seed into the ground.  The plant plants itself, you could say. 

  I have one of the Indian Grass panicles next to me at my desk. It is sticking out of a Storm Trooper cup, just in case you want to know.  Every now and then I’ll reach over and pluck a seed and lightly apply the crooked awn to my tongue in order to wet it slightly. When I set it down on the table, the tiny thing comes to life and begins wiggle and a rotate.  The action, while not fast, is amazingly quick for a plant.  This is the kind of excitement that grasses can lead to.

  The Little Blue Stem, on the other stem, doesn’t have the crooked awn system but instead presents its seeds at the end of a crooked little stalklet (see detail here).  The seeds have nice little Elizabethan collars about them.  These seeds do nothing when you lick them, but so what.

  Both of these plants can be considered upland Prairie plants.  As such they only grow in slightly acidic sandy soil.  My overall point here is that these plants stand as a vestige of what much of southern Michigan looked like before the days of agriculture. The southern three tiers of Michigan counties were originally covered with mixed prairies and oak groves in the old days.  It is believed that 150 square miles of grasslands once covered this region.  In fact, there is even pretty good evidence that the quintessential prairie roamer himself, the bison, could be found in these Michigan grasslands as late as the 1700’s.

  The native grasslands were the first areas plowed up by our agricultural ancestors, so they have essentially been replaced by alternate grasses like timothy, wheat, and corn.  The piece of grassland adjacent to Telegraph appears to be a remnant from the early days – a strip prairie preserved in the right of way corridor granted by a very old road and a very old railway route. Both the bluestem and Indian grass are hardy survivors. Though mowers, plows and herbicides have kept them in check, they cling to the landscape and speak volumes about our past. If you stop to listen, they are saying “Go ahead, lick an awn – I dare you.”

 The water has not returned to this portion of the coastal marsh since it blew out in early October. Exposed mudflats, edged by a cat-tail border, mark the previous location of the liquid element.  The pasty black basement of the marsh is pockmarked with small pools and ribbons of water in the low spots. Millions of stranded duckweeds pepper the surface with flecks of green. Like the alligator swim holes in the droughty Florida everglades, only the muskrat canals retain any significant water. These channels mark the habitual travel routes of the ‘rats as they traverse the marsh on their daily rounds. They are not deliberately excavated but are created through constant use – worn trails marking the outlines of a wet pasture. Most canal systems originate from the cat-tail edge and fan out dendritically into the open water portions, but are invisible when coated over with a liquid veneer.  The exposed canals are outlined clearly against the muck background and stand as evidence that the ‘rats claim nearly every portion of the marsh.

  Such a mudflat scene normally lasts only a day or two and is typically the result of a temporary phenomenon known as a sieche. When prolonged stiff westerly winds push the near shore contents of Lake Erie towards Buffalo, New York, the resulting wind tide drains the precious shallow water from the shoreline marshes on the Michigan end. Life waits in suspended animation until the winds play themselves out and the waters inevitably return. The lake level here always drops during the fall and sieches are frequent events, but this year the levels have been extremely low.  It seems that the winds have carried the water away for good and will not return it before the freeze-up. 

  This morning, four Common Snipes took advantage of the situation and were busily probing the wetter portions for aquatic insects. These brown and cream streaked birds are secretive by nature and rarely venture out into the open like their gregarious cousins the sandpipers, dowitchers, and yellowlegs.   Today, the prospect of easy hunting overcame their reclusive tendencies. The birds pushed their long bills into the mucky water to pluck out insects and mechanically probed in and out as they walked.  One bird, standing off from the others, added a rhythmic bob to his gait as if portraying Popeye in one of those shaky early cartoons. He was timed to a beat that the others did not perceive (in the world of the snipe he may be the “special one” – who knows).

  There is one small corner of the marsh, ¼ mile distant from the lake, which retains a large murky pool of water. The Snipe avoided it because the water is too deep for their short little legs, but four mallard ducks have found it much to their liking. It contains just enough water to provide three green-headed drakes and a single brown hen with a secure swimming space. Since the advent of duck season, this corner also provides an additional benefit as a refuge tucked away from the hunted portions of the lakeshore.  Perhaps most importantly, these muddy shallows are a fertile ground for dabbling.

  Mallards are classified as dabbling ducks which means they feed on plants and invertebrates found within neck-reach in shallow water.   When swimming, they typically tip their rump into the air and dip their heads below the surface to muddle through the debris with their beaks.  When presented with mud flat shallows they resort to walking with their necks extended down and forward while noisily dabbling the mud as they go. They systematically sweep the area before them as if metal detecting.  The constant pitter patter of shutting beaks generates the sound of a gentle rain.

   The top and bottom bills of the mallard are edged with tooth-like structures called lamellae.  These act as sieve plates when the beak is partially closed.  The birds scoop up mouthfuls of mucky water and force the water out through the lamellae with a push of the tongue – in the manner that whales use their baleen plates. Bits of plants, tiny snails and other edible fare are separated out and duly ingested.

  As the herds of dabbling mallards worked the far edge, a pair of muskrats busily foraged at the deeper end.  This pair of ‘rats wisely chose to construct their winter lodge along the deeper part of the marsh.  Working primarily at night, the two have piled up a mass of bottom debris and cat-tail stalks towering three feet over the water level. The afternoon found them attending to some light lodge duties as well. The primary entrance to the structure is an underwater tunnel accessible from the deeper east side.  The back side of the lodge sits at the edge of the pool where it approaches zero depth. They have built another house across the pool close to where the mallards were now operating, but haven’t spent much time there today.

  In between diving trips to gather up tender cat-tail rhizomes followed by periods of contented feeding, at least one ‘rat appeared distracted by the activity of the ducks.  On occasion this one would float stiffly at the surface and scan the birds with an unblinking stare, before resuming his feeding.  While the other ‘rat was satisfied where he was and with what he was doing, the staring ‘rat couldn’t let the thing be.  To say that he looked irritated, while anthropomorphic, certainly fits his demeanor.

  Eventually he ventured out closer to the ducks while in the process of gathering in a mouthful of bottom detritus and water plants.  He lingered a moment in their vicinity, but turned and took the bundle back to the lodge and dove under.  A few moments later he came out and nervously cut away a dead cat-tail leaf while continuing to eye up the feathered intruders.  This leaf he also took into the lodge for necessary interior adjustments.

  The next time out, he worked his way immediately over to the dabblers but clung to the shallows on the lodge side of the pool. Although appearing to gather material, he didn’t actually pick anything up.  Alligator-like he slid over towards a drake that was preening atop a mound of mud.  Suddenly the determined ‘rat exploded out of the water and leapt directly at the bird. His attack propelled him into an airborne arc and he landed exactly at the spot that the surprised Mallard quickly vacated.

  The muskrat bounded off the hummock and continued his pursuit of the drake by hurtling back into the water.  The duck swam rapidly ahead of his pursuer but even his swimming ability was taxed as the angry ‘rat pulsed forward with powerful tail thrusts that lifted his forequarters out of the water. They two zigged and zagged about for a while as the other ducks scattered. The gator-rat stuck to the path of his chosen victim and ignored those about him.

 For a moment the natural order of things was rendered katty-whampus. Should the muskrat capture his chosen prey what would he do with it? Would bland plant material ever satisfy his calm vegetarian needs again? But as quickly as the situation presented itself, it ended. The muskrat broke off the pursuit and the flustered drake slowly regained his composure.  The ‘rat had made his point and confidently swam into the seclusion of a dense cat-tail stand to revel in his victorious statement of territoriality.

  The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows over the battlefield by this time and heralded the return of the natural order. The piddling ducks resumed their activities and the other muskrat calmly remained in his part of the mudflat pool.

  Today was a typical brown November day in most respects.  Bouts of spittle rain issued from a featureless steel gray sky and westerly gusts were given voice as they hissed through the stands of pale sienna Switch grass. Miniature clouds of puffy seeds peeled off of the cinnamon shaded cat-tail heads and engaged in short randomly directed flights. The carpet of new fallen leaves presented a patchwork of mocha and nutmeg. Although the scene was representative of the month, the winds were of a mild green September nature.  The temperature hovered in the mid-fifties by mid day. A lone tree cricket found enough confidence in the relative balminess to commence trilling. The moss colored songster fell silent as a gang of Ruby-crowned Kinglets patrolled through the thicket seeking insect food such as he. The tiny birds were olive green and chose to hide their ruby red crowns from me as I watched them.

  I came upon what looked to be a worm making its way across the sidewalk- a brown worm, of course.  Given the rain and mild weather this was not a surprising thing. My reaction turned to delighted surprise when, upon closer inspection, the apparent worm revealed itself to be a tiny Brown Snake. The minuscule reptile recoiled as I approached but posed patiently for a portrait (see here).

  Brown Snakes, also known as DeKay’s Snakes, are very common in our region but rarely seen because of their small size and secretive nature.  This particular individual, though only 8 inches in length, was a young snake but not a baby.  The newborn snakelets are only about three inches long and are born “live” in late summer/early fall (direct from mom rather than incubating in an egg).  Fully mature adults rarely get over a foot in length even when training for the Olympics.  It’s hard to get a sense of their small stature unless you get one in hand -at which point the size resemblance to a worm becomes obvious (look here). True to their common name, they are mostly brown.  This sidewalk snake had a pleasant chestnut hue to it, but most are a coffee-with-a-lot-of-cream color. All display a distinctive pale back stripe, with a border of dark umber spots, and a wonderful pink belly (see here).

  Brown Snakes spend most of their summertime under the leaf litter and only make their presence known during the sepia toned days of autumn.  At this time of year they actively seek out hibernation sites and the search exposes them to a great risk of life and, er… limb (I suppose I should say “hiss and scale” since they have no limbs to risk). October and November are the best months to see this species, but actually “seeing” them is near impossible since they blend into most of their chosen backgrounds.  I need to emphasize the word “most” here. I easily spotted this diminutive serpent when it was highlighted against the open concrete.  My intentions were purely observational but there are a whole host of natural predators out there that would view such an opportunity differently.  Hawks, foxes, herons, and raccoons all eat these cylindrical brown reptiles. Humans pose a great danger to them as well. Like a real life version of “Frogger,” many are flattened when attempting to cross roadways.     

  Only when secure in their hibernation burrows, deep below the frost line, can they recover from the effects of running (I mean –crawling) this gauntlet. Upon emergence in the spring, they have to go through this harrowing experience again. 

  In its leafy low down micro element, however, the Brown is an efficient predator in its own right.  They eat worms and slugs for the most part, but specialize in snails.  There are very few snakes on the planet that have developed the ability to extract snails from their shells, and this is one of them.  Upon grabbing the fleshy part of the mollusk, the snake begins to roll and twist until the escargot is wrenched right out of its home. A combination of a short stout head, a firm set of tiny teeth and a very flexible spine combine to form an efficient extraction killer.

  I have never seen them perform this feat, but found a number of references referring to it.  One of the sources states that “snail extraction in Storeria dekayi involves cervical twisting of 180-270 degrees, which involves some lateral and vertical bending, but also suggests the contribution of verbal torsion.”  This article had the imposing title of “Behavioral and Morphological Adaptations for Snail Extraction in North American Brown Snakes.” The title alone is longer than the snake which it discusses!  Let’s just leave it at that.

  I released my little brown snake into a patch of ochre leaves and it soon vanished from sight as I wished it another happy 6 inches of life.

   Like pulling a curtain away at a new sculpture dedication, the winds of fall strip the leaves from the trees to reveal their naked form.  This burlesque act also exposes stark evidence that animal tenants have led secret summer lives under the cover of this leafy canopy.  Now empty, the pendulant structures of the Baltimore Oriole and the messy mud remnants of Robin nests stand as proof that these birds once performed their parental duties there. The papery cocoons of the Cecropia Moth and the ball’o leaf structures of the Fox Squirrel promise that life will continue to make use of the supportive branches through the winter.  To most folks, however, the most dramatic revelation brought about by this seasonal event is the exposure of the large gray nests of the Bald-faced Hornet.

   Hornet nests are impossible to ignore (see here).  These basketball sized constructions are built on the peripheral branches of the tree so they are very much out there and “in your face.”  Often these things pop up right in your front yard – overhead and in the very tree that you walked by thousands of times while in daily pursuit of your economic development.  The fact that a thriving wasp colony was pursuing its development in such close vicinity to your flesh can be unsettling, but once the colony is revealed Elvis has already left the building. Should you take the time to cut the thing down, you can treat yourself to a fascinating – and very safe – sight.

  The adult Bald-face is a formidable member of the Yellow jacket genus, but unlike its cousins is primarily black with a prominent white face (see here). Workers will defend their home with great gusto, but are not nearly as aggressive as the black & yellow jackets and generally go about their lives minding their own business. Needless to say, handling an active summer nest is not a good idea.  On the other hand, handling a late season nest after a few killing frosts can be a great idea. The frost kills off every worker (up to 400 per colony) and the place is deserted. Only the queen survives the late season die off. Her royal highness leaves the castle to spend the winter hibernating in a nearby woodpile or under some bark.  She will emerge next spring and begin the process of building another structure. The old house will never be used again.

  The nest consists of an outer shell of homemade paper encapsulating a chamber containing suspended combs.  Take a look here at a cut-away view. Access to the breeding chamber is via an entrance hole located at the bottom and everything is oriented upside down.  The cells are six-sided and the developing grubs cling to their interiors like tiny bats.  Workers feed them a mash consisting of chewed-up caterpillars and spit (sounds good doesn’t it).  New combs are added to accommodate the growing family by hanging it from the previous one with a stout central stalk.  By the time the season ends, many larvae are left to die and their shriveled remains can be seen within.  With each new nursery comb addition, a new outer paper shell is added as an inner layer is dismantled.

  All hornets are skilled paper makers and these black & white wasps are masters of their craft. Everything in the structure is made of paper – true paper.  Wasps beat humans to the punch in this category by well over 100 million years.  Although Egyptians pummeled papyrus into sheets thousands of years ago their product was not true paper.  By definition, true paper requires a chemical interaction between fibers.  The Chinese came up with the process around 100 AD using re-constituted pulp.  For hundreds of years, most early paper was made from cloth materials and had a high rag content. A Frenchman, Rene de Reaumur, observed paper wasps doing their thing and his work led to the development of paper made from wood pulp. 

  Today the average American uses 700 pounds of wood pulp paper and paper products per year (say that three times fast).  All of this paper is commercially made using the same chewed wood and spit (it’s all about the spit) process invented by wasps.  Worker hornets gather wood fibers by chewing away layers from the nearest fence post, dead tree, or porch railing.  The wood fibers are reduced to strands of cellulose and mixed with proteins in the saliva which chemically interact to form a starchy matrix. Each mouthful of pulp is carefully laid down as a crescent shaped addition to the paper shell. Take a look here and you can see the individual mouthfuls clearly indicated by the different colors – the color depending upon the color of the original source wood.

  The paper shell made by the Bald-faced Hornet is layered with air spaces between to act as insulation and climate control for the colony.  Each sheet is only .1 mm in thickness, yet is stiff and resilient enough to withstand the effects of weather long after the colony is gone.  Most of these nests survive winter’s assault and last until the new leaves of spring emerge the following year.  Modern human papermakers would be hard put to make such a durable product today.

  Curiosities in nature can come in many forms.  Some are just plain freakish and others are just everyday wonderful.  In reviewing some information about Victorian taxidermy (don’t ask me why I was looking into such an obscure subject) I was faced with an image of an eight legged, three tailed stuffed kitten. The odd little thing was mounted nearly 150 years ago with seven full legs in standing position and at least two of the tails and the eighth leg sticking out of the back. I’m sure the original mount has long since crumbled into dust, but the ancient photo of it gives it an even “curiouser” appearance.  On the other hand, normal live kittens (and this coming from a dog person) are disgustingly adorable and fall into the category of an “everyday wonderful” type curiosity.

  When compared to the Octokitty, the freakish curiosity I offer as a fresh example is pretty tame – how about a two headed maple leaf.  I’m talking not one, but two! Yes, as shocking as it sounds, there is a red maple tree out there that is shedding leaves consisting of two leaf blades joined by a common stem (take a look here at this shocking revelation).  You can supply the Psycho music when this image pops up on your screen.  I’ve nothing to say about these things except to acknowledge that trees are frequently subject to random mutations.  These changes can be induced naturally by the sun’s radiation and don’t necessarily mean a pollution related effect. Apple varieties, of which there used to be hundreds, were originally induced by such random mutations. 

  The fact that there are dozens of these two faced leaves indicates that there is a whole freak branch up there promoting petiole partnering. Nature generally frowns on this kind of experimentation unless it produces some kind of benefit.  Maybe, just maybe, we are witness to the very beginnings of a successful biological adaptation that will lead to a whole host of stem sharing plants millions of years from now. Realistically, this trend won’t last any longer than a two headed calf.

    Now, in the category of a plain wonderful curiosity, I offer the fruit of Magnolia grandiflora.  When wandering about a city park on Roanoke Island, North Carolina this past September I came upon a beautiful specimen of a Southern Magnolia tree. This pyramidal shaped evergreen only grows in the warm coastal plain region from the Carolinas south to Florida to the Gulf States. Also known as the Bullbay tree, it is the official state tree of Louisiana.  The large leathery leaves and huge blooms are incredible enough, but I was fascinated by the bizarre fruit pods.  Take a look here at the freshly picked pod I borrowed from the tree.  This big (kitten sized) fuzzy thing was unlike anything this northern boy had ever seen.  I was going to make a sketch of it, but time and waning natural light forced me to resort to photographing it instead. 

  The fruit ended up coming home with us when we returned to Michigan, along with a whole box full of pine cones, nuts, crab shells, a preserved rattlesnake, and some unidentifiable shriveled thing.  I forgot about the magnolia pod for a few weeks and was delighted, upon rediscovery, to find it had gone to seed.  Technically this type of fruit is considered an aggregate of follicles or a burr made up of many small carpels which split to exude fleshy drupes.  Non-technically, each scale splits open and pushes out a bean sized Christmas -red seed.  These seeds, each about ½ inch long, are bright scarlet and shiny. They remain attached to the pod by a weak silky thread, so they hang out and angle slightly down. Take a look at this amazing fruit as it looked a week ago.

  Here is a true curiosity – an everyday thing that deserves a closer look.  In their native haunts, opossums, squirrels, and turkeys feast on these seeds with little appreciation for their beauty. A Native human Carolinian, Floridian, or Louisianan probably wouldn’t gawk at this thing like we might.  They are, after all, used to it.  I’ll bet there are a lot of ‘em, however, that don’t pay no nevermind to such things. 

  Be they bizarre or benign, curiosities should spark our curiosity no matter where we are from.

  I cringe every year when the first television Christmas commercial comes out.  This year I found myself cringing about Nov. 1.  I’m not a curmudgeon (at least by my own definition), but I still believe that anything relating to the Christmas season shouldn’t make itself known until after turkey time. I believe that these ultra-early ads are somehow breaking some law of decency and that those breaking that law should be boiled in scented oil “with a stake of holly through their heart.” Bah Humbug.  We are all keenly aware that the season of joy and credit is just around the corner and don’t need Target to tell us so.  We have calendars. Admittedly, my reaction stems from the fact that I am unprepared, and will be, until Christmas Eve day.

  Mulling over such thoughts, I took a morning walk at Crosswinds Marsh to get in touch with the current season while it lasts.  According to my calendar, this is early November and I expect to see autumn leaves, large flocks of waterfowl, and a little frost.  With the air temperatures warming slowly into the upper thirties, I didn’t expect to see any active insects.  There was ample evidence of insect activity, however, and I encountered three examples that illustrate how some have prepared for the coming season.

  How is it that these minor beings are ready for something which they have never before experienced?  Instinct, that hard wiring which bypasses the learning mode, leads them through the necessary steps towards species survival.  It is patently untrue that insects start to prepare for winter when the weather gets cold.  They begin preparations months before while things are still warm and balmy.

  The Viceroy butterfly is a good example of this pre-preparedness. The first insect related thing I encountered was a tiny hibernaculum attached to a willow branch.  Take a look here and inspect the third leaf on the left.  Note that it is rolled into a tiny tube and attached to the branch via a silken safety harness. This structure was constructed by the Viceroy caterpillar while the leaves were still green and hearty.  The late summer brood of caterpillars start out as hungry as ever but they soon stop eating altogether.  Instead, they channel their chewing efforts into cutting out a leaf pattern for their winter home- like a tailor cutting cloth.  Most of the chosen leaf is cut away from the central vein and a stout layer of silk is laid down to secure it to the stem.  The remaining edges are bound together to form a tube.  The little architect then backs into his newly made capsule and remains there until summoned out the following spring. It enters into a resting state called diapause (a fancy name for the special kind of hibernation used by cold blooded animals) and survives with the aide of antifreeze chemicals in its blood.

  While the Viceroys survive winter as tiny larvae, the bagworm moths choose to overwinter as eggs.  About a quarter mile down the trail, I found this distinctive structure which gives the bagworm its name.  Take a look and you’ll see a suspended gray silk bag that looks, appropriately enough, like a Christmas ornament. Tiny bits of leaves and twigs are incorporated into the neatly crafted sack. Bagworm ornaments differ greatly in appearance depending on how the caterpillar makes use of the host plants (just for the heck of it, take a look here and here at a few more of these unique little constructions).

   Bagworms weave their protective sacs as soon as they hatch out in early summer and drag them about wherever they go. By August the larva are mature and they attach their mobile home to a twig with silk. They close up the front door and turn around inside, so as to point headfirst towards the ground, and they pupate.  When the adults emerge four weeks later in late September or early October, their lot in life has already been decided.  The males punch their way out and fly off in search of females.  The females enter the world without any wings and are little more than egg filled sacs of femininity. These desperate housewives will remain trapped within their bag house until an amorous male forces his way in and mates with her.  Once mated, she deposits the fertilized eggs inside the case and dies. Her eggs are well protected from the winter within the confines of the bag.

  My final encounter of the insect kind was only a tree over from the bagworm.  A very cold looking Damselfly was clinging to an Ash twig.  This female (see here) looked to be of a type known as a Familiar Bluet.  The males are the blue ones; although this brown female was turning a bit blue herself from the effects of the cold.  Her chosen technique of winter survival is to lay hundreds of eggs in the nearby marsh and allow the hatched nymphs to live in relative comfort under the ice. They will emerge next year to carry the torch of life. This individual is literally hanging on to her dwindling flame, but by doing so exhibits a remarkable ability to withstand freezing weather. Warmed by the rising sun, she will summon up her reserves and fly about until the next killing freeze ends her brief career.

  The damselfly, bagworm, and viceroy have prepared well for the inevitable.  Likewise, we too must brace ourselves for the Macy’s parade.

 The woods were very still yesterday morning.  There had been a killing frost the night before and the rising sun was quickly wiping it away.  A few ice crystals sought refuge in the long shadows.  Most of the trees had already shed their sheltering leaves, so the sun advanced with unencumbered rapidity on its daily mission. Though the branches of the sassafras, walnut, willow, ash and elm were bare, the stubborn red maples and oaks were still desperately clinging to their wardrobes.

  Walking through this scene I was impressed with the sense that nature was holding her breath for a moment.  A Red-bellied Woodpecker chortled in the distance and a Fox Squirrel set about with a series of guttural barks, but otherwise the place was hushed.  There was no breeze. Only the soft crunch of my footsteps disturbed the scene. I stopped for a moment when a movement caught the corner of my eye.  A single maple leaf slowly descended to earth via a random butterfly like path.  It gently bounced off a black cherry twig and slid over the surface of a spicebush leaf before reaching the ground.  Each aerial contact gave off a light ticking sound but the final landing was silent. Soon a small flock of leaves started to fall.  Prompted only by the invisible forces of gravity each leaf took its own flight path.  One fluttered like a small bird while another maintained an even keel as it dropped straight down. Soon the place was raining maple leaves and the woods came alive with horizontal motion. Then, after only a few dozen seconds, everything stopped and the stillness resumed.

  I believe it was my presence that set off that morning flight.  No, I’m not saying that the trees were actually aware of my nearness but that I set up some vibration that triggered the release of one leaf. That leaf in turn triggered the others and so on. Yoda would claim that I tripped the wires of “the force,” but I know not of such things. I do know that the wind took over the disturbance role by day’s end and that a good portion of the maple leaves made their final journey yesterday.  The oaks, of course, held firm.

  Witnessing the fall of a single leaf, let alone causing it, is a small experience in a big world. We all know that deciduous trees shed their leaves but may take the whole process for granted.  Being there when an individual leaf dies is a bit humbling.   True, the death of a leaf is not as heart wrenching as that of a favorite pet, but it does cease to be living tissue and so fits the definition. The tree needs to release the leaves so that it can continue living. The tree is in control of the whole situation and leaves (no pun intended) only the final moment to the whims of chance.

  It’s all about abscission.  Over the course of the year a maple leaf – or any other tree leaf for that matter – hosts chlorophyll which manufactures food for the tree.  Triggered by the shortening days, reduced light intensity and lower temperatures, the parent tree begins to prepare for the onset of winter. In the waning days of summer and early fall, the leaf can’t convert the sun’s energy as efficiently as it used to. The tree, in other words, uses up the additional food as fast as it’s made.  Also, since water evaporates off the leaf surface, the tree starts to loose more water than it can afford. The drying effect of winter is the reason trees shed their leaves.

  At this point, the tree starts to cut its losses and draws essential liquids and food reserves back down into the winter-safe realm of the roots.  All the nutrients, minerals and sugars are pulled back from the leaves.  The point where the leaf connects to the stem is called the abscission layer (take a look at this micro photo of a maple leaf abscission layer).  Normally the cells in this area act like a sponge full of tiny vessels to transport fluids to and from the leaf.  In the fall, these cells start to swell and exude a waxy substance which cuts off the vessel flow. Deprived of the tiny lifelines, the chlorophyll dies and the bright autumn colors are exposed (we’ve been through this part before).  The leaf is gets old and literally enters its golden years. It is a brief retirement.

  Instead of a gold watch, the parent company forms a corky layer to cover the scar created by the dying leaf and essentially locks the leaf out for good.  The abscission layer eventually breaks down completely leaving only the skeletal transport tubes to hold the leaf to the stem. The rest is up to chance.

  All it takes is a puff of breeze, a footstep vibration, or a squirrel’s sneeze to create a force load that exceeds the strength capacity of the frail tubes.  The moment this last connection is compromised is the moment a leaf is sent to earth. Think about that next time you see a leaf die.

 Now that the kids are away at school, I have the opportunity to be the first one to enter the kitchen in the morning.  My wife frequently beats me there and has the coffee on even before I rise, but last week I was first. Granted, this is neither a remarkable thing nor a great accomplishment, but it was a matter of fortuitous timing. I rounded the corner of the refrigerator and was greeted by the sight of a mouse sliding across the floor. It was in the process of making all due haste toward the security of the laundry room but its tiny feet were not gripping the smooth surface. Apparently I came upon it so suddenly that it popped a wheelie and slid sideways before gaining traction and making good on its escape.

  My mumbled verbal reaction was a simple “now that’s odd.” I don’t usually jump at the sight of scurrying things unless they are of the spider persuasion – and that’s an uncontrollable thing on my part. Mice don’t bother me at all.  The odd part about this encounter was that the uninvited guest was a mouse to begin with.  Over the past 20 years the only regular irregular mammalian invaders in this house have been short-tailed shrews.  These micro predators feed on insects and spiders, so their presence is welcome in my view. When one is in the house, I may neglect to mention the fact to my wife in lieu of other more important things.  Somehow, however, the tiny life form manages to reveal itself to her. Because she is not appreciative of their presence, I am pressured into setting the “jaws of death” and ending its career.

  By the long tail and white belly, I knew the skidding mouse to be either a Deer Mouse or a White-footed Mouse.  House mice, those immigrants from Europe, are glossy gray all over and do not have a white belly or feet.  Stuart Little was a House Mouse as were those albino mice running the universe in “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe.” Unlike the House variety, both the Deer and White-footed Mice are outdoor creatures that do not make a regular habit of living inside our dwellings. I expected the creature to re-enter the wild, so I made no mention of the mouse whatsoever. 

  I gave it a few days to depart.  In the meantime I maintained my wife in a state of ignorance, but felt like I was cheating on her somehow. On the third day, I rose again (seems like I’ve heard that phrase before…gee, I hope I don’t get hit with a plagiarism suit). After two mornings of expecting to hear a scream from the kitchen, I decided to quietly set the “jaws of death” just to make sure things were back to normal.  I guess I still harbored some resentment stemming from a long ago incident in which a gang of mice made a nest out of my set of prize Webelos scout ribbons.  They chewed them into oblivion and made a fuzzy retreat out of my childhood.

  On the next morning, I heard a loud squeak from the kitchen.  It was my wife.  “There’s a mouse in a trap right inside the laundry room door,” she half screamed, “please get it out.” I performed the solemn task incompletely. I actually placed the stiff little bug-eyed corpse out in the unheated back porch until I could look at it better, but claimed that it was “taken care of.”  It’s shameful how such a thing can lead to a life of deceit.

  I should mention that my dependable “jaw of death” is a steel toothed McGill trap.  I’ve had it for years and have never had to resort to a regular snap trap.  It’s a self setting thing that clicks into position when the back springs are squeezed.  A little peanut butter on the trigger and you’ve got the makings for a quick trip to shrew, or in this case mouse, heaven. Building a better mousetrap has always been an obsession for inventors since the first human (probably a female) spotted the first proto-mouse running out from under the mammoth hide.  Aside from neck snapping wires & jaws, many of these creations employed drowning tanks, magical flip doors, and dead falls. Electrocution and even loaded mini-pistols have been employed in this deadly task. I can’t resist showing you this old standby: an old wooden Victor four hole trap that was popular in the early half of the last century (see it here). 

  The trusty old McGill trap effectively provided an answer to my mouse identity question.  My dear little departed was indeed a White-footed Mouse. I took a short time to sketch the beast and posed it in a typical life posture of cleaning itself (see it here).  You’ll notice that these mice are attractively pelted with a bright white belly and cinnamon brown sides. The feet are covered with fine white fur, but appear pink upon close examination. One of the big differences between this and the look-alike Deer Mouse is that Deer Mice have a very clear border line dividing the dark upper side and the white under portion of the tail, while the White-foot has a hazy dividing line.  O.K. that’s not much of a difference, but unless you have the time and desire to measure the feet and the third upper molar, that will have to do.

  In nature White-foots are semi-arboreal. This means that they can and will climb trees.  Their long tails come in handy as balancing tools when traversing thin branches.  As a matter of fact, they often roof over old bird nests in order to convert them into winter homes.  Perhaps the most surprising thing of all is their musical talent.  Both Deer and White-foots will squeak with ultrasonic delight, but they also are known to drum their tiny paws upon dry grass stems or leaves to create a melodic buzzing sound.  

  Why they do this drumming is somewhat of a mystery, but I prefer to think of it as part of an eternal death chant. Although there are extreme records of captive mice putting three candles on their birthday cakes, the average life span in the wild is less than a year.   Only 5% of the mice born in a particular year – and there are a lot of them – survive into the following year. 

  Mice are born to be eaten or killed by nearly every other life form on earth.  As one of those life forms it was my job to perform my ecological and spousal responsibility. I ate the mouse with full knowledge that the circle of life had been completed. O.K., I didn’t eat the mouse, I was just trying to end this thing on a philosophical note.  I promise not to lie about mice or shrews again…at least in the near future.