Yesterday my husband Andy and I had the pleasure of canoeing on the North Fork of the Shenandoah River.  While the river is, unfortunately, not in good health, it was nonetheless a pleasure to ply the still waters between the river’s forested banks. 

     So much wildlife!  We delighted to see turtles sunning themselves on logs.  And it was a thrill to stare, as a green heron, semi-hidden in riparian foliage, puffed out its feathers and became for a few moments a much larger bird.  And we saw what I think was a mink, scampering along the ground, high above the water.

     And all around us, flying hither and thither above the water, were damselflies.  I have long admired these dainty, gauzy-winged, romantically-named dragonfly species, with their touches of brilliant blue.  

     And it was obviously mating season for these insects;  most were not flying solo!  While I have often seen insects joined together, or mated, in flight, what amazed us yesterday was the way these creatures looked at rest.  Just about every floating leaf we paddled past seemed to be a resting spot for damselfly duos.  As many as three or four of the insect pairs might be resting on a single leaf .  And what a sight they made–gauzy jumbles flecked with azure.  Had we not observed individual pairs, we could not have guessed what comprised these translucent masses.

     Even more amazing to behold were those ‘couples’ who were not sharing ‘their’ leaf with any other damselfly pairs.  A single mated pair on a leaf held the strangest looking pose.  It seemed as if one of the two rested in a ‘normal’ posture on the leaf, while its mate ’stood’ vertically, with its back end appearing embedded in the other’s thorax, just behind its head.  Sticking up straight in the air, the latter damselfly appeared poised to take off!  (Please see my photo below).

     Of course I was curious to learn more about what we were seeing, so I did a little Internet research on the mating of damselflies.  I learned that the male produces packets of sperm from the tip of his abdomen (hindmost segment of his body).  He then bends his abdomen forward and deposits the sperm packets into a depression in the second segment of his abdomen.  Once he has filled his sperm receptacle, the male uses the claspers at his hindmost tip to grasp a female just behind her head.  Then the two fly joined together for some time.  And each takes its turn flying while the other rests.  After awhile, the female bends her abdomen under and reaches it up to the abdomen of the male.  She grasps the second segment of his abdomen and picks up a sperm packet, or spermatophore, he has deposited there.  The two remain in this joined position for 15 minutes or more, afterwhich she lets go and they resume their joined position with the male still grasping the female just behind her head.  

     The two may continue flying, joined, as the female lays her eggs on submerged plants, or the two may separate, with the male remaining close to the female as she deposits her eggs.  It’s all pretty amazing!–April Moore

  

 

a mated pair of damselflies on a leaf

     The blue footed booby is an intriguing bird, I think.  With its blue, webbed feet and its high-stepping ways, this tropical seabird is unlike any other. 

     I am posting here http://www.duskyswondersite.com/animals/blue-footed-booby/a link to a short, informative article about this unusual bird, along with photos and a short video.  The piece was created by Loduskia (Dusky) Pierce for her website www.duskyswondersite.com.  

     I encourage you to enjoy not just Dusky’s piece about the blue footed booby, but to explore her website as  well.   www.Duskyswondersite.com is devoted to experiencing wonder at our amazing planet and its inhabitants.  A  psychotherapist, Dusky cites brain research which shows that the experiences of wonder and appreciation are good for us.  The more we purposely tune in to moments of positive experience, she explains on her site, the easier it becomes to notice them because we have literally made changes in our brain circuitry.  Enjoy.–April Moore 

a blue footed booby

     My neighbor recently told me that she was concerned about the greenish patches she had noticed on the trunks of many of the trees in the forest here.  She feared these green growths might somehow be harming the trees. 

     Fresh from my Master Naturalist training, I was able to assure her that the pale green–dotting some trunks and branches and practically enveloping others–is nothing to worry about.  Called greenshield, these greenish patches are a common lichen that is harmless to trees.  In fact, greenshield on trees is a good thing because it is a sign that the surrounding air is clean.  Like all other lichens, greenshield is highly sensitive to the toxic compounds in air pollution.  Hence, greenshield and other lichens abound in forests but are mostly absent from polluted cities.  

     With its different looks on different trees, greenshield fascinates me.  For example, the two giant chestnut oaks I see outside my window right now are almost entirely a mottled pale green.  Only the youngest, thinnest branches of these trees are a solid brown.  Farther down the hill I see a corkscrew willow with several roundish green splotches about the size of coffee saucers here and there along the tree’s main branches. 

     Then on a tupelo tree near the other side of the house is one particularly interesting greenish splotch.  As I observe it through the window while I wash dishes, I am reminded of a toupee.  About head-size, thicker and much more textured than most of the other greenshield I see, it could have been parked there on the tree between wearings.  

     As with most aspects of nature, even a tiny bit of research reveals highly complex processes taking place.  And lichens are no exception.  A lichen is actually a combination of fungus and algae.  The lichen takes the form of the fungus, and the algae lives inside it.  The algae makes food directly from sunlight, and that food nourishes the fungus as well.  And the fungus, by surrounding the algae, protects the algae from drying out.  The fungus and the algae grow together as a single being, spreading very slowly over many decades.

     The greenshield’s powdery outer surface is the lichen’s reproductive system.  The ‘powder’ is made of spores, which are a combination of fungus and algae.  Tiny balls of fungal strands wrapped around algal cells are blown or washed away to a new location, where they may start growing into new greenshield.  Greenshield attaches itself to a tree with black, root-like structures on its undersurface.

     Knowing just a little more about greenshield than I knew yesterday, my pleasure in seeing these clean air-loving lichens on the trees all around me is a joy.–April Moore 

chestnut oak mottled with greenshield

  

'toupee' on the side of a tupelo tree

  

small round splotches of greenshield

 

    

   

     My husband Andy and I have been marveling at the burdock plant growing alongside our driveway. 

     The plant’s basal leaves, growing close to the ground, are about a foot and a half long and at least a foot wide.  Since the spring, a central stalk has shot up, so that now the plant is a good four feet tall.   The tall, sturdy stem indicates that this is year two for the biennial plant.  During year one, the burdock remains low to the ground, its leaves large, but no stalk. 

     The burdock’s newer upper parts are quite different from the large lower leaves.  Now, in mid-July, slender branches reach up and out in several directions, and they sport leaves that are tiny, compared to their counterparts lower down.  The burdock’s flowers have given way to ‘fruit’ in the form of burrs.  These burrs are flexible and green, but as the season progresses, they will turn brown and dry and will snag onto any clothing or fur that gets too close.  In fact, according to my research, it is the burrs in burdock that spurred that revolutionary invention, Velcro!

     Widely considered a weed, burdock grows in disturbed areas throughout North America, except for the Deep South.  But it is a weed that has many uses, both nutritionally and medicinally.  

     The root of the burdock is a popular food in Japan and Europe.   A first year root is smaller and easier to dig out of the ground, and it is less bitter than a second year root, according to what I read.  Burdock connoisseurs recommend scrubbing the root rather than peeling it, and then slicing it, diagonally, into razor-thin slices.   For a Japanese-style dish, the slices may be sauteed, along with ginger and carrots.  Add soy sauce, Japanese wine, and simmer.  When the slices are tender, sprinkle with sesame seeds and serve.   Sounds good;  I haven’t tried it yet. 

     The stalk of the burdock is also edible.  Late spring is better than summer, since the stalk toughens as it grows.  It can be cut, shorn of leaves, and then peeled to remove the tough outer layer.  Then just cut it into short lengths, and add it to stir fry.

     Burdock’s medicinal uses extend back hundreds of years.  In the seventeenth century, according to A Druid Fellowship (ADF)’s website, burdock was placed on the navel of a pregnant woman to help keep the foetus in the womb until it reached full-term.  And the root was combined with pine nuts and given to “them that spit foul, mattery, and bloddy phlegm,” according to ADF.  The juice of the leaves were given with wine to treat snake bites. And the leaves have been helpful in treating burns and insect bites.  Burdock is also a vulnerary (a new word for me!), which means it is effective in treating bruises and cuts.

     Burdock also played a magical, protective role.  In England, according to Ana Spiritdancer, writing for ADF’s website, www.adf.org,  people used to scatter burdock (called Personata) around the outside of homes to ward off negativity.  And the root was gathered during the waning moon, cut, dried, and strung on red thread.  This necklace was then worn to ward off evil. 

     Now that I have learned a little about burdock, I find the plant awesome.  As I think about the burdock, I am reminded that in generations past, people routinely knew a great deal about the plants around them.  I imagine that many of the plants I see every day have medicinal uses of which I am completely ignorant.–April Moore    

April with burdock

burdock by our driveway

     In the article below, Frances Moore Lappe rejects blaming ourselves for the BP oil disaster.  Sure, we are all addicted to oil.  And the widespread human traits of greed, hubris, and denial did play a role in the catastrophe.  But such a focus, she points out, leads to hopelessness.

     Instead, says Lappe, we need to develop the GUTS to take our government back from the oil companies and other corporate giants who now have much greater control of it than do we, the people.  Lappe’s piece, published on Wednesday, June 16, 2010 by The Huffington Post, is worth reading!–April Moore

Frances Moore Lappé

We’ll be living for decades, or longer, with the consequences of the BP disaster. That much seems clear. So the question now is, how — how will we proceed after Deepwater Horizon? What lessons will we take in and use?

Randy Kennedy, in the New York Times’ Week in Review suggests one possibility. He likens BP’s reckless pursuit of oil to the obsession that brought down Captain Ahab in his pursuit of Moby-Dick. The lesson we still haven’t learned, Kennedy implies, is a moral one: the dangers lurking not only in oil hunters’ greed and in the hubris of believing we can control nature, but in our own self-indulgence as well.

Kennedy closes with the admonition from Columbia University’s Melville expert Andrew Delbanco — that the BP horror is in part of our own making because, “we want our comforts but we don’t want to know too much about…what makes them possible.” In the same issue, Thomas Friedman seconds the point in his it’s-our-fault column “This Time is Different.”

While greed, hubris and denial have contributed to the worst single environmental catastrophe in our history, to suggest they are “causes” gets us nowhere. A character diagnosis is the evasion, the real denial, we can’t afford.

For one, it leads to despair — since few of us can imagine the end of human greed, hubris, or our tendency to deny what’s uncomfortable.

Worse, the diagnosis diverts us from the first essential step in avoiding continuing global ecocide: that we accept what we now know about our nature and work with that. We know, for example, that concentrated power and lack of transparency bring out the very worst in us. Yet we’ve fallen for an economic and political doctrine with rules certain to speed both.

Nowhere is that concentration more evident than in the fossil fuel industries, where, in 2004, just five companies controlled two thirds of gasoline sales. Their economic might dwarfs that of most countries. Such concentrated economic power infuses and distorts political decision making in its interests.

So we’ve ended up creating the systemic danger FDR warned us against: “the growth of private power to the point where it becomes stronger than their [the people's] democratic state itself.” That “in its essence, is fascism,” he told Congress in 1938. Such concentrated power is at the root of what has greased not only massive public subsidies for Big Oil — pushing aside safer, renewable energies — but also BP’s ability to stack up egregious safety violations with impunity.

Corporate lobbyists for companies like BP have become so powerful, that in 2009, for every single legislator elected to look out for our common interests, two dozen, mostly corporate, lobbyists spent $3.5 billion working Congress for their private interests. That sum has doubled in less than a decade.

We humans can’t change our nature but we can change the rules that bring out the worst in our nature.

So rather than focusing on “greed or hubris” as a cause of this disaster, let’s tackle the systemic problem that lets these traits triumph: rules that encourage concentrated power - such as those tolerating monopoly power and corporate secrecy — and its sway over public choices.

Let our takeaway from the BP nightmare be that we as a people get serious about removing the power of private wealth in our nation’s governance: enacting, for example, the Fair Elections Now Acts, pending in both houses of Congress that would usher in voluntary public financing of congressional elections.

Only as we move to democratic accountability do we have a fighting chance to enact commonsense rules to keep power dispersed, mandate transparency, and align our need for energy resources and basic fairness with nature’s unbendable rules. This, not redesigning our nature, is the road to preventing another Deepwater Horizon.

If I’m right, maybe I need to become more nuanced in my objections to a focus on character; for there is part of our moral makeup that sure needs fortification: courage. To move toward democracy by and for the people, and against established interests, takes guts.

Yes, we’ve been told that the “meek shall inherit the earth,” but I’ve become convinced that if that turns out to be true, it will be a scorched earth. The only human beings who will be able to inherit a flourishing earth are the courageous. So let’s bulk up our civil courage and go for real democracy.
Copyright © 2010 HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.

Frances Moore Lappé is the author of Getting a Grip 2: Clarity, Creativity and Courage for the World We Really Want (March 2010) and 17 other books, beginning with the three-million copy Diet for a Small Planet.

     For most of my life, the whip-poor-will was just a name to me.  I knew nothing at all about the bird, what it looked like, where it lived, or why it had the strange name ‘whip-poor-will.’  But then we moved to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley in the 1990s.  And I got acquainted with the whip-poor-will.  I was amazed.

     On summer nights, with the windows open wide, we would hear the whip-poor-will, deep in the forest.  And then I knew how the bird got its name.  It could be ’understood’ as calling “whip poor Will” (not a very friendly message) with a strong accent on the “Will.”  And I use the word ‘call’ rather than ’sing,’ to describe the bird’s sound.  It is not a melodious warble, but more of an insistent cry.

     And I do mean insistent!  The bird cries, “Whip poor Will, Whip poor Will, Whip poor Will,” and on and on and on, without a moment’s pause between any syllable.  I remember one night when my son and I, incredulous that the bird could go on so long without stopping, decided to count the number of “Whip poor Will” cries without a break.  We counted more than 40!   I have since read of someone who spent a nine-hour night counting the calls of a single male whip-poor-will.  The total?  20,898!  The whip-poor-will can actually be an annoyance to someone trying to sleep on a summer night. 

     Now that it is ‘whip-poor-will season,’ I like to step out onto the deck every night to listen for the bird’s call.  It almost always comes from the same spot, down the hill in the forest.  Knowing that whip-poor-will populations are in decline, I find it comforting to hear a few bars of the insistent call before I go to bed.

       The whip-poor-will is a reclusive bird, a nocturnal forest dweller.  Consequently, it is seldom spotted.  In fact, only once have I seen a whip-poor-will.  One summer night in the 1990s, I stepped out onto the deck and noticed a large, dark shape, motionless atop the deck railing.  It was a whip-poor-will, looking so settled on our deck railing, it could have been sitting on a nest of eggs.

     I have been curious about these nocturnal neighbors of ours, so I decided to do a little research.  Here is what I learned: 

     The whip-poor-will measures about 10 inches from beak to tail.  Its coloring, a dried leaf-looking brown, mottled with black and a little white, is perfect camouflage for the birds’ forest environment.  Active at night, the whip-poor-will feeds exclusively on moths and other night insects it catches on the wing. 

     The whip-poor-will has no nest;  it lays its eggs, usually two, on the ground, and hides them under dried leaves.   Whip-poor-wills sleep during the day, usually on the forest ground.  But they may sometimes be found, by day, resting on a tree branch, parallel to it.

     The whip-poor-will is a migrating bird, but little is known about its migration habits.  During the summer breeding season, the birds have a broad North American range, from southern Canada south as far as Georgia and northern Louisiana, from Kansas to the east coast.  They also breed in Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas.  The birds winter in Florida and farther south.

          If you’ve never heard a whip-poor-will, I encourage you to click on the link below.  I think you’ll enjoy it! 

http://www.nenature.com/WhipPoorWill.htm  

     And here is a photo of the seldom-seen bird.–April Moore

photo by Lloyd Spitalnik

 

   

    

     I love tales of discovery, and here is one that has been hailed as one of the greatest wildlife discoveries of all time.

     Last year, for the first time ever, scientists were able to make their way down into an extinct volcano caldera on the Pacific island of New Guinea.  For years scientists had speculated that the remote, rainforested crater, known as Mt. Bosavi, must be teeming with species scientists had never seen before.  After all, the volcano last erupted 200,000 years ago, and is ringed by nearly vertical, thousand-meter high walls.  Scientists assumed that animals, unable to move beyond the forbidding walls surrunding the deep caldera have evolved in distinct ways after many thousands of years of isolation.  

     The scientists were well-rewarded for the hard work of getting into Mt. Bosavi.  Two weeks in the walled-in rainforest resulted in the discovery of 40 previously unknown animal species–mammals, amphibians, fish, spiders, and insects among them.  Never having seen humans before, many of the animals were completely unafraid of the scientists.  For example, the newly discovered Mallomys giant rat, a furry creature the size of a large cat, sat in the lap of one team member.  And a ‘new’ marsupial, the silky cuscus, perched on a scientist’s shoulder.

     The team of scientists documented 16 previously unknown frog species, including a frog with fangs.  They discovered two mammals–a ’new’ bat species as well as the giant rat, and three new fish, including one that makes a grunting sound, produced by its swim bladder. 

     While the number of newly discovered species now totals 40, scientists believe that number will increase.  Not knowing for sure whether some of the discoveries are different enough from known species to be designated as separate species, the scientists have categorized them as sub-species until more research can be done to determine which ones are, in fact, distinct secies.

     Actually getting into the caldera was an adventure in itself.  The expedition took many months of planning.  On their first visit to the village nearest to Mt. Bosavi (a four-day trek distant), the advance team found a community that has no contact with ‘the outside world.’  The villagers had no television, and they did not understand the concept that the scientific team wanted to pay to set up a base camp outside the caldera.  The advance crew asked permission to enter the caldera, and they hired 25 villagers to help them–including a cook, a medic, and a tree-climbing expert to help them scale trees. 

     A group of hunters guided the advance party to Mt. Bosavi, up its steep side, and down into the crater.  Later, the actual expedition team members were helicoptered into the caldera.  Even though the scientists chose the ‘dry’ season to make their foray into the crater, wet conditions often prevented the helicopter from entering the crater.  

     I share the glee expressed by the scientists who discovered so many ‘new’ animal species!  It’s exciting news.–April Moore

silky cuscus--a newly discovered marsupialMallomys woolly rat

 

 

 

Mallomys woolly rat

     Imagine this scene.

     It is a moonlit night in the Hawaiian Islands.  A bobtail squid is gliding along through shallow waters.  But despite the moonlight, the squid casts no shadow on the seafloor as it swims.  Why not?

     Since a moving shadow in the moonlight could alert the squid’s predators to the animal’s presence, this creature has evolved an incredible mechanism to avoid casting a shadow.  When darkness alone won’t serve to hide the squid, it produces its own light, which shines downward onto the seafloor.  The squid can even modulate the brightness of the light it generates, so that it matches the intensity of the surrounding moonlight on the seafloor!

     How is the squid able to protect itself in this amazing way?

     Scientists have discovered the squid’s secret.  The bobtail squid has a bioluminescent organ on its underside.  Inside this organ is a population of bacteria that glow in response to changes in oxygen concentrations in the squid.  Inside cells around the bioluminescent organ, as well as in cells in the skin, ink sac, and around the eyes, are reflective, iridescent structures, called platelets, that reflect the bacterial light. 

     While many aquatic creatures can reflect light, they cannot modulate their light to match surrounding light, as the bobtail squid can.  The platelets of these other light-reflecting animals have a rigid structure that does not allow for changes in reflectivity.  The squid’s platelets, however, are made of flexible protein structures that allow the animal to alter its reflectivity.   Hence, the bobtail squid’s ability to match its own downard shining light with the intensity of the moonlight shining on the seafloor.

     Amazing, huh?– April Moore

Hawaiian bobtail squid

 

 

 

 

   

     Last week my friend Kathy and I spent a happy, sunny day hiking in a Virginia state park known for its long meadow vistas and forest trails.  As we walked, we delighted in a profusion of blooming bloodroot and scores of towering tulip poplars, tipped with last year’s dried ‘tulips.’

      But for me the greatest thrill was my introduction to caddisfly cases.  Now, I love nature deeply, but I am not particularly knowledgeable in the natural sciences.  Kathy, however, is full of fascinating information about many of the plants and animals we meet on our hikes. 

     Kathy suggested we stop at a little stream that crossed the trail and see what we could see.  We knelt, lifted out a large rock, and turned it over.  Clinging to the underside was a tiny caddisfly larva case.  But only by looking through the magnifying glasses we had brought could we really see the tiny wonder in front of us.  The case attached to the rock was astonishingly colorful.  It was made of the tiniest pebbles of red, white, black, and brown, all firmly held into a tiny cigar shape by silk the caddisfly larva had spun around itself and the bits of rock. 

     Cleverly, the caddisfly larva protects itself during the fall, winter, and spring it spends in the water by creating its own hard case.  And as the larva grows during these months, it enlarges its case with more debris and silk.   When it is time to pupate, the caddisfly attaches both ends of its case to an object in the water, such as a rock.  Thus, the pupating animal is protected against predators, and water can still flow through the case.  When the mature caddisfly is ready to emerge, it uses its special pair of mandibles to cut its way out of the case.

     Adult caddisflies seem to live to mate.  They do not eat at all.  After a week or two, or maybe longer, they die.  The entire lifespan of a caddisfly is complete in a single year.

     Seeing a caddisfly case was not only a visual treat, but a good sign as well.  Caddisflies, along with mayflies and stoneflies, are signs of at least a fairly good quality of water.–April Moore   

 

a caddisfly case, less colorful than the one I saw

 

  

an adult caddisfly

     Today trees need people to survive, and people have always needed trees.   

     Diana Wells, author of the new book Lives of the Trees:  An Uncommon History, challenges us humans to find any spot that is more than two feet from something related to a tree.  Whether it’s kleenex, car tires, an apple, a walnut, or a wooden wall or floor, the ‘products’ of trees are everywhere in our lives. 

     Lives of the Trees is a compendium of what trees have meant to people throughout the history of human culture, and how trees protect the planet.  Wells reminds us that trees have been used for food, shelter, and medicine, to make weapons, musical instruments, and ships.  People make pilgrimages to feast their eyes on trees’ autumn glory, and we seek comfort in their presence. 

     The book is divided into 100 short chapters, each focused on a different tree species.  Wells clearly loves trees, and she hopes that readers will be inspired to get to know the trees growing around them.  She laments the fact that many people today pay little attention to to the trees of their area, and know little about them, even their names.  Wells believes our lives will be richer if we get to know the trees that support our lives in so many ways.

     Here are some facts about just a few of the trees Wells includes in her book: 

Alder was widely used in the construction of ships, since it withstands water so well.  Alder underlies much of the building construction in Venice, helping that watery city to survive.

Birch has many uses.  Its nuts are edible, its sap can be made into beer, and its bark was used to make canoes and huts.  The bark is such a good writing surface and so water-resistant that Thomas Jefferson deemed it the best material for jotting his field notes. 

Cinchona is the source of the first antimalarial drug–quinine.  If the cinchona bark’s antimalarial properties hadn’t been discovered, history might have been quite different.  It was only after people knew how to avoid the worst effects of malaria that white Europeans were able to exploit human and natural resources in African countries.

Pomegranate is also known as the tree of life.  New brides would throw a pomegranate on their doorstep to ensure their marriage would produce many children.  Ironically, the hand grenade derives its name from the pomegranate as well, because of its pomegranate-like appearance.

     Wells says her book is not for botanists or dendrologists, but for those who love trees, who find them interesting and would like to get to know them better.–April Moore

a cinchona tree–photo by Erica Kipp