Natural Connections

"Holy Moly Roly Poly!" This enthusiastic shout came from an adorable, towheaded 4-year old, standing on the far side of a log I'd just rolled toward me. Together, we paused to watch a dozen or more oval gray invertebrates with lots of legs scurry in confusion around their suddenly well-lit home. Just based on that boy's enthusiasm, I knew I needed to write about roly polies. As a start, I uploaded a few of my photos to iNaturalist. To my surprise, all three photos were of different species! 

Last week I attended the Outdoor Writers Association of America's annual conference in Madison, Wisconsin. At the conference, it was announced that my third book, Natural Connections 3: A Web Endlessly Woven won second place in the Excellence In Craft Contest's book category. Naturally, I'm thrilled. My essay, "Second Grade Tracking Stories" also won first place in the Family Participation-Youth Outdoor Education category for both blog and newspaper. This week I'll share that essay with you again!

My hands moved slowly over the pebbled beach as the waves of Lake Superior gently lapped the shoreline. I had found myself a nice spot to sit on the beach, close enough to the waterline to gaze at the rocks being gently tumbled by the waves, but far enough back to have a dry place to sit. As I surveyed the pebbles around me, I spotted what I was looking for. The waxy, red-banded surface of an agate poked out from the shore, beckoning me to pick it up. And though I had found the treasure I was seeking, I was determined to find more during my time along the beach. 

Rosie Wollums is about to start her Junior year as an Environmental Studies and Creative Writing major at Coe College. Being in the Northwoods for the first time as a Summer Naturalist Intern at the Museum, Rosie was excited to explore and visit Lake Superior. There she met a snapping turtle with mystery and empathy.

Late summer days are a kaleidoscope of vibrant flowers in all colors of the rainbow. Some of the blossoms have their perfect petals neatly arranged while their leaves form regular patterns up their stems. They are a testament to the precision that can be written into genetic instructions for growth.  I find myself drawn to the weirdos, though, like the pearly everlasting flowers woven into a new shape by black-spiked caterpillars, or the milkweed leaves whose tattered appearance hints at a feeding frenzy. These weirdos are great examples of how our relationships with other beings can be both messy and emergent. 

The flower head looked odd. Pearly everlasting—with their beautiful flat-topped cluster of white flowers with yellow centers—had finally bloomed. And now the petals would dry out and hold their shape for many months. Except, as I walked past the small patch of native plants between the Museum and the Forest Lodge Library, I noticed that one of the flower clusters was a shapeless blob of petals. Peeling open a corner, I spotted yellow stripes, red dots, and multi-tipped black spikes. Yikes! That's what this American painted lady caterpillar wanted me to think…and then to leave them alone.  Some gardeners might be frustrated to lose a few flowers, but hosting native insects is exactly why we plant native species in our gardens, instead of importing species from all over the world who don't play a positive role in our local ecosystem.  Walking slowly, I scanned the flowers for anything out of place, any disruption to the normal patterns. On the dark center of a black-eyed Susan, I found a small green anomaly. Crouching down, I found myself face-to-face with the fierce scowl, long horns, and serrated edges of a jagged ambush bug. Some people fly halfway around the world to witness the dramas of nature play out on the African savannah. I found plenty of action walking halfway around the yard. 

Katherine Woolley is about to start her senior year as an environmental education major at Western Colorado University. When Katherine arrived for her second round as a Summer Naturalist Intern at the Museum, she announced that she hit a certain age and suddenly became a birder! This week she shares a neat ornithological observation. "'Peep peep peep peeeep PEEP PEEEEEP peep peep' I rolled over in my bed and groaned. Spring had come early to Colorado's Gunnison Valley where I attend university. A flash of yellow on my window bird feeder caught my attention. There perched a male house finch sporting banana-colored belly feathers where the red normally is."

The Wild Wonders Summer Camp kids chattered away as they dug into their lunches, oblivious to the yellow-bellied sapsucker who skirted up and down the bark of the tree just a few feet away, in search of their own lunch. I watched as the sapsucker took flight, their speckled wings flapping quickly through the trees, until they landed on the bark of another tree and disappeared! It took me a second to realize that they had entered into a small hole hidden in the bark of the tree. Had I not watched them enter, I never would have noticed the hole high up in the bark, or learned of the nest inside. But I could not focus on the yellow-bellied sapsucker nest for long. My campers had finished lunch and were getting restless.

From a distance, the forests of July look like a lush tapestry of green. But when you step into the loosely woven strands and take a closer look, the leaves are etched with feeding trails, dissected by holes of all shapes and sizes, and covered with the debris of life. It's a principle of ecology, of course, that every Being is food for someone else. Feeding styles vary. Some invertebrates are "leaf folders," while others are "leaf rollers" or "leaf tiers." All of these insects and spiders use silk that contracts as it dries to shape leaves into shelters.    I set out to find examples of all of the leaf architects. 

I barely caught the flash of brown out of the corner of my eye, but Kevin had a clear view. He followed the flight path of the bird until they landed on the far side of a small channel lined with arching sedges. Despite the bird's pinstriped camouflage blending seamlessly with the tall grass, and having never before seen one in the wild, his identification came instantly: American bittern!  Bitterns hunt alone, mostly at dawn and dusk, and are said to be easier to hear than to see. Their deep booming, gulping calls travel far across marshes, but the male "thunder-pumpers" are vocal only during their spring mating season, and so it's not even that easy to hear them. Add to that bitterns' decline in parallel with the decline of their wetland homes, and we'd resigned ourselves to admiring their mystery instead of enjoying an encounter.

My heart raced as I reached my hand into the bag. What if I broke them? What if I let them escape? Then my fingers found a familiar grip, and before I knew it, I was holding this bird just like I had the warbler. Now that I was the bander and not just the releaser, the vibration of their heart felt different. Their safety was in my hands. My own heart slowed, and I took a steadying breath.  Maneuvering the veery so that I could grip their right leg in my left thumb and forefinger, I slipped the open band over their leg. Now they were ready to contribute to science!  "This bird will be forever connected to you," Jim reminded me after we'd sent the veery flying back into the brush. My heart fluttered happily

The sound of boots crunching on sandy sediments and excited chatter filled the air. The first day of our Wisconsin Master Naturalist training had begun, and twenty people from all walks of life were eager to learn about the ecology of the Northwoods. Over the next five days, these participants would be exploring sites all over Bayfield County, and learning from experts across multiple natural resource fields. Our goal was not to instantly train experts in Northwoods ecology, but rather to spark curiosity and connection with the natural world. Whether coming from a natural resource background themselves, or simply wanting to learn more about nature, our participants were eager to dive into the knowledge of our experts. And we were jumping right into the geology of the Northwoods at our first field trip location–an esker left by the glaciers around 11,000 years ago.

Dappled light, mosquitoes, and the roar of a chainsaw filled the humid air on a morning in early June. Guided by skilled hands, the blade sliced through pale wood. Lacey green leaves trembled against the blue sky before tipping toward a gap in the canopy, brushing past the twigs of neighbors, and easing quietly onto the earth exactly where the feller intended. If a black ash tree falls in the forest, must it land with a crash?  Deep in the woods east of Lake Namakagon, I'd gathered a small team of volunteers on an urgent mission.

While staying in Boulder Junction, Wis. to take a Wilderness First Responder course last week, I made time for a bike ride on the Heart of Vilas County Bike Trail. This wonderfully curvy, scenic, paved trail is a favorite of mine. At this junction between spring and summer, I delighted in the profusion of flowers. Lois Nestel, the Museum's first naturalist and director, might not have joined me on a bike ride, but I know I would have loved to walk attentively through the woods with her. This week, I'd like to share her description of the residents of woods and fields as summer begins to bloom. Slow down a minute with me, we'll smell the roses, and I think you'll find it rewarding.

I sat on the tan, dusty ground of the quarry in north central Iowa, fingers grasping at the shell that lay halfway buried in the chalky clay and limestone. Wiggling it back and forth, I gently pulled it up from the ground that it had been resting in for millions of years. The ridged shell was almost perfectly intact, painting me a detailed picture of what the animal looked like. I had found a brachiopod fossil, a marine invertebrate who used to live in the warm, shallow sea of the Devonian Period, roughly 380 million years ago. As I sat examining my find, I couldn't help but think about how special it is to find something so ancient, to hold the remnants of their life in my hand, and glimpse what life on Earth was like millions of years ago.

In just the last week or two, new life has exploded in the Northwoods. To my brain, it feels like a burst of fireworks. Instead of embers sparkling in the darkness, there's been a surge of colorful blossoms, an eruption of vibrant baby leaves, a cacophony of birdsong, and a buzz of movement everywhere I look. 

The shiny resin on balsam poplar buds turns to airborne molecules during spring leaf-out. Those molecules contain a myriad of chemicals that are useful to the tree -- and beneficial to us! Thriving in the far north -- farther than any other broadleaf tree in North America -- balsam poplar is poised to make drastic changes to the tundra as summer temperatures warm. Read more about this amazing tree in this week's Natural Connections, or listen to the podcast. 

426 - A Prairie-Dweller Moves North A lump of gray fur in the middle of the trail pulled us up short. The small mammal was about the size of a gray squirrel, but with cute, round ears tucked below their silhouette. I'd never seen a Franklin's ground squirrel before! On various websites I read that these are a species of tallgrass prairies, although they've declined as the prairies have declined. In the southeastern part of their range the squirrels are barely hanging on in grassy roadsides and railroad right-of-ways—the same places where a few native plants have escaped the plow. Several sources suggested that they belong only in the southern and western portions of Minnesota. So what was this little prairie dweller doing in Northeastern Minnesota?

My companion gasped in the middle of a sentence as a pine warbler darted over my head and landed on rough spruce bark a few feet way. Then he swooped to a rock wall and paused mid-hop to belt out a trill. We watched his stout beak open and his white wing bars vibrate with the effort. Pine warblers are aptly named, as they are rarely spotted anywhere but in pine trees.

First, we squinted, then we peered through binoculars, and finally I zoomed in with my camera to make sense of the dark shapes. The ducks had a funny conehead and a gracefully swooped patch of gray on their side. The pale ring around their dark beak was the most distinctive character. I'm not good at waterfowl, so I wracked my brain for a likely ID…were they ring-billed ducks? That would be logical. But no, a quick peek through the Merlin app's helpful photos confirmed that these were ring-necked ducks. Huh?