Autumn Hike

September 30th

Autumn is here in the wind, the temperature—54^o at dawn, the scattered clusters of blush and yellow leaves among the green. The lake is too cold to consider a swim and the wind-driven waves are stronger than I want to fight in my canoe.

But it’s a perfect day for a hike in the woods. I locate a trail on my map–“Parker”—on the north-east side of Sussex State Park.  As predicted, the trail enters the forest near the area where we park the car.  The path descends rapidly to a stream about 15 feet wide, then parallels the water.  A pleasant gurgling accompanies us as water flows and we stumble over rocks. Soon pine trees skirt the brook and the path opens up. The rocks are replaces by a soft blanket of pine needles.  It’s a pleasure to walk here. The spongy ground welcomes our feet and springs back. We are enveloped in quiet.

As a child, wandering in the woods behind my aunt’s home in Ronkonkoma, I often tried to walk “like an Indian” –silently. I never succeeded. Dry leaves and twigs always betrayed me. Now I imagine that Native Americans may have chosen paths through the piney areas.

The map shows the trail crossing another stream which flows into ours. I expect to find a small bridge, or at least a log, but instead there is only a chain of rocks, breaking the surface of the water from our side to the opposite bank.

“The water’s too cold to cross now,” says my husband. “We’ll have to come back here in the summer.”

I agree. I wouldn't want to fall in and ride home chilled and wet.

Reluctantly we turn around and retrace our steps through the pine-scented woods.

Butterfly Tragedy

On Monday I brought three fat caterpillars with milkweed to teachers in Nishuane School. By now they should have formed chrysalises and, if all goes well, will emerge within 14 days to be joyously released by second-graders to begin flights to Mexico.

That left me with only one chrysalis yet to open in my butterfly box. Last night it appeared almost black—a sure sign that there would be a butterfly in the morning. Often they take their time, emerging after 9 AM. But my glance at the top of my box this morning at 6:30 showed nothing, neither black chrysalis nor butterfly. Something was wrong.

At the bottom of the box, a partially developed Monarch female lay struggling—legs kicking in the air, wings about half filled out.  I hurriedly found narrow objects—a pencil, a thin candle—and tried to get her to grab onto them. She clutched but let go repeatedly, seeming not to have strength to hold on.

When butterflies first emerge, their wings are no longer than the length of the chrysalis case, about 5/8 inch. Their abdomens are full of liquid. They must cling to the top of the empty case and pump the liquid into their wings to fill them out, then let the wings dry out, before they can fly. If the butterfly releases its grip and falls at that critical time, the wings will not properly open and it’ll be crippled.

The wings of my poor butterfly were creased. I tried, very gently, to straighten them, but it was too late. All that time she had spent stuffing herself with milkweed as a caterpillar, shedding skin and turning inside out, then waiting for the promise of flight. And now she is doomed to be a crawling insect.

I carried her outside and placed her on a flower. She fell. I tried again and again, several times, until she managed to cling on. Then sadly, I left her.

Tomato Attack!

I looked up three times from the book I was reading before my brain registered that something was amiss.  Four tomato plants grow in nearby pots. Some held tomatoes in shades of green turning to red. Yesterday, all had had lush foliage and blossoms.  Now, it was all but one; the left-most plant was almost denuded.

I stared at the plant, wondering if the groundhog had attacked it. I doubted that. Broccoli and cabbage leaves, yes—he devoured them –but tomato leaves? Never before. Besides, the groundhog usually eats top down. This plant was empty from the bottom up. Two sprigs of leaves were left on top.

As I watched, one of the leaves moved—continually, rhythmically, up and down. Weird. And that leaf was a more apple green than the others. It was segmented too. Putting my book aside I approached the plant. It wasn’t a leaf. It was an ugly green bug masquerading as a leaf! Its relatively large head was actively— continually— chomping on one of the few remaining tomato leaves.

I am not unfriendly to insects. I raise Monarch caterpillars. I smile benevolently at spiders. When I find an ant in my kitchen I carefully capture him and let him go outdoors. But this creature was ruining my chance of eating fresh tomatoes. At the rate it was eating, I was certain it was just a short matter of time before it moved on to the next tomato plant.  But I couldn’t touch it. It horrified me. Its busy mouth appeared full of huge teeth. I needed backup.

I called my son out to look. “Yuck, that’s ugly,” he said. “What is it?”

“I don’t know but we have to stop it.”

“You stop it,” he said. “I’m not touching it.”

Joe retreated to his computer to look up the bug, Googling on “worm” and “tomato.” Seems our marauder is a Horned Tomato Worm.  This picture came from http://grapeseedfarmproject.wordpress.com/.

Meanwhile, I called my husband, who saved the day—and the tomato plant. He removed the twig on which the segmented green monstrosity feasted, plunged it into the bird bath, and held it down. I admit to feeling a twinge of guilt about our taking a life. But at the same time, I hope the deceased has no relatives nearby.

Raider of the Lost Pears

Gazing out our kitchen window, my husband and I watch the resident groundhog approach our pear tree. The tree is just three yards from the window and abundantly laden with not-quite-ripe fruit.

But the neighborhood squirrels haven’t waited for ripe. They’ve been raiding the tree for three weeks. It’s infuriating that each time we step foot out back, there’s a squirrel in the tree. He chooses a pear, takes a few bites, and drops it to the ground.

Now beneath the tree, the groundhog finds a second-hand pear. He sits up on his haunches, holding the pear in his front paws and delicately takes a bite. I know he’s a garden pest but he looks adorable.  And perhaps he’s heard that our yard is a certified wildlife habitat; he looks totally relaxed. We watch as he takes a nibble and carefully chews, turning the fruit in his tiny paws. He obviously enjoys the pear for five minutes, then drops the core and moves closer to choose another partially eaten fruit. Nice of him to neaten up our yard. Nice cooperation between our wildlife.

Last year the squirrels and groundhog left only one untouched pear for us. We don’t mind sharing but that was insulting.  This year we are being proactive. We’re bringing not-quite-ripe pears into the house so we’ll get to eat some ourselves. The wildlife will have to learn to share.

Chance of Passing Thunderstorms

               Just as my husband cast out a line, a deep rumble sounded in the east. We looked east to see masses of blue-gray cumulus clouds. Thus far, it had been a hot, sunny day. There was just enough wind to make it pleasant on the dock where we sat.

                “Looks like Culver Lake is in for a storm,” I said. That larger lake lies east of us, across route 206, and, after all, most weather comes from the west. I figured the storm had bypassed us.

                Wrong.

                Within minutes we felt rain drops. My husband reeled in his line and began gathering things—towels, glasses, the newspaper—to leave the dock.

                “We’re in bathing suits. Are you afraid you’ll get wet?” I asked.

                He didn’t have to answer. I got my answer from the lightening streaked sky. Then huge drops of rain splattered everywhere. We ran for shelter and watched the trees bow and shake, the lake churn, and our neighbor’s house disappear in the mist and gloom.

                Ten minutes later—again from the east—sunshine lit the treetops. The lake, suddenly back into view, calmed down to reflect a clear blue sky.

Curious Fish – Majestic Birds

I lower my toes to test the water. It is comfortably warm, so I step in up to my calves. Immediately three fish—the largest about five inches long—come to check me out. I can’t identify most fish, but I think they must be sunnies. Sunfish are curious and will nibble at almost anything. Hoping they won’t try to nibble my feet, I check them out.

Bluegill - Wikipedia Image

These may be Bluegills.  I get a net, hoping to catch one and put it in a bucket so I can compare it to pictures in my fish book.

My feet and the net go back into the water. A bigger brother to the small fry shows up. He’s got to be eight inches long. I make a swoop with the net and he’s gone. I forgot that water refracts an image. I must have aimed for the wrong spot. Besides, my reflexes are much slower than his.

Great Blue Heron - US Fish & Wildlife Photo

Later, when both my husband and I are swimming, we look up to see two large, majestic birds flying slowly and gracefully toward us. Each with a wingspan of more than five feet, they dominate the sky. We hear the wind in their wings as they pass overhead and watch as they touch down at the near end of the lake. Now we can see the blue-gray feathers, long legs and necks of this Blue Heron pair. Just as there is only one swan couple on the lake, this is the only pair of herons. But I’d not seen the two together before. I consider it a lucky event whenever either makes an appearance.  After their brief visit in the shallows, we get an encore performance as the pair take to the skies, winging back up the lake.

Damselflies

“Look at this creature on my arm,” said my husband. He was floating in the lake, upheld by a purple noodle, a few feet from the dock. “It looks like a tiny dragon or a lobster.”

                               

I swam over. The bug on his arm—yes, definitely a bug—was tan, had six legs, and an incredible thin tail (or other body part?). It was no more than an inch long. I couldn’t identify it for certain. The bug soon jumped ship –or arm.

Later, we found another of those bugs on the dock. “But it’s dead,” said my husband.

I saw a couple of empty exoskeletons of dragonflies attached to the edge of the dock. I had researched them the previous year. Their bodies are also tan, but wider, shorter and shield-shaped. 

I began to wonder. Perhaps this “bug” is the nymph form of a damselfly? Although the damselflies look much like dragonflies in flight, the damselfly has a narrower tail and folds its wings when it settles. The dragonfly keeps its double wings open. But could the nymph stage of these related insects—both of order Odonata—be so different?

The next day I found two dozen empty exoskeletons clinging to the edge of the dock. And four pairs of delicate, electric blue damselflies flew in tandem, just skirting the water. “Those MUST be the empty shells of the damselflies’ nymph stage,” I told my husband.

A little research on the Internet proved the hypothesis. I remain amazed that those beautiful blue insects emerged from such an unattractive, wingless, and tinier shell. I have watched a Monarch Butterfly emerge from its chrysalis and then pump up its wings from two centimeters to their full length—truly an ordinary miracle. I hope someday to be lucky enough to see a damselfly emerge from its exoskeleton. Till then, I can’t do better than this You Tube Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QcY9LQhdzkA