November Notes

Berry-Go-Round, the plant carnival, comes of age this week with a rather spectacular 21st edition now available for your review at Beetles in the Bush. Thanks, Ted, for some inspiring reading!

While I was leaving a comment on someone's blog this morning, a tiny spider, possibly the smallest living thing I've ever seen with unaided eyes, dropped past my computer screen on a line. That incident reminds me to tell you that we have a spider post coming up soon here at Foothills Fancies! Inspired by Watcher's recent attention to arachnids (also here) and a lifelong admiration for these octopedal beings, I'm going to wade in with a few stories, and, most likely, a great many unanswered questions.

And the fate of this morning's spider? Before she landed, I grabbed her line to transport her somewhere less dangerous. The trouble with a half-millimeter spider is that it's tough to see where she lands, especially when she's swinging from a tether, but I always figure houseplants are a better survival opportunity than the pile of papers on my desk!

Tundra Tales and Mossy Trails

The extreme fall color we encountered during last month’s visits to Summit Lake might make you think the season for wildflowers there had ended. ‘Twas not so—at least two of summer’s wildflowers were hanging on in protected nooks. An occasional Alpine Avens, whose red leaves dominated the landscapes of the previous post, still retained green leaves and full golden bloom.

Photos taken September 9 and 18, 2009.


This composite, however, was the most obvious fall wildflower, displaying spots of bright yellow that caught the eye. (Perhaps Senecio fremontii, or a species of Ligularia? Consensus among the botany buddies is for the Senecio.)

The grasses were also well headed out and more obvious, as here, then they had been most of the summer. Unlike many other nonforested ecosystems, alpine tundra is not dominated by grasses. They appear, as do other wildflowers, as decorative elements in small patches, rather than the matrix against which showy flowers are displayed. In most of this tundra, the Avens, if anything, forms the background matrix. (What looks like a grassy matrix in tundra photos is usually Kobresia myosuroides, a small sedge that dominants the snow-free wind-swept areas.)

Of them all, we were perhaps most happy to get reacquainted with the tundra’s fall wildflower of note: Arctic Gentian. [Elsewhere known scientifically as Gentiana algida, we here in Colorado are asked to call this species Gentianodes algida.*] We never see this flower in summer; when it blooms, alpine autumn has arrived, and the first snows of winter are surely on the way.

*This is due to the efforts of Colorado’s most dedicated and prolific plant taxonomist/systematist of recent decades, Dr. William A. Weber, emeritus curator of the University of Colorado Herbarium in Boulder. Dr. Weber turned 92 or 93, I believe, this month, and his accomplishments are too numerous and impressive to list. He has trained and/or inspired generations of Colorado botanists. In addition to his work on the vascular flora, he is also the state’s leading lichenologist (to the best of my knowledge) and, in 2007, ventured into yet another field with the definitive Bryophytes of Colorado.

It’s a challenge for me, a gestalt taxonomist at best, to appreciate Dr. Weber’s revisions of the Colorado vascular flora, and I suspect out-of-state botanists are also challenged. Somehow the familiar Latin names come more readily. It’s like learning another language! Perhaps I exaggerate…

But one of the things for which I unequivocally appreciate Dr. Weber is that he is solely responsible for encouraging the National Park Service to designate Summit Lake Park as a National Natural Landmark in 1965 on the basis of its unusual flora, which he documented. The plaque reads: This site possesses exceptional value as an illustration of the National Natural Heritage and contributes to a better understanding of man’s environment.

The distribution map for this species in Colorado implies that it can be found at lower elevations than strictly tundra, even with a few plains counties apparently reporting it. Weber lists it as alpine and subalpine, and its height (or lack thereof) certainly makes it a good fit among alpine ankle-biters. Grass-like leaves enable it to hide unobtrusively among other plants all summer while they bloom profusely, then only when it has the field pretty much to itself does it show its abundant flowers.

More pictures and information on Arctic Gentian in Montana, at Southwest Wildflowers, and at the USDA Plants database. I've been macro-impaired of late, but you can find a very nice closeup at Pikes Peak Photo.

What about those Trails?

As pleasant as the gentians were, we were at Summit Lake Park to talk trails. The main trail to the Chicago Lakes Overlook is scheduled to be redone next season, so planning was in process on that. In addition, we talked about, and tried to line out a route for, a new trail closer to the lake, a major attraction for visitors.

This photo provides an overview of the area, with the main overlook trail at the left, and the parking area lower right. There is a trail from the parking lot to the lake, but visitors have also created a web of social trails in the area as they go for the views and explore the shoreline. What I’d like to point out in this photo, though, is the bare-looking area to the lower right of the lake. That’s the area we were trying to route a new trail through, to channel foot traffic and discourage wandering at will.

Here’s what the area looked like a little closer up. We tried to lay out a route that would avoid the perennially wet areas and impact a minimum of vegetation. But I’m a bit daft about cryptogams, and it seemed everywhere we tried to put a flag, the “bare” ground was thick with lichens and mosses. Tundra lichens are a special breed—most are species that dominate arctic ecosystems and aren’t seen down here in the lower 48 states, except at very high altitudes. So they’re special, at least to me.

Test your eye with this elk’s eye view. If this photo (Photo 1) were a vegetation quadrat (and I’m a little rusty on cover sampling), I’d say there’s no more than about 40% rock and gravel, about 20% vascular plants, and the rest is moss (almost blackish here) and soil lichens. (The green cushions, which look like moss, are actually "cushion plants," one of which—to confuse us further—is called moss campion.) Smack in the center of the above photo is a whitish wormy lichen called Thamnolia vermicularis. You’ll probably need to click to get a good look at it, or, better yet, visit it at Steve Sharnoff’s very useful site. He’s a way better lichen photographer than I am! Helpful hints for guessing cover are below, if you prefer.

Now that you’re oriented, try Photo 2. If it looks equally bare to you, consider that here I’d guess there’s only about 15% rock and gravel. The rest is ground lichens and mosses. Barely visible in the center of this photo is the brownish Solorina crocea.

Pretty cool, eh? And, to top it off, if you were a plant ecologist, you could spend 14-hour days in the field for weeks on end making these kinds of estimates!

The moral of the story, if there is one, is that there’s lots of life out there, if you look, and few good places for trails. Or, perhaps, that there’s really no way to build a trail without disturbing some little beings, especially if they are cryptogams!

p.s. I forgot to include one more photo. The dominant leaves here are those of the Netleaf Willow, Salix reticulata. This entire shrubby willow thicket, as you can see by my scale item, is not more than one inch tall (2.5 cm)... Two of the plants, northwest of the Chapstick, show opening capsules of willow fluff. In the tundra, unless you're paying close attention, you just never know what you're walking on!

Submittal to Berry-Go-Round plant carnival, edition number #21, now up at Beetles in the Bush.

Photo 1—how much rock? Photo 2—rocks are in fuchsia.

High Color: Alpine Tundra in Autumn

This little photo essay is the result of trips to Summit Lake, at the base of Mt. Evans, on September 9th and 18th, 2009. Fall was well underway, and no less spectacular than the aspens at lower elevations. It is now winter there at 12,800 ft (3,900 m). The Mt. Evans road is closed for the season, and you can no longer drive even as far as Summit Lake.






Above is the main trail from the parking lot to the Chicago Lakes Overlook. Next summer it will be replaced by a new trail on a better alignment, thanks to a grant from the State Trails program. The deep red color is provided by the leaves of Alpine Avens, Acomastylis (formerly Geum) rossii, a common tundra wildflower in the Rose Family.


This old social trail was revegetated just last summer, at least up to the point where bare gravel is showing. Somewhat to my surprise, placing chunks of tundra turf in the old trail bed has been very successful in obliterating this old scar.

Blogging for Vultures: International Vulture Awareness Day

Arizona introduced me to vultures when I was about 22 years old. In those days, Turkey Vultures (Cathartes aura) hadn't yet penetrated the habitats of upstate New York where I grew up, so I had to come west to make their acquaintance. Because they were new to me (as were many other living things in Arizona), they were automatically fascinating.

Parts of the desert landscape, too many parts I'm sure, were home to cows, and often some of those cows were recently deceased. Not until I reached the desert grasslands of southern Arizona, though, did I see vultures in numbers. I captured this photo back then, probably somewhere between Elgin and Fort Huachuca.

Unlike other raptors, Turkey Vultures are happy with a cold buffet, one that Nature quite regularly lays for them. Everything dies, and everything must be recycled, sooner or later, one way or another. With vultures, it's sooner. They may not always come first to the feast, but once they arrive, other feathered scavengers must move on, or be adept at dodging in for leftovers.

Unlike most birds, Turkey Vultures have a keen sense of smell as well as eyesight, quickly finding new sources of food. Their range expansion northward in recent decades has been attributed to climate changes, increases in open habitat relative to forests, protection from hunting, and, my personal favorite, opportunism as a result of our expanded highway system. More and better roads--> faster speeds--> more roadkill--> vulture habitat improvement! An ironic and unintended benefit from our continued environmental deterioration.

There's a nice article on range expansion here, as vultures return to Vermont. Turkey Vulture populations are apparently strong, unlike other vultures in other parts of the world. Thanks to the folks at IVAD, who are working to create awareness of conservation needs of these fascinating birds, without whose help we'd be hip-deep in rotting carcasses!

Check out more about vultures over at IVAD headquarters. See, especially, Tai Haku's contribution, which is loaded with excellent photos and a timely reminder of appropriate human funeral customs.

A Pepperweed Adventure

We ventured forth to Bergen Park on a lethal quest, with murder in our hearts. I was to be introduced to a new weed for our area, one that was infringing on the edge of parkland. Clearly it had to go.

Happily for me, though, Perennial Pepperweed (Lepidium latifolium) was not the only plant we encountered that day. Here the pepperweed, which was not yet blooming, consorts with Poison Hemlock (Conium maculatum), another exotic, in full flower.

This post doesn't qualify for Plant of the Week; perhaps I should call it a "plant of last month." Late July and most of August were absorbed, it seems, in the wink of an eye! Forgive me for taking you back to early July for this little botanical adventure.

The first few plants we uprooted seemed innocuous enough, but I latched on to one, near the base of a small ponderosa pine, that soon delivered an extensive root system. Perhaps the mother of all pepperweeds...

According to one reliable source,

"Perennial pepperweed is a highly invasive herbaceous perennial. It can invade a wide range of habitats including riparian areas, wetlands, marshes, and floodplains. It adapts readily to natural and disturbed wetlands. As it establishes and expands, the plants create large monospecific stands that displace native plants and animals."

So far so bad. The good news is that, in the course of an hour or so, the two of us seriously depredated this patch of pepperweed, leaving few, if any, survivors above ground to reproduce. The bad news is: it's perennial. As we wandered the area, looking for any surviving remnants, we noticed an odd distribution pattern: it seemed to be associated with the pines. Here it also shows a bit of a zonation pattern, with hemlock behind, pepperweed next to the pine, and smooth brome in the foreground. Lovely.

Clearly we were not in a pristine ecosystem by any means. This is a park that is rapidly gentrifying, and has been used for almost a century. We were also right next to a "park and ride" for the local bus system. In beautifying the area around their new parking lot they had, logically, planted "native" ponderosa pines from a local nursery. (Though why they didn't use the many native pine seedlings on site, I can't explain.) We speculated that the source of the infestation was the root balls of these imported trees. Upon being informed of its presence, the bus company promptly mowed the entire area. Problem solved, right? Well, maybe...

The Park Service (source above) adds:

"Application of the control plan must be repeated numerous times to obtain lasting management.... Sources of infestations should also be located and eliminated to prevent future infestations.... Mechanical control options are typically not effective. Very small patches can be controlled by hand removal if the process is repeated often for several years and plants are not allowed to mature."

Looks like we have our work cut out for us. We have a chance, with conscientious monitoring at this site, to prevent this weed from gaining a foothold that will overwhelm our ability to deal with it in the future. It's early, here, for this one. Perhaps we won a battle, but vigilance, eternal vigilance, is the key in this war. Fortunately, some of our aggressive invaders are not so intractable.

Here's the meadow at Bergen, looking back into the park (a ponderosa pine grove). The brown seedheads of a Smooth Brome monoculture are distinct, enabling its immediate recognition. Most of us live, around here, in a world of mountain meadows dominated by Smooth Brome (Bromus inermis), which was deliberately introduced to the United States and Canada in 1880 from Hungary and in 1896 from Russia. It is still being actively recommended as a pasture grass.

As we moved away from ground zero of the pepperweed infestation, thankfully, more welcome denizens of a montane meadow began to assert themselves. To my surprise, there were harebells (Campanula rotundifolia) still in bloom (long gone at my home elevation), blanket flowers (Gaillardia aristata), and more. I might have gotten more photos, but the presence of a favorite mountain grass thoroughly distracted me.

Parry Oatgrass, Danthonia parryi, is not only elegant, graceful, beautiful, and native, but distinctive and, thus, recognizable! (Always a desirable quality in grasses.) This year, with 3 more inches (7.6 cm) of rain than usual, I've been noticing it everywhere. I can only conclude I'd overlooked it before; I'd thought of it as somewhat rare, or at least unusual. I like it so much I once obliquely featured it in an article, and even put the illustration of it on my business card.

Here's what I didn't know about this intriguing grass: it is reported only from four states (MT, WY, CO, and NM) and two provinces (ALB and SASK). In other words, straight down the spine of the Rockies, primarily on the eastern side. It is secure in Alberta, according to NatureServe, and imperilled in Wyoming; other areas have not been assessed. Within Colorado, its distribution is a bit irregular, most likely due to inadequate collections. Parry Oatgrass is, for example, not reported from our county, where this site (the red triangle) is.

Although they're surrounded by Parry Oatgrass, especially this year, I suspect that few mountain residents would recognize this grass under any circumstances. Here it shares the foreground with harebells and other wildflowers, as is proper, but smooth brome lurks in the background. Even long-time mountain residents think they see pristine landscapes where, in fact, they are seeing agriculture.

——
Perennial pepperweed, according to the USDA Plants Database, has been introduced in about 20 states of the U.S. and six Canadian provinces. It is native to southeastern Europe and southwestern Asia and, according to the Park Service, "probably entered the U.S. prior to 1940 in a shipment of beet seed (Beta vulgaris) from Europe." In Colorado it is a "List B" exotic weed. Smooth Brome, however, is still being planted.

——
Submitted for edition #20 of the plant carnival, Berry-Go-Round.

Dune

Recall saltation:
Sand grains dancing on the wind
Can create mountains.

Under a restless wind
They jump, twist, and shudder on,
Overtaking pines.










It was my first visit to Great Sand Dunes; it’s funny how a word you haven’t used in polite conversation in decades (or ever?) effortlessly pops back into your vocabulary. As did “barchan” and “parabolic,” though the Park Naturalists didn’t seem to know what I was asking about.

How tiny the people are.
August 8, 2009

Three and Counting...

One visited while I was gone early this month and was dealt with by the Darling Husband... but Number Two arrived the day after I got back, on August 10th.

Here she is, awaiting relocation, and none too happy about it. If she only knew the reception she'd find at most homes in our area, she'd stop complaining.

The dogs found the first two, but I found the next one all by myself. Number Three of 2009 was curled up in the chickens' feed trough on Saturday, August 22. He didn't look too happy with me, though I certainly kept my distance, as did the chickens, until DH arrived to help corral him. He, too, found a new home not too far away.

You may click to enlarge, if you'd like.

As you've probably guessed, we have a nonagression treaty with rattlesnakes. I'm not finding that to be common, but I have encountered some folks who agree that they should be allowed, most often, to go about their business, as they will if we exercise a little restraint.

They're certainly unnerving, though. I'm never sure their intentions toward me and mine are as friendly as mine toward them. (Come to think of it, these two look a lot alike! Hmmm....)

How many more such surprises before cold puts a temporary end to their visits?? How much longer should I walk, mindful of their potential presence every time I'm outside?

Crotalus viridis.

A Summer Feast at the Berry-Go-Round

As you would expect from June, we have a feast for the eyes—and palate—at this month's edition of Berry-Go-Round. Visual appeal and tastebud tempters present themselves in our smorgasbord, and there's even a brain-twister or two to pique our curiosity and exercise our cranial muscles. Thanks, everyone, for bringing your specialties to our potluck!

When you visit these sites, please remember, it's kind to comment!
And if you are one of the sites mentioned here, please promote the
carnival by providing a link back. Thanks!

Whenever you're in need of a little something to whet your botanical appetite, you can check in anytime at A Plant a Day, where we're being introduced to delights from the central Great Basin. We'll pass on the Water Hemlock in favor of Wild Licorice, thanks just the same!

The Watcher takes us cruising through different altitudes in mid-June, following spring as it moves up the Wasatch Range from 5,000 ft, to 7,000 ft., and on up to 9,000 ft., where it's getting hard to cook (altitude, you know), so he throws in a touch of marital advice to season the pot. There's always a botanical kettle of stew bubbling at the Watcher's Suburban Stead, from Cottonwood seeds to wild geraniums and much much more.

Rabbit stew might end up on the menu at Phytophactor's, as he tries to balance the local backyard ecosystem. The Phactor introduced us to the sad malady of plant blindness a while ago, from which we're glad to say BGR lovers aren't suffering. He also introduces us to Magnolia, in a feature he calls "Know Your Genera," a very important skill in figuring out plants.

If you are having trouble with that, explore the perils of plant identification in Panama with Mary at Neotropical Savanna as she walks us thru the process of identifying a new plant, and her predicament reveals the pleasure of solving a puzzle, as well as how to go about identification.

The vegetable course picks up some floral notes at Kenton and Rebecca Whitman's Wild About Nature Blog. Foraging is apparently second nature to them, as they also bring us a review of the Forager's Harvest, by Samuel Thayer. Be careful out there, guys—and save some for the critters!

Hugh at Rock Paper Lizard offers a favorite grocery of that old weed-eater Euell Gibbons at Typha through the seasons, as well as a charming look at the much maligned Common Mullein.

Jeremy at Agrobiodiversity brings a favorite food of summer to the feast, with a post about corn (maize) traditionally kept by the Pawnee people. He mentions this story on the advantages of variegation, hoping someone else can provide us more detail.

Agrobiodiv is a also terrific trip target for tongue-twisting treats you've never tasted, like amadumbe. Over at Jeremy's friend's place, be tempted all over again, with a plate of ground nuts, soon to be better known as hopniss! Radix always seems to get at the root of things, and don't these look yummy! (No, these aren't the hopniss.)

The delightful and delectable Bluebunch Wheatgrass is species of the week at Elizabeth Enslin's table. Elizabeth is a lawn-hating recovering academic who learns to love grass, after years of fighting invasive grasses in lawns at Yips and Howls.

I can't resist cycads, even though they're rarely edible and often toxic. Tai haku introduces us to Zamia portoricensis, mother and child at Earth, Wind, and Water. You'll find links to all his cycad posts on this page.

Bobbie the Backyard Grower brings dessert, reminding us that Blueberry Benefits include anti-aging effects in addition to the other touted benefits of this dark luscious fruit.

Lastly, because you can't make a meal without killing something and to help us keep everything in perspective, Sarcozona reminds us of What We Killed Thursday at Gravity's Rainbow. While this particular species was declared extinct in the wild rather than completely extinct, the damaged herbarium specimen she found is apparently the only record of Erythroxlym echinodendron. Sadly, there don’t seem to be any reintroduction projects in place or even specimens being studied in botanical gardens.

That concludes our banquet today, thanks for coming. I hope you find it satisfying despite my tardiness in getting it together. Stay tuned to Berry-Go-Round headquarters for the location of next month's buffet. Meanwhile, it's summer—get out there and eat it up!

Bird on the Wire

I finally found the nest. The male Western Kingbird has been sitting on this wire directly over our driveway for a couple of weeks. Yesterday, en route to the mailbox, I paid a bit more attention, and discovered the female brooding in the crotch of the Russian-olive. Of course, she moved off before I could return with the camera.

‘Tis the season! We call it summer… and with all the rain we’ve had, everything is displaying glorious fecundity. We’ve already raised at least two broods of Magpies, so the Kingbirds have good reason to be watchful.

Yesterday, about the time of my discovery, the Magpies took great interest in the driveway area. The male Kingbird was vigilant, but I (par for the course) was concerned. I filled the suet feeder in hopes of distracting them. The male, sometimes accompanied by his mate, was more direct, and never tired of chasing off the Magpie parents. Baby Magpies, almost indistinguishable now from their parents, hung out near the suet bar, but couldn’t quite figure out how to make it deliver the goods.

One sortie by the nest defender led to a substantial chase; another time both parents got involved in a close situation involving body contact inside their tree haven. All seems well, but it’s difficult to tell just yet. The nest seems empty much of the time, but I did see the female leave it once today. I think she’s sitting as low as possible to remain hidden. The male is finding new spots on different wires from which to observe.

We, meanwhile, are enjoying the Leonard Cohen Live in London DVD, having opted to purchase that rather than concert tickets for his appearance at Red Rocks June 4th (rained out June 2nd). Once I was past the shock of seeing him, so aged after more than 30 years (aren’t we all!), I found I loved his later music and adapted readily to its infectious quality. Like a bird on the wire.

Rhymes with June

 

Not tune, or spoon… not even swoon or moon…

Sure feels like it anyway. I had in mind back-dating this post a week or two, as it's been somewhat clear these last few days, but the wetter side of Mother Nature is clearly not done with us yet, despite a few days break for Solstice Sun.

An impromptu field trip was rained out late Tuesday, but we went anyway yesterday and rain held off just long enough. Today we had a 50 minute downpour, complete with turn-off-the-computer celestial rumblings and cracklings, at 1 p.m. during which this picture was taken. Another deluge at 4:40 p.m., only lasted a few minutes, but now I see it’s back in business. I thought we’d changed from gentle rains of spring to our convectional afternoon thunderstorms, but today is beyond even the usual in that department. 

 

This all started, according to my notes, about May 22 in the evening. On the 26th, I wrote my boss something about 3 [days] down, 37 to go. Today I understand an ark floated by the office window. (Here’s a look at June 1st.) Water-cooler conversation focuses on “how green it is!” And it is, indeed, unusually late for it to be so green. Wishful gardener that I am, I keep wishing I’d planted seeds. My few tomato plants are waiting for a little sun and warmth.

June 2nd… same old, same wonderful old wet. I’m not complaining…

But I did quit trying to take pictures of it all, until today. All four corners of the house were pouring with runoff… all the rain barrels had already overflowed, but still it came. The small town in the valley below us has experienced repeated historic floods; I keep wondering if we’re in for it again.

But the plants aren’t complaining either. Here, prairie coneflower (Ratibida columnifera) like I’ve never seen it before. Covered with raindrops.

Don't Forget-- BGR #18 deadline

Submissions are due Sunday June 28th —at midnight Mountain Time—for the next edition of the Berry-Go-Round blog carnival, to be posted next week here at Foothills Fancies.

I've only received a few valid submissions (and a bit of clutter), so please send something, and you'll get a prime feature spot for your blog on the next edition! I'd prefer you NOT use the submission form, as that seems to be where the junk is coming from. See previous post for full instructions on submitting to this round.

Assuming we don't want to read about condo lodging, health care, or spyware removal in our plant carnival, please please forward links to your favorite plant posts—yours or someone else's— to help us out here! Drop a link in comments below, if you like!

Another Spring “Berry”

Berry-Go-Round #17, this month’s carnival of all things botanical, is now posted at Gravity’s Rainbow. Sarcozona has rounded up a nice selection of posts celebrating some of our favorite lifeforms—plants!

June’s edition of this carnival will be hosted here at Foothills Fancies. Please enter your favorite plant post(s), whether you wrote them or someone else did! You can email submissions to me, ffnaturalist at gmail dot com, post a link in comments, or use the handy submission form.

Honor Thy Planet

While we are discussing (previous post, a little bit) things you can do to help “the environment,” here’s one really simple one we can all tackle. Won’t cost anything, not more than a fraction of a second of your time, and will begin to remind us that a little respect is in order.

(Image from NASA, courtesy Wikipedia.)

Just this: Capitalize the name of your home planet. It’s Earth, sometimes Terra (Sol III if you prefer), and that’s its proper name. We all learned in grade school that proper names should be capitalized, so why don’t we all just practice it? I think it would remind us on a regular basis that we aren’t just dealing with an “it” here, we’re dealing with our home planet, that collection of astronomy and geology and biology—everything that makes up the ecosphere we all depend upon but seem to forget we need while we bounce around from the shopping mall to the grocery store in air-conditioned cars.

You’d probably like a more authoritative source than your local neighborhood blogger. Don’t take my word for it, please:

• Nine Planets.org (see, all the others are capitalized too!)
• NASA Welcome to the Planets
• Earth on Wikipedia
• And, just for fun the Earth disambiguation page on Wikipedia, to see all the ways you can use the name of your planet

Not to get all sermon-y on you, but Lovelock (?, just read this, now have to find the source again) has a point when he says it’s hard to work up some fight against invisible gases that are destroying faraway ice caps most of us will never get to see. Hawken hits the mark too (albeit in lowercase*), when he remarks:

 

We have an economy that tells us that it is cheaper to destroy earth in real time rather than renew, restore, and sustain it. You can print money to bail out a bank but you can't print life to bail out a planet.

So get personal with your planet. Know its proper name, use it, and learn a little bit about it. The Nature Blog Network is a great place to start exploring all the beings that make this such a miraculous place to live.

* Shouldn't really blame Hawken for this, it could have been the transcriber, or some editor.

Rainy Day Rosies

No blues around here, despite four days of rain and gray. Tough to wallow in depression when there’s company like this about. Yes, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak (Pheucticus ludovicianus) has made another appearance here at the fancy foothills home base! What a way to brighten the gloom! He showed up late Sunday afternoon, between downpours, and popped in again while Bee Lady and Flame were in attendance yesterday afternoon. Perfect timing!

Last night he shared the feeder with two pairs of Black-headed Grosbeaks, or hovered photogenically nearby in the ash tree waiting his turn. We sat out a bit this evening, but it’s downright chilly out there now, so in it is.

(Two consecutive days is a new record. Last year’s visit was a singular occasion.)

Downpours and thunder have alternated with gentle spring sprinkles since Friday night! All most welcome, not least for the weeding it affords. We  have green to rival the best of Ohio—or Ireland! After a droughty winter, it’s a wonder and joy to see the response of the plants to all this moisture. Today’s ritual photo is bright, compared to the weekend’s experience. No complaints.

Water is rising in Bear Creek, well past cafe au lait and on its way beyond dark chocolate mocha. Our Historian says the cottonwoods in Mt. Vernon Canyon, just upstream of town, are of a size to indicate flood times due, but so far, it all seems to be soaking in pretty well.

Extreme weather, they say, is what we can expect more of as nature gets even. Unusual events, too, most likely—the appearance of critters where we haven’t seen them before, and the disappearance of others as Earth seeks a new equilibrium.

As Paul Hawken, choosing to be optimistic, told a graduating class recently: “Basically, civilization needs a new operating system, you are the programmers, and we need it within a few decades.” Career-wise, no problem for new graduates: “The Earth is hiring!” And there’s a lot of work to do!

Dave at Osage+Orange shared a great interview with James Lovelock, who takes a different tack on optimism. He tells us that it’s already too late, but facing the challenges ahead will cause us humans to pull together like never before. “[S]o when I think of the impending crisis now, I think in those terms. A sense of purpose - that's what people want.”

Lovelock’s advice: "Enjoy life while you can. Because if you're lucky it's going to be 20 years before it hits the fan." Heckuva legacy to give to your children.

Sarcozona, who will be hosting Berry-Go-Round this week at Gravity’s Rainbow, has a great post on Advocacy (check her links), and a suggestion about kids: “have none or fewer”… I’d add, especially if you love children! We’re leaving them a tough uphill battle, and this is a conversation we need to start having. Sustainability? There are simply too many of us.

 

Meanwhile, for the time being, Earth offers wonders, daily, to each of us.  Every bird in the backyard, every flower and, yes, weed is another opportunity to share in the incredible that lies before and around us. We have only to look, and if we look, won’t we want to preserve? A parting quote from Hawken:  

Ralph Waldo Emerson once asked what we would do if the stars only came out once every thousand years. No one would sleep that night, of course. The world would create new religions overnight. We would be ecstatic, delirious, made rapturous by the glory of God. Instead, the stars come out every night and we watch television.

Scales and Tails

One of the things I notice about reptiles, in comparison to birds for example, is they’re so quiet! That probably contributes to the notion people have that they’re sneaking up on you, inspiring that zero at the bone sensation Emily Dickinson describes so well.

It also means we have to be more observant this time of year. I think of rattlesnakes now, every time I’m out in the field, trying to be more conscious of potential hiding places. Apparently a child was bitten last week on Morrison’s main street, so it’s officially snake season—and they can turn up anywhere.

For some reason, as I drove home Friday, I wasn’t thinking of snakes. My mind wandered, and I had to slam on the brakes near our driveway to avoid hitting a nice young 3-foot Bull Snake. Time to start carrying a stick in the car again for moments like this. I found an old stalk of yucca and spent a few minutes encouraging her to leave the right-of-way where she preferred to bask in peace. Should have just picked her up; the bite is harmless and not that painful, and she seemed mellow, but why court trouble? By the time I returned with camera a few minutes later, she had disappeared as silently as is usual. [No, I have no idea whether she was really female, but one has to choose, “it” is just impolite.]

Happily, another opportunity presented itself later in the afternoon. We were sitting in the backyard when the Husband picked up the sound we dread. Rattlesnake! Starbuck, the snake-pointer, heard it too; he went on alert, showed us the spot, and barked to let us know he was holding this intruder at bay. Husband checked, diagnosed “No, Bull Snake,” and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Once the dogs were inside, we got a closer look at my second bull snake of the year.

Bull Snakes (Pituophis catenifer) regularly imitate Rattlesnakes (here Crotalus viridis), and, as they look somewhat similar, many people confuse the two. To me, Rattlesnakes just look mean; something in those ridges over the eyes gives them a brooding dangerous look, like crocodiles. Chris, at Coyote Crossing, has a nice picture of one of these “sweet and noble animals.” Good story, too.

I like rattlesnakes too, long as they’re not sneaking up on me! I like to know where they are. Rattlesnakes are, of course, one of the few reptiles that let you know where they are. Sometimes. I bet 90% of the rattlers I encountered when I lived in Arizona never made a sound. My theory is that rattling, these days, is behavior that can cause you to lose your head, and  thus we humans have been deliberately selecting for rattlesnakes that prefer not to rattle. That’s why it pays to keep your eyes open too. Here's a prairie rattler recording, for reference.

Back to our visitor: What was it the Husband heard, if not a rattlesnake? Bull Snakes can mimic the rattle of their model by shaking their tails in dry weeds, but also by hissing. This was the first time I’d heard a wild bull snake make a sound so much like a rattler, so near perfect I didn’t believe DH at first but had to see for myself. As we discovered, hissing was the only “vocal” opportunity this snake had; an accident had cost him the last few inches of his tail.

As long as we can see the whole snake, or most of it, a little attention to detail increases our comfort. The overall gestalt that says Bull Snake includes a long streamlined body (as opposed to the stockier form usual in rattlesnakes), a narrow innocent-looking head blending into a neck of similar dimension (unlike the so-called “triangular” head and narrow neck of rattlesnakes), and tapering pointed tail (rattles blunt the tail tip, even in young rattlesnakes). Stocky is relative. Bull snakes are our biggest snake here in Colorado, so they can get very hefty when they reach a length of 5  or 6 feet (1.5 m or more). The girth of this one was probably 7 or 8 inches (17-20 cm). A rattlesnake that big around would be much shorter, maybe 3 to 4 ft (1 m). Of course, rattlesnakes’ eyes also have vertical pupils, unlike the round ones in the mimics, but do you really want to get face-to-face with one to check that feature?

Behavioral cues contradict visual evidence. Wild Bull Snakes may be harmless, but they’re determined to make you believe they’re dangerous villains. They can hiss, “rattle,” coil and strike in very aggressive fashion when cornered. Here he’s got his neck pulled back warning of a fast strike that will make you jump no matter how cool you are. Too often, such tricks get them killed, eliminating the ecosystem services they provide, such as rodent control, and, I’m told, rattlesnake control.

Most people are willing to believe any patterned snake is a rattlesnake.  This little baby Yellow-bellied Racer (Coluber constrictor mormon) was found at the local elementary school. They called us at the museum: “we’ve got a baby rattlesnake, help!”
These guys are even called “pugnacious” in the guidebook, so it’s easy to believe, again, that you’re dealing with a dangerous predator. Even at 15-18 inches (+/- 40 cm), this little fellow was a handful. Jace at Nature Journals describes the rattlesnake-mimicry racers will perform. I’ve never seen them tail-buzzing myself, but then I’ve never tried to confront one in the wild as he describes in his last paragraph. For a nice collection of photos of juvenile and adult racers visit California Academy; the adults are completely different. After our photo-op, we returned this little guy to a safe place a little farther from the school.

Here’s the real deal. A baby Western or Prairie Rattlesnake (Crotalus viridis) looks about the same as the adult and can vary in color from gray-brown, as here, to yellow or greenish. This baby has recently had a big meal.

Diagnostically speaking, note the narrowness of the neck compared to the head, and the black tail near the rattles.

The rattlesnake I encountered at the chicken coop last summer was a clear green. Just lovely… as long as I knew where he was. Thankfully, that one did rattle at me. To this day, I still expect to see him every time I go out there, now that it’s spring.

By the way, a good resource for Colorado reptiles and amphibians is the Colorado Herpetological Society, especially their identification pages, essentially an online field guide. Extensively updated since my last visit, it’s a great site.

Live at the Bear’s Lair

On our second trip to Lair o’ the Bear last week, we never made it to the jelly lichens, but we did get a good look at two beaver dams and dozens of wild bloomers.

A main attraction was the Mountain Ball cactus (Pediocactus simpsonii), in full bloom on a rocky bend in the trail. I think this is the best looking cactus we have in our area.

This garden-like view of wildflowers on a dry slope includes Sand Lilies (Leucocrinum montanum) in white and Oregon Grape (Mahonia repens) in bright yellow on a background of fringed sage (Artemisia frigida).  

 
Here’s a close-up of a Sand Lily. In these spring plants, the ovary is below ground level, so the pollen tube has a long way to go to reach it. The seeds mature underground and later get pushed out onto the surface where they can germinate. 

Short’s Milkvetch (Astragalus shortianus) is about the earliest of our many milkvetches. Its two-tone flowers are distinctive, but it’s the timing of bloom that helps, with other species of milkvetch not ready this early. (This year “early” is coming a few weeks late; the sand lilies should have been gone by now.)

The Lair is a riparian park, as we’ll explore more tomorrow, and shady spots near the stream are great locations for Canada Violet (Viola canadensis). Or maybe not—looks like Bill Weber now calls it V. scopulorum, V. canadensis being an eastern species. There’s also a similar species, V. rydbergii. I didn’t diagnose, so perhaps I should just call it Violet to be safe! (Other sources consider both of these subspecies of Canada Violet.)

Golden Smoke, Corydalis aurea, is easier, as it’s the only representative of its family we’re likely to see in our foothills. It’s related to the eastern Dutch-man’s Breeches, and to Bleeding Hearts in gardens, and has the unusual flowers typical of the Fumariaceae.

 

Serviceberry, one of my favorite shrubs, is a special treat. It’s not quite as abundant, it seems to me, as others in the Rosaceae, which sometimes seems to be our dominant woody family around here. Amelanchier alnifolia, also known as Saskatoon Serviceberry, is one of many species native to and widespread in North America; we also have Utah Serviceberry, A. utahensis, which has shorter petals. It’s called serviceberry because it’s so useful—tasty fruits look a bit like blueberries and are eaten fresh or dried by most tribes, as well as anglo settlers who came later. From pemmican to pies, berries have been prized, but the wood and twigs were also used in basketry, arrow shafts, and tools or toys. This attractive shrub is serviceable in the landscape as well, and often available at nurseries.

Thin-leaved Alder (Alnus incana subsp. tenuifolia) is a common riparian tree at this park. Its pleated leaves were just unfolding on these twigs over Bear Creek. The female inflorescences look like tiny pine cones. They become woody with age, making the tree instantly recognizable! Here a male strobilus and several females cling to a branch where new inflorescences are just budding out. (Click to enlarge.)

I tried to capture the Pasqueflowers (Pulsatilla patens) that were everywhere in the park, but somehow failed to get a good shot of any of them. Bee Lady’s husband Dave, an excellent photographer, really focused on them, with great success. I’ll let you know when I talk him into having his own blog!

  Coming soon!
  Next up, some of the critters
  we saw during this visit. Bee  
  Lady made a wonderful guide;
  she knows all the park’s
  secret places. 

Morning Scold; Power of the Internet

Yesterday I received constant scolding from the magpies when I went to feed the chickens. As I bent to fill a feeder, I heard clumsy flapping above me. No wonder it was so noisy! Three baby magpies just over my head, holding tight to the branches of their chosen security tree. Must be the first day or so out of the nest.

Same thing today… it’s bad enough to get scolded by Orioles when the hummingbird feeder runs dry, but now this! Here are 13 seconds of magpie scolding for your listening pleasure. I was lucky—my cat just looked at one of the babies strolling on the ground, and the parents chased him straight out of the yard. Parent on the right, babies hidden among branches in photo left. Can you see the 3rd one below the others?  

Because the babies are huge, and closely resemble the parents, you might want a couple tricks. I have two: the shorter stubby tail compared to the adult’s flowing one, the only long-tailed bird in most of the U.S.* And baby lips, nicely displayed in this portrait of baby #2. 

As far as I can tell, the parents aren’t feeding them, just keeping an eye out that they’re safe.** The babies are trying to figure out the sunflower and suet feeders.

In fact, it’s a complete zoo out there. Feathers zooming around everywhere, yellow, orange, pretty amazing. Here’s a quick inventory, some of which will have to be added to the May bird list.

To be honest, some of them aren’t zooming, they’re walking around looking for whatever it is towhees and doves and such look for.

Right now, in the yard:

• Bullock’s Oriole, 2 males, 1 female
• Black-billed Magpie, mom, dad, 2-3 kids
• Scrub Jays, 2
• American Goldfinch, male
• Spotted Towhee, 3
• House Finch
• Mourning Dove, 2
• English Sparrow, male
• Broad-tailed Hummingbird, female
• Common Grackle, 1

Darling Husband, just back from Moab a few days ago, was just commenting on how nice it is to be back amid all our birds! (And we still have some green on the hills, too!) I guess the desert was pretty quiet compared to our yard this time of year.  

Power of the Internet

Tuesday I had a powerful reminder of how not-alone one is online. Sometimes it seems pretty quiet here in blog-land, but within hours of posting the Jelly Lichens story, two interesting things happened. First, I got an email from the lichen curator who discovered the new lichen I mentioned. Very cool of him to stop by, but I can’t figure out how he found out I mentioned him. Second, in attempting to figure out how he discovered the post, I googled “jelly lichens,” and, imagine that, my post came up #5! Right after something called arkive.org and the USDA Plants profile (who knew they had lichens!), and ahead of my favorite lichen site, Lichen.com. I’m still baffled.

 

So, just remember, next time you google some obscure term or phrase, you could end up at the blog of some highly authoritative fancier of the item in question!

——
* According to my book, if you're in Texas, you might also get to see the Scissor-tailed Flycatcher; the Fork-tailed Flycatcher occasionally visits Florida. The rest of us will have to make do with Magpies. By the way, "long" in this case means longer than the body.
** Wrong again; the parents are still feeding them. Finally witnessed it late yesterday. See what I mean, authoritative! [grin]

In Search of Jelly Lichens

Last week I took advantage of TWO opportunities to play hooky and go looking for jelly lichens at my favorite location. It had rained over the weekend, so I knew they’d be happily soaking in the humidity.

Bee Lady and I also reveled in springtime humidity as we enjoyed the sights along the way to the best cliff in Lair o’ the Bear. Spring is brief in Colorado, making it very important to play hooky this time of year! 

I hadn’t visited for a while, so had to check every cliff to find the right one, way out at the west end of the creekside trail that was once the main road from Morrison to Evergreen.

Maybe this cliff, with a vertigo view from shady-mossy base to sunny exposed rocky-top?

No, lots of neat things to see, including this little spring beauty growing in a cushion of moss—but still not the right cliff!

Was it this cliff, with the Violet-green Swallows cavorting above?

No, but at the base of it, in a crevice, Bee Lady spotted a Woodrat nest, composed (on the outside at least) mostly of pine boughs and cones.

This also turned out to be a good place to see the unfurling croziers (love that word!), or fiddleheads, of new ferns. I guessed brittlefern, Cystopteris fragilis, based on later specimens, but as these were too young (for me) to tell, they might also be Woodsia.

Eventually we reached the proper cliff, where we could see not only the sought-after jelly lichens, but the wonderful Sticta, and verdant masses of spikemoss, Selaginella. The jelly lichens were soft and slimy from recent rains and lingering rivulets in the cracks and crevices of the cliff. Here a large Umbilicaria (lichen) under the ring, with Selaginella to its right, and masses of true mosses surrounding.

By now, my camera was acting up, so I failed to capture good examples of the very critters I’d come to see. Properly called gelatinous lichens, these guys are so named because they lack the firm texture of more typical foliose lichens and have a characteristic translucence. They remind me of the “tree ears” we sometimes encounter in Chinese restaurant dishes, but those are actual fungi. Gelatinous lichens are unstratified or only partially so, lacking the distinct algal layer, and sometimes the firm lower and/or upper cortex found in the “typical” lichen (if there is such a thing).

They look so different when they’re dry! This one is, I believe, a species of Leptogium, with a white tomentum visible on the lower surface. Perhaps L. saturninum, but confirmation will have to await another trip. With a hand lens. For those who prefer common names, LoNA* calls this one bearded jellyskin.** (Ugh!)

In related news, gleaned from the Nature Blog Network’s blog, President Obama now has a lichen, Caloplaca obamae, named after him. Congratulations, Mr. President! This is also a great story about the citizen scientist, Kerry Knudsen, who discovered this new lichen, proving again that dedicated people can make a real contribution, if they just pay attention to what they see!

* LoNA is Lichens of North America, the coffee table book of lichens, by Brodo, Sharnoff, and Sharnoff. Highly recommended; you can visit it online, though, at Lichen.com.

** Jellyskin is the name used here for the entire genus of Leptogium, as opposed to the name “jelly lichen” given only, in this book, to species of Collema, another common jelly lichen. This is the only book I know that assigns common names to lichens; very few lichens have real common names.

Life is Metallic

  Life Photo Meme is a weekly challenge
  to post a photo of something alive that
  meets a certain criterion, giving us an
  opportunity to think outside our normal
  posting topics and, often, learn something new! Metallic, this week's prompt, is easier to find in beetles than in plants! I've always admired that color I call "bug green," that was popular in cars a few years back.

Today, we'll venture into birds, where metallic plumage is an accessible option. It turns out there are three basic techniques birds use to create the display colors we appreciate especially during breeding season each year: pigment-based colors, structural colors, and cosmetic colors. Among the pigments, carotenoids produce yellow, orange, and red (as they often do in butterflies, flowers, and, well, carrots); melanins produce browns, blacks, and grey, not too spectacular sometimes, but forming the background against which the showier colors are displayed.

Melanins are also critically involved in the production of structural colors, serving as layers in thin-film reflectors or to absorb incoherently backscattered light from reflective keratin and air matrices (Prum 1999, as cited in Shawkey & Hill, 2005). Nano-scale reflective tissues, they add, usually produce UV-blue, white or iridescent coloration.

I thought sure the Black-billed Magpie above would be happy to demonstrate, but he only looks blue. He/she posed in the sun this a.m., giving a little better show.

Because his/her normal magpie iridescence was not adequately displayed in these photos, I turned to a feather source nearer at hand, if less exciting: our mixed-breed flock of domestic poultry. Beaks, here, being a Black Australorp rooster, was willing, and iridescence, or metallic hues, does seem to be best displayed in black feathers. Even this close-up can't do justice to the structural colors created by the intricate design of feathers. George refused to come out from under the juniper to pose, but I wish you could see his iridescence, not confined to blue-green, but venturing into mahogany and rust.

Here's a Partridge Rock hen, capturing a little of the mahogany color George displays so well, along with the traditional iridescence, all against the melanin background feather pattern, somewhat more subdued.

For comparison, a Buff Orpington hen demonstrates complete lack of metallic iridescence. According to Shawkey & Hill, some carotenoid displays (notably in the American goldfinch), though pigment based, depend upon white structural tissue to achieve the brilliance we expect in their vivid yellow.

And cosmetics? As we might expect, they are substances (from oil glands or soil, e.g., iron oxides) externally applied by birds to their feathers, to boost their appearance and attractiveness to potential mates. Parrots and pigeons, among others, use this approach.

All these techniques for creating display colors in birds have a metabolic cost, and must also have an adaptive advantage as payback, without which our world would be less metallic and far more drab.

——
Shawkey, Matthew D. and Geoffrey E. Hill. 2005. Carotenoids need
structural colours to shine. Biol. Lett. 1, 121–124; doi:10.1098/rsbl.2004.0289 Published online 16 May 2005.

Meriwether Lewis and the May Bird List

Each spring, we expect a fairly regular complement of avian arrivals and passers-by. Every now and then though, we're surprised by something vastly out of usual list of guests we've come to anticipate. Tuesday was such a day, when a bird appeared that, to my knowledge, had only visited us once before, many years ago.

There are birds that make us laugh out loud—outrageous combinations of color that somehow suggest frivolity. My first experience of a Western Tanager was like that—what can you say about a bird with so many colors?

Tuesday, I looked out to see this Lewis's Woodpecker perched above the suet feeder. He sat just long enough for me to get the camera and snap off one quick shot. Red face, glossy green-to-black back, pink sides, and a grayish-white collar. I've described him to a couple of people since, and they also seem impressed by his color, even only in description. I wish the photo did him (or her, apparently similar) justice.

I can only imagine that Meriwether Lewis was equally surprised at this bird, among the many new and surprising discoveries made on his famous trip in 1803-1806. Here's his description of this critter new to science. Originally Picus torquatus ("woodpecker with a necklace"), it is today named Melanerpes lewis, or "Lewis's black creeper."

Lewis's name also rests in a couple western wildflowers—Blue flax (Linum lewisii), and our alpine Pygmy Bitterroot (Lewisia pygmaea), a cousin of Montana's state flower of the same genus. I have a nagging suspicion there are many more plants and critters bearing his name, but they're not popping into my head. Please weigh in if you think of others!

The May Bird List (in progress)

• Chukar (exotic, has been here more than 2 weeks)
  
• American Kestrel (courting near the backyard, nesting at the neighbors')
  
• Red-tailed Hawk (soaring nearby)
  
• Golden Eagle (soaring over)
  
  
• Rock Pigeon
  
• Mourning Dove
  
• Broad-tailed Hummingbird (just back)
  
• Lewis's Woodpecker
  
• Downy Woodpecker
  
• Northern Flicker
  
• Western Scrub-Jay
  
• Black-billed Magpie
  
• American Crow
  
  
• Violet-green Swallow
  
• Black-capped Chickadee
  
• White-breasted Nuthatch (until last week; hoping he returns)
  
• American Robin
  
• European Starling
  
• Green-tailed Towhee
  
• Spotted Towhee
  
  
• American Tree Sparrow
  
• White-crowned Sparrow
  
• Dark-eyed Junco: still here, as of last week, but disappearing
  
• Black-headed Grosbeak (just back last week)
  
• Red-winged Blackbird
  
• Western Meadowlark
  
• Bullock's Oriole (just back last week)
  
  
• House Finch
  
• Pine Siskin
  
• House Sparrow
  

Can I count the Lazuli Buntings a neighbor saw a couple days ago? Guess not.

At any rate, that's about 30 species, thanks to some overlap in the season. I'll have a post coming soon on new birds from two visits to Lair o'the Bear this week, along with an assortment of wildflowers we saw there.

The Ants Go Marching

This one's for Honor an Invertebrate Day at Life Photo Meme. A bit late, just in the nick, in fact!


Spilled coffee grounds? was my first reaction when I caught this brownish residue out of the corner of my eye one morning, walking out to feed the chickens. It didn't take long to realize the error—this was life on the move. We had one of these irruptions* inside the house late last summer, possibly the same species, in a breezeway newly converted to civilization.

* An irruption is a sudden explosion in population, or sometimes a shift in presence in a given area, so this is the wrong word, but I've yet to think of a better one. The event last fall was a bit different, a true irruption of sorts, as winged ants were attempting to strike out to colonize new areas.

It wasn't long before I realized my error—this wasn't moving out, this was spring cleaning! (You needn't be surprised that I didn't recognize the phenomenon; it's rare around here!) I did manage (being close to the house) to press the Colorado quarter into duty as a scale object this time, but you'll have to click to see subtle activity along the edge of the paver in this photo.

My guess was the ants had chosen this fine day to remove fallen comrades from the nest. A long winter had, no doubt, induced a fair complement of colony mortality, and "ceremonies," however perfunctory, were in order.


This behavior is called necrophoric (from roots for dead and carrying) and is, like most events in the life of an ant or an entire colony, mediated by chemicals. If you smell like a dead ant, you are presumed to be a corpse and can expect to be treated accordingly. In fact, according to the researchers, "It was soon established that bits of paper treated with acetone extracts of Pogonomyrmex [ harvester ant] corpses were treated just like intact corpses" by worker ants. Separation of components of the extract later revealed (again through "behavioral assay," that is the workers' response to test chemicals) that long-chain fatty acids, in particular oleic acid, were the critical substances.

According to Hölldobler and Wilson:
"The transport of dead nestmates is one of the most conspicuous and stereotyped patterns of behavior exhibited by ants. ... Thus the worker ants appear to recognize corpses on the basis of a limited array of chemical breakdown products. They are, moreover, very "narrow-minded" on the subject. Almost any object possessing an otherwise inoffensive odor is treated as a corpse when daubed with oleic acid."

Even live worker ants were carried to the refuse pile "unprotesting" after being treated with oleic acid. "After being deposited, they clean themselves and return to the nest." And the penalty for inadequate cleaning is... you guessed it! Another trip to the refuse pile. A whole new concept of the living dead. Perhaps I should have saved this post for Halloween.

Sure enough, the next morning, the pavers were littered with broken, immobile ant bodies. I failed to capture the "after" shot before morning breezes blew the departed insects away.

[Forgive my delay. The actual date of this event was April 11, 2009.]

Good Day for a Walk

What a lovely spring day! This is the kind of wet drippy days we have too few of here on the Front Range. Too bad I have to leave to report for jury duty in an hour; it's perfect for visiting the jelly lichens and beaver dam at Lair o'the Bear just up the creek.

We've had a couple of these cool days lately. The year's moisture now sits at about 4.5 inches (11 cm), and plants are finally popping. Last week's cool weather seemed to hold the wild plum in check, then a few warm days allowed them to burst forth in fragrance. We're supposed to have more warm this week, with a small prospect of another wet day or two for the weekend. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Mentor, verb

The dictionary insists it's a noun, but we often use it these days as a verb. This post is a little tribute to a mentor who made a huge difference in my life by inspiring, at a relatively early stage, an enthusiasm for field ecology: Dr. Paul D. Kilburn. I was a biology major in an upstate New York college when a friend suggested a summer field excursion to Colorado. We went, and four weeks later, though I didn't know it at the time, I was bound to become a Coloradoan.

Three of those weeks were spent learning the Colorado flora: identification, montane ecology, and alpine ecology at one week each. In Rocky Mountain National Park! That foundation formed my career in the 1970s and '80s, and my passion in these later decades, though sometimes rarely exercised.

But this isn't a nostalgia trip, this is to tell you what Paul has accomplished now! After ten or twelve years of struggle (through the 1990s), I got busy and abandoned our joint attempt to save an important chunk of native tallgrass prairie in the northern part of our county. But the foundation was laid, and Paul persisted. Last week he made some significant headway, almost 10 million dollars worth, toward protecting and restoring what's left of an important grassland ecosystem. Here's Paul, right, with Dave Buckner, ten years ago today, in a nice chunk of prairie that was purchased by City of Boulder Open Space and is now protected. Dave's a consultant with whom we launched a 5-year grassland study—paid for by the aggregate interests—of the native warm-season grasslands at Rocky Flats.

This photo shows the Chemist, left, and Paul, right, in July 1999 with the Developer who knows his chunk of this well preserved prairie is going to be very remunerative for him, as it is situated at the intersection of two important highways, soon to be a major beltway bringing traffic to his door—if development interests prevail. (Here we bless the economic "downturn" for breathing space.)

In 2001, Paul (far right) led this field trip to the site of a proposed oil well within the boundaries of a portion of the grassland that had been placed in a "Stewardship Trust" by the State of Colorado (which owns Section 16, a state school section). One of the uses for the $10 million will be to purchase certain mineral rights in the Rocky Flats area so that other parts of this grassland won't be turned upside down in a quest for... gravel, bluestone aggregate. Happily, most of Rocky Flats, once a weapons plant, is now a wildlife refuge, so areas inside the fence are protected from pretty much everything except mineral owners and weeds.

Paul's been fighting the good fight, as well as leading groups to collect native seeds for revegetation and pull invading weeds, ever since those early days. Why does he do it? I think it's so his grand-children—and yours—can enjoy sights like this! (Tallgrass prairie in fall, looking toward the foothills.)

Fall color in "turkeyfoot," big bluestem grass (Andropogon gerardii), looking across Section 16 and Boulder's Jewell Mountain Open Space.

Flicker Love

Perhaps the loudest "sign of spring" lately is provided by the Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus). Although most of our local birds have been courting, some vociferously, the Flicker takes his job seriously. We have a pair, and it seems as if there's a pair for every couple of houses in the neighborhood. Or "our" pair gets around.

Flickers conduct their courtship and territorial displays with two means of getting attention: calling and drumming. They're large birds, so they can make a lot of noise. It's tiring, I'm sure, so he needs to hit the suet feeder regularly to refuel, as he is here.

Here's a small sample of the morning wake-up call we got at 7:40 a.m. Sunday. Repeat at regular intervals for full effect. This drumming is especially impressive because it's taking place on the metal stovepipe on our roof, which means you can hear it inside as well as outside the house. Beats beating on a hollow log, he says.

I like the test thunks that precede the drumming, as if he's checking the surface for proper resonance. Here's what the 8 seconds of drumming above looks like. (You can click to see these better if you like.) Bee Lady said "it's so fast!"; looks like about 20 percussive events per second, when I zoom it in.



Part 2 of the Flicker courtship ritual is calling. Both of these noises serve to attract mates and provide territorial warnings to interlopers. I was criticized a few years back for calling bird songs noise, so you be the judge on this one. Do we want to call that a song? It looks like this:



Add that to everyone else out there advertising, and it ends up being quite a delightful spring cacophony. Especially when you begin to figure out the individual voices. Here's a taste of just two voices (Note: 4 mb file), the staccato Scrub Jay squawk over a distant Flicker call.



——
For all this, you may thank an old friend (we'll call him TrailMeister, or TM for short) who reappeared this year to chide me for not recognizing the call of a Kingfisher. (I mean, how often do I see/hear a Kingfisher? GMAB.) But I had a digi-recorder handy, so I started sending him little challenges, and... well, here we are. Now that I've figured out how to post these little clips, you can expect more of them!

In fairness, I must add that The Chemist sent me this link some weeks ago, where I went to find out what Kingfishers sound like. The Chemist recommended listening to rattlesnakes as a dog-training exercise. That's another story, but may well have reminded me that my recorder would work for other than its intended purpose.

Signs of the Season

After Saturday's steady drizzle, yesterday dawned clear and bright. At 7:40 a.m. the first Hummingbird of the season showed up, hovering where the feeder should have been, where he remembered it was last year. We jumped up from our coffee, and in minutes, it was found, filled, and back up. He (a male Broad-tailed Hummingbird) returned later to check successfully, a sure sign that spring is here.

You may be wondering what he's doing this morning, as we woke to this—another world of white. About 4 inches (10 cm) of wet snow out there.

Here's how Darling Husband started his work day.

The Flicker attacked an icy block of suet; Juncos and Towhees and Finches looked for bird seed scattered on the ground, and the Hummer stayed close to his chosen food source for the morning. Yours truly was not very successful at capturing him in pixels, but I'm posting these photos anyway, just so you know he's okay.


Between sips of sugar-water, he rested near the house on a feed bucket, or out in the branches of the ash tree, seemingly unperturbed by the snow, as long as he was fed and his feathers retained the necessary fluff-factor. Then there were two, politely sharing the only visible food in the area. No squabbles on a day like this, weather a common, if temporary, enemy.

Two hours later, white skies have lifted to reveal landscape features, sun peeks through and helps trees and bushes begin to shed heavy loads of snow, and temps climb to 10 degrees (6C) above the freezing zone. All is on its way to being well, as another of our spring cycles winds to a close.

Despite my basic faith that nature can take care of itself, I worry. Even short-lived tough times can have ill effects for some, if not for the system. But I hear the Flicker calling—and drumming—his reassurance; even he knows tough times don't last.