Sunday, August 8, 2010

Teal Pond Getaway

A short path through the over-hanging cedar branches leads to one of my favorite places in the University of Wisconsin-Madison Arboretum - Teal Pond. The heavy tree canopy dims even the midday sun. Little groundcover survives the shade. A permanent pier sits at the path's end, supported by sturdy aluminum poles. Standing on the weathered planks, my eyes take a moment to adjust to the bright sunshine after leaving the shadows of the cedars.

If I had a stone, I could easily heave it the 100 feet across the water to the other side, about the distance from first base to home plate. Ash, alder, and dogwood ring the pond, creating a pocket of natural silence around the water. The faraway mosquito-like whine of traffic on the Beltline (US Highway 12/18) blends with the buzz and hum of the pond's inhabitants. I like best the escape from the bustle of city sounds -- wailing sirens, blaring horns, the jarring sounds of road construction. All fade at the edge of the pond.

The Arboretum's location within Madison makes it a much-used recreation waypoint - bicyclists have easy entry to numerous close-by bike trails. The long entrance road, with its 25 mph speed limit, sees little vehicular traffic and runners and walkers favor it. Joggers have worn a narrow path into the grass on either side of the pavement.

Today, a Sunday, groups of multi-colored spandex-clad cyclists pass me on their way out of the Arboretum. Runners in twos and threes, jog along the long winding access road. This morning, the humidity hangs heavy in the air; the dew-laden grass soaks the tips of my shoes. No one joined me on the trails to Teal Pond, though.

Green Darner dragonfly
Rarely have I encountered other people here. Within these moments of solitude, I observe and, for a short time, sink uninterrupted into the goings-on. The pond bustles with activity and sounds. Dragonflies, the largest a green darner, lead the fast-paced charge, bouncing across the water's surface with a purpose known only to them.

Occasionally, they come to rest, a brilliant cherry-faced meadowhawk alighting nearly at my foot. A butterfly, its jet black wings be-jeweled with red spots, rests on a willow leaf for a moment's respite. Skimming just beneath the pond's surface, a pair of Western painted turtles lazily moves amongst the spidery aquatic grasses. A muskrat glides into an unseen den amongst the bulrush, leaving a barely perceptible wake; he heads out minutes later and passes a female mallard dipping for edibles. Green frogs calling to one another with their distinctive loose banjo string twang punctuate the background buzz. Cicadas sound the top notes of this natural symphony; the hum of a thousand insects carries the base notes.


Cherry-faced meadowhawk dragonfly
I could spend hours here watching, lost in the moment. For a brief time, it feels as though I am a part of this bustle. Everywhere I turn, there is some wonder to observe. My presence is neither a threat nor a disturbance to the pond’s inhabitants.

I try not to look at my watch but before I know it, an hour has passed. I don’t think the muskrat and turtles hear the sigh that passes resignedly from my lips. Its time to head back …… the hustle and bustle of my world awaits me.

All images by CartoGeek

Friday, July 2, 2010

Bees, Wasps and Aliens

Throughout my life, bees, wasps and I have had an uneasy relationship. The presence of stinging insects usually kicks in a healthy flight-or-fight response, one that only as an adult I have come to control.

My father’s honeybee hives sat at the edge of the woods, near the property line, facing a large expanse of “pasture” – a grassy field – that never saw a grazing animal. As a teen, it was my job to mow the ¼-acre plot.

Sitting atop the riding mower, I circled the field, spiraling towards the center. With no trees or bushes to obstruct their flight paths, the bees followed long low track lines across the grass. Sooner or later, one would collide with me, catching in my hair, unable to free itself. My immediate response was to bat at it, crushing it but not before it had inflicted several stings. (They say that honeybees sting only once, don’t believe it!) I lobbied hard for hazardous duty pay to no avail.

My current yard is too small to house honeybees but it is home to an interesting array of tenants. Wrens occupy the age-old birdhouse once more and robins fledged three babies in a hanging plant basket on the front porch. Bugs of all sorts are not strangers.

One evening, two large insects hovered over a maple log set on end in my driveway. These bugs were unlike anything I had ever seen. Six needle-thin legs supported the three-inch long bodies, dappled in brown and yellow. Each appeared to have a long black “tail” protruding more than three inches from its abdomen. This had the menacing look of a stinger to me. The sight caused that old knee-jerk reaction; I retreated behind the metallic safety of my SUV. The visitors, though, weren’t particularly interested in me I discovered. The focus of their attention was the log and with each passing minute, the feelings of uneasiness faded. From my initial vantage point about 10 feet away, I circled the log, moving closer and closer, observing them from every angle. Fascination and curiosity had gained the upper hand – these creatures were strange and new. What would they do next?

Amazingly, one began to “drill” a hole in the center of the log. The long tail appendage, actually composed of two parallel strands, looped back over the upraised abdomen. I could see a slight quivering, even as the insect itself remained motionless. The hole became deeper and deeper. Eventually, the end of the abdomen opened up like a clamshell and a third strand entered the hole – the ovipositor. This egg-laying apparatus guided the insect’s future offspring to their nesting spot.

These odd-looking visitors could easily have been cast as extras in an “Alien” movie. I had to find out what they were. Dr. Phil Pellitteri of the UW Madison Insect Diagnostic Lab answered my questions. He identified it as a species of Ichneumoid wasp. The body and ovipositor of the giant ichneumon wasp (Megarhyssa macrurus) may extend more than five inches. Great! A giant wasp with a stiletto stinger – a nightmare embodied. But, these insects do not sting and are considered beneficial. Their main prey is the pigeon tremex horntail (Tremex columba), another non-stinging wasp, a tree borer.

The horntail larvae develop in trees that are dying or recently dead. M. macrurus females drill into the bark with their ovipositors to find grubs of the host, paralyzing them before depositing an egg. In a parasitic relationship, the developing egg will then feed on the immobilized larva, lying dormant until the ichneumon adult emerges a year later.










Check out this Ichneumoid in action:




My fear of bees has receded with time; the gut reactions dulled. Bees and I have come to an understanding: most of the time, these insects will leave people alone unless provoked and I do my utmost to maintain that status quo. The Ichneumon wasps that visited took this awareness to another level. These alien-looking creatures, coupled with the horntail, participate in a complex natural history, one inextricably dependent upon the other. Knowledge has brought a deeper understanding and curiosity has taken the place of fear. One step in a life cycle dance played out before me, leading to a truer appreciation of Nature’s wondrous relationships.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Hunting Prairie Gems

Tom and Kathie Brock and other Prairie Enthusiasts tend to Black Earth Rettenmund Prairie State Natural Area, just south of the city of Black Earth, Wisconsin. The slow-moving traffic and small downtown belie its popularity for hunters, trout fishermen, and nature lovers. Black Earth Creek snakes its way through town and joins Garfoot Creek just west of the city limit. The Department of Natural Resources classifies both as Class I trout streams.

But, there is more to this area than fishing or hunting. Sunday, I set out to find some prairie beauties and capture a bit of their splendor with my camera. My quarry: June bloomers. The steep slopes of Rettenmund prairie harbor remnant grassland habitat. Seen from a distance, the milkweeds, black-eyed susans, spiderworts, sunflowers, and prairie clover create a Monet-like scene, scattered with points of color against the backdrop of paler grasses. Here, the two stars today were the wood lilies and butterfly milkweed. The two feet tall single-stemmed lilies shouted out with flame-orange brilliance as if to say “Look at me!”. Purple-brown spots dotted the inside of the six large petals forming a cup perched atop each stem. The smaller milkweed flowers, though, make up for their stature with abundance and originality. Each sprawling stem carries hundreds of orange-hooded flowers, petals curving downward and away as if to set the frame for the show.

Pleasant Valley Conservancy, about five miles to the west of the Rettenmund Natural Area, shelters a state endangered species – the purple milkweed. This oak savanna beauty first appeared after the Brocks began restoring their property in 1999. These plants announce their arrival with a showy display. The characteristic hooded milkweed flowers produce an eye-popping shade of magenta. It’s not hard to see them amongst the dull (by comparison) grassy surroundings, shaded by tall white oaks. But, they come and go, springing up some years and not others, according to Nature’s whims. It was my lucky day and truly a pleasure to capture a picture of these illusive gems.



All pictures by CartoGeek

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Home Fires Burning

The blaze edged closer and closer. The coming fury, pushed along by the light southerly breeze, roared as the dry prairie grass ignited. A warmth rose on my cheeks as the fire approached, a flutter of concern bubbled in my stomach.

No need to call 911, though. A carefully planned burn unfolded before me. Prescribed fires occur all over the Midwestern prairie states in the spring. Unlike a cheery Currier-and-Ives winter hearth fire, this one, in southern Wisconsin, moved with wild intensity and power.

As a kid, fires brought the best kind of comfort – warmth on a cold evening, the embers' murmuring tones echoing in the brick hearth. The flames always mesmerized me. I threw in twigs and stirred the coals with the poker, endlessly entertained by the erupting flares of light. I wadded up bits of newspapers and watched as the red-hot coals ignited the fuel into a dozen hues – yellows, blues, and greens – as the inks combusted. The glossy advertising pages produced an especially colorful display.

Seated atop the brick hearth extension, the fire’s heat flushed my cheeks with pink warmth. Turning around, my back got the same treatment. Drying my hair after a winter’s bath was far more pleasant at the fireplace than with my mother’s noisy 60’s-era portable salon dryer. In the morning, the cold gray remains lay in the firebox, ready to sweep down the ash chute.

I found comfort in the fire. I never thought much about the power of the flames caged within our fireplace. That is, not until I found myself helping with a prescribed burn.

Once let loose on a dry prairie field like the one I was standing in, a fire devours nearly everything in its path with all-consuming ferocity. The stalks of Indian grass, at nearly seven feet tall, waved in the gentle breeze. The fire soon enveloped them, the flames carried higher and higher by the long blades of grass. Smoke billowed from the leading edge of the soaring blaze. Standing more than 20 feet away, I felt the intense heat. The fire’s roar sounded like a run-away semi-truck barreling down a steep slope.

I found the display just as mesmerizing as the fires of my childhood. But the heat in my cheeks broke my reverie. I backed off to the safety of a previously prepared firebreak.

Backfires set earlier in the day created protective strips to help corral the flames where needed. Done right, a nicely executed prairie burn rivals a military maneuver – meticulous planning, good communication, and battle-ready crew movements. The day’s preparations ended with the fire scorching the four-acre field within a half hour.

The fire’s aftermath leaves a blackened patch of earth. Drooping nubbins of heartier fire-adapted plants remain to break up the topography. Regular burning keeps invasive plants at bay and paves the way for new growth. The earth, now perfectly prepared for new shoots to rise, Phoenix-like, can renew the splendor of the prairie for another year.

Monday, May 31, 2010

Natural Connections

10 Suggestions for Rediscovering your Nature

A wonderfully entertaining and engaging world awaits those who step outside the enclosures of modern life: cars, houses, malls, offices, and groceries, to name just a few. Rather than focus on what we leave behind – air conditioning, 24-hour TV with 1,000 channels, and the ability to hop in a car that takes us anywhere and nowhere we want to go – focus instead on the discovery and reconnection to that which is forgotten. A world we are integrally a part of but which has been buried in far away recesses of our modern lives.

To get you thinking about how to do this, here is a list of 10 activities (see previous blog posts). Some are easy, some require a bit more effort but each one makes the cut because I have experienced them. Give it a go and then take a moment for reflection, pay attention to what you see and feel. You might find it surprising!


1. Go barefoot – when was the last time you did this? Remember as a kid wriggling your toes in mud or sun-baked beach sands? Can’t find a beach? Just try walking on a grassy expanse.

2. Take a hike or walk in the woods. No matter where you live, parks and trails await exploration. Check out your city’s web site for park locations or research state parks in your area.

3. Volunteer for a restoration work party. Help stamp out invasive plant species or build trails. You are guaranteed to meet great people, get some good exercise, and someone always brings after-work goodies.

4. Put up a bird or bat house. Another pair of twittering wrens occupy my birdhouse. Sometimes you don’t even need a birdhouse – a nesting robin has made a home in a hanging planter on my front porch!

5. Take a dog’s walk. Amble with your own or join a friend whose dog needs a stroll. Either way, you’ll get outside and have lots of company.

6. Get your hands dirty - start a garden. If your yard is small or shady, find a community plot. There’s nothing better than getting an armload of fresh produce or getting to know a fellow gardener “over the fence”.

7. Go for a bike ride. Or better yet, start commuting to work once a week on your bike. Google provides an extension to its map service to help you find a route.  Many cities claim a bike-friendly atmosphere with impromptu groups forming for regular rides.

8. Join a conservation organization or become a citizen scientist. Many local organizations keep tabs on your particular area but even national organizations such as the Nature Conservancy or the Audubon Society have local chapters. See what the Milwaukee-based RiverKeeper organization does to help monitor water quality in its area.

9. Visit a farmer’s market. Farmer’s markets and community-supported agriculture enterprises provide fresh local produce for most of the year. Madison has several markets open on Wednesdays and Saturdays.  Experience a closer connection to the food you eat and where it comes from.

10. Support local restaurants supporting local food. Enjoy a great meal in a non-chain eatery in your area like the one I reviewed in Wausau, Wisconsin.

Make a comment about your reflections or suggest other ways to reconnect to your nature.

Volunteering for Nature

Watersheds – the land, water, and living things -- depend on people.

In October 2008, the Great Lakes–St. Lawrence River Basin Water Resources Compact became law, the culmination of years of negotiation by a laundry list of regional, national, and international organizations, comprised of thoughtful and dedicated people. At heart, the Compact is a conservation agreement like no other in the sweeping scope of its water management coordination. Eight states along with Ontario and Quebec are recognized as stewards of this shared great resource.

The Milwaukee River Basin includes three major rivers – the Milwaukee, the Menomonee, and the Kinnickinnic -- that flow to Lake Michigan, the second largest of the Great Lakes. This watershed, dominated by the City of Milwaukee’s urbanized area, is the focus of the Milwaukee RiverKeepers.

The organization participated in the formulation of the Compact but they haven’t rested on their laurels since the passage of the Federal law nearly two years ago. The group’s advocacy, still a large part of their work, speaks to sound land use planning decisions. The mission statement echoes and extends themes found in the Compact’s guidelines: assessment of management strategies, conservation and improvement of water quality and wildlife habitat. Assessing the health of the streams is the first step.

Monitoring projects seek to take the pulse of the rivers. The RiverKeepers have instituted a citizen-based program boasting 58 volunteers who gather data using consistent standardized methodology. This information is important for assessing the condition of Milwaukee’s river system over time. Here is a map showing some of the results of this work.

One volunteer monitor is Erica King, a Waukesha native (from just over the watershed divide). She recently completed the rigorous two-day training program. “I signed up because I really care about the health of our streams and thought I could be of value with my past experience with stream monitoring. I also wanted to help give back to the community” says Ms. King. She will be doing “the level two monitoring which is a little more advanced. It includes additional testing for water quality and the use of more accurate (and expensive) equipment.” Ms. King samples two stream sites for various water quality parameters once a month. Volunteers enter the collected data into the Department of Natural Resources’ database to determine the health and habitat value to the stream.

The monthly commitment pays big dividends. These data help to shape stream management decisions that affect the quality of life in the larger community. And for Ms. King, the responsibility is one she relishes. “It’s just really enjoyable and I feel connects you more to nature and the resources in your own community.” With the combined efforts of volunteers such as Ms. King and organizations like the RiverKeepers, our lakes and rivers will be nurtured and improved.

The health of our watersheds and ultimately our communities really does boil down to individual people committing to give back just a little.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

The Wrens are Back

A metal awning over my kitchen window diffuses the summer’s intense morning sun. Attached to one support arm hangs a well-used wren house, a simple rectangular box with a pitched roof. The roof overhang protects a narrow horizontal oval entryway.

For several years, the wrens have been absent, replaced by a pair of cardinals, who built a nest in the overgrown lilac bush under the window. I watched the new neighbors with fascination each morning just as I had the wrens. They raised one ever-hungry chick before one day it and then they disappeared. Perhaps because the nest remained, the male cardinal (who we dubbed Ralph) decided that the other awning support provided a good resting place. He spent all winter perched on the end of the metal arm with the protective awning at his back. The wren’s house sat silent across from him. Ralph joined me as I did dishes late at night and was there before the rising sun’s light broke through the dark early morning, flying off during the day to parts unknown.

This Spring, the laissez-faire yard work attitude I had adopted needed an adjustment. Since Ralph and his mate had moved on to a new landlady, I didn’t worry too much about disturbing the now disheveled and unused nest. The out-of-control lilac bush got whacked. Within a few days, first one wren and then its mate came to check out the stunningly clear view from the birdhouse. It seemed to suit them.

It is hard to distinguish male and female wrens visually but they both love to sing. The Peterson Field Guide to Eastern Birds describes their voice as “a stuttering gurgling song, rising in a musical burst, then falling at the end.” The beak opens and a split second later, the stuttering song begins, the throat’s vibration carrying all the way down their little body to the tip of their tail as it quivers with the exertion.

Perhaps all the noisy to-do is a complicated mating ritual or perhaps they are bickering over house decorations – “move that twig just a scosh to the left please” or “the spider web padding goes in that corner, not this one”. They make trip after trip, carrying small twigs that usually fit through the hole; sometimes the sticks are too long and they fall to the ground. You can almost feel the wren’s resignation at having to try again. But eventually their nest will be just right. If I am lucky, I will get to witness the growth of a clutch of baby wrens.

The last nesting pair gave me a beautiful honor. One morning, as the coffee brewed, I witnessed, cheered, and sighed as one fledgling after another left the nest on their first flights. Some went out strong taking off in full flight; others tentatively, landing on a lilac branch before heading out. One dropped like a rock, its fate unknown but imagined.

Yes, I am glad the wrens are back.

The Wright Place for the Right Meal

Healthy appetites and fieldwork go hand-in-hand. After many work trips to Wausau, Wisconsin, several restaurants spring to the top of my favorites list. I have had the pleasure of dining four times at the Wright Place on 6th and every meal has been more than satisfying.

First, three ground rules on restaurant selection: no fast food or chains, genuineness, and local food. This restaurant fits the bill. The Andrew Warren and the East Hill Residential Historic Districts, both listed on the National Register of Historic Places, surround the restaurant with beautifully restored examples of Greek Revival, Italianate, Queen Anne, Classical Revival and Prairie School architecture. The Wright Place draws its name from its builder, Ely Wright, and not, as I at first imagined, from Wisconsin’s architectural superstar Frank Lloyd Wright.

The Italianate building’s impeccable restoration, done with an obvious eye toward detail, fits right into the historic scene. The food and service continue this penchant for detail in all things. The menus rotate with the seasons, providing a rich array of fish, meat, and chicken dishes cooked to exacting standards by Chef Travis Teska. Both the owner, Patti Kay and Chef Teska share a common love of good food cooked well. They use as many as ten local producers, depending on the season.

Fridays feature a nod to Wisconsin tradition, pan-fried walleye. Prime rib and king crab legs celebrate Wednesdays as specialties. Entrees range in price from $18 to $30.

The accompaniments to a good meal are in ready supply here. The Poached Pear salad is a favorite of mine. I usually skip appetizers (in order to save room for the entrée) but I have tried the Salsa Baked Goat Cheese, the salsa a perfect match for the pungent goat cheese. For a light desert, the sorbet du jour or the handmade ice cream top off a tasty evening. Otherwise go for the strawberry rhubarb crisp or the chocolate cake.

The credible selection of house wines and most of the extensive wine list are available by the glass. Be prepared to pay by the bottle for reserve wines, though. Martinis are a specialty of the house.

Alas, the one thing in short supply here are vegetarian options. Mr. CartoGeek would be enjoying the architectural details and ambience more than he would the edibles. But, all and all, the Wright Place provides outstanding (meaty) meals and excellent service, a combination that is hard to beat.

Reservations encouraged anytime and recommended for Friday and Saturday nights.
The Wright Place on 6th
901 N. 6th St, Wausau, Wisconsin
Serving Monday through Saturday.
Dinner Hours: 4:30 to 10:00
Open Hours: 4:30 to Close

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

‘Shrooming

May brings the illusive morel mushroom to southern Wisconsin. Muscoda, the self-proclaimed morel capitol of Wisconsin, hosts a festival in honor of the ‘shroom each year. Our afternoon’s mission: a festival, a taste, and a quest.

Muscoda (pronounced Musk-a-day) lies along the Wisconsin River. Following the gently curving Lower Wisconsin River Road to the festival brought glimpses of the slow-moving river through floodplain forest and a string of small towns. Festival booths lined several blocks of Main Street, a wide thoroughfare with ample parking for cars and low-slung Harleys. Leather-clad bikers shared picnic tables with fresh-faced tikes; Mennonite women served home-made pastries to passer-bys. The latest energy-balancing iTouch technology sat next to the best Kettle corn in the county.

The highlight for everyone, though, was the mushrooms. We queued up along the sidewalk outside of City Hall in anticipation of a taste. Enthusiastic chefs manned three industrial-size cast-iron skillets, sautéing the fungi to perfection in butter. Mushrooms, no matter how they are cooked, are chewy; these were no different. Each dripping forkful, though, held a nutty flavor on the tongue, earning “yums” from everyone.

Secret number one: cook with lots of butter.

Magicians rarely reveal the secrets of their trade. Neither do experienced mushroom hunters. They all have their “spots”, nothing but generalities for us novices and certainly no maps. Look for dead elms (but not too dead), south-facing slopes, and get your “eyes on”. We picked close-by Governor Dodge State Park for our quest. I was glad we hit the festival first because we came up empty handed. What we did find was: four different kinds of fungi, a field of purple lupines, waterfalls, and best of all, easy camaraderie on a picture-perfect Wisconsin spring day.


Secret number two: Butter up an expert before you go hunting.


Images: CartoGeek, Muscoda, Wisconsin and Governor Dodge State Park, 2010

Spring Beauty

One April evening found me exhausted and homeward bound from wetland fieldwork in northern Wisconsin. The stormy morning clouds dissipated by a front, left a hard gray clearness in the eastern sky. The sunset blazed orange through the passenger side window. The straight two-lane highway lulled my thoughts.

Woodlots broke the expanse of brown fields in the distance. Each tree, leaves freshly bursting from long-dormant branches, added its unique color to the palette on my left. Red maples popped intense shades of dark ochre amongst the white-trunked aspens, chartreuse leaves brilliant against the steel sky. What a multihued gift for the drive home.

Madison’s Pedal Mobs

Come pedal on Wednesday nights from April to September. Each week explores a different route. Good weather, maybe. Challenging rides and colorful spandex camaraderie, definitely. See schedule at http://www.wnbr.org/.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Ticks, Damn Ticks!

I grew up in the woods. Not literally, of course, but the bulk of my childhood memories revolve around being outside, whether exploring deep, dark forests a stone’s throw away from my house or playing the seasonal sport of choice. Fall equaled football and basketball; winter meant sled races and snowball fights; spring and summer brought baseball.

Bugs of all sorts came along for the ride – ticks, mosquitos, flies. You just got used to them and pulled them off or slapped them when necessary. Not much more thought went into the dangers these creatures can sometimes carry.

One summer during college, I visited my brother and his family in Pennsylvania. His wife was from another country and was unfamiliar with the pesky bugs of the East coast. We settled on a trip to a local park for a picnic and some canoeing. At the welcome station, my sister-in-law was introduced to a horrible visage of a framed dinner plate-sized deer tick under the bold blood red word: BEWARE! She gasped, covering the near audible scream with a worried hand. This creature looked to be from a bad 1950s B-grade horror flick; the only way to deal with this thing was a bazooka which we hadn’t thought to bring!

In reality, a deer tick looks like a small freckle with eight legs. Wood ticks are slightly larger. People who spend a lot of time in the woods find unique and interesting methods for dealing with them. One co-worker opts for the chemical route. There are some nasty sprays on the market composed entirely of unpronounceable 20-letter chemical ingredients. He liberally sprays his clothing, even as he wears them, encasing his pant legs in fuming clouds of tick deterrent. For another co-worker, rants are added to the mix, a chorus the ticks ignore. Other field workers create games to go with the inevitability of finding ticks on one’s body: a version of pin the tail on the donkey. Each recovered tick is live-pinned to a board and a tally kept. I’m not sure what the prize is for winning but vengeance seems like a good one.

I choose to employ barriers to the devilish villains of the woods. I look like a Cossack, with pant legs tucked tightly into my socks. Shirt tails stay in my pants and long sleeves stop most bugs at my wrists. A hat covers my head. And yet, this does not stop them completely.

Ticks like to hang out, literally. They gather on grass stems or tree branches, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to jostle their perch and induce them to drop onto said animal. It’s their cue for a moveable feast. Some humans are like elephants in the bush, bulling their way through, practically sweeping for ticks. I have found that the opposite is perhaps as good a method for avoiding the menace as any. In moving with deliberateness and thought, disturbing as little as possible and yes, if one can say it, being in tune with nature, the way becomes clear.

I have come to realize that when I go into the woods or wetlands, it’s their territory that I am invading. They look at me as another piece of walking food, an opportunity for a quick eat-and-run meal. We humans like to think we have somehow risen above nature; in fact, we are as much a part of it as any other creature. This, I find, is a humbling thought.

Image: CartoGeek, Munising, MI, Sept. 2008

Swamps, Shovels, and Sleepy Toads

What’s worse than biting into an apple and finding a worm? Biting into an apple and finding half a worm! My father was a gentleman, especially when it came to telling jokes. He may have enjoyed off-color humor but never in the presence of little ladies. He told me this one when I was six or seven. The imagery induces squirmy shivers still.

I wasn't thinking about apples or worms on a recent trip to central Wisconsin to document wetlands, though. This spring has been a dry affair. Studying swamps and wetlands at this time of year usually requires knee-high rubber boots but not this spring. Mats of water-stained leaves compressed by winter’s snow and ice lay dry and crumbly on many wetland beds. Sedge tussocks pop up like skyscrapers from soils barely moist at the surface.

Many people assume water must be present in these types of habitats throughout the year. Some basins, though, contain water for a short period of time, usually in the spring, and remain dry the rest of the growing season. Even in the absence of standing open water, soils can be saturated for periods long enough to support a distinctive assemblage of wetland vegetation.


Often cat tails or reed canary grass in degraded wetlands spread like a virus and conquer the sublime interplay of sedges, rushes, and dichotomous herbs (think milkweeds and lobelias). Tussock sedge and woolgrass dominated this particular wetland. In spite of the lack of obvious water, the ground was soft and spongy. As I labored over digging a test pit (the first one of the season), the shovel sliced through the soil, guillotine-like. I piled mounds of muck to the side of the hole as it grew to about 10 inches square and almost 16 inches deep. Next, we needed to look at a full top-to-bottom profile of the soil. I moved the shovel back about three inches from the edge of the hole and sunk it in, pulling the handle towards me to leverage out the section. With little effort, I pulled an intact 14-inch long column of soil out, letting it rest on the shovel blade. The steel-gray soil near the top became flecked with large masses of deep reddish brown about six inches down – a perfect example of a wetland soil.
Two unexpected pea-sized yellow dots, standing in stark contrast to the enveloping dark muck, drew my attention to the tip of the shovel. Staring back at me were the eyes of a sleepy toad, hardly moving, yanked from his winter hibernation in the muddy swamp. His warty skin was nearly the same grayish color as the surrounding soil so at first I thought my eyes deceived me. I was not sure if he was even alive as many hibernating frogs and toads, after having buried themselves in pond mud in the fall, don’t survive the harsh northern winters. Yet he seemed to be none the worse for being so rudely awakened. I sent him on his way with a gentle nudge.

They say that horseshoes is a game of inches, where being close really does matter. For this toad, it was a ringer. His first brush with destiny left him unscathed at the base of my hole and his second stroke of luck landed him exactly at the tip of my shovel, within a three-inch margin of error. Indeed, what a lucky toad that, on this day, the scales of life and death kept him in the land of the breathing. I find this miraculous. My unwitting participation in this two act play of Mother Nature reinforced the notion that small miracles happen every day. It took a toad to remind me of that.


And, then the remembrance of that childhood joke rocketed back to the present. What would be worse than digging up a toad? Half a toad, of course!


Image: copyright Tom Gula, http://www.fcps.edu/islandcreekes/ecology/american_toad.htm

Monday, May 3, 2010

How to drive on air

This blog started as a result of perhaps a not too infrequent observation about our electronic world of mapping. Not everything is mapped and not everything is current. Paper maps all too often exhibited this flaw, especially when they are pulled from the car door side pocket after gathering lint and dog ears for 10 years. Even in a recent purchase of a recreational GPS unit, a substantial new elevated ramp near Wausau, Wisconsin was missing in action. As the ramp took us on a sweeping arc to the west, the triangle representing our car's GPS position started to go off-road, into unknown territory, air if you will and a blog was born -- driving on air.

Come explore with me those uncharted places and spaces, whether they be unknown blips on a map, resturants happily stumbled upon, or life's lessons re-experienced not through the confines of a 9'x 9' cubicle but the lens of the natural world.
Nature Blog Network