Snowy Owl, Napatree

I hadn't expected to have to take this much time off, but my recovery from my latest heart surgery was much more consuming than I imagined. And there was a lot more to deal with in addition to healing. But I've mostly gotten through the worse of it, and in celebration of recovery and a new year, I pressed my photographer son Noah to accompany me for a walk down Napatree to see what was out there. Our target was that lone American Oystercatcher said to still be hanging around the lagoon, and I had some hopes of spotting Purple Sandpipers. While we didn't locate the former, the latter species was cooperative. Elated, we decided to continue our trek around the headland, and in the Osprey nesting platform in the upper reaches of the pond, we noticed something large and whitish. "Probably a gull," I said, "but I'd best check it out." Probably NOT a gull, I soon added excitedly, as we hurried towards an amazing discovery: the first SNOWY OWL in the area in 2021!

It was grocery shopping day, and before I hit the stores, I stopped at Wilcox Park in the center of Westerly to take advantage of a beautiful walking trail that's a little more interesting... and a bit longer... than my quarter-mile oval at the local high school. With most of the magnificently cultivated flower gardens now finished for the year, there's little incentive to stop and photograph blooms and bugs, so it's actually a heart-team-approved walk. Still, the trek left me a wee-bit heartsick. The grounds-crew has been busy attending to the vast output of leaves dropped by the arboretum trees, and the guys have done a great job assembling them into impressive piles. I'm jealous. The leaves remain untouched on my lawn, and until my cardiac handlers give me permission to start raking again—this won't happen until mid-December—I'm just going to have to put up with unkemptness. I guess there are worse things.

For a day that started off frightfully cold—it was 18 at daybreak—things warmed up fast, and by evening, it was pushing 50 and enticing at least a few invertebrates out of their cold weather shelters under the leaves, logs, and house shingles. To keep us comfortable inside, I kept the fire going, and on one of my slow, stubborn, and inefficient forays to the wood pile—I can still only carry one or two pieces of split stove wood at a time—I noticed this handsome insect on the Periwinkle leaves by the basement door. It's some kind of Camel Cricket, with that characteristic curved, even humped, back that gives the orthopt its common collective name. There's a fairly common invasive species called the Greenhouse Camel Cricket that is now often spotted in damp basements, but the spot pattern of this cricket doesn't jibe with that of the invader. I'm not good on the IDs of most crickets, but, based on a look through the appropriate section of BugGuide, I suspect that this hardy critter is a member of the Ceuthophilus congregation... and a true northeast native.

Once again, I vowed not to fall behind... and once again, life and cardiac rehab intervened. When I had my heart re-repaired I figured that I'd be fine in a week—something like, for example, having my tonsils removed or a modest mole excised. But if wasn't that easy, and getting everything done that was truly necessary—forget about desirable—has taken so long that I have scant time or energy for anything fun, like photographing the natural world and writing about my discoveries. It's honestly painful and deflating. This morning, however, as I dragged myself out of bed, made coffee, and tried to figure out what I could accomplish, the sun came up golden and optimistic. I still felt slow. My shoulder incision still hurt. I remained on restricted weight lifting on my left side. I continued to be nervous about my new pacemaker going off at an inopportune time. Ah, but the warm coffee was delicious... as was the shimmering sunrise. I guess there's hope.

During my eight, quarter-mile laps of the Wheeler High School running track, I try not to see anything that would encourage me to stop walking. But I do take mental note of things worth this naturalist's attention, and if I'm lucky enough to have an observable stay in place, I'll return to it when my walk is done. In my formal cardiac rehab program three years ago, I was constantly badgered about the critical importance of a slow down, so grabbing my camera and any collecting supplies and slowly trying to document something would fulfill the mandate of my handlers. What I'd seen on my laps were several dandelions in full bloom, and when I drew close to examine them, I noticed a surprise flower fly in the process of providing pollination services. I was rather astounded, since we'd had a killing frost that I assumed nailed all the syrphids. Not so: here was an unexpected Margined Calligrapher, better known to syrphidologists as, I think, Toxmerus marginatus. In his field guide, Jeff Skevington and company calls TM "one of the most abundant of all syrphids" in our area. One of the hardiest, too.

 

It was a busy day, what with the business of all of the myriad tasks now necessary to keep me alive and healing. There are appointments to set up, symptoms to check out and report, routine workouts to plan and execute, and, alas, all too often, the requirement to stop all activity and give in to sleep. The latter is a drag, but there's simply nothing I can do to stave off periodic nap time. If I'm persistent, I can accomplish a decent day's work, but it's annoying, in that there's scant opportunity to just go out and be observant. However, not long after dark, I did take advantage of a break and, after determining that my tripod and 50mm lens and camera combination were under my 10 pound weight restriction limit, I hauled the assemblage to my neighbor's meadow. Under perfectly clear and moonless skies, I focused on the southern horizon, where bright Jupiter, to the right above the trees, and Saturn, at about 10 o'clock of Jupiter, are drawing closer and closer. It's a beautiful sight, and as they approach a near conjunction in about a month, I'll document their progress towards a celestial get-together.

The weather forecast has grown more and more ominous throughout the quite warm day, but I needed a cardiac rehab walk so I chanced a trip to the high school running track ahead of the severe thunderstorms. It was time to up my mileage from six, quarter-mile laps, to eight circuits, a full two miles. I don't really like to walk this way, but it has the utility of offering little reason to stop, which, from a heart perspective, is just what the doctor ordered. It does, however, run counter to the way my brain works, which is to zero in on all the myriad details I observe when I'm trekking. And observation is so ingrained a habit that I can't really ever hike without seeing something. Case in point: along the grassy edges of the track, I noticed, to my surprise, a nondescript low weed that bore a few flowers. It's late in the season for blossoms, so, after I finished my walk, I retrieved my camera to "capture" the four-petaled, off white blooms that seemed to belong to a member of the mustard family. Later, at home, I was able to ID the late-bloomer as a kind of Peppergrass, a native wild edible that was grown and eaten by the Incas and ancient Romans alike.

Sigh... this is not me. Not now. Not in the recent past. Alas, not ever. This is actually my son-in-law Dennis's best friend Mike, who by day is a technocrat but on the weekend is a licensed arborist who is building a sideline business that makes use of his rock-climbing abilities. Mike and Dennis arrived this afternoon to start on a project to take down a few trees that are now too close to the house. Under normal circumstances, I would have at least helped, but they wouldn't even allow me to move more than twigs. Given what my cardiac handlers have told me post-surgery, avoiding the area was no doubt a wise choice. Watching felt unnatural, but, on my best behavior, watching the pros at work was what I did.

Sycamore leaves, millpond

With Friday the 13th upon us, triskaidekaphobiacs and their actual-day phobes, the paraskevidekatriaphobia clan—are in a tizzy everywhere. Not me. In an act of defiance and optimism—maybe I really will recover fully from my heart surgery and disease, and perhaps the blessed election of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris will enable this un-united country to get back together again—I took advantage of a fabulous photo deal and ordered a new flash unit to replace my old one. That done, I did a bit of almost dry-weather exploring. The discoveries are getting increasingly subtle, and finding anything new requires paying closer and closer attention to details, many of them not immediately obvious. That's fine, of course. This gathering of dry leaves, most of them from a large Sycamore, don't look like much, but they speak volumes about the state of the natural world, the passage of color and hardwood foliage from the landscape, and, well, the beginning of one end and the start of a new beginning. The latter natural reality takes the fright out of this creepy calendar date.

Aster seedhead, millpond

It's still Indian summer warm, but the welcome showers have arrived and made the trekking, to say nothing of the photographic documentation, a "pick your spots" challenge. In a brief dry spell, I made a quick trip down to the millpond waterfall again, this time to check on the possibility of late blossoms on the asters and goldenrods. But the fierce cold snap and genuinely killing frosts had encouraged the flowers to call it quits and get on with the business of carrying on the generations. All the blossom spikes had quickly made fuzzy seed heads, which were now playing a waiting game as the potential progeny matured. In the not-too-distant future, next spring's asters and goldenrods-to-be—these are asters, by the way—will be ready to fly and easily detached by the slightest of breezes. For now, they're getting ready, packing their proverbial bags and waiting for a lift.

New water, Millpond Dam

It's misty and still June-warm, close to 70, and ahead of what's being touted as possible downpours and the advent of a Big Chill, I got in my 1.5 mile track walk then decided to visit the millpond to see if there were any asters still in bloom. Those flowers, alas, are gone for the year, but there were other "blossoms." Recent rains have pushed the Drought Monitor assessment of our dryness situation down into the moderate category, and they've given back the millpond dam's voice. It's not yet a roar, but it's more than a whisper. I had a hard time deciding which more-than-a-murmur image of the moving water to feature, so I offer them both. After a summer and early fall of almost no precipitation, the fact that our rain prayers were finally answered is cause for quiet—and double—celebration.

New water2, Millpond Dam

Winter wren, Henne

The gorgeous, Indian summer weather remains camped out in the area, so my mile-and-a-half cardiac rehab walk on the high school running track was a joy. Afterwards, when I'd actually worked up a sweat, I got brave—my implanted defibrillator hadn't gone off!—so I hazarded a walk to Avalonia's Henne Preserve, a place I knew well, in search of Meadowhawk dragonflies. I didn't spot any on the boardwalk, but in the shadowy tangles along the upper edges of the marsh, I heard a scurrying in the shrubs and, after a few moments of patient and almost breathless watching, out popped a little Wren. It wasn't especially cooperative and I wasn't able to get the best shots, but from that eye stripe, technically known as a supercilium, the speckle pattern and colors on the breast and back, and that little tail cocked at a jaunty angle, I'm leaning towards Winter Wren. If these perky birds have settled into Henne for the season, then maybe they're about to appear in the brush pile near my house. Time to keep close watch.

Song sparrow, Assekonk

The Indian Summer warmth remains deliciously camped out in our area, and that's making it possible to put in the cardiac rehab mile... actually, the C-rehab 1.5 miles, as of today... with something approaching delight. And after I was done with my walk, I headed out for a natural history trek around the shrubby edges of the running/walking track. In the tangles, a very curious bird came out of the shadows to watch me watching it. My beleaguered left arm is starting to get a bit stronger and more flexible, so holding a camera steady, even in fairly low light, is becoming increasingly easy. The fact that this Song Sparrow stayed cooperatively in one spot for a photo-op-appropriate interval allowed a decent capture.

Painted turtles, Assekonk bridge

In what used to be considered normal weather around here, it would be way too chilly to tempt a Painted Turtle out of hiding deep in the mud. But it's also a New England tradition to have a spell of above-normal warmth in November: a beloved time known as Indian Summer. We're now firmly in the second summer's joyful hold, with temperatures up into the 70s, a rise that even a buried reptile can sense and respond to accordingly. The "sunnies," as these basking turtles are also called, have left hibernation to catch the rays on logs and rocks. They must know that the season's largesse is only temporary, but they, like yours truly, will take it. 

Meadowhawk

Any dragonflies still on the wing last week were, most likely, done in by the killer frost that arrived on Halloween morning... or were they? With temperatures recently on the Indian Summer rise over the past few days, I headed out to some venues by the wetlands to see if any odes had somehow survived. With afternoon temps approaching 70, I had a pretty good idea that I'd find a survivor or two, and in short order, on the railing of an observation platform fronting the Assekonk Swamp, I spotted a pair of quite happy and energetic meadowhawks, which, around here, are the hardiest of hardies... and the hardest dragonflies to separate out into species. This one is presumably the Autumn Meadowhawk, which is typically the last ode flying around here. It somehow knows where to hide from frost's reach, and, no doubt, it carries some sort of cold protection. Its hardiness means it now is the odonate standard-bearer, perhaps into December.

Common Cuckoo, Snake Den

About a week ago, when I was in the initial stages of recovery from my latest round of heart surgery, I noticed an astounding post on the eBird Rare Bird Alert site: the appearance of a Common Cuckoo at Snake Den State Park in Johnston, Rhode Island. It was the third sighting of the species... ever... in the Lower 48, so the bird, which is common throughout Eurasia, definitely qualified as a rarity. I sighed, knowing that I was not going to be able to jump in the car instantly and head to the locale to spot and photograph the Cuckoo. More than likely, I feared, by the time I'd be cleared to go, the bird would be history. So it goes. But the Lord was good to me, and not only did my recovery progress rapidly and my strength return, giving me the ability to wield my big bird telephoto, but the Cuckoo decided to stick around. This afternoon, my wife Pam, my son Noah, and I hit the birding trail, and there, almost smiling, was our delightful quarry. If that sighting doesn't deserve the deepest "Praise be," I don't know what would qualify.

Blackbird flock, Mame's

Following the arrival of the first killing frost several days ago, it was time to hope that there'd be a sharp rise in the temperature and the resulting hazy, balmy days would signal the advent of the most delicious weather that a New England autumn can offer: the so-called "Indian summer." No one is really sure what Native Americans had to do with the brief period of almost unnatural warmth, but the name was coined in the late-18th-century and it stuck. Summer's second and, no doubt, final act, arrived today, and it flew in on the noisy wings of local blackbirds, a flock of which pulsed through the woods and landed on my neighbor's driveway. The weather harbingers gathered on the gravel and seemed to be searching for something to eat. I don't think they found much, so they soon departed. Happily, they didn't take the fine weather with them.

Dandelion flower, Wheeler High track

The election has come, the election has gone... and as of right now, we don't yet have a clear idea of who our next president will be, or if, to quote Gerald Ford in the wake of Richard Nixon's resignation, "Our long national nightmare is over." Sorry to be partisan here, but as an environmentalist, there's only one way to view this: Trump has been that nightmare, and I'm hoping and praying that The Don's era will soon be coming to an end. While I keep my fingers crossed, I keep walking, both to keep my spirits and my repaired heart strong. The routine is calming. So is finding that the natural world continues on its own steady pace, with dandelions coming into sunny bloom right at their appointed time.

Killdeer, Wheeler High track

It's Election Day, and after I voted—straight Democrat, by the way... if for no other reason than saving the environment—I went to the high school's running track to put in the one mile steady walk that's the start of my latest heartwork rehab program. I'm going to be doing this a lot in November, so I've already begun to pay close attention to my surroundings on the track. A small and still persistent flock of Killdeer, a handsome shorebird bearing a characteristic double neck ring, was a welcome companion, and after I'd completed my workout, I grabbed my lightweight 55-200mm zoom telephoto—the big gun remains too heavy for me to wield—and delighted in another kind of workout: their graceful flight and, praise be, my increasing ability to capture it.

Snow on the pumpkin, home

I used to be good at this blogging business—reliable, steady, and there every day with something new and, I hope, interesting gleaned from my daily travels through the natural world. But, sigh, another species of reality has been intervening too much, and I've fallen down on the job. It's surprising, to be sure: I'm supposed to be retired, for God's sake, so I should have an abundance of time. For various reasons, however, I actually have less time than I used to, and part of the reason is that, recently, I've been spending all too many hours in the care of various physicians. So it has been this week, as I've been to the operating room to have yet another heart unpleasantry treated. That was on the 26th, and while it only required a one-day-and-night stay, it's taken three additional days to kick the brain fog from the anesthesia and the anti-pain meds.

This morning, praise be, I was well enough to be able to grab my camera... finally... when a sharp cold front arrived to turn the chilly rainfall into a squall of wet snow, the first of the season. It did manage to coat the leaf litter in white, and while there was surely going to be frost on the pumpkin as a result of temperatures forecast to be in the 20s tonight, there was also something more by day. Overjoyed I'm around and functional enough to be able to see and record it.

Double-crested Cormorant, mill

I spotted this bird, a Double-crested Cormorant from the look of things, from the road as I walked by the millpond dam, and while I wasn't hauling the big telephoto I use for birds, I did have a medium tele-zoom in the backpack, so I opted for a photographic detour. I had a pretty good idea that the bird would fly before I could get close enough but, ah, ye of little faith, it stayed on its perch and let me approach within 200mm range. Maybe I was simply lucky, or, more likely, the DCC was so intent on snagging some of the small fish and frogs that frequented the area that it simply paid little attention to me. For this, much thanks. I don't see too many cormorants in the pond, so this was a natural history gift.

One of the blessings of being required, by the terms of my ongoing cardiac rehab, to keep walking... no matter what... is that I'm constantly encountering new sights, sounds, smells, and, well, experiences with the natural world. Of course, these terms are rather explicit about having to keep moving forward and keeping my heart rate elevated, but sometimes I'll throw caution to the winds, stop for a little while, and take out the camera I always carry with me to record what I've discovered. It's probably not heart healthy, but, then again, neither is spending any time regretting what I failed to do. So, since I'd already walked four miles when I noticed a sparrow happily perched on the back of a Holstein, I paused for a photo shoot. This is not, however, the same kind of scene you'd see in Africa, where birds known as oxpeckers hang with cattle to glean invertebrates from mammal backs, or, occasionally, lap blood from cuts the oxpeckers inflict in pursuit of prey. Here, I think the sparrow is just going along for the ride.

We're beginning to get an increasing amount of rain, so maybe, just maybe—said almost praying... no, genuinely praying...—the long nightmare and day-mare of drought is easing. Tonight, with the showers turning to a foggy mist, I headed outside to check the lights and leaves for the presence of amphibians, and while I didn't spot any tree frogs or peepers inching their way up the shingles, I did notice a Red-backed Salamander heading skyward on the siding by the basement door. The arboreal frogs seem to enjoy getting close to the lights, either, I'm guessing, for the warmth or to take advantage of their ability to lure in insects that make for easy eating. But I'm not sure about the Red-backed's attraction to climbing. Maybe, like the archetypical mountaineer, it was climbing because, as they say, it's there. I know the feeling.

 

It's been gloriously warm, and while, according to the very definition of the New England legend known as Indian Summer, the balmy weather doesn't qualify for that venerable definition—we have yet to witness a bona fide frost—it certainly feels summery. It also looks the part. The late-afternoon light has the feel of mid-September, even though the pumpkins gracing the barn I often walk past say harvest and Halloween. Soon enough, the reality of the calendar will catch up to the weather, and it'll be woodstoves and woolens. Not today, however. I could easily be trekking in shorts. I'm not complaining.

The sun came out after two days of, well, liquid sunshine, so I quickly headed outdoors to monitor what I'd been missing. In one of the nearby fields, my path took me by a thicket of Autumn olives with lots of maturing berries that would make life a joy for the local birds. Hiding in the foliage was a newcomer to the ridge: a pint-sized bundle of energy going by the name of Ruby-crowned Kinglet. You can only see the red crown when the midget songbird, which just migrated down from its breeding haunts in the Great North Woods, is excited or annoyed, but from the scowl on the bird's face, I'm guessing that if I persist in hanging around, I will, soon enough, be on the receiving end of a pissed-off head crest. Best I should keep walking.

I needed this picture today, a cloudy, dreary, and rainy one. I'm not, to be sure, complaining about the more than inch-and-a-quarter amount of precipitation we received in the gauge, and I'm also not whining about being confined to quarters indoors. We may be bearing witness to the end of a very severe drought, and I'd be happy to see the dryness go. But I'd also love to see the sun return and lend a sparkle to a landscape that, while many of the leaves have already dropped as a result of drought, is still more than occasionally appropriately colored for fall.

Silver-rod

Just as all that glitters isn't necessarily gold, all that's called goldenrod isn't always golden... well, not completely. Let me explain—twice, because there's something dreadfully wrong with this image. Oh, the plant is real, and it's a bona fide goldenrod that goes by the scientific name of Solidago bicolor, or, as we mere mortais know it, Silver-rod. As you can see, it has white petals, and this makes it an outlier in the genus Solidago. It is also flowering dreadfully late for the species, which I normally find in mid-September. But the drought kept Silver-rod bloomless, and perhaps it would have done so all autumn, except that today, which from the photo looks bright, sunny, and dry, was actually monsoonal. I didn't take any photos, but I did, on a rather wet walk, find the first S. bicolor finally in bloom, so, truth-in-journalism, here's a look at what I captured a couple of days later.

Five-legged Walkingstick, home

It was a little less warm today, but it stayed clear—a perfect day to hike somewhere natural in search of, well, whatever was in the neighborhood. However, instead of giving into temptation, I gave in to the pleasures of getting yet more things off the task list, as well as tackling the requisite long, speedy, do-not-stop walk on my cardiac handlers' to-do list. All of this is supposed to make me feel better, so I guess I must be feeling just great. Towards twilight, my virtue was at least semi-rewarded, when I spotted yet another Walkingstick. It's been a good year for sightings of Diapheromera femorata, the Northern Walkingstick and the most common species of phasmid in our area. Some years, I won't spot any; in 2020, so far, I've seen at least a half-dozen of the remarkably cryptic twig and branch mimics. This one's clearly had some difficulties with life. The loss of a leg notwithstanding, the insect is still mobile.

Paper Wasp congregation, home

It's almost summery warm, and even though you could easily delude yourself into thinking that the cold weather won't ever arrive, the queen paper wasps know better. Throughout the nicer days of early- to mid-October—and sometimes, sporadically, until Thanksgiving—the females, probably all of them already mated and inseminated, are on the wing and exploring the cracks between the wood shingles in search of suitable places in which they'll hide from the winter. Today, I'm thinking about hitting the beach in shorts; today, for the first time this season, the rulers of the vespid genus Polistes are getting serious about the shelter business.

Yellow-rumped Warbler arrival, Home

Although the weather doesn't seem to be encouraging birds to migrate, there's at least some evidence of a changing of the avian guards.  For example, the Ruby-throated Hummingbirds are definitely gone, and if you check out the various Rare Bird Alerts in the region, it's clear that other species are on the move. Most observer eyes are now on the warblers, those winged jewels that have recently molted their bright feathers in favor of traveling drab. Fall warblers, in fact, are typically hard to identify, and this one, that put in a quick appearance on a holly tree near the house, is a fine example of identification confusion. It took me a while to come up with a reasonable ID, but I'm going with what's now called a Yellow-rumped Warbler, a.k.a. "Butterbutt." With any luck, I'll get a shot that displays the reason behind... sorry... that evocative and apt common name. For the present, the broken eye ring and yellowish shoulder patches are descriptive enough field marks to give the bird a proper place on the Tree of Life.

Witch hazel floral debut, home

I thought this was a sharper image than it turned out to be, and I was inclined to let the event it captured wait for documentation until I got a better shot. But one of the main reasons I started this visual journal was to have a record of phenology: the timing of various natural history events that are key to keeping tabs on the progress of the seasons. This is surely one of the most critical items in nature's calendar: the opening of the Witch Hazel flowers, Hamamelis virginiana put forth its debut blossoms today, so, for better or worse, here's photographic proof. When the wind calms down and more of the curious crepe-paper petals appear, there'll be an opportunity for a more perfect portrait.

Helophilus fasciatus, home vegetable garden

I have a patch of goldenrods growing alongside of the pea fence in what's supposed to be a vegetable garden, and I allow them a place to flourish because they're a magnet from bees and flower flies. When the sun reached the yellow blossoms in mid-afternoon, I took a photography break to comb the flowers for insects, and when I noticed this dazzler, in the entomological equivalent of pinstripes, I smiled. I got to know the "sun lover" syrphid genus Helophilus last year when I captured nice pictures of them sunning on garden plants at the Florence Griswold art museum in Old Lyme, Connecticut. My mentor Jeff Skevington provided identification corroboration, so, when I spotted this member of the Helophilus congregation in my backyard, I had a good idea of what it was, and a deeper dive into its salient characteristics made me pretty sure I was looking at H. fasciatus, the Narrow-headed Marsh Fly. Jeff writes that they're "one of the earliest and latest syrphids to fly every year." I wonder why we only get them around here at the end of the season.

Mourning Cloak, home wood pile

I'll be the first to admit it: this is a truly awful photograph—an image that, under normal circumstances, would never make it past that little trash can icon in which deleted images await a trip to the digital dump. But when a Mourning Cloak butterfly, probably newly emerged from its cocoon, appeared near the wood pile, I raced inside, grabbed the camera, and thanked God that the insect was still flexing its pretty wings when I returned. Then, I fired off five quick shots before it left the premises. All of the them were similarly fuzzy. In my haste, I somehow moved the focus point, so, while I thought I was zeroing in on the Mourning Cloak, I was actually focusing on the log to the butterfly's right. Damn. Photography will keep you humble... and annoyed.

Hopeful sign, Olympia Tea Room

I spent far too much of today on the phone and online in lengthy efforts to deal with medical issues, especially those close to my heart... literally... which will require surgery, now scheduled for, well, very soon. So, between all of that and desperately trying to get the necessary house projects done before my upcoming "engine repair" puts me out of commission for a while, I didn't manage to hit the trail. This is from yesterday's Napatree trek, but, after all of the back and forth with my medical team, I thought that this sign, in front of the Olympia Tea Room restaurant in Watch Hill, was especially apt... both for my outcome and the state—and fate—of our beleaguered nation.

Oystercatchers, Napatree

I was hoping for a good beach day, as in, a fairly warm, late-afternoon-in-the-sun filled with Seaside Goldenrod blooms, Monarch butterflies cooperatively landing and nectaring, plenty of on-the-move dragonflies, other butterflies, and flower flies, and those hard-travelin' things with feathers. But when I arrived at Napatree, the weather looked half-ominous, with storm clouds to the south and east. However, there was clear blue to the north and west... so I headed west along the shore. While there were only a handful of Monarchs and almost none of the other desired insects in view, the birds were putting on a show, particularly the noisy American Oystercatchers. Like their human, beach-running counterparts, the oystercatchers were enjoying a jog and weren't displaying the slightest inclination to contemplate leave-taking.

Mars, from home

In case anyone has missed me and been wondering where on Earth... or, well, off the planet... I went, suffice it to say that once more work and ill-health got the better of me. It wasn't COVID-19, thank God, but, rather, something more mundane... and, alas, all too familiar: cardiac issues. They'll be resolved, as best as my heart team can do, fairly soon, but while I wait for my latest stay in the hospital, I wanted to at least let everyone know that I'm still ambulatory and on the natural history beat. As it has happened, I continue daily treks and documentation through the lens; I just haven't had the hours or energy, since late-August,  to edit the shots and write about what I've seen. As Sandy Denny asked in 1967, "Who knows where the time goes?" I sure don't. But I sure miss taking the time to keep up this walking journal. So, however briefly I can do this, I'm going to try, whether every day or just from time to time. Here's what I saw tonight: the planet Mars. It's making its closest approach to our planet this month, and, last night, it was sitting just to the left of the full Harvest Moon, which almost obscured it, given the lunar light. This evening, however, Mars had moved to a better position for a photograph, with the moon hidden behind trees. Out to the glare, the "red planet" is a genuine stunner.

Gray Tree Frog

There was a disappointingly tiny amount of rain today—the severe drought continues without seeming end—as the predicted storms either missed us or just failed to materialize. But tonight, when I was getting ready to head to bed, I noticed a unusual smudge on the front door window and when I pulled up a step-stool to get a closer look, I noticed that a small Gray Tree Frog was "glued" to the misty glass. I quickly pulled on boots, grabbed my camera and the stool, and headed outside for a slightly damp photo op. The young frog, probably a member of the Class of 2020, was wonderfully cooperative.

Walkingstick, home

I just about missed this marvelous creature, which we call a Walkingstick—one word, for the insect; two, for the hiking aid—in honor of its amazing resemblance to a mobile twig. It was watching the world from the top of a Goldenrod, and it so matched its surroundings, it was just about invisible. That, of course, was evolution's point, and it's why this non-flying invertebrate has prospered in a land of predators. To would-be enemies, Walkingsticks are simply invisible, and from this characteristic, they get their new group name, Phasmatodea, the "ghost insects." When I learned about them six or so decades ago, they were considered an aberrant kind of grasshopper. Now, they're lumped into their own insect order: a congregation of phantoms!

Scorpionfly, home

I'm more than old enough to remember Jimmy Durante, the famous entertainer who delighted in drawing attention to his even-more famous nose, which he dubbed, in a marriage of Yiddish and Italian, the Great Schnozzola. It was a memorable schtick, and when I noticed this striking insect on a hydrangea leaf, I could hear Jimmy, who died in 1980 at the age of 86, noticing the bug and declaring, "Now, that's a schnozzola!" The comedian/musician might not have been able to come up with a name for the critter, and, in all honesty, I couldn't either when I spotted the insect whose boldly patterned wings were a nice counter to its attention-grabbing "nose"—technically, a rostrum. But I knew that, at one time, I knew the insect, so I took the obligatory deep dive and, after some very enjoyable searching, re-learned it as a Scorpionfly—a member of the insect order Mecoptera. It's in the genus Panorpa, but, as I learned from BugGuide, the panorpid group is under revision by taxonomists, so all things specific are bound to change.

Dragonfhunter dragonfly, mill pond stream

What little remains of the stream below the millpond dam is yet ruled by the Dragonhunters. In the ongoing drought, there's still a plunge pool and a bit of current, but I now get into the stream's center without getting my feet wet, and from that vantage point, I can watch the Dragonhunters patrol the riffles in their eternal hunt for odonate prey, along with any other insect they can capture and subdue, as well as potential mates. Sometimes, these handsome creatures will even sit still long enough, as they survey their realm, for a photo op in great light.

The Arrow-shaped Micrathena spider is an orb-weaver with which many August hikers are all too familiar. This little guy—actually, more likely a girl—weaves its circular web across innumerable places in the forest, and, all too often, right across a trail. While the spiders are quite striking, with their black and gold colors on their bottom sides and bright yellow above, they're not much bigger than a dime, so you don't see them until you've walked through their webs and, if the spider's a little too slow to react, gotten them on your clothes, much to the consternation of hiker and inadvertent hitch-hiker. No harm done, of course—just annoyance on your part and wasted effort on the part of the spider.

 

The drought keeps worsening, and to make matters more worse still, we keep getting close to significant rain but it's always a promise that doesn't deliver. Here's a perfect example: the Weather Channel and National Weather Service noted strong thunderstorms in the area that had the capacity to deliver deluges and dangerous lightning and hail. Somebody got these blessings. All we got was dark skies and distant thunder. The rain went elsewhere.

Ultronia Underwing moth

Normally, by this point in August, my notebook has been awash in sightings of those enigmatic moths known as Underwings. The night-fliers, which are attracted to the kitchen porch and basement floodlights, get their primary name from the fact that while the top wings come in variations on the drab camouflage theme—they're expert at hiding in plain sight on tree bark—the two underwings often feature bold patterns seemingly designed to startle potential predators and help the moth beat a hasty retreat to safety. This year, however, the Underwings have been conspicuous in their absence, a worrisome trend in keeping with an overall decline in insect populations. Tonight, thank God, we got our first visit from the Catocala clan: a handsome moth known as the Ultronia Underwing. This charmer, also known as the Dark Red Underwing, was named in 1823 by German lepidopterist Jacob Hubner to honor a Greek island.

Some discoveries only come after an arduous journey of many miles; others require less distance... but maybe no less effort. This is one of the latter. To find and document this handsome beetle, which features an eye-catching red field-mark where the wing-covers meet the thorax—OK, technically, where the elytra meet the pronotum—I only needed to walk out the basement door tonight and scan the cedar shingles under the flood lights. The half-inch long dark beetle not only was waiting for me, but it also waited patiently while I raced back inside for my camera and lights. That was the easy part. Then came the effort: trying to come up with an ID. That took the better part of an hour, and a long, slow, patient slog through Arthur Evans's Beetles of Eastern North America and lots of corroboration from BugGuide. The verdict? Penthe obliquata, a member of the Polypore Fungus Beetles that belong to the family Tetratomidae.

White Wood Aster

It's still hot and dry, but, soon enough, the heat wave will break, and we'll start thinking about putting on another layer. As if I needed another reminder besides the thermometer and the hunt for the winter clothes boxes that hold the flannel shirts, the natural world has already started to display a number of hints that presage the impending weather change. First among them is the appearance of the Wood Asters that are springing up along the roadways, gardens, and forest paths. I'm really a fan of Eurybia divaricata—just about all of the plants formerly lumped together in the genus Aster have been reassigned to new genera, thanks to the DNA police, who now regard true asters as Old World plants—but the Wood variation on the theme can be rather invasive in the garden, so we're trying to keep it mostly in its natural place, where, I have to say, it looks like the handsomest of harbingers.

Agapostemon bee on squash flower

If ever there were a prettier bee, I'm not sure that I've seen it in this life. What we have here on a squash flower is a green bee that appears to have been crafted from burnished metal. The unlikely bit of gorgeous natural sculpture is a member of the bee family Halictidae, a group whose members can vary from being solitary to semi-social. This one, a member of the Agapostemon genus, tends towards the solitary end of things in the nesting department—they nest underground—perhaps because having a congregation would cause too much sparkling and, hence, draw too much attention to the nursery. I see them often glinting in the sunshine, and that always draws my eye, and, of course, camera lens. While they're still on the prowl, I should probably start netting at least a few to learn their identities down to species, but, so far, I've been content to just collect pictures.

Twin Net-winged Beetle

Net-winged Beetles are the moth-lookalikes of the Coleoptera world, and around here, they often come in variations on the orange and black theme, their most common colors. (There are also pure orange and pure black species among the net-winged Lycidae, but they seem to be rare around here.) This variation, however, may be the rarest of them all, or, depending on how it came to be, the commonest. First off, given the pattern of black banding on the wings, it's probably a Banded Net-winged Beetle, a.k.a. Calopteron reticulatum. But what the heck is the story with the two pairs of antennae, including one going right out of the back, and the four pairs of wings? At first glance, it would appear to be an example of conjoined twins, and that would be exceedingly unusual. But there's another explanation, much more mundane... and prurient. This could also be a pair of net-wings caught in the act of mating, with the male attempting to work his way up the female's back via an inside route, rather than the more typical mounting style atop her wings. While I've never seen an insect guy try this, I guess it would provide a measure of privacy.

My son Noah has always been a fine photographer—I guess I've had at least one good influence—so when he got a new 30mm lens for his equally new mirrorless camera, he wanted to field test it with me and see how the combo worked to capture the night sky. As soon as the heavens got pitch dark—the moon was just about new—we drove down to the corn fields, which have a wide angle view of the cosmos, and set up shop. Noah, using the most modern technology, got some wonderful shots. I, using "ancient" technology—a 24mm f/2.8 fully manual Nikkor lens from the late-1960s—didn't do so bad myself, as this image of Jupiter, the bright "star" in the center, Saturn, to the left, and an amazing array of night lights, shows quite handsomely.

Several days ago, I wrote about a favorite insect—and a useful one, at that—known as the Feather-legged Fly. We have a second species in our area, and here it is: the orange-abdomened dipteran that entomologists called Trichopoda pennipes. Like our other species, which is dark winged and dark bellied, TP is an effective parasite that helps control populations of squash and stink bugs, which can be terrible pests. Interestingly, there's a range of sexual dimorphism in this species, with males having entirely orange abdomens and eyes that are fairly close together, a condition—for the eyes, that is—referred to as holoptic. In the females, there's usually a black mark at the end of the abdomen, and the eyes are dichoptic, that is, widely separated. It's typically a reliable field mark, and, perhaps, a way for females like this one to keep better tabs on the guys.

Originally a native of southern Europe and northern Africa, as well as the more reasonable parts of Asia all the way to China, the so-called European Paper Wasp somehow made it across the Atlantic in the 1970s and eventually set up shop in Massachusetts, where a nest of the colorful insects was discovered near Boston by Cornell entomologist George C. Eickwort in 1978. Since landing on the hymenopterological equivalent of Plymouth Rock, the wasp known to scientists as Polistes dominula—the species name means "little mistress"—has become well established throughout the Northeast and is increasingly found in many other parts of the country. Clearly, it's here to stay, and while there was some concern that it would out-compete many of the native species and increase the predation burden on native butterflies, caterpillars in particular, that fear doesn't seem to have become a reality. This is good. We have enough threats to biodiversity without an onslaught of mini-mistresses.

There have been enough adult Monarch butterflies flitting around, and, happily, plenty of the new milkweeds that the lepidopterans love for egg-laying, that, frankly, I'm more than a little disheartened to be finding very few caterpillars. Of course, the lack is hardly surprising. There's a lot of ground to cover in the searching, so I'm certainly missing most of the youngsters, and, perhaps more to the point, the vast majority of hatchlings don't make it past their first day out of the egg. It's a cruel, cruel natural world out there. So when I found this gorgeous almost-full-grown Monarch caterpillar, who was displaying the lurid colors that warned potential predators about its toxicity,it made my day. The youngster was getting ready for the walkabout before pupation. Now, if it can only run the remaining gauntlet and succeed in metamorphosing into an adult... and fly all the way to Mexico. If only... if only...

For most of this week, a good deal of my walking time was spent walking my neighbor's wonderful dog, which is one of my favorite neighborly things to do. Freida's an old buddy, and she's always a key to finding something interesting as we hike together through the back woods. While she's not a mushroomer, although there are pups trained to sniff out truffles, Freida often leads me past fungal curiosities... and this find was among the most curious. It's known as a Cauliflower Mushroom, for immediately obvious reasons, and though it would be striking under any circumstance, it's especially so now, since the deepening drought has so curtailed fungal enthusiasms. Sparassis spathulata likes to parasitize hardwoods, especially oaks, but it's not particularly virulent. It is, however, persistent, and it will often grow in the same place, year after year, as it converts wood, living and dead, into mushroom tissue. It's also, from what I learned when I was trying to unravel the current complications, engendered by DNA studies, about its identity, a rather choice edible. Alas, by the time I discovered this, the Cauliflower was past its prime. The patch bears watching. Maybe this is only the vanguard, or, at the very least, maybe this will require a field trip next year, same place, same date... probably with the same dog.

False fall, drought

The Birch leaves are fooling us again. They're beginning to show a smattering of yellow, which, in a normal year—assuming anything is normal anymore—would be a sign that autumn is starting to make its presence known. But it's mid-August and the height of summer. There hasn't been so much as a touch of fall in the hot and humid air, so what gives? It's that D word... as in, Drought. Birch leaves are exquisitely sensitive to more than just the inevitable decline in daylength—they're not happy when the soil moisture disappears, which it most certainly is doing in these rainfall-less times. In response to drought, the leaves turn color early and fall to the ground. This is how the birches cut their potential losses, trading off the possibility of continued photosynthesis for the risk of dying from thirst. Trees can take the long view, the wait-until-next-year view well known to dendrologists and fans of the Boston Red Sox (particularly this year... alas...)

Dark feather-legged fly, Trichopoda lanipes

For a number of years, I've been hooked on flies—real flies, a.k.a., members of the insect order Diptera, not, as would be expected in a retired person, trout flies. (Alas, I don't fly fish.) And among my favorites are the members of the genus Trichopoda, which are better known as the Feather-footed flies on account of their most obvious field characteristic: the fringe of what looks like fine feathering on the fly's hind legs. The hairs are thought to resemble the pollen baskets of a bumble bee, and entomologists believe that this mimicry helps the trichopod interact without fear among its bee neighbors, with whom the insect shares flowers. This handsome, dark-winged and -bodied dipteran is known to scientists as Trichopoda lanipes, and, while it nectars, it's on the lookout for squash bugs, on which she will lay her eggs that, when they hatch, will tunnel into the bug—sustenance for the next trichopod generation... a handsome method of natural pest control.

Mourning Horsefly

My journey today, a brilliant and warm one... yet again...  took me to an old favorite, Blue Pond in Hopkinton. When the dam that created the shallow, broad pond failed during the great floods of 2010, much of the water ran downstream, leaving a new and very interesting expanded shoreline. Walking it is always a natural history pleasure, and this trip was no exception. Surprisingly, given the gathering drought, the water level was higher than I expected, but it was warm, so wading the wetter spots was almost a pleasure, particularly given what I observed atop an emergent wetlands plant. This huge black horsefly was hanging head-down, and, as I watched, putting the finishing touches on her egg cluster. When the eggs hatch, they'll drop into the shallows and live as semi-aquatic larvae for up to several years before they emerge as full grown Tabanus atratus. The species name means "clothed in black," which gives the insect its alternative common name, the Mourning Fly. Thank God this female was busy with reproduction. Had I arrived earlier in her cycle, she might have seen me as a great source of the blood she'd have needed to maximize her egg-laying output. I'd be the one doing the mourning.

Seaside Dragonlet, Stewart Mac salt marsh

Following my latest twice-yearly visit with my cardiologist—nothing untoward to report, praise the Lord—I rewarded good behavior with a trek to the Stewart McKinney National Wildlife Refuge in Westbrook. It was exceedingly hot, but I knew I'd be mostly in the shade on the hike through the woods, so I didn't have to worry about heat stroke and too much sun exposure on the first day of freedom from anti-Lyme antibiotics. I needed a little bit of time in the light, because high on my agenda was finding a most unusual odonate: the Seaside Dragonlet. This member of the Skimmer clan is a Stewart Mac specialty, and, in the summer, I almost always find at least one or two at the edge of the refuge salt marsh. Erythrodiplax berenice is our only small ode with the ability to thrive in saline environments, and it didn't let me down today, as it scanned its world from a happily photogenic perch atop a stalk of salt hay.

It was a warm morning with yet more heat to arrive, so the natural world decided to get to work early. So did I, but as I settled into writing, I heard a slow, heavy, rhythmic whacking nearby, and when I finally located the source, wow! there was a Pileated Woodpecker busy in its endless search for hardwoods riddled with Carpenter ants. Apparently this oak was ant free. After a handful of investigative taps that yielded  large wood chips but nothing worth a headache, the huge picid headed off to what it hoped was better and more productive territory.

The drought shows no sign of abating, and since I've always been concerned about water conservation—not a bad idea if you're dependent on a well, and, in truth, not a bad discipline at all under any situation—I've started journeying to a local creek to fill water containers for use in the garden. Clearly, the plants are beginning to get a little droopy as the soil dries to dust and the water table drops yet deeper. Fortunately, the nearby Shunock River is still flowing at a reasonable place, and it's relatively easy to access a good spot for filling the jugs. After I did the job, I followed a trail that runs along the stream in search of, well, anything. Here's the find of the day, an exquisite blossom that I didn't know at the time but discovered is a species of Monkey Flower—probably Mimulus ringens, the Square-stemmed Monkey Flower, which is our most common Mimulus. The genus name was coined by Linnaeus, who thought the floral lips resembled a grin—"mimus" in Greek translates to a "grinning comic actor"—and the common designation seems to have come from the flower's similarity to a grinning monkey. Forgive me: I don't see either resemblance. I just observe a rare beauty arising out of the wet soil beside the stream. That's enough.

August is the month to start searching the milkweeds for mini-monarchs, the luridly colored caterpillars of the equally luridly colored—although differently lurid (yes, even this color-challenged observer can see the difference between Monarch larvae and the orange and black adult butterflies)—and just before lunchtime, I spotted the first of what I hope will be a bumper crop of lepidopterans. I'd seen a female Monarch flitting about a local milkweed patch but I couldn't locate any eggs on the young plants the moms-to-be favor for oviposition. However, the eggs are hard to see in the general hairiness of the leaves, so I wasn't surprised that I'd missed at least one. The kid had probably hatched yesterday and was clearly working on Task One for a Monarch caterpillar: mowing the "lawn"—the stretch of protective hairs known to botanists as trichomes—in preparation for the dangerous task of eating the greenery. Milkweed gets its name from the high-pressure latex that oozes and spurts from the leaves, and these caterpillars often drown in the resulting flood. But the larvae are not without inborn skills at avoiding catastrophe. I hoped the kid was well-endowed with all the tricks of the survival trade.

Large flies—this one's more than an inch long—give me pause, given that the biggest dipterans around here are typically horse flies, which have mouth parts that resemble jig saws and an inclination to use them on the flesh of more than just equine targets. But this gentleman, who is actually a gentle-woman—the wide-apart eyes are, in most flies, only found in females; males have eyes that are either very close together or even linked, although separated by a seam—is to be celebrated, not feared... well, unless you're a Carpenter Bee, the sometimes scourge of deck posts and house siding. The Carpenter Bee Fly, with its exquisite stained-glass wings, is a striking insect that spends most of its life sipping nectar from flowers and pollinating them in the process. It has no interest whatsoever in our blood and, indeed, no anatomical ability to pierce flesh and cause our vital fluids to flow. However, to carry on the generations, the CBF is forever on the lookout for Carpenter Bees, and when it finds a bee nest in wood, Xenox tigrinus, as the fly is known to dipterologists, swoops in and deposits its own eggs in the nursery. When the fly larvae hatch, they start eating bee would-be offspring. Homeowners, rejoice. Naturalists, be not afraid.

Today's journey took me down to the millpond, an old favorite destination, in the hope of communing with Cardinal flowers and Dragonhunters, and while I definitely found both in residence, the highlight of the trip was something unexpected. As I walked towards the waterfall, I spooked a small bird that immediately headed towards the downstream shallows below the dam. I couldn't see much in the shadows, but every so often the bird entered a sun-lit spot and there, I noticed that it carried spotting on its breast and belly, and it was inclined to bob its tail like a wind-up toy. I was pretty sure it was a Spotted Sandpiper, recently migrating south from the breeding sweepstakes in the far north, and as I switched lenses, from macro to telephoto, I quietly zeroed in on the handsome bird as it probed the gravel for invertebrate meals. It eventually flew in panic, but before it vanished. the Spotted rewarded my patience by posing, ever so quickly, for a perfect portrait.

When I spotted this striking insect, which I suspected was a flower fly, I got instantly excited. If I'd been birding, I would have known right away that I had one for the life list. Well, syrphidologists keep life lists, too, and while I don't yet have a back-pocket one—I'm not quite a genuine syrphidologist, although I'm getting close—I know a new species when I see one. As I watched the golden-haired fly work its way over the hydrangea flowers then camp out on a hydrangea leaf, I was mesmerized and could only hope that my glee wouldn't get in the way of a good shot that could help me with an identification. Fortunately, my hands held steady, and after a long tour through Jeff Skevington and company's field guide to the flower flies, I learned that I'd apparently been graced with a visit from an uncommon syrphid called, appropriately enough, a Goldenback. It's in the genus Pterallastes, a group with a disparate distribution: two species in China, one in Japan, and one, P. thoracicus, in my backyard... well, and much of the northeast.

This diminutive insect—a real cutie, I'd say—appeared on various leaves and flower petals over the course of the day, and when I looked at my pictures, I figured that it would be easy to work my way through my copy of The Bees in Your Backyard and find the identity of the hymenopteran. Easy... no. After a couple of hours of looking through the must-have opus of Joe Wilson and Olivia Carril, followed by digital treks through a variety of websites, I decided to give up and write to Dr. Wilson. I've done this before, and, thank the Lord, he doesn't seem to mind. Scientists are typically wonderful that way. "The reason this [insect] is not in our book is because this is a wasp," Joe replied gently, without even the slightest implication that I was an idiot. My error, in fact, was easily understandable since the creature was "a member of the group of wasps most closely related to bees, in fact evolutionarily bees fit inside this group of wasps," which are known as Crabronidae, or, I would learn, the Square-headed Wasps. Joe thought my 'square head"—the wasp, not the observer—belonged in the genus Ectemnius. After my own search, I had to agree.

Of all the pests that plague tomatoes, I think most gardeners would nominate the Tomato Hornworm, the caterpillar that turns into the magnificent Five-spotted Hawkmoth, as about the worst of the worst. Hornworms are veritable eating machines, and a single caterpillar can lay waste to an entire plant in record time. The fact that this garden carnage leads to a gorgeous adult that behaves like a hummingbird does not, typically, lead to tolerance, but much of the time, gardeners don't have to do much. Nature takes care of matters on its own. Oftentimes, small parasitic wasps known as braconids will lay their eggs on Tomato Hornworms, and the wasp youngsters will eat their way inside the caterpillar, eventually killing it before emerging to start the cycle anew. With any luck, this macabre parasitism will keep the hornworms in check, enabling us to enjoy tomatoes and the occasional hawkmoth.

In any family, parents don't want to play favorites... but sometimes, despite the best parental efforts, the phrase, "Mom [or Dad] always liked you best," rings all too sadly true. So it is among the dragonflies. It's not a family of odonates that I've embraced as a favorite—it's more an individual species. True, I like lots of odes, but I think, if I had to choose, I really would name the Dragonhunter as my first love. Hagenius brevistylus is bold, brightly colored, and downright ferocious, since its diet often includes the members of its own order, the Odonata. Every midsummer, about the time that the Cardinal Flowers start blooming, I start haunting the stream below the millpond dam, which is where I typically spot the first Dragonhunters. Today, they premiered. You could almost feel the unease among the other aerial members of the community. As for me, you could almost feel the joy that the Dragonhunters are back.

By tradition, the Ramones, the Damned, and the Saints generally get credit for recording the first punk rock records—and they were still vinyl LPs in the early 1970s when the albums appeared. But well before these musicians took center stage, there was an earlier uber-influencer going by the name of Juriniopsis. This genus of hirsute flies is part of a vast group of parasitic insects in the fly family Tachinidae, and these dipterans are well-known for laying their eggs on a vast array of unfortunate invertebrates. This incredibly hairy critter, probably Juriniopsis adusta, appeared today on the flower panicles of our Hydrangea, and according to the experts, the tachinid was looking for either a Tiger Moth or a Silver-spotted Skipper to make life miserable for either the adult or its caterpillar. Ordinarily, I don't like to take sides, but I'm less than inclined to wish the parasite success. My sentiments are definitely with the moths.

Yesterday's discovery was an exceedingly artful mimic of a hornet; today's find is the genuine item... and the long anticipated arrival of one of my favorite insects. The first place I ever encountered the Cicada Killer Wasp was at Amos Lake where the grassy hillside gives way to the sand in the playground area. The enormous wasps are famous for their tunneling abilities, and as I watched, several females were busy digging into the slope to build nursery nests into which they'd drag a parasitized cicada, lay an egg on the comatose insect, seal up the nest, and then leave their offspring to dine at leisure: nature at its Stephen King best. The Cicada Killers are still at it at Amos Lake, but in the past couple of years, I've found an even better hillside. It's at Wilcox Park in Westerly, and today, for the first time, the nest area was alive with newly emerged adult wasps getting ready for the hunting and reproduction business. This should be fun to watch... macabre, to be sure, but fun, nevertheless.

Years ago, the sight of a yellow jacket would have sent me running in near-terror in the opposite direction. Why is a long story I'll relate in another post, but suffice it to say that I've changed both my opinions towards hymenoptera and my inclination to flee. Indeed, these days, I'm more likely to stay still and watch members of the wasp family... especially if the individual is a member of the Spilomyia longicornus clan. These insects no longer make my blood run cold, and for good reason: these insects aren't wasps. Despite a remarkable resemblance to the ferocious Yellow Jacket,  S. longicornus is actually a fly shaped by eons of evolution into a mimic of the real thing. When I'm watching the hydrangea blossoms for hymenoptera, I'm hoping that I'll see an Eastern Hornet Fly. Today, my wish came true.

For reasons that may just turn out to be unfathomable, our Rose of Sharon shrubs are always late in blooming, typically behind the debut members of the Hibiscus syriacus clan by a week or two. This year, however, the tardiness is more than compensated for by the huge number of blossoms these natives of China are bearing. If the right weather conditions prevail, it's going to be a memorable show, to say nothing of a remarkable year for the Rose of Sharon's many diverse pollinators.

Earlier today I discovered that my persistent headache and almost frozen neck appeared to be the result of—what else?—Lyme Disease. Oh joy! So I'm heading back to the pharmacy for yet another round of Doxycycline, which, because it makes me even more sun-sensitive than is typical, I'll have to avoid most of my natural history venues by day. But I figure that I'll start the antibiotic tonight and, one last time for the next two weeks, hit the sunlight trail. Since I knew the Bee Balm would be flowering in the Preston Nature Preserve meadows, I decided to head there. My target, besides the simply beauty of the place, was the clearwing moths that mimic hummingbirds, and no sooner did I wade into the fields, not having to worry about exposure to ticks since I was going to be on anti-tick-caused-ailments-meds, than I finally got my Hummingbird Moths. I hope they're still be waiting for me when I can return to the light in mid-August.

To honor the late hero John Lewis, who passed away last week, and the Black Lives Matter movement, I went to a local rally for the cause that was held in our sleepy little town this afternoon. It was mostly peaceful and, I hope, a fine show of solidarity. I also hope this sign, which, it turns out, was held by my daughter, exemplifies what we need to do: get in "good trouble"—John's watchwords—and try to put this country back on the right path. That would truly be making America great again.

By your leave, i am so far behind at this point that I toyed with just posting two weeks of images, day by day, to catch up. But I think what I'll do is present the best picture of each day and not spend the usual time on the research that goes along with the shot... until I've righted the sinking ship. I'm going to apologize in advance for the relative lack of text, but I think you'll enjoy the picture, which is of the first Cardinal Flower of the season. I'm not sure you can find a more vibrant color... or so I'm told. Even with my red-green colorblindness, the flowers stand out.

 

My favorite strategy for posting images is to go with the first sighting, but this shot of a stag beetle, a commoner among the roughly 30 species found in this country, is neither the debut nor the end game. I may have spotted the first member of the beetle family Lucanidae in June; I'll probably be seeing them through the rest of the summer. They're quite fond of my kitchen porch and basement lights, and they're very accommodating about posing for me, their seemingly ferocious jaws agape and ready to inflict nasty wounds on anyone venturing close. Actually, they're quite harmless and largely lack sufficient power to break human skin. The "antlers" are instead male features used to lock horns with rivals in wrestling matches aimed at establishing who's going to be mating with available females, whose smaller jaws can indeed deliver a painful nip. Still, I keep my distance... well, nine inches, the focus limit of my macro lens.

I spend a lot of time and quite joyful energy in July looking for hummingbird moths, those remarkable lepidopteran mimics of avian hummers. So far, alas, my usual go-to spot—my daughter's Gooseneck Loosestrife flowers in her garden—have not been visited by the insects, and it's too early for the Bee Balm at the Preston Nature Preserve, my other reliable venue for members of the Hemaris clan, to be drawing in the Clearwing Moths. But there are, I discovered, other lepidopterans with clearish wings and hummingbird tendencies. This one I noticed on the Swamp Milkweed blooms in the pollinator garden at Wilcox Park in Westerly. After considerable study, I learned that it's the adult, and a rather pretty one at that, of the Squash Vine Borer, whose larvae are dreaded pests of squash plants everywhere. It's considered more a wasp mimic than a hummingbird lookalike—notice those "feathered" legs that are supposed to look like those of a wasp—but it definitely hovers, so it appears that evolution has been inspired by two different lifeforms.

The continuing intense heat and humidity, to say nothing of the persistent deer flies, have made walking something less than pleasurable, or even, all too many days, possible, so I've been doing most of my cardio-journeying on bicycle, which means I don't see as much as I do on foot. This is, of course, better for my heart, since I don't stop once I get up to speed, and I suppose it's also better for my brain, since it requires me to remember when I've discovered something that I need to go back and check out. So it was with this gorgeous dragonfly, which is known as a Halloween Pennant. Experience has trained me to start looking for these dainty odes around the middle of July, when they first begin to appear on the flower heads of the taller, stouter grasses, to which they cling like diminutive flags. That gives them the "pennant" name; the colors provide the reason for the "Halloween" designation. On my way home in the late afternoon, I spotted the first of these in a neighborhood's meadow; thankfully, when I walked back after switching my bike for a camera, the Pennants were still in place, blowing in the wind.

As I noted earlier, my attempts to photograph Comet NEOWISE didn't go well at all, and I really had no adequate explanation. Happily, my son Noah got great shots with his new mirrorless Canon, so that was good. But I wanted some of my own, and, try as I might with a camera and lenses that used to be able to capture decent astrophotographs, I couldn't get my dSLR to bring the comet and the stars into sharp focus. I knew I was running out of time, because NEOWISE was growing dimmer and further away. I had one more idea to try: an ancient, but tried and true Nikkor 50mm f1.4 lens. This one, manual everything, is more than half-a-century old, and it was my go-to lens when I first started using an SLR. It rarely let me down then, and, praise the Lord, it didn't let me down this evening, when the skies were reasonably clear and the comet was hanging just below the Big Dipper.

With the first real heat of the summer firmly in place, I'm sticking closer to home... and the air-conditioning... so most of my walks will be local. Today's journey of discovery took me not much beyond the compost heap behind the vegetable garden, and while I was there, I noticed a surprising abundance of high-pitched buzzing, the kind that excited flies make. Something also didn't smell too nice, and when I followed both the noise and the mal-odor to the source, I found a dead opossum huddled against a small wood pile. The poor thing seemed to have met its maker a couple of days ago, and it was decaying rapidly in the warmth. It was also attracting quite a crowd, including a signature insect I met last year on a hawk corpse. The Hairy Rove Beetle is a staphylinid that dines on the deceased as well as on the youngsters, typically fly maggots, that also are found at the Last Table. I suppose I should give the possum a decent and quick burial, but, if my nose can stand it, this might be a rare chance to document a fascinating, if macabre, show about the natural undertakers.

Bettylen Daylily, home

The hot weather is settling in for the duration, and it'll be a lake day later. For now, however, I'm enjoying the rapidly warming outdoors and our abundance of rain-responsive flowers in the garden and the wild.  The daylilies are coming on like gangbusters, and I spent a good part of the morning photographing them from every possible angle, as well as documenting all of the insect visitors. For reasons I can't fathom, this prize Hemerocallis, which we got at last year's bargain sale at White Flower Farm, was something less than a pollinator magnet. Sooner or later, however, Bettylen, as this cultivar is known in the trade, will bring in the bees, butterflies, beetles, and flower flies. In a wonderful illusion that I didn't see until I edited the photo, it appears that I'm not the only observer. If this were true, it would hardly be a surprise. Bettylen certainly draws a crowd, with, as the WFF catalog explains, "deep purple petals" on a "lightly fragrant daylily" that is "almost four inches wide and artfully finished with frilly white hems and bright green throats." Couldn't have said it better.

Red and Black Long-horned Beetle, Home

I was hoping that our star party in the evening with all of our kids would yield—finally—a great comet picture, but no such luck. While everyone got a fine look at NEOWISE, I continue to have focus problems and wound up with exceedingly mediocre images. However, in the afternoon, I did better. I also wound up with a fine mystery. This long-horned beetle that appeared on the wood pile looked familiar, but I couldn't quite give it a name I could believe in. Beetles of Eastern North America, usually my go-to and totally reliable resource, didn't feature anything more than close, so I took what I figured was a member of the Long-horned Beetle clan in the genus Purpuricenus to the good folks at BugGuide and started to comb through their images. In blissfully rapid fashion, I found what I was looking forward: a shot of this very beetle, complete with the natty red elytral triangles. Pleased to meet ya, Red and Black Long-horned Beetle, a.k.a. Purpuricenus humeralis.

Eyed Click Beetle, Home

As far as I'm concerned, no summer is complete without an appearance by the master deceiver known as the Eyed Click Beetle. I've already seen one or two of these remarkable insects, but they haven't hung around long enough to watch, let alone photograph. When I noticed this one in the air—they fly like overweight bumblebees—I didn't think the beetle would still be there after I raced inside and grabbed the dSLR with the macro lens hopefully attached. But, thanks be to the Lord of such things, I had the right stuff waiting for me on the counter... and the right beetle exhibiting rare cooperation. The insect, a member of the beetle family Elateridae, gets its name from the clicking noise it makes when it's flipped over, as well as from those huge eyespots on the back of its thoracic shield. (The scientific name, appropriately enough, is Alaus oculatus.) The "eyes," of course, are fake; if you look carefully just below the attachment points of the antennae you can see the real eyes. But if you were intent on eating a Click Beetle and it flashed those enormous orbs in your direction, you might be frightened, or, at least, startled enough to abandon pursuit. Sometimes, deceit does the trick.

Spilomyia alcimus, Hornet Fly

When a Yellow Jacket shows up on the Oak-leaf Hydrangea blossoms, the typical response among the pollinators, be they beetles, butterflies, or bees, is to take to the air ASAP. No use winding up as a meat-eating predator's dinner. I fully understand the panic—I don't stick around either. No use risking a very painful sting. But in the past several years, I've worked on suppressing my "fright and flight" response in favor of a "wait and see" strategy. This happened as a result of learning that not all that appears to be yellow-jacketed actually requires an escape plan. In fact, some "yellow jackets" are actually harmless flower flies dressed by evolution in provocative clothing. So it is with the Broad-banded Hornet Fly, a remarkable mimic, right down to its buzz, that has started to appear on the flowers. Not only do the other pollinators keep their distance, perhaps enabling Spilomyia alcimus to get the best foraging spots, but potential predators stay away, too. Naturalists, however, can't help moving in for a closer look, particularly at those banded eyes.

First sighting, NEOWISE, Palmer's

Comet NEOWISE, named after the space telescope that first discovered it on March 27th of this year, has been making quite a name for itself since it first became visible at the beginning of the month. But, alas, you had to get up at four in the morning to spot it and for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that our dawn skies have been foggy, I opted to wait until the fine comet started putting on a show in the evening. The skies were pretty clear for the first time tonight, so my son Noah and I grabbed our cameras and headed over to the local silage corn field, which has a great view of the northwest where NEOWISE lives. By around 10, it was finally dark enough to view it, and it was definitely a "Wow!" moment. The comet is not as bright as Hale-Bopp, and the tail's not as long as Hyakutake, but it's definitely the real deal and easily spotted with eyes alone. Now, if only I can capture decent pictures. This one, like the others I took, was through my big zoom telephoto on a not-big-enough tripod. Next try will be with a smaller lens and a sturdier support. Still, it's something (and, happily, Noah did much better with his new mirrorless Canon.)

Laphria robber fly and prey

Among the most anticipated arrivals in the summer fly department would be these bumblebee mimics belonging to the dipteran genus Laphria. I've been waiting for these loud and ferocious insects to make their presences known for about a week now—their typical appearance dates are in my phenological calendar—so I was primed and ready when one noisily descended to a Hydrangea blossom filled with long-horned beetles and then quickly departed with a hapless prey item. The laphrid predator—they're hard to identify to species from a photograph alone, and I have no real desire to collect them to make a positive ID (a generic approximation is close enough)—soon landed on a Hydrangea leaf. With the beetle now injected with digestive enzymes and quieted by neurotoxins, the so-called Robber Fly began eating, well, drinking, the remains of its calm and resigned prey.

Allegheny Vine (Adlumia fungosa), Tritown

When I got a note from my TriTown Forest Preserve friends about trying to locate a mystery fern that might, according to experts, be downright rare, I decided to drop what I was doing and join an expedition, led by the remarkable botanist Doug McGrady, to study the plant and figure out its identity. Well, the fern remains uncertain, but as long as we were in the preserve, Doug had another item on his agenda, which was re-finding and documenting a patch of a definitely uncommon wildflower with the tongue-twisting name of Adlumia fungosa. When one of my younger brothers first encountered the Latin name of a very pretty plant commonly called Allegheny Vine, Climbing Fumitory, or Mountain Fringe, said bro thought the scientific moniker was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. But I rather liked the name and vowed, sooner or later, that I'd actually find and photograph it. Today was my chance, and the plant proved worth what has become a several decades  long wait. Wish my brother could have been with me to see it.

Pickerel Frog, KDs

I was dropping my granddaughter off at my daughter's in the afternoon, and while I was there, I figured I'd spend some time camped out by her Gooseneck Loosestrife flowers, which I knew to be in full bloom and hopefully attracting hummingbird moths. Strangely, the blossom spikes were mothless, but they were still busy way-stations for a variety of other insects, particularly wasps, bees, butterflies, and flower flies. In addition, we found this frog. I was pretty sure it was a large Pickerel Frog, but my grandson was hoping it was a Leopard Frog, an increasingly rare find. I didn't think so, but I couldn't say why with any precision. So, once home and armed with the image, I visited both amphibian guides and frog websites to reacquaint my failing brain with the right diagnostics. Turns out that the yellow-orange on the inside of the legs and the belly is good enough for the definitive Pickerel. Leopards, besides being unlikely around here, are also white. Case closed.

First Meadowhawk, Home, Pine

It's getting genuinely warm and humid... closing in on oppressive, really, especially with the rapidly developing drought. But today, on an exploration of the edge of the woods fringing the lawn, I noticed, on a little White Pine, a hopeful sign that things might improve soon enough. The little dragonfly clinging to a cluster of needles—always five per bundle in Pinus strobus—was a member of the Meadowhawk clan, a group of about half a dozen different species that, at a quick glance, appear to be not at all different from each other. To ID them, you have to capture the ode and, at the very least, stun it, typically with the chilly air of the refrigerator, then determine the diagnostic characteristics before the numb insect warms up. When I noticed the Meadowhawk, I didn't have a net with me, and it flew before I was able to photograph the right identification stuff. So all I have is a general idea of what it might be... except for the fact that I definitely know one thing: when the meadowhawks start to appear, we're nearing the middle of summer, and the eventual start of better weather. Well, better from my perspective.

Swamp Azalea, Home

When Rhododendron viscosum, a.k.a. the Swamp Azalea, is in bloom, I normally have to journey to a nearby wetland to view it. That's not exactly a sacrifice, since there are plenty of other things I'd enjoy in the search for RV, which is also called the Swamp Honeysuckle, or, because of the sticky hairs on the tubes of its exquisite flowers, the "Clammy Azalea." But in the past several years, we've inadvertently taken one of these shrubs under our wing. For reasons we can't fathom, the plant took up residence in our garden, probably after having made a bird-induced jump from, well, a nearby wetland. It's now quite at home on the ridge, and when it blooms near the middle of July, you know it. RV smells heavenly. When I'm out there inhaling, I have plenty of company. The bees and hummingbirds share my favorable opinion.

Fair sign, next year, NS Fairgrounds

With the emergence of the deer flies and other sanguivorous members of the dipteran family Tabanidae, I'm increasingly likely to trade my walks for bike rides, if for no other reason than I can usually out-pedal the damned biting insects, with their hacksaw-like mouth parts. My usual route, which right now is about eight miles long—it'll increase as I get into better bike shape—takes me by the town fair grounds, which, sadly, are now empty, even though by tradition, the North Stonington Agricultural Fair should have started in earnest today. The COVID-19-mandated loss is painful, far worse than a deer fly bite, but necessary. Not having the fair is also frightening, since the venerable institution was not that financial secure, so you have to wonder about its future. Worry not: on the fair grounds, I noticed a sign with the dates for next year. That's balm for the beleaguered spirit. Now, if we can only get the coronavirus to behave.

Ring-necked Snake, Home woodpile

Given that I'm under rather strict orders from my cardiac team to avoid splitting wood by hand—a passion and a discipline for close to the past half-century—it's been wonderful that my youngest son Noah has taken to the task. But I can still cut, haul, and stack wood without restriction, so, instead of taking a long walk I decided to get my workout from piling at least a quarter of a cord of splittings in an orderly fashion on the wood stack. When I gingerly pulled back the blue tarps that keep the fuel dry, I was on the lookout for hornet's nests and Black Rat Snakes, both of which I've discovered hiding in the covered pile. This time, however, the only resident was an adult and handsome Ring-necked Snake, a mini-serpent not much more than a foot-long—they don't get much longer than that—but still a terror to insects, small salamanders and frogs, earthworms, and slugs. While I'd rather our resident Diadophis punctatus eschew eating the amphibians, I'm more than happy to afford the serpent all the slugs our gardens and woods can produce.

Conopid, Thick-headed Fly, Wilcox, Swamp Milkweed

The hope that I'd run into the first of the Monarch caterpillars lured me out of COVID-19 isolation to sample the pleasures of Wilcox Park in downtown Westerly. Given the proximity of a number of people who had the same idea, I wore a mask, which meant I couldn't wear my glasses and so experienced an impressionistic trek. At least I could see through the lens, and as I focused on a Swamp Milkweed in full, alas, Monarch-less, bloom, I noticed something else intriguing: a wasp-mimic known, and I am not making this up, as a Thick-headed Fly. These members of the fly family Conopidae are harmless, but the resemblance to the real thing, which is flying in, stage left, to check out the interloper, is certainly impressive.

Silver-spotted Skipper, Home

One of my favorite butterflies is the Silver-spotted Skipper, a lepidopteran that has the distinction of being, according to many butterfly mavens, the most easily recognizable of the members of this often hard to ID group. To know the skippers in general is actually a piece of cake: just look at the ends of the antennae for that characteristic hook at the end, which is technically called an apiculus... if it looks like an implement for crocheting, you've got a Skipper to deal with. Often, that means you're going to be in for a lot of work—members of the butterfly family Hesperiidae are usually tricky to ID down to species. Not so, the Silver-spotted. The usual look at this robust Skipper includes a large and distinctive white or silvery patch on the folded wings. The view I got is less common and shows a Silver-spotted at rest with the orange, inside markings on full, gorgeous view. Either way you look at it, this is one lovely butterfly.

Wild rhododendrons, near RI Harvesting

By tradition, the wild rhododendrons should be just about at peak, and that, by a corollary tradition, should prompt a road trip to the Long and Ell ponds area of Hopkinton to see and document the blooms that turn the broad-leafed evergreen forest that flourishes there into a magical flower show. But 2020, for who knows what reason, is an off-Rhodie-year, so I'll have to come up with a different reason—or, heck, no reason at all—to make the trek to that area. In all honesty, I didn't expect to see many Rhododendron maximum blossom clusters anywhere local, so I was pleasantly, happily delighted to spot a patch of floral glory when I made a trip to the neighborhood chainsaw shop for some needed supplies. Right along the roadside, there was a fine collection of open flowers and not-yet-ready buds: a Rhodie-fix for bees and naturalists alike.

This just might be the strangest Fourth of July of my entire life. For starters, it just didn't feel like a holiday, what with no parades, no barbecues at the lake, and, of course, no fireworks. Still, I tried to be creative, and so, when I spotted this scene in the garden, the hydrangea flowers became pyrotechnical streamers and the pretty bumble bee, which I think is none other than Bombus perplexus—the perplexing part is a reference to the bee's wide color and pattern variations—was the centerpiece of a splendid explosion. With a little imagination, this became the aerial tableau I was sorely wishing for. All that was missing was the explosion, the smoke, and the oohs and aahs. Well, and the traffic jam after the finale.

Long-legged fly, Home

This is another instance of what I'd call the Dorothy Syndrome, as in, from the Wizard of Oz, "there's no place like home." (Repeat three times.) I like to think that, every day, I'll get out into the natural world and hike and explore. Many days that happens, but, all too often it seems, I'm confined to quarters. Happily, there's plenty to see that's more or less natural, to say nothing of intriguing. This little golden fly is a perfect example... and a goad, since I'm been seeing these for more than a month and have, until today, resisted looking them up. Turns out they belong in the fly family Dolichopodidae and they're probably members of the genus Condylostylus. By whatever name, they're pure gold, metaphorically, at least.

First Great Spangled Fritillary, Home

When the owner of a nearby field decided that it was looking too unkempt and needed to be mowed regularly, I knew that some of the insects it nurtured would disappear as its resident plants were turned to mulch. To be sure, I didn't really mind the demise of an abundant flora of poison ivy and a faunal plethora of deer ticks, but I rued the end of all too many of the fireflies and once-resident butterflies. Without the milkweeds to nurture their caterpillars, the Monarchs that were regular visitors would pass this meadow by, and the Great Spangled Fritillaries, whose youngsters are partial to violets, would stop calling this stretch of overgrown grasses home. So it started happening, but that sad endgame has not quite arrived. Today, as I was doing my usual inspection of the life of the Lace-cap Hydrangea blossoms, I was graced with the presence of the first GSF of the year. Its visit, alas, was all too brief, but it did nectar on the flower head long enough for a photo op. Somewhere not too far away, the "frits" must have found a suitable nursery.

Dad's Japanese Iris, home

I grew up in the Rhode Island suburbs, and one of the joys of my dad's life was his flower garden. (For who knows what reason, he never grew vegetables.) A favorite in his perennial border was plant known as the Japanese Iris. The flowers on Iris ensata, an Asian native, have been compared to fluttering butterflies, and it's easy to see the resemblance. They're much less showy than their "bearded" iris counterparts, but I think of them as more refined, which is fine by me. When my parents passed away and we sold the ancestral abode, one thing I wanted to take with me was a bit of my father's Iris bed. While the plants have thrived in their new home, they don't flower all that often. This year, we only got one bloom, but its brief day in the sun... following last night's downpours... was cause for celebration.

Catalpa bloom, Potter Hill

Ordinarily, I'd have written about the Catalpa tree and its marvelous flowers a week or two ago when, as part of our annual visit to White Flower Farm for the yard sale, we would drive by large stretches of the stately plants in full, magnificent bloom, and I'd highlight the floral spectacular in this or other editorial venues. But the yard sale was cancelled and even had we gone for old times' sake, I fear that there probably wouldn't have been much in the Catalpa department to write about; in general, it's been a pretty off year for the genus Catalpa. There are two U.S. species found in our area, and I think this one is the Southern Catalpa, C. bignonioides. But whatever their precise identity, none of our locals put on much of a flower show. This one, however, which I found close to home, hadn't read the play book. It was just later than usual.

1st Great Blue Skimmer, home

The overall color pattern of this dragonfly—the two-toned abdomen and the black marks on the wing tips—usually is a sign of a Slaty Skimmer, which is one of our commonest odes in the neighborhood. Every time I trek down to the millpond waterfall area, I'm awash in Slaties, which are also not shy about making the half-mile flight from the pond to my home, where they'll perch on just about anything, including me, to watch for passing prey and amenable mate possibilities. Despite their abundance, however, I pay close attention to each one and look carefully for other field marks, particularly the presence of a white face, that would signal the arrival of something different and quite rare... something like this. What we have here is called a Great Blue Skimmer, and while these are one of the most abundant odes in the Southeast, they tend to stay in that region, except for the boldest of Great Blues, imbued with a traveling gene, fair winds, and an inordinate amount of good luck. I hope our new arrival wasn't traveling alone.

Baltimore Checkerspot, Miner

I haven't been doing as much exploring as I'd like—I've just been awfully busy—but today I decided to reward myself with a trip to an old haunt, the Miner preserve. If nothing else, I wanted to see how the breeding colony of Bobolinks was doing and to look for the first Monarch butterflies in the swaths of milkweeds, both Common and Swamp, that the refuge shelters and nurtures. I found them all, as well as some surprises that, if I weren't so busy, I could write about: a pair of Kestrels, the first Halloween Pennant dragonfly, various milkweed insect specialists... you get the idea. This one, a Baltimore Checkerspot butterfly, was not exactly a surprise, but I wasn't exactly expecting it. Baltimores, so called for the resemblance of their coloration to that favored by the Lord who governed Maryland and gave his titled name to a great city, are hardly unknown at Miner, but they're not common and I don't spot them every year. Luck was with me today, and not only did I find a pair of the exquisite leps, they were inclined to pose. Praise be.

Woolly Bear adult

I should have known this moth, which I found perched on the cedar shingles by the kitchen porch light, almost instantly. After all, I had seen and written about its caterpillar stage at least once annually throughout my entire writing and teaching career, now nearly half a century old. The youngster is the fabled black and rusty orange weather prophet known as the Woolly Bear—yes, that one... the one whose relative amounts of black and orange "fur" can predict the severity or lack thereof of the coming winter. (Lots more black than orange, very cold and snowy; vice versa, warm and wet.) However, I somehow had forgotten to know the adults, a.k.a., the Isabella Tiger Moth, so when this creature with the spotted abdomen presented itself, I had to go on a long search through my books and various moth identification sites for guidance. Now, I know. With any luck, I won't forget and have the proverbial wool pulled back over my eyes.

Luna Moth, male, antennae, home

Like all too much in the natural and human worlds, the good things, from giant silk moths to songbirds—I'd best not get started about our species—are in decline, so there was a definite possibility that 2020 would be a year without Luna moths. Back when I was a kid, you could expect these drop-dead-gorgeous moths, with their long "tailed" lime-green wings, to regularly appear at porch lights in late May and June, and it was always an event. It's still a stop-what-you're-doing-and-be-amazed occurrence, but, alas, it's become all too rare, as the caterpillars have fallen victim to a parasitic fly native to Europe that was introduced here in 1906 to control the Gypsy Moth—a fly that has itself gotten out of control and had a negative impact on Lunas and other silk moths. Somehow, this one, which showed up on the kitchen picture window, beat the odds. You can tell it's a male by the huge antennae that the guys use to sample the air for female "I'm available" sex pheromones, and as I was photographing his tattered body, I hoped he'd found a mate and their offspring could somehow successfully run the parasite gauntlet.

Quack grass flower head

I have to admit something: this grass, which typically goes by the name Quackgrass, as well as, less commonly, couch grass, scutch, quitch, scotch, and creeping wild rye, may be one of my signature species of the early summer season, but I'm really in the minority of Elymus repens partisans. Most farmers hate the plant, a well-known invasive species that originally came from Europe and Africa, probably hidden in bales of hay. Now, it's pretty much everywhere in the meadow mix, and it excels at out-competing the more desirable pasture grasses. Attempts to the contrary, there's most likely no way to eliminate it, so I've just come to accept its presence, and even enjoy the plant, particularly its "shooting stars" flower and seed heads that appear in early summer and spend their brief period of floral glory combing the wind for pollen and trying to get lucky.

Wool Carder Bee, Anthidium, Wilcox

Every time I'm in Westerly, which these days is pretty often, I try to stop by the town's lovely Wilcox Park in the center of downtown, to walk the grounds of this expansive botanical garden and check the various flowers for intriguing pollinators. At this point in the season, the stars of my show are usually the various milkweeds and those Monarch butterflies, which are still not back in the fold. But another plant I'm sure to be watching is a gray and fuzzy-leaved, domesticated Near Eastern native known as Lamb's Ear. The Wilcox gardens are lush with members of the Stachys byzantina clan, and today, for the first time this year, I spotted another immigrant treasure—a European Wool Carder Bee. Anthidium manicatum made its first appearance in this country in the 1960s and is now happily living in most states. The wasp-mimic bee, a fine pollinator, gathers the "wool" from plants like Stachys to line the insides of their nests, perhaps to offer a measure of comfort to the offspring the moms will never see.

Wyassup Brook, Tefftweald

I had planned to show a friend, suitably masked and appropriately distanced, of course, Avalonia's Tefftweald at Birchenturn preserve, but a combination of technological malfunctions, both GPS and cellphone, kept us from connecting, so I wound up trekking alone. Solo walks seem to be our lot these days, and while I certainly would have preferred sharing my discoveries along the trail with an actual human, I guess I'll have to content myself with offering my observations electronically. The main thing I noted was that the overall lack of rainfall—not yet a bona fide drought, but approaching that precipice—is beginning to be obvious, particularly at Wyassup Brook, the pretty little creek that marks the refuge's western boundary. Incredibly enthusiastic last month, the water is down to a trickle in many places, with individual mini-waterfalls forming in spots that were, in April and May, inundated by a brimful white-water torrent.

I've had my eyes on several parcels of Common Milkweed plants, all of which had been in clusters of tight flower buds that, I suspected, wouldn't be opening for business for several more days. However, as I walked by them late this afternoon, it was obvious that, once again, I really had little skill as a botanical prognosticator. (I'm pretty bad on the weather, too.) The first of these intricate and complicated blossoms was ready for business, and, more importantly, ready for Monarch butterflies, who time their journey north to coincide with the availability of milkweeds, the primary food of their caterpillars. The adults actually don't need the flowers, although they're not averse to sipping milkweed nectar, and it turns out the butterflies are, at best, ineffective pollinators. It's the foliage they're after, and the blossoms seem to be a sign that the plants are in good shape for nurturing young Monarchs. It's only a matter of time before the gaudy adults appear. I'm on alert.

Fringed Bog Orchid

A few years ago, back before all these heart issues started taking a toll on my body and becoming guardians of a then-eight-year-old eliminated all of my free time (along with most of the rest of my time), I got notices from the Rhode Island Wild Plant Society about a series of guided adventures titled "Plants and Their Places." The leader was the spectacular botanist Doug McGrady who, it seemed, knew every place in southeastern New England that could yield remarkable plants. One walk highlighted the Greater Purple Fringed Bog Orchid, and while it turned out that I had other commitments that day, I never forgot Doug's pictures of Platanthera grandiflora. So, when I got a note from the Master himself that the orchid was likely in bloom in a favored spot at the relatively nearby TriTown Forest Preserve, I prepared for a come-hell-or-high-water expedition. No matter that it took several years to finally spot a member of the P. grandiflora clan. I'm a patient man. The wait was worth it, and when I  got the flowers in my viewfinder this morning, I felt like I was looking at a guardian floral angel.

European Drone Fly

The Astilbe flowers are prime in my garden now, and I'm spending an inordinate amount of time every day combing them for new and interesting insect arrivals, flower flies in particular. The more I look, document, and study, the better I've gotten at being able to identify syrphids—of course, it helps that I have Jeff Skevington and company's field guide to the Syrphidae, and it's even better that, as long as I'm careful not to abuse the privilege, I have access to the Master himself. Happily, I've learned something... even in my dotage. This handsome fly I knew almost instantly—the curve in one of the wing veins is a giveaway—as a member of the genus Eristalis, but the markings on the upper section of the abdomen weren't familiar. Soon enough, however, I located a fly in the guide that bore an hourglass shape on what's technically known as tergite 2. The mystery syrphid is none other than the European Drone Fly, an across-the-pond native that somehow made its way to Toronto in about 1885 and has since gone on to colonize the northeastern section of the continent, including, it clearly appears, my section.

Maple Callus Borer

When I first noticed this clear-winged insect working the collection of sedum flowers that carpet the area near our driveway, I had to admit that I couldn't immediately identify it. In fact, I wasn't even really sure what kind of creature it was. The remarkable feature, besides the window-pane wings, is that fan of red "feathers" at the back end of its abdomen. The reddish head was pretty memorable, too. A variety of field guide searches, both in my collection of actual books and online, pointed me towards taxonomic nirvana and a group of wasp mimics known collectively as "Clearwing Borers." These members of the lepidopteran family Sesiidae all have larvae that burrow into the woody parts of shrubs and trees, and some of them are agricultural and forest pests. The adults, however, are harmless enough, and the resemblance they bear to wasps is so uncanny that I'll leave them alone, savor their unexpected appearances, and, of course, document their presence. This one, I think, is a Maple Callus Borer, which, if I'm right—the wing markings aren't quite a field guide match, but there's always some variation on the main theme—is known in the trade as Synanthedon acerni.

Deer Tongue Grass Flower

For most of the year, Deer Tongue Grass—it gets its common name from the broad basal leaf's fancied resemblance to Bambi's tongue—is fairly unobtrusive. But come the start of summer, Dichanthelium clandestinum sends out a panicle that looks something like a string of shooting stars, each ending in a lovely little perfect flower that bears two feathery stigmata and three tiny stamens. The minuscule blossom is too small to be of interest to bees, so the agent of pollination is simply the wind. In my collection of signature organisms that mark the passage of time, Deer Tongue blooms signal the incipient arrival of the summer. When you start seeing those intricate pollen catchers combing the June breezes for the continuation of the species, you know the solstice is nigh.

In an effort to find an abundance of Mountain Laurels in bloom for an upcoming newspaper column, I headed over to a usually sure-fire venue, the Narragansett Trail to Ell and Long ponds in Hopkinton. But the off-year we're having on the ridge is turning out to be more widespread.  Of course, even without a Kalmia latifolia flower shower, a trek to both ponds is always worth the effort, and today was no exception. It was truly hard to determine what to highlight, but I'd have to say that the most mysterious find was a very noisy Hover Fly I found near the carnivorous plants at the boggy edges of Ell Pond. It had the striped thoracic shield of a Helophilus flower fly, but the abdominal markings seemed closer to those grouped into a kind of taxonomic holding pen called Anasimyia, which Jeff Skevington and company term "distinctive but tricky to identify to species." Jeff, alas, is in the field, so any guidance will have to wait.

Potter Wasp, home

I noticed this striking, small wasp exploring leaves close to home, and, as I raced back to the house to get my camera—thank the Lord the macro lens was already attached—I prayed that the insect would still be there when I returned. Most of the time, the object of interest has long departed, and I've learned to have low expectations and the ability to smile at my loss. But, often enough, I get lucky, and this was one of those occasions. The wasp allowed me to photograph it at close range before departing, and then the fun began: what was it? The identities of the members of the Family Vespidae are not one of my taxonomic strong suits, but a long and fascinating slog through BugGuide, as well as an in-depth look through the digital pages of yet another gift from Canada—the Identification Atlas of the Vespidae—gave me confidence that I'd discovered a kind of Potter Wasp, a vespid that makes little nests out of mud, some of which look like classic pieces of pottery and may, so goes the story, have inspired the designs of Native American potters. My enjoyable research suggested that the mystery creature belongs in the wasp genus Eumenes, but getting more specific will require, of course, additional study... and an actual deceased wasp in hand.

Prairie Warbler Bell Cedar

The early morning found me hiking down a wooded pathway to Avalonia's Bell Cedar Swamp refuge in search of, well, primarily I was there to check on the progress of the Mountain Laurel blossoms, but any agenda is entirely flexible. It's probably more fair to say that while I was planning to search for Kalmia latifolia flowers, I would certainly look at anything else en route. So it was that best intentions were derailed by a snatch of formerly prevalent warbler song: a buzzy, ascending trill. Years ago, when I was a distance runner—this was a time when I had good knees—I would hear Prairies all the time calling from the sides of the road. Then, the woods got thicker and the Prairies departed for more open habitats. Bell Cedar, with its fairly dense and mature forests, lacked these pretty warblers, but a couple of years ago, the woods were cut down in places to encourage habitation by New England Cottontail rabbits. Lots of birds—the ones that depend on young forests—also benefit from the bunny cuts. We don't yet have New Englands at Bell Cedar, but we now definitely have Prairie Warblers. These, incidentally, made up for the fact that we also, this year, don't have particularly good Laurels. You can't have everything.

Mr. P Peacock, Cote Preserve

A few days ago, we attended a friend's lovely graduation party for a high school senior, and in the course of masked conversation, I was asked if I knew the identity of the "evening screamer"—an odd noise that the questioner couldn't place. Turns out I'd heard it, too, and I determined that the noisemaker was, believe it or not, a male Peacock. These splendid gentlemen have an exceedingly loud and piercing shriek that can carry for a half mile, and several people on the ridge have raised peafowl over the years. Most of the birds have escaped and fallen prey, sooner or later, to predators, but some manage to thrive in the wild. Clearly, we had a live one, and on a quick late afternoon trip to the nearby Cote refuge, I happened upon this very species of magnificence. The amazing bird wasn't being cooperative for the photographer, and he remained quiet. As soon as dusk arrived, the Peacock turned up the volume.

Haymaking, Palmer Farm

It's been a great June for haymaking, with abundant amounts of rain, deliciously cool weather, and, with the grasses now at the proper height for cutting, a nice stretch of sunshine and warmth enough for proper drying. Of course, these very conditions are guaranteed to have homeowners gnashing their teeth on account of the need for frequent lawn mowings, but for the local dairy farmers, who depend on a combination of Orchard, Timothy, Sweet Vernal, Rye, and other species, along with a sweetening of Alfalfa and Clover, to feed the Holsteins throughout the year, this June is akin to manna from heaven. The tractors have been going non-stop to cut the meadows, and after a couple of days of lying in the fields, the hay-to-be is aerated—the technical term is "wuffled"—by a specialized machine called a tedder. Once this operation is finished, the rapidly drying grass is raked into windrows for the final operation: turning it into bales. With any luck, I'll be able to watch the baling on my next long walk.

With the exception of the so-called Goliath mosquitoes that start to appear around here in late August and come in almost psychedelic colors, I don't pay a lot of taxonomic attention to mosquitoes in general... save to try to determine what sprays will repel them and how to swat the skeeters that are undeterred by repellents. But when I saw this one on a Viburnum flower, it was striking enough that I paused and made a concerted effort to photograph it at close range to determine its identity. Mosquito ID, I quickly discovered, is hard work, and I really need to collect them to learn the diagnostic features. About all I can say for certain about the insect in my viewfinder is that it's a female—the males have plume-like antennae, while those of the females are thin—but after looking over a few articles, I came away with the creepy suspicion that that handsome creature is a notorious and potentially dangerous invasive species called the Asian Tiger Mosquito. It arrived in this country hidden in shipments of tires from Asia in the 1980s, and it can carry such delightful ailments as encephalitis, Dengue and Yellow fevers, Dog Heartworm, and the Zika virus. Here's one case where I hope my ID is wrong. This is not a mosquito I want in the neighborhood.

This is the first of what I think is a member of the Pyreferra problem-caterpillar clan: absolutely lurid, almost incandescent moths-to-be that thrive on a non-stop diet of Witch Hazel leaves. Given how many members of the Hamamelis fraternity we have around here, I suppose the caterpillars are entitled to nosh on a few. I doubt they'll do the plants any real harm. The moths themselves, known as Sallows, are fairly nondescript, but their kids more than make up for any adult drabness. When the Pyreferra caterpillars are at work, the aptly named "fire makers" are impossible to ignore, as they burn brightly on the leaves.

Mountain Laurel debut

I've been watching the business ends of our patch of Mountain Laurels for at least a month, and the exercise in deep observation made me increasingly despondent. Try as I might, I couldn't find many flower buds on these broad-leaved evergreens and that augured the second meager Laurel blossom year in a row. Alas, the lack didn't miraculously abate, and when the first flowers appeared this afternoon, they clearly weren't going to have a lot of company. Nor, I discovered on a walk around the large block, was the diminished Laurel fortune confined to our woods. To be sure, we'll be graced with at least some of these exquisite flowers... we just won't be overly graced. In fact, I think there'll be even fewer of them than appeared in 2019, a year that was not one to write home about in the Kalmia latifolia flowering department. Not to worry, however. The Laurels probably needed a long break. Hopefully, they'll be back in abundance next year.

Fiddler crab

With things returning slowly to something approaching the old normal, I was actually able to hazard a face-to-face appointment with my cardiology team, and while I won't know the details of my latest echocardiogram, I felt comfortable enough, after the lengthy procedure was over, to visit the nearby Stewart McKinney National Wildlife Refuge and hike the trails in search of... well, everything and anything. My goal, if I could be said to have one, was to try to spot Seaside Dragonlets, odonates that thrive in salt marshes, but I was apparently too early. However, I was right on time to spot a small horde of Fiddler Crabs that were now emerging from their burrows and using their oversized right claws to intimidate rivals, defend territories, and impress females with their fatherhood potential. There are times when size truly matters. This is one such example.

Delta-spotted Spiketail

When I was a kid, my mom, who was no real fan of the natural world, told me that dragonflies, which she called "darning needles," were to be avoided since they had the nasty habit of sewing your lips together. Point well taken! And one of my origin stories that make it pretty hard to understand how I ever came under the spell of odonates. This critter, known as a Delta-spotted Spiketail, certainly helped me to overcome any reticence about enjoying dragonflies from close range. Spiketails really are a kind of darner, since the females lay their eggs in the shallows by pushing their abdomens into the mud in the manner of a sewing machine. Imagine what they could do to your lips! Well, nothing, of course. What they can do is mesmerize the viewer, since they're so gloriously striking. I found this one sunning on a grass stem in the meadow across the street, and I sang a Hallelujah at the unexpected sight—spiketails are pretty uncommon around here—as I moved in fearlessly for a series of closer and closer close-ups. Sometimes, I'm glad I didn't take my mom's advice and neuroses too much to heart. I don't want to imagine what I would have missed—spiketails, in particular.

Staphylinid

British biologist J.B.S. Haldane once suggested that God had an inordinate fondness for beetles, and given how many members of the insect order Coleoptera exist on the planet—there are at least 400,000 species, which is by far the most among insect groups—it's easy to see how Haldane came up with this divine preference notion. I completely share the Lord's love affair with beetles, and I could easily become obsessed. This one belongs to one of the stranger families, the Staphylinidae. I discovered the so-called Rove beetle in the meadow across the street when I was combing the grasses for dragonflies—no such luck—and the Staphylinids are odd they have bare abdomens; most beetles have their bellies covered by wing cases. Some of the Roves—and rove they do—are quite common and conspicuous... none more so than this agile specimen. It's called Platydracus maculosus—alas, no common name—and Art Evans in his masterpiece field guide, Beetles of Eastern North America, tells us that it's the "largest rove beetle" in our country. Definitely a good one to start an inordinate fondness with.

Blue-eyed grass

One of the signature flowers of early June is a diminutive jewel known in the trade—mis-known, it turns out—as Blue-eyed Grass. To look at the small, narrow-leaved plants, it's easy to see how it got its name. When it's not in bloom, it certainly masquerades as a grass, but once it puts forth that delicious blue flower, with its golden center, well, no question about its ungrassfulness. Actually, the members of the genus Sisyrinchium—according to the Connecticut Botanical Society, there are five Sisyrinchium species in our area—are kin to the Irises, and that resemblance surfaces in the leaves. I'm not sure which species this one belongs to, but based on the flower shape, with those distinctive spurs, and its status as being very common, it's most likely the Narrow-leaf Blue-eyed Grass, which, again according to the CBS, is a misnomer since S. angustifolium actually has the broadest leaves of any of our local species. A newer and more accurate name is Stout Blue-eyed Grass. By any name, it's a gem worth seeking out in fields and forest edges.

Eupeodes (probably) syrphid

For reasons I can't put my finger on, the diversity and abundance of flower flies, so strong last month, seems to have waned even as the number of flowers is on the upswing. Of course, maybe the dip is normal for early June... I don't have enough experience with the insects to have established a pattern in our neighborhood. But fewer is not none, and there is still more than enough syrphid activity around here to make carrying a macro-lens-equipped dSLR mandatory... if nothing else, to avoid the frustration that comes with spotting something intriguing and not being able to capture it. (My flower fly mentors have also suggested that I never leave home without an insect net and collecting jars.) Happily, I had the camera with me, so when I spotted this yellow-jacket-mimic syrphid performing the matchless flying agility that gives the insects their other common name, Hover Flies, I was in fine shape to photograph the hover-er in enough detail to be able to identify it. Or so I thought. These little yellow and black beauties turn out to be tricky, with lots of subtle details, many of which are not visible in an image, that must be examined before the critter can be assigned to the right species. The best that my friend and mentor Jeff Skevington from Canada could offer was that the syrphid appeared to belong to the genus Eupeodes, the Aphideaters. I really do need that net.

Mom's clematis

I'd like to think that all my images are special... well, at least to me...but some are decidedly more special than others. There are the shots that took a lot of time and effort to capture. There are the magical moments I watched and photographed of my kids, grandkids, friends, and students. And then there's this image, which, at first glance, appears to be nothing more than a decently composed photo of a Clematis blossom. That's true enough, but the truly special part lies in the origin of the flower. This was my mom's Clematis, a vine she nurtured and treasured at the house on 108 Deerfield Road in Cranston that I and my brothers and sisters grew up in. When Jeanne passed away in 2006 at that very same home, we kept the plant going while we decided what to do with the old place. Eventually, we opted to sell it—none of us needed the house—but among the tangible memories we took with us, I opted for the Clematis. While it survived being transplanted, it stubbornly refused to blossom. A couple of years ago, I decided to try it in a new venue. The gamble surprised all of us by working. More than a decade after putting forth flowers, it bloomed once more. I could feel my mother smiling.

Elm sawfly

Today, the exciting natural history activity was a trip to the landfill—a time to strike a blow for sustainability by recycling more than I actually threw away, and, as a reward, a hike. The problem was that it had been threatening to storm, so a trek up nearby Lantern Hill was ill-advised. Instead, I explored an old meadow across the street from the LH trailhead. It's always an exciting spot, and, with a pair of Viceroy butterflies, which mimic Monarchs, greeting me, I had high hopes of spotting something even more intriguing. I wouldn't have to wait long for this dream to come true. Atop a small plant, I noticed this remarkable creature: dark body and wings, a rather intimidating face with large jaws, an eye-catching white spot on the abdomen, and almost lurid antennae. It must have just come out of metamorphosis, since it almost refused to move. Great for me, since I was able to capture my fill of photographs of this Darth Vader of insects that turned out to be an Elm Sawfly. Clearly recycling virtue rewarded.

Gray tree frog

A steady rain kept me mostly confined to quarters today, but as the night came on, the precipitation lessened and, on a brief trek up and down the driveway to look for lightning bugs—no success yet on that front—I noticed, camped out on the drip edge above the basement door, a napping Gray Tree Frog. I didn't want to disturb the batrachian, so I don't know whether it was a he or a she. Whatever its sex, however, I'm pretty sure it had just returned from having sex... or, at least, trying to at the local wetlands singles bar. The tree frog appeared to be all worn out. Courtship will do that to you. This, I vaguely remember.

Harlequin darner

When I started this endeavor seven years ago—merciful heavens, time has flown!—it was envisioned as a way to highlight something intriguing, both biologically and photographically, that I'd discovered on my daily walks. I'm still walking, but more than occasionally, I don't have to travel very far to find something worth noting. Here's a case in point: I hadn't even gotten more than part way down my driveway on this gorgeous morning when I noticed a glint of sunlight on a dragonfly that had landed on our wooden lamp-post. The odonate was clearly a Darner type, based on the way the enormous eyes met in a seam and the way it hung straight down on the post. (Normally, they hang from a branch or a tree trunk.) The stockier build suggested a female, and the dark gray eyes said newly metamorphosed teneral... i.e., it had just left its larval case behind. The colors and markings were wild, and while I'm pretty knowledgeable about Darner identity, this beauty, I had to admit, had me shaking my head. I figured I'd have to call in the troops, but additional study had me feeling on more certain grounds that I'd been visited by a fresh-faced Harlequin Darner. No question about where it picked up the common name.

Nessus Sphinx

In the interests of habitat improvement, I really ought to remove every trace of a long-ago Eurasian immigrant known to gardeners everywhere as Dame's Rocket. Hesperis matrionalis, a member of the Mustard family, was brought to North America in the 17th century by colonial horticulturists, but the plant promptly escaped and became quite comfortable in the wild... too comfortable, it turns out. Considered an invasive species in Connecticut, I nevertheless allow it to persist because a. it looks and smells wonderful, and b. it is a butterfly, moth, and bee magnet. The swallowtails, tiger and spicebush alike, and various bumblebees, love the four-petaled flowers, but my prime reason for letting H. matrionalis stick around is that the flowers are beloved by an early-flying hummingbird moth called the Nessus Sphinx. Every late May when the Dame's Rocket reigns supreme, I started combing the blossoms for these marvelous twin-ringed moths and voicing nervousness about their non-appearances. This year, I needn't have worried. Looks like I'll be keeping the Dame's Rocket around for another year.

Chalk-fronted Corporal

There's a group of dragonflies known as corporals that take to the air early in the season and are among the odes that I'm always looking for in May. One, called the Blue Corporal, is probably highest on my list, since I've been asked by University of Connecticut entomologist David Wagner to monitor a population of the State-listed insect that lives in the area around Lantern Hill. I have yet to find Ladona deplanata there this year, but on a trip today to White Flower Farm to pick up plants, we also stopped at the White Memorial conservation area to hike some of their trails. By a promising wetland, I noticed an odd-looking Ladona that, at first glance, I figured was an L. deplanata in the process of becoming an adult. Not so, I learned when I got home and took a closer look at the photo and the guide books. This one's a different species—a member of the Chalk-fronted Corporal clan—and a happy discovery, since L. julia was not in my odonate photo database. Properly labeled, it is now.

Pearl Crescent

The butterfly season is just now starting to get into high gear, and this afternoon, on the way home from a potential woodcutting job, I decided to stop by the Assekonk Swamp area around the high school to, well, check in on the natural history comings and goings of a habitat that, pre-coronavirus, would have been my environmental stomping ground with all four of the sixth grade classes I'd have been teaching. School, of course, is out, except virtually, but the land- and water-scape that the Assekonk encompasses hasn't gotten the shelter-in-place message... this Pearl Crescent lepidopteran in particular. PCs are pretty little gems, and, in our region, they're probably the most common butterfly. I'll typically spot at least one or two every time I walk into the woods, and while they're only recently out for viewing, the Pearls didn't let me down on this trek. This one's a bit less highly ornamented than usual, but subtlety has never been the enemy of true beauty.

Wayne's goats Pinewoods

At least three times a week, my cardiac handlers have mandated that I take a long—it's around five miles—reasonably fast-paced walk. I have a set route, and while it's often photogenic, I'm not supposed to stop very often once I get my heart rate up to target. However, I do carry a camera with me, and if there's something really worth capturing, well, I'm eternally grateful that my overlords aren't watching the non-action in real time. So when I noticed a lot of commotion alongside a stone wall and realized that that commotioners were a herd of goats, I paused, grabbed my ancient dSLR—my first one, a still-working Nikon D40 with a barely working 55-200mm lens—and snapped away. The "owners" of the goats... as if goats can ever be owned... were old friends and they'd come running to convince their charges that they shouldn't be on the road side of the wall. But there was fresh vegetation to tempt them, including new poison ivy that they love, so it was time to mow... and dine. Given their penchant for that noxious vine, I wouldn't mind leading the mowing crew over to my place for an additional snack.

Carpenter ants Pileated hole

I needed to make a reconnaissance hike through the Babcock Ridge and Henne preserves—my goal was to shot videos that I could then learn to string together into some kind of coherent narrative—and while I was walking, I thought I'd stop by a tree that I'd photographed on numerous occasions to gauge the progress of some Pileated woodpeckers that had excavated an area filled with Carpenter ants. The hole was still there, but it didn't appear to have been enlarged in quite some time. Before I formed the thought that the woodpeckers had eaten all the goodies, however, I noticed a swarm of large ants, some of them bearing wings, boiling out of the hole. None of the insects paid the slightest attention to social-distancing mandates. Clearly, the birds had not completely eliminated their prey, and the ants that the woodpeckers couldn't reach had prospered enough in the past couple of years to be ready to send a vanguard of formicine troops out into the world on a mating flight that, if the insects got lucky, would lead to the establishment of a new colony... and more food for Pileateds.

Iris Wilcox

There wasn't going to be much time for a walk, but, because I had a bunch of errands, including grocery shopping, to run in Westerly, I figured I'd at least get to trek through Wilcox Park and see how the various gardens were progressing in the almost non-stop extension of late winter that has masqueraded as spring around here. It was sunny but ridiculously cool for late May, and, not surprisingly, there weren't crowds of people on parade. Of course, there weren't supposed to be crowds gathering anyway, whatever the weather, and what few folks were out for walks were masked and practicing proper social distancing. Onlookers or not, the gardens were beginning to come into their own, so I had plenty of reasons to stop and admire the blossoms, especially a collection of Bearded Iris, few of which ever grow in our shade paradise. If we had more sun, maybe we could be properly bearded, too.

Memorial Day

My walk today took me to a well-maintained country graveyard deep in the woods—it's surrounded by a nature preserve—and about a half-mile from the nearest rural road. It's a quiet, beautiful spot, and some of the ancient graves, their headstones eroded and no longer readable, were decorated with fresh U.S. flags, a sign that the resident of the plot was once a soldier, perhaps someone who had made the ultimate sacrifice and given his life for his country. On this Memorial Day, I paused to remember and salute.

 

 

Aurora Damselfly eating

While I've never forgotten that dragonflies are always fierce predators, it occasionally slips my mind that their more slender and gentle-appearing cousins, the damselflies, are, of course, equally formidable hunters. No salads for either group. So I was a little taken aback... but only for a very short amount of time... when I noticed that this Aurora Damselfly, an utterly gorgeous beast with those amazingly banded eyes, was not simply basking on a rhubarb leaf. The guy had deftly snagged a fly of some sort and was, right before my not-so-banded eyes and camera lens, efficiently devouring his prey, which, until the end, remained more or less alive. It was an utterly grisly scene, but, like most of my encounters with predators, large and small, I couldn't turn away, even if it sent an occasional chill up my spine.

Maidenhair fern

Under normal circumstances, today would have marked the start of summer... well, the unofficial beginning, as Memorial Day weekend has become known to all in our touristy region. But the weather on the kickoff promised to be dreary and cool, so it was probably for the best that all of the festivities had been called off due to the pandemic. We were going to have to celebrate on our own, and, no doubt, our festivities would involve working around the house and keeping tabs, in between the raindrops, on the garden and woodland plants and pollinators. The Maidenhair Fern we'd planted several years ago was definitely worth a look. It's now pretty tall and fully unfurled, and in the mist, the delicate leaflets and water droplets clinging to the dark stems are a photographer's dream target. Later on, the water would be useful in carrying the spores to new venues, but for now, they were simply exquisite natural jewels.

 

Wild Turkey female

This morning dawned deliciously clear and cool—just about a perfect day, save for those little things known as writing obligations. I'd have rather ditched everything for a day spent trekking, but duty called... and, however reluctantly, I got right down to obeying. No sooner had I started working than I was distracted by a head strutting by the kitchen window. When I got up to look, I noticed a large female Wild Turkey that had apparently been eating spilled sunflower seeds under the bird feeder. I quickly grabbed my camera, affixed the telephoto, and poked my head outside, figuring that I'd have to move fast before the always-wary bird raced for cover. But this one didn't seem inclined to go anywhere quick, and, soon enough, I was photographing her at close range as she gleaned the lawn for goodies. Periodically, she raised her head as if to remind me of proper social-distancing protocols, and after about 15 minutes, she remembered another appointment and headed down the driveway. I remembered work... and returned inside.

Mayapple blossom

Barberries have a bad reputation among many botanists, but, it turns out, there are good barberries and those deserving of badness. The problematic ones are the Asian invasive species that were brought here, mostly to grace gardens, and promptly escaped to wreak havoc in the woods by out-competing the natives. However, there are native members of the Berberidaceae clan that both grace the more open woodlands and make an easy transition to shade cultivation. The Mayapple is found naturally throughout the Northeast and Midwest, but not, as near as I can tell, our particular area. Perhaps the problem involves the plant's typical means of spreading: Box turtles eating the fruit and pooping out the seeds in new places. Box turtles, alas, are increasingly rare in the region. Since we couldn't wait for a seed-carrying reptile, we got our Mayapples from a friend who brought their plants from their cabin in Pennsylvania. The transplantation worked easily and now we're graced with some of the prettiest May flowers... and "apples"... in creation.

Cinnamon Fern sporangia

More than a month ago, I wrote about spotting the first Cinnamon ferns, then hiding inside winter "jackets" and beginning to unroll from the ground in a tight coil known as a "fiddlehead." Not only is the unrolling process more or less complete—there are still late "bloomers" currently undergoing the process—but for most members of the Osmundastrum cinnamoneum clan, there's a new kind of growth form that is showing up. it's really hard to think of this curious spiky structure arising out of the middle of many a Cinnamon Fern clump as a kind of leaf, but botanists insist that it's simply a modification of the basic frond. However, it does exist for a very different purpose: this variation on the leaf theme is designed to carry spore containers known as sporangia. They're the little round cases you can see in the picture, and inside each one is a collection of dust-sized spores, the future of the species.

Stream Cruiser

In past years, one of my favorite and most often repeated post was on the first dragonfly that I spotted for the year, and usually, as you'd know if you've been gracing this endeavor for a while, the debut ode would be the Blue Corporal, which I'd spot on the slopes of Lantern Hill. Sometimes, I'd find the first one as early as the end of April, although, more typically, the premier of the odonate season would be in the first week of May. This year, however, the odes have been exceedingly late, and I've been too busy to spend time recently on Lantern Hill, so I can't vouch for when... or if... the Corporals first appeared. Around here, however, dragonflies have been conspicuously absent—until today, when, on an afternoon trek along the Blue-blazed trail off the Wyassup Lake area, I spotted several different species in an area that was logged to encourage New England Cottontail rabbits. Here's one of my favorites: a Clubtail mimic known as a Stream Cruiser. Definitely handsome beast.

 

Aurora Damselfly

It's late, I realize, but I started picking up the first odonates only yesterday. However, because of a camera problem—fixed, happily—I wasn't able to "capture" any. I did better this afternoon, during a trek to a neighbor's old field, a once gloriously unruly grassland that is now more manicured than I or any of the once-resident creatures would like. Still, it's not completely suburbanized, and on the groundcover underneath the lilacs, I noticed the first of this year's crop of damselflies that I could actually identify. At first glance, it was holding its wings out at a 45 degree angle from the abdomen—a position characteristic of a group of damsels known as Spreadwings. But the rest of the body and its colors didn't fit in with the fieldmarks of the Family Lestidae, and that quickly left only one likely candidate, the Aurora Damselfly. This one's a member of a different family, the Pond Damsels, a.k.a. Coenagrionidae, all of whom hold their wings close to and parallel to their abdomens—except, of course, the Aurora, which, like its namesake, is just identifiably different.

Catbird

Most birders spend May concentrating on spotting colorful birds, the various dazzling warblers in particular, and while I plead guilty to this charge, too, my searches entail far more species than those most striking to the eye. In fact, one of my favorite feathered critters is an utterly plain gray bird with a black crown. It's called the Gray Catbird, but not for any visual resemblance to a feline. Rather, it's the bird's voice, which is a good mimic of a rather annoyed meow. I've been hearing this "song" rising out of the dark underbrush for a couple of days, but the "singer" has remained stubbornly out of sight. This afternoon, the Catbird decided to show itself in a perfect position for a photo op, and as the charming, inquisitive, and almost friendly bird surveyed the yard from atop one of our cedar benches, it radiated a feeling of being completely at home. I wonder if it was an old friend from last year... or one of the kids born and raised in the neighborhood. Past resident or newcomer alike, catbirds are always welcome.

Red Admiral butterfly

With the chilly weather persisting way past its time—although, hey, this is New England...—the butterflies that, by tradition, should be gracing both the flowers and the photographers, have been few and far between, as in, more or less completely absent. But it wasn't quite so wind-driven cold today and, in response, I notice the first lepidopteran that actually cooperated with my camera. It was a Red Admiral, a gorgeous creature with a distinctive red stripe on its dark wings. The butterfly is one of our earliest appearing leps, but is quite different in behavior than other early "birds," such as the Mourning Cloak and the various Blues. The Admiral is a navigator—an insect that, like the fabled Monarch, can't hack the frost and so heads every fall south to escape the winter. There, it breeds and raises a new generation that, if conditions are amenable, will point the compass north in May to summer and raise kids, all with a penchant for travel, in our neighborhood.

Veery

I'm going to need to start off this post with an apology: this is really not a very good image, but, when it came to showing the entire bird in a view I could use to identify it, this shot was the best one I had. Indeed, for a full frontal that revealed the all-important breast characteristics, it was the only shot I had. When I spotted the critter skulking along the moss-covered base of a tree that had come down last year, I knew it was one of the thrushes. I suspected it was a Wood Thrush—they've started singing up a storm recently—but it didn't appear to be spotted, so it might have been one of the rarer thrush species. To make certain I could ID it, I took lots of pictures and kept hoping for a better view in the sunshine. It wouldn't cooperate, of course, and, as is typical, I had to deal with imperfection. However, between its warm, cinnamon-red color and the relative lack of spotting, it was pretty quickly clear that I had a Veery in my viewfinder.  A so-far silent Veery. Not a veery good image, but a veery good bird.

Six spotted Tiger Beetle

It actually got warm today—very warm, as in all the way up into the 80s... well, in the sun. And with the air that summery, I spent what little outdoor time I had scanning the flowers and back woods for dragonflies, butterflies, and anything else that took advantage of the fine weather to put in an appearance. Save for one uncooperative blue butterfly, however, the anticipated insect species were absent, but clearly, I hadn't stretched my expectations enough. Glistening in the sun was a Six-spotted Tiger Beetle, and while this group of fierce predators is well known for not sticking around for the camera, the iridescent-green individual waited long enough between hunting forays to let me capture a fine shot... and count spots.

Rufus sided Towhee

Except for the local catbirds, I don't think there's a friendlier bird to have around than the aptly named Rufous-sided Towhee. These striking migrants have been back in the neighborhood for about a week, but for reasons I can't fathom—quite uncharacteristic of them, really—they been shy about showing themselves for my camera. For the sound recorder... well, that's a different story. No sooner did they arrive than they started in with their loud and sharp calls, and their cheery, signature "drinking" songs. The call is usually translated as "chewink," and the bird often is referred to by that name. The song's a little more complicated, and it's a joy to hear: "Drink your tea... hee... hee... hee" goes the towhee—over and over again. It's impossible to miss the song, and today, glory be, it was finally impossible to miss the singer, who came for, well, tea.

Wild turkey

The May chill continues, and though I'd really like to get up and out early to do a local warbler check, it's simply not the right weather for singing. So, I let the songbirds sleep late, and I settled in with a cup of hot coffee and watched the natural world try to stay warm. In short order, I noticed that I had company: a female Wild Turkey. Usually, our local birds arrive in groups, but this hen came alone, with neither a male escort nor a collection of poults in tow. As I ate breakfast, she did as well, scratching the leaf litter for unwary bugs and last autumn's now frost-sweetened acorns. I hope she appreciated the offerings as much as I was grateful for the sighting.

Bleeding heart

Cloudy and cool and not all that enticing outside. Still, I managed to poke my head out to, for starters, get wood to the stove and to scan the neighborhood for returning warblers. Nothing really to report—a mass influx of songbirds is going to require the passage of a front and much warmer weather—although I did spot a few flower flies and heard more ovenbirds. The fauna was not inclined to pose, so, instead, I concentrated on one of our cultivated flowers known as the Bleeding Heart. It's obvious why this Asian member of the Poppy family got its common name, and, to look at it, it's also obvious why it's such a treasured addition to any garden.

First Rose-breasted Grosbeaks

Last summer, when I was taking care of my neighbor's wonderful dog, I discovered where the neighborhood's Rose-breasted Grosbeaks were hanging out—his house. I shouldn't have been jealous—all I had to do to see them was walk next door, and I didn't have to provide food for the birds nor worry about our cats preying on these gorgeous songsters—but, truth be told, I was... at least, a little.This spring and summer, it looks like we'll have plenty of Grosbeak company closer to home, although if the alpha male has anything to say about it, we'll have one less source of potential competition.

Last snow

The day started out cold, with frost warnings and temperatures nudging 30. It didn't get all that much warmer, and with the wind kicking in, it felt like a fine day... for March. In the afternoon, I walked anyway, and I cursed the weather, as well as worried about the veil descending from several passing clouds—a curtain that, were it to reach the ground, would undoubtedly be spreading snow. I somehow managed to get home dry, but as it got dark, I made sure I kept the wood stove stoked. We really needed a fire. On a later trip to the wood pile, I swore I felt something chilly on my face, and, soon enough, it started to snow heavily. Within about 15 minutes, the leaf litter and everything else wore white. I had visions of May 9, 1977, the Great Mother's Day Blizzard. Fortunately, this little storm took pity on us and ended as fast as it had begun.

 

Oriole on RTH feeder

This year, it looks like the Baltimore Orioles are going to hang around. They've been with us more or less constantly since their arrival a couple of days ago, and even though they're not supposed to be seed eaters, they seem to be taking full advantage of the sunflower seed feeder—although maybe they're only using it to display their dazzling plumage to any females in the area. The males, at least, also land on the suet feeder, but here, I know they're eating their fill of the fat of the land. I don't have any oranges for them—they're fruit eaters—and that specialty Oriole feeder is still on the to-buy list. However, when a male Oriole landed on the hummingbird feeder and edged his way down to the flowers, I realized it was time to head to the store. The big guy looked determined but confused, since he couldn't figure out a way to get to the sweet reward that experience told him flowers possess. No tutorial from a Ruby-throated Hummingbird was going to help. The Oriole would either need bill-modification surgery... or me to go feeder shopping.

Larch needles

It's strange, but the pandemic, which, in theory anyway, should provide me with an abundance of time, has actually taken an inordinate amount of time away from me. It's also wreaked havoc on my natural history schedule—OK, continuing cardiac troubles, an overabundance of writing work, and exceedingly lousy weather haven't helped—so the places I usually monitor for touchstone species have remained unvisited. However, the gods of Creation seem to be watching out for me, so on today's walk, I noticed something I hadn't been looking for in this particular place: the grand opening of a conifer known as a Larch. Larix laricina is a native of northern North America that behaves uncharacteristically for an "evergreen": it sheds its needles every autumn and regrows a new crop in May. I like to keep tabs on the re-needling, and I was overjoyed to find one doing just that in a place I didn't know had larches. It was a blessing unbidden. I'll take it.

Pine sap droplet

After the rain departed, it remained chilly and windy—not at all a promising or inviting walking afternoon, but I needed to get in the miles so I went anyway. On the way back, as I was trekking past newly opening Shadbush and Highbush Blueberry blossoms, I noticed a glint in the woods and, curious, I followed the sparkle to see the source. Dangling off a White Pine was a suspended droplet of sap surrounded by several other smaller drops. I don't know how long it had been there; I don't know how long it will take for the droplet to fall to earth. Looking at it made me think about Carly Simon's big 1971 hit song, Anticipation—the one used in the Heinz ketchup commercial about the joys of waiting. If I were really patient, I'd set up camp by the pine and just wait patiently for resolution. But as I watched it, I thought of that Robert Frost poem about having "miles to go before I sleep." It was time to head home.

Golden Baltimore Oriole

I heard and spotted the first Baltimore Orioles down the road from the house two days ago on one of my long and ongoing cardiac rehab walks—I'll be in "rehab" for as long as I have a cardiac—but, until today, the brilliant and melodious birds were not paying me a visit. Their annual arrival is always cause for great joy, especially in the time of the plague, when we can use any and every opportunity to celebrate something... anything... human or natural... or both. The guy Orioles finally arrived "home" this afternoon, and they promptly started singing their exquisite notes. The concert continued off and on—I hope any lady birds in the area were suitably impressed—until the sun started to set and turn the singers a warm shade of golden brown. It's an optical illusion, of course—the head feathers are actually solid black—but I can't think of a more pleasant sun-engendered subterfuge.

First Poison Ivy

Everybody has a least favorite plant. For many folks on the botany spectrum, the one they'd most like to see disappear would be one of the major invasives, species such as Multiflora Rose, Garlic Mustard, Japanese Knotweed, and the like—this is just the tip of the alien iceberg—brought to this country from elsewhere either inadvertently or deliberately and now running roughshod over the native landscape. But high on everyone's list would have to be a thoroughly American plant known as Poison Ivy. I'm guessing that everybody who's ever walked in the woods knows the hallowed identification couplet: "Leaflets three, let it be." And then, of course, there's the famous song by the Coasters in honor of Toxicodendron radicans. (Poison Ivy worked better in the lyrics than the scientific name.) Still, bad skin afflictions aside, the plant has a redeeming feature: its newly emerging leaf trios are glistening and  quite beautiful in May. Just admire them from a distance.

Blue-gray Gnatcatcher

I thought I actually observed the first Blue-gray Gnatcatcher that had returned from migration yesterday, but because I only heard the feisty bird's buzzing without ever seeing it, I elected not to count the fleeting auditory "glimpse" as proof positive of a May 2nd arrival. Today, however, there was no doubt whatsoever that Polioptila caerulea is back. The energetic charmer first showed up on the kindling pile, and after allowing me to take a few relatively undistinguished pictures, it disappeared for a few minutes and then showed up atop the old wine barrels, where it also posed for the camera and the zoom telephoto. I hope I captured its good side.

first female Ruby-throated Hummingbird

When the first male Ruby-throated Hummingbird arrived at the beginning of the week, I was anticipating an early season for these wonderful birds. In fact, last year, no sooner had the guys come "home" to the ridge than the females followed suit later in the day. But this year was different... very different. I spotted that male, with his remarkably iridescent throat feathers, on April 27th, but then he disappeared. That, to be sure, seemed smart, for the weather turned unnaturally cool and rainy, With the flowers on hold and energy demands high in the chill, I half imagined that he turned around and headed back south to tell his colleagues, "Stay put. It's awful up there." Today, conditions promise to be much improved—for a while, anyway—and in response, the first female RTH showed up at the feeder. She wasn't at all shy about hanging around and returning. Maybe it's truly time... this time.

Carolina wren

 A birthday in the time of the plague is not quite the celebration it might have been in more "normal" circumstances, and that contrast was heightened today, when I reached three score and ten. Achieving this milestone would have typically been cause for a major party, but, in the days of quarantine and social distancing, the new normal was going to keep us apart. That reality was more than a little sad, but one of our backyard Carolina wrens, engaged in gathering Fern moss to line its nest cavity and singing its heart out to attract a mate and intimidate potential rivals, cheered me up. There's something about continuity in the face of a monumental disruption that lifts the spirits and, of course, there's that wonderful voice, a signature of spring, that says, "We'll get through this." Later, we did... with a low key, in-house celebration that was small on numbers but rich with love.

Pileated woodpecker

In this seemingly interminable line of generally unpleasant days, this one began chilly and rainy. But a sudden call from upstairs made the sun emerge... well, metaphorically. Pam called down to tell me that there was a Pileated Woodpecker close at hand, and, praise be, I just happened to have the Sigma 100-400mm telephoto on the camera. Not only was there one of the amazing birds hacking at the oaks, there were two of them, sometimes close together. Unfortunately, with the precipitation and rather dark conditions, it was hard to get decent shots. Then, there was the matter of trying to focus through the glass. But I did manage to open a window, and it wasn't raining hard enough to damage the equipment... or the house... so I got my share of keeper images before the Pileateds left our woods for other dendrological pastures. This was a nice end to a pretty miserable month.

 

Garter snake

When I first spotted this snake at the bottom of the exit stream that drains the vernal pools near my house, I thought it was dead. In fact, I thought I was looking at a stiff and striped corpse that lacked both head and tail. Curious to learn what the body might reveal about the cause of its demise, I started nudging it out of the cold water. That's when it came to life and very slowly slithered away. But if the chilled serpent wasn't going to reveal anything about its end, I was hopeful that it could tell me something about its identity, so, even more gently, I used a stick to bring enough of it above water that I could read field marks. I was hoping for a fairly rare Ribbon Snake, but a look at the snake's "lips" revealed slight markings—and no telltale white on the chin or in front of the eye. These, combined with a fairly stout head and tail, the location of the stripes, and other diagnostic characteristics pointed to a commoner: the Garter Snake. I apologized for the interruption and left him to return to waiting for dinner.

Cranefly

There's somethng curious going on, and if I hadn't been so obsessive about monitoring the flower flies, I probably would have missed this: close to the ground, the leaf litter has borne witness to a steady stream of large Crane Flies. I don't know these long-legged dipterans very well, and one decent identification site recently became Internet history, so I suspect that the Tipulidae won't soon become my entomological obsession du jour. But I do know that the crane flies are hugging the ground right now in search of potential mates. Earlier in my career, I would have also suggested that they were hunting for prey—they're commonly known as "mosquito hawks," after all—but this, I learned, was a misnomer. The adults lack the mouthparts to be predatory on anything, and if they eat at all, it's probably nectar. They're welcome to it... as long as they occasionally stop and pose.

Ruby-throated hummingbird (male)

I'm very particular about my photographs... OK, obsessive might be closer to the truth... and in all the decades I've been a photographer, I try to only show what I consider the best of the best. This is clearly, to my mind, not in that category. But, given the reason I've put together this blog, which is to document the phenology of the natural world on my travels close to home, there are times when a shot, however less than perfect, is all I have to tell the story I want to tell. This is clearly the latter kind of image. A few days after I put up the nectar feeder, the first Ruby-throated Hummingbird returned today from migration and graced us with a visit during which I just happened to have my 100-400mm Sigma telephoto on the camera  and was able to grab a few photos. The bird didn't return, so these are the best I'm going to have. With apologies, welcome back RTH. I hope the light's better on your next visit.

Wild columbine

It wasn't the nicest... or warmest... of days, but the sunlight is strong and that sent a message to the wild columbines that, temperature notwithstanding, it was time to start flowering. This, by historical standards—what I'd call Thoreau standards—is at least a week early. When we moved to this ridge nearly four decades ago, the wild columbines began their glorious crimson show on May 4th or thereabouts. Now the blooms begin appearing during the last week of April. When the flower show opens for business, you know, also based on history, that another marvelous show will soon begin: the Ruby-throated Hummingbirds will make it back from migration and start to establish nesting territories. These marvelous mites will, in short order, be recharging their batteries by drinking nectar from the columbine flowers, whose intricate anatomy developed in lockstep with the hummer's long bill—an evolutionary pas de deux.

Criorhina Bumblefly

Praise be—the sun actually came out today and it was close to late-April warm, well, compared to the raw, chilly weather we've been having. And with the improvement, the tightly shuttered flowers re-opened and brought in the snoozing, and, no doubt, starving pollinators eager to replenish their batteries. The tightly restricted patch of Lesser Celandine blooms—a horribly invasive species in the Buttercup family—were, as usual, the top bee and fly magnets, and while I knew most of the visitors from past observations, this one, a very good copy of a small bumblebee, was, I quickly realized, a definite newcomer. It wasn't all that cooperative, but I managed to get what I hoped were enough diagnostic photographs to identify it. The task proved a real challenge, and I had to learn some new anatomy, but in the end, I decided that what I had was a Bare-cheeked Bumblefly, a.k.a., Criorhina nigriventis. I was overjoyed when my Canadian mentor Jeff Skevington, noted: "Very nice find and correctly identified." Praise be, again. I'm getting somewhere in the Syrphid kingdom!

Mystery jumping spider

Once again, the morning arrived with a mountain of writing work that kept me indoors, and by the time the journalism was finished and out the digital door, the weather was starting to fail... this is how we pay for the easiest of winters—with the worst of springs. But, during the one small stretch of almost sunshine before the seemingly non-stop storms returned, I did a quick exploration of the yard and surrounding woods, and when I got back and walked up the stairs to the kitchen porch, I noticed a tiny jumping spider on the railing. The members of the spider family Salticidae have a characteristic way of moving—the "jumping" part of the family name is absolutely apt—as well as a giveaway eye pattern you can see here (they also have two other smaller eyes that are harder to spot). This one had recently ambushed a prey item, and I apparently interrupted its dinner preparations. From its expression, I'd say it looked peeved. (So far, incidentally, its identity has proven elusive—so it often goes with spiders.)

Maidenhair Spleenwort

Last year, when I was graced with an opportunity to trek the local backwoods with members of the Connecticut Botanical Society, members of the knowledgeable and generous group discovered, in its typical rockface habitat, an exceptionally pretty and not-at-all common fern called the Maidenhead Spleenwort. The "maidenhair" part of the common name comes from its resemblance to one of my favorite bryophytes, the Maidenhair Fern, and the "spleenwort" name derives from the human-organ-shape of its spore containers, which are located, in season, on the underside of the leaflets. When I made my first acquaintance with Asplenium trichomanes, it was, I have to admit, love at first sight. It was also, as happens with first loves, a lasting memory. I never forgot my first "maiden," and when I combed a rock face today—alone, alas—and found one. I knew its name, common and scientific, instantly. I thanked my CBS mentors... along with the six or so memory neurons that still seem to work.

Marsh Marigold

The weather hasn't turned warm. There's still more than a hint of frost at daybreak, and with a stiff wind blowing, we're back, a la Robert Frost in "Two Tramps in Mud Time," in the middle of March, complete with the need to don long underwear and keep the wood stove stoked and running. Still, it was Earth Day, and the 50th anniversary of that celebration of all things ecological. Because of the pandemic, we couldn't gather together for a group environmental hug, but I wasn't going to let COVID-19 and teeth-chattering cold keep me from a hike in honor of the planet—and an opportunity to stand in solidarity against the bastards in Washington actively engaged in trashing the Earth. So I trekked. However grudgingly, spring is in process, and here's a joyous sign of the reawakening: the blooming of the Marsh Marigolds. The floral sunshine is instant warmth... well, metaphorically, at least.

Virginia Rockbreaker

For the past month, I've had my eye on a harbinger plant called the Virginia Rockbreaker that hugs a neighborhood rock face I walk by almost daily. The cliff is a biodiversity joy for any botanist, with a splendid collection of mosses, lichens, and wildflowers, and while I still can't identify all of the players, Micranthes virginiensis is a species I know well. The Rockbreaker is also known as "Early Saxifrage"—saxifrage in Latin translates approximately to "rock breaker"—and it comes by the designation honestly, if incorrectly: early botanists thought that the plant might have the magical ability to splinter the stone on which it often grows. It doesn't, of course, and instead take hold in soil pockets that fill in weathering cracks in the granite. You can see the plants throughout the winter, and come April, this year's flower buds start moving out of the protective basal rosettes of leathery leaves. They're soon bound for glory, and today, they made it to the promised floral land. Now, if only the chill would disappear and make life easy for pollinators. And their documentarians.

Wood Poppy

In the pre-coronavirus schedule I'd drawn up for April, I would have been spending a good part of today getting ready for a presentation I was asked to make for a group of gardeners about local pollinators. But that program, like every other public event that I planned, has been either cancelled outright, or, in an abundance of optimism, postponed with an eye towards a more hopeful autumn. In the meanwhile, I did receive a kind of gift from the garden club. The woman who coordinated my appearance there last year gave me several lovely plants from her gorgeous garden, but whenever you put something into new ground, you can never be quite certain that the youngsters will thrive in a different setting, however much care and love you lavish on your charges. Praise be, the garden gods were good to me, and though I was sad that I wouldn't be able to preach to a congregation of welcoming enthusiasts this week, I was cheered with the appearance of a quite happy Wood Poppy—a reminder of better times ahead.

Globetail syrphid

Several years ago, we got a load of cheap dirt to fill in some holes in the yard, and while the lesser soil did the job, it also, unbeknownst to us, contained something we hadn't expected: a collection of Lesser Celandine tubers... lots of Lesser Celandine tubers. So we've been left to fight off a botanical invasion, and though we're losing the battle, there have been benefits. Ficaria verna sports handsome, yellow, Buttercup-like blossoms that are pollinator magnets. As I watched the blooms, I spotted a new kind of flower fly, and after a lot of study, and an e-mail to my mentor Jeff Skevington, I learned that I was looking at a syrphid belonging to the Globetail family. They're tricky to get down to species from a photograph alone, so I'll have to start bringing my net and examining the insects under the microscope.

Social distancing sign

An all-day, heavy, and cold rain—there was actually significant snow not-too-far to our north and west—kept me inside and camera-less for the duration, so, truth in journalism (and maybe the more appropriate term is "truth in bloggism"), this image was actually taken yesterday, during my Trailing Arbutus trek to Lantern Hill. You know the phrase, "a sign of the times"? Well, when the COVID-19 pandemic is consigned to the history books, assuming it ever truly departs, this will be the sign I remember... the sign that summarizes the new normal. I hope and pray that it doesn't mark the time when we had to become permanently distant. Seeing every other hiker I meet as someone to avoid... someone unknowingly hosting an easily transmissible and potentially fatal coronavirus... is itself a kind of plague.

 

The top of Lantern Hill is only 491 feet high, but, because it's the only real promontory in the neighborhood, the view is truly spectacular... in fact, sometimes too spectacular. Because your eyes are drawn outward and upward so much, it's easy to miss the world at ground level, and that would be a shame. Lantern Hill is also amazingly rich in wildflowers, and in mid- to late-April, the star of the floral show is a diminutive, ground-level stunner known as Trailing Arbutus. These wonderfully aromatic flowers, which rise only a little past their tough, perennial, leathery leaves, are the favorites of the equally early-emerging queen bumblebees, as well as early emerging naturalists. The blooms were originally dubbed "mayflowers," but in the era of global warming, that name is no longer appropriate. By whatever common designation, the species Epigaea repens is, in the era of COVID-19, a delight for weary eyes and a joy for the coronavirus-battered soul.

I have to stop feeling so darned guilty all the time: I had to work on my syndicated column all day, and when I did have some time to get outside, it was claimed by my need, imposed on me by my cardiologists, to get outside for a long, strenuous walk. Natural history, alas, had to take a backseat to the day's demands. Still, I try to at least pay attention to what's going on in the gardens and the nearby back woods, so, in the few minutes I had to pursue my passion, I found the first Brunnera flower of the year, a tiny charmer that resembles a Forget-me-not, and will, I hope, be blooming in pastel profusion throughout April. It was too chilly today to attract any pollinators but soon enough.

It was chilly for most of the day... but not too cool to keep the Spring Peepers and American Toads from making a genuine racket in the vernal pools. At dusk, I headed to one of my favorite temporary ponds, and though it was dropping close to 40, the amphibians were in fine voice, the peepers ringing their bells, the toads trilling their shimmering notes. For some reason, I had a hard time finding any of the amphibians, but guided by Venus and other planets, I managed to locate a couple of singers, and though my hands were getting cold, I successfully photographed one show-stopper, who apparently had his eye on a bit of energy-boosting sustenance. That fly hadn't been snagged when I left for the car, but I suspect the toad quickly did the job of snacking.

Piping Plover

Thanks to COVID-19, we Connecticut residents are now not encouraged to cross the border into Rhode Island, which means that my favorite natural history beach, Napatree Point in Watch Hill, RI, is supposed to be off limits to "foreigners." I'm sympathetic, but our section of the two-state area is really one region, so, early this morning when I didn't expect to see anyone else, I hazarded a trip to the shore to enjoy the aftermath of yesterday's gale and to see whether the first waves of shorebirds had arrived. There were plenty of American Oystercatchers yakking up a storm, a few remaining Dunlin and Brant, and, just when I thought I'd be skunked, this charmer—one of the rare species that keeps part of the beach off-limits to everyone. Welcome back, Piping Plovers—and may the relative lack of beach-going tourists... from both states... make this a banner breeding and plover-rearing spring!

Black Vultures

Today was a washout, with a very severe storm brewing that was supposed to carry almost hurricane force winds and torrential rain. It didn't quite pan out as forecast, but it certainly wasn't an outdoor exploration day, so this is from yesterday, when I spotted a tree full of Black Vultures. I counted 14, of which this is half the crew. They eyed me suspiciously and not, I hoped, hungrily, but they weren't particularly cooperative. When I tried to walk to the other side of the tree to get a clearer view, they all took off on a mission to somewhere.

Bee Fly

This is probably the strangest Easter, indeed, the strangest holiday season, in my pretty long life. All of our traditions—the ones I was born into for Passover and the Easter celebrations I adopted through my wife—are just gone, wiped out in a coronavirus minute, and we were going to have to mark the day alone. (Later, our son Noah would brave the atmosphere and join us for dinner, but our trio was the end of the celebrants.) However, the natural world is carrying on, and in the theme of rebirth, the first of this year's Bee flies, a group of bumblebee mimics I dearly love, appeared for business. There'll be more on them... and better pictures—this Bombylius major only stuck around for a few seconds—when they're more cooperative, but at least this fuzzy insect was there getting into the renewal spirit.

First cinnamon

It's about time I got off my creative behind and allowed myself the pleasure—and yes, it is a genuine pleasure—of continuing this daily documentary of the natural history I encounter in the neighborhood. In the days of the plague, we're pretty much confined to the neighborhood but, thank God, I can still walk the local roads and trails and capture what I see. That hasn't changed, and, I hope, neither have I. So, as spring continues to make its presence felt, here's a sure sign of progress: the emergence of the first Cinnamon Fern fiddleheads, each clad in a cold-proof "jacket"... and this pair, it would seem, hugging to stay warm.

Years back, when we had a break in the cold known as the January Thaw, I'd make a trek to the bridge over the nearby Green Falls River to look for stoneflies: hardy insects whose aquatic nymphs would turn into adults that emerged from the water during above-freezing winter days to creep along the metal bridge railings in search of potential mates. These days, there's hardly anything to thaw in January, but there are still stoneflies to be seen. With the temperature this afternoon topping 70 in the sun, the Plecopterans were certainly out, but so were some unexpected beetles. This tiny creature might be a Rove beetle, one of those coleopterans whose elytra don't cover the abdomen. I couldn't, however, come up with an identification I was entirely comfortable with, so all I can do is keep looking for the identity of a minuscule member of the beetle corps with rather natty... and short... red-spotted, black wing covers.

Praying Mantis egg case

After a chilly start, the day warmed... and warmed... and warmed. By noon, it was in the 60s—the 60s, not, as would be appropriate for this time of year, the, well, 6's. I had, on my schedule, a public trek at the Stonington Land Trust's Miner preserve, but I was only along for the walk; I wasn't leading, so I had time to simply enjoy the warmth and the view. This was billed as a bird foray, but the avians weren't especially cooperative. Earlier in the year, however, the praying mantises were remarkably abundant at Miner, and while, of course, the predatory insect adults have long ceased terrorizing the invertebrate population, the females have left behind their characteristic egg masses. Here's one: the promise of spring... and an upcoming season of mantises-to-be.

Cooper's Hawk

The Christmas tree, still remarkably green, now lies prone in back of the bird feeder, and, soon enough, I'll prop and tie it upright to serve as a songbird shelter. But our freeloaders weren't inclined to wait for "soon enough," and they promptly started flying in and out of the evergreen's branches. All this activity didn't go unnoticed. The hustle and bustle attracted the attention of a young  Cooper's Hawk, and while I have no way of knowing if the accipiter-in-training actually snagged any prey when it swooped in like an avian cruise missile, it was clear that the apprentice predator was looking for something it reckoned it could eat. The Cooper's landed and walked around the tree three times, its large head and eyes straining to see something in the dark shelter of the prickly needles. But whatever might have been there wasn't accessible and after a few minutes, the curious hawk launched itself through the trees and headed for other feeders that might offer easier meals.

Yesterday's mini-snowfall was history by mid-day, and by this morning, with above-freezing temperatures turning the ground's ice to water and the soil to mud, we appeared to be in for a mini-heat-wave. A Northern Flicker certainly seconded that sentiment. These large, spotted woodpeckers get their sustenance by "pecking" the earth for worms and other prey items, instead of whacking on trees to find grubs and ants, so it's easy to see why we don't see flickers too often in the winter. Or, at least, that used to be the case, pre-global-warming. But with abundant soil to probe in the now-warmer-than-historically-usual weather, Northern Flickers are putting in an increasing number of appearances. This one, on and around the suet tree, offered a fine viewing... and photo op.

House frog

I probably should start bringing this whimsical garden "gnome" inside for the winter before the dear thing simply rusts away, but he seems so in harmony with the surroundings that I've left him to weather both storms and fair weather. This morning, after a brief snow squall overnight, the frog and his sax greeted the sunrise wearing a coat of white. A thin coat of white. My granddaughter was disappointed—neither a delay nor a cancellation of school. By midday, the snow was gone and it was back to business... and music-making... as usual.

Pileated woodpecker

With the "heat wave" continuing for at least one more day, the local Pileated Woodpeckers have been very loud and very active. They've also been very close. This afternoon, while I was taking a break from writing to stack wood, I spotted one, then another, working a nearby dead oak snag, and while I figured they'd be gone by the time I went inside to fetch the dSLR and attach the 100-400mm telephoto, my pessimism proved misplaced. I had to work for the best shot—no surprise there—but the Pileateds were too busy finding grub—actually, grubs would be incidental; the birds were after Carpenter Ants—to worry very much about me, and my patience and persistence were amply rewarded.

fern sleeping

A little chillier today, but still clear and dry. I spent more time inside than out, since it was the official day of the Epiphany, which is also the day and night that you're supposed to "break up Christmas" and get the tree and ornaments down and put away. We did get the tree outside, but there's still more to do before we can call it a season. While I was moving the tree to its new home—stacked next to the red Witch Hazel to serve as a bird shelter and feeding hide-out—I noticed that the recent heavy rains had unearthed some future ferns. They looked much like formerly subterranean eggs, and inside each one is a coiled up pteridophyte. "Hatching" is several months off. Even unexpectedly exposed, the plants won't emerge until April. I think I'll cover them with Christmas tree boughs for protection.

Mycena mushrooms

With the weather remaining relatively warm and wet, it should really come as no surprise that mushrooms decided to emerge from mycelial hiding. This pretty little group—the largest caps are barely half-an-inch across—came out of a cleft in a well-rotted oak stump, and after plucking a few of the gems and obtaining a spore print, which was white, I started to comb through the pages of Timothy Baroni's Mushrooms of the Northeastern United States and Eastern Canada. I thought I'd hit taxonomic pay dirt in the Arrhenia pages, but when I wrote to Dr. Tim for confirmation, the good professor suggested that I needed to bark up the Mycena tree. What I truly required to make a positive ID was a good microscope, and since I don't have one... yet... Mycena is going to have to be good enough.

Parmotrema (maybe) lichen

Under normal circumstances, it should be bone-chillingly cold and white-blanketed, with all signs of life, save the hardiest of birds and naturalists, in retreat. But nothing is normal anymore: there's no snow, the ground is devoid of frost, and it barely qualifies as chilly. There are plants actually growing, and the birds don't seem all that put out by winter. They're doing just fine, thank you very much. So this lichen, which might, in what used to be a typical January, have been the only green organism alive in the deep freeze, today has plenty of company. This symbiosis of algae and fungi—I think it belongs in the genus Parmotrema—is quietly thriving, its characteristic black cilia waving in the breeze. I need to resolve to learn the lichens better—as one wonderful website noted, I need to pursue the "ways of enlichenment."

jelly fungus

When it comes to identification these days, mushrooms are murder. Several decades ago, I was actually a pretty competent fungal taxonomist, but in the intervening years when I put most of my efforts into learning new groups of organisms, from birds to flower flies, amphibians to mosses and lichens, I lost track of mushrooms... and the taxonomic rug was pulled out from under what had been secure feet. Blame it on DNA and other molecules: a newly minted understanding of fungal genetics changed the names of just about everything, and when I got back to working with mushrooms, I was, in essence, a taxonomic virgin. All I can say for sure about this one is that it's a kind of Jelly Fungus, a dark, rubbery organism that is happy to do its work throughout the winter. It's either in the Exidia or Tremella congregation, but I'm going to have to invest in a microscope before I'm back on solid taxonomic ground.

False Celandine

In earlier posts and newspaper columns, I've referred to winter as the "subtle season"—the season during which not a lot of obvious things are happening... the season during which if you want to find signs of life, you have to look hard for them—and know where to look. But with relative warmth prevailing in what should be one of the coldest times of the year, early January is proving to be more supple than subtle, and there's plenty of obvious life, even among plants that would normally be barely alive. Among them is the so-called Greater Celandine, an invasive member of the Poppy family and a native of Europe and western Asia. It's a pest, but one that deserves a measure of respect, since the plant, however delicate it appears to be, seems to laugh at the cold, or, more appropriately these less-than-frigid days, chilly weather.

sunset, 1Jan2020

It would, of course, have been more metaphorically correct if this picture had been taken at sunrise today—the real start of the new year—but the simple truth is that I was fast asleep at dawn. This image was captured on my late afternoon hike, and as I watched the sky blazing, I had this inescapable thought: let's resolve, in 2020, to get back to the "work"—a labor of love, more appropriately—of sharing my impressions of the ebb and flow of the natural world. If this is the only resolution I make and keep, that would be enough. Happy New Year!

It was a warm, murky day and night—and under some circumstances, I'd be tempted to call this temperature excursion, which occurred a couple of days after the first bona fide killing frost, the start of our hallowed Indian Summer. But it's not going to last long, so I'll call it a temporary blip... and one that brought the paper wasps to the windows by day and the kitchen porch lights by night. I suspect that all the Polistes wasps I'm observing right now are fertilized queens, the only members of the tribe to carry on through the winter, and I suspect that they're all searching for a final meal or two before they tuck themselves into good shelters in which to survive the soon-to-arrive cold. This one seemed to be exploring cracks between the shingles. My constant close approaches and frequent flash pictures didn't seem to bother her in the least. No doubt, she had more important things on her mind.

Halloween is one of my favorite celebrations. Of course, there's the prospect of a few free York Peppermint Patties, my favorite candy, and there's the delicious fun of being someone else, someone spooky. But at the heart of the holiday is a chance to touch something transcendent, since in ancient times, this was the night when the veil between the living and the dead thinned and you just might be visited by real spirits, the ones you've missed and the ones you'd rather keep in the Land of the Non-living. Alas, this year's Halloween is forecast to be a washout, due to the approach of a full-bore nor'easter. But a few weeks ago, at the sunlit but scary Bronx Zoo, which featured an all-October event, granddaughter Stasia honed her photography chops and came away with some wonderfully appropriate images for what promises to be a truly dark and stormy night. Hope you survive.

 

For a variety of reason, it had been far too long between trips to join Mrs. Williams and her sixth grade science classes at our local school to work with the kids on the wonders of the natural world. Today's lesson plan actually was quite different than the usual—instead of trekking outside to the Assekonk Swamp nature preserve, I showcased, with a slide presentation, the way naturalists use journaling to make sense of the outdoors. It was a wonderful challenge for me to put my photographs in a coherent presentation, and I hope it proved useful. During a break between classes, I made a quick reconnaissance trip to the preserve to determine if we still had time in the near future to take the kids outside. This little jumping spider, which I found on the cross-piece of the observation deck, answered in the affirmative. I'm not adept at spider identification, but a deep dive into my guides suggested that, given the white spots on a black abdomen, it might be the Bold Jumper, a.k.a., the Daring Jumper, whose scientific name is Phidippus audax. By whatever name, the four-eyed creature certainly appears to be curious. So was I.

Nothing lasts truly forever, but flowers known as Everlastings come botanically close. These are blooming in many sunny spots on the edges of woods and in dry fields right now, and while the small, and, frankly, not all that eye-catching pale blossoms are easily overlooked, at least one species, which goes by the tongue-twisting scientific name of Pseudognaphalium obtusifolium, has one impossible-to-miss, attention-grabbing characteristic. True to its name, the Sweet Everlasting flowers dry out and remain on the stems for a long, long time—many months, if you bring them indoors. But the sweet part has nothing to do with the way the blossoms look; rather, it's about their scent... and that of the rest of the plant. Imagine morning pancakes swimming in maple syrup—that's the perfume emitted by P. obtusifolium. It's something unforgettable... something that reminds me of a hearty breakfast... something that lasts.

Yesterday was brilliantly sunny and almost unnaturally warm—today is a return to reality... cool, cloudy, and somber. Not only does it feel like fall, but it's starting to look like the season, too. There's a little color starting to appear in the leaves, and that's especially true in the ground floor of the natural world. The Poison Ivy foliage is quite red, and the Swamp Maples at the lower parts of the millpond are beginning to turn soft crimson. There's certainly lots of yellow in the plant community, as the chlorophyll gets packed away into storage and the carotenoid accessory pigments—the helpers that have been in the background all along—get their turn on center stage. But it's a brief turn of stardom for the understudies, and soon enough, many of the leaves, the hostas among them, will curl up, die, and drop to the ground for recycling.

I've tried... honest I have... and for years—I started this daily account of my meanderings in 2013, after all—I was able to maintain the postings every day. But I was heart-healthy then, and I wasn't take care of a youngster, either. Now, with my heart misbehaving rather seriously and requiring energy-sapping medications... and raising an energy-sapping nine-year-old (that fatigue, since it's couple with joy, I'll take)... well, suffice it to say that I'm having trouble keeping up. But I can still walk most days, and catalog what I discover, so, in the interest of my mental health, the extended vacation is over. Here's the highlight from this warm and sunny day: a new flower fly that, if I'm right about the identification, is an Oblique-banded Pond Fly, a.k.a. Sericomyia chrysotoxoides. Handsome little beast, and a fine way—almost no walking required; it was perched on one of a late-blooming hydrangea—to restart this endeavor. (This is a PS: I did manage, during the unplanned sabbatical, to continue making, if not posting, observations. If I have both time and energy, I'll try to fill in the historical blanks.)

I'd mentioned that I'm having extreme difficulties keeping up the daily part of this literary journey, but if I avoid the fiction that each entry needs to be written on the proper day, then hey! what the heck! let's just write when I can... so, here goes. Recently, and on the date this entry appears, we—my wife, my resident granddaughter, and yours truly—took advantage of a bargain-rate senior tour to the Bronx Zoo, a splendid venue at which you can visit the entire natural world in a New York minute... well, I'm guessing that seeing everything there would take about a week, but you get the idea. We had a ball, especially when a somewhat-flagging Stasia discovered that the Zoo is awash in gift emporia—the girl loves to shop—but she was also entranced with learning to use my old Fuji, a much better camera than she's worked with in the past, and a raft of the world's wildlife highlights, including several amazing tigers—animals that the Wildlife Conservation Society, the Zoo's parent organization, is working masterfully to conserve.

If ever there was a confusing group of butterflies, it would have to be the ones known as Skippers. Perhaps as compensation, they are simple to distinguish from typical butterflies: just look at the antennae. Most true butterflies have a rounded knob at the end of the antennae, while almost all skippers have a pointed projection known as an apiculus. This one clearly has the projection, so it's clearly a skipper... but which one? Ah, there's the problem. There are a number of skippers that look almost identical, and the only way you can tell them apart is to "collect" them and look under a hand lens or microscope. If you're trying to do an ID through a camera lens, well, good luck. This one, I think, just might be a Zabulon Skipper... or maybe not.

Many aphids are drab and pretty much invisible to onlookers, unless you're a gardener in search of potential pests—aphids, which live by sucking the lifeblood of plants and can spread hideous diseases throughout the green world—or a naturalist in search of something intriguing to write about and photograph. I'm in the latter category, and as I was combing the milkweeds for signs of Monarchs in all of their Asclepias-venued life-cycle phases, I noticed the first incidences of these Milkweed Aphids, which are also sometimes called Oleander Aphids, in honor of the plant species they most often frequent in their native Europe. The tiny members of the true bug order Hemiptera were presumably brought into this country on oleanders, but Aphis nerii soon developed a taste for milkweeds and other relatives. Like all milkweed feeders, the aphids had to figure out a way to deal with the poisons carried in the Asclepias plant sap. Not only have they done so,  they also advertise their toxicity... colorfully.

Yesterday I spotted my first Monarch butterfly eggs; today, on a walk to prepare for an upcoming guided tour of the Preston Nature Preserve, one of Avalonia's true jewels, I combed the milkweeds and located a very young, perhaps just a day old, Monarch caterpillar making all the right survival moves. These youngsters can only thrive on common milkweed, but the leaves, besides being poisonous to eat, are also full of a latex that comes out rapidly and often drowns the little guys. To survive, the caterpillars first "mow the lawn" and clear out all the hairs that protect the plant. Then the young Monarchs-to-be dig a little trench that relieves the latex pressure and creates a small island of safe green, which the caterpillar proceeds to eat. It sequesters the poisons in safe storage places within its body and then moves on to another patch of milkweed, repeating the necessary process over and over again.

It was another day of short mileage... short, but productive mileage. I didn't get any farther afield than across the street to my neighbor's meadow, but while I was there, I noticed a Monarch butterfly visiting a patch of milkweeds. When I risked too close an encounter with deer ticks and drew nearer the lepidopteran, I realized that she was stopping every now and again to lay eggs. This is a close-up of one of her potential offspring, and there were several others that I could locate. With any luck, I'll be able to bear witness, in about a week, to some tiny caterpillars. Here's hoping that good fortune is on our side.

I lead a lot of natural history walks, but today I had the wonderful experience of just being part of the led, in this case, along for the walk with the Connecticut Botanical Society. This collection of superb botanists explored the Avalonia Land Conservancy's TriTown Forest Preserve and spent most of the time investigating the plant life making a living on the refuge's abundance of trap rock ridges. It was a delight to be in the company of enthusiastic experts who were happy to share their knowledge, and I picked up a notebook full of wisdom. Here's my old friend Juan examining a moss; the Peterson guide was to ID the next specimen he had under observation.

It was still too warm and writing-busy to do much more than trek around the yard, but that proved intriguing when I noticed a narrow-waisted wasp making trips into the lawn and flower beds and then returning to the cedar shingles to provision the spaces between the wood with long stems and leaves of dried grasses and a katydid or two. The "stuffer" was a member of the grass-carrying genus Isodontia, and what she was doing was crafting a nursery built of grasses that she would cram between the shingles and then fill with food for her eventual larvae. The zombified katydid was a long-term meal for her developing youngsters.

With the hot weather in place and the deer flies still dominating the woods, I've been spending more workout time at the Westerly Y, followed by treks through Wilcox Park in search of photo ops with Cicada Killer wasps and the numerous pollinating insects reveling in the Park's splendid flower gardens. Wilcox also features a fine pond and fountain, and if you walk by at just the right time in the late afternoon, the sun is at the perfect angle to turn the spray into a rainbow. I guess I should make a wish, but, in truth, the fact that I seem to have captured the show is wish fulfillment enough.

The Turk's Cap lilies have just started to put on their annual show-stopping display, and, as always, these natives are completely mesmerizing. This is the view from the driveway, but there are plenty of the early August flowers to be seen in the more open areas along numerous pathways. According to the plant database at the Ladybird Johnson Wildflower Center, Lilium superbum is "the largest and most spectacular of the native Lilies; up to 40 flowers have been recorded on a single plant." Mine aren't nearly that floriferous, but that's OK. The site goes on to say that the distinctively recurved sepals and petals "resemble a type of cap worn by the early Turks," hence the common name. The plants might earlier have been called "soup plant," since Native Americans apparently used the bulbs for soup-making. Maybe L. superbum was more plentiful in older times; I'd never dig one up for the soup pot these days.

Hoverflies, a.k.a. flower flies, have become my new favorites this summer, largely because of the publication of Jeff Skevington et al.'s new field guide to the syrphids. I've been using the book every day, and I'm getting to know the group better and better. This one I already was familiar with, from Jeff's earlier introduction. It's called Toxomerus, and it's a little gem that can fly in place for several seconds at a time before landing and showing off its nicely marked abdomen and the patterns that give the group its common name of Calligraphers. You can't see the calligraphy here, but you can see how enticing a photographic target the flier is. Imagine trying to capture a hummingbird in mid-flight... then shrink the target many-fold and see what you can do. Most of the shots, of course, don't do the job; this one, however, isn't too far off.

I've been looking for Cicada Killer wasps for the past week or so, but while the usual haunts of these fascinating predators have produced one or two, the numbers were way down and I was beginning to worry that maybe 2019 would be an off year. Perhaps it had something to do with the ultra-wet spring. Then, however, I walked by a hillside stretch of Wilcox Park in Westerly and any fears were dispelled. The sandy slope was awash in CKs, with the males constantly challenging each other and fighting, and the females busy digging tunnels into which they will, if they're lucky, stash a cicada that the lady has waylaid and dragged underground. On the unfortunate victim, she'll lay an egg that will hatch into a larva that will soon be dining on the cicada. It's a cruel world, a very cruel world.

I don't keep a life list of ferns that I've seen, but if I did, this elegant species would be a newcomer. It's known commonly as either Silvery Spleenwort or Silvery Glade Fern, and I would have missed it had I not been in the company of some really good botanists who invited me along on their survey of the plants of Avalonia's TriTown preserve. They, of course, found it right away and brought it to my attention, noting that the shape of the spore holders inspired the "spleen" part of the name, and their silvery gray color did the rest. Because the holders, which are technically known as sori (singular is sorus), cover almost the entirety of the underside of the leaf surface, the arrangement is referred to as acrostichoid, and from this term comes the scientific name, Deparia acrostichoides. By any name, it's a beautiful fern.

I'm not precisely sure how the native orchids belonging to the genus Spiranthes were given the common name of Ladies'-tresses. To me, the flower heads more resemble something that could be called "corkscrew plant" than a nod to a woman's hair style... but maybe I just lack sufficient imagination. Designation notwithstanding, I know where to find these lovely blossoms, and for the first time this summer season, I spotted a few in the usual location: the old field just below the Lantern Hill trailhead. According to Paul Martin Brown's Wild Orchids of the Northeastern United States: A Field Guide, there are more than a half-dozen species likely to occur in our area, and they can be fairly tricky to tell apart. Folks who have examined this blossom image lean towards it having a yellow lip, which would make it S. lucida, the Shining Ladies'-tresses... unless, of course, it's green, which would make it S. vernalis, the Grass-leaved Ladies'-tresses. This is clearly a debate to be resolved on another trek.

It's been a remarkable year for Monarch butterflies! Except, if you look carefully, you'll notice something perplexing. It's not, of course, that monarchs aren't indeed enjoying a rebound year; they happily are. But rather, take a closer look and you'll see that this butterfly isn't, in fact, one of the rebounders... it isn't actually a Monarch at all. Instead, it's a well-crafted mimic known as a Viceroy. I don't know why an overgrown field just below and across the street from the Lantern Hill trailhead is such a Viceroy hotspot, but come August, I can almost guarantee that I'll spot one of the fakers nectaring on flowers and displaying the characteristic orange and black warning colors that tell potential predators: Don't Eat Me, I'm Poisonous. Scientists used to believe that Viceroys were perfectly palatable and co-evolved the colors as a species of subterfuge, but more recent experiments have demonstrated that these butterflies are themselves mildly poisonous. Birds learn this fast and avoid anything looking remotely like a Monarch, even a fake with a giveaway black band on the lower wing.

I know this seems macabre, especially after highlighting yesterday's variation on the spider predation theme. But today's discovery of a Six-spotted Fishing Spider taking an Eastern Pondhawk dragonfly by surprise at the end of the millpond was just too good to pass up. The ode never saw his end coming, as the spider, which was hiding under a patch of duckweed, rocketed out of the water and snagged the unwary dragonfly. There was no escape after that, which, though sad, is sometimes just the way nature works.

If you comb just about any collection of flowers, especially those of hydrangeas and goldenrods, you may notice a small, relatively flat, rust-and-black insect that, to a taxonomist, is an actual bug—that is, a member of the Order Hemiptera. The arachnid under observation often has speared another insect with its characteristic beak, and because the prey item rarely sees its demise coming, the predator is known in the trade as an Assassin Bug. Among assassins, there's a subgroup of sit-and-wait insects that are called Ambush Bugs. Here's one I noticed today, and after the critter had ambushed a bee, the corpse attracted several flies. Soon enough, these opportunistic characters were also on the assassination agenda... and menu.

Just as the exquisite scent of the much-maligned Multiflora Rose has become the signature aroma of summer's beginning, so is the flower cluster of the much-beloved Sweet Pepperbush the source of the definitive perfume of mid-summer. Both scents are glorious, but the former comes from a highly invasive, "alien" species, while the latter is given forth by Clethra alnifolia, a wetlands denizen that's a native New Englander. I've been catching snatches of Clethra in the wind recently, but only this afternoon have my treks taken me past a particularly large stand of Summersweet—another appropriate common name—in full bloom. The bees were exceedingly happy. So was I.

When you spot your first Widow Skimmer dragonfly, it's easy to understand why birders and butterfly aficionados get hooked on odonates. Besides the undeniable fact that dragonflies and damselflies are abundant and relatively simple to observe—well, except for a group of typically treetop dwellers known collectively as Emeralds—many of the odes are perfectly gorgeous beasts. The Widow Skimmer, whose flight season is peaking right about now, is certainly among the most glorious of insects, but calling it by its common name is something of a misnomer. Many odes are sexually dimorphic, and this Widow is actually a Widower: the males are the prettier sex, with that exquisite white haze on the outer parts of the wings; the females lack the white, and their abdomens never turn that handsome blue. Neither, as near as I can tell, displays any sign of the depression characteristic of mourning.

I guess it's now legit to say that we've officially entered the "Dog Days," the hot and humid time of the summer at which the dog star Sirius rises at dawn and the weather starts driving canines and their owners insane. The other indicator of the arrival of mid-summer is the constant electric whining of the cicadas, those remarkable insects that take over the tree canopy and "sing," if you can call it that, all day and sometimes into the night. It's actually quite rare to see one of these creatures, but, aside from hearing them, you know they're around from what they leave behind. For most of their lives, cicadas live as subterranean larvae and tap tree roots for sustenance and development. Somehow they know that the middle to end of July is their time to tunnel out of the ground, head up the tree trunks and, in this case, a cedar bench, and break free of their adolescent garb. The cicadas are leaving their kid clothes behind—perfect replicas of what they'd been wearing—and heading towards the serious business of mating and making the next generation.

This afternoon I was on the trail as a co-leader for the Stonington Land Trust's inauguration of its pathway through the organization's newest acquisition, Old Mystic Ridge. The area has some gorgeous up-and-down terrain, impressively large trees, and what will be, come the autumn, drop-dead-gorgeous views. And to think: OMR could have been a McMansion development. It was a little on the warm side, but we attracted a nice group, perhaps two dozen in all, of trekkers, and they enjoyed the walk, along with, I hope, my contributions about the ecology and geology of the area. Among the finds was a lone Blue Jay feather. I'm hoping that this did not mark the spot at which the noisy bird was rendered silent. Maybe it just marked the resting place of a primary, molted and discarded. Since there were no other feathers found in the vicinity, the un-grim scenario seems more likely.

One of the reasons I am forever behind in keeping this endeavor up to date is because I spend way too much time trying to actually identify the critters I've focused on. Sometimes this is quick and easy; other times, it's, well... like this. I know the predatory insect that just showed off its moth prey when it landed on a rhubarb leaf is a Robber Fly, a member of a ferocious group of dipteran hunters belonging to the Family Asilidae. I don't, however, know much more about it... or, to be more correct, I didn't know much about it until I decided to make a run at banishing ignorance. There are, it turns out, lots of Asilids, and they're rather complicated to key out. But this is what I do for fun, so I took a preliminary run at the species and came up with Efferia aestuans, which, according to information on the Cape May Wildlife Guide website, is "one of the commonest robber flies in the northeastern USA and often quite bold and approachable." The latter is certainly true; make the ID provisional.

I know the standard line on invasive species is this: Eliminate Them. Typically, I agree, but then there's the Wineberry, an Asian relative of our native raspberries and an invader with the potential to form thickets that elbow out local species that actually belong here. Rubus phoenicolasius, imported as an ornamental in 1890, is a definite public enemy, but oh, those delicious and beautiful berries. I first learned to love them in the 1970s when we lived in Jamestown and had a Wineberry thicket across the street from our house. I've savored them ever since then and, over the past few years, I've taught my granddaughter Stasia how to harvest, eat, and adore this delicate fruit. Maybe if we ingest every berry R. phoenicolasius produces, we can hold its tendency to overspread in check.

 

Next month, I have a public walk coming up at one of my favorite "gardens": Avalonia's Preston Nature Preserve. Without seeming too compulsive—I'd prefer to think of it as super-well-organized—I decided to pay PNP a visit this glorious late afternoon to see how the wildflowers were doing. The first of the wild Bee Balms were in exquisite bloom, and, to my everlasting delight, the flowers were being visited by both Monarch butterflies and Snowberry Clearwing Sphinx moths. Hemaris diffinis, as this hummingbird mimic is known to entomologists, is a gem that can fly backwards and forwards, as well as hover in front of blossoms, as it sticks its long, coiled-at-rest tongue down tubelike flowers in search of nectar. I am always on the lookout for h-bird moths, and I'll even risk exposure to ticks lurking in grassy meadows—most of PNP is essentially one large grassland—to spot, watch, and photograph these amazing insects. Happily, I got the shot... and didn't wind up at risk for yet another bout of Lyme Disease.

I'm not sure exactly what kind of milkweed this is, save that it's certainly not our common species, Asclepias syriaca, but since I found it in full bloom in the native pollinator garden at Wilcox Park in Westerly, I'm guessing that it's some kind of more cultivated variation on the Butterfly Weed theme. Whatever its provenance, the Monarch Butterflies females have found it a worthwhile nursery source for Danaus plexippus caterpillars, and at least one of the gaudy youngsters approves of the flowers. Perhaps the best thing about the blossoms and leaves is that they appear to lack the thick, milky sap that can prove fatal to the caterpillars, even drowning them after they take their first bites of the only food that will sustain them. Bon appetit, and good luck, young Monarch.

A couple of years ago, a naturalist friend of mine recommended that, if I wanted to learn the spiders—definitely a big gap in my database— the best book was Richard A. Bradley's Common Spiders of North America, which was published by the University of California Press. Normally, I would ask for a review copy in exchange for featuring it in my weekly column, but the book was too old, by UCP policy, for review... and it was strangely priced on Amazon: the cost wasn't fixed and varied between $35 and $80, depending on when you looked. But last holiday season, my son Noah tracked down a used one that was being dumped by the Lubbock Public Library and I was happily in the spider ID business. Now, it's a rare day... or night... during which I'm not finding something arachnological to identify. This little charming, found on a much cooler morning trek around the grounds, is an Emerald Jumping Spider, more formally known as Paraphidippus aurantius. I'm not exactly sure what kind of caterpillar she's eating. That calls for a different book.

I'll say this about the heat wave: it was just about as intense as we get, but, thank God, it appears to be quite short-lived. The temperatures today were in the mid-90s, and the humidity was close to South-Carolina-on-a-bad-day, all of which is code for saying, "Oh yes, I didn't get out on much of a hike." But by dusk, it was reasonable enough to leave the AC behind and head into Westerly's Wilcox Park for an outdoor performance of Oedipus Rex, by the Flock Theater. As darkness gathered—appropriately, given the subject of the venerable play—the storm clouds began thickening, as a heat-ending cold front started to make its presence known. The rain and thunder would hold off for several hours, and by tomorrow, we were promised, the weather would be more pleasant.

How hot is it? Well, even the walk to the mailbox, which is all of 75 feet, is a challenge, and none of the usual natural history venues beckon. Honestly, about the only thing I want to do right now is stay inside by the AC, or go to the local Y to work out in AC comfort. I'm starting to sound like an old person. Even the local Turkey Vultures weren't all that interested in being active outside. On the mail run—truth in journalism: I wasn't moving much faster than a rock wall—I spotted one of the great birds sitting motionless on a low branch. It barely moved in the shimmering heat. Honestly, I felt a bit guilty walking close enough to the vulture to stir it from sleep and then put it to flight. I tried to tell it that I posed no threat and it could just sit tight and conserve energy. i was certainly trying to do that very thing, but it didn't listen. Evolutionary wariness overcame lethargy, which, I suppose, is a good and necessary thing.

The Weather Channel has been droning on endlessly about the incipient advent of genuine heat, and as the forecasts have grown increasingly dire, I've been mindlessly singing snatches of that famous Holland-Dozier-Holland classic "Heat Wave," a 60s Motown chart-topping hit by Martha and the Vandellas. And to look at the kitchen window thermometer, you'd be certain that the first truly torrid conditions have arrived. Of course, it isn't really that hot—the thermometer's in the sun, and it's one of those bimetallic models that are overly impacted by the sun's rays—but it's definitely getting up into uncomfortable territory... and slowing down terrain.

Once again, the kitchen porch lights have been good to me, to say nothing of providing the goad that ensures continuing natural history education. Over the years, I've spotted these intriguing little metal-marked moths, and while I learned they were the adult phase of a kind of inchworm caterpillar known as a Looper, I didn't go much beyond that. It's laziness, I know, but I can't know everything. Still, I could come closer, and when I saw this Looper, I decided that it was high time I put at least a subspecies of ignorance to flight. So I pulled out the books and the Internet tools and, after a little enjoyable toil, decided that the configuration and shape of the silvery spots known collectively as the stigma, along with the bronze sheen, made this moth a commoner known as the Common Looper. It's a good place to start on my journey into the Subfamily Plusiinae.

A first look at a Stag Beetle, which is a member of the Family Lucanidae, is enough to make a casual observer back off several paces. For the entomophobe, well, spotting one of the these fearsome looking insects is enough to send the viewer running away in blind terror. For me, of course, noting that a likely representative of the Yellow-thighed Stag Beetle clan has been attracted to the kitchen porch lights is certainly an event that has me sprinting for the micro-lens-equipped dSLR. Lucanus capreolus is a pretty common visitor around here, and though the males, which have the oversized mandibles, use their impressive equipment in wrestling matches with rivals, I don't think they can hurt humans. However, I, for one, have not tested that theory.

The Queen Anne's Lace flowers—QAL is actually a kind of wild carrot—are wonderfully abundant these days, and, as I've learned with my hydrangeas, bear careful viewing. The white-ish blooms host an equal abundance of insects, so it's always worth giving the blossoms a once-over to see who's busy working the terrain for pollen and prey. This young Praying Mantis belongs to the latter group, and I noticed it carefully prowling the floral landscape for unwary critters, most likely bees, beetles, or flies that were too busy eating to pay attention to the potential disaster that lurked nearby. The mantis didn't find anything to eat while I watched, but it was certainly paying close attention, both for the possibility of prey... and the location of the photographer.

For the past month, just about every trip outside has offered an adventure in beetle-finding. It really doesn't matter what kind of flower I explore: all of them seem to have a coleopteran or two... or three... or more... on patrol. This is especially true of my hydrangea grove, but as I combed the day and other lilies, I discovered that there was no lack of the family known as the Cerambycidae, or, easier to pronounce, the Long-horned Beetles. Of course, the "horns" on these insects are actually antennae, but no one could be taken to task for seeing a bit of Texas in southeastern Connecticut. What's especially fun about the cerambycids is that they're a non-stop learning curve when it comes to identification. This one, according to the coleopteran Bible—Beetles of Eastern North America, by Arthur V. Evans—appears to be Strangalia luteicornis, one of the many members of the Long-horned Flower Beetles. It's quite striking, common, and, if I were younger and had a better memory, unforgettable. With any luck, maybe I can achieve "unforgettable" status, but I'm not holding out hope. At least I still remember where to look.

I'd been scanning a patch of Swamp Milkweed blossoms in a freshwater marsh near my daughter's house, and while there were several Skipper-type butterflies and at least one Monarch enjoying the flowers, there was also a strikingly gorgeous fly working the blooms, perhaps for nectar and pollen, perhaps for prey. If it's a Syrphid, I'm going to have to wait for identification help for a couple of weeks, when my mentor returns from a field trip to South America; if, however, those picture wings point to a member of the predatory Diptera, I'm going to have to do a lot more searching. In any case, I'm temporarily on my own in the observation and ID department. Well, not entirely alone. Shortly after I noticed the fly, something else did: a Crab Spider. Quickly, the predator had its way with the stunner, and, equally fast, the color started to fade from the prey. I guess I could have collected the moribund fly, but I decided to let nature be. The photos would probably be enough to ID the players in this eternal drama.

It's North Stonington Agricultural Fair weekend, and to show solidarity with the increasingly beleaguered agricultural aspect of my home town, I took advantage of the Saturday night senior discount and delighted in this annual event. As always, it was a rare pleasure to hobnob with exhibitors, stroll the Midway, listen to country music, and be dazzled by the rural arts and crafts, Blue Ribbon winners. But, also as always, my favorite event of the evening was the Ox Pull, that old-fashioned contest featuring enormously powerful cattle and their equally strong-willed handlers. Sometimes the oxen get with the program and pull on command; sometimes they don't. You'd like to think you're in control, but working with strong-willed cattle will either make you, or keep you, humble.

The almost monsoonal rains we've enjoyed this spring and summer have been a boon to the mosquitoes, and that's not something anyone is happy about. But on the plus side, this'll be a banner year for vernal pool amphibians and other residents, since the temporary ponds have been less temporary than in the drought years and we're likely to have lots of frog and salamander metamorphosis success stories. Today, Stasia, her friend, and I bore witness to one: the first appearance of the first out-of-the-vernals young Wood Frogs. It's hard to imagine how mini this newly transformed youngster is, but the clover leaf behind the froglet offers a good size comparison. It still has a bit of a tadpole tail, but it's certainly ready to make the transition from aquatic to terrestrial, and we're all rooting for the WFs to find plenty to eat and avoid being eaten. With any luck—and young frogs certainly need their share—it'll be ready to return to its nursery in a year or two to enter the March breeding sweepstakes.

Spotted Wintergreen is one of those eye-catching plants that I wind up pointing out on just about every walk that I lead. For starters, it's evergreen, so people are as likely to spot it in the winter as in the summer, and it's hard to miss in any season, because the leaves are actually striped, with a light-green, thick center-line running between dark-green sides. Chimaphila maculata may bear the common name of "wintergreen," but it's not a particular close relative of the aromatic plant, Gaultheria procumbens, that also bears that non-scientific designation. In fact, the leaves don't look even remotely similar—G. procumbens has round, non-striped leaves that smell like the namesake confection—and when it comes to flowers, both of them July bloomers, there's no confusing the two. Those of GP are dainty bells while C. maculata puts forth the waxy mini-magnificence now being displayed along the edges of the woods. The "wintergreen" name, it turns out, is an old-fashioned term for "evergreen." Best you learn the Latin names and avoid any misnomers.

I'm always on the lookout for one of my favorite "fakes": an insect known as the Eyed Click Beetle. Alaus oculatus is a remarkable critter for two reasons, one of which is fairly obscure and the other, of course, immediately obvious. The "click" part comes from this two-inch-long beetle's ability, when placed on its back, to flip itself to the proper position rapidly and with an audible click when it lands back on its feet. This skill confuses potential predators and gives the members of the beetle family Elateridae an opportunity to escape doom. But it's those amazing eyespots that help the insect avoid predators in the first place. The fakery tells any critter bent on mischief: BACK OFF! Fortunately for me, I wasn't intimidated and wound up with nice closeup shots. The beetle, for its part, took the interruption of its day in stride, eventually moving from my finger to my woodpile and then, to the woods to eye its way to Elaterid success.

While I typically get on the trail for at least a short trek every day, I almost always start my mornings by checking out the now abundant flowers of our patch of Lace-cap Hydrangeas. They're definitely insect magnets, and I'm rewarded for my observational efforts with an abundance of bees, beetles, and other insects, some of which aren't all they immediately seem. So it is with this Yellow Jacket, which, when I first spotted it, made my blood run cold and made me get ready to be stung. Of course, on closer view, I realized that any fears were misguided. It's not a vespid at all but, instead, is a high-quality copy known as a Black-spotted Falsehorn flower fly. Temnostoma excentrica is a fairly common and harmless wasp mimic that gains protection from its uncanny resemblance to a nasty critter; the mimicry is so good that most potential predators... and genuine naturalists... keep their distance.

 

Several weeks ago when I was out on a long walk, I noticed something disturbing: a brush-cutter-wielding young woman tidying up the overgrown area around the millpond dam. Now, this would not be an entirely bad thing, since trimming the "weeds" would result in easier walking and less exposure to ticks. But when she told me that her mandate also included leveling a patch of Milkweed that I've been observing year-to-year, I had to register a protest. She protested back and told me she was under strict orders. Besides, she countered, there's plenty of milkweed, so don't worry so much. Still, she said that she'd take up the matter with the boss, and when I walked by the millpond on my return trek, she gave me a thumb's up and pointed to the saved stand of Asclepias. I thanked her, I thanked her boss, and the Monarch butterflies clearly offered a note of gratitude as well. At least one of the beleaguered beauties laid eggs on the milkweed, and the toxic leaves have provided sustenance, to say nothing of protection, for a rapidly growing and gorgeous caterpillar.

In the classic 1942 film Casablanca, Bogie lifts up Bergman's chin and says "Here's lookin' at you, kid." This critter might be saying the same thing, but the purpose of the delivery's a wee bit different. The insect I noticed eyeing me on a hydrangea leaf appeared to be a gentle bumblebee, but this turns out to be a case of deliberately mistaken identity. What we have here is a Robber Fly of the genus Laphria, and any bumblebee that can't tell the difference between its own kind and the impostor might well be doomed. Laphrids are fierce predators, and if the mimic looks slightly evil, well, that impression is entirely correct. Bees and other potential prey that are slow on the uptake are likely to be pounced upon, injected with neurotoxins and digestive enzymes, and, once essentially liquified, slurped up by the fly. Thank God naturalists are not on the menu.

Given all the despair we've had over the population declines of fireflies over the past few years, 2019 is actually turning out to be something of an upswing. I'm guessing this has to do with all the precipitation we've enjoyed this winter and spring—ironic, I suppose, that record rainfall totals have "ignited" a lightning-bug baby boom, but I'll take it. Every twilight for the last several weeks, I've been able to enjoy a fine show of heatless light as the Lampyrid beetles begin signalling to prospective mates. I'm still not very good at identifying the signalers, not the least of which is because I can't accurately determine the color of the light. Nonetheless, I'm out there trying... and trying to capture the light show.

I need to give viewers advanced warning. As I noted about a week or so ago, I've been in contact with Jeff Skevington, a Canadian biologist who's one of the world's experts on a group of flies known as Syrphids, and he had the Princeton University Press send me his brand new  identification bible on the group titled Field Guide to the Flower Flies of Northeastern North America. The book is a godsend, to say nothing of gorgeous and fun to read, and it threatens to become a new obsession. That's the warning: the rest of the summer is going to be filled with references to the book and attempts to become reasonably familiar with these colorful insects. This insect in today's photo is my first successful foray, using this fine book, into the group, and I tracked it down to page 378 of the guide. Jeff was good enough to confirm my diagnosis, so, without further adieu, I present Ocyptamus fuscipennis, the Dusky-winged Hover Fly, for what I hope is everyone's viewing pleasure. Consider it the start of an adventure.

I may not be feeling very patriotic these days—I have no interest whatsoever in defending what this country is becoming on all too many fronts—but I still love the Fourth of July fireworks, and with my granddaughter Stasia in residence, we had an excuse to journey to what has always been a fine pyrotechnics display at Old Mountain Field in South Kingstown. We were even invited to join a church picnic there, so, armed with all my camera gear, we made the jaunt and settled in to enjoy good company, great weather, and, as soon as it got dark, a splendid photo op. I had a little tripod trouble, so far too many of the shots were a bit on the blurry side. But I took enough images that I wound up with a few winners. I'd put this one, taken at the height of the Grand Finale, in the positive category.

With my granddaughter in camp all day, I've been able to do at least a bit of trekking, and my venue, for the past few mornings, has been a power line cut near Ashaway. I've written about this area before—I often stop here to check out the nesting Ospreys—but I haven't really explored it in any detail. As is often the case, this open area is a kind of oasis, and it's alive with songbirds, especially Prairie Warblers, which  greeted me with their ascending trills. There's also Butterfly Weed, abundant odonates, and numerous intriguing shrubbery and wildflowers. My favorite critter, however, was this Carpenter Bee—by its dark face, I'd call it a female—that I noticed starting to excavate a nest hole in an old log. These non-social bumblebee-like hymenopterans give themselves away as non-Bombus by their lack of abdominal "hair"; it's probably our common species, Xylocopa virginica.

About ten days ago, I reported on the natural history doings at Ell Pond, where I'd trekked to see if I could find the start of Wild Rhododendron season at that rarest of rare local habitats: an entire Rhododendron maximum forest. But I was too early, and, worse, it looked like 2019 would be an off year for R. max... there were very few buds on the broad-leafed evergreens. Few, however, would not be none, and on a walk up the hill to visit the few Rhodies that grow in the neighborhood, I spotted a fairly plentiful display of the magnificent flowers that the "Rosebay Rhododrendron," a.k.a. "Great Laurel," puts forth. It may not be a memorable season, but it's beyond a doubt a beautiful show, however modest in size.

 

 

This was a definite surprise. It was a warm, sunny morning—the fact that it wasn't raining was a surprise in and of itself—and I was walking up the kitchen door stairs at a little past 10 when I spotted an old, familiar face hanging off the porch light. It was definitely a Fawn Darner dragonfly, and while they're pretty common around here, I don't normally see the first of these Darner-type odes until August, and then, they mostly don't pay us a visit until dusk. They're certainly handsome creatures, and they're easy to identify, what with that telltale pair of yellow-edged-with-black spots on each side of the thorax. There are also smaller spots that adorn each segment of the abdomen. I don't know what the early appearance signifies or, frankly, if it's actually early. Maybe the Fawns simply don't visit us until August but, in many other venues, they're out and about in July.

The rain held off enough so that I could take a brief... very brief... exploration of my daughter's woodland—it's also in our town—and as I was searching the rain-dappled trees in search of... well, anything moving... I noticed that their Larch grove was hosting larch cones. Larix laricina, which is also called the Tamarack, a French Canadian term that, according to most etymologists, is "probably of Algonquian origin," is an oddball among our native conifers. Unlike all other locals, it drops its needles every fall and is thus a deciduous evergreen, which is something of a misnomer, since, in the winter, the Larch is actually an ever-brown, or, throughout its life cycle, a semi-evergreen. By whatever name, it's a beautiful tree, with soft green needles and compact cones that offer fine cups for rain droplets.

Yet again, it's been raining, and yet again, it's been hard to spend lots of time outside. But that's me. The amphibians aren't having any such problems, and this evening, with the downpours reduced to a modest mist, I noticed a visitor by the basement door. The Gray Tree Frog, now retired from the breeding sweepstakes nearby, had come back to less competitive surroundings and would now be content to spend its time dining on insects to replenish its fat reserves—the raw materials that help it survive the winter and build up the requisite stocks of eggs and sperm necessary to enter next year's make-the-generation contests. The GTF was having no trouble whatsoever climbing the shingles towards the floodlights, which, of course, were attracting their share of moths, flies, and other insects: great food for frogs, present and future.

These dark and often pugnacious Hairstreak butterflies have started to make their presences felt around here, particularly in the later part of the afternoon when I can often spot them circling together, one trying to intimidate the other. I'm guessing the females are watching, or, perhaps, participating in these shows of agility and strength, with the winner getting the girls... or the boys. I think these are basically commoners known as Banded Hairstreaks, and this individual member of the Satyrium calanus clan, if I'm right about the identification, appears to be tuckered out, no doubt the result of too much courting and intimidating.

A couple of weeks ago, we were supposed to travel to Block Island for a tour and a great meal at the National Hotel, followed by, I hoped, a little bit of trekking. The weather, however, was downright awful, so the voyage was postponed until today. The second time, however, wasn't exactly a charm, and though it wasn't monsoonal, it was awfully foggy and the sightseeing was somewhat south of inspirational. This is the view from the historic Southeast Light on Mohegan Bluffs, and the highlight would have been a look at the five giant windmills that now power the island. Perhaps we might also have spotted some seabirds. Maybe next time. At least the food lived up to its advanced billing.

I've been hoping we'd be graced with a visit from one of our local giant silkmoths for more than a month, but we never spotted a Luna Moth—typically, the first marvel to show up at the house lights—in May, and, so far, June has remained Saturniidae-less. Some years we have them, some years we don't. And 2019 was beginning to look like one of the "don't" times, but around 10 this night, I poked my head outside to survey the insects at the lights and, right at the bottom of the basement door, I noticed something splendid: a member of the Promethea clan. The visitor was a female—you can tell from the relatively thin antennae—and I was surprised that she wasn't surrounded by suitors. Nor was she especially eager to go in search of males. Probably, she had emerged from her pupal case fairly recently and she was still gathering strength for her journey to fertility and egg laying. That gave me ample time to photograph her, and it was a good thing I didn't wait. After about an hour, she was gone, answering the call of crafting the next generation.

When I saw this beetle on the cedar shingles by the kitchen porch tonight, I knew that it was a member of the Cerambycid congregation, and from the white spots on the wing covers, I feared I was looking at a truly terrifying invasive species known as the Asian Long-horned Beetle. When these pests were detected in the Worcester, Massachusetts, area a decade ago, forestry officials quarantined the region and cut down an entire forest to prevent the spread of Anoplophora glabripennis into the surroundings. The draconian strategy worked to some degree, but was this mystery beetle an escapee that would require the demise of my woods? Happily, it's a different and thoroughly native species called the Whitespotted Pine Sawyer beetle, and while Monochamus scutellatus does make its living inside decaying wood, the rather handsome beetle doesn't kill trees so much as take advantage of those that are already sick and dying.

Several years ago, we fell in love with a group of native—well, to the Southeast—plants known as Louisiana irises. Clearly, we're not alone. Their "extraordinary beauty and ease of care have made Louisiana irises increasingly popular all over the world," notes New Orleans Times-Picayune garden columnist Dan Gill, and while I can't remember how we discovered these charmers, which thrive in bayous and bogs but are also quite happy in well-watered garden soils, we succumbed to their beauty and soon had a few growing in various semi-sodden spots. They rewarded our attention with extraordinary blossoms... and then they disappeared. Every June we wondered where they went, and this year, we got the answer: they never left. For whatever reason, they simply didn't put up flowers, and since their leaves are not all that easy to distinguish from other kinds of native irises—mea culpa, we didn't tag the plantings—we simply lost them. This year's conditions were more to their floral liking. Time to enjoy the show... and "plant" some markers.

I went to Ell Pond this morning in search of early wild rhododendron blooms, but what I found was an extended display of Mountain Laurel blossoms, very few rhodie flower buds, and, along the exceedingly wet edges of the pond, a number of these dragonflies. They were quite happy to have me around, and they spent their time perching close to my camera. I got what appeared to be fine shots... and definitely great looks at what I realized was a species I'd never seen before. From the face, I knew that they were a kind of Whiteface, but precisely which Leucorrhinia would have to wait until I got home. I hoped I wouldn't need actual specimens, so I took photos from every possible angle, got quite soaked, and kept my taxonomic fingers crossed. When I got home to the field guides, I was able to, with a high degree of confidence, match the shots to the description of the Frosted Whiteface, the aptly names L. frigida. Beautiful ode in beautiful circumstances.

A few years ago, I got intrigued by a group of colorful insects called, depending on your preference, either Hover Flies or Flower Flies. By either name, the members of the Diptera family Syrphidae are fascinating and challenging subjects for identification and photography, and it didn't take long for me to become hooked. In the process, I developed an e-mail friendship with Jeff Skevington, a Canadian biologist who's one of the world's syrphid experts, and he told me about his then-upcoming field guide to the group. I now have it in my hand—thank you, Princeton University Press—and the Field Guide to the Flower Flies of Northeastern North America will be keeping me busy and, I hope, well-informed for years. It will probably also keep me perplexed. Here's a syrphid in need of a positive ID, but I can't be certain of my tentative diagnosis until Jeff comes back from his field work and helps me out.

Every year around what is today actually the first day of summer, we celebrate the solstice with a road trip to the northwest corner of Connecticut to visit perhaps the most glorious garden emporium in the region... and every year that we've been visiting White Flower Farm, I take the same picture from the same spot of the display area in full bloom. Only the weather varies—the blossoms, starting with the magnificent Kousa Dogwood, exhibit the same species of floral perfection. We're there, of course, to take advantage of the annual WFF tent sale, during which we can use the $25 gift certificate we seem now to always have to buy plants we don't really need and, without the sale and the certificate, couldn't otherwise afford. When we're done shopping, we stroll the grounds, rain or shine—this year it was misting—delight in the landscape, and take picture after picture of horticultural inspiration.

I'm not sure that partridges, which, I suppose, are more commonly encountered in Pear Trees than on the ground, ever actually eat the red berries that will result when the small vine's gorgeous flowers are pollinated, but somehow Mitchella repens got its popular name and the rest, as they say, is horticultural, botanical, and ornithological history. But whether the partridge ever ingests partridge berries or not, the blossoms are glories to behold, and since they're just started to bloom, I know I'm going to be spending a lot of time on my belly, macro lens and supplemental lights in hand, to try my best to capture the mini-flower-show. It's well worth the effort... and the extra laundry.

Yet again, it rained overnight, and it looked like it was probably going to storm off and on again today. So, the walking-with-camera was certainly going to be curtailed and the best I was likely to do would be a quick walk around the house between showers. This wasn't exactly aerobic, and it wasn't likely to yield all that much of natural history interest. Still, the raindrops on the Sensitive Fern fronds were, as always, pretty... and sometimes, a pretty image is enough. So it was here.

The Mountain Laurels, which put on a magnificent show in my backyard about a week ago, seemed to be finished for the year... but then I trekked to the Bell Cedar Swamp preserve and discovered that a new extravaganza had just begun. In fact, the Laurel show at Bell was one of the best I've ever seen. An American Lady butterfly, this one giving me a fine view of the front of the wings, clearly found the blossoms to its liking.

For many, many months—indeed, for most of the winter and the spring—the "fireflies" carried no illumination whatsoever. They were all members of the Ellychnia corrusca clan and had evolved, for who knows what reasons, to be dark. But today, on a leaf, I noticed what many years of looking told me was something very different... something that was definitely a sign of the impending equinox and genuine summer weather. It's a little hard to see in this photo but if you look at the back end of the abdomen, it's clearly white. This is a lightning bug worthy of the name. In short order, the nights will be sparkling with the soundless glowing and sparkling "calls" of Lampyrid beetles.

I spend a lot of time watching animal behavior, and this means, of course, that I have seen my share of matings. I guess that has made me rather immune from blushing... or being surprised... but every time I watch dragonflies engaged in creating the next generation, I have to admit to a certain amount of amazement. It's close to impossible to imagine how evolution, or a Creator with a genuine sense of humor, came up with this position, which makes anything put forward in the Kama Sutra simply plain vanilla ordinary. I'm not even going to attempt to explain what's going on, save to issue a caveat that attempting to mimic this species of "natural" is likely to send a couple from the bed room to the emergency room. You were warned.

The weather for today's public trek at the Thomas Miner preserve in Stonington couldn't have been better, and the crowd of at least a couple of dozen couldn't have been friendlier and more fun to lead. There was certainly plenty to see, and the plants and animals weren't shy about presenting themselves for inspection. One discovery, however, was something I could have done without—something I'm always nervous about finding, especially when there are kids in the group, as there were this morning. One of the youngsters and his mom noticed, in the grass of the main trail, a little smidgen of yellow that, on closer inspection, turned out to be a fledgling Yellow Warbler, a common enough songbird at Miner. It was great that the group, the kids especially, were able to get a fine close-up look at the the little guy, but when I inspected the adolescent, I was saddened to see that it was blind in one eye, probably because of an encounter with a predator. Though it still had a lot of spunk, I doubt it had much of a future. I gently lifted it up and got it to perch on a Multiflora Rose stem out of harm's way. We all wished it good luck. It would need more than its share to survive.

I took Jess and Stasia to Miner this afternoon, a glorious and sunny day, for a guided walk tune-up, and, although Miner was downright sodden, we managed to keep our feet fairly dry... well, for a little while. The Bobolinks really put on a show, and the parents were very, very busy providing for the kids. While the adults are primarily seed eaters in the winter, and often gorge on rice, the Bobs switch to insects during the breeding season, and I believe they feed their youngsters almost pure protein. From the looks of what this presumptive papa has in his bill, the kids are hungry, very hungry. I hope dad is eating well himself, since he's clearly being kept busy by the demands of Bobolink -rearing.

I know what some of you—the unlikely faithful who have been visiting this blog all along (a blessing for me, to be sure)—may be thinking: Oy, not more dragonflies... please, not more odonates. Well, my apologies. For one thing, I was supposed to be on Block Island today, and I would have returned with lots of very different images, since I hadn't, since this endeavor began nearly six years ago, filed a post from that venue. But it was stormy today, with weather so ominous that the trip was postponed. It was also too stormy to get outside and shoot, so this shot is from much nicer weather yesterday, when the Common Baskettail dragonflies were enjoying the sunshine and taking the occasional rest on the shrubs. I've featured them before. No doubt I'll feature them again. Odes are among my favorite subjects... but you knew that. I hope you enjoy them. I certainly do.

I was combing the leaves and flowers of a Bridal Veil Hydrangea for intriguing insects when I came face to face with a Paper Wasp that was too busy eating something to pay much attention to me. I got as close as the focus range of the 85mm Micro lens would allow and, through the viewfinder, I got a great look at what the predator was doing. The wasp had subdued a caterpillar—there wasn't enough left of the unfortunate lepidopteran larva to come up with an ID—and the insect was eating it. I think—this is shudder worthy—the caterpillar was still marginally alive. So it is with the natural world, a place that Stephen King must find eternally inspirational. Clearly, I did too, since I didn't avert my gaze... or my photographic pursuits. Gross, but fascinating.

 

In the past few days, the air has been swarming with Common Whitetail dragonflies... only, they don't yet have white tails. This one is certainly a male—the pattern of the wings is a giveaway—but it's an immature guy, or, to be more technically correct, it's a teneral and only recently having emerged from the water. In a couple of weeks, that brown abdomen with start turning white, or, again to be more technically correct, it will develop what's called pruinosity, a blue-tinged white color that's as handsome as it is striking... and, I'm told, intimidating to rival males. For now, this gentleman is simply waiting for the change—and a chance to win the breeding sweepstakes.

The butterflies have come out in droves, and today, on the Dame's Rocket in the home garden, I got a new one. It was definitely one of the so-called "Ladies"—members of the genus Vanessa—but I wasn't immediately sure of which one: the Painted, or the American? Then I remembered a sure-fire clue from uber-lepidopteran expert Jeffrey Glassberg's Swift Guide to Butterflies of North America, in which the author quipped: "American Ladies have big eyes." Looking at me from the cobweb pattern on the hind wings was a pair of very large "eyes." No doubt about it... I'd been visited by an American woman by the name of Vanessa... Vanessa virginiensis.

Once again, and for all good... and no good... reasons, I'm so far behind that I thought I'd just post this happy shot, taken this morning at the Miner Preserve in Stonington, and hope maybe I can both keep current and backfill from what is really a large trove of shots. I'm leading a public walk at Miner on the 15th, and I needed a preliminary walk to see what was currently going on in terms of Bobolinks, butterflies, birds, milkweeds, and other birds. It turns out that the answer is plenty, and in a couple of hours, I found enough to fill a week's worth of posts. For now, however, the main finding was that, while the milkweeds have yet to bloom—they're still in the tight-bud stage—the first of the Monarch Butterflies are back, checking out the foliage for likely egg-deposit sites. I spotted about half a dozen of the butterflies, including two flying in tandem. Alas, while the duo was slow, they still didn't want to stop moving. All I got of the pair was a memory. This one, resting on a goldenrod, was more cooperative.

It was a truly gorgeous day, clear and cool, for taking in a plant sale, and the one hosted by the venerable Rhode Island Wild Plant Society in Kingston has long been touted as one of the best in creation. We finally got there, but we arrived a bit late, and, we quickly learned, all of the great stuff goes fast and early, even to members, who can shop an hour before the general public. OK, wait until next year. But any modest disappointment was assuaged by a visit to a friend's nearby garden—a friend who had a very nice shade plant waiting for me, and, like gardeners everywhere, offered other fine plants I liked in her light-challenged sections. Would that I had similar gifts for her. She also showed me what she thought was a mystery nest in a hanging plant, and when I tried to examine it to determine the identity of the builders, I got a definite shock. The nest, which I'm guessing was the work of Carolina Wrens, was actually occupied! There were five, recently laid eggs, but one of them was broken. Quickly, I put the nest back in the plant. I hoped that we'd done no inadvertent harm and that the Wrenlings would be fine.

It was definitely a day for Amos Lake, which opened for the season yesterday and was wonderfully inviting this warm afternoon. The water, however, was quite nearly freezing, so while I was happy to bask in the sunshine, I wasn't tempted to get into my bathing suit and leap in. I guess my pacemaker would have prevented heart failure, but no use taking chances. I felt old, but guilt didn't force me to abandon prudence... I guess this really makes me old. Still, staying on land had its rewards. In between photographing the kids swimming—I swear they have no nerve endings—I noticed a Spicebush Swallowtail working the sand for dissolved minerals. Maybe I'll swim next visit. For now, watching and "capturing" the butterfly was enough for me.

If I had more time and space, I'd expand this blog to cover all of the important natural history events of each and every day I managed to get outside for a trek... and that would have meant that I'd have noted the grand opening of the Pinxter, a species of wild azalea known to botantists as Rhododendron periclymenoides, five days ago. But time is in short supply, and because the charge I set for myself limits me to one item, more or less, and one photo, most of the time, the 20th, which marked the floral debut for R. periclymenoides, was given over to a consideration of something else: the start of corn field plowing. Life is arbitrary and filled with too many choices. Fortunately, the weather has remained cool and wet, so the Pinxter flowers have not been inclined to disappear. In fact, they're prime and gorgeous, much to the delight of the bumblebees... and the photographers.

There are no Gypsy Moths around, but that doesn't mean that we're free and clear from defoliation. It was, apparently, a fine spring for Winter Moth caterpillars, and there are also plenty of Forest Tent caterpillars working the tree canopies and below, so we've gone from relatively dendrological darkness into light, as the larval lepidopterans devour everything green in sight. Just as things were beginning to look desperate, however, and the frass, the polite tern for caterpillar poop, was starting to make life outdoors more than a little yucky, we received a kind of miracle: a large flock of Cedar Waxwings, those gorgeous birds normally associated around here with later winter and softened and tempting Holly berries, assembled and came out of nowhere to feast on this entomological manna. It was fun to watch the avian acrobats glean the leaves, and while I'm sure the Waxwings didn't do a complete job, they really put a dent in the Winter Moth caterpillar population. Maybe we'll have shade after all.

This has been a genuinely fine year for our native dogwoods. They started blooming about a week early and they've just kept going like gangbusters for the past couple of weeks in the cool, wet weather. The fact that we still have an abundance of Cornus florida shrubs in our woods is truly wonderful news since, about a decade ago, dire reports were surfacing throughout the Northeast and beyond about the emergence and flourishing of an imported fungus called Discula destructiva, or, in semi-plain English, Dogwood Anthracnose. Declines in the shrub's population were becoming obvious, and forestry experts were starting to worry about the Dogwood's possible demise. Thankfully, at least for now, those concerns seem a bit overblown. We still have Dogwoods in bloom, and they're just gorgeous. With any luck, they'll remain a treasured part of the woods.

 

I've been spotted the stunning Red Admiral butterflies off an on again for a week or so, but as the temperature has started to warm and the sun has come out, especially in the late afternoons, I've been seeing these splendid lepidopterans more and more. By five or six, there are often several enjoying pools of sunlight in the grass or low on tree trunks, and, equally often, I see two or three flying in spirals together—perhaps in preparation to mate, or maybe attempting to best a rival... it could be both. Vanessa atalanta isn't, in the strictest sense of the word, a native species, since the egg, caterpillar, and pupal stages can't deal with the cold. Our temporary population is the result of migrants from the south who, every spring, head north to our area, enjoy breeding possibilities and nettles for their youngsters, and then head back to warmer areas, breeding along the way, to raise a surplus of Admirals, some of whom may head back here next spring, if conditions prove favorable. It looks like a fine year for the species... and a fine year for Admiral photographers.

Everything has been insanely slow this year, and while this is, no doubt, attributable to the insanely slow arrival of genuine spring, the tardiness, in the wake of numerous articles about the rapid decline in the number and diversity of insects, has me worried. Where the heck are such familiar and looked for species, chief among them the dragonflies? By now, my photo collection should have a number of odonates listed among the recent arrivals... but the database cupboard is pretty much bare. Spooky. Today, however, a bit of my anxiety was assuaged when a very cooperative Painted Skimmer came a-callin'. The newly minted male flitted from plant stem to plant stem, and once, when I was ready with the Sigma 100-400mm, perched obligingly on an almost-open iris bud. I was overjoyed... just overjoyed.

Over the weekend, when I was gabbing with the folks who attended my Avalonia walk, one of them from the Big City... probably either Groton or New London... made a joking reference to the kind of sign that, the person said, just isn't part of the urban environment. Well, I laughed, "Welcome to my town! " As if I needed a reminder that our area is still a bedrock farming region, the ground has finally dried out enough and our neighbors are starting to plow. The Good Earth is even a bit on the dry side—we haven't had heavy rain in nearly a week... amazing!—and the tractors are kicking up a lot of dust. While the farmers are a bit behind getting the soil prepared for the annual corn planting, I have no doubt whatsoever that they'll catch up in the very near future and agricultural bounty will be our lot soon. That's my prayer, at least—and I'm sure I'm not alone.

The Avalonia Land Conservancy's Bell Cedar Swamp preserve is, without a doubt, one of my favorite refuges, both because of what's preserved and because it's very close to home. But earlier this year, it was marked for "improvement"—a major forestry endeavor aimed at creating habitat for the imperiled New England Cottontail rabbit and more than a dozen songbirds that might benefit from the shrublands that develop in the wake of taking down trees and building up brush piles. I've been involved in several other bunny projects, and I've seen the good they do. But they're horrifying to watch, and I couldn't be present while the loggers were doing their necessary work. They're pretty much done now, so this morning, I forced myself to return to the Bell Cedar. It's, well, open, and I barely recognize the place. But I believe in the process, and, as a boost to my spirits, I heard one of the target birds, a Blue-winged Warbler, giving its signature "bee-buzz" calls. I'd never heard a Blue-winged in this refuge before. I think things will be fine.

It was a bright. beautiful day for a public trek, and I was graced with a small but wonderfully attentive group of fellow explorers, including the best gift of all: six youngsters, all under the age of seven. There are no better eyes and ears, and they, along with their folks, kept me hopping, as they made discovery after discovery, among them Spotted and Marbled salamander adults and larvae, an assortment of insects, all manner of birds and flowers, and this charmer serpent, a foot-long, reasonably docile youngster, whose identity wasn't immediately obvious. Juvenile snakes, I've learned, can be very tricky, and I guessed that, based on the banding pattern, it was probably a young Northern Water Snake. When I got home, I started hitting the books and the Internet, and after considerable study, I remain uncertain... but I think my initial ID is most likely right. Whatever its species, the serpent was definitely a big hit.

The top image, of course, should really have appeared on Valentine's Day, but in February, the Cardinals weren't in the mood for the kind of nuptial feeding routine that I captured at the feeder this afternoon. And their timing was just a bit off for a behavior that, truly, should have been highlighted in this chronicle yesterday, since such a shot would have been perfect as a way to make note of our 38th anniversary. So this photograph is one day late. The heart, which Stasia found on the local running track—ants were responsible for some of crafting, but we don't know how the entire heart was created—adds a nice touch to a marriage definitely worth celebrating.

This entry in the journal could have been about "the one that got away," and, in all honesty, it was beginning to look like the appropriate shot should have been a blank... since that was what I had when Stasia and I, as we walked over the bridge across the Assekonk Swamp, spotted a handsome Yellowthroat, and I, of course, was traveling with the wrong lens on the camera. By the time I affixed the 100-400mm Sigma to the dSLR, the warbler had just vanished. So it goes. We heard and saw other intriguing birds as we visited various places along the trail and took time out to run along the local quarter-mile track—OK, Stasia ran, I walked—but the Yellowthroat wasn't among them. At our last stop, however, a place along the river that flowed below the Assekonk dam, Stasia elbowed me and directed my gaze and lens towards something skulking along the water's edge. I'd have missed it. Young, better eyes didn't. I really shouldn't leave home without them.

I have a public walk coming up this Saturday, so, to prepare for it, I had to do an advance trek... tough assignment, but someone had to... Since we'll be hiking the Babcock Ridge and Henne preserves, two of my favorite places, this journey wasn't going to be exactly arduous, and, as usual, I had a fine time searching out things that the parents and kids would find interesting. This serpent was the best of the best, and while I couldn't, of course, guarantee that the glorious, nearly four-foot-long Black Racer would put in an appearance over the weekend—I really do need a realistic radio-controlled snake—at least the critter held its ground long enough for me to take both photos and videos that I could show off. Typically, all you see of Racers is the rear ends of their retreating bodies, but this one, coiled, ready to strike, and thrashing its tail back and forth as if it belonged to a rattlesnake, wasn't going anywhere. We struck up a bargain: I gave it plenty of space; it gave me a fabulous photo op.

The Bobolinks are back from South America, and they're setting up shop in one of the, alas, few places left for them to breed and raise their young: large expanses of unhayed meadows. The blackbird-relatives are listed as a Species of Special Concern in Connecticut, and just about everywhere else in the Northeast where they're still found, their populations have plummeted. Thankfully, they thrive at the nearby Thomas Miner Nature Preserve and Wildlife Sanctuary, with its 20-plus acres of unmowed grasslands, and when I visited today, the stunning guys were putting on a show for the ladies. The display featured lots of loud, delightfully musical singing, and an aerial ballet. I hope potential mates were impressed. I certainly was, even though the meadow pathways were sodden and I wound up with cold, wet feet.

Even I, perhaps the most drought-phobic human in the northeast, am, after a record-setting number of days of measurable precipitation, getting ready to throw in a very wet towel and say, Enough... well, for now. It's been hard to be outside, for it's not only rainy, it's also very chilly, so I'm reduced to only a few minutes of relatively dry picture-taking possibilities. This morning, however, there was a break in the showers, and though I was still wearing light gloves, I was able to get into the back woods with the dSLR and search for interesting images. The one that caught my attention was especially aural: the mini-waterfall created by my son more than 30 years ago in his namesake stream was in fine voice. Gray as the day was, I liked the light on the moving water... the very moving water.

Every time I hear a thud against the kitchen window, I cringe. The noise means that a bird has mistaken the glass for c;ear passage and, alas, all too often the only "passage" is a trip to the hereafter. Even so, I race outside, for if the flier hasn't broken its neck, it will still be lying down, stunned and addled... and easy prey for the local felines. On those occasions when I'm reasonably certain the bird will eventually be fine, I cradle it, keep it warm and comfortable, and make sure that it will remain out of harm's way until it's ready to fend for itself. Those other times, I hold it gently until it passes, then, after saying a little blessing, commit it to the earth in the garden. When this Gray Catbird hit the window this afternoon, I wasn't sure of its fate, but the bird didn't seem to have had a fatal encounter, and after about a half-hour of TLC, it was airborne. It still looked a bit frazzled, but that was certainly understandable.

There may well be no prettier May blossom than the tube-lobed flower of the Wild Columbine. And, for the Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, there may also be no more important a bloomer. The reason is one of evolutionary synchrony. Hummingbirds have, over the eons, developed long bills and even longer tongues to use as straws for reaching the nectar hidden in the floral tubes of columbines and similarly built blossoms... or maybe it's the other way around, in which the flowers developed the tubes to take advantage of the hummer beak anatomy. Or, and this is probably closer to the genuine truth, it's a coevolutionary bit of both. However the partnership developed, the RTHs used to arrive here at about the time the columbines came into their floral glory. But now, thanks to global climate change, the flowers often bloom out of sync with hummingbird arrival times. This year, the blossoms are about a week later than usual, while the hummers came back "home" a week earlier than has been typical. Good thing I had the feeder out. Good thing the RTHs found another source of natural nectar.

It was an unusually dreary day, with rain and cold and the surprising need to keep the woodstove going. I walked a bit anyway, but I didn't carry my camera with me for fear of weather damage. However, a bit later in the afternoon, I had to run into Westerly on some errands, and the rain had let up a bit, so, out of the car window, I was able to capture a few of the day's natural history highlights. My favorites were the apple blossoms that decided to debut despite the unpleasant conditions. For that boost to the spirits, much thanks.

Robert Frost wrote about a "blue butterfly day" in a poem with that very title, and in it, Frost described seeing "sky flakes," the name he gave to a bluish lepidopteran known as the Spring Azure. These small and delicate-looking insects are members of the Gossamerwing clan—more properly known as the family Lycaenidae—and they're actually pretty darn tough, since they start flying early and have to be able to role with the climatological punches. The weather today, however, was relatively mild, and the Azures were out looking for nectar and mates. Frost would certainly have been happy to see them. I know I was.

Today's trek took me into the heart of what appears to be a bona fide fen—a kind of peat-forming wetland whose water is more neutral or even alkaline than our typical acidic-chemistry bogs—and my job, besides getting out of the fen in one piece, was to start sampling the vegetation and maybe getting pictures and recordings of bird life, especially those elusive Empidonax flycatchers rumored to be fen residents. There was no sign or sound of avian mysteries, and the sedges weren't far enough along to provide a clue about the water's pH, but on a patch of moss I located a genuine head-scratcher: a patch of tiny, mushroom-like, clean-stemmed vegetation that, I had to admit, I couldn't identify. Heck, I couldn't even be sure of where in the Tree of Life it belonged. From the clear stipes and the propeller like "things"—now there's a scientific term—at their end, I'm guessing that the dark "things" that resemble mushroom caps might have been the aftermath of an explosive method of spore dissemination—a technique I remember from a dung-loving fungus called Pilobolus. But until I can contact the proper expert, I really am stumped.

In truth, the world needs more Canada Geese that it needs, well, you insert your favorite non-need. Even so, the first goslings to appear at the local farm pond this year are undeniably cute and a definite symbol of hope. What I find curious is that there are only two of the youngsters trailing what is probably mom. In most years past, there'd be at least a half-dozen or more of the fuzzballs out for a swim, so I can't help but wonder if some unpleasantry—a raccoon with a penchant for eggs, or a Snapping Turtle with an appetite for hatchlings, for example—has already cut into the population. The other possibility, I suppose, is that nature is putting a stop to the runaway goose numbers and curbing fertility. Or maybe this particular bird could only produce two kids. We shall never know.

There are all sorts of migrant songbirds starting to call and challenge the ears, to say nothing of dazzling the eyes. But I needed a break from looking up—my neck wasn't happy—so I decided to rake some leaves that had accumulated over the winter, and when I was starting to gather the haul, I noticed an all-too-still form on one of the stone steps. From the brilliant white belly, flecked with large black spots, I knew I had inadvertently raked a Four-toed Salamander out of its hiding place, and from its immobility, I feared I had accidentally killed it. Thankfully, it was playing possum, and after a brief recovery period, the small amphibian flipped over on its front, put the four toes on each of its four feet—most salamanders have five toes on their rear feet—to good use, and vanished back under another patch of leaves. I left those as a refuge.

As if we didn't already have enough trouble keeping the suet cage on the tree... We know that squirrels will sometimes eat their fill, and there may be raccoons at the fat feeder from time to time, both of whom knock the cage to the ground and occasionally carry it off into the woods. Thankfully, we don't seem to have bears in the area—we'd have to take the suet cage down entirely if it came to the attention of local ursids—so the only other problems would be over-exuberant woodpeckers and an overabundance of strong wind, both capable of carrying the feeder off its uneasy moorings. This morning, however, I discovered another potential problem I'd quite forgotten. Crows love suet, and they're capable, even if it's only one, of putting a serious dent in the offering. Of course, you rarely have one crow. A single bird finds the fat, but the corvid can't keep a secret. Soon, it tells friends, and equally soon, the cage is empty. I hope this guy, who took a mouthful, is either a loner or has a bad sense of direction.

For some unknown reason—perhaps it had something to do with the chilly, overcast skies—the local Tree Swallows that have been working the surface of the local farm pond decided that a labor slow-down was in order. Perhaps there was a dearth of insects rising out of the pond's surface, or maybe the birds were inclined to conserve energy for a change. Whatever the reason, the swallows stopped flying and settled onto the branches of a small tree by the water's edge. They displayed their handsome colors, squabbled just a tiny bit, and took a break from aerial toil. You can't work all the time.

 

Garlic mustard is actually a rather pretty plant—and a useful one, too, in that, in spring, the leaves, shoots, flowers, and roots are nicely edible. Indeed, they should be eaten, and en masse, because they're all too plentiful: Alliaria petiolata is one of the area's worst invasive species. Brought to this country from Europe some 150 years ago as a food plant, it has effectively left the gardens and the plowed fields and spread across the land with a vengeance. It makes copious amounts of seed and it may do something even more insidious: it not only outcompetes and outgrows most other plants in its neighborhood, it apparently also secretes chemicals that prevent the seeds of other species from germinating. This tendency towards allelopathy is somewhat controversial and may be overblown, but suffice it to say that Garlic Mustard can overrun an area. Be an ecological hero; make an A. petiolata salad. Mange.

Many, many years ago, I discovered a mail-order nursery in northwestern Connecticut known as White Flower Farm. It was mythical then, and its catalog was a thing of beauty that cost, if I remember correctly, five bucks... a princely sum considering that most of nurseries didn't charge a penny. However, I always found the money to get the publication, and I probably saved every edition. They were that gorgeous. Alas, the headliners were pricey, and I don't think I ever actually ordered anything, although one plant I coveted, even dreamed about, was a Japanese native Jack-in-the-Pulpit often dubbed the Snow Rice Cake Plant. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen, and, at over $100 a pop, one of the most expensive. These days, however, we make an annual pilgrimage to White Flower Farm for their bargain sale every June, and a couple of years ago, we found that coveted plant offered bare-root for $5.95. We snatched it up and got it in the ground. All good things sometimes come to those who wait. Here's proof that the venerable adage is sometimes true.

Whether I deserved it or not... whether I expected it or not... I managed to turn 69 today, and after an earlier celebration that included a scrumptious carrot cake my daughter made and kids and grandkids at the table to sing "Happy Birthday," I opted to spend at least a part of the afternoon on the trail—one of my favorites, the one with the blue blazes that starts near Wyassup Lake. This particular section of hiking path includes an uncommon stretch of higher pH soil that enables an equally uncommon stretch of less-acidic-loving plants to thrive. The Round-lobed Hepatica were past flowering; the Trout Lilies, Nodding Trillium, Yellow Violets, and Maidenhair Ferns in the deep woods were not quite ready to put on a show. But the first Blue Cohosh flowers were beginning to bloom so I had the present I desired. That I'd need to return to see other gifts open in a week or two was, itself, a fine additional present.

On today's five-miler, I packed the dSLR and a couple of lenses. I knew that, from my cardiologist's perspective, this was verboten, since, as long as I had the right equipment for picture taking, I would almost certainly be stopping fairly often to take home an abundance of images. I won't lie... I did exactly that. To be sure, in between shots, I walked hard and got my heart rate to target, and I fully intended to keep the camera in its case for the final two miles of trekking... but then I noticed that same patch of Trout Lilies I'd mentioned several days ago, the ones that were ever so close to blooming. This afternoon, they were in full flower, and as a proper tribute to those older plants that had lived long enough to blossom, I captured their special moment in the sun, both literally and figuratively. After that pause, I got back to the business at hand and put in the requisite miles at the right pace. Hopefully, everyone finished happy.

On every walk past Palmer's Pond in the past week, there's been a congregation of swallows skimming the water in search of insects and, I'm sure, displaying flying skills that just might impress the ladies. From the square cut of the tail and the overall coloration, I'm thinking that they're all Tree Swallows, but when I checked out swallow identification techniques on the Cornell "All About Birds" website, I learned that when the aquatic insects hatch en masse, the birds often work the water in mixed-species flocks. I've spent some fun time trying to capture the birds in flight, and it's no easy task, particularly when the light is less that optimum. It wasn't bad today, and I managed to get some decent, if not perfect, mid-flight photos. This is one of the best, but, clearly, it's not a Tree Swallow. Rather, from the lyre-shape of the tail and the "often hard to see" tail band—this assessment from Cornell—I hit ID pay-dirt, and captured a Barn Swallow in action.

"You all know what this is," I half-told, half-asked a trio of kids who were walking with me on a trek of the Avalonia Land Conservancy's Benedict Benson Preserve, and when I didn't get an immediate answer, I gave away the shiny deep-red plant's identity. "Think 'leaflets three, let it be'," I counseled. "It's Poison Ivy, and I hope that none of you accidentally touched it." The kids assured me that they'd steered clear, but, alas, I couldn't be so sure about myself. I'd lather on the anti-PI soap when I got home, and I made a mental note to, for the duration of the growing season, make certain that I looked carefully before moving my hands in a new direction. The new leaves are tiny but fully armed, and they'll only get bigger and more potent. Best to steer clear.

After leading a wonderful crowd through Avalonia's Benedict Benson Preserve on a chilly morning, I returned home to start the woodstove and get some warmth back in my body. While I was sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee, I felt the passage of a small shadow on the other side of the window, and when I looked at the hummingbird feeder, which had been sitting there customer-less for several days, I spotted the first nectar freeloader of the year. As is typical, it was a resplendent male—the guys always arrive back on the ridge first to stake out territories— but barely an hour later, the first arriving female of the year zipped in for an energy drink. This is atypical, and while their arrival is a bit on the early side—they used to show up around May 4th—it's in keeping with recent history in these climate-change days. Welcome back, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, and good luck in your nursery endeavors.

We're supposedly in for a little rain later today, but before the possible thunderstorms settle in, I hit the road for a five-miler. I was dutiful about keeping up the pace and not stopping often, but coming down a steep hill I spotted something new that required a hiatus. This was my first long trek since the, er, procedure last week kept me off the hard-walking trail, and in the interim, a barely growing stretch of favored roadside went from brown to a peculiar shade of speckled green. Those curious leaves belong to a splendid ephemeral species of native lily named in honor of a fish, specifically, the Brook Trout—the dappled leaves are said to resemble the color pattern of a Brookie's back. The foliage, barely six inches high, comes up fast, but it only occasionally puts up a glorious yellow-green flower. Blossoms are fairly rare, it turns out, and are only born towards the lily's maturity, starting some  four to six years after an individual plant first pokes above-ground. No doubt, most Trout Lilies never live long enough to bloom, so every flower is precious.

A very attractive, buttercup-like flower is putting on a show along the edges of the back yard, and while Lesser Celandine turns out to be a pretty invasive weed, I think I'm going to give it a place at our proverbial inn rather than try to completely eradicate it. The reason, besides the fact that it looks good, is that it's also an insect magnet. The local bees love the blossoms, and the waxy, sun-colored flowers have also hosted an assortment of intriguing flies. Some members of the Diptera I know, but others, like this amazing-eyed "looker," are mysteries. There are a lot of different fly species, and I may have to send this one out to the experts. I attempted an ID through the Internet, and, of course, spent time on BugGuide, but no luck. Fortunately, the Canadian government has provided a matchless resource, the Manual of Nearctic Diptera, Volumes One and Two. This entomological "Bible," however, is almost 1,500 pages long. If I live long enough, I'll get there, but clearly, the adventure isn't going to be quick and easy.

Sometimes you get lucky. And then, sometimes you get very lucky... very, very lucky. This was one of those times. I was walking Avalonia's Benedict Benson Preserve in preparation for my Earth Day Celebration guided tour this coming Saturday, and I had a fine celebratory trek. The Round-lobed Hepatica was still up and a few were blooming, so my group just might be graced with a flower show from that uncommon species. In addition, there were plenty of fern fiddleheads unrolling, Jesus Bugs walking on the water, mosses displaying spore capsules, Marsh Marigolds gilding the stream, and a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher buzzing away. This all boded well, but at the upper bridge, as I walked towards another patch of Marsh Marigolds, I noticed a small reptile catching some rays that dabbled the leaf litter. HOLY EXPLETIVE DELETED, I shrieked. This was no ordinary "sun turtle," I quickly realized. Rather, it was a Spotted Turtle, a Species of Special Concern in Connecticut, and a rare and precious find. I haven't seen a Spotted in years, so this makes Benson all the more critical.

Every year at just about this time, I make a mental note to start examining the flowers for the presence of a "bee" that is, in fact, not a bee. To sure, this creature appears to be, at first glance, a dead ringer for one of those humble hymenopterans, a.k.a., the bumblebee. But a closer examination reveals that the insect has only two wings, not four, so it's clearly a member of the Diptera—and a bee mimic, rather than the real thing. Bombylius major, the Greater Bee Fly, is also a species of parasite that follows real bees back to their nest tunnels in the ground and then flicks eggs in the direction of the entrances. With any fly luck, the eggs will hatch into larvae that find their way into bee nurseries and, after eating through the pantry items left for bee youngsters, devour the bee-lings. I look forward to spotting Bee flies. Bees, however, are not happy about the encounter.

The Virginia Rockbreaker gets its common name from what appears to be an odd way of crafting a habitat: look fast at the plant's location and you might be fooled into believing that it had cracked open boulders and churned stone into soil. Not so, of course. Micranthes virginiensis takes advantage of earlier arrivals, starting with the lichens that can dissolve rocks. The mosses follow, and, eventually—the process can take decades—the decay and natural compost makes for a layer of soil. It's thin, but it does the job for this member of the Saxifrage family—Saxifrage means "rock breaker"—which, with a bit of warmth finally in the air, had begun to put on its annual show.

We might actually have some sunshine today, and maybe I'll actually have some time to go for a longish walk. But to cover all bases, I took a quick jaunt along the backwoods paths to see if I could raise any migrating songbirds, particularly that Northern Waterthrush I might have heard last week. Alas, no such luck. However, I did spot more unfurling fern fiddleheads, including this charmer, which might be a Hayscented Fern caught in the act of a kind of resurrection. That, of course, would be appropriate for Easter Sunday... entirely appropriate.

It remained wet and not really conducive to trekking, and with an early Easter dinner planned for this afternoon, I didn't have time for anything particularly ambitious. Still, to try to fulfill my mandate, I managed a quick walk into the backwoods and there, I detected a familiar, high-pitched buzzing. I'd heard the same sound yesterday afternoon, and this morning, I came prepared with binoculars and the 100-400mm Sigma attached to the dSLR. I called the bird and, praise be, it responded and kept moving closer and closer to me. The light was pretty grim, but I did manage a few decent shots: easily enough to ID the small and energetic bird, with the distinctive voice, white eye-ring, and white stripe along the edge of the long tail, as a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher. God only knows there are enough gnats and blackflies currently in the air. Bon appetit, new bird. Bon appetit.

More rain... yet more rain... so not really the best of outdoors days. But at night, with a mist still in place, I was able to shelter my body and my camera under the kitchen porch roof and watch as a small squadron of adult Mayflies came to the lights and the shingles for an early visit. I had seen larval members of the ancient insect order Ephemeroptera—so named because the adults generally live for only a day or two: mating, laying eggs, then dying in droves—in Bubbling Spring at Alton Jones earlier in the month, but I didn't expect to spot the grown-ups until their namesake month. However, as is rapidly becoming the norm, the adults have already started to make their presences known. Here they are: by their three tails, ye shall know them... even in April.

Today was the day of a medical test so anxiety provoking and potentially unpleasant that it would be better to just say that I had it and it wasn't as bad as I feared, although I still won't get the results for about a week. I was asked to take it very easy for the rest of the day, and that wasn't difficult advice to follow, since the weather was chilly and misty and about all I could do was nap. However, before I headed to the doctor's office, I did manage a quick walk to the backwoods and there, I noticed something quite wonderful, maybe even inspiring. The Cinnamon Ferns are starting to unfurl, and they're being joined in coming back to life by a carpet of emerging Canada Mayflower leaves. I'll take this as a sign that I'll emerge from all this angst in good shape... and unfurl with the rest of the perennials.

Yet another hiatus... yet another apology: too much work, too much time working through the latest round of guardianship issues, and too much stressing over yet another particularly unpleasant medical test... oh yes, then, on Tax Day, we unexpectedly lost access to the Internet. With any luck I'll be able to backtrack and eventually fill in all the missing entries—I have lots of photo candidates—but in the meanwhile, thank the Lord for the Westerly Library, which has public wi-fi, and the Library's Wilcox Park, which has some of the most beautiful plantings in Creation. Here's one of the  Park's signature cup and saucer magnolias... and its admirers... which was photographed by yet another admirer.

It was chillier than I would have liked for my annual springtime visit to URI's Alton Jones campus to take the Environmental Education Center field staff on what I hoped would be an educational and inspirational trek, and while the amphibians and birds weren't particularly noisy... or evident... we did manage to find some terrific critters in the vernals, namely Fairy Shrimp and Spotted Salamanders, and in the gardens and fields, this glorious spider in particular. As I mentioned earlier, for the holidays, my son Noah managed to get his hands on a reasonably priced, used copy of Richard A. Bradley's masterwork, Common Spiders of North America, and I've now started to put the book through its paces. Spiders are not easy, I told the field crew as we noticed this beauty, which posed on my boot for my 85mm micro lens. I couldn't immediately ID the beast, but I promised that I would check in Bradley when I got home, and, with a minimum of page turning, I quickly discovered that we had been graced with a Nursery Web Spider. I'd seen it before, and I know it's pretty common. Maybe the ID will stick. One hopes.

The Bloodroots are late this year, which, give how mostly miserable March was, is hardly surprising. But yesterday, after searching the leaf litter underneath our trio of Beech trees where the first members of the Sanguinaria canadensis clan usually emerge, I noticed the vanguard of white-tipped buds still clad in their wraparound parkas. I knew that things were close. It was sunny and more pleasant than it has been today, and by the afternoon, my persistence and patience were rewarded as one of these glorious spring not-exactly-ephemerals—Bloodroot flowers pass quickly, but, unlike the true ephemerals, the plants actually remain visible and viable in place until late summer—got down to floral business. There were no pollinators waiting to take advantage of the pollen offering, but soon enough, when S. canadensis emerges en masse, the bees and flies will get the hint.

I'd already done my long walk, the one that doesn't allow for schlepping the Nikon and the Sigma supertelephoto lens, to say nothing of stopping for any length of time, so, later in the afternoon, I returned to Palmer's pond with all the gear to see if I could photograph a flock of Wood Ducks I'd noted earlier. The birds were too far away for decent pictures, but when I scanned the reeds for other critters, I saw yet another sign of vernal life. Atop an old tire I knew from previous scans, the first of the Painted Turtles had emerged from the mud to use this bit of litter as a sunning spot. Painteds are also known as Sun Turtles, so the cast-off was serving as a perfect sun spot for enjoying a bit of thermoregulatory-enhancing warmth.

On every trek, except, I suppose, the ones that stick close to the shore, I amble by a group of ancient plants known as mosses, and though, over the past several years, I have undertaken an effort to learn the identities of the numerous bryophytes along my paths, I'm not as far along as I would have liked. There are, however, a few mosses that are comparatively easy to ID, and in the past few days, I've been seeing one of them. It's called Apple Moss, or, to the botanists, Bartramia pomiformis, the species name referring to those round spore containers that are abundant, now that we've had sufficient rain and warmth to convince this plant to "blossom." These April "apples" will soon open and cast their spores to the winds and water, and if each individual dust mote is lucky, it'll land on a stretch of rock suitable for growth... and being identified.

In this era of depressing "fake news," it would be perfectly acceptable, even expected, to foment falsehood on this, the original day of that species of phoniness known as April Fool's Day. But, throughout my long, long career, and especially during the Don's all-too-real, if too-often-surreal, ascendancy, I've tried to show journalistic respect for something traditional: the facts. I'm not going to change, so on this day of allowable foolery, here's the real thing... and a happy one at that. Last autumn, a good friend presented us with a wonderful gift, and that blooming Closed Gentian seemed to like its new home and promptly made seeds. I planted these, but I also had high hopes that the momma Gentian would make it through the winter and grace us with new growth. Many plants are now showing signs of coming back to life. Glory be... the Gentian is among them. For real. No April fooling.

The order of the day was to head to Avalonia's amazing TriTown Forest Preserve to sample the vernal pools atop Rixtown Mountain, and while that was the place last winter from which I had to make a slow but steady retreat when my body simply wanted to call it a day after, for me, a grueling hike, today I made the ascent with no real problem. But there were other issues, the main one of which was that, as I tried to document all the critters I was seeing, I was having genuine difficulties getting everything in sharp focus. This was really, really upsetting and I hoped that the one object I was able to focus on, the skull of a deceased possum, wasn't providing a grim metaphor of my declining photographic skills. Maybe it was the camera. Yes, that's it. Definitely the camera... I'll get the critters in focus next time.

With the weather finally warming up, I've been out in the woods looking for a particular Beauty from a place called Camberwell... well, I would be doing that, were I living in England and searching for a glorious, and, I gather, fairly rare, early spring butterfly. The exquisite creature hibernates as an adult and so is ready to fly as soon as conditions allow, which happened this afternoon when I was trekking Avalonia's Benedict Benson Preserve. According to the website UK Butterflies, Nymphalis antiopa was dubbed the Camberwell Beauty by a naturalist names Moses Harris in a 1766 publication called The Aurelian "based on 2 individuals that were caught in Cold Arbour Lane near Camberwell in 1748." The lepidopterans weren't expected in the British Isles—they're more common on the mainland—and were also called "The Grand Surprize." In our country, the cosmopolitan N. antiopa is hardly a surprise and is known as the Mourning Cloak. It has to do with the dark color of the wings rather than any somber mood the butterfly carries aloft. When I find the first one of the year, I'm jumping for joy.

Sometimes mistakes turn out for the best, and when I was out at the vernal pool complex near my house—the area I've been monitoring since the mid-1980s—I noticed the first larger-scale nighttime movement of Spotted Salamanders. The Macs were pooled up in the main vernal's exit stream just below a small blockage area that functions as a natural mini-dam and often serves as a courtship area. I had the video lights and an 85mm micro lens on the camera, and I thought I'd have enough digital horsepower to stop the salamanders in their tracks, but I guessed wrong. Or, well, maybe, right. I like the way the spots blurred into the same kind of motion that I've tried to photograph when documenting moving fireflies. Here we have it: underwater "lightning" made by courting "lightning" Macs.

Now this is a rare scene that I wish we'd been graced with last night on the public vernals trek. With a strong Wood Frog chorus under way at the vernal below my house, I headed outside to see what was going on, and in a stretch of temporary pond that already had the first eggs in place, I spotted a WF in the act of attaching her then-small, half-dollar-sized cluster of eggs to an underwater twig. Luck was clearly on my side, and I felt blessed to be bearing witness to this most intimate of acts. I also felt a measure of relief that I wasn't going to have to explain external fertilization to a group of young girls and boys. Maybe they could read about it and ask their folks.

One of the greatest joys of my life has been the numerous natural history walks I've been able to lead over the years to introduce people to the natural world. My 2019 "field season" opened at dusk when more than two dozen people, many of them kids, arrived in the parking area of Avalonia's Babcock Ridge preserve for a night-time trek to the vernal pool complex I've been happily showing off to any and all. In truth, it was terrible night for a nature walk: way too cold for amphibians and, in all likelihood, way too early to spot anything interesting. But my pessimism didn't pan out, and the kids quickly took the lead to find all sorts of critters. Soon, there were Marbled Salamander and mosquito larvae on display in my collecting pan, but the hit of the evening was provided by a group of deft-handed girls I dubbed the "fairy shrimp whisperers." They braved cold fingers to provide the crowd with great looks at one of the vernal's signature invertebrates.

In my vernal pool, things have been a little slow getting started. There are certainly plenty of Wood Frogs quacking up a storm, and while I've seen the first of the Spotted Salamanders... and at least one spermatophore field... I really haven't found any eggs to speak of... well, until today. WF eggs are easy to spot, since they tend to float on the surface in large clouds that I've often called a cumulus. Spotties are trickier. For starters, they're more hidden below the surface, and while the opaque and semi-translucent ones are dramatically eye-catching, the clusters that resemble WF egg masses are more head-scratchers. I'm glad I didn't just gloss over these eggs as yet more WFs. The overall shape, size, color, and lack of a jelly covering bring them into the Spottie camp. Looks like both amphibian groups, under the cover of darkness, have been having, um, fun.

It's still chilly, but I have a public walk for the Avalonia Land Conservancy to plan at my old stomping ground, the Babcock Ridge Preserve, and while I'm beginning to think that absolutely no one is likely to join me for an evening trek to see imaginary amphibians—no self-respecting frog or salamander will be out in the cold that's forecast for the next couple of nights—nevertheless, I have to be prepared. Just as I feared, there was precious little going on in the Babcock vernals that are the subject of the walk, and after I was done sampling, I took a nerve-soothing jaunt across the street to check out the Henne refuge. There, at least, was natural history action, with the Great Blue Herons back at their nests and engaging in all manner of courtship activities, including the offering of pre-nuptial snacks. Why there are two couples so involved at the same nest is a mystery. I'll need to watch this to figure out just what's going on.

 

With the Winter Aconites at peak and the early crocuses beginning to come up in huge drifts—this looks like a fine, fine crocus season—I've been on the lookout for the first bees and a chance to put my bee guide to good use. No sooner did I voice this thought when it appeared that the bee gods had provided an answer on this nicely warmer day. But when I examined the candidate in my 85mm micro lens, I quickly realized that the supposed hymenopteran was actually dipteran: a fly, not a bee. The large, chunky insect had short antennae and two wings, rather than two pairs, so it was clearly a Flower Fly, a bee mimic and a member of the Syrphidae, critters that are definite on my "learn more about" taxonomic bucket list. I have a fine identification key to this group, and after quite a bit of looking, I think I've ID'd it as a member of the Eristalis clan, possibly Eristalis tenax, a.k.a., the Common Drone Fly. Of course, being certain will take more study. Equally of course, I'm looking forward to this.

Snow was in the forecast, but I really didn't believe it when I noticed the S word in the Weather Channel's prognostication last night. It wasn't supposed to be much, to be sure, and I didn't expect to have to get the shovel out of the shed at first light to get to work making it possible for us to drive anyway. I also didn't think that I'd have another chance to use the snowshoes or the cross-country skis, which barely had any workouts this so-called winter. Well, the WC forecasters were right on target, and all of my suppositions jibed with the thin white blanket I noticed as I opened the door to let out the cats as I poured coffee and contemplated what to do today. I guess, at the very least, I could go out and track an animal or two. The felines had certainly provided grist for the tracking mill, but by the time I had finished breakfast and all the morning chores, the "white board" had been wiped clean and all the snow was nothing more than a cold-footed memory.

Today was given over, starting with the countdown to 9:05 in the morning, the precise time my granddaughter Stasia greeted the world nine years ago, to celebrating, but when everyone had called it a night, I made a quick run down to the vernal pool complex to see if anyone was stirring. It's been chilly and right on the edge for amphibian awakenings, but in the rain last night, my daughter reported that she'd seen frogs hopping across the road, so I wanted to check our wetlands. Mostly what greeted me was swaying maiden's hair algae—one of these days, I really ought to ID this one to species—but no signs of Spotted Salamanders. I might have heard a lone Spring Peeper, but the Wood Frogs were still quiet. In the algae, however, I noticed one batrachian foot, but all I could manage in the documentation department was a glimpse of the Wood Frog heading for cover. The Caddis Fly larva to the WF's left—it's not tack sharp but you can sort of see the insect emerging from the case it created out of leaves—took the harassment from my camera light in stride.

My granddaughter Stasia is going to turn nine tomorrow, but because it was rainy and raw and we all had the day free while she was on vacation, we gave her an early present: an exploration of the "big city" of New Haven that included a trip to the Yale Art Gallery, the Peabody Museum of Natural History, a local Subway for lunch, and a stop at a very, very special place—the "Mew Haven Cat Cafe." I'm told that cat cafes originated in Japan, and then came to this country via the West Coast and, no surprise, Brooklyn, and while for us it seems kind of redundant to pay a modest entry fee to drink coffee surrounded by felines—we can be surrounded by kitties at home any time we desire—the place is great fun, and Stasia, a bona fide cat fancier, had a ball with her new found friends... well, the ones who weren't sleeping.

One of the natural history "adventures" I can promise visitors to these pages is my ongoing attempt to learn the spiders. That's a group of inverts I've shied away from, largely because they have a reputation for being very difficult to ID without killing and dissecting the critters, and I'm never all that excited about such sacrifice, even in the name of a somewhat worthy cause: my continuing education, which I will then attempt to pass along. I'd mentioned to my son Noah that I was deficient in the spider department, and for the holidays, he somehow found a used copy of Richard A. Bradley's masterwork, Common Spiders of North America, and I was in business... well, as soon as the spiders started appearing. The sun was out in the garden today, and here's what I found. I think it's one of the small Wolf Spiders, and from the looks of the patterning, it might be the ground hunter Gladicosa pulchra. With more time spent looking, I'll eventually be able to remove the "might" from any assessment. Maybe.

This is definitely one of those "picture is worth a thousand words" shots. The Osprey couples are back and tidying up the nests, and the fish hawks are putting on an amazing aerial show. Happily, my Sigma 100-400mm lens is more than up to the task. So is the photographer—praise be, so is the photographer.

A mere day or two after I spotted the first Crocus blooms at a well-situated, south-facing, heat-absorbing-and-releasing foundation, I was blessed with the debut of our Crocus flowers at a west-facing, shady spot at least a yard from any source of additional heat and protection. So we don't get the ridge award for earliness... so be it. Whatever motivates these garden delights to blossom extra early, these tidy and mostly small plants, which are native to a wide swath of southern and central Europe and Asia, have begun to put on a show that will, depending on the variety, last for at least a few more weeks. Soon enough, the flowers will provide "manna" for the first bees and flower flies to emerge from winter sleep. My daily walk around the home turf will now include stops to look for the first signs of pollinating insects.

I doubt I have one drop of Irish blood coursing through my veins, but I love corned beef and cabbage, Irish music, and tales from the Emerald Isles. I think I may also have picked up, by osmosis no doubt, a bit of the luck of those people, and in keeping with that tradition, I managed to spot a miracle while I was searching for the mundane. The osprey are due back into our area any day now, and while I was searching a favored spot along River Road in Ashaway, Rhode Island, for newly returned fish hawks, I discovered something else, something completely unexpected. When I was scanning the trees near a likely nest, I saw something large that appeared to have an all-white head. It couldn't be, I said. Impossible, I declared. But when I worked my way closer to rule out any possibility of seeing what sure looked like Bald Eagles, guess what? It wasn't wishful thinking. What a fully mature bird and its less-adult traveling companion were doing in the area is beyond me, but I sure lucked out in being precisely in the right place at the right time to capture a remarkable sighting. St. Patrick's Day luck, indeed.

There are lots of things I'm on the lookout for these days, and when it comes to any excuse to work my way past the area just below the Potter Hill Dam, I take it... and search several favored dead trees for Double-crested Cormorants—diving birds that come back to the area in mid-March or thereabouts to take advantage of the start of fish migration and stocking season. A small flock of DCCs was hanging out in the river this afternoon, and when I crept up on them to get some pictures, this one, I swear, was croaking its delight in being back. I don't know if the fisheries people have dumped trout in the water yet, but the DCCs seem to know that dinner is coming. Like a true angler, you just have to be patient.

Before I kvell about this year's grand opening of the first crocus, I need to add a little truth in advertising. First, I noticed this delightful yellow blossom yesterday... but I didn't have the right lens handy to take an adequate picture. Today, however, I came prepared with the telephoto and dSLR so I'm happy to offer the result—which brings me to Truthful Point Number Two: this isn't one of my crocuses. The ones in my garden are, if the weather holds up, about a day or two from blooming. This one, however, is basking in the pure sunshine and is warmed by the heat absorbed and radiated by the cellar stones of an old house I walk by on my cardiac trekking route. The foundation-crafted microclimate gives these flowers a bit of a head start over mine, but, soon enough, I'll have blooms to savor, too.

 

Quite unexpectedly, I'd spotted Goosanders—the common and utterly British name for the Common Merganser—exceedingly early this year: February 9, to be exact. But that was only a few of the fish eating ducks, and no sooner had they arrived in the one unfrozen stretch of millpond than they left for less icy waters with plenty of more easily harvested fish. This afternoon, however, with most of the ice off the pond, my wife and granddaughter happened to be driving by and spotted the unmistakable glare off the Goosander's brilliant white breeding plumage and told me to shoulder up the Sigma 100-400mm telephoto and get to work. Happily, the birds were still working our waters in a flock of at least a half-dozen males and perhaps a quartet of females. This is a section of the group. It's hard to know if the female was suitably impressed by the well-dressed guys. I was certainly impressed by all of them.

 

It wasn't the nicest of days, so, with Stasia on vacation, we opted to visit the Wheeler Library in town for a program put on Brian Kleinman, the head of Riverside Reptiles. Brian is incredibly knowledgeable about snakes and lizards, and he also brought along a Tiger Salamander, which everyone in the large crowd got to pet. Stasia was fascinated by the colorful amphibian, which was larger and quite different from the local Spotted Salamanders that she's used to around here. Still, when her turn came, she wasn't quite certain she wanted to actually touch the beast. In the end, curiosity overcame nervousness. The Tiger seemed to be enjoying all the attention.

If there is a prettier bird than the Cedar Waxwing in our neighborhood, I don't know what it is. And in terms of avian harbingers, well, there's no feathered critter more welcome. The Waxwings, which get their common name from the red-orange waxy projections that adorn the edges of their secondary wing feathers—alas, not visible here—are not true migrators, so my joy in seeing them has nothing to do with spotting a returnee. It has more to do with a certain way the birds have of marking time: when we spot Cedar Waxwings in our holly trees, it means that the berries have been softened and sweetened by nearly an entire winter of chilly temperatures and it's almost time for spring. There was a small flock of the gorgeous birds, perhaps a half-dozen strong in all, in temporary residence for as long as it'll take to strip the branches bare. If experience serves, it won't take the Cedar Waxwings long to fill up, so I have to work fast to capture their images. I'm guessing that by tomorrow, they'll have moved on to redder berry "pastures."

Maybe spring will come after all. For the first time in about a week, the temperature shows signs of heading over the freezing mark. In response, the snow is starting to soften—maybe the hard crust will even be skiable—and gradually, very gradually, begin disappearing. Even first thing in the morning, there's a little fog, an indication of moderation. Normally, at this time of year, I'm a touch blue, as I realize that my beloved winter weather is on the verge of leaving the ridge; this year, however, I'm more inclined to say—and I'm horrified here, but it's true—good riddance. We've had scant winter weather to be beloved about, so let's get on with the impending spring. Here's hoping that the snow-devouring fog has a good appetite.

As a naturalist and photographer, one of my favorite late-winter sports is searching for signs of the upcoming growing season. Most of these are pretty subtle: new growth among plants, the first flowers, plumage changes among birds, the arrival of early migrants, and the debut of bird calls, among others. But then there are the larger, more undeniable signs that nature, be it "natural" or human, is getting ready to get things going. Here's proof of the latter—the late-winter ritual that the local diary farmers engage in to clean out the cow-waste pools in the barns and fertilize the fields. You can always tell this is going on—the odor is, well, pungent—and if you happen to be on a walk in the right area, well, the manure spreaders tell the malodorous tale.

The winter that essentially never got going has finally camped out on the ridge. There are only two weeks left to go, alas, and the cold and snow could depart as fast and as unexpectedly as it descended. The morning temperatures have been in the single digits, and the shallower ponds are beautifully iced over and frozen thick enough to skate on. Natural ice good for gliding across is the rarest of the rare around here, and when it happens, more than a few people know how to take advantage of it. I never did get skates this winter, but I was happy that I could walk by some overjoyed gliders and capture their fun.

It's turned sharply colder, but it's also the start of duck courtship season, so, in the still un-refrozen stretches of the local rivers, splendid Hooded Merganser males are fanning their head crests in the hope of attracting the attention of the less-gaudy females. This pair, however, has what looks to be a chaperone to keep amour from getting out of hand. Strangely enough, the watcher is a member of a different species known as the Common Merganser, or, to use their more-English name, the Goosander. It's probably just coincidence that the three birds are together. I don't know what would happen if things got randy.

The ice is returning to the ponds and the Canada Geese are not happy. The areas in which they can float serenely and securely are rapidly diminishing and the birds are growing more and more antsy... settling in on what little water remains ice-free and then, seemingly without rhyme or reason, raising a racket then taking off to fly back to the corn fields. While airborne they often look like they're involved in a giant avian ballet. I don't know the steps, the choreographer, or the point. The geese, however, seem to know exactly what's on the score. The result is wonderfully entertaining.

One of the drawbacks of this mostly snowless winter is that I haven't had a chance to hone my tracking skills, which, I have to admit, could really use an abundance of practice, practice, practice. And, though this was something of a surprise, there haven't been many tracks to read in the recent snows. Overnight, however, somebody ventured forth on the millpond ice and left a passage record that I noticed on today's cardiac trek. Alas, I couldn't get close enough to give the trackway a close read, but from the size and configuration of the frozen footprints, I'm guessing that the walker was a beaver. I'm still befuddled by the lack of a trail-drag mark, so I can't be certain. As to the identity of the other, smaller set of tracks, the fact that those also end at that little hole in the ice has me leaning towards one of our local minks. I sure wish the ice was thick enough to support a more direct inquiry, but attempting to take that route would land me in cold, cold water. I'll have to content myself with a best guess.

When the snow finally started late last night—it arrived half-a-dozen hours past the forecasted debut—I had high hopes that maybe we were in for something special. Sigh: the storm followed the pattern set by the last one and, after it had dumped about four inches on the ground, turned to rain and crafted a slushy mess. I might get in some skiing, but I sure won't be tempted to sit on the lawn benches and read or engage anyone in talking about the weather.

Just when it was beginning to look like this was going to be a truly snowless winter, March arrived and, with it, the March storms we've come to know and love... well, some of us feel love. The past storm, however, was really nothing much—a period of heavy white stuff followed by rain and relative warmth, so the blanket is pretty meager, even threadbare in places. The Winter Aconites, which had just started to think about blooming, took advantage of the rents in the fabric and, in all honesty, wouldn't have minded in the least had we been hit by bona fide blizzards. They're tough little plants that have evolved "the right stuff" to take the insults in stride. Snow is no problem. They'll simply wait it out.

Finally, finally, finally... snow deep enough to actually do something wintry on! The overnight storm would have been, in what used to be a normal winter, completely unmemorable, but this strange, strange season has been almost completely snowless, so if this is going to be it, Stasia and I will take it... and run, well, snowshoe, with it. To be sure, there was barely enough to actually use the shoes on—at most, we had three slushy inches covering the ground—but we didn't stand on ceremony and charged into the woods towards the Noah-sized stream. There, we looked for animal tracks. Surprisingly, we didn't find any, which probably meant that the local critters were so surprised by the white stuff that they all stayed home. With no grist for the "who passed by?" mill, my granddaughter and I snowshoed home. Stasia wasn't ready for cozy up to the woodstove and wanted to make a stop by our swings. She didn't even need to take off the red shoes to soar.

There just wasn't an awful lot going on today, which was consumed by a very busy end of the week work wrap-up. Sometimes it's just like that: not much new to discover and document, and precious little time to venture farther and longer afield in search of incognita. About the only bit of the unusual to report was the forecast, which actually called for genuine winter weather to arrive overnight. As I headed out under bright sun but chilly temperatures on yet another fast-paced cardio trek, I wasn't sure I believed the prognostication. When I stopped briefly at the local waterfowl hang-out to scan the populace, a very friendly young Holstein came close and eyed me. I'm not sure what the milker-to-be had in mind, but when it came to the forecast, I suspect my inquisitor  didn't want to believe the seers either.

It's chilly, but not chilly enough to stop my long walks, and definitely not freezing enough to stop the flow of the waterfalls I hike by. When I'm on the cardiac rehab trail—I guess I'm always on the cardiac rehab trail—I carry my ancient Fuji S5200, an all-in-one "supertelephoto" equipped with what was then, in 2006, a spectacularly long lens, a 10X with a 38 to 380mm, 35mm equivalent range. Now, of course, you can pick up an all-in-one that covers an astounding 24 to 2000mm range, but such a behemoth is heavy and expensive. The old Fuji is light and, surprisingly, still perfectly usable, despite its 13 years of steady service. This means I can stow it in my backpack, along with a new pair of very small Fuji binoculars, and, when I feel it's OK to stop my cardiac pursuits, capture images, such as this water still in motion.

The "girls"—I think they're all females, although I'm not a good enough waterfowler to be able to rule out immature males in the quartet— arrived at the farm pond today to join the definitive Hooded Merganser males that are already patrolling the waters. While the mature guys are certainly stiking, with their signature white crests, the females have their own beauty, albeit more subtle. What's fun and, I think, quite pretty, is the chestnut head crest the girls sport, a crest that can be opened and closed in all sorts of configurations. A couple of the ladies have adopted the punk look, and all without the need for mousse. Perhaps the style is designed to send a come-on message to the males. Perhaps the head spike carries the opposite message: I'm one tough bird... keep your distance.

It doesn't take long. As I noted yesterday, Winter Aconite is always in a hurry, and a mere day after I spotted the first Eranthis hyemalis leaves emerging from a patch of unfrozen ground, the first flower bud appeared. It was a study in yellow—the warmth of the sun captured at soil level. I fear we're not going to get many more Aconite blossoms any time soon, since the forecast calls for increased cold and maybe some actual snow. But regardless of the weather, the hardy and early plants will do fine, even in the teeth of a blizzard and a stretch of frigid temperatures. No species that tries to come to life in late February is anything less than tough; natural selection would certainly select against it.

First, it was the crocus shoots. Today, with the temperature still staying on the relatively warm side... well, for February... I went combing the ground for other signs of botanical life, and in the semi-wild garden area between the trio of interconnected Beech trees and the house, I hit what I guess you could call pay-dirt. This area is replete with treasures we've either planted or just nurtured when they appeared out of nowhere, and the earliest of the bunch is invariably a European native called Winter Aconite. Its scientific name is Eranthis hyemalis: the genus designation means "spring flowering," while the species name translates as "winter blooming," so, taken together, you have a diminutive plant that often kicks off the blossoming season. Once the leaves appear, the delightful yellow blooms won't be far behind. Who knows? Maybe we'll have flowers tomorrow!

With the crocus shoots up—no bud blossoms yet... and no sign of hungry deer—my attention has turned groundward, so I'm spotting things I would have otherwise missed. Case in point: these oak-leaf galls that have clearly hatched and given rise to a new generation of gall-makers. I don't know precisely what manner of invertebrate made them by irritating the leaf tissue then laying an egg in the resulting tumor—the gall is essentially a stocked refrigerator for an invert kid—but the culprit is often a kind of tiny wasp. (It could also be a beetle, butterfly, aphid, thrips, fly, or mite.) No doubt, if I continue to look, I'll find other galls, and equally no doubt, there'll be more gall-makers at work once the growing season gets underway.

Winter is backing off and during this stretch of relatively warm weather, I've been getting closer to the ground and searching for signs of green. Many years of doing this have brought both cold-chilled knees and an abundance of journal entries that have become predictive tools. I may not know precisely when I'll spot botanical gold, but I have a very good notion of where the first shoots will appear and an approximation of when. Today, just in front of the Boxwood at the southwest corner of the house, I noticed a small group of tight leaves emerging from the ground. The crocuses have begun growing and, if the weather continues to cooperate, the foliage will soon be holding flower buds. Last year, when this happened on the 21st of February, the blooms-to-be buoyed our spirits and, alas, beckoned to the local deer. Before we could delight in flowers, the hungry White-tails gorged on greenery and blossom buds. We'll just have to see if history repeats itself—and which of the local vertebrates gets to savor the first crocuses.

One of the genuine joys of my life is the simple fact that there's always something new to discover. So it was that when this beetle larva tumbled out of a piece of wood I was splitting—the fact that I've recently been able to split wood in small quantities is another joy—I almost instantly rejoiced at my ignorance. As I looked at the spotted creature and those long hairs, I knew I was in for an intellectual adventure. After a few hours of looking through obvious reference books and websites, both at home and on the web, I'm still adventuring. Eventually, I'll figure it out, but for now, the search is my idea of brain nourishment. I put the young beetle back in the wood pile so it could continue its own form of nourishment.

Professional and personal busy-ness—business—kept me confined to indoor quarters all day, but I got out in the evening and documented... well, what? If this was a night scene from July or thereabouts, you might mistake it for one of those splendid, long-exposure shots of fireflies working the evening, and I would then be moved to issue a thank-you to Lynn Frierson Faust and Sara Lewis for their splendid books that helped me learn lightning bug biology and identification. But it's the cold season and the only Lampyrid Beetles I've spotted are the dark ones, the Winter Fireflies, that have lost their lamps over evolutionary time. So, no lightning. Instead, I'll tell you: this is the dance of a group of illuminated fairies in my granddaughter's elementary school version of Peter Pan. Stasia was too young to be involved, but she was mesmerized by the "ballet." Maybe next production she'll be dancing.

The Canada Geese are starting to gather into huge flocks by the farm pond and the surrounding silage corn neighborhood, and they're getting antsy, settling for a time, then taking off to fly a short distance, then settling, then flying. In the past, that would presage one thing: heading north to the nurseries. You'd know this was about to happen when the first Vees of excited birds appeared in the sky and the migration was on. To be sure, some of our Canadas make that flight along ancient routes, but these days, most of the geese around here are stay-at-homes and don't bother traveling. And, in truth, why should they? Everyone knows what a hassle a long-distance flight can be... and how risky. Evolution has its dictates, but the fact that conditions here have long proven just fine for raising the kidlets has pushed natural selection in a different direction. The Canadas still are moved to make themselves flight-ready in late-February, but when the time comes and they hear their fellow geese winging north, our birds opt for the stars and stripes instead of the maple leaf.

There's an eternal and timeless ritual that I indulge in throughout the winter, and on this sunny and not-quite-freezing day, I was at it again. The endeavor, of course, is the endless quest for firewood, and, because our town is blessed with lots of trees and tree-managers, especially from the power company and the highway department, whose charge is to prevent hardwoods and softwoods from taking out the electric lines and roads, respectively, there's often a lot of wood on the rights-of-way. I've never checked the legalities, but I know that according to local custom, that wood is there for the taking. I'm definitely one of the takers, so, at a new cutting site, I loaded up the truck with anything I could lift. While I was "working," a duck landed in a tree to watch my toil... OK, it is a genuine rubber duck. I'm told it was put there by one of the work crews to mark progress... or, perhaps, to bring smiles to onlookers.

I heard the first "oonk-a-ree" calls of the newly returned Red-winged Blackbirds today as I paused on my cardiac-rehab-prevent-death forced march to briefly scan the farm-edge marsh for signs of resurgent life. From the raucous songs, there had to be several males setting up territories, but try as I might, I couldn't spot any of the distinctive dark-birds-with-signature-red-wing-patches. Then I got lucky. Sort of. At the back edge of the marsh, I noticed something take flight, and though the shadow was truly beyond the autofocus abilities of both the Sigma 100-400mm supertelephoto and its handler, I did manage to get an image with what appeared to be details beyond complete black. When I got home and ran the shot through my digital photo enhancement tool kit, I noticed the giveaway field mark that gives the bird its common name. So let the migration show begin... and may the Red-wings come closer next time.

I've been meaning to stop by the highway and get a picture of this nameless—as near as I can determine—seasonal waterfall for several months... well, probably a couple of years... but for various reasons to do with speed, wrong light, and too much traffic, to name a few impediments, I just haven't completed the photographic task. But I had some time this morning and the sun was in the right place, so, with the traffic light enough to risk it, I pulled way off the side of the busy state road, put my wide-ish angle 35mm lens on the dSLR and bushwhacked my way to the cataract, which drops perhaps 30 feet before it gathers its falling waters into a small stream that quickly flows into the Pawcatuck River. The hike in is not easy and the overgrowth could definitely use some pruning work, to say the least. But I eventually found a fairly open spot and my "model" proved splendidly cooperative.

On the drive back from a blood test early this morning, I stopped to down a breakfast bar while I scanned the still waters above a local dam for ducks. The waterfowl didn't disappoint and, in short order, I was watching either a female or immature male Goosander—I'm not good enough to separate the two possibilities—kick off the fishing season. Of course, this is a silly notion: mergansers don't have a fishing season... they're always angling for dinner. And this one, right before my eyes, was angling well. Maybe, too well. I thought it had snagged a large perch, but the more I looked, the less sure I was of the prey's identity. It might have been a species of sunfish, but whatever the Goosander had caught, the bird was having trouble swallowing its meal. The bird's serrated beak was no help: those "teeth" are for holding prey, not chewing it. So, persistently, the duck tried to position the uncooperative fish every which way to get it down the proverbial hatch. I never did see it disappear, but I noticed a bulge in the Goosander's neck. Success or not, the duck was soon diving again in the shallows—the eternal angler.

There's a February tradition on my ridge: comb the woods and fields, to say nothing of the gardens, to try and find the first obvious flower of the incipient growing season. To be sure, it's typically the heat-making blossoms of the Skunk Cabbage, but those blooms are largely hidden from view and only reveal their activity by melting the surrounding snow. Far more obvious are the curious flowers of the Witch Hazel, the native variety of which is the omega bloom, the last tree and shrub flower of autumn. In the Ozarks and the Orient, however, there are Hamamelis species that blossom as early as late winter, and plant wizards have hybridized these to produce garden glories that banish the February blues. Our shrub decided that it was warm enough to put on a debut performance in the windy sunshine. Now, the tradition is to delight in the blossoms and watch for the first pollinators to arrive.

It is, of course, Valentine's Day, and in searching the natural world for suitable, and safe-for-work viewing, examples of Lupercalia, I knew I was going to be hard-pressed to locate much. It's a little too early for the animal mating season, and though a few birds have, as noted earlier, begun to pair, most critters are too busy trying to stay warm than to think about, well, another kind of warmth. However, the not-quite-green segment of the natural world came to my rescue when I spotted these two trees—they appear to be an oak and a birch—coming together in a way that exemplifies, to me, anyway, a species of transcendent harmony. Botanists even have a word for this: inosculation. It's a kind of grafting behavior, and you see it most often when branches of the same tree come together and, over time, fuse. It also occurs among neighboring trees, and, once conjoined, these are referred to by foresters as gemels, which is Latin for pair. They're also called "husband and wife" trees—a perfect symbol for the 14th.

It was one of those grim early mornings, with the temperature heading towards 50, the mist devouring what little snow fell earlier, and this naturalist wondering if I was ever going to get any time on snowshoes or cross-country skis this so-called-winter. Instead of deploying those treasured conveyances, I opted for waterproof, more or less, boots, and trekked early into the Bell Cedar preserve close to home to savor the refuge as I'd come to know it over the years. I can't be certain of when the change will come, but sometime in the foreseeable future, a wooded stretch of about eight acres is going to be cleared to provide suitable habitat for the endangered New England Cottontail rabbit, our native species brought low by habitat destruction and being out-competed by the introduced Cottontail. I know the management project is a good idea and a boon for biological diversity, but clearcuts are horribly ugly and I'll miss the peace of these woods. I'm enjoying them while they're still here.

Many, many years ago, when I was something of a wedding photographer, one of the most fraught moments of the day was the moment when the happy couple fed the first slices of cake to each other. You could almost tell how the marriage would go by how the feeding transpired. If it was tender and gentle, there was hope that the union might last; if it was rough and unpleasant—I've seen couples literally try to shove cake down each other's throats—I often thought about including the name of a good divorce attorney in my invoice. Well, during today's mini-snowstorm, I watched the natural world's cake-feeding ritual equivalent as a male Cardinal fed sunflower seeds to his presumptive mate. He did an exemplary job, and, in celebration of both the snow and, I suppose, the eventual mother of his kids, the nuptial gifts were presented with grace and care. It was a pleasure to watch and photograph.

During one of the earlier stretches of time when my granddaughter Stasia lived with us, she fell in love, as did most young girls, with the Disney movie Frozen. So did I, and while she, at nearly nine, is no longer singing "Let It Go" incessantly, she remains, as she says about lots of things, "good with it"—which is good for me, since I don't have to hide the sheer joy I feel whenever I think about the classic retelling of The Snow Queen. I especially loved young Queen Elsa's wrestling with her icy abilities, and when the sharp cold returned and transformed the sodden landscape, it almost looked as if the conflicted Queen had passed through our area in a definite fit of pique. No sooner had the absolutely saturated mosses given up their moisture than the water froze into icicles, some of them more than a foot long. Stasia, who was snoozing at the time, would have enjoyed the show.

Whenever I'm hiking in the woods, I'm always on the lookout for giant boulders sitting by themselves and looking quite out of place. This is no illusion: the boulders are often significantly different in composition than the local geological citizenry, and this difference is a reflection of the origins of the rock interlopers. These hunks of stone may have been carried here then left behind by glaciers, and sometimes the journey of the so-called "glacial erratics" can be measured in hundreds of miles. This one could have been plucked off a ravine face in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and while I don't know its true former residence, I'm sure that it's not from around here. It's fun to point this out to people, but sometimes the statement gets surprisingly garbled, as during one trek I led in which I told the group about the erratic, only to have one of the kids with us tell his friend about seeing "glacial erotics." That would be an interesting, although probably very slow, movie.

Against what should have been my better judgement, I decided to join a group of die-hard hikers on a trek of the blue trail—the one designated as "most difficult"—that circumnavigated the rugged terrain of Avalonia's TriTown preserve. I'd actually hiked most of this pathway before, but when I made the walk, it was at my own pace. This morning, the group was moving much faster than I was used to, and it was cold and windy, so it didn't take too long to realize that I was overmatched. Still, it was worth the effort to stand atop the height of land and look down at a group of "alpine" vernal pools that had to harbor really interesting critters. There was nothing stirring under the clear and newly formed ice, and, truth be told, I was in real danger of not stirring anymore myself. So, judiciously, I put the vernals on my must-sample-later list, and, since I would have gravity and the wind direction on my side, I opted to head back along the same route.

One of the first ducks to return to our ponds is a stunning bird known in Britain as the Goosander. To scientists, Mergus merganser is a diving bird a serrated beak designed to snag fish; to the Brits, the common name of this European and North American native—in our country, the duck is usually referred to as the Common Merganser—is derived, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, from the male bird's resemblance to the feathering of a cross between a Goose and a "shelduck," which is called, in one dialect, the bergander. It's a stretch, perhaps, but so it has been, sayeth the OED, since the early 17th century. Whatever the origin, what always attracts me to the Goosander, besides the simple fact that both males (on the right) and females are simply striking, is the fact that they're also harbingers. Their appearance today, however, is unprecedented; I've never seen them here so early. Typically, they arrive towards the end of the month, when the ice is finally on the way out. That was true today... and here they are.

By traditional, just about all the water should be frozen and any moisture falling from the sky is supposed to be of the white variety. This winter, of course, you can throw tradition out the window. The Thaw continues and most of today was rainy. I had a lot of writing work, so I wasn't able to hit the trail, but towards dusk, I had to go into town for an Avalonia meeting and before I went inside, I stopped by a stream that courses through the center of town and just enjoyed watching it move. I also, of course, delighted in capturing the creek's movement, which was high-speed in the wake of the downpours.

The warmth continues, and in a stretch of open water in the neighborhood farm pond, a group of Mallards, the males in high fashion breeding plumage, were showing off, both to intimidate and best rivals and to wow potential mates. These are certainly pretty ducks, but they're so common that I rarely pay much attention to them, save for one thing: I scan every group in the hope that I'll spot something unusual, a newly returned migratory species in particular. It's early, but I was hoping to see a Pintail or two. No luck, so far, and as I moved closer to examine the flock, the ducks said, "Enough"—and spooked. The result was, in any event, interesting, as the birds launched themselves out of the water.

I tend to think of moths as warm-weather friends, but the truth is definitely otherwise. Some incredibly hardy moths not only like it cool, they like it cold and have adaptations that enable them to be active on just about any winter night that the temperature is above freezing. Since that has been the case recently, what with the February Thaw in residence, I expected a visit from these well-insulated Owlets Moths and, sure enough, the kitchen porch lights proved an irresistible lure. I'm not sure which species this is—I'll let you know when, and if, I come up with an ID—but I know that the group of insects that biologist Bernd Heinrich, our modern Thoreau, dubbed "hot-blooded moths" on account of their magical ability to raise and regulate their body temperature, are finding these chilly nights perfect flying weather.

The February Thaw—more or less an extension of the January one—continues to increase in strength, with temperatures in the mid-to-upper 50s and my legs itching to trek some miles. I decided to do a five-miler, but before I got into high gear and needed to avoid stopping in order to fulfill my cardiac conditioning mandate, I wanted to pause briefly by the millpond and document the impact the warmth was having on the ice. The surface of Lower Spalding Pond was still frozen, but while it was smooth and glassy a few days ago, it's now full of meltwater puddles that are acting like mirrors. I don't think the ice would hold me and if this continues, we'll soon have stretches of open water. Then, it'll be time to look for ducks.

It's definitely getting warmer, with temps nearing 50 and the walking actually pleasant. On the road, I stopped for a minute to check out a stretch of woodland for, well, anything living, and while I scanned the leaf litter, I noticed something very white. From a distance, it almost looked fungal, but when I got closer, it was clearly an oval of whitish fur. The back side was brown, so that combination helped to whittle down the possibilities. It was smaller than my fist, so it almost definitely not a White-tailed Deer tail, and since it was essentially round, the shape ruled out a squirrel tail. That left the Cottontail posterior of a local rabbit, which, for now, is the identity I'm going with of the anatomy left behind. There have been more and more Eastern Cottontails out and about these days, particularly as the light grows stronger and longer and the temperature rises, but I have no doubt whatsoever that my discovery signified a "tale" that didn't end well for the bunny.

Despite the fact that it was only six degrees above zero F. on Gobbler's Knob in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, Phil the Groundhog DID NOT see his shadow and, therefore, predicted an early spring. A remarkable warming trend in the near-term forecast would seem to suggest that Phil's no fool, and to put an exclamation point on that prognostication, a dark shape flew right overhead when I went outside into relative warmth to fetch wood, and when the falcon-like bird landed in nearby trees, its shriek and the banding of its tail were the characteristic field marks of a Red-shouldered Hawk, a raptor than shouldn't be returning "home" for at least several more weeks. If the RSH is indeed here to stay, it would be record-early... and another reason for Phil to take bragging rights back to his burrow.

At our local school, every day this week has had a theme and the kids dressed accordingly. There's been a rock star day, a twin day, and an old geezer day—my granddaughter thought about dressing like me, which is to say in jeans and a white tee-shirt, but she opted instead for a granny dress and faux gray hair. Today, however, was my favorite: Hippy Day! Stasia had an appropriate Earth Mother dress—natural fibers, of course—and as we watched the natural world unfold as we waited for the bus, the future Flower Child pulled on the piece de resistance. "If you're goin' to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair" goes the classic song. Stasia's just going to school, but she wore flowers anyway.

There's something about the light at the end of January that says, well, it doesn't say winter is over. Not by a long shot. February, our traditional heavy-snow month, is about to arrive, and I'm sure we'll have a nor'easter or two to deal with before long. But while we might be in the very heart of the bleak mid-winter, it's undeniably lighter for longer and longer and the sun sometimes has a little oomph and color. I'm not delusional, of course, but if I were in the throes of Seasonal Affective Disorder, as the Winter Blues is formally known, my spirits would definitely receive a boost from the sight of this wreath, actually warmed by our star.

Last winter I put up the new tube feeder that my son have given me, and no sooner did it start to attract birds than it also proved a magnet for squirrels. These rodents are, I have to admit, attractive and fun to watch. But they're also nuisances and scare away the birds I'm trying to help, so this year, I didn't put up a feeder until quite late, and when I did, I chose a supposedly "squirrel-proof" model. To it, I also added an anti-squirrel collar that seems to have done the trick of keeping the rodents at bay. They are, however, always on the lookout for an opening, and when that hasn't appeared, they're not above sniffing the air and dashing over to the feeder to scarf up on seed that somehow landed on the ground. Sciurus carolinensis is never too proud to accept a handout.

One of the great truths of the playground... and sometimes of the natural world... is that if you stand up to bullies, they typically back down. This happened to me in the sixth grade, when I stood my ground against a nemesis, and history seems to be repeating itself at the suet feeder. Our recent guest, a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, has been making life miserable for the woodpecker's smaller relatives and simply keeping them for getting a mouthful of necessary fat. But recently, a Red-bellied Woodpecker—typically a common bird around here but pretty scarce this winter—appeared at the suet and when the YBS tried to play the spoiler, the Red-bellied essentially said, Get lost... or something similar in bird parlance. The sapsucker somehow knew it had been trumped and went into deferential mode.

The warm, January Thaw weather we've been enjoyed is about to undergo a reality check, but while the temperatures remain, well, temperate, I've been outside at night... just checking. Too early, to be sure, for the quacks of Wood Frogs and the bell-ringing of Spring Peepers... heck, way too early to be thinking of spring. Still, some of the hardier insects have an apparent case of spring fever. Here's a small fly I spotted on the railings of the compost heap container this evening, and even though the mercury was in the chilly, upper-30s range, the dipteran was having no trouble whatsoever moving around. Would that the insect moved around on the appropriate identification page. I don't know which taxonomic basket this invertebrate belongs in, but I'm sure to have some additional long winter nights to try to solve the mystery.

The Northern Flicker that made a surprise visit last week—I don't usually see these striking members of the Woodpecker family until the spring—is back. Well, I can't be sure it's the same individual, but it's definitely a male of the same species. This time, however, the bird is behaving in a fashion more typical of its kind. The Flicker is definitely a Picid, but it generally doesn't indulge in wood boring. Instead, the handsome creature uses its unusually long bill to "hammer" the ground in search of its go-to food: ants that nest in the ground. This dietary preference makes it similar to the Pileated, which is forever making wood chips in search of the Carpenter Ant nests in the hearts of hardwood trees. The Flicker, by contrast, goes subterranean. I wonder whether it "sees" something tantalizing under the leaf litter.

At this quiet time of the year, fresh signs of new life are few and far between. The buds are tight, no early flowers would dare emerge into what is surely temporary warmth, and only the hardiest of insects are moving about. But the days are definitely growing steadily, albeit slowly, longer, and under the swift-moving waters of the Green Falls River, there's a stirring as some of the larvae of the Winter Stoneflies are making the transition from youth to adulthood. On my January walks, I often pause at the river bridge and check the warmish steel railings for any newly emerged, smoky-winged adults prowling the metal in search of mates and, perhaps, meals. (Many plecopteran grown-ups don't eat at all and simply spend their brief time out of the water attempting to create the next aquatic generation.) This Winter Stonefly, which was barely as long as the width of my little finger's nail, didn't even require a discovery trek. The insect appeared, unbidden, at the kitchen porch light, and stayed long enough for a portrait—and to make me amazed. The nearest stream is at least 100 yards away, which is a prodigious flight for a tiny harbinger.

In a typical late-January, the surface of the Pawcatuck River in the slower spots upstream from the Potter Hill Dam would be frozen solid, and while it rarely sports ice thick enough to walk on... unless you're a mink on the prowl... the water should, at this time, have changed its free-flowing status. Not so. The calendar may tell us that we're very close to the heart of the "bleak midwinter," to quote a line from the famous Christina Rossetti poem and carol, but the local waters are definitely not "like a stone." Maybe that'll happen... maybe not. On this warm day, with the temps in the low 50s, the river, the sun, the shadows, and a gentle breeze have all conspired to craft a beautiful backlit scene. I'm savoring the gift and trying to make it last.

The cold has moderated enough so that we're probably entitled to call the "heat" wave—it's in the 40s, even after dark—a bona fide January Thaw. The hallowed and much-anticipated break in true winter weather won't last, although this relatively mild January has me wondering whether it'll ever stay frigid for long, but however many days and nights we get a reprieve, humans are not the only species taking advantage of the meteorological gift. I was curious to see who might be attracted, on such a "warm" night, to the kitchen porch lights, and I instantly noticed a large dark and very slow-moving shape on the shingles near an old thermometer. This queen Paper Wasp—only the queens live through the winter—was out of her hiding place to taste the air and, perhaps, try to snag an even-slower-moving snack or two.

All birds have personality, but if I had to choose one that defined the term "charm," I think I'd have to nominate the Brown Creeper for that designation. I'm pretty sure that, every winter, there are always a handful of creepers on the ridge, but the tiny songbirds, which the National Audubon Society field guide characterized as "looking like a piece of bark come to life," are an uncommon sight. This is probably due to the natural camouflage, as well as to the bird's feeding habits of sticking close to the tree trunks and quietly using its sickle-shaped thin beak to glean any insects and spiders slumbering in what they figured was the safety afforded by bark crevices. Under normal circumstances, this is a good assumption... but not when a Brown Creeper is in the neighborhood and on the eternal hunt for invertebrate sustenance.

I'd seen a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker at the suet feeder at the very end of last year, but while I was trying to figure out if it was a late migrant or an early arrival, either of which would be noteworthy, the intriguing bird with the ridiculous name took its last gobble of fat and departed for who knows where. I'd gotten exceedingly brief looks from time to time, but the YBS never stayed for long, certainly not long enough for a picture. Today, on this definitely chilly morning, our "friend" decided to return and stoke its internal stove with our suet offering. I think he came alone, and he would appear to be a yearling. He's definitely scruffy, with his down feathers erected against the cold, and he's something of a bully. When he's eating, none of the other birds dare zip in for a mouthful of fat. He didn't seem inclined to yield ground to me, either, and refused to budge, giving me the intimidating glare while I was only four feet away.

Beginning around 11 yesterday evening, the full Wolf Moon, a "supermoon," incidentally, entered the Earth's shadow and, under perfectly clear skies, proceed on a post-midnight journey towards a total eclipse. I was hoping to take lots of photos and then composite them into one of those classic shots, but in the wake of a truly vicious cold front and powerful gale, I not only couldn't get my camera gear to function well, I couldn't get my body to perform in the frigid air. I came close to frostbite in my cheeks and fingers and, not long after the witching hour when the moon was completely eclipsed and in that glorious "blood" phase, I had to call it an experience. I did get one undistinguished copper-colored image, but when I tried to composite the collection into faux time-lapse, I somehow couldn't figure out the proper procedure. Here's the best I could do: not what I'd had in mind but a good memory of an amazing event.

The light snow last night had turned to almost monsoonal rain this morning, and it was ridiculously warm, well into the 50s. Walking was unlikely, so instead, I watched birds through the kitchen windows. Mostly, I spotted the usual cast of characters gleaning seed and scarfing down suet, but we had one visitor that really caught my attention... and made me race to the camera bag to quickly put on the supertelephoto. I hadn't expected that the mystery bird, which was some kind of very long-billed woodpecker, would remain in place, but when I got back into viewing position and aimed the dSLR at the critter, it stood still. Maybe it even posed. Or, more likely, it was just too wet and chilly to move very fast. In either case, I quickly realized that I had zeroed in on a Northern Flicker, an uncommoner, particularly during the winter months, that spends more time on the ground than in the trees. The Flicker often probes the soft earth for food items, particularly soil-nesting ants and their larvae, so while the adaptable bird can also subsist on seeds and fruit, Colaptes auratus tends to head to the less-frosty south for the worst part of the northeastern winter. We're still waiting for genuine cold-times weather; the Flicker is, for the moment, staying put.

Sometimes, a not very good photograph can serve a very useful purpose, and so it is with this shot of a Hairy Woodpecker. The bird was on the ground taking advantage, along with more than a dozen members of a mixed flock that included House Finches, Juncos, Titmice, and Chickadees, of some mixed seed I'd placed under the sunflower feeder, and my avian freeloaders were packing in the calories in advance of what might be a serious winter storm. The possible outcome foretold by the Weather Channel was growing increasingly dire throughout the morning, but by afternoon, there was doubt in the air. Maybe Winter Storm Harper would bring us a lot of snow, or, the Hairy Woodpecker seemed to be saying, maybe I disagree. By later in the day, the meteorological seers seemed to be adopting the bird's viewpoint and forecasting yet another downpour-and-wind event.

A species of winter cold is taking over, and with pretty chilly air—normal, historically, but a bracing surprise these days, given how warm it's been—in place, all the water held in the soil is beginning to freeze. Mostly, it feels like the spongy earth is hardening into a kind of once-living concrete, but here and there, the still-above-freezing ground is putting forth a "bloom" of stunning crystals into the below-freezing air hovering at the soil's surface. The crystals are known as "needle ice," and they require just the right mixture of temperature and water conditions. Last night was perfect for their formation, and this morning, we have a fine crop of dirt-stained "stalagmites" that are also descriptively called frost pillars and comb ice. My own favorite is to refer to the crystals as ice fangs, which is wonderfully memorable.

The forecast gets more dire, which probably means we'll get very little in the way of snow. But I'm not taking any chances, so it's cut and haul, cut and haul. However, as I noted yesterday, being out in the woods means that I'm also able to be observant, and that's when I noticed what appears to be a scar across the bark of an oak. I've seen this elsewhere, and sometimes, you can see the sharp wire, typically barbed, that used the tree for support over the years. Other times, the wire's long gone, either decayed by the weather or, interestingly, "swallowed" by the bark and incorporated into the substance of the tree. For a while, the encounter leaves a visible scar. I'm guessing that the tree will forever gets its dietary requirement of iron.

The weather's turning colder, and there's even a possibility of significant snow in a few days. With that, I'm in high gear bringing in all the wood I've cut recently, but, from time to time, I take a break, even with my arms fully laden, to zero in on the forest floor for signs of life... and preparation for the storm. At the base of dead tree, I spotted, surrounding a hole leading underground, a ring of ice crystals. Were there snow at the "front door" there would also, I'm certain, be foot prints—a tale of the coming and going of mice. The little rodents are, no doubt, holed up underneath this stump. The frozen breath gives them away... to me, at least. With any luck, they'll otherwise go unnoticed by potential predators.

 

C

Common Polypody, also known as Rockcap Fern and Rock Polypody, is a diminutive charmer that is more or less evergreen and, hence, a target of interest on just about every walk I take. As you can guess from a couple of its common names, Polypodium virginianum likes to grow on the exceedingly thin layers of soil the fern finds on rocks, and it's frequently in the company of mosses and lichens, which inevitably get there first and create the meager earth that will support the plants. P. virginianum also has a seemingly magical ability: it can tell the temperature and serve as a natural thermometer. The colder the day, the more the Polypody curls its leaves. Botanists call this talent thermonasty, and it joins the Rhododendrons in this skillset. Today is relatively warm, so the fern leaves are fully open. Soon enough, they'll be thermonastic.

Where summer nature walks are exercises in trying to sort through chaos, winter treks are the polar opposite. There's simply very little that's obviously alive, and so you have to learn to zero in on the most minute of promising details. So it is that I'm forever combing over a nearby rock outcrop that, in truth, I should write a book about: there's that much to bear witness to and try to learn to the species level. I've bemoaned my repeated failures to learn, really learn, the lichens, but there are a few I've come to know, and this is one. Actually, it could turn out to be many. This is a Cladonia, a.k.a., a Trumpet Lichen, and, by the mealy looking surface of the trumpet and stem, I suspect it's Cladonia chlorophaea, the Mealy Pixie Cup. But C. chlorophaea is actually a group of at least a dozen "chemotypes"—chemically distinct varieties that may be individual species—so the taxonomic plot could thicken. I just may have to add a sophisticated chemistry set to my list of future purchases.

The Virginia Rockbreaker, a not quite accurate common name—it likes to grow on moss-covered rocks, but I've never seen this tough plant actually break stone—is one of our earliest spring wildflowers, and, no doubt, its pretty blossoms will be highlighted in this endeavor come April. But for now, in the chill of January, even a not-so-wintery January, Micranthes virginiensis doesn't have any thoughts of blooming from its central collection of flower buds. It's snoozing right now, its cold-tolerant evergreen leaves lording it over the mosses and playing, like most organisms these days, a waiting game.

There is painfully little going on in the natural world, as chillier weather and an inordinate amount of writing have descended. I'm hiking far fewer miles... OK, meters... than I'd like and, all too often, the only nature I'm able to document is that seen through the kitchen window, on the trek to the wood pile, and down the driveway to fetch the paper, the mail, and my granddaughter, delivered to the bus then retrieved nearly eight hours later. But "painfully little" does not mean nothing at all, and on the rocks and tree stumps, that symbiotic partnership of algae and fungi known as a lichen continues to flourish in the cold. The name of this foliose species is elusive—translation: I just don't know—but, as always, it's wonderful good fun leafing through the nearly 800 pages of The Lichens of North America on an identification hike.

Time has been at a premium this week, and the best I have been able to do is combine a quick cardiac rehab walk with a tiny number of stops for image making. Of course this is required to please my doctors, and I know that if I backslide and return to my anaerobic ways, I'll probably wind up back in cardiac intensity care. But it's another kind of pain I'm courting to be so divorced from chronicling the natural world, so I need to figure out how to make observations on the fly. Here's a start—a quick look at the retired grist mill that once used the pond's energy to power the grinding stones. I liked the light, and the weathered windows and barn board are, I would suggest, entirely natural.

One of the surest signs of a warmer-than-usual winter is the appearance of vast congregations of pinhead-sized "insects" on the kitchen porch railing both day and night. I put insects in quotes because these six-legged invertebrates are no longer considered to belong to that Class of creatures and may, depending on which expert you consult, be in a Class of their own. True, the Collembola, as these diminutive hexapods are known to systematists, have six legs, but, unlike insects, they have internal mouthparts and a spring-like mechanism tucked under their abdomens that enables them to leap great distances and spring out of harm's way, hence, their common name, "springtails." Collembola are exceedingly common in the leaf litter and soil, but they're most noticed when too much moisture pushes them upwards, sometimes on top of the snow or, in this case, to the top of the porch railing for a warmish weather get-together and jumping competition.

The weather is still warmer than usual, and the moths remain on the wing, at the back porch lights, and lining the hardwood trunks. When I spotted this resting lepidopteran, my first thought was that it was one of the hordes of Winter Moths that are currently thriving at this late date. But for some reason I looked a bit closer than would be typical for a Winter Moth and noticed those white marks on the outside edge of the front wings. Operophtera brumata, while similar in size and shape, doesn't bear these marks, but after quite a bit of searching, I found a species that does: Alsophila pometaria, the Fall Cankerworm. Both have those curiously flightless females, and the males of both species are also adept at following odor trails to find possible mates, who will lay eggs that are similar in one other important respect: the spring-hatching caterpillars can be major pests.

When one of my grandsons, who were also my trekking companions, encountered this lethal looking Greenbriar, what struck him as remarkable was not the thorns, which are truly formidable and are sharp enough to draw blood from either punctures or scratches... often both. Rather, the budding naturalist noticed that the plant seemed to be covered with metal "wires" and was quite unlike any greenery he'd ever seen, even, outside of video games, imagined. Simple explanation, I told him. The wires are actually hold-fasts that enabled the briar, which was, after all, a vine, to climb up unwitting hosts and move towards the light.

Despite the "bleak midwinter"—OK, actually, by the calendar, winter is still in its infancy—chill—2nd OK: by my records, it should be downright frigid, so chilly is truly a signature of global warming—there's life yet in these old igneous rocks that form the height of land at a new refuge in the Avalonia conservancy portfolio. There are crustose and foliose lichens clinging to and slowly dissolving the rock surfaces, and when they've succeeded in crafting the merest hint of soil, the mosses can take over and thrive. But these aren't very dramatic forms of life, so when my grandkids scanned the outcrop, they were drawn to the little cave in which, they speculated, might live... Well, what? I suggested a hibernating snake, but they had other, more imaginative ideas. They weren't, however, inclined to snake a hand into the darkness and see what might be pulled into the light.

I am not going to try to fool anybody: despite my best intentions to take and document a daily nature trek, there are stretches of time when, well, you know what the road to hell is paved with, right? That route is also paved with bad weather, and today was marked by yet more monsoons. No hiking... save for a mad dash through a downpour at the local Y's parking lot for an afternoon at the swimming pool and gym—picture-taking strictly prohibited. So what I present is a shot from my New Year's Day walk to Napatree and a trio of sea ducks an observer could spot most days throughout the winter. There are several species of Scoters along our coast. These are Surf Scoters, handsome birds whose males sport bold white patches on head and neck, along with a gaudy bill. With any luck, to say nothing of better weather and more time, I'll eventually be able to highlight the other two Scoters, the Black and the White-winged.

One of every naturalist's favorite winter activities, yours truly included, is to search the bleak and seemingly lifeless landscape for signs of an early return of the growing season. So we're out seeking such stalwarts as the first stoneflies, crane flies, snow fleas, hardy moths, and even hardier migrating birds. Maybe they're harbingers... maybe they're just gamblers with great and, more than occasionally, soon-to-be thwarted great expectations. One of the main players in this unfolding drama is that malodorous plant known as the Skunk Cabbage. Inside their little protective and, it turns out, well-insulated hoods that botanists call spathes are plant heating units that can bring the temperature to near 70 degrees and, quite amazing for a plant, keep it close to constant. But the heater isn't on yet, and probably won't be cranking for at least another month. For now, we're in waiting mode.

One of my favorite activities for the local conservation organizations I happily serve—besides leading nature walks—is to participate in biological surveys to catalog the flora and fauna of existing or proposed refuges. My newest "job" has been to document a preserve known as the Pequot Audubon Sanctuary that will soon become part of the Avalonia portfolio, and Pequot, it turned out, was a place I'd walked often, since it abutted my daughter and son-in-law's property. However, we didn't, my grandsons and I who frequented the land, mostly wetlands, know that it was actually a preserve and always feared we were trespassing... not that such fears stopped us. Now that we no longer have to worry about such things, I engaged my two younger grandsons, Ezra and Lucas, to lead me through the sanctuary—they were really the pros—to discover the terrain. One find was this pretty and mini waterfall that was created by a Birch root which snaked across a temporary and now exuberant stream.

If 2018 had a "greatest hits" list, the amazingly abundant amount of precipitation we "enjoyed" had to be right near the top. This was, as I lamented often in years past, in sharp contrast to earlier times, during which rain and snow was conspicuously absent and drought was too often our lot. The "d" word was certainly not in the 2018 forecast and 2019 dawned monsoonal, with more than an inch-and-a-half of too-warm rain in the gauge. Once the sun came out, it was possible to marvel at nature's precipitation gifts, these entirely liquid... so far. At the Potter Hill dam nearby, there was considerable celebration, with an abundance of natural "pyrotechnics"... and an extremely high water level giving voice to nature's enthusiasm.

I'm not, by nature, a fast driver, but today, when I was coming home from a walk, I was on a narrow, twisty road and driving even slower than usual. Because of my lack of speed and because I was paying close attention to my surroundings—no surprise there... paying close attention is what I do for a living, to say nothing of a life—I noticed a hawk hovering not more than 15 feet away and not much higher than Prius-top height. I stopped, and the hawk remained in hovering mode. Fortunately, the Sigma 100-400mm was on the camera and the dSLR was within quick reach on the front seat. I rolled down the window, took aim at the bird, and started "shooting" away, capturing a burst of images of what, as the raptor obligingly flashed his tail in my direction, was clear a Red-tailed Hawk. The buteo may be exceedingly common, but a great look is, without a doubt, a reward for persistence... and slowness.

Ir's been a long time... too long a time... since I made the walk to the very end of Napatree Point, my natural history touchstone beach, but my resolution for today, the start of a New Year, was to get out of the house and, without any guilt whatsoever, go for a long walk that was not necessarily for the sole purpose of getting my heart in gear. This meant that although I made sure to walk fast enough to get my cardiac rhythm to the target area, I also gave myself permission to stop occasionally and either take photos or make notes... maybe both. When I got to the rocks at the end of the proverbial road, the still strong gale that had swept through overnight was howling and the view was breathtaking. I don't know what the nor'easter offered in the way of a 2019 harbinger, but the fact that I was able to enjoy the scene augured well about what's to come as we start off fresh.

I had thought about getting up early and driving down to Napatree for the first beach walk in a couple of months, but I opted for virtue, which is to say, I really needed to get all the wood I cut yesterday under shelter since there was significant rain in the forecast later on and I wanted to keep the latest haul dry and ready for the stove. I expected that my opting for doing the right thing would be communing with the titmice and chickadees, but when I exited the basement, I noticed something eye-catching on a large oak by the diminished wood pile: two large and dark woodpeckers that were chasing each other around the tree trunk. They were a bit bigger than Hairies, but they were too dark for that species. I had neither camera nor binoculars with me, so, intrigued, I headed back inside, put the 100-400mm Sigma on the dSLR, and hid behind a tree near the shed, the lens fixed on the suet feeder, where I'd see what I thought was the same pair of birds. Virtue rewarded: one of the couple landed quite close and remained still for a few seconds and several decent enough shots. Definitely Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, one of the sillier names for a truly stunning species.

I was afraid it was going to come to this: the need for a "vacation" from the daily posting of natural history observations. The last time this occurred, a year ago last autumn, the reason was more obvious—my long stay at the Yale New Haven Hospital "spa"... well, cardiac ICU... while I recovered from open heart surgery. Then, of course, once I got home, it took several weeks for me to get back on my feet again. This time, the "culprit" wasn't medical but, rather, a certain eight-year-old who has come to live with us. Between becoming impromptu parents for Stasia, to say nothing of an enormous writing workload, the preparations for the holidays, and an ongoing cardiac rehab requirement, blogging became an impossibility. Briefly, I thought about just giving up, but, the more I tossed this over in my head, the less I had any desire to leave it behind. When I spotted these two trichopterans—the adult version of the Caddis Fly larvae I've featured in the past—in flagrante, the need arose to take out the camera... and write about the observation. It seems a bit late, to say nothing of cold, for outdoor mating pursuits, but maybe that's just me. This couple clearly has no such reservations.

I don't know why I haven't done so already, but I have never made the slightest effort to become an expert on a group of exceedingly common insects that belong to the Order Dermaptera. The so-called "earwigs, which are infamous for their supposed proclivity to seek out the human ear and burrow all the way to the human brain—the optimal nursery for their eggs... in science fiction, anyway—are all over the neighborhood, and while I have yet to suffer a cerebral invasion, I did, once, find one in my mouth, something about as unpleasant as can be imagined. With their prominent pinchers, they look dangerous, but they're too small to do any damage, so I suppose it's best to just leave them be and marvel at their cold-tolerance. That done, I should really start studying them and make an attempt to come up with a likely species. Really...

At the very least, I manage to make trips to the wood pile several times a day, so that has to count for a daily natural history walk... particularly when I'm looking around at nature, packing my camera, and, most importantly, paying attention to what's going on. Sweating the small stuff is key to success in this endeavor. And while I was homing in on the details, I noticed a small bird working the brush that I'd piled near the firewood. The dun-colored creature was definitely playing hard to get and, every so often, it would simply disappear as it probed the spaces between the twigs and leaves. No doubt it was searching for sustenance in the form of tiny invertebrates, and the Winter Wren, the first of the season, was also on the lookout for a good place to shelter from the cold. Every year I assemble a new brush collection as a kind of Winter Wren welcome mat. Every year I have takers. I'll leave the proverbial light on for the birds.

The days continue to slip away from me on the natural history front, but I do manage a brief walk or two after dark. Equipped with a head light on my noggin and a movie light on my dSLR, I've been combing the tree bark for late signs of life. The main players, these relatively warm evenings, have been Winter Moths, those invasive insects who are remarkable in their cool-to-cold-weather tolerance. They're now out all the time, with infinitely more high-flying males than wingless females. I don't know about this guy, however. His wings are clearly deformed, and I'm not at all sure he can fly effectively and follow the pheromone trail sent out into the world by the ladies. Of course, he can still walk fine, so if there happened to be a possible mate on the same tree, he just might get lucky.

When I started this more-or-less daily blogging endeavor more than five years ago, my self-imposed mandate was to chronicle the natural history I observed and photographed on what were then daily walks, typically first thing in the morning. Alas, with an eight-year-old in residence, the daily walking in the woods and fields is becoming less and less likely. Still, there's almost always something to record from our outdoor forays, even if these only involve the trek to the mailbox and school bus—the natural equivalent of fast food. So today, there might have been no birding nor botanizing nor lichenology nor, well, much of anything. But we, Stasia and I, were nevertheless enmeshed in the natural world. In fact, my apprentice leaf raker was neck-deep in nature, after, of course, taking a giant leap into the leaf pile we'd made.

The cold remains solidly in place, and speaking of solids, the millpond is wearing a coat of thin ice across its entire length and breadth. It is, of course, not nearly ready to bear the weight of skaters or anglers, and I don't think the early ice will last for more than a few days. For now, however, it's a harbinger of, perhaps, things to come, and it's done a fine job of capturing segments of the natural world, like this oak leaf, some White Pine needles, and a handful of air bubbles, in place.

Shoot enough pictures and sometimes you get lucky and come up with a real winner. I don't like to brag, but I think this is one of those times. I was walking this morning in very cold conditions, and the frigid air—it was barely in the teens—was making it hard to work the camera. When I spotted a flock of mixed songbirds, however, I rallied and willed my stiffened fingers to work. The critter I focused on, a winter-plumage Goldfinch—hard to believe that this drab bird will sport brilliant feathers come spring—was having no such trouble with its joints, and as I watched the bird through the lens, the finch, in a burst of anti-cold exuberance, leapt off a Multiflora Rose cane and dove through the air. I was happy to have caught the Goldfinch in action.

While there's a suggestion that a warming spell might be in the offing soon, it hasn't arrived yet and my morning trek along a familiar path—to the millpond and back—was an exercise in walking fast enough to keep frostbite at bay. Below the waterfall, there was plenty of ice sculpted by the spray and frigid temperatures into a variety of  fantastical shapes. I'll leave it to you to decide what you're seeing. All I can say for certain was that the resident Great Blue Heron, which has been a frequent denizen of the plunge pool from which it harvests young Brook Trout, was elsewhere, perhaps taking a cue from the low temperatures and heading south.

The weather turned sharply colder yesterday for Thanksgiving, and this morning, the temperature nudged the single digits and later just barely made it above freezing. Definitely frosty, and if I needed any convincing about just how cold it was, the Rhododendron leaf thermometer would have conveyed the message. Those hardy broad-leafed evergreens roll their foliage when it drops below 32, and the lower the reading, the tighter the roll. When the mercury reads zero, the leaves will be pencils; these are closer to cigars, indicating that the air's not exceptionally nippy. The rolling is known to botanists as thermonasty, and the thought is that the behavior helps plants avoid frost damage by minimizing surface area. Today, it's merely nasty. Later in the upcoming winter, it will get thermonastier.

 

 

On Turkey Day, most families, we're told, celebrate by watching football. Our tradition, now at least a half-century old, is to play football. Oh sure, it's not quite professional, and to those folks who might suggest that we borrowed this from the Kennedy family, who always pulled together a Thanksgiving game, well, we might counter to suggest that they borrowed it from us. No matter. Despite a truly ferocious chill, the hardies, young and old, made their way to the Field of Glory—I really should have done a better job of raking—pre-meal and burned off a few calories that we'd later put back on... guilt-free.

This was a busy, busy day and, before the Thanksgiving festivities, there was no time to do much trekking, besides the inevitable trip to the supermarket for last minute requirements and, of course, walking around the kitchen cooking. But, with my granddaughter in residence, there was plenty of time for training the newest of a long line of noodle-makers. Under the watchful eye of my wife, Stasia took right to mixing, rolling, cutting, and stacking a treat that everyone looks forward to. She had a ball, and she did just fine. Tomorrow, we all get to sample her handiwork!

In the five years I've been putting together this documentation of my corner of the natural world, I've never done what I'm about to do: post a photo of something that utterly baffles me. But there's a first time for everything and here it is. I was out in the night enjoying the relative warmth and while I combed the dry leaves for signs of life, I found this tiny critter among the living. It's certainly an insect—the six legs tell me that—and while at first glance I supposed it to be an aphid, at second glance I was no longer sure. What's galling is that I think I've seen something similar; I just can't put my finger on the right taxonomic neighborhood. I'll keep looking. I'll let everyone know if I come up with anything. Don't hesitate to do the same.

Annoyingly, I've had no time recently to do much more than walk to the mailbox and back... not exactly a way to fulfill my blogging mandate. But tonight, with the temperature above freezing, I headed outside after I got my granddaughter to bed and started the later-November search for a scourge and a notable insect: the Winter Moth. These incredibly hardy lepidopterans only emerge when the weather gets chilly, and they can somehow fly and find each other when the mercury dips below the freezing mark. In fact, the females can't fly at all—they've lost their wings through evolutionary time—and instead rely on a heady "perfume" that they send into the night to tell potential mates, "I'm here... and I'm ready." The guys seem to have no trouble getting the message... well, one guy, anyway.

I began work on a biological survey of a newly acquired refuge for the Avalonia Land Conservancy today, but it turns out that the property, which was given to Avalonia by the Pequot Audubon Society, was a place I actually knew better than I could have imagined, since it was the woods and wetlands next to my daughter and son-in-law's house. My grandkids and I had slogged through this boggy forest countless times without knowing it was actually a wildlife sanctuary, but at least one Tufted Titmouse seemed to have figured out the truth and proceeded as if it owned the place. I don't know what it managed to glean from the Birch branch it combed—I'm guessing a frozen spider—but whatever turned up on the menu, the bird seemed quite happy about finding a meal. The food item, on the other hand, remained stoic.

The snow continues to hold on in a few of the shadier and cooler spots, but there's barely more than a frozen crust—and even that has been breached by some of the Skunk Cabbage spathes that have popped up in what looks suspiciously like plant-created melting. Symplocarpus foetidus is well-known for its remarkable talents as a "warm-blooded" plant, and this member of the green world can make its own heat and regulate its internal temperatures through what resembles a thermostat, insulation, and an on-demand furnace. But I thought that this didn't start happening until late-February or early-March. Maybe the burners can be turned on at odd times throughout the cold season. Wish I had a way to take the SC's internal temperature.

The snow changed to rain later on at night, and though I got in 10 laps of cross-country skiing in the backyard track—praise be for as early a start to the XC season I can remember—fog, mist, and warmth took a good deal of the white blanket. There was no possibility of doing laps this morning and no need to put on the snowshoes to explore the woods: waterproof boots were fine. One thing was clear in the early light, and that was the strong and steady gale from the not-quite-winter-storm had stripped many of the hardwoods bare. Even the Beeches, the youngsters of which hold onto their foliage until March, gave up most of their dry and shriveled leaves. What's left of the snowpack is now covered in tan and brown.

All day long—a definitely cold one during which the temperature never rose above freezing, which, by my reckoning, made today the first winter day, albeit certainly not the first day of winter, which is more than a month in the future—the Weather Channel's warning system grew increasingly harsh with the threat of heavy, heavy snow from a Not-Quite-Winter-Storm that WC dubbed Avery. But nothing happened during the light hours, and as darkness arrived, I was beginning to doubt the forecasts. Oh me of little faith... Around seven, the first pebble-like flakes started to appear, and an hour later, the ground was blanketed with several inches of dry, wind-driven snow. No desserts around the picnic table tonight.

The air is taking on a definite chill, and there's downright genuine cold in the forecast for tomorrow with... gasp... that S-word. But this morning, it's merely touch-of-frosty, with the slightest hint of skim ice and odd lines of silver highlighting the remains of bark on a long-dead oak. Maybe it's a harbinger. Maybe the dire prediction is going to come true. For now, however, the sun is out and melting any notion of impending doom. If I didn't have so darn much writing to do, today would be a fine day for a long walk. Maybe next week...

There's been a return to warmish air and yet more incredible downpours, but with the rain finally over this evening, I got outside to see if the night-time natural world had come out of colder-weather hiding. Indeed it had, and as I was combing the tree bark and leaf litter for signs of renewed life, I spotted this odd, mottled orthopteran that I guessed was some kind of cricket or katydid. I wasn't sure which, but something in the back of my mind said, "Camel Cricket"—an intuition that might have had something to do with the hump-like thorax. A quick tour of the internet confirmed that notion, and while these denizens of caves and other kinds of damp, dark places are harmless scavengers, I realized that a mystery insect I saw recently belonged to this group... and it might have been trying to "invade" my basement, where, I learned, the "camels" can become something of a nuisance. I don't think the bug in question made it inside, so for now, I'll have to venture into the woods to spot one.

The decision I made yesterday to pick that mini-rose in advance of the predicted cold snap turned out to be a great one. This morning, the temperatures made it down to the low 20s and all signs of garden life came to a screeching halt. Indeed, it was so chilly and quiet that you could almost hear the breaking of cell walls as ice crystals had their way with the innards of vegetation, and in the wetlands, the situation was something of the reverse, as ice crystals formed, locked together, and overspread the edges of the still waters. The ice architecture never became very thick, and with the mercury topping the freezing mark by noon, all traces of the skim layer, however intricate architecturally, vanished in the sun. But the patterns were a harbinger of things to come... definitely a harbinger of things to come.

It's been almost unnaturally warm, but the temperatures have begun sliding in the opposite direction, so when I spotted this pretty little rose in full bloom, I guessed it was probably the last of its kind to flower until the spring. That meant, of course, that I'd better do two things: photograph it... and pick it to present to my wife. Both were clearly the correct choices. The weather forecast has significant frost in the offing, and having a rose in a vase on the kitchen table is a wonderful way to bring warmth indoors.

 

One of the best parts of my "job" as a nature documentarian is that I have access to the newest and most improved field guides to all aspects of the natural world... and I get to interview the authors of the books and learn all sorts of exciting things about the genesis of the guide and its author. Then, I can take that knowledge... and the book... into the outdoors and put those insights into practice. Here's one plus: I have been spotting these particular mushrooms, which delight in popping out of dead oak logs and other kinds of hardwood, for years, but, either because I'm lazy or not favored with the right mycological smarts, I haven't been able to identify them. Enter Tim Baroni, whose field guide to the mushrooms I mentioned a couple of days ago. The good professor was a great help. When I sent him this spooky picture, of a fungus "bouquet" I saw tonight, he quickly sent me in the direction of the genus Psathyrella, which, in the guide, he noted was hard to ID past genus. That, however, was OK by me: genus is more than enough... until I get a good compound microscope and start measuring spores.

Last year, I had the wonderful experience of talking to the "lightning bug lady," a.k.a. Lynn Frierson Faust, about her then-new field guide, Fireflies, Glow-worms, and Lightning Bugs, and in the course of a fascinating conversation, she encouraged me to be on the lookout for a member of the Lampyrid beetle clan called the Winter Firefly. Ellychnia corrusca is an oddball, in that it carries no light and it's active in the cold weather. Before Lynn "schooled" me, I no doubt would have missed seeing these quite common insects that seem to delight in haunting the tree bark, but now that I'm among the cognoscenti, well, I love to spend November nights combing the oaks for these lightning-less bugs. This is their time and I'm doing my part recording their presence.

Most of the colorful foliage is fast falling off the trees and shrubs, but if you take the time to look for autumn leaves, you can still find them in a few favored places. In fact, some of the hardwoods are well-known for holding onto color later into the season than most of their dendrological cousins. Here's one of the latecomers to the foliage parade: a luscious shrub known as Carolina Allspice. Also called Sweet Shrub, Strawberry Bush—I think the floral scent is more that of watermelons than strawberries—Sweet Betsy, and, perhaps my favorite, Sweet Bubby Bush—that name may have been derived from the use of the flowers that, when placed in a woman's bra, functioned as a kind of deodorant—Calycanthus floridus is a native of the American Southeast. It's perfectly happy in our area, and long after its floral show is over, the plant displays the warmest of leaf color.

Some of the mushrooms are big and obvious, but other members of the Kingdom Fungi are easily overlooked. Of course, it's not their color that makes these so-called disc or cup fungi hard to spot—they certainly stand out on the dark oak wood they mushrooms call home. Rather, it's their size, which, at most, is no bigger than the nail on my littlest finger. However, when I'm in fungus mode, which is to say, when I'm hunched over low to the ground, I find lots of things I'd have missed in normal bipedal mode, so when I scanned a local log, these "discos"—the name comes from Discomyceta, the mushroom taxonomic class that was once used to place these mushrooms in the Tree of Life—really jumped out at me. I wasn't at all sure what to call them, but fortunately, I'd recently had a wonderful conversation with mycologist Tim Baroni about his recent field guide, Mushrooms of the Northeastern United States and Eastern Canada, and the good professor pointed me to a section of his book that described the "Yellow Fairy Cup", a.k.a. "Lemon Disco," which, to those in the know, goes by the name of Bisporella citrina. By any name, the tiny organism is a stunner.

There's heavy rain in the forecast—yet again—and while the deluges, if they in fact arrive, will no doubt keep my photo gear inside, it won't dissuade me from voting in the mid-terms. This year, it'll be a straight Democrat ballot for me—the fallout from the Trump era is that I can't abide anyone from the Republican side of the aisle, even people who are otherwise presumably decent and honorable—and I'll be hoping that somehow the results will squelch the rising tide of Nazism that has appeared on the horizon. Enough said... The rain has also not kept some of the late-season migrants from coming back to the ridge for the winter. As I looked out a misty window in the front of the house, I noticed a very energetic and tiny bird that flitted from branch to branch in the hollies and harvested invertebrates too minute for me to spot. I knew it was a Kinglet, our smallest winter songbird, and, with the Sigma 100-400mm at the ready, I tried willing the sprite into shooting range. The "bird whisperer" apparently succeeded, and for the briefest of moments, I got a fine look at the characteristic yellow head stripe of a temporarily cooperative Golden-crowned Kinglet—the first, but hopefully not the last, of its breed to grace our neighborhood. With any luck, it was a harbinger of better times, electorally, at any rate, ahead.

The day after Halloween, November greeted me with warmth and a stunning flower that crowned a tall and, truth be told, pretty spindly Japanese Anemone. I planted these perhaps a decade ago, and at the time, the shade they were growing under was modest enough that the plants seemed pretty content and floriferous. But over the years, that Red Maple has grown thicker and leafier, and what was once dappled shade is now close to total darkness; the anemones are no longer happy campers. Still, they do manage to put out a few blossoms annually, and for a few days, they're the glory of the late garden. Alas, as Robert Frost noted, "nothing gold can stay"—and neither can anything off-white, yellow, and pink. (I hope my color-blindness is allowing me to get the colors right!) Less than a week after the anemone show began, it was over, that one glorious bloom now dropping its petals and calling it a season.

There was definitely a chill in the air today, a genuine sharpness that could only have said one thing: fall. The breeze was also filled with descending and increasingly drab leaves—these, and the barer and barer hardwood trees, were also undeniable signs of the progress of the season. That I'm getting more and more frantic about the too-meager state of the woodpile... and the still-too-lengthy lists of weather-dependent tasks that remain undone... is yet another tell-tale, and if all of these weren't enough to signal that November is about to get down to serious business, well, there are the Wood Ducks, the hallucinogenic males of which are now moving out of what's known as "eclipse plumage" and back into the gaudiness characteristic of the mature-guy-part of the species. Once the breeding season is over in the early summer, the males shed their brilliant courtship clothes and take on the drab plumage of their mates, but not long after the autumnal equinox, the boys get back to dazzling. At this time of year, however, it's mostly for naught, since the local females aren't really interested. Maybe, in November, it's simply a matter of ensuring male self-esteem.

The annual autumn color display arrived much later than usual, and once it came, it didn't stay long, particularly in the wake of the recent gale that brought yesterday's Spotted Salamander out of hiding. The downpours loosened the already weakly attached hardwood leaves, and when the strong winds finally eased today, many of the trees were stripped and bare. But that landscape wasn't entirely somber and colorless. I had to go into Westerly in the afternoon for some hardware and groceries, and when I was driving by a church rectory, I noticed a series of trees by the sidewalk that still sported fall finery. I pulled over and started shooting as an obliging jogger strode by to complete a handsome autumn scene. She scattered newly fallen leaves as she ran.

Anyone who knows me even slightly soon discovers my affection for amphibians. This love often, particularly in the early spring when the frogs and salamanders emerge from winter sleep to court and mate in the local vernal pools, lures me out at night in the wettest weather imaginable. But this evening, with a fine mist in the air after an all-day downpour, was not a time I had any expectations of finding one of my "friends," whom, I imagined, had gone into hiding from the cold for the season. One little guy had other plans and was exploring a pile of recently delivered firewood, perhaps in search of a suitable refuge. The Spotted Salamander, a handsome member of his species, was about several inches long, so I'm guessing he was a member of the Class of 2017, not this year's crew. Perhaps he'd been here before and knew that the area around and under the wood rack offered shelter and bugs. It certainly afforded me a splendid photo op, and with the dSLR in its raincoat, I captured the Spottie's walkabout.

We've had a genuine killing frost and so, with the temperature today well up in the 60s, we can now properly call the weather pattern an Indian Summer. Ever since a French-American upstate New York farmer and soldier named Michel Guillaume Jean de Crèvecœur first used the term in print around 1778, IS has been a hallowed and much anticipated part of New England meteorology and tradition. It's certainly paying us a visit, and this afternoon, the air was lush with warmth and insects, among them a squadron of large queen Polistes wasps, all of them coming out of colder-weather refuges to bask in the summer, perhaps for the last time until spring, and to look for one final meal before going back into hiding. Fortunately, the mamas-to-be wasps weren't interested in stinging, so I could get quite close for a late-season portrait.

To say that I love Halloween is perhaps the understatement of the century. The celebration of things that go bump in the night is, to me, not only spine-tingling fun, but, at its heart, I find the 31st a tribute to the natural world... OK, the unnatural parts of nature. I was hoping to do some trekking with my granddaughter after dark in search of strange creatures and, if I lucked out, York Peppermint Patties, but Stasia is fighting off a fever and a stomach ache, so, as twilight started to make itself felt, I was on my own. I was certainly also in the presence of full-grown haunts and spirits, from imperial storm-troopers and witches, to a trio of lovelies dressed as toy dolls. Well, one of them clearly was... the others might have been straight out of Salem. Oh yes, there were kids on the streets harvesting candy, too.

 

I didn't get in much of a trek, but with my granddaughter now enrolled in our local school for her very first day, I had a slender amount of time on a glorious afternoon to hike the very same trail I often walk with my sixth grade classes and at the observation deck section by the Assekonk Swamp, I spotted a tiny sprite working the seed heads of the Cattails. From its almost manic activity and small size, I suspected it was a kind of Kinglet, one of the songbirds that breed in the boreal forests and then often head south to spend the winter in our neighborhood. But which one? It didn't have an obvious yellow crest, so it wasn't a Golden-crowned, which made the ID easy: by default, it was a Ruby-crowned Kinglet. These are less common around us, and I have no photographs of them displaying their trademark, and, alas, generally hidden, red crown feathers. This one wasn't going to grace me with a display either, but it showed enough of its other diagnostic characteristics, including that bold eyering and the wingbars, to give me confidence in calling it by its Ruby-crowned name.

Since the first bona fide dragonflies were filling the skies some 300 million years ago, it's definitely fair to say that odonates are among the ultimate survivors in the animal kingdom. So the fact that modern day hardies like the Meadowhawks can handle a taste of sub-freezing temperatures is almost unremarkable. Still, they're one of the few odes that can laugh at October frosts and make the transition to November; most other dragonflies have already called it a day and left the future to their eggs. Not so the members of the genus Sympetrum. This one, probably an Autumn Meadowhawk, was, after a chilly morning, now sunning itself on a warm observation deck. I don't know where it went to escape the frosts, but it somehow has a good refuge, and it'll be periodically on the wing for at least a couple more weeks. A fit survivor, to be sure.

Late by at least a couple of weeks, the colors of autumn are finally arriving. I found these stunners, mostly Red Maples, around the edges of the millpond just below my house, and the trees, after stubbornly sticking to their greenery, have now gotten with the program, ditched their chlorophyll, and crafted enough anthocyanin molecules to do fall's job of providing absolute leaf-peeping delight... to which this observer can only say: It's about time!

If yesterday's bird on the lawn was something of a mystery, this guy on a White Pine stem is an absolute certainty. The Black-capped Chickadees are everywhere, and, as autumn progresses, they'll be among the most obvious of avian residents on the ridge and freeloaders on the feeders. The Yellow Jacket plague is over for the year, so the suet is back in the wire cage on the Red Maple; the Chickadees wasted no time taking advantage of our gifts. For now, however, there's still plenty to harvest from twigs and branches, and so these industrious birds are keeping themselves busy packing on the insect calories. I couldn't tell precisely what this Chickadee was harvesting, but he was so engrossed in his task that he paid no attention to the photographer who was equally busy documenting the visitor.

This migrating songbird appeared on the wet lawn today, and didn't hang around long enough for me to obtain decent pictures. In about five seconds time, I managed to snag three images, but when I went to try to identify the critter, I wound up perplexed. This, of course, is pretty routine at this time of year, when the migrants are wearing drab traveling clothes rather than their definitive spring finery—well, the guys, at least—and birders everywhere are giving voice to a measure of autumn uncertainty. I know, however, that it's a thrush... no doubt about it... but which one? It has a white eyering... sort of... and I'm detecting a hint of warm brown, maybe even red, in the wings, so that, and the fact that I thought it was rather large, would make it a Wood Thrush, albeit a very late-migrating one. But the more typical timing, and the fact that the spots seem to blur out as they get lower on the breast and the incompleteness of the eyering, would argue for a Hermit Thrush, which is our typical bird in the autumn. I'd probably have done better had the mystery stuck around longer. Alas, it's gone and shows no sign of returning. In leaving for parts south, it's left me with a conundrum. So it goes every autumn. So it goes.

I know... misleading headline... Of course it's already fall, and it has been, according to the calendar, for more than a month. But, as everyone around my trekking route knows all too well, it neither feels nor looks like autumn, a pair of hard frosts and an adequate bird migration notwithstanding. In years past, the trees would be mostly bare, the foliage-color season having peaked a week or more ago. Climate change, however, is now taking an obvious toll on leaf-peeping predictions, and, with the exception of a few hard-wired Swamp Maples, now fully abscized, the hardwood leaves are mostly green and show scant signs of changing. This is all disconcerting, but there's nothing an observer can do save ponder and document.

As I noted yesterday, at least one songbird, the Eastern Phoebe, is loathe to leave. But with a nice traveling wind and balmy temperatures today, we witnessed a small squadron of incoming migrants—these, a collection of pint-sized familiars who'll be with us throughout most of the winter. This little charmer is a warbler that's known by an uncharming name: the Yellow-rumped Warbler, or, as we call it in birding circles—we think of it as a term of endearment—the "butterbutt." There's no mystery as to why the bird got that designation, and it's a great way to zero in on its diagnostic field mark: that patch of bright yellow feathers positioned where the hindquarters meet the tail. An insect eater during the nesting season, the Yellow-rumped has the amazing ability to shift its diet to seeds for the cold weather. That gives it the ability to call our area home for the winter.

The Eastern Phoebes are, most years, among the first songbirds to make it back to our neighborhood in spring, and even, at times, late winter. No sooner does the Vernal Equinox arrive in March than the Phoebes move north from anywhere between the Carolinas and Mexico. Since they typically don't have to travel very far, they're the proverbial "early birds," and long before the more heralded warbler migration, there are Phoebes in residence staking a claim to territory and mates as the males sing, over and over again, a raspy imitation of their common name. But not only do they arrive early, they also tend to stay late, and they're often among the last songbirds to leave. These days, the Phoebes are mostly silent, but they're no less active, scarfing up any fly—they are flycatchers, after all—or other insect that comes close to the agile predators.

It got really cold last night, and when I checked the maximum-minimum Taylor on the side of the house, the mercury—I know... toxic ingredient but the thermometer dates back to the days when "quicksilver" was the norm—had bottomed out at 28 degrees F. The wood stove was kept chugging along, and as I looked at what the genuinely killing frost had wrought, it was definitely time to call a halt to the growing season, at least for the tender plants that I had left in place. The Impatiens crew was definitely among those that had given up the ghost overnight, and as the sun rose and illuminated their drooping stems, they showed no remaining sign of botanical life. The species without the wherewithal to handle the cold had experienced the growth of cell-wall-rupturing ice crystals and there was no return from that kind of terminal damage.

If I'd been living in the South, this caterpillar would have been all too familiar. David Wagner's guide to moth and butterfly larvae informs me that I had found a Yellow-striped Armyworm, and, as a sign of its status as a genuine pest, the rather handsome young insect is also known as the Cotton Cutworm. We, of course, don't have any cotton for Spodoptera ornithogalli to pester, but it apparently isn't all that particular about diet. There's plenty for it around here to eat and what's intriguing about the beast is that it's a migratory species that heads north from southern haunts every spring. The YSA apparently isn't able to winter over in cold climates so, according to Dave, the adult moths ride "storm fronts that push up from the Gulf of Mexico" in May or so and repopulate our area with foliage chompers. Since this is the first of the species I've ever spotted, I'll give them a pass this time and let them munch to their heart's content... for now.

Every year about this time, we pose the eternal question: where can we find Northern Spy apples? This venerable variety, which pomological history dates back to about 1800, makes, in the learned opinion of my wife Pam, who is one of the best pie-makers on the planet, the premier apple pie and is worth whatever effort it takes to track down. We used to be able to find Spies in upstate New York, right next to my in-laws's home in Cazenovia, but Norma and Rob have both passed on, so that source, which is six hours away, is no longer easy to get to, and many of the other Spy sources closer to home have played out. But Pam, after a lot of searching, found one at Alyson's Orchard in not-too-distant Walpole, New Hampshire. It's a glorious spot, and is now highly recommended. They had lots of Spies, including a red variety we'd never heard of, along with a harvest of other heritage apples. We came, we sampled, we picked, and now we're ready to cook. Praise be!

Sooner or later, I knew I would wake up to genuine silver, and when the wind died last night and there was was no audible sign of even the hardiest of crickets—the only noise came from the booming hoots of Great Horned Owls—I figured that the leaves would be wearing sparkling clothes this morning. The average date of the first frost on our ridge is somewhere between the 11th and the 20th, and because of our microclimate, we tend to be on the late side—and we're often frost-free even when the foliage a bit downslope from us has gotten nailed. Today, however, dawned as an equal opportunity frost, and the grasses and meadow flowers bowed their collective heads in the sub-32-degrees cold and let the ice crystals do their destructive work. Everything looked pretty, but as the sun rose to melt the ice, it was clear that damage had been done. The growing season was over for the year.

It was a chilly morning—quite close to genuine frostiness—and I headed out early to see if I could find and capture any touches of silver. There wasn't, however, much more than a hint of ice on the ridge, but there was something else... something completely unexpected. As I was walking downhill towards the millpond, I noticed a dark shape moving low over the grass where there was once woods and managed meadows. The flier was clearly some kind of hawk, but it definitely wasn't the Red-tailed that sometimes perches in the trees below our place, and it also wasn't one of the Red-shouldereds that live in the woods. I had the wrong lens, the encounter was over quickly, and the large bird, floating as elegantly as a butterfly, soon disappeared. The pictures are, alas, not good, but they're good enough to see that the outline likely belongs to a Marsh Hawk, and if you look at the place where the tail meets the body, there's that diagnostic white spot. In the 34 years we've lived on the ridge, we've never seen this species here. You just never know what you'll discover, which, of course, is why I'm out there, open-eyed, every day.

One of the more unusual nut-bearing shrubs in our woods goes by the name of the Beaked Hazelnut. Corylus cornuta is a relative of the Common Filbert that bears its nuts inside hairy husks, each of which has a tube-shaped extension that can be an inch or so long and that resembles a beak. While the small nuts are edible, the Blue Jays, squirrels, and chipmunks always seem to beat me to them. Maybe next year, when this Beaked Hazelnut catkins opens, blooms, and gives rise to next year's C. cornuta crop, I'll be able to get at least a share of the bounty. Until then, I'll watch the catkins and wait patiently.

At first, I thought this was a small twig that had somehow gotten stuck on the newspaper attachment to the mailbox. It's not an uncommon occurrence, but there was something un-twiggy about the object, so, instead of just trying to sweep it off with my hand, I gave it a closer look and, of course, it turned out to be a remarkably deceptive "inch worm" caterpillar doing a fine job of mimicking the tiniest of tree branches. I can't be entirely certain of its identity, but the overall grayness and nondescript markings suggest that it might be a One-spotted Variant. According to caterpillar-master Dave Wagner, this species is "among our most ubiquitous and numerically constant caterpillars on trees and shrubs.... If you plan on doing much caterpillar sampling, you must learn this inchworm." I'll put it on my schedule, along with a prayer that I see it again and get a better set of ID images.

Mosses are not easy to identify, but over the past few years, I've taken up the challenge and gotten pretty decent on a few of them. Unlike the situation with wildflowers, bryophytes have more modest field characteristics and this makes life trickier for naturalists. But some of the mosses can be reasonably distinctive... well, sometimes. One thing to look for, if it's present, is the spore-carrying capsule carried by the alternating generation of the moss known as the sporophyte. The spore-bearing capsules often have a diagnostic shape and form, and in one group of mosses, the capsules can be quite hairy. The genus Polytrichum has the common name of Haircap Moss, and the picture shows why. There are other characteristics, too, but the presence of pubescent is a Polytrichum giveaway... and a way to establish taxonomic credibility and amazement on any public walk.

The cold snap was short-lived and it never actually got below the freezing mark. So the insects received merely an inconvenience, not a death blow. That means there are still plenty of mosquitoes airborne to plague every walk stopping-point, but it hasn't stopped me from dutifully monitoring the last blooms on the Hydrangeas. As I scanned the flowers, I noticed a remarkable visitor: a huge... relatively... tree-hole-breeding culicid known as the Elephant or Goliath Mosquito. Toxorhynchites rutilus is the behemoth among our skeeters, and if you regarded these insects as little more than drab annoyances, well, behold a genuine beauty... in fact, a genuine psychedelic beauty. And, happily, a harmless psychedelic beauty. Both the males and females—this one's a guy, as is apparent from the bushiness of his female-detecting antennae—imbibe only nectar, and because their kids dine on culicid larvae, they're doubly great to have around. I spotted the first adult Elephant in mid-August, and, at the time, I wasn't sure how long they'd be around. Now, I know: at least two months.

There was a little rain this morning, and when the clouds disappeared around noon, the weather took the last of the warmth with it. The sun just lacked that earlier oomph, and on the Weather Channel, there was the first FROST ADVISORY of the season displayed on our town's front page. I'm pretty sure it didn't apply to us, but, just to be on the safe side, I took in the less-than-hardy plants, put the window sash on the cold frame, and replenished the kindling container. Towards dusk, which is ever earlier and earlier, I began the colder times ritual and started the Quadra-Fire for the first time since late May or early June. It was already chilly in the house. A good fire will feel great.

I had to be in New Haven today, but I had some time and good weather on the way home, so I stopped at one of my favorite places, the Salt Meadow section of the Stewart B. McKinney National Wildlife Refuge, to trek through the woods, along the salt marsh, and by the New England Cottontail management area. The tide, in the wake of the recent tropical storm's passage offshore, was exceedingly high, so there wasn't much to observe by the water, but the woods were alive with small birds, one of which was, perhaps, a Ruby-crowned Kinglet—sigh, no picture... There were also plenty of Common Green Darners working the sunshine, but none of the odes... insert another sigh here... were cooperative, so I had to settle for a shot of something rooted, pretty, and, I would learn, exceedingly pernicious. In the areas cleared for the bunnies, an ultra-invasive known as Porcelain Berry is taking advantage of the abundant light and lack of competition. The berries certainly live up to their "china" name, but they've got to go. I'm sure they're on the refuge manager's "not wanted" list.

The recent rains and the omnipresent warmth have been just great for the mosquitoes, and, with the threat of awful mosquito-borne ailments like West Nile and Triple E in the air, to say nothing of the nuisance factor of getting bitten by even "harmless" skeeters, I've been on patrol to remove any possible breeding areas from around the house. One spot I'd missed was the ladder brackets, whose caps had fallen off and so had filled up with liquid. While I was pondering how to remove the culicid nurseries, I noticed that another critter was also taking advantage of the presence of moisture. This young Gray Tree Frog was happily camped out inside the bracket and was half-in, half-out of the water. I doubt the normally arboreal batrachian is thinking about staying put for the winter, but I'll soon have to purge its semi-aquatic temporary shelter and put the caps back on the ladder supports. In the meanwhile, I hope the GTF's diet includes mosquitoes, larvae and adults. Lots of larvae and adults.

The foliage colors of autumn may, for a variety of reasons, be especially subdued this year, but that doesn't mean there's nothing eye-catching in the woods. You just have to change your frame of reference. Look down and you'll find plenty of vibrant mushrooms. Look up, or at eye-level, depending on your height, and there are other visual delights, from the curious yellow-green flowers of the Witch Hazel to a host of brilliant berries. One of my favorites can still be found clinging to the Spicebush shrubs. These hot reds typically come in pairs, and according to a variety of sources, they're actually edible. I've never tried them and probably won't. I'm happy to seek out other kinds of fruit... and leave the Spicebush harvest to the birds.

One of the most eye-catching mushrooms in our woods is currently popping up just about everywhere you look. The Viscid Purple Cort, a.k.a. Cortinarius iodes, is a common stunner that rises out of the leaf litter and calls attention to itself with its slimy cap. While it's marginally edible, the mushroom is not sought out by fungus hunters, except, perhaps, those interested in a taxonomic challenge. According to Michael Kuo, and his authoritative MushroomExpert.com site, C. iodes has a lookalike cousin that goes by the name C. iodeoides. "Virtually the only way to tell the two species apart without a microscope," states Kuo, "is to lick the slime: bitter for C. iodeoides, mild for C. iodes." I think I'll pass. It's enough to know that the one species is most likely two. They're both exquisite... and that's enough. The slime can wait.