Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
When I was in Mrs. Wilson’s fourth grade class every student made a notebook of pressed autumn leaves. The goal was to have as many colors represented as possible, and to pick the most colorful. I really got into it.
I began early in the fall pressing yellow and golden leaves but soon discovered that these were the most plentiful. As the season progressed, other colors appeared: orange, many shades of red, even purples. I thought the most spectacular were those with many colors, some as bright as a tie-dyed tee shirt. I don’t remember if we were graded, but I do remember that ever since I have looked more closely, and with greater appreciation, upon the autumn leaves, just before they fall to become humus for the tree and a winter home and shelter to many vital creatures.
We were all certain this fall would be among the most colorful. Something we could agree upon. We had perfect conditions, which are, according to the U. S. Forest service, “a succession of warm, sunny days and cool, crisp but not freezing nights.” A wet spring followed by a dry summer also helps. We also avoided an early freeze, which stops photosynthesis before the factors that contribute to color depth and variety engage.
In the early fall trees stop making chlorophyll and photosynthesis begins. As this green chemical slowly slips from leaves, yellow colors appear. Yellow is the color of the leaf once the chlorophyll is gone. More colors appear when new chemicals begin to be manufactured in the leaves. An early chill keeps these chemicals from being made, so years with early frost will have mostly only yellow leaves, which fall earlier.
This time of year even the most ordinary errand or stroll becomes a spectacular, joyous experience. Which is more beautiful, the single tree bursting with reds against a background of yellow and gold, or a panorama of the mountains, an impressionist’s dream? Our embattled psyches are healed briefly as we behold at last a fall event that has some familiarity with those of our memory.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
Another member of the fall forest orchestra, the katydid, along with locusts and cicadas, provides the droning percussive sounds that foreshadow winter. This one is about two inches long. We had a staring contest through our window. I lost.
I wonder what he saw? Did he perceive a fellow creature? He gave no response, though he seemed to be looking at me and held his gaze. Maybe he was obsessed with the smooth glass surface, which must have felt quite different from the usual leaves and branches. This one is male. There is no ovipositor, which is quite prominent in the female. Their only real defense is they look like leaves, some species more than others. Their life cycle is about a year.
There are over six thousand varieties of katydid, which are cousins to grasshoppers and are called “bush crickets” in most parts of the world. There are two hundred and fifty-five species in North America, and over two thousand in the Amazon River basin. This is why the Amazon is so important. It provides not only much of the planet’s oxygen, but also many varieties of plants and animals, some found only there.
This player has its North American name because its three-syllable sound is thought to resemble “Kat-e-did.” They quit singing when the temperature gets much below 50, though the warmer it is, the faster they sing. Counting the number of syllables in fifteen seconds and adding thirty-seven will give the listener a reasonable approximation of the temperature.
Their sound is their mating call and varies among species. Katydids tend to sing together in small groups of about four, like Beatles. These smaller groups in turn often synchronize with others, giving the listener the familiar unison rhythms of the fall. The louder and more fluent the call, the more attractive the male is to the female. That is, more Allman Brothers than Kiss; more Ferrari than Camero. There has to be some subtly, some clarity, some nuance. It can’t just be loud. Good advice for males of many species.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
We have many string beans this year. “String” is an obsolete term. They are now called “green” beans. Apparently contemporary beans are still green but not stringy. We have both yellow and green beans. They are the same except for color and since it sounds silly to call something a “yellow green bean,” the yellow are called wax beans.
We have pole beans, as opposed to the bush beans. Our vines curl around and around, except that we don’t have poles. We have strings. So our green beans are, once again, string beans. They are nutritious and as copious as zucchini without being annoying. Except when I pick them.
I see no green beans. I see wax beans, easy to pick because their color contrasts with the vine. I see tomatoes. Anybody can pick a tomato. You pick it when it is red. Really stands out. Green beans require greater scrutiny, focus.
Look for shape, not color. At first I see none. Then I see one, two. I see four or five growing together. Now I see green beans everywhere. I pick eagerly. Then they are gone. I think I’ve picked all the good ones for today. Then I look away, and peer in again.
There are a lot of beans I missed the first time! I pick many more. Then they, too, are gone. I refocus. More beans. Refocus and pick. Finally, I seem to be finished. I’m sure I have not seen some, that, when I return will be too big to pick, having gone to a scaly, almost reptilian skin and of size too large to be anything but bitter.
Picking green beans requires patience, a discriminating gaze that does not settle for nor draw conclusions from first perceptions. Look at the same vine from different angles. Look all the way to the top of the vine, and all the way to the bottom. Accept that there might be more to see. Then take that green bean picking acumen and apply it to all situations when superficial conclusions can be mistaken and a second look rewarded.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
By my imprecise measure, this is the 100th chapter of “Naif in the Forest.” Thanks to Jeff Rosalsky, Executive Director of PEEC and Janine Morley, Marketing and Public Relations Coordinator, who support and encourage this effort and have from the beginning. Thanks and hugs to my wife, Kathleen, for her editing, wise suggestions and excellent photographs.
If I post a photo that should be in an art gallery, it is likely to have been taken by Brad Berger, who also contributes knowledge of wetlands and musk rats. Richard Paterson is an Expert in the Forest and my technical advisor. Violet the Corgi and Topaz the Mini Aussie take me into the forest several times a day.
Two years ago I told Jeff that I felt like a naïf in the forest, having moved here full time after years of partial residence. Jeff thought that would be a good name for a column. A couple of robust stouts later, the “Naif” was born. I wasn’t sure I could get through an entire year. Then I wasn’t sure about two. I am currently unsure about three. The limitation is within the naïf, not the forest.
While I have learned much from my extremely superficial research, I have no illusion that I will ever become an expert in the forest. I have great respect for those who know which mushrooms to eat, what bird is singing, which insects pose no danger to humans and which are poisonous or venomous. I also learned the difference between poisonous and venomous.
I will never master the particulars of nature, but I now hold a greater appreciation of the whole. I am constantly awed by the interconnectedness of squirrel and oak, monarch and milkweed. I have illustrated this chapter with the clear blue sky, taken early in June, a sky made clearer and lighter by the decrease in human activity.
In a time of fear and uncertainly a clear sky above and a natural order below that seems to know what it is doing even if we don’t, is a kind of comfort.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
There are two large pots in the corner of our back deck behind the Adirondeck chair. For all of spring, summer and most of fall, the leafy succulents therein are about as colorful as broccoli. Then, just as the spectacular flowers of summer are gone, and only the last of the cleomes and daisies remain, beautiful pinkish mauve bundles emerge behind the chair. What had been playing a supporting role suddenly dominates the esthetics, like that rare moment in a symphony when the cello has a solo.
This plant which performs the welcome chore of extending color into sweater weather is a form of sedum known as Stonecrop, which sounds like the name of a 70s prog rock band but is not. They are easy to plant perennials, withstand draught, heavy rains and full sun, attract butterflies and other pollinators. Some, like this one, grow tall and are excellent corner accents. Other varieties are ground cover. They need little care, are sometimes called “live-for-ever” and are dependable and adaptable. They remain attractive through the winter and are deer and rabbit resistant.
“Stonecrop” is the name of a group of spectacular gardens, not far away in Cold Spring, New York. It is accepting a limited number of visitors even now. It surely got its name from this hardy plant, which could thrive on a site that has been described as “a rocky and wind-swept hill.”
This particular variety is not precisely a sedum, but a hybrid called “Autumn Joy Stonecrop.” Its biological name is hyloteliphium, meaning “woodland distant lover.” What a great name for a plant that one ignores until, one day, it has become beautiful, just as all the color from the showier plants have faded.
Some readers may recall that “Distant Lover” is the name of a song from Marvin Gaye’s iconic album, “Let’s Get It On.” A wistful, slow dance of a song, it is about separation. This woodland distant lover, emerging after months of waiting, is about returning. Once again the beauty of its color manifests just when the world seems to be going gray.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
During this delightful unnamed season between summer and fall we have in our part of the forest, one begins to see a red-capped mushroom that seems to have a gelatinous topping. It looks like a Madeleine with strawberry jelly on top that a Jane Austen character would include with tea.
That would be a mistake. This apparently yummy fungus is an Emetic Russula, also known by the more emphatic names of Sickener or Vomiting Russula, as that is the consequence of eating it raw, when it has a distinctly unpleasant peppery taste. Parboiling or pickling eliminates the taste and illness, but renders it relatively tasteless. Nobody suggests eating it.
The Russula’s red pigment is somewhat soluble in water, gradually fading to orange or pink as exposed to sun and rain. Its edges can curl up into a small cup or bowl shape. There are over a thousand Russula species worldwide. It was first found and classified in Bavaria and central Germany in 1774. Russula is derived from a latin word meaning “red.”
It is often found under or near pine trees, with which it is in symbiosis. The Russula provides nutrients for the tree, and improves its ability to retain moisture. The trees provide carbohydrates and a shaded place to reproduce.
Not all mushrooms and trees have symbiotic relationships. The very edible Hen-of-the-Woods mushroom, which is also considered to give a boost to the human immune system, is a parasite to the oak, rotting its wood. The equally edible Honey Mushroom is even worse. It is a forest pathogen which uses white root disease to kill the trees that give it shade.
I commented to Kathleen that it was ironic that these bitter mushrooms help their hosts, while some edible and useful ones cause harm. She replied that perhaps the trees arrange this so their friends don’t get picked and the hurtful do.
“You just blew my mind,” I said. Never underestimate the wisdom of the trees.
** Warning: Please do not pick & eat mushrooms, or any other forest plant, without the advice of an expert.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
This one of over six thousand species of opiliones, or Daddy Longlegs. They are found everywhere but Antarctica. Since they have only one body segment and only one set of eyes, they are not spiders, but are anatomically closer to scorpions. This photo is the species that I have always called Daddy Longlegs, but some others around the world are quite different. Some have fangs or spin webs. Others do not.
The male has much longer legs, which, contrary to common misinformation, do not grow back when lost. They are very social creatures, and are often found gathering in groups of a thousand or more. They can live up to seven years, making some of them Granddaddy Longlegs, which they are also called.
When I was a very small boy I was scared of spiders. My dad told me that Daddy Longlegs were not spiders and there was no reason to be afraid. This helped me to begin to look more closely at what was around me, and discriminate between what could hurt me and what only looked scary.
Males valiantly guard eggs against all dangers, which may be how they got their name. There is an urban legend that says that these not-spiders are among the most venomous and dangerous arachnids in the world. As I understand, an “urban legend” is a euphemism for humbug, though I find that such does not confine itself to urban areas.
The legend may have gotten started because some Daddy Longlegs are capable of killing Brown Recluse and Black Widow spiders. The false conclusion is that anything capable of killing such venomous spiders must itself be even more venomous. Not true. Longlegs are among the most harmless to humans of all the creatures in the forest. Dad was right.
Daddy Longlegs have sufficient fangs and venom to kill spiders, but the fangs are way too small to break human skin and even so, the venom is similarly weak. Somehow it is reassuring to know that it is not necessary to be dangerous to humans in order to thwart creatures that are.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
This flower is found on a bush near our shed. It is a Common Hibiscus, also known as Althea and as a Korean Rose. In the United Kingdom it is called Rose Mallow. It has been around Japan since the eighth century and probably longer in Syria. Here it is often called Rose of Sharon.
It is slightly invasive, so it is easily transplanted, very hearty and can even thrive with neglect. John Steinbeck chose wisely when he chose the name Rose of Sharon, which her family pronounced “Rosasharn,” as the name of Tom Joad’s sister in “The Grapes of Wrath.”
Rose of Sharon is a phrase found in the Old Testament’s Song of Solomon. The author writes, “I am a rose of Sharon.” The Hebrew word sharon means “plain,” in this case the plain east of Israel, between the Mediterranean Sea and the Samarian Hills. However, in the next phrase he refers to himself as “a rose (or lily in some translations) of the valley.” While scholars disagree on meaning, to me it says that the author of the Song of Solomon got around.
Roseasharn, her family displaced during the Dust Bowl, traveled to California. Like the flower, she needed to be very hearty, easily transplanted and able to, if not thrive, at least survive neglect. The novel ends with her act of breathtaking kindness. When I see this flower I think of the beauty of that ending and that kindness.
I read the novel in my early twenties, the perfect time, when I was old enough to appreciate its privations and not yet cynical about the hope of their being overcome. It was also a time I was forming my own thoughts about things, and I took a lot from something Tom Joad said. “A fellow ain’t got a soul of his own, just a little piece of a big soul, the one big soul that belongs to everybody.”
I feel this every day in our part of the forest, and just a bit more when I admire our Rose of Sharon.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
Last month I saw tiny grasshoppers that have grown quite larger. Now I am seeing tiny crickets. Will they also grow?
No. These Red-headed Bush Crickets won’t get bigger than this one, about a half inch. The long, curved spine that extends from her abdomen is an ovipositor. She will lay eggs below the soil for protection and temperature control. She and her friends will spend their lives hopping among trees and bushes, while most crickets scuttle along the ground. Their bright coloring also separates them from others of their family, who tend to one color, usually an earth tone that serves as camouflage. The black and red combination is found in many poisonous insects, so this combination is a kind of protection, even though they lack the toxic chemicals.
The long, black spoon-like protuberances are palps that, like their antennae, keep moving as they explore ahead. Only the males sing, by scraping their legs together. Sometimes males will wrap themselves around a leaf to amplify their song.
These crickets, sometimes called Handsome Trigs, are found everywhere in eastern North America and are usually nocturnal. They join in the forest’s evening symphony this time of year. Their Latin name translates into “beautiful leaf feeler.”
Crickets and grasshoppers are part of the same order and are often confused with one another. Grasshoppers chirp by rubbing their legs against their wings. Crickets rub wings together. Grasshoppers grow to be as long as four inches, much larger than crickets. Grasshoppers can fly and jump. Crickets only jump. Grasshoppers are herbivores. Crickets are scavenging omnivores, eating small insects and larvae as well as your garden. Grasshoppers are diurnal, which is why I see them from the time they are babies to adulthood, while spotting a cricket like this is rare, though there are several around our deck now.
I found these differences instructive, as previously I would have known only that crickets give advice to marionettes, sing wistful songs and wear top hats, while grasshoppers waste their autumn singing while the industrious ant works his abdomen off.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
My cousin Brad snapped a rare photo of a muskrat in the open at Maumee Bay State Park, a few miles east of Toledo on the shore of Lake Erie, where Brad and I grew up. With fewer people visiting the park, the usually shy muskrats are free to roam.
These rodents are not of the same genus as rats, being more closely related to voles, lemmings and mice. They are much larger than a rat and smaller than a beaver. They make lodges and are found in marshes and wetlands throughout the United States and Canada. Their presence is a sign of a healthy, diverse and balanced ecosystem.
They were central to the lives of Native Americans and their fur, dyed and marketed as “Hudson Seal,” became popular in the nineteenth century. They are resistant to carbon dioxide buildup, thus have less to fear from the ecological future than most of us. Males are extremely competitive and sometimes fight to the death over mates or territory.
The first Europeans to arrive in what was called The Great Black Swamp were French Catholics, trappers who survived by learning from Native Americans. Later German Protestant farmers like my family cleared and planted the land south of where the swamp flooded. The trappers were called “Muskrat French” by the Germans, as both a description and a pejorative. At one time Catholics in this area were given special dispensation to eat muskrat during Lent and other fast days. The Germans considered the French to be uncivilized and too close to the native peoples.
Once German farmers started digging irrigation ditches, they began trapping and eating the muskrats they found in them, just like the French. I grew up eating the large rodents, at home and at special suppers at the VFW, American legion or churches. These remain popular events.
Eating muskrat is no longer an ethnic divider in the swamp, but a broader cultural marker. Those who partake are familiar with and affirming of local culture. Whether such affirmation enhances or lowers one’s status is hotly debated.