A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
I was jealous of my wife for taking such a great photograph of a male Monarch butterfly. I had tried repeatedly in the spring, but they proved too busy. I rationalized this by concluding that her fall butterfly was geriatric and less elusive. I was wrong. This guy was just getting started.
Monarchs are the greatest among butterflies that migrate, traveling as much as three thousand miles. Migration begins in the fall. This fellow will soon begin heading south. In three weeks he will arrive in Mexico, where he will spend most of his life in near hibernation. Then he will stir himself, mate and die, having lived as a butterfly Methuselah, six to eight months, compared to the six to eight weeks that most survive, if they are lucky.
His children will find Texas or Oklahoma, then reproduce, all within the normal life span of a couple months. The grandchildren will arrive in the mid-Atlantic states and their offspring will return to our part of the forest, or into Canada in time to welcome spring. The great-grandchildren will repeat the long voyage south, and be given the extended lifespan required.
Monarchs received their name from King William III of England, also known as William of Orange. The Viceroy butterfly is often mistaken for a Monarch. It has a black bar across the lower part of its wings, which the real Monarch lacks. The Monarch’s black and orange colors of both butterfly and caterpillar signify “don’t eat me. I’m poisonous.” Most predators will not eat a second Monarch. Even so, only about ten percent of Monarch eggs, pupa or caterpillars survive to adulthood. Today they are threatened by land development that takes away their milkweed home and climate change that confounds their migrations. Their numbers are down over 80% in the last twenty years.
The long-lived Monarch appears undistinguishable from the other generations. Yet there is something inside that allows them to travel and endure far beyond its ancestors or descendents, a greatest generation of butterflies, appearing every fall.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
There was a large green caterpillar in the middle of our front door threshold. I attempted to move it from harm’s way. I gathered it into my hand. I immediately felt a sharp sting. I deposited it into the nearest grass.
I ran to my computer and searched “green caterpillar stings.” It was an Io moth caterpillar. It has poisonous quills. No kidding.
Standard treatment: place tape over the wound and pull, removing the quills. Wash with soap and water; apply cortisone cream to the infected area. It now felt like only a mild bee sting. Then I noticed the pain in my chest.
I read that caterpillar stings may cause difficulty in breathing for people with asthma, of which I have a touch. I couldn’t find exactly how worried I should be that my breathing had become labored. It said it was important to be calm and not panic. I had hoped panic would be useful.
I decided to lie still for one hour. By then this should have passed. If it had not I assumed I would still be able to drive for medical assistance or at least prevail upon a neighbor. I calculated there was some small possibility I would be asphyxiated by caterpillar venom and look really, really stupid in my obituary.
In an hour I was fine, breathing normally. I seemed to have been stung by only one quill. Had the caterpillar unloaded its full arsenal, who knows?
Regular readers might remember when I wrote about removing an Io moth from my threshold, which had been stunned by flying into my glass door. I moved it to a nearby bush, where it soon recovered and flew away. This is the thanks I get. I discovered that green caterpillars are often venomous, while brown almost never are. This caterpillar had been a bigger threat to me than any bear or snake I had yet encountered.
Heretofore my ignorance of the forest has been interesting to me. Today I found it also could be dangerous.
Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
Until this week I thought locust, cicada and katydid were different names for the same critter, like pop, soft drink and soda all indicated carbonated beverages. Regional differences. Wrong.
This is a locust. I think. A cicada looks like a big, scary fly. When I was a boy in northwestern Ohio I saw lots of outgrown nymphal exoskeletons of cicadas at the beginning of fall. Everybody called them locusts. I thought “cicada” was the scientific name for locust.
This persistent misidentification has long been common in the United States. England has only one species of cicada. They are little noted as their mating call frequency is above human hearing. When English colonialists observed the American cicadas’ swarming cycle, it proved so alarming they thought they were observing a biblical plague of locusts.
A real plague of locusts is significantly scarier and more destructive than the swarming cycles of cicadas. Locusts are usually solitary creatures, until they experience a food shortage. Then they transform. They start to follow each other in the same direction in search of food. They even change size and color, like Bruce Banner becoming The Hulk. Locusts will strip a field bare, and cause food shortages for humans.
I still equate the loud sounds of insects at dusk with the ending of summer and the beginning of school. This sound is largely cicadas. The soft buzzing sound of locusts may add harmony. Katydids provide a raspy, higher-pitched percussion, their mating call. “Katydid” is not a folk name for cicadas or locusts, as I also mistakenly thought. They are cricket-like and include over six thousand species, most of which are light green.
The forest sounds of approaching autumn are more variegated and complex than I imaged. What I thought were locusts are many species of several different distinct animals. The older I get, the wiser it seems to consider the possibility that on almost any fact, I might be completely wrong. The things I am most likely to be wrong about are the things I have been sure about the longest.
Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
The field near the creek is alive with goldenrod, a sign of fall approaching. That was why the dark yellow writing tablets of my early education were called Goldenrod Tablets.
I walked through the goldenrod without sneezing, convincing me that my severe pollen allergy had improved. A little research taught me that goldenrod is not the cause of allergies. Its pollen is too heavy and sticky to travel far, which is why many varieties of insects love it.
The allergy culprit is goldenrod’s frequent companion, burdened with the unappealing name ragweed. One ragweed plant can produce a billion grains of pollen in one season. The pollen is so light it has been found hundreds of miles out to sea. There are several ways to control ragweed, none of which work.
While ragweed is unwelcome almost everywhere, goldenrod gets a varied reception. It is considered a weed in America, invasive in Germany and China. It is a garden plant in most of Europe, especially in more wildly arranged English gardens.
Goldenrod contains a small quantity of rubber. Edison and Ford spent considerable time and money attempting to use it to make rubber tires, which proved impractical. Ragweed is of the more elegantly named genus ambrosia. There is disagreement among botanists regarding its historic uses. It is a “lost grain,” a plant once cultivated and important to human consumption, but no more.
Ragweed contains raw protein and fat. It grows above the snow, providing an important food source in winter. It has use as an antiseptic, emetic and emollient. Ancient peoples eventually replaced it with easier to grow and prepare grains like corn, soy and wheat.
Goldenrod’s mother might have said, “Stop hanging around ragweed. It will ruin your reputation.” It isn’t ragweed’s fault that it fell from being a sustaining crop, with its only distinguishing characteristic making people sneeze. Goldenrod stood by ragweed and today many people blame it for its companion’s annoyances. Ragweed might say, “I once had class. I was cultivated. I was somebody, not a lost grain, which is what I am.”
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
We planted milkweed to attract monarchs. Milkweed is the only thing they eat. We have had some. Last week we also had this creature.
This is a milkweed tussock or tiger moth caterpillar. “Tussock” means tufts of thick hair, “tiger” because of its black and orange stripes. The colors shared by tussocks and monarchs are a defense, announcing to predators they would be wise not to eat them. Milkweed contains a chemical that causes vomiting and in large doses, heart attack and death.
The tussock moth caterpillar is prey to bats, so they emit a sonic warning signal. They prefer mature milkweed plants. Milkweed grows very fast, a necessity for it to survive being the food source of fast-eating caterpillars.
Tussock caterpillars appear in late summer or early fall and survive winter in cocoons. In spring a grey moth appears, which I find to be an appealing taupe, with a tasteful black and orange center stripe, like wearing a school tie suggesting the colors of one’s youth.
The monarch and the moth survive together peacefully on the milkweed. Both are native to the areas they inhabit, though there are several on line questions asking, “How do I get rid of milkweed tussock moths?” Apparently some people prefer the bright and bold monarch to the subtle grays of the moth. Others may simply like butterflies better than moths. While some moths can be troublesome, the milkweed tussock is not among them, unless they are eaten, which means the predator has overlooked both warning colors and sonic discouragements.
I could not discern the caterpillar’s front from its back, other than by assuming it was moving forward. I found it both beautiful and fascinating in its unusual adornments. I didn’t exactly know what to make of it, whereas the monarch in all its stages is familiar, loved, its presence cultivated.
Invite the butterfly, the moth also appears. One does not have a more valid claim to the milkweed. One is not more poisonous than the other. The moth and butterfly are not rivals, but neighbors.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
It is not difficult for me to get close to a butterfly unless I’m trying to take its picture. There is something predatory in the way I approach them with my smart phone. It looks suspicious. I only achieved this photo because he was obsessed by his flower.
These species of butterfly and flower are both attracted to sunlight. The butterfly seeks the light, often flying high above the leaf canopy. They represent my part of the forest in the full, bright bloom of summer.
My first guess at identification was wrong. He is neither a monarch nor a false monarch, also known as a viceroy. He has the markings, shape and color of a male tiger swallowtail, except for the swallowtail. One might think this disqualifying. It is not. The tail may vary from quite long to almost non-existent. There are Eastern and Western varieties, which one must be advanced beyond the naïf stage to discern.
They are forest dwellers, bigger than monarchs. They love pink or red flowers and are here lunching on beebalm, also called bergamot, horsemint, oswego tea or Monarda, after the Spanish author of a book on plants of the New World in 1574. It was used by Native Americans as a general antiseptic and contains chemicals used in commercial antiseptics today.
Tiger swallowtails have evolved a few protections, as birds find them delicious. Their caterpillars have two large spots on the top of their heads that resemble eyes, and emit a foul odor from an appendage that looks like a tongue. Birds mistake them for snakes. The adults resemble a poisonous cousin.
The butterfly stage of the tiger swallowtail is about two weeks, which is also how long it takes for them to go through its earlier stages. This doesn’t seem very long to us, just as, perhaps, our life span seems sadly short to a three hundred year old beech tree. One can only conclude that life spans are as nature intended. If I have two weeks, living them as a butterfly seems lovely.
Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
Constant spring rain and intense, if periodic, summer sun have encouraged the grasses and bushes on both sides of the creek to heights I had not seen. Their greens and browns are sprinkled with the bright pinks of the steeplebush.
The steeplebush is a tall plant that attracts attention only with its narrow, spike-like clusters of color that appear in late June or July. It grows wild here but is sufficiently attractive that their seeds can also be purchased for gardens. It used to be called hardhack, as farmers had difficulty cutting it back.
In another culture it might have been called pyramid bush, or arrowhead. Its leaves serve a medicinal function as an astringent. Butterflies and other nectar-feeding insects love them, so creek walkers can find in mid-summer a blast of colors emanating from a butterfly at work on a steeplebush cluster.
“Steeple Bush” is also the name of one of Robert Frost’s last collection of poems, published in 1947. This man whose life was filled with melancholy, even depression, dedicated the volume to his grandchildren and therefore, to the future.
The first stanza of the second poem includes, “steeple bush is not good to eat, Will have crowded out the edible grass.” He continues with describing how the trees will replace the bushes, and the plow with fall the trees, then the grasses will return in “a cycle we’ll say of a hundred years.” He advocates patience and leaving time to take its course. The final couplet is “Hope may not nourish a cow or horse, but specs alit agricolam ‘tis said.”
“Specs alit agricolam” is the motto of a very old British farming family. It translates “Hope sustains the farmer.” The colors of the steeplebush, its nectar that attracts more color to it, enlivens the landscape like specs of hope in a green field of, at best, indifference.
Today I scan the news, looking for something to sustain me. If I read any small message as reassuringly lovely as a butterfly on a steeplebush amidst a field of weeds, I am comforted. Hope sustains us all.
Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
My first encounter with purslane was as an invasive weed in our driveway. I went to some trouble to remove it, without success.
It spread to our stone walk. If I pulled the larger stems, the smaller formed a rather attractive green border, so I left it. When it spread up the side of the garden, it appeared it would take over every open space. I started pulling again.
Enough eventually spread that it didn’t look like a weed any more. It looked like ground cover. It was a soft, textured mat for our several bushes and flowers. Like The Dude’s living room rug in “The Big Lebowski,” it pulled everything together.
Then a friend who is an expert in the forest told me it was edible! Pliny the Elder, the natural philosopher of the first century, called eating purslane a way “to expel all evil.” That might have been his pre-scientific way of explaining how healthy it is, containing a remarkable combination of omega three fatty acids, antioxidants and minerals.
I gathered some and began to prepare it for dinner. I discovered that pulling the leaves and smaller stems from the larger was almost as tedious as weeding them from the driveway. When I was finished, the large bowl of purslane had shrunk to a pathetically small amount that was edible.
I sautéed it by itself, wanting to acquaint myself with it, unsullied by more familiar flavors and textures. It did, as I had read, taste a bit like okra without the viscosity. The taste was strong for its volume, like it would play well with others. Next time I’ll make sure to pick only from the largest plants, to reduce preparation time, and to mix it with other greens.
A weed when it stands alone, this succulent becomes an attractive ground cover when it surrounds more colorful plants. Palatable but slightly bitter as a solo, it adds flavor to other greens in the frying pan. Purslane, kale and chard harmonize very well. Purslane is the David Crosby of invasive weeds.
** Warning: Please do not pick & eat any forest plant, without the advice of an expert.
Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
The tree was dying. A landscaper helping us regrade our driveway said we were killing it.
When the driveway was originally carved from the mountain, shale and other debris piled high around the trunk of the tree. It was dying of thirst. She suggested she could carry away the debris and construct a barrier. It was worth doing because it is a beech tree.
Beech trees have partially hollow trunks, home to small animals, who also eat beechnuts. The hollow trunks make them susceptible to be broken or blown over by high winds. Its wood is very versatile and is used in furniture, tool handles, plywood and railroad ties. Beech has a high heat rate and is also used as charcoal and firewood. It is pliable enough in thin cuttings to be used for drums and baskets. Its thin bark retains scars, making it a good medium for lovers’ initials and other carvers. Beech trees can live 300-400years.
It was used for writing tablets before paper was invented. The Old Norse word for “beech” was “bok.” That became the name for objects containing writing. In several European languages the word for book and beech are almost identical. I wonder if some people stuck with the beech tablets long after the book appeared, early late adapters?
Popsicle sticks are made from beechwood. The tree’s utility extends to advertising Beechnut baby food, chewing tobacco, gum and most famously, Budweiser’s “beechwood aging.” It is more precisely “beechwood hastening.” It is a nineteenth century process to hasten fermentation. The faster the fermentation, the more delicate the flavor. Or, the more imperceptible, depending on one’s taste.
Last summer, after the debris barrier was installed, more leaves budded on what had become an almost barren tree. Now there are so many leaves it was hard to get a photograph of the whole tree. Instead, I have shown the lighter bottom leaves looking toward the darker ones above. It should be spectacular in the fall. Saving and planting trees might be the key to saving the human race. Sometimes, it gets personal.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
Look closely at this photograph. Note the crayfish, crawfish, crawdad, freshwater lobster, mudbug or yabbie. Whatever they are called, a large number of creatures find them delicious.
Last week I featured a bald eagle, an apex predator centered in a bold, colorful photograph. This week we find an animal one might call omega prey. When my wife, Kathleen, approached this creature and took this photograph, she was impressed by its utter stillness and near invisibility. This is what you have to do to survive when everybody wants to eat you or use you for bait. Crayfish are found in many colors. The colors are always those of the surrounding environment. As Marisa Tomei said of the Joe Pesci character in My Cousin Vinny: “Yeah, you blend,” referring to the brash yankee’s attempt to appear southern. She was being sarcastic. Crayfish blend very well.
It is the state crustacean of Louisiana. Only six states have their designated crustacean, Pennsylvania not among them. Louisiana exports a hundred million pounds of crayfish per year. It has been a part of Cajun culture for centuries. The crayfish iconography in Louisiana, on tee shirts, tchotchkes and logos, is as ubiquitous as the Nittany Lion is locally. China recently supplanted Louisiana as the biggest crayfish exporter. I don’t know if China has a national crustacean.
Crayfish are intolerant of human pollutants. Their presence in our creek indicates a healthy habitat. There are a few invasive species. The rusty crawfish has caused problems in several areas in North America, including the Susquehanna River. These invaders eat anything and reproduce prodigiously, driving out or killing many kinds of plants and animals, destroying an ecosystem’s healthy diversity.
This particular crayfish just wants to be left alone to be quiet in our creek and not be used as bait, or be mistaken for a relative that looks similarly and destroys habitats. As a consequence, crayfish watching has not caught on. There are no crayfish watchers’ clubs, despite their various species and colors. Kathleen took the photo and left the crayfish to its stillness.