A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
This photograph of a bald eagle was taken by my cousin Brad Berger near the southern shore of Lake Erie, east of Toledo. I have used it with his permission because it is magnificent, and also because I’m apparently incapable of taking a photograph of a bird. I lack the equipment, skill, patience and stealth.
I had intended to write about the bald (“bald” used in a now obsolete sense, meaning “white”) eagle as a bird, not as the symbol of the United States, but I find this impossible. The symbolism is too pervasive. For instance, how does one take note that the Bald Eagle is an “apex predator,” at the top of the food chain, and not see a connection? When this bird became central to the Great Seal of the United States in 1782, it was to compare the new nation with the Roman Republic, which often used the golden eagle.
The bald eagle was severely endangered in the late twentieth century because of over-hunting and pesticides. Environmental regulation and enforcement enabled it to be removed from the list of threatened animals in 2007. Sea eagles that require large areas of water and very high trees, they can be seen almost anywhere locally. Their habitat includes all the United States, most of Canada and northern Mexico.
Their nests are the largest in North America: some eight feet wide, thirteen feet deep and weighing over a ton. Bald Eagles can soar as high as ten thousand feet and dive at one hundred miles per hour. These powerful birds have a weak, chirping whistle, like a sea gull. Reminds me of Mike Tyson, large punch and small voice.
This gigantic raptor was a sacred Native American symbol long before it perched on the Great Seal. Its feathers were used on ceremonial pipes and adornments, as a symbol of courage, wisdom and strength. The continent’s first people saw this eagle not just as an apex predator. It was a messenger to their Great Spirit. What message might the bald eagle carry today?
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
When we moved to our part of the forest in 2012, we discovered that down the road was an entrance to one of the most beautiful hiking trails in the state. We often walked there, though I seldom ventured the whole distance, much of which is more like climbing than hiking.
During the big storm of 2018, when many trees were felled, the trail was closed. One could see from the road the crosshatching of fallen trees amongst the bent and standing. It was dangerous and sad.
This trail has been one of the last to be cleared, even partially. Violet the Corgi and I ventured in, after seeing the forest service working hard for several days. We could enter as appreciative guests once again. A major factor in our enjoying life in the forest had been restored.
The path was the same. In some areas it had been restored by cutting through massive, fallen trees. Just off the trail the result of the storm remained. A great many trees had fallen on a great many still standing, forming countless abstract configurations and designs. This photo shows a fallen tree that managed to weave itself back and forth with seemingly impossible precision. The vast entirety of the forest remained as the storm had left it. The path cleared by and for the humans was a tiny thread.
The forest will bear the results of this storm forever. As the fallen timbers decay onto one another, knowledgeable hikers will comment, “All these fallen trees are from that big storm of 2018.” Or, there will be stronger storms that fall bigger trees, rendering what we now think of as “the big storm of 2018” not so big.
While everything changes, many things cannot be undone. The trails can be reopened, but the trees fallen will never again stand. I can now imagine a storm so strong that our parks would never reopen. We cannot replace nature, we can only preserve. There are wounds too deep for humans to heal.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
I found this Io moth at the foot of my front door. I gently nudged it. It responded with faint movement. I noticed a smudge of yellow, moth-colored dust on the door window, and something slightly viscous.
It is a sad and unintended consequence of our glass doors and sliders that we occasionally kill a bird or moth. As this moth was still alive, though barely, I left him alone. Violet the Corgi and I exited from the basement.
A few hours later, I checked the moth. His wings had retracted, the colorful orbs not exposed. I nudged him again. I sensed no movement, left him alone.
Still later I noted that his wings were again expanded. This time when I nudged him, he reached out and grasped my finger! He seemed to be saying, “I feel a little better now, but could you please get me out of this doorway. I feel dangerously exposed.”
He very slowly climbed onto my hand. I moved him to the corner of the deck, shaded by a potted plant. He slowly left my hand for the shade. I checked later in the afternoon; he was gone. I searched and didn’t see him. I conclude that he flew away, with a story of danger and survival to tell his mates.
The Io moth (pronounced EYE-oh, from a character in Greek mythology) exposes its colorful wings when threatened, to scare away predators. The male is yellow, the female much larger than the two-inch wing span of my visitor, and rust colored. They are nocturnal, so my friend felt threatened after his collision, finding himself in the daylight, severely injured. Note in this photo that either his left front leg or antenna is missing a segment.
I feel terrible when our glass doors injure a creature. When I can help it out of its predicament, I am happy that I have limited the damage my presence in the forest causes to those who have resided here far longer. Moderating the damage, doing as little harm as possible, is literally the least I can do.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
Wow! That’s a cool bug. I wonder what kind? I think I’ll do a web search for “black insect with white spots.” There are endless possibilities. Wait, here’s a candidate. Let me click on the site. What does it say?
Hum, I seem to have a Citrus Longhorn beetle here. Let’s find out more. Oh, my God! These are a very invasive and destructive species! Apparently an infestation can eat through a forest and leave a pile of chips. They are not listed as being found in Pennsylvania, but have been called “an unprecedented threat to the environment.”
This presents some alternatives. I could conclude that this is a Citrus Longhorn and immediately contact the Forest Service and County Extension and warn of this invasion! The sooner they know of this profound threat, the better they can fight it. It would be my civic duty.
Or, I could consider the possibility that I have not made the first Pennsylvania sighting of our insect overlords and do more research. I went deeper into the searches for Citrus Longhorn and found a “discerning similar beetles from one another” site. Does your bug have a prominent white spot right below what one might call the middle of its neck? If so, you probably have a White Spotted Pine Sawyer. It is often mistaken for a Citrus Longhorn, but has this spot. The Longhorn does not.
The White Spotted Pine Sawyer enjoys white pine, so prevalent here, but only goes for dead or dying trees and is therefore considered a “minor pest.” It usually shows up after Memorial Day through July. This is their season.
Now that I know the secret of the white spot, I will never again mistake a White Spotted Pine Sawyer for a Citrus Longhorn. Only a naïf in the forest would do that, not an experienced observer like myself, whose expertise in beetle identification now extends to two.
It does show the importance of knowing the difference between a minor pest and an unprecedented threat.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
This is a Fowler’s Toad. We know it is a toad and not a frog, because it has short, thick legs that seem to squat, and warts, while frogs’ legs are longer, thinner and smooth. The name comes from Samuel Fowler, a Massachusetts naturalist who lived from 1800-1888.
Having a toad, or any animal named after you, is quite an honor. There are strict rules about naming, among them that nothing rude or vulgar is allowed. Also, one may not name a plant or animal after one’s self, which is considered selfish and crude.
Fowler’s toads are small, two or three inches long. Their call sounds something like the bleat of a sheep and lasts up to four seconds. After a rainy summer evening a female may lay as many as twenty-five thousand eggs at once.
For several years I sprayed a concoction of 30% vinegar on the many invasive plants that constantly encroach my part of the forest. The thing I hated most about spraying is these frogs ran away, sometimes in pain, as they could not always avoid the spray. I tried not to think about this collateral damage and focused on the greater good of conquering the invasion of the stilt grass.
It took a few years, but I finally got it. The spray wasn’t working. It killed the tops but not the roots. The plants kept coming. I had injured, perhaps killed, toads and other little creatures in the interest of my garden hegemony.
No more. I will now pull the offending plants out by the roots, one by one, hour by hour. I will prevail. Maybe.
What I will not do is hurt any more toads. I took this photo knowing the worst I was doing is disturbing a nap. I am happy they have no more reason to run from me, or be scared away by my approach.
It is good to quit doing harm, especially when that harm is rationalized as necessary to maintain dominance. It is better to live with than to live over.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
The previous photos for this blog have been literal. If I wrote about a bug, the photograph was of the bug. This week is different. The photo is intended to be representative of “peace and quiet.” It was taken just beyond my back yard.
I didn’t know how to photograph “peace and quiet” other than to show a place where I find it. “Peace and quiet” is a relative term. When I lived in Jersey City and emerged from the PATH train after a day in Manhattan, I was always appreciative of the peace and quiet that greeted me. Part of the attraction of the forest for city dwellers is peace and quiet. One of the joys of living here is that the peace and quiet is always with me.
An unintended consequence of living more quietly is greater awareness and sensitivity when that quiet is disrupted. While I once ignored the noise of the traffic heading for the Holland Tunnel, I now sometimes react to a single truck or motorcycle announcing its presence on our lightly traveled road. In the spring, the early birds seem to raise quite a racket. I am sensitive when a new neighborhood leaf blower, chain saw or all-terrain vehicle reports.
I seldom react to gunfire, however. It is as much a part of the forest’s soundtrack as woodpeckers. It has a seasonal arc and rises during holidays. Hearing dozens of shots here is less ominous than a single pistol shot in Jersey City.
The quiet of the forest integrates the senses. Irish poet Robert Lynd wrote, “In order to see birds it is necessary to become a part of the silence.” As I learn to walk slowly and quietly through the forest, I become more aware of what I am seeing, touching: this rough bark and that smooth, damp moss, the largest trees and smallest insects. I embrace the near silence and recoil when some random human invention a quarter-mile distant interrupts it. If I have failed to become part of the silence, at least I honor its passing.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
This aging dandelion head at the edge of the forest gleamed like a thousand points of light. The dandelion is everybody’s first flower. Is there anybody in America who had a mother that didn’t give a bouquet of dandelions to her, received as though they were rare and fragile orchids?
Later our opinion changes. The dandelion degenerates from flower to weed, the curse of suburbanites yearning for the perfect lawn. Yet forest dwellers know them as an herb, a bitter leaf of high nutritional and medicinal value. Unlike some plants, they are even healthy for dogs, improving canine digestion.
There is nothing biological to the terms “flower,” “weed,” or “herb.” A dandelion can be called any of these, depending on the eye of the beholder and the role the dandelion has in the beholder’s world. One thing it is not, however, is an invasive plant.
Invasive plants displace natives, creating a monoculture of their own species. They deplete the soil and reduce plant diversity, which in turn limits the ability of an area to support a diversity of food for animals.
Dandelions do none of these things. Dandelions are technically natives of Eurasia. Their light, fuzzy seeds are so easily carried through air that they have made homes almost everywhere. They aerate the earth, making growth easier for other plants. They reduce erosion. Their deep roots mine minerals, bringing them closer to the surface and available to other plants.
They appear in early spring, which is also the best time to gather them for food, as the earlier in their growing season, the less bitter the leaves. Larger leaves that grow upward will be less bitter than those that grow horizontally. Shaded plants will also be more palatable, as sunlight stimulates growth, which increases bitterness.
A dandelion may look out of place on a putting green, but is at home and welcome in the forest. A plant that increases diversity and makes its neighbors healthier should not be mistaken for an invader. To do so discredits the observer, not the plant.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
The first robin of spring and the first flower are not spring’s only harbingers. There is also the first mosquito, the first tic, the first big spider. This one was about three inches from end to end. I disturbed her when I removed the deck chair covers from their bin. She scurried away.
I think she is a dark fishing spider, Dolomedes tenebrosus. The females are much larger and, like many spiders, sometimes kill and eat the males, depending whether, during courtship, she is more in need of a mate or a meal. Timing is everything.
Fishing spiders usually dwell near water and hunt for small aquatic life. They can swim under water or, not miraculously in their case, walk upon it. What is unusual about tenebrosus is it is a fishing spider that doesn’t fish. She is a water spider that lives in the forest, the only one of over a hundred varieties of Dolomedes to do so.
They live in forests near human dwellings, and frequently find themselves indoors. They appear in April and begin hibernation in the fall. Their bite is slightly venomous, like a bee’s. They are timid and run from humans, as this one did. They eat various insects and burrow into the ground if threatened.
I respect a fishing spider that doesn’t fish, that has adapted to a different environment from that of her relatives. At some evolutionary point did tenebrosus decide that walking on water was okay, but wanted some shade? What random complexity of evolution brought this about? Did some of the dark fishing spiders wander too far from the river and had to find food and shelter among the trees, some succeeding?
I read something more intentional into it. I imagine a spider finding the fishing life too complex, too busy. Too many other spiders competed for too few insects. The river might have been a bad influence on spiderlings. Like Dolomedes tenebrosus, I am not a natural in the forest, yet we both survive by adapting when we can, scurrying away when we must.
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
I think this is the most artistic photograph of a slug I have ever seen, if I do say so myself. This one was found on the second step of our deck, shimmering in contrast to the lichen or mold that perhaps attracted it.
Almost three inches long, it might be the biggest slug I’ve ever seen. This shows that any kind of weather will be advantageous to some life form. Our soggy spring apparently is a boon to giant slugs.
The little horn-like things in the lower right are optical tentacles, sort of eyes, that withdraw if the slug is scared, which is probably often, as they are on the food chain of a great many species. They are also occasional pests to humans, when they gather in numbers so large as to threaten crops. They survive by being able to eat almost anything, and occasionally become predators. They are capable of behaving aggressively if challenged in times of food scarcity, though I have a hard time imagining an aggressive slug.
I can, however, imagine an aspirational one. In fact, I think I have found one. This slug was on the second step of our deck, boldly going where no slug had gone before. That means that it ascended to this position from whatever moist, gooey place it lives, by traveling over a sidewalk and a step. It had to travel vertically and avoid predators. It risked that there would be sufficient moisture when arriving that it would survive to enjoy the green mold and return to its family to brag forever about the time it traveled high and far from home. It helps that it can travel as easily vertically as horizontally. Slugs are also hermaphrodites, which may or may not be a factor in either their aggressions or aspirations.
What we will never know is if this journey was intentional or, like so many human adventures, just happened, a consequence of wandering too far from home and luckily returning. A slug’s foot should exceed its slime trail, or what’s a deck step for?
A Naif in the Forest by Darrell Berger
Wing Tips to Hiking Boots: Musings of a New, Full-Time Poconos Resident
My wife brought home a huge hanging Oxalis to replace our winter bird feeder. It attracted a couple of robins.
“What are they so interested in?” I asked.
“There must be some insects on the plant,” she guessed.
“That is one big robin,”
“Maybe she’s pregnant.”
The next few days brought as various and contrary weather has we have had since the last not quite spring. Some days were sunny. Most were gray and damp. Two were balmy and we could sit on our deck. One night there was what everyone hoped was the season’s final frost.
I hadn’t seen the robins in a few days. I looked to discover what had been so interesting to them. It was a nest, far from finished. They had not returned.
Robins don’t migrate, exactly, but they will travel south as food becomes scarce. They build their nests almost anywhere, altitude and material being less important than peace, quiet and security.
The couple must have started their nest when our deck seemed perfect. Then, there goes the neighborhood! We started hanging out right next to them. There was even a dog.
Robins will abandon a nest if it is discovered or disturbed. They will seldom return to a nest that has been moved, regardless of how carefully. They navigate back and forth, and feel secure, not merely from the nest itself, but from the whole nest setting. Our couple might have reconsidered whether our deck was sufficiently secluded and secure, as well they might. It is also possible that the copious amount of mud available this season tricked the robins into nesting before her ovulation.
They may return, as there is plenty of time to complete the five or six days necessary for construction, before it would be needed. As interesting as this would be to observe, it’s not something that should be observed. It would be better for the robins to find a more secluded location to enjoy the peace and quiet that their instinct seeks . I live very peacefully, but to a newly hatched robin, I’m Godzilla.