The noise is shocking. The intense background hum of thousands – millions? – of 17-year cicadas humming their love song.  As I move away from the parking lot at Highbanks Metro Park in Ohio, the sound fades.  I’m used to the rising drone of the annual cicadas culminating in a pulsing alarm-like rhythm.  The sound of this single insect is the sound of summer in Illinois.  However, there are no discernible individual songs for these periodical cicadas, just an unreal cacophony of white noise. (Turn your sound up for the video).

A wide rolling path leads me through a mixed hardwood forest, past shale-lined creeks, to the Olentangy River overlook high above the bank. The sound of cicadas has completely faded away deep in the woods.  However, I can tell when I’m approaching a clearing as the din of the insects ramps back up again.

The Lifecycle

The 17-year Brood X cicadas (Magicicada) started emerging in this area last week.  Once the ground temperature warms to 64 degrees, the nymphs begin to emerge from their subterranean homes. They bore up through the soil at night, seeking the nearest vertical object where they will transform.

Their back splits down the middle like the Incredible Hulk bursting out of containment. The soft, vulnerable white insect peels out of its seventeen-year shell. Its body hardens in the air turning matte black.  Their folded, dark, mangled wings unfurl to purely translucent flight.

Their hard shell is made of the same stuff (chitin) as shrimp, lobsters, and crab shells, prompting the caution that those with shellfish allergies not eat them. Also, like fish, they are high in mercury, so don’t overindulge. As if I needed a reason!

Only the males sing. The females are silent. After mating, the Magicicada lays two to four dozen eggs in the split bark of a tree.  The 17-year cicadas have to make the most of their few weeks above ground, so they will mate many times with females laying upwards of 600 eggs.  Two months later, after all of the adult cicadas have perished, the eggs quietly hatch out small, white shrimp-like juveniles who fall to earth and immediately burrow down.

Having the longest known lifecycle of any insect, they will spend the next seventeen years feeding on tree roots (drinking the xylem) and maturing before they emerge at the end of their lives. 

In Perspective

The last time this happened, seventeen years ago in 2004, Facebook was in its infancy exclusively at Harvard, the last episode of Friends aired, and it was still three years before the first iPhone was released.

The usual Midwest forest characters are all here; the spiders in their shimmering webs, the mushrooms decomposing fallen wood, the lilting chatter of songbirds flitting through the canopy, and squirrels and chipmunks scurrying about always with a cautious eye on the trail.

I’m stopped in my tracks by a novel sight.  Pinecones? Mushrooms? A Midwest pineapple? It’s American cancer-root a fully parasitic plant that grows on the roots of oak trees that is native to the eastern US.  Nature always has something new to teach me.

The cicada emergence is a buffet for all of the forest denizen. Everyone here eats cicadas. Their millions of numbers emerging at once is their survival strategy. They can’t all be eaten.

Back at the parking area, the intensity of the buzzing grows. I follow my ears across the road to the picnic area, where the smell of death is staggering. A few big oaks here are surrounded by exit holes in the soil and piled with nymph carcasses. Adult cicadas crawl on the trunk and on me.

It’s overwhelming – the smell, the sight, the insects in the air and squashed on the jogging path.

They said there would be billions, but it’s hard to wrap my head around a number that big.  It’s a spectacle that was awe-inspiring to visit. Nevertheless, like many things, I wouldn’t be excited to have them in my backyard.

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The post 17-Year Cicadas appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

Vince Shute and the American Bear Association

I’m on my way to Orr, Minnesota, a town of 200 people located near Voyageur’s National Park, to spend the weekend photographing black bears at the Vince Shute Wildlife Sanctuary. A little explanation is in order. Vince Shute was a logger with a homestead up here in the remote Northwoods in the mid-1900s. He had a problem with black bears repeatedly breaking into his cook shack, and for a shamefully long time, before realizing there was a better way, he shot them.   One day, he thought that since the bears didn’t intend harm, they are just hungry, he would begin feeding them outside the perimeter of his camp. It worked like a charm.  The bears chose the easy food and left Vince in peace. From the 1970s-1990s, he fed them, growing more attached to them as they became more habituated to him. He started naming them and came to think of them as family.  In the days when Yellowstone National Park was installing bleachers for visitors to watch bears at the dumps, Vince was inviting people to come and feed his bears to gain a better understanding of them. He was hoping to replace fear and persecution with understanding, but it got a bit out of control.  Known as “The Bear Man,” Vince would sit in an old aluminum lawn chair with a fraying woven seat and hand-feed “his” bears. The visitors exploited Vince’s mild demeanor by taking unsavory liberties like petting, feeding, and putting children next to the wild bears for pictures.

A Better Plan

As Vince grew older and his controversial feeding practices drew more attention, he began to worry about what would happen to his bears when he was no longer around to protect them.  The American Bear Association (ABA) was formed in 1995 to manage the bears and the property.  Their first task was separating the public from the wildlife.  In 1996 volunteers built a viewing platform to keep the visitors from touching, feeding, and generally misbehaving among the bears.

Many long discussions were had about whether to continue feeding the bears.  As a conservation organization, the ABA strictly opposes the feeding of wild bears. However, the land would not support the number of bears currently in the area without supplemental feeding.  There was concern that these bears could become nuisance bears as hunger drove them into contact with people, homesites, and towns.  On the up-side, it provides a unique interpretive opportunity for education and research.  Ultimately, the hard-wrought decision was made to continuing feeding the bears in a more controlled manner.

“Obviously, this choice will always stir debate, which is certainly understandable. To be sure, ABA struggles with the decision every day. We agree that the situation is not perfect. But the outstanding opportunities for “teachable moments” at Vince’s homestead begged for a chance to transform prevailing unrealistic and fear-driven judgments about bears into more accurate and respectful ones. ABA’s efforts could reap long-term benefits by nurturing more tolerant and safer human/bear relations.”  – Klari Lea, past-president ABA

The bears are fed no protein. Instead of the pancakes and sweet rolls that they used to gorge upon, they now get oats, seeds, and nuts left in piles throughout the viewing area.  It is estimated that the bears get 30% of their nutrition from the site and still forage and “act like wild bears” for the other 70%.  In fact, during good wild berry seasons, the numbers of bears visiting the sanctuary plummets.  Some bears only use the sanctuary as a way-station to fuel up before continuing on their journey. The Minnesota Department of Natural Resources did a four-year radio-collar study on bears that use the refuge and found that they range pretty far and don’t become “problem bears.” 

The sanctuary offers summer internship programs for college students studying wildlife sciences or conservation.  They live rustically on-site, provide labor to the sanctuary, educate visitors, and conduct their own research projects.

Site-specific habituation

Many of the bears that visit the sanctuary are used to people within the small feeding area and consequently ignore us. However, many of the bears are still wary and stay within the cover of the woods or only visit at night to avoid people.  Over the rest of the 360-acre property, the bears are hazed away from people and structures.  Because of this, the bears are wary of and avoid people outside of the feeding area.

I was a little apprehensive about coming up here because of the feeding practices and concern that it would alter the bears’ behavior.  Now that I know why they do it, the limitations and precautions in place, and have seen these bears engaging in such a variety of normal bear behaviors, I am more comfortable with it.  I had an unprecedented opportunity to observe and photograph a wide array of wild black bear behaviors in these beautiful Northwoods.  I’ve been amazed at the care of mothers with their young and laughed at the antics of curious, playful one-year-olds. I watched hierarchies play out as one bear calmly and quietly ceded space to another.  Every day, there were some of the regulars and always newcomers in the area, too.  Random wildlife encounters that require planning, stealth, patience, and some degree of luck remain most extraordinary. This feels a little bit like cheating. Having said that, it was an unforgettable, immersive educational experience.  Stay tuned for the bear stories!

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I often get distracted walking past my patio doors by the sights outside: songbirds eating, bluejays demanding their peanuts, ducks waddling in the lawn, a swimming muskrat, a foraging beaver, hunting herons, coyotes passing through, deer, geese, anything and everything.

My camera sits on the table right here, always ready. Today, I paused to watch the two Canada Goose families raising their goslings here. The kids are getting their downy grey feathers transforming from cute yellow fluff balls into ugly ducklings on their way to adulthood. They are nearing my garden. Over the last week, they’ve been venturing further from the safety of the pond as their goslings grow.

I started to photograph the families. The one gosling is about a week older and still subtly larger than the four from the other brood. Even though they hang out together, they never comingle. Suddenly, they flushed. The goslings ran as fast as their little legs would carry them, flapping their near-naked wings to speed them along. Their parents were running right behind. I thought that the dog next door must’ve come outside. A fence restrains her, but she takes delight in shooing the geese. The geese, not ones to take chances, always oblige.

The Pursuit

When I looked up, I saw a coyote coming full speed from the corner of the woods, closing the distance with every stride. The adults could’ve taken to the air and safely made it to the pond, but they wouldn’t leave their goslings running for their lives.   The last goose, an adult, tried to take flight as the coyote lunged into the air with her mouth open. Her jaws caught just enough of the goose to foil her escape. They continued dashing down the incline toward the pond and out of my sight. I could only hear all of the geese honking and squawking in panic.

The Catch

The coyote stopped at the edge of the pond, head down. I could only see her shoulders but could tell by her posture that she had caught one. I thought she’d seized the last gosling – the singleton, the lone survivor of his clutch. It seemed to me that an adult would put up a fight. This was over in an instant. The coyote intermittently looked up and around, feathers protruding from her mouth and sticking to her tongue. She looked like she was feasting right here.

I continued taking pictures, conflicted by the exhilaration of Wild Kingdom in my backyard, the gratitude that I had my camera in hand as this unfolded, and the sadness of empathy for these goose families that I’ve come to know.

The coyote sees me

I’d stepped just outside the door when I first saw the coyote but hadn’t moved any closer. In fact, I’d hardly moved a muscle. She had looked in my direction but didn’t see me until now. She gently gathered up her catch, and it was only then that I saw she’d killed one of the adults. She held a limp, lifeless Ethel in her teeth. The entire sequence lasted just two minutes. 

Canada Geese are surprisingly big birds. This will be a hearty meal. The huntress casually trotted off, turning back towards the scene one last time before disappearing into the woods. I like to think she has a den full of pups that are going to eat well today.

On the water, Fred is honking with his sole gosling by his side. The other family of six geese paddles silently nearby. He’s looking at the shore where he’d last seen Ethel as if waiting, hoping, for her to reappear. It’s heartbreaking to watch. Just a few moments later, Fred is silently preening. His gosling is doing the same. “Is this a displacement behavior?” I wonder. Then, all of the geese casually swim away.

Resilience

I saw them later that afternoon, resting in the adjoining yard. Three weeks have passed since then, and I haven’t seen any of them. It makes good sense. I wonder if Fred and a new mate will return to nest here next year. After all, Mama Duck keeps returning year after year to nest and lay eggs even though she’s never been successful. Having your eggs eaten must be equally traumatic.

That’s just how nature works sometimes. Next spring, I’ll be waiting to see who shows up.

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The post Backyard Drama: Coyote versus Geese appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

A friend recently suggested a village park that has all of the typical spring woodland wildflowers of northern Illinois.  “Wait to go until the bluebells are blooming,” she added.  Last Tuesday afternoon, under the threat of storms building out west, I drove to the park. This public park is a bit of a secret located at the end of a dead-end, private road that sharply deters visitors.  It’s two miles from my house. Two miles. I’d never been here before, although I drove past it once just to have a look about a decade ago.

An Auspicious Arrival

I parked off the side of the road at the Wildlife Sanctuary sign, where I noticed a footpath into the weedy, vine-laden forest.  At that moment, a Cooper’s Hawk flew in front of me, hefting prey in its talons and alit on a branch ahead.  I quickly switched from my wildflower lens to my wildlife lens and snuck up behind the trunk of a nearby tree.  The hawk must’ve known I was there but gave no indication – not a pause, not a glance, not a flick of the tail.  What a fantastic opportunity to watch this adept predator pick apart his meal, a songbird—one bird giving life to another.

Standing on the carcass, pulling with his beak, flipping pieces around with his small rigid tongue to position them for swallowing, he methodically consumed every last bit. The hawk must’ve plucked the feathers elsewhere, got disturbed, and flew off to this lucky location.  Once he was done, he scratched vigorously at his neck, ruffling the feathers, shook his head, and flew up to a nest high behind me!

This hawk probably hatched last year.  While the rusty breast is characteristic of adult Cooper’s Hawks (the juveniles have brown and white streaked breast feathers), the yellow eyes are a sign of youth.  Once fully mature, these hawks have striking red eyes.  However, this bird is not too young to be breeding this season at this nest.  I will keep an eye on it as the season progresses.

Into the Woods

Now, back to the flowers.  I started along the worn path lined with invasive honeysuckle, garlic mustard, and buckthorn.  There were a few small clusters of bluebells and some beautiful violets ranging from dark purple to lavender and white along the side of the trail.  I was not optimistic about what I’d find.

The trail sign tells me to turn north.  My directions were to “follow the path south, then west and then north again. Don’t stop until you get to the bridge behind Mary’s house.”  I don’t know Mary.  Or where she lives.  I assumed the directions would make sense once I got my feet on the ground.  

So I turned onto the broad mowed path, passing several more foot trails that veered off diagonally to the northwest. Here there are more bluebells, some in abundant stands carpeting the forest floor in green and blue.  And more unique violets. I hadn’t gone far before finding myself looking at an open prairie. 

On the far side are a classic park information board, some wooden benches, and the road I had parked along.  To my left, I can see a white house and manicured lawn through the trees.  I bet this prairie is something to see come July. Mental note made.  I backtracked to the first side trail and headed west again, moving through a maze of singletrack trails. 

A Wonderland Revealed

The forest began to thin, and the ground started to rise. At the top of a small hill, the forest opened up to an oak woodland carpeted in wildflowers as far as I could see.  My mouth fell open at the spectacle.  It was as if a curtain pulled back in this weedy forest and revealed a bluebell wonderland.

My progress slowed to a crawl as I stopped to inspect and photograph bluebells in every hue from bubblegum pink to subtle lavender to purple to pale blue, baby blue, cerulean, and more.

Mayapples with their umbrellas fully deployed stood a foot high, their tiny green buds still clenched tightly underneath their leaves.   Fallen trees in weathered grays and rusty browns accent the rolling landscape and serve as roadways for squirrels and chipmunks.

I crossed a small stone bridge over a dry, seasonal creek behind the white house I saw from the prairie before.

This must be Mary’s house.  I am still amid a wildflower wonderland, so even though I came to the bridge, I continued.

Wildlife trails are in abundance.  Subtle lines parting the sea of blooms reveal the usual routes.  I’m sure there are raccoons hidden nearby sleeping the day away. And owls must nest up in these tall, stately oaks and standing snags.  There is evidence of a pileated woodpecker at the base of a tree.  These woodpeckers have made a resurgence in the area over the last 1-2 years.  I have yet to see one up here, though.

All This and A River, Too

The path curves around the base of a steep slope leading up to Mary’s property on the right.

On the left is a small river with a floodplain twice its breadth. The river bottom is full of skunk cabbage’s broad, sculptural leaves dotted with tiny yellow buttercup blooms and an occasional clump of marsh marigold.  Again, I’m stunned.

Ahead there is a substantial wooden bridge crossing the waterway.  That must be the bridge referenced in my directions.  Upstream of the bridge is a wide, relatively still pool in the river.  I approached slowly and quietly, anticipating ducks on the water. 

The grassy-edged pool was devoid of life.  Gray clouds are beginning to pass overhead.  I checked the weather radar on my phone (the gifts of technology!).  The rain is still a ways off.  The path continues on the other side of the bridge.  I want to keep following it.

The woods thicken. The vines and honeysuckle return.  The wildflowers are still here, but more sparsely now.  I think I could follow this path a long way.  It looks like it might join a horse trail into the next town. Another day I will come back and find out.

Back across the bridge, I stepped down toward the floodplain to get closer to the marsh marigolds and buttercup among the skunk cabbage.  The ground is saturated, and the water table is high. The clean, clear groundwater seeps over my toes as my sandal sinks under my weight in the soft earth. It is way too wet for me to get closer.  As I turn to retreat, I catch a whiff of a musky smell that I associate with foxes.  Pausing to let it linger on my nose, I think, “No, that’s a skunk.”  I look around and then laugh at myself.  It’s the skunk cabbage!  The odor is how it gets its name.

I followed a different trail on my meander back to the car.  Woodland poppies are blooming amidst the mayapple leaves.  I’d never seen wild celandine before.  The wide, lobed, veined, palmate mayapple leaves make a compelling backdrop for these blooms.  I wade into the bouquet, carefully placing each foot to avoid crushing plants. 

Bright yellow poppies, the pinks and blues of bluebells, and an early blooming wood phlox accent the greens of the fern fiddleheads and mayapple umbrellas. 

The temperature is dropping, and the wind is picking up.  I try to increase my pace.  There is so much pristine beauty around me; I can’t help but stop and stare.  This property used to be owned and managed by the Audubon Society before the village bought it.  It’s clear that it is still lovingly cared for.

I find the first prairie trilliums of the season blooming in this part of the park.

An occasional nodding white trillium stands among them, not yet in bud.  Wild ginger also appears in small masses in this part of the woodland.

The sweeping vistas of mayapples and bluebells set off by the fallen and leaning trees make for great photography in every direction.

With a few steps, I’ve left the wonderland and am back into the cloak of the forest overrun by invasives again.

Find Your Bliss

There are hidden gems near you no matter where you are, and no matter what looks like beauty to you.  Get out and find one. Be amazed.

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The post A Local Wonderland appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

e·phem·er·al (əˈfem(ə)rəl): lasting for a very short time.

They brighten the dull brown forest floors even before winter has really left. Spring ephemerals put all of their energy into carpeting the woodland in color and then fade away under the shade of the full canopy. Unencumbered by the leaves of the trees, they soak up the warm spring sun as it thaws the ground. The show has many acts. You could visit the same area twice weekly for a month or more and see a different flower dominating the scene each time. 

All of the images included here were taken over the last ten days in Kane County Forest Preserves.  First, I visited Johnson’s Mound Forest Preserve on a 60-degree, bluebird sky day. A few days later I hiked the woods at Dick Young Forest Preserve with partial cloudiness, biting wind, intermittent snow flurries, and 20-degree wind chills. Lastly, I explored Tekakwitha Woods Forest Preserve on a gray, 50-degree morning.  Here is what I found.

Bloodroot

It starts with bloodroot.  Bright white blooms burst forth on a single spindly stem embraced by a curled palmate leaf. As the foliage unfurls, the petals will fall, leaving the stem and broad scalloped leaves that will remain until fall.

I prefer the closed flower in its intimate relationship with the leaf. For me, the fully open flowers lack the drama and emotion of the embraced bud. The dramatic shape and the course, veined texture of the leaves, make them a compelling subject even without the flower. Those in the know anticipate the bloodroot bloom in late March and early April, scouring the forest floor in search of this first sign of spring.

Hepatica

Hepatica is another early spring bloomer. Diminutive, delicate flower clusters grow on fuzzy stems as if arranged in a bouquet. They arrive in hues of soft blues, lavender, and white. The flowers close, hanging toward the ground each night. The light of the sun stimulates them to open and reach for the sky with each new day. These flowers last for 2-3 weeks. Like the bloodroot, their characteristic, smooth, trilobed leaves will emerge after the flowers fade and remain through the growing season.

Mayapple

Colonies of mayapple are starting to push through the leaf litter. They erupt like pale green fat fingers.

As the stem grows taller, the leaves unsheath and begin to unfurl. They are wound tightly on the stem like a folded umbrella hugs its handle.  The green flower bud leads the way, pointing to the sky.  It’s not until the stem has almost reached its full height that the leaves open up. 

Plants in their first year will have one leaf, while those in their second year have two.  It is only the two-leaved mayapples that produce flowers.  Their white flowers, which as you may expect, bloom in May and hang downward underneath the palmate leaves above.  If you see a photographer lying on their belly in the woods this spring, it’s probably a wildflower photo they’re after.

Dutchman’s Breeches

Bloodroot and hepatica are followed closely by Dutchman’s Breeches. Pairs of pantaloons line up on arching stems above fern-like mounds of leaves. The flowers glisten as if perpetually dewy.  These flowers seem exotic in the midwest hardwood forests.

Spring Beauties

Aptly named spring beauties are petite pink striped flowers with grass-like leaves. The stripes are often called Bee Lines because they guide bees to the nectar. These flowers conserve their energy and only open on warm, sunny days when pollinators are likely to be active. On cold, gray days, their flowers are closed into tight, tiny buds barely noticeable on the forest floor. These are one of my favorite early ephemerals.

The snaking grass-like leaves of this plant drew me to photograph these

Petite Spring Beauty Blossom and Bud

Trout Lily

Carpets of mottled spear-shaped pairs of leaves in greens and burgundy foretell the delicate white trout lily. Dangling buds appear on a single stalk that arching sharply at the top.  These lilies will open facing the ground.

The petals often have a pink cast, especially when young. As the flower opens, the petals curl back up to the sky, giving the plant the recognizable monkshood lily shape. The leaves appear in early spring with the buds soon to follow. However, the full flower doesn’t usually appear until mid to late spring.

Cutleaf Toothwort

Like some other spring wildflowers, cutleaf toothwort conserves its energy for a sunny day. Overcast, chilly days will see the blooms droop and partially close, whereas sunshine reveals erect stems with flowers facing the sky. Its nectar is vital to many species of bees, and it is common through Illinois woodlands. It doesn’t get me excited like some of the other flowers I’ve mentioned, but I would be remiss not to include it here.

 

Up and Coming

The red trillium are up next, their buds waiting at the center of three mottled leaves. Next week they will be open. The Virginia bluebells, violets, bellwort, and phlox also aren’t far behind. Between now and early May, there are bright surprises in the woodlands right outside your door. Get out, recharge, and take in some of the hope of spring.

Bonus Images

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The post Woodland Ephemerals: Hope Springs Eternal appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

This oak leaf is impaled by the turkey feather. How does it happen that the quill pierces the leaf? Wouldn’t you think it would just push the foliage to the side and continue on its trajectory?  I’d like to know the full story.

Not far from the feather and leaf, was this shed antler peeking out of the leaf cover. In all my years of hiking in deer habitat, I have never found an antler.  I looked for its pair to no avail. Conventional wisdom has it that when one falls, the other is close behind.  It has cute little teeth marks on it where rodents chew to get valuable minerals.

It was the year of the spider in southwest Iowa.  Spider silk is still drifting through the fields on the fall breezes.  Apparently, the orb weavers had a heyday.  The remains of their silks are caught up on the tips of dried plants, so artfully arranged.

These large wasp nests hang from trees throughout the park.  The cottony substance filling some of the chambers is attention-grabbing along with what appear to be insects – the remains of the colony? – in others.  The paper home was too high for closer inspection. And, as these are wasps and not bees, I’m not sure I would’ve inspected more closely if I could have.

I’ve never seen a mole in the flesh before.  I noticed this one out in the open. It was near the lakeshore where the ground is rutted with burrowing mole trails and digs.  Look at those hands!  Don’t they look like big man hands with such human-like fingernails?  If you didn’t know a thing about moles and saw one, you’d know they are excavators.

I wrote about the ecosystem at Point Reyes National Seashore here and how it revolves around gophers.  The ecosystem at Waubonsie State Park, however, is powered by the oaks.  Everyone eats the acorns; turkeys, squirrels, rodents, deer, coyotes, foxes, woodpeckers, blue jays…

I was surprised by the number of deer bones that I encountered.  Mostly cannon bones (the lowest leg bones), but a variety of others, too.  I could assemble an 18-legged deer in no time at all.

Nature is always telling stories.  Some are easier to piece together than others. Clearly, a blue jay met its demise here, likely eaten by a raptor.  Only feathers remain, not a drop of blood, not a piece of skin or bone.  Plucked and consumed entirely.

Further along the same trail, I found a fresh kill site. One bright red piece of keel bone still laid among all the white woodpecker feathers. I may have scared the predator away.

One of my favorite ways to glimpse the secrets of the woods is through footprints.  I’ve written about tracking before here and here.  I always get excited to see who’s been around when I wasn’t.

Unexpected desert yucca grows on the river bluffs of southwestern Iowa.  Look at the white curls formed from the edges of the leaves.

YuccaWhen there aren’t animals around, I find animals anyway.  A cute little screech owl face in a mushroom, a whale in a burl of wood or prairie flowers long-since-gone, their barren stalks bracing into the wind like little faces.

The patterns of oak leaves frozen in the pond edges accented with duckweed kept me entertained for longer than I care to admit.

The trees themselves have treasures, too.  A thickly-barked tree wears a single, solid stripe (from sap?) snaking artfully down its side.  A thick old cedar appears to have been cleaved neatly in two.  The intimidating thorns of the honey locust grasp winding vines, like ornaments and garland on a Christmas tree.  And, when the limb of a neighboring tree grew too close, it was devoured.  The result is reminiscent of Cookie Monsters simple, but wide mouth.

So get out there, find the path less traveled and marvel at what you might find.

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The post Treasures Found in the Woods appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

Nebraska City sits on the banks of the Missouri River just south of its confluence with the Platte River.  The Platte River drains 50,000 square miles of the eastern Rocky Mountains in Wyoming, northern Colorado, and the Great Plains of Nebraska.  The Missouri River is the longest river in the United States coursing over 2300 miles from its headwaters in Yellowstone National Park to the Mississippi River north of St. Louis.  It drains over 520,000 square miles of land, over one-sixth of the United States.  Last winter brought record snows to the mountains and 200-400% of the average rain.  Snowmelt, accelerated by persistent spring rains, resulted in this catastrophic flooding.  The forecast for the upcoming winter is just as snowy.

Today, the Missouri River is at 19.7 feet, 1.7 feet above flood stage and forecast to remain above flood stage into December. Homes, fields and roads are still underwater.

 The US Army Corps of Engineers will spend $1 billion on temporary levee repairs patching the 40 breached levees between Omaha and Kansas City.  Highway 2 that joins Nebraska city to Iowa is being raised to prevent a recurrence of the bridge closure and the severe economic impact it had on the region.

 The project will be completed in November 2020.  In the meantime, the six Missouri River reservoirs upstream are at capacity.  And Montana and North Dakota have already had record amounts of snow.

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The post The Power of Nature: the 2019 Missouri River Flood appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

From the moment I entered the park and saw its tall bluffs and deep ravines covered in gnarly thick oaks standing over an open forest floor that was decorated in all the hues of autumn in its thick leaf cover, I knew.

Red-headed woodpeckers flitted about the forest edges and swooped across the winding road in front of me. I settled into my one-room cabin at dusk, listening to owls calling back and forth just outside.

The next morning, I was up with the sun. I had left winter behind in Chicago and rediscovered fall at Waubonsie.  It was mild and clear.  The sunrise was spectacular. I’ve hardly been greeted more enthusiastically before (dogs notwithstanding). I wandered off on trails, camera in hand. Two white-tailed deer immediately crossed my path. They paused to regard me and then ran off. This interaction with the park deer would become a regular recurrence.

Songbirds fluttered amid the understory; cardinals, cedar waxwings, juncos and white-throated sparrows.  Blue jays called from the treetops. The red-headed woodpecker chatter is a constant background soundtrack.

Evidence of coyotes (tracks and scat), wild turkey scrapes and deer tracks, scat and rubs was common throughout the trail system.  The coyotes themselves would prove elusive over my time here.  I explored mazes of deer/wildlife trails off the main paths.  I was rewarded with spectacular mushrooms, a shed antler (!), and a surprising number of deer bones.

After my morning wanders, I went back to the cabin for a late breakfast and a mid-day break before heading back out in the late afternoon until sunset.  That’s how I spent my two weeks here, each morning and each evening exploring a new trail or area of the park.

It feels so much bigger than 2000 acres.  The diversity of habitat is also a surprise.  I walked the high ridges of Sunset Ridge Trail, Ridge Trail, and the prairie above the old obstacle course with their views across farmland to the Missouri River in one direction and the tops of the tree canopy in the other.

The west sides of the ridges are mostly sand prairie habitat, while the east is uniformly forested.  These edge habitats (where one ecosystem meets another) are known for their diversity and abundance of wildlife.  I heard snow geese flying overhead and looked up to see hundreds migrating from the east toward the river wetlands.

I meandered along trails and double tracks down the bluffs into deep ravines. Then I snaked back up the other side on the Valley Trail, in the Wa-Shawtee area and the Slusher Wildlife Management Area.  Fallen trees, mushrooms, lichen and acorns are everywhere.

 A downy woodpecker, several northern flickers, a couple of red-bellied woodpeckers, flocks of cedar waxwings, chickadees and robins, a single spotted towhee, a tufted titmouse, a pair of ruby-crowned kinglets, a thrush, a pileated woodpecker, flocks of turkeys, red-tailed hawks and crows all showed themselves in these forests.

I traipsed through the woods of the seven-acre Lake Virginia and its finger ponds where artfully arranged oak leaves lay frozen in the duckweed.  A bobcat print in the mud among a parade of coyote, raccoon and deer prints was a thrilling discovery.

After hearing what I thought had to be a person approaching (only a human could make that much noise moving through a forest), I was pleasantly surprised to spy a flock of turkeys turning over the leaf litter in search of acorns.  Once one saw me, they all fell silent and quickly moved over the hill.

The sweet smell of firewood welcomes me back to my cabin on the hill every evening.  I watched a flicker poke around in my firewood pile on the porch. (I suspect he found some carpenter ants).  In the dark of night, the coyotes yipped and howled.  In my cozy, warm bed, restful sleep came quickly.  On my last day, light snow fell resting on the limbs of the forest, transforming the landscape.  What a treasure it is to glimpse winter here.

I captured sunrises, sunsets, new birds, familiar birds, a mole (a first for me!), ever-watchful charismatic deer, curious squirrels and mushrooms and lichens to my heart’s content.  I listened to stories of encounters with the more reclusive residents of the park; red foxes, a gray fox, bobcats and even a black bear in 2008. I learned the history of the park and plans for the future.  My two weeks went by in the blink of an eye.  I feel so grateful for this experience, for this place and for these people.  My Artist-in-Residency experience has been transformative.

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The post Waubonsie Artist-in-Residence appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

As we walked away, I paused to look back. The coyote was following us. When I stopped, he stopped. When I continued, he continued. He was closing distance when my back was turned and retreating when I faced him.

Further confounding this experience, my dogs were decidedly indifferent. These two, who have dedicated themselves to keeping our yard coyote-free, sprinting nose-to-ground tracking any interlopers, barking furiously, “Don’t even think of coming here!”, whenever the coyotes howl, yip or bark in the distance, could not have been more disinterested. Bridger acted as if the coyote wasn’t even there. “Why do we keep stopping to look behind?! Let’s get a move on!”

I monitored the last two pairs of bluebird boxes on my surveillance. All was well with the cozy tree swallow fledglings. The lone coyote was still following, but at a greater distance now. To warrant this much attention, he must be protecting a den in those woodlands. And pups! Oh, how I’d love to see those cuties. This coyote is politely escorting us away to safeguard his family.

Stepping out of the cool prairie grasses onto the sun-baked, limestone trail, I wondered how far was far enough for this coyote? The path is a symbolic step from the “wild” to the human-made, seemingly the edge of the coyote’s realm. Will the escort stop here and watch us leave, or go back to his family. A moment later, out loped our shadow.

A narrow footpath joins this main path to the road where I park my car. I slipped into the rough, waist-high grasses behind my dogs who led the way. I paused, somewhat hidden behind a shrub, and waited. Sure enough, the dutiful, quiet coyote came plodding up to the path. He caught one glimpse of me and scampered off. We got the full escort.

I love a harmonious wildlife encounter. However, I feel a bit irresponsible for disturbing this family and causing a coyote to expend precious resources needlessly. I also feel lucky to have had such an intimate wild adventure in the middle of the Chicago suburbs. When I come back here this summer, I will leave the dogs at home.

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The post Polite Suburban Coyote appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

This is literally a hidden gem. Bluff Spring Fen in South Elgin, IL, is tucked between a cemetery, the Metra train tracks, a gravel pit/industrial park, and a well-traveled road. Even as I tell you about it, driving up, it seems unreal – dump trucks, trains, glacial kames and a fen??? There is no signage to lead you here. The entrance is at the back of the cemetery. The meandering, circuitous lane winds past crypts and old gravesites, eventually leading to a wooden, split-rail fence and six parking spots. This is it.

I’d heard that the purple coneflower here is spectacular this year. Even though it’s overcast and cool, today is my only chance to see it before the blooms fade. Walking among the ancient bur oaks at the entrance, I’m looking out over the green fen. Green on green. Skunk cabbage, fading foxglove, wispy strands of sedges bowing in the breeze.

It’s early morning, and birdsong fills the air with life. There are cavities in these thick, tall, rough trunks that I’m sure are home to raccoons and others. I glass for tufts of fur poking out at the edges of the hollows to no avail.

As I round the back of this small kame (a hill made of sediment deposited by long-since-gone glaciers), I see the purple hillside ahead. The sight invigorates me.

I decide to walk the long way around and explore more of the area before looping back to today’s main attraction. The trail is single-track, worn to the bare ground and predominated by boot prints and deer prints. Along the path to the marsh are occasional coneflowers, the tall puffy spikes of Baptista, budding butterfly weed, milkweed and foxglove blooms.

A pair of mallards is hanging out in the marsh, undisturbed by my approach. Even the red-winged blackbirds aren’t alarmed – they’re always alarmed! Back on the main loop, lead plant is budding and cup plant is reaching for the sky, it’s fuzzy stems begging to be touched.

A pair of cedar waxwings is plucking cattails for their nest. They are intolerant of my approach, no matter how slow, so I leave them to their preparations.

At a gravelly spot in the marl flats, milkweed and sedges predominate. I looked for caterpillars or eggs. I couldn’t even find a chewed leaf. There are busy bees and butterflies, though.

Back around the fen to the coneflower kame is a stunning profusion of pinks and purples, new unfurling petals, older, curled petals, stamens loaded with pollen, others already harvested clean. Among this glory, the blazing star are thick, preparing for their own show in another week or so adding their purples to the then-fading coneflowers.

I’m distracted by a wild oyster flower seed head. It’s like a giant dandelion with its lacy parachutes ready to carry away it’s seed on the wind.

I spent more time immersed in the individual coneflower blooms watching bees and butterflies enjoying the bounty.

There’s so much more to explore at this small preserve, but I’ve been here a couple of hours, and it’s time to go. I have to come back to see the next act in this spectacular wildflower season, and then I will explore further. Special bonus: I didn’t see any ticks today!

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The post Coneflower Prairie appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.