A [Local] Monster Mash

Here in Vermont you can hardly go outside without seeing signs about buying local.  Local foods are labeled in grocery stores, restaurants proudly display maps of Vermont with pins pointing out where they source their ingredients, and everybody who’s anybody seems to have a CSA share. But for some reason every year around this time even the most devout locavores import their Halloween monsters from far away.  Mummies more at home in Egypt smile out at you from windows, tarantulas usually found in tropical regions crawl all the way into candy bowls in Vermont, and vampires hop planes from Transylvania to lurk on residential porches for a few weeks every October.  Enough!  I say it’s time to put an end to the madness of imported creepies and crawlies, and to get to know a few of our own.  And so, I present to you a Halloween line-up of locally and sustainably sourced (and not-so-scary) monsters:

The Stigmata Mummy-Wasp (Aleiodes stigmator)

Mummified Acronicta Caterpillar with exit-holes of Stigmata Mummy-Wasp, photo by Bryan Pfeiffer

Mummified Acronicta Caterpillar with exit-holes of Stigmata Mummy-Wasp (Photo by Bryan Pfeiffer)

Here’s the good news: the stigmata mummy-wasp didn’t make the monster list for having a painful sting. In fact, these wasps are small and don’t have stingers.  In place of a stinger on their hind end, these wasps sport an ovipositor, which they use to inject their eggs under the skin of an innocent and unsuspecting host caterpillar.  After the eggs hatch the wasp larvae chew a hole in the underside of the caterpillar, causing it to leak fluids that dry and essentially glue the caterpillar to a plant.  Next the larvae mummify the caterpillar by eating the soft innards and lining the empty body with silk.  Inside the hollow caterpillar husk the wasp larvae spin their own cocoons and pupate into adults.  When they emerge from their cocoons they chew their way out, leaving behind the dry husk of a caterpillar that looks like it has been sprayed with buckshot.

Even though this may sound straight out of science fiction, stigmata mummy-wasps are native to Vermont where they generally inhabit wetlands and floodplains.  Though the wasps themselves are small and hard to find, the mummified caterpillars are not.  Their riddled mummies can be found clinging to sticks year round, and if you find one in late fall you might want to watch it closely – you might be lucky enough to spot one of these little monsters emerging.

The Oleander Aphid (Aphis nerii)

Oleander Aphids on a stalk of Swamp Milkweed

Oleander Aphids on a stalk of Swamp Milkweed

There are many types of aphids, but while I was researching for this list one variety stood out: Oleander aphids.  These little orange and black bugs grab onto a stalk of milkweed (or any of several other plant hosts) with specialized sucking mouthparts and drink it dry.  Their story only gets weirder from there.  Oleander aphids develop from unfertilized embryos and all adults are female; males do not occur in nature.  Adult females can be winged or wingless, the former usually showing up when the host plant is overcrowded or dying so that they can fly off to infest a new host.  Both the winged and wingless adults excrete live nymphs instead of eggs, and a colony can grow quickly.  The nymphs develop through five different phases before becoming adults, but nearly all phases look the same and vary only in size.

If an army of jack-o-lantern colored female clones sucking the life out of a plant isn’t Halloween enough for you, I should also point out that oleander aphids have their own mummifying parasitoid wasp.  The aphidiid wasp (Lysiphlebus testaceipes) lays a single egg inside an aphid nymph or adult.  When the egg hatches the wasp larva consumes the aphid from the inside, so that it develops into a brown papery husk of its former self.  Much like stigmata mummy-wasp larvae, the wasp larva then spins a cocoon inside this mummified aphid, pupates, and chews its way out, leaving behind a bloated brown aphid mummy with a hole in it.  When a dense colony of oleander aphids is heavily parasitized, half or more of the aphids in the colony may eventually be only mummified remains while their sisters slurp placidly beside them.  How bewitching.

Horsehair Worms (Paragordius varius)

Resembling an animated, wiry strand of hair, horsehair worms are often spotted writhing in the bottom of woodland streams and pools. As charming as that may sound, their mating behavior is less than romantic.   When a female indicates a willingness to mate, the male releases a cloud of sperm in her general vicinity, and then swiftly dies.  The sperm forms a glob, which finds its way to the appropriate receptacle on the female within the next 24 hours.  A fertilized female goes on  to lay as many as 6 million eggs, and then she too perishes.  As It turns out this is the least offensive part of their life cycle.

Horsehair Worm (on top of leaf) found in a stream in Bristol, VT

The eggs mature, and in 2-3 weeks millions of tiny worm larvae are hunting for hosts in the pool or brook.  They infect many different kinds of aquatic phase insects, including mosquito larvae, and when the infected larva matures into its adult phase, the worm larva comes along for the ride.  Eventually this intermediate host insect is consumed by the host the worm is really looking for: crickets and their relatives.  Once inside this final host the worm begins to absorb nutrients through its skin from the host’s body.  Having no mouth or digestive system of its own, the worm requires an environment where food comes pre-digested.

While growing inside its host, a process that takes 2-3 months, the worm is also practicing mind-control.  An infected cricket will not chirp at all as chirping uses up precious energy and can attract unwanted attention to the worm’s comfortable home. Once the horsehair worm has fully developed inside of its cricket host (reaching lengths of four inches or more), it releases a chemical that drives the host to seek out water.  Meanwhile the worm has carved a hole in its host’s side, and shortly after the host hits the water the worm will emerge in its free swimming adult phase to mate, leaving its injured but still living host behind to begin the cycle again.

From the mummified remains of caterpillars, to the mind games of a parasitic worm, our Vermont backyards boast a roster of Halloween monsters rivaling those of the silver screen.  So this Halloween, when you find yourself telling scary stories with friends, borrow a tale right from your own backyard…and sustainably source your monsters.

Shelby Perry is a second year student in the Field Naturalist Program.  She would like to acknowledge Field Naturalist Graduate, Charley Eiseman, for his help fact-checking sections of this post, and his wonderful book Tracks and Sign of Insects and other Invertebrates: A Guide to North American Species.  

Freshwater Sharks

Snorkeling in frigid waters for a species at-risk

By Levi Old                                                               

Salvelinus confluentusOn a dead-still summer night, I army-crawl upstream.

“We have a large adult!” says Jen.

I rise to one knee and pull the fogged snorkel mask off my head. “A big one?” I mumble in a haze.

“Yeah, really big. Much larger than I’ve ever seen this far up the creek,” she replies, pointing to where it kicked its caudal fin gently against the downstream flow. “It’s right there beside you.”

I cinch the mask on my face, place the snorkel in my mouth, and dunk back into the frigid water:

Twenty-six inches of wildness.

Jen pops her head out of the water and says, “Isn’t that just a beautiful creature?”

She snorkels one side of the creek and I snorkel the other. An assistant in waders walks the creek, tallies our fish sightings and makes sure we do not go hypothermic. Continue reading

Beyond a Collection of Facts

By Clare Crosby


I spent my childhood hosting acorn cap tea parties for fairies, scurrying on calloused feet to collect eggs from the chicken coop, and reenacting Little House on The Prairie in the meadow behind my house, just east of Austin, TX. I did not suffer from “Nature Deficit Disorder.”

But as I grew, my interests shifted. I traded the meadow for well-manicured athletic fields and our old pond for swimming pools. My interest in my Central Texas natural surroundings paused around 8 years old. I never figured out what species of oak provided teacups for my parties, only that the caps were nicely proportioned for fairies. Neither did I learn what type of moss my fairies used for seat cushions, only that it opened into minute stars under sprinkled water.

I’m embarrassed now, as a naturalist, to admit that I don’t know even some of the most common species of my home state. This lack of knowledge, however, offers opportunity when I return to Texas from Vermont, the home of my formal ecological education. As I walk old trails and come across a familiar (yet unknown) tree, my inclination is to turn to field guides or a trusted expert to tell me what to call it, who eats it, and what it might reveal about the soil beneath it. In Vermont, I have had a string of wonderful professors and peers to teach me about the natural world, assisted, of course, by an ever-growing library of field guides. I hope to be so lucky again in Texas. Continue reading

What’s in Your Backpack?

Rattling My Bones


Dripping with cultural history and utterly unique, the objects cradled in Connor Stedman’s excited hands burned with sentimental value. Their glow reflected in Connor’s eyes and didn’t flicker for an instant upon the delivery of my first question.

“So, what are they?”

To the untrained eye, they were two pieces of wood roughly the size and shape of tongue depressors, but slightly heftier and square at the ends. Connor explained it was a set of bones: A historically Irish one-handed musical instrument that is played by holding one bone stationary while rattling the other bone against it.

While the traditional instrument was made from sheep’s bones, Connor’s version originated as the South American tree palo santo, or “holy wood” in Spanish. Palo santo’s use as a good luck charm and a cleanser of bad energy dates back to the Inca era. Connor says that he’s never heard of another pair of bones made from palo santo.

Connor carved his bones in anticipation of a local visit by Irish bard Gerry Brady, who described bones as “the only instrument you can play with a pint in the other hand”. Gerry blessed this set of bones himself. Continue reading

The Burlington Naturalist Scavenger Hunt Series: Williston’s Muddy Brook Wetland

A special series of blog posts brought to you by Liz Brownlee 
The Burlington Naturalist Scavenger Hunt Series: Discover the area’s hidden gems.  Hone your naturalist skills.  Learn to see the treasures along every walking path, trail, and creek.
This series of scavenger hunts is a chance to get outside, look closely at the world around you, and enjoy nature.  The hunts are designed for budding naturalists of any age.
Hunt I: Williston’s Muddy Brook Wetland
Cruise east, away from the noise of Burlington. Slip south of Highway Two, curving along Hinesburg Road onto Van Slicken Road.  Pass the oldest house in Williston – light grey stones, hand hewn in the 18th century.  Crunch onto the gravel of the parking lot, leave your car (or bike!), and step into the wildness at Muddy Brook Wetland.
Cattails dance on the winter wind, and signs of animals layer this scrubby landscape. To the casual visitor, Williston’s Muddy Brook Wetland rejuvenates and relaxes.  It is a deep breath at the end of the day.
For the budding naturalist equipped with this scavenger hunt, the wetland also offers mid-winter wonder.  Look closely at the ground, the bent grasses, the flowing stream. Find and learn to identify scat, deciduous trees, nests, and other natural treasures. Enjoy!
Find the first scavenger hunt here: Scavenger Hunt- Williston’s Muddy Brook Wetland

Five Bodies

by Danielle Owczarski

I squint as I gaze offshore at the landslide scars jacketing the slopes of the Adirondack Mountains, and become cognizant of the illusion in quiet looking mountaintops, in reality, stark and frigid underneath the winter’s languid sun. I lift the camera to my eye and focus on the lone silhouette of a twisted black willow frozen to the beach, beaten by icy waves. I am in awe of its ability to survive, alone and isolated at the interface of water and earth, defying death.

I am standing on a deserted public beach in Burlington, VT, situated west of the bike path and the Burlington Electric Department. My husband and I, dog in tow and cameras in hand, are in pursuit of stories told by the natural world; those neglected by people behind weatherproofed door jams. During the winter months, protected by the shelter of my apartment, I cannot tune out the arctic breeze whooshing against my door. I imagine the biting wind flowing through my veins, breathing life into my limbs, pushing me to be a part of the world beyond my warm, snug box. Once outside, the indoor fog in my mind lifts and my periphery expands initiating a new awareness. I enter the natural world to feel alive. Continue reading

Random Nature Questions from a Non-naturalist

by Audrey Clark

My stepbrother lounged in front of the television watching a reality TV show about mining in Alaska.  I sat on the couch, facing away from the television, drinking tea and reading a book on visionary scientists.

After a while, I started to wonder what my stepbrother wondered about.



“What questions do you have about nature?”


Then, in an outpouring I wouldn’t expect from a non-naturalist, let alone one who was watching TV:

“Can plants feel pain?  How does a woodpecker not get a concussion?  How do you tell how old a tree is without cutting it down?  How long does it take ants to build an ant hill?  Where does honey come from?  Like what part of the bee?  What’s the best way to survive a bear attack?  Can animals get sick from drinking bad water like we can?  Why do monkeys have better immune systems?”

In honor of my stepbrother, here are my best attempts at answering these questions: Continue reading

The Charisma of the Drab

Wandering down Boulevard Saint Germain near Notre Dame in Paris, I passed a store window filled with insect specimens on display. The stylish sign read Claude et Nature (Claude and Nature).

I veered into the store, astonished that such a place exists. A small stuffed bison (small for a bison, that is) stood in the center of the store, next to a case of fossils. On the right were black cases full of artfully arranged insect specimens. On the left were fossils, shells, stuffed birds, skulls (human and weasel, among others), and sea stars. All were perfectly preserved and arranged, and neatly labeled with the species name and country of origin.

I spent some time perusing the insects—they had an uncommon family of weevils!—then wandered into the fossil section, then back to the insects.

Other customers were in the store, buying up iridescent blue morpho butterflies, flashy rhinoceros beetles with horny ornamentations, and large walking stick insects, which look just like knobby sticks with legs. All of the creatures on sale were eye-catching in some way. I found myself disappointed that there weren’t more insects with mundane appearances. I craved some little drab ones so I could learn about their diversity. One of the most beautiful insects I’ve ever seen was brown and white and hardly bigger than a pinhead (a lacebug, in case you are curious). The insects present were in families already familiar to me.

This led me to ponder one of the differences between amateur and expert naturalists: level of attraction to charismatic megafauna.

Amateur naturalists and non-naturalists flock to the Serengeti to see lions and elephants, even just for a few hours. Few head to sandy beaches in Massachusetts to see tiger beetles. And when they buy preserved insects, they buy the largest, most colorful individuals. Experts and devoted amateurs, on the other hand, may be eager to see lions and tigers, but they are also there for the naked mole rats and dung beetles. Why?

I believe the answer has to do with memory and learning. An inherent characteristic of many animals is that they easily remember something bright, large, or dangerous. This is what is exploited by the wasp’s black and yellow warning coloration: remember me, don’t bother me, I sting. Young blue jays who eat a monarch butterfly and then vomit refuse to eat a second monarch because they recognize it. They may also refuse to eat other orange and black butterflies, whether or not those butterflies are actually noxious.

Just because I can easily remember what a blue morpho butterfly looks like doesn’t mean I’ll want a dead one hanging on my wall. A blue morpho is a beautiful blue that flashes sometimes deep sea blue, sometimes robin’s egg blue. I enjoy seeing beautiful things—that’s why I want it on my wall.

But I could just as well hang an iridescent blue hubcap on my wall; why a butterfly? Now my answer comes to the crux: because our love of living things is inherent.

This love is called biophilia, a term coined by E.O. Wilson and expounded upon by him and Stephen Kellert. This is why I find myself drawn to watch the fish in my aquarium and end up with a stupid, happy grin on my face. This is why people spend 30 Euros on a dead long-horned beetle (in spite of being dead, the beetle retains its living appearance when preserved).

I think experts have these three things—memory, appreciation of beauty, and biophilia—in larger or more finely tuned doses. Entomologists know and remember much more about insects than the average Schmoe, so they are more likely to remember the little drab ones as well as the big sexy beasts. They can notice more about a lacebug because they already know what it is. Their appreciation is honed to subtler beauty.

I have made it sound like being an expert is better than being an amateur in terms of seeing and loving the beauty of the world. Not so. Experts in the beauty of soil chemistry may be amateurs in the intricacies of maggot hibernation or cloud formation. They may not even see other parts of the world in any depth. Amateurs may be able to see and appreciate a broader slice of the world because they do not dig too deep a tunnel. I think there is a world between the loud blue morphos and the rare weevils where subtle beauty can be found and cherished.

On my last night in Paris I walked to Notre Dame, then across the Seine to the Hotel de Ville. There was an ice-skating rink set up in the square and a crowd of bundled Parisians whirling round and round. Some wobbled and held onto their equally wobbly friends, laughing and crashing into the wall around the rink. Others raced in weaving lines between the wobblers, or twirled on their blade tips in the center, muscular and graceful. The amateurs enjoyed laughing with their friends. For the experts, it may have been getting a move right. Both the amateurs and the experts were paying attention to the beauty of the experience, be it loud or subtle.

Happy Maggot Land

I came in to my cubicle at school last week to find a maggot squinching across my desk. After a moment of shock and disgust, I thought, “Ooh! What a nice present!”

You know you’re a naturalist when finding a maggot among your things makes you happy.

I’ve been collecting insects, so I naturally thought that one of my classmates left the plump grub for me to add to my collection. Surely it hadn’t come from the pile of soil samples I had on my desk, nor the cache of snacks I had in the cabinet. But yes, it had. I had collected a handful of red oak acorns and left them in an open plastic bag on my desk. Later, when I was working at my computer, I looked over and saw a pale yellow grub with a red face squinching around inside the slippery plastic among the acorns. I examined the nuts and discovered a hole in one of them, about 3 millimeters across.

That was when I got really excited. All I had to do was feed the little creatures and keep them happy, and I’d eventually find out what species they were. So I dug around in the faculty kitchen for a plastic takeout container, poked some holes in the lid with a pen, dumped my soil samples into it, and dropped the acorns and grubs on top. The grubs promptly burrowed out of sight. I labeled the whole thing with a permanent marker, “Happy Maggot Land, Please do not disturb.”

Then I started to worry about my maggots. What if the soil wasn’t enough to make them happy? Did they need something to eat?

I visited Jeff Hughes, the director of the Field Naturalist Program, who recommended I look in Tracks & Sign of Insects and Other Invertebrates, a recent book by Charley Eiseman, an alumnus of our program, and Noah Charney. I thumbed through and found the name of my maggots: long-snouted acorn weevils.

The female of this beetle species saws a hole in the shell of a red or white oak acorn and lays her eggs inside. The eggs hatch in a few days and the larvae eat the acorn meat. Beetles undergo metamorphosis like butterflies do; caterpillars are butterfly larvae, maggots are beetle or fly larvae. They molt five times inside the acorn and then leave their nutty shelter and burrow into the soil to pupate. Pupation in beetles is analogous to the caterpillar cocoon: a usually immobile stage of metamorphosis just before emergence as an adult. In the spring, adults emerge from the soil and fly off to mate before beginning the cycle again.

I have named my maggot friends Weevil Kneevil, Do No Weevil, and Axis of Weevil, but I have no intention of keeping them. I plan on releasing them back into the forest to continue to parasitize on oaks. It’s not because I don’t like oaks, but because I like ecology. These weevils create food for other species: one genus of ant lives inside acorns abandoned by weevils and eats the leftover meat. Squirrels eat acorns sometimes just for the grubs inside—that’s one reason why you might find partially eaten acorns.

Having maggots as pets helps me see more when I go outside. I see potential Happy Maggot Lands everywhere—inside plant stems and fruit, in dying tree trunks, and in the soil under my feet. A new way of knowing the world around me has opened up.