Graze On


Goats in landscape management at German Highway. Photo by Spielvogel licensed under creative commons by Wikipedia.

I have always learned that invasive species come into an area due to imbalances in the ecosystem, such as a lack of natural predators or loss of nutrient resources necessary for native vegetation. Yet, the only solutions I ever heard were very unnatural. We could spray chemically engineered herbicide over landscapes, bring in heavy machinery to destroy anything in its path, or personally rip all the unwanted plants out of the grown. So, what about a more natural method of removing invasive plants? Thankfully, they have arrived.

Goats are the natural predators of many common North American invasive plants and have been eating them for thousands of years. Goats have evolved naturally grazing on many of the troublesome invasives that are dealt with today, such as, kudzo from East Asia or Phragmites australis from Europe [1]. The goats are so efficient because the seeds of the plants are often crushed in the goats’ grinding mouths and multi-chambered stomachs [2]. A herd of 35 goats can consume roughly half an acre of thick vegetation in only 4 days! [3]

Machinery and herbicide removal often creates additional disturbances in ecosystems. Equipment may trample or remove native, sensitive species as it takes out invasive species and herbicides can contaminate water and soil. Herbicides can also be toxic for insects who live on or eat plants, and may cause cascading imbalances in the food chain. However, the goats are able to restrict their feeding and removal to specific problems areas with fences, without leaving harmful chemicals. Once one area is done, the fences are moved and the goats graze on [1].

I often struggle to pick a side when it comes to invasive species removal. Do we pull everything out, just to see them return? Or, do we let nature take its course and leave the invasive species there? What designates a species as “invasive”? How long does a species need to be in the area to be considered “native”? But, by using goats to control invasive species, balance is being brought back into the ecosystem and the species are removed without harming native plant or animal species. Besides, I’m sure the goats are happy with the decision; they are being paid to eat multiflora rose and bittersweet all day! [1]

Watch them work!

Mary Kate Lisi is a rising UVM junior Wildlife Biology and Environmental Science double major taking part in a undergraduate field naturalist pilot program this summer.





If you give a monarch some milkweed

                                       1280px-Monarch_Butterfly_Danaus_plexippus_Feeding_Down_3008px Monarch caterpillar photo by Derek Ramsey and licensed under creative commons by Wikipedia.

Monarchs are one of Vermont’s most recognizable butterflies. Their distinctly patterned orange and black wings are both well known and loved; making them the state butterfly of Vermont, as well as six other states [1]. There are many commonly known facts about monarchs and their fondness for milkweed, but there are also many misconceptions.

One commonly mistaken belief is that monarch butterflies eat solely milkweed. Rather, it is the caterpillars that rely on the milkweed vegetation for food. The butterflies lay their pinhead-sized eggs underneath milkweed leaves as the foliage is the one and only plant that monarch caterpillars will eat. Meanwhile, the adult butterflies are often seen sipping on nectar from a variety of flowers.

Many people also think that if there is milkweed around, then monarchs should then be thriving. Young caterpillars actually have a relatively low survival rate when eating the milkweed, only about 3-11%. About 30% of larval losses are due to the mandibles of the caterpillar getting stuck in the sticky latex glue. Monarch researcher Stephen Malcolm wrote that a caterpillars first bite into the milkweed is “the most dangerous thing the ever do in their life”. However, some caterpillars have developed strategies to protect themselves from the latex. Some will chew through the midvein of the leaf to cut off latex flow to the area they are eating [2]. Every time you see a monarch caterpillar metamorphose, it has beaten the odds of survival.

Another misconception about milkweed is that it is only good for monarchs. In reality, there are actually dozens of other species that feed exclusively on milkweed as well, including many different types of the milkweed beetle, the cycnia moth, and the milkweed tussock moth [2]. There are also many pollinators such as bees and butterflies that use the nectar from milkweed as a food source, this in turn attracts other predators to the plant, which then attracts scavengers, making milkweed a valuable plant that contributes to diverse ecosystems.


Swamp milkweed photo by Derek Ramsey and licensed under creative commons by Wikipedia.

It is often assumed that mowing milkweed is harmful to monarchs. However, it is actually the opposite. The chemicals given off by milkweed’s toxic latex glue allow the adult butterflies to help locate the plant and then lay eggs on it. Caterpillars absorb the toxins and become poisonous themselves. When a milkweed plant is cut down, it grows back with an even higher concentration of latex glue, so naturally butterflies tend to prefer milkweed that has been regrown. Here in Burlington, a field off of the bike path, just north of North Beach, is known as monarch meadow. The field is currently being mowed and managed to encourage milkweed regrowth and help provide a breeding area for migrating monarchs.

Stop by the field during the late summer and you might be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the migrating monarchs!

Ben Fisher is a rising UVM senior studying Environmental Science and taking part in a undergraduate field naturalist pilot program this summer.


[1] Official State Butterflies. Retrieved August 02, 2016, from

[2] Eastman, John (2003) The Book of Field and Roadside Open Country Weeds, Trees, and Wildflowers of Eastern North America, Stackpole Books.


Newt Tales

Photo by Griffin Dahl, around a dried up vernal pool in Raven Ridge Natural Area.

While hiking below a vast dolostone face within the Raven Ridge Natural Area on the border of Hinesburg, Monkton, and Charlotte, a bright orange figure caught my eye waddling along a patch of leaf litter. The area was most likely a dried up vernal pool, a seasonal breeding pool for amphibians, covered thoroughly with wet leaves, fallen snags and mossy cobble. Captivated by its silent presence and clumsy strides, I was in awe of the fact that I had never notice this gentle forest dweller in the past. This adolescent salamander was an Eastern Newt, a complex amphibian migrating between Vermont’s waterways and the moist crevices of a typical Northern Hardwood Forest.


The breeding process for an Eastern Newt begins during early spring, as the egg filled female searches for a mate near potential breeding ponds. The females are attracted to a male’s spots and appealing pheromones that waft through the water as they wiggle their broad tails. Males then drop sperm packets in the water, awaiting the female to pick up these packets with their cloaca, a cavity located at the end of amphibians digestive tract, in order to fertilize her eggs successfully [1]. Finally, a female will lay her eggs one at a time and scatter  them upon aquatic plants, leaving them to survive independently for around a month or two before hatching [2].  

Incubation/ Larval Stage:

These 200 to 400 jelly covered eggs now go through a 2 to 6 week incubation stage before hatching, followed by their larval stage lasting another 2 to 6 months. During this stage larvae are brownish-green and develop gills, growing to about a half inch in length. These larvae feed on small aquatic insects and crustaceans until they leave their birth ponds into the summer, lose their gills and start their first terrestrial stage of life [1].

Eft/ Juvenile Stage:

At last, the larvae develop into their juvenile, terrestrial stage where they are known as Red Efts. Efts use their bright orangish-red coloration to warn predators of their poisonous skin secretions. But don’t fear, handling these creatures is perfectly safe. Red Efts grow up to 5 inches in length and reach sexual maturity around 3 years old [4]. These juvenile efts feed on small invertebrates like snails, springtails and soil mites. Eastern Newts can survive in the eft stage for up to eight years before maturing into their adult stage so long as their habitat is sufficiently moist for survival [3].

Mature Stage:

As efts reach their mature adult stage, their skin darkens reaching a brownish-yellow or green coloration, their tails flatten, and their underbelly brightens to a yellow color with black spots. They now return to aquatic environments, searching for temporary and seasonal habitats anywhere from small lakes to marshes, though mature newts prefer abandoned beaver ponds [4]. Here they feed on immature aquatic insects, larvae and other amphibians breeding in nearby vernal pools, continuing the life cycle of the Eastern Newt for further generations to come [2]. The Eastern Newt is a delicate and often overlooked species found throughout the eastern United States, so remember next time you’re walking in the woods, especially in the rain, keep your eyes peeled for orange flashes under logs and rocks… it might just make your day.

Griffin Dahl is a rising UVM junior studying Natural Resource Ecology and taking part in a undergraduate field naturalist pilot program this summer.







Vermont’s State Musician



“Is that a bird?” asks one of my fellow Field Naturalist Interns, as we stand on an outcropping at Raven Ridge Natural Area on the border of Hinesburg, Monkton, and Charlotte, Vermont. When I told him that the song he was hearing was that of the Hermit Thrush he said that he had “never heard a bird sound so much like music”. I had never really considered the musical elements of birding before this comment and then felt compelled to look into the compositional stylings of the Hermit Thrush.

This medium-sized member of the genus Catharus (which also happens to be the state bird of Vermont) sings a song that is perhaps that most magical string of notes I have ever heard. Being somewhat of a musician and much more of a birder, I love listening to the song of the Hermit Thrush with its melodic, tumbling trills, like a flute harmonizing with itself. According to a number of auditory studies, the notes of the song of the Hermit Thrush are related to each other by pitch ratios that differ by simple integers of harmonic notes [1]. This discovery highlights the fact that the song is more similar to music produced by humans than to the songs of other birds that have also been studied in this way. It is also noted that certain harmonies produced by the Hermit Thrush are in line with those made by human music [2]. On top of all this musical jargon, it has also been discovered that this bird could be capable of producing other notes in its song, meaning that the species chose to sing in such an ethereal harmony.

You don’t need to have a musical background to appreciate the sounds of nature, the birds singing, the creaking of young trees as they sway in the wind, the croaking of a distant frog, or a stream gurgling and dripping down a mountainside. Among all of these sounds, however, nothing resembles music quite as closely as the song of the Hermit Thrush.

Hear it for yourself!

Emily Hamel is a rising UVM senior and Wildlife Biology major taking part in a undergraduate field naturalist pilot program this summer.





Field Naturalist Alicia Daniel Featured in Burlington Free Press


Alicia Daniel, Burlington’s Field Naturalist, on Long Pond. Photo by Kerstin Lange.

Suppose you were a mink in need of breakfast in Burlington.  Where would you go?

Alicia Daniel, Field Naturalist for the city of Burlington and 1988 graduate of the FNEP program, could probably tell you. Follow Alicia (and the mink) in the recent Burlington Free Press article “Burlington’s wild heart,” written by FNEP graduate Kerstin Lange.

Blast it all

Of all the wilts, blasts, declines, spots, blights (early and late), smuts, fires, and other types of plant maladies that I’ve gotten to tour this semester as a TA for Plant Pathology, it’s the rusts – as boring and creaky as they sound – that have captured my heart. They’re everything you want in a fungus: edgy, shape-shifting, clever, misbehaved, and mysterious. They’re also some of our most important plant pathogens, culturally and economically. It was the coffee rust Hemileia vastatrix and its devastation of coffee plantations in Ceylon (now called Sri Lanka) in the 1870s that pushed the Brits to acquire a taste for tea. A wheat rust, Puccinia graminis, has evaded our best efforts at breeding resistant varieties of wheat, and creeps ever closer to the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent. Here in the Northeast, Cedar-apple rust (Gymnosporangium juniperis-virginae) sprouts bright orange horns and adorns cedar and juniper trees with unmistakeable alien blobs. Do some googling – you won’t be disappointed.

So what makes a rust a rust? Many of them do indeed create a blistery, red, orange or brown spore-producing growth that coats the host plant. Wheat rust, for example, would be hard to describe with any other word.

Licensed under Public Domain via Common

Wheat stem rust, Puccinia graminis. Photo licensed under Public Domain.

But part of what makes the whole group of “rusts” so sinister is that most have two separate plant hosts. The organism hops from host to alternate host seasonally and under the guise of five different spore types – making them very hard to pin down.

Why five spore types? For the rust fungi, it’s a matter of movement: something that most fungi lack in any obvious sense. So instead of wings or legs or even flagellae to carry these fungi across from host to host, these fungi delegate these tasks to a number of specialized spores. Each spore performs a different type of movement or storage: there’s genetic movement, of course, which happens in two different spore types (one spore to split the genes up, another to recombine them); but also there’s a spore for waiting/overwintering, a spore to hop from primary to alternate host, a different spore to hop back from the alternate host to the primary host, and yet another spore to re-infect the same primary host plant over and over again. It’s this last spore, called a uredia, that often causes the “rust” effect on the host plants.


Teliospores of Puccinia graminis, viewed at 200x. Photo by the author.

Something that will never get old for me is the ability of microscopes to make a flake of a leaf or a speck of carpet dust into a visual Versailles under magnification. As a TA for the Plant Pathology lab, most of what we do is look at structures under high power – needless to say, I’m one happy clam. So today, as my fellow TA Emma and I were conducting the chaos of 40 students trying to trace out the steps of the life cycles of wheat–barberry rust and white pine–currant rust, I took a moment just to view a particularly lovely slide of teliospores – they’re the red blobs, roughly diamond-shaped, with a lateral cross-wall pictured at left– as they emerged from a telium on a wheat plant.

Maybe you don’t have a microscope, but you can still appreciate these creatures in many ways. An easy challenge to you all: go to any nearby apple tree (crabapple will do), and start looking at leaves with blotchy brown spots on them: turn the leaves upside down, and see what you see. If you find yourself starting suddenly at what looks like a mole sprouting thick tufts of wiry hairs – which I bet you will find if you look – you, my friend, are in the dear company of cedar-apple rust aecia. Who cares what exactly that means: you’re a guest in their world, so take a hand lens, get curious, and enjoy the alien beauty of these fungi.

To Brave the Cold

By Shelby Perry

The sun had been up for an hour and the day was already warming. As I sat down to a steaming bowl of cinnamon oatmeal, Bernd walked into the cabin and announced that it was -24 degrees Fahrenheit outside. This made the rest of the week seem balmy, with temperatures fluctuating between -5 and 28 degrees F. Soon we would head outside for an exploratory ramble. It was just another day in Bernd Heinrich’s Winter Ecology class.

When I tell people about winter camping their reaction is often one of shock; sometimes I provoke a chorus of “That sounds terrible!” People ask these experiences with comic incredulity, but their questions give me the chance to explain why braving the cold is worth it.

  1. Winter is beautiful.

    2015-01-07 10.46.45

    Photo by Bonnie Richord

The landscape sparkles with snow, the late-afternoon sun paints the hills pink, and the tree silhouettes stand twisted against the sky. After a snowfall, the world is transformed, quiet, and peaceful.

  1. Wildlife!

While many animals are sleeping or have left town, the ones that remain can be easier to see against the backdrop of snow and bare tree branches. Below, check out an owl sighting from winter ecology. Continue reading

Kiss This: Mistletoe’s Higher Calling

By Bryan Pfeiffer


Great Purple Hairstreak (Atlides haleus) / © Bryan Pfeiffer

GET YOURSELF UNDER SOME WILD MISTLETOE this Christmas. Your gift might be a shock-and-awe butterfly called Great Purple Hairstreak.

Mistletoe is a plant that grows on trees or shrubs. And it’s a bit of a leech, a hemiparasite, which means mistletoe draws minerals and fluids from its host. But mistletoe is also photosynthetic, generating some of its own energy demands from sunshine. Oh, by the way, there is no one mistletoe. The world has more than 1,000 mistletoe species. I’ve got one of them in a cottonwood next to my cabin here in New Mexico. Mistletoes grow flowers, have pollinators, and produce fruits like many other plants.

In Arizona this past weekend, among thousands of butterflies, I encountered a single Great Purple Hairstreak. That’s usually how we find them, sluggish and alone, about the size of your thumbnail, crawling among flowers and lapping up nectar. But the business side of this butterfly, at least when it comes to mistletoe, is the caterpillar. Great Purple Hairstreak caterpillars eat mistletoe species in the genus Phoradendron (and maybe others). Continue reading

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

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