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Young Scientists Plot for Smart Urban Forestry

by Liz Brownlee

“Wait until you see the accuracy of our plot,” calls the lab team.

The four undergraduates burst with pride, oblivious to the prickling raspberries and thick brush that edge the Intervale forest.

They stop me midstride.  As their lab teacher, I’m fully equipped with aerial maps, GPS, first aid kit, phone, and extra rain gear.  I’m planning to cruise through this pasture towards the soybeans and into the swampy forest.  My goal is to check in with teams at twelve more study plots, spread over the 350 acres of forest and fields.

This lab project is a real, on-the-ground application of their natural resource training.  Most weeks these first-year students learn the basics of field work in big, broad fields (fisheries, stream ecology, forestry, etc.). The field data they record in their weekly labs is important: they use it to learn how to create papers, reports, and essays.

This week, though, the data is headed to city hall.  We’re studying the Burlington urban forest to help the city make informed decisions about valuing and managing the forest.

I need to check in with the next group. It’s incredibly important that the teams describe each plot with accuracy and efficiency.  I know that all the teams are anxious to prove their worth, to share their budding knowledge and field skills.  But this team’s stories cannot wait.

Elliot, a bright-eyed skier from Utah starts first.

The maple we used to mark our plot was so big, our measuring tape couldn’t reach around it, he says.

Aptly named and observant, Hunter chimes in.

There was a deer trail, but that’s it – otherwise it’s untouched.

Eric, a tattooed, intelligent former Marine, knows this isn’t entirely true.

How should we record the land use on this plot, Liz? This isn’t a park, and it’s on the farm but not cultivated land.

We brainstorm the forest’s values: recreation and flood control top the list.

I change my route, unable to leave the pull of their enthusiasm.  Elliot fires questions as we walk the farm’s puddle-filled gravel road.

We didn’t see any sign of invasive species like emerald ash borer – that’s good, right?  And the ground was covered in mud from the hurricane and the flood – do you think the forest will rebound before teams come next year?

The team answers most of their questions before I can chime in, and I know that I’m no longer needed.  I head for the next site when Carly, another lab teacher with twenty more students, calls from the Old North End of Burlington.  We check in, cars honking in the background on her end.

Over two hundred UVM students are taking the pulse of the forest, from tree height and canopy dieback to ground cover and plant-able space. They’re studying over one hundred plots throughout the city, and all in just two weeks.  We’ll crunch the numbers with a program called iTree that’s being used worldwide.  The city will use the results to decide where and what to plant next, and how to properly value a forest that cools homes, mitigates pollution, and absorbs storm water runoff.

They’ve tracked changes in the forest’s health.  They’ve built confidence as budding natural resource scientists.  And next year, two hundred new students will do it all again.

The Sensual Slug

by Danielle Owczarski

During the first cold days of fall in Burlington, I had a chance encounter with a handsome slug on my way to catch the bus. As I hurried past, it glided effortlessly across the moistened slate walkway, its black leopard-print pattern catching my eye. The image of the mysterious figure drifted through my thoughts during the short bus ride to campus.

Limax maximus, also known as the great gray slug and leopard slug. (Photo:© R.J. McDonnell, University of California, Riverside)

Originally, when I thought about writing a blog on the natural history of the great gray slug (Limax maximus), I imagined the story to be a simple, thoughtful, interesting piece; little I knew of the great gray’s sensual secrets. Those of you with weak stomachs or other sensitivities related to natural reproduction may want to surf your way to a blog about cooking or kittens. This story is for those with unquenchable curiosity and a sensible grasp on nature’s sexual exploits.

The great gray is a hermaphrodite. Within its slimy skin layer are organs that support both female and male reproduction. Lucky for the great gray, it is not a simultaneous hermaphrodite like the banana slug, who can self-fertilize. No, the great gray must entice a partner to share in the event of reproductive triumph.

L. maximus, native to Europe, and naturalized in the United States and Australia by way of food transport, leaves a thick string of mucus on the ground in early summer to attract its mate. This activity happens mainly during the night hours for this nocturnal species, who feeds on mushrooms and withered plants.

When its partner detects the secretions, it will follow closely, taking a soft nibble on the tempter’s behind. In a grand chase (at a slug’s speed), the two head for an overhanging feature (a brick wall, tree, or mossy rock). They begin to writhe in what seems a blissful engagement, rubbing and twisting around each other’s lubricated bodies.

As the foreplay advances, they begin to fall gently from their perch, attached only by a dense strand of slime, their pendulous bodies entwined in mid-air. Next, in unison, from an opening (gonopore) on the side of each slug’s head, the penises emerge and begin to entangle. The elaborate spiraling of the white translucent penes forms the shape of a flower similar to that of a blossoming morning glory. The unified form then takes on an azure glow and fertilization ensues. The sperm travels up through the twisted organs, through the gonopores, and inside the slug’s body finally reaching the eggs. The act is complete, both fulfilling their reproductive desires.

It would be biased to leave you with an unspoiled depiction of the great gray’s reproductive story. On some occasions when the entanglement becomes too complex and the slugs are unable to pull apart, apophallation must occur. They chew off one or both penises to relieve the imbroglio and the great gray is left with one working organ to continue its life’s work.

For those of you who can’t get enough, check out David Attenborough’s video clip of the great grays in the act: Limax maximus Reproduction Video.

Blue jays and bird colors

by Nancy Olmstead

The woman who lives downstairs from me feeds the pigeons almost every morning.  I know she’s out there when I hear a great swooshing of wings: dozens of pigeons flutter down to our driveway to greet her.  She’ll also put out peanuts for the squirrels.  Sometimes a crafty blue jay slips in there and grabs a peanut.

One of those wily blue jays flew up to the fire escape outside my kitchen window, and as it was adjusting its peanut, I got a good look at it.  Blue jays are such a bright blue color; it’s shocking in our Burlington landscape of brown and gray city birds.

Birds come by their colors in different ways.  The blue of a blue jay is not a pigment; it’s created by the physical structure of the feather.  The color is all in the way the molecules are arrayed.  If you ground up a blue feather, thus breaking apart the structure, there wouldn’t be any color anymore.  If you backlight a blue jay feather, you won’t see the blue anymore.  Next time you find one, place it between your eye and a flashlight beam, or hold it up to the strong sun – no blue.

In contrast, northern cardinals borrow their bright red color from plants.  The carotenoid pigments that make a cardinal red can’t be synthesized by animals; they have to be ingested from plants in a bird’s diet.

What are all those feather colors for, anyway?  Scientists know that birds have good color vision.  In species where the male and female are colored differently, color is usually important in mate choice.  A female American goldfinch is picky about which male she partners up with – a male with lovely, bright yellow color is preferred, while a male with drab plumage could find his partner straying.

Colors can also be structurally important.  The most abundant feather pigment is melanin, which gives strength to areas of the feathers that need to be particularly resistant to wear, like wing tips.  Herring gulls are a good example of a bird with these melanin-rich wing tips – they show up as an almost-black color.  Many terns also have this pattern of dense melanin pigmentation at the wing tips.

I’m not sure what role color plays in the life of a blue jay, but I’d like to find out.  Male and female blue jays look pretty similar to me, so perhaps color isn’t a big deal in mate choice.  Or maybe there are small, subtle color variations that I haven’t picked up on yet.

I should team up with the lady downstairs.  I could bring the blue color chart and maybe she could bring the bag of peanuts.

Fern Surgery

by Carly Brown

The hand saw sits on the disinfected countertop. Fresh fern-appropriate soil waits in a bucket next to my workstation.  I wheel the ferns in on their ‘gurney’, a garden cart that I pull through the greenhouse to the office. I pass by the succulents, the lipstick tree, and finally the cacti. I am wheeling the ferns in for surgery.

As a greenhouse student employee I work in House 2 amongst the pitcher plants, orchids, and ferns. Once a week I scout the area for greenhouse pests. My hand lens is more or less permanently pressed to my right eye as I search for spider mites, thrips, and aphids (more on that in another post).  Today, however, is fern bisection and transplant day. I have transplanted before, but I have never cut plant clusters into pieces to put a smaller individual back into the original pot. The ferns have not only outgrown their pots, but will soon outgrow their area in the greenhouse if they are not cut back.

Removing the large leather fern from its pot is not a task for the weak. Its deep green, shiny, waxy-looking fronds rise up above my head as it sits on the counter. The pot is dense with secret underground growth. Using all of my strength, I flip the pot upside down and rap it against the edge of the counter until the fern slides out of the pot. Catching it in my hands, I flip the fern right side up. Intricate roots and underground rhizomes support its structure enough that it retains the pot shape. The rhizome on a fern is comparable to the stem on a flowering plant. Though it is below the soil it gives the plant a sturdy structure, much like our legs.

I grab my surgical tool: the saw. The goal is to divide this fern into four equal sections. I start the cut, putting all of my muscle into it, but the saw does not make progress. I move the saw back and fourth, but it does not go deeper into the soil. Is this possible? Am I trying to saw through a piece of metal that I did not see? My muscles strain as I push and pull – back, forth, down – until I finally feel the saw going deeper into the soil. After the saw makes it halfway, something gives. I have made it through the hard, almost woody, rhizomes of the fern, and can now detangle the more delicate roots.

Pulling apart the fern base, I am mesmerized by the beauty in the mess of rhizome structures weaving in and out of each other. I have admired ferns in the forests and fields, and have recently tried delicious fiddleheads smothered in butter.  Despite my above-ground admiration, I have never known what goes on in the life of a fern below the cover of soil.  After making a second bisection I place one section of the fern in its old pot and fill it with new soil. This new soil hides the fern’s secret – its solid, intricate, rhizomatous base. After returning the leather fern to House 2, I drench the dry soil with water to jumpstart the growth that will eventually reveal the secret to another naïve student employee on transplant day.

 

 

 

Witch-Hazel: The Honeybee’s Last Forage

by Leah Mital-Skiff

We extracted honey this weekend from our backyard hive.  The late date of this final extraction is evident in the density of the deep-amber goldenrod-dominant honey.  Its slow movement through the series of filters on a cold day reminds our family that we should be out apple picking rather than forcing our bees to further stock up for winter on chilly days. I worry every year that we have taken too much too late from the bees as I watch the late-blooming asters begin to wilt at the beginning of fall.  The forage for our honeybee colony is reduced this time of year as they work harder to fill and cap their final honey chambers for winter.

The dynamics of supply and demand have reversed.  Where flowering plants have competed for pollinators throughout the spring, summer and early fall, the pollinating insects now face a shortage of pollens and nectar as most flowers and deciduous plants have senesced for the year. However, one plant, witch-hazel, has evolved to capitalize on this shift.  On the cold days of fall when other plants have lost their color, witch-hazel bursts into a show of yellow flowers beckoning our bees from the warmth of the hive to forage just a bit further into the fall.

Witch hazel flower photo taken by Neahga Leonard through a hand lens for magnification.

Witch-hazel, Hamamelis virginiana, is a shrub native to Vermont and a common understory tree with a high shade tolerance.  Its anti-competition-late-season-pollination strategy comes with additional adaptations to produce a viable seed crop and environment for germination.  Like our honeybees, which remain in the hive on colder days to protect the queen, few other pollinators remain flying this late in the season.  While witch-hazel does not compete with other flowering plants for pollinators, it does contend with temperatures and reduced daily sunlight that signal pollinators to reduce their flight.  For this reason, most of the witch-hazel flowers go without pollination and the plant produces few fruits.

Flowers and last year’s orange-brown fruits co-occur in the fall. Photo: Neahga Leonard

With its leaves dropped, witch-hazel’s other unique adaptation becomes evident against the backdrop of the bare northern hardwood forest in the fall.  Unlike other plants, witch-hazel flowers and fruits simultaneously.  The fruits, however, are a full year behind the flowers, having finally matured from last year’s mid-fall pollination. They have persisted on the shrub all winter to mature in the fall along with the new flowers.  Two shiny black seeds are ejected explosively (a distance up to 3 meters) from the woody capsules.  One theory of the name witch-hazel is attributed to the sound of the expelled seeds hitting the dry leaves of the forest floor.  People associated this eerie phenomenon with witchcraft practiced deep in the woods on still autumn days.  This theory competes with the more popular reason behind the name.  The bendable, forked branches were used by witches as dowsing rods, wishbone-shaped twigs, to find groundwater sources, valuable metals, or even missing children.

Enjoy this last show in the woods once the blaze of foliage has come to an end and even the goldenrods have given up for the year.  If you are lucky enough to witness the explosive seed dispersal and find the seeds among fallen leaves, the rich, white oily interior is edible, collected and prized in the past by Native Americans. Perhaps, it will be warm enough for our honeybees to make their final foraging flights to meet you there; their focus will be the flowers.

New Life Storms into the Forest

by Liz Brownlee

The roots stretch high into the sky – ten feet, maybe fifteen.  Soil hangs midair, clinging to the roots. A tiny white pine sits in the depression, reaches for the warm, gaping hole in the forest canopy.

The red maple once towered ninety feet tall, spreading its arms wide into the canopy.  Screech owls made their home in the tree.  Woodpeckers searched for dinner.  Black Rat Snakes lounged in its branches.

Its leaves were the first to turn each Fall, and their brilliant red told of cool nights to come. Its seeds – little helicopters – spun down on the Spring breeze.

Now that giant lies on the ground, another victim of Hurricane Irene’s powerful winds. This forest, at Mud Pond Conservation Area in Williston, is littered with downed trees, thrown on top of each other like so many pick-up sticks.

Downed trees could seem like a tragedy to a passerby.  But the white pine seedling, small as it may be, knows a more complete story:  falling trees create new life in Vermont’s mature forests.

Forests of tall, old trees are cool, dark, moist places.  The leaves from full-grown trees absorb almost every bit of sunlight before it can reach the ground.  Seedlings starve for warmth and light.  They cannot grow, and they can wait years – even decades – for a tree to fall.

A storm, then, allows new life.  Wind is the most common way Vermont trees come toppling to the forest floor. The downed red maple is a “wind-throw,” because it fell in a powerful storm.

The suddenly sunny forest floor is a very happening place.  White pine and birch seedlings shoot up practically overnight.  Deer munch on young plants. Fungi break down the tree’s trunk, and worms, beetles, and salamanders move in.

The forest could not grow anew without downed trees.  Just ask the white pine seedling.

 

For hiking in Mud Pond, and other locations in the Town of Williston:  http://town.williston.vt.us/index.asp?Type=B_BASIC&SEC=%7BE8A7EC77-4332-4BA8-BBEF-6B1AB2B4F06C%7D&DE=%7BCF447A7E-7514-4078-9910-933255CB6967%7D

 

Canada mayflower – more than meets the eye

By Nancy Olmstead

What is an individual plant?  It’s pretty clear when you are looking at an individual squirrel, or an individual blue jay: it starts at the tail and ends at the head.  The question gets harder to answer when you look at some kinds of plants, including many of our New England forest wildflowers.  Scientists who study forest plants need to be able to tell one individual from another.  If they can’t, their studies might accidentally be made up of many samples of the same few organisms, which would bias the results toward organisms that were sampled multiple times.  One example of an understory plant that presents this challenge is Canada mayflower (Maianthemum canadense).

This cute little plant can be found from the arctic to the Atlantic in a broad swath across northern North America, through the upper midwest and the iron belt states, and down the Appalachian mountains to northern Georgia.  When you’re walking in an upland New England forest during the late spring, summer, or early fall, keep an eye turned toward the understory.  You are likely to see a Canada mayflower plant.  You might see areas where many Canada mayflower plants grow in a loose patch close to the ground.  Some of the plants are just a single, teardrop-shaped leaf growing about four inches above the ground, while other plants have two or three leaves.  From late May to late June, you’ll see a crown of 10-30 tiny, white flowers on the plants with multiple leaves.  Some of the flowers will turn into reddish, round fruits by summer’s end.

If you gently dig up the base of one of these plants, you’ll find a slender root (or two) that runs horizontally into the soil.  If you keep digging carefully, you may be able to follow that slender root right over to a neighboring “plant.”  And you could go on to the next “plant,” and maybe to the next, and so on.  Eventually, some root connections break down, but they are all the same plant.  Canada mayflower has a clonal growth habit – it uses roots like other plants use twigs, to spread out leaves and capture more light.  Some clones cover more than 20 square feet; old ones can reach 30-60 years of age.

So what is an individual, and does it matter?  Maybe it doesn’t matter to a hiker just admiring the flowers.  But for a scientist trying to study plant responses to the environment, it matters a great deal.  If we want to understand how plants are reacting to acid rain, or dealing with a changing climate, we have to know where a plant begins and ends.  Our questions require us to take independent samples.  With molecular techniques, researchers can test individual stems to determine genetic identity.  But it’s expensive and time-consuming.  Our understanding of these beautiful wildflowers will therefore be limited until we discover an easy way to tell who’s who.

The Fall Migration of Raptors

By Emily Brodsky

Just about when the leaf peepers begin flocking to the roadways to observe Vermont’s spectacular autumn foliage, an equally-enthusiastic set of nature lovers is trekking up the peaks to watch a different seasonal event: the fall migration of raptors.  Also known as “birds of prey,” this majestic group includes the eagles, falcons, hawks, vultures, ospreys, and the less-familiar but no-less-impressive group called the harriers, of which North America has only one (the beautiful Northern Harrier).   Perched on a mountain outcropping, one can predictably see large numbers of these birds as they make their way to southern climes.

Whether you’re a veteran bird-watcher or a novice, raptor-watching (usually referred to as “hawk-watching,” even though other types of raptors are included) is a great way to spend an autumn afternoon.  One of its draws is that the birds are highly visible.  Unlike the diminutive songbirds, which hop around incessantly and hide in dense shrubs, raptors are large, steady, and during migration, exposed.  Also, because each group of raptors flies differently and has a distinctive shape, these birds are easy to tell apart.  The peregrine falcon, for example, has long, pointed wings, which it flaps continuously for its fast, powered flight.  In contrast, the bald eagle rarely flaps and its broad, sturdy wings make it look like a flying plank.  At the popular hawk-watching sites, you’re likely to find fellow observers on the summit to help you with identification; learn the shapes and flight patterns of the major groups and you’ll be a hawk-watching maven in no time.

 

So when and where is a Vermonter to begin?  The peak of fall raptor migration is from mid-September to early November; try going at different times of the season to see different species.   The most popular hawk-watching sites in Vermont are Mount Philo, 15 miles south of Burlington, and Putney Mountain in the southeast corner of the state.  Snake Mountain in Addison and Mount Ascutney in Windsor are also decent spots, as are Coon Mountain, just beyond the ferry terminal in Essex, New York, and Mount Tom in Massachusetts, straight down the Connecticut River from Brattleboro.

In addition to being a popular place for recreational hawk-watching, Putney Mountain is also an official migration monitoring site.  Because raptor migration is predictable and easy to watch, people have been counting migrating raptors and recording their numbers since 1934, when the first official count site was established at Hawk Mountain Sanctuary in Pennsylvania.  Since then, numerous similar counts have been established all over the globe, from the Panama Canal to the Strait of Gibraltar.  The long-term migration data collected at these sites allow scientists to monitor raptor populations; numbers vary greatly from year to year, but over long periods of time, scientists can identify trends.  The decline in juvenile Bald Eagles migrating past Hawk Mountain Sanctuary in the 1970s alerted Rachel Carson to the threat of DDT to these important predators, and she wrote about this trend in Silent Spring, the influential book which led to the ban of that harmful pesticide.  Visit the Putney Mountain Hawk Watch just for fun, or participate in the count to play a role in history.

You may be wondering why people hike up mountains to watch raptors migrate, instead of just observing from their driveways.  Do mountains simply afford better views of the sky?  The answer is that raptors concentrate along specific routes during the fall migration, and just as you’re more likely to find lots of cars on I-89 than on a dirt road in the sticks, you’re much more likely to see large numbers of raptors along these migration flyways.  Flyways tend to stick to mountain chains, because these topographic features allow for easy flight.

Source: http://donsnotes.com/nyc-nj/hawk-watch.html

As you can probably imagine, migration is exhausting.  When we humans are exhausted, we can take a nap and recharge; to a raptor, exhaustion usually means death.  Some raptors, such as Broad-winged Hawks, fly as many as 4,500 miles in about nine weeks to reach their wintering grounds.  To make it that far, they must do whatever they can to save energy along the way.  Lucky for raptors, there are some great energy-saving tricks.

When winds blow against a barrier such as a mountain, they’re forced upwards.  During migration, raptors fly along the sides of mountain ridges to take advantage of this upward push of air, called an updraft.  Instead of flapping their wings to generate lift, raptors can simply spread their wings wide and ride the updrafts like a surfer rides a wave.  Updrafts can carry raptors hundreds of miles along a continuous mountain chain like the Appalachians, which conveniently runs from north to south.  Not only does this strategy save migrating raptors an enormous amount of energy; it also makes for a great show, since updrafts carry the birds right past the slopes.

Source: http://www.loudounwildlife.org/HHHawksInAir.htm

Updrafts are helpful when the wind blows.  Early in the fall, however, when the sun is still high and the air is calm, raptors rely more heavily on another phenomenon of physics. You’ve probably seen hawks or vultures flying in circles, high in the sky with their wings outstretched.  These birds are using a trick called soaring flight.  As you know, the surface of the Earth is quite variable; some spots are covered with rocks, some with woodlands, and some with houses and streets.  When solar radiation hits these surfaces, they each heat up at a different rate, and thus, the air just above the ground heats up unevenly.  In spots where the ground is warm, the air rises, forming columns called thermal air currents (or thermals, for short).  Raptors find these thermals, and spiral upward without having to flap their wings.  When they get nice and high in one thermal, they exit and glide toward another (losing altitude but gaining distance), and they rise up again.  In this way, they can travel long distances without expending much energy.  Mountain slopes heat up faster than the valleys below them, which means they’re good places for thermals; thus, raptors stick to the mountains even on calm days.

Mountains aren’t the only places in which to spot large numbers of migrating raptors; these birds tend to follow shorelines as well.  Thermals don’t form above water bodies like they do over land, because water releases heat slowly and evenly.  Without thermals or updrafts, raptors must use flapping flight – the most costly kind of flight.  For migrating raptors, flapping across a large expanse of water is risky business: if they run out of energy, they drown.  Consequently, most raptors avoid flying over large water bodies, and when they reach one along a flyway, they hug the coast – or, if they must cross, they find the shortest crossing.  Short crossings and narrow strips of land between water bodies act as concentration points, or bottlenecks, funneling thousands of raptors over the land as they avoid the surrounding water.  Examples are the south-facing peninsula of Cape May, New Jersey, the narrow crossing from Europe to Africa across the Strait of Gibraltar, and the thin strip of coastal plain at Veracruz, Mexico.

Migration behavior varies among species.  Broad-winged hawks, for example, depart for their approximately 4,500 mile trek to northern South America in early September when the thermals are strong.  Aptly named, Broad-winged Hawks are built for soaring flight.  Although Broad-winged Hawks are solitary for most of the year, they flock during migration.  Scientists believe flocking helps the birds to find the best thermals, although it could serve other purposes as well, such as protection; even most raptors have to worry about predators.  Broad-winged Hawks are one of the main attractions at raptor watch sites, since it’s possible to see hundreds or even thousands of them soaring together.

Unlike Broad-winged Hawks, Cooper’s Hawks are mediocre long-distance flyers.  These birds have stubby wings and long, rudder-like tails; they’re built for maneuvering among the branches in their forested habitats.  Cooper’s Hawks don’t generally migrate very far, and some don’t migrate at all.  Those individuals that do migrate tend to do so later in the season than Broad-winged Hawks, departing in October and November, and dropping off along the way as they find suitable wintering grounds.  They rely heavily on updrafts to save energy during the trip, and are easy to spot on north-facing ridges.

You may ask: why do the birds go to all this trouble, anyway?  Or, better yet: if they don’t like the cold, why don’t they just stay in the south, where the weather is toasty-warm year-round?  A common misconception about migration is that it’s prompted by temperature change.  Since we like to follow the warmth of the sun in the wintertime and many of us head south to Florida beaches, we assume birds and other migratory animals share our preferences.  In most cases, however, migration relates to temperature only indirectly.  In actuality, migration is mostly about food.

As the northern days grow shorter and the temperatures drop, plants cease to produce fruits.  Annual plants reach the ends of their lives, while perennials drop their leaves and transfer their sugars into stems and roots for winter storage.  Many of the insects and mammals that feed upon these plants turn in for a months-long slumber, or stock their larders with seeds, nuts, and other high-energy morsels and settle into their winter dwellings.  Ice creeps over the surfaces of lakes and ponds, sealing in their inhabitants until the spring thaw.  Carnivorous birds suddenly find themselves with little to eat.  So, they follow the food.  And, because it coincides with warmer weather, the food just so happens to be in the south.

When migratory raptors reach their wintering grounds, they must compete with resident birds for food and roosting sites.  This works out okay in the winter, when the birds need only worry about themselves; once spring comes along, however, the birds must compete for nest sites, and food for their offspring as well as for themselves.  Making the grueling return journey is worthwhile, since the raptors will have their choice of nesting spots when they reach their mostly vacant northern homes.  They’ll also get there just in time for dinner; after the snow and ice melt, there will be fish, rodents, songbirds, and juicy insects around just about every corner.

 

 

 

Doll’s Eyes

by Sophie Mazowita

A dozen eyeballs, dangling from their sockets, stared up at me on my last walk through the woods.  I was strolling through the forest on a gloomy Sunday afternoon, seeking out plants for a botany project, when I came across the startling sight.  The small eyes stood out from ten yards away, stretched out on their swollen red arteries.  A small black pupil marked the middle of each white, its stare drawing me in.

A few steps closer and I recognized my “observer” as a common yet ever-creepy resident of our woodlands: the 2-foot tall White baneberry (Actaea pachypoda).  The plant is a member of the buttercup family, but it bears little resemblance to its golden-flowered relatives.  It’s most aptly known as Doll’s eyes, and true to this moniker, each of its white berries looks like it has been plucked straight out of the head of a porcelain doll.  Up to 30 of the fruits sit affixed to a stalk that towers over the plant’s leaves and turns a bright red as the summer progresses.  The black “pupils” are actually the vestiges of some flower parts from earlier in the season.

The plants are poisonous to humans (though I doubt any would be tempted), but they offer food to birds.  Imagine the sight of a bird pulling an “eye” from its thick red stalk and swallowing it whole!  A visit to a hardwood or mixed forest will offer your best chance at viewing this spectacle; the baneberry plants grow in the shade below mature maple, basswood, and other broadleaf trees.  The white berries should stand out above a dozen or more jagged-edged green leaflets that strech out horizontally, about a foot off the ground.

Doll’s eyes is but one of the attractions of early autumn woodlands.  Most people would pick the spring as the prime time to view wildflowers; when trees are still bare, spring ephemerals like trilliums and trout lily put on a show on the sun-soaked forest floor.  The end of the growing season, however, offers a whole other set of treasures.  White baneberry’s eyes follow you through the woods until the frost hits.  Jewelweed seed pods offer an explosive surprise to anyone who brushes past.  Beech branches thick with fruit begin to drop their bounty, a favourite of black bears.  A leisurely walk and discerning eye will offer many rewards.

What’s your latest discovery?