Lasers and Poker Chips

It's not Las Vegas--it's a wood thrush.

A small, rust-colored passerine (perching bird) fills the woods with rich melodies in minor keys.  Their dissonant and eerily beautiful song slides sweetly through every staff line on the bar, ringing in the following silence until you find yourself aching for the sound.

They harmonize with themselves.  Mammals like you and I have one opening in the airway to the lungs, called the larynx, from which we make sound.  However, some birds, such as the thrush family, have something called a "syrinx".  It's similar to the larynx, but instead of opening above the fork in the trachea, it actually opens at the fork, meaning these birds can make two sounds at one time.  Because of this, they harmonize with themselves, not only each other.

The final note of the wood thrush song is a testimony to that.  The flute-like tones that come before it are liquid and clear, but the final note vibrates harshly, quickly, like poker chips being thrown together; sometimes, it's slower, like the laser sound effect in movies, or like someone plucking a metal string that's been too tightly wound.

Right now, they're singing at all but the hottest parts of the day.  It fills my heart with something wonderful.

I'm not posting a link for the song because you can find it online, but I encourage you to come listen to the wood thrush in person.  Trust me, listening to it through speakers will never do it justice.

Photo courtesy of Lloyd Spitalnik Photos

Is that... ?

Emily, the new Environmental Education Coordinator, sticks her head inside the door.  I'm standing in the kitchen cleaning off the counters when I hear her ask, "Is that a copperhead?"

I turn to face her.

"A what?"  I see she's pointing to the rocks that line the side of the porch and, sure enough, a snake roughly 15 inches long is draped like a string across the largest one.

"It's weird, isn't it?  For a snake to be out at night?"

At this point, we're both crouched on the edge of the wood flooring, me on my knees, leaning my face out over the space between myself and the young snake.

"It's definitely a copperhead," she reasons.  "See the bow-tie pattern?"

"I've never seen one," I respond.

Copperheads are one of the three species of poisonous snake indigenous to Pennsylvania.  Earlier in the spring I mentioned the black rat snakes we'd been seeing, which itself is a non-venoumous snake.  So, for your viewing pleasure and knowledge, this is what a copperhead looks like:

Photo courtesy of Jeff Kubina and venomoussnakes.net

"Porch Sitting"

Where I'm from, "porch sitting" is a recreational activity that takes place on nice days between late spring and early fall, during which you... sit on someone's porch.  I've taken to "porch sitting" since moving down here, since the porch opens up right into the Preserve.  However, I discovered someone doing this activity on my porch today without me.

A broad-headed skink.  This little lizard was so fast, the first time I saw him this morning, I couldn't catch him.  I was partially afraid I might crush him if I grabbed him too hard, so I was afraid to really go for it.  When I saw him again in the afternoon, however, in the exact same spot, this time I brought a tool: a big, plastic cup.

I managed to scoop him and take one picture before my curiosity got the best of me and I stuffed my hand down to the bottom to see what he felt like.  He took this opportunity to launch out of the cup and run away, me chasing him across the porch, into the driveway, and up under some rocks (in my bare feet, no less).

Here he is, for your viewing pleasure:

Delicious Smells

Sweet Melissa.  Purple horse mint.  Lemon beebalm.

In the Sensory Garden at Strawberry Hill, plants are growing full speed with all of these alternating sunny and rainy days.  All the names above are for the same plant: lemon mint!

Plants in the mint family always have a square stem.  Even catnip--cat mint--is part of the mint family.  The flowers typically have four stamen and five united petals.  The leaves typically have rounded teeth.

The Sensory Garden acts as a dynamic area for those with sensory disabilities, like blindness.  I reach down, running my hands all over the Lemon Mint, and they come away smelling like yummy citrus fruits from faraway lands.  I dab my fingers on my neck because it smells so delicious.  It isn't the only fun plant in full bloom!  Come check out all the nifty little things in the Sensory Garden, and the Butterfly Garden that's attached!

Photo courtesy of the American Botanical Council.

Snakes in the Cupboard

I grab my ringing phone off the wall, "Hello?"

"Hey, so... there's a snake in my kitchen.  He's little, but would you maybe want to come and get it out for me?"

I hop in my car, drive down to Camp Eder, and my friend Gabriel is standing against the wall of the kitchen when I enter the cabin.  He's staring intently into one of his bottom cupboards.

I peek my head around the corner and see the cutest little baby black rat snake curled up in a cast iron frying pan, licking the air in our direction.  I let out my coos (just as any girl might) and scooped him up with one hand.

Since it was below 60 degrees outside (raining) and we'd found him indoors, I put him in a terrarium with some warm water bottles for the night.  I know in the photo he appears greenish, but he was completely gray with those black diamond shapes on his back.  His belly was iridescent.  Black rat snakes generally turn completely black (or all black with a little bit of white here and there) later in life, and this pattern on the young helps to keep them camouflaged.

I named him Blinky (ha!) and let him go just outside of my own cabin, hoping I might see less mice in my home over time.  I hope I see him again someday soon!

The New Ugly "Duckling"

One of the fifth grader's taking part in Waynesboro School District's Outdoor School at Camp Eder found this scary looking thing.  Check him out!

I had to compliment her (and take a photo) because I have never found one this big before!  Not only that, I've never found one in flowing water, either! 

If you look closely at the back, you can see two sets of wings forming under the exoskeleton of this "little" stream critter--the forewing and the hindwing.  This nymph will split its exoskeleton, uncurling its wispy wings to take flight over the water's surface.  The head will look almost the same as it does now.  This insect's abdomen and thorax will glint in the sun, iridescent blue or green, as it seeks out smaller insects (like mosquitoes) to feast on. 

Dragonflies hover like fairytales, captivating and just out of reach, zipping past before you can blink an eye.  When they finally come to rest on the blade of a rush, they allow admirers to study their shiny bodies closely; we have a moment of awe at their bright colors and interesting shape.

The Dragonfly: the Ugly Duckling of the insect world!

The Five Senses

Two three-hour stream studies before dinner.  A two-and-a-half hour block of animal presentations after dinner.

It has been a long day.

Everything about me is dog tired: my muscles, my feet, my eyelashes are like lead weights on my eyelids.  I've been outside all day long; my face and lips are sun burnt.

You'd think the last thing I'd want to do when I got home is be outside, but I find all I want to do is sit on the porch in the dark, admiring a perfectly clear, bright velvet sky harboring millions of little stars and a storybook crescent moon.

Everything is still.  No wind.  There's a chill in the air, but a long sleeved shirt is enough.

Something in the woods crashes through the leaves.  All I can tell is that it's going downhill and isn't very graceful.  It's probably a skunk or a opossum--something with short legs--but I also dream up bears and coyotes... (wishful thinking).  Whatever it is, it's less than 50 yards from me.

I find myself thinking, "If only I could see in the dark.  Like a cat."

I follow the creature, whatever it is, with my ears until it's too far away for me to discern any details about footsteps.  My eyes stab into the darkness.  I'm trying so hard to see just a little further, to make the little light from my living room window work more to my advantage, but no matter how hard I try, I just can't see well in the dark.

Imagine all the things I'd discover if I could.

Adding to Your "Life List"

For birders, a "Life List" is the combined list of all the birds they've ever spotted (or for some, at least heard).  There's a certain feeling of elation that goes along with seeing a bird for the first time: palpitations, a jolt of energy to the stomach, maybe a light sweat, perhaps a fast grin.  Sometimes you spend all morning looking for one particular bird, or maybe you've been looking for a bird for weeks, or you know about a bird to at least hope you see it before you die, and so when you finally see it, it's a huge accomplishment.  Or, a huge surprise.

Sometimes they find you first.

Through the years, there have been plenty of times I've found myself flipping through the Peterson or Sibley field guides to identify a bird.  Many times, I pause on the Indigo Bunting page, wishing just once, I could see one, but always missing it.

Today, driving home, I saw the brightest blue flash of feathers along the road side!  I stopped my car immediately (I was not on a main road) so that I could get a closer look.  Despite never having seen an indigo bunting in real life, I've spent so much time pining over the pictures that I knew the bird instantly.  How beautiful!  How cute!  How exciting!

What things have you been pining over that you can add to your "Life List"?

Photo courtesy of Classy View Point and Lang Elliot

Slithering Snakes

On Thursday, a black rat snake appears from the grate in the grill (we think), and climbs a wall.  I've never seen a snake climb a vertical surface, but this snake makes its body into perfect right angles, melding against the bricks in the wall, hovering its tapered head in different directions looking for the best place to go.  I never knew those belly scales were so strong!  Swimmers and climbers, all with no legs.

Today, a black rat snake makes its way across the trail and into the aviary where we can watch it slither around, poking its head against the sides until it eventually turns around and goes back out the door.  Snakes--these feared creatures that keep our rodent population at levels worth applauding--are amazing!  On these warm spring days, you'll be sure to see them out and about, soaking up the sun.

If you're out hiking on a sunny day, make sure you're glancing down consistently to help prevent any accidents, especially in sunny areas, in boulder fields, or on rocky outcrops.  Snakes typically will not bite unless they are stepped on or handled.  Before they bite, they release a substance from the cloacal vent (called musk) that will easily wash out of clothing, but that has a terrible lingering smell.  I'm inclined to say worse than a skunk.  It's a common defense mechanism for snakes to rattle their tails quickly, even if they're not a rattle snake, so if you hear that sound, you've probably disturbed one.  Try not to make a habit of rolling over big rocks.

Never pick up a wild snake, venomous or non-venomous!

Venomous snakes: have slitted pupils (like cats) and have triangular-shaped heads (because their venom glands sit near the back of the jaw).  There are only three venomous snakes in Pennsylvania: northern copperhead, massasauga rattle snake, and the timber rattle snake.

Non-venomous snakes: have round pupils (like people) and have slender heads.  There are about 18 species of non-poisonous snakes in Pennsylvania.

For more information, visit the PA Fish and Boat Commission website or this handy herp-ID site.

Photo courtesy of Rosie Molinary

Babies

Look what's going on at the pond now!

I know I've been writing about the geese a lot, but for good reason: look at the new addition to "Things to See at Strawberry Hill"!

Six baby goslings, all in a row, between mom and dad.  If I can get closer, there are more pictures to come!

Model Citizen (Hooray!)

Nothing beats being a camp counselor.

If ever a person were to choose a time to truly be a role model, being a camp counselor is one of the best ways.  When you're in charge of a group of kids for a couple of days, the best person inside you comes forward: your concern about the environment is at the forefront of your actions, you begin to guide small people in the right direction, you teach.  You model.

Camp counselors help kids understand what "community" really means and how we can support each other while working together.  Camp counselors encourage understanding, acceptance, and inclusion.  Camp counselors work 24-hour days to keep kids safe, happy, and excited.

Hooray for the camp counselor!  Hooray for the counselor who comforts a homesick child; hooray for the counselor that compliments kids when they do a good job.  Hooray!

Hooray for being the best person you can be.

Good News for Gooses

At 7:30 this morning, I'm standing on the side of the pond, watching two geese.  But which two?

I have no idea.

A male goose flies overhead, honking, circling, honking, and circling again before retreating away over the grove of pine trees behind the pink cabin.  Both geese on the ground are standing on the shoreline; since neither is on the nest, I assume the worst: the old couple has been kicked out.

So, I get this bright idea.  She hasn't been off the nest for more than 12 hours... maybe the eggs can still make it?  I circle the pond, tramping down the rushes to find a nice pile of downy feathers.  However, as I come closer to the nest, these two geese glide into the water and swim straight at me.  As I push my way down the bank, the smaller of the two gets out of the water right in front of me, waddles upward, and hisses loudly.

An angry mother.  Hooray!  They made it!  Hopefully baby geese are on their way.

Gooses

There are two geese at Strawberry Hill--a pair--male and female.  I've heard stories that if another goose were to come to the pond, they would get chased out immediately.

However, there are now four geese in the pond.  Granted, the two new geese keep a good distance from the usual pair, always on the shore at the furthest distance possible.  They arrived this morning or sometime late last night.

I kept hearing these weird calls coming from across the street while I was working in the office and each time, I hurried out the door to see what was going on.  Every time, nothing was going on.  I kept expecting to sneak up on them and see them tearing each other apart, but the mama stayed on her nest all day and papa swam back and forth in front of her, diligently keeping watch.

It was just a lot of noise.

I don't really expect the new pair to stay.  I felt for the old couple--I wanted to chase the new ones away and let them have their space, uninhibited, but who am I to interfere?  It's better that whatever nature intends to happen, happens.  Til then, I'll keep my eyes (and ears) open.

The new couple

Three-legged Race

(If you like this blog, please consider following me!  I need to show the higher-ups that people are really reading it!)

A single deer stands on the bank off to the right side of the road, looking back over its shoulder like more deer may be on their way.  I come to a complete stop.  Looking down off to the left, I see three white tails bounding off across the stream, leaving this one deer in the dust, alone.  I turn off the engine.

Popping my door open slowly, I lower my feet to the ground.  The deer turns broadside to me, ears pointed in my direction, licking its lips and wiggling its nostrils.  Her eyes shine.  I take a step.

"Go!  They're not waiting for you.  Go!" I call out gently.  Still she stands and stares at me.  As I take a step up the bank toward her, she turns to go and I realize: one of her front legs is missing.  There's a stub about 8 inches down from the shoulder, but from there on its only empty space.  I only notice because she still walks with this phantom limb, her head dropping low to compensate for each off-step, balancing as she hobbles slowly through the leaves.

It's pity that I feel--curiosity as to how she lost the leg, but pity for her situation.  Each careful step I take toward her, she takes one careful step away from me, keeping use at an equal distance.  My stomach starts to turn for her, even though in my mind I'm thinking how impressed I am that she's even alive.

Suddenly, a twig snaps underneath my foot and it must startle her, because she takes off like a rocket, white tail flipped upward in a wave goodbye; before I know it, she's disappeared up the mountain, ducking through trees like she wouldn't have needed that fourth leg even if she still had it.

Going on a Bear Hunt

Even hiking up Baker's Knob, I knew in my heart that I expected to just happen upon a bear.  I pictured myself coming around a bend quietly enough to see one sitting on its rump, tearing into a log, stuffing its happy face with crawling things.  If it was that easy, I'd have seen hundreds of bears by this point in my life.  I knew what to look for, but not where to look for it.  The best way to make discoveries is to explore.

No, this story does not end with me happening upon a bear, but wouldn't that be some pleasant irony?  Birds and insects are everywhere, so we see them all the time; we feel mammals should be the same.  Mammals, however, are secretive.  To track an animal is to become that animal--imagine its footfalls, dream its intentions, see what it saw.  "Tracking" misleads beginners, I think, since it seems to imply exactly what you should be looking for: tracks.  However, oftentimes tracks are impossible to see because of leaf litter, moss, or just dry soil.  It isn't always muddy or snowy.  Some other things you can look for include scat (poop), markings on trees, burrows, trails, and a variety of other things depending on species.  You'll find that once you really become mindful of nature's details, you begin to see signs everywhere.  Literally, everywhere, to the point that you may need to reel yourself in because you imagine signs that aren't really there.  I didn't give up looking for bears, but I saw no definite signs today.  Here are some photos (captions included) of what I did find.

(Note: all of these photos were taken within a three-quarter mile area on preserve property.)

Owl pellet, complete with thigh bone of a small rodent.

I suspect that there are two different types of scat in this photo.  The white scat is older, the dark scat newer. However, based on size (length and diameter), I'm inclined to say the white scat is coyote and the dark is fox.  Notice the amount of fur in this scat--these doggies are eating well!

Torn log.  I found some that were from woodpeckers (thus misleading, because they can appear similar until closer inspection), but because of the claw marks, I say mammal.  I'm afraid to say bear because of the thinness of the claw marks, but if you have an idea, please let me know.  Sometimes raccoons will tear, too, but not as often.

The sun going down across the valley (and my awesome binoculars).

Every Horse is an Island

The rain from all day yesterday has certainly had its effect.  Large portions of Swamp Creek Lane are almost entirely washed out.  Flooded areas follow along Mount Hope Road, including in some of the farms, where horses stand on high ground, grazing as usual.

I can't help but wonder how all this recent erosion and extra particulate in the streams are affecting the fish.

Something interesting?  There's a new spring in my backyard!  I looked out the window this morning to see water literally gushing out of the ground.  I walked out in my bare feet to check it out and took some photos.  Enjoy!

My driveway

 The new spring in my yard

The old bridge to Glatfelter tree farm

Washed Up

It's true, Live Green was cut short due to rain--more rain that we anticipated.  We prepared for inclement weather, but the downpour was too much for us to work with and we ended up scrapping all the afternoon activities.  It was a shame to see Joe's hard work not come to fruition.  He spent a lot of time putting this all together and if the weather had cooperated, the event would have been spectacular.  Rumor has it we may end up pushing for a rain date toward the beginning of May, so keep your eyes and ears open for upcoming information.

Despite the rain, the yard sale went on.  We did manage to make some money today and despite the cold and damp, we had a really good time.  It amazes me how sometimes bad weather can bring people together; having a burger under the pavilion with the employees and volunteers was a nice way for us to just get together, hang out, and talk, without having to worry about everything happening without a hitch. 

All in all, it wasn't what we expected, but we did enjoy ourselves.  If you did come out today, we appreciate your support today (as always!) and we were happy to see you.  Enjoy your reused yard sale items, and thanks again!

The Woodpeckers

To my left, a robin sing-songs merrily to signal the fading of another day into velvet dusk.  Beyond it, the drumming of a woodpecker echoes through the tulip poplars.  Tap tap tap tap tap.  It's amazing how it carries.  This unique form of communication puts this bird into an entirely different category for me--birds without a song; true, woodpeckers each have a particular "laugh" that they belly out as they shop from tree to tree for the best produce, but it's far from the melodic prowess of, say, anything in the thrush family.  I keep waiting to hear a mate respond, but this lone woodpecker knocks at the door of an empty home.

I stop to admire the perfect holes in a perfect line in a gentle spiral up the side of one of the poplars.  Signs of a yellow-bellied sap sucker, one woodpecker I've seen least often in my life (and most of those sightings, sadly, involved someone discovering a dead one at the base of a tree somewhere).  They do have somewhat of a yellow belly, so unlike the red-bellied woodpecker, this one resembles its name.  I run my fingers along the old holes, tracing upward.  I can picture the bird with its special feet (two toes in the front and two in the back, unlike most birds with three in front and one in back) clutching the furrowed bark, then shuffling up and over a few centimeters to try again.  Over and over, until this pattern emerged, like viewing slits in a defense tower. 

Leaving the tree behind and cresting the hill, new drumming finds my ears.  Ah, there was a response, I just couldn't hear it.  I position myself so that I can hear one bird out of each ear, interrupting each other, and am surprised when I hear yet a third woodpecker drumming uphill in front of me.  So, someone was home after all.

Yellow-bellied Sapsucker

Photo courtesy of monarchbfly.com

Woodpecker feet

Photo courtesy of burdr.com

(I highly recommend this link if you're interested in more information about bird feet!  It's very cool!) 

Tales Along This Road

The eyes of the beech trees gaze down at me, unblinking, as I meander the trails.  The fibrous muscles of the ironwoods flex in the breeze, poses twisting out over the saturated soil.  A Louisiana water thrush flits from branch to branch along the creek.  I come to a stop because I thought I heard voices; I'm not alone, but I'm the only person out here.  More and more often I hear something like muffled chatter floating on the hillsides in the silent spaces between the churrr of the toads in the evening, just as the sun settles deep into the next valley, or maybe it's the next valley, or the next...

Darkness comes slowly and my eyes adjust.  I hardly notice.  I creep along the banks of Swamp Creek looking for signs of anything at all--animals, mostly--disturbances in the mud, torn logs.  I'm just settling quietly over a vernal pool when the wind picks up; a backlash of winter slices through my sweatshirt.  Peepers peep all around me and yet I see none, so I whisper out loud my fascination with their ability to survive, turn tail and head home, the moon watching all the way.

Some Photos

During an afternoon jog to the mailbox last week, I ran into a couple out to hike the trails.  They introduced themselves as Laurie and Kevin and asked if I would be interested in photos to post on the blog or Facebook site for Strawberry Hill, so I gave them the email address.  I have to share with you some of the photos that Kevin sent me, especially since I've been posting photos the last few days of things springing forth thanks to all this rain.  These pictures are fantastic, and were taken on Strawberry Hill property!  You can see these things in person if you come out, too.

Wood frog eggs at the Quarry

Flower of the skunk cabbage--these are almost gone now, devoured by its giant leaves.

Thanks to Kevin Trostle for these beautiful photos!  Photos of the trout lily will be coming from me soon, as I found several up today, but not open since it's so overcast.  Thursday, though, I expect them to start blooming in full in some spots.

Mini Trail Finds

(Before I get into my post: beware of the geese!  The female HAS started sitting on the nest at the far side of the pond.  Geese can be very aggressive!)

Still taking the time to put the nature center together before the big revealing at LiveGreen.  We've got several new displays in the process that are going to make the room look even more amazing than it did with the new floors/cabinets/counter tops.  I was able to sneak away for a few minutes to set up for an upcoming program, and I took a few photos out on the trail.  I can only identify one of them, so if you know what these are, feel free to comment.

The first is the leaves of Trout Lily, which will bloom yellow and curly (and I'll be sure to post pictures when it does).  I think they call it trout lily because it's shaped like a fish and has those spots on the leaf.

Then a little fungus...

And finally, another flower!

Spring is Springing, All Right!

Thanks to the volunteers who brought their green thumbs to the preserve for the sake of our gardens!  As always, we appreciate your hard work.

As for me, I was stuck inside the nature center most of the day, rearranging props, gathering teaching materials, and putting things away to get ready for LiveGreen next weekend.  Joe's been working hard on this event and it's sure to be a hootin', hollerin' good time--live music, vendors, food, you name it--so be sure to stop out on the 16th between 8am and 6pm to check it out!

During my travels today (setting up Second Sunday, which seemed to be enjoyed by those who participated), I managed to catch these two little clusters of wildflowers on the trail.  They're extremely tiny and I'm lucky to have been looking down at that particular moment, because I didn't find them anywhere else.

We also had a visit from some Gettysburg students out with their telemetry equipment searching for turtles.  They brought this little guy back to replace his transmitter.  This is a wood turtle; his eyes have a golden element to them like Bumpy's, but in a more "four leaf clover" sort of pattern.  I also love the orange speckling on his skin.  Remember, always leave turtles in the woods, but for now we're keeping this one for a night or two until they can get the proper equipment out to reattach and let him go back in his home territory.

It's always an adventure at Strawberry Hill!

Environmental Interp

The rain held off most of the morning while we traipsed along the mountainside, through the tall trees (descending for a while into the quarry-turned-wetland) and back again, pausing to scoop critters out of the pond for closer inspection.  As we round the bend to the cabin, from behind my shoulder a chaperone asks, "So, how long have you been doing this?"

"Doing what?" I ask him.  "Doing this," I say, sweeping my arm across the group of kids in front of me that I've spent the better part of a morning teaching, "or doing this here?"  Then again, if he means how long have I been loving the outdoors, I hope he's in for a long story.

The conversation is short, but it gets me thinking.  Several times already in the two months I've been with Strawberry Hill, parents approached me with a proud arm around the shoulders of a smaller version of themselves, explaining that their child loves to be outside.  They want to encourage careers stemming from their child's innate interests in nature; I would assume this is so that their children may pursue something that not only grants income, but that makes them happy.  There are many ways to nurture this, including volunteering for nature centers, wildlife rehabilitation centers, wildlife preserves, or state and national parks.  Not only can this teach them valuable skills, but it can connect them with new mentors that can help guide them into educational programs or jobs, both during and after high school.  So, find a place you love and volunteer! 

High Beams

I keep reminding myself how conduction works: the heat drawn from my warm hand gets sucked into the tiny cold body, but it's a dead, endless cold that keeps pulling and pulling and pulling.  It never gets warm.  I clasp him the whole way home in my bare hand, resting on a bunched up sweatshirt in my lap, steering with my left hand and only letting go of him to shift gears.  I'm crying.  In some irrational place in my mind, I think he'll start moving again if only I can get him warm, even though when I found him on the pavement, he was already freezing, surrounded by a sprinkling of siblings all across the highway.  Sometimes, one of my fingers accidentally twitches and his little nose hits my thumb.  My heart jumps hopefully every time.  He was the only one I could reach before a car threatened to turn me into the spitting image of his mother, guts spilling over the white line as I dragged her to the side of the road by her tail, prodding her open belly with a plastic bag, hoping for one still inside.  But, it looks as though when the car hit her, her womb exploded, and tiny bodies lay around her like flower petals on a lake.

It's springtime, and in the spirit of biodiversity, I urge you to use caution when driving at night as animals are moving about in order to mate and find shelter to bear their babies.  Below is a photo of the one baby I could get my hands on.  He didn't make it; nor did his siblings or his mother.  When you see a dead opossum on the side of the road, (if and ONLY IF it is SAFE for you to be on the road--be mindful of traffic and use common sense, especially at night) remember that it may be carrying babies in the pouch that could still be alive even though the mother is dead.  If you have the ability to retrieve them, put them in a box, keep them warm, do not feed or give them water.  Call a wildlife rehabilitation center or someone who can direct you to one.  Remember, these animals are not pets.  People do consider them to be a nuisance animal, but they are misunderstood.  (As a side note, I did NOT hit the opossum carrying these, but I did stop to see if I could help.)

Slow down: save a life!  Or several!

Use a Nature Center

I open my email to find the following subject: “we found eggs in the vernal pond!”  I’ve been corresponding with a friend about things to do outside in the spring with her two young girls, and of course I suggested Herp Hunting.  In the email, she guiltily admits that they scooped up three little unidentified eggs to take home and watch grow.  She asks, “Should I take them back?”

I’m conflicted.  You don’t have to tell me how important it is to use experiential education to get a child excited about nature—what better way than to teach than letting them watch these eggs hatch right in front of their very eyes?  I tell her exactly how to take care of them, and then explain the downside of keeping them: their reproductive chances may be significantly lower if they aren’t actually born in the pool, it’s illegal to take wildlife without the proper permits, a synthetic habitat will never equal the real thing, amphibians are a keystone species in wetland habitats, and although they were born in the water, they may need other habitats to complete their life cycle.

While this began my philosophical gears turning (over the projection of human emotions onto nature’s organisms, if it could be a positive thing, what the world would be like without us, how much the public actually knows, and if conservation can really work), the conclusion I came to was simple.  More environmental education.  More opportunities to learn about nature in nature.  Get to your local nature center!  We’ll secure the permits, we’ll take you to the best places to see things, and (if we can acquire the funding) we’ll even supply what you need to do the things you want to do.  Please use us—we’re here for you and your children.  Nature’s splendor shouldn’t go unobserved and unloved by this generation, or any generation.

 Photo courtesy of Strawberry Hill

Straight from the Horse's Mouth

It's true, if you ask any naturalist what the first wildflower of spring really is in this region of Pennsylvania, they'll tell you it's skunk cabbage.  Skunk cabbage does deserve its place in the sun, since it radiates heat in the late winter to melt the snow around it, helping it pop out of the ground well before anything else.  The only problem with skunk cabbage?  (Not that it stinks, but I guess that, too.)  It doesn't scream "flower".  Mostly, it screams "little curly purple and green thing".

However, all along the lane, more colorful wildflowers are starting to peek out of the leaf litter.  In the morning, you'd never be able to tell; in late evening, Colt's Foot draws their shy petals back over their pretty faces, like a goose tucking its head under wing.  Only when they feel the warmth of the sun nudging them awake do they explode into little round stars sitting atop a shaggy stalk that looks almost like the head of asparagus.  Keep your eyes peeled for these tiny clustered wonders, and be careful not to step on them!

Photo by Emily

Man as Mountain

Some tall and difficult to scale, split the sky with oppressive shards of gray.  Some, a landscape of rumpled blankets after a night of tossing and turning in uneasy sleep.  Groundwater beats under the surface, filling the veins of streams and rivers, running down into the heart of brackish river deltas and away into the sea.  Animals harbor the seasons deep in nooks and crevices, mere shades in the morning fog, like an idea just out of reach.

The mountain takes a breath in at dawn and sighs slowly at the end of the day, letting the exhalation tumble down through the trees, carrying the scent of fresh wildflowers and decaying leaves.  It freezes and thaws.  Green, living roots break through hardened boulders to teem new life on what was once barren ground; where no one thought anything of beauty could ever grow, living things persevere.  The mountain persists.

Photo courtesy of Destination360.com

A Snail of a Tale

Oh, sure, I've seen snails before, but none as exciting as this one.

After bringing in all the critters we'd found in the pond, we gathered around the microprojector in the pink cabin as Mr. Eddy gave each "bug" its 15 minutes of fame on the white screen at the front of the room.  One by one, diving water beetles, dragonfly nymphs, and damselfly nymphs dance and skitter across the screen.  Finally, he places the little round shell on its side under the scope, and predicts the future!

"This little snail is going to come out of its shell.  Snails are called 'gastropods' which basically means 'foot mouth' because they have this one foot they use to propel themselves forward.  Oh!  There it comes, and you can see its eyestalk popping out, as well!" he cheers, interpreting the slow, ballet-like motions happening on screen.

He explains, "Imagine laying down, having 200 pounds on top of you, and trying to stand up!  That's what it's like for this snail to get that shell upright again.  Can he do it?!"

The snail's foot-mouth spreads across the screen like a clover leaf, and the shell slowly begins to move.  The whole room is holding their breath!  As the shell begins to creep slowly into an upright position, the kids, the adults, (even I) begin to cheer for it.

"Ooh, come on, snail!" I accidentally call out.  My stomach burns, hoping with all my might that this little snail overcomes the seeming unlikelihood of hauling that miniature--but giant--shell up and into its righted position.  But as it drops gently into place, we all clap, congratulating the snail for something we thought impossible.

Photo courtesy of Mr, Rudy's Goods

Dull Brilliance

First thing this morning, as we're setting up for the day's programs, I stumble upon something quite surprising in the pavilion: a female cardinal, dead on the ground.  People can almost always identify a male cardinal with ease--the bright red coloring, the familiar crest at the top of the head--but I've always thought the females, though more muted, captured just enough color to be truly mesmerizing.  They still have the crest, barely tipped with red, and though their back is the gentle gray of an overcast sky, the fronts of the wing feathers look as though she flew through a sea of peach-colored roses, picking up color along the edges.  Soft, yellow feathers run along the breast and up through the cheek, concealing the heavy gray of the downy feathers that trap her body heat.  A tiny red eyebrow curves above the eye and, as always, the bright orange beak adds an extra blaze of intense color.

I don't know how this bird died, or why it ended up in the pavilion.  There were no noticeable marks of predation that I could see; the only thing that seemed of consequence is that her neck may have been broken, though she was near no windows.  Never one to dismiss something like this so easily, I brought her home for a few pictures before nestling her against the root of a tree off in the woods, to rest and be absorbed back into the environment however Mother Nature sees fit.  For your viewing pleasure:

Morning Adventure

Is someone on the roof?

I roll over in bed and stare at the ceiling.  Impossible.  Swinging my legs out over the side, I slip my feet into my slippers and pad to the front door.  Unbolting it, I swing it open to discover huge clumps of wet snow falling off the trees, landing in the driveway, off in the woods, and on the roof my cabin.  The air is chilly, but without wind it doesn't seem too oppressive, so I decide to skip breakfast and head up to Baker's Knob (the blue trail).

Halfway up the first rise, I come upon deer tracks and follow them along the trail.  The animals and I are working with the same advantage: the plopping snow everywhere helps mask the sound footsteps.  Even trying to be quiet, I know that the perfectly spaced sound of my step is unnatural.  Against my better judgment, I take a shortcut through a minefield of downed twigs and branches, reading the snow carefully to avoid any sticks that might break underfoot.  I lose the deer, meekly afraid to wander too far from the well-beaten path, but coming back to the trail I discover something new--fox tracks.

They're old, probably from early this morning, since the snow at the edges has fallen into the center of each print.  Every now and then I come upon a spot where he or she stopped to dig in the earth for something my inferior sense of smell would never allow me to find.  When the loop of the blue trail comes back on itself, I can see where the fox stopped, must have looked up hill, backpedaled, and continued across the trail instead, back downhill into the trees.  So, I abandon the fox and, when I get to the top of Baker's Knob, rest against a picnic table.  I'm beginning to understand the disadvantage of this plopping snow: I can't decipher any sounds either.  I'm ready to give up when I hear it.

The snap of a twig underfoot.  No falling snow could make that noise.  I creep carefully to the edge of the hill and find myself looking down at seven white-tailed deer maneuvering their way through the snowy understory.  I watch them for several moments until they're out of sight.  Just then, a huge dollop of snow crashes into my head and sprinkles down the back of my collar.  This reminds me that I'm cold (or made me cold), and I curse myself for skipping breakfast as my stomach lets out an unhappy growl.  I turn my back in the direction of the deer, and plod home.

Photo courtesy of Adele Brand of The Sitting Fox

*Have an adventure today!

Moving Out Means Moving In

I need a minute.  Just one minute to gather my thoughts, so I pull the office door shut behind me and rub my temples with my fingertips.  Despite the chill in it, the breeze freshens and lifts my spirits a little; the chickadees call to each other in the tree tops, somewhere farther away the two geese renting the pond honk loving comments to each other.

I sigh and think, "All the animals packed away so nicely in the cabin".  It's true, I've been aching to get them back into the nature center for weeks--since I started even--, but I wasn't truly conscious of the organizational skills required to move a dozen different species.  However unprepared I was for the move today, I barreled through the process of clunking heavy glass containers down narrow stairs (with some tough men to help), gathering food items, fixing heat lamps, tearing down and setting up tiny environments for the critters I've come to love so much.  When someone shows up for an afternoon business meeting, there's a break from talks of contracts and time for a short tour.  I jump at the first chance to get a snake into the hands of this visiting young gentleman. 

He watches Snakely constrict around his arm, flicking her tongue up the cuff of his sweater, as I prattle off interesting facts about ball pythons, unable to help myself.  I guess teaching never really leaves you.  I love the look on someone's face when they get a special chance to pet or hold any of the animals, especially the snakes.  Sometimes people are afraid of them.  I understand this and would never push anyone beyond the certainty of their comfort level.  But sometimes, just sometimes, when the child next to them reaches out bravely, without hesitation, to stroke their curious skin, I see them consider it for a moment.  If I'm really lucky, they'll screw up their courage and give a lightning-quick swipe down the snake's back with a single finger.  A heroic moment for any naturalist.

Photo courtesy of Psaenz on DeviantArt

*Most of the animals have returned to the nature center for your viewing pleasure.  Please don't mind the mess!

What is a "Teachable Moment"?

The teachable moment isn’t about making flashy displays or planning an activity overloaded with sensory stimulation.  The teachable moment embraces tiny details—the first wildflower of spring, a salamander spotted through the glare of a creek’s surface, the call of a Great Horned Owl in winter darkness—and, like a dry forest in summer, the tiniest spark ignites the mind and spirit.  The teachable moment celebrates the fleeting, the unique, the breathtaking; it gives a standing ovation to the miraculous, intricate face of the outdoors, all things great and small.

What do I love most about the teachable moment?  Instinct.  It satisfies one’s natural wonder, a wonder that I believe exists no matter your age or upbringing, that only needs nurtured to be drawn out.  It's a teachable "moment" because it can disappear with great speed, bounding away into the forest on four tapered legs with its tail held high.  Take a deep breath of fresh air and let your senses (and your curiosity) be sated.

Whether it's at Strawberry Hill or in your own back yard, take the time to let a teachable moment catch your eye, even if you're only teaching yourself today.

Beauty is in the Eye

My hands are cupped together, craddling Bumpy gently as she attempts to digest an unruly earthworm.  I know it's unruly because every now and again, one end of the worm pops out of Bumpy's mouth, eager to escape, but Bumpy's fat, bubblegum tongue pulls it back inside effortlessly.  I hold her up to my face, admiring her toady features.  I drop back to sit on my heels with her like that, bulbous and gasping* in my hands.

As I draw her even closer to my eyes, I watch as her tiny, teardrop-shaped nostrils flare and relax at the tip of her nose.  Rough, dry, her back covered in warts*.  What's not to love?  Her stubby front legs concave back against her body, toes protruding at odd angles, while, from a frontal view, her enormous gut practically swallows any sign of her back legs.  No matter how homely this toad may seem at first, one special feature keeps me in awe.

Bumpy has beautiful eyes.  Pitch black pupils sit horizontally, surrounded by brilliant, liquid gold.  In the sunlight, it glints like gold leaf on a painstakingly prepared wedding cake, speckled throughout the iris and lining the pupil.  We spend a few quiet moments staring at each other--toad and human--before I put her back in her temporary home. 

Photo courtesy of CarolinaNature.com

*"Gasping?" you might ask.  I use that word in particular because the flap of skin under a toad or frogs chin flutters constantly, soundlessly, to help them take in air since toads don't have a diaphragm to help pull air into their lungs.  

*The warts on a toad contain a milky, poisonous substance used for defense, excreting when the toad feels the threat of immediate danger.  It's not harmful if touched, but if swallowed or transferred to the eyes or other mucous membranes, it can make some animals very sick, including dogs.