The Speed of Spring

Cheerful sunshine illuminated the tiny, just-hatched leaves of maple trees. Their pinks and greens complimented the blue sky perfectly. A few black flies hovered nearby, but none seemed to be biting. No mosquitoes buzzed. Instead, black-throated green warblers trilled from the treetops. The delicate, pink-striped flowers of spring beauty carpeted the hillsides. Spring beauty, indeed!

This was the day I look forward to each spring – the birds were back, the flowers were blooming, and the bugs hadn’t become biting hordes.

My first saunter of the season along the trail to St. Peter’s Dome was a bit of a quiz game, though. While marsh marigolds, spring beauty, and bloodroots were in full bloom, many of the little plants were still tightly furled. I tried to guess their species by the shades of blue or purple in their leaves, or the little dab of red at a leaf node. The leaves of the large-flowered bellwort were big enough to identify, so then the challenge was to see a flower. And after I spotted one bell-shaped bloom of canary yellow petals, I strained to spot three more on the sunny hillside. By the time I’d made the 4-mile trip to the overlook and back, I swear that the tree leaves had gotten bigger.

Quickly growing sugar maple leaves.

Spring moves quickly once she gets going, so when I returned two days later to lead the Professor Hike, I wasn’t surprised to see big changes. Single blooms had turned into petal parties!

Professor Wild Oats was the first station. This pale, delicate cousin to the large-flowered bellwort looked to someone like the drooping, straw-colored seedhead of oats. With his duct-tape-nametag displayed proudly, Kevin taught each of the other participants in turn about this lovely little flower. Later, as we hiked along the trail, he spotted more wild oats than I’ve ever noticed in these woods! That heightened awareness is one benefit of the Professor Hike activity.

Wild Oats

Professor Serviceberry was next. Two days prior, I’d found one serviceberry shrub with their white petals drooping gracefully at the top of the hill. On this day, the forest edges were frosted with their flowers. All the names of this plant refer to their phenology – the timing of their seasonal events. Serviceberry blooms when the ground has thawed enough so funeral services can be held for unfortunate souls who died over the winter when the ground was too hard to dig. A little farther south, their tasty purple fruits ripen in June, hence the name Juneberry. Up here, we should call them July-berry instead.

Professor Serviceberry and her first student.

Shadbush is another name for serviceberry on the East Coast, where fish called shad swim from the ocean into the streams to lay their eggs about the time that these pretty white flowers are engaged in their own reproductive rituals.

Serviceberry blossoms.

The early and prolific flowers of serviceberries are an important food source for early-arriving bees, butterflies and hummingbirds. The flowers themselves benefit from this schedule because there is less competition for pollinators, and their blossoms may be easier to find in a leafless forest. This results in better pollination and more viable seeds.

The speed of spring can be dizzying, but it is no accident. Trees are racing to leaf out and take advantage of the intersection of bright sun and plentiful soil moisture. Flowers, like wild oats, are racing against the leaves. Known as spring ephemerals, they can benefit from the rich soil in shady depths of deciduous forests, so long as they get a head start on the trees. Flowers bloom, leaves unfurl, bees hum, ants crawl, seeds are set, photosynthesis produces sugars, and then—just as the tree leaves above are reaching their full potential and shade—the ephemeral leaves melt back into the duff.

All summer, fall, and winter, the sugars that the spring ephemerals raced to produce are stored as carbohydrates (complex sugars) in starchy roots. Burrow your finger into the soft soil near any of these plants, and you will soon pull out a small white tuber or thickened rhizome. This stored energy allows spring ephemerals to get a head start on the tree leaves each spring, and then rush to replenish their pantry for next year.

After Professors Flower Symmetry, Marsh Marigold, Cherry, and Black Ash had taught each of their peers, we continued up the trail to find carpets of spring beauty, bellwort, Dutchman’s breeches, cut-leaved toothwort, trilliums, and wild ginger. At the top, we gazed across the tops of trees, their leaves practically growing as we watched. Even though I wish my beloved spring ephemerals could last longer, each spring I also cheer them on in their race against leaf-out. In many ways, the speed of spring is what makes it such an amazing season!

View from St, Peter's Dome

Marsh Marigold

Spring Beauty

Bloodroot

Dutchman's Breeches

Large-flowered Bellwort

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. The Museum is open with our brand-new exhibit: “Anaamaagon: Under the Snow.” Our Summer Calendar of Events is open for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.

Honeysuckle from Near and Far

The cool, damp air smelled delicious as I ambled up the gravel road. I’ve been up and down ladders and scaffolding for exhibit construction lately, and so I haven’t had the energy for big bike rides in the afternoon. That’s fine. I will still be able to bike once the mosquitoes hatch, but I won’t be able to walk slowly without a head net.

When the blossoms of a honeysuckle bush caught my eye, I was even happier for my slow pace. I stopped to admire the prismatic raindrops caught under each flower’s chin.

The native, Northern Fly Honeysuckle looks much more delicate, has pendulous flowers, football-shaped berries, and a white center to their stem. Photo by Emily Stone.

Northern Fly Honeysuckle’s pale yellow flowers dangle in delicate pairs. Their fluted shape with a long nectar tube is a clue that hummingbirds love them. The flowers don’t last long, though, and are soon replaced by two green fruits, shaped a little bit like tiny footballs, and joined at their pointy ends. The berries ripen to a vibrant shade of red, which really pops in the cool shade of the forest. Birds, especially robins and cardinals, love them.

The week prior, I’d been in Duluth, getting some fresh air on one of the many creek side trails, before buying some last minute items for exhibit construction. It was a cool day, but sunny, and was starting to look like spring. Dandelions dotted the grassy areas, and in the woods, there were a lot of little green leaves right at eye-level. My friend commented on how nice it was to see the green. I tried to agree, but couldn’t quite muster excitement. These leaves – unfurled a week or two before much else – belong to a non-local honeysuckle who evolved with the spring schedule of an entirely different continent!

I grew up with this variety, Tartarian honeysuckle (Lonicera tatarica), in my backyard, and spent many days gathering the round red and orange berries to use as pretend food in my playhouse. Now I know that this childhood friend can be quite invasive. A native of China, Manchuria, and Korea, they left behind their native predators when arriving here, and tend to run rampant in our vacant lots and deciduous woods, creating impenetrable thickets in the worst cases. They joined several other species of non-local honeysuckles who all share the same invasive tendencies.

While native and non-local honeysuckles share some characteristics, it’s not hard to tell them apart. All have pairs of white, pink or yellow flowers with a nectar tube and fluted petals. All have paired leaves (“opposite arrangement” to botanists,) and all have red or orange berries. The invasive honeysuckles get much bigger and bushier, though, and some species have pointed, serrated, or fuzzy leaves. Their abundant flowers are held upright. Plus, the berries on invasive honeysuckles are round instead of football-shaped.

The non-local species of honeysuckle have pairs of upright flowers which are sometimes pink; round, bright red berries; and a brown or hollow center to their stem. Photo by Emily Stone.

The surest way to distinguish the honeysuckles in any season is to crack open a twig and look at the pith. The pith is the soft, spongy tissue in the center of the stem. In native honeysuckles the pith is white. In non-local species, the pith is either brown or hollow.

Native honeysuckles have a white pith.

Non-native honeysuckles have a hollow or brown pith in the center of their twig.

Like many invasive species, the Eurasian species of honeysuckles tend to crowd out native plants and provide a lower quality food source to animals. As birds and mammals eat the berries and disperse the seeds, non-local honeysuckles quickly invade open woodlands, old fields, and other disturbed sites, and form a dense thicket that prevents other native plants and trees from growing. The northern fly honeysuckle is one that gets pushed out by their cousins.

With lower diversity, the wildlife cover is reduced, and cardinal nests in particular are less successful, despite the thicket. Fewer insects in the non-local honeysuckle reduce food sources for many warblers and flycatchers. Although abundant, the berries contain less fat and energy than their native counterparts. When cedar waxwings eat too many red honeysuckle berries, the pigment tints their normally yellow tail tip and turns it orange. On the flip side, male cardinals who eat non-local honeysuckle berries may be brighter red, even though they are less fit. Females have a harder time determining the healthiest mates.

As you pass yard after yard surrounded by Eurasian honeysuckle hedges in full bloom, it’s easy to imagine how this invader got here. They were first introduced into North America as an ornamental in 1752! Many invasives got their start in the nursery trade, either as the main attraction or a hitchhiker.

As I continued up the gravel road with my eyes tuned for honeysuckle, I began to notice more and more of the delicate native, Lonicera canadensis. They may not be as showy as the other kinds we imported for hedges, but they have a subtle beauty I adore. Even with the exhibit finished, I think I’ll keep walking slowly until the buzzing hordes appear!

Tips to reduce the spread of invasive species:

Prevention is worth an ounce of cure, so they say, and it is definitely easier to keep the weeds out than to get rid of them once they’re here. Do a little research before you buy new plants from a nursery, and try to choose native species. Use those boot brushes at trailheads to make sure that you aren’t carrying seeds from trail to trail. Clean your equipment between locations, especially if you know that you’ve just been working in a place that has non-local species.

If you discover an invasive species on your property or public land, contact the Northwoods Cooperative Weed Management Area (NCWMA) by calling 715-373-6167 or emailing info@northwoodscwma.org. Various local land management agencies can help you set up a plan to control the non-local species and create better habitat on your land.

Note: Portions of this article are reprinted from 2023.

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. The Museum is open with our brand-new exhibit: “Anaamaagon: Under the Snow.” Our Summer Calendar of Events is open for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.

Plant Professors of Early Spring

Last June, I strode down the trail with a roll of duct tape bouncing along in my backpack, and a permanent marker poking out of my pants pocket. A group of 20 Wisconsin Master Naturalist Volunteers-in-Training ambled behind me. We’d had a challenging morning of botany and geology at Morgan Falls in the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest. Lunch had revived us, and now it was time for the afternoon activity. Anticipation bubbled.

“During this activity,” I explained, “you will each become a professor of something in these woods.”

Over the years, I’ve found that this Professor Hike activity is very effective at connecting students to nature. What’s been a surprise, especially as I lead it with adults instead of sixth graders, is how wonderful it is at connecting people to each other as they teach and learn.

While most of the group opened up their new nature journals to pass the time, I led my first “professor” a little ways down the trail. Maggie and I paused by a big log on the ground, and I asked, “How would you feel about being Professor Coarse Woody Debris?” She was game. I dug out the marker and tape as I explained that foresters use this term to describe fallen dead trees.

We looked at some punky places on the log where fungi were clearly doing their decomposition work, admired the moss growing in the spongy, water-holding material, and talked about death’s roll in the ecosystem. “Ecologists often say that a tree is more alive when it’s dead,” I quipped.

Then, as I handed Maggie a strip of duct tape with her professor name written in black marker, she practiced teaching that same information in her own way. Satisfied with her grasp of the material, I waved at the group of remaining students, beckoning one forward.

“Hello, my name is Professor Coarse Woody Debris,” Maggie introduced herself, and proceeded to teach Craig this little chunk of newly acquired knowledge, ending with a deep thought about how death provides the resources for new life. Then Maggie stayed by her log and invited a new student forward, while I walked Craig down the trail to find a new professor topic.

Several of the next stops revolved around Jack-in-the-Pulpit, a neat little flower who blooms toward the end of spring and beginning of summer. But the flowers of early May are quite different than mid-June! Jack-in-the-Pulpit won’t even have poked their little green shoots above the soil yet.

As I prepare to lead another Professor Hike next week – this time as a public program – I’m contemplating who my “professors” will be. On a recent hike in a similar habitat, I found some clues.

At the base of a sugar maple tree, I crouched to look more closely at some blackened rhizomes. These horizontal stems connect the upright plants in a patch. My first thought was “stupid worms.” The reason the rhizomes were exposed is that earthworms had been feasting on the soil’s maple-leaf blanket all winter, and all that remained now were little piles of worm castings. The stacks of tiny round balls reminded me of cannonballs – both in their shape and their destructive power.

While European earthworms (brought here with ship ballast or in root balls) are wonderful at breaking down organic matter and mixing the soil in our gardens, they are just too efficient for the plants in our woods. Our northern forests evolved in the absence of earthworms, after the glaciers froze them out. Many plants here need thick, slowly decomposing leaf litter to grow, and for their seeds to sprout. In this exposed patch, with the continued possibility for nighttime frosts and a lengthening drought, it is easy to see why fallen leaves are important. The tiny fern fiddleheads sprouting from the rhizomes have a back-up plan, though: they are wrapped tightly in a coat of hairs and scales.

Under a different tree, where the worms hadn’t feasted so thoroughly, I spotted a brigade of tiny, spoon-shaped leaves poking up through the duff. As I crouched to photograph them, I found a tiny chandelier of tightly closed buds. Spring beauty is one of the earliest delights to bloom on the forest floor, but I suspected I was just a day or two early. Then, sunlight glowing through pale pink petals caught my eye. I just needed to look more closely to find the beauty of early spring.

A little farther along, I paused next to some coarse woody debris. Didn’t I see bloodroot blooming here last year? Scanning the area from a standing position, all I saw were dry maple leaves. When I bent low, though, a miniature grove of white bloodroot buds blushed in the protective embrace of their leaves.

Professors indeed, these little plants have reminded me of the value in taking the time to look closely. I can’t wait to share more of their wisdom during the Professor Hike program on May 8! Register by May 6 at cablemuseum.org.

Note: Portions of this article are reprinted from 2023.

Emily’s award-winning second book, Natural Connections: Dreaming of an Elfin Skimmer, is available to purchase at www.cablemuseum.org/books and at your local independent bookstore, too.

For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. The Museum is open with our brand-new exhibit: “Anaamaagon: Under the Snow.” Our Summer Calendar of Events is open for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.