tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32185759851111742512024-03-24T18:31:54.209-05:00natural connectionsexploring northwoods nature through science and your sensesEmily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.comBlogger681125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-92006078254340107532024-03-21T12:00:00.002-05:002024-03-21T12:00:00.130-05:00A Vocabulary of Seeing<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Let’s start with the evergreens,” I told the small group who’d showed up for my tree identification program. Picking up a white pine bough, I plucked off a bundle of needles. “Pines cluster their needles in a group called a fascicle,” I lectured, “and they are held together at the base by a sheath.” Fascicle is one of my favorite botanical words, and I loved watching these newbies roll it around on their tongues. After years of formal training in plant identification, I’ve acquired a lot of vocabulary words that I don’t get to use very often.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve also acquired some silly mnemonics for remembering plant ID. “Notice that these needles come in fascicles of five. That means it’s a white pine. W-H-I-T-E: white has five letters. Five needles, five letters. Also, the growth form of their needles makes white pines look like they have clouds on their branches, and clouds are white.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jUGocpg0pOOVkjw1whdTOqMgUdPpFuWtZKmfbRWcxKvnZxWJ7Bd4wOhqJQD8F43lymcl_oYoteLunboIkNPh33oFvvexZVym4KP3BmQfByE6W1Kagh42zQB4Cor-X2gDpkTnUxNuvWRzlBVs0EGijy09i0Rn1PuofSn2cPaXn6DJSrqUKX3KcwpKvTU/s1032/white%20pine%20needles.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="1032" height="98" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jUGocpg0pOOVkjw1whdTOqMgUdPpFuWtZKmfbRWcxKvnZxWJ7Bd4wOhqJQD8F43lymcl_oYoteLunboIkNPh33oFvvexZVym4KP3BmQfByE6W1Kagh42zQB4Cor-X2gDpkTnUxNuvWRzlBVs0EGijy09i0Rn1PuofSn2cPaXn6DJSrqUKX3KcwpKvTU/s320/white%20pine%20needles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White Pine needles come in fascicles of 5.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Folks humored me, nodding their heads in understanding. After examining a couple more evergreens, we turned to the jumble of bare sticks I had spread on the table. To most people it would look like a pile of junk. To me, it looked like a gathering of old friends with easy-to-see differences. The vocabulary started flowing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maples, ashes, dogwoods, and viburnums have opposite arrangement. Their twigs and buds sprout directly across from each other in pairs, while other trees place their buds and twigs singly, in an alternate arrangement. This is a good place to start your ID.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMfX9oPlCe9dxXSc05nNfWL4PquOMKMOzkTqFiu5T6t6c5ZfH38B1-bmnYMj1lNgQDerYS8MzyIgqMhhG2DxNTs4OAFLez2mvhuYBNj_-sx2sVgQ9zEcuJpih2Amp10rsPX6wBgBZHxAmem5ptFUXn2PdET7Q2bLstehgaNoBallPoGrW8iRk6-BKnCIA/s2048/IMG_0280.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMfX9oPlCe9dxXSc05nNfWL4PquOMKMOzkTqFiu5T6t6c5ZfH38B1-bmnYMj1lNgQDerYS8MzyIgqMhhG2DxNTs4OAFLez2mvhuYBNj_-sx2sVgQ9zEcuJpih2Amp10rsPX6wBgBZHxAmem5ptFUXn2PdET7Q2bLstehgaNoBallPoGrW8iRk6-BKnCIA/s320/IMG_0280.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sugar maple buds and twigs are oppositely arranged</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then we check out the buds more closely. Buds are miniature packages of new growth, pre-formed last summer, and just biding time until they can burst open in a flurry of new growth and elongation. Baby leaves, twigs, and flowers may all be crammed into the same bud, or special buds may hold the flowers. Tiny, tough, modified leaves cradle all that tender new growth, protecting it from desiccation. These bud scales give great clues to a plant’s identity. In sugar maples, the bud scales are a rich caramel color, and they are imbricate. Another one of my favorite botany vocab words, imbricate means overlapping like shingles.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_bk5TncZqDzmwjzk3U7d0q4xAlMF6MD08aCFjeJXX1XvxA_JES-zqE5vx48aXhIB5l34dPRyPBYskT1-tXnTxRVJ7aOTml8A39Fl4INpP_eIq4gK2xI-4XEEJJbs-NzJKYdEikeOuwjrgZqJ2REAdrjoFI-Hh97lrjx6EekSnV6-FZfokDdQxNkKs-8/s694/IMG_0482.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="694" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_bk5TncZqDzmwjzk3U7d0q4xAlMF6MD08aCFjeJXX1XvxA_JES-zqE5vx48aXhIB5l34dPRyPBYskT1-tXnTxRVJ7aOTml8A39Fl4INpP_eIq4gK2xI-4XEEJJbs-NzJKYdEikeOuwjrgZqJ2REAdrjoFI-Hh97lrjx6EekSnV6-FZfokDdQxNkKs-8/s320/IMG_0482.JPG" width="263" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These red maple buds have imbricate scales -- like shingles. They are also valvate -- meeting symmetrically like a clamshell. And ciliate margins with an edging of white hairs.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On red maples, the scales are imbricate, but there are fewer of them, and they are arranged symmetrically in pairs. If the scarlet buds and new growth on red maples aren’t enough it give away their ID, the buds also have distinctive “ciliate margins” of tiny white hairs edging each red bud scale.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I could see the gears turning as people squirreled away this information in preparation for the quiz. Shrubs always seem the most difficult to identify in winter, since they’re smaller, and lack the distinctive bark of a paper birch or red pine. But if you look closely, the ID is in the details.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Beaked hazel is one of the most common understory plants in these woods. Also known as “bear nut”, they are an excellent wildlife plant. From afar, they look like any other spindly shrub. Up close, their fuzzy, two-toned buds are quite handsome. Just two or three dark brown, imbricate scales clasp the bottom of the bud.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf-ilqObOzP5NAvyjCDY2zbyaI4od6tUZYz2G7YBb8ElU0Gs8mICtg6IhFf8jU01Jrf3qSkMztkyYl9bKnSMIAQgh9RaHD1iuEh9wxhBuEZmCfg0e4T-lCSWpA_GH_GfnHgIHewP_5eGIF-hs16I4gAv51Z4JkZAkHhGkbeNf1B6DNourf3UqEBnRElkw/s3000/3-15-24%20beaked%20hazel%20bud%20and%20catkin.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf-ilqObOzP5NAvyjCDY2zbyaI4od6tUZYz2G7YBb8ElU0Gs8mICtg6IhFf8jU01Jrf3qSkMztkyYl9bKnSMIAQgh9RaHD1iuEh9wxhBuEZmCfg0e4T-lCSWpA_GH_GfnHgIHewP_5eGIF-hs16I4gAv51Z4JkZAkHhGkbeNf1B6DNourf3UqEBnRElkw/s320/3-15-24%20beaked%20hazel%20bud%20and%20catkin.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">Beaked hazel buds and catkins identify the common shrub all winter long. Photo by Emily Stone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The light brown, inner scales toward the tip are almost valvate (a term that means two symmetrical scales that come together like a clamshell.) They are also pubescent. The fine hairs that cover the scales serve to protect the bud from cold and dryness. In the spring—before the leaves unfurl—a tiny, red, octopus flower will sprout from the tip of the bud. In the leafless woods, wind can easily bring it a dusting of pollen. That pollen comes from tiny catkins on the hazel. All winter, the catkins are tan, fuzzy and compact. Any day now, they’ll elongate into pendulous yellow strings of flowers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOIjUfgGzn6_1XQ1BAGaFLycUH2nTaOz-7w-Do9ROxl-Yrdt92SEN7WbZ4JAYI8FckniCHJnUv4O3cVA4-9NcQ5tMpX4mRZy45RKYI4X1mEFHBoZDqC4cdQwXIjS_kNdIr-dWlIv0wrCbl9mALlZgrXe4LcVFliTSP05XwcofPQCOhFo-01u59RFo6Sw/s2731/3-15-24%20beaked%20hazel%20flower.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsOIjUfgGzn6_1XQ1BAGaFLycUH2nTaOz-7w-Do9ROxl-Yrdt92SEN7WbZ4JAYI8FckniCHJnUv4O3cVA4-9NcQ5tMpX4mRZy45RKYI4X1mEFHBoZDqC4cdQwXIjS_kNdIr-dWlIv0wrCbl9mALlZgrXe4LcVFliTSP05XwcofPQCOhFo-01u59RFo6Sw/s320/3-15-24%20beaked%20hazel%20flower.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">Early spring warmth has coaxed the tiny red flowers of beaked hazel to poke out of their buds. Photo by Emily Stone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These buds and catkins all formed last summer, while leaves still clung to the trees. It’s in the tree’s best interest to make buds while the sun shines, and energy is plentiful. So there is only a brief time—just after spring bud break—when there are no buds to look at.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Fascicles. Arrangement. Imbricate. Ciliate. Valvate. Pubescent. Catkins. This language may seem complicated and excessive, but for humans, to name things is to see things, and vice versa.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In Braiding Sweetgrass, botanist Robin Wall Kimmerer philosophizes about the language of science. “Listening in wild places, we are audience to conversations in a language not our own. I think now that it was a longing to comprehend this language I heard in the woods that led me to science, to learn over the years to speak fluent botany. A tongue that should not, by the way, be mistaken for the language of plants. I did learn another language in science, though, one of careful observation, and an intimate vocabulary that names each little part. To name and describe you must first see, and science polishes the gift of seeing.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the students moved away to test their new knowledge, I hung back for a second, savoring the beauty of “see through” season in the leafless woods, and the words I have to see it with.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Author’s note: This article is reprinted from 2015.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. The Museum is closed until May 1 to construct our new exhibit: “Anaamaagon: Under the Snow.” Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is open for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-49607234834214608442024-03-14T12:00:00.001-05:002024-03-14T12:00:00.254-05:00Freezer Burn<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Reaching into my chest freezer, I pulled out a quart-size zip-top bag full of dark green leaves. Or at least leaves that had once been dark green. The frilly edges of my kale were now a little pale in places, and ice crystals crunched brittlely inside the bag. Last summer I’d harvested grocery bags full of kale from my garden, blanched them briefly in boiling water, and then quenched them in two cold water baths. After stuffing a handful into a baggie, I rolled it from the bottom to squeeze out extra water and air, and firmly pressed the closure.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite my best efforts, several months in storage had led to freezer burn. Ice in the leaves had sublimated, turning from solid to gas without passing through the liquid state. The water that was once in the leaves had become the ice crystals in the bag. Unworried, I thawed the kale and chopped it finely to add to a soup simmering on the stove. Freezer burn isn’t dangerous to eat. It can affect the flavor of food, but I wasn’t counting on kale for flavor anyway.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The following day, I headed out for an afternoon walk. With bright sunshine, the temperature had risen just above freezing, but now a brisk wind was making the lengthening shadows quite chilly. As usual, I paused to admire the mosses growing along a steep, north-facing bank. On this day they weren’t very pretty.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wVvWvJUkJJGLTNYZ784UWAMHomnjZz0WQnT-vcR0Is4g24l8ZwVf1RfOmUJLOEw4j_L9QyzQUHZ3cR3FInFg2LVFDumConTAc12kDuBJDuCyu40uVDBKyAYWXCfWnqZTc2Pqtj69TOO3T1bSk-aLLyc9RaXq9y3pC-MsWBCWm3ScFu84Xk-jo2TDFOs/s3000/3-8-24%20patch%20of%20dead%20moss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="3000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1wVvWvJUkJJGLTNYZ784UWAMHomnjZz0WQnT-vcR0Is4g24l8ZwVf1RfOmUJLOEw4j_L9QyzQUHZ3cR3FInFg2LVFDumConTAc12kDuBJDuCyu40uVDBKyAYWXCfWnqZTc2Pqtj69TOO3T1bSk-aLLyc9RaXq9y3pC-MsWBCWm3ScFu84Xk-jo2TDFOs/s320/3-8-24%20patch%20of%20dead%20moss.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Whole patches of moss were crinkled and brown, while others were brown at their tips, and some leaves were ghostly pale…not unlike my freezer burned kale. I nosed around a bit in the moss patch, taking photos and investigating the damage. Later, I emailed Joe Rohrer, Professor Emeritus of Biology, University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. Joe taught a moss ecology workshop for the Museum in 2019, and will be teaching it again this October.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUOiaCY9FYLLOAh3yYEXoHpNNCCXLjIyqBzL2C-bhdSb8pzkY_hWIdJlQSedgI8_n0fYSpIjZVjOp2VB19WTU95HHN_jx7JT9cQxcAvPoROoSeQN9A5kZvNBty_0IVvq5yeu4t4zoUrmP1-_4k4WDrSOpQBVlWkGNEGkz7xT4Ai_WC8TH-H7_cmeYcfQ/s1024/3-8-24%20freezer%20burn%20moss%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikUOiaCY9FYLLOAh3yYEXoHpNNCCXLjIyqBzL2C-bhdSb8pzkY_hWIdJlQSedgI8_n0fYSpIjZVjOp2VB19WTU95HHN_jx7JT9cQxcAvPoROoSeQN9A5kZvNBty_0IVvq5yeu4t4zoUrmP1-_4k4WDrSOpQBVlWkGNEGkz7xT4Ai_WC8TH-H7_cmeYcfQ/s320/3-8-24%20freezer%20burn%20moss%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Honestly, I can't cite a single academic paper on this topic,” wrote Joe. But he’s also been noticing chatter about this very topic in the moss-themed social media groups he’s part of. “The consensus seems to be that some mosses show winter dieback regularly but sprout new green growth in the spring. The moss gardeners see this a lot with <i>Atrichum </i>and <i>Polytrichum </i>species. The leaves of the previous year do seem to die, but new growth from the tip restores their green color. Other mosses just turn a rather ugly golden brown, such as <i>Thuidium</i>, probably similar to the red coloration we see in some vascular plants when they get winter sun but are shaded during the growing season.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7FV2F8GrwgCDjEbCbnMdma5nGHvGAlYoKHmwPGSt07DFUUDjwl6WcMkw79JEwEqWp33VyL3SCNZnvHBs3UDTCdPcvqk4-vGADDwECnVj7Nd2DcjykQrvfTkeMy7R9ob4VIGaaaKWd9X_vDNI_uJgolUIV5fZ_9oLvmQDc_6rQaxkh0lQ5Um6C15C7JQM/s1024/3-8-24%20brown%20moss,%20atrichum%20or%20polytrichum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7FV2F8GrwgCDjEbCbnMdma5nGHvGAlYoKHmwPGSt07DFUUDjwl6WcMkw79JEwEqWp33VyL3SCNZnvHBs3UDTCdPcvqk4-vGADDwECnVj7Nd2DcjykQrvfTkeMy7R9ob4VIGaaaKWd9X_vDNI_uJgolUIV5fZ_9oLvmQDc_6rQaxkh0lQ5Um6C15C7JQM/s320/3-8-24%20brown%20moss,%20atrichum%20or%20polytrichum.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3tv3aNO5mTrWaRSg25MeDBYhx_gkmo3utW94-aq596njSsPGLOmMXKYQLB-Q8SAnm1BH_fNqRelfXNMnrMX39kodafxCEbamvYLvGA3tZhxQEVGSqGZqvi7NPEFbo9DYYloXafL2hNK-wsj56HuEKA53aUaWq764tZ3cE_nHIQxa19c9XRmY-txymQ0/s3000/3-8-24%20brown%20moss%20Atrichum%20maybe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3tv3aNO5mTrWaRSg25MeDBYhx_gkmo3utW94-aq596njSsPGLOmMXKYQLB-Q8SAnm1BH_fNqRelfXNMnrMX39kodafxCEbamvYLvGA3tZhxQEVGSqGZqvi7NPEFbo9DYYloXafL2hNK-wsj56HuEKA53aUaWq764tZ3cE_nHIQxa19c9XRmY-txymQ0/s320/3-8-24%20brown%20moss%20Atrichum%20maybe.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Uploading my moss photos to iNaturalist to identify them, I was able to confirm that the pattern he outlined seemed to hold true on my driveway.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“My guess is that drying out is probably more harmful than freezing temperatures,” Joe concluded.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I agreed. One of the benefits of the Subnivean Zone, which never had a chance to truly develop on my driveway this winter, is that a blanket of snow holds moisture close to the soil. According to horticulturists, winter burn is caused by low soil moisture, freezing temperatures, and blowing wind. Not only does that magical space hold the temperature steady near 32 degrees, it also eliminates windchill, and provides a high humidity habitat. Without it, moisture sublimates from the moss leaves just like from my kale.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCy2V2yJ_U07BO305MBgts-vUdz_8Q0drwaLwxMsICyhtX67gHcjdcugkYdqhksJLXd3fVvZWs-EzslXGUumL_GmlAJS7622Dt3lcHTq9JKy9nJJJUvF2lA7dQ8kPVtMu2hdPGok_Wcvzqvvuxhu4hNhLE5XCWP6iiRllUdLE2hFZff9jkBSMVlDxYbI/s3000/3-8-24%20freezer%20burn%20moss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCy2V2yJ_U07BO305MBgts-vUdz_8Q0drwaLwxMsICyhtX67gHcjdcugkYdqhksJLXd3fVvZWs-EzslXGUumL_GmlAJS7622Dt3lcHTq9JKy9nJJJUvF2lA7dQ8kPVtMu2hdPGok_Wcvzqvvuxhu4hNhLE5XCWP6iiRllUdLE2hFZff9jkBSMVlDxYbI/s320/3-8-24%20freezer%20burn%20moss.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's not that mosses haven’t prepared for this. As drought sets in, their cell membranes shrink like vacuum-sealed freezer bags. This winter has been especially rough, though, with many nights below freezing without snow on the ground. Hopefully the mosses were able to synthesize a big enough supply of enzymes for cell repair to manage the damage from this weird winter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next to that sad patch of moss were several rosettes of fern leaves. Evergreen wood fern doesn’t die back in the fall. Instead they flatten to the ground and let snow cover them. Concentrated sugars act like antifreeze in temperatures 5-10 degrees below freezing, and special proteins keep them from being damaged as temperatures plummet further. Even in a normal winter, these leaves never stand back up. They are replaced by fresh, new leaves in the spring. But for several months they can continue to do photosynthesis—while leaves are off the trees—and give the plant a head start on new growth. Maybe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-xGwQZPqzOBMSZadHtHzHlwEyNsOhYP9vW9sw1l6s45Ha5D0-lgcc0_eYtTeK_LQlNlis6g6Zaen6eFH14yKE5LAXmZCQ55WqeoLsErADN0ejEOTj32uVXOk-E38hzOPQlxlRxGc7Se5gk0zbeV-QzqXLX45yxZ8Lf3jwekRPXMdW2OctC8A7lhakFw/s4000/IMG_20240308_171055256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-xGwQZPqzOBMSZadHtHzHlwEyNsOhYP9vW9sw1l6s45Ha5D0-lgcc0_eYtTeK_LQlNlis6g6Zaen6eFH14yKE5LAXmZCQ55WqeoLsErADN0ejEOTj32uVXOk-E38hzOPQlxlRxGc7Se5gk0zbeV-QzqXLX45yxZ8Lf3jwekRPXMdW2OctC8A7lhakFw/s320/IMG_20240308_171055256.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The tips of the evergreen wood fern fronds near my sad mosses are curled up and look dry. Water is essential for photosynthesis. I can’t imagine they are very productive right now, and I wonder if they will even recover if it eventually rains.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Farther up the road, I stopped near another nearly vertical bank. Dozens of wintergreen plants poked stiffly up above the dry brown leaves. They looked pale and dehydrated, just like the ferns. Would their waxy leaves be tough enough to survive the dry cold? They are well-adapted to hunkering down in the Subnivean Zone and even photosynthesizing there. These many weeks of exposure to dry cold must be challenging, even to them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wasn’t looking for wintergreen, though. One of my favorite spring flowers, trailing arbutus, grows on this bank, too, but spotting them is always a challenge. Finally, I glimpsed the brighter green, broader leaves peeking out from under the duff. They didn’t look freezer burned. Perhaps the secretive, ground-hugging nature of this little plant is a way to survive winters just like this one. Soon they will bloom, and I’ll plant more kale, and most of the mosses will recover. Soon, this weird winter will be over.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicP46S5R_YiVwx6O4cM1oxEYNBB_QuZX2WH3XQnt08YOoaofVAHJt7c0FcsPz64tO0PJKTI4TbP2FzuB1YY3UEUJj82dy5R9MkLv5CsGNX4cFXlODNwCAfbBlH-QYimnfdIAlP3Hi5K6T0Y97u66BL6gMfNct0UaYqiG9-6VSnVPtedGoAQA9Z9EibOkc/s4000/IMG_20240305_172341181_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicP46S5R_YiVwx6O4cM1oxEYNBB_QuZX2WH3XQnt08YOoaofVAHJt7c0FcsPz64tO0PJKTI4TbP2FzuB1YY3UEUJj82dy5R9MkLv5CsGNX4cFXlODNwCAfbBlH-QYimnfdIAlP3Hi5K6T0Y97u66BL6gMfNct0UaYqiG9-6VSnVPtedGoAQA9Z9EibOkc/s320/IMG_20240305_172341181_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. The Museum is closed until May 1 to construct our new exhibit: “Anaamaagon: Under the Snow.” Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is open for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-12387724567861658632024-03-07T12:00:00.015-06:002024-03-07T12:00:00.165-06:00Bark Eaters<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Who’s eating my trees?” asked a participant on a hike last week. I’d been wondering the same thing! A few weeks ago I noticed creamy colored exposed wood on several small maple trees along my driveway.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXKEYx2w4Mzd0wXACfqXBNY6AWYaHwf3f-uJdVgih-F6Qf_5ZJ1E3AV_PaJ4c3KWnyZgAgeJsh5zvPV6Y3nZlAnsb6HMQbyfigkkhsc21wV434V5BvV6IdROI21L-8KNhyphenhyphenC09yOPJ4YlynasEGGtbeseAm1g7rpHzF1sGNGwsJi-NxYiMhuD9UcGjPUt0/s4000/IMG_20240301_165425358.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXKEYx2w4Mzd0wXACfqXBNY6AWYaHwf3f-uJdVgih-F6Qf_5ZJ1E3AV_PaJ4c3KWnyZgAgeJsh5zvPV6Y3nZlAnsb6HMQbyfigkkhsc21wV434V5BvV6IdROI21L-8KNhyphenhyphenC09yOPJ4YlynasEGGtbeseAm1g7rpHzF1sGNGwsJi-NxYiMhuD9UcGjPUt0/s320/IMG_20240301_165425358.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Why do animals even eat bark?” someone else asked. Good question. Most bark is composed of tough, dead, dry cells that are not very appetizing. Those cells are made of lignin, which makes wood rigid and is very hard for digestive systems to break down. White-rot fungi and a few bacteria are the only organisms who can consume lignin using specialized enzymes. Bark also contains tannins, which are bitter tasting chemicals that can inhibit digestion.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unappetizing outer bark is how trees protect their slightly more appealing inner bark. In a tree trunk there are several layers of different cells, including xylem and phloem. Xylem, which is dead at maturity, carries water and minerals up from the soil. Old xylem becomes what we think of as wood. The living phloem carries sugars down from the leaves. They have a layer between them called the vascular cambium, which creates new xylem and phloem cells. Cambium is made of undifferentiated cells who can become anything - like stem cells. These three layers are considered the inner bark.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The living cells of the inner bark contain complex carbohydrates, sugars, and minerals. Right now, when the maple sap is running through the xylem, the inner bark is extra sweet! Even in the dead of winter, inner bark was a source of food for the animals who can access it…and digest it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Porcupines are one likely culprit in the decortication (bark removal) of my trees. The bottoms of their feet are hairless and covered in a pebbly texture that improves their grip. Long, curved fronts claws also aid in tree climbing, along with bristles on the underside of their tail. To get at the most nutritious parts of a twig, porcupines will balance out toward the terminus of a branch and nip off its end using their self-sharpening incisors. Turning the stick around, they nibble off all the most tender twig tips and buds and then discard the rest. Sometimes you’ll see porcupine tooth marks on bigger branches, too, or even the trunk.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbos_psNCG7YxNQRS2JnkTtfiNTyJq1ikKmX5zZ6pRJQBF9bt-3z7W5xCjBTqWRMZL6hAEZK3HKpz9127sl71Q-yoWejmkrXj6yWDQkR9R7vltIzNlEeuqIKSohGOd9KJsxUW7S2KH5508nZ0r5Q4XjdDTrIwT3wT4oXWgmSF_C6WNDNK7S5ESdYcD2N0/s3000/3-1-24%20porcupine%20.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="3000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbos_psNCG7YxNQRS2JnkTtfiNTyJq1ikKmX5zZ6pRJQBF9bt-3z7W5xCjBTqWRMZL6hAEZK3HKpz9127sl71Q-yoWejmkrXj6yWDQkR9R7vltIzNlEeuqIKSohGOd9KJsxUW7S2KH5508nZ0r5Q4XjdDTrIwT3wT4oXWgmSF_C6WNDNK7S5ESdYcD2N0/s320/3-1-24%20porcupine%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">With long claws and several other adaptations, porcupines are able to eat seemingly unappetizing tree bark. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hemlocks are their favorite winter food. As spring progresses, porcupines nibble on a buffet of different trees and plants, making sure to eat each one at their point of peak nutrition. Even this careful food selection wouldn’t be enough without one more adaptation: porcupines have an extremely long large intestine filled with microorganisms who produce lots of enzymes. This extended digestion allows porcupines to extract more nutrients from their food.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Reading about porcupine digestion made me curious about their cousins, the beavers. Now, there’s no way that a beaver could have nibbled the bark on the twigs of trees still standing along my driveway, but these two big herbivorous rodents have quite a bit in common, and some important differences. An article in the Canadian Journal of Zoology suggests that beavers don’t chew their food quite as well as porcupines, but make up for it by having a small intestine that’s 70% longer! The porcupine has a longer colon, though, which allows them to absorb more water from their food. That makes sense, given their different habitats.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There’s one other big difference: beavers engage in coprophagy. Beavers will re-ingest their first round of poop so that they can have another go at extracting all possible nutrients.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Beavers share the trait of coprophagy with another bark eater: bunnies. Rabbits and hares have short digestive tracks, so they combine a good microbiome with coprophagy to enhance digestion. Both rabbits and hares eat their first round of soft, greenish cecal pellets, and then leave behind fecal pellets that look like M&Ms made of sawdust. This allows them to eat twigs and inner bark in the winter. Of course, they focus on the bark of small stems at the height of the snowdrifts…not in the tops of trees.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Voles also eat bark low to the ground. These little rodents like to hide in the subnivean zone under the snow and nibble on bark in relative warmth and safety. They can damage trees, even girdling and killing them. Voles have a specialized pouch called a cecum at the beginning of the large intestine that provides a place for food to be fermented. They may also use coprophagy to help absorb certain nutrients.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In comparison, deer have the most complicated gut for digesting bark and twigs. They are ruminants with four stomachs, like cows. Microorganisms in deer’s rumen break down tough materials, aided by them regurgitating and chewing their cud until it’s broken down enough to move on to the rest of the stomachs. Deer might strip bark off a young tree higher than a hare, but not high in the treetops like I’d observed.</div></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, who was the bark-eating culprit in the trees along my driveway? Judging by the tiny tooth marks, and my most commonly seen neighbors, they were gray squirrels. Squirrels have sharp teeth and excellent climbing skills just like porcupines, and can venture out onto smaller branches to nibble on the most tender bark. Squirrel tooth marks are less than 2 mm wide, while porcupines’ teeth are two to three times that big.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisp6xn3_n3rJsBJzk8YrTV85cmc2uAsivJu09-DsTlbtA8W49uhvC7NwJMMa-cMyCkLbZ3aCXOxoxwwN1KA-o1RPr9BttpXbaMfQD3UWBKWas0soCrUGdPeqfE4czq3ustkI_xwleZhNJlzpW7oE2wPvVYZthLhfR-7FR1j4SFVEEwLssxt8rXuFRaUho/s1024/3-1-24%20squirrel%20teeth%20marks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisp6xn3_n3rJsBJzk8YrTV85cmc2uAsivJu09-DsTlbtA8W49uhvC7NwJMMa-cMyCkLbZ3aCXOxoxwwN1KA-o1RPr9BttpXbaMfQD3UWBKWas0soCrUGdPeqfE4czq3ustkI_xwleZhNJlzpW7oE2wPvVYZthLhfR-7FR1j4SFVEEwLssxt8rXuFRaUho/s320/3-1-24%20squirrel%20teeth%20marks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tiny tooth marks high up on a sugar maple sapling are likely the work of a hungry gray squirrel. Photo by Emily Stone. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wulsbnIhvuOiZJl_dJlyuhy9X8vHkCCuK-j6nW_G5lJ-__F6EfWfgNNzrzflmvxENigzDrmKHmgIoB3XJXD-PJffdYw_ET8OLQf5yXrdyUeWjGF643kmHrhmqS0Wy0-mtCj1h7sfP0JBuKYGKlo2wfcSLbV1m26F44Jlnu3S_PDGnoTn4cxowqtTNWo/s4000/IMG_20240301_172403929.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wulsbnIhvuOiZJl_dJlyuhy9X8vHkCCuK-j6nW_G5lJ-__F6EfWfgNNzrzflmvxENigzDrmKHmgIoB3XJXD-PJffdYw_ET8OLQf5yXrdyUeWjGF643kmHrhmqS0Wy0-mtCj1h7sfP0JBuKYGKlo2wfcSLbV1m26F44Jlnu3S_PDGnoTn4cxowqtTNWo/s320/IMG_20240301_172403929.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Discarded bark strips litter a log below the decorticated tree.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Recent research suggests that special gut bacteria help gray squirrels extract calcium from tree bark. This adaptation might be what’s allowing gray squirrels to outcompete the native red squirrels in Great Britain, where gray squirrels were introduced. Our native red squirrels have been observed eating bark less frequently than grays, but they are smart enough to know that making a small incision in sugar maple bark this time of year releases another one of bark’s sweet secrets.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through March 9. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-54000081943021545922024-02-29T12:00:00.000-06:002024-02-29T12:00:00.129-06:00Frozen Flows<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The surface of the Superior Hiking Trail alternated between dry pine needles and compacted ice as we followed it into the woods. With clear blue skies the day before, temperatures had plummeted into the teens overnight, and were now rising quickly again under the discontinuous cover of wispy clouds. I can’t help but repeat the refrain…what a weird winter!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">As our world changes, I’m grieving my old friends cross-country skiing (on natural snow) and the subnivean zone, while still making a point to appreciate new delights. I can’t even count how many times I’ve looked at the frozen surface of a North Shore river and wanted to walk the whimsical ice formations up through bedrock canyons. But on past visits the snow was too deep, the wind chill too brutally cold, or the skiing too good to choose that adventure.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This past weekend, conditions were finally perfect! Temperatures have been just cold enough overnight to solidify the ice over the shallow waters of the Kadunce River. The thin snow cover facilitates that by not insulating ice against the nighttime freeze. The skiing is almost nonexistent, and the sunshine pleasantly warm. So, our shoes crunched lightly on the grippy coating of snow as we stepped down the bank from the dry path onto the trail of river ice.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwVaBKGKI0sSpeIlr2zae0gX5GaIGY7RoDNDdrqNA8lu4SrWL4iUzRTxe-qeu7D_AsTNqK3gqTDyQFQII6b3w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was a little surprised at how solid the ice felt, even when we stepped near patches of open water. In such a small, bony, stream, there’s a good chance that we were supported by rocks as well as water. It’s different on a lake. Something I choose not to think about very much is that when you drive a truck out on the ice to go fishing, you’re actually being supported by the water. The ice sags under your weight and displaces water equal to the truck’s mass, creating buoyancy. If the ice is brittle and cracks instead of deforming, your “boat” now has a hole and sinks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On such a small river, we weren’t worried. I was fascinated, though, by the formations visible through the small ice “windows.” The surface was rippled and mixed with snow, while the lowest ice was tickled by the chuckling stream still flowing beneath. In between was a nice layer of columns, stalactites, and clusters of little bulbules.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9-Ni4ZdjfT_iXwegIST2RZWEDVOAAE7olAoWVVLabr0WVfVYg_YPKhK8VdE2uepVl75sh5Os1ipVG2m2OjkqCrVew_S6bko-XIthwtdHvoZZVTUCldt1V2BX48Ki1IlhkEvEV3MwFOI9EsOGyO2XdEl4BTUE4xXf3wPsYBfuO25SUsIOqhKB88WQNDQ/s4000/2-23-24%20ice%20window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9-Ni4ZdjfT_iXwegIST2RZWEDVOAAE7olAoWVVLabr0WVfVYg_YPKhK8VdE2uepVl75sh5Os1ipVG2m2OjkqCrVew_S6bko-XIthwtdHvoZZVTUCldt1V2BX48Ki1IlhkEvEV3MwFOI9EsOGyO2XdEl4BTUE4xXf3wPsYBfuO25SUsIOqhKB88WQNDQ/s320/2-23-24%20ice%20window.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Especially in a warm winter like this one, ice formation is a dynamic process. In a lake, the coldest water becomes less dense and rises toward the surface, where it freezes. In a stream, turbulence mixes the water and no layer of almost-freezing water can stay at the top. Instead, tiny crystals of frazil ice form, especially in the top inch or so of moving water, and tumble around. As air temperatures drop, the water temperatures decline, too, even going just below the freezing point. Once “supercooled,” the frazil crystals are primed to freeze to each other or to other surfaces. Ice attaches to rocks, the shore, or other frazil crystals, and spreads from there.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Admiring the lumpy but elegant ice covering a head-high waterfall, I guessed that it must also form by supercooled frazil ice first sticking to rocks and then to itself. Moving water still flickered under the thin shell.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnFf0owaMAEdvLBjC4jcTahkAIBItYmduZpHyW7GmMliLGZ5pViwtBQLdsGLncnHqmDL8vt361bQbMufROTgwidXVkphCrMtWWvh2F5GQ1eKiKj02XrxkvbFx078snydPDY8-u1i5LRN8ij1untWZfR5SuizH0gSmtBeSB0XwWdifGezx3Od-FH2ky-c/s4000/2-23-24%20frozen%20waterfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnFf0owaMAEdvLBjC4jcTahkAIBItYmduZpHyW7GmMliLGZ5pViwtBQLdsGLncnHqmDL8vt361bQbMufROTgwidXVkphCrMtWWvh2F5GQ1eKiKj02XrxkvbFx078snydPDY8-u1i5LRN8ij1untWZfR5SuizH0gSmtBeSB0XwWdifGezx3Od-FH2ky-c/s320/2-23-24%20frozen%20waterfall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The edge of the plunge pool under the waterfall was still open, where cold had not yet overcome turbulence. I was amazed, though, that much of the surface was frozen. Petrified ice pancakes were an indication of the iterative process of ice formation in this warm winter. When the plunge pool was more open, chunks of broken ice or clumps of frazil crystals would have been caught in the eddies and spun into each other, rounding all of their corners and creating a raised rim of slush. Then, the surface froze around this pancake ice.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Around the opening to several “breathing holes” where we listened to the sweet music of running water, delicate crystals of hoar frost added even more elegance. Water vapor in the air, rising from the liquid river, crystallized directly onto the chilled surface of the ice. Like snowflakes, the crystals of hoar frost grow with exquisite precision based on the chemistry of water.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwTiUvmhhJDWK_lLP0Lrt0KR7QkXA2EuWbbhgp_NRPLYSDuYjxmJjh09_a8nXfKhnbdInvqSRFSFsVcqEOysg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Adding to the magic of the day were the vertical canyon walls. The Kadunce River cuts through an impressive formation of flow-banded rhyolite. About a billion years ago, an immense volcano many miles inland erupted so violently that a huge mass of ash tumbled toward what is now Lake Superior. The movement of the flow caused the formation of little layers or bands, and eventually the ash solidified into rhyolite. Now the river cuts downward through the rock and exposes pale pink walls with inch-thick bands.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">From ancient rocks to frozen rivers, and even weird weather within the larger context of climate change, the Earth creates beauty in its own time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwinRVBKkYvXT17dL9vw5_dHhoFE579YO94xqYPGiubWEBaD0EGmsnafJHZ5F9lwlYd0EBSIxMW6v3U_cVuUQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through March 9. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-3061348721316083252024-02-22T12:00:00.001-06:002024-02-22T12:00:00.129-06:00Friends at our Feeders<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ve been hearing a lot of complaints from people who are feeling lonely this winter. For once, they aren’t feeling cooped up by icy roads and constant blizzards. Instead, we miss our feathered friends! A suite of factors, including the nice weather, means that birds are not as abundant as usual at our backyard feeders.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My guess is that with shallow snow many birds are able to find food in the woods. Plus, the mild temperatures reduce the number of calories they require to stay warm. In addition, the grosbeaks, redpolls, and crossbills we love to see are “irruptive species.” To irrupt means to enter an area suddenly (in contrast to the lava erupting out of the volcano suddenly). We don’t see these irruptive species every winter, at least not in any quantity. Most migrations are driven by food availability, and these are no different. This year, their favorite foods are more abundant elsewhere.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One exception, at least at my feeders, are pine siskins. These stripey little finches with yellow highlights breed in the remote forests of Canada, as well as northern Wisconsin and Minnesota. When their typical winter food supplies in the north are low, pine siskins may flock into New England, the upper Midwest, or even the southeastern United States. They are looking for plentiful supplies of seeds from pines, cedars, larch, hemlock, spruce, alder, birch, and maple. I’m not sure what natural food is abundant this year, but my plentiful pine siskins seem to be enjoying a “sunflower chips” mix that has some hulled and some whole sunflower seeds.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQ4d1jLb-lSdpwxS6trPuJ4qnpmH3YMQi0FWnM2W6cz55shca9Qs12xQTNwdcvXzXe_Kd9FiBQAGUbDwv36LbV_DyTfemz9doYiJHfbj70JrudW4_k6-7DwDoIVgw1IUm3hDYbEk0CzFpsgeAr8KJIJbcGFsvLO-trY0u_S4KHZZzafhxL6VJybuYi4Q/s1024/2-16-24%20pine%20siskin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQ4d1jLb-lSdpwxS6trPuJ4qnpmH3YMQi0FWnM2W6cz55shca9Qs12xQTNwdcvXzXe_Kd9FiBQAGUbDwv36LbV_DyTfemz9doYiJHfbj70JrudW4_k6-7DwDoIVgw1IUm3hDYbEk0CzFpsgeAr8KJIJbcGFsvLO-trY0u_S4KHZZzafhxL6VJybuYi4Q/s320/2-16-24%20pine%20siskin.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Pine siskins put on more fat than many other little birds. They also fluff out their feathers and tuck up their toes to stay warm on frigid days. Photo by Emily Stone</span>.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In fact, I’ve been observing that pine siskins are the most dominant birds at my feeder. They will hiss and spread their wings aggressively to prevent goldfinches, chickadees, and nuthatches from swooping in to grab one of those tasty sunflower seeds.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By eating all those seeds, pine siskins put on 50 percent more winter fat than their cousins—common redpolls and American goldfinches. Little birds don’t store fat in an insulating layer of blubber like penguins and whales; they accumulate stores of brown fat around their wishbone and abdomen as a ready source of fuel for their metabolisms. Siskins also store a bedtime snack right in their esophagus—in the expandable section called the “crop.” But it isn’t just a single cookie and glass of milk; their crop can store seeds equal to 10 percent of their body mass.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Those calories could get them through five or six hours of sub-zero temperatures. They can survive negative 94 degree Fahrenheit nights by revving up their metabolic rate to five times normal for several hours. That’s 40% higher than other songbirds.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why don’t more little birds put on that much fat for winter? Getting too fat can make it harder and more energetically costly to fly, and reduce their ability to escape predators. Chickadees may only achieve 10 percent body fat in the winter. Instead, chickadees store food. They cache up to 100,000 food items per year – most of them in the winter. In order to remember all of those caches, chickadees add new neurons for every hidden seed, berry, or insect. The result is a 30 percent increase in brain volume, which shrinks again during the easy-living days of summer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Besides adding a little fat and a lot of neurons, chickadees grow 12 percent more feathers for winter insulation. That’s nothing compared to common redpolls, who add 31 percent more feathers! That’s a big increase for a bird that only weighs half an ounce to begin with. Why don’t more birds add that many feathers? During a Wild About Winter Ecology Workshop years ago, Prof. Sheldon Cooper from UW Oshkosh compared small birds adding feathers to putting a toddler in a snowsuit. A big being, like a snowy owl or an adult human, can still move pretty well, even if you add some puffy layers. The smaller the being, though, the more those layers can impede movement.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">From fat to feathers, all winter adaptations have their pros and cons, just like this weirdly warm winter we’re having. If the birds have left you feeling lonely, take advantage of the clear roads and visit a human friend instead!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Author’s Note: Portions of this article are reprinted from 2014 and 2019.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through March 9. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-26946202072750231982024-02-15T12:00:00.000-06:002024-02-15T12:00:00.126-06:00Warm Winter Worries<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">What a weird winter! In a region where people love to talk about the weather, the chatter has been constant. Skiers and snowmobilers (and the business they support) are particularly grumpy, but many people are trying to make the best of pleasant temperatures, despite the lack of snow. Humans are lucky. We have temperature-controlled homes and clothing that can be changed at the drop of a hat.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But what about non-human beings? How are they faring as temperatures fluctuate from 50 degrees to the teens with barely a skim of snow on the ground? This week, I combed back through my many articles about animals in winter to try and understand what some of the impacts may be.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a typical winter, when we have at least six inches of snow, <a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2021/02/subnivean-party.html" target="_blank">The Subnivean Zone</a> forms. Because of the insulating qualities of snow and leftover summer heat from the Earth, a thin zone opens up under the snow, right at the surface of the ground, which stays at a pretty stable 32 degrees Fahrenheit.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2017/01/grouse-house.html" target="_blank">Ruffed grouse</a> make use of this warm blanket. When the snow is deep enough, they “roost” by doing a swan dive, leaving no tracks that would lead a predator to their warm bed. Without snow, or with icy crust, grouse may struggle to find a warm roost.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2019/02/pretty-warm-small-mammals.html" target="_blank">Small mammals</a> like mice, voles, and shrews lose more heat for their body size than big ones, and therefore must generate more heat to maintain a healthy body temperature of about 98 degrees. Dr. Paula Anich from Northland College has estimated that shrews burn twelve times more energy per unit of body mass than an elk. They are constantly racing toward the edge of starvation, and all of the little beings must eat pretty much constantly to survive. Without snow, they face the choice of staying safe and warm in a burrow, or risking being eaten or getting too cold while they forage for food. “To the mouse, snow means freedom from want and fear,” wrote Aldo Leopold in A Sand County Almanac.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Even with snow, mice still need to fear <a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2014/03/martens-and-wind.html" target="_blank">American martens</a>. These small weasels hunt along the log-lined runways where red-backed voles, mice, shrews, and squirrels travel. The snow is an excellent blanket for this lean mammal, who stores little fat and burns lots of fuel to stay warm. Snow also provides cover from bigger predators. The diets of foxes, fishers, and bobcats overlap with martens’ diets, and those larger carnivores will kill martens to eliminate competition.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Martens’ smaller cousins,<a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2022/01/least-weasels-in-subnivean-zone.html" target="_blank"> least weasels,</a> short-tailed weasels, and long-tailed weasels, all hunt under the snow as well. The subnivium is so important to Mustela nivalis, the least weasel, that their scientific name means “weasel of the snow.” These three fierce hunters need snow for an additional reason: their fur turns white in the winter, and a shift in the timing of snow cover can leave them vulnerable to their own predators.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiD_PtH4In3FyA2OPRy2d12iFV7hGPvJ7hwC3-hwhYkC4UMPCPoE_MJbjIspWCPKCgXCV_PuVl65W5e3XrdEeCHGy6L6SKpjdfQlvLlJyWh3YPouYEy6yVADNHfj6tKxkfqCG5a_n9qDZyjyOhQ5kViyznaqUMSy1gM3VcJbzZX0Yw4agqUNbwFjJjAqQ/s1080/2-9-24%20short-tailed%20weasel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiD_PtH4In3FyA2OPRy2d12iFV7hGPvJ7hwC3-hwhYkC4UMPCPoE_MJbjIspWCPKCgXCV_PuVl65W5e3XrdEeCHGy6L6SKpjdfQlvLlJyWh3YPouYEy6yVADNHfj6tKxkfqCG5a_n9qDZyjyOhQ5kViyznaqUMSy1gM3VcJbzZX0Yw4agqUNbwFjJjAqQ/s320/2-9-24%20short-tailed%20weasel.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Short-tailed weasels need snowy winters to match the camouflage of their white fur, and to provide safe, warm hunting grounds. Warm winters like this one will make it harder for them to survive. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Autumn leaves can provide insulation before snow accumulates, and then continue to augment our fluffy white blankets. This protects plants’ roots from freeze damage. Dead leaves in the subnivium also provide essential habitat for woolly bear caterpillars, mourning cloak butterflies, luna moth cocoons, the eggs of red-banded hairstreaks, bumblebee queens, spiders, snails, millipedes, mites, and more. Some of these beings are frozen, some of them are active.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2021/03/wood-frog-winter.html" target="_blank">Wood frogs</a> take refuge in leaf litter and very carefully allow themselves to freeze solid while the subnivean zone forms around them. Once frozen, their metabolisms are shut down, which preserves their limited energy stores. The moderating effects of the subnivium buffer them from energetically costly freeze-thaw cycles, and also reduce the potential for lethally low temperatures. After warmer winters, female wood frogs lay fewer eggs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Like wood frogs, <a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2013/02/to-freeze-or-not-to-freeze.html" target="_blank">goldenrod gall fly larvae</a> can freeze solid. They spend the winter in little round homes built inside goldenrod stems. While they can endure multiple freeze-thaw cycles over the winter, warmer temperatures increase their metabolism, and reduce their body size. When they hatch in the spring, the resulting adults – who do not feed – will not be able to lay as many eggs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Beyond getting a break from shoveling, it’s not easy to find a silver lining for this weird weather. Here’s one possibility, though: deer ticks might suffer if a hard freeze comes while they are exposed without snow. If mice populations drop as well, then maybe there will be a decline in the spread of Lyme disease next summer. One can hope.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Jon Pauli, a winter ecologist from UW-Madison, once explained to me that “there's a complex ecosystem of interacting microbes, insects, plants and animals that we can't see but are active throughout the winter.” In fact, says one of his research papers, the subnivium is where the “majority of biodiversity in northern temperate areas spends the winter.” That’s why it’s so devastating when <a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2021/02/subnivean-party.html" target="_blank">The Subnivean Zone</a> doesn’t exist.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If you’d like to learn more about The Subnivean Zone, just wait until May 1st. Winter will be over, but the Museum’s new exhibit, <a href="https://www.cablemuseum.org/event/exhibit-open-house-under-a-winter-wonderland/" target="_blank">Anaamaagon: Under the Snow</a>, will give you an inside look at this special place.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through March 9. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-61971067905246664192024-02-08T00:00:00.001-06:002024-02-08T00:00:00.130-06:00Snowflake Stories<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Snow crystals grow unique branches and facets as they travel through different habitats in winter clouds. Since each snow crystal is on their own journey, no two are exactly alike. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Snowflakes are amazing!” I gushed to the students in a recent “Words for Winter Wonder” writing workshop hosted by the Lake Superior Writers in Duluth, Minn.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbijwY-bMsV9lnYY7yccYntVrEjl6Aa5TiosmHp_nfst8JaGLFtviw865EzoRC5hMao-qsziURsmoyJquciX6vmHrJsyDjpTLpPWZQOta8oQqm8A695Nmdlail3oRbQW9bxjNx1JPy8lDjuxcFke51i6wQliUAqWwQLw_rb4dm7O0wzbNiZt8ZD1o7ReM/s1024/2-2-2024%20snowflake%20on%20twig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbijwY-bMsV9lnYY7yccYntVrEjl6Aa5TiosmHp_nfst8JaGLFtviw865EzoRC5hMao-qsziURsmoyJquciX6vmHrJsyDjpTLpPWZQOta8oQqm8A695Nmdlail3oRbQW9bxjNx1JPy8lDjuxcFke51i6wQliUAqWwQLw_rb4dm7O0wzbNiZt8ZD1o7ReM/s320/2-2-2024%20snowflake%20on%20twig.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I continued on, summarizing how snowflakes form. Water vapor crystalizes around a piece of dust, or dirt, or even a unique bacterium. Then, as puffs and gales of wind toss the nascent snow crystal inside a cloud, they experience varied combinations of temperature and humidity. The crystal grows differently in each new habitat. One environment produces simple hexagonal prisms. Another combination of characteristics builds beautiful branches. A snow crystal grown in just one habitat might be pretty basic, but the ones who cause us to gasp at their beauty when they land on our sleeve have traveled far and wide.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I clicked to the next slide, and a video of a single snow crystal growing in a science lab shone on the screen. The delicate beauty, even translated through all of that technology, was stunning.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.snowcrystals.com/videos/videos.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="629" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ1PMGE40-7VmkXCR8StmRdmL1Tbm1epv9Hy3cvzALsQ22kzqxhWom1luX01CXiuiBO0C7v7G5Ls9XhPm8_8nlJBh3azFaRhQ-HPKCehjVvBbqVWnoecg82bncFVnq37rUW3ukGjIwnuDmRuWmniKqpHwLfjhwxs09iqXb6BIf8ve17P68mjRYjKVDYS8/s320/Screenshot%202024-02-02%20111639.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.snowcrystals.com/videos/videos.html" target="_blank">http://www.snowcrystals.com/videos/videos.html </a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Now, we get to try to imitate that beauty that comes with variety,” I said as I passed out a different color of paper to each of the six students. How fitting, I thought, to have six students to imitate the six-sided snow crystals.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Each person wrote a single sentence (sometimes two, it’s hard to reign in writers) at the top of their paper. The instruction was simply to “set the scene.” When I told the students to crumple their paper into a ball, there was some worried chuckling. That turned to laughter when I yelled “snowball fight!” and the paper balls went flying across the room.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Each student picked up a ball that wasn’t their own, and now I added a new element to their environment. “Add the next sentence to the story on your new paper, but this time include visual descriptions, your sense of sight.” We wrote, crumpled, tossed, and flattened the papers over and over, adding sentences about touch, smell, and finally a conclusion. Then each student read aloud the story contained on their final (very wrinkled) paper.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The resulting winter vignettes were almost as beautiful as snow crystals formed high in a winter cloud. The tone for each one had been set by the original writer, and (just like with a growing snow crystal!) the subsequent additions were a mix of sticking to the story and adding each writer’s own flare. I’d like to share a few of them with you here.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">1. The late afternoon sun lingered on the horizon, casting long shadows over the ice. No snow had yet fallen over the bubbled blue of new ice. The weak yellows of the sun barely colored the landscape. She lay on the smooth ice, feeling the frigid cold beneath her, staring below. The scent of dry leaves blew out from shore, but beneath that the air was clean, crisp, promising snow to come. She looked forward to seeing the ground covered with its clean white equality.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">2. She stepped out her door into the chill, quiet night to watch the first snowflakes of winter. Through the muffling of this snowfall, she heard the light crunch of footsteps. She imagined how it would feel to wear those boots, to sense the leaves crackle under her feet with the snowflakes dissolving cold on her skin. Woodsmoke from a nearby cabin mingled with the snow in her hair, releasing an earthy fragrance. She saw the kind face of her neighbor come to greet her to share in this delight.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">3. Large puffs of snow drifted down around her as she walked along a winding winter path. Each branch caught the flakes and held them as their dark branches whitened. As she passed a railing, she ran her mitted hand along it, gathering the cool, light snow in her palm. The winter air smelled white, burning her nose, and she burrowed into her woolly scarf, inhaling her own warmth. She was content here, though in a moment she would turn away toward home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">4. The fox came into our yard quietly, cocking his head and stopping frequently. He rolled in the fluffy snow sending dried seed heads of spent wildflowers flying into the air. The fox shook his fur as the seeds tickled his whiskers – enough playing around! He stopped cold – a whiff of something travelling downwind – something warm, sweet and enticing. Ah, a mouse nest under the snow, and a well-aimed pounce on winter snack!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlGAztWmHiNv6jvC1QGS4cTqZ41tb-aKFicA3NfnbImYd2rnFG631Y9HT8yx6dNtBCNFU2R5jLm-gAN9Rv5evDahI8TLQ9lCLFKKViIKQMNjKyqQj87NfcTg7LXoHrqXG5Oi_BDa_OQdmyjANJs7ObJvhA2RBx6Qq5o7QoSrYXgPFcZK6SPWqqGdTpLuY/s1024/2-2-2024%20snowflake%20on%20ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="767" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlGAztWmHiNv6jvC1QGS4cTqZ41tb-aKFicA3NfnbImYd2rnFG631Y9HT8yx6dNtBCNFU2R5jLm-gAN9Rv5evDahI8TLQ9lCLFKKViIKQMNjKyqQj87NfcTg7LXoHrqXG5Oi_BDa_OQdmyjANJs7ObJvhA2RBx6Qq5o7QoSrYXgPFcZK6SPWqqGdTpLuY/s320/2-2-2024%20snowflake%20on%20ice.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As with snow crystals, no two snowflake stories will ever be just alike, and their beauty is a reflection of the community who created them. Thanks to my students for allowing me to share their stories with you!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through March 9. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-70832022579320257032024-02-01T12:00:00.000-06:002024-02-01T12:00:00.135-06:00Germinating Seeds and Excitement in Hawaii<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Waves crashed onto the black sand beach at Waiʻānapanapa State Park near Hana, Hawaii. This was our final stop on the Road to Hana, and our last big adventure of the trip.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4k0AhSsPRYnmz0SCfEx8-DuYl14OK8o5nsNQsCDEnQYS9DgrzjMmVaEBqvGk0hmhztEYk-fhfLHP56Zm0Tm8RySz7OYzzpMG7EgvBwH785xozXwTaTVDIPi3k6tcNmGcB2MFOCujOt9IU4O-lYZmNgRAFKgaQwrgEag6WcHoN5HVzvhXKhOngqwDdk6E/s2000/1-26-24%20state%20park%20beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4k0AhSsPRYnmz0SCfEx8-DuYl14OK8o5nsNQsCDEnQYS9DgrzjMmVaEBqvGk0hmhztEYk-fhfLHP56Zm0Tm8RySz7OYzzpMG7EgvBwH785xozXwTaTVDIPi3k6tcNmGcB2MFOCujOt9IU4O-lYZmNgRAFKgaQwrgEag6WcHoN5HVzvhXKhOngqwDdk6E/s320/1-26-24%20state%20park%20beach.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">The black sand beach Waiʻānapanapa State Park was one of the last spectacular places we visited in Hawaii. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">From the high point overlooking a cove, my parents and I focused our binoculars on a cluster of seabirds sitting on a rock draped in some tough plants and white bird poop. Noio are an endemic subspecies of black noddy with pale gray tails and orange legs. While their cousins are global travelers of tropical and subtropical seas, noio arrived in Hawaii on their wings and then stayed.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKE2BCvFSEDFc2ENf3ELRbuBtW24FPVfGEZ3AyQihKIPWlrlM-IlG-1po1cZMBw-3Bxd-1vW8HmaYHSgbF02A_uM-J7xzA5kWO9l7D9rLJfUK-F_H6iB-CEy5yI3HkHz3k24Q3QWPgcaY1D5Bslp9kpukAc4if8sFliqqBr5hOFJATXnjj-O_uZ1CyM0/s1024/1-26-24%20noio%20black%20noddy%20birds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKE2BCvFSEDFc2ENf3ELRbuBtW24FPVfGEZ3AyQihKIPWlrlM-IlG-1po1cZMBw-3Bxd-1vW8HmaYHSgbF02A_uM-J7xzA5kWO9l7D9rLJfUK-F_H6iB-CEy5yI3HkHz3k24Q3QWPgcaY1D5Bslp9kpukAc4if8sFliqqBr5hOFJATXnjj-O_uZ1CyM0/s320/1-26-24%20noio%20black%20noddy%20birds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Feeling adventurous, I descended several flights of stairs to the beach, wiggled my toes in the black sand, and then climbed a craggy cliff of young, black basalt on the far side. When a cluster of ferns caught my eye, I paused to look closer. The smooth fingers of the fronds reminded me of common polypody, a fern that often grows on top of boulders in the Northwoods. In the same family, this golden polypody fern could have arrived through spores blown on the wind, but my sources list it as introduced, so it probably arrived here through human interference.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAqqSmLRJZipzKDIBKPTItJMuZSBarPYx6P0-lRJcJm7mA1wjFJMQlKJN1qL1NkVSXzOI5LBZSy1F33_ZXX8OFVvDhGYAYJzjUovgX5yWPTiw3Sscs56eQGFE6haCb8kBi1yHDB6KrzaXEHsdpZ6eUNvx2nubAzleyEElsSdkMUsh2ySL5_oDp7NR4TQ/s4000/1-26-24%20toes%20on%20black%20sand%20beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAqqSmLRJZipzKDIBKPTItJMuZSBarPYx6P0-lRJcJm7mA1wjFJMQlKJN1qL1NkVSXzOI5LBZSy1F33_ZXX8OFVvDhGYAYJzjUovgX5yWPTiw3Sscs56eQGFE6haCb8kBi1yHDB6KrzaXEHsdpZ6eUNvx2nubAzleyEElsSdkMUsh2ySL5_oDp7NR4TQ/s320/1-26-24%20toes%20on%20black%20sand%20beach.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMxpzzB2Uy0dV8s4QhztdR6mspW5skFdOdk059qZBI7R07Gskpy46OoDrsZ53JDiKz5SCbpXGASyJWDzncRIky0DZU-xuGCyXbrv80XL0atAWI8zsVWPsQdchxJlyMgDkwaAdm7PPFaoO8L_Ro9y-1OjkmovXpsBs1_gnjD08kjdj6ptU__CN-beEHmc/s1024/1-26-24%20golden%20polypody%20fern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMxpzzB2Uy0dV8s4QhztdR6mspW5skFdOdk059qZBI7R07Gskpy46OoDrsZ53JDiKz5SCbpXGASyJWDzncRIky0DZU-xuGCyXbrv80XL0atAWI8zsVWPsQdchxJlyMgDkwaAdm7PPFaoO8L_Ro9y-1OjkmovXpsBs1_gnjD08kjdj6ptU__CN-beEHmc/s320/1-26-24%20golden%20polypody%20fern.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">At the top of the headlands, I stood in awe as waves crashed into the rocks and tossed salty spray high in the air.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Vq-9moWF8SlO5sy7iZI9Q26kyvuddgJj66M8bLEf4LhXGEiklAhO2wg7DEP1r0Q4PA2veXmgc7XzKovKuF841zH32I6cN4weZMJ557RbbyoQlr7sTv3aM0ziNYS1tfaiGLyL1zU4HQDmHsH9XgYYiRLGNYyCtw_s9qnKy0aAFiNRJZaoJSMjh34wk5Y/s4608/DSCN1830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Vq-9moWF8SlO5sy7iZI9Q26kyvuddgJj66M8bLEf4LhXGEiklAhO2wg7DEP1r0Q4PA2veXmgc7XzKovKuF841zH32I6cN4weZMJ557RbbyoQlr7sTv3aM0ziNYS1tfaiGLyL1zU4HQDmHsH9XgYYiRLGNYyCtw_s9qnKy0aAFiNRJZaoJSMjh34wk5Y/s320/DSCN1830.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Wings, wind, and humans are three of the most common ways that life has arrived on Hawaii since the volcanoes rose above the ocean. But besides the obvious humpback on a whale watch, I hadn’t noticed many who had arrived on the waves. As I descended the trail back to the black sand beach, a tiny white flower caught my eye. Recognizing it as Beach Naupaka, or Naupaka kahakai from my nature guide Wind, Wings, and Waves by Rick Sohren, I stopped to take photos.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGZjuLE-xNH9t-IpOahWu8OofVHFh_HuHMsp9sy-HU0HWq-5TMMQGRn64pFU-liLfSmn48-DskiNAALTPARKBZbCSdpzutjGD0n9lYqxynqTD2ii2MS__9GfP9Lwg_m8KDL4Zw8x619Cg-vZkmCVBGDmiQe5ueJgZ8S4AAKZMDIhf-cD-PZ_-pbIVEOLU/s1024/1-26-24%20naupaka%20flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGZjuLE-xNH9t-IpOahWu8OofVHFh_HuHMsp9sy-HU0HWq-5TMMQGRn64pFU-liLfSmn48-DskiNAALTPARKBZbCSdpzutjGD0n9lYqxynqTD2ii2MS__9GfP9Lwg_m8KDL4Zw8x619Cg-vZkmCVBGDmiQe5ueJgZ8S4AAKZMDIhf-cD-PZ_-pbIVEOLU/s320/1-26-24%20naupaka%20flower.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Five white petals, each about 2 cm long, were lined with lovely wine-colored accents. The shape was what gave it away – the petals all drooped down, giving the appearance that this was only the lower half of the flower. There are many different folktales about Naupaka, which represent at least 9 species who grow both on the mountains and shorelines, and they all read a little bit like Romeo and Juliet, with star crossed lovers who will never be reunited until the flowers are made whole.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">After checking out the succulent, oval, green leaves that surrounded the flowers, I suddenly realized that Naupaka was growing everywhere on the rocky cliffs! The low shrubs lazed about and crept over rocks on pale gray branches. Naupaka kahakai are great for shoreline stabilization, and may be the most widely used native plant in Hawaiian landscaping. Unfortunately, their robustness also makes them invasive in Florida, where they aren’t native.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGrvY4wPlkSGdY45h933vKpG4fCM68gfLAPooU4IK6aaIbym4ktS9XadpXy3hw-FZE6un_T8yXkAWp8cnyztdIQZNU9XcvmiblqGsT9luchdlWl0CdqGn_4VaO-LugLIOkhmn3baMpYa5auJeSQyhCXtXvaFl8b2VspClYDzqY4_Ia4eLmYWVD_k6FvPo/s4608/DSCN1821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGrvY4wPlkSGdY45h933vKpG4fCM68gfLAPooU4IK6aaIbym4ktS9XadpXy3hw-FZE6un_T8yXkAWp8cnyztdIQZNU9XcvmiblqGsT9luchdlWl0CdqGn_4VaO-LugLIOkhmn3baMpYa5auJeSQyhCXtXvaFl8b2VspClYDzqY4_Ia4eLmYWVD_k6FvPo/s320/DSCN1821.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">I spotted a couple of white berries among the leaves. These berries are sometimes called Huahekili, which means "hailstones" in Hawaiian. While the Naupaka berries were famine food, they are said to be bitter and slimy. Inside the slimy berry flesh is where the real magic happens.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9FpoQOr9tsQT_JMT0m8RpPsUCy0h3gOmKhjcQJpwbL74JUR0Ii__jknmgs8uDlV-DAV2If5D6ndHsIratlObLJQpUj9tDsNGpHwP85Bbm0ihCqDrgohvTIE0xf_k0j8EkKHXhIqHh2NMvdCS6T-lLRo3UQYQwPZM6MFnjQ7DTRz3rM6QP5bLZ5Esjc4/s4608/DSCN1846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9FpoQOr9tsQT_JMT0m8RpPsUCy0h3gOmKhjcQJpwbL74JUR0Ii__jknmgs8uDlV-DAV2If5D6ndHsIratlObLJQpUj9tDsNGpHwP85Bbm0ihCqDrgohvTIE0xf_k0j8EkKHXhIqHh2NMvdCS6T-lLRo3UQYQwPZM6MFnjQ7DTRz3rM6QP5bLZ5Esjc4/s320/DSCN1846.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Naupaka kahakai seeds can float in seawater for more than a year and still manage to germinate once they land. Once ashore, they are very tolerant of salt spray, although not of being inundated daily. Lucky for them, Hawaii is so far out in the open ocean that it experiences relatively small tides.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Not only can Naupaka kahakai seeds survive seawater, they seem to need it for germination. One native plant guide suggested that soaking them in salt water made it easier to grow them from seed.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">These durable – but picky – seeds reminded me of several others back home. The next generation of jack pine trees are squirreled away in sealed cones until fire softens the pitch and releases seeds onto freshly cooled ash. Raspberry seeds sprout best if their hard coats have been softened by stomach acids of a hungry bird or bear. Tiny, poppy-seed-sized columbine seeds can only germinate in the presence of light. Violet seeds prefer dark. And many of our native plants, including common milkweed, must experience several months of cool, damp “winter” conditions whether outside or in your refrigerator.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9h5jXNpitUiOXfr7XAiLnFWTZlRtAF97N4x6UTnEeQHI9GHl2S4-ZJnnAsNwLDFpEqNppzWt2JfBbl9oxKHvNCb6h0OQkslmtVFoxOQ8c8HSdE6Z1AXcuCkWzxsAUaVyKgbyWpBuUiD_vNk3Jo5gvGVpn0U8mJIeVwUdkLjVoPqT3uubfGD7D-raGNg/s4608/DSCN3871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9h5jXNpitUiOXfr7XAiLnFWTZlRtAF97N4x6UTnEeQHI9GHl2S4-ZJnnAsNwLDFpEqNppzWt2JfBbl9oxKHvNCb6h0OQkslmtVFoxOQ8c8HSdE6Z1AXcuCkWzxsAUaVyKgbyWpBuUiD_vNk3Jo5gvGVpn0U8mJIeVwUdkLjVoPqT3uubfGD7D-raGNg/s320/DSCN3871.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jack pine cones are sealed shut with pitch and need fire (or a hot day) to open them. Photo by Emily Stone.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Likewise, the seeds of my excitement about Hawaii didn’t germinate quickly. I flew there (arriving on wings!) planning to check off my 50th state and visit a bunch of places I’d organized on a spreadsheet. Once there, I found myself exposed to impressive ocean vistas, soaking up the sun and tropical humidity, being fertilized with cool facts at every park, and being drawn out of my shell by the light of curiosity. After seven days in Hawaii, and two months writing about it, my appreciation for the state sprouted like a weed and is ready for another trip!</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglBM7tOK5n5atinnM6CtEHf4vq2WDFfJ1zMC3DkOeS8k5XtAfgoC3MOAivhWxNDCrhM11kU3m0pVsWgEkxktK3QwHH75NqD8uGljPVR_Q3jE4FqrWpzqXsB7acIoIz8lJQDX81D5LE5hdxMEpRAz4txl6AlOZYXf0lxwpIr2zOnfq6nlqi4Bc3kDfbNsg/s1024/DSCN1118%20(1024x768).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglBM7tOK5n5atinnM6CtEHf4vq2WDFfJ1zMC3DkOeS8k5XtAfgoC3MOAivhWxNDCrhM11kU3m0pVsWgEkxktK3QwHH75NqD8uGljPVR_Q3jE4FqrWpzqXsB7acIoIz8lJQDX81D5LE5hdxMEpRAz4txl6AlOZYXf0lxwpIr2zOnfq6nlqi4Bc3kDfbNsg/s320/DSCN1118%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rainbow on top of Haleakala</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-7670303266152042362024-01-25T12:00:00.003-06:002024-01-25T12:00:00.240-06:00Nēnēs and Blueberries in Hawaii<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My parents and I didn’t spend all our time looking up for rare birds in Hawaii. After walking the Pu'u O'o Trail, we drove just a few miles down the road to the Kaulana Manu Nature Trail. The route through a lovely kipuka – a vegetated area in a sea of younger lava flows – was lined with plant identification signs.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">With small, pointed, waxy leaves and bright berries, many of the plants reminded me of species I’d find in bogs in the Northwoods. We’d been puzzling over the plants while birding, and now a sign next to a shrub with pink berries identified it as Pūkiawe. Cross-referencing with my iNaturalist app, I discovered that it’s in the Ericaceae family, along with cranberries, blueberries, and black crowberry. No wonder it looked familiar! The interpretive sign also mentioned that the berries are eaten and dispersed by nēnē geese.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDV-QXnO8LSti3QrQcc-xgKjOBM6-ORk1Yr-pRMGQNvCw7_K6cHHtCMLSBOgAGjSBFU1MvbN-EyqKeqWGk3NhCCCLKTuIBGRr2MQCMFR6XZsRuSDpplD0S2GjySvI4xu-fS7vILkbpd2QcDpfrk-jPN7HpaIgeiMwOe8OOP2fEXRYkIXCcceDRhkA0ri0/s4000/1-19-24%20pukieawe%20red.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDV-QXnO8LSti3QrQcc-xgKjOBM6-ORk1Yr-pRMGQNvCw7_K6cHHtCMLSBOgAGjSBFU1MvbN-EyqKeqWGk3NhCCCLKTuIBGRr2MQCMFR6XZsRuSDpplD0S2GjySvI4xu-fS7vILkbpd2QcDpfrk-jPN7HpaIgeiMwOe8OOP2fEXRYkIXCcceDRhkA0ri0/s320/1-19-24%20pukieawe%20red.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Pūkiawe, in the Ericaceae Family. Photo by Emily Stone</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">ʻŌhelo, read the next sign. The scientific name, Vaccinium reticulatum, told me it was a type of blueberry without even consulting my app! The berries are red to orange, though, and are sacred to the volcano goddess Pele. No berries may be eaten without tossing a few to Pele first. I’m pretty sure the nēnē geese skip that part, as the berries are a major part of their diet, and the geese are a major part of seed dispersal for the plants.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMCIzRzoig8QHqKHGKIu-TQTGJNn4dpAgL0lkxuC5GmCO8Vwh3Gselh5q_gFqD-6t54X2_1v-cvI7UOdcOU-VhZqCZD79ArkdkpXgwAKP17lYlqcUKVqky0VilCgaO8_KIQ0CH3jS18nGNu_wWLCm15OXkD5Gd2kqXxgmQaaW8b-HJp5hJWsJ3kok0w0/s1024/1-19-24%20ohelo.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMCIzRzoig8QHqKHGKIu-TQTGJNn4dpAgL0lkxuC5GmCO8Vwh3Gselh5q_gFqD-6t54X2_1v-cvI7UOdcOU-VhZqCZD79ArkdkpXgwAKP17lYlqcUKVqky0VilCgaO8_KIQ0CH3jS18nGNu_wWLCm15OXkD5Gd2kqXxgmQaaW8b-HJp5hJWsJ3kok0w0/s320/1-19-24%20ohelo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">ʻŌhelo berries in Hawaii are related to our local blueberries in the Northwoods! Photo by Emily Stone.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">The next plant, with tiny, pointy, evergreen leaves and shiny black berries looked just like black crowberries, but a little research informed me that they are in the coffee family. Kūkaenēnē, the Hawaiian name, translates to “nēnē dung.” The berries not only look like nēnē scat, they also show up in nēnē scat after being munched on by the birds.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiclxXStHRZeymFM78l71zMIg9MO0EK7aVVayHraw12fRgQ8nb3WLvx3B8DHtSZP92pqUb9BcVo9-LimkKCuVy-q09NKDm2e_ij6iriVLZe_jze7VW8i6A-5GBYNYpPocSwEF2klHZvJvs6B53nWLZUbxFEg6P_VrSITPcNdWSEMXcZ5pqfeFuNhvNPvFE/s1024/1-19-24%20kukaenene%20berry.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiclxXStHRZeymFM78l71zMIg9MO0EK7aVVayHraw12fRgQ8nb3WLvx3B8DHtSZP92pqUb9BcVo9-LimkKCuVy-q09NKDm2e_ij6iriVLZe_jze7VW8i6A-5GBYNYpPocSwEF2klHZvJvs6B53nWLZUbxFEg6P_VrSITPcNdWSEMXcZ5pqfeFuNhvNPvFE/s320/1-19-24%20kukaenene%20berry.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Kūkaenēnē, the Hawaiian name of this black berry, translates to “nēnē dung.” The berries not only look like nēnē scat, they also show up in nēnē scat after being munched on by the birds.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">After reading all these references to nēnē geese, we were anxious to see one. Besides being handsome, with buff-and black diagonally striped necks and black faces, nēnē are the state bird of Hawaii, and one of the most endangered waterfowl in the world.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Just like the ʻApapane and ʻIʻiwi I wrote about last week, the ancestors of these geese were blown off course to the Hawaiian Islands and then stayed there, although the geese only arrived about half a million years ago, vs. five million for the honeycreepers. The Canada geese-like birds radiated quickly into at least seven different species, including the nēnē-nui or great nēnē, which were nearly four feet long and weighed almost 20 pounds. Unsurprisingly for birds that big, most of the geese species became flightless or nearly so.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">When Polynesians arrived on the islands with dogs, rats, crops to grow, and mouths to feed, the geese quickly diminished. By the time of European contact, only the nēnē still thrived, and only on the Big Island. With the addition of mongooses, cats, cattle, goats, and more land use changes brought by Europeans, the numbers of nēnē declined precipitously to just 30 birds in 1952.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Captive breeding, reintroductions, and protection under the Endangered Species Act brough the nēnē back from the brink. Their success requires several of their breeding strongholds in national parks to remove and exclude non-native predators. Fences can make things difficult for nēnē, though, since they are adapted to migrate between low elevation nesting areas and foraging areas higher on the volcanoes.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Descending the Saddle Road into Hilo, we kept our eyes open for nēnē. We’d read that they sometimes hang out on golf courses, not unlike their Canadian cousins. No luck. The following day we met an “Institute-on-Demand” guide from the Friends of Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Upon hearing we really wanted to see a nēnē, she took us on a quick detour through the grassy lawns of the Kilauea Military Camp within the park boundaries. No luck on geese, although my dad spotted a Snickers bar in the general store.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">On our first day on Maui, we drove the almost endless switchbacks to the top of Haleakalā National Park. At the top of Puʻu ʻUlaʻula, we chuckled at the many non-native chukars who strutted around the parking lot, and we stopped to photograph nēnē crossing signs along the park road, but still no luck.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xpccg-DxvcyqiSnPB42SWkEbgwQChUrtABWfPnGGYJCDJST3H9t0CFsZ9e9m6aWPvoaIJ_49bL7dO0Gjvg1bW3khh0TMEIgyRynW60YXDt7eihw0GddLEOPgppUy84r1esLOgL3_Zs9HsZ59e-11AqPOvtQmnLyTXC4JklpfFwNTMBSNw85Sfp_-Gjc/s1024/DSCN1159%20(1024x768).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1xpccg-DxvcyqiSnPB42SWkEbgwQChUrtABWfPnGGYJCDJST3H9t0CFsZ9e9m6aWPvoaIJ_49bL7dO0Gjvg1bW3khh0TMEIgyRynW60YXDt7eihw0GddLEOPgppUy84r1esLOgL3_Zs9HsZ59e-11AqPOvtQmnLyTXC4JklpfFwNTMBSNw85Sfp_-Gjc/s320/DSCN1159%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chukar in Haleakala National Park</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">As the Sun was getting low, and daily clouds obscured the rest of Maui, we gave up and began navigating our way back down the tight switchbacks. Pulling into a trailhead to let a faster car pass us, we found a single nēnē casually ripping grass at the edge of the pavement next to a “do not feed the nēnē” sign. With enthusiasm that far surpasses any I’ve ever felt at seeing a Canada goose, we exclaimed at our good luck and began snapping photos.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfhx-AHVhrd3PMyxneztkIyoW2L3l6UQeWMiZkRA7dYoGJ4kyZIUQnnqRWXS1GrvTt0pOEBUQ4KUKbAtue3UcY-U_RG4LpmQTpQANAuC3oekZmAYgV9Yo3km3v_n2dcFIS4Ima64J7RU8iw45N4btvd3XQl4bjFiU7TdHn6oVNCiPsjKd3fbrsytChTt4/s1024/DSCN1344%20(1024x768).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfhx-AHVhrd3PMyxneztkIyoW2L3l6UQeWMiZkRA7dYoGJ4kyZIUQnnqRWXS1GrvTt0pOEBUQ4KUKbAtue3UcY-U_RG4LpmQTpQANAuC3oekZmAYgV9Yo3km3v_n2dcFIS4Ima64J7RU8iw45N4btvd3XQl4bjFiU7TdHn6oVNCiPsjKd3fbrsytChTt4/s320/DSCN1344%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgFpEFthknd6gicd5J5ViS_YbwwJv3yj-vXe88jmw7ofaeWNSFJNA925x5jSO_3KJT5hu3d1KCkWACZfcMAiaXbcG7jnpQhK7VbgEHib105Hb8KGpd43hoaAdK9vxZ9pWobRYw3NUsuiuD1ci0fa3Kva7-_pamm__wt5-3BTqRH3nKKGQ_tg4mqG2vlk/s1024/DSCN1354%20(1024x766).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="766" data-original-width="1024" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgFpEFthknd6gicd5J5ViS_YbwwJv3yj-vXe88jmw7ofaeWNSFJNA925x5jSO_3KJT5hu3d1KCkWACZfcMAiaXbcG7jnpQhK7VbgEHib105Hb8KGpd43hoaAdK9vxZ9pWobRYw3NUsuiuD1ci0fa3Kva7-_pamm__wt5-3BTqRH3nKKGQ_tg4mqG2vlk/s320/DSCN1354%20(1024x766).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirN1jMZye2gLJ2TetuAg305XZ5aZvWlEfT3-GDWxeSXfszkiTbvdEGMwc84hyGF0yoqzQLPyBe7Y7zMPJRi1EidhnUD53JnyJCk5e7W1SQFkS3pgoqe5rldDZLOy-wPRXxF8sP03uA9WCr2DNg_HjYh5tMhybX2T7f515Xp1p7OjSUwa7ZecQOc5EwgRQ/s1024/DSCN1359%20(1024x768).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirN1jMZye2gLJ2TetuAg305XZ5aZvWlEfT3-GDWxeSXfszkiTbvdEGMwc84hyGF0yoqzQLPyBe7Y7zMPJRi1EidhnUD53JnyJCk5e7W1SQFkS3pgoqe5rldDZLOy-wPRXxF8sP03uA9WCr2DNg_HjYh5tMhybX2T7f515Xp1p7OjSUwa7ZecQOc5EwgRQ/s320/DSCN1359%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">In addition to having the elegantly striped neck instead of just a white chinstrap, nēnē have longer legs and shorter wings than Canada geese, as adaptations to their more terrestrial lifestyle. Since some of the terrestrial places they live are lava flows with rough surfaces, their feet have less webbing and more padding. Almost every nēnē in the park sports leg bands as well, to assist scientists with research and monitoring. We admired the handsome bird in the last rays of the setting Sun. Then the goose casually crossed the asphalt, ducked into long grass next to the outhouse, and disappeared.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9g21Tc-XkABrQd9AXb3B5HzhCbaN61mcStntilgBjsAgJ4rWnGrbeVe9TgNcQc5ZS4RZ_G9y1NDCeBiQzrPmsATijFnj5F5glMR_6LswVMN-KPTlRvq60sRUwespkdsKmYpqoTotgqS7qxHV0fpETCo7ze50KCXmt-MLeGqYe7Kv9h5bUi7z7kro8GcQ/s1024/DSCN1375%20(1024x768).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9g21Tc-XkABrQd9AXb3B5HzhCbaN61mcStntilgBjsAgJ4rWnGrbeVe9TgNcQc5ZS4RZ_G9y1NDCeBiQzrPmsATijFnj5F5glMR_6LswVMN-KPTlRvq60sRUwespkdsKmYpqoTotgqS7qxHV0fpETCo7ze50KCXmt-MLeGqYe7Kv9h5bUi7z7kro8GcQ/s320/DSCN1375%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy-pUp7VsG0QajbUyXl6DIrnaqe8VsZFm79S09qomFnvMrOfqD3Q6OeyCYwB_TLSKpCaYYU2KgLOPs-vrkteg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div><br /></div><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">A few days later, having landed in Minneapolis, I went for a sunset walk down by the Minnesota River. As a skein of Canada geese honked over my head, I felt a little flash of connection. With blueberries, basalt, and geese in common, Hawaii and home don’t feel nearly as far apart as they used to.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wS7RcrcugSin3VfYWzJf0KrONfMyOzwxkjnel6nKTuQwcM3fI7xyr6lFhdAyhMLlIIr2CVW5JwFCskE-m-u-zzLVSqPtzfdcF8X2G4EeHBZnXLIzKo007iryMPkR7qfQsquSP9iB_psUvgnUpAEKgBbe9UxKkmWrEG8xgo3S2pW_2oCOPVjs_bgIp7s/s4000/IMG_20231207_154217517.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3wS7RcrcugSin3VfYWzJf0KrONfMyOzwxkjnel6nKTuQwcM3fI7xyr6lFhdAyhMLlIIr2CVW5JwFCskE-m-u-zzLVSqPtzfdcF8X2G4EeHBZnXLIzKo007iryMPkR7qfQsquSP9iB_psUvgnUpAEKgBbe9UxKkmWrEG8xgo3S2pW_2oCOPVjs_bgIp7s/w400-h300/IMG_20231207_154217517.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canada Geese in Minnesota. They are high up, so hard to see. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-70401025554378558852024-01-18T12:00:00.001-06:002024-01-18T12:00:00.246-06:00Hawaiian Honeycreepers<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">In an unexpected twist, cool drizzle greeted my parents and me for our first day on the Big Island of Hawaii. Once the sun finally came out days later and it felt like a steam room, we looked back on that gray day very fondly. The clouds were perfect for exploring the scrubby young forests on the Pu'u O'o Trail, which meanders over several different ages of lava flows from Mauna Loa.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTJXu3gb5KSif_NuMw53Y08jNvuXsC241o36-CDMP9_Pz5nZj1lzT-Fuwk4JAXRkf9QMoaMSvSckEu0p6ZX7_G9o70L6gWY1Js17ltJzqNLvKav5CPISsoPXKtTGH9_jBJonQuKo2X5Zcg2xxnAyaHl7uFA9EKLhraV0F1CF592vhqPvY7NK_7qygB38/s2000/1-12-24%20Mom%20and%20Dad%20in%20ohia%20forest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTTJXu3gb5KSif_NuMw53Y08jNvuXsC241o36-CDMP9_Pz5nZj1lzT-Fuwk4JAXRkf9QMoaMSvSckEu0p6ZX7_G9o70L6gWY1Js17ltJzqNLvKav5CPISsoPXKtTGH9_jBJonQuKo2X5Zcg2xxnAyaHl7uFA9EKLhraV0F1CF592vhqPvY7NK_7qygB38/s320/1-12-24%20Mom%20and%20Dad%20in%20ohia%20forest.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">My parents and editors, Larry and Margaret Stone, enjoyed cool drizzle and good birding along the Pu'u O'o Trail in Hawaii. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">As with most places in Hawaii, the plants along the trail were a mix of native and introduced. Hot pink knotweed flowers from Asia were strikingly beautiful against the black lava surfaces. They complemented the vibrant greens of the native polypody fern, ʻAe Lau Nui. Lichens had preceded the plants, built up soil, and facilitated seed germination, and they were still cultivating soil in many nooks and crannies.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDmoQTrfs4HZcbmKYWiAennMthEyW5Gnmj6J-fhN0vtd30mNTmQrCpqFOhgLL5Anyp4GEJJNGpLwVno9fW3rP6uDUguhbElnZe3joc2bYUt5o2uxUV-H1rHPxC5S1dECT1ZRIjpu-6BFCZdbYZOQwNtK1mGK9Wg2wcWRpI4zVToKJdRrCEQgWKQxheyo/s4000/PB300095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMDmoQTrfs4HZcbmKYWiAennMthEyW5Gnmj6J-fhN0vtd30mNTmQrCpqFOhgLL5Anyp4GEJJNGpLwVno9fW3rP6uDUguhbElnZe3joc2bYUt5o2uxUV-H1rHPxC5S1dECT1ZRIjpu-6BFCZdbYZOQwNtK1mGK9Wg2wcWRpI4zVToKJdRrCEQgWKQxheyo/s320/PB300095.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Knotweed, related to our <a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2016/09/water-smartweed.html" target="_blank">water smartweed</a>. <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5ImFPdHceL5bZYotOzyoruYeB7sKaO3Um_yMk5PfQoHUQQ4VSijVOZ4ykvsfYJqW9JtK7qm1XV4idoRejO6F3cDbScZLAHNCeZv6N5s1YkooZ1yeFqbjcEjsE-um53ioZaMdo8eIsld_WSXFKCmjC-gK86h-RuPFO17ZeC2ScKvZ47ZdGvd7dfWscDM/s4000/IMG_20231130_133423797_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5ImFPdHceL5bZYotOzyoruYeB7sKaO3Um_yMk5PfQoHUQQ4VSijVOZ4ykvsfYJqW9JtK7qm1XV4idoRejO6F3cDbScZLAHNCeZv6N5s1YkooZ1yeFqbjcEjsE-um53ioZaMdo8eIsld_WSXFKCmjC-gK86h-RuPFO17ZeC2ScKvZ47ZdGvd7dfWscDM/s320/IMG_20231130_133423797_HDR.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">ʻAe Lau Nui, a <span style="text-align: justify;">polypody fern related to our Common Polypody!</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">The native 'Ōhi'a lehua trees didn’t wait for the lichens to put out the welcome mat. Their tiny, airborne seeds are able to blow in, find a crack, and grow. I’m pretty sure that every single tree taller than our heads was an 'Ōhi'a tree, and most plants at shrub height were, too. Many of them bore scattered flowers, each a Dr. Seussian tuft of scarlet stamens about the size of a clementine.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Vi__CgMDUf9xiaHt1S8noPV2E5Kwv23PWJ0iuQc-bmLp8bIpyeTuz2EYxNx76EgLHYCiKNUCe2M2H1iNVNR8eYeTPtNNxaJ9m7Cx1YD3oyTk1DQJqsiE_7mn58z5SzfC0L34CQ9-PgR0dt8XWIXY6of7Prxj4pQbbWRELol3aAkHTjTJKkXG181Qb7k/s4000/PB300021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Vi__CgMDUf9xiaHt1S8noPV2E5Kwv23PWJ0iuQc-bmLp8bIpyeTuz2EYxNx76EgLHYCiKNUCe2M2H1iNVNR8eYeTPtNNxaJ9m7Cx1YD3oyTk1DQJqsiE_7mn58z5SzfC0L34CQ9-PgR0dt8XWIXY6of7Prxj4pQbbWRELol3aAkHTjTJKkXG181Qb7k/s320/PB300021.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;"> 'Ōhi'a lehua blossom</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Movement among the flowers caught my eye, so I slipped my binoculars from beneath my rain jacket and focused through the mist. A bright red bird with black wings hopped among the flowers, probing for the 'Ōhi'a’s prolific nectar with a sharp black beak. While the bird looked a lot like the scarlet tanagers who nest in the Northwoods, I knew it was not. “ʻApapane!” I called to my parents, and guided their eyes to the bird. Less than 24 hours on Hawaii, and we’d just spotted one of our target species for the trip!</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4KocIMrTsmNK1eLUNVNuxNncL7_A4R-EVkRWwUUrRBOab5Whg1AFxOj5aN7oRwJHSDJS5hogkkZDGoK0AtOYNuO4f7NA2M2lz0nOryE2xKgT-THfWj4vFHHZr8WRQlCex6n8JXQfxQRMwyX9ITYHeSdxtzkSxvBL4TEaT8shKZL9mqe1LfqS7mBPgds/s2000/1-12-24%20apapane%20By%20MFBRP,%20Wikipedia,%20Creative%20Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1654" data-original-width="2000" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4KocIMrTsmNK1eLUNVNuxNncL7_A4R-EVkRWwUUrRBOab5Whg1AFxOj5aN7oRwJHSDJS5hogkkZDGoK0AtOYNuO4f7NA2M2lz0nOryE2xKgT-THfWj4vFHHZr8WRQlCex6n8JXQfxQRMwyX9ITYHeSdxtzkSxvBL4TEaT8shKZL9mqe1LfqS7mBPgds/s320/1-12-24%20apapane%20By%20MFBRP,%20Wikipedia,%20Creative%20Commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">ʻApapane are the most common species in a group known as Hawaiian honeycreepers. Their striking red plumage blends well with the 'Ōhi'a flowers they feed on. Photo by MFBRP, used under Creative Commons. (Try as we might, neither my dad or I ever got a decent photo of an </span></span>ʻApapane! They were always too high up, and silhouetted against the sky. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">It’s no accident that ʻApapanes’ scarlet feathers match the red of the blossoms they rely on. The camouflage makes them very hard to spot! A brush-tipped tongue perfect for sipping nectar further emphasizes their close relationship with 'Ōhi'a lehua blossoms. The fact that ʻApapane are the most abundant species of Hawaiian honeycreepers, and scientists estimate that their population is about equal to the human population on the islands, didn’t dampen my enthusiasm at seeing this endemic bird who only lives in Hawaii.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">A little farther down the trail, we spotted more movement in the trees. Another red bird masqueraded as a flower, but while the red body and black wings looked just like an ʻApapane to me, the beak was bright orange and strongly curved. Having studied our field guides, I knew that this was an ʻIʻiwi (pronounced ee-EE-vee).</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZmfUMBpiZMAVaoPuzmGLICnd8US7ljLtHSBHvUif7vEptGHoaGvN8iQL5Bn5CkW-w0WmfxQa__wQx0M5W4JpdCBH16mRdidI2h-DaKhm0Wl2x5nT0SDBg_lSMKynzu4DbmA70FB7xkeSbU-usZczGHgITw8zKPIT1-6NaIYsTVxQnsBjge8yXC89RGI/s1024/1-12-24%20iiwi%20Emily%20Stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZmfUMBpiZMAVaoPuzmGLICnd8US7ljLtHSBHvUif7vEptGHoaGvN8iQL5Bn5CkW-w0WmfxQa__wQx0M5W4JpdCBH16mRdidI2h-DaKhm0Wl2x5nT0SDBg_lSMKynzu4DbmA70FB7xkeSbU-usZczGHgITw8zKPIT1-6NaIYsTVxQnsBjge8yXC89RGI/s320/1-12-24%20iiwi%20Emily%20Stone.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">ʻIʻiwi look very similar to ʻApapane, but have a bright orange, curved bill. This one is feeding on 'Ōhi'a flowers at high elevation – where malaria-carrying mosquitoes can’t survive. Photo by Emily Stone. (Ha! Gotcha! I'm pretty proud of this 'I'iwi photo, taken in Haleakala National Park on a sunny day.)</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">These two red birds share more than a love of ‘Ohi’a nectar. They both descended from the same flock of rosefinches from Asia who got blown off course roughly five million years ago, and found refuge on the young island of Kaua’i. Finding pleasant weather, lots of food, and few predators, the birds survived, eventually expanding to the other islands as those volcanoes rose above the ocean.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">In order to avail themselves of the many different habitats and food sources on the islands, the birds began to specialize. Just like with Darwin’s finches on the Galapagos Islands, some adapted to cracking seeds, others to sipping nectar, some even figured out how to act like woodpeckers. This is called “adaptive radiation,” where one species becomes many, so that they can take advantage of different resources and living conditions. Collectively, we call these birds Hawaiian honeycreepers.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Wikipedia lists 60 species of Hawaiian honeycreepers, but only 15 are still alive today. While the Endangered Species Act that tries to protect these birds is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year, it’s an uphill battle. Eight Hawaiian birds were declared extinct just this past October.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Theirs is a common plight on Hawaii, a<a href="https://www.vox.com/down-to-earth/2023/12/14/23990382/extinction-capital-hawaii-endangered-species-act" target="_blank"> hotbed of extinctions</a>. The few plants and critters who arrived on their own lived for eons with no ground predators, no parasites, no mosquitoes, and no grazing animals. Once humans – first the Polynesians and then the Europeans – brought habitat destruction, pigs, cats, rats, mongooses, diseases, and invasive plants, the original inhabitants suffered.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Perhaps it won’t surprise you that mosquitoes are some of the worst villains on Hawaii, at least in relation to the native birds. The mosquitoes picked up avian malaria from some infected transplanted bird, and now spread it among the endemic birds, causing widespread death. ʻIʻiwis are one species at high risk. They have no disease resistance, and only hold on by staying at higher elevations that are too cold for mosquitoes – just like our cool, high Pu'u O'o Trail. As the climate warms, their safe habitat will shrink. </div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><i>(Check out this plan to help them by i<a href="https://www.vox.com/down-to-earth/2023/12/14/23990382/extinction-capital-hawaii-endangered-species-act#:~:text=Avian%20species%20in%20a%20group%20called%20honeycreepers%20are%20especially%20vulnerable%20to%20malaria%2C%20including%20the%20federally%20endangered%20%E2%80%98akikiki%2C%20a%20small%20bird%20with%20gray%20and%20white%20plumage.%20There%20are%20fewer" target="_blank">ntroducing mosquitoes </a>with a different strain of bacteria!) </i></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Happily, the beautiful ʻApapane have developed some genetic resistance to the disease, and are doing relatively well. They serenaded us on many forest walks. An ʻApapane’s song may contain more than 400 different syllables, so listening to this single species warble through the forest canopy made it feel like there was still a lovely chorus. They are a bright spot in a landscape of loss.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHNkLaScnEQmdldz09ExR4RjWQS7FcH5LOoGzFjXVhR8rQDuD0fRlMMTNppJWprCRtzc5ou2mVtR9-PVJPYgxgFnWzzZx6EmFyW-uPI87_JBFJG7shSduANmNnZ0JqWx5bICR5IeB08idoDy9IxaFMY5wnKBb2Hrft-UpKhirIsZsUUrAiQwXmRCnZW4/s3072/DSCN1073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAHNkLaScnEQmdldz09ExR4RjWQS7FcH5LOoGzFjXVhR8rQDuD0fRlMMTNppJWprCRtzc5ou2mVtR9-PVJPYgxgFnWzzZx6EmFyW-uPI87_JBFJG7shSduANmNnZ0JqWx5bICR5IeB08idoDy9IxaFMY5wnKBb2Hrft-UpKhirIsZsUUrAiQwXmRCnZW4/s320/DSCN1073.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three 'I'iwis landed for just a split second in this dead pine in Hosmer Grove, Haleakala National Park.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">A bright red bird with black wings hopped among the flowers, probing for the 'Ōhi'a’s prolific nectar with a sharp black beak. While the bird looked a lot like the scarlet tanagers who nest in the Northwoods, I knew it was not. ʻApapanes’ scarlet feathers match the red of the blossoms they rely on.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">A little farther down the trail, we spotted more movement in the trees. Another red bird masqueraded as a flower, but while the red body and black wings looked just like an ʻApapane to me, the beak was bright orange and strongly curved. Having studied our field guides, I knew that this was an ʻIʻiwi (pronounced ee-EE-vee).</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">These two endemic birds who live only in Hawaii birds share more than a love of ‘Ohi’a nectar. They both descended from the same flock of rosefinches from Asia who got blown off course roughly five million years ago, and found refuge on the young island of Kaua’i. That refuge is shrinking.</div>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-77948336207193153332024-01-11T12:00:00.001-06:002024-01-11T12:00:00.256-06:00Lava in Hawaii and at Home<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Cerulean waves crashed along the jagged black shoreline. The white foam matched happy little clouds in a blue sky. On the Big Island of Hawaii, my parents and I had been greeted by rain and flood warnings. Now, on Maui, there were blustery winds and high surf warnings. The ocean was impressive, especially where it pounded against the headlands of Ho'okipa Beach Park, on the way to the Road to Hana. Naturally, I scrambled down to get closer, remembering to never turn my back to the ocean.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_25wBf6GlKmdjgcX3XLQCLw3CokSb_3jwZLNMqU4gaadyNn6y9CGIl7dx5SqgwERJw8_SdN2jN2Vdxbjz1JzSyEXfCjB_GQUTdk-DPi5Clu2d_Xmyt8iSKGEAy_aXwJYFDHR3AcYRgeOE96gtCqS2KnjRgyPFmw7PsuOjcxfCbQSQauw9pGGyJWa2hw/s4608/DSCN1626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB_25wBf6GlKmdjgcX3XLQCLw3CokSb_3jwZLNMqU4gaadyNn6y9CGIl7dx5SqgwERJw8_SdN2jN2Vdxbjz1JzSyEXfCjB_GQUTdk-DPi5Clu2d_Xmyt8iSKGEAy_aXwJYFDHR3AcYRgeOE96gtCqS2KnjRgyPFmw7PsuOjcxfCbQSQauw9pGGyJWa2hw/s320/DSCN1626.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Ho'okipa Beach Park</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">I’m a big fan of basalt bedrock shorelines. Basalt is the type of dark, igneous rock that forms when lava oozes out of volcanoes and cools quickly near the surface. Hawaii is mostly built from basalt, but then, so is the North Shore of Lake Superior.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEjxAl1GEzalo3JbiJyBRa8sObh-_j2FCQh1f57ZfPivYxr_F-GyhrfiwSlYELBc672iKE10Z5LUKQnoYExE3WZwzrpbltR5sXfWIhhOG3sZbzyyCYNBU473n8cO8IQO27BaYZZ13H2xh45LZ-O3VwaYOGZz48Uti7jfw2LKv83RLI2bBLVMMIoEr_tHk/s4000/IMG_20220802_101330069_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEjxAl1GEzalo3JbiJyBRa8sObh-_j2FCQh1f57ZfPivYxr_F-GyhrfiwSlYELBc672iKE10Z5LUKQnoYExE3WZwzrpbltR5sXfWIhhOG3sZbzyyCYNBU473n8cO8IQO27BaYZZ13H2xh45LZ-O3VwaYOGZz48Uti7jfw2LKv83RLI2bBLVMMIoEr_tHk/s320/IMG_20220802_101330069_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Prof. Tom Fitz teaches about basalt on the North Shore of Lake Superior.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Our North Shore basalts formed 1.1 billion years ago, as the Mid-Continent Rift began to stretch and thin and tear North America apart. Before the Adirondacks slammed into the proto-East Coast and stopped the rifting, we were on our way to becoming oceanfront property! The rift lasted long enough for lava flows to accumulate an impressive amount of new rocks. Those rocks are now exposed along the North Shore of Lake Superior, the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and at waterfalls in Northern Wisconsin.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vSPJnOOI6PqjFjxyaFiXBiKqdz57dTEsF0puCPOffpBE0waJu0meqUyLfDWqdT0frDXaW2vmI50fbIkJdjJqtfBStOuD1DYTM8H7hT7fgBw8lfPvbUEsz4nLHIsrsC7-m0VMEXq0GrgMMB0CgB67blaYx1YFdxMn6F6KnQEfChKIUcHagkbeJ-Mxq4M/s4608/IMG_3817.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vSPJnOOI6PqjFjxyaFiXBiKqdz57dTEsF0puCPOffpBE0waJu0meqUyLfDWqdT0frDXaW2vmI50fbIkJdjJqtfBStOuD1DYTM8H7hT7fgBw8lfPvbUEsz4nLHIsrsC7-m0VMEXq0GrgMMB0CgB67blaYx1YFdxMn6F6KnQEfChKIUcHagkbeJ-Mxq4M/s320/IMG_3817.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Gooseberry Falls flows over basalt.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Hawaii is a different story. The lava there doesn’t erupt from a diverging rift zone. It forms because of a hotspot, where heated rock from the Earth’s core-mantle boundary rises up, melts the rocks above it, and then lava erupts in the middle of nowhere. Over time, the undersea volcanoes have built enough bedrock to rise above the ocean surface and become islands…islands who are still growing!</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">While the hotspot stays in one place, the ocean crust on top of it slides along, and so the volcanoes have built a chain of islands with the oldest ones to the north, and the youngest ones (Maui and the Big Island) to the south. Mauna Loa, which makes up most of the Big Island, rises 9 km above the seafloor, and is the tallest volcano on Earth. To find a bigger one, you’d have to go to Mars.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">I’ve known the basic story of Hawaii since seventh grade, when I crafted a moving model using a shoebox, playdough, and a baking soda/vinegar hotspot. [Mr. Crandall made sure we understood that plate tectonics was NEW information! He hadn't learned about it in his own seventh grade geology class!] And I’ve spent a lot of time playing on, teaching, and learning about Mid-Continent Rift basalt since college. But by the time we’d driven all the way to Hana on the northeast corner of Maui, I was starting to have questions. The black sand beach, craggy headlands, and piles of boulders were so much blacker than the basalt around home. Why?</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbEwYJgw7gB8gk7Q_M0izqmtK96evkjepnoEfwLVOILlTedtw9fknAKhoMTz5plrZMr72iSVRdlZuSmBhHzbyabfyYTlFQK4Xwo1OSBxiknyzKxxdvkaO8tp0C8pU5hR6h1ipuyt9z787viXT4W5smmQ2rdH5y79cEDC03oK81a2WeMgB7vUgzXszpqg/s1024/DSCN1654%20(1024x768).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcbEwYJgw7gB8gk7Q_M0izqmtK96evkjepnoEfwLVOILlTedtw9fknAKhoMTz5plrZMr72iSVRdlZuSmBhHzbyabfyYTlFQK4Xwo1OSBxiknyzKxxdvkaO8tp0C8pU5hR6h1ipuyt9z787viXT4W5smmQ2rdH5y79cEDC03oK81a2WeMgB7vUgzXszpqg/s320/DSCN1654%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Ho'okipa Beach Park</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0NjxC11Zd7Qp_PhGX6pcBk2QrJEIarjXNznkAqjmCYZOFvBIiCnEEwYz8MEmxcsVQ8_CUTnNA2Pu3geKN_obgOY5tc9zAS0VR3lTnFxW7whtlbxvdHJWfcabXTn0aN5bXj9xIm8IpOx37C7gU0xMgUduMh6KkTdMZLPs9x68cWUwlI_zI66sRajS-JII/s1024/DSCN1809%20(1024x763).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="763" data-original-width="1024" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0NjxC11Zd7Qp_PhGX6pcBk2QrJEIarjXNznkAqjmCYZOFvBIiCnEEwYz8MEmxcsVQ8_CUTnNA2Pu3geKN_obgOY5tc9zAS0VR3lTnFxW7whtlbxvdHJWfcabXTn0aN5bXj9xIm8IpOx37C7gU0xMgUduMh6KkTdMZLPs9x68cWUwlI_zI66sRajS-JII/s320/DSCN1809%20(1024x763).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p style="background: white; line-height: 115%; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">At Waiʻānapanapa State Park near Hana, Hawaii, the basalt on
the beach and shoreline is very dark black and contains lots of air bubbles
called vesicles. Photo by Emily Stone. </span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEU_pwSDI5gbPRYGf47y6OX-A-PuC41d3KCVKWwhPRfbNaN58iHgGyZT2yyv2c0TUypUtsR6cFYaO9HJWFkdpQicipgeTWeQwvyZpRNTiiMWya9hJPpjGgbIZre9FHDmFKk498yDgpvGc8E9mmEdra6uAtN0HAaBOCIOlpoYXwzS3GXQ89pMAPyDeG5H0/s4000/IMG_20231205_150908548_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEU_pwSDI5gbPRYGf47y6OX-A-PuC41d3KCVKWwhPRfbNaN58iHgGyZT2yyv2c0TUypUtsR6cFYaO9HJWFkdpQicipgeTWeQwvyZpRNTiiMWya9hJPpjGgbIZre9FHDmFKk498yDgpvGc8E9mmEdra6uAtN0HAaBOCIOlpoYXwzS3GXQ89pMAPyDeG5H0/s320/IMG_20231205_150908548_HDR.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Black sand beach at Waiʻānapanapa State Park!!!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmS0iUyx1KpIJaqtBzXHNXOEJ4eHEAvxatmAGbiB_92XkIyxJQhC_4PugPJ-owJmWYCtwAaRUVtQ150JsQh7sIlDCG04gCzHBQLuhsfJb8KrtNs46cgPKyP4u-trRRldhm3G0JUiy-mzNxC2AC636DbNRLIezNdZv_ZfbT5iqEh5darNnToySA7jjLL4/s1024/PC050732%20(1024x768).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmS0iUyx1KpIJaqtBzXHNXOEJ4eHEAvxatmAGbiB_92XkIyxJQhC_4PugPJ-owJmWYCtwAaRUVtQ150JsQh7sIlDCG04gCzHBQLuhsfJb8KrtNs46cgPKyP4u-trRRldhm3G0JUiy-mzNxC2AC636DbNRLIezNdZv_ZfbT5iqEh5darNnToySA7jjLL4/s320/PC050732%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Black sand beach at Waiʻānapanapa State Park.<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">From the few clues still preserved in North Shore rift basalts, we can guess that those lava flows were mostly the pāhoehoe type. These hot, slow-moving lava flows tend to have ropy surfaces. The root of the word come from the Hawaiian word “to paddle,” and probably refers to the ripples your paddle makes in the water.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGt-dw86SeaAmXjI3BEQx22YMjPMHUhZToKhcxIQ7fXmHICO996BnHqLBidiBqMyQWneX2CIy4kei5m4q-eWOqY5NdTC3_hDKnpT-or7uTbJRza6ZRI5ECeq5x0rvnKLSESBf6enIwGg0dAJqxSQLsA-g9OeluixaeWHj1OpBFSfaZ_h9Y9pkYdwYD_O4/s4608/DSCN0728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGt-dw86SeaAmXjI3BEQx22YMjPMHUhZToKhcxIQ7fXmHICO996BnHqLBidiBqMyQWneX2CIy4kei5m4q-eWOqY5NdTC3_hDKnpT-or7uTbJRza6ZRI5ECeq5x0rvnKLSESBf6enIwGg0dAJqxSQLsA-g9OeluixaeWHj1OpBFSfaZ_h9Y9pkYdwYD_O4/s320/DSCN0728.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Pāhoehoe lava in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">There are pāhoehoe lava flows on Hawaii, too, but ‘a‘ā lava flows are more plentiful. These masses of lava flow so quickly that the surface shatters into jagged chunks that would make you say “Ah! Ah!” to walk across. ‘A‘ā surfaces are much less common in the Mid-continent Rift.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhPNsn02rLJnaG6d7WWCWY-86fG7DSY_GiktRsQ20DeSPoe2HiRayScRyChPzyQfXxZpUpG9EKBHmqSfmq2wf_BPtNiDiLte00YSLWgKD31eIz96jJ69wnEDRVWyib4Oob73pNMdMgLW9KoysoGcSDkgn195DnmjKCwsgPRvHN8h969F-9pmZ6roDsRs/s4608/DSCN0568.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhPNsn02rLJnaG6d7WWCWY-86fG7DSY_GiktRsQ20DeSPoe2HiRayScRyChPzyQfXxZpUpG9EKBHmqSfmq2wf_BPtNiDiLte00YSLWgKD31eIz96jJ69wnEDRVWyib4Oob73pNMdMgLW9KoysoGcSDkgn195DnmjKCwsgPRvHN8h969F-9pmZ6roDsRs/s320/DSCN0568.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">‘A‘ā lava from the 1801 lava flow north of Kailua-Kona, Maui.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYnhFxdjIgTviYHFcU8xlQNLogjtebEFedLq7OBfzZRmZETHDAuJqZPXtlfZivn7ofUDtyfA4xstGHvsBdeUnGIjbraTZt0MBV6W-mss1HiVxV_vdvUhleJupbERDjtnMAejKRRIdw20FdDVt5Lr-TSOBiRlz5tPrY_cSTRwyB7HWZV0Zj1bIHzcXAV4/s4608/DSCN0783.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYnhFxdjIgTviYHFcU8xlQNLogjtebEFedLq7OBfzZRmZETHDAuJqZPXtlfZivn7ofUDtyfA4xstGHvsBdeUnGIjbraTZt0MBV6W-mss1HiVxV_vdvUhleJupbERDjtnMAejKRRIdw20FdDVt5Lr-TSOBiRlz5tPrY_cSTRwyB7HWZV0Zj1bIHzcXAV4/s320/DSCN0783.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Pāhoehoe and </span>‘a‘ā encroaching over top in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. This is where I really started to understand the different! Pāhoehoe can look a lot more jagged than the wave-washed and glaciated basalt I'm used to on the North Shore...but the ‘a‘ā is REALLY rough!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">This didn’t seem like the full story, though, so I called up Tom Fitz, geology professor at Northland College, and learned that it has a lot to do with agates. Lake Superior Agates contain beautiful concentric bands of quartz, often stained red with iron. People hunt for them on the pebble beaches of Lake Superior, as well as in gravel pits and other glacial deposits in the area. These beautiful rocks formed within the rift basalts.</div> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-F0bxK3x15YSPpAG42IVXsD6zKISwE35lYCFJg3Qju1xuRXGd8lQ6LePtWgKaRUlXRkFrx7n8dv4qKjJDczQr8L634EcHXnXEmFfdz4XUrys_DpCRmulow04AOjHQ7Y_NPJ-7OTQD3CyZktlSs2pVJJucWp3H96r_UsTkp9GVIFwrR1Ish5NISDBYPs/s1024/P8220263%20(1024x768).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-F0bxK3x15YSPpAG42IVXsD6zKISwE35lYCFJg3Qju1xuRXGd8lQ6LePtWgKaRUlXRkFrx7n8dv4qKjJDczQr8L634EcHXnXEmFfdz4XUrys_DpCRmulow04AOjHQ7Y_NPJ-7OTQD3CyZktlSs2pVJJucWp3H96r_UsTkp9GVIFwrR1Ish5NISDBYPs/s320/P8220263%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carla Peterson proudly holds the agate she found north of Grand Marais, MN!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">The rift area stayed volcanically active for roughly 23 million years, and in that time, rift basalts were deeply buried by more lava flows and eventually thick layers of sandstone. Hot water flowed through the buried rock, dissolving minerals and carrying them along. When the mineral-rich water encountered a cavity, it precipitated a layer of quartz. Flush after flush of liquid with slightly different trace minerals resulted in beautiful, banded agates. When eons of erosion exposed the basalt, the agates popped out into the hands of persistent rockhounds.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNTLkxNl59kaNsIl_5UAFsxReWtlsefU0p0dk0eDf3ChTmrTQL2MSYz75Fvuwls5SOr2cqJ14yt-hqCm8cTZ8jZyx9GhqRfZt1qDdhH-WIsrx2yG13LPMiZCJ-O2rZzhVz2L5F95O0Nh8bs-rBE8ajAKhke-E4VdE3g439-_UUjppqcIUcdzwgSQOsuk/s3000/1-5-24%20Carla%20looking%20for%20agates.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNTLkxNl59kaNsIl_5UAFsxReWtlsefU0p0dk0eDf3ChTmrTQL2MSYz75Fvuwls5SOr2cqJ14yt-hqCm8cTZ8jZyx9GhqRfZt1qDdhH-WIsrx2yG13LPMiZCJ-O2rZzhVz2L5F95O0Nh8bs-rBE8ajAKhke-E4VdE3g439-_UUjppqcIUcdzwgSQOsuk/s320/1-5-24%20Carla%20looking%20for%20agates.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Along the Temperance River near Tofte, Minn., Carla Peterson is looking at an agate still held within the vesicle where it formed. The mineral-rich water that precipitated the agate also lightened the color of the basalt. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">The cavities where agates form originated as gas bubbles in the molten lava, which are called vesicles. Hawaiian basalts have of LOTS of vesicles! Everywhere I went the rocks looked dimpled or spongy, or like a super fluffy chocolate cake with lots of airspace. </div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunDEdMPWn_5WKdu_DS5X6igViyV7hS7ooI2FpICn-IgcpYZAKcfv40xylFJ1mgIcvLnb1kNbk18aB8aZ1hmNqrZl5YtQlS74V0C5BqTbDlm9rMiPdXVze9mjliOr8NOfxFJ9nl18w2HWTlthNPGcob7QEqPPqM_QwtwHqj7hXZNlZbsrbHbWvFlc694E/s4000/PC010348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiunDEdMPWn_5WKdu_DS5X6igViyV7hS7ooI2FpICn-IgcpYZAKcfv40xylFJ1mgIcvLnb1kNbk18aB8aZ1hmNqrZl5YtQlS74V0C5BqTbDlm9rMiPdXVze9mjliOr8NOfxFJ9nl18w2HWTlthNPGcob7QEqPPqM_QwtwHqj7hXZNlZbsrbHbWvFlc694E/s320/PC010348.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All the surface area in vesicular, ‘a‘ā basalt makes it easier for lichens to establish a foothold there. That impacts the speed of forest development on new flows. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><div>Mid-Continent Rift basalts had vesicles, too, at least until they were filled with amygdules of agates, copper, and other minerals. They were also darker in color until that hot water moved through, rusted the iron minerals, and turned the basalts dark brown. In fact, in the few locations where you find rift basalts that have unfilled vesicles, the rocks are much blacker and more similar to Hawaiian basalts.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYlbSlOwQ6PfyAxf7oO27WJF5NODMB-GPMgtiDm5YBLNd1ihTn5An89HlCnIYe21tVQruekr6cvhosK49oyP5kCm3s4zzDVb2iSmRFr0IYpcf9C2TCALOfCWuGS7d3MuTClFAsJHnaTWAM4BaBVhLAqTxM4M_RSlX-0RVl2aqu8HXeAjzXXbSCPeLg50/s2786/IMG_20240105_124241327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2446" data-original-width="2786" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYlbSlOwQ6PfyAxf7oO27WJF5NODMB-GPMgtiDm5YBLNd1ihTn5An89HlCnIYe21tVQruekr6cvhosK49oyP5kCm3s4zzDVb2iSmRFr0IYpcf9C2TCALOfCWuGS7d3MuTClFAsJHnaTWAM4BaBVhLAqTxM4M_RSlX-0RVl2aqu8HXeAjzXXbSCPeLg50/s320/IMG_20240105_124241327.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">A sample of amygdaloidal basalt (with the vesicles filled) from the Northwoods Geology ROCKS! exhibit. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">The volcanoes of Hawaii were fun to visit, but I have to admit, I prefer my basalt super old with the possibility of agates.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4yf79lhE87MguvzKGGx4otI2baS9rkyhMPDuEnErCXfqUgwybfq6OjFaRKzce5enm7qVQq5FGwkpqrpWHoM_oRLEdFZQNufsgHh3nkOqJtd7P5Fk-7mk0AjHl_oVsP_-9Lp5D9JNfHgGArwYavuF40dPvMslNCqz6F9M4oRatvZU5VexWLGpnrKzZ8vg/s4608/DSCN6685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4yf79lhE87MguvzKGGx4otI2baS9rkyhMPDuEnErCXfqUgwybfq6OjFaRKzce5enm7qVQq5FGwkpqrpWHoM_oRLEdFZQNufsgHh3nkOqJtd7P5Fk-7mk0AjHl_oVsP_-9Lp5D9JNfHgGArwYavuF40dPvMslNCqz6F9M4oRatvZU5VexWLGpnrKzZ8vg/s320/DSCN6685.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hunting for agates north of Grand Marais, MN</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFZDEYZUnql34BNHUMz5Sx6ww0nynw7253y4r3HRf4ih_2i-7X8bsmFqavMVq_spCUDOZOglR2ZXzCpKvb1ERFxf1X0_zty1g2e95u3RV5dOG35npK4ePmN5nSpOo99waXO2NpyLA5Ym9vFXegpK2ggbdqIS1iTYYg3CqWZOxwCEEka38-qpyW8VcCwM/s4608/DSCN6698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFZDEYZUnql34BNHUMz5Sx6ww0nynw7253y4r3HRf4ih_2i-7X8bsmFqavMVq_spCUDOZOglR2ZXzCpKvb1ERFxf1X0_zty1g2e95u3RV5dOG35npK4ePmN5nSpOo99waXO2NpyLA5Ym9vFXegpK2ggbdqIS1iTYYg3CqWZOxwCEEka38-qpyW8VcCwM/s320/DSCN6698.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Found one!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-78115484254109806832024-01-04T12:00:00.081-06:002024-01-04T12:00:00.129-06:00Riding Wings to Hawaii<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Bright blue waves crashed on a white sand beach that drew me in like a magnet. I left my parents napping in the truck. They were worn out after a week of adventures in Hawaii. Standing on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, I was surprised by how much the lush green hills of Maui’s north shore reminded me of summer in the Sawtooth Mountains along the North Shore of Lake Superior.</span></div><span><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoEdubsf4mhdDShBZpvDTwHg5CiIj1d60yudmvgQITUmRXuxakMOkR7b1CYOhl0nUsXTZmQziXdfRe6TDjdD_qv_qdKpBWNQGGg4O4SJ6IjmvWU_jvE3h5hs2rDWFmkVEQRuR5V49DuNt1oak3UNeFWeu5iu6mEbA_U7RvZFx4eU2exZ6z7Zly5dfZdg/s4000/IMG_20231206_141236155.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoEdubsf4mhdDShBZpvDTwHg5CiIj1d60yudmvgQITUmRXuxakMOkR7b1CYOhl0nUsXTZmQziXdfRe6TDjdD_qv_qdKpBWNQGGg4O4SJ6IjmvWU_jvE3h5hs2rDWFmkVEQRuR5V49DuNt1oak3UNeFWeu5iu6mEbA_U7RvZFx4eU2exZ6z7Zly5dfZdg/s320/IMG_20231206_141236155.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">I was so busy looking at the frigatebird, I forgot to take a photo looking west toward the hills that reminded me of Minnesota. Here's a view to the east -- white sand instead of basalt bedrock, but you can see the resemblance, right? <br />Or maybe I was just homesick at that point ;-) Photo by Emily Stone.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-eIqGpAj1E5GjQ0q3Aj930zB0jCBeYVQ5ArMmAvHayH4E5GAdDO9GemQKCBJpPKLHt-5oQt2ykqbtCziH9dAelGjM1S8lhxEC-IzZ5ntFbyncz779xwLu6O2ntU5W9t-2PS43Wnwq5eCORsHys0wtpv-YYoaE1meQGyXebVBInv9u6ZBghcT70jGgtm8/s4608/DSCN6604.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-eIqGpAj1E5GjQ0q3Aj930zB0jCBeYVQ5ArMmAvHayH4E5GAdDO9GemQKCBJpPKLHt-5oQt2ykqbtCziH9dAelGjM1S8lhxEC-IzZ5ntFbyncz779xwLu6O2ntU5W9t-2PS43Wnwq5eCORsHys0wtpv-YYoaE1meQGyXebVBInv9u6ZBghcT70jGgtm8/s320/DSCN6604.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">View of the Sawtooth Mountains from Artist's Point in Grand Marais, MN. Photo by Emily Stone</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">The silhouette of a soaring bird caught my eye. At home they would have been an eagle. Here, the forked tail identified the bird as an ‘Iwa, or Great Frigatebird. Wings are one of the main ways that life gets to Hawaii, and boy do frigatebirds have wings! Their seven-foot wingspan is the largest of any seabird commonly found in Hawaii. Weighing only 3 pounds, they have the lowest wing loading of any bird on Earth! That’s in stark contrast to our Common Loons, who have the highest mass-to-wing-area ratio of any bird who can still fly.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpyHQTJC0fNXEH8xBEcalMt1xbAWYOSOdaJ5cC3TzF6-LHBQQK7ieeLpzKxpUZi6Hi9TdvNji_5Bdom17PCqDkTJN8V0yRHKkBZbaRP5YBUN8dgc_szTrQ65aM5LILeB48q_fJuTMk_KahVov2TTGRPmc4mAIzBNjoLjxG2srjJtnBv7qCutScPzFP_6U/s1024/12-29-23%20Great%20Frigatebird.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpyHQTJC0fNXEH8xBEcalMt1xbAWYOSOdaJ5cC3TzF6-LHBQQK7ieeLpzKxpUZi6Hi9TdvNji_5Bdom17PCqDkTJN8V0yRHKkBZbaRP5YBUN8dgc_szTrQ65aM5LILeB48q_fJuTMk_KahVov2TTGRPmc4mAIzBNjoLjxG2srjJtnBv7qCutScPzFP_6U/s320/12-29-23%20Great%20Frigatebird.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">‘Iwa, or Great Frigatebirds have seven-foot wingspans for soaring, and forked tails for maneuverability. They had no trouble flying to Hawaii. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">While our loons make impressive migrations to the ocean each winter, frigatebirds make regular trips across thousands of miles of open sea, returning to Hawaii or other islands to breed. This makes them indigenous to Hawaii: they are native here, but not only here. Of all the wings bringing life to Hawaii, these seemed the most effortless and natural. Flying long distances across open water is what they are built for. Even the airplanes coming and going constantly expend much more energy in flight. Other winged arrivals probably required a bit more luck.</div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">At a different beach, in the Kealia Pond National Wildlife Refuge, we spotted another amazing, flighted arrival. Kōlea, or Pacific Golden Plovers, live up to their names, even during the non-breeding season. As we walked the boardwalk at sunset, the light illuminated the golden shades in the mottled feathers of these small shorebirds. Like us, they come to Hawaii to escape cold weather elsewhere. In the lovely warmth, they feast on insects to fatten up. Starting in late April, they begin an incredible 8,000 mile migration back to their breeding grounds in Western Alaska. While most return to winter in Hawaii, some head to New Zealand, Australia, Southeast Asia, and the Horn of Africa.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNOW2mcSOT2ukwyYaw2HoTZL3gXtmeoS8CHn4XoTQC7F6PjQawCuvGPkKXPaVXVrGMSK7FFdKiVH-_ARoLqi67v8aMXWrSfZi1KsuaagyOqQcwPM4sObtdWRsms9TFVfzI77KIh4aWfL_ielecA-B06aM5CMrtXWMmddQppcYiLDEWyZq0Ef-yyNJWls/s3214/12-29-23%20Pacific%20Golden%20Plover.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2416" data-original-width="3214" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHNOW2mcSOT2ukwyYaw2HoTZL3gXtmeoS8CHn4XoTQC7F6PjQawCuvGPkKXPaVXVrGMSK7FFdKiVH-_ARoLqi67v8aMXWrSfZi1KsuaagyOqQcwPM4sObtdWRsms9TFVfzI77KIh4aWfL_ielecA-B06aM5CMrtXWMmddQppcYiLDEWyZq0Ef-yyNJWls/s320/12-29-23%20Pacific%20Golden%20Plover.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Kōlea, or Pacific Golden Plovers, migrate 8,000 miles across open ocean to Alaska to breed, and then back to Hawaii for the winter. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Throughout our journey, I photographed several more species of little shorebirds who also breed in the Arctic. ‘Akekeke, or Ruddy Turnstones; Hunakai, or sanderlings; and ‘Ulili, or Wandering Tattlers. All of these continue to make impressive flights every year, and so they are generally considered to be part of global populations who share genetics.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6RVS4R-aJo2XKgsoiEHW03wXoqkPa9qLCf7qPPSXApVd7ZfCKPXvmhs3_cucQMEX9L02j7DRHCcLv4GTJpuJoLXwjvVRBnKIXqXaduDMZPZNqQP0-YglC60a-6VFxlYSpBLxKicPCirPd5DewZLmMoPrKoODCvXgsam3lflN1ZBdKOANzjk3nbdkNOk/s1024/ruddy%20turnstone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6RVS4R-aJo2XKgsoiEHW03wXoqkPa9qLCf7qPPSXApVd7ZfCKPXvmhs3_cucQMEX9L02j7DRHCcLv4GTJpuJoLXwjvVRBnKIXqXaduDMZPZNqQP0-YglC60a-6VFxlYSpBLxKicPCirPd5DewZLmMoPrKoODCvXgsam3lflN1ZBdKOANzjk3nbdkNOk/s320/ruddy%20turnstone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">‘Akekeke, or Ruddy Turnstone</span></span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_QZ2hNEoImPfYrdViYiZzDekll8H23ojSf0i1BszjTQHqyUity5CkOkqn-f4_uKOJQoxS8gYPWXV1yA4HS2vDXFe019PXEwDyAdoraqxVvHaP7mjNvgrO5LbYXVkKYOv63WPmeP0QBkUYtEu_rLZSQDKtLeD7Iqz_D_qB5q_wb3oI-30vf5wRqU6khM/s1024/sanderling.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_QZ2hNEoImPfYrdViYiZzDekll8H23ojSf0i1BszjTQHqyUity5CkOkqn-f4_uKOJQoxS8gYPWXV1yA4HS2vDXFe019PXEwDyAdoraqxVvHaP7mjNvgrO5LbYXVkKYOv63WPmeP0QBkUYtEu_rLZSQDKtLeD7Iqz_D_qB5q_wb3oI-30vf5wRqU6khM/s320/sanderling.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">Hunakai, or sanderling</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhmiOQHCxX2FBXZpOcID_Su9FVSjOiKJ9cNdAXRWC6QmtVJyr13YUTW8S8irk9CNgdIAhe1XH0ikRjuEwqN0WO2tgBcvJYV3uVpgMY80WDy-ubvWf0sgaA7LVNjODixKiFhyx1HyM2y9GV6CYQNIA4NvOrIiTlWYbnkgdYYH_EF4YwnOIs5Rrfkk7NN0/s1024/wandering%20tattler.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhmiOQHCxX2FBXZpOcID_Su9FVSjOiKJ9cNdAXRWC6QmtVJyr13YUTW8S8irk9CNgdIAhe1XH0ikRjuEwqN0WO2tgBcvJYV3uVpgMY80WDy-ubvWf0sgaA7LVNjODixKiFhyx1HyM2y9GV6CYQNIA4NvOrIiTlWYbnkgdYYH_EF4YwnOIs5Rrfkk7NN0/s320/wandering%20tattler.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">‘Ulili, or Wandering Tattler</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">A few other waterbirds arrived on Hawaii, probably accidentally blown in on a storm, and stayed. Ae‘o, or Hawaiian Stilts, have been isolated on the islands long enough to have become their own subspecies, distinct from the ones who live in North America. This subspecies is endemic to Hawaii, which means they are native here, and only here. We sought them out near the headquarters of the National Wildlife Refuge. The whole place smelled of rotting fish, and tilapia carcasses dotted the drought-dried edges of the ponds.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisA7vHVACX619-KVqrqVrmSTUzrFgJfYnDX-3TlwkZOmXIElECgvzaUxo0pBEwIimy3A8FEPRP0BNCDJ2K2_b8Iu9ReULqqUnGObTWSC_b4Gldd19cmFUIcZ9pe55NdRbm_nGOy-ynFTyU6ENrwV3AZlH8g-aOV9pSA8LLHCb6TmE_MLScDRvstiJgeEI/s2527/12-29-23%20Hawaiian%20%20Stilt.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1889" data-original-width="2527" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisA7vHVACX619-KVqrqVrmSTUzrFgJfYnDX-3TlwkZOmXIElECgvzaUxo0pBEwIimy3A8FEPRP0BNCDJ2K2_b8Iu9ReULqqUnGObTWSC_b4Gldd19cmFUIcZ9pe55NdRbm_nGOy-ynFTyU6ENrwV3AZlH8g-aOV9pSA8LLHCb6TmE_MLScDRvstiJgeEI/s320/12-29-23%20Hawaiian%20%20Stilt.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Ae‘o, or Hawaiian Stilts, don’t migrate. They arrived on Hawaii once, and have now become their own subspecies. They have the second-longest leg-to-body ratio of any bird! Photo by Emily Stone.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: center;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Ae‘o may be the most elegant birds I’ve ever seen. Standing 16 inches tall, with natty, tuxedo-like, black-and-white plumage, they wade through muck on long, graceful pink legs. The contrast between their snazzy plumage and the mudflats where they use their slender black bills to forage for worms, fish, and crabs is comical. The fishponds and flooded fields where Native Hawaiians grew their traditional food, called kalo, used to be great habitat, but changes in the economy have destroyed that for everyone.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Also in this wetland, we spotted ‘Alae Ke‘oke‘o or Hawaiian coots, and Hawaii’s native duck, the Koloa Maoli, which looks a lot like a Mallard. The ancestors of both of these waterfowl arrived so long ago that they are now considered new species, endemic to Hawaii. To my eyes, they still look like home.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdSi4n5ia6qJ1urjNVywSetiHeRv_Aqk5CHb3oas-I3jfz_ZWYMy6WHFczqocMXmMWa5Rca1whVEscXMiNDrOOtgj163zMvZ-WNjEWx5nauDzfwd2Wb-HqUn5MebMltLBt9UheGp-_4aWSralYk-iVEKHbt2ApwOyQowEUv8_WY9IwAJhwoVLxVm_6VY/s1024/DSCN2153%20(1024x768).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdSi4n5ia6qJ1urjNVywSetiHeRv_Aqk5CHb3oas-I3jfz_ZWYMy6WHFczqocMXmMWa5Rca1whVEscXMiNDrOOtgj163zMvZ-WNjEWx5nauDzfwd2Wb-HqUn5MebMltLBt9UheGp-_4aWSralYk-iVEKHbt2ApwOyQowEUv8_WY9IwAJhwoVLxVm_6VY/s320/DSCN2153%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;">‘Alae Ke‘oke‘o or Hawaiian coots</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwUwXLJg37cGqrS8WYxYZwS3C48Pcjx4DYII9TCr0_r4wcZcbwBeNmig8Kx9OOc3GMaB_1XVS5XrzTNuHPkvA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Hawaii’s native duck, the Koloa Maoli</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Arriving to Hawaii on relatively large wings feels impressive, but not impossible. Enter, dragonflies! Throughout Kealia Ponds, we spotted their much smaller wings everywhere! Not all dragonflies and damselflies in Hawaii are native. Some arrived with humans. But the ancestors of the endemic ones are older than the islands themselves. The insects got their start on early islands who have since eroded away into mere pinnacles of rock. With all that time, they’ve evolved into 26 species and subspecies found only in Hawaii. A cousin to our Green Darner dragonfly has a record wingspan of 6 inches!</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidIVcoWNem6b2yCvGogRG-lzNbfCNKCug4-z-MbDjZtEaar8i_4j4l4mX0pqCvzoeCgrJFAvCY0jpHIUa3TEjLtb_th0kkfy3DQlCWjba02agBzFV0fe8tvvlfOg3MLF3UUGgAzmZaqxP6ajntTYb9tYwMJQvwdRx4Fm_F59jZYLIxVat2rYZMdOHYOHA" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidIVcoWNem6b2yCvGogRG-lzNbfCNKCug4-z-MbDjZtEaar8i_4j4l4mX0pqCvzoeCgrJFAvCY0jpHIUa3TEjLtb_th0kkfy3DQlCWjba02agBzFV0fe8tvvlfOg3MLF3UUGgAzmZaqxP6ajntTYb9tYwMJQvwdRx4Fm_F59jZYLIxVat2rYZMdOHYOHA" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Wandering Glider Dragonfly (identified using iNaturalist)</span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Wikipedia says:</span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">It is considered to be the most widespread dragonfly on the planet with good population on every continent except Antarctica although rare in Europe. Globe skimmers make an annual multigenerational journey of some 18,000 km (about 11,200 miles); to complete the migration, individual globe skimmers fly more than 6,000 km (3,730 miles)—one of the farthest known migrations of all insect species.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">The big wings of an ‘Iwa, the migratory wings of Kōlea, the small wings of Ae‘o, and even the metal wings of an airplane, are all impressive ways to arrive in Hawaii. But my favorite story of winged arrivals begins with a flock of rosy finches from Asia who get blown way off course and land in a tropical paradise. In a version of Darwin’s finches on the Galapagos Islands, they evolved into a rainbow of species. I can’t wait to tell you more!</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-40285678763802656742023-12-28T12:00:00.004-06:002023-12-28T16:53:45.890-06:00Lichens and Kipukas in Hawaii<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">*Check out the Museum's Facebook or Instagram Reels for videos from Hawaii!*</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Whenever I visit the smooth, gray rocks on the North Shore of Lake Superior, I find myself crouching low to examine the colorful patchwork of lichens who have made their home in such a seemingly perilous place. I never expected to do the same thing on Hawaii!</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvAFyi2F8nLGR6AzYJj9sHmTiobOxYO6vvzzA644QlfExwEHK69SQB2Cl6cBhCUMvwXs0eIfZJfIup8dElqFnrF_qB7ZFQdUYQfbJgj_vZtFNvfQ5Nj5XETXPSh7MMK6dr8jKrIxjPX5jXz-Te7AwCQgK-GHVI_e8plTKo9-a8mPFqTSj8Gd2BLcC4Jnk/s4596/12-22-23%20lichens%20lake%20superior.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3440" data-original-width="4596" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvAFyi2F8nLGR6AzYJj9sHmTiobOxYO6vvzzA644QlfExwEHK69SQB2Cl6cBhCUMvwXs0eIfZJfIup8dElqFnrF_qB7ZFQdUYQfbJgj_vZtFNvfQ5Nj5XETXPSh7MMK6dr8jKrIxjPX5jXz-Te7AwCQgK-GHVI_e8plTKo9-a8mPFqTSj8Gd2BLcC4Jnk/s320/12-22-23%20lichens%20lake%20superior.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lichens on basalt with Lake Superior in the background. Photo by Emily Stone.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The basalt bedrock in the Northwoods hardened from lava that poured out of the Mid-Continent Rift 1.1 billion years ago. (If you want to learn more about the rift, visit our Northwoods Rocks exhibit!) While making plans to visit Hawaii last month, I knew that I’d be seeing much younger basalt, especially on the Big Island, where Kilauea erupted as recently as December 2022. What I didn’t expect was such an abundance of lichens that the rocks looked fuzzy!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_qAHQRXUvpBGm-uTYcljY7_ziXg0s62MlWensFl_DWis4Be72peLnDV4obX_DCJ8V_jMPQpt2qJNyFmquIAosPoZVqtpdmochlnyTJuTYOstV1FNIXyu-C1NP1lwwMpDbtiPblMplee-X2SlUHfZjif1KvARBwlT7wuwYbK-QQ3LbWmaw3P742EcxkM/s2000/12-22-23%20fuzzy%20rocks.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_qAHQRXUvpBGm-uTYcljY7_ziXg0s62MlWensFl_DWis4Be72peLnDV4obX_DCJ8V_jMPQpt2qJNyFmquIAosPoZVqtpdmochlnyTJuTYOstV1FNIXyu-C1NP1lwwMpDbtiPblMplee-X2SlUHfZjif1KvARBwlT7wuwYbK-QQ3LbWmaw3P742EcxkM/s320/12-22-23%20fuzzy%20rocks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Aptly named “the lava-colonizing lichen,” this pioneering organism is among the first to grow on basalt rocks after they cool from volcanic eruptions. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anytime I talk about lichens, I brag about how the symbiotic partnership between fungus and algae allows them to live where neither partner could survive alone, to colonize bare rock, and even to survive in outer space. The fungus provides a structure, and an anchor. The algae do photosynthesis and make food for them both out of sun, water, and air. Sometimes instead of algae, the partner is a cyanobacteria, who can do photosynthesis AND fix nitrogen out of the air. Plus, lichens are wind-dispersed, and as I wrote last week, wind is one of the main agents that brings new life to the Hawaiian Islands.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first lichens I noticed weren’t growing on rocks, though, they were clinging to the trunks and branches of trees. The fuzzy, pale green strings were so dense they made the trees look like stuffed animals who had been loved and washed within an inch of their lives.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92ehxRSmWbTnB4oPxIXkXIg19tL1Gjkay2I4SWoNOgnl7xo7THLf5ZhZtU90ftuNnOvpvrl-1sTw0EzxfkMFfRq-eOwgsfDRvNfdiUyBYjLgflFCQLjwZIbdOvq0m2PVuN719myz8A-dMVddmlbGwWNVBBcYlxJBBdA56lPm8RxrxrOIr8_Spf7qFDJc/s2667/12-22-23%20fuzzy%20trees.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2667" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92ehxRSmWbTnB4oPxIXkXIg19tL1Gjkay2I4SWoNOgnl7xo7THLf5ZhZtU90ftuNnOvpvrl-1sTw0EzxfkMFfRq-eOwgsfDRvNfdiUyBYjLgflFCQLjwZIbdOvq0m2PVuN719myz8A-dMVddmlbGwWNVBBcYlxJBBdA56lPm8RxrxrOIr8_Spf7qFDJc/s320/12-22-23%20fuzzy%20trees.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Fuzzy trees!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The trees were on a kīpuka, a vegetated hill in a sea of younger lava flows. Volcanoes erupted and formed the Hawaiian Islands. Over time forests grew, but the eruptions kept coming. Tongues of lava meandered across the flanks of the volcanoes, creating islands of older forest within a brand new landscape.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXruxhsQ01jBjmMvrSIMQ9LBhF-ooIX7vtKxviTY7fyutiAz1S5QsEKX8jZYr9GOMplSOWLT2FVLQGxKuhTUpbv87JKaEgWIBKjelR7qqQMkEquIwj7yLeD25uPTHnjPz5hz3w0qXCZm0qrgZW1AdzFIJ2CYMSSw69c4H4cHG7A-ng8b4pj8b-_WqYb0/s2000/12-22-23%20fuzzy%20trees%20looking%20out%20on%20fresher%20lava.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXruxhsQ01jBjmMvrSIMQ9LBhF-ooIX7vtKxviTY7fyutiAz1S5QsEKX8jZYr9GOMplSOWLT2FVLQGxKuhTUpbv87JKaEgWIBKjelR7qqQMkEquIwj7yLeD25uPTHnjPz5hz3w0qXCZm0qrgZW1AdzFIJ2CYMSSw69c4H4cHG7A-ng8b4pj8b-_WqYb0/s320/12-22-23%20fuzzy%20trees%20looking%20out%20on%20fresher%20lava.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">This view from a kīpuka on Mauna Kea in Hawaii highlights the age of the pale green lichen-covered forest in the foreground, with a background of newer lava flows. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Kīpukas are essential reservoirs of biodiversity in Hawaii. Not only do they provide the source populations for revegetating fresh lava flows after volcanoes erupt, their isolation helps to protect them from invasive species. One kīpuka in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park is home to more native tree species per acre than any other forest in the park (and probably on the whole island). The diversity of lichens is far greater. Because they are sometimes hard to find and difficult to identify, the true number of lichen species in Hawaii may be impossible to ever measure, but it is likely more than 800 species, with at least 30 percent of those only existing in Hawaii.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2791L_EfrJCeKf1evHPmGosxLGj9f60_-J8EcoVcj0QS7Xqd2UwhzbbMjbPH5nezWfahN-W0FXDUwgFGer20ziQrNMtB03CFfXiyhERs4YydUjVm-RB6Bh0R7UFvRT0Aw0cab2Qk-AYmXLicAzdgjEzFv4H4h6zTWd6LZhVYRW5YUDy1HxEYxOgrVjk/s2000/12-22-23%20kipuka%20with%20lava%20in%20foreground.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH2791L_EfrJCeKf1evHPmGosxLGj9f60_-J8EcoVcj0QS7Xqd2UwhzbbMjbPH5nezWfahN-W0FXDUwgFGer20ziQrNMtB03CFfXiyhERs4YydUjVm-RB6Bh0R7UFvRT0Aw0cab2Qk-AYmXLicAzdgjEzFv4H4h6zTWd6LZhVYRW5YUDy1HxEYxOgrVjk/s320/12-22-23%20kipuka%20with%20lava%20in%20foreground.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here you can see the forested kipuka in the background, with newer lava rocks in the foreground. Photo by Emily Stone.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While lichens make up a good part of the lushness and biodiversity in mature kīpukas, they are also key to helping life start over from scratch on the surrounding lava. On our way to explore a kīpuka along the Kaulana Manu Nature Trail, we passed by areas of younger lava rocks that weren’t yet covered in forest. They were, however, fuzzy with lichen! (see photo above)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXaMxzV3maBQm1jL28-NKqiDO4Wfg1i9zeVtsbIxu1u1QTUxKjzbwDGZftcQJ-6m6E_I-AbzlYWjLL0EbIUNPq5a_XhFNR1cAaYpUV5_yiWjgjQ935aHu2zv2HU5tdMykTqi-frXhvBV_WEk4wgKXLiomd58yOB6phzX2s9MewHgK4Vy9fFNL7Sy1erI/s4000/IMG_20231130_144638319_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyXaMxzV3maBQm1jL28-NKqiDO4Wfg1i9zeVtsbIxu1u1QTUxKjzbwDGZftcQJ-6m6E_I-AbzlYWjLL0EbIUNPq5a_XhFNR1cAaYpUV5_yiWjgjQ935aHu2zv2HU5tdMykTqi-frXhvBV_WEk4wgKXLiomd58yOB6phzX2s9MewHgK4Vy9fFNL7Sy1erI/s320/IMG_20231130_144638319_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first species to arrive on freshly cooled lava flows is <i>Stereocaulon vulcani</i>, the lava-colonizing lichen. Fragments of lichen thalli (leaves) from other areas may break off and blow in, or the fungal partner within the lichen may produce dust-like spores that sail around the globe in the upper atmosphere. They especially thrive on the rugged a’a’ lava flows, where abundant surface area breaks down to release nutrients, and little holes left from gas bubbles collect rainwater.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These lichens can fix nitrogen—an essential ingredient for plant growth—while also breaking down rocks, building up soil, holding onto moisture, and providing cozy spots for other seeds and spores to germinate. The lichens shelter insects, which attract lizards and birds, the birds bring more seeds, and eventually a forest grows. The forest contains many more niches than the bare rock, so more and more species of lichens become established there, until they are carpeting the trees like the first ones I saw.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lichens grow relatively quickly in the rainy areas of the islands. The ones I saw on the trees were sparkling with droplets swept out of thick clouds, which benefits the rest of the forest, too. They also enjoy the mild climate. Even though (according to one <a href="https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/5093573.pdf">researcher</a>,) at high elevations lichens experience “summer every day and winter every night,” I’m pretty sure that’s more conducive to growth than the Northwoods’ schedule of “winter for 6 months of the year.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7CeerkBa2NRRZbdo_hMdKUFFAZ7hT-sZjzKY0CHHyEdcCdqejn-cZk3qAMd2WuT3uAt3HS9gR5W4gLLOmVyK_g4uyYPtMgMkg7hbnYyx2KNl1g6EvKSCsqcGRmCQMY3OtWo8KTTkUnonnjnWTFtdaPxdyy8nkhLDzCIjGpzvK72dQV-yxyWYrlUBlOs/s2000/12-22-23%20usnea%20lichen.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7CeerkBa2NRRZbdo_hMdKUFFAZ7hT-sZjzKY0CHHyEdcCdqejn-cZk3qAMd2WuT3uAt3HS9gR5W4gLLOmVyK_g4uyYPtMgMkg7hbnYyx2KNl1g6EvKSCsqcGRmCQMY3OtWo8KTTkUnonnjnWTFtdaPxdyy8nkhLDzCIjGpzvK72dQV-yxyWYrlUBlOs/s320/12-22-23%20usnea%20lichen.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This looks just like our Usnea, or Old Man's Beard Lichen!</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the wave-washed, basalt shores of Lake Superior, it’s the bright orange Elegant Sunburst Lichen who first colonizes the rocks. Constant wave action prevents much more from growing there, for now. But if wave disturbance ever ceases, more and more lichens will move in there, too, building up soil and setting the stage for forests to grow. From afar, Hawaii seems really different from the Northwoods. Upon closer examination, I found all sorts of natural connections.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Winter/Spring Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span><br />Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-2569704695414974432023-12-21T12:00:00.001-06:002023-12-21T12:00:00.272-06:00Riding the Wind to Hawaii<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">From out of a vast, dark sea, a small area of lights appeared below. The landing went smoothly. As my parents and I descended the stairs onto the tarmac, steamy air made us regret our long pants and sleeves. With almost magical speed, we’d just arrived on the most isolated populated landmass in the world: Hawaii. As different as this tropical paradise is from the Northwoods, I still found plenty of natural connections.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5uNcQgyDpXUtsrW-si-MX_3KemV7x6j1mbas8WjDuQ9DzT5zAf8bvgPruVEL3PUVjrvV4qitxFGJrHYk5snRD9aeoWAkT81JzTjAE3Or4AFDy2cOlh07NlsVVmgOqPU4o0AWfcBqqN1w9EgMife2mxBvTFxhx_Lt_ZkGevFJGhnsDrWzdNcnObNrgnMc/s4000/IMG_20231130_150959798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5uNcQgyDpXUtsrW-si-MX_3KemV7x6j1mbas8WjDuQ9DzT5zAf8bvgPruVEL3PUVjrvV4qitxFGJrHYk5snRD9aeoWAkT81JzTjAE3Or4AFDy2cOlh07NlsVVmgOqPU4o0AWfcBqqN1w9EgMife2mxBvTFxhx_Lt_ZkGevFJGhnsDrWzdNcnObNrgnMc/s320/IMG_20231130_150959798.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My parents! Larry and Margaret Stone. It was raining in the rainforest on the Big Island when we arrived. After three days of rain, we flew to Maui, where it was windy. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Several years ago we visited another remote island—Isle Royale in Lake Superior. While Isle Royale is much smaller and closer to the mainland, our trip to Hawaii was less strenuous and uncomfortable than the ferry ride across an angry, wave-tossed Lake Superior. Neither place is easy to visit. On that trip, I found myself asking everyone—human, plant, animal, and fungus— “<a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2015/09/isle-royale-how-did-you-get-here.html" target="_blank">How did you get here?</a>” Now, on Hawaii, that question emerged again.</div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In preparation for the trip, I’d purchased a book titled <a href="https://www.redberybooks.com/book/9780824876616" target="_blank"><i>Wind, Wings, and Waves: A Hawaii Nature Guide</i></a> by Rick Soehren. Those are the means by which life began to inhabit the freshly cooled lava of these remote volcanic islands about 70 million years ago.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our stay on Maui quickly highlighted the importance of wind to these unprotected islands. The Maalaea Harbor on Maui, where we launched for both a whale watch and snorkel tour, is one of the windiest harbors in the world. High surf warnings dominated my weather app for our entire stay, due to powerful gusts from the north. We stood in awe at huge waves crashing on the shore. Might that wind still bring new arrivals to the islands?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WV29sK8M6gX0rX8wOrLwxne4MyGv3zxzGEL3dYqjXBBpPc7o4IkrUHPxFQnr84mlcy5VSRoi0juC-Gc6BZ5wyUpLCcqMWIx3qsaR6Ao53Z-zkjf4migaZ7lHVpC7xDUHb18RBznoRYO-1M_0vnSa_u1sRlxsB4kuM0EgznyO_bUBVRj2jFWKE3lnykY/s1024/DSCN1654%20(1024x768).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WV29sK8M6gX0rX8wOrLwxne4MyGv3zxzGEL3dYqjXBBpPc7o4IkrUHPxFQnr84mlcy5VSRoi0juC-Gc6BZ5wyUpLCcqMWIx3qsaR6Ao53Z-zkjf4migaZ7lHVpC7xDUHb18RBznoRYO-1M_0vnSa_u1sRlxsB4kuM0EgznyO_bUBVRj2jFWKE3lnykY/s320/DSCN1654%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big waves looking toward West Maui near the beginning of the Road to Hana.<br />Photo by Emily Stone. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Being small and lightweight is key for wind dispersal, and the tiny spores of ferns are ideal. There are 200+ species of ferns on the Hawaiian Islands, but while the first ones blew in, many more evolved right there, and now occur nowhere else in the world. One of those 125 endemic species is ‘Ama’u, a beautiful fern that reminds me of our local cinnamon fern in the way that they grow in a beautiful vase-shaped cluster, and color their young fronds in a cinnamon shade to act as sunscreen. They are tough, and often stand as lonely pioneers on fresh, black lava flows.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLe4lw-Uio1cSl81P77hxojh4mumHnaApPeIPs_BPIYMzv_fOqzxb8Ybl0wQErizjv75EWtTx3dtfjKnLPW0DaSMn0eXVTdkSmeBGWEuxKvEGt-L4qCRikiO6thUoP79MYq0FE2716NRWt3RC70PiSBc-VckwG6Z_-rS92ttLAdaKzROqgXBmE5U2U90Y/s1024/12-15-23%20fern%20full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLe4lw-Uio1cSl81P77hxojh4mumHnaApPeIPs_BPIYMzv_fOqzxb8Ybl0wQErizjv75EWtTx3dtfjKnLPW0DaSMn0eXVTdkSmeBGWEuxKvEGt-L4qCRikiO6thUoP79MYq0FE2716NRWt3RC70PiSBc-VckwG6Z_-rS92ttLAdaKzROqgXBmE5U2U90Y/s320/12-15-23%20fern%20full.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBnUaq2w2MNGjVyGetbi_k-JV8Da4hFNcxGbgw5tHuXx2ts6ZqoZr-BkJGu3A5cKex0lLHfSy1QZsycPCofEIafSLv85bID3RzFgc9oVzgikAUmurnVMAVKdu0ogdIzQ5viiH5zUMLaMmpSBVhkAOinJz-pDJrS3hxcTIrJFBolWMMScVZkB-4JlfdIg/s1024/12-15-23%20fern%20close.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBnUaq2w2MNGjVyGetbi_k-JV8Da4hFNcxGbgw5tHuXx2ts6ZqoZr-BkJGu3A5cKex0lLHfSy1QZsycPCofEIafSLv85bID3RzFgc9oVzgikAUmurnVMAVKdu0ogdIzQ5viiH5zUMLaMmpSBVhkAOinJz-pDJrS3hxcTIrJFBolWMMScVZkB-4JlfdIg/s320/12-15-23%20fern%20close.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">‘Ama’u ferns on Hawaii can start growing on bare lava flows. They protect their young fronds with red pigment that acts like sunscreen. Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Growing near the ‘Ama’u ferns are often ‘Ohi’a trees. Actually, it seemed like ‘Ohi’a trees were growing near everything! They were everywhere in Hawaii. A member of the Myrtle family, they and their cousins are some of the most widespread flowering plants in the Pacific. Lightweight seeds are easily dispersed on the wind, and despite their small size, they can survive below freezing temperatures and at least 30 days submerged in saltwater. The ‘Ohi’a lehua on Hawaii have evolved into new species, and occur nowhere else in the world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8qjV4X_Nnqc56A1nDxzX6ppG0b3t6_xPzfCc7pGEw2bnF9mRTkXBUTg1mF45xaI6qHIG1UN95Pu_bnIl611ezIbMHwF0vG5X6FGK4vAgIW63e8nlNNMklkJwmNAXuOIbWIE-dZzpc1yynejoEi8t69r8fIRSjyrpEnsz9qPPly4mAnkqvHSDK78WFeaU/s1024/12-15-23%20ohia%20and%20fern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8qjV4X_Nnqc56A1nDxzX6ppG0b3t6_xPzfCc7pGEw2bnF9mRTkXBUTg1mF45xaI6qHIG1UN95Pu_bnIl611ezIbMHwF0vG5X6FGK4vAgIW63e8nlNNMklkJwmNAXuOIbWIE-dZzpc1yynejoEi8t69r8fIRSjyrpEnsz9qPPly4mAnkqvHSDK78WFeaU/s320/12-15-23%20ohia%20and%20fern.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Ohi’a trees join ‘Ama’u ferns in sprouting on rocks left by recent volcanic eruptions. The seeds and spores of each blew to Hawaii on strong winds, and still use wind to carry them to these fresh habitats. Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Photo by Emily Stone</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We spotted them on recent lava flows, often sprouting in cracks like you’d see a jack pine on much older lava on Isle Royale. In poor soil, Ohi’a stay shrubby. As their leaves add to the soil, and other plants move in, eventually the Ohi’a grow to full size trees and are an important component of forests.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0IxaGi-uK7vLzYaKQxVtlBLlcqbKA-4_DBqF3AuZbv1f22n8fShU4bW-wUk8I10ZZ7veLA1kTibpKP4bj7ZLXGTke27MiBUbH7FD-KG_vUTRkWbxKiVYUUs3Hq5Nl1hxe6a-k3A3G4O7912nRVLKZ1jidkK-rikA7bhSH0MO3IUA4F-7WCiUHhJ2kiQ/s1024/DSCN0708%20(1024x768).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0IxaGi-uK7vLzYaKQxVtlBLlcqbKA-4_DBqF3AuZbv1f22n8fShU4bW-wUk8I10ZZ7veLA1kTibpKP4bj7ZLXGTke27MiBUbH7FD-KG_vUTRkWbxKiVYUUs3Hq5Nl1hxe6a-k3A3G4O7912nRVLKZ1jidkK-rikA7bhSH0MO3IUA4F-7WCiUHhJ2kiQ/s320/DSCN0708%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Ohi'a lehua shrub on a pretty recent lava flow. <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Even though we didn’t visit during their season of peak blooming, most of the Ohi’a trees we spotted had at least a few flowers gracing the ends of their twigs. A mass of red stamens makes them look fuzzy. And hiding among those flowers, sipping nectar, are two red birds who match the flowers perfectly! The ‘I’iwi and 'Apapane are two types of Hawaiian Honeycreepers, a group reminiscent of the Galápagos finches. Their ancestors arrived on wings (probably with the help of big storm winds!), but I’ll write more about them later.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXv05dZNI4IWU94gxXMW0bRKEmGH70Pnuxjz7nyJcHC_ZfQnmhZcyQKau-k88fz3oBgBECmWVIqDkbhTXRvuwIpN9Qclu2yNbFA_DHvZRmab_HAZKeIIIPf93ACUg7qHolj3H_ALY2Z7WS2OjSzSCig6fvneCt4kGomiWrbJJ0FvaLmyVpshwMsr4Rqms/s3072/DSCN1061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXv05dZNI4IWU94gxXMW0bRKEmGH70Pnuxjz7nyJcHC_ZfQnmhZcyQKau-k88fz3oBgBECmWVIqDkbhTXRvuwIpN9Qclu2yNbFA_DHvZRmab_HAZKeIIIPf93ACUg7qHolj3H_ALY2Z7WS2OjSzSCig6fvneCt4kGomiWrbJJ0FvaLmyVpshwMsr4Rqms/s320/DSCN1061.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you spot the bird in the red 'Ohi'a lehua flower? :-)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On Isle Royale, wind also brought ferns, as well as trees like aspen and birch, and <a href="https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2015/09/isle-royale-how-did-orchids-get-here.html" target="_blank">32 species of orchids</a> with their dust-like seeds. Despite the fact that orchids are adapted for wind dispersal, Hawaii was not so lucky. There are only three native orchids on Hawaii. Several more have escaped from gardens.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglni2V2aEEQJSjyHZ5AJqjPHtMJC-f_pWYQAL9bHT3_GM8779th0dvvAMR0CUKUL1SeEiYZkbF4ywvlaAEp_WCWM25tIMDiarIRb01Znx3TM1J00gEpIW-H6thRfrN1Vm1wB6CtTgfYd6qppgUsxcAzwL0XsfoqX_Ly5T95ibSD_8e427ZhdTs_pj-SbI/s1024/DSCN0745%20(1024x768).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglni2V2aEEQJSjyHZ5AJqjPHtMJC-f_pWYQAL9bHT3_GM8779th0dvvAMR0CUKUL1SeEiYZkbF4ywvlaAEp_WCWM25tIMDiarIRb01Znx3TM1J00gEpIW-H6thRfrN1Vm1wB6CtTgfYd6qppgUsxcAzwL0XsfoqX_Ly5T95ibSD_8e427ZhdTs_pj-SbI/s320/DSCN0745%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bamboo Orchid, native to Myanmar, India, Sri Lanka, Nepal, Thailand, Vietnam, the Ryukyu Islands, Malaysia, Singapore, China to Indonesia, the Philippines and New Guinea...but not Hawaii. The native orchids are super rare. Photo by Emily Stone. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One group of critters you may not think of riding the wind to new places are spiders. They release little strands of silk, which first rise due to the Earth’s electrical fields and then catch the wind, and balloon away! Over 100 spiders are native to Hawaii. We peeked under hundreds of leaves to spot a famous <a href="https://hawaii-forest.com/june_2008_happy_face_spider/" target="_blank">“Hawaiian happy-face spider</a>” with a cheesy red grin on their abdomen, but only ended up spotting several fog-dappled spider webs.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesXcObCqEkk-e9PoU7nBCCV8CSvErWbLo3KXqQTrPMxb5C0j5V57Grv-C4-nvRD7fBVF5MFs5gaSn2iQF6Kpk-kq3yTFVkpzm2qNUiJqArbHa8wtiHKsqaQAMSyHu6q1PCiAoRT5elu57IsODfOqsJYg2GM5EIS3lSh-YlUeupcXAUvACtYjhlDzPuUg/s1024/12-15-23%20spider%20web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesXcObCqEkk-e9PoU7nBCCV8CSvErWbLo3KXqQTrPMxb5C0j5V57Grv-C4-nvRD7fBVF5MFs5gaSn2iQF6Kpk-kq3yTFVkpzm2qNUiJqArbHa8wtiHKsqaQAMSyHu6q1PCiAoRT5elu57IsODfOqsJYg2GM5EIS3lSh-YlUeupcXAUvACtYjhlDzPuUg/s320/12-15-23%20spider%20web.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Spiders found their way to Hawaii more easily than most other animals. Spider silk acts like a balloon to help them catch a ride on the wind. Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Photo by Emily Stone. P.S. There were SO MANY lichens in Hawaii! That might be another article...</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These webs remind us of how everything is connected. Even the most remote islands in the world are linked by the transporters of wind, wings, waves, and ecological processes like evolution. One benefit of travel is that through finding those connections it helps us appreciate our own home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-56823356015160734772023-12-14T12:00:00.001-06:002023-12-14T12:00:00.123-06:00Iron and Life<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The old road angled steeply up the hillside. Thick drifts of autumn leaves concealed loose rocks and little ravines. Saplings and brush crowded in from the sides, threatening to scratch cheeks already rosy from the cold. After several minutes of tough hiking, the road leveled out, and big concrete structures loomed among the trees.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">From 1922 to 1924, the Pioneer Mining Company operated an open pit iron mine on Mt. Whittlesey near Mellen, Wisconsin, although pit doesn’t seem quite accurate. There’s no big hole, the hillside merely looks a bit sliced off. Mining and quarrying, along with fur trapping, logging, and attempts at farming have sculpted the landscape of the Northwoods since the late 1800s. But that history is influenced by far older events.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Continuing past the concrete ruins, my friend and I followed the scar of the old road to the top of a cliff. Smooth, dark rock peeked out from beneath dry leaves and grass. Kneeling for a better look, we found stripes of red, black, and gray with smooth, waxy, and sparkling surfaces. Crustose lichens had found toeholds in each tiny crack, so the surface was also decorated with little blobs in shades of brown, white, and yellow.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCxsLh2qcqAP-TFMrg5uSp5b157bn-xE7y1P4sPjGVF6wef94zZu6KcwxCzktXvuOuxcDiAy_SaYIbZ4e2b340ULB5f4pDe-D617BJK9pLtYedxB3iq597VPeyp4LjDIkMZqB5MkzYslE0l29QdHbmvaiLZ5KAbgN-td0OXOKabGleAiDAEzaQuvZuOg/s2000/12-8-23%20granular%20iron%20formation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLCxsLh2qcqAP-TFMrg5uSp5b157bn-xE7y1P4sPjGVF6wef94zZu6KcwxCzktXvuOuxcDiAy_SaYIbZ4e2b340ULB5f4pDe-D617BJK9pLtYedxB3iq597VPeyp4LjDIkMZqB5MkzYslE0l29QdHbmvaiLZ5KAbgN-td0OXOKabGleAiDAEzaQuvZuOg/s320/12-8-23%20granular%20iron%20formation.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These lichens may be much younger than the outcrop, but the rock itself is no stranger to photosynthesizing friends. In fact, iron formations like this one record a major milestone in the history of life on Earth. Back in the day, and by that, I mean 1.9 billion years ago, the atmosphere was filled with carbon dioxide and methane, and the first inklings of life had only just begun. Volcanic activity in the early oceans, and erosion off the few continents, enriched the water with iron and silica.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFdlSQQW_J7iAFOU4fUS2SaIzq3BmnorlsLSzhPeT5EktWOeo467nDdgGcyQ7ix_5rBdTGDm3qtY_MAIzFok_3Dvi3gygh7yGRPX97oTS6ve0awjWgNQ9OQvEw9SifiEnqc6MxStsbPWjToqn9jLhYP9Yc94ITD8rwnM_32lfsZPW3Iv3hkXBfVAg6K0/s3300/2%20Animikie%20Basin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2550" data-original-width="3300" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFFdlSQQW_J7iAFOU4fUS2SaIzq3BmnorlsLSzhPeT5EktWOeo467nDdgGcyQ7ix_5rBdTGDm3qtY_MAIzFok_3Dvi3gygh7yGRPX97oTS6ve0awjWgNQ9OQvEw9SifiEnqc6MxStsbPWjToqn9jLhYP9Yc94ITD8rwnM_32lfsZPW3Iv3hkXBfVAg6K0/w400-h309/2%20Animikie%20Basin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As algae and cyanobacteria began turning water and carbon dioxide into sugar using energy from sunlight, they also emitted oxygen into the ocean where they lived. The oxygen reacted easily with the dissolved iron and silica, causing them to precipitate out of the water into the minerals hematite, magnetite, and jaspilite. Those minerals accumulated on the bottom of a shallow sea who sloshed between the shores of two early continents. Over time, the mineral mud hardened into stone. This stone. I pressed my hand to rock.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The minerals didn’t precipitate homogeneously, though, and built the rock in a series of bands with different colors, textures, and thickness. Seasonal fluctuations in algae growth may have contributed to some of the variation. The rise and fall of landforms on the early continents, and the weathering and erosion of different rocks, may also have altered the chemicals that fed into the sea. An even wilder source of the variation is that the early life hadn’t evolved with oxygen, and if ever the dissolved iron didn’t immediately clean up the oxygen they pumped into the water, the algae would have poisoned themselves, causing population fluctuations.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFKh7maCiBvVM6C4bCd0NeGr1wpA84gKAKOqw9QxkGBJssnYJb8oqIyNe9IfyAot5Jo4TDc1sZFU5s6BC5wr8LZ93tbBCRY2fsqLXyaDn7uof9WFn32tXB5eM0m3fsgBou9sp5alzTuHQsgyS4H6qnXumgkRZ5KE2ue11aJ46g9Sb-d3fW09oCr2EHY8/s2000/12-8-23%20a%20magnet%20sticks%20to%20banded%20iron%20formation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFKh7maCiBvVM6C4bCd0NeGr1wpA84gKAKOqw9QxkGBJssnYJb8oqIyNe9IfyAot5Jo4TDc1sZFU5s6BC5wr8LZ93tbBCRY2fsqLXyaDn7uof9WFn32tXB5eM0m3fsgBou9sp5alzTuHQsgyS4H6qnXumgkRZ5KE2ue11aJ46g9Sb-d3fW09oCr2EHY8/s320/12-8-23%20a%20magnet%20sticks%20to%20banded%20iron%20formation.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Banded iron formation is made up of layers of different minerals, mostly various combinations of iron, silica, and oxygen. Some of the layers are made of magnetite, and so a magnet sticks to the rock outcrop. Photo by Emily Stone.<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m not a good enough geologist to tell you what conditions led to which bands, but I could see that some dark gray bands were smooth while others were rough and sparkling. And a few layers were a whimsical mash of red and gray polka dots in a darker matrix. The red dots were iron-stained quartz, sometimes called jasper or jaspilite. Geologists call this texture “granular iron formation,” and in this case, it represents sands broken out of slightly older iron formations that rolled back and forth in shallow waves before solidifying again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhemTzDCN9W27PTYxsK4j3syJUB3aAe-oSa2pGaox-lHeBMMYBhWI0zD_bN3zYlDQbaDi6WHVPC_Vs4PA_GdiWLlnPJjlBcFLyfAIes-qPjtUoNEwYY6HBGlbbp57g7B8TJBeqB5Pmepr8bEiIp7JORaOKLP-vuES_PtvBOiSGU3Wr2haqC_x7crJhvB50/s2000/12-8-23%20granular%20iron%20formation%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhemTzDCN9W27PTYxsK4j3syJUB3aAe-oSa2pGaox-lHeBMMYBhWI0zD_bN3zYlDQbaDi6WHVPC_Vs4PA_GdiWLlnPJjlBcFLyfAIes-qPjtUoNEwYY6HBGlbbp57g7B8TJBeqB5Pmepr8bEiIp7JORaOKLP-vuES_PtvBOiSGU3Wr2haqC_x7crJhvB50/s320/12-8-23%20granular%20iron%20formation%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Tiny red polka dots represent sand-sized pieces of iron formation that were rolled in waves before solidifying back into rock called granular iron formation. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A billion years after precipitation stopped and the layers became rocks, intense tectonic activity in this region (the Mid-Continent Rift!) upended everything. Iron formations are sedimentary rocks, and therefore form in horizonal beds, flattened by the force of gravity. The action of the rift caused the center of Lake Superior to drop and the edges to curve upward like the pages of a book bent in a U. Rocks that once covered the bottom of a shallow sea now form narrow ridges at the surface and then dip steeply underground.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDq_IRM07-Uw1hlujekAMvKiieSJlEFxpz0YZ-tYcE9Bpuyf978qXfaDVZeB7Fgv2THqf7WPv4XYdngMBpni4vcmhyphenhyphenvecYiu98gG1eBv8UzBrRfAZBYrMKWN6bfTW6e9KCaoB7AiOtqH15oXvYm9_NFaq7gmrW6E7O8J3Ou9ROz3q59GZkZyFsdy5YXWw/s3300/4%20Mid-Continent%20Rift%20map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3300" data-original-width="2550" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDq_IRM07-Uw1hlujekAMvKiieSJlEFxpz0YZ-tYcE9Bpuyf978qXfaDVZeB7Fgv2THqf7WPv4XYdngMBpni4vcmhyphenhyphenvecYiu98gG1eBv8UzBrRfAZBYrMKWN6bfTW6e9KCaoB7AiOtqH15oXvYm9_NFaq7gmrW6E7O8J3Ou9ROz3q59GZkZyFsdy5YXWw/w309-h400/4%20Mid-Continent%20Rift%20map.jpg" width="309" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My friend and I descended the irregular, stair-like face of the cliff, vacillating between admiring the rock, the colorful lichens who clung in cracks, and the lush green mosses who soaked up trickles of water. Knowing the history beneath me, I was impressed by the sheer mass of iron that the early algae and cyanobacteria caused to precipitate out of the seawater. While there are a few iron formations older than this one, and some younger ones, too, iron formations of this age are notably abundant, especially in Minnesota and Michigan.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the final, amazing chapters in this saga is that the algae and cyanobacteria eventually evolved enzymes that allowed them to live with oxygen. No longer at risk of poisoning themselves with the element, they proliferated wildly, their oxygen waste sweeping most of the iron and silica out of the ocean water for good. Then excess oxygen, no longer tied up with iron, escaped into the air, and began creating the atmosphere we enjoy today.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My friend and I breathed deeply, grateful for the oxygen, the beautiful rocks, and the scientists whose research uncovers the Earth’s stories.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Author’s Note: You may have noticed that I refer to the sea, rocks, lichens and mosses as “who.” This is a deliberate choice in using a “grammar of animacy” and recognizing that not just humans possess the quality of life. I find that using this language causes a positive shift in the way I think about the more-than-human world. For more on this topic, I highly recommend an essay called “<a href="https://orionmagazine.org/article/speaking-of-nature/">Speaking of Nature</a>” by Robin Wall Kimmerer, available easily through an internet search.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-26320953455082008052023-12-07T12:00:00.002-06:002023-12-07T12:00:00.134-06:00Birch Polypore<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The rocky trail led up and over and around tree roots and boulders, and we hiked steadily to stay warm. As we navigated the stairs of a birch tree’s roots, my friend pointed out a pale grayish fungus poking out from the trunk like a small, fat Frisbee. “Birch polypore,” I offered reflexively, not needing to think at all about the name of this common and easily recognized species. Not having been on very many hikes with me, they were startled by this casual identification, and burst out in surprised laughter. This made me chuckle, and soon we were both giggling down the trail.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTGQaeCUT_BKPcVU80URVvRZ5EeQVbhHAKG0nqst_iBYt3D4w9HBzjEnPdT4Yo4YkmTYGj2sVUTVTEZyy1fdjdMI7sQPVoaW16ih4kRXCFDKUbIDp8TivgQP7VGaSQCKJqcolhHHw57qe6j-DNt9QGCRsQav3LXDoY81qlPYiv-AGfy4h1OUui3n42DQ/s1024/12-8-2023%20Birch%20polypore.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMTGQaeCUT_BKPcVU80URVvRZ5EeQVbhHAKG0nqst_iBYt3D4w9HBzjEnPdT4Yo4YkmTYGj2sVUTVTEZyy1fdjdMI7sQPVoaW16ih4kRXCFDKUbIDp8TivgQP7VGaSQCKJqcolhHHw57qe6j-DNt9QGCRsQav3LXDoY81qlPYiv-AGfy4h1OUui3n42DQ/s320/12-8-2023%20Birch%20polypore.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birch Polypore</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That laughter was good medicine, and fitting that it came from a mushroom with so many uses. Birch polypore, or Fomitopsis betulina is a bracket fungus who grows on birch trees around North America, the British Isles, Europe, and Asia. This fungi’s big moment of fame came with the discovery of Otzi the Iceman, a 5,300-year-old man frozen in the Italian Alps. Otiz was carrying two small lumps of birch polypore on a goat-skin thong around his neck.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Initially, some researchers put forth the idea that the fungus contains a laxative compound that Otzi was using to treat whipworms in his gut. While this sounds logical and interesting, and spread quickly throughout the internet, other scientists found no cultural or experimental evidence that chemicals in the fungus have that particular effect.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There are far more reliable reports in traditional medicine, especially in Europe, of birch polypore being used as an antimicrobial, anticancer, and anti-inflammatory agent. In Canada, a paper on Traditional Dene Medicine based on collaborative research with Indigenous knowledge holders, reports that the fungus was boiled into tea that could heal internal bleeding, ease heart pain, and more.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Traditional medicine, like those examples, is based on Indigenous science. While Western science uses short-term experiments that generally test one thing at a time, Indigenous science is practiced using trial and error over centuries, and is integrated into daily living. The knowledge gained through Indigenous science is valid and valuable. It can lose significance when taken out of its cultural context, though, such as by anthropologists without the full picture or a game of telephone on the internet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While Indigenous science doesn’t need to be vetted by Western science to be valid, it often spurs research questions that lead to that outcome. In the case of birch polypore, pharmacological studies provide evidence for antiviral, anti-inflammatory, anticancer, neuroprotective, and immune tonic properties in the tea, and especially in an alcohol extraction of the fungus. Of course, none of those experiments contain the cultural context of how to treat a patient with this medicine.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Birch polypores aren’t just used for internal medicine. Slices of the fungi have been used as band-aids with built in styptic properties by people in Great Britain. Recently, this versatile fungus has proved useful for sharpening razors, polishing Swiss watches, soaking up sweat in hat bands, and by entomologists for mounting insects.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh43CPYM57igIIfiPeZ4S1es11svGouoroUztdGVY2pNakZ0qt5-Ts-I6UrfsS15z5Lze2DOawQS9pGgSR93FJi1fmHExj7kxfZZIncqiIz0v2s73saydOTvpKCczlA-Zo4kccah_iKJqXo8tudQelXO63FGZWDejhFQxwb4wn94gyPEbbsUt4CePvnP0/s1024/12-8-2023%20Birch%20polypore%20underside.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh43CPYM57igIIfiPeZ4S1es11svGouoroUztdGVY2pNakZ0qt5-Ts-I6UrfsS15z5Lze2DOawQS9pGgSR93FJi1fmHExj7kxfZZIncqiIz0v2s73saydOTvpKCczlA-Zo4kccah_iKJqXo8tudQelXO63FGZWDejhFQxwb4wn94gyPEbbsUt4CePvnP0/s320/12-8-2023%20Birch%20polypore%20underside.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pores on the underside of Birch Polypore are part of what make it so useful for soaking up sweat or stopping bleeding. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Insects who haven’t been killed and mounted yet, mites, and even white-tailed deer, also rely on birch polypore as a source of food. Fungi are high in protein. The first time birch polypore caught my attention, it was because a deer had taken a nibble out of one right at my eye level in the Museum’s Wayside Wanderings Natural Play Area.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pGioFkeeaO7Snp5A1cavijW4yYD6Kd03uB0-_YIgAQwN4ngV0QOh9xbKp-u4AFmNnCyWaC6KKrY9j2f9CkiGTWwvbVhfKUcA-M2YZd7QSsgb5izm-LsadNrqaPSjir7MvnZ7L_CNC5whcWUFRRsC_G_99JWyA49GtBP7RE65tnlgcn9lVIqALsJDN7M/s1801/birch%20polypore.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1163" data-original-width="1801" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pGioFkeeaO7Snp5A1cavijW4yYD6Kd03uB0-_YIgAQwN4ngV0QOh9xbKp-u4AFmNnCyWaC6KKrY9j2f9CkiGTWwvbVhfKUcA-M2YZd7QSsgb5izm-LsadNrqaPSjir7MvnZ7L_CNC5whcWUFRRsC_G_99JWyA49GtBP7RE65tnlgcn9lVIqALsJDN7M/s320/birch%20polypore.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The fungus is an active player in the food web as well. Birch polypore may infect a wound in a birch tree and then just hang out for years, held at bay by the tree’s immune system, until the tree is weakened by other factors. Then the fungus begins to spread and eventually contributes to killing the tree.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As a brown rot fungi, birch polypore breaks down cellulose in the tree cells and turns it to sugar, but leaves the dark, woody lignin behind. According to Tim Adam’s PhD thesis, published the year I was born, wood being decomposed by birch polypore smells like green apples. Naturally I had to see for myself, so I set out on another hike, this time with a small folding saw in my pocket. Slicing a notch out of a birch trunk riddled with young polypores, I sniffed deeply. While the scent was a bit sour, I don’t believe I agree with Tim. Still, he spurred curiosity that got me outside on a sunny day.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">From laughter, to curiosity, to other forms of internal medicine, birch polypore is a common fungus with a lot to offer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-59878437759848810482023-11-30T12:00:00.001-06:002023-11-30T12:00:00.133-06:00Orion, An Old Friend<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The dark road curved beneath my headlights, and then straightened into a long trough between the trees. An old friend lay resting there, just above the pointed tips of spruce and fir.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-family: arial; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_3FnoX4E3nsr7BFEnoz-sjiTG6Wg4aonmXw-NOiHhak4gfAXd1OtVyogjuq_xo4V5Iz6Y6HV1zvieFJ7-emQX8GzJ_BK82F8WhtxQ4oyDVvBKeLqVrr6yRu8-LOyojDVvoBbb9VcshF5GzAhSa-dPwiKdF32BBPqOGTCWifp0bMLu5vTJZvCh0agLIA/s1200/11-24-23%20Orion%20by%20Vivianne%20Hanke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_3FnoX4E3nsr7BFEnoz-sjiTG6Wg4aonmXw-NOiHhak4gfAXd1OtVyogjuq_xo4V5Iz6Y6HV1zvieFJ7-emQX8GzJ_BK82F8WhtxQ4oyDVvBKeLqVrr6yRu8-LOyojDVvoBbb9VcshF5GzAhSa-dPwiKdF32BBPqOGTCWifp0bMLu5vTJZvCh0agLIA/s320/11-24-23%20Orion%20by%20Vivianne%20Hanke.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">Museum Member Vivianne Hanke sketched this image of the constellation of Orion to illustrate a chapter in my first book!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Orion has been my favorite winter constellation for many years. Sometimes subtitled “The Hunter,” it seems apt that Orion is lying on his side these days, perhaps resting up from early mornings of deer hunting. Traditionally, of course, his quarry was more mythical—chasing the beautiful seven sisters of Pleiades, doing battle with Taurus the Bull, fighting a scorpion sent to tame his ego, or hunting the constellation Lepus the Hare.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">In Australia and New Zealand, Orion appears upside down, and his distinctive belt and sword are imagined instead as a cooking pot. Perfect for the end of hunting season! Closer to home, some in the Ojibwe culture call this constellation Biboonkeonini, the Winter Maker, as his presence in the night sky heralds winter. Indeed, he can be seen from November to February each year.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Of the four stars that form the rectangular shape of Orion’s body, Betelgeuse is my favorite. This reddish colored star forms Orion’s right shoulder. The red color is not an optical illusion, and it is not due to rusty iron, as is the color on Mars. Betelgeuse is a type of star called a red supergiant, and it gives off most of its light in the near-infrared wavelength, which we cannot see. It is at the opposite end of the spectrum from ultra-violet (UV) light, which is also invisible to humans. Only a small portion (13%) of Betelgeuse’s light is visible to our eyes. But we have built surrogate “eyes”—instruments that can “see” these wavelengths and translate them into beautiful images in the visible spectrum of colors.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Betelgeuse is one of the largest stars ever discovered, and it would be the brightest star in the sky—if we could see that infrared light. Instead, we only observe it as roughly the tenth-brightest star, and its brightness fluctuates.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">With the help of powerful telescopes, astrophysicists have seen hotspots and other features on the surface of Betelgeuse. One astronomer characterized Betelgeuse as “an enormous seething restless cauldron of belching plasma.” In 2019, the star blew a huge chunk of its mass into space, and the dust cloud that ensued shaded us from its light. Betelgeuse dimmed by 60%, and then brightened again less than a year later as the dust cleared.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rnMzaMJR1FfhNQtUsytA8RBYsnxITZNyAf-bUK2YhgTe5Sc4fdVPlNpEZcn8MABtr7_JErs2jFv57lHGfhsjTPnoEXNLuaAzjJ2v57jAcriVrWvFgMHn6wkzXNXmUedI1bEmJyNTmtw7678cggFIvJZ5BIhW0PJ2gIf_vUruxxNc06ClDKFFRfAohsA/s1200/11-24-23%20Betelgeuse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rnMzaMJR1FfhNQtUsytA8RBYsnxITZNyAf-bUK2YhgTe5Sc4fdVPlNpEZcn8MABtr7_JErs2jFv57lHGfhsjTPnoEXNLuaAzjJ2v57jAcriVrWvFgMHn6wkzXNXmUedI1bEmJyNTmtw7678cggFIvJZ5BIhW0PJ2gIf_vUruxxNc06ClDKFFRfAohsA/w400-h225/11-24-23%20Betelgeuse.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="text-align: justify;">From </span><a href="https://universe.nasa.gov/news/237/what-is-betelgeuse-inside-the-strange-volatile-star/" style="text-align: justify;">NASA</a><span style="text-align: justify;">: “This four-panel illustration shows how the southern region of the rapidly evolving, bright, red supergiant star Betelgeuse suddenly become fainter for several months during late 2019 and early 2020. In the first two panels, a bright, hot blob of plasma is ejected from the emergence of a huge convection cell on the star's surface. In panel three, the outflowing, expelled gas rapidly expands outward. It cools to form an enormous cloud of obscuring dust grains. The final panel reveals the huge dust cloud blocking the light (as seen from Earth) from a quarter of the star's surface.” Credit: NASA, ESA, and E. Wheatley (STScI)</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Something that violent can hardly last very long. At about 10 million years old, Betelgeuse is thought to be near the end of its life. It will likely explode into a supernova within the next 100,000 years, and maybe even within tens of years. When it does, it will be visible even in the day, brighter than the moon, and to an outside observer would outshine the entire Milky Way Galaxy.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">I was never an astronaut-aspiring space kid, but I did become enthralled with stars once I learned that they, like us, are born and die. Stars arise from clouds of dust, where gravity brings the particles together. Mass builds and gravity increases until hydrogen atoms smashing into each other combine to form helium. Nuclear fusion begins, light shines, and a star is born.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">As the star ages and becomes a red giant, helium fuses into carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, magnesium, and eventually iron. But where does the rest of the periodic table come in? Those elements can’t be created during a star’s life. They are conceived during its death.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">The heat and energy involved in a large star’s death—in a supernova—are enough to synthesize many more elements, which are all hurled into space to form a supernova remnant, also called a nebula. Nebulas are the birthplaces of stars, and also of planets like Earth. The atoms who coalesced to form the Earth now cycle endlessly through her rocks, her air, her water, and her life. We literally are made of stardust.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">Betelgeuse has already used up its supply of hydrogen for nuclear fusion. This means heavier elements are fusing together, and the star’s core is compressed into a hot, dense, ball, while other outer layers have expanded into the huge red mass we see today. Stars like this are rare—we only know of 200 in our galaxy—because they do not live very long.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">While I admire the superlative nature of stars like Betelgeuse, I often think about how wonderful our own star is. Our Sun is just the right size, just the right distance, just the right age, and just the right brightness to make life on Earth possible.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">This time of year, when gray clouds can hang low for many days in a row, a splash of sunlight on my face feels like wonderful gift. I am even grateful for when the Sun sets early. Crystalline stars and shimmering Northern Lights appear closer in these long winter nights. This time of year, Orion is really a perfect friend. He keeps me company on dark lonely drives, sparkles handsomely above my doorstep, and after hanging out with him, I can still get to bed early!</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;">This world provides us with much to be thankful for.</div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: arial; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-10191525946373525222023-11-23T12:00:00.001-06:002023-11-23T12:00:00.141-06:00A Lingering Loon<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Gray skies bled into gray water as I snaked down the eastern shore of Lake Namakagon on County Highway D. After a hike with a friend, I’d decided to take the long way home. My dad used to tell us that drives like this were “shortcuts” although what he really meant is that they were the scenic route. He was usually looking for hawks on fence posts in the fields of Iowa. I spotted something quite different.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Out in the middle of Sugar Bay, a small shape interrupted the glimmering ripples. Even in the poor light at a fair distance from a moving car, I could tell that this was a loon by their distinctive silhouette. After a few seconds of indecision I swung into a gravel road and “flipped a Louie” which is what my family calls Uies or U-turns. Pulling safely off the road, I dug my new Natural Connections camera (thank you donors!) out of my backpack and zoomed in.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXUnJUAxFiucqb0QbUcrJ3F2Dmyv-Dn57XnkYyaoD4HgIsnMFYlahGEYHwwMKCCKHro2d05K1wyGvqHlRXnK00O2CIQNgQW1CSb0Q5XvBeNwaTXXoC2AtnIDwzFXDD8CQ4Yg3b3cHtPOnycBC_StGk1BeH5No_byaRpymbYDZkGPHsHhzLMAQCGcUGqA/s320/lingering%20loon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXUnJUAxFiucqb0QbUcrJ3F2Dmyv-Dn57XnkYyaoD4HgIsnMFYlahGEYHwwMKCCKHro2d05K1wyGvqHlRXnK00O2CIQNgQW1CSb0Q5XvBeNwaTXXoC2AtnIDwzFXDD8CQ4Yg3b3cHtPOnycBC_StGk1BeH5No_byaRpymbYDZkGPHsHhzLMAQCGcUGqA/s1600/lingering%20loon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The loon’s gray-brown back, full white throat, and pale cheeks confirmed them as a juvenile, a young of this year. While this loon is on the late end of migration, I wasn’t worried for their safety. Juvenile loons have been navigating their fall migrations alone for millennia. The general schedule I’ve been told is that bachelor loons (without chicks for whatever reason) migrate in August, mother loons head out in September, the dad’s leave in October, and the juveniles fly south in November.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqBTdMpFdZQcnEKBYRJ3yvpbkqnocka7p-ifwdaQ5ecj48PePNCXiPEr4cN7lw27lqNQ5rdpkiPdgBkIonM3pqgq-pIJyOHVvwAzmxJt2OcHmpyUqUIo-F8y9-zbaPzDvugWAn5uG3BnKotRfSX24BFhbsr5taUs_rWzVrFsbc4zutl_KjTjiztPZx1k/s2048/11-17-23%20juvenile%20loon%20on%20Lake%20Namakagon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAqBTdMpFdZQcnEKBYRJ3yvpbkqnocka7p-ifwdaQ5ecj48PePNCXiPEr4cN7lw27lqNQ5rdpkiPdgBkIonM3pqgq-pIJyOHVvwAzmxJt2OcHmpyUqUIo-F8y9-zbaPzDvugWAn5uG3BnKotRfSX24BFhbsr5taUs_rWzVrFsbc4zutl_KjTjiztPZx1k/s320/11-17-23%20juvenile%20loon%20on%20Lake%20Namakagon.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's a clearer image of a juvenile loon on a sunny day in a previous late October. <br />Photo by Emily Stone.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That’s just a general schedule, though, and individual loons are likely all over the calendar, as well as the map. That also doesn’t account for loons from Canada making pit stops here along their way. Early ice formation will shoo them south faster, and warm autumns like this one don’t give them any reason to hurry.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The ultimate destination for loons is saltwater that doesn’t freeze. Their main habitat requirements are plenty of fish to eat and clear water to hunt in. Southern inland lakes tend to have warm, shallow, murky water, and alligators (!), so the ocean provides a better option. There, loons face the challenge of transitioning from freshwater to saltwater. They’ve adapted by excreting salt out of glands in their skull between their eyes. The glands drip almost constantly during the winter…sort of like how my nose adapts to winter, too…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After making the big journey and coping with salt, loons gain access to a seafood feast. Wintering loons eat flounder, crabs, lobster, shrimp, gulf menhaden, bay anchovies, silversides, and more. The ocean bounty gives loons enough energy to molt and regrow all of their feathers, which carry them back north in the spring.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Those feathers carry important information, too. As loon researcher Walter Piper recently wrote on his <a href="https://loonproject.org/2023/11/07/what-loons-carry-with-them/">Loon Project blog</a>, once feathers are grown, they don’t continue to be living tissue. Just like our fingernails, they stop receiving a blood supply and become a time capsule. Inside the feathers are stable isotopes, or as Piper explained, “different versions of a chemical element with different masses.” By studying the stable isotopes of the feathers and matching them to the stable isotopes of various loon wintering locations, we can identify the place where the feather was grown. When scientists capture a loon in Wisconsin in July, studying a tiny clip of a feather can reveal where that loon spent their winter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Early studies of loon migration using satellite transmitters suggested that many of our loons head to the west coast of Florida. Further information provided by recoveries and sightings of banded loons expanded that map quite a bit. We now have records of banded loons from Wisconsin and Minnesota wintering all along the west and east coasts of Florida, up through Georgia and the Carolinas, and even up into the Northeast, but that data is mostly based on luck.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBbkJVrc0bc3Mvt7XdehfqGGH6W33JgtmmIL_ONXK_sh8zxwmmE-eCdmE9mzfB9ppfkwtKpPeHg7ZuIgNbANIoEcdTa0_eBdFbMbe91lD9UBWXRh7rTpS94IONFjH_SIMGVDnfQFDpwZwEBOFgZChumpxBQQR5ZEdS0mB7nJGrv4MZg4wve7Jkifvaf8/s1306/11-17-23%20loon%20migration%20patterns%20from%20Loon%20Project%20blog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1306" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBbkJVrc0bc3Mvt7XdehfqGGH6W33JgtmmIL_ONXK_sh8zxwmmE-eCdmE9mzfB9ppfkwtKpPeHg7ZuIgNbANIoEcdTa0_eBdFbMbe91lD9UBWXRh7rTpS94IONFjH_SIMGVDnfQFDpwZwEBOFgZChumpxBQQR5ZEdS0mB7nJGrv4MZg4wve7Jkifvaf8/w640-h397/11-17-23%20loon%20migration%20patterns%20from%20Loon%20Project%20blog.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loon migration patterns from the Loon Project blog.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This new avenue of stable isotope analysis opens up a way for scientists to capture a loon on their breeding territory up here and figure out where they spent last winter without having to track them on migration. Why does that matter? Well, I for one, love talking to snowbirds about their winter adventures in warm places. But more importantly, this information may help scientists understand how challenges loons face over the winter may be impacting their ability to return north, or their breeding success once they get here.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Out on Sugar Bay, the feathers of that juvenile loon contain information from here, or maybe from Canada, wherever the kid molted out of their baby fuzz and into their first round of sleek feathers. After three or four years gaining strength and maturity on the ocean, this loon will molt into their striking black-and-white breeding plumage for the first time—feathers filled with the signature of saltwater—and fly home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wonder if they’ll take a “shortcut” or flip any Louies along the way!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-53176480260523223352023-11-16T12:00:00.001-06:002023-11-16T12:00:00.129-06:00November is a Sigh with Lois Nestel<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“November is a sigh; a sigh of weariness after the tumult of summer, a sigh of resignation over projects yet undone, a sigh of regret for hopes unfulfilled. It is a sigh of frustration that no matter how we try, the world seems to be sinking deeper into the morass, and a sigh of sadness that neither we nor those around us seem to live up to our expectations.” So wrote Lois Nestel, the Museum’s founding director and naturalist, over three decades ago. It is a gray sentiment, to match the gray clouds and gray trees of this time of year. I feel it, too. With little daylight left after work, it’s hard to want to get out for a walk. When I do, the air is damp and chilled, and the landscape dreary.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lucky for us, Lois had the fortitude to continue past her sigh and philosophize about a different perspective we could take.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She wrote, “Nature also sighs, but in a gentler mood. It is the sigh of relaxation as hibernating creatures slip into their long sleep. It is the gusty sigh of pines yielding to the cold north wind and the almost silent sigh of leaves and grasses settling closer to the bosom of the earth beneath the gentle pressure of the snow.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQck-28yKSxYxY_qTZ4AKGY9dCbkwJCIxHxhQH_JJA4i1QKE-ELZRwNYu1qBGeNYzfu5zXL7ese-s1W8kMztd_5cypwwr7urqFZoPcZ7iMVchwJIEWSTs3lUu2ThNDK_Ao2ttuaRMt_KEK2wvjziuHWawvNl0pO-qZa6HMI0JcO0Z6YVy2ZQvjHdTkWU/s2667/11-10-23%20frosty%20flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2667" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQck-28yKSxYxY_qTZ4AKGY9dCbkwJCIxHxhQH_JJA4i1QKE-ELZRwNYu1qBGeNYzfu5zXL7ese-s1W8kMztd_5cypwwr7urqFZoPcZ7iMVchwJIEWSTs3lUu2ThNDK_Ao2ttuaRMt_KEK2wvjziuHWawvNl0pO-qZa6HMI0JcO0Z6YVy2ZQvjHdTkWU/s320/11-10-23%20frosty%20flowers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“We are in limbo. It is an in-between time when looking forward appears as pointless as looking back. The short gray days and long black nights are conducive to dark thoughts…yet, why?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“The badge of hope is pinned to every twig as tightly furled buds encase next summer’s glory. The cocoon, hung high in the tree, is a symbol of faith in a warmer, bright day. Courage and cheer are exemplified in the sprightly chickadee, who finds joy in just being alive. Patience marks the bed of seed and spore. So, why the gloom of human spirit?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPXHPghBBK5-5vUAkRqYObEUd5Pyu0B1GEYl1pPMvI9f1qu_5VrJM7Wlqju-vHABRSMSYPEwyRrgdMrmz5OxTu7OggLC-c_sQiW1tG5QxZcQPbbqHUVJvFv7Q40aSuKQw9ynq3UjXq4NNJus8RWap5Ydz5s5KXIzJUtFeNPOKgPYLM5ByFxNcYkMTzcc/s2667/11-10-23%20oak%20buds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2667" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPXHPghBBK5-5vUAkRqYObEUd5Pyu0B1GEYl1pPMvI9f1qu_5VrJM7Wlqju-vHABRSMSYPEwyRrgdMrmz5OxTu7OggLC-c_sQiW1tG5QxZcQPbbqHUVJvFv7Q40aSuKQw9ynq3UjXq4NNJus8RWap5Ydz5s5KXIzJUtFeNPOKgPYLM5ByFxNcYkMTzcc/s320/11-10-23%20oak%20buds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Perhaps we have strayed too far from our beginnings. The wall of human thought and intellect that should have raised us to the heights of glory has instead separated us from the beauty of simplicity and faith. We demand, we demand. We have set ourselves upon a throne, despotic rulers of all we survey. Man is such a small cog in this complex world. Biologists have found an average of 1356 living creatures in the top inch of a square foot of forest soil; and did you know that the average size of all living animals, including man, is about that of a housefly? Yet we are so big in our own eyes!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“A proper perspective is what we need, and perhaps a closer bond with nature could teach us. That lesson learned, how good it would be if our sighs of dissatisfaction could become sighs of contentment and peace.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lois must have been caught in this mood for several weeks, for a later essay of hers reflects these same themes of renewal and humans’ removal from it. Just as Lois saw hope in the form of a tree bud, she sees hope in demise of a rabbit, which might in fact provide nourishment for a future tree bud.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">She wrote, “The first snow of the season blanketed the ground and reflected back the moonlight with unaccustomed brightness. Looking out, I thought the world seemed empty of life, silent and pristine. The illusion was soon shattered as from somewhere in the shadows of the trees came the piercing, quavering cry of a rabbit, rising to a shriek and then ending abruptly.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“My first thought was, “Oh, the poor thing—what a pity.” I believed it to be the work of a resident great horned owl, and I pictured the silent swoop, the clutch of talons and the great, tearing beak. Then, lying back, I mulled over the subject.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“The death was but a link in the chain and sad only for the rabbit. For the owl, as prime predator, it was cause for fierce pleasure and satisfaction, a sustaining of life. Lesser creatures would glean crumbs from his table, bits of flesh and bone to be gnawed by mice and shrews, to be picked by birds; nests would be lined in spring with scattered hair. Remnants of body wastes and liquids would sink into the earth to nourish next year’s blade or twig which in turn would nourish, perhaps, another rabbit in the passage of time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Left to its normal management there is no waste in nature. Part of the owl flying in the night sky and the beetle beneath dead leaves is the rabbit who ate the twig whose nutrients came from death and decay. Everything uses and is used, is changed and converted but never lost.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“I regret that human standards have removed us from the natural chain. Human civilization has come to mean constant taking, seldom returning. How long will nature tolerate us?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lois’s perspective brings comfort in this gray season, and I resolve to take my next walk with eyes open to the life curled up inside buds, the cocoons protecting delicate moths-to-be, the chickadees indomitable cheer, and the renewal inherent in every bit of death. Hopefully you, too, will find ways to ensure that your November sighs indicate contentment and peace.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-20949689641345158622023-11-09T12:00:00.001-06:002023-11-09T12:00:00.139-06:00Snow Buntings and Needle Ice Foretell Winter<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Tawny, dried weeds and their dusky shadows painted texture on the roadside border as I drove up Scenic 61 along Minnesota’s North Shore of Lake Superior. Suddenly, those colors came alive in a cloud of swirling beauty. Brilliant white, sharp black, brown, and blur; the flock of snow buntings ascended, swooped as if tossed by blizzard winds, flashed their colors in unison, then fluttered back to invisibility among the weeds.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These tough little visitors from the Arctic live up to their nickname of “snowflake birds.” Snow buntings nest on tundra all around the top of the globe, and are the most northerly recorded songbird in the world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidT46hFYzTx0egy0nVK0PyZl4vCIq6sbbhwnXp0pH7jkSIvv2gaBJo_965wlC8IkhueMbnwU3G__9cam1w1RbW03S4Wz1wYa8lGLVFuIIJS0-nl_U62UGns62eh2ZphfprCZ4Otrv20tjUd7vCcpsijNLz1hAHDhNWZXEr0LWGMijRz-9Zqr1wVFBhm_4/s1650/11-3-23%20%20Snow%20Bunting-%20photo%20by%20Charles%20J%20Homler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1275" data-original-width="1650" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidT46hFYzTx0egy0nVK0PyZl4vCIq6sbbhwnXp0pH7jkSIvv2gaBJo_965wlC8IkhueMbnwU3G__9cam1w1RbW03S4Wz1wYa8lGLVFuIIJS0-nl_U62UGns62eh2ZphfprCZ4Otrv20tjUd7vCcpsijNLz1hAHDhNWZXEr0LWGMijRz-9Zqr1wVFBhm_4/s320/11-3-23%20%20Snow%20Bunting-%20photo%20by%20Charles%20J%20Homler.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My toes get cold just thinking about it, but feathered feet allow snow buntings to spend most of their winter strutting about on the chilly drifts. They usually feed in big, gregarious flocks that seem to roll along chaotically as the birds in the back make short, fluttering flights to the front. Occasionally, the whole group will rise and fall in a flurry of motion at the suspicion and passing of danger. Feeding flocks are entertaining to watch, since these birds don’t submit to a defined hierarchy like chickadees do, and end up bickering continuously over seeds and space.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Deep snows cover up the seed heads of short tundra plants in their breeding territory, but here in the Northwoods, snowplows expose seeds in the gravel shoulder, and windswept fields of nodding stems offer good foraging, too. I was particularly happy to read that they eat seeds of the ragweed plant, which is a major cause of seasonal allergies!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While snowshoe hares turn white for the winter, snow buntings add brown and spend the season with rusty patches on their feathers. It helps them blend in on the bare fields and among the grass stems where they feed. By April, that color has worn off to reveal pure white plumage that will match their still-snowy Arctic breeding habitat. Since snow buntings nest in deep cracks and cavities in rocks to avoid predators, their nesting sites are limited. Not going too far south and arriving early back north to claim a territory is essential.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Their breeding is carefully timed so that chicks are hungriest right when insects are most plentiful. Warm springs that shift breeding earlier produce a mismatch with their food source. Hard winters seem to keep this timing well-matched. What type of winter will this one be?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Swirling flocks led me up the North Shore, all the way to the Cascade River north of Lutsen, MN. The trailhead was empty, and it looked like we were the first ones on that section of the Superior Hiking Trail. While cool, wet weather has made a lot of trails muddy recently, the ground was rock hard under my hiking shoes. Frozen! A novel experience for this fall, when September and October both set records for higher-than-average global temperatures.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then: Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! The trail was filled with fragile clusters of ice, pushing up through the soil. My clumsy feet had pulverized some, but in several places the ice remained beautifully sculpted into ribboned clusters a few inches high. Squatting down for a better look, I noticed soil particles, moss fragments, and grass blades frozen into the ice.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxXLtR6LsIGnlnRyxKfKT_dkEnsiBYmD-_kwLJ2Ebn2Yb9CujthaPDJrZJwN82sOnjU9YE1616nKYh3N4Y01JaXrXugzXSL6W3uZCI22sBTt4IyqH8aKQVNCInM3cM4j9BwtSLzpwZGFZdjVH2K0I6YOSlflbsd_Mv_y2l_V6HIdX0ylmuLu48wdOn3Qg/s2667/11-3-23%20%20Needle%20ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2667" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxXLtR6LsIGnlnRyxKfKT_dkEnsiBYmD-_kwLJ2Ebn2Yb9CujthaPDJrZJwN82sOnjU9YE1616nKYh3N4Y01JaXrXugzXSL6W3uZCI22sBTt4IyqH8aKQVNCInM3cM4j9BwtSLzpwZGFZdjVH2K0I6YOSlflbsd_Mv_y2l_V6HIdX0ylmuLu48wdOn3Qg/s320/11-3-23%20%20Needle%20ice.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6fvFFUoxY0Cnqu3_7Qm1O28klV5Khvsjoq_3voe1GxXRH-uAOfqSG5ruPCqw-Vtp_q-Jhsz-3gGp9scSeBtksKMBhkoWmIYEd3or-ThkMtqGv4QRHYI9-Fi3kOsspy4WfgYWVIe1EhdDSzMb2oCFV1p6Wa7_NMmUJzO6YbiGTwg87yHJeP5CpgqAT2oY/s4000/PA190105.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6fvFFUoxY0Cnqu3_7Qm1O28klV5Khvsjoq_3voe1GxXRH-uAOfqSG5ruPCqw-Vtp_q-Jhsz-3gGp9scSeBtksKMBhkoWmIYEd3or-ThkMtqGv4QRHYI9-Fi3kOsspy4WfgYWVIe1EhdDSzMb2oCFV1p6Wa7_NMmUJzO6YbiGTwg87yHJeP5CpgqAT2oY/s320/PA190105.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidA-JtXkOT25UDkLmA_7NbkUBNrftOB2EmwiNycVaDm5YWaRtRnIHNHkXKu3gxb4r87Ze7d1UhW96EX9qfjq79vEcT8iIuzkf3pI_1Qgx-PUAPDc_4SxYZkoLcksnmIEd3GBZT7xrZbOqTWgepQn5X30napu9AQbSzimQ-GbTL-OfGswwgKrVAcmu6iXM/s4000/PA190125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidA-JtXkOT25UDkLmA_7NbkUBNrftOB2EmwiNycVaDm5YWaRtRnIHNHkXKu3gxb4r87Ze7d1UhW96EX9qfjq79vEcT8iIuzkf3pI_1Qgx-PUAPDc_4SxYZkoLcksnmIEd3GBZT7xrZbOqTWgepQn5X30napu9AQbSzimQ-GbTL-OfGswwgKrVAcmu6iXM/s320/PA190125.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Needle ice” seems to be the most scientific term for this phenomenon, but I’ve also heard it called frost pillars, frost castles, and ice filaments. The Swedes, Germans, and Japanese have their own words for this circumboreal art form, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">While not confined to one region or habitat, needle ice does require a certain set of conditions in order to form. First, the soil must not yet be frozen, at least beyond the first thin crust. In contrast, the air temperature needs to be below freezing. Finally, the soil needs to have plenty of moisture, and just the right sized pores between the grains so that water can flow toward the growing ice.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What draws the liquid water toward the ice is a process known as ice segregation. Supercooled water – held in a liquid state below 32 degrees F – moves toward ice and adds on to it. When the two meet, ice grows away from the ice/water interface. As the ice crystals expand upward, growing perpendicular to the surface, they may also push soil up or away, lift small pebbles into the air, and incorporate whatever debris is nearby. This fragile structure of ice and dirt is what crumbled under my hiking shoes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’m not the only source of destruction, though. Once these frosted soils melt, they are loose and susceptible to erosion. If the needle ice forms on a slope, even just the action of lifting soil particles up and letting them down again will cause them to descend in the process of soil creep. This is a challenge for trail maintenance.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The icy hike was beautiful, and “snowflake birds” swirled ahead of my car all the way home. Real snowflakes chased me from behind, and soon accumulated six inches of the white stuff. Snow buntings and needle ice foretold the coming winter, and as I write this, it has arrived!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi305-BrftgVnFhxWmVIzCS4gDQWpDgm3uKxhJN_9K6k_4f_0S6hDMZkpFrZzsPVIPZ86wginayi8I0hU5ESgjV33POhIR6HMfl3Na7sFB5qxvKrAmQnXSQLRTW5iHehpNGNRggd8er1Erg0ysIGwWKtcJ5nDju6-c8KPVBBeWLxdVY2fvQNJ6vqK6WJHY/s4000/IMG_20231031_101113112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi305-BrftgVnFhxWmVIzCS4gDQWpDgm3uKxhJN_9K6k_4f_0S6hDMZkpFrZzsPVIPZ86wginayi8I0hU5ESgjV33POhIR6HMfl3Na7sFB5qxvKrAmQnXSQLRTW5iHehpNGNRggd8er1Erg0ysIGwWKtcJ5nDju6-c8KPVBBeWLxdVY2fvQNJ6vqK6WJHY/s320/IMG_20231031_101113112.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Author’s note: portions of this article are reprinted from 2015, 2016, and 2022.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-5392291348757586382023-11-02T12:00:00.002-05:002023-11-03T06:49:53.535-05:00Fall Colors and Caribou<div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: arial;">Woops! If you were directed here by the Museum's e-newsletter and were expecting snow buntings and needle ice, that will come next week. In scheduling things ahead before leaving for a conference, I got things switched around in our newsletter. The blog and podcast really are about fall colors and caribou. The others will come next week! Sorry for any confusion! --Emily</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: arial;"><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: arial;"><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: arial;">On my way to work on this damp morning, I enjoyed a rainbow in the ditches. While the fall colors of the canopy are losing their luster, many of the shrubs are just hitting their peak. Yellow, orange, and even pink leaves formed bands and blobs of color. Those fall colors near the ground reminded me of autumn on the Alaskan tundra, back when I spent the summer there in 2018. Of course, that far north, autumn was in August! Please enjoy this article from the archives while I write a major grant proposal instead of a fresh article.</i></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">If anyone had seen my erratic progress across the open tundra they might have assumed me possessed. Thankfully, rolling hills of glacial sediment hid me from the view of what little civilization hummed nearby at the Toolik Field Station. Careening from one burst of beauty to the next, I was reveling in the gorgeous rainbows that autumn (i.e. late August) had flung across the landscape. Scarlet carpets of alpine bearberry clustered around boulders. Thickets of dwarf birch sported leafy little doilies in gradients of red and orange. Willows claimed the most vibrant, glossy yellows for their own adornment, but sneakily retained all my favorite shades of green as well. Blue and purple found their homes in the berries and leaves of bog blueberry. Camera in hand, I raced to create a lasting record of my amazement.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDkR70-ADeVAm7J2FFpMP-oWEtWhbvHSJHbS-ftGwagWhAH-hT3FV1F7Hfukfsa02wOQGLIYEV5eqemhYlt42pGmEmbiZudRZW6lb2KbMe5AweQDnf8bZvkgpwFTOlJn4dH_t9hkTbL4FIq7r9pxQs-chyphenhyphennXYqbDGeOzz7LN-_JLV58wA0fmFwP7VthQ/s1024/10-5-18%20alpine%20bearberry.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDkR70-ADeVAm7J2FFpMP-oWEtWhbvHSJHbS-ftGwagWhAH-hT3FV1F7Hfukfsa02wOQGLIYEV5eqemhYlt42pGmEmbiZudRZW6lb2KbMe5AweQDnf8bZvkgpwFTOlJn4dH_t9hkTbL4FIq7r9pxQs-chyphenhyphennXYqbDGeOzz7LN-_JLV58wA0fmFwP7VthQ/s320/10-5-18%20alpine%20bearberry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuuR4bn9qh-xDdboXdwtguGlJJDSuQunRa8HTLmBld7H_0J85CxGmJD6HN94oToZAQF2fO6Q0Gaj7GRWCpGSXWnVsF7KfHz6RnGt8gzU1_4vHC0rygTiPL3zgs9tK8bkAjqeZP493-SkAdPOBtkih2s5KxGU3FuXWRTnHk1J8hCDsdWG0IYHwJti65c8w/s1024/10-5-18%20fall%20colors%20(6).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuuR4bn9qh-xDdboXdwtguGlJJDSuQunRa8HTLmBld7H_0J85CxGmJD6HN94oToZAQF2fO6Q0Gaj7GRWCpGSXWnVsF7KfHz6RnGt8gzU1_4vHC0rygTiPL3zgs9tK8bkAjqeZP493-SkAdPOBtkih2s5KxGU3FuXWRTnHk1J8hCDsdWG0IYHwJti65c8w/s1024/10-5-18%20fall%20colors%20(6).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72ucINb5QBixE5Y3ioxVZW3-xUZQrAWFMQK4yqsytLhrXsJZkuxJsXOFIVI6TrXjnsxpKzsmm329LK1D8XUmPvjmZpDXDG0x3vEeM5iQuOemeZDIcyb0r5EurDgJuaTfvv_6VIvasofcLH6IBT3lppbyCb_Y_iJlb9dBSfeiqKpTrPCfsTkUHrw0-MYY/s3611/DSCN6409.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2705" data-original-width="3611" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72ucINb5QBixE5Y3ioxVZW3-xUZQrAWFMQK4yqsytLhrXsJZkuxJsXOFIVI6TrXjnsxpKzsmm329LK1D8XUmPvjmZpDXDG0x3vEeM5iQuOemeZDIcyb0r5EurDgJuaTfvv_6VIvasofcLH6IBT3lppbyCb_Y_iJlb9dBSfeiqKpTrPCfsTkUHrw0-MYY/s320/DSCN6409.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuuR4bn9qh-xDdboXdwtguGlJJDSuQunRa8HTLmBld7H_0J85CxGmJD6HN94oToZAQF2fO6Q0Gaj7GRWCpGSXWnVsF7KfHz6RnGt8gzU1_4vHC0rygTiPL3zgs9tK8bkAjqeZP493-SkAdPOBtkih2s5KxGU3FuXWRTnHk1J8hCDsdWG0IYHwJti65c8w/s320/10-5-18%20fall%20colors%20(6).jpg" width="320" /></div><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxSpuSYmCAUb56n3lPAiQI6qESgFkzQwn64gveoNghgJfC0gjhK-1JEdhNVHZLjYjNZVUv6qdUMPQFhypdFuTb6Hhi-h3NafTIGdq-O6CydTMd1HDZ7Js3jy6MpiQjmsJx7KdbHWOC0FCRgqObavQQFqy4BzNdtYyAukWB79437C65KGQscwQusLYRpU/s4608/DSCN6639.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxSpuSYmCAUb56n3lPAiQI6qESgFkzQwn64gveoNghgJfC0gjhK-1JEdhNVHZLjYjNZVUv6qdUMPQFhypdFuTb6Hhi-h3NafTIGdq-O6CydTMd1HDZ7Js3jy6MpiQjmsJx7KdbHWOC0FCRgqObavQQFqy4BzNdtYyAukWB79437C65KGQscwQusLYRpU/s320/DSCN6639.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The dwarf birches perfectly match my favorite sweater!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I aimed my camera high as well as low, since the colors at my feet spread clear out to the horizon. I’m no stranger to the magic of fall. From the river bluffs of Northeast Iowa, to the pastoral hills of Vermont, the cranberry fields of Maine, and now the red maples of Northern Wisconsin, I gravitate toward places with a kaleidoscope of seasons. Autumn on the Alaskan tundra was a whole new spectacle, though. With ground-hugging shrubs—all of them circumpolar species that grow around the top of the globe—instead of tall trees, it looked like the land itself was drenched in a rainbow swirl of melted crayon.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vNCHRk-aUs3TB3LuDYX_ILPQ0NmcDsOnyk_-Nca9xIBURFfcaOxfPj5cq_csTedwPATgjsOuIauKDAvOfhUS44wIAA2n_ZlUHrwirvJPGMwBFnjYYZ90o1dNzvxnmSGTNEilp1HZnlFnh7YUaHfq8D0wGRLPDDXgpwLpA_DZ2vDaImC7eVKa6US9iWU/s1024/10-5-18%20melted%20crayon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1vNCHRk-aUs3TB3LuDYX_ILPQ0NmcDsOnyk_-Nca9xIBURFfcaOxfPj5cq_csTedwPATgjsOuIauKDAvOfhUS44wIAA2n_ZlUHrwirvJPGMwBFnjYYZ90o1dNzvxnmSGTNEilp1HZnlFnh7YUaHfq8D0wGRLPDDXgpwLpA_DZ2vDaImC7eVKa6US9iWU/s320/10-5-18%20melted%20crayon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At my feet, wiry brown lichens clutched droplets of melted morning frost in their twig-like tips. Kneeling down to photograph them, I was soon lost in the miniature world of reflections contained in each drop. It’s not a good idea to be too enraptured by the foreground in grizzly country though, so after a bit I stood and scanned my surroundings carefully. A northern harrier floated by looking for voles. Nothing else moved.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmls-Hfo3E3XznJC3y8k65krDxHGDYTcdH2GE2iNjMLINbRDYhBsbksSSpRVBz0siKAO3vwyx6wMmwMZnLGDIjJlJljrc-CZhJoA-jK2r6I81bHwSCUiMx1xzFlX_y22U4vAdEFuONMoynFWhz5ryRBPt1AoT_1R2nWqT3EYDYdPpdIqkmqGCCOTv8vM/s1359/DSCN6492.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1016" data-original-width="1359" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWmls-Hfo3E3XznJC3y8k65krDxHGDYTcdH2GE2iNjMLINbRDYhBsbksSSpRVBz0siKAO3vwyx6wMmwMZnLGDIjJlJljrc-CZhJoA-jK2r6I81bHwSCUiMx1xzFlX_y22U4vAdEFuONMoynFWhz5ryRBPt1AoT_1R2nWqT3EYDYdPpdIqkmqGCCOTv8vM/s320/DSCN6492.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I moved. My purported destination for this walk was Jade Mountain, which still loomed a good distance away. As I neared the edge of the small knoll, something caught my attention in the swale. Brown. White. Skinny. A bull caribou stood with his rump patch toward me, his neck craned around to investigate, and his tree-like antlers towering above. I held my breath and snapped the shutter over and over as he stood on alert. When a sudden movement startled him into a trot, three smaller bulls followed him out of the vale and over the ridge. What a thrill!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAop7Wt7y_34pnHecAjbWHJQ186iPd3VNi5kOTVb07OXa_qHCkn7aYP2UC8DRPOAag7a3SwwvkGI_pQ5nOIZakPkMs-K0FEtRuHaL136CV-wJeOCkWucjulBTh2wfzxrTZP-L0nshY2jqqviKjI52H2-f_eF3hX48Vic96xW4XER3cbVERRRNo91vi4Ow/s1024/10-5-18%20four%20caribou.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAop7Wt7y_34pnHecAjbWHJQ186iPd3VNi5kOTVb07OXa_qHCkn7aYP2UC8DRPOAag7a3SwwvkGI_pQ5nOIZakPkMs-K0FEtRuHaL136CV-wJeOCkWucjulBTh2wfzxrTZP-L0nshY2jqqviKjI52H2-f_eF3hX48Vic96xW4XER3cbVERRRNo91vi4Ow/s320/10-5-18%20four%20caribou.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Caribou were the official reason I’d come here, to the Toolik Field Station on the North Slope of the Brooks Range. My research partner, Tessa, had driven down to the snowshoe hare research site near Wiseman to pick me up a few days before. Since then we’d been cruising up and down the rough gravel of the Dalton Highway between Toolik and Prudhoe Bay looking for caribou.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5D0PxIQAiV58CzYeMzx-p2mWDC__ok68CyPp7zOL2PU-MMziPpslhJq1fROBuuR9hbK0m_p7WYeKxCFlFJCPv8BqbrG-CV5Wa5TU3ZIwL8GwEND2ovBwYjRYrxqYxOV1os35EUfmE_wHYJGHob8BxUHHyJTr7SzwnN6ol3dmIcFF3tcK38lu4HtsPNM/s602/10-5-18%20caribou%20route.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="568" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5D0PxIQAiV58CzYeMzx-p2mWDC__ok68CyPp7zOL2PU-MMziPpslhJq1fROBuuR9hbK0m_p7WYeKxCFlFJCPv8BqbrG-CV5Wa5TU3ZIwL8GwEND2ovBwYjRYrxqYxOV1os35EUfmE_wHYJGHob8BxUHHyJTr7SzwnN6ol3dmIcFF3tcK38lu4HtsPNM/s320/10-5-18%20caribou%20route.JPG" width="302" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Of the 32 caribou herds in Alaska, four of them have their calving grounds on the North Slope. Tessa and I were studying the Central Arctic Caribou Herd. Their population plummeted from a high of about 70,000 animals in 2010, to 22,000 in 2016. Hunters, hunting guides, and pilots noticed the population decline before it showed up in the wildlife manager’s data. Scott Leorna was already doing his master’s project on the caribou, so he added a citizen science component to his research to figure out how the hunters knew.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Scott worked with web developers to create a smartphone app that the public can use to record caribou observations in the study area. In order to calibrate the app and gauge the effectiveness of the public in spotting caribou along the road, he conscripted several pairs of fellow graduate students from the University Alaska Fairbanks. They and other volunteers drove through his study area at no more than 35 mph with the sole goal of seeing every caribou along the road. That 132-mile journey takes more than 6 hours.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tessa and I saw varying numbers of caribou on each of our five sampling days, and they were mostly solo or in small groups. “Herd” is a relative term. The animals gather in full force only on their calving grounds, and drift off to other feeding areas for summer, fall, and winter. The population decline that this herd has experienced is pretty normal. Just like with snowshoe hares, when numbers get high their forage quality declines, birth rate slows, and predators increase. What’s unique about this herd is that ever since the Dalton Highway was built to access the oil resources at Prudhoe Bay, these roadside caribou have become an increasingly important resource to both resident and non-resident hunters.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Bumpy roads and tired eyes notwithstanding, it was a fine gig for a volunteer. In addition to caribou, we spotted red fox, short-eared owls, golden eagles, and muskoxen along the road. I exclaimed every few minutes about the stunning beauty of the fall colors, and, on the one sunny day, snowcapped mountains rimmed our view.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Visiting the Toolik Field Station had been on my bucket list since I first started planning my trip to Alaska. Run by the Institute of Arctic Biology at the University of Alaska Fairbanks with support from the National Science Foundation, it is a hub for scientists (my superheroes) who are studying the Arctic. In addition to long-term datasets, labs, and equipment, the field station also provides researchers with gourmet food, rustic housing, a beautiful sauna, and high-speed WiFi.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Plus, it’s nestled along the shore of beautiful Toolik Lake, among the prettiest fall colors I’ve ever seen. Possessed? Sure I’m possessed—by an overwhelming sense of wonder at and gratitude for the experiences I’ve had.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-44583328877183892832023-10-26T12:00:00.001-05:002023-10-26T12:00:00.157-05:00The Weird Ones<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Early fall was a time of vibrant colors and lots of action. Colors have faded a bit now. If you have lived in the north for a while, you may have come to appreciate the subtle gold of a tamarack swamp, or the rich browns in a grove of oaks as they extend the fall color season. But have you ever stopped to think about how weird those two trees are?</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tamaracks are conifers, bearing their seeds in cones just like their relatives the pines, spruces, and firs. But conifer isn’t our first choice word for describing pines – we’d rather call them evergreens. When we do that, though, tamarack doesn’t fit. It is the only deciduous (losing its leaves seasonally) conifer in Wisconsin. Oaks, in contrast, are in a group known as broad-leaf trees, most of whom are deciduous. Yet oaks cling to their leaves.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why would a tamarack lose its needles? Why would a pine keep its needles? And why does the oak keep its dead leaves?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There is adaptive value in each strategy, otherwise they would not persist. Needles are really just modified leaves, better suited to low nutrient, low moisture situations. They have basically the same parts as a maple leaf, but everything is more tightly packed and protected. The stomata (pores for gas exchange) hide in a groove, protected from dry winds. A waxy outer layer helps to prevent water loss. By retaining green, chlorophyll-filled leaves all year, evergreen trees can take advantage of any warm days to photosynthesize, and save themselves the trouble and nutrient expense of growing new leaves each spring. They replace only about a third of their needles per year.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the other hand, broad-leafed deciduous trees, like maples, grow large leaves with a lot of surface area for photosynthesis. The broad leaves also result in a lot of water loss. This is fine when it is raining, but not when it is frozen. Although trees use enzymes to protect leaves from freezing while they are still photosynthesizing, that only works for so long. Then, frost-damaged leaves would be a liability as an entrance for disease.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why would tamarack combine the two strategies and lose its needles?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, we don’t know for sure, but my favorite theory is that it has something to do with how far north the tamarack’s range extends. On the Winter Solstice this year, Duluth, MN, will only have 8 hours and 32 minutes of sun. In Fairbanks, Alaska, near the northern edge of the tamarack’s range, the sun will shine weakly for 3 hours and 42 minutes. Most of the tamarack’s habitat is in the middle of that range. What good are green needles if there is little sunshine? By building more delicate needles that don’t have to withstand harsh winter conditions, tamaracks can save a little energy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiyNG1IiHUj2g2xT-6YHrPin-aLgLksR8wtTMUbdYfBP2pL2NFwtMWCYQOsdbByqA1pBtK56mKAA26vajfShQ8y35AYbeReJExt3RTQLV2Ah8hyo55HcQkfGWjir50nrNnJ7Nelk4yq40SdFnzslLNN4fTnMuRrU_35MTOLLOMfHhyxNWP4dpoUtZ-JY/s3072/10-20-2023%20%20tamarack%202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiiyNG1IiHUj2g2xT-6YHrPin-aLgLksR8wtTMUbdYfBP2pL2NFwtMWCYQOsdbByqA1pBtK56mKAA26vajfShQ8y35AYbeReJExt3RTQLV2Ah8hyo55HcQkfGWjir50nrNnJ7Nelk4yq40SdFnzslLNN4fTnMuRrU_35MTOLLOMfHhyxNWP4dpoUtZ-JY/s320/10-20-2023%20%20tamarack%202.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tamarack needles and cones. Photo by Emily Stone.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Likewise, what good are the dead, brown leaves of an oak, even with sunshine? Oaks are a broad-leaf tree, but, oddly, they hang onto their leaves until heavy snow knocks them off. Most deciduous trees (including tamaracks) cut their leaves off by growing a protective abscission layer on the end of the twig, and then encouraging the leaf to skedaddle with digestive enzymes or a new layer of cells.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In contrast, oak leaves start to grow an abscission layer soon after new leaves form, but do not finish the process until the next spring. Scientists call this retention of dead stuff “marcescence.”</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Plant physiologists agree that marcescence is a juvenile trait, associated with young trees and newer branches. This makes sense, since the young aspens in the field near my house are still holding onto their leaves. And understory trees, which tend to be younger, always seem to change colors later in the fall.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Marcescence also may be juvenile in terms of evolutionary history. In southern regions, some oaks are evergreen. Our northern oaks may be in transition from being fully evergreen to being fully deciduous. Maybe they are not done yet…or maybe they like where they’ve paused!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Although there are tasty new buds waiting to come out in the spring, this year’s dead, dry, crinkly oak leaves are not very palatable, and that may deter deer and moose from nibbling on the new growth. The tardily deciduous aspens probably gain that benefit, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFKdPxnQeRUnz_nb4nKH_58Rhl7dc1wDoWMDuZGfZtPctF7JKsGE-l78KbebNJvbXhRxD0yndjWu97SyhZAe67b5Q1uT7vX6mBmL_LaTVPCdgIRZpXn54W9BVr0SgxlSNnnb-5fPTcVK0Lh-i12fBm3pga3xwRKKmO1MGXvHoRqNdaw8vfyBL7zP_-4A/s2016/10-20-2023%20red%20oak%20leaves,%20quercus%20rubrum.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1492" data-original-width="2016" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFKdPxnQeRUnz_nb4nKH_58Rhl7dc1wDoWMDuZGfZtPctF7JKsGE-l78KbebNJvbXhRxD0yndjWu97SyhZAe67b5Q1uT7vX6mBmL_LaTVPCdgIRZpXn54W9BVr0SgxlSNnnb-5fPTcVK0Lh-i12fBm3pga3xwRKKmO1MGXvHoRqNdaw8vfyBL7zP_-4A/s320/10-20-2023%20red%20oak%20leaves,%20quercus%20rubrum.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red oak leaves. Photo by Emily Stone. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another hypothesis is that the oaks are saving their leaves until spring. When the leaves fall, they will provide the tree with nutrient-rich mulch for the growing season, instead of the leaves decomposing throughout the winter. The leaves dangling from lower branches may also act as a snow fence, trapping extra moisture for the tree.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, there is no way for us to know for sure just what the oak is “thinking” as it rustles its skirt of leaves in the middle of a blizzard. Nor do we understand what the tamarack is “planning” when it turns golden, and then bares its knobby twigs for the winter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As with humans, the weirdest organisms are often the most interesting.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-74349075102414272522023-10-19T12:00:00.001-05:002023-10-19T12:00:00.144-05:00Lovely Slugs<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">These damp, gray days of fall can get a little dreary sometimes. When I don’t have time for a big hike, I take my camera for a walk along my driveway. Strolling slowly, I let my focus soften as I wait for something to catch my eye. Earlier this month, a lichen-covered stick, brought to earth by precursors of the gales of November, made me pause.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dampness cooled my fingers as I lifted softened wood out of the limp maple leaves. In order to make sense of the small log, I assumed the hunched posture of nearsighted people everywhere. My field of vision narrowed, and I became immersed in an alien world. Orange, gray, brown, yellow, wrinkled, dusty, lumpy, smooth, round, and branching, the variety of shapes and colors colonizing this stick were dazzling!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwOC0uzy30fD2mCA_zD_tU6u2BB3JlkOfqfrCbyJXJCaki5z2bucKuyoqNRiqrwY8QMH82kdRrLiho2SUwckB-1zn9LxMBanoCTEGsusFj8W6Z5-plm6si31kDZvGefU9NLUy9jIOUfjXsiFuta3TpzebPac3Jg1v2Dd6rPuU22gM9BhkidfwswnVLOQI/s2000/10-13-2023%20lichen%20diversity%20on%20stick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwOC0uzy30fD2mCA_zD_tU6u2BB3JlkOfqfrCbyJXJCaki5z2bucKuyoqNRiqrwY8QMH82kdRrLiho2SUwckB-1zn9LxMBanoCTEGsusFj8W6Z5-plm6si31kDZvGefU9NLUy9jIOUfjXsiFuta3TpzebPac3Jg1v2Dd6rPuU22gM9BhkidfwswnVLOQI/s320/10-13-2023%20lichen%20diversity%20on%20stick.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In various outdoor teaching resources, I’ve read about an activity called a “micro hike,” where students are given a short string and told to blaze an ant-scale trail across the forest floor. Although I have a baggie full of yarn strands in my teaching tools, I’ve never found the time to pull them out. Now, both my eyes and my camera bushwhacked across the lichen-covered barrens of the stick, forging a path of discovery.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Suddenly, something wet and shining loomed ahead. As I watched, the slug extended their beige-colored form and undulated across the lichen field on their single, body-length foot. Their movement was surprisingly graceful. When I looked up the species, the name was lovely, too: dusky arion. Never mind that they are introduced from Europe and often become garden pests. I’ll resist judgement if they resist my tomatoes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3lrmSl6QlIwSt8HrYBB_Ym9KaZg1iEJzF4GYiu10BPIwCq0ElhvaS4PD_sBzushWSD5AvFq3SEcuWRK8OrwLP2R85rAaedHcvsllOg8W8TqOLrkNTXrgjUOVGMVmgI_YTnoGGC7AQoGcuMvG8CyxTy0DCbJ2DbB40nmKvWm4OJtqJ1dDeLV7RhOAxJA/s2000/10-13-2023%20slug%20on%20lichen%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3lrmSl6QlIwSt8HrYBB_Ym9KaZg1iEJzF4GYiu10BPIwCq0ElhvaS4PD_sBzushWSD5AvFq3SEcuWRK8OrwLP2R85rAaedHcvsllOg8W8TqOLrkNTXrgjUOVGMVmgI_YTnoGGC7AQoGcuMvG8CyxTy0DCbJ2DbB40nmKvWm4OJtqJ1dDeLV7RhOAxJA/s320/10-13-2023%20slug%20on%20lichen%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Slugs don’t see the world; they touch, and smell, and taste it. The four dark tentacles—two short ones down low, two long ones on top—stretched and explored with delicate fascination. Using pale, glossy lips infused with chemoreceptors, the slug gently touched and recoiled from the lichens’ wrinkled surfaces. Yeasts sometimes join the lichen partnership and produce antifeedant chemicals to repel herbivores. The slug’s lips may have been sensing those.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few times, the slug seemed to pause and gum the lichen, like a toddler trying a new food. Were they using their sandpaper-like tongue called a radula to scrape up algae who had colonized the lichens’ many surfaces?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When that slug reached the end of the stick, I put them down and picked up another section of the fallen branch with yet another slug glued to its surface. This slug wasn’t traveling, but they were moving. The slug squeezed and contorted their whole head region, and opened and closed a hole in their side. Out of that hole snaked a string of mucus with little brown dots suspended within. Slug scat!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The scat was extruding from near the slug’s head, and there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. Slugs are evolved from snails, and a snail’s anus must be located far enough forward on their body to easily get the poop outside of their shell. The trait has carried through.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why would a slug get rid of the beautiful, cozy, humidity-controlled, predator-resistant house that snails still possess? Shells require a lot of calcium to build, which is in short supply in our sandy soils. Shells also prevent their owner from squeezing into hiding places like soil tunnels and rotting logs, two habitats that contain enough moisture for a slug to survive. The loss of a shell broadens a slug’s options, and in the Arion genus, all that is left are a few calcareous grains under the rear of the mantle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Laying that slug and stick back on the ground, I picked up a new one. This slug was resting even more tranquilly. Only their pneumostome (which translates to “air-mouth”) moved. The small, football-shaped holed opened to let in air, then slowly closed, then opened again. When a daddy longlegs explored too close and stepped on their mantle, the slug squeezed their pneumostome shut as we might scrunch up our whole face in response to a tickle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKSU-aaLIxqvyTEhvf3HAKE21e7_dK7TizbeU6pNIkm3zfkoKaS_bv8h4cXPueKH-G75j8aUwHwGoFP6zcJsUuv_o_sBePSoVno7uyR9qlM-vzWw6-4339cmY5Go8Lx2n8hyDo5hCENRVi5tARxPW7yQNMx2CsMaxJQFpCT3tTbw3KiE8uy4XnFHSPXM/s2000/10-13-2023%20slug%20on%20lichen%20stick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKSU-aaLIxqvyTEhvf3HAKE21e7_dK7TizbeU6pNIkm3zfkoKaS_bv8h4cXPueKH-G75j8aUwHwGoFP6zcJsUuv_o_sBePSoVno7uyR9qlM-vzWw6-4339cmY5Go8Lx2n8hyDo5hCENRVi5tARxPW7yQNMx2CsMaxJQFpCT3tTbw3KiE8uy4XnFHSPXM/s320/10-13-2023%20slug%20on%20lichen%20stick.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">As this dusky arion slug rests on a lichen covered stick, noticed the undulating foot along the length of their body, as well as the mantle of different textured skin near their head. You can barely see a tiny dimple that is their closed pneumostome or breathing hole. Photo by Emily Stone.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These first three slugs were all roughly an inch long, but farther down my driveway the whimsical yellow cap of an Amanita mushroom caught my eye, and on its creamy white stem were three smaller slugs, half as long and much more slender. Babies! An individual slug, at least in the Arion genus, lives about a year. Eggs hatch before winter and they hibernate as teenagers, then become active early in spring—in the mirror image of this cool, damp weather—to finish growing up. Slugs are hermaphroditic. When they find a partner, they each inseminate the other and both lay eggs. Then, often, they die.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmdtW6Y4TTY5mCnMKhmQdeI5JaVQAM40v_an8Nge-k08e3XQcl4Z8naOLXzJCejJItMriYEr60aYc0uqtJjeQI78UyB4BhrWXAVsvQlfMMF5XurnvpKyqM3yLePuTA5EoOUFQQYYiTbjEdqIpvUjSdXOoioKlQW025JlzwfgShoWOAf0yk-VRsMRTq_YE/s1024/DSCN0318%20(768x1024).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmdtW6Y4TTY5mCnMKhmQdeI5JaVQAM40v_an8Nge-k08e3XQcl4Z8naOLXzJCejJItMriYEr60aYc0uqtJjeQI78UyB4BhrWXAVsvQlfMMF5XurnvpKyqM3yLePuTA5EoOUFQQYYiTbjEdqIpvUjSdXOoioKlQW025JlzwfgShoWOAf0yk-VRsMRTq_YE/s320/DSCN0318%20(768x1024).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby slugs on an Amanita mushroom</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Standing to straighten my back, I was surprised to find how short my walk had been. Having explored through the exotic tufts of lichens and mosses, and observed these alien creatures, I felt like I’d been in another realm. And soon, those slugs will be entering another world I’m curious about. As they make plans to spend the winter hunkered down beneath the snow, I’m making plans to follow them into the Subnivean Zone. I’ll be sure to tell you what we find.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OOSZ7mFHNVc" width="320" youtube-src-id="OOSZ7mFHNVc"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For videos of these three slugs, check out the Natural Connections Nuggets playlist on the Cable Natural History Museum’s YouTube Channel.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div> <div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span> Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-48187220648104309252023-10-12T12:00:00.001-05:002023-10-12T12:00:00.139-05:00Midnight Mystery Sound<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.cablemuseum.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/mystery-sound.mp3" target="_blank">Chiiiiirrrrp</a>!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A single, loud noise rang through the dark. My eyes popped open. “I don’t know what that was,” I whispered into the tent.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">“Well, it’s never good when the naturalist doesn’t know what made a noise,” joked my friend as they rolled over, sleeping bag rustling. While they fell back to sleep, I scrolled through a species list in my head. Still, no luck in matching the sound to an animal I’d heard before. But wait, a few years ago I watched a couple <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=cheetah+chirping+like+a+bird&rlz=1C1GCEA_enUS1022US1022&oq=cheet&gs_lcrp=EgZjaHJvbWUqCwgAEEUYJxg7GIoFMgsIABBFGCcYOxiKBTIGCAEQRRg5MgsIAhBFGCcYOxiKBTINCAMQLhiDARixAxiABDIKCAQQABixAxiABDIKCAUQLhixAxiABDIGCAYQRRg8MgYIBxBFGDzSAQgxODA4ajBqN6gCALACAA&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8&bshm=rimc/1#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:c8e14ad0,vid:E6Qh3VTmtxU,st:0" target="_blank">videos </a>of cheetahs chirping. Do other big cats—like cougars—ever chirp? I wondered. (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVWfAog459k&ab_channel=WildWoodland%27s" target="_blank">Yes</a>!)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A <a href="http://yearsrisingmaryoliver.blogspot.com/2010/07/bear.html" target="_blank">poem </a>Mary Oliver wrote about seeing a bear track popped into my sleepy brain. “<i>But not one of them </i>[stories about people seeing bears] <i>told what happened next—I mean, before whatever happens—How the distances light up, how the clouds are the most lovely shapes you have ever seen, how…Every leaf on the whole mountain is aflutter</i>.” And indeed, the thought of a cougar in the forest made it feel just a little more alive.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Deciding not to worry about it, I also rolled over and let the steady rasp of beaver teeth from across the bay lull me to sleep. This was the first night of a quick weekend trip to the Boundary Waters, and I wanted to thoroughly enjoy my stay at the best campsite on Winchell Lake.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfi4Wz9jqiqZKwayGAfDSc98ZQZP_UMg5T5xlPs9EL62fjPHCfBj-dL6YPgb4P4HsfQQfOO1Z_ycuRoZ7kWmMStb37wkWkOPiO3C_xPcnkqfdSxYEWIlRYtnz73uWOnF_M8DvHhioRNJm6oR32mpnvIuj02tqMx6y4OZvdi58nvK-FMWYkoBPM-N2hWs/s4000/IMG_20230925_092218764_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfi4Wz9jqiqZKwayGAfDSc98ZQZP_UMg5T5xlPs9EL62fjPHCfBj-dL6YPgb4P4HsfQQfOO1Z_ycuRoZ7kWmMStb37wkWkOPiO3C_xPcnkqfdSxYEWIlRYtnz73uWOnF_M8DvHhioRNJm6oR32mpnvIuj02tqMx6y4OZvdi58nvK-FMWYkoBPM-N2hWs/s320/IMG_20230925_092218764_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We woke up to a white-shrouded dawn, but a stiff breeze chased the mist away while we ate breakfast on the beautiful rocky point. The wind I’d listened to all night had returned in full force. Not wanting to linger and let the waves build even more, we packed up camp, loaded the canoe in the lee of our point, and struck out down the lake.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite the lateness of the season, we spotted a few different solo loons bobbing in the waves, identifiable by their distinctive silhouette. The sun’s glare off the choppy water made it difficult to tell if they were adults or juveniles, but either way they still had plenty of time to migrate before ice-up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite the headwind, we made good time on another big day of travel. After a late lunch at our new campsite on Caribou Lake, we swam, and set up camp, and pulled out <i>Devotions </i>by Mary Oliver. “<i>And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money, I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.</i>” The wind slackened with the setting sun, and we were soon enveloped in layers of darkness, nylon, and down.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMRZLuN6XFGZiMpWldid5_qvocrWOSJ316Cot2lQSX_iDWcvfIek9aWx1VKK-cbjlBXIAWun6Xuiwps_nNo0pNh7dfJVbKPs7vE8rUMrmUeVQhS2p8FcNdnfxahfyzrRZlJwvtgTQWDbvUbllBvjE1iXBeWO8GG9QtrepDmRtCK5ngrULB5YZA2rKaho/s2000/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake%20Devotions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBMRZLuN6XFGZiMpWldid5_qvocrWOSJ316Cot2lQSX_iDWcvfIek9aWx1VKK-cbjlBXIAWun6Xuiwps_nNo0pNh7dfJVbKPs7vE8rUMrmUeVQhS2p8FcNdnfxahfyzrRZlJwvtgTQWDbvUbllBvjE1iXBeWO8GG9QtrepDmRtCK5ngrULB5YZA2rKaho/s320/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake%20Devotions.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsie1_EMLjBUc_6sxniLvQdH8AHboFWIsEUnTNCk5AqWEUWvbOzOqUiV0mKwxZLTt6NHPozwmllKOY2ZvcXgZLWlqnoTBSTkyRXB54XHoqKWAvLPplm1lSu64-SIWcHQqjQ5boYa-8DsPZzVpijrHaYKm0kiaUWTLVG2iYIBKXmuaw1kkbvfFXDD9hJ3g/s2000/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake%20evening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsie1_EMLjBUc_6sxniLvQdH8AHboFWIsEUnTNCk5AqWEUWvbOzOqUiV0mKwxZLTt6NHPozwmllKOY2ZvcXgZLWlqnoTBSTkyRXB54XHoqKWAvLPplm1lSu64-SIWcHQqjQ5boYa-8DsPZzVpijrHaYKm0kiaUWTLVG2iYIBKXmuaw1kkbvfFXDD9hJ3g/s320/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake%20evening.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNXxKCsBeRXDni4wNh_USQTUg0guHZtirtabX2Ey4c45EacwMxVYEWsV5bEB6B4lIkBnXHZcepJWcjsqQazlE-nO6D6na64eCIdFqpsM4kuR7pc7eQ0EFR2hYQo-gGjoPg_hIqoR9uwjvhoXw_c6EkKlit3wlZ54sc-I9A3xtSImPekbaa2EIhYFTYJE/s2000/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake%20sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidNXxKCsBeRXDni4wNh_USQTUg0guHZtirtabX2Ey4c45EacwMxVYEWsV5bEB6B4lIkBnXHZcepJWcjsqQazlE-nO6D6na64eCIdFqpsM4kuR7pc7eQ0EFR2hYQo-gGjoPg_hIqoR9uwjvhoXw_c6EkKlit3wlZ54sc-I9A3xtSImPekbaa2EIhYFTYJE/s320/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake%20sunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.cablemuseum.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/mystery-sound.mp3" target="_blank">Chiiiiirrrrp</a>!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The mystery noise had followed us! But since we survived it the previous night, I assumed we’d survive again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFFl_e9KID3VxprOpR0DD0_LqICge0TnYQ9ejvu997X60IHmILdhfuLlnXwVNDWw0OHI8AAR5SdK5dT_ipWJN_jaF2A2rSZNIIlEkb-cvwRe36azVfwA0QLDnAoSAJaSKrMJzQJJIaZ32aLORgBil5Gs1iCaBzc77c4F3JR7vXBpjUyQYExG-DdDTufY/s2000/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFFl_e9KID3VxprOpR0DD0_LqICge0TnYQ9ejvu997X60IHmILdhfuLlnXwVNDWw0OHI8AAR5SdK5dT_ipWJN_jaF2A2rSZNIIlEkb-cvwRe36azVfwA0QLDnAoSAJaSKrMJzQJJIaZ32aLORgBil5Gs1iCaBzc77c4F3JR7vXBpjUyQYExG-DdDTufY/s320/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sure enough, we woke to another white-shrouded dawn. Just off our campsite, the silhouette of a water bird faded in and out of the fog. Our visitor’s pointed bill and graceful neck were reminiscent of a loon, but their overall stature was more petite and delicate. Just like a loon, the bird thrust their face beneath the waves to peer beyond the surface glare. Seeing something tasty, they dove gracefully and then reappeared. Then, chiiiiirrrrp!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1v8Nf4k3yJ61v4HqO0vkvfsClhGEnoBOnF79Ih9wUsN5ammfZEnWBxXoTCCjzOD5Oh4bxqOS6czQgCWG_YhEyZQxbIm8PJVrOVPnkCUiKHSG8W99qZsSv57zcGsbQKJT33c9vB8pxEj254RvbSXWzuh-06tGhrD0a2Px1Qujh92ZL6BoZt5fo1uKmHYA/s2000/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake%20and%20grebe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1v8Nf4k3yJ61v4HqO0vkvfsClhGEnoBOnF79Ih9wUsN5ammfZEnWBxXoTCCjzOD5Oh4bxqOS6czQgCWG_YhEyZQxbIm8PJVrOVPnkCUiKHSG8W99qZsSv57zcGsbQKJT33c9vB8pxEj254RvbSXWzuh-06tGhrD0a2Px1Qujh92ZL6BoZt5fo1uKmHYA/s320/10-6-23%20Caribou%20Lake%20and%20grebe.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We looked at each other and laughed. Here was the source of our midnight mystery sound.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYidsUySejRuT9UDzEjZH9UKYMigLBhFxQUQ1A2-0rL03pqRXAQqNxqfIS_iGeWql3W8I9SdQb7TfuGcLH0XZUDM29EmVdA_VHWcaQWBfQNmZ4C5x65t5Y3PJraSbCMIR1KV7uwflbbW59FqycrF0rG1WAxX5OsC4ZVhyphenhyphenYV-bX_kTzDwTOaB48ZWT_60/s425/IMG_20230926_080845935~2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="425" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTYidsUySejRuT9UDzEjZH9UKYMigLBhFxQUQ1A2-0rL03pqRXAQqNxqfIS_iGeWql3W8I9SdQb7TfuGcLH0XZUDM29EmVdA_VHWcaQWBfQNmZ4C5x65t5Y3PJraSbCMIR1KV7uwflbbW59FqycrF0rG1WAxX5OsC4ZVhyphenhyphenYV-bX_kTzDwTOaB48ZWT_60/s320/IMG_20230926_080845935~2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By the general shape and size, I was pretty sure that the waterbird was a grebe. Like loons, grebes dive to avoid danger and to catch fish, which they swallow head-first underwater, and have legs so far back on their bodies that they are awkward on land. Their newly hatched chicks also find refuge on Mom or Dad’s back.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unlike loons, grebes sometimes emit a single, loud chiiiiirrrrp! Grebes also have lobed toes instead of webbed, and ingest a lot of their own feathers, which form two separate balls inside their stomach. Scientists think that the feathers may protect their digestive tract from sharp bones or fish spines. Grebes have more habitat flexibility than loons, since they are able to take off from smaller lakes, and they build up open, bowl-shaped nest structures on emergent plants or in shallow water, and therefore don’t have to rely on finding the perfect shoreline location.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Based on my <i>Sibley Guide to Birds,</i> my memories of the bird, fuzzy smartphone photos, and encounters in previous years, I think this neighbor was a red-necked grebe. They breed mostly in Canada and Alaska, but can also be found on shallow lakes in northern Minnesota. While they migrate through the Great Lakes, grebes tend to spend the winter on the shallow estuaries and bays of northern New England.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8cnLs9oqq51OfHknVyDtzab5X2c-6uq9avQ7UA_Y1octFg3dzMEJyd2rxUHrbuQZxN67L0EvhkDJs7_6rSsnOSROZIkUkuNMB0rEyRXCts5yEl30SAWGd6viOEC-t1VQBJbulU5nz7MT_UxAzrpBgYnGSxDFAimzsMR5Th-lgArNWoLap6g0Rpg2tGJc/s1024/Boundary%20Waters%20mom%20and%20dad%20drew%20012%20(1024x768).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8cnLs9oqq51OfHknVyDtzab5X2c-6uq9avQ7UA_Y1octFg3dzMEJyd2rxUHrbuQZxN67L0EvhkDJs7_6rSsnOSROZIkUkuNMB0rEyRXCts5yEl30SAWGd6viOEC-t1VQBJbulU5nz7MT_UxAzrpBgYnGSxDFAimzsMR5Th-lgArNWoLap6g0Rpg2tGJc/s320/Boundary%20Waters%20mom%20and%20dad%20drew%20012%20(1024x768).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A red-necked grebe spotted on Alton Lake in late August 2020.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The grebe had disappeared by the time we finished breakfast and packed up camp, but the thought of that little bird being the source of the mystery sound made me chuckle several times as we paddled out. With just one odd note, that grebe had created a permanent place for themselves in my Boundary Waters memories.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin959K6JzTy_rWxfft1OKa1_WzLE63M3iX-LLBmDEKOV6IxwmBcq1ZHNHiObF-Ksl0mxpChJR6LdSh7H3ia3jBdwjqvoxJP7PFp8PeU1IHLPdXnEZOdh17lKYgDGZIOha410P2RPTTU2YcKCM9wNDVB-4D6YYpQstuGny-tYAoUzVj7TfdGU9yjmazVeU/s4000/IMG_20230926_091717087_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin959K6JzTy_rWxfft1OKa1_WzLE63M3iX-LLBmDEKOV6IxwmBcq1ZHNHiObF-Ksl0mxpChJR6LdSh7H3ia3jBdwjqvoxJP7PFp8PeU1IHLPdXnEZOdh17lKYgDGZIOha410P2RPTTU2YcKCM9wNDVB-4D6YYpQstuGny-tYAoUzVj7TfdGU9yjmazVeU/s320/IMG_20230926_091717087_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The final portage into Poplar Lake.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.<br /><br /><br />For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></span>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3218575985111174251.post-75674047786966217422023-10-05T12:00:00.001-05:002023-10-05T12:00:00.137-05:00Listening to a Boundary Waters Night<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Wind whooshed through the pines and spruces who bristled across the spine of our rocky point like quills on a porcupine. I snuggled more deeply into my sleeping bag. The day had been gusty, our paddling fierce and steady against whitecaps, with white lines of foam streaming down the lakes. Once the sun rose again, we’d be paddling upwind into a three-and-a-half mile fetch. Would the breeze slacken or strengthen overnight? I tensed at each gust and relaxed in the quiet, trying to foretell the future.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdTQmVkwu20mYQrO8S4jLHAG-N7gCh0jLr1EMlCUoVGUY3rStvPvF2dQnYa2Mo1I7zA6FkWmVPOQish_mxfvsXGJE9daf4qW8PyWstowiabESGlpldzcguaW-jacc6LnXQhICOEEAaJItNMPsbqpIFEeFp4ul-J_MZchH8gbR58QnfhaQuMjgUKC7z6o/s2000/9-29-23%20Winchell%20Lake%20campsite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdTQmVkwu20mYQrO8S4jLHAG-N7gCh0jLr1EMlCUoVGUY3rStvPvF2dQnYa2Mo1I7zA6FkWmVPOQish_mxfvsXGJE9daf4qW8PyWstowiabESGlpldzcguaW-jacc6LnXQhICOEEAaJItNMPsbqpIFEeFp4ul-J_MZchH8gbR58QnfhaQuMjgUKC7z6o/s320/9-29-23%20Winchell%20Lake%20campsite.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You would think that after 25 years of paddling in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, I’d be pretty good at sleeping in a tent up there. But no, I often find myself listening in the dark. Sometimes the vigilance is because I’m responsible for the safety of a group. Other times it’s just a by-product of a sore back or snoring neighbor. Cracks of thunder and howling winds are the only sounds that truly carry a measure of risk. But even quiet nights find me lying awake. It’s not all bad.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">During a pause in the wind, the faint rasp of gnawing teeth slipped through the thin nylon walls of my tent. Micro-bears (mice) might not be dangerous, but they do have the potential to ruin gear or my treasured bag of gorp. I opened my eyes in the darkness and tried to imagine the campsite layout. Was the sound coming from our food pack, hung high in a white pine tree away from regular bears? Or was it coming from under the rain tarp, where a few items of gear were avoiding the off-and-on drizzle of the evening?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then my tent-mate’s bladder chimed in on the problem. When they started undoing the series of zippers – there is no silent way to open all of those zippers! – between them and night air, I decided that I might as well get up, too, and take care of a couple of sleep deterrents at once.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Relieved, I determined that the gnawing was definitely not coming from within our campsite. In fact, it seemed to be coming from across a small bay. Sound travels astoundingly well over water, but still, those had to be big teeth to make a sound that would carry. I smiled at several memories of hearing this same sound at different campsites – beaver!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since we were up, and the moon was up, and the wind was down, we grabbed jackets and headlamps and made our way down to the point. This slightly sloping spit of rock on Winchell Lake, with its level landings and artistically disheveled jack pine trees, is the foundation of one of the most desired campsites in the Boundary Waters. When I worked for the Forest Service in this area, we never saw this campsite empty during the height of summer. This afternoon it had been our reward for braving the wind and rain when almost no one else did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSc8qAngxcsy38nVSkWhAiMk6yQgrF-gs72OlN8ehXrNnmiahAzhuXH15cHxNEbUn9IeCarjI4NMKNSXXUX4WLEMwoLa4lnhdtUPYH_IauCng4i6ctUR8_k3dRCPqNUYDcuLv1PXIJAmFkcILvF5_oOINHmCGxzAPbJqtyU5X3dr5cKw0-qP8YN5_RDhM/s2000/9-29-23%20canoe%20and%20campsite%20in%20the%20evening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSc8qAngxcsy38nVSkWhAiMk6yQgrF-gs72OlN8ehXrNnmiahAzhuXH15cHxNEbUn9IeCarjI4NMKNSXXUX4WLEMwoLa4lnhdtUPYH_IauCng4i6ctUR8_k3dRCPqNUYDcuLv1PXIJAmFkcILvF5_oOINHmCGxzAPbJqtyU5X3dr5cKw0-qP8YN5_RDhM/s320/9-29-23%20canoe%20and%20campsite%20in%20the%20evening.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We spoke in whispers while slipping the canoe into the water. The moon played peekaboo with the clouds as we turned into the bay and paddled toward the dark shadows of the trees. Then we paused to listen. Paddles dripped. Waves lapped gently against Kevlar. And there it was: a rough and rhythmic gnawing from the far shore. We paddled a few strokes closer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Splash! Shriek! Laughter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’d been expecting a beaver to slap their tail at us, warning their family that something suspicious was afoot. I’d been trying to brace for it. But when the noise actually came it startled an embarrassing noise out of me all the same, and I shook with mirth in the dark. Four more splashes, conducted in surround-sound, told me that we we’d probably disturbed this family of beavers enough for one night.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After the screech of zippers, the rustle of sleeping bags, and the hiss of breathing subsided, my ears again found the rasp of beaver teeth on wood cutting through the night air. Now, because I knew our food and gear were safe, the sound was soothing and familiar. Darkness began to seep behind my eyelids, too, and quiet the synapses that kept me awake.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wonder if Sigurd Olson, champion of wilderness, once slept at this campsite? If he travelled through Winchell, he surely did. A bit of wisdom from his book <i>Reflections from the North County</i>, filtered through my drifting memory: “<i>If we can somehow retain places where we can always sense the mystery of the unknown, our lives will be richer.</i>"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.cablemuseum.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/09/mystery-sound.mp3" target="_blank">Chiiiiirrrrp</a>! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A single, loud noise rang through the dark. My eyes popped open. “I don’t know what that was,” I whispered into the tent, not very much liking what this mystery of the unknown suddenly added to my life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But that’s a story for next week.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">For more than 50 years, the Cable Natural History Museum has served to connect you to the Northwoods. Our exhibit: “The Northwoods ROCKS!” is open through mid-March. Our Fall Calendar of Events is ready for registration! Follow us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, and cablemuseum.org to see what we are up to.</span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Emily M. Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03278871413549924556noreply@blogger.com2