Jumping Oak Galls © Julie Craves

Jumping Oak Galls by Julie Craves

A move to a new house has been responsible for my lack of productivity here the last few months. Now that we are settled in, we are anxious to get to know our large property. We have eight acres of wet woods, and while my bark identification skills are serviceable, I’ve been spending more time looking down at the ground to unlock some of the secrets of the forest we will now stewards.

Many of the mature trees are Black Cherry, Bur Oak, and Swamp White Oak. I noticed that many of the fallen oak leaves were pocked with dozens, if not hundreds, of round lesions, each the size of a pinhead. On the uppersides of the leaves, they looked just like pimples. On the underside, each lesion was a shallow pit that was either empty or had a tiny nodule nestled in it.

Those nodules are galls, created by very minute wasps in the genus Neurotarus. They’re known as jumping oak galls, because when the galls detach from the leaf and fall to the ground, the wasp larva inside will sometimes wiggle around and cause the gall to move. The fully developed wasp larvae will overwinter in their galls on the ground. Galls that remain on the leaves are probably doomed – they’ll either dry up and die, will expire because they have been parasitized or their galls have been invaded by insect inquilines, interlopers that feed on the gall tissue.

If all goes well, these galls will produce the all-female generation. Neurotarus wasps, like many of the others in their family, have elaborate life cycles that include alternating asexual and sexual generations.

Members of this family of wasps are quite host-specific, usually attacking only one or a few species of oaks; none use hosts in both the red and white oak groups. All the gall-bearing leaves I found were white oaks, with none on the plentiful red oaks present on the upland parts of the property.

Skunk Cabbage © Michael M. Smith/View Two Plus

A Cabbage by Any Other Name (Would Still Stink) by Julie Craves

The edge of the wet woods on our property marks the border of an extensive plot of Skunk Cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus). If you’re out and about in late winter in a forested area with perpetually mucky soil, you are probably familiar with this unusual plant. Their large, mottled, maroon, hooded spathes cradle the inflorescence, and show themselves through the snow like the caps of crouching sylvan gnomes. When the small flowers bloom, they stink like carrion to attract the earliest pollinators on the wing, mostly small flies and gnats. These not only find the stench appealing, but are also attracted to the heat generated by the flower spike. The warmth is thought to protect the flowers from freezing, provide a warm micro-environment for pollinators, and aids in broadcasting the floral odor by taking advantage of the spiral construction of the spathe and thermal air currents.

After the spathe withers, the very large leaves unfurl from a patient neighboring shoot. The dramatic leaves might be over two feet long, but die off by mid-summer, melting into the wetland as they decompose. A number of fly larvae have been found to feed on rotting Skunk Cabbage vegetation.

Skunk Cabbage © Rob & Ann Simpson

Fewer of us are likely to see the fruiting bodies – not only is Skunk Cabbage habitat likely to be mosquito-infested and squishy in summer, but the fruits themselves tend to be hard to spot. They look like solitary hand grenades, or maybe small stalked pineapples, mired in the mud. They’ll soon fall apart, with the seeds falling on the wet ground. The fibrous roots of young Skunk Cabbages are often exposed in humps on the soil surface, and reflect the shallow germination. As the perennial plants age, the roots become deeper and voluminous, anchoring plants and pulling them deeper and deeper into the earth.

Still later in the season, when insects have died and the ground is starting to freeze, you might come across the tips of new leaf spikes poking through the leaf litter, gaining a head-start on the next growing season. As steward of such a large colony, I look forward to seeing these fascinating plants rise from the snow next year.

Silver Maple Tar Spots © Julie Craves

Spots of Tar  by Julie Craves

In the upland area of our new property, oaks and cherries give way to maples. Judging from the fallen leaves, most are Silver Maples. In my search for other species, I noticed that many of the fallen maples leaves were disfigured by black blobs. I had noticed a more severe outbreak these spots on maple leaves still on the trees at my urban field site earlier in the year. These distinctive spots are caused by fungi in the genus Rhytisma, commonly (and appropriately) called tar spot disease.

The fungi overwinter in the spots, which are known as stromata, on fallen leaves especially if they are in a damp, protected location. Spores burst forth from the spots in the spring, coinciding with new leaf emergence on nearby maple trees. The wind-dispersed spores can then infect new leaves. Infections begin as yellow spots that eventually evolve into the tar-like blobs we see in autumn.

Generally, tar spot doesn’t do much harm other than cosmetic, even though in the last several years many maples have had dramatic infestations in the upper Midwest. A particular species of Rhytisma infects Silver Maples, while another, non-native species that favors introduced Norway Maples has been increasing in the northeastern U.S. the last decade or so. This explains the sparsely-blotched Silver Maple leaves on my property versus the heavily-splotched Norway Maples at my urban field site; the fungus that infects the latter tends to create more spots that congeal into large patches.

It has been speculated that tar spot on Norway Maples is on the rise because of cleaner air quality (the fungi are thought to be sensitive to pollution). And recent research has shown that leaves infected with tar spot decay more slowly than uninfected leaves, which may indicate that there is a more subtle effect of this disease on nutrient cycling or soil conditions. These are interesting interactions and synergies to study, especially given the ubiquity of Norway Maples in urban areas, where soils are subject to so much alteration already.

Cope’s Gray Treefrog and Common Gray Treefrog © David Liebman

Tree Frog in the Bathroom by Julie Craves

The first amphibian we found at our new property was a gray treefrog. We have a wooded wetland, but we found the frog on the floor of an interior, windowless bathroom on our second walk-through prior to buying the house. Presumably it gained entry through the exhaust fan. I suppose this would have been a turn-off to some prospective buyers, who might wonder what else could make its way into the crapper from outdoors, but it charmed us. My husband scooped up the little hopper and placed it outside where it belonged.

We’ve since seen and heard many of this frog’s kin and neighbors. In the eastern U.S., Hyla versicolor and Hyla chrysoscelis are the two sister species of gray treefrog, Eastern and Cope’s. The former has a slower call than the latter, which is the best way to tell these two apart, unless you have your heart set on counting chromosomes.

Cope’s Gray Treefrog and Common Gray Treefrog © Bill Beatty

My ear has not yet heard enough of both species to be able to distinguish the pace of the bird-like trills. Some studies have suggested that Cope’s Gray Treefrogs can tolerate (or prefer) lower humidity, more often call from trees, and consequently eat more arboreal insects, while Eastern Gray Treefrogs like it more humid, tend to call closer to the ground, and eat more terrestrial insects. Even at the end of a dry, hot summer, treefrogs were pretty ubiquitous high and low around the property. Perhaps we have both species, although confirmation will prove difficult.

But no matter. These are my favorite frogs, so beautiful in mottled, slightly warty patterns of green, gray, and brown. They are especially hard to spot when perched on tree bark, but stick out like a sore thumb when adhered by sticky toe pads to porch lights, window screens, sliding glass doors…or bathroom floors.

Cinereous Shrew © James F. Parnell

True Shrews by Julie Craves

Despite their abundance, shrews are seldom seen – alive, anyway. Largely nocturnal, shrews have supercharged metabolisms, with heart rates of 800 to 1,000 beats per minute. When I have found dead shrews, they have usually been intact and uninjured (occasionally even warm), as if they just burned themselves out.

The common shrew in my area is the Masked Shrew (Sorex cinereus). It may well be in your area as well, as it is widely distributed across North America.  They are found in a variety of habitats, but usually close to water. In fact, moisture seems to be a key variable in Masked Shrew numbers. There tends to be little reproduction in drought years due to a reduction in favored prey items: leaf-litter invertebrates such as worms and insect larvae.

Although I have had more instances of encountering dead shrews, I have seen many more individuals alive. This is because three times in my field career, I have stood amidst a “shrew party.” This has always happened early on a spring morning, while I am moving slowly along trails doing a bird survey. Each time, I noticed persistent rustling in the leaf litter. Looking down, I’d see a shrew darting from a fallen log to a tangle of vines. Then another, scooting over and under dried leaves. Sometimes, one would race across my boot. Very high-pitched squeaks accompanied the speedy, vigorous, seemingly-joyful coming-and-going of four to fifteen shrews, all in an area of a few square feet. It lasted only a few minutes, then the forest floor would fall silent.

Masked Shrews are rather notoriously averse to company. Shrew aggregations like these are thought to be mating parties, but little is known about the behavior, or the rest of their social habits.

In my mind, a lifeless shrew is the antithesis of what shrews are all about. On the glum occasions when I find a dead shrew, I draw upon my experiences amid spirited, lively shrews. That is the true essence of a shrew.

Okay, so domestic chores are not one of my strong points. Yet it was alarming to see a dirty bit of crud in the foyer begin to move under its own power across the entryway. Had I neglected housecleaning for so long that dust bunnies were becoming living organisms, like some Far Side cartoon?

A closer look revealed the animated detritus was an immature Masked Hunter (Reduvius personatus), a true bug inadvertently introduced from Europe sometime before 1900. They are now found over much of the U.S., most frequently being found in the central and northeastern states. They prefer dry conditions, so they are often found indoors. We have found them near doorways and on the front porch, where they hang out to feed on the insects attracted to the lights.

As do other members of the genus, the immature stages of the Masked Hunter look like smaller versions of the adults, except they are covered with fine hair-like structures which collect dust, dirt, and lint (adults are sleek and black). This camouflage perhaps helps the youngsters sneak up on their prey.

Like other assassin bugs, Masked Hunters stab their insect prey with beak-like mouth parts, then inject chemicals that both subdue the victim and liquefy their innards for easy slurping. While small – under an inch – Masked Hunters can nonetheless inflict a painful poke to humans if they are mishandled. They’re benign, though, and don’t transmit any diseases. In fact, they are often considered pretty good housemates. Masked Hunters are mainly nocturnal, and bed bugs are a favorite food, accounting for their alternative name “masked bed bug hunter.”

Bed Bug © Will Ferguson

I’m happy to report we don’t have bed bugs, and I’m okay with allowing these little predators to keep the foyer and porch free of other insect invaders. Since covering themselves with debris only improves their hunting prowess, I’ve decided to put off the dusting for just a little while longer…

The non-native, invasive plant Garlic Mustard (Alliaria petiolata), is such an abundant part of my urban landscape that I often don’t even notice it. So I surprised myself one day walking through my field site because, although my thoughts were elsewhere, I stopped in my tracks when I saw a Garlic Mustard plant with chewed leaves. Part of the success of many invasive, non-native plants is that they flourish in regions where they have no natural enemies. Not much eats Garlic Mustard in North America. Apparently I was so used to seeing intact leaves that these obviously browsed ones triggered a response in my subconscious.

Garlic Mustard © K. P. McFarland

When I stopped to take a look, I saw two small Cabbage White (Pieris rapae) butterfly larvae feeding on the leaves. That’s another non-native, widespread species that’s so ubiquitous I hardly register their ever-presence. I found two more Garlic Mustard plants nearby that each had a Cabbage White caterpillar feeding on it.

Here, the plot thickens.

Cabbage White larvae feed on many species of plants in the mustard family (Brassicaceae). This includes crop species introduced into North America, including Brassica oleracea (from which cabbage, broccoli, kale, and other vegetables are derived), mustard greens, and turnips. In Europe, Cabbage Whites also use Garlic Mustard as a host plant.

Cabbage White © Rick Cech

Both Cabbage Whites and Garlic Mustard were first recorded in North America in the mid-1800s, in Quebec and New York, respectively. Despite long association in both their native and introduced ranges, there are relatively few reports of Cabbage Whites using Garlic Mustard as a host plant in North America.

Studies have suggested this may be due to the fact that the butterflies have so many delicious choices of host plants here that they can choose those that they prefer (mustard greens are a favorite), and don’t need to resort to Garlic Mustard. There is an organic garden and lots of “preferred” choices within 100 yards of where I found these caterpillars. Why Garlic Mustard was chosen instead in this case is a mystery.

I brought the four Cabbage White caterpillars indoors and successfully raised them to adulthood on wild Garlic Mustard. I released the adults, hoping that perhaps they might go on to begin a population with a taste for a host from the homeland that wasn’t also destined for own our dinner plates.

We are long overdue in painting the exterior of our house. Not only would we like to sell it in the next year or two, but of course we feel how our house looks reflects upon us. And “shabby,” “peeling,” and “fading” are not how we like to describe ourselves.

Things could be worse. Let’s say we were the larvae of one of the Cryptocephalinae, or case-bearing leaf beetles. Our “home” (the case) would be made from our own excrement. We all know the longer we live in a house, the more crap we accumulate. In the case of these beetle larvae, this true in a very literal sense. Toting around an abode made of your own turds is a good way to be unobtrusive to predators while in a vulnerable state – or completely unappealing if discovered. In many species, the adult beetles are quite attractive, reward for spending the beginning of their lives covered in their own waste.

Canada Thistle © Ron Austing

Some members of another subfamily of leaf beetles follow a similar lifestyle, such as the tortoise beetles. These insects don’t construct quite as solid a structure, but nonetheless do create external self-protection. We recently came across some Thistle Tortiose Beetles (Cassida rubiginosa) on Canada Thistle (Cirsium arvense); neither species is native to North America. Most of the beetle larvae were festooned with frass (the official term for insect poop). Some were not, and looked like spiny trilobites. Either way, creepy.

Green Lacewings © Edward S. Ross

The larvae of insects in a completely different family, the Green Lacewings (Chrysopidae) also have spiny exteriors and decorate themselves with debris. These predatory larvae are a bit more catholic in their use of materials. There may be some frass, but usually they use bits of plants and body parts of recent victims. In any event, all of these mobile homes serve as disguise or protection or both.

Many insects utilize convenient substances in the creation of temporary housing. These are just a few examples of the ones that are making do by making doo.

American Goldfinch adult male, breeding © Rick and Nora Bowers/VIREO

I have banded far more American Goldfinches in fall and winter than in spring, but recall one April when each goldfinch that came through my banding lab smelled faintly of maple syrup. We decided that the finches were probably feeding on maple leaf buds or perhaps even a little sap – generously provided at the wells of Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers.  I’m not sure this satisfactorily explains it, since maple sap doesn’t really have much odor, although I cannot verify exactly what crushed maple leaf buds might smell like.

Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, adult female © Garth McElroy/VIREO

Still, that carries some logic. Seemingly defying explanation is why quite a few White-crowned Sparrows, over a number of years, have smelled like suntan lotion. Maybe cocoa butter is more precise, but I will have to say it was so distinctly like the old Coppertone lotion that the first time I got a whiff I was immediately transported back to my childhood. That first time, I accused the bander who had handled the bird just before me of having lotion on their hands – a no-no in my lab. The bander was innocent, and the aromatic sparrow got sniffed by everyone. We all agreed it smelled like suntan lotion.

This started the Rouge River Bird Observatory tradition of bird sniffing. We’ve found a number of other cocoa-buttery White-crowned Sparrows, as well as a few birds here and there that smelled kind of interesting, in non-descript sorts of ways. There are a few species whose odor – or lack thereof — will remain unexplored. There’s no way I’m going to go for close whiffs of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks or Cooper’s Hawks…

Chestnut-marked Pondweed Moth by Julie Craves

One of a child’s first natural history lessons is usually that caterpillars grow up to become butterflies or moths. Eager to witness this transformation, we seek out caterpillars in yard and field to shepard through this remarkable metamorphosis. We soon learn the importance of raising the larvae on the same species of plant on which they were found. For many of us, this is our introduction into the interdependence of plants and animals, and the complex life cycles of even common organisms around us.

A couple of years ago I was doing an insect survey on a property along the Detroit River. I noted a pretty little moth which was quite common; many appeared freshly emerged, which made me curious about what the caterpillars fed on. From my photograph (above) I identified the moth as a Chestnut-marked Pondweed Moth. “Pondweed” is a pretty generic term, but I’ve generally heard it refer to submerged plants in the genus Potamogeton. Sure enough, Potamogeton is the host plant for this species…and the larvae are aquatic. I consider myself pretty well-versed in various butterfly and moth species and their host plants, but aquatic caterpillars were new to me.

This moth is not unique. In this same genus are species whose larvae feed on waterlilies, watermilfoil, and other water plants. Most feed on submerged parts. Other moths in the same family feed on algae scraped from rocks or diatoms trapped in silken sheets spun by the caterpillar. Many have gills for all or part of their larval stage. Females of some species may submerge themselves in an air pocket to lay eggs up to four meters underwater! Members of a number of other moth families are also known to have aquatic larvae.

When I think of flying insects that have an aquatic larval stage, my first thought is always dragonflies. Then many species of flies, as well as beetles, caddisflies, and some true bugs. Now I can add moths to this list, something I never imagined when I raised my first sphinx moth from a “tomato worm” as a bright-eyed child.

Giant Resin Bee © Arthur V. Evans

The New York Times recently ran an article entitled, “So Much Life on a Little Patch of Earth.” It outlined the wide array of flora and fauna in the author’s small, typical suburban yard, including a moth that was the first record for North America. So many of us feel that nature is…somewhere else. We travel to find new and novel creatures, when indeed they can be found in our own backyards.

Our yard in suburban Detroit is very small, but we have provided a tiny pond; many native trees, shrubs, and plants; and lots of vegetative structure. Naturally, we’ve kept a yard list of birds, which is currently at 136 species. A couple of years ago, we decided that we’d try to identify all the Hymenoptera in the yard – bees, wasps, ants, and relatives. We are up to 89 species even though we haven’t attempted to figure out ants or the plethora of very small wasps and bees that tend to make the project more tedious than fun.

Among these is a wasp in the genus Euodynerus that has yet to be described by science. We see this species, known simply as “species F”, every year and have sent specimens to the researcher who will be writing the official description.

Two others were some of the first Michigan records for one of the grass-carrying wasps, Isodontia elegans, and the non-native Giant Resin Bee (Megachile sculpturalis). These discoveries scored me co-authorship on two papers on their distribution. Many other species were simply new and exciting to us.

The Hymenoptera were our starting point. Since so many flies are mimics of bees, we’ve started keeping track of all of them, too. And while we haven’t yet assembled lists, we are also on the lookout for beetles, bugs, and other arthropods.

While we’ve probably documented most of the common species, we still have frequent moments of triumph when we encounter something new. And we love the sense of stewardship our inventory brings us. Take a look in your yard, and see what you can discover!

Red Admiral © Kent McFarland

If you live in eastern North America, it would be surprising if you had not noticed an invasion of butterflies this spring. For us in the upper Midwest, it was most notable after strong south winds in mid-April, when one weekend saw a tremendous influx of Red Admirals. While this species often prefers to feed on sap or rotten fruit, dozens gathered on blossoms of flowering crabapples, Eastern Redbuds, and other trees which were blooming earlier than usual due to the very warm weather we had in March. Many hundreds of Red Admirals also passed overhead, speeding north.

Red Admirals tend to stage these large northbound movements every so often. While we had seen some years with big numbers, this year has been unprecedented. One factor believed to trigger these movements is high overwinter survivorship. Like many other butterfly species, Red Admirals overwinter as adults; this occurs in the southern states in North America. Mild winters like the last one favor many adults making it through until spring.

Red Admiral, caterpillar © Leroy Simon, David Liebman

Red Admiral larvae feed on nettles. I have only found them on stinging nettles and consider their hosting Red Admiral larvae as one of their only redeeming values! I’ve recently found the tell-tale rolled up nettle leaves that indicate a small Red Admiral caterpillar is sheltered inside. A fresh generation will soon be on the wing.

Two close relatives, the Painted Lady and American Lady, have also staged good movements this year. We saw a few in April, but by mid-May we were beginning to see them much more frequently. Finally, our mild winter also meant good survivorship for local species that overwinter as adults, in particular Question Marks and Commas.

At a time when I often lament the dwindling abundance of common species, especially in the urban areas where I live and work, the super-saturation of butterflies this year has simply been a joy to behold.

Red Admiral © Rick Cech

Ring-billed Gull adult, breeding © Arthur Morris/VIREO

My research focuses on how birds use urban natural areas, especially during fall migration. One aspect is whether or not they eat the non-native fruits that are so prevalent in disturbed urban areas (they do) and if they can gain mass on this diet (they can). Fruit is designed to be appealing to consumers so the plant’s seeds are dispersed. Birds, of course, are important fruit consumers and seed dispersers, distributing seeds through their droppings.

In North America, songbirds like thrushes and their relatives are some of the main fruit eaters in fall. Although they can be pretty omnivorous, gulls seem much less likely candidates to eat fruit. But one day my husband observed a common urban species, the Ring-billed Gull (Larus delawarensis), picking up and eating the fallen fruit of a Callery pear (Pyrus calleryana) in a parking lot. This tree is from China, and some of the original cultivars offered for sale had sterile fruit. Now non-sterile forms are being sold, and they and their hybrids produce large crops of viable fruit. Callery pears are now considered invasive in many areas.

As it turns out, quite a few people have noted Ring-billed Gulls (and a number of other gull species) eating fruit. Many accounts noted the gulls actually plucked fruit from trees so long as they were able to hover near branches or snatch exposed fruit during a fly-by. Russian olives (Elaeagnus augustifolia) – another non-native invasive species – were mentioned more than once in literature I reviewed, as were fruits from date and Sabal Palms. Crabapples, persimmons, mountain ash, olives, and cherries were just some of the other fruit mentioned.

Since gulls are highly mobile, they can be long-distance dispersers of seeds. Very little research has been done on the topic, but a few studies suggest gulls are important dispersers of seeds in coastal habitats and especially on islands.

Callery pears have marble-sized fruit, so I usually only see larger birds like starlings and robins eating them. These species are also most likely to brave the generally open and busy areas where the pears tend to be planted around here: along streets, in parking lot islands, or peppering corporate, municipal, or retail campuses. Gulls also favor many of these urban “habitats.” Seems like that makes Pyrus calleryana and gulls a good pair.

Cicada Killer © E. R. Degginger, Color-Pic, Inc.

Cicada Killers – there are eastern and western species – are very big wasps, with the larger females reaching four centimeters. When the slightly smaller males gather in “leks” of dozens of individuals, all buzzing around and defending small territories, the effect is intimidating. These insects are truly frightening to folks who don’t know what they are, but rest assured for all their size and hectic activity, they are sheep in wolves’ clothing.
Like all bees and wasps, male Cicada Killers cannot sting, although if handled they may bluff with a false stinger than cannot break the skin. Females can sting, but must be strongly provoked or stepped on. I’ve spent lots of time observing and photographing Cicada Killers in the midst of a busy congregation and never been stung – although I was a little creeped out when they landed on my back. In any event, the sting is very weak, bearing the punch of a mere pin prick, with any discomfort diminishing within an hour. Reports of painful stings inevitably turn out to be similar-looking hornets or wasps. Cicada Killers are no threat except to sensitive allergic people.
Cicada Killers emerge from burrows up to three feet deep at the same time as cicadas begin their own above-ground chorus. Favored spots are in loose or sandy soil on gentle slopes with little vegetation. Trees or woodlots which harbor cicadas are always fairly close by. Cicada Killers are not social wasps, but tend to be found in aggregations where suitable habitat patches are located.

Dog-day Cicada, adult just emerged from nymph casing © Rob Curtis, The Early Birder

Male Cicada Killers emerge first, and await the females. Females hunt cicadas and bring them to burrows they have constructed; they possess large spurs on their hind legs for shoveling soil out the entrance hole. While female Cicada Killers are large, cicadas are larger and heavier. Several times I have heard a cicada song sputter, followed by a buzzy, struggling ball crashing to through the leaves, ending with a big commotion in the undergrowth: a female Cicada Killer subduing her prey. I’ve watched as she dragged her paralyzed quarry to a sturdy weed stalk, sometimes several feet away, hauled herself and the cicada up the stalk, finally taking flight with the cicada clutched underneath her.
In each nest chamber of a burrow, female Cicada Killers place either one cicada on which an unfertilized egg is laid (this produces a male) or two cicadas and a fertilized egg (these will be females). They lay about a hundred eggs in a season, most of which will be males.
In less than three weeks after they emerge, males die; females live another week or two. Underfoot, cicada killer larvae slowly consume their rations. It will be another year before a new generation appears, intriguing some of us, and fooling others to fear them.

Please don’t molest a colony of cicada killers. They are only dangerous to cicadas.

Virginia Creeper by Julie Craves

One of the most beautiful fall plants, now turning fences, trees, and fields crimson and blood-red here in the upper Midwest, is the vine Virginia Creeper. Except when it is really Thicket Creeper.

I’ve always known the common, five-leaved native vine as Virginia Creeper, Parthenocissus quinquefolia. It wasn’t until I began compiling a key to fruits important to birds that I realized much of what I thought was Virginia Creeper was really Thicket Creeper, Parthenocissus inserta (formerly P. vitacea). The two are superficially identical. A closer examination reveals that Virgina Creeper has adhesive pads on its climbing tendrils that enable it to “stick” to tree trunks and other surfaces. Thicket Creeper only has twining tendrils, so if it climbs, it does so on shrubs, chain link fences, or other substrate that allows it to “pull itself up.”

Virginia Creeper has duller leaves due to the fine, dense hairs that cover both upper and lower leaf surfaces. Thicket Creeper is shinier and mostly hairless. The flower and fruit structure is also different, with Thicket Creeper branching in twos, and Virginia Creeper having a more central axis to the inflorescence, if it flowers and fruits at all. Thicket Creeper produces fruits and flowers much more often than Virginia Creeper. In our wooded areas around campus, we find both species, but have only found fruit on Thicket Creeper.

Thicket Creeper by Julie Craves

The creepers are closely related to grapes (Vitis), often grow together with them, and have similar purple fruit which are loved by birds. Non-native, ornamental vines in the same family include Boston Ivy (P. tricuspidata) and Porcelainvine (Ampelopsis brevipedunculata). Although birds will eat those fruit, I don’t recommend planting the two latter species. They easily escape cultivation and can be invasive. On a personal note, their seeds are all so similar it makes it difficult for researchers like myself exploring migratory bird diets to figure out which fruits the birds are really eating!

For the most part, Parthenocissus in most of North America has simply been called Virginia Creeper. Many people are not aware of the morphological differences, and some authorities consider P. quinquefolia and P. inserta the same species. They seem very distinct to me. Take a look at the creepers near you – what do you think?

White-breasted Nuthatch, adult male © James M. Wedge/VIREO

Nuthatches don’t forage upside-down to be contrary, of course. They’ve just found a way to exploit resources that might be overlooked by woodpeckers, creepers, and other bark-gleaning species that use a more conventional approach. Of the two dozen plus species of nuthatches in the world, four are found in North America: White-breasted Nuthatch, Red-breasted Nuthatch, Brown-headed Nuthatch, and Pygmy Nuthatch.

Red-breasted Nuthatch, adult male © Claude Nadeau/VIREO

The topsy-turvy lifestyle isn’t the only thing that makes nuthatches engaging and unique. Brown-headed Nuthatches are known to use twigs to pry insects out of crevices; few of our other songbirds are known to use tools. Red-breasted Nuthatches use pine resin to spackle the edges of their nest holes, which is thought to help deter predators. White-breasted Nuthatches sometimes wipe blister beetles around their nest entrances for the same reason – these beetles exude an acidic substance. Clever!

Brown-headed Nuthatch, adult © Brian E. Small/VIREO

Nuthatches aren’t creative vocalists. All have some variation of a nasal, two-noted, “yank-yank” call. Naturalist John Burroughs described the more muted courtship calls of the White-breasted Nuthatch “like the voice of children, plaintive but contented, a soft interrogation in the ear of the sylvan gods.” Lofty admiration for such modest birds.

Pygmy, adult © Brian E. Small/VIREO

As an ornithologist, I have seen and worked with many birds in my lifetime. Of all the exotic and interesting birds I’ve seen, the familiar nuthatches remain my favorites. They simply appeal to the determined, if not rugged, individualist in me.

Racket-tailed Emeralds by Julie Craves

In my quest to have a more pleasant look back at 2011 than I was receiving from the news, I reviewed the surprise discoveries I made in the natural world this year. Since I am an ornithologist, many high points have to do with birds. But like anybody who spends a lot of time in the field, I find other taxa are often in the spotlight.

For instance, for the last decade my husband and I have been compiling a list of county dragonflies and damselflies for our urban southeastern Michigan home county. In the past year, we decided we had likely discovered all the species likely to regularly occur here, having added nearly 50 species to the list. I started writing up a paper. Yet right at summer’s start, we stumbled upon a thriving population of Racket-tailed Emeralds (Dorocordulia libera), many busy working on the next generation, like the pair in the photo. This is a species previously represented in the county only by a literature record from the 1870s. A month later, we were amazed to find a Dragonhunter (Hagenius brevistylus), a new county record and the largest dragonfly in the U.S. – not easily overlooked. Both of these species were in places we had searched many times over the years.

Dragonhunter © Sidney W. Dunkle

A bit more prosaic was my discovery of a population of Florida Lettuce (Lactuca floridana) along the trails at work on my urban university campus. This is a state-threatened plant in Michigan. I have walked by the plants I found thousands of times before. Although similar to other Lactucas and sort of non-descript (okay, ugly) when not in bloom, woodland lettuce is tall and easy to see. Was this a very recently established population, or had I somehow missed them on my countless walks?

Florida Lettuce © Jessie M. Harris

Common Checkered-Skipper (Pyrgus communis) reaches its northern range limit in southern Michigan. Over the years they’d occasionally been seen locally and seemed to be becoming more common, but my searches had been fruitless. Happily, 2011 was my year to add this species to my state butterfly list with one in a neighboring county. Shortly thereafter, I got to add it to my home county list…and hometown list…and yard list. I walked outside with my morning cup of coffee to find one right in the front garden.

Common Checkered-skipper, Female © Rick Cech

My 2012 bring us all the excellent experience of new discoveries in familiar places!

Barred Owl © Glenn Bartley/VIREO

Year-end wrap-ups are often filled with dreadful news events, odes to the recent dead, and other things you’d just as soon not have to be reminded of. I decided to take a look back and focus on some of my favorite moments of natural history discovery in 2011. I’ll start with my top bird surprises.

I have been a bird bander for over 20 years. Mostly it involves the routine, though important banding of many individuals of common species. One of these is the American Goldfinch; I’ve banded over 5,000 of them. In May I received a report that a goldfinch I’d banded here in southeast Michigan in October 2010 was captured and released by another bander in a rural area in Ontario, about 175 miles northeast of here. That itself was quite interesting. What was more astonishing, though, was in 2008, this same bander at the same place had captured a Blue Jay I had banded here a few months previously! What are the odds of that?

Earlier in the season, my surprise banded bird was, in contrast, a very rare species banded by someone else. In March, a Ross’s Goose was located in a local retention pond, the first record of this species for my town of Dearborn, Michigan and only about the sixth county record. That was cool. Better yet, the goose was banded. I reported the band number to the Bird Banding Lab of the U.S. Geological Survey and discovered this goose had been banded in 2006 north of the Arctic Circle at McTavish Point, Nunavut – 1900 miles from Dearborn. Most goose reports are of birds shot by hunters, making this sighting even more unique.

A final surprise was a call I received this fall from a church adjacent to our university natural area, where my study site is located. They told me a large owl had fallen through a vent and was trapped in their basement. That seemed unlikely to me, and while I can’t possibly respond to all the rescue calls I receive from the public, this time I decided to head over to the church. Indeed, the unfortunate bird was an owl – a Barred Owl, the first record for Dearborn since a single sighting in 1976! The young owl was in good health, and I was able to band and release it within the hour.

Years ago I might have written about my amazing experiences with new birds in Nicaragua and Honduras, two places I visited this year. There’s no denying I loved seeing many remarkable species. These days, however, it seems I appreciate discoveries closer to home even more.

Northern Hackberry

Halloween has passed, but with the last of the leaves now fallen from the trees, witches brooms are visible everywhere.

Witches brooms, botanically speaking, are deformities in woody plants which cause an abnormally high number of shoots to sprout from one location. These dense tangles of stems and twigs look like a bird or squirrel nest, or, if one has sufficient imagination the end of a broom.

Witches brooms have multiple causes, none that involve sorcery. Viruses, fungi, and insects, either through their own damage or via introducing micro-organisms are all frequent culprits. Brooms may occur nearly anywhere on a tree, and a single tree might have one broom or many. Witches brooms afflict dozens of plant species, but here in the Midwest I most often see witches brooms on hackberry trees (Celtis occidentalis) and honeysuckle shrubs (Lonicera spp.).

Witches brooms are so common on hackberry that I have had people tell me they’ve thought the weird twig clumps were a normal characteristic of the tree. Despite this ubiquity, the precise cause on this species is not known. Examination of hackberry brooms reveals that most of the time a particular tiny mite and/or a specific powdery mildew fungus are present. Even hackberry trees with multiple brooms remain healthy, so no harm done.

On the other hand, the cause of brooms on honeysuckle shrubs is known: a non-native aphid, Hyadaphis tataricae. Honeysuckle brooms typically occur at the tips of branches, and if the infestation is bad enough, there is the potential to slowly kill the shrub. Since most shrub honeysuckles in North America are also non-native and often invasive, this might not be considered a bad thing. However, many invasive, non-native honeysuckles are resistant to the aphid, and the aphid could attack native honeysuckles. Witches brooms won’t solve our honeysuckle infestations. We may need a little eye of newt for that.

White Hackberry

Plants with variegated leaves are usually found in gardens. But spend enough time in the field, and you might run across some unusual examples in the wild.

In the forest at work, there is a Common Hackberry about ten feet tall, and several limbs have beautiful leaves that are mostly white with green speckles. When I first noticed the tree a few years ago it was a few feet shorter and all the limbs had white leaves. The tree seems to be growing a little bit slower than other hackberries, perhaps handicapped by the diminished amount of chlorophyll fueling its growth. Nonetheless, it is persisting.

Variegated Garlic Mustard

In an open area in the same forest, I once found a single Garlic Mustard plant with some very attractive variegated leaves. Garlic Mustard is biennial, so I knew this plant would be back in the coming years. I did check to see if any more came up in the same area after that, but I’ve never encountered another Garlic Mustard plant like the first. Just as well. I would hate to see unsuspecting visitors collecting and planting seeds of non-native and outrageously invasive species.

While sometimes due to a virus, intercell mutation, or “jumping genes”, variegation in plants usually occurs due to a cell mutation in one of the three layers in the plant’s bud, or meristem. If the mutation prevents the normal production of green chlorophyll, the cells arising from that layer will be white, or sometimes yellow or some other color if other leaf pigments show through. Plants with variegated leaves are often known as “chimeras” or “sports.” They are valued in the nursery trade, of course. Finding them in nature is even more invaluable!