Long-stemmed

Daddy longlegs are the jazz cats of the arachnid world!

This realization came to me as I watched a single backlit note poised on a broken music staff bebop across the asphalt path in front of me. A soundtrack of jazz piano greats immediately began to play in my head — Willie “The Lion” Smith, Thomas “Fats” Waller, Art Tatum, Thelonious Monk, and Dave Brubeck, to name but a few. Chill dudes whose spider-like fingers strode, slid, bounced, and stomped across the keys.

Jazz has evolved and diverged from it’s start in the late 19th century as  ragtime and Dixieland into a genre so diverse it can be difficult to define, or even to list all the variations: Swing, Cool, West Coast, Modal, Free, Fusion, Funk, Cu-Bop, Post-Bop, etc.

The harvestmen, as daddy longlegs are also known (that even sounds like a 1950s jazz band, doesn’t it?) have an even longer and more impressive history. They’re a vast, improvisational set that spans millions of years and many taxonomic octaves, with over 6,500 named species worldwide (experts estimate there may actually be more than 10,000). And while not all the players in this big band have long legs, the ones who hangout in my neighborhood— eastern harvestmen (Leiobunum vittatum)— are definitely long-stemmed.

These invertebrate daddy-o’s are arachnids but they are NOT spiders; they’re more closely related to mites and scorpions.  Harvestmen don’t have a spider’s tiny waist… or venom… or silk (so no webs)… and they have only two eyes instead of eight.

Jazz musicians need to maintain their instruments to get the best sound; piano hammers need to be voiced, strings tuned, reeds moistened and valves lubricated.  Daddy longlegs are similarly serious about the tools of their trade, cleaning each leg after a meal by threading them through the pincers by their mouths.

Harvestmen are a gregarious lot who periodically congregate in the hundreds or even thousands. Scientists have suggested these spontaneous jam sessions might occur in response to climatic conditions or provide some protection against predators… but it’s pretty clear they aren’t making music (that can be detected by the human ear, anyway).

Members of Order Opiliones are exceptional even among arachnids. They can swallow small pieces of solid food, whereas their cousins are limited to a liquid diet. Conversely, daddy longlegs sip oxygen through their legs into a trachea, while other arachnids respirate through a gas exchange organ called a book lung. That’s probably just a warm-up, though. Like jazz, daddy longlegs are both familiar and mysterious. Little research has been done on these species… and who can say why? Maybe they’re a bit too avant garde to have a large fan base among researchers.

Or it could be the hours they keep and the dives they frequent. See, eastern harvestmen have more in common with jazz pianists than an impressive hand (or leg) span. Say what you will about the pleasures of sitting outside at a warm summer evening festival, lounging on a blanket in the grass while listening to a live performance — you’ll hear no argument from me. But to my mind, jazz is an urban art form, and the smokin’ hot licks happen in basement clubs. An intimate corner, low lights, insulated from street noise, maybe just a little damp…

Now that the kind of gig daddy longlegs’ dig.

 

[Thanks to the following photographers for making their work available through the Creative Commons license: Rob Swatski, Leslie Bliss, Rob SwatskiLuis Fernández Garcia, and schizoform.  © 2017 Next-Door Nature. Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author.]

Oddly Normal

I don’t live far from the eclipse’s Path of Totality, but I decided to stay put just the same. I didn’t even order eclipse glasses. I know there will be plenty of great video to watch throughout the day, and since my sweetheart is a talented professional videographer, I feel like I’ve got that angle covered.  I want to focus on what’s going on down under, here on Earth.

In anticipation, I’ve been reading stories about how the event will impact wildlife. Every single one of these reports has focused on the “strange” animal behavior we can expect to witness as the day goes dark… and I find that very strange indeed.

What these experts are calling odd is considered completely normal activity when it happens each evening. And from the descriptions I’ve read about what to expect, assuming night is nigh would be a perfectly reasonable assumption for any creature—human or non-human—who doesn’t have a television or an Internet connection and, therefore, doesn’t know that the sun will be playing hide-and-seek with the moon for a little while today.

Humans tend to be less familiar with nocturnal species than the ones who are active during regular business hours. I think the eclipse is going to offer a chance to get to know our neighbors who work the night shift… kind of like a rerun of the National Night Out that took place earlier this month.

As the light begins to dim, creatures who are active during the day may start their usual bedtime routines.  Some diurnal birds will sing one last serenade to the daylight as faux-evening falls…

…some will hurry back to nests of eggs or chicks…

…others will congregate for mutual protection, as they do at the end of every day.

Birds who love the night life will wake, possibly feeling less than rested but still ready to boogie in search of an early breakfast (or late dinner, depending how you look at it).

Some wild mammals are active and visible during the day, including a fair number of rodents such as tree squirrels, groundhogs, prairie dogs, and chipmunks. I’m expecting the eclipse to be a great time to see mammals who are usually waking up just as I’m starting to wind down…

Insect musicians will surely want to set the mood with a tune or two.

Fireflies know a little night music calls for romantic lighting…

…and amphibians aren’t about to let the invertebrates steal the limelight!

As the skies brighten we’re also likely to have a second dawn chorus… but without needing to get up before sunrise! So don’t despair just because the eclipse will pass your part of North America by, or because you don’t know how to make and use a pin-hole camera (even after you Google’d instructions). There should be some amazing wildlife sights to see, right here on good ol’ terra firma.

 

[Thanks to the following photographers for making their work available through the Creative Commons license: Eric Kilby, Dan Dzurisin, Ingrid Taylar, Pat Gaines, Rachel Kramer, Will WilsonTony Oldroyd, Michael Eisen, Elizabeth Nicodemus, USFWStsaiian, David Huth, and Ingrid Taylar.  © 2017 Next-Door Nature. Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author.]

Hammers and Hydrangeas

Sometimes green means stop, look, and pay attention.

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Productivity.  A word that has long enjoyed favored status in U.S. culture. Americans are always trying to do more work in less time so we can… do even more work. We purchase time-saving apps and appliances and then fill the promised free-time that closed the deal with new projects and expectations.
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As the saying goes, when you’re a hammer everything looks like a nail. Of course, that assume you stop the work of pounding away occasionally to look around.
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I aspire to a zen “be here now” life but most days I miss the mark by a wide margin. Instead, I hammer down each nail on my to-do list, usually thinking about the next task or the one after that before completing the current one (and often ending up with a swollen thumb as a result). Yesterday was no exception.
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Until, suddenly, it was.
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Exiting my car with plastic shopping bag handles queued up along my forearms I charged down the sidewalk, mental blinders on, jaw set. Still, I did notice the row of tall limelight hydrangeas that hug my red brick building slouching beneath their load of heavy, fragrant, pale chartreuse blooms buzzing with activity.  “Honey bees,” I assumed dismissively, since a nearby restaurant keeps several hives, and continued on without breaking my stride.
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Then I was blinded by the light of a sunbeam reflecting off an iridescent copper-green carapace.
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I stopped in my tracks, oblivious to the increasing numbness in my hands, and watched one green June beetle (Cotinis nitida), then several more, stumble drunkenly around and through the blossoms. Glancing at other blooms I saw all kinds of colorful insects had shown up for the banquet, including other beetles and bees, butterflies, moths, flies, spiders, and wasps.  The realization that I was, yet again, missing my life for the sake productivity hit me over the head like a ball-peen.
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Time to take a deep breath and smell the hydrangeas. I rushed inside, left my groceries in a heap on the kitchen table, hurried back downstairs, out the door…
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and…
             slowed…
                                 waaaaay…
                                                          down.
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I spent the next hour losing track of time while I conducted an informal census of bug life in the flower gardens around my building and neighborhood. My goal was enjoyment, not identification. Eyes opened wide. Really seeing.
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composite greens
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red-orange-yellow composite
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purple composite
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bright composite
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How easy it is to forget that being unproductive is sometimes the most important work of all.
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© 2015 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work  but please ask). Green June beetle photo by the author (CCL).  Thanks to these photographers for making their work available on Flickr through a Creative Commons license: Jon K.;  Bill Bumgarner; Shellie Gonzalez; Andy Reago & Chrissy McClarren; doni19; Vincent Parsons; Photoguyinmo Swatzell; Dave Thomas; and USFWSmidwest.

Summer Soundtrack

The eastern gray treefrog is one of many performers in nightly summer concerts.

The eastern gray treefrog is one of many performers at nightly summer concerts.

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One of my favorite things about summer is the free outdoor concerts. I’m not talking about local bands that occasionally perform from the park gazebo even though they can be a pleasant accompaniment to my evening dog walk. No, nothing says summer like the insect-amphibian jam sessions that take place almost every evening.
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I’ve moved quite a lot in my life and have been delighted to learn that each place I’ve lived long enough to grow accustomed to—six U.S. states and a Scandinavian country—has a timbre and cadence all its own, distinctive to that specific habitat in a certain continent on a singular planet in an expanding universe. It’s the soundtrack of home, wherever home may be at that particular time in field cricket 2 by Jimmy Smith, CCLone’s life.
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The musicians start warming up as the light begins to fade. They’ve been playing the same basic tune since I was a child so I immediately recognize the overture. By 7:00-7:30p the instruments are tuned and ready to swing.
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Field crickets (Gryllus spp.) establish the beat with their forewings, kind of like a finger-snap that varies from cool to hot depending on the atmosphere.
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Common true katydids (Pterophylla camellifolia) shift the accent…
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common meadow katydid by Rachid H, CCL… and the common meadow katydids (Orchelimum vulgare, not as common as the name implies) chime in with a bit of lawn-sprinkler syncopation.

 [you might need to boost the volume a bit on this one]

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Before long, the dog-day cicadas (Tibicen canicularis) are stealing the show.
dog-day cicada by Roger Engberg, CCL
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As the evening progresses, though, the cicadas and other insects cede the stage to the second act—the frogs and toads… possibly because these headliners have been known to devour the opening act!
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The band is made up primarily of horns and percussion. This isn’t jazz—there’s not much in the way of improvisation and the musicians don’t really take turns letting one another shine during a solo. It can be difficult to identify the featured players, in part because the cast keeps changing; there are fair-weather performers, some northern cricket frog by Andy Reago and Chrissy McClarren, CCLhave stormy temperament, and others don’t like to travel far from their favorite watering hole. Still, there are some easily recognized voices.
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Northern cricket frogs (Acris crepitant) step in to set the pace abandoned by their namesake insect. I’ve seen their call described as pebbles bouncing against one another but to me it’s a metal cabana—chain wrapped around a wood cylinder and shaken, not stirred.
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The American toad (Anaxyrus americanus) is a minimalist; not much complexity but the sustain on that single trilling note is impressive.
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green frog by Matt Reinbold, CCLThe green frog (Lithobates clamitans), on the other hand, is a true traditionalist—no electric bass for this fellow, or even an upright acoustic. Listen carefully and you’ll hear his homage to a single string and washtub.
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Tiny boreal chorus frogs (Pseudacris maculata) play plastic comb call-and-response…
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eastern gray treefrog by USFWSmidwest, CCL… and the gray treefrogs (Hyla versicolor) are in charge of the upper register. These little guys can blow, plus how about that vibrato!
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When the gang’s all here and lettin’ it rip the result is more cacophony than symphony—not everyone’s ideal night music but a lullaby to my ears.
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© 2015 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work  but please ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license (CCL) or Project Guttenberg License (PGL) (from top to bottom):  USFWSmidwest (eastern gray treefrog); Jimmy Smith (field cricket); Lisa Brown (common true katydid); Rachid H (common meadow katydid); Roger Engberg (dog-day cicada); Andy Reago & Chrissy McClarren (northern cricket frog); AllieKF (American toad); Matt Reinbold (green frog); J. N. Stuart (boreal chorus frog); USFWSmidwest (eastern gray treefrog). 

Damsels and dragons… but no prince

damsel fly at rest, Next-Door Nature, urban wildlife

This lanky damsel isn’t waiting for a charming champion to rescue her (or him?). It’s just resting up for another mosquito-shopping trip (Photo: Tomquah, Creative Commons license).

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Once upon a time there was a damsel(fly).

[Imagine, if you will, a bucolic Disneyesque soundtrack of flutes and piccolos in the background.]

She (Or maybe he. This is a modern fairly tale.) explored the lovely little pond from which s/he had recently emerged after having spent most of life underwater as a nymph.

Who would have guessed during that awkward adolescence, when growth spurts had him/her literally jumping out of her skin a dozen times or so, that she would transform from an ugly duckling into a swan? (Speaking of awkward… let’s just stick with “her” from here on out for the sake of simplicity, shall we?)

So… today was her debut. A coming out, of sorts, and the damsel(fly) flitted here and there, enjoying the warm sun shimmering and gleaming on her iridescent wings as she dipped down to the water now and again to daintily snack on mosquito larvae.

Not a care in the world.  Completely oblivious to…  [Cue the ominous bassoon music] …the looming presence of a dragon(fly) on the other shore.

Not that it mattered, really. [Can I have the flutes and piccolos back, please?]  Sure, the dragon(fly) was part of the Epiprocta clan, the damsel(fly) a Zygoptera, but they were both members of the Order Odonata. No family feuds that she knew of, and so closely related were they that many folks had trouble telling one from the other without assistance in the form of a handy reference table.

They were cousins, but not kissing cousins. No interspecies hanky-panky here, even though their kind were known as having an unusual approach to romance. You see, instead of offering a wake-up kiss, the male clasps the female behind her head with a special appendage on the tip of his abdomen. IF she welcomes the embrace, instead of sliding her foot into a size 6 glass Louboutin slipper eventually she loops her abdomen forward to pick up the spermatophore from a structure on his abdomen and deliver it to her spermatheca [Latin is a romance language, remember].

I know, I know… it sounds kind of weird and kinky but trust me, it’s just hard to describe. When it’s right it’s a beautiful thing, especially when the couple forms a kind of heart with their entwined bodies [Everyone say “awwwww”].

Sometimes they even become members of the Mile-High Club, flying united for a little while. But damsel(flies) and dragon(flies) aren’t the marrying kind. They’re independent and self-sufficient—a characteristic that begins in infancy. Good thing, too, because, to be perfectly honest, the adults are neglectful parents. Dad is no prince, zooming off with hardly a backward glance at the new Mom-to-be, who’s no queen of the nursery herself. She deposits her eggs in floating plants or directly into the water and then washes her (metaphorical) hands of the responsibilities of child-rearing.

The nymphs (aka naiads) hatch and, being carnivorous little monsters, begin feeding on mosquito larvae, daphnia, tadpoles, small fish, and sometimes each other.

That happens among adults as well, although the jury’s still out on the subject of postcoital cannibalism, a not-uncommon behavior in the insect world. It’s enough to give a girl pause (although, for most insect species it’s the guy who needs to worry about fatal attractions).

Whatever. This is the 21st century and females of every stripe and species are all about DIY.  Gals today don’t need a prince to save them. Locked up in a tower? Any modern, self-respecting damsel knows you simply pull out your smartphone, Google instructions for making a rope out of sheets, and then shimmy down to freedom.

Evil stepmother? Please. Dial the Child Abuse Hotline and tell that witch you’ll see her in court!

Face to face with a dragon? Reach for your trusty catch-pole or tranquilizer dart gun apps.

And live happily ever after.

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© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: [starting from the top]: Tomquah (cover damselfly); Photo munki (nymph… not the same species); Clifton Beard (mating damselflies); Ben McLeod (dragonfly eyes); and Charles Lam (damselfly eyes).

Long winter’s nap

arctic fox by emma j bishop cc

There's nothing quite as contagious as a yawn* (Photo: Emma J. Bishop, Creative Commons license)

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Grab forty winks. Saw logs. For a species that’s habitually short on shut-eye, we humans sure have come up with myriad ways to talk about it. We also spend a lot of time and money studying sleep, or the lack thereof. Yet, in spite of decades of inquiry, researchers still don’t have a good fix on why we—and just about every other living creature—need to nod off.  We’ve had better luck trying to understand other unconscious states, especially those employed by certain non-human species to deal with hard times.

yawning prairie dog by SearchNetMedia ccWinter poses a critical challenge for animals who stay put rather than migrate to warmer climes. Thermoregulation requires calories, but many foods—especially fruits, nectars, vegetation, and insects—are scarce when the days are short. The ability to reduce one’s energy needs can be a life-saving adaptation. Hibernation does just that—it lowers an animal’s metabolic rate. If all goes well, this period of inactivity, which may last several days, weeks, or even months, depending on the species, will stretch stored energy reserves (aka body fat) long enough for the animal to survive until a greener season. “If” depends on many factors, such as the abundance of autumn food resources, the length and severity of cold days, and even the stability of the den site during repeated freeze-thaw-freeze cycles.

When a critter—let’s use the chipmunk (Tamias spp.) as an example—transitions into a state of hibernation, its body temperature drops to near freezing, breathing becomes so shallow as to be imperceptible, and the heart rate decreases dramatically, from 350 to 4 beats per minute.  Although we tend to think of hibernation as a season-long slumber, chippies and other hibernating rodents do wake up every few weeks to have a snack and take a potty break, even though these periods of activity, called interbout arousals, consume up to 90% of stored body fat. There are some champion nappers in this chisel-toothed group—including the groundhog (aka woodchuck, Marmota monax), who sleeps half its life away, setting the alarm for March when it heads to bed in September.

Other examples of sound sleepers include: insectivores like the European hedgehog (Erinaceus europaeus) and the tenrecs (Microgale spp.); the mountain pygmy possum (Burramys parvus)—the only hibernating marsupial; and the echidna (Tachyglossus spp.), a monotreme.  Biologist recently added the mouse lemur (Microcebus spp.) and the fat-tailed dwarf lemur (Cheirogaleus medius) to the hibernator roster; prior to this discovery, we didn’t have any examples from among the primates. Additionally, since winter temperatures in their native Madagascar may reach 86° F (30° C), it’s become clear that hibernation isn’t strictly associated with cold weather. Nor is it limited to mammals; a bird called the common poorwill (Phalaenoptilus nuttallii) snoozes through at least some of the snowy season.

yawning polar bear by Paul Davidy ccIronically, that most famous of North American sleep icons, the bear (Ursus spp.), is the subject of much debate. The question is whether or not they are “true hibernators.” Bears often spend far more time sleeping than the so-called “trues,” so what’s all the fuss about?  Well, this is going to sound like nit-picking, but here goes. First of all, a bear’s heart rate drops, but not quickly enough to suit some scientists. Also, while the number of heartbeats may go as low as 8 per minute, the average is closer to 50 per minute. Moreover, during this time the bear’s body temperature remains pretty close to normal. This is a handy little idiosyncrasy that, should the need arise, allows the animal to wake up fast… and often cranky—a fact Santa (and anyone else) should keep in mind when planning a mid-winter visit to the den.

Taking to one’s bed for months on end could be seen as a rather over-the-top response to a simple cold front. It smacks of swooning characters in English romance novels from the late 1700s. Frankly, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and many wild critters take a more measured approach. Torpor is the term commonly used to describe these shorter, less dramatic forms of dormancy, although, technically, hibernation and other types of suspended animation are really subsets of torpidity. Call it what you will, there are examples of “temporary hibernation” in all the Classes of vertebrate animals—mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians, and fish—and it’s commonplace among the myriad spineless critters.

For some of the busiest bodies, torpor is a daily habit. Hummingbirds (Trochilidae), for example, have such a high metabolic rate that they need to ingest a steady stream of non-carbonated sugar water (i.e., nectar) during their waking hours or they’ll become hypoglycemic and are too exhausted to fly. Can’t fly? Can’t feed. It’s a vicious circle that will ultimately lead to the bird’s death without some kind of intervention. As you might imagine, this need to constantly refuel creates an enormous problem when night falls and these feathered perpetual motion machines must rest. Without some way to temporarily lower their metabolic rate, hummingbirds would never be able to get out of bed in the morning. Never fear—torpidity to the rescue!

rock dove yawning by Tatiana Bulyonkova ccSwifts (Apodidae), chickadees (Paridae), nightjars (Caprimulgidae), and doves (Columbidae) are just a few of the other avian species who go torpid under various conditions. Generally speaking, these birds are fruit-, nectar-, or insect-eaters, and they tend to be on the small side (less than 80g). The snowy owl (Bubo scandiacus), at 1600-2950g is one exception to this rule, and biologists recently added a second, when it was confirmed that the tawny frogmouth (Podargus strigoides) goes torpid during Australian winters.  Personally, I find these new insights into animal behavior thrilling, because they reassure me that what we know about wild creatures is still a drop in the bucket compared to what we don’t know—there are worlds upon worlds waiting to be discovered on this blue gem of a planet we call home.

yawning turtle by Michael Ransburg ccOf course, cold is not the only hardship wild things would rather sleep through. Periods of drought are just as serious a threat to survival, especially for aquatic and semi-aquatic species. When a lake, pond, or stream goes dry, the inhabitants need to dig in. Literally. Turtles and tortoises (Testudines), crocodiles (Crocodylidae), frogs and toads (Anura), salamanders (Caudata), and some crustaceans will aestivate (also spelled estivate)—a drought-driven form of hibernation. They sink down into the mud before it dries completely, sealing themselves in a mucous capsule until the rains come again. If ever there was a time to be glad you can absorb oxygen in the soil through your skin, this is it, because the air in your boggy bubble won’t last very long.

yawning snowy owl by Pat Gaines ccResearchers are intrigued by these alternate forms of sleep and how they might offer clues for solving a variety of human health concerns. Honestly, I understand their fascination but I don’t know how they stay awake long enough to collect any data. Just writing about dormancy has my eyelid feeling so… heavy. I guess it’s… time for…. me to turn… in.

…..Hit the  YAWN!  hay.

……….Catch some…..zzzzzzzzz

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*Pop Quiz:  How many times did you yawn while reading this? 😉

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There’s nothing quite as invigorating as finding a little Next-Door Nature in your email inbox—click the “subscribe”  link in the upper right-hand corner of this page and receive notifications of new posts!
© 2011 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author. Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: SearchNetMedia (prairie dog); Pau Davidy (polar bear); Tatiana Bulyonkova (rock dove); Michael Ransburg (turtle); and Pat Gaines (snowy owl).

Thanks for noticing

praying mantis nymph

A tiny assassin riding on my wrist (Photo: Kieran Lindsey)

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“Oh look—you’ve got a visitor!”

Standing outside my front door, Bryan, pet-sitter extraordinaire, was in a better position to spot that wisp of green. But coming or going, I doubt I’d have noticed on my own. A habitual multitasker, I’m often doing one thing while thinking about the next three. Not the best frame of mind if you want to notice a recently hatched praying mantis nymph near your doorknob.

That one-inch explorer wasn’t missing much, I assure you. I leaned in for a closer look, but s/he had the advantage: two large compound and three simple eyes packed onto a triangular-shaped head that can—and did—swivel nearly 180 degrees.

Earth is home to more than 1,800 species of mantids. I’m pretty sure this youngster was a Carolina mantid (Stagmomantis carolina), the only species native to North America. As I’ve mentioned before, though, I’m not as familiar with the spineless members of the Animal Kingdom, so it could just as easily have been a European mantid (Mantis religiosa) or a Chinese mantid (Tenodera sinensis), both accidentally introduced to this continent about 100 years ago.

The common name derives from the front legs, which are usually folded into a position that someone interpreted as devotional. Devoted to dinner might be a more appropriate assumption. The spiked forelimbs are better suited to predation than piety, with reflexes so lightning-quick as to appear supernatural to the unaided eye. While they commonly feed on a variety of other insects, large adult mantids have been known to capture and consume hummingbirds and tree frogs. No wonder they are often mistakenly (yet accurately) called preying mantises.

praying mantis laying eggsUnlike the truly prolific members of the insect clan, mantids produce a single generation each year. Nymphs hatch in late spring or early summer and are fully grown by late summer. In autumn, females find a stick, a stem or even a building and deposit a frothy mass that hardens to protect the eggs inside. The adults die soon after, of old age or exposure, and the eggs overwinter in their protective case.

When the nymphs emerge they look like miniature versions of their parents and begin to search for something to eat. Often, the fastest food is a sibling—cannibalism is common in the insect world and mantids are no exception.

Survivors of the initial feeding frenzy disperse, blending into green and brown foliage so well you may have to take their presence on faith… unless one just happens to be drawn to the winged activity beneath a light near an apartment door, where s/he is easily visible to an alert, undistracted nature enthusiast.

The stairwell of my apartment building is shaded in the morning and, with only two simple eyes at my disposal, I needed more light. So I held out a stick, hoping this familiar substrate would help me coax the nymph to climb onboard. Instead, the little swashbuckler leapt onto my wrist like a pirate swinging from the rigging of a ship, and I was instantly transformed from a biologist into a boat for a tiny, curious captain in a prayerful pose whose head pivoted port and starboard as we sailed into the sunshine.

And I was thankful.

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author. Thanks to Larry Salveson for making his photo of a female mantis laying eggs available through a Creative Commons license.

Second (and third, and fourth) acts

monarch caterpillar

Monarch butterflies go through many changes in during their short lives (Photo: Vicki DeLoach, Creative Commons license)

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This week’s focus on the holidays of two major religions, not to mention some events in my own life, had me thinking about endings that actually turn out to be the start of something new and unexpected. My spiritual vocabulary is more deeply rooted in the biological than the Biblical, so when I think of metamorphosis and renewal, I think of Lepidoptera.

monarch eggButterflies and moths are the very model of adaptation, moving through many transformations during the course of their lives.  These shape-shifters begin life as an egg. With the possible exception of avid gardeners, most of us don’t often see, or at least notice, this stage. Once they emerge as caterpillars though, their bright colors, wild patterns, and wavy gait are eye-catching, as are the web-tents spun by certain species shortly after they hatch. Moth caterpillars are usually fuzzy, so if you find one that’s smooth, you’ve probably got a future butterfly on your hands.

io moth caterpillarAnd speaking of hands… before you start picking up caterpillars, you should know that some of them sting. Their fuzz includes hollow quills connected to poison sacs; when touched, reactions can range from mild itchiness to severe pain, dermatitis, or even more systemic problems.  I’m speaking from personal experience here, and this is a rather embarrassing confession. It’s no secret that most wild creatures try to blend into their surroundings, so when you see a brightly colored, very conspicuous animal, there’s a good chance it has a more than adequate defense system. A wildlife biologist, of all people, should know that. I do, and I did. But I had never seen a Io moth caterpillar before and wanted a closer look. My curiosity got the better of me and I let down my guard. Only after I had allowed it to crawl onto my hand did I begin to think, “Hmmm… probably not a good idea.”  Good ol’ hindsight… always there just after you need it.

But I digress.

monarch chrysalis

Caterpillars continue their quick-change artist life with five molts, called instars, during which they wriggle out of their too-tight skin. Finally, they find a place to hang out for a while and a different kind of skin, called a chrysalis, forms. Moth caterpillars usually prefer the added protection of a silken cocoon.

monarch chrysalisInside the chrysalis/cocoon, a radical transformation takes place, something miraculous, even when you realize it can all be explained biologically. A death, of sorts, that must take place for something new to be born. A leap of faith. Does the caterpillar know, somewhere deep down in its DNA, that there’s more to life than being an earth-bound eating machine? Do caterpillars dream of life on the wing?

just emerged monarchNow that I’m in my 50s, I’m starting to realize I’ve got quite a lot in common with Lepidoptera. I’ve experienced my own series of instars, breaking out of old skins when they became too restrictive and claustrophobic. And there have been times spent in the cocoon as well, wondering what, if anything, lies ahead, and how much longer I’ll have to wait to find out. Life, after all, is about taking chances… letting curiosity, excitement, optimism and wonder take the lead over caution, even if that means sometimes you get stung. I haven’t yet managed to escape the law of gravity, but I’m still dreaming of flight.

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© 2011 Next-Door Nature— no reprints without written permission from the author. Thanks to the following individuals for making their photos available for use under a Creative Commons license: Eric Heupel (monarch egg), Sarowen (Io moth caterpillar), Sid Mosdell (chrysalis photos), Rob Ellis (emerging monarch), and Rob and Jane Kirkland (just emerged monarch).