19. The Rattlesnake That Wasn’t: Mimicry in Nature

It was along a back road in rural Oklahoma that I received the greatest fright ever bestowed upon me by a snake. Strange to say having dealt with such lethal serpents as rattlesnakes, water moccasins, cobras, and kraits, but this fellow (or so I call it) was just an ordinary “ole” colubrid.

You may first rightly ask, what is a colubrid? A colubrid is simply a member of a certain taxonomic family (Colubridae) of snakes. About eighty percent of all the snake species in the world are colubrids. These are typically the common, non-venomous (with certain potentially deadly exceptions) snakes of the world. And yes, I know that the question of which snakes are venomous is a whole other topic for discussion. In our area of southwestern Indiana, typical colubrids would include the prairie kingsnake, garter snake, black rat snake, and northern water snake. These are snakes that simply don’t deserve the fear many people experience should they come upon one of them.

My tale begins along a remote, gravel backroad in Oklahoma. A summer road trip embarked upon with my graduate school advisor John Whitaker was the motive. Our destination was Texas A&M University in College Station. This was the site of the annual convention of the American Society of Mammalogists. It was a journey I had anticipated with much excitement as the gathering was sure to draw the top mammal scientists in the country. At that stage of my life, I couldn’t get enough of the research regarding such esoteric topics as the food habits of the short-tailed shrew, the territorial behavior of chipmunks, or the ecological relationships of woodland mice.

The trip down there was a jaunt of around nine hundred miles. We traveled in one of the venerable VW minibuses belonging to Indiana State University’s life science department.  Dr. Whitaker was not about to let all of the intervening territory between Indiana and Texas pass by without sampling its small mammal fauna. No barrier was too great to stop his quest for specimens for our collections. I once saw him dig a pocket gopher from its burrow with his bare hands. I’m not kidding. It was like watching the speed and power of the bionic man, Steve Austin, in the old TV series The Six Million Dollar Man. I also have a distinctly imprinted memory of him sprinting through the Texas scrub like an Olympian in pursuit of a fleeing nine-banded armadillo. The armadillo lost.

John was also the most intensely hard-working, diligent scientist with whom I’ve had the pleasure of associating. As a student, and as an adult, I’ve found myself to be alarmingly prone to bouts of daydreaming and flights of fantasy. Thus if one was to surreptitiously observe me, I might be found  idly sitting at my desk staring, with discouraging regularity,  off into space. In contrast, throughout the years I worked with Dr. Whitaker, I was amazed to never find him in a similar state of reverie. I know he must have done so. The devotion of time to contemplating, hypothesizing, or just plain thinking about things are necessary commitments for a scientist. Yet, I never walked into his office to find him idle. On every occasion, throughout the years, he would be busily examining mites beneath his microscope, engaged in typing the text of one of his hundreds of research papers, or pouring over the rough draft of a research project submitted by one of his graduate students. He simply had the most strenuous work ethic I’ve ever seen. And so, there were small mammals to be collected on the way to Texas.

Our routine was to drive an allotted number of hours and check into a motel. We would then cruise into the surrounding countryside to look for a place to set traps. John is a specialist in the arcane world of small mammals, shrews and mice. He is also one of the world’s leading experts on the food habits and parasites of bats. However the latter mammals require more specialized collecting equipment so, on this trip, it was mice and shrews. The animals we sought would be used to enrich the storehouse of mammal specimens in the vertebrate collections at Indiana State. The device we used for capture was the simple mouse trap baited with peanut butter. I suppose the biggest difference in our collecting with mouse traps and that which you might pursue in your house was a matter of numbers. Whereas you might be satisfied with two or three traps strategically placed along a baseboard or in a cabinet, John was a bit more industrious. He had brought along several hundred mouse traps and these we dutifully set each evening after finding lodging. Once the traps had been set, we would venture back to town for dinner. Having eaten, we would go back to the trap line, collect any specimens taken, and pick up our traps.

Back at the motel we would then check the mice and shrews for parasites, record standard measurements of the specimens, and then prepare study skins of the various specimens. This was done by removing the skin and fixing it over a cotton form we constructed which approximated the size and shape of the original animal. Left to dry, these museum specimens would then be ready for classroom or research use. Such specimens, properly protected from insect pests, will last for many decades. I suppose it must sound quite strange, to a non-scientist, to hear of two grown men engaged in such an abstruse pursuit.  However, I recall a pleasant blend of the camaraderie associated with field work and a sense of creative accomplishment in producing an artistically done museum specimen. I will freely admit, finding the world of shrews and mice fascinating to the point of infatuation is not everyone’s cup of tea. However, I have no doubt that it is through the varied interests and pursuits by scientists, of even the most obscure aspects of the natural world, that we eventually come to better understand the intricate workings of the natural world.

And so it was that, on this particular evening, I found myself walking along a road side ditch, in central Oklahoma, engaged in the setting of the three hundred or so mouse traps we had previously baited with peanut butter. John was walking ahead of me, removing mouse traps from a bag, and dropping one of them every foot or so. Walking as I was in the ditch, it was very handy for me to reach down and pick up a trap lying on the berm above the ditch. I had managed to set a dozen or so traps when I reached down into the grass to retrieve the next one. Suddenly, I was greeted by the one sound in nature that is guaranteed to instantly send one’s heart into overdrive. From the grass directly at my face came the very distinct sound of an exceedingly unhappy rattlesnake.

My heart leaped into my throat and began to gallop at a pace which was palpable. I couldn’t see the snake lurking in the grass before me, but it couldn’t have been more than an arm’s length away. The sound was too close, too loud, and too distinct to be otherwise. My mind raced through the possible reactions I should take. Running didn’t seem like a good option; I thought a sudden movement might provoke a strike. Another possibility was mistaking the exact location of the snake and blundering into during a precipitous flight. It seemed the best course of action was to remain still, try to visually locate the snake, and hope that it wasn’t feeling overly aggressive today. All the while, I mentally ran through a catalog of the possible rattlesnake species that I might be confronting. Western diamondback and prairie rattler seemed the two prospects.

While all these thoughts were rapidly presenting themselves, the serpent began to reveal itself. The tuft of grass in which it had hidden began to slowly rise, as though being inflated by some invisible pumping mechanism. Now I could begin to make out the coils of a very large snake (too big for a prairie rattlesnake I thought) emerging from the grass. A background color of brownish-yellow was revealed and upon this was imprinted a series of very dark brown dorsal blotches. They were not really diamond-shaped, more rectangular, and my fear began to subside somewhat.  But the rattling sound continued unabated; I was still puzzled. At last the serpent’s head came into view, perched on the end of a wicked looking, rattlesnake-like “ S-loop” at the front of the body. Finally the mystery, at least to the snake’s identity, was revealed. Running from the eye to the angle of the jaw was a quite distinct dark band bordered by a yellowish band above it. The snake’s head was also familiar to me. I experienced an instance of what biologists often refer to as “gestalt”. This is the presence of a mental image, often difficult to describe to a neophyte, which allows one to recognize a given type of organism.  There was a certain conformity of head shape and scale pattern which clearly said bullsnake. I wasn’t in a life-threatening situation after all – whew!

The bullsnake lying before was nevertheless an impressive animal. Not many snakes in the United States are larger than a mature bullsnake. The record length for this species is nearly eight and a half feet. Coupled with their size is a propensity to act aggressively when disturbed.  I once narrowly avoided being bitten in the face by a grumpy bullsnake that launched a strike from what seemed to be an impossibly distant reach. But the rattling sound being produced by the snake here in my presence continued to intrigue me. It was so nearly identical to the sound of a large

rattlesnake that I could hardly believe it was issuing forth from this individual. It is extremely common for snakes of many species to vibrate their tail when agitated. If this is done against dry leaves or grasses, the sound can be remarkably similar to that of a rattler. However, my bullsnake was not doing that. As I watched it more intently, I noticed that this rattler-like sound seemed to coincide with a very noticeable exhalation of air. Of course many snakes hiss as part of their aposematic display. But this was no hiss; it was a rattlesnake rattle. I continued, with now normal heart rate, down the trap line still pondering how the snake was making this sound.

Later, back in Terre Haute, I delved into the bullsnake’s secret. When snakes hiss they forcefully expel air from their glottis. The glottis is basically the opening into their trachea or windpipe if you will. We have one too of course. Ours lies in the back of our throat. In snakes, the glottis is extended forward to open as a tube on the floor of the mouth just behind the lower, front teeth. This adaptation allows them to breathe while their mouth is stuffed full of a large prey item during the swallowing process (which may take many minutes). I found that, in bullsnakes, there is a flap of soft tissue at the end of the glottis which vibrates back and forth as they expel air from the lung. This flapping imitates the sound of a rattlesnake rattle to an amazing degree. It is easy to see how the evolution of such structure and behavior in the bullsnake would be adaptive. Adaptive is a fancy way biologists have of saying that an evolved characteristic is beneficial to an organism.  Predators or grazers which have learned by experience to avoid the dangerous rattlesnake species would certainly be put off by the excellent mimicry of the bullsnake.

Thus it was, once again, that a chance encounter with a denizen of the wild led me down an unexpected yet rewarding learning path. The bullsnake who would be a rattler became not just another coincidental animal meeting, but a guide who opened the door to yet another secret niche lying within the wondrously biodiverse world in which we all live.

Additional Notes Regarding Mimicry:

Mimicry takes many forms within the animal kingdom. The harmless scarlet kingsnake has a color pattern which looks much like that of the dangerously venomous coral snake. Hover flies are easily mistaken for bees by novice observers. Mimicry in which a harmless or edible species resembles a harmful or distasteful one is called Batesian mimicry. The name honors  the nineteenth century naturalist Walter Henry Bates. In other cases, such as heliconid butterflies, several bad tasting (to birds) species resemble one another so all achieve a collective protection. This is an example of Muellerian mimicry. Sometimes mimicry can be achieved through structure or color. Technically, this might be better categorized as having cryptic structure or color. For example, certain lepidopteran caterpillars resemble the droppings of birds. Others, should the branch upon which they are climbing be jostled, will suddenly stiffen and rear up at an angle. Thus posed, they look remarkably like the petiole from which a leaf has broken. There are butterflies in the tropics which resemble dead leaves, complete with what appear to be holes formed by the action of fungi. Katydids often bear extraordinary resemblance to living leaves. Walking stick insects look, of course, like the twigs upon which they clamber about. The natural world is replete with examples of mimicry, protective resemblance, camouflaging coloration, and behavioral copycats.

Photos by the author.



18. The Subtle Serpent

Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made.                                                                                                                 Genesis 3: 1

It was a mixed band of squirrel monkeys and saddle-back tamarins that had attracted my attention. Up ahead I could see their swift movements among the branches of a towering Inga tree. The calls of these little primates could easily be mistaken for the vocalizations of birds. In fact, it was their calling that had originally drawn my attention to the tree they were exploring. This tree was located only a few hundred yards from the majestic Amazon River in northeastern Peru. Here the Neotropical rainforest presented a most splendid exhibit of biodiversity. I was walking within a forest which held ten percent of the world’s plant species. Dispersed on and beneath the impressive community of forest giants – kapok, fig, pacay, Brazil nut – lived a multitudinous assemblage of fungi, insects, spiders, frogs, lizards, snakes, birds, and mammals.  Stepping along the trail toward the little primates, I squeezed through a rich undergrowth of ginger, irapay and pona palm, philodendron, melastoma, and maranta. Although the comparison is shopworn, it really was akin to walking within a crowded greenhouse. In the background I heard the periodic calls of screaming piha’s. The piercing, exotic whistles of these rather nondescript, grayish brown birds cried out to me – “rainforest, this is tropical rainforest”.  (You can hear one at the following link.)


 I listened as a continuous series of high-pitched squeaks, trills, and staccato screeches produced by the busy monkeys issued from the trees just ahead of me. Lifting my binoculars to my eyes, I once again scanned ahead and saw that the roving assemblage was much closer now. I could clearly make out individual animals within the primate band. If I could only get a little nearer I would really be able to observe their behavior. Lowering my binoculars, I began to move closer to the little animals. With one foot thus poised in mid-stride, there suddenly came to me a second thought. The how or why of this sudden, unbidden neuronal signal has puzzled me for many years. Whatever the source, there abruptly arose in my mind a delicate warning. Be careful it said. Watch where you step it whispered. Heeding this cautioning counsel without question, I glanced down at the trail. Lying there, directly in the path of my next step, was a snake. My heart made a sudden lunge into a higher gear. This was not just any snake. Resting there at my feet, its head slightly raised from the ground in alertness was a fer-de-lance, considered by many to be the most dangerously venomous snake in the Neotropics.

So quietly it rested there. So delicately it blended with the brownish soil and dead leaves. So noiselessly had it appeared at my feet. So horrible could be the effects of its bite. The surrounding forest, and its inhabitants, seemed to have momentarily disappeared. The sounds of birds and monkeys hung suspended in the air. The universe abruptly consisted of only two beings – the snake and myself. I froze in silent contemplation of what might have been had I allowed my footfall.

“Iron of the lance” so the snake might be called in the English translation. As I gazed down at the serpent, the name seemed eminently appropriate. The lance-shaped head, so beautifully proportioned, was well delineated from the body by a slender neck.  The snake gazed upward at me, seemingly as unsure of the next move as I was. This specimen was only three feet or so in length, roughly half its potential adult size. Nevertheless, I was confident that the toxicity of this snake’s venom would be every bit as potent as an adult’s. The venom of pit-vipers such as this one is a complex brew of organic chemicals. I once heard snake venom described as acting like a physiological hand grenade when introduced into another organism. This description seems perfectly accurate as envenomation initiates a cascade of destructive consequences. Considerable pain and swelling are common initial symptoms of viper bite. But, there may be much worse to come. Contained within their modified saliva are enzymes such as phospholipase which digests cell membranes.  Such lysins can destroy massive areas of soft tissue – skin and muscle for example. Should you be curious as to the human results of such tissue devastation, do a Google image search for fer-de-lance bite. But be forewarned; the images you’ll find are not for those who quail at the sight of horrific injury. 

 Other venom components work to cause internal physiological damage. Hemolysins attack red blood cells, rupturing their membranes and destroying their ability to carry oxygen. Blood vessel walls are assaulted causing them to leak. As a result, bite victims may exhibit hematuria (blood in their urine) or hematochezia (blood discharged per anum). Blood loss may cause a precipitous drop in blood pressure with the classic symptoms of shock, rapid pulse and respiration rates ensuing. Venoms often contain cardiotoxins which attack heart muscle cells leading to arrhythmias or cardiac collapse. As you will clearly see, venom’s full scale assault on body structure and function make envenomation by a viper an experience to be diligently avoided.

I continued to regard the fer-de-lance with caution and respect. It remained in the locomotor posture in which I had first seen it and showed no coiling or other signs of aggression. The snake, like nearly all I have encountered over the years, indicated a strong willingness to leave alone and be left alone. But, I also knew that I had been fortunate. This species, contrary to its present behavior, is often a cranky fellow who doesn’t always display such gentlemanly conduct. Leaving it lying in the trail didn’t seem like such a good idea. This was a pathway frequently used by tourists and their guides. Glancing about, I found a stout but slim tree branch a few feet in length. I gently eased the limb under the snake. A quickening of the snake’s tongue-flicking behavior was the only reaction given as I gradually raised the creature from the trail. The snake easily balanced itself on the branch as I carried it several feet from the path and lowered it back onto the ground. I took a few photographs and then, relieved at the uneventful conclusion to such a close encounter with an exceedingly dangerous animal, I returned to my search for monkeys.

 Strangely enough, I had not seen the last of this snake. Two days later I ventured down this same trail along with a group of rainforest workshop participants and their guide. I distinctly recalled the spot where I had previously encountered the viper. Even though it isn’t uncommon for vipers to lie in wait for prey for rather extended periods of time, I was mildly surprised to see that it was still lying in the exact spot in which I had placed it. The serpent was again on its best behavior and allowed our group to crowd around (relatively speaking) to take photos and share the excitement of seeing what is normally a somewhat elusive animal.

But still, my mind reverted to my initial encounter and that mysterious sixth sense that had warned me to look down. I have heard of others who have had a similar experience. Tropical biologist Adrian Forsyth recounted a comparable happenstance in Costa Rica; this also involved a pit-viper. Walking along a forest path, Forsyth described halting, “in midstep just as a mottled brown missile tipped with a gaping mouth launched itself at my toes.” He recalled reacting in an instinctive manner to draw his foot out of the way before he even mentally considered the action. Renowned biologist Edward O. Wilson has something to say on this subject as well. Wilson is recognized as the “father of sociobiology”. This discipline is considered controversial by some because it implies an evolutionary origin for many aspects of human social behavior. In other words, there are some things we do that are derived as a result of the adaptive value they provided our far-distant ancestors. Wilson argues that such social actions are programmed into our genetic makeup. A positive example might be the human propensity to form maternal bonds between mother and child. A negative illustration would be the human tendency toward tribalism and thus distrust of those who differ from us in ethnicity or religion. But there may be other adaptive behaviors that lurk deeper in our psyche.

My run in with the fer-de-lance, and its similarity to the snake experiences described by others, makes me think Wilson is likely correct. What he might describe as the “startle response” seems to be deeply ingrained in the human mind. This does indeed suggest an underlying genetic , thus inherited, component for our ability to sense imminent danger. To quote Dr. Wilson: “The brain appears to have kept its old capacities, its channeled quickness. We stay alert and alive in the vanished forests of the world.” Or, in my case, the not yet vanished forests of the world.*

 *There is an interesting footnote to this story. Not long after I had written this essay a friend referred me to a piece of research recently published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. Anthropologist Lynne Isbell had a snake experience in Africa similar to mine. This prompted her to team up with researchers in Japan studying the reaction to snakes by monkeys that had never seen serpents. These studies showed that the visual system of the brain of humans, apes, and monkeys contain neurons that are particularly sensitive to snake images. This area of the brain is called the pulvinar. It now appears that the human brain does indeed have the innate ability to recognize the presence of a serpent well before we are consciously aware of its company.
 Photo Credits:

squirrel monkey          Luc Valour at commons.wikimedia.org
saddle-back tamarin      Giovannie Mari at commons.wikimedia.org
fer de lance             Bernard DuPont at commons.wikimedia.org




17. A Meditation Upon Beauty Within the Natural World

(also available as a podcast at georgesly.podbean.com)

It just occurs to me that … God started his show a good many million years before he had any men for audience—a sad waste of both actors and music—and in answer to both people of faith and of science, . . .  it is just barely possible that God himself likes to hear birds sing and see flowers grow.

Aldo Leopold

As I grow older and contemplate the many gifts the universe has bestowed upon me, courtesy of the natural world, I find myself more and more meditative.  Doubtless this is a common evolution of philosophy among the human kind. During our adolescence and formative years, thoughts of infirmities to come, our own mortality lie mercifully distant. As we age and are dealt the many blows that are granted us simply by living, our thoughts turn ever more reflective. The wondrous gift of life, the question of purpose, and rumination upon our own life’s trajectory seem to increasingly occupy our mind. Much of my thought over the years has been apportioned to the natural world. Recently the contemplation of the beauty found in nature has been upon my mind more often. Long an admirer of the renowned conservationist Aldo Leopold, his flirtations with the mystical have injected themselves into these musings as well. Why is the earth’s biodiversity so exaggeratedly filled with examples of aesthetic loveliness? Why does this beauty seem to abundantly surpass any practical need?

Why Are Flowers So Extravagantly Beautiful

                The flowering plants are a good place to start. Flowers are simply reproductive organs. Their male parts produce pollen. Their female parts produce eggs. Insuring that these two cells meet is of course critical. One result of this need is that flowering plants have co-evolved over the millennia with the animals which transfer their pollen. We can almost bet that, should a flower use an animal as an agent of pollination, it will have evolved showy petals to attract them. Such flowers may double their enticement by being quite fragrant as well. Admittedly, if the flower happens to be pollinated by flies, this fragrance may be that of decay. But the point is that flowers often flamboyantly advertise their presence if pollinated by animals. Daytime pollinators, such as butterflies and birds are highly attuned to red. Thus it is no surprise that we see so many flowers of this color. In contrast flowers which are pollinated by bats and moths are typically an unexciting white, the color that shows up best at night. But still I wonder; do flowers have to be so astonishingly showy? Wouldn’t a simple, flat disk of a given color work just fine?

Apparently it does not. Create your own list of top ten most beautiful flowers. You may, like me, find yourself initially stymied. Where to begin? The choices seem limitless. Some of my favorites occur in the tropics and include passion flowers, the heliconias, torch ginger, and the myriad species of orchids. Here at home, I am captivated by the loveliness of spring beauty and Dutchman’s breeches, catalpa and Virginia bluebell, Silphium and blazing star. They all seem to go beyond the bounds of practicality. The rich diversity of colors, shadings, crenellations, and flamboyancy seem to defy all reason.



There is Beauty Within the Animal Kingdom As Well

Even a cursory reflection upon the vast array of animals whose beauty has caught my attention over the years yields a similar cornucopia of examples. The clouded leopard for instance; surely a tawny coat and a few spots would serve as sufficient camouflage within the middle layers of the rainforest. But no, this extraordinary cat is covered in a myriad of blotches of multitudinous shades from white to gray, fawn to black, sand to sepia. Arranged in a bedazzling array of smudges, spots, ovals, oblongs, and squares their coat renders them nearly invisible within their tropical forest home. But I can’t help but perceive that the pattern of their coat goes well beyond the bounds of a super-efficient camouflage. I cannot look at a clouded leopard and not find myself stunned by its absolutely exquisite beauty. I invariably feel a visceral emotion that is totally divorced from my understanding of the biological mechanisms which bring about this beauty. I dare say the feeling is more akin to the sensation I receive when contemplating an impressionist painting or listening to the opening strains of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major.

The Loveliness of Birds

If we venture to look within the avian world, the examples of beauty transpiring into the irrationally gorgeous are everywhere. Even the non-biologist will likely seize upon the male peafowl as just such an animal. I am taxed to know where to begin when contemplating the beauty of birds. For sheer elegance of form what could surpass the stealthily wading great egret or the striding black-necked stilt? What figures in motion are more graceful than the dynamic soaring of a wandering albatross or the lazy circling of a red-tailed hawk riding upon its invisible donut of air? Should we want to rank the beauty of birds based upon their color, we might find that this too is not so simple. The colors and forms exhibited among the Aves seem nearly infinite. How could I hope to choose a winner from among the likes of Tanzania’s lilac-breasted roller, Costa Rica’s resplendent quetzal, our American wood duck, Malaysia’s Argus pheasant, or Peru’s masked trogon? Though I understand the adaptive nature of beak, wing and leg, I still cannot fully fathom why I am compelled to stare at such birds in dumbstruck reverence.

Cold-blooded Finery

Most folks would perhaps find it more difficult than I to discern remarkable beauty among the cold-blooded clans that populate our earth. But here too I see this wondrous tendency for nature to seemingly overdo it when it comes to adorning the creatures of our world.  Consider the Gaboon viper. It is so venomous, so frightening in its deadly potential. Yet, I cannot sidestep the fact that it is an animal of great esthetic beauty. Lying quietly upon a bed of leaves, this serpent becomes virtually invisible. The rich mixture of browns, blacks, fawns, yellows, creams, and whites are arranged in an intricate pattern of blotches, rectangles, and leafy shapes that make it astonishingly difficult to distinguish. Looking upon one of these snakes, I must convince myself that an artist of supreme skill has not surreptitiously sneaked into the reptile house by night and completed a marvelous job of body painting

The fresh and saltwater fishes are certainly not to be outdone. I find myself as adrift as I am with the birds when it comes to picking a winner in their most beautiful contest.  Rainbow trout, rainbow darter, clown triggerfish, dolphinfish, Achilles tang, lion fish, angel fish, and Moorish idol. How could I choose from this kaleidoscopic of blues, greens, yellows, oranges, reds, and golds? Scientifically, rationally we know that the color patterns of these fishes may serve to camouflage, to distinguish sexes, to identify a species. But do their colors really have to be so varied, their forms so diverse, their hues so subtle, and their shades so delicate? Something tells me they do not.


Whence Comes Beauty, Complexity, and Diversity

Such organisms have led me to believe that there may be more to the astounding beauty of our planet’s biodiversity than I once imagined. I am still highly confident in the ability of science to elucidate the mechanisms by which species arise, to explain our own origins, to illuminate the temporal history of the cosmos. No problem there. But my ruminations upon the often profound beauty of earth’s organisms intuit something lying much deeper and it is this. The universe is permeated by a creative force that has, over time, generated ever-increasing complexity and diversity. The excessive loveliness found among earth’s creatures suggests that we need to recognize another procreative tendency. This prodigious, inscrutable creative force is also inclined to generate extreme beauty. Surely the number of people who have communed with the natural world, seen its inordinate beauty and not sensed this Creative Energy, this Great Mystery must be small indeed.

In an essay entitled Guacamaja, Aldo Leopold speaks of animponderable essence” which is associated with the material things of an ecosystem.  It is this quintessence which gives character, beauty, and aura to a place. In his example, the autumnal north woods is: [land + red maple + grouse].   “. . . subtract the grouse and the whole thing is dead.” The essence responsible for the unquantifiable quality of the north woods Leopold called the noumenon of material things. It stands in opposition to a phenomenon, something that is concrete and subject to empirical study. Could it be that complexity, diversity, and beauty are reflections of the noumenon that generates the sense of awe we often experience in the natural world? Is it this noumenon, this unquantifiable presence that compel s us to experience with an emotion akin to religious awe a soaring flock of cranes, a flowering prairie, the north woods?

Was Leopold a Prophet for Our Time?

Aldo Leopold was a scholar of great breadth. His mind plumbed the depths of the discipline we now call ecology as well as those of wildlife management, conservation and yes, religious philosophy. Leopold’s classic, A Sand County Almanac makes frequent use of scriptural content and metaphor. Gavin Van Horn, writing in the Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature, and Culture, suggests “ . . . Leopold’s work continues to endure . . .  because he subtly traversed the realm of metaphysics in his writing, creating a challenging dialogue between the sciences and humanities.” An essay entitled Goose Music, written by Leopold in the early 1920’s, is a good illustration of Van Horn’s view. Within that essay lies this passage. “I heard of a boy once who was brought up an atheist. He changed his mind when he saw that there were a hundred-odd species of warblers, each bedecked like to the rainbow.  .  .   No fortuitous concourse of elements working blindly through any number of millions of years could account for why warblers are so beautiful. No mechanistic theory . . . has ever quite answered for the colors of the cerulean warbler, or the vespers of the wood thrush, or the swansong, or goose music”. Leopold ended his ruminations upon the boy who came to believe with these words. “There are yet many boys to be born who, like Isaiah, may see, and know and consider, and understand together, that the hand of the Lord hath done this.”

What he meant by “the Lord’ is, I would surmise, open to as many interpretations as there are systems of belief (or non-belief). Throughout history we humans have tried to personalize the mysterious Creative Power – this Lord – which underlies the extravagant complexity, diversity, and beauty of the cosmos. We have given names: Allah, Brahma, Tuhan, Jehovah, Krishna, Wakan Tanka, Ngai, the Tao, and God. Our naming and anthropomorphic visualizations are attempts to grasp what we instinctively feel but cannot fully understand due to the powerfully enigmatic character of this Creative Force. Mythologist Joseph Campbell defined God as, “a personification of that world-creative energy and mystery which is beyond thinking and beyond naming.” I’m afraid that, at this point, I can come no closer to true understanding.  Given the miracle that is life on earth, perhaps this is enough.

Mr. Van Horn’s suggestion that Leopold navigated the realm of the numinous is intriguing. There is indeed the fragrance of metaphysics, the delicate scent of the mystic in many of Leopold’s essays. We should recall that his land ethic thinking is recognized as one of Leopold’s most enduring contributions to conservation philosophy.  Could it be that his understanding of the significance, as well as the source, of the loveliness found within the natural world was just as deeply insightful? If so, perhaps in contemplating the beauty of the life forms around us, we like the boy of Leopold’s story may come to “understand together, that the hand of the Lord hath done this.”

Photo Credits:
1. passion flower by Tomes Castelazo @ commons.wikimedia.org
2. torch ginger by George Sly
3. bird of paradise plant by Soumyoo @ commons.wikimedia.org
4. clouded leopard by SA @ commons.wikimedia.org
5. black-necked stilt by Andy Reago & Chrissy McClassen @ commons.wikimedia.org
6. lilac-breasted roller by David Meeker @ commons.wikimedia.org
7. wood duck by Judy Gallagher @ commons.wikimedia.org
8. Gaboon viper by Life As Art/Tamara @ commons.wikimedia.org
9. clown triggerfish by Derek Ramsey @ commons.wikimedia.org
10. Achilles tang by Jean @ commons.wikimedia.org
11. Moorish idol by Namal Kapadia @ commons.wikimedia.org
12. ruffed grouse by D. Faulder @ commons.wikimedia.org
13. the metaphysical mind courtesy Marabella Intl. Univ. Centre





16. The Stealth Attack: Part 4 – A Parting Look at Some Really Creepy Parasites

After reflecting upon my run in with the Cordyceps fungus and pondering the world of mind-controlling parasites, I end such ruminations with a look at some parasites which, quite simply, give me the creeps. My mind rushes back over forty years to my undergraduate parasitology course. The class was taught by William Hopp. Doctor Hopp was a professor of the old school. He was well-versed in the whole gamut of subjects that fall under the umbrella of natural history. It seems that this discipline has fallen from favor lately as the biological sciences have rapidly progressed into more specialized realms such as cell biology, molecular biology, genomics, forensics, and physiological ecology. Once upon a time it was considered a mark of pride, and of a well- rounded science education, to have knowledge which ranged over a spectrum of fields. From geology to botany to mammalogy and back to ichthyology roamed the well-versed scientist – the natural historian. Such a person was Dr. Hopp. He even popularized his interests with a weekly show that aired Saturday mornings on one of the local TV stations. Snakes and other reptiles were often favorite guests on his show but he could converse entertainingly upon a broad range of subjects.

Dr. Hopp was a great story teller as well. One of his tales set me upon a pathway of keen interest regarding the world of parasites. This story revolved around the fact that humans are considered fair game by a variety of parasitic organisms. It seemed there was a young man who had become infected by the roundworm Ascaris. This is an unsegmented, somewhat primitive roundworm of six to eight inches in length. Ascaris is a parasite of the human small intestine although, in its larval form, it is prone to wander through several other body organs. People become infected when they accidentally ingest the worm’s eggs.  These eggs are present in the intestinal wastes of infected individuals. When I lived in Southeast Asia, certain groups of people there used human waste as a garden fertilizer. As you can imagine, this is an excellent way to ensure that Ascaris eggs get onto the vegetables that people may subsequently eat. At any rate, Dr. Hopp related how this particular infected person was given an oral dose of a vermicide. Such medications are meant to pass into the digestive tract where they kill the worm(s) which are then voided with the feces. On this occasion however, the worm medicine acted only to aggravate the parasite and caused it to attempt to migrate away from the source of its irritation. Up through the alimentary canal it came until, having reached the throat of the poor sufferer, it proceeded into the back of his nasal cavity and sought escape via the young fellow’s nostril. The image formed in my mind, and that of my classmates, of an eight inch worm emerging from a person’s nostril was disgustingly gruesome. As neophyte parasitologists, the idea that something so ghastly could actually happen to a human caused the class to groan in dismayed unison. Captivated by the often ghastly behvavior of such organisms, parasitology was henceforth a lifelong fascination for me.

Naturally, humans aren’t the only animals subject to some nightmarish parasitic infections. One of the most bizarre involves a parasitic marine isopod. You are likely familiar with isopods as the little, segmented, grayish invertebrates you encounter under an old board or paving stone in the yard. Upon being disturbed, they curl up into a tight little ball and wait for you to go away. People often call them pillbugs or roly polies. However, there is a giant member of their clan that lives in ocean waters and is parasitic on several different species of fishes. This isopod, which grows to about an inch in length, is called Cymothoa. As a juvenile, it floats freely in the water and in this way is able to enter a fish host as water is passed over the gills. Mating occurs in the fish’s gill chamber. A female then moves into the fish’s mouth cavity and latches onto the poor beast’s tongue. Cymothoa then proceeds to feed on the blood of the fish’s tongue. This causes that organ to atrophy until only a stump remains. The isopod remains attached to the muscles of this stub and begins to actually function as the fish host’s tongue. The tongue-eating isopod, how macabre is that? I’m sure glad it doesn’t have a taste for humans. It would put a whole new spin on accidentally getting a mouthful of seawater while swimming wouldn’t it?

Of course, there are many parasites that do infect humans with distressingly dreadful consequences. One of my friends once jokingly asked me why I had a propensity for “visiting countries that change their government every six months”.  In all honesty, the fear that often creeps into my mind before such trips is not based upon unstable governments but rather knowledge of tropical parasites. In these regions of the world some of the parasites of humans are simply awful. Take lymphatic filariasis for example. This is a disease caused by a tiny roundworm parasite known as a filarial worm. Transmitted from one human to the next by mosquitoes such an infection can, over time, have dramatic and horrible consequences. The problem is that these little worms, when they occur in massive numbers, can block the flow of lymphatic fluid within the body. Thus dammed, the backed-up fluid causes the surrounding tissues to undergo tremendous edematous swelling, which results in the disease we call elephantiasis. The result of this swelling can be legs larger than the diameter of the torso, pendulous breasts the size of watermelons, or a scrotum the size of a beach ball. The disfigurement is, of course, psychologically devastating and the enlargement of body regions can be so extreme as to inhibit mobility. Deformity of this sort requires repeated infection with the microfilarial worm Wuchereria over a period of years. Fortunately, although nearly fifteen percent of the human population lives in areas where elephantiasis is endemic, such extreme cases are rare. Anecdotally, during the three years I lived in Southeast Asia, I actually saw only one case of this disease and the person afflicted exhibited only a slight swelling of one leg.

And then there is Dermatobia hominis, the human botfly. I first encountered this parasite on a trip to Costa Rica several years ago, and I must admit it does horrify me. Dermatobia is a rather robust fly that measures about three-fourths of an inch in total length. To me, it somewhat resembles a blowfly like we might see buzzing around a road-killed opossum here in Indiana. If that was the habit of Dermatobia as well, we might rest easily in its presence. But, as you can guess, this botfly isn’t nearly as innocuous. Like other flies, this species goes through an elaborate reproductive metamorphosis in which it proceeds, stepwise, from egg to larva to pupa to adult. The larva, again as in other members of the fly Order, is a maggot. But, the human botfly maggot is of rather impressive countenance. The larva is nearly an inch in length, stout in girth, armed with ringlets of stiff, spiny bristles, and has a rather robust pair of jaws.

When I first saw the larvae of this fly, they were residing in the soft tissues of the necks of a group of howler monkeys. Each monkey in the troop had from two to six large ping pong ball-sized lumps on the sides of their necks. One could not help but empathize with the poor primates, helpless as they were to rid themselves of their grisly cargo. I could also not avoid the realization that this fly would just as opportunely infect me in the same manner. One might wonder how a fly as large as this could so furtively deposit its egg on either a howler monkey or a human. Surely it would be easy to hear its buzzing approach and shoo it away. But here again the amazing deviousness, in regards to completing a life cycle, which has evolved in parasites comes into play. The human botfly uses a less detectable emissary to deliver its egg payload, most often a mosquito.

Using its legs to capture a mosquito, Dermatobia glues one of its eggs onto the smaller fly’s abdomen. When the mosquito lands on its victim, monkey or human, the botfly egg is stimulated to hatch by the sudden increase in ambient temperature. Departing the mosquito, the botfly larva enters the skin of its new host. This is usually done either via the puncture made by the mosquito or by way of a hair follicle. Safely ensconced in its new home in the host’s skin, and anchored by its bristles, the larva now begins to feed and grow. The result is a large lump under the skin such as I had observed in the howler monkeys. There is an opening in the skin pustule housing the bot larva; projecting into this aperture is a pair of spiracles used for breathing. A person thus infected will occasionally feel a sharp, stabbing pain as the larva shifts its position as it feeds. To the human victim, who has brought this little souvenir of the neotropics home with them, the reaction trends to both panic and revulsion.

If one can mentally cope with the reality of having such a shocking parasite embedded in one’s skin, getting rid of it is somewhat anticlimactic. A key is depriving the larva of oxygen. Thus a colleague of mine, who developed a Dermatobia myiasis in his forearm, slapped a piece of beefsteak over the wound for a couple of days. With the spiracles blocked, and another piece of flesh to move into, the larva obligingly left his arm and crawled into the slab of beef. Others have tried putting nail polish or petroleum jelly over the opening serving the larva’s spiracles which resulted in the maggot creeping up out of their skin. If it should happen that you bring a Dermatobia home with you to the U.S., a trip to the ER would be in order. Here, with the injection of some lidocaine and an incision, the larva can easily be removed. This is assuming, of course, that the physician is somewhat familiar with tropical diseases and recognizes what is going on; this is not always a given.

I suppose if one is exceedingly patient and curious there is another course of action. One could let the larva run its pupal course of development which takes several weeks. Under natural conditions, the larva eventually crawls out of the skin, and falls to the ground. A pupa then develops and, two or three weeks later, the adult fly emerges from the soil. But alternatively one could, as an exceedingly inquisitive (and eccentric) biologist once did, carry on your person a small collecting jar. Sensing the movement of the fly larva, as it prepares to migrate from the subcutaneous tissue, one could ready the jar. By placing this jar in proper position, one could then collect the emerging larva. With your prize preserved in some isopropyl alcohol, you would be guaranteed to possess a cocktail party conversation starter of rare incident.

In spite of my flippancy, most human parasites are of course no laughing matter. The list of organisms which utilize humans as a food source, externally or internally, is a lengthy one. Here in rural Indiana, everyone is familiar with the routine of checking for ticks after a mushroom hunt or a berry picking excursion. We warn our kids not to lie about in the late summer grass lest they suffer consequences in the form of the maddening itch of chiggers. In the United States the efficient disposal of human wastes, along with meat inspection, make a case of beef or pork tapeworm, Ascaris infection, or hookworm relatively rare. In other parts of the world this is not the case. When I lived in Southeast Asia in the 1970’s, about seventy-five percent of the students in the small college where I taught had worm infections. Another time, talking over dinner with a rural clinic doctor in Peru, I asked what percent of the local population had worm infections. Her answer came very quickly. “Everyone has them.”

Given these harrowing glimpses into the frightening world of parasites, you may wonder why I would include them in a series of stories extolling the gifts provided us by the Universe. I do so in spite of the fact that they have great potential for causing us misery. Parasitic organisms may indeed generate fear and loathing among our kind but they should also engender in us a sense of wonderment at the prodigiously sophisticated interrelationships which exist among earth’s biodiversity. The array of behavioral, biochemical, and organic adaptations such organisms have evolved are truly astounding in their complexity. Perhaps more than any other group of organisms, the parasites give us cause to reflect upon just how much organic variety natural selection, operating over eons of time, can create.

One final thought. As I’ve said, here in the United States we are often isolated from many of the parasitic ills afflicting the poorer nations of the world. Our systems of sanitary waste disposal, meat inspection, and medical care provide us the luxury of giving little thought to the nightmarish possibilities of infection by these organisms. However, more and more of us travel the world these days. We may take with us the attitude that parasites are rare creatures that attack other people. We would be better advised to remember that there are still monsters out there. Be wary of the ice cubes in your drink. Give serious thought before eating that crisp, freshly washed lettuce salad. Think twice about nonchalantly allowing a mosquito to alight upon your arm. My advice: be careful. Be very, very careful out there.

Photo Credits:

Cymothoa exigua courtesy of Elkin Fricke at commons.wikimedia.org

Elephantiasis victim courtesy of O.G. Mason in Illustrations of Skin Diseases by G.H. Fox

Botfly adult by J. Eibl USDA

Botfly larva courtesy of Geoff Gallice at commons.wikimedia.org

Botfly removal courtesy of ohmyhealth.in









15. The Stealth Attack: Part 3 – No, Humans Are Not Immune.

In my previous blog, I introduced the notion that humans, like insects and mollusks, may also be the subjects of involuntary behavioral control resulting from parasitic infection. May I now introduce Toxoplasma, a leading candidate for such a human behavior manipulator?

                Toxoplasma is a protozoan, one of the vast Kingdom of single-celled creatures that swarm in the earth’s waters, soils, and yes – within other organisms. Many of you, although you may not know its name, have heeded warnings about Toxoplasma exposure. This is the parasite often found in cat feces and thus the admonitions to be careful when cleaning your cats’ litter box. This is particularly true for pregnant women as the parasite can be transmitted to the fetus with potentially dangerous results. Infection with this protozoan is known as toxoplasmosis and it is common in a variety of mammals. These include cats, rodents, pigs, and humans. By some estimates, nearly thirty percent of the world’s human population is infected with Toxoplasma.  Normally the protozoan, after causing initial flu-like symptoms, resides in the human body without further affect – or so it was thought.

I had been aware for some time of the hijacking of the behavioral instincts of rats by Toxoplasma.  Since rats are a potential prey of cats, it makes sense that they would serve as a link in the completion of the parasites’ life cycle. It seems a cycle such as: protozoan reproduces in cat – protozoan in cat feces – feces in soil – accidental ingestion of protozoan by rat – cat eats rat – would be straightforward enough. But, here again, we are dealing with the strange world of behavioral manipulation by a parasite. Studies have shown that the rat is programmed by Toxoplasma to engage in behavior which makes the rodent much more likely to be eaten by a cat. In other words, the parasite guides rodent behaviors which will increase the likelihood of its return to the gut of a cat host. Here it can reproduce and continue the completion of its life cycle.

For obvious reasons, rats are normally extremely averse to having a meeting with a cat. When these rodents are infected with Toxoplasma however, their behavior changes dramatically. They are more prone to actively expose themselves and their reaction to danger is slowed. Normally, a rat smelling cat urine responds by freezing, analyzing its surroundings, and then scurrying for cover. Rats harboring Toxoplasma do the exact opposite. They seem to actually be attracted to cat urine and are quite content to ignore their instinct to avoid a meeting with their feline nemesis. Research suggests that, upon exposure to cat urine, Toxoplasma is actually biochemically activating a part of the rat brain associated with sexual attraction. This powerful urge then overrides the rat’s inclination to flee from signs of the presence of a predator. In other words, Toxoplasma is altering the behavior of the rat in order to make it more likely that a cat will ingest the parasite and thus will the protozoan be transmitted to other feline hosts.

Could Toxoplasma be causing behavioral changes in humans sheltering the parasite? An article by Kathleen McAuliffe which appeared in The Atlantic in 2012* certainly seems to suggest as much. Recall that most people infected with this parasite experience it in its so-called latent form. After the initial flu-like reaction, it was thought to lie quietly in the neurons of our brain without harm. Some scientists now suspect that Toxoplasma is not such a benign resident.  This was the gist of McAuliffe’s article which profiled a Czech biologist, Jaroslav Flegr, who was himself infected with Toxoplasma. For many years Flegr was puzzled by some aspects of his behavior. He reported in the interview with McAuliffe that he thought nothing of walking into a busy, traffic-filled street. Honks of irritation from oncoming motorists he met with total indifference. Furthermore, he openly criticized the ruling Communist Party, a most dangerous endeavor at that time. Doing research in a war torn area of Turkey, he was surprised that his reaction to nearby gunfire was complete lack of distress and absence of any instinct to take cover. All of these behaviors bore an uncanny resemblance to the daredevil antics of a rat with toxoplasmosis.

After reading articles regarding parasitic mind control among invertebrates, Flegr began to suspect that he might be similarly affected. He had himself tested and discovered that he did indeed have toxoplasmosis. We should think of humans as a dead end in this parasite’s life cycle (cats usually don’t eat humans). However, we are similar enough in genetic and physiological makeup to other mammals that it seems reasonable to assume that Toxoplasma might not “know” the difference. Pursuing this line of reasoning, Flegr’s investigations revealed that humans infected with Toxoplasma showed inattentiveness and delayed reaction times as do infected rodents. His research showed that certain drivers, as a result, were nearly twice as likely to be involved in vehicular accidents if they carried the latent Toxoplasma. Perhaps even more disturbing, science is suggesting that Toxoplasma may be involved in triggering schizophrenia in susceptible humans. Furthermore, a 2012 Scientific American article reports that researchers now also suspect a link between toxoplasmosis and an increased risk of suicide.

I find the thought that parasitic infection could cause such serious psychological manifestations among us humans quite alarming. One cannot help reexamining the extensive list of endoparasites which make humans their home – roundworms, tapeworms, flukes, protozoans. In the process, we are left to wonder just how many other neuroses or psychotic manifestations of Homo sapiens may someday be traced to our eerily creepy stealth attackers.


* https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/03/how-your-cat-is-making-you-crazy/308873/


I recently became aware of another possible actor in the drama of parasitic mind control. I was reading Oliver Sacks’ fascinating book, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales. In his book Sacks, who was a neurologist for almost five decades, recounts case histories of patients with peculiar, often bizarre neurological disorders.

One of his patients was a 90 year old woman named Natasha. She came to Dr. Sacks after noticing a change in her behavior which had begun when she was 88. The doctor, of course, inquired as to what sort of change she had noticed. “Delightful!” she exclaimed. “I thoroughly enjoyed it. I felt more energetic, more alive – I felt young once again. I took an interest in the young men. I started to feel, you might say, frisky – yes, frisky.”

In the course of receiving Natasha’s medical history Dr. Sacks found that she had worked in a brothel over 60 years ago. She revealed that, like most of her coworkers, she had acquired syphilis during this time. As you know, this is a highly contagious, sexually transmitted disease caused by a bacterium named Treponema pallidum. This bacterium is a type of spirochete, so-called because of its helically spiraled shape.

The disease syphilis typically occurs in stages. The so-called tertiary stage may occur years after the initial infection. Although not infective at this time, the victim may experience serious symptoms such as loss of muscle control, depression, mania, and dementia. Death may ensue.

Natasha described her illness as, “something in my body, my, brain that was making me high.” To Dr. Sacks’ surprise, she then self-diagnosed herself as having “Cupid’s Disease”, a term with which he was unfamiliar. “All the girls called it that,” she said. The doctor proceeded to test her spinal fluid. “She was right; the spinal fluid was positive, she did have neurosyphilis, it was indeed the spirochetes stimulating her ancient cerebral cortex.”

I have as yet found no clinical studies affirming that Treponema increases promiscuity or the libido of its host (as in Natasha’s case). But in light of the impact of Toxoplasma on human behavior (as described above), it seems a possibility. After all, what better way could the syphilis bacterium ensure continued species survival than by making its human host feel – shall we say frisky?

Photo Credits:

Cat and pregnant women courtesy of findatopdoc.com

People ignoring danger courtesy of upsplash.com

The Scream by Edvard Munch via Wikimedia Commons [Public domain,

Toxoplamosis gondii courtesy of The Center for Disease Control

Toxoplasmosis life cycle courtesy of researchgate.net

syphilis bacterium by Dr. David Cox @ en.wikipedia.org


14. The Stealth Attack: Part 2 – This Being the Story of How a Snail Became a Zombie

That long-ago encounter with the Cordyceps fungus (described in Part 1 of this series) spurred my interest in determining whether other, similar mind-controlling parasites exist. Not surprisingly, they do. I find such symbiotic interactions between parasite and host to be both fascinating in their intricacy and disturbing in their manifestations.

For example, there is Leucochloridium. This parasite is a fluke, a type of flatworm. Although many flatworms are free-living, the group also contains a plethora of species which have evolutionarily opted for the parasitic way of life. All of the vertebrates, including mammals and birds, are subject to parasitism by some kind of fluke. In the case at hand, it is the alteration of the host’s behavior that makes Leucochloridium yet another fascinating example of the bizarre and creepy world of the endoparasites.

Leucochloridium parasitizes birds. The big problem faced by Leucochloridium, and parasites in general, is how to get from one host to another. Endoparasites are highly and specifically adapted for surviving in the warm, dark, nutrient rich innards of their host. They are not built to function in what for them is the hostile outer world we humans inhabit. Here the atmosphere is highly oxygenated, there is intense sunlight, and ambient temperatures are highly variable. Yet, to continue their species, they must find a way to insinuate their adult progeny into the internal organs of another host.

We must now ask, how does a flatworm (Leucochloridium) which lives in the rectum of a bird ensure that its descendants find a similar warm, fecal-laden home in a different bird? As with many endoparasites, the answer lies in the use of an intermediate host animal within which the larval stages go through their transitional, developmental steps. Flukes commonly use snails as intermediate hosts and Leucochloridium is no exception.

The life cycle begins as the adult flatworm voids its eggs into the surrounding rectum of its bird host. The intestinal wastes of the bird are thus loaded with the fluke’s eggs. A foraging snail, the intermediate host of the flatworm, happens upon the bird feces and begins to feed. The eggs are coincidentally ingested with the fecal material. Subsequently they hatch and go through a series of developmental stages. Having reached a phase at which they are ready to infect another bird, the fluke larvae perform a most interesting migration. Called cercariae at this stage, the larvae migrate through the snail’s body and into the tentacles on the head. You might be familiar with these as the long stalks at the end of which are located the snail’s eyes.  As a result of infiltration by the larvae, the tentacles (or often one tentacle) become engorged and distended. Even more remarkably, they appear to pulsate like a neon sign in response to exposure to light (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0Ytm2U4Ch0). For birds, this banded, animated appearance bears a remarkable resemblance to a caterpillar. Of course caterpillars are a favorite food of many bird species. And remember, these puffed-up tentacles are packed with fluke larvae very much needing to get into a bird.

And now the curious issue of parasitic mind control again enters the equation. Snails normally prefer dark habitats. Here the air is more humid which helps to prevent dehydration of their moist molluscan body. The dark niches of their world also offer protection from predators seeking a nice meal of escargot. But snails infected by Leucochloridium shun the dark, hidden places. They boldly venture out into the daylight. Goaded by biochemical signals from the parasite, they become even more incautious and climb up onto grasses and trees thus making themselves even more conspicuous. Perched here in the broad daylight, with their pulsating, caterpillar-like tentacles the snails are attractive targets for birds. Perceiving what it thinks is a caterpillar, a bird will swoop down and attack the snail’s infected tentacle. In the process, it comes away not with a young insect but a nice package of fluke larvae. These move on into the bird’s digestive tract and, voila, the life cycle of the fluke is completed. Again, the thing that strikes me as so uncanny is the manner in which the parasite changes the behavior of its host. The hapless snail which, under normal conditions, eschews the light and the dry air suddenly behaves in exactly the opposite manner. And, as a result, the parasite’s life cycle needs are brought to a perfect ending. How weird! This would be a campfire tale guaranteed to keep little snails up all night.

How about one more example of the strange world of parasitic mind control? Although it uses venom as a rather more straightforward method for controlling its host, the life cycle of the little emerald cockroach wasp is still a marvel of evolution. As the name suggests, this is a small (a bit less than an inch) wasp with a beautiful metallic greenish-bluish body color. And, it does indeed parasitize cockroaches. As you might guess, it is the manner in which it does so that is dumbfounding.

Upon locating a cockroach the female wasp stings it. Surprisingly (and precisely) she does so twice. The first sting is administered into the abdomen at the exact point necessary to paralyze the cockroach’s two front legs. Now the wasp is able to work around the roach’s head without any counterattack from these appendages. Again bringing her sting to bear, the wasp injects her venom into the portion of the cockroach’s nervous system called the subesophageal ganglion, a sort of insect sub-brain. The result of this sting is that the roach loses its will to escape.  Although capable of movement, the hapless victim behaves like some arthropod robot and passively waits for the wasp to continue its ghastly work. Now, taking hold of one of the cockroach’s antennae with its jaws, the wasp leads its host to a previously prepared burrow in the ground. Like a well-trained dog on a lead, the cockroach obediently allows itself to be ushered, by the wasp, down into its own tomb.

Having arrived in the burrow, the wasp proceeds to lay a single egg on the abdomen of the amazingly cooperative cockroach. Still the roach shows no inclination to flee. The wasp now clambers out of the burrow and backfills it with soil or small pebbles. In a few days, the wasp’s larva emerges from the egg. As with other hymenopterans, the larva resembles a fly maggot. This larva now begins to feed on the ill-fated cockroach and, in so doing, gradually moves into the cockroach’s abdominal cavity. Incidentally, recent research has shown that the larvae of this wasp secrete antibiotic laden saliva which kills bacteria harbored within the cockroach’s body. These are bacteria which might be harmful to the grub. Could this be yet another biological source of antibiotic for human use? Time will tell.

After several days of feasting, the wasp larva forms a pupa inside the cockroach’s body. From here, it soon emerges as an adult wasp. Sounds like something out of a science fiction movie. Anyone else thinking of Ridley Scott’s Alien trilogy? It seems that, in this case, the wasp is using its toxin to block certain insect neurological pathways. Although perhaps less biochemically complicated than the mind altering mechanisms of Cordyceps or Leucochloridium, we still must marvel at the complexity and efficiency of this diminutive wasp’s behavioral repertoire.

One might presume to meditate upon the fact that it is a really good thing that humans don’t fall prey to such insidious parasitic mind control. Of course, in making such a presumption, we would likely be kidding ourselves. We must recognize that humans are biological organisms too – undeniably solid citizens of good-standing within the Kingdom Animalia. As a result, we should be considerably more surprised if we were not considered fair game by such parasites. In fact, research suggests very strongly that humans are far from immune to the mind-bending antics of parasites.

For a glimpse into the disconcertingly disturbing world of parasitic mind control in humans, be sure to keep an eye out for The Stealth Attack – Part 3.

Photo Credits:
Leucochloridium graphic - Intro.to Parasitology by Chandler and Read
Leucochloridium infected snail - Thomas Hahmann at Wikimedia Commons
Emerald Cockroach Wasp - courtesy of bioweb.uwlax.edu
Wasp with Cockroach - courtesy of creativecommons.com


13. The Stealth Attack: Part 1 – The Creepy World of Parasitic Mind-control

Walking within the tropical rainforest of the Peruvian Amazon is always an adventure. One never quite knows what to expect next. It could be a hitherto un-encountered monkey species, an important medicinal plant, a spectacularly colored bird, or a Yagua hunter moving stealthily along the path blowpipe in hand. On this occasion, the encounter involved an insect and it opened a window into an often hidden aspect of tropical rainforest biology both fascinating and disturbing.

As I slowly and quietly stepped along the trail, with my companion and guide Pablo, I scanned the surrounding forest floor and middle stories of the trees. We had already had good luck that morning with excellent views of saddle-backed tamarins and squirrel monkeys. I had also gotten my first look at one of my favorite Amazonian birds, a stunning little wire-tailed manakin – a gem of the rainforest not to mention one of its most accomplished dancers. As we continued along the trail, my eyes wandered over the surrounding vegetation. On the lookout for any movement, I also scanned for the quiet presence of eyelash viper, a species prone to lie about on low vegetation. This habit made it a good idea to always look ahead and be aware of where one placed arms, legs, and torso. As I glanced to my left, I noticed a liana creeping from the ground and ascending at a shallow angle up into a nearby tree. Perched upon this liana was a small insect. But what a strange little insect it was. Protruding from its body was what I took to be a pair of exceedingly long antennae. But something didn’t seem quite right; the antennae seemed greatly out of proportion to the insect’s size. Stepping closer, I recognized the insect as a snout beetle. Curculionids are

so-called because the front of their head is elongated and forms what appears to be an extended proboscis. Surprisingly, the structures that I had mistaken for antennae were not that at all. First, they were not growing from the head where they should have been. I now saw that they were actually two long filaments extending upwards from the joint between the head and the thorax of the beetle.  And, the end of each filament bore an oval, thin-walled sac. These were not antennae. They were the spore producing organs of a fungus! So, here it was at last. I had finally encountered the legendary Cordyceps fungus, the stuff of science fiction nightmare.

Some days previously such a fungus had released its spores into the air. One of these spores, wafted upon the minuscule breezes which circulate near the forest floor, had landed upon the unsuspecting snout beetle whose corpse now rested before me.  From the spore, minute threadlike filaments which form the vegetative body of a fungus had begun to grow. Aided by their enzyme secretions, these mycelia penetrated the beetle’s first line of defense, its chitinous exoskeleton. Now they began to grow into the insect’s body. But here is where the intriguing part of the Cordyceps story really begins.

One would think that, having gained access to the soft tissues, the fungus would begin to randomly eat away at this nutrient rich flesh. But this is not so. Guided by some elaborate but mysterious biochemical “instinct”, the fungus had begun to feed on its unsuspecting host in a highly selective manner. While using the beetle as a food source, the fungus had diligently avoided feasting on any of the insect’s vital organs. Damage to any organs which might quickly kill its host was studiously avoided by the Cordyceps. Slowly, over a period of days, the fungus digested the non-vital tissues of its host insect. Having eaten its fill so to speak, the fungus now began to exert what is inarguably its most astounding influence on the hapless victim. Through the use of incompletely understood biochemical mechanisms, the fungus initiated a sudden change in the behavior of its insect host.

The snout beetle was seized by an irresistible urge to leave its home on the forest floor and to climb. Ascending onto the liana the beetle, most remarkably, scaled to a specific height above the ground. Here at its final position the altitude, humidity, and exposure to gentle breezes were precisely correct for the Cordyceps to have its reproductive cells dispersed. Having reached this optimal perch, the fungus proceeded to complete its digestion of the insect’s internal organs and to grow its spore producing organs.

In some cases, fungi of this type cause even more bizarrely specific behaviors. Ants infected in such a way may not just climb to a precise height about the ground. They are also induced by the fungal parasite to clamp their jaws onto a stem or leaf petiole with great force. Thus fastened to its perch the ant, after its death, is less likely to fall back to the forest floor before the fungi’s spores are released into the air. Based upon fossil evidence, it appears that this fungus-insect relationship may have evolved several tens of millions of years ago. As this scenario played through my mind, I reflected back to a comment I once heard made by a tropical rainforest biologist. Referring to this type of fungi’s devious biochemical mind control of the host he said, “. . . and we refer to the fungi as a lower form of life?”

Although they now reside within their own taxonomic kingdom, several generations of biologists once thought of fungi as odd members of the plant kingdom. Fungi lack the indicators of complexity we humans hold in high esteem such as mobility, a central nervous system, and some degree of intelligence. In light of this, the ability of an organism such as Cordyceps to invade an animal and take over control of its mental faculties is downright astounding – and scary. Lest you think that Cordyceps is unique in its uncanny ability to turn its host into a virtual zombie, stay tuned. The Stealth Attack Part 2 will be coming soon.

Photo Credits:
saddle-backed tamarin courtesy of the Univ. of Windsor Bio. Dept.
wire-tailed manakin by Juniorgirotto at Wikimedia Commons
eyelash viper at Wikimedia Commons
fungus-infected ant by Bernard DuPont at Wikimedia Commons
fungi cluster courtesy of sceincing.com
fungus-infected beetle by the author



12. Walking With Friends


The walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated hours …but it is itself the enterprise and adventure of the day.”                 

                                                                                            Henry David Thoreau – Walking

Today’s walk was a solo; a couple of miles on a beautiful late-summer morning. Though fitness had crossed my mind as a motivation for the jaunt, I could not argue with Mr. Thoreau. The walk, undertaken as an important component of my day, was indeed justification enough.

Living in rural Sullivan County, Indiana I am blessed with the ability to amble down my lane and out onto the local roadway without much fear of interference from that nuisance one finds on most roads – traffic. This time I am a bit chagrined, as I start my jaunt, when a neighbor’s car passes me. On an errand to town I imagine. Most times I will have these two miles to myself and can walk on the left, right, or leisurely amble right down the middle of 225 South if I so choose. Odds are thus quite high that the only sounds impinging upon my tympanic membranes will be natural – northern cardinal, pileated woodpecker, wind caressing the leaves of the maples and oaks, a lingering cicada or a few late-to-bed katydids. I suppose a person fully committed to the urban life might find such a stroll alarmingly dull; no people to watch, no vehicles to appraise, no beckoning sidewalk café for coffee and the morning news.  As for me, I do not relish the idea of spending this morning’s ramble and mediation with a crowd. The single car that passed this morning was intrusion enough thank you.

Yet, in spite of what I have said, do not imagine that I am really alone on this morning stroll. I have dozens of acquaintances with whom I share the break of day. They may be voiceless and immobile but they speak to me just the same. They energize my mind and bring a flood of memories, contemplations, and conjectures. My walk proceeds not as a dull plod but as a compulsory meditation upon the many living wonders residing near at hand. The friends, of whom I speak, so easily unheeded by many who would pass along this path are the common flowering plants of a lonely Indiana back-road.

Several of the acquaintances I meet remind me of why so many communities in this area have descriptive names such as Prairie Creek, Prairieton, Indian Prairie, or Shaker Prairie. This morning, at various spots along my road, I am greeted by big bluestem, little bluestem, cup plant, tall goldenrod, common milkweed, Indian grass, and butterfly weed. All these represent remnants of the fingers of tallgrass prairie which probed the vacant spots along the western flanks of North America’s immense, eastern deciduous forest. It is impossible for me to consider these plants and not have my mind rush backwards as though I have exerted a forceful pull on the operative lever of H.G. Well’s time machine. I try with all my might to picture a sea of these plants, and many other species of course, stretching away to the horizon. What a vista it must have been; the bluestem, tall as a man on horseback, rippling in the wind and interspersed with inestimable acres of purple coneflower, leadplant, blazing star, rattlesnake master, grama grass, cutleaf silphium, partridge pea, queen of the prairie, and rosinweed! A herd of American bison, numbering in multiples of a thousand, can be seen slowly cruising among the prairie plants and industriously converting sunlight energy into muscle, sinew, and bone. It is a grand scene that plays in my mind. Admittedly, my vision is tinged with melancholy as I recall that over ninety percent of North America’s tallgrass prairie is now gone. I am reminded of the words of the great conservationist Aldo Leopold.  “What a thousand acres of Silphiums looked like when they tickled the bellies of the buffalo is a question never again to be answered, and perhaps not even asked.”     

But I refuse to be morose on such a beautiful fall morning. I admire the remnants of the once mighty prairie and walk onward in anticipation of seeing other friends. As I move along, I am reminded that our native plants are often freely mixed among others who exist here as a result of human handiwork. The number of introduced plant species encountered is quite staggering as I continue to contemplate the floral world along my route. Many of these plants came from Europe with the early immigrants to North America. Others have come by way of Asia. The Indiana Department of Natural Resources says that a quarter of the two-thousand species of vascular plants in Indiana are introduced. No wonder I am meeting so many foreigners this morning. I often find myself surprised to learn that a plant I had always assumed was native has in fact been transported here from some far, alien shore. Most of these plants have been here for so long that they have become naturalized into the landscape and do little harm. Others are concrete examples of good human intention gone horribly wrong. To be honest, they are the antitheses of plant friends. For example, standing here and there above the roadside ditches are three of the nastiest invasive plants in Sullivan County. Autumn olive, bush honeysuckle, and multiflora rose are all natives of Asia. Imported as ornamentals and to enhance wildlife habitat, they have become major problems. Multiflora rose was even promoted as a living fence at one time; I remember a neighbor whose cattle pasture was so enclosed. This plant, like the other two, produces a fruit attractive to birds and has thus been spread far and wide by means of the bird’s droppings. The formation of dense thickets, the crowding out of native plants, and the possession of thorns big enough to rip the flesh are the charms now offered throughout the countryside by this ghastly addition to Indiana’s flora. I’ve spent many a rabbit hunt cursing the nameless individual who first imported this plant. While autumn olive and bush honeysuckle lack the viciousness of multiflora rose, they do accomplish much the same damage in regards to their prolificacy and displacement of native plants. If nothing else, these plants should serve as monuments to the hubris and lack of foresight of humans.  The list of invasive plants and animals abetted by the actions of mankind would fill a good sized book. The disastrous effect of invasives upon the native flora and fauna of various countries of the world would fill several volumes I imagine.

But, as I have said, most of our introduced plants behave themselves as well-mannered guests should. I find myself more accepting of these polite exotics. Certainly the introduced plants I now see are less intrusive than the scoundrels mentioned above. In fact, I find them downright attractive. Queen Anne’s lace is a lovely, white-flowered native of Europe and a relative of the domestic carrot. There are also dandelions to be seen here and there.  Another European native, this plant is also a common member of that diverse assemblage of flora that passes for my lawn. Many berate the dandelion for its audacity in marring their well-manicured yard. But I welcome it and sometimes take advantage of it in the spring when, upon experiencing a dearth of morels, I pick the blossoms and fry them in egg, flour, and butter. Thus prepared they are quite delicious. This morning I see chicory too; its vibrant blue flowers stand out like little neon signs along the road. Another Eurasian import, chicory has a long history of use by humans both as a food and as a coffee substitute.

Strolling onward, scanning the roadside ditch, I notice a patch of cattails taking advantage of the wet soil there. This plant has long intrigued me for the eclectic uses it offered generations of native peoples.  The long, durable leaves could be woven into mats for floor or wall. The roots are quite edible. They remind me somewhat of cabbage. I’ve been told that cattail pollen has served as a substitute for flour in making pancakes. It is also a plant much favored for nesting by one of my favorite birds, the red-winged blackbird. Sadly, this plant has been replaced over much of its range here in Sullivan County by a non-native subspecies of Phragmites. This very tall invasive grass grows in dense stands, blocks shorelines, forms virtually impenetrable stands, and in my eyes has none of the virtues of the cattail.

Ahead there is a nice thicket of blackberry. The berries themselves are gone now but they bring back recent memories of a luscious blackberry cobbler, homemade and liberally covered with ice cream. They also remind me of the labor intensive work required to collect them. One can expect badly scratched hands as a souvenir of gathering them as well. Here is a life lesson perhaps. Something as coveted as a blackberry cobbler does not come without effort.

Next there comes an impressively tall mullein plant, another visitor from Europe. Its broad rosettes of soft, furry leaves lie close to the ground. Pioneer girls made doll blankets from these. As boys my brother and I found the long, erect flower stems to be good substitutes for lances and yes, of course we threw them at each other. The plant having been here for over two centuries, some Native American tribes used mullein for medicinal purposes. Smoking the dried leaves was said to treat respiratory conditions such as bronchitis.

As I meander onward, I notice some pokeweed. It has grown since spring. As a result it is much taller than me now and has a significant accumulation of toxins in its roots, stems, leaves, and fruits. Earlier in the year the leaves could be washed and used in a salad or boiled and eaten as poke greens. A change of water between boilings is recommended.  Several species of birds feed on pokeweed berries and are unaffected by its poisonous components phytolaccine, phytolaccatoxin, and phytolaccigenin.

Here and there I see common milkweed plants. It is after all, as the name suggests, ubiquitous; at least along this road.  These plants get their name from the milky looking sap that is exuded from an injured stem.  This sap contains toxic cardiac glycosides, the potency of which varies among species. The plants have formed pods and will soon be drying, cracking, and releasing their airborne seeds. As a youngster, I found it impossible to walk by a milkweed plant and not be tempted to stop and help disperse the seeds. There was a captivating beauty in seeing the small, flattened, black seeds whisked into the air by a stiff breeze. Riding the air currents, their cotton-like fluff caught the wind and parachuted the seeds to great heights and far distances. I stood mesmerized by the spectacle of these little packets of starch and DNA being launched into the waiting landscape. What was their fate I wondered? How many would fall upon fertile ground? How many would find the inhospitable world of tarmac, concrete, or water? Away from my road, these plants have been significantly displaced by farming and herbicide application. This is detrimental to the monarch butterfly whose population has undergone drastic decline in the past twenty years or so. Their larvae feed exclusively upon milkweed leaves and incorporate the plant’s toxins into their tissues. Thus they become foul tasting and poisonous to predators. I see no monarchs on today’s walk.

All along the way, where there are adjoining woodlands, I see an abundant plant which can be lethal. White snakeroot is plentiful in the open woodlots here and it contains a poison called tremetol.  This toxin contaminates the meat and milk of cattle which graze the plant. The result is a disease called milk sickness. This disorder was common in the 1800’s and caused the death of many people in the Midwest. When reading about this plant, the victim most famously mentioned is Abraham Lincoln’s mother Nancy Hanks Lincoln. She died from milk sickness in 1818. Eventually the connection between white snakeroot and the disease came to be understood, apparently as the result of herbal lore passed from a Shawnee woman. The flowers of the plant are attractive and my wife often uses them in fresh-cut bouquets. The fluffy, white blossoms arranged in flat-headed panicles upon the upper stems appear quite innocuous. A curious but uninformed observer would never guess the tragic history of this plant’s relationship with our pioneer ancestors.

A last, fetching acquaintance greets me along my way. Standing tall with their vibrant, purplish pink flowers demanding notice is a nice stand of native Joe-Pye weed. I pause a moment to consider exactly what it is we mean when we describe a plant as a weed. Most often it seems the term is used for any plant that is growing where a human doesn’t want it. Marion Jackson in his The Natural Heritage of Indiana quotes R.W. Emerson’s definition of a weed. I like this one better. “What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.” Joe-Pye is a perfect example. Seen along the roadside from an automobile whizzing along at a mile a minute one might indeed be inclined to remark, “Look at that pretty weed.” But gardeners know better. Joe-Pye weed is virtuous as an ornamental plant. Its height and lush, umbrella-shaped, mauve flowers make it stand out as a bold addition to a garden or landscaping project. Furthermore, the very name of the plant alludes to its reputed virtues as a medicinal plant. Legend tells us that Joe Pye was the English name taken by a Native American healer who demonstrated the medicinal properties of the plant to settlers in New England. Teas made from Joe-Pye weed were said to be useful in treating everything from typhoid to rheumatism to impotence. Another name for the plant (gravel-root) was derived from its purported effect in eliminating kidney and gall bladder stones. Are there chemicals in this plant that act as genuine wonder drugs? Although many of our modern drugs are derived from plants, I know of no scientific evidence confirming the efficacy of Joe-Pye weed. Still, as I take leave of this beautiful plant, I can’t help but wonder. Could it be that the Native Americans, with their intimate connection with the natural world, knew something we have yet to fully elucidate and appreciate?

Turning toward home, I mull over the morning’s visit among my plant friends. I have been quite content upon my otherwise solitary walk. As the main enterprise of the day, the walk has given me much. The mental gymnastics spawned by my encounters with the plants have been substantial and entertaining. There has been pure esthetic appreciation, the consideration of humankind’s role in plant biogeography, contemplations of plant pharmacology, and reflections upon youthful memories. Just as importantly, there has been a constant, exceedingly powerful sense of being present in the moment. I have felt the persuasive awareness of being a member of the vast community of living things which make our earth so remarkably fecund and diverse. I dare say these considerations and emotions are available to you as well. Granted, you may not have the luxury of commandeering a rural road as your own personal byway. But, be not swayed. The local park, the nearby forest, even the city avenue await. They all have their plant communities standing in anticipation of your visit. Learn to identify some of your local plants. Walk among them. Really look at them. Think about them. Your new friends will reward you with many an enjoyable hour.

Image Credits:
Hiker silhouette courtesy hikingproject.com
Cattail courtesy USFWS at commons.wikimedia.org
White Snakeroot by Homer Edward Price (flickr)
All other images by the author


11. A Close Encounter of the Third Kind

= encounters in which an animated creature is present. These include               humanoids, robots, and humans who seem to be occupants or pilots of a UFO 

J. Allen Hynek

My apologies to the late Dr. Hynek for appropriating one of his levels of alien encounter classification. After all, though I most certainly encountered animated creatures, they were neither occupants nor pilots of a UFO. They were not robotic and they were definitely not humanoid in form.  However the realm they inhabited was alien, in most respects totally unfamiliar to me. In actuality, their world could be life-threateningly hostile for a mere human such as me. Their modes of obtaining food, moving about, and reproduction were as strange to me as the behaviors of a being from Dune, Pandora, or Dagobah might be.

As strange as it may seem, meeting these creatures required only simple opportunity on my part. True, the opportunity itself necessitated a bit of effort. Over four thousand miles of travel, some ten hours of flight at three-fourths the speed of sound were necessary. The reward was the chance to peer beneath the stunning, ink-blue waters of the vast Pacific. There, near Kona just off the west coast of Hawaii’s big island, I met the alien creature of my close encounter – the manta ray.

What an amazing animal, surely one of the “endless forms most wonderful” which have inspired me to write the essays you find here. Via Animal Planet or the National Geographic channel, I had long watched these wondrously graceful animals winging their way through their ocean home. I had peered at the screen with envious desire, never imagining that one day I too would find myself afloat in their realm. But, happily, sometimes our dreams do come true.

Snorkeling with manta rays, an adventure provided by  Big Island Divers in Kona, was a family affair. Our trip began aboard the worthy vessel Honu Iki sailing from Honokohau Marina. The boat’s crew made our trip a delightful bundle of exploration, learning, and pure enjoyment. The amiable Captain Mikey delivered his instructions and bits of information with splendidly dry wit and charm. I suspect he would have a good chance of success in a second career as a standup comic. Lucas and Griffin were helpful with equipment fitting and use and hovered over us like protective parents. Snorkel guide Molly gave us an informative introduction to the biology of manta rays and the need for their protection. As I listened to her, I reflected upon the fact that virtually every charismatic animal I learn about these days seems to be under assault.

Manta rays I learned include the largest of all the world’s ray species and are distributed worldwide, mostly in tropical and subtropical waters. Rays are related to sharks and like them have skeletons of cartilage rather than bone. We might think of rays as sharks with really, really huge pectoral fins. The wingspan of the large oceanic mantas averages around twenty-two feet and their weight may be well more than a ton. The more coastal reef mantas are smaller but can still exceed ten feet in wingspan. Manta rays are long-lived individuals, often surving four decades or more. During this time they remain constantly on the move as their modes of breathing and feeding both require the movement of large amounts of water over their gill structures.

Manta rays, like most sharks, give birth to living young. This type of reproduction is called ovoviviparity (c.f. humans who are viviparous). In this type of reproduction, eggs are produced but not immediaely laid. Rather they  are retained inside the female until the fetus is developed sufficiently to be born. As with sharks, manta rays practice internal fertilization of their eggs. Males can be distinguished from females by the structure of the former’s pelvic fins. These have folded lobes, referred to as claspers, which are used as a “penis” during mating. Manta pups are around fifty inches in wingspan and weigh twenty pounds or more when born. Normally one pup is produced every two or three years. Such a low birth rate can spell trouble for any animal that is under threat. Female mantas probably don’t sexually mature until they are eight to ten years old. Coupled with their low reproductive rate, this means that species such as the manta simply cannot produce young at a frequency which allows them to recover from over-exploitation.

It is likely that manta rays have been in the subsistence diet of indigenous peoples throughut history. This relatively small harvest manta ray populations could tolerate. The problem now is that manta rays have been commercially targeted. With the use of modern fishing equipment and techniques, large declines in their population numbers have been seen. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration notes that observed sightings/landings of mantas in the Indo-Pacific Region have declined by ninety-seven percent. The reason for the sudden commericial interest in manta rays? A market has developed for the dried gill rakers of these rays. Although there is apparently no historical usage of these structures in traditional Chinese medicine (nor any scientific evidence of their efficacy), the belief has arisen that manta ray gills may provide relief for everything from acne to cancer. Ninety-nine percent of the gill raker trade is centered in Guanzhou, China. The conservation organization SharkSavers reports that sixty-one thousand kilograms (sixty-seven tons) of manta gill material worth US $11 000 000 has been traded there yearly. Such tonnage represents the death of some ninety-seven thousand manta (and devil) rays.

Many countries now recognize that this degree of exploitation of manta rays is not sustainable. At least fiftenn countries now prohibit the harvesting of manta rays. For example, in 2014 Indonesia announced that it had enacted legislation to protect all manta rays in an almost six million square kilometer area under its jurisdiction. Policing of such protections is difficult in countries such as Indonesia with its far flung and numerous islands. Thus it still shows up as a major source of manta ray gill rakers on the accompanying graphic from the SharkSavers website. Still, one must be encouraged by the intent. There may be hope for the manta ray. It has been noted that sales of gill rakers in Guangzhou were 60.5 tons in 2011 and 120.5 tons in 2015 with a subsequent decline due to conservation campaigns and changes in government policies.

Economics has rested at the core of the assault on manta rays. Perhaps finances may ultimately lie at the heart of recovery for these species as well. Fisherman are said to receive, depending on the ray’s size, anywhere from forty dollars to five-hundred dollars for harvesting a manta ray. A 2013 article by Douglas Siefert (The Million Dollar Mantas), which appeared in the journal of the Royal Geographical Society, has pointed out that living manta rays are worth considerably more. Lots more! He uses the mantas of Kona, Hawaii, some of which I encountered, as an example. In the Kailua-Kona area, dive and snorkel operators earn           US$3 400 000 per year directly from manta ray excursions. Further, there are known to be 146 manta rays in the resident population.  Thus, each of the identified mantas generates US$23,288 a year in revenue. Because of their lengthy lifespan (40+ years), each of these mantas may generate $1 000 000 of revenue over the course of its life. Siefert points out that this doesn’t take into account the money manta excursions funnel toward hotel and car rentals, restaurants, airfares, taxes, and employment. Compared to the worth of a dead manta ray, these are astounding (and attractive) figures for consideration by those who might be able to initiate manta ray viewing trips in their own locales. Let us hope that simple economics can be the engine that drives the preservation of these magnificent creatures. But now, let me climb down from my soapbox and tell you what I saw myself.

At 6:15P HST, the Honu Iki eased out of Konohokau Harbor bound for waters just offshore the Ellison Onizuka-Kona International Airport six miles away. Our boat rose and plunged over the broad, gently rolling swells of the open sea as we motored northward. The sun approached the western horizon and we eagerly anticipated another of the stunning Hawaiian sunsets to which we had become accustomed.

The waters of the Pacific were a lovely deep blue when we began. Slowly they morphed into inky blackness as the sun at last disappeared below the far horizon. Snorkeling with the manta rays was a night mission.

Arriving at our destination, the Honu Iki tied-off to an underwater mooring and preparations for the evening’s dive began. Of course there had to be some means by which manta rays might be attracted to our parking spot so that we could see them. The Pacific is a little too large to simply jump over the side with fingers crossed in hope of good luck. The secret to our success was to first set up an irresistible buffet for the benefit of the rays.

Like the massive baleen whales, the huge manta rays eat some of the ocean’s smallest inhabitants – plankton. The planktonic organisms in the form of copepods, the larvae of corals and anemones, diatoms, dinoflagellates, and decapod krill swarm earth’s oceans in uncountable numbers. The phytoplanktonic organisms are attracted to artificial light just as they are to sunlight. Thus step one involved one of the crewmen placing a milk crate with two spot-lights on the sea bottom. Next, a flotation device looking much like a surfboard was launched. Projecting downward from this float were more lights. Our artificial suns were in place. The movement of the plant-like plankton (the phytoplankton) toward the lights enticed the animal-like plankton (zooplankton) to follow in search of a meal. It was quite amazing really. The lights came on and an oceanic food chain materialized: light –> plant –> animal. And of course the animal that we hoped would represent the top of that food chain was the manta ray. Into the water we plunged and grasping the handles around the float we hovered, looked downward and eagerly awaited the arrival of the big fish at the top of this feeding pyramid.

Under the lights, the amassed hordes of plankton made it seem as if one were suspended in the midst of a snow storm. The phytoplankton buoyantly drifted, floating in the water, a blizzard of tiny photosynthetic machines. Occasionally, across one’s field of vision, there was the sudden transit of what seemed a miniature meteor. Each marked the mad dash of one of the tiny zooplanktontic animals as it raced to intercept its equally miniscule victim. Several meters below we could see the spotlights sitting on the sea floor, the “campfire” as it was called. And then quite abruptly giant, shadowy forms moved across the lights. As if materializing from the water molecules themselves, suddenly there were manta rays.

As we watched, the mantas coursed back and forth through the column of plankton which had formed above the lights. With their broad oval mouths agape, the rays passed gallon of water over their gills. The aforementioned gill rakers, acting as strainers, trapped the plankton which was then forced to the back of the mouth and gulped down. An exceedingly large manta may eat thirty pounds or more of plankton per day. The manta rays we saw below us took plankton primarily by a method called ram feeding. In this technique, the rays simply plow through a concentration of plankton using the inertia of their movement to intake large volumes of water and the food it contains. We hovered on the surface hopeful that one of the rays would soon find the plankton suspended just below our raft too.

We were not to be disappointed. As I gazed downward into the clear but dark waters, a giant mouth unexpectedly materialized. Straight up came the huge maw. On each side a cephalic fin curved downward and directed water into the mouth. This enormous mouth was propelled upward by the movements of the ray’s wings (pectoral fins) which spanned over six feet. Surging upward it came toward our float; I braced for what seemed an unavoidable impact. But, at the last second, the manta performed a stunningly precise loop within inches of our faces. This maneuver revealed its brilliant white belly which was etched by distinctive black blotches. These “fingerprints” allow identification of individual rays. Downward the ray now plunged into the pillar of plankton. At the bottom another perfect loop was executed and again the ray ascended toward us like some incoming cartilaginous missile. It was quite obvious that the six hundred pound ray was exquisitely aware of its surroundings, the location of its food source, and the curious onlookers looming above it. Mantas have the largest brain to body mass ratio of any fish and studies suggest that they possess self-awareness. How could it not be totally aware of its environment? As I watched the acrobatics of the ray which was soon joined by a comrade, adjectives tumbled from my unconscious. Graceful, powerful, agile, nimble, beautiful – all most appropriate but so exceptionally inadequate in the presence of this astounding creature.

All too soon our allotted time passed. As we prepared to leave our raft and return to the boat, we were favored by one last pass from another giant. As if to show off its skills as a swimmer and gymnast, the great fish made two amazingly close, looping approaches of 360 degrees. So near was its lustrous white abdomen that I would scarcely have had to extend my hand to touch. With great reluctance, I heeded our pre-dive instructions – hands off! Nevertheless, my desire to know the feel of the ray’s skin, its texture, the strength which rested beneath, and the urge to simply make contact with such an alien being was most powerful. What senses were at work there? What thoughts, perceptions, and integrations were going on in that big brain? What were the secrets it possessed concerning its watery world? How vexingly impenetrable were the mysteries of this close encounter of the third kind.

These questions, the very nearness of the ray, and its extreme strangeness evoked the memory of author Henry Beston’s wonderful insight into those beings who inhabit that galaxy we call the Animalia.

Said Beston, “For the animals shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings. They are other nations caught with ourselves in the net of life and time . . .”

Do I expect too much when I dream that we may someday forge a peace with these “other nations”? Do I ask for the impossible when I hope this truce come soon and be of enduring length? Will we ever recognize the need for humans to become conservers rather than consumers of our world’s wondrous biodiversity?

Afloat in the immense cosmic sea, our planet is a uniquely singular island of life. The manta ray exists nowhere else. Should my visions come to pass, perchance this majestic animal will yet endure. Freed from the gluttonous attention of the gill-seekers, the manta ray will forever swim the vast seas of its planetary home – our home, our Earth.

 Photo Credits:

Swimming manta – commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Manta_birostris#/media/File:Manta_birostris-Thailand3.jpg

Gill rakers in market – www.geographical.co.uk/nature/oceans/item/376-the-million-dollar-mantas

Yearly catches graphic -www.sharksavers.org/en/our-programs/manta-ray-of-hope

Manta and diver – Steve Dunleavy at Wikimedia Commons

Manta mouth – Wikimedia Commons

Dive boat & Hawaiian sunset by the author.






10. The Beach at Rantau Abang

A recent (and eagerly anticipated) visit to Hawaii has me thinking about sea turtles again. What an ancient group they are. For over 100 million years they have steadfastly rowed their way across the world’s oceans. This is a small taxonomic group with only a few living species and in our short time at the helm, we humans have managed to endanger most of them. My hopes for these fascinating animals were somewhat lifted while snorkeling in Hawaii where I saw more green turtles than I had ever before encountered. Cruising along the surface while relishing sightings of butterfly fish, Moorish idols, parrot fish, tangs and trigger fish I would find myself startled as a large honu suddenly loomed into my peripheral vision. There seemed to be a mutual curiosity between these hefty turtles (100 – 400 lbs.) and myself. What manner of creature now shared their waters they appeared to ponder? Satisfying their inquisitiveness, they would slowly swim away seemingly intent upon discovering what algae was on today’s menu. These chance meetings with green turtles were certainly delightful but they stirred memories of even more unforgettable encounters with sea turtles. To describe these, I must go back many years and speak of another species entirely.

In 1973 the east coast of peninsular Malaysia was pristine. From the state of Johore in the south to Kelantan in the north, there stretched over three hundred miles of undeveloped beach. Composed of golden, wheat-colored sand, the palm-lined coast was steadily caressed by the gentle surf of the South China Sea. To me it seemed a veritable paradise. As a biologist, one special part of that vast unspoiled beach made it seem particularly blissful. At a place called Rantau Abang, the leatherback sea turtle (Dermochelys coriacea) came ashore to nest. I describe the turtle’s behavior as “to nest” but this is a pitiful, inadequate idiom. It is an admittedly unsatisfactory, incomplete catchphrase to use when attempting to describe one of the natural world’s most fascinating wildlife pageants.

Alas, in my sharing of this unique biological story, I must also grieve. For what I am about to describe for you is an account of a paradise that is lost. Now, should I desire to again experience the deep-seated instinct for nurturing and the expression of ancient rhythms which characterize the nesting of the leatherback sea turtles, I too must rely solely on the conjuring powers of the mind. By means of the enigmatic neural capacity we call memory I cling to the reminiscences of this primeval biological ritual as I would some irreplaceable treasure. Sadly, the spectacle of the leatherbacks nesting upon those golden sands is no more.

This is how I came to know a little of Dermochelys coriacea. In 1973, I had found myself newly removed from the temperate realm of Indiana and entrenched in the tropical environs of Malaysia. As a field biologist, the chance to experience Malaysia was the fulfillment of a dream. Here was a country not much larger (excluding the Bornean states of Sabah and Sarawak) than my Hoosier home. However this comparable geographic area harbored five times as many plant species, thrice the number of bird and mammal species, and six times the number of amphibian and reptiles as did my home state. What biologist would not be thrilled to work in such an environment?

Soon after arriving, a Malaysian colleague suggested that I should make a trip to the east coast. They guaranteed that I would find the sea turtle nesting area there to be of great interest. And so come June, wife Anne, daughter Michelle, and I piled into our diminutive Mitsubishi Colt and headed northeast toward the city of Kuantan. We soon found ourselves climbing into the low mountains which run down the Malay Peninsula’s middle. The slopes were covered by lowland tropical rainforest in many places. In others, the forest had been cleared and in these deforested areas we passed Malay kampongs, rubber plantations, and large tracts of oil palm plantings. From Kuantan, the capital of the state of Pahang, we motored north along the beautiful, mostly deserted coast into Terengganu state. Some 20 km. north of the town of Kuala Dungun, we arrived at a small collection of houses and food stalls – Rantau Abang.

Unsure at to the procedure involved in turtle watching, we made inquiries with the villagers and were directed to one of two small cottages that were available. These were rented to visitors wanting to see the leatherbacks come ashore. We booked one of these and transferred our few possessions inside. The house, if I may call it that, was tiny with dimensions of about 12 ft. X 12 ft. There was no bathroom or running water. In fact, the only furnishing was a large bed which occupied most of the cabin. This was a logical arrangement as one had to stay up most of the night in order to see the turtles. Most of the day was to be spent sleeping. Leatherback sea turtle watching was a third shift job.

Bathing was accomplished at an outside faucet near the cottage. Even for the three of us, who had experienced the whole gamut of intriguing third-world toilet possibilities, using the outside latrine was a frightening procedure. It was an outhouse of course built in the pit latrine style. This in itself wasn’t a particular bother. It was the covering of the toilet pit that prompted divinations of a potentially ghastly accident. Over the pit was arranged a mat of loosely assembled saplings two or three inches in diameter. I suppose, by loose definition, this covering could have been called a floor. But stepping upon this, as you can imagine, was akin to the feeling one might experience by walking on a trampoline. It really was quite terrifying to imagine these saplings suddenly giving way and allowing one to plunge into the sewage laden abyss just below. There was no proper toilet seat of course. Here the Asian custom of simply squatting was to be used.  The floor always held, but every trip to the privy was a terror-ridden experiment.

One might think that, rather than sleep the day away in bed, a few hours at the beach would be time better spent. If you were to express this notion, then I would conclude that you had never been to the lowlands of a country located near the equator. Here the sun is so intense that lounging about on the beach at midday is simply out of the question. During the day, the sand was so hot that it was virtually impossible to walk upon it barefooted. It would have been akin to walking barefoot across an asphalt parking lot at midday. So it was that we napped, lounged about, read, visited the local kedais for lunches of fried rice, and otherwise whiled away the time until we could make the much anticipated visit to the beach at night.

Naturally, the female turtles had to come ashore at night in order to lay their eggs. Not having the ability to precisely temperature regulate as do mammals, long term exposure to the sun could be lethal. Male leatherback sea turtles do not come ashore again once they leave the nest and rush down into the ocean. They spend this nesting time patrolling off the beach, out to sea, engaging in the two most basic survival behaviors of the animal kingdom – eating and mating.

In Malaysia, as is typical at the equator, there are roughly twelve hours of daylight and twelve hours of darkness. As sunset approached, we went for a late swim and then a leisurely dinner of rice and delicious curries of fish or chicken. As the evening grew ever darker, we tested our lights and at 10:30PM set off down the beach. It was wonderful to walk the shoreline at night. With the blazing sun now gone for a few hours, the temperature had fallen to a pleasant 75F. A moderate breeze flowed from the water bringing the rich, organic smell that even from a distance tells one that the sea is near. It is I suppose the odor of saltwater and fish, crab and clam, worm and whale all mixed into a delightful aromatic stew that speaks as clearly as if vocalized – here is life, abundant and rich.

Given the inky darkness, we wondered how difficult it might be to find a single female turtle far up on the beach. We needn’t have worried. Very soon we stumbled upon what one might have mistaken for the tracks of some giant piece of construction equipment. Emerging from the ocean and climbing up the beach, the deep symmetrical markings in the sand ascended up beyond the tide line. The form of the trail was a broad central, flattened drag mark about two feet wide. This was where the lower shell or plastron had dragged the sand. On each side of this were deep comma-shaped depressions in the sand a few feet in length. These marked the spots where the female leatherback’s forelimbs had dug into the sand as she thrust herself forward. The trenches were regularly spaced about a foot apart and lured us up the beach. We turned and followed them landward.

Playing our torches (we Americans call them flashlights) over the sand ahead of us, we soon could see the huge, dark form of the leatherback up ahead. I do not use the term huge lightly. Back home in Indiana, the largest turtle I had ever seen was a hefty common snapping turtle that weighed maybe thirty pounds. Now, lying before us upon the sand was a sea turtle that weighed in at over six hundred pounds. Her size was simply astounding. Leatherbacks may reach a length of over six feet, grow to well over one thousand pounds, and have a front flipper span of eight feet. They are the largest living turtle species in the world. Examining her more closely, the unique design of her carapace was revealed. The most distinctive feature of this dorsal shell was how dissimilar it was to any turtle I had seen before. Instead of a surface comprised of large adjoining scales, the back was a smooth almost blackish color. Rather than the hard, bone-like feel imparted by a typical turtle, the leatherback’s carapace appeared to be made of dense rubber. The “shell’s” texture and density looked very much like that of a hockey puck or the rubber tread of a heavy truck tire. The carapace was marked with scattered light blotches and several longitudinal ridges ran its length. Suspended from the old female’s eyes were large, mucus-like blobs which looked very much like enormous, thick tears. These kept her eyes from drying while she was out of the water. The tears also helped wash away any sand accidentally flipped into her eyes as she ascended the beach. To me, with the human tendency to anthropomorphize, the tears looked like visible emblems of the struggle she was facing in pulling her enormous mass up the beach. Without the buoying effect of the water and with her adaptations for life in the sea, the trip onto land was a taxing one.

Fortunately, we had found this female just in time. As we stood admiring her remarkable beauty of form she began to dig. Using her paddle-like hind flippers much as we would use our hands, she removed scoop after scoop of sand. After about fifteen minutes of digging the nest cavity was complete. It was a vertical hole in the sand perhaps a foot in diameter and three feet deep. The hole looked remarkably as though someone had dug it with a set of posthole diggers. It appeared perfectly round in cross-section and equally faultless in the smoothness of the walls and their verticality. Now she began to lay. One after another her large spherical eggs, about the size of snooker balls, dropped into the hole in the sand. The eggs weren’t broken by this fall because a reptile egg shell is not hard, brittle, or fragile like that of a bird. Rather the shell of reptile eggs is flexible and feels rather like thick

parchment paper. Thus the fall to the lowermost end of the nest chamber resulted not in a cracking sound but an audible, deep thud when an egg reached bottom. Watching several females nest over a period of days, we found the typical number of eggs laid ranged from fifty-five to sixty.

Having completed her laying, the turtle now began to fill the nest with sand. Again using quite hand-like movements of her pelvic flippers, she picked up portions of sand and placed them back into the nest hole. Periodically, she tamped these with her hind limbs to pack the sand. Having filled the nest hole, one might suppose that the mother would return directly to the water. This was not so. There were predators on the beach and they needed to be thwarted. In this part of the world, a chief threat came from large monitor lizards. They relished nothing more than discovering a leatherback nest and devouring all the eggs. In different parts of the world, sea turtle nests are attacked by a variety of other animals including raccoons, coatis, and dogs.

Because of the danger of predators the female turtle began her set routine of nest-hiding behavior. She worked onward with unwavering instinct. Dragging herself a few feet from the nest, she paused and began to make large, violent backward sweeps with her flippers. The sand was thrown rearward with terrific force over the site of the nest hole. Standing in the path of the flying sand, one felt as though a sand-blasting machine was being directed at one’s legs. After several strokes the female would crawl to a different side of the nest and repeat the sand throwing performance. This behavior was repeated another time or two and, when she had finished, the nest site was obliterated. It was as though one had taken a huge broom and thoroughly swept the area. No sign of the nest by which a predator might locate its precious contents remained. Having completed her work, the female now retraced her path to the sea. With ponderous movements of the flippers, she hoisted the front of her body off the sand and dragged herself down the sloping beach and into the surf. Most of the females repeated this trek onto the nesting beach and back to the sea several times during the nesting season.

Of course there was one predator who was not deterred by the leatherback’s elaborate nest hiding activities. The greatest threat of all to these sea turtle nests was human. Knowing when and to where the turtles would return, people were waiting. Finding an ovulating turtle, they simply confiscated each egg as it was laid. We found it terribly dismaying to watch a local villager methodically take every egg being produced by an ancient matriarch and drop it into their bucket. Here were half a hundred leatherbacks that would never taste the brine of the South China Sea. Neither was it difficult to imagine the impact on the species resulting from a large number of villagers plundering nests in this manner. Knowing that a nest was thus emptied, we would occasionally watch in deep anguish as a female turtle spent a half hour methodically hiding eggs which no longer existed.

For those eggs that did remain untouched, a period of development was now entered upon. It would be nearly two months before the young turtles were to emerge. The temperature at which the leatherback eggs develop is quite critical. Nest temperatures in the mid-eighties produce a mix of both male and female young. Higher temperatures result in the development of females while lower temperatures lead to the production of males. Incidentally, scientists today are reporting certain sea turtle populations which are highly skewed toward females. Global warming with its attendant increase in beach sand temperature is the suspected culprit; yet another threat to these already endangered animals.

At Rantau Abang, in the 1970’s, there was a government run hatchery of a

primitive sort. It consisted of a fenced-in area of about four thousand square feet. There was a small hut for storage and shade used by the old Malay fellow who tended the nursery. Within the enclosure we saw row after row of hardware cloth cylinders protruding from the sand. Each one contained the eggs taken from a turtle nest on a designated stretch of the beach. Outside this chosen area, turtle eggs were fair game and the locals consumed most of them. Each nest was marked by an identification number, the date the eggs were laid, and the number of eggs buried there. It was quite delightful to arrive at the hatchery early in the morning and see the dozens of little, three inch long leatherbacks which had hatched during the wee hours. They scrambled over one another and charged the walls of their enclosure in a frantic, instinctive attempt to reach the sea. Soon the old attendant would arrive with his red plastic bucket. Placing the agitated baby turtles in this, he would plod down to the edge of the surf and drop them into the water. They looked far too tiny to be venturing off on their own into the world’s largest ocean. It was better not to imagine the menagerie of enemies they faced out there. With sea birds, sharks, and large voracious fish on the lookout for an easy meal, the future of the baby turtles was rife with hazards. In fact, it is estimated that only about one in a thousand of these little hatchlings ever returns to its place of birth, one tenth of one percent; not very good survival odds. For those that do endure, a great migration was in store. Leaving the shores of Malaysia, the turtles would strike out for the far reaches of the eastern Pacific. Ranging far out into the open ocean before they turned westward once again, these leatherbacks would swim thousands of miles before yet again reaching these tropical shores.


Anne, Michelle, and I came away from Rantau Abang feeling privileged by our opportunity to have witnessed one of the earth’s greatest wildlife spectacles. We also carried away with us a gnawing dread that the leatherback’s future was uncertain. We hoped, perhaps even believed, in the optimistic manner of youth that more government protection of the turtles would soon be forthcoming. A mile of protected beach upon this vast coast was an absurdity. Surely the eating of the turtle’s eggs by villagers would be seen as unsustainable. We thought the residents themselves would most certainly realize that the nesting of the turtles produced, for them, the golden eggs of tourism. No turtles. No tourists. No tourists. No money. It all seemed so simple. But, as I said, we were young and unwise. We had underestimated the depths to which human greediness and thoughtlessness can progress.

Nearly all the world’s sea turtle species are now considered endangered. It pains me to think of the vast geologic history of these animals and their now perilous status among earth’s fauna. Here we have a group of animals whose ancestors swam with the plesiosaurs and nested on beaches trod upon by the dinosaurs. For over a hundred million years they withstood the ravages of climate change, predators, disease, and ocean hazard. Now, in just a few decades, these amazing reptiles find their kind decimated by the carelessness, avarice, and callousness of the human species. We have eaten their eggs and flesh. We have ground their bone into fertilizer. We have converted their skin and shells into trinkets. Their nesting beaches have been appropriated by condominiums and high-rise apartments. Our light pollution, glaring upon roadways and parking lots, is mistaken for starlight on water and lures hatchlings to their deaths. Many sea turtles are entrapped and drowned in fishing nets. For leatherbacks, plastic bags floating in the water look just like their favorite food – jellyfishes. They cannot digest plastic. It often seems to me that we are Hell-bent on destroying an entire subgroup of reptiles with nary a regretful look back.

I have not been back to Rantau Abang in nearly forty years. During all this time, I have found myself periodically dreaming of a return to those beautiful tropical shores. I imagined that perhaps my grandchildren might accompany me. What a wondrous thing it would be, I daydreamed, to gaze upon their awestricken faces as they stood next to a nesting female ten times their size. But I now know that this will not happen. As I told you, this is a story of paradise lost. In the 1950’s, ten thousand leatherbacks nested on the east coast of Malaysia. Six thousand nests were reported in the early 1970’s when we were there. By the year 2000, less than ten nests were completed at Rantau Abang. In two decades the number of nesting turtles declined by 90%. Recently, in verification of my ominous premonitions, I read a commentary announcing that researchers now believe populations of the Pacific leatherback sea turtle may be lost in the next two decades. Malaysian populations, the article declared, are already extinct. And now, so are my dreams.

A Postscript:

The New Straits Times (an English-language newspaper published in Malaysia) in an article dated September 11, 2017 announced that, for the first time since 2010, a leatherback sea turtle had returned to nest at Rantau Abang. It was the first nesting in seven years. Does a thin thread of hope still exist or are we simply hearing the last whimpers of a dying species?


9. Ever Thought Much About Ants?

“Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, . . .”

Proverbs 6:6

I have. And for some reason they’ve been on my mind quite a lot recently. Not sure why. I’ve got a suspicion that it has something to do with the fact that lately I’ve been experiencing one of my periodic bouts of homesick-longing for a dose of tropical rainforest – the most diverse, species-rich terrestrial ecosystem on earth.  And, of course, one cannot visit there without encountering ants.  As a biologist, when I think of ants, I tend not to ponder them as bothersome pests intent upon ruining our picnic. Instead I see them as imminently fascinating, complex social insects, and one of the most biologically successful groups of animals on the face of the planet.

Let me first explain what I mean by biological success. Success in this sense means something quite different than the manner in which the term is used in everyday parlance. After all, ants don’t seek wealth, political power, or social status. These seem to be common standards for measuring success among us humans. No, when I speak of biological success, I am using an entirely different set of criteria. For example, one way we measure biological success is by the number of species which have evolved within a particular group over time. Among the ant fraternity, there are over ten thousand species known with more yet to be discovered most likely. For purposes of comparison, there are only two species of pandas in the world. So, by this standard, we would have to say they are less biologically successful than ants. I suppose some might argue that dinosaurs would be the best example of an unsuccessful group. After all, they are extinct. But then we would have to decide how we were going to deliberate the fact that they were the dominant form of vertebrate life on earth for over one hundred million years. And, of course, there is the intriguing issue of the modern-day existence of some of them in the form of birds to be considered as well. Alas, all this would but complicate our consideration of biological success. Perhaps another time.

A second measure of biological success is the number of individuals within a particular group. By this criterion pandas would again be considered less successful than ants. There are some one thousand giant pandas and ten thousand red pandas remaining in the wild. Ants, on the other hand, have world-wide numbers estimated to be as high as fifteen quadrillion individuals (a one followed by fifteen zeros).

How long a group of organisms has been around (geologic distribution) is another measure of biological success. Ants show up in the fossil record around one hundred million years ago, a thousand times longer than modern man has been here. So, score one more for the ants.

And then there is geographical distribution to consider. How many different places on earth are home to the group in question? Because of our ability to manipulate environments, humans are wildly biologically successful by this measure. But the ants don’t do badly by this benchmark. Ants of one sort or another occur naturally everywhere on earth except for the planet’s very coldest regions. Thus, by all standards, they are exceedingly successful animals. This is especially true in the tropics.

And this brings me back to my recollections regarding tropical rainforests and ants. The biological success of the pismire clan is a phenomenon to consider, but even more captivating are the unbelievably complex behaviors and ecological relationships which have evolved among tropical ants. In regards to further contemplations of fascinating behaviors and social organization among tropical ants, there are so many nominees that it is difficult for me to choose any one. Army ants come to mind immediately. My first recollection of learning about army ants was via the 1954 movie The Naked Jungle starring Charlton Heston. As an impressionable eight year-old, I was terribly captivated by an ant army that could lay waste to an entire rainforest as though a phalanx of bulldozers had passed over. Equally shocking was their ability to quickly devour an inattentive human like so much spilled sugar. Many years later, I was to gain a more realistic knowledge of army ant behavior but nevertheless still find them fascinating.

There is a wealth of fascinating behavior to be considered when army ants are the subject. But there is another ant in the Neotropics which, in many ways, fascinated me even more upon my first encounter.

May I introduce Paraponeura  clavata, the bullet ant, also known as the conga or giant hunting ant. The first time I saw one of these clambering up the trunk of a nearby tree I was stunned by its size. Back in Indiana the largest ant I usually ran into was the carpenter ant. A big one might approach a half inch in total length. The bullet ant I saw busily foraging on the tree bark was three times that size. Coal black with a wicked looking set of stout mandibles, it was the first ant I had ever encountered that fairly screamed – don’t touch me! Paraponeura also packs a mighty wallop in the form of a venom injecting stinger at the tip of its abdomen. The intense pain of this wound persists for many hours. It is a pain said to be comparable to being shot, thus the name bullet ant. An entomologist by the name of Justin Schmidt has actually developed a scale for ranking the pain caused by the stings of various hymenopterans (ants, bee, and wasps). One must admire both his dedication to science and gallantry in developing his index of pain. Admittedly the degree to which pain is felt is somewhat subjective and, for those allergic to insect stings, any encounter can be life threatening. But be this as it may, Schmidt ranks the bullet ant numero uno when it comes to discomfort. On his pain scale of 1-4, it is a 4+. Schmidt described the sting of a single bullet ant as pain which was “pure, intense, brilliant, agonizing, and long lasting”. He reckoned the intensity of the sting to be several dozen times that of a common paper wasp.

In his book Tropical Nature: Life and Death in the Rain Forests of Central and South America, biologist Adrian Forsyth described an encounter with a bullet ant while in Ecuador. The ant dropped down the collar of his shirt and rapidly delivered four powerful stings in his neck and shoulder. He described the result as feeling “as if a red hot spike had been driven in. After an hour of burning, blinding pain,” Forsyth reported that he was left  with “a sore back and lymph nodes in my armpit that were so swollen that I could not move my arm without pain for the next two days.” Yes indeed, the bullet ant is quite an intimidating fellow.

On my first visit to Peru, I avoided any run-ins with this intimidating creature. The same was true for my next three trips to the Peruvian Amazon. On my fifth trip, my luck ran out. It was a night walk upon the ACTS canopy walkway that led to my encounter. As a matter of habit, I always watch where I am putting my hands when in the rainforest. Aside from bullet ants, there are thorny plants, scorpions, wandering spiders, and eyelash vipers that need avoiding.  Upon the walkway at night, while trying to traverse the swaying, bouncing, walk-boards maintaining one’s balance becomes a significant challenge. On my most recent trip (2019), I found myself suddenly totally off balance and swaying to one side. Reflexively grabbing a supporting walkway cable, I abruptly felt Schmidt’s “pure, intense” pain. I had inadvertently placed my hand upon a foraging bullet ant. An hour or so later I had returned to the lodge. By then my hand had begun to swell and the pain had migrated from the afflicted finger into the rest of my hand. Gradually the pain began to spread up my arm eventually reaching to my elbow and then upper arm. For over four hours I gritted my teeth as a pain that felt like red wasp X10 throbbed within my left hand and arm. As I write, some three months later, I can still look upon my left, middle finger and see the evidence of the attack. On the underside of my finger tip are the two telltale marks made by the ant’s mandibles as it seized hold. These are adjoined by the mark left by the stinger which the ant had so quickly and deftly inserted. Rest assured; this is a rainforest experience that will remain with me always.

Although I cannot speak from direct observation, I have heard tell of a most unusual human-bullet ant interaction. There exists a tribe in the Brazilian Amazon known as the Sateré-Mawé.  The status of warrior is highly valued among these people. As in other similar cultures, young men must endure an initiation ritual to achieve this esteemed standing and here is where the bullet ant enters the picture Hundreds of Paraponeura are collected for the ceremony (there are multiple videos of this rite at youtube.com). Using a naturally occurring botanical sedative, the ants are drugged into a comatose state. The now placid bullet ants are then inserted, stinger first, into a pair

of gloves made of woven plant fibers. One observer has compared them to large oven mitts. The young male initiate then has these extraordinarily uncomfortable mittens placed over his hands. Of course by now the bullet ants have awakened from their lethargic state and are very much displeased to find themselves entrapped in the gloves. They express this discontent by delivering dozens upon dozens of stings to the hands of the aspiring warrior. One might imagine that enduring this torment for a matter of seconds would be quite sufficient. But this is not so. The inductee is expected to withstand the agony of the bullet ant stings for ten minutes and must do so without screaming in anguished pain. Oh, there is another requirement for this ceremony. The young warrior candidate must, over a period of time, repeat this rite an additional nineteen times (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mawé_people).  Having endured the sting of this ant once, I cannot imagine the agony these young initiates must bear.

All these things considered, I would rank the bullet ant as one of the most fascinating of the tropical rainforest ants. But remember, should you have the opportunity to travel to the Neotropics yourself, be exceedingly careful where you place your hands. And if you find yourself in Sateré-Mawé country I would think twice about an invitation to join their warrior clan.

There are even more ant candidates of interest, but if I must choose one group of ants to share with you this time, it would have to be the leafcutter ants. In fact, if asked to choose a non-human animal with the most complex social organization on earth, I would be hard pressed to find a better example than the leafcutter ants. They are even more astounding when we also consider the nearly unfathomable intricacy of the mutualistic relationship they have formed with another organism in their environment – a type of fungus.

To begin, we must remember that leafcutter ants are social insects. Such insects (most bees, wasps, other ants, and termites too) live in colonies. Within these colonies, the jobs of scouting for and collecting food, defending against enemies, nest building, reproduction, and myriad other tasks are divided among members of the colony specialized for each role. Typically, a particular body anatomy is associated with such specialization. This allows the job to be done with utmost efficiency. Such division of labor bears an uncanny resemblance to the manner in which the jobs within human society are divvied up. The specialized body forms/occupations within a colony of social insects are referred to as castes.

Among leafcutter ants, the evolution of castes has been taken to extremes with as many as six different ones being recognized. The largest caste member is the lone queen who measures about 20 mm in length. Her primary job is to lay the eggs from which all other colony members are derived. Males form another caste but they are short-lived and their only function is to mate with the queen. Shortly after doing so they die, so most colonies are absent of males for long stretches of time. The remaining members of the leafcutter ant colony belong to the worker caste of sterile females which may number four or five million. The leafcutter worker caste is further subdivided based upon size into minims, minors, media, and majors. Each of these performs some specific job or jobs within the colony. Minims (2 mm) work inside the nest, tending larvae for example. These nests, by the way, can be huge. I once saw a leafcutter nest (they look something like an expanse of tilled soil) in the Manu region of Peru which was forty feet in diameter. Such a nest can go downward into the ground thirty or forty feet and may contain hundreds of interconnected subterranean chambers. Minors protect their foraging sisters and help defend the nest from enemies. Members of the media caste (10 mm) locate food, cut leaves, and transport them back to the nest. The major caste members are large (15-20 mm) with massive heads which house powerful muscles for operating their huge mandibles. These ants are often simply referred to as soldiers and their primary job is defending the colony against attack.

This extreme division of labor is wonderfully interesting in its own right, but now on to some of the even more amazing details in the life of a leafcutter ant society. To begin with, leafcutters do not indiscriminately harvest leaves from just any species of plant. They are selective and may travel far from their nest to obtain the leaves of a particular kind of plant. In one study, only about thirty-one percent of the available plants were utilized by the ants. The underlying reason for this is connected with the most remarkable aspect of leafcutter behavior. They avoid certain plants not because of the danger they might pose should the ants eat the leaves themselves. In fact, the leaves they harvest are not for their own consumption. Instead the leaves are gathered to serve as fodder for the special fungus that the ants grow within their subterranean nests. It is this fungus that is their primary food. We might well consider leafcutter ants to be earth’s first farmers!

Plants have, over time, evolved chemical defenses against the animals which try to eat them. The variety of defensive chemicals produced is impressive and includes cardiac and cyanogenic glycosides, calcium oxalate, caffeine, nicotine, and terpenoids.  Some of these chemicals cause a bad taste, some burn the mouth, others may cause nausea, and certain others may attack an animal’s nervous or cardiovascular system. Unsurprisingly, some plants produce chemicals which are toxic to the fungus that is grown by the ants (the aforementioned terpenoids for example). Such plants are identified and studiously avoided by the ants lest they bring back toxic leaves which would decimate their primary food source – the fungus garden.

As noted, the medias search for and locate leaves, cut small circular pieces from them, and transport these pieces back to the nest. When standing, looking down upon a column of foraging leafcutter ants I have been reminded of the view of an automobile freeway from a traffic helicopter. Thousands of determined travelers are seen marching back to the nest with their treasured piece of leaf, stem, or flower petal. In the opposite lanes, empty-jawed workers trek steadfastly away from the nest on their return trip to the leaf source.  The leaves they seek may be located in a tall forest tree and involve a considerable climb to reach. Ascending into a one hundred feet tall tree, a worker would be climbing to a height over three thousand times its own body length. This is the equivalent of a six feet tall human climbing a mountain over three miles high to reach a food source. If this human weighed one hundred and eighty pounds they would then, to match the feat of strength of a leafcutter worker, have to carry back down a weight of around one and a half tons. And this climbing, descending, and carrying would have to be done repetitively. The amount of leaf material collected by a colony is impressive as well. A study quoted in John Kricher’s excellent introduction to tropical Central and South America – A Neotropical Companion – found that leafcutter ants consume three-tenths of a ton of foliage per hectare each year.  Thus, for example, in an area the size of La Selva Biological Station in Costa Rica (3900 acres) we would expect these ants to consume 468 tons of vegetation per year. Kricher notes that such herbivorous feeding is equivalent to the combined efforts of all the vertebrates in a particular area of forest.

The foraging leafcutter ants make very distinct, cleared trails over which they transport their leaf bits. Media workers build and maintain these trails. Their paths remind me of little, miniature versions of well-trodden human footpaths. As media workers age, they are assigned the garbage detail and work to remove dead ant bodies, bits of dead fungus, and decomposing leaf bits. These waste materials are hazardous to the colony and are dumped outside the nest, above ground in a waste midden.

Minor workers perform one of the most mind-bendingly, fascinating jobs in the entire colony. Leafcutter ants, like all animals, have their enemies. One of the most crafty is a type of fly called a phorid. These flies parasitize leafcutter ants. A favorite ploy of the phorids is to attack a worker who is busy transporting a bit of leaf. Thus employed, the worker is unable to mount an effective defense against the fly. The phorid swoops down and lays an egg on the leafcutter worker’s head. As you may guess, the egg then hatches into a larva that proceeds to burrow into the ant and begin feeding resulting in the ant’s death. To prevent this ghastly chain of events, minors often ride on the body of a foraging worker or on the leaf which it is carrying. By riding shotgun, they can fend off the attack of a phorid fly intent on parasitizing the hapless worker. (Note the smaller ants riding on the leaf pieces in the photo below.)

Back at the nest, pieces of leaf material are handed off to the smaller minim workers and here begins a chain of events of extraordinary behavioral and biochemical complexity. The surfaces of the leaf particles are first cleaned by the minims to remove any bacteria that might infiltrate and attack the fungus garden. Minims then proceed to chew the leaves into a macerated pulp onto which they introduce the fungus which will constitute their garden. Studies have shown that this fungus will not grow properly without the presence of the ants. Grown on a protein medium alone, the fungus will not survive. Researcher Michael Martin studied the biochemistry of the ant-fungus relationship and found that the ants, as they prepare the leaf bits, release a tiny drop of their own rectal fluid onto the pieces. This fluid, he found, contains a mixture of organic compounds including all the amino acids needed for synthesizing proteins. Since the fungus is unable to break down large protein molecules itself, it relies on the amino acids in the ant rectal fluid to be able to build the protein molecules used for constructing its own mycelial body.

There is one final twist, a most coherent end-game, to all this. We might ask why the ants don’t just eat the leaves and bypass the laborious, complicated process of maintaining their fungus garden. The final, ultimate benefit they receive from pursuing this arduous relationship is as follows. Cellulose is a primary structural component of plants, it is one of the most abundant organic compounds in nature (there are lots of plants in the rainforest!). Cellulose is a polysaccharide i.e. a starch. Starches are composed of long chains of glucose molecules. Glucose is analogous to the gasoline for our automobiles; it is the basic cellular fuel for most living things. The ants need this fuel but they do not produce the cellulose digesting enzyme required, i.e. they cannot digest the leaves. Their fungal symbionts do produce cellulase enzymes. The fungus in the ant’s garden digests the cellulose in the leaves into sugars. These sugars are then assimilated into the corpus of the fungus. Thus by eating the fungus, the leafcutter ants ultimately access much of the glucose energy stored in the many tons of leaves they harvest in a year’s time – the whole point of this unbelievably complex chain of behavioral and biochemical events.

Thus there is total interdependence between the leafcutter ants and the fungus in regards to the survival of each. This is why their relationship is referred to as mutualism – a type of symbiosis beneficial to both organisms. And, in this case, the symbiosis is not only mutually astounding ecological relationship beneficial but obligatory. They cannot survive without one another.

I hope your mind has been suitably boggled by the bizarre world of the leafcutter ant. It is certainly so with mine.

And now finally, we must consider this.

The only person to see a new species of orchid may be the bulldozer operator who is clearing the only two or three acres of rainforest land in the world where this species occurs.


The small, hilltop patch of irregular canopy (right center) is rainforest. Much of it has been displaced by the regular rows of oil palm plantation. The more uniform tree canopy profile is composed of rubber tree plantation.

Biologists believe that the leafcutter ant/fungus association is at least fifty million years old. Can you comprehend that span of time? Admittedly, it is difficult to conceive of organisms living cooperatively for a period ten thousand times the length of recorded human history. It is equally difficult to simply grasp that stupendous expanse of deep time. Can you envision the intricate goings on within the leafcutter colony – the pheromonal exchange of information between queen and caste members, the complex division of labor within the worker caste, the intricate interplay of enzymes, amino acids, and proteins which drive the survival of ant and fungus? What a wondrous natural phenomenon we experience when we consider the leafcutter ant.

How many other wonders of equally astounding complexity exist in the tropical rainforests of the world? No other terrestrial ecosystem exists which equals the diversity of species found here. Even now, in the 21st Century, the tropical rainforests have been incompletely studied. And yet some twenty million acres of tropical rainforest (thirty-one thousand square miles) are destroyed by humans each year. This is a land area equivalent in size to the state of South Carolina. I find it difficult to comprehend how much life must exist in 31,000 mi2 of tropical rainforest.

I read such statistics with dismay(rainforests.mongabay.com/facts/rainforest-facts.html). I think of the sophisticated tapestry that is leafcutter ant society and wonder, what other marvels of the natural world are we losing? How many species of organisms have disappeared without our ever having been aware of them? What intricacies of behavior, biochemistry, and symbiosis have been lost while humanity remains blissfully ignorant? Many of our medicines are derived from the complex defensive chemicals produced by plants. What potential sources of antibiotics, analgesics, and anesthetics have been lost while we remain unaware that they even existed? By what ethical imperative do we justify the destruction of an ecosystem which represents the crown jewel of the Creation? What imperious conceit would allow us to extinguish, with barely a second thought, a biological interdependence fifty thousand millennia in the making? Will my great-great-grandchildren also be able one day to walk within a tropical rainforest? Will they have the chance to experience for themselves the bullet ant’s frightening demeanor? Will they be given, as I have, the opportunity to gaze in rapt wonderment upon the extraordinary march of the leafcutter ants?


Photo credits:

Fungus colony – Alex Wild @ Wikimedia Commons

Leafcutter Ant – Wikimedia Commons

Leafcutter Ant nest illustration – Erich Hoyt 1996

Leafcutter Ant castes – Wikimedia Commons

Satere’-Mawe’ initiation – Bruno Kelly at psu.edu

All others by the author.




8. A Sugar Creek Memoir

The lovely little stream christened Sugar Creek arises near the border of Clinton and Tipton Counties up in central Indiana. It then flows to the southwest for ninety miles, mostly at a leisurely clip with two or three miles an hour being the norm. Along the way there are short, faster stretches of white water that pass for rapids here in Indiana. I suppose someone who cut their kayaking-teeth on western streams would be less impressed and more likely to call them riffles. But they are sufficient to make the stream a popular one for canoeists and kayakers. As the stream follows its meandering path, a watershed of just over 800 square miles is drained.  All this runoff from farmland and forest eventually joins the Wabash River just north of the little burg of Montezuma.

Sugar Creek has done some beautiful work in the ten thousand years since Indiana’s encounter with the Wisconsin ice sheet. The sandstone bluffs along its course testify to the steady, patient, erosive power of water. In places, the stream has cut through fossil-bearing strata of high quality. Much of this bedrock represents sediments from the bottom of an ancient inland sea.  I once saw a wonderfully detailed (and expensive) slab of Indiana sandstone loaded with marine crinoid fossils (folks around here often call them Indian beads) in a shop in Jackson, Wyoming. Noting its source, I was pleasantly surprised to see Crawfordsville, Indiana listed.

I’ve made a few trips down Sugar Creek by canoe, but it’s been awhile; a good long while now that I think about it. Perhaps being 72 years old has something to do with this recent dearth of Sugar Creek canoeing. I’ll admit that sitting in the same position on an aluminum seat for several hours has lost much of its charm. Being a little less flexible in the joints doesn’t improve one’s canoeing skills either. Additionally, there is that pesky issue of possessing a sense of balance that now seems to unpredictably hit “pause” of its own volition

But, I certainly wouldn’t think of telling you not to do a float on Sugar Creek some summer. The stream still has much to offer. Usually low and in no particular hurry in midsummer (in fact you might do some portaging), Sugar Creek winds its way through both Shades and Turkey Run state parks, two of the state’s last natural gemstones. Indiana’s first nature preserve, Pine Hills, also lies along Sugar Creek. The huge sycamores, one of Indiana’s largest trees, lining the stream are a sight to behold. Beyond the sycamores, and cloaking the slopes above the creek, stand rich forests of oak, maple, and hickory. The numerous sand and gravel bars are inhabited by soft-shelled turtles. Espying your approach, they race down the sand bar and into the water at a speed that makes a lie of the old saw about turtles moving in slow motion. Great blue herons prowl the shoreline. Their stately, patient stalking of prey is a reminder for us to be persistent, stick with a task and we will be rewarded. Turkey vultures in decorous, soaring flight can be seen passing overhead in the narrow aperture betwixt the forested canopies of the left and right banks. Keep a wary eye lest your presence surprises them and a cascade of defensive vomit comes plummeting from on high. Pileated woodpeckers traverse the stream in their determined search for a delicious meal of carpenter ants or wood-boring beetle larvae. Belted kingfishers stand guard upon dead snags, ready to plunge dive for shiners or young suckers. Today there is a good chance of seeing a bald eagle. Back in my canoeing days, seeing a bald eagle was a very rare event. They were still recovering from the ravages of DDT. Yes, there is much to see and appreciate along Sugar Creek.

Speaking for myself, it isn’t so much the physical challenge that has kept me away all these years. The problem is that I am old enough to recall another era on the stream; one that is gone now and unlikely to return. Five decades ago – yes, I guess it really has been that long – one could float Sugar Creek from Crawfordsville down to Jackson Bridge in Parke County and still get a sense of 19th century Indiana. One could capture the sensation of adventure engendered by being a pioneer, a discoverer, an explorer. Of course the reason for the distinct difference between then and now was the lack of other people on the water. Just west of Crawfordsville itself one was prone to see cabins and fish-camps, but their numbers soon diminished and the stream was mostly deserted. On one of my trips back in the sixties, we encountered only two other canoes during two days of travel. Most of the time It took little effort to be transported back in history and to imagine that you were the only one on the stream altogether. Perhaps it is inevitable that all this has changed now. Canoes, with their novice pilots and noisy passengers are deposited by the busload at the drop-off points. The sense of solitude and independence that was so much a part of the Sugar Creek experience is gone for good. No amount of effort will allow one to imagine being alone with the stream or engaged in your own musings while drifting along within a veritable flotilla.

Upon reflection, perhaps I am being selfish. After all, one could argue that Sugar Creek is a natural resource that should be available to all who seek to enjoy its scenery and biodiversity.  And admittedly the state has been unusually progressive in trying to protect this lovely piece of Indiana natural history. In 2010, a partnership of conservations groups, state government, and landowners launched the Healthy Rivers initiative which is meant to protect over 40 000 acres of land along Sugar Creek and the Wabash River. From Shades State Park down to Fairbanks Landing Fish and Wildlife Area, over ninety miles of aquatic habitat and adjacent land is to be protected and conserved. It is a lofty and admirable goal in this age of economic growth, consumption at any cost, and political indifference (or is it hostility) toward our environments.

I admire the intent and labor put into the enactment of the Healthy Rivers Initiative. I must remind myself that, when I last floated Sugar Creek, there were five million people in Indiana. Now there are close to seven million. During this same period, the human population of the U.S increased by over one hundred and twenty million souls. Reason tells me that all these new citizens need a place to recreate. I cannot begrudge them this desire, this right, and perhaps someday I will again find myself upon the clear, turbulent waters of Sugar Creek. But I am daunted. Always lurking in my mind is the lament so common among those who have gained the boon of growing older, “If only it was like it was when I was young.”

And so today, when I think of Sugar Creek or encounter the stream from somewhere along its embankments, I automatically recall a certain, long-ago trip down the brook. This trip lies resting in my memory like a precious gem. Brought to the surface, this remembrance continues to constitute my vision of what Sugar Creek was and is.

It was my friend Jim with whom I shared the adventure in question.  Jim is gone now. I think about him often and his absence makes my world a lonelier and less interesting place. Jim was an artist whose bright mind roamed the gamut of human endeavors. Music, art itself, science, politics, literature and film; all these fell within his expansive sphere of interests. He could engage in an informed discourse on any of them. He was a man of mercurial temperament who suffered fools poorly. Jim had little tolerance for those who failed to meet the high standards of his broad-minded world view. He could be as explosive as a fumbled vial of nitroglycerine and was especially prone to direct his wrath toward inflexible, narrow minded religious dogma and its attendant intolerance. Politicians were another favored target of his wrath. Woe unto any public servants who traded in the goods which were anathema to Jim – hypocrisy, prejudices, disdain for the environment. His energetic, agile mind – which was prone to roam in unorthodox and inventive directions – was a constant stimulant prompting me in turn to seek, question, and consider. It was wonderfully entertaining to be around him.  Jim, in his later years, described himself as an Alchemical Artist. I had always perceived this ancient science as merely a search for the skill of transforming lead into gold, a narcissistic pathway to wealth. But Jim’s exploration and comprehension of alchemy ran much deeper. He described alchemy to me as “. . .  a complex and mysterious philosophy which involved a transformation process that sought spiritual renewal and an understanding of both the composition of the universe and how it worked.” A search for theology from a friend who decried organized religion? A quest in the realm of cosmology from one trained in art? Alchemy as the pursuit of spiritual and intellectual gold? These apparent contradictions made me even more aware of the depth of Jim’s interests, astuteness, and beliefs. In light of this, I was intrigued when I ran across author Edward Abbey’s reference to alchemy in describing a close friend of his own, the artist John De Puy . In reference to Du Puy’s brilliance, accompanied by a steady, purposeful intake of strong drink, Abbey said, “I suspected more than alcohol at work here. But the drug, as I would eventually understand, was not chemical but alchemical: the alkaloids of genius.” The alkaloids of genius were surely present in James Loney as well. What more can I say? Jim was the most interesting, thought-provoking person I have ever known. His was the irreplaceable friendship of a lifetime.

And so, one summer, we had decided that just the two of us would float Sugar Creek. Previous trips had, for the most part, found us drifting among other companions. But this time Jim and I wanted to sense the quiet solitude and the open book of natural history that Sugar Creek represented without the discordance of other voices, other interests, other motives.

So we put in alone and carefully took our time. For the most part, we simply let the creek do the work and relaxed as it carried us along. We were fortunate on this trip and did find our solitude. We shared the natural beauty offered along the stream as we passed beneath the towering sycamores and cottonwoods, caught fleeting glimpses of downy and red-bellied woodpeckers in the fringing forest, and anticipated what new sight would greet us around the next bend.

As we moved along we fished. Happily, Sugar Creek has maintained an impressive diversity of fishes within its waters. An impressive variety of smaller species reside there: spotfin shiner, stoneroller, redhorse, silverjaw minnow, emerald shiner, and the beautiful rainbow darter. Game fishes are present too. Catfish, bass, bluegill, and crappie swim the waters of Sugar Creek. The stream is considered by many to be the best fishing area for smallmouth bass in the state. Admittedly the fishing Jim and I did was accomplished in a casual sort of way. There were many other subjects of which to speak, other curiosities to consider. We made periodic casts but often simply let the night-crawlers on their harnesses troll along beside the canoe. It seems strange to me, after the passage of so many years, that the strike of the first fish remains so vivid in my memory. The deep pool cutting against the bank as the stream made its bend, the angle and intensity of the sunlight, the excited yells, and the agitated efforts we made to get the canoe turned and stopped, all are as fresh in my mind now as when I saw the tip of my rod whip toward the water’s surface. We did manage to get pulled onto the sandbar on the inside of the bend. We sat there and cast into the small, swift running pool (it couldn’t have been more than ten yards long) and time after time were rewarded. It seemed that every smallmouth bass and channel cat in this stretch of Sugar Creek had taken refuge in this one little spot. What a wonderful time we had.

It has puzzled me greatly through the years as to why this particular episode has stayed with me in such a lucid way. The number of fish caught wasn’t great, maybe a half dozen of each. The size of none challenged the state record book. As I have mulled this over, it has become obvious to me that it wasn’t really the number or the size of the fish that mattered at all. It was the opportunity to fish. The chance to be with a good friend, to share a rare jewel of a day, to match skill against companion and fish alike; these are the things that have implanted the trip so deeply in my mind.

I like to come back to this memory now and again. It serves to remind me that some of the most important events in one’s life may be composed of the simplest ingredients – the companionship of a friend or loved one; a warm midday sun upon the shoulders; the fecund smell of earth and water and a simple excuse to delight in a Creation that endlessly fills us with awe and enchantment.

I hope you too have that friend of long-standing with whom you can share the natural world. Should you indeed be fortunate enough to have that special fishing pal, mushroom hunting buddy, birding comrade, or hiking companion consider it a blessing.  Practice mindfulness. Be aware that you possess a prize of great value. Life is ephemeral. Deep, enduring friendships are rare treasures of immeasurable worth.

**********************************************************The Bald Eagle image is shown courtesy of James Romine.

Rainbow Darter image courtesy Iowa DNR: BioNet

Smallmouth Bass by Timothy Knepp, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons


7. The Bronzed Tube-nosed Bat

One aspect of tropical rainforest biodiversity that makes it so exciting, at least for a biologist, is the possibility of happening upon rare species. Of course the ultimate prize is the discovery of a species of organism which is completely new to science. The very idea of laying eyes upon an organism that no other person has ever seen is enough to send any self-respecting biologist into paroxysms of delight. Of course there is a caveat, one must always acknowledge that the organism in question is likely well-known to the indigenous people who inhabit a given study area. Their eyes are phenomenally attuned to the natural world which surrounds them; quite expected since their survival often depends upon having an intimate knowledge of the flora and fauna of their territory. Be that as it may, as scientists, the role of making a new species known to the world of academia is a significant one. In many cases, particularly if the new find happens to be a vertebrate, this will lead to awareness of the new species by the general public as well.

Even now, well into the 21st Century, the tropical rainforests of the world are incompletely known from a biological standpoint. Granted it is now rare that we find a new mammal or bird. But, on the other hand, many less glamorous organisms such as bacteria, fungi, and even insects still await discovery (my apologies to bacteriologists, mycologists, and entomologists).  As an example, a few years ago I met a group of middle school pupils who were taking part in a Jason Project excursion to northeastern Peru. Incredibly, during their field work, these students discovered a species of beetle that was previously unknown to science. Knowing whether or not one has a new species in hand requires expertise of course. Thus it is that one will find specialists in the taxonomy (identification and classification) of any particular group of organisms one wishes to choose. Some taxonomists go for the gold and tackle a group with charismatic star-power such as the dinosaurs. Others may, with forethought, choose a group of organisms in which taxonomic competition among biologists is less intense. Harvard entomology professor emeritus E.O. Wilson chose to become a myrmecologist (ant biologist) and in the process carved himself a niche within which he holds sway as the world’s acknowledged expert on this group. Some biologists will opt for an even more arcane group. This almost certainly guarantees them supremacy of expertise in their chosen area. For example, when I was in graduate school, one of the professors in our department was an expert on the taxonomy of psocids. You may rightly ask, what in the world is a psocid? Many psocids look like tiny flies. Others, being wingless, resemble lice. Technically speaking, they belong to a group of insects known as booklice. They are quite small, one or two millimeters in length, and feed on lichens and fungi. Psocids often perch on shrubby vegetation. This particular professor could regularly be seen wandering about the campus with the tools of his trade – a black umbrella, a stout club, and an aspirator. Upon approaching a shrub, he would open the umbrella, hold it upside down under the vegetation, and suddenly begin flailing the branches with his club as though possessed by the sudden onset of some sort of mania. This frantic and, to outward appearance, bizarre routine would be met with open-mouthed astonishment by passersby. It really was quite entertaining to watch him at work. Of course, he was collecting psocids. Pummeling the shrubbery would cause any psocids present to fall onto the black umbrella. Here, despite their tiny size, the whitish body color would make them readily apparent. The aspirator was essentially a test tube with a stopper in it. From the stopper protruded two tubes. One was a short glass piece which the prof placed in his mouth. The other was a longer plastic tube which was positioned next to a psocid perched on the umbrella. A gentle suction applied to the glass tube resulted in the psocid being vacuumed into the test tube. A very interesting operation it was and one which made me admire the entertaining eccentricity of many scientists even more.

Obviously then, collecting and naming new species of living things is not a common occupation. Try to think of the last time you asked someone what they did for a living and they replied, “Actually, I’m a taxonomist.” This, in reality, is a problem. The International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) lists some 20 000 species as currently in danger of extinction. Given the speed at which natural areas of the world are being lost to development, there simply aren’t enough trained taxonomists to catalog all the organisms which are likely disappearing.

Incidentally, today’s rate of biodiversity loss of is so great that many scientists believe that we are now in the midst of our planet’s sixth mass extinction episode. Because this rate of loss is so high, and we have too few taxonomists, we may not know the potential value of species that are disappearing. In some cases this importance may be entirely a question of ethics. Many, me included, believe that the wild organisms of our world have a basic entitlement to pursue their continued existence absent the threat of annihilation by humans. In other cases, the survival of organisms may have direct benefits to humans as sources of medicine, foods, or fibers. As an example, we should remember that nearly one-third of our pharmaceuticals are plant derived. Might it not be possible, in our wholesale clearing of tropical rainforests for example, that we extirpate a plant species with extreme efficacy in treating cancer or an animal whose venom might serve as a highly effective, non-addictive analgesic? Such a loss could occur without awareness on our part that such a valuable organism even existed in the first place? (*Do a Google search for the rosy periwinkle to appreciate the life-changing power of a plant-based pharmaceutical.)

But, despite these reasons for unease, let us return to more positive musings. The modest company of biological taxonomists active today ply their skill as best they can. For biologists working in the tropics, even those who aren’t technically specialists in taxonomy, the possibility of discovering rarities is always lurking. Like hitting a biological lottery, the rare species may unexpectedly turn up and grant the investigator a prize of great worth. Such was my experience while working as a vertebrate zoology lecturer at the University of Agriculture (now Universiti Putra) in Malaysia.

My colleague Phoon and I were teaching a course for our secondary education students at the University of Malaya’s field station at Ulu Gombak. The research station sat along the main trunk road which led from Kuala Lumpur, near the west coast, to the city of Kuantan lying hard by the South China Sea to the east. The facility was comprised of two buildings. One served as a laboratory where specimens collected during our forays into the rainforest could be identified, observed, and catalogued. The other building contained dormitories for the students, two small private rooms for staff, and a kitchen where the three meals students and staff took each day were prepared. In front of the dormitory, a small but well-manicured lawn sloped downward toward the nearby forest edge and the Sungei Gombak which flowed just inside the wall of trees. Although called a river, this stream was only a few yards across. I suppose a world-class long-jumper could have cleared it in a single leap. Nevertheless, the stream’s constant, muffled roar was a pleasant addition to the symphony of rainforest sounds falling steadily upon one’s ear. The stream was also a fruitful site should one want to search for caecilian larvae or foam-nesting tree frogs.

Across the front of the dormitory building ran a long, covered veranda. Tables and chairs for dining were arranged the length of this large balcony which stood a dozen feet above the aforementioned lawn. The porch was a wonderful place to sit and enjoy delicious curries of rice, fish, or chicken in company with the cheery Malay students. All the while we could gaze out onto the nearby mountains, their slopes cloaked with a thick covering of dipterocarp forest.   The superstars of this forest were the massive Shorea trees whose grayish- leaves caused them to stand out among the numberless greens of their brethren. Some of these Shorea were giants who towered over two-hundred feet above the forest floor. Occasionally a guttural call or a thrashing, leafy branch would alert us to the presence of a band of dusky or silvered leaf monkeys moving through the canopy. A flying lizard (Draco) might be seen soaring across the lawn its rapid, direct “flight” causing one to momentarily mistake it for a bird.  On more than one occasion, the morning was embellished by a flyover of one of the rainforests largest birds, the rhinoceros hornbill. Occasionally the flight would be announced by the magnificent bird’s ringing, honking call. At other times the hornbill might pass above us without voice, its presence announced only by the deep, far-carrying sound from the beats of its five feet long wingspan. They reminded me of the chugging of a slow moving steam locomotive. Breakfasts were often graced by the exotic, high-pitched whooping of white-handed gibbons or the deep, booming voice of siamangs issuing from the far hills as they performed their morning routine of establishing territorial boundaries and maintaining the unity of their groups. Looking back I recall a magical place, a kind of Eden where I found myself joyous simply to be alive, euphoric over my good fortune in being present in one of planet earth’s last, great wild places.

One afternoon, I was in the lab engaged in the identification of some of the insects the students had collected. My lab assistant, a chap by the name of Rajoo, came into the lab with a bat. He had found the bat, already dead, lying along the side of the road which ran nearby. The specimen was in prime condition. In the tropics this is a rare situation. A dead mammal quickly begins to decompose due to the high ambient temperature. They are also invariably set upon by ants which can destroy a carcass within minutes. Rajoo’s bat specimen must have met its demise very recently.

I didn’t recognize the bat’s species immediately although I did notice the odd structure of the nostrils. Instead of simple external openings to the nasal passages, these were like small cylinders with the nares at their ends. From this character, it was fairly obvious that the specimen belonged to a group known, logically enough, as the tube-nosed bats. I decided to go ahead and make a museum specimen of the bat. This simply involved removing the skin and placing it over an appropriately sized body made of cotton. The wings and legs were braced with small wires and then the specimen was left to dry. Such mounts, if protected from insect pests, can last for well over one-hundred years. The head was kept as well. The skull, cleaned of flesh by a colony of scavenging dermestid beetles, is often critical in identifying small mammas such as bats.

Back at the university in Serdang, I came into the office with my first priority being to try to determine what species of bat we actually had. Before preparing the skin I had taken the standard measurements used in bat identification. Total length was 40mm. The length of the forearm was 35mm. Ear length was 15mm and the bat’s weight was eight grams. The upper parts were dark brown and the uropatagium (the skin between the legs and tail) was clothed in bronze-ochraceous hair. There were two incisors in each upper jaw and five cheek teeth. Eight teeth were present in each lower jaw.

Now I began to compare my measurements and observations with the descriptive information provided in Lord Medway’s Wild Mammals of Malaya (Yes, an actual British Lord). At that time his book was the authoritative source of information on the mammals of Malaysia. Scanning through the tube-nosed bat descriptions, I found the closest match to be one with the common moniker of bronzed tube-nosed bat. It seemed pretty straight forward but, as I read the species description in Medway, I was startled. The text stated that not only was this bat known only from Malaysia, it was known from a single specimen taken in the neighboring state of Pahang. With rising pulse rate, I again ran through the measurements, observed the coloration, and referred to Medway’s description. I again came up with bronzed tube-nosed bat. Still not convinced that I hadn’t made an error in utilizing the taxonomic key, I ran through the characters a third time. Again the final couplet of the key led to Murina aenea, the bronzed tube-nosed bat.

What a discovery! I sat staring in disbelief at the little mammal lying in my hand, an emissary from an alien world. Such a find would certainly be worthy of a note in the Malayan Nature Journal. Publishing such findings, even if they require no more than a one page communication, is the stuff of scientific fulfillment not to mention responsibility. But, I had to be sure of

the identification so I went to the ultimate source, the British biologist J.E. Hill. He was the mammalogist who had established the bat in question as a new species based upon the original specimen which had been collected by Medway himself. After receiving my introductory letter, describing what it was I thought I had found, Hill responded with a request to have the bat sent to him in England. After carefully protecting the specimens (skin and skull) in layers of cotton, I boxed the little bat and sent it on its way to the British Museum of Natural History in London. Correspondence by mail from one side of the earth to the other was not rapid in 1975. Finally, after a wait of nearly three weeks, a letter from Hill appeared in my mailbox. With excited anticipation, I opened the envelope. Yes! My identification was confirmed; I had indeed encountered only the second specimen of bronzed tube-nosed bat in the world. Hill also requested that the British Museum serve as the repository for the specimen. Building a museum collection at the University of Agriculture was important to me but it seemed only proper to have the second record housed in a more certifiably permanent site. I also felt that Hill held priority on the bat as both its discoverer and as a recognized expert of Southeast Asian bats. So, I responded with permission to retain the bat specimen.

Although it now lies, likely forgotten, in a drawer among the vast array of specimen cabinets within the British Museum, I recall this little mammal with something akin to affection. Through our chance meeting I was bestowed a wonderful reward. To be one of only a few people to have ever seen this mammal was an exceptional experience. I was granted the opportunity to sense, first hand, the thrill of scientific discovery. I was given the rare gift of the immortality bestowed by the written word. I felt the exhilaration of knowing that, for the fortunate explorer, extraordinary treasures still lie in wait within the rainforest.  Yes, as I recall the little bronzed tube-nosed bat, I think affection is the correct word.


*psocid image courtesy of Tom Murray at https://bugguide.net/node/view/145918

Mammal images from Medway. 1969. The Wild Mammals of Malaya and offshore islands including Singapore. Oxford Univ. Press. London.

6. Panic Among the Earthworms

I have often been struck by the abundance of what, at first encounter, seem to be rather mundane stories of the success, tragedy and survival observable within the natural world. These are incidents which, upon further examination, are revealed to be anything but ordinary. Often these dramas are there for the partaking and require nothing more than attentiveness on our part, though sometimes it helps to add a dollop of luck. At other times, the interactions of things wild are more subtle and seeing them requires the practice of patience, stealth, and a bit of hard work. Whichever the case, what is often revealed are behaviors or ecological interactions that are far from commonplace and are astounding in their complexity. Take the lowly earthworms for example. I speak of Lumbricus, Aporrectodea, Diplocardia and their ilk. Local fisher-folk may refer to them as night crawler, red worm, wriggler, or dew worm. Earthworms belong to a widely distributed and biologically successful group known as the annelid worms. They are so-called because of the division of the body into small, ring-like segments (annuli). Leeches and certain marine worms are also annelids. But it is earthworms that are involved in this story.

The students in my introductory biology classes were often astounded at the complexity of these little animals. I suppose they had presumed that worms were simply long, tubular creatures which were full of some sort of unidentifiable black mush. They also had likely assumed that the worm’s main purpose was to repose at the end of a fish hook. However, upon opening the body cavity of an earthworm they were amazed to find a brain, a ventral nerve cord, several hearts, a muscular pharynx, a crop, gizzard, lengthy intestine, and a collection of rather complex reproductive organs – both male and female actually. Incidentally, the student’s newly found awareness is one of the reasons I supported the idea of doing dissections in a biology or zoology class. Many argue that it is inhumane and teaches children to devalue life. I see it as the exact opposite. How could one peer into an animal, which minutes ago was perceived as nothing more than an inert rubbery tube, only to find an extreme intricacy of organ systems and thus not be more appreciative of the anatomical sophistication and physiological elegance of any living organism?

Earthworms breathe through their skin by diffusion and thus must remain moist. This is one reason their skin is so liberally impregnated with mucus glands. As a result, handling them is a bit of a sticky endeavor. They have no eyes but are quite sensitive to light via their skin cells. Staying out of the light helps prevent drying of the skin, which could lead to suffocation, and lessons the chance of being seen by a predator. Since they operate mostly in a world devoid of light, earthworms are highly sensitive to vibrations within the soil. All in all, I find them mighty impressive.

No less a scientific giant than Charles Darwin spent years studying the behavior and ecology of earthworms.  In fact, the last book he published dealt with this subject. Darwin pointed out, as others have since, that earthworms may play a valuable role in nature. Their tunneling forms passageways for oxygen and water to enter the soil. Their waste products, mucus slime, and dead bodies fertilize the soil. This is well and good within a lawn or garden. However, more recent studies have shown that non-native earthworms, of which Indiana has a few, may be detrimental in forests where their overabundance can reduce soil fertility and thus diminish the number of native plant species present.

Earthworms, as you might guess, are a food source for a variety of animals. These range from the robins one sees hopping about in the yard to the moles lurking below the surface. Ah yes, moles; now we come to the crux of this story. I’m afraid moles are most often thought of by humans in the most negative of contexts. I must admit that skimming over one of their raised tunnel rooves while mowing and thus removing a huge clump of sod from a well-manicured lawn is aggravating. However moles are highly beneficial for soil aeration and water uptake in the same way as earthworms. Home owners often blame them for damage to their plants but moles are innocent. The fact is they are voracious little carnivores. Scarab beetle larvae, ants, ground beetles are all fair game. But guess what animal constitutes their favorite prey? If you said, “What are earthworms?” the Jeopardy prize is yours.

With some effort, I’ve tried to imagine the life of an earthworm. Can you too picture yourself creeping along a tiny, claustrophobic tunnel in a cool, damp world totally bereft of light? This is a Stygian realm, dark and forbidding as Miller’s Cave. There are monstrous beasts here; gigantic, furred creatures with but one thought on their minds – the securing of a nice meal of earthworm. We are blind and without defense in this gloomy world. Slowly inching forward by taking mouthful after mouthful of soil; it would be fortunate that our tiny brain could not foresee the inevitable, gruesome end as three dozen sharply pointed teeth render us into mole fodder.

That was the image that originally existed in my mind regarding the subterranean interaction of moles and earthworms. I saw the worms as little more than slowly moving targets waiting to be consumed by the much larger, more intelligent, and vastly more powerful mole. I’m afraid I had underestimated the behavioral potentials of the earthworm and the power of natural selection to shape them. This is how I came to that conclusion.

Standing in my flower garden, I was leaning on my rake taking a well-deserved break from a morning of tilling and planting. Idly glancing down at the ground, I was quite surprised to see three earthworms suddenly appear onto the surface and begin to crawl rapidly away from the spot from which they had emerged. If one could apply the term run to animals without legs, this was such a case. They seemed to be fleeing for their lives as if in a state of terror. As I watched them speed away, another sight caught my eye. Within a foot of where the worms had emerged, the soil was making periodic, upward, pulsations. It was an eastern mole paddling its way through the topsoil.  I really was quite flabbergasted as I made the connection between the emergent flight of the earthworms and the sudden appearance of the mole.  It was rather obvious that the worms were sensitive to the vibrations produced by the approaching mole and had taken to the surface in a last ditch effort to avoid becoming a meal. To me this seemed a remarkable piece of behavior from animals with a brain about the size of the period at the end of this sentence. If the worms recognized the vibrations as a threat, did this imply that they could remember? Didn’t this behavior suggest not only the capacity of memory but, more specifically, the ability to recall that the vibrations were produced by their arch nemesis, the mole? Did this indicate that they then had to analyze this memory and decide upon an appropriate response? In other words, were they actually capable of advanced neural integration? I don’t want to be anthropomorphic but the earthworm equivalent of memory, integration, and response borders on what I had always assumed were marks of intelligence. Darwin, in his aforementioned studies, devised experiments to observe how worms handled leaf material of different shapes. The results suggested to him that they did possess intelligence. He compared their abilities to the highly developed dexterous sense possessed by people who are deprived of sight.

To me, the fact that such high powered sensory effort could be accomplished by an animal with such a primitive nervous system was stunning. What was going on within that relatively tiny accumulation of neurons? Some might say, well it’s just instinctive behavior. But, what does that mean? It only opens another series of questions. What is instinct? Yes, I know that instinct is an inherited behavior but how then does a neuron convert DNA code into a physical behavior? How does an earthworm, or a human for that matter, store the information needed for an instinctive response in a cell that for all intents and purposes is no different than a skin cell? Neurons, like skin cells, have a cell membrane within which is the cytoplasm. This is mostly water. Scattered within this protoplasm is a collection of organelles such as the nucleus which acts as the cell’s control center. There are mitochondria for energy production and ribosomes for synthesizing proteins. Where, and how, on earth does a worm store a memory of what the vibrations of a mole feel like? For that matter, how do we store the memory of a favorite song, a list of phone numbers, or the recollection of a favorite vacation spot? I’ve read that neurobiologists explain memory as the repeated use of certain nerve cell processes.  I’m still left in the dark. What does that mean? If I could miniaturize myself, like the crew in Asimov’s Fantastic Voyage, and actually look at a stored memory, what would I see? Would the recollection, implanted those many years ago, of my wife’s first kiss exist as a huge organic molecule of some sort? Would it be a dendrite somewhat thicker than all the others protruding from a brain cell? Would one nerve cell, or a group of them, have a plethora of dendritic extensions compared to others? Somehow, in trying to understand the magnificence of memory and brain function, whether in earthworm or man, I arrive at an impasse. I can go no further in my attempt to comprehend either the biological or the transcendent marvel of it all. Contemplating the maneuvering of the little earthworm trio certainly opened a world of wonder for me.

So here we have it, a remarkably complex escape behavior in an animal we all too often view with total indifference, if not disdain. And lying beyond that, a doorway into the curious world of instinct, memory, and intelligence is opened. The whole earthworm/mole encounter forced me to contemplate how many other phenomena of the natural world have rested at my feet, unnoticed through simple inattention. All in all, such chance meetings serve as illustrations of the incredible complexity of interactions that make a typical ecosystem such a marvel to behold. If only we take the time, give ourselves the opportunity. Observations, which at first glance seem so simple and straightforward, will often compel us to consider in even greater depth just how multifaceted, entertaining, and extraordinary is the living world we inhabit.

A Postscript:

In investigating the fascinating phenomenon of earthworms responding defensively to the presence of moles, I ran across an interesting way in which humans capitalize on this behavior. It seems that quite a few folks were way ahead of me in being aware of how earthworms respond to vibrations in the soil. This is a very handy piece of knowledge if one is interested in collecting bait for fishing.  Ever hear of worm grunting? Check it out.



5. From So Simple A Beginning

. . . from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and

most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.”

Charles Darwin







A few of you may recognize the story told in my first blog. I have told it before. On the surface, this story describes my first nocturnal venture into the tropical rainforest of Southeast Asia. But, of course, I really intended for it to mean more than that. I related the tale for three reasons. First, it is my belief that the natural world offers us limitless opportunities for learning, wonder, pleasure, and fulfillment. These opportunities give us the chance to indulge in self-reflection, accumulate knowledge, escape from world-weariness, and provide a pathway to understanding our place in the world. Such activities are particularly human ones. Indeed, I would argue that these types of mental gymnastics are what set us apart from other species. We may be members of the animal kingdom but it appears that we are exceedingly special animals in this respect.

Secondly, it seems that both anecdotal and experimental evidence now suggest that contact with the natural world is vital for the psychological health of humans. For millennia, it was the natural world – the rainforest, the prairie, the desert – that provided the environments within which our human proclivity for curiosity, inventiveness, contentment, and meaning were satisfied. Achieving these desires brings us a sense of satisfaction and happiness. They make our life whole and purposeful.

And finally there is this – the big-picture idea – to consider. It is now apparent, after five-hundred years of progress in science, that the world in which we live is part of an astonishing, I would even say miraculous, emergent process. I have long wondered why is there is something rather than nothing in the first place? If all we know has emerged from nothing, what is this “nothing”? Was it the absence of space? The absence of time? These are questions that have occupied the minds of scientists and philosophers alike for a good while. Whether the question is valid or what the answer to this enigmatic query might be (if one is possible), one fact seems clear. From a state of virtual nonexistence has materialized a world of incredible complexity and biodiversity. Some will disagree with my belief that cosmic and biological evolution have direction. Others will accuse me of making a leap of faith. Still, I would argue that the evolution of the universe, and subsequently earth’s biodiversity, do display both purpose and direction. From the spawning of the first simple element hydrogen, emerged the stars that populate the billions of galaxies of our universe. From some of these stars, the elements that, so far as we know, comprise all matter were then generated. The calcium in our bones, the nitrogen in our DNA, the gold filling in our tooth, all these have been forged from the titanic forces generated by exploding stars. Once formed, the elements have yielded molecules and compounds which have made possible the evolution of life itself. From the first primitive cells, whose precise origins are lost in the vapors of time, have arisen all of the organisms, simple to complex, which have graced the earth.

Over its four and one-half billion year history, our planet itself has undergone extreme emergent geologic change. From its molten origins has come a world of rock, soil, air, and water. As a boy, exploring the waste from the numerous underground coal mines near my home in southwestern Indiana, I found evidence (in the form of bivalves and crinoids ) that the land I now walked upon was once the bottom of a sea. Further east the Appalachians had risen to snow-capped heights rivaling the Rockies. Over the eons, the ravages of wind, water, and ice have reduced them to their present aspect of rounded, rolling domes – the Smoky Mountains. The very continents themselves, we now know, wander restlessly over the earth’s mantle. Viewed from space, the visage of earth today is very different than when the dry lands were merged to form the immense super-continent known as Pangaea.

Within the realm of living matter, the emergent complexity and increasing biodiversity we see is perhaps even more remarkable. The ancient archaea and bacteria, their simple cells lacking even a nucleus, first arose billions of years ago. Soon they inhabited the soil, water, and rocks of the earth. Seemingly no habitat was too extreme and even the hot springs and salt lakes teem with these so-called extremophiles in their untold numbers. Then the more complex nucleated protists, the algae and the protozoans took their place upon life’s stage. The algae began the first tentative movements of life onto the dry land. These colonizers in turn gave rise to the primitive plants, such as the mosses, and eventually to complex autotrophic organisms such as the cone-bearing and flowering plants. The latter group, owing to their great biological success, clothed the earth with photosynthetic greenness. Their leaves, pollen, and nectar provided sustenance for a vast assemblage of heterotrophic species and thus triggered an evolutionary explosion of diversity within the animal kingdom.

With my apologies to plant lovers, I now follow the trail to the animal kingdom. From animal-like protozoans extended a pathway to the jellyfishes, corals, and sea anemones. Even today, their stinging-cell armed descendants constitute the cnidarians which swarm the seas of the world and build the limestone bulwarks we call reefs. Some six hundred million years past the multitudinous and varied realm of the worms emerged onto the ancient scene. Flatworms crept through marine and fresh waters. Many of their descendants became adapted to a parasitic lifestyle and comprise the fascinating clans of the flukes and tapeworms. Roundworms filled the soils of Earth in their millions. The segmented worms too found their places in both the aquatic and terrestrial abodes of the world. Today they reside as marine tubeworms, earthworms that till the soil of your lawn, and the sanguivorous leeches. Mollusks, in their remarkable and diverse forms from squid to snail, began to swim, crawl the sea bottoms, and to probe into the dark, moist places of terra firma. That great assemblage of animal species known as the arthropods appears in the fossil record some five hundred and forty million years past. They claimed their portion of the aquatic environments of the world in the shape of shrimp, crab and lobster. In the guise of centipede and scorpion, spider and insect the arthropods also came to be the dominate invertebrates of the dry lands of the planet. Today nearly one million species of insects alone are known to science. The echinoderms, the spiny-skinned starfish and urchins, in their rich variety dispersed themselves through the earth’s vast oceans. Descendants of this group became the ancestors of the fishes which eventually claimed dominion over the waters of the world. From one group of ancient fish antecedents came the audacious back-boned creatures which first climbed from the water and into the forbidding world of air and sun. Thus, the first amphibians evolved some four hundred million years ago. Over the next three hundred million years there emerged the reptiles, the birds, the mammals. For over one hundred and fifty million years, the dinosaurs reigned as the dominant group of terrestrial vertebrates. The sudden extinction of the dinosaurs allowed birds, descendants of theropod dinosaurs, to take a turn as the most biologically successful of vertebrates. They were joined in this new world order by the mammals, themselves descended from reptilian ancestors known as synapsids.

It isn’t just the emergence of such varied and abundant forms which astounds me. It must be remembered that none of these organisms exist in isolation. We have also seen the emergence of a hierarchy, like a set of nested boxes, of interrelationships. Organisms form populations, populations give rise to communities. Communities and their nonliving environment have been organized into ecosystems. Ecosystems comprise the biosphere, the thin living shell which surrounds the earth and within which all life is found. The interactions within the ecosystems of the world are complex and varied in the extreme. So much so that even today, in the twenty-first century, we cannot claim anywhere near complete understanding of all their workings. British poet Francis Thompson must have intuitively sensed this when he wrote “All things . . . hiddenly connected are. That thou canst stir a flower without troubling of a star.” All this from a great mass of hydrogen spawned from a Nothingness.

Among the mammals, one group was special. The hominids, with their tremendously developed cerebral hemispheres, rose to prominence. Within this group was a modern species known as Homo sapiens  –  us. And here, after fourteen billion years of evolutionary progress, a true miracle occurred. . With the appearance of humans, the universe has now, finally, at last become able to contemplate its own evolutionary history. We are, as Carl Sagan so aptly put it, “stardust contemplating the stars”. I find this revelation fulfilling. It is the antithesis of the argument that life is purposeless. Can miracle be too strong a word for what has occurred? In an online dictionary, I find the word miracle defined as: a highly improbable or extraordinary event . . . that brings very welcome consequences. In my contemplation of life on earth, this seems to fit what has happened. I find the mere fact of my own existence, let alone the plethora of earth’s organisms past and present, extraordinary. I certainly consider the wondrous biodiversity of our planet a welcome consequence. It is vanity I suppose that compels me to also consider my own existence a welcome consequence of the unfolding universe story.

In the end, our world and its origins and its complexities, still provides puzzles and enigmas aplenty. As I have aged, I have found myself somewhat more willing to acknowledge that perhaps this big brain of ours isn’t really big enough after all. Like a little Commodore 64 that has been asked to solve a complex problem in celestial mechanics, our brain simply isn’t up to the task of totally comprehending the immense mystery and splendor of the cosmos. Charles Darwin had the following to say about our contemplating the enigmas of the universe. “I feel most deeply that the whole subject is too profound for the human intellect. A dog might as well speculate on the mind of Newton.Darwin was correct about a good many things. Perhaps he was in this case also.

And so, I must be content for now with the idea that one of our most important purposes in life is simply to engage with and appreciate the living world around us. I have previously voiced my congruence with Alfred Russel Wallace who offered this simple foundation for achieving meaning in our lives. Said he, “Can we believe that we are fulfilling the purpose of our existence while so many of the wonders and beauties of the creation remain unnoticed around us?”  And there are wonders at every turn.  We should marvel at the beauty and humbling immensity of Orion, faithful companion Canis Major at his heel, as they wheel through the blackness of the winter sky. We ought to find our breath taken away by the flash of a blue morpho’s wings as it wheels through the rainforest understory. We should stand awestricken before the spectacle that is a giant sequoia.  Perhaps we cringe, but we should also ponder with admiration the exquisite relationship of parasite and host, of predator and prey. We should marvel at the little ruby-throated hummingbird that has traveled a thousand miles to once again find the feeder we have proffered. We ought to stand in amazed meditation as wave after wave of sandhill cranes descend, on parachute-like wings, into their marshland roost. All of these phenomena are part and parcel of the Universe story. So are we.

We know so much more than our great-grandparents did. We now understand that the very deoxyribonucleic acid which carries our genetic code represents an immortal thread. Our DNA embodies a strand that is a shared lifeline stretching back through the temporal history of the evolution of life on earth. We now appreciate that we have DNA sequences that are communal, not just with other humans, but with most other life forms on this planet. Perhaps this is why the natural world, given the chance, can be such a wellspring of joy, contentment, entertainment, and meditation. We are hard-wired into interrelationships with other species. The natural world is our world, our home, our birthplace.

This is why I consider the opportunities for emotional, psychological, and spiritual wholeness provided by contact with nature to be treasures of rare and lasting value. This is why I feel myself compelled to unabashedly jump with both feet into my experiences in nature.  I want to see the earth through the stalked eyes of fiddler crab, imagine the world through the super-senses of bird and bat, to feel the tug of tide and pole. Like Leopold, I envy the muskrat lying eye-deep in a marsh, eavesdropping on the loquacious geese. I want to follow Thoreau’s advice and suck the marrow from nature’s bones.  I want to come closer to Henry Beston’s understanding of animals not as underlings but as, “other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.”  Yes, had I a hundred lifetimes, I reckon there would still be too much to see, to ponder, to appreciate,  to leave me in besotted admiration of the miraculous wonder that is life on earth.

Photo Credits:

Darwin's Tree of Life - Charles Darwin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons'
Phylogenetic Tree - By Maulucioni y Doridí [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], from Wikimedia Commons
Hubble Deep Field - By NASA; ESA; G. Illingworth, D. Magee, and P. Oesch, University of California, Santa Cruz; R. Bouwens, Leiden University; and the HUDF09 Team [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons'
Crinoid Fossils - George Sly
Hercules Beetle - George Sly
Albertosaurus & young - George Sly
Horsehead Nebula - Natl. Aeronautics and Space Admin.
Darwin Portrait - By Charles_Darwin_seated.jpg: Henry Maull (1829–1914) and John Fox (1832–1907) (Maull & Fox) [2] derivative work: Beao (Charles_Darwin_seated.jpg) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons






4. Not So Big and Not So Bad: My Encounter With Wolves

Sometime in 1908, near as I can tell, old Josiah Hoosier was sitting under a shagbark hickory in his favorite southern Indiana squirrel woods. Comprised of a nice mix of hardwoods, the forest’s mast crop was bound to attract a hungry bushy-tail soon enough. Not long after sunrise, he heard a critter coming his way. The manner in which it disturbed the leaf litter indicated it was – big, four-footed, and coming at a trot. Likely someone’s black and tan, loose and out for a morning run Josiah imagined. He sat statue-still under his tree as the approaching animal neared the crest of a hill not twenty yards in front of him. Much to his surprise, the creature that topped the rise wasn’t a coon hound at all. Still unaware of Josiah, and still at a trot, there appeared a gray wolf. It had been a mighty long spell since he’d seen a wolf. But he still held the belief that the only good wolf was a dead one and he didn’t hesitate. Josiah greeted the ill-fated animal with both barrels of number five buckshot. In so doing, Josiah deprived me of any chance of ever seeing a wild gray wolf in Indiana; he had killed the very last one.

Of course, I can’t verify the historicity of this particular sequence of events. I am however confident in the depiction of the animosity toward wolves harbored in the breast of a good many folks. The hatred of wolves seems to have come to North America with the original European colonists. Native Americans, living here for thousands of years before the arrival of these colonists, seemingly had no such loathing toward wolves. Their conceptions of wolves varied. In some cultures wolves were seen as fierce fighters, in others larcenous apparitions; still others admired them for their cunning and hunting skills. There seems to have been no innate detestation of them.  For early colonists however, there was no ambiguity. Wolves were an enemy to be eradicated.

Our country’s battle with wolves started immediately. In 1630, a couple of years after its establishment, the Massachusetts Bay Colony offered a bounty on wolves.  This was the first of many bounties to follow as our nation expanded westward. One may wonder why this antipathy for wolves existed but it is, I believe, fairly simple to understand. The people who colonized our country were agriculturalists. Aside from the planting of crops their lifestyle, unlike that of Native Americans, was heavily dependent upon domestic animals. Colonists brought with them horses, cattle, pigs, chickens, and other assorted beasts. Their farms being carved from a wilderness, the boundaries of the homesteads lie right against these wilds. It wouldn’t take long for predators, such as wolves and cougars, to figure out it was a lot easier to kill a plodding cow than a fleet-footed white-tailed deer. Thus the wolf was viewed from a totally different perspective than that taken by North America’s aboriginal inhabitants. Perhaps another factor in the aversion to wolves is the genuine fear people seem to have in regards to encountering them. Although gray wolf attacks on humans are exceedingly rare, they have occurred. It wouldn’t take much stoking of the imagination, and collective gossiping, before a community perceived wolves as a real threat to human life. Given these factors, it is little wonder that the human-wolf conflict was quick to blossom.

In spite of feeling great sympathy for the plight of the gray wolf, I can empathize with these early colonists. In the oxymoronic tameness of what passes for wild, here in southwestern Indiana today, I’ve had my own battles. In our area, it is often the raccoon that tends to test the patience of one living in the country as we call it. Our house sits in a small patch of hardwood forest that provides good raccoon habitat. Believing that they were here first, my wife and I have always tried to cut them some slack. If they raid the bird feeders, I add more seed. If they dig up our newly planted spring flowers, we replant them. If they prowl the patio and stare in our bedroom window, we stare back. Only once in the nearly forty years we’ve lived here have they driven me to violence. One spring we were set upon by a big male who was seemingly possessed by an urge to set the record as the most destructive raccoon in Sullivan County. In the space of a few nights, his crimes were legion. First, he dug up over a hundred dollars worth of bedding plants my wife had put in. She patiently, albeit with some mumbling under her breath, replanted them. That night he dug them up again. She repeated the re-plantings. The raccoon moved on to other mischief. The third night he raided one of our bluebird boxes. The next morning I found the heads of the nestlings lying on the ground under the box. The raccoon followed this performance with a foray into our water garden where he proceeded to devour the resident koi. At this point, my displeasure was becoming palpable. His next target was a relatively expensive bird feeder. Carrying seed out to it the next morning, I found the feeder chewed and bent into a useless piece of junk. That was the last straw. I called upon my friend Mr. Remington and there were no more depredations.

And so, I can easily imagine the magnitude of losing a milk cow or a year’s supply of pork to a wolf. If one’s life literally depended upon the successful raising of livestock, raids by such predators simply couldn’t be tolerated. Nowadays, the threat posed by gray wolves is directed more toward the farmer or rancher’s bank account than his physical survival. Still, they could rightly argue that the continued existence of a business, as well as a way of life, was at stake. Thus, the conflict between man and wolf has been waged for generations and continues to create disputes even today.

 Not surprisingly it is the wolves that have come out on the losing end in their confrontation with humans. State by state they have been extirpated. Even the federal government joined in the zealous drive to eliminate the gray wolf wherever it occurred. In 1914 the U.S. Biological Survey, originally formed to study certain non-game wildlife, was designated as the government’s main predator control agency.  This agency then proceeded to enthusiastically wage a campaign of poisoning, trapping, and shooting against virtually every predator in the far west. Believing, erroneously, that elimination of predators was of long-term benefit to their prey species, anti-predator programs were even carried out within our parks. By 1926 the crown jewel of our national park system, Yellowstone, no longer had a viable population of gray wolves.

But there were people, even in those days, that came to realize extirpating wolves might not be such a good idea after all. In one of the classic conservation essays of all times, Aldo Leopold tells of his own role in the killing of a female wolf. This event occurred in 1909 in Arizona’s Apache National Forest where Leopold was working as a forester. Entitled Thinking Like a Mountain, Leopold’s essay appears in his posthumously published book, A Sand County Almanac. He wrote, “We reached the old wolf in time to watch a fierce green fire dying in her eyes. Believing that fewer wolves meant more deer and a paradise for hunters, he had had no hesitation in shooting. However, upon looking into the eyes of the dying wolf, Leopold had a revelation. “. . .  after seeing the green fire die, I sensed that neither the wolf nor the mountain shared such a view.” Henceforth, Leopold began to reassess the ecological role played by large predators. Now considered the father of wildlife management in the United States, he became convinced that predators exerted beneficial effects within their ecosystems. This is a finding borne out by subsequent years of research in wildlife biology.

Mountains do not think of course. So what was Leopold getting at when he suggested that “the mountain” didn’t share the notion that no wolves equaled hunter’s paradise? In his wonderful prose style, rich with metaphor, Leopold was elucidating an ecological concept that was both fundamental and farsighted. He was using the mountain as a symbol for what the nonspecialist might call “Mother Nature”. Others might see this interplay of predator and prey as a component of the complex inner-workings of the Gaia Hypothesis. My interpretation is that Leopold was thinking of what we more precisely refer to today as biodiversity. Even though the term hadn’t yet been coined, he intuitively understood that biodiversity should not be thought of as only the variety of organisms living with an ecosystem. Rather, we should think of biodiversity as also encompassing all of the ecological interactions among the members of a community. The gray wolf should not be thought of as simply one of the several species living in a particular area. Instead, when thinking about the wolf, we should consider what role it plays within the wilderness world it inhabits. Leopold himself originally saw wolves merely as destroyers of game animals. “But after seeing the green fire die . . .”, he came to realize that the wolf was actually an animal of critical importance to not only the health of deer herds but perhaps to the well-being of entire ecosystems. Leopold thus instinctively, and in prophetic manner, had arrived at the understanding of the gray wolf as what we today describe as a keystone species.

A keystone species is a member of an ecosystem whose presence and habits have important positive, wide-ranging, stabilizing impacts upon the system. Conversely, the removal of a keystone species can have broad, negative, destabilizing impacts upon an ecological community. The reintroduction of gray wolves into Yellowstone National Park serves as an excellent example of the former. As noted, viable wolf populations were absent from Yellowstone by 1930. In 1995 and 1996, after years of debate, petition signings, and lawsuits gray wolves were reintroduced into the park. These animals came from Canada and formed the basis of a population that now fluctuates around one hundred individuals in about ten or eleven packs. It was assumed that the wolves would impact the population of elk within the park. This the wolves certainly have done. It is estimated that as many as twenty-two elk are killed per wolf each year. Like other large predators, wolves tend to take a disproportionate number of elk which are aged or in poor health and thus cannot contribute to the overall vigor of the population. This is the primary reason wildlife biologists consider predation to be beneficial to the overall health of prey species herds.

 The elk population of the Yellowstone National Park has been reduced by some fifty percent. The reduction of elk numbers within the park has had some interesting ecological ripple effects. With the reintroduction of wolves, elk were no longer able to unconcernedly loaf about in the stream valleys of the park. Here they had browsed heavily upon riparian vegetation such as willow, cottonwood, and aspen trees. With the number of elk reduced, tree growth flourished. This in turn has led to an increase in the number of beavers within the park. These rodents eat the bark of trees such as willow; they also use the branches and logs cut from such trees to construct their dams and lodges. More beavers mean more beaver ponds. As a result there has been an increase in available habitat for waterfowl such as ducks, geese, and swans.  Improved riparian habitat is also beneficial to songbirds (nesting habitat), trout (less siltation into streams), and moose (more browse and cover). Others animals which have benefited from the reintroduction of wolves in Yellowstone include scavengers such as ravens, eagles, and bears which may feed on the remains of wolf kills. The coyote population within Yellowstone NP was also cut by fifty percent. Wolves will kill coyotes and both species will prey upon the others’ pups given the chance. When wolves were removed from the park, the population of coyotes increased greatly. Coyotes are too small to prey upon elk but they were the primary predator upon pronghorn antelope calves. When coyote numbers were reduced by the presence of wolves once again, the population of antelopes in the park underwent an increase. Coyotes also compete with foxes and so populations of the latter have also gone up as a result of the presence of wolves. This so-called trophic cascade of impacts shows what a restored keystone species can accomplish given the opportunity and the time.

As one might imagine, the reintroduction of wolves into Yellowstone was not welcomed by all. Even today we continue to see the seemingly never ending argument over the place of wolves in our modern world. Should they continue to be protected under the 1973 Endangered Species Act? Should they be delisted? Should they be hunted? Should ranchers be compensated for livestock loss attributable to wolves?

Regardless of such questions, the overall ecological benefits of wolf reintroduction to the park ecosystem seem to me to be clear. Perhaps this demonstrates that wolves and men can have a truce in at least a few areas. Surely, for those of us who cherish wild places, this is not asking too much. To call for less than 1% of the lower forty-eight’s land area to be restored to a semblance of the primordial North America encountered by Lewis and Clark surely bespeaks a modest dream. We treasure the great works in our National Gallery of Art. We lovingly view the reminders of our cultural past in the National Museum of American History. Certainly the living museums of natural history represented by our monuments, refuges, and parks deserve our restorative nurturing as well.

And so, over the years, I had pretty much given up on ever seeing a wild gray wolf myself. I had always imagined seeing a wild wolf would be a fine experience. The gray wolf seemed to me the very emblem of places untamed and primeval, unsullied by the workings of man. But with the reintroduction of wolves to Yellowstone my expectations brightened. Finally, just a few short years ago, my hopefulness was rewarded. Anne and I had traveled out to Yellowstone in late September. It was a trip we had given ourselves in celebration of our retirement after a collective sixty-five years of public school teaching.  It was our first trip to Yellowstone this late in the year. Gone were the huge crowds of summer that we had experienced on previous excursions there. There were still visitors aplenty but most were retirees like us.

Rising early in the morning to begin our game watching, we were reminded that we were at both a higher altitude and greater latitude than in Indiana. Back home, September is pretty balmy. The morning temperature in the park hovered in the high-teens and the windshield needed scraping. However, the brilliant clear air and bright sun made it seem much warmer. Stepping out of the cabin and inhaling the crisp, pine-scented morning air was wonderfully energizing. With great anticipation we motored off toward one of our favorite spots, Grizzly Overlook which lies just south of Canyon Village along the Yellowstone River. Along the way, even though their numbers may be fewer now, we saw many elk. At this time of year the bulls were in full rut. Here was another first for us, as we paused to watch a small herd of cows, the curious and unmistakable bugling of a bull echoed from the surrounding forest. Over the years, I have found that certain natural sounds have the ability to swiftly transport me back in time. The transition may be brief, but these sounds nevertheless give me the most satisfying illusion of being the only human present on the face of the earth. I stand alone in a primordial world unsullied by city or interstate highway, strip mall or strip mine, oil well or oil spill. The trumpeting of sandhill cranes cascading from unseen heights is one such sound. The eerie, falsetto bugling of a frantically amorous bull elk is another.  I like best to hear this bugling when the enamored bull is actually out of my sight. Standing, patiently listening, I suddenly hear the distant herald descending down from a pine forested slope. Up there is wildness it tells me. Up there lay a world where mindfulness, fitness, and individuality are rewarded. Up there exists a world beyond the inanities of reality TV, political posturing, Facebook, and Twitter. Up there is the real world.

So it was, on this particular day, that we found ourselves standing on Grizzly Overlook. Other lovers of the wild were there too. Our spotting scopes were arranged in an orderly phalanx all looking northward up the valley of the Yellowstone. Wolves had been seen up that way the two previous mornings and so we waited. And then quite suddenly from an entirely different direction, off to the southwest, came a sound new to me but imminently recognizable. It was a sound which I can now file away, in my catalog of favorites, along with the wondrous music of cranes and elk. Rolling over the grass covered hills, borne on a westerly wind, came to us the mournful, drawn out howl of a wolf. Once, twice, three times the wail reached our collectively appreciative ears. And then the vocalization ceased and we were left with the sound of the wind playing over the grasses and through the riverside pines.  There were grins all around and glances were exchanged that asked, was that really a wolf? But yes, it was. There was no mistaking this deep, chesty, bawl for the high-pitched yapping of a coyote. We really had heard a wild gray wolf.

Gratifyingly satisfied, I returned to my spotting scope and scanned the sage flats north up the river valley. Minutes passed, then an hour. There was nothing. Patiently I waited and periodically I put my eye to the scope. There was nothing and then – wait – there was something. A black form moved through the sage and shimmering heat distortions of the air. The animal soon emerged into the open and I, at long last, was gifted with my first look at a wild gray wolf. What a wonderfully memorable experience this was. After so many years of hopeful dreaming, I had finally seen wilderness incarnate.

This wolf was soon followed by two other adults and two well-grown pups. With a determined bearing, they now continued on westward in that wonderful ground-eating trot that can carry a wolf uninterruptedly for miles. In fact, all too soon, their trot carried them out of sight behind a large hill to the northwest. Anne and I were ecstatic in regards to our good fortune in achieving our long-held goal of seeing a wild gray wolf. We decided to pack up and head back to Canyon Village for a reward of hot coffee. Leisurely driving north along the road from Lake Village to Canyon, we had just passed the Chittenden bridge junction when Anne shouted, “What’s that?” Following her gaze, I looked into a meadow on the west side of the road in time to see three adult gray wolves bounding through the grass. They were so close, mere yards away! After patiently waiting for just a distant scope view of a wolf, this was incredible luck. I even managed to quickly snap a few photos before the wolves disappeared into the surrounding lodgepole pine forest. As I reviewed the images something odd struck me. The wolves weren’t wet. Yet, here they were on the opposite side of the river from the group we had seen only minutes earlier. That pack was over on the east side of the Yellowstone River. For such territorial animals, it seemed odd to us that there would be another group so close to the Canyon Pack we had just seen.

When in doubt, ask a ranger. So, into the Canyon visitor center we went. No, that wasn’t another pack we were told. These were three of the adults we had seen on the other side of the river. Why weren’t they wet? Simple, said the ranger, they use the Chittenden Bridge to cross the Yellowstone. Of course, why hadn’t we thought of that? We immediately recalled a previous trip to Yellowstone during which we had shared the bridge with a passing herd of bison. They had looked quite impressive as they pressed against the side of our tiny car. We stared at each other literally eye to eye. Theirs’ was a mighty wild eye too I must add.

The park ranger explained that these wolves had more than likely left the pups with another adult while they were off to hunt for prey, a common gray wolf strategy. As Anne and I reflected on this information, there emerged an awareness of an especially impressive fact regarding these three wolves. It had taken us only a few minutes to hop in the car and drive the two miles to the spot where we encountered the wolves. In this same span of time they had left the valley of the Yellowstone, crossed the river itself, traversed an intervening stand of lodgepole pine, and darted across the main road. It gave us a graphic understanding of just how much ground a steadily moving wolf can cover.

I still couldn’t get over the thrill of being so close to wild gray wolves. The image of their proximity has stayed with me over the years. Two of them were a luxurious golden brown marked with white, while the third was the black I had first seen in the valley. Loping through the meadow, their mouths gaped as they gulped in the crisp morning air. I couldn’t help but anthropomorphize. To me, their expressions looked like nothing so much as the canine equivalent of broad, contented smiles. I tried to imagine the glorious wild freedom engendered in these three magnificent animals. Theirs’ was not a life of ease to be sure; there was hunger, intense cold, and violent death in their world. But this morning, all was well. The sky was clear and a lovely cerulean blue.  The rising sun hinted at a pleasantly warm afternoon. A gentle breeze carried the scent of elk upon the air. These wolves inhabited a domain whittled to the bare bones of necessity: to hunt, to rear young, to stay alive individually and collectively. Not so different from our distant, and perhaps not so distant, ancestors as well. As I ruminated over these thoughts, their world seemed to me a realm distilled to its essence. I suppose I would have to admit to a fleeting emotion of envy for a life so devoid of the distractions, absurdities, and manufactured stresses of the world in which I live. Could this sentiment, I wondered, be what Thoreau was getting at when he said that “. . . in wildness is the preservation of the world”? Surely such a primal world could at least lead to the preservation of our sanity.

 So you see, in accomplishing my dream of someday seeing a wolf in the wild, I achieved much. This was more than simply another species to add to my life list. The experience led me into my own cascade of more thoughtful considerations. I considered more deeply the relationships of predator and prey.  My belief in the need for wild things and the wildernesses in which they can exist was verified. I now more fully recognize the impact of the presence, or the absence, of a keystone species. The sighting reinforced my conviction that Thoreau was more prescient than most people imagine. My encounter with gray wolves, and the subsequent understanding of how they have restored a semblance of the original Yellowstone ecosystem, opened another window as well. I now better grasp what Aldo Leopold meant when he spoke of thinking like a mountain.

In the end, stored in my memory bank like a precious Brasher doubloon, rests one last important observation of the wolves I saw hurrying through the Yellowstone meadow. As they neared the lodgepole pine stand on the far side of the clearing, an old she-wolf glanced back over her shoulder and, for the briefest of moments, our gazes met. Even now I recall that in her eyes there burned a fierce green fire.    

Photo Credits:









3. The Wood Ducks Return

The wood ducks came back today. Saturday, 2 April, 2017 it is. Looking out my window, the forest across the creek seems to think it is still winter. Like a somber crowd all dressed in monotonous, brown overcoats the trees look subdued and dreary. Granted, the grass in the lawn is greening and the daffodils are in bloom but these are about the only things showing green. In spite of this dull scene, the two ducks are reminding me that the spring eruption of new life is about to begin. My spirits are lifted by seeing these two harbingers of warmer days and sunlit skies. Around this date, for several years now, I have looked out the window to find these feathered reminders that nature is about to shift into high gear. The thought of eggs to be laid and future ducklings making their daring leap from the nest box in the sycamore fill me with anticipation. The return of the wood ducks is at least one symbol in an overcrowded, industrialized world that the biosphere still holds to its ancient rhythms.

What beautiful birds they are. The female, like most members of the avian clan, shows her beauty in an understated perfection of camouflage. Just this morning, I watched her perched in the ash tree near the nest box. Shifting my gaze caused me to struggle a bit to relocate her feathered body of subtle browns and mottled breast. The male showed no need for such subtlety. The wild, orange-red eyes and beak were set upon a head of iridescent green marked with bold highlights of white. The chestnut breast and fawn flanks were overlain by a back that seemed black but suddenly morphed into lustrous emerald when he shifted position and the morning light struck from a different angle. One would be hard-pressed to find another North American bird which surpasses the beauty of a male wood duck.

These two were on a scouting mission. It was not by chance that I happened to see them judgmentally eyeballing the wooden box set high in my sycamore. Likely they are the same pair that was here last year. Based upon past experience, I know that I will see them on their scouting forays for another few days and then they will seemingly disappear. Once the nest is established in their chosen cavity, wood ducks become nearly as elusive as the fabled unicorn. Last year I was sure wood ducks were using my box. I had seen them closely inspecting it several times. But, as April moved on, I saw no further sign of them. Then one evening, near sunset, I was standing on my front deck when they again showed themselves in a most spectacular manner. From directly behind me, and over the house, roared the enamored pair. Flying in tight military echelon like two A-10 Thunderbolts, the ducks sped directly toward the nest box on the far side of the yard. As they neared the box, the male peeled away and rocketed into the forest to the southwest. The female bore onward toward the nest box at what seemed suicidal speed. A last second flaring of the wings, a momentary touch of the feet against the box, and she had disappeared within. So rapid was her entrance into the box that I was given the impression she had flown directly into its four inch wide opening. It was suddenly very clear to me why I was so seldom aware that my nest box was being used. Indeed, on occasion I have checked and cleaned the box and found egg shell fragments without ever knowing that the box had been used.

Of course such secrecy is warranted. There are others out there who would much enjoy a meal of wood duck. Several years ago I saw a Cooper’s hawk, hardly bigger than the duck itself, try to drag a female into the creek bed beneath the sycamore. The duck escaped but barely. The male I saw this morning appeared again later in the day. This time with a red-shouldered hawk tailing him and showing what seemed a sinister interest. Yes, I think sneaking in and out of the nest box is a good idea.

Their cautious nature extends to the ducklings as well. Having had the nest box in a good viewing position for over a decade, one would think I might have looked out and seen the fledglings emerging. I never have. I can imagine the courageous youngsters, spread-eagled like little skydivers, plunging from the box to the ground sixteen feet below. In wildlife films, I have seen them hit the ground and bounce off the leaf litter like miniature elastic balls. I surely would love to see this phenomenon with my own eyes. Perhaps someday my patient observing will be rewarded.

I am also intrigued by the question of where the downy, diminutive pioneers go after their brazen leap of faith. Yes, there is a small stream practically beneath their nest. But it is intermittent and doesn’t seem to offer much that would appeal to a duck. Maybe they follow mom down the streambed to Page Ditch some half-mile distant. Perhaps they secretively cross my lawn, climb the hill behind the house, and scuttle into my neighbor’s lake. Its south end is bordered by forest and filled with the skeletons of forest sovereigns past. It looks like fine habitat. That’s where I might go if I were a wood duck. In truth, of course, I don’t know to where they disperse. The broken eggshells I see tell me that several have hatched. Their absence tells me they have left the nest box. Their elusiveness leaves me baffled.

Yes, the wood ducks have returned. But I can rest assured that they will remain as wary and elusive as they can possible be. We will renew our annual and daily game of hide and seek. Maybe this will be the year that I finally win another round.


2. Musim Bunga: The Season of Flowers

This is what spring is called in the Malay language – “the season of flowers”. It is a good name, simple and like many Malay terms so understandably descriptive. I suppose one would need a good, evocative name for a season which, in the form known to us here in the temperate world, is nonexistent in tropical Malaysia. As I write, musim bunga is upon us here in Indiana.

My aged aunt has been abandoned by her short term memory. Now she is left to tread the familiar ground of old remembrances. Inevitably, when the conversation turns to the weather, she will repeat a now familiar refrain. “I like all the seasons,” she will avow. One could argue on behalf of her notion. The seasons here in Indiana do, each in its own way, offer much to admire. Who could not be enthralled to awaken, after a winter evening’s snow storm, to a living Christmas card outside the window? But sadly, at least in my mind, such winter mornings in Indiana are offset by day upon day of gray, sunless skies and barren fallow fields of uninteresting character. Unfortunately, as I have aged, I have noticed a concomitant inability to tolerate being cold. These days the winter winds seem more brisk, more bitter, more capable of penetrating even my multilayered clothing. I just don’t like it.

What about fall you may ask? Surely this is a season without fault. I could not say that an Indiana fall is without merit. The dry, warm days and the crisp, clear nights offer a near perfect type of weather. Flying, at low altitude, over the timberlands of Hoosier National Forest one is struck by the impression that God has been at work with Her collection of spray paints. The palette contains yellows of every conceivable shade from lemon to gold. There are reds of scarlet, merlot, cherry, blood, and mahogany. The somber oaks offer browns of chocolate, umber, peanut, and penny. The paints have touched the leaves with apricot, tangerine, carrot, and yam. Some of the trees are reluctant to surrender their chlorophyll to the coming cold. And so, passing below are miniature solar collectors of emerald and sage, parakeet and olive, pear and pickle. Yes, it is indeed a wondrous site.  But, in the back of my mind, always lurks the recollection that winter is to follow. The days of warm sun upon the back will soon turn to virulent blasts of icy wind down the shirt collar.

Summers in Indiana can be a Jekyll and Hyde season. To be sure there are those days, when the humidity is low and the temperature moderate, that are glorious. Late summer brings the luscious fragrance of new mown hay. With this perfume comes the remembrance of teenage summer times spent toiling in the hayfields. It was brutal work for sure but it was tempered by the vigor of youth and the carefree comradeship of the youthful haying crew. Summer brings lovely pastoral scenes of grazing cattle, fields of wheat rapidly turning to gold, corn speedily reaching for the sky, and a zillion leaves bartering CO2 for oxygen. The bluegills are biting; the water in the old swimming hole is warm. The evenings are lit by lampyrid beetles and made richer by the trilling of amorous Fowler’s toads. There is lightning on the horizon and a summer thunderstorm comes on with the sound and speed of a rapidly approaching bison stampede. A pillar of fire flashes in the nearby forest. The thunder booms, the windows rattle, the trees sway. There is the smell of ozone in the air. I gaze out and am reminded that we humans best not get too big for our britches. There are still plenty of things greater than us.

But there are those endless days of summer during which the temperatures soar toward the century mark and the humidity causes one to believe they are in the tropics. There are stretches of days upon days without rain during which farm folk look skyward with desperate hopefulness in their eyes. The persistence of the mosquitos makes each trip into the yard an unwinnable skirmish. Deer flies orbit my head like so many electrons whirling about their nucleus. A bite from one is sure to endow me with a large, itchy welt. Lone star and dog ticks prowl the land eager to hitch a ride on a passing leg and partake of a blood meal. Late summers brings an onslaught of chiggers. Remembrance of the maddening itch from an infestation by these little hitchhikers will stay with one awhile.  As a boy prone to wander the oldfields in search of adventure, I recall that the chiggers had a disconcerting inclination to head for the most vexing or inaccessible parts of the anatomy. A horde of chiggers encamped abundantly upon one’s scrotum is a most unpleasant infestation to be sure. Yes, summer here in Indiana is not all peaches and cream.

But I haven’t spoken of spring and, for quite some time now, I have harbored the conviction that this is the season I most unabashedly love and anticipate. I have pondered why this might be so. Perhaps, I’ve thought, it is the release from winter’s icy grip. Maybe it is the hope of sunny days rather than leaden skies.  Or could it be that, as a retired teacher, I subconsciously yearned for the academic year’s end? The promise of several weeks of reduced stress and less than ten hour work days was alluring. But lately I’ve been more inclined to believe that my love of spring is very closely tied to a discipline that has been both my vocation and my lifelong avocation – the study of biology. It is, I’ve finally decided, the springtime explosion of activity within our biological world that so enthralls me with this time of year. After months of waiting, a prolific rebirth is about to begin.

Here in Indiana, spring officially begins in March. In the northern hemisphere, the vernal equinox (autumnal equinox in the southern) marks a time of equivalent hours of daylight and darkness. From this time until late June the hours of daylight will really begin to outpace the nocturnal periods. However, in my biologically oriented mind, spring actually begins in February. For it is during this month that the large raptors begin to nest. Surely I tell myself, in spite of frigid evidence to the contrary outside my window, the presence of hawk and owl eggs means it is spring. True, there is no more miserable sight than a barred owl doggedly incubating her eggs while a mantle of snow drapes her head and shoulders. But the promise of new beginnings is there. Like Phoenix from its ashes, new life will arise from the frosty February forest.

The next signpost of spring I eagerly await is the emergence of the amphibians. One of the first, and often most noticeable, members of this cast is the chorus frog. This little frog is only about 25mm in head and body length. Thus it is often mistakenly identified as a baby frog. But, of course, “baby frogs” are tadpoles. My field journal shows that from 1977 through the year 2000 the average date upon which I first heard this species calling was February 20th. As noted, that’s a pretty early date for “spring” in Indiana. There is still plenty of time for a bitter cold snap or several inches of snow. And yet the breeding imperative of this little anuran is strong. Barely has the ice melted from the surface of every small pool and pond than the plaintive croak of this diminutive fellow is heard. The voice of the chorus frog has been described as sounding like the rubbing of one’s thumb across the teeth of a comb. With the water temperature near freezing, it is often a very sluggish rubbing of the comb that occurs. Nevertheless, for millennia this voice has bespoken the release of winter’s grip and the onset of warmer weather. “Here I am,” says the little croaking. “This is my breeding territory,” the sound affirms. “Ladies, I am worthy,” croon the pint-sized singers.

Soon after the chorus frogs begin their wooing of mates, the spring peepers commence their chorusing. Sounding like a high-pitched, whistled peep, their mating calls are highly cryptic in regards to finding their source. Wade into a shallow pool of chorusing spring peepers and try to pick out an individual. You’ll see what I mean. And yet the females unerringly find a mate and soon fill the breeding pool with masses of eggs suspended inside their gelatinous coverings. From here on a riotous explosion of anuran voices fills the night air. The chorus frog and spring peeper are joined by wood frogs, leopard frogs, , green frogs, crawfish frogs, gray tree frogs, bullfrogs, Fowler’s and American toads in mixed choruses of wonderful variety.

My neighbors have a large pond just over the hill from my house. In late spring it is a favorite haunt of a multitudinous number of Fowler’s toads. I sit upon my deck reveling in the ability to be clad in short sleeves and  watch darkness descend upon the surrounding forest. Serenaded by the peculiar, strident trilling of the toads, I suddenly feel an aboriginal peace of mind. It becomes very clear that the vocalizations are meant for me too. “Here is the world as it once was,” they say. ” Take note of the ebb and flow of the seasons,” they shout. “You are a creation of the natural world as well,” they remind me.

This gradual increase in anuran activity and diversity is, of course, matched upon the land by the spectacular explosion of diversity among the avian inhabitants of the Indiana fields, wetlands, and forests. The raptors, as I have noted, have gotten a head start on the proceedings. But following closely upon their heels comes an invasion of spectacular proportions. I can see one of my favorite constituents of this incursion just a few short minutes east of my home. For here 9000 acres of restored wetlands have been created – Goose Pond FWA. The response of avifauna to this restoration has been nothing short of spectacular. And now, in the early spring, it is my great fortune to be able to witness the annual northward return of the sandhill cranes. Until Goose Pond was established, I had never seen these birds in southwestern Indiana. What strange, non-human means of communication enabled them to learn of the existence of this new wetland confounds me. But learn they did. Now I am able to stand in enraptured wonder as thousands of sandhill cranes descend onto their feeding grounds or alight at their evening roosts. Since first vouchsafed this spectacle, I have become enamored by sandhill cranes. Their far-carrying bugles seem to me the epitome of wildness. I’m sure that the great conservationist Aldo Leopold, with his unmatched eloquence, has touched upon the source of my fascination with these birds. Says he, “When we hear his call we hear no mere bird. We hear the trumpet in the orchestra of evolution. He is the symbol of our untamable past, of that incredible sweep of millennia which underlies and conditions the daily affairs of birds and men.” Yes indeed; there is much fodder for thought in the call of a sandhill crane.

Typically following the sandhill cranes northward through the spring skies comes a host of waterfowl species unseen since last year. Having spent the winter months entertained only by the Canada geese which have learned that migration isn’t really a necessity, I am now regaled by the return of great throngs of their brethren. Accompanying the cranes to Goose Pond are mallards, blue-winged and green-winged teal, gadwalls, northern pintails, American widgeons, canvasbacks, redheads, northern shovelers, ring-necked ducks, greater and lesser scaup, snow geese, and greater white-fronted geese. It is a flamboyant expression of the season of renewal which I now see reinvigorating the marshlands.

Upon land, a similar explosion of arriving bird species can be seen. Now returning to my woodland, some from as far away as Central and South America, are golden-winged warblers, Kentucky warblers, chestnut-sided warblers, yellow warblers, northern parulas, and ovenbirds. Joining them on a list that progressively lengthens day by springtime day are Baltimore orioles, orchard orioles, thrushes and thrashers, swallows and swifts, grosbeaks, hummingbirds, flycatchers, and vireos. The days are made more interesting as I monitor the wood duck box on a nearby sycamore tree. I see a pair haunting the neighboring trees. Will they use the home I have provided them? The female is an expert at surreptitiously making a dive through the box’s entrance hole. Perhaps I will not know of their nesting until the fall when, upon checking the box, I discover egg shell fragments. Now my mornings are made brighter by the piercing, crystalline “teakettle-teakettle-teakettle” of an amorous Carolina wren.   The evenings become sublime as the haunting, fluted “eeh-oh-lay” of the wood thrush resonates from the darkening woodland.  Is it any wonder that springtime sends the dedicated birder into paroxysms of joy as they again recognize familiar voices, record their “first of the years”, and anticipate the Big May Day count?

Despite the entertaining chaos of returning species, there is one bird which has always verified for me that spring is here to stay. It is the red-winged blackbird. At about the same time that the chorus frogs begin their calling, I begin to notice that some red-wings have left their winter flocks. Going solo now, males begin to stake out a likely piece of terrain. Typically, by the end of February, they have taken up permanent guard duty over the small plot that will become their breeding territory. This early establishment of territory can have its setbacks. Few things connote misery more clearly than a sodden male red-wing hunkered down and waiting out an early spring mix of rain and snow.

But eventually come the warm days when, perched high in a favorite willow, the males flash their gaudy, red epaulets and produce their wonderful liquid warble. It is a sound irresistible to a female red-wing. It is also a sound that instantly transports me, via the vehicle of memory, to youthful days spent eyeing a bobber floating upon the waters of a favorite bluegill pond. Standing water = red-winged blackbird song. Red-wing blackbird song = standing water. The two images are as inseparable in my mind as the notion that male red-wings on territory mean spring.

Having an inclination toward zoology, my ruminations upon spring have so far centered upon wildlife. But of course it would be a reprehensible injustice to speak of spring and confine myself to the Animalia. In February I begin to notice that distant tree lines have changed their appearance. Their winter colors of gray and brown are now replaced by blushes of red and green. The colors are an announcement that things are astir in the plant kingdom too. Close examination of these trees reveals leaf buds ready to pop, catkins, and flowers set to explode as soon as temperatures and light permit. Each year I am amazed to see the speed with which plant productivity accelerates from nonexistence to high gear. Tiny leaves emerge and, day by day, grow in size with astonishing rapidity. One day I look out my window and clearly see, through the nearby forest, my much too close neighbor’s house.  Then seemingly overnight the solar collectors of ash, walnut, hickory, and maple are too large to allow me to see more than thirty feet into the forest. From then until November I can at least pretend to be living in some degree of isolation from other humans.

There is another event that marks the coming of spring. It involves neither animal nor plant. It is a happening highly anticipated by the rural folk who populate my world. It is the emergence of the morel mushrooms. Successfully finding morels is something of a knack. Hunters who can spot a tiny morel at thirty paces and come home from a quest with bulging sacks of these delicacies are highly regarded in these parts. I dare say that I hold such a person in much higher esteem than a typical member of the Indiana legislature. I love to mushroom hunt but few would consider me an adept in this art. Nevertheless, along with my wife and daughter, we find our share. Weekends spent searching our woodlands for black, half-free, gray, and yellow morels have provided many an hour of pleasant companionship for us.

Seeking morels is serious business in rural Indiana. I recall one outing, on a day particularly hot for an Indiana spring, when this fact was brought home to me most clearly. Having clambered about like a mountain goat on some rugged strip-mine spoils, I suddenly found myself experiencing the symptoms of heat exhaustion. It was either flop down on my back to recover or pass out and tumble to the bottom of the spoil bank. My daughter, initially frightened by my symptoms of course, used her skills as a nurse to conclude that it was the heat and not the heart at fault here. After a half hour or so of lying comatose, I finally felt like rising and trying to walk back to our vehicle. As I got up and dusted myself off Michelle announced, “I found six more morels while you were passed out.” I can’t describe the father’s pride I felt at that moment.

Of course, a morel hunter would rather endure the tortures of the rack than reveal the location of a productive mushroom patch. Knowing where to successfully find morels is a piece of information that disproves the notion that blood is thicker than water. You may be my sibling but don’t even ask where I found all these mushrooms is the rule of morel law. As I said, finding these delicacies is serious industry.

I have already admitted that my morel hunting skills are about average at best. Now I must confess to a serious shortcoming which is likely the cause of my paltry ability. The fact is I just can’t seem to keep my mind on business while I’m mushroom hunting. There is simply too much else going on in the spring woods. For example, I recall one spring day of perfect light and temperature. I had just begun my search when a hen woodcock suddenly flushed from under my feet. Usually, when this happens, I next see the bird rapidly disappearing into the distant forest like a small, brown bullet. This time the woodcock displayed a slow, fluttering flight that carried it no further than just over the next spoil ridge ten yards away. Strange thought I. Then it dawned on me that perhaps I had nearly stepped on her nest. Remaining planted where I stood, I carefully scanned the leaf litter around me. Imagine my delight when I saw there, practically at my feet, three baby woodcocks.  Tiny little balls of downy fluff they were. Their coloration was so cryptic and matched the dead leaves upon which they sat so well that I was somewhat astonished to have even spotted them. Not a millimeter did they move. Not an eye blinked. I carefully reached down and touched a down feather. Still as stone the crafty little mote remained. By such instinct do they remain invisible to fox and weasel.  I slowly moved away secure in the knowledge that mom, listening intently just over the ridge, would soon return and lead the little brood away. Who could think of morels when bequeathed such a rare glimpse into the secret life of the woodcock?

That was the first time I had ever seen fledgling woodcocks. It may be the last. But there is no  dearth of observations destined to distract me from the job of finding morels. After many years, I simply accept this fact. I find myself intrigued to find an eastern box turtle. I encounter it sluggishly emerging from the springtime leaf litter. Its head and carapace are plastered with mud. The orange-red iris tells me it is a male. The mud upon the back suggests this fellow is just emerging from his long winter nap. Likely it’s time for him to think about a post-winter snack and a search for another of his kind; the one having the dark eyes.

Next to the box turtle is a patch of spring beauties. How appropriate their name. After a winter of barren, brownish leaf litter the delicate, white flowers with their pink venation and yellow anthers are among the first forest plants to announce that musim bunga has arrived. Digging into the soil I retrieve a filbert sized corm from one of the plants. Brushing away the soil, I pop the morsel into my mouth, crunch down, and am rewarded with an earthy, potato flavor. Nearby stands half a dozen specimens of toothwort.  This small, white-flowered herbaceous plant is quite common in the woodlands of Indiana. I recall that the name refers to use of the plant’s segmented root as an herbal remedy for toothache. This in turn causes me to ponder upon the fact that practically every plant I see around me was likely used in some way by Native Americans. Whether it be food, fiber, or building material that was needed, a plant that fit the bill could be found in their environment. The pioneers who displaced the native inhabitants were also aware, likely to a lesser degree, of the natural pharmacy and food larder that surrounded them. Sadly this is a knowledge and skill that is as nearly extinct among modern Hoosiers as the passenger pigeon. My guess is that the vast majority of modern humans are cerebrally disconnected from their continued reliance upon the plant kingdom for our survival. I dig up a small, two inch root of a toothwort and sample its texture and taste. Yes, very crispy as I had heard and it does indeed taste like horseradish.

Of course I am not distracted by only a plant species or two. If my morel hunt is done in a species rich, older forest the visual feast I am offered will be delicious. There will be the exquisite simplicity of trillium to behold. The lovely white pantaloons of Dutchman’s breeches will catch my eye. Likely there will be Virginia bluebells, Jack in-the-pulpit, mayapple, blue violet, trout lily, and bloodroot.  Of course I can’t neglect consideration of the woody plants. Redbud, my favorite, dogwood, and spicebush transform the nearly leafless forest into an impressionist opus. There is so much to see and muse upon here. How could anyone keep their mind on morels?

Once, meandering along while searching the forest floor for Morchella esculenta, my eyes fell upon a small russet lump lying quietly in my path. Liberally sprinkled with white spots and sporting eyes and legs that were far too big for the tiny body rested a white-tailed deer fawn. Like the tiny woodcocks the fawn instinctively made not a move.  As the sunlight played through the canopy and fell in white dollops around and upon the fawn, the little deer became virtually invisible although lying only a few feet away. As I moved closer, the breathing of the little one slowed and not a hair stirred. I reckoned in another week or so my coming nearer would result in the sight of a white flag held high as the youngster bounded over the nearest hill. But for now I was free to casually and carefully inspect the diminutive wonder that lie before me. Even at this tender age the fawn exhibited the graceful symmetry of torso and limb which causes us to associate the terms elegance and loveliness with this animal. What would be this little creature’s fate I wondered? Many hazards lie ahead. Coyotes are predators of deer fawns. Should it survive these wild canids, there are harsh winters and hunting seasons to come as well as dangerous roads to cross. Good luck little wonder thought I. Thank you for bringing beauty and grace into my world. As I moved away the fawn remained as inert as when I had first encountered it. Doubtless the doe would soon return and together they would move off into a realm alien to me. Only a brief peek into this world was I granted. But what a delightful glimpse it was.

Perhaps these short vignettes have given you an understanding of why there is little chance I will be crowned the Sullivan County Mushroom Hunting Champion. Doubtless if morels were the only things to be found in the spring woodlands my odds would be much better. But, it has been my good fortune to find that they are not the sole occupants of these timberlands. I would be willing to bet that others hunters suffer the same weakness as I. The forests of April and May are simply full of diversions of wondrous variety. They are there for you too – bird and beast, flower and frog, art and adventure, homage and history. All it takes is some time and the pretense of going afield in search of a nice “mess” of mushrooms.






1. Gifts from the Universe

Although it has been over forty years now, I still remember my first tentative step into the nighttime world of Malaysia’s tropical rainforest as though it happened last week. And why not? Since boyhood I had dreamed of walking in this warm, rich world. As I stood at the edge of the lawn of the University of Malaya Field Center, I had mixed emotions. On the one hand, I could barely believe my good fortune. My dream was finally to be fulfilled. I was about to experience the favored haunt of some childhood heroes – Jungle Jim, Tarzan, Ramar of the Jungle, and how could I forget the stories of Frank Buck? I still have the Classics Illustrated version of his Bring ‘Em Back Alive. But, on the other hand, Buck’s accounts of the “jungle” reminded me of its many hazards. This was the retreat of the king cobra, the world’s largest venomous snake. Didn’t I recall pictures of giant reticulated pythons bigger than a man’s torso lying in wait along over-hanging tree branches? Also playing on my mind was another favorite childhood book, Jim Corbett’s Man-eaters of Kumaon. The gruesome fate of the victims of these predators sent shivers down my spine. And yes, there were still tigers and leopards in these forests.

With these thoughts in mind, I stepped from the carefully manicured world of humans and into the darkness of the surrounding rainforest. A myriad of sounds greeted me as I stepped along the damp trail leading to the Sungei Gombak. Already I could hear the small but turbulent stream’s muffled roar as it plunged towards its union with the waters of the Sungei Klang and eventually the Straits of Malacca away to the west. A mixed chorus of insects, toads, and frogs chimed, bleated, buzzed, and barked around me. The forest itself launched its own barrage on my senses. Clumps of Giant Bamboo reared nearly fifty feet above me along the trail. Lianas climbed into the canopy, their leafy crowns far out of sight overhead. The dank smell of decaying vegetation wafted on the air and the forests’ oppressive one hundred percent humidity pressed in upon me like a living organism. I was reminded of being in a lush greenhouse on a warm summer’s day. Even in the dim illumination of my headlamp, I could discern the sensory overload I have since experienced in tropical rainforests around the world. The sheer magnitude of the plant biodiversity was overwhelming. The sounds were a complex muddle of cacophonies. The smells were rich, fecund, and alien. How could anyone ever become familiar with so much life? I recall all of these sensations combining to give me an eerie feeling of being surrounded and closed upon by forces disturbing, dark, and unknown; perhaps unknowable.

As my headlamp played upon the trail ahead of me, and probably no more than forty meters into the forest, I saw my first rainforest snake. Stepping closer its beautiful lime-green body and red tail became apparent. One glance at its lance-like head, tapering to a fine point at the nose and distinctly posed upon a slim neck, also told me that this was a specimen to be treated with respect. For here as beginner’s luck would have it was a Sumatran pit-viper, an Asian relative of our copperhead and rattlesnakes. Like most wild creatures when confronted by a human, the snake decided that it would be safer elsewhere and began to glide from the path. However quick use of my snake-stick resulted in the bagging of the first of what was to become many Malaysian snake specimens. With nerves slightly jangled – handling a venomous reptile will do that you know – I continued toward the footbridge which crossed the Gombak just ahead.

My evening of adventure wasn’t over. Lying directly in the middle of the bridge was a centipede. This wasn’t the little fellow which runs for cover when we overturn a rotting log here in the U.S. This specimen was nine inches long and quite willing to hold his ground. I knew a fellow who had been bitten by a Scolopendra such as this one. He described the pain as a week’s worth of feeling as though his hand had been slammed in a car door. Taking a pair of long forceps from my pack, I grasped the centipede mid-body. The brute twisted around and struck the forceps with its fang-like, modified forelimbs in an attempt to inject its venom. With a lurch much stronger than I had anticipated from a mere arthropod, it easily wrenched itself free of the forceps and, in a flash, disappeared over the edge of the bridge. Although disappointed in loosing such a nice specimen, I was still mightily impressed by its strength and agility.

I leaned against the bridge railing for a breather and some reflection. I had been in the forest for the space of half an hour and had covered less than fifty meters. My first encounters with animal life had been with two of the most venomous inhabitants of the tropical rainforest. Could the popular accounts of fang and claw at every turn be true? As a professional biologist, I should have known better. Luck was simply with me this evening. As I was to learn, it is quite possible to tread a rainforest trail for hours and see nothing alarming at all. During the remainder of the evening no king cobras reared in the trail ahead of me. No pythons dropped from overhanging branches and I was never, at least to my knowledge, stalked by any large predators.

In the months to come, I was to find as other naturalists have before, that the reality of the tropical rainforest’s immense biodiversity is really more exciting than fiction. Many have speculated as to exactly why tropical rainforests do have such a wealth of species. One idea I find appealing is called the Available Time Hypothesis. Its basic thesis is this. Unlike the Neotropical forests, the reproductive biology of Malaysia’s rainforests has been uninterrupted by the periodic advances and retreats of glaciers. The result of all this unbroken time (over a hundred million years by most estimates), and subsequently many generations of reproductive output, has been the evolution of a bewilderingly diverse flora and fauna. These exhibit nearly every conceivable form of body, behavior, habitat preference, and dietary predilection.

The living treasures I have encountered in the rainforest remind me of a story in Pulitzer Prize winning author Annie Dillard’s book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Dillard describes how, as a child, she used to hide a penny along a sidewalk. She would then draw large arrows, in chalk, which pointed the way to the prize penny. Walkers were motivated onward by her chalked signs proclaiming “SURPRISE AHEAD”. She described how she would become tremendously thrilled when she thought of how some fortunate stranger might discover this great reward. The penny was, she imagined, a free gift from the universe.

And so it is as one walks the trails of a tropical rainforest or for that matter a flowering prairie, the lush Sonoran desert, a soaring woodland, an urban park. At every turn, one may find a precious hidden penny. Be alert, this penny may assume the guise of bejeweled insect, magnificent flower, splendidly colored bird, or majestic sequoia. But they are there for you, every living thing, a free gift from the universe.