Natural Connections

A crisp fall breeze floated through our group as we stomped through the forest, our shoes crunching on fallen leaves and frost. Fall had arrived in the Northwoods, bringing spectacular colors, cool temperatures, and no bugs. Our group mission, to learn more about the forests of the Northwoods, and the forestry techniques used to manage them. Our galavant was made even more special by our guest for the day, a forester who brought a new perspective to our adventure. It's not often that I wander into the woods specifically to think about how a particular forest could be managed, or think decades into the future and try and imagine what that forest may look like over time. It was an exercise in a different way of thinking, and it was eye opening.

Nosing between two rocks, the snake seemed to be searching for something. But no, that wasn't the place. They swung around and moved along the base of the rock until reaching a long crack. Tongue flickering in apparent recognition, they lifted their head up toward a wide place in the crevice, nosed in, and began disappearing into the dark. Their stripes flowed forward as if the rock was slurping them up like a long, wet spaghetti noodle.

"Autumn has trailed light fingers across the byways and in the wake of that cool touch, the leaves flush or blanch and sink earthward in a silent swoon…The passing of days is swift and soon the glory will fade to the dun shades that precede winter's snow." – Lois Nestel, Wayside Wanderings.

With nearly constant travel and busyness during these last two months, I feel a bit untethered and adrift. The autumn woods are golden, and chickadees call cheerfully from their newly re-formed winter flocks, but it's difficult to get my attention to rest on any one subject. In times like these, I find it's helpful to turn to a wise friend and elder for guidance. And so, I've pulled together a few of Lois Nestle's essays from the Museum's archives. Lois was the Museum's founding Naturalist and Director. In these, she captures both my mood and the antidote. Take a deep breath of the crisp fall air and enjoy!

The mini-bear darted close, then scurried off, posing motionless for brief moments to survey the area for danger. From the top of a lichen-covered rock, they sounded their characteristic clucking alarm call, tail hiccupping with each repetition. Even though they sniffed hard at my little baggie of trail mix, I made sure the chipmunk never got a single peanut. They seemed to be finding their own food just fine anyway. Precariously positioned on flexible stems, a ruffed grouse stretched her neck to rip at scarlet rose hips like a cat playing with a Christmas tree. Deb and I chatted in the setting sun. When we fell into a contented silence, a family of beavers on the far side of the lake took up the thread of conversation with their adorable grunts.

The chipmunks, grouse, and beavers have the right idea, I think. Fall is the perfect season for enjoying good food and fellowship whether you're at a campsite with friends, in a lodge made of sticks, or at your community's harvest dinner.

The crystal clear waters splashed against the pebbled shore as we gathered up our gear. Conifers of every size crowded the distant banks, beckoning us into the wilderness. Our group was full of excited chatter as we piled gear onto picnic tables near the water, our anticipation for the adventure ahead growing with every breath. But our excitement wasn't the only thing growing. With each strong gust of wind, my nerves also began to grow. The winds were already high and growing stronger with every hour. We needed to get on the water now if we were going to make it to our campsite. Otherwise, the winds could become too strong to paddle in, and we would be locked out of the Boundary Waters by mother nature.

"Here is where the journey is," philosophized Doug Wood when I finally picked the book back up. "…why do I go through it? Because no one else can go through it for me." It's true. And I love going through the challenges of a canoe trip. Planning, paddling, portaging, wayfinding, camping, and even cleaning up once I'm back home all carry a satisfying amount of effort and reward. Plus, there are the sunsets.

I wonder, how do geese feel about their endless modes of misery?

"Something smells nice right here," commented my fiancé as we hiked over a rock outcrop strewn with sun-warmed, yellowed birch leaves. The sweet aroma of autumn comes when microbes break down sugars that trees manufactured in the height of summer. Before letting them go, the tree pulled nitrogen and phosphorus out of the leaves and into the twigs, where the molecules will remain on deck to fuel next spring's leaf growth. But the tree doesn't need to save every last molecule of sugar.

"Holy Moly Roly Poly!" This enthusiastic shout came from an adorable, towheaded 4-year old, standing on the far side of a log I'd just rolled toward me. Together, we paused to watch a dozen or more oval gray invertebrates with lots of legs scurry in confusion around their suddenly well-lit home. Just based on that boy's enthusiasm, I knew I needed to write about roly polies. As a start, I uploaded a few of my photos to iNaturalist. To my surprise, all three photos were of different species!

Last week I attended the Outdoor Writers Association of America's annual conference in Madison, Wisconsin. At the conference, it was announced that my third book, Natural Connections 3: A Web Endlessly Woven won second place in the Excellence In Craft Contest's book category. Naturally, I'm thrilled. My essay, "Second Grade Tracking Stories" also won first place in the Family Participation-Youth Outdoor Education category for both blog and newspaper. This week I'll share that essay with you again!

My hands moved slowly over the pebbled beach as the waves of Lake Superior gently lapped the shoreline. I had found myself a nice spot to sit on the beach, close enough to the waterline to gaze at the rocks being gently tumbled by the waves, but far enough back to have a dry place to sit. As I surveyed the pebbles around me, I spotted what I was looking for. The waxy, red-banded surface of an agate poked out from the shore, beckoning me to pick it up. And though I had found the treasure I was seeking, I was determined to find more during my time along the beach.

Rosie Wollums is about to start her Junior year as an Environmental Studies and Creative Writing major at Coe College. Being in the Northwoods for the first time as a Summer Naturalist Intern at the Museum, Rosie was excited to explore and visit Lake Superior. There she met a snapping turtle with mystery and empathy.

Late summer days are a kaleidoscope of vibrant flowers in all colors of the rainbow. Some of the blossoms have their perfect petals neatly arranged while their leaves form regular patterns up their stems. They are a testament to the precision that can be written into genetic instructions for growth.

I find myself drawn to the weirdos, though, like the pearly everlasting flowers woven into a new shape by black-spiked caterpillars, or the milkweed leaves whose tattered appearance hints at a feeding frenzy. These weirdos are great examples of how our relationships with other beings can be both messy and emergent.

The flower head looked odd. Pearly everlasting—with their beautiful flat-topped cluster of white flowers with yellow centers—had finally bloomed. And now the petals would dry out and hold their shape for many months. Except, as I walked past the small patch of native plants between the Museum and the Forest Lodge Library, I noticed that one of the flower clusters was a shapeless blob of petals. Peeling open a corner, I spotted yellow stripes, red dots, and multi-tipped black spikes. Yikes! That's what this American painted lady caterpillar wanted me to think…and then to leave them alone.

Some gardeners might be frustrated to lose a few flowers, but hosting native insects is exactly why we plant native species in our gardens, instead of importing species from all over the world who don't play a positive role in our local ecosystem.

Walking slowly, I scanned the flowers for anything out of place, any disruption to the normal patterns. On the dark center of a black-eyed Susan, I found a small green anomaly. Crouching down, I found myself face-to-face with the fierce scowl, long horns, and serrated edges of a jagged ambush bug. Some people fly halfway around the world to witness the dramas of nature play out on the African savannah. I found plenty of action walking halfway around the yard.

Katherine Woolley is about to start her senior year as an environmental education major at Western Colorado University. When Katherine arrived for her second round as a Summer Naturalist Intern at the Museum, she announced that she hit a certain age and suddenly became a birder! This week she shares a neat ornithological observation.

"'Peep peep peep peeeep PEEP PEEEEEP peep peep' I rolled over in my bed and groaned. Spring had come early to Colorado's Gunnison Valley where I attend university. A flash of yellow on my window bird feeder caught my attention. There perched a male house finch sporting banana-colored belly feathers where the red normally is."

The Wild Wonders Summer Camp kids chattered away as they dug into their lunches, oblivious to the yellow-bellied sapsucker who skirted up and down the bark of the tree just a few feet away, in search of their own lunch. I watched as the sapsucker took flight, their speckled wings flapping quickly through the trees, until they landed on the bark of another tree and disappeared! It took me a second to realize that they had entered into a small hole hidden in the bark of the tree. Had I not watched them enter, I never would have noticed the hole high up in the bark, or learned of the nest inside. But I could not focus on the yellow-bellied sapsucker nest for long. My campers had finished lunch and were getting restless.

From a distance, the forests of July look like a lush tapestry of green. But when you step into the loosely woven strands and take a closer look, the leaves are etched with feeding trails, dissected by holes of all shapes and sizes, and covered with the debris of life. It's a principle of ecology, of course, that every Being is food for someone else.

Feeding styles vary. Some invertebrates are "leaf folders," while others are "leaf rollers" or "leaf tiers." All of these insects and spiders use silk that contracts as it dries to shape leaves into shelters. I set out to find examples of all of the leaf architects.

I barely caught the flash of brown out of the corner of my eye, but Kevin had a clear view. He followed the flight path of the bird until they landed on the far side of a small channel lined with arching sedges. Despite the bird's pinstriped camouflage blending seamlessly with the tall grass, and having never before seen one in the wild, his identification came instantly: American bittern!

Bitterns hunt alone, mostly at dawn and dusk, and are said to be easier to hear than to see. Their deep booming, gulping calls travel far across marshes, but the male "thunder-pumpers" are vocal only during their spring mating season, and so it's not even that easy to hear them. Add to that bitterns' decline in parallel with the decline of their wetland homes, and we'd resigned ourselves to admiring their mystery instead of enjoying an encounter.

My heart raced as I reached my hand into the bag. What if I broke them? What if I let them escape? Then my fingers found a familiar grip, and before I knew it, I was holding this bird just like I had the warbler. Now that I was the bander and not just the releaser, the vibration of their heart felt different. Their safety was in my hands. My own heart slowed, and I took a steadying breath.

Maneuvering the veery so that I could grip their right leg in my left thumb and forefinger, I slipped the open band over their leg. Now they were ready to contribute to science!

"This bird will be forever connected to you," Jim reminded me after we'd sent the veery flying back into the brush. My heart fluttered happily

The sound of boots crunching on sandy sediments and excited chatter filled the air. The first day of our Wisconsin Master Naturalist training had begun, and twenty people from all walks of life were eager to learn about the ecology of the Northwoods. Over the next five days, these participants would be exploring sites all over Bayfield County, and learning from experts across multiple natural resource fields. Our goal was not to instantly train experts in Northwoods ecology, but rather to spark curiosity and connection with the natural world. Whether coming from a natural resource background themselves, or simply wanting to learn more about nature, our participants were eager to dive into the knowledge of our experts. And we were jumping right into the geology of the Northwoods at our first field trip location–an esker left by the glaciers around 11,000 years ago.

Dappled light, mosquitoes, and the roar of a chainsaw filled the humid air on a morning in early June. Guided by skilled hands, the blade sliced through pale wood. Lacey green leaves trembled against the blue sky before tipping toward a gap in the canopy, brushing past the twigs of neighbors, and easing quietly onto the earth exactly where the feller intended. If a black ash tree falls in the forest, must it land with a crash?

Deep in the woods east of Lake Namakagon, I'd gathered a small team of volunteers on an urgent mission.