The Reminder

Today I was reminded why I’m passionate about landscaping with native plants.   In the blustery 20 degree temperatures with a minor snow storm underway, it looks like everything is buttoned up for the winter.   The few leaves refusing to let go of their woody origins are all a bronzy brown.   The leaves on the ground poking up through the gathering snow are shriveled and creating interesting patterns.    It looks pretty barren.  Even inside looking through the window, I’m thinking a little hot chocolate would feel good.

And then a movement on the scarred Honey locust tree catches my eye.   Almost perfectly camouflaged, a small creature peeks underneath some loose bark.   Working its way slowly up the tree trunk, it examines every little fissure and occasionally finds something interesting.   This little Brown creeper isn’t looking for birdseed.  Like over 90 percent of all terrestrial birds, he’s after what he was genetically programmed to eat.  He was born to live on insects.   And he appears to be making a healthy living even in these frigid temperatures and blowing snow.   Apparently there are enough protein laden insects and larvae holed up in nearly invisible hiding spots for him to find.   How amazing!  

So…..what’s that got to do with native plants?   If you’ve followed along on this never ending journey of mine, we’ve learned together that these insects too have to have something to eat.   And their food is native plants.   Everything eats plants or eats things that eat plants.   Our insect friends as I’ve come to now label them, are, like our little avian explorer, genetically programmed to only eat native plants.   So….I love native plants because I love nature.  And to me, nature means clean air, clean water, healthy food, and a wondrous world where all life is connected.   I love being just a small part of this incredible web of life.

The Great Compromise

Over the past two years of this journey, I’ve come to hate lawns.  We live in a suburban neighborhood with great expanses of turf.  I’ve learned these green spaces I once thought  the

Front lawn

epitome of good suburban landscaping are in fact, an ecological wasteland, often the source of much air and water pollution, and a huge waste of the opportunity to do good with the land.  So I’ve wanted to rip out the front lawn and put in a native wildflower meadow.  But my wife was concerned the neighborhood would complain about a wild looking garden and see it as a weed patch.  She was adamant; no front yard meadow for me.  So we compromised and struck a bargain.  This would be an experiment.  I could put in a small butterfly/pollinator garden in the front near the street, bordering our neighbor’s yard.  If I would agree to deadhead the plants and keep things looking tidy and formal, she would go along with a trial.  If successful, then I could create a larger butterfly garden on the other side of the driveway eliminating more lawn.  Fully understanding it might take three years for the plants to get established, and experimenting with different ways to make this a formal garden that met her appearance criteria, we struck the deal. 

Late last summer I carved out an area approximately 13 feet x 8 feet set back about 5 feet off the road and bordering our neighbor’s front yard.  With a desire to create as much biodiversity as

Fall 2012 new butterfly garden

possible and having something blooming throughout the growing season, I bought 13 species of native perennials suitable to the clay soil and partial shade of the site.  To save money I bought plugs, the smallest size of plant.  Two of these, Purple coneflower and Smooth aster were already growing in an adjoining area.  So the idea was that these two would extend down into the new garden helping to tie the two areas together. 



The late summer morphed into fall.  As was expected from first year seedlings, none of the new plants bloomed.  Fall came and headed for winter.  Then winter came and off and on covered the plot with snow.  When spring made itself known, the seedlings showed they had taken last year to set their roots and rewarded me with vigorous growth.  They spread out to fill in what looked last fall like a pretty sparse planting. 



Foxglove Beardtongue (Penstemon digitalis)

The Foxglove Beardtongue was the first to bloom.  The little towers of light lavender and white blooms attracted many bees.  As those flowers faded, several transplanted Ohio Spiderwort opened up with a few colorful blooms.  The Purple coneflowers had taken hold and over several weeks opened into their normal eye-catching display.  While they were still blooming the Butterfly milkweed transplants started to show signs of blooming.  This species of milkweed with its deep tuberous root sometimes doesn’t take well to transplanting, but last summer I thought I’d give it a go anyway.  They did produce a couple of very small blossoms but quickly shed them possibly in an effort to better establish their roots in the hard clay soil. 

Sand coreopsis

The Sand coreopsis burst into a huge splash of yellow.  Watching the numerous species of native bees and other pollinators vigorously working over the flowers was a daily delight for several weeks.  These plants produced so many blossoms and were so full of life.  Nonetheless I became concerned when all the flower stalks fell over and lay on the ground.  They continued to bloom but didn’t help give the appearance of a nicely tended garden that I needed.   Next the Black –eyed susans opened their bright yellow petals.  Those faded pretty quickly and the plants looked pretty sick.  It was only then that I learned that this species is a fairly short lived perennial.  I pondered what to do with the sketchy looking Black-eyed susans. 

Each morning I was eager to check out the garden and see how it was looking.   My early morning visits would flush out a small flock of American goldfinch feasting on the Sand coreopsis seed.   And that’s when trouble began.  While I thought the seed heads just looked natural, to my wife the spent blossoms looked unsightly and she felt the birds had plenty to eat from the numerous native plants in the backyard.  I struggled with my vow to keep the plants deadheaded.  The Purple coneflower blooms had now also finished and gone to seed.   The Goldfinch and other birds also liked to harvest these little pieces of protein.  Several spirited discussions ensued and it was hard for me to realize my wife was really trying to live up to her side of the agreement while I was struggling.  She offered to help me cut the seed heads off.   So we did it together.  I had to reluctantly admit that this trimming made the garden look more tended.  But ouch!  We were losing a part of the benefits these native plants provide.  My wife wasn’t pleased as I mumbled unhappily during our deadheading sessions. 



Gray-head coneflower

Wild bergamot

Now the Gray-head coneflower and Wild bergamot were blooming. And my gosh, I’ve never seen so much life, so concentrated in one little patch of land.  At least 5 different species of bees, several different butterflies, and skippers worked over this small but colorful group of plants from morning until night.  Even in the windiest conditions, I’d see pollinators eagerly harvesting the bounty these native plants provided (1 min video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNNXfPAUg1E).  But these plants too went to seed and more “discussions” ensued.  Again my wife had to remind me of our pact.  I harvested some seed to donate for use in our Wild Ones events and the winter seed swap program.  Then begrudgingly I went about cutting off seed heads.   My better half was aggravated and asked why I was so reluctant to honor our bargain.  That really made me stop and think about it.  I knew the native planting was good for the pollinators, birds, and the planet and I didn’t want to give up any of the many benefits these plants provided.  At the same time I was also disappointed the way the garden was looking.  It certainly wasn’t the grand showcase I had imagined. 

As I spent time reluctantly removing the dead flower blossoms per our agreement, I noticed that the Sullivant's milkweed had not done well at all.  The Gray-head coneflower was flopping over like the coreopsis.  The Virginia Mountain mint was struggling.  The only plant that was truly thriving was the Sneezeweed.  In spite of all the life that flocked to the year old garden, the whole space didn’t look very good.  Huh?

 

Sneezeweed

On my early morning inspections I wear a pair of slip on boots to get me through the dew laden grass.  One early fall morning I found the Sneezeweed had bloomed magnificently.  The bright yellow flowers were already alive with the bees and a few butterflies.  This plant had grown to about 4 feet tall and showed no signs of falling over even with the heavy burden of the flowers.  As I walked to the edge of the bed bordering the neighbor’s yard, I heard the sound I hadn’t paid any attention to all summer long.  Squish, Squish, Squish.  Oh my gosh!  The ground was soaking wet.  What’s going on here?  I was puzzled but had to leave for an appointment and solve this some other time. 

The next morning I went out earlier than usual and found the answer to the soggy ground puzzlement.  Apparently all summer long my neighbors had their underground sprinkler come on for a short time early every single morning.  Yikes!  So that’s why the Sneezeweed was so happy.  It really likes moist conditions.  That’s why most of the rest of the plants were not doing well.  For the most part all these were prairie plants with deep root systems, well suited to the dry soil where they evolved. 

OK.  Now I’ve got several problems to solve.  Why can’t I happily tend this garden as my wife and I agreed?  After all, it’s better than the ecologically dead zone that used to be here in this 100 square foot of lawn.  Even without the benefit of seed for the birds, it’s still way better than lawn.  And furthermore, if I meet the tidiness and formal appearance criteria needed for a continued happy marriage, I get to make a bigger garden on the other side of the driveway.  Even less lawn, more nature, pollinators, and butterflies.  OK.  Now I’ve got my head into the game and vow I’ll spend the time to do this. 

The second problem is that I populated this garden mostly with plants that don’t like having wet feet.  I can’t get the next door gardener to change his watering regimen.  Their lawn’s roots are only a couple inches deep and need a lot of water in the hot dry summers we’ve been having.  And they like their lawn green and lush all summer long.  I’m not ready to turn this garden back to lawn so I’ll replace the plants with ones that like a lot of moisture. 

As I dug out the plants and relocated them to other areas until I figure out where they should go permanently, I realized I had crammed way too many species into this small area.  I had gone for biodiversity and placed 14 different types of plants here.  Grudgingly I had to admit there is no way that would have created the stunning garden that caught the neighborhood’s attention in a favorable way.  With the crowded species necessarily growing through each other, it was a far way from a formal design.  OK, I’ll limit the new arrangement to no more than six species.  With a tape measure, paper and pencil I measured and roughly sketched out a new design. 



Eastern black swallowtail

Now excited to get this right, I knew I needed to get plants that like the moisture, and a variety that would provide color all season long.  I couldn’t find a way to get an assortment of colors for each season without growing the list to seven.  And with that there was only one spring bloomer, the Foxglove beardtongue.  Armed with the design and plant list, I headed down to the native nursery.   Fortunately it is nearby and the owner, Jan Hunter, has been rigorous in preventing me from buying plants that won’t do well in my clay soil.  She advised adding one more spring plant.  Golden Alexanders bloom in the spring, like the moisture, and is a larval host plant for the Eastern black swallowtail butterfly. 

The revamped garden awaits
 next years growth

I'm frustrated because  I'm starting over and have lost a whole year and a half in developing this garden.  But I’ve learned a lot about garden design (I hope), and something about myself as well.  Now all the new plants are in and I’m enthused about how this should turn out.  Now, dear neighbors, please don’t turn off your watering system next year. 

From Natives to Butterflies

One of the wonderful results of having lots of native plants in the yard is the arrival of many colorful winged creatures.  The vast majority of butterflies exclusively use native plants on which to lay their eggs.  The caterpillars can only eat the leaves of these native plants; the plants with which they evolved over thousands and thousands of years.  While this year’s butterfly populations have been notably low, I’ve been particularly anxious to see which of these Lepidoptera (butterflies, moths) we’d see here this year. 

 

Giant Swallowtail nectars on Swamp milkweed



Giant swallowtails have been frequent visitors to our numerous blooming plants this summer.  Our bloomers are alive with all sorts of pollinators.  Yet I found these Giant swallowtail ignored all but the pale pink flowers of the Swamp milkweed.  Unlike the other butterflies, this large butterfly never rested.  Even while perched on the blossom, sipping nectar through its unfurled proboscis, it continually flapped its wings (5 second video.)  Every creature has adapted special behaviors to help it survive and populate the next generation.  I wonder why this frenetic flapping when other butterflies don’t indulge in this action.  You have to wonder if the energy gained from the nectar is enough to offset that consumed by the winged workout.  Perhaps the flapping enables it to make quicker getaways from would be predators.  Prickly ash is one of only a few host plants for this butterfly’s caterpillars.  When Jan Hunter identified a patch of this thorny shrub in our woods, I never imagined that I’d really get to see such a lively result.  Now I think I should find a Kevlar suit and check for eggs amongst the thorns. 

Common blue violet

Last year I was pleased to see that we had several good size populations of violets growing in the side yard.  They are the native Common Blue violet, and Downy yellow violet.  I really liked them and was particularly pleased to discover they are native to Northwest Ohio.  Many told me to get rid of them:  “They are a weed and will take over everything.”  I didn’t care.  I vowed I’d watch them and if they threatened to knock down our house, then I would remove some of them.  A little research and I found they are the host plant for a group of butterflies, the fritillaries.  I’d only seen pictures of fritillaries, never one “in person”.  When the violet opponents would raise their “weed” issue, I’d respond that these vibrant plants were crucial to the survival of whole group of butterflies.  Surely that would quell the naysayers.  This spring Jim McCormac, a legendary Ohio naturalist and author who works for the Ohio Division of Wildlife, posted an inspiring piece about a field of Common blue violets he discovered.  (http://jimmccormac.blogspot.com/2013/04/an-amazing-field-of-purple.html

).  In my quest to further validate keeping my violets, I dutifully searched through the numerous leaves for signs of butterfly eggs or caterpillars.  All to no avail.  Well, the flowers are reason enough to keep them.  Yesterday while diligently working at my home office, a movement outside the window caught my attention.  Ah, a butterfly.  This looked a little different than the ones I’m used to.  I looked at it a little bit and told myself to get back to work.  And what could I do anyway.  My camera was in its case, my tripod all folded up.   A little while later I noticed the butterfly was still hanging around in the backyard.  It came to gather some more nectar from the Swamp milkweed again.   Well I should take a picture.  My cell phone camera just wouldn’t zoom in close enough to make it worthwhile.  Back to work.  A few moments later I looked up and again the butterfly was sipping away.  Well darn it.  I’ll be mad if I don’t make the effort.  Unfold the tripod, extract the camera from its case, take off the lens cap, put on the lens shade, and mount the camera to the tripod.  Then out the back door I went.   As predicted, the creature was gone.  Now at least I wouldn’t be mad at myself for not trying.  Hey, there it is again.  This is one thirsty little critter.  For the next half hour I chased this unidentified butterfly around the yard.  Finally I gave up with the tripod, cranked up the camera speed and hand held my picture machine.  From Joe-pye weed, to Swamp Milkweed, to Purple coneflower blooms I followed this tenacious flyer.  Several times when I thought I’d scared it away for good; it would reappear and land on a blossom so close I could see its eyeballs.  Later that night,

Unidentified butterfly on Purple coneflower

I discarded all but a handful of the digital images and went on a quest to identify this wondrous creature.  Without a clue as to how to go about this, I just opened to the butterfly section of Kaufmann’s Field Guide to Insects of North America and started paging through the images.  One really caught my attention and I compared it to the pixels on my screen.  Both pictures looked the same to me.  Well I sure didn’t want to embarrass myself by posting this online and then having to make a correction.  So I called out to Wood County’s bug queen, Sherri Doust.  From the one picture I sent, she was pretty sure of the identification, but said a yellow band on the underside of the hind wing would nail it.  So I sent her another view and the verdict was in.  It was a Great spangled fritillary whose host plant is the oft maligned violet.  Thanks Sherri, and long live the Violets.

 



Great spangled fritillary
nectaring on Swamp milkweed
Note the yellow band between the two rows of white spots on the underside of the hind wing



Duh!

Glacier
courtesy Wiki Commons

It seems like for the longest time I wanted what I didn’t or couldn’t have.  As a child I wished I could sing.  But I was tone deaf and grade school teachers had me be quiet when my 2^nd grade class sang “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”.  I wanted to dance but I ain’t got no rhythm.  When I grew up and we had our own house in the city; we had clay soil, rock hard clay.  I always thought we should dig it up and sell it to brick factories.  I wanted loam for landscape plants and a vegetable garden.  OK, tons and tons of compost, horse manure, and sweat later, the clay eventually became usable enough for a vegetable garden and getting some hybridized landscape plants to grow.  We moved to suburbia outside the city and now we not only had clay, but shade; lots and lots of shade.  Most of our yard was wooded.  In search of making the perfect lawn I went to seminar after seminar, talked to the grass experts in our area, became a Master Gardener and talked to more lawn experts.  All the experts said “ah, shade and clay, that’s really tough”.  What’s a person to do?   As long time readers know, I eventually and slowly converted to exclusive use of native plants for our landscape.   But now I was always looking at the native plants with the bold colorful blooms.   Of course, these are all sun loving plants.   Living near to the unique Oak OpeningsRegion, I wanted lots of the plants from that area.  Yet they are mostly sand loving plants.  And I’m clay.  As my local native nursery owner says “No Lupine for you”.  She will not sell me a plant that needs sand.  When the glacier receded some 12,000 years ago it formed the Oak Openings Region where all the neat stuff grows and left us on the opposite side of the Maumee River with clay.  It seemed to me there were no native plants that grew in clay and shade.  What?  What did I just say?  Wait a darn second.   Does that make any sense?  If I remember my history right, there were at least some plants growing here in this clay after the ice melted.  There certainly was shade well before we cut down forests and built homes.  Did I miss something?  My layman research seemed to indicate there was abundant plant life in this clay.  And of course there was lots of wildlife dependant on these plants eons before we decided to “tame the wilderness”.    So DUH!  Yes Hal, there are plenty of native plants that grow in shade and clay.  And to a large extent, that is what my conversion to loving native plants is all about.  They grow here in the clay and shade without any fussing from me.   Over thousands of years they’ve evolved to thrive in the local conditions and don’t need soil amendment, watering, and artificial fertilizer.  The native insects use them for food.  In turn other insects, birds, and wildlife eat those insects.   I’ve come to learn, this biodiversity is what makes the ecosystems that are essential for our very existence. 

Bloodroot

This is the 2^nd spring after my rebirth as a native plant gardener.  As I start to see spring making its presence visible, I realize I’ve now begun to embrace the conditions I have here.   This isn’t a shady clay wasteland.   It’s an environment full of life and providing the essentials for a healthy ecosystem.  Hundreds of Bloodroot didn’t care a hoot about the clay and  burst into bloom on an unusually warm day.   The bees quickly honed in on the snow white blossoms as the ever so slight markings on the petals pointed the way to the pollen. 

Yellow Trout lily

Well into their short blooming period, the white and yellow Trout lily pushed up through 10 inches or so of clay and carpeted the ground with their mottled leaves.  Recently I learned that these plants take 5 years to bloom after germination.  In spite of all the damage done to this site back when our home was built in 1977, in spite of all my ill begotten efforts at breaking up the soil with tillers, in spite of all the chemicals I used to spread on this ground, in spite of all the abuse with lawn equipment, still this tenacious woodland plant lets me know it is here to stay if I just let it.  They’re down right happy in the shady clay.

Spring Cress

And yet another large bunch of flowers catches my eye.  Remarkably subtle, the Spring Cress beat almost all the other spring woodland wildflowers into bloom.  Clay and shade, who’s worried about that?  Ever since we pulled out the invasive honeysuckle and Garlic mustard from one area, this once small group has spread tremendously.  Today the blooms were host for at least four different native bee species, all of which were way too fast for me to capture their portraits. 

Spring Beauty

I worried about clay.  I was stymied by shade.  Hah.  The drifts of the Spring Beauty again show me that these are conditions they’ve evolved with.  They don’t begin to ask for anything else.  They’re beautiful and most content just where and how they’ve been for eons. 

These spring ephemerals making their home in our shady clay are happy soaking up the spring sun.  The trees are just beginning to leaf out and this group of woodland wildflowers must make the most of all the remaining rays they can catch while they can.  In another week or so, the sun won’t reach through the upper canopy of leaves.  It will be the trees’ turn to absorb the sunshine, make food, and clean the air and water.  The pollination of the wildflowers will be complete, the seeds will form and drop, and the leaves will disappear for another season. 

So apparently I have evolved some.  I no longer despise my clay and cast aspersions on the shade.  I’m thrilled now recognizing the life that surrounds my senses here.  I’m good with this.  And I’m mostly through wanting things I can’t have.  Well actually I would like to replace the front yard lawn with a prairie.  But that’s probably not going to happen unless I develop some super powers of persuasion.  I can dream can’t I?  

In Search of Spring

As a child I’d frequently say things like “I wish Christmas was here”; “I wish school was out”; “I wish it was time for us to go on vacation”.  My mother would gently tell me “All in its own time.  Don’t wish your life away.”  I find myself recalling those words of wisdom now as I catch myself saying “I wish spring was here.”  I can’t help it.  I want to see the earth awakening from the uncertain winter.  On the days when the sun is shining and temperatures rise above freezing I take little walks around our yard looking for signs of spring.  My senses aren’t yet attuned to the subtle transition to this season.  I know the signs are there but I don’t see them easily. 




Chokeberry

On the day before an overnight freezing rain was forecast I saw bright red buds on the Chokeberry.  I took a picture thinking the next day would provide the opportunity to digitally immortalize that deep red growth in a case of ice.  It got cold for sure, but the ice didn’t come.  Maybe this is a telltale sign. 

As I continue my search I see numerous divots in the yard.  Eventually I find the reason for the soil disturbance.  The squirrels are cashing in on last fall’s winter preparation.  How they are able to find the exact spot they buried those walnuts will forever remain a wonder to me.  In the coming year I know I’ll find small Walnut, Hickory, Buckeye, and Honey locust seedlings marking the bounty they didn’t need or couldn’t find.  I chuckle as I wonder if I could ever guide them to bury their unwanted seed where I want new trees to grow.  This doesn’t seem like a signal of impending springtime. 
 

I continue my trek through the landscape and see signs that the deer enjoy their short stay on our suburban wooded lot.  These intriguing herbivores must have awfully sharp teeth.  The shrubs have been more cleanly trimmed than if I had used a sharp pruning tool.  It becomes more and more frequent that we see deer in our small backyard woodland.  We never tire watching them.  Nonetheless I can’t help but cringe whenever I see them browsing on the native shrubs I’ve purchased and planted.  To protect the plantings until they’re better established I’ll have to put small fences around the remaining Witch Hazel and Spicebush shrubs.  The deer have obviously enjoyed munching these down to the nubbins.  Maybe their presence is due to the recent flood of fisherman wading into the nearby Maumee River in hopes of catching Walleye.  Surely this is a sign of spring. 



First growth of Bloodroot

One morning I walk out to a sunny but cold 27 degrees Fahrenheit wondering if spring will ever come.  Today ceretainly  won’t be the day I see anything to keep me from wishing time would temporarily speed up just a little.  On a whim I crouch low to the ground in the front entrance bed.  Lots of eaten acorns and hickory nut shells lay on the ground.  The squirrels have been busy here too.  A few acorns have small holes where insects had made an entrance and perhaps camped out for the winter.  Wait, what’s this?  It’s cold.  I can see my breath for Pete’s sake.  But there it is.  A small shoot of a Bloodroot has poked above the frozen ground.  And there’s another.  Is this right?  It’s dang cold and the ground is frozen.  And there’s a few more little spits of Bloodroot.  My records indicate that last year was a freakishly unusual 80 degrees around this date and these gorgeous plants had already bloomed.  This newly discovered growth will keep emerging, bloom with large snow white flowers for a short week or so, and then spread large scalloped leaves.  (The banner to this blog is a summertime picture of the resulting greenery from years past.)  But today, this is my first true sign of spring. 

 

Searching for Skunk Cabbage

A few days later, I joined a small group of fellow Wild Ones members on a spring wildflower walk.  We were led by our chapter president, Denise Gehring, and a colleague of hers, Kim High, an extraordinary naturalist with the Toledo Area Metroparks.  We were out to find signs of spring; namely Skunk cabbage, Hazelnut, Bluebirds, and Woodcocks.  It’s so nice to walk with knowledgeable people who are so eager and willing to share their knowledge.  I won’t go into the wonders of the Skunk cabbage plant that creates its own heat; enough warmth to melt snow and ice around it.  You can read about it in a wonderfully written Nature Institute article written by Craig Holdrege.  He describes the technical details of this amazing plant in such easy to read prose that even a scientifically challenged layman like me couldn’t put it down.  On this particularly cold evening on the first official day of spring, we find the Skunk cabbage in a small ravine among the crunchy dry leaves covering the ground .  They’ve undoubtedly been up for at least a few weeks; but yes, this is a most certainly a sign of spring. 

Adjacent to a paved park trail Kim points out a thicket of American hazelnut.  Someone takes a close look and points out tiny red flowers on the bare stems.  The shrub is in bloom.  On a nearby branch, the male catkins are getting ready to open and make their pollen available to the wind.  Kim says it would be fun having a table in front of the plants with Nutella and Hazelnut coffee.  This would help people easily connect with this native shrub.  Even without the tasty offerings, this early flowering event is yet another sign of spring. 

It quickly got colder and dusk began to set in.  Several Bluebirds flew across the trail and perched in some taller shrubs.  We walked a little way to a raised viewing platform.  The scene over the restored prairie was striking.  Several deer made their way into the surrounding thicket.  In an ode to spring we took turns reading a small excerpt from Aldo Leopold’s Sand County Almanac.  He was poetically describing the spring courtship ritual of the American woodcock.  The tiny “peent” sound of the male is to be followed by the “sky dance”.  As Leopold says:

“Suddenly the peenting ceases and the bird flutters skyward in a series of wide spirals, emitting a musical twitter.  Up and up he goes, the spirals steeper and smaller, the twittering louder and louder, until the performer is only a speck in the sky.  Then, without warning, he tumbles like a crippled plane, giving voice in a soft liquid warble that a March bluebird might envy.  At a few feet from the ground he levels off and returns to his peenting ground, usually to the exact spot where the performance began, and there resumes his peenting.” 

It was getting colder and darker.  Several people had to leave.  A few of us remained, carefully listening to every little sound.  Not a peent was heard.  We started heading back to the parking lot and stopped at the end of the prairie for one last listen.  “Peent”, “Peent”.  It was the woodcocks!  It was almost totally dark then and very windy.  A bird glided in to land close by.  It was a woodcock.  Another glided in from the darkness.  More “peents” and more birds quietly landed.  Squinting into the darkness we never saw the spiraling “sky dance” that night.  It probably was just too cold and windy for them to rocket up, rolling into the night sky to perform the ritual.  Perhaps we would return in a few days when it becomes a little warmer and still.  But it is spring!  I didn’t have to wish my time away.  It is spring! 

Thanks Santa

Thanks to Santa Claus and tips from a local award winning, nature photographer, George Sydlowski, I was able to capture a surprise event that took place outside my home office window.  For a long time now I've been wanting to photographically document the increased wildlife activity in our yard.  After all, one of the big reasons we're converting our landscape to native plantings is to attract and support the declining wildlife populations. 

Banded Longhorn Beetle on Purple Coneflower

Birds have long been an interest of ours.  For eons we've bought tons of birdseed to attract our feathered friends.   It was only a couple of years ago I learned that almost all birds require insects to feed their young. So even the seed eating birds like Cardinals and Goldfinches must have insects to nourish their nestlings. Performing rigorous scientific studies, Dr. Douglas Tallamy found that over 95% of all terrestial birds require insects. Even the nectar loving birds like our energetic Ruby-throated hummingbirds need insects to feed their hungry offspring.   Birds build their nests where this food is available.  That's where the native plants come into the picture.  Insects have to something to eat too.  Tallamy documented that insects only eat the plants that they evolved with.  Native plants. 

I thought I'd start my nature photography with this cornerstone of the avian diet - the insects.   Last year my birthday present was a macro lens to help link me to the small sized element of the food chain.  This lens has allowed me to get up close and personal with my subjects.  Fortunately for me, a lot of these protein-packed, bite-sized critters seemed to enjoy having their pictures taken.  They agreed to hold still long enough for me to fumble around with setting up the tripod and focusing.  In one of my first experiments with the macro lens, I kept finding a striped, long antennaed, beetle kind of character walking all over the Purple Coneflower blooms.  If I started shooting back a little distance from this subject, I found I sometimes got a usable picture.  With an image in the bag, I became more confident to sneak up a little closer.  Snap, better yet.  Inching closer, the wavy antennaed animal didn't care.  Snap, still better.  Closer yet and this guy (gal?) didn't even bother to turn and look at me.  I sure figured it would say "OK - enough is enough" and flit off to a less crowded venue.  But not so.  I was able to tire myself out seeking better and better compositions. 

Jagged Ambush Bug on Daisy Fleabane

The view through this lens really opened my eyes and disclosed some most interesting  creatures.   I didn't know who these patient critters were.  Fortunately the good folks at bugguide.net were quick to help.  After uploading tight snapshots to their website I received a very quick reply.  It turns out that there at least two hundred gazillion species of insects and they seem to be able to identify them all.  There's no way this layman can begin to sort them out. 


Guided with identification from the bug folks, I was eager to find out more about these six legged curiosities.  A little googling and wow.  Many of these are not only tasty morsels for the winged crowd but are themselves predators of other insects.  The Jagged Ambush Bug quietly lies strategically in wait on an aromatic flower head.  When an unwary pollinator comes along, BANG!  This efficient predator can apparently snack on fellow insects much larger than itself. 


Robber Fly

One particular subject with big eyes looked like what I used to call a fly. Along the way I've found out that many animals are world class mimics of other creatures. They have developed amazing behaviors and colorations to confuse predators. Some flies look like bees, some bees look like wasps, some wasps look like bees. It makes me dizzy. So what was this wondrous insect?   Again the bugguide.net crew provided the answer: a Robber Fly, one of over 1,000 species of Robber Flies in North America alone.  What?  Over 1,000?  Seriously?  What's a new and puzzled nature lover to do?  Seeking guidance from Jim McCormac, an entertaining and tireless naturalist with the Ohio Department of Natural Resources, author, and blogger extraordinaire, I asked where to start.  Jim guided me to "Kaufman Field Guide to Insects of North America."  Now I can refer to this book and perhaps get into the right pew when trying to identify these critters.  Maybe I won't look like a complete dunce when bugging the bugguide team.  Oh yes, back to the Robber Fly.  Kaufman say this group of aerial insects is "to other insects what falcons are to other birds."  Thus this big-eyed bug eats other insects (as well as being consumed by others).  I never tire learning and witnessing how the web of life keeps things in balance.  Each organism is important to all the others, even us of the homo sapiens variety. 


Carpenter Bee headed for Daisy Fleabane flower

Now that we'd been raising our own bird food, I really wanted to photograph this avian part of the food chain that is flourishing here courtesy of the native plants.   Try as I might, I couldn't get close enough to our feathered friends. They certainly didn't sit still for this stumbling photographer to stick a camera in their faces.   

 Enter Santa Claus with a telephoto lens.  Then at one of our local Wild Ones meetings George Sydlowski gave me some quick tips on using it.  Several weeks ago a motion at the birdbath caught my attention.  Hmm...that bird looks different than I'm used to seeing.  Wow - it's a  Bluebird, a female Bluebird.  Nanoseconds later another landed next to it.  Then another, then a more brightly colored male, then a few more.  We haven't seen Bluebirds at our house in over 12 years.  While the temperatures were well below freezing, the heated birdbath provided a nice hydration source for this flock.  In my excitement, it was all I could do to grab the camera and try to hold this heavy lens steady.  Fortunately George's tip of cranking up the ISO so I could snap with higher shutter speeds proved fruitful.  Eventually the flock moved on.  The following day found a large flock of American Robins perched on the birdbath.  Closer inspection disclosed a smaller, bluish bird squeezed into the group.  Ah hah.  A female Bluebird had elbowed its way into the throng of raucous Robins.  Sadly I wasn't able to snap a shot before the elegant feathered aviator decided it had better birds to hang with.  Nonetheless I now have the first pictures for the bird section of my backyard wildlife album.  Thanks George.  Thanks Santa. 



Bluebirds