Before his death, biologist Ken Hogsdon published a column in our local newspaper titled "Nature Notes." I was told when I moved here not to bother subscribing to the paper because it was just a rag for the Good Old Boy Network that ran things around here in those days--and still does, for the most part, which is one reason our biggest "city" was recently named the 6th poorest in the nation.
However, the paper was worth it back in those days because of Hogsdon's charming "Notes." My title is in homage to this man who told stories of his daily, mostly backyard encounters with the region's wildlife.
In that vein, and in an effort to get away from depressing stories about my health, or lack thereof, I am now sharing my own "Nature Notes." Actually, a couple of earlier episodes also shared some "Nature Notes": Episode 10: Happy Halloween With Some Creepy Plants and Critters, most notably. (Depending on copyright, I hope to add some of Hodgson's own columns to the show, since I can't find anything about him or written by him on the Internet; his death predated the Web.)
I live in a "cottage," as I like to call it, on the edge of a hardwood forest in Appalachia. My small plot--a mere .6 acres--has several microenvironments: first, the aforesaid forest filled with American basswood, sugar maple, and black oak with a smattering of other species including shagbark hickory.
Beneath the trees grow magical species including Jack-in-the-Pulpit, May apple, trillium, several types of ferns, mosses, and more.
A second environment is what I refer to as my "meadow"--a strip of land along the edge of the forest behind the cottage that is the sunniest location in my yard. My place lies cradled in the side of Big Savage Mountain, which looms to the west and, therefore, blocks most sunlight by 4 p.m. or so even in the summer. This little strip of land holds onto the daylight longer than any other. In the meadow are several types of goldenrod, asters, mugwort, wild phlox, dame's rocket, asters, and more.
Finally, my yard proper makes up the third microenvironment. Actually, my yard isn't so proper: I am slowly allowing low-growing "weeds" (I prefer to call them "wonders") to take over the grass in the hope that someday my lawn will no longer need mowing. Aren't the heart-shaped leaves and happy purple faces of violets preferable to a bunch of straight, boring blades of grass?
Many of my wildlife encounters have taken place on my property, while others occurred in the surrounding beautiful, mountainous terrain.
Here are a few stories to begin this "series."
The Earth Moved
Outside my back door is a concrete slab I hope to someday make into a flagstone patio. I often leave items such as flowerpots needing planting back there. One summer evening I came home with some new flowers, so I chose a fairly large terracotta pot filled with dry soil as their home. I carried in the pot and put it in the sink, turned on the faucet, and walked away since I knew the hard soil would need a good soaking
From across the room, however, I glanced over at the flowerpot and, to my shock and momentary horror, the soil began to GROW. The dirt rose up in a large lump, and my heart stopped as my brain tried to process what the heck was going on. The soil began to shape itself into a sloped head with eyes blinking.
And then I realized what I was seeing--a toad, who had made his home in this warm little pot of earth, had experienced his own rude awakening, and he also wanted to know what was going on! He looked like the biggest toad on earth, all covered in soil, as I sprang across the room and gently covered the flowerpot with a saucer and took my new friend back outside--whereupon he quickly vacated what must have seemed like the ideal place to hang out. At night, my porch light would have attracted to his lair all the tasty morsels he could eat!
Had I known of this squatter, I would have happily allowed him the real estate rather than ungraciously evicting him in favor of a mere flower.
Tiny Ring-Neck Snake
Other objects end up on that concrete slab, and one day I picked up a piece of wood I'd placed there for some reason, and beneath it was the tiniest snake I'd ever seen. I hadn't even known snakes came that small!
This one was about two inches long and very slender, all black, other than a bright yellow ring where its neck might be said to be. This was a hatchling of a fairly common type of snake in the area, the Northern Ringneck Snake (Diadophis punctatus), though I didn't know that at the time.
For all its evils, the Internet sure is a wonderful innovation. Anything that piques my curiosity can easily be answered with a few choice search words. In this case, "ring" and "neck" and "snake." Can't get easier than that!
Green Greetings
Admittedly, my threshold for thrilling surprises may be low, but I'll take these little green surprises--each of them found on rocky ledges--over a surprise mink coat any day.
The first happened many moons ago when my two boys and I began exploring our new environment after moving from Washington, DC, to Appalachia. At the time, J., my older son, was about ten years old and had bought a book on West Virginia at the local bookstore, after which he hounded me to visit all the wild, wonderful places in that closely neighboring state. Well, "hounded" is probably too strong a word--it didn't take much encouragement at all!
That's how we ended up numerous times at the rather amazing Dolly Sods Wilderness, an apparent remnant of the Ice Age when glaciers covered this part of our country. The vegetation is characteristic of much more northern (as in northern Canadian) terrain and includes sphagnum bogs and heaths on its rocky mountaintop--not to mention a bounty of blueberry bushes, as we found one fall when they were bursting with fruit. Son J. was also fascinated with the area's "flag-form trees"--trees with branches growing only on one side due to the intensity of winter winds on the boulder-strewn mountaintop.
The strange name, according to Wilderness.net, is for the Dalhe family who "used the open grassy fields called 'sods' for grazing sheep in this area." Even stranger are the signs on all the trails warning that the area was a pre-World War II training area--and if a hiker were to find a stray mortar round in the "wilderness," he or she should leave it alone since it could still be live! Talk about cognitive dissonance!
Meanwhile, younger son A., who loved to complain about hiking, nevertheless had a great time jumping from rock to rock in a heart-stopping manner whenever we arrived at outcroppings. After one of his treks to the edge of the Dolly Sods plateau, he came running back for me, calling out, "Come here! Look what I found!"
So I followed him down a few boulder stairs and looked where he was pointing--and there, curled happily on a miniature cave-like rock ledge, was a Smooth Greensnake (Opheodrys vernalis) in all its emerald glory. Again, I'd had no idea snakes came like this!
A couple of decades later (sigh--really?) a similar green encounter greeted me most unexpectedly. This time, I was in a canoe, resting with a beer as my Honey paddled us around the Savage River Dam, a reservoir surrounded by the Savage River State Forest, a setting not unlike, I imagine, the Scottish lochs my Honey's and my ancestors enjoyed.
We floated along a shore bounded by a wall of rock--a wall with plenty of crevices and ledges for other creatures wanting to enjoy the fine day and the lovely body of water--including, in one, a small, brilliantly green frog!
Tonight I searched Maryland's Department of Natural Resources site to try to figure out what these species might be, which is how I identified the Smooth Greensnake (there's also a Rough Greensnake but it does not live in our neck of the woods, while the smooth one does).
The only bright green frog I could find is the Green Treefrog (Hyla cinera), and its description fits our sighting: Their habitat includes "Swamps, borders of lakes and streams, floating vegetation . . . ." This little guy was indeed on the border of the lake, perched happily on his little balcony where he, no doubt, waited for flying insects to try to pass by.
Swimming Salamanders
The frog-occupied rock ledge holds back a finger of land that, on its other side, has a rocky beach easy to "land" on with our canoe. Last summer, Honey and I pulled up on the beach and walked over to the other side where we sat on the ledge and enjoyed the view.
"Remember that green frog we saw?" I said--we'd seen it on one of our first canoe voyages on the Dam, as we call it--probably some nine years ago, back when our relationship was tenuous and I never imagined I'd be back there with him nearly a decade later.
In fact, he is another reason the local newspaper was worth reading back then--he was the editorial page editor ten years ago; I wrote a letter to the editor; and the rest is History. Actually, so is his job at the paper, because that Good Old Boy Network didn't like the politics in his columns and, in an affront to journalistic integrity everywhere, told him to pack up and leave after fourteen unblemished years of employment. Needless to say, I don't read that rag anymore.
BUT I digress. Back to happier topics:
I looked over the ledge and, to my surprise, saw a populous little world I'd had no idea of--dozens of salamanders swimming around, and even a few that had ventured onto the hard, rocky ledge where we sat! I hadn't noticed the ones on land because they were so well camouflaged. The place seemed a harsh landing spot for salamanders, as it was covered with nothing but red dirt and small pebbles, but perhaps they, like the green frog, also pulled up into the shaded rock crevices below when they needed a rest.
No hope in identifying what they might have been from memory, as many species of salamanders live in our region, and these were brown and nondescript, as many of them are. They may well have been the adult version of our newt Ethel, an Eastern Red-Spotted Newt (Notophthalmus viridescens) who is in her terrestrial juvenile stage, known as "eft."
I found Ethel, and her now-deceased mate Fred, in my yard after a spring rain, like orange jewels among the brown leaf litter. Actually, efts are neither male nor female; newts do not become sexual beings until their adult, mostly aquatic (and mostly brown) stage.
Next summer, I'm going back to that ledge with a field guide in tow, and maybe I'll be able to figure out what species lives so thickly in that little part of the lake.
One thing I do know--they weren't hellbenders! Hellbenders are endangered and huge (for a salamander); in fact, they're known as giant salamanders, and the few that are left live in Appalachian streams near us. Now, that would be a sighting, and I haven't given up on seeing one yet.
In the meantime, I'll just enjoy a giant burrito at Hellbender's Cafe in Davis, West Virginia, another "find" when the kids and I used to explore the state! Now, THOSE are monsters!
More Nature Notes to come!
However, the paper was worth it back in those days because of Hogsdon's charming "Notes." My title is in homage to this man who told stories of his daily, mostly backyard encounters with the region's wildlife.
In that vein, and in an effort to get away from depressing stories about my health, or lack thereof, I am now sharing my own "Nature Notes." Actually, a couple of earlier episodes also shared some "Nature Notes": Episode 10: Happy Halloween With Some Creepy Plants and Critters, most notably. (Depending on copyright, I hope to add some of Hodgson's own columns to the show, since I can't find anything about him or written by him on the Internet; his death predated the Web.)
 |
| The Cottage |
Beneath the trees grow magical species including Jack-in-the-Pulpit, May apple, trillium, several types of ferns, mosses, and more.
A second environment is what I refer to as my "meadow"--a strip of land along the edge of the forest behind the cottage that is the sunniest location in my yard. My place lies cradled in the side of Big Savage Mountain, which looms to the west and, therefore, blocks most sunlight by 4 p.m. or so even in the summer. This little strip of land holds onto the daylight longer than any other. In the meadow are several types of goldenrod, asters, mugwort, wild phlox, dame's rocket, asters, and more.
Finally, my yard proper makes up the third microenvironment. Actually, my yard isn't so proper: I am slowly allowing low-growing "weeds" (I prefer to call them "wonders") to take over the grass in the hope that someday my lawn will no longer need mowing. Aren't the heart-shaped leaves and happy purple faces of violets preferable to a bunch of straight, boring blades of grass?
Many of my wildlife encounters have taken place on my property, while others occurred in the surrounding beautiful, mountainous terrain.
Here are a few stories to begin this "series."
The Earth Moved
Outside my back door is a concrete slab I hope to someday make into a flagstone patio. I often leave items such as flowerpots needing planting back there. One summer evening I came home with some new flowers, so I chose a fairly large terracotta pot filled with dry soil as their home. I carried in the pot and put it in the sink, turned on the faucet, and walked away since I knew the hard soil would need a good soaking
From across the room, however, I glanced over at the flowerpot and, to my shock and momentary horror, the soil began to GROW. The dirt rose up in a large lump, and my heart stopped as my brain tried to process what the heck was going on. The soil began to shape itself into a sloped head with eyes blinking.
And then I realized what I was seeing--a toad, who had made his home in this warm little pot of earth, had experienced his own rude awakening, and he also wanted to know what was going on! He looked like the biggest toad on earth, all covered in soil, as I sprang across the room and gently covered the flowerpot with a saucer and took my new friend back outside--whereupon he quickly vacated what must have seemed like the ideal place to hang out. At night, my porch light would have attracted to his lair all the tasty morsels he could eat!
Had I known of this squatter, I would have happily allowed him the real estate rather than ungraciously evicting him in favor of a mere flower.
Tiny Ring-Neck Snake
Other objects end up on that concrete slab, and one day I picked up a piece of wood I'd placed there for some reason, and beneath it was the tiniest snake I'd ever seen. I hadn't even known snakes came that small!
This one was about two inches long and very slender, all black, other than a bright yellow ring where its neck might be said to be. This was a hatchling of a fairly common type of snake in the area, the Northern Ringneck Snake (Diadophis punctatus), though I didn't know that at the time.
 |
| No, this isn't my hand-- Photo from the Savannah River Ecology Laboratory |
Green Greetings
Admittedly, my threshold for thrilling surprises may be low, but I'll take these little green surprises--each of them found on rocky ledges--over a surprise mink coat any day.
The first happened many moons ago when my two boys and I began exploring our new environment after moving from Washington, DC, to Appalachia. At the time, J., my older son, was about ten years old and had bought a book on West Virginia at the local bookstore, after which he hounded me to visit all the wild, wonderful places in that closely neighboring state. Well, "hounded" is probably too strong a word--it didn't take much encouragement at all!
That's how we ended up numerous times at the rather amazing Dolly Sods Wilderness, an apparent remnant of the Ice Age when glaciers covered this part of our country. The vegetation is characteristic of much more northern (as in northern Canadian) terrain and includes sphagnum bogs and heaths on its rocky mountaintop--not to mention a bounty of blueberry bushes, as we found one fall when they were bursting with fruit. Son J. was also fascinated with the area's "flag-form trees"--trees with branches growing only on one side due to the intensity of winter winds on the boulder-strewn mountaintop.
 |
| Dolly Sods Wilderness at Bear Rocks - Photo from Nature Conservancy |
 |
| 105-mm Howitzer round found at Dolly Sods-- Gee, what a symbol for the masculine nature of war! Photo from West Virginia Highland Voice |
So I followed him down a few boulder stairs and looked where he was pointing--and there, curled happily on a miniature cave-like rock ledge, was a Smooth Greensnake (Opheodrys vernalis) in all its emerald glory. Again, I'd had no idea snakes came like this!
 |
| Photo of Smooth Greensnake from Maryland's Department of Natural Resources |
A couple of decades later (sigh--really?) a similar green encounter greeted me most unexpectedly. This time, I was in a canoe, resting with a beer as my Honey paddled us around the Savage River Dam, a reservoir surrounded by the Savage River State Forest, a setting not unlike, I imagine, the Scottish lochs my Honey's and my ancestors enjoyed.
We floated along a shore bounded by a wall of rock--a wall with plenty of crevices and ledges for other creatures wanting to enjoy the fine day and the lovely body of water--including, in one, a small, brilliantly green frog!
Tonight I searched Maryland's Department of Natural Resources site to try to figure out what these species might be, which is how I identified the Smooth Greensnake (there's also a Rough Greensnake but it does not live in our neck of the woods, while the smooth one does).
The only bright green frog I could find is the Green Treefrog (Hyla cinera), and its description fits our sighting: Their habitat includes "Swamps, borders of lakes and streams, floating vegetation . . . ." This little guy was indeed on the border of the lake, perched happily on his little balcony where he, no doubt, waited for flying insects to try to pass by.
 |
| Photo of Green Treefrog from Maryland Department of Natural Resources |
Swimming Salamanders
The frog-occupied rock ledge holds back a finger of land that, on its other side, has a rocky beach easy to "land" on with our canoe. Last summer, Honey and I pulled up on the beach and walked over to the other side where we sat on the ledge and enjoyed the view.
"Remember that green frog we saw?" I said--we'd seen it on one of our first canoe voyages on the Dam, as we call it--probably some nine years ago, back when our relationship was tenuous and I never imagined I'd be back there with him nearly a decade later.
In fact, he is another reason the local newspaper was worth reading back then--he was the editorial page editor ten years ago; I wrote a letter to the editor; and the rest is History. Actually, so is his job at the paper, because that Good Old Boy Network didn't like the politics in his columns and, in an affront to journalistic integrity everywhere, told him to pack up and leave after fourteen unblemished years of employment. Needless to say, I don't read that rag anymore.
BUT I digress. Back to happier topics:
I looked over the ledge and, to my surprise, saw a populous little world I'd had no idea of--dozens of salamanders swimming around, and even a few that had ventured onto the hard, rocky ledge where we sat! I hadn't noticed the ones on land because they were so well camouflaged. The place seemed a harsh landing spot for salamanders, as it was covered with nothing but red dirt and small pebbles, but perhaps they, like the green frog, also pulled up into the shaded rock crevices below when they needed a rest.
No hope in identifying what they might have been from memory, as many species of salamanders live in our region, and these were brown and nondescript, as many of them are. They may well have been the adult version of our newt Ethel, an Eastern Red-Spotted Newt (Notophthalmus viridescens) who is in her terrestrial juvenile stage, known as "eft."
 |
| Ethel, our Eastern Red-Spotted Newt Eft, in her Florida room, actually an intact old French's mustard jar we found in the woods |
 |
| More Ethel |
Next summer, I'm going back to that ledge with a field guide in tow, and maybe I'll be able to figure out what species lives so thickly in that little part of the lake.
One thing I do know--they weren't hellbenders! Hellbenders are endangered and huge (for a salamander); in fact, they're known as giant salamanders, and the few that are left live in Appalachian streams near us. Now, that would be a sighting, and I haven't given up on seeing one yet.
 |
| Adult Eastern hellbender, photo from Maryland Department of Natural Resources |
 |
| GREAT big burritos at Hellbender's in Davis, West Virginia |
More Nature Notes to come!
No comments:
Post a Comment