Nature Notes – Rosemary Conroy
Lady In Waiting
New England’s Most Persnickety Wildflower
By Rosemary G. Conroy
On several occasions, people have mentioned that pink lady’s-slippers (Cypripedium acaule) seem not to be as common as they once were. Knowing very little about these woodland orchids, I set about trying to solve this botanical mystery.
I called Dr. Garret Crow at the botany department of the University of New Hampshire and asked him if he thought they were becoming more rare. “Compared to what?” he asked. “If pink lady’s-slippers are becoming rarer, it’s because open space is becoming rarer — the main reason we are losing anything in this state is due to development.”
I could understand his pique. Naturalists find it very hard to watch their favorite study subject replaced by something they consider much less fascinating. But his comments were not without hope: “Ask anyone if they’ve ever seen a pink lady’s-slipper, and nine times out of ten they’ll say yes,” he continued. “Rare plants are just that — rare. The truly rare plants are the ones most people never see.” (Like the yellow and showy lady’s-slippers).
But undeniably, the pink lady’s-slippers that decorate my own woods are erratic. A population will appear one year only to disappear another. Many people are quite convinced they are disappearing forever. As it turns out, pink lady’s-slippers are just plain unusual — and their elusiveness is only the half of it.
In Natural History magazine, Boston-based writer Richard Primack noted that pink lady’s-slippers were indeed very rare in New England earlier in this century. Most of the region had been cleared for agriculture, which this native plant could simply not abide. As the pastures reverted to forests once more, the pink lady’s-slipper returned. Primack now claims it as one of the most common wildflowers in his woods come late spring.
As I discovered more and more about this species however, it was hard to understand why they aren’t even more uncommon. The pink lady’s-slipper never seems to take the easy way out. In fact, they appear to do everything in the most Frank-Sinatra-I-did-it-my-way manner possible. In light of this, I believe that New Hampshire couldn’t have picked a more appropriate state wildflower than the pink lady’s-slipper.
They are certainly right at home in our state’s acidic soils. You’ll find pink lady’s-slippers scattered among the Canada mayflowers and low-bush blueberries blooming in drier, upland forests. Well-designed for understory life, these native orchids use their broad flat leaves to collect dim sunlight filtering from above. According to Bill Cullina of the New England Wild Flower Society, this is another reason why some people don’t find these plants where they once used to be common. Lady’s-slippers require just the right amount of light to bloom — not too much nor too little. If surrounding trees grow to over-shade it, the plant will retreat underground and wait. And wait. And wait. Its astounding patience can be measured in decades. An individual pink lady’s-slipper plant can survive to be 100, but may bloom only a handful of times during its lifetime.
As always, evolution has worked out things quite elegantly. The tree species that live among lady’s-slippers typically last a century or two, rarely more. Left unmolested, they will create a forest of unbroken canopy, allowing little light to penetrate the understory. Most woodland wildflowers deal with this by blooming early in the spring, before the trees leaf out. Our subject flower’s rhythm reaches way beyond mere seasonality — the pink lady’s-slippers’ tempo is attuned to longer-ranged events like hurricanes or ice storms. It will hoard its blossoms until one of these 100-year storms rearranges the forest and opens up more sunlight. Winters with harsh storms that topple many trees often result in more lady’s-slippers the following spring.
This preference for the road less traveled extends to other aspects of pink lady’s-slippers, as well. Take the unusual flower they produce — talk about thinking outside the box! More than one botanist has commented on its strange shape, which has given rise to evocative nicknames like “squirrel shoes” and “moccasin flower.” Next time you see one, examine it closely. Gently open up the enfolded pouch and peak inside. Imagine you are a bumblebee who has muscled his way into the flower. The stiff hair-like fibers allow you to move forward, but will prevent you from turning back. Light is filtering in from two distinct holes up towards the top of the flower. Naturally feeling somewhat claustrophobic, you make for the exit. Before you can reach freedom, however, you must squeeze past the pistil, or female part of the flower, which is waiting to receive any pollen you may have brought. Since this your first time through, you don’t have any, but just as you exit, the stamen, or male part, slaps a dab of pollen on your back, in a hearty farewell gesture. If and when you, as your bumblebee self, visit another lady’s-slipper, this pollen will be picked up by that plant’s pistil as you brush past on your way out. (You will have then fulfilled your niche as the sole contributing species to the pink lady’s-slipper’s successful cross-pollination.)
Whew! This system seems so narrowly contrived that one would imagine that reproduction is practically guaranteed. Surprisingly, there are flaws. Careful studies have shown that the bees gain little, if anything, for struggling through this floral funhouse. Most flowers pay back their pollinators with nectar — lady’s-slippers, however, appear to offer none. Nor can a hard-working bee harvest any pollen to feed its hungry larvae back home. Taking no chances, the flower, as you may recall, has placed its pollen on the bee’s back, just out of reach.
Apparently, these plants rely on what Cullina calls “naive” bumblebees: A bee that has been through the process once or twice rarely bothers with a pink lady’s-slipper again. Not surprisingly, fertilization rates can be as low as five percent. Specialization, apparently, has its drawbacks.
Cullina also claims that populations of these so-called naive bumblebees are highest in the years following a big storm or other canopy disturbance. The increased sunlight both attracts bees and allows nectar-rich companion plants like blueberries to flower heavily. These same conditions trigger the heaviest lady’s-slipper flowering and fertilization can soar to thirty percent.
So here’s my completely unscientific theory: perhaps the extra heat and blueberry sugars combine to make the bees a little tipsy. Maybe — just maybe — having a bigger “buzz” than usual makes those pink blossoms too, let’s say, intriguing — to pass by? We all know people who act irrationally on occasion, so why not bumblebees? (And maybe that’s why Linnaeus dubbed their species Bombus. Get it? BOMBus?) The resulting hangover would also explain the bees’ future avoidance of pink lady’s-slippers. It certainly would shed some light on why the wildflower is so protective of its pollen. Go on and scoff but someday, somewhere, some poor graduate student with tiny breathalyzer in hand will uncover the real reason why all those bees are bumbling about like that!
Anyway, inebriated or not, bees do contribute to the successful reproduction in pink lady’s-slippers from time to time. When that happens, the flower produces a pod-like fruit containing tens of thousands of light, easily dispersed seeds. Once again, the lady’s-slippers march to the beat of a different drummer. Unlike most seeds, their offspring are launched into the world without any endosperm. In other words, the seeds lack built-in nutrients needed to fuel their sprouting and early growth. They must find in the soil a kindly fungus to take them in and sustain them. (Actually, the seed literally takes the fungus in, but let’s not get bogged down.) Scientists are unclear whether this is a symbiotic or parasitic relationship, but the seed depends on these fungi until they have grown leaves and roots. Once they can photosynthesize, the seedlings no longer depend entirely upon their microscopic caretakers for survival.
Once established, the plant slowly grows a mass of spaghetti-like roots running just below the surface. These delicate roots do not take kindly to disturbance, and as all too many people have discovered, they rarely tolerate transplanting. As a “plant of special concern” in New Hampshire, it is illegal to pick or dig up plants (except on your own property) anyway.
Some may argue that the pink lady’s-slipper does not deserve its status as a plant to be concerned with — but I think we would all benefit from paying its ways more mind. So much is trampled in a world that demands everything be convenient, plentiful, and cheap. How unusual it is to find an entity that lives so entirely on its own terms — despite the sacrifices its high standards may require. The real mystery, then, may be whether our growing world can continue to sustain mavericks like the pink lady’s-slipper. I sure hope so. After all, aren’t we all enriched when something so uncommon is not too rare?
Rosemary Conroy is an artist, naturalist, and freelance writer living in Weare. She welcomes your comments and questions. You can reach her at art@studiobuteo.com or visit her website at http://www.studiobuteo.com .
Talking Turtles
By Rosemary G. Conroy
“Hey mister, would you cross me?”
In the more innocent days of my urban youth, this was not an uncommon thing for children to ask adults. We kids needed to get to the other side, and knew from our mother’s constant assurance that this was unsafe to do alone. (Why it was not unsafe to ask strangers, I can’t recall.)
I often think of that bygone era as I drive around in late spring and early summer. Inevitably, as the days get warmer, turtles are making their way to the sides of our roads, looking to get to the other side. Oh, how I wish they could look up at us and ask, “Hey, can you cross me?”
There certainly would be a lot more of them if they could. Turtles are now venturing across our roadways in an attempt to perpetuate their species. Ironically, these efforts often end in their very demise. Turtles just don’t “get” roads and they definitely don’t “get” cars. I suppose when you have been around, basically unchanged for 200 million years, you aren’t going to evolve overnight — or over the eight or so decades since the automobile was invented.
The saddest part of seeing a turtle that has unsuccessfully crossed the road is that it takes so long for these reptiles to replace themselves. Unlike rabbits or rodents, who can produce several litters within months of being born, turtles take years to reach the age of consent. Painted turtles, for example, (the common species that you most often see basking on logs) don’t begin breeding until they are at least five years old. Wood turtles, which are tragically becoming quite rare, don’t become parents until they are well into their teens. What a tragedy for a turtle to survive the odds and make it to breeding age only to be squished by a Subaru.
So, I think we are going to have to take matters into our own hands. Ideally, we would be able to convince our state and federal legislators to equip our roads with turtle tunnels to ensure the safe passage of our native reptiles and amphibians. But that day may be a tad off in the future. But turtles are running out of time. Darn it — we are just going to have to cross those turtles whether they ask for it or not!
Helping a turtle across a road is easy. But I’d like to offer you a few key guidelines. First: safety first! Only get out of your car to cross a turtle if it is safe for you. No sense in becoming roadkill too — we need all the turtle-crossers we can get. Seriously, only cross turtles on roads where you won’t be in danger. And anyway, if a turtle is dumb enough to attempt I-93 during rush hour, well, maybe it’s better if his or her DNA doesn’t get passed on.
Second point: Turtles are seeking specific places to lay their eggs and are quite intent on that goal. So only move it in the direction it is pointed. Even if your bigger brain tells you that this not a smart idea, go with the turtle flow. The stubborn reptile will just re-cross back the way it wanted anyway. Besides being incredibly focused, turtles are also territorial. So don’t move it to a place you think is safer. You may be dooming the turtle to a life of confusion, unrest, and who knows what else.
Third: Now some people think turtles should always be placed in water. Not always true. At certain times of year they need dry sandy sites to lay their eggs. And there are also some species that spend very little time in ponds at all. Bottom line: don’t try to second-guess a turtle.
(This is a good place to get preachy and/or beg — please don’t take turtles home. There are just too many of us and too few of them for that practice to be a good idea anymore. Yes, it was fun when we were kids, but let’s be honest: It never really worked out that well for the turtle now, did it? And besides, it is now officially illegal.)
Back to the finer points of turtle transport: Be prepared for some resistance. Even though you are lending it a helpful hand, from the turtle’s point of view — you are one scary predator. So hold the turtle away from your body and move it quickly and gently to the other side of the road. Sometimes turtles pee in self-defense. (And, it’s surprising how effective that can be.)
The smaller species like painted, wood, and spotted turtles are easy to move — just pick them up and go. However the snapping turtle often gives would-be rescuers pause. Besides looking mean, they often hiss and clap their bony beaks quite fiercely, as their name implies. Some people pick them up by their tails, but this is rather unkind, not to mention bad for their spines. It is better to scoop them up from behind either with your hand or a shovel. Having been confronted with several of these cranky, dinner-plate sized dinosaurs in the past, I now drive around with a snow shovel in the back seat during turtle season. Just scoop and lift and the snapper is soon on its merry-for-a-turtle way. And it also works great for the occasional snake, should you be so inclined.
So that’s it! Crossing turtles is fun, easy, and believe it or not, great for soothing your environmental conscience. Still have residual guilt over that squirrel you hit this past winter? Feeling bad that you didn’t recycle everything you could have last week? Wish your car got better gas mileage? Just go out and cross some turtles. I promise, that for a little while anyway, you will feel absolved.
Rosemary Conroy is an artist, naturalist, and freelance writer living in Weare. She welcomes your comments and questions. You can reach her at art@studiobuteo.com or visit her website at http://www.studiobuteo.com
Why Do Birds Sing?
By Rosemary Conroy
Spring must be here. The mornings are no longer quiet ones — opening a door or window reveals a world filled with song! In the ash tree the robins are burbling; on the back porch roof, the phoebe is offering his sharper, shorter song; and in between forays at the feeders, the goldfinches are racing through their arias. For us humans, these songs make a pleasant backdrop, but for our feathered friends, they are serious communication tools — and even weapons.
But birdsong is such a joyful noise that one might easily assume that, like us, the birds are simply celebrating that winter is finally over. It certainly sounds that way. However, like most wild animals, our avian neighbors must carefully manage their energy budgets. In other words, they don’t have enough resources to sing merely for fun. (Of course, until we perfect our interspecies communication skills, we’ll never really know for sure.)
Nevertheless, through years of dedicated field research, ornithologists have concluded that birds sing primarily to attract mates and establish territories. Not as poetic perhaps, but it certainly is an interesting way to get your message across.
Dancing with the stars
I’ve always found it intriguing that it is typically the female bird that chooses which male will be the father of her offspring — instead of the other way around. This has led males of various species to evolve some rather dramatic techniques for attracting their attention. The male woodcock, for example, has a show-stopping song-and-dance routine that he trots out on spring evenings to impress the local girls. He’ll start by stamping his feet while emitting heart-felt “peents” through his elongated bill — until suddenly launching himself high into the sky over his territory. At the apex of this impressive flight, the woodcock will drop into a dramatic death spiral that makes his specially adapted feathers whistle like a warbler. Once back on he ground, he begins the whole routine again. One can imagine the woodcock hens watching from the wooded sidelines, gossiping among themselves and scoring each male like Olympic judges.
May the best tenor win
Most female songbirds, however, settle for a simpler serenade. (Although looks do count, of course. For example, if a male cardinal has shiny, brightly colored feathers, it is likely that he eats well and there must be a good forager. For prospective bird parents who will share essential chick-raising duties, this is an important trait). But a way to a bird’s heart and nest, apparently, is through her ears. Which makes sense, of course, if you live in a forest and may not always be able to get a good look at the current crop of contenders. So a male that can sing long and loud will likely prove to be more robust than one who cannot. And the quality of the song counts, as well. Therefore, from a robin’s perspective, a male that can belt out a tune like Pavarotti will obviously make a better mate than one who sings like Tiny Tim.
Take that, American Idol
In addition, birds are amazingly well equipped for producing complex songs, so we can deduce that it must be important, biologically. As Bruce Brooks point out in his book On the Wing, “most songbirds have eight or nine pairs of muscles, whose sole function is to manipulate the syrinx, or song organ.” It’s the avian equivalent of our larynx but a syrinx’s dual tubes allows a bird to produce a complex range of sounds. This even includes the ability to harmonize with itself. That is why the woodland thrushes you hear on summer evenings sound so evocatively ethereal.
The other main use for a songbird’s musical virtuosity is that male birds settle important territorial issues by out-singing each other. In other words, the best defense is not necessarily a sharp beak or razor-like talon but the ability to carry a tune well. So, that little sparrow chirping away from the top of a tree isn’t just making a pretty noise — no, he’s declaring that this is his turf and everyone else (sparrow-wise) should stay away. And while there is the occasional challenger, birds don’t often resort to wing-to-wing combat. So, when you hear two chickadees singing back and forth, they may be, in fact, waging a musical battle. And in all likelihood, the best songster will win.
Wouldn’t the world be a much nicer place if we humans could learn to settle our disputes so melodiously?
— Rosemary Conroy is a naturalist, artist, and writer living in Weare, NH. She is also the writer and co-host of “Something Wild,” a natural history program that airs weekly on New Hampshire Public Radio. Visit her website at http://www.studiobuteo.com to see her latest artwork and link to her most recent radio spots as well.
The Magic of Spring
By: Rosemary Conroy
It has always struck me as overly optimistic that the first day of spring falls in mid-March. I’m sure in some parts of the world it really is spring-like, but as you know, in New Hampshire it can be anywhere from completely nondescript gray, like last year, to still deep winter in some parts, like this one. Nevertheless, on Thursday, March 21, our days will match our nights in length and spring will officially arrive.
But to really know when spring has sprung, one must wait for the official sound of spring. It is high-pitched, repetitive, and will emanate from ponds and wetlands everywhere, particularly on rainy evenings in late March or early April. It may start out tentatively — peep? peeep? — but will eventually swell into a bold chorus that will pervade the night. I truly believe that without the piercing chant of the spring peeper, winter will not release its icy grasp on spring.
These tiny amphibians are especially appropriate harbingers because they manage this challenging season of rain, snow, and mud so well. Like the element they were born in, these frogs can slip back and forth between ice and liquid — literally — and survive.
That’s right, I’m talking frogcicles. Spring peepers endure the winter under an inch of leaf litter almost completely frozen solid. And when the spring rains begin, they thaw out, jump in the nearest pond, and celebrate with a rousing chorus of ear-splitting song.
In order to survive freezing temperatures, the peeper’s body undergoes a complicated metabolic process that prevents ice crystals from piercing its cells. These physiological changes result in a type of internal antifreeze that almost — but not quite — stops the frog’s heart and breathing. Teetering on the edge of death, it can thus survive with up to 65% of its body frozen. Not only that, when temperatures begin to rise, these amazing creatures can return to normal within six hours! And the peepers can slip back and forth between being frozen and unfrozen with little problem.
But frogs have always been amazing for their transmogrifying abilities. It is their very nature, of course, to transform themselves. How else can we explain how something so tiny, for example, can pack such a whallop of a sound?
Whoever named these frogs “peepers,” obviously never stood at the edge of a pond filled with these lusty frogs during their early spring breeding season. The intensity is so great that you actually feel as much as hear their ear-piercing wall of sound. “Peeping” makes me think of fuzzy baby chicks; “alien invasion” is much closer to the image raised by these minute amphibians.
Not that they aren’t nearly as cute as a fuzzy chick. A male spring peeper can easily ride on your fingertip — they rarely are bigger than an inch in length. Females tend to be slightly bigger at an inch and a quarter. Both can be identified by the X-shaped mark on their brownish tan backs that gives them their biological name, pseudacris crucifer. What they lack in size however, they make up in number, as spring peepers are among the most prolific amphibians around. And it definitely will sound that way soon.
All that noise is directed, of course, at the female peepers by the males. It is their amphibian love call. Peepers, like the other early breeder and co-freezer, the wood frog, travel from the surrounding woodlands to converge on ponds and wetlands. Wood frogs, being more specialized, restrict themselves to vernal pools, which are basically large temporary puddles in the woods. Spring peepers, being less choosy, can be found almost anywhere there is water. The males gather first and set up a territory of between four and sixteen inches in diameter and defend it by peeping their little hearts out. Biologists have estimated that at the peak of breeding season, a single male will peep up to four thousand times a night! And, the faster the peeping, the more attractive the male appears to the females. This is important because it is she that decides who will be the father of her offspring.
Apparently it is a tough decision, because spring peeper breeding season can last up to two months. In contrast, wood frogs gather, mate, lay eggs, and disperse all in a matter of two weeks or less. They are, of course, driven by the fact that their chosen breeding ground will dry up, and the longer the tadpoles have to develop, the better.
With both spring peepers and wood frogs, once a mate is chosen, the couple produces hundreds of fertilized eggs. Wood frogs prefer softball-sized clumps of eggs that they attach to twigs in the deepest part of their breeding pool. Peepers, by contrast, attach eggs individually under leaves, twigs, and other surfaces within the male’s territory. This makes it harder for predators to wipe out an entire generation, as often happens with wood frogs.
The peeper eggs will hatch within a week. The teeny tiny tadpoles spend their time trying to feed while hiding from hungry fish, insects, turtles, birds, snakes, mammals, and salamanders. In two months, any survivors will hop out of the water to begin their life on land. If you return in May to the places that you hear peeping this March, you may encounter tiny froglets with tails still attached. Those are this year’s line of spring peepers.
Once their development is complete, they will disperse into the surrounding woods to live out their remarkable lives: Summer among the shrubs of woodlands; autumn between fallen leaves; winter locked in its icy embrace; until it is time to emerge once more to flow into the rejuvenating waters of spring.
— Rosemary Conroy is a naturalist, artist, and writer living in Weare, NH. She is also the writer and co-host of “Something Wild,” a natural history program that airs weekly on New Hampshire Public Radio. Visit her website at www.studiobuteo.com to see her latest artwork and link to her most recent radio spots as well.
Love is Still in the Air
By Rosemary G. Conroy
Whether Valentine’s Day means romance or ridiculousness for us humans, it has meaning for our wild neighbors as well. In fact, mid-February marks the start of mating season for many of our furry and feathered friends. While the weather remains frigid and decidedly non-spring-like, the days have nevertheless steadily lengthened. This increased amount of daylight subsequently triggers hormones levels to rise in many wild birds and animals.
In other words, love is in the air.
(Of course, some biologists may argue with me that love has nothing to do with it — it is simply wildlife perpetuating their species. But that leaves no room for poetic license and besides, who are we to say that no emotion is involved for our four-legged friends? One could watch the squirrels chasing each other under my bird feeders, for example, and say they are simply “exhibiting pre-mating behavior.” Or, one could interpret their actions as “quite frisky.” But I digress.)
Another poignant but inevitable sign that mating season has begun is that first dead skunk on the side of the road. The striped skunk is one of our earliest breeders in New Hampshire. Skunks spend the first half of winter snoozing in their dens but use the second half looking for their better half, so to speak. Often this requires a bit of roaming for these four-legged Romeos — up to four or five square miles during breeding season. And while skunks are famously well equipped for deterring their natural predators, they do not do as well when it comes to automobiles. One can only hope that those tragic pungent lumps littering our roadsides had a chance to pass on their genes before they made their last fatal crossing.
Fortunately, not everyone thinks of roadkill when they think of skunks. For those of us raised on Saturday morning cartoons, skunks often bring to mind the cartoon character Pepe Le Pew. Pepe was depicted, in that pre-politically correct era, as an ardent skunk of French descent. Apparently, the cartoonists at Warner Brothers were astute observers of nature! How else could they have translated the fact that skunks start breeding around Valentine’s Day into a animated character who perpetually exhibits — how shall we say — pre-mating behavior? I am still working out why Pepe was French, however. Perhaps it was a metaphorical reference decrying the fact that the French, like skunks, have often been the victims of cruel stereotypes. Je ne sais pas!
What I do know, however, that many other real-life animals will also begin their mating seasons over the next few weeks. These include snowshoe hare; raccoon; beaver; red, gray, and flying squirrels; many mice and vole species; muskrat; coyote; red and gray fox; bobcat; otter; and fisher. Since most of these animals are on the smaller side, they will end up giving birth just as our woodlands and meadows are greening up and the weather is warmer. Absent from this early spring breeder list are our biggest resident creatures, like deer, moose, and black bear. These animals require longer gestation periods and therefore breed later in the year — starting in October for deer and moose, and beginning in June for bears.
Bear in mind, that everything our native bruins do when it comes to replicating themselves is rather unique. For example, black bears give birth in the middle of winter while they are in deep hibernation. The teensy-weensy cubs (there are often two or three) weigh less than a pound and are only inches in length at birth. This never made any sense to me in light of the fact that bears mate in June. Wouldn’t a six to seven month pregnancy result in a bouncing baby bear? Bears resolve this fact through a technique of delayed implantation. They do mate in early summer, but the fertilized embryo will go into a state of suspended animation within the female’s body until fall. If the sow has had a successful summer and fall and gained enough fat to go into the winter strong enough, the embryo will then begin developing. If times have been tough, the mother-to-be will simply absorb the embryo and conserve her resources until next year. Many members of the weasel family, like otter and fisher, also use this remarkable strategy.
This is especially clever considering that the bear’s cubs are so tiny at birth and therefore will require constant nursing during their first few months in order to develop fast enough. By the time the new family emerges from hibernation in the spring, the cubs will weigh four to eight pounds — a stunning increase. The mother bear, coincidentally, will be 40 percent thinner. All her hard-won fat she gained in the fall has been transformed into baby bears. This is one reason why people are strongly urged to put away their bird feeders by April — black bears may wake up well-rested from their long winter’s nap, but they have built up quite an appetite! Wouldn’t you?
But April is still a few months away. Because of the onset of mating season, however, you won’t have to wait that long to see increased signs of wildlife activity. A walk in the woods should reveal (when there is snow) many more animal tracks. If you look carefully, you may even see them two by two!
— Rosemary Conroy is a naturalist, artist, and writer living in Weare, NH as well as co-host for “Something Wild,” a natural history program that airs weekly on New Hampshire Public Radio. Visit her website at www.studiobuteo.com to see her latest artwork and link to her radio spots as well.
The Mysterious Fisher Cat
By Rosemary G. Conroy
“It was perhaps knee-high…round head… small ears…short legs…with a long thick tail,” Michelle described over the phone. “And its coat was dark brown, quite beautiful. Do you really think it could have been a fisher?”
Well, it certainly fit the bill for our second largest member of the weasel family (otters being larger). The only strange thing was — Michelle lives in the middle of Manchester — New Hampshire’s second largest city. Does that mean fishers do too?
According to Meade Cadot, biologist and executive director for the Harris Center for Conservation Education in Hancock, these sinuous animals are now found in every town in the state. Once trapped to near extinction by the mid-1800s, fishers have rebounded and now number in the thousands. Their remarkable comeback can be mainly attributed to better regulation of trapping and the reforestation of land once cleared for farming.
By the 1970s, New Hampshire had enough fishers that it shipped 25 to West Virginia, which had none. (In exchange, we received 25 wild turkeys, which we lacked at the time.) Cadot recalls, “Fish & Game offered $100 for every live-trapped fisher you brought in.” Fishers, he claims, are one of the easiest animals to trap.
And perhaps that is why we are finding them in New Hampshire’s urban areas today. “There isn’t much trapping going on in Manchester,” says Cadot, half-jokingly. “Perhaps fishers have figured out that it is a pretty safe place to be.”
Safety was also on my friend Michelle’s mind — not for the fisher but for her pets. “Should I keep my dog inside?” she wondered. “What about the cats?”
Ah, the myth of the ferocious fisher-cat, which by the way, doesn’t do much fishing. It is also definitely not a cat nor much of a cat-eater, as it turns out. Coyotes, great-horned owls, and cars are much more likely perpetrators when Kitty turns up missing. “Fishers are the Rodney Dangerfields of the critter world,” says Eric Orff, furbearer biologist for the New Hampshire Fish and Game department. “They get no respect.” But boy, do they ever get the blame.
Orff cites a 1979 study his agency conducted that examined the stomach contents of 1,000 fishers. Cat fur turned up in exactly one. Yet, people still blame these eight-pound weasels for attacking cats; not to mention dogs, small children, horses, and even old ladies, he notes. Orff, who has handled hundreds of these animals, claims they are not particularly ferocious either — unless you are a mouse or an apple. And yet, “fishers have taken the place of the big bad wolf in the public’s mind.” He calls them “the ghosts of New Hampshire’s forests.”
Perhaps it is their elusive nature that has helped create so many legends and such mystique. As noted, fishers are really quite common and they roam widely. But their nocturnal nature means they are rarely seen beyond the occasional glimpse through the windshield. At this time of year, however, it isn’t difficult to find their tracks bounding through the snow in your local woodlot. They do seem to show up everywhere!
All that roaming is dedicated to the pursuit of food — fishers are not particularly finicky. Typically, they seek out rodents, birds, and snowshoe hare, but will not turn their pointy noses up at carrion or apples, berries, or acorns. They are also known for being one of the few animals to successfully hunt the very prickly porcupine.
Once upon a time, biologists believed that fishers lived exclusively in dense, old-growth forests. But like many mammals, they have proven to be much more adaptable. Witness the one caught roaming through an urban backyard like Michelle’s.
Such sightings could be happening more often because fishers are becoming more numerous but perhaps fishers are getting smarter too. The people in urban areas tend not to put out traps, as Meade Cadot pointed out. And they do tend to attract pigeons, rodents, and squirrels — all perfectly good fisher food.
Imagine how all those birdfeeder-fattened squirrels look from the perspective of a hungry weasel. It’s just fast food with a little furry on the side!
Rosemary Conroy is a naturalist, artist, and freelance writer living in Weare.
Artistry Revealed
Wasps prove to be more than mere pollinators
Winter is the time when trees reveal their summer secrets. For example, wasp nests are easier to see now, hanging like paper lanterns on the end of bare branches. These natural works of art are best appreciated now, when their former occupants are long gone.
If you unwrap one of these nests, you’ll see that it is made of a papery material that the wasps make from combining chewed-up wood pulp with their saliva. Think about how much wasp spit that must take! Despite the texture, these amazingly sturdy structures are built not by paper wasps but by the bald-faced hornet. Paper wasps build those single-layer, umbrella-like nests that often hang under your back porch light. Being closely related however, both of these insect species share the same fascinating life cycle.
It all begins in the spring, when the wasp queen emerges from her winter hibernation under a log or in a mouse burrow. Well-rested, she gets to work building her new nest from scratch. And I mean scratch — I have actually heard (and seen) wasps scraping the bare wood posts on my porch! As mentioned, she turns that fiber into the elegant edifice that will house her offspring.
Once the core structure is built, the busy queen starts laying eggs. Like all single moms, she works her wings off — feeding larvae, cleaning cells, and expanding the nest to accommodate her rapidly growing brood. Once her many daughters have pupated, they take over the housework and nursery duties and the queen focuses her energies strictly on egg laying.
Her only sons are born in the late summer, along with the only fertile daughters, who will become next year’s queens. These offspring will venture widely in search of mates from other hives. Once mated, the new queens will head underground to await the spring.
With her life’s mission accomplished, our original queen mother, along with the rest of her hard-working offspring, dies off. The season turns, leaves flutter, and too soon, the north winds begin to blow. Her former paper palace, now merely an eye-catching silhouette hung amongst the bare branches of winter, may strike us as somewhat forlorn. But somewhere deep and dark under the snow and ice, the next generation of our wasp’s dynasty bides its time.
— Rosemary Conroy is an artist, naturalist, and freelance writer living in Weare, NH. This essay was adapted from “Something Wild,” a biweekly nature spot on New Hampshire Public Radio that she writes and co-hosts. Please visit Rosemary’s website at www.studiobuteo.com or contact her at art@studiobuteo.com.
|
