Maggie's Farm

I took this close-up of a clump of Indian Pipe (aka Corpse Plant) at the farm this weekend, in the Hemlock woods on the hillside. A fungus? Nope. It's a parasitic plant.

A reader sent in this photo of an Eastern American Toad (Bufo Americanus) in the garden this past weekend. Everybody enjoys stumbling upon these goofy critters, which tend to be active at night (when the sun will not dry them out) or during rain. If find it remarkable how often they can be found far from any pools or ponds in which to breed. They travel.

I remember rainy days in Cape Cod when the baby toads had completed their magical transformation from tadpole to tiny (1/2") toads in August in such numbers that you could hardly find a place to put your foot, like Red Efts on cloudy days in the Berkshires.

The only thing I know that likes to eat them is the Hognose Snake, and I've never seen one of them.

Scientificalistical experts have proven (the debate is over) that if you touch a toad, you will get warts, but if you are a girl, and kiss one, it will turn into a Handsome Prince (but you will get warts all over your face).

We have tons of Eastern Toads here. Like all critters, it cheers me to see them.

From Bowyer's Teddy Roosevelt vs. the Noisy Environmentalists at TCS, one quote:

TR and his Director of Forestry Services, Gifford Pinchot created a system of 'wildlife Reserves'. They argued that it would not be fair for one generation to do all the logging and all the digging and to leave nothing behind for future generations. They didn't think of these reserves as something pristine, which would be rendered somehow ceremonially unclean by the signs of human development. They just wanted to share natural resources and beauty with future generations, like ours. In fact the shift in language from 'resources' to 'the environment' signals the shift in world-view from conservation to preservation. A resource, by its very nature, is to be used, sparingly, perhaps, but nonetheless, used.

This is why the Roosevelt-Pinchot philosophy is known to historians as the 'wise-use' movement. It's why the administration's forestry handbook contained explicit instructions for how to extract lumber and minerals from the protected lands. That's why the memorial lauds 'development', which contemporary environmentalists forbid in places like ANWR.

The preservationists of the time, like Sierra Club founder, John Muir, fought against them. While Roosevelt/Pinchot sought to make nature useful to humanity, by opening it to efficient use, and protecting it from destruction, Muir claimed that nature was to be useful to nature itself, not to man. For Roosevelt earth is for us, for people. For Muir man and land were equals. It wasn't the conservationist Roosevelt who put ANWR's oil out of our reach, but the environmentalist Carter.

Shucks, that is cute as hell. Hunter though I may be, I would never shoot one of these splendid animals. Deer? No problema.

And I love Alison Krauss too. (h/t, Theo)

There is nothing simple about understanding tides, because so many local factors - latitude, wind, currents, contour of the shore - come into play in addition to the sun and moon. Up here in New England, you generally need to check a tide table before planning any water-related activities - swimming, boating, clamming, and fishing.

For example, on Cape Cod spring tides can entail an 8-10' tidal change, leaving boats sitting on mud flats at low tide. On the ocean beaches, you want to frolic at low tide, not at high tide when the currents and undertow are strong and you cannot find a footing (I didn't mention all of the Harbor Seals on the ocean beaches this year. Cool. You can paddle right around those big fellas. I think that they think that we are a different seal species.). On the harbor and bay beaches, you cannot walk far enough out to find water deep enough to swim in at low water, although the dogs love to splash in those shallow mudflats.

As you move towards the equator, tidal changes become less important. Do you know why? (Here's why)

Spring tides are the extreme variations in tidal change. Neap tides are the minimal variations. They each occur roughly every two weeks. It's all about how the moon and sun line up to pull the water in the semidiurnal tidal cycle. Wiki has a good summary.

Here's my photo of Wellfleet oystermen tending their precious oyster plots during a spring tide low water last week in Wellfleet. They take their pick-ups out onto the mud flats, and hope they don't get stuck as the tide comes in. At half-tide, you can swim and sail there.

No boat's gonna row: Low tide in the Wellfleet marina:

With all of our posts about our beloved Cape Cod recently, our readers deserve a decent map to see what we are talking about. You can see that Wellfleet has ocean, harbor, and bay beaches - and plenty of wonderful ponds too. All with entirely different characters. Pop quiz on the map later.

The green is JFK's Cape Cod National Seashore. Best thing (and one of the few things) he ever did. What would this Wellfleet road look like this if he hadn't protected it from development? It's not "barren" - it's lovely.

I have a watercolor of that island, now part of the Cape Cod National Seashore, over our dining room fireplace. A family of Great Horned Owls lives out there. I have seen them. Plenty of squirrels, bunny rabbits, and crows for them to eat (yes, owls like to pick off roosting crows at night - an easy meal if you don't mind eating crow).

With advice for singles:

Fiddler crabs check out at least 100 potential mates before making a decision. While we acknowledge that figuring out how to get along with difficult people is a big part of marriage, how can it hurt to search carefully - even though it's guaranteed that you will end up with a flawed human - or crab? Science Daily

I didn't realize we have three species on the East coast. I guess I am mainly familiar with the ubiquitous and delightful Atlantic Marsh Fiddler of the Cape Cod salt marshes and tidal flats. It always cheers me up to see them.

These cute mud-eating crabs with their little holes all over the high tidal mudflats are all bark and no bite, have gills but breathe air, do not make good bait, and live in colonies in which they seem to spend most of their time threatening eachother.

Cape Cod may have had a little bit of topsoil long ago, but now the Outer Cape (aka the Lower Cape - north of Chatham) is pretty much all sand (which is why the Indians needed to throw a herring into each hill of corn), and the dominant tree is the Pitch Pine. Where it's subject to wind, it doesn't get much higher than a 6' scrub form.

Here's the path to our not-too-secret wild Blackberry patch, where it's not unusual to see a cheerful Eastern Box Turtle, to hear Bob Whites calling during the day, and Whip-Poor-Wills calling in the evening. Shrubs on front left, Beach Plum. Tree on right, Black Oak. Trees in background, Pitch Pine.

The basic outer Cape upland habitat is now Pitch Pine with an understory of Scrub Oak, with scatterings of Black Oak and feral Black Locust, with grasses below. In sunny spots, Bayberry, Blackberry, Poison Ivy, and Beach Plum. An occasional patch of wild blueberry filled with greedy Robins and Catbirds. This is officially known as Pitch Pine/Scrub Oak Barrens, but, for me, it's heaven. I hope that heaven, if I get there (doubtful) smells like hot sand,  Pitch Pine, and Bayberry. The ground cover in the photo below is the dwarf shrub Common Bearberry with its small red berries in August. This was a foggy early morning:

An annual re-post:

We mentioned in our piece on cicadas that the Katydids would begin their singing in mid-late summer. They are beginning to go strong now here in New England.

Open that window, shut off the TV, and let those wonderful, soothing, romantic, sentimental, poignant, sleepy-time night sounds roll in to feed your soul. And engrave it in your heart - we only have so many Augusts in our lives. For the katydid, it's their one and only - no wonder they sing their hearts out, until a hard frost kills them all.

You hardly ever see a Katydid - they are well-camouflaged in the green leaves but they are all over. Early evening and nighttime are when they make their music - more like Kay-did than a three-syllable tune. It sounds as if they are singing to each other. With the crickets providing the chirping background theme, it's a fine choir out there right now, at night. The bugs own the world.

Here's more info about Katydids.

Two young Carolina Wrens fecklessly fluttered into our den today while the door was open. The pup promptly swallowed one, as any half-trained retriever will do, but I gently grabbed the other and carried him out to a safe branch. He crapped in my hand, but I don't mind that at all. Glad to be of service. I will take it as a frightened "Thanks," like when God grips you.

Birds frequently fly into our house. A couple of years ago, two dumb young flickers flew down the dining room chimney, and their beaks are sharp. They were tough to catch with the 11' ceiling. But I will never forget my friend who found a befuddled Screech Owl perched on an andiron in his fireplace. He called me and asked what to do. I said grab him firmly but gently around his wings, and open your hand outdoors. It worked out fine, but the bird was confused a little by the sunlight and took a magical minute or so to compose himself perching on his hand, reorient himself, and then to fly into a dark, dense pine.

Our Carolina Wrens are noisy in spring (a piercing "teakettle teakettle teakettle"), invisible during their breeding season, and out and about again now. I thought they were migratory, but I had one at my feeder last winter, and apparently they are not, entirely. Harsh winters kill them off, but their populations bounce back.

They look twice the size of our happy House Wrens, and are noisier. Rugged little guys.

A re-post:

Both the majestic American Elm and the Chestnut fell victim to blights imported from overseas. With their deaths, the New England landscape was altered, for the worse. No more village blacksmith "under the spreading chestnut tree," and no more village greens and churches graced by rows of giant vase-shaped Elms - the hallmark of old New England.

Yes, we still have some elms, but the young ones don't make it to adulthood, and any remaining trees are slowly dying off.

The good news is that there is a blight-resistant Elm available. You won't live long enough to see it in its glory, but planting some now in the right places will be a heck of a fine gift to the future.

You can find them at Miller Nurseries.

Just south of Chatham on the elbow of the Cape, reaching south towards Nantucket, the Monomoy islands are a National Wildlife Refuge. They are full of seals, nesting shorebirds, and are a busy migration resting place. Also, the fishing there is wonderful. You can even do flats-style fishing for Stripers.

You can visit these (relatively) new islands by boat from Chatham. Nice little trip. You can stay at the Chatham Bars Inn which, I admit, has gotten fancier over the years.

When I was a kid, we referred to the Upland Sandpiper as a "snipe." They used to be officially named "Upland Plover." It's been a long time since I have seen an Upland Sandpiper in New England. (They are listed as threatened in the Eastern US). They were more plentiful in the past, when Yankeeland was covered with pastures and hayfields.

As with the Bobolink and the Meadowlark, reforestation and suburbanization have taken their toll on these fine meadow dwellers in the northeastern US. The Upland Sandpiper also had to deal with heavy market hunting (as a substitute for the hunted-to-extinction Passenger Pigeon).

The Upland, like our Wilson's Snipe, Woodcock, and Europe's Jacksnipe are all members of the shorebird family Scolopacidae who abandoned the coasts and found a home in the uplands. Most of these birds are still hunted, much as all shorebirds were in the past.

Our Upland Sandpipers winter on the Argentinian pampas. You can read more about the Upland Sandpiper here.

An annual re-post on First Cicada Day:

Heard my first cicadas of the summer today - just a few, and just for about an hour or two, but these are probably early risers - first emergers from the soil, practicing playing their instruments. Maybe this will be a good year for them.

It means that in a few days we will be hearing the remarkably loud raspy buzzing from the tree-tops on every hot sunny day - the characteristic sound of high summer in New England, until replaced by the more refined Katydid's evening song as late summer comes.

We have both 13-year and 17-year cicadas - that's how long the two species live as larvae underground, sucking on tree roots, before they emerge to mate, breed, and die.

Cicadas are edible, but I don't know anyone who eats them regularly, except birds who have great sport chasing them when they fly from tree to tree. We often find their empty exoskelatons attached to tree trunks - as they grow, they crawl out of their old coat.

Some basic cicada facts here. There is a cicada fan blog, too.