On Doldrums and Dementors

We are fast approaching the doldrums of summer, when tomatoes and sweet corn ripen, cicadas and crickets sing, and a string of oppressively hot days suck the energy from us.  Mere months ago we were preparing garden soil for seed, concerned about late frosts, and now the thought of delightfully cool, fall air and the smell of crisp dying leaves is a cruel and unimaginable tease.  On a shaded limb of the white pine a squirrel lies prostrate, legs hanging limply, offloading excess heat.  Birds at the feeders gape.  The air, laden with moisture, seems to have weight, and in the blistering sun there is a nearly audible sizzle.

A fine harvest of onions has been laid out in the shade of the barn for curing, joining the garlic from a couple weeks ago.  Pantry space is filled with canned green beans, pickles, and jams, cabbage is turned to kraut, sweet and crunchy carrots pack the refrigerator vegetable drawer, packaged zucchini and broccoli are added to the freezer.  Other crops, including some that welcome a relentless heat, march on towards maturity. 

In an effort to control mold and buckling floors, and with incidental consideration for our own comfort, we are running the AC like never before, and it is a godsend. Our trips outdoors have grown brief and largely limited to mornings and evenings when the heat subsides, except for our daily swims in the pond, to which we remain stubbornly dedicated.  Like any exercise routine it is not always easy to be willing and ready, but also like exercise routines it leaves us with a feeling of vitality and renewed vigor.  

During the summer doldrums there is a strong inclination to get the swimming done early in the day when the water is a tad cooler and photosynthesis is just gearing up.  We have, as do all untreated ponds, a healthy crop of string algae, as well as chara, a branched, bristly form of algae that is anchored in the soil and spreads arms upward to three feet.  We have stretched a 100 yard swim rope across the pond to keep us in line and measure distance, where it crosses shallow areas we apply a band of copper crystals to control the chara so we don't have to fight our way through it.  

String algae floats by day, the result of oxygen generated by photosynthesis being trapped and providing buoyancy so the plant rises to the surface.  At night, no longer held up by oxygen, the plants usually sink.  Some of it lands on and entangles dead and dying chara, so when daylight comes and photosynthesis resumes, the ballooning string algae brings with it a decaying chara skeleton.  Viewed from below water, the scene holds a similarity to a floating jellyfish with long tendrils trailing.  Sometimes the chara is black and putrid with decay, reminding us of the Dementors from the Harry Potter movies, so that is the name we give it.  It appears with increased frequency as the day rolls on, and drifts aimlessly with the wind.

When chara is in a state of advanced decay, it can be on the verge of disintegration, so when bumped by a focused swimmer it collapses in a cloud not unlike the ejected ink from a retreating octopus. Sulphuric compounds stored in the chara are rapidly released, leaving a stench that cannot go unnoticed by anyone with a functioning olfactory. 

But wait, there is more.  Hidden in the detritus are microscopic cercariae, the larvae of a parasitic trematode, or blood fluke, that spends its adult stage in waterfowl.  There are different kinds of trematodes and the details of their life cycles vary, but generally go something like this: Fluke eggs are passed in the bird’s feces and hatch into miracidia, which have no mouth so can't feed and must quickly find their way to an intermediate host, typically a snail.  Once inside the snail the miracidia develop into free swimming cercariae that are eventually released, swim about, and ideally penetrate the skin of a waterfowl where they then migrate to the blood vessels and become adults, completing the life cycle. 

It turns out that cercariae, in their zeal to find a suitable host, will latch onto almost anything, including people.  After penetrating our skin they do not develop into adults but instead die, leaving a tiny bite known as swimmer's itch.  It's not a serious problem and the bites clear up in a few days, and it's a sporadic event, so not always an issue. Cercariae can be anywhere in the water, but do seem to prefer hanging out on vegetation, or with Dementors, whom as Harry Potter fans know, feed on human happiness even without the aid of cercariae.

There are flukes that pose serious risks to man but this one does not, so in what would broadly be considered a warped viewpoint, there can be a tinge of excitement in being included in its world. With that annoying itch comes an invitation to learn of its life cycle, to appreciate its incredible adaptive behaviors and anatomical features that have allowed it to find a niche and live a life that does not weaken or kill its hosts.  In waterfowl it finds a free ride to new frontiers where it can inhabit new waters and recruit new snails to assist in its survival.  True, it's a parasite, a freeloader, but faces its own risks, and those that burrow into our skin have reached their end.

The doldrums of summer, the magic and bounty in a vegetable garden, photosynthesis, the Dementors, blood flukes, all invite us to be better aware. Weather conditions and mind boggling intricacies in the natural world are not always physically enjoyable, but do beg our appreciation and understanding.  It’s about seeing and seizing the wholeness of life. The more familiar we are, the more respectful we’ll be. 

A Beaver and a Conundrum

It is the nature of beavers to bring change. Where they go, new and improved ecosystems follow. What was once a slow, babbling brook becomes a pond or lake, resplendent with life. What was cropland becomes a marsh with minnows and amphibians, shorebirds, waterfowl, and aquatic insects. Beavers leave a wake of biological diversity. 

And so it was that when beavers moved into Spring Creek and laid claim to our property there was great celebration. By deed we controlled a reasonable length of stream so the consequences of a dam or two would affect us without influencing neighbors who relied on certain creek elevations for field drainage. We welcomed the beavers, looked forward to their impact, and prepared ourselves for the accommodations that might be necessary to support and encourage them. 

On a single night one early fall, the season when a beaver is actively building its winter food cache, we had a row of trees magically disappear from our plant nursery, which at the time was a primary source of income. The trees were about 2 inches in diameter on the stump. They had been cultivated for several years and were prime for conversion to currency. But on that fateful night they disappeared, not a twig or stem remained, only short, pointed stumps and a few chards of wood bearing tell tale impressions of beaver incisors. 

Rarely does a man’s land use objective coincide with a beaver’s intended purpose. Over the years we have had to abandon flooded irrigation pump pits, repair chewed power supply lines, relocate property access lanes due to standing water, stand by as nursery crops were inundated, lost valued yard trees, all due to beaver activities. But there have been extraordinary benefits: a gathering of nearly 100 migrating waterfowl in a flooded lowland, a deafening chorus of spring peepers and chorus frogs where there had been none, a pair of sandhill cranes staying through the nesting season, and endless opportunity to view changes to a landscape where habitat diversity and wildlife use increased on a logarithmic scale. 

In the years before beavers we had three ponds constructed. The two most valued covered three acres and put water within feet of the house, giving us a commanding view from our kitchen and patio. The largest of the ponds was built by pushing up a berm running parallel to Spring Creek over a distance of several hundred feet, so the pond and creek were separated by a sliver of land perhaps 30 feet wide. 

The current perceived problem is a new beaver dam which is backing water onto the berm, providing an open invitation for muskrats to burrow. The berm was designed wide enough that muskrats burrowing in from the pond side should never succeed in digging through to the back, thereby causing a breach. But now, with the stage set for muskrats to excavate from both sides, the risk of losing berm integrity becomes a clear and present danger, and I find myself rehearsing the day when I pour a cup of morning coffee and look out the window to what was the pond but is now a hole of putrid, dying algae resting in a black soup. 

I had read enough to understand the futility of removing beaver dams-- those blown out with dynamite or completely deconstructed via excavating equipment are typically rebuilt in record time-- but I had never had the experience of removing one by hand. I felt my time had come, so on a hot afternoon I waded in. I picked a point mid-dam, and standing in knee-deep ooze and water to my waist, began disassembling. In short order the details of a master engineer came into view. 

The dam was composed of primarily dead woody material which was sealed on the upstream side with large quantities of fresh green grasses, rushes, and sedges laid horizontally and packed with mud. As I scooped up handfuls of the topmost layer, a small torrent of water ensued, providing welcomed aid in loosening and carrying additional material downstream. In time the torrent grew to such force that even 6 inch diameter logs of 8 foot length were dislodged and easily launched downstream through the sluiceway. Occasionally, in the assorted construction materials, were lengths of wild rose and greenbrier, randomly placed so my bare feet and hands were soon embedded with thorns. I could have imagined these were located purposely, to discourage the very activity in which I was now engaged, but stopped short of giving the beaver such credit. 

With every log dislodged, with every bundle of sedge and mud swept downstream, I thought of the beaver and the effort and time it would take him to rebuild. I pictured him working methodically, steadfastly, employing ancient skills to transform a landscape for the benefit of many. I imagined him in a burrow somewhere upstream, perhaps sensing a drop in water level, perhaps hearing a rush of water where before there was none. I occasionally glance over my shoulder to see if he's come to assess the source and extent of damage, but he has not. I continue my work, and eventually create an opening near 10 feet wide with a newly established water level fully a foot lower than when I started, a level that no longer invited muskrats to the berm, a level I could live with. 

As expected, within three days the dam had been returned to its former magnificence and water covered the lower aspects of the berm. I let the situation ride for about a week before launching a second attack. I had learned from my first experience to wear a pair of lined gloves, but remained barefoot, and with the first step into the ooze landed squarely on a cluster of greenbrier thorns, embedding them nicely in the arch of my right foot. I again imagined the beaver, taking time out from his dam repair, hunched on the shore and contemplating my entry point, then carefully placing and concealing the prickly deterrent. I hobbled on and with an earnest effort opened up a section nearing 20 feet in width, again lowering the water level by about a foot. 

I now convinced myself the beaver was indeed fully aware, even from the confines of its burrow, that something was amiss. In my mind I saw him venturing out at dusk to document the damage, his long nights of labor intentionally and inexcusably destroyed once again. I see him reacting without rage or judgement or dread, but with calm acceptance of a task at hand, and gets to it. 

My first real experience with beavers came while doing research on moose and wolves in Isle Royale National Park. Beavers were incidental to our focus but their influence surrounded us. Their dams peppered the island and provided welcomed bridges across wetlands during field work, their ponds provided aquatic vegetation invaluable to browsing moose, their habits benefited a raft of life as they always do. It was on the island that I first heard the resounding flap of a beaver’s tail on water, signaling alarm. It was there I first breathed air rich with castor, marveled at a beaver’s ability to fell and maneuver trees, looked with appreciation on the massiveness of their winter food caches, heard them vocalize, watched them groom. 

Those memories only fuel my appreciation of having them on our property today, and not before now have I tried to enforce parameters on them. This is big ag country, where opportunity for beavers to work their ecological magic unrestricted is exceedingly rare. 

Within a week the dam is again rebuilt, the water resting against the berm. Once more I do the deed, begrudgingly, not because the task is difficult, it's actually invigorating, but because I'm not totally convinced it's necessary. Maybe I'm wrong about the muskrats. Maybe they won’t threaten the berm. I love the new wetland, it's waters filling the original serpentine course the stream held before it was straightened, the mounds of spoil dredged decades ago transformed to islands. It's all beautiful, and beautifully functional. 

It's been several days with no evidence of rebuilding. I won't pacify myself with the prospect of an accord being met. The beaver is likely demonstrating an exaggerated lack of urgency, has been picked off by a coyote, or has moved upstream with the hopes of finding a more welcoming site. If it's the latter, he will be backing water onto a neighbor who holds a loaded gun and no appreciation for beavers.  

I'm staring down a conundrum, digging greenbrier thorns from my feet, waiting. In a world of multiple crises, I'm hoping to find common ground and do right by a beaver, an animal slaughtered by settlers, once extirpated over most of its historic range, despised by row crop practitioners of today. An animal gifted like none other to bring life to a desperate and abused land, to offer a free environmental service that contributes to flood and sediment control, restores aquifers, and contributes mightily to wild diversity. I'm on its side, with no apology.

Dog Days

It’s wild raspberry season and our morning routine has been amended. We head out while the dew is heavy and are soon wet from wading through brambly patches, but the dew is cool and welcomed on days that are hot and muggy even as they begin.  We enjoy berry picking and the growing pile of frozen fruit in the freezer that will be rationed out for morning oatmeal all year long.  It’s an activity as old as humankind, wrought with simplicity and wholesomeness, and takes us to hinterlands where birds nest and box turtles lurk and deer flies and mosquitoes find value in us.

These are the dog days of summer.  The Old Farmer's Almanac has it commencing July 3 and ending August 11, a period of 40 days.  The Greeks and Romans associated it with the rise of the star system Sirius and deemed it the hottest time of year, a time of weather related distress, mad dogs, lethargy, and just bad luck, sometimes catastrophic.  

Catastrophe seems to be teetering on multiple fronts: COVID, racial protests, economic strain, dysfunctional and corrupt governments, take your pick or add your own.  The Arctic just recorded a temperature exceeding 100° F, the highest in 12000 years, but little has been reported of its link to misfortune. 

In our pursuit of raspberries we encounter invasive species, bush honeysuckle and brad pear being most common.  Back when we had the plant nursery the industry promoted both species, ignorant of their invasive tendencies. Today they are everywhere, on river banks, in odd areas and woodland edges.  Honeysuckle has tremendous shade tolerance and can claim the understory of woodlots, outcompeting native plants and bringing tree regeneration to a standstill.  In some instances, the existing woodland trees are essentially the last. When they’re gone, the woods will be a shadow of its former self. It’s a tough reality. 

Invasive and nonnative plant species have gotten a lot of press in recent years, most notably from entomologist Doug Talamy who has researched and written books on how these plants do not support insects and so do not provide food for native birds.  His work and books demonstrate an incredible potential for pollinating insects, songbirds, and other wild species if we simply start using more native plants and mow less grass in our man-made landscapes, 

So there is something we can do, regardless of the size of the land parcel we control or influence.  Think native. But there is another problem. Invasive plants are typically tough to control.  Physical removal or killing plants with herbicides does not remove dormant seed which can remain viable for years. On larger tracts particularly, the commitment is significant and requires vigilance and a dedication that might need to last hundreds or thousands or hundreds of thousands of years while we await natural processes that will keep populations of introduced species in check. Meanwhile, in forests and conservation tracts, on riverbanks and wildlife areas, wherever war on invasives has been declared, chemical treatments will often be implemented for the foreseeable future. There will be collateral damage to non targeted species and general poisoning of some environments.  

Our property is surrounded by acres of rampant honeysuckle so a steady seed source is assured.  If we commit to its eradication, our efforts will last only as long as we do unless subsequent owners take up the charge.  Ultimately, on many properties, honeysuckle will win.  This is not a defeatist attitude but a common sense concession. 

Every threatening global calamity could be met with the same attitude of inaction. If we ignore economic and social injustices, ignore climate change, ignore pandemics, everything will eventually get sorted out in the immensity of time, but what remains may well be radically different from what we know and experience today.  We must choose our battles. 

Lee and I have started rereading Rachael Carson’s Silent Spring.  Lee can only take a few pages at a time, any more is bad for her general welfare. Many of the chemical atrocities that spurred Carson’s warning of 60 years ago are still alive and well.  DDT, the highly persistent insecticide that causes egg shell thinning in birds at the top of the food chain, has been banned in the US but is still in use elsewhere.  Aldrin, which was pelletized and broadcasted over SE Michigan by aircraft for Japanese beetle control in the late 1950’s, left a swath of dead birds and animals and sick people. It, too, is still being used outside the US.  Worldwide, 5.6 billion pounds of pesticides are applied annually, more than a billion pounds in the US alone. Our first reaction to pests is almost always a chemical concoction, often with poorly understood environmental consequences, sometimes with dire consequences that are understood but ignored. 

In the dog days, raspberries ripen and sweet corn and garden peppers grow with great zeal.  But there is an underlying restlessness, a foreboding, a wish that these days would pass and be replaced with better ones. 

Tonight we took a late drive through the country. In the darkness we could not see the invasive plants claiming the understory of woodlots. We poked along under a full moon on mostly unpaved roads. The heat of the day had retreated, the dog’s head was out the window, her nostrils engaged, deciphering unseen details of the night. Over a distance of less than 20 miles we saw a couple dozen deer and nearly as many raccoons. There were opossums, broods of killdeer, several cottontails, including one in the jaws of a red fox. The corn stood 5 and 6 feet tall, fireflies hung over beanfields, the air was sweet. The dog days with all it’s predicted unpleasantries had taken leave. Tomorrow will be a new day, and there will be berries to pick.