417.62 ppm

It’s raining, and according to the forecast it might rain for 10 days, maybe 6 or more inches before it winds down. Meanwhile, the west lies parched and baked and the reservoirs are drying up.  The northwest is insanely hot with triple digit temperatures and Siberia set an all time record of 112 degrees.  It’s not craziness, it’s 417.62 ppm CO2.

The national news outlets suggest that half of us have gone mad.  People who know history see indicators of rebellion within our borders.  The pandemic is not over, largely because too many of us refuse to be vaccinated.  Half of our government officials demonstrate less collective reasoning than a group of monkeys.  Which half depends on who you ask.

The other day I met a man for the first time and we exchanged pleasantries before the subject wandered to national affairs.  We expressed our mutual concern and  disgruntlement on matters of economy, environment, and equality, without divulging political affiliation, and later I realized I had no clue which side he was on.  We were in total agreement but might have been miles from understanding each other.  Such are the convictions that divide us. 

The rain is nice.  Gentle.  The wild raspberries are ripening so we’ve begun our forays through the brambles.  We enjoy picking, almost as much as we enjoy a big mound of fruit on our morning oatmeal.  It takes a good number of berries to satisfy a year’s worth of oatmeal and we may fall short but will give it our best shot, one berry at a time.  Wild raspberries behave a bit like mushrooms: last year’s hotspot may not be the same this year.  Yesterday we found a new patch that looks promising, in and around a brush pile we built a few years ago.  A Purdue prof once told us that birds will “plant” their preferred food types near cover they frequent, and right here was solid evidence, which made me think of the unique evolutionary relationships between everything.  Birds and box turtles and raccoons are the raspberry’s ticket to new and greener pastures. It’s a win for all.

Since we sold the business our property has been largely set free and is turning itself into a bit of a jungle.  It’s in an adolescent phase where everything is vying for a spot in the sun, and competition is fierce.  Among the participants are introduced invasives like bush honeysuckle, Bradford pear, and multiflora rose, but the natives still make a strong showing: wild grape, greenbriar, and poison ivy among the mix.  They are determined to have their piece of the pie and contribute mightily to the berry picking experience with a network of entangling stems and tendrils. It’s somewhat impressive, what a man can work through given sight of a clump of berries hanging seductively just out of reach.  It’s like Bathsheba to the eyes of David, beyond the capacity of mortal man to resist. 

We’ve seen some interesting changes in the plant communities around the property.

The place where the woodland meets the county road has always been occupied by a mix of shrubs and brambles, which is expected given the increased sunlight it receives. The area remained virtually unchanged for decades, but now has rather suddenly taken on a different composition.  Choked with invasive species and rampant vines, it has become a nearly impenetrable wall. With increasing CO2, certain plants, including wild grape, hops, and poison ivy, get a boost in virility, so again our observations are not imagined or crazy, but instead likely the result of 417.62 ppm CO2.

The man I met the other day mentioned climate change as one of his concerns.  We both agreed it was an existential threat, second to none.  But it could be he sees the threat as real but not man caused, with the only practical solution involving geo engineering.  It could be he is convinced the election was stolen, all lives matter, voter suppression or rebellion is our only hope.  We both agreed that COVID did a number on the economy but maybe he believes it was all by design and China is to blame.  Maybe he can’t wait until August when our rightful president is reinstated and the wall can be completed and America can be made great again.  

He and I need to pick some raspberries, sort things out, see where we stand. At this point we’ve only established common ground but could be at odds when it comes to solutions.  Maybe if we disagree, there among the brambles, we’ll get drawn into deep discussion and the vines will ensnare us and we’ll die and be composted on the spot because we couldn’t agree on a way forward and in this way mimic the halls of Congress. But the raspberries will get a good shot of nitrogen and our carbon will get locked in the soil and the earth will experience a bit of healing so it would not all be bad.  It might be the best we can do.

Controlling What We Can

Earlier in the week we had an earthquake which was felt by many, a rarity in these parts.  It measured 3.8 on the Richter.  I felt it roll through, lasting about three seconds.  The house creaked, though the epicenter was 100 miles away.  The tremor was reported in communities around Chicago, some 150 miles distant.  It occurred within the Wabash Valley Fault System found in SW Indiana and SE Illinois.  Geologists have documented activity at the site stretching back 20,000 years, some events being as strong as 7.5 magnitude or greater.  

To the southwest of the Wabash Valley lies the New Madrid Fault, the one responsible for a massive earthquake in the early 1800’s.  Its damage spread over 130,000 square miles and its impact felt over nearly 3 million miles. The quake caused areas to be permanently uplifted while others sank. Reelfoot lake, a beautiful, cypress flecked shallow wetland in northwest Tennessee, was created by the earthquake and the Mississippi River flowed backwards for days to fill it.  Eyewitness accounts describe sounds of distant thunder, “but more hoarse and vibrating… (and periodic) saturation of the atmosphere with sulphurous vapor, causing total darkness.”  The quake hit in mid December, and aftershocks, some stronger than the initial quake, went on for nearly two months.  Geysers of sand and water shot tens of feet into the sky from opened fissures, lakes became dry land and dry land became lakes.  For weeks “the earth was in continual agitation, visibly waving as a gentle sea.”

Unlike other natural events, earthquakes are hard to predict.  We can see, with radar, an approaching hurricane, and have some level of confidence when a tornado might spawn.  Advance notice usually accompanies wildfires and we are forewarned of an impending volcano.  But earthquakes are different, and to date the best science can offer only probabilities, say “a ten percent chance over the next 50 years.”

History holds one exception to this fact and it involves the great Shawnee chief, Tecumseh.  Prior to the New Madrid quake, he was traveling widely, gathering support for a Native American confederacy to resist the expansion of white settlers that had moved onto Native American territory. He told the tribes he would stomp his foot and send a tremor across the land as a signal to initiate an allied attack against the whites.  To the tribes unwilling to join, he warned of a tremor that would shake their teepees to the ground.  The New Madrid quake followed soon thereafter, and with it came the question: Did Tecumseh predict the event, or cause it?

The great state of California, where minor earthquakes are nearly as common as progressive ideas, there has been a lot of attention given to earthquake preparedness, and the effort is reflected in such things as building codes, evacuation routes, and emergency response planning.  In the Midwest, geologists and insurance companies are aware of the threat and first responders entertain what if scenarios, but there appears a lesser concern among Midwesterners at large, perhaps because we don’t feel the tremors that routinely occur, though there are many.  We tend to think the greater risk lies out west while the probability is relatively high under our feet and the potential impacts greater due to regional geology.  From a geologic and historic perspective, a Midwest major event is probable sometime in the next 50 years.

If it was within our ability to prevent earthquakes, would we do it?  Our population densities and infrastructure development virtually assures apocalyptic conditions when the next big one hits.  There are things we can control and things we cannot.  Hurricanes, twisters, droughts, floods, heat waves, and wildfires are our most familiar natural disasters.  If we could make changes in our society and use existing technologies to reduce the frequency and intensity of these, would we?  

There were heavy rains and flooding down south yesterday, and more precipitation to come.  The west is drying up, with megadrought declarations over large portions.   Megadroughts have endings but scientists say this one may not, but instead mark the beginning of permanent aridification of the west.  Reservoirs have reached historic lows.  Water supply to millions is threatened. It’s hot.  Really hot.  Blackouts are forecasted as electricity demand soars, and wildfire season, which has steadily lengthened and worsened over the years, is predicted to be extreme.

Natural disasters happen.  We expect them to be explosive and dramatic but not all are.  Mass extinctions, a critical loss of biodiversity, sea level rise, permanent desertification of entire regions, a continuing loss of topsoil, might have insidious origins but are now blatant and dire. They are occurring not naturally, but unnaturally, due to our influence on the planet.

Earlier in the week we had an earthquake which was felt by many, a rarity in these parts.  It was a minor tremor, a tickle, and most who felt it were thrilled by the experience.   Had it been twice the size it would have wreaked havoc.  It was small, but perhaps enough to jar our memory holes, enough to open our eyes to the unnatural disasters we are bringing on ourselves.

Hot With Honeybees

It doesn’t take many days of 90 degree heat and high humidity to suck the enthusiasm from a man.  The simplest of chores are exaggerated and excuses are found to postpone anything that doesn’t come with shade and a mild breeze.  On days where the air fairly sizzles and is thick to breathe, all activity is slowed, patience is thinned, and the heat is blamed for every misfortune and inconvenience.

It was on such a morning I decided to check the bees.  In my senior year in college I took a beekeeping class as an elective and have tried to keep an active hive or two since.  A few years ago we lost thousands of bees on a single day from suspected pesticide poisoning and the colonies never recovered, so we were thrilled to capture a couple wild swarms this spring.  It had been about three weeks since the first swarm was hived and was time for inspection.  

There are simple pleasures in beekeeping: the sweet smell of the colony, the low hum of contented bees, observing their behaviors, admiring their industry.  Such a phenomenal insect.  The examination begins with a light puff of smoke at the entrance to disrupt the communication of the sentries on duty.  I do it out of habit, but this morning I questioned the necessity, the bees appearing so utterly calm.  Working from the top of the hive, a second puff of smoke was directed under the inner cover, driving down and confusing any bees that were gathered on top of the frames.  I recently read when bees detect smoke they gorge with honey, an adaptation that assures they will be stocked with nourishment in the event the colony is forced to evacuate during a wildfire.  It's just one more fascinating behavioral tidbit. The honeybee has many. 

The swarm was initially small, occupying less than four frames, but on this day I was pleased to find more than a full frame solid with capped brood.  In a few days the size of the colony would double. The queen is a strong one.  She is the heartbeat of the nest, the only member not expendable.  If she fails so does the colony, unless she is quickly replaced.  She was born of an egg identical to those that gave rise to the  workers but she was fed a higher protein diet, a royal jelly, so became a queen.  Early in her life she took one or more mating flights, connected with one or more drones, and was fertilized for life.  She is an egg laying machine, and can choose between fertile and infertile eggs.  A fertile egg becomes a worker bee or another queen, depending on what and how much the developing larva is fed.  An unfertilized egg develops into a drone, which means he has no father, but he does have a grandfather who bred the queen.  The drones serve no real purpose but to mate with a new queen.  If the queen is from another colony, he contributes mightily to genetic diversity, essential to overall bee well being.  

The drones live as kings, but not very good ones.  They neither forage nor defend (they lack the ability to sting), and are waited on hand and foot by willing workers who provide every need and comfort.  In the rare instance a drone is given an opportunity to mate and is successful, he will die, his sole purpose fulfilled.  If there are too many drones heading into winter, the workers thin them out.  In honeybee society, men are only five percent of the population and largely useless, while the women are the warriors and rulers and defenders.  And these responsibilities they satisfy while simultaneously being attentive nannies and impeccable housekeepers.  Perhaps their behaviors were the inspiration for early matriarchal societies among humans. Perhaps the world would be a better place if we had all followed suit.

Imagine a nest, full of eggs and developing young, housing potentially tens of thousands of mature bees and a single queen.  Imagine the highly organized residents, perfectly skilled in their individual roles, communicating intricate details and satisfying incredible objectives with precision, all in total darkness.  Now imagine an alien intruder, dismantling the nest, bathing it with sunlight, removing eggs and brood and possibly the queen herself.  What wild animal tolerates this?

With the exception of the drones, all residents are equipped with venom and an effective way to deliver it. They could have driven me away but chose not. Rather, they went about their work humming contentedly and I felt welcomed, wanted to stay, but knew their tolerance was limited.  Satisfied that all was welI, I buttoned up the hive.

I’m an uncomplicated beekeeper.  They are not my livelihood and I fall well short of knowing all there is to know about them, but I’m aware of some of their many threats (our reckless use of insecticides and loss of habitat being chief among them) and make reasonable efforts to keep them well.  When I catch a wild swarm, I’ll offer them solid accommodation with adequate space and protection from rodents.  I’ll try to be sure they have enough food to survive the winter and provide additional food if necessary.  If their queen is failing I might introduce a new one, unless they beat me to it.  I’d like to think their chances with me might be a little better than if I had not intervened when they swarmed.

There are at least three ways to deal with a stifling hot day:  One is to do nothing and complain, magnifying the discomfort.  Another is to take a good swim in the pond followed by a few laps on a paddle board just as an unexpected and most pleasant breeze drifts in from the north (which actually just happened).  A third is to take the cover off the hive of a recently captured wild swarm of honeybees and let their sweetness lull you into their fascinating and mesmerizing world.  You’ll be oblivious to the heat and won’t want to leave.  It may well be the best option of all.

Brood X

It’s the year of the cicada.  Brood X. The one that comes around only every 17 years and covers the bulk of the eastern US.  It’s a huge event, recognized, anticipated and celebrated over centuries.  Following 17 years of living underground and sipping nutrients from the roots of plants, the insects burrow up to the surface en masse, climb a few feet above ground, mature to adults, and focus on the business of reproduction.  They occur in numbers that overwhelm their predators and assure successful breeding.  In areas of high concentrations, the males’ singing can reach 90 decibels or more, equivalent to a chainsaw or jackhammer and drowning out normal conversation. After mating, the female will lay a few hundred eggs which hatch, fall from trees, and burrow into the ground to begin another 17 year cycle. Forget the eco safari!  There is a rare and significant environmental event happening right here.

Indiana is considered the epicenter of Brood X but for whatever reason our county is a dead zone.  We heard a Purdue owned woodland was rich with activity and had reason to travel to Lafayette so decided to check it out.  As we approached the site, even within a mile, all was quiet, but suddenly we were in them, and the drone of millions of male cicadas took center stage. 

Big cicada eruptions are a smorgasbord for a host of birds and mammals.  Perhaps no other single event feeds so many predators over such a large geographic area.  And they don’t get just a single good meal, but are “satiated” throughout the weeks-long extravaganza.

Every day, about a third of the earth’s human population eats insects as part of their daily diet.  For many, it is their chief or only source of protein, which in insects can be several times higher than in traditional meats, such as chicken.  As the hype around Brood X was growing, I heard and read several reports from seasoned chefs touting the culinary appeal of cicadas, suggesting recipes that were sure to please.  We had to try them.

I cannot recall, over nearly seven decades, ever intentionally eating a mature insect.  I assumed the legs might be a bit bristly and the wings tough, so I pulled them off my first candidate and popped the body in my mouth.  Tender, juicy, not a lot of flavor, but nothing at all offensive.  I had a couple more and prepared one for Lee, who agreed with my flavor and texture valuation but was haunted by guilt for ending a creature’s 17 year wait to procreate.  She was much more absorbed with the ecological wonder at hand.  

It was well past noon and we had not yet had lunch so I foraged on.  With experience I learned their legs were totally tender and a non issue but the wings were indeed tough and cellophane-like and no amount of chewing would change that.  It became a simple matter, then, to hold onto the wings and bite off the rest.  I noticed, over the course of eating 20 or so, that a portion of them had a stronger and more appealing flavor, hard to describe.  I had read they most closely resemble shellfish, and this might be true but I’ve never eaten a raw crawdad or uncooked shrimp, so could not judge.  I also noticed I was no longer hungry, so shifted my efforts to collecting some for later.

My old college buddy, John, lives in the Cincinnati area and in a recent phone conversation mentioned that Brood X was on fine display on his property.  I texted him, mentioned what I was up to, and he immediately went outside to partake in the grand buffet.  His conclusions were similar to mine, with the added observation that females were without question more flavorful.  I had not been so attentive.

Back home, I put the bag of about 30 cicadas in the freezer and after a time, following the guidance of a chef heard on NPR, tossed their wingless bodies into boiling saltwater for a minute or so, then into a skillet of melted butter for a quick sauté, and seasoned with salt and pepper.  They were quite delectable.

When insects are fed a kilogram of forage they will yield 12 times more protein than beef fed the same amount.  Insects are also naturally rich in essential micronutrients, like iron and zinc.  They can be raised on food scraps and animal manure, require far less land and water than domestic livestock, and emit far fewer greenhouse gases.  The list of edible insects numbers 1900 and growing.  The world is poised with the reality of feeding billions more people in the near future.  You know where I’m going here. 

Entomophagy is the practice of eating insects, and it was common in Ancient Greece and Rome.  John the Baptist found all the nourishment he needed in locusts and honey.  But at some point during the spread of agriculture through Europe the focus shifted to domesticated livestock and in the process we developed a yuck factor towards eating insects, and for no good reason.  How is it we’re so ready to eat a lobster or shrimp but not a cicada? Considering the environmental threats facing the planet, the historic record, the nutritional benefits inherent to insects, and the dietary routines of some two billion people, it may be time for the rest of us to get in the game.

Enjoy Brood X while they’re here.  And don’t forget the napkins.

June

There is a delight to be had on fresh June mornings, when spring has melded to summer and the earth is moist and a hardened green claims the landscape.  The memories of daffodils and lilacs are filed away for another year and suddenly there are six squirrels where there were two and the refrigerator is packed with fresh strawberries.  The business of production is solidly engaged.  

There was a bit of rain yesterday and overnight a heavy fog set in so the far side of the pond was under a veil and the distinction between sky and earth was lost.  Then, in a matter of minutes the sun burned through and the air was clear as polished glass and the earth took a massive breath.  Only in June does it happen just this way.

There was a blemish put on the morning when the old dog happened upon a mature fox snake and I heard the snap of jaws and knew it was not good.  The snake was alive but seemed incapable of moving, even when prodded.  There appeared, a few inches from its head, a protrusion under the skin such as a displaced vertebra might make. 

We appreciate snakes, especially those able to take on bigger prey such as chipmunks which favor our crawl space and house walls, or voles, which delight in chewing developing potato tubers.  A three foot fox snake would have been an exciting event had it ended differently.  Over 13 years of admonishing the dog over snake killing I have yet to completely break her.  Maybe my efforts have not been forceful enough, or maybe her genetic makeup will never allow her to be fully broken.  Regardless, the morning’s deed was done and for a couple hours I regretted the recently purchased dog food and years of veterinary bills.  The snake was no more. It would have been so much easier to dispatch a chipmunk.

While mushroom hunting this spring I came across a garter snake with the front half of a toad hanging from its mouth.   As the snake worked methodically and painstakingly slow to swallow its prey, the toad looked on, appearing composed and content as a toad does, showing no struggle or apparent alarm, no indication of discomfort.  The toad was simply living and breathing until it lived and breathed no more, and seemed accepting of this certain outcome.  The snake, likewise, showed no urgency to kill its prey but was focused on the job of swallowing.  For a reptile with no teeth this requires unhinging its jaws and stretching skin and muscle to accommodate a meal that might be several times the diameter of the snake itself.  It’s a process, slow and deliberate, and fascinating.

It’s interesting how some animals indicate discomfort while others not so much.  A fish might be in the throws of horror but we would not know looking at its eyes.  But what is its experience when removed from water and all the suffocating realities of gravity are put upon it?  Maybe if fish could convey feelings through cries of anguish we would be less likely to beam at the camera while holding a prized catch by its lip.  

There are ongoing studies indicating that alarm is spread rapidly through plant communities when any of them experience wounding or are threatened by insect or disease. Maybe we don’t fully appreciate the consequences in mowing grass or snipping a rose or pulling a carrot.

If a lichen has a solid substrate, say a rock or a tree trunk, and is provided sunlight, air, and water, it will grow, happy as a clam.  But lichens are among few things that exist without feeding on something living or having lived, and with this ability to form something from nothing, they set off a chain of events that ultimately transforms bare rock to field or forest where an endless variety of life sustains life.  The processes are intricate and include moments of discomfort but are splendidly interwoven and balanced.  There is no waste, and every component plays a role.

All systems are in hyperdrive this month and there is a great churning of nutrients and energy from life to death to life again.  Sometimes unfortunate, sometimes necessary, sometimes with a fight, sometimes with little resistance, always with renewed purpose.  On June mornings it begs noticing.