2023 University of Michigan Biological Station bioblitz

 There’s something undeniably magical about the North Woods.  The clean, fresh air, the aroma of conifers, the sound of water gently lapping at the shore, the quiet, and the dark, starry nights.  The North Woods are some of the last bastions of wilderness left in the eastern United States and people are spread out thin here.  Things may not be the same in twenty or thirty years, though.  With more and more urbanites escaping the grip of civilization, the great north is bound to lose some of its wonder.  It’s sad to think, but it’s inevitable.  That makes it all more important that there are organizations dedicated to preserving large natural areas, protecting them from logging and development.  The University of Michigan is one of those organizations.

Way up near Pellston, Michigan, near the convergence of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron, sits the University of Michigan Biological Station (UMBS).  Designated as one of only forty-seven Biosphere Reserves in the United States, UMBS is represented by 10,000 acres of forests around Douglas Lake (another 3200 acres is located on Sugar Island, roughly sixty miles to the north).  Developed by the university in 1909 for research purposes, the UMBS offers rustic (and I mean RUSTIC) accommodations for students and researchers in the form of wood and steel cabins and bunkhouses.  The forests, complete with rivers and wetlands, are untouched by development aside from the small concentration of buildings and are reminiscent of a primordial era.

The University was holding a bioblitz at the UMBS and I was invited to attend by a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, Tristan.  While similar events have taken place here before, this year’s event, held July 21-23, focused primarily on aquatic life.  As part of the herp team, our goal would be to document as many aquatic and semiaquatic herps as we could, while also enjoying some of the plants and other lifeforms we were bound to find.

While making the drive north on U.S. Route 31, I enjoyed a most gorgeous sunset.  The setting sun gave way to a big sky bursting with pastels one must see in person to truly appreciate.  The experience was enhanced by the sounds of Moby’s Ambient 23 (try it).  With the windows down, the rush of fresh cool northern air felt really good.  At one point I had to pull over to put a hoodie on.  Have you ever taken a hoodie out for the first time in months and smelled it?  The comfort is hard for me to describe.

When I arrived, I met with Tristan and his lab mate, Mateos.  Us three would stay in one of the rooms in the historic bunkhouse.  After settling in, I decided to join Mateos and another student, Yu Kai, as they hiked to the shore of Douglas Lake for a sky photography session, accompanied by a calling loon.  The night sky in this area, moonless and brilliant, is without a doubt one of the greatest spectacles this planet has to offer.  We stared at the heavens for about an hour and cultivated an appreciation for each other’s biophilia.

Our view the first night. Photo by Yu Kai Tan

The creaky hallway of the bunkhouse

Some of the 100+ year old cabins

The next morning, the groups dispersed.  Tristan, Mateos, and several others (and I) hopped on a boat owned and operated by one of the local residents who was kind enough to volunteer her time to help us achieve our goal.  The plan was to hit various sites around Douglas Lake - mostly wetlands.  A couple of the initial sites were dry and unproductive, but finally we landed on the shore near a small, marshy bay that was hopping with metamorph toads (Anaxyrus americanus) and green frogs (Rana clamitans).  The toadlets were particularly numerous, and great care was taken not to step on any as we canvassed the shoreline.

Shallow lake bay, very froggy

Walking along the lakeshore, we began finding snakes.  The first was an adult female garter snake (Thamnophis sirtalis) found basking in the warm morning sunlight.  Shortly afterward, I flipped the first ringneck snake (Diadophis punctatus) of the search.  I pushed into the woods a bit and caught the first wood frog (Rana sylvatica).

Tristan documenting the day's first garter snake

Another garter

First of several northern ringers

One of several beautiful wood frogs

  Many northern leopard frogs (Rana pipiens) were seen, all looking fantastic in their various shades of greens and browns.

Green frogs were also quite common

Pond where we set turtle & minnow traps

One of the students flipped a log near the water and found the sole brown snake (Storeria dekayi) of the search.  Apparently these are not common up this way and the discovery was deemed significant.

Lots of blueberries were to be found.  These were fun to eat and provided a little bit of extra energy while we pushed on.

While shore-hopping aboard the boat, Tristan commented on the surprising lack of turtles.  We hadn’t even spotted one basking anywhere, which drew some concern.  Our boat captain mentioned that she in fact sees them regularly, and in time we would find one - a single painted turtle (Chrysemys picta).  Tristan spotted it from the boat and jumped into the shallows to grab it.  After a few photos, it was back on its way.

I swear we were a lot happier than we appear here

Tristan with a young male painted turtle

The lakeside wetlands sported some stunning flora.  

Marsh skullcap

Lesser purple fringed orchid

The beautiful but non-native broad-leafed helleborine

When we returned to the site’s boat dock, Tristan and Mateos walked me over to where they had captured fifteen mudpuppies (Necturus maculosus) the night before (prior to my arrival).  We re-captured a few to show our boat captain, as she had never seen a mudpuppy before.  

I think the highlight of the trip for me had to have been seeing my first ever ghost pipe (Monotropa uniflora).  Those who know me well probably know that there are two species I’ve inexplicably missed in my life - the ghost pipe and the walking stick (genus Diapheromera).  So while walking back from an open field while searching for snakes (and failing at escaping a ground hornet nest - ouch), one of the students spotted a ghost pipe - a single lovely stalk - growing in the dappled sunlight along the path.  My energy had been waning from hours of hiking in the heat of the day and all of a sudden I was reinvigorated.  I was happy to get that off my back. Now for that walking stick...

Not long later I’d find a robust cluster, growing next to one of the buildings of all places.

After a full day of herping, we collected a respectable number of species (nine I believe - the number grew after I left early the next morning) and I was ready to hit the cot.  Following a long drive home, Lumen and I spent a few hours catching turtles at the local lake (her idea, I swear).  It was a great weekend and I hope another opportunity to take part in the bioblitz comes around in the coming years. There are still a lot more species to account for!

What do I do immediately after a 7 hour road trip?  Find turtles of course

Deep into the Pee Dee

 In the muggy coastal plain of South Carolina remain fragments of untamed bottomland forests and swamps - the kinds that garner age-old tales of dark spirits and fantastic creatures of folklore.  At night, these woods are dark and unforgiving.  Rabid mosquitoes, huge spiders, appropriately-placed cypress knees and steep, muddy riverbanks are all sure to keep you honest as you forge deeper into the interior in search of venomous snakes and slippery frogs.  These places aren’t for the faint of heart.  But for a snapshot of what’s left of the Pee Dee region’s primeval wilderness, they are the perfect challenge for the intrepid.

I wanted to visit this area, but before I could do that I had to settle in at a relative’s home in nearby Florence.  My family and I were in town for a little over one week and we had no real solid plans, allowing for quite a bit of spontaneity.  Days were blazing hot but nights were warm and humid, the air heavy with the songs of calling treefrogs and insects.  The backyard of the house we stayed in is what I’d consider to be sterile - unfortunately, a slew of pesticides are used in and around the property.  That didn’t stop me from finding a big, healthy rat snake (Pantherophis alleghaniensis) as it crawled through a pile of wooden garden stakes and into a chaotic pile of clutter.  After rearranging about a dozen bags of topsoil, I caught this most placid animal and shared the experience with my daughter and her two cousins.  

My niece Molly

Unfortunately, even though I searched for snakes every day and night, I wouldn’t find any others on the trip.  It was bizarre.  However, the mainstays of Florence - amphibians, and mostly common ones - never failed to show up.  Each night I’d take Lumen for a walk and we would find not only lots of southern toads (Anaxyrus terrestris) but we’d hear squirrel treefrogs (Hyla squirella) calling from the Middle Swamp, a sluggish murky waterway squeezed in between polished newer subdivisions.  Green frogs (Rana clamitans) sat atop storm water drains until we approached, when they dropped back down into the drains to disappear.  One drain in particular consistently held crystal clear water over a gravelly substrate, and in that water were scores of treefrog tadpoles and southern two-lined salamander (Eurycea cirrigera) larvae.  

Southern toad

Crappy pic of one of the Eurycea but not bad considering it was dark out and I was aiming a beam from my flashlight between the metal grate and simultaneously zooming in with my cell phone...

The neighborhood walks produced lots of other interesting bycatch, including thousands of cockroaches, interesting cicadas, and even a mole cricket that delighted the kids (and me) with its cuteness factor.

Mole cricket

For the second visit in a row, Woods Bay State Park failed to generate herp sightings aside from a single lazy alligator (Alligator mississipiensis), a distant, unidentifiable basking turtle, and the ever-present carpenter frogs (Rana virgatipes).  We were, however, able to visit the on-site nature center for the first time (It has always been closed, I think due to lack of funds).  Inside is a very simple setup, highlighted by a very large taxidermied alligator.  The site ranger was inside and we had a nice chat about the site and some of the recent reptile sightings he was aware of.  

Reptile Lagoon, a roadside attraction off of Interstate 95 just south of the border between North and South Carolina, surprised me the most.  My experiences with reptile zoos, especially around tourist traps like this one, have mostly left a lot to be desired.  And online reviews weren’t particularly convincing.  But what an incredible place this turned out to be.  Reptile Lagoon is a large, roomy, and clean facility showcasing a great variety of crocodilians as well as snakes (including lots of venomous species from around the world) and other reptiles in thoughtfully planned and visually pleasing enclosures.  I think that in today’s increasingly scrutinizing and “woke” culture, you’ve got to step up your game if you wish to operate a sustainable business like this.  And Reptile Lagoon does just that.  We’ve come a long way from the old-timey roadside attractions that exploited animals in the most unethical ways for profit.

Inland taipan (Oxyuranus microlepidotus)

Riverbanks Zoo in Columbia is definitely worth a visit. The reptile house recently underwent a huge overhaul and the collection is impressive.

An impressive enclosure for an even more impressive green anaconda (Eunectus murinus)

My family and I hiked the site of the former Florence Stockade early one evening.  The Florence Stockade was a Confederate prisoner of war camp that operated for a short time during the Civil War.  During its five month operation, as many as 18,000 Union soldiers were imprisoned here, 2800 of whom would never leave alive. You’d never think anything of importance ever happened here today; the site is an overgrown woodland wedged between a few residential areas and a water treatment facility. But today it supports box turtles (Terrapene carolina) as evidenced by a pair of predated eggs I found near the path.

My good friend Dr. Jeff Camper agreed to spend an evening with me out in the bottomlands of the Pee Dee River.  The area is accessible only by a seldom-maintained former logging road which brings visitors from civilization to the banks of the murky river.  When we arrived, darkness was settling in. 

Jeff pushed deeper into the woods along the jagged road, occasionally stopping near areas that seemed promising for redbelly watersnakes (Nerodia erythrogaster).  However, despite some recent rain, the bottomlands were pretty dry.  At some spots, we’d see southern toads and southern leopard frog (Rana sphenocephela) metamorphs by the dozen.

  Insects were abuzz; cicadas and katydids urgently hissed and clicked and I walked through more than one occupied web of the golden silk orb-weaver (unpleasant even for those unafraid of spiders).  But the snakes were absent, holed up in protest of the drought.  We decided that our best chance at getting some of the watersnakes (I was hoping for the brown watersnake (Nerodia taxispilota) would be to push all the way to the big river.  But as we were approximately a quarter mile from the river, we ran into this:

We briefly considered walking the rest of the way, but instead decided to call it a night and head back.  

Despite the paucity of herp species, the trip was yet another learning experience and a lot of fun.  I love the coastal plain region of the Southeast and I always look forward to the next visit.

Alleyways

 “...most of us (naturalists) were born with something inside of us, a drive, a stress, a burning, usually inconvenient and annoyingly insatiable curiosity”.  - Matthew Ignoffo

Me in 1983

I think it’s safe to assume that most naturalists got their start as a consequence of living in or near nature.  Many of my like-minded friends come from places afar - the low deserts of Arizona, the boreal forests of northern Michigan, the piney sandhills of South Carolina, the coastal rainforests of the Pacific Northwest, or even the leafy western suburbs of Chicago.  Of course, not everyone from those parts of the country develop deep, lifelong connections with nature; only a select few are drawn in from an early age, forever rejecting a blissfully ignorant lifestyle - one steeped in materialism, vanity, and self-serving*.  In the rat race that is American society, it’s easy to get caught up in stupid meaningless things like celebrity wealth (back in the day we called it “catching the vapors" - thanks Biz Markie), or having more things or bigger things or faster things than the other people.  I can go on and on with this topic but at the risk of derailing the entire subject I’ll touch on a bit of irony in my life that I think is worth exploring.

Before I ever set foot in nature, the extent of my outdoor experience revolved around my backyard and my alley on the northwest side of Chicago.  If you’ve never lived in a place with alleys, let me give you a little bit of background.  An alley of course is essentially a narrow access road to your garage.  Most of the time, they are free of traffic and they make excellent basketball courts, hockey rinks, or even baseball diamonds.  You can really let loose on a bicycle and if you’re so inclined you can even fashion a little (or big) ramp out of salvaged wood. 

The city of Chicago does not plow alleys during the winter, so the snow can really pack down and get slippery - all the better to sled on.  During the summer, the mixture of gravel, sand, and bits of broken glass make for a satisfying crunch sound underfoot.  Alleys are often weedy, neglected places - miniature jungles lush with exotic plants that smell bad when broken or that produce seeds that stick to your socks.  You can pass the time by removing the stringy “skin” from some of the branches or even make spears.  Sometimes you can hide in the more substantial patches of weeds.  Comes in handy at times.

On garbage day, hold your nose.  On a hot summer day, garbage cans (they used to be metal cans a la Oscar the Grouch’s abode but now are plastic “carts”) overflowing with uneaten food scraps, stale beer, and dog shit will repel even the most intrepid souls.  But once the herd of lumbering garbage trucks completes its route, the alleys are as good as new again.  If it’s late summer, you might find grasshoppers living in the concrete prairies.  The big ones are quick and hard to catch but you might be capable of gathering a plastic ice cream tub full of the young nymphs (make sure to provide a bed of grass for them for the duration of their captive lives).  Check the old discarded piles of concrete rubble.  If you carefully dissect them you might find baby garter snakes in there.  And if you’re really lucky you might find the momma.

At night, the alleys are alive with mammalian diversity rivaling any natural area.  The racoons - “trash pandas” as they are lovingly referred to - are mainstays, as are the seemingly dimwitted opossums and the sly skunks.  Rats dart across the alley so fast that if you blink you can miss them.  The rats are big but never as big as many claim; cat-sized rats are about as common as six-foot garter snakes.  Alongside the twitchy rats are the mice that probably outnumber the rats 10:1.  Both are mangy in appearance but resourceful.  They can eke out an existence living off of pet waste while spending their days in the sewers or wedged in cracks in garage foundations.

Somehow, I was born from this environment and eventually dedicated much of my life to the pursuit of nature.  How can that be?  What might the connection be between Chicago’s crumbling corridors and nature far beyond? 

I think it’s sheer curiosity.  Being curious about your surroundings, gaining an intimate understanding of the world around you and applying it to your own existence.  As an adult in my forties now, I still approach life the same way.  I make sure to stop frequently to observe the minute details in the web of life, as beautiful or as terrifying as they may be.  And I try to bestow that curiosity to my daughter (although she is naturally curious) because too many people live for the next day, unable to keep up with what others possess, distracted by the media appealing to fear, and clueless to Earth’s dire state.

Well, this post was sort of all over the place, I’ll admit.  Join me next time when I discuss nature vs nurture, stoicism, and cognitive bias for dummies.

My older sisters and a friend circa 1983

*YES, I am guilty of being materialistic, vain, and self serving at times.  I am aware.  I’m a glowing example of imperfection but I am always striving for improvement.  We’ll see how that goes.

A windswept maple

Have you ever driven along blank farm fields and seen a random tree standing alone, exposed out in

the distance, and wondered why it’s there?  I have.  A tree obstructing row crops seems like it might

be aggravating to a farmer, but yet it remains, year after year, free from persecution. What is the

significance of such a tree?

The windswept maple

Adjacent to my home is a large (for a developed suburb) farm field.  It is split into two sections -  106.6 acres is owned by an adjacent country club, who recently marketed the parcel to home construction giant Pulte but was met with opposition by neighboring subdivisions (the deal ultimately fell through).

(Pulte is known for its cheap, hastily-built, cookie cutter suburban houses - especially the ones built during the last ten years or so.)

92.7 acres is owned by the Forest Preserve District of DuPage County.  This portion was acquired from the country club in 2007 to help protect a nearby fen by providing a buffer onto which no development will occur.  

All of the nearly 200 acres are leased to a farmer who alternates between growing corn and soybeans year to year.  During the planting season, I do not intrude.  But until then, I occasionally will walk the forest preserve-owned portion.  For someone raised in a city, walking out to the middle of a large open area is pretty surreal.  By this time of year, the soil below is at an early state of succession.  Large patches of weeds cover the ground, in some areas reaching a foot or more in height.  Rocks, some as large as footballs, litter the surface.  Any day now, the tractor will arrive and plow the soil as it has for nearly two hundred years.  

A winter scene; maple in the distance

Early May, pre-planting.  Maple is way out there

A plow-struck stone

Near the center of the forest preserve-owned field stands a maple tree.  It’s not a huge tree - I’d call it an average sized maple tree.  I’m not even sure what kind of maple it is.  But as it has always intrigued me, I recently decided to check it out.  Over one thousand feet from the road, it’s a bit of a walk across the windy plain.  When I reached the tree, I noticed a lot of debris near its trunk, such as large rocks, a few old pieces of wood, and a handful of spent shotgun shells scattered about.  Then I noticed what looked like a small, old foundation covered by an iron lid.  The lid was around three to four feet long and it sat flush atop the rectangular concrete base.  When I attempted to move the lid I found that it was extremely heavy.  Like, so heavy that I could barely drag it a few inches.  But I did, and I found that it covered a hole in the ground.  Down maybe four or five feet was some standing water.  I moved the lid back in place and scratched my head a bit.  I needed to know the history behind this hole and the tree that appeared to mark it.

The base of the maple

What is this?

A few friends of mine with agricultural backgrounds offered a few possibilities and although no one was able to specify the hole’s purpose, they thought it may have had something to do with irrigation - perhaps a well for a water tank or for livestock.  With that in mind, I did the next best thing - I sought expertise on Facebook groups (ha).  Several groups specializing in historic farming offered numerous possibilities, including cistern, windmill, dipping vat, junction box for draining tiles, and natural spring.  With all of these answers, where do I begin with my deduction to determine what the hell this thing really is??

Well (no pun intended), let’s start with cistern.  I write that one off since there has never been a house or barn or any structure onsite.  At least, not since the 1870s.  A plat map from that era shows nothing at that site and subsequent maps and aerial flyovers indicate no significant structures in the vicinity.  A cistern in the middle of a field just doesn’t make much sense.

Next - windmill.  As mentioned, no structures - houses, barns, windmills, outhouses - have ever been recorded here.  So into the garbage goes that one.

Dipping vat?  I had to look that up.  A dipping vat, also known as a dipping tank, is a sort of bath where livestock are treated for external parasites such as ticks.  This hole in the ground is both too deep and too short to have been used for this purpose.  Next.

A junction box for drain tiles…so I know all too well what drain tiles are.  They are like little conduits that move excess groundwater away from the fields and into a stream or ditch.  This is done to lower the local water table and to provide more ideal conditions for crops.  During the early years of tiling, the tiles were made of terracotta.  But over the last few decades or so, plastic has been the go-to material.  Drain tiles can be the bane of land managers tasked with restoring wetlands.  They have to be dug up - often with heavy machinery - and disposed of if the plan is to allow water to stay in its place.  Sometimes you can find pieces of old broken tiles in restored wetlands or prairies.

So what is a junction box and how does it factor in drain tiling?  According to my googling, a junction box is a place where two or more drain lines meet underground.  They are described as being circular or RECTANGULAR in shape - but they are often buried and when so they are buried under at least 1.5 feet of soil.  I’m not completely writing this one off but there is a more likely possibility.

If you were going to guess natural spring - you may be right.  About 1500 feet east of this tree - across a two lane road and in a natural area - springs forth subterranean water from a hillside, where it trickles down in small eroded grooves and into a marsh which slowly drains into the West Branch DuPage River.  This is the county’s precious and poorly-known hanging fen known locally as the Klein Fen.  One of a very few left on the region, the calcareous fen produces upwellings of water made alkaline by its travels through the gravelly soils underfoot. Is it possible that someone long ago acknowledged this water source and tapped into it?  The benefit would be free, clean water for irrigation (for crops or even livestock).  We may be onto something here.

Possible evidence of the existence of a spring can be seen at the surface of the field itself.  Immediately east of the maple is a wavy u-shaped area consisting of tussocky grass and other weeds.  Shaped like small streams, these vegetated areas are slightly depressed and coalesce just before they reach the road.  Water that collects in these small streams is diverted under the road via culvert into the natural area where it is held in an engineered detention basin before it empties toward the fen.  It is important to think “big picture” here - this is not a collection of separate natural and artificial features on the landscape.  This is in all likelihood one natural system that has been fractured by humanity and altered such that it is no longer recognized as a living breathing thing.  Prior to European colonization, this area was probably Shangri-La.  Today, it has surrendered to mankind and left trembling under the harvester’s massive tires.  

Tree, with outline of former streams

Note the marshy character of the grassy strips

While I’m not 100% sure what the “well” under the maple tree is, I can assume that the tree is there so that the farmer does not run over the concrete and iron structure and risk ruining his equipment.  To the west, on the country club-owned portion of the field, stands another tree all by itself.  It wouldn’t surprise me if there is another such well here.  But I’m not sure and I’m too old and responsible to be trespassing over there just to see if I’m right (trespassing on railroad property and/or other lands owned by private entities in order to find snakes?  Ehh... 

...maybe?

I’m curious about solo trees in other areas.  Are they denoting similar structures, are they the remains of a long lost homestead, or maybe some farmers are just artsy and appreciate symbolism.  I don’t know.  I’d be interested in hearing from others on the topic.

That’s enough geek for the week.  Til next time…