Natural Connections

As my boots crunched and sunk into the snow, the trees were shedding bits of snow that littered their branches, dispatched by the wind. In my attempts to avoid getting showered by falling snow, I found myself walking among scattered giants. Standing next to the old eastern hemlock, staring up at the towering trunk, I began to feel very small as I imagined what this tree has lived through and the things that they have seen. How many generations of songbirds have nested in their branches, or found food in their cones? How many generations of deer, bears, wolves, and other wildlife have they seen treading beneath their branches? How have they seen us change, and do they like what they see? How have they watched the world change around them, as they stand rooted in place?

"'I know the moon,' said the fox"  My colleague read this title line aloud from a children's book recently, as part of a staff training. At first, I was just as enchanted with the story as she was. The fox goes on to describe how the Moon is like a rabbit that he can chase across the night.  The moth disagrees with the fox, though, as does the owl, the mouse, and the bullfrog. The animals start bickering about who's right. They decide to visit A Man of Science, and each Being hopes that he will confirm their perspective. But the Man of Science declares that the Moon is made of sand, and nothing more. I sensed that the author was trying to make some point about how the facts and figures of science are out to squash wonder in the world. How horrible that would be! I realized that the author had constructed a strawman argument by setting up a simplistic imagined opponent that's easy to knock down. Giving children an incorrect view of science and scientists isn't going to help them navigate our changing world. It isn't going to help them to know the Moon.    Here's a few fun links to info about the Moon:    https://www.amazon.com/I-Know-Moon-Stephen-Anderson/dp/039923425X https://radiolab.org/podcast/the-moon-itself/transcript https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2021/06/whip-poor-will.html https://cablemuseumnaturalconnections.blogspot.com/2018/09/stranger-than-we-can-imagine.html https://www.sciencealert.com/our-moon-is-curiously-lopsided-and-a-massive-impact-could-be-to-blame https://www.amnh.org/exhibitions/permanent/meteorites/meteorite-impacts/on-the-moon https://science.nasa.gov/moon/tidal-locking/ https://science.nasa.gov/moon/weather-on-the-moon/ https://science.nasa.gov/moon/formation/ https://science.nasa.gov/moon/composition/ https://www.universetoday.com/articles/moons-insides-still-hot-hot-hot-after-billions-of-years-of-formation-study

The idea that a woodpecker's tongue provides cushioning for their brain as it wraps around their skull has come into question. The newest calculations, made with the most accurate modern technology, refute the idea that a woodpecker's brain is cushioned at all! Of course, any of these conclusions might be proven wrong or incomplete as scientists discover new information in the future. The beauty of science is that it requires us to be able to change our minds in light of new evidence. One thing that doesn't need to change is the magic we feel when we watch a great black bird with a flaming topknot spread their broad wings and with a few swooping beats disappear into the forest.

Brown creepers are cute little bits of camouflage with white bellies. This one moved upward in staccato motions, a bit to the side, around to the back, back to the front, and up some more. Pausing, the bird used their thin, downward-curving bill to explore a bark furrow. Perhaps they had spotted an overwintering insect larvae or antifreeze-protected spider for their lunch. Near the limit of my view out the window, the creeper suddenly launched off the tree and fluttered downward toward another tree trunk, out of sight.

As snow continues to blanket the ground, and the plummeting temperatures cause the air to bite at exposed skin, I can't help but reminisce on warm summer day adventures. One adventure in particular had me exploring local wetlands, those special places where water and land blend together to create exquisite, diverse ecosystems. One wetland gifted me with a memory I won't soon forget, and reminded me just how beautiful even the simplest experiences in nature are.

This is the season for lists highlighting our most-listened-to or best-of-whatevers at the end of the year, so I decided to dig into the stats on my Natural Connections blog. To my surprise, the most-read article in 2025 was one I wrote in February of 2016 about a plant called mullein. In August 2025 it spiked in popularity, far above my normal readership. I have no idea why. I recently told someone the story of finding the chickadee-cached seed in the mullein stalk, but I'd forgotten about the rest of the article. It's fun! And appropriate to this season. So, I hope you enjoy it as much as the 1.24K other readers did, too! Happy New Year! –Emily

Bohemian waxwings are known for their ability to find a tree full of berries in the middle of nowhere, descend on it en masse, strip every edible fruit from the twigs, and then disappear to their next meal. That's exactly what they did as I watched.

Heading north on Highway 63, the beautiful scenery never fails to keep me entertained as I drive through the picturesque nature of the Northwoods. While my thoughts wandered, a large dark spot high in a distant tree caught my eye. At first, I thought it might be a squirrel drey–a large nest of twigs and leaves built high in a tree. But as I got closer, I realized that it was a porcupine! Once my excitement calmed down, curiosity began to take its place. I began to wonder why exactly this porcupine was high up in the tree on this late fall morning. The answer may lie within the feeding strategies of the North American porcupine.

As winter's first snowflakes drifted through the dark, some landed on top of dead plants, fallen leaves, twigs, and other detritus of the forest floor. In many places, snow never fully reached the ground. That was surely true for the protected hideaway of my thermometer. By dawn, it was buried under six inches and counting.  Despite falling temperatures, the relative warmth of the cold rain and the residual heat of summer were still radiating from the soil. At sunrise, when I checked the weather station, the air temp had dropped to 24 degrees Fahrenheit, but the sensor cozied up to the earth under a fresh blanket of snow read 33 degrees. After two winters of thin snow, the Subnivean Zone has returned! Read all about it in this week's Natural Connections or listen to the podcast. Find links to both at https://www.cablemuseum.org/connect/ or in our profile. Check out Emily's third book, hot off the press! Natural Connections 3: A Web Endlessly Woven, is available  at several local bookstores, at the Cable Natural History Museum, or at cablemuseum.org/connect! 

The arching stems, decorative berries, and warmly hued, persistent fall foliage of barberry, plus the complete lack of deer browse on their twigs, are why they were brought to the U.S. as an ornamental plant in 1875. That was fine, until in the 1980s they started to spread out and displace native plants. Now Japanese barberry is considered invasive in 17 states, including Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa.  A barberry thicket also provides a safe, fox-resistant haven for mice, and a shady, humid home for ticks. Deer ticks feed on mice, who are reservoirs for Lyme disease.