443 - Holy Moly Roly Poly

Despite living in a time when perhaps only 20 pairs of cranes existed in Wisconsin, Aldo Leopold wrote eloquently of the cranes in the "Marshland Elegy" chapter of A Sand County Almanac. "When we hear his call we hear no mere bird. We hear the trumpet in the orchestra of evolution. He is the symbol of our untamable past, of that incredible sweep of millennia…" Today, thousands of sandhill cranes converge near just this one expertly managed and protected wetland complex during fall migration. They spend their days fueling up for the long flight by gleaning waste grain from recently harvested corn and soybean fields nearby. Then, at dusk they rise from the fields and fly into the marsh, or at least that's the plan.  

"Look!" Kevin pointed just over my shoulder, where the juvenile loon had popped up moments before. Despite the dangers that still await this bird, they are lucky to have made it through the chick stage. A groundbreaking study from Birds Canada just reported that the number of chicks reaching six weeks of age has declined by an average of 40% across North America. There are many theories on what could be causing the decline in chick survival. There is hope, though. We can live and recreate with care around loons. We all can help make sure this loon doesn't get even more lonely. 

A crisp fall breeze floated through our group as we stomped through the forest, our shoes crunching on fallen leaves and frost. Fall had arrived in the Northwoods, bringing spectacular colors, cool temperatures, and no bugs. Our group mission, to learn more about the forests of the Northwoods, and the forestry techniques used to manage them. Our galavant was made even more special by our guest for the day, a forester who brought a new perspective to our adventure. It's not often that I wander into the woods specifically to think about how a particular forest could be managed, or think decades into the future and try and imagine what that forest may look like over time. It was an exercise in a different way of thinking, and it was eye opening.

Nosing between two rocks, the snake seemed to be searching for something. But no, that wasn't the place. They swung around and moved along the base of the rock until reaching a long crack. Tongue flickering in apparent recognition, they lifted their head up toward a wide place in the crevice, nosed in, and began disappearing into the dark. Their stripes flowed forward as if the rock was slurping them up like a long, wet spaghetti noodle. 

"Autumn has trailed light fingers across the byways and in the wake of that cool touch, the leaves flush or blanch and sink earthward in a silent swoon…The passing of days is swift and soon the glory will fade to the dun shades that precede winter's snow."  – Lois Nestel, Wayside Wanderings. With nearly constant travel and busyness during these last two months, I feel a bit untethered and adrift. The autumn woods are golden, and chickadees call cheerfully from their newly re-formed winter flocks, but it's difficult to get my attention to rest on any one subject. In times like these, I find it's helpful to turn to a wise friend and elder for guidance. And so, I've pulled together a few of Lois Nestle's essays from the Museum's archives. Lois was the Museum's founding Naturalist and Director. In these, she captures both my mood and the antidote. Take a deep breath of the crisp fall air and enjoy!

The mini-bear darted close, then scurried off, posing motionless for brief moments to survey the area for danger. From the top of a lichen-covered rock, they sounded their characteristic clucking alarm call, tail hiccupping with each repetition. Even though they sniffed hard at my little baggie of trail mix, I made sure the chipmunk never got a single peanut. They seemed to be finding their own food just fine anyway. Precariously positioned on flexible stems, a ruffed grouse stretched her neck to rip at scarlet rose hips like a cat playing with a Christmas tree. Deb and I chatted in the setting sun. When we fell into a contented silence, a family of beavers on the far side of the lake took up the thread of conversation with their adorable grunts.  The chipmunks, grouse, and beavers have the right idea, I think. Fall is the perfect season for enjoying good food and fellowship whether you're at a campsite with friends, in a lodge made of sticks, or at your community's harvest dinner. 

The crystal clear waters splashed against the pebbled shore as we gathered up our gear. Conifers of every size crowded the distant banks, beckoning us into the wilderness. Our group was full of excited chatter as we piled gear onto picnic tables near the water, our anticipation for the adventure ahead growing with every breath. But our excitement wasn't the only thing growing. With each strong gust of wind, my nerves also began to grow. The winds were already high and growing stronger with every hour. We needed to get on the water now if we were going to make it to our campsite. Otherwise, the winds could become too strong to paddle in, and we would be locked out of the Boundary Waters by mother nature.

"Here is where the journey is," philosophized Doug Wood when I finally picked the book back up. "…why do I go through it? Because no one else can go through it for me." It's true. And I love going through the challenges of a canoe trip. Planning, paddling, portaging, wayfinding, camping, and even cleaning up once I'm back home all carry a satisfying amount of effort and reward. Plus, there are the sunsets.  I wonder, how do geese feel about their endless modes of misery?

"Something smells nice right here," commented my fiancé as we hiked over a rock outcrop strewn with sun-warmed, yellowed birch leaves. The sweet aroma of autumn comes when microbes break down sugars that trees manufactured in the height of summer. Before letting them go, the tree pulled nitrogen and phosphorus out of the leaves and into the twigs, where the molecules will remain on deck to fuel next spring's leaf growth. But the tree doesn't need to save every last molecule of sugar.

"Holy Moly Roly Poly!" This enthusiastic shout came from an adorable, towheaded 4-year old, standing on the far side of a log I'd just rolled toward me. Together, we paused to watch a dozen or more oval gray invertebrates with lots of legs scurry in confusion around their suddenly well-lit home. Just based on that boy's enthusiasm, I knew I needed to write about roly polies. As a start, I uploaded a few of my photos to iNaturalist. To my surprise, all three photos were of different species!