March 16, 2012
This past week has to be one for the record books—in terms of temperatures, for sure, but also in terms of the number of times I tried, and failed, to document for you the signs of spring that literally are all around us.
The first attempt was on Tuesday. Walking out by the parking lot at Hickory Knolls, I noticed a familiar form fluttering in the breeze. “Butterfly” registered somewhere in my head, but it was a good 10 steps later before the reality set in: That wasn’t just any old butterfly, it was the first one of the year!
The mourning cloak butterfly is one of our earliest Lepidopterans to appear in spring, owing to its habit of overwintering as an adult. This guy had spent the winter somewhere close by, tucked up under a loose piece of bark or some other such sheltered spot, and was now out and about, soaking up some sun, not to mention nutrients, as he sipped from a mud puddle by the dog park. Having left the building without a camera—not a smart move—I figured I’d still try to take a picture of the novel creature using my phone—an older model that’s also not very smart.
The butterfly, wings outstretched, was posing nicely on a moist stretch of path. Really all I had to do was sneak up quietly, and get close (not-so-smart phone doesn’t zoom). Trouble was, the path was the one that leads to the dog park, a busy place on such a warm and sunny day. Just as I was about to crouch down for the shot, a pack of five women, each with a dog, came trotting along. As I got up to get out of the way, so did the butterfly, disappearing into the cattails 10 yards away.
No big deal, I thought; I’ve still got the rest of the week.
Well, Tuesday soon morphed into Wednesday, then Thursday, with each day bringing more evidence of spring and more missed opportunities to photograph…male midges in a mating swarm (too teensy for my limited skills); a chipmunk, up and about for the first time in months (too small AND too fast); pelicans returning to Nelson Lake (no time to get over there); spring peepers calling in the dark (I can barely see the little buggers when it’s light out); a bat, swooping
Page 1 of 3 erratically as it pursued in the evening sky (small, dark object in a large, dark sky…need I say more?)
I thought I was onto something late Thursday afternoon as I headed out toward Carol’s Wetland, a gem of a moist spot in the Hickory Knolls Natural Area. Known for its diverse and rare plants, the wetland also is home to a multitude of creatures, including the western chorus frog. You may have heard these guys calling from a wet patch near you. They are one of the most numerous amphibians in our area, and right now are in full voice. The males are the ones doing the calling, inflating their vocal sacs to about the size of a gumball—quite the feat for a critter no bigger than a Hershey’s Kiss.
With the number of frogs calling that day I thought for sure I’d succeed in getting at least one picture; the little guys seemingly were everywhere, and their calls surrounded me as I balanced, somewhat precariously, on a small dry patch in the sprawling wetland. As I scanned the area around me I could see I’d picked a popular spot, at least for mammals. The scat of deer, raccoon and coyote were all within a few feet of my perch. The deer, for sure, had come by to drink the water, cool and fresh as it seeped from the ground. But the other animals? Maybe they were thirsty too, or maybe they had a taste for frog.
At any rate, I got skunked again—not literally, thankfully—as the choristers near me refused to make a sound.
Which brings us to Friday, deadline day. Time to go big, or go home.
Happily, we were hosting a workshop for environmental educators, and with the bright sun and warm temperatures, it was a given that at least part of the course would take place outside. As we headed past the community garden plots, we saw both male and female bluebirds (too far away though), tree swallows swooping (too quick) and watched a red-tailed hawk eat a garter snake (waaaaay up at the top of a tree, with too many branches to allow for a good shot).
And then we heard them…the chorus frogs.
I walked with the group over to the edge of the wetland, and we all stopped to listen. And listen some more. Eventually, though, the group moved on,
Page 2 of 3 and I was left alone with the frogs. I had one last chance and, by golly, I was going to take it.
I tiptoed, I crept, I stalked, heron-like, moving ever so slowly closer to the prize: a shot of a male chorus calling. One by one, the closest frogs shut down, keenly alert to the disturbances I was trying so hard not to make. I spotted one, then another; from then on it was only a matter of time until one would figure it was safe to begin calling again. Five minutes passed, then 10… By this time my feet were wet, my pants were wet and I’d experienced the return of another springtime rite—the first mosquito bite of the year. But then, success! A male chorus frog, not six feet in front of me, inflated his vocal sac and began to croon.
Croak went the frog, click went the camera and, voila! The image of the frog was captured on disk. The angle’s not great and the lighting’s a little harsh, but nonetheless it’s a chorus frog calling—a bona fide sign of spring, documented for posterity. Or at least until the paper it’s printed on gets recycled.
Next week: I’m sticking to writing.
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