Clarion Call--Part 1

By mid-July the trumpet vine is in full bloom, with its brilliant orange-red blossoms, a full three inches long—beckoning all pollinators to come feast. The blossoms on this vine are well named, as they are narrow and long, with the outer end flaring, much like a trumpet. The call goes out, in the form of attracting aromas that entice hummingbirds and bees to come for free sips of nectar, in exchange for the satiated creature passing its pollen to adjacent flowers.

I sit in the tub in the evening, watching the aerial visitors stop by for a drink, just before dusk settles in. A mere 10 feet from the tub is a gorgeous, massive trumpet vine that completely covers and hides a homely storage shed. I watch a hummingbird visit a blossom, hovering like a mini helicopter, while the bird’s extremely long tongue dips deeply, seeking the sweet nectar. He sips twice, three times, then acrobatically zips over to the next bloom. While feasting, he remains on alert, knowing that when his head is plunged into the trumpet, he is temporarily blinded. He frequently pops his head back out, surveys the area for any potential predators, then dives back in for another drink.

I watch him for a few minutes, flitting from bloom to bloom—dipping only once into some, but going back a dozen times to others. Do some blossoms offer more nectar than others? Is the nectar sweeter in some? Has another hummer beaten him to the prize and already sucked up most of the offering in some of the blooms? On occasion, when he’s looking around for any threats, he turns my way and his brilliant ruby-colored throat flashes at me, dazzling me for a brief moment.

A little later a stout bumble bee wanders into the realm of the vine, drawn in by the sweet aroma. Rather than hover, the bee lands on the trumpet flare and waddles down inside—disappearing from my view. A few seconds later she emerges, coated with pollen, and flies to another bloom—thereby inseminating it.

The trumpet vine—also called the trumpet creeper and the cow itch vine—is an aggressive plant that, once having achieved a toehold in your yard, will threaten to become the one-and-only foliage in the area. It grows incredibly fast—adding several feet to its reach each summer. It wants support (being a member of the vine family) and will accept most anything stiffer than it is: a tree, a wall, a fence, or even a cow, if it doesn’t move fast enough. In fact, the moniker “cow itch vine” stems from the leaves of the vine causing a skin irritation. Cows are apparently especially susceptible... especially when they don't move.

One does not want to plant a trumpet vine within reaching distance of a vegetable garden. If you do, within a few short years you’ll have the vine choking out all the veggies. They send out roots, resulting in tiny vines popping up like mushrooms after a rain. If these little babies are not quickly nipped in the bud (I’ll take that pun), the area will soon be awash in trumpet vines. Sometime in late winter I ruthlessly prune back the vine to a size that will keep next year’s new growth contained.

More on trumpets next time…

Darrel struggling among obstacles

Darrell the Stoical Dung Beetle--Part 2

No sooner does he utter these words, when the dung ball drops into a small depression. Damn! Darrell circles his poop globe again, and realizes that this will require a super dung beetle effort to get the ball rolling again. He returns to his post and digs in. He grunts and heaves and sweats—to no avail. Doug watches him struggle vainly for a few minutes, then ingratiatingly steps next to Darrell and they heave together. Whomp! The ball breaks free!

Darrell knows he’s in a fix now: he couldn’t have done it alone, and he knows he owes Doug something. Doug gazes at him with a shit-eating grin—exuding abundant pride at their achievement. Darrell doesn’t want to acknowledge Doug’s help. He knows that this scheming intruder, given an inch, will seize a mile. He can’t be trusted. Darrell also knows that if he sat down to rest and snoozed off even a few minutes, he’d awaken to find that Doug has stolen his treasure. Yet he also knows that he has to acknowledge and even appreciate Doug’s help. He can’t blow him off now. Still uncertain about what to do, he resumes his post and keeps on rolling—hoping against hope that Doug will get bored and wander off.

After a half-hour more of hard labor, Darrell pauses to look around—wondering where Doug is. He can’t see him lurking, licking his beetle lips, off to one side or the other. Has Doug gone? Could he be so lucky? Looking up, Darrell spots Doug squatting on top of the ball, as if having just won a round of “King of the Dung Hill.” Doug gaily waves down at him, saying, “I thought I’d ride up here and keep an eye out for other obstacles or dung bandits. I think we’re making good progress.”

Darrell grits his teeth (or at least his beetle mandibles), realizing he’s being toyed with. It’s the old dung-duping game: pretend to be helping roll the ball home, while you look for opportunities to snatch the ball for yourself. Losing patience and about to order the interloper down from his perch, Doug anticipates his mood change and whimpers, “Besides, I pulled a leg muscle on that last big heave we did. As soon as I rest a little more, I’ll be right down to help push.”

Darrell senses he’s been had. Doug’s declared injury stemmed from helping out. How can he tell him off now? He still doesn’t trust him, but what can he do? Once again, Darrell pushes off and the big ball reluctantly rolls on.

Will Darrell be forced to share his treasure with devious Doug? Will the shrewd interloper even succeed in purloining the prize all for himself, leaving poor Darrell empty footed? Will Darrell prevail and manage to shoo the pest away? We’ll leave our friends at this point in the story… regrettably leaving the reader hanging. Maybe it’ll be another day, another dung ball for stoical Darrell. Maybe he’ll have to start all over. Just another peek into the trials of your typical, stoical dung beetle.

Legion are those who heap scorn upon the Darrells of the dung beetle world. But pause and think about what life would be like without the determined Darrells… we’d be up to our ankles in excrement! We must express a little gratitude for these staunch recyclers. What a clean, beautiful world they bring us. No shit!

[Note: The story about Darrell, though a wee bit anthropomorphized,

is a true description of a dung beetle’s trials, as described by the venerable

J. Henri Fabre.]

Darrell the Stoical Dung Beetle--Part 1

While flying over the fields and meadows one morning, Darrell’s keen nose detected a gorgeous pile of cow poop. This was his lucky day! The poop was perfectly aged for balling—not too wet and mushy, nor too dry and crumbly. He flew down and dove in. He rolled himself a beautiful ball of poop and then commenced to trundle it home. He knew that he had a lengthy trip, with many obstacles to negotiate, before he could bury it and feast contentedly for the next several months, but he was up for the effort. His prize was worth the struggle.

Darrell industrially planted his two front legs on the ground, lowered his head, raised his back four legs against the turd ball, and began to push. Like many of his hard-working dung beetle cohorts, Darrell had the strength and determination to push a ball nearly three times his size and ten times his weight. Grunting, he got the ball rolling homeward. Darrell knew that many barriers might try to stymie him: tree roots, fallen branches, ruts, and clumps of weeds. Since he was pushing backwards, he was unable to see them coming, so it was a case of whether or not fortune continued to smile upon him. Would his luck hold out?           

A small dung beetle with a big ball of shit is at the mercy of unseen terrain. If he got stuck, Herculean effort may be required to keep going. Would he prevail? Would he be thwarted? He still remembered the time he tried to cross a fairway on the golf course and dropped his dung ball into a deep divot. He was almost home at the time, but had to give up and return to the poop pile and fashion a second dung ball, which he finally succeeded in rolling home. Like a kid trying to make an outsized snowman, Darrell forged bravely on.

Soon he bumped up against a small twig and his ball wouldn’t budge. Unable to see what the impediment was, Darrell dropped to the ground and circumnavigated his treasured globe. Spotting the twig wedged under the ball, he yanked it out, resumed his Atlas position at the front, and rolled on.

Some would regard Darrell as overly stupid, to take on such a task. If a bird or chipmunk spotted him, he’d probably get laughed at, tackling such an outlandish ambition—especially for such a disgusting object. But tenacious and resolute, Darrell knows that he can succeed. He’s done it before. He’s on a roll!

Unexpectedly, Doug the Dung Beetle suddenly flies down, lands next to Darrell and asks if he needs help. “Looks like you’ve got a mighty big ball there, brother. I could lend a foot.” Darrell is suspicious. He knows that Doug is a sneaky dude, and doesn’t trust him any farther than he could throw his turd ball. Trying to discourage the intruder, he says, “Thanks, but I’m doing OK. I’m sure I can manage.” He pushes on.

More on Darrell’s trials next time…

Doe with Suckling Fawn

I asked mom to turn sideways, so I could get a better photo, but she declined.

Fabre's Insects

Jean Henri Fabre was a French entomologist and author who graced our little planet with his copious observations of the insect world. He lived from 1823 to 1915. Charles Darwin paid tribute to Fabre, calling him an “inimitable observer.” And that’s exactly what Fabre was—an incomparable insect eyewitness, as well as a commentator; not an opinionated theorist and not an academic who sits in his book-lined office and claims esoteric postulates about the workings of the world.

Fabre spent many years on his hands and knees, his nose close to the ground, observing countless details of the lives of insects. He had an enormous respect for the “lowly” bugs: their sheer numbers, their intricate habits, and their crucial role in the ecological balance of life on Earth. While others pronounced their often conceited and off-base ideas about insects, Fabre meticulously and objectively watched. And he watched.

But he did more than just watch and become familiar with what the little critters were doing; he conducted experiments. Watching may tell us what is happening, but the clever experiments that Fabre conceived of revealed the meaning behind their actions. Otherwise, we too easily fall prey to our preconceived and anthropomorphic thoughts. As he wrote: without experimentation, we tend to observe an insect and draw conclusions, based not “upon the primary motives of its activities, but our own opinions, which always yield a reply in favor of our cherished notions.”

So he watched and he watched; he asked good questions, and he conducted experiments, a process “which alone is able to some extent to fathom the obscure problem of animal intelligence.” Intelligence? Yes… he saw that the simplest insects display an acumen that is to be admired. His sense of humility enabled him to pursue and perceive some amazing facts about the insect world. He was able to see beauty in what most people feel is repugnant. His essays on the dung beetle, for example, provide a prime example of his ability to perceive the fascination and value of this lowly bug.

An illustration of his humility is shown by a letter he wrote to a friend, in which he said, “Because I have shifted a few grains of sand upon the shore, am I in a position to understand the abysmal depths of the ocean? Life has unfathomable secrets. Human knowledge will be eroded from the world’s archives before we possess the last word that a gnat has to say to us.” I love that last phrase… the end of our knowledge will never come.

The dung beetle is a curious little critter—engaging in behavior that humans consider disgusting: finding piles of poop, carving out and forming a round ball that is some 10 times the weight of the beetle, and then patiently rolling the turd sphere to a safe location, where it can be buried, to serve as either a cache of food or as a brooding chamber for its offspring. The beetle requires no other repast or liquid other than his poop ball; it’s his complete and sole diet. What’s more, he prefers the dung of herbivores, so his taste cannot be considered to be non-discriminating. Carnivore poop is not nearly as delicious, apparently.

The dung beetle offers a valuable service to the environment, by removing a breeding ground for flies and other germ-spreading bugs. This helps improve the hygiene of a herd of cattle, as well as provides fertilizer for plants, after he entombs the cow dung, but doesn’t completely consume it.

The following biographical sketch of the travails of a dung beetle was inspired—maybe even incited—by Fabre’s detailed and fascinating descriptions of the habits of these little critters.

Next time: the adventures of Darrell the Dung Beetle

Close Calls

Listening to a bird’s call when he’s off at a distance in the woods can be quite a different experience than when he is close by. If the song propagates through the forest for some distance, the high-frequency content becomes absorbed by the leaves, leaving the lower frequencies to carry on alone. Some information is lost.

Every now and then, I will be treated by a bird singing out from a perch close to me and I can hear much more in his song. This is more likely to occur in the early morning or at dusk, when competing noise sources (wind, distant airplane, barking dogs, local vehicles) are absent. If I am also still (such as sitting pensively in my outdoor tub), I can hear subtleties in his call that I’d otherwise miss.

When the bird calls from back in the woods, what I tend to hear is a purer sound, more like a clean whistle… it’s a simple call. When he lands nearby and sings out, however, I am amazed at all the additional sounds and complexity I can pick up.

For instance, the distant call of the mourning dove is like a soft, low, pure whistle. It’s a clean, cooing sound. Last evening, however, a dove perched on a branch close by, as he called out. I could hear a breathiness to his call, that gets absorbed when he’s calling from back in the trees. This close-by dove sounded to me like he had a wheeze—as if his air passages were constricted, or he had a bit of a cold. And his melodic “coo” sounded more like a yodel, as if he had flipped into a falsetto voice—whereas it sounds more like a smooth, melodic slur when he’s deep in the woods.

When the bird is close, those softer, high-frequency sounds can be distinguished. A bird may quietly lisp, buzz, whisper, rattle, hiss, whir, and rasp, as part of its call. When he’s close by, all these gentle, high-frequency sounds can be heard. They make his call far more interesting and informative.

When we humans talk (or sing) to each other, most of the information that we hear is contained in the high-frequency subtleties. Consonants create clicking, popping, hissing, and buzzing sounds that convey most of the message. Our throat cavities, lips, tongue, and nasal passages create many inflections that add a wide range of sounds. A bird has none of these sound shapers—his complexity comes from incredibly intricate muscle twitches of his bronchial and syrinx regions, deep in his throat. It’s a simpler sound, but still can be loaded with information.

Birds do manage to accomplish a lot of communication with each other—despite the lack of mouth parts to modulate their song. I’m wondering if all the additional sounds I hear when a bird calls from close by are what they use to relay all that information to each other. What difference might he be signaling if that familiar song of his is preceded by a sift gurgle or rattle, or if he tacks on a bit of a whir or buzz at the end, or even if he has a bit of a cold? I’m sure they are telling each other things that I’m usually missing.