Wary Wasps

Living in the woods—while inadvertently creating a tasty and inviting habitat for many critters—has brought us myriad fascinating encounters with many of them. We have forged an island of tender flora within the forest that attracts a wide variety of local fauna. Where once grew tough shrubs and woody plants, we have introduced succulent vegetables, flowers, and herbs, which have become beacons that beckon many insects and various critters (deer, opossums, rabbits, raccoons, and bugs) to come sample our wares.

One of the most pervasive and diverse creatures we attract are insects. While the forest offers a bee or wasp only scattered and meager rations, we offer a concentrated smorgasbord of delights—especially when all the spring flowers are providing their nectar treats. Additionally, a typical wasp or bee also possesses an ability to inflict a powerful sting. The largest mammal will allow itself to be intimidated by a bee, whose stinger is a potent weapon that will cause even a moose to retreat.

We humans, who possess the cognitive ability to comprehend the threat and impact of a wasp (especially if we've previously experienced its throbbing sting), can become extremely wary, if not fearful, of the sound or sight of a wasp. Too many times my spouse and I have been absorbed in some outdoor activity, to the point that we do not notice that we are intruding on a bee's or wasp's territory, and suffer the painful consequences of its prick. Once stung, twice shy, as they say.

Springtime brings many wasps and bees to our clearing—seeking nectar and places to build their nests. Outdoors, as we attend to our duties, we often find one of these insects hovering nearby at this time of year. At first, you might catch sight of one of them on the perimeter of your vision, or hear its ominous buzz. Your gut reaction is to duck and run, or swat them away, which is an invitation to be stung. By doing so, you may foolishly transform an otherwise peaceful insect into an attack fighter.

Over the years I have learned—the hard way—to freeze when I see or hear a wasp or bee. It has better things to do than to attack me. I have found that if I take on the appearance of a tree trunk, I almost become invisible to them; certainly no threat. The critter goes about its business—ignoring my presence.

What's special is that when I do become an observing statue, rather than a menacing and arm-waving giant, I can serenely watch the insect go about its business and learn something about its occupation. A few days ago I was going about my business when I heard the auspicious drone of a large paper wasp. These guys are almost two inches (5 cm) long and pack one nasty sting if provoked. I froze. Where it had warily circled me a moment before, as an imitation tree trunk I now disappeared from its attention.

Then I could become absorbed in its activity. It was evening, with dusk approaching. The wasp was probably engaged in its last foray of the day. Looking for a mate? A new nesting site? It wasn't giving up its secrets to me. In a minute or two it moved on, leaving me fascinated but stingless. Neither of us was a threat to the other. We could cohabitate without conflict. The big wasp went on about its business, and so did I. It's unlikely that it was nearly as interested in me as I was in it.

Fig-Wasp Mutualism

The deeper biologists delve into the workings of nature, the more they come to appreciate and understand the complexity and entanglement that exists between species. No living entity is in isolation. Every plant and creature has a relationship with and depends upon countless other life forms around it. The web of life connects us all, with varying degrees of interdependency.

Remove one species and there will be manifold types of impact on all species connected to it—even those remotely connected. The web of life has evolved to be so interdependent that if one link is severed, the whole thing might not collapse but it will surely change. We humans are causing the ongoing extinction of numerous species every day, with little comprehension of how we are upsetting the exquisite balance of nature.

Mutualism is the strongest kind of tie between two species, wherein both of them benefit from and depend on each other. Pollination is a common type of mutualism. For example, most flowering plants depend on bees, birds, and bats to spread pollen to other plants of the same species—completing the process of sexual reproduction. In return, the plant may offer the pollinator sweet nectar or some of its pollen for food. If the critter is pleased with the meal, it will fly off—carrying some pollen with it—to seek another plant of the same species, and thus fulfilling the sex act.

Modern agriculture relies heavily on bees for pollination of fruits and vegetables. Many bee colonies are being decimated in the last few years, however, and agricultural folks are in a panic. Is the bee-plant balance being degraded?

Some plant-pollinator mutual relationships evolve to become so specialized that only one kind of insect is able to pollinate one kind of plant. They become completely dependent on each other. If one goes extinct, the other must follow. There are numerous species of tree for which there are no further offspring possible, because their pollinator has died off. On the island of Mauritius, for example, there have been no tambalacoque saplings for some 300 years, because the dodo bird—which once spread the tree’s seeds—went extinct in the late 1600s, having been hunted down by people who arrived on the island. Only ancient tambalacoque trees are left. Soon they may also be gone (unless a new pollinator can step in).

One of the more spectacular examples of complete mutualism exists between fig trees and the wasps that pollinate them. There are some 750 species of fig tree around the world (mostly in tropical climates) and 750 species of wasp—one for each kind of fig. The fruit of the fig is hollow, with one end open and with a tiny array of flowers inside the fruit. The wasp climbs inside, lays her eggs on a flower and promptly dies. Later, her eggs hatch, larva eat some of the flower’s seeds, and pupate. Yet later the adult wasps emerge, mate, and the males then promptly die. The impregnated females—now coated with pollen, as they’ve mucked around inside the flower for some time—fly off to find another fig tree of the same species, crawl inside the fruit, and pollinate its flowers.

I don’t believe that such an exclusive example of mutualism exists around me. Most local plant and animal species are generalists. But I can’t help watching a bee or butterfly, loaded with pollen, and wish that it fly on and visit many kinds of flowers and help to bring about more of them. And I can’t help but wonder what delicate examples of mutualism do exist around here, that are in danger of being interrupted. Every critter is precious!

The Unwavering Wasp

We have two kinds of wasps around here (well, maybe three, if you count white folks who attend the local Methodist Church): paper wasps and mud daubers. The former are social, the latter are solitary. The former build paper nests in out-of-the-way places. We occasionally stumble unknowingly upon their nest, are perceived as a threat to the community, and get nailed. Their sting is very painful. My spouse will get all swollen up and need doses of medicine to recover. I will have the throbbing of the sting stay with me for a couple of days, even though I don’t swell.

Needless to say, we try to be very careful around paper wasps. They seem to know that they are intimidating little critters, because they will buzz you—flying around your head, almost as if they were trying to get you to flee. If you do, they hover in the air in your wake, as if laughing derisively at your timidity. (Ever hear a paper wasp contemptuously laughing? It's a chilling sound that rattles you to your marrow.)

The second type of wasp, the mud dauber, is an interesting and less bullying critter. We have never gotten stung by one, as they are not at all aggressive. The solitary female wasp selects a site for her mud tunnel—well out of the weather, tucked into a cozy spot. She builds a mud tunnel that is about four inches long and a quarter inch in diameter. She stuffs an egg of hers in the end of the tunnel and then captures various insects—spiders, flies, and other soft-bodied creatures—stuns them and seals them in the tunnel, lining up a delectable selection of meals for her baby. When the larva hatches in a couple of weeks, it eats its way down the tunnel, until it reaches the end—and is then ready to venture forth into the world. It bores a hole in the side of the tunnel and flies away—to mate and continue the tunnel-building process.

It is fascinating to watch the prospective mom build the tunnel; its walls are impressively thick. I'm amazed at the size of the load of mud that she can carry to the tunnel site. When she lands, she begins packing the new mud against the wall. As she crams the mud in, she makes a very loud rasping sound that can be heard for a long distance (at least out here in the quiet country).

Each round trip of hers takes several minutes. While she is building the tunnel, she gets extremely focused on her work. She picks a flying route that is the shortest distance from her mud source to her tunnel nest. Then she settles into her routine and begins her dozens of trips to complete the tunnel. As she labors, nothing else in the world exists for her—except if an ignorant human happens to step into her flight path. She will not deviate from that path—she is locked into it and seems so focused as to be unable to make a flight change. If you get in her way she will bash into you, or threaten you menacingly, but virtually never sting.

Last week I watched a mud dauber building her tunnel inside my workshop, along the window frame. I had neglected to close the door for a day or two and she had identified that inside perch as a safe spot for her baby’s birth. I became aware of her presence, as I began working at my bench, when she buzzed my head, on her way toward her tunnel. I then heard her rasping loudly, as she added to her project. I watched her for awhile, puzzled about what to do. If she finished her tunnel, her baby would emerge some day when the door might be shut and it might be trapped for days. Was it better to stop mom now and interfere with her mission, or let her finish and have the baby possibly meet some grim fate later, locked inside the building?

As I pondered my decision, I went outside and closed the door, to see what she would do if denied access. Soon she returned with another load of mud, flew right up to and nearly bashed against the closed door. She flew about in confused circles, continually returning to the door. Had she been much bigger, I think she would have tried butting the door, to get it out of her way. I watched her for a few minutes, as she circled the building and repeatedly came back to the door, as if wondering each time how her path had gotten blocked by something that looked like the wall of the building. I watched, guessing how she might be feeling (as if she had the ability to think about her dilemma). Had she maybe miscalculated her flight, and flown past the opening? She retraced her path and returned, once again frustrated by the closed door. Maybe the opening was farther along? She flew on by the door this time, looking for her opening, to no avail. I shortly left the area—feeling culpable and remorseful for her impasse. I don't know what she ended up doing. She probably simply moved on and tried another location—harboring no resentment.

Life on the homestead often leads to the harm of various critters—sometimes knowingly (I have no qualms about killing flies or house-invading ants) and sometimes ignorantly. Simply by settling down here in the woods, we have become part of a little eco system, that we've partly created and partly disturbed. We help make the lives of some creatures a little more pleasant and the lives of some a little more miserable. Finding the balance is an ongoing meditative experiment.