The River Landing

Taking it Like a Plant

[Note:  This essay originally appeared in the Pekin Daily Times online in July 2012.]

Yesterday (July 13, 2012,) we finally had rain for the first time in a long while.  I know this because when I returned home from work, the bird bath, which had been dry, contained a small puddle of water.  It wasn’t much rain, but maybe it provided some relief for struggling plants.

Not only have plants suffered from lack of water, but this year Japanese beetles have been more numerous.  And Japanese beetles feed on flowers, fruits, and leaves.  This year, more than ever, I noticed the many brown, skeletonized leaf remnants left behind after the beetles had eaten off all the green. 

The plants have no options, though.  Unlike animals, which can flee to better circumstances, a plant must stay and take whatever abuses the environment can offer.  And that might include lack of water, lack of nutrients, flood, fire, disease, being eaten, wind damage, lightning, freezing rain, and heavy snow.  If it is ill-adapted, at the very least it will fall behind in the competition for resources with other plants that are better adapted.  In the worst case, the plant will die.

Around my home the Japanese beetles seem to prefer sassafras, linden, grape vines, and non-native Siberian elms more than other species.  So this year, while all of the plants have had a setback because of the drought, these species will be further stressed.

Early in the fall, I will set my woods and prairie on fire to help restore the native plant communities.  This will further stress the Siberian elms and sassafras, which have been encroaching upon the prairie.  The native oak and hickory trees, which are well adapted to fire and drought, have been left alone by the beetles; and so these species will be given a slight advantage.  The oaks and hickories are a natural part of the prairie and savanna communities that I am trying to restore.

I find these types of interactions endlessly fascinating, especially when unanticipated circumstances arise.  But when lightning next strikes, I’ll take it like a man…and seek shelter.    

Postscript:  While re-reading this essay, I had somewhat forgotten about last year’s extreme drought and hot summer temperatures.  For comparison, this year in central Illinois, we have had abundant spring and early summer rains, so much so that the Illinois River experienced a record high flood in April.  Japanese beetles have been scarce; temperatures have been rather cool for summer; and even though we’re now in the regular summer drought period, vegetation growth has been very healthy, almost lush.  Unfortunately for my prairie restoration, a year such as this will allow additional tree encroachment onto the prairie, which I may have to compensate for by having another fall fire.  Or I may not, just to see what happens....

The prairie at home on August 11, 2013

The Earth Smells

Yesterday (July 26, 2012) the weather forecasters surprised me.  They predicted it would rain, and it actually rained.  It wasn’t just a few drops either; rain fell steadily for about 15 minutes.  And that is the most we have had in Mason County for a long time.

After the rain stopped, I ventured out from under the back porch roof; it was impossible not to notice the drop in temperature.  Following on days upon days of 100-degree temperatures, this felt like a gift.  And I said to my wife, Julie, “You’ll remember this day as the day the heat wave broke.”

When the sky began to clear, I took our dog, Charlie, for a walk.  And it was then that I really began to notice the curious mix of aromas hanging in the air.  With this little bit of water, I could actually smell the sun-dried leaves that had fallen from drought-stressed trees over the last several weeks.  Not only that, it seemed as if each part of our yard had a strong, unique smell, something I guess I had never really noticed before.

The prairie, the trail, bare sand, the black locust grove, and even the driveway each had a unique smell.  I could smell the cornfield across the road.  Along the trail, I detected a dead animal somewhere, usually quite a disagreeable odor, but not so much on this day.

This experience gave me some insight into what it might be like to be a dog. Running along, nose to the ground, Charlie picked up on invisible clues that I could not even imagine.   Once, a few weeks ago, he was so focused on an interesting pile of coyote scat that he did not notice when a large white-tailed deer ran across our trail, about 30 feet in front of us.  After Charlie finished with his scat sniffing, he happily trotted along ahead of me; but when he reached the point where the deer crossed our trail, he abruptly stopped and looked around.  Dogs clearly experience the world in a way we’ll never truly understand.

Charlie on the trail

Today, the heat and sun are back, and the earth’s fragrances are once again suppressed.  For me, the trail walks are just a bit less interesting.  For Charlie, who knows?

[Note:  This essay was originally published at the Pekin Daily Times online edition on August 1, 2012.]        

Bird Memories: Caspian Tern

        The other day I was sitting outside our cabin overlooking Quiver Lake, stretching out the last few minutes until I would have to head for the office and begin my workday, when a Caspian tern flew past.  For me, it was the first Caspian tern of the season.

        Sometimes seeing certain bird species can bring back a flood of memories about a particular place or circumstance.  So for a few moments, as the tern flew past, I was transported backward in time and distance, nineteen years to North Manito Island in northern Lake Michigan.  The National Park Service manages most of the 14,973-acre North Manito Island as a wilderness area.  I went there to backpack into the wilderness, away from the campground near the boat dock, away from civilization and everyone.

        The tern that I saw at Quiver Lake brought everything back.  I remembered arriving on the ferry, wasting no time before hiking away with my heavy frame backpack on one of the island’s few trails.  And then I left the trail and set up my base camp on the top of a remote forested dune, where I stayed for the next two days.  I spent the evenings at the base camp, reading by flashlight, and hiked to other parts of the island during the day.

        On one of those hikes, I went to the island’s northern boundary, and saw Caspian terns flying at eye level as I sat at the edge of a forested dune high above Lake Michigan’s cold waters, with blue skies and clear blue waters stretching to the horizon.  I sat there for a long time, as I recall, my feet over the side of the steep dune, watching the terns flying back and forth, sometimes dropping to the water for a fish.  The only sounds were the wind in the trees and the terns occasionally calling, so high above the water was I that the noise of crashing waves was swallowed up in the distance.

 

North Manitou Island and Lake Michigan, 1993

 

        A lot has happened since that day.  And it is remarkable how vividly and quickly the scenes appeared in my mind’s eye, just because a bird flew past when I happened to be watching. 

 [Note:  This essay originally appeared at the Pekin Daily Times online, August 11, 2012.]