Archive for the 'what they eat' Category

A pair of Two-tailed Swallowtails

abutterfly1.jpg

I put a bag of composted cotton bolls around some newly transplanted poppies, and gave the area a good soaking.   As soon as I was done, a pair of two-tailed swallowtails arrived and settled onto the compost. 

abutterfly2.jpg

Can you see that long proboscis?  The butterfly wasn’t looking for nectar, or for fresh water.  It wanted that dank old compost water.

abutterfly3.jpg

Here’s another probocis shot.  This butterfly was working it for a long time.  He pushed and poked with his probocis, angling to get more of that compost juice.

abutterfly4.jpg

A second one arrived, and the two of them stayed close together and seemed to thoroughly enjoy their treat. 

abutterfly5.jpg

I’m sure I’ll get over this fascination with probocises at some point, but here’s two at once.   And look how segmented that antennae is! 

abutterfly6.jpg

They flew off together, circling each other, and then they were gone.

Native bumble bees

Two native bumble bees were working on the catmint.  Does anyone know what kind?  

abee1.jpg

 They don’t do in-air refueling, like the Sphinx moth.  Instead of a long proboscis and fast wings, they land

bumblebee tongue

 and hang from the blossoms as they stick their head right into the flowers.

abee3.jpg

They climb all over the flower spike, and put their heads deep into places that a lot of other pollinators have already been before.   They’re really working these flowers, who frankly look a little tired.

abee4.jpg

And here’s a photo so beautiful it leaves me without words.

abee5.jpg

Hope you have a nice Friday! 

Sphinx Moths

The sphinx moths just hatched and are feeding on the catmint.

amoth1.jpg

I’m dedicating this post to the sphinx moth’s proboscis.

amoth2.jpg

This tube is nearly as long as its body

amoth3.jpg

and it bends in interesting ways. 

amoth4.jpg

With a nice long proboscis and a set of wings, you might not even want opposable thumbs. 

amoth5.jpg

I’m having a moment of proboscis envy. 

A Worm Farm

Peg raises worms, and she has for fifteen years.  Red wiggler worms.  You could call her a vermiculturist, because she grows them and sells them in little Chinese food take-out cartons.  She makes about $250 a year from worms, which makes her one of the few alchemists you’re likely to meet.  She turns garbage into gold.

aworm1.jpg

 There’s nothing particularly complicated about her system. 

aworm2.jpg

The square enclosed by wire is this year’s active pile, and the open square is last year’s pile, composted and full of worms.  The worm pile is enclosed to keep her dogs out, and inside the wire enclosure she layers coffee grounds from the local latte shop and old lettuce leaves from the grocery dumpster (but any kitchen compost will do).  She adds a scoop of worms and covers the new pile with leaves or old manure.  As the season progresses she adds more pockets of organic matter when she’s in the mood, covering each additional contribution with a layer of leaves or manure.  And she lets nature do the rest of the work. 

aworm3.jpg

There is still snow in Peg’s yard, but she already has broken open last year’s pile and the worms are looking good.

aworm4.jpg

I mean, they’re looking good if you like a lot of worms.  These red wigglers are not native to North America, but they are not invasive.  If you put them into your garden, they’ll die.

Lots of sources say that there aren’t any native worms in North America, but it’s not true: in the south and the west there were plenty of worms to start with, but there weren’t any native earthworms in the northeast after the last glacier receded.  And the non-native worms have changed the northeastern forests. 

According to 2003 research, when earthworms move into a new area, they feed on the organic material on the forest floor and bring it down into their burrows. They feed primarily on the top layer of leaf litter, as well as on the duff – the spongy layer of decomposing vegetation beneath the leaf litter. …Earthworms do an excellent job of recycling nutrients, but “when they eat away the duff layer, all the plant seeds that germinate there, like trillium and mayflowers and wood anemone, may disappear or may not have any place to germinate. Other creatures that live in the duff and forest litter like salamanders and ground-nesting birds may be affected as well. Within a decade or two, the worms can essentially change the soil profile into something like the black mineral-rich soils that are found in many European forests.”

Non-native nightcrawlers are making the duff disappear.

aworm5.jpg

These little red wigglers don’t survive in the forests, but I don’t think they’re very attractive. 

For beauty in an earthworm,  we have our native giant palouse earthworm, Driloleirus americanus,  a pinkish-white earthworm that can reach 3 feet long and is said to smell like lilies when handled.   Even though this one is a little battered, you can see it’s a beautiful creature.

giantpalouseearthworm1.jpg

Red wigglers, Eisenia foetida, are sold in Chinese take-out boxes while the giant palouse earthworm is an endangered species. 

As the alchemists of an earlier age would say,

Sic transit gloria mundi - (Thus passes the glory of the world).

Prairie Dogs

In Colorado, many people hate prairie dogs.  Since they are easy to poison, the acreage tunnelled by prairie dogs is estimated to be about 2% of what it used to be: 98% (or more) of the prairie dogs have already been removed.   Prairie dog tunnels provides homes for burrowing owls, rabbits, tortoises, and many other species.  Since prairie dogs are prey, their eradication has been a problem for predators like kit foxes, eagles, hawks, and literally dozens of other animals who relied on their towns for food.   Prairie dogs alter the landscape and provide a variation in habitat that many landowners dislike.  Buffalo and pronghorn graze preferentially in prairie dog towns, but cattlemen hate ‘em.   

 adog1.jpg

This photo is taken in the midst of a prairie dog town at about 7,500 feet on top of a mesa, a flat-topped mountain, in a vacant lot at the entrance of Fort Lewis College.  All that naked earth in the background is prairie dog territory, and there’s a prairie dog tunnel entrance and mound in the foreground.  The dead thistle at the left is an alien species that grows about 3 feet tall and no one eats. 

Every time I drive by this town, I see prairie dogs doing interesting things and a hawk or two overhead.  I thought it’d be dead easy to get some good photos, but I was wrong.  I spent 45 minutes lying in the dirt on the edge of the prairie dog town, and the only thing I got was windburned and sunburned.  So I got back in my car, and a prairie dog popped out: as a human, I’m a predator, but as a car I’m invisible. 

adog2.jpg

I saw prairie dogs at two speeds– very very still, and super fast.  See how small this guy is compared to the size of his mound? 

adog3.jpg

and so beautifully camouflaged that

adog41.jpg

I couldn’t tell if you could see him. 

There were two prairie dogs that were chasing each other out one hole and into another, scampering along like a streak. 

adog5.jpg

they’re almost flying

adog6.jpg

chasing each other close as can be

adog7.jpg

and here those two kids have all eight feet off the ground at once.

adog8.jpg

Those kids.  I don’t know where they get their energy.

How to see where a porcupine lives

I saw my first live porcupine a few weeks ago.  I’ve seen dead porcupines before, but I just recently learned how to find a live one.

  porcupine.jpg

See?  You look for the little fronds of pine needles littering the ground under the tree.  Someone is eating up there!

Since the porcupine is the same color as the tree bark, he just looks like a lump on the tree.  I couldn’t get a nice picture of him, but we know that he’s there because of his piles of needles. 

According to Wikipedia, porcupines eat different foods in different regions, and in this region they stay up in a pine tree all winter, eating the cambium layer under the bark, and the needles.  Sounds like a beaver, I thought, and sure enough the porcupine is the second largest rodent in North America (the beaver is #1). 

Porcupines stunt pine trees by girdling them high above ground, and in the last century the US Forest Service used strychnine to clear them from public forestland; widespread eradication efforts have only recently stopped.   

A porcupine can live up to 18 years in the wild, and the poor girls are pregnant for 7 months at a stretch.  If we were pregnant as long as porcupines were, we’d be carrying babies for 28 months.  Like us, they only have one at a time, and it’s called a porcupette!!!  I couldn’t get a shot of a porcupine, but here’s someone else’s photo of a mom and her porcupette. 

babies1.jpg

Is that a sweet little prickly thing, or what? 

 

 

Breatharians: Mule Deer in Winter

Breatharians, who claim to live on sunlight and water, seemed like an absurd impossibility until I see mule deer in winter.  With so much snow on the ground there is nothing for these mule deer to eat except twigs.  I looked up research papers on mule deer diet, and found that in the winter the deer live on a starvation diet of twigs and lichen, and lose 20% of their body weight.  One of the species whose twigs they enjoy is gambel oak, and the mountain behind us is covered in it.  So these deer really do live on almost nothing for the season… on twigs. 

For Christmas this year, I put out the old pumpkins and gourds we grew for Halloween mistakenly thinking that since deer eat pumpkins in the garden if they can, it’d make a nice holiday treat for the herd. 

deereat2.jpg

It took more than a week for ten deer to eat four old pumpkins.  The deer didn’t seem hungry, and clearly weren’t thinking of Christmas. 

deerpumpkin.jpg

It’s not that the deer didn’t like the pumpkins; it’s that they didn’t really want them.  And they didn’t need them. 

The winter continues, and our little local band of mule deer continues to eat almost nothing. 

The neighbors feed the birds a few cups of seeds and cracked corn each day, and the deer path across our property went to their feeding station. 

For a few days last week nearly a dozen deer started moving obsessively back and forth along the path, back and forth.  There was a frantic note to the herd’s restlessness.  Bob put out about 4 cups of alfalfa pellets at the start of the path, and the whole scene immediately calmed down.  We didn’t add very many calories to the landscape to change the tone. 

deerz1.jpg

This is the same buck with the uneven antlers as the one eating pumpkin at Christmas, but this is after nearly two months of winter starvation.  The snow is deep and has been deep all along, and it’s crusted so he’s still confined to paths.  The herd has been living on twigs up the hill and a little birdseed and cracked corn put out by the neighbor, and just a little of the cracked corn I put out for the turkeys.  Two months of a starvation diet, and they’re not starving.  We’re living with Breatharians in our midst. 

Where the Corn came from, and gardener’s porn

I called the feed coop this morning to find out what kind of corn I had bought for the wild turkeys.  I thought I would be walking into the old Vermont joke where a lady tourist asks a farmer “Could you tell me the name of this flower?” And he says, “Ma’am, in these parts we call ‘em ‘wildflowers’.”

But it wasn’t like that at all.  Instead, the woman on the phone yelled: Joe, where’d that corn come from?  Towaoc, he said.  I asked, Is it genetically modified?  She yelled, Joe, is that GM corn?  Nope. 

Towaoc is a tiny town on the Ute Mountain Ute reservation, 60 miles due west.  According to the 2000 US Census, the population is 1,097 and it’s 94.4% Native American.  And perhaps one of the reasons that corn was so cheap–$20 for 100 pounds cracked, sacked and loaded–is that family income in Towaoc averages $18,796.   

If I was a turkey and could pick out which strain I’d want those Indians in Towaoc to grow, I’d go straight to the Seed Savers Exchange, a catalogue that specializes in really old varieties.  Seed catalogues are like gardener’s porn, and every gardener has a pile hidden somewhere.  The specimens are all impossibly perfect… is it airbrushed?  So plump and bodacious, and the pictures all glisten… do you think they spray them with oil?  When the snow is deep some of us succumb to temptation. 

 corn-shots-2.jpg

 corn-cut.jpg

Not me.  I only look at seed catalogues when I’m trying to figure out what kind of corn I’d like if I was a turkey.  The Mandan Bride for sure, and I think the Black Aztec.   And we can’t stop there: some Indian beans

  indian-beans.jpg

Either the Hidatsa Red and the Painted Pony, or the Hidatsa Shield Figure and the Rattlesnake Snap… hard choice.  And finally

indian-beans-2.jpg

I have to drop all pretense that I have the slightest interest in vegetables and get down to the serious business of choosing a sunflower for next year; I’m leaning towards Torch. 

sunflowers.jpg

Roadkill, scavenging and recycling

Two days later, there is so little is left of the mule deer that there aren’t any crows around it. 

second-day-deer.jpg

The body cavity is empty

empty-ribcage.jpg

and the antlers are sawn off.

sawed-antler.jpg

Scavengers are the original recyclers. 

Roadkill and a murder of crows

In the winter, the animals killed by traffic are covered with snow.  You’d never see them  at all except for the crows, which are a telltale flag.   Whenever you see a group of crows jumping up and down by the side of the road, they’re sure to be tearing apart a big hunk of meat.  I stopped for this group of crows, but as soon as I got out of the car

 crows-1.jpg

they got nervous and started to leave. 

crows-2.jpg

They all marched up to the railroad tracks

crows-3.jpg

and took off. 

crows-4.jpg

This is what they left behind.

roadkill-mule-deer.jpg

I’d heard of a storytelling of crows, and a murder of crows, but it turns out the  list of collective nouns for crows goes on and on: a cauldron of crows, a caucus of crows, a congress, cowardice, hover, muster and parcel of crows. 

After seeing them seething over the deer by the side of the road, I’m partial to a murder of crows for now.