Ranger Report By Daniel F. Murley
Sadly, solemnly we scooped up the remains of the once gloriously glowing golden gourds in our hands and arms. They had served nobly, eerily lighting the deck for the week of “all hallows eve.” Shortly after however they had begun to seriously slump. Once wide open ghoulish mouths with scary jagged teeth had compressed to squishy old men’s orange wrinkled smiles. My prided carved Inuit mask was now ignominiously adorned with a slimy hungry banana slug. Finally the muffled thumps of the deposed demonic domes were heard as the pumpkins were ceremoniously dropped the twenty feet from the deck to the compost pile below.
However, in true seasonal fashion, as the deck was being swept, a curious creature slowly crawled and then quickly scuttled across the redwood planks. We all quickly huddled around the eight-legged, probably panicked little spider for a closer look. Once recognized as a “wolf” spider, grins quickly spread across the assembled faces. We all remembered that time many years ago when the girls were quite young and I was going to give them a lesson in respect and honor of arachnids. We all then began to laugh loudly as the story was recounted. I had told the youngsters that even though this particular species of spider was called a “wolf,” they had nothing to fear. I told them that these hairy arthropods were fast and had good eyesight (eight eyes) and hunted their insect prey with skill, stealth and speed. In my attempt to convince the skeptical toddlers, I poked the spider right between, or rather amongst the eyes with my index finger. The reason we laughed so hard today was because on that day, when finger touched spider, the defensive little critter clamped its strong “jaws” (chelicerae) down on the tip of my intrusive digit and I let out a reflexive yelp.
Now, was that any way to convince children not to be fearful of these odd looking members of our natural neighborhood? Well it wasn’t, and that day I had to do some serious verbal tap dancing to persuade the girls that these and all creatures had a unique and important place in our environmental society. They were taught well and today we were able to chuckle about those early days. Still and all, no one was anxious to test the mettle of this handsome agile arachnid. So after the hilarity subsided we herded the spider out from under foot and retired to the house with cheerful chuckles still spontaneously escaping our lips.
“Under the spreading Buckeye tree,
The country family sits,
Discussing things botanical,
Like seeds and cones and pits”
With all do respect to Mr. Longfellow and the mighty “smithy” about whom he wrote, I was making a point by quipping this little parody. The point I wanted to make to the girls on this sunny autumn afternoon was that our lovely local Buckeye is also a member of the horse chestnut family just like the tree in the famous poem. I also mentioned that in my youth in New England, it seemed that every firehouse had a horse chestnut tree gracing the premises, standing picturesquely, stately with drooping boughs, in front of the old red brick building. For my brothers and I this was a spot to not only chat with the pinochle playing friendly firemen but also in the fall, to gather the shiny tawny colored nuts from the tree. We made all kinds of crazy devices with the little nuts but by far the most popular was the bola or as we called it a “bolo”. This was a South American Gaucho hunting tool with weighted objects tied together on interconnected cords. Our cotton string versions were not so elegant or effective. Now the girls were amazed that I would configure such a device when its main purpose was for entangling animals especially birds. I explained that the only living things we entangled were ourselves and our buddies and most bolos ended up helplessly dangling from telephone wires around our neighborhood.
Looking up at this bountiful tree, with all its fruit-laden limbs bent ready to release their heavy seeds, prompted more conversation on the many ways that California Indian people used this beautiful Buckeye. The Native People used the fruit in an odd yet ingenious type of hunting, a method much more successful than aimlessly throwing string-tied nuts in the air. The fruits were crushed and poured into a dammed up creek or tide pool to stupefy fish. The fruits also could be consumed by humans if great care was taken in the preparation. The mashed meaty seeds were thoroughly leached in running water for a couple of days to remove tannins and the toxic substance saponin. Then that completely clean product was baked and subsequently ground into meal. Though that sounded a bit too labor intensive for us we noted another important use of the California Buckeye. The straight limbs were used as part of a fire making kit where that straight stick, in contact with a solid block of wood as a base, was spun between the hands to create fire by friction at the point of contact. Fire in early Native California was used as a tool to managed many species of wild plants by encouraging new growth, adding ash nutrients to the soil and actually “burn pruning” some shrubs and bushes to promote new growth.
The tree under which we sat was resplendent with fruit and we gathered a few for planting and propagation as we all love the silhouette of this particular ridge top specimen. Sandy mentioned that we might just be able to grow one or two with the genetic makeup of this great umbrella-shaped beauty on our property and so the bright little balls were gathered in earnest.
Ranger Report
By Daniel F. Murley
Posted 7 pm, Friday, October 6, 2006 -------- Balancing precipitously at the very top of the elaborate fibrous structure, the little fellow appeared in his clown-like garb and looked as if he was poised to leap, a jump which would land him into a rather delicately fashioned fluffy safety net. The net itself could only have been designed by a corps of fanciful, forest, fairy folk. Under this conifer canopy big top, lighted by brilliant beams of afternoon sunlight, the matinee show seemed ready to begin. From my front row seat on a charred Redwood log, I was all set to experience the show in the center ring. The black polka-dotted, green clad performer dramatically danced on his slender jointed legs, tempting the edge and seeming to defy gravity. Suddenly without the appropriate drum roll, the aerialist bug’s back split into two glistening little wings and instead of the expected jump, the pale green beetle fluttered, albeit awkwardly, to the beautiful lacey bloom below.
The colorful insect in the sunshine spotlight was the famous (or infamous depending on your perspective) Eleven-spotted Cucumber Beetle, Diabrotica undecimpunctata howardi. Oddly enough, I was magically transported, not to Barnum and Bailey’s big top, but to Brother Nelson’s beginning Latin classroom. I ran the brain twisting name over and over the recesses of my prep school hippocampus and came up with a contradiction. From the little Latin language left in the lobe from those teenage school years, I recalled that undecimpunctata means "eleven-spotted. In counting the spots on this bug’s back, there were actually twelve little black dots on the lime green background, but … the two tiny spots nearest the beetle’s head were very, very close together and may have mesmerized some eye-weary entomologist into seeing and recording just one, making the final count eleven. By the way, the lovely plant upon which this bug was seen was the beautiful Fringed Corn Lilly, Veratrum fimbriatum. All of this etymological and entomological stimulation was just too much for this frustrated Virgil and so I slowly plodded back home to read a little of the Aeneid or maybe Caesar’s Gallic Wars.
Ranger Report
By Daniel F. Murley
Posted 6:30 pm, Tuesday, Oct. 3, 2006 -------- Breathing deeply the crisp obviously autumnal air, I was the first out on the porch this sunny September afternoon. Imagine the astonishment from those still inside getting ready for our hike when they heard my curious cryptic call… “Grand Theft…G-g-g-rand Theft Bicycle…In Progress!!!” One by one the family filed out the front door with puzzled, no, incredulous looks on their faces. Desperately holding back a grin, I motioned toward the trail bike leaning against the side of the house. This particular pedaled conveyance was of significant import because it had once been lovingly owned, yet recklessly ridden by Hannah but had been meticulously restored and handed down to younger sister Oona and the mere suggestion that someone, or in this case something, might steal this bike was inconceivable. I guided everyone to the bike and pointed to the left handle bar grip. My frantic pointing was again met with disbelief and question. They could not yet see what I could see and had seen. Finally Sandy burst into laughter and I had to join in. I then announced that the odd-looking stick-like creature perched on the handgrip was in the act of attempting to steal the bike. “Look at those beady eyes,” I said while emphatically pointing an accusatory finger toward the skinny figure caught red fore-legged at the handlebars.
Upon more careful inspection we all got an up close and personal look at Stagmomantis californica. “Hey, that guy actually looks like he is trying to manipulate that bike,” Hannah commented. I quickly and delicately explained that at this time of year for this type of insect this was probably not a “guy.” The female of this species, as in many of the class Insecta, dispose of their mates shortly after mating. I then very adroitly pointed out the fact that this anorexic looking widow probably did in her hapless hubby by biting off its head while in the actual act. Muted gazes of disbelief were quickly greeted by my nimble retort of how beneficial these little “guys” were and that the state of Connecticut has honored a mantis as its State Insect. My verbal tap dance was extended when I mentioned that some people keep them as pets…leash and all.
We all finally joyously howled when I mimicked, in my finest Chaplinesque routine, walking the “walking stick” across the deck. “Hey, did you know that Charlie Chaplin’s last wife was the lovely daughter of Eugene O’Neill…Oona?” Oona and Sandy in unison panned “…and that actress Geraldine Chaplin was their daughter.”
Enough…enough already!
Posted 9 am, Wed Sept 20, 2006 --------- Prancing gaily across the side yard, the bushy-tailed gray squirrel became the focus of our attention as we peered out of the living room window. Even out of its tree-top environment, the slender-bodied acrobat frolicked playfully on solid ground. The most obvious feature of the frisky visitor was its bristling tale which, at about one foot long, is equal to the length of its body. Unlike other local squirrel types (chipmunks, etc.) these regal rodents do not have cheek pouches but usually either eat their food as they encounter it or bury the booty for future excavation and consumption. This particular fellow was obviously taking advantage of the abundant crop of tan oak acorns and was busily burying tasty treasures. We watched and laughed aloud at the antics. Once a nut had been acquired and an appropriate location found, the cautious little guy would nervously look over his fuzzy little shoulders as if someone was watching and waiting to steal his cache. Like a pedantic pirate on a deserted tropical isle he would perform his perfunctory histrionics, quickly conceal the prize, and then saunter away as if nothing at all had transpired. We discussed the fact that like many buried treasures, the “bury-ee” is oftentimes unable to locate the stash, as there is normally no “X” to mark the spot. In the case of the patch-eyed, peg-legged squirrel the acorn sometimes sprouts into an oak tree thus making the “Grey-beard the Pirate” more a “Johnny Appleseed.”
From there the discussion digressed as it often does to the fact that the real Johnny Appleseed, John Chapman, was actually from my father’s home town of Leominster, Massachusetts and that Gray squirrels (Sciuris griseus) were affectionately referred to as “squibbles” by my sainted mother when pointed out to my brothers and sisters and myself when we were children. Whatever they are called or however they are characterized, they are truly a pleasant addition to the local fauna and quite active during this time of abundance and harvest.
August 29, 2006 --------- The stump had stood for a few years as a reminder of the Bishop Pine which once graced the side yard and in that time no attempt had been made to remove that vestige of the once tall tree. The loud clanking of metal on metal brought the family out to witness my attempt at deposal of the stump. The first few punishing blows of the trusty maul head slamming the top of the metal wedge seemed to be loosening up the tenacious tendrils of cellulose which held the circular form of the stump together. The shock waves from these well aimed strikes caused the bark to quickly tumble off the sides onto the ground. One of my spectators noted after viewing the now exposed inner layers of wood that much of the work of destruction had already been accomplished by creatures wielding tools more sophisticated than mine. In fact as we all looked more closely we could see that insects of many different forms and functions had been decomposing the stump, probably as soon as the trunk thumped to the ground years ago. The tell-tale pencil-sized holes of boring and burrowing insects showed the paths of the earliest invaders. We all laughed as we discussed the double meaning of boring when referring to these voracious beetles. For not only were these little buggy buzz saws able to churn through the wood with efficiency, but the monotonous process would also bore even the most dedicated observer of the natural world. While chuckling and pointing, one finger being pointed firmly stiffened, and the pointing process became intent and rather frantic. A look at the furrowed brow, intense stare and unintelligible yet communicative guttural sounds coming from the youngest member of our circle, brought all our attention to a stark still shadowy figure amidst the pulpy decomposing detritus… a scorpion.
This angular apocalyptic arthropod caused all of us pause and ponderance. We then noticed that this miniature creature of creepy nightmares was missing its most feared finial. The scorpion was without a stinger. This was not a recent amputation and definitely not caused by my destructive intrusion. Hannah suggested it might have been lost in a fight and I countered that it might have been lost at a wild party. After all, when scorpions “get together” they actually do a type of aggressive raucous randy dancing. One never knows what goes on at those late night scorpion soirees. Nevertheless it was definitely stinger-less but still quite alive. Though its stinger is used in disabling its prey and in its mating ritual, this little critter seemed to be surviving quite well without the end of its arching tail. It was therefore our intention to live and let live and leave and let leave.
As we departed, I mentioned that this guy would definitely have to take a line from the repertoire of Muhammad Ali. He would have to use his two pincers proficiently and be able to - “float like a butterfly…” ‘cause he can’t, “sting like a bee”.
