The Backyard Naturalist

The photo was taken along Red Bridge Road, one of my favorite drives into the Bull Creek valley. The trees in Rountree Neighborhood are also brightening, taking on their magnificent reds and golds, especially the maples. There's a nip in the air, as they say, and I've swapped my summer wardrobe for long-sleeved shirts and jeans. Fall is a good time to pause, to reflect, but also to enjoy the wonderful offerings of nature all around us.

I hope you're scroll down for fall stories about bears, spiders and unique people. More to follow in the coming weeks.
 

If you look carefully, you’ll see them all over town. There’s one just outside the old Jefferson Avenue YMCA in downtown Springfield. There’s one by the old firehouse on Commercial Street where I do yoga. There’s one right around the corner from my house. And there are many on the MSU campus. In the fall, their fan-shaped leaves turn bright yellow or golden and they drop their plump fruits on the ground. All of them are foreigners, ancient “living fossils.” They are gingko trees, Gingko biloba.

Many people don’t notice them until they smell the rotting fruit, which gets smushed into orange paste on sidewalks and roads. This mush is actually the fleshy outer seed coat, which when it begins to decay puts off an aroma reminiscent of rancid butter, or vomit, or even dog poop. But beneath this outer covering, the actual seed is edible. When roasted, it resembles a pistachio. In fact, the trees were once cultivated at least partly for their edible seeds.

But let’s back up. Gingkos are called living fossils because their lineage goes back over 200 million years, when they grew in pockets of central Asia. There were several species, all adapted to live in warm climates, but only one species, Gingko biloba, survived the last Ice Age. The trees were totally unknown in the West until the 1700s. Before that, Buddhist monks had “rescued” them from extinction by transplanting them into temple gardens.

By the nineteenth century, they had been widely planted in Europe and North America. Today, they are one of the world’s most widely planted trees along urban streets.

They are very hardy. For example, they survived in 19th century London, with its pall of choking coal smoke, when other plants perished. And they are long-lived. It isn’t unusual for them to thrive for over 500 years. Their leaves, resembling oriental fans, are prized for their simple beauty, and their leaf extracts have become one of the most popular herbal supplements on the market today.

Gingkos are unlike any other tree. Even their reproductive cycles are odd for a plant, as we normally don’t think of trees in a sexual sense. Each of their grains of pollen, the male sex factors, produces two sperm that swim (yes, swim!) to reach and fertilize the egg of the female, in the flower. From this union, large seeds are produced. When they ripen, they fall to the ground. The outer, fleshy part begins to rot, putting off that god-awful stink.

Why would a plant produce such a horrible smell if it wanted something to eat, and therefore disperse, it’s seeds. There is no way to know for sure, of course, but biologist theorize that the fruit’s aroma might have been enticing to certain animals, like dinosaurs, roaming the earth in the ancient past.

The next time you come across a gingko, look beyond the stink and show it some respect and sympathy. It’s story is a little bit sad. It is a long way from home, standing there, gorgeous yellow in the fall, offering up its fruit to the first dinosaur that may come ambling along. It will be a long wait.

When we’re driving, Beth refuses to look at roadkill. It nauseates her, and makes her sad. It does me too, but I at least like to see what it is, lying there. Deer, dogs, and cats, of course, are hard to miss. But smaller critters, like opossums, armadillos and groundhogs, might take a bit of inspection to recognize faces, paws, or pelts among the bloody gore. For a while, I kept track of dead armadillos, because their numbers seemed to be increasing. I wondered if global warming was driving them north. These days, I see fewer armadillos. Are they retreating, getting smarter, or are they being decimated by vehicles?

It’s hard to know without doing a study of armadillo populations and their propensity for getting squished. Luckily, studies like these on other animals are underway. Ecologists are learning that roadkill significantly reduces wildlife populations. Small reptiles and amphibians are less conspicuous as flattened fauna, but are being hit especially hard. These animals have zero awareness of vehicular dangers. As a result, their populations decline dramatically near busy highways.

What about deer? We see scores of them slaughtered on roadways. Do they misjudge the speed of cars? Maybe. But another factor, at least at night, is blinding. Deer retinas are loaded with rods—specialized structures sensitive to low light levels. When headlights approach and a deer looks, its retinal nerves are overstimulated. When it looks back across the road, toward its intended sanctuary, it sees nothing but blackness. Do I keep running toward scary darkness, it thinks, or do I turn around? Even a split second of indecision can be too long.

In western states, where deer and antelope are widely hunted, highway slaughter impacts local economies. Big dual-lane highways like I-80, if busy enough, become like a solid wall to migrations and crossings. Studies have shown that antelope won’t cross if more than one vehicle goes by every minute. By dividing large areas of suitable habitat, roads are breaking large, mobile populations into discrete, constrained segments.

This problem affected a mountain lion population that conservationists were trying to save in southern California. Surrounding by busy highways, most of the cats refused to leave their isolated, mountainous territory. The few that did, mostly young males looking for new territory, were likely to be shot or killed by vehicles. The result was a dwindling population losing animals of breeding age, ravaged by problems with inbreeding.

In the West, ecologists pushed highway departments and legislators to construct crossings, either overpasses or underpasses. These have been used with success in Europe and Australia for decades. In the American West, overpasses for deer or antelope that were wide enough, properly vegetated, and had fences to guide animals toward crossings were shown to work. Not only deer and antelope, but also elk, bears, and even reptiles and amphibians used the crossings. Game cameras showed that once animals became habituated, they had no fear of using the crossings.

For smaller animals like toads, frogs, snakes and chipmunks, underpasses have been used with some success. But they can’t be too narrow, too long or too dark. The shorter the better, with sunlight penetrating at least most of the way through. If the animal sees ample light on the other side, it is more likely to cross.

Crossings are expensive to build, and there has been significant pushback. Why spend public dollars helping non-humans get from one place to another? Underpasses proposed for endangered toads, for example, were the butt of jokes and derided as examples of wasteful government spending. But with larger animals and overpasses, doubters were won over when it turned out the structures paid for themselves. Not only did animal slaughter drop dramatically, but human lives were saved, along with millions in vehicle repair bills and insurance payouts. Legislators took note, and several projects are now on drawing boards.

Will we ever see wildlife crossing structures in Missouri? It’s hard to say. We still have plenty of deer, and no large migrating populations like they have out west. Given today’s political climate, even if crossings make both ecological and economic sense, many legislators will be reluctant to open pocketbooks. In the case of deer, where collisions cost many human lives and millions in vehicle damage, there may eventually be a push to construct crossings over killer highways like I-44, I-55 or I-70. But don’t hold your breath. In the meantime, say goodbye to thousands of critters, large and small, sacrificed on the paved alter of unintended ruthlessness.

In our neighborhood, they’re everywhere. They’re cussed for their gymnastics when they figure out how to access our bird feeders. We’re exasperated when they dig into our flowerpots. But like us, they’re not going anywhere. And despite their mischievousness, they are very clever, athletic, and fun to watch.

Their scientific name is Sciurus carolinensis—the ubiquitous gray squirrel. The generic name comes from the Greek—“skia” for shadow, and “oura” for tail—the creature that sits in the shadow of its tail.

Where I grew up in central Missouri, the squirrels were reddish and plump—fox squirrels. But in the larger cities, the leaner grays outcompete the reds. Driving down our street, it’s not uncommon to see thirty or forty within a few blocks. I dare say there are more squirrels than people in our neighborhood, no doubt because of all the big trees.

They’re loud, too, always shrieking, chattering, or barking. According to the classic treatment, The Wild Mammals of Missouri, a gray squirrel’s “cherk cherk” call is a warning, while the “quack-quack-quack-quaaaa;” what I call barking—demonstrates “contentment,” according to Charles and Elizabeth Schwartz, the book’s co-authors and illustrators.

Squirrels are accomplished acrobats, leaping ten or fifteen feet between branches no bigger than your thumb. They can swim considerable distances, using their tails like rudders. The tail is also a balancing appendage, spinning like a propeller as the squirrel scampers awkwardly across an electric wire. The bushy tail also serves as a muff, curling around them for warmth in winter.

Gray squirrels don’t hibernate, remaining active all winter. They start their forays early, leaving their nests at first light. This time of year, they’re searching for their favorite nuts, especially hickories, pecans, and oaks, along with the fruits of mulberry trees.

They bury nuts for later eating and can very often find them. They can even find them under snow, and have better chances of smelling them when the soil is moist. But various studies put the chances of finding buried nuts from 20 to 90%. The nut hiding picture is further complicated by the fact that squirrels steal nuts from other squirrels (often when they have just buried a nut), and birds steal nuts from squirrels. Trying to put numbers on nut hiding/retrieving success could thus drive you nuts.
 
In the fall, squirrels become amorous. Babies, usually two or three, are born in February or March after a 45-day gestation period. A second litter may come along in July or August. The young are hairless at birth, weighing only ½ ounce. Their eyes open at between four and five weeks. At eight weeks, when they’re half grown, they leave the nest.

When I become angry or frustrated with Sciurus mischief around our house, I stop to think. Where else can I find such cheap entertainment? The more I watch, the more curious their antics become. I have decided they’re not such bad urban companions after all.

An estimated 1,000 bears now inhabit Missouri, according to the Missouri Department of Conservation (MDC). Bob and Barb Kipfer have had close encounters with some of them on property they own on Bull Creek, making them valuable assets in ongoing studies of Missouri’s black bear population.

It began one day when Bob was starting his barbeque grill on their cabin’s raised back deck, and he heard a snort. Directly below him—a bear. He notified MDC, which, as luck would have it, had just begun a study to determine the status of Missouri’s black bear population.

MDC’s large-scale study of Missouri bears bean in 2010 using new technologies. Bears were trapped, sedated, and fitted with GPS radiotelemetry collars and ear tags. By 2019, over 200 bears in the state had been tagged and over 100 collared, mostly females.

Bear movements were also tracked using DNA technology. Barbed wire strung twenty inches high around bait stations caught samples of hair as bears stepped over them. Over time, a bear’s travel profile could be created using multiple DNA samples. Based on findings by 2019, MDC determined that there were well over 600 bears in the state, with the population growing about nine percent annually. Today, we have over 1,000.

Bears travel great distances. A bear named Bruno moved from Missouri through portions of Iowa and Wisconsin before Illinois biologists trapped it and relocated it back to Missouri. In 2016, a bear named “Gummy,” trapped just west of St. Louis, had first been captured south of Springfield. Readings from his GIS collar showed him very close to the Kipfer’s property in September and October, 2014. After being caught and released near St. Louis, he traveled south to Cape Girardeau, then back west to Ava.

Just think about how many highways this bear had to cross.

Bob and Barb were allowed to accompany MDC personnel on some of their trapping expeditions. On one trip, the Kipfers met “Little Dummy,” a bear that had been caught repeatedly. But Little Dummy wasn’t really all that dumb, Bob jokes, noting that the bear was “smart enough to get conservation agents to bring him pastries routinely, then get high on a tranquilizer before waking up and heading to the next trap.”

The Kipfers’ neighbors in Bull Creek country have also had close encounters. One family noticed a bear eating from their dog dish, so they moved the dish closer to the house to get better photos. They got their close-up photo, but when they left for vacation, the bear broke into their house and ransacked the refrigerator. The bear was trapped, but continued causing trouble. He eventually had to be euthanized, thus demonstrating the standard warning: “A fed bear is a dead bear.”

Bob emphasizes that it is people who need to adapt to bears. After all, bears were here first, and once numerous in Bull Creek country. Henry Schoolcraft, who in the winter of 1818-19 traipsed right through property now owned by the Kipfers, reported that bears were very common—so much so that between 1809 and 1811, a man named John Shaw took “300 bearskins and 800 gallons of bear oil.” The oil was highly sought after for making pomade, a stiffener for hairstyles popular in Europe at the time.

As the territory roamed by black bears expands, close encounters with humans are bound to occur more often. Bears are “opportunistic omnivores, like raccoons on steroids,” Bob says. “Birdfeeders, trash, garbage, petfood and beehives all look like a smorgasbord to a bear wandering into what we like to think of as our personal property. Living in bear country requires controlling access to these delicacies. In theory, humans should be more trainable than bears.”

Time will tell, of course, if we will learn to accommodate bears. But there’s little time to waste. Bears are continuing their northward advance, expanding into central Missouri. If you live outside a city and haven’t seen a bear yet, don’t be surprised if it happens soon. Admire them, but keep a respectable distance. Don’t feed them if you can help it. Just take pictures and be proud, like the Kipfers, that you’re a citizen of bear country.

Fall is a busy time for spiders. Hulking tarantulas are on the move, lumbering across county roads. Funnel webs appear in the yard, poised for an ant to blunder in. Hikers have to dislodge spider webs on the trail that otherwise would tickle their faces and arms. Moths and mosquitos dangle, wrapped in silken shrouds, in shimmering webs strung between bushes or fenceposts. Tiny spiderlings float into our airspaces on silken threads, lofted on the slightest breeze.

Luckily for spider enthusiasts, Missouri has at least 300 species to look for, from those the size of pinheads to our local hairy monster, the tarantula. Arachnologists estimate that there can be as many as 30,000 spiders in an acre of forested land, and over 2.5 million per acre in grasslands.

Most spiders have tube-shaped mouths that they use to suck their victims into a shriveled husk. All spiders have glands that produce silk threads. A strand of spider silk is stronger than a thread of steel of the same weight.

Humans seem to have an innate fear of spiders, but very few people are harmed by them. Deaths from the bite of the black widow are extremely rare, and there have been no documented cases of someone dying from the bite of a brown recluse.

Almost all spiders are beneficial, killing and eating the insect pests that really pose threats to our well-being.

The photo collage shows nine types of spiders common to Missouri. How many can you identify?

I used to teach environmental science at Drury University, and was always trying to come up with new ways to engage young minds—make students think; bring them out of their comfort zones. So I devised a thought experiment—designed to not only get them thinking about the “roll of the dice” nature of heredity, but also, if possible, to bolster their self-esteem, which in many of them seemed lacking (or was it just the lack of sleep?).

“Do you know what the odds are AGAINST you being here?” I asked. If you knew that, I told them, you would see that you are about as close to being a miracle as anything could be--without invoking supernatural causes, that is.

Think about where you came from. Many of us know a lot about our parents, much less about our grandparents or great-grandparents. Without ALL of them, of course, you wouldn’t be here. Your pedigree extends from your parents back through generations of ancestors to the beginning of your “lineage,” lost in the mists of time.

Now consider the capacity of the human reproductive system. Each man produces, in a lifetime, about 500 billion sperm; each woman about a million eggs. Each sperm, each egg, is unique. For you to be here, one sperm from your father and one egg from your mother united. The odds of that happening are one in 500 quadrillion (500 billion times 1 million). That’s roughly the odds of picking up one particular grain of sand from a beach two miles long, 200 feet wide, with sand a foot deep.

But that’s just one generation. Each of your parents had similar odds against them, and we multiply those odds the same way. Within two generations, the odds of you not being born are greater than the odds of picking up one grain of sand from all the sand grains on Earth (estimated at 7.5 X 1018 or 7.5 quintillion—can someone please verify that?).

The point is this: you are truly unique; one of a kind. Does this knowledge help you in any way, I asked my students. Mostly shrugs, indifference. But try to see where this logic leads, I insisted. Those links with people in the past—mother and father, back into antiquity—bind you to every other person on earth. For somewhere, back in history, we all had a common ancestor—a place where all the branches of the family tree of mankind intersected.

Heredity tells us that—shows us that—proves that. Each of us is the result of an unbroken chain of being, back to the beginning of human life on earth. No matter the color our skin, or where we live, we are related through heredity to every other person on earth.

Think about that, I urged my students. It makes no difference whether you choose to believe in Adam and Eve, or you prescribe to the science of heredity. We’re all kin.

There was no way to know, of course, if this concept sunk in. But if it did, I reasoned, it might make the students treat other people—especially people who don’t look like them—with a little more respect—show a little more brotherly, and sisterly, love.