It's been a bizarre winter--hot one day, freezing cold the next. It's good to see the longer days, the sun's warmth, the spring rains and the blooming of wildflowers. I hope you can get out and enjoy these things! Below are some stories about spring. I hope you enjoy them as well.

Spring is the time when many of us break out the floating gear. Over my fifty years of floating, I have canoed dozens of Ozark streams. While my boating friends and I always respect the rights of riverside landowners, I have witnessed a few cases of disrespect and debauchery among less conscientious floaters. I can see why this would infuriate landowners. But I would also argue that in many if not most of the cases it is not floaters, but walk-in or drive-in users, who perpetrate the majority of the incivilities.

Floater/landowner tensions found tragic expression thirteen years ago in the second-degree murder conviction of a riverside landowner who shot a man in the face for urinating on his land. Ironically, the incident happened on the Meramec River, itself the subject of a 1954 Missouri Supreme Court case, Elder v. Delcour, which gave floaters the right to be on the gravel bar where the 2013 shooting occurred.

In Delcour, a canoeist was confronted by a riverside landowner who had strung a wire across the river. Delcour ordered the man to stop or he would sue for trespassing. The parties weren’t overly hostile, so agreed to a “friendly” test case on the matter, which eventually worked its way up to Missouri’s Supreme Court.

The court ruled the Meramec “public water,” subject to through travel by those who wanted to “wade it or to float down it in boats.” The defendant appealed on the grounds that the Meramec was not a “navigable stream.” While the appeals court agreed on that point, it also reinforced the right of floaters to use the stream and float through. Interestingly, navigable waters had been defined as early as 1874 by the passage of fur traders in canoes.

Where exactly does the public use easement end on rivers? This question has not been completely answered, although the court referred to “public water, and the submerged areas of its channel,” as a “public highway” not subject to trespass. These “submerged areas,” have been defined, somewhat ambiguously, as those below the “ordinary high-water mark,” or high cut bank, which can often be seen on Missouri streams. Further muddying the waters, however, is the strictest interpretation of the ruling--that it applies only to the Meramec River.

A few years ago, a Missouri legislator introduced a bill that would extend riverside landowners’ rights down to the “low water mark.” This would effectively place most gravel bars off limits to floaters and fishermen and greatly stifle recreational opportunities on the state’s rivers. The bill would’ve also directed Missouri courts to establish the “navigability” of individual streams. Naturally, this would lead to many protracted legal battles for courts that are already overstuffed. Luckily, the bill didn’t pass, but property rights defenders keep trying.

In addition to floaters’ rights to be on gravel bars, there is the continuing issue of public access to put-in and take-out points. On the federally protected sections of the Current, Jacks Fork and Eleven-Point, there are many designated access points. On some larger streams, such as the James, Niangua, and Gasconade, public accesses are owned and maintained by the Missouri Department of Conservation. But on most other Ozark streams, accesses, even on heavily floated streams, are primarily “historic”—places people have traditionally used as launching or pick-up points.

Public accesses are often headaches for agencies. Infrastructure is subject to flooding, a real problem for maintaining boat ramps and toilet facilities. Most accesses are unmonitored and unmanned, so have continuing problems with trash, vandalism, illegal fishing and trapping, and criminal trespass. Many landowners living near problem accesses would like to see them closed to the public.

As a result of these problems and landowner concerns, more and more accesses are being closed. A recent case in point is the historic access on Bull Creek at Round Mountain Road. When the county completed a new high bridge across Bull Creek, replacing the old “slab” bridge, a new fence was erected along the road, effectively ending public access to the traditional swimming hole and boat launch area.

Shutting off public access to rivers indirectly causes other problems. People tend to protect rivers they know, use, and love, even if locals have no interest in river protection. Closing rivers off from the public may silence an otherwise effective constituency for river conservation and advocacy. On the other hand, unmanaged and unattended accesses frequently attract “party crowds” and derelicts who can turn locals against all users, including boaters, fishermen and summertime swimmers.

With the surge in kayak purchases, more people are floating these days. The more people who float, the more accesses we need. But the more problems accesses create, the more people will try to close them. So, what is the solution? There is no easy one. The Conservation Department has attempted to layer more oversight through the public Adopt-An-Access Program. But what about the hundreds of historic accesses? Who will take care of them? Some groups are fighting to keep all accesses open, but this won’t solve the other problems.

It may be time to think about another model for public stream access. In my opinion, to reduce problems on routinely floated streams, accesses must be monitored and managed, somehow. One possibility is to use the “buy-protect-sell” model for public access. For this to work, there would need to be a large ($10 million, say) pot of money, perhaps from a conservation-minded donor, to establish a “conservation investment” fund. This interest-earning account would be used to buy property at an access from a willing seller or sellers.

Let’s say we were able to buy ten acres around a well-used access. A conservation group would then repair stream damage such as eroding banks or loss of trees in the riparian zone. A fenced access drive, parking lot and boat launch area would be constructed, along with a pit toilet, perhaps. A conservation easement would be placed along the river and around the parking lot and drive, say three acres in all. The remaining seven acres could then be sold to a private buyer, who could use the land for any legal purpose—building a home, for example.

Proceeds from the sale of the land would then go back to help replenish the “investment” fund. Any reduction between the original buying price and the selling price caused by the attached easement could be offset by a separate, smaller “philanthropy” fund, set up by conservation-minded people who are not expecting a return on their money.

Ideally, the access would be overseen on a daily basis during the recreational season, perhaps by a paid local landowner. There would be provisions made for regular trash service and onsite toilet pump-outs. There could be a day-use fee or overnight parking fee collected at the gate to help offset management costs. Users could get a temporary code for the locked gate after paying the fees.

Would it work? In today’s political climate, probably not. As an avid floater, I really want to be able to keep floating rivers that don’t have developed accesses. But that ability will depend largely on the courtesy and thoughtfulness of river users, who haven’t always demonstrated the best behaviors. As far as possible, boaters will have to try to stay on good terms with riverside landowners. And getting to know landowners at access points is always a good idea.

It’s a shame we have to deal with the down sides of public access. But it’s a reality that must be faced if we wish to ensure our future right to float. Surely there are ways to protect the rights of both riverside landowners and legitimate river users. Our wonderful Ozark streams are too precious to let slip from our grasp.

In her album, the Hissing of Summer Lawns, Joni Mitchell sang about the treachery and adultery lurking in seemingly benign, mild-mannered suburbia. The “hissing” could’ve been lawn sprinklers; but it could also have been evil serpents coiled in the shadows of modern Eden—dangers lurking in those weed-free, over-fertilized, highly manicured lawns—a surreptitious threat to human and ecological well-being; a threat to nature itself.

A recent editorial in the New York Times declared “The Era of the American Lawn is Over.” Although 45% of surveyed homeowners derived some pleasure or satisfaction from lawn care, fully 40% said they were “exhausted, frustrated, or drained” by it. Maybe that’s why so many yard care companies have arisen to fill the gap between what owners want to see in their yards and what owners are willing to do.

Americans spend about $100 billion per year on yard care. In Springfield alone, there are over 200 yard-care companies. The bottom line for these companies, of course, is cosmetics; attractive presentation. But to survive in the business, companies must also be efficient. That’s why they typically have big trucks pulling trailers loaded with gigantic mowers and racks of weed-eaters and leaf blowers, wielded by a cadre of workers. Efficiency is realized by using big mowers instead of small; leaf blowers instead of rakes; weed-eaters instead of weed pullers.

Their actions produce yards that are green, neatly-trimmed and weed-free—but these spaces are also largely sterile, biologically speaking, and potentially damaging to human health. Weed-eaters and leaf blowers stir up dust, pollen and leaf fragments, irritating asthma sufferers. Fumes from gas-powered lawn equipment contain cancer-causing hydrocarbons and greenhouse gases, at proportionally higher levels than auto exhaust, which is more tightly regulated. Pesticides sprayed on lawns create cancer risks, especially for children and pets, which spend more time on the turf than adults.

We all want small businesses—the heart and soul of commercial enterprise—to succeed. But the situation with hundreds of small lawn care companies is somewhat analogous to the myriad tobacco farmers of the last century. Long after we knew smoking impaired health, politicians continued to support subsidies for tobacco farmers whose livelihood depended on growing their cash crops on small acreages. It was politically incorrect, and seemingly cruel, to suggest taking away those livelihoods.

Now, we have hundreds of small yard care companies delivering services homeowners want, but leaving large doses of health-impacting pollution and ecological degradation. What can we do about it? Who would dare speak out against it; to stifle free enterprise? In the end, if anything is to change, it will be up to the homeowners themselves.

The Times editorial pointed out that in Europe, many homeowners are opting for “natural” yards, with native plants to attract birds, bees and butterflies. Expanses of sterile turf that must be mowed are being drastically reduced. Homeowners are using narrow ribbons of turf as walkways, or accent features around native plantings.

This has started to catch on here, too. For example, I’ve noticed widespread interest in native plant sales in Springfield. But the biggest changes, if and when they come, will happen when homeowners demand that yard services become more ecologically sensitive; when they ask for help with the planting or maintenance of natives, for example, or mowing reduced areas of turf with smaller, quieter, non-polluting electric mowers.

Will this ever happen here, in big way? Amidst the nearly constant hissing, blowing and buzzing of summer lawns, it’s hard to tell. But eventually, more people may wake up to a new land ethic as envisioned by Aldo Leopold, years ago, when he said that land must be respected not only as a “useful servant,” but as a “living being.” Land full of life is more beautiful, and useful, than a cosmetically perfect lawn. It just takes wise eyes to see and appreciate it.

Does it lurk in the shadows of your backyard like it did in mine, creeping up the trees, over the fences and bushes, through the grass, seemingly intent on taking over my estate? After hurting my back shoveling snow, I didn’t have the strength to fight it last spring. It took advantage of the temporary truce, sending its silently stalking tentacles in all directions from its ragged home base, thick bodies twined around and glued to the old boards of my back fence. Its demonic tendrils seem determined to conquer my yard.

It's creepy, all right, which helps to explain its common name—winter creeper. Its scientific name, Euonymus, provides no hint of its evil nature.

By the time I was up to fighting it this spring, it had claimed about 400 square feet of my backyard, advancing ever northward from the fence line. Before I took out my clippers and trimmers and work gloves to do battle, I had to know: What is it, really? Why is it here? Where did it come from? What good is it?

Of course, I already knew it wasn’t good for my yard. It’s a horrible invasive plant, introduced into the U.S. from Japan, Korea and China in 1907 as an ornamental ground cover. It does that job efficiently, quickly covering ugly, rocky places and filling in spots of bare soil, whether in deep shade or full sun. And nothing eats it, because it’s poisonous to people and pets, containing glycosides, among other toxic chemicals.

Wintercreeper hasn’t made many friends in Missouri over the last few decades. That’s why the state legislature, in 2025, banned its sale by commercial growers and greenhouses. I would like to ban it from my yard, and I’ll try, but its home base is a fence on the property line, and I suspect my neighbor is unaware of its evil, aggressive nature.

The best I can do is patrol my side of the fence on a regular basis, ripping from the ground any venturesome shoots I see. You just have to keep a wary eye on the creepster.

It was almost eighty degrees yesterday, this afternoon, twenty-nine degrees and dropping quickly. What a crazy way to begin winter in the Ozarks. This has to be confusing to wildlife, but they, like naturalists, must be prepared for anything. Maybe theses stories will help you prepare for winter as you warm your feet by the fire--or, fire up the air-conditioner, whatever crazy circumstances may dictate.

There’s a half foot of snow on the ground. It started off as about 8 inches at our house, fluffy and light, but it’s melted some, from the top and the bottom, thus compacting a bit. It’s a lot of snow, of course, but nowhere near the record 18 inches in February, 1912. We’ll see if we beat the cumulative annual snowfall of 35.2 inches in 1975, but I doubt it.

It’s time to don the boots, long underwear, and stocking cap and go out to fill the bird feeders. Birds flock in, feeding voraciously, then retreat into thick foliage, hunkering down, fully fluffed. Other than their flitting dark shapes, it’s a frigid world of white. The only other creatures visible are the neighborhood cats, stepping gingerly through the snow.

Snow is a blessing. If it melts slowly, it gently replenishes groundwater. If it stays a while, it provides insulation for the ground beneath, allowing life at the surface to not only survive, but thrive, despite the illusion of a mostly sterile landscape from our point of view. This busy world under the snow is known as the subnivean zone, a place where small mammals like mice, voles, and shrews scurry about, gathering seeds, roots, and other plant materials; and hunt spiders, mites, and insects.

It's not terribly uncomfortable down there, either. No matter how cold the air above the snow gets, temperatures at the ground surface hover around 32 degrees F. The lighter and fluffier the snow is, the better it insulates, like lofty down in a sleeping bag. Wet, heavy snow doesn’t insulate as well, and animals have more trouble moving through it.

Luckily for ground-level life, there are air pockets beneath the snow, created in a couple of ways. When snow piles up around rocks or grasses, some melts near the ground surface, where it is a little warmer. Snow arching above the pocket hardens into a crust, and more snow on top doesn’t collapse the air space. Snow near the ground surface also evaporates, turning directly from solid to gas, a process called sublimation. Water vapor rises through the snow, leaving the all-important air space.

If we leave leaves on the ground, as we should, there will be even more air space under the snow, and more food for small animals. Greater numbers of fungi, bacteria, algae, and insects will survive the overlying frigid air temperatures, providing even more food and nest materials for small mammals. These animals, in turn, become prey for above-ground hunters like owls and foxes, which can hear them scurrying around under the snow.

The next time you feel a shiver looking out across the frozen landscape, consider this. Life goes on, even on the coldest, snowiest days. You have the option of staying inside, sitting by the fire. For the critters outside, it’s harder to find warmth. But under all that snow, out of sight, life goes on, too, warmed by the good earth below, protected above by a wintry blanket of snow.       

On January 9th, I was sitting in the hot tub on our back deck. I looked up to see small flies, or maybe gnats, directly overhead, flying in echelons, zigzagging up and down like miniature drones. “What the hell,” I wondered, “are you doing out in January?” I guess I shouldn’t have been that surprised, since the thermometer stood at nearly 60 degrees. But it begged the question: Where did they come from? After all, we had brutally cold weather just a few days before.

The answer, of course, is that bugs find lots of places to ride out cold weather—in soil, in leaves, under bark, inside logs and plant galls. Even ticks aren’t really gone in winter, as much as we wish they were, but are lying dormant in leaf litter, soil pores, or animal burrows. The tipping point between “questing and resting” for ticks is about 40 degrees. Above that temperature, if there’s a chance of finding a blood meal rapidly, they go for it. But expending too much energy to find a meal in cold weather can be their undoing.

About 85% of spider species go dormant in winter, hiding in wood piles, leaf litter, cracks in walls. Spiders can survive 0-degree body temperatures under snow, which provides an insulating blanket. Honeybees hang out in hollow trees or under siding on old churches, surviving on high-energy honey reserves, in a state of suspended animation known as diapause. Wooly caterpillars survive wrapped in their hairy winter coats.

We would also like to think mosquitos are gone in winter, but it’s just not true. They hide out in storm drains, sheds, and caves. Most species can’t function as adults below 50 degrees, but in some species, eggs can survive submerged in water over the winter, even under ice. Other species overwinter in the larval state, buried in muddy sloughs or swamps. When temperatures rise in the spring, they begin feeding underwater and complete their metamorphosis, emerging as adults to harass and bite us.

As a backyard naturalist, I feel a little guilty sitting in my hot tub on a winter day. After all, it takes a lot of energy to heat water, a carbon stomp, not just a footprint. But on the other hand, as I contemplate the insects hovering above, obviously enjoying the warm airspace I’ve offered them—I realize: Maybe I’ve created a unique winter habitat in the Ozarks, simulating a natural hot spring. I call it hottubitat.

Sometimes you feel like a nut. Sometimes you just feel the nut. That happened to me a few years ago when I stepped, barefooted, on a half walnut shell, sitting like a miniature box turtle on my back patio. It hurt, and my foot was sore for weeks. I eventually found out I had cracked a toe bone. The nut didn’t crack, just the bone. That’s a hard nut.

Amazingly, squirrels can chew into these super-hard nuts to get the meat. In fact, they say it helps to sharpen the squirrel’s teeth. Those teeth must be sharp to chew into a shell so hard that it is used as a substitute for sand in “sandblasting.” Scientists recently discovered that walnut shells are composed of a substance previously unknown in plants, with interlocking microscopic structures that defy splitting along any kind of seam.

The nuts are not just tough. Along with walnut tree leaves, roots, and bark, they contain a plant poison, juglanone. This chemical is concentrated in soil below the tree’s drip line, but it can inhibit growth in plants up to 50 feet away. It stalls the growth of tomatoes, peppers, apples, and potatoes, but doesn’t seem to hurt beans, corn, carrots, oaks, or hickories. Juglanone is also an insecticide, although some insects, like luna moths, can detoxify it.

Despite having pesky nuts and a poisonous nature, walnut trees are very desirable, and not just for squirrel food. Their wood is known for its strength and durability. The chocolate hardwood is highly sought after for making gunstocks, cabinets, and high-end furniture. Walnut tables, for example, often sell for over $1,000. And sprawling walnut trees provide dens for wildlife and cooling shade for many a yard in Springfield. But beware of the nuts—and keep your shoes on in nut country.  

When did I become invisible? I don’t know for sure, but I think it started when I was in my 60s. Beth and I started noticing a troublesome trend while we were hiking. While most of the older folks we met on the trail looked up at us, smiling, and said “Hi,” younger people—let’s say under 30—typically did not look up or say anything at all to us. If there were two or more of them, they were usually talking to each other or looking at their phones, not even glancing up as we passed within two feet of them.

I know. It’s not a big deal. Maybe they don’t look at me because they wish I wasn’t there, marring their “wilderness” experience. Maybe they’ve been taught to ignore strangers, or make no eye contact. Either way, I guess it’s okay. But to me, it’s troubling. The subliminal message coming to me, real or imagined, is that I am of no value to them. I have nothing to offer. They don’t see me as a source of help, or advice, because they can get all of that—or anything else—from their friends, or their devices.

I have read about Native American Indians—how the tribe consulted with its elders about major decisions or serious problems. The old chiefs, the medicine men, were the keepers of important knowledge; things that could help their tribe succeed, or even survive. I guess those days are gone. Is important knowledge no longer held in the minds of people, but in the ether? Is everything you need to know at your fingertips, pulled from cyberspace?

There now seems to be an information vacuum between the generations. Sometimes, it seems like the younger generation no longer needs us elders. The irreverent George Carlin once made a joke about the risks of manned space flight. “Send old people into space,” he suggested. “If they don’t make it back—who cares?” That used to be funny to me, but these days it seems more hurtful. I had begun to feel that I no longer had much of value to offer the world.

Then my friend Tim Smith kicked my rhetorical ass and told me to quit whining. He suggested that we conspire on an “Environmental History” of Springfield and Greene County, to remind our young up-and-comers what can happen, and what has happened, and what lessons we learned, or should have learned, from those happenings. At the very least, we felt this might make them less inclined to make the same mistakes we did.

And while thinking about that project, I reflected on my own “environmental history,” from a rebellious eighteen-year-old largely oblivious to the first Earth Day, in 1970, to an environmental career spanning six decades; to a retirement of sorts, thinking about today’s problems with industrialized agriculture, climate change and loss of biodiversity. I finally decided that I might become more visible to younger generations if I put my thoughts on paper—or online. But will they tune in? There’s no way to know, of course.

So, if you’re reading this, and I’m not invisible to you, please consider buying a copy of my new book, “Environmental Journey.” I have a few copies for sale at home, and hope to soon get it republished (the original publisher, the Ozark Studies Institute, has shut down its book printing arm). Please give or loan the book to a younger person (under 50, let’s say). Then, ask them to give it a critical review and provide feedback to the author. Author’s LOVE feedback, pro or con.

This devious tactic is a form of “belligerent friendliness.” Beth and I use this tool on our walks and hikes. If a young person approaches and dosen’t look up at us, we say, in a loud voice, “Hi!” It often startles them, but usually elicits at least a weak “hello,” sometimes even a smile. And it makes me feel better for them to know I want to be friendly.

Here’s the deal. Us older folks have a lot of accumulated wisdom, way above and beyond book learning, Internet surfing, Facebooking, Instagramming. The younger set needs some of that knowledge, whether they realize it or not. We may just have to get more belligerent about feeding it to them. I, for one, refuse to be invisible until I truly am.

Call me old-fashioned, but I like beer. I’m proud to say that some of my friends are beer-brewers—personally and professionally. It’s an age-old enterprise, dating back to the time when some shmuck discovered that slightly rotten sprouted grain mixed with gruel turned into something that addled the brain.

The monks (or whoever) eventually fashioned this alchemy into a legitimate science, or an art form, that has a unique name—not a household name, to be sure, but one that every beer lover (or those preferring wine, for that matter) should know.

Why? Because it’s such a great word—very useful to know, especially here at the tail end of the year, since it’s the last word in many English dictionaries (such as my Living Websters), as if it demands the final word on words.

If you could ever use it in Scrabble—watch out. It’s worth 25 points by itself, using the one and only Z (10 points) and both Ys (4 points each). If the Z lands on a “triple letter score,” you could get 43 points. If it happens to land on a “triple WORD score,” you can get an astonishing 66 points!

But the word can be rewarding enough when simply used in everyday conversation—it tickles the tongue and vibrates the palate like a bocky German beer!

ZYMURGY
  

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.