Excerpt from my journal--November 7, 2009
In bed all day hoping to elude the symptoms of a virus. I want to join 19 other people who reserved a spot to accompany Steve Huy, a bander of saw-whet owls to his mist net site. We convene at 9 PM. Feeling better I make a cup of black tea at the last moment to sustain me and rush out to the car, only to find that my kitchen clock has betrayed me and I'm already late to meet the others at the commuter parking lot. With my cell, I ring Carolyn, the organizer of these once-yearly jaunts, for directions to the site.
I've worn the recommended boots, scarf, gloves and jacket. I later learn that in the past some women have shown up in high heels! The night is cool, the sky dark enough to see many stars as I travel into the lesser developed south county. The shape of South Mountain crouches blackly to my left. Monument Road twists and turns up the mountain, round and round, up and up. The turnoff is onto a narrow blacktopped lane that continues steeply upward, weaving in and around trees. It goes on for some time, and just as I seem to be cresting the mountain, and see lights blinking in the valley below, I run smack into the butt ends of cars huddled by a utilitarian shed. A communications tower erupts on top, silhouetted against the starry sky.
The second I open my car door, I hear a very loud sound piercing the darkness. It sounds like the friction of large rhythmically moving mechanical parts. But the irregularity in frequency and the varying duration of each shriek makes me think of a neighbor's dog whose vocal chords had been surgically altered to eradicate an obsessive bark. Only in this case something has gone terribly wrong. The noise is that much more affecting due to the lack of information I'm receiving from my favored sense of sight. I later learn that this sound is a recording of saw whet vocalizations blaring at high decibels from a speaker by the mist nets further into the woods. Supposedly the owls come to investigate the "intruder" to the territory.
Carolyn greets me with a flashlight and we stumble to where Steve is speaking about saw whets and his project. As shadowy figures we huddle by a security fence. Steve tells us that before the banding project it was thought that saw-whets numbered only in the hundred thousands, but now are believed to be in the millions. They are very small owls, maybe 5 inches--in response to a question about their size, Steve says he doesn't keep that information in his head because it is in books, rather the "owls fit in my hand." He says that although the males are smaller than females, there is no easy or quick way to identify an owls sex, but he has banded several thousand owls now, and so usually has a general impression of an owl's sex based on his accumulated experiences.
Two shorter individuals in the front of the group ask questions and I recognize their voices, both fellow WV Master Naturalists. From their profiles, I see Carrie's ubiquitous baseball cap, and Ursula's fluffy hair cut--she is not a wearer of hats. My eyes slowly adjust to the faint light--from the stars, nearby "light pollution," and a just rising waning moon--enough to make out their facial features. At this level of light I see in monochrome. I read that owls I have have many more rods in their eyes than humans, so not only see much better in dim light, but in color too!
The question of the utility of banding saw-whets is questioned since they are so "plentiful." He explains that the well-being of saw-whets reflects the well-being of the boreal forest, and our ecosystem as a whole. Predators, including birds of prey such as the saw-whet, are at the top of the food chainand ecological disruptions often first present themselves at that level, since toxins accumulate as they rise through the food chain. Most of us have heard of the endangered falcons and other birds due to DDT use and the resulting thinning of their egg shells.
Steve says saw-whets travel in spring to breed in the boreal forests of Canada and migrate south in the fall. Those northern forests are crucial to a healthy ecosystem and the life cycles of many other birds as well. The boreal forests of the world are much vaster than the earth's rain forests. They are being diminished by the lumber industry and by climate change--as we lose the freezing temperatures, and the duration of the freezes in the north. Wood boring beetles are not being controlled by these seasonal changes, and so they proliferate and take the lives of more and more trees, reducing habitat for breeding birds.
Finally it is time to check the mist nets! The recording has been screeching away for an hour. We troop in the dark down a path. A sign in the stern wording of a government agency warns against tampering with the nets. I had never seen a mist net and always wondered what it looked like. Saw-whets are relatively low fliers. A series of poles rise to maye 8-10 feet at most. The poles are spaced about 12-15 feet apart. Each net is about 8 feet tall, but loops up at the bottom forming a trough. The bird flies into the upper part of the net, then falls into the trough, and is secured. Two or three horizontal swaths of netting are stretched between the poles to form tiers of alternating netting and troughs. The line of netting extends 50 or more feet in one direction with another line jutting off at an angle midline.
We take care not to entangle in or damage the netting as each net costs $500-600. The holes in the net are as large as quarters--surprising since I envisioned a mist net as being very fine. The threads in the net are indeed very fine, and tension placed on the net is very loose. I can see how a bird could fly into it, be caught up, and not harmed. Close by the nets, the owl call is deafening. Ursula, shouting in my ear, confides that she purposely left her hearing aid at home.
There are no owls in the nets, Steve announces so we troop back to the security fence for more waiting. It occurs to me that we are like well-meaning spiders awaiting prey. What is the word for attributing animal behaviors to humans?--a reversal of anthropomorphism.
Ursula tells me she has gone on owl prowls twice before. She describes Steve placing the little owls in mesh envelopes that hug them closely as they await banding. The owls do not struggle but calmly submit to the banding process. She describes them as beautiful and adorable, without tufted ears as horned owls have, but with facial disks like barn owls. Ursula, Carrie and I trade wildlife stories amidst other groups chatting in the dim light of the crescent moon. One couple lights up an iPhone looking at birding info and listening to bird calls--at first. Later I hear canned laughter coming from the device. The glow from the digital screen lights up their faces and distracts my gaze from the moon and stars.
Ursula confesses about driving to a Christmas bird count one year and an owl flying into her windshield. She stopped and picked up the dead owl, placed it in her car and took it to the birding group to share as found on the roadside. She did not tell that she herself had been in the moving vehicle that killed it. She tells of meeting Scott Wiedensaul when he came to a friend's home to band a species of hummingbird unusual to this area. She says he is a very nice, unassuming man despite his fame as an author. We share a chocolate chip cookie I brought and Ursula wishes for ginger snaps and hot chocolate.
Time to check the nets again. The moon is now high in the sky. We again trundle down the rocky path with our flashlights but the verdict is no owls tonight! It is 11 PM and I have reached my limit. We return to the cars and two groups leave. A few other folks remain, perhaps to wait longer for the owls to make an appearance. I am somewhat disappointed after having waited two years for this opportunity. But as a dirunal animal, I enjoyed the novelty of a noctural foray and the company of other nature lovers. It is said we must take on the characteristics of the creatures we study and want to commune with. To study nocturnal predators, we go out at night, we wait, we cast nets, we use lures and mimicry, we boost our sight with artificial light, we dress for the weather and terrain. Perhaps I will have better luck next time if I add more meat to my diet.
I attended the 50th Annual Blackwater Falls Wildflower Pilgrimage in early May, near Davis West Virginia. Atop Smith Mountain a group of participants came upon this newly emerged Luna Moth while searching for rare native plants.
Its wings drooped and its belly was swollen with fluid. Gradually the fluid was pumping into the wings to stiffen them for flight. But meanwhile, the moth was extremely vulnerable.
I marveled at the patterns, colors and textures as it grasped the end of the twigs fallen from the tree above. Suddenly my trance was interrupted by a beeping car horn. All the other participants had returned to their cars and were awaiting me!
I rushed to join them, but not before I noticed the spent blossoms and pods littering the ground. The petals were shriveled and the pods covered with a pale green furry down. Their resemblance to the moth, clinging to the twig and twisting in the spring breeze, was remarkable. How did the moth choose this spot and perfectly time its "birth" to mimic this cast off vegetation?
One of the best times to visit is April through May, to see a breath-taking progression of spring woodland flowers, called ephemerals, for their short-lived and delicate nature. Here is what a friend and I saw on March 20.
Dutchman's Breeches, so-called for the resemblance to voluminous pantaloons hanging upside down as if on a clothesline. These flowers are pollinated primarily by bumblebees, since some muscle and size is needed to push through the opening of the flower. The bees sometimes bite through the "ankles" of the breeches to obtain the nectar.
Shangri La boasts a variety of ferns including Christmas Fern, Maidenhair Fern, Blunt-lobed Woodsia, Bulbet Fern. One of the most marvelous is Walking Fern. The leaves of the fern are long and thin, extend out in a more or less radial fashion, and the tip of the leaf literally plants itself it a new spot, growing another fern. In this way, it 'walks" over the surface of the mossy rocks where it grows.
Adder's Tongue or Trout Lily. Not blooming yet, but there were hundreds, maybe even thousands of these leaves emerging. The common name refers to the spotted appearance and shape of the leaves. In a few weeks I will return to see drooping yellow lilies polka-dotting the forest floor.
And finally, a newly revealed Mayapple. Its leaves unfurl like the canopy of an umbrella. 
I had a hunch that salamanders might breed in this old pond as it functions quite like a vernal pool. Sure enough the pond was dotted with slimy globs embedded with black eggs. 
I wasn't sure if they were frogs or salamanders, but later I found that my photos matched the images of eggs laid by the Spotted Salamander. This is a common salamander, but one who could become endangered as its woodland habitat becomes scarcer due to development and as climate change makes vernal pools dry up.
This August I tried hand-raising Monarch caterpillars. So far I've released 3 and have about 4 to go. Some of them I obtained as tiny eggs, others as partially grown caterpillars. I harvest Common Milkweed (Asclepias syriaca) for the caterpillars from the roadside or nearby abandoned fields. Plants in the milkweed family are the primary host plant for Monarch larvae. The fluid in these plants is a white, sticky substance containing a toxin. The toxin is tolerated only by Monarch larvae and some other insects that have evolved to feed upon it. The Monarch larvae, and the ensuing butterflies, are permeated with the toxin, which makes them a foul-tasting, potentially sickening morsel. The distinctive coloration of the larvae and adults signals a warning to would-be predators.
Soon, these ridges smooth away, and and the chrysalis becomes a pendant of opalescent pale green, studded with tiny gold jewels. The black stem is called a cremaster. Using a microscope one can see that the topmost end of the cremaster is composed of many tiny protrusions topped with knobby hooks. They appear to attach to the strands of the silk in much the same fashion as the human invention of velcro. 
After about 10 days, the chrysalis membrane becomes transparent. The body and wings of the adult butterfly can be seen inside, appearing almost completely jet black, with the exception of the deep orange pattern of the wings. The swirling shapes remind me of an Art Nouveau design of tree limbs silhouetted against a blazing sunset. 
I have yet to catch the exact moment of emergence. I think they wait until I leave the room! When I return there is the fresh, rather droopy winged adult, clinging to the remnant of it's casing. 
Over the next couple of hours, the Monarch balances delicately on four legs, turning itself from side to side, flexing its wings, unfurling its proboscis and wavering its front legs. Monarchs belong to a class of butterflies known as brushfoots ( Nymphalidae). These butterflies do not walk upon their furry front legs, but hold them flexed and close to their thorax. 
As the internal fluids transfer to strengthen and rigidify the wings, the body slims. Once during this process, I witnessed a drop of deep red fluid fall to stain the table beneath. Finally the wings are laid open in full color and shape. They slowly open, close, open, close, then suddenly take a maiden flight. The Monarch remains rather sluggish and calm for a while, enough time for me to take it on my finger and release it in a field tall with goldenrod blossoms. The butterfly shown below is a female. The wing pattern of a female has thicker veins of black than a male and lacks small black dots on the hind wings. Entomologists believe that the black dots on a male are vestigal organs. Evolutionary precursors of the Monarch emitted pheremones to scent pouches to lure females for mating. 
This generation is the last of the summer. The late summer Monarch butterflies in the eastern U.S will participate in a mass migration of 1000's of miles to a special place in the mountains of Mexico. There they will overwinter together in clouds of fluttering wings, clinging to the trees. The people who live there hold a festival each year to celebrate the return of the Monarchs. Traditionally, the Monarchs are believed to be the spirits of the people's ancestors.
