If Surfers Were Insects

If you watched the news a few days ago, you may have seen the story about the surfer who was attacked by a shark on national television.  Mick Fanning was not bitten but it was damned close. The shark severed the leash that tethers him to his surfboard.  As might you might imagine, he was a bit shaken up by the incident but he has already returned to the water.

So, once again, the world gets its underwear collectively knotted up and discusses how aggressive a hunter sharks can be and how they are soooooo efficient as a predator.

Ladies and gentleman, ounce for ounce, statistic for statistic, dragonflies make sharks look like novices.

Don't get me wrong:  sharks can delivery devastating injuries. But they have to get you first.  Statistics have shown that they miss their intended target more than half of the time.  While that is certainly better than a lion on the African plains (who miss...alot), they just don't bag dinner as often as one might be led to believe.

Dragonflies, on the other hand, rarely miss.  Statistics have shown that they catch their intended prey 90-95% of the time. For all intents and purposes, they don't miss.  It has been demonstrated that they are able to more or less concentrate on a single prey item among a swarm of potential prey items (as opposed to other animals that are easily distracted by outside forces (like Republicans)). Once a target has been identified, a quick swoop and a grab with a net, if you will, of its six legs, and the prey is secure.  Launch.  Grab.  Munch.  Once a minute.  That's pretty damned good.

I photographed the dragonfly in the above photo at Hayes State Park near Jackson last weekend. Each time it returned, I could literally see the jaws moving as it devoured a little prey item.  

If surfers where tiny insects in a meadow, Mr. Fanning would never have lived to tell his tale.  In fact, every surfer in the entire competition would have been dragonfly chow. 

Sharks. 

Yeah, woop-dee-do. 

Commonalities

The term "assassin" usually applies to hired killers or those that have killed persons of influence for some other gain beyond the dollar. John Wilkes Booth, Gavrilo Princip, Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray, and Mark David Chapman are just a few that history has provided in just the last 100 years. 

 

Interestingly, all of these killers used firearms. Don't think for a minute that all assassins use guns. Just ask Georgi Markov.

 

The Bulgarian dissident writer who fled the Communist Regime and moved to the West was standing at a London bus stop in 1978.  Feeling a sharp pain in his thigh, he turned to see man holding an umbrella. Upon reporting to work, Markov mentioned the incident to co-workers. As the day moved along, a fever developed and soon worsened. Three days later, he was dead.

 

His co-workers mentioned the bus stop incident to the police. Suspicious that his death was really a successful "hit" (after two known unsuccessful attempts), a full autopsy was performed. A small metal capsule had been stabbed (or shot) into his leg. It was covered in a sugar-like coating designed to melt at body temperature. Eventually, ricin flooded his system.  Extracted from castor beans, this poison is lethal in doses that would compare to a few salt grains from your average shaker. 

 

His assassin was never caught though the individual was rumored to be hired by the KGB.

We know it wasn't the critter in the photo below even though they use a similar modus operandi. 

 

 

Known to some as an Assassin Fly, this handsome critter is officially known to entomologists as a Robber Fly.  As a predator, you could perhaps think of it as robbing its prey of life.  Call it what you will, if you pay attention to the beasties of the wild, you will see one before too long. 

Officially members of the family Asilidae (Uh-SILL-uh-day), Robber Flies are true honest-to-goodness flies (unlike Dragonflies which are completely different). Found on all continents except Antarctica, over 7,000 species have been described in science.  Over 1,000 can be found in North America alone.

The big ones can be almost two inches long.   It is what they do with that two-inch body that helps them earn the name (which ever you choose to use).  Using the six powerful legs, flying prey is literally snagged from mid-air.  That prey, by the way, can include just about anything that is small enough for them to capture.

 

Keep in mind, the use of the word small is more of a reference for us.  For them, their prey is often as big as they are! Other flies, wasps, butterflies, true bugs, and dragonflies are just some of the things that find themselves in the Robber Fly death-grip.

 

But it is not the gripping that does the killing. It is their mouth.  No biting here.  Nope, they poke.  Armed with a short, stout probiscis (pro-BOS-kiss), they stab the prey after they have secured a grip.  Protein-dissolving enzymes are injected into the prey's body.  Paralysis sets in and internal tissues break down. The "flow", if you will, then reverses.  Instead of injecting more enzymes in to the prey, the dissolved guts are sucked out.  (Remember, insects have an exoskeleton so the gooey innards are contained in a shell much like juice in a drink box with the straw filling the role of the proboscis.) Hunting resumes for another liquid lunch.  

Now think back to Mr. Markov....

 

Prey.  Predators.  Ingenious needle-like delivery systems.  Toxins. Death.

Who would have thought that the animal world and world of global espionage would have anything in common.  

Day 4: A “B” Day All Around

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Despite being the size of a golfball, the Winter Wren really has an amazing song.  It seems to just go on forever…kinda like alarm clocks, but much more pleasant to wake to….

Breakfast was on the lakeshore with morning hiking in the Lake Bailey Aububon Preservejust east of Eagle Harbor.  With hopes of showing Nat a Pink Lady’s Slipper, the cedar swamp was just the place. Not a slipper to be had, but we tried. More Starflower, in addition to 3-leavedSoloman’s Seal and Canada Mayflower made the walk pretty fun.  Birds? Yeah, more of the same. Black-throatedGreens especially.   In any case the hiking was quite neat. 

Departing the Keweenaw, our route had us in the western Upper Peninsula by lunch time. After saving a Wood Turtle from becoming a speed bump and purchasing a new addition to my ever-expanding collections of locally crafted coffee mugs, it was time for me to try a pasty.  (Note: I may have had a pasty during my Boy Scout days a few years back. Okay, decades back.  Honestly, I can’t recall if I did or not…)

Now…um, stop it.  A pasty and a pasty are not the same.  A pasty (the one I had for lunch) is pronounced “PASS-tee” and consists of meat, potatoes, rutabaga, onions and spices in a baked pastry roll-type thing.  They apparently became very popular in the region with the influx of mining immigrants.  Smothered in gravy (some prefer ketchup), it makes a fine lunch. I’ll have one again for sure somewhere.

 A “PAY-stee”, on the other hand, is……different.  Let’s leave it at that. 

Okay, let’s not.

There.   

Now, we’re done.

Porcupine Mountains State Park is basically a must.  Sure, it took me 42 years to get there, but I’m glad I did. Nat has been there before. As you can figure, because she came back, it must be worth it, right?  The park has it all – history, flowers, birds, insects.  It’s a naturalist’s/historian’s dream.

After securing camp, all visitors are required by act of Congress to view Lake-in-the-clouds.  Okay, no you don’t have to see it, but you’re a dope if you pass it up.  You certainly can’t claim that the hike is bad. It’s paved and can be measured in feet.  The view is breathtaking.

Don’t thank the glaciers for this view. Everybody is Michigan wants to think the glaciers carved out the lakes and made the state what it is. No.  Over one billion years ago (this guy was just voted into office), a large seam ran from what is now Kansas to the UP. Lava and such would bubble up and ooze out from this rift.  Over time, after various stone depositions, the entire basin collapsed under its own weight. The basin became Lake Superior (see….no glacier action) while the edges of the basin became features we know today as the Keweenaw Peninsula and Isle Royale.  Lake-In-The-Clouds is nestled along one edge of the basin between two ridges.  It is one mile long and considered one of the premier views in Michigan.  Having a Bald Eagle diddle by really set the stage for us.  Quintessential Michigan!

A pleasant drive to Summit Peak was in order, as well. The grand view of the park from the Tower (over 50 feet tall) placed on a ridge was short-lived as a storm was rolling.  (I don’t claim to be the brightest bulb in the box, but standing on a giant tower in a thunderstorm is not smart.)

After showers (both the weather and hygiene kind) dinner on the lake shore was in order.  Why the lakeshore? The open air, and therefore the lake breeze, should have been enough to knock down the black flies.

Oh yes, the black flies.  Only a few millimeters long, these little bastards have plagued boreal travelers since people first set foot there.  Do they buzz and poke like mosquitoes? No. Like stealth helicopters in Pakistan, they sneak in.  When they find the right spot, they cut you open with their little switchblade mouthparts and lap up the blood.  Anti-clotting agents allow it to flow freely.  You have no idea it has happened until they are gone and you notice that drop of crimson on your arm or leg.  Itching to the point of insanity can ensue, but we didn’t seem to be bothered by that part. We got the welts.  Yum.

That said, it is worth noting that black flies are not the kings of the air. (I should say queens. Only the females bite.  The males eat pollen.) These guys rule the skies….

With a head basically covered in eyes and flight skills that make modern aeronautical engineers drool, dragonflies can snatch black flies and skeeters with ease. Forget about sharks and hawks being good predators.  Most of time, they actually miss their prey.  Dragonflies? Most of the time, they nail it.  Sadly, there just doesn’t seem to be enough dragons to go around.

Of course, the breeze would have been enough, but shortly after setting up dinner, the breeze died to nothing.  Within microseconds, the swarms were upon us.  Hoping to prevent our Chicken and Rice from becoming Chicken a la Black Fly, we ate dinner in the car while watching the storm move out over the lake.  A steady rain settled in. After a round of drinks (no special beers) and munchies in Silver City, we went back to camp for the night.

Yeah, this was a “B” day all around – birds, boulders, bugs, botanicals, beer, and baked goods to name just a few.  I suspect I could keep going….

Whew. We Made It.....

Whew. We made it.  

Natalie and I just returned from the famed "Lake Superior Circle Tour".  What a trip!  Birds, beers, bugs, black fly bites, and a Viking-style burial. What more could one want?  Lots of "B" stuff!  A moose, too.  Oh, wait, that does not begin with a "B".  Hang on. Yes it does. It was a bull.....

I need some time to process photos, do some writing, and give my marrow time to generate more blood cells.  In the meantime, here is an image of a Black Fly.  Those little bastards....

Amazing

The technological level of the Canon 7D is simply amazing.  

Take the photo below, for example.

All I needed to do was will the photo to exist.  Advanced technology allows for a psychic link between the user's brain and the camera's processors. No button pushing of any kind. Envisions the image, project your thoughts to the camera, point and shoot.  It's that simple.

I wanted the Buckeye to be colorful while the woodchips from the Trapper's Run Nature Trail at Lake Erie Metropark would shift to black-and-white. I have seen that sort of selective coloring before and I think it can very effective.  Why use PhotoShop if the camera can do it for you?

I willed it.  It happened.  

What will they think of next?

Now if I can just get a Golden-crowned Kinglet to sit still....

Must.....make......it.......happen............

Day 15: June 28 – Betrayal(?) and a Long Drive

After packing up and leaving Shamrock, the Mississippi Kites seemed to be all over the place.  With much of their insect chow sitting tight, the  Kites seems to have nothing to do except sit around. 

 

After a short drive across some beautiful land (really), our final major destination of the trip involved what is absolutely one of the darkest chapters in American History. 

In the early morning hours of November 27^th, 1868, a village of Southern Cheyennes, under the leadership of Chief BlackKettle, was attacked by the United States 7^th Cavalry under Lieutenant Colonel  George Custer.  Utilizing a four-pronged attack strategy, the village was surrounded before the sun came up.  Over one hundred years later, reports of Native American fatalities still vary. Custer claimed 103.  Cheyenne accounts are as low as 29.  Some call it a massacre while some call it a battle.  Calling it what you choose, the site is now under the National Park Service as the Washita Battlefield National Historic Site.  (It is pronounced “WASH-a-taw” by the way, not “Wah-sheet-ah”.)

In any case, history does not disagree on the subject of who died.  Woman and children were involved.  That is a fact.

Many stories can be told here. Two things come to my immediate mind.

George Custer.  I won’t call him a hero.  He was not.  (He WAS an excellent Civil War Calvary Field Officer, but that is a different story.)  He was, however, a  soldier doing what he was told to do.  That is how the Army of the 1860s functioned.   It is not much different than the military of today. If you are told to do something, and you do not, there will be repercussions.  The killing of woman and children was not his idea. When he discovered that his soldiers were killing non-combatants “without mercy”, he ended it.  It’s that simple.  History shows this. 

It should also be mentioned, that while many people today see him as villain, his peers also thought he was a giant turd.  The loss of Major Joel Elliot illustrates this clearly.

One of the four prongs of the attack was led by Elliot.  When he observed Indians fleeing east along the Washita, he followed them. His group (over 20 men) was quickly surrounded by Indian reinforcements from a neighboring village and killed.  Most American fatalities on this morning where from this incident.

Concerned with the now suspected increase in Cheyenne resistance, Custer ordered a withdrawal from the field.  A preliminary search turned up nothing.  The bodies of Elliot and his men were not found until a second search conducted weeks later.

He left the battlefield with no understanding of his immediate subordinate’s situation.  He had not a clue.

Sure, some thought he acted in the best interest of the group.  (After all, he would get a taste of what being surrounded feels like a few years later, right?)  Others, even those under his command, thought he was horrible and they let it be known.

To this day, some historians argue that the 7^th Cavalry, under Custer’s leadership, was a fractured group of soldiers fighting with (not for) a leader they did not like and could not trust.  Those same historians argue that the Battle of the Little Bighorn ended as it did as a result of tensions that began to arise in November of 1868 in present-day Oklahoma.

In the meantime, as Natalie and I left the Visitor Center, I almost tripped on a grasshopper the size of a hot-dog. Okay, it was not that big.  Maybe the size of an index finger?  Really. Holy crap. Big.  Mississippi kite chow for sure.

After viewing the battlefield not far from the bluff that Custer himself used the morning of the battle, we stood for a moment and listened.  No gunshots. No screaming. Just Scissor-tailed Flycatchers, Northern Bobwhite, and Lark Sparrows.  An Eastern Meadowlark, too.  We moved along.

Nightfall has us setting up camp at Robertsville StatePark in eastern Missouri.  The bird sounds in camp where now really familiar again. Ovenbird. AcadianFlycatcher.  No owls. Sleep was good.

"Waiter, There Is A Ephemeroptera In My 800th Beer"

Sundays in the waning weeks of summer can be a crapshoot. If I'm not working, anything goes.  But it is not out of line to suggest my spare time might involve a beer or a bug.  Yesterday, I managed both in one shot at the Frankenmuth Brewery.

Oh, but we did not head there straightaway...

For years, I have been hearing about an Native American site in the "thumb"  by Bad Axe administered by the Michigan State Parks.  While I doubt many lay persons would spend hours there, the Sanilac Petroglyphs are worth a stop if you are in area.  The 1,000 square foot sandstone chunk was discovered by locals in the late 19th century after fires swept through the region.  Intricate designs clearly showed that the  locals of the region were not the first to find this particular rock.  Images including animal tracks, handprints (you can see it in the picture), a bowhunter, spirals, and what are now unknown carvings were etched in to the soft rock.  Unfortunately, erosion is taking its toll.  Despite the shelter that has been built over it, these carvings, which may be 1,000 years old, are likely to be gone in the next few decades.  Fortunately for us, staff was on site and we were able to get behind the locked gate. No, you can't walk on it (that would be stupid), but we could walk right up to it. Very cool.

From there, Frankenmuth is about an hour away. Yes, the same town that gives you world famous chicken dinners, Christmas 361 days a year, and more German vibrations than a loose strut on a Volkwagon, is also home to a new, and simultaneously old, brewery.

The Frankenmuth Brewery, fires, and tornadoes don't play nice.  After operating for over a century under various owners beginning in 1862, the brewery basically met its end in 1987.  A fire destroyed most of the place.  Literally rising from the ashes, it was basically wiped out (again) by an F3 tornado in 1996. After re-opening, it closed, only to be re-opened (again). Today, in 2010, is seems to be doing quite well...for now.  

Such crazy history made it a great place to enjoy another milestone beer and a few extras.  The Cass River Blonde, Hefeweizen, Pilsner, English IPA, Batch 69 American IPA, Red Sky Ale, and Oktoberfest (#795-#801) were all on tap and served up in quaint little glasses.  I scored them all a three out of five. None of them were bad, but by the same token, they didn't provide any spark for my wienerschnitzel.  The Hefe did not have a hint of cloudiness (something that I thought was a standard for the style).  Plus, I was down right confused by the Oktoberfest.  In July?  I thought only Bronner's showed a blatant disregard for the calendar. 

But a peculiar little event occured that made this trip and my 800th beer so memorable.  

After taking some sips of the Red Sky Ale, you might imagine my surprise when my tablemate told me to look into my beer.

Yes, there was an uninvited guest in my 800th beer.  Part-time bug guy that I am, I knew right away what I was dealing with.  No, not two critters - one critter and it's recently shed skin....

Ephemeroptera (eff-ehm-err-OP-tera), or Mayflies, are the cool little beasties that bust out for one wild and crazy night of.....um, "fun" during the early summer. Their entire life is all in the name of one wild orgy on the waterfront which ultimately leads to millions of little mayfly eggs getting dumped into the water.  The following year, about the same time, it all happens again. 

Unlike other insects, the adult form (the imago) is not the only life stage capable of flight. The stage before, the sub-imago, can fly, too. So, the larvae sheds his skin, and becomes the sub-imago, and then some time later, sheds again.  Butterflies? Beetles? Nope. Only the adult stage can fly.   That is why my beer has two floaties - the one of the left is the actual insect (the imago) while the one on the right is the shed skin of the sub-imago.

Sad to say, this fellow could not even enjoy the beer.  The adult  doesn't have a mouth. Yup, no mouth.  That "they only live for a day" notion regarding their lifespan is a bit misleading.   No, they don't live for a day - they live for about a day as an adult but spend months in the water as a nymph.  Basically, they fly around, have sex, dump eggs, and die.  Who needs a mouth?

So, there it was, in my 800th beer and it couldn't even taste it.  I did.  Yes, I simply picked it out and drank it. What is the big deal? It's probably cleaner than the silverware, right? Besides, there are people that drink the worm at the bottom of a bottle of tequila.  After snapping the above picture, he/she went off on his/her merry way looking for a willing partner before he/she bellied up in the Cass River. 

(In case you are wondering, this whole Frankenmuth trip was inspired by an iPhone app called Groupon.  In short, everyday, I get an email with a reduced price coupon for something in the metro-Detroit area.  While I don't do my nails and certainly have no need for a barber, the savings, sometimes in the range of 50% or more, can also include places to eat and other entertainment stuff.  Pretty cool. Check it out.  I don't recall the details for the Frankenmuth coupon, but it was basically free samples, tons of food, and take-home pint glasses for $10.00.)

After a peaceful evening of photography around town, we were home by 10:30. 

On to 900.......

Wounded Veteran

This Blue Dasher, with his stunning jade eyes and lightning blue abdomen, was patiently waiting just a few feet from me as I was scoping out some marsh shots this morning. Not two inches long, they are normally outstanding flyers. But, perhaps like a Spitfire returning from the Battle of Britain, its wings were damaged by fierce combat.

For the Blue Dasher, dominance of the marsh skies, and real estate below them, involves dogfighting. No machine guns, missles, or radar. It's pure flying. Males in combat try to fly under the opposing male to "push" them up and out of the way. On some occasions, they actually collide; the "thwipping" of delicate wings crashing into each other can sometimes be heard. After a few duels, the inferior flyer gets the clue and moves on to a new territory that is, perhaps, owned by another dragonfly of even more inferior skill.

As I sat just a few feet from this injured flyer, I noticed that the other dashers were not bothering him. The fierce dogfighting that was unfolding immediately in front of us did not involve him at all. While I would like to think that this grizzled veteran of the marsh war was being left alone because he could "shoot down" the enemy with maneuvers that would make a modern F-18 pilot drool, I don't think that was the case.

His perch, a blossom from a Flowering Rush, was off to the side and seemingly out of the way. His otherwise powerful flight was compromised by the now damaged wings. Lacking the ability to outfly his competitors, he was relegated to an inferior location along the marsh edge. Any thoughts he may have of engaging others for a better location would most likely mean trouble. Others would not bother him because his location was not good enough to attract the babes. So, as long as he stayed out of trouble, and a female with low expectations sauntered by, he might be okay. Challenge the others for better property, and therefore a better chance at the females, and he could end up dead.

Unlike pilots of wars gone by, this wounded veteran won't get a new set of wings. No ground crew is available to patch those holes. No "Rosies" are feverishly making a new craft. Nope. None of this happens in the brief life of a dragonfly. His flight school is all instinct with a flight timeline measured in days or weeks, not years.

I suspect within a week or so, unlike the brave pilots of World War II, this little fellow will be largely forgotten by most. He won't get any flight medals. The best award possible would be the passing of his genes to his offspring. Given his current situation, that is unlikely. There won't be a memorial, parade, or holiday, either. His grave? That will be the marsh itself with the flowers being those that surround it.

Seeing More Red

When is a Redstart not red? When it's yellow.

I had the opportunity to be out and about yesterday. All in all, the day wasn't bad...once the rain passed. I hit the trails at Lake Erie Metropark with camera and bins in hand. While I still have not found that Philiadelphia Vireo, I was with a birder who racked up two more life birds: Black-throated Green Warbler and Wilson's Warbler. Ahhhhhhh, I remember those days. A one mile walk in your home state and you get multiple life birds.

All in all, the birding was good. I can't complain. I managed a photo of an American Redstart. Some of you might be wondering "Uhhh, Paul, I don't see red. You travel all over country and you can't even get the colors right on these things?" Well, folks, it is not a breeding male. They happen to be the flashiest black and red you have ever seen, quite frankly. This is either a female or a first year male. I am pretty sure it is a female.

I think the photo could have been crisper. I really dont like that stick that is in the way. I was thinking of cutting it and then waiting patiently for the Redstart to return to the same spot so I could try again.

Ignore that last sentence.

I also managed a shot of a dragonfly. I can say with 100% certainty it is a Meadowhawk: Sympetrum ihavenoclue, I believe. Actually, I am not sure. Meadowhawk? Yes. Beyond that? Dunno. I know it's not a Yellow-legged Meadowhawk, because the legs are not yellow. (Fortunatley for me, Meadowhawks aren't color impaired like Redstarts...which can be yellow, remember?) It is not a Band-winged Meadowhawk (there is hardly enough room for a soloist, let along a whole band). Unfortunately, the face can't be seen, so I can't confirm White-faced vs. Cherry-faced Meadowhawk.

I am sure there are a few lurkers here who probably know. They have real names, but they call themselves "Stylurus" and "Nannothemis" (which happen to be names for various genera of dragonflies) so their true identity can remain hidden. Secret names online often work. Sometime, people try wearing glasses. It worked for Clark Kent, but Lois Lane was clearly an idiot.

I have to work for the remainder of the week. I hope to get some more time on Saturday. Long range outlooks suggest a chance of rain. I have the day off. You know what that means, right? Rain, for sure.....