Month: April 2019

I’ve never been great at identifying spring weather. Anytime it ever seems to get warmer around here I immediately get amped for the warm days and fun times summer brings to the table. With the semester coming to a close and the weather warming up into the 60s and 70s, I was feeling a little nostalgic for a summer setting, often spending some weeks down in hot places with huge bodies of water, like Smith Mountain Lake and Hilton Head Island. It was a feeling of tranquility, one you get as you look out over a lake or ocean with the hot sun beaming down to make it shine, with a stench of warm, moist air and seawater ever present. While I remembered this feeling, I realized during my last trip that a large lake was located at the left edge of Price Park. Now despite the fact that this lake is technically private property, not associated with the actual park, it was still accessible through the park’s trails. So, I knew I just had to talk about it and the way it made me feel after spending a good hour just lounging near it. So I set out to recapture an old, comforting feeling and make the most of my day off from classes. To put it simply: the park did not disappoint. 

As I walked down the left path and gazed out over the field and the swamp, the heat was rampant. But while most would probably find it discomforting and start to sweat, I merely appreciated the fact that we’re finally at that time of the year where heat’s even an issue. After walking just a little bit further, I arrived at the lake and just gazed at it’s beauty. The sun beamed down, creating white, shiny spots in an otherwise dark blue void in the middle of hole. Although from some angles it definitely came across more like a light green than blue, but regardless it was a familiar sight in an otherwise unfamiliar setting, which brings me into my main point of this post. 

This whole time I’ve been exploring the park, a place I never had a history with before the blog began. But this entire time I’ve been exploring this unfamiliar land, I’ve been feeling nostalgic about other spots, places I’ve been familiar with for a long time, and as I fondly reflect on those places, I become more familiar with the park itself. The lake here is just the most recent example of this trend, as I find myself growing more and more adjusted, to the point where one day I’d dare say the park will fill the role of a nostalgic place from youth that I yearn to visit once more. 

Now, because the lake is technically private property, I had little to resort mostly to my surroundings and only a little excerpt from the management plan to better understand its significance. From what I’ve gathered, the lake drains under Hobbs Road, connected between the Jefferson Village Shopping Center and the Hebrew Academy, the same academy that has supplied the park with numerous species of plants for the greenhouses and habitats. So the lake acts as drainage system of sorts for runoff, which would makes sense considering I saw a large drain trail on the other side of the lake, which lead under a road. But within the lake were fish as well. Despite it being a little too murky to make out their color schemes, they seemed to be relatively average in size and I was lucky enough to get a distant, blurred photo of one as it swam up to the top for a moment. 

Overall, I’d say the trip this time around was very comforting. It reminded me that the end is near yet reinforced this new feeling of familiarity with the park as I let nostalgia take over and do it’s thing. I’m gonna miss this place when summer roles around but I guarantee I’ll be back to see it as soon as the new fall semester rolls around.

Shifting my hands and feet below the surface of soft white sand, warmed by the afternoon sun, I imagine myself as a crab, tucked safely beneath the ground. I allow the sensations of cool moisture and grainy infiltration to spread through the rest of my body. The sea oats brush together in the breeze. The ocean pulses a melodic beat. I turn my head to the side and feel the salty skin of my right cheek merge with specks of crumbled shell. The world is an expanse of sand, strewn with cockles and tufts of American beachgrass. I wait.

Two black ovals appear behind a mound of white. Before I can make out anything else, they are gone. Only to reappear once more a few seconds later. They linger long enough for me to follow them downwards—down two custard colored stocks, onto an armored chest, a hunk of claw, and one, two, three, four bristled legs, bent at ninety degree angles and ending in a point. The ghost crab peeks out of its burrow and shrinks back inside twice more before allowing its entire body to linger in the open. 

Confident in its relative safety, the crab scurries soundlessly across the sand. It seems to hover just above the earth as it moves, not disturbing a single grain, nor faltering over any sharp incline produced by a discarded can or stray rock. It makes its way several feet from its abode, freezes, and darts back underground. But I need only wait a few seconds for those two eyes—curious and kind and nearly always outweighed by a body of fear—to reemerge, survey the land, and vanish without a trace. 

This time, however, the crab stays hidden. As minutes pass by, I surmise that it must have escaped through the second entrance to its burrow, and resolve to find entertainment elsewhere. Pulling myself up, out of the sand, I spot what appears to be a second crab several yards down the beach. Its shell is darker than that of a ghost crab and it stands impeccably still. With every step I expect it to scuttle away, into the ocean or sand, but it remains. I start to wonder if it might be dead, and, if so, why it does not currently sit digesting in the stomach of a gull.

Eventually, I am close enough to observe that the creature is not, in fact, a crab at all—it’s a spider. Its long legs and swollen abdomen draw me closer. This spider would barely fit in the palm of my hand. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I intend to document the unusual sight of a spider sun bathing on the beach. However, as I bring my camera into focus, I realize—it is not just one spider, it is many; a wolf spider with dozens of babies clasped to her back. This is the only breed of arachnid that not only keeps her fragile egg sack fastened to her back, but also tends to her babies until they are grown enough to hunt down prey on their own.

I am amazed by how tiny the spiderlings’ bodies are compared to that of their mother, and I am amazed also by the blog posts I come across which are labeled by titles such as “This Horrifying Spider Is The Only One That Carries Her Babies Like a Human Mother Would” then refer to the mother wolf spider as a “hairy bastard.” Why even bother to write a post about spiders if you cannot appreciate their delicate bodies, their elegant strides, and, in this case in particular, their admirable instincts to care for their young? Far too many posts about wolf spiders center around them being squashed or screamed over, with comments often pleading that the spider be taken care of with a flame thrower, rather than a shoe.

I understand that everyone has their irrational fears, but why has a spider, visually similar to a crab (minus the claws) and free from any life threatening venom, come to be the bearer of so much hate?

Source: https://gizmodo.com/this-horrifying-spider-is-the-only-one-that-carries-her-5869597

Hi everyone, I am back and better than ever after spending a relaxing afternoon at Country Park. Typically in my blog posts, I tend to focus on the more significant discoveries and species I notice during my nature walks. However, on this day I took the time to notice all the subtle, unique ones that you do not get to see on a day-to-day basis. I hope you enjoy it!

If you read my last blog post, you probably know I have a slight obsession for all things colorful and any flowers. Well, with spring comes the blooming of different species of flowers, so on my journey, I noticed some more. Specifically, was this pair of beautiful, red tulips. There were no surrounding tulips nearby, just those two which made me think: “Why are they standing alone?” This idea still fascinates me. If you have any ideas or thoughts, please feel free to let me know! Since I was young, tulips have always been my favorite flower. It all started with my grandmother. She would give me fresh tulips from her garden every single time I would visit her in India, and this became a fond memory and tradition between us. Sadly, two years ago she passed away. Now, whenever I see tulips, I think of her and seeing them in Country Park made my day.

I approached a short tree during my walk. As I looked closer, there were small spiky balls that were broken up into singular lines in the tree. I tried researching to see what these are but had no luck. However, I do believe the tree was a pine tree, so my assumption is some type of budding or blooming pine cone. Maybe, conifers?Nonetheless, the species was unique and abstract. The shape it made was different from any I had seen in nature. From afar, it blended in with the scenery of the tree and the surrounding nature, but up close you can see them hidden within the tree. I had not expected to encounter many subtle aspects in the natural pieces of Country Park, so I was excited to have discovered this.

Last, but not least, of course, was a pine cone. Pine cones are something you can typically notice anywhere where there is nature. However, I usually do not take the time to sit down and observe the patterns or texture on the pine cone, so I quickly changed that when I encountered this little guy. There is always room for error, but based on research and analyzation, I believe this pine cone is from a Loblolly pine (Pinus taeda). It was intriguing to the see how the little “doors” of the pine cone at the top were open, but as you move down they gradually close until the bottom is completely shut. I believe these doors are called the apophysis of a pine cone. From previous research, pine cones open and close based off temperature and humidity. Generally, a pine cone opens during hot, humid weather for the seeds to be released and close when it is the opposite climate. So, it was interesting to see half of it opened, and half of it closed.

Overall, I learned a lot through this trip and got the opportunity to discover small, subtle aspects of nature. Moreover, this allowed me to do more research, which was quite interesting. I recommend taking a day to look for small things because it can lead to wonders. Until next time. Thank you!

The best part of the year has arrived…spring and all the beautiful, colorful flowers. Today, I went on a nice walk with my friend Emma, but I left my phone in my car so she took the courtesy of taking pictures of discoveries we encountered. On my adventure through Country Park today, I observed many blooming flowers and colors. It was a nice change from the bare trees of the winter. If you want to witness some of the flowers I found fascinating; please continue to read (I don’t know why you would not want to!).

The first color that caught my eye was a bright, vibrant pink. These flowers were budding off of a tree more commonly known as a flowering Dogwood. However, the scientific name of this tree is the Saucer Magnolia. I focused more on the flowers and how the vibrant pink brought a type of “quirkiness” to the park. This part of the park was located near the more open trails. These trails are not centered between the towering trees of the woods but around the park where people tend to go on runs or walk their dogs. At that moment, I dedicated this trip to discovering flowers and colors throughout the park. Who doesn’t love a little added vibrancy to their day?

Next was purple. I encountered a gorgeous purple flowering shrub. I am not sure what exactly this species, so if you do, please let me know! I thought that it could be some purple lilacs or purple blue-eyed grass, also known as “Sisyrinchium” What fascinated me was the fact that so many flowers were on the shrub and it is only early spring. Around this purple bush was drab brown and dark green colors, as shown (slightly) in the picture above. The addition of the bright purple added liveliness to the surroundings, making it all more enjoyable!

As I was strolling through the trails, I noticed long pieces of grass. In the distance, I could see some white, so I ventured towards the color. Eventually, I encountered some spread out white Mandevillas. Their natural beauty was unbelievable. The flowers were tall and sturdy with delicate, crinkled white petals. Within the petals were a bright, yellow core. Staggered in between these flowers were some little purple flowers branching out. Some people may think that white can be a dull color. However, whenever I picture spring in my mind, I think of these white flowers since they grow in the woods around my neighborhood and I remember picking them and giving them to my mom when I was younger.

Coming to the end of my trip the last color I noticed was yellow. The yellow pansies were short, and there were only a few who were hidden in the bushes. I look forward to coming back to this specific location in Country Park (in the woods and close to the lake) to see if more of these delicate, yellow flowers have grown. Since there were three located in close proximity to each other I took a picture but expanded it to show how they were hidden within the shrub.

Wow, what a colorful trip! And this early in the spring! Thank you for joining me throughout this adventure. I look forward to coming back and recounting more of the wonders I see in Country Park. Thank you so much!

Protected from the destructive hand of human development, the northern most tip of North Topsail Beach teams with life. I find myself here—beyond the beach driving limit, across the jagged, shell encrusted marsh, through the barricade of sun bleached and sea beaten trees, uprooted and deposited by the inlet’s northbound tide—among an entanglement of life. Bunches of live oaks and pond pines glob together, their trunks rendered nonexistent by American beach grass and seaside goldenrod, while brown pelicans bob on the water, American herring gulls peck at the shore, and bottlenose dolphins make fine substitutes for waves. 

What would be considered beach spans only a few feet wide, the rest consumed by a thicket of greenery. I stick to the barren sand, tiptoeing between the ocean’s drop off to my right and bur infested field to my left. The walk is beautiful, if precarious, and made even more so as I come to the realization that, for all the many breeds of plant that rule the north end, beach vitex is not among them. So prevalent is it across the developed portions of Topsail, that I have to wonder if its absence is a fluke; but, it is no coincidence that this single portion of “uninhabited” beach is free from more than one invasive species.

Rounding a corner, my ears prick up. Eerie sounds of scratching and scuttling scrape tenderly against my ear as I bend down to inspect a tufted web of sturdy green. My eyes meet the source of the sound and watch while sand fiddler crabs sift between stalks of salt-meadow cordgrass. They are easily distinguished by their square bodies, as well as the stains of vibrant purple, like accidental tie-dye, that bloom across their backs, mingling with shades of golden brown and placid white. And, as if that weren’t enough, every male lugs about an oversized claw, small if found detached and separated from its owner, but massive when compared to the fiddler crab’s inch long body.

Left behind by one crab among the cast, I pick a lone claw from among the grass. Although typically used only for show when finding a mate, male fiddler crabs will occasionally fight one another for a spouse, willing to lose an arm and a leg in the process (literally). Of course, there could be any number of reasons why this claw in particular sits clasped between my fingers and not joined to its owner; perhaps the crab died, and the gull lucky enough to claim its flesh was full before it could finish the job (unlikely—their hunger is never satiated). If it’s alive, however, it need not worry for long. In the event that a fiddler crab loses its dominant claw, its lesser appendage will grow to the size of its brother, while the missing claw reforms as a new minor claw.

The sound of needle-like legs against grainy sand has faded by the time I restore the claw to its resting place—to be found by bug or bird or sea, and slowly returned to the nothing and everything from which it came. 

Source: https://scaquarium.org/our-animals/sand-fiddler-crab/

(Foreword: sorry for not posting in a while. I’ve had several posts drafted up and planned on my computer, and I’ll be posting them throughout the next few days as my time in American Nature Writing comes to a close.)

Making my way down to the lake at a brisker pace than usual, I barely stop to wave to the Muscovy Ducks before continuing down the path. My visit this morning is a brief one, and I’m hoping that it takes up only half of my break in between classes. It’s a nice day outside, the sun staying high above me, taunting me for forgetting sunscreen. Hanging a quick left, I make my way down the first wooded path available to me, determined to explore more of this man-altered wilderness before I have to return to the realm of classrooms and lectures. After my first few visits to the lake, I’ve stopped visiting with an idea of what to focus on in mind. Instead, I make my way around to areas that I haven’t been before and I let the sights and sounds that I experience guide me.

Continuing to walk, my pace slowing now as I reach a section of the woods that I have not yet viewed in detail, I find myself drawn to the scene on my right. A stream, water nimbly yet slowly bubbling around, captivates me, and I pause just to watch its movement. Split down the middle of the stream lies a tree trunk, severed from its hold on the hold and now devoid of any life that it might have once had. Surrounding by life and motion, the stillness of the tree trunk provides a cruel juxtaposition. Why it, and not any of the other trees? Despite the tree’s best efforts, water still flows underneath it, traversing on its way without a care in the world.

Tearing my eyes off of the sight, I check my watch, noting that I’m behind schedule. Venturing just a few steps further, I come to the point where the creek widens, giving way to a larger body of water, it’s lack of motion an abrupt change from the stream that feeds off of it. Contrast appears to be the name of the game with the water in this neck of the woods. The subtle undertones of wind blowing in from around me further serve to accentuate just how still the water is, as the minute motions of swaying plants are lively on the still backdrop.

Regretfully, this brings an end to my visit, as I need to head back and prepare for class. Coming to the woods and lake whenever I can fit it into my schedule has become a sort of hobby for me, as I truly do find this place relaxing. At the beginning of this project I was relatively apprehensive about having to come to this area so much, but I have come to appreciate its intricate details and placating scenery. Soles crunching the leaves below me, my feet carry me back to the buildings that occupy my vision every week, bringing me back to the land of human creation. I already cannot wait to go back.

Growing up in a large city, there weren’t many large plots of land that hadn’t been curated as, well, large plots of land. The majority of the natural world that I was consistently exposed to during my youth was comprised of parks, city greenways, and short trips to the mountains or rural surrounding areas. Quite frankly, the places I spent the most time outside at were either the soccer field, or my Grandma’s small farm in Cabarrus County North Carolina. Aside from trips that lasted a week (at most, and not often), this was my main exposure to the natural world. I was, and still am, a city girl through and through.

I recall quite clearly the long, dry summer days spent at my Grandma’s house, acquiring astounding sunburns and innumerable freckles. Many of these days, I would sit on the old Crepe Myrtle tree with my little sister watching intently as my father tended to the small plot of dirt that was big enough for me to call a “farm” at the small and constantly-in-a-state-of-awe age of seven or eight. He tended the land gently and lovingly, plowing the field, deciphering one row from the next, making holes for the seeds. Often, he would catch us watching or inching closer while we played, and bring us to come help him do the hard work of tending to a living organism. We got our hands and feet dirty, likely uprooted more plants than we helped grow, and watered the ground generously enough for us to splash and play in the runoff. We were unhelpful, but the environment was intriguing and irresistible to children who usually spent time indoors or playing in the street of a packed city neighborhood. We could be messy here, and it was beautiful. I believe this is my first memory of the outdoors that is my own, and there are a plethora of them to follow.

Of course, many of these memories of messiness and outdoors and beautiful discovery are from day or weekend trips to a place beyond the shining buildings of downtown that clutter the horizon. My father often took me fishing from ages 3-14, but most of the memories I have retained are from later on in my adolescence rather than earlier in my childhood. Growing up in the 1970’s and spending his childhood until age 14 traversing the expanses of the United States’ most natural and rural areas, my father has a very deep and close connection with nature that he wanted desperately to pass on to myself and my sister. So, fishing was not just fishing, but it was buying waders, boots, and wool socks; it was buying a fishing pole that was my very own; it was learning how to hand-make flies in the dining room well past my bedtime; it was a ritual of pure and deep love between a father and his children. This is why I will never tell him that I hate catch and release fly fishing.

Amidst the long drives to the far reaches of North Carolina’s blue ridge, I remember my father telling me a story of some of the oldest and most mysterious mountains; dinosaurs likely roaming the foothills, paleo-indians making the first mark on the rich land, the heights at which they once stood, the volcanic activity that once occurred. Unexpectedly, these stories came out of not our travels to them, but through them, from city to city throughout the Piedmont area of North Carolina. The lesser known mountainous wonder of the state is no other than the Uwharrie mountain range. Ever since these long conversations about millions of years past, I have been endlessly curious about what the Uwharrie have to offer, both to me and those before me.

Continuing from my last post, there are some really important systems wherein some of the critters that take up their residence within the Uwharrie participate in. Without them, its likely that the entire area (thats 50,645 acres) would totally fall apart! So, this post will be entirely dedicated to explaining those creatures and systems, so that we can collectively acknowledge and appreciate all of the work, much of it unseen, that they do to keep our ecosystem alive.

All of this information is taken from the same natural history museum that I visited during my time at the Forest, since I was unable to do any research like this from my own observations during a such a short period of time, and with little to no prior understanding of these intricacies.

---

Spreader

Spreaders are vitally important to the ways in which the natural world functions, survives, and ultimately thrives. Many animals, such as the Possum (briefly mentioned in my previous post), which is North Americas only native marsupial, play a huge role in spreading the seeds of plants by eating them, and then passing them later, likely at a different location, as fecal matter. In fact, some seeds will only grow if they have been on a journey through the intestinal system of an animal. Many seeds operate like tiny bits of velcro that can then temporarily attach to fur and feathers. Some animals store the seeds underground, which, when forgotten, results in sprouts when Springtime arrives.

Nursery

Plants act as the nurseries for many animals reproductive activities. Some insects, like moths and butterflies, are only able to lay their eggs on very particular plant species. Trees and shrubs provide the structures necessary for birds to build their nests and for spiders to build their webs. Oak apple galls act as nurseries for oak apple gall wasps. The leaf of the oak will mutate once the wasp lays its egg inside of it, and then a gall grows, which provides food and protection for the larvae.

Parasites

Parasites often, and sometimes shockingly, play important roles in natural communities that are essential for keeping the community healthy. Mistletoe is a parasitic plant that is abundant at Morrow Mountain. The way that mistletoe grows is by a root grabbing onto the bark of a host tree and feeds on it for the entirety of its life.

Predators

These creatures help to keep populations in a healthy number, which is why poaching birds of prey or big cats is such a horrible pass-time to endeavor in. Without these creatures, populations of herbivores like deer or rabbits will rise in number exponentially and cause extreme environmental problems. Many predators have adaptations that are very specific in order to help them hunt prey more swiftly and efficiently. Many of these adaptations are enhanced sense of smell, sight, or hearing, long talons or claws, inclination for speed, or other things that grant them possible situational advantage when hunting.

decomposers

Decomposers can be both animals or plants, which makes them a very interesting group of habitat contributors. Mushrooms and maggots are just two of many examples of types of decomposers you might find in a forest such as the Uwharrie. Decomposers are vital participants in the organizational hierarchy of the habitat because they clean up waste such as feces, carcasses, fallen leaves, and other bits that smell or get in the way of the other elements of the environment.

Competitors

Many living things exist in this world as competitors against one another. We compete for vitamins, water, and food, at the core of our existence, no matter in what way we go about getting those things. The Brown-headed cowbird that was mentioned in my last post does not build it’s own nest or raise their own young, but rather, will lay their eggs in the nests of other birds and allow the chicks to be raised by the other bird in whose nest the cowbird has laid its egg. This is actually a very unique method of competing with other species and is known as “nest parasitism.”

Pollinators

Last but not least, and perhaps most importantly, come the pollinators. Plants produce flowers with nectar or other sweet smelling components for the sole purpose of enticing pollinators to pay them a visit and carry their pollen from one place to the next. One of the most well known, loved, and now endangered pollinators is the bumblebee. Bumblebees are hairy all over, and have long tongues that help them to suck the sweet nectar from the plants. Due to the fuzziness of their bodies, bumblebees actually produce static energy while in flight, which helps them to pollinate other flowers they land on.

---

I feel as though this is especially important to mention due to the rate at which our natural world is declining or the ways in which it becomes susceptible to declining further each day. These systems, although sometimes invisible, and perhaps seemingly insignificant to some, are vitally important if we want to remain comfortable and happy as humans, functioning beings, and members of that very same environment. We benefit and are granted life through each and everything that these creatures do, and this needs to be uplifted not only intentionally and sporadically, but with each and every breath or step we take.

Muffled sirens and muffled footsteps. I wake to the excitement of a new rescue mission. All forces the island can muster are racing down the street in a flurry of sand—one ambulance and a single cop car. Their screeching sends my cousins and younger brother into a mad dash for binoculars while my mother stands at the edge of our porch, three floors up, squinting towards the sea. 

When I arrive, the binoculars have been found and several people have pointed out the speck of flesh bobbing up and down in the water: there and gone, there and gone. We take turns ogling with the binoculars as a jet-ski is pushed from beach to water, mounted by someone in a luminous orange vest, blinding in the sun. I watch a string of water spit out the vehicle’s back end, first high, then lower, lower, lower, until it’s gone and the drowning man is reached. He is heaved onto the jet-ski with apparent difficulty, and my cousin yowls, “oh god! He lost his trunks!” He presses his hands against his eyes as others clamber towards the newly discarded binoculars. “I will not be able to unsee that…”

A common source of excitement on the island, instances of near death and frequent rescue happen at least once a week. But, not all missions end in amusement. The crosses that litter the dunes—some dated, some inscribed with a name, others bearing cloth petals arranged in a ring—attest to the lives lost at sea. This sea. I watch as it sprawls out along the sun soaked sand, lazily ebbing in the morning breeze. Looking out along the drop-off, where the ground is too deep to warrant the breaking of waves, it seems even more amazing that something so seemingly gentle could snatch a life, a dozen, a hundred, without giving the matter a second of thought.

Demoted to faux memories and cautionary tales, townsfolk often speak of the cocky marines who have tested their strength against the waters (and failed), or of the father who attempted to rescue his son (“just four years old, what a pity”), only to leave his wife with two coffins to buy. The ocean is never to be taken lightly, but here most of all, swimmers must exercise caution. Signs posted at the public beach entrance next to my home warn of strong currents and deep waters, but the illusion of calm is a deadly temptation. Many do not realize how desperately their feet rely on sand to keep them grounded in one place, rather than tossed among the waves. And few realize how quickly the currents can change; a strip of water, placid one minute, can become entirely too vicious the next.

I know this, and yet it is difficult, floating on the water at low tide, knowing ground awaits mere inches below, to imagine the ocean ever taking me. It is an old friend, one I claim to know well, but the sea is a force of chaotic neutral: it will hug me tight and eat me whole.