A Cool Hike on a Hot Day

This blog tells

what a steward notices

in the balmy cool of 6:00 AM to 8:00 AM

on a later-to-be 95-degree day.

My basic mission is to look for purple loosestrife and white sweet clover, malignant invasives that, thanks to hard work, are now uncommon at Somme.

But in the first wetland, 

rather than any loosestrife, 

I find the very rare American slough grass. 

(There’s extra info on this endangered-in-Illinois plant at the end of this blog.) 

Here I’ll merely cite the thrilling fact that you can recognize it 

by its unusual seeds, flat and round, and arranged on the stalk like stacks of coins.

I found this handsome grass 

in six spots, 

but the counts per patch were low: 1, 1, 4, 1, 3, 1. 

Some years we find hundreds. Other years we find none. 

It was good to see some. 

The classy scientific name of American slough grass is Beckmannia syzigachne.

As I head up a wet swale, I find no evil invasives but do see signs of restoring biodiversity.

Where an ash died from the emerald ash borer, the flush of light enables a riot of now-uncommon plants. Starry campion, Joe-Pye-weed, tall coreopsis, ox-eye sunflower.

Another good sign 

is many "new" populations 

of Michigan lily – 

a species that didn't bloom 

at Somme 

for many years 

when the deer population 

was disastrously high.

Right by the lily, 

what to my wondering eyes should appear, 

but three blooming plants of the rare 

glade mallow, 

Napaea dioica. 

The ones at Somme 

may be the only glade mallows in Cook County. 

We’ve never found 

even one large, healthy, 

blooming plant at Somme before now. 

But more and more 

in recent years 

we’ve found bigger and bigger specimens. 

The problem for many years is that overpopulated deer 

had been too hard on them. 

This morning I find two patches – the first with three plants and the second with two. 

Five happiness.

Of course, 

if I look down 

below the flowers, 

I find that many 

of the leaves 

have been grazed off. 

But just finding 

five glade mallows 

big enough to bloom 

is a great step 

in the right direction. 

And it’s a beautiful day.

As I walk, 

I’m conflicted 

about my 

big human feet 

treading on 

the richness. 

Always I keep 

to the trails 

in the growing season, except when 

I’m stalking weeds 

or doing seeds. 

Being empowered 

as a steward 

gives me an odd privilege. 

When hunting 

sweet clover, 

I see beauty 

and surprises 

I wouldn’t otherwise allow myself.

Plants here:

Butterflyweed.

Culver's root.

Early goldenrod. 

Mountain mint.

Dropseed grass. 

What are these golden threads 

creeping through the vegetation? 

Numerous times we’ve gotten warnings 

from well-meaning people that a sinister demon plant 

was devastating the vegetation. 

But it’s just our friend dodder, Cuscuta glomerata, 

a weird but natural parasitic morning glory. 

Strange plant: it has no leaves or roots. 

When the seeds germinate, the shoot immediately attaches to nearby vegetation and sucks out nutrients. 

Soon its waxy white flowers 

will bedeck the graceful flaxen stems. 

For a while the whole plant will be just stems 

and flowers. Later it will be stems and seed.

Does it do harm? No.  It creates a disturbance. 

A beautiful disturbance, if you look close. 

The ecosystem is adapted to it. 

Other plants will take the places of the ones 

it sets back, and a diverse cycle will proceed.

Ooops. 

Next I do 

finally find 

the evil sweet clover. 

See the white sprays 

of pea flowers? 

Does it look threatening here? 

If not, know that 

twenty years ago, 

acres here were blighted and degraded 

by solid waist or chest-high stands of it.

Now I pull out 

the 48 plants 

in this first patch. 

A large plant can make 60,000 seeds. 

Good riddance.

The soil is damp, 

and the roots 

come out easily. 

Seeds haven’t formed yet, 

so I don’t need to haul plants 

out of the preserve.  

I toss piles 

where they'll do the least harm - 

in this case 

into a patch of 

the somewhat aggressive 

saw-tooth sunflower. 

I come across a pile we made

a few days ago, drying on a log. 

The Somme Team rousted them 

one cool morning. 

I love to do this work with friends, trading thoughts. I also love to follow up for later bloomers, alone in wilderness reverie. It’s all good.

This dead pile, near the trail, 

could be ugly to passers-by. I hope many will see it as an indication of the commitment that results in the whole being so increasingly beautiful, year after year.

In fact, 

I find five 

clover patches.

I map them 

and file it, 

so we can 

remember to 

check these spots 

on some beautiful 

July morning 

next year.

This one is 

great St. John’s wort, taller than I. 

Fat ovaries 

with five sticky stigmas on top of each... 

hiding under 

a tangle 

of pollen-y stamens.

I find bugs too. 

But I don’t try 

to photograph them 

with my little cell phone. 

To represent them, 

this is one of Lisa Culp’s 

recent daily masterpieces. 

What kind of strange flies 

are these? 

What’s their role in the ecosystem? 

I pass a skunk, 

a crayfish, 

a plains garter snake, 

and countless 

engaging bugs. 

But now it’s getting hot, 

so off I go to other work.

But hey! If you get cabin fever from air-conditioning, try mornings in nature. They’re pretty nice.

  

Post Script

  

Here are promised tidbits 

on American slough grass, Beckmannia syzigachne.  

The light-shaded counties show where it’s known from. 

Not many places in Illinois. 

Most populations are now gone. 

The grass is an annual. 

It’s adapted to something. Fire? 

Most marshes don’t get burned much. These at Somme do. 

We’ll see if it can survive here.

Illinois is far from the main populations of this grass. Our plants may have genetic adaptations that don’t exist elsewhere. At some point in history, human culture may need something from this plant that could save some other grass (for example corn, wheat, rice, or oats) from a devastating disease or pest. Or these plants may have some nutrient that could be bred into grains to help our food make us healthier – or smarter for that matter. 

So we’d be smart 

not to just let it 

go extinct.

The thoughts of a steward on a cool walk at the start of a hot day. Peace. 

Why is this bird following me?

When you're
working in
an ecosystem
day after day,
many animals
get kind of used to you.

They treat you
as they would a deer.

In other words,
they don't pay
much attention.

But Lisa Culp
found this yellowthroat
to be following her around.

Was it trying
to be friendly?

Lisa is a steward

to Somme's 

important population 

of the federal endangered

prairie white-fringed orchid.

You can see the orchid 

in bloom 

inside the cage here. 

(For more on our efforts 

to conserve this plant, 

check out our blog 

"Leave Nature Alone?" 

from September 2012.)

For weeks, 

the intrepid Lisa 

has spent long hours 

of slow, detailed work 

in many of Somme's 

yellowthroat territories, 

caging, pollinating, 

and monitoring 

this extremely rare plant. 

In all this time, 

no yellowthroat 

has talked to her, 

followed her, 

and stuck with her 

as did the little character 

shown in these photos. 

What's with this bird? 

The yellowthroat 

is a warbler that is 

seen and heard daily 

in all three 

of the Somme preserves. 

It's easiest to find 

by listening for its song "Witchity Witchity Witchity Witchity Witch!" 

It sings off and on 

all day long, 

most often in the early morning. 

When you hear that song, 

watch for movement 

in the vegetation 

and train your binoculars 

on the first thing that moves. 

Look for the 

bright yellow throat, 

of course, 

topped off by a black mask 

with a gray highlight above it. Note the thin, pointed bill.

It's busy and curious, 

though normally 

a bit nervous and shy. 

One rewarding angle 

of yellowthroat watching 

is that it forages 

among the rare prairie 

and savanna wildflowers 

that we have come 

to learn and love. 

As it hops and flits 

from plant to plant, 

once you've learned to 

recognize them at a glance, 

the bird puts its little spotlight 

on species after species. 

Here it's on 

a bud-covered stem 

of "gayfeather" 

or "marsh blazing star." 

In a couple of weeks 

this stalk will be a magic wand 

of brilliant pink-purple.

The yellowthroat treats it 

as just a landing pad 

and opportunity to find 

bugs to eat. 

Here's "the  bandit" 

(a pet name for the 

masked yellowthroat) 

in the middle of 

a wild quinine plant. 

Like the blazing star, 

wild quinine was absent 

from most of Somme 

before we started gathering 

and broadcasting 

its seed. 

One time we found a big and beautiful moth that hung out on this flower. We wondered 

if it was specially adapted to it. We never saw it again.

It is fun and a challenge 

to learn to recognize 

all these rare flowers and seeds, and their animals 

and to be good stewards of them - to restore their diversity 

and health. 

We are inspired 

to think about the discoveries we haven't made yet - 

to imagine we'll find 

that moth again some time, 

and photograph it, and study -  

and who knows what surprises we'll uncover? 

Here the bandit perches 

on a dried stalk 

of saw-toothed sunflower.

The dead stalk reminds us 

of last year.

Ripening seeds 

remind us of next year. 

Each element 

that the yellowthroat spotlights 

reminds us of another facet 

of the complexity that we find 

so compelling 

about this intimacy 

with our ecosystem.

In many of Lisa's photos, 

the bandit is balling her out. 

Does this guy follow Lisa 

because his babies are nearby? 

It's likely. 

Many birds chirp 

for all they're worth 

when a big mammal 

comes near nest or babies. 

This time of year, 

the chicks may be scattered 

over quite a distance.

But each one deserves 

to be protected. 

He is bold in defense

of his babies.

Here he balls out Lisa 

from the stalk 

of the rough blazing star. 

This species blooms much later 

than "gayfeather."

By then 

the un-masked 

and subtly-colored 

female yellowthroat 

and her masked male partner 

will likely be working 

on their second 

nest and family. 

Yellowthroats 

feed the chicks 

for a longer time 

than most warblers. 

They'll likely 

still be feeding 

and protecting 

the next generation 

when they start 

to migrate toward 

the Caribbean islands 

or Central America in fall. 

Here's a clue.

When they ball you out 

with a bill full of food, 

they're definitely wanting 

to feed their babies.

"Get out of here," he chirps. 

"I want to feed the kids, 

but I sure don't want 

to show you where they are. 

Go! Scat!" he says, 

as best he can. 

When he comes this close, 

it feels like he's being friendly. But it may be 

the opposite.

In her note that accompanied these great photos, Lisa wrote, "I didn't follow him ... he followed me." I know the feeling. We enjoy their presence so much that it's hard to say good-bye, though both the bird and I are relieved when an encounter like this ends. 

Finally, 

Lisa's work 

moved her away, 

and the bandit 

stayed behind.

What a pleasure, 

to be able to share 

these sweet intimacies 

with the blogosphere. 

Thank you, 

computer geniuses.

Thank you, America.

Thank you, 

Forest Preserve District 

of Cook County. 

Thank you, Lisa, 

for capturing 

all this richness.

Thank you, little bandit.

And thanks 

to everyone who 

comments on this blog, 

or passes it along to others, 

or just appreciates it.

It's nice to share with you.

The Evil of Cowbirds

A big parasite that persecutes a beautiful rare songbird. For nature-lovers, it can be hard to take. Why torture delicate rare birds? For that matter, why burden people’s sensibilities by writing it up in a blog? And yet, sometimes by facing wickedness, we can understand it, and disarm it. 

Yesterday I saw something wonderful and (to me) scary. The first orchard oriole nest I ever found was high in an isolated elm, surrounded by a meadow of rare flowers and grasses. The orioles seemed to be defending their nest from a female cowbird, even though there were babies crying from the nest.

  

The big fat, ugly baby on the right has likely killed two or three young orchard oriole 

siblings like the one on the left. Be still, my heart!

A LITTLE BACKGROUND ON COWBIRDS

A while back I had arguments on this subject with a wise and wonderful bird conservationist, the late Jerry Sullivan. It was Jerry who developed the monitoring protocols now used by the Bird Conservation Network. Indeed, he developed them at Somme Prairie Grove, where in his years of work, while the restoration was in its early decades, he never saw a single orchard oriole. He would have loved to see them and their babies. He might not have liked this write-up.

I told Jerry that when I happened across a birds’ nest with a cowbird egg in it, I took out the cowbird egg. To me, it was like weeding a garden. Cowbirds are nest parasites that under modern conditions are pushing some bird species toward extinction – and vastly reducing the numbers of many others. “Why shouldn’t I help the species that need it?” I asked. As best I remember, Jerry felt strongly but was uncharacteristically inarticulate about why not. “They’re nature,” he said. “How do you know the result? Leave them alone.”

WHY ORCHARD ORIOLES ARE SO PRECIOUS

The nesting orchard orioles at Somme are a confirmation of a precious hope – that if you successfully restore a natural ecosystem, the now-rare animals of quality ecosystems will come back. (Well, perhaps I should write, “at least it may attract the rare animals that can fly and that still survive somewhere within flying distance.”) In other words, the orchard orioles that annually breed here confirm the quality and meaning of Somme Prairie Grove. In doing so, they affirm what some of us have been devoting much of our lives to for three plus decades. 

Unlike the much commoner Baltimore oriole, the orchard oriole breeds in savannas, not suburban neighborhoods or forests or prairies or anywhere else. (Actually, before the days of pesticides, they regularly bred in orchards, which are savanna-like in that they consist of scattered trees in grassland.) Since this species evolved to breed in a specialized habitat, without a place like the savanna at Somme, there would be no young orioles to carry on the species.

And it’s not just this species. Many shrubland and savanna birds (and butterflies, snakes, wildflowers, grasses, etc.) now breed merrily at Somme: among the birds - Woodcock. Black-billed cuckoo. Ruby-throated hummingbird. Eastern kingbird. Great crested flycatcher. Wood pewee. Northern flicker. Yellowthroat. Warbling vireo. Eastern bluebird. Rose-breasted grosbeak. Indigo bunting and many others. Some of these now or in the past have adapted to our culture’s farms, neighborhoods, or roadsides. But then come changes (mowing, pesticides, etc.), and the birds need to fall back on the nature they evolved in. Conservation land is increasingly critical to many of the species that now have babies or set seed each summer in Somme Prairie Grove.

LISA’S PHOTOS TELL THE TALE

When I texted Lisa with my discovery, she raced there with her camera. Most of the rest of this story is well illustrated by the photos that she took yesterday. 

This baby oriole 

on the branch 

hatched from an egg 

in the nest above. 

The hanging structure is beautifully woven of strong fresh grass and lined with fine grasses and plant down. The oriole mom lays four to six eggs and incubates them to keep them warm. Unfortunately, in this case, and many cases, the female cowbird sneaks in unnoticed and lays one big egg of its own. The female cowbird is too busy to help incubate or feed, because she on average lays 40 eggs per year in nests of other birds and races around protecting her eggs and young and chasing other female cowbirds 

from her territory. 

She's busy.

Ahhh! 

The female oriole has arrived

with a fat grasshopper. 

Who’ll get it? 

The cowbird is the one 

with the big mouth. 

Can you see the baby oriole? 

(Hint: the cowbird 

is standing on it.)

Now the mom is ready with the food. Babies need a lot to grow feathers and strength enough to fly and avoid predators. Guess which chick is going to get this meal. Hint: cowbirds are evolved to win this contest. Once “cow” birds followed herds of bison, which is why they couldn’t hang around to take care of junior. They are evolved to find their food in the short grass where the bison have been grazing. These days they find it in lawns, so they can stay put and defend territories.

Let’s see here. One of 

the best techniques is just to step on the head of the competition. 

The baby orchard oriole gets fed only when the parents bring food so fast that the cowbrat is too stuffed to choke down any more. 

Earlier, the cowbird parasite may use its big butt to push baby orioles to the side of the nest, and then up, and out, so that they fall to their death. Later some babies will just starve because Mr. or Miss Greedy-kins pigs up all the food.

Here’s the male 

bringing a juicy worm. 

When the orioles are successfully raising four or five (to as many as eight) of their own real chicks, sometimes the male and female each tend a sub-family of two to four chicks. When fledged, the chicks and their chosen parent can then wander to a part of the preserve where food is more plentiful.

Ahhhh! Finally, 

the baby oriole 

gets some grub. 

One surviving chick 

is better than none.

We wish this little one good luck. 

In time, the orchard orioles may evolve their own defenses against cowbird parasitism as some other species have done. Some species have learned to throw the intruder’s egg out of the nest. Some species recognize that the parasite’s egg is evil (from their perspective) and build a new bottom to the next on top of that egg, so that it doesn’t get incubated and never hatches. But evolution takes a long time. The orioles might need a bit of help (like habitat restoration to increase their numbers) if they are to accomplish such an evolution.   

Good luck, little oriole!

END OF STORY

But below are a few more tidbits about orchard orioles and cowbirds, if you'd like.

"MAFIA BEHAVIOR" 

I have to admit that Jerry Sullivan’s concern about removing eggs did trouble me. Am I wrong to “play God” with this egg removal? Am I counterproductively slowing the evolutionary process? Or perhaps am I causing some other kind of unexpected harm? How could I know? So I kept confiscating cowbirds eggs on the occasions when I found them – somewhat confident that I was on the side of the good.

One day, walking through Vestal Grove at Somme I noticed a female indigo bunting building a nest beside the footpath. “Nice,” I thought. “I can keep an eye on this one. Perhaps get some good photos.”

Next day on my way into the preserve, I noticed a pale and pretty little bunting egg in the nest. On my way out of the preserve two hours later I checked again, and the little egg had been joined by a big speckled cowbird egg. I removed the later.

Following morning I checked again, and the bunting’s egg was lying on the ground under the nest, punctured by a peck of some evil bill. Hmmmm. I suppose this is one option Jerry was thinking about. Cowbirds do guard nests where they’ve laid eggs and sometimes throw out the original egg if something happens to their own. Purpose? To get to owner to start laying a second time. The cowbird doesn’t want the other bird’s eggs to hatch first and "get ahead". If the parasite’s egg is laid at the same time as the host’s, then the fat cowbird egg (which hatches a bit quicker than other birds’ eggs) will be assured the head start that will make its chick big enough to be the bully.

A day later there were in the nest one bunting egg and one cowbird egg. I considered another approach. I could let the next cowbird egg stay in the nest until ready to hatch (in as few as 10 days for the cowbird, 12-13 days for bunting eggs) and take out the cowbird egg at the last minute. Perhaps the cowthug wouldn’t still be watching?

But next day the whole nest had been torn and ravaged as if by a raccoon and both new eggs were gone. So I couldn’t find out.

Wikipedia says: “Cowbirds periodically check on their eggs and young after they have deposited them. Removal of the parasitic egg may trigger a retaliatory reaction termed "mafia behavior". According to a study by the Florida Museum of Natural History published in 1983, the cowbird returned to ransack the nests of a range of host species 56% of the time when their egg was removed. In addition, the cowbird also destroyed nests in a type of "farming behavior" to force the hosts to build new ones. The cowbirds then laid their eggs in the new nests 85% of the time.”

But what if the egg is removed toward the end of incubation? And was that female cowbird I saw at the nest really interfering with the nestlings, as the commotion suggested when I first saw this nest? According to some studies and anecdotal observations, cowbirds do sometimes attack the nestlings that are competing with their own little freeloaders.

WHY DOESN’T THE MALE IN THE PHOTOS ABOVE LOOK LIKE HE’S SUPPOSED TO?

If you look up “orchard oriole” in the average bird guide, the male will be a handsome combination of black and deep brick red – not the mix of yellow and reddish that the male bringing food yesterday displayed. What gives? Atypically, in this species first year males have a distinctive coloration, much like the female, but with black markings on the head. Why would that be?

Here’s a theory: maybe females want a good way to distinguish older males, possibly because they’re better at the challenges of raising babies. 

When orchard orioles started nesting at Somme, they were first-year males. Maybe that means that Somme was still somewhat of a marginal habitat. Or it might just mean that birds like to return to the successful habitats where they were raised, and the mature ones secure all the territories there. So it's the young who venture to try new sites. In any case, in later years the mature males class up Somme with their proper colors.  

Bonus photo:

In 2023, Lisa photographed this "poor female yellowthroat feeding a you-know-what." 

Historic note

Most birds are poorly adapted to dealing with cowbirds because they were once a minor presence around here. Cowbirds followed herds of bison; they're adapted to feeding in the short grass where bison grazed. Because they had to follow the herds, they couldn't stay behind to be proper parents. Thus they devolved into heartless parasites. These days the forest preserves have no bison herds, but they are adjacent to thousands of acres of mowed lawns. Such lawns are now the cowbirds habitat and support so many of them that these freeloaders are a substantial cause of ongoing declines of many songbird species. Do we really need such massive acreages of lawns? 

Credits

All photos by Lisa Culp Musgrave … except for the mature male oriole from ms.audubon.org by Bill Stripling.

Note on the language

It has not escaped my attention that this blog uses intemperate and slangy language. For some emotional reason, it seemed like a good idea in this case.

Young Red-tail Learns a Lesson

Young red-tailed hawks at Somme are often fun. They’re relatively fearless, and they do goofy things  on the way toward being a grown-up. You can tell them from the adults by the lack of that deep red tail. But you can also recognize them by their actions.

Lisa Culp was “sneaking up” to photograph one, when she realized it just wasn’t much concerned about her. Suddenly it flew down and landed in a nearby shallow puddle. It looked intently into the water, wading around with splashes dripping off its legs. What was it seeing? It’s own handsome reflection? Checking the puddle later, Lisa found no frogs, no animals of any kind.

Red-tail youth (above left) starts its ferocious dive

For its next display 

of inexperience, 

the hawk decided 

to hunt ducks. 

Adult red-tails 

don't regularly try that, 

and the youngster 

showed us why. 

It first perched 

over a pond 

where mallards were swimming and repeatedly 

swooped down on them. 

In each case 

the ducks easily scooted out of the way with startling splashes, 

leaving a confused hawk, 

again perched, 

studying them, 

and trying again.

The ducks could  

have flown away, 

or just swum to 

a different part of the pond. 

But no, they treated 

the hawk as 

a clueless nothing.

Male (left) and female (center) mallards watch
as wet hawk (right) tries to get airborne again

At one point, 

the hawk actually dove at them such that it ended up stuck 

down in the water of the pond 

and had to go through 

some gymnastics 

to get itself airborne again.   

The mallards hardly even 

moved away.

After many tries 

and much loss of energy 

(to say nothing of pride), 

the red-tail returned to normalcy, surveyed the grassland, 

pounced on a mouse, 

and perched on a dead limb to eat it. 

“I had hoped for duck. Well, it’s mouse again,” it seemed to say. 

The hawk was learning 

its own nature. 

It's a pleasure having this handsome animal figuring out how to be itself at Somme Prairie Grove. 

I want to say to it, "Little one. You're getting better and better. You'll have 

that rich red tail and be a fine and full-grown hawk some day. You're doing great." 

I hope we can all learn from our mistakes with dignity as well.

All photos taken by Lisa Culp on March 28, 2013 at Somme Prairie Grove

Ashes to Ashes (and oaks to oaks)

Can something be tragic and inspiring at once?

For me, the ash disaster is both.

“Death to the Ash!” means "Life to the Oaks!" (and hundreds 

of other declining species)! Or at least it can...

In many forest preserves, ash trees were the major invasives that have been destroying oak woodland and savanna ecosystems.

Flaky bark means dead ash. These were left to the borers when this savanna was restored.

When scientists 

told us that the emerald ash borer would kill all our big ash trees, it seemed at first hard to believe.  

We could have waited (sort of like “climate change deniers”)
to see if the scientists were right. 

But instead we stopped cutting big ash as we restored our 

oak savannas and woodlands. 

Why stop? 

We trusted the science, and, indeed the beetles did the work for us.

There’s urgency here. Thousands of populations of hundreds of species are dying out year after year because of the shade of ash and other quick-growing "weed trees." 

Why waste our work and time?
We now cut buckthorn, box elder, basswood and similar invasives, but we leave the ash. 

Beetles
can dispatch them.

It's challenging to educate people to appreciate the evil of too much darkness. Death by shade is different from death by bullet or auto crash. It’s harder for people to understand - or feel. But whether from

Hundreds of animal and plant species now have a second chance.

shade or from clear-cutting for a mall, the ecosystem is equally dead. Oaks of all ages love light and need it. Shade is like cancer for a prairie or oak woodland, a slow and ugly killer.

In the 1800s, when the regular fires stopped, white and green ash from the ravines and floodplains began to overrun our oak woodlands and savannas just as destructively as the other invasives. But now, with ash death, a huge opportunity has opened up for tens of thousands of acres.

Owners of conservation land are making plans to convert the misfortune of the ashes to the fortune of the oaks – and a potentially miraculous recovery of the plants and animals that depend on the open oak ecosystems.  Should I list a few? Gray fox, blue-spotted salamander, creamy wild pea, ruby-throated hummingbird, purple milkweed, and great-spangled fritillary.  

In areas of many ash trees, half the work is now being done for us. Before new light gaps fill with invasives, these areas deserve quick plans and action. What does that mean? Cut other key invasives,

This dismal photo shows a dead bur oak, leaning across the foreground. It died of shade

 from faster-growing ash and basswood, in the absence of fire. Gone with the oaks are 

hundreds of other species. How can we teach people to see this? 

start controlled burns, re-seed if needed, and provide the education and political support that goes with all the above.

We mourn the ash, an important component of many non-oak forests. At the same time – we celebrate the liberation of animals and plants of the oak lands. Huge noble areas that seemed doomed now have a chance to thrive again.

Ashes to ashes

When they die, they’ll stand for years as habitat for beetles and woodpeckers and flying squirrels and great crested flycatchers. Some people will argue to cut them all down. Nature wants them to stand for the decade or more as they have their "second life" as yet another irreplaceable habitat. Someday their weathered trunks will fall. Then a slowly rotting log on the ground is yet a third habitat. That log means salamanders, frogs, snails, beetles, roly-polies, mushrooms, and places for us to sit and contemplate the miracle of lives. Ultimately, beautiful and life-giving burns will consume each log. Ashes to ashes.

Eastern bluebird on scarlet oak branch. These handsome creatures now 

breed again at Somme. Hundreds of less-easy-to-see species also need 

the dappled light of open oaks and now-rare diversity that oaks support.  

(Photo by Lisa Culp)

Oaks to oaks  

When oaks aren’t reproducing their cute little baby oaks, some people imagine we must be seeing a natural process called “succession.” It’s the opposite. When the once light-dappled floor of the oak woodland is clotted with dark invaders, whether ash or buckthorn or maple or whatever – the rich, ancient ecosystem dies. Oaks are the foundation of a community that is the Earth’s only home for thousands of species that don’t live in other kinds of woods. Now rare flycatchers, woodpeckers, mushrooms, nematodes, walking sticks, shrubs, foxgloves, grasses, sedges, ants, lichens, rare and potentially-important bacteria as well as other tree species all depend on our oak woods. Let's rescue them from the oblivion of extinction. Now's the time. Save them!