Pinewoods Magic - Moccasin Flower

Not far from Hoot Owl central, here in the heart of Carolina, a large stand of towering loblolly pines borders the two-lane rural byway leading back to my beginnings as a naturalist in the Sandhills. An almost pure stand of loblolly, with a veritable carpet of reddish orange straw blanketing the sandy soil beneath, not unlike the scenery you might encounter on any of hundreds of rural highways in the American Southeast, and only a week or so removed from its role in broadcasting its share of a few million tons of bright yellow pine pollen throughout our region.

A few years back, one of my secret sources of nature knowledge encouraged me to have a short walk in those woods along about the first of May. Having spent hundreds of hours wandering woods like these as a child, I wasn't expecting much in the way of surprises. But these woods, like all of nature, have a way of exceeding expectations...

Two steps into the forest, a mere forty feet from the busy by-way, the magic begins. Bright green basal leaves thrust forth from six decades' accumulation of decaying straw, bizarre bowing blossoms on hirsute stalks bear witness to nature's ingenuity. These creatures were born here, in this precise spot; they belong here, to this place, the magical pinewoods of Carolina.

I wander farther afield, probing the boundaries of this remarkable space; in clumps, and singly, these magnificent native flora abound in an area no larger than the footprint of a modest house. In a tiny little corner of the forest, where who-knows-what critical environmental factors exist, these glorious little sprites spring forth to dance in sun-dappled silence for but a few brief passages of the golden orb, and then they are gone. 

Why do such mysteries exist?

Why here, and why now?

Are they here for me, or am I intruding on a show intended for some other; or perhaps, intruding on lives that wish not to be disturbed? 

The wonderful magic of the pinewoods is palpable, and I am humbled in the presence of such indescribable beauty and biological complexity.

I am grateful that I exist in a world filled with such wonders.

What can I learn from them, from how they live and grow?

I leave the pinewoods with more questions than answers, 

humbled, inspired and grateful.

April Showers Bring May Tadpoles...

Back in late February, Hunter encountered an Eastern Spadefoot Toad crossing a rural Sandhills byway. It appeared to have just emerged from a muddy winter hideaway, probably drawn forth a bit prematurely by the unseasonably warm, wet weather. On that occasion, we neither saw nor heard any more of its kin in the immediate vicinity. 

Fast forward to last night. Mid-April, 3 hours of steady evening showers and thunderstorms. Temperatures around 68 degrees (F). The same stretch of rural blacktop. 

There, on the warm, wet pavement, no less than three eastern spadefoot toads in a ten foot expanse. Slow the car, listen. From the dark ditches comes a discordant din of nasal "wanks" as dozens of spadefoots congregate in the warm rainwater.

 As we discovered in February, the spadefoot derives its name from specially adapted pads on its hind feet which allow it to burrow rapidly into the sandy soil of its preferred lowland habitat. Tonight however, the lonely subterranean dens have been abandoned for the communal breeding pond provided by the evening's heavy downpour.

Driven by instincts eons in the making, and guided by the calls of the males, the sandhills spadefoots gather to perpetuate their species. Dozens are here already, with others arriving by the moment.

The warm water is cloudy with pollen and adrift with debris brought down by the gusty winds of the storm, but the toads aren't complaining. Spadefoots are thought to skip some breeding years entirely, if the April rains don't come timely and in sufficient quantities, so tonight's event is not to be missed, lest no similar opportunity present itself this year. 

Because of the ephemeral nature of the breeding pools, the eggs and tadpoles will mature rapidly, and the next generation should be afoot in less than a month.

 The utter darkness, the chaos of the storm and the incessant calls of the males, repeated urgently  with intervals of a couple of seconds or so, add layers to the experience which are simply impossible to convey with photographs alone. Here's a tiny snippet (the boys promise to teach me to use the iPhone properly before next time)! 

The male pictured below seems intent upon unseating his rival, already grappling with a female in the lower right of the picture, with the sheer volume of his calls.

His white throat balloons dramatically as he channels nature's call and strives for the opportunity to perpetuate his genetic line.

All around the pool, the same scene plays out, as more players enter the stage from every direction.

Sheltered in our homes, glued to the screen, we hang on the words of the forecasters, hopeful that the storm will quickly pass and spare us. Outside, in the pouring rain and driving winds, amidst the swirling waters of the debris-laden ditches, the eastern spadefoots embrace the moment.

And life goes on...

Dwarf Wild Iris, Spring is Here!

Growing up wild in the Sandhills of North Carolina, nature marked the passage of my days almost as well as the Johnsonville Ruritan Club's birthday calendar which hung inside the kitchen cabinet beside the stove. 

And the wild iris was my favorite springtime marker.  

Just beyond the limits of the mowed yard, on the margin of a small copse of trees, consisting as best I can recall of one magnificent longleaf pine, a hickory or two, a couple of scrub oaks and a small blackgum tree, there was a small community of six or eight tiny iris plants. Their leaves were present nearly year-round, but only in the early spring, usually around Easter, did the blossoms appear. 

And oh, what blossoms!

Dwarf wild iris, dwarf violet iris or vernal iris; by any name, its emergence from the sandy soil of the southern pines is a magical springtime treat, and undeniable evidence of spring's arrival.

This particular individual resides at the margin of the woods near my brother's home in Harnett county, just a couple of miles from those bold little bloomers that announced the springs of my childhood.

On a trip to the NC mountains last spring, I was delighted to discover an upland community of dwarf irises which are very similar in appearance to my old friends from the Sandhills. Spreading by way of rhizomes, the miniature montane iris formed much denser colonies than those I encountered in my youth.

The blossoms showed some slight variation as well, but these diminutive heralds trumpeted the same glad tidings as their lowland brethren had throughout the years of my childhood...

The long, cold nights of winter have passed, and still we live! Witness the glory of spring's rebirth! Spring is here! Rejoice!