Milkweed Chronicles - Asclepias Purpurascens, Purple Milkweed

It's unclear whether purple milkweed was ever very common here in the heart of Carolina (all of our field guides either categorize it as rare or omit it altogether), but we've only encountered it twice, both times within a few hundred meters of the same location in northern Moore County, between Carthage and Carbonton. 

We were a bit dismayed to find that last year's stand had been stifled by an herbicide sprayed on recently clear-cut woodland acreage which was being prepared for replanting, 

but fortunately for us, 

a second stand emerged just down the road on the margin of a small creek which eventually flows into the nearby Deep River.

Just like our friend common milkweed, this small clump of purple milkweed has attracted an amazingly rich and diverse assortment of companions, among them butterflies, carpenter bees, bumblebees, soldier beetles and even a perfectly camouflaged crab spider or two.

Although Genus Asclepias boasts a variety of colors, sizes and textures among its dozen or so native NC species, its distinctive flower blossoms have a very similar anatomy across the various species.

And for all their aesthetic appeal, the milkweed in bloom is even more attractive as a food source for nectar lovers and pollinators of every imaginable ilk. 

Plain brown skippers and tiny marsh-dwelling bronze-hued least skippers lead a butterfly brigade, flitting from flower to flower and plant to plant and back again, occasionally fluttering to free an errant leg inadvertently trapped in the slender slits of the flowers' central reproductive chamber. 

As the sun moves ever closer to the horizon, 

we reluctantly leave the lovely purple milkweed to the company of its arthropod admirers and other bottomland wanderers,  

vowing to pass this way again before the blossoms fade at summer's end. 

And winding our way up the sandy hill beside,  

we hope, perhaps, to spy the fiery orange butterfly weed, 

close cousin to the rare purple beauty we leave behind... 

Milkweed Chronicles - Asclepias Syriaca, Common Milkweed

When I was nine or ten years old, National Geographic magazine featured a cover story heralding the discovery of the migrating monarch butterflies' legendary overwintering site in Mexico. I can still remember my feelings of awe and envy as I considered the young lady on the cover smiling serenely in the embrace of millions of magnificent monarchs... 

How wonderful it would be to become an explorer like her, and someday commune with such an awesome congregation of wild creatures!

From that day forward, the migrating monarchs became a significant marker of my years growing up wild in North Carolina, as I eagerly surveyed the late summer skies each year for monarchs passing through the Sandhills on their way south. My experience was far from unique, and Americans' fascination with the monarch almost certainly places it among the most widely recognized wild animals in North America. 

Much to the dismay of their millions of fans across North America, hibernating monarch numbers have crashed drastically in recent years, declining by perhaps as much as 90 percent after numbering nearly a billion individuals in the mid-1990's.  

While a variety of factors have likely contributed to this dramatic decline, habitat loss in the monarch summer breeding range and associated reductions in the availability of milkweed plants, the exclusive food source for monarch caterpillars, are both factors which hit pretty close to home .

Various conservation organizations are joining in unprecedented cooperation with the governments of the United States, Mexico and Canada to better understand the crisis and help save this imperiled butterfly species which we so recently took for granted as a component of natural landscapes across North America. 

One important focus of these efforts is to restore the milkweed populations which have been decimated by herbicides and vanishing habitat.

In support of these efforts, Hoot Owl Karma is highlighting the native milkweeds of our area to kick off the summer wildflower season. 

Featured in the first of four posts is the Common Milkweed, Asclepias syriaca. 

True to its common name, Asclepias syriaca is still rather common throughout our region, thriving on roadsides, sunny wood margins and old fields, sometimes forming imposing stands of a dozen or more plants, like this clump along the Deep River near Carbonton in Lee County.

As you can see from our photos, milkweed is a source of abundant nectar and pollen for a wide variety of arthropods, including bees, butterflies and beetles in various stages of development, transforming even a brief visit to the milkweed patch into a veritable entomology lab .

The plants in this particular colony stand from four to six feet tall, and they are covered with sturdy, lush green leaves, the preferred food of the monarch caterpillar. 

Milkweed's name derives from the milky white latex that fills the stems and leaves. This substance contains a chemical which is toxic to most animals, including humans, but the monarch caterpillar is unaffected. In fact, the chemical provides larger caterpillars and adult butterflies with significant protection from predators.

While the milkweed in our photos is of the wild native variety, common milkweed and several other native species are quite easy to propogate, and there is evidence that planting even relatively small oases of milkweed can be helpful to breeding and migrating monarchs.  

 So whether you have an interest in the plight of the monarch or simply admire the beauty of our native milkweeds, we encourage you to browse the abundant resources available online, and see if there's a place for you in this important conservation effort.

Our nectaring monarch has moved on for the moment, but this pipevine swallowtail drifts in for a sip, while a troop of orange and black soldier beetles, or Pennsylvania leatherwings, scour the blossoms for pollen and nectar...

an entire ecosystem in minature, 

our little patch of common milkweed,

and so goes this chapter of the Milkweed Chronicles,
along a quiet country roadside near the Deep River bridge.

We'll resume the story a little later down by the creek with the purple milkweed and the bumblebees; hope you can join us! 

Orchids in the Emerald Wood

For the first third of my life, summer was synonymous with blissful, carefree days exploring the intracoastal waterway between Cape Carteret and Emerald Isle.
Roaming the islands and estuaries of Bogue Sound and hanging out at the Point (of Emerald Isle) as a child created powerful connections to the natural wonders of North Carolina's sounds and beaches;
lifelong connections which draw me back each year.

Judging from the Memorial Day weekend traffic on the Highway 58 bridge, many thousands of others feel a similar attraction, although most of the attention seems centered on the pristine white sand beaches rather than the relatively quiet backwaters of the sound.

So after we inch our way across the bridge and safely deposit the boys and their cousins near the Point at the public beach access on Channel Drive,
I leave the beach to the sanderlings and the masses and wander into the wild at Emerald Isle Woods to discover what wonders await...

On a knoll overlooking the tidal flats with their hordes of fidgety fiddler crabs scurrying about amidst the spartina and the mud and the periwinkles,
a gnarled old sweet bay offers her most perfect white blossom to the infinite blue sky;

and sunlight peers through the bronze and green lens of newborn grape leaves, 

as the mother vine's clasping crimson tendrils strive for new heights this year...

Just a few meters away, deep in the shadows of the maritime wood, 

where Spanish moss dangles from every available branch, 

mini-leaved duckweed disguises the still, dark waters of a woodland pool,

like a glossy green slip cover, 

penetrated only here and there by a few larger aquatic herbs, 

convenient landing pad for the steely-eyed ultralight insect drones known to frequent these maritime hammocks.

Up again from the slough and onto the tree-lined ridge of the ancient dunes,

we're greeted by a small stand of spring-blooming native orchids.

Alert now to their presence, another look around reveals a healthy smattering of Spiranthes praecox, perhaps, or sylvatica, 

petals fused into fuzzy green-veined tubes, silently spiraling t'ward the sun; 

secure in the shadows of their little island,

where none but a few of the sun's most subtle and persistent rays will ever alight 

on the lily white blossoms of these orchids in the Emerald Wood.

And we, entranced by these delicate floral spires, 

pointing as it were, straight to heaven,

feel the inexorable tug of this remnant of the wild and wonder-filled coastal woodlands, 

and know that we'll be back again soon. 

May Flowers

Spring is in full swing by mid-May in Central Carolina, and at this frenzied pace, she seemingly brings new sights and sounds and scents by the hour.

An ill-timed week-long business trip to New Jersey prevented us from bringing you the in-depth play by play we would prefer, but Hunter and I did manage to carve out a few hours for a brief backroad tour... 

It's hard to miss the glorious white southern magnolia blossoms dotting the suburban landscape at every turn this week, but not quite as abundant or obvious are her gorgeous wild cousins. This umbrella tree, Magnolia tripetala, with its parasol-like arrangement of glossy over-sized leaves, greeted us from the roadside forest near San Lee Park. 

A little closer to the ground in the sunny wide open spaces, our native prickly pear cactus, the eastern prickly pear, Opuntia sp., blazes bright yellow with the abundant sunshine of May's lengthening days;

and judging from the plethora of buds on the neighboring pads, this show won't be over anytime soon.

Down by the pond another sun-lover, our carnivorous friend sundew, Drosera sp., has captured a curious winged creature in its sticky embrace.

While this Drosera won't bloom until summer, the plant itself is so beautiful we couldn't resist including it in our May flower review...

Vivid stands of purple-blossomed Venus' looking glass, Triodanis sp. , populate the roadsides and field margins throughout the area, and they're certainly worth slowing down for a closer look.

Gazing into the still, dark waters of Duncan's Creek, the bright and cheerful blossoms of blue flag, Iris virginica, stand in stark contrast to the brooding pool below.

We'd heard rumors of a remnant population of these lovely wild iris near the heart of our childhood haunts in Harnett County,

and this marvelous day in May brought glorious confirmation of their persistence.

As we swung back to west and headed toward home, we chanced upon an impressive colony of wild Carolina roses, Rosa carolina (or perhaps a close cousin), 

wilting just a bit in the heat of mid-afternoon, but lovely nonetheless.

A bit farther along we encounter the false indigo bush a.k.a. indigo bush, Amorpha fruticosa,

another old friend, hanging out with its crew on the banks of a woodland stream.

Not merely a thing of beauty, 

the distinctive blossoms attract a variety of pollinators and pollinator predators alike.

A lush herbaceous forest forms in the clearing left by a now not-so-recent timber harvest; 

long dormant seeds freed from the shadows of the pines, 

germinate and rise to splendid weedy heights, 

none higher than this tall meadow rue, Thalictrum sp.

We wind up our journey, refreshed and renewed by our all too brief excursion on the back roads of Central Carolina, 

inspired, enlightened and determined to come back soon...

We hope you'll join us!

Tree Frogs Dream of Rainy Nights...

Barking tree frog stealthily makes its way up the shady north face  

of the mossy brownstone boulder,

hiding in plain sight on the flanks of its mid-stream retreat,

until the swaying branches of the dense overhead canopy

part to admit the golden rays of the early morning sun.

Exposed for one brief moment, then shifting again to the shadows,

camouflaged so well as to play momentary landing pad to a passing arthropod, 

just out of tongue's reach on tree frog's dark-dotted dorsum.

No raindrops this morning, but they're on the way...

perhaps as soon as tonight.

And down with the rains come the others,

down the trunks and the branches and the vines, 

to gather and sing by the pool, 

perchance a mate to entice. 

'Til then, however, 

it's time to hop a limb and climb,

back to the darkness of the leaf-shrouded heights, 

where we'll while away the hours

with dreams of love and rainy nights.