xenogere

Of serpentine surprises

Posted on Mar 12, 2010 by jason.

I try to always keep snakes in mind when I walk.  No precaution is beyond me, whether it be kicking logs before stepping over them, paying attention to every footfall and what’s around it, keeping my eyes on what lurks in the understory, or intently watching for movement and listening for sounds.  Why be so mindful?

There are seven venomous snake species in the DFW metroplex, three of which I’ve seen and photographed around White Rock Lake: western cottonmouth (a.k.a. water moccasin, black moccasin or black snake; Agkistrodon piscivorus leucostoma), timber rattlesnake (a.k.a. canebrake rattlesnake; Crotalus horridus), and copperhead—both the southern copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix contortrix) and the broad-banded copperhead (a.k.a. Texas copperhead; Agkistrodon contortrix laticinctus).

Texas coral snake (Micrurus tener), western diamondback rattlesnake (a.k.a. Texas diamond-back; Crotalus atrox), massasauga (a.k.a. black rattler or black massasauga; Sistrurus catenatus) and pigmy rattlesnake (a.k.a. ground rattlesnake, eastern pigmy rattlesnake or bastard rattlesnake; Sistrurus miliarius)—the other four venomous species in the area—I have yet to see around the lake.  ‘Yet’ being the operative term.  (I have seen those species elsewhere.)

Before anyone panics, however, I should point out that there are more than 30 species of nonvenomous snakes in the region.  The odds of an everyman seeing a venomous snake remain small; most people will never see more than a nonvenomous serpent.  Unless you’re like me, always looking, always walking, always exploring.  Then the odds change.  Hence my care when in the wild.

Nevertheless, I’ve had close calls.  A cottonmouth sunning in a field dashed across my foot when a couple of dogs approached from the opposite direction (the canines were dragging their human pets behind them); the snake approached before I could move, so I froze in place so I’d be less of a threat.  One of the copperheads I ran into in the fish hatchery had been hiding beneath a log; I kicked the log as is my usual practice, but the snake surprised me by moving toward me rather than away from me—and we came quite close to a physical meeting.

But those experiences cover 20 years of in-depth daily exploration of the park.  I can’t imagine anyone else having the same issue or having to worry about it.  The odds simply don’t support concern, especially since the lake has no existing reports of anyone being bitten by a venomous snake.  Too much human activity keeps the snakes hidden and confined to areas where people don’t go (except people like me).

So why the serpent stats?

The other day when afternoon temperatures soared and a clear sky offered nothing but constant sunshine to bathe the earth, I strolled through the woods along Dixon Branch, flicking ticks off my legs and battling a few early mosquitoes.  Then I reached a riparian clearing and stepped to the edge of the creek.  When I shifted my weight and leaned a wee bit closer to a bramble of vines and thicket, a very large snake erupted from beneath the verdant cover.  It slid down the embankment and hit the water’s surface with a splash.

A diamondback water snake (Nerodia rhombifer).  It had to be six feet/two meters long at least.  And it had been hiding in the brush not an arm’s length away from me.  Oops.

The moment I swung the camera toward where it paused in the water, it took off swimming away from me.

Though nonvenomous, water snakes have a terrible disposition and a tendency to bite first and ask questions never.  Given their size and strength and the backward-angle of their teeth (evolved for catching slippery prey like fish in the water), they can do appreciable physical damage.

It goes without saying that I had been foolish.  Winter’s dearth of snakes—this year being more pronounced than any year since 1983—had lulled me into a false sense of security, or at least a stupid sense of ignorance.  My frightened serpentine friend gave me a surprise that served to remind me that the season has come for snakes, therefore it behooves me to act in accordance with that realization.

Because next time it might not be a nonvenomous reptile and it might not be so inclined to run away from such a nearby and easy mark.

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First dragon of spring

Posted on Mar 11, 2010 by jason.

I saw my first dragonfly of 2009 on February 15.  This year the same species showed up almost four weeks later.  Harsh winter?  You betcha!

The variegated meadowhawk (Sympetrum corruptum) can survive year-round in Texas if winters are mild enough.  No one can say this winter was mild.

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Ladies of spring

Posted on Mar 10, 2010 by jason.

The light switch of spring has been thrown.  One day it was cool, and the next it was warm enough for shorts and a t-shirt.  There it has remained, warming the earth and inspiring an explosion of life.

A veritable smorgasbord of insects and arachnids has appeared.  Flies buzz, wasps and bees flit about, beetles emerge, spiders spin and leap and dash, and where just a few weeks ago the days passed with scarcely a single small critter to enjoy, now it’s difficult to know which one to focus on.

But winter’s dearth always gives way to spring’s bounty, something that plants and insects demonstrate with great passion.  And often one of the first things to appear in abundance is the lady beetle.

Standing on the patio the other evening, only a few moments before sunset, a small beetle rushed along the patio fence.  I ran inside, grabbed the camera, then returned to snap a picture or two.  By that time the little lady had scampered between the slats where it no doubt wanted to grab some rest for the night.

So I was mocked by this ashy gray lady beetle (a.k.a. ash gray lady beetle; Olla v-nigrum) who showed me nothing but buttocks.  I stood patiently hoping the hideout was temporary, but alas the insect nodded off to sleep and stayed put, so a gray moon was all I had to show for the encounter.

Finding this seven-spotted ladybug (a.k.a. seven-spotted ladybird; Coccinella septempunctata) larva came as no surprise.  These beetles start mating and multiplying the moment it’s warm enough outside.

(No, it’s not missing any legs.  The one good photo I took happened to have one leg curled underneath the larva as it changed direction.)

And an adult seven-spotted ladybug (a.k.a. seven-spotted ladybird; Coccinella septempunctata) soaking up sunshine atop a dandelion.  Days may be warm, but nights are still cool enough to require a recharge of heat each morning.  Though that’s changing quickly as quite soon nights will be comfortable and days will be unbearably hot.

As these two multicolored Asian lady beetles (Harmonia axyridis) show, the season is never too early for making babies.  If it’s warm enough to move about, it’s warm enough to mate and multiply.

This multicolored Asian lady beetle (Harmonia axyridis) landed on my shirt as I stood on the patio enjoying warm sunshine one afternoon.  It’s unwise for anything small to enter the house since The Kids take seriously their duty to hunt down and dispatch invaders.  So I plucked the little beetle from my shirt in order to place it on the patio fence.

Then, for the first time in my 40 years, a lady beetle bit me.  The ungrateful invader apparently found the relocation disagreeable and decided to nibble on me as repayment for the move.  The experience was interesting but not painful.  The biggest shock was that it took four decades to experience it given how much time I spend in nature and how often I have run-ins with fauna.

Despite the transgression, I put the beetle on the fence with gentle care so it could go on with its day.  Though I did scold it briefly and warn it that others might not be so forgiving.

Walking across the bridge over Dixon Branch, a spark of color on the concrete railing gave me a moment of pause.  This convergent ladybird beetle (a.k.a. convergent lady beetle or convergent ladybug; Hippodamia convergens) faced into the rising sun to gather warmth.

The number of lady beetle species at White Rock Lake is high, but unfortunately a great many of the numerous examples are from introduced species.  Finding endemics like the ashy gray or the convergent tends to be like finding a needle in a stack of needles.  Nevertheless, they can be found if one looks carefully enough.

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Sitting and strutting

Posted on Mar 8, 2010 by jason.

A sense that life must be found, discovered, pursued until it succumbs to the whims of a camera lens, or binoculars, or naked eyes.  A headlong rush to see, to scamper hurriedly to the next luscious visual, and the next, and the next.  A flagrant hop from plate to plate whilst consuming only a sample of what each contains, an endless dining without stopping, a meal that satiates only in brief moments of time but always gives way to an empty longing for the next taste, the next morsel, the next bite.

Sometimes I wander about nature’s buffet without pausing to savor, pushed along by a jittery need to move.  Walk, stroll, hike, or whatever name it takes at the time.  These are not bad things.  Yet so much hides in my hurrying.

One of my favorite pastimes is sitting.  Sitting and watching, sitting and listening, sitting and absorbing.  And I’ve learned that nature finds comfort in that stillness, in that silence.

So it was as I recently sat upon a hillside with sunshine blanketing the world that a strutting male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) shared the leisure of the morning with me, shared the warm slope that supported us.

All black birds captivate me.  Subtle beauty painted in fine brushstrokes of darkness.  The energy used in the production of bright colors shunted to the production of extra personality instead.  Under appreciated and oft overlooked.

That my favorite bird is the red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)—and has been since kindergarten—no doubt says a great deal about my adoration for dark avifauna.  No flashy designs and no showy colors; just a sense of simple beauty in which hides a kaleidoscope of awe.

I watched the grackle as he strutted through russet grass speckled with spring’s verdant green.  He grabbed an insect here and there, turned this way and that, carried on with his morning as though I did not exist.

All the while I lost myself in the iridescent rainbow hiding in the black of his plumage.  That people can find these birds anything but beguiling and majestic leaves me speechless.  They are a proud species, and no matter the derision and dislike that surrounds them, they intend to go on being proud.

Then, head held high, chest puffed out with pride, he marched by as though in a parade, as though on display for all the world to see.  Then he was gone, wings carrying him to the next plot of land, the next branch, the next sumptuous delight to include in his breakfast menu.

And I remained where I was, still sitting, still observing, waiting for the next encounter.

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It’s that time of year again

Posted on Mar 7, 2010 by jason.

Last year about this time I photographed a pair of red-shouldered hawks getting to know each other in the biblical sense.  They’re the same hawks whose new nest I discovered a few weeks back.

So yesterday I checked on the nest.  She was settled down far enough to make her difficult to see, but at least they appear serious about using that location.  I snapped a few pictures to record her presence, then I continued on with a leisurely walk around White Rock Lake.

Near the meadows of Winfrey Point I heard killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) up the hill from me and decided to try for some photos.  Thankfully one of them was being vocal enough to make them locatable.

At that point all I could tell was that the one on the right was talking.  Not vocal as in loud, but vocal in a way that had a “come hither” feel to it.  I experienced an immediate sense of familiarity.  With the one talking and the other one approaching, it reminded me of the hawks from last year.  It didn’t take long to see that it’s that time of year again, the time of year when “go forth and multiply” becomes nature’s motto.

I felt somewhat like a peeping Tom.  Worse even because I was taking pictures.  Silliness aside, there’s something beautiful about nature doing its thing, not at all worried for appearances or prude human sensibilities.

The deed done, he dismounted—albeit not with the grace he intended.  She flinched her wing as he stepped, so off he tumbled.  But he recovered with dignity and walked away as though he’d done her a favor.  I giggled.

She moved in my direction as he moved away.  I was still some distance away from either of them, so I took a slow step toward her thinking I might grab a couple of closer shots before leaving them to their morning.  That’s when something interesting happened.

He ran a short distance back in my direction before turning around.  He watched me.  Closely.

So I took one more slow step toward her.  He then parted his wings enough to show some bright rufous as he took several quick steps away from me.  He added some vocalizations to increase the effectiveness of his display.  Having spent so much time last year documenting their diversionary tactics, I know well enough that showing the flashy rump color is meant to grab the attention of threats.  Only I’d never seen it used without a nest to protect.

And when I took a few steps backward—away from her—he closed his wings yet remained where he stood, and he watched me closely.  Mate guarding.  I’d never seen the behavior before; nevertheless, there’s no doubt he was making himself a more obvious target to distract me from her.

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