Cockleburs

After October's drought, when the ground was dry as cocoa powder without the flavor, and dust clouds followed our every footstep, the rain on our hilltop this week was a welcome relief. Unfortunately, not everyone benefited; storms caused roads and bridges to wash out and damaged fields and fences, but that's a story for someone else to tell. 

By Tuesday, we had accumulated 12 3/4 inches, and envisioning the streams and tiny rivulets down the hill, I couldn't resist the call of the hollow. Gus and I headed down the familiar trail to a slope overlooking the broad valley. Two brooks rushed over the recently dry rocks, then merged to form a swollen stream flowing to the lake. From my vantage point, the enchantment of it all took my breath away. I knew the valley teamed with ticks, stick tights, and cockleburs, and my better judgment told me to turn back, but the beauty before me beckoned me on.

Down the hill, Gus sprinted across the creek as I picked my way over slippery rocks, the water rushing over my water-proof boots and squishing between my toes.

Once across, I called Gus, and my heart sank as I saw his head pop up from the midst of a field of ripe cockleburs. He limped my way, but the damage had already been done. Many of the small, thorny fruits of the plant were attached to his coat, and every step he took toward me attracted more. 

When he reached me, I stooped and extracted a few from between his paws and others I could get quickly; the rest had to wait until we got home. Armed with cuticle scissors, I began the painstaking removal process, which took nearly an hour and a half and gave me plenty of time to regret my decision to venture into the hollow. Despite the discomfort, Gus remained remarkably patient and trusting, and when it was over,  he was free of the thorns and handsome again. 

Gus's tail before

Gus's tail after

Except for his tail, that is. He noticed the chop job the next day, and if you see him, please don't mention it; he's a little chagrined about his new haircut.

Teddy Bear Bees

Under an azure blue October sky, Gus and I have been observing insects. Lately, we've been captivated by the maneuvers of a small militia of carpenter bees at work on the salvia.

These gentle creatures, clad in fuzzy jackets, always remind me of teddy bears. Just a month ago, the swarm was too numerous to count, which didn't stop me from trying, but now, five or six of them at a time seem like a crowd. 

 

Like skilled acrobats, they catch rides on the swaying flower stems, ducking their heads inside the blooms to sip the sweet nectar, then carry pollen from blossom to blossom, humming as they go. 

"How many are your works, Lord!

In wisdom you made them all;

the earth is full of your creatures."

Psalm 104:24

You can read the whole chapter here, and it's truly outstanding!

It's a Girl!

After observing a monarch butterfly chrysalis for 19 days, I almost gave up on a butterfly emerging. But the chrysalis was transparent this morning, and I could see a tiny monarch butterfly inside. That was encouraging. This afternoon, when I returned from a Ladies' Prayer Brunch with four friends (where at least one prayer went up for the monarch), I invited them into the house, hoping to find something spectacular. We were delighted to see a flawless female monarch hanging from her empty, crumpled chrysalis. She had thick black veins and was missing the black dots on the lower wings that identify males. We named her Amelia. She has a treacherous journey ahead.

Life can be tough for a monarch. Of the thirteen caterpillars I saw on the purple milkweed early last month, I only found five chrysalises. A fat lizard lurking a few yards away in the dog kennel was a prime suspect in their demise. The five caterpillars that formed chrysalises suffered a similarly sad fate. None of them made it to maturity. So, when I discovered two more caterpillars on the butterfly milkweed in my raised garden at the end of September, I was happy to have another chance to witness an awe-inspiring transformation. 

I watched the two for a few days. Only one remained when I returned from church on Sunday at the end of last month. I was determined to keep sight of this one. The tiny creature made her way around the raised garden as slowly as a robo vac mapping a room, but with even less certainty, then crawled to the ground and continued her trek. To form a chrysalis, she needed to find an upright form to attach to, but the search was challenging. From a caterpillar's perspective, even blades of grass looked like trees. 

As much as I hate to interfere with nature, I was getting hungry. So by the time she reversed her direction the third time, when she crawled onto a leaf,  I picked it up and carried it to the laid stone structure that holds our birdbath. Another quest ensued before the caterpillar found her spot- a sheltered rock protected from direct sunlight on the structure's north side. There, she stopped and rested. When I checked in on her that night, she had attached her back end with silken strands and hung in a J shape. By the next morning, she had shed her outer skin, and a soft green jewel hung there, decorated with spots of brightest gold.

Our first frost was forecasted for Wednesday this week, so Tuesday afternoon, besides covering some plants and bringing others in, I carefully detached the chrysalis from the stone it had chosen to hang from, brought it inside the house, and hung it from a chain near the window. That's where we found Amelia this morning, a brand-new, perfect butterfly clinging to the chrysalis. She stayed there as I transported her outside on the chain and hung it on the front porch. When I checked on her next, she was struggling on the bricks below. Picking a geranium blossom, I extended it to her. She seemed relieved to discover it and gingerly climbed aboard. I propped it in the geranium plant, and there she rested. When I returned, she had flown away.

Amelia may be staying near the Buffalo River tonight, but I hope it's warmer wherever she stays. And I hope she makes lots of friends in Mexico. Adios, Amelia!

 

The weather has been perfect lately, with warm days and cool, leave-your-windows-open-nights, and as the sun rose this morning, I went to check on the monarch caterpillars in my garden. I located five hanging upside down from the leaves of a large yucca plant, attached by silken threads. I was away for a good part of the morning. When I returned, they had already wiggled out of their exoskeletons, revealing the chrysalises inside. The chrysalises are beautiful jewels of soft green with glittering gold dots, and they provide a perfect home for what will, we hope, emerge as the king of butterflies. 

Stay tuned.

Contemplating Caterpillars

When I found thirteen monarch caterpillars clustered on my purple milkweed yesterday morning, they were pleasantly plump. They had eaten a large portion of leaves and were busy finishing their breakfast. By this afternoon, the number had dropped to eight. Failing a hungry bear or a wasp attack*, five had most likely left the milkweed and were looking for a place to attach and form a chrysalis. I spotted one on a nearby yucca.

By dinnertime, the caterpillar had firmly attached itself to the yucca leaf with silk threads. It hung in a "J" shape, appearing lifeless. If everything goes well, it will hang there for about eighteen hours or longer before forming a beautifully striking chrysalis. I hope to witness this transformation; I'll share it with you if I do.

Incidentally, the purple milkweed probably won't bloom, which is disappointing. It's a stunning native plant. However, anticipating observing a chrysalis and the potential emergence of a new butterfly makes the sacrifice seem worthwhile.

*A few years ago, I watched a wasp pluck a caterpillar off milkweed and carry it away.