Late-Summer Joys Large and Small at the Barden

The Barden is the nickname for Princeton's Botanical ARt garDEN: 160+ native plant species informally gathered along whimsical pathways next to the main parking lot at Herrontown Woods, 600 Snowden Ave. By combining the signage with a cellphone app like Seek, you can use the Barden for one-stop learning of local flora. 

One of my annual joys at the Barden is getting to show kids and adults the exploding seeds of jewelweed, which has lately been producing beautiful tubular orange flowers that segue into pods with spring-loaded seeds. Find a swollen pod, pluck it gently from the plant, put it in the palm of a kid's hand and let them touch it lightly with a finger of the other hand. Kabloosh! The seeds go flying. It is really hard not to feel surprise and delight, no matter how many times you've witnessed this.  

An unexpected opportunity to share this experience came this past Sunday morning. We showed up to host our monthly pop up May's Cafe at 9am only to find the parking lot already full. Turned out that Cub Scout Pack 98 had driven down from Kendall Park for a two mile hike in the woods. 

When they returned from the trails, I showed them the exploding seeds, 

and also introduced them to the charismatic green frog that calls a little round minipond home, near the kiosk. Though the natural vernal pools have dried up in the late summer's long drought, we have a number of frogs participating in our Barden frog-in-residence program, which consists of a few plastic lined miniponds. 

Other joys are of the botanical variety, and probably wouldn't have held the scouts' attention like the frogs, but here they are in photo form. 

Two or three years ago, friend Stan gave me some little plants he had grown from seed. Among them was showy goldenrod--a kind of goldenrod I remember from Michigan as a beautiful accent in prairies, but had not seen in NJ. It makes long spires of yellow and, most endearingly, doesn't spread aggressively underground like some of the other goldenrods. This is the first year it has bloomed in the Barden.

When late summer meets early autumn, black gum leads the way with its brilliant red leaves.

This staghorn sumac looks a bit like a painted vulture drying its outstretched wings.

Woolgrass is not a grass, so let's call it woolsedge, Scirpus cyperinus. Admire its elegant seedhead, and feel its triangular stem that, like papyrus, prompts us to proclaim "sedges have edges." 

Very thoughtful of Autumn Helenium to wait until now to bloom. 

It's been a great year for ironweed, the relatively cool weather having extended its bloom.

I think of evening primrose as blooming through the summer, but didn't notice it until now, for some reason.

Our native euonymus, Strawberry bush, is developing its fruit, which will burst open later, revealing bright orange berries.

Late-flowering thoroughwort can look elegant or weedy. This year, perhaps due to the cooler weather, it has looked elegant, attracting many pollinators and exuding a wonderful honey-like fragrance.

Pokeweed, too, combines elements of elegance and weediness. The pendulant berries and bright red stems are attractive, but the leaves are a decadent jumble.

An unexpected delight this year was a plant that decided to grow near the gazebo. 

The name, rattlesnake root, Nabalus altissimus, doesn't capture the beauty of the pendulant flowers, each opening in turn, attracting a crowd of green/gold bees. 

Thanks to my entomologist friend David Cappaert, who quickly offered a name and a detailed closeup of the little bees--"one of the 'green halictids,' a set of several genera with green-gold coloration. They can be hyper-abundant at this time of year. Image here is of one in hibernation – you can find these under logs in the winter."

The show of asters has begun with woodland aster. Summer is not done yet!

You can visit the award-winning Barden any time, by driving down the lane across Snowden Lane from the Smoyer Park entrance. Say hello to the frogs, play a game of chess, or bring a lunch to eat in the gazebo. The address is 600 Snowden Lane, and we generally host a May's Cafe from 9-11 on first Sunday's of the month. Check HerrontownWoods.org for details.

Tent Caterpillars and the History of Black Cherry Trees in Herrontown Woods

Black cherry trees draw attention in early spring because of the "tents" that tent caterpillars weave on them. I was surprised to find out that these tents are sometimes mistaken for gypsy moth infestations. There's also some disagreement as to how damaging tent caterpillars are to the trees they feast upon, so I decided to do some investigation. 

First, some distinctions between tent caterpillars and gypsy moths. Tent caterpillars are native, feed primarily on cherry trees, build conspicuous tents, and do their feeding on the fresh, tender leaves just beginning to emerge in April. Gypsy moths are a nonnative species imported from Europe, start feeding in May on a very wide spectrum of hardwoods and even some conifers, and do not build tents. 

Gypsy Moths

The story of gypsy moths in our area is most easily grasped by looking at how many articles about them have been archived in the Papers of Princeton through the decades. Outbreaks of gypsy moths remained minor in New Jersey until the 60s, then grew into massive defoliations of forests in the 1970s. By the early 1980s, gypsy moth populations were beginning to drop, thanks to a natural virus, introduced parasites, and aerial sprayings. A naturally occurring bacteria called Btk proved safe and effective when sprayed on trees where gypsy moths were feeding. There was a recurrence from 2007-8, but numbers have dropped off since then. Though the forests largely healed, the trauma of past gypsy moth infestations lives on in people's memories. 

Tent Caterpillars

What we have this spring, and springs extending back through millenia, are native tent caterpillars making their tents. 

Some sources on the web suggest that tent caterpillars, despite the powerful visual of the tents and defoliated branches, don't do enough damage to a tree to worry about. I'd really like to believe that, but this young black cherry tree, now bearing eleven tents from which the caterpillars make forays, is almost completely defoliated. 

They say a tree can survive one complete defoliation, but if defoliated several years in a row, it becomes increasingly susceptible to disease and insect attack.

Meanwhile, our very hungry tent caterpillars have even followed a branch over to a neighboring pin oak, which now, too, is getting chowed down upon.

We pause to note a couple recurring themes in nature. One is that the tent caterpillars will shift to a less desirable food source (a pin oak tree) if their favored cherry tree leaves run out. Deer, too, will begin eating less desirable foliage if they run out of their favorites. Thus, an overabundance of deer in the 1990s almost wiped out spicebush in our Princeton woodlands, despite it being low on the list of deer's preferred foods.

The other example of a recurring theme in nature is that the tent caterpillar eats only one crop of leaves, then is done for the year, allowing the tree to recover. The worst thing a predator could do is be so effective as to eliminate its prey. 

The introduction of a new insect, though, could throw off this balance of predator and prey. If another insect, say, a gypsy moth, came along and defoliated the same tree yet again in the same growing season, that tree would be in big trouble, having twice committed energy to manufacturing a whole crop of leaves, only to have them eaten. One question is whether the gypsy moth outbreaks in the '70s and '80s killed more of one tree species than another, causing changes in forest composition still noticeable today.

There's a lot of caterpillar behavior whose purpose is not immediately obvious. A week ago, caterpillars were crawling about on the outside of the tent, turning this way and that. My best guess was that they were expanding the tent by adding another layer of silk, but no strands could be seen coming from their bodies as they moved about. 

And why are these caterpillars clustered on the side of the tree, outside of their protective tents? Wouldn't they be easy picking for the birds that are said to consume them? 

As their spring residency has continued at the Barden in Herrontown Woods, the tent caterpillars have spun not only isolated tents but also enveloped the trunk and limbs in a silken web reminiscent of the webbing people drape on their shrubs for Halloween. A closer look reveals that the caterpillars have spun silken highways upon which they commute from tent to the "pasture" of the canopy. These highways are only one lane wide, requiring a caterpillar to temporarily step aside if it meets another coming the opposite direction. Some silken highways are suspended in air, like overpasses--a great way to smooth out the rough terrain of a black cherry tree's "black potato chip" bark. 

A tree colonized by tent caterpillars, then, has elements of occupancy, transport, and exploitation not unlike the human footprint on the land, with our homes, highways, and farm fields. A big difference being that the tent caterpillar's settlement is seasonal--more like the impact of nomadic tribes than our permanent villages--giving the tree a chance to recover.

Another big difference between tent caterpillars and other builders of shelters--bees, ants, birds, mice, people--is that the caterpillars don't seem to bring anything back to the shelter other than their bigger, well-fed selves. They aren't adults bringing food back to the young. The caterpillars, like super resourceful children, work collectively to raise themselves, then leave the tree on their own to pupate and turn into adult moths. 

A nice writeup about tent caterpillars (Malacosoma americanum) found at ThoughtCo.com states that the broad side of the tents faces the sun, and that the caterpillars make three forays per day, returning to their tents inbetween. That will be something to check out next spring.

Surprisingly, the subject of wild cherry trees in what is now the Barden (formerly a pine plantation) came up more than 50 years ago, in Richard J. Kramer's book about Herrontown Woods. 

"Wild black cherry, which grows to magnificent size in the Allegheny Mountains, is a poorly formed tree in Herrontown Woods, occurring mostly in areas which were recently open fields. Its best growth has been in the pine plantation, where specimens are 30 to 40 feet tall and possibly may develop into good-sized trees. Apparently these black cherries were able to develop along with the young pines after these were planted in the open field. Although the birds do bring seeds of the cherry into the forest, the many seedlings and the few saplings that occur there grow poorly and remain shrub-like."

Gone now are most of the pine trees in the pine plantation, and those larger cherry trees are nowhere to be found. Our 12 little black cherry trees in the Barden, all saddled with tent caterpillars, must be the descendants of the larger cherry trees Kramer describes. Only one large black cherry tree is known to exist now in Herrontown Woods, almost completely free of tent caterpillars, growing next to Veblen House. Have tent caterpillars contributed to keeping the black cherry trees of Herrontown Woods from achieving full size, in the past as well as in the present?

If we wanted to relieve the cherry trees of the spring burden of hungry caterpillars, we could remove the tents and remember to crush the egg masses laid by adult moths on small branches in late summer, as suggested in this useful post about the insect. 

But as insect numbers continue to decline, the role of trees as food for native insects grows in importance. And if the cherry trees remain small, that will allow more sunlight to reach the many wildflowers growing in the Barden. Leaving the tent caterpillars to grow undisturbed can serve as an experiment, to see if they continue to flourish year after year, or if nature's array of predators, pathogens, and parasitoids finally up their game and reduce the burden these trees now bear.

Four Kinds of Honey Bees in Northern Thailand

These bee hives look like something Winnie-the-Pooh might stick his paw into. The hives are made of hollowed out sections of tree trunk. The photo was taken by my daughter Anna, who was traveling this summer in southeast Asia. 

To escape the heat, she and her boyfriend headed up into a mountainous region in northern Thailand called Chang Rai, where the residents drink three kinds of tea and grow four kinds of honey. She was surprised to learn that the black, green, and white teas all come from the same plant--the same species of tea. But the four kinds of honey are not made by the same kind of bee. This is four kinds of honey made by four species of bees. Thailand, it is claimed, has the greatest bee diversity in the world, including half the world's species of honey bees, and in this tiny village the various honeys they produce are an important part of the diet. 

There's the honey we're familiar with, and then there's another one that tastes like apricot jam. A third, produced by the stingless bee, has a fermented fruity flavor like Kambucha. 

Another species, the asian giant honey bee (Apis dorsata), can't be kept in a hive, so villagers climb trees to reach the honey. Wooden footholds are placed in the tree trunk to expedite the climb. The giant honey bees don't stick around all year, but instead migrate up to 200 kilometers, returning to the same branch six months later.

The asian honey bee (Apis cerana) produces less honey than our honey bee, but is much easier to take care of. 

A Brief Account of Life in a Mountain Village in Thailand

Their first night in the village, they were surprised to be awakened at 3:30am by the robust crowing of roosters, so raucous that the whole village has little choice but to rise and begin its day. Chickens run loose, apparently free of local predators that might consume them before people have a chance to. Once a year, a tiger passes through the area, apparently without raising much concern.

The town runs on solar energy, but lest one think this mountain village an idyllic integration of humanity into nature, daytime brings cooking fires and the burning of refuse. The villagers are conditioned to the resulting stew of smoke that can linger in the valley, but it registered as noxious and toxic to Anna. 

Some of the refuse is plastic, which we're all told releases toxins when burned. What plastics do the villagers have if they grow their own food and have few possessions? Though they cook delicious meals most days, there are times when villagers may not feel like cooking, and so pull out store-bought noodles and tomato sauce, the plastic wrappings from which end up getting burned in the refuse pile. 

This is not much different from my own experience growing up in a small village in Wisconsin in the 1960s. One of my chores was to burn the garbage, plastic and all. In autumn, we'd rake some leaves into piles to jump into, and others into piles to burn. We'd toss acorns into the glowing core of the fire and wait for the popcorn-like explosion. On brisk, sunny fall days, the whole village became suffused with what registered as a sweet and endearing aroma of burning leaves. Even after moving to a city, the 1930s house we moved into had an incinerator in the basement for burning trash. And in the 70s and 80s, when I played jazz gigs in smoke-filled bars, it was not until the next morning that I'd notice the wretched smell of stale smoke in the clothes I had worn. 

There have been efforts to promote cleaner air in remote mountain villages around the world. Some students, before entering Princeton University, sign up to spend a "bridge year" in a foreign country doing good deeds, one of which is helping build cleaner burning stoves for villagers in Peru and elsewhere. You'd think the villagers would be grateful for a home less choked with smoke, and maybe they are, but the capacity of the body to become conditioned to abuse is both impressive and exasperating.

Lots of interesting reading out there on bees. Here's some info about eight species of honey bees around the world.

Lesser Celandine Alert!

It's time for the annual call to action to prevent lesser celandine from taking over all of Princeton. Also called fig buttercup, it's a highly invasive nonnative plant that is spreading rapidly, yard to yard and into parks and nature preserves, where it degrades habitat for wildlife. It thrives on homeowners' indifference and inaction, so I've been doing what I can, urging town officials to defend our parks and preserves, urging homeowners to take action in their own yards, explaining that herbicides are not anti-nature if they are used selectively and medicinally. My letter to the Town Topics and other local publications starts like this:

Blooming in many people’s yards right now is a small yellow flower that, upon closer inspection, proves not to be a dandelion. Variously called lesser celandine or fig buttercup, its radical invasiveness triggers a predictable progression of emotions in the homeowner. Delight at its pretty flower soon turns to alarm as year by year it takes over the yard, spreading through flower beds, across lawns and into neighboring properties. What may start as a few scattered, harmless-seeming clumps quickly becomes the equivalent of a rash upon the landscape. Unlike the dandelion, lesser celandine also spreads into nature preserves. Poisonous to wildlife, it forms thick stands reminiscent of pavement. Over time, our nature preserves become less and less edible to the wildlife they were meant to support. Native diversity shifts towards non-native monoculture.

Below are some photos to help with identification, and here is a link that includes suggested means of stopping it from taking over your yard. Though the link says only to spray through early April, I'd suggest that spraying is helpful for as long as its leaves are green. Lesser celandine is a spring ephemeral, meaning that it comes up early, then dies back in June, going dormant until the next spring. Gardeners who like to dig up plants of this or that to give to friends should be aware that, if their yards have been invaded by lesser celandine, some of it may hitchhike in whatever plants they dig up later in the season to give away. They may unwittingly be giving a fellow gardener the beginnings of a major headache.

Lesser celandine is poisonous, and yet some websites declare it edible and offer recipes. Why the contradiction? Apparently, lesser celandine accumulates toxins later in the spring. The toxins break down during cooking or after drying. Still, one takes one's chances trying to eat it, and, alas, wildlife don't cook.

I've seen bees collecting pollen and nectar from the flowers, which is all fine and good, but this doesn't compensate for the inedibility of the leaves. The invasion of our lands by nonnative plants that wildlife don't eat essentially shrinks the acreage of functional habitat in Princeton, even though a great deal of open space has been preserved. Thus the need for management.

Given that some areas of Princeton have been overrun by lesser celandine, it's important to defend those areas that have not, by closely monitoring and spot spraying where the plant is just starting to move in. Invasions begin with just a few plants here and there. An absolute minimum of herbicide is needed to easily defend these areas. Lesser celandine can easily be distinguished from dandelion. Walk the grounds before the grass gets mowed in the spring and while the plant is blooming. For lawns, a product like Weed B Gone works. For other areas, a 2% solution of glyphosate does the trick. Since glyphosate can take a week to show visible effect on the plant, it's best to spray early in the spring so that there's time to see results and spray any areas missed. For those near wetlands, wetland-safe formulations of glyphosate are available, so Roundup is not the only option.

In terms of aesthetics, lesser celandine's dense, exclusionary growth does to the landscape what people badly afflicted with narcissism do to social situations. A woodland that once hosted a diversity of native wildflowers becomes, when overwhelmed by lesser celandine, one species' declaration of Me! Me! Me! 

Here's what it looks like up close.

Here's an example of the blotchy appearance an early invasion creates on a lawn. These blotches expand until the whole yard is coated.

The closest lookalike in the lawn is the violet, whose leaves are darker, more curled, and more toothed along the edges. 

Some Spring Sightings at Herrontown Woods

There's been lots of activity at Herrontown Woods over the past few weeks as nature begins to stir.

At last week's Sunday morning workday at the Barden (Botanical ARt garDEN), some middleschoolers really enjoyed picking the seeds of wild senna that had stayed on the stalks through the winter. This Sunday, we'll cut last year's stalks to make way for new growth.

Herrontown Woods caretaker Andrew Thornton discovered a bloodroot flower blooming just off the trail. Bloodroots and the very rare hepatica are early bloomers. March 20 for the bloodroot, which leads with the flower before generating a leaf.

Anyone who looks skyward at the Barden may see willow blossoms--one of the "keepers" we found amidst all the invasive shrubs cleared to create the Barden. The blooms of willows and red maples are an important food source for early stirring bees.

On warm, wet nights, salamanders navigate through the leaves to reach vernal pools to lay eggs for the next generation. Vernal means spring, as in vernal equinox.

Vernal pools are also the place for wood frogs to mate and lay eggs. Thanks to Lisa Boulanger, who took these two beautiful photos three weeks ago.

We first noticed our black vulture had returned on March 15. A pair of them raise their young each year in the corncrib near the Veblen Cottage. We used to think they were bad omens, but have gained respect for them as parents and for their ecological role in the community. 

Someone's been busy over the winter building a village in a little out of the way spot in Herrontown Woods. It appears to have avenues, skyscrapers, and some bricks that may represent schools or a hospital. Maybe it's a fort, given its walls. 

Coincidentally, public library staff are talking about doing a reading of the children's book Roxaboxen at the Barden in a month or two.

The boulders along the ridge are rounded, composed of diabase, which in my experience is associated with rare plant species that thrive in the particular kind of soil generated from the weathering of these rocks. The boulders were not deposited here by glaciers, but instead formed from molten upwellings from below. 

In Herrontown Woods and Autumn Hill Reservation there are numerous little abandoned quarries where some of the larger boulders were split into chunks and hauled away. 

Springtime is a great time to figure out where we need more stepping stones along trails. Because the rocks along the ridge are chunky and rounded--of no use for steps through muddy sections of trails--we make frequent trips to rock piles generated nearby, just off the ridge, where a developer has dug a basement. These conveniently flat stones are from the sedimentary deposits that the molten upwellings pushed through to create the ridge. 

One plant that doesn't look like much but which I've always been curious about is what is this low-growing grass. I call it soft fescue, and wonder if it was common long ago, and later became the first lawns around houses. Many old lawns still contain this mounded grass. Here's a patch of it growing along Herrontown Road.

At Veblen House, the remnants of Elizabeth Veblen's garden still cycle through the seasons, with sweeps of snowbells giving way this week to the many daffodils she spread across the grounds.

 

Celebrating the Life of Dorothy Mullen

Many in Princeton and beyond knew and loved Dorothy Mullen, for her spirit, generosity, community activism, and her many initiatives, most notably the school gardens and the Suppers Program. 

A memorial service will take place this Saturday, Oct. 30, at 10am at the Presbyterian Church in Lawrenceville, NJ. The service will likely be very crowded, but there will also be an opportunity to witness the occasion via zoom. 

I wrote a song called Dorothy's Garden after seeing Dorothy for the last time, back in the fall of 2019. The song on the video starts about two minutes in. I will play a recording of the song at the open mic after the service, and recite the lyrics. Here's the sheet music, transposed to G for easier reading, and a post from a couple years ago about the garden she created in her front yard, which is now being tended by the new owner of her house.

Lyrics to Dorothy's Garden

Take a walk in Dorothy's garden, In the springtime in Dorothy's garden. Sleepy seeds in the dirt so mellow, Dreaming flowers of white and yellow. Come and see in the garden, Dorothy's garden, Kale and peas and carrots. And some peace you will find there, Always find where the weeds are a feint memory. There are children in Dorothy's garden, Finding free figs in Dorothy's garden. In the strawberry patch they linger. Quiet joy their presence brings her. And the bees on the asters, flying past her-- She is the master gardener. And the okra and sunflower feel her love As they grow towards the sun far above. Someone's learning in Dorothy's garden. Worms are churning in Dorothy's garden. Plants are turning in Dorothy's garden Into Suppers from Dorothy's garden. And the roots they will roam, always finding a home, In the loam, under Dorothy's garden.

Where Have All the Pollinators Gone? -- Summer, 2021

Wherein is discussed the season's paucity of pollinators, the curiously prolific presence of hornets, and possible causes thereof. 

With the coming and the going of this year's autumnal equinox, it's time to look back on a long summer and ask, "What happened?" Or, more precisely, "What happened to the happening that didn't happen?" 

There's lots of talk about how insects are in decline and that we need to plant more wildflowers to support them. A local ecologist and avid birder, David Wilcove, co-wrote an oped in the Washington Post about the danger posed by insect decline, and the need to better monitor populations, as is done with birds.

In past years, a summer's climactic buzzfest on the boneset

This year, there was a steep decline in pollinator numbers in Princeton. Each year I grow a banquet of wildflowers in my backyard for all manner of insects to feast upon. In past years, they'd come from near and far, their numbers building through summer, climaxing in late August in a buzzfest on the boneset. Though mountain mint is another great draw for insects, in my yard it was boneset in particular, clustered here and there in the garden, that in past years drew the multitudinous shapes and sizes of the insect world. Its broad disks of tiny white flowers seemed like a Serengeti in miniature, an open plain perched conveniently four feet above the ground, teaming with life. It was a chance to see the insects close up, they being so focused on the nectar or each other that they took little notice of me.

Then, two years ago, and again last year, the numbers of insects were down--still numerous but not enough to stir that late-summer's jazzy feeling of frenzied activity. 

2021: An astonishing diminishment

And this year? This year, boosted by the rains, the wildflowers grew to fabulous size. Broad arrays of blooms mounted on multiple stems stood at the ready. In early summer, while periodical cicadas held center stage, the numbers and variety of pollinators were building nicely. 

But then, as the wildflower meadow's heavy hitters--the cutleaf coneflowers, Joe-Pye-Weeds, bonesets and wild sennas--unveiled their fabulous blooms for the mid-summer festival of nectar, the insects were no-shows. Abundant flowers had few pollinators, and sometimes none at all. Diversity dwindled to some tiny somethings, a few bumblebees and even fewer honey bees. 

Sifting through possible causes for the decline

Possible causes for the dramatic decline have been offered: extreme heat, more homeowners fogging their yards for mosquitoes, expanding monocultures of lawn and invasive species. Or perhaps the climate-changed winters have messed with insect dormancy.

The rains of July, the rains of August

What I have particularly noticed over the past three years, however, is the increase in rain during the summer. Rutgers precipitation data for NJ show increased precipitation particularly over the past two years in July and August. Not only has there been more rain, but the intensity of the rain has increased. The sound on the roof is different--one can hear and even feel the extraordinary density and weight of the rain. The deep trauma of Hurricane Ida was the climax among multiple intense storms before and after. The ground and foliage are literally getting beaten up by these deluges. Insects try to hide during storms. Some live in the ground. The harder the rain, the fewer places to hide, and the more likelihood that a ground nest will be flooded out. All that sustained moisture could increase the risk of disease, which an entomologist friend says can play a big role in bee numbers. 

Some of us noticed other changes as well. Gladly, the numbers of odorous house ants invading our kitchen were down from previous years. Mosquitoes in our area seemed relatively rare in early summer, though numbers surged later in the season--tiny ones, probably asian tiger mosquitoes. 

A proliferation of hornets

What was most striking and very strange was a proliferation of hornets. Last year, I seldom saw them, but oftentimes this summer, approaching a patch of flowers, the first thing that would catch my eye was not pollinators but the hornets that can prey upon them. 

We have two kinds of insects called hornets. One is the European hornet, which looks to me like a stocky bee--black markings with a particularly thick yellow abdomen.

The other is the bald-faced hornet, a native insect with black markings and a whitish face. 

Both are hard to photograph because they don't land, but instead keep cruising around the flowers. Periodically they may bump into a bee that was minding its own business on a flower. The contact lasts a split second, then the hornet flies on. The purpose of this brief harassment is not clear. 

Here's a bald-faced hornet in adult and larval form, found on a fragrant of nest someone left at the curb. Both kinds of hornets live in nests that are in or hang from trees. The paper they make, by the way, is beautiful when looked at close up.

Why the proliferation of hornets, cruising relentlessly among the flowers with a sense of urgency but no clear goal? Maybe they just seemed more numerous due to the lack of other insects to catch one's attention. Or maybe the fact that they live in elevated, waterproof nests allowed them to better survive the intense storms. 

The seeds of change planted over centuries

In any case, this summer was not the lively pollinator party I was used to playing host to, both in my backyard and at our Botanical Art Garden (the "Barden") in Herrontown Woods. One interpretation is that the carbon dioxide we've been scattering to the winds is now coming home to roost, in the form of weird winters and intensified storms. In Princeton, basements flooded that had never flooded before. It's not a stretch to hypothesize that many bees also find themselves newly vulnerable to the merciless power of the rain. And then, on the sunny days when pollinators can make it to the flowers, there's the haunting background of patrolling hornets.

In a docile wasp, some small comfort

As students returned to the university, I remembered helping my daughter move in to Whitman College two years ago. In the courtyard, I had noticed thousands of wasps cruising just above the grass. It was a mating dance, of no danger to the parents and students passing by, of blue-winged wasps. I had recognized their distinctive orange abdomen from those that would frequent the flowers in my backyard, a mile away from campus. 

This year, I had seen only one in my yard, and wondered whether their improbable annual ritual was still playing out at Whitman College. 

What I found on Sept 2nd were perhaps a hundred wasps flying in their usual criss-cross manner a foot above the lawn. Some seemed fatigued by it all, and would abandon their flight to sit among the grass blades for awhile. Though their numbers were down from the thousands I'd seen two years prior, I was glad to see any at all. And a student sitting in a lawn chair, scrutinizing his computer, told me there had been many more ten days prior when students first began moving in. 

It would be nice to think that the paucity of pollinators I observed this summer was an isolated affair. But others around New Jersey have made similar reports. An entomologist friend who lives in Oregon told me that he's seen "a very significant decline in pollinators" this year, probably due to drought, though he also said that each species can vary in numbers year to year. 

An ark is built of something more than flowers

We take so much for granted in our lives. When something breaks, that's when one has to study up and figure out how it works, what went wrong, and how possibly to fix it. The insect world has been taken for granted since forever. Annual bird surveys benefit from a community of avid birders, but citizen scientists who are up to speed on the mind-boggling diversity of insects are fewer to come by. We thought we could just plant some flowers and the insects would come, but the needs appear to be far deeper than that.