All month I have been on alert listening for the calls of the Sandhill cranes as they continue their migration south. Last year a good number of cranes spent the winter here landing in the neighboring field to find food, and roosting down by the river in the riffles…
 
This year, except for a few sightings and an occasional singular “brring” call by a few, the cranes have been absent. The river is so unnaturally high that it is ripping the shore away in chunks; the torrents of raging water are drowning the riffles where shorebirds once landed to rest or fish. Even the solitary heron has moved on. It is hardly surprising that the Sandhill cranes are not staying overnight even if they pass by overhead.
 
I also suspect that the cranes’ migratory routes have shifted, although as yet I can’t find supporting evidence for my hypothesis in the literature. We do know that one of the consequences of Climate Change is that many migratory birds are shifting their routes or not traveling as far south as they once did. The cranes used to have three distinct flyways that flowed into one great artery the further south they traveled, and conversely fan out with some cranes flying as far as west as the eastern coast of Siberia during the northern spring migration. These days it is hard to predict what may be happening.
 
Although it is almost the end of November I have only seen one good size flock of twenty cranes flying over the house; this group was traveling due west. I have seen a few in very small groups of two, three, and five in number, and I know that my neighbors and I had a couple in their field.
 
Seeing and hearing Sandhill Cranes has to be one of the the greatest joys of living near the river in Abiquiu, and I keenly miss their presence and haunting calls.
 
This year’s trip to the Bosque del Apache assuaged my loneliness. For one whole day I was steeped in wonder and gratitude that such a place even existed (I almost forgot that this refuge is also open to hunting. This “create a refuge and then shoot the animals” is normalized behavior for all state Fish and Game organizations).
 
To have so many cranes and snow geese along with harriers and other raptors, eagles, ducks, herons, sliders, fish, deer visible all at once while listening to crane and geese cacophony put me in state that I call “Natural Grace,” where nothing but the immediate present matters. At one point I met a couple who asked to take my picture. When I asked why they both said in union -"Why, you are so beautiful, you look like you belong here." Evidently, the cranes had transformed me!
 
The day was perfect – absolutely no wind and temperatures that were so mild that I was able to sit on the ground watching cranes/snow geese through my binoculars until the sun finally set, and many groups of cranes and snow geese had taken to the sky. I recorded the birds calling out to each other, and now whenever I listen to my tape I am transported back in time to that wondrous day. I am so grateful to have been there.

We know from fossilized records that the Sandhill Cranes are one of oldest birds in the world, and have been in their present form for 10, 30, or 60 million years (depending on the source). They have apparently maintained a family and community structure that allows them to live together peacefully and migrate by the thousands twice a year. Sandhill Cranes mate for life, and in the spring the adults engage in a complex “dance” with one another. During mating, pairs throw their heads back and unleash a passionate duet—an extended litany of coordinated song. Cranes also dance, run, leap high in the air and otherwise cavort around—not only during mating, but all year long.

In their northern habitat, the female lays two eggs a year in thick protected areas at the edge of reed filled marshes. Before nesting these birds “paint” their gray feathers with dull brown reeds and mud to reduce the possibility of being seen by a predator. Born a couple of days a part, the second chick rarely survives. The fuzzy youngster that does (if it survives the first year – delayed reproduction and survival rates factor into the difficulties inherent in crane conservation and to that we must now add Climate Change) stays with its parents for about three years before reaching sexual maturity and striking out on its own, but even then the adult stays within the parameters of its extended family, and it is these families that comprise the small groups of cranes that we see flying together. During migration, a multitude of these groups travel together. There are no leaders and often it is possible to observe what looks like an unorganized random group or diagonal thread made up of cranes flying above the ground. In every roosting place there are a few cranes that remain awake all night alerting their relatives to would be predators.

I think it’s significant that these very ancient birds have survived so long in their present form. I’ll repeat my original question: Could it be that cranes understand the value of living in community in a way that has become foreign to humans who seem hell bent on embracing the values of competition, power, and control on a global level? Perhaps we could all benefit from watching Sand hill cranes with rapt attention.

​Recently I had an astonishing experience with some Harvester ants. I have been intrigued by the conical, volcanic mounds these ants construct ever since I came to the desert. When I moved into the casita one large mound sat across my driveway. Sometimes I would stop and visit with these very busy little creatures marveling over their industrious nature. Last spring when I planted a juniper not far from their mound I noted that the ants never attempted to bother me. Of course, I was respectful and careful not to disturb them.
 
We have lived here in peace until my recent return to Abiquiu. One day, without my knowledge, someone totally flattened the roof of their house. When I took my little Chihuahuas for a walk Lucy suddenly started screaming like a banshee. Frightened out of my wits I snatched her up and ran back into the house. My poor dog was in agony. Inspecting her foot, I discovered that she had been bitten by an ant. I instantly removed the ant who was curled up as if dead in a ball. Within minutes it was clear that something was very wrong with Lucy because she became ill. I frantically called my vet for assistance… when the Benadryl failed to work my vet told me that Lucy was allergic to this ant’s venom and if bitten again might die. Lucy was sick for days, and although she has recovered to some extent, she still favors the back leg where she was bitten. I continue to carry her out the door and down the driveway where she feels safe enough to go to the bathroom.
 
When I first approached the ant’s squashed house later that first afternoon these once peaceable ants attacked me viciously, but who could blame them? If my house was flattened I would be angry too. After donning my rubber boots I went back to the remains of the mound and asked them for forgiveness… I did this day after day, and by the fourth day the ants although wary, were no longer swarming around my feet, although some of them lined up in front of me as if ready for another unpleasant incident. I kept my daily monologue going until the ants realized that I meant them no harm, and now we are living once again in harmony. Unfortunately, Lucy is still afraid and remains at risk…
 
Naturally, I wanted to know more about these particular ants, especially with regard to our former peaceful co-existence. Researching, the first thing I learned was that  although they are larger than most species and have two of the most formidable weapons known among insects-large, pointed mandibles and most efficient stings-they are not quarrelsome, and fight only in self-defense. They are so peaceably inclined that other species of ants are allowed to come into their clearings and throw up their tiny crescent-shaped mounds of earth.
 
Sometimes the small ants attack and chase the mound-builders that pass by! Apparently Harvester ants carry this peaceful disposition to a point where they permit the common termite and some other species of ants to live with them in the chambers of their nests and to partake of their stored food. This information confirmed what I had learned from living with these creatures. They certainly weren’t out to get us. Poor Lucy was bitten by the ants by mistake in self defense.
 
These ants live throughout the Southwest in large colonies in gravel-covered mounds, each located in a cleared circular space. Beneath the beautiful humps are chambers and galleries that penetrate the earth as far down as ten feet. These chambers and galleries serve as store- rooms, nurseries, and workshops.
 
The ants cannot tolerate the presence of vegetation near their mounds, and the workers clear it away by use of their well-adapted mandibles. Plants probably get in their way and retain moisture after a rain, favoring the growth of destructive fungi. The ants cover the mound to a depth of from one-half to one inch with a layer of coarse particles selected from the surrounding detritus (including bits of turquoise I’ve heard people remark), making the slope steep. They also add soil that has been brought up from below.
 
In many of the mounds like mine the ants go and come through one opening, in others they have two or three such entrances. These gateways are usually located about one-third the way up from the base to the summit of the mound. They commonly face east, southeast or south.
 
At night, or on the approach of a rain-storm, the openings are closed by the workers. During the summer the ants begin to close them shortly before sunset and open them between eight and nine o'clock in the morning.
 
Except for an unbroken layer just beneath the gravelly surface, the whole mound is honeycombed with chambers and galleries. The nest has both sealed and unsealed storerooms filled with seeds.
 
Like many other ants these mound - builders have queens, males, and workers (sterile females). The workers dominate the colony and can number in the thousands. The workers are armed with stingers. The workers also gather seeds of various kinds and carry them into the nest. The hulls are torn off, carried out, and dumped at one side of the clearing, and the plump seeds are stored away in the underground granaries. These storerooms, packed with seeds of various kinds, may be found from an inch or two beneath the gravelly covering down to the lowest chambers, those beneath the frost line.
 
As I watch ‘my’ friends the ants patiently re –building their former home it is impossible not be impressed by these diligent animals who go about living their lives in such a peaceable manner. Perhaps we humans could learn something about generosity of spirit and communal living from our neighbors, the mound builders?
 

I met a man on a rumbling train who had hooks in his hat.
 
A fisherman, I thought with the usual dismay – brutal images of dying fish gasping for air exploded in thin air. Memories of my grandmother who took her eight year old granddaughter fly fishing also flooded my mind (my grandmother was a professional fly fisherwoman). I caught my first fish in the brook – a six inch trout. After landing the desperate creature my grandmother said, “ now we must kill it so the fish does not suffer.” And she looked for a stone.
 
Hit it over the head” she instructed handing me a rock she picked up nearby, and I did.  Tears welled up. It broke my child’s heart to murder such a shimmering rainbowed creature.
 
When we got home that day, my grandmother praised me lavishly for my catch, promptly gutted the fish and fried it in a pan for me to eat. I forgot the anguish I had experienced, basking in my grandmother’s approval. The fish tasted delicious, and to this day I eat fish and other seafood.
 
As a lobsterman’s wife I learned quickly how to cook crustaceans by sticking their heads in boiling water so they would die almost instantly.
 
No fish ever suffered after it was hauled into our boat. I killed each individual myself, enduring ridicule in the process.
 
My grandmother had taught me well.
 
Yet, becoming a fisherwoman never appealed to me.
 
Instead I became a Naturalist…
 
When the man on the train began talking I politely asked him what kinds of fish he caught. “All kinds” he replied with obvious enthusiasm. Inwardly I groaned, quickly changing the subject to the hooks on his hat.
 
Each one was unique, and all were beautiful and when I told him I had a childhood friend who tied flies he took off his hat and gave it to me to inspect. After admiring the exquisite craftsmanship of each lure the man surprised me with his next remark as he replaced the hat on his head.
 
 He exclaimed, “I love to catch fish but I never eat them! I throw each one back. If you look carefully at the hooks you will notice that none of them have a barb.”
 
How had this observation escaped me? Sure enough, each hook was barbless, and I understood that this way the fish could be caught and returned to the sea unharmed. I was suddenly overjoyed to meet the man with the hat. With words of deep appreciation I happily shook his hand, exclaiming how wonderful it was to meet a dedicated fisherman who released his catch!
 We went on to discuss the merits of conservation with regard to freshwater fishing. Suddenly the man  removed his hat again.
 
“I want you to have one of these hooks,” he said quietly handing the hat to me. “We are kindred spirits.”
 
I chose one small perfect fly and carefully wrappd it up in a paper napkin before putting it in my purse. Thanking him.
 
When I got home that night I already knew where the tiny hook would find home. I have a beautiful Norfolk pine and hanging from one branch is a tiny flask that Iren once gave me that I periodically re-fill with our river water. The diminutive bottle is tied to one end of the string and I carefully attached the barbless hook to the other end.
 
Every time I walk by that tree I give thanks for the water that flows from Red Willow River and I remember the man with the hat who loved his fish!
 
But there is more to this story. On my birthday this year Iren and I met someone who had a fish he had recently caught that was still gasping for breath in a plastic bag. I begged him to kill it, offering to do it myself. My offer was rejected and afterwards, Iren, who is a vegetarian, thanked me for trying to save the fish, acknowledging that the experience had been too upsetting for her.
 
Of course, I understood why.
 
Within two weeks of this painful incident I met the man with the hat and now when I pass by my tree I think of Iren, the man, and me. One of us eats fish; the other two do not. But all three of us abhor animal suffering. And that hook has become a symbol of hope. Perhaps there are more us out there than I thought! 

I am already missing the stand of staghorn sumac that was growing on the road near my house here in Maine. This time of year I look to the ornamental sumac groves for the first signs of fall. These small trees turn the most exquisite sun yellow, deep orange and flaming red as the season progresses as well as providing the birds with clusters of dark red berries that evening grosbeaks, northern cardinals, ruffed grouse, turkeys, robins, chickadees, woodpeckers, and others feast on throughout the coming winter and spring. Deer, elk, and moose browse on the leaves and twigs. Some butterflies use this food to feed their young and sumacs provide nectar for bees and other beneficial insects while providing great shelter for many more wild creatures.
 
In Maine many consider these small trees a nuisance but elsewhere, like in New Mexico, the plant is sold and grown for its vibrant color. I don’t know how many folks know that this plant is so beneficial to wildlife.  
 
The staghorn sumac is just one of many sumacs that are found all over the world, and most look similar. This large shrub has compound leaves, meaning each leaf is composed of several leaflets. Eleven to thirty plus leaflets are arranged in opposite pairs along a stem which droops gracefully towards the ground. The leaves are toothed along the edges, the branches fuzzy. Clumps of small greenish flowers are inconspicuous but form an upright cone that yields red berries by late summer.
 
Sumacs are not fussy about growing requirements and thrive in open places, hillsides, along the edges of pine forests and country roads all throughout the northeast.  There are some species that are well adapted to desert areas because they are particularly drought tolerant. Sumacs control erosion because they have shallow roots. They like to grow in groves to develop complex root systems that support the whole group.
 
One cousin is poisonous. This sumac can easily be identified even if it looks similar to other sumacs because of its penchant for swamps and other wet places. It likes to have its feet in water. This species has a thick trunk and sturdy branches; it produces sprays of drooping smooth white berries in the fall. The plant can cause an unpleasant rash.  

Humans have enjoyed sumac berries, which have a zingy lemon taste when picked at their peak, typically in late summer or early fall. They are packed with vitamin C. Soak berries in hot or cold water and then strain to make a refreshing drink or a gargle for sore throats. If the drink is too sharp for your taste buds, add a little maple syrup.

Other sumac parts have been used in a variety of ways: fresh sumac stems have been used in basket weaving, the tannin-packed leaves and bark have been used for tanning leather and the roots have been made into teas that help stop bleeding. The leaves and berries are used to make dyes.

The trees have multiple trunks and pithy, hollow stems. The wood is good for many things, including whittling, making pipe stems and making a natural “tap” for collecting maple syrup from a tree. Unlike poison sumac, ornamental sumac brush can be safely burned, and the smoke can be used by beekeepers to calm the bees during hive maintenance.

Ornamental sumacs are highly adaptive, and there are different types for every region of the United States and Canada. Sumacs are also imported from other parts of the world and naturalized in North America. Another advantage is that they appear to be impervious to many plant diseases. Once established they spread easily.

It wasn’t until I lived in New Mexico that I thought of them as a garden addition because there are so many varieties growing wild around here.

 
 
 

The moment I saw Iren’s picture I was hooked and had to look these beetles up. I am always trying to figure out who is feasting on the multitude of deadly amanitas that live all around me in Maine and sure enough the Pleasing Fungus Beetle lives in Maine too, and its larvae feed on amanitas. It’s hard to tell from the picture but I suspect that Iren’s fungus might be an amanita too.
 
Obviously, whoever named this beetle was an enthusiastic entomologist, that is, a person who studies insects! Pleasing fungus beetles are worldwide in distribution, but the vast majority of the species occur in the tropics. Of the approximately 3,500 known species, only 51 are found in America north of Mexico.
 
The name ‘fungus beetle’ may be applied to several closely-related groups of beetles. The most commonly encountered ‘fungus beetles’ are the ‘Silken Fungus Beetles’ and the ‘Minute Brown Scavenger Beetles’. As its common name implies, Fungus Beetles feed on a wide variety of fungi not just amanitas.
 
Fungus beetles also feed on mold or mildews and are attracted to anything that is musty smelling. Moisture levels in new buildings will often attract these insects. Fungus Beetles are harmless, but small enough to get through most screening, vents and other openings. They can be found flying around in homes during late summer.
​
 Some Fungus Beetles are small red/orange and black and these are the ones I am familiar with. Some beetles are splashed with iridescent bright blue or green, although they too have a primarily black shell. Others are simply brown or black. The ones in the picture have a bluish caste to them.
Fungus beetles measure from one tenth to one sixth of an inch in length. Some Fungus beetles have clubbed antennae. Others have bodies covered with dimple – like punctures. Fungus beetles develop from egg larva pupa to adult according to temperature. They can mature in 25 –to 36 days at 75 degrees, but at lower temperatures adults may take 5 months to mature.
 A wide variety of the fruiting bodies of fungi serves as hosts for the family as a whole, but each pleasing fungus beetle species seems to be specific to a certain group of fungi. The species with larger individuals, feed in the harder bracket fungi found on dead trees and stumps. Others feed on oyster mushrooms or feed on other mushrooms growing from dead logs and roots. Some members feed on fungi that have mycorrhyzal associations with living tree roots. These mushrooms include Russulas and Amanitas or deathcap  mushrooms. Pleasing fungus beetles gravitate to pine and aspen groves.

The sluggish larvae are only found associated with the mature host fruiting body. Adults are often found on the host fungus in large numbers with the larvae. However, adults are also found away from the host. When conditions are unfavorable for the host fungi to fruit, adults often congregate under bark or in other hiding places.

The larvae feed on the fungus during late spring and early summer, consuming large quantities. When full-grown the larvae hang from the underside of the logs and transform to a pupa, often in groups of several dozen. With this habit, a grouping of pupae may appear somewhat like a miniature bat roost. After about a couple of weeks the adults emerge and remain active through the end of summer and into early fall.
Amazingly, Iren’s photograph demonstrates much of the Pleasing Fungus Beetle’s life cycle. Iren told me that she found this log at about 9500 feet in a grove of trees. Thanks Iren!

July is the beginning of the wild day lily feast in Maine. Orange day lilies are springing into bloom in every ditch, field, meadow, and at the edge of every forest glade. In my garden the hybridized lilies I planted years ago have reverted back to their ‘wild’ orange relatives.
 
When I think of Maine and mid-summer I think of orange day lilies. I was amazed when I moved to Abiquiu to note that my neighbor Bruce had so many growing around his house. Orange day lilies grow in the high desert too!
 
Up until mid-life I had a rather casual attitude towards these lilies. Orange was not my favorite color. Perhaps that’s why I ignored the profusion that grew wild around my little house on Southport Island. One day while talking to a woman friend who was then in her seventies I complained about having too many lilies. Eileen who loved wildflowers as much as I did was startled by my callous attitude, exclaiming, “Sara, those lilies are just as beautiful as all the other wildflowers you love. Maybe you have not really looked at them. I’ll take some if you like.”
 
My stomach heaved – Eileen was right. I had never given these lilies a chance. When I walked home to dig some for Eileen I followed the lines of a single blossom noting the delicate variegated stripe that ran down each of its six petals, petals that opened like stars, the lemony yellow throat, the salmon color…I gently touched the velvety flower, silently asking for forgiveness. From that day onward I felt a kinship with ordinary wild orange lilies that has stayed with me all these years, and every July I remember my friend Eileen with gratitude. She opened my eyes.
 
Hemerocallis fulva, the tawny orange day-lily has many common names like ditch or outhouse lily that give the reader the sense of where these lilies thrive - in places of neglect where there is a source of water. However, it seems that they will also grow in the most inhospitable landscapes. Amazingly, like wild roses, these lilies are not native at all but originally came from Asia. The day lily is not a true lily but gets its name from the similarity of the flowers to the genus Lilium and the fact that each flower lasts only one day. True lilies have bulbs and day lilies have fibrous tubers. Many true lily bulbs are poisonous.
 
Originally this plant was grown in this country as an ornamental because of its ease of cultivation and its long flowering season – one that extends for about two to three months lasting well into fall. Eventually, the day lily escaped into the wild and now can be found growing almost anywhere in temperate climates. In Northern climates it needs no care at all. In areas like New Mexico it does not grow wild but can easily be cultivated. Just a little regular water and some shade will keep the fans green and blossoms coming throughout the summer. The fact that theses lilies are so drought resistant should not be taken lightly with Climate Change on our doorstep. I plan to dig up some of my neighbor’s tubers to plant around the casita next fall. I will add a nitrogen fixing ground cover – probably clover or vetch  – to feed the tubers. Healthy tubers help with drought.
 
 Initially, I was surprised to discover just how many sites on the internet were devoted to getting rid of these prolific lilies that are considered “invasive” until I remembered my own casual attitude towards these super adaptable plants that are also edible!
 
While there are many gorgeous hybrid daylilies that one can also eat, the ‘wild’ orange ones are said to be the tastiest. Start with steaming or stir-frying the buds, which are tender and delicious with a little butter and salt. Harvest some opened flowers and fry them in tempura batter or fill them with herbed ricotta and saute' them in a little olive oil. It is also possible to remove all the green parts of the first shoots to expose the tender yellow centers and use these in spring salads. Because the tubers spread so fast it is possible to dig the tubers and eat those either raw or steamed. They are quite delicious with a unique taste all their own.
 
Bon Appetite!
 
 

In late May a friend of mine in Abiquiu told me that he saw at least 10 Monarch butterflies clustered together in one group, a sighting that warmed my heart because the year before I had seen so few.
 
Last year I was fortunate enough to have a milkweed plant seed itself by the casita. When the seeds ripened in the fall I scattered the silky airborne parachutes under the original plant hoping that the milkweed would re –seed. This spring I was rewarded. Three new plants emerged in a place that would be watered as long as we had summer rains. When I left Abiquiu the plants were doing well, but summer would tell the tale…
 
Milkweed is the one plant that Monarchs love and the only plant on which they will lay their eggs. I hoped that a small cluster of these plants might provide sweet nectar that would entice a few more of these butterflies to visit the casita during the summer and during fall migration.
 
It should be mentioned that milkweed also provides an intriguing form of protection for this butterfly. The milkweed juices make the Monarch poisonous to predatory birds. Additionally, the deep orange color of the butterfly alerts predators to the fact that their intended meal might be toxic.
 
Here in Maine I have a field that is covered in milkweed from early July onward. I have raised many Monarchs to adulthood over a period of thirty years because it has been relatively easy to find the eggs which are laid on the underside of the milkweed leaves beginning in late summer. The scent of the flower is, to me, intoxicating, and the clusters of tiny blossoms are so beautiful to look at in their myriad shades of pale pink salmon.
 
Ever since the milkweed started blooming this summer I have been on the lookout for Monarchs. I saw my first butterfly at Popham beach on the coast where Milkweed plants are plentiful growing amidst the sand dunes, and in wild coastal fields. I then glimpsed two around my house this week, and remain hopeful that I will see more…
 
Monarch butterflies are perhaps best known for their migrating habits. No other butterflies migrate as far; this insect flies up to three thousand miles each year. Millions of these butterflies will fly from Canada to Mexico this fall.  (Oddly though, populations in Florida apparetnly don’t travel).
 
More astonishing this entire trip will take four generations to complete. The Monarchs begin their southern migration September to October. Eastern and northeastern populations, originating in southern Canada and the United States, travel to overwintering sites in central Mexico. They arrive at their roosting sites in November. When the butterflies reach their destination in Mexico they return to the same trees that their forbearers did sometimes roosting deep in the forest. They remain in their roosts during the winter months and then begin their northern migration in March. No individual butterfly completes the entire round trip. Female monarchs lay eggs for a subsequent generation during the northward migration. Four generations are involved in the annual cycle.
 
Western populations, which would include the Monarchs in New Mexico, follow a similar pattern migrating annually from regions west of the Rocky Mountains to overwintering sites on the coast of California.
 
Many folks know that the Monarch butterfly population has dropped 90 percent over the past 20 years (Center for Biological Diversity). The species has become ‘functionally extinct’, meaning that the numbers are so low now that the Monarchs have little hope of long-term survival. Scientists look to monarchs and other butterflies as indicators of environmental health, since they are easily affected by air and water pollution, severe weather, pesticides, the presence of other toxins and, of course, Climate Change. It breaks my heart to acknowledge that most folks have not paid attention to the decline of these beautiful insects. Globally we are paying a huge price for our blindness and indifference.

When it comes to Monarchs the present is what we have, and I encourage anyone that gardens to create a milkweed patch for these wanderers in the hopes that we might extend their collective lifetime a few more years. It’s important to note that milkweed needs adequate water. Refusing to use lethal backyard pesticides and planting milkweed are two things we can do to help these glorious orange insects thrive in the short term. 

My friend Iren from Abiquiu just wrote me that on the full moon some fireflies were lighting up the night down by the river’s edge. I was so happy to hear that news because last summer those diminutive lanterns were absent around the casita even though it is situated close to the river.
 
In my Maine backyard this summer some green and gold lights continue to flash their signals just before dark lasting into the night. I find myself looking for patterns, and counting firefly numbers obsessively, almost against my will, remembering what was…
 
When I first moved to the mountains 30 plus years ago I camped in the field next to the brook and couldn’t fall sleep at night, struck by “lightening bug” wonder. It seemed as if the field itself was on fire with thousands of these magical lights that blinked as they skimmed the tall grasses, glowing like emerald jewels from the ground. When my camp was built it was awash in firefly light, and each year I anxiously awaited magical, mystical summer nights when my nocturnal friends would appear. The first evening or so after they arrived, I couldn’t resist capturing a few to keep in a ventilated jar overnight, just as I had done as a child.
 
When it started I thought it was my imagination. Maybe it was a bad year for fireflies I rationalized, the first summer I noted the absence of an abundance of lights hovering over the field. But I was wrong. Year after year, journal entries confirmed my worst fears. The fireflies were disappearing and there was nothing I could do about it.
 
Even now that I know that our insects are experiencing a holocaust there is a child in me that cannot accept that fireflies are leaving us and that its just a matter of time before these insects disappear for good. I recently read that tourists flock to places where (synchronized) fireflies are still abundant.
 
The grief I feel is visceral.
 
Fireflies are winged beetles. When a chemical called luciferin inside their abdomen/tail combines with oxygen, calcium and adenosine triphosphate, a chemical reaction occurs that results in bioluminescence. This ‘cool’ light is the most efficient in the world because almost 100 percent of the energy used is emitted as light and not heat.
 
A similar group of organisms are glowworms. The term “glowworm” can refer to firefly larva or wingless adult female fireflies—some of which are not in the firefly family Lampyridae. Both glowworms and fireflies are bioluminescent.
 
Each species uses it own pattern of lightening flashes to attract a mate, and most fascinating is that some fireflies synchronize their yellow, pale red, green, or orange lights. Several studies have shown that female fireflies choose mates depending upon specific male flash pattern characteristics. Higher male flash rates, as well as increased flash intensity, have been shown to be more attractive to females in two different firefly species.
 
Many would-be predators are repelled by firefly blood that contains defensive steroids, which apparently taste awful!
 
Some firefly larvae can emit light from underground, and in some species the eggs glow.  The underground-dwelling larvae of the lightning bug are carnivorous and feast on slimy slugs, worms and snails. Others live in the water, have gills and eat aquatic snails before coming ashore. Most adult fireflies feast on pollen and nectar.
 
Three main factors for firefly disappearance are habitat loss (when fields are paved over fireflies don’t migrate; they simply disappear – this fact may suggest that these insects may be tied to a particular place), logging, toxic chemicals like DEET (which tend to linger in aquatic environments where many fireflies start their lives), and light pollution.
 
Most species of fireflies thrive as larvae in rotting wood and forest litter at the margins of ponds and streams. And as they grow, they more or less stay where they were born. Some species are more aquatic than others, and a few are found in more arid areas—but most are found in fields, forests and marshes. Their environment of choice is warm, humid and near standing water of some kind—ponds, streams and rivers, or even shallow depressions that retain water longer than the surrounding ground.

As previously mentioned both male and female fireflies use their flashing lights to communicate. All species speak a language of light.

Human induced artificial light pollution (including those ‘cute’ little solar lights) may interrupt firefly flash patterns. Scientists have observed that synchronous fireflies get out of synch for a few minutes after a car’s headlights pass. Light from homes, cars, stores, and streetlights may make it difficult for fireflies to signal each other during mating—meaning fewer firefly larvae are born next season. Where fireflies once had uninterrupted forests and fields to live and mate, homes with landscaped lawns and lots of exterior lights (that some people leave on all night) are now the norm.

I find it distressing that so many folks are obsessed with the idea of ‘light’ in all its manifestations and yet we are losing the very creatures who actually speak the language made of light.
 

Last year I wrote about the giant Western toad that appeared in my garden in Abiquiu last August. Without sufficient summer rains to create pools of standing water I believed that this toad couldn’t have bred. I guessed by her size that she was a female.
 
I watched her bury herself in the ground in earth that stayed moist. She stayed around for about a month, submerging herself during the day, setting off to hunt each hot night. I was so thrilled to have her that I was determined to build a permanent toad pond this spring to entice any amphibians in the area to move in – including that giant toad, if she returned.
 
When I researched Western toads I learned that because of agricultural practices/engineering/river damming Western toads were considered “functionally extinct.” This phrase means that although there are still pockets of these terrestrial amphibians left, their numbers are so low that the species has no hope of long-term survival. This grim fact made me even more determined to create a home for toads.
 
This spring with the help of my friend Andrew we sunk a wooden barrel in the ground and surrounded it with hand picked stones. It was Andrew’s idea to create a channel from the roof to the pond, so that every time it rained the little pond would fill with clear water. After we completed this project I was excited to see how efficiently it worked. Even morning dew from the roof found its way to the pond, and a light rain kept the water clear without flooding. There is something that is incredibly satisfying about putting every drop of water to good use in the desert!
 
Now I needed some amphibians. I thought I would start with frogs. One tree frog serenaded me from the next field for a month, but even with adequate rain the spring cacophony of frog song was absent, so no breeding occurred.
 
Andrew and I waded around looking for frogs eggs in some other wet places without success, and I reluctantly returned to Maine thinking my little pond would remain empty all summer because there just weren’t enough amphibians in the area to populate it…
 
Here I have a number of Eastern toads living around the house. Although their numbers have also plummeted, for the moment the species is still extant, and the sounds of toad trilling sweeten each night. About a month ago I gathered some “toad-poles” down by the lake, gathered some in a pail and brought them to the house to put in a vernal pool that I had dug many years ago. It is situated next to the brook over a small seeping spring and I have raised thousands of toads and frogs over the years. It is immensely satisfying to know that although I can’t do anything to save a whole species, at least for the moment, I have a thriving population. I just wished that I could spirit some toad-poles to that small oasis in Abiquiu…
 
Imagine my joy last week when Andrew emailed me with the news that after the first good rain in July, he noticed two toads clasped together in his home dug pool and heard them calling. The following morning he discovered strings of toad eggs attached to underwater vegetation!
 
I already knew the story about how his toads came to him. One spring he noticed that there were tadpoles in standing water that was drying up on his property. He transported buckets of the wiggling amphibians to one pool that he kept full of water to save them from being fried by the sun. From then on Andrew had toads. In fact, I met one early this spring.
 
“Please, oh please, take some eggs to my pond,” I begged. And he did!
 
As of this writing all I know is that his eggs hatched almost immediately, I think in about three days.
 
The latest update from Andrew is that he thinks the birds ate his tadpoles and maybe mine too. Oh dear.  However, even if the birds got all the tadpoles perhaps a good monsoon rain will bring the adults out to mate again.
 
I remain hopeful that by the time I return to Abiquiu, I  will have a few nubbly brown croaking bug catchers hopping through the scrub around my pond.

I have lived around Rugosa roses most of my life. Most people who visit coastal areas are familiar with these  thickets of fragrant and very thorny rose bushes that are covered in white or magenta flowers during the summer and have shimmering deep orange to crimson seed – pods in the fall. The bushes thrive growing wild often spreading by rhizomes in the sands and dunes that are closest to the ocean. The plants also reproduce by seed. No other wild rose bush has such a density of thorns on each stem. This characteristic makes the Rugosa rose easy to distinguish from any other. The single or multi-floral blossoms waft an impossibly sweet scent towards the discerning nose while providing bees and insects with the sweetest nectar imaginable.

When I moved inland the first bush I bought was a Rugosa rose because I have never smelled a rose that was more fragrant than this one. Although they do not grow as prolifically in the Maine Mountains as they do on the coast, it is still possible to have beautiful healthy blossoming bushes gracing your yard, and over the years I have watched mine spread slowly through the sandy soil, the new shoots always trying to catch the sun. Each June I look forward to picking richly perfumed flowers for the house. This year the roses bloomed late and caught the first heat wave that hit Maine. I was disappointed to have the roses peek for such a brief moment in time, although there will be a second bloom later this summer. Even so, the scent of blooming roses outside my window awakened me at dawn for a week.

Imagine my surprise when I moved to Northern New Mexico and discovered Rugosa roses thriving at gas stations! My respect for these tough denizens of the wild increased as I witnessed the bushes blooming along highways under a fierce southern summer sun. I was determined to buy one for the casita…

It wasn’t until Mother’s Day while visiting greenhouses that my friend Andrew spotted a few small bushes in an area that was overflowing with hundreds of pots of more cultivated roses. I was so excited to have found what seemed to be a lost friend because I had asked about buying these roses earlier in the spring only to discover that no one seemed to carry them. Frankly, I was surprised, because if these bushes thrived in unlikely places like gas stations in Santa Fe, I assumed they would probably grow well just about anywhere. I have developed a deeper respect than ever for tough plants after living in the desert!

Needless to say, I returned home that day with a small blooming Rugosa rose that I tenderly planted in front of the south - facing porch. The bush had just a few blooms left on it so I bent down to smell the deep magenta flowers instead of picking some. By the time I left for Maine the bush had developed small green seed-pods called rose hips. Because I have a drip system in place, I am hopeful that the bush will thrive although I know from personal experience that planting these roses can be the trickiest part of growing them.

When I researched Rugosa roses for this article I was astonished to learn that they originated and are native to Asia and Siberia with smaller populations native to this continent, Europe and Africa.

The rose as a species according to fossil evidence is 35 million years old. Apparently, garden cultivation of roses began some 5,000 years ago, probably in China. And in this country some 150 varieties, including Rugosas, eventually spread throughout the Northern Hemisphere, from Alaska to Mexico. I have a pale pink wild rose that grows wild in Iren’s Bosque in Abiquiu and here on my property too and now I know why!

These plants have been around for a very long time. Roses are survivors and even with Climate Change upon us, most wild species will probably remain extant because this rose hybridizes so easily with others, wild and cultivated. Rose growers also love them because they also are incredibly disease resistant, tolerant of poor soil and salt.  

Sadly, many cultivated roses have lost their scent. They are also ignored by pollinators, another reason why I prefer wild roses to those that are cultivars. All wild roses have fruits and seeds but most are tiny.

However, the Rugosa produces delicious nutritious edible seed pods for humans and non-humans alike. The fruit can be eaten raw or cooked because the hips are sweet. If one has the patience to make rose hip jam as I have, the rewards are considerable. The fruit is a fairly large size for a rose with a relatively thick layer of flesh and is rich in Vitamin C. Inside the seeds are a good source of vitamin E, and can be ground into a powder and mixed with flour or added to other foods as a supplement. The petals of the screened-dried Rugosa rose also make fragrant long lasting indoor bouquets – potpourri. It is also possible to make a tea combining the fruit with some leaves that is very pleasing to drink.

When the hips ripen in early autumn I plan to make a honeyed sun tea that combines rose hips and mint leaves from my southern garden. Just the thought makes my mouth water.