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.

​One beautiful blue and gold afternoon late last fall, Iren and I wandered through a nearby arroyo. As always we were on the lookout for whatever might capture our attention. Both of us were desert “beachcombers” by nature, each with her unique preferences.
 
On a steep hillside amidst some scree I glimpsed an uprooted cactus clinging, somewhat desperately I thought, to the slope. Almost all of its roots were exposed. How had it gotten there I wondered. It appeared to have tumbled down the mountain, or perhaps it had been pushed by water or trampled on by cattle.
 
I recognized the cactus immediately because even in its desiccated state I could identify the species; it was a Claret cup cactus, a native to the area, and a wild hedgehog that was very dear to my heart.
 
I had first seen one of these beautiful cactus blooming at Iren’s the June before last. The color of flame, I thought it was a summer solstice vision.
 
The following spring I planted my own claret cactus in the ground after I moved into the casita and after it bloomed for a few days in June some creature feasted on the startling deep orange fruit. Eventually one of my gophers munched down its roots. One morning late that summer my spiny friend simply toppled over dead. I was bereft... Out of all of my wild dug cactus this one was my favorite.
 
In it’s present state the cactus in front of me was shriveled almost beyond recognition. The poor plant had a steel gray cast to it. Neither Iren nor I held out much hope for life but I couldn’t resist bringing it home anyway.
 
I have been a plant gatherer all my life, paying particular attention to flowers, herbs and plants that are native to a particular place. Around my house in Maine I have transplanted so many herbs and wildflowers over a period of thirty plus years that my land is literally awash in wild species from other micro-climates in this area.
 
Returning to the casita with my thorny friend I decided to plant it in a pot next to the other cacti that had survived the attentions of my wily gopher, teaching me in the process that it was useless to plant anything in that dirt without an underlying screen to protect its roots. Every wild cactus I had was now living in a pot.
 
That first night I left the cactus roots in water; the next morning I placed it lovingly in a frog pot and left it in a protected place by the southern wall where it remained all winter. Every single day when I came out the door I gazed at that very dead looking cactus, willing it to come back to life. I never gave up hoping…
 
Early in March I noticed that the cactus seemed to be absorbing water because it’s wrinkles were starting to smooth out. Next the cactus took on a pale greenish cast, and this was when I realized that my rescue had been successful – this cactus was going to live!
 
However, nothing prepared me for what happened in April. One morning I discovered a small reddish bump on my cactus. My spiny friend was actually going to bloom!
 
Soon there were seven bumps that matured into seven tightly closed teardrop blossoms.
I knew from reading that this hedgehog cactus could grow in clumps as much as 3-4 feet across, and that the brilliant blood orange or scarlet flowers – depending on the soil type - often covered the entire plant. Someday, I must witness a whole colony of these cacti. If anyone knows of one in our area, please let me know!  
Even though I had already returned to the North County before the cactus flowers actually opened I saw pictures of mine. I didn’t mind not seeing them – these flowers were emblazoned in my mind, and besides, this reclamation story has such a happy ending! 

In Abiquiu, late one March morning, one glorious yellow swallowtail visited my narcissus, grape hyacinths and my glowing cactus garden. I watched this one butterfly with deep pleasure mixed with concern remembering years of Tiger Swallowtail abundance. These beautiful insects used to arrive in such numbers….
 
Swallowtails have always been one of my favorite butterflies and over the period of a lifetime I have raised many eggs to the adult stage. Two mornings ago while walking up a woods road here in Maine I was delighted to see 10 swallowtails “puddling” (the most I have seen in years). Puddling occurs when the swallowtails gather together to drink from small oases that are filled with salt deposits, and I have only witnessed this phenomenon in the spring.
 
With the catastrophic decline of all insects, seeing these delicate creatures become more of a gift than ever before.
 
I cannot tell the difference between eastern and western swallowtails but both are found in wooded or riparian areas.
 
The 'tails' and bright blue and red eyespots, that most of the butterflies within this family are adorned with, are a form of 'back to front mimicry' that helps to confuse visual predators. Birds will strike at these eyespots, and often get nothing more than a fragment of wing, leaving the vital parts of the butterfly unscathed.

There are a number of other characteristic traits shared by members of this family. Eggs are dome shaped or smooth and globular, and usually laid singly on the host plant. In the Southwest, cottonwoods, willow, fruit trees and chokecherry are host plants; in the north, poplar, black cherry, hemlock, fruit trees, chokecherry and alders are favorite egg laying spots. In the garden growing anise, parsley, dill, or sweet fennel attracts this butterfly. I noticed the swallowtails loved the wild purple mustard flowers in Abiquiu. Here in Maine I see them on the flowering crabapples and Queen Annes lace (wild carrot). The larvae are smooth skinned, and greenish and eggs are laid underneath the leaves. Early instar larvae often mimic a bird dropping. All possess an organ called an osmeterium that discharges a foul scent that discourages visual predators. 

Another form of protection that all swallowtail larvae use is to simply drop off a plant on a silk cord that these wily insects manufacture themselves to escape predators.

It is estimated that perhaps one in hundreds of eggs laid by each female actually makes it through the four stages to adulthood.

Once hatched the larvae grow rapidly; eating, defecating, and resting in between each molt. The later instar larvae have large inflatable eyespots towards the front end of the body, which supposedly mimic a snake's head, and presumably warn off visual predators. These are gorgeous creatures.

In about three weeks the caterpillars are ready to pupate and spin a chrysalis around themselves. They will remain in the pre-pupa stage for about a day before becoming  swallowtails who rest while drying their wings unless diapause occurs.

Diapause is believed to be a 'risk-spreading' strategy in an environment that may or may not provide enough host plant material for another generation right away. Individuals are mature and ready to breed when optimal conditions exist. 

If you ever find swallowtail eggs (the internet has excellent images for the curious) try to raise them. It is impossible to relate how exciting it is to watch this entire process unfold and I recommend it to anyone as one of Nature’s routine miracles. 

I first fell in love with the fiery red and gold trailing nasturtiums that grew in my grandmother’s garden when I was a small child. I believe it was my mother who first put the flowers in salads making each summer meal a festive event.
 
Both my mother and grandmother were gardeners, so I grew up with plants indoors and out. I participated gathering all kinds of ripe seeds and pods including wrinkled bright green nasturtium seeds that looked to me like tiny human brains that shrunk to half their size as they dried on screens in my grandmother’s attic. Later the seeds were stored in paper bags until spring.
 
The awe that I experienced touching any seed as a child is still with me. That each one carries its own story, its own DNA (protein) signature, and the form the seed will take, is a miracle worth reflecting upon.
 
The first flowers I ever planted were nasturtiums that came from my grandmother’s garden. I prepared little rock crevices that lay against a giant granite boulder on Monhegan Island, my first adult home in Maine. Located 16 miles out to sea, this tiny fishing village was flooded by tourists in the summer. When people walked up from the wharf passing by my house, they often casually plucked the flowers I cared for so tenderly. Putting up a sign made no difference and I was too young to feel tolerance for these interlopers, eventually moving my precious nasturtium patch to another garden behind the house!
 
Although I used the leaves in salads I had a hard time picking the flowers, preferring instead to enjoy the feast by sight.
 
As soon as my two boys were old enough, each summer they bit off the fragrant flames, even as a multitude of bees and hummingbirds vied for sweet nasturtium nectar. Sometimes, when childhood friends came over, my sons would pick and eat a nasturtium creating quite a stir. Other children were amazed. No one ate flowers!
 
My children are long ago grown and gone and I am still planting nasturtiums some fifty years later.
 
Last year, I planted the few seeds that I had brought with me from Maine, here in Abiquiu. I also ordered some from a familiar catalog that specializes in organic and heirloom seeds. I grew my own in a large pot, and planted the others directly into the ground on the east side of the house. The nasturtiums in the pot had yellowing leaves and yet the seeds from both were equally abundant.
 
However, the nasturtiums I planted in the ground held more moisture after watering, providing my house lizards with giant green leaves that both lizards and buds thrived under during the monstrous July afternoon heat. When the vines finally began to trail in early August the plants were festooned with a riot of color, much to my joy and delight. Nasturtiums were still blooming well into November.
 
To this day, I rarely break off and eat a newly blooming flower as sweet as they are to the taste, although I regularly use the pungent peppery leaves in salads.
 
Saving seeds from year to year was simply part of what I did without thinking about it until I began to write and celebrate my own rituals (almost 40 years ago now).  After making that shift I incorporated nasturtium seed gathering as part of my fall equinox thanksgiving celebration. Every year I invoke both my mother and my grandmother in remembrance and gratitude for their legacy – a long and unbroken line of growing these flowers and saving their seeds. Someday, I hope to find someone who will carry on my nasturtium seed story after I am gone.
Both the leaves and petals of nasturtiums are packed with nutrition, containing high levels of vitamin C. Ingesting these plants provides immune system support, tackles sore throats, coughs, and colds, as well as bacterial and fungal infections.

Nasturtiums also contain high amounts of manganese, iron, flavonoids, and beta - carotene.
Studies have shown that the leaves have antibiotic properties; they are the most effective before flowering.
 
Nasturtiums are native to South America; they are not an imported species, perhaps lending credibility to the importance of sticking to native plants during this time of Earth’s most difficult transition. They are known as a companion plant. For example, nasturtiums grow well with tomato plants. In addition, they act as a natural bug repellent so I always have small patches of them growing around my vegetable garden. Aphids are especially attracted to them leaving more vulnerable plants alone. Rabbits and other creatures aren’t tempted to eat their leaves or flowers because of their sharp flavor, yet these trailing vines attract many pollinators. Bees of all kinds love them. Although nasturtiums are frost sensitive, I note that even after germination the little green shoots with hats simply hug the ground if the weather turns inclement. Unless the temperature dips below the mid 20’s nasturtiums always bounce back. In fact even a hard frost won’t take all the adult plants at once because their vining habit protects some of the seeds and some flowers. I always end up pulling the vines and the very last flowers before all are withered (this is when I consume the flowers after picking a small bouquet for the house). For all the above reasons I think these tough and tender vining plants have a good chance of surviving in the face of Climate Change. 

About two weeks ago my dogs and I had a glorious experience in a remote well wooded area. I had identified fresh bear sign and the three of us were following bear tracks into a steep gully when we came upon a young golden brown bear who emerged from behind a boulder to regard us with curiosity. When I spoke to him/her quietly the bear watched me intently; I lost time. Unafraid, the youngster eventually meandered on.
 
 And then, twice in the last week, I attended presentations during which people literally winced and moaned when the subject of Black bears was raised.
 
As a researcher who conducted a formal fifteen year academic study of these remarkable animals, I experienced the usual crushing dismay that Black bears continue to be perceived as such a threat to humans, when the truth is that they evolved as a prey animal, and remain so today. Black bears are cautious around humans unless they have been terrorized by them; then they avoid people at all costs. A human has a one in a million chance of being killed by a Black Bear; one is 17 more times likely to die of a spider bite.
 
How has the Black bear become such a perceived threat to humankind, especially in this country?
 
 One reason is that we are a culture that is hell bent on keeping the outdated “man against nature” paradigm alive. This perspective pits humans against all nonhuman species with a vengeance. In addition, the unconscious psychological mechanism of projection allows people to ascribe human killer tendencies/evil onto hapless animals giving us permission to kill them indiscriminately. We also imagine that we are separate and superior to every species but our own. How else could we continue to destroy the planet that is our home without whose resources we could not survive?
 
Of course, this cultural attitude of senseless fear of Black bears in particular (and all wild animals by extension) is also generated in this country by powerful special interest organizations like the NRA that deliberately uses the myth of the killer bear for its own benefit while pontificating that we have the “right” to bear arms, regardless of character or self responsibility. This current explosion of men with guns has created a crisis of monumental proportions at the cost of lives, human and non-human alike.  
 
One critical lesson I have learned in my life is to watch what people say and what they actually do. If there is a split between the two, pay attention to what these folks do and not what they say – talk is cheap. The so called state Wildlife organizations say they are interested in caring for/saving animals but what they do is to make money from ordinary folk and support hunters who slaughter animals as a matter of course. These people also expose their colossal arrogance/ignorance by stating as “truth” that all wild animals need to be managed by humans when animals have been around for 350 million years and humans for about 200,000 years. How utterly absurd.
 
There is something deeply repellent to me about the state fish and game folks who want us to slaughter bears for “fun” and for trophies, rarely for food. In fact, here in New Mexico, the head of a black bear is the symbol for our state wildlife organization.
 
There are a number of theories that attempt to address why bears in particular are so feared by humans. One of the most popular (not scholarly) of these is that humans were originally prey animals so we “instinctively” fear black bears and all wild animals. In this way of thinking the story is written into our DNA. The problem with this theory (and please remember that theories are intellectual ideas, and not truth with a capital “T”) is that it contradicts a multitude of children’s studies that indicate just the opposite – namely that very young children appear to be universally drawn to wild animals, especially bears, and are not afraid of them. There are many European children’s fairy tales that focus on the special relationship between bears and children. The helpful bear saves, protects, or imparts hidden knowledge to the children (especially girls) – like how to trust one’s instincts. In this country Native peoples honor the bear as a great healer/protector. Children who are afraid of animals have been taught to fear them by the adults around them.
 
And this brings me around to the power of the image to influence human perception. Look at any hunting magazine and you will note the frightening predatory look of the animal on the front cover. In Maine I used to dread August not just because it ushered in bear hunting season but also because in every store the covers of all the hunting magazines portrayed a GIANT Black Bear as a vicious bloody killer roaring with a huge open mouth full of teeth (contrary to popular belief, bears don’t roar at all). Exaggerating the size of an animal to generate unrealistic fear is something that every hunting magazine and state agency routinely does. Most adult male Black bears run about 250 pounds and yet these magazines/agencies always use the pictures of the exception to the general rule - the one that weighs 400 pounds - and is probably a captive animal. Most Black bears don’t survive long enough in the wild to attain a weight that even approaches this number, because the majority are shot as yearlings or sub adults. Yet, these horrific images work on us below the threshold of our awareness especially if we have no relationship to the wilderness and the wild animals around us. We have all been socialized/inculcated into a culture that supports the idea that any wild animal is “automatically” dangerous to humans. And creating mindless fear and revulsion for profit is something advertisers do well.
 
In reality Black bears are extremely shy, intelligent, curious animals that learn to avoid people unless people choose to befriend them as I did. My trust-based study was based on my ability to develop a personal relationship with any bear that would tolerate my presence and allow me entrance into her/his world. Needless to say, many would not. Too shy.
 
What I discovered early on was that Black bears always clearly communicated what they needed/wanted from me. My initial challenge was learning to understand their language. For example, most bears needed me to respect their need for space. Even the bears that chose to interact with me let me know when I got too close by huffing or slapping the ground, twig, bush, tree with a paw. I learned quickly that talking to them quietly relieved their anxiety. When badly frightened, Black bears moan like children, or do the opposite, hiss/chop and slap branches while hugging the upper limbs of their trees which they co–evolved with. Too often a bear’s anxiety is interpreted as aggression. It’s worth repeating that the Black bear evolved on this continent as a prey animal who was/is totally dependent on tree cover for protection (Infant bears begin climbing shortly after birth, exploring the den, long before they emerge in the spring).
 
In New Mexico we have a population of about 6000 Black bears that live in remote mountainous terrain, always close to some kind of water. If you happen to meet a Black bear while hiking, please don’t panic. Speak quietly to the animal and give it the space it needs to go on its way. For anyone who is really terrified of bears it is useful to carry a whistle. When blown the bear will disappear in an instant, I promise you.