Earth Almanac

The mission of Storey Publishing is to serve our customers by publishing practical information that encourages personal independence in harmony with the environment.

Edited by Deborah Burns

Art direction and book design by Alethea Morrison

Text production by Jennifer Jepson Smith

Indexed by Nancy D. Wood

Cover illustrations by © John Burgoyne and © Martina Flor/Handsome Frank Ltd.

Author photo courtesy of Ted Williams

Interior illustrations by © John Burgoyne

Text © 2004, 2020 by Ted Williams

A previous edition of this book was published under the title Wild Moments.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages or reproduce illustrations in a review with appropriate credits; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval ­system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other — without written permission from the publisher.

The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. All recommendations are made without guarantee on the part of the author or Storey Publishing. The author and publisher disclaim any liability in connection with the use of this information.

Storey Publishing
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North Adams, MA 01247
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file

For Drew, Sam, Mae, Grif, and Macy.

May they live in a better world
and make it a better world.

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Winter

Spring

Summer

Fall

Acknowledgments

Poems Cited in Text

Resources and References

Index

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Foreword

The particularity of nature knows no end, and it is the admiration of all of us who tend to see the natural world clothed in generalities. I write about nature often, and yet it always feels like a summing-up to me — never close enough to the hair and skin, to the bark and soil. I reserve a special envy for the naturalists and writers who dwell among the particulars, who come back from the field scratched and bloodied with precise knowledge of how things are out there. Thoreau is the great model here. It is vastly easier to grasp his literary achievement than it is to judge the accuracy and the particularity of his observations of the natural world. Most of us know what a metaphor looks like, after all, but not, as he did, the right kind of day for finding arrowheads.

This book, Earth Almanac, exemplifies that kind of particularity. In the past five decades, Ted Williams has made a distinguished name for himself as an environmental reporter, someone who can be counted on to take his readers deep into the struggle to preserve a vestige of this planet's natural diversity and integrity. To some writers, environmental reporting is just another beat — a place where organizations, institutions, personalities, politics, and money collide, much as they do in almost any realm of human activity. What underlies Ted's reporting, what gives it its pressing value to us, is his profound engagement with the natural world.

Earth Almanac is a book of pure perception, a work in which the observer's presence has been distilled into nothingness, leaving only the world — the moment — that he has seen. This book is a collection of those moments, grouped by seasons. The movement of time is the current flowing through these brief essays of witnessing. And yet the clarity of Ted's focus — his ability to capture, say, the dance of craneflies during a winter warm spell — stops time in its tracks again and again. What emerges is a vision of how complex time really is in the natural world, how it pools and eddies and spills away from day into day, season into season.

You may come away from Earth Almanac feeling that somehow Ted Williams is both ubiquitous and omniscient. What he is, really, is intellectually omnivorous. His range is almost as broad as the range of the snapping turtle — "from the hills of Colorado to the salt marshes of the Atlantic and from Nova Scotia south to Ecuador." He is as happy taking us into the intimacies of insect life — the mating strategy of the male dragonfly, for instance — as he is explaining the inexplicable Gila monster. And though the native country of this book is the woods of the northeastern United States — or perhaps it just seems that way because that's where I live — Ted Williams is a native wherever nature is, and that, of course, is nearly everywhere.

The cardinal virtue of most good naturalists is patience. But most naturalists are far more patient with nature than they are with people. One of the most appealing traits of Earth Almanac is its unhurried practicality. There is poetry here — a poetry of observation and language. But in each of these brief essays, Ted also makes room for us to stand beside him. He's eager to make sure we know where to look, and he gives us projects to make sure we find what he knows we'll find. His version of nature is one to be shared, to be examined together. "Pick apart some cattail seed heads," he says, and I can feel myself getting out of my chair and walking across the hillside to a spring-fed pond where cattails grow.

Verlyn Klinkenborg

Preface

"Earth Almanac" — originally titled "Earth Calendar" — is a seasonal natural history column that I have had the great pleasure of writing for Audubon magazine, where it was conceived and assigned to me by then editor Roger Cohn. For an investigative environmental reporter who mucks around in political dirt during most every working day there can be no tonic more refreshing than climbing out of the trenches and, for one fleeting week, celebrating the beauty and magic of nature. Writing about experiences afield is a way of reliving them. I get to do it all twice.

I am convinced that these regular retreats into what is pure and clean and right with the world have made me a better environmental reporter because they have reminded me of what's at stake and what I'm fighting for. They also have reminded me that the crusade for healthy, native ecosystems is far from hopeless and that good news abounds. As you read this book, pay careful attention to the many species that have recovered from desperate trouble or that continue to do well or at least hold their own in a world in which the general assumption is that everything has gone to hell. Even now, as I reread the manuscript, I find the good news remarkable and uplifting.

These victories are more than isolated events. They result from new ways of thinking and new ways of responding to wildlife emergencies. Together, they prove that humans can undo the damage they've done and restore the planet. What's more, they indicate that humans can yet prove themselves to be a successful species by living in harmony with their own habitat and with other life-forms. Maybe if we can save gray whales and striped bass, we can save ourselves. I like to think that "Earth Almanac" has helped bring a balance to all my writing, and I hope that it has provided and will continue to provide sustenance to a campaign I've been part of since 1970 and that I now believe will be won.

Like all magazine writers, I am frequently obliged to undertake the painful task of copy cutting, especially when trying to fit my words to the two-page, lavishly illustrated "Earth Almanac" spread. In all cases where deletions were dictated by space limitations, I have restored the original text. Therefore, the essays in this volume contain considerable material that is previously unpublished.

I have done my best to be scientific and precise but at the same time tried to avoid clinical dissection, dryness, and, above all, scientific jargon. Having worked with and for biologists, I understand the risk of anthropomorphizing wildlife, and I have avoided it where possible. But sometimes it is not possible, a fact biologists tend to forget.

Humans and wildlife (particularly our fellow mammals) are not so dissimilar as we like to suppose; we share many characteristics — the urge to play, for example. Biologists have proclaimed that "playfulness" in wild canids, ungulates, bears, cats, mustelids, and rodents is merely practice for serious adult activity, such as battles over territory and social hierarchy. This may be true, but from my observations in the wild, I have no doubt that sometimes playfulness is just playfulness. That is, wild animals — like humans — play to have fun.

Consider the essay "Winter Games" in which I report the following: "An otter will pluck a pebble from the bottom of a river or lake, surface with it, drop it, swim under it, catch it on its forehead, flip, and turn back to the surface with the pebble still in place, then start the game anew." Now what useful activity could otters possibly be "practicing" with this game? Swimming agility? I doubt it. They need this exercise about as much as professional baseball players need T-ball sets. Otters, like lots of other creatures, including us, simply enjoy sport. To deny this fact is not only unscientific, it diminishes wildlife and the wonder of nature.

I have strenuously avoided anything more than quick references to the human-caused threats faced by the species I write about. From the outset I was convinced that this column wasn't the place for "calls to action." A straight diet of exposés and activism is a prescription for burnout. I wanted the "Earth Almanac" column to be a refuge, not just for myself, but for my readers. I have always seen these essays as a chance to take a breather, chill out, count inventory, and, especially, enjoy.

Bright Strangler

After the last leaves fade or fall, hardwoods across America brighten with bands of scarlet bittersweet berries strung like Christmas lights around their trunks and branches. But that dazzling display rarely brings joy to those who value native ecosystems: The species of bittersweet you're most likely to encounter is an invader from Asia brought to North America as an ornamental in the mid-nineteenth century. Today no habitat is safe from its deadly clutches.

But in the eastern half of our country, save the extreme south, we also have American bittersweet, a much reduced native. If the berries occur just on the tips of the twigs, you've found the native variety. If they grow along the twigs in clusters, that's the alien. Make sure not to spread these berries around.

Witches' Butter

Almost anywhere in North America and eastern Europe at this time of year you are likely to encounter a yellow gelatinous substance with the consistency of marmalade. It can even "walk," leaving a slime trail on dry leaves. It is witches' butter. If you find it in someone else's woods, you have nothing to worry about. But if you find it on your property, a witch has hexed you; and to rid yourself of the curse you must pierce and drain her vile leavings with a sharp stick.

Or so proclaim ancient texts. This common jelly fungus, with the even more endearing alternate names of "dog-vomit slime" and "yellow brain fungus," usually appears on dead wood. But it's a parasite, appropriating nutrients from other fungi. Despite its appearance, witches' butter makes a superb base for soups. It has no taste of its own, however, so try to resist the temptation to eat it plain.

Gem of the Winter Woods

America pays little attention to ferns, particularly in winter, when most are brown and withered. But early European settlers had a passion for them, especially Christmas ferns, which remain green all year and which got their name because they were favored for yuletide decorations. None of our evergreen ferns is larger, and none has such deep-green, highly polished fronds.

Christmas ferns abound in the eastern half of our nation, and it's okay to pick or transplant a few. They're an excellent addition to gardens because deer won't eat them. During a thaw, when the snowpack slumps, look for the leathery, lance-shaped fronds lying flat on the ground. As poet-botanist W. N. Clute put it:

No shivering frond that shuns the blast
      Sways on its slender chaffy stem;

Full veined and lusty green it stands,
      Of all the wintry woods the gem.

Shore-Hugging Whales

Heart-shaped plumes of mist blooming from an early-­winter seascape indicate the passage of gray whales plowing south from the Bering and Chukchi Seas to Baja California. Stand on a point or headland anywhere along the Pacific coast and you may spot this primitive, shore-hugging cetacean, one of only three marine mammals ever taken off the federal endangered species list. In this migration, the longest of any mammal on Earth, there will be three to five 10-foot-high plumes every 30 to 50 seconds, then an extended dive.

Frosty Flowers

Long gone hite, daisylike blossoms of frostweed that provided a feast for butterflies and bees in shade-­dappled woodlands and stream-sides across the southeast and south-central United States. But now, with temperatures dipping below 32 degrees Fahrenheit, this tall, hardy perennial blooms again and in the most astonishing and spectacular fashion. When its sap freezes and expands, the stems burst, exuding the intricate and delicate ice formations that give the plant its name as well as the many alternates, including white crownbeard, ice flower, frost beard, frost ribbons, rabbit ice, and ice fingers. It's also known as Indian tobacco because many indigenous tribes smoked its leaves.

Will's Winter Nap

You wouldn't have gotten very far if, on December 28, 1946, you had suggested to Edmund Jaeger that it was time to search for hibernating birds. Like other ornithologists of the period, he'd probably have smiled indulgently and explained that while a few birds — such as red-tailed hawks, white-throated swifts, and hummingbirds — become briefly torpid in cold weather or when food is scarce, none is able to slow its metabolism to the point of true hibernation.

But the next day, as he and two students hiked a narrow canyon in the Chuckwalla Mountains of southern California, he had an epiphany. There, in a rock crevice, perfectly matching the coarse, gray granite and with its beak toward the desert sky, was what looked to be a dead common poorwill — a diminutive cousin of the whip-poor-will and the nighthawk that haunts dry, brushy areas of the West. Jaeger picked it up, felt its cold feet and eyelids, then placed it back on the crevice — at which point it opened and closed one eye.

For three winters the bird returned to that spot, hibernating through early March. Its heartbeat was barely detectable; its temperature, recorded by Jaeger and other researchers every two weeks, averaged 64.4 degrees Fahrenheit — 42 degrees below normal.

The news stunned the scientific world but not the Hopis. Long ago they had named the poorwill holchko — "the sleeping one."

Decking the Desert

Not all of the arid land from western Arizona to Texas and northern Mexico qualifies as "desert," but throughout much of it you will encounter the desert Christmas cactus, a spindly, spiny shrub that grows to about three feet. During most of the year, even in spring when it blooms in yellow-green flowers, it is a thoroughly unimpressive plant. But now its berries shine as scarlet as the tree ornaments for which the plant was named. Here, on this bleak landscape in this drab season, the desert Christmas cactus gladdens the spirit of the lonely wayfarer.

Fishlight

In the "dead" of winter, Pacific Northwest rivers come alive. From Monterey Bay in California to the Pribilof Islands in the Bering Sea, candlefish, a species of smelt, sweep in from the rich Pacific, staging in vast, shimmering shoals at river mouths before they start their short spawning run to low-elevation tributaries. Now all manner of life-forms converge to swill this protein in spectacular orgies — harbor seals, sea lions, cormorants, mergansers, loons, grebes, bears, eagles, beluga whales, and humans. So rich in oil are the fish that settlers used to insert strips of bark in the dried body cavities and burn them as candles. Native Americans would fill canoes with candlefish, let them ferment for two weeks, then add water, heat it with hot stones, and skim off the clear oil, prized for seasoning and preserving.

Fierce, Playful Predator

Mink watching is a sport you can pursue year-round, but there is no better time than winter, when so many other mammals are dormant or hibernating. From the Canadian tree line south across the entire United States, save the driest portions of our Southwest, these efficient predators are on the move. They fear nothing, including you. A mink may chase a muskrat into its burrow, devour it along with its young, then take over the quarters. Or, perfectly aware of your presence, it may run across your feet in pursuit of newly emerged turtles, frogs, and crayfish.

Confront a mink up close, however, and you may find yourself wearing vile-smelling musk similar to eau de skunk. In fact, the name "mink" derives from the Swedish menk, meaning "that stinking animal from Finland."

Keep watching and you'll see another side to the mink's personality — playfulness. Like its larger cousin, the otter, it will slide down rocks and slippery banks, or if there's still snow on the ground, it will dive and tunnel.

Treasure from the Winter Woods

Among the treasures to be collected from the winter woods are pine cones — the reproductive structures of an ancient genus that preceded flowering plants by 50 million years and whose Devonian Age contemporaries are now coal. The cones you'll want to pick up are the larger, seed-bearing females.

Hard pines — such as red, lodgepole, shortleaf, longleaf, slash, ponderosa, pitch, and loblolly — generally produce woody, thick-scaled cones armored with prickers. Soft pines — such as eastern white, western white, sugar pine, whitebark, limber, foxtail, bristlecone, and pinyon — ­produce softer, smoother, more elongated cones. Even when dry and seedless, the female cones of sugar pines can measure nearly two feet and weigh a pound.