First Bees

 

Wednesday 3/18/2025

Gorgeous sunny day in SE Massachusetts, currently 52° on the rooftop.  Lazily venturing into the backyard this afternoon, I was surprised by dozens bees.  They cruised within a few inches of the bare and leaf-strewn ground in search, I think of nest sites.  (From one anthill-like mound the head of a busily digging bee protruded.  Much later there were other mounds.)  The calling of spring peepers – which I heard Sunday behind Christ Congregational Church – and the nesting flight of unequal cellophane bees are the earliest native sign of spring I'm aware of.  (Crocus and grape hyacinth aren't native.)

 

To be sure these were the same "unequal cellophane bee" I began noticing a few years ago, I put my insect net together and snagged one.  That iNaturalist’s leading possibility was Unequal Cellophane Bee (Colletes ineaqualis) was good enough for me.  

 

(Amateur tip: an inexpensive net that folds small enough to fit in a daypack isn't expensive.  Getting close-up photos is a lot easier if you chill a critter in the fridge for ten minutes or so.  This one flew off unharmed after her brief star turn.)

 

It's a little difficult to see the many cruising bees.

My chilled bee got back on her feet, then recovered enough to fly off after a few more seconds.

My equipment.  The inexpensive net packs small but is slow to unfold,

so you won't catch an insect if it isn't already put together.  

This busy bee will soon begin laying eggs in individually provisioned chambers

walled off with cellophane-like material produced by her body.

Ames Nowell State Park in a Nor'easter

Ames Nowell State Park had been in my mind in recent weeks, and the snow and wind of a building nor'easter reminded me that lately I hadn't seen much weather from the inside.  My job ending* Friday gave me the kick I needed, so Saturday afternoon I went for a walk there.

 I'm embarrassed to admit I didn't know Ames Nowell even existed until we'd lived in Brockton for a decade, and even then I'd never visited.  Besides being a bit out of the way of my usual rut, the park's reputation as a favorite among fishermen and dog walkers also slowed me down: I like people to appreciate nature, but prefer they do it someplace else. 

I like to preserve the possibility of adventure, even though my adventures are usually brief, tame, close-to-home affairs.  To that end I collect (low budget) Adventure Gear.  I have clothing for most of the weather I'm likely to encounter here.  One weather combination that concerns me is wet and cold, which together can become hazardous if water ruins the insulating properties that protect from cold--a situation I'd gotten into last fall.  So I took the opportunity to test a combination I hadn't: super-cheap Dri Ducks rain jacket over a medium-weight down jacket, and fleece-lined water-resistant pants from Gravel Gear.  A venerable canvas Tilley hat, kinda-waterproof, insulated gloves, and my old Lands End boots protected my ends.

The focus of the park is Cleveland Pond, a vaguely T-shaped body of water studded with islands.  American beech with pale winter leaves dangling are scattered among oaks and red maple.  Ground cover plants like prince's pine, striped wintergreen, and The forested land slopes now gently, now more steeply to the narrow pond that stretches on the west, islands of different sizes visible through the mist.  I took the trails that stayed closest to the water, making my way across the top of the T and back.  There were no tracks save mine, and those of one coyote or unaccompanied dog.  Precipitation couldn't make up its mind between rain, sleet and snow, but the temperature was always above freezing.  The walk was nice, though trails had become running brooks difficult to negotiate with leaking boots.

The rocky pond shore is shot through with trails that become streams, pond views, and clothed with forest with scattered American beech whose tan leaves last through the winter. 

Bridges are nice, but the folks who planned them didn't always know where the water would be.

American holly is more of a southern tree, but I see them around now and again.

Chimaphila maculata (above) and Gaultheria procumbens (below) are plants of long-undisturbed woods.  Though not closely-related, they are both often called "wintergreen."  Better names are spotted pipsissewa and American teaberry.  (Leaves and berries of teaberry have a mild minty flavor.)

Lycopodium dendroideum, prince's pine, is another plant of undisturbed woods.

Despite needle-like leaves, it is a spore-bearing plant--like ferns--rather than a conifer.

This may be a vernal pool that dries out in summer: since they do not support a fish population, vernal poos are refuges for frogs, salamanders and the like. 

A "hollow."  How do these distinctive landscape features form?

A silver maple that bloomed weeks ago is loosing its spent male flowers in the wind and sleet.

I took video of pond views, trails both dry and running with water, trees, and "hollows."  (The black borders that appear and disappear are the computer's attempt to compensate for my shaky hands.)

I aim for the "slightly-disreputable" look.

Outer clothing.  My next task is to figure out how to repair boots, which I cannot afford to replace.

My clothing got passing grades--except for boots that are coming apart.  My Dri Ducks--jacket and pants made of water-resistant paper and coming packed in a pouch for emergency use--are probably not very durable, and would not do for bushwhacking though briars, but serve well enough for those rainy occasions when carrying an umbrella isn't possible: say, when sailing or kayaking, or hiking in close woods.  (You need to be careful around briars.)  My lined pants are really nice: I wear them now whenever out in cold weather, and they didn't let much rain through.

*Not traumatic, mind you: I'm a substitute teacher, so my jobs usually only last two or three months before I'm on the prowl once more. 

Autumn 1

Kinda like I did when spring was busting out all over, I want to try to keep up with the changing panorama of fall in my neck of the 'burbs. Judging from the spring, things will come at me faster than I can say intelligent things about them--which, come to think of it, you might well find refreshing--so I may simply report.

Of course, I'm already behind the curve, since trees have been sneakily changing for awhile now.  But in my defense, much of the color seemed to me a response to drought: we have not had more than a quarter-inch of rain any of the few times t has rained since way back in mid-August, and the plants have been hurting.  

 In late August our big ash looked sick, with every excuse in the world.

 

A month later it looked wilted, and I was getting really worried.

Now she is definitely turning, along with other white ash trees in the neighborhood. (10/2)

 

The trees on a little island in Nippenicket Pond, West Bridgewater a couple of

weeks ago first led me to suspect that autumn was underway: living with their feet 

submerged in the pond as they did, the colors of the red maples (above) 

and tupelo (below) were likely NOT due to drought!

 

My neighbor's big red maple well on its way. (10/2)

Big Daddy, a large red  maple standing in a row of small females,

is going great guns, but will soon be leafless.  (9/29)

Nearby, Little Mama, is still making up her mind to turn, beginning

with the edges of her leaves and her veins and leaf stems.  (9/19, 10/2)

The sugar maples in the neighborhood, like the red maples, are all over the place. 

 

A tree deformed by years of hacking by road crews trying to keep it away from power lines

is now in its glory: it began turning weeks ago.  Sugar maples sometimes turn an amazing  flame-color.

Just around the corner is another tree that is having

an internal disagreement: shall we turn, or not?

In a trio of sugar maples nearby, one tree has already lost half his leaves,

while his neighbors have not yet begun.

A brief explanation of how and why leaves turn the colors they do is here, with the slightly longer and more grown-up version here.  Another nice page that makes it clear that leaves don't just "fall," but are actually pushed.  Not sure about the reason for leaf drop, though.  I have heard two other hypotheses: that trees drop their leaves to avoid drying out, and that it reduces wind stress.   Here's a University of Illinois page that delves a little into the chemistry and biology of leaf color.