Basking

It's nearly mid-October, and here in the Upper Peninsula, that means the warm weather is coming to an end. The leaves are at their peak colors, the plants on the forest floor are senescing, and every day the sun rises later and sets earlier. There's a distinct chill in the air, especially in the mornings and evenings, and everything smells of fallen leaves and pine needles.

The last few days have been blessedly warm and sunny, and the cold-blooded animals — the reptiles and amphibians and terrestrial arthropods — have been taking advantage of the heat. The meadowhawks — the dragonflies of late summer and early fall — have been as active as ever, hovering from one perch to the next, obelisking toward the sun. There has been a resurgence of blackflies; ladybugs and leaf-footed bugs have started to gather in our house, staking out places to hibernate for the winter.

The sunlight is especially welcomed by reptiles, who must bask for warmth. In a few weeks' time, the snakes and lizards and turtles will hide themselves away — but until then, they are soaking up as much sunlight as they can. Prime places for basking are exposed rocks, dry earth, and, sadly, hot pavement. As alluring as warm roads and sidewalks are, they become a death trap for reptiles, especially snakes, who are seeking heat.

Yesterday afternoon was brilliantly sunny: the leaves of the maples seemed to glow, and the air smelled of Autumn. We took a short hike in the Forestville Basin area, and on our way back to the car, I remarked that it was a good day to look for basking snakes. Not long after, I spotted a flash of black and green along the side of the road — and my heart jumped at the prospect of seeing (and maybe even holding!) a garter snake.

It was so lifelike — its colors were so very bright — and then I realized that it was dead.

 

The garter snake had only just been hit; its wound was tiny and the body was otherwise intact. Its eyes still shone with the intensity of a live animal; the color of its scales was incredibly vivid.

As I started to photograph the snake, it occurred to me that it looked anything but dead. Without any firsthand context, someone viewing the pictures would likely assume that it was still alive. My first course of action, then, was to flip the snake upside-down.

 

 

 

I couldn't resist holding the snake; having only just died, it was still extremely flexible, and its scales were so silky and soft.

 

 

 

I find the photographs of it in my hand to be my favorite; the first, especially, is ambiguous to the snake's state of death.

After photographing the snake extensively, I moved it off the road, setting it in a neat coil in the underbrush, then gave it an offering of sema.

Chocolay Foxes

The crows were unusually loud this morning; we hear them often, especially this time of year — but today they were excited, their vocalizations clamorous and close by. I didn't think much of it until early this afternoon, when one of our neighbors stopped by to tell us there was a dead fox alongside the road. "Again?" I demanded, mostly out of exasperation. Last weekend's fox pup had been enough; I wasn't happy about the prospect of yet another deceased fox.

But sure enough, just a hundred feet or so down the road from our house, there it was — a gray fox pup stretched out in the grass, its entrails strung out behind it, already blackened by the heat of the sun. Flies had arrived on the scene, but so had several dozen yellow jackets. The wasps crowded themselves onto the exposed flesh and viscera, their jaws tearing away at the muscle, and it was a decidedly disturbing spectacle.

 

The loud cawing and croaking we'd heard this morning was explained, as well: the scavenging crows had left several feathers behind. As for the fox, unlike the one I photographed last Sunday, this one had been killed on the spot: its belly had burst open and its jaw was smashed, culminating in a grisly stain on the pavement.

 

Dew still clung to the soft summer fur.

 

Not only had the fox's jaw been smashed, but it had also been skinned down to the bone. The scrape of the pavement had torn away the gums and flesh; it was a bizarre, haunting sight.

 

This fox, too, was still in the process of growing its set of adult teeth — but it was much further along than last week's fox. I don't believe they were in the same litter.

 

As I said in my last entry, I hate to see dead foxes. This is the time of year when young animals are becoming independent; as a result, many are hit on the road — skunks, raccoons, and foxes alike. It's a waste of life, and it's a reminder to slow down when you're driving.

Blue Eyes

This afternoon, some friends found a dead fox along the neighborhood bike path we so often frequent. They quickly let us know, and Steph and I walked out to meet them there. Just past a stand of bracken ferns, resting upon bearberry and reindeer lichen and star moss, was a gray fox pup. The body had been there for at least a day: raindrops clung to its woolly summer fur — the abdomen was bloated — the visible eye was a ghostly, nearly luminescent blue.

 

Gray foxes are abundant in our area. After the death of the gray fox last December, I was afraid they'd be gone from the neighborhood for good, but thankfully that was not the case. In March we saw two sets of fox tracks, their paths crossing — Steph and I began finding fox scat in our driveway and later on the bike path — and then, this summer, we'd see them, both adults and pups, crossing that same path. Sometimes they paid us no heed; other times, they'd stop and stare, and we'd stop and stare right back at them.

This pup, likely one of the handful we observed this summer, died along the path.

 

 

At first glance, no visible injuries appeared to be on the body, and the fox looked to have been in good health when she died. Her adult canines were just starting to poke through her gums; her claws were sharp, her fur — though the scraggly summer pelage — was still full and soft. I turned the body over, and it became apparent that the pup's pelvis was smashed, probably by the tire of a car. It's quite possible — and most likely — that she was hit on Main Street, not far from where the gray fox was hit last year. This pup dragged herself away from the road in what must have been an agonizing ordeal, only to collapse and die, several feet from the trail.

 

I hate to see foxes dead. They're a beautiful, fascinating, important part of the ecosystem, and it's heartbreaking to see their lives ended by the tire of a too-fast car. I am thankful, however, to have the opportunity to observe them — both in life and in death.

Down to the Bones

Four days have passed since I found the dead song sparrow fledgling in our backyard. In that short time, the body has been reduced to a sticky pile of bones and feathers — not by beetles or flies, but by slugs and, primarily, ants.

 

Yesterday, I was able to get a pretty good view of the puncture through the top of the bird's skull. Whether it was by beak or canine, the predator had little trouble piercing the fledgling's thin, delicate bone.

Today, the ants were still numerous, and busied themselves with picking away at every bit of food possible. One of the sparrow's legs had been separated from the rest of its body, and one ant in particular was making quite the show of gnawing away at it:

 

It was really quite fascinating to watch this individual working away at the leg. All but one of the toes had already been removed.

 

Also interesting to see was the interaction and communication between various ants.

 

I don't know an awful lot about ant hierarchy, but it was pretty obvious which ones were dominant. Physical communication comprised of jaw- and antennae-touching, pushing, and chasing. I was lucky to get a few of these confrontations on video:

 

I made one other unexpected observation this afternoon: while taking another look at what remained of the sparrow, I saw the soil beneath it suddenly start to heave. This could only mean one thing: burying beetles! I looked beneath the carcass, and sure enough, there was a lone burying beetle (crawling with mites, of course) — likely Nicrophorus tomentosus, as its thorax was covered in yellow hair. This was a different burying beetle species for our yard, as previously I've only seen Nicrophorus orbicollis.

Teamwork!

Here's a quick update on the status of the song sparrow fledgling I wrote about yesterday! I took a look at the bird this evening — it was covered in ants and several large slugs, and the body was reduced to little more than a pile of feathers and bones:

 

 

Closer inspection of the skull revealed a puncture in the top of the cranium — perhaps from a canine tooth, or maybe from a sharp beak! We'll never know for sure.

This was an interesting process to witness, and it was certainly much different than the burying beetles' disposal of the robin. It was a surprise to see the ants and slugs working side-by-side, and as far as I could tell, they seemed to tolerate one another's presence.