Canby's Mountain-Lover

 

Canby's Mountain Lover (Paxistima canbyi), Scott County, Virginia.

Some plants are absolutely amazing. Canby’s Mountain-Lover (Paxistima canbyi) is one of those plants. Mountain-lovers hang from the high, dolomitic cliffs of western Appalachia, a now-rare plant often known as cliffgreen or rat-stripper. They grow over gorges where ricocheting winds push humidity and cooler temperatures from the creeks or rivers below to their dry, sunbaked home above. Glaciers pushed the species to these southern rock outcrops, and right now, they’re not doing so well. This lonely plant is one of the last representatives of Virginia’s S2 (less than 20 occurrences) population, quite literally dangling from a four-hundred-foot precipice. Luckily, few poachers can reach it without severely threatening their own lives (or without being caught). 

Canby's Mountain Lover (Paxistima canbyi), Scott County, Virginia.

An evergreen groundcover in the Celastraceae family, closely related to many tropical, ornamental shrubs, this plant has extreme potential for combining aesthetic and the preservation of local biodiversity in native landscaping. Unfortunately, rising temperatures have forced mountain-lovers even closer to the edge. I’ve had some enriching discussions with horticulturalists like Mike Heim up in Wisconsin, who have legitimate hopes to return Paxistima to their once-indigenous range to the northern U.S. where the climate is now mild enough for them to return.

Canby's Mountain Lover (Paxistima canbyi), Scott County, Virginia

If we fulfill our roles as fellow members and stewards of the ecosystem, maybe we can help the northern U.S. provide the same refuge for their long-lost plants and animals that the mountains of Appalachia did for northern wildlife during our last Ice Age.

 

Tussock Cottongrass

 

Tussock Cottongrass (Eriophorum vaginatum). Namakagon Fen State Natural Area, Bayfield County, Wisconsin.

Who knew the Lorax’s Truffula trees exist in real life? These cloud-like seedheads belong to Tussock Cottongrass (Eriophorum vaginatum), floating on the sag-and-swell of a peatmoss mat.

While peatmoss is squishy and unstable, cottongrass forms tough, knotted “tussocks” of roots and shoots that anchor each plant. Most of these sag-and-swell mats are floating islands above almost one hundred feet of water and loose mud. While untethered, the islands are solid and support lots of plant and animal life. The soft, antiseptic moss provides a nursery where plants from cranberries to tamarack trees can thrive.

Each cottongrass tussock is perennial and widens a basal cluster of leaves each year. Due to the deep, unstable nature of bogs, incapable of supporting the weight of logging equipment, many bogs and fens have been relatively undisturbed by industrial-level development. Many are still home to old-growth cottongrass tussocks. For decades, each tussock will grow bigger and bigger. Like trees, a good year will allow the tussock to expand exponentially and send out thousands of seeds. A bad year might severely stunt the cottongrass's growth.

Tussock Cottongrass (Eriophorum vaginatum). Namakagon Fen State Natural Area, Bayfield County, Wisconsin.

Old-growth graminoids also develop long, reaching roots extending several feet into a mass of dead and dying peatmoss. Along with the peatmoss itself, they’re incredible carbon sinks. Some of the carbon is recycled into breathable oxygen, while the rest is placed into underground stores of organic material. These bogs continue to absorb carbon as long as there are healthy communities with these specialized root systems. E. vaginatum is a very important member of the bog plant community in these boreal wetlands.

Not only do the tussocks sequester carbon and provide aesthetic value, they provide habitat inside the tussocks and root systems for amphibians, small mammals, invertebrates, and fungi. Birds and rodents feed on the seeds, or use the attached "cotton" as nesting material. Some butterflies even feed on the slender, wiry blades of tussock cottongrass. 

Spring Treetop Flasher (Pyractomena borealis) - The Brutal Life of Firefly Larvae

The larvae of the Spring Treetop Flasher (Pyractomena borealis). Watauga Bluffs State Natural Area.

Lightning bugs (a.k.a. fireflies) are incredible. If you haven’t experienced the sheer wonder inspired by thousands of these harmless, lovesick, and bioluminescent insects lifting into the summer night, it’s an experience worth adding to your bucket list. But fireflies have a dark history; each is born as a stone-cold killer. One of the best examples of this seemingly oxymoronic behavior is the larval Spring Treetop Flasher (Pyractomena cf. borealis) who hunts beneath the frozen leaf litter of winter.

Armored larvae have retractable heads with sharp, scissor-like mandibles, and often wander around “headless” to protect their fragile mouthparts. Snails, slugs, and other beetle larvae are the usual victims of an infant firefly. Adults are large, colorful beetles (bigger than most other firefly species), and take courtship flights during the cold, barren evenings of early spring. Males use rapid, green flashes in budding canopy to get the attention of females, especially over boxelder swamps.

Females respond to individual males with their own sequences of green, bioluminescent “challenges.” Potential mates are tested by the ability to harmonize their own light shows with the interested female’s. Still, the only true lightning bugs you’re likely going to see in Appalachia right now are roaming around underfoot, with each future firefly living a vicious childhood as a bizarre, ruthless predator.

Tortoiseshell Butterflies at Frog Bay Tribal National Park

“If we are looking for models of self-sustaining communities, we need look no further than an old-growth forest. Or the old-growth cultures they raised in symbiosis with them.” -Robin Wall Kimmerer, “Braiding Sweetgrass,” 2013

Compton Tortoiseshell (Nymphalis l-album), Frog Bay Tribal National Park, Red Cliff Band of Lake Superior Chippewa. 

This is a Compton Tortoiseshell (Nymphalis l-album) butterfly, also known as memengwaa. A few dozen of these tortoiseshells were basking along the ecotone of old-growth boreal forest and Lake Superior while I walked the sunny shore of Frog Bay this summer. For butterflies, tortoiseshells are extremely long-lived. Sometimes for several months as adults, tortoiseshells are large and fast. Some can reach altitudes of three miles into the sky on thermal winds, with specialized tendons in their wings keep from being torn apart.

Notice the leaf-like camouflage of the tortoiseshell's underwing. Frog Bay TNP.

 
Right now, any surviving butterflies are tucked away under the snow. Overwintering as adults, the butterflies sneak into tree holes, rock crevices, and even human homes. Once their beautiful wings are closed, a tortoiseshell looks just like a dead leaf and becomes virtually invisible to any adversaries. Almost magical processes of cellular dehydration and supercooling keep them alive through subzero temperatures. Hopefully many of these butterflies are now hidden from the outside world, peacefully awaiting spring to kickstart the next generation.

Natural History of Grouse-Locusts

 

Crested Grouse-Locust (Nomotettix cristatus) from Hidden Valley WMA, Virginia, U.S.

Talk about camouflage! This is a Crested Grouse-Locust (Nomotettix cristatus), hiding in plain sight on highland sandstone. Grouse-locusts are fingernail-sized grasshoppers who hide in barren patches between mosses and lichens in rocky, upland clearings. Grouse-locusts (Family Tetrigidae) are also called pygmy grasshoppers. The name stems from the Latin stem "tetricus" meaning "harsh." While most typical grasshoppers prefer grasslands, grouse-locusts thrive in much more barren, rocky environments. Often, they can thrive on rock outcrops much too small and nutrient-poor to support relatives.

Obscure Pygmy Grasshopper (Tetrix arenosa), Warrior's Path State Park, Tennessee, U.S.

Most species are either completely flightless or have very limited flight abilities. Most are pebble-shaped, and some appear quite unusual like the Obscure Pygmy Grasshopper (Tetrix arenosa). While flight is not one of their strongest abilities, grouse-locusts are able to hop, climb, and swim very well. These are important skills to escape the terrestrial insectivores who hunt them.

Black-sided Pygmy Grasshopper (Tettigidea lateralis), East Tennessee State University, Tennessee U.S.

Some species even thrive in woodlands, feeding on vegetation under the deciduous canopy. The Black-sided Pygmy Grasshopper (Tettigidea lateralis) is common in oak-beech forests and supplies a lot of biomass to insectivorous vertebrates, including birds like ruffed grouse, but also reptiles, amphibians, and mammals. 

Brunner's Grouse-Locust (Tetrix brunnerii). Kissick Alkaline Fen, Wisconsin, U.S.

Other species are specialized to colder habitats, such as temperate deserts and glacial eskers, like the Brunner's Grouse-Locust. The harshness of sun and a lack of water in the desert, and cold winter climates with few sources of adequate food throughout the boreal forest, can be perfect places for grouse-locusts to outcompete other Orthoptera. Be sure to keep an eye out for them in the right habitats. 

Tussocks

While I was tracking wolves through the Northwoods this summer, I quite literally stumbled across a crazily unique habitat, the northern sedge meadows. Popping out from a canopy of red pines and white spruce, my boots squelched into the sprawling beginning of a sunny, open pocket in the forest. As inconspicuously different as these meadows are, I quickly found out they host an incredible diversity of small, fragile wetland obligate creatures. 

The fruits, or achenes, of Tussock Sedge (Carex stricta). Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest, Sawyer Co. WI

While grasses are often naturally maintained by grazing animals, sedges are more delicate and can’t really handle being chewed on. Instead, they rely on other disturbances to grow. In these deep expanses of unbroken forests, sedge meadows are usually the result of beaver activity; where the sprawling water creates a sunny, treeless refuge perfect for the semiaquatic sedges. Almost everything seems miniature in a sedge meadow. The Tussock Sedge (Carex stricta) forms tiny islands, the namesake “tussocks,” surrounded by still, blackwater moats. Tussocks are usually pretty solid, and a human can usually walk across them for a while before getting into deep mud or water. The seeds of sedges feed birds and small mammals, while housing countless insects. Some of these species are specialized to these habitats specifically, and can't survive without these patches of open, sunny meadows of tussocks and clear water.

Careening between each leaf on these sedge islands, tiny damselflies known as Sedge Sprites (Nehalennia irene) are almost invisible. These mosquito-eating insects spend most of their lives as aquatic nymphs, deep below the surface of water that freezes for half of the year. Warm summers enable them to thrive as adults, with each generation returning offspring home to the water by autumn.

A recently-emerged Sedge Sprite, resting above a tussock of sedges. Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest, Sawyer Co., WI

Maybe the most secretive of all is the diminutive Sedge Wren (Cistothorus stellaris), which constructs a tennis-ball sized nest suspended like a treehouse somewhere far beyond sturdy ground, built of sedges and wrapped around other sedges just inches above the water. Males occasionally cling to the stalks of bygone cattails above the foot-tall mat of protective sedges to sing a buzzing, insect-like dirge. Frequently, they make a series of "dummy nests" that serve as decoys to keep predators away from the real nest with eggs or chicks. When winter strikes, they also leave the meadows for subtropical, coastal wetlands along the Gulf of Mexico and Southeastern U.S.

A male Sedge Wren (Cistothorus stellaris) defending his territory's boundary. Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest, Sawyer Co. WI. 

Without taking the time to stop for a moment, this entire world is invisible to the naked eye. Mighty coniferous forests, glacial lakes, and the bleached trunks of aspen groves are easy to appreciate. But a muddy, mosquito-inundated meadow? I would argue it’s just as wonderful, in its own way.

Cocklebur Weevil - Are All Weevils Pests?

The Cocklebur Weevil (Rhodobaenus quinquepunctatus) is a colorful ladybug-mimic. I found this adult at the border of University Woods at East Tennessee State University one day after classes, in a patch of undisturbed native wildflowers and shrubs. Most well-known weevils are pests that leave mass destruction in their wake, sometimes causing famine and changing agriculture forever. It’s easy to fixate on the bad. But what about beneficial weevils?

The larvae of these beautiful cocklebur weevils bore into the stems of many noxious weeds in the sunflower family, eating them from the inside. Weevils are great at eliminating their hosts one by one, so wild plants adjust to their specific weevils. Rough Cocklebur (Xanthium strumarium) is their main host, which produce bunches of painful, spiny fruits that tangle into the hair, clothes, and the flesh of people and other mammals. Ragweeds (like Ambrosia artemisiifolia) are other favorites; the inconspicuous, wind-pollinated plants that give goldenrods a bad name. Goldenrods don’t cause “hay fever.” Their pollen is too big and sticky to become airborne, while ragweeds are chiefly responsible for late-season allergies.

If you’re ever wandering past strips of “overgrown” land in city parks, suburbs, or most farms, notice that there’s usually a much greater, invasive concentration of these native, disturbance-loving plants. Where pesticides are sprayed, cocklebur weevils and all other insect species that help keep the plants at bay are eliminated. This leaves the unrestrained plants to dominate a landscape scarred by people.

It’s nice to know these little guys are on our side, especially if we decide to be on theirs. Insects are key to managing the land. If we assume we’re the best informed, god-like entities to make all decisions, as a single, inherently-flawed species, we’re not gonna make it on this planet for very long.

Leatherwood String

Leatherwood flowers. Devil's Backbone Trail, Warrior's Path State Park.

The Leatherwood (Dirca palustris) is a bizarre little tree, and very easy to miss in the spring. As soon as April strikes East Tennessee, life bursts forth from dormancy and wildflowers, butterflies, herps, and colorful, singing birds are everywhere wild. But beneath the glowing halo of young, green leaves, many less-showy plants are also reviving.

Leatherwood grows over limestone cenotes, or “big ole sinkholes,” thriving in the red clay corpses of former mountain peaks. In March, the small trees begin to bloom with bell-shaped flowers, and the young leaves are covered in frosted, bristly hair for protection against cold and herbivores.

Leatherwood twigs are easily bent and manipulated, although they will snap with too much force. It's always better to convert them to cordage before trying to use them as string.

But leatherwood is named for its flexibility. Living branches of the tree can easily be tied into loose knots that slowly grow into sturdy “wood pretzels,” and the inner bark is densely fibrous. Stripped inner bark can be twisted and braided into a relatively strong and thin cordage. Replacement shoelaces, fishing line, baskets, and many other quick, field-expedient “tools” in the woods can be crafted by breaking off a leatherwood twig.

Braided leatherwood cordage, stripped from the tree in early April.

By April, most leatherwoods are not only in full bloom, but also are covered in leaves and unripe fruits. Once summer or winter arrives, leatherwoods meekly disappear among the saplings of taller trees in the undergrowth, waiting for spring to put on their next inconspicuous performance.

A Winter Trip to Crane Country - White Pine, Tennessee

“Our ability to perceive quality in nature begins as in art with the pretty. It expands through successive stages of the beautiful to values as yet uncaptured by language. The quality of cranes lies, I think, in this higher gamut, as yet beyond the reach of words.” -Aldo Leopold, Marshland Elegy, 1948

“Crane country” in the Tennessee floodplains is greeted every winter with a trumpeting cacophony that echoes miles from the intimidating birds themselves. From fuzzy-headed first year birds, to the statuesque, red-capped veterans of southbound migration, they all return to the comforting expanses of less frozen latitudes. Greater Sandhill Cranes (Antigone canadensis tabida) are absolutely incredible birds. They’ve survived all odds to cross a vast and unpredictable continent for a long and tumultuous natural history.

Their footprint on the world is subtle, but important. Crane bills aerate the soil as they hunt for wriggling prey under soggy mud. As they cross miles of cool, damp autumn skies, their feathers are riddled with the rusty stains of red clay and algae. For centuries, the strong, steak-like meat (called “ribeye of the sky” around here) of their flight-hardened muscles have fed tribes, towns, and camps of those who have hungered across the American South, and their giant, v-shaped flocks warn the lands along their route of the new and painful season riding in on the north winds with reverberating calls and shadows cast by their outstretched wings.

Unfortunately, the species has dwindled on the brink of extinction. Now, several hundred thousand are estimated to roam across the lower 48 in winter; but they’re still in danger. This seemingly large number is only a fraction of their former glory. Humans have a tendency to steal their floodplains, and while cranes aren’t terribly averse to living alongside humans, they can’t survive on asphalt and pesticide-ridden lawns. Instead of the watery, winter savannahs where thousands of ducks, geese, and raptors formerly flocked, this population meekly passes between temporarily abandoned cornfields and the saturated ground of desolate cow pastures much farther north than ideal habitats, before they return across the Great Lakes to rear their young in fiercely loyal pairs.

The Kingfisher & The Trout

 

The "native" Brown Trout (Salmo trutta)

While I was cooking dinner over the campfire, I decided to stroll down to the creek to cool off my water bottle. Nestling it between two smooth, sturdy stones, I heard the telltale rattle of a Belted Kingfisher (Megaceryle alcyon) echo down the corridor of Big Laurel Creek. These birds hunt by sight with extreme precision, and dive from perches overhanging all sorts of wetland habitats to capture aquatic prey. Mostly piscivorous "fish-eaters," Belted Kingfishers spear prey by stabbing through  entire torsos with a blunt, knife-like beak. This prevents any slippery fish, frogs, reptiles, or even small mammals they can capture from escaping before the kingfisher can fly to a nearby perch.

A pair of these stunning, wetland birds now visits the Blue Ridge Discovery Center daily. Just after dawn and just before dusk, they land on the power lines stretching from the Field Station along the road to the cottage. Here, they catch a myriad prey to take to young farther down in the valley. Kingfisher nests are excavated by the parents’ formidable beak; forming hidden tunnels on barren banks. Sometimes they reach several feet back into the hillside. These nests can be over a mile from a good feeding site, so the birds can travel high above the ground for large distances across the countryside to capture food. Needless to say, I still haven't found their local nest; which is probably tucked on a desolate bank, far away on private property deep in the mountains along the bubbling water of Big Laurel.

The Belted Kingfisher (Megaceryle alcyon),
flying over the creek the following morning.

As the loud, rattling call of the kingfisher drew closer, I saw her through the sunset-stained basswood leaves. Evidently, she saw me as well, because the dull blue bird quickly dropped her large prey and ascended with three powerful wing beats over the canopy; heading towards the road bridge to meet her mate and fly out of sight down the creek. Female kingfishers have a rusty-brown “belt” alongside the namesake blue band across their chest. Males only have a single, blue band. 

Curious about what she dropped, I walked a few yards around the fernmoss-blanketed stumps at the edge of the woods to the pebbled shore where she dropped her prey. As I got closer, I noticed that it was a medium-sized, “native” Brown Trout (Salmo trutta). Heaving for oxygen, it was lying sideways in the water, partially submerged. I walked over and investigated the struggling fish, and found that it had been skewered in the cranium by the kingfisher. I propped it up in a small channel between two rocks in an attempt to revive it, but after a few minutes, the trout’s fragile gills had stopped moving. Nor had the kingfisher returned to carry away her lost meal.

Brown trout were introduced from Germany as sport and food fish in the late 1800’s in Virginia, and strains of them have survived, adapted and reproduced, in the rivers and streams ever since. They grow into large, ferocious fish; and have displaced truly native brook trout in larger rivers and streams. Yet, not wanting to waste the fish, I decided that I might as well cook it over the campfire. Removing the head, I gutted the shimmering trout and left each fillet attached at the tail. I halved the fish into two fillets, connected by the tail. Then, I cut a green maple twig upon which I could hang the trout by the tail as it cooked. Before lowering it over the fire, I stuffed the fish with hemlock candles (buds of new growth that taste like soft pine needles and lemons) and yellow birch leaves (wintergreen-like flavor), and let it cook until the filets were sizzling, golden-brown. What a meal.

It never ceases to amaze me how full the Blue Ridge Mountains are with real, wild food. Battered and mystic forests always seem more comforting when there are animals and plants are working together with such Leopoldian "clockwork" that some sort of edible sustenance is omnipresent. Granted, brown trout aren't necessarily a natural part of this environment, but they too are nurtured by the thriving, pulsing surplus of the mountain environments.

Bears & Biogeography

Wild Ponies at sunset. "Ghost populations" of wild ponies occur outside of Grayson Highlands State Park in Southwest Virginia, traversing virtually impenetrable forests between mountain bogs and meadows.

It's hard to beat spending an evening in a high-elevation (4200’) beaver meadow. The Southwest Virginia highlands hold a massive, unpredictable range of biodiversity, and this is amplified in slices of somewhat pristine habitat. This particular remnant wilderness is no exception. I had to do some scouting before the end of the day, working as a naturalist/educator intern for the Blue Ridge Discovery Center across the mountain. But by the time I ensured all was well in Elk Garden (i.e. nobody was trapped in the bathroom) so we could bring the day camp students into the mountains in search of birds, I decided to do some exploring in one of the secret valleys in these mountains that I've grown love. As golden hour approached, I rolled down the crunchy gravel road, and parked just after the last little Christmas tree farm gave way to rhododendron and spruce forest. Chickens scrambled out of my way, and a coonhound bayed in the distance, but otherwise, this world was silent as I parked at the edge of the National Forest under a big serviceberry tree. 

Climbing out, I began walking. After about thirty minutes of carefully transitioning onto a well-weathered trail, I came across a remote meadow. Not a soul could be seen, not a car could be heard. Instead, wild ponies grazed in the waving fields of bunchgrasses, moving like ghosts between the forest trails and hedges of blackberries. Two stallions guarded the area, standing like a wall in front of me and the meadow to ensure I knew they meant business. Soon, two mares, each with a foal, moved cautiously out into the open. One was friendly, likely a vagrant from the habituated population of Grayson Highlands State Park across the mountain and approached me to see if I had any food. The others were wary, and at times, I wondered about my own safety even a considerable distance away. This unique variety of wild pony, a descendant strain of the Assateague Island wild horses that evolved to become independent of humans for at least several hundred years on the Atlantic coast, is capable of running through dense forests and disappearing even in open grasslands. Their kick can debilitate or kill coyotes, bears, and disrespectful humans, so I was sure to give them ample space. This population must stand its own against all odds in rugged terrain, and has adapted to become a very different animal than typical domesticated ponies or horses.

Wild Ponies and foals. This population was very defensive of their young, spurring me to stay respectably far away. These horses have assimilated into the environment to keep balds and meadows healthier, and should be left that way here. At least until another large, grazing ungulate (i.e. elk, bison) fills their niche once again.

At the senescent beaver pond, the residents had moved away to leave an abandoned wetland entirely vulnerable to ecological succession. I found a ribbonsnake basking amongst clusters of Mountain Quillwort (Isoetes valida), hidden with several ringneck snakes under a toasty muscovite slab. Dozens of red-spotted newts also reclusively piled into subterranean tunnels beneath this cover. As the beaver pond dries up, the newts begin to revert back into a warty, land-bound state to cross forested ground to another patch of lentic water. Cedar waxwings whinnied from dead snags along the creek, and the blooms of unusually fiery pink Mountain Laurel (Kalmia latifolia) bushes and Bog Yellowcress (Rorippa palustris) illuminated the meadows of bracken fern and stunted fir remnants. The rushing creek's pools also yielded the occasional brook trout, slipping up to the surface to snatch a wounded mayfly or two every few minutes. But the highlight of this evening was a target I've been attempting to track down all summer; the Black Bear.

An Eastern Ribbonsnake (Thamnophis sauritus), a semiaquatic predator of tadpoles, minnows, and soft-bodied insects.

Mountain Quillwort (Isoetes valida), close relatives of ferns. These partially-submerged plants help shape                         old beaver ponds into an early-successional meadow. 

Northern Ringneck Snake (Diadophis punctatus edwardsii)

Hardly any other Appalachian animal evokes the human sense of imagination like bears do. Timid, yet intimidating. Incredibly strong, yet gentle by choice. That evening, while walking an animal trail through a corridor beside ancient red spruces, I was ready to find one of these majestic mountain denizens. Bear tracking is an interesting endeavor. Since they leave networks of wide, sign-filled trails all throughout the forests, coupled with enormous roaming territories, an observer can walk for miles on a trail  As I  wandered into a clearing, I suddenly locked eyes with a small boar Black Bear in a clearing, sitting comically with his legs sprawled as he emptied a field ant nursery. These liquid eyes quickly widened in fear, and instantaneously he was galloping back up the hillside into the dense, viridian undergrowth. Surprisingly quiet in motion for a bear, I watched as his noctilucous fur merged into the shadows without a trace.

                                                                                            

Mountain Laurel (Kalmia latifolia)

                                                                                                           

Some of the oldest red spruce (Picea rubens) trees in VA.

Mountain Winterberry (Ilex montana)

I continued strolling down the bear-carved trail. But in less than a mile, I stopped when I noticed the softened sound of footsteps on the adjacent hillside. Peering around through the trees, I realized that I was less than fifty feet from a large bear sow, casually meandering down to bisect the trail I was following. She bumbled out into the open, sniffed the air, and otherwise ignored me. At this point, I saw no cubs and wanted to simply scare her away to instill a vital fear of humans (i.e. “a fed bear is a dead bear”). The best strategy to inspire a black bear, especially these skittish mountain bears, to leave you alone is to “look big and make noise.” I instinctively raised my arms over my head, and shouted at her. She didn't budge. I instantly regretted this. But not for the reason most violence-obsessed humans would expect. Suddenly, her demeanor changed. Looking directly into my eyes, hers were instantly shrouded with weary, dark circles of sagging skin. She uttered three low, pained bellows like a very large, confused, and injured puppy before scrambling up the hillside. Powerful, but gentle at the same time.

The "mama" Eastern Black Bear, just before gathering her cubs to leave.

 At the sound of these “gathering calls,” three hidden cubs leapt from the ground and shimmied up into the sweet birches and sugar maples. They watched me intently before departing quickly in the comfortingly concave tracks of their earth-bound mother. Face-to-face, I encountered six bears that late afternoon. None were viciously trying to eat me; all were impeccably aware animals trying to survive and enjoy life in the highlands they call home. Seemingly a safety threat, bears have consistently been persecuted and even extirpated by even the most well-meaning and conservation-minded humans. However, a walk through bear territory trying to use the lens of the bear itself is very different. Try to be "aware like a bear" with me for a minute.

                             

One of the three cubs, watching me intently before rejoining the small family.

The best way to focus natural awareness is by consistently checking the environment with all five senses when possible. Look, listen, smell, feel, and taste. Perhaps one of the most iconic sensory attributes of bear territory are fruits. Hedges of blueberry bushes create a beautiful, mountain landscape in the summer, and the sweet, liquid songs of warblers, flycatchers, and indigo buntings echo from towering wild cherry trees. The flowers of swamp roses fill a spring evening with a soft, melancholy fragrance. The prickles of blackberries and greenbriers are easily felt on any romp through a thicket, and the tasty berries of wild raisins and woodland strawberries are always welcome treats in their respective seasons. Thinking like a bear quickly brings one's mind to a sensory map of wild food in the landscape.

Creating a map of living things like this has an important place in science. "Biogeography" is the study of how biotic factors (animals, plants, fungi, etc.) influence places as we know them. A simple example is how a field can become a forest over years. Soon, fire, grazing animals, or whatever else keeps a grassland devoid of woody growth disappears. Then, saplings appear and grow unrestricted. Soon moss, forest wildflowers, fungi, and woodland animals move in to the new habitat over the decades. Black bears can create an outstanding biogeographic map. But how do bears themselves tie into biogeography? 

On my way out of the forest, I noticed an old pile of bear scat. Amongst old nut husks, some fur, and other decomposer-addled waste slowly morphing into soil, I noticed something very beautiful and hopeful rising through this pile of omnivore-generated stench. New plants; wildflowers. Somewhere in the vast high country of Mount Rogers, this bear had been gorging on the fruits of various plant species. And here, on a random, forested hillside above a disappearing beaver pond, some of the leftover seeds were erupting into new life after a long, digestive journey. These seeds are not there by accident. Bears are vectors of fruit, of wildflowers, and of incredibly biodiverse plant life in other realms. Burs are carried in their fur, pollen on their noses, and of course, seeds in their scat. Bears not only build a habitat, but they generate food-producing habitats. Places where the animals and plants they live alongside can flourish together, bringing their own unique niches. In a sense, bears are constructing new landscapes wherever they roam.

Bear scat providing a nutrient-rich nursery for various plants endemic to the Southern Appalachian highlands.

Not only are bears exciting to anticipate and glimpse, but also a vital part of our ecosystems in the mountains. Essentially, bears are gardeners. In the wilderness, no one is truly controlling which plants grow where. But the plants still have to appear; something must bring them, and allow the dispersal of those that feed entire biomes. And our beloved Black Bear does just that.

As I left the beaver pond that evening, the wild ponies escorted me back down the trail. Fledgling crows impatiently gurgled from an ironwood tree, and scarlet tanagers, veeries, and chestnut-sided warblers ushered in the purple dusk. But as the sounds grew into an incoherent harbinger-ballad of nightfall, I felt comforted. Comforted that the most terrifying, enormous animals that lurk in these forests are here to help; to grow and cultivate a cheerful, overflowing environment not only for themselves, but for other species. A circular system of friends, neighbors, and abiotic factors that build great habitats and make the wilderness all the more enticing. 

Scarlet Tanager, female (Piranga olivacea)

    

Juvenile Eastern Garter Snake (Thamnophis sirtalis), high-elevation morph.

Fraser Fir (Abies fraseri)

A young Appalachian Cottontail (Sylvilagus obscurus) crossing the forested, gravel road.

Each of these mountain forests, meadows, and wetlands is impeccably unique. The plants, animals, and fungi are directly influenced by the climate, elevation, geology, and overall "lay of the land." No two habitats are the same, and every meager acre of land in the world has its own distinct ecosystem. Unfortunately, many are destroyed. Too many places have lost their bears, as well as other seed-dispersers, pollinators, and predators. The beautiful cycle of biogeography can be uprooted; the result is wasteland. Places that are seemingly useful are, in the end, devoid of life and purpose. Parking lots, new subdivisions, acres of mowed lawns where no children play; they're all consistent destroyers of these vital and fragile balances. 

Let me put it this way. If humans vilify bears, and they're the ones helping this planet thrive, what does that make humans? Maybe bears don't just safeguard our ecosystems for a more sustainable future in a physical sense, but are here to serve as teachers and examples for our species as well.