Noddy’s Flycap

January 14, 2017January 22, 2017 / Robinne Weiss / 3 Comments

I was working in the garden this morning, and came across this stunning mushroom in the middle of the broad beans.

My first reaction was, “Oh, my! Fairies must have visited the garden.” I wondered if nature was trying to tell me I needed a little whimsy among the vegetables. I began to consider the possibilities. A few fanciful carvings on my trellises? Gargoyles atop the fence posts?

My next reaction was, “I’ve got to show this to my husband.” (He researches mycorrhizal fungi, and this looked to me a bit like an Amanita, which are usually mycorrhizal). He saw it, and said, “Oh!…Oh!…that’s a…no, wait…I won’t say anything until I’m sure…this could be important.”

He did some research and confirmed the mushroom as Noddy’s flycap–Amanita sp. 2–an unusual fungus recorded only from New Zealand, but thought to be introduced, as it is generally found among non-native vegetation. It has never been recorded this far south, and we’ve never seen it on our property before.

Geoff Ridley has written a nice blog post about this fungus and its odd distribution and mysterious origin.

And so, perhaps nature was, instead, telling me to keep my eyes open for scientific wonders, even in my own back yard.

And then, I learned that Noddy’s flycap is named for the Enid Blyton character, Noddy (and his pointy hat).

And at this point, the symbolism of this strange fungus in my garden got really weird. A whimsical-looking fungus of unknown origin, and not known to be present here, named after a character in a middle grade novel?

The message was loud and clear–this fungus has to show up in my next book. Excuse me while I go scribble down some ideas…

Saturday Stories–Biodiversity

January 7, 2017 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

On our recent tramping trip to Mt Somers, my daughter and I whiled away the evening setting writing challenges. We chose three words at random from magazines in the hut, and used them in a story. The words that inspired this story: rhyolite, biodiversity, and me.

We hiked to the summit and set up our camp on a windy knob. I would have preferred to camp lower down, but the wētā we were studying lived in the cracks on the rhyolite cliffs just below the summit. We would rappel down from the top, our collecting jars in a sack attached to our harnesses, to gather our subjects.

“Caroline, you go first,” said Mark.

“Me?” I had hoped to watch one of the more experienced climbers descend first. I didn’t want to show the others how nervous I was about it though, so I stepped into my harness and tightened it.

At the brink I paused to make sure everything was ready. I knew if I glanced down even once I’d chicken out, so I kept my eyes on the rock in front of me as I slowly made my way down. I focused on admiring the beautiful, angular columns, the reddish colour. I looked for likely wētā hiding spots. I glanced up and saw Sophie coming down a second rope to my left.

I stopped at a small crevice and fumbled in my bag for a collecting jar and the bent wire ‘wētā tickler’ we all carried to nudge wētā out of their lairs. Focused on the insects, I forgot my fear, forgot the dizzying drop below. I fished out two wētā, then lowered myself a few more metres.

The rock was different here. Less columnar, more green than red. Did the wētā only live in the rhyolite? I didn’t know. I was curious to find out. I probed a near-circular hole in the rock with my wire.

The rock seemed to shiver.

I froze. Was that an earthquake? We’d never talked about what to do if we were on the cliffs during a tremor. All my fear of heights came rushing back.

I waited for a minute, eyes shut. Nothing happened. I opened my eyes and looked up at Sophie. She was poking intently at a crevice, as though nothing had happened. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Funny what your imagination can do. I laughed at myself and took a moment to relax my taut muscles and clenched fists.

Calm again, I poked my wire into the hole once more—it was the perfect size for a wētā.

There was no mistaking it this time. The rock moved. I yelped and pulled back my hand as a large yellow eye snapped open in the rock face to my right. There was a rumble, and suddenly a huge head detached itself from the cliff face in front of me. A huge, reptilian head. It snorted, and a wisp of smoke curled up out of its nostril—the hole I had probed for wētā.

Too startled and frightened even to scream, my mind lit on one thought: the biodiversity of Mt. Somers was greater than anyone had ever guessed. And unusual insects weren’t the most interesting things up here.

I wondered if we would make it home to tell anyone.

The Backcountry Hut Experience

January 5, 2017 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

Black Hill Hut

The hut nestles amidst scrubby sub-alpine vegetation. As you emerge from the trees onto a rocky hillside, you see it across the valley. Dark beech forest laps at the hut on one side, and cliffs rise on the other. A kea calls. A stream rushes far below. You are not the first at the hut—a thin wisp of smoke rises from the chimney. You smile and look forward to warming your hands and drying your socks by the fire.

As each hiker arrives at the hut, they are greeted by those already resident.

“G’day. Did you come of from Sharplin Falls this morning?”

“Going to Woolshed Hut tomorrow, or all the way out?”

“Where are you from?”

“Oh, you’re from Southbridge. My mother lives there. Do you know her?”

“Is this your first visit to New Zealand?”

“Do you do much tramping?”

As afternoon wears on, the hut fills up. Locals, tourists, couples, solo hikers, and families with kids. A dozen or more strangers bunking together, cooking and eating together. There are no cell phones to divide you. You are all present in this place together. You share matches, hot water, chocolate, and reading material. As the evening wears on, a bottle of scotch might be passed around. You talk about your homes, previous travels, and your current aches and injuries. You tell stories. You laugh. You wish each other good night.

In the morning, some carry on downhill while you toil up Others, you know you will see again at the next hut. You bid them all a cheerful farewell, feeling like old friends.

When I first came to New Zealand, I found the idea of backcountry huts a bit odd. I didn’t have to hike with a tent? I’d just bunk with other hikers in a hut provided at just the right spot? I was used to hiking in the US, and for me backpacking (tramping) meant getting away from other people and setting up my tent in a place of complete solitude. I was dubious.

Twelve years and many backcountry huts later, I’m sold on the hut system. Not only is it lovely to not have to carry a tent, I’ve come to enjoy the social aspect of the hut experience.

That’s not to say I enjoy listening to half a dozen strangers snore next to me all night, or that I don’t sometimes wish my hut mates were less talkative, but on the whole, the people I’ve met and the things I’ve learned—about other places, other cultures, and sometimes even about my own neighbours—far outweigh the negatives.

Mountain neinei

January 1, 2017 / Robinne Weiss / 3 Comments

Mountain neinei (Dracophyllum traversii) is a tree Dr. Seuss would have been proud to call his own. Sparsely branched, with the leaves concentrated in tufts on the ends of the branches and bright red flower spikes on top, it would look right at home in Yertle the Turtle or The Cat in the Hat.

Aside from its goofy look, mountain neinei is an interesting plant. It is endemic to New Zealand (found nowhere else in the world), and inhabits ridgelines from about Arthur’s Pass north. We saw this one (and many others) on the way up Avalanche Peak near Arthur’s Pass last week. Though it is small (no more than 10 metres tall), it can live for up to 600 years, making it New Zealand’s longest-lived small tree.

It’s a useful plant, too. The leaves are used in weaving, the stems have been used to make walking sticks, and there is even an example of a flute made from mountain neinei.

It’s such a neat plant, it makes you want to speak in rhyme.

The ridge was quite steep,
And the day was too hot,
But the neinei were flowering.
We saw quite a lot.

Up rocks we scrambled.
The forest got smaller,
It looked like the top,
But the mountain was taller.

Higher and higher
We climbed and we huffed.
Till we reached the peak,
We really were puffed.

Spectacular views
And black jagged rock
Were our reward
For this strenuous walk.

What We Don’t Know

December 31, 2016 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

We headed to Tumbledown Bay today, ostensibly to try out the new snorkelling gear Santa brought us for Christmas. The water was murky and absolutely freezing, so it wasn’t exactly the best snorkelling, but it was a great day at the beach, regardless.

The seals were probably the best part of the day. There were lots of them, and they were vocal and active most of the day. A couple of them were even body surfing. They’d catch a wave and leap along with it almost all the way to the shore, then swim out and do it again. It was great fun to watch

The rock pools were great, too, as they always are. We saw some starfish, lots of snails, limpets, and chitons. I never get tired of them. In the sandier pools there were lots of marine isopods (sea slaters). I sat for a while at one pool and watched them. Some were just 3-5 mm long and the colour of sand. Some of the sandy-coloured ones had a white diamond on their backs. One, almost 10 mm long, was rusty orange with a white diamond on its back. The most spectacular was about 8 mm long, and had red and yellow markings, reminding me, oddly, of a European goldfinch.

As I sat there, I realised I had no idea whether I was looking at one species of slater with many colour variations, or twenty species.

A little research at home revealed that I’m not alone in my lack of knowledge of New Zealand’s marine isopod fauna. There are just 211 aquatic isopod species described for New Zealand. Scientists estimate that there are about eight times that many species. It’s not just the deep-water types that are poorly known, but many of the easily seen intertidal species are also undescribed. It seems these common little scavengers have been largely overlooked by science.

So the mystery remains—how many different isopods did I see today? As far as I know, no one can tell me the answer. But rather than disappointing me, the knowledge that we just don’t know excites me.

Anyone who thinks we know everything about planet Earth and the only real frontiers are in space is sorely mistaken. There is so much to be discovered, not just in exotic locations like the Amazon rainforest, but on the beaches that thousands of people visit every year, in the rivers and streams we cross daily on our way to work, even in our own back yards. There is so much about which we understand so little. The scientist in me quivers with excitement.

Did I see one species of isopod or twenty? No one knows. Doesn’t it make you want to go to the beach and peer into tide pools to find out?

Fabulous Flax

December 22, 2016 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

About two weeks ago, a paddock we drive past nearly every day suddenly turned the unmistakable blue of flax. Not New Zealand flax, but linen flax.

At first, I thought it must be something else, because the plants were short—only about knee height. I’d never seen linen flax so short.

I also didn’t think linen flax was grown in New Zealand any more. During WWII, linen flax was introduced and promoted for wartime needs. The first planting was in 1939, and within several years, there were seventeen processing plants in the South Island. But by 1948, it was all over. As far as I can tell, there is no flax grown commercially for fibre anymore in New Zealand.

But flax seed and flax seed oil are a different matter. And, naturally, the varieties grown are shorter and bushier (with more flowers/seeds per plant) than the varieties grown for fibre production. The largest New Zealand processor of flax seeds is just down the road in Ashburton, so it makes sense that one of our neighbours might plant flax.

I hope they find it an economically viable crop—it’s one of the most beautiful crops I’ve ever seen. For the past two weeks, it has been a sea of blue on sunny days (the flowers close when it’s cool or wet). A wonderful addition to the colourful array of crops grown around us.

Think Like an Entomologist

December 21, 2016 / Robinne Weiss / 1 Comment

We went to the beach today. It was the perfect beach day—hot, and not too much wind (not at the beach, at least). The waves were big and great for body surfing and boogie boarding, and as usual, we ran into friends who also happened to be there, and had a good catch-up.

But the very best part of the beach today was the bees.

Thousands of native bees on the dunes just above high tide line. Swarming in the air, just 30 cm off the soil surface. I couldn’t help but watch, and I was rewarded with a fantastic show.

The bees almost all had loaded pollen baskets, and at first I wondered if they were feeding on something on the sand, because they would dip down to the surface, take a few steps, then fly away. I watched dozens of bees do this, but still couldn’t tell what they might be collecting.

Then I saw it. A bee landed, then quick as a flash, dove head first into the loose sand. It took her only a moment, and she had vanished, leaving nothing but a slight divot in the sand to show where she’d gone.

Then I knew. They were burrowing into the sand, provisioning nests for their larvae. They had dug the burrows earlier, and the brief touchdowns on the sand were to locate the right burrow. I watched for a long time, and saw several bees dive into their burrows. I even saw one go part way, decide she had the wrong spot, and scramble back to the surface to try again.

Then I saw another insect in the crowd—a wasp. It, too, was hovering over the sand and dropping down now and again to the surface. I surmised that it was a parasite, looking for the hidden bee burrows. I guessed it would enter a burrow and lay an egg on the bee larva, and the wasp larva would eat the bee.

These were all guesses based on my observations. I really didn’t know if there were dune-nesting bees here, or if they were parasitised by wasps.

At home, I was able to confirm my observations. My bees were the native Leioproctus metallicus, and they are parasitised by a gasteruptid wasp that lays its own eggs in the bee burrows.

I was pleased to have pieced together this puzzle by watching bees on the beach. (The only part I couldn’t see was that the bees try to fool the wasps by digging many burrows, not all of which contain larvae.) Entomologist Tom Eisner once wrote, “There is a saying that ‘5 minutes in the library can save you weeks in the laboratory,’ which has considerable merit. I prefer the naturalist’s version, which says that ‘weeks in the field can save you minutes in the library.'”

I’m with Eisner on that one. Watching those bees and trying to piece together what was happening was pure magic.

Takahē PDA

December 12, 2016 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

On a family trip to Wellington this weekend, we visited Zealandia, a predator-fenced wildlife sanctuary. A number of endangered native birds, reptiles, amphibians and insects have been introduced to the sanctuary, and many have done well there. Among the birds we saw were kākā, saddlebacks, and kākāriki. But my favourites of the day were a pair of geriatric takahē. Takahē are beautifully coloured, stocky birds about the size of a large chicken. They were thought extinct until 1948 when they were rediscovered in a remote area of the Murchison Mountains. In spite of protected habitat and a captive breeding programme, takahē remain critically endangered, with a population of around 300.

This pair were once part of the captive breeding programme, but at over 20 years old, they are no longer able to produce viable eggs. They were transferred to Zealandia to live out their retirement where they can be ambassadors for their species. They were certainly doing their job this weekend.

When we were there, the takahē were hanging out in a grassy clearing, feeding leisurely and basking in the sun. As we watched, the male walked over to join the female and groom her—a cute public display of affection. They talked to each other quietly as they fed, and completely ignored the half-dozen people standing around watching. They looked content and relaxed—just like a retired couple should.

I hope this unique bird can hold on, and flourish once again, if only in predator-free sanctuaries and offshore islands. It would be sad to lose it…again.

Christmas-lite

December 11, 2016December 9, 2016 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…

Strawberries, gooseberries, black currants, red currants, cherries, and peas—ah! The signs of Christmas! They’re red and green, just like those in the Northern Hemisphere, but the greens are brighter than pine tree green, and the reds more succulent than holly berries.

They are just as festive as the colours up north, though in a different way. While you look inward, gathering around the hearth on long dark evenings, we look outward, sitting with friends on the beach on long summer days. You dream of white snow, we dream of white sand. You have visions of sugar plums dancing in your heads, we have visions of fresh strawberries dancing in ours. While you sing ‘let it snow’, we sing ‘let us go’ (to the beach).

Now and again I miss the cosy dark of Christmas in the north. And every year, I wish summer gardening, Christmas, and the end of the school year didn’t happen simultaneously. But I’ve grown to appreciate the summer Christmas. I appreciate not having to plan Christmas dinner, but letting it spring from whatever is abundant in the garden. I appreciate being able to sit outside on the porch in the sun after gifts have been opened. I appreciate the barefoot, short-sleeved, nature of Christmas here.

It’s like Christmas-lite.

What’s the price of a weed?

December 2, 2016 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

This is an important question at our house, with lots of weeds and two teens looking to make some extra money.

I decided to take a mathematical approach to this question.

Crop loss and control costs for weeds in New Zealand are estimated to be about $1.2 billion per year. Add another $1.3 billion for biodiversity losses, and the total bill for weeds comes to $2.5 billion per year.

So what should I be spending on weeds? Let’s do a few calculations.

New Zealand has a land area of 268,021 km². That’s 26,802,100 hectares.

Our property is 0.6 hectares.

So our property is 0.00000002 of the land area of New Zealand.

Multiplying New Zealand’s total weed bill of $2.5 billion by 0.00000002, I should be paying about $50 a year to control weeds on my property.

My husband set the price of a 20 litre bucket of weeds at $2 (and I agreed to pay triple price for each bucket of pure thistles—hazard pay and all). That $50 is only going to pay for 25 buckets of weeds (or only 8 buckets of thistles).

Darn. I’m seriously being over-charged for weed control…