Beech Forest Hiking

I’m particularly fond of hiking in early spring. It’s not for the spring weather, which is often raw and windy, or for spring flowers, which aren’t particularly abundant in the bush. No, it’s for the lack of German wasps.

Much of the forest we hike through is dominated by beech (not the northern beech, but several species of Nothofagus). Beech is host to a fascinating ecosystem which has been invaded by non-native wasps.

Throughout much of its range, beech is infested by scale insects. The scales live in the bark of the trees, feeding on sap. Because sap is low in nutrients and high in sugar, the insects need to excrete the extra sugar. Each insect has a long anal tube through which it ‘pees’ concentrated sugar water called honeydew.

Drops of honeydew form on the tips of the anal tubes and fall to the ground, tree, trunk, and branches around the insects. The entire area ends up coated in sticky sugar.

Sooty mould grows on the sugar coated surfaces, turning trees and forest floor black, and giving the beech forest a distinctive smell. The sooty mould is eaten by a variety of insects, including moths and beetles.

But not all of the honeydew simply drops to the ground. Native birds and insects (and hikers) drink the drops of water on the tips of the scales’ anal tubes. For wildlife, honeydew is an important winter food, when flower nectar is scarce.

German wasps enjoy honeydew, too, but only in the summer.

By mid-summer, the beech forest hums with the sound of millions of wasps collecting honeydew. For me—allergic to wasp stings—it means a hike requires constant vigilance lest I grab a tree trunk for balance and end up in anaphylactic shock. But in springtime, the wasps aren’t yet out and about, and I can enjoy the sticky smell of the beech ecosystem without worry.

Springtime Adventure–Mt. Oxford

I’ve been AWOL from the blog for a couple of days. I have a good excuse, though. Friday I raced from 5.30 am to 7 pm to do two days worth of work in one day. I managed to plant out all the peas, lettuce, and spinach, cleaned the house, baked cookies, did a bunch of writing and editing…

It was all in preparation for taking the entire day off yesterday to go for a hike.

We had a lovely day hiking to the top of Mt. Oxford. It was a long day, too, by any measure—7 1/2 hours of hiking, 31,700 steps (according to the phone’s health app), 20 km, and over 1 km elevation from carpark to peak.

Starting from a honey bee farm, the track climbs through beech forest and into subalpine tussock. Yesterday the hike had everything—snow, mud, sun and rain, wind. The lichens were especially exuberant, as was one particular rifleman (a tiny bird, for those of you unfamiliar with NZ fauna) who shot through the trees with such abandon, it smacked me in the face. It was the perfect springtime adventure.

Living With Earth

Coes Ford–open…just.

Nature is bigger than we are.

That’s been clear from world events the past few weeks—flooding in Indonesia, earthquake in Mexico, multiple hurricanes in the Atlantic.

We can pretend the natural world doesn’t affect us. We can do our best to engineer human structures and our daily lives so that, most of the time, we forget we are an integral part of Earth. But I think this is a terrible mistake.

On my way to and from town every day, I cross the Selwyn River. Normally, I do this at a spot called Coes Ford.

The Selwyn River floods. It’s simply part of the hydrology and ecology of the river. The low bridge over the Selwyn at Coes Ford acknowledges flooding. The bridge was never meant to allow passage over the river during a flood. It was meant to survive floods intact, and provide passage during low water.

The ford has been closed for several weeks, but reopened yesterday. The bridge itself is still underwater, but it’s passable.

To me, there is something right and good about an infrastructure that acknowledges the forces of nature and doesn’t try to control them. It is good for us to accept that, while we have great influence, we are not masters of the planet. At Coes Ford, we will be inconvenienced by floods. This is part of the natural order. It is part of what it means to live here. And if we are inconvenienced by floods, we will notice when the pattern of flooding changes. We will feel that something is amiss. Hopefully, we will do something about it. It’s not a coincidence that when the Selwyn stopped flooding and dried up last summer, the focus of the worry was at Coes Ford—that’s where the locals understand the river’s pulse the best.

If we are separated from the rhythms of the planet, we won’t notice when something is wrong, locally or globally. When we are separated from the rhythms of the planet, we may not notice problems with our life-support system until it is too late. Separated from, and ignorant of the rhythms of the planet, it’s easy to deny that there are any problems.

And so, I embrace the inconvenience of Coes Ford. I thank the engineers who chose to accept the Selwyn River for what it is. I hope that, as human technology advances, we continue to remember our interdependence on the natural systems of Earth. We must live with the earth, not on it.

Stay Sharp

It’s the time of year when I have too much to do in the garden. It’s a race to get the garden beds prepared before the vegetables are ready to go out into them. It’s a race to keep ahead of the weeds in the perennial beds. It’s a race to get the finished compost out of the bin before I need the space for fresh material.

I hate to waste my garden time. I hate to take breaks, because every minute I’m not out there is a minute for the weeds to get ahead of me.

But I’ve learned that some breaks are not a waste of time. Sharpening the hoe is one of those breaks that pays for itself. When I’m using the hoe a lot, I stop every couple of hours to sharpen it. It takes just a few minutes, and it makes the job much easier and faster.

A nicely sharpened and well-maintained tool can make all the difference between back-breaking drudgery and a job efficiently completed.

It pays to stay sharp.

Nettle Season

It’s stinging nettle season and, as I’ve mentioned before, my garden is host to an irritating quantity of nettle—quite literally.

But though it is a stinging weed, I’ll admit to a certain fascination with nettle. Look at the stinging hairs (trichomes) under the microscope, and you’ll find beautifully wicked structures like fine hypodermic needles. Those syringes are full of an irritating mix of acetylcholine, histamine, serotonin, moroidin, leukotrienes, and formic acid to irritate your skin.

But the triggering mechanism for the trichomes depends upon turgor (water pressure), so once a nettle wilts, it can’t sting.

And once it wilts, nettle is an incredibly useful plant. It is edible and quite nutritious for both humans and livestock. The cooked greens are used in traditional dishes throughout the Northern Hemisphere where it is native.

It can be used to make a vegetarian rennet for cheesemaking, and is used to flavour and decorate some cheeses. I’ve made nettle rennet myself as a substitute for commercial rennet when I’ve run out.

Nettles can be used to make tea, cordial and beer.

The fibrous stems can be used to make linen-like textiles. The roots can be used to make a yellow dye.

Fed to chickens, nettle is an effective egg colourant, which may explain the deep orange colour of my chickens’ egg yolks at this time of year.

All in all, stinging nettles don’t deserve their bad reputation. Like many of our weeds, they’re useful plants that we’ve forgotten how to use.

Aggravation or Aurora

I was frustrated all day with the internet, or rather, the lack of it. Being on rural broadband, we’re used to lousy internet speeds, and frequent outages. But today was particularly frustrating. I’d load a page with no problem, then be unable to load the next. Five minutes later, all would be well again. All day this went on, and I was tearing my hair out.

Then this evening, my son mentioned we’re supposed to have a spectacular aurora tonight.

Ah. That explains the internet, then.

And now I’m terribly excited that I had dodgy internet today. I can’t wait for daylight to fade fully so I can enjoy the aurora.

Funny how understanding the why makes all the difference…

Zombie Cat

A hapless zombie cat victim.

At this time of year, birds and small mammals are distracted. They’re busy fighting over territories, building nests, and mating. There are young, naive animals fluttering, scurrying and hopping about.

So it’s no surprise the cat catches more prey in spring. English sparrows, mice, rats, rabbits–he brings almost all the major vertebrate pests home and leaves them on the porch for us.

I don’t mind, really. It doesn’t bother me to have to dispose of his kills–I’m not squeamish about it, and I’m happy he’s dealing with at least some of the animals that destroy my garden and wreak havoc in the sheds.

But there’s something that worries me.

I’m afraid the cat is a zombie.

Rodents, birds, rabbits…they all show up headless. The cat doesn’t seem interested in eating anything except the head. Even on a succulent rabbit, he ignores the meaty legs and flank, and goes straight for the head.

Maybe it’s just the crunch he likes, but I think it’s more sinister than that.

Now every time he gives me his wild-eyed look, I can almost hear him say, “Braaaaaaaaaaaains.”

Spur-winged Plovers

Almost every year, a pair of spur-winged plovers (Vanellus miles, known as the masked lapwing in Australia) establishes a territory in the goat paddock. A few days ago, I was taking food to the goats, and noted where the plovers were making a ruckus at the other end of the paddock.

This afternoon, I took a walk out there. The plovers were nowhere to be seen, and I was worried–they’re not always successful nesters here. There are simply too many predators around our property.

I nearly turned around, but I decided to take a look anyway.

I was rewarded with the perfect plover nest. Two eggs, a little dried grass, and some rocks.

The spur-winged plover self-introduced from Australia in 1932. Since then, its population has grown dramatically. No surprise when you consider it likes open habitat, and is quite happy to set up house in paddocks, parks, and road verges (we once had a pair nesting in the middle of an intersection nearby).

It has done so well since it arrived in New Zealand that its protections as a native bird were removed in 2010 due largely to the problems it was causing for aircraft (airports are lovely habitat for it). It is one of only two native birds to not be protected under the Wildlife Act (the other is the black backed gull).

I enjoy the plovers. I love their harsh night-time cry, and their indignant posturing while defending territory and nest. I love the fact they cheekily nest wherever they want and expect everyone else to stay out of their way.

I’ll be watching these eggs closely. Fluffy plover chicks are even more fun to see than plover eggs.

Happy Spring

It’s the first day of spring!

Naturally, it’s cold, windy and rainy–day to be curled by the fire with a cup of tea, not a day to be out in the garden enjoying the flowers.

So I braved the rain to pick flowers and bring them inside.

Forget the weather. It’s spring indoors.

Screen Time

Friday is National Poetry Day, so all of this week’s posts will be in verse. Happy Poetry Day to you. May all your couplets rhyme. 

Screen time
And TVs
And sports after school.

Texting
And YouTube
And try to be cool.

Selfies
And shopping
It’s not hard to see
That no one has time
For the sky, for the sea.
No time to sit
No time to be free
And ponder a grass blade
Think of a bee.

Well

You can take your
Damned cell phone
Toss it into a pond

Of mud
And of stargazing
I am more fond.

Your selfies
And shopping
Are just like a cage
For the mind and the spirit,
The words on this page.

So

Come out
Come out
Come into the sun

Learn to count raindrops
And barefoot we’ll run
Through meadows
And forests
And rivers and streams
We’ll find what we’ve lost
We’ll capture our dreams.