Ok, look. I frequently explain to people that I’m not an entomologist. I’m an ecologist and an insect enthusiast. Most of what I know about insects and other invertebrates comes through my photography. My eye is drawn to small creatures and once I’ve photographed one I try to learn what I can about it. Please remember this context as you read on.

One of the great things about prairies, and all of nature, is that the more you learn, the more there is to know. As a kid, you become aware of the existence of such wonders as butterflies, birds, and bees. Later, you realize there are lots of different kinds of butterflies and birds, each with its own color patterns and life strategies. If you’re lucky and hang out with the right people, you might even learn that there are many different species of bees in the world, most of which don’t make honey, serve a queen, or do a funny little dance to communicate to their sisters.

I am both lucky and hang out with the right people. As such, I’m not only aware of the diversity among bees, I also know how rich in species other insect groups are – especially groups like flies and beetles. When I see a robber fly, I don’t immediately assume it’s a species I’ve seen before, even if it looks similar, because I know there are lots of options that can look alike.

As a result of all that, I am at a complete loss to explain why, until 5 months ago, I didn’t ever consider the possibility that milkweed longhorn beetles might come in different flavors. I photograph these gorgeous red-with-black-spots creatures frequently because they are easy to spot on milkweed plants and fairly tolerant of a camera. Their long antennae make for some fun photo compositions, especially when I look at them face-to-face.

Back in late June of this year, I was enjoying some early morning light at the Niobrara Valley Preserve. As per usual, I was searching through the prairie for flowers and insects to photograph and having a great time. While exploring, I came across a sand milkweed plant (Asclepias arenaria) with a milkweed longhorn beetle feeding on it. There was something weird about the beetle, though. Instead of being the bright red color I was used to, it was covered in dense pale hairs. Whoa…

It was at that moment – more than thirty years after I started studying and photographing prairies – that I first realized there might be more than one species of milkweed longhorn beetles. I nearly slapped myself. If there were two milkweed longhorn beetle species, there had to be more. Sure enough, when I checked out Bugguide.net, there were 14 species listed. After some more reading, I learned that there are about 24 species found across North and Central America.

Well, of course there are.

Later, I pulled up all my milkweed longhorn beetle photos and scanned through them. I nearly slapped myself again. In many cases, the only photo I took of an individual beetle was from the front (because those antennae are so danged attractive from that angle). As a result, most of my photos didn’t show the spots on the thorax and wing coverings that help distinguish one species from another. Normally, when I photograph insects, I go for the ‘artsy’ shot, but also try to get a photo that shows the full body so I can try to identify the species later. Since my feeble brain hadn’t considered the possibility of multiple species of milkweed longhorns, I’d failed to capture diagnostic features in many cases.

Based on the photos I’ve taken that actually show enough to be useful for identification, I can only identify two species. The first is Tetraopes tetrophthalmus, the red milkweed beetle. It’s definitely the most common species in eastern Nebraska, where its favorite plant (common milkweed – Asclepias syriaca) lives. While there are several other species with a similar appearance, the red milkweed beetle has two more spots than those other species. That makes it easy to identify. Assuming you have photos that show the spots.

The second species is the pale-haired one I photographed at the Niobrara Valley Preserve, which appears to be either Tetraopes annulatus or T. pilosus (my money is on T. annulatus, but remember what I said about enthusiast versus entomologist).

Now, here’s what’s really frustrating. As I looked through my old photos, I found another shot I’d taken of that same pale fuzzy species. SEVEN YEARS EARLIER. Did I not notice the color?? I could have been spending the last seven years paying closer attention to milkweed longhorn beetles and appreciating their diversity. I could also have made sure to photograph them from useful angles to see how many species are hanging out in the prairies I love.

Oh well. I know now, and I’ll be looking much more closely at the spots on milkweed longhorn beetles next year. I’m excited to see if I can find some of the other species that are possible in this area. I know at least one other species occurs nearby because when I was poking around online, I checked out the iNaturalist records for this area and saw that my friend Sarah Bailey (with Prairie Plains Resource Institute) had submitted a photo of Tetraopes quinquemaculatus she’d taken at Gjerloff Prairie – just a few miles north of my house. It doesn’t bother me at all that Sarah has known about these other species while I was blindly ignorant. Not at all.

But you’d better believe I’ll be trying to find T. quinquemaculatus next year.

You know, for science.

Why does all this matter? In some ways, it doesn’t. You and I can both enjoy the charming face and long antennae of a milkweed longhorn beetle without knowing its official name. Similarly, we can admire the hunting prowess of a robber fly or the gorgeous colors of a butterfly without identifying them to species. However, being able to recognize that one robber fly or butterfly is different from another can make a prairie dramatically more interesting. When admiring clothing, food, or just about anything else, we tend to appreciate diversity, even if we don’t know the name of a particular color tone or spice.

Beyond aesthetics, recognizing differences between species has practical value too. It’s important for me to be able to distinguish between various plant species so I can see how a prairie plant community is responding to management or other factors. When all plants look the same, you can’t tell if one is thriving and another suffering and you can’t gauge how many species are present. The same is true for insects. Whether it’s a butterfly, robber fly, or milkweed longhorn beetle, distinguishing one species from another makes it possible to quantify diversity and the responses of species and communities to stresses. Sometimes those responses are too subtle or variable to catch, but drastic changes in population sizes or the disappearance of a once common species can be vital clues to land managers. The more species we recognize, the more we can pay attention to, and the better we’ll be able to understand and monitor our sites.

I don’t lose sleep over what I don’t know. Instead, I try to sustain my curiosity so I keep learning. I also try to compare notes with others (like Sarah Bailey) who pay attention to different species or interactions than I do. Talking to them broadens my perspective and makes me a more effective land manager and naturalist.

I can joke about wanting to slap myself when I realize I’ve been missing something right in front of my face, but that kind of thing happens all the time. It’s impossible to become familiar with all the species in a prairie, let alone an entire region. We’re all missing lots of things right in front of us. The key is to keep looking for them.