Category Archives: Prairie Natural History

Making Species Identification Accessible to the Masses

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I was out in a prairie this morning (on crutches) and managed to get a little photography done.  Very frequently, I think about how fortunate I am that most of my photography happens out of sight of the general public, and today was a particularly good example of that.  I was army crawling along the ground with my splinted right foot in a plastic bag to protect it from the dewy grass, dragging a camera and tripod along with me.  Then I had to crawl back to my crutches, sling my camera bag over my shoulder and crutch along to another spot.  I managed to get a few decent photos, but missed a lot of potential insect shots because it takes me too dang long to get my body into place, and even the most patient insects can’t afford to wait for that slow and painful process.

Later, while going through my photos back at home, I grabbed a plant key (“Flora of Nebraska”) to make sure I was correctly identifying the New Jersey Tea I’d photographed.  There are two species in Nebraska, and I can never remember which is which.  As I was reading through the descriptions of the two species, I laughed out loud at the technical terms I had to wade through.  I understand the value of using precise language to describe plant (or animal) characteristics in a dichotomous key (a kind of flow chart used to step through characteristics of various species until you finally figure out which species you’re looking at).  At the same time, the avalanche of technical language that falls upon readers of identification keys also makes identification of species much less accessible to the average enthusiast.

I think I’ve correctly identified the New Jersey tea plant I photographed this morning as Ceanothus herbaceus, but it took a lot of glossary-searching to make my way through the descriptions.

We conservationists are always complaining about how people don’t learn basic natural history anymore.  One of the most important components of that learning process, of course, is identification of species.  Imagine someone who finds a plant they think might be New Jersey Tea, is excited to identify it so they can learn more about it, opens up the Flora of Nebraska, and reads this actual sentence:

“Capsules dehiscing loculicidally into 3 1-seeded lobes, the saucer-like hypanthium fused to it but persisting after the fruits have fallen; seeds reddish brown, plano-convex, the flat side with a low keel.”

Gee, I wonder why people are so bad at identifying species?

There has to be a better way.  Again, I completely understand the need for technical guides for species identification that use agreed-upon and well-defined terms.  But can we either add accompanying language in common English or create translated versions of those identification books that can be read by non-experts?  If we can translate books of literature, can we also translate books of technical jargon?

New Jersey tea in a southeast Nebraska prairie (Richardson County).

I played around with this idea briefly, and it’s a lot harder than you might think.  First, there’s the challenge of deciphering the individual words.  The glossary at the back of The Flora of Nebraska is over 30 pages long, and reading it brings back memories of trying to read dictionary definitions back in elementary school – most definitions require looking up more terms just to understand the initial definition.

Second, the advantage of technical terms is that they have very specific meaning, and that helps reduce the number of words needed to describe a concept.  The Flora of Nebraska describes New Jersey tea flowers as being umbellate, which basically means the blossoms are located on the end of stems arranged like an upside-down umbrella.  Umbellate is a pretty efficient way to say that.  Instead of being able to describe how a species differs from others with a paragraph or two of text, accessible language might require a page or more to say the same thing.  That causes its own problems.

For example, in the above description of New Jersey tea, the seed capsules are described in seven words (“Capsules dehiscing loculicidally into 3 1-seeded lobes”).  Very efficient.  While the words are awfully cryptic to most of us, at least there aren’t very many of them!  Translating those seven words requires a lot more words.  Saying the seed capsules split into three parts, with a seed in each, isn’t too bad.  The bigger challenge is the word “loculicidally” which describes where the split occurs on the capsule, a characteristic that helps separate New Jersey tea from other plants.  The glossary describes loculicidal dehiscence as “dehiscence on the locules rather than along the septations”.  Now we have to define both locules and septations.  See what I mean?  Good grief, this is difficult.

Can you see how these seed capsules are dehiscing on the locules rather than along the septations?  Yeah, I bet you can.

I don’t have a good solution to this.  One answer, of course, is field guides, and those can be great for animals like birds or large mammals.  But field guides don’t work well for all organisms, especially plants, fungi, and many invertebrate groups because there are way too many species to fit them into a field guide, and distinguishing species from one another often requires magnification and characteristics that aren’t easily depicted in a single photo or drawing of the organism.  Field guides can get us so far, but if we want people to learn how to identify more than just the common prairie plants, it would be great to have more extensive guides.

I still think we could do a better job of making comprehensive species identification guides more accessible, but the task is gargantuan.  It’s hard enough to put out a good resource like Flora of Nebraska, with precise and efficient terminology describing each species.  If we ask authors of that kind of publication to additionally provide accessible translations of each description for lay people, we risk never get anything published at all.  At the same time, I hear there are lots of youngish biologists with advanced degrees who are having a hard time finding gainful employment.  Maybe we can put some of them to work as translators.  Anyone want to fund a big endowment to pay for it?  Yeah, me neither.

Regardless, I really do think this is an important issue that deserves some thought.  Not everyone can cheat the way I do, which is to shamelessly send photos and/or specimens to experts who can identify them for me, saving me hours of trying to look up and decipher words like “loculicidally”.

P.S.  I want to be clear that I am not criticizing The Flora of Nebraska or its authors in any way.  That book is a fantastic and invaluable resource, and I use it frequently.  The issue at hand is much broader than any individual publication.  Robert, Dave, and Steve – you guys are heroes for getting that book done.  Thank you.

Toxic Bee-Killing Hitchhiker Beetles (I Know, Right?)

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I’ve said many times that I’m no entomologist.  I am an invertebrate enthusiast.  I enjoy photographing small things, which means I end up with a lot of images of tiny invertebrates.  Once I have photos, I love to figure out what it is I’ve photographed and how it fits into the incredible complexity of its ecosystem.  The only times I’m ever disappointed by that research is when I can’t find any good information – often because there just isn’t much known about whatever creature I’m looking up.  When I can track down a story, it is always fascinating, and reinforces my sense of wonder about the world.

The latest example of that came last week while I was photographing pasque flowers at the Niobrara Valley Preserve.  I noticed a few bees and other insects hanging around the flowers, but most were too wary to be photographed – with one big exception.  There were several big black beetles with large bulbous abdomens and short wings feeding on pasque flowers.  They were intent enough on feeding that I was able to get a few decent photographs, and promised myself I’d look up the species later.  Before I had a chance to start doing research, former Hubbard Fellow Jasmine Cutter texted me some photos of what looked like the same kind of beetle feeding on pasque flowers up in North Dakota and asked if I knew what they were.  Nope, but I was going to.

An oil beetle feeding on pasque flower at the Niobrara Valley Preserve last week.

After a rare failed attempt to use Bugguide.net, I sent photos to a couple friends and James Trager responded quickly with the answer – oil beetle (Meloe sp.), a kind of blister beetle.  Once I started looking for more information, I was shocked that I’d not come across oil beetles before.  Ok, not shocked, exactly, since there are way more great insect stories out there than I’ll ever learn, but still surprised, given the abundance of oil beetle accounts online.  Of those, I particularly recommend Piotr Naskrecki’s The Smaller Majority blog, as well as Adrian Thysse’s Splendour Awaits site.

So, what did I learn? First of all, oil beetles produce the same kind of toxin as all other blister beetles – a compound called cantharidin.  Ingesting only a small amount of cantharidin is toxic to most vertebrates.  While that seems like a great way for an oil beetle to get revenge on anything that eats it, it doesn’t necessarily prevent the big flightless beetle from being attacked and killed in the first place.  Don’t worry – there’s more.  When an oil beetle feels threatened, it can secrete bright yellow hemolymph (the insect equivalent of blood) from its leg joints.  As one does.  That hemolymph contains enough cantharidin that any contact with the skin of potential predators causes painful swelling and blisters.  That, of course, is a pretty good deterrent against predators, as well as any foolhardy humans trying to manhandle an oil beetle.

As a side note, cantharidin has been long recognized by humans as a powerful chemical.  Despite its extreme toxicity, it has actually been used (in very small doses) as an aphrodisiac, starting at least a thousand years ago.  Because of the severe consequences of even a slight overdose, however, there are gruesome stories of hopeful lovers causing very painful deaths to themselves or others.  Cantharidin also has a long and varied history in medicines.  Currently, it is being tested for its effectiveness at treating cancer (as in this recent example).

The wings of oil beetles are much too small carry their weight.

The ability to secrete toxic bright yellow fluid from its leg joints is a pretty good story.  However, that just scratches the surface of the fascinating natural history of oil beetles. Most beetles mature through a process called complete metamorphosis, in which larvae  hatch out of eggs and grow until they pupate and become adults.  The larvae usually look completely different from the adult, and often have a very different lifestyle as well.  Oil beetles, however, go above and beyond by using a process called hypermetamorphosis.

When an oil beetle egg hatches, what crawls out is called a triungulin, a speedy little creature that looks much like a tiny silverfish.  The triungulin cluster together and emit a chemical that mimics the pheromone of female solitary bees (bees that individually make nests and raise young, as opposed to honey bees and other social bee species).  A male bee, upon catching the scent, will descend upon the mass of triungulin and attempt to mate with it (guys are so dumb when they’re horny).  Instead, the triungulin quickly crawl up onto the bee and hold on tight.  They stay with the male bee until it finds a genuine female bee and mates with her, at which time the triungulin scramble aboard the female.

Once onboard the female bee, the triungulin hitchhike back to her nest burrow.  When they arrive, they detach themselves and start eating everything then can find in the nest, including the bee eggs and larvae, along with the food the mother bee provisioned for them.  You can watch an incredible short video of oil beetle triungulin here.  During their time in the host bee’s nest, the triungulin molt into much more traditional grub-like larvae, and eventually pupate and turn into adults.  As adults, oil beetles feed on vegetation – including, apparently, pasque flower blossoms.

You’d never know by looking at its cute face that this oil beetle spent its childhood eating baby bees.

Do you see what I mean about the fascinating lives of invertebrates?  Who would’ve guessed that a bulbous-butt flightless beetle would have such a great story?  Answer: anyone who knows much about invertebrates.  As I write this, I have my booted broken ankle propped up awkwardly on the couch, but I’m already formulating plans for how I’m soon going to (carefully) drag myself out into the prairie to collect more images and stories of tiny little creatures.  Stay tuned.