Hiding On Their Favorite Plant

I’ve been working with prairies a long time, and there are some individual sites I’ve been studying, managing, or visiting for 30 years or more. Even so, I keep finding new species I didn’t know about and stories I can’t believe I’d not heard before.

I made a quick trip to our family prairie last week to check on grazing progress and to enjoy a quiet evening. As always, there was a lot to see and I’m glad I went. In particular, though, I got to meet and learn about a new prairie friend.

As I was walking through part of the prairie that was grazed last year, I paused and did a little double take at some sideoats grama plants. There was something just a little “off” about the arrangement of flowers up the stem. First of all, it was on a dry slope, and the sideoats was obviously not going to produce seed – the flowers hadn’t gotten rain at the right time, and dried up before they filled. That’s not what I noticed, though. What I noticed was a little extra bump in the row of flowers.

Narrow stink bug on sideoats grama.

I knelt down and looked closer. Sure enough, there was something there – it was a skinny little bug that looked almost exactly like one of the dried grass flowers. Both the color and shape were near perfect matches. Well, I thought, that might be a coincidence but I bet it’s not.

I looked a few feet to my right at the next nearest sideoats flower stem and, boy howdy, if I didn’t see another bug just like the first! The chances that this was coincidental were dropping fast.

Another narrow stink bug on a different sideoats plant.

After that, of course, I looked at more nearby sideoats plants, but didn’t see any more bugs. That didn’t necessarily mean much but I still noted it. Shortly afterward, I did, though, find a couple more of the bugs – hanging out on some Indiangrass. Hm. Did the exception prove the rule or was I reading too much into a chance color/shape match between two species?

A narrow stink bug on an Indiangrass stem.

Later that evening, I submitted one of my photos of the bug to Bugguide.net and by the next morning I had my answer. The bug was identified as a narrow stink bug (Mecidae), which is a group of insects that feed on grasses. Sideoats grama was specifically noted as the grass species they are most often observed on. How about that?

Our family prairie is a site I know very well. It’s only a quarter section of land (160 acres) and I’ve been visiting it frequently for many years – usually with my camera – and looking closely at everything I can find. Even after all that time, I’d just discovered a new “kinship” between species I hadn’t known about. And, that’s not unusual. Making new discoveries is still a regular occurrence. This is just the latest one.

Anyway, I saw other things at the prairie, too. Here are some of them:

A silver-spotted skipper feeds on wild bergamot.
A bush katydid peers at me through the grass.
Bumblebee on ironweed.
Corn earworm moth (native species) on ironweed.
A recently-shed grasshopper exoskeleton on stiff goldenrod.
I’m pretty sure this is the grasshopper that had emerged from the above shed exoskeleton. It was sitting on the same plant and looked very fresh.
An assassin bug hunts on Missouri goldenrod.
This grasshopper was looking at the same sunset I was. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized it was missing one of its big back legs!

After the sun went down, I was driving out past the pond/wetland, which has water in it for the first time in several years. I wasn’t on a particular schedule, so I figured I’d stop and see if anything interesting was happening down by the water before it got too dark to see anything. The first thing I noticed as I approached was the squeaks of several bullfrogs jumping into the water. That wouldn’t be noteworthy except that the pond has been dry for four or five years. Where did those frogs come from? How did they get here so quickly?

The second thing I noticed was the cloud of dragonflies skimming back and forth above the surface of the water. It looked like they were all green darners, feeding on mosquitoes (I assume) and other flying insects. I think there were maybe 50 of them, though it was pretty hard to get an accurate count. It could have been as few as 20 – who knows?

Anyway, every once in a while, one of the dragonflies would drop down and land on a partially-submerged plant. It would then curl its tail downward – clearly laying an egg (or several) – before rising again to join its colleagues in the sky. I couldn’t tell if it was just one female doing this over and over or several different individuals.

A green darner laying an egg in the post-sunset glow of distant clouds.

I was surprised that the egg-laying dragonflies were solo. Often, when I see dragonflies laying eggs, there is a male attached to the female. I was pretty sure I’d seen that with this same species, in fact. I looked it up when I got home and apparently it happens both ways. There you go – one more thing I’ve learned!

The light was getting pretty dim as I watched the dragonflies but I couldn’t resist trying for some photos. The clouds to the west were still slightly glowing from the recently-set sun, so I set up my tripod and camera so that the reflected glow gave me enough light to work with (barely). Even so, I was using a pretty slow shutter speed and a remote trigger to avoid jiggling my camera. It took a while, but I managed to a get a few shots that looked like they’d work.

Happy and full of both new discoveries and questions for Google, I headed home.

A Frosty Mountain Morning

Kim and I just got back from a week in the mountains of Colorado. As part of the trip, we camped several nights in the Lost Creek Wilderness. A year ago, we learned some lessons about how best to vacation together in the outdoors, and I think we applied those lessons well this year. We set up a base camp from which Kim had access to running trails and I could quickly access photographic opportunities when the light was good. It was a great week.

On the last morning of our trip, we awoke surrounded by frost. We were just under 10,000 feet in elevation, so I was surprised to see frost in July, but I also know enough about mountain weather that I probably should have been prepared for it. Regardless of my surprise, I was really happy to have the chance to photograph frosty flowers in the summer! I’d emerged from the tent in time to hike a little more than a mile to a spot I’d scouted the day before, and I arrived just as the sunlight did.

Monkshood flowers (Aconitum sp.) and cinquefoil shrubs at sunrise on a frosty morning.
Monkshood and frost
Another shot of from nearly the same spot, but without monkshood.

I spent the next couple hours scrambling around and trying to photograph the frost before it melted. Once the sun was above the distant ridge, the frost melted pretty quickly upon contact with sunlight, so I spent a lot of time following the edge of shade and sun – photographing flowers just after the sun hit them.

In my captions below, I’m guessing on identifications, so I’m staying fairly vague. Even then, I’m not guaranteeing accuracy. This is not my (geographic) area of expertise.

Shrubby cinquefoil (Potentilla fruticosa)? This was the dominant shrub in the landscape.
More of the same cinquefoil.
Swertia?
Frosty fleabane (Erigeron sp.)
More fleabane.

One of the great things about our chosen campsite and the surrounding area was that there wasn’t a lot of climbing to do when I wanted to explore and look for photo opportunities. Kim also appreciated that for her trail running. Both of us are used to the 1,800 foot elevation of east-central Nebraska. Even after several days of acclimating (not enough time), we weren’t really mountain-ready. Kim is in much better cardio shape than me, but even she wasn’t sprinting up any steep inclines.

That relative flatness meant that it didn’t take an excessive amount of time for me to fast-walk the trail to my intended destination before the sun appeared. Of course, because it was the mountains, sunrise doesn’t happen at sunrise, if you understand me. Official sunrise was at about 6am, but it took at least 30 minutes before the sun got high enough to clear the rocky ridges and trees all around me. The reason I went to this particular spot was that it was one of the first places in the valley the sun hit when it finally rose above the topography. (This is why I only visit the mountains and live in open prairie country where I can actually see the sun set and rise. Where there are actual stinking horizons.)

A different cinquefoil (Potentilla sp.)
The same cinquefoil as above – not the shrubby one.
Ice droplets and frost on a sedge leaf.

Prairie smoke is a wildflower that doesn’t show up in the prairies I frequent, so I’m always glad to visit sites where it lives. It’s one of my favorite plants to photograph, especially when the hairy seed head strands are covered with frost and dew.

Prairie smoke! (Geum triflorum)
More prairie smoke with an ice droplet in the middle.
A longhorn bee on prairie smoke, thawing out in the sun.
Droplets of melting frost on grass seed heads.
Bellflower (Campanula sp.)

As the sun rose higher and the frost started to melt and sublimate (a great term to look up if you don’t know it), fog started to rise from the ground and drift along the valley. I stood up and photographed the landscape for a while. It was nice to stretch my back a little after crouching and lying on the ground to get photos of frosty flowers.

Fog developed as the frost melted and sublimated.
More frosty fog.

By the time the fog dissipated, the sun was bright enough that photography was getting difficult, so I trekked back to camp. My feet were sodden but my spirits were high. I was ready to head back home to the prairie, but glad we’d come.