By Clint King
As some of you who read my Coleopteraholic blog already know, I fell victim to an untimely work injury in mid-June that resulted in some broken ribs and both feet, fracturing the right one and reducing the left one to bone, tendon, and muscle soup beneath the skin. This ultimately resulted in my temporary disability, putting me on six month work leave with doctor’s orders to remain as immobile as possible, which, to a hyperactive naturalist such as myself, has proven near-impossible. Fortunately I was able to put a minimal amount of weight on my right foot, and thus do a small amount of walking with the aide of crutches, but the bulk of my mobility is severely limited, quenching all hopes of hitting the road/trails/forests/prairies etc for this year. Some weeks later (after workman’s comp agreed to foot the bill, no doubt) the surgeon had to go in and do a bimacular repair surgery, which involved rebulding the remnants of my shattered ankle with rods, plates, and screws. He then warned me to not even think about walking until atleast September, and then only after intensive rehabilitative therapy with the aide of a cane. The complete healing process could take up to eighteen months, blah-blah-blah. But as many who know me can attest, there is simply no way I’m throwing in the towel when it comes to including natural history observation and fielding in my daily regimen.
During the first four weeks following the incident I was completely bound to bed or chair. My wife was finishing up a semester at college, so my mom graciously allowed me to stay at her house during the day until Amber got out of class and could pick me up. Even simple tasks such as getting a glass of water or making something to eat were impossible without reliance on someone else, and I was flung into a state of dependence. While I couldn’t go outside yet, I could look from the window of the car in the mornings and evenings and observe whatever wildlife happened to cross our path during the ten minute drive to and from our house to my mom’s. Like the use of my legs, all those common creatures I had once taken for granted began to gain more importance as they became my only source of connectedness to the outside world. I saw grey squirrels, cottontails, blacktailed jack rabbits, and skunks in the mornings, not to mention an array of local ornithofauna: northern mockingbirds and cardinals, loggerhead shrikes, scissortailed flycatchers, and sparrows of which I am unqualified to identify to species, all in a new light. Perhaps my favorites were the painted buntings, little feathered works of art, the males of which look like their Designer couldn’t decide if He wanted to paint them red, green, purple, blue, or yellow. The buntings are always busy around the roadsides beneath thick draperies of wild grape that adorn the fence rows, with their comparatively drab olive green female counterparts always at their side. A flock of wild turkeys made their daily morning arrival like clockwork, the big male leading his harem with a confident strut across the road and under the barbed wire fence on the other side. On other, less frequent occasions I saw barred owls as they sat on their perches in the lower canopy of the oak mottes after winding down their all-nighters.
The evening’s drive home presented another mixed assortment of creatures, in spite of the typically oppressive June heat. Racerunners and spiny lizards darted across the roadway, and turkey and black vultures soared overhead, presumably waiting for me to die. Redtail and redshouldered hawks dominated the tops of telephone poles, while their smaller cousins the Mississippi kites stood on fenceposts and power lines.
Sometimes we would hang out at my mom’s until sunset, and on those drives home we saw an even greater abundance of crepuscular animals that call the Wilson Prairie where I live home. As the temps cooled with the setting sun, wildlife came out to take advantage of it, gearing up for their nightly forays. Small herds of whitetail deer grazed in open areas. Raccoons made their comical high-speed shuffles of panic across the road. And leopard frogs and Woodhouse toads leapt and hopped from one side to the other. Nightjars filled the sky, snatching up insects on boomerang-shaped wings. Once, our passing disturbed a young great horned owl as it had just settled into the top of a post oak to engage in its nightly survey of roadside rabbits.
Unfortunately I could not ride in the car for more than fifteen or twenty minutes without being in great pain, so roadcruising for herps was out of the question. But these little morning and evening drives, brief as they may have been, provided me with plenty of daily opportunities to catch glimpses of the wildlife all around me, as well as a rush of endorphins no amount of opioid-based pharmaceutical concoction could touch.
The car window wasn’t the only chance I had to view wildlife. When I oversaw the plans for our house construction in 2015 I had two large double windows installed in the living room that allowed me to view wildlife from the comfort of my recliner. It paid off in full this summer, as I was forced to keep my legs elevated for the first few weeks of recovery. I have an open front porch, with an overhanging eave beam where swallows and eastern phoebes build their nests of mud and straw, respectively. Hummingbirds often take a break from their incessant flight here on the beams, and a special multi-faceted cylindrical porch light turns an everyday halogen bulb into a nocturnal beacon calling all flying insects! Needless to say, the door beside it wasn’t painted white for aesthetic purposes, as its reflective glare brings in an all manner of moths and beetles. To make matters better (or worse, my wife might argue) opening the door for a few seconds gave me an instant indoor insect show.
The lights also call up one of my favorite local residents with which we share the property, the ubiquitous little grey tree frog, which seems to show up like magic on hot, dry summer nights to take advantage of the insect smorgasbord.
What I can’t see from the window my wife and son help by bringing photos to me of wild treasures they have found. Amber frequently sends pictures of snakes she comes across, and Zev is always bringing me beetles to identify. On two occasions he has brought in ornate box turtles, a species that is in rapid decline over most of its range. I am fortunate enough to be able to remember a time when they were much more common, but am glad that my son still has a chance to enjoy them, snap a photo, then let them go again where he found them.
When you live in the country sometimes you don’t even have to look through the window to enjoy wildlife. One of our tenants is the little striped bark scorpion. These turn up almost daily in our house, creeping across the floor or up a curtain with the menacing tail arched, or sitting still in a corner beneath a stray t-shirt. The fact that in the two years we have lived here we have only been stung twice is a testament to these creatures’ general reluctance to sting. Still, the thought of one crawling into my cast and hammering me relentlessly was a thought that kept me checking the blankets to make sure they weren’t dragging the floor during those first few weeks post-surgery when I was confined to the couch.
Now that nearly eight weeks have passed since my accident I have a little more mobility. This has allowed me to do some limited hobbling around outdoors on crutches. I have found a crutch doubles as a good beating stick with which to survey foliage for arboreal insects. We even joked about modifying them to include an aerial net on one and a snake hook on the other, and equipping my wheelchair with two high powered LED flashlights so I could wheel it down the paved backroads for a little cruising. I could only imagine the hilarity that would ensue if I were to have to explain myself to a game warden.
One way I have been able to engage in my continuously ongoing beetle research has been through the use of bait traps. While my ‘little house on the prairie ‘ is devoid of any trees close enough to be accessible by crutch or wheelchair, my mom’s 1/2 acre mini-forest of Texas ash and slippery elms we planted when I was a kid is within easy hobbling distance. These trees now stand twenty five plus feet tall, with massive trunks and bifurcated limbs that provide homemade swings and climbing opportunities for my son and his cousins. They have also given me a chance to hang some traps for my beloved longhorn beetles, which are most often found in arboreal situations. The traps consist of a mixture of red wine and molasses mixed with yeast and tap water and are placed into 2 liter pitchers, which are then suspended from the trees via hooks fashioned from coat hangers.
While not all species of longhorn beetles are attracted to the bait, which mimics the fermenting fruit and sap they normally come to in nature, the ones that are show up in phenomenal numbers. My mom’s neighbors, who own a large section of private land consisting of oak motte/mesquite savanna, also gave me permission to put out a few traps, and with the aide of a driver (Amber? Mom? Uber? Anybody…) I have been able to expand my traps to a total of seven in two different habitats. As a result I have brought in nearly 300 specimens of longhorn beetle representing 15 different species, not to mention the click beetles, scarabs, wasps and other insects attracted to the bait. What is even more phenomenal is the abundance of longhorn beetles in these habitats in general, as these huge numbers represent only a fraction of the individuals found on single trees. When viewed from this light, it underlines the importance of wood-destroying insects to the forest ecosystem, as most species only feed on trees already stressed from branch dieback or woodrot caused by outlying factors, proving their beneficiality.
This has kept me busy laboriously pinning and mounting a series of specimens of which I hope to eventually use in a dissertation I plan on writing on the beneficiality of wood-boring species in my pursuit of an entomological degree.
As I write this I am sitting in my recliner, my booted broken feet propped up on the extended footrest and the spasms of my atrophying back muscles screaming to be taken out to the field and stretched with some good old fashioned rock flipping. The curtains and shades are drawn back to provide me with an unobstructed view of the cross-timbers that lies in front of, behind, and all around me. There is a baby blue sky overhead, dotted by puffy patches of snow-white clouds like cottonballs. A high wall of sugarberry, mulberry, post oak and honey mesquite lord over an understory of juniper, hawthorn and gum bumelia. Paper wasps bump haphazardly across the window screen, while a hungry jumping spider eyes them, biding his time. In a few hours night will fall, and with the windows raised I will be able to enjoy the nightly chorus of our resident coyotes, the distinct cry of the whippoorwill, and the melodious mixed trills of the frogs in the pond behind the house as they take over where the dogday cicadas have winded down. A fork-tailed bush katydid will undoubtedly buzz from somewhere beneath the porchlight, and the luminescent glow of fireflies will blink on and off, calling their mates with their mysterious, still-yet-to-be-completely-explained cold light. I will enjoy all the natural gifts I can from the window, knowing they will provide sustenance until I can get back on my feet and out into the field.