Animals and Plants of the Finger Lakes

The Prickly Porcupine

You probably won’t see them, though you may detect signs of their presence.

Anything containing sodium and left outside overnight may be destroyed by gnawing teeth: wood siding, painted signs, truck undercarriages.  You may notice “witch trees” whose branches are stunted and twisted from years of browsing.  You might even come across the animal’s distinctive wavy track in the snow, created by a waddling gait and a heavy, dragging tail, or smell its turpentiney urine.  And if you look up while walking through the woods in the winter or early spring, you might catch a glimpse of the porcupine itself doggedly feeding on bark or buds, looking for all the world like a squirrel nest on the move.

The porcupine (Erethizon dorsatum) is the second-largest North American rodent, surpassed in size only by the beaver; it may be up to two feet long, not including the tail.  Unlike its sleek cousin, it looks permanently disheveled, as if it’s just been rudely awakened from sleep.  Nevertheless, it is exquisitely adapted to a life high above the forest floor.  Its extremely thick fur offers excellent insulation against harsh winter temperatures.  Its feet have a single footpad covered with pebbled skin much like the surface of a basketball, as well as very long, curved claws that hook into even the tiniest crevices.  On the underside of its tail are short, backward-pointing bristles that act as crampons.  Since they spend most of their lives pressed against trees, porcupines have no quills on the belly, and no external genitalia.

In contrast to the social and proverbially energetic beaver, the porcupine is nocturnal, solitary, and does everything, including reproducing, very, very slowly.  Native Americans revered the animal because it so often saved them in times of famine; it is so confident in its quills, and so slow, that it can be easily clubbed to death.  Today, the porcupine’s worst enemy is the automobile.  Many are killed each spring on highways where they congregate in order to feed on road salt.  Coyotes, mountain lions, and owls have been known to eat porcupines, but their only specialized predator is the fisher.  This weasel-like animal attacks the porcupine’s head repeatedly until it is wounded and disoriented, then flips it on its back.

The porcupine’s warning system, like the skunk’s, uses black and white, the colors most easily seen by nocturnal predators.  A black stripe runs down the length of its tail and white quills bristle from the sides; the quills contain a fluorescent pigment that makes them seem even brighter.  If an animal ignores this message, the porcupine will chatter its teeth, release a warning odor, erect its quills in all directions, and swing its tail like a mace.  The quills, which can be up to four inches long, are coated with tiny barbs; under an electron microscope, they look like the fringed trunks of palm trees.  On impact, the quills loosen from the porcupine’s skin and lodge in the attacker’s flesh, and muscle movements gradually draw them inward.  A predator may be killed by a quill that pierces a vital organ or makes it impossible to eat, but it will probably not die from infection.  Quills are coated with grease that facilitates penetration but also has antiseptic properties.  This adaptation is designed not to spare the porcupine’s predators but to protect itself.  Porcupines live dangerously, venturing out onto slender branches in order to feed; they often fall from great heights and impale themselves on their own quills.

Official maps show that porcupines are present in every corner of upstate New York, but in fact they seem to be uncommon in the Finger Lakes.  They are found regularly in the Southern Tier, including the Land Trust’s Parker, Plymouth Woods, and Steege Hill preserves, in the Connecticut Hill area, and they have recently been spotted in the town of Danby, Tompkins County.  However, there are many areas of what would seem to be prime porcupine territory that are apparently unoccupied.  Perhaps habitat fragmentation is partly to blame; the porcupine will not readily venture into open areas in order to cross from one forest block to the next.  In addition, the arrival of two new species may make life even more tenuous for the porcupine.  The fisher is making a comeback in the region, and the woolly adelgid, an invasive insect, is wreaking havoc on the hemlocks that provide food and shelter for porcupines in the winter.  The sight of a porcupine high in the trees, never common even at the best of times, may become even rarer.

This story by Jacqueline Stuhmiller first appeared in our newsletter, The Land Steward, as part of the Closer Look series.

Animals and Plants of the Finger Lakes

The Elusive Spotted Salamander

The spotted salamander, Ambystoma maculatum, is a secretive denizen of eastern U.S. and southern Canadian woodlands.

Although its looks are arresting — two rows of bright yellow spots on a dark body as long as your hand — it is all but invisible most of the year.  Like all so-called “mole salamanders,” spotted salamanders spend most of their time underground in burrows that they find or dig themselves.

However, for a very short window of time in the spring, this reclusive animal comes out of hiding.  Small depressions in the ground, dry or covered with snow for most of the year, fill with spring rains and form vernal pools.  These ephemeral wetlands can’t support hungry fish, so they are perfect breeding ponds for species like mole salamanders, wood frogs, and fairy shrimp.

Responding to some signal — perhaps the temperature, or the flooding of their burrows, or even the sound of raindrops on the surface — on the first warm nights of spring, the spotted salamanders start to emerge and begin a synchronized migration toward the vernal pools of their birth, sometimes passing by perfectly good breeding ponds on the way.

How do they know where to go?  Scientists can’t say for certain, but Kraig Adler, Cornell Professor of Biology, offers a guess: “They probably use odors and the Earth’s magnetic field to orient, as do newts.”

The salamanders stay at their natal pools only long enough to mate and lay their eggs before returning home.  The larvae remain in the ponds for several months, feeding on tiny invertebrates, until they trade their gills for lungs and grow legs that allow them to follow their parents on land.  By this time, the vernal pools have dried up, reverting back to unobtrusive hollows in the forest floor.  It may take more than five years before a juvenile reaches sexual maturity, but spotted salamanders can live more than thirty years.

The population of spotted salamanders in Tompkins County is healthy, thanks to good conservation practices.  However, in other parts of the state, their status is precarious enough that they are listed as a “Special Concern Species” by the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation.  One threat that these animals face is the destruction of their breeding ponds.  Since vernal pools are shallow and dry most of the year, they are often filled in or built over by homeowners and developers.

Another problem is water pollution, to which salamanders are exquisitely sensitive.  Heavy metals and pesticides are deadly, but acid rain and snow are bigger threats in the northeast.  Salamander eggs and larvae either die or develop abnormally if the pH of their ponds is too low.  The Adirondacks in particular have been deeply affected by pollution: some lakes and ponds there have become so acidic that they cannot support normal aquatic ecosystems.

Perhaps the most obvious, and in some ways the most easily addressed, threat to salamanders is automobile traffic.  A heavily used road that cuts across a migration path can decimate a salamander population, and the amphibians are small enough to escape the notice of all but the most eagle-eyed motorist.  Since neither human roads nor salamander migrations can be easily re-routed, one way to prevent a conflict of interests is to build road underpasses (sometimes called “toad tunnels”) or modify already existing culverts.  The Cornell Plantations took the latter approach, building an animal directional fence that shepherds migrating amphibians into a culvert beneath Ringwood Road in Ithaca. Nancy Ostman, the Plantations Natural Areas Program Director, reports that although the toad tunnel has been quite successful, “there are still a cluster of deaths off of the end of the fence.  Some animals will go the wrong way even if it is out of the way.”  The Plantations also manages ponds near the Cornell golf course that are used by breeding amphibians.  Because debris from road and golf course maintenance tends to collect in these ponds, the Plantations staff regularly dredges their perimeters, thereby ensuring that the water is deep enough for the amphibians to breed and the young to survive.

This spring, look — and drive! — carefully, and if you’re lucky, you might catch a glimpse of the slow, inexorable vernal march of the spotted salamander.

This story by Jacqueline Stuhmiller first appeared in our newsletter, The Land Steward, as part of the Closer Look series.

Animals and Plants of the Finger Lakes

Damsels and Dragons

Meena Haribal, a chemist at Cornell’s Lab of Ornithology in Ithaca, lugged the ancient office laptop down to the visitor’s area to show me her photos of her favorite animals:  dragonflies and damselflies (Order Odonata).

“They are fascinating creatures,” she told me. “They have interesting behaviors, and they are beautiful to look at.  Everything about them I like.” As she showed me her detailed photos, I wasn’t sure if I unreservedly agreed with her assessment.  They are indeed beautiful from a respectful distance.  But some of her remarkable close-ups did not depict my idea of beauty.

My reservations might have been even more apt 300 million years ago, when oxygen levels were 70 percent higher, when most insects were bigger, and Odonata, in particular, had a wingspread of two feet or more.  Their larvae, 16 inches long, attacked anything they could catch and would have made stream and pond wading extremely unpleasant.

Of the approximately 7,000 species of Odonata, 110 have been recorded in Tompkins County, according to Fred Sibley, a retired Yale ornithologist, who currently lives in the county and studies dragonflies.

One simple way to distinguish these Odonata families: Damselflies are smaller than dragonflies and rest with wings folded back upon their abdomen; dragonflies and their even larger cousins, the darners, rest with wings outspread.

Haribal has observed 70 of these species.  “The green darners come first to the region,” she said.  “I spotted the first one outside my office window in the ornithology lab a few days ago [mid-April].” Aurora damselflies also arrive early in the Finger Lakes.  They are gone by June or July.  Canada darners, with blue–green stripes, are common patrollers of pond shores.

Fred Sibley spoke about another of our local species, the gray petal-tail found in Watkins Glen and Robert Treman State Park.  “They’re similar to those in the dinosaur age,” he said.  “They’re very large and tame.  They’ll often land on a hiker’s head or shirt.  They’re in their northern edge of range here.”

The early life of the dragonfly is biologically intricate, composed of many stages.  It progresses from a nearly microscopic egg laid in water to a formidable bottom-dwelling nymph, hunting mosquito larvae, smaller nymphs, tadpoles, and even small minnows.  It catches prey with a lightning-fast snap of its toothed lower lip.  In turn, the nymph is also prey to other water predators, especially fish.

If the nymph survives throughout its complex larval stages in the water, it eventually climbs out onto a plant or on shore, emerging as a vulnerable, soft fly — land-bound for a few hours until its wings and body harden.  At this point, it is easy prey for birds, frogs or other dragonflies.  From egg to adulthood, dragonfly mortality rates could be as high as 90 percent.

Those that survive seek mates.  Dragonflies have unique mating habits.  When a male is ready to mate, he transfers sperm from his lower abdomen to a storage spot closer to his thorax.  When a female of the same species comes nearby, the male uses the tip of its tail to lock onto an analogous “keyhole” structure on the head of the female.  Then the female curves her tail up to receive the sperm from the storage area.

Many species mate in flight; others alight on perches.  The males of several species continue to clasp onto the female until she has laid her eggs to prevent competing males from mating with her.  Males of some other species release the female but stay close by to chase away any competitors.

As adults, dragonflies are carnivorous, eating every type of insect they can manage to catch.  Haribal reported that while once holding a damselfly in her hand, a dragonfly swooped down to eat it.  In turn, Odonata are eaten by many bird species, especially flycatchers.  Sibley noted that the American kestrel migration coincides with the green darner migration because the kestrels depend on them for food.

Still, we know little about dragonfly migration.  Our knowledge of Odonata is in its earliest stages. “Interest in dragonflies has blossomed in the last ten years,” Sibley said.  “Before that, it dragged 100 years behind birds.  If you want to see a parallel, look at bird books from the turn of the last century.”

Although dragonflies and damselflies are everywhere and easy to find on a sunny summer day, they often go unnoticed.  If you want to observe Odonata, bring boots, binoculars, maybe insect repellent, and a guidebook to your favorite pond, stream or field, and just enjoy these remarkable insects.

This story by Margot Brinn first appeared in our newsletter, The Land Steward, as part of the Closer Look series.

Animals and Plants of the Finger Lakes

Keeping Bald Eagles in Sight

On a Sunday morning in late January, Paul Lattimore of Auburn stood on his lawn looking through a pair of binoculars at a large raft of winter ducks on the north end of Owasco Lake.

Suddenly, the ducks spooked, and a hundred or so took to the sky.

“I panned my binoculars south and saw a bald eagle had grabbed a mallard,” Lattimore said.  “The eagle was fighting to get airborne and the mallard was in its talons.”

Grasping the flapping duck, the eagle flew along the shoreline over Lattimore’s house.  The duck shook itself loose and fell in the water.  The eagle made a pass, the duck dove, and after circling twice, the eagle flew off.

“I’ve lived on the lake since I was a child, some 40 years,” Lattimore added.  “That’s the first time I’ve seen an eagle on the lake.”

The chances of sighting a bald eagle are indeed going up.  After plummeting to endangered species status by the early 1960s, their numbers are now climbing in New York state and elsewhere.  In the 1950s and 1960s, widespread use of the pesticide DDT contaminated water sources the bald eagles depended upon. Although this large bird, with a wingspan of six to seven feet, may feed on waterfowl and small mammals, its primary prey is fish, whose fatty tissues are known to accumulate chemicals.  A diet of DDT-laden fish made the birds’ eggshells fragile, and most bald eagle chicks died before they hatched. Ironically, this great country almost lost sight of its national symbol completely.  By 1970, only one nesting pair remained in the state.

The country banned DDT in 1972.  In 1976, the New York State Bald Eagle Restoration Project began reestablishing breeding birds in the state.  Between 1976 and 1988, young bald eagles were moved, mostly from Alaska, and hand-reared to independence.  Almost 200 were released in New York state. Ten breeding pairs had nests by 1989, and the project ended with its goal attained.

The birds prefer areas with few people, near large lakes, swamps, marshes, and along rivers where there is open water for them to fish.  In New York state, most nests can be found in the southern Catskill region along the Delaware River and to the north between the Hudson and St. Lawrence rivers.  Last year’s count of 84 potential breeding pairs marked a high point since restoration began, according to the 2004 New York State Bald Eagle Report.  The state’s annual survey occurs during the first few weeks of January.  In 2004, the 363 total bald eagle sightings added up to another record.

Bill Ostrander, of the Chemung Valley Audubon Society, acknowledges that even around the Finger Lakes region sightings have increased in the last three or four years.  Growing up in Elmira, he saw a stray bird once in his teens.  During this year’s annual survey, Ostrander spotted two bald eagles near Elmira.  He also glimpsed a golden eagle, an extremely rare bird for the area, especially in winter.  The golden eagle was perched in the Land Trust’s Steege Hill preserve, west of Elmira.

The N.Y. Department of Environmental Conservation (DEC) considers human presence and loss of key habitat as the eagle’s biggest threat.  Identifying and protecting key habitats will be essential for future populations to succeed, the bald eagle report cautions.  If anecdotal evidence is any indication, Ostrander provided more proof of the bald eagle’s well-being during a trip to the Montezuma Wetlands Complex at the north end of Cayuga Lake last September.

“I observed 16 bald eagles in one day,” he marveled.

While it’s glorious to see bald eagles in person, the DEC warns that the birds have excellent eyesight and are easily disturbed.  Steering clear of nests is crucial for keeping them around.  Still, a careful glimpse, like the one Paul Lattimore was privileged to in January, can leave a lasting impression.

“Seeing that bird in action will be in my mind forever,” Lattimore said.  “It’s a hopeful sign to me that the eagles are now possible in the area.”

This story by Krishna Ramanujan first appeared in our newsletter, The Land Steward, as part of the Closer Look series.

Animals and Plants of the Finger Lakes

Saw-Whet Owls Sound Off

One cold, still evening in winter some years ago, as I was closing up the hen house, a soft, repetitive tooting came down from the wooded hillside.

I might easily have failed to notice it, if field guides had not prepared me; now I recognized in this faintly audible disturbance the distant voice of the littlest owl in eastern North America, the Northern Saw-whet Owl.

Nightly thereafter I whistled the simple call, hoping for a look at the three-ounce raptor.  My imitations were thin, but owls have excellent hearing: excited respondents soon appeared on nearby branches, or swooped very close, their shadows darting over the moonlit snow.  A really satisfying view eluded me, though, until the following winter, when a Saw-whet flew in to perch on a sumac twig within arm’s reach, tooting quizzically in the last glow from the western sky.

In time it became clear that Saw-whet Owls wintered annually here.  Concealing themselves in dense conifers by day, active only at night, these pint-sized mousers are normally silent except at the onset of breeding season, and probably go undetected in many locations.  The unusual midwinter calling that attracted my attention subsided after several years, but my whistle still elicits responses, and moonlight often reveals a curious little owl whose noiseless flight conveys nothing at all to my ears.

Saw-whet Owls breed from southern Alaska to Nova Scotia, hence the scientific name Aegolius acadicus, the ‘Acadian owl’.  Breeding extends southward in the Appalachians to the Great Smoky Mountains. Typical habitat is fairly mature coniferous or mixed forest with openings, often near water.  Nesting birds are quiet, and their nest-holes are seldom discovered.  Some Saw-whets reside year-round in breeding areas; others engage in seasonal movements of an unclear nature.  In New York, many Saw-whets are found each spring and fall roosting in conifer groves along the shores of Lake Ontario and Long Island.

Between 1980 and 1985, volunteers surveying for the first Atlas of Breeding Birds in New York State found Saw-whets chiefly in the Adirondacks.  In the Finger Lakes region, reports of possible or probable breeding were scarce, and breeding was confirmed in just one location.  Fieldwork for the second atlas, which began in 2000, promises to augment our picture of the regional breeding distribution of this very inconspicuous species.

In my neighborhood, a lush coniferous swamp amply furnished with appropriable woodpecker holes offered possible breeding habitat for Saw-whet Owls.  One bright July afternoon in my third year of wading there, preoccupied with Brown Creepers, Northern Waterthrushes and other swamp birds, I ducked into a shrub-willow thicket and came face-to-face with Saw-whet fledglings, for an unforgettably close look at a bird that had captivated me since that winter evening by the hen house years earlier.

Nocturnal birds exert a compelling fascination over the susceptible.  Unobtrusive to the point of inscrutability, the little Saw-whet Owl worked on my imagination like a remembered view of the night sky through a large telescope, intensifying awareness of the depth of nature, in which so many things pass unobserved.  Friends say I’m very lucky to have Saw-whets return year after year, but on reflection it seems likely they were here long before I knew it.  The luck may lie less in their continuing presence than in the way I came to be informed of it.

This story by Geo Kloppel first appeared in our newsletter, The Land Steward, as part of the Closer Look series about plants and animals of the Finger Lakes region.