Tuesday, June 26, 2018
The Web Unravels: No Butterflies
The sun was starting
to set Saturday evening when we arrived at Flower Gap, so I didn’t
look for flowers or insects. We had work to do before dark. The next
morning was leisurely, since we had traversed by far the hardest nine
of our fifteen-plus miles. After breakfast and striking the tent, I
walked around the gap a bit. I was surprised that there were hardly
any flowers, though the tall grasses, reeds and canes were exquisite.
And I saw only one butterfly, a beautiful spicebush swallowtail,
alighting on one of the few flowers. The previous day, I had seen
another, smaller butterfly. A total of two butterflies in this mass
of botanical beauty.
When I got home, I
read the NY Times article, “The Silence of the Bugs.” Though the
research is sketchy, mostly by amateurs, it turns out that, in
Germany at least, there is only twenty percent of the number of bugs
in midsummer peak bug season that there was a a few decades ago.
This jives with my experience, at least with respect to lepidoptera.
When we first moved to South Toe, moths covered our windows and
night, and the butterflies of summer were prolific, as many as 60
swallowtails gathering for water in the late afternoons. Now, I’m
really pleased to see, very rarely, as many as ten or twelve pipevine
swallowtails on the road where they drink. Mostly, butterfly
sightings are singles. And at night, just a few small whitish moths,
not the large Cecropias and Lunas of yesteryear amid a sea of moths
of all sizes and shapes. I blogged about this a few years backhttps://wearepassersby.wordpress.com/?s=where+are+the+butterflies, and
the eery absence of butterflies at Flower(less) Gap has brought my
brooding worry back.
The Times article
can only speculate about the causes of the decline, which anecdotally
seems to be global, not just in Germany, where it is documented.
Pesticides are suspected, especially for species who spend part of
their lives in water. But this is not the case with lepodoptera.
And the Pisgah Wilderness is huge, has been around for a long time,
and is upstream from the light agriculture of the polycultural
Appalachian farmers in the valleys below. This particular case is
truly a mystery. But EO Wilson, who is the most eminent of
entomologists, says this of the situation: “If all mankind were to
disappear, the world would regenerate back to the rich state of
equilibrium that existed ten thousand years ago. If insects were to
vanish, the environment would collapse into chaos.”
Pisgah Wilderness: Flower Gap
I just returned from the most beautiful hike I’ve ever taken, Big East Fork up through Greasy Cove to the top of the ridge adjacent to Shining Rock (Big Butt), then back down Shining Creek, ending at the opposite bank of Big East Fork. I went with my son, my grandsons, and my life-partner. It was challenging; until we reached the ridge, there were no signs, so Jacob led us, orienteering by a map. We took numerous wrong trails - fishermen’s trails, mostly – but all were near the roaring Big East Fork, where we saw whitewater and waterfalls at every turn, interspersed with deep pools. We kept the river on our right, until we crossed two separate fords. Everyone except Jacob got wet feet. The roar of the river was continuous for three miles. It was sublime.
The boys, myself included, wanted to dip into those pools, but we left late and had a long hiking day ahead of us, at least to the ridge above Greasy Cove. Jacob wanted to get far enough to complete the loop, which was about 16 miles. Southern Appalachian trails are rugged, and these were some of the most rugged I’ve ever encountered, including numerous rivulets through the rocky root-ridden or muddy trail after last week’s flooding from a mammoth tropical storm. With my top-heavy rucksack, I lost my balance several times, falling harmlessly to the banks of the deeply rutted trail.
Having spent most of my adult life in these mountains, I knew the botanical and silvicultural treasures they held, but I have never witnessed such ecosystem diversity, with changes in biome half a dozen times. At the top of the ridge, we reached “fairyland” as Aidan and Connor called it, deep glades of yellow birch alternating with rhododendron, the floor full of trilliums with light green flowers. They look like something out of a science fiction movie with their eerily green blossoms, and only grow above 5 thousand feet. When we had asked downhill hikers about camping sites, they told us that we’d reach some excellent ones after 3-4 miles, after we passed a “grassy area.” Well, the forest – mostly an unusual mix dominated by yellow birch, but containing silver birch, beech and some maple – was floored with fine-stemmed native grasses, intermixed most of the way with fern, for much of those four miles, until reaching fairyland near the top of the ridge.
I fell far behind the others. Even Pablo, the muscular mutt who looks like the dog in the old RCA logo (“his master’s voice”), stopped coming back to herd me. But there was plenty of time before dark to make the sites we had heard about on Big Butt, so I actually enjoyed the scenery while trudging on the best I could. About a half mile from the summit I was really struggling, falling back down the trail several times, lacking enough umph to strike firmly up the steep, rocky trail. Then I saw Jacob, who was kind and resourceful enough to relieve me of my pack. After that, I was able to make steady progress. At the top, it was clear why nobody had come after me. Geeta needed to catch up so she could watch both packs and the boys. A ranger we encountered by the river had told us that bears were making regular raids on folks’ food, so Jacob couldn’t come check on the old man until he could leave his pack safely guarded.
Alas, there was no water at these sites, so we needed to hike on to our most ambitious campsite at Flower Gap, which straddles the ridges of Big Butt and Shining Rock. When I reached the top, Jacob and the boys had gone on to establish a campsite and seek water, another “two or three” miles. After a snack and a short rest, I got a second wind, and Geeta and I were able to make the gap fine. I actually got far enough ahead that I was finally able to take some pictures with my new android. We walked nine rugged miles that day, ascending 2800 feet.
The gap was breathtakingly beautiful, a flowing grassy field surrounded by catawba rhododendron near peak bloom, small tree thickets, and a huge stand of blueberries stretching up the gap to the East, in turn surrounded by the infinite Blue Ridge, smack dab in the middle of the capacious Pisgah Wilderness. There were several other campers there, but plenty of room. Jacob had gone after water - about a fifth of a mile away. The boys were playing. They had come through fairyland to heaven, where they now romped.
We had just enough time to set up our two tents (a new one by trial and error) and make supper before darkness set in. Jacob had brought a big bag for all the food (way too much!) and a rope to tie it high in a tree. Alas, once complete darkness hit, he couldn’t find his rope; still hasn’t. So I put the bag at the head of my sleeping bag, with Pablo lying on guard just outside Geeta’s and my tent. Shortly after we went to bed, he started a low growl deep in his throat, and sat at attention, his gaze to the east. This went on for 45 minutes or so. Something was out there.
Sure enough, the next morning we ran into several hikers who asked if the bears had visited us. At least three parties had their food torn down from the trees from which it was suspended, and one woman said they watched helplessly as the mother and her two cubs dined just twenty yards away. Many of these folks had dogs, but they had not resisted the bears.
Our story is that Pablo saved us from the bears. We don’t know that is true, but the deep guttural growls he made in their direction were the most menacing I’ve head from him in his five years. Our fellow campers considered him a hero, since none of us had been bothered. Perhaps he had warned them off, but I suspect they simply had already had their fill before reaching us.
The boys, myself included, wanted to dip into those pools, but we left late and had a long hiking day ahead of us, at least to the ridge above Greasy Cove. Jacob wanted to get far enough to complete the loop, which was about 16 miles. Southern Appalachian trails are rugged, and these were some of the most rugged I’ve ever encountered, including numerous rivulets through the rocky root-ridden or muddy trail after last week’s flooding from a mammoth tropical storm. With my top-heavy rucksack, I lost my balance several times, falling harmlessly to the banks of the deeply rutted trail.
Having spent most of my adult life in these mountains, I knew the botanical and silvicultural treasures they held, but I have never witnessed such ecosystem diversity, with changes in biome half a dozen times. At the top of the ridge, we reached “fairyland” as Aidan and Connor called it, deep glades of yellow birch alternating with rhododendron, the floor full of trilliums with light green flowers. They look like something out of a science fiction movie with their eerily green blossoms, and only grow above 5 thousand feet. When we had asked downhill hikers about camping sites, they told us that we’d reach some excellent ones after 3-4 miles, after we passed a “grassy area.” Well, the forest – mostly an unusual mix dominated by yellow birch, but containing silver birch, beech and some maple – was floored with fine-stemmed native grasses, intermixed most of the way with fern, for much of those four miles, until reaching fairyland near the top of the ridge.
I fell far behind the others. Even Pablo, the muscular mutt who looks like the dog in the old RCA logo (“his master’s voice”), stopped coming back to herd me. But there was plenty of time before dark to make the sites we had heard about on Big Butt, so I actually enjoyed the scenery while trudging on the best I could. About a half mile from the summit I was really struggling, falling back down the trail several times, lacking enough umph to strike firmly up the steep, rocky trail. Then I saw Jacob, who was kind and resourceful enough to relieve me of my pack. After that, I was able to make steady progress. At the top, it was clear why nobody had come after me. Geeta needed to catch up so she could watch both packs and the boys. A ranger we encountered by the river had told us that bears were making regular raids on folks’ food, so Jacob couldn’t come check on the old man until he could leave his pack safely guarded.
Alas, there was no water at these sites, so we needed to hike on to our most ambitious campsite at Flower Gap, which straddles the ridges of Big Butt and Shining Rock. When I reached the top, Jacob and the boys had gone on to establish a campsite and seek water, another “two or three” miles. After a snack and a short rest, I got a second wind, and Geeta and I were able to make the gap fine. I actually got far enough ahead that I was finally able to take some pictures with my new android. We walked nine rugged miles that day, ascending 2800 feet.
The gap was breathtakingly beautiful, a flowing grassy field surrounded by catawba rhododendron near peak bloom, small tree thickets, and a huge stand of blueberries stretching up the gap to the East, in turn surrounded by the infinite Blue Ridge, smack dab in the middle of the capacious Pisgah Wilderness. There were several other campers there, but plenty of room. Jacob had gone after water - about a fifth of a mile away. The boys were playing. They had come through fairyland to heaven, where they now romped.
We had just enough time to set up our two tents (a new one by trial and error) and make supper before darkness set in. Jacob had brought a big bag for all the food (way too much!) and a rope to tie it high in a tree. Alas, once complete darkness hit, he couldn’t find his rope; still hasn’t. So I put the bag at the head of my sleeping bag, with Pablo lying on guard just outside Geeta’s and my tent. Shortly after we went to bed, he started a low growl deep in his throat, and sat at attention, his gaze to the east. This went on for 45 minutes or so. Something was out there.
Sure enough, the next morning we ran into several hikers who asked if the bears had visited us. At least three parties had their food torn down from the trees from which it was suspended, and one woman said they watched helplessly as the mother and her two cubs dined just twenty yards away. Many of these folks had dogs, but they had not resisted the bears.
Our story is that Pablo saved us from the bears. We don’t know that is true, but the deep guttural growls he made in their direction were the most menacing I’ve head from him in his five years. Our fellow campers considered him a hero, since none of us had been bothered. Perhaps he had warned them off, but I suspect they simply had already had their fill before reaching us.
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