His name is Ralph!

Eastern hognose snake (Heterodon platirhinos) | Wayne Co., Missouri

Until the past few years, I could probably count on my two hands the number of snakes I’d seen in the field. This despite nearly weekly outings throughout each season going back to young adulthood. I’m sure this has something to do with my search image (beetles), my primary method of looking for them (whacking tree branches with my net handle over a beating sheet), and what I wasn’t also doing at the time (looking for snakes or anything else that wasn’t a beetle). One is unlikely to see these mostly shy, secretive animals when thrashing and whacking through the bush, and even if no ruckus is made to make them scamper they can still hide in plain sight due to their wonderfully cryptic coloration. It wasn’t until I started carrying a camera and began looking for other natural history subjects rather than just focusing on collecting as many beetles as possible that I began to see snakes. And since then I’ve seen a lot of them, including a terrifyingly aggressive timber rattler, a juvenile Osage copperhead, an uncooperative dusty hognosed snake, a death-feigning western hognosed snake, a cute little western pygmy rattlesnake, a rough green snake, a juvenile timber rattler, an adult Osage copperhead, and a yellow-bellied racer. The last three were all seen at what has become for me my favorite “snake spot”—a gorgeous preserve in the southeastern Missouri Ozarks. I’m not sure what makes this place so ideal—perhaps the massive outcroppings of jumbled rhyolite alongside the clear, spring-fed, gravel-bottomed river provide ample habitat and food for a variety of species. Regardless, I have visited the preserve each April  (for my annual season-opening birthday bug collecting trip) for the past three years and never failed to see at least one snake.¹

¹ To be clear, I am not a snake collector. That said, I do not have a problem with keeping snakes in captivity, at least in principle, but I am disturbed by the frequency with which snakes and other reptiles are irresponsibly collected at levels that are unsustainable and even “poached” from protected areas. For me personally, it is enjoyment enough to see, be able to identify, and observe these gorgeous animals in their native habitats, leaving with nothing more than a digital record and my vivid memories of that brief encounter.

When threatened, hognose snakes flatten their head and neck, puff up their body, and hiss loudly.

On my most recent visit, I was hoping to once again see one of the timber rattlers that inhabit these rocky hillsides. I tip-toed up and down the rocky slopes as quietly as I could, but no such luck. On the way back, however, I spotted this colorful eastern hognose snake (Heterodon platirhinos) lying just off the path. Despite its brilliant coloration and vivid markings, it was remarkably well camouflaged and I almost walked right past it. Of course, hognose snakes are well-known for their various threat and defensive displays. I’ve experienced some of these in my previous sightings with other species (death-feigning, mouth bleeding, and foul-smelling emissions), but to my delight I got to experience their most classic behaviors—flattening of the head and neck, puffing of the body, and loud hissing. The snake repeatedly performed these behaviors as I photographed it, and because I persisted the snake apparently concluded that these tactics weren’t working. What happened next was something I was completely unprepared for.

”Sir, what’s your name?”

As the snake began trying to crawl away, it opened its mouth widely…

”Uh, his name is…”

…and out came it’s last meal (obviously a frog, but with the head and front legs already digested, too difficult to identify any further)!

”RRRAAAALLPH!”

p.s. If you didn’t get the joke, watch this clip from the classic Cheech and Chong movie, Up in Smoke.

Copyright © Ted C. MacRae 2013

Dressed in black

The first three days of this year’s Fall Tiger Beetle Trip had been fun, and finding a new state record jewel beetle and an unusual seasonal activity record for another were definitely icing on the cake. Still, tiger beetles (at least adults) had been notably absent, with my hunch that Cicindela pulchra (Beautiful Tiger Beetle) might occur in the Red Hills of northwestern Oklahoma not playing out. My next goal was to go down to northern Texas and look for Cicindelidia politula (Limestone Tiger Beetle)—a species I have not yet encountered in the field. When I saw that the route south took me through the Wichita Mountains of southwestern Oklahoma, I recalled seeing this photo of Cicindelidia obsoleta vulturina (Prairie Tiger Beetle) on BugGuide taken in these very mountains during the fall. I have seen on many occasions the greenish Missouri / Arkansas disjunct population of this subspecies, but I had not yet seen the main population and its decidedly black individuals, so this became my quarry for Day 4 of the trip. I had nothing more to go on for a locality than “Wichita Mountains NWR” and a sense of its habitat preferences based on my own experience with the MO/AR disjuncts, so after arriving at the refuge I began to look for access to a 2-track leading to higher, unforested ground (reminiscent of the dolomite glades of southwestern Missouri). I quickly found a parking lot with a 2-track leading from it, so I pulled off, geared up, and set out on what I figured was surely a wild goose chase. The track looked good, but no beetles were seen, and after walking about a half-mile I happened to look up and see this not too far ahead:

American bison | Wichita Mountains National Wildlife Refuge, Oklahoma

Call me chicken, but bison can and will charge without warning. Even though they seemed unconcerned by my presence, I wasn’t with anybody that I knew I could outrun and decided that a cautious, tip-toeing retreat would the best course of action (even taking the above photo—uncropped, I might add—made me nervous). What now? I was quickly back at the car and not sure what to do next when I saw a foot path leading into a cedar woods, behind which the land rose up to treeless heights. I decided that might be a good place to explore—as long as I didn’t run into any bison along the way! As I was hiking through the woodland—an open, obviously long ago planted grove of eastern red cedar (Juniperus virginiana)—I passed by a small opening and almost by instinct veered into the opening to have a look. As soon as I stepped into the opening I saw the unmistakable escape flight of two large tiger beetles—what the…?! No doubt about it, they were C. o. vulturina, and they had been hanging out by a fairly fresh bovid chip (bison or cow, I don’t know). (I have seen this behavior also with the MO/AR disjuncts.) I watched them land and decided which one I would try to photograph. I guess I picked right, because the following photo was among the first few that I got:

Cicindelidia obsoleta vulturina (prairie tiger beetle) | Wichita Mountains National Wildlife Refuge, Oklahoma

Despite the jet-black dorsal surface (which contrasts with the green to greenish-black to bronzy dorsal surface of the MO/AR disjuncts), these were colorful beetles with gorgeous metallic blue genae (cheeks) and intense violaceous tibia (lower legs). This first individual was quite cooperative (usually it’s the tenth or more beetle that I try to photograph that actually allows me to do so), so I spent a bit of time trying to coax it back to the bovid chip from which it flew. Eventually I succeeded in this and took a few more photos, the following of which I liked the best:

Shade seeking next to a bovid chip.

I’m still a bit puzzled about the habitat in which I found these beetles. I would have considered it an anomaly had I not seen two beetles at the same time and then subsequently seen a mating pair in almost the exact same spot. Prairie tiger beetles are known for their preference of open grassland habitats rather than woodlands, and indeed I saw more individuals back along the 2-track that I had abandoned earlier (once I got the courage to stray down it again later in the day). The photo below shows almost the entirety of the opening where I found the beetles, with the bovid chip located on the ground in the lower center of the photo:

An unusually wooded habitat for Cicindelidia obsoleta vulturina.

Seeing these two individuals in the small woodland opening gave me greater optimism that I would be able to find more on the grassy higher slopes above the cedar grove. I crossed the creek and climbed to the top of the first ridge, passing through what seemed to be ideal habitat for the beetle but seeing none. Although igneous in origin, the rocky landscape reminded me very much of the dolomite glades that lace through the White River Hills of southwestern Missouri and that harbour robust populations of this beetle (but occurring nowhere else in the state).

Rocky grasslands extend towards Mt. Scott.

After posting one of these landscape photos on my Facebook page, I got a comment from Thomas Shahan saying he had been to the area recently and seen a “dark Cicindela” atop nearby Elk Mountain. Low and behold, the beetle in the photo that he included was none other than this subspecies, so at least now I know they do occur in this more expected habitat despite my not having seen them on this day.

Failing to find the beetle on higher ground, and wanting to try for even closer photographs, I returned to “the opening” and immediately found another individual to photograph. A female, she may (or may not) have been the partner to the male I photographed earlier, but at any rate she was not nearly as cooperative. I chased her back and forth through the opening for about a half-hour before I finally got close enough to get a shot (my use of tube extensions required that I get even closer than before). As typically happens, however, she gradually became more and more accustomed to my presence, and eventually I was able to get a few photos with the beetle in fairly relaxed, candid poses. The following are my favorites:

A less trusting individual relunctantly allows herself to be photographed.

She looks angry, but in reality I caught her mandibles half open in the midst of chewing movements.

After photographing these individuals, I returned to the car and decided to wander (tentatively) down the 2-track that I had to abandon earlier in the day. This time I fouund the beetles easily, seeing perhaps half a dozen individuals in just the first quarter-mile. My wanderings, however, were once again cut short when I came around a tree bank and saw those same two bison, much closer to the road this time. I really wanted to get a better photograph than the one above, but common sense at first prevented me from getting any closer. I studied the two magnificent behemoths looking for any sign of annoyance, and seeing none I began to creep ever so tiny a bit closer. Eventually my heart rose too high in my throat to approach any closer, and I snapped the following photo and began a hasty, horse-eyed retreat—not even knowing for sure if the shot was good but feeling a little too proud of myself and my stupidity courage!

A little too close for comfort!

Copyright © Ted C. MacRae 2012

Fathers Day at the Missouri Botanical Garden

Yesterday my girls (wife Lynne and daughters Mollie and Madison) took me and my father to the Missouri Botanical Garden for Fathers Day. Although I’m an entomologist, I also have a strong botanical bent, and although my wife and father are not scientists like me, they nevertheless find a day at the Missouri Botanical Garden as enjoyable as I do. The girls, on the other hand, will never admit that they like it the way the rest of us do, but I think deep inside they enjoy it very much and, in later years, will look upon these visits as some of their fondest Mothers and Fathers Day memories.

Me and daughters Mollie and Madison.

My father and I have been back together for 20 years now. With my wife and daughters, he has become one of the most important persons in my life. I wrote an essay about my father four years ago that explains how he made me whole—it still rings true today.

Me and Pop.

I have been to the Missouri Botanical Garden many, many times over the years, but one sight have have still never seen is a corpse flower (Amorphophallus titanum). I learned earlier this week that one of their plants is about ready to bloom, so I eagerly looked for this plant as we wound our way through the Climatron. As we came near the end and I still hadn’t seen it, I wondered if somehow I had missed it along the path. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of the giant 3′ tall flower bud near the end of the footpath, and I knew instantly that I had found what I was looking for.

Corpse flower (Amorphophallus titanum) getting ready to bloom.

I will be keeping track of the progress of this flower over the next couple of weeks on the Missouri Botanical Garden Facebook page in hopes that I can see it again when the flower opens fully—a rare botanical treat that few people ever get the chance to experience!

Corpse flower explained.

In my younger years when I had a bit more free time on my hands I was a hobbyist orchid grower. I didn’t have a greenhouse but nevertheless managed to keep a steady supply of plants in bloom by growing them outdoors under shade cloth with heavy watering and fertilizing during the summer and moving them indoors under fluorescent lights and in bright windows during the winter. I don’t have nearly the time for such pursuits these days, but I still enjoy looking at their exquisite and infinitely diverse blooms whenever I have the chance, and the Climatron never fails to disappoint.

One of many epiphytic orchids blooming in the Climatron.

While walking through the Climatron, I noticed a very exotic looking lizard on the trunk of one of the trees. I watched it licking exudate from the trunk and thought such behavior seemed rather odd. I later learned that this was the Standing’s day gecko (Phelsuma standingi), and that it might have an important role in pollinating the double coconut palm (Loidiocea maldivica). Both are endemic to the Seychelles Islands north of Madagascar, with the latter bearing the largest seed of any plant in the world (up to 45 lbs. in weight). The photo below was taken of another individual through the glass of its terrarium and, thus, lacks some clarity, but it shows the vivid colors and markings that distinguish these diurnal geckos from the other more typically nocturnal members of the gecko infraorder.

Standing’s day gecko (Phelsuma standingi).

While not gracing this post in a photo, many thanks to my loving wife, Lynne, who is the best mother my daughters could ask for and who helped make yesterday the special day for me and my father that it was!

Copyright © Ted C. MacRae 2012

Animals Alarmed!

''La Costanera'' | Corrientes, Argentina

Today was my first full day of vacation in Corrientes, Argentina. It was great! I slept late, drank coffee on the balcony, frittered a while on the computer, and then headed for the “Costanera”—a beautiful stretch of green space along the banks of the massive Rio Paraná. I first visited Corrientes in 2000, spending a week collecting insects in Corrientes and neighboring Chaco Provinces on the front end of a business trip, and I’m thrilled to be back in this, one of my favorite cities in Argentina.

Of course, change is inevitable, and not everything has changed for the better since I was last here. The southern coast has been developed (photo above), so gone is a wet, muddy area above the beach where I fondly remember two local boys “helping” me collect tiger beetles (one actually caught one!). Still, the area had a few surprises in store for me, one of which was the presence of a small zoological park that I had somehow missed on my previous visit. I have mixed feelings about zoos—their mission in promoting conservation and providing refuge for rescued animals is beyond reproach, but somehow I always feel a little sad (and guilty) when I visit one. I can’t escape the feeling that I’m looking at prisoners. US zoos have done much to minimize this quandary by providing spacious, naturalized habitats and minimizing the use of or visibility of bars and cages. Still, watching the polar bear relentlessly pacing back and forth on its well-practiced path reminds you of just how bored the animals get even in these modern confines. A cage is a cage. Nevertheless, animals are always interesting to look at, and seeing animals in a Southern Hemisphere zoo is a unique opportunity that most Americans never experience. Predictably, the zoo harkened back to the older zoos of the US, with animals confined in small spaces enclosed prominently with bars and chain link fencing. There is actually an upside to this, as it allows one to get extraordinarily close to the animals. Ever try to photograph a lion in a US zoo? Maybe with an 800mm telephoto lens you can get a shot that looks like more than a little brown blob in a sea of brown, and even then the elevated position looking down into the “den” makes for very unspectacular views (getting down on the same level as your subject, or even lower, results in much more interesting views). I never even think about taking photos of animals at US zoos for this reason. Today’s experience, however, was much more intimate despite the chain links and even provided for some comical reactions by the animals as I lifted to glass to within a few feet of their faces. I present here a few of the more interesting ones:

Yacaré Caimen (Caiman yacare)

Normally when you see this, you’ve already screwed up!

Burrowing owl, or ''Lechuza'' (Athene cunicularia)

The closer I got, the lower he got—spreading his wings and “snapping” his beak.

Greater Rhea (Rhea americana)

That moment of indecision between “fight” or “flight” (I’m talking about me, not the bird!).

Copyright © Ted C. MacRae 2012

Speaking of cover photos…

…here is my first—a tropical house gecko (Hemidactylus mabouia) that I photographed in Campinas, Brazil this past January. The photo (originally from my post Brazil Bugs #5 – Lagartixa) was selected for the cover of the October 2011 issue of Ecology and Evolution, having been used by Kristen H. Short and Kenneth Petren (with my permission) for their article, Multimodal dispersal during the range expansion of the tropical house gecko Hemidactylus mabouia.

Although it’s exciting to have that first cover photo under my belt, I find it mildly ironic that it’s not a beetle, insect, or even invertebrate!

Copyright © Ted C. MacRae 2011

Burrowing Owl in Argentina

I’m not normally one to try to photograph birds—I have neither the expertise nor the long lenses that are generally required for good bird photographs.  However, during my March trip to Argentina I scared up this burrowing owl (Athene cunicularia), who flew a short distance, landed on a nearby fence post, and then just sat there staring at me—almost as if it was daring me to try.  Never one to turn down a challenge (real or perceived), I took the bait.  My longest lens is a 100mm macro, so I set the camera to automatic mode, pointed it at the bird, and started walking.  After each slow, deliberate step I clicked the shutter, racking up about a dozen shots by the time I took the photos below.  They are minimally cropped only for composition and, thus, attest to how amazingly close the owl allowed me to get before it finally found the situation just too unsettling and flew much farther away.  My colleagues commented afterwards that they wished they’d taken a video of me stalking the owl (which they found almost as amusing as the bird’s incredulous stare).  Perhaps all the tiger beetle stalking I’ve done helped.

Copyright © Ted C. MacRae 2011

Eye to eye with a copperhead

I don’t know what it is about Osage copperheads (Agkistrodon contortrix phaeogaster) that makes every encounter with one so special. They are perhaps the most common of Missouri’s five venomous snake species, and I’ve seen them more often than I can count. Still, every time I see one I simply must stop and marvel. This particular individual was seen a few weeks ago at Sam A. Baker State Park in Missouri’s southeastern Ozark Highlands. You might say it was “sloppy seconds”—I had actually gone to the park to look for timber rattlesnakes (Crotalus horridus), a juvenile of which I had seen during last year’s Annual-Birthday-First-Bug-Collecting-Trip-of-the-Season™ trip. I did not see any rattlesnakes this time, as access to the rockpilish cliffs along Big Creek where I saw the juvenile last year was blocked by high water, but I was quite pleased to find this copperhead underneath a log while we were there.

Copperheads are marvelous photographic subjects. Beautiful, rarely seen by those who don’t know how to look for them, and with an air of “danger” about them. Yet they are among the most docile of all snakes, venomous or otherwise. They don’t use aggression or warning sounds when threatened like cottonmouths (Agkistrodon piscivorus) or rattlesnakes, nor do they dash for cover like most non-venomous species. Instead, they rely on their cryptic, dead-leaf coloration to make them invisible. It works—even I, my eyes tuned to see just about anything after a half-century of clambering through the brush, didn’t immediately notice this individual when I first rolled over the log under which it had taken cover (although I did immediately notice the little red-backed salamander, Plethodon cinereus, at the other end of the area covered by the log). I suspect I’ve walked right by many more copperheads than I have seen, completely unaware of their presence.

Their docile nature also invites extreme close-ups that I wouldn’t dare attempt with a rattlesnake or cottonmouth—at least not without a much longer lens than my 100mm. These photos make it seem that I was right on top of the snake, although at a maximum magnification of around 1:2 there was still a reasonable amount of working distance (I did, however, keep my hands well back of the front of the lens—just for good measure). Still, in all my copperhead experiences, I have never seen a copperhead actually try to strike unless I touched it (not what you think!).

Eventually it’d had enough of our gawking and began to look for new cover.  As it uncoiled, I could see it’s still greenish but not too yellowish tail, indicating that it was still a youngster, though perhaps a little older than the first copperhead I tried to photograph.  We watched it as it crawled into the loose, dry leaves… and disappeared.

Copyright © Ted C. MacRae 2011

Wrong lens

During the past couple of years, as I’ve transitioned from strictly a net-wielding entomologist to one that also carries a camera, I’ve had to start making choices about whether to keep the camera in the backpack or hold it at the ready, and if the latter which lens to keep on it. They are situational decisions, influenced largely by what I’m focused on (heh!) at the time—keeping the camera in the bag facilitates collecting, but it also tends to reduce the number of subjects I deem worthy of the setup effort required to photograph them. Conversely, carrying the camera out of the bag greatly impedes collecting but results in much more photographs having been taken. Even when I do decide to carry the camera at the ready, which lens should I have on it—the 100mm for tiger beetle-sized and larger, or the 65mm for tiger beetle-sized and lower? (Annoyingly, most tiger beetles are right at that life-sized threshold, and neither lens alone allows me to float above and below 1:1 for the full range of photos I like for them. As a result, I sometimes end up with extension tubes stacked under the 100mm lens to give me some extra range above its normal 1:1 limit.) I wish there was some way to have the camera with either lens at the ready (and not impeding net swings would be even better), but that just isn’t possible. As a result, I sometimes find myself with the wrong lens on the camera when I see something I want to photograph. If it’s important, I’ll go through the trouble to switch out lenses—hopefully quickly enough to avoid losing the photographic opportunity; other times I might just decide I don’t really need the photo that badly.  Then there are times when I feel a little adventurous and will just go ahead and take the photo anyway without switching lenses.

The following is an example of the latter—an eastern fence lizard (Sceloporus undulatus) photographed with the 65mm lens (minimum magnification 1:1). Not only is this the first time that I have succeeded in approaching one of these lizards closely enough to take a good photograph, but the short working distance of the 65mm required that I get extraordinarily close. He was on the side of a fallen log, and I approached from the other side crouching low, then slowly (slowly!!!) peered over the edge of the log until I had his head in focus. I got off just this one shot, as the flash caused the lizard to bolt for good. The angle could have been better, but I got the eye focused spot-on so it’s a keeper.

Sceloporus undulatus (eastern fence lizard) | Shaw Nature Reserve, Franklin Co., Missouri

I wonder if anybody else has ever photographed a 6-inch long lizard with a 65mm lens…

Copyright © Ted C. MacRae 2011