This is a difficult essay for me to write.

I was raised with the core belief that nature is precious and fragile, something that you explore and marvel at but never, ever interfere with. You are inside it, but you also stand apart, and you always leave it strictly alone. (Though I confess that as a child I broke with this philosophy when it came to catching the occasional frog, turtle, or interesting bug.)

By now I know that this is not how it works: However much we may want to, we don’t stand apart from nature. As long as humans have been on Earth, our actions have affected, often disastrously, the world we live in. Every time we clear a woodlot for development, replace an untended field or meadow with a pesticide-ridden lawn, or even remove a single dead tree so it doesn’t fall on our house, we’re making life harder for the species who live alongside us.

Fortunately, we can also recognize the changes we’ve wrought and take action to halt or even reverse them. Among the results of our efforts over recent decades: Cleaner air and local waters and other regulations that have allowed populations of Bald Eagles, Osprey, Mink, and many other species to rebound.

Yet even now the belief that we should simply leave nature alone remains a hard one to abandon. This is especially true when it comes to confronting the plague of introduced, invasive species humans have brought here: plants and animals that gravely threaten countless species native to our region.

We want to reject the very idea of labeling parts of nature “good” and “bad.” Doing so feels like an example of the same arrogant, godlike attitude that got us into this mess in the first place. Yet when it comes to invasive species, I believe we must exercise our power over the world around us. We are responsible for the presence of these alien species on our shores, and it’s our responsibility to do something about them.

This, however, is much more easily said than done. Together, the following three examples—so different on the surface but so similar in deeper detail—illustrate just a few of the challenges we face as we try to reconcile what we want to do with what we must do.

Lesser Celandine

Lesser Celandine is a beautiful plant, with glossy dark-green leaves and lovely, sun-shaped yellow flowers. An ephemeral (short-lived) bloomer, it’s also one of the first signs of spring, providing early splashes of color to a monochromatic landscape.

On first glance, Lesser Celandine would seem like a welcome addition to any spring woods. But the truth is that it’s a horrendously—and nearly unstoppably—invasive species that can wreak havoc on nearly every ecosystem in our region, from backyard gardens to the largest state parks and preserves.     

Lesser Celandine is native to the Old World (Europe, Asia, and Africa). It was first brought to the U.S. as an ornamental in the 19^th century, but has become increasing popular in recent decades, especially in the East. After all, who wouldn’t want a lovely spring carpet of green and yellow in the garden?

Yet keeping it in the garden has proven impossible, as Lesser Celandine finds the New World an ideal place to invade and conquer. It thrives in everything from full shade to full sun, and while preferring moist soil, manages just fine in rockier, less welcoming habitats.

And it’s still spreading west and south. The first Lesser Celandines in the Cleveland area, for example, were planted in just two gardens in the 1970s. Today, the plant has spread to more than 300 acres of nearby parkland, making up more than 50% of the ground cover in much of that land.

What makes the Lesser Celandine so successful an invader? It’s brilliantly designed to spread relentlessly. Relying on three different methods of reproduction—seeds, tubers in the soil, and bulbils, which are essentially tiny, easily spread clones of the plant located on the flower stems—it can quickly create thick, virtually impenetrable mats covering an entire forest floor.

Native plants have little or no ability to withstand a spreading mat of Lesser Celandine. Since it sprouts so early, by the time native ephemerals (such as spring beauties, Dutchman’s breeches, and trilliums) start to emerge, there are simply not enough air, light, or soil nutrients left for them.

On top of all that, Lesser Celandine is hellishly difficult to control or eradicate. While on its home turf, insects, fungi, bacteria, and other species help keep it in check, our local defenders simply don’t recognize or control it.

The tubers on the roots—easily broken off and left behind while digging up a plant—make removing even a small patch of Lesser Celandine into backbreaking work. You may have to dig up a patch repeatedly over several years. Yet its effects on our forest habitats vividly show the importance of controlling this relentless invader before it drives fragile native species to extinction.

House Sparrow

Unlike Lesser Celandine, House Sparrows (first imported from Europe in the 1850s) are not beautiful (though males in fresh plumage can look attractively natty.) They’re not ephemeral at all, sticking around all year in our region. And they can’t clone themselves or spread via tubers.

But in the most important ways, House Sparrows check off the boxes an invader needs to succeed. They’re comfortable living close to humans, especially in cities and suburbs. They eat a wide variety of grains and seeds and are happy to supplement that diet with discarded human foods and insects of many different kinds.

Most critically, they are aggressive and adaptable breeders. They evolved to nest in natural cavities in rock and trees, but have adapted easily to holes in buildings, streetlight fixtures, roofs, and nest boxes originally designed for threatened Eastern Bluebirds or Tree Swallows. House Sparrows will aggressively commandeer both human-made and natural nest sites used by these and other species, killing the original nestlings and even parent birds sitting on a nest.

Actress, environmental activist, and National Audubon Society board member Lili Taylor has dubbed the male House Sparrow’s monotonous, single-pitch chorus the “chirp of death.” When you hear the chirp of death, you know that nearby nest sites have most likely already been taken over and their occupants chased away or killed.

So what’s to be done about House Sparrows? Unlike native birds, they are not protected by law, so the best solution may be the toughest one: killing or trapping the birds. (Some raptor rehab facilities welcome trapped sparrows as hawk food.) Few communities or individuals may have the stomach for such campaigns, however.

At the very least, though, we can keep an eye on local nest boxes. By evicting any House Sparrows who start building nests there and destroying any eggs they’ve laid, we can take an important step in limiting the damage this aggressive invader can do.

Chinese Mantid

This section is the one that makes me saddest. I have no fondness for Lesser Celandine, and I frankly loathe the presence of House Sparrows and their “chirp of death.”

But praying mantises? They’ve been my favorite insects since I was a child. I love them for their hunting prowess, unsettlingly human gaze, flexible necks, and amazing camouflage. (If you never have, Google “Leaf Mantis” and “Dead Leaf Mantis.”)

But it turns out that the mantid I’ve loved the most ever since my Brooklyn childhood is the Chinese Mantid, an invader from Asia introduced accidentally in 1896. (And still sold as a “pest control” solution at garden centers and online.) But far from helping control pests, this huge insect (individuals can reach 5″ in length) has nearly extirpated the small, slender native Carolina Mantid, both by outcompeting it for prey and eating it outright.

And smaller mantises form only a tiny part of a Chinese Mantid’s prey. An indiscriminate feeder, it uses powerful, barbed front limbs and lightning-fast reflexes to snatch and eat virtually any creature it can handle, including insects, small birds, lizards, and even an occasional mouse or other small mammal.

Native bees, wasps, butterflies, and other crucial—and besieged—pollinator insects are major parts of the Chinese Mantid’s diet. So are Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, also an important pollinator species. Even the perpetually endangered Monarch Butterfly—left alone by most predators due to its toxicity—isn’t immune. Not affected by the toxins, a single mantid may stake out a patch of milkweed until it’s devoured every last caterpillar and butterfly in the area.  

So what’s to be done about Chinese Mantids? Here the answer is clear, however much I hate to say it: If you find one, kill it. Last fall I came upon a huge individual in our pollinator garden, and by the time I steeled myself for the unwelcome task, it had captured and was devouring two small and beautiful native wasps, one in each forelimb.

During the winter, you can also keep an eye out on bare branches of bushes and shrubs for the species’ distinctive egg cases. Remove and destroy any you find. (Or, if you don’t happen to raise chickens, give them to a friend who does—the birds love this tasty snack.) Eliminating egg cases, each of which can contain up to 300 eggs, can be an important step in controlling the species’ local populations.

Despite the realities facing us, the concept of destroying any living thing—even an invasive one—can still feel deeply, painfully wrong, like breaking a heartfelt promise. But the truth is clear: Many of our most precious native species, crucial parts of the web of life in our region, are under intense pressure. If we want to preserve and nurture what’s left, then we can no longer simply leave nature alone.

Copyright © 2021 by Joseph Wallace

Every year, there’s a certain day when I finally believe that spring is coming. It’s not necessarily on March 20^th or 21^st, whenever the calendar decrees the season has arrived. Nor is it that first warm day after a long winter, the time I spot the first hardy crocus, or even the first dawn that’s greeted by the songs of Robins, Cardinals, and other birds that have been silent—or absent—all winter.

No…that day comes the first time I walk in a local park and hear the Pinkletinks calling.

Or, as we know them, Spring Peepers (Pseudacris crucifer), the minuscule frogs whose calls fill the late-winter woods in our area. “Pinkletink” is what they’re affectionately known as on Martha’s Vineyard. (I suggest we appropriate this glorious name.)

The rhythmic, high-pitched Peeper chorus begins as early as late February in the Northeast, even before the skunk cabbage sends out its first shoots. It emanates from the hundreds of frogs that can gather in small ponds (frequently temporary ones created by melting ice and snow) and other wetlands. Here males call for mates, vying for the females who will choose them.

While I’ve enjoyed this chorus for many years, it wasn’t till this spring that I began to wonder: How can these tiny creatures be out and about when the snow has barely left the ground and temperatures at night still frequently fall below zero? After all, they’re as cold-blooded as any other amphibian and reptile, most of which don’t emerge till much later.

The answer is antifreeze. Like overwintering insects and seeds, Peepers produce chemicals called cryoprotectants—often glucose and glycerol, the same chemical we use to keep our cars from freezing. They allow the frogs to survive in leaf litter or under loose bark during the coldest months and become active again as soon as the weather thaws.

You might be able to spot a recently emerged Spring Peeper as it makes its way to a nearby pond. But you’d better have sharp eyes: Peepers reach no more than an inch and a half in length and weigh in at between a tenth and a fifth of an ounce. They’re brown or tan with a darker cross- or x-pattern on their backs. (It’s the cross that gives this species, its scientific name; crucifer means “cross-bearer.”)

Once the males reach a pond, they carve out a tiny territory and begin to sing. The result may seem like an undifferentiated wall of sound to us, but it’s actually just one part of a fascinating process.

Nearly always, three frogs whose territories adjoin sing in competition. The one with the deepest voice usually begins a round of calls, and the one with the loudest, most persistent sound (not always the same individual) is most likely to attract a female.

Yet this “survival of the loudest” process comes with one major complication: The territories of singing males are haunted by “satellite males.” These individuals don’t sing at all; instead, they hang around the periphery of the other males’ territories, hoping to intercept—and force themselves upon—females as they hop in to choose their mates. As many as 15% of all the males in an assemblage may be satellites, and they often succeed in their goal.

Studies have shown that these silent males are often smaller and less robust than the males they preempt. Therefore, they’d rarely be a female’s choice. Yet this widespread behavior seems to offer the whole species a surprising evolutionary benefit.

Spring Peeper populations have ebbed and flowed during the series of Ice Ages that swept across northern North America over the past two million years. At the depths of the freezes, the surviving populations have often become isolated from each other, sometimes for thousands of years. During these long separations, the species split into several different lineages, which scientists have been able to identify through DNA analysis.

With the retreat of the most recent Ice Age (about 18,000 years ago), separate Peeper lineages rejoined each other. These populations hadn’t diverged enough to form separate species, but even now they often feature significant differences in size and voice. Researchers have found that satellite males often originate from a different lineage than the predominant one in their area. Meanwhile, females prefer to stick with the males from their own original population.

When a smaller satellite male takes the place of the stronger one a female would have chosen, it would seem to directly challenge the evolutionary philosophy of “survival of the fittest.” The result, however, may bring greater diversity and strength to the species as a whole. Simply by increasing the gene pool, this mixing of lineages can help reduce the risk of harmful mutations, increased susceptibility to disease, and other threats common in populations that are inbred.

Regardless of her mate, a fertilized female typically produces about 900 eggs in a single clutch. These are hidden amid vegetation and leaf litter at the bottom of the pond, where they hatch in 6 to 12 days. Surprisingly, the tadpoles then take an unusually long time (as much as three months) before maturing into frogs. Every year, vast number of young Peepers perish when their temporary ponds dry up.

Even so—and despite the ongoing wetland pollution and development that have reduced their population in some places—Spring Peepers remain a common species in undisturbed and regenerating woodlands throughout our region. As long as we continue to give them the space they need, our noisy Pinkletinks should serve as an unmistakable harbinger of spring for a long time to come.

Copyright © 2021

By Joseph Wallace

My wife and I were walking along a familiar path in Rockefeller State Park when we glimpsed a sudden movement at the edge of the trail. A small animal, something quick, agile, and unpredictable, dashing around on the forest floor so quickly it was hard to focus on.

What on earth was it? My brain cycled quickly through the possibilities. Not a mouse, mole, vole, or rat. Maybe a Red Squirrel? No: Aside from the size, the little creature at our feet—pausing for a moment to stand on its hind legs and glare at us, showing off its white belly—was all wrong for a squirrel.

Then the animal dove into a pile of brush, and its speed and strange, almost snakelike motion revealed the answer. It was a Short-tailed Weasel, just one of six members of the family Mustelidae native to New York. Its local cousins, the Long-tailed Weasel, American Marten, Fisher, American Mink, and North American River Otter, can also all be seen in the Hudson Valley.

Can be seen, but rarely are. With the exception of water-loving River Otters, which sometimes appear—as if out of nowhere—in bold family groups in the Hudson River and the region’s lakes and reservoirs, mustelids are often extraordinarily wary. Weasels, Martens, and Fishers tend to stick to dense woods, while Mink prefer the forested edges of remote ponds. The truth is, if you’ve spent any time in the woods, you’ve likely been observed by many more mustelids than you’ve ever glimpsed.

Mustelids are native to every continent but Australia and Antarctica. Unlike the species in our region, members of the family can be found in a wide variety of habitats: Badgers, for example, prefer grasslands, Wolverines the frozen tundra, and aquatic Sea Otters the kelp forests of the Pacific Ocean.

Regardless of their habitat, though, nearly all mustelids share some essential characteristics, the ones we saw during our brief weasel encounter. Most are quick, agile, aggressive, and absolutely fearless. Together, these attributes make them peerless hunters, pound for pound (or ounce for ounce) among the fiercest of all carnivores.  

Much else about mustelids’ life story remains little known, however. They are hard to find and hard to study. Even radio collars (a go-to for field researchers hoping to follow elusive species in the wild) don’t usually work on weasels and other small members of the family. The problem: the animals’ extraordinarily supple bodies allow them to wriggle easily out of the collars.

Scientists do know, however, that the animals’ relentless energy requires constant refueling. Weasels’ metabolism is extravagantly demanding (their hearts beat at an astonishing 350-400 beats per minute), which means that each day a single individual must consume a third to half its body weight in food.

This constant need for fuel means that weasels can’t wait patiently to ambush their prey, as most wild cats do—doing so would take too much time. Nor can they pursue their prey until it slows or drops from exhaustion (a method often used by wolves and other wild dogs), because this would expend too much energy.

Instead, weasels roam their landscape and—upon seeing potential prey—attack it without hesitation, depending on their speed and agility to end the chase quickly. (And nearly anything they encounter can be a target; weasels will take on rabbits ten times their weight.) They then quickly immobilize their prey by severing its spinal cord with a single bite to the back of the head.

Weasels have evolved other distinctive—and controversial—habits to cope with their constant need to eat. Unlike many carnivores, which demand fresh meat, they often kill far more than they can eat in one sitting, caching the rest in “larders” (often found in burrows or rockpiles). The ability to store food today means that they might not starve tomorrow.

Unfortunately weasels can’t always tell wild prey from domestic. This has made them notorious among farmers for raiding henhouses and killing all the hens inside.

This reputation is at least partly unfair, as studies have shown that rats turn out to be the real culprit in many cases. In addition, weasels tend to keep farmyards and buildings clear of rodents, which carry disease and are extremely destructive to crops.

And even when weasels are responsible for killing chickens, it’s important to remember that they’re filling their larders, not engaging in purposeless slaughter. (Not that this distinction is any consolation to the farmer.)

Regardless, weasels’ hunting habits—along with their admittedly unsettling speed, snakelike movements, and ability to get into seemingly predator-proof places—have made their common name into a common insult. “Weasel” has come to refer to sly, sneaky, untrustworthy people, ones who will betray you with “weasel words” as they take advantage of you. You should never trust weasels…or even take your eyes off them.

While we weren’t concerned about betrayal that day in Rockefeller State Park, we did find it hard to take our eyes off the one and only Short-tailed Weasel we’ve ever seen there. But that was because we were watching a tiny, glorious predator, perfectly adapted to survival in the environment we were fortunate enough to share. And, even more impressively, it was a member of a fierce, independent family that has somehow managed to survive—and even thrive—in our crowded, human-dominated world.

Copyright © 2021

By Joseph Wallace

A few weeks ago, while scanning for ducks, unusual gulls, and other birds the Verplanck waterfront, a group of birders spotted a large, hump-snouted, definitely non-birdlike head sticking up from the Hudson River’s surface. It was a male Gray Seal, a rare species—even a rare class (Mammalia)—to glimpse in in these waters.

Rare…but not unprecedented. Late fall to early spring is seal season in the Hudson and its tributaries, and over the past few months waterfront observers and lucky kayakers have also spotted the more commonly seen Harbor Seals (a smaller, sleeker relative of the Gray) off Croton, Saugerties, and other locations. In recent years, other seal species, including Hooded and Harp, have also made appearances in the river.

The most remarkable of these sightings involve a Harbor Seal first spotted in the river and nearby Esopus Creek in Saugerties on August 21, 2019. The animal then spent 533 (seemingly contented and healthy) days in the area. It was last reported on January 14, so it may finally have departed, perhaps due to extensive ice floes in the Hudson or the muddy quality of Esopus Creek in this season. 

A white tag placed on the seal’s flipper when it was a pup—and reported many times during the animal’s subsequent wanderings—allowed scientists to track its journey. Rescued as an abandoned pup from an island in Maine, the seal was rehabbed by the Mystic Aquarium Animal Rescue Program, tagged, and released off Rhode Island in the spring of 2019.

The young animal then traveled 80 miles up the Connecticut River before encountering an impassible dam, where it reversed course and headed back to the ocean. It eventually ended up in New York Harbor and then the Hudson River estuary. Traveling upriver, it reached Saugerties, where it decided to stick around for a while.

It’s impossible to know for sure if there are more seals in the Hudson now than in years past, but it seems likely. The river is cleaner and fishing regulations are stricter than they have been in decades, making the river a much more welcoming environment for these fish-eaters.

But it’s more than that: The seals that visit the Hudson are also part of a much wider phenomenon taking place all along the coasts of the northeastern U.S. and eastern Canada. Throughout the region, populations of both Gray and Harbor seals are booming, with some breeding colonies growing at an annual rate of twenty percent or more a year.

It’s important to realize that this encouraging trend merely represents seal populations reclaiming what had previously been lost. In historical times Gray Seals were abundant across the North Atlantic, while Harbor Seals—the world’s most widely distributed seal—thrived in northern oceans around North America, Europe, and Asia.

Unfortunately, what happened to these two species during the 19^th and first half of the 20^th century is a familiar story of human exploitation. In the United States and Canada, they became the targets of intensive hunting for meat, oil, and their skins. They were also culled, supposedly to protect local fishing stocks. (In Massachusetts as late as the 1960s, each seal nose turned in earned its hunter a $5 bounty.)

The consequences of this decades-long persecution were predictable: Seal populations plummeted. By 1970, the region’s entire population of Gray Seals, for example, may have dwindled from as many as 150,000 to as few as 5000 individuals, almost all off Canada. Both species were virtually extinct along the U.S. coast. 

In the 1970s, however, a series of laws in the U.S. and Canada granted both seals significant protection, and almost immediately their numbers started to rebound. The increase has been ongoing since then, and today scientists estimate that there are 140,000-150,000 Gray and 70,000-100,000 Harbor Seals off the northeast coast.

Even apart from Hudson River sightings, it’s easy to notice the increase. When I was a kid on Cape Cod, no one ever saw—or expected to see—a seal. These days, however, a quick scan from an ocean beach on the Outer Cape will usually reveal at least one Gray Seal rolling and diving just offshore.

And sometimes far more than that. In winter, my family and I have watched thirty or more Gray Seals congregate close to the beach, seemingly as interested in us as we are in them. (A reliable way of attracting a seal horde: Jump around or dance on the sand, something my own kids enjoyed doing when they were little.)

Along with the animals’ entertainment value and the fulfilling knowledge that we can still coexist with other large mammals, booming seal populations have had more complicated consequences. It all starts with the simple fact that there are a lot more humans around here now than there were the last time seals were so abundant, and thus a far greater demand for the fish that both seals and humans depend on.

With commercial fisheries and the sport-fishing industry both already under pressure, the increasing number of seals has provoked an outcry all up and down the coast. (Gray Seals especially have been known to take big Striped Bass and Bluefish right off lines within full view of the person who’s reeling in a catch…not a behavior designed to win friends.) Despite some scientists’ belief that seals have only a negligible effect on fish stocks, calls for renewed hunts or culls are rising.

Making the issue even knottier is a recent phenomenon that has drawn attention worldwide. Great White Sharks, which feed on seals, have followed Gray Seals close to the shores of Cape Cod, often to within a stone’s throw of the most popular beaches. More than 150 Great Whites were recorded around the Outer Cape in 2019 alone.

Several times in recent years, beachgoers have watched—and filmed—a Great White Shark as it killed a seal in the exact spot where they’d swimming just minutes before. And though attacks on humans are very rare, they aren’t unknown: In September of 2018 a surfer was killed by a shark off a popular Wellfleet beach.

Much of Cape Cod’s economy relies on tourist dollars. While some businesses have embraced the Cape’s new “come see the real-life Jaws!” reputation, most worry about the ultimate fate of a beach resort area where people don’t feel safe going in the water. Alongside calls to kill sharks, the chorus to reduce the population of seals has grown even louder.

So what’s to be done? For now, both seal species remain fully protected and the sharks unmolested. And Cape Cod’s residents and visitors are trying to stay safe through education, signage, aerial surveillance of offshore waters, satellite tagging of sharks, and other methods. (For example, high-tech buoys near some beaches ping a warning when a tagged shark is nearby.)

But the longer-term story remains to be written. Right now, both Harbor and Gray Seals stand as emblems of how, through strong regulation and careful management, we can help wild creatures survive in our increasingly crowded and complicated world. Yet they also illustrate one of myriad challenges we must face in the years to come: Once we’ve allowed a species’ population to recover, what happens to it—and to us—next? 

by Joseph Wallace
Copyright © 2021