HAMPSTEAD — Semi-transparent saucers adorned the sandy beach, each one fluidly embedded in a precise location where the zenith of a gentle wave left it stranded. In mere minutes unblemished seashore was transformed into a necropolis of alien beings, moon jellies, Aurelia aurita, whose last act of life was a single pulsate, followed by a perfect, limp stillness. For me, it seemed a sad ending to organisms that in adulthood, never knew earthen boundaries; that is, until this terrestrial beach became their final resting place.

The ill-fated sea jellies were left stranded by an inescapable confluence of ocean currents, a prevailing onshore wind and a rising tide; a sudden finale for water-borne creatures to which the full force of gravity may have been as foreign an awareness as air. Admittedly these are the very conditions that have acted on moon jellies since their beginning… time, space and physics… influencing the jelly’s natural resilience, much as that might seem a counterintuitive conclusion, judging from the beach scene in front of me.

Moon jellies are common sea animals, found in temperate regions of the world’s ocean. They are members of an ancient group of animals in the Phylum Cnidaria. These aquatic animals include sea jellies — also called jellyfish though not technically a fish — corals, sea anemones, freshwater hydra and other invertebrate animals that bear stinging nematocysts, the business end of a cnidarian’s feeding and defense system.

Simply described, a nematocyst is a sac-like structure, smaller than a grain of sand, which contains a tiny barbed harpoon attached to a coiled venom duct. When stimulated, especially by touch, the harpoon thrusts outward to pierce a victim, which is further subdued by venom.

The moon jelly’s nematocyst harpoon is small and its venom relatively weak, owing to this animal’s preference for tiny planktonic prey, including copepods and other crustaceans, and larva of fishes, worms and mollusks.

While standing in knee-deep water watching a helpless phalanx of moon jellies drift to shore, I brushed one of the animals from my legs and as I did so, some of its tentacles became trapped between my watchband and wrist, resulting in a mild itching-burning sensation from the nematocysts. For someone allergic to insect venom this kind of experience could be dangerous, but for me it was little more than a reminder that all but a very few sea jellies can sting.

In a very real sense, moon jellies are themselves planktonic, a term that generally refers to plants (phytoplankton) and animals (zooplankton) that drift with water currents. Moon jellies can propel themselves by pulsing their dome-shaped bell, but only enough to rise and fall through the water column; they cannot overwhelm even a mild current.

Moon jellies are most often seen in North Carolina waters during warm seasons, especially toward late summer and early autumn, which is when I happened upon what might be described as a gelatinous strandline carnage. Looking upon the cast-up gobs of congealed protein, the only solace I could conjure was the realization that these full-grown beings likely came to shore after casting eggs and sperms (female and male gametes) into the sea, an act of reproduction requiring laws of averages, proper timing and a good deal of natural luck.

I realize luck is not truly part of the sea jelly life cycle; it’s just difficult for me to visualize little packets of genetic material (female and male chromosomes) swirling in an open ocean, and finding their respective partner…before being consumed by a plankton-eater, or otherwise simply swept into an ocean-scale flow of ecosystem energy. The odds of moon jelly reproductive success are increased because these animals congregate in the open ocean, for reasons having to do with ocean currents that also congregate plankton that moon jellies eat. But these same nurturing currents can turn tragic, in a dramatic sense of the word.

As I stood knee-deep in a beach swash zone, I couldn’t help grimacing as once graceful, water-borne saucers were swept inexorably toward land, and the lifting help of small waves that left one after another stranded as an inelegant heap upon the sand. And then I noticed the jellies were not alone. Each floating saucer was accompanied by an entourage of small fishes, mostly juvenile filefish, no larger than a fingernail. The filefish, along with a few striking young jacks, two inches long and boldly banded in black and yellowish-white, stayed with the jellies up to the last wave.

A pair of stranded moon jellies are left behind by a receding wave. Photo: Andy Wood

The young fishes may have been using the jellies as nomadic shelter, to hide from predators. It is also possible that the fishes just used the jellies as a wandering restaurant, feeding on sea jelly gametes cast into the water. The plucky little fishes might also have gleaned tiny creatures caught by the jelly’s delicate tentacles, a banquet of morsels speared by nematocyst harpoons. Not too unlike taking appetizers from toothpicks.

I watched as one group of fishes after another hop-scotched seaward, from one moon jelly to another, just in time to escape the waves that cast their Cnidarian escorts to terra firma. My heartstrings were finally tugged when several young fishes raced to the shelter they believed my submerged legs might provide. If only I could have become an immobile pier piling to offer these unsettled creatures some form of shelter; or not. Much as I might have wished to be of service, these finned nomads had other places to be, with options spanning the width and breadth of a sea.

The act that took place around me on that autumn beach is a repeat performance of countless similar events that have befallen untold generations of sea jelly and fish alike; a natural scene repeated through history, with consequences that have honed jelly and fish into the finely-adapted ocean-beings we still know too little about.

So, what seemed a poignant story of dislocation, unintended abandonment and a frantic search for shelter, the sea jelly saga was really more an event to celebrate—as testimony to the resilience that is nature.

A predatory wheel bug, Arilus cristatus, feeds on a days-old fall webworm larvae, seen on the tip of its flexible-straw mouth,or proboscis. Photo: Andy Wood

HAMPSTEAD — A few days before the autumnal equinox, I happened upon a favorite bug of mine as it was dining on a family of hapless days-old fall webworms, Hyphantria cunea. The bug, Arilus cristatus, or wheel bug, was working a young dogwood sapling in our yard. By that I mean it was eating young caterpillars that were, in their turn, eating late summer dogwood leaves.

The wheel bug, so-named for a raised row of spines on its midsection, resembling spokes on a wheel, is a large predatory insect with a preferred taste for caterpillars, including several species that are injurious to our crops. Wheel bugs can be included in the list of so-called beneficial insects, but that’s a term I find disturbing because it implies some insects are not beneficial. But I digress.

Webworms are actually the larvae of a small white moth that we seldom see because they are active at night. Webworm moths, a native of North America from southern Canada to northern Mexico, can be attracted to porch lights, especially in spring after they have emerged from their winter cocoon, but unlike many of their cousins, adult webworms, with a wingspan of about one and a half inches, are not very glamorous and therefore easily overlooked.

Two Generations

Webworms in our region usually have two generations each summer, with the first starting out in spring as eggs placed on the underside of a deciduous tree leaf by an adult moth that was a larva the previous fall. The eggs, sometimes hundreds, are placed in a tight cluster on the leaf, and after incubating for several days they hatch into tiny caterpillars less than an eighth of an inch long and slender as a pin. The siblings cooperatively feed on the host plant by enclosing their leaf in a tangled web of silk to serve as a sheltering net that helps thwart the intrusions of predators, including wasps, spiders and our beloved wheel bug.

Within a few days, growing webworms double their size on a diet of soft leafy tissue; a process that effectively skeletonizes the leaf. As they grow, the caterpillars expand their webbing to incorporate more leaves and by the time they are half an inch or so, their jaws are strong enough to eat the entire leaf. By this time their protective tents are evident to even the casual observer. The first generation from last spring seldom gets noticed because there aren’t many of them, relatively speaking.

This inch-long fall webworm, Hyphantria cunea, is fully grown and days away from transforming into its pupa stage. Long, bristly hairs may repel some predators, but many webworms are eaten by songbirds, lizards and toads. If lucky, it will spend winter secreted in forest floor leaves as a pupa, and come spring it will transform to an adult webworm moth prepared to join others of its kind with intent to create a summer generation that will continue the species one more year. Photo: Andy Wood

After reaching about an inch long, the now hairy — not stinging — webworm caterpillar descends to the ground where, if it is not eaten by toads or other predators, it transforms into a brown pupa, wrapped in the loose hairs from its outer skeleton, and undergoes metamorphosis.

By late summer, adult webworm moths emerge from their cocoon, court, mate and the fertilized females continue the moth life cycle by placing her eggs on the underside of deciduous tree leaves, which hatch, in our area, sometime in early to mid-September, into the year’s second generation of larvae; a much larger generation I might add, with many more clusters of webs adorning many more trees. Hence the name fall webworm, not spring webworm.

In late summer or early autumn our deciduous trees are winding down for the year, getting ready to shed their leaves for winter. Webworms therefore, are feeding on leaves at a very opportune time because what the caterpillar eats, we don’t have to rake from our yards. In a sense, these caterpillars might be credited with saving people money by reducing yard maintenance costs. It’s conservation at caterpillar scale, especially considering that these insects are eating leaves that will be dropped by the tree anyway. In addition, the caterpillar’s waste droppings, called frass, provide available nutrients to the very trees the caterpillars eat.

While webworms may not be very glamorous, they are significant contributors to the flow of energy winging through our area right now. Each autumn many hundreds of millions of songbirds migrate from their northern summer breeding grounds to southern wintering areas; with stops along their path to feed from nature’s menus that include protein-rich insects, especially juicy caterpillars fattened on deciduous vegetation. In a very real sense, the flights of migrating warblers and other insect-eating songbirds are powered by the energy “stored” in the bodies of insects.

Webworms and Climate Change

In the fall, look for the cottony white webs enveloping leaves on a tree. The webworms encase themselves in these webs to protect themselves from predators. Photo: University of Florida

These half-grown fall webworms are partially shielded from predators by a latticework of silken threads they create to envelop leaves of their host dogwood tree. Photo: Andy Wood

Presently, fall webworms are regarded in landscape, forestry and agriculture circles as relatively benign creatures, requiring little need for chemical control. However, if fall webworms do adapt to a changing climate, by adding a generation to their summer numbers, could this otherwise benign species become something of note, especially to manufacturers of toxic pesticides? And if this were to happen, I wonder if we might expect to see greater advertising for fall webworm control? And if that occurs, what might that bode for the many animals that eat fall webworms?

These are not questions I ask lightly, because the insecticides we broadcast, along with herbicides and other so-called pesticides, are toxic compounds, especially the synthetic chemicals, many of which have had little or no testing to determine long-term impacts to target and non-target species, including us. Remember, we are part of the same flows of energy, via various food webs, that involve plants, eaters of plants, and eaters of eaters of plants, including wheel bugs, songbirds, and many other animals. This is why it is correct to say, “What goes around comes around.”

Knowledge Is Power.

So, here’s a webworm idea: This year I made a count of all the webworm tents I could find within a designated area of my property (18 and counting). Next year I plan to do the same. I may find more or less, in part because, in the space-time energy flow continuum, fall webworm populations fluctuate, with some years experiencing significantly larger outbreaks than others. This to say, a fall webworm population trend study cannot be completed with one or two years of data.

My objective with this idea is to gather information that tells me something more about the world in which we live, with maybe a little ulterior motive being a hope that, in the long term, we will think beyond chemical pesticides as a sensible management strategy for the habitats, including our yards, that provide ecosystem services to the benefit of living communities within which we live.

That said, now is as good a time as any to start counting webworm nests, noting any predators you observe dining on these scrumptious packets of nutrition; while also paying attention to insecticide advertising because, just as predatory insects and birds exploit webworms, so too can we expect others to do the same, albeit for a different form of currency—the kind that drives our contrived economy, operating within an otherwise earthly ecosystem.

The solstice occurs today with the Sun reaching its southernmost declination in the Earth’s sky. Of course, the December solstice marks the beginning of winter in the northern hemisphere and summer in the south. When viewed from northern latitudes, the Sun will make its lowest arc through the sky along the southern horizon. So in the north, the solstice day has the shortest length of time between sunrise and sunset and fewest hours of daylight. This striking composite image follows the Sun’s path through the December solstice day of 2005 in a beautiful blue sky, looking down the Tyrrhenian Sea coast from Santa Severa toward Fiumicino, Italy. The view covers about 115 degrees in 43 separate, well-planned exposures from sunrise to sunset. Photo: Danilo Pivato.

Our family celebrates winter solstice with an outdoor Solstice Fire, mostly as an excuse to spend an evening outside, keeping company while warmed by kindling and logs being turned to embers and ash.

Technically speaking, winter solstice, which arrives today, is an astronomical event marked by observable phenomena that many cultures and peoples throughout history have come to recognize as significant and worth celebrating. Winter solstice is a noteworthy date because on this day the sun at noon is at its lowest arc over the horizon and it is truly the shortest day of the year; slated to last nine hours, forty nine minutes, and twenty four seconds. The day before and day after winter solstice are each a full one-second longer; nine hours, forty nine minutes and twenty five seconds, respectively.

Early cultures in northern Europe recognized this period as a midpoint of winter, and a time to take stock of provisions set aside to carry their family or community to spring. Prior to present-day modern comforts and conveniences,  winter was a dreaded season for many peoples, in northern regions especially because game animals, including waterfowl and herding mammals migrated to more bountiful lands to the south while calorie-bearing plants were dormant and often covered by ice and snow. Fishes and other aquatic quarry are also harder to find and capture during winter ice and cold, when daylight is brief and nights are long.

However, with the passage of winter solstice, successive days grow progressively longer, albeit in brief increments, but enough for celebration. Historians tell us early winter solstice revelries in northern cold climes may have involved fire as symbolic representation of light returning to the world; a rebirth of sorts.

I get it. Fire provided people with tangible, comforting heat and it offered a spirit-lifting representation of hope that, following winter solstice, coming days would subtly though not imperceptibly grow longer; a world once shrouded by prolonged life-sapping night would be transformed and made more cheery by lengthening days augmented by sunshine warming the landscape; something to look forward to– a hope that carried people through the difficult and tiresome periods when cold and fearsome weather conspired with scarce food or shelter.

A statue of Columella, holding a sickle and an ox-yoke, in the Plaza de las Flores, Cádiz.

It is counter-intuitive therefore, for me to think of winter solstice as the start of winter because, logically, with ever lengthening days and more light, it just seems logical that winter solstice signifies the start of spring.

When I ponder the relevance of winter solstice it is easy for me to slip into thoughts regarding phenology; the timing of things happening in nature including ripening of fruits, and migrations of wildlife.

Roughly defined, phenology is the study of when things appear, and it is gaining renewed popularity. I say “renewed” because people have studied the timing of things ever since we started paying attention to the world around us; committing to memory those things and events we observed and experienced, thereby framing and building our view and understanding of nature’s happenings.

As a natural science pursuit, phenology was popularized in Europe during the 18^th and 19^th centuries. But before it became a pastime, recognizing seasonal changes was a necessity for human survival. In order to endure the rigors of fluctuating food sources, including game animals and plant fruits that come and go with changing seasons, it was necessary to plan for inevitable food scarcities as a strategy to avoid famine; planning for seasonal food scarcities that were anticipated from one year to the next because we paid attention to worldly changes around us.

I think the development of phenology as a community pursuit was a revolutionary and transformative episode in human social development, with traditional winter solstice fires as evidence that early peoples not only recognized changes in the world around them, they anticipated future, hopeful changes to come. I wonder then, if it was hope that drove our ancestors’ actions leading up to winter , including storing foodstuffs, securing shelter, and portioning resources sufficiently so as to avoid privation in winter ; living sufficiently by conserving (wisely using) resources.

And this brings me to a matter that has been nagging at my mind; present widespread marketing of the word sustainable, as in: Sustainable Living, Building, Growing, and Consuming. Sustainability as a buzz-term is especially vogue in the environmental community, and not surprisingly, the advertising industry. We use the word as though it has measurable relevance, and maybe it does, though I have yet to find a simple mathematical formula to prove a sustainable behavior. Actually, the second law of thermodynamics pretty much discounts the possibility of anything being sustainable in the partially-closed system that is Earth; partially-closed because we get energy from the sun. But I digress.

Immanuel Kant: What can I know?

Henry Thoreau: “It is better to cultivate a little land well than a great deal ill.”

While recently exploring the distinction between sustainable and sufficient, I came across the writings of the 18th century German philosopher Immanuel Kant, to whom the study of reason suggested three questions in particular: “What can I know? What ought I to do? What may I hope?” These are dense questions but they offer helpful guidance.

So I ask myself: <em”>What can I know? As much as experience can provide. What ought I to do? It would be silly if I did something that limited the future. What may I hope? For the world, because the world provides me all I need.

In one form or other these are three questions social communities have asked for millennia; and I evoke the winter solstice fire as proof, assuming historians’ claims are correct in asserting solstice fires represent return of light and hope, and that better conditions are on the way. Yes, Kant was thinking theologically, and I only raise his questions because they can be relevant tools to justify actions, including those related to resource consumption.

Getting back to the issue of sustainable and sufficient; early peoples planning for winter knew that they must portion resources sufficiently. They may have used rudimentary mathematical models to figure out how, but regardless, life comforts in the olden days were measured by what is sufficient; “What ought I to do?” Surely, in order to be sustained for any duration on what resources are available, the answer must be, eat and use what you need, that there may be some for later.

There is little point in pondering whether building or consuming is sustainable because without some way to measure an action’s sustainability, it is not a relevant tool for resource metering. Again, in a closed system like ours, thermodynamics disposes the idea that limitless resource consumption is sustainable. I make no apology for irrefutable laws that govern our world.

Counsel for sufficiency is not new. While reading through the journal of Henry Thoreau (1817-1862), looking for a nugget of his insight regarding winter solstice, I serendipitously stumbled on a fun piece of his work from Dec. 22, 1855 when he wrote, “In reading Columella I am frequently reminded not only by the general tone but even by the particular warnings & directions–of the agricultural journals & reports of farmers’ clubs– Often what is last & most insisted on among us, was most insisted on by the Romans. As when he [Columella] says it is better to cultivate a little land well than a great deal ill.”

President Theodore Roosevelt: “The nation behaves well if it treats the natural resources as assets which it must turn over to the next generation increased; and not impaired in value.”

In the same passage, Thoreau quoted Columella (AD 4-AD 70), an important writer on agriculture, who was invoking the thoughts of the Roman poet Virgil (70 BC-19 BC): “Therefore, as in all things, so in buying land moderation will be used; for only so much is to be obtained as is necessary, to make it appear that we have bought what we can use, not what we may be burdened with, and hinder others from enjoying.”

I find it amusing, at some level, that this is me quoting Thoreau, quoting Columella, who was quoting Virgil; all of us regarding important advice pertaining to sufficiency. The idea of living sufficiently is not new, nor has it been kept secret.

Sufficiency is a thing we can measure, in calories, weight, and dimension (all four of them; three of size, and one of time: spacetime). Sustainable on the other hand, implies a future condition, which we can guess at, but cannot measure or predict with meaningful accuracy.

With our modern economic systems built on resource consumption, our challenge is not marketing the idea of sustainability; a nebulous word with no real metric for measurement. The challenge we face is marketing the value of sufficiency, as in “your possessions are sufficient.” Sufficiency is not a glass half empty; it is a pitcher half full.

My point in this: Winter solstice is a fitting time to take stock of our resources, but we should have long ago been taking stock of how we will manage them for the benefit of future generations, as President Theodore Roosevelt meant when he said: “The nation behaves well if it treats the natural resources as assets which it must turn over to the next generation increased; and not impaired in value.”

These thoughts shared, I will burn a sufficiently warm winter solstice fire, and in so doing, provide enough light-of-happiness to hope for.

Peace.

“…this ever changing world in which we live in.” — Sir Paul McCartney

HAMPSTEAD — N.C. lawmakers this year passed a piece of climate-related legislation — H819, An Act to Study and Modify Certain Coastal Management Policies. After its passage, the bill was met with some disdain by environmentalists along with considerable ridicule in the political comedy circuit—worldwide. But opinions of pundits and commentators regarding the controversial legislation are less important than the confusion it caused in communities where consequences of climate change, including sea-level rise, are already observable and creating impacts that we ignore at our own peril.

H819 has created confusion among some people on the N.C. coast because the bill rather blatantly disregards a new coastal reality that even casual observers can attest. I’ve spoken to watermen and women who talk in matter-of-fact terms about coastal changes they have personally seen over just the past few decades; changes including once-exposed oyster reefs now submerged even at low tide, grassy marshes that are now open water and once lush forests now grassy marshes. These observations come from people who make their living in and on our coastal waters, including Bill Moller. With his wife, Tina, he operates Nature’s Way Farm and Seafood near Hampstead in Pender County.As a commentator about matters environmental, I realize there is risk in opening a conversation with a personal affirmation of climate change, mostly because my words may prompt some people to turn away from anything else I have to offer. That said, please know that this piece is not just another global-warming rant meant to coerce people to believe in climate change. Nor is it a criticism of state lawmakers. This is a piece about the power of observation, with emphasis on the role each of us can play when it comes to keeping track of the world around us.

Bill has been harvesting and selling fish and shellfish for over 25 years, and like many watermen, he is pretty matter of fact when it comes to coastal issues. When I asked him recently about oystering in Topsail Sound, adjacent to Stump Sound, he volunteered that his favorite places to “knock oysters” are now only accessible with oyster tongs.

In his no-nonsense manner, Bill said, “I can show you oyster reefs that used to be exposed at high tide, but now are under water at low tide.”

When I asked him what he thought was behind the change, he grinned and replied, “What do you think? The ocean’s coming in.”

While we are friends, his good-natured tone still made me feel like a landlubber; like I didn’t know of the existence of tides or that the sun rises from the east and sets off to the west.

With Bill’s observation as segue, I’ll note here that this commentary is supposed to be about horseshoe crabs and sand dollars — in our area more correctly called keyhole urchins. This subject arose this past summer when Susi Hamilton, who represents New Hanover County in the N.C. House, viewed both of these animals for the first time in a long while in Stump Sound.

Susi Hamilton, a state legislator, wondered about all those horseshoe crabs in Stump Sound.

Susi grew up in and around Wilmington and she knows Stump Sound near Topsail Island from countless visits throughout her life. This spring, while exploring the sound with her family, she noticed numerous small horseshoe crabs, along with a gathering of sand dollars. Since she had not seen either of these animals in several years Susi brought her observations to the attention of the N.C. Coastal Federation, simply out of curiosity, wondering what might explain their sudden reappearance.

I got involved in the matter during a conversation with Frank Tursi, the editor of federation’s online news service. Frank asked me if I had any thoughts regarding the issue, and the first one that came to my mind was another organism: the Scotch bonnet, North Carolina’s official State Shell. Why the Scotch bonnet? Well, it has to do with sea-level rise, but more to the point, this predatory marine snail preys on sand dollars. I’ll come back to this thought in a moment.

In nature, change is the only constant, and nowhere is change more evident than in and around the dynamic interface between land and sea. Stump Sound, along with the barrier island (Topsail) to its east, and the mainland shoreline (Pender and Onslow counties) to its west already show obvious signs of change, including rising salinity in the sound itself, along with marsh and fringe forest drowning all around the sound’s perimeter. And of course there is also the inconvenient truth regarding Topsail Island’s eroding north end, a natural result of ocean and sand interplay.

Frank wondered if Susi’s observation had something to tell about change and when he told me someone who knew Stump Sound thought it was odd that horseshoe crabs and sand dollars were suddenly showing up, I suspected changes in the sound’s salinity might be in play.

Horseshoe crab prefer salty waters. Can their appearance in Stump Sound signal a change in salinity because of climate change?

Horseshoe crabs can tolerate brackish water, but they prefer salinities near that of the open ocean – 32 to 35 parts per thousand — and the same is true for sand dollars. I could fill paragraphs with speculations about this one observed goings-on in nature, but there’s not much point in doing so here, especially absent other information, collected in a scientific process, including background weather conditions and patterns across multiple years. Back to back annual droughts, for instance, can raise inshore water salinity. Horseshoe crabs are sensitive to certain bacteria pollution, which brings into play water quality changes. And of course, it’s helpful to have results of dedicated surveys — if any exist — to determine horseshoe crab and sand dollar population densities.

I can’t offer a definitive reason to explain the encounter Susi had with these two marine animals. But I am curious to know if this was a chance event or not. And the only way to answer that question is with more information, which has to be collected by someone and we can’t expect professional scientists to be able to do all of the work for us. I can promise to keep my eyes open for signs of Scotch bonnets in Stump Sound, if only to track next steps in that sound’s climate influenced evolution.

Professional scientists do a great job with the tasks they have at hand, whether trying to pinpoint the origin of a particular carbon molecule, which we now can do, in an effort to identify sources of global air pollution or monitoring the flowering cycle of a wildflower, which we have been doing for thousands of years. It’s all about a scientific process, beginning with observation. Our challenge, as scientists, is finding enough scientists to do all the work we need to accomplish in order to stay knowledgeable about a world supporting millions of plant and animal species with a diverse assemblage of habitats that have evolved over time, in response to cyclic climate changes.

And this is where Bill the waterman, and Susi the state legislator come in, along with each and every other one of us. We need to ramp-up our observation skills, make note of what we see, and share that information with other people so that we can make sound decisions regarding how we as a species are going to move forward on this changing globe we call Earth.

To underscore the point of this commentary, I will evoke a favorite quote of mine from that wizard of understatements, Yogi Berra, who once said: “You can observe a lot by watching.” I will add: You can also learn a lot from observation.

Pictures of Yogi Berra, top, and Henry David Thoreau don’t often appear together. But both are respected observers in their chosen fields.

Arguably the most celebrated American observer of nature, including people as part of nature, is the 19th century educator Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), whose timeless writings, including his book Walden and his essay Civil Disobedience, have earned him recognition as one of the most important American philosophers. Thoreau’s writings have moved and influenced many great thinkers, including such familiar 20th century leaders as Theodore Roosevelt, Martin Luther King and even Mahatma Gandhi.

Thoreau once disdained the moniker “transcendentalist” that was often attached to his name in favor of the more understandable and fitting title of educator. Thoreau was an educator and a consummate observer and recorder. In his exhaustive collection of journal notes, he apparently documented everything he observed, whether the old furnishings in a friend’s home or the timing of a goldenrod flower opening in autumn. He kept notes about much more than just observations in nature, because he knew natural history included the history of people, as evidenced by the things we built and kept. He was fascinated by all things around him, not just nature, and we know this from his journal entries.

I mention Thoreau because his 19th century observations in nature provide a priceless natural history picture of what his hometown of Concord, Mass., was like leading up to his untimely passing just as our nation was plunging into civil war, a matter of social interest that also interested and concerned Thoreau. But I digress.

We can use Thoreau’s journaling practice as a guide for tracking changes through the seasons here on the coast, and changes through the years, beginning with observations made by generations of coastal inhabitants.

So, from horseshoe crabs and sand dollars to cypress trees and submerged marsh, there is much we can learn from observing. But observing is not enough. We also need to document what we observe and share that information so that policymakers in positions to make change can do so responsibly and to the benefit of all living things because all living things are connected.

And few places offer more challenging decision-making choices for established communities than here on the N.C. coast.

During my conversation with Susi Hamilton, she paraphrased another favorite quote of mine, from one of Thoreau’s closest friends, Ralph Waldo Emerson, who offered in his very dense essay Self-Reliance: “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.” The operative word here is “foolish.” And the point Susi was stressing is the challenge she and her colleagues face when confronted with issues requiring resolution and decision-making that does not conform with party line, or sometimes, constituent opinions.

Which was the point Emerson was making when he followed with “…adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.” Yikes. Emerson could be harsh, and Thoreau always meant exactly what he said. These are two 19th-century observers and writers whose knowledge and insights are timeless, and, in my opinion, of great value to our 21st-century policymakers. In my opinion they should be required reading in the legislature. But again I digress.

So where do we go from here? Outside of course. Go outside, observe what you see, document those observations and make them known to others. You don’t need a personal blog or tweet account. Your observations in nature are no less valuable to scientists than their own. If you aren’t sure of what you are seeing, what kind of bird it is or snail, that’s fine. We can figure that out. The important thing is to observe. Even, and especially, observations of things once seen, but no longer.

Share your observations with others. It’s fun, helpful and important, especially as regards observations related to sea-level rise and other notable consequences of climate change. It’s also essential in this political system of ours, to take our observations to the desks of people in position to make changes we must enact sooner rather than later. Unless we are fine with letting nature (including people) do its/our thing, and we just wait for the consequences.

Another quote, this from the 20th century Polish writer Stanislaw Lec, who said: “Each snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty.” I add this because I think each of us has an ethical responsibility to accept reality for what we observe. To do otherwise is foolhardy at best and dangerous at worst.

Sir Paul McCartney is correct; we are part of “this ever changing world in which we live in.” We best pay attention.

Last of two parts

Just when you thought it was safe to play in the swamp, along comes news about the state’s new mercury study that reminds you that something’s happening out there that we need to think about and work to correct.

I’ve spent much of my life exploring swamps and other aquatic realms and in that time I have come to know a great many interesting plants and animals. While alligators, eagles and other so-called “glamorous megafauna” grab headlines and dominate conservation efforts, I have long been attracted to the smaller beings in the world we share. Tiny crustaceans including dot-sized copepods, daphnia and even mosquito larvae are the things I seek, before I start looking for fishes, frogs, turtles or birds.

Credit: Frédéric Back and Québec Amérique

I could be equally charmed by protozoans and bacteria, since they inhabit every sample of pond water I examine, but the hand lens I carry can’t discern these tiniest of beings. Bacteria inhabit every ecosystem we have examined, and even though daily life functions require a diverse collection of bacteria inhabiting our body, these “animalcules” as they were first called, are rarely celebrated.

Bacterial activity drives entire ecosystems. Some kinds break down carbon compounds – the remains of once-living organisms– while others are chemical converters, nitrogen cycling for example. Some bacteria cycle chemicals as a metabolic activity required to expel wastes from their cell structure. As an example of this is found in coastal areas, where hydrogen sulfide, a waste product of sulfate-reducing bacteria, can be smelled when carbon-based organic sediments are exposed during low tide. The rotten egg smell is essentially the exhalations of marsh bacteria reducing carbon compounds.

While sulfate bacteria are processing organic compounds in sediments they may also bind up various chemicals, including mercury deposited from the atmosphere. The bacteria don’t necessarily seek out mercury, they simply encounter it. To rid themselves of this unneeded material, bacteria employ metabolic processing to convert the mercury to methylmercury, a chemical compound that bacteria can expel.

Mercury is a naturally-occurring element in the environment, though rarely in high concentrations. The mercury in thermometers and electronic switches is a highly refined product extracted from mercury-containing ores. While elemental mercury is a hazardous material, a more nuanced form, known as methylmercury (CH₃Hg), is far more insidious, hazardous, and unfortunately, inside each member of every community across the globe.

At the  Environmental Molecular Sciences Laboratory of the U.S. Energy Dept., scientists investigate biofilms of the sulfate-reducing, anaerobic bacteria Desulfovibrio desulfuricans. This microorganism is being studied for its ability to reduce toxic metals and radionuclides such as chromium and uranium in soils and groundwater. The photo is a color-enhanced digital micrograph of a black and white scanning electron microscope image. Thanks to Alice Dohnalkova for the image.

Mercury can be found wafting through the atmosphere attached to a water droplet, or adhered to a dust particle. Atmospheric mercury can originate from a volcano, but since we can’t do much about volcanoes, we focus on the mercury pollution generated by burning coal, manufacturing cement from limestone, incinerating medical and other wastes and processing various metals. Atmospheric mercury released from industrial smokestacks may stay aloft for thousands of miles before falling to earth, most likely landing in water.

In its elemental state mercury is unhealthy to higher forms of life, but methylmercury is even more insidious and harmful. Animals exposed to methylmercury, especially during early development stages, may suffer severe neurological damage and other health problems that inhibit full function and vigor. Adult animals are also at risk from methylmercury and none more than aquatic predators high up the food chain.

In the 1980s largemouth bass in North Carolina were included in a mercury advisory that warned people to limit consumption of this fish. The reason for the warning, still in place today, has everything to do with a process called biomagnification. Biomagnification refers to a natural concentration of compounds especially in the tissues of animals that are part of a complex food pyramid.

Picture a pyramid divided by horizontal layers, with each layer representing a step in a food chain. At the bottom of the pyramid we find primary producers known as plants. In the layer above plants are plant eaters. The next layers up are eaters of plant eaters and above them are eaters of eaters of plant eaters, and so-on to the top of the food pyramid; represented in this example by largemouth bass.

Mercury originating from coal combustion is deposited in sediments supporting the base of the food pyramid. Sulfate-reducing bacteria exposed to mercury convert it to methylmercury in order to rid themselves of the metal. Because it accumulates in muscle tissue in the “eat and be eaten” food pyramid, methylmercury is transferred from one organism to the next, magnifying with each level climbed. In this way methylmercury adhered to tiny copepods, daphnia and even mosquito larvae is passed to small fishes including mosquitofish and young sunfish. These in turn are eaten by slightly larger fishes that in their turn are eaten by still bigger fishes including bass, catfish, bowfin and others. This chain of events involving other players is also happening in the world’s ocean; hence the mercury advisories for tuna, swordfish and other so-called apex predators.

The study of methylmercury and its “lifecycle” is interesting and fraught with alarming revelations too important to ignore. So too is the study of the politics involved in regulating the discharge of mercury, the precursor to methylmercury.

When I hear complaints from industry members about the harm regulations put on their business, I am reminded of something a chemical plant manager shared with me many years ago. He said the chemical industry thrives best when it sees pollution as wasted product, and missed profit. In short, environmental protections are conservative measures that support best business practices. And when businesses behave well, communities thrive. It does not work the other way around.

Conservation educators often position a glamorous wild predator to illustrate the apex animal in a food pyramid, be it a shark, lion or bear. In truth, the top of the pyramid is reserved for but one species, and it is us. For this reason, it is in the interest of everyone that we put aside distracting arguments about economic well being and focus instead on the health of the ecosystems that support our economy.