Distracted–the Polyphemus Moth

I’ll be honest. I was just playing Angry Birds, the horribly addictive app I can play on my iPhone. It’s right next to Audubon Nature Florida. I’m supposed to be writing about a moth. I had intended to simply look up the scientific name for the moth in question on the Audubon app. No I don’t know all of the scientific names of every plant and animal. Gorilla is easy. But in doing that quick bit of research my attention was drawn to the small square box on my shiny smartphone housing an angry cardinal. The next think I know I’m launching ferocious birds at pigs. I’m ashamed.

The Polyphemus Moth (Antheraea polyphemus) lives and dies by behavior such as mine. The massive, night-flying member of the Saturniidae family of moths is decorated to both blend in among the leaf litter and confuse would-be predators with flashy eye spots. The six-inch wide, heavy-bodied moth has a week to live as an adult. There’s no time to feed. Females cast off an enticing pheromone that the males pick up on with their large, feather-like antennae. The males mate with multiple females while the females mate and go about finding a safe spot to lay their eggs.

At rest the tan, scalloped wing margins look like leaves and the insect can simply camouflage with its surroundings. At risk of being preyed upon, the Polyphemus Moth can flash the hind wings, unveiling two massive eye-like spots that give the appearance of something looking back. The wings are folded back in. The eye spots disappear and a confused predator either weighs the possibility of a challenge from another predator or can no longer find the thing with the bright flashy colorful spots that it wanted to eat.

Those familiar with Greek mythology might recognize Polyphemus as the one-eyed son of Poseidon and thus the naming of this beauty of a moth, which got me wondering why they named the movie the Poseidon Adventure. Back to the internet and long story short, Ernest Borgnine is still alive. Ugh. Now I need to research why the Angry Birds don’t have wings.

Hate/Love Relationship–The Love Bug

Florida is currently experiencing the worst outbreak of Love Bugs in 50 years. The astute naturalist will recall last year’s crop was also the worst in 50 years. In fact every year seems to herald a never-before-seen airborne apocalypse of amorous insects.

For most of the year, Love Bugs (Plecia nearctica) go unnoticed in their larval form, living in the soil just under a layer of decaying vegetation. At this stage they’re quite beneficial, as they chew up the leaf litter and process it into soil.

Despite the fact that they neither sting nor bite, they are considered an absolute nuisance when the adults emerge from their pupal stage and take flight. It doesn’t help that they’re in the fly family and related to gnats and mosquitoes. For several weeks at a time one can not walk, drive or fly anywhere in the state without enduring a face or windshield barraged by slow-flying, conjoined, copulating Love Bugs. It’s as if someone shook a snow globe full of bugs. It’s disgusting.

What’s curious to those not swatting them out of their face or washing them off of their windshield is the romantic bond formed by a pair of adult Love Bugs. The larger female will seek out a swarm of males. A couple is literally formed end to end and for hours and often days the female will drag the male around shopping for a place to find nectar and lay the eggs the male has graciously been helping to produce.

My cousin asked me to explain to her son why he shouldn’t be freaked out by these affectionate insects. I relayed a story from my childhood when I had to get out of the car and open the gate at our farm. By the time I had reached the gate I was covered by hundreds of the black-bodied, orange-thoraxed flies. I screamed and carried on as if they were eating my flesh.

My story didn’t help.

If I recall correctly, that year was the worst outbreak of Love Bugs in 50 years.

Letter Bee - The Mexican Clover

It’s hard to say if laziness, divine intervention, or concern/apathy for the environment led me to turn the mower off and leave my lawn alone. Probably a little bit of everything.

Here in south Florida things are still growing. Flowers still bloom and insects still hop, fly and flit across the lawn. During the summer months you can in fact “watch the grass grow” but with shorter days and fewer rain clouds the need to mow has gone from every four days to every three weeks.

As the dry season kicked in a few weeks back, frost-like blooms took over a corner of the lawn. Days passed and the snowy appearance spread. I mowed, but the prostrate plant avoided the whirling blades and left behind a colorful white and violet ground cover. It was beautiful.

The star-shaped flower is Mexican Clover (Richardia sp.), and despite the name may or may not be a native. It is found in Central and South America as well as the southern United States but may have extended its range down into Florida in the last few decades. Some say it was here before the Spanish explorers and deserves native status. Others think it was introduced.

As I mow on this particular Sunday I find myself humming a certain song as I make pass after pass. Each consecutive lap brings me closer to the field of Mexican Clover that covers nearly half the lawn. I watch hundreds of bees dart from bloom to bloom and slurp nectar from the flowers. Monarchs, White Peacocks, Gulf Fritillaries, Buckeyes, Skippers and other butterflies do the same. It’s like musical chairs for insects.
It’s a spectacular site. My lawn is a refuge. My lawn is a cafeteria. My lawn is beautiful.

Native or exotic – the flowers benefit the bees and butterflies. The humming in my head matches the humming of the bees. It drowns out the mower. I hear my mother say to me, speaking words of wisdom – let it be.
I turn the mower off.

Grizzly Monster - the Grizzled Mantis

After a long nature walk with a group of kids, a young boy asked me “How do you know so much?” and I replied “I don’t know that much, but I’m telling you what I know”. We could learn a million things a day and the world would still be full of amazing mysteries at the moment we draw our last breath.

When I personally discover something I have never seen before I presumptively claim it as a new discovery to science. I have never succeeded in any attempt to name a critter after myself.

We were exploring the Florida Caverns State Park recently and before descending into limestone darkness my wife spotted an insect that looked other worldly. Its chitinous exoskeleton was camouflaged to resemble lichens you’d find on a tree trunk and the body shape looked similar to a cockroach. As I photographed it, the 6-legged creature bowed its back and tilted its triangular shaped head towards me. It made eye contact, giving me the creeps. I feared for a moment that this bug might rear back, launch itself towards me and rip my face off, which it didn't.

I’ve never seen anything like this but it seemed oddly familiar…vaguely recognizable. I motioned to a park ranger who was prattling on about caves, sinkholes, caverns and other giant holes in the ground and asked if he knew what it was. He looked at it with disinterest and continued his subterranean sermon.

I sent the photo to fellow Audubon Guides writer Kent McFarland, who with curiosity, in turn passed the photo around until the strange beastly insect had a name. The Grizzled Mantis, aka Florida Bark Mantis (Gonatista grisea) is native to the southeastern United States. Like a Transformer it can tuck itself neatly into the form you see here or rear back with wings fanned out and front legs up in a defensive posture like other mantids.
So no – not a new discovery – but an absolutely fantastic find nonetheless. I’ll have to keep looking for Junglis Corradinii.

Everglades Airshow

After an exhausting six hour swamp walk in search of Ghost Orchids, my friends and I emerged from the blazing, sweltering sawgrass prairie and arrived back at our vehicles. The desolate dirt road they were parked on paralleled a drainage canal in the Everglades that carried the life blood of the “River of Grass” from points north towards civilization. Water does not flow naturally out here like it once did, at least not on the horizontal plane. Most of the water that nourishes the Everglades comes down vertically as rain. Everything else is consumed by humans.

Entirely wiped out, I unfold a chair, sit and drink the last of what is now sun-heated water from my water bottle.

I don’t stir. I don’t have the energy to. But the air buzzes with activity as I witness my own Everglades air show. Bees, wasps and butterflies zip from flower to flower checking for nectar. Predatory dragonflies navigate the tall grass like lace-winged fighter pilots seeking prey to tear apart and devour.

What is striking to me is the diversity of creatures in the small roadside patch of grass before me. In an area no bigger than a kiddy pool, I count numerous insects flitting about and without leaving my chair I’m able to pan a total of six feet and spot four seemingly distinct species of Dragonflies. Or did I?

Top Left – Wandering Glider (Pantala flavescens)
Top Right and Bottom Left – Common Pondhawk (Erythemis simplicicollis)
Bottom Right – Halloween Pennant (Celithemis eponina)

As the male Common Pondhawk matures, green with black stripes gives way to a powdery blue pattern. The dragonfly in the top right is the same as the one in the bottom left.

Your homework is to figure out which dragonfly is in the top left. Note the yellow spots on each wing, the amber pattern on the upper forewing and the distinct black coloration on the tail? All photos were taken in Collier County, Florida.