Looking out across the early-December landscape of browns and grays, the fate of our local plants and animals was concerning. At a large farm pond near our house, Canada geese lingered well into December, seemingly oblivious to the cold and despite the scarcity of food. Ravens gleaned the scatterings of cow corn chopped while autumn colors still framed the sky. Phoebes hung around much later than usual, as did the last hummingbirds of the season, which continued to sip nectar from our feeders until September 15—some 10 days later than their usual autumnal departure for points south. Bears continued to feed later than usual, which delayed when they entered their winter dens as well as the onset of the safe period for putting up bird feeders that would not be marauded by our ursine neighbors.

We have a coyote whose habitual nocturnal hunting regimen crosses the lines of our regular perambulations in and around our old farm. I often find fresh coyote scat deposited in the same location each morning. It is clear from the ground up tiny bones and leaden wads of matted fur that this coyote has been subsisting largely on meadow voles; the hunting made easier by a lack of snow.

Long term meteorological data gathered by Appalachian Mountain Club researchers shows that the number of winter days with snow cover has decreased by three weeks during the past century. AMC climate models estimate that, due to global warming, by 2100 the amount of forest lands in the Northeast that are covered by snowpack in midwinter could diminish by 95 percent. Observations during the past sixty years by the Hubbard Brook Experimental Forest in New Hampshire demonstrate that the depth of the snowpack is also declining. 

When the ground is bare during the winter, plants and animals are largely unprotected from cold damp weather and extreme low temperatures. In his classic book, Life in the Cold, Peter Marchand refers to snow as the “…thermal blanket under which much biological activity takes place during the winter.” Snow cover provides “…the salvation of many plants and animals that depend upon it for protection from the cold.” Because the insulative value of different forms of snow varies, snow needs to be around 20 inches deep on average in order to protect animals living beneath it from the extremes of winter cold swirling above. In all but the most severe cold days, the temperature beneath snow of this depth tends to remain steadily around 32°F. 

Living in this subnivean (under the snow) environment insulates and provides cover from predation. Small mammals, such as mice and voles, who spend their time tunneling beneath the snow in search of food, are fairly well protected from the sharp eyesight and keen hearing of predators, such as the red fox, barred owl and coyote. Snow cover also decreases the damage and die-off of tree roots caused by exposure to extreme cold. Hubbard Brook research has revealed that growth decreases by 40% among sugar maples whose roots are exposed to severe cold when there is no snow pack—a drop that continues for several years. 

An insulating blanket of snow protects the plants and animals beneath from extreme cold temperatures and other severe winter weather, such as freezing rain. Photo: Michael J. Caduto.

Despite the many profound impacts of climate change on the lives of our wild neighbors, we usually focus on the impacts on humankind: melting glaciers and rising sea levels, weather extremes that have become the new meteorological norm, hurricanes that are setting new records for arriving late into autumn, as well as storms noted for their duration and intensity. Witness what is happening to residents of coastal areas who continue to live according to settlement patterns established during weather norms of the past, even while climate change-induced disasters rain down upon them. Along some parts of Florida’s overdeveloped eastern coastline, multitudes of buildings are now abandoned because they have been undermined by catastrophic erosion from recent, record-breaking hurricane-induced tidal surges and accompanying wind and waves. In some parts of southwest Florida, people and wildlife suffered similarly tragic and heartbreaking fates recently when their homes and habitats were wiped out and entire regions made uninhabitable by Hurricane Ian.

As global warming marches on, people, plants and animals are all in the same proverbial boat, riding the ups and downs that come with the waves of change that wash over a warming planet. Those of us who spend much of our personal and professional lives working on education and action that encourages everyone to mitigate their greenhouse gas emissions, and those who are keen observers of the natural world, do not need sensational headlines to remind us what is occurring during this Anthropocene era; the signs are ubiquitous, both in the headline-grabbing events of our climate times, as well as in the multitude of local and gradual changes that pervade our surroundings and impact the lives around us.

Why do so many people care so much about these changes? What motivates us to work toward solutions to climate change? How do we deal with our dystopian nightmares of a warming world, be they during wakeful hours or in the dead of night? Despite the harm that humans have wrought upon the planet by our overuse of resources and sheer numbers, most people sincerely and deeply care about the beauty and awe inspired by the natural world. 

Earth’s celestial dance with the sun has once again passed the inflection point that marks the start of the winter season. Anticipating the promise of longer days, our thoughts turn toward the celebrations of light, life and love. It is a time to reflect upon how the lives we live can be brought into balance with the wondrous world that we have inherited from our forebears, and the tenuous future that we are charting for generations to come. This is our charge, and our gift: to answer the existential call to action and opportunity to fight global warming in order to show all forms of life with whom we share this fragile biosphere just how dearly we hold that love. As snow is our witness.

WHAT YOU CAN DO: Visit SustainableWoodstock.org for specific actions and steps you can take in your daily life to fight climate change. “Climate Action” is found under “Get Involved” in the website banner, at this link: https://www.sustainablewoodstock.org/get-involved/climate-action/

The post Give the Gift of Snow by Fighting Climate Change appeared first on Sustainable Woodstock.

But back to our opening question: The answer is “yes, eventually,” if that butterfly survives the dangerous journey of 2,889 miles from Vermont and completes its autumn migration to the Oyamel fir forests in the Sierra Madre Mountains of Michoacán, Mexico. In the springtime of 2023, monarch butterflies will continue to fulfill their seemingly miraculous life cycle when they begin the journey north.

Populations of monarchs, Vermont’s State Butterfly, are in such marked decline (especially the population in Western North America) that they have recently been designated an endangered species by the IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature). Each year they face the multiple threats of declining habitat in their breeding and wintering grounds, pesticides, storms, predators, diseases and parasites. Our warming climate and frequent severe storms are altering the migratory patterns of these minute marvels, who—with an average weight of .5 grams (about 1/6^th of an ounce)—are easily blown off course.

It takes four to five generations of monarchs to complete an annual life cycle. The first generation that flies north in the springtime lays eggs that take five to seven weeks to hatch into another generation that continues the journey north. This pattern recurs, with each generation making its way farther north. The last generation born in late summer survives and flies all the way back to the wintering grounds, where it lives for up to eight months, waiting to migrate north the following springtime. Populations from eastern and midwestern North America overwinter on trees in the Sierra Madre Mountains of Mexico, Honduras and Guatemala.

We now seem to be experiencing a reverse butterfly effect: If climate change heats up the Gulf Stream and contributes to warmer weather, and if it generates a greater number of hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico, will butterflies stop flapping their wings in parts of New England? The answer is yes, and no.

Elizabeth Crone, Ph.D. and Associate Professor at Tufts University—along with Dr. Greg Breed and Dr. Sharon Stichter—co-authored “Climate-driven Changes in Northeastern US Butterfly Communities,” which was published in Nature Climate Change.

“Climate is getting warmer,” said Crone. “Mobile species move to new areas that suit their climate needs, if there is no other limiting factor. Species from the south are becoming more abundant, and species from the north are less abundant, on average. Many are increasing their range northward, but some species may not be able to move north due to habitat needs and geographic boundaries.”

Shifts in population numbers and geographic ranges have been observed in 100 of the 116 species of butterflies studied. Those species for which climate has demarked the southern extreme of their range are shifting northward, especially in the warmest regions. Those living at higher elevations are more stable, but species found in the lowlands are decreasing rapidly. Research shows that these responses are specifically related to climate.

Frequent hurricanes and severe tropical storms associated with climate change are impacting Monarch butterflies, the only species that migrates long-distance to New England. In recent years, Monarch populations have been about 1/18^th of what they were less than twenty years ago. According to Crone, “Sometime around World War II when pesticides, herbicides and other chemicals became so prevalent, we may have started a shift in butterfly numbers overall.”

Whether or not you ascribe to the Zuni belief that butterflies can predict the weather, they are harbingers of how our environment will evolve in an era of climate change. In Buddhism, butterfly metamorphosis symbolizes the human capacity for transformation—to transcend self-centeredness and be guided by a sense of oneness with all beings. The myriad decisions we make each day will determine the fate of these ephemeral denizens of the air.

Nectar from red clover is one of the monarch butterfly’s favorite late-summer/ early-autumn food sources. Photo: Michael J. Caduto.

What You Can Do 

• Visit the Vermont Center for Ecostudies online “Vermont Butterfly Survey” to report a sighting (https://val.vtecostudies.org/projects/vermont-butterfly-survey/), as well as the popular monarch tracking website, Journey North (https://journeynorth.org/monarchs).
• Make energy-use and lifestyle choices that reduce carbon emissions and slow climate change. 
• Create a butterfly garden of native plants for food and places to lay eggs, such as milkweed for monarchs.
• Don’t use pesticides, herbicides and other chemicals that harm butterflies, bees, and other beneficial insects.
• Maintain open spaces for butterflies to feed, rest and breed. Join Monarch Watch and plant a Monarch Waystation habitat: http://www.monarchwatch.org/waystations/
• Get involved in land conservation to preserve critical areas and prevent butterfly habitat loss. Support conservation groups working toward these ends.
• Inform others about what is happening with butterfly populations and encourage them to track butterflies and work for positive change. 

The post The Delicate, Resilient Monarch Butterfly appeared first on Sustainable Woodstock.

Back in the mid-1970’s, I conducted a botanical study of the hybridization between red and black oaks in the Foster Tract of the Audubon Society of Rhode Island’s George Parker Woodland. During one particular springtime field trip, when the oaks were in full bloom, I stopped to eat lunch in a mixed stand of white pines and oaks that stood 60-70 feet tall. Wanting to see the oak flowers first-hand, I found a pine with low-hanging branches and began to climb. 

After some long minutes of climbing, during which I contorted my body to wriggle through the thick, uneven limbs, my head rose up into another world. The crowns of pine and oak intermingled and gently danced to a moderate breeze. As it turned out, the topmost leader of the pine I climbed had been broken off some decades ago, and the wound had healed over entirely with a smooth layer of bark sporting a small depression shaped like a saddle. I climbed onto the bark seat, locked my legs into the branches on either side and rode the top of the swaying pine like a sailor minding the crow’s nest of a schooner, rocking in a sea of green tree flowers. I was reminded of the kinship between the sound of a breeze through the branches and waves gently breaking on the seashore.

Another sound was in the air; thousands of insects buzzed from flower-to-flower amid the oaks, gathering an early harvest of spring pollen, including many small wasps, some wasp-like tachinid flies and hundreds of honeybees.  What would the world in the treetops look like through the multi-faceted eyes of a wasp or bee—viewed through those mosaicked windowpanes and interpreted by the ganglia of an insect’s intelligence?

That wing-born symphony of six-leggeds hummed the notes of my epiphany. From nature walks to natural history books and botany classes, I had been taught that our early tree flowers—including oaks, maples, birches and hickories—were wind-pollinated. And while wind may be their chief means of pollination, insects obviously played a vital role. The acorns that speckle the ground each autumn—a promise for the next generation of oaks and means of winter survival for a multitude of squirrels and mice—owe their existence to the wind and the ravenous vernal appetites of airborne insects. 

While it is not as celebrated as the sugar maple, the red oak, Quercus rubra, is one New England’s most abundant and stalwart trees. Mature individuals rise on graceful arching trunks, sheathed in bark sporting long ridges that intertwine like ski trails running down a mountain slope. In springtime, each individual tree is festooned with dangling male catkins whose pollen fertilizes minute female flowers that take two years to mature into large, classic, glossy acorns with shallow cups—a favorite food of everything from squirrels to chipmunks, white-footed mice, raccoons, white-tailed deer and black bears. On hot summer days, the red oak’s broad, thick, bristle-tipped leaves cast a deep, cool shade. When autumn arrives, the leaves turn a rich crimson or golden-yellow.

Roots intermingle with beneficial fungi in the soil where roughly half the biomass of each red oak resides. Roots can even discern whether fungi are hurtful, or helpful. Detrimental fungi are attacked as soon as they invade root tissues. But when the root senses a beneficial mycorrhizal fungus, the plant suppresses its counterattack and allows the fungal threads to penetrate and absorb carbohydrates from the tree. The reciprocal aspect of this relationship occurs as the strands of the mycorrhizal fungus expand the root’s ability to absorb water and mineral nutrients from the soil. A tree whose roots are associated with mycorrhizal fungi is more vigorous; it can better withstand the vicissitudes of drought and disease. 

One mycorrhizal fungus—whose growing soil strands, or hyphae, intermingle with the roots of oak trees—produces the agaric mushroom, Lactarius camphoratus. The small, reddish-brown fruiting bodies of this fungus are 2-inch tall mushrooms that smell like maple syrup or burned sugar.

In a mature forest ecosystem, oaks and other species of tree are joined underground by a woody web of roots that become grafted together as they grow in contact with one another. This intertwining system of roots weaves together with the vast symbiotic network of mycorrhizal fungi. In this way, a forest evolves into one giant organism. Although our own arboreal experience is largely confined to the parts of individual trees that grow above the soil horizon, the expansive web of life that permeates the cool, moist subterranean world is one of the most important symbiotic relationships that any given tree has with other living things.

Red oak leaves. Photo: Michael J. Caduto.

WHAT YOU CAN DO: Explore trees and their ecological roles in such books as Finding the Mother Tree: Discovering the Wisdom of the Forest by Suzanne Simard and The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate by Peter Wohlleben.

The post Celebrating the Red Oak appeared first on Sustainable Woodstock.

Imagine it is a Saturday morning and you are mowing the lawn. You check the fuel level of your lawn mower and, realizing it is low, go to the garage to grab the can of gas/oil mix and pour it into the tank, trying your best not to spill. You think about how expensive gas is (estimates of how much gas is used per hour by push mowers are as high as 1 to 2.5 gallons per hour, or $5 to $12.50 an hour). When you’ve filled the tank, you prime the machine, hold the throttle and pull the start cord. The noise of the mower’s engine quickly drowns out all sounds around you and the smell of gasoline fills the air. You breathe in fine pollutants and particulates as you make your way around the lawn, which takes you roughly an hour to finish mowing. By the end of that hour your lawn mower has emitted the equivalent pollution of driving 11 cars for an hour, and you have emitted 20 pounds or more of CO2.

Rewind that Saturday morning, but now imagine that you own an electric lawnmower. You unplug the battery that has been inside charging overnight and bring it out to your lawnmower, lifting the cover and snapping it in. With the push of a button, you start the mower. It is virtually silent as you push it to the area of the lawn you plan to mow, then you engage the blade, which makes a low whirring sound. You smell the freshly cut grass and nothing else as you mow, which takes you the same hour it would have taken with your gas mower. By the end of the hour you have used, at most, 2.8 kW of electricity, or 45 cents’ worth of electricity. You have released 0.73 pounds of CO2 into the air, compared to the 20 pounds released by the gas mower.

If you are looking to do something good for the planet, look no further than your own backyard. Though it may seem small, electric lawn care is an important part of addressing the climate crisis. All of the lawncare tools we use–lawnmowers, leaf blowers, string trimmers, chainsaws and more–have electric versions that are powerful enough to keep up with the needs of homeowners and contractors, and they are much better for people and the planet. Most gas-powered lawn equipment uses 2-stroke engine fuel, which is a gas-oil mixture that is especially toxic compared to automobile emissions. These emissions include hydrocarbons, nitrous oxides (components of smog), carbon dioxide, and VOCs (volatile organic compounds). These pollutants and fine particulates linked to cancer, asthma, heart and lung disease, and create smog-forming air pollution. By contrast, electric equipment emits no harmful pollutants or smog-forming air pollution.

The cost of switching to electric equipment might seem like a barrier, but the savings of going electric add up to be worth the initial investment. In general, battery electric tools are 20 times less expensive per hour of operation compared to gas tools. Electric equipment requires no engine maintenance or filter replacements, and has none of the hundreds of moving parts that wear out and need replacement in gas/diesel mowers. Assuming the price of fuel per gallon is $4.50, switching to electric would save the average contractor $2,795 a year. For Vermont homeowners, Green Mountain Power (GMP) offers a $100 rebate on electric lawn tractors and a $50 rebate on push mowers. GMP also offers a $25 rebate on electric trimmers, electric leaf blowers and electric chainsaws.

Going electric will be better for you and those around you, but there is more you can do to help the environment and wildlife that depends on it. Instead of using a leaf blower, consider leaving leaves and other mulch on the ground and around trees and shrubs. Many butterfly species overwinter as pupae in leaf litter, and the leaf litter is alive with small creatures that are essential to the health and function of our ecosystems—from microscopic fungi to ants, beetles, snails, salamanders, and many others. Consider changing other lawn care practices to care for the earth like “grass cycling” or leaving grass clippings on the lawn. Avoid pesticides and fertilizers, plant native flowers and plants for pollinators, and perhaps most importantly: reduce or replace your lawn! Grass is the largest irrigated crop in America, if you define a crop as a cultivated plant. Instead of using this land to grow turf grass, support edible crops or pollinators and other wildlife.

Geoff Martin—Sustainable Woodstock Board Chair and Intermunicipal Regional Energy Coordinator—pilots an electric commercial lawn mower during a recent (May 25th) EV equipment trial for landscaping consultants offered by several equipment retailers on the Woodstock Green. PHOTO: Jenevra Wetmore.

What you can do:

• Visit mowelectric.org to learn more about the advantages of switching to electric lawn equipment.
• Visit greenmountainpower.com for information on rebates.
• Visit www.nwf.org/nativeplantfinder, where you can enter your zip code to see plants native to your area.

The post Mowing Green appeared first on Sustainable Woodstock.

Just down the hall from Sustainable Woodstock’s office is that of the Hubbard Brook Research Foundation, a nonprofit organization that works to sustain and enhance the the Hubbard Brook Ecosystem Study. Since 1963, in their vast 7,800-acre tract of northern hardwood forest in New Hampshire’s White Mountain National Forest, Hubbard Brook has engaged in far-reaching, systematic studies of forest ecosystems. This research includes perhaps the most comprehensive long-term studies of plant species and their roles in the ecological dynamics of the forest understory.

From wildflowers, mosses and ferns to shrubs and young trees, the forest understory is often described as anything growing beneath the forest canopy up to 25 feet tall. But the forest understory is not just a community of plants that can tolerate heavy shade, it is the nursery for the trees that tower overhead. Without the understory, there would be no forest. 

The forest understory also serves as critical habitat for many species, ranging from ladyslippers, witch hazel and skunk cabbage, to wood turtles, white-tailed deer and porcupines. Birds that spend much of their time feeding and nesting in the understory include the American Woodcock, Ruffed Grouse, Wild Turkey, Ovenbird, Scarlet Tanager and many of our woodland thrushes, including the Veery, Wood 

Thrush and Hermit Thrush (Vermont’s State Bird).  

Herbaceous plants and shrubs in the understory must tolerate heavy shade and intense competition for water and nutrients from the roots of trees in the overstory. Low-growing wildflowers need to also survive getting covered by leaf litter every autumn. When springtime arrives, they push up through the mat of leaves before the trees leaf out and while sunlight still bathes the forest floor. This survival strategy is responsible for the extravaganza of spring wildlflowers that carpets the northern hardwood forest, such as spring beauty, red trillium, bloodroot and trout lily. Common understory shrubs and trees range from low-bush blueberry and hobble bush, to witch hazel and striped maple. And, of course, all of our forest trees begin their lives as saplings growing in the understory nursery.

Many understory plants produce large seeds that can survive for years before the proper conditions arrive for germination. Others overwinter as perennial underground stems, bulbs, corms and rhizomes. Wild sarsaparilla, for example, spreads by rhizomes that form expansive patches which blanket the forest floor. Although this plant dies back to the soil surface every autumn, the rhizome can live for many years. As part of a botanical research project, I studied the rhizomes of wild sarsaparilla to count the annual rings of growth recorded there. Many of the rhizomes were more than 35 years old, a fact that is belied by the short plants that they produce each springtime which appear to the untrained eye like they have just sprouted from a seed.

Researchers with the Hubbard Brook Ecosystem Study have identified more than 400 species of plants growing in the northern forest, including 224 species of flowering plants, 150 mosses and liverworts, 26 kinds of ferns and their related plants and 6 species of conifer. Woody plants comprised 40 varieties of shrubs and 27 tree species, but more than 80% of the total number of forest species were herbaceous plants growing in the understory. These understory plants feed the soil and play a critical role in nutrient cycling. They shade the soil and so help it to retain moisture. Understory plant communities also provide life-sustaining food, shelter and nesting sites for wildlife.

Despite its resilience, the forest understory is a delicate ecosystem. The complex interconnections between species above ground and in the soil are easily disrupted or destroyed when clearing “brush” and when harvesting trees. Large clearcuttings have been found to eliminate many herbaceous species, decrease biodiversity and reduce regeneration of the forest. Dragging a log across the forest floor has been shown to sever the delicate threads (hyphae) of the symbiotic mycorrhizal fungi that are at the heart of a vast web of life that thrives in forest soils and makes possible life in the forest ecosystem.

As a naturalist, ecologist and observer of nature, in recent years I have noticed a significant increase of the destruction of forest understories. One recent trend: in the interest of opening up a view and creating a park-like setting in their woodlands, many private landowners are now mowing down and clearing the forest understory on a large scale around their homes. Not only does this destroy intricate plant communities that have taken decades to develop and evolve, it removes the nursery where the next generation of replacement trees for that forest would be nurtured. And as the plants go, so too do the food, shelter, nesting sites and cover for wildlife—including birds, mammals and insects. Clearing the forest understory creates an ecological desert where once there was a rich, diverse and thriving understory ecosystem. To destroy or degrade the forest understory is no less than killing the goose that laid the golden seedlings. 

What can be done? Selective tree harvests that are part of a long-term forest management plan to preserve the health and diversity of the forest overstory, and that are conducted during winter when the ground is frozen, can minimize the impact on the forest understory. 

And when it comes to managing the forest on your property, resist any temptation to clear the understory. Instead, focus on removing invasive species, encouraging native flora and enjoying the sights, sounds and presence of the rich variety of wildlife that frequent this diverse and dynamic environment.

Starflower and pink lady slipper are a small sample of the rich diversity of wildflowers that inhabit the forest understory. A clutch of eggs in an Ovenbird nest on the forest floor. (Photos by Michael J. Caduto)

WHAT YOU CAN DO:

• Contact your County Forester in order to connect with forest professionals who can provide advice and assitance on drafting and implementing an ecologically-balanced forest habitat management plan.
• Contact the Vermont Department of Forests, Parks and Recreation to inquire about cost-share and incentive programs for helping landowners accomplish conservation work on their land: fpr.vermont.gov

The post Saving the Understory Sustainer of Our Forests appeared first on Sustainable Woodstock.

Dance of the Fireflies (Photo by Mike Lewinski on Unsplash)

As the month of May matures in the North Country, the growing season accellerates at a dizzying pace. Animals have emerged from their winter surival modes, and have arrived from points south, seemingly spring-loaded and determined to complete their life cycles while the warm weather is upon us.

Fields are alive with anticipation for the flash of the first fireflies to appear, insects whose biochemistry manifests as a kind of magical alchemy. When I was a child we captured fireflies and placed them in large glass jars with holes poked in the lids to create living lanterns. The indigenous peoples of Brazil drill holes in hollow gourds, fill them with fireflies and wear them on the head or tied to the ankles to light the way along darkened paths.

In the natural world, beauty and function are often synonymous. The elegant design that makes a firefly’s living light so productive is now being plumbed to explore new ways of increasing energy efficiency in the sources of light that we rely upon in our daily lives.

Unlike the bright yellow reflection of a raccoon’s eyes, or the green of a bullfrog’s gaze caught in a flashlight beam, bioluminescent plants and animals actually create their own light. Illumination helps them find food, lure their prey or detect enemies lurking nearby. Some lights demonstrate aggression, act as defense signals that warn predators to stay away or serve to confuse an enemy while the prey escapes.

Bioluminescence is created when a substance called luciferin combines with an enzyme, luciferase, and, in a reaction with oxygen, produces a cool light. Some animals grow light-producing bacteria in a special organ. Others create their own radiance in photophores or “light bearers”—organs that contain luminous cells whose light is reflected through a layer of pigment and focused by a lens. Many animals have a kind of living headlight, with a reflector behind the light cells and a clear covering in front. Some animals emit a steady glow while others can brighten and dim their lights. Fireflies actually flash but some of the deep sea fishes blink by closing their beacons with flaps of skin.

Fireflies or lightning bugs—which are really beetles in the family lampyridae—are found in many places throughout the world but are most common in the tropics. The light they produce in an organ under their abdomen creates a unique pattern that tells other fireflies both their sex and species. The color of the light also identifies others of their kind.

There are endless variations on this language of light. Certain female fireflies remain lit and attract males that don’t light up. In some species the males gather and flash together, then the females fly to them. A tiny pacemaker in each firefly’s brain senses the signals of others flashing nearby and responds within a fifth of a second. Some of the Photinus and Photuris fireflies synchronize their flashes, creating a choreographed dance of light.

More than 20 firefly species inhabit New England, with around 8-10 species found in Vermont. If you see a yellow light flashing every three seconds, or so, it is the northern twilight firefly, Photinus marginellus. You’ve likely seen Vermont’s most common firefly, Photuris fairchildi, displaying its light pattern of 3-4 quick flashes, with about 2 ½ seconds in between. As the male flies toward the female, over the course of about 10-20 seconds, they both increase the number of flashes in each sequence until their lights become a constant glow.

Once the female of Photuris versicolor has mated, she changes to mimic the light display of the female from a different species. When an unfortunate male of that different species flies in to mate with her, she devours him—the original femme fatale. Various firefly eggs, larvae and pupae also glow to warn predators that in any stage of life fireflies taste bad and are toxic. Since both the larvae and adults are carnivorous, the light may also be used to attract prey. Glowing firefly larvae and the wingless adult females of the Phengodes fireflies are often called glowworms.

Even as firefly lights transfigure, they are also transforming our constant search for new ways to reduce energy consumption and lower carbon emissions in order to fight climate change. About 95 percent of the energy emitted by fireflies is light, while only 5 percent is lost as heat. In contrast, incandescent lightbulbs lose 90 percent of their energy to heat.

LED or “light-emitting diode” lightbulbs are considerably more energy efficient. The “di” in diode refers to “two”—inside each bulb are two kinds of crystals. When electricity flows into the bulb, its energy causes electrons to become excited in a high-energy crystal. The excited electrons jump off that crystal and into the low-energy crystal. The light is created by the energy that the electrons give off when they make this jump.

LED lightbulbs use 85 percent less electricity than incandescent bulbs. Still, most of the LED’s we use today are only about 50 efficient, which pales in comparison to the efficiency of fireflies. But a new kind of LED lightbulb is being developed by electrical engineers at Penn State University that increases efficiency up to 90% by mimicking the design of a firefly’s light-emitting microstructures. The fascinating science behind the evanescent flashes of fireflies on halcyon early-summer nights is illuminating a new way to decrease the carbon footprint of our lighting.

Do just one thing: Install LED lights throughout your home.

The post In Anticipation of Fireflies appeared first on Sustainable Woodstock.

This reflection on our relationship to water, and denizens of aquatic habitats, is offered in honor of Winona LaDuke’s upcoming April 22nd Earth Day presentation “Rights of Nature,” which is being presented by Sustainable Woodstock and Pentangle Arts.

Some believe that an ancient teleost from the Paleozoic era, a Crossopterygian, is a common ancestor of all terrestrial life, including hominids. In fact, the composition of our cellular fluid is thought to be like that of the archaic seas from which our primogenitors first slithered. The human embryo still grows in amniotic fluid that has a mineral balance similar to that of seawater, and develops through ontological stages akin to amphibian-like growth forms that resemble the evolutionary paths of our primal ancestors.

Whatever your convictions about the origin of humans—without water, life would not exist. Nearly three quarters of Earth’s surface is covered by water and roughly 80 percent of our bodies are composed of this ubiquitous element. Water flows within and without all living things, impartial as to whether it moves along a riverbed or courses through the wings of a newly emerged butterfly, transforming them from a rumpled heap into gossamer tools of flight.

We seek from water more than life itself. It is to the sea—or to ponds, lakes, and rivers—that people often go to return to our liquid source and be inspired. There is a transcendent feeling in a moment spent listening to the breaking of waves along the shore, or watching the ever changing ripples of a stream. As varied and alive as a dancing candle’s flame, the surface of water mesmerizes. It is a canvas that paints the image of the world above it. Ripples and ringlet waves animate images that otherwise appear lifeless as stone.

reflected in a pool

sparkle of the morning dew

sunlight dancing

Yet this elixir of life is not merely a flowing artist. Water is mentor, the consummate sage. In its soft, pliant example is strength that is seldom understood.

That the yielding conquers the resistant

and the soft conquers the hard

is a fact known by all…

yet utilized by none.

— Lao Tzu, 5th century B.C.

Through the seasons, over the years, the movement of water is the ebb and flow of life itself. Trickling or torrential, fluid or frozen, water is the element that reminds us of our place in the natural order. Life is inextricably linked to the seasonal interplay of water and sun, ice and wind.

As I sat on the bank of the Drop, or God’s Pond, and saw the amplitude of the little water, what space, what verge, the little scudding fleets of ripples found to scatter and spread from side to side and take so much time to cross the pond, and saw how the water seemed made for the wind, and the wind for the water, dear playfellows for each other — I said to my companion, “I declare this world is so beautiful that I can hardly believe it exists. “

— Ralph Waldo Emerson (Walden Pond), 9 April 1840

Aqueous miracles may surround us, but we become jaded with the extraordinary simply because we see and experience these wonders every day. Familiarity has bred indifference. Perhaps this is why we frequently fall into the pitfall of hubris, living as giants who often stomp on a Lilliputian world of nature—a realm of nuance and connection that we are just beginning to comprehend. To drag one felled log across the forest floor of a temperate rainforest can sever the interconnected mat of root-enriching mycorrhizal fungi so completely that it can require a century to recover. To cut the trees, shrubs and herbaceous plants from along a riverbank can so undermine that protective riparian buffer that erosion and siltation will smother fish eggs,  pollution will poison aquatic life and the absence of shade needed to protect a river from the sun’s penetrating rays will over-heat the cool waters that are so essential to aquatic life. Where does the boundary between our needs and desires to alter the world around us end, and the rights of the natural world to exist by being left to its own devices, begin? Will human actions or natural laws ultimately prevail?

While I bask in the sun on the shores of Walden Pond, by this heat and this rustle, I am absolved from all obligation to the past. The council of nations may reconsider their votes. The grating of a pebble annuls them.

— Henry David Thoreau, 22 March 1840

Lesser Yellowlegs by Michael J. Caduto

This article is adapted with permission from the author’s book, Pond and Brook: A Guide to Nature in Freshwater Environments (Brandeis Univ. Press/Chicago Univ. Press).

The post Reflections on Water appeared first on Sustainable Woodstock.

Members of the Taftsville Chapel Mennonite Fellowship display some of the projects they are engaged in to promote sustainability, foster environmental stewardship, and mitigate climate change. Photo: Nick Wolfe.

On March 25, Taftsville Chapel Mennonite Fellowship was officially recognized as a Cool Congregation through Interfaith Power and Light–a national organization based in California that “inspires and mobilizes people of faith and conscience to take bold and just action on climate change” as part of their stated mission. Two days later, the church grounds at Taftsville Chapel were designated as a Certified Wildlife Habitat through the National Wildlife Federation (NWF). Both of these recognitions come as a result of the congregation’s ongoing effort to pursue a way of life that is not only sustainable (into the future) but regenerative; bringing healing to previous harms to our planet, our global neighbors (humans, and other species), and providing hospitality to future generations yet to come.

Our congregation came into contact with Interfaith Power and Light (IPL) during the Summer of 2018 when we collaborated with Sustainable Woodstock and the Taftsville Country Store to host a Green Drinks gathering in celebration of the green initiatives that had been launched in our hamlet by both Taftsville Chapel and the Taftsville Country Store. While hosting the gathering in our chapel, as the pastor, I was introduced to Betsy Hardy who served, at that time, as the Coordinator for the Vermont chapter of IPL. Among other resources from within IPL, Hardy presented the Katy Gerke Memorial Program (KGMP) as a source of financing for churches that are pursuing strategies to offset or reduce carbon emissions. 

This gathering inspired our church to consider ways that we could do more. Although we had established several practices and initiatives toward environmental stewardship (including the solar panels on our roof with energy credits being donated to nearby Bethany Birches Camp), we saw an opportunity in doing work to upgrade our building. We applied for funding with KGMP and were grateful to receive several thousand dollars in grant money–along with incentives from Efficiency Vermont– that went towards insulation and weatherization work that we began alongside adding new siding and paint to our aging, historic chapel. These efforts have reduced our carbon footprint by over 40% since the time we began these intentional steps towards sustainability in 2017, that ultimately brought us our new Cool Congregation status. (Cool Congregations are houses of worship that have been designated as “renewable role models” by IPL for the work that they are doing to cool the planet and reduce carbon footprints).

Heather Wolfe has been attending Taftsville Chapel Mennonite Fellowship for over a decade. She has spearheaded several of these initiatives along the way. Wolfe serves as Taftsville Chapel’s “Mennonite Creation Care Network (MCCN) Liaison” and is in touch with a wider network of Mennonite churches and organizations across North America that are seeking ways to intentionally “care for creation.” Wolfe sees the various steps we’ve taken to pursue harmony with our planet as “an outward expression of our internal core values and faith.” She says that these efforts are “a public witness of our commitment to creation care.” Wolfe recognizes that there has been tremendous value with the organizations that we’ve partnered with and received support and recognition from (including Sustainable Woodstock, IPL, NWF, and MCCN) who are, as Wolfe says, partners in “a good work for us to join in and be a part of.” 

With Wolfe’s leadership, we are actively exploring ways to regeneratively make use of the land surrounding our church which include the planting of permaculture gardens, the maintenance of Soil Saver compost bins, and the recent addition of a birdhouse to provide housing for some of our neighbors with wings.

Taftsville Chapel is joining with 350Vermont’s Rewild Vermont campaign and planting additional trees on our church grounds next month. We are also pursuing additional certification with the NWF for our church land as a Sacred Grounds designation.  The central requirement for a house of worship to be designated as a Sacred  Grounds site includes planting a native plant garden/wildlife habitat. Our installation of the birdhouse was a step toward achieving this. 

As a church family, we recognize that we are fortunate to live amidst the beauty of the Green Mountain State; we cherish the land that our Creator has provided, and we hope to preserve this habitat for future generations. Underlying this commitment is a willingness to keep asking the question: “How can we live simply that others may simply live?” This, to us, is implicit in faithfully loving our neighbors, and, ultimately, our Creator. We also hope that–as we’ve been inspired along the way–we might in turn be a source of ideas and inspiration to others.

The post Taftsville Chapel Achieves “Cool Congregation”<br>and “Certified Wildlife Habitat” Recognition appeared first on Sustainable Woodstock.