Ecological Replacement

Editing the English of manuscripts written by Taiwanese academicians – including those from marine biologists who conduct research on Taiwan’s coral reefs – is a part-time job of mine. I can only imagine the palette of colors and species living there thanks to the Kuroshio Current bringing Indo-Pacific coral larvae into their warm waters. I would love to scuba dive them, but that may not ever be in the cards, so I very much appreciate the papers they request me to edit.

This morning, I received a link in my PNAS feed for an opinion piece about employing the concept of “ecological replacement” in Caribbean coral reefs: Coral species from another ocean may be the only way to save Caribbean reefs, by Alejandro E. Camacho, David A. Dana, and Mikhail Matz, Jan. 22, 2026, https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.2521543123

The piece attempts to add to the voicing that in-place preservation of historical assemblages of coral species in the Caribbean is no longer appropriate in this age of global climate change. Specifically, they draw attention to losses in tropical American waters too warm to sustain elkhorn coral (Acropora palmata) and staghorn coral (Acropora cervicornis). These two species have historically been the most important reef building species in the Caribbean, yet they have not been recruiting to reefs for several decades. They may be functionally extinct.

Authors review the failures over recent decades in reversing this trend by relying solely on the principal of enhancement. This has been done by planting artificially grown plugs of corals into depauperated natural reefs, while simultaneously limiting fishing and other human activity at those reefs. This is also an example of historical preservation, which is the practice of maintaining species assemblages that existed in pre-Columbian times. Authors point out that this has long been the attitude of NOAA and the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.

Needless to say, historical preservation has failed to save Florida’s subtropical coral reefs, so I agree with Camacho et al., that a different approach is needed. It is easy for me to say that, being a member of a group known as the Torreya Guardians, as we have seen that historical preservation is simply not working for the Florida Torreya (Torreya taxifolia) either. Our goal is to alternatively employ assisted migration in an effort to prevent the extinction of that species, one of the world’s most endangered conifers.

For a while, some scientists hoped that corals might migrate poleward as the oceans warmed, that South Florida and Taiwan corals might shift their ranges a mile or so a year, or whatever, and thus keep pace with climate change. However, Taiwan’s marine biologists have demonstrated through field and theoretical research papers that this cannot occur. Let me emphasize this: they have not demonstrated that it PROBABLY will not occur – they have clear evidence that it CANNOT occur.

Corals discharge eggs and sperm into the sea en masse, their fertilized eggs then floating on the Kuroshio Current and Gulf Stream until their larvae hatch and drop out onto hard surfaces. The key word is “hard,” examples being coral reefs, oyster bars, and rock outcrops. However, benthic substrates downstream of Taiwan and Florida are soft sands and muds, not to mention being too deep to sustain commensal zooxanthellae or reef-associated macroalgae and seagrasses. Instead, bypassing coral larvae simply sink into profundal depths and become food for abyssal creatures.

If Florida and Caribbean corals are to survive warming waters, they will have to adapt in place. The fact that the two most important coral species have not yet done so indicates that either they do not have the genetic capability in the first place or they need more time to reawaken it than they have had to date. In either event, the reefs are dying, fisheries and shellfisheries are languishing, and barren substrates are emerging from formerly living landscapes.

Camacho et al. point out that some Indo-Pacific species of Acropora are super-recruiters that “drive spectacularly rapid reef recoveries” in the Far East, whereas there are no similar over-achievers in the New World. They maintain that state and federal lawmakers and bureaucrats should investigate whether Asian corals can fill the ecological gap left in Caribbean reefs by disappearing American Acropora. They recommend a cautious, step by step approach to determine if this can be done without adverse impacts, and use the term, “ecological replacement.” I like it.

Current national and state laws prohibit such introductions of nonnative saltwater organisms into natural waters. Conservative thinkers justify this, citing precaution against any action that might risk irreversible, unintended, and adverse consequences – think feral cats and mongooses. Laws would thus have to be revised to implement ecological replacement.

In my opinion, precaution was good thinking back in the days before global climate change was evident, and before we knew what enabled an introduced species to become invasive. Those of us who have kept up to date, however, know about the former and can cite the litany of the latter. Thus, precautionary principles applied to Caribbean and Florida coral reefs pales beside the absolute certainty of extirpation, if not actual extinction. Either would result in unacceptable ecologic and economic losses.

I refer you to Comacho et al.’s opinion paper for a better idea of their suggested approach. My own pet mitigation project is preventing the extinction of the Florida Torrey. I have witnessed how its recovery has been set back by the precautionary principle. Assisted migration and ecological replacement are, obviously, not the same. The two, however, are similar in recognizing that insistence on artificial time and space boundaries for species ranges will inevitably fail to preserve our heritage in the face of significant and rapid climate change.

We’re all doin’ what we can – John Lennon.

 

Cougar Kitties

I ran across several articles about panther-pussycat pals this year. There’s one of a mountain lion allegedly mistaking a house cat for a cub. The writer, a wildlife photographer, claimed that the catamount mistook a mouser for “her lost cub.” Another article has a video of a cougar and a calico “playing a game of patty-cake,” sort of play-punching each other, the cougar all the while purring loudly while the calico meowling forcefully. Another post showed trail cam images of a trio of missing housecats following a male mountain lion. One of the missing-cat owners anthropomorphized, “She’s living her true dream, being a big cat.”

The housecat (Felis catus) was domesticated from Mideastern and Egyptian populations of the African wildcat (Felis lybica lybica). It is generally believed to have domesticated itself, at least initially and at least partially, by hanging out within and near early human granaries. Our ancestors did not kill them because they preyed on grain-eating mice while being nonthreatening toward us.

Everyone knows that story, but I think it is only a chapter in a bigger novel, a missive much larger than a merely human-centered one.

Urban myth tells us that felines are solitary while canines are gregarious. However, researchers well know that the domesticated cat is instead far more company loving than that. Obviously, African lions are not solitary. Sibling kittens of all felid species play together until exhausted, and then snuggle together beside mama. Housecats in animal shelters lay alongside each other in sunny spots, often establishing mutual friendships. Housecats warm up next to their house-humans by day and by night.

Projecting this onto pumas is easy. Imagine a male being run off by mama when she’s about to give birth to this year’s litter. He and his siblings are too many mouths to feed when she needs to make a lot of milk for expected cubs. Cougar scientists have found that dispersing young adult females remain relatively close to mama’s territory, whereas young adult males disperse further away, probably because daddy is not their friend and instinct dictates that they not mate with mama or sisters.

So, imagine this innocent two-year-old catamount man-child getting run off, first by a mama’s betrayal and then a terrifying papa. Imagine he has now lost sight, sound, and smell of his playful, purring siblings. He is all alone, a stranger in a strange land. And hungry. And it’s about to rain, uphill both ways. You get the picture.

Leo – let’s call him Leo – is one of the lucky fellows. He finds a territory not already occupied by a mature male, with a hidey-hole refuge from the rain and easy pickings to feed on. But he’s still relatively young, not yet accustomed, much less resigned, to his aloneness. One fine night while out and about, Leo crosses paths with a young housecat. It is Kitty’s night out, Leo is her first encounter with a serious predator, and she is naïve. Leo has never before seen a domesticated cat, so he’s curious. Fortunately for Kitty, Leo also has a full belly. They approach each other cautiously, just like in the wildlife cam videos, and their separate lonlinesses overcome their predator-prey anxieties. Leo now has a friend and a playmate, his first since his heart-wrenching eviction and escape. Kitty now has not only a new friend, but also a bodyguard and provider.

Imagine eating kibble – hard and dry and made of waste meat and gristle – and drinking only chlorinated tapwater – every day from the time you stop suckling your mama’s teats until you catch your first mouse out. Then along comes a big brother offering venison liver and bunny cheeks. Holy wide-eyed yow! Are going to go back to suburban kibble and a stinky litter box? Duh, only if you’ve been brainwashed, and Kitty ain’t no dummy.

Am I anthropomorphizing, or am I acknowledging the fact that all sentient mammals, by definition, share the same feelings?

So, you might well ask, “What’s the bigger picture?” Yes, wildcats were attracted to our mousy granaries, perhaps long before our own youths adopted and made pets of their young, but the cougar-kitty pattern shows us that felids were adopting friends and commensals long before that. Other species are also known to pal around with non-kind, and predator-warning and parasite-gleaning mutualistic behaviors are abundant in the animal kingdom. It is a lesson in “live and let live.”

Painting in the Rain

So, you’re trying to paint your deck in between hurricanes. You wait for day-long lulls among the showers. Things come out fine at first because the sun shines long enough.

Then you dart out on an afternoon when the drying is too short (it wasn’t supposed to be, though). You dip your brush into the paint and slather it on… dip and slather… dip and slather…

Then an ultrasoft mist wafts in while the sun still shines. But you know these acrylic paints well; they need only an hour to shed their tacky. So, you bravely gamble and finish the railing anyway. You note with relief that it seems to dry quickly despite the mountain’s visible humidity.

Relieved, you go inside, pop a brew, prepare and sup on organic veggies and brown rice with steamed jumbo wild-caught Carolina shrimp. Oops! Outa cocktail sauce. Mix some horseradish into leftover marinara. Not too bad. Not great, either, but quite edible. Just add salt.

Morning comes. Awakening in bed, you hear pouring rain. You don’t care; you are warm and dry, and the pillow is so soft. You arise, remind yourself what Forrest Gump said to President Clinton, whistle out a Cyndi Lauper fun tune, eat a toasted Asiago and jalapeño bagel, grab an oversized mug of honey sweetened French-roasted coffee, and step outside to greet the dawn and admire yesterday’s handiwork.

Oh well, it needed two coats anyway.

 

Arborescing

I am currently reading Richard Preston’s book, The Wild Trees. It is about a group of people and the record-height coast redwoods (Sequoia sempervirens) they have been climbing for sport and research. This group pioneered the climbing of redwoods as a ‘thing’ in northern California and southern Oregon. Before them, those 300+ ft tall trees had never been climbed. A few arborist loggers may have previously climbed smaller redwoods, or partway up giant redwoods, but they did so in preparation to cut them down. They don’t count. The book’s protagonists climbed redwoods at first purely for sport, but became fascinated by redwood growth structure and the lichen and plant species living up there. This inspired them to earn advanced degrees studying the botany and ecology of those magnificent forest canopies.

The book is well researched and written, although a little too dragged out for me in places about the personal histories of some of the climbers, which I just skipped over. Nonetheless, I highly recommend it to climbers of all persuasions, cavers who practice single rope techniques in trees (aka tree stands), botanists and other natural science buffs, and really anyone who hangs it all out for any kind of first ascent adventure.

The book’s heroes are presented as the very first to ascend redwoods for sport, but they were not the first to explore tree canopies in general. Kids have been doing that since adults came down out of trees in the dawn of Mankind. Don Perry and Nalini Nadkarni were climbing rain forest giants in Costa Rica, and I was climbing bald cypresses (Taxodium distichum) and live oaks (Quercus virginiana) in Florida, when redwoods were first being climbed and named. We are products of our time. This article is about my own experiences, not theirs. I write it because Preston’s book has precipitated a flood of wonderful memories, so I want to jot some of them down and have a hurrah, hopefully not my last.

I began climbing huge trees as a sport in my mid- to late twenties, near the close of the 1970s. I lived in the sandhills south of Archer, Florida, within walking distance – a mile or two – of karstic wooded pastures dominated by mesic semi-evergreen forests. In Florida, these are called “hammocks” by naturalists like me who were born and raised in the state. The word is very close to and derived from the word used by Native Americans for that habitat type.

The first giant tree I climbed was a bald cypress appx six feet in diameter at breast height (dbh). It was hollow from the ground up and clear through its storm-broken top, which is how it escaped being killed by 19^th Century loggers. Many redwoods also have storm-broken tops, but where redwoods then sprout new vertical leaders that continue to aspire toward the clouds, cypresses have only horizontal limbs at their tops after storm damaging. Odd that, considering the two are phylogenetically close cousins.

I climbed that first tree – solo – using a 45 lb bow and an aluminum-shafted arrow, its hollow core filled with sand to give it the ass needed to pull lines up into canopies. The arrowhead’s metal tip was replaced with a little ball to prevent the arrow from sticking into the tree. Mounted to the front of the bow was a bowfishing spool loaded with 100 lb test monofilament fishing line. My first attempts almost ended in disaster. The spool was not designed for monofilament as large as 100 lb test. I never found out what it WAS designed for, but I can tell you that the monofilament did not come slickly off the spool, instead grabbing onto the spool and rubber-banding the arrow back toward my face! Yow!

Under Plan B, I cleared small bushes and sticks from a patch of ground below the tree, spread a tarp over the spot, and flaked out onto the tarp a length of monofilament about twice the estimated height of the tree. Then I shot the arrow over a large limb, and fortunately neither the arrow nor the line got snagged in branches. After the arrow slid back to earth, I removed it from the mono, tied an eighth-inch nylon cord to the mono, and hauled that line up over the limb and back down to the tarp. Lastly, I used the cord to pull an 11 mm diameter caving rope over the limb and back down. Tying one end of the rope to the base of an adjacent tree, I used mechanical ascenders made for sport climbing to reach the treetop.

Bruce “Sleazeweazel” Morgan and I further modified that technique for use in places where there was too much low growth, such as in hammocks overrun with catbriar (Smilax spp.). I would hold the bowfishing rig and the arrow firmly, a hundred feet or so from the target tree, and Bruce would take the monofilament in hand and slowly walk to the tree while I played out the mono as it slipped through his fingers and off the spool. He had to be very careful to keep the line from draping down into the briars. Upon reaching the tree, there would be a double line of mono between us, half of it going from the bow to him and the other half going from him back to the arrow. I would aim the arrow and do a countdown, three… two… one… FIRE! He would release the mono simultaneously with the arrow’s release. The latter would fly toward the tree canopy so fast that the mono didn’t have time to drop into the catbriar vines. As you can imagine, I had to be very careful with my aim. There was a lot of trust going on there.

Caving rope works better for this than climbing rope. Caving (static) rope stretches very little under load, so it is excellent for climbing with mechanical ascenders. Climbing (dynamic) rope OTOH stretches a lot, as it is designed to catch falling climbers without snapping their spines. Being a caver, I have a bunch of caving ropes, ascenders for going up ropes, racks for rappelling down ropes, sit harnesses to attach ascenders and racks to, and other vertical gear like carabiners, rescue pulleys, and slings made of one-inch tubular webbing.

The bowfishing rig is a pain in the bum to carry through the woods and a pain in the other bum for launching monofilament line. Thick brush and dense tree foliage often require multiple arrow shots before the line goes where you want it to go. So, I developed a different system of using three lassos to get off the ground. I would reach as high up the trunk as I could, wrap the first lasso around the tree trunk, and climb the lasso’s tail using ascenders. Then, while still hanging on the first lasso, I would reach up and tie a second lasso above the first. Then I would move my ascenders over to the second lasso, remove the first lasso from the tree, and repeat. The third lasso was a safety, to be used if I accidentally dropped one of the other lassos. I would attach the main rope to my harness as I ascended the lassos, trailing it as I climbed. Upon attaining the canopy, I would drape the rope over a limb and hand-over-hand one end back down to the ground. Its other end would be tied to a solid anchor before I began climbing the tree. I would rappel back down to the ground on the standing (loose) end when I was done for the day. I could also use the rope, lassos, or slings as belay safeties.

The lasso method is best suited for solo climbing, which I did a lot of because it was hard to find others wanting to explore treetops. I did a lot of first ascents in those days. I was unaware that tree climbers in California named trees, and I didn’t think to do that. Later, I learned that another caver in my hometown had independently invented the exact same lasso system, also for climbing large cypress trees. Maybe others did that?

I didn’t like calling what I was doing “tree climbing.” That phrase seemed boring. I felt that “tree climbing” was an appropriate way to refer to low-limb hanging out, arborist tree work, and kid stuff, but what I was doing was too technical and sophisticated for casual-speak. Sniff. I mentioned this to woods buddy Tom Morris, and he suggested the word “cypressing.” It was a take-off from other climbers inventing the words “bouldering” and buildering,” respectively used for climbing boulders and buildings.

But “cypressing” was not an appropriate word for climbing trees that were not cypresses. By then, I had bought and studied Basic Rockcraft and Advanced Rockcraft, two books by Royal Robbins, to learn climbing techniques not taught in technical caving books. The two most popular of the latter are Alpine Caving Techniques by Georges Marback and Bernard Tourte, and On Rope by Bruce Smith and Allen Padgett, both of which I own and have read. But trees are not built like rocks or caves, so I modified some of Robbins’ tricks and created others for climbing Southeastern species like pines (Pinus spp.) and oaks (Quercus spp.). I used vertical caving methods to ascend and rappel in trees. As it turns out, huge old cypresses are simple in structure, so while rock-climbing techniques and technology are helpful in the monkey-gym canopies of middle-aged pines and oaks, they aren’t really needed in elder cypress trees.

I finally came up with a word that I liked: “arborescing.” That word can be applied to all species of trees climbed, and is within the tradition of other climbing eponyms. It surprises me that other tree climbers do not use that word; it seems so obvious and righteous to me.

One day, Robert “Bob” Simons called. He was another of my woods buddies. Bob was a forester and an absolute expert at identifying tree species in northeast Florida. He is the person who taught me about champion trees: what they are, who keeps tabs on them, how to measure them for nominations, and the best places to look for them. At the time, he had made the second-highest number of successful champion nominations in the USA, with only one other person nominating more. I helped him measure several trees for national champion and state champion status, including two species of hawthorns (Crataegus uniflora and C. pyracanthoides). I took up the hobby of nominating champion trees at Bob’s urging, all but one of which by now have died or been deposed by larger findings. The exception is a fringe-tree (Chionanthus virginicus), which is normally a medium-sized bush. This champion is a true tree, almost a foot in dbh and 30+ ft high.

Bob had called because a wildlife biologist with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission named David Maehr had found a black bear (Ursus americana) den in a hollow cypress tree. The tree was 5-6 ft dbh and perhaps 60 or 80 ft tall, with a storm-decapitated top. Dave wanted someone to climb the tree and collect information about its top. He assured me that the bear was not in the den at the time. There’s that trust thingy again. I used the simple tarp and bowfishing rig to attain the treetop, collected the data, and rappelled back down. Buddy bear was not there. That was the last cypress tree that I ever climbed.

One fine early summer morning, I hiked out from my home in the Archer sandhills, walked about 1.5 miles, and found myself in an old-growth mesic hammock dominated by live oaks up to 7 ft dbh. The hammock had a winged elm (Ulmus alata) about 3 ft dbh and >100 ft tall, the largest I have ever seen. This hammock also had a moderately large Southern magnolia (Magnolia grandiflora). At the edge of the hammock was a Southern red-cedar (Juniperus salicicola) that was 17+ ft cbh (circumference at breast height). The then-national champion Southern red-cedar was in a nearby town and had a 15+ ft cbh, but the 17-footer was open-grown and thus not as large overall as the champ. Of course I climbed it.

I was particularly enamored of the live oaks. They were “forest-grown,” as opposed to “open-grown.” A forest-grown tree sprouts within a preexisting forest where it has serious competition for sunlight and other resources. Such seedlings can remain small for years, even decades if they are shade-tolerant, until an overstory tree dies. This allows more sunlight to reach the ground, so the seedling can then race its siblings skyward, growing fast and with a relatively straight trunk and compact canopy. Open-grown trees OTOH are often seen in pastures, and have short, thick trunks topped with long horizontal limbs. Open-grown trees have most of the sunlight and groundwater that’s available, as their only competition is puny grass, so they don’t need to grow tall. One of the hammock’s 6 ft dbh forest-grown live oaks was still more than 4 ft in diameter fifty feet above the ground. It is my favorite live oak of all time.

After discovering this hammock, I later climbed several of its live oaks and the big winged elm, all using my bowfishing rig. But you can’t just climb up a rope and then clamber onto the limb it’s draped over. Their limbs are more than a foot thick and clothed in a dense carpet of resurrection fern (Pleopeltis polypodioides). The rope has to be hung from a limb above the one you want to explore. It can take some time to figure out where you want your rope to go and then get it there successfully, so binoculars are useful. I got into the habit of carrying a bag lunch for when I could finally relax on a brontosaurian neck of a limb fifty or eighty feet above ground. By the time I finished my climb and my lunch, I had become so accustomed to the limb swaying in the breeze that I wouldn’t even notice that I was sitting on a soundless metronome.

And I don’t care who knows it – I would take a small jar containing red wine up there to celebrate first ascents. This was a time when Russian cavers proposed that cavers all over the world, on the Fourth of July (in deference to American cavers), should raise a toast (vodka, in deference to themselves) within a cave to all the world’s cavers. It was a woke idea – one big, happy, global caving family. I liked it, and politicked for it at my local caving club meetings, but my American comrades were so safety prudish that the very idea of drinking alcohol in a cave was scorned. But I am an omega male.

In the beginning, I would hike to the hammock on Saturdays. It was a way to put my job firmly behind me for the weekend. But I went out there one Sunday instead and encountered something that blew me away. While munching lunch up in a live oak, rock-and-roll music suddenly blasted out from somewhere below. It seems that there was an African-American church only a hundred yards or so away from my tree, and after the sermon, the church-goers began making wicked good music! Bo Didley lived then in nearby Archer, so who knows? All I can tell you is that congregation rocked out. Taking advantage of yet one more reason to wander around in the woods, I started hiking out to my fav trees on Sundays instead of Saturdays. I could tend my garden any day of the weekend, but I could listen to fantastic live rock a mile from my home only on Sundays.

One neat memory of being up in the live oaks is of a Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata). It landed ten feet away from me there, out on a limb. It cocked its head and looked me up and down, and made a weak, rising call that sounded like “Whaaaaaaa?” I’m sure it had never seen a human up high in a tree. Preston mentions similar experiences with a spotted owl (Strix occidentalis) and a western flying squirrel (Eupetaurus cinereus) in redwood canopies.

Another favorite arbor memory concerns resurrection ferns growing on live oak limbs. From the ground, it looks like ferns grow over the top and both sides of limbs, being missing only along limb bottoms due to low amounts of sunlight and rainwater there. However, sitting up in a live oak, you see that the center of the top of the limb is also devoid of ferns. They are trampled into well-worn trails by mammals traveling around in the oak’s canopy. Looking closer, you see the trail accumulates feathers, hair, seeds, dust, soil, oak leaves, acorn hulls, maple seed wings, arthropod exoskeletons, feces, and whatever else is deposited by the wind. Live oak canopies are not just treetops; they are ecosystems fertilized and inoculated by myriad biota.

Redwood climbers also mention plants growing in soil that has accumulated in nooks and crannies in redwood treetops. Preston claims that redwood canopies harbor only a few animals due to the tree’s harsh resins and distasteful leaves. However, wildlife is common in the hardwood trees of the tropics and subtropics. Epiphytes like orchids and bromeliads are popularly listed in warm climes, but I have also seen prickly pear cactus (Opuntia sp.), dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), pokeberry (Phytolacca rigida), and other ground plants up there. Preston mentions bonsai rowan (Sorbus sp.) trees in Scotland’s pines.

In Costa Rica, Nalini Nadkarni found roots growing out of tree canopy trunks/limbs and into deadwood wedged in branch forks. I read her report of that back in the day and went looking for it here in the States. I never found such a thing in live oaks, but did within the hammock’s above-mentioned Southern magnolia. Visiting my mom in the Appalachian Mountains, I found the phenomenon also in a Great Rhododendron (Rhododendron maximum).

Preston’s book is as much about the explorers of redwood canopies as it is about redwoods and tree climbing. The hero of the book is a tree canopy biologist name Steve Sillett, who earned a PhD studying redwood canopies. Sillett realized something that I never did until reading Preston’s book, and I thank them for pointing it out. Up in the hammock’s live oaks, I assumed that the dense growths of resurrection ferns and their accompanying green-fly orchids (Epidendrum conopseum = E. magnoliae) and lichens were taking advantage of the trees’ large sizes. Sillett, however, learned that many plant and lichen species are in redwoods not because the trees are big, but because they are extremely old. He found that some lichen and fungus species occur only in multi-thousand-year-old trees, and that some of them have circum-boreal ranges in similarly ancient trees in North America, Europe, and Asia. He wonders how and if, in our warming biosphere, they will ever find their way into the vastly younger second-growth redwoods that are replacing the lumbered titans.

I paused my reading of Preston’s book to write this article. I got excited while reading about redwood arborescing, so spending a day to get all of this off my chest has been something of a catharsis. I will now go back to the book. Maybe when the weather cools in September, I will finish setting up a rope stand in a 100 ft tall black oak (Quercus velutina) that I started arborescing a couple of years ago but stopped due to an ankle injury. I just wish I could skywalk the way that redwood climbers and professional arborists do. There is an old-growth mixed hardwood forest near where I now live; maybe someday I can get up into some of its ancient trees and for some citizen science.

My first recollection of Steven Christman PhD was of my boss, Sam Snedaker PhD, coming into my office to say that he wanted me to meet someone who impressed him, someone that he wanted me to take on field collection trips. At that time, Sam and his colleague Ariel Lugo PhD had a multi-year funded research project to assess the fate of radionuclides in the environment around the Crystal Nuclear Power Plant. A graduate student and I had been collecting plant and animal samples for radionuclide and stable isotope analyses. Sam said that, although only a junior at the University of Florida, Steve had already published four papers in science journals about herps (reptiles & amphibians). Steve had been to Vietnam during the war there, and was studying to become a herpetologist under the GI Bill. He was a moderately large fellow, in good physical shape, a capable field technician, friendly, energetic, and enthusiastic about field sampling. It was a pleasure to have him join me in field work.

Steve and I shortly afterward went to the project area to sample for herps, but he was particularly eager to capture an Eastern diamondback (EDB) rattlesnake. We wandered around the project area snagging various species, but focused on microhabitats he thought most likely to host EDBs. Eventually, we went to the power plant’s construction dump and found one, a three-plus-footer that was about as thick as his forearm. It was not particularly large for an EDB, but a diamondback of any size is a formidably venomous beast, and this one was as eager to bite Steve as Steve was to catch it! He had caught many kinds of snakes by that time in his life, but never before an EDB. He had a snake stick – possibly a modified golf club, I forget exactly – but the snake wasn’t cooperating.

You need to understand that an EDB is not an ordinary snake. It is the largest by weight of all the North American rattlesnakes, has very large venom glands, and hypodermic fangs at least five-eighths of an inch long. Its thick body is the most muscular of all the North American snakes, so pinning its head down with a snake stick and then grabbing it behind the head means pinning the head properly, having a strong catch hand, being quick enough to grab the back end of the snake with the other hand before it can thrash itself out of the catch hand, and having the confidence to know that you are capable of doing all of that.

You also need to understand that being bitten by an EDB means you are going to be pretty far away from your vehicle and out in trackless woods, so it will take a while before you can get to a hospital. Although the venom is not as deadly as that of an elapid like a cobra or coral snake, it is quite potent, is injected deeply into your tissues, and a large quantity is injected at a time. The net result is that you will probably live, but you may permanently lose the use of the bitten thumb and may have health issues for the rest of your life.

I have seen experienced herpetologists handle EDBs with confidence, but this was Steve’s first, so you can understand why he was super wary of being bitten. He was bug-eyed and hyperventilating as though he was facing a huge and angry bull. He realized he needed an advantage. While he kept the snake from escaping into the dump, I searched around and found a 20-gallon steel drum without a lid, and brought it over to them. Steve handed me his pillowcase snake bag, whereupon we discovered with dismay that was too small for its opening to wrap completely around the drum’s rim. So, we positioned it as best we could, pillowcase mouth opened in a lopsided and contemptuous sneer, and he picked up the snake with his tool. The snake immediately slithered off it. After a couple more false starts, he finally succeeded in dropping the animal into the pillowcase. He quickly grabbed the drawstring and yanked it tight, enclosing and securing the EDB. We laughed like madmen, and that evening drank more than our fair share of beer.

Sam convinced Archie Fairly Carr PhD, professor of herpetology at UF, to allow Steve and me to tag along on a trip to Seahorse Key. Ordinarily, such trips hosted by Dr. Carr are only for graduate students, but Sam talked him into letting us go too. This island is owned by the University of Florida, and has a wading bird rookery in a willow swamp within its interior. The rookery was famous not for the rookery itself, but because it was the home of dozens, if not hundreds, of cottonmouth water moccasin snakes (Ancistrodon piscivorous) that kept predators out of the rookery. No raccoon, otter, rat, or opossum dared try feeding on the baby birds due to the snakes’ presence. The cottonmouths certainly fed on nestlings that fell out of the nests, and perhaps snagged a few more on nests left unattended by their parents, but the egrets had to pay a pound of flesh for their protection.

We listened to Dr. Carr respectfully, but Steve had something else in mind. He was after Florida worm lizards, Rhineura floridana. Being in the family Amphisbaenidae, they can be thought of as odd, two-legged reptiles classified somewhere between snakes and lizards. Steve was the first scientist to discover that running the tines of a potato rake through the sand at the bases of cabbage palms (Sabal palmetto) could turn up worm lizards. He had read that only two had ever been found on Seahorse Key, so was keen to see if they could be found there in association with cabbage palms.

The boat docked at the island and we all disembarked, walked over to a shaded pavilion, and Dr. Carr gave us an impromptu lecture on the island’s history, its rookery, and the egrets’ association with cottonmouths. Then he told us to spread out, explore, and focus on whatever we were interested in, after which he just turned around and disappeared solo into the bush. Hmmm, my kind of professor, my kind of “field work.” Steve and I headed for cabbage after cabbage after cabbage. He combed at the base of each one with his potato rake, and did catch some Rhineuras. At one point in the day, Dr. Carr saw us foraging and came over to us to say that there was one of the largest water moccasins he had ever seen over on the island’s beach. Steve and I immediately did a fast walk in that direction, led by Dr. Carr, and wow! Just wow! That cottonmouth was more than five feet long! That species regularly attains lengths of three-plus feet, and rarely four feet, but not five-plus. Dr. Carr said it was a female that had probably recently given live birth to a Medusa’s-nest of babies, and now she was looking for something to put back into her belly.

Dr. Carr then left us to go find more students to show the reptile to, and Steve and I continued exploring the island. Needless to say, he continued combing for worm lizards. By the end of the day, he had caught four. As everyone reassembled at the pavilion, Steve showed off his catches, and Dr. Carr was as bug-eyed over Steve’s findings as we were by his champion cottonmouth. The famous professor just couldn’t get over the fact that Steve had caught twice as many in one day as the previous collections of dozens of other herpetologists over a several-decades period. Steve had made a new friend. Dr. Carr had made a new friend. It was a good day.

Steve went on from there to earn a PhD in herpetology at UF. I never again went into the field with him, as he had school to deal with and I moved on to another job. He and I did get together in our elder years at Sleazeweazel’s parties. We’d sit in rockers on the upper porch deck and watch the younger mobs eating, dancing, and chatting around the campfire. We didn’t talk much. By then he was more subdued than when we were twenty-something. The old Steve did not seem to me to be the same man as the young Steve, but I wasn’t either. He is gone now. R.I.P. old friend.

Torrey Squirrels

Question: Can the Eastern gray squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis) be employed in the assisted migration of Torreya taxifolia? 

Historically, Torreya Guardians have been wary of seed predation on Florida torreya by the gray squirrel because of their appetite for its large seeds. However, my brief literature review indicates that the gray squirrel may be useful to Guardians, as this rodent is known to distribute significant numbers of the large seeds of torreyas and other species into microhabitats conducive to torreya establishment, bury seeds to suitable germination depths, cull seeds containing seed-predator insects & other debilitating factors, and occurs within a suitable geographical range. Therefore, I have assembled the information below so that Torreya Guardians can take a closer look at the roles that the gray squirrel might provide in (1) enlarging the geographic range of the Florida torreya northward of the presumed range of the torreya pathogen and (2) significantly increasing the torreya populations within that enlarged range.

Torreya Guardians already know that the Eastern gray Squirrel can affect our assisted migration tactics. This rodent (1) raids mother trees of their seeds, (2) steals potted seeds, and (3) caches seeds in developed areas and wildlands that can germinate and grow into naturally occurring individuals and colonies. Although we know this third thing, and we are happy about it when new seedlings “volunteer,” we have historically focused on the first two annoyances. In my view, this is because our historical charge has been to propagate and migrate, and obviously, we cannot increase the population until we learn how to propagate and nurture it. I believe we have now done those two things well enough to start looking at natural colonization strategies.

Being a wildlife biologist who sees mammals as the natural dispersers of Florida torreyas – not wind or water or birds – I suggest that wildlife biologists assess the potential for expanding (1) colony sizes of existing artificially planted trees, (2) leapfrog colonizations near existing artificial individuals and colonies, and (3) large-scale colonizations within national and state forestlands. However, as Daniel Boone exhorted, we must be sure we are right before we go ahead. My literature research indicates that there is only one good candidate for spreading the Florida torreya in the Eastern U.S., and that is the Eastern gray squirrel. Ergo, I have focused below only on that species.

The gray squirrel forages for, among other things, the relatively large seeds (= fruits, nuts) of trees such as the walnut (Juglans nigra), hickories (Carya spp.), oaks (Quercus spp.), and chestnuts & chinkapins (Castanea spp.). Chestnut trees historically were particularly reliant on gray squirrels, but the pines, beech, hazel, and oaks also benefit greatly, and so probably does the Florida torreya.

Foraged seeds that contain seed-predator insects are eaten immediately, whereas pristine seeds are stored for later consumption, especially as winter food. Seeds are stored individually via burial to depths of at least one inch, one source claiming below the frost line. Seeds may also be deliberately cracked before burial, it is said to prevent germination. Seeds are generally stored relatively closely to the finding gray squirrel’s nest tree, but can also be dispersed over an area of up to seven acres. One study revealed that gray squirrels can re-find up to two-thirds of the nuts they buried.

Gray squirrels employ a mnemonic storage technique called “spatial chunking” (also seen in rats), where seeds are sorted and buried according to size, type, and possibly taste and food value. By spatial chunking, zoologists mean that, for instance, hickory nuts will be buried in one area and oak acorns in a separate place. It has also been found that gray squirrels store preferred seeds in wide open spaces, possibly to increase a robber’s risk of predation when randomly foraging away from cover. Presumably, the storing squirrel experiences less risk because it knows where its seeds are buried, can go directly to them, and thus be less jeopardized by predators.

Another way that gray squirrels try to prevent neighboring squirrels from stealing their stores is the tactic of “deceptive caching;” that is, they only pretend to bury a nut, especially if they see another squirrel watching them.

Gray squirrels immediately consume insects they serendipitously find imbedded within seeds. Furthermore, while nest-caching squirrel species store pristine and insect-containing seeds together and thus increase seed-feeding insect populations, the gray squirrel’s habit of storing only pristine seeds and storing them separately acts to limit seed-predator insects. This practice could also limit seed-fungi infestations, which is another potential subject for research.

Gray squirrels are important in forest regeneration, much more so than other North American squirrel species. Of all the North American squirrel species, only the gray squirrel stores most of its hoard in individual caches scattered over a wide area in locations that include those that do not already have forest tree cover. Studies show that gray squirrels bury 97% of the seeds they find and immediately eat only the 3% that contain insects. Studies show widely variable rates of gray squirrels’ re-finding their caches, one being 70% and another only 36%. The remaining seeds were eaten by other animals (one study lists 20%) and only 10% germinating. Nevertheless, those that do germinate are likely to be the ones furthest from the nest tree and thus naturally disseminated. The net effect of planting so many healthy & insect-free seeds is that vigorous & genetically superior trees are selected for in the forest regeneration process.

Other North American species of squirrels tend to use nest caches. For example, the red squirrel (Tamiasciurus hudsonicus) stores most of its seeds in tree cavities and buries only 11% of them. Seeds stored in tree cavities will not germinate nor aid in forest regeneration. The red squirrel is thus considered a seed predator and not a forest regenerator.

Similarly, the Indochinese flying squirrels (Hylopetes phayrei) and particolored flying squirrel (Hylopetes alboniger) in southern China’s rain forests chew two grooves in the shells of smooth, egg-shaped or rounded nuts to wedge them firmly between branch crotches. The grooves hold the nut between the branches much like a sturdy mortise-tenon joint that carpenters use to attach legs onto furniture. They choose smaller saplings, placing caches roughly 2 m above the ground and 10-25 m from the nearest nut-producing tree. This makes sense in their humid environment, as a seed stored in the ground or dead log would rapidly either rot or germinate, and a seed falling out of a tree crotch would be quickly found and eaten by other herbivores. Thus, these two squirrel species are also seed predators.

Answer: Gray squirrels are expected to disperse the Florida torrey regardless of our intentions, so plant one and just stand back!

The Vertical Forest

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon are famous, although no one knows where they were physically located. There is even some doubt whether this garden ever actually existed, as it was only the Babylonian priest Berossus who wrote in 290 BCE from first-hand (?) sightings. Regardless, so many of us want it to be true, and try to make it true of our own ‘castles,’ even if only in small part. 

I have mixed feelings about it. I love plants. Plants are gods, replacing wastes with the vapors and substances needed by the living. We keep small plants indoors for their ambiance, and larger perennials in landscaping features to hide rude concrete and steel and to provide for wildlife. But we fear large trees next to our houses and paved driveways, and are right to eschew them. Only shrubs and small tree species are allowed within falling-limb and pavement-buckling distance of most abodes. But mirages of hanging gardens still sway in the whims of my daydreaming mind.

An Italian architect named Stefano Boeri and his staff designed two residential towers in Milan, Italy, called Il Bosco Verticale, or The Vertical Forest. At 80 m and 112 m in height, they host appx 20,000 plants in balcony containers. This greenery is comprised of perennial herbaceous flowers, shrubs, and small and medium-sized trees. I think it also includes lianas, but that is not stated in media articles. The two towers are sweet, if not exactly lush. For example, the greenery is in spots rather than sweeps and washes, as it appears that nothing is allowed to grow on exterior walls. Furthermore, gardener pruning keeps plants well separated.

https://www.cnn.com/style/article/riba-vertical-forest-stefano-boeri/index.html

The carbon footprint of the spectacle has been assessed, concluding that it would take many decades for its flora to offset construction impacts and maintenance costs. This is in large part due to the additional structural needs for supporting the heavy weight of the plants and their containers, potting media, and water. In addition, the large balconies, being appx 40% of the total floor space, are quite heavy.

Another limit on the carbon footprint offset is the need for three gardeners working nearly year-round to clip the flora. Firstly, most plants really do not need to be clipped. Secondly, this keeps exterior walls possibly overly exposed to the elements. Thirdly, gardeners are expensive. Are three gardeners working nearly year-round really necessary? For example, one video depicts gardeners pruning low-growing flowering plants even though most perennial cultivars exhibit self-limiting growth simply by dying back in the winter. Planting small and medium-sized trees also appears to be a mistake, both because of their weight and the need for artificial irrigation and pruning. Shrubs grow plenty large on balconies, and annual pruning easily ensures that they do not grow too heavy.

The videos and articles I have seen do not mention how the plants get watered. Watering can be done automatically with drip irrigation systems, or by shunting rainwater into plant containers, or by choosing drought-tolerant cultivars that are fine when watered only when it rains. Too, water is heavy, so keeping plants small and maintaining only relatively small plant containers reduces the load on and size of such balconies.

Thus, the building’s carbon footprint can be reduced substantially by growing smaller, more drought-tolerant plants in smaller containers on smaller balconies.

Another weakness of the Milan Vertical Forest is the value placed on the amenity that the vegetated balconies were supposed to offer residents. The architect doubtless envisioned residents having breakfast and dinner there, relaxing outdoors with a good book, or perhaps having a smoke while enjoying the scenery. However, Milan’s climate is evidently too chilly for most of the year, so residents remain nearly entirely indoors when home. Conversely, some cities are simply too hot for hanging out outside during summer.

After I ran across and enjoyed several Vertical Forest articles and videos, several people coincidentally posted articles on it on Facebook. A bunch of sharks on one site piled on the idea in a virtual feeding frenzy, falling all over themselves to pan the idea. It never ceases to amaze me that invention is literally always attacked by those who are unable to understand that prototypes are deliberately designed to find their own flaws so that future editions can be informed and become better. You can see some of that in the above text where I mention how some of the invention’s flaws can be easily mitigated. So, I decided to review the cartilaginous fish attacks to see if they had come up with any issues that I could not think of potential solutions for off the top of my head. Here goes:

AM: “Structure engineer had their math cut out on this project…”

Buford: Hmm, what does this comment mean, anyway?

 

WS: “I can only imagine the insect problem in this building.”

Buford: Why would the “insect problem” be any different in this building than in any other city building? For one thing, if this building were plopped down anywhere that I have ever lived, it would have many birds and lizards consuming the insects. Whatever, there are more plants around my single-story house than there are on the balcony of any of the vertical forest’s apartments. Dumb.

 

MO: “When good intentions go bad..roots verses concrete.. good luck if you’re living in that.”

Buford: Roots are not a problem in the proper plant containers. Duh.

 

AR: “It may work if it was designed for that purpose the roots may be controllable with the hydroponic system however all that being said moisture and concrete are not long term friends…”

Buford: Hydroponic systems are heavy and would have large labor costs in a vertical apartment forest. FYI, concrete and moisture are actually lovers – concrete continues to set long after you think it is dry. Indeed, concrete sets better underwater than under air. And anyway, if moisture were such a problem with buildings, then why is it so popular as a construction material all over the world? Do your due diligence.

 

PM: “…the cyclic loading from winds going through the trees couldn't possibly have been accounted for.”

Buford: This comment cracks me up. LOOK at the picture! In the first place, there is no more windage with than without the veggies. Secondly, PM is evidently not really aware of just how thorough professional architects are. THEY do THEIR due diligence.

 

WL: “In fact it might not even be possible to safely construct and operate such a building. The water it would require would be terribly heavy and difficult to manage.”

Buford: In fact, it was indeed safely constructed and is currently being safely operated because it was designed by architects who did their homework, and it was permitted by professionals who did their due diligence, too.

 

MEW: “This cannot be a good thing.”

Buford: What cannot be a good thing? We cannot read your mind.

 

MMB: “Well, you also need to look at the long term side effects...”

Buford: What long-term side effects? Oh, and can MMB possibly imagine that one of the purposes of prototypes is to “look at long-term side effects?”

 

BKB: “…it wouldn't last one windstorm in Alaska…”

Buford: This comment cracks me up. BKB apparently thinks something like this might even be designed for an Arctic or Antarctic locale (!); or that it is not a good idea for Miami or Houston because it wouldn’t be a good idea in Alaska, or something…

You get the picture. These people haven’t a clue about architecture, irrigation, plants, insects, birds, concrete, windage, logic, grammar… My suggestion to the OP of the thread is to delete asinine comments and Block dummies. That is what I do on my FB page. That way, thoughtful, informed, educated, progressive people could share reasonable information.