“It sounds like a choir, it sounds like angel music.”

—Tom Waits

God’s Chorus of Crickets is a composition by experimental musician Jim Wilson that he says is made exclusively from audio recordings of crickets—one track of chirping recorded at normal speed over another track slowed way down.

The results are positively unearthly.

“I discovered that when I slowed down this recording to various levels, this simple familiar sound began to morph into something very mystic and complex,” says Wilson. “Almost human.”

God’s Chorus of Crickets was first composed in 1994, and has since been heard by millions, moving listeners throughout the world.

“The first time I heard it, I swore I was listening to the Vienna Boys Choir, or the Mormon Tabernacle choir,” says musician Tom Waits, calling the song his favorite piece of music. “The sound is so haunting. I played it for a friend, and he looked at me as if I pulled a Leprechaun out of my pocket.”

Could the story behind Wilson’s ethereal creation possibly be true? As Waits notes, the piece’s vocals seem otherworldly—a far cry from the familiar hum of a late summer eve.

No doubt, crickets sing—or rather, chirp. But only the males, who produce the sound for several different reasons. The most common is to attract females, where a male may switch over from making a loud and steady chirp (a calling chirp) to a quicker and softer one as a female comes nearby (a courting chirp). Males also chirp as an act of aggression toward other males, or as a danger alert. 

To chirp, the cricket rapidly moves one specially adapted wing over another—one with something like a tiny ice scraper on it, the other with a series of wrinkles. When rubbed together, sound emerges; think of running a fingernail along a comb’s teeth, or strumming a guitar pick across strings. Its tempo varies according to weather, and lore has it that a listener can convert cricket chirps to degrees Fahrenheit by counting the number of chirps in 14 seconds and adding 40 (others assert the formula is counting to 15 and adding 37).

Magical.

But are crickets magical enough to be the exclusive source behind God’s Chorus of Crickets?

In a video exploring the origin story behind the composition, the truth of the piece is unmasked. The video demonstrates that while Wilson’s sound does indeed entirely derive from recordings of crickets chirping, the audio is manipulated.

“It is clear the sounds have been digitally sampled and played over a keyboard,” declares the video’s unnamed narrator. “If you look closely at the spectrogram, harmonics have been added to the source recording to make it sound more musical. Jim Wilson recorded crickets in his back yard, slowed them down, but then played them over a keyboard to create the sensation.”

Though the origin story proves to be a myth, that doesn’t discredit a larger truth God’s Chorus of Crickets implies: there is little in this world as lovely as the joyous sound of crickets, their soothing rhythm rising as early autumn dusk falls upon Maine’s fields and woods.

The post God’s Chorus of Crickets appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Lobsters are extraordinary, and though we’re enjoying a population boom right now, they are in danger of disappearing from the Gulf of Maine.

Maine lobstermen have been harvesting more than 100 million pounds of lobster annually since 2011, but observers fear the boom is an indicator of changing ocean temperatures. As southern New England water temperatures have increased to levels inhospitable to lobsters (the ideal water temperature for lobsters is between 54 and 64 degrees), they have migrated north to our waters. But as those temperatures keep rising (the Gulf of Maine is warming faster than 99% of the world’s oceans), lobsters will have to move north again to survive. Populations—and lobstermen’s hauls—will drop in the Gulf of Maine.

Why does water temperature make such a difference? Part of the answer lies in the complicated molting process lobsters undergo as they grow.

Due to their rigid exoskeletons, lobsters molt as many as 25 times in their first seven years of life. (After seven years, that number decreases to once or twice a year.) They are incredibly vulnerable to predators after molting, and must hide as they grow a new shell. Water at the Gulf of Maine’s current temperatures accelerates the exoskeleton’s growth (and faster shell growth means less time exposed to predation).

As things are, only one-tenth of one percent of hatched lobster eggs survive to adulthood; anything that increases mortality rates (such as less-than-ideal water temperature) could prove catastrophic. When hatchlings are in the planktonic phase, living in the top meter of ocean water, their growth is strongly affected by water temperature. Since here they are particularly vulnerable to predators, the sooner lobsters grow out of this phase, the better for the survival of the species. Until they reach maturity at about seven years, they progress through a number of equally vulnerable stages. But if they survive (and elude the traps), they can live for 100 years.

Clearly, every stage of growth is affected by water temperature, which is why as Gulf of Maine temperatures continue rising, the state’s most iconic animal may soon begin disappearing. This is bad news for Maine’s lobster industry, which has already experienced setbacks, most recently a federal judge’s ruling that the industry will lose its sustainability certification on August 31.

Combine that with cratering prices due to international tariffs and a drop in demand during COVID-19, and lobstermen are up against it. But those plying the coastal waters are a resilient bunch, and no doubt will overcome these hurdles, remaining a vital presence in the Boothbay region and up and down Maine’s coast, as long as the lobsters are there.

Given what we know of climate change and the lobster’s biology, that is sadly no sure thing.

The post Maine Lobster appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

We have something to learn from mushrooms.

There are no poisonous animals in Maine, but there are toxic mushrooms, most notably the Destroying Angel.

Benign-looking enough with its rounded white cap, the Destroying Angel (a single name applied to several closely related species) can be deadly. According to one first-hand account, intense nausea and diarrhea comes on hours after ingesting the mushroom. Its toxins wreak havoc on the body, often leading to death from liver and kidney failure after several painful days.

Not a pretty outcome.

But the Destroying Angel is not all bad.

Like all mushrooms, it survives by absorbing organic material such as plant or animal matter. Distinct from plants and animals, it belongs to the fungi kingdom. In recent decades, fungi have received increased attention for their fascinating role in the natural world—including having a symbiotic relationship with trees.

In our own Boothbay woods, the Destroying Angel (according to an article in the Maine Coast Heritage Trust website) “gives a tree phosphorus, nitrogen, and other essential micronutrients while the tree gives the fungus sugars they create during photosynthesis. Without each other, the tree and the fungus won’t grow well and often don’t grow at all.”

Destroying Angels are common, and some would say lovely to look at: with tall stalks and domed caps, they are elegant to behold. And yet, every part of the mushroom is rich in deadly amatoxin—their moniker is fitting.

Why evolve to be so poisonous?

The mushroom’s life primarily takes place underground, with the sprouts serving the purpose of dispersing spores for further mushroom growth. Scientists believe the fungus’ toxicity is a consequence of this reproductive adaptation: if the mushrooms are eaten, spores do not spread.

No simpler way to avoid being eaten than being deadly.

Left alone—doing their symbiotic work with trees, appearing ever so picturesque—Destroying Angels are anything but destructive. All they seem to want (from an evolutionary perspective) is to be left alone.

We might have something to learn from the Destroying Angel: before violating the sanctity of another’s liberty or autonomy, we might pause to think through the possible negative consequences of doing so.

The post Destroying Angels appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

With all the uncertainty in our lives today, it’s a good thing wild blueberries grow as dependably as they do.

Native to Maine, wild blueberries first appeared as glaciers retreated 10,000 years ago. Native Americans encouraged their growth by burning fields, allowing new sprouts to emerge from existing root systems while also controlling against disease and pests. European colonists were quick to adopt blueberries into their diet, and it was not long before they became a staple in the United States (canned blueberries were shipped to Union troops during the Civil War). Today, 44,000 acres are given over to wild blueberry crops in Maine, accounting for 10% of all blueberry production in the country.

Distinct from cultivated blueberries, the wild variety that grows on low-lying bushes is smaller, richer in antioxidants, and has a more intense sweet and tangy taste. Wild blueberries come in a number of varieties, but they all share succulent flavor and high antioxidant levels. It’s little wonder wild blueberries are so popular during harvest season in high summer.

We humans have serious competition for the berries, as deer, birds, squirrels, mice, skunks, rabbits, and foxes also love them, and black bears can consume up to 30,000 blueberries in one day. That’s an awful lot of demand, so it’s a good thing they grow as readily as they do.

Though wild blueberry plants initially grow from seeds, once a plant has taken hold, it sends out underground stems (rhizomes), which push up new stems through the soil as they spread. One wild blueberry plant that began as a seed typically accounts for 75 to 250 square feet of wild blueberry growth, though rhizomes have been known to take hold up to half a mile from an originating plant (called a clone). A single acre covered in wild blueberry bushes contains an average of 109 clones, each a genetic variation from the other. 

One acre of wild blueberries yields around 5,000 pounds of berries annually, providing adequate supply to meet the extraordinary demand for the fruit.

This is a good and welcome thing at a time when so many traditional touchstones of summer—Major League Baseball and Wimbledon; summer concerts and political conventions; easygoing dining out with friends and summer camp cookouts—can no longer be taken for granted. This summer, Maine wild blueberries reliably filling our fields and markets is a steadying dose of normalcy for our unsettled psyches. 

Thank goodness for the wild blueberry, and bring on the season!

The post Wild Blueberry Ode appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Against all odds, the wild turkey has been a Maine survivor.

It almost was not so. As early as 1672 in New England, turkey populations began falling dramatically. As non-migratory birds, they were hunted during hungry winters, and their natural woodland habitats were decimated as farmers logged the land. By the early 1800s, there were no wild turkeys remaining in Maine.

Nationwide the estimated population of 10 million wild turkeys at the time Europeans arrived fell in the mid-1900s to a low of perhaps 200,000 birds, none of which were in New England. The wild turkey might easily have gone the way of the passenger pigeon to extinction.

But despite their odd gait and comical appearance, turkeys are tough birds.

Their layer of fat leaves them unaffected by harsh cold, and they adapt their diets to the season, moving from acorns and berries to mosses and seeds with the calendar. They can dig through up to six inches of snow for food, and can lose up to 40% of their body weight before starvation becomes a threat.

Deceptively good fliers, they escape predators by flying for bursts of up to a quarter mile at a speedy 55 miles per hour. They roost in trees at night, further protecting themselves from ground-dwellers. And though they nest on the ground (and the predator list only grows when eggs enter the picture), hens are excellent at finding effective hiding spots in the woods.

For all their canniness, however, the wild turkey was no match for New England hunters and their desire for fine mid-winter meals.

For more than 100 years, they were absent from Maine.

Then, with abandoned farmland having been reforested by the mid-1900s, and wanting to return a decimated species to its natural habitat, Maine wildlife officials began trying to re-introduce the bird. In 1942, 24 turkeys were released on Swan Island in Penobscot Bay… but they did not survive. Preservationists tried again in the 1960s, introducing the bird in Bangor and Windham, but they also did not survive. It was not until 1978 that the turkey was successfully re-introduced to the wilds of Maine when 41 birds were released in the more southern towns of York and Eliot (with 60 more quickly following them).

In 1970 there were no wild turkeys in Maine. 50 years later, from the original 111 birds set loose, there are now an estimated 70,000 wild turkeys throughout the state.

That is a success story, though some might say too successful: turkeys are blamed for everything from wreaking havoc on gardens to denuding blueberry fields to imperiling the next generation of oak trees by eating too many acorns. Though these are concerns biologists dismiss as overblown, not everyone loves a turkey.

But when we think of these gritty birds’ remarkable restoration, how can we not take pleasure in seeing them traversing our back yards in their strange and lovely strut?

Perhaps Benjamin Franklin was on to something when he advocated the wild turkey be named the national bird.

The post The Wild Turkey: a Restoration Tale appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

In this challenging human moment, the common ant offers a reminder that we creatures of Earth aren’t all that different, after all. We are complex, caring, and more powerful together.

What we generally call “black ants” or “red ants” are not single species but rather catch-all nicknames encompassing many different species. Though all ants belong to a single family (formicidae), there are more than 12,000 known ant species around the world, 42 of which exist in Maine. The variety is astonishing. One example: one might say “red ant” and mean “fire ant,” or even more specifically “red imported fire ant” (native to South America and now in parts of the U.S., though not Maine). In Maine, we might be referring to the European fire ant (which stings), or any of a dozen other red-colored ants found here that do not. Indeed, not all fire ants are even red: some are black. Categorizing ants as merely “red” or “black” is such an extreme over-simplification that doing so serves no use in trying to understand ant-nature in all its varied complexity.

As useless as categorizing humans based on the color of their skin.

Worker ants serve two different purposes in a colony: nurses remain inside the nest attending to the young, and foragers collect food outside the nest. As a result, foragers are far more likely to be infected by pathogens than nurses. In some ant species, the response to such infection is quarantine: forager ants exposed to pathogens will avoid the nest, while nurses move the brood to safety deeper inside the nest. Other ant species seek a kind of “herd immunity,” with ants intentionally exposing themselves to a pathogen by licking fungal spores off other ants: though a percentage of the colony may die, the overall colony acquires immunity.

We humans aren’t the only species with different instincts on how best to handle the threat of disease.

Ant colonies range in population from hundreds to tens of thousands. While a single ant attacking a larger animal is typically harmless, multiply that a hundred- or ten-thousand-fold and the outcome is different. Ant species range in aggressiveness, even in Maine: disturb a European fire ant colony and you’ll feel the sting, but carpenter ants generally don’t bite at all.  Most ant species will not attack unless threatened, but once threatened, certain species become especially activated: through biting with or without venom (depending on the species; there are no venomous ants in Maine), the key to ant defense is numbers. One ant makes little impact; thousands do.

Just like the power of people and protest.

Racism. Disease. Protest.

As we grapple with a host of societal ills, perhaps recognizing we are not so different from the common ant will offer a helpful perspective (and a useful dose of humility).

The post Consider the Ant appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

It’s seal pup season in Maine.

Harbor Seals give birth to single pups around the Boothbay Region in May and June. The young stick close to their mothers for about a month, at which point they are on their own. Within 2-3 days of their birth, pups can already dive, holding their breath for up to 2 minutes. They grow quickly thanks to their mothers’ rich fatty milk.

Independence—an important part of survival—comes quickly to Harbor Seal pups.

When mother seals hunt they often leave their young behind, at times for an hour or more. It is not unusual for passersby to assume an unattended pup is in trouble—the animal appears far too vulnerable and helpless to actually be okay.

“If you encounter a lone resting harbor seal pup,” warns the Marine Mammals of Maine website (a non-profit that assists with marine life strandings), “it is very important to first remain a safe distance away and keep the area as quiet as possible to give the pup the best chance of reuniting with its mother.”

In such situations, onlookers are counseled to presume wellness—to trust the natural order of things is unfolding as intended. If there’s any doubt, that same website suggests reporting the problem to the Maine Marine Animal Reporting Hotline at (800) 532-9551 rather than approaching the seal.

But the general guidance is clear: best to leave them be.

Not always, though.

A few years back a seal appeared at the Southport Island dock in obvious distress, gill net wrapped around his neck and back flipper.

After a series of phone calls,  a volunteer from Marine Mammals of Maine arrived. Ignoring the hissing of the distressed seal, he and others loaded the injured animal into a travel crate. The seal was transported to a clinic in Mystic, Connecticut, where he was nursed back to health. Without intervention, he would have died.

(This anecdote from a March 30, 2016, article in the Boothbay Register.)

*****

In the Boothbay Region, nearly one-third of the population is 65 years old or older; a great many are retirees, many of whom live alone in stolid self-sufficiency. This year, 30 young people are graduating from the Boothbay Regional High School—most now legally adults, poised for increased autonomy. As for the rest of us on the peninsula, we too are a people who thrive on our own; a spirited independence integral to our nature—it is who we are.

Best to leave us be. And yet …

Between COVID-19 and our hurting economy, today feels different. Nobody knows what may befall any of us, and the line between allowing autonomy and lending a hand is harder to navigate.

The Southport seal story offers an allegory we may apply to our current situation:

With seal pups and our neighbors alike, best to leave them be—but not without a watchful eye, for lives may depend upon it.

The post Leave Them Be appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Threats abound.

Amid plentiful predators (crabs, seabirds, and fish), the tumble of surf and stone, vast ebb and flow in tide and seasonal temperature, the periwinkle snail is a wondrous survivor. We might look to it for a model of durability in these coronavirus days.

Three species of periwinkle inhabit the mostly rocky coast of Maine’s Boothbay Region, each having developed different survival methods.

Able to thrive at different salinities and exposure levels, the common periwinkle is the most adaptable and therefore most abundant of the three. Considered an invasive species (perhaps traveling from Europe on ship hulls in the 1800s), it is the largest of the three species, growing up to two inches in size.

The smooth periwinkle—a native species—shares the middle and lower shores habitat with the common periwinkle, but as a less adaptable species is fewer in number. Prone to desiccation, smooth periwinkles seek spaces under seaweed and rocks that remain moist during low tides. Though a rarer sight than the common periwinkle, the smooth periwinkle’s richer coloration range (from brown to green to vivid yellow) allows it to stand out from the drab gray of its common cousin.

The rough periwinkle enjoys its own habitat, the upper shores of our coastline. Unlike the other two species, which have gills, the rough periwinkle can breathe air (using its mantle cavity as a lung), and thus can survive longer stints out of water. The smallest of the three species, it is easily identifiable by its rough edges and sharp points.

Our three periwinkle species flourish in their own peculiar ways, threats all around.

As viral and economic hazards linger, we too must find ways to cope. For some, that may mean going on daily long walks, finding peace and solace in natural beauty. Others may turn to service, delivering food to those in need. Some may have developed active Zoom social lives. Others struggle in isolation.

Some of us have radically altered our daily routines in fear of the virus; others simply carry on.

We are all managing (and therefore surviving) using our divergent strategies. In that, we’re not so far off  from the humble periwinkle, that most unexpected of exemplars.

The post Periwinkles Three appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

As the once-simple task of grocery shopping becomes more taxing, we can take comfort from an unlikely source.

Red squirrels are a common sight in this region’s woodlands, chattering, scampering, and occasionally scolding with their high-pitched chirp. They are also notorious pests, for once having chewed their way into a home, their rampage continues—electrical wiring, pipes, drywall, insulation, and storage boxes are all at risk in the face of their perpetual energies.

The same energy making red squirrels unwanted creatures of destruction also makes them extraordinary food gatherers.

Though their diet is remarkably varied, their staple food is, of course, pine seeds. While that fact itself may not be surprising, what is astounding is the industry it takes to maintain their pine seed diet year-round.

As anyone admonished by the aggressive prattling of a red squirrel while on an otherwise peaceful walk might guess, red squirrels are territorial creatures. They tend toward a solitary life, each claiming for itself anywhere from 2 to 5 acres of forest. Feeding is a solo activity within that sizable domain.

Red squirrels do not hibernate, staying active year-round and surviving the winter on accumulated pine-cone caches. You may see them perched on a favored limb to eat, the inedible bits falling into haphazard  “middens” on the ground below.

To amass their caches, red squirrels work all fall. Climbing trees in their forest range, they cut green pine cones down by gnawing them at the base, allowing them to drop below. They then collect the cones one at a time and stash them in large piles throughout their territory: in the ground, under logs, and at the bases of trees.

One squirrel can stash more than 10,000 pine cones in a single year.

More than 10,000.

As those of us who do the food shopping contemplate our trips to the market—bemoaning having to think ahead, pay attention, and exercise vigilance each time we leave the house—we might consider the life of the red squirrel and take a bit of comfort: at least we need not engage in the astounding survival routine of this erstwhile pest.

We need not stash away 10,000 of anything.

Not even toilet paper rolls.

The post The Red Squirrel appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.

Last week she reappeared, after a winter away: Mazie the Osprey has again settled atop the trusses of the Southport Swing Bridge.

Local lore has it that she’s been there forever, but of course that can’t be true. Before 1939, there were no trusses to nest upon, for the bridge did not yet exist. And then there’s the bleaker truth: by the 1970s, there were almost no ospreys left in this country.

Seeing Mazie offered an important reminder of the resilience of nature—she survived an existential threat, and we will too.

Ospreys are regal, soaring above coves and inlets not only in the Boothbay Region but throughout the world. They are a thrill to observe on the hunt: Gliding along the water’s surface and abruptly braking to a full-stop hover in midair—fluttering wings a show of aerodynamic art—they all at once drop and splash. Clasped in talons as the bird rises, the fish never had a chance.   

Nesting in April and May, usually three or four eggs to a nest, it is not uncommon for only one or two fledglings to survive from a brood. Those odds were drastically reduced by the discovery in 1939 (the same year the Swing Bridge was built) that the chemical compound dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane—DDT—was wildly efficient as an insecticide.

Though prized by government and industry to protect crops and control mosquitoes, its efficacy came with a stunning cost. DDT was poison, and birds of prey—bald eagles, peregrine falcons, and (yes) ospreys—bore the brunt of unintended consequences from its wide use. As the chemical made its way up the food chain from insect to prey to predators, the poison increased in concentration. Among the effects: thinning of eggshells, which were so easily crushed during incubation that often a nest of four eggs would yield no osprey chicks.

Osprey populations were devastated by DDT. Within 30 years of its introduction into the agriculture industry, breeding pairs along the East Coast declined by 90%. By 1976, the osprey was designated an endangered species in most of the country.

The future looked bleak for Mazie—but things got better.

Recognizing its harm, the government banned DDT in 1972. Conservationists mobilized to support the bird’s restoration, tracking populations and studying habits. Federal, state, and private agencies erected artificial nesting platforms all along the East Coast, including in this region (visit Cozy Harbor for a look). Populations rebounded, and Mazie’s annual appearance among the trusses of the Southport Swing Bridge became more reliable.

As surely as Mazie’s head emerges watchfully from the nest atop her metallic home, as dependably as she and her fledglings will soon glide and dive around Townsend Gut, we too will recover our communal life. Things got better for Mazie, and they will for us too.

The post Mazie Returns appeared first on Yarrow & Cleat | A Chronicle for Hope, Healing, and Humanity from Boothbay and Beyond.