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Nature Matters

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Several bird species use the shed skin of a snake during nest building to scare off predators, including the Carolina Wren as seen above. Photo by John Turner

By John L. Turner

John Turner

On one of many strolls to the compost bin this Spring, I walked past a tall Norway spruce and noticed the head of a Mourning Dove jutting above a few head-high horizontal branches. Suspecting it was an incubating bird on a nest, I didn’t disturb her, giving her and the long horizontal branch wide berth. Later in the day when the nest was temporarily unattended I moved in for a closer look.   

Two eggs sat together in a shallow bowl made of small branches, in a splayed out pattern reminding me a little of the pattern that happens during a game of pick-up sticks. This was not a tightly woven nest and even with the spruce branches supporting it I could see small holes through the nest and branches to the ground below.  I wondered if eggs or young ever fall through the doves’ nest although I suspect they don’t. 

Mourning Dove nests are known to be loosely constructed in which you typically see through the floor, a trait that makes them distinctive. Some other bird nests also are distinctive to species, the pendulous, highly interwoven nest of a Baltimore Oriole being an excellent example. Their nests, hanging from the end of maple branches, often become apparent after leaf fall in the autumn. Another distinctive nest is that of the American Robin, always containing mud in the outer shell that helps to keep the cup rigid and firm.     

Not surprisingly, many birds try to conceal their nests or make them less visible. The Ruby-throated Hummingbird, for example, embellishes the outer sides of its tiny nest with lichens, making it appear to be little more than a lichen-encrusted bump on a branch. Ground nesting birds like Eastern Meadowlarks have nests with an entrance hole on the side making the nest invisible from above. The same is true for the Ovenbird, a warbler species which is a common nester in woodlands throughout Long Island and especially the Pine Barrens. Its ground nest also has an entrance from the side and looks like an old fashion dutch oven, hence the bird’s name.  

Bird nests come in many shapes and sizes, constructed with many materials, in many different physical locations, and are a perfect blend of form and function. The purpose is, of course, to provide a place where the eggs, hatchlings, and nestlings can be more safely protected and for many species to successfully complete their development. (Precocious young such as piping plover chicks leave the nest at birth never to return). 

Remarkably, a few birds like the Fairy Tern of the South Pacific make no nest at all; this species lays its one egg in a dimple or depression on a thicker branch. Somehow through the rigors of incubation and hatching the egg and chick defy gravity and stay safe. Closer to home we have the “nests” of Whip-poor-wills and Chuck-will’s-widows which are nothing more than leaves on the ground upon which the adult lays her two lightly splotched eggs. 

Piping Plovers do a little more in nest construction by hollowing out a small depression with the male adorning the nest with white shell fragments. The nests of terns are similar, being nothing more than a shallow depression in the sand — simple but effective.    

The use of earthen burrows — horizontally oriented tunnels of varying lengths with an entrance hole excavated in a vertical surface — is another nesting strategy employed by some birds. On Long Island there are three burrow-nesting birds — the Belted Kingfisher and two swallow species — Bank and Northern Rough-winged. They excavate the tunnel (sloping it slightly upward to keep the rain out) which can be as long as five feet ending in a slightly enlarged chamber where the eggs are incubated. All are dug into a vertical face such as a steep slope, road or railroad cut,  bank of a sandpit or in a bluff face. The bluffs along Long Island’s north shore are often used, especially by Bank Swallows. If you walk along a north shore beach flanked by a bluff you might see many small nest holes in the bluff, with handsome brown and white birds with a distinct upper chest band zooming about — you’ve entered a Bank Swallow colony.    

Cavities comprise another important nesting strategy employed by birds. Usually the result of work by woodpeckers such as Red-bellied, Hairy, and Downy Woodpeckers, (but not always as I once watched a pair of Black-capped Chickadees excavate a nesting cavity in a rotted grey birch stump), these created cavities are vital to the many bird species that utilize or require cavities in which to nest. These species include the familiar aforementioned Black-capped Chickadee, Tufted Titmice, White-breasted Nuthatch, Great-crested Flycatcher and Screech Owl, not to mention many woodpecker species and numerous insect and mammal species too.   

The overwhelming number of birds including most songbirds make nests having two to three distinct layers — coarser sticks in the outer frame, finer twigs and roots in the inner cup, which is lined with soft material such as moss, animal hair, and feathers. This provides necessary rigor while providing a softer surface for the eggs and young. 

Birds put some quirky stuff in their nests. Ospreys are notorious for placing all manner of junk in their large nests — pack rats with wings!  According to Alan Poole’s fine book “Ospreys: The Revival of a Global Raptor,” materials found in this species’ nests include pieces of fishing nets, plastic buoys, six-pack holders, party balloons and their dangerous ribbons; basically nest materials “can be a bizarre reflection of what is available in the local landscape.” Carolina Wrens and Great Crested Flycatchers are known to reliably include a strange material in their nests — pieces of or entire snakeskins. Speaking of Carolina Wrens, they’re known to nest in some pretty weird spots such as old shoes, flower pots, and pails. 

 As expected, larger birds make larger nests. The Bald Eagle has perhaps the most impressive nest of any North American bird species; some are large enough for a small child to nestle in the bowl of the stick-constructed nest. According to reports they can  weigh nearly a ton (I remember seeing one such massive nest in coastal Maryland several decades ago). Not surprisingly, their nests are typically constructed  in large trees with thick branches that can support the weight of the nest. Osprey nests are smaller but still can be impressive affairs, composed of interlocking sticks that stand up to the buffeting winds of the coast.    

A few birds, the Great Horned Owl being a classic example, rarely make their own nest, rather using the nest site of a previous occupant such as another bird of prey or crow. 

Almost as diverse as the birds themselves, the nests birds construct illustrate many different designs and a wide variety of forms — all variations to achieve the same purpose — a place where bird eggs and babies can be protected at a most vulnerable time in their lives.  There’s avian architecture on display all around us!

A resident of Setauket, author John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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A male Buck Moth. Photo by John Turner

By John L. Turner

John Turner

On my way to redeem some bottles, involving some brands of craft beer that were thoroughly enjoyable, I did a double take passing by what I thought was a small bit of wind-blown garbage, moved by a gentle breeze, along the curb in a supermarket parking lot. Something about its movement caught my eye though and upon a closer look this was no multi-colored piece of trash but rather was something alive, fluttering weakly against the curb. Bending down to take a closer look I suddenly realized I was staring, improbably, at a  male Polyphemus Moth (I could tell it was a male by its quite feathery antennae). 

I picked the moth up and moved it out of harm’s way, placing it under a nearby row of shrubs, realizing all I did was buy it a little more time free from a certain death by a car tire or  pedestrian foot. Having no mouth with which it can feed (all of its energy is carried over from the caterpillar stage) a trait it shares with related species, its life as an adult is short-lived. 

The Polyphemus Moth is one of more than a dozen species of Giant Silk Moths found on Long Island. This family contains some of the largest moths in the world and they range from attractive to beautiful to spectacular. 

Take the Polyphemus Moth as an example. Tan colored with bands of peach on the forewings and black on the hind wings, the moth has four eye spots with the two on the hind wings being especially prominent. The center of the eyespots appears cellophane-like and is translucent. The central eyespot gives rise to the species name as it is reminiscent of the eye of the cyclops of Greek mythology with the same common name as the moth. 

A Polyphemus Moth. Photo by Carl Safina

The eye spots also play a role in the family name — Saturnidae, as some eye spots have concentric rings like those of the planet Saturn. And as moths go this creature has a huge wingspan, being as much as five inches from the tip of one forewing to the other. Its caterpillars feed on oak trees. 

The richly-colored brown, olive, and orange Cecropia moth, with its bright orange body, is slightly larger than the Polyphemus and its eyespots are more in the shape of a comma. They have a purple patch of the tip of each forewing that reminds me of the ghosts in Pac-Man, the popular video game. Cecropia prefer cherry trees as a food plant. 

The most tropical looking member of the family is undoubtedly the lime green-colored Luna Moth, a feeder of walnut leaves. The hindwings of the species, also possessing two eye spots, are longer than other Giant Silk Moth members and have a distinctive twist to the two “tails.” The spots on the fore or front wings are smaller, oval and are connected by a line to the purplish/maroon-colored line that runs along the front of the forewing. It is a showstopper!   

A non-native Giant Silk moth has been introduced to Long Island — the Ailanthus Silk Moth also known as the Cynthia Moth. It can be seen in areas of the island where Ailanthus trees commonly grow such as Brooklyn and Queens. 

Two beautiful, closely related silk moths are the Tulip-tree Silk Moth and the Promethea Moth. The latter species is sexually dimorphic, meaning the male and female look different as they are of “different morphs or forms.” The female is a rich blend of browns with an orange body while the male is a deep charcoal grey with olive to tan borders on both wings. As the name suggests, the former species as a caterpillar feeds on the leaves of the Tulip Tree, a spectacular columnar tree that grows in richer soils along Long  Island’s north shore. 

Related to these other Giant Silk Moths is a smaller inhabitant found in the Long Island Pine Barrens — the Eastern Buck Moth. And unlike other giant silk moths, and moths in general, the buck moth is strictly diurnal, flying from late morning through mid-afternoon on days in late September through mid-October. Why the radical difference in lifestyle compared to typical night flying moths?  It has to do with living in a fire-prone environment. Unlike other members of the family, buck moths don’t pupate by forming a cocoon that hangs from a branch because it would run the real risk of being destroyed by fire. Rather, the buck moth pupates in an earthen cell underground, out of harm’s way, waiting until the threat of the fire season lessens. This means a shift in emergence to the fall, and since it can get cold at night, buck moths have shifted their active period to the warmer daytime. 

In the same subfamily as the buck moth is the beautiful Io Moth. This species too is dimorphic with the female being darker than the male’s bright yellow coloration. Both sexes have large eyespots on their hindwings which are revealed when the forewings are thrown forward by a disturbed moth; suddenly the here-to-fore innocuous insect appears to be the face of a mammal which may deter predation or allow the momentarily confused predator to give enough time for the Io moth to escape. 

In yet another subfamily are the remarkable Pine Devil moth, Royal Walnut Moth (which  as a caterpillar is the famous hickory horned devil!), Imperial Moth, three species of oak webworms common in the Pine Barrens, and the Rosy Maple Moth, the color of raspberry and lemon sherbet.   

Unfortunately, all of these species have become less common on Long Island with some perhaps on the verge of extirpation (local extinction), done in by a loss of habitat and the widespread use of pesticides. Their rarity, paired with exceptional beauty, makes seeing a member of the Giant Silk moth family a special visual treat. Good luck!     

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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A view of Owl Pond in Flanders. Photo by John Turner
A Pine Barrens trail in Flanders. Photo by John Turner
A trail in the pine barrens. Photo by John Turner
A trail in the Pine Barrens. Photo by John Turner
A pink lady slipper orchid growing in the Pine Barrens. Photo by John Turner
A view of Sears Pond in the Pine Barrens. Photo by John Turner
A trail in the Pine Barrens. Photo by John Turner
A trail in the Pine Barrens. Photo by John Turner
Atlantic White Cedar in the Pine Barrens. Photo by John Turner

By John L. Turner

John Turner

It’s a warm Spring day and I’m relaxing on a bench on the edge of Swezey’s Pond within Cranberry Bog County Nature Preserve. Situated in western Southampton Town, about three quarters of a mile south of the Riverhead traffic circle, the preserve contains the remains of one of the larger commercial cranberry bogs that once prospered on Long Island.

The light is bright and the warmth most inviting, both for me and the eight painted turtles of various sizes that have scrambled up on two nearby logs. At first the water appears to be still but looking a little more closely I can see a current moving from right to left or from south to north. This water drains from Wildwood Lake about a mile to the south providing the base flow to the Little River, one of the four tributaries to the Peconic River. 

At the far end of the pond a ghost white American Egret stalks the shallows and to its right, much closer to me, I hear the “phoe-be” call of a spring migrant Eastern Phoebe flitting around the spindly-spiraled top of an Atlantic White Cedar.    

I am in the middle of the Pine Barrens, the largest intact forest remaining on Long Island, protected by state law after a long and intense legal battle that Newsday called the “War in the Woods.” It was a battle well worth fighting as the protection of the tens of thousands of contiguous pine-clad acres adds immeasurably to the quality of life of Long Islanders. 

From a pragmatic point of view the Pine Barrens sits over the largest and cleanest groundwater supplies on Long Island with an estimated five trillion gallons of water contained in the saturated sands beneath the barrens. Also, the Pine Barrens is ecologically significant as it provides habitat to many hundreds  of species of plants and animals, some with novel adaptations that enable them to survive wildfire and other harsh conditions of the ecosystem. 

And like Manhattan’s Central Park, a destination for  countless visitors and city dwellers, the Pine Barrens, Long Island’s Central Park, will, through time, become the same. Already used by many Long Islanders to hike, camp, bird, and canoe, the Pine Barrens will undoubtedly  be visited by many more as it becomes better known.   

Pitch Pine is the dominant plant of the Pine Barrens and provides half of the epithet — the Pine Barrens (the other half relates to the sandy, porous, and nutrient-poor soils that underlie the area). In many places, typically areas that have burned more frequently,  it is the only tree found; in other areas of the Pine Barrens it shares the canopy with various oak species such as scarlet, white, and black oak. 

Beneath the canopy, in the shrub layer, two dwarf oaks — bear oak and dwarf chestnut oak — form extensive thickets. These oaks are genetically dwarfed and even if their acorns are planted in soils rich in nutrients, the species will never obtain the height of our native tree oaks. Intermingled in these shrubby thickets are the heath species, such as black huckleberry, and early and late lowbush blueberries. On the forest floor where there’s ample sunlight you can find both common and striped wintergreen and the beautiful trailing arbutus. 

In the wetlands a host of other plant species abound — water lilies in the open water of ponds and lakes to a number of rare plants growing in the shallow water near shorelines and along the sandy shorelines themselves — including several carnivorous plant species as bladderworts and sundews. Highbush blueberry rings many wetlands and fills small bogs. These wetlands provide habitat to  turtles, frogs, toads, and salamanders while ovenbirds, scarlet tanagers, whip-poor-wills, pine warblers, and may other songbirds fill the forests and wetlands with song.  

Fire has long played a dominating role in shaping the character of these pine dominated forests, having swept through the barrens for thousands of years. Many of the plants and animals have adapted to fire with pitch pine having thick bark; in the unique and globally rare dwarf pine plains the dwarf pines depend upon fire to open their cones which remain resolutely closed in fire’s absence.   

It’s no accident that nearly one hundred square miles of the Pine Barrens has been permanently preserved. Were it not for the direct and intensive intervention of the Long Island Pine Barrens Society, both in the courts and in the court of public opinion, the Pine Barrens would, no doubt, have succumbed to development. But in a classic David (the Society, other conservation organizations) vs. Goliath (municipalities and wealthy, well-heeled developers) contest, the environmental community won with the passage of the 1993 Pine Barrens Protection Act that established the 105,000 acre Central Pine Barrens including the 55,000 acre Core Preservation Area in which development is not allowed.  

All Long Islanders will long be the beneficiaries of the Pine Barrens being preserved and this preservation effort has a unique aspect to it: it ensures in a bi-county region, cheek-to-jowl with one housing subdivision after another, surrounding industrial parks, strip shopping centers and large malls, where 2.7 million Long Islanders work, live, and play, there will always be wildness available — a wild character where if you’re positioned in the hollow of the morainal hills in Manorville you will hear no human sounds, where at night the pin prick light of stars shine amidst the inky blackness and from which the rhythmic calls of the whip-poor-will or deep hoots of the great horned owl can still be heard. It is a landscape where, in so many places you can hike on meandering trails for many miles and see no one, or evidence of anyone save the footprints of fellow hikers seeking the same solitude. 

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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Barn owls can catch their prey in complete darkness due to their acute sense of hearing. Pixabay photo

By John L. Turner

John Turner

As you begin to read this article please pause for a moment and take stock of your immediate surroundings. What do you feel? Your fingertips feel the largely smooth texture of the surface of the newspaper (perhaps using Meissner corpuscles as I have since learned) and your legs and back feel the chair you’re sitting in. What do you see? Obvious is the fine print of this article and other articles and different shades of color contained in this  edition. Lift your gaze to look around a palette of several dozen colors. As for smell? Maybe the aroma of your morning coffee or tea accompanying this reading experience. 

Maybe your dog is curled up nearby. While you’d have no reason at this moment to think about it, the worlds you and your dog are currently experiencing are very different. Our entire set of sensory skills — which allows us to perceive and react to the world, varies markedly from a dog’s.  We see color while dogs experience a more limited palette. We can detect many scents and odors but is far surpassed by the capability of dogs. 

Some research papers indicate their ability to detect smells — “their sense to detect scents” — is 100,000 times more sensitive than ours. And as far as hearing goes, your furry pet far surpasses your ability in what it can hear, especially noises at higher ranges (remember a dog whistle which, when blown, cannot be heard by the person blowing it but is definitely heard by the dog?)    

Now, let’s expand this idea outward to capture, say, some animal groups that might inhabit your backyard, such as birds, bats and insects. These groups perceive a very different world than we do. It is well known that some bird and insect species, for example, perceive ultraviolet or UV light, which humans, with rare exceptions, cannot (UV is the light spectrum below a wavelength of 380 nanometers). And a UV illuminated world for them is very different than the world illuminated for us. Certain floral patterns which we can’t see stand out as runways on flower petals for UV capable insects. Birds that have, to our eye, plumage that looks drab, actually have feather coats that radiate under UV light. 

As for bats, their famous ability to echolocate — emitting high pitch sounds (too high for us to hear) to locate prey with a high degree of accuracy — is a sense and capability so far outside the realm of human experience as to seem “other worldly.” Several bird species also are capable of echolocation. In the Western Hemisphere that includes the oilbirds of northern South America. 

Numerous marine mammal species also are known to echolocate — dolphins, as but one example. And unlike bats whose echolocation skills enable them to “only” detect the outer contours of their prey, dolphins can “see” inside their targets to perceive their organs and skeleton.    

Another hard to grasp sense of birds is their ability to detect and utilize the Earth’s magnetic fields which they use to migrate effectively. Researchers aren’t fully sure of the mechanism allowing them to achieve this, but it appears to involve proteins in a bird’s retina. 

‘An Immense World’

And I do mean hard to grasp — I’ve read, several times, the same explanatory article in Scientific American on the details of the current hypothesis regarding magnetic field perception in birds and how it aids their migration and I don’t fully understand what’s going on — involving stuff like cytochrome proteins in a bird’s retina, a blue photon hitting the cytochrome causing an electron to jump from an amino acid to a dinucleotide molecule which create a certain spinning of electrons that are, in turn, influenced by the Earth’s magnetic fields which the bird is able to utilize in determining direction. And I’ve left off the last most complicated steps…call me stupid but amazed!  

Many other species, such as sea turtles and spiny lobsters, but not us humans, also are known to navigate by using the planet’s magnetic fields but the mechanisms they employ are less well understood. These “other worldly” abilities, and so many more which are so different from ours, are richly revealed in a wonderful, recently published book, An Immense World: How Animal Senses Reveal the Hidden Realms Around Us, by Ed Yong. As the subtitle suggests, Yong takes the reader through dozens of examples of how animals perceive the world in a very different way than we do, using senses we either don’t have or that are far more sensitive or acute. The book is 355 pages of profound discovery and a most worthwhile read. 

As an example of the first are animals that can hear or transmit infrasound (below 20Hz), like whales and elephants. Humans can hear sounds as low as about 20 Hz, sounds lower than that are imperceptible to us unless extremely loud, so infrasound is outside our normal perceptive world. Not so with elephants who regularly communicate with infrasound, often involving elephant herds separated by impressive distances such as several miles. 

Whales, using the medium of water, easily make sounds that easily exceed this distance, with the blue whale, the largest animal on the planet, generating sounds that can carry many hundreds, if not thousands of miles, in the ocean. When first suggested the idea was thought implausible even ridiculed; it is now widely accepted.  

Ed Yong, author of An Immense World
Photo by Urzula Soltys

Or how about being able to feel the warmth of another person’s body that is not close to you but rather is several feet away? 

Well, you’ve entered the realm of rattlesnakes which can detect the infrared radiation given off by a mouse from several feet away. And their ability to strike prey just by heat detection is so accurate that blindfolded rattlesnakes can successfully hunt.     

As for senses more acute than ours we turn to the hearing of a barn owl. In well-known (and well designed) experiments, barn owls were capable of routinely seizing prey in complete and utter darkness and they have a special feature we lack. Their ear openings are asymmetrically placed, positioned at slightly different heights on the side of the head. So not only can they accurately determine if a sound is coming from their left or right, in the vertical plane (something we do well), they can also tell where the maker of the sound is in the horizontal plane, since if the sound is coming from below, sound waves will reach the lower ear milliseconds before they reach the higher ear, the bird’s brain can process this information and pinpoint its prey.   

And then there’s electricity generation. Electricity runs through the human body and is vital to human life. Elements like sodium, magnesium, calcium, and potassium, which we ingest through food and supplements, have electrical charge and enable us to perform basic tasks like nerve generation and transmission and the creation of a heartbeat through muscular contraction. It is reported that the energy output of a resting human adult is equivalent to powering a 100 watt light bulb. 

Some animals take electricity, though, to a new level. The best example involves electric eels. By discharging ions within electrocytes, which are specialized cells in specialized organs, the world champion eel has the ability to generate 860 volts of electricity — that’s nearly eight times the strength of the electricity available from your home’s wall outlet and is enough to debilitate and perhaps kill you. While we have little to worry about, not so for the fish and other aquatic animals that share the eel’s domain.    

As Yong’s impressively detailed book repeatedly illustrates, the animals that share our planet display a mind-bogglingly rich suite of survival skills for which one article cannot begin to do justice. Let me prove it by one tiny slice of life — a single shorebird species — the Red Knot, a medium sized bird with a robin red colored breast and a spangled pattern of gold, buff, tan, and black on its back.  Overwintering in the southern part of South America, flocks of Red Knots move north on the continent in April, launching in mid-May from the beaches of northern Brazil, driven by invisible impulses which we cannot understand, flying unerringly north toward the East Coast of the United States. 

Shaming human triathletes by their efforts, they will fly nonstop for several days as they traverse the waters of the western Atlantic, using the Earth’s magnetic fields, perhaps also using the Sun’s polarized light, propelled by breathing in a way so much more efficient than the human respiratory system. Their heart will have beaten perhaps a million beats and their wings flapped several hundred thousand times during this leg. 

They land, perhaps along Long Island’s South Shore or southern New Jersey, and begin to feed voraciously, sustained by tiny packets of protein in the form of horseshoe crab eggs — the perfect snack food. They feed so effectively that in a week to ten days they can add 50% more weight onto the weight they had upon arrival; in some cases they may double their weight in the form of subcutaneous fat. 

Gaining enough stored energy they head further north for the last leg of their improbable flight, landing in the High Arctic, perhaps guided by those magnetic fields to the same hummock of dwarf tundra plants where, the year before, they established a breeding territory. They have finished their almost impossible to comprehend 9,000 mile long journey. Just one remarkable story illustrating the unique senses and abilities of species, in a global tapestry of species’ stories that collectively form the planet’s book of life. 

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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Purple signs like this may become commonplace on Long Island in the near future. Photo by Grendelkhan/Wikimedia Commons

By John L. Turner

John Turner

Like all islands, Long Island is defined by water. Lapped on all sides — the Great South Bay on its southern flank, the thick finger of the Long Island Sound to the north, the bowl of the Peconic Bay filling between the forks, and one of the planet’s great oceans embracing all of this.  

And beneath us, in the pore spaces between the sand that make up Long Island (Long Island is basically a million-acre leaky sandbox) is a prolific aquifer system made up of several trillion gallons of freshwater that we depend upon, made available by scores of public water supply wells, for drinking and making coffee, washing cars, showering and brushing teeth, and from which water oozes to fill our ponds and lakes and makes our rivers and streams run — a freshwater groundwater system made up of three aquifers like layers in a sandwich, all resting on a basement of bedrock. 

It is OUR water supply — there are no other realistic possibilities to turn to: no ability to connect to New York City’s impressive surface water reservoirs and no river from New England that upwells into our sand under Long Island Sound (as one Long Island elected official once assured me, in explaining why we didn’t need to be concerned with the impacts of development). We are, hydrologically speaking, captains of our own fate.  

We may be captains but we haven’t been such good stewards of our groundwater supply as it is under stress like never before. More than two and one-half million Long Islanders live, work, and play above the water supply, and with gravity always at work, water, and whatever contaminants are dissolved in it, is always carried downward. 

The Upper Glacial Aquifer, the aquifer closest to the surface, has been rendered unusable in many places due to contamination.  In some areas this pollution has moved down into the thicker Magothy Aquifer below, the main source for drinking water today. And below the Magothy lies the Lloyd Aquifer, resting on a basement of bedrock, which has begun to feel the stresses of  over pumping and fingers of contamination.  

Some freshwater lakes and ponds are suffering quality issues too, the victims of “HAB’s” — harmful algal blooms. 

And in parts of Long Island we have a quantity problem, illustrated by lowered water table levels causing streams and ponds to shrink or dry out and allowing saltwater intrusion from salty water pushing in from sides of the groundwater supply. Hundreds of acres of wetlands have disappeared or been diminished by lowered water table levels, adversely affecting wetland dependent wildlife species.  

Nor have we been the stewards of the shallow coastal waters surrounding us that we should be. Driven by excessive nitrogen from sewage treatment plants (STP’s), home cesspools and septic tanks, and hundreds of thousands of fertilized lawns, the island’s coastal ecosystems are  showing significant stress. This stress is illustrated by numerous algae blooms or colored “tides,” perhaps made most visible by the green sheets of Ulva or sea lettuce which blankets the bottom of much of our tidal creek and bays. 

Some of these blooms involve algae species that are toxic to wildlife or are species that shellfish cannot eat to sustain themselves. Moreover, coastal waters containing excess nitrogen can weaken tidal marshes, a dangerous trend given their wildlife habitat, pollution control, and storm buffering value.

Photo by John Turner

The good news is that we have the means to address these problems and one of them involves water recycling or reuse. As the name suggests, water recycling involves the use of highly treated wastewater discharged from sewage treatment plants for some other worthwhile purpose. And the Riverhead Sewage Treatment Plant water reuse project serves as an excellent example.  Here, during the warmer months (April to October), highly treated wastewater is diverted from discharge into the Peconic River/Bay and, instead, is pumped next door to Suffolk County Parks’ Indian Island Golf Course. The water, containing low levels of nitrogen, is used to irrigate the golf course, the nitrogen being taken up by the turf grass. The water is subject to UV disinfection which kills 99.9% of the viruses and bacteria that might remain in the wastewater from initial treatment. 

What’s the benefits you might ask of this water reuse project? The engineering consultants to the project estimate it will divert more than one ton of ecosystem-changing nitrogen annually from entering coastal waters with the nitrogen serving as fertilizer for the golf course grass. And it gets better — approximately 63 million gallons of water which used to be pumped out of the aquifer can stay in the ground, reducing stress on the groundwater system.  An added benefit is that it may also save taxpayer dollars due to decreased energy and fertilizer costs.

Given these dual quality and quantity benefits it is not surprising water recycling is commonplace in some states and in many other countries.  California, Florida, and Arizona are among the leaders as are countries like Israel in the Middle East. (You may have seen evidence of water reuse projects while traveling in these or other states since the pipes conveying the water are painted purple — the universal color for water recycling. I saw them a few years ago while traveling through Clearwater, Florida north of St. Petersburg). 

Today, more than 2.6 billion gallons of water are reused daily in the United States. And the potential on Long Island is great with several dozen golf courses being within two miles of a sewage treatment plant. 

There are other reuse applications besides irrigation of golf courses though… irrigation of agricultural crops and municipal ballfields, industrial cooling, wetland restoration, washdown water at sewage plants, even potable reuse which is now happening in California. Anyone want a beer brewed using highly treated wastewater? There are half a dozen brands now available, in Canada, Germany, and California, if you so desire!

To better understand and quantify this potential, and to provide a framework for prioritizing potential projects, the Seatuck Environmental Association, with funding kindly provided by the Greentree Foundation, hired Cameron Engineering to help develop a Long Island Water Reuse Road Map or Blueprint. This road map lists nearly 100 projects in which an STP is coupled with a target of the reclaimed wastewater — most typically a golf course or agricultural operation — situated within a two mile radius. They are listed in priority fashion based on the amount of water potentially saved, amount of nitrogen potentially reduced, and estimated cost for improvements needed to implement.        

Closer  to home, what might be some potential water recycling projects? One that jumps out (ranked #10 in the prioritized matrix) is using treated wastewater generated from the sewage treatment plant located on the SUNY Stony Brook campus to irrigate St. George’s Golf Course situated in close proximity on the east side of Nicolls Road. A successful project here would keep hundreds of pounds of nitrogen from entering Port Jefferson Harbor (the effluent from the SUNY SBU STP is piped to the Port Jefferson plant first before discharge into the harbor) and keep an estimated 34 million gallons of water in the aquifer.  

It is clear that with political support and adequate public funding, water reuse can significantly contribute to intelligent management of the water upon which we depend for drinking and water that we enjoy swimming in. As the LI Water Reuse Road Map has shown, water recycling, implemented comprehensively, can prevent tons of nitrogen from entering Long Island’s groundwater supply and adjacent coastal waters while keeping billions of gallons of freshwater in the ground. To borrow from an often used phrase: “That there’s a win-win situation” for all Long Islanders.

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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Striped Skunk. Photo by Dan Dzuirisn/Wikimedia Commons

By John L. Turner

John Turner

Although the hike was twenty-four years ago, I remember the experience as if it had happened last week. 

I was heading west along an old asphalt road, broken up by time and weather and flanked on both sides by an interwoven  fabric of dwarf pines and scrub oaks, vegetation typical to the globally rare Dwarf Pine Plains of Westhampton. Ahead and to my left I suddenly noticed several birds making a commotion. A pair of brown thrashers and a rufous-sided towhee were flitting up and down around a large clump of scrub oak, a clear signal that something had them agitated.  My interest piqued, I went to investigate. 

Coming around a rounded clump of scrub oak I saw the target of their concern — a striped skunk ten to twelve feet away, actively feeding on what I believe was a hatch of flying termites which formed a gauzy cloud above the skunk. (Several years earlier an intense wildfire roared through this area killing even the fire resistant scrub oaks — I surmised the termites were feeding on the decaying wood of the large, somewhat exposed rootstocks.) 

So excited was I by this first live sighting of a skunk on Long Island that I lost my common sense and got closer than I should have, trying to get a better idea of what it was eating. That I crossed the line became immediately clear when the skunk turned its back to me and stomped the ground with its front feet — a telltale sign a skunk is agitated and will likely spray. Obviously not wishing for this odoriferous outcome, I quickly (and comically) turned around and ran thirty or more feet, leaping over and around blueberry and huckleberry bushes and fallen logs to gain a safe distance, desperately hoping to avoid getting sprayed as I dashed away.  My hope became reality as the skunk didn’t spray.  

Several years later, this time in the southeast sector of the Dwarf Pine Plains, I had my second sighting of a skunk. It was early evening and I was with a friend birding a bit before nightfall at which time we were going to listen for whip-poor-wills.  We headed east on a wide sandy trail when a striped skunk suddenly broke out of the dwarf pines  and started to waddle toward us. It came within 25-30 feet of us before nonchalantly breaking back into the thicket.

The most recent (and shortest) sighting of a skunk occurred in October of 2021.  Driving west on Sound Avenue around dusk an animal ambled across the road about a mile west of Briermere Farms (famous for its pies). This sighting led me to think about the first several experiences I had with striped skunks on Long Island — individuals that unlike the experience above, unfortunately all involved roadkills and all in the Pine Barrens — along County Routes 111 in Manorville, 51 in western Southampton, and 94 (Nugent Drive) in Calverton.      

All of the sightings were exciting to me as they indicated that this distinctive mammal was still part of Long Island’s fauna and that it hadn’t disappeared. For several decades before naturalists weren’t sure of its status here as there were few if any reports of skunk sightings. Some feared it had been extirpated from Long Island. 

The striped skunk is a striking and beautiful animal, reminiscent of a negative photo image involving the stark contrast of black and white.  It has a black face with a white line running down the nose between the eyes.  The top of the head is white as if wearing a cap of cotton or snow with the white continuing down the back in two slightly separated racing stripes which sandwich a black back and rump. The bottom of the animal including its legs and feet is black. The rather fluffy tail is a mixture of black and white hairs. All in all, it is a most distinctive mammal!  

Three other skunk species occur in the United States ­— the spotted skunk, hog-nosed skunk, and hooded skunk. These are primarily western species.  Skunks were long grouped  with the “mustelid” mammals,  animals such as otters, badgers and weasels; they have since been broken out of this group and are now in their own mammalian family.  

Paul F. Connor, in his definitive 1971 New York State Museum publication “The Mammals of Long Island, New York,” had much to say about the species. He notes the skunk was once common on Long Island but became much less so in the twentieth century.  He ascribes two reasons for its decline. One is as roadkill victims in the ever increasing network of roads constructed on Long Island over the years (the home range of male skunks involves many hundreds of acres over which they wander in their search for food and mates) ensuring in most places here they will intersect a road.  The second reason for decline was due to poisoning from the widespread use on eastern Long Island of Paris Green, an arsenic based pesticide used to control the Colorado Potato beetle which skunks apparently ate with devastating results.  (Skunks readily eat insects — remember the episode above where I almost got sprayed?). 

During Connor’s survey he found only one skunk — in 1961, a road-killed animal near Sag Harbor, although he did find ample signs of skunk in the form of droppings, tracks, its tell-tale odor, even finding a den — in the pine barrens of Manorville. Connor notes several reports by other observers who saw skunks in the early 1960s in Montauk, Calverton, Napeague (Hither Hills State Park), and Yaphank, even as far west as the North Hills region of northwestern Nassau County.  

Connor mentions Daniel Denton’s earlier account (1670) of striped skunks on Long Island, stating they were once common and, surprisingly, were widely eaten by Indigenous people.  The famous naturalist Roy Latham backs this up by stating, in personal communication, to Connor: “the skunk was one of the more common mammals discovered in his Indian archeological excavations on eastern Long Island, found at most sites.” 

Remarkably, beaver and wolves, species long ago eradicated from Long Island, were also found at these sites. Latham also reported to Connor observing a pair of albino skunks in Montauk, in June of 1928. 

It is clear the striped skunk is hanging on here and, in fact, appears to be slowly rebounding. According to a Dec. 12, 2022, Newsday article written by Joan Gralla, recent skunk sightings have occurred in Smithtown, Commack, and Northport and a colleague, Dave Taft, recently mentioned to me in a phone conversation of a road-kill skunk he saw on the shoulder of the Cross Island Expressway in Queens. Tim Green, a manager in the Environmental Protection Division at Brookhaven National Laboratory, reports that skunks are “fairly common but low numbers” at the property and recently saw a road-killed skunk on Middle Country Road in Calverton.   

The acquisition of so much parkland, and thus wildlife habitat, throughout Long Island — especially the preservation of tens of thousands of contiguous acres of Pine Barrens throughout central Suffolk County — gives reason for optimism that Pepe Le Pew will long remain a distinctive and unique component of Long Island’s fauna.

The Seatuck Environmental Association is interested in better understanding the presence and distribution of striped skunk and other mammals native to Long Island. To this end, Seatuck has launched a 2022 version of Paul Connor’s seminal 1971 report through its Long Island Mammal Survey and you can contribute to it as a “Citizen Scientist.”  This initiative will involve the use of trail cams to detect mammals and experts will utilize live traps to confirm the presence of small mammal species like flying squirrels, shrews, moles, and mice. If you wish to contribute sightings you can do this through the iNaturalist website. 

An informative program entitled “Terrestrial Mammals of Long Island,” given by Mike Bottini as part of Seatuck’s Community Science Webinar series, is available at https://seatuck.org/community-science-webinars/.  Mike is a wildlife biologist at Seatuck who you may know through his important work in tracking the recovery of river otters on Long Island (a future “Nature Matters” column!) 

I hope you see a skunk during one of your hikes or journeys in the wilds of Long Island. If you do, just remember, unlike me, to keep your distance! 

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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From left, Three Village Community Trust member Norma Watson looks on as Brookhaven Town Councilmember Jonathan Kornreich, New York State Assemblyman Steve Englebright and Suffolk County Legislator Kara Hahn unveil a new sign at Patriots Rock on Nov. 3. Photo by Rita J. Egan/TBR News Media

By John L. Turner

John Turner

Perhaps you remember the parable of the six blind men, standing alongside a road when an elephant passes by. They desire to know what an elephant feels like so they reach out, each man touching a different part of the animal — one strokes a tusk believing it’s a spear, another a stout leg proclaiming he’s touching a tree trunk, yet another the side of the elephant stating he’s touching a wall, while a fourth grabs the tail, thinking he’s grabbed a rope. The fifth touches an ear believing he’s made contact with a fan while the sixth man feels the trunk and announces he’s grabbed a snake. Based on their unique individual impressions, they argue vigorously about what the elephant looks like, each understandably, but firmly, convinced their own impression is correct and the others are wrong. 

Coming across this parable recently got me thinking about how it’s possible to have such differing, even disparate, impressions about the same subject. And it made me think of an individual: so let’s replace the elephant at the center of the discussion with New York State Assemblyman Steve Englebright, because just like the elephant being so many simultaneous things, Steve is too. 

If you’re familiar with his long standing involvement for preserving historic structures in the Three Villages, like the Roe Tavern or the Rubber Factory houses, or his interest and expertise regarding local history, you would say he’s a history buff, passionate about preserving historic structures. 

Get him over to the bluffs at McAllister County Park at the mouth of Port Jefferson Harbor and listen to him explain what he’s seeing in the wind-blasted rocks on the beach or the features of the bluff face itself and you’d know him to be a geologist, deeply informed about, and interested in, Long Island’s unique geology. 

Or if you were a student at Stony Brook University, perhaps your connection to Steve was as a professor through one of the courses he teaches, learning about contemporary environmental issues or the history of environmental politics learning about the influential role played by John Muir, Rachel Carson, and Aldo Leopold. 

Furthermore, if you’re a saltwater fisherman or general enthusiast of the marine waters surrounding Long Island, then your connection to Steve might be through the legislation he carried to stop the harvest of menhaden (also known as bunker) in New York water’s, thereby fueling a resurgence in the food chain as evidenced by the sharp increase seen in the numbers of humpback whales, tuna, sharks, and birds-of-prey. Breaching whales are now part of our ocean landscape. 

Or perhaps it might be through an earlier connection you have with Steve — when he was Director of the Museum of Long Island’s Natural Sciences. Situated on the Stony Brook University campus, the museum introduced the wonders of the natural world to countless students and visitors. Steve the educator was at work.   

But perhaps it is through his efforts to preserve land that most people know of Steve Englebright’s work. Following in the footsteps of one of the Three Village’s favorite sons — Robert Cushman Murphy — Steve amplified Murphy’s call for the preservation of the Long Island Pine Barrens, the extensive pine forests stretched over tens of thousands of acres of pine forest in Suffolk County; pine trees that knit together a rare ecosystem and which sits over much of the County’s drinking water supply. 

In honor of R.C. Murphy, Steve sponsored a resolution, while a Suffolk County Legislator, to rename Peconic River County Park to Robert Cushman Murphy County Park. As a county legislator he played a key role in shaping the County’s $70 million Open Space Bond Act that resulted in the preservation of about two dozen environmentally significant properties throughout the County. 

If that’s not enough, he also was critical to the success of the  Drinking Water Protection Program, funded by a tiny percentage of the county sales tax, still in force today. This program has made a huge difference in protecting Suffolk County’s open spaces and drinking water supplies. And closer to home Steve was an open space champion in successfully advocating for the preservation of Patriot’s Hollow and Rock.

So just like the elephant is a “tree,” a “fan,” a “wall,” a “spear,” a “snake,” and a “rope,” Steve Englebright is a professor,  geologist,  historian, hydrologist, an educator, a legislator for both Suffolk County and New York State, and a conservationist. But here’s where the parable and reality diverge; while with the parable different experiences led to radically different points of view, different experiences with Steve all point to the same thing … what a remarkable difference maker he has been in safeguarding what is special about the Three Village community and the Long Island environment. 

We all owe a huge debt of gratitude to Steve for what he’s accomplished on our behalf. Thank you Steve!! 

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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Franklin the Bald Eagle at Sweetbriar Nature Center Photo by John Davis

By John L. Turner

“There are no passengers on Spaceship Earth. We are all crew.” 

— Marshall McLuhan, Canadian Philosopher and Media Expert 

John Turner

Walking through the backyard to add some coffee grounds and banana peels to the compost bin, I looked up to see, to my surprise, an adult Bald Eagle circling over a phalanx of maple trees. A splendid white head and tail shone brightly, sandwiching a massive dark body and wings. For each of the first several circles it became partially hidden by the maples halfway through its arc but soon broke out entirely into the sky of blue before slipping north. 

I was uplifted by this chance experience,  not only by the presence of the eagle itself, but for what the eagle represented — resilience. I knew full well that were I to have walked to the compost bin anytime from the 1960’s through the 1990’s I would have little to no chance of spotting an eagle because they were very few in number.    

Hammered by the widespread use of DDT, a persistent pesticide once viewed as a miracle chemical, Bald Eagle populations plummeted from the late 1950’s through the late 1970’s. There was a real fear this bird of prey would be extirpated in the lower 48 states and perhaps disappear entirely — yet another extinct species in the sad legacy of human impact to other inhabitants of the planet. 

Scientists soon determined that DDT interfered with the ability of eagles and other birds to make eggshells. In some cases they laid yolks with no shells at all; in most cases the shells were thinner, often cracking or breaking under the weight of the incubating adult. The species got a reprieve with the federal ban on the use of DDT by the Environmental Protection Agency, a campaign, by the way, that has its roots in Setauket, where the Environmental Defense Fund, which led the charge, was born. 

But half a century after DDT’s banning, we are witness to the result: Bald Eagle populations are surging, as evidenced by its 2007 demotion from the federal Endangered Species list. Today, there are more than a dozen active eagle nests on Long Island as this iconic species re-establishes its historic presence here. Other impacted species, like Peregrine Falcons and Ospreys also high on the food chain, have rebounded too and are more common than they were decades ago. As these species illustrate, bad environmental outcomes can be reversed (i.e. if they are reversible, unlike outcomes such as extinction).  

The reversibility of environmental problems and the resilience of natural systems is highlighted by two well-known examples that helped usher in the modern environmental movement: The blanketing haze of air pollution that choked the residents of Los Angeles during the 1960’s and Ohio’s Cuyahoga River catching on fire (yes a river catching on fire!) in 1969, fueled by copious amounts of oil dumped into it. Today, the air is much cleaner over Los Angeles as is the water in the Cuyahoga River, although there is, no doubt, still room for improvement in both places. 

With the passage of the Clean Air Act in 1970, the nation began on a path toward markedly better air quality. Factories and incinerators were required to install pollution control equipment as were mobile sources like trucks and cars. Cars were equipped with  catalytic converters which break down pollutants. Today, despite there being more stationary sources like factories and Americans driving considerably more miles and more vehicles on the road, concentrations of the top six pollutants such as particulate matter, volatile organic chemicals, carbon monoxide, nitrogen oxide, ozone, and sulfur dioxide have decreased by more than 75%. 

Another metric highlighting the improvement in air quality is reflected by the reduction in the number of “unhealthy air days” tracked in 35 major American cities. In 2001 there were 2,155 such days collectively in these cities; by 2019 the number had dropped to 466 (it has jumped up slightly in the last two years due to the numerous western wildfires).  

And we can thank the federal Clean Water Act (passed in 1972 we celebrate its 50th anniversary this year), for marked improvements in the quality of the nation’s waters. Although more progress is needed, we have made great strides in meeting the Act’s goal to “restore and maintain the chemical, physical and biological integrity of the Nation’s waters,” or as its goal has been better understood to say: “to make the nation’s waters drinkable, swimmable, and fishable.”

And these briny waters surrounding Long Island that we like to swim in and boat on are clearly cleaner than they were decades ago due to sustained governmental efforts catalyzed by the Clean Water Act. For example, if we jump to the Island’s North Shore and focus on the Long Island Sound we find water quality and overall environmental conditions have significantly improved since the 1980’s when collective intervention by the federal and state governments began to reverse downward trends in water quality. Foremost among these troubling signs were low to non-existent levels of dissolved oxygen (DO) levels (referred to as hypoxia and anoxia, respectively) suffocating bottom-dwelling species such as crabs and lobsters. 

These conditions were caused by too much nitrogen entering the estuary, mostly from sewage treatment plant (STP) discharges. The nitrogen set off algae blooms, events which pull DO out of the water column when the algae decomposes. Today the duration and areal extent of hypoxic conditions in the Long Island Sound are markedly lower than several decades before because of the many operational upgrades made at STP’s that reduce nitrogen levels in wastewater.   

A school of menhaden. Photo by Stephen Borghardt

An example of ecological recovery is being played out in the coastal waters around Long Island, most notably in the Atlantic Ocean along Long Island’s south shore. This story involves an oily fish — the menhaden — that a lot of other fishes, birds, and marine mammals  like to eat. The fish, also known as bunker, has prospered ever since the state several years ago banned their commercial harvest in New York waters. Schools of fish ranging from tens of thousands to millions of fish frequent the nearshore waters of the South Shore (these schools are easily recorded from aerial drones and the videos posted on YouTube). 

This largess has attracted humpback whales that are regularly seen close to shore, with their characteristic feeding behavior of breaking to the surface with an open mouth in the middle of a large school of fish. Aerial videos captured by drones show large fish in the form of various shark and tuna species swimming through these schools. Eagles and ospreys feed on menhaden as they move into bays, harbors, and the mouths of Long Island’s countless rivers and streams. The passage of an important state law has fueled a resurgence of marine life in the briny waters around the island.    

Given the many environmental afflictions we currently face, what are the take away lessons from these examples? Some might conclude the lesson is a permission slip or a continued license to pollute since Nature often has the ability to restore itself, so what’s the harm? I prefer to think that the resiliency of Nature means, more profoundly, that we live in a world of second chances, that environmental problems need not be depressingly intractable and irreversible, but can be successfully ameliorated. In many cases, recent history has proven we can right environmental wrongs.

What are the ingredients necessary to achieve success in turning around an environmental problem? I think a person or individuals persuasively spotlight a problem and others in a position of power or authority to do something about it. 

People like Rachel Carson who revealed the dangers of widespread pesticide exposure to wildlife and EPA Administrator William Ruckelshaus in a position to do something about it through the national ban on the use of DDT. Or staff within organizations like The Nature Conservancy explaining the ecological value of menhaden in coastal ecosystems to key individuals like New York State Assemblyman Steve Englebright who introduced and secured passage of the legislation to shut down the commercial harvest of menhaden in New York waters.

 And here’s the really good news — the first ingredient of this formula lies even closer — in the latent power possessed by you and me, if we’re unwilling to accept a dying and unclean world, but, instead, demand a planet vibrant and alive, one filled with whales and menhaden, eagles, clean air and water, salamanders in woodland pools, bees in wildflower-filled meadows, and piping plovers sharing our beloved beaches, keeping all the while in the back of our mind a recognition from past experience the damage that has been done to this resilient planet and its inhabitants doesn’t have to be permanent — often it is in our power and ability to reverse it, and in fact, to paraphrase McLuhan: “it is our responsibility, all being part of the crew, to do so.”   

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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Witch hazel flowers and last year’s seed capsules on the same branch, which is unusual. Photo by John Turner

By John L. Turner

John Turner

As the cooler days and nights of autumn take hold, the abundance of flowers diminishes with goldenrod and aster blossoms soon dominating the scene beginning in late August and blooming well into October. One might reasonably think that by the time Halloween comes around the year’s predictable procession of wildflowers, flowering shrubs, and trees has run its course. 

But while you’re making decisions as to what costume to wear for Halloween, there’s one more wildflower-producing plant to entice pollinating insects before the full cold of winter descends. That wild plant is a shrub, witch hazel (Hamamelis virginiana), which sometimes blooms after it has dropped its leaves. 

Widespread but uncommon throughout Long Island, witch hazel is a bit more common in the richer soils occurring in the northern half of Long Island where it grows as a multi-stemmed tall shrub or low stature tree. Witch hazel is scattered throughout the understory of the forest with groupings of plants; I know of no site where the species is abundant, although there are quite a few specimens growing on top of the wooded slope adjacent to Wading River marsh in the large Shoreham property that may soon become Long Island’s next large public space. 

It’s also fairly common in the morainal region of the South Fork. The famous naturalist from Orient, Roy Latham, reported in 1926 a witch hazel from Montauk with a six inch diameter. A very large, multi-stemmed specimen, accompanied by an informational sign, is in full view just north of the dirt parking lot at Prosser Pines County Park situated in Middle Island (on the east side of County Route 21). 

American Hazelnut leaves

Why the very late blooming season for witch hazel? We’re not sure but it may follow the strategy used by skunk cabbage in the Spring, that is, blooming at a time when plant competition for insect pollinators is reduced, thereby increasing the likelihood of reproductive success. The flowers are visited by wasps, gnats, and several types of flies. As insurance against a lack of pollinators due to early cold, the flowers can self-pollinate. 

Speaking of flowers, those of witch hazel are distinct and not likely to be confused with any other species. Growing on small branches below the leaves, the flowers are straw-yellow in color and have four narrow but long, ribbonlike petals that give the flowers the appearance of windblown confetti. There are several horticultural cultivars available, some of which have been developed adorned with bright orange petals. 

If you look closely you’ll see the flowers in close proximity to the woody capsules containing the seeds — last year’s flowers that were successfully pollinated having formed seeds. In the fall the seeds are forcefully ejected from the capsule and, remarkably, can travel 25 feet or more, leading to another colloquial name: snapping alder. It is uncommon for flowers and the product of last year’s flowers — seeds — to be on a plant at the same time. This trait of witch hazel gives rise to the plant’s generic name Hamamelis, a Greek word meaning “fruit at the same time.”  

The leaves are as distinctive as the flowers. The medium-sized leaves have scalloped, roundly toothed edges and prominent parallel veins that extend to the edge. Most notably, and for reasons unknown, the leaves are asymmetrical in that the base of the leaves attach at slightly different points along the main stem, or as one famous botanist noted, the leaves are: “inequilateral at the broadly rounded or subordinate base”.  

Witch hazel liniment, used for skin inflammation or irritation, is derived from the plant’s bark and twigs. Through the years the liniment, still available over-the-counter at local drug stores, has been touted as a cure for a bunch of health ailments including sore throats, rheumatism, insect bites, bruises, scrapes, burns, even “frozen limbs, lame back, and bleeding lungs.” 

Witch hazel has another magical property: use in divining rods to pinpoint water through the process of “water witching.” Indeed, the “witch” in witch hazel has nothing to do with human witches but is a derivation of the Anglo-Saxon word “wych” or “wicen” meaning “to bend,” a reference to the use of pliable witch hazel branches as divining rods.    

American Hazelnut flowers

American hazelnut (Corylus americana), a member of the Birch family, is not known to be used as a soothing liniment like witch hazel, but does share a history with the species as its branches are a tool in “water witching.” And like its commercially important European cousin, European hazelnut or filbert (which are twice as large), its nuts have value as a wildlife food. They are eaten by turkeys, quail, blue jays, pheasants, chipmunks, squirrels, white-footed mice and several other bird and mammal species. 

As suggested by the number of animals that eat them, the nuts are a superfood of sorts: they contain 25% protein and 60% fat, a high calorie food item wildlife love. The nuts don’t look like nuts when on the shrub since they are enveloped in a covering that looks like torn clothing. Deer, rabbits and not on Long Island — beavers browse upon the branches and twigs. 

The species is smaller than witch hazel, being a medium-sized shrub, often forming thickets, a habit which makes it valuable to nesting songbirds. Like witch hazel it is uncommon on Long Island but widespread. I have seen it in a number of locations including a population growing on the east side of the Long Island Greenbelt Trail in northern Islip Town.   

The leaves are pretty, being pointy and heart-shaped and are much larger than witch hazel’s. But unlike witch hazel’s flowers which, as previously mentioned are insect pollinated, the small, almost inconspicuous reddish female flowers of hazelnut are pollinated by the wind. They bloom in April. The male flowers, in the form of long, cigar-like catkins are more prominent. These are consumed by several species of game birds like ruffed grouse (feared to have been extirpated from Long Island).

I hope you make the acquaintance of both species, starting with Witch Hazel, perhaps on a trip to Prossers Pines County Park to walk off the extra Halloween candy you indulged in. Just watch out for those exploding witch hazel seeds!

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours.

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Stony Brook Harbor. Photo by Elyse Buchman

By John L. Turner

It was on a rising tide in mid-afternoon, on an 82-degree late summer day, that I slipped into the opening of the kayak, placed my feet on the rudder controls and pushed off the gently sloping bank in the southern reaches of Stony Brook Harbor, not too far from the famous Hercules Pavilion positioned along the harbor’s edge. 

Stony Brook Harbor. Photo by John Turner

Even in shallow, foot-deep water I was easily able to ply the kayak along the shoreline. The first view that drew my attention were nine bright white, long-necked wading birds. Egrets they were, both the larger American Egret and the more diminutive Snowy Egret feeding in the shallow water of the creek that spills from the Stony Brook Grist Mill. Their likely targets were small, two-inch long baitfish, schools of which I would repeatedly see in the hours ahead as I explored the harbor. 

Within a couple of minutes I had plied across a deeper channel running alongside Youngs Island and moments later alongside one of the many marsh islands found within the harbor.   

For the next four hours I explored the many gifts Stony Brook Harbor had to offer — red beard sponges, several species of floating seaweeds, fiddler crabs scuttling across sand flats, baby horseshoe crab molts, the aforementioned baitfish and their pursuers — baby bluefish known as snappers, snapping the placid tension of the water surface — countless shells, and, of course, the birds: Double-crested Cormorants (many, comically, with their wings outstretched, drying in the sun); more long-necked and long-legged wading birds; a small plover pulling on a long red worm; the plaintive, three part call of Greater Yellowlegs; the ubiquitous gulls; and an adult Bald Eagle, dominating the sky over the southern edge of the harbor. 

Like tiny sailboats, many bird feathers floated over the placid surface of the water during the visit, a tell-tale sign that late summer is a time for many birds to molt by replacing older worn out feathers with new ones.  

That small plover was not a Piping Plover but its darker colored cousin — the Semipalmated Plover, so named because its feet are partially webbed. A handsome bird the color of chocolate on the top of its head and back, a bright white belly, breast, and throat offset by a black chest band and line through the eye, and an orange bill and yellow-orange legs, the Semipalmated Plover breeds in the far north; this bird probably flew south from Labrador, Nova Scotia, or Northern Quebec, but perhaps even further north in its breeding range above the Arctic Circle, to make its way to Stony Brook Harbor on its much longer journey to the Caribbean or South America.

The same is true for the Greater Yellowlegs, a slightly larger shorebird with a salt-and-pepper plumage with, you guessed it! — bright yellow legs. The plover was feeding in a sand/mud flat and the three yellowlegs in very shallow water adjacent to the flat. Suddenly, the yellowlegs exploded into the air, winging away rapidly, apparently due to some danger they could (but I could not) perceive. Their emphatic calls rung out over the water, harkening to more desolate and windy places. 

This little shorebird vignette in the harbor illustrates and underscores the value it and countless other coastal embayments on the East Coast play as critical way stations for migrating shorebirds that stitch together the Northern and Southern  hemispheres. These are like the highway rest stops we use while traveling, providing opportunities for these long distance migrants to feed and rest.   

Ribbed mussels along the harbor. Photo by John Turner

As I turned south into the more open waters at the southern end of the harbor I slid by a long muddy embankment, the leading edge of a salt marsh, when two objects caught my eye — many clumps of Ribbed Mussels and dozens of Cordgrass or Spartina plants in full bloom.   

Ribbed mussels are less well-known and appreciated than the edible Blue Mussel since, unlike the latter species, they are not harvested for food. Nevertheless, they are very important to the healthy functioning of tidal wetlands. So named because of the numerous parallel ribbed lines that run the length of its shell, this species grows in bunches in the mud, often tangled in the roots of Cordgrass (Spartina alterniflora), with which they have a “mutualistic” or mutually beneficial relationship.  The mussels benefit from anchoring their shells, through the use of byssal threads, to the roots of Spartina and also benefit from the density of the plant shoots that makes it harder for predators, like crabs, to gain access.

The plant benefits by the waste products excreted from the mussel as it is high in nitrogen which acts as a plant fertilizer. The material also helps to build the marsh — filtering tiny organic particles out of the water column and depositing it on the marsh. Because of these important services the Ribbed mussel is referred to as an “ecosystem engineer.”   

Cordgrass in bloom along Stony Brook Harbor. Photo by John Turner

Cordgrass is the most recognizable plant of the marsh. It dominates the view of much of the harbor and along the lower elevations of the tidal marsh, with its sister species Salt Hay (Spartina patens), occurring in the higher portions. These are two of only a small number of plants that can tolerate the presence of salt and its desiccating qualities; they do this by extruding the salt from pores in the surface of the frond; take a close-up view and you can often see the salt crystals sparkling along the stems of the plant. 

Cordgrass is wind pollinated and not surprisingly, therefore, their interesting one-sided flowers aren’t showy nor do they exude nectar in an effort to lure pollinating insects. The winds care not for such things. Still, they are beautiful and arresting as the hundreds of flowers on each stalk move in the slightest breeze.  

Unfortunately, a storm cloud has appeared over the harbor that would likely compromise its beauty and ecological quality. This “cloud” is in the form of two large docks proposed on properties located in the harbor’s shallow southern end in the Village of Nissequogue. 

Despite the fact there are two commercial marinas in the northern reaches of the harbor at which a boat can be stored or the fact each property owner currently has access to launch kayaks or canoes from the shore, these residents are seeking approval to install monstrously long docks that would jut well out into the water. One is more than two hundred feet long.  

The proposed site for one of the docks. Photo by John Turner

Installing the dock pilings would be disruptive to the harbor bottom, cause turbidity and sedimentation problems, affecting wetland dependent wildlife such as diamondback terrapins (I saw a dozen terrapins floating and swimming in the southern portion of the bay on the kayak visit and fifteen from a vantage point onshore at Cordwood Park about a month earlier). 

Turbidity problems and disruption to the harbor bottom by “prop scouring” will occur each and every time boats are run out on low tide. Further, the docks will make it more difficult for you and I to walk along the shoreline as is our legal right “to pass and repass” along the shoreline as guaranteed by the Public Trust Doctrine and did I mention the ugliness and visual blight caused by the docks at a site landscape painters find inspiration? 

Perhaps of greater concern is the precedence that approval of these two docks could establish. If these are approved, what’s to stop the harbor’s “death-by-a-thousand-cuts” as several dozen other property owners ringing the harbor, through time, request the same? 

And is it reasonable to assume that, as the years roll by, these owners clamor for the very shallow southern reaches of the harbor to be dredged to ease navigation and better accommodate their boats?  Yes, it is. 

For the sake of this most special and unique place the request for these mega docks must be denied. The public interest in, and use of, Stony Brook Harbor and recognition of the significant ecological value of the harbor dictate against approval and must prevail. Will public officials heed the call?   

A resident of Setauket, John Turner is conservation chair of the Four Harbors Audubon Society, author of “Exploring the Other Island: A Seasonal Nature Guide to Long Island” and president of Alula Birding & Natural History Tours

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‘Beween Stony Brook Harbor Tides’

If you wish to learn more about the human and natural history of Stony Brook Harbor, I encourage you to read “Between Stony Brook Harbor Tides — The Natural History of a Long Island Pocket Bay” authored by Larry Swanson and Malcolm Bowman, two professors who taught at Stony Brook University’s School of Marine and Atmospheric Sciences. The book provides an overview of the natural conditions that shape the harbor, the human imprint on the harbor, and the many species of wildlife that call it home. It is a most worthwhile read.  

— John Turner

 

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