After a rather cold three weeks, the Wood Frog eggs have finally hatched! The tiny tadpoles look overstuffed, since they have some leftover yolk in their bodies which means they don’t need to eat for the first few days after hatching.
Being a tadpole is the second stage in their metamorphosis (a word that means that means a change or transformation). As a tadpole, Wood Frogs will eat mostly algae and rotting plants, and breathe oxygen with gills. Amazingly, when they metamorphose into adult frogs in summer, they switch from gills to lungs and become carnivores, eating mostly insects and other invertebrates.
Digging in the backyard garden or flowerbed, you can’t help but unearth a few worms in spring. A closer look reveals that their body is made of sections or segments. Earthworms are are in the phylum (group) Annelida, or segmented worms. Leeches are also in this group.
I grew up understanding that earthworms are great for soil, and they certainly are in gardens, lawns and flowerbeds. Their tunnels aerate the soil, and prevent compaction which allows water to penetrate to plant roots. Their castings (worm poop!) left on the surface are full of nutrients. Someone calculated that, in an acre (0.4 hectare), worms could eat and digest enough organic matter to bring 7200 kg of nutritious castings to the surface every year. So we can feel good about them in our yards and farm fields.
But here’s the twist: None of Ontario’s 19 species of earthworms are native! (two are from the United States and 17 are from Europe) After the last ice age wiped out any earthworms that were here, invertebrates like sow bugs and millipedes (and, of course, fungi) were the forest decomposers. Settlers brought most of our earthworms species over from Europe in ship ballast and among plant roots.
In a forest, these master diggers can do too good a job of decomposing fall’s soft and thick layer of tree leaves (called duff), which can leave large sections of soil bare and cause tree seedlings, wildflowers and ferns to decline.
But they are fascinating creatures. Just behind their prostonium (front segment), they have a mouth. Larger earthworms like Lumbricus terrestris (also called night crawlers or dew worms) come to the surface at night and drag piles of leaves back to their hole. It’s easy to see these tiny piles; carefully shift one and you will uncover the hole.
Then there’s the age-old question: Why do earthworms come to the surface when it rains? It’s not to avoid drowning, apparently – they can survive for long periods of time immersed in water since oxygen diffuses through their wet skin. The theory with the most evidence is that they do this to safely move more quickly to other areas, or find a mate or food.
And it’s pretty cool that gulls have been seen stamping the ground to imitate rain’s vibration, luring earthworms to the surface.
I’ve had fun observing my backyard worms, especially in the easy-to-make worm condo, which allows views underground (see Activities page for instructions). Watching them, it’s easy to agree that earthworms deserve their reputation as nature’s best soil engineers.
Around our home the biggest trees are Silver Maples. They are beautiful, with silvery-backed leaves that becomes so colourful in fall, and I’ve even tapped their sap for maple syrup. Their sap only has half the sugar content as sap from sugar maples, so I had to collect twice as much – but I’m not complaining, since it tasted so good after boiling, and boiling, and boiling, and boiling…..! For every litre of syrup, you have to collect about 80 litres of sap (for Sugar Maples, the ratio is 40:1).
But each spring I am amazed when their buds burst in very early spring, WAY before leaves come out. In fact, all through winter you can tell that the swoolen red buds are like sprinters on starting blocks, waiting for the starter’s gun of longer daylight and warmth. These buds become spectacular, delicate flowers, decorating the whole tree. As I admired one of our trees, I became aware of a surround-sound humming….. thousands of bees were at work somewhere! I checked all our other trees…. no flowers there, then I realized that the bees were at work on the silver maple, right above me!
I had always thought that maples were wind-pollinated, but it turns out that they have the best of both worlds: They are both wind- and insect-pollinated. In very early spring, Silver Maple maple flowers can be an important source of pollen and nectar for honeybees and other pollinators, with not much else available. Sugar Maples bloom somewhat later in spring, and are also visited by many pollinators. In fact, maples are high on the list of important honeybee trees, and producers out west sell a honey made primarily from Bigleaf Maple nectar.
Then, after yesterday’s windstorm, hundreds of older flowers were spread around our yard, our deck, and on our cars. In the wild, Silver Maples are usually in swampy areas, often growing right up out of shallow water in spring. But they are hardy, and have been planted all over cities, often in much drier conditions. It’s sometimes difficult to distinguish them from Red Maples, and these species sometimes hybridize.
These magnificent trees add colour to spring as well as fall, and if you’re a honeybee, or bumblebee, or another early pollinator, they add life-giving nectar and pollen well before most flowers bloom.
It’s early spring in a forest in southern Ontario. Since most of our trees are deciduous, there’s a lot of light hitting the forest floor, and it’s still a month or more until maple, beech, cherry and a few other species spread their leafy umbrella and plunge the interior into deep shade. With the rising temperatures of spring, it’s an opportunity not to be missed.
Bulbs lying dormant through the winter begin to sprout, racing for the surface. Soon, the growing tips of Wild Leeks, Trout Lilies, Blue Cohosh, Trillium and many others peek out from among the orderly mess of last year’s leaves.
These are the spring ephemeral wildflowers, and they are in a hurry. Fully grown well before tree leaf-out, they soak up the sun and attract pollinators before the life-giving direct sunlight on the forest floor is lessened by their giant neighbours.
Wild Leeks (Alium tricoccum) are my favourites. Pick a tiny bit, rub it between finger and thumb, and you’ll know why they are sometimes called Wild Garlic. The story goes that, long ago, on the way to school kids would chew on a leek leaf or two so their breath would be enough to send them home (to their pleasure!). And – true story – Chicago most likely derived its name from the Miami-Illinois First Nations word for Wild Leek (“Shekaakwa”). If you’re from Chicago, you are from the “place of strong-smelling wild onions (wild leeks).”
Not the same, of course, as domestic garden leeks (they are closely related), Wild Leeks are delicacies and are usually called ramps when used for cooking. The leaves and bulbs are great in salads and soups, but of course should be sampled lightly rather than harvested. Over-harvesting in Quebec prompted a ban on large-scale picking in 1995, anyone caught with more than 50 in their possession faces a minimum $500 fine. One illegal picker was apprehended with 7,829 individual plants; he was fined $10,000. Quebec police report that sometimes the leeks are stuffed into (get this) a hockey bag. A black market in wild leeks smuggled into Ontario has ensued, as a single plant (bulb and leaves) may be sold for up to $1.00. Since Wild Leeks spread slowly, picking more than 5% of a patch is considered by many to be unsustainable.
Next time you encounter some of these delicious harbingers of spring , take just a bit, maybe fingernail-size, rub it, inhale its garlic/onion aroma, chew it, swallow it and enjoy the taste, unless, that is, you are on your way to school.
I went for a walk around my yard today and saw so many incredible signs of this amazing season! Here are some of them.
The chipmunks in our back yard are great signs of spring. They are ground squirrels, and are true hibernators. They spent much of the winter in a sort of suspended animation, with their heart rate slowed to just a few beats per minute (from their normal 350 beats per minute!) and their body temperature drops to just a few degrees above freezing. Every few days they wake up, warm up, pee and poop, eat some of the food they collected last fall, and go back to sleep. But now spring’s warmth has aroused them and they are very active! I’m always amazed by how many seeds they can stuff into their cheeks – it’s like they’ve got a couple of shopping bags to take home the groceries!
I love the swamp that is close to our house. It’s got cool shrubs, like dogwoods, and trees like silver maples, that grow right out of the water. And it’s home to so many animals! We see turtles, dragonflies, ducks, fireflies at its edge, and so much more! But the best time for me is early spring when it’s the site of my favourite sound in the world – a chorus of singing frogs!
Some people wouldn’t say that frogs sing. Their sounds are more like “calls,” not as complicated as robin or cardinal songs. But to me they are beautiful. Even before the ice is gone, in our swamp two kinds of frogs start to sing. The first is usually a Wood Frog, a beautiful medium-sized frog with a dark mark over its eyes, and the next are the Spring Peepers, tiny songsters with an amazingly loud voice!
So this afternoon, in early April, I put on my chest waders, huge boots that go up to my chest, and a lifejacket just in case (you can’t swim wearing chest waders). I grab my camera and wander down to the swamp. I can hear Wood Frogs clucking away, like a bunch of crazy chickens, right at the edge of the water. Back farther in the swamp I hear the lovely peep-peep-peep of Spring Peepers. But today I’m after Wood Frogs.
Compared to a wild animal, I make a lot of noise walking around, and the Wood Frogs stop singing. To them, I might be a clumsy raccoon (raccoons would be way better at sneaking up on frogs) or maybe a Great Blue Heron. But I can see just a few of the singers floating silently in the shallow water. I sit on a stump that’s right in the water, and now it’s a waiting game. Will the frogs realize I am not a predator, and sing again before I leave? Will I give up and walk up the hill to get my dinner and try another time?
I decide to be really patient. Besides, sitting in a swamp is very interesting. I spot a fishing spider, walking right on the water, hoping to find a bug for its dinner. The water is so clear in early spring! I can see the detail of every leaf that fell and sank to the bottom last fall, and the reflections are so beautiful.
About ten minutes go by (but who’s counting?), and I see some ripples. Another minute, a half-hearted cluck, then another. More and more frogs start up, and I am in the middle of the choir! This is so fantastic! On the closest frogs I can see their vocal sacs puff out when they call, sending ripples radiating out across the still water. Sometimes one will approach another. Of course, mating and laying eggs is what this is all about. Clucking males are hoping to attract a female, then she will lay eggs that he fertilizes. The calling and mating is all over in just a few days, so there is urgency here! Wood frogs are “explosive” breeders (sounds impressive!). That means they get together in a large group, call, lay and fertilize eggs, then hop back into the woods after only several days. Other frogs, like Spring Peepers, take much longer to finish calling and mating.
The eggs hatch after about a week, and the tadpoles metamorphose into tiny frogs by early to mid-summer. It’s got to be quick, or else the pond or swamp might dry up too soon. Other frogs, like green frogs, choose bigger ponds and lakes and their tadpoles can take a year or more to develop into adults.
Wow, I’ve been in the swamp for way over an hour now. The Wood Frogs are still clucking, checking each other out, and meanwhile, the distant Spring Peepers are getting louder. Tomorrow night I’ll try to find them.
But this afternoon I feel like an honorary member of our local Wood Frog choir.
Well, I’m back in the swamp again. But now it’s night-time, and the choir has changed. The Wood Frogs are still clucking, REALLY clucking – they sound so intense! But I’m deeper in the swamp, actually in a canoe, and I’m surrounded by a beautiful chorus of peeping sounds. These are frogs called Spring Peepers, and their calls are my favourite sound in all of nature.
There’s one calling really close, just a few metres away! I slowly paddle closer, and I’m lucky enough to find him almost right away. He’s in a tangle of old plants and twigs, and is he EVER singing! He’s tiny (he could sit comfortably on a loonie) but he’s SO loud! I love it!
His vocal sac looks like a balloon under his chin, and it puffs out and in, as air is pushed back and forth from his lungs to the sac. That forces air over his vocal cords, and produces the “PEEP!” He’s clinging with suction cup-tipped toes to the twigs, and he’s sitting up straight and peeping in a whole-body effort.
Of course, like the Wood Frogs, he is trying to attract a mate. If he does, he’ll fertilize her eggs. Spring Peepers keep singing in a swamp or pond for over a month, then return to the woods to eat tiny insects until late fall when they hibernate under logs and leaves. Then, one warm-ish late winter or early spring day, probably a rainy one, they’ll hop back into the swamp to continue life’s circle. I can’t believe how much energy the males have after going without food for months!
Paddling back, I’m thankful for wetlands like swamps and marshes that are home to so much wildlife. For many animals, they are like protective nurseries, since they allow tadpoles of frogs and salamanders, and many larval insects to grow up and become adults, while wetlands along lakes even provide shelter for baby fish.
It’s late March. Daffodils are just poking up, and the delightful songs of spring peeper frogs have just begun. I love this time of year. Everything seems to be unfolding as it should as I wander into our back yard. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, something flits past – not a bird…. a butterfly!
It seems amazing to see a butterfly out in early spring. It’s an Eastern Comma, named for its (you guessed it!) comma-shaped marking on the underside of its hindwing.
The next day, near my front door, I saw a Mourning Cloak butterfly flitting around the porch. These species are two of the butterflies that overwinter as adults, snuggling under loose bark on trees or in other shelters in a type of insect hibernation called diapause. In fact, the Mourning Cloak may also enter diapause during a hot, dry summer, and may live for as long as ten months or so, even surpassing migrating Monarchs as our longest-lived butterflies. Our other species of comma butterflies, and our tortoiseshell butterflies, also overwinter as adults and fly about in very early spring.
The recent cold snap (actually a return to normal weather) has caused these two to seek shelter again, but they will be out looking for early spring sustenance as soon as a sunny, warm-ish day returns. I’ve seen Mourning Cloaks feeding on sweet sap seeping from a damaged maple.
It seemed like a quick look at summer to see these two beautiful butterflies flitting about.