Tibicen auletes, the Northern dusk-singing cicada, photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (18 June 2013).

Originally, this was going to be another dragonfly post… but damn! The cicada action was spectacular on Tuesday 18 June and I just can’t hold out! Not even for a day. I mean, look at this dude:

See? #awesome. That’s right: hashtag-awesome.

So, what do we have here? This is a Northern dusk singing cicada, Tibicen auletes. It’s generally considered the largest annual cicada species in the continental United States. This individual is a teneral cicada, meaning it’s essentially a newborn, but only in the sense that it’s a newborn to its adult form. Annual cicadas actually spend at least a year underground in their nymph form. Then, as summer rolls around, they emerge from the ground, undergo ecdysis and shed their old “skin,” and then proceed to jam insect-punk-rock from everybody’s trees. They sing some songs, make sweet love, lay some eggs, and then they die. Cue Elton.

There’s been much ado about the periodic cicadas emerging up north. You know, those brooding cicadas that spend thirteen or seventeen years underground, only to emerge en masse, charging weddings, picnics, and other such outdoor activities… Well, we’re not seeing any of them in south Georgia. And we won’t. They’re out of our range, sadly. We don’t get the crazed red-eyed periodic devils (genus Magicicada) our neighbors to the north are ducking and running from right about now. Our cicadas are essentially limited to the annual cicadas, meaning they’re kind enough to grace us with their presence pretty much every single year. That’s just how they roll, do it please ya.

Earlier this month, I spotted a few Hieroglyphic cicadas (Neocicada hieroglyphica) in the backyard, but I’d been waiting for this one, Tibicen auletes. The Northern duskies are friggin’ huge! At least by cicada standards. Remember, this dude just completed ecdysis and took on its adult form:

So, when do these cicadas usually show up around Valdosta every year? Well, last year I photographed my first Northern dusk singing cicada on 17 June 2012 (post here). That was quickly followed by another very cool individual on the following day, June 18th (post here). This year, the first individual I managed to find and photograph was on June 18th. Nice. Well played, Tibicen. Well played.

Now, that being said, they have been ramping up for about a week. While the Hieroglyphic cicadas have been dominating the soundfield for about two weeks, I’ve been hearing the Tibicens kicking into higher gear with each passing day. I’ve also been finding a few molted sheds here and there. It just so happens that this is the first one I found down low for the season. I’m sure there will be more to follow (as of this writing, there already has been).

You’ll note that the cicada is gradually getting darker in these photographs. This is part of ecdysis — or what comes just after ecdysis. As I chronicled last year, the teneral (new adult) Northern dusky singing cicada starts of a light green, almost ashen-white, but steadily darkens as its exoskelton hardens and solidifies. This individual (possibly) disappeared before it developed its more-typical dark form. I add “(possibly)” to the previous statement because the individual featured in our next post may or may not be the same individual featured here. I’m just not sure. It was in a different location of the backyard. More on that later…

Anyhow, the Northern dusk singing cicadas have arrived. I may not get to photograph the awesome red-eyed monsters from up north this year (and that is a damn shame because you’ve got to love groups of organisms signified by the word “brood” following roman numerals), but I’m still thrilled to have another round of duskies to focus on. They really are spectacularly awesome insects. Bring it on, Tibicen auletes, and bang that gong.

Next on Dust Tracks: Well, damn… How about some more cicada action? Coming Wednesday afternoon or so.

Hat-tip to bugguide.net for confirming my identification! At least I know this cicada…

~ janson

Libellula axilena, the Bar-winged skimmer (females), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (16 June 2013). Identification confirmed by bugguide.net.

Courtesy the good folks at bugguide.net, I can confidently state that this is not only a Bar-winged skimmer, Libellula axilena, but also a female Bar-winged skimmer! Hooray for confident identifications! The issue here, for me, was that immature males and females are both very similar in appearance. No doubt, the trained Odonate Masters of the World can tell the difference by basic anatomical distinctions… but I’m not one of those Odonate Masters. Not yet, anyhow. I hope to someday attain the status of Possible Padawan of Odonates. Maybe.

In our last post, we saw a male Bar-winged skimmer. If you flip back to that post, you’ll see a huge difference between these two dragonflies. Major color differences. Alas, sexual dimorphism such as this are quite common in the insect world. The differences can indeed be quite dramatic, though you may notice the awesomely cartoonish wolf’s head on the side of both individuals. According to Giff Beaton’s Dragonflies & Damselflies of Georgia and the Southeast, the cartoon wolf’s head generally has pointier ears on Bar-winged skimmer than on the similar Slaty skimmer (Libellula incesta). This is one of the reasons I earlier identified this individual as a female Slaty and not a Bar-winged skimmer (I haven’t yet verified that identification, btw). Anyhow, check out this photo and see if you can find the pointy-eared wolf’s head:

Cool, right? Way cool.

Now, the following photograph is actually of a different individual than all the other photos. Again, I think this is a Bar-winged skimmer and not a Slaty skimmer. Note the ears on the wolf’s head, as well as the darkish face with white around the sides. Now, whether or not this is a female or an immature male, I’m not entirely sure. It did seem rather large to be an immature male, though. I may upload it later to bugguide and bug them some more –in a few days– to confirm one way or the other. What do you think:

So, yeah. Busy week on the dragonfly front. I do have a couple more posts following this one — a few more dragonfly action bits yet to come. Then we’re going to move on forward and start checking out some other stuff. It is, after all, cicada season — and my beloved Tibicen auletes have started showing up! Rah!

Next on Dust Tracks: Yup. More dragonflies. A few more, then we’ll move on.

Cool Link: Giff Beaton’s Damselflies and Dragonflies website.

~ janson

Libellula axilena, the Bar-winged skimmer (male), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (16 June 2013). NOTE: This identification was confirmed by bugguide.net on Tuesday 18 June 2013.

I’m fairly sure this is a male Bar-winged skimmer, Libellula axilena (see note above). The next post will present a medley of female and/or possibly immature-male Bar-winged skimmers. Please be warned, however, that Slaty skimmers (Libellula incesta) can be very, very similar in appearance. In other words, I could be off a tick with this identification! And that’s pretty much what this post is about.

To start us off, check out this cool dragonfly:

In this shot, the dragonfly is perched at the top of a metal bird-feeder in our backyard. This was actually the first shot I caught of this individual, and I used a flash. Compare this flash shot with all the others and the dragonfly damn near looks like an entirely different individual. What a difference a flash can make in how the camera responds to and captures the coloring and patterning of the dragonfly.

Now, one of the general tricks with Bar-winged skimmers is to look for the “bar” in the wing, close to the base. It’s extremely evident in this picture:

You can actually see two general Bar-winged indicators in that photo. The first is the set of previously-mentioned black bars radiating out from the base of each wing. The second is the light shimmer/shine of cloudy blue at the base of the wing. Look up again. See that blueish “mist” at the base of the wing? That’s something to look for with male Bar-winged skimmers.

Now, check out this photograph:

The dark bars are seemingly gone and the cloudy-blue is difficult to concretely identify because of the focus. Both those shots are of the exact same dragonfly, however — taken mere seconds apart. So, the “black bar” trick with Bar-winged skimmers can be a bit difficult if you are relying solely on photographs. Those wings are terribly thin and tell-tale signs are not always evident when you’re looking at photographic images.

And that’s pretty much my lesson-learned for the week, though it’s not necessarily a new one. Relying on photographic evidence to positively identify dragonflies is not necessarily the best way to go. The angle of the shot can significantly alter what the dragonfly “looks like” in the photograph. With Bar-winged skimmers, for example, sometimes the bars are obvious and clear, but if you shift the angle just a bit, those bars may disappear before the camera’s eye.

Next on Dust Tracks: We’ll take a look at some female and/or immature male Bar-winged skimmers!

~ janson

Libellula incesta, the Slaty skimmer (female), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (16 June 2013).

This is, I do believe, a female Slaty skimmer (Libellula incesta) absolutely pulverizing a Two-lined spittlebug (Prosapia bicincta). Seriously, the spittlebug was absolutely destroyed by this Slaty skimmer. You may look at dragonflies and think, Aw, gee, they’re so cute and soft and delicate! Well, yeah, sure. They are in many respects. But they’re also cold blooded killers who absolutely destroy their prey with an efficiency that should turn your blood cold. These organisms are brutally strong and efficient predators, which is to say they are way-awesome. Unless you’re this spittlebug.

Slaty skimmers by nature are usually found closer to the water than my backyard. Apparently they often perch near the edge of open water and hunt whatever flying bugs happen to come buzzing by. I’ve seen a few Slaty skimmers in the yard this past week, but not as many as the forthcoming Bar-winged skimmers (a very similar species in appearance, as you’ll see). I was somewhat torn with this identification because female and immature Bar-winged skimmers can look so damn similar (even with the eyes, it seems), but this one didn’t have the typical “bars” in the wings, by the joints, and the face wasn’t as splashy-dark as most reference photos I’ve seen for female Bar-winged skimmers. That being said, my identification should be considered as tentative; I am not a dragonfly master!

Next on Dust Tracks: We’re diving into Bar-winged skimmer territory! Or, rather, they’re diving into my yard!

~ janson

Plathemis lydia, the Common whitetail (male), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (16 June 2013).

Hey, it’s a brand-spanking new species for Dust Tracks! Though I’m sure it’s not the first time I’ve seen the species, this is the first photograph I’ve caught of a Common whitetail, Plathemis lydia (Correction: I actually photographed another whitetail on 26 May 2013, but forgot about it when I wrote this post). This is a fairly distinctive species. Whereas females can be reddish-brown with white markings, the males are almost always blueish to ashen-white. The spotting on the wings is also different between sexes. Males have markings as seen above, whereas females can have more (three sets of marks on each wing, including one at the very tip of the wing).

Common whitetails tend to stick close to bodies of water. There’s a fairly extensive wetland just to the edge of our neighborhood — a few blocks away. I was a bit surprised to find this male scouting our backyard, landing briefly on the exterior wall of our house. I managed to snag a couple of quick shots before the Whitetail took off again and flew over the fence, in the general direction of the wetland marsh.

Tomorrow we’ve got some more dragonfly action coming. Awesome macro material!

~ janson

Libellula vibrans, the Great blue skimmer, photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (13 June 2013).

This is an identification I’m not entirely sure about. I *think* this is a Great blue skimmer, but I’m not positive. The face certainly appears white enough to me, along with that little dark button of a “nose” up top. The Blue dasher (Pachydiplax longipennis) is the other possibility, though I think they have more blue/black on the face than this one appears to have. What really throws me off is that area of dark blue on the top of the abdomen, just behind the eyes. Unfortunately, this is the one and only shot I managed to get of this particular individual before it flew off. It was also the only such individual I spotted this yard this weekend, though I did spot a Great blue skimmer in the same area last year (link) and we’ve had no shortage of blue dashers in the yard this month. I’ll certainly be on the lookout for a repeat visit from either this or similar-appearing dragonflies.

~ janson

Pachydiplax longipennis, Blue dasher (female or immature male), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (16 June 2013).

Another Blue dasher? Yup. Another Blue dasher! But don’t worry, there’s plenty more dragonflies to come — above and beyond the Blue dasher.

I spent part of my Father’s Day tip-toeing around the backyard, creeping up on and photographing a number of dragonflies. It was positively buzzing with activity. I also spent a good amount of time fishing for identifications, pouring through Giff Beaton’s Dragonflies and Damselflies of Georgia and the Southeast (University of Georgia Press, 2007), bugguide.net, Project Noah, and the website Dragonflies and Damselflies (Odonata) of Georgia, the southeastern U.S., and beyond. I was indeed quite busy trying to figure it all out. Not sure that I *do* have it all figured out (heh), but hopefully I have a handle on what’s what in the next few days of posts.

So, this is either an immature male or female Blue dasher, Pachydiplax longipennis – the same species I profiled this past Saturday. What can I say? I’m a sucker for those beautiful faces and eyes. Of all the dragonfly species we currently have buzzing around our property, this Blue dasher is by far the most abundant at the moment.

As I noted earlier, we live next to a rather-broad wetland north of Valdosta, so seeing females of the species isn’t out of the question (they’re apparently more reclusive than the males, mature and immature alike). Still, it could be that I’m seeing really-young male Blue dashers and slightly-older male Blue dashers. So, just keep in mind that my “female” Blue dasher could, in fact, be very young males. I’m not entirely sure one way or the other, though I am fairly sure these are, in fact, Blue dashers.

Expect plenty of dragonfly shots the next few days. Thematically, that’s my focus this week. I’ll also be touching up and refining the Odonata section of the photographically-thumbnailed Lifelist page, featuring dragonflies from this week, as well as a few old (less clear) photos of dragonflies I’ve encountered in the past. In the Here & Now, hopefully the Northern dusk singing cicadas (Tibicen auletes) will start showing up this week, too. Rah!

Next on Dust Tracks: Two short dragonfly posts coming later today!

~ janson

Unidentified species of Family Chrysopidae, a Green lacewing larva, photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (12 June 2013). Files under Chrysopidae Larva.

If you look really, really closely at the round piece o’ crud in the photograph above, you’ll see the vague outlines of an insect wrapped up in that mass of what-not. This is, in fact, not simply a piece o’ crud. It’s a Green lacewing larva. The larva, it turns out, has stacked all kinds of crud on top of itself, creating the insect version of Captain America’s shield. Crazy, right?

When I first spotted the little larva, I had no idea what it was. I was routinely checking the trees in the backyard for arthropods and spotted a tiny piece of bark/lichen mass move. It wasn’t much, just a few millimeters at most. But it was movement. I stopped and zoomed in. This is what I saw:

My initial reaction was What the hell is that? Understandable, right? Remember, I’m no arthropod expert. A lot of the material posted on Dust Tracks is fairly new to me, especially when it comes to arthropods. Anyhow, the speck of crud moved a bit more, so I knew I had to investigate and find out more. Whatever it was, it was alive and moving. I grabbed a leaf from the ground and scooped the piece o’ crud from the tree. I took the bizarre mash of what-the-hell-is-that over to the back patio table and put it down. It sat still and didn’t move, so I flipped it over:

I can’t describe the difficulty I had photographing this thing clearly. I could barely see the details with my naked eyes, much less focus on them through the 60mm lens. In the photo above, you can see the bottom of the larva’s body, its legs radiating up and down in the photo. Below, you can see the pincer-like jaws on the left side of the mass.

I had to submit this funkadelic organism to bugguide.net to get some feedback. I was at a total loss. In very little time, I received a response. Turns out it was, in fact, a species of Green lacewing in larval form. I had a bit of a face-slap “duh” moment when I read the reply. I’d already seen Brown lacewing larvae this spring (featured in the previous post) and this dude had similar Chekov-chompin’ pincer thingies. The big difference, of course, is that it had an armored shield built of debris. Heh. Totally threw me off (and I guess that’s sort of the point of building a shield of debris).

Chrysoperla rufilabris, the Green lacewing, from 18 March 2013.

What a far cry from the adult-form Green lacewing. Back in March, I featured an adult-form Green lacewing (pictured again and linked on the right). Though I wasn’t positive of the species identification in that post, I was (and still am) certain that it was a Green lacewing. When one looks at the little shielded larva in these photographs, one might not immediately think of the emerald beauties adult Green lacewings prove themselves to be.

Yet again, I find myself moderately floored and humbled before Earth’s biodiversity. I mean, seriously… This planet has some seriously awesome biodiversity stomping around. Even in my backyard, every day it feels like I find something new (or at least learn something new). I can’t help but to be reminded of how very little I truly know. Hard for me to believe there are so many people out there who sincerely think they’ve got it all figured out… If they’d just slow down, stop preaching/yelling at others, look closer at the world physically in front of them, and ask genuinely thoughtful questions, they might discover there are mysteries all around them and the world isn’t as easy, simple, and canned as they may have otherwise believed.

Next on Dust Tracks: I do believe we’ll see more dragonflies!

~ janson

Centered and focused organism: Unidentified species of Family Hemerobiidae, the Brown lacewing, photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (14 May 2013).  Filed under Hemerobiidae Larva.

Oh yeah, we’re getting into some unfamiliar and new territory with this and the next post. The next post is sort of the bigger one. It’s the destination, if you will. This one’s just covering some basics, using the Brown lacewing larva you see in the middle of this photograph as the groundworks (the other organisms to the lowerleft is an aphid, I think).

So, here’s the issue: larva vs. nymph. What in the holy hell is the difference?

HOLOMETABOLOUS: Okay, so some insects undergo four distinct phases in life: the embryo stage, the larval stage, the pupal stage, and the imago/adult stage. The first stage, the embryo stage, precedes birth of course. The larval stage is the second stage. The insect’s physical morphology is distinct and different from that of an imago/adult form. Because of this, the larva exists in an entirely different ecological context from the adults. They play a different game and live a different kind of life. There’s no significant competition between larvae and their respective full-grown compadres. The larva then enters the pupal stage, sometimes marked by less activity and perhaps even cocooning. Following the pupal stage, this type of organism emerges its imago/adult form. Organisms that undergo these four stages of complete metamorphosis are referred to as being holometabolous.

If you want an easy example, think of butterflies. An embryo is formed. Eventually, you have a caterpillar stomping about. This is the larval form. That caterpillar is eventually cocooned. Within the cocoon, it transitions dramatically to the imago/adult form — the butterfly we all know and love. Four stages of life with distinct differences between them. What’s interesting is how dramatically different a larva can be from an adult. Because of this, you’ll sometimes see people write about them as separate organisms. In a way, they are… because the physical nature of a larva from its respective adult form can be so dramatically different. Still, it is actually the same organism, just in different stages of its life.

HEMIMETABOLOUS: Hemimetabolism is an alternative life system to holometabolism. Hemimetabolism signifies gradual metamorphosis. Hemimetabolous organisms don’t undergo four entirely-separate stages of development. In fact, the nymph form (which is the parallel to the larval form) often somewhat resembles the body shape of the adult form. These kinds of organisms molt their exoskeleton, gradually taking on the adult form. These semi-stages of molting are called instars. Dragonflies and cicadas are hemimetabolous organisms, whereas butterflies, moths, and lacewings are holometabolous.

SOME EXAMPLES:

Larval antlion trap (image from Wikipedia).

Have you ever heard of an antlion? Well, if you grew up in my part of the world, you probably have. They’re tiny little organisms that build cone-shaped sandtraps in loose soil. Antions, buried just beneath the bottom of their pit-trap, wait patiently for ants and other tiny critters to fall in. As the ant tries to escape, the ant lion works from beneath the trap, kicking up sand, and forcing the ant to sink lower — to the antlion’s waiting jaws. Nom nom nom.

Adult antlion (image from Wikipedia).

Well, the antlion is actually a group of species belonging to Order Neuroptera. They are close relatives to the Lacewings. The antlions you may know and love from those childhood sand traps are actually the larval form of the winged-species. Eventually they become winged-adults and resemble other, more-familiar lacewings.

So, this is the moral. The point. The key, if you’re an amateur like myself… When you’re looking at arthropods, you have to remember that there are dramatic differences between various stages of life for some insects. If you’ve got a tiny little Enemy-Mine-looking creature, it very well may be the larval form of something entirely different. In the land of Insecta, not everything is exactly as it seems.

Brown lacewing adult (image from Wikipedia).

Back to the critter at the top of this post: This is some species of Brown lacewing in its larval form (identified with the assistance of the bugguide.net krewe). Apparently identifying it to the species is damn near impossible unless you really know what you’re looking at — and I didn’t. At least I know it’s a Brown lacewing. For reference, check out the Wikipedia image of an adult Brown lacewing to the right. Big difference, right? We went from a creature stalking Chekov’s ear to a little winged-delight.

These are the kinds of morphological changes I’ve been trying to take note of this spring and summer. I have a decent number of photographs and organisms I’ve worked quite a bit on, trying to learn both holometabolous and hemimetabolous changes through each species’ life span.

And that sets me/us up for the next few posts. The next one, frankly, blows my freakin’ mind. We’re talking armored-tank-lacewing action. Rah!

~ janson

Pachydiplax longipennis, Blue dasher (Immature male), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (12 June 2013).

In our last post, we checked out a female Blue dasher, Pachydiplax longipennis. Here we’re turning our attention to an immature male Blue dasher. After checking out bugguide.net’s Blue dasher profile page, it looks like this is what is called a “tween” (this makes me giggle). This tween is not quite an adult yet, but it’s not exactly a young juvenile either. It’s a tween, in-between. And it probably loves the Twilight franchise, too.

I can’t count the number of tween Blue dashers I’ve seen in the yard these past few weeks. The tweens are out and about, damn near swarming at times. On the prowl. Got something to prove. I suppose from their perspective, our backyard is not unlike a shopping mall — a cool place for the tweens to hang out, be busy, eat stuff, and generally just act cool. And my oh my, they are indeed cool.

Next on Dust Tracks: Lacewings and Larvae!

~ janson

Pachydiplax longipennis, the Blue dasher (female), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (09 June 2013).

As summer thickens and the cicadas grow louder and louder in the trees, we’re seeing a solid spike in dragonfly activity in our Valdosta backyard. Lots of dragonflies darting to and fro, especially the Blue dashers (Pachydiplax longipennis). Our neighborhood is situated on the northern edge of a broad (but not too large) wetland on the northern edge of Valdosta, Georgia. I have little doubt our proximity to this wetland is one of the primary reasons we see so much dragonfly activity on our property. They really are everywhere right now — day and night.

If I have my identification correct (and please remember that I am not a dragonfly expert), this is a female Blue dasher. In the world of dragonflies, sexual dimorphism can be quite dramatic between males and females. To complicate matters more, there can also be quite a difference between immature males and adult males. Immature males often look like females in the dragonfly world. In this case, with this individual, it’s either an extremely young, immature male or it’s a female. I’m pretty sure it’s a female after scouring a slew of photographs for comparisons and contrasts. (To see one excellent collection of Blue dashers and their visual diversity, check out bugguide.net’s Blue dasher species page.)

Here’s an interesting bit of information I stumbled across, though it relates more  to dragonflies in general than to this one specific species. Dragonflies lay eggs on foliage in the water. From there, the dragonfly nymphs hatch and swim about, feeding on small critters. Eventually, the nymphs climb out of the water. When they dry out, their larval exoskeleton cracks open, they spread their new wings, and fly off to do the duty of The Awesome Adult Dragonfly.

Here’s what I didn’t know: In general, the majority of the dragonfly’s life is often spent in its larval stage. For some species, they can remain in the water as larvae for up to five years. Wing-born adults average closer to five months. So, generally speaking, when you see a dragonfly whisking about in your yard, you’re looking at an organism that’s already led a fascinating and (relatively speaking) long life. When they’re darting around your yard, they’re dancing in the twilight of their lifespan. You’re catching the tail-end of the dragonfly’s sojourn on this earth.

Next on Dust Tracks: Another Blue dasher, but not a female. We’re talking “tweens” next!

~ janson

Neocicada hieroglyphica, the Hieroglyphic cicada, photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (10 June 2013).

Down on the Florida/Georgia border, we’re a bit out of range from the much-talked-about 17-year cicada rush going on further to our north. We don’t have swarms of those awesome red-eyed devils clamoring about our trees. Nope, not quite. Our cicadas are a bit more typical and a bit more commonplace each and every year.

Tibicen auletes, 18 June 2012.

Last year, I had a ball photographing the Northern dusk singing cicadas (Tibicen auletes) in our backyward (featured and linked in the two inset photographs). We had a ton of them by mid-June. I even managed to find one just after ecdysis (the shedding of its pupal exoskeleton). Oh yeah, they were a little more than awesome.

By the end of the season, I’d also spotted a few Hieroglyphic cicadas, Neocicada hieroglyphica. The Hieroglyphics were a bit smaller than the robust Dusk singing cicadas. They were also far more patterned and ornate (hence their “Hieroglyphic” common name). As the season closed and I looked back at my photos, I wished I’d seen more of the Neocicadas.

Well, now it’s 2013 and we’re slowly crawling into cicada season. As of 14 June 2013, the day I’m composing this post, I still haven’t seen a single Tibicen. I have, however, come across two Hieroglyphic cicadas, the second of which was photographed on 09 June 2013 and is the primary photographic focus of this post.

According to bugguide.net’s data map, the Hieroglyphic cicada ranges throughout the American southeast — from Oklahoma/Texas east to Florida and up to North Carolina. They reach lengths up to 32mm from head to wing-tip (about 1.25 inches) and are quite partial to oak (which is hard to get away from in this part of the country). The have a fairly light drone-like call, as can be heard here. Needless to say, I’m hearing a good number of these critters this week, though I’m still not seeing very many. Just two so far.

Tibicen auletes, 17 June 2012.

As you can tell from the  inset photographs of T. auletes, I’m a huge fan of cicada faces. I mean, damn… If ever you wanted an awesome representation of an arthropodic face in all its alienesque glory, the cicada is the way to go. Not only do you have those awesome, classicly-buggy compound eyes, but you also have the dorsal ocelli — the three red jewel-like eyes in the middle of the face.

Dorsal ocelli are essentially light-sensitive eyes. They don’t really focus sharply on vivid form or detail, but instead recognize differences in figure/ground contrast between light and dark. The dorsal ocelli can enable the cicada to better recognize night from day, as well as ground from sky (thus giving it an extra kind of bearings-device when flying). Cicadas aren’t the only organisms to have dorsal ocelli, of course. Most insects have dorsal ocelli in one form or another, and many other organisms (particularly invertebrates) have similar light-receptive eyes.

With any luck, we’ll have a good, strong cicada season in south Georgia. I’m itching to do more macro facial studies of these fascinating insects. Though winter was long and spring was slow to arrive, I’m hoping the cicadas will come out in force in the next few weeks. I was certainly happy to see this particular Hieroglyphic cicada on the back patio.

Next on Dust Tracks: Thar be dragons in the yard! Let’s look at their faces!

Relevant Link: If you’re interested in learning more about cicadas of Florida (and South Georgia), check out the University of Florida’s Entomology and Nematology Department’s cicada info page.

~ janson

Crotalus horridus, the Timber rattlesnake, photographed in Lanier county, Georgia (12 June 2012).

Cue Etta James: At laaaaast!

Indeed, I have finally stumbled across a wild (and living) Timber rattlesnake! For some reason or another, I simply haven’t come across any wild (and freakin’-alive) Timbers since moving to south Georgia, despite their being fairly common in the region. When I left the house the morning of Wednesday 12 June 2013 and was well on my out to the field, I realized as an absolute fact that I’d find a rattlesnake, probably laying on a road somewhere. I absolutely, positively knew I’d find one. It was inevitable. Seriously, I just knew it. I even said to myself in the car, aloud and in a dramatic, assertive voice, “Janson, you’re totally going to find a rattlesnake today. #fact.” I said the last part like this: “hash-tag-fact.” Aloud, to myself. Seriously. I did. That’s how I speak, #forreals.

A bit later, I did find a Timber rattlesnake. It was on a dirt road, laid out like a ribbonous gift, all for me and my camera. A beautiful ribbon of venomous awesome. And I just knew it would be there. And it was. Let me back up a bit and explain.

I present to you a secret of life. This is an anecdote from The Third Anolis Newsletter edited by Ernest E. Williams of Harvard University in 1977:

Ah, shit. So, the Malice of Nature stands between you and your treacherous deceit and manipulation of the Principle of Unsympathetic Magic. Sigh. Damn nature, always a step ahead of you.

So, back to our story: When I left the house this morning and was en route, I absolutely realized –as a clear and evident truth– that I would see a rattlesnake during the day’s trek. And you know what? I did. So, where we’re heading isn’t a case of the Principle of Unsympathetic Magic. This is something new. Well, it’s not actually new. Not exactly. It’s quite different, but it’s another governing principle I think many people who go out and search for organisms may identify with. For me, it’s an identifiable principle I formally recognized during this trip.

As I was heading to my hunting grounds for the day –the east side of Grand Bay Wildlife Management Area between Valdosta and Lakeland, Georgia– I realized I’d left all of my snake gear at home. Snake hook? Back at home. Expandable dip-net? Back at home. Tripod? Back at home. You have to understand, I almost always carry these three pieces of equipment with me when I head out into the field, along with my camera/gear bag. I rarely actually use them all, but I always want to have them available, especially in the case of coming across a venomous snake or something else a bit more on the risky side of life. I don’t just grab and pick up any old venomous snake I happen to come across with my grubby, clumsy man-hands. I use my snake hook and, at times, my expandable dip-net for maneuvering the little and not-so-little lovelies.

The second I realized I’d left my gear at home, I also realized that if I did come across a venomous snake, such as a rattlesnake, I wouldn’t have my equipment with me — and my ability to work with such an organism, a venomous snake in this case, would be greatly diminished. And that’s how I knew I would definitely see a Timber rattlesnake during this trip. Why? Because I’d left my gear at home, the same gear I’d been lugging around south Georgia for two years hoping to stumble across a Timber rattlesnake. I simply didn’t have what I’d need to handle the Timber rattlesnake that’s eluded me for nearly two years  in South Georgia.

It’s a common occurrence in my experiences: If and when you head into the field without some vital piece of equipment you’d need to handle a specific type of organism, you’re probably going to see that type of organism and have to suffer the consequences of not having your equipment at the ready. I’m calling this The Kakakairos of the Most Unprepared. When you don’t have your shit ready to go, then the target organism will manifest and present itself — at the most inopportune moment.

That was certainly the case here. I came across the Timber rattlesnake sprawled across a rural dirt road south of Lakeland and northeast of Valdosta. It was a narrow dirt road with deep trenches to each side. Spotting the hopelessly beautiful snake on the road, I hopped out of the car with my camera, knowing I was entirely at the mercy of the snake’s patience and willpower. I began composing photographs quickly, trying to catch the major features, the primary angles. If the snake decided to move away, I didn’t really have any way to “negotiate” with the snake. It was entirely in charge. There simply wasn’t much I could do about it.

Despite being unprepared, I was starting to feel pretty good about the moment. The snake was holding still for me, letting me get some shots. I decided to switch to the macro lens and try to work in a little closer (albeit cautiously). All my best shots are with the macro lens and I’m pretty good about getting moderately close, while remaining defensively positioned. Maybe I would get the awesome shots I’d dreamt about for two years after all…? And that’s when I noticed the massive fucking dirt-road utility vehicle approaching from behind. Dirt roads like this are smoothed out by oversized tractor-/tank-like vehicles with broad, lateral bladelike attachments. They scrape the surface of the road smooth, pushing the loose matter into the ravine at the side.

Right there, right then, at that particular moment, the freakin’ dirt-road utility vehicle happened to be doing its job, approaching the Timber rattlesnake, myself, and the Jeep. Of all the dirt roads in south Georgia, this was the one it happened to be working on at that particular moment.

There was no way for the massive utility vehicle to move around us, and I wasn’t willing to test its patience by trying to make it wait. One simply does not test the patience of south Georgians. I knew I had to move onward. I also knew I needed to get this Timber rattlesnake, which still hadn’t moved an inch but to shift its gaze toward me, off the road. Because I didn’t have my gear with me, there was no way for me to effectively transit the snake to safer grounds. I couldn’t really move the snake and I couldn’t move myself without leaving the snake. Why? Because I left my snake gear at home.

And that, my friends, is Kakakairos of the Most Unprepared.

The resolution/conclusion: I ran back to the Jeep, abandoning the camera and macro lens, and grabbed one of Kid A’s little blankets that happened to be in the Jeep. I ran back to the Timber rattlesnake and gently swung at the snake with it. The rattlesnake predictably coiled up, rattled, and struck at the blanket a few times (once actually grabbing hold of the blanket for a few seconds; I’ve since washed it). As I’d hoped, it then turned around and fled to the ravine/forest off to the side. With the armored-tank-division of a utility road tractor approaching, I jumped back in the Jeep and blew forward.

So, a reminder to myself and to anybody else listening, or reading, whatever: beware not only the Principle of Unsympathetic Magic, but also the Kakakairos of the Most Unprepared. Both are most certainly fueled, or at least governed, by the Malice of Nature, which is not to be trifled with. Ever. In the end, even time, space, and monster-truck-tractor-things are manipulated by the Malice of Nature.

Next on Dust Tracks: OMG, the arthropods in south Georgia are awesome! #isweartogoditstruereallyido.

Hat-tip to Kiki for helping find the word “kakakairos” (it’s a real word)!

~ janson

Alligator mississippiensis, the American alligator, photographed in Orange county, Florida (07 June 2013).

This is the 21st post on Dust Tracks featuring an American alligator (Alligator mississippiensis). I’m not sure if I have much more to say about them, short of telling  stories of specific individuals. Sometimes encounters with American alligators are very story-worthy. I’ve certainly had a few…

There was the behemoth at Lake Woodruff who pulled his way on the levee and effectively blocked my path. I had to double-back several miles to get back to the Jeep. The monster gator simply wouldn’t get out of my way. Stubborn. 

And then there was the one-eyed devil in Big Cypress who stalked me along the edge of Loop Road. That was a creepy encounter, a creepy, big gator. Friggin’ gator was stalking me like I was a big dumb mammal or something. Maybe I shouldn’t have been walking so close to a gator hole?

And, yeah, then there was the youngster (but not too young) in Alachua county that I caught by hand one chilly afternoon. It was the one and only gator I’ve ever –or likely will ever– catch by hand. Such foolishness is not recommended. Even a youngster like that could do some serious damage to feeble human hands.

Yeah, I’ve got some stories floating around that are worth telling sooner or later…

But what about this gator? What about this youngster photographed at Trimble Park in central Florida, right on the edge of the Orange and Lake county line? What story is there to tell? Well, not much, it turned out. It was a Hemingwayesque encounter: The gator was in front of me. In front of me was the gator. I took some pictures, the gator slipped into the water, and we parted ways. The end.

Not all encounters with wildlife are story-worthy, even if the photographs come out rather nicely. This was just a young alligator bagging a little late-morning sunshine in central Florida. A common story told by a (once again) common animal of the American southeast. Still, I treasure the encounter. There may not have been much drama or excitement to it, but the little gator sure was cute.

Next on Dust Tracks: Later today, we’re heading back to south Georgia for some awesome friggin’ rattlesnake and reality action!

~ janson

Gastrophryne carolinensis, the Eastern narrow-mouthed toad, photographed in Lake county, Florida (07 June 2013).

This is Gastrophryne carolinensis, the Eastern narrow-mouthed toad, and it is awesome. I consider myself a card-carrying and bonafide member of the Gastrophryne Fan Club, if such a thing exists. If there isn’t such a thing, there should be. These narrow-mouthed dudes and dudettes are awesome, though they’re not really toads; they’re frogs. Ribbit.

So why are they called “toads”? A fine question. I’m not really sure, but I suspect it has something to do with how they live their lives. Eastern narrow-mouthed toads are for the most part fossorial, meaning they spend much of their time buried under surface debris and loose soil. When I see them in Florida, I’ll usually find them under trash cans, large boards, and the like. This is similar to the Southern toad, Anaxyrus terrestris, which hides similarly during the day and comes out at night to hunt and be awesome. Most Floridian “frogs” tend to be in or near the water, or up in the trees or walls. Gastrophryne don’t play that way. Ribbit.

As for this hardy little genius, I found it staring down the barrel of a certain death. The tiny-yet-robust rocket scientist had jumped into my parents’ pool after a heavy rain. It was likely “washed up” from wherever it had been hiding. Why it decided to jump into the pull mid-day is beyond me. Unlike many frogs, Eastern narrow-mouthed toads aren’t exactly awesome swimmers, much less climbers. They’re diggers, like Dig-Dug. So, the little dude was hanging on for dear life by clinging to the pool’s robot-roomba-thingy, the dangling cord slowly submerging by the second. Ribbit.

I fished the Gastrophryne out, snapped a few quick macros, and put ‘em back in the Garden District of my parents’ yard — a thick, colorful area loaded with pots, plants, boards, and other Floridian agricultural goodness (what we call “Stuff”). In my heart of hearts, I like to think that the little Anura thanked me silently as I placed it next to a board where it promptly disappeared… but odds are it was thinking something like, Whaddajackass! How did he lose me!!! Loser. Ribbit

I should note that Eastern narrow-mouthed toads don’t actually speak the Classical language of Ribbit. It’s more like reeeeeeeeeeeeeee reeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Next on Dust Tracks: Awwwww, a lil’ gator!

Text

~ janson

Osteopilus septentrionalis, the Cuban treefrog, photographed in Lake county, Florida (06 June 2013).

A few years back, the Floridian peninsula suffered an unusually bitter and long winter. Much of the peninsula, you see, isn’t really adapted to deal with more than a few hard freezes. When the Sunshine State does suffer a deep freeze, there can be substantial damage (with real-world economic consequences) to its citrus crops. Biological populations can also be negatively impacted. This may potentially be the case with Florida’s many non-native species — many of which come from the Caribbean.

The Cuban treefrog (Osteopilus septentrionalis) is one such non-native species that seems to have taken a bit of a hit from that long, sharp winter in central Florida. In my parents’ neighborhood in Lake county, Florida, the species has long been well-established, but for the past few years I haven’t seen very many at all. Only now –late-spring of 2013– am I seeing them come out once again in full-force. And repopulation seems to be the name of the game.

Last spring and summer, I only saw a handful of Cuban treefrogs in my parents neighborhood (in their backyard, around my grandmother’s house, and so on). In the past two months, I’ve made several trips to Lake county and I’m finding Cuban treefrogs pretty much everywhere. Their population density isn’t close to what it used to be, but they’re back up in the range I’d call “friggin’ common.” It’s very easy to find (and hear) Cuban treefrogs in Mount Dora, Florida — once again. Though their numbers seemed to have been impacted during the freeze, they’re rebounding quite efficiently in my parents’ Mount Dora neighborhood.

As for these two, they were photographed along the edge of my parents’ pool. The big one at the bottom is a female, the little one up top is a male. This is typical mating behavior for Cuban treefrogs (and other species). There were perhaps a half dozen other Cuban treefrogs in the immediate area when I shot this photograph (some of which will be featured later).

Next on Dust Tracks: A frog? or a toad?

~ janson

Aramus guarauna, the Limpkin, photographed in Orange county, Florida (07 June 2013).

Though this is the first Limpkin (Aramus guarauna) I’ve posted on Dust Tracks, it’s certainly not the first Limpkin I’ve seen and/or photographed. I’ve seen plenty of Limpkins throughout the Floridian peninsula over the years, but rarely are they as cooperative as this individual. It was perched along the edge of “the cove” at Trimble Park, a little pocket of water near the Group Camping area, and held its position for a few minutes while I switched lenses and snapped a few quick shots. Then, as is typical, the Limpkin flew off to a more-secluded spot.

This species ranges throughout most of South America, but is also well established in the Floridian peninsula and, to a lesser extent, the Okefenokee Swamp in southern Georgia. It is the only living species of Family Aramidae, which is, in turn, a member of Order Gruiformes (along with the cranes, coots, and moorhens). I’ve seen limpkins only along the edges of freshwater habitats — typically ponds, lakes, and canals. Most of the individuals I’ve personally seen (and tried to photograph) have been at Lake Woodruff National Wildlife Refuge in Volusia county and along the many lakes of the aptly named Lake county.

Next on Dust Tracks: We shed our feathers and get a little green!

~ janson

Dendrocygna autumnalis, the Black-bellied whistling duck, photographed in Orange county, Florida (07 June 2013).

First, I may be incorrect with my identification. I am not a master birder and the closest identification I could find was the Black-bellied whistling duck, Dendrocygna autumnalis.  This identification should definitely be considered tentative until it’s received either confirmation or correction. [Update on 11 June @ 11:43am: Peter May of Stetson University has verified that this is, in fact, the Black-bellied whistling duck. The identification is correct! Thanks again, Peter!]

As for the duck itself, it was photographed on the same dock at Trimble Park, perched alongside the White ibis (Eudocimus albus) I posted yesterday. The species ranges from much of central and northern South America to the southern reaches of the United States, including Florida, Louisiana, and Texas. In terms of subspecies, this is likely D. a. autmnalis, the Northern black-bellied whistling duck. In Florida, it seems the species is somewhat limited to the interior of the Floridian peninsula (according to a few range maps I looked at), which certainly fits the bill with Trimble Park (along the Orange and Lake county line a bit north/northwest of Orlando).

This duck wasn’t quite as cooperative as the White ibis next to it. Whereas the ibis stood its post and refused to budge, the duck was fairly quick to take off over the lake. I only managed three decent shots before it took off, but they’re all from the same angle. It was a lovely Anseriforme, and I hope to find another to photograph!

Next on Dust Tracks: Yet more Florida stuff!

~ janson

Eudocimus albus, the White ibis, photographed in Orange county, Florida (07 June 2013).

To quote Tom Petty: Oh my my, oh hell yes! This is a rather magnificent and somewhat tolerant and cautiously curious American white ibis, Eudocimus albus. The White ibis is an extremely common wader in the American southeast, especially throughout the Floridian peninsula. I don’t see them too often here in Valdosta, but I do nearly every time I venture south into my homestate.

The White ibis is a member of Family Threskiornithidae, along with the equally-awesome Roseate spoonbill (Platalea ajaja). Birds in this family are all waders, whether ibis or spoonbill, meaning they spend much of their time wading and fishing the shallows with their uniquely shaped bills. With White ibis in Florida, however, the species is certainly not limited to coastal and freshwater shallows. I often see them “wading” through residential lawns, picking through freshly-mown grass for good eats. The dudes and dudettes have awesome bills and it seems they know how to use them in a variety of habitats, thank you very much.

This individual was perched on a dock post at Tremble Park along the Orange and Lake county line. It never flew away, but instead stood its post. Awesome.

Next on Dust Tracks: More Florida stuff! (Of course…)

~ janson

Anaxyrus terrestris, the Southern toad (toadlet), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (14 May 2013).

So, you probably know what a toad looks like. It’s like a dry, fat, warty frog. And you probably know what a tadpole looks like. It’s like a giant, dark, slimy, sperm-shaped creature. Heh. But what about the in-between phase? When the tadpole actually metamorphosizes into the adult form? When the creature transitions from the water-bound tadpole to the ground-bound toad? When the critter loses its tail and takes to its four newly-formed legs? The very same legs it will use to hop around endlessly for the rest of its life? Well, there is no magic Harry Potter spell that instantly transitions the tadpole to the toad (“Toadiamus!”). It’s a process, and though it is rather quick in biological terms, it’s still a transition and not a simple flip of the switch.

During this transitional stage, once the creature has taken to land but not yet formed its full adult form, toads are commonly referred to as “toadlets.” This post presents two Southern toad(lets), Anaxyrus terrestris, newly arrived to dry ground.

Hiking Grand Bay WMA in southern Georgia on 14 May 2013, I came across hundreds of toadlets clustered around a large stretch of standing water on an unused dirt road. The old tire grooves in the dirt road developed a kind of long-term trench of standing water. The Southern toads (and heaven knows what else) use these pseudo-canals to lay eggs. The eggs hatch, the tadpoles do their thing, and then the toadlets emerge from the water to embark on a lifetime journey of hopping, eating, and making more baby toadlets.

The photographs directly above and below this block of text are of one individual — slightly more developed than the other toadlet (photographs one, four, and five). You can really see the Southern toadiness of this individual, albeit in a super-tiny form.

The other toadlet I photographed, on the other hand, lacked most distinguishing characteristics of an adult Southern toad. Look how smooth this toadlet is, not to mention its utter lack of cresting:

There were hundreds of these toadlets clustered around this thirty-yard-or-so “canal” of standing water at Grand Bay. Coastal Plains cricket frogs (Acris gyllus gryllus) were also present, sharing the canal with their toadlet brethren, though they were in full adult form and not nearly as numerous. This canal was, for the moment at least, the domain of the Southern toadlet.

Next on Dust Tracks: Later today, we’ll dip our toes back into Floridian territory. In fact, much of this week will focus on Florida critters. I’m amazingly backlogged on material and will likely compose at least two posts a day this week. There’s so much goodness out there right now!

~ janson

The Castaways launch on Saturday 07 June 2013. Photo courtesy Cherie Stabler.

As I approach the I’m-Still-Here milestone of 40 years of age, I sometimes find myself increasingly cynical of the society around me. On my hiking trips, I frequently encounter people throwing sticks and rocks at snakes, frogs, birds, or whatever happens to be in front of them. I find harmless animals crushed beneath the boots of others. I see people yelling at each other and screaming at their kids. When I turn on the television, I see an ocean of mediocrity, manipulation, and dim-witted logic. I see people voting against their own interests. I see others rail that anyone who disagrees with them is somehow unpatriotic. I see people spit venom and vitriol at each other nearly daily. With all this human drudgery, it’s easy to become cynical. It’s easy to fall into the self-perpetuating trap of pessimism.

Then the 20 May 2013 tornado storm swept through central Oklahoma. For the third time in recent years, the town I used to live next door to was decimated by a monster tornado. On my Facebook wall, I watched my Oklahoma friends and former colleagues post reports from the ground — reports of aid and assistance, reports of the communities banding together and tearing through the debris in search of survivors. I saw status update after status update of people helping one another, regardless of politics, regardless of ideology. When yet another tornadic storm blew through the OKC area a week later, I saw more of the same. People banding together without reward or personal gain. People helping people, period. Events like that help maintain, foster, and nourish my sense of humanity in the American vein. People are, in their hearts, capable of enormous good. They can respond with grace, humility, and utter courage in the face of nightmarish catastrophe.

Human tragedy and suffering isn’t limited to catastrophic (and photogenic) weather and/or terror events. It can strike each and every day and in every way imaginable. In 2013, the American Cancer Society estimates about 580,000 people will die of cancer in America, and there will be over 1.6 million new cases (pdf link). Those aren’t small numbers. That means over half a million families will suffer direct and catastrophic losses to cancer in this year alone. Well over a million others will have to adapt to life-with-cancer. Economically, emotionally, and physically, cancer can be far more devastating on a personal level than the worst of tornados to hit the American midwest. It’s a faceless horror and one that continues to silently consume the lives of so many others. Sometimes it wins, other times it doesn’t.

Yesterday, on Saturday 08 June 2013, a small group of kayakers departed from Key Biscayne in south Florida. For the next week, they’ll kayak the edge of the Atlantic and the Gulf through the Florida keys and travel southwest all the way to Key West, Florida. The group, Castaways Against Cancer, have been undergoing this annual journey every year since 1999. Their aim and purpose is to raise funds and awareness for cancer research. Since 1999, they’ve raised well over $350,000 for the American Cancer Society. They do this not for fame and not for monetary reward. They do this simply because they can. They step outside of their ordinary lives and take to the water because they want to help. They go through this arduous and difficult journey because they care about the lives of others.

The Castaways, along with so many other organizations, groups, and writers (check out this blog), seek to draw attention to cancer and to generate funding and understanding to support cancer research, aid, assistance, and life management. As for the Castaways, sixteen paddlers, right now as I’m typing this, are working their way through the Keysian waters, paddling around and through the elements, fighting off dehydration and exhaustion, all the while supporting one another, on their water-bound sojourn to Key West, Florida. It’s an epic one-week journey of great difficulty and challenge. They do this every year for any and everyone who has ever been touched by cancer – past, present and future. They do this because they believe we are all connected and we all have value. They do this because they believe it is our responsibility to help aid and assist one another. We are all in the same boat we call life.

Each of us can help in our own respective ways. Some of us can write, some of us can paddle. Some of us can work in the labs and conduct the primary research. Others can work more directly with patients and survivors. Most of the rest of us can help fund those on the front lines. So, if you have the ability, please consider checking out the Castaways Against Cancer. If you support them and their cause --if you support the fight against cancer– and you have the means, please consider donating and contributing to these remarkable people, the Castaways, and the American Cancer Society. Groups like the Castaways and the ACS help nourish and foster my sense of hope and pride in the human species. Many of us are lost to our own hatreds and deceits, but most of us, I still believe, are essentially generous and good. I hope that you will stand with the Castaways and contribute to the everyday catastrophe that is cancer. I know I will.

~ Learn More About The Castaways ~
~ Donate to the Castaways ~
~ “Like” the Castaways on Facebook ~

Associated Links:

• Miami Herald article on the Castaways from 04 June 2013.
• The American Cancer Society.
• “Cancer Is Not A Gift” via chicagonow.com.

Possibly Scudderia sp., Bush katydid nymph, photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (03 June 2013); Filed under Tettigoniidae Nymphs.

This lovely little jewel of an arthropod is a nymph-stage member of Family Tettigoniidae. In other words, it’s a katydid. An adorably cute and tiny katydid. But which species of katydid?

Originally, I’d thought this was probably a nymph-stage Neoconocephalus of some sort — maybe either Caudell’s conehead katydid (N. caudellianus) or the Broad-tipped conehead katydid (N. triops). I’ve seen adults of both species (–I think–) in the immediate area surrounding our Valdosta, Georgia home. The good folks at bugguide.net pointed toward genus Scudderia, however, and not Neoconocephalus. With that in mind, I have seen a few Scudderia furcata in this area, though they’re not as common as the conehead katydids.

Whatever the case, it’s pretty tough to concretely identify arthropod nymphs unless you really know what you’re doing. I don’t. Nymphs can appear wildly different from their adult contemporaries and even the bugguide.net folks couldn’t peg this down to a specific species.

And thus a new category plan has been hatched on Dust Tracks. When it comes to arthropod nymphs, I’ll try to peg them down to the Family level –at the very least– and then I’ll create a “Family” Nymphs category for that taxon. In this case, it’s Tettigoniidae Nymphs. If I can map the nymph down to the species level, I’ll cross-post it.

You may think this sounds like overkill-complication (it is), but I’ve been spotting a great deal of nymphs lately and have really taken a shine to them. I mean, look at this thing! It’s awesome! Anyhow, I suspect this unidentified-nymph issue is one that will pop up more than once or twice in the months and years to follow. Best design a schema for organizing them now, right? That’s what Modernism taught me and I’m stickin’ to it, by god.

Next on Dust Tracks: We’re going to take Sunday off, but we’ll be back on Monday!

~ janson

Prionus imbricornis, the Tile-horned prionus, photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (03 June 2013).

Check out this thunderous can of arthropic awesomeness! Courtesy an identification from the good folks at bugguide.net, this is Prionus impricornis — the Tile-horned prionus. It is, as the French might say, really cool and stuff (see Editor’s Note below).

The Tile-horned prionus is quite abundant throughout the American southeast. Not surprisingly, the species is drawn to bright lights at night. This little scamperous tank of kickass was photographed near our second back patio light. I’ve seen a good number of these rather-large-ish beetles this spring. Hard not to notice them with those big-damn antennae waving about, right?

The Tile-horned prionus is a member of Family Cerambycidae, the Longhorned beetles, which is, itself, a part of Order Coleoptera — the Beetles. Not to be confused with The Beatles. Two totally different things. #believeyoume

Next on Dust Tracks: The cutest little katydid nymph there ever was! #FACT!

Editor’s Note: For the record, the French would never say “really cool and stuff.” They’re far too cool and stuff to say something like that.

~ janson

Greetings from Tropical Storm Andrea!

I’m in Mt. Dora, Florida right now, writing this post on my iPad. I came down to help my folks (my grandmother suffered a terrible neck injury this past week). Mumpower and Kid A are in Valdosta. Tropical Storm Andrea is in the Gulf of Mexico, bearing down on the Big Bend region of Florida. As of the latest track, Andrea’s center is forecasted to pass very close to Valdosta this evening. Strong gusts will happen, of course, but the main concern for South Georgia and North Florida will be flash flooding. This storm has a lot of rain!

Down here in Mt. Dora, we’ve already lost power this morning. We’re getting hit by a particularly heavy outer band. A lot of rain. Local flooding is likely if this band keeps passing overhead, as the storm continues to head northeast.

Regular posts will resume tomorrow, me thinks!

UPDATE @ 08:59am: Power is back on in Mt. Dora. Rain is still solid and strong.

UPDATE @ 11:30am: The revised and updated storm track has TS Andrea passing well southeast of Valdosta (and far north of Mt. Dora). Good news on the wind front, though the rain continues to fall heavily.

UPDATE @ 06:26pm: Andrea’s now ashore. She’s going to pass south/southeast of Valdosta and well north of Mt. Dora. Down here in Lake county, we had quite a bit of rain throughout much of the day, but it wasn’t nearly as severe as what south and east Florida picked up. Their outer bands looked pretty damn horrific on the radar (and still do).

Say howdy to Tropical Storm Season 2013!

~ janson

Peucetia viridans, The Green lynx spider, photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (03 June 2013).

This was a happy discovery! I’ve seen many Green lynx spiders (Peucetia viridans) throughout the years, but this is the first one I’ve seen since I started shooting macros with the 60mm lens. I found it hunting on an out-of-control weed in our yard. I’ve intentionally let this weed grow because of the abundance of arthropods it’s presented. Heck, I may have to do a special post dedicated to this one particular weed, as it’s presented an amazing bounty of new species!

Anyhow, the Green lynx spider is, at most, well under an inch in size. This one was extraordinarily tiny. I’m amazed I saw it in the first place. This species isn’t known for biting people. They’re not really venomous to humans and they aren’t very aggressive either. They’re too busy doing their thing to mess with the Big Bad Humans. What a lovely little spider!

Next on Dust Tracks: A big ole’ bug. Seriously. It’s a big, massive bug.

~ janson