Summer Doesn’t Last Forever

Sometimes, on a hot, dry day in August, it’s possible to go for a hike in the woods without being terrorized by mosquitoes. I revel in the limb-loosening heat—it’s like a sauna before the cold plunge of winter that I know is just around the corner. The Forest Lodge Nature Trail east of Cable, Wisconsin, offers a one- or two-mile loop through a variety of natural community types on a narrow, dirt path. The self-guided interpretive booklet explains old-field succession, nurse stumps, and more. Or you can follow your curiosity from one colorful discovery to the next. 

Blackberries in all stages of ripeness line the trailhead with shades of green, salmon, and ebony. Warmth from the sun makes them extra sweet and juicy on my tongue. Vitamin C makes them tart. A pigment called anthocyanin colors them black while also acting like sunscreen. For us, the anthocyanins make blackberries one of the top sources of antioxidants in our diet. For birds, anthocyanins permeate their poop with a lovely shade of purple. 

Tri-colored bumble bees buzz nearby. These black, yellow, and orange insects completed their pollination duties for the blackberries a few weeks ago and moved on to the frilly fuchsia flowers of rough blazing star. The hairy bodies of the bees are perfect for sweeping up tiny pollen grains from the anthers of one blazing star and transporting it to the stigma of another blazing star, where it will fertilize an ovule that will grow into a seed. Bees aren’t unpaid labor, though. They comb most of the protein-rich pollen out of their hair, pack it into clumps, and feed it to their babies. 

Goldenrods, with their plumes of dark yellow flowers, get a bad rap because so many people get terrible allergies right about the time that this beautiful native plant blooms. But there’s no way that the sticky, heavy pollen of goldenrod is being blown into your nose. Instead, dozens of native species like hairy-banded miner bees and spine-shouldered cellophane bees collect the pollen for their kids. Meanwhile, the dinky green flowers of non-native ragweed toss billions of tiny, lightweight pollen grains into the wind and don’t even provide us with something pretty to look at in exchange. The spikey protrusions on the pollen grains’ surfaces are what wreak havoc on your nose.

Peppery milkcap mushrooms push their large white caps up through the sweet-smelling pine needle duff. I pause in the shade of an oak tree to pull one up and take a closer look. The short, thick stem ends abruptly where the closely spaced gills begin. A quick swipe of my fingernail over the gills releases oozing droplets of white milk. That’s one part of the name.  Because I’m confident in the identification of this non-poisonous mushroom, I’ve been wanting to test the other part of its name. Eyeing the smallest pinprick of milk, I touch it with the tip of my tongue. Even though I spit it out instantly, my entire mouth is on fire with an acrid flavor similar to what you’d experience from accidentally biting on a big black peppercorn. Some people dehydrate this mushroom and use it for flavoring. I set it back on the ground and chug some water. 

An ovenbird shouts Teacher, TEAcher, TEA-CHER! from the forest depths. Warblers sing frequently while establishing a territory and attracting a mate; they sing less. At the same time, they are busy raising chicks, and then ramp up their vocalizations again when the new generation is ready to learn the song of their species. Glancing toward movement, I’m astounded to spot the little brown gent with dark pinstripes on his white belly perched on a branch at eye level. Flashing his crest of rusty and dark brown stripes in irritation at the interruption of his music lesson, he looks right at me, sings at the top of his little lungs, and then hops off his branch and into invisibility once again. 

Oak leaves tinged with maroon stand out in the deep green shade of the forest. No, it’s not their autumn color; it’s the opposite. When new leaves emerge in the spring, the tree protects them with anthocyanins, the same pigments that make blackberries black. The chemical sunscreen protects the leaves from excessive solar radiation before their green chlorophyll is fully up and running. The reddish hue also camouflages the leaves from the eyes of hungry insects who are looking for green. On this young tree, new leaves continue to emerge all summer as it desperately grows toward light and away from deer. 

In the not-too-distant future, all the oak leaves will be red and brown and edged with frost.  But instead of worrying about that, I take a break on the boardwalk at the midway point of the loop. The sun is deliciously warm on my closed eyelids. Then a cloud passes above, and a breeze whisks away the heat of my skin. Just warning you, it seems to say: summer doesn’t last forever. 

Emily M. Stone is a naturalist by birth, training, profession, and passion. She explores the Northwoods with an eye toward using science to make stories come alive.