3 minute read
By Hayley Kolding
I. Camponotus novaeboracensis, the New York carpenter ant, belongs to a diverse genus of large ants that build nests by chewing galleries out of wood—although this species has been known to nest not only in trees and stumps, but also under rocks or cow dung. Morphologically, it can be distinguished from others in its genus by its shiny gaster, bicoloration (mesosoma and legs red), unnotched clypeus, and cheeks lacking erect hairs. Workers tend treehoppers and aphids, including the smoky-winged poplar aphid, Chaitophorus populicola, which feeds and forms colonies near the apical meristems of poplar and aspen trees. The ants feed on the aphids’ sugary honeydew excretions while protecting them from predators. Curiously, this mutualistic relationship is somewhat uneven; while C. novaeboracensis can succeed in the absence of honeydew by consuming tree trunk exudates and dead insects, C. populicola has never been recorded without ant attendants.
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By Hayley Kolding
II. Hey stranger, bless this shiny little ant whirring up and down an aspen leaf. Bless her six feet, her jaw, the stiff gold hairs on her rear that narrows to a point like a hornet’s sting. Bless the convex hump of her red back. I mean, just check her out. As she circles the edge of the toothed blade. Traverses the stalk. Pauses. Nudges rump of fellow ant. Look how she surmounts the sticky clustered buds. Cruises right to twig. And then, on silver bark, butts heads with her near twin (and they cross feelers as if knitting). Do a dance for the whole branch steaming with collisions. This ant plows past her pal, zips onto a strap-flat stalk where it leaves the plant. She stamps like a Glyptemus turtle grunting for worms. And the petiole shakes with aphids. Bless the aphids, raising their back ends or stuck full down. Their silhouettes like scrawny-legged urns. Sticky sap they drip. Sugar dots. Ridges. The ant’s antennae sweep over the aphids. A come-here gesture. Gathering, urgent. Bless that maestro, bless that eater sweeping sweetness to her big plate. That long-armed god in the field waving home her flock. Bless her! Her ant cheeks hairless, full of honeydew! Her ant legs, from coxa to tarsal claw! No bug dares hunt the aphids this ant tends to, baby. Bless their safe little butts. And Camponotus, what a worker, never stilling. Bless the antennae preening nectar off her step. III.
As a masters candidate in UVM’s Field Naturalist program, I am always up against the reality of an environment in crisis. Readings, projects, field trips, and conversations that center natural history and conservation strategy are inextricably linked to the matters of habitat loss, pollution, climate change, and extinction. But as Rachel Carson, one of the role models of our program, proposed in “The Sense of Wonder”, “Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.” She was right: the more wonders that my peers and I discover in the natural world, the easier it is to convert our ecological grief into drive. That is why, as conservation professionals, we still take time to climb into caves and search for beaver signs, and look up close at plants and insects of unfathomable beauty. Our life’s work is a response to a world in distress, but our daily experience is ruled by joy.
The idea for this piece was simple: to take the sense of wonder, joy, and play that motivates me as a Field Naturalist, and share it. I had been having fun watching a colony of carpenter ants down by the lake, and it dawned on me that insects were overdue for some lighthearted coverage. Honeybee die-offs and reports of a coming insect apocalypse have stirred up unprecedented public interest in insect biodiversity—a great win for conservationists—but the fatalistic tone of these reports, and serious flaws in the research undergirding them, have also generated skepticism, offense, and even dismayed paralysis in non-scientists. I wanted to remind those who are feeling overwhelmed by the reports that data and observations can do more than weigh us down—they can delight, inspire, and empower us. With a more nuanced and joy-based experience of insect diversity, we can all become better stewards of the natural world. H Art by Ella Weatherington
