Of Lady’s-Slippers and Carrion Beetles

In my memory, flawed as it may be, I recall a time when I was able to work all day at serious labour, think nothing of it, and come back the next day for more of the same. Nowadays it seems that two hours of such effort is entirely enough. After that brief time I need a break, perhaps a sit on the cushioned Adirondack, chilled fizz water in hand, or a stretch on the corner lounge with my current book of choice. So it is, lacking the strength and stamina of years gone by, I am drawn to less labour-intensive, more contemplative diversions.

There is much to contemplate at a favourite spot of mine near Frenchvale, a spot preferred by orchids and other blooming things. A week ago my timing was perfect to see a fair abundance of Cypripedium parviflorum, yellow lady’s-slipper, in peak form. To my eye orchids are the most wondrous of wildflowers and the Cypripedium species—of which four are found in Nova Scotia—are the grandest, showiest of them all. Despite whole battalions of black flies and burgeoning companies of mosquitoes, I spent the better part of two solitary, happy hours getting nose to petals with as lovely and complex a flower as one can find anywhere.

Sadly, the lady’s slipper is threatened. Not everyone is content to visit them where they live and thrive, then depart without doing them harm. Some folks, perhaps as smitten as the rest of us by their allure, come with trowel in hand. They dig up the whole plant with a view to transplanting it in their own backyard garden. But yellow lady’s slipper does not transplant well, it typically expires, disappointing not just the plunderer but everyone else who knew the secret location but will not see the flower again in the place it belonged. It gives me only slight satisfaction that C. parviflorum delivers a measure of revenge for the mortal offence given: its leaves are toxic and can deliver a nasty rash to the human hand that wrests it from the place it wants to be.

The brightest and biggest of songbirds, the common raven has a wide vocabulary and a well-developed sense of fun: I like to watch their complex aeronautics and the games of raven-tag they like to play. The raven is smart and big enough that it ordinarily needn’t fear predators. But soon after arriving at Bigador I encountered something not seen in four decades of birding—the fresh corpse of an adult raven. I was not able to determine what might have brought the big black bird to grief—no obvious injury, no sign of predation. I doubted disease could be the cause because sick birds will usually take themselves to some hidden place to recover from illness, or die of its consequences. But the raven was in the wide open so whatever befell it must have been by ambush.

After two weeks the carcass is no longer fresh. On my way back from my walk to Dalem Lake the other day I saw that the body had evolved into a metropolis of sorts. A couple of dozen beetles, handsome devils all, went about their business on the unresisting remains of the raven. The beetle is a colour combination of yellow and black with a bit of rusty fringe here and there. At close inspection the front end put me in mind of the frightful creature that terrorized Sigourney Weaver in the movie Alien.

The, er, aroma cast off by the dissolving raven a fortnight after my first encounter would drive away any sensible person but, camera in hand, I felt as keen to photograph  S. americana as I would a beautiful and fragrant flower I’d chanced upon for the first time. I held my breath, sought to get worthy close-up images of the creatures in their current living-room. How fascinating it was to see that the enterprising beetles were multi-taskers: feeding and breeding at the same time. For every individual there was also a stacked pair taking their part in the drama of procreation. I caught myself wondering how David Attenborough might wax about the scene before me.

The well-stocked natural-history shelf of the cabin library includes a copy of The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Insects and Spiders. From it I learned that the new-to-me beetle is Silpha americana, the American carrion beetle. How does it come to pass that S. americana discovers and exploits the fresh remains of a raven along a trail of mine? So glad you asked. Well, it seems an adult beetle lays its eggs in carrion, the larvae hatch in a few days, feed within the carcass, grow to adulthood, then proceed to the next object of their fancy. Oh the wonder of nature.

Happily of course there is more to behold at Bigador than carrion beetles thriving on dead ravens. Yesterday I encountered not one but two families of slate-coloured juncos, the parents giving the kids early instruction on how to get on in a dangerous old world. I got out of the way as quickly as possible, wishing the dear things an untroubled passage to a life of blithesome adventure.