Nobody Home

Day 294: The photo on the left was taken on 26 December 2016. That was when I first noticed the chrysalis attached to the vinyl siding on the west wall of my house. I tentatively identified its occupant as Pieris marginalis (Margined White), a species now considered distinct from Pieris napi and one which accounts for a large portion my yard's butterfly census. It was an odd spot to find such a treasure and I figured the creature's chances of survival would be diminished by the exposure, but was pleasantly surprised when it wintered over without damage. I started keeping a closer eye on it in late May or early June, checking every week or so to see if I could detect any signs of development. It was a discouraging vigil, the chrysalis gradually turning darker as it aged, as if its winged fruit was withering inside. I kept up the watch nevertheless, but recently missed two days in a row until the lapse was brought to my attention by the flight of a Pieris past the window. I went immediately to check the chrysalis and discovered that its resident had flown. Could it have been the butterfly I observed flitting above the flower bed? So far, that White has been the only one I've seen.

Snug As A Bug

Day 74: I can think of better places to take a long winter's nap than glued to the side of my house, but when a biological urge as strong as this is upon one of Nature's creatures, it cannot be suppressed. Given the markings and the distinctive shape of the chrysalis, I am going to assume that this is Pieris marginalis until someone corrects me. Margined Whites are common in my yard. Some old-school lepidopterists will refer to them as Pieris napi, but marginalis is now considered a distinct species. The older terminology tends to slip between my lips more often than not, force of habit from having learned them from an out-of-date field guide. Note the dark spot and obvious veination in the wing, as well as the "belly-band" thread securing the chrysalis to the wall. Just how did the butterfly manage that, anyway?

Gregor Samsa Revisited

 Day 259 (Part B): Team Biota's finds are not limited to vascular plants, lichens and the occasional Fungus Of Worldwide Concern. We're searching for the rare and odd in Nature, regardless of species; case in point: this Cicada chrysalis, a discovery which put me immediately in mind of Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis" and protagonist Gregor Samsa who woke one morning to find himself transformed into a "hideous vermin" (interpreted by many translators to mean a giant bug).

I had not known we had Cicadas in Washington until we found this abandoned husk, although in hindsight, I realize now that I've heard them as a nearly constant background sound on many hikes. Often referred to as "periodic," our local version has a life cycle of four or more years, with much of that spent in the nymphal stage. The adult female uses her ovipositor to pierce a twig where she lays her eggs. The eggs hatch into nymphs, dropping to the ground where they will spend their next several years of life in the soil. As the nymph reaches adulthood, it emerges from the soil to climb a tree, where it then emerges as a fully-winged adult, leaving behind its exoskeleton. The adult does not feed. It lives only to mate, and thus the cycle begins again, Cicadas buzzing in the trees, humming to hikers on the trail.