Garden Center & Plant Nursery in [City], [State]

The Ragged Edge:

Nature doesn't color within the lines; it's messy, unkempt. But it's also beautiful, intriguing, fascinating. We must learn to love the ragged edge, because that's where Nature lives. Being environmentally responsible in our yards -- letting Nature in -- is part of a larger land ethic, as espoused by Aldo Leopold -- the idea that we're all connected through Nature; through the "indivisibility of the earth -- its soils, mountains, rivers, forests, climates, plants and animals." A land ethic compels us to "respect it collectively, not only as a useful servant, but as a living being." Loving Land and loving Nature is the same thing, a powerful part of loving each other.

Summer 2025 Stories

The Hissing of Summer Lawns

In her album, the Hissing of Summer Lawns, Joni Mitchell sang about the treachery and adultery lurking in seemingly serene, mild-mannered suburbia. The “hissing” could’ve been lawn sprinklers; but it could also have been evil serpents coiled in modern Eden—dangers hidden in those weed-free, over-fertilized, highly manicured lawns—a surreptitious threat to human and ecological well-being; a threat to nature itself.

A recent editorial in the New York Times declared “The Era of the American Lawn is Over.” Although 45% of surveyed homeowners derived some pleasure or satisfaction from lawn care, fully 40% said they were “exhausted, frustrated, or drained” by it. Maybe that’s why so many yard care companies have arisen to fill the gap between what owners want to see in their yards and what owners are willing to do.

Americans spend about $100 billion per year on yard care. In Springfield alone, there are over 200 yard-care companies. The bottom line for these companies, of course, is cosmetics; attractive presentation. But to survive in the business, they also must be efficient. That’s why they typically have big trucks pulling trailers loaded with gigantic mowers and racks of weed-eaters and leaf blowers, wielded by a cadre of workers. Efficiency is realized by using big mowers instead of small; leaf blowers instead of rakes; weed-eaters instead of weed whips.

Their actions produce yards that are green, neatly-trimmed and weed-free—but these spaces are also largely sterile, biologically speaking, and potentially damaging to human health. Weed-eaters and leaf blowers stir up dust, pollen and leaf fragments, irritating asthma sufferers. Fumes from gas-powered lawn equipment contain cancer-causing hydrocarbons and greenhouse gases, at proportionally higher levels than auto exhaust, which is more tightly regulated. Pesticides sprayed on lawns create cancer risks, especially for children and pets, which spend more time on the turf than adults.

We all want small businesses—the heart and soul of commercial enterprise—to succeed. But the situation with hundreds of small lawn care companies is somewhat analogous to the tobacco farmers of the last century. Long after we knew smoking impaired health, politicians continued to support subsidies for tobacco farmers whose livelihood depended on growing their cash crops on small acreages. It was politically incorrect, and seemingly cruel, to suggest taking away those livelihoods.

Now, we have hundreds of small yard care companies delivering services homeowners want, but leaving large doses of health-impacting pollution and ecological degradation. What can we do about it? Who would dare speak out against it; to stifle free enterprise? In the end, if anything is to change, it will be up to the homeowners themselves.

The Times editorial pointed out that in Europe, many homeowners are opting for “natural” yards, with native plants to attract birds, bees and butterflies. Expanses of sterile turf that must be mowed are being drastically reduced. Homeowners are using narrow ribbons of turf as walkways, or accent features around native plantings.

This has started to catch on here, too. For example, I’ve noticed widespread interest in native plant sales in Springfield. But the biggest changes, if and when they come, will happen when homeowners demand that yard services become more ecologically sensitive; when they ask for help with the planting or maintenance of natives, for example, or mowing reduced areas of turf with smaller, quieter, non-polluting electric mowers.

Will this ever happen here, in such a big way? Amidst the nearly constant hissing, blowing and buzzing of summer lawns, it’s hard to tell. But eventually, more people may wake up to a new land ethic as envisioned by Aldo Leopold, years ago. Leopold said that land must be respected not only as a “useful servant,” but as a “living being.” Land full of life is more beautiful, and useful, than a cosmetically perfect lawn. It just takes wise eyes to see and appreciate it.

Frequent Fliers

Over the last few weeks, I’ve seen a few monarchs flitting across the back yard—at least I think they’re monarchs. After all, there are several monarch “mimics out there,” look-alikes, closely riding the coattails (or more accurately, wings) of the foul-tasting monarchs (most birds find them untasteful, at least—I’ve never tried one). I haven’t kept count, but it seems like there are fewer monarchs this year than last year.

I posed this question to Chris Barnhart, a volunteer at the Botanical Center’s Butterfly House. Barnhart is no ordinary volunteer. He is locally famous for his work on freshwater mussels. For many years, he raised these threatened and endangered shelled creatures with an eye toward restocking them into Missouri’s rivers and streams.

Barnhart said that around here, monarchs have arrived later and in smaller numbers than in previous years. However, other parts of the country have seen no reduction in monarch numbers. To understand how there can be such variations in population densities a person needs to have some knowledge of monarch life histories.

These beautiful butterflies overwinter in Mexico. In April, we see a few early arrivals from this home base. But later, we see butterflies that have hatched out in southern Texas, after the first wave of migration. In fact, there will be as many as five different broods of monarchs making their way northward. Those who study monarch numbers across the continental U.S. tell us that the butterfly is actually not in trouble, but is holding its own—in other words, nationwide populations are relatively stable.

For this reason, Barnhart suggests not focusing too much attention on the plight of monarchs, even though they have largely become the “poster child” of butterfly restoration efforts. But while monarchs seem to be doing fine, other butterflies are not. Barnhart cited a very rigorous North America-wide study of over 530 species of butterflies and moths. Generally, populations of all these species have declined 22% over the last twenty years.

Many butterfly species have declined over 40% over the last twenty years. Red admirals (black wings with orange-red wing bars and white spots) have declined 44%; great-spangled fritillary butterflies (two-tone brown wings with black spots) have declined 50%; the American lady (orange, black and white) 58%; and Diana fritillary (striking orange-fringed black wings), a troublesome 90%.

At the Butterfly House, Barnhart and his crew raise local butterflies from eggs and larvae. This is different from most commercial butterfly houses, he said, because they use chrysalises of showy butterflies, mainly tropical, purchased from suppliers. Our Butterfly House is rather unique in that only local butterflies are housed, raised on their native host plants, many of them also growing in the House.

As far as saving butterfly species, Barnhart stresses, “native plants are the key issue.” Many species are host specific—they only lay eggs on or eat certain kinds of native plants. For most of the butterfly species in peril, the absence or rarity of the host plant is the “bottleneck.” If that plant isn’t there, the butterfly can’t survive.

To make his own yard butterfly-friendly, Barnhart has planted tulips trees, host plant for the beautiful yellow and black tiger swallowtail. For the familiar zebra swallowtail, he is growing pawpaws, and for the giant swallowtail, America’s largest butterfly (black wings emblazoned with bright yellow bands) he planted wafer ash.

Although native plants are important for butterflies, Barnhart says we shouldn’t “demonize” non-native plants. Many butterflies need nectar as a food source. While nectar is produced by native flowers, it is often only for a short period. Some non-native flowers, like zinnias and lantana, produce nectar over much longer periods. Barnhart says it’s a good idea to have a variety of plants, both native and non-native, that flower over successive time periods, providing food throughout the summer and fall.

The bottom line—don’t worry about being a “purist” when it comes to native plants. A variety of flowering plants will offer a continuing smorgasbord for frequent fliers. The important things are variety and abundance. Reduce sterile turf, increase flowering plants. Keep the vegetative doors open, the welcome mat out, and enjoy the kaleidoscopic rewards of butterfly diversity.

Are Cicadas Bugging You?

It’s finally cooled off, with refreshing sprinkles of rain. Only a few cicadas are still calling from the maple and walnut trees behind our house. Last week, their guttural buzzing was much more intense, overpowering my tinnitus. On walks, we saw lots of dead cicadas on sidewalks and driveways. I wondered why something wasn’t eating them, since this high-protein food is apparently relished by birds. Maybe the birds hadn’t found them yet; or are already sick of them. We heard a lot of buzzing this summer, but based on noise levels, my wife thinks there were less cicadas this year than last.

As usual, Google has an answer. Last year the din was indeed more intense, since multiple broods of cicadas hatched out at the same time. The emergence of these insects is cyclical, with different species hatching at different times. Sometimes the hatches overlap in a very loud way. But these cycles are overlaid on a more general trend of gradually declining cicada numbers. It’s difficult to pin this decline on specific causes, but biologists suspect the usual factors—habitat loss, pesticide use, climate change.

Worldwide, there has been an alarming decrease in insects. I remember visiting my grandparents’ farm in Pettis County when I was a kid. When I walked to the chicken house, or across a dry pasture, grasshoppers would shoot off like fireworks in front of me. They would often land and grab onto my legs, my arms, even my face. Recently, visiting the same area, I saw very few hoppers. What happened to them?

The answer, simply put, is we don’t know. For decades, grasshopper numbers have been studied in protected grasslands in Kansas. In the Konza tallgrass prairie in the Flint Hills of northeastern Kansas, prime grasshopper habitat, the insects declined 30% over the last twenty-two years. Biologists currently think the reduction might be tied to climate change, in that levels of nutrients in plants seem to have declined with changing weather conditions.

I used to call cicadas “locusts.” And many people think locusts and grasshoppers are the same thing. These are, however, three distinct kinds of insects. And while the noise of cicadas may hurt our ears, they are mostly just a minor nuisance. Locusts, in contrast, have long been a scourge of mankind, genesis of the much feared “plague of locusts.”

That plague was a reality in Missouri in the 1870s. Jeffrey Lockwood, in his book, Locust, tells how in 1875 a farmer in western Nebraska was working in his cornfields when suddenly, over the cottonwood trees in the distance, he saw an “eerie cloud” rising, “glints of sunlight flickering along its edges.” His wife, tending the garden, also looked up, saw the approaching apocalypse, and stood stock-still, trying to conceal her fear from her two young daughters picking green beans at her feet.

The locust hordes, pushing eastward from the Great Plains, ravaged Nebraska and Kansas and parts of western Missouri. The ravenous insects devoured everything organic in their path. They stripped crops bare in a matter of minutes. They ate the sweat-impregnated handles out of hoes and shovels. Chickens that gorged on locusts could not be eaten, because their meat tasted horrible.

Between 1874 and 1877, locust outbreaks caused $200 million ($116 billion in today’s dollars) in crop damage in the country, according to the U.S. Entomological Commission. So much damage was done in Missouri that the state legislature passed “grasshopper laws” in 1877, offering a bounty of $5 per bushel of eggs, and $1 a bushel for young and unfledged hoppers. But these laws did very little good. And after 1877, there were no more plagues.

An influential actor in the locust drama was Charles Valentine Riley, who became Missouri’s first State Entomologist in 1868. At the time, only two other states had such a position. Riley became a hero in Europe in 1871, when he single-handedly saved the French wine industry. His studies showed that a tiny insect, phylloxera, damaged the grapevine roots. With his recommendation, French vines were grafted onto American roots, which were resistant to the insects. The results were impressive, with the wine industry soon back on its feet.

Riley also brought scientific methods to the study of locust infestations in Missouri. He correctly identified the insects as the Rocky Mountain Locust, which for some reason occasionally left the mountains of the West in gigantic hordes and began eating their way eastward across the plains. He studied the life histories and habits of locusts, leading to the first logical control efforts, such as flooding fields to kill eggs. He made careful maps to show precisely which counties were infested so farmers could anticipate where the locusts might invade again.

In 1995, a scientist working on the Knife Point Glacier in Wyoming’s Wind River Range made a remarkable discovery—a well-preserved insect entombed in the ice—the only known, intact specimen of the Rocky Mountain Locust, considered extinct since the early 1900s. We now know that the insect lived its mountainous life as a grasshopper for years at a time until, for reasons unknown, it morphed into the locust form; changing dramatically in appearance, growing stronger wings, taking flight in squadrons numbering in the millions, eating everything in sight.

It's amazing to think that something once so numerous—and a plague so feared—could now be totally gone; extinct. But think about that the next time you hear that deafening chorus of cicadas. Their grotesque countenances and deafening stridulations nearly overwhelm our senses at times, but they, too, could one day be gone. So, take pleasure in the exuberant song of the cicada while you can. Enjoy the summer music before it is gone, forever.

'Owed' to the Beaver

My buddy Jud and I used to float the Osage Fork of the Gasconade, putting in below the dam at Orla Mill and taking out at B Highway, about seven miles downstream. The Osage Fork is not easy to float, with fast water, tight turns and often, serious log jams.

But I remember seeing lots of birds and some interesting geology, including several caves. Saltpeter Cave has a wide opening where someone once penned up hogs—not a pretty sight, or smell, even today. Oz Hawksley, in Missouri Ozark Waterways, claims saltpeter, a key ingredient of gunpowder, was once produced from this cave.

I remember camping on a high gravel bar on the Osage Fork. There was a deep pool under the bluff across from us, and behind us, a stagnant slough. In higher water our campsite would be an island. A riffle downstream provided a soothing backdrop for sleep along with the chorus of crickets and katydids. I had fallen into a deep sleep when I was suddenly awakened by a gunshot. I sat up, looking for a weapon—a flashlight, shoe, anything. I heard Jud unzipping his tent. I peeked out of mine, unsure of my next move.

We heard another shot, and at that moment realized it wasn’t guns at all, but the sharp cracks of slapping beaver tails. We tried to go back to sleep, but there were several more reports in the depths of the night, each one startling us from our slumber. The next morning, we groggily dubbed our campsite Beaver Island.

Upon floating downstream, we noticed a beaver dam on a small tributary stream. We saw lots of beaver gnawed sticks at the river’s edge. In deep water below a cutbank we saw a beaver poke its head out, then submerge, and we figured there was a den in the bank below the waterline. We later learned that in larger Ozark streams, which frequently flood, most beavers build dens in streambanks rather than constructing lodges.

I began thinking about the other Ozark streams I like to float, and wondering if beaver populations there were as robust as those we experienced on the Osage Fork. I started to pay more attention to signs of beaver while floating, or even driving. One day I spotted a beaver dam just off I-435 north of Kansas City. Were beavers once plentiful in this part of the state? I began researching the natural history of beavers in Missouri.

I learned that Missouri has a healthy population of beavers today, but nothing compared to what there were at the time when Europeans first settled here. The fur trade in Missouri began early, and by 1800 the Osage had been trading pelts in St. Louis for almost fifty years. Many of those furs came from Missouri beavers. The Osage would wait until late fall to hunt them, when they were active during the daytime, busily gathering food for winter. They were also putting on fat, their coats thickening.

For the Osage, however, beavers were never a large part of the trade. Beavers in Missouri, with its relatively mild climate, never grew dense undercoats—the kind of fur suitable for felting to make hats—like their northern cousins. But when waves of European settlers arrived, they took beaver pelts with abandon. By the 1860s, the beaver population in Missouri had plummeted.

By then, the number of beavers had declined precipitously over much of the continent, especially in northern latitudes and the western mountains. Biologists estimate there were 60 million to 400 million beavers in North America at the time of first European contact. By 1900, there were only about 100,000 left on the entire continent, at least a 99% decrease.

Numbers have grown substantially since then, so that today the continent has an estimated population of about 15 million—still less than one-quarter of the estimated numbers in 1700. What did this massive historic reduction in beaver populations mean for Missouri streams?

Today, the channels of Ozark streams, like the Osage Fork, are deeply incised, with steep cutbanks. Streambeds contain copious amounts of gravel. Where did all this gravel come from? A common notion holds that early logging practices caused gravel to erode from hillsides into streams. But studies have shown that the old methods of selective logging and skidding by animals, leaving stumps in place, didn’t cause excessive erosion.

Probably a bigger erosive factor was the removal of trees from floodplains for growing crops, raising hogs—with their rooting and wallowing—and grazing livestock. Overgrazing of grasses and shrubs in floodplains, denuding them of vegetation, led to greatly increased erosion during floods, releasing slurries of gravel and silt downstream.

But another, earlier factor may have had an even bigger effect—the removal of beavers. To understand how important this factor might have been, consider what beavers did. They dammed hundreds of small headwater streams, backing water into countless ponds. These ponds raised the local groundwater table, keeping aquifers replenished. Dams slowed runoff and reduced downstream flooding. Valley floors became a patchwork of shallow ponds connected by clear, meandering streams, thickly lined with grasses and sedges. Beaver ponds, wetlands, and meadows provided food and habitats for a huge variety of plants and animals, both aquatic and terrestrial.

The relatively sudden removal of beavers from the landscape led to what Ben Goldfarb, in Eager: The Surprising, Secret Life of Beavers and Why They Matter, calls an “aquatic dust bowl.” With beavers gone, dams quickly rotted and washed out. Groundwater levels in floodplains dropped. Streams began eating down into their floodplains once more, moving tons of silt and gravel downstream. Bank and channel erosion increased gravel loads, producing massive gravel bars. These changes largely created the stream forms we see today.

But most importantly, the removal of thousands of square miles of beaver ponds, wetlands and wet meadows dealt a devastating blow to much of the biological diversity formerly found along Missouri streams. Although today’s riparian zones, if adequately vegetated, are critically important to stream health, they provide nowhere near the ecological benefits of the former beaverlands—a remarkable landscape that has largely been lost to us.

Today, biologists realize how important beavers are in shaping the landscape. Goldfarb calls beavers ecological and hydrological “Swiss Army Knives,” capable of “tackling about any landscape-scale problem."

Through their engineering efforts, beavers improve water quality, reduce erosion, mitigate flooding, and fill aquifers, helping to ameliorate the effects of climate change. The life-supporting habitats created by beavers, Goldfarb claims, benefit nearly “everything that crawls, flies and swims in North America.”

Another huge benefit of beavers is being realized today, in a major way.

At one time, there were hundreds of thousands of beavers in Missouri. Myriad ponds held back runoff, allowing fine silt to settle out. Over the centuries, inch by inch, the ponds gradually filled with silt and organic matter. Ponds turned into shallow wetlands, then wet meadows, then dry land, supporting bottomland trees. Eventually, another family of beavers would move in, cutting down the trees, building their own ponds, adding more layers of organic silt. We now know that much of the rich farmland of Missouri resulted from the work of beavers. So, you can say that beaver populations of the past are helping to feed us, and our livestock, even today.

Beavers are shy and largely intolerant of humans. They do best in streams where human activity is at a minimum, like the Osage Fork, which is rarely floated. Where today’s beaver habitats overlap human spaces, the rodents are often pegged as nuisances: cutting down prized trees, for example, or flooding property. We seem to tolerate them only as long as they stay “out there,” away from us, where their activities won’t cause property damage or inconvenience us. We seem to have lost the sense that beavers are, in fact, important for our well-being—especially so in the face of climate change and the astounding loss of biodiversity.

Beavers are critical not just for ecosystem health; they’re important to our quality of life. We need to make room for them. We need to work around them, where necessary, instead of always assuming the answer to any beaver problem is to “get rid of ‘em.” If we would let them flourish, so too would our wetlands and wet meadows that support so much of the wildlife we love to see, photograph, fish for or hunt.

We may never be able to bring back the beaverlands like they once were, but a closer approximation would surely contribute mightily to our future health and happiness. We need to sing a new song, one “’owed’ to the beaver.”

Counting Cavefish

It’s hard to imagine, but if you live in southern Missouri, there could be fish beneath your feet. Just the idea of little fish swimming around in pitch-black subterranean depths is astounding to me. Not surprisingly, we have no idea how many cavefish are down there. We can only count them where we encounter them—in a cave big enough to crawl into, for example, or when we see them in a well, or with submerged cameras, as we can do at the federal fish hatchery in Neosho.

We do know quite a bit about cavefish, however. Some species are totally blind, but have well-developed sense organs scattered over their bodies, making them extremely sensitive to touch or vibration. This helps them find their prey, and each other, in in total darkness. Because there is no photosynthesis in caves, cavefish, like all cave animals, depend on nutrients coming in from outside the cave. Some nutrients arrive in the form of bat guano. Organic matter also flushes into caves during rain events, much of it through sinkholes or losing streams. Cavefish have adapted to these sporadic, feast or famine conditions by slowing metabolisms and can go for long periods without feeding.

Cavefish have some unique behavioral traits. In some species, after eggs hatch the mother carries the young in her gill chambers for an extended period, probably in response to the food-poor environment of the cave. If baby cavefish were to swim around freely, they would be quickly gobbled up by other animals, including adult cavefish. By protecting the young in her mouth, the mother gives them a head start on life.

Four species of cavefish are found in Missouri—three of them closely related. It is interesting to note that early descriptions and naming of cavefish are connected to three female naturalists—Ruth Hoppin, Luella Owens, and Rosa Eigenmann. Hoppin was the first person to capture and send for identification the fish we now call the Ozark cavefish. Owens, an avid spelunker, described the cavefish she saw in a subterranean pool at Grand Gulf. And Eigenmann, an ichthyologist, was the namesake of two of Missouri’s cavefish species.

Ruth Hoppin, a schoolteacher from Michigan, was on sabbatical in Missouri in 1888 when she explored the low crawl of Sarcoxie Cave in southwest Missouri. Not far from the entrance she saw tiny white fish. She sent a few preserved specimens to Harvard University, where a taxonomist pronounced them a new species. He realized these fish must be related to the Southern cavefish, already known from caves and springs in Kentucky, but Hoppin’s fish was more highly cave adapted—an obligate troglobite—with mere vestiges of eyes.

The new species was given the scientific name Amblyopsis rosae—Amblyopsis from the Greek for “insensible vision,” and rosae—not because its rosy-red blood shows through its translucent skin—but for Rosa Eigenmann, America’s first woman ichthyologist. She achieved fame in the fish world by being the first to describe a blind goby inhabiting underwater caves off the coast of California. Ozark cavefish, now renamed Troglichthys rosae, are known from only about forty caves, springs and shallow wells in southwest Missouri, northwest Arkansas, and northeastern Oklahoma.

The Salem Plateau cavefish, formerly called the Southern cavefish, is named Tryphlichthys eigenmanni, also in honor of Rosa Eigenmann. Salem Plateau cavefish are found in numerous caves in the south-central Ozarks. Because they are relatively abundant, the Conservation Department labels them a “species of conservation concern,” rather than the “threatened and endangered” status of Ozark Cavefish. The two cavefish are very similar, but the Salem Plateau species is a little larger. Their ranges are in geographic proximity, but don’t overlap. Both species have never been found in the same cave.

Salem Plateau cavefish are no doubt what Luella Owens saw in the collapsed cave we call Grand Gulf. Owens, a spelunker and author from St. Joseph, visited the yawning chasm of Grand Gulf in the 1890s. Poling a boat on a subterranean stream at the Gulf’s bottom, she saw an “astonishing multitude” of small fish, “pure white and perfectly fearless.” Over a century later, officials at Grand Gulf State Park would begin an adventure of their own, seeking to rediscover that lost subterranean river and its cavefish—but that’s another story (told in my book, Living Waters: The Springs of Missouri).

Salem Plateau cavefish are also what cave diver Don Rimbach saw in “The Gulf” in Wayne County. A deep blue pool at the bottom of this steep-sided sinkhole is one of the few places where cavefish have been seen in daylight. During one dive, Rimbach saw more than a dozen cavefish hovering near the surface of the pool, like “goldfish at feeding time.” They were attracted there, he assumed, because it was a place insects would fall or wash in.

A third Missouri cavefish species is the Shawnee Hills cavefish, once called the spring cavefish. William Pflieger, in his 1975 Fishes of Missouri, includes an addendum stating that this species had been recently discovered—the first found in Missouri—in a spring-fed wetland at the foot of a Mississippi River bluff. This fish looks markedly different from the other two cavefish species. It has eyes, though small, and yellowish-brown pigmented skin. It was once considered the same as the spring cavefish, but genetic testing showed it to be a separate species.

The fourth species of cavefish in Missouri, the grotto sculpin, Cottus specus, should not be called a cavefish at all, but a cave-dwelling fish. The three cavefish described earlier are in the same family, named the cavefish family. The grotto sculpin is closely related to the sculpins commonly found in Ozark spring branches. Sculpins have wide heads, tapered bodies and large, fan-like pectoral fins. The grotto sculpin is blind and light colored, with a tan dorsal side and white, unpigmented belly. It is found in only five caves in Perry County, in eastern Missouri.

Most people will never see a cavefish of any kind, since they are only found in accessible caves (many of them now gated) and shallow wells connected to spring systems. These places represent tiny windows into the vast underworld. “When we visit a site, we see only a fraction of the population,” Jacob Westhoff, a biologist with the Missouri Department of Conservation, told me. Cavefish are sometimes found in shallow wells, but these sites may have a built-in bias. Wells can serve as “input points” for groundwater—places where bugs or other creatures could fall in, attracting the fish. Counting fish drawn to these sources could skew the tally.

Even though we can only guess at the actual numbers of cavefish, there are signs that they are in peril. Cavefish can no longer be found at several of their historic sites. Exact causes for decline are often unknown, but we do know this: There is strong linkage between groundwater quality and what people do on the ground surface. Flushing into cave streams during rain events are pollutants washed off urban and rural land—fertilizers and pesticides, sediment from farming or construction sites, animal waste, septic tank effluent.

Cavefish numbers in any given cave are typically small. One pollution event could wipe out an entire local population. Because these animals are so endangered, biologists with the Missouri Department of Conservation keep close tabs on them. A recovery plan seeks to monitor and protect them. Many cavefish-containing caves are now gated, preventing human disturbance, and endangered species grant-funding is being used to protect, revegetate and restore above-ground recharge areas of known cavefish sites.

In a 2016 survey of cavefish sites, eight were found in Sarcoxie Cave, the site of Ruth Hoppin’s original collection. This cave is now protected through a conservation easement with Ozark Land Trust. Turnback Cave in Lawrence County protects a healthy population of cavefish as the Ozark Cavefish National Wildlife Refuge. Moore Cave in Perry County, a grotto sculpin site, was recently purchased by Ozark Land Trust, which intends to work with partners to make sure this critical cave and the life it contains is protected.

Cavefish are sometimes called the “canary in the coal mine,” in that their disappearance could signal wider problems with groundwater quality, including human health concerns related to drinking water. The little fish were also called “well keepers” or “spring keepers” because their presence meant water was clean enough for people to drink.

But we can’t just think of ourselves. In karst country, it is especially important to remember that there is amazing life down there, below us. Our actions should reflect the knowledge that life beneath our feet depends on our wise stewardship for its very survival. Although we can’t see them, or count them, these little fish deserve our attention, and our care.

Amphiuma

Several years ago, my daughter Elena and I took a herpetology course—the study of reptiles and amphibians—at the Gulf Coast Research Station near Ocean Springs, Mississippi. The class included several field trips, which were enlightening, but also great fun—especially the trapping. We set funnel traps out in the swamp at night, baited with cheap cat food. The next morning, we would check the traps to see what we caught. I was like a kid on Christmas morning; I couldn’t wait to see what interesting creatures would turn up in the trap.

I have to say, we caught some cool critters in those traps. There was a large turtle in one, a cooter, our group leader said. I have a picture of Elena holding it, beaming. We also caught two juvenile alligators, about four feet long. I took a picture of Elena, grinning ear to ear, holding one of the gators. It was such a powerful image that I showed it at her wedding this past June to illustrate her fearless nature. She always loved snakes, too. I have another picture of her, about five years old, with a ring-necked snake peering out of her pocket.

One of the bizarre creatures we caught in those traps was a big salamander, called an amphiuma (am-fee-OO-mah). It had blank-staring, foggy gray eyes and a snake-like body, only thicker. Attached to the body, almost as an afterthought, it seemed, were four ridiculously tiny legs. These miniscule limbs could never support the animal’s weight—amphiumas grow up to three feet long—so it apparently just dragged them along as it slithered, snake-like, through the mud or wet grass.

A common name for the amphiuma is congo eel, though it is neither an eel nor from the Congo. It’s proper name, “amphiuma,” however, does sound rather exotic—it has, to me, a Roman ring to it. But the name actually derives from two Greek words—“amphi,” meaning both, and “pneumo,” meaning air or to breathe. Apparently, the name was bestowed long ago in the mistaken belief that the salamander could breathe both air and water.

The craziest thing about this salamander isn’t its looks. It’s how it feels. It was about the slimiest thing I ever held—or tried to hold. Whenever we tried to grab its relentlessly writhing body, it would literally squirt out of our clenched fists, like those funky sausage-shaped balloon toys. Everyone was rolling on the ground, laughing, as each person tried, unsuccessfully, to get a handle on the thing. Our naturalist instructor said it was the second slimiest creature on the planet, next to the hagfish. Like the hagfish, the amphiuma produces copious amounts of mucus to help it slip away from predators—or students.

In the research station’s classroom, we kept a small amphiuma in an aquarium for a while. We loved to watch its turning, twisting gyrations. We learned that these amphibians are common in coastal wetlands, and are found in riverside wetlands extending northward up the Mississippi River valley to the cypress swamps of the Missouri Bootheel.

We also learned that amphiumas have rather unusual sexual relationships, in that females court the males. Females lay about 100-200 large (for a salamander—about 1/3 inch in diameter) eggs attached in a long string, usually deposited under a rotten log. Eggs hatch into air-breathing larvae in about four to five months.

Back in Missouri, I looked up amphiumas in The Amphibians and Reptiles of Missouri by Jeff Briggler and Tom Johnson. It turns out that there are several species of amphiumas, distinguished partly by their number of toes. In Missouri, we have only the three-toed species, but elsewhere you might find, oddly enough, two and even one-toed varieties. I don’t know which kind we captured in Mississippi.

The excitement of funnel-trapping stuck with me when I got back to Missouri. I bought my own funnel trap, consisting of metal hoops covered in netting that expand like an accordion. I have tried the trap out in several ponds and sloughs, baited with a dab of cat food wrapped in cloth and suspended inside the trap. I always put the trap in shallow water, with the top above the waterline, like we did in Mississippi. That way, an air breathing creature would not drown before the trap could be checked. I have caught several fish, crayfish and turtles, but nothing nearly as fascinating as an amphiuma.

I still have hopes of seeing another amphiuma in the wild—preferably in Missouri. If it happens, it will have to be somewhere in the swamps of the bootheel, I suppose. I remember going to the Mingo Wildlife Area, in the Bootheel, on a botany field trip many years ago. I remember nearly drowning in my tent during a rainstorm, being attacked by bomber-sized mosquitos, and seeing way too many cottonmouth snakes on or near the boardwalks.

Maybe I’ll just treasure the memories I have of the Mississippi amphiuma, the fun I had with my daughter, and the notion that the natural world is full of surprises.

Cottonmouth

“SNAKE!!!”

That’s a warning cry that almost always gets the adrenaline pumping. Summer is when snakes are active, hungry, and on the move. For those of us who spend a lot of time on the rivers, one of the most dangerous snakes is the northern cottonmouth, Agkistrodon piscivorus, often called water moccasin. The cottonmouth’s scientific name is Latin for “hook-toothed fish eater,” pretty self-explanatory. But no one seems to know for sure where the “water moccasin” tag comes from.

Francis Skalicky of the Missouri Department of Conservation suggests we not use the term “water moccasin” because it is applied to a variety of snakes people see around water. But whatever you call them, one thing is certain — A. piscivorus, the world’s only semi-aquatic pit viper— has a nasty reputation.

Brain Greene, a professor at Missouri State University, spent a big part of his life studying northern cottonmouth. Soft-spoken and articulate, Greene has piercing eyes that seem well suited for spotting dark snakes in dim surroundings. He grew up in New York State — as he puts it, “500 miles from the nearest cottonmouth” — and early on developed a keen interest in reptiles.

Not long after arriving at Missouri State, he heard about an abundance of cottonmouth near Crane Creek in Stone County. This clear, spring-fed stream, home to the unique McCloud rainbow trout, is also frequented by fishermen.

Greene wasted no time checking it out. Sure enough, one warm spring afternoon in 1999 he found about a dozen cottonmouth after only an hour of searching along the stream, and realized that this snake hotbed provided an ideal setting for his research on reptile populations.

Crane Creek lies near the northern edge of cottonmouth territory, which extends from southeast Virginia southward through Florida, westward across the Gulf States to east Texas, then up through Arkansas into southern Missouri. The Florida sub-species can be monsters. While Missouri specimens reach about four feet in length, Florida cottonmouth can be six feet long and, Greene adds emphatically, “as big around as your leg.”

Why do cottonmouth congregate at places like Crane Creek? The answer, Greene says, is at least partly in the lay of the land. The reach of Crane Creek he studied, as it flows through an area managed by the Missouri Department of Conservation, is primarily oriented east-west, with several stretches of south-facing bluffs. Warmed by the winter sun, these rocky outcrops provide ideal hibernacula for the snakes within sheltering crevices and caves.

Somewhat surprisingly, Greene found that Crane Creek cottonmouth eat very few trout or other fish. Instead, they forage almost exclusively on small mammals. Prey species are evenly apportioned into separate feeding territories, with large male snakes taking primarily cotton rats in pastures away from the creek. Smaller females specialize on deer mice and voles living near the stream.

By contrast, Arkansas biologists report that cottonmouth there feed heavily on fish, but only in intermittent streams where pools dry up in summer, providing easy pickings. Spring-fed Crane Creek never dries up, and cottonmouth there are at a competitive disadvantage with water snakes, which have evolved to feed efficiently on fish in open water.

Missourians typically see more water snakes than cottonmouth, but often confuse the two. Cottonmouth are usually darker with more triangular heads and thicker bodies. Scales protrude above and hide their eyes, as opposed to the bulging eyes of water snakes. Cottonmouth are also more buoyant, floating high in the water, often with their heads arching well above the waterline.

It is notable that despite their localized abundance — not to mention their aggressive reputations — cottonmouth bite very few people. As Greene meticulously explains, “People are afraid of them, don’t think straight when they’re around them, exaggerate what they’ve seen when they’re near one, and very often misinterpret what they observe.” This has given rise to many dubious claims of being “attacked” or “chased” by cottonmouth.

Cottonmouth can certainly appear threatening. If approached, they assume a characteristic defensive posture, rearing up, opening their mouths to expose white throat linings and fangs, puffing up their bodies and rattling their tails. But unless stepped on or grabbed, they almost never bite.

Studies in Georgia put cottonmouth through a series of “tests” over hundreds of encounters, including touching or prodding with prosthetic limbs. Over 80% percent of the time, even with persistent goading, the snakes didn’t strike.

So there is no reason to unduly fear cottonmouth. But one shouldn’t take any chances with them, either. Their bite is serious, comparable to a rattlesnake and worse than a copperhead. They can even bite underwater, though this is rare, with only one fatality recorded in this manner. Recovery from bites is prolonged, often with tissue damage and later atrophy.

So it is always advisable to use caution in likely cottonmouth habitat; watch where you step and don’t approach or attempt to capture any snake. Even with the knowledge that cottonmouth are not particularly aggressive, it is difficult to keep your heart from pounding when you see one.

Humans and other primates have been shown to harbor an innate fear of snakes. Perhaps this has kept us from harm in the distant past. But thanks to people like Brian Greene, we now know a lot more about these impressive reptiles. And as he suggests, a better understanding of them should help us maintain a healthy respect, rising above our tendencies toward irrational fears or, as too often happens, unnecessary extermination.

The button takes you to the Missouri Department of Conservation northern cottonmouth field guide.

Photo courtesy Missouri Department of Conservation

Learn More

Mowing Green

My lawn mowing chore isn’t as onerous as it used to be. My electric mower is much lighter than my old gas model, so it’s easier to push (although both are self-propelled). All I have to do is take a battery off the charger and slide it into the mower. No more storing and pouring gasoline, or going to the gas station to fill the container. I don’t have to worry about gas in my shed going bad, or rust from the fuel can clogging the engine filter. And my electric mower is more eco-friendly.

According to the EPA, gas lawnmowers and gas-powered yard tools (weed eaters, leaf blowers, chain saws, etc.) account for about 40% of the volatile organic chemical emissions in the U.S., and about half of the fine particulate emissions—particles that are breathed deeply into the lungs, where they do significant damage. They also produce high amounts of benzene, carbon monoxide, nitrogen oxides and ozone precursors.

There are an estimated 140 million of these machines, and their pollution is not regulated nearly to the extent of that from cars and trucks. Electric lawnmowers, by contrast, produce little pollution during operation, and they only consume electricity during charging.

Other benefits of electric lawnmowers:

They may be slightly more expensive initially to buy, but are much cheaper to operate. Over the lifetime of the mower, there is a considerable savings on fuel, oil, and maintenance.
They are less noisy than gas mowers, a real benefit in the already noisy urban setting. However, electric mowers do have some noise related to the turning motor and cutting action.
They are safer. Gasoline engines require the use and storage of hazardous products like gasoline and motor oil. Gas mower blades turn at higher speeds, which makes them more dangerous to users.
They are easy to start. Much of the frustration of gas mowers is yanking on the cord when the crazy thing won’t start.

Downsides of electric mowers:

Gas mowers are more powerful and able to cut through taller and tougher grass.
Run times on battery-operated mowers are usually less than run times on a tank of gas.

Sources and types of electric mowers:

Consumer Reports lists EGO mowers in the top spots for battery-operated mowers (about $400 for a 20-inch push mower, $600 for self-propelled). Compare with a Craftsman gas-powered mower at $300 and a Toro gas self-propelled for $420. Greenworks mowers also get high ratings from Consumer Reports.
Popular Mechanics suggests the EGO 21-inch Select Cut is the best overall, and the Ryobi 40V 21-inch is the best value.
EGO mowers are carried by Lowe’s and Westlake Ace Hardware in Springfield. Ryobi mowers are at Walmart and Home Depot (HD currently has a Ryobi push mower on sale for $300), and Greenworks mowers are at Lowes, Walmart, and Home Depot. Westlake Ace Hardware has a STIHL electric push-mower for $400.

I’ve learned there are differences in how my electric and gas mowers perform. I have a patch of grass in a low area that turns into a mat of green wire after a rain. If I don’t keep it mowed short enough, my electric mower will choke on it. But I’ve worked through these kinks and now mow mostly trouble-free.

So, now my old gas mower sits in the shed, stinking of fetid grass stuck to its underbelly. What do I do with it? I could probably give it away. There are places that would take it to resell. But I want to get the old ICE (internal combustion engine, greenhouse gas spewer) off the planet — one more dinosaur relegated to the iron fossil bed.

I found that I could take it to Commercial Metals, CMC Recycling (862-0548), to be recycled. They will pay me a little bit for the scrap metal. But first, I must drain the gas and oil. Or, I could take it the Computer Recycling Center (866-2588). They pay nothing for it, and I have to drain the oil and gas.

This begs the question — what do I do with the old gas or oil? Luckily, there are two ways to get rid of it. You can take it in a container with a lid to O’Reilly’s or Auto Zone to be recycled, or call the Household Chemical Collection Center, at 864-2000.

Backyard Burger

Summer is the season for cookouts. There is nothing like a medium-rare burger hot off the grill, stacked with pickles, ketchup, mustard, grilled onion, and right-off-the-vine garden tomato. I fell a little guilty knowing that eating beef is not terribly responsible, environmentally speaking, but at least we look for grass-fed beef. It’s partially to ease our conscience, but also because we have found that we really enjoy the flavor and texture of pasture-produced beef. But is it really better for the environment than eating CAFO meat?

Much of the beef consumed in the U.S. today has been produced, or at least “finished,” in a feed lot, a confined feeding operation. The high consumption of meat products in this country supports Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations (CAFO), or “industrialized” meat production. In our state, industrial agriculture and the organizations and industries allied with it have tremendous political power. For this reason, rules to prevent environmental and health problems from CAFOs are purposely kept weak, or are weakly enforced.

One alternative to CAFO-produced beef is grass-fed beef. Proponents of the grass-fed beef industry point out that there are environmental benefits, including:

Herds of cattle on the nation’s grasslands simulate the herds of buffalo that once roamed here, which supported the grassland ecosystem that existed before plowing and row crop production.
Managed (not overly intense) grazing can help restore soil health by boosting its nutrient content and increasing its microbial diversity.
Grasslands absorb high amounts of carbon dioxide, reducing greenhouse gases and fighting climate change
Cattle manure provides natural fertilizer for vegetation and soils
Proper grazing helps to develop grasses with deep root systems, reducing erosion

There is a rising demand for grass-fed beef in the U.S., but today 75-80% of the grass-fed beef is from abroad, primarily Australia and New Zealand, so some of the environmental benefits of grazing are being realized elsewhere.

Further, the popularity of grass-fed beef is pulling multi-national corporations into the market. Some people argue that feedlot-raised beef has lower greenhouse emissions, since grass-fed cows gain weight more slowly and therefore contribute to methane production for a longer period. However, most experts agree that on the whole, grass-fed beef is better for the environment.

There are also arguments that animal welfare is improved by raising animals on open pastures rather than in crowded, stressful conditions:
Local suppliers of grass-fed beef include High Springs Farm, Buffalo, Mo., (highspringsfarm.com) and Millsap Farms, Springfield, Mo. (millsapfarms.com).

We’ve all learned that eating “high on the food chain” is not sustainable. Many of our food crops, such as corn and soybeans, go to produce meat, with its much higher demands of land, nutrients, energy, and water. A commonly cited fact is that it takes about 1,800 gallons of water to produce one pound of meat. Further, consumption of red meat has been linked to a higher risk of heart disease and cancer.

Today, there is a growing trend to include more plant-based products in our diets. The “veggie burger” replaces the meat patty in our beloved hamburger. High-tech processes are being used with plant-based ingredients to mimic the color, texture and even the taste of beef.

Two product lines (Impossible Burgers and Beyond Burgers) led the way, but there are now many brands and product types to choose from.

Eating veggie burgers is definitely better for the planet, but how do they compare nutritionally and taste-wise? Nutrition magazine provides some comparisons:

Proteins and calories: Veggie burgers are similar to beef burgers in these categories
Total and saturated fats: Beef patties have about 18-20 grams of total fat and 8 grams of saturated fat. Veggie burgers have 14-19 grams of total fat, 6-8 grams of saturated fat. So, fat contents are similar, but most of the fat in veggie-burgers comes from coconut oil, which doesn’t include nearly as much of the harmful LDL cholesterol
Sodium: Somewhat surprisingly, the veggie burger has significantly more sodium, which could concern someone on a sodium-restricted diet.
Soy: The Impossible Burger uses genetically modified (GM) soybeans. Beyond Burgers are soy-free and use non-GM crops.
Taste: Beth and I have been buying Beyond Burgers at MaMa Jean's and are very impressed with them. They do a good job of simulating real meat, include a hot pink center that really looks like a medium-rare hamburger patty. The taste is good, too, especially when we add our traditional palette of cheese, ketchup, mustard, pickles and lettuce.

So, there is not that much difference nutritionally between the veggie and beef alternatives. But the veggie burger is obviously a more environmentally sound and sustainable choice than conventional meat. If you want to lighten your footprint on the planet, consider switching to veggie burgers at least part of the time.

A Legacy of Ozark Floating

The clear, swift streams of the Ozarks have magnetic personalities, drawing thousands of people every year to fish, camp, swim or simply relax on a gravel bar. A great way to experience Ozark rivers is on a float trip. Many fun-seekers canoe popular rivers on summer weekends, seemingly oblivious to crowded conditions. Others float throughout the year, seeking solitude and a chance to glimpse reclusive wildlife. Whatever the style of adventure, these outings are built upon a long legacy of floating in the Ozarks. While the motivations and rewards of floating have remained largely the same, today’s floaters enjoy vastly improved gear.

Consider, for example, the equipment used by Leonard Hall 50 years ago, described in his book Stars Upstream. By the 1950s, Hall had invested in the newest generation of float boats, the Grumman Canoe. William Hoffman, vice president of Grumman Engineering, hit upon the idea of an aluminum canoe while on a float trip in upper New York State in 1944. After laboriously portaging his heavy canvas-covered wooden boat, he figured there had to be a better way. Why not build canoes from the same lightweight material used in Grumman’s famous fighter planes? The next year, the world’s first aluminum canoe rolled off the plant’s assembly line on Long Island.

Before aluminum canoes arrived on the scene, john-boats formed the mainstay of Ozark floating. Traditional john boats -- later simplified to jon boats -- were fashioned from tightly butted wood planks sealed with glue or pitch. After a time in the water the wood expanded, making the boat watertight—but heavy. John-boats weighing 300 pounds dry could become a back-wrenching 800 pounds when waterlogged. These boats were usually narrow, 18 to 24 inches wide, and long, sometimes exceeding 30 feet, but were surprisingly stable, accommodating several fishermen and allowing a person to stand up while paddling or poling from the stern.

By the 1880s, john-boats provided basic transportation for many Ozark hill folk, since roads remained rough to non-existent in the rugged interior. Travelers would sometimes pole their boats 20 miles upriver just to visit neighbors. Canoes of the wood and canvas variety became commercially available in the early 1900s, but were slow to catch on in the Ozarks. The geographer Carl Sauer, writing in 1915, noted that canoes, while apparently well suited to Ozark streams, were at the time “almost unknown.”

By the 1920s, many Missourians, especially business people from St. Louis and Kansas City, had discovered the Ozarks as a fishing and recreation paradise. Guided float trips came into vogue. A famous example, the Galena to Branson trip, featured a 125-mile float lasting six days or more. Customers drifted beneath magnificent bluffs on the James River and then down the mighty White River (in a section now covered by Table Rock Lake), sampling choice fishing holes along the way. These lengthy excursions were made possible by that Ozark workhorse, the john-boat, which could carry the extensive commissary and mountains of camping gear as well as paying customers.

Jim Owen perfected guided float trips on the James and White Rivers. A transplant from Jefferson City, Owen at first knew little about john-boats or floating, but his background in advertising gave him an edge in marketing and promotion. He started a Branson-based float service in 1935 with six boats. Potential customers learned of his trips in Outdoor Life, Sports Afield and Life magazines. During his thirty-three year tenure as float guide, Owen shepherded over 10,000 fishermen down bass-filled Ozark streams.

Aluminum and wood-canvas canoes and john-boats still ply the rivers of the Ozarks, but for concessionaires and many recreational floaters, the boat material of choice today is plastic. With their one-piece molded bodies, plastic canoes have no rivets or rigid plates to crack, buckle and leak. Being very flexible, they bend on impact and spring back into shape. They slide over rocks without the “grabbiness” of aluminum canoes, and are much quieter, making it easier to sneak up on fish and wildlife and contributing to a more peaceful floating experience. More recently, plastic kayaks have come into vogue, opening up floating experiences for a wide range of recreationalists.

Camping gear has also been improved. Leonard Hall, upon reaching his gravel bar campsite, set up his spacious “umbrella” style canvas tent, with internal aluminum poles and an awning over the front door where he and a few companions could drink coffee while waiting out the rain. Hall’s heavy, folded canvas tent took up a considerable portion of his canoe. Today, tents are primarily made of nylon and are lightweight and compactly rolled, with aluminum or composite poles supporting the structure through sleeves or clips sewn onto the outside, all covered by a rain repellent fly. In his tent, Hall slept in a Dacron sleeping bag on a bulky, rubberized air mattress. Today’s floaters enjoy more lightweight and functional designs for both bags and pads.

For a grub box, Hall used a wooden orange crate with rope handles and an internal divider. One side held the food, the other a cook kit. In the canoe, he kept the box covered with a canvas tarp to keep out the splash. Today’s floaters still need to keep critical items dry in rapids or in the event of a spill, especially on winter floats —necessitating water-tight bags and boxes, perhaps the most essential gear of all. Innovations like these have greatly elevated the safety and comfort levels of floaters since Hall’s time.

But for Leonard Hall, and for the generations of floaters that followed him, it wasn’t really about the gear — any more than canoeing is simply another form of transportation. Rather, it is about getting along in the outdoors — about tuning ourselves to the natural rhythms and movements of wild rivers—and about allowing our minds and spirits to become immersed in their timeless flow. That, in large measure, is what Ozark floating is really about. The gear simply helps us to get there.

The button below will take you to the Ozark Book Series at Ozark Studies Institute, where you can buy the excellent book, "On the River: A History of the Ozarks Float Trip" by Tom Koob and Curtis Copeland.

On the River Book

A Legacy of Ozark Floating

Photos from a 1940 Movie of Jim Owen Float Trips

Promotional Movie Title

Unloading the John Boats

Commissary Boat

Satisfied Customer

Jim Owen

Famous Guide Charlie Barnes

The Jim Owen Crew

The Modesty Screen