Nature and Outdoors
A Country Roads spotter's guide
Louisiana is home to such eccentric human specimens, many of them governors, that folks sometimes overlook the other fascinating life forms that skitter, soar, twine, and creep through the state. Fortunately, after the examples of a "murder of crows," a "wisdom of wombats," or an "exultation of larks," we have a scribble of writers on hand to serve as your guides through our natural world.
“I Want to Go Home with the Armadillo”: Lucile Bayon Hume, May 1991
Lucile holds the honor of being our longest-lasting contributor, with her first article appearing in 1986. Since then, her whimsical, enthusiastic examinations of culture and the natural world have enlivened many an issue of Country Roads.
“The armadillo, so perfectly ugly, perfectly stupid, perfectly imperfect, serves as the ethnic joke of the animal kingdom… When out and about, the male armadillo marks his territory in the same liquid fashion as male dogs do. The male armadillo is so dedicated to territorial behavior in the area of his burrow that his survival rate in a well-kept, clean zoo is very poor. Every time the cages are cleaned, the male armadillo feels compelled to thoroughly remark his territory. Cause of death: dehydration. Read the full story here.
“Pucker-Powered Persimmons”: Lucile Bayon Hume, November 2002
She’s often at her most engaging when rising to the defense of a maligned species.
“The horticultural name Diospyros comes from the Latin meaning ‘fruit of the gods,’ but many Southerners think along the lines of the movie title The Gods Must Be Crazy and don’t bother fooling with the fruit except for children who love to pelt each other with persimmons, which are good chunking size and hurt just enough when green and splat with a disgusting mess, a joy of childhood, when ripe… When they’re so full of pulp potential, it’s a shame we often think of our native wild persimmon as a sort of trash fruit suited only for the consumption of animals like the possum and the raccoon, both of which love the fruit and succumb to its temptation. Lured by hunger for the juicy ripe persimmon, they scramble up among bare tree limbs and become sitting ducks, so to speak, for coon and possum hunters who know exactly where to look for them in the otherwise fruitless landscape. We, on the other hand, are generally content to let persimmons fall where they may.” Read the full story here.
“The Crane Fly: A Skeeter Eater?”: Lucile Bayon Hume, July 2013
Lucile’s crane fly story has, since its publication, consistently—and by far—been the most popular article in our website’s history.
“The crane fly adult doesn’t eat mosquitoes or much of anything else. Though not a hoax on the same level as jokesters purposefully impersonating Sasquatch by wearing gorilla suits and leaving humongo faux footprints, we humans have embraced this hoax, taking to heart the crane fly/mosquito hawk myth. We want to believe this fragile, clumsy, goofy bug is a hero capable of silencing the incessant whine of the disease-bearing mosquito. But he isn’t, never has been, and is anatomically incapable of killing or eating a mosquito … So what’s the point, the raison d’être, of these flies that don’t eat mosquitoes? You could ask the same about us, but that’s another issue.” Read the full story here.
“Snakes on Broadway”: Harriett Pooler, April 2014
Harriett started on the bird beat, writing a Bird of the Month column before expanding into the rest of the animal kingdom, but still keeps us a(robin red)breast of avian antics in “Bird Watch.” One of her first forays into land creatures was among her most entertaining.
“There aren’t Academy Awards for reptiles; but if there were, the hognose snake would win every year. The Eastern Hognose Snake (Heterodon platirhinos) is wonderfully theatrical and puts on quite a show if accosted in nature…
“A hognose’s first response is to intimidate with size. It sucks in air, flattens its neck, and lifts its head off the ground to hiss—like a cobra, if Louisiana had them… If that cobra act doesn’t sufficiently intimidate, a hognose will feign a strike, though it almost never bites (unless it smells prey). The hognose’s final resort is to flip onto its back and start writhing uncontrollably. After a moment or two, it’ll curl up its tail, let its tongue hang out of its mouth with a few droplets of blood, and play dead. Oftentimes it will emit fecal matter with a foul musk smell. If you turn the hognose over, it will roll back as it was, insisting on its death pose; and when you look away or finally walk off, it immediately ‘resurrects’ itself.” Read the full story here.
“Dolphins are the Sea’s Socialites”: Wendy Wilson Billiot, March 2017
“Bayou Woman” Wendy Wilson Billiot brings an outdoorswoman’s vim to her reports of the plants and animals, native and invasive, her fellow adventurers and their armchair-explorer friends are likely to find in Louisiana’s great outdoors.
“In these shallow, salty waters, dolphin pods feed and frolic, putting on a veritable sea show free of charge. Adult and juvenile dolphins seem to play chase, swimming to and fro, slapping their tails on the surface of the water, and leaping out of the waves. But no matter the amount of play, they always stick together. One way they accomplish this is by means of echolocation, or sonar, which enables them to sense their proximity to one another as well as to other objects. This ability is aided by a fatty deposit called a melon, located between the skull and the blowhole. The melon directs and focuses dolphins’ communications, which sound like clicks to us... Another way the pods stay together is through the use of distinctive whistles. Each dolphin creates a whistle that researchers believe is an identifier, like a name. For example, when a calf gets separated from its mother, either or both dolphins repeat the whistle until they rejoin… Their whistles also serve another vital purpose: ringing the dinner bell.” Read the full story here.