TRANSACTIONS
of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Volume 84 • 1996
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TRANSACTIONS
of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Volume 84 • 1996
Editor William J. Urbrock
Department of Religious Studies
University of Wisconsin Oshkosh
Oshkosh, Wisconsin 54901
Managing Editor Patricia Allen Duyfhuizen
321 Heather Court
Eau Claire, Wisconsin 54701
Interns Jennifer Kraus
Jennifer Kushnier
Breck Schwartz
Meredith Weber
1 ransactions welcomes articles that explore features of the State of
Wisconsin and its people. Articles written by Wisconsin authors on
topics other than Wisconsin sciences, arts and letters are occasionally
published. Manuscripts and queries should be addressed to the editor.
Submission requirements: Submit three copies of the manuscript,
double-spaced, to the editor. Abstracts are suggested for science/
technical articles. The style of the text and references may follow that
of scholarly writing in the author’s field. Please prepare figures with
reduction in mind.
© 1996 Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
All rights reserved
ISSN 0084-0505
For information on membership in the Academy,
call (608) 263-1692.
Contents
TRANSACTIONS
Volume 84 • 1996
From the Editor v
A qualitative survey of bivalve mollusks of the Chippewa River y
Wisconsin: From Eau Claire , Wisconsin y to the Chippewa Flowage 1
Terry Balding and Nancy Balding
Eighteen species of bivalve mollusks, including three Wisconsin endangered species,
were identified in an intensive qualitative survey of a reach of the Chippewa River,
Wisconsin.
“ Getting rid of the stumps”: Wisconsin *s land-clearing program —
The experience of the northern lake country y 1900—1925 1 1
Mark Davis
In the early twentieth century, promoters of agriculture in northern Wisconsin, trying
to save their faltering campaign to attract settlers to the cutover, inaugurated an
intensive, destructive, and ultimately unsuccessful crusade to clear the land of stumps.
A vascular flora of Green Lake County y Wisconsin
Thomas L. Eddy 23
This vascular flora includes 921 catalogued species that grow or have grown without
cultivation in Green Lake County. During the study, nine Wisconsin threatened and
endangered species were found, as well as a native grass previously unreported for
Wisconsin.
Flora and fauna of northwest Wisconsin Waterfowl Production Areas
James O. Evrard and Richard A. Lillie
The occurrence and relative abundance of over 700 plant and animal species were
documented in wetlands and surrounding uplands in Waterfowl Production Areas in
northwest Wisconsin.
Effects of a catastrophic flood on the insect fauna of Otter Creeky
Sauk County , Wisconsin 103
William L. Hilsenhoff
A catastrophic flood in Baxter’s Hollow on 1 8 J uly 1 993 rearranged substrates in Otter
Creek, which affected insects inhabiting the stream. Some species became more
numerous, many became scarce, some were probably eliminated, and others were
apparently unaffected.
A quantitative survey of the floating-leafed and submersed
macrophytes of Fish Lake , Dane County , Wisconsin 1 1 1
Richard A. Lillie
Researchers from the Department of Natural Resources have encountered an unusual
twist while monitoring changes in vegetation in a Dane County lake: a native weevil
appears to be controlling an exotic watermilfoil.
Comparisons among aquatic insect communities of streams 1 27
draining the Baraboo Range
Richard A. Lillie and Rebecca S. Isenring
A survey of the aquatic insect communities of 24 streams draining the Baraboo Range
revealed significant differences among streams on an east-west gradient, which are
thought to reflect glacial history.
When you can V see the forest for the folks: Late 19th/ early 20th
century Wisconsin photographs of outdoor leisure activities 149
Susan Talbot-Stanaway
This study suggests that social and photographic conventions affected the composition
as well as the meaning of popular photographs.
They thought we were dreamers: Early anti-pollution efforts on the
lower Fox and East Rivers of northeast Wisconsin , 1927—1949 161
Paul Wozniak
Environmental campaigns for Wisconsin rivers have a long multi-generational
history, as shown in this case study from northeast Wisconsin.
IV
From the editor
“All the world's a stage. "Among the annual highlights of
summer in Wisconsin for my wife Barbara and me is our
weekend of drama at the Wisconsin Shakespeare Festival
(WSF) in the Center for the Arts on the campus of the
University of Wisconsin Platteville. This year’s 20th Anni¬
versary Season featured a marvelous trio of plays in
repertoire: Macbeth , Twelfth Night , and Taming of the
Shrew. As always, the Festival’s productions were marked
by energetic acting, fresh interpretations of character,
imaginative staging, and stunning costuming. In fact, as a
special anniversary attraction, the Henry Nohr Gallery in
the adjacent UW Platteville Student Center featured an
eye-pleasing exhibition of selected costume designs by
Wendy Collins, who has served as resident costume de¬
signer for the WSF since its inception.
“All the world's a stage. " Our yearly pilgrimage to
Platteville delights us, moreover, nearly as much for the
beautiful drive to and from Oshkosh, the interesting at¬
tractions in town and country along the way, and the
renewal of friendly ties with the hosts at our favorite bed
and breakfast, as for the actual hours spent enjoying
Shakespeare’s incomparable art. The landscape and people
of Wisconsin all seem to be staging a marvelous event for
us, always in full costume. From the green farmlands in the
glaciated terrain between Oshkosh and Madison to the
urban scurry around the Beltway and the sights and smells
of Middle Eastern dining at a downtown Lebanese restau¬
rant, from the rainbow explosion ofwildflowers along state
highway 151 between Verona and Mt. Horeb to the
Cornish ambience of Mineral Point, from the breath¬
taking roller-coaster vistas of southwestern Wisconsin’s
driftless zone to the many colors of Platteville itself bus¬
tling with visitors come for Shakespeare, for the art fair in
the square, and for the spectacle of the Chicago Bears
football summer training camp on the University cam¬
pus — what a marvelous procession of scenes and scenery!
“All the world's a stage. "Playwrights and their plays are
not without their critics, whose insights add to our appre¬
ciation of the drama. In this issue of Transactions we offer
v
you, our readers, several scholarly analyses
of portions of the ever-unfolding play of
life in Wisconsin.
As is often the case on our pages, several
of our contributors offer studies of the
flora and fauna associated with Wisconsin’s
lakes, streams, and wetlands.
Terry Balding and Nancy Balding pub¬
lish the results of their 1989 to 1994
summer surveys of bivalve mollusks along
some 120 miles of the Upper Chippewa
River from Eau Claire north to the
Chippewa flowage at Winter Dam.
William Hilsenhoff reports on some
significant changes in the insect fauna of
Otter Creek, which flows south out of the
Baraboo Hills in Sauk County, before and
after a catastrophic flood in Baxter’s Hol¬
low in 1993.
In a complementary study, Richard
Lillie and Rebecca Isenring present the
findings of an April 1992 survey of the
aquatic insect communities of 24 streams,
including Otter Creek, that drain the
Baraboo Range.
Fish Lake in nearby Dane County, notes
Richard Lillie in a second article, was the
site of annual surveys from 1991 to 1994
that yielded an unusual discovery: an
aquatic weevil may deserve credit for a
major decline in Eurasian watermilfoil,
which has been a nuisance in the lake for
some two decades.
James Evrard teams up with Richard Lillie
to offer readers an exhaustive biological in¬
ventory of the flora and fauna in the waterfowl
production areas (wetlands and adjacent
grassy uplands) of northern St. Croix and
southern Polk counties in northwestern Wis¬
consin along the St. Croix River and the
Minnesota border. The inventory represents
the results of 1 0 years of field observation and
documentary reports by Evrard, Lillie, and
others from 1982 to 1991.
From Green Lake County comes an
ambitious inventory of another sort. Tho¬
mas Eddy catalogues the non-cultivated
plants that grow or have grown in the
county, mainly on the basis of specimens
collected from 1979 to 1993 and now
housed in the University of Wisconsin
Oshkosh herbarium. Like several of the
studies mentioned above, this work may
well serve as a baseline reference for future
researchers.
Finally, we are pleased to feature three
articles that afford some scenes of
Wisconsin’s people from the end of the
nineteenth through the first half of our
twentieth century.
Susan Talbot-Stanaway takes us to the
Green Bay area for a look at how popular
photography, from about 1890 to 1920,
recorded folks enjoying their favorite pas¬
times in the outdoors, which usually served
as little more than a contrived scenic back¬
drop for the poses of these local residents at
leisure.
As Mark Davis reminds us, during these
same years when northeastern Wisconsin¬
ites were first experimenting with family
photographs among the trees, farmers and
would-be farmers in Vilas and Oneida
Counties were trying to get rid of the
trees — or, at least, the stumps! The great
land-clearing program of 1900 to 1925,
however, ultimately gave way to efforts to
rebuild the forest and renew the natural
heritage of the northern lakes country of
Wisconsin.
Finally, Paul Wozniak chronicles a quar¬
ter of a century (1927 to 1949) of early
anti-pollution efforts on the Lower Fox
and East Rivers in northeastern Wiscon¬
sin. Lawyers, politicians, journalists,
government, business, and conservation
organizations all entered the fray that helped
raise public awareness and advance the
vi
national political agenda about issues of
water quality.
“All the world's a stage. ” Applause, ap¬
plause for all who contributed articles to this
1996 Transactions, thereby helping to shine a
spotlight on significant features of Wiscon¬
sin from the 1890s to the 1990s, from one
end of the state to the other, and from its
natural to its human heritage. Applause also
for the many reviewers, for managing editor
Patricia Duyfhuizen, and for editorial staff
and assistants. Their tireless efforts behind
the scenes helped enormously towards the
production of this issue.
Bill Urbrock
Editor’s Preview of Coming Attractions
Look for a special issue of Transactions in 1997 devoted
entirely to original short fiction by Wisconsin writers. Mean¬
while, we warmly invite submission of the usual scholarly
manuscripts for consideration for 1998.
vii
The Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters was
chartered by the State Legislature on March 16, 1870, as a
membership organization serving the people of Wisconsin. Its
mission is to encourage investigation in the sciences, arts and
letters and to disseminate information and share knowledge.
Terry and Nancy Balding
A qualitative survey of bivalve mollusks
of the Chippewa River, Wisconsin:
From Eau Claire, Wisconsin
to the Chippewa Flowage
Abstract During the summers of 1989— 1994 we collected 10,020 shells
from an approximately 196 km stretch of the Chippewa River be¬
tween Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and the Chippewa Flowage near
Winter, Wisconsin. Eighteen species were identified, including
Cumberlandia monodonta, Plethobasus cyphyus, and Cyclonaias
tuberculata, which are listed as Wisconsin endangered species.
Actinonaias ligamentina and Elliptio dilantata were co-dominants.
Comparisons are made between the lower and upper Chippewa
River, the lower having greater species richness, larger-sized shells,
and less abundance. Unionid abundance and species richness were
both positively related to the length of the riverine reach in the
upper Chippewa River.
Bivalve mollusks are sometimes called clams, freshwater
mussels, or even naiads; in this paper they are referred to
as unionids because all specimens collected, with the excep¬
tion of one Margaritiferidae, belong to the family Unionidae.
Unionids are fdter feeders, long lived, and relatively immobile;
therefore, they are good ecological indicators of stream qual¬
ity. The objective of this study was to provide baseline data so
that future studies can document changes in unionid abun¬
dance, distribution, or species richness caused by disturbances
such as bridge and dam construction, mining, pollutants, and
the impact of the impending zebra mussel ( Dreissena
polymorpha) invasion.
In earlier Wisconsin studies Chadwick (1905, 1906^, and
1906b) conducted unionid surveys primarily in the southeast.
Baker (1928) was more statewide in scope, but cited only a
TRANSACTIONS Volume 84 (1996)
1
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
few species found specifically in the Chip¬
pewa River. Morrison (1932) and Flowers
(1973) apparently did not collect from the
Chippewa River, although they did collect
from tributaries of the Chippewa. Mathiak
(1979) completed a survey of the streams of
Wisconsin, but only collected from six sites
on the Chippewa River.
Balding (1992) arbitrarily divided the
Chippewa River into three study areas: (1)
the lower main stem, from the mouth of the
Chippewa with the Mississippi River to the
first dam in Eau Claire, Wisconsin; (2) the
upper main stem from the Eau Claire Dam
to the Winter Dam, which forms the
Chippewa Flowage; and (3) the east and
west forks to their source. An intensive
qualitative survey was completed on the
lower Chippewa River (Balding 1992). In
that study 26 species were recorded, four of
which are on the Wisconsin endangered and
threatened species list. Most of these species
had not been previously reported for the
Chippewa.
The current study of the Chippewa River
surveys the second study area, the upper
main stem. We began this qualitative bivalve
mollusk survey of the Chippewa River in
1989 and ended in 1994. Rather than us¬
ing scientific names suggested by Turgeon
et al. (1988), we used scientific names con¬
sistent with our earlier study and according
to how the voucher specimens were cata¬
logued by Dr. David Stansbery of the Ohio
State University Museum of Biological Di¬
versity.
The study area was an approximately 1 96
km (121.8 mile) stretch of the Chippewa
River in northwest Wisconsin, where eight
hydroelectric power dams divide the river
into seven reaches (Figure 1, Table 1). In
1993 the farthest downstream gauging sta¬
tion at Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, recorded
a mean annual discharge of 171.4 cubic
meters per second (cms), while the discharge
recorded at the farthest dam upstream was
24.3 cms (Holmstrom et al. 1993). The dam
with the lowest operating head was approxi¬
mately 7 m. Most of the dams are located
on granite or metamorphic bedrock, with
very large boulders nearby. Downstream
from the dams, the boulders become smaller,
and eventually the river becomes more riv¬
erine, with patches of sand and gravel be¬
tween and below smaller glacial rocks; some
river reaches are all sand. Riverine areas typi¬
cally had riffles, runs, and pools, usually not
exceeding 2 m in depth. Sometimes the dis¬
tance between dams does not allow a par¬
ticular reach of river to become riverine
before becoming impounded from the
downstream dam (Table 1).
Table 1. Riverine and impounded segments of each of the seven reaches of the study
area downstream to upstream.
Reach Riverine (km) Impounded (km)
2
TRANSACTIONS
BALDING and BALDING: Survey of bivalve mollusks of the Chippewa River
to the Winter Dam.
Volume 84 (1996)
3
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Methods
According to U.S. Geological Survey topo¬
graphic maps, the upper Chippewa River
flows through 78 different sections; in this
study each of these sections was a sampling
station. In a previous study of the lower
Chippewa River (Balding 1992), unionids
were not plentiful, and the search of an en¬
tire mile section of river was sometimes nec¬
essary. In this study, unionids were abun¬
dant in some parts of the river; for those sec¬
tions a sample was taken, rather than search¬
ing the entire section.
To determine an adequate sample size, a
site was arbitrarily selected, a presample was
taken, and the number of specimens was
plotted against the number of new species.
After 108 specimens were located, nine spe¬
cies were represented (108 specimens usu¬
ally fill a 15 liter container). A tenth species
was not found until specimen 142. We de¬
cided a 1 5 liter sample would yield adequate
species representation and that additional ef¬
fort was not warranted.
Wading with and without a glass-bot¬
tomed bucket and snorkeling were the ma¬
jor methods used to locate unionids in riv¬
erine reaches. Boating and wading were done
along shorelines in impounded reaches. A
diver with SCUBA was used on several oc¬
casions in some impoundments or transition
zones. A transition zone is a deeper part of
the river having riverine and impounded
qualities dependent upon whether a down¬
stream dam is open or holding water.
Live unionids were placed in mesh bags
and kept in the river until a section was
searched or a 1 5 liter sample was collected.
All unionids were measured for length, iden¬
tified to species, counted, and released alive
in suitable substrata. Recently dead unionids
in identifiable condition were collected,
along with specimens from midden piles
(empty shells left by predators), although
these data are not reported here. Represen¬
tatives of all species were sent as vouchers
to the Ohio State University Museum of
Biological Diversity where their identifica¬
tion was verified by Dr. David Stansbery.
Results and Discussion
This study found 17 live species of Union-
idae (Table 2) and one live species of Mar-
garitiferidae. Mathiak (1979) found only nine
of these species. The Holcombe to Radisson
reach had the greatest abundance and species
richness; it was also the longest riverine sec¬
tion. In fact, a very close positive relationship
exists between both abundance and species
richness to the length of riverine habitat
(Tables 1 and 2). The relationship may be
partially biased because the method of search
was more intense and better suited for river¬
ine areas than impounded areas.
The two dominant species within river¬
ine reaches, Actinonaias ligamentina and
Elliptio dilatata , comprise 65% of the 5,957
live unionids found (Table 3). Shells such
as E. dilatata are possibly underrepresented
as they are smaller and often buried deeply;
hence they may not be detected as easily as
larger, more exposed shells like A. liga¬
mentina. There was generally a positive re¬
lationship between a unionid’s abundance
and how frequently it was found (Table 3).
Live unionids 30 mm or smaller were col¬
lected for some species. Generally, shells of
this size are less than four years old and rep¬
resent juveniles, indicating recent reproduc¬
tion. Occurrence of juveniles, together with
the great abundance found in the Holcombe
to Radisson reach, suggests that most
unionid species have healthy populations.
Although data collected on dead specimens
are not presented, it should be noted that
there was a high percentage of dead Amblema
4
TRANSACTIONS
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Volume 84 (1996)
5
(Say, 1817)
Cumberlandia monodonta *
(Say, 1829)
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 3. Data for unionids from the study area with frequencies given for riverine reaches
of the Chippewa River from Eau Claire to the Chippewa Flowage.
Species Number Range Mean Standard Frequency
Live in Length Length (mm) Deviation % of 78 Sites
Total specimens 5,957
Total species 17
plicata and Ligumia recta , suggesting that
these two species are in decline in the upper
Chippewa.
Otters and muskrats are predators of
unionids along the Chippewa River. They
remove the soft parts and leave the empty
shells in middens. Since middens were rare
in the lower Chippewa River and common
in the upper Chippewa, it is possible these
predators could have biased the number of
juveniles we found in the upper Chippewa
River. Hanson et al. (1989) observed size se¬
lectivity of unionids by muskrats along a
lakeshore.
Three species identified in this study,
Cyclonaias tuberculata , Plethobasus cyphyus,
and Cumberlandia monodonta, are on the
Wisconsin endangered species list. Only one
live specimen of C. monodonta was collected,
despite an extensive search in the area, where
it was found using SCUBA. We assume this
is a relic species not likely to be found in the
Chippewa again. Contrary to C. monodonta ,
the other two endangered species seem to
occur frequently in the Holcombe to
Radisson reach. C. tuberculata and P. cyphyus
rank nine and eleven in abundance among
the seventeen unionid species we observed
(Table 3). Not enough P. cyphyus were col¬
lected to present a meaningful size class dis¬
tribution; however, C. tuberculata is well
represented in many sizes, reflecting a stable
population (Figure 2). No juvenile C.
tuberculata were collected below 40 mm
(about five years of age). This is more likely
due to predation or a collecting bias than
lack of reproduction. Small unionids are dif¬
ficult to find, and perhaps they may have
been in habitats that were not searched.
Quantitative data were collected at cer¬
tain selected sites and are also not presented
here. However, the highest density measured
was 74 specimens/m2. Considering the large
size of the dominant species, A. ligamentina ,
and the amount of rock in the river, a higher
density might not be physically possible.
6
TRANSACTIONS
BALDING and BALDING: Survey of bivalve mollusks of the Chippewa River
Figure 2. Size class frequency of Cyclonaias tuberculata in the upper Chippewa River,
Wisconsin.
Using SCUBA, we were able to docu¬
ment that two impoundments above the
Holcombe and Jim Falls dams did contain
good unionid representation, although not
with the abundance or species richness of the
riverine areas. In other impoundments, three
species, Lampsilis radiata , Anodonta grandis,
and Anodonta imbecillis, were the most fre¬
quently occurring.
Comparison to lower Chippewa River
The total number of species identified for
the Chippewa River, from both the lower
river study (Balding 1992) and this study,
is 29; 6 of these are listed by the Depart¬
ment of Natural Resources as endangered or
threatened. With the exception of A. im¬
becillis , C. monodonta, and C. tuberculata,
the 18 species collected in this study were
also found in the lower Chippewa River
(Balding 1992). A. imbecillis was found only
in impounded portions of this study area,
and since only the riverine portion of the
lower Chippewa River was searched, it is
likely also present in backwater areas of the
lower Chippewa River. Mathiak (1979) did
Find A. imbecillis in the backwater of the
lower Chippewa River. Greater species rich¬
ness was found in the lower Chippewa River
than in the upper Chippewa. It has long
been known that species richness increases
with increased river size (Coker et al. 1921;
Baker 1922).
Dominant species differed between the
upper and lower Chippewa River. A.
ligamentina and E. dilatata , the co-domi¬
nants of this study area, and the next most
common species, Pleurobema sintoxia , were
rare in the lower Chippewa River. Con¬
versely, the three most dominant species
found in the lower Chippewa River, Fus-
conaia flava , Obovaria olivaria , and Leptodea
fragilis , were absent or not as abundant in
this study area.
Of interest is the comparison of Wiscon¬
sin endangered and threatened species in the
lower Chippewa and in this study area. C.
mondonta and C. tuberculata were found
during this study, but not in the lower
Chippewa River in the earlier study. In con¬
trast, Quadrula metanevra, Tritogonia
Volume 84 (1996)
7
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
verrucosa, and S. ambigua were only found
in the lower Chippewa, while P. cyphyus lives
in both study areas. Mudpuppies (Necturus
maculosus), the host for Simpsonaias am¬
bigua , were observed in the upper Chippewa
and were also reported by Vogt (1981).
However, no live or dead S. ambigua were
collected, although we did not specifically
search under flat rocks for S. ambigua be¬
cause of time constraints.
Of special note in the comparison be¬
tween the lower Chippewa and this study
area is the overall difference in abundance.
In studies related to this one, which are to
be reported elsewhere, transects were placed
across the river in the Holcombe to Radisson
reach, according to predetermined features
of the shoreline such as a bridge or tree. The
mean number of unionids/m2 was nearly 12.
This overall greater density of unionids col¬
lected more frequently led us to conclude
that the Holcombe to Radisson reach has a
much more plentiful unionid population
than any other reach of the Chippewa.
The mean shell length for all species was
always smaller in the upper Chippewa. Al¬
though many factors may be involved, this
is generally what is expected in the more
fluctuating environment typical of the up¬
per reaches of rivers. An area for future study
would be to investigate if the smaller mean
shell length in the upper Chippewa is due
to a decrease in growth, longevity, or both.
In summary, there was a positive relation¬
ship of both abundance and species richness
to the length of riverine habitat. Two Wis¬
consin endangered species, C. tuberculata and
P. cyphyus, were common in some areas.
There are considerable differences between
the species found in this study and those
found in our earlier study of the lower
Chippewa River, although of the 18 species
collected alive in this study, all but A.
imbecillis, C. monodonta, and C. tuberculata
were found in the lower Chippewa River.
Also, it is our opinion that unionids are
much more plentiful in some sections of the
upper Chippewa than in the lower Chip¬
pewa.
We feel that abundance of unionids, spe¬
cies richness, widespread distribution, and
the presence of juvenile shells indicate the
Holcombe to Radisson portion of this study
area has a healthy unionid population. No
zebra mussel or other exotic bivalve mollusks
were found.
Acknowledgments
Thanks for help in collecting unionids are
due to Shawn Balding, Susan Caley, Rod
Cook, Derrik Duchesneau, Marc Harper,
Sheri Harper, Dan Kelner, Lori Lyons, and
John Reed. We would like to thank Craig
Koltes and Kristi Minahan for their assis¬
tance in tabulating data. We are very appre¬
ciative of the many generous landowners
who gave us access to the Chippewa River.
We are once again indebted to Dr. David
Stansbery of the Ohio State University Mu¬
seum of Biological Diversity for his verifi¬
cation of the unionid identification. Thanks
are also due to many reviewers.
Literature Cited
Balding, T. A. 1992. Distribution, abundance,
and diversity of mollusks (Bivalvia: Union-
idae) from the lower Chippewa River, Wis¬
consin. Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy
of Sciences, Arts and Letters 80:1 63-68.
Baker, F. C. 1922. The molluscan fauna of the
Big Vermillion River, Illinois, with special
reference to its modification as a result of pol¬
lution by sewage and manufacturing wastes.
Illinois Biology Monographs 7:1 03-224.
Baker, F. C. 1928. The freshwater mollusca of
Wisconsin. Part II. Pelecypoda. Bulletin of
8
TRANSACTIONS
BALDING and BALDING: Survey of bivalve mollusks of the Chippewa River
the Wisconsin Geological and Natural His¬
tory Survey 70:1-495.
Chadwick, G. H. 1905. List of Wisconsin shells.
Nautilus 19:57-60.
- . 190 6a. List of Wisconsin shells. Nau¬
tilus 20:22-24.
- . 190 6b. Notes on Wisconsin Mollusca.
Bulletin of the Wisconsin Natural History So¬
ciety 4:67-99.
Coker, R. E., A. F. Shira, H. W. Clark, and A.
D. Howard. 1921. Natural history and
propagation of fresh-water mussels. Bulletin
of the U.S. Bureau of Fisheries 37:77-181.
Flowers, W. 1975. Notes on the current status
of Wisconsin Unionidae. Sterkiana 57:40-42.
Hanson, J. M., W. C. MacKay, and E. E.
Prepas. 1989. Effect of size-selective preda¬
tion by muskrats (Ondatra zibethicus) on a
population of unionid clams ( Anodonta
grandis simpsoniana). Journal of Animal Ecol¬
ogy 58 : 15-28.
Holmstrom, B. K., R. A. Kammerer, and B. R.
Ellefson. 1993. Water resource data: Wiscon¬
sin, water year 1993. U.S. Geological Survey,
Water-Data Report.
Mathiak, H. A. 1979. A river survey of the
unionid mussels of Wisconsin, 1973-19 77.
Horicon, WI: Sand Shell Press.
Morrison, J. P .E. 1932. A report on the
mollusca of the Northeastern Wisconsin Lake
district. Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy
of Sciences, Arts and Letters 27:359-96.
Turgeon, D. D., A. E. Bogan, C. V. Coan, W.
K. Emerson, W. G. Lyons, W. L. Pratt, C.
F. E. Roper, A. Scheltema, F. G. Thompson,
and J. D. Williams. 1988. Common and sci¬
entific names of aquatic invertebrates from
the United States and Canada: Mollusks.
American Fisheries Society Special Publica¬
tion 16.
Vogt, R. C. 1981. Natural history of the amphib¬
ians and reptiles of Wisconsin. Milwaukee Pub¬
lic Museum. 205 pp.
Terry and Nancy Balding have been studying
the red-shouldered hawk and bivalve mollusks of
the Chippewa River and its tributaries for the
past ten years. Terry is Professor of Biology at the
University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. Address :
Department of Biology, University of Wisconsin-
Eau Claire, Eau Claire, WI 54702-4004
Volume 84 (1996)
9
Mark Davis
“Getting rid of the stumps”:
Wisconsin's land-clearing program—
The experience of the northern lake
country, 1900—1925
ooking out of his train window in the winter of 1912,
JL/ newly appointed county agent Ernest L. Luther liked what
he saw of northern Wisconsin: “The old saw mills of boyhood
days, real mackinaws, not the crudy-college [sic] kind, here one
sees brawn, and a great free movement....” He noted rough
shacks, neat farms, “rambling but well-painted towns.” The
one drawback he noted was stumps, remnants of the forest that
had once covered the North. “S-T-U-M-P-S,” Luther ex¬
claimed, “Durn the stumps. I can see my job.... Stumps, S-T-
U-M-P-S, Stumps!”1 The stumps were a blot on the landscape
and they had to be removed (Figure 1).
Luther’s new job was a part of a thirty-year campaign on
the part of northern farmers to get rid of the stumps. In the
end they failed, but their vain struggle stands as a symbol of
the entire effort to convert northern Wisconsin into produc¬
tive farmland. Nowhere did the attempt to clear land falter
more than in the northern lake country in Oneida and Vilas
counties. Dotted with more than 1,700 lakes, the region com¬
prises 1.1 million acres located around the towns of
Rhinelander and Eagle River.2
Creating the cutover in the lake country began in 1856,
when the Fox and Helms Lumber Company of Stevens Point
opened a logging camp in the region. Other lumbermen fol¬
lowed, attracted by magnificent stands of white pine that grew
on the sandy lakeshores. Over the next thirty years, thousands
of acres of northern forest disappeared. The railroad arrived
in the lake country in the 1880s and the scope of the destruc¬
tion increased. By the end of the century, most of the original
forest was gone, replaced by brushy second-growth woodlots
and miles and miles of stump-filled cutover.3 In 1902, the
1 1
TRANSACTIONS Volume 84 (1996)
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 1. A farmer sits in his uncleared field of rocks, rubble, and stumps. Courtesy
State Historical Society of Wisconsin.
popular writer Ray Stannard Baker could
Find “no desert more pitifully forlorn, more
deserted, more irreclaimable, and more
worthless than the man-made deserts of
northern Wisconsin.... [They are] hideous,
grotesque, pitiful, a reminder of the reckless
wastefulness of man.”4
In the face of such utter devastation, the
Wisconsin legislature passed two bills in the
1 890s that addressed the future of the north¬
ern part of the state. One, in 1895, autho¬
rized the University of Wisconsin College of
Agriculture to launch an intensive campaign
to promote northern farming; the other, in
1897, inaugurated a forestry program in
Wisconsin, which by 1905 included plans
for a state forest reserve in the lake country.5
For the next twenty years, advocates of for¬
estry and of agriculture pushed their sepa¬
rate agendas. The foresters purchased thou¬
sands of acres to set aside for the reserve,
while agricultural boosters produced a flood
of promotional material hyping the north¬
ern “Empire in Waiting.”6
Both sides floundered. Opponents of for¬
estry challenged the reserve for wasting good
farm land and interfering with northern eco¬
nomic development. They also argued that
the program broke Wisconsin’s constitu¬
tional proscription against state involvement
in internal improvements. Although the vot¬
ers elected to amend the constitution, op¬
ponents discovered that the legislature had
not followed the proper procedures, and
they succeeded in having the Supreme Court
declare the forestry program unconstitu¬
tional in 191 5. 7 Meanwhile, the blitz of ag¬
ricultural promotion was not producing the
results that its backers desired. Although the
number of farms in the lake country had in¬
creased from 433 to 837 between 1900 and
1910, local boosters were still disappointed.
Most of the cleared farm land was owned by
a few large corporate potato farms that had
moved into the lake country. Meanwhile,
the “actual settlers,” whom the boosters saw
as the foundation of the new north, were
struggling simply to hold onto their farms.8
12
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WHi(H44)74
DAVIS: Wisconsin’s Land-Clearing Program 1900—1925
To boost settlement and to help dis¬
tressed northern farmers, the College of Ag¬
riculture created the office of county agent
in 1912 and implemented an array of pro¬
grams to help farmers improve their yield
and market their products.9 With the end
of forestry in 1915, the assistance provided
by the College took on added significance.
For two decades, agriculturalists had argued
that the North could sustain a farm eco¬
nomy. It was time for them to prove their
case, and of all the things standing in their
way, the stumps seemed to be the fore¬
most.10
Land clearing was an arduous and daunt¬
ing task that broke the spirit of many would-
be farmers. An average acre of cutover land
in the lake country contained 117 stumps.11
Smaller hardwoods rotted quickly and were
relatively easy to remove. Larger pine stumps
were another matter. They resisted decay
and had a deep, wide-spreading root system
that tenaciously anchored the stump to the
ground.
Work began in the spring when the
ground was still frozen. Settlers fractured the
stumps into several pieces with dynamite
and then yanked them out using a team of
horses or a mechanical stump-pulling ma¬
chine. After removing a stump, workers
knocked the dirt off and dragged and
hoisted it onto a huge pile for burning. The
first try seldom removed all the deep roots.
They required more explosives, more dig¬
ging, and more pulling. When the stump
was finally gone, children filled in the cra¬
ter left behind, burying what little topsoil
remained after all the dynamiting and dig¬
ging. Even then the work was not finished.
Before the settlers could cultivate their land,
they must clear brush (a never-ending job),
remove logs and other debris, dig out rocks,
and level the ground (Figure 2). 12
Clearing land was not only a slow pro¬
cess, it was expensive as well. Amounts var¬
ied, but between 1902 and 1926, the cost
of tools, dynamite, and labor averaged about
twenty dollars per acre in the lake country.13
Only corporate potato growers or those
farmers who brought ample savings with
them could come up with that kind of
money. Most immigrant families arrived in
the North with little capital. After making
a down payment on their land and build¬
ing a house and barn, they had no money
left for stump removal. In need of an income
and without cleared land on which to plant
a cash crop, many of them sought jobs off
their farms. Most settlers became part-time
farmers, who, lacking both money and time,
cleared less than two acres a year. At that
rate, they needed three to five years just to
begin to earn enough from their land to pay
off their mortgages.14
To overcome the hardships of stump re¬
moval, farm promoters began offering to
help settlers clear their land as early as 1900.
Manufacturers peddled tools, tractors, and
dynamite, while bankers offered credit to
pay for them. Farmers helped themselves by
forming co-ops to buy stump-pulling ma¬
chines, or by designing their own, such as
the popular Conrath piler, a homemade der¬
rick for lifting stumps onto burning piles
(Figure 3). Swindlers got into the act. In
1908, a farmer near Rhinelander advertised
a mixture of acids that he said would turn
stumps into a “charred pulpy mass that
could be spread over the soil as fertilizer.”15
It later proved to be a sham.
Land sellers tried to lure buyers into
northern Wisconsin with a variety of land¬
clearing schemes. In 1915, the G. F.
Sanborn Company of Eagle River, for ex¬
ample, offered to sell forty-acre tracts for
$1,100. In its advertisements, the company
issued a common challenge to the settlers’
toughness, warning them that the first year
Volume 84 (1996)
13
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 2. Farmers using a team of horses to pull out a stump. Courtesy State Historical
Society of Wisconsin.
Figure 3. A Conrath piler lifting stumps onto a pile for burning. The team of horses pro¬
vide the power to lift the stump. Courtesy State Historical Society of Wisconsin.
14
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WHi(D482)6801 WHi(x3)45192
DAVIS: Wisconsin’s Land-Clearing Program 1900—1925
“tries men’s souls up here and decides
whether they have the right stuff in them.”
To help farmers through the tough times,
Sanborn included in his offer a cabin, a cow,
pigs, and chickens, and two cleared acres of
land. Farm families could then sustain them¬
selves while they put their “best licks in get¬
ting [their] land in shape for a crop.” For
their part, settlers had to put $250 down,
pay taxes and 6 percent interest for three
years, and then pay off the balance in three
equal installments.16
The chief source of land-clearing assis¬
tance was the College of Agriculture, whose
county agents gave free advice, tested tools,
and exposed swindlers. With the end of the
forestry program, the College stepped up the
aid it provided. In 1916, it cooperated with
manufacturers and railroad companies to
sponsor the first “Land Clearing Special.”
These trains, two of which crisscrossed
northern Wisconsin during the summer,
brought in experts to show farmers the lat¬
est land-clearing techniques.17 At each stop,
“stump dentists” blasted, tugged, and pulled,
while crowds stood around, watched, and
compared the “Hercules Horse Stump
Puller” to the “Kirsten One-Man” machine.
College personnel kept records and sold dy¬
namite, while other boosters urged local of¬
ficials to organize land-clearing co-ops and
coaxed bankers into extending credit to
farmers so they could buy the demonstrated
products. The trains made several stops in
the lake country; about 200 people attended
each demonstration (Figure 4). 18
In October, the College held a Land
Clearing Congress at Rhinelander to assess
the effectiveness of the trains. State and lo¬
cal boosters attended the meeting. Although
a few participants questioned the need for
the trains, the majority congratulated them¬
selves on a job well done, and agreed they
should do more.19 During the winter, the
College established a Land Clearing Depart¬
ment and named a former county agent,
John Swenehart, to head it. Meanwhile, the
state legislature appropriated money for
Swenehart to run the Land Clearing Special
in 1917 and 1918 and authorized him to
buy dynamite in quantity and, working
through the county agents, to sell it to farm¬
ers at cost.20
The bill was controversial. State senator
A. B. Whiteside, who represented the lake
country, opposed selling dynamite because
Figure 4. A Land Clearing Special prior to setting up a demonstration. Courtesy State
Historical Society of Wisconsin.
Volume 84 (1996)
15
WHi(x3)36966
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
he feared that speculators, not settlers, would
benefit.21 A. D. Campbell, head of the Wis¬
consin Advancement Association, one of the
state’s largest agricultural booster groups,
also opposed the bill, favoring instead that
the state purchase 300 Kirsten stump pull¬
ing machines to rent to farmers for 23 cents
a day.22 John Swenehart, on the other hand,
was pleased with the legislation. He hoped
the trains would increase the pace of land
clearing, and while they ran, they did arouse
a modicum of interest in the lake country.
In 1917, for example, six hundred people
showed up for the demonstrations, pur¬
chased ten tons of the College’s dynamite,
and used it to clear 9,000 acres.23 It was not
enough, however. By 1920, only 37,884
acres, less than 3 percent of the region, had
been cleared of stumps. Most of that be¬
longed to large potato growers.24
Time was working against the agricultural
boosters. Five years after the end of the for¬
est reserve, they still had not induced many
settlers into the lake country.25 The question
was why. To the farm promoters, the answer
could not be the poor soil or climate, the
lack of markets, or the north’s still primi¬
tive living conditions. It must be the stumps.
Boosters looked at their bleak landscape and
wondered if all its ragged-looking stumps
were discouraging settlers from coming to
the North.26 They received some backing
from agricultural experts, who said the
stumps lowered farmers’ incomes by taking
up too much room in the fields, hindering
plowing, and preventing agricultural diver¬
sification. According to John Swenehart,
land clearing was the final stave that was
missing from the northern “barrel of pros¬
perity,” and so in the early 1920s, the effort
to get rid of the stumps intensified.27
The crusade found an ally in the federal
government. During World War I, it had
stockpiled several million pounds of TNT.
After the armistice, the government planned
to dump the TNT into the ocean. Seeing
its possible use to northern farmers, the Col¬
lege of Agriculture asked that it be made
available for stump removal. Believing that
TNT was toxic and dangerous, the govern¬
ment required the College to first study its
suitability for land clearing. After a month
of tests in May 1919, John Swenehart re¬
ported that TNT was both safe and eco¬
nomical.28 The government then agreed to
release it, and by the end of 1920, county
agents had distributed 900,000 pounds of
it to Wisconsin farmers. Its chief benefit was
its cost — 10 cents a pound compared to the
13 cents that farmers were paying for the
College’s dynamite.29 Beginning in 1921, as
the TNT ran out, Swenehart switched to
other government explosives — picric acid,
sodatol, and pyrotol, selling them in the lake
country for as low as 5 cents a pound (Fig¬
ure 5). 30
Despite Swenehart’s efforts, many farm¬
ers in the lake country remained aloof from
the land-clearing programs. The costs were
still too high, and in any case, most settlers
were not relying on only their farms to sup¬
port themselves.31 Potatoes, one of the
region’s two chief farm products, were an
unpredictable crop, subject to blight and rot
and often not worth digging.32 The other,
dairy products, had a small local market, and
the necessity of strong food for the cows dur¬
ing the long winter made it very expensive.33
The plight of local farmers was made worse
when, beginning in 1920, national farm
prices fell and agriculture tumbled into a se¬
vere economic depression.34 For many set¬
tlers, jobs off the farm, which ranged from
guiding hunters and fishermen to working
in a paper mill, promised more income than
growing potatoes or tending cows ever
would. With the higher tax assessments for
cleared land added to the burdens that set-
16
TRANSACTIONS
DAVIS: Wisconsin’s Land-Clearing Program 1900-1925
SAFETY WITH EXPLOSIVES
^KOWIEBGEhw
djiveh BLACK MftCtC
out or exhosi^s
Savs;
: FUSE. :
> ' Kttl>A*a,V FSSH HWKHRES ' -
MAKE THESE THINGS '
j ; A HABIT «. . :
T'.-K '« wue i-r { ■
> wsmm* m$t m&rei* j -
€m* Cumpms mm Pmmis
help * • irusEf mm
PREVENT ACCIDEHTS - ‘
Use « mum r&; -
m twwMt m m, #fj|.
Cot s fuse som^saim ; #%»* »
PyrotolPete iK-
HAS SOME -«o heeo to mm <f
k AT COST. • „ Yoss»s« «hooch '
Figure 5. During the 1920s the College of Agriculture conducted an extensive “Pyrotol
Pete” safety campaign to show settlers the proper use of government explosives. Cour¬
tesy State Historical Society of Wisconsin.
tiers already bore, many decided that pull¬
ing out stumps was simply a waste of their
time and money.
In the face of such indifference, the farm
boosters redoubled their efforts to lure the
settlers into the battle against the stumps.
John Swenehart acknowledged the farmers’
concerns, but argued that land clearing was
“laying a foundation for the better prices and
better times to come.” The editor of the
Eagle River Review agreed: “The man who
can show the stuff of which he is made by
clearing land will soon earn a position for
himself in the community and be able to se¬
cure the credit he needs for future develop¬
ment.”35
While the men talked, the C-S Club, a
group of farm wives, initiated the Vilas
County Land Clearing Association. More
than 225 people showed up at the Eagle
River Opera House for its first meeting in
February 1921. After enjoying a luncheon
prepared by the C-S Club, which, no doubt,
was the main attraction of the gathering,
they paid 25 cents to join, received a red
button to wear, ordered explosives, and
signed an agreement to clear a specified
number of acres during the upcoming sum¬
mer.36
The Land Clearing Association’s cam¬
paign to attract members continued into the
spring. Boosters held more meetings to in¬
duce farmers to sign up and agree to clear
land. They held contests. The Review prom¬
ised to pay a dollar for the best answer to
the question “Why should I join the Land
Volume 84 (1996)
1 7
WHi(x3)5462
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Clearing Association.” When it received “no
deluge of answers” the paper upped the prize
to include “a purple, hand-painted honor
ribbon that will be more lasting than
money.”37 Meanwhile, the Association an¬
nounced a contest to see who could clear the
most land by the end of the summer. When
settlers complained that larger farmers had
an unfair advantage, the Association evened
things out by subtracting points for the use
of machines and hired help. Merchants
chipped in with prizes. Druggist H. A. S.
Egbert, for example, donated a bottle of
McConan’s Liniment to the “contestant de¬
veloping the greatest backache.”38 When the
weather warmed up, the Association spon¬
sored picnics that offered lunch, races, and
dances, and gave settlers another chance to
see Swenehart’s crews demonstrate how to
remove stumps.39 During the summer, farm¬
ers in Vilas County cleared 1,282 acres.40 In
September, Rhinelander businessmen, upset
that Oneida County farmers had only
cleared 950 acres during the summer, spear¬
headed the Oneida County Land Clearing
Association.41
The land-clearing campaigns in the lake
country peaked in 1922. Both county orga¬
nizations began by setting goals for the year.
After agent C. P. West told members that
another 4,500 acres were needed to feed a
larger dairy herd, the Oneida County Asso¬
ciation established that as its target for the
year. To reach it, each farmer had to clear
five acres of land.42 Not to be outdone, Vilas
County boosters announced a goal of 5,000
acres, the equivalent of 10 acres per farm.43
To reach their lofty goals, boosters under¬
took another round of hoopla-filled cam¬
paigns urging farmers to get out the stumps.
Newspapers retold stories of Paul Bunyan’s
land-clearing exploits, suggesting settlers fol¬
low in the footsteps of the legendary logger.44
Posters carried the same message: One
showed a scruffy axe-wielding woodsman,
Paul Bunyan, no doubt, with the caption:
“Drive Them Out! Blow Them Out! Pull
Them Out! Anyway To Get Them Out, But
Get Them Out Of Vilas County!”45 To go
along with the posters and slogans, the
boosters held more land-clearing meetings
during the winter at which, typically, a Col¬
lege of Agriculture faculty member addressed
the settlers with a stirring pep talk and a
“bully good Moving Picture.”46 Farmers or¬
dered explosives, and in Oneida County,
407 farmers signed pledges to clear 4,324
acres in 1922. 47 In the spring, there were
more contests, picnics, and demonstrations.
“Come prepared to spend the entire day,”
advised one editor. “The programs will be
both instructive and entertaining.”48 Local
newspapers estimated that 2,000 people at¬
tended six of the demonstrations in Oneida
County and ordered more than a ton of pi¬
cric acid.49 The highlight of the season surely
must have been the day the Vilas County
Association blew up an acre of stumps in one
gigantic blast.50
The land-clearing associations did more
than engage in spirited public relations.
Oneida County boosters raised $10,000 in
1922 and loaned 56 farmers more than
$6,000 to pay for stump removal.51 The as¬
sociations also helped to distribute explo¬
sives. For their big campaigns in 1922,
county agents dispensed 67,000 pounds of
picric acid obtained from the government,
while the boosters added another 187,000
pounds of commercial dynamite. So armed,
Oneida County farmers surpassed their goal
and cleaned up 4,586 acres. Although many
of the farmers ran out of money and failed
to meet their pledges, large corporate farms
in the county took up the slack. In Vilas
County, farmers fell short of their goal of
5,000 acres and cleared only 3, 500. 52
After the 1922 campaign, the excitement,
18
TRANSACTIONS
DAVIS: Wisconsin's Land-Clearing Program 1900—1925
the contests, and the demonstrations petered
out. Despite the efforts of state and local ag¬
ricultural boosters, settlers came to the real¬
ization that devoting limited resources to
land clearing was simply not in their inter¬
est. The time and effort put into land clear¬
ing could not overcome the region’s poor
soils and lack of markets. If settlers were to
survive in the lake country, they had to fash¬
ion an income from sources other than just
farming. Even with the contests and the
cheap explosives, removing stumps took set¬
tlers away from other more productive work
off the farm.
Although county agents continued to dis¬
tribute government explosives for five more
years, most of it went to corporate potato
farms. By the end of 1928, area farmers had
used 600,000 pounds of surplus explosives
and at least that much commercial dynamite
to double the amount of cleared land in the
lake country. Still, twelve years after the first
“Land Clearing Special” in 1916, only
65,000 acres, 5 percent of the lake country’s
1.1 million acres, had been turned into
farmland53 (Figure 6).
Just at the time the struggle to get out the
stumps peaked in the early 1920s, the state
legislature reintroduced the forestry program,
including another reserve. Initially hesitant,
lake country boosters were soon among its
most enthusiastic supporters. If farmers did
not want to come to the region, the boost¬
ers discovered that vacationers and wealthy
summer residents did. These tourists were
not interested in cleared potato fields, but in
forests, lakes, and scenic drives. They wanted
the reserve. The fruitless battle against the
stumps, then, was the last wholesale assault
on the lakeland’s environment. Ever since,
northern residents have been trying, success¬
fully or not, to rebuild their forest.
Figure 6. Land better left to the forest. Courtesy State Historical Society of Wisconsin.
Volume 84 (1996)
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WHi(x3) 14296
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Endnotes
lE. L. Luther to “Professor” [K. L. Hatch], Feb.
7, 1912, Ernest L. Luther Papers, box 1, State
Historical Society of Wisconsin, Madison
(hereafter cited as Luther Papers).
2Wisconsin Conservation Department, Wiscon¬
sin Lakes , Publication 218-51 (Madison,
1951), unpaginated. Oneida County is
576,640 acres; Vilas County is 533,120 acres;
combined they are 1,109,760 acres.
3Vilas County News, May 23, 1923; George O.
Jones, Norman S. McVean, et al., History of
Lincoln , Oneida , and Vilas Counties, Wiscon¬
sin (Minneapolis, 1924), 171; Joe Botsford,
The Curran Story: The Beginning of Rhine¬
lander (Rhinelander, 1953), 8; Edmund C.
Espeseth, “Early Vilas County: Cradle of an
Industry,” Wisconsin Magazine of History 37
(1953), 27; T. V. Olsen, The Rhinelander
Country, vol. 2, Birth of a City (Rhinelander,
1983), 114; Filbert Roth, On the Forestry
Conditions of Northern Wisconsin, Wisconsin
Geological and Natural History Survey, Bul¬
letin no. 1, Economic Series no. 1 (Madison,
1898), 62, 65.
4Ray Stannard Baker, “The Great Southwest,”
Century Magazine 42 (1902), 216.
5 Laws of Wisconsin, 1895, Chapter 311; Laws of
Wisconsin, 1897, Chapter 229.
f’B. G. Packer, untitled manuscript, n.d., in the
Wisconsin Department of Agriculture, Immi¬
gration Division Records, 1920-1930, State
Record Series 729, State Historical Society of
Wisconsin, Madison. For the complete story
of the conflict between farmers and foresters
see: Dennis East, “Water Power and Forestry
in Wisconsin: Issues of Conservation, 1890-
1915” (Ph.D dissertation, University of Wis¬
consin, 1971); Vernon Carstenson, Farms of
Forests: Evolution of a State Land Policy for
Northern Wisconsin , 1850-1932 (Madison,
1962).
7Carstenson, Farms or Forests, 79-89; East, “Wa¬
ter Power and Forestry,” 399—406.
8 Thirteenth Census of the United States (1910): Vol.
6, Agriculture, 918-19; E. L. Luther to K. L.
Hatch, Jun. 2, 1912, Luther papers, box 1.
^“History of the Agricultural Extension Service,
Instigated By Alpha Sigma Chapter, Epsilon
Sigma Phi,” 1935, Luther Papers, box 1.
1()W. H. Grover, Farm and College, The College
of Agriculture of the University of Wisconsin,
A History (Madison, 1952), 283; Henry L.
Russell, untitled manuscript, 1916, in Col¬
lege of Agriculture: Administration, Office of
the Dean and Director, General Subject Files,
Deans Henry and Russell, 1880-1930, box
21, University of Wisconsin Archives, Madi¬
son (Hereafter cited as Henry and Russell
Papers).
11 University of Wisconsin Agricultural Experi¬
ment Station, Getting Rid of Stumps, Wiscon¬
sin Bulletin 295 (Madison, 1918), 23. The
figures are calculated from those given for
Rhinelander and Mercer.
,2Carl Schels, A Trapper's Legacy (Harrisburg,
1984), 39-40; Sherwood W. Shear, “A Sur¬
vey of Settler’s Progress in Upper Wisconsin”
(Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Wisconsin,
Madison, 1924), 63-67; Theodore Francis
Groves, Land Of the Tamarack: Up-North
Wisconsin (Berkeley, 1968), 161, 169-75.
13L. K. Wright, “Agricultural Resources of
Northern Wisconsin,” in Annual Report Of
the Wisconsin State Board of Agriculture, 1902,
304; E. L. Luther to K. L. Hatch, Apr. 30,
1912, in Luther Papers, box 1; William Potts
to Richard Runte, Nov. 15, 1926, in Cyrus
Carpenter Yawkey and Aytchmonde Perrin
Woodson Papers, 1887-1957, box 51, State
Historical Society of Wisconsin, Stevens
Point.
14Shear, “A Survey of Settlers Progress,” 52, 63, 94.
15Minoqua Times, Sept. 3, 1908; Vilas County
News, Sept 9, 1908, Dec. 15, 1909.
16Eagle River Review, Dec. 24, 1915.
I7H. L. Russell to the Board of Regents, May 3,
20
TRANSACTIONS
DAVIS: Wisconsin’s Land-Clearing Program 1900-1925
1916, typed form letter, October 6, 1916,
Henry and Russell Papers, box 23; W. A.
Rowlands, “Land Clearing Research Investi¬
gation and Demonstration Have Added
Wealth to Wisconsin’s Agriculture,” typed
manuscript, in Walter A. Rowlands Papers,
University of Wisconsin, College of Agricul¬
ture, Agricultural Economics Department, ss
1, box 23, University of Wisconsin Archives,
Madison; Rhinelander New North , Apr. 6,
1916.
,8Rhinelander New North , Apr. 27, June 1,
1916; Eagle River Review , May 5, 26, 1916;
Grover, Farm and College , 282. All in all, the
train made thirty-three demonstrations in
northern Wisconsin before a reported 20,000
people. The term “stump dentists” is from
Farm and Fireside , Oct. 21, 1916.
“Rhinelander New North, Oct. 3, 1916; untitled
typed report of the Rhinelander Conference,
[1916], Henry and Russell Papers, box 21.
20Laws of Wisconsin, 1917, Chapter 476; “State¬
ment Submitted to the Join Finance Com¬
mittee relative to Bill 387-s Introduced by
Senator A. H. Wilkinson,” n.d., Henry and
Russell Papers, box 21; Biennial Report of the
Wisconsin Department of Agriculture, 1917-
1918, 34. The legislature subsequently autho¬
rized the Land Clearing Special for a third
year, 1919, which was the last year that it ran.
Also in 1917, the legislature passed the
Settler’s Reclamation Bill which set up a pro¬
gram to provide farmers with loans to pay for
the costs of land clearing. Laws of Wisconsin,
1917, Chapter 288. The law was little used.
21 W. B. Angelo to H. L. Russell, May 21, 1917,
Henry and Russell papers, box 21.
“College of Agriculture to A. D. Campbell, May
4, 1917; Unsigned memo, Jun. 18, 1917.
Shortly after the passage of the bill the Wis¬
consin Advancement Association fired
Campbell. E. P. Arpin to F. M. White, May
18, 1917. All in Henry and Russell Papers,
box 21.
““Annual Report of the Oneida County Agri¬
cultural Agent, 1917,” and “Annual Report
of the Vilas County Agricultural Agent,
1917,” both in College of Agriculture: Agri¬
cultural Extension, County Agricultural
Agents Annual Reports, 1915-1952, Vilas
and Oneida Counties, University of Wiscon¬
sin Archives, Madison.
24 Fourteenth Census of the United States , 1920,
Vol. 6, Agriculture, part 1, 404. Total acre¬
age in Vilas and Oneida counties was
1,354,880 acres, of which 37,884 (2.80%)
was improved farm land.
“From 1910 to 1920, the number of farms in¬
creased from 837 to 1 , 1 4 1 (+304), a slower
growth rate than the previous decade when
the number of farms increased by 404. Four¬
teenth Census (1920), Vol. 6, Agriculture, 404.;
Thirteenth Census (1910): Vol. 6, Agriculture,
918-19.
“See the comments of E. O. Brown, untitled
report of the Rhinelander Conference, 7,
Henry and Russell Papers, box 21.
17 Getting Rid Of the Stumps, 3-5; John Swene-
hart, Clear More Land, Agricultural Experi¬
ment Station Bulletin 320 (Madison, 1920),
3-5; Eagle River Review, May 6, 1921;
Rhinelander New North , Feb. 9, 1922; “An¬
nual Report of the Oneida County Agent,
1923.”
28“TNT As a Land Clearing Explosive;” “War
Explosives At Useful Work,” typed manu¬
scripts in Rowlands Papers, ss 1, box 1.
““Wisconsin’s Use of Salvage War Explosives
For Land Clearing” and “Statement Regard¬
ing Land Clearing Work By the University
of Wisconsin,” typed manuscripts, Henry and
Russell Papers, box 23; Grover, Farm and
College, 283; Helgeson, Farms In the Cutover ,
107-08.
3()“Annual Report of the Oneida County Agri¬
cultural Agent, 1923.” By 1928, when the
state land clearing program came to an end,
19,000,000 pounds of surplus explosives had
Volume 84 (1996)
21
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
been distributed in Wisconsin. Fifty thousand
farmers spent more than $1,000,000, and in
the process, blew up, to one degree or an¬
other, 4.5 million acres of land. Helgeson,
Farms in the Cutover , 109; Grover, Farm and
College , 285.
31Shear, “A Survey of Settlers’ Progress,” 13;
Robert J. Gough, “Richard T. Ely and the
Development of the Wisconsin Cutover,”
Wisconsin Magazine of History 75 (Autumn
1991), 16-17.
32Walter Ebling, Wisconsin Agriculture: A Statis¬
tical Atlas, 1926-1927 ', Bulletin 90, Co-op¬
erative Crop and Livestock Reporting Service
(Madison, 1928), 46; J. W. Milward, “Report
on Extension Projects in Potato Breeding and
Disease Control,” radio transcript, n.d., J. W.
Milward Papers, microfilm, reel 5, State His¬
torical Society of Wisconsin, Madison; Will¬
iam Connor, Sr. to William Connor, Jr., Oct.
16, 1924, box 5, Connor Forest Industries
Records, State Historical Society of Wiscon¬
sin, Madison; Vilas County News, Feb. 23,
1921.
33Eric E. Lampard, The Rise of the Dairy Indus¬
try in Wisconsin : A Study in Agricultural
Change, 1820-1920 (Madison, 1963), 275; E.
L. Luther, “Histories of County Extension
Work,” handwritten manuscript, Luther Pa¬
pers, box 3.
34Robert C. Nesbit, Wisconsin: A History, 2nd ed.
(Madison, 1989), 459-60; Paul Glad, The
History of Wisconsin, Vol. 4, War, a New Era,
and Depression, 1914-1940 (Madison, 1990),
133-36; Gough, “Ely and the Cutover,” 26.
33Both quotations are in Eagle River Review , May
6, 1921.
36Eagle River Review , Dec. 17, 1920; Feb. 4, 1 1,
Mar. 4, 1921. One editor praised the women
for “setting a pace for the men, and placing
them where they belong — in the ranks of the
progressive farmers of the states.” Vilas
County News, Feb. 16, 1921.
37Eagle River Review, May 25, 1921.
38Eagle River Review, Mar. 11, 1921.
39Vilas County News, June 10, 1921; Rhine¬
lander New North, Aug. 18, 1921.
40The Rhinelander New North Sept. 29, 1921,
reported that in 1920 there were 8,444 cleared
acres in Vilas County. The Eagle River Re¬
view, Dec. 23, 1921, reported that at that
time there were 9,726 acres of cleared land. I
am assuming that the difference between the
two is the amount of land cleared in 1921.
41Rhinelander New North, Sept. 29, Oct. 6,
1921.
42“Annual Report of the Oneida County Agri¬
cultural Agent, 1922.”
43Eagle River Review, Dec. 23, 1921.
44Vilas County News, Dec. 21, 1921, Jan. 11,
1922.
45Taken from a poster included with “Annual
Report of the Vilas County Agent, 1922.”
46Vilas County News, Jan. 11,1 922.
47Rhinelander New North, Mar. 16, 23, 30, 1922.
48Rhinelander New North, May 1 1, Jun. 8, 1922.
49Rhinelander New North, Jun. 8, 1922.
50A photograph of the blast is in the “Annual
Report of the Vilas County Agricultural
Agent, 1922.”
51Jones, History, 111; Rhinelander New North,
Dec. 11, 14, 1922.
52“Annual Report of the Vilas County Agent,
1922;” “Annual Report of the Oneida
County Agent, 1922;” Rhinelander New
North , Dec. 14, 1922.
53“War Explosives History,” Rowlands Papers, ss
1, box 1; “Annual Report of the Oneida
County Agent, 1928.” The exact Figure cited
was 598,273 pounds.
Mark Davis, a long-time resident of northern Wis¬
consin, is a lecturer of history at the University of
Wisconsin Center-Baraboo. He is also completing
a dissertation on the northern cutover at the Uni¬
versity ofWisconsin-Madison. Address: 4917 As¬
cot Lane, Madison, WI 5371 1
22
TRANSACTIONS
Thomas L. Eddy
A vascular flora of
Green Lake County ; Wisconsin
Abstract The main part of this report is a catalog of vascular plants that
grow or have grown without cultivation in Green Lake County,
Wisconsin. Presently, the county flora contains 921 cataloged spe¬
cies. Of these there are 31 pteridophytes, 8 gymnosperms, 283
monocotyledons and 599 dicotyledons. Plant records are based
mainly on specimens in the University ofWisconsin-Oshkosh her¬
barium ( OSH) that were collected from 1979 to 1996. During
this study it was determined that nine Wisconsin threatened and
endangered species are members of the county flora. Of these, Cyp-
ripedium candidum, Gentiana flavida, Habenaria flava var. herbiola,
Opuntia fragilis, Parthenium integrifolium, Polytaenia nuttallii, and
Tofieldia glutinosa are threatened, while Armoracia lacustris and
Scirpus cespitosus var. callosus are endangered. In August 1989 a
native grass, Muhlenbergia richardsonis, previously unknown in
Wisconsin, was discovered at the Berlin Fen, a state scientific natu¬
ral area. To date, M. richardsonis is not known to occur elsewhere
in the state.
The original land survey records for Green Lake County, circa
1834, along with old letters and journals, document the
presettlement vegetation as predominantly oak savanna. Various
oak communities, notably oak openings, were prevalent through¬
out the county prior to European settlement and were a tie-in be¬
tween the oak forests and grasslands. Tallgrass prairie covered the
flat uplands in the southeastern part of the county, while in the
northwestern half, wetlands occupied floodplain throughout most
of the Upper Fox River Valley and its tributaries. Two small tracts
of climax maple-basswood forest were established in the county —
below the Prairie du Chien escarpment southeast of Green Lake
and a small area in what is now part of Berlin. Adding to this
diverse vegetation complex, a small forest of mixed red and white
pine extended north of Lake Puckaway to within 3 miles south of
Princeton.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 84 (1996)
23
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
This vascular flora, which is based on a
thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of
the degree of Master of Science at the Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-Oshkosh, is a record of
the non-cultivated plants that grow or have
grown in Green Lake County, Wisconsin. It
serves as a reference for comparison with the
flora of the same area in the future and adds
to the broader regional botanical record. Dur¬
ing this study the known distribution ranges
were extended for many species that had been
previously unreported for the county. In ad¬
dition, this county flora documents the oc¬
currence of state threatened and endangered
plants, the possible extirpation of one species,
and the appearance of a native grass previ¬
ously unreported in Wisconsin. Since it is
probable that some plants were inadvertently
overlooked during the study, and because the
flora of any region changes with time, it is
expected that others will contribute to this
record. Monitoring these floristic changes are
essential for the protection of rare species and
the restriction of nuisance plants.
The conservation of a diverse county flora
and the preservation of native biodiversity at
all levels depends on intelligent and sustain¬
able land-use practices. Modern agricultural
methods and commercial, residential, and
recreational expansion can have an irrevers¬
ible impact on the vegetation. In Green Lake
County the development and implementa¬
tion of a comprehensive land-use plan is es¬
sential for natural resources protection.
Updating the county’s GIS (geographical in¬
formation system) digital layers via a compre¬
hensive land-use inventory; revision of land
zoning ordinances; identification of environ¬
mentally sensitive areas; and educating the
township and county board officials, as well
as the general public about the inherent value
of natural areas will, in the long run, provide
the most reliable protection for the county’s
native flora.
Location and Land Use
Green Lake County is located in east-central
Wisconsin approximately 60 miles northeast
of Madison and 30 miles southwest of
Oshkosh (Figure 1). The parallel 43°45'
North Latitude and the meridian 89°00'
West Longitude intersect in the county (Fig¬
ure 2). Two state geographical provinces di¬
vide the county roughly in half (Martin
1963). The northwestern half lies on the
western edge of the Central Plain and is char¬
acterized by gently rolling topography. The
southeastern half of the county, which is part
of the Eastern Ridges and Lowlands province,
consists of numerous escarpments and valleys.
The county is slightly below Wisconsin’s ten¬
sion zone, a region of transition between Wis¬
consin’s northern hardwood province and the
prairie-forest province (Curtis 1959). Al¬
though oak savanna is the dominant vegeta¬
tion cover throughout the county, some
species that are more typical north of the ten¬
sion zone grow here. Of the 72 Wisconsin
counties, Green Lake County ranks 65th in
area size. The total land area for the county
is 355 square miles, or 226,816 acres. Land
use in the county, based on the 1995 Sta¬
tistical Report of Property Values, is sum¬
marized in Table 1 (Wis. Dep. Revenue
1995). Tax exempt lands, which include
state wildlife management areas and county
and city parks, account for 1,331 acres, or
approximately 0.6% of the total land area.
Table 1. Land use in Green Lake County
Land Use Acres % of Total Taxable
Type Land Area (Acres)
24
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
Figure 1. Location of Green Lake County, Wisconsin (U.S. Dept. Agr. 1977).
Physiography and Geology
The northwestern half of Green Lake
County is occupied by an extinct glacial
lakebed within the Central Plain’s Upper
Fox River Valley. The altitude of the valley
ranges from 750 to 780 ft above sea level.
The southeastern half of the county, which
is part of the Eastern Ridges and Lowlands,
is composed of several parallel ridges and
wide valleys that lie in a general northeast-
southwest direction. The southeastern up¬
lands attain altitudes of 1,170 ft above sea
level, while the surface relief varies from 1 00
to 270 ft relative to the lake level of Green
Lake.
Local physiography within the two con¬
trasting provinces consists of three general
land areas. The northwestern region of the
county, which is typified by sandy soils and
wetlands, has low, nearly level terrain. The
poor surface relief is occasionally broken by
Volume 84 (1996)
25
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 2. Green Lake County, Wisconsin, highway map (adapted from the Wisconsin
Department of Transportation, 1988).
morainal deposits that form low hills and
ridges. The southeastern part is formed by
a high plain on the backslopes of two dolo-
mitic limestone cuestas, and a smaller area
in the southwestern portion of the county
is interconnected by knolls and lowlands.
Green Lake County is underlain with
five bedrock types that appear in different
locations throughout the county. The old¬
est is Precambrian igneous rock that out¬
crops as rhyolite at Berlin, Pine Bluff, the
abandoned village of Utley, and near
Marquette. In the past the igneous bedrock
was quarried at all four locations.
26
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
The Precambrian rock is overlaid by four
younger sedimentary units of Cambrian and
Ordovician ages. Cambrian sandstone un¬
derlies the Central Plain region and is the
upper bedrock for nearly 70% of the county.
To the southeast, Ordovician bedrock lay¬
ers underlie the Eastern Ridges and Low¬
lands. In the order from oldest to youngest
these include Prairie du Chien dolomite, St.
Peter sandstone, and Platteville-Galena do¬
lomite and limestone.
Surface features in the county are the re¬
sult of erosion and deposition by the Green
Bay glacial lobe during the Woodfordian
stage of Wisconsinan glaciation, 12,000 to
23,000 years before the present (B.P.).
Ground moraine covers the high plain in the
southeastern portion of the county, while
drumlins and outwash deposits are common
to the southwestern part. A broken line of
recessional moraines were deposited from
the northwest corner of the county to the
southeast. A recessional moraine forms a
morainal dam on the west end of Green
Lake and is responsible, in part, for creat¬
ing Wisconsin’s deepest inland lake at 237
ft. Spring Lake, East and West Twin lakes,
and Little Green Lake are kettle lakes.
The Woodfordian drift in the northwest¬
ern half of Green Lake County is covered
by glacio-lacustrine sediments from the
Valders stage, 6,000-12,000 years B.P. Wet¬
lands and sandy plains in the northwestern
half of the county occupy the extinct lake
bed of Glacial Lake Oshkosh (Pauli and
Pauli 1977).
Water Resources
Two of Wisconsin’s major drainage systems
are present in Green Lake County. The Fox-
Wolf River drainage basin drains nearly all
of the county except for the southeastern
portion of Mackford Township, which is
drained by the south branch of the Rock
River basin (Fassbender et al. 1970). Major
sub-watersheds include the White, Puchyan,
and the Grand rivers. Of these, the Grand
River system is the largest.
There are 36 lakes and 58 streams in the
county, encompassing 18,555 acres, or 8%
of the total land area. The four largest riv¬
ers comprise 972 acres, or 94% of the total
stream area. In the order of greatest area and
length these include the Fox, Grand,
Puchyan, and White rivers. Approximately
95% of the surface water area is made up
by Green Lake, Lake Puckaway, Grand
River Marsh, and the Fox River (Fassbender
et al. 1970).
The Fox River flows through the north¬
western half of the county from southwest
to northeast. Tributary streams, while rela¬
tively few, are perennial and enter the Fox
River at right angles from the northwest and
southeast, e.g., the White and Puchyan riv¬
ers. With the exception of some potholes
and Lake Puckaway, which is actually a wid¬
ening of the Fox River, the Central Plain re¬
gion in Green Lake County is devoid of
lakes.
Most of the named lakes in the county are
located in the southeastern half. The main
direction of stream flow is from east to west,
with the Grand River being the major flow-
age present. Compared to the Central Plain,
the tributaries of the Eastern Ridges and
Lowlands have higher flow gradients, nota¬
bly during seasonal precipitation and runoff.
Intermittent tributaries are more common in
the southeastern half of the county due to
the presence of heavier soils, which are not
conducive to percolation.
Soils
Vegetation patterns and species distribution
are closely related to three general soil cat-
Volume 84 (1996)
27
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
egories that are present in Green Lake
County: loams, sands, and peats. Loams
cover the southeastern region and are rep¬
resented almost exclusively by two major soil
associations. The Plano-Mendota-St.
Charles and Kidder-Rotamer-Grellton asso¬
ciations include shallow loams on glaciated
uplands and account for about 57% of the
land area (U.S. Dep. Agr. 1977). These loam
soils are derived from glacial dolomitic par¬
ent materials and are relatively fertile for ag¬
riculture.
The five remaining soil associations are
found almost exclusively in the northwestern
half of the county. Sandy loams and wind-
deposited sands conceal the glacio-lacustrine
deposits that were laid down during the
Valders stage of glaciation. The sands are
mainly derived from calcareous glacial lake
deposits and cover the level to rolling plains
in the Central Plain region of the county.
Wetlands, which cover about 17% of the
county, include peat soils of the Willette-
Poy-Poygan and Adrian-Houghton associa¬
tions (U.S. Dep. Agr. 1977). The mainly
acidic and poorly drained peat soils are de¬
rived from glacial lake deposits and oxidized
plant material. The peat soils are invaluable
for absorbing and storing excess water dur¬
ing flooding.
Climate
The continental climate of Green Lake
County produces winters that are cold and
snowy and summers that are warm and hu¬
mid. Prevailing winds are westerly in win¬
ter and southerly in summer. The mean an¬
nual high temperature is 34.2°C, and the
mean annual low is -28.6°C (U.S. Dep. Agr.
1977). July is the warmest month and Janu¬
ary the coldest. Frost-free days average about
136, ranging from May 13 to September 26.
The county receives approximately 30 inches
of annual precipitation, 60% of which falls
from May to September. The mean annual
snowfall totals 39 inches, with an average of
77 days of snow cover of one inch or more.
Presettlement Vegetation
Ethnobotany
Indians were the earliest humans to influ¬
ence the nature of the vegetation in ways
that mostly related to obtaining food (Curtis
1959). There is strong circumstantial evi¬
dence that the use of fire by Winnebago In¬
dians, the primary inhabitants of the region,
indirectly influenced the vegetation cover
(Dorney 1981). The presence of oak savanna
and open wetlands vegetation in Green Lake
County supports this view because all of
these plant communities originate from re¬
current fires and depend on periodic
burnings for their perpetuation.
Some of the earliest descriptions of the
vegetation in the region were made by the
French Jesuit missionary, Jacques Marquette.
In 1673 Marquette and Louis Joliet traced
Jean Nicolet’s 1634 exploration of the Fox
River. Marquette recorded these observations
at the time of their visit to the Mascoutin
village, a large Indian encampment within or
very near the county’s borders:
I took pleasure in observing the situation of
this village. It is beautiful and very pleasing;
For, from an Eminence upon which it is
placed, one beholds on every side prairies, ex¬
tending farther than the eye can see, inter¬
spersed with groves or with lofty trees. The
soil is very fertile and yields much indian
corn. The savages gather quantities of plums
[Prunus] and grapes [ Vitis riparia], wherewith
much wine could be made if desired. (The
Jesuit Relations, 1673-1677, Reuben Gold
Thwaites, ed.)
28
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
Marquette also observed that “rushes,”
perhaps Scirpus or Typha, were used by the
Indians for making wigwams. His reference
to the scarcity of bark in the region is fur¬
ther evidence of an oak savanna landscape.
As Bark for making cabins is scarce in this
country, They use Rushes; these serve Them
for making walls and roofs, but do not af¬
ford them much protection against the
winds, and still less against the rains when
they fall abundantly. The Advantage of Cab¬
ins of this kind is, that they make packages
of Them, and easily transport them wherever
they wish, while they are hunting. (The Je¬
suit Relations, 1673-1677, Reuben Gold
Thwaites, ed.)
Farther upstream from the Mascoutin vil¬
lage, Marquette described the bounty of
“wild oats.”
But the road [Fox River] is broken by so
many swamps and small lakes that it is easy
to lose one’s way, especially as the River lead¬
ing thither is so full of wild oats that it is dif¬
ficult to find the Channel. (The Jesuit Rela¬
tions, 1673-1677, Reuben Gold Thwaites,
ed.)
“Wild oats” refers to wild rice, Zizania
aquatica and Z. palustris, a notable food crop
of the Indians that grew abundantly in the
area waterways.
Among the Indian antiquities in Green
Lake County, thirteen Indian campsites,
three main planting grounds, and numerous
food caches have been discovered within the
immediate vicinity of Green Lake (Brown
1917). The oak forests that surrounded
Green Lake yielded great quantities of
acorns, which were ground, dried, and
stored in buried caches for use in winter.
The Winnebago used to make small
mounds to preserve their provisions. When
plentiful, they dried fish in the sun till they
were as dry as powder, then put them in big
puckawa sacks. The squaws also picked up
bushels of acorns. In deep holes, below frost¬
line, they would bury their fish and acorns
together, twenty bushels or so in a place, and
cover them over with a mound of earth.
When the deer had gone south, and game
was scarce— they would come and camp on
these mounds and dig up fish and acorns for
their winter food, and live on this proven¬
der until spring opened or game appeared.
(Dart 1910)
Maple sugar was made from Acer sac -
charum from at least two localities in climax
forest near the east end of Green Lake
(Brown 1917). The maple sugar was stored
in birch bark baskets that were fashioned
from Betula papyrifera.
. . .We had no sugar, save maple made by
Indians, and this was very dirty. The natives
used to pack this sugar in large baskets of
birch-bark, and sell it. (Dart 1910)
The area woodlands also supplied wood
for fuel, poles and bark for wigwams, and
wood for making tools and weapons.
Wooden bowls were carved out of ash,
Fraxinus species, and American basswood,
Tilia americana (Heiple and Heiple 1976).
Shagbark hickory, Carya ovata, and red ce¬
dar, Juniperus virginiana, were utilized to
make hunting bows (Brown 1917).
Wild ginseng, Panax quinquefolium, may
have been one of the few plants in the
county that was overharvested by the Indians
and later the Europeans, until it was nearly
extirpated from the region. The late Mrs.
Walter (Polly) Bartel provided this account
Volume 84 (1996)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
where P. quinquefolium and Juniperus
virginiana grow near the Bartel farm today:
Chief Highknocker’s family always came out
to the Twin Spring Farm [Brooklyn Town¬
ship, circa 1890], pitched their tents, and
picked ginseng [Panax quin qui folium] and
also Juniper berries [Juniperus virginiana].
(Heiple and Heiple 1976)
Among those species reported to have
been introduced by Indians, both intention¬
ally and by accident, and which are part of
the county flora, are Acorus calamus , Allium
tricoccum, Apios americana , Nelumbo lutea ,
and Prunus americana (Curtis 1959).
Government Survey Records
The early government land survey records
for Green Lake County, circa 1834, contain
the most comprehensive record of the veg¬
etation prior to European settlement. The
field notes of the surveyors contain refer¬
ences to the vegetation, as well as to specific
plants, making it possible to interpret the
general vegetation cover for the county.
Wherever possible, individual trees that in¬
tersected section lines were recorded by the
early surveyors, along with bearing trees that
helped identify corners. To supplement and
verify entries, surveyors recorded a summary
of the vegetation along the section lines, and
often included sketch maps of each town¬
ship. When the survey of interior section
lines of a township had been completed, a
general summary of the vegetation for the
township was included.
According to the surveyors’ field notes,
the original vegetation of Green Lake
County was predominantly oak savanna
(Finley 1976) (Figure 3). Oak forest was
prevalent throughout much of the county,
giving way to wetlands vegetation along the
lower Grand River and throughout most of
the Fox River Valley and its tributaries.
Where the oak forest canopy was one-half
or more open, surveyors often acknowledged
the scattered spacing of trees and recorded
the vegetation as oak opening. Because the
field notes do not consistently mention the
spacing between trees, it is possible that ar¬
eas of what is mapped as oak forest may have
really been oak opening (Finley 1976).
Oak forests in Green Lake County were
generally widespread, established along the
limestone and dolomitic escarpments in the
southeast, as well as on knolls and sandy
plains in the northwestern half of the
county. Forest trees that are recorded in the
field notes include white oak, Quercus alba;
black oak, Q. velutina; bur oak, Q. macro-
carpa; northern red oak, Q. borealis; and
shagbark hickory, Carya ovata.
Land surveys conducted west of Lake
Maria and for areas surrounding most of the
eastern half of Green Lake include numer¬
ous references to oak openings. The oak
opening, a transitional community between
oak forest and grasslands, resembles a park¬
like scattering of individual and small clus¬
ters of oak trees with a prairie groundlayer.
In the field notes bur oak, Quercus macro-
carpay is frequently cited as a marker tree at
oak openings.
Where the oaks diminished in numbers,
notably on the flat uplands in the southeast¬
ern part of the county, the landscape was
treeless and covered by mesic prairie. The
tallgrass prairie abruptly gave way to climax
forest where the Prairie du Chien escarp¬
ment overlooks the mouth of Silver Creek,
Green Lake’s inlet. Marker trees mentioned
at this forested site were sugar maple, Acer
saccharum, and American basswood, Tilia
americana. A sizable part of this rich climax
woodland still exists today as part of
Mitchell’s Glen.
30
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EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
K = OAK FOREST
white oak, black
oak, bur oak
E = PINE FOREST
white pine, red
pint
T = WETLANDS
marsh, sedge
meadow, wet
prairie, lowland
shrubs
L = OAK OPENINGS
bur oak, white
oak, black oak
J = CLIMAX FOREST
sugar maple,
basswood, red oak,
white oak, black oak
Figure 3. Presettlement vegetation of Green Lake County, Wisconsin, circa 1834
(adapted from Finley, 1976).
Three miles north of Green Lake between
sections 14 and 15 at T16N and R12E the
field notes describe the area where the Prai¬
rie du Chien escarpment and the central
plain lowlands converge. For the purpose of
clarity, the survey measurements are ex¬
cluded here.
Descend a Ledge (sand stone). . .W Oak. . .Enter
Tamk swamp [Larix laracina]. . . Leave Tamk
swamp &C Enter marsh. . .stream [Snake
Creek]. ..Set post corner sections 10, 11, 14,
15.. .south of swamp hilly and stoney, third rate
Blk & W Oak [Quercus velutina and Q. alba].
(General Land Office Survey 1834)
At the same township and range, between
sections 12 and 13, the field notes read,
“Land low wet Marsh. .. Flagg Rushes
Grass.” “Flagg” refers to large blue flag, Iris
versicolor, common to the Snake Creek wet¬
lands, while “Rushes” is a possible reference
to Scirpus. While low prairies, fens, and
sedge meadows were certainly present, they
were not distinguished from marsh by the
early surveyors.
In 1851 Deputy Surveyor Ira Cook de¬
scribed the township at T15N and R11E,
which is located in the southwestern part of
Green Lake County and includes Lake
Puckaway:
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
The land in this township in the Northwest¬
ern part is Rolling, in the Southern & East¬
ern it is level, low & wet. The soil, where it
can be cultivated is of a good quality. The
timber in some portions of the town is of a
good quality consisting of White, Black, Bur
& Red Oak & Pine. The Township contains
12 or 13 settlers, besides a good many claims
have been made but not yet improved. (Gen¬
eral Land Office Survey 1831)
Common names of lowland trees and
shrubs mentioned in the field notes at T15N
and R1 IE include black ash, Fraxinus nigra;
white ash, F. americana ; silver maple, Acer
saccharinum; and quaking aspen, Populus
tremuloides. Speckled alder, A In us rugosa, and
willows, Salix species, are mentioned as “un¬
dergrowth.”
A small pine forest extended north of Lake
Puckaway to approximately 3 miles south of
present-day Princeton. The survey records
distinguish “Pine,” which is white pine, Pinus
strobus, from “Black Pine,” or red pine, P.
resinosa. The field notes report that black
oak, Quercus velutina, and white oak, Q.
alba, were often mixed in with the pines.
Early Settlement
After the land was surveyed and became
available for purchase through the Green
Bay Land Office, early settlers were drawn
to the area primarily because of agricultural
opportunities. Numerous accounts of early
settlement recorded by pioneering men and
women include the common names of spe¬
cific plants, as well as references to entire
plant communities. In 1840 Anson Dart
and his family established the first perma¬
nent white settlement on Green Lake. Ri¬
chard Dart, then twelve years old, later re¬
called these observations of his family’s ar¬
rival to Green Lake.
It took us two days to wind up through the
marshes to Green Lake. [From the mouth of
the Puchyan River, approximately seven
miles.] The last night we camped opposite the
present Dartford boat-landing, where the
road-bridge crosses toward Sherwood forest
resort. It was then surrounded with alders
[Alnus rugosa] and marshes, and we did not
know, that beautiful June night (June 11,
1840), that we were so near the lake. When
we passed out from the thickets into Green
Lake, the next morning, we shouted with joy!
There was at this time no heavy timber
around the lake, except at the foot [Silver
Creek inlet], in the marshes — only what were
called “clay openings,” [oak openings] burned
over each autumn by the prairie fires. (Dart
1910)
Soon after the Dart family’s arrival to the
Green Lake area, they acquired more land.
The “clay openings,” which consisted of oak
savanna vegetation on dry knolls and glacial
moraines, were difficult to farm.
All the while, we were clearing and break¬
ing land. It was thin and poor in the clay
openings, and as yet we did not know how
to farm to advantage. Father used to repair
grist-mills and sawmills as far off as Water-
town, leaving us boys to run the farm. Finally
we got enough money together to go up on
the prairie and buy a “forty” of better land,
with richer soil.
...We got him [Pete Le Roy, the Dart’s
nearest neighbor] and his ox-team to come
over that month and break up for us a half
acre that had been cleared by the boys, and
in which we planted yellow corn. (Dart 1910)
The rolling prairies and oak openings
that merged with wetlands were frequently
mentioned by early settlers and visitors in
letters and journals. Julia Peck Sherwood, in
32
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
a letter to her sister Harriet (Hattie) Sage
and family, dated August 28, 1854, de¬
scribed a trip from Green Lake to Ripon as
follows:
Last Friday I went with Mr. S [William C.
Sherwood] to Ripon, a village about seven
miles from Dartford that was the farthest I
have rode since I arrived here and the first time
that I have past over any green prairie [where
Hwy 23 lies between Green Lake and Ripon].
It was a beautifully grand prospect to see
one uninterrupted, unbroken undulating
meadow as far as the eye could extend to¬
wards the Missippie [sic] with occasionally a
herd of cattle of thirty or forty, they always
keep in companys [sic]. The land was culti¬
vated along where the road passed, or some
of it was, but it looks strange to see so few
fences where the country looks as if it had
been cleared. Mr. S has no prairie, he has one
large marsh that serves him for a meadow
[wetlands bordering Green Lake Mill Pond],
but all the cattle in the vicinity feed on it if
they choose, but there is good pasturage in
the woods here, the trees are so small and
scattering. They are all oaks, and there are
places that they call oak openings of many
acres that there are no trees or stumps. (Origi¬
nal letter loaned by Clarence F. Busse)
In another section of his narrative, Rich¬
ard Dart described the prairie wildflowers
around Green Lake, circa 1840:
I wish I could adequately describe the prairie
flowers. Every month during spring and sum¬
mer they grew in endless variety — such fields
of changing beauty, I never saw before. It was
a flower-garden everywhere. You could gather
a bouquet any time, that couldn’t be equalled
in any greenhouse of New York or Chicago.
There were double lady-slippers [Cypripedium
calceolus var. pubescens?] , shooting-stars
[Dodecatheon meadia], field-lilies [Lilium
superbum] etc., etc. Some of them still linger
beside the railway tracks. We tried over and
over to transplant them, but only the shoot¬
ing-stars would stand for the change. There
was also the tea-plant [Ceanothus americanus L.
var. pitcheri ?], whose leaves we dried for tea.
When in blossom, the oak and clay [prairie]
openings, for miles around, were white with
it, like buckwheat. We also had splendid wild
honey from the bee-trees. (Dart 1910)
Once, while returning from a trip to
Ripon, Richard Dart and his companions
accidentally found a large wild strawberry
patch, Fragaria virginiana.
We were coming up near where you go
down Scott Hill, by a thicket on the prairie,
about the site of the old Bailey farm [Section
25, T16N, R13E], when we snuffed a de¬
lightful odor — the smell of ripe strawberries.
We followed it up and found a place as big
as an eighty-acre lot, that had been burned
over, all covered with ripe wild strawberries
as big as any tame ones you ever saw, and so
thick that you could not lay your hand down
without crushing berries. The ground was red
with them, bushels and bushels for the pick¬
ing. We carried home our handkerchiefs full,
also everything else we had to hold them.
(Dart 1910)
From 1843 the accelerated settlement of
Green Lake County brought about signifi¬
cant changes in the vegetation. Even though
commercial logging did not occur on any
appreciable scale, forests played an impor¬
tant role in the development of farming by
furnishing the materials for building homes,
barns, fences, and bridges.
Richard Dart explained how some of the
local timber resources were utilized when his
family arrived in 1840.
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
We soon crossed the lake and reached our
land, of which my father recognized the quar¬
ter-section corner. [The original Dart farm
was in Section 5, T15N, R13E.] We lugged
our stuff up by hand from the lake [near
Sandstone Bluff], erected a shanty for shel¬
ter, and at once went to work to build a plank
house. We split and hewed white oak
[Quercus alba] planks, about two inches thick
by six feet long, and set them upright, two
lengths end-to-end twelve feet high, held to¬
gether by grooved girts or stringers. We used
poles for rafters and “shakes” for shingles, the
latter shaved out of green oak. (Dart 1910)
Dart also described how they prepared
corn meal from yellow field corn, an early
staple of the settler’s diet.
There being no mill, we made a huge mor¬
tar by boring out a hard, white-oak log, and
with a heavy hickory [Carya ovata] pestle, we
ground our corn. As the mortar held but two
quarts, it was only by rising at four o’clock
that we could get enough meal pounded for
a Johnnie-cake. The coarser part we boiled
as samp, for dinner, and had cornmeal fried
for supper, with neither milk nor butter.
(Dart 1910)
Besides being dependent on local timber
resources for constructing their buildings,
the early settlers relied on the surrounding
oak forests and openings for heating fuel.
Even after the house was finished it was
very cold, for the joints were not tight. We
tried to plaster up the cracks with white marl,
but when dry this came tumbling off. Some¬
times we used old newspapers, as far as we had
any, to paste over the cracks. While we had
no thermometer to measure the cold, I am
sure that the winter of 1 843-44 was the worst
we ever experienced. . . .
We nearly froze in our rudely-built house,
for we had no stove — only a big fireplace,
where in twenty-four hours we would some¬
times burn two cords of four-foot wood. It
took hard work for the boys just to keep the
fires going. (Dart 1910)
Great quantities of wood were also burned
as the land was cleared for farming. Such fires
often escaped and did much damage to the
remaining timber by injuring or destroying
trees and consuming the accumulated leaf
mulch on the ground. It was a common
practice to “green up the woods” for pasture
by burning. These routine fires were started
and left unattended to burn where they
would. In some instances, controlled burns
were practiced for safety reasons, as explained
by Richard Dart: “Every fall we had to burn
round everything — house, sheds, and
stacks — to save them from these fires that
annually swept the prairies” (Dart 1910).
The first commercial production of cran¬
berry (Vaccinium macrocarpon) in Wiscon¬
sin began in Green Lake County about 1860
(Wis. Dep. Agr. 1958). Natural wetlands
were modified for cranberry growing by
building irrigation systems and water reser¬
voirs. Some planting was done, but the
greater part of the early crops was harvested
from the wild marshes in the northern half
of the county. In another letter to her sister
Hattie, dated November 26, 1854, Julia
Peck Sherwood explained that she made
“cranberry pie” for Thanksgiving dinner.
Not surprising, she did not reveal if the pie
was made from local cranberries (original let¬
ter loaned by Clarence Busse).
No voucher specimen of Vaccinium
macrocarpon or any of the associated bog
ericads were found during this study. The
most likely habitats, tamarack swamps and
boggy meadows, are lacking most typical
bog species. It is conceivable that early ef-
34
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
forts to promote cranberry production even¬
tually contributed to the extirpation of en¬
tire relic bog communities.
Similarly, wetlands that bordered Green
Lake were altered greatly by the construc¬
tion of artificial impoundments. Before the
Dartford dam was built in 1841, a lowland
forest occupied the eastern shore of Green
Lake. After the waters of the lake were raised,
much of this land was submerged, killing the
trees that were later removed, thereby cre¬
ating more open water (Brown 1917).
Until 1890 steamboats carrying freight
and passengers on the Upper Fox River from
Lake Winnebago to the Wisconsin River at
Portage played an important role in the set¬
tling of the county. Wetlands in the Fox
River Valley were modified or completely
eliminated near Berlin, Princeton, and on
the White River because of dredging activi¬
ties and the installation of locks on the Fox.
Portions of Green Lake, Berlin, Princeton,
Kingston, and Marquette are built on former
wetlands that have been almost entirely
drained and filled in.
Water transportation was replaced by rail¬
roads after the first train arrived at Berlin in
1857. The railroad system enhanced devel¬
opment of the territory and further divided
the unbroken expanses of oak savanna veg¬
etation. Ironically, the right-of-way embank¬
ments along some railroads and abandoned
railways harbor original oak opening and
prairie remnants.
Noteworthy Plants
Two state endangered species are known
from Green Lake County, Armoracia
lacustris and Scirpus cespitosus var. callosus.
Lake-cress, Armoracia lacustris, is a lake mac¬
rophyte that was last collected in Green Lake
in 1921 and it is uncertain whether it is still
extant in the county (Patman and litis
1961). Scirpus cespitosus, a common arctic
species, is very local to calcareous fens and
has a limited distribution statewide.
State threatened species include Cypripe-
dium candidum, Gentiana flavida, Habenaria
flava var. herbiola, Opuntia fragilis. Par -
thenium integrifolium, Polytaenia nuttallii,
and Tofieldia glutinosa.
Of the various plant communities in
Green Lake County, fens are the least com¬
mon. Locally, fens are mainly situated in the
southeastern half of the county where they
reside along the base of dolomitic limestone
escarpments. Threatened and endangered
fen species, Cypripedium candidum, Scirpus
cespitosus, and Tofieldia glutinosa, occur in a
calcareous fen that is part of the Snake Creek
Wetlands state natural area. At the same site,
a small collection of rare sedges grows in and
around the perimeter of calcareous seepages:
Carex limosa, Cladium mariscoides, Eleocharis
robbinsii, Rhynchospora alba, R. capillacea,
and Scleria verticillata. Other non-sedge spe¬
cies associated with this assemblage are
Hypericum kalmianum, Juncus alpinus, J.
brachycephalus, Liparis loesellii, Triglochin
maritima, and T. palustris. It is interesting
to note that Gentianopsis procera, which
thrives in a different Snake Creek fen less
than one-half mile away, is absent at this site,
even though other fen indicators are com¬
mon to both locations.
Gentiana flavida and Habenaria flava var.
herbiola, along with Habenaria lacera, Scleria
trigomerata, Asclepias hirtella, and Hypericum
gentianoides, are established on moist sand
prairies and meadows in the old lakebed of
Glacial Lake Oshkosh. Also associated with
the extinct lake bed are disjunct species that
are members of the Atlantic Coastal Plain
element — Aletris farinosa, Bartonia virginica,
Panicum commonsianum var. euchlamydeum,
Rhexia virginica, Scleria verticillata, and Xyris
torta. It is conceivable that they became es-
Volume 84 (1996)
35
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
tablished during post-glacial times via mi¬
grating waterfowl (Read 1976).
A single specimen of Parthenium inte-
grifolium was observed in 1995 in an old
field that is partly restored to upland prai¬
rie. It is possible that the seeds of P.
integrifolium were present in a seed pool of
the old field and did not germinate until af¬
ter restoration efforts in 1983. The property
owners are confident they did not knowingly
or unknowingly introduce P. integrifolium to
the site.
While most of the original oak openings
in Green Lake County are gone, a few small
remnants persist. Among the rarer species of
oak openings in the county are Arctostaphylos
uva-ursi, Monotropa hypopithys, and Spiran-
tbes lacera , known from Pine Bluff; Talinum
rugospermum, from a roadside opening north
of Lake Pucka way; and Poly taenia nuttallii,
which is exclusive to the Puchyan Prairie, a
state natural area.
A native grass, Muhlenbergia richardsonis,
previously unknown in Wisconsin, was dis¬
covered at the Berlin Fen, a state scientific
natural area, in August 1989 (Eddy and
Harriman 1992). I have botanized in fens
and calcareous meadows that are floristically
similar to the Berlin Fen but have not found
M. richardsonis in any of them.
Natural Areas
Natural areas in the county that are regu¬
lated by the Wisconsin Department of
Natural Resources comprise wildlife areas,
refuges and scientific natural areas. The
White River Wildlife Area, Grand River
Marsh, and the Fox River Public Access are
among the larger management and refuge
areas. In addition, four Wisconsin Natural
Areas are established in the county: Puchyan
Prairie, section 1, T16N, R12E; Fountain
Creek Prairie, sections 8 and 17, T14N,
R11E; and Berlin Fen, section 12, T17N,
R13E. In 1994 the Green Lake Chapter
Izaak Walton League deeded approximately
18 acres of high quality fen, low prairie, and
sedge meadow habitats to the Department
of Natural Resources. This property, section
14, T16N, R12E, was dedicated as a state
natural area in 1995 and is named the Snake
Creek Wetlands.
On a county level, natural areas that are
part of any one of the six parks are protected.
The largest, Dodge County Park, encom¬
passes a wetlands complex and the lower
branch of Roy Creek, a tributary of Green
Lake at section 15, T15N, R12E.
Private organizations have also taken mea¬
sures to protect natural areas. The Green
Lake Chapter Izaak Walton League owns
and manages approximately 1 5 acres of wet¬
lands within the Snake Creek corridor in
sections 13, 14 and 15, T16N, R12E. The
Snake Creek Wetlands Trail, a public hik¬
ing trail, is established on an abandoned rail¬
road embankment. In addition, the Green
Lake Chapter owns and manages more than
100 acres of wetlands in sections 17 and 18,
T17N, R13E. This property, called the
Mascouten Fox River Wetlands, is protected
from development by a conservation ease¬
ment.
Other private lands that feature quality
natural areas include the Mitchell’s Glen
area, section 35, T16N, R13E; Pine Bluff,
section 1, T17N, R1 IE; and the Upper Fox
River area southwest of Princeton, T15N,
R11E.
Catalog Sources
The catalog of species is a list of vascular
plants that grow or have grown without cul¬
tivation in Green Lake County, Wisconsin.
Cultivars that may have escaped and are re¬
producing spontaneously are included.
36
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
A “record” in the context of this paper re¬
fers to any herbarium voucher that verifies
the existence of a plant that is, or has been,
a member of the county flora. Plant records
are based mainly on specimens in the Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-Oshkosh herbarium
(OSH) that were collected from 1979 to
1996.
Some records include specimens that are
represented in the herbaria at UW-Madison
and UW-Milwaukee, while others, notably
from the Potamogetonaceae, are supported
by vouchers that are part of a teaching col¬
lection at Ripon College, Ripon, Wisconsin.
All Green Lake County specimens cited in
the catalog have been examined and verified.
Species mapped for Green Lake County
in the “Preliminary Reports on the Flora of
Wisconsin,” but for which vouchers were
not located, are not included in the catalog.
These include Lycopodium tristachyum and
Cheilanthes feei (Peck 1982); Panicum
columbianum (Fassett 1951); Viburnum
rafinesquianum var. rafinesquianum (Sala-
mun 1979); Silene stellata (Schlising and litis
1961); Vaccinium macrocarpon (Fassett 1929);
Acalypha gracilens (Richardson et al. 1987);
Petalostemum candidum (Fassett 1961);
Gentiana rubricaulis (Mason and litis 1965);
Epilobium leptophyllum (Ugent 1962);
Lysimachia lanceolata (litis and Shaughnessy
I960); Salix rigida (S. eriocephala) (Argus
1964); and Agalinis gattingeri and Penstemon
hirsutus (Salamun 1951).
Species reported in the Natural Areas In¬
ventory, but which are not supported with
herbarium vouchers, are not listed in the
catalog. Among those species regarded as
possible sightings are Carex haydenii, Bromus
kalmi, Apocynum cannabinum, Asclepias
ovalifolia , Asclepias viridiflora , Aster ptar-
micoides (Solidago ptarmicoides), and Utricu-
laria intermedia (Wis. Dep. Nat. Res. 1 977—
1979).
Asclepias lanuginosa, a state threatened
species, is among the plants listed in a Bu¬
reau of Endangered Resources publication
entitled Rare, Threatened and Endangered Spe¬
cies and Natural Communities in Green Lake
County { Wis. Dep. Nat. Res. 1994). Since A.
lanuginosa is not supported by a herbarium
specimen, it is not included in the catalog.
The plant, which was identified during Field
surveys for the Natural Heritage Inventory,
appears in the publication based solely on re¬
ports submitted by a reliable observer and a
1986 photograph (Elizabeth Simon, personal
communication, 27 June 1996). I have been
unable to locate a specimen of A. lanuginosa
in the county, despite explicit directions and
detailed field notes that were generously pro¬
vided for me (Richard Barloga, personal com¬
munication, 28 June 1996).
Catalog Design
Plant families are alphabetized within the
major plant groups, as are the genera and
species within a family. Nomenclature
strictly follows Gleason and Cronquist
(1991). Due to the magnitude of this study,
the treatment of narrowly defined species
and most infraspecific taxa are avoided, as
well as a listing of synonyms.
For most species a brief habitat descrip¬
tion and the frequency of occurrence are
stated. Mention of specific locations are
mostly avoided to ensure privacy for private
landowners and dissuade indiscriminate
botanizing by overzealous plant collectors.
Section, township and range locations, how¬
ever, are included on herbarium labels for
each species in the catalog.
The collectors and collection numbers are
cited for all species listed in the catalog, with
most of these represented by specimens at
OSH. Catalog records not represented by
vouchers at OSH are cited with the respec-
Volume 84 (1996)
37
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
tive herbaria from which specimens have
been examined and verified. These include
WIS (UW-Madison) and UWM (UW-Mil-
waukee). RIP denotes records for specimens
that are part of a teaching collection at
Ripon College, Ripon, Wisconsin.
State threatened and endangered plants in
the catalog are based on the most recently
published list prepared by the Wisconsin
Bureau of Endangered Resources (Wis. Dep.
Nat. Res. 1993).
Summary of Taxa
Presently, the county flora comprises 921
cataloged species. A summary of the num¬
ber of families, genera, and species for the
major plant groups is shown in Table 2.
The monocots are largely represented by
the Poaceae and Cyperaceae, which, when
combined, account for 66.8% of the total
number of monocots. Nearly one-fifth, or
18.4%, of the dicots are represented by a
single family, the Asteraceae. A comparison
of the three largest monocot and dicot fami¬
lies is presented in Table 3.
Table 2. Summary of major plant taxa in
Green Lake County
38
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
CATALOG OF SPECIES
Division Lycopodiophyta
LYCOPODIACEAE (Clubmoss Family)
Lycopodium digitatum Dillen. Oak woods. Rare.
(Eddy 41 10)
L. lucidulum Michx. Rare, known from one site;
moist oak woods. (Harriman 1255)
S ELAGIN ELLACEAE (Selaginella Family)
Selaginella rupestris (L.) Spring. Local on rhyo¬
lite outcrops. (Harriman 1249; Underwood
232)
Division Equisetophyta
EQUISETACEAE (Horsetail Family)
Equisetum arvense L. Roadsides, railroad cinders,
old fields. Common. (Eddy 2207; Trotter 229)
E. x ferrissii Clute. (Eddy 409, 509)
E. fluviatile L. Marshes, wet ditches. (Eddy 207,
349, 1678)
E. hyemale L. var. affine (Engelm.) A. A. Eaton.
(Peters 005, WIS)
E. laevigatum A. Braun. (Eddy 1531; Harriman
793, 18292; Kohlman 673)
E. x litorale Kuhlewein ex Rupr. (Fassett 8799,
WIS)
Division Polypodiophyta
ADLANTACEAE (Maidenhair Fern Family)
Adiantum pedatum L. ssp. pedatum. Deciduous
woods. Uncommon. (Harriman 734; Hock-
man s.n.; Galster s.n.)
Pellaea glabella Mettenius. Shaded dolomitic
cliffs. Uncommon. (Eddy 2218; Harriman
16680)
ASPLENLACEAE (Spleenwort Family)
Asplenium rhizophyllum L. Local on moist,
shaded cliffs. (Rill 7071)
Athyrium filix-femina (L.) Roth. var. michauxii
Mettenius. Deciduous woods. Common.
(Eddy 176, 1525, 1728, 1873, 1928; Har¬
riman 1252, 1253; Weinkauf 1050; Under¬
wood 236)
Cystopteris bulbifera (L.) Bernh. Shaded dolo¬
mitic outcrops. Uncommon. (Eddy 180, 181,
2412)
C. fragilis (L.) Bernh. var. fragilis. Shaded dolo¬
mitic outcrops. Uncommon. (Eddy 2205;
Harriman 16681 A; Hockman s.n.)
Dryopteris carthusiana (Villars) H. P. Fuchs.
Swamps, wet woods. Common. (Eddy 1514,
2703; Harriman 821)
D. cristata (L.) A. Gray. Swamps. Common.
(Eddy 1729, 2389, 2704; Harriman 2071)
D. intermedia (Muhl.) A. Gray. Moist woods.
(Eddy 1747; Shaver 047)
Thelypteris palustris Schott, var. pubescens
(Lawson) Fern. Common in wetlands. (Eddy
1761, 1931, 2025)
Woodsia ilvensis (L.) R. Br. Local on rhyolite out¬
crops. (Cochrane et al. 6109; Eddy 1505,
1799; Underwood 235)
W. obtusa (Sprengel) Torr. Local on rhyolite out¬
crops. (Eddy & Sonntag 2103; Harriman
16681)
DENNSTAEDTIACEAE (Bracken Family)
Pteridium aquilinum (L.) Kuhn. var. latiusculum
(Desv.) Underw. Wooded openings, roadsides.
Common. (Pucker 1433)
ONOCLEACEAE (Sensitive Fern Family)
Matteuccia struthiopteris (L.) Todaro. Swamps,
wet woods, escape from plantings. (Eddy 4208)
Onoclea sensibilis L. Common in wetlands. (Eddy
1560)
OPHIOGLOSSACEAE (Adder’s Tongue Family)
Botrychium dissectum Spreng. Uncommon.
(Underwood 1320)
B. multifidum (S. G. Gmelin) Rupr. (Pratt s.n.,
WIS)
Volume 84 (1996)
39
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
B. virginianum (L.) Swartz. Moist oak woods.
(Buchholtz 1243; Eddy 168, 1755, 2053;
Harriman 733; Hockman s.n.)
OSMUNDACEAE (Royal Fern Family)
Osmunda cinnamomea L. Moist woods. (Har¬
riman 823)
O. claytoniana L. Moist open woods, swamps,
wet ditches. Uncommon. (Eddy 1463, 1875)
O. regalis L. var. spectabilis (Willd.) A. Gray.
Swamps, sedge meadows, wet ditches. (Eddy
532; Harriman 776; Hockman 038)
POLYPODLACEAE (Polypody Family)
Polypodium virginianum L. Local on moist
shaded rock outcrops. (Eddy 1788, 2169;
Harriman 16682; Shaver 049; Underwood
234)
Division Pinophyta
CUPRESSACEAE (Cypress Family)
Juniperus communis L. Dry rocky woods. Com¬
mon. (Krysiak Oil)
J. virginiana L. Disturbed woods and dry hill¬
sides. Common. (Buchholtz 1360; Burbey 006;
Eddy 2632; Kampa 033; Krysiak 012; Kuen
026; Schroeder 005; Schultz 067)
Thuja occidentals L. (Pichette 044)
PINACEAE (Pine Family)
Larix laricina (Duroi) K. Koch. Dominant tree
of conifer swamps. (Eddy 708; Hockman 123;
Kampa 021)
Pinus banksiana Lambert (Eddy 4200)
P. resinosa Aiton. Originally native to the county,
now occasionally spreading from pine plant¬
ings, along with P. strobus. (Eddy 4199)
P. strobus L. See P. resinosa. (Kyrsiak 009;
Schultz 061)
P. sylvestris L. Planted and occasionally escaped.
(Kampa 032)
Division Magnoliophyta
Class Magnoliopsida (Dicotyledons)
ACERACEAE (Maple Family)
Acer negundo L. Disturbed woods, fencerows,
roadsides. Common. (Draheim 006; Nyman
062; Shaver 044)
A. rubrum L. Moist woods. Common. (Wein-
kauf 1230)
A. saccharinum L. A dominant tree of low for¬
ests. (Pinchette 047)
A. saccharum Marshall. Rich woods; co-domi-
nant tree with Tilia americana in climax for¬
est. (Eddy 4210)
AMARANTHACEAE (Amaranth Family)
Amaranthus albus L. Common weed. (Under¬
wood 223)
A. hybridus L. Common weed. (Draheim 117)
A. retroflexus L. Common weed. (Draheim 062;
Pucker 094; Zeitler 199)
A. tuberculatus (Moq.) Sauer. Wetlands. (Eddy
2637, 2723)
ANACARDIACEAE (Cashew Family)
Rhus aromatica Aiton var. aromatica. Known
from one site; a prairie restoration site at the
Green Lake Center. Probably an escaped cul-
tivar. (Eddy 4191)
R. copallinum L. Local in dry woods and oak
openings at Pine Bluff, a rhyolite rock outcrop.
(Eddy 1801; Underwood 860)
R. glabra L. Roadsides, railroads, wooded open¬
ings. Common. (Draheim 023; Nyman 068;
Krauth 140; Pucker 080)
R. typhina L. Roadsides, wooded openings. Less
common than R. glabra. (Bennett 229)
Toxicodendron radicans (L.) Kuntze. Disturbed
woods, paths, clearings. Locally abundant.
(Eddy 1813; Gorsuch 121; Harriman 735;
Nyman 066)
T. vernix (L.) Kuntze. Local in Larix swamps.
(Eddy 039)
40
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
APIACEAE (Carrot Family)
Angelica atropurpurea L. Marshes, wet ditches,
sedge meadows. Common. (Eddy 130; Har-
riman 513; Nelson s.n.)
Carum carvi L. Garden escape. (Draheim Oil;
Pucker 622)
Cicuta bulbifera L. Marshes, sedge meadows, wet
ditches. Common. (Chier 1 169; Eddy 974)
C. maculata L. Marshes, sedge meadows, wet
ditches. (Habighorst 045)
Cryptotaenia canadensis (L.) DC. Moist woods.
(Eddy 2329)
Daucus carota L. Roadside weed. (Eddy 4163)
Heracleum lanatum Michx. Moist ditches, low
thickets. (Draheim 017)
Osmorbiza claytonii (Michx.) C. B. Clarke.
Woods. Common. (Eddy 1744; Hockman
s.n.)
O, longistylis (Torr.) DC. Woods. (Eddy 196;
Harriman 772)
Oxypolis rigidior (L.) Raf. Low prairies, sedge
meadows, marshes, wet ditches. Common.
(Eddy & Rill 2022; Kohlman 1293)
Pastinica sativa L. Common weed. (Eddy
Harriman s.n.)
Polytaenia nuttallii DC. Known from one site;
Puchyan Prairie, a state scientific natural area.
STATE THREATENED (Eddy 2358)
Sanicula gregaria E. Bickn. Woods. (Eddy 010,
2321)
S. marilandica L. Woods. (Eddy 009, 516;
Pucker 632)
Sium suave Walter. Sedge meadows, marshes,
swamps. (Eddy 1688)
Zizia aptera (A. Gray) Fern. Known from one
site; remnant dry prairie. (Eddy & Harriman
19689)
Z. aurea (L.) Koch. Mesic prairies. Common.
(Eddy 2139; Pucker 631; Underwood 494,
854)
APOCYNACEAE (Dogbane Family)
Apocynum androsaemifolium L. Roadsides, rail¬
roads, oak openings. Common. (Draheim 027;
Eddy 275; Harriman 1117; Hockman s.n.)
A, sibericum Jacq. Roadsides. Uncommon. (Eddy
2647)
Vinca minor L. Garden escape. (Burbey 061;
Dubester 059; Rohlfs 039)
AQUIFOLIACEAE (Holly Family)
Ilex verticillata (L.) A. Gray Swamps. (Eddy
1601; Harriman 1246, 18930; Kohlman 1322)
ARALLACEAE (Ginseng Family)
Aralia nudicaulis L. Woods. Common. (Har¬
riman 684)
A. racemosa L. Rich woods. Uncommon. (Eddy
1876, 2469; Harriman 18934)
Panax quinquefolium L. Moist wooded slopes.
Rare. (Galster 1 196; Misterek 131)
ARISTOLOCHIACEAE (Birthwort Family)
As arum canadense L. Moist woods. Locally abun¬
dant. (Eddy 1399)
ASCLEPIADACEAE (Milkweed Family)
Asclepias amplexicaulis J. E. Smith. Dry prairies,
oak openings. Uncommon. (Eddy 2421, 2669;
Hockman 072)
A. exaltata L. Woods, openings. Uncommon.
(Eddy 1972; Hockman s.n.)
A. hirtella (Pennell) Woodson. Sand prairies.
Rare. (Eddy 2645, 3068; Underwood 815)
A. incarnata L. Wetlands. Common. (Draheim
059; Eddy 637; Harriman 1 169; Jennings 265;
Lindvall 159)
A. syriaca L. Roadsides, fields, disturbed soils.
Common. (Harriman 1163)
A. tuberosa L. Mesic prairies, roadsides. Com¬
mon. (Harriman 1 162; Laurent 029)
A. verticillata L. Roadsides, waste places. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 747; Harriman 1208, 1259;
Kasierski 004; Weber 039)
ASTERACEAE (Aster Family)
Achillea millefolium L. Roadsides, prairies, old
fields. Common. (Eddy 132; Harriman 779;
Nelson s.n.; Pucker 213; Weiss 176; Zeitler
231)
Ambrosia artemisiifolia L. Common weed.
(Draheim 073; Lindvall 166; Pucker 067;
Supple 215; Underwood 240)
A. trifida L. Common weed. (Eddy 1857;
Volume 84 (1996)
41
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Manthei 203; Manthei & Bennett 222;
Salzman 076; Zietler 212)
Anaphalis margaritacea (L.) Benth. & Hook. Dry
openings. Common. (Harriman 1233)
Antennaria neglecta Greene. Forming dense
patches in dry openings, on lawns. Common.
(Eddy 233, 263; Schroeder 004)
A. plantaginifolia (L.) Richardson. Dry openings,
fields. (Eddy 13, 232; Hockman s.n.)
Anthemis cotula L. Common weed. (Draheim
064; Eddy 827)
Arctium minus Schk. Common weed. (Draheim
052; Zeitler 215)
Artemisia biennis Willd. (Zeitler 222)
A. campestris L. Sandy soils. (Eddy 2175)
A. ludoviciana Nutt. Upland prairies, roadsides.
(Eddy 2639)
Aster borealis Prov. Low prairies, fens, sedge
meadows. Locally abundant. (Eddy 1943;
Galster 1075; Underwood 1178)
A. ciliolatus Lindley. Woods. (Misterek 146)
A. ericoides L. Prairies, roadsides. Common.
(Bennett 220; Jennings 260)
A. firmus Nees. Low prairies. (Draheim 111;
Nyman 059; Habighorst 158)
A. hesperius A. Gray. Low prairies, sedge mead¬
ows. Uncommon. (Eddy 1911)
A. laevis L. Prairies. Common. (Eddy 2059;
Pucker 093; Macfarlane 1 13)
A. lanceolatus Willd. var. lanceolatus. Prairies,
fields, roadsides. Common. (Breitlow 201;
Eddy 1777, 1905; Salzman 074; Underwood
1190; Weiss 160; Zeitler 224)
A. lateriflorus (L.) Britton. Oak openings, prai¬
ries. Common. (Briscoe s.n.; Draheim 096;
Jansen 222; Supple 194; Wepner 003; Zeitler
207)
A. linariifolius L. Dry sandy openings. Rare.
(Harriman 1240)
A. novae-angliae L. Low prairies, sedge meadows,
roadsides. Common. (Bennett 213; Eddy
2176; Gorsuch 122; Jennings 233; Mateyka
059; Underwood 221; Weiss 169; Zeitler 221)
A. oolentangiensis Riddell. Upland prairies, oak
openings. Common. (Bennett 205; Buchholtz
1142; Draheim 205; Harriman 1231; Lindvall
158; Mittelstaedt 243; Taves 905)
A. pilosus Willd. Dry sandy openings. (Coburn
s.n.; Jansen 222)
A. puniceus L. Larix swamps. (Whinney s.n.)
A. sagittifolius Willd. Oak openings, prairies,
roadsides. Common. (Mittelstadet 238; Turner
013)
A. sericeus Vent. Oak openings, prairies.
(Harriman 1206; Weiss 070)
A. umbellatus Miller. Low prairies, sedge mead¬
ows, fens. Locally abundant. (Eddy & Rill
1024; Eddy 1989; Underwood 1186; Whirry
774)
Bidens aristosa (Michx.) Britton. Marshes, sedge
meadows. (Habighorst 040)
B. cernua L. Wet ditches, shores, marshes. Com¬
mon. (Draheim 140; Eddy 784, 2172; Jen
nings 241; Krauth 146; Nyman 063; Weiss
167)
B. connata Muhl. Moist or wet waste places.
(Zeitler 229)
B. coronata (L.) Britton. Marshes, sedge mead¬
ows. Common. (Buchholtz 1366; Harriman
18972; Weiss 154)
B. frondosa L. Marshes, sedge meadows. Com¬
mon. (Brudnicki 134; Harriman 1247, 18980)
Cacalia suaveolens L. Local on sandy flats on
Lake Puckaway. (Harriman 13214; Under¬
wood 1 166)
Carduus nutans L. Old pastures. (Eddy 4215;
Eddy &C Harriman s.n.)
Centaur ea maculosa Lam. Common roadside
weed. (Eddy 2635)
Chrysanthemum leucanthemum L. Common
weed. (Draheim 022)
Chrysopsis villosa (Pursh) Nutt. var. angustifolia
(Rybd.) Cronq. Dry sandy openings. Uncom¬
mon. (Jansen 220)
Cichorium intybus L. Roadside weed. (Eddy
4172)
Cirsium altissimum (L.) Sprengel. Open woods.
(Harriman 18998)
42
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
C. arvense (L.) Scop. Common weed. (Eddy
4162)
C. muticum Michx. Sedge meadows, low prairies,
fens. Common. (Eddy 766, 1934, 2161;
Underwood 21 1, 1 183; Weiss 148; Zeider 227)
C. vulgar e (Savi) Tenore. Uncommon weed.
(Jennings 270; Misterek 127; Turner 040)
Conyza canadensis (L.) Cronq. Common weed.
(Bennett 194; Jansen 216; Pucker 068)
Coreopsis palmata Nutt. Prairies. Common.
(Eddy 749, 2102; Harriman 2085)
Crepis tectorum L. Common weed. (Eddy 2545,
2557)
Erechtites hieraciifolia (L.) Raf. Various habitats
recently burned over. (Harriman 13209)
Erigeron annuus (L.) Pers. Common weed. (Eddy
2372)
E. philadelphicus L. Roadsides, openings. Com¬
mon. (Draheim 018; Eddy 1566; Nelson s.n.;
Pucker 619; Taves 445)
E. pulchellus Michx. Open woods. Uncommon.
(Draheim 019; Harriman 72 7)
E. strigosus Muhl. Common weed. (Harriman
1244)
Eupatorium maculatum L. Low prairies, sedge
meadows, damp thickets. Common. (Habig-
horst 068; Nyman 054; Zeitler 219)
E. perfoliatum L. Low prairies, sedge meadows.
Common. (Habighorst 171; Kasierski 008;
Zeitler 228)
E. purpureum L. Openings, thickets. Uncom¬
mon. (Davis s.n.)
E. rugosum Houttuyn. Woods, thickets. (Davis
s.n.; Draheim 093; Harriman 16679; Wepner
004)
Euthamia graminifolia (L.) Nutt. Mesic prairies.
(Weiss 161)
Gaillardia pulchella Foug. Sandy oak openings.
(Draheim 037)
Galinsoga quadriradiata Ruiz & Pavon. Com¬
mon weed. (Eddy 616; Turner 213)
Gnaphalium obtusifolium L. Dry openings, pas¬
tures. (Draheim 091; Galster 811; Harriman
1263; Mittelstaedt 110, 236; Supple 189; We¬
ber 037)
Grindelia squarrosa (Pursh) Dunal. var. squarrosa.
Roadsides. Uncommon. (Eddy 1829; Har¬
riman 4189)
Helenium autumnale L. Low prairies, sedge
meadows, fens. Common. (Breitlow 200;
Draheim 069; Jennings 255; Misterek 126;
Supple 270; Underwood 216, 1193; Weiss
146; Whirry 1081; Zeitler 226)
Helianthus annuus L. (Breitlow 204)
H. decapetalus L. Oak openings, thickets. Com¬
mon. (Davis s.n.)
H. giganteus L. Roadsides, thickets. Common.
(Draheim 068; Eddy 783, 2149; Habighorst
048)
H. grosseserratus Martens. Roadsides. (Eddy
4166)
H. hirsutus Raf. Dry woods, openings. (Ber-
lowski 039; Turner 043).
H. occidentals Riddell. Oak openings, upland
prairies. Common. (Eddy 1910, 21 19; Har¬
riman 1236)
H. strumosus L. Openings, roadsides. (Buchholtz
1016; Eddy 1886; Harriman 1257; Jennings
1237)
H. tuberosus L. Roadsides, waste places. (Breitlow
202)
Heliopsis helianthoides (L.) Sweet, var. scabra
(Dunal.) Fern. Openings, prairies. (Davis s.n.;
Harriman 1 174)
Hieracium aurantiacum L. Common weed.
(Draheim 016; Eddy 266; Harriman 510,
1892)
H. caespitosum Dumort. Common weed. (Dra¬
heim 015; Eddy 012, 709, 1516)
H. kalmii L. Dry openings. (Eddy 408, 1105;
Harriman 18977)
H. longipilum Torr. Dry openings. Uncommon.
(Eddy 1956, 2627; Harriman 2071)
H. scabrum Michx. Dry openings. Common.
(Eddy 1919, 1947, 2684; Harriman 1235)
H. umbellatum L. Openings, thickets. Uncom¬
mon. (Eddy 1912, 1919-A, 2056; Harriman
1238)
Volume 84 (1996)
43
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Krigia biflora (Walter) S. F. Blake. Mesic prai¬
ries. Uncommon. (Eddy 690, 2136; Harriman
794, 1848; Underwood 830)
K virginica (L.) Willd. Sandy openings. Uncom¬
mon. (Harriman 18293)
Kuhnia eupatorioides L. var. corymbulosa T. & G.
Dry sandy openings. (Eddy 833; Harriman
1205, 1256)
Lactuca biennis (Moench) Fern. Thickets.
(Draheim 098; Eddy 4153; Harriman & Rill
s.n.)
L. canadensis L. Common weed. (Davis s.n.;
Eddy 2584; Harriman & Rill s.n.; Kuen 020;
Underwood 828)
L. ludoviciana (Nutt.) DC. (Harriman & Rill
s.n.)
Lapsana communis L. Uncommon weed of rhyo¬
lite outcrops. (Eddy 1754)
Liatris aspera Michx. Mesic prairies. Common.
(Bennett 225; Habighorst 161; Harriman
1260; Kasierski 006; Underwood 237; Wiest
071)
L. ligulistylis (A. Nels.) K. Schum. Mesic prai¬
ries. Rare. (D. Chier 1077)
L. pycnostachya Michx. Mesic prairies. Common.
(Eddy 050, 1945, 1949)
Matricaria matricarioides (Less.) Porter. Com¬
mon weed. (Eddy &C Harriman s.n.)
Parthenium integrifolium L. Rare, known from
one site; old field restored, in part, as upland
prairie. (The property owners are confident
they did not introduce P. integrifolium to the
site.) A single specimen observed and conser¬
vatively top-picked. STATE THREATENED.
(Eddy &c Schultz 4218)
Prenanthes alba L. Woods, thickets. (Buchholtz
1011; Eddy 2158, 2721; Habighorst 064;
Kasierski 007; Kohlman 1300)
P. racemosa Michx. Mesic prairies. Less common
than P. alba. (J. Linde 1375)
Ratibida pinnata (Vent.) Barnhart. Upland prai¬
ries. (Eddy 4157)
Rudbeckia hirta L. Upland prairies. Common.
(Eddy 515; Harriman 1168, 1881)
Senecio pauperculus Michx. Peaty soils. Com¬
mon. (Dean 023; Eddy 131, 2137)
S. plattensis Nutt. Dry prairies. Uncommon.
(Harriman 809, 1845)
Silphium terebinthinaceum Jacq. Mesic prairies,
roadsides. Common. (Eddy 2624; Pucker
1139)
Solidago canadensis L. Prairies, old fields, road¬
sides. Common. (Anderson s.n.; Habighorst
053; Harriman 1166; Underwood 226; Weiss
162; Zeitler 210)
S. flexicaulis L. Woods, openings. Common.
(Eddy 818; Misterek 132)
S. gigantea Aiton. Openings. (Eddy 1916;
Michels 022; Pucker 1064)
S. nemoralis Aiton. Oak openings. Common.
(Eddy 1 103, 1869; Jennings 265; Mittelstaedt
240; Underwood 243; Weber 030)
S. riddellii Frank. Fens, calcareous seepages in
low prairies, sedge meadows. Locally abundant.
(D. Chier 1061; Eddy 2150, 3063; Weber
035)
S. rigida L. Dry prairies, oak openings. (Bennett
215)
S. speciosa Nutt. Openings, prairies. Uncommon.
(Bennett 221; Manthei 189; Wiest 066, 067)
S. uliginosa Nutt. Local in boggy meadows, fens.
(Dean 042; Eddy 1921, 2151, 2163; Galster
1058, 1068)
S. ulmifolia Muhl. Openings. Common. (Wep-
ner 001; Wiest 062)
Sonchus oleraceus L. Common weed. (Davis s.n.;
Eddy 4206)
Tanacetum vulgare L. Garden escape. (Harriman
1047)
Taraxacum officinale Weber ex Wiggers. Ubiq¬
uitous weed. (Jennings 268; Supple 214)
Tragopogon dubius Scop. Common roadside
weed, open habitats. (Eddy, 4213)
T. pratensis L. Common roadside weed, open
habitats. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 4214)
Vernonia fasciculata Michx. Low prairies. Com¬
mon. (Harriman & Kasierski 010; Salzman
079; Underwood 1210)
44
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
Xanthium strumarium L. Common weed of dis¬
turbed sites. (Bennett 208)
BALSAM IN AC EAE (Touch-Me-Not Family)
Impatiens capensis Meerb. Shores, wetlands.
Common. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 1837)
BERBERIDACEAE (Barberry Family)
Berberis thunbergii DC. Escape on edge of oak
woods. (Eddy 4152)
Caulophyllum thalictroides (L.) Michx. Maple-
basswood forests. Common. (Eddy 2199)
Podophyllum peltatum L. Forming dense patches
in forests. Common. (Draheim 020; Pucker
564)
BETULACEAE (Birch Family)
Alnus incana (L.) Moench. Larix swamps, sedge
meadows. Common. (Eddy 1775; Harriman
18938; Weinkauf 1222)
Betula alleghaniensis Britton. Known from one
site; Green Lake Center. (Eddy 2345)
B. glandulosa Michx. Larix swamps, sedge mead¬
ows, fens. Locally common. (D. Chier s.n.;
Eddy 345, 1580; Underwood 837)
B. papyrifera Marshall. Various habitats. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 511, 712; Harriman 523)
Corylus americana Walter. Forming dense thick¬
ets in woods and some low prairies. (Eddy
2406; Hockman s.n.; Harriman 2074)
C. cornuta Marshall. Thickets, openings. (Eddy
2204)
Ostrya virginiana (Miller) K. Koch. Rich wood.
Common. (Eddy 421 1)
BORAGINACEAE (Borage Family)
Hackelia virginiana (L.) I. M. Johnst. Upland
forests. Common. (Eddy 1663, 1743)
Lappula squarrosa (Retz.) Dumort. One speci¬
men collected between 1900 and 1908. (Davis
s.n.)
Lithospermum canescens (Michx.) Lehm. Oak
openings, upland prairies. Common. (Eddy
1475; Harriman 687, 738; Shaver 046; Taves
878)
L. caroliniense (Walter) MacMillan. Mesic prai¬
ries. Less common than L. canescens. (Eddy
705)
Mertensia paniculata (Aiton) G. Don. Open
woods, roadside ditches. (Berlowski 044)
M. virginica (L.) Pers. Garden escape. (Eddy
1446)
Myosotis scorpioides L. Occasional weed along
shorebanks in the southern half of the county.
(Eddy 1647)
M. verna Nutt. Known from one site; rhyolite
quarry. (Eddy & Harriman 19687)
BRASSICACEAE (Mustard Family)
Alliaria petiolaris (Bieb.) Cavara & Grande.
Weed in disturbed woods. (Harriman 18904)
Arabis canadensis L. Known from one location;
rhyolite quarry. (Eddy & Harriman 19686)
A. glabra (L.) Bernh. Dry soils. (Eddy 1504,
2755; Harriman 780, 2039)
A. hirsuta (L.) Scop. var. glabrata T. & G. Rocky
ledges. Uncommon. (Eddy 1529)
A. lyrata L. Dry openings, old fields. Common.
(Harriman 688, 795)
A. missouriensis Greene. (Eddy &C Harriman s.n.)
Armoracia lacustris (A. Gray) Al-Shehbaz & V.
Bates. Quiet waters and muddy shores. The last
record for Green Lake County was collected
from Green Lake in 1921 (Patman &C litis,
1961), and it is uncertain whether this lake
macrophyte is still extant in the county.
STATE ENDANGERED. (Rickett s.n., WIS)
Barbarea vulgaris R. Br. Common weed. (Eddy
260)
Berteroa incana (L.) DC. Common weed.
(Buckstaff 40-15; Habighorst 178; Harriman
1 176; Kasierski 005; Supple 184)
Brassica nigra (L.) Common weed. (Buchholtz
1388)
Capsella bursa-pastoris (L.) Medikus. Ubiquitous
weed. (Eddy & Harriman s.n.)
Cardamine concatenata (Michx.) O. Schwartz.
Moist woods. (Burbey 062; Eddy 1401;
Kampa 029; Rohlfs 040; Schultz 063)
C. douglassii Britton. Wet woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 4091)
C. parviflora L. (Eddy & Harriman s.n.)
C. rhomboidea (Pers.) DC. Wetlands. Common.
Volume 84 (1996)
45
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
(Eddy 197, 357; Harriman 676; Taves 887;
Underwood 497)
Descurainia pinnata (Walter) Britton var.
brachycarpa (Richards.) Fern. Weed on railroad
cinders. (Eddy 3065)
Hesperis matronalis L. Common roadside escape.
(Eddy 4228)
Lepidium densiflorum Schrader. Common weed.
(Bennett 185; Eddy 41 56; Harriman 778)
L. virginicum L. Common weed. (Harriman
762; Zeitler 202)
Raphanus raphanistrum L. Weed. (Hockman
069; Misterek 148; Taves 617)
Rorippa nasturtium-aquaticum (L.) Hayek. An
Old World species thoroughly naturalized in
spring streams and spring-fed ponds. (Eddy
603; Harriman 781; Weiss 149)
R. palustris (L.) Besser. var . palustr is (Eddy 1695,
1840, 2540)
R. sylvestris (L.) Besser. (Fassett & Sperry 18388,
WIS)
Sisymbrium altissimum L. Weed. (Draheim 137;
Harriman 680, 740, 789, 2084, 2095; Pucker
635)
S. officinale (L.) Scop. Weed. (Eddy 1670;
Harriman 761; Supple 210)
Thlaspi arvense L. Common weed. (Harriman
678, 759)
CACTACEAE (Cactus Family)
Opuntia humifusa (Raf.) Raf. Dry sand prairies.
Rare. (Shinners s.n., WIS; Fassett 9203, WIS)
O. fragilis (Nutt.) Haw. STATE THREAT¬
ENED (Pratt s.n., WIS)
CAMPANULACEAE (Bellflower Family)
Campanula americana L. (Eddy 4205)
C. aparinodes Pursh. Wetlands. (Davis s.n.;
Harriman 2263)
C. glomerata L. Garden escape. (Eddy 2368)
C. rapunculoides L. Common along roadsides.
(Davis s.n.)
C. rotundifolia L. Gravely soils. (Davis s.n.;
Kohlman 1035)
Lobelia inflata L. Open woods. (Davis s.n.; J.
Linde 1025; Supple 191; Whirry 830)
L. kalmii L. Fens, calcareous seepages in low
prairies, sedge meadows. Locally common.
(Eddy 104; Galster 081; Hockman 127; Kuen
002; Taves 901; Underwood 220; Whirry
1079)
L. siphilitica L. Marshes, stream banks, wet
shores. Common. (Briscoe s.n.; Davis s.n.;
Draheim 086, 102; Galster 812; Jennings 269)
L. spicata Lam. var. spicata. Upland prairies, oak
openings, roadsides. Common. (Crosswhite
s.n.; Eddy 1622, 1881, 2408; Harriman 1886;
Hockman 073; Kohlman 675)
Triodanis perfoliata (L.) Nieuwl. Local on thin
soils of rhyolite outcrops. (Eddy & Harriman
s.n.; Harriman 801)
CANNABACEAE (Indian Hemp Family)
Cannabis sativa L. Common weed; cultivated
during the 1940s as a source of hemp fiber.
(Harriman 1239; Hockman 115; Weiss 147)
CAPPARACEAE (Caper Family)
Polanisia dodecandra (L.) DC. Sandy oak open¬
ings within the Central Plain. Common. (Eddy
078, 097; Rill 4073)
CAPRIFOLIACEAE (Honeysuckle Family)
Diervilla lonicera Miller. Oak wooded openings.
Uncommon. (Eddy 1506; Hockman 041)
Lonicera x bella Zabel. (Doll s.n., WIS)
L. tartarica L. A cultivar, widely escaping and
appearing naturalized in open woods. Com¬
mon. (Berlowski 003; Eddy 267, 270)
Sambucus canadensis L. Woods, thickets, moist
roadside ditches. Common. (Eddy 441; Supple
212)
S. racemosa L. ssp. pubens (Michx.) House.
Woods. Less common than S. canadensis.
(Eddy 1443, 2203; Harriman 820)
Triosteum perfoliatum L. Low woods. (Misterek
133)
Viburnum acerifolium L. Woods. Uncommon.
(Harriman 1258)
V lentago L. Woods, fencerows. Common.
(Harriman 18926)
V. opulus L. var. americanum Aiton. Woods. Un¬
common. (Eddy 1847)
46
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
CARYOPHYLLACEAE (Pink Family)
Arenaria lateriflora L. Woods, openings. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 1434, 2320)
A. stricta Michx. var. stricta. Limestone outcrops.
(Harriman 689, 723)
Cerastium arvense L. Lawns, fields, roadsides.
Common. (Sadler X34)
C. nutans Raf. (Hockman s.n.)
C. vulgatum L. Common weed. (Davis s.n.;
Dean 009; Eddy 018; Linde 015; Walker 244)
Dianthus armeria L. Garden escape. (Eddy 4184)
Gypsophila paniculata L. Garden escape.
(Hockman 102; Redmond 142)
Saponaria officinalis L. Common weed. (Har¬
riman 1 175)
Silene antirrhina L. Sandy soils. (Harriman 815,
2041)
S. dichotoma Ehrh. Dry sandy soils. (Eddy 481)
S. latifolia Poir. (Eddy 1656; Harriman 817;
Pucker 09 1 ; Zeitler 211)
S. vulgaris (Moench) Garcke. Roadsides, fields,
railroads. Common. (Eddy 1812, 2167)
S. aquatica (L.) Scop. Moist sands on edge of
White River. (Underwood 833)
Stellaria graminea L. Sedge meadows. (Harriman
777)
S. longifolia Muhl. Sedge meadows. (Eddy 1581,
2478)
CELASTRACEAE (Staff-Tree Family)
Celastrus orbiculatus Thunb. Garden escape.
(Eddy 2182; Grim s.n.)
C. scandens L. Woods, thickets, openings. (Dean
020; Eddy 2458, 2722; Hansen 063; Kuen
032)
CERATOPHYLLACEAE (Hornwort Family)
Ceratophyllum demersum L. Rivers, streams,
lakes, ponds. Common. (Bumby 62, 1214,
RIP)
CHENOPODIACEAE (Goosefoot Family)
Chenopodium album L. Common weed. (Eddy
2547; Zeitler 223)
C. urbicum L. Waste places. (Eddy 2713)
Cycloloma atrip licifolium (Spreng.) J. M. Coulter.
Railroad gravels. Common. (Bennett 204;
Breitlow 196)
Kochia scoparia (L.) Schrader. Disturbed soils.
(Brudnicki 144)
Salsola kali L. Disturbed soils. (Breitlow 179)
CISTACAE (Rock-rose Family)
Helianthemum bicknellii Fern. Dry sandy soils.
(Eddy 678; Kohlman 1042)
H. canadense (L.) Michx. Oak openings. (Davis
s.n.; Eddy 1596; Harriman 1850; Supple 183)
Hudsonia tomentosa Nutt. Sandy roadside near
Princeton Locks. (Dean 019)
Lechea intermedia Leggett. Dry sandy soils, blow¬
outs. Locally abundant. (Eddy 1959, 4186;
Harriman 1232)
CLUSLACEAE (Mangosteen Family)
Hypericum canadense L. Wetlands. (Eddy 2686;
Harriman 18979; Linde 1371)
H. gentianoides (L.) BSP. Local on moist sand
prairies. Rare. (Eddy 2660; Underwood 246,
861)
H. kalmianum L. Local in fens, calcareous seep¬
ages in sedge meadows. (Eddy 1944, 2496;
Underwood 826)
H. majus (A. Gray) Britton. Sedge meadows.
(Buchholtz 787; Eddy 1756, 2658; Kohlman
842; Weber 032)
H ’. perforatum L. Common weed of roadsides,
pastures, fields. (Eddy 4220; Harriman 1046)
H. punctatum Lam. Oak openings, dry prairies,
roadsides. Common. (Brudnicki 145)
H. pyramidatum Aiton. Moist soils. (Draheim
115; Eddy 4221)
Triadenum fraseri (Spach) Gleason. Marshes,
sedge meadows. (Eddy 4207)
CONVOLVULACEAE (Morning-glory
Family)
Calystegia sepium (L.) R. Br. Common weed.
(Breitlow 194; Davis s.n.; Draheim 135;
Harriman 509, 2044)
Convolvulus arvensis L. Common weed. (Ander¬
son s.n.; Eddy 2695)
CORNACEAE (Dogwood Family)
Cornus amomum Miller var. schuetzeana (C. A.
Meyer) Rickett. Low woods, stream banks.
Volume 84 (1996)
47
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
(Dean Oil; Eddy 1738; Harriman 18935;
Krauth 147)
C. racemosa Lam. Sedge meadows, thickets,
woods. Common. (Draheim 055; Eddy 1579;
Harriman 1887)
C. rugosa Lam. Sandy or rocky soils. Common.
(Draheim 028; Eddy 530)
C. sericea L. Wetlands, thickets. Co-dominant
with Salix species in shrub-carr communities.
(Eddy 1680; Harriman 520; Hockman s.n.;
Underwood 219, 488)
CUCURBITACEAE (Gourd Family)
Echinocystis lobata (Michx.) T. &: G. Thickets,
damp openings. Common. (Draheim 083;
Eddy 802, 4154; Harriman 2243; Underwood
222; Zeitler 205)
CUSCUTACEAE (Dodder Family)
Cuscuta coryli Engelm. Twining on vegetation.
(Weinkauf 767)
C. cuspidata Engelm. (Harriman 13216)
C. pentagona Engelm. (Eddy 2006)
DIPSACACEAE (Teasel Family)
Dipsacus laciniatus L. Introduced and spreading.
Known from one site; grassy old field. (Eddy
4118)
DROSERACEAE (Sundew Family)
Drosera intermedia Hayne. Boggy habitats. Un¬
common. (Kuen 050)
D. rotundifolia L. Boggy habitats. Uncommon.
(Eddy 2502)
ERICACEAE (Heath Family)
Arctostaphylos uva-ursi (L.) Sprengel. Rare,
known from one site; Pine Bluff oak opening
on rhyolite outcrop. (Eddy & Brooks 4183)
Gaultheria procumbens L. Woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 1620)
Gaylussacia baccata (Wangenh.) K. Koch.
Woods. Uncommon. (Eddy 1455; Harriman
732)
Vaccinium angustifolium Aiton. Oak openings.
Common. (Eddy 4 12)
EUPHORBIACEAE (Spurge Family)
Acalypha rhomboidea Raf. Common weed. (Eddy
2054)
Euphorbia corollata L. var. corollata. Dry prairies,
roadsides, waste places. Common. (Davis s.n.;
Dean 043; Draheim 143; Kasierski 001)
E. cyparissias L. Garden escape. (Davis s.n.; Eddy
2378; Sadler X32)
E. maculata L. Common weed. (Eddy 4225)
FABACEAE (Pea or Bean Family)
Amorpha canescens Pursh. Upland prairies, oak
openings. Common. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 437;
Kasierski 002)
Amphicarpaea bracteata (L.) Fern. Woods, thick¬
ets. Common. (Eddy 828)
Apios americana Medikus. Moist woods, thick¬
ets. Uncommon. (Eddy 1879, 1978)
Baptisia lactea (Raf.) Thieret. (B. leucantha).
Mesic prairies. Uncommon. (Davis s.n.; Eddy
1510)
B. bracteata Elliott var. glabrescens (Larisey) Isley
(B. leucophaea). Sand prairies. Less common
than B. lactea. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 1469;
Underwood 822)
Coronilla varia L. Planted to reduce bank ero¬
sion and commonly spreading on roadsides.
(Eddy 1546; Weinkauf 1306)
Dalea purpurea Vent. Upland prairies, oak open¬
ings. Common. (Bennett 203; Harriman 1234;
Manthei 180)
Desmodium canadense (L.) DC. Roadsides, thick¬
ets, openings. Common. (Eddy 2626)
D. glutinosum (Muhl.) A. Wood. (Davis s.n.;
Draheim 208; Eddy 190, 1664; Harriman
1115; Mittlestaedt 242)
D. illinoense A. Gray. Woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 740)
D. nudiflorum (L.) DC. (Fassett 16785, WIS)
Glycine max (L.) Merrill. Escape crop plant;
roadside collection. (Harriman 18946)
Lathyrus palustris L. Low prairies, sedge mead¬
ows, marshes, wet roadside ditches. Common.
(Eddy 341,2297)
L. venosus Muhl. var. intonsus Butters &C St.
John. Moist woods, thickets. Uncommon.
(Eddy 2407)
Lespedeza capitata Michx. Upland prairies, oak
48
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
openings, roadsides. Common. (Eddy 838,
1815, 1901; Harriman 1261; Lindvall 159;
Supple 182)
Lotus corniculatus L. Planted to reduce bank ero¬
sion, commonly escaping to roadsides and
clearings. (Eddy 14 1)
Lupinus perennis L. Sand prairies, oak openings.
Common. (Warmbier 073)
Medicago lupulina L. Common weed. (Kasierski
003)
M. sativa L. Introduced. (Bennett 212; Salzman
073; Turner 044)
Melilotus alba Medikus. Introduced. (Eddy &
Harriman s.n.)
M. altissima Thuill. Introduced. (Zeitler 242)
M. officinalis (L.) Pallas. Introduced. (Eddy &
Harriman s.n.)
Robinia pseudoacacia L. Introduced. (Draheim
043; Eddy 4202; Kuen 033)
Tephrosia virginiana (L.) Pers. Local on dry-
mesic prairies, oak openings, sandy roadsides.
(Eddy 2569)
Trifolium arvense L. Weed. (Davis s.n.; Rill
5023)
T. aureum Pollich. Weed. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 506)
T. campestre Schreber. Common weed. (Eddy
2476)
T. hybridum L. Common weed. (Eddy 306,
2534)
T. pratense L. Common weed. (Habighorst 047;
Jennings 259; Manthei 195; Zeitler 200)
T. repens L. Common weed. (Draheim 066;
Eddy 310; Jennings 243)
Vicia americana Muhl. Roadsides, openings,
thickets. Common. (Pucker 634; Underwood
510)
V caroliniana Walter. Woods, thickets. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 1476)
V sativa L. (Eddy 1885)
V. villosa Roth. Weed. (Draheim 104; Eddy
2534; Harriman 521; Weinkauf 1337)
FAGACEAE (Beech Family)
Quercus alba L. Upland forests. Common. (Eddy
1896; Wiest 106)
Q. bicolor Willd. Bordering wetlands. (Eddy
18928)
Q. ellipsoidalis E. J. Hill. Dry openings, woods.
(Eddy 1971, 4141; Eddy & Sonntag 2094;
Hockman s.n.; Wiest 073)
Q. macrocar pa Michx. Oak openings, roadsides,
woods. Common. (Buchholtz 1315)
Q. rubra L. Upland forests. (Eddy 1897; Michels
024)
Q. velutina Lam. Upland forests, oak openings.
Common. (Mateyka 150; Wiest 065)
FUMARLACEAE (Fumitory Family)
Corydalis aurea Willd. Known from one site;
rocky ground in clear-cut oak forest. (Davis
s.n.; G. Linde 217)
C. sempervirens (L.) Pers. Local on rhyolite out¬
crops. (Davis s.n.; Harriman 1896; Hockman
s.n.; Underwood 241)
Dicentra canadensis (Goldie) Walp. Known from
one site; growing in dense patches at the Green
Lake Center grounds. (Eddy 3079)
D. cucullaria (L.) Bernh. Maple-basswood for¬
ests. Common. (Eddy 1415)
GENTIANACEAE (Gentian Family)
Bartonia virginica (L.) BSP. Local on moist sand
prairies and boggy meadows in the Central
Plain. A rare Atlantic Coastal disjunct. (Eddy
& Neil s.n.)
Gentiana andrewsii Griseb. Low prairies, sedge
meadows, fens. Common. (Draheim 095;
Harriman 18984; J. Linde 1374; Weiss 151)
G. flavida A. Gray. Known from one site; moist
sand prairie-meadow complex. STATE
THREATENED (Harriman 18985)
G. puberulenta). Pringle Dry prairies, oak open¬
ings. Uncommon. (Anderson s.n.; J. Linde
1373; Underwood 230)
Gentianella quinquefolia (L.) Small. Upland
woods. Uncommon. (J. Linde 1214)
Gentianopsis procera (Holm.) Ma. Local in fens,
calcareous seepages in sedge meadows. (Eddy
2152; Galster 1062; Kuehn 005)
GERANLACEAE (Geranium Family)
Geranium bicknellii Britton. (Rill 7142)
Volume 84 (1996)
49
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
G. carolinianum L. Known from one site;
rhyolite quarry. (Eddy & Harriman
19688)
G. maculatum L. Woods, thickets, roadsides.
Common. (Draheim 007; Hockman s.n.;
Taves 883; Underwood 493)
G. pusillum L. Adventive weed in prairie garden
at Green Lake Public School. (Eddy 4130)
GROSSULARLACEAE (Gooseberry Family)
Ribes americanum Miller. Woods. (Eddy 1893;
Underwood 487)
R. cynosbati L. Woods. (Eddy 2229, 2418;
Harriman 1825)
R. missouriense Nutt. Woods. (Eddy 533)
R. sativum Syme. Garden escape in oak woods.
(Eddy 1420)
HALORAGACEAE (Water-Milfoil Family)
Myriophyllum sibiricum Komarov. (Myriophyllum
exalbescens). (M. J. Bumby 123)
M. spicatum L. Common macrophyte of rivers,
lakes. (M. J. Bumby 1244)
Proserpinaca palustris L. One collection from a
water-filled ditch near the north shore of Lake
Puckaway. (Eddy 2594)
JUGLANDACEACE (Walnut Family)
Carya cordiformis (Wangenh.) K. Koch. Known
from one site; maple-basswood woods. Un¬
common. (Eddy 4212)
C. ovata (Miller) K. Koch. Common through¬
out the county. (Eddy 4224)
Juglans cinerea L. (Eddy 4187)
J. nigra L. (Eddy 4161)
LAMIACEAE (Mint Family)
Galeopsis tetrahit L. var. bifida (Boenn.) Lej. &C
Courtois. Garden escape. (Eddy 2616)
Glechoma hederacea L. Common weed. (Pin-
chette 059)
Hedeoma hispidum Pursh. Dry sandy soils.
(Harriman 806; Hockman 042)
H. pulegioides (L.) Pers. Upland woods. (Eddy
2049)
Isanthus brachiatus (L.) BSP. (Trichostema
brachiatus). (Fassett 18379, WIS; Fassett &
Wadmond 18394, WIS)
Leonurus cardiaca L. Common weed. (Davis s.n.;
Draheim 040; Pucker 070)
Lycopus americanus Muhl. Wetlands. (Draheim
097; Eddy 2602; Hockman 126; Smith 040;
Taves 443)
L. uniflorus Michx. Wetlands. (Taves 872;
Underwood 1179)
Mentha arvensis L. Moist soils. (Eddy 4148;
Harriman 2072)
Monarda fiistulosa L. var. fistulosa. Prairies, oak
openings, roadsides. Common. (Davis s.n.;
Draheim 054; Hockman s.n.)
M. punctata L. var. villicaulis Pennell. Dry sandy
openings. Common. (Harriman 1178; Hock¬
man 124; Kasierski 012, 018)
Nepeta cataria L. Common weed. (Bennett 191;
Eddy 1669)
Physostegia virginiana (L.) Benth. Sedge
meadows, low prairies, marshes. Common.
(Eddy 1899; Harriman 13213; Weber
033)
Prunella vulgaris L. Common weed of moist
soils. (Eddy 1734)
Pycnanthemum flexuosum (Walter) BSP. Prairies.
Common. (Eddy 2642)
P. virginianum (L.) Durand & B. D. Jack-
son. Prairies. Common. (Taves 903;
Zeitler 225)
Scutellaria galericulata L. Wetlands. (Davis s.n.;
Eddy 751, 2560; Harriman 2264; Hockman
063)
S. lateriflora L. Wetlands. (Eddy 2159)
S. leonardii Epling. Woods, openings, prairies.
(Eddy 512, 1511,4144)
Stachys hispida Pursh. Wetlands. (Eddy 449,
1 690, 1891,4165; Harriman 1 1 70)
S. palustris L. Wetlands. (Eddy 4219)
Teucrium canadense L. var. occidentale (A. Gray)
McClintock & Epling. Moist soils. (Davis s.n.;
Eddy 087, 1697; Harriman 2257; Hockman
125)
LENTIBULARIACEAE (Bladderwort Family)
Utricularia vulgaris L. Shallow waters. Common.
(Eddy 301)
50
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
LYTHRACEAE (Loosestrife Family)
Decodon verticillatus (L.) Elliott var. laevigatus T.
& G. Marshes, swamps, river and lake shores.
(Eddy 1823)
Lythrum alatum Pursh var. alatum Pursh. Loose¬
strife. Low prairies, sedge meadows, marshes,
wet ditches. Common. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 032)
L. salicaria L. Aggressive exotic that is established
and spreading in wetlands. (Cibik 180; Zeitler
208)
MALVACEAE (Mallow Family)
Abutilon theophrasti Medikus. Common field
weed. (Eddy 2180; Misterek 151)
Hibiscus trionum L. (Jennings 268)
Malva neglecta Wallr. Common weed. (Pucker
065)
MELASTOMATACEAE (Melastome Family)
Rhexia virginica L. Rare, known from one wet¬
lands site, north of Lake Puckaway; local on
moist sands of the Central Plain. An Atlantic
Coastal Plain disjunct. (Eddy 2578)
MENYANTFIACEAE (Buckbean Family)
Menyanthes trifoliata L. (Thompson 82, WIS)
MOLLUGINACEAE (Carpet-Weed Family)
Mollugo verticillata L. Weed of sandy, sterile
soils. (Draheim 136; Harriman 1230)
MONOTROPACEAE (Indian Pipe Family)
Monotropa uniflora L. Woods. Uncommon.
(Davis s.n.; Eddy 1874, 2500; Harriman 1204)
M. hypopithys L. Rare, known from one site; Pine
Bluff oak opening on rhyolite outcrop. (Eddy
& Neil 4143)
MORACEAE (Mulberry Family)
Morus alba L. Roadsides, waste places, thickets.
Common. (Ihrke 030; T. Whirry 1348)
MYRICACEAE (Bayberry Family)
Comptonia peregrina (L.) J. M. Coulter. Sandy
soils of oak openings. (Eddy 1458)
NELUMBONACEAE (Lotus-Lily Family)
Nelumbo lutea (Willd.) Pers. Shallow waters.
Locally abundant. (Eddy 1676; Harriman
13202)
NYCTAGINACEAE (Four-O’Clock Family)
Mirabilis nyctagineus (Michx.) MacMillan. Com¬
mon weed. (Harriman 1241; Underwood 225)
NYMPHACEAE (Water-Lily Family)
Nuphur variegata Durand. Shallow waters. Lo¬
cally abundant. (Campbell 053; Eddy 032;
Harriman 13208)
Nymphaea odorata Aiton. Shallow waters.
(Campbell 052; Eddy 1677, 1846)
OLEACEAE (Olive Family)
Fraxinus nigra Marshall. Swamps, wet woods.
(Harriman 18925)
F. pennsylvanica Marshall. Woods. (Eddy 112)
Syringa vulgaris L. Garden escape. (Eddy 967)
ONAGRACEAE (Evening-Primrose Family)
Circaea alpina L. Known from one site; shaded
sandstone outcrop. (Rill 7069)
C. lutetiana L. Moist woods. (Eddy 175, 1640,
1665, 1740; Hockman 080; Pucker 1072; Rill
7074)
Epilobium angustifolium L. Moist soils, notably
common in burned over habitats. (Eddy 2475;
Hockman 037)
E. ciliatum Raf. Sedge meadows, marshes, wet
ditches. Common. (Harriman 2261; Weiss 150)
E. coloratura Biehler. Sedge meadows, marshes,
wet ditches. Common. (Eddy 2717)
Ludwigia palustris (L.) Elliott. Muddy flats, shal¬
low waters. (Eddy 2690; Harriman 18909)
Oenothera biennis L. Common along roadsides,
waste places. (Jansen 227)
O. clelandii Dietrich, Raven & W. L. Wagner.
Roadsides, fields. (Eddy 2569; Harriman 1051,
2093)
O. parviflora L. (Anderson s.n.; Pucker 088)
O. perennis L. Old fields, openings. (Eddy 1567,
1629, 2342; Underwood 825)
OXALIDACEAE (Wood Sorrel Family)
Oxalis stricta L. Common weed. (Draheim 089;
Eddy 4171; Harriman 1847)
O. violacea L. Woods, oak openings. Uncom¬
mon. (Berlowski 006; N. Morton 226; Under¬
wood 491)
PAPAVERACEAE (Poppy Family)
Eschscholzia californica Cham. Garden escape.
(Grim s.n.)
Volume 84 (1996)
51
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Papaver orientate L. Garden escape. (Eddy 2379)
Sanguinaria canadensis L. Moist woods. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 1404)
PHYTOLACCACEAE (Pokeweed Family)
Phytolacca americana L. Known from one site;
shaded lane at the Green Lake Center.
(Hockman s.n.)
PLANTAGINACEAE (Plantain Family)
Plantago lanceolata L. Common weed. (Eddy
2429)
P. major L. Common weed. (Hockman s.n.;
Jennings 247)
P. patagonica Jacq. Railroad gravels. (Harriman
2092; Hockman 036)
P. rugelii Decne. Common weed. (Harriman
1163)
POLEMONIACEAE (Phlox Family)
Phlox paniculata L. Garden escape. (Zeitler 203)
P. pilosa L. var . fulgida Wherry. Upland prairies,
oak openings. Common. (Eddy 715, 1582;
Harriman 726; Warmbier 072)
Polemonium reptans L. var. reptans. Moist woods,
thickets. (Eddy 1 464; Underwood 484)
POLYGALACEAE (Milkwort Family)
Polygala polygama Walter. Open sandy soils.
(Eddy 504; Harriman 1884)
P. sanguinea L. Prairies, oak openings. Common.
(J. Linde 1 152; Underwood 245; Weber 028)
P. senega L. Low prairies. Uncommon. (Eddy
1591, 2411; Taves 888)
P. verticillata L. (Shinners s.n., WIS)
POLYGONACEAE (Smartweed Family)
Polygonella articulata (L.) Meissner. Dry sandy
openings. Locally abundant. (Eddy 4195)
Polygonum amphibium L. Shallow waters, mud
flats. Common. (B. A. & T. S. Cochrane 7417;
Davis s.n.; Eddy 214, 826, 2147; Eddy & Rill
2040; Harriman 16687; Kasierski 013; J. Linde
1389; Kohlman 1127; Underwood 1162)
P. aviculare L. Common weed. (Eddy 2549)
P. convolvulus L. Common weed. (Harriman
1172; Zeitler 201)
P. cuspidatum Sieb. & Zucc. Escape. (Eddy s.n.)
P. lapathifolium L. Moist soils. Common. (Eddy
& Rill 2042; Harriman 2255, 13207; Supple 185)
P. pensylvanicum L. Moist waste places. Com¬
mon. (Anderson s.n.; Bennett 205; Davis s.n.;
Draheim 076; Eddy & Rill 2017; Harriman
1118; Lindvall 162; Salzman 072)
P. persicaria L. Common weed. (Eddy 1878;
Eddy & Rill 2019)
P. punctatum Elliott. Marshes, swamps, sedge
meadows, wet ditches. Common. (Eddy 995,
2664)
P. sagittatum L. Marshes, sedge meadows. Com¬
mon. (Harriman 1251, 2262)
P. scandens L. Moist woods, thickets. (Davis s.n.;
Eddy 1994)
P. tenue Michx. Dry sandy soils. (Eddy 831,
1800, 2007; Harriman 18941)
P. virginianum L. Moist woods. (Harriman
18933)
Rumex acetosella L. Common weed on lawns, old
fields, pastures. (Harriman 764)
R. crispus L. Common weed of moist waste
places. (Draheim 042)
R. maritimus L. Wet soils. (Eddy 2622)
R. obtusifolius L. (Eddy & Harriman s.n.)
R. orbiculatus A. Gray. Marshes, swamps, sedge
meadows. Common. (Habighorst 177; Zeitler
217)
R. salicifolius J. A. Weinm. Wet soils. (Eddy
2623)
PORTULACACEAE (Purslane Family)
Claytonia virginica L. Moist woods. Common.
(Eddy 1398)
Portulaca oleracea L. Common weed. (Eddy
4158)
Talinum rugospermum Holzinger. Dry sandy
openings. Rare. (Eddy 1798, 2571; Harriman
18893; Underwood 233)
PRIMULACEAE (Primrose Family)
Dodecatheon meadia L. Upland prairies, oak
openings. (Harriman 768; Hockman 076;
Underwood 504)
Lysimachia ciliata L. Marshes, sedge meadows,
low prairies. Uncommon. (Eddy 2533; Hock¬
man 081)
52
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
L. nummularia L. Escape. (Eddy 4170)
L. quadrifolia L. (Eddy 1621)
L. quadriflora Sims. Low prairies, sedge mead¬
ows. Common. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 1705, 1942,
2603; Harriman 1 167; Taves 876)
L. terrestris (L.) BSP. Swamp openings. Uncom¬
mon. (Eddy 2586; Hockman 039)
L. thyrsiflora L. Larix swamps, wet woods,
marshes. Common. (Eddy 4227; Taves 858)
Trientalis borealis Raf. Local in Larix swamps,
moist pine plantations and oak openings.
(Eddy 421; Harriman 729)
PYROLACEAE (Shinleaf Family)
Chimaphila umbellata (L.) Barton. Oak woods.
Uncommon. (Eddy & Harriman s.n.)
Pyrola elliptica Nutt. Oak woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 248)
RANUNCULACEAE (Buttercup Family)
Actaea alba (L.) Miller. Moist woods. Uncom¬
mon. (Eddy 1877)
A. rubra (Aiton) Willd. Woods. Common.
(Draheim 049; Eddy 249, 1442; Hockman
s.n.)
Anemone canadensis L. Low prairies, roadsides.
Common. (Davis s.n.; Harriman 519)
A. cylindrica A. Gray. Upland prairies, oak open¬
ings. Common. (Draheim 204; Taves 433)
A. patens L. var. multiflda Pritzel. Dry prairies
and openings. Uncommon. (Harriman 792;
Kraus 007; Krysiak 040; Shcroeder 003; Tan¬
ner 015)
A. quinquefolia L. Moist woods. Common.
(Burbey 067; Eddy 245; Kampa 034)
A. virginiana L. Woods, openings. (Davis s.n.;
Eddy & P. Sonntag 2101)
Anemonella thalictroides (L.) Spach. Woods.
Common. (Underwood 507)
Aquilegia canadensis L. Woods. Common.
(Draheim 014; Harriman 774; Taves 324)
Caltha palustris L. Swamps, wet ditches, sedge
meadows, shallow marshes. (Eddy 665; Kampa
020; Pichette 056, 061; Shaver 042; Stalker
077; Underwood 501)
Clematis occidentals (Hornem.) DC. Known
from one site; rocky woods on south shore of
Green Lake. (Eddy 1421, 1866)
C. virginiana L. Fencelines, thickets. Common.
(Eddy 2177)
Hepatica americana (DC.) Ker Gawler. Moist
woods. (Eddy 240)
Isopyrum biternatum (Raf.) T. & G. Moist
woods. (Dubester 048)
Ranunculus abortivus L. Woods. Common.
(Eddy 320; Harriman 760)
R. acris L. Weed of roadsides, old fields. (Ander¬
son s.n.)
R. fascicularis Muhl. Roadsides, old fields, pas¬
tures. (Hockman s.n.; Schroeder 001; Shaver
045; Trotter 644)
R. flabellaris Raf. Quiet waters, muddy shores.
(Eddy 4 17)
R. hispidus Michx. var. nitidus (Elliott) T.
Duncan. Woods. (Eddy 1405)
R. longirostris Godron. Shallow waters. (Davis
s.n.)
R. pensylvanicus L. f. Sedge meadows, wet
ditches, marshy habitats. (Eddy 1699; Kohl-
man 844)
R. recurvatus Poiret. Moist woods. (Eddy 2276)
R. rhomboideus Goldie. Prairies, openings.
(Burbey 063; Krysiak 039)
R. sceleratus L. (Eddy & Harriman s.n.)
Thalictrum dasycarpum Fischer & Ave-Lall. Low
prairies, sedge meadows, roadsides. Common.
(Harriman 522; Nelson s.n.)
T. dioicum L. Moist woods. Common. (Har¬
riman 686; Hockman s.n.)
RHAMNACEAE (Buckthorn Family)
Ceanothus americanus L. var. pitcheri T. & G.
Low prairies. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 187; Hockman
101)
Rhamnus cathartica L. Common escape and ap¬
pearing naturalized in woods and openings.
(Eddy 2090)
R. frangula L. Escape from cultivation and ap¬
pearing naturalized. Moist woods, thickets.
(Eddy 037, 477, 1781; Harriman 825, 1245;
Whirry 109)
Volume 84 (1996)
53
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
ROSACEAE (Rose Family)
Agrimonia eupatoria L. Introduced. (Davis s.n.)
A. gryposepala Wallr. Wood, openings. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 4168)
Amelanchier arborea (Michx. f.) Fern. Rocky
woods. (Eddy 2191)
A. sanguinea (Pursh) DC. var. sanguined. Oak
woods. (Eddy 1419)
A. spicata (Lam.) K. Koch. Dry woods, openings,
old fields. (Draheim 024; Hockman s.n.)
Aronia melanocarpa (Michx.) Elliott. Roadsides,
openings, old fields. (Eddy 2263; Harriman
827)
Crataegus coccinea L. (Eddy 2238)
C. punctata Jacq. (Draheim 092; Misterek 129)
Filipendula rubra (Hill) B. L. Robinson. Rare,
known from one site in the city of Green Lake;
remnant population at edge of wet thicket in
the city of Green Lake. (Eddy 4117)
Fragaria virginiana Duchesne. Upland prairies,
oak openings, railroad gravels. Common.
(Underwood 964)
Geum aleppicum Jacq. var. strictum (Aiton) Fern.
Woods, roadsides. Common. (Davis s.n.; Eddy
640, 1763)
G. canadense Jacq. Woods. Common. (Eddy
1730)
G. triflorum Pursh. Dry prairies and openings.
Uncommon. (Harriman 810, 1843)
Physocarpus opulifolius (L.) Maxim. Sedge mead¬
ows, wet thickets. Common. (Eddy 340, 2387)
Potentilla anserina L. Moist sandy soils. Com¬
mon. (Underwood 213)
P. argentea L. Common weed. (Eddy 347;
Harriman 802, 1851; Hockman s.n.)
P. arguta Pursh. Dry prairies and openings.
(Harriman 799, 1888; Hockman s.n.)
P. fruticosa L. Fens, calcareous seepages in sedge
meadows and low prairies. Common. (Under¬
wood 212)
P. norvegica L. Roadsides, waste places. (Har¬
riman 767; Weiss 144)
P. palustris (L.) Scop. Marshy shores, wet ditches.
Common. (Harriman 18937)
P. recta L. Common weed. (Davis s.n.; Har¬
riman 507)
P. simplex Michx. Roadsides, waste places, old
fields. Common. (Eddy 329; Harriman 731)
Prunus americana Marshall. (Eddy 1410)
P. pensylvanica L. f. (Eddy 2188)
P. serotina Ehrh. Woods. Common. (Eddy 269,
330; Harriman 1834)
P. virginiana L. Woods, thickets. Common.
(Harriman 682)
Pyrus ioensis (A. Wood) L. Bailey. (Eddy 2257,
4201)
Rosa blanda Aiton. Prairies, roadsides. (Eddy
2405; Krauth 139)
R. Carolina L. Roadsides, old pastures. Common.
(Draheim 013; Nelson s.n.; Rill 4315)
R. multiflora Thunb. Escape from cultivation.
(Eddy 1527)
R. palustris Marshall. Swamps, marshes, low prai¬
ries. (Eddy 2598)
Rubus allegheniensis T. C. Porter. Varied habi¬
tats. Common. (Eddy 140, 1572)
R. recurvicaulis Blanchard. (Eddy 2333)
R. hispidus L. Woods, thickets, openings. Com¬
mon. (Harriman 1940, 1828)
R. idaeus L. Openings, thickets. Common.
(Eddy 2630; Harriman 763)
R. pubescens Raf. Larix swamps, wet woods.
(Eddy 350, 510, 2708; J. Walker 220)
R. setosus Bigel. (Eddy 2681)
Sorbaria sorbifolia (L.) A. Braun. (Hockman
046)
Spiraea alba Duroi var. alba. Sedge meadows,
marshes, low prairies. Common. (Davis s.n.;
Hockman 033)
S. tomentosa L. var. tomentosa. Larix swamps,
boggy meadows. Less common than S. alba.
(Harriman 1248; Kasierski 021; J. Linde 791;
Weber 029)
RUBIACEAE (Madder Family)
Cephalanthus occidentalis L. Shorebanks of White
and Fox rivers. Uncommon. (Eddy 4229)
Galium aparine L. Woods. Common. (Harriman
819; Weinkauf 1057)
54
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
G. boreale L. Low prairies, sedge meadows. Com¬
mon. (Draheim 034; Eddy 618; Harriman
518; Hockman s.n.)
G. labradoricum (Wieg.) Wieg. (Fassett 18955,
WIS)
G. obtusum Bigelow. Moist soils. (Eddy & Rill
2043; Underwood 818)
G. trifidum L. Marshy habitats. (Eddy 095,
1689; Weinkauf 1131)
G. triflorum Michx. Woods. (Eddy 1737;
Harriman 18931)
G. verum L. Garden escape. (Eddy 1666, 1926)
Hedy otis longifolia (Gaertner) Hook. Local on
rhyolite outcrops. (Eddy 1502; Harriman
1889)
Mitchella repens L. Moist woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 172)
RUTACEAE (Rue Family)
Zanthoxylum americanum Miller. Forming dense
thickets in disturbed woods, openings. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 2357; Harriman 18929)
SALICACEAE (Willow Family)
Populus alba L. Escape. (Eddy 4155)
P. deltoides Marshall. River bottoms, disturbed
sites. Common. (Trotter 965)
P. grandidentata Michx. (Eddy 4209)
P. tremuloides Michx. Old fields, disturbed sites.
Common. (Krauth 151; Krysiak 013)
Salix bebbiana Sarg. Wetlands. Common. (Eddy
704; Trotter 593; Underwood 490)
S. Candida Fluegge. Fens, calcareous sedge mead¬
ows. (Eddy 694; Underwood 502, 843)
S. discolor Muhl. Various wetlands. Common.
(Underwood 486)
S. exigua Nutt. Wet ditches, shores, sandbars.
Common. (Eddy 480; Pucker 249)
S. fragilis L. Shores, wet ditches, riverbanks. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 612; Harriman 508; Pucker 427)
S. humilis Marshall. Low prairies. Uncommon.
(Underwood 495)
S. lucida Muhl. Wetlands. Uncommon. (Eddy
276)
S. nigra Marshall. Alluvial soils. Common. (Eddy
304)
SANTALACEAE (Sandlewood Family)
Comandra umbellata (L.) Nutt. var. umbellata.
Upland prairies, oak openings, railroad grav¬
els. Common. (Eddy 662, 1588; Harriman
805)
S ARRACEN LACEAE (Pitcher- Plant Family)
Sarracenia purpurea L. Boggy meadows and fens.
Locally abundant. (Eddy 706)
SAXIFRAGACEAE (Saxifrage Family)
Heuchera x hirsuticaulis (Wheelock) Rydb.
Woods, openings. (Eddy 521, 1583; Harriman
875, 1894)
H. richardsonii R. Br. Prairies, oak openings.
Common. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 1509)
Mitella diphylla L. Rich woods. Rare. (Eddy
1432)
Parnassia glauca Raf. Local in fens, calcareous
seepages in sedge meadows. (Eddy 2164; Kuen
018; Whirry 776)
Penthorum sedoides L. Marshes, sedge meadows,
muddy flats. Locally common. (Eddy 753,
2622)
Saxifraga pensylvanica L. Low prairies, boggy
meadows. (Davis s.n.; Eddy 404; Harriman
694)
SCROPHULARIACEAE (Figwort Family)
Agalinis purpurea (L.) Pennell var. parviflora
(Benth.) B. Boivin. Moist sand prairies, rail¬
road gravels. (Eddy 2683; Underwood 229)
A. tenuifolia (M. Vahl) Raf. Low prairies, open¬
ings. (D. Chier 1064; Eddy 1907; Harriman
2250, 13217; Jansen 223; Kasierski Oil; J.
Linde 761; Taves 904)
Aureolaria grandifolia (Benth.) Pennell, var.
pulchra Pennell. Wooded openings. (Harriman
1254)
A. pedicularia (L.) Raf. var. ambigens (Fern.)
Farw. Dry woods, openings. (Harriman 1237;
Kohlman 847)
Castilleja coccinea (L.) Sprengel. Low prairies.
Rare. (Eddy 720, 2140; Rill 5908)
Chaenorrhinum minus (L.) Lange. Railroad grav¬
els. (Kohlman 646)
Chelone glabra L. Low prairies, sedge meadows,
Volume 84 (1996)
55
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
wet ditches. (C. Buchholtz 1150; Underwood
215, 1158)
Digitalis lutea L. Garden escape. (Eddy 2511)
Gratiola neglecta Torr. Wet soils. (Eddy 2689)
Linaria canadensis (L.) Dum.-Cours. Open
sandy soils. (Harriman 826, 2078)
L. vulgaris Miller. Common weed. (Davis s.n.;
Jennings 226; Kasierski 009)
Lindernia dubia (L.) Pennell. Muddy or sandy
flats. Locally common. (Harriman 18978)
Mimulus ringens L. Marshes, sedge meadows, wet
ditches. Common. (Eddy 429; Harriman
2248)
Pedicularis canadensis L. Mesic prairies, openings.
Common. (Eddy 405, 1462)
P. lanceolata Michx. Marshes, fens, boggy mead¬
ows. (Harriman 2260; Taves 906)
Penstemon digitalis Nutt. Oak openings, road¬
sides. (Crosswhite s.n.)
P. gracilis Nutt. Dry prairies and openings.
(Eddy 513; Harriman 798, 1846)
Scrophularia lanceolata Pursh. Openings, road¬
sides. (Davis s.n.)
Verbascum thapsus L. Common weed. (Weber
031)
Veronica peregrina L. var. xalapensis (HBK.) St.
John & Warren. Moist soils. (Harriman 679,
693)
V serpyllifolia L. Common lawn weed. (Eddy
649; Underwood 482)
Veronicastrum virginicum (L.) Farw. Prairies,
wooded openings. Common. (Davis s.n.;
Draheim 050; Eddy 431)
SOLANACEAE (Nightshade Family)
Physalis heterophylla Nees. Open sandy soils.
Common. (Eddy 159)
P. longifolia Nutt. (Eddy 2531)
P. virginiana Miller. (Harriman 1885)
Solanum dulcamara L. Common. (Eddy 4160)
S. nigrum L. Common. (Eddy 4159)
TILLACEAE (Linden Family)
Tilia americana L. Rich woods; co-dominant tree
with Acer saccharum in climax forest. (Eddy
1887)
ULMACEAE (Elm Family)
Celtis occidentalis L. Moist woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 1643; Harriman 18896)
Ulmus americana L. Low woods, residential
yards. (Eddy 4151)
U. pumila L. Introduced. (Ihrke 029)
URTICACEAE (Nettle Family)
Boehmeria cylindrica (L.) Swartz. Larix swamps,
sedge meadows, marshes. Common. (Eddy
609; Whirry 1174)
Parietaria pensylvanica Muhl. Woods. Uncom¬
mon. (Eddy 188, 1742; Eddy & P. Sonntag
2088)
Pile a fontana (Lunell) Rydb. Wet soils. (Jansen
226; Kohlman 1121; Underwood 1205)
P. pumila (L.) A. Gray. Wet soils. (Eddy 971,
2173)
Urtica dioica L. var. procera (Muhl.) Wedd.
Common weed. (Bennett 228; Draheim 074;
Pucker 092)
VALERIANACEAE (Valerian Family)
Valeriana edulis Nutt. var. ciliata (T. & G.)
Cronq. Fens, low prairies. Locally common.
(Eddy 719, 1 590; Underwood 489)
VERBENACEAE (Vervain Family)
Phryma leptostachya L. Woods. Common. (C.
Buchholtz 1002; Davis s.n.; Eddy 1662, 1811;
Harriman 1116; Hockman s.n.)
Phyla lanceolata (Michx.) Greene. River bottoms.
(Rill 4075)
Verbena bracteata Lagasca & Rodriquez. Upland
prairies, roadsides, waste places. (Harriman
806, 811)
V hastata L. Sedge meadows, marshes, wet
ditches, low prairies. Common. (Anderson s.n.;
Davis s.n.; Draheim 046; Habighorst 145;
Harriman 1177; Kasierski 014)
V stricta Vent. (Hockman 079)
V urticifolia L. Thickets, waste places. Uncom¬
mon. (J. Linde 1 154)
VIOLACEAE (Violet Family)
Viola lanceolata L. Known from one site; damp
sand prairie. (Eddy 4226)
Viola palmata L. var . pedatifida (G. Don) Cronq.
56
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
Dry prairies, oak openings. Uncommon. (Eddy
222)
V. pedata L. Upland prairies, oak openings. Lo¬
cally abundant. (Harriman 797; Taves 325)
V puhescens Aiton. Moist woods. Common.
(Pichette 046)
V sagittata Aiton. Low prairies, sedge meadows.
Uncommon. (Harriman 1841)
V sororia Willd. Woods. (Eddy 1460, 2216;
Hockman s.n.)
V tricolor L. Garden escape. (Eddy s.n.)
VITACEAE (Grape Family)
Parthenocissus vitacea (Knerr) A. Hitchc. Woods,
thickets. Common. (Draheim 078; Pucker
075)
Vitis riparia Michx. Woods, thickets, fencerows.
Common. (Pucker 071)
Class Liliopsida (Monocotyledons)
ACORACEAE (Sweet Flag Family)
Acorus calamus L. Marshy shores. Common, no¬
tably along south shore of Lake Puckaway.
(Eddy 1679, 4142; Harriman 2075; Warmbier
1082)
ALISMATACEAE (Water Plantain Family)
Alisma plantago-aquatica L. Shallow waters,
marshy shores. Common. (Eddy 1758; Jen¬
nings 244)
Sagittaria cuneata Sheldon Shallow waters,
marshy shores. (Eddy 4203)
S. latifolia Willd. (Jansen 228)
ARACEAE (Arum Family)
Arisaema triphyllum (L.) Schott. Deciduous
woods. Common. (Jansen 233)
Symplocarpus foetidus (L.) Nutt. Swamps, bot¬
tomland forest, low stream banks. Common.
(Eddy 4178)
COMMELINACEAE (Spiderwort Family)
Commelina communis L. Garden escape. (Eddy
2699)
Tradescantia ohioensis Raf. Prairies, oak openings,
roadsides. Common. (Davis s.n.; Harriman
517, 1849; Hockman 035)
CYPERACEAE (Sedge Family)
Bulhostylis capillaris (L.) C. B. Clarke. Moist
sands and gravels, especially on railroad beds.
Common. (Eddy 093, 4142, 4185; Under¬
wood 231)
Carex alopecoidea Tuckerman. Wet woods, sedge
meadows, marshes. Common. (Eddy 362, 564,
2539)
C. aquatilis Wahlenb. Marshes, sedge meadows,
wet ditches. Common. (Draheim 021; Eddy
355,907, 1674, 2593)
C. arctata W. Boott. Woods. (Eddy 2299)
C. atlantica L. Bailey (Eddy 562)
C. aurea Nutt. Dolomitic outcrops. (Eddy 192;
Underwood 799)
C. bebbii (L. H. Bailey) Fern. Wet prairies, sedge
meadows, marshes. Common. (Eddy 207, 276,
567, 585,2146, 2580,4169)
C. bicknellii Britton. Wet prairies, sedge mead¬
ows. Common. (Eddy 003, 546; Harriman
730, 1895)
C. brevior (Dewey) Mackenzie. Sedge meadows.
(Eddy 552; Harriman 1890)
C. buxbaumii Wahlenb. Wet prairies, sedge
meadows. (Eddy 699, 1584, 2581; Harriman
784)
C. castanea Wahlenb. Dry thickets. (Eddy 2219)
C. cephalophora Muhl. Dry open woods. (Eddy
126, 1503, 1724)
C. communis L. Bailey Woods. (Eddy 2265)
C. comosa F. Boott. Larix swamps. (Eddy 1649,
1782; Harriman 2254; Turner 22 6)
C. conoidea Schk. Low prairies, sedge meadows.
(Eddy 4090A)
C. crawfordii Fern. Sedge meadows. (Eddy 449,
1683, 1749, 2587; Harriman 2040)
C. cristatella Britton. Sedge meadows, swamps.
(Eddy 1691)
C. cryptolepis Mackenzie. Fens, low prairies with
calcareous seepages. (Eddy 2562)
C debilis Michx. Woods. (Eddy 1617; Harriman
829)
C. deweyana Schwein. Larix swamps. (Eddy 396,
581)
Volume 84 (1996)
57
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
C. echinata Murray Boggy meadows, fens. (Eddy
560, 2401)
C. festucacea Schk. Upland prairies, oak open¬
ings. (Eddy 2011, 2354)
C. foenea Willd. Dry, wooded openings. (Eddy
089, 1595, 1667)
C. gracillima Schwein. Low woods. (Eddy 1765)
C. granularis Muhl. (Eddy 4180)
C. gravida L. Bailey. Dry openings. (Eddy 1766)
C. hystericina Willd. Marshes, stream banks.
Common. (Eddy 568, 573, 695, 1786, 2599;
Harriman 786; Turner 225)
C. interior L. Bailey. Sedge meadows. Uncom¬
mon. (Eddy 360, 389, 418, 563, 1563, 4047)
C. lacustris Willd. Larix swamp. (Eddy 1474,
2398)
C. lasiocarpa Ehrh. var. americana Fern. Swamps,
sedge meadows, marshes, shores. (Eddy 362,
1597; Hockman 040)
C. laxiflora Lam. Low woods. (Eddy 2555)
C. leptalea Wahlenb. Boggy meadows. (Eddy
583, 589, 1553)
C. limosa L. Known from one site; Snake Creek
Wetlands fen, a state scientific natural area.
(Eddy 4111)
C. muhlenbergii Schk. Sandy soils. (Eddy 398;
Harriman 800, 1852; Underwood 835)
C. muricata L. var. laricina (Mackenzie) Gleason.
Wetlands. (Eddy 1626, 3082, 4042)
C. normalis Mackenzie. Woods and low prairies.
(Eddy & Busse 2454)
C. pensylvanica Lam. Woods, openings. Com¬
mon. (Harriman 1829)
C. pseudocyperus L. Wetlands. Common. (Eddy
365)
C. retrorsa Schweintz. (Eddy 4167, 4179)
C. rosea Schk. Woods. (Eddy 2259, 2322)
C. rostrata Stokes. Marshes. (Eddy 1693)
C. sartwellii Dewey. Marshes, shores. Common.
(Eddy 590, 1592, 1614,2399)
C. scoparia Schk. Low prairies, sedge meadows.
(Eddy 2088; Harriman 286, 1627)
C. sparganioides Muhl. Woods, thickets. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 004, 1671)
C. sprengelii Dewey. Moist woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 2415)
C. stipata Muhl. Open swamps, sedge meadows.
Uncommon. (Eddy 381)
C. stricta Lam. Sedge meadows. Common.
(Eddy 4 176)
C. tenera Dewey. Sedge meadows, thickets.
(Eddy 1731, 2289)
C. tetanica Schk. Wet woods, sedge meadows.
(Eddy 1471, 1491, 2350, 2401, 4045)
C. trisperma Dewey. Larix swamps. Uncommon.
(Eddy 2400)
C. umbellata Schk. Local on rock outcrops. Un¬
common. (Eddy 2184, 2223)
C. vulpinoidea Michx. Sedge meadows, stream
banks, wet ditches. (Eddy 067, 292, 1685,
1722, 1757; Harriman 516, 2042; Turner
222)
Cladium mariscoides (Muhl.) Torr. Local in
Snake Creek Wetlands fen, a state scientific
natural area. (Eddy 3092)
Cyperus bipartitus Torr. Sedge meadows, shores.
Common. (Eddy 1721, 2659; Harriman
18982; Underwood 1206)
C. diandrusTon. (Fassett 13233, WIS)
C. erythrorhizos Muhl. Mud flats. (Eddy 1841;
Harriman 13218; Rill 4469; Smith 043)
C. escidentus L. (Hansen 002)
C. filiculmis Vahl. Dry woods, fields. (Eddy
2625)
C. houghtoniiTon. Dry open woods. (Eddy 492)
C. odoratus L. Edge of gravel road in White River
Marsh. (Eddy 1784; Harriman 13203, 18940)
C. schweinitziiTon. Sandy stream banks. (Eddy
059, 2162; Harriman 1050, 2073, 2087, 2094;
Weiss 168)
C. strigosus L. Sedge meadows, Larix swamps.
(Anderson s.n.; Eddy 1099; Harriman 2246)
Eleocharis acicularis (L.) Roemer & Schultes.
Muddy shores. Uncommon. (Eddy 4090)
E. compressa Sullivant. Sedge meadows. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 692, 1578; Underwood 832)
E. intermedia (Muhl.) Schultes. Sand-muck
shores, mud flats, drying ponds. (Eddy 2515)
58
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
E. ovata (Roth) Roemer & Schultes. Shallow
marshes, mucky shores. (Eddy 2606, 2656)
E. palustris L. Sedge meadows, ditches. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 065, 461, 586, 2552; Harriman
2076)
E. rostellata (Torr.) Torr. Rare, known from one
site; Snake Creek Wetlands fen, a state scien¬
tific natural area. (Eddy 308 6)
Eriophorum angustifolium Honckeny. Sedge
meadows, fens. Common. (Eddy 703)
Rhynchospora alba (L.) Vahl. Local in Snake
Creek Wetlands fen, a state scientific natural
area. (Eddy 2211 y 3091; Underwood 500)
R. capillacea Torr. Local in Snake Creek Wet¬
lands fen, a state scientific natural area. (Eddy
3090)
R. capitellata (Michx.) Vahl. Boggy meadows,
fens. Rare. (Eddy 1937, 2493)
Scirpus acutus Muhl. Marshes, shores. Common.
(Eddy 280; Harriman 13212; Zietler 213)
S. atrovirens Willd. Marshes, shores, sedge mead¬
ows, swamps. Common. (Draheim 053; Eddy
491; Habighorst 106)
S. cespitosus L. var. callosus Bigel. Locally abun¬
dant in Snake Creek Wetlands fen, a state sci¬
entific natural area. STATE ENDANGERED
(Eddy 4041)
S. cyperinus (L.) Kunth. Marshes, shores. (Eddy
1681; Habighorst 120; Kasierski 022; Weiss
158)
S. fluviatilis (Torr.) A. Gray. Shallow waters.
Common. (Harriman 13210)
S. pendulus Muhl. (Eddy 2368)
S. pungens Vahl. (Harriman 16683)
S. validus Vahl. Marshes, shores, wet ditches.
Common. (Eddy 475, 1746, 1844, 2541;
Harriman 2043; Jennings 235; Turner 223;
Weiss 159)
Scleria triglomerata Michx. Local on moist sand
prairies. Rare. (Eddy 1902, 1948, 2492)
S. verticillata Muhl. Local in Snake Creek Wet¬
lands fen, a state scientific natural area. A rare
Atlantic Coastal Plain disjunct. (Eddy 3084;
Harriman & Underwood 18945)
DIOSCOREACEAE (Yam Family)
Dioscorea villosa L. Moist woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 2466; Harriman 18936)
HYDRO CHARITACEAE (Frog’s-Bit Family)
Elodea canadensis Michx. Quiet waters. Com¬
mon. (Grim, s.n.)
Vallisneria americana L. Submersed in shallow
waters. Common. (Bumby 7, 26, 46, 1211,
1239, RIP; Cozart 19, RIP)
IRIDACEAE (Iris Family)
Iris pseudacorus L. Shores; introduced. (Eddy
4217)
/. versicolor L. Shores, wet ditches, various wet¬
lands. Common. (Eddy 129; Harriman 512)
Sisyrinchium angustifolium Miller. Prairies, oak
openings. Common. (Eddy 520, 522)
S. campestre E. Bickn. Prairies, oak openings.
(Eddy 256, 416, 660, 2280; Harriman 76 5,
790, 1833, 1840)
JUNCACEAE (Rush Family)
Juncus acuminatus Michx. Moist sandy soils.
Uncommon. (Eddy 2657)
/. alpinus Vill. Local in Snake Creek Wetlands
fen, a state scientific natural area. Harriman
2259, 2579; Weiss 166)
J. brachycephalus (Engelm.) Buchenau. Local in
Snake Creek Wetlands fen, a state scientific
natural area. (Eddy 3087)
/. bufonius L. Wet ditches, old lanes. Uncom¬
mon. (Harriman 2245; Hockman s.n.)
J. canadensis J. Gay. Fens, low prairies, sedge
meadows, wet ditches. Common. (Eddy 1913;
Whirry 771)
J. dudleyi Wieg. Moist soils of various habitats.
Common. (Harriman 2038, 2258; Underwood
800, 1171)
J. ejfusus L. Widespread on wet ground. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 464, 2601; Harriman 2082, 2249)
J. greenei Oakes &C Tuckerman. Moist, sandy
habitats. Uncommon. (Eddy 815, 1805;
Harriman 1228, 2086; Weber 040)
J. marginatus Rostk. Local on wet sandy shores.
Uncommon. (Eddy 2663, 2716)
/. nodosus L. Wetlands. (Eddy 587, 864;
Volume 84 (1996)
59
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Harriman 2578; Underwood 1207; Weiss 165)
/. tenuis Willd. Widespread on disturbed moist
soils. (Eddy 291, 580; Harriman 1883, 2080,
2244; Hockman 075; Weiss 170)
/. torreyi Cov. Wet ditches, sedge meadows. Un¬
common. (Eddy 066; Harriman 2252)
Luzula multiflora (Retz.) Lej. Woods, clearings.
Common. (Eddy 387, 553)
L. campestris (L.). (Eddy 489, 683; Underwood
508)
JUNCAGINACEAE (Arrow-Grass Family)
Triglochin maritimum L. Local in Snake Creek
Wetlands fen, a state scientific natural area.
(Eddy 001, 3089)
T. palustre L. Same habitat as T. maritima. (Eddy
3088)
LEMNACEAE (Duckweed Family)
Lemna minima Philippi. Floating on quiet wa¬
ters. (Eddy 1973, 1833, 2148)
L. minor L. Most commonly occurring duck¬
weed species in the county. Stagnant waters of
ditches, ponds, slow streams. (Jansen 225)
L. trisulca L. Quiet surface waters. (Hockman
065)
Spirodela polyrhiza (L.) Schleiden. Quiet surface
waters. (Eddy 2621; Grim s.n.; Harriman
16690)
Woljfla punctata Griseb. Stagnant waters. Un¬
common. (Hockman 064)
LILIACEAE (Lily Family)
Aletris farinosa L. Rare, known from one site;
moist sand prairie. An Atlantic Coastal Plain
disjunct. (Eddy 1950, 2491)
Allium canadense L. Low prairies, low woods.
Common. (Hockman 074)
A. tricoccum Aiton. Deciduous woods. Common.
(Eddy 1764; Misterek 138)
Asparagus officinalis L. Garden escape. Common
along roadsides, wooded clearings. (Harriman
768, 1832; Pucker 072; Sandler X27)
Convallaria majalis L. Garden escape. (Sandler
X29)
Erythronium albidum Nutt. Moist woods. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 1396; Kampa 038)
E. americana Ker Gawler. Similar habitat, but
less common than E. albidum. (Burbey 057;
Kampa 024; Stalker 056)
Hemerocallis fulva (L.) L. Garden escape com¬
mon along roadsides, abandoned farm sites.
(Eddy 620)
Hypoxis hirsuta (L.) Cov. Prairies, oak openings.
Common. (Eddy 661, 1439, 1600; Harriman
796, 1826, 1842; Pucker 6161; Taves 867;
Underwood 498)
Lilium superbum L. Wetlands. Common. (Eddy
054, 1648, 2576; Underwood 839)
L. lancifolium Thunb. Garden escape. (Eddy
2633)
Maianthemum canadense Desf. Common in
woods. (Harriman 728, 1827; Underwood
509)
Polygonatum biflorum (Walter) Elliott. Fence-
rows, roadsides, clearings. Common. (Pucker
076; Taves 885)
Scilla sibirica Andrews. Spreading from gardens.
(Eddy 1411)
Smilacina racemosa (L.) Desf. Deciduous woods,
thickets, roadsides. Common. (Eddy 251;
Hockman 100)
S. stellata (L.) Desf. Deciduous woods, thickets,
roadsides. Common. (Eddy 254; Harriman
690; Misterek 135; Underwood 492)
Tofieldia glutinosa (Michx.) Pers. Local in Snake
Creek Wetlands fen, a state scientific natural
area. STATE THREATENED (Eddy 3060;
Taves 874)
Trillium grandiflorum (Michx.) Salisb. Decidu¬
ous woods. Common. (Draheim 002; Hock¬
man s.n.)
Uvularia grandiflora J. E. Smith. Deciduous
woods. Common. (Harriman 691; Hockman
s.n.)
Zigadenus elegans Pursh. Rare, known from one
site in wooded opening along south shore of
Green Lake. (Eddy 2482, 2524)
NAJADACEAE (Water-Nymph Family)
Najas flexilis (Willd.) Rostkov & Schmidt.
(DNR 2261; Harriman 16689; Molter s.n.)
60
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
ORCHIDACEAE (Orchid Family)
Cypripedium acaule Aiton. Known from three
sites; at one, locally abundant on sterile, sandy
soil of a red pine plantation. (Eddy 1480)
C. calceolus L. var. pubescens (Willd.) Correll.
Rare, known from two sites; oak woods. (Eddy
1482; Harriman 736)
C. candidum Muhl. Rare, known from one site;
Snake Creek Wetlands fen, a state scientific
natural area. STATE THREATENED (Eddy
3093)
Goodyera pubescens (Willd.) R. Br. Oak woods,
pine plantation. Rare. (Harriman 2294)
Habenaria flava (L.) R. Br. var. herbiola (R. Br.)
Ames & Correll. Rare, known from two sites;
shrubby meadows with peaty soils interspersed
with Fine loamy sands. STATE THREAT¬
ENED (Crosswhite s.n.; Eddy 2490, 3066)
H. lacera (Michx.) Lodd. Rare, known from one
site; associated with H. flava. (Eddy 3067)
H. psycodes (L.) Sprengel. Wet ditches, wet open
woods, thickets. The most commonly occur¬
ring Habenaria species in the county. (Eddy
2591, 2652)
Liparis lilifolia (L.) Rich. Oak woods, pine plan¬
tations. Local. (Eddy 002, 1523)
L. loeselii (L.) Rich. Rare, known from one site;
fen with calcareous seepages. (Eddy & Harri¬
man 4188)
Orchis spectabilis L. Rare, known from one site;
maple-basswood forest. (Eddy 4181)
Spiranthes cernua (L.) Rich. Fens, boggy mead¬
ows, Larix swamps. Locally abundant. (Eddy
760, 2109; Whirry 772)
S. lacera (Raf.) Raf. var lacera. Rare, known from
one site; Pine Bluff oak opening on rhyolite
outcrop. (Eddy 3006)
POACEAE (Grass Family)
Agrostis capillaris L. (Eddy 524)
A. gigantea Roth. Wetlands, woods, openings.
Common. (Eddy 2527)
A. hyemalis (Walter) BSP. Open sandy habitats.
Uncommon. (Eddy 548, 2589, 4145)
A. perennans (Walter) Tuckerman. Moist open
woods. (Eddy 471, 573)
A. stolonifera L. var. palustris (Hudson) Farw.
Appearing naturalized in wetlands. (Eddy
1653, 2447, 2462)
A. tenuis Sibth. (Eddy 524)
Alopecurus aequalis Sobol. Wetlands. (Eddy
1750, 2692; Harriman 722)
A. pratensis L. Sedge meadows. Uncommon.
(Eddy 145, 363; Linde 757)
Andropogon gerardiiW itman. Prairies, oak open¬
ings, recovering roadsides, railroad gravels.
Common. (Eddy 999; Underwood 214)
Aristida basiramea Engelm. var. basiramea. Rail¬
road gravels, sandy openings. (Eddy 2008,
4196; Fassett & Shinners 20657; Harriman
1227)
A. basiramea Engelm. var. curtissii (A. Gray)
Shinners. Thin soil on rhyolite outcrops. Un¬
common. (Eddy 2171)
A. longespica Poiret. var. geniculata (Raf.) Fern.
Railroad cinders. (Eddy 2156)
A. oligantha Michx. Dry sand prairies. Uncom¬
mon. (Eddy 4140)
Avena sativa L. Escape from cultivation.
(Jennings 229)
Bouteloua curtipendula (Michx.) Torr. Dry prai¬
ries. Uncommon. (Harriman 1207)
B. hirsuta Lagasca. Dry prairies. Uncommon.
(Eddy 1964; Harriman 1227, 18894)
Bromus ciliatus L. Prairies, sedge meadows. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 578, 2648)
B. inermis Leysser. Roadsides, disturbed sites.
Common. (Harriman 816; Nelson s.n.)
B. pubescens Muhl. Woods. (Eddy 193)
B. secalinus L. (Fassett 1951, UWM)
B. tectorum L. Roadsides, disturbed sites. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 633, 724)
Calamagrostis canadensis (Michx.) P. Beauv.
Wetlands. Common. (Eddy 821, 1687, 2510)
C. stricta (Timm) Koeler. (Shinners s.n., WIS)
Cenchrus longispinus (Hackel). Fern. Roadsides,
disturbed sites. Common weed. (Brudnicki
146; Eddy 837; Harriman 1 173, 1229;
Kohlman 1044)
Volume 84 (1996)
61
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Cinna arundinacea L. Low woods, thickets.
(Harriman 18900)
Dactylis glomerata L. Roadsides, disturbed sites.
Common weed. (Eddy 459, 1864; Pucker 629)
Danthonia spicata (L.) P. Beauv. Dry woods, oak
openings. (Eddy 555, 1745, 2095)
Digitaria ischaemum (Schreber) Muhl. (Eddy
4197)
D. sanguinalis (L.) Scop. Roadsides, lawns, dis¬
turbed sites. Common weed. (Bennett 138;
Eddy 1849)
Echinochloa crusgalli (L.) P. Beauv. Disturbed
sites. Common. (Bennett 210; Habighorst 148;
Zeitler 214)
E. muricata (P. Beauv.) Fern. (Eddy 1003, 1723,
1857)
E. occidentalis (Wieg.) Rydb. (Draheim 061)
E. walteri (Pursh) Heller. Wet shores, ditches,
marshes. Uncommon. (Harriman 13205,
18939)
Elymus canadensis L. Prairies, oak openings.
Common. (Eddy 062, 069; Jennings 266;
Mateyka 152; Weiss 164)
E. hystrix L. (Hystrix patula). Woods, openings.
(Eddy 1659; Harriman 16686)
E. riparius Wieg. Fountain Creek Prairie Scien¬
tific Area. (Underwood 1200)
E. trachycaulus (Link) Gould. Low prairies.
(Eddy 2641; Harriman 2090; Underwood 839,
853)
E. villosus Muhl. Dry woods. (Harriman 16685)
E. virginicus L. Moist woods, prairies. (Eddy
1714, 2091)
Elytrigia repens (L.) Nevski. Lawns, fields, dis¬
turbed sites. Common. (Eddy 191, 1860)
Eragrostis capillaris (L.) Nees. Dry sandy soils.
(Eddy &C Sonntag 2086)
E. cilianensis (All.) Janchen. Common weed.
(Eddy 2178)
E. hypnoides (Lam.) BSP. Forming dense tufts
on mud flats. Uncommon. (Eddy 2698; Rill
4096)
E. pectinacea (Michx.) Nees. Various habitats.
(Harriman 1171)
E. spectabilis (Pursh) Steudel. Dry roadsides,
fields, open woods. Common. (Eddy 2672;
Harriman 1262; Linde 1027; Mateyka 151;
Mittelstaedt 237)
Festuca elatior L. Roadsides, pastures. (Eddy
2554)
F. obtusa Biehler. Moist woods. Uncommon.
(Eddy 1769)
F. ovina L. Roadsides, fields, waste places. (Eddy
2303, 2369, 2758)
F. rubra L. Various habitats. (Eddy 2522; Eddy
& Harriman s.n.; Michaels 032)
Glyceria borealis (Nash) Batchelder. Sedge mead¬
ows. (Eddy 2655)
G. canadensis (Michx.) Trin. Marshes, sedge
meadows, low prairies. Common. (Eddy 2563,
4193; Harriman 2081)
G. grandis S. Wats. Marshes, sedge meadows,
low prairies. Uncommon. (Eddy 2607)
G. striata (Lam.) A Hitchc. Various wetlands. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 565, 1556, 1645; Harriman 785)
Hierochloe odorata (L.) P. Beauv. Low prairies,
sedge meadows. Common. (Eddy 146, 368,
1431; Underwood 483, 499)
Hordeum jubatum L. Roadsides, waste places.
Common. (Harriman 783; Hockman 078)
Koeleria pyramidata (Lam.) P. Beauv. Dry prai¬
ries, sandy roadsides. Common. (Eddy 1668,
2574; Harriman 803)
Leersia oryzoides (L.) Swartz. Colonizing wet
ditches. (Eddy 2687)
L. virginica Willd. Common along Shore Drive
at the Green Lake Center. (Harriman 18901)
Leptoloma cognatum (Schultes) Chase. Open
sandy ground. Uncommon. (Eddy 1100, 1741;
Harriman 1049)
Lolium perenne L. Lawns, waste places, roadsides.
Common. (Eddy 2691)
Miscanthus sacchariflorus (Maxim.) Hackel. In¬
troduced. (Eddy 4222)
Muhlenbergia frondosa (Poiret) Fern. Low woods,
thickets. (Eddy & Sonntag 2084, 2087)
M. glomerata (Willd.) Trin. Wetlands. Com¬
mon. (Eddy 1980)
62
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
M. mexicana (L.) Trin. Railroad cinders. Un¬
common. (Eddy 972, 1 983, 2 1 66; Eddy & Rill
2016; Harriman 13213; Underwood 1192;
Weiss 153)
M. racemosa (Michx.) BSP. Low prairies, sedge
meadows. Common. (Eddy & Rill 2033)
M. richardsonis (Trin.) Rydb. Known only from
the Berlin Fen, a state scientific natural area.
M. richardsonis , a native grass, was first discov¬
ered in Wisconsin in August 1989. (Harriman
& Underwood 18944)
M. sylvatica (Torr.) Torr. Shore of Little Green
Lake. Uncommon. (Harriman 16684)
Panicum capillare L. Common weed of waste
places, fields, gardens. (Eddy 2001, 2165;
Jennings 242; Zeitler 204)
P. commonsianum Ashe. var. euchlamydeum
(Shinners) Pohl Open sandy habitats; prairies,
dunes, blowouts. Uncommon Atlantic Coastal
Plain disjunct. (Eddy 2338, 2693)
P. dichotomiflorum Michx. (Eddy 2154)
P. flexile (Gattinger) Scribn. Known only from
the Berlin Fen, a state scientific natural area.
(Harriman 18969)
P. lanuginosum Elliot var. implicatum (Scribn.)
Fern. (Eddy 4115)
P. latifolium L. Woods and thickets. Common.
(Eddy 183)
P. leibergii (Vasey) Scribn. Sandy prairies, oak
openings. (Eddy 2049, 2361; Eddy & Harri¬
man 19685; Harriman 1892)
P. linearifolium Scribn. Sandy oak opening.
(Eddy s.n., 3081; Eddy & Harriman 19684;
Harriman 18970)
P. miliaceum L. Recurrent introduction. (Eddy
1856; Harriman 16677)
P. oligosanthes Schultes. Sandy prairies, openings.
(Eddy 2338.5; Harriman 788, 874; Hockman
088; Underwood 834)
P. villosissimum Nash. (Eddy 088, 550, 576)
P. virgatum L. Prairies, oak openings. (Eddy
4223)
Paspalum setaceum Michx. var. ciliatifolium
(Michx.) Vasey. Sandy roadsides, oak openings.
(Harriman 18895)
Phalaris arundinacea L. Becoming a monocul¬
ture in some wetlands. Mostly introduced from
Europe as a forage crop, but the species is likely
native. (Draheim 030)
Phleum pratense L. Roadsides, pastures, waste
places. (Nelson s.n.)
Phragmites australis (Cav.) Trin. (P. communis).
Marshes, wet ditches. (Harriman 13206;
Jansen 234)
Poa annua L. Lawns, disturbed sites. Common.
(Eddy & Harriman s.n.)
P. compressa L. Roadsides, fields. (Eddy 1641,
1694,2546)
P. palustris L. Sedge meadows. Uncommon.
(Eddy 790, 2371)
P. pratensis L. Lawns, roadsides, waste places.
Common. (Draheim 010)
Puccinellia distans (Jacq.) Pari. (Eddy &
Harriman s.n.)
Schizachyrium scoparium (Michx.) Nash var.
scoparium. Same habitats as A. gerardii. Com¬
mon. (Bennett 209; Eddy 834, 1107; Manthei
187; Underwood 244)
Secale cereale L. Escape from cultivation. (Eddy
384; Harriman 739)
Setaria glauca (L.) P. Beauv. Common weed.
(Pucker 079)
S. viridis (L.) P. Beauv. Common weed. (Breitlow
195; Eddy 1859; Pucker 079; Turner 045)
Sorghastrum nutans (L.) Nash. Prairies. (Eddy
1995,2115; Underwood 228)
Sorghum halepense (L.) Pers. Escape from culti¬
vation. (Jennings 225)
Spartina pectinata Link. Wet prairies. (Eddy 075;
Jennings 234; Pucker 211; Smith 044)
Sphenopholis obtusata (Michx.) Scribn. var. ma¬
jor (Torr.) K. S. Erdman Moist woods. Un¬
common. (Eddy 006)
Sporobolus cryptandrus (Torr.) A. Gray. Open,
sandy habitats. Uncommon. (Eddy 061;
Harriman s.n.)
S. heterolepis A. Gray. Low prairie. Uncommon.
(Eddy & Rill 2027)
Volume 84 (1996)
63
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
S. vaginiflorus (Torr.) A. Wood. Railroad grav¬
els. (Eddy 2009)
Stipa comata Trin. & Rupr. Dry prairie. Uncom¬
mon. (Harriman 8 76)
S. spartea Trin. (Shinners &C Shaw 4 384, WIS)
S. viridula Trin. Known from one site, dry sand
prairie. (Eddy 4140)
Triplasis purpurea (Walter) Chapman. Dry sandy
soil. (Eddy 073)
Triticum aestivum L. Escape from a bird seed
mixture. (Eddy 4 156)
Vulpia octoflora (Walter) Rybd. Sandy soils.
(Eddy 2441)
Zizania aquatica L. var. aquatica (Eddy 4204;
Harriman & Eddy s.n.; Fassett & McLaughin
12181, WIS) . Very common in waterways dur¬
ing presettlement times.
Z. palustris L. var. interior (Fassett) Dore. (Z.
aquatica L. var. interior Fassett) (Fassett &
McLaughin 1536, WIS)
Z. palustris L. var. palustris. (Fassett & Warren
9629, WIS)
PONTEDERIACEAE (Water-Hyacinth Family)
Zosterella dubia (Jacq.) Small. (Bumby 1219)
POTAMOGETONACEAE (Pondweed
Family)
Potamogeton amplifolius Tuckerman. (Bumby 60,
RIP)
P. crispus L. Common macrophyte of lakes and
streams. (Eddy 2487; Harriman 16688)
P. filiformis Pers. (Grim s.n.)
P. foliosus Raf. (Bumby 1222, 1235, RIP)
P. friesii Rupr. (Bumby 33, 34, 52, RIP)
P. gramineus L. (Bumby 12, 36, RIP)
P. illinoensis Morong. (Tracy 1, RIP)
P. natans L. Common lake macrophyte. (Harri¬
man 1892)
P. nodosus Poiret. (Grim s.n)
P. pectinatus L. (Bumby 1232; Molter, s.n.)
P. praelongus L. Wulfen. (Nhler & McLaughin
374, WIS)
P. pulsillusb. (Bumby 67, 1241, 1234, RIP)
P. richardsonii (Ar. Bennett) Rydb. (Bumby 5,
47, 57, 1237, RIP)
P. zosteriformis Fern. Locally abundant. (Bumby
1207)
SMILACACEAE (Catbrier Family)
Smilax herbacea L. Damp woods. (Eddy 1598)
S. hispida Muhl. Fencerows, thickets, roadsides.
Common. (Eddy 1804)
S. illinoensis Mangaly. Woods. (Underwood 506)
S. lasioneura Hooker. Woods. (Draheim 075;
Eddy 109; Hansen 539; Kohlman 1340;
Whirry 1357)
SPARGANIACEAE (Bur-Reed Family)
Sparganium chlorocarpum Rydb. Marshes, stream
banks. (Eddy 2654)
S. eurycarpum Engelm. Marshes, wet shores.
Common. (Campbell 051; Harriman 511,
13211; Nelson s.n.; Zeitler 240)
TYPHACEAE (Cat-Tail Family)
Typha angustifolia L. Marshes, wet ditches, shal¬
low waters. (Eddy 4164)
T. latifolia L. Marshes, wet ditches, shallow wa¬
ters. (Pucker 195; Turner 224)
XYRIDACEAE (Yellow-Eyed Grass Family)
Xyris torta J. E. Smith. Rare, known from two
sites; local on moist sand prairies. An Atlantic
Coastal Plain disjunct. (Eddy 2661)
ZANNICHELLIACEAE (Horned Pondweed
Family)
Zannichellia palustris L. (Bumby 20, 99, RIP)
64
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EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to Neil A. Harriman, Curator
of the Herbarium at the University of Wiscon-
sin-Oshkosh, for his many hours of consulta¬
tion and assistance with the Green Lake flora.
Neil has not only served me as a mentor, but
he has also been an unflagging friend. I am ap¬
preciative for the thoughtful suggestions made
by Theodore S. Cochrane, Dr. Neil Harriman,
Dr. John W. Thomson and Dr. Phil B.
Whitford who reviewed the manuscript.
This study would not have been possible save
for the contributions of many others. Thanks
and credit are extended to the following people
who provided information and/or assisted with
field work: Richard Barloga, Larry Behlen, Dr.
Bill Brooks, Clarence Busse, Lois Carver,
Theodore S. Cochrane, Barbara Eddy, Cliff
Germain, Tom Hanson, Dr. Neil Harriman,
and Bernie Kaserski. I also wish to recognize
those Green Lake students who studied the
Snake Creek flora as participants in the Wis¬
consin Academy’s Student-Teacher Integrated
Research (STIR) program from 1978 to 1980.
I also want to thank these people who per¬
mitted me to examine the Green Lake County
specimens from their respective herbaria: Hugh
H. litis and Steven L. Solheim at WIS; Carl
Taylor at MIL; Don Les at UWM; Bob Wallace
and George (Skip) Wittier at Ripon College;
and Mary Jane Bumby for sharing her Green
Lake macrophyte collection.
Patricia (Tricia) Duyfhuizen, managing edi¬
tor for Transactions , did a superb review of the
final manuscript and has been invaluable with
preparing this paper for final publication. Be¬
sides her remarkable thoroughness, Tricia’s
friendliness and expeditious replies to my in¬
quiries via Internet electronic mail has made the
entire process enjoyable.
And for their encouragement and compan¬
ionship throughout this study, I am most grate¬
ful for my family (Barb, Molly, and Robyn).
Literature Cited
Argus, George W. 1964. Preliminary reports on
the flora of Wisconsin. No. 51. Salicaceae.
Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy of Sci¬
ences, Arts and Letters 53:217-72.
Brown, Charles E. 1917. The antiquities of
Green Lake. Wisconsin Archeologist 16:1-55.
Busse, Clarence F. Original letters written by
Julia Peck Sherwood to relatives in New York
state, 1854. Princeton, WI.
Curtis, John T. 1959. The Vegetation of Wiscon¬
sin. University of Wisconsin Press, Madison,
WI. 657 pp.
Dart, Richard. 1910. Proceedings of the State
Historical Society of Wisconsin (57th annual
meeting). Settlement of Green Lake County.
pp. 252-72.
Dorney, John R. 1981. The impact of native
Americans on presettlement vegetation in
southeastern Wisconsin. Transactions of the
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Let¬
ters 69:26-36.
Eddy, Thomas L., and Neil A. Harriman. 1992.
Muhlenbergia richardsonis in Wisconsin. The
Michigan Botanist 3 1 :39-40.
Fassbender, Ronald L., John J. Weber, and Lin¬
den M. Nelson. 1970. Surface Water Re¬
sources of Green Lake County. Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources. 67 pp.
Fassett, Norman C. 1929. Preliminary reports
on the flora of Wisconsin. No. 2. Ericaceae.
Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy of Sci¬
ences, Arts and Letters 24:257-68.
- — . 1951. Grasses of Wisconsin. University
of Wisconsin Press, Madison, WI. 173 pp.
- . 1961. The Leguminous Plants of Wiscon¬
sin (2nd printing). University of Wisconsin
Press, Madison, WI. 155 pp.
Finley, Robert W. 1976. Original Vegetation
Cover of Wisconsin (map). North Central
Forest Experiment Station, Forest Service,
U.S. Department of Agriculture, Folwell Av¬
enue, St. Paul, MN.
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
General Land Office. 1834-1851. Land Survey¬
ors’ Field Notes (for Green Lake County).
State of Wisconsin, Commissioner of Public
Lands.
Gleason, Henry A., and Arthur Cronquist. 1991.
Manual of Vascular Plants of the Northeastern
United States and Adjacent Canada. 2nd ed.
The New York Botanical Garden, Southern
Boulevard at 200th Street, Bronx, New York,
10458. 910 pp.
Heiple, Emma B., and Robert W. Heiple. 1976.
A Heritage History of Beautiful Green Lake,
Wisconsin. McMillan Printing Co., Ripon,
WL 402 pp.
litis, Hugh H., and W. Shaughnessy. I960. Pre¬
liminary reports on the flora of Wisconsin.
No. 43. Primulaceae. Transactions of the Wis¬
consin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
49:113-35.
Martin, Lawrence. 1965. The Physical Geography
of Wisconsin. 3rd ed. Wisconsin Geological
and Natural History Survey Bulletin 36. 608
pp.
Mason, Charles T. Jr., and Hugh H. litis. 1965.
Preliminary reports on the flora of Wiscon¬
sin. No. 53. Gentianaceae. Transactions of the
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Let¬
ters 54:295-329.
Patman, J., and H. H. litis. 1961. Preliminary
reports on the flora of Wisconsin. No. 44.
Cruciferae. Transactions of the Wisconsin
Academy of Sciences , Arts and Letters 50:1 7—
72.
Pauli, Rachel K., and Richard A. Pauli. 1977.
Geology of Wisconsin and Upper Michigan (In¬
cluding Parts of Adjacent States). Kendall-
Hunt Co., Dubuque, LA. 232 pp.
Peck, James H. 1982. Ferns and Fern Allies of
the Driftless Area of Illinois, Iowa, Minnesota
and Wisconsin. Milwaukee Public Museum
(Contributions in Biology and Geology), No.
53. 140 pp.
Read, Robert H. 1976. Endangered and threat¬
ened vascular plants in Wisconsin. Wiscon¬
sin Department of Natural Resources Tech¬
nical Bulletin 92. 58 pp.
Richardson, James W., Derek Burch, and
Theodore S. Cochrane. 1987. The flora of
Wisconsin, Preliminary report no. 69.
Euphorbiaceae. Transactions of the Wisconsin
Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters 75:97-
129.
Salamun, Peter J. 1951. Preliminary reports on
the flora of Wisconsin. No. 36. Scrophu-
lariaceae. Transactions of the Wisconsin Acad¬
emy of Sciences, Arts and Letters 40(2): 1 1 1-38.
- -. 1979. Preliminary reports on the flora
ofWisconsin. No. 68. Caprifoliaceae. Trans¬
actions of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences,
Arts and Letters 67:1 03-29.
Schlising, Robert A., and Hugh H. litis. 1961.
Preliminary reports on the flora of Wiscon¬
sin. No. 46. Caryophyllaceae. Transactions of
the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and
Letters 50:89-139.
Thwaites, Rueben Gold, ed. 1966. The Jesuit
relations and allied documents. Readex
Microprint Corporation, USA (based upon
a reprint of the 1900 edition by The Burrows
Brothers Company, Cleveland OH). 59:86-
211.
Ugent, Donald. 1962. Preliminary reports on
the flora of Wisconsin. No. 47. Cactaceae.
Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy of Sci¬
ences, Arts and Letters 51:1 28-32.
United States Department of Agriculture. 1977.
Soil Survey of Green Lake County, Wiscon¬
sin. Soil Conservation Service. 132 pp.
Wisconsin Department of Agriculture. 1958.
Wisconsin Rural Resources (Green Lake
County). Wisconsin State Department of
Agriculture, Madison, WL 58 pp.
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.
1977-1979. Natural Areas Inventory (Un¬
published field notes for Green Lake
County).
— — — . (August) 1993. Guide to Wisconsin’s
endangered and threatened plants (PUBL-
66
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY: A vascular flora of Green Lake County, Wisconsin
ER-067). Wisconsin Bureau of Endangered
Resources, Box 7921, Madison, WI. 129 pp.
- . 1994. Rare, threatened and endangered
species and natural communities in Green
Lake County. (FUBL-ER-224). Wisconsin
Bureau of Endangered Resources, Box 7921,
Madison, WI. 129 pp.
Wisconsin Department of Revenue (Bureau of
Property Tax, prepared by Douglas L.
Milius). 1995. Statistical Report of Property
Values.
Wisconsin Department of Transportation. 1988.
Green Lake County (highway map). State
Office Building, Madison, WI.
Wisconsin State Department of Agriculture.
1958. Wisconsin Rural Resources (Green
Lake County). 58 pp.
Thomas Eddy is a past recipient of the National
Association of Biology Teachers' OBTA ( Out¬
standing Biology Teacher Award) and the Kohl
Teaching Fellowship Award. Mr. Eddy teaches
biology for the Green Lake School District and
for Marian College , Fond du Lac , and contin¬
ues to be involved with natural areas preserva¬
tion. Address: 426 Walker Avenue, Green Lake,
WI 54941
Volume 84 (1996)
67
%
James O. Evrard and Richard A. Lillie
Flora and fauna of northwest
Wisconsin Wtterfowl Production Areas
Abstract Biological inventories are becoming increasingly important in our
rapidly changing world. This study documents the occurrence and \
to some extent , relative abundance of plant and animal species on
Waterfowl Production Areas (WPAs) in northern St. Croix and
southern Polk Counties, Wisconsin. Former prairie uplands have
undergone drastic landscape changes but wetlands have been im¬
pacted to a lesser degree. Over 200 vertebrate animal species, 54
terrestrial invertebrate animal taxa, and over 200 aquatic inver¬
tebrate species have been recorded in the WPA wetlands and sur¬
rounding uplands during 1982—91. Vegetation surveys have re¬
corded 169 terrestrial species and 96 aquatic species. The plant
and animal communities are dynamic over time, changing in re¬
sponse to a changing environment. The drought of 1987—88 pro¬
vided a dramatic example of these changes.
Today’s environment, threatened by massive land use
changes due to a burgeoning, human population, justi¬
fies the need to acquire baseline biological data to measure im¬
pacts of future landscape changes. Information obtained from
biological inventories is valuable for a variety of managerial,
economic, political, and judicial uses. This study was part of a
much larger research project to evaluate management tech¬
niques for increasing waterfowl and ring-necked pheasant
(Phasianus colchicus) production in the pothole region of north¬
west Wisconsin (Evrard and Lillie 1987).
The objective of this study was to document the occurrence
and, to a limited extent, relative abundance of terrestrial and
aquatic animals and plants on federal and state Waterfowl Pro¬
duction Areas (WPAs) in northern St. Croix and southern Polk
Counties, Wisconsin. The WPAs, consisting of wetlands and
TRANSACTIONS
Volume 84 (1996)
69
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
adjacent grassy uplands, were established in
the early 1970s. Although acquired prima¬
rily with federal duck stamp funds, WPAs
were managed by the Wisconsin Depart¬
ment of Natural Resources (WDNR) until
1993. Many WPAs protected relatively un¬
disturbed wetland habitats, which may have
served as refugia for various flora and fauna
that previously were quite common. Most
surrounding uplands, however, were greatly
disturbed by past agricultural practices, and
very little native vegetation remains.
Study Area
Field research was conducted in the 1,300
km2 study area in northern St. Croix and
southern Polk Counties, Wisconsin (Figure
1). Approximately 2,800 ha or 2.2% of the
study area were in WPAs. The study area lies
entirely within the North Central Hard¬
wood Forests ecoregion of Omernik (1987).
The landscape was formed by a terminal
moraine of the Superior lobe of the Wiscon¬
sin glaciation (Langton 1978). Up to 30 m
of glacial till overlies sandstone and dolo-
mitic limestone bedrock. Soils are mainly
sandy loams of the Santiago-Jewett-Magnor
Association with topography level to gently
sloping. The study area is about 86% up¬
lands, 13% wetlands, and 1% water.
The area has a continental climate with
warm, humid summers and cold, snowy
winters (Langton op. cit.). Mean precipita¬
tion is 73 cm with 65% falling from May
to September, and mean temperature is
44.1°F. The growing season averages 135
days with average last spring frost occurring
on 14 May and the average first frost on 26
September.
At the time of settlement, about 58% of
the study area was wooded, 27% was in tall
grass prairie, and 1 5% in wetlands and wa¬
ter (Langton op. cit.). Since settlement, the
prairie and much of the woodland was con¬
verted to agriculture. Today, most of the
land area is used for agricultural crops and
pasture. Corn, oats, and hay are the main
crops, with emphasis on dairy and livestock
production. Only about 1 1% of the county
is now wooded, but the wetland losses have
been minimal and still make up 13% of the
area. Although total wetland acreages are not
substantially reduced, the types of wetlands
found today may differ to some extent from
historic wetlands.
WPA wetlands range from small (< 1 ha),
shallow (< 1 m), slightly acidic (pH < 6.0),
kettle-hole, surface-water depressions to
moderately large (> 8 ha), deep-water (up to
3 m), slightly alkaline (pH > 9.0), ground-
water flow through wetlands (hydrologic
class based on Novitzki 1979). Under the
Cowardin et al. (1979) wetland classification
system, the majority of wetlands in Wiscon¬
sin’s prairie pothole region are temporary,
seasonal, semipermanent, and permanent
palustrine systems, while some of the larger
wetlands are classed as permanent lacustrine
systems. Annual water level fluctuations
range from less than 0.1 m during stable pe¬
riods (i.e., wet years) to as much as 1.0 m
during transition periods (onset of drought).
Many of the smaller seasonal and semiper¬
manent wetlands were entirely dry during
the drought of 1987-88. Productivity, mea¬
sured either in terms of nutrient concentra¬
tions or biological production, ranged from
generally low in the smaller, precipitation-
dominated, kettle-hole wetlands to high in
the larger ground-water dominated, deep¬
water marshes. Differences in land use and
vegetative cover of surrounding watersheds
contributed to marked differences in water
quality as expressed by turbidity and chlo¬
rophyll (i.e., algae) concentrations. Many
wetland margins and bottoms have been dis¬
turbed by cultivation during dry periods.
70
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
Volume 84 (1996)
71
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Methods
A broad combination of sampling methods
and sampling protocols was employed in this
study (Table 1). A field notebook was used
to record the presence of wildlife on the pub¬
lic properties. All personnel involved in this
study carried field notebooks in which sig¬
nificant wildlife observations were recorded
from 1982 through 1991. Observational
data recorded included species, numbers,
sex, activity, location, weather, time, and
date. However, many abundant animal spe¬
cies such as the red-winged blackbird
(Agelaius phoeniceus), thirteen-lined ground
squirrel (Cittellus tridecemlineatus), and the
painted turtle (Chrysemys picta) are under¬
represented in this study.
Additional wildlife observations were ob¬
tained from wildlife and vegetation surveys
described in detail in Evrard and Lillie
(1987); graduate research by Mauser (1985)
and McDowell (1989); and from research
project reports written by student interns
(Kjolhaug 1982, Fassbender 1983, Lueth
1983, Cordray 1984, Kreis 1984, Elert 1985,
Thilleman 1985, Giudice 1986, Seppi 1986,
Sweitzer 1989, Brua 1987, Balzer 1988,
Fleming 1989, Richter 1989, Dianich 1990,
Johnson 1990, Wier 1990). Fish observation
records, supplemented with field notes, were
provided by H. Bolton and J. Milligan, U.S.
Fish & Wildlife Service, Winona, MN and
Genoa, MN, respectively. Records of occur¬
rence of macro- and microinvertebrates (and
those plants requiring microscopic examina¬
tion for identification) were based on labo¬
ratory identifications using currently accept¬
able taxonomic keys and nomenclature. Lists
of taxonomic keys used are available from the
authors upon request. Voucher specimens of
representative specimens are available for
many flora and fauna at the WDNR Re¬
search Center, Monona, WI.
Results
Over 200 vertebrate species have been ob¬
served on the WPAs in northern St. Croix
and southern Polk Counties. These include
162 bird, 30 mammal, 10 amphibian, 5
turtle, 1 lizard, 3 snake, and 1 1 fish species
(Table 2). Evidence of breeding (eggs, nests,
or young) was found for 42 bird species
(Table 3). The status or relative abundance
and seasonal occurrence of each species was
determined from miscellaneous observations
(Table 1). Bird species observed during the
survey of Oakridge Lake were also assumed
to be breeding in the area (Table 3). Most
mammal, amphibian, turtle, lizard, snake
and fish species were also assumed to be
breeding in the WPAs.
Invertebrates were also observed and re¬
corded in the WPA uplands and wetlands.
At least 54 taxa, representing 44 terrestrial
arthropod families or orders were found in
the surrounding uplands (Table 4), and
nearly 200 aquatic invertebrate species were
found in the study area wetlands. Aquatic
taxa included over 167 insect species (Table
5), 20 zooplankton species, and representa¬
tives of 12 other aquatic invertebrate orders
(Table 6).
Vegetation surveys accounted for a mini¬
mum of 169 terrestrial plant species (Table
7) and 96 aquatic plant species (Table 8).
More detailed information regarding wet¬
land plant distribution is available in Evrard
and Lillie (1987).
Discussion
Earlier workers (Robbins 1961, Robbins
1968, Goddard 1975, Robbins 1969, Faanes
and Goddard 1976, Faanes 1981, Petersen
et al. 1982) recorded bird species present on
and adjacent to WPA wetlands in St. Croix
and Polk Counties. Temporal and spatial
72
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
changes in bird distribution and numbers
have occurred.
The rare and local red-necked grebe
(Podiceps grisegena) was first found breeding
in St. Croix County on Twin Lakes in 1973
and on Oakridge Lake in 1976 (Faanes
1981). By 1978, it had abandoned Twin
Lakes and by 1982, was found only on
Oakridge Lake (Evrard 1988). The common
loon (Gavia immer) reestablished itself as a
breeding species in St. Croix County in
1986 after an absence of decades (Evrard
1987). The trumpeter swan (Cygnus buc¬
cinator) again became a breeding species in
St. Croix County in 1990 following release
of birds in adjacent Minnesota (Evrard
1990, 1991). Despite Faanes (1981) report¬
ing brood records for redhead ducks (Ay thy a
americana), canvasback (Aythya valisneria ),
and lesser scaup (Aythya affinis) in the mid-
1970s, we never observed a single brood of
these species on these same wetlands during
our 10-year study.
Temporal and spatial changes have oc¬
curred with mammal species also. Coyotes
(Canis latrans) and black bears (Ursus
americanus), more common north of the
study area, were seen with increasing fre¬
quency during this study. Opossum (Didel-
phis marsupialus), which have been extend¬
ing their range northward in Wisconsin,
were first seen in a WPA in 1990. Since the
study area was formerly both prairie and
woodland, it was not surprising to find both
the meadow vole (Microtus pennsylvanicus)
and the prairie vole (M. ochrogaster) and
both the woodland deer mouse (Peromyscus
maniculatus gracilis) and the prairie deer
mouse (P. m. bairdii) (Long 1990).
This study also added to the knowledge
of the occurrence and distribution of little-
known wildlife groups such as the amphib¬
ians and reptiles. When compared to distri¬
bution records published by Vogt (1981),
new county records or county locations were
recorded for 2 salamander, 4 turtle, 1 lizard,
and 3 snake species (Wier 1990).
The short list of fish species inhabiting
WPA wetlands is not too surprising consid¬
ering the dynamic hydrologic fluctuations
experienced by most wetlands in the study
region. During the severe drought of 1987-
88, some wetlands formerly classed as per¬
manent dried up completely, while those
that retained water experienced severe win¬
terkill conditions. Most of the WPA wet¬
lands are landlocked, thus further delaying
recolonization after a total winterkill. It is
believed that some wetlands have been
stocked by neighboring landowners with
game and pan fish (in violation of state
laws), while others have been illegally
stocked with minnows by bait dealers. Many
of the smaller wetlands are fishless, while in¬
termediate-sized wetlands contain popula¬
tions of the hardy fathead minnow and cen¬
tral mudminnow. Only the largest, deepest
wetlands contain complex fish communities.
The list of insects and associated arthro¬
pods of terrestrial habitats (Table 4) un¬
doubtedly represents only a small fraction
of the total inventory present on WPAs in
northwest Wisconsin. Much more intensive
efforts would be required to provide a com¬
plete inventory.
Time constraints, financial support, and
the objectives of the major study, under
which the aquatic invertebrate data reported
herein were collected, precluded species level
determinations among all groups. Beetles
and bugs were identified to species, while
identification of other taxa was limited to
genus or higher. Therefore, the lists in
Tables 5 and 6 are unbalanced taxonomi-
cally and incomplete. However, because the
data represent a composite collection from
a wide range of wetland types and sizes, the
lists do provide a good indication of what
Volume 84 (1996)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
may be considered typical inhabitants of
WPA wetlands in northwestern Wisconsin.
Relative abundance of the various taxa dif¬
fer dramatically among the individual wet¬
lands. Small, temporary wetlands (fishless)
generally contain an assemblage of species
quite distinct from assemblages in the larger,
more permanent wetlands. Small kettle-hole
wetlands had assemblages dominated by
dragonflies (Odonates), beetles (Coleoptera),
and caddisflies (Trichoptera). Most large
wetlands contained a diverse assemblage of
generally, smaller-bodied forms, including
flies (Diptera), beetles (a different group of
beetles than in the smaller wetlands - see
Lillie 1991), and bugs (Heteroptera). Zoop¬
lankton assemblages likewise were quite dis¬
tinct among wetlands. Fairy shrimp (Anos-
traca), Daphnia minnehaha , and Aglao-
diaptomus leptopus only were found on the
small, temporary, fishless wetlands. No en¬
dangered or threatened species of insects
were collected; however, several specimens
represent new distributional records for Wis¬
consin.
In addition to an already published note
concerning beetles (Lillie 1991), the follow¬
ing records are worth mentioning. Two
adult specimens of Euhrycbiopsis lecontei
were collected on Bierbrauer WPA (Sect. 4,
T31N, R17W, St. Croix Co.). This weevil
is believed to have potential as a naturally-
occurring biocontrol agent of the nuisance
aquatic plant, Eurasian watermilfoil, Myrio-
phyllum spicatum (Creed et al. 1992;
Newman and Maher 1993). As such, its ex¬
istence and knowledge concerning its distri¬
bution in Wisconsin is important. The
record of a single specimen of the water scav¬
enger beetle, Cercyon (nr.) roseniy from Deer
Park WPA (Sect. 7, T31N, R16W, St. Croix
Co.) is believed to be the first report of this
species in Wisconsin. This species appears
to be terrestrial or semiaquatic, associated
with wet areas near water (Smetana 1988)
and, due to its small size, may be often over¬
looked in most collections. A single speci¬
men of the water boatman, Cenocorixa
dakotensis, was captured from Erickson WPA
(Sect. 30, T31N, R17W, St. Croix Co.).
This species is listed as a taxon of “special
concern” by the WDNR, Bureau of Endan¬
gered Species (Wis. Misc. Rare Invert.
Working List). Only two other specimens
have been collected from Wisconsin (pers.
com. W. Hilsenhoff, UW-Madison).
Few components of the presettlement ter¬
restrial plant communities remain (Table 7).
Most upland plant communities surround¬
ing study area wetlands are either old fields
or grasses planted specifically for duck and
ring-necked pheasant nesting cover. Exotic
and weedy herbaceous plant species domi¬
nate with woody plants represented by trees
and shrub seedlings invading the grass-forb
communities. The handful of prairie species
such as the bluestem grasses (Andropogon
gerardii, Schizachyrium scoparium) are classed
as uncommon and rare (Table 7). Aquatic
plant communities varied among wetlands
based primarily on size and position in the
landscape. The smaller, precipitation-domi¬
nated, surface-depression wetlands mostly
were of the sedge meadow type (Curtis
1939), dominated by sedges ( Carex spp.)
and grasses (Table 8). Some wetlands con¬
tained components of fens or bogs. The ma¬
jority of larger wetlands represented either
emergent or submerged aquatic communi¬
ties (of Curtis 1959). Emergent wetlands
were dominated by cat-tails ( Typha spp.), ar¬
rowheads (Sagittaria spp.), or various grasses
and spikerushes (Eleocharis spp.). Submerged
and floating-leafed communities were domi¬
nated by pondweeds (. Potamogeton spp.) and
duckweeds ( Lemna spp. and Spirodela
polyrhiza). No endangered or threatened spe¬
cies were encountered.
74
TRANSACTIONS
Table 1. Compilation of sampling methodologies employed in this survey.
Flora or Fauna Sampling Methods Sampling Period Sampling Frequency
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Volume 84 (1996)
75
Table 2. Wildlife occurrence3 in waterfowl production areas in St. Croix and southern Polk Counties, 1982-91. Latin names and
English names conform to usage in Birds of North America , 2nd ed., and are consonant with the most recent American Orni¬
thologists’ Union checklist.
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TRANSACTIONS
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Volume 84 (1996)
77
Merlin (Fa/co columbarius) MM R Mg
American kestrel (Falco sparverius) M* M M M* M* M* M* M* M* M* A SR.Mg
Ruffed grouse (Bonasa umbellus) MM M* M M* M U PR
Northern bobwhite (Colinus virginianus) M Ac
Ring-necked pheasant (Phasianus colchicus) M* M* M* M* M* M* M* M M* M A PR
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TRANSACTIONS
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Volume 84 (199&)
79
Common nighthawk (Chordeiles minor) M M M R SR, Mg
Chimney swift (Chaetura pelagica) M M R SR
Belted kingfisher (Ceryle alcyon) M BM PBM PM PBM PBM PBM BM M PBM C SR, Mg
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TRANSACTIONS
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Volume 84 (1996)
81
Rose-breasted grosbeak (Pheucticus ludovicianus) MM R SR
Indigo bunting (Passerina cyanea) MM R SR
American goldfinch (Carduelis tristis) MM R SR.Mg
Dickcissel (Spiza americana) M M M R SR
Savannah sparrow (Passerculus sandwichensis) MM M MMM RSR
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TRANSACTIONS
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Volume 84 (1996)
83
Spotted salamander (Ambystoma maculatum)
Eastern tiger salamander (Ambystoma tigrinum)
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84
TRANSACTIONS
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85
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
86
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
aData from Brua 1987.
bData from WDNR collections; identifications made by S. Krauth, Academic Curator, Insect Research
Collection, UW-Madison; specimens placed in UW-Madison Insect Research Collection in 1988.
‘Family or order containing some aquatic or semiaquatic taxa.
Volume 84 (1996)
87
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 5. Aquatic insect occurrence in WPA wetlands, late April to mid-August, 1983-92.
Order/ Common Family Species Relative
Suborder Name Abundance
Nepidae
Notonectidae
Pleidae
Gerridae
Hebridae
Hydrometridae
88
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
Volume 84 (1996)
89
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 5, continued.
Diptera
Ries, midges
Gyriniidae
Haliplidae
Hydrophilidae
Lampyridae
Scirtidae
Ceratopogonidae
Chaoboridae
Chironomidaec
90
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
aSee Lillie (1991) for more detailed information concerning distribution of beetles on WPA wetlands.
bTaxonomy after Askevold (1988).
cBased on a small random subsample of taxa present.
Volume 84 (1996)
91
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 6. Miscellaneous macro- and microinvertebrates found on WPA wetlands, 1983-92.
Phylum/ Class Order/ Species Common Name
Subphylum Suborder
Annelida Oligochaeta
Hirudinea
Sarcomastigophora
Arthropoda
Chelicerata Arachnida Araneae
Acarina
Hydracarina
Mandibulata Crustacea
Branchiopoda Anostraca
Diplostraca
Conchostraca
Cladocera
Ostracoda
Copepoda Calanoida
Harpactidoida
Cyclopoida
Malacostraca Isopoda
Amphipoda
Oligochaetes
Helobdella spp.a Leeches
Difflugia sp.. Amoebas
Spiders
Water mites
Fairy Shrimps
Clam Shrimps
Alona spp.a
Alona guttata?
Alona rectangula3
Alonella spp.a
Alonella excisa 3
Bosmina longirostris
Camptocercus sp.
Chydorus sphaericus
Ceriodaphnia spp.a
Daphnia spp.
Daphnia pulex-pulicaria
Daphnia minnehaha
Diaphanosoma spp.a
Eubosmina sp.
Graptoleberis sp.
Holopedium gibberum
llyocryptus spp.a
Kurzia latissima a
Latonopsis sp. ?
Macrothrix sp.
Pleuroxus spp.a
Pleuroxus procurvus3
Pleuroxus striatus3
Polyphemus pediculus
Scapholeberis spp.a
Simocephalus spp.a
Streblocerus serricaudatus3
Seed Shrimps
Calanoid Copepods
Aglaodiaptomus leptopus
Leptodiaptomus siciloides
Onychodiaptomus sanguineus
Skistodiaptomus oregonensis
Harpactacoid Copepods
Cyclopoid Copepods
Acanthocyclops vernalis
Diacyclops b. thomasi
Mesocyclops edax
Tropocyclops sp.
Isopods
Hyallela azteca Amphipods/Scuds
92
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
aAfter McDowell (1989).
Volume 84 (1996)
93
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 7. Terrestrial plant occurrence and relative abundance in Waterfowl Production
94
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
Table 7, continued.
Volume 84 (1996)
95
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
96
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
Table 7, continued.
Volume 84 (1996)
97
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 8. Aquatic plant occurrence and relative abundance within WPA wetlands, St.
98
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
aMauser 1985.
bMcDowell 1989.
cVerified by Dr. G. Smith, UW-Whitewater.
dVerified by T. Cochran, UW-Madison Herbarium.
eVoucher specimens at WDNR Research Center, 1350 Femrite, Monona, Wl.
Volume 84 (1996)
99
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Acknowledgments
We thank B. Bacon, B. and J. Fannucchi,
and the many seasonal WDNR technicians
and student interns for field assistance and
observations; S. Krauth and W. Hilsenhoff,
UW-Madison (retired), for taxonomic iden¬
tifications or verifications of insects; G.
Smith, UW-Whitewater (retired) and T.
Cochran and H. litis, UW-Madison, for
taxonomic identifications or verifications of
plants; and D. Knauer and G. Bartelt for
critical review of the manuscript. We also
thank the Editor, N. Harriman, and W.
Rainboth, UW-Oshkosh, and W. Hilsen¬
hoff, UW-Madison (retired), for their re¬
views and suggestions. Partial funding for
this study was provided by the Federal Aid
to Wildlife Restoration under Pittman-
Robertson Wis. Proj. W-141-R.
Works Cited
Askevold, I. S. 1988. The genus Neohaemonia
Szekessy in North America (Coleoptera:
Chrysomelidae: Donaciinae): Systematics, re¬
constructed phylogeny, and geographic his¬
tory. Transactions of the American Entomologi¬
cal Society 1 13:360-430.
Balzer, C. 1988. Evaluation of wood duck
broods contributed from boxes and natural
cavities. Unpublished report, University of
Wisconsin-River Falls. 16 pp.
Bennett, C. L. 1967. A new method for estimat¬
ing duck broods. Journal of Wildlife Manage¬
ment 3 1 : 555 — 62.
Brua, R. 1987. Sampling of terrestrial inverte¬
brates on federal waterfowl production areas
in St. Croix and Polk Counties of Wiscon¬
sin. Unpublished report, University of Wis-
consin-Stevens Point. 41 pp.
Cordray, R. 1984. Small mammal trapping of wa¬
terfowl production areas. Unpubished report,
University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. 21 pp.
Cowardin, L. M., V. Carter, F. C. Golet, and
E. T. LaRoe. 1979. Classification of wetlands
and deepwater habitats of the United States.
U.S. Department of the Interior, FWS/OBS-
79/31. 131 pp.
Creed, R. P., S. P. Sheldon, and D. M. Cheek.
1992. The effect of herbivore feeding on the
buoyancy of Eurasian watermilfoil. Journal of
Aquatic Plant Management 30:73-76.
Curtis, J. T. 1959. The vegetation of Wisconsin:
an ordination of plant communities. Univer¬
sity of Wisconsin Press, Madison. 657 pp.
Dianich, H. J. 1990. Mallard and blue-winged
teal duckling survival rates on waterfowl pro¬
duction areas in St. Croix and Polk Coun¬
ties of Wisconsin. Unpublished report, Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-River Falls. 23 pp.
Dzubin, A. 1969. Assessing breeding popula¬
tions of ducks by ground counts. Pp. 178-
230 in Saskatoon Wetlands Seminar. Cana¬
dian Wildlife Service Report Series No. 6.
262 pp.
Elert, J. A. 1985. Application of the Savory graz¬
ing method on Lundy Pond waterfowl pro¬
duction area. Unpublished report, University
of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. 37 pp.
Evrard, J. O., and R. A. Lillie. 1984. Duck and
pheasant management in the pothole region.
Study 316. Pp. 221-259 in Progress Rept.
December 1984. Wisconsin Department of
Natural Resources Wildlife Research Section,
Bureau of Research, Madison, WI.
Evrard, J. O., and R. A. Lillie. 1987. Duck and
pheasant management in the pothole region
of Wisconsin. Interim Rep. Study 316.
Pittman-Robertson Proj. W-141-R. Wiscon¬
sin Department of Natural Resources, Madi¬
son. 1 1 5 pp.
Evrard, J. O. 1987. Common loon breeding in
St. Croix County. Passenger Pigeon 49:98-
100.
Evrard, J. O. 1988. Nesting red-necked grebes
in St. Croix County, Wisconsin. Passenger
Pigeon 50:291-95.
100
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EVRARD and LILLIE: Flora/fauna of northwest Wl Waterfowl Production Areas
Evrard, J. O. 1990. Trumpeter swans in St.
Croix and Polk Counties. Passenger Pigeon
52:29-33.
Evrard, J. O. 1991. An update on trumpeter
swans in St. Croix County. Passenger Pigeon
53:122-25.
Faanes, C. A., and S. V. Goddard. 1976. The
birds of Pierce and St. Croix Counties, Wis¬
consin. Passenger Pigeon 38:19-38, 57-71.
Faanes, C. A. 1981. Birds of the St. Croix River
valley: Minnesota and Wisconsin. U.S.D.I.
Fish and Wildlife Service, North American
Fauna No. 73. 196 pp.
Fassbender, P. 1983. Small mammals of Lundy
Pond waterfowl production area. Unpub¬
lished report, University of Wisconsin-
Stevens Point. 10 pp.
Fleming, K. C. 1989. Giant Canada goose popu¬
lation in St. Croix and southern Polk Coun¬
ties. Unpublished report, University of Wis-
consin-Stevens Point. 9 pp.
Giudice, J. H. 1986. Small mammal trapping on
waterfowl production areas. Unpublished re¬
port, University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point.
43 pp.
Goddard, S. V. 1975. Spring waterfowl utiliza¬
tion of western Wisconsin wetlands. Passen¬
ger Pigeon 37:32-44.
Johnson, C. 1990. Effects of cover type on grass¬
lands songbird abundance Unpublished re¬
port, University ofWisconsin-River Falls. 18
pp.
Kjolhaug, M. S. 1982. Small mammal trapping,
St. Croix County, Wisconsin Unpublished
report, University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point. 21 pp.
Kreis, D. 1984. Savory grazing method of Lundy
Pond waterfowl production area Unpublished
report, University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point. 22 pp.
Langton, J. E. 1978. Soil survey of St. Croix
County, Wisconsin. USDA Soil Conserva¬
tion Service, Washington, D.C. 145 pp.
Lillie, R. A. 1991. The adult aquatic and semi-
aquatic Coleoptera of nine northwestern Wis¬
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45(2): 101 — 1 1 .
Long, C. A. 1990. Voles and bog lemmings of
Wisconsin. Transactions of the Wisconsin
Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters 78:87—
110.
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predator-proof electric fencing Unpublished
report, University of Wisconsin-Stevens
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Mauser, D. M. 1985. Invertebrates, aquatic
plants, and waterfowl on four selected wet¬
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Thesis, University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point. 86 pp.
McDowell, P. K. 1989. The impact of Water-
fowl Production Area (WPA) fish communi¬
ties upon the invertebrate food base of wa¬
terfowl. MS Thesis, University of Wisconsin-
Stevens Point. 66 pp.
Newman, R. M., and L. M. Maher. 1995. New
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University ofWisconsin-River Falls. 25 pp.
Volume 84 (1996)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Robbins, S. E. 1961. Shorebirds in St. Croix
County. Passenger Pigeon 23: 63-64.
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waterfowl production areas Unpublished re¬
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34 pp.
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University of Wisconsin-River Falls. 43 pp.
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lation estimation. Journal of Wildlife Manage¬
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James O. Evrard is a wildlife research biologist
for the Wisconsin Department of Natural Re¬
sources at Grantsburg. Address: Box 637 ’,
Grantsburg, WI 54840. Richard A. Lillie is a
research limnologist for the Wisconsin Depart¬
ment of Natural Resources at Monona. Address:
1350 Femrite Drive, Monona, WI 53716.
102
TRANSACTIONS
William L. Hilsenhoff
Effects of a catastrophic flood
on the insect fauna of Otter Creek,
Sauk County, Wisconsin
Abstract A catastrophic flood in Baxter's Hollow on 18 July 1993 rear¬
ranged substrates in Otter Creek , eliminating most silt, sand,
gravel, pebbles, and organic debris from high gradient portions of
the stream and leaving predominately larger rock substrates. Com¬
parison of the insect fauna in the spring and early summer of 1994
with that previously documented showed it had been significantly
altered by the flood. While the insect fauna of high gradient por¬
tions was most severely altered, it was also changed by the flood in
lower gradient areas upstream. Some species of insects became more
abundant, a few species remained relatively unaffected, other spe¬
cies became scarce, and several may have been eliminated from
the stream.
Otter Creek flows south out of the Baraboo Hills through
Baxter’s Hollow, which is located 8 km SSW of Baraboo,
Wisconsin. It is known for its diverse insect fauna, which has
been extensively studied in Baxter’s Hollow; the lower gradi¬
ent area south of Baxter’s Hollow and Kings Corner Road has
received less attention. Since 1963, students in the Aquatic In¬
sects class at the University of Wisconsin-Madison have
sampled the stream almost every year. In 1972 Richard Narf
(Narf and Hilsenhoff 1975) completed a study of the stonefly
fauna, and in 1982 Jeffrey Steven completed a study of the
caddisfly fauna (Steven and Hilsenhoff 1984). In 1984 and
1985 three adjacent riffles (rapid, splashing water) in the high
gradient portion of the stream were sampled every two weeks
from mid-April to mid-November as part of a study of six
streams to develop a correction factor for the biotic index
TRANSACTIONS Volume 84 (1996)
103
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
(Hilsenhoff 1988). On each date at least 100
insects were collected from each riffle for the
purpose of determining the biotic index
(Hilsenhoff 1987).
On 18 July 1993 thunderstorms pro¬
duced very heavy rain in the Baraboo Hills
and caused severe flooding. Baraboo re¬
ported 19.8 cm (7.78 inches) of rain, with
unofficial reports of higher amounts nearby.
In Baxter’s Hollow the water level of Otter
Creek rose at least 2 m, washing out the
road at bridges and rearranging substrates in
Otter Creek. The high gradient portion of
Otter Creek adjacent of Stones Pocket Road
was most affected. This portion of the
stream had consisted of a series of riffles con¬
taining sand, gravel, pebbles, cobbles (64-
236 mm diameter rocks), larger rocks, and
organic debris. Interspersed between riffles
were runs (rapid, deeper water) containing
mostly cobbles, and pools of sand, silt, and
debris beneath deep, slow-moving water.
The flood carried with it all silt and debris
and almost all exposed sand, gravel, and
small pebbles; it eliminated pools and most
riffles, leaving mostly cobbles and some
larger rocks to form an almost continuous
run. Samples of insects taken from the
stream in late summer and autumn 1993
indicated most species were scarce and some
had perhaps disappeared.
In 1990 a list of genera and species of in¬
sects inhabiting Otter Creek was compiled
for the Department of Natural Resources
and The Nature Conservancy, which now
owns most property in Baxter’s Hollow
where Otter Creek is located; the list was
updated in December 1992. Because this list
and data from 96 samples collected from
riffles in 1984 and 1983 document the pre-
flood insect fauna, I initiated a sampling
program to determine effects of the July
1993 flood by comparing the insect fauna
in 1994 with previous collections.
Materials and Methods
Qualitative samples of insects were collected
with a D-frame net on 14 March and 16
May 1994 and preserved in 70% ethanol.
They were taken 300-400 m above the first
bridge on Stones Pocket Road north of
Kings Corner Road in Baxter’s Hollow
(lower Otter Creek) and above and below
the fourth bridge (upper Otter Creek), the
two areas of the stream sampled by Aquatic
Insects classes. Collections were made in all
available habitats. To duplicate samples col¬
lected in 1984 and 1985, I collected three
samples of 100+ insects with a D-frame net
from riffle areas on 18 April, 2 and 16 May,
10 and 27 June, and 26 July 1994. A set of
three samples on 30 May was collected by a
student who did not realize larval abundance
had diminished due to emergence. As a re¬
sult, only 156 insects were collected, which
was less than half the numbers collected on
similar dates in 1984 and 1985. Standard
collecting procedures for evaluation of wa¬
ter quality with the biotic index were used
(Hilsenhoff 1987). Samples were collected
from upstream, middle, and downstream
portions of an 18 m long riffle, the only one
remaining in the high gradient portion of
the stream that was similar to riffles sampled
previously. This riffle is about 320 m up¬
stream from the first bridge, 15m below a
paved parking area, and about 50 m down¬
stream from riffles sampled in 1984 and
1985. It was relatively unaffected by the
flood because it flows east toward the road
at a sharp bend, and most floodwater had
continued south out of the stream channel,
rejoining it several meters downstream.
Riffles upstream from the parking area from
which samples were collected in 1984 and
1985 were severely altered, being less than
1 m long and containing only rocks and
large cobbles.
104
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HILSENHOFF: Effects of a catastrophic flood on the insect fauna of Otter Creek
Results and Discussion
Numbers and species of insects collected
from riffles in 1994 were compared with
collections made on similar dates in 1984
and 1985 (Table 1). Because only 156 in¬
sects were collected on May 30, numbers of
each species were multiplied by 2.25 to
make numbers in Table 1 comparable to
collections of 369 and 334 insects on simi¬
lar dates in 1984 and 1985. Degree day ac¬
cumulations above 4.5°C (Hilsenhoff 1988)
were used to compare the three years, be¬
cause development and emergence of most
species in the spring depend on warming of
the stream. Temperatures in 1984 were
slightly below the historic normal (State Cli¬
matologist), delaying emergence by perhaps
2 days, while in 1985 and 1994 tempera¬
tures were well above normal, causing insects
to emerge several days early. The spring of
1994 was not as warm as 1985, especially
from 14 May to 1 1 June, but was still 4-7
days ahead of normal; degree day accumu¬
lations in 1985 were 10-14 days ahead of
normal. In 1994, 7% fewer insects (using
adjusted 30 May samples) were collected
than in 1984, and 2% more were collected
than in 1985. This only slightly affects com¬
parisons of numbers in Table 1.
Table 1 shows that substantial changes
occurred in the insect fauna. Changes in
relative abundance of various substrates are
undoubtedly the reason for most alterations
of insect abundance, especially an almost
complete absence of the silt, sand, and gravel
that occurred previously and was replaced by
cobbles and rocks. Also important was an
absence of moss on rocks and a lack of
stream-side vegetation; both were prevalent
before the flood and eliminated by its scour¬
ing effect. After October 1993 amounts of
new allochthonous debris, especially leaves
and sticks falling or washed into the stream,
appeared similar to previous years and pro¬
vided a stable food resource for larvae of
many insects that emerge in the spring.
Plecoptera and Diptera larvae (excluding
Chironomidae) comprised a higher percent¬
age of the riffle fauna in 1994 than in 1984
and 1985, while larvae of Megaloptera, Co-
leoptera, and Chironomidae made up a
much lower percentage (Table 1). When
making comparisons, it must be remem¬
bered that only 100+ insects were used from
each sample (Hilsenhoff 1987), so unusual
abundance of one species results in appar¬
ent reduced abundance of others. A sum¬
mary of apparent changes in 1994 of spe¬
cies listed in Table 1 follows, along with
mention of all species or genera known from
Otter Creek and not listed in Table 1.
Ephemeroptera (Mayfly) Larvae: Larvae
of Baetis brunneicolor and B. tricaudatus were
found for the first time. Among other
Baetidae, Acerpenna macdunnoughi larvae
were more numerous, those of B. flavistriga
were less numerous, and Labiobaetis pro -
pinquus larvae were not found. Numbers of
Ephemerella needhami larvae were much
lower than in 1984 and 1985, while larval
numbers of closely related E. subvaria re¬
mained unchanged. Leucrocuta hebe larvae
were more abundant than previously. Ma¬
ture larvae of Leptophlebia cupida (Say) and/
or L. nebulosa (Walker) were collected 14
March, but adults had emerged by mid-
April. Paraleptophlebia mollis (Eaton) larvae
remained abundant through June and were
replaced by larvae of another species of
Paraleptophlebia in July. Two Stenacron
interpunctatum (Say) larvae were found 16
May in upper Otter Creek; this species was
not reported previously.
Odonata (Dragonfly) Larvae: Odonata
larvae are infrequent in riffles. Calopteryx
maculata (Beauvois) larvae were collected
from under banks in upper Otter Creek.
Volume 84 (1996)
105
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 1. Total number of each species or genus of insects collected in three samples
from Otter Creek riffles on seven dates between 14 April and 30 July in each of three
years, and total and percent occurring in each order.
HILSENHOFF: Effects of a catastrophic flood on the insect fauna of Otter Creek
Volume 84 (1996)
107
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Larvae of Aeshna umbrosa Walker, Basi -
aeschna janata (Say), and Phanogomphus
spicatus (Hagen), which had been collected
previously from low gradient areas north of
Kings Corner Road, were not found.
Cordulegaster obliqua Say larvae, which oc¬
cur in small, headwater seeps, were also not
collected. Both of these areas were not
sampled in 1994.
Plecoptera (Stonefly) Larvae: Larvae of
Leuctra sibley i Claassen, L. tenuis (Pictet),
Amphinemura delosa , Prostoia similis , and
Isoperla die ala, all of which have a one-year
life cycle, were distinctly more abundant
than before the flood. Larvae of Acroneuria
lycorias and Paragnetina media , which have
a three-year life cycle, were distinctly less
abundant; many large, older larvae were
likely swept downstream by the flood. Sev¬
eral emerging adults of the winter stoneflies
Paracapnia angulata and Taeniopteryx nivalis
(Fitch) were collected 14 March. Larvae and
adults of other winter stoneflies, Allocapnia
illinoensis Frison, A. nivicola (Fitch), A.
pygmaea (Burmeister), A. rickeri Frison, and
A. vivipara (Claassen), were not found be¬
cause all adults had probably emerged be¬
fore sampling was initiated in mid-March.
Since winter stoneflies spend the summer as
diapausing larvae deep in the substrate, the
effect of the flood on these species was prob¬
ably limited. The rare Zealeuctra narfi Ricker
& Ross also was not found.
Trichop tera (Caddisfly) Larvae: Absence
or lower numbers of larvae of the three spe¬
cies of Micrasema probably reflects a lack of
moss on rocks because of the flood. The in¬
crease in Glossosoma nigrior larvae likely re¬
sulted from an increase in cobbles on which
they live. Larvae of Neophylax concinnus
MacLachlan and N. oligius Ross also inhabit
cobbles; the lower number in 1985 was
probably due to warmer weather causing ear¬
lier emergence. The low number in 1994
may have resulted from young larvae hav¬
ing been scoured from the cobbles by the
flood. The large decline in numbers of
Cheumatopsyche gracilis (Banks) and/or C.
oxa Ross larvae was probably caused by a
lack of moss and filamentous algae on rocks
and cobbles; apparently they were replaced
by larvae of other net-spinning Hydro-
psychidae, namely Diplectrona modesta and
Ceratopsyche slossonae. Larvae identified as
Ceratopsyche sparna in 1994 were small and
may be C. alhedra. Lower numbers of
Pycnopsyche guttifera (Walker), P. lepida
(Hagen), and P. scabripennis (Rambur) lar¬
vae, which are most numerous in slower wa¬
ter, probably resulted from changed habitat
and from many larvae having been swept
away by the flood. A decline in numbers of
sand-dwelling Psilotreta indecisa larvae was
noticed in 1992; efforts to collect them in
1994 were futile. One larva of Molanna
blenda Sibley was found in a sandy area of
upper Otter Creek, and one Limnephilus sp.
larva was also collected. Larvae of several pre¬
viously collected species of generally uncom¬
mon caddisflies were not found. This in¬
cludes larvae of Lepidostoma libum Ross, L.
sackeni (Banks), L. vernale (Banks), Frenesia
missa Milne, Pseudostenophylax sparsus
(Banks), and P. uniformis (Betten) that oc¬
cur only in spring seeps, which were not
sampled. Also included are larvae of Lepi¬
dostoma bryanti (Banks), L. griseum (Banks),
Mystacides sepulchralis (Walker), Anabolia
consocia (Walker), Hydatophylax argus (Har¬
ris), Platycentropus radiatus (Say), Oligostomis
ocelligera (Walker), Ptilostomis ocellifera
(Walker), Paranyctiophylax moestus (Banks),
Polycentropus centralis Banks, P. flavus
(Banks), P. pentus Ross, and P. remotus
Banks, which occur in slow water and pools,
a habitat eliminated by the flood. Also not
found were larvae of Phylocentropus placidus
(Banks), Oecetis avara (Banks), and
108
TRANSACTIONS
HILSENHOFF: Effects of a catastrophic flood on the insect fauna of Otter Creek
Hesperophylax designates (Walker), which in¬
habit sandy habitats, Psychomyia flavida
Hagen larvae, which occur in decaying
wood, and Ironoquia lyrata (Ross) larvae,
which live under banks; all of these habitats
were greatly reduced by the flood. The un¬
common larvae of Hydroptila virgata Ross
and Oxyethira anabola Blickle may have
been overlooked because of their small size.
Helicopsyche borealis (Hagen) larvae, which
previously occurred occasionally on rocks
and cobbles in upper Otter Creek, also were
not found.
Megaloptera (Fishfly and Alderfly) Lar¬
vae: Larvae of Nigronia serricornis , which
take about four years to complete develop¬
ment, were unusually scarce in 1994, prob¬
ably because many were swept away by the
flood. Sialis spp. larvae, which mostly in¬
habit pools, were collected only from upper
Otter Creek.
Coleoptera (Riffle) Beetles and Larvae:
Only three Optioservus fastiditus larvae were
collected in 1994, compared to 86 adults
and larvae in 1984 and 65 in 1985. Al¬
though most riffle beetles and their larvae
burrow into sandy substrate when flooding
occurs, the depth to which sand and gravel
were removed by the flood suggests most
were washed downstream. Adults and larvae
of Dubiraphia minima Hilsenhoff and D.
quadrinotata (Say), which inhabit vegetation
and decaying wood, and those of Macro-
nychus glabratus Say, which also inhabit de¬
caying wood, were not found, probably due
to a lack of habitat.
Adults and larvae of three species of
Dytiscidae that previously were found in
debris or sand were not collected; they were
Agabus semivittatus LeConte, A. seriates
(Say), and Sanfilippodytes pseudovilis
(Young). Also not found were several previ¬
ously collected species of Hydrophilidae, in¬
cluding Anacaena lutescens (Stephens),
Cymbiodyta chamberlaini Smetana, C. vin-
dicata Fall, Enochrus ochraceus (Melsheimer),
He lop horns lacustris LeConte, H. linearis
LeConte, H. lineatus Say, H. marginicollis
Smetana, H. orientals Motschulsky, Hydro-
bins fuscipes (Linnaeus), and H. melaenus
(Germar). All these species live under banks
or on stream-side vegetation; they may have
been eliminated by the flood along with
their habitat.
Diptera (Midge and Fly) Larvae: Num¬
bers of midge larvae (Chironomidae) appar¬
ently were reduced by the flood because
most finer sediments and debris that they
inhabit were removed. Larvae in 12 genera
found previously in riffle samples were not
collected in 1994 (Table 1); also Diplocladius
spp. larvae, which had occurred previously,
were not found. Some other Diptera may
have disappeared as a result of the flood,
namely larvae of crane flies Antocha spp. and
some less common crane flies (. Limonia spp.,
Pedicia spp., Pilaria spp., and Pseudo -
limnophila spp.), and moth flies Pericoma
spp. Numbers of Prosimulium spp. black fly
larvae were essentially unchanged. In 1994,
larvae of three Simulium black fly species
(i aureum , jenningsi- group, venustum) were
collected for the first time, and numbers of
Simulium tuberosum larvae increased. Tipula
spp. larvae were also more numerous, per¬
haps because of more favorable habitat.
Heteroptera Adults (Aquatic Bugs): Be¬
cause they breathe air at the water’s surface,
Heteroptera adults and nymphs are not used
in biotic index evaluations. Adults of
Aquarius remigis (Say) and Microvelia
americana (Uhler), two water striders that
inhabit streams, were still present. Adults of
Limnoporus dissortis (Drake & Harris),
Microvelia pulchella Westwood, and Trepo-
bates pictus (Herrich-Schaffer) occurred pre¬
viously among vegetation along margins of
pools but were not found in 1994. The lat-
Volume 84 (1996)
109
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
ter species overwinters as an egg, and adults
occur only in late summer and autumn,
while the flood destroyed the habitat of L.
dissortis and M. pulchella.
Biotic Index Evaluations
Although evaluation of water quality was not
the intent of this study, it was noted that
mean biotic index values (Hilsenhoff 1987)
in 1994 were lower (AN OVA highly signifi¬
cant) than in 1984 and 1985, indicating a
cleaner stream with higher levels of dissolved
oxygen. This probably resulted from re¬
moval of excess organic debris and vegeta¬
tion by the flood. Decomposition of organic
matter and plant respiration at night lower
dissolved oxygen levels, so a decrease in or¬
ganic matter and living plants favors species
of insects with high dissolved oxygen re¬
quirements.
Conclusions
The flood obviously altered species compo¬
sition in the high gradient portion of the
stream, increasing numbers of some, reduc¬
ing numbers of others, and probably elimi¬
nating several species. Qualitative samples
suggested lower gradient areas upstream
were less affected. As allochthonous debris
enters the stream along with silt and sand
after each spring snow-melt and storm event,
the composition of the substrate and insect
fauna may gradually change to approach pre¬
flood conditions. Insects eliminated by the
flood can return if suitable habitat exists,
because adults of almost all species fly long
distances. However, alteration of the high
gradient portion was so great that it is un¬
likely the fauna will revert entirely to its pre¬
flood composition. A follow-up study after
several years would provide insight into
long-term effects of this catastrophic flood.
Acknowledgments
Dorothy Boorse, a teaching assistant in Zo¬
ology, helped me make qualitative collec¬
tions. Her help was very much appreciated,
as were her suggestions for improving the
manuscript.
Works Cited
Hilsenhoff, W. L. 1987. An improved biotic in¬
dex of organic stream pollution. Great Lakes
Entomologist 20:31-39 .
Hilsenhoff, W. L. 1988. Seasonal correction fac¬
tors for the biotic index. Great Lakes Ento¬
mologist 21:9-13 .
Narf, R. P., and W. L. Hilsenhoff. 1975. Emer¬
gence pattern of stoneflies (Plecoptera) in
Otter Creek, Wisconsin. Great Lakes Ento¬
mologist 7: 1 1 7-25.
Steven, J. C., and W. L. Hilsenhoff. 1984. The
caddisflies (Trichoptera) of Otter Creek, Wis¬
consin. Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy
of Sciences, Arts and Letters 72: 1 57—72.
William L. Hilsenhoff is a Professor Emeritus
in the Department of Entomology at the Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-Madison. He has studied
aquatic insects throughout Wisconsin since 1957
and has actively studied stream insects for the last
30 years. His revised booklet, " Aquatic Insects
of Wisconsin, ” was published recently by Coop¬
erative Extension. Address: Department of En¬
tomology, 1630 Linden Drive, Madison, WI
53706.
1 10
TRANSACTIONS
Richard A. Lillie
A quantitative survey of the floating-
leafed and submersed macrophytes of
Fish Lake, Dane County, Wisconsin
Abstract Quantitative surveys of the submersed and floating-leafed macro¬
phytes inhabiting the littoral zone of Fish Lake , Dane County,
were conducted annually from 1991 to 1994. These surveys were
conducted in conjunction with a Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources cooperative management-research effort that was in¬
tended to manipulate the lake s dense weed bed as a means to im¬
prove the largemouth bass-bluegill fishery. Biomass (dry weights)
and frequency of occurrence data were obtained from 21 transects
spaced 200 m apart. Samples were collected via SCUBA at 5 m
intervals along each transect from shore to a water depth of 6 m
during late July - early August each year.
Eurasian watermilfoil, Myriophyllum spicatum L., was domi¬
nant, representing approximately 90% of the total plant biomass,
occurring in almost 95% of all samples, and covering about 100
acres or nearly 40% of the total lake bottom. Coontail,
Ceratophyllum demersum L., ranked a distant second, with fre¬
quencies of occurrence ranging from 20 to 40% and relative bio¬
mass ranging from 3 to 11% of the total. The distribution of seven
other plant species was limited primarily to shallow nearshore
areas. Milfoil biomass was extremely high, averaging 420 g m2
for the four years. Highest densities of milfoil were restricted to a
nearly continuous bed at a water depth of 1.5 to 4.0 m that ringed
the entire perimeter of the lake. Although distribution (as mea¬
sured by frequencies of occurrence) of milfoil was highly stable
among years, milfoil biomass and relative dominance declined sub¬
stantially during 1994. Evidence suggests that the milfoil popula¬
tion may be in the process of crashing in Fish Lake. An aquatic
weevil, Eurhychiopsis lecontei (Dietz), is believed to be responsible
for the decline in milfoil.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 84 (1996)
1 1 1
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Fish Lake, a 251 acre (100 ha) seepage
lake located 4 miles east of Prairie du Sac
and 25 miles northwest of Madison in the
northwest corner of Dane County, Wiscon¬
sin (T9N, R7E, Sec. 3; lat 43 17' 14", long.
89 39' 08"), is the site of a cooperative Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources
(WDNR), research-management project de¬
signed to improve the lake’s largemouth
bass-bluegill fishery through selective har¬
vesting of channels in a dense macrophyte
bed (Pellett 1995). The creation of deep
channels in dense macrophyte beds is ex¬
pected to increase edge habitat available to
fish and fish food items, thus improving the
habitat for both predator and prey popula¬
tions (Smith 1993 a and 1993£; Storlie et al.
1995). Fish Lake was selected as the study
site for this project because it contained a
large population of stunted panfish and a
slow-growing bass population, both of
which were suspected to be attributable, in
part, to the dense beds of Eurasian water-
milfoil (Myriophyllum spicatum L.) distrib¬
uted throughout the littoral zone of the lake.
Eurasian watermilfoil, first recognized in
Wisconsin in 1967 (Nichols and Mori
1971), has become widely naturalized in the
eastern half of the United States in recent
decades and now occurs in more than 70
Wisconsin lakes (Nichols 1994). Nichols
(1984) reported having found both M.
sibiricum Komarov (then called M. exal-
bescens Fern.) and M. spicatum in Fish Lake
in 1982, and a few specimens of the former
still exist.
The 1991-1994 period during which the
data reported herein were collected repre¬
sented the premanipulation phase of the
whole lake demonstration project. Quanti¬
tative surveys of the macrophyte community
were conducted once each year at the peak
of the growing season (late July to early Au¬
gust) in order to characterize the structure
and population dynamics of the macrophyte
community prior to manipulation of the
macrophyte bed. This paper summarizes the
findings resulting from the annual surveys
of the macrophyte community of Fish Lake.
Methods
Surveys of the floating-leafed and submersed
macrophytes of Fish Lake were conducted
30 July-2 August, 1991; 23-29 July, 1992;
21-27 July, 1993; and 21-26 July, 1994.
Macrophyte surveys were conducted using
SCUBA along 21 transects (19 transects in
1991) positioned perpendicular to shore and
spaced 200 m apart around the shoreline
(Figure la). Presence/absence data for all
macrophyte species were recorded within
circular quadrats (0.8 m2) spaced at 5 m in¬
tervals (linear distance) along each transect
from shore to a water depth of 6 m. Water
depth was recorded at each quadrat location.
The number of sample quadrats totaled 644,
732, 706, and 735 for 1991, 1992, 1993,
and 1994, respectively. These data were used
to compute frequencies of occurrence for
each species. Divers also visually assessed and
classified total plant standing crop at each
site as: rare = only a few sprigs of plant
present, sparse = less than 50% of the space
or water volume occupied by plants, or
dense = more than 50% of the space occu¬
pied by plant material (combined plant spe¬
cies). Samples for biomass determinations
were collected from a representative num¬
ber of sites within each subjective biomass
class (i.e., rare, sparse, or dense) by harvest¬
ing all plant shoots and stems within 0. 1 m2
quadrats (defined by a three-sided aluminum
frame) at the sediment-water interface. Bio¬
mass samples were collected from the first
and, thereafter, every third rare or sparse
quadrat encountered and at 10 m intervals
within the interior of uniformly dense mil-
112
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE: A quantitative survey of the macrophytes of Fish Lake
(A) FISH LAKE
DANE COUNTY, WISCONSIN
H
(b) MACROPHYTE SAMPLING
CELL AREA X AVG BIOMASS = STANDING CROP
Figure 1. (a) Distribution of macrophyte survey transects in Fish Lake, and (b) areal
cells defined by depth contours and boundaries between adjacent transects.
Volume 84 (1996)
1 13
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
foil stands. All samples were bagged and la¬
beled accordingly as to transect, quad, and
depth, and transported in a cooler to the
laboratory where samples were sorted by spe¬
cies and oven-dried for a minimum of 48
hrs at 106°C. Epiphytic growths and car¬
bonate deposits on the surfaces of macro¬
phytes in Fish Lake were generally very
limited, and therefore no effort was taken to
remove epiphytic deposits prior to analysis.
Roots were removed and excluded from the
samples during the sorting process. Dry
weight determinations were made to the
nearest 0.1 g using a top-loading balance.
Weights were corrected for tared weight of
bags, and data were transcribed onto the
original field sheets for entry into the com¬
puter. Taxonomy follows Gleason and
Cronquist (1991). Voucher specimens were
prepared, and their identities were verified
by S. Nichols of the Wisconsin Geological
and Natural History Survey, Madison.
Three specimens of M. spicatum and one of
M. sibiricum taken in 1990 and deposited
in the University of Wisconsin-Madison
Herbarium were rechecked to assure accu¬
racy by R. Couch and E. Nelson of Oral
Roberts University, specialists in this diffi¬
cult genus. Genetic DNA analysis (Furnier
et al. 1995) of four specimens of milfoil col¬
lected in 1994 from Fish Lake and two
specimens from adjacent Mud Lake revealed
all specimens were M. spicatum.
Absolute frequencies of occurrence rep¬
resent the percentage of quadrats in which
a species was present. Relative frequencies of
occurrence represent a taxon’s absolute fre¬
quency of occurrence divided by the sum of
absolute frequencies of occurrence of all taxa
present. Biomass data were reported as g m'2.
For those rare or sparse quads where biom¬
ass samples were not collected, we applied a
standard biomass value derived from the
mean of actual biomass measurements for
each class (the mean was computed after
eliminating the lowest and highest 10% ex¬
treme values for each subjective class). These
standard values ranged from 1 5 to 30 g m'2
for rare quadrats and 30 to 60 g m‘2 for
sparse quadrats, varying among years and
teams of divers. For dense quads within the
interior of the milfoil bed, we interpolated
values for intervening 5 m quadrats from
adjacent 10 m quadrat data. Detailed analy¬
sis of the macrophyte biomass data, both in¬
cluding or excluding the interpolated data,
demonstrated that the interpolated data did
not change the outcome of our statistical
comparisons.
In order to obtain an estimate of the total
standing crop of each species in the lake, the
lake bottom was separated into cells outlined
by depth contours and common boundaries
equidistant between adjacent transects (see
Figure lb). Within each cell, the average
biomass of all quads located therein was cal¬
culated (by species), and the resulting val¬
ues were subsequently multiplied by the area
of the cell to derive an estimate of the total
biomass of each species on an areal basis.
These estimates (i.e., individual cells) were
then summed by depth zone (e.g., 1.5— 3.0
m zone) or further compiled to derive an es¬
timate of total standing crop for each spe¬
cies for each depth zone or for the entire lake
for a given year. Statistical comparisons
among means were conducted using
ANOVA (SAS Institute 1989). Data analy¬
sis and statistical comparisons were made
using both the simple sample means
(untransformed and unweighted) and areally
weighted means. Statistical significance is re¬
ported at the p < 0.05 level.
Results and Discussion
Twenty-one species of submersed and float¬
ing-leafed plants were recorded during the
1 14
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE: A quantitative survey of the macrophytes of Fish Lake
current study, 1991—1994 (Table 1). With
the exception of a few scattered stems of cat¬
tail ( Typha sp.) and some grasses and sedges,
emergents were not routinely collected and
identified as part of this study of Fish Lake.
Among the floating-leafed plants, duckweeds
were routinely overlooked and, therefore,
were underrepresented in this survey. Eight
species of pondweed were identified during
the study, but it is likely that other narrow-
leafed forms were also present among sev¬
eral specimens of unidentified pondweeds
collected. Ten additional taxa, including the
stonewort, Chara sp., were also collected.
Northern watermilfoil (M. sibiricum , for¬
merly M. exalbescens) has virtually disap¬
peared concomitant with the invasion of
Eurasian watermilfoil (M. spicatum), but a
few specimens were located. Some of these
specimens may represent a hybrid, and rep¬
resentative specimens have been collected
and shipped to the University of Minnesota
for isozyme analysis. Coincidentally, Nichols
(1994) reports that the first confirmed speci¬
men of M. spicatum in Wisconsin was col¬
lected from Fish Lake in 1967. Bidens
(-Megalodonta) beckii Torr. was observed in
bloom in 1990 at 2-3 m depths (pers.
obser.) along the south shore but was not
present in the biomass surveys of 1 99 1 —
1994.
Milfoil
Milfoil dominated the plant community of
Fish Lake during 1991-1994, both in terms
of relative frequency of occurrence and bio¬
mass (Table 2). The absolute frequency of
occurrence of milfoil in the 0-6 m littoral
zone of Fish Lake remained relatively con¬
stant (Table 3); however, the overall fre¬
quency of occurrence of sites with dense mil¬
foil (> 60 g nr2) declined from 80% to 72%,
and sites with very dense milfoil growth
Volume 84 (1996)
115
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 2. Relative importance of dominant macrophytes in Fish Lake based on relative
frequency of occurrence and relative dry weight biomass.
Relative Frequency of Occurrence Relative Biomass
tr. = trace
Table 3. Absolute frequencies of occur¬
rence of milfoil by stand density (limited
to 0-6 m zone).
(> 300 g m'2) declined by half from 68% to
34% (Figure 2). The frequency of occur¬
rence of dense milfoil sites declined at shal¬
low-water stations and increased at deeper
stations during the same period (Table 4).
This may have been an artifact of a rise in
the water level during 1992-1993. The fre¬
quency of occurrence of unvegetated sites
did not change substantially during the
study (4%, 4%, 3%, and 3%, 1991-1994,
respectively).
Total milfoil biomass in Fish Lake was
very high, averaging 420 g m 2 in vegetated
portions of the littoral zone (445 g m'2 within
milfoil stands). Large fluctuations in biom¬
ass occurred among years (Table 5). Milfoil
biomass decreased significantly in 1992, re¬
covered in 1993, and declined dramatically
in 1994. The decrease in milfoil biomass
from 1991 to 1994 (Table 5) accounted for
the significant decline in relative biomass of
milfoil (Table 2). Irrespective of the biomass
measurement (i.e., all vegetated sites or mil¬
foil sites only), average milfoil biomass de¬
clined by 50%, 49%, and 45% from 1991
to 1994 using vegetated, milfoil, or areally
weighted estimates, respectively. Milfoil-
stand biomass (sites where milfoil was
present) declined from 555 g m 2 in 1991 to
283 g m'2 in 1994. This reduction corre¬
sponded to a decline from 532 g m"2 to 268
g m 2 during the same time period including
all vegetated sites. The contribution of mil¬
foil biomass to total standing crop declined
from 93% to 77% (Table 6). Despite these
substantial declines, milfoil remained domi¬
nant in terms of relative biomass throughout
the pretreatment period (Table 2).
Milfoil formed a dense, primarily mono-
typic bed at water depths from 1.5 m to 4
m in Fish Lake. Maximum biomass occurred
at the 1.5 to 3 m depth interval (Figure 3),
with slightly reduced levels at the 3 to 4.5
m depth interval. Inasmuch as the 1.5 to 3
m depth interval represented 58% of the
lake’s littoral zone, relatively small changes
in biomass occurring in this zone could have
large impacts on total standing crop. Only
a few sprigs of milfoil grow beyond 4.5 m
in Fish Lake. Large declines in milfoil bio-
116
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE: A quantitative survey of the macrophytes of Fish Lake
Figure 2. Mean dry weight biomass of milfoil across all vegetated sites, all sites with
milfoil present, sites with dense milfoil (> 60 g nr2), sites with very dense milfoil (> 300
g rrv2), and areally weighted estimates for the entire littoral zone (0-6 m) by year.
mass occurred during 1992 and 1994 in
both the 1.5 to 3 m and the 3 to 4.5 m
zones.
Milfoil biomass was evenly distributed
among shoreline regions during the first year
of the study (Figure 4 and Table 7). Fluc¬
tuations in milfoil biomass during subse¬
quent years were not consistent across all lo¬
cations in Fish Lake. Milfoil biomass in the
South Shore bed declined in 1992 and re¬
mained low through 1994 (87% decline).
Average milfoil biomass actually increased
slightly during the cool summer of 1992 in
the SW Bay bed (and remained quite high
during 1994). Milfoil biomass declined by
73% in the North Shore bed from 1991 to
1994 (560 g m 2 to 153 g m'2). Declines in
the other beds from 1991 to 1994 were 60%
in the NE Beach, 43% in the West Shore,
and 36% in the SE Shore.
Volume 84 (1996)
1 17
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 3. Milfoil biomass (mean ± 1 SE) by depth zone and year.
Overall, the total standing crop of all mac¬
rophytes in Fish Lake declined by 32% from
1991 to 1994 (Table 6). While the absolute
frequency of occurrence of milfoil remained
relatively stable during this time, average
milfoil biomass declined dramatically. The
lowered biomass observed in 1992 may have
been related to the cool and cloudy weather
experienced in the area that summer (mean
monthly temperatures were 3.4°F below nor¬
mal, and only 44% sunshine was available
for July - NOAA 1992). Milfoil biomass re¬
covered in all areas except along the South
Shore in 1993, thus supporting the climatic
effect hypothesis. However, in 1994 all ar¬
eas of the milfoil bed suffered severe losses.
In general, the milfoil bed appears to have
undergone a thinning (i.e., decreased stem
densities) rather than experiencing either a
reduction in stature (i.e., plant height and
individual mass) or reduction in areal distri¬
bution. The latter is supported by the fact
that, although the frequency of occurrence
of dense and very dense milfoil stands de-
1 18
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE: A quantitative survey of the macrophytes of Fish Lake
Table 4. Distribution of sites with dense (> 60 g rrr2) milfoil biomass by depth zone
(percent of sites containing dense milfoil). Data restricted to 0-4.5 m zone; only very
small amounts of milfoil grow beyond 4.5 m.
aNo estimate of variance is possible.
Table 6. Estimated total standing crop of macrophytes within the littoral zone (0-6 m)
of Fish Lake during 1991-1994. Data represent dry weight biomass X 103 kg.
"■Transects correspond to Figure la.
bTransects F and N missing for 1991.
Volume 84 (1996)
1 19
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
FISH LAKE, DANE COUNTY, Wl
800
700
— 600
"E
3
< n 500
co
O
CQ
400 H
300
200
100
0
Figure 4. Distribution of milfoil biomass (mean ± 1 SE) by shoreline region and year.
dined, the overall frequency of occurrence
of sites with at least some milfoil present re¬
mained unchanged during 1991-1994.
While we can not dismiss altogether the pos¬
sibility that changes in the robustness of mil¬
foil plants on an individual basis may have
occurred, visual observations by divers and
others suggest that the height, degree of
branching, and general morphometry of sur¬
viving plants were not substantially different
during 1994 than during preceding years.
The major observation made by divers was
simply that fewer plants were present. This
observation is further supported by analysis
120
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE: A quantitative survey of the macrophytes of Fish Lake
Figure 5. Changes in the distribution of milfoil beds in Fish Lake from 1991 to 1995
based on a combination of aerial photography and biomass transect data. Depth con¬
tour lines are shown as solid lines for 10 ft intervals (dashed lines represent 5 ft and 55
ft intervals).
Volume 84 (1996)
121
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
of aerial photographs taken each summer.
Estimated coverage of milfoil based on aerial
images (Figure 5) decreased from 75% of the
littoral zone (100 acres) in 1991 to approxi¬
mately 58% (78 acres) in 1994. This trend
continued in 1995. These reductions corre¬
spond quite closely with observed reductions
in frequency of occurrence at some interme¬
diate level of milfoil (see Table 3) between
60 and 300 g m'2.
Native taxa
Coontail ( Ceratoophyllum demersum L.)
ranked a distant second to milfoil in respect
to relative importance (Table 2). Absolute
frequency of occurrence ranged from 20 to
39% (Table 8), with a rather substantial dip
occurring in 1993, which was due primarily
to a decrease in the distribution of coontail.
Where coontail occurred, its biomass re¬
mained stable or actually increased slightly
in 1994 (n.s.,/> > 0.05), particularly in co¬
occurrence with milfoil (Table 8 — increase
was significant within stands of dense mil¬
foil, p < 0.05). In general, coontail biomass
was inversely related to milfoil biomass.
Coontail was most commonly found at, and
just beyond, the deep water edge of the mil¬
foil bed, where it became the dominant
plant.
White water lily ( Nymphaea odorata
Aiton) and water shield ( Brasenia schreberi
J. F. Gmelin) were locally abundant and im¬
portant contributors to total plant biomass
(Table 9). Both species were dominant rem¬
nants of the native plant community, with
absolute frequencies of occurrence ranging
between 2.6 and 4.4% per year. Water shield
produced greater levels of biomass than
white water lily, reaching a maximum
(within stand average) of 129 g m'2 in 1994.
Both species were confined predominantly
to the western end of the lake.
Although bushy pond weed ( Najas flexilis
(Willd.) Rostk. &: Schmidt) occurred more
frequently than either white water lily or wa¬
ter shield, it never comprised more than 1%
of total plant biomass due to its small stat¬
ure. Other than waterweed (. Elodea cana¬
densis Michx.) (1—3% frequency of occur¬
rence), no other native taxa achieved any
degree of relative importance. Total native
taxa occurrences ranged from 4.4% to 6.7%
(Table 9).
Conclusions
The dominant macrophyte in the lake, Eur¬
asian watermilfoil, appears to be in the pro¬
cess of crashing. Similar population crashes
have occurred in other nearby lakes (Nichols
1994, Nichols and Lathrop 1994, Trebitz,
et al. 1993), but exact causes for these popu¬
lation crashes were not identified. Several
factors have been implicated in milfoil de¬
clines elsewhere, including nutrient deple¬
tion or toxin accumulations in sediments;
attacks by pathogens, parasites, or herbi¬
vores; interspecific competition with other
plants; and climatic variations, to name a few
(see Carpenter 1980, Nichols 1994, Smith
and Barko 1990). Declines generally occur
within 10 to 15 years after reaching the
heavy infestation stage or dominance (Smith
and Barko 1990). Because milfoil has been
a nuisance in Fish Lake since the mid-1970s
(pers. obser.), a population crash appears
overdue. The current data suggest that a
crash is in progress. In the case of Fish Lake,
we have documented a fairly large popula¬
tion of an aquatic weevil, Euhrychiopsis
lecontei (Dietz), which has been associated
with milfoil crashes elsewhere (Creed and
Sheldon 1993, 1994, 1995; Sheldon and
Creed 1995; Spenser 1995). Observations in
1995 suggest that the milfoil bed in Fish
Lake has continued to decline. It is not clear
122
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE: A quantitative survey of the macrophytes of Fish Lake
Table 8. Absolute frequency of occurrence and biomass of coontail during 1991-1994.
Data represent percentages for frequencies of occurrence and means ± 1 SE for bio¬
mass (given in g nr2) within 0-6 m.
Table 9. Frequency of occurrence and dry weight biomass of water shield and white
water lily during 1991-1994. Frequencies of occurrence represent percent of vegetated
sites containing each taxa. Biomass means ± 1 SE in g nr2 represent within stand data
(i.e., average at sites where species was present).
just what impact this decline will have on
the ongoing manipulation project. Thinning
of extensive areas of the formerly dense mil¬
foil bed may be expected to decrease habi¬
tat cover for macroinvertebrate prey and
protective cover for small bluegills. The an¬
ticipated recovery of native flora may com¬
pensate for the loss in milfoil habitat.
Postmanipulation studies will continue to
monitor changes in the macrophyte commu¬
nity during the next several years, including
measuring the response of the native flora
(and fishery) to the channel harvesting (or
to the natural decline in the milfoil).
Acknowledgments
This study summarizes what perhaps repre¬
sents the largest survey of macrophyte bio¬
mass undertaken in the state of Wisconsin.
I wish to acknowledge the able assistance of
the following people: Divers — D. Marshall,
J. Unmuth, C. Storlie, P. Garrison, K.
Scheidegger, K. Cady, and R. Piette; field
or laboratory assistance - T. Schenck, N.
Aberg, T. Zipperer, M. Wessels, G. Wegner,
G. Quinn, J. Leverance, M. Sorge, D.
Wambach, B. Halverson, K. Terpstra, D.
Dreikosen, L. Endres, J. Canon, R. Last, and
Volume 84 (1996)
123
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
G. Gotsch; aerial photography — J. Unmuth
and G. Stacey; administrative support - T.
Pellett, M. Staggs, D. Knauer, and R.
Dumke; statistical advice and review — P.
Rasmussen; and D. Helsel, J. Unmuth, two
anonymous reviewers, and the Editor for
comments and corrections to this manu¬
script. Thanks also is extended to the Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-Center for Limnology
for use of their drying oven. Funding for this
study was provided in part by Federal Aid
in Sportfish Restoration Act, project WI-F-
95-R, and the Wisconsin Department of
Natural Resources.
Works Cited
Carpenter, S. R. 1980. The decline of Myrio-
phyllum spicatum in a eutrophic Wiscon¬
sin lake. Canadian Journal of Botony
58:527-35.
Creed, R. P., Jr., and S. P. Sheldon. 1993.
The effect of feeding by a North Ameri¬
can weevil, Euhrychiopsis lecontei , on Eur¬
asian watermilfoil (Myriophyllum spica¬
tum). Aquatic Botony 45:245-5 6.
Creed, R. P., Jr., and S. P. Sheldon. 1994.
The effect of two herbivorous insect larvae
on Eurasian watermilfoil. Journal of
Aquatic Plant Management 32:21-26.
Creed, R. P., Jr., and S. P. Sheldon. 1995.
Weevils and watermilfoil: did a North
American herbivore cause the decline of an
exotic plant? Ecological Applications
5(4): 1 1 13-21.
Furnier, G. R., J. P. Olfelt, and A. M. Stolz.
1995. Genetic variation in Eurasian water¬
milfoil: report submitted as deliverables
C2.4.1 and C3.1.1. Report to Charles
Welling, Eurasian Watermilfoil Program,
Ecological Services Section, Box 25, Min¬
nesota Department of Natural Resources,
500 Lafayette Rd., St. Paul, MN 55155-
4025. 31 October 1995. 24 pp.
Gleason, H. A., and A. Cronquist. 1991.
Manual of vascular plants of northeastern
United States and adjacent Canada . Willard
Grant Press, Boston, MA. 810 pp.
Nichols, S. A. 1984. Phytochemical and mor¬
phological differentiation between Myrio¬
phyllum spicatum L. and Myriophyllum
exalbescens Fern in two Wisconsin lakes.
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Sciences , Arts and Letters 72: 1 53—56.
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and declines of submersed macrophytes for
the Upper Great Lakes region. Lake and
Reservoir Management 10(1 ): 29-33 .
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tural impacts on macrophytes in the
Yahara lakes since the late 1800s. Aquatic
Botony 47:225-47.
Nichols, S. A., and S. Mori. 1971. The lit¬
toral macrophyte vegetation of Lake
Wingra. Transactions of the Wisconsin Acad¬
emy of Sciences , Arts and Letters 59:1 07-1 9.
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Admin¬
istration. 1992. Local climatological data:
monthly summary for Dane County re¬
gional airport, Madison, WI.
Pellett, T. D. 1995. Fishery and aquatic com¬
munity responses to mechanical harvesting
of aquatic macrophytes: evaluating edge ef¬
fect. Research Project Proposal Project
Summary, Study RS519, Wisconsin De¬
partment of Natural Resources, Monona,
WI 53716. 19 pp.
SAS Institute, Inc. 1989. SAS User’s guide:
statistics. SAS Institute, Inc.
Sheldon, S. P., and R. P. Creed, Jr. 1995. Use
of a native insect as a biological control for
an introduced weed. Ecological Applications
5(4): 1122-32.
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ogy of Eurasian Watermilfoil. Journal of
Aquatic Plant Management 28:55-64.
Smith, K. D. 1993 a. Vegetation-open water
interface and the predator-prey interaction
124
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE: A quantitative survey of the macrophytes of Fish Lake
between largemouth bass and bluegills: a
field experiment. Michigan Department of
Natural Resources, Fisheries Division Re¬
search Report No. 2000. 30 pp.
Smith, K. D. 1993 b. Vegetation-open water
interface and the predator-prey interaction
between largemouth bass and bluegills: an
encounter model. Michigan Department of
Natural Resources, Fisheries Division Re¬
search Report No. 2001. 36 pp.
Spenser, L. 1993. Unusual weevil lays lake
weed to waste. Chicago Tribune, Tuesday,
July 25, 1995. Section 1, pg 8.
Storlie, C. FI., T. D. Pellett, D. J. Sloey, and
J. M. L. Unmuth. 1995. Some macro¬
phyte, invertebrate, and fish associations in
a Myriophyllum spicatum lake: will increas¬
ing the “edge” change anything? Pp. 263—
72 in U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Wa¬
terways Experiment Station. Proceedings,
29th Annual Meeting, APCRP. Misc. Pa¬
per A-95-3. 311 pp.
Trebitz, A. S., S. A. Nichols, S. R. Carpen¬
ter, and R. C. Lathrop. 1993. Patterns of
vegetation change in Lake Wingra follow¬
ing a Myriophyllum spicatum decline.
Aquatic Botony 46:325-40.
Richard A. Lillie is a research scientist at the
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources,
Bureau of Research, Monona. Address: 1350
Femrite Drive, Monona, WI 53716-3736
Volume 84 (1996)
125
Richard A. Lillie and Rebecca S. Isenring
Comparisons among aquatic insect
communities of streams draining
the Baraboo Range
Abstract Aquatic insects were inventoried in the spring of 1992 as a means
of classifying 24 streams draining the Baraboo Hills. A combina¬
tion of standard kick sampling in riffles with a D-frame net and
additional searches of pools produced a diverse assemblage of
aquatic organisms , from which we identified 18 mayfly , 12
stonefly, and 25 caddisfly genera or species, in addition to numer¬
ous other macroinvertebrates. Estimates of water quality based on
the arthropods (and their individual tolerance to organic pollu¬
tion) found in each stream ranged from excellent (eight streams),
very good (five streams), good (eight streams), to fair (three
streams). Biological richness of insect fauna as estimated by the
total number of distinct taxa present in each stream (mixture of
taxonomic levels) ranged from extremely high (59 in Otter Creek)
to low (14 in Hoot Owl Creek). Based on the distribution and
numerical abundance of mayflies, stoneflies, and caddisflies,
streams were classified into one of four clusters or complexes. These
clusters were clearly dependent upon geographic location within
the Baraboo Hills, and chiefly divided according to glaciated and
unglaciated cover.
Only 2 of 11 aquatic insects listed as rare, endangered, threat¬
ened, or of special concern that have been previously collected from
the Baraboo Hills region were collected during the study. The
stonefly, Zealeuctra narfi, was found in Otter Creek, Pine Hollow
Creek, and Leopold Pines Creek. Six specimens tf/Wormaldia
moestus, a caddisfly, were discovered in Pine Glen Creek.
Inasmuch as aquatic insect communities are affected by water
chemistry and stream water chemistry is largely influenced by wa¬
tershed land use or geology, examination of aquatic insect com¬
munities can be a useful means to detect differences among wa¬
tersheds or to monitor changes occurring within watersheds. The
relatively distinct differences as noted in this study emphasize the
importance of protecting watersheds with different geological char¬
acteristics within the Baraboo Range.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 84 (1996)
127
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
The Baraboo Range, identified as the
wooded, hilly region of Columbia and
Sauk counties, is created by the Baraboo syn¬
cline (Brown 1986). The Precambrian bed¬
rock of the syncline consists of very resistant
quartzite. The eastern portions of the
Baraboo Range are covered by a mantle of
glacial till, marking the western edge of the
Green Bay lobe of recent glaciation (Attig
and Clayton 1990). The Baraboo Range, or
“Baraboo Hills,” contains the single largest
remaining contiguous stand of southern up¬
land forest in the state (The Nature Con¬
servancy, fact sheet, undated). The Baraboo
Hills serves as a refugium for many species
of birds, mammals, reptiles, and amphibians
that are found only infrequently elsewhere
in the state.
Streams draining the Baraboo Range har¬
bor a number of aquatic insects that are
rarely found in other collections. The
aquatic insect community of Otter Creek
has been extensively studied over the past
several decades by Dr. W. Hilsenhoff, UW-
Madison Department of Entomology, and
his students (Flowers and Hilsenhoff 1978,
Hilsenhoff, this issue, Narf and Hilsenhoff
1974, Steven and Hilsenhoff 1984, and W.
Hilsenhoff, pers. comm.). Indeed, it is prob¬
ably true that Otter Creek is the most ex¬
tensively studied stream in Wisconsin in re¬
gard to aquatic insects. The caddisflies
(Trichoptera) of Parfrey’s Glen Creek also
have been thoroughly examined (Karl and
Hilsenhoff 1979), and Dr. W. Hilsenhoff
evaluated three streams located on the Bad¬
ger Ordinance property in 1987, including
Pine Hollow (=Pine Glen Creek in this
study) (Hilsenhoff, unpubl. manuscript).
Aside from these extensive efforts, relatively
little is known concerning the aquatic com¬
munities of other streams draining the
Baraboo Hills. The objective of this study
was to inventory and compare the insect
communities of 24 streams draining the
Baraboo Range with respect to the streams’
position in the landscape, specifically drain¬
age aspect (i.e., north-south drainage expo¬
sure) and location relative to glaciated-
unglaciated (i.e., east- west) gradients.
Methods
Macroinvertebrate samples were collected
from 24 streams draining the Baraboo Range
(Figure 1, Table 1) during the period 18-
25 April 1992. All streams north of the
drainage divide of the South Range drain to
the Baraboo River, which flows to the east
and enters the Wisconsin River south of Por¬
tage. All streams south of the divide drain
to the Wisconsin River either directly or
through Otter Creek or Honey Creek drain¬
age systems. Two distinct sets of samples
were collected at each site. Samples for bi¬
otic index (BI) calculations were collected
from riffles or snags with a kick-net by meth¬
ods established by Hilsenhoff (1987). A sec¬
ond set of samples was collected from riffles
and pools with a kick-net or by hand-pick¬
ing of various microhabitats (e.g., seeps,
wood, sand, and silt). Organisms captured
in this latter set of samples were not used in
BI calculations, but rather were used to
supplement the taxa listings for each stream.
Sampling effort was approximately the same
in all streams. All macroinvertebrate samples
were preserved in 95% ethanol. Stream
width and maximum depth were estimated
at each sampling location, and field measure¬
ments of pH and conductivity were made
with electronic meters. Stream length (ag¬
gregate of main and tributary segments) was
estimated from digitized maps using Sigma-
Scan/Image image analysis software (Jandel
Scientific 1993). Biotic index samples were
processed at the University of Wisconsin-
Stevens Point under a contract with The
128
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE and ISENRING: Insect communities of the Baraboo Hills
NORTH SOUTH WEST
SC SKILLET CREEK
PC PINE CREEK
LQ LARUE QUARRY
HO HOOT OWL CREEK
51 SEELEY CREEK it 1
52 SEELEY CREEK it 2
53 SEELEY CREEK it 3
SOUTH SOUTH WEST
BH BORNES HOLLOW
HD HEMLOCK DRAW
PE PINE HOLLOW
PN PAN HOLLOW
MV MISTY VALLEY
LP LEOPOLD PINES
OC OTTER CREEK (2)
PG PINE GLEN CREEK
NORTH NORTH RANGE
LC LEECH CREEK
NORTH SOUTH EAST
BB BABBLING BROOK
113 HWY 113 CREEK
BC BOULDER CREEK
RC ROWLEY CREEK
CH CAT HOLLOW
MC MANLEY CREEK
BARABOO HILLS
SAMPLING STATIONS
Figure 1. Location of 24 Baraboo Hills streams (Sauk and Columbia counties — see in¬
set) relative to north-south drainage aspect as denoted by the dotted line (running from
left to right) and the western advance of the glacial terminal moraine of the Green Bay
lobe (after Attig and Clayton 1990) as denoted by the dashed line (running from top to
bottom). Devil’s Lake is shown adjacent to Babbling Brook Creek (BB) for purposes of
orientation.
Nature Conservancy (TNC) in accordance
with standard methods established by
Hilsenhoff (1987). Under this procedure,
only the first 100+ organisms (a minimum
of 100 is required) encountered during a
random selection from among all organisms
present in the sample are actually counted,
identified, and used in computing the biotic
index score. Consequently, some of the rarer
insects may be missed. In an attempt to pro¬
vide a more complete taxa listing for the
Baraboo Hills streams, we supplemented the
taxa list derived from the BI samples with
additional insects from pools and other mi¬
crohabitats. This set of samples was pro¬
cessed completely by the senior author for
mayflies (Ephemeroptera), stoneflies (Ple-
coptera), and caddisflies (Trichoptera). Iden¬
tifications in these three orders were made
to the lowest taxonomic level permitted by
Volume 84 (1996)
129
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130
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE and I SEN RING: Insect communities of the Baraboo Hills
available keys (as listed by Hilsenhoff 1995).
Identifications of specimens representing
other insect orders generally ceased at the
family or genus level. Clams, snails, amphi-
pods, and isopods were also collected and
identified, but are not included in this re¬
port. The taxa lists for the 24 streams rep¬
resent a compilation of both the BI samples
and the supplementary samples. EPT taxa
richness refers to the total number of differ¬
ent taxa (combination of taxonomic levels)
represented by the orders Ephemeroptera,
Plecoptera, and Trichoptera. These three
orders are generally considered sensitive wa¬
ter-quality indicators, where higher values
generally suggest better water quality
(Plafkin et al. 1989). Total taxa richness re¬
fers to the total number of different taxa rep¬
resented by all aquatic orders present. It
should be noted that low EPT and low to¬
tal taxa ratings may naturally occur in small,
pristine headwater streams (Plafkin et al.
1989).
In order to examine spatial relationships
among streams according to east-west orien¬
tation (i.e., glaciated versus unglaciated) and
north-south aspect of drainages, streams
were assigned to one of four groups (Figure
1). Leech Creek, which was the only stream
representative of the north range, was not
grouped with the other streams. Similarities
of insect communities among streams were
evaluated on the basis of the relative abun¬
dance of mayflies, stoneflies, and caddisflies
using the Index of Biotic Similarity (Pink-
ham and Pearson 1976, Pearson and
Pinkham 1992) and BIOSIM1 software
(Gonzales et al. 1993). Data size limitations
with computer software precluded analysis
of the entire community. Consequently we
chose to base our comparisons using the
most sensitive groups (EPT taxa) for which
we had the most detailed data. Similarity
comparisons were made using a combination
of abundances of EPT taxa found in BI and
supplemental samples. Similarities were
tested both including and excluding rare taxa
(i.e., </> five specimens).
Results and Discussion
Streams included in the survey ranged from
small, first-order streams, 2—3 ft wide and
less than 1 ft deep, to third order streams,
over 10 ft wide and up to 2 ft deep (Table
2). Rowley Creek had the most extensive
drainage system, consisting of over 8 miles
of contributing stream lengths. Excluding
Leech Creek, mean width and depth of
streams did not differ substantially among
the four regions. Conductivity, which
ranged from 30 to 340 JLlmhos cm'1, and pH,
which varied from 6.4 to 8.6 units, differed
substantially among streams. Conductivities
and pH were much reduced in streams
draining the unglaciated NSW and SSW re¬
gions (Figure 2). Drainage aspect did not
have a significant influence on either pH or
conductivity within the Baraboo Hills.
This study was limited intentionally to
represent the fauna present during a very
short time period in the spring of one year.
A more exhaustive survey, conducted at dif¬
ferent times of the year, naturally would
have produced a greater taxa listing. For ex¬
ample, Steven and Hilsenhoff (1984) re¬
ported “a minimum of 56 species of cad¬
disflies live in Otter Creek” with 10-14
more species listed as possibly developing in
the stream. This value compares with only
12 caddisfly taxa found in Otter Creek in
this study. Much of this disparity is likely
due to the fact that the former study repre¬
sented a year long summary that included
collected and reared adults. Adult taxonomy
is more complete than larval taxonomy; keys
to larvae have not been developed for many
aquatic species. Consequently, because we
Volume 84 (1996)
131
Region Code Stream Name Width Depth Length Order pH Conductivity Substrates Biotic Index Scored
(ft.) (miles) (miles) (Units) famhos cm'1) (Codes3 by %)
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132
TRANSACTIONS
aSubstrate Codes: K = bedrock, R = rubble, B = boulders, G = gravel, S = sand, T = silt, N.D. = no data.
bAfter Hilsenhoff (1987): water quality ratings “excellent” = < 3.50, “very good” = 3.50-4.50, “good" = 4.50-5.50, “fair” = 5.50-6.50.
LILLIE and ISENRING: Insect communities of the Baraboo Hills
BARABOO HILLS STREAMS
pH Units
10 -
NN NSE SSE NSW SSW
REGION
Figure 2. Mean pH (in pH units) and conductivities (in jimhos cm1) of streams within
different regions of the Baraboo Hills.
Volume 84 (1996)
133
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
had only larvae to work with, our taxa lists
likely were incomplete. Although our mea¬
sure of taxa richness (representing the April
community) is not comparable to more ex¬
tensive examinations of stream fauna, rela¬
tive comparisons of taxa richness among the
24 streams are informative. Total taxa rich¬
ness ranged from as few as 14 in Hoot Owl
Creek to as many as 59 in Otter Creek (Fig¬
ure 3). EPT richness ranged from a mini¬
mum of 2 in Hoot Owl Creek to a maxi¬
mum of 32 in Otter Creek. The average
Baraboo Hills stream, excluding Otter
Creek, contained 22 total taxa and 9 EPT
taxa. Neither EPT nor total taxa richness
appeared to be related to the spatial position
of the streams in the Baraboo range. The
eastern, glaciated streams (SSE and NSE)
generally tended to support more taxa than
the western, unglaciated streams, but the dif¬
ferences were not significant. The SSE
streams had more caddisflies (mean 7.7 taxa)
than other streams, and the SSW streams
had a greater number of stonefly taxa (mean
3.9 taxa) than the remaining stream groups.
The latter difference was due, in part, to the
influence of Otter Creek (without Otter
Creek the SSW streams had a mean of 3.0
stonefly taxa). Leech Creek contained only
caddisflies (among EPT taxa) with no may¬
flies or stoneflies present, and Manley Creek
contained only one mayfly taxon and eight
caddisfly taxa (Table 3). Not coincidentally
perhaps, the four streams containing the
fewest EPT taxa were located in the NSW
region. No obvious patterns were evident in
the relationships between taxa richness (ei¬
ther EPT or total) and stream physical char¬
acteristics, including stream order, width,
depth, and aggregated stream length.
Water quality of the Baraboo Hills
streams, based on BI values, ranged from
excellent to only fair (Table 2). In the
Hilsenhoff Biotic Index system (Hilsenhoff
1987), the lower the BI value, the better the
water quality is. More than half of the
streams received a rating of very good or ex¬
cellent. Rowley Creek (BI = 2.44) ranked
best among the 24 streams, while Seeley
Creek # 1 (BI = 6.20) had the worst rank¬
ing. Water quality (Bis) was not influenced
substantially by stream position (Figure 4).
However, the three streams with the lowest
ratings (fair) were located in the unglaciated
western end of the Baraboo Hills, where ag¬
ricultural land use was high and nutrient in¬
puts would be assumed to be higher than
predominantly forested watersheds (Panuska
and Lillie 1995). As a group, the Baraboo
Hills streams have a much better rating than
the majority of southern Wisconsin streams.
The EPT fauna in the 24 Baraboo Hills
streams were quite diverse (Table 3). Com¬
bining the data for all streams, 18 mayfly,
12 stonefly, and 25 caddisfly taxa were
present during the sampling period of late
April 1992. EPT fauna generally exhibited
a high degree of similarity among streams
(Figure 5). Four distinct complexes were evi¬
dent based on the cluster analysis (Figure 6).
The first complex was composed of three
adjacent glaciated streams located at the far
eastern edge of the Baraboo Hills. These in¬
cluded Rowley Creek, Boulder Creek, and
Durward’s Glen Creek. These streams were
more similar to one another in their EPT
fauna than to all other Baraboo Hills
streams. These streams had excellent water
quality ratings and were characterized by
Baetis tricaudatus Dodds, Ephemerella
subvaria McDunnough, Isoperla signata
Banks, Ceratopsyche slossonae (Banks), and
Neophylax spp. The second complex con¬
sisted of another set of nearby eastern glaci¬
ated streams, namely Parfrey’s Glen Creek,
Manley Creek, Leech Creek, and the un¬
named creek that crosses Hwy 113 south of
Baraboo. These streams drained glaciated
134
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE and I SEN RING: Insect communities of the Baraboo Hills
BARABOO HILLS RICHNESS
STREAM
OTTER CREEK
HEMLOCK DRAW
BORNES HOLLOW
SKILLET CREEK
SEELEY CK #3
BOULDER CREEK
DURWARD’S GLEN
HWY 1 13 CREEK
PAN HOLLOW
SEELEY CK #1
LEECH CREEK
PINE CREEK
BABBLING BROOK
PINE GLEN
PINE HOLLOW CK
LEOPOLD PINES
PARFREY’S GLEN
MISTY VALLEY
SEELEY CK #2
ROWLEY CREEK
MANLEY CREEK
CAT HOLLOW
LA RUE QUARRY
HOOT OWL CK
0
10 20 30 40 50 60
TAXA RICHNESS
Figure 3. Total taxa richness and EPT taxa richness (dark bars) in 24 Baraboo Hills
streams during April 1992. Streams are ranked from highest to lowest richness.
portions of the Baraboo Hills and were char¬
acterized by lower numbers of Ceratopsyche
slossonae and Cheumatopsyche spp., with rela¬
tively little else in common. These streams
exhibited a wide range in Bis and exhibited
only a moderate taxa richness, and yet they
were more similar to one another than to
other Baraboo Hills streams. Skillet Creek,
Bornes Hollow Creek (a Honey Creek tribu¬
tary), and Seeley Creek # 3 formed a third
Volume 84 (1996)
135
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
—
BARABOO HILLS BIOTIC INDEX
STREAM
DURWARD’S GLEN
MANLEY CREEK
PARFREY’S GLEN
ROWLEY CREEK
BOULDER CREEK
HWY 1 13 CREEK
BABBLING BROOK
CAT HOLLOW
LEECH CREEK
SEELEY CK # 2
SEELEY CK # 3
PINE CREEK
HOOT OWL CK
SKILLET CK
LA RUE QUARRY
SEELEY CK # 1
MISTY VALLEY
OTTER CK (DOWN)
PINE HOLLOW
PAN HOLLOW
OTTER CK (UP)
PINE GLEN
LEOPOLD PINES
BORNES HOLLOW
HEMLOCK DRAW
0 12 3 4 5 6 7
BIOTIC INDEX RATING
Figure 4. Biotic index values for 24 Baraboo Hills streams arranged by order within
regions (SSE, NSE, NN, NSW, and SSW), based on April 1992 data (note: Otter Creek
upstream and downstream data are reported separately).
136
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE and I SEN RING: Insect communities of the Baraboo Hills
HOOT OWL HOLLOW
LA RUE QUARRY
SEELEY CK # 2
LEOPOLD PIIMES
PINE GLEN
CAT HOLLOW
PINE HOLLOW
PAN HOLLOW
MISTY VALLEY
SEELEY CK # 1
BABBLING BROOK
PINE CREEK
MANLEY CREEK
LEECH CREEK
HWY 133 CK
PARFREY S GLEN
SEELEY CK # 3
BORNES HOLLOW
SKILLET CREEK
ROWLEY CREEK
DURWARD’S GLEN
BOULDER CRREK
HEMLOCK DRAW
OTTER CREEK (Dn)
SIMILAR . . . =* DISSIMILAR
1.0 0.5 0.0
% _ . _ _ — - - - - - - -JL. - - - - - 1
Similarity among Streams
Based on Mayflies, Stoneflies,
& Caddisflies
Figure 5. Cluster dendogram created by BIOSIM1 (Gonzales et al. 1993) showing de¬
gree of similarity among 24 Baraboo Hills streams based on the relative abundances
of mayflies, stoneflies, and caddisflies in each stream.
complex of streams that may be best char¬
acterized as having good water quality, but
containing a slightly greater amount of sand-
silt substrate than is typical for the Baraboo
Hills. The insect community in this group
of streams was characterized by the presence
of Caen is spp. (a mayfly genus that is often
associated with silts and sands), along with
Stenonema vicarium (Walker), leptophlebiid
mayflies, and Chimarra aterrima Hagen. A
large group of 12 streams, among which ex¬
isted many strong subassociations, formed a
fourth complex (Figure 6). These streams
exhibited a wide gradient in water quality
Volume 84 (1996)
137
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 6. Complexes of streams in the Baraboo Hills based on similarities in springtime
EPT fauna as determined by analysis of BI0SIM1 results shown in Figure 5.
and were predominantly positioned in west¬
ern unglaciated watersheds. One eastern
stream, Cat Hollow Creek, a tributary to
Rowley Creek, appeared to be an anomaly.
The sampling site on Cat Hollow Creek was
just downstream from a heavily grazed pas¬
ture. Organic loadings from the pasture may
have contributed to its higher than average
BI for the region and partially explain its dis¬
similar (to the adjacent streams) EPT fauna.
Quite interestingly, this large cluster of
streams also included Babbling Brook Creek
and Pine Glen Creek which, although drain¬
ing watersheds adjacent to streams from
complex # 2, are also unglaciated. Therefore,
the EPT fauna clearly differentiate between
the glaciated-unglaciated divide. This find¬
ing is consistent with other studies that in¬
dicate the productive capacity of streams
may be a direct function of water chemis¬
try, which is largely controlled by a combi¬
nation of geology and land use (Koetsier et
al. 1996). Conversely, north-south drainage
aspect of watersheds did not appear to have
influenced EPT faunal compositions of the
Baraboo Hills streams.
Two streams, Hemlock Draw Creek and
Otter Creek, were quite dissimilar to the re¬
maining 22 streams (Figure 6). Although
Hemlock Draw had a relatively high BI, it
supported a relatively high taxa richness. The
extremely high number of Baetis flavistriga
McDunnough ( =Labiobaetis flavistriga per
McCafferty and Waltz 1995) in the sample
may have unduly influenced the similarity
assessment. Although no obvious source of
organic inputs to the stream was visible at
the time of sampling, manure spread on the
fields adjacent to the stream at other times
of the year may have contributed to the ob¬
served high BI value. Therefore, further ex¬
amination of the fauna of Hemlock Draw
Creek at other times of the year is desirable.
Otter Creek contained a rich, diverse assort¬
ment of aquatic insects, with large numbers
of the mayflies Ephemerella subvaria and
138
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE and ISENRING: Insect communities of the Baraboo Hills
Paraleptophlebia spp., the caddisfly Neo-
phylax spp., and representatives of ten
stonefly taxa, in addition to numerous other
taxa. Otter Creek is a unique resource habi¬
tat in southern Wisconsin in that it repre¬
sents the largest, exclusively forested water¬
shed stream in the southern half of the state.
As such, this stream serves as an excellent
benchmark or reference (i.e., least impacted)
stream for comparing conditions in other
streams of the Baraboo Hills.
Of the dozen or so aquatic insect species
listed as rare, threatened, endangered, or of
special concern that have been recorded
previously from the Baraboo Hills (WDNR,
Bureau of Endangered Resources, Natural
Heritage Inventory files, Madison), we col¬
lected only two listed species during our
short investigation. Six specimens of the
caddisfly Wormaldia moestus (Banks) were
recovered from Pine Glen Creek, and single
specimens of what are believed to be the
stonefly Zealeuctra narft Ricker & Ross were
found in Otter Creek, Pine Hollow Creek,
and Leopold Pines Creek. Previously, Z.
narft (as adults) had been collected in Wis¬
consin only from the shores of Otter Creek
(Narf and Hilsenhoff 1 974). Dr. W.
Hilsenhoff has collected W. moestus from
Pine Glen Creek (=Pine Hollow on some
maps) on Badger Ordinance property down¬
stream from our collection site, and reports
additional collections from Florence, Forest,
Marinette, and Price counties (W. Hilsen¬
hoff, pers. comm.).
Conclusions
Much effort has been expended in protect¬
ing portions of the Baraboo Hills over the
last 100 years, including the creation of
Devil’s Lake State Park and Baxter’s Hollow
Nature Conservancy Preserve, along with 18
other protected areas. However, increased
demands for rural property, mining interests,
and highway expansion threaten the biologi¬
cal diversity of the Baraboo Hills region or
threaten to further fragment existing habi¬
tat and inflate land prices. Consequently,
future efforts to preserve habitat within the
Baraboo Hills (whether by direct purchase
or lease agreements) should be carefully di¬
rected and prioritized to maximize the ben¬
efits to the public for the least cost. Inas¬
much as aquatic insects serve as excellent
indicators of water quality and the water
quality of a stream reflects the combined in¬
fluences of geology, soils, vegetation, and
land use within its respective watershed, ex¬
amination of aquatic insect communities
provides a means to rapidly assess the bio¬
logical integrity and “uniqueness” of a par¬
ticular watershed relative to adjacent water¬
sheds. Based on this limited study of the
aquatic insect communities of 24 streams,
the following recommendations are offered.
Every effort should be made to prevent fur¬
ther watershed degradation because streams
in the Baraboo Hills generally contain bet¬
ter than average water quality and harbor
several rare taxa. Future preservation efforts
should include the glaciated eastern water¬
sheds that represent habitats different from
those currently receiving protection in the
unglaciated western watersheds of the
Baraboo Range. Further investigations are
warranted in the case of Hemlock Draw
Creek, although it is quite possible that the
relatively high BI value observed in this sur¬
vey may have been an anomaly.
This study has documented the potential
application of using stream water quality in¬
dicators in prioritizing future conservation
efforts in the Baraboo Hills and elsewhere.
More specifically, we have presented evi¬
dence that the degree of dissimilarity among
stream insect communities is related to dif¬
ferences in landscape features.
Volume 84 (1996)
139
Table 3. Total insects collected from 24 Baraboo Hills streams during April 1992. Numbers represent the sum of insects collected in
the biotic index samples and supplementary samples (note: in most cases, Diptera were not identified below family level in the latter
sets of samples. Therefore, numbers of Diptera are underrepresented relative to EPT taxa in this table).
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TRANSACTIONS
aPlease refer to Figure 1 and Table 1 for codes and locations.
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Volume 84 (1996)
141
GLOSSOSOMATIDAE
Glossosoma spp.
HELICOPSYCHIDAE
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Volume 84 (1996)
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146
TRANSACTIONS
LILLIE and ISENRING: Insect communities of the Baraboo Hills
Acknowledgments
This study was initiated and funded in part
by The Nature Conservancy (TNC), Wis¬
consin Chapter, Madison, Wisconsin. Ad¬
ditional support was provided by the Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources,
Bureau of Research and Bureau of Endan¬
gered Resources. We thank F. Clark of TNC
for additional field support. We also thank
the Editor (W. Urbrock), P. Duyfhuizen,
and W. Hilsenhoff and an anonymous re¬
viewer for constructive comments and sug¬
gestions which have greatly improved this
paper. Finally, we thank J. Dimick and Dr.
S. Szczytko, University of Wisconsin-
Stevens Point for their efforts in processing
the biotic index samples summarized in this
report.
Works Cited
Attig, J. W., and L. Clayton. 1990. Ice age geo¬
logic map of Devils Lake State Park. Wiscon¬
sin Geological and Natural History Survey
Educational Series 35, Plate 1.
Brown, B. A. 1986. The Baraboo interval in
Wisconsin. Pp. 1 - 1 4 in Greenberg, J. K., and
B. A. Brown, eds. Proterozoic Baraboo Inter¬
val in Wisconsin. Geoscience Wisconsin 10,
April 1986. 112 pp.
Flowers, R. W., and W. L. Hilsenhoff. 1978.
Life cycles and habitats of Wisconsin Hep-
tageniidae (Ephemeroptera). Hydro biologia
60(2): 159-71.
Gonzales, D. A., J. G. Pearson, and C. F. A.
Pinkham. 1993. User’s manual BIOSIM1,
beta version 1.0. A program that applies the
coefficient of biotic similarity, B to complex
data matrices. U.S.E.P.A., Environmental
Monitoring Systems Laboratory, P.O. Box
93478, Las Vegas, NV 89193-3478, EPA
600/R-93/219 November 1993.
Hilsenhoff, W. L. 1987. An improved biotic in¬
dex of organic stream pollution. Great Lakes
Entomologist 20 ( 1 ) : 3 1 -3 9 .
Hilsenhoff, W. L. 1995. Aquatic insects of Wis¬
consin - Keys to Wisconsin genera and notes
on biology, habitat, distribution and species.
Natural History Museums Council Publica¬
tion No. 3 (UW-Extension #G3648), Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-Madison. 79 pp.
Hilsenhoff, W. L. 1996. Effects of a catastrophic
flood on the insect fauna of Otter Creek,
Sauk county, Wisconsin. Transactions of the
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and
Letters. This volume.
Jandel Scientific. 1993. SigmaScan /Image user’s
manual. Chapters individually numbered.
Karl, T. S., and W. L. Hilsenhoff. 1979. The
caddisflies (Trichoptera) of Parfrey’s Glen
Creek, Wisconsin. Transactions of the Wiscon¬
sin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
67:31-42.
Koetsier, P., G. W. Minshall, and C. T.
Robinson. 1996. Benthos and macroinver¬
tebrate drift in six streams differing in alka¬
linity. Hydrobiologia 317:41-49.
McCafferty, W. P., and R. D. Waltz. 1995.
Labiobaetis (Ephemeroptera: Baetidae): new
status, new North American species, and re¬
lated new genus. Entomological News 1 06: 1 9—
28.
Narf, R. P., and W. L. Hilsenhoff. 1974. Emer¬
gence pattern of stoneflies (Plecoptera) in
Otter Creek, Wisconsin. Great Lakes Ento¬
mologist 7(4): 1 1 7-25.
Panuska, J. C., and R. A. Lillie. 1995. Phospho¬
rus loadings from Wisconsin watersheds: rec¬
ommended phosphorus export coefficients
for agricultural and forested watersheds. Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources Re¬
search Management Findings No. 38 (PUBL-
RS-738 95). 8 pp.
Volume 84 (1996)
147
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Pearson, J. G., and C. F. A. Pinkham. 1992.
Strategy for data analysis in environmental
surveys emphasizing the index of biotic simi¬
larity and BIOSIM 1 . Water Environment Re¬
search 64(7) :9 01 -09.
Pinkham, C. F. A., and J. G. Pearson. 1976.
Applications of a new coefficient of similar¬
ity to pollution surveys. Journal of the Water
Pollution Control Federation 48(4):717-23.
Plafkin, J. L., M. T. Barbour, K. D. Porter, S.
K. Gross, and R. M. Hughes. 1989. Rapid
bioassessment protocols for use in streams
and rivers: benthic macroinvertebrates and
fish. U.S. Environmental Protection Agency
EPA/444/4-89-001. Chapters individually
numbered.
Steven, J. C., and W. L. Hilsenhoff. 1984. The
caddisflies (Trichoptera) of Otter Creek, Wis¬
consin. Transactions of the Wisconsin Academy
of Sciences, Arts and Letters 7 2:1 37-72.
The Nature Conservancy. Undated. Fact Sheet
on the Baraboo Hills. Wisconsin Chapter,
Madison, WI.
Richard A. Lillie is a research scientist at the Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources, Bureau
of Research, Monona. Address: 1350 Femrite
Drive, Monona, WI 53716-3736. Rebecca S.
Isenring is stajf member of the environmental re¬
view team of the Natural Heritage Inventory, Bu¬
reau of Endangered Resources, Wisconsin Depart¬
ment of Natural Resources, Madison. She also serves
as the editor for The Passenger Pigeon.
148
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Susan Talbot- Stan away
When you cant see the forest for the folks:
Late 19th/Early 20th century Wisconsin
photographs of outdoor leisure activities
icnics, camping, recreational fishing and hunting, boating,
JL swimming, bicycling, and backroads motoring became ex¬
tremely popular leisure pastimes for Wisconsin residents by the
second decade of the 20th century. Annual vacations, free time
on weekends, and increased discretionary income made these
rough-and-ready pleasures accessible to the middle class as well
as to the wealthy. Better roads, reliable bicycles and motor¬
cars, and ready-made outdoors gear, like tents and campstoves,
made long ventures to woods and shore possible with reason¬
able comfort. Fishing expeditions, such as the one some Green
Bay businessmen made to the Thunder River in 1889 (Figure
1), were especially popular.
Social historians tell us that nature was seen as a tonic and
remedy for the stresses and anxieties of modern life. The com¬
mercialized, industrialized city and town were where one lived,
where one went to school and work, where one’s ambitions,
babies, and bank accounts flourished, but the woods and
streams were sustenance for the spirit. Henry David Thoreau,
and nearly everyone since, had told Americans to simplify their
lives, to be free, within the restorative bosom of nature. And,
we are told, by the early 20th century, bits and pieces of sur¬
viving American wilderness were universally perceived to be
the wellsprings of the nation’s unique history and pride
(Braden, 315-17; Miller, 113-14, 118).
On Sunday afternoons in May in the late 1880s, much of
the population of boisterous, thriving Green Bay could be
TRANSACTIONS Volume 84 (1996)
149
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 1 . Fishing camp on the Thunder River, 1889, unknown photographer. Collection
of the Neville Public Museum.
found picnicking near the Bay shore or
along Baird Creek with the family; in the
August heat, many of these same families
camped and feasted with friends at the edge
of a cool northern forest (Figure 2). Family
albums record the process of packing the
carriage or wagon to bursting with necessi¬
ties and people, roadside stops and misad¬
ventures, and the campout or picnic
achieved and enjoyed. We must suppose that
everyone went home sunburned, perhaps
dyspeptic, but soothed. Men’s fraternal so¬
cieties, in particular, seemed to gather with
bottles, kegs, photographer, and booyah
kettles near the beach to hold their summer
meetings1 (Figure 3).
'Booyah is a stew of Belgian ethnic origin, still popu¬
lar in Brown and Door Counties, prepared in a
large kettle, preferably over an open Fire. Early
photographs are labeled “making bouillon.”
The following study explores the compo¬
sition and meaning of such photographs of
outdoor recreation in northeastern Wiscon¬
sin dating between about 1890 and 1920.
Neville Public Museum photographic collec¬
tions include almost 200 images from this
time and in this theme and served as the
venue for study. The images were gleaned
from family albums and personal collections
donated to the museum; the identity of the
photographer, in almost every case, is un¬
known. Popular photographs, such as these,
offer many opportunities for study and in¬
terpretation that are not present in profes¬
sional, commercial work.
A professional or serious amateur photog¬
rapher might have documented ceremonial
occasions such as hunting camps or family
picnics, but simplified cameras and roll film,
available at the conclusion of the 1880s, al-
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TALBOT-STANAWAY: When you can’t see the forest for the folks
Figure 2. “Camping Party Down the Bay, 1889," unknown photographer. Collection of
the Neville Public Museum.
lowed almost everyone to record their fresh-
air fun, and they did. By the fall of 1889,
the year George Eastman of Rochester, New
York, had introduced the No. 2 Kodak carm
era, 5,000 cameras had been sold, and the
company’s photoprocessing-by-mail service
was already printing 6,000 to 7,000 nega¬
tives daily. Eastman declared, “You Press the
Button, We Do the Rest” (Ford, 62).
Within the decade, Americans embraced the
most popular of popular arts — snapshot
photography.
Photography had begun sixty years ear¬
lier as a chemical-mechanical process for
making likenesses of people, places, and
momentous events. Photographs were per¬
ceived as mirrors which gave permanence
and portability to transient appearances. As
portraits they could capture the charms of a
sweetheart, the pride of a father with off¬
spring grouped around him, or the ravages
of responsibility, as in Alexander Gardner’s
image of Lincoln made four days before his
assassination. For all the centuries of human
history, portraits had been available only to
the wealthy, who could commission them
from artists. This new technological marvel
was incredibly compelling.
However, in addition to skill and talent,
making daguerreotypes (1830s-1850s) and
wet processes on glass plates (1850s- 1870s)
required expensive, time-consuming, some¬
times hazardous procedures, which were
quite mysterious to the average person.
Cameras were large and clumsy, and a vari¬
ety of equipment was also needed — so was
a studio or at least a sizeable wagon. Lengthy
exposure times required the subject to hold
very, very still. Indeed, the transcription of
reality through early photography was a se-
Volume 84 (1996)
151
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 3. Men’s fraternal society outing, Green Bay vicinity, about 1890, unknown pho¬
tographer. Collection of the Neville Public Museum.
rious, impersonal business which lent itself
to solemn likenesses, Civil War battlefields,
Western scenic wonders, and European ar¬
chitectural masterpieces. The interposition
of the photographer’s aesthetic and social
attitudes and beliefs was largely unrecog¬
nized and would remain so until the
pictorialists, like Stieglitz and Weston, reju¬
venated the artistic, expressive elements of
photography during the first two decades of
the present century.
For most people, however, George
Eastman’s cheap, sturdy, hand-held cameras
and roll films instigated a visual revolution.
Photography became accessible, personal,
less formal, often autobiographical, though
the amateur camera enthusiast was largely
unaware of the subjectivity of selection, fo¬
cus, and framing.
Now it is easy to look at old photographs,
particularly vintage snapshots, and dismiss
them as mildly amusing records of appear¬
ances only, of the mere look of people,
places, and things. We are struck by the dif¬
ferences and then reassured by the sameness
of human behavior. But reading a photo¬
graph is like reading a letter or a diary in
which the descriptions are particularly vivid.
Like letters and diaries, photographs are sin¬
gular social and cultural documents, whose
texts contain an amazing variety of informa¬
tion. Popular photographs are important
because they are expressions of popular be¬
liefs and attitudes and hence can be read to
discern these beliefs. As one photographic
historian wrote recently, “Unconcerned with
posterity or the public, the amateurs’ only
frame of reference was themselves. When
they recorded people or things they did so
in a manner that emphasized their personal,
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TALBOT-STANAWAY: When you can't see the forest for the folks
not public meaning” (Greenough, 131).
Thus when we read these photographs of
Wisconsin people surrounded by the tall
trees and limpid waters of bountiful Wiscon¬
sin nature, we can inventory objects and ges¬
tures and interpolate how average people
used nature and even how they felt about
it. Even more important, popular photo¬
graphs were shared and treasured, often dis¬
played within the home, and handed down
to subsequent generations. In an era when
images were still seen as special and mean¬
ingful, they served as sources of values and
models for private and public behavior, as
well as photographic decorum and strategies.
Within this group of popular photo¬
graphs, especially the images made before
1900, it seems that nature has been occu¬
pied as a temporary locus for civilized plea¬
sures; the natural environment of woods and
lakeshore appears merely as a cluttered stage
or fuzzy backdrop for social rituals or a nar¬
row enframing border for a group portrait.
Almost all of the photographs are people pic¬
tures, in which the appearance and activi¬
ties of the subjects are clear, but the setting
or locale is only acknowledged by segments
of tree trunks, indications of the leafy
canopy, or a perimeter section of meadow
or beach and sky. Photographs of individu¬
als or even couples in a natural setting are
rare; rather, clusters of people occupy the
central two-thirds to three-quarters of im¬
ages. These groups of people are placed well
in front of manifestations of nature, and, in
most cases, they are placed with a tent, lake
cabin, or some other important article of
domestic comfort between them and nature.
Clearly, as if a line had been drawn, the
people are here, and the uncivilized land¬
scape is out there, safely along the periph¬
ery of the occasion.
Indeed, the people are not just here hav¬
ing their photo taken; first they have struc¬
tured the beach or clearing and set up house¬
keeping. A spotless cloth or blanket has been
laid upon the grass; baskets, bottles, and
bowls are laid out and around. Other imple¬
ments hang from tree branches. In Figure 3,
the men’s hats, coats, ties, and spotless and
carefully buttoned shirts seem more appro¬
priate for an urban lodge hall than a clear¬
ing in the woods. Occasionally, photographs
like Figure 4, a holiday group at Baird’s
Creek, near Green Bay, in 1889, can be
found that show people looking at nature,
together, as a group, sharing a picturesque
prospect and, we expect, the mosquitoes.
But these photographs are still really about
the people (who were dutifully trying to look
like they were communing with nature) and
not about nature itself or about human re¬
lationships with nature.
The kind of photographs we love to
take — unsullied views in which we scramble
to eliminate the presence of pesky fellow na¬
ture-lovers, road signs, litter, telephone
poles, and other evidence of infringing mod¬
ern blight, or at least show the wonders of
nature big and the people smaller — are al¬
most entirely absent. We seem to need to
affirm that we saw unspoiled nature in se¬
crecy or in company restricted to selected
nuclear family members. Certainly some
Wisconsin people of a few generations ago
collected trophy views of scenic wonders, but
mostly they preferred to revel in nature en
masse , with lots of civilized stuff along, and
if they saw nature as a source of beauty or
inspiration, they didn’t find it necessary to
snap a picture of their inspiration to take
home to Aunt Wilma and Uncle Fred and
paste in the family album next to the one
of Cousin Louis hanging upside down from
the tree branch. Family albums are full of
photographs of silly Cousin Louis; images of
pure scenery are few and far between
amongst the black paper pages.
Volume 84 (1996)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 4. Outing at Baird’s Creek, Green Bay, 1889, unknown photographer. Collection
of the Neville Public Museum.
These photographs, just like ours, were
carefully deliberate. Since the viewfinder on
early hand-held cameras was not very use¬
ful and the cameras had to be held at waist
height, the resulting viewpoint is a bit
strange. But in any case, the camera’s atten¬
tion was focused on people — their facial ex¬
pressions, their activities, body language and
gestures, costume, outdoors paraphernalia
and vehicles (sometimes just paraphernalia
and vehicle). Many people smiled for the
camera, and the camera could catch a smile,
now that film and shutter speeds were faster.
Often, those photographed seemed to be
busy talking to each other. These are not
quiet photographs; no one was listening to
the birds singing. In fact, one suspects that
some of these images of hearty male drink¬
ing societies and booyah cookouts captured
occasions that were a teeny bit boisterous.
Almost certainly the robust gentlemen in
Figure 3 didn’t pick up their bottles and re¬
cycle them!
When popular photography developed in
the 1880s, average people were used to own¬
ing images of family and friends acquired
from local professional photographers, and
most people had themselves posed in the
uncomfortable chair before the painted
backdrop in the local studio. Most back¬
drops depicted elaborate interiors or formal
gardens, but some examples portraying pris¬
tine rural landscapes, and even lakes and
beaches, can be found. Several of the latter
were in use in northeastern Wisconsin stu¬
dios. These were the accepted examples of
how the human figure should be portrayed
by the camera.
Similarly, almost everyone was familiar
with popular images of nature. Stereograph
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TALBOT-STANAWAY: When you can’t see the forest for the folks
pictures of Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon,
Yosemite, as well as Eastern tourist meccas
had been cheaply and widely available since
the 1850s. It is also significant that the Cur¬
rier & Ives prints and gaudy chromo-
lithographed advertising pictures and repro¬
ductions of famous paintings that hung in
every family parlor had introduced the con¬
ventions of the picturesque landscape prac¬
ticed by fashionable artists. Everyone, too,
partook of the mania for sending and col¬
lecting picture postcards, which drew on and
reinforced high art, popular art, and stereo¬
graph conventions. Indeed, much of 19th
century American painting and illustration
was moralizing, narrative, or journalistic in
character. Advertising images themselves, es¬
pecially the advertising for cameras and pho¬
tographic products, may have been very in¬
fluential in establishing conventions for
images.
Thus, the average person was used to see¬
ing people in claustrophobic portraits,
people and scenes which taught important
lessons, and nature as “views” composed
under the conventions of the fine and popu¬
lar art. However, the new light-weight cam¬
eras and celluloid film should have opened
grand new vistas: “To any American with
twenty-five dollars, however ignorant of
chemistry or photography, the Kodak sys¬
tem promised the power to become an art¬
ist” (Schlereth, 198).
But few, if any, northeastern Wisconsin
citizens went out, camera in hand, and be¬
came artists of the landscape. It is true that
several natural features near Green Bay, such
as the falls in DePere, were photographed for
stereo views, but these were poor efforts by
studio portrait photographers. At the end of
the 19th century, northeastern Wisconsin
had no reknowned professional picture-mak¬
ers like H. H. Bennett. Bennett, in Wiscon¬
sin Dells, had recorded (and commercial¬
ized) the bluffs, caves, and riverboats of the
Dells at roughly this time. Bennett, as if he
were a Hudson River School painter like
Thomas Cole, introduced the human figure
only to give scale and introduce properly
contemplative attitudes.
Bennett was a purposeful artist whose
medium was photography. His approach
was similar to that of Andrew L. Dahl, who
worked in Dane County from about 1870-
1880. Dahl photographed people in the
out-of-doors, but his images often display
farmers with their implements and animals
before a barn, or meticulously-posed fami¬
lies in formal finery, ensconced in their best
parlor chairs and having tea upon the par¬
lor table, within the context of their front
yards. Dahl’s photographs are remarkable
for their narrative quality and complex com¬
positional schemes, though in his own time
his intentions were more unusual than his
product.
But unlike Bennett or Dahl, the anony¬
mous photographers in this study wanted to
record the appearance of their own lives —
at least the parts of their lives they judged
memorable. They were not interested in the
lives or appearance of strangers or the intri¬
cacies of natural history or geological forma¬
tions. They did share with Dahl the clear
intention to achieve true likenesses of people
and their possessions. Having one’s picture
made in a studio had been a public event,
rather like Dahl’s tableaux; the family cam¬
era could capture what was seen, known,
and cherished in private. As a tool for per¬
sonal expression, it could depict the inter¬
ests and experiences of a single family mem¬
ber, or it could memorialize important
occasions, like holiday outings. In all re¬
spects, the family camera was closer to the
subject, who, if family or friend, could in¬
fluence many particulars of the image.
It seems reasonable that the introduction
Volume 84 (1996)
155
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 5. “Picnic Party Down the Bay, 1889,” unknown photographer. Collection of the
Neville Public Museum.
of the family camera would have occasioned
innovations in composition and style. But
precedent seems to have been irresistible.
Well-furnished outdoor leisure was a new
and highly cherished aspect of middle class
life in the 1890s; hence, it had to be me¬
morialized with a sufficient sense of the pro¬
prieties. Early images of adults are portrait-
studio solemn. Younger people, however,
might grin and clown for the camera, since
such behavior was perfectly acceptable now
the photographer was their father or dear
friend. Nevertheless, for every image with
purely casual gestures or provocative style,
there are fifty like Figure 5 that are meticu¬
lously choreographed. Certainly, the compo¬
sition and style of these photographs seem
to derive directly from the safely familiar
conventions of studio portraiture and com¬
mercial stereograph photographs.
First, the composition is symmetrically ar¬
ticulated, with a shallow horizontal band of
human subjects placed parallel to the picture
plane. Second, nearly everyone is carefully
placed and strikes a purposefully graceful or
theatrical pose. The poses are livelier versions
of studio prototypes. Third, gender roles are
almost as clearly defined as they were in stu¬
dio portraits: women sew, read, or arrange
food and eating implements; men display
stylish sporting apparel or elaborate fishing
gear. Fourth, in the earliest images, the pho¬
tographer pays very close attention to cloth¬
ing and to the display of important belong¬
ings: the ubiquitous picnic basket, bottles,
hampers, musical instruments, sporting
equipment, food, or dead game. Clothing
and tasteful or expensive appurtenances sig¬
nified the importance of the sitter in a stu¬
dio portrait; it fulfilled the same purpose for
156
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TALBOT-STANAWAY: When you can’t see the forest for the folks
Figure 6. The whole family camping out, unknown location in northern Wisconsin, about
1910, unknown photographer. Author’s collection.
snapshots. In stereographs, something had
to be placed in the foreground of the image
in order to make a successfully three-dimen¬
sional view. The popular photographer fol¬
lowed precedent. Finally, nature remained
behind like a painted backdrop in the pro¬
fessional photographer’s studio in downtown
Green Bay.
Evidently, these conventions became
more elastic after the century’s turn. In Fig¬
ure 6, an image made about 1910, faces and
body positions are more relaxed and genu¬
ine, and the photographer allows the grassy,
well-wooded setting to occupy almost half
the background of the picture. Yet, the
smiles of the children and the woman’s af¬
fectionate petting of her dog are the most
memorable aspects of the image.
Of course, popular photographs have al¬
ways been about the growth of children,
happy times, and significant family occa¬
sions. Some of the types of occasions we see
in these photographs required certain behav¬
iors, as established by tradition. The history
of popular American leisure pastimes, like
the history of American popular photogra¬
phy, has really only been studied and pub¬
lished in the past decade. Already, however,
several scholars have studied the develop¬
ment of picnic practices in the 19th century.
They tell us that well-to-do Americans were
familiar with picnics; the upper classes of
American society had adopted this European
activity in the 1850s. Winslow Homer, the
great 19th century painter and illustrator,
had drawn humorous images of picnickers,
like “Picnicking in the Woods,” published
in the September 14, 1858 issue of Harper’s.
One could even read about picnics in books
of etiquette. For example, Decorum, A Prac-
Volume 84 (1996)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
tical Treatise on Etiquette and Dress of the Best
American Society , published in 1879, in¬
structs the reader thusly: “Let us treat of the
picnic, in which a lot of people join together
for the purpose of a day’s ruralizing.. . .In
giving a picnic, the great thing to remem¬
ber is to be sure and have enough to eat and
drink. Always provide for the largest possible
number of guests that may by any chance
come. . . .Great latitude in dress is allowed on
these occasions. The ladies all come in
morning dresses and hats; the gentlemen in
light coats, wide-awake hats, caps, or straw
hats.” The book specified each aspect of
proper picnic planning, transportation, and
games, and the writer further declares, “Each
gentleman should endeavor to do his utmost
to be amusing on these occasions” (154—55).
Indeed, in an article about picnicking in
New England in the 19th century, Mary
Ellen Hern writes, “A striking aspect of the
American Victorian picnic ritual was its sen¬
suousness. In addition to singing, dancing,
and other frolicking, the picnic offered a
feast... The picnic ritualized and made ac¬
ceptable frivolous and marginally inappro¬
priate behaviors such as overeating and flirt¬
ing with the opposite sex” (146-47). A great
deal of courting and some surreptitious
necking was sanctioned at New England pic¬
nics, and so, too, it must have been in Wis¬
consin. This may explain a good deal of
what appears in our photographs. To illus¬
trate, in Figure 4, three of the couples stand
or sit distanced from each other, like com¬
fortably married folks tend to do. One
couple, however, who appear nearest the top
of the image, seem to converse in a flirta¬
tious manner. Their faces are very close, and,
unlike the other young men, he has removed
his hat in polite deference. One concludes
they are courting. Finally, the number of
wine and beer bottles and kegs we see in the
images certainly confirms the popularity of
alcoholic beverages at Wisconsin picnics.
The picnic, and the relationships with
nature it encouraged, or discouraged, served
as the model for newer types of outdoor lei¬
sure, like camping. As picnics moved out of
city parks, public cemeteries, and local
farmer’s fields, and into the newly accessible
wilderness, picnickers’ lighthearted tradi¬
tions moved with them. Wilderness nature
received the same treatment and began to
function for the active enjoyment of city
folks bent on refreshing outdoors activities.
Popular photography is and was both an
expressive and a documentary medium.
Reading popular photographs of picnics,
camping, and other such alfresco adventures
tells us what average people did, how they
did it, and what they valued. On one level,
we can examine popular varieties of picnic
baskets; on another, we can also surmise
people’s attitudes and beliefs. Evidently, as
their amateur photographs reveal, the people
of northeastern Wisconsin during the late
19th and early 20th century found the natu¬
ral outdoors a great place for personal, fam¬
ily, and peer group recreation. Reading these
photographs also tells us that average Wis¬
consin citizens at the turn of the century
were strongly influenced by the conventions
of studio portrait and commercial landscape
photography. By 1920, probably most Wis¬
consin families had collected hundreds of
conventionalized outdoors images, many of
which were pasted in monumental leather-
bound scrapbooks. This was the norm in the
northeastern quarter of the State, and it
seems unlikely that customs differed greatly
in Superior, Chippewa Falls, or Milwaukee.
Almost certainly, the children and grandchil¬
dren of these early photographers learned a
great deal about nature and how to behave
in the great outdoors through looking at in¬
dividual photographs and albums of photo¬
graphs such as these.
158
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TALBOT-STANAWAY: When you can’t see the forest for the folks
Works Cited
Braden, Donna R. Leisure and Entertainment in
America . Dearborn, Michigan: Henry Ford
Museum & Greenfield Village, 1988.
DECORUM, A Practical Treatise on Etiquette &
Dress of the Best American Society. New York:
J. A. Ruth & Co., 1879.
Ford, Colin (ed.). The Story of Popular Photog¬
raphy. North Pomfret, Vermont: Trafalgar
Square Publishing, 1989.
Greenough, Sarah. “The Curious Contagion of
the Camera, 1880-1918.” On the Art of Fix¬
ing a Shadow, One Hundred and Fifty Years
of Photography. Washington, D.C.: The Na¬
tional Gallery of Art, 1989.
Hern, Mary Ellen W. “Picnicking in the North¬
eastern United States, 1840-1900.” Winter¬
thur Portfolio 24 (1989): 139-52.
Miller, Angela L. “Nature’s Transformations:
The Meaning of the Picnic Theme in Nine¬
teenth-Century American Art.” Winterthur
Portfolio 24 (1989): 113-38.
Schlereth, Thomas J. Victorian America: Trans¬
formations in Everyday Life, 1876-1915. New
York: Harper/Collins, 1991.
Susan Talbot-Stanaway is the Chief Curator, for¬
merly Curator of Art, at the Neville Public Mu¬
seum in Green Bay. She did her undergraduate and
graduate studies in art history at the University of
Minnesota. Address : 210 Museum Place, Green
Bay, WI 54303-2780.
Volume 84 (1996)
159
Paul Wozniak
They thought we were dreamers:
Early anti-pollution efforts
on the lower Fox and East Rivers
of northeast Wisconsin, 1927—1949
Abstract A major environmental debate took place in Wisconsin from the
1920s through the 1950s on river and stream water quality. Con¬
servation activists , local governments , and industries struggled in
political and regulatory debates to control pollution. This article
describes regulatory and social debates in northeast Wisconsin s
lower Fox River Valley in the period 1927—1949. As a political
issue in this area , the controversy was instigated by citizen conser¬
vationists who worked as elected officials or as citizen activists to
promote change. The strategy of the conservationists was to estab¬
lish or expand regulatory control of industrial and household waste
discharges to rivers and streams. Green Bay attorneys Meyer Cohen,
Frederick Kaftan, Arthur Kaftan, Michael Kresky, Jr., Virgil
Muench, and Donald Soquet were most visible as conservation
advocates. In the latter years of this period the Izaak Walton
League was a key organization in advancing the anti-pollution
agenda, helped by the efforts of advertising executive Harry Tubbs.
Many government and business organizations responded, includ¬
ing the Green Bay Metropolitan Sewerage District, the Sulphite
Pulp Manufacturers Research League, and the paper industry firms
of Kimberly-Clark, Northern Paper Company, and the Hoberg
Paper Company.
fhey thought we were dreamers, and we were,” said Harry
X Tubbs. Nearly 50 years before, when the post-World War
II baby boom was just beginning, Tubbs had been a political
activist for the environment. An advertising executive for a gro¬
cery store chain, Tubbs served as communications adviser for
advocates of water pollution control in the lower Fox River
TRANSACTIONS Volume 84 (1996)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Valley. He helped promote an agenda for
water quality improvement that was quixotic
for its time.1 It was a dream of the restora¬
tion of heavily polluted, stinking rivers, a
dream of clear waters with abundant
gamefish and of laughing children splashing
at the local beach. In reality, the rivers at that
time carried visible industrial pollution and
significant discharges of disease-carrying
sewer effluent.
Advocacy for water quality in the 1940s
is noteworthy for the significant improve¬
ments that were eventually made in terms
of fisheries and swimming safety and for its
lasting presence as a political and social is¬
sue in communities along the lower Fox
River. Today water quality remains an issue
with an active local constituency.2
On a national and even international
level, Wisconsinites have played a major and
highly visible role in the development of en¬
vironmental protection, including a key role
in forming the national organizations of the
Sierra Club and the Wilderness Society and
in organizing the first Earth Day, an event
with some international influence.3 How¬
ever, local efforts to deal with local pollu¬
tion problems are rarely recounted in Wis¬
consin environmental history.4 The events
described are important because they in¬
volved Wisconsinites who furthered cultural
acceptance of natural resource protection as
a social responsibility at the local and state
levels.
Geographical Setting
Much of the political debate described in
this account focused on water quality in the
lower Fox River Valley and in the southern
reaches of Green Bay, Lake Michigan, near
the mouth of the river. The 38-mile (61 km)
lower Fox River is the channel through
which the combined waters of the upper Fox
River and Wolf River flow to Green Bay.
From a broader perspective, the combined
Fox River-Wolf River watershed drains a
6,400-square mile (1.7 million ha) area. The
Fox River originates in south-central Wis¬
consin near the central Wisconsin city of
Portage. With only a moderate change in el¬
evation of 33 ft (1 1 m), the Fox River flows
from the area near Portage northeast into
Lake Butte des Morts (Winnebago County)
At this point, the waters of the Wolf River
combine with the Fox River to flow east to
Lake Winnebago, which serves as a broad,
shallow holding pond. The waters exit Lake
Winnebago as the lower Fox River, continu¬
ing about 35 miles (56 km) northeast down
a drop of more than 175 ft (53 m) into the
Green Bay of Lake Michigan. The signifi¬
cant drop in elevation provides for the sig¬
nificant hydropower resources that first at¬
tracted the large energy users, including the
pulp and paper industry that developed in
the late 1800s. Along its journey to the
Great Lakes, the river collects water from
tributaries, including the East River that
joins the Fox River in the industrial area of
the city of Green Bay (Figure 1).
The East River is directly related to the
pollution controversies reported here. The
East River is a much smaller river of 27
miles (43 km) in length, draining 206
square miles (0.05 million ha). It flows par¬
allel to the Fox River in Brown County.
Water quality problems in the East River are
amplified by an unusually long residence
time for water due to the seiche effect that
forces waters from Green Bay, Lake Michi¬
gan, to flow upriver for short periods of
time. During extreme conditions involving
a seiche, water flow in the East River reverses
its direction. The East River’s central role
in the public debate was due in part to its
location in the residential and business dis¬
tricts of Green Bay’s east side.
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WOZNIAK: Early anti-pollution efforts on the Lower Fox and East Rivers
join just before entering Green Bay, Lake Michigan. Social controversy about water pol¬
lution on these rivers has occurred through most of the twentieth century.
East River Stench
One of the earliest records of public dispute
about water quality in the lower Fox River
Valley is a 1920s report by a committee that
included business people of the East River
neighborhoods.5 The most frequent com¬
plaint in the commentary was the river’s
smell, described as “terrible.” In 1933 the
smell was reported as being bad enough to
require the city’s East High to regularly hold
classes with windows closed.6
Green Bay was a city of 37,000 in 1930,
and at this time, the neighborhoods on
Green Bay’s east side along the East River
were a mix of lower-income housing, retail
shops, and small factories. Green Bay’s
economy was rooted in natural resources,
with the largest employment and greatest
economic value in the pulp and paper in¬
dustry. Industries along the East River con¬
verted logs into pulp, milk into cheese prod¬
ucts, cows into cuts of meat, and malt and
barley into beer. Other businesses cooked
and packed vegetables in metal cans for the
grocer’s shelves. Fish packing plants
trimmed and cleaned the Fish caught on
Green Bay. These and many other activities
produced wastes, which, as in other parts of
Wisconsin at this time, were discharged with
little or no treatment into the nearest stream
or river.
In addition to industrial waste, there was
the problem of individual, non-business be-
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
havior, including the dumping into the East
River of engine oils, household garbage, ap¬
pliances, and worn-out boats and cars.7
Clearly, the city of Green Bay did not have
an adequate system of solid waste collection
and disposal. A description of local condi¬
tions by a reporter for the Green Bay Press-
Gazette also reflects local understanding of
environmental pollution:
Food waste is trucked to a farm on the out¬
skirts and fed to hogs. For this reason, the
food remnants must be kept separate from
inedible rubbish and harmful ingredients. No
housewife would expect hog-feeding to dis¬
pose of broken glass, decrepit furniture, un¬
used lye or surplus rat poison. On the other
hand, the glass and the furniture and even the
poison could be dumped into a swamp with¬
out danger to health, but the food waste
could not.8
The Fox River differed from the East
River by the larger size of its flow, not by
the type of wastes dumped into it. Sordid
conditions were reported on the lower Fox
River from Lake Winnebago to the bay of
Green Bay. Although the degree of the
stench and concentration of the pollution in
most of the Fox was reported to be less se¬
vere than in the East River, pollution was a
recognized problem:
Every summer the city and village officials
received numerous complaints of offensive
odors given off by the [Fox] river. The col¬
ored, turbid waters of the Fox River were
filled with fibrous materials, sludge deposits
and unstable organic wastes. The sight and
odor of dead fish along the banks added to
the nuisance.9
Human Sewage
Industrial and chemical wastes were a prob¬
lem, but many people, including some au¬
thorities, thought they did not cause human
health problems. Human waste, however,
was recognized as a threat in spreading dis¬
ease. At this time, many homes and busi¬
nesses had pipes flushing raw wastes into the
river. Also, many homes had outhouses, in¬
cluding at least one on the East River that
was built on extensions over the river so as
to deposit waste without need for an out¬
house pit.10 Despite these widely known
conditions, children swam in these waters,
including many parts of the lower Fox and
East rivers at what were likely the filthiest
stretches.11
If there were health warnings against such
exposure, they are not well remembered or
recorded, with the exception of Bay Beach.
Bay Beach was a city swimming beach on
the shores of Green Bay near the mouth of
the Fox River. Its use by bathers appears to
have been much greater than all other sur¬
face water swimming areas in the Green Bay-
De Pere area. After the beach was re-opened
in 1937 after six years of closure by the State
Board of Health, one warm day brought an
estimated 1,300-2,000 bathers to the
beach.12 The beach was opened and closed
in the following years as monitoring pro¬
vided evidence of problems,13 with final clos¬
ing occurring in 1943, according to the
Green Bay Health Department.
Social Response
In 1927, the State of Wisconsin sponsored
the first modern scientific survey of Wiscon¬
sin rivers and streams. The survey was initi¬
ated as a result of a 1923 incident in north¬
west Wisconsin in which a pulp mill
discharge killed 25 to 30 tons of fish, but
the survey evolved to cover a much larger
geographic area. The resulting 327-page re¬
port, Stream Pollution in Wisconsin , docu¬
mented the role of dissolved oxygen in the
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WOZNIAK: Early anti-pollution efforts on the Lower Fox and East Rivers
Fox and other rivers.14 The report noted that
fish could not survive in many parts of the
lower Fox River for periods of the year be¬
cause of the lack of dissolved oxygen in the
water. This was especially true in the ap¬
proximately six-mile stretch from the De
Pere dam to the mouth of the river in the
city of Green Bay. This 1927 report was a
factor in the state’s authorization that same
year of regional sewerage systems with tax¬
ing powers and the creation of the state-level
Committee on Water pollution (COWP).15
The legislation creating the COWP as¬
signed the new committee duties for scien¬
tific experimentation and research on “eco¬
nomical and practicable” solutions to
industrial discharges. Some solutions had
been suggested in the 1927 study, which re¬
ported that sulphite liquors could be con¬
verted to numerous products including al¬
cohol, fuel, and fertilizer.16 The report also
summarized a Park Falls experiment that
showed dramatic reductions in the oxygen¬
demanding impact of mill wastes through
temporary holding and aeration. It would be
almost 50 years after this experiment that
adoption of aeration technology (supple¬
mented by microorganism cultures) would
be made at Wisconsin pulp and paper mills.
In local politics in 1927, a Green Bay
City Council committee joined members of
the North Side Advancement Association for
a September boat ride down the lower
stretches of the East River. A report filed in
the City Council proceedings painted a sor¬
did picture.
Pleasant Street bridge is not so pleasant. . .Elm
Street sewer water or river here is terrible. In
fact it can no longer be called a river, but
more in the line of an open sewer. . .The only
movement of water was from the boat or
eruptions of gases in the bottom of the river,
which would shoot to the top solids of sew¬
erage matter. 17
The report went on to state that when the
group reached the mouth of the East River
where it enters the Fox River, they found
that “...the Public Service Co. pumps oil
and gas into the river. It is so bad that we
touched a match to it and it ignited and
threw a flame two feet high.”18
With public attention heightened, a cam¬
paign was organized with the help of attor¬
ney Meyer “Mike” Cohen. Cohen served as
councilman for an East Green Bay ward in
the early 1930s. From this post, he organized
public support and local governmental fund¬
ing for the area’s first sewer system and treat¬
ment plant. A citizen petition campaign was
conducted and more than 1,000 signatures
collected to support formation of the Green
Bay Metropolitan Sewerage District
(GBMSD). The GBMSD soon built the
city’s first sewer treatment plant with fed¬
eral funds from the Depression-era Federal
Emergency Administration of Public
Works.19 The new plant had the effect of
raising public hopes for an end to the stench
of the East River. When the undersized and
ill-equipped plant failed to make any percep¬
tible impact on the odor problem, some
members of the public were upset and an¬
gered, calling for continued action.20 Part of
the problem was the combination of storm
and sanitary sewers, mixing large volumes of
runoff and ground waters into sewage and
overloading the small plant.
Cohen’s law partner, Michael Kresky, Jr.,
supported the call for ongoing action. In
1936 Kresky ran as a Progressive Party can¬
didate for the two-county second senatorial
district that included Green Bay. After his
election, Kresky played a public role in a late
1930s controversy that developed over the
health of the fisheries in lower Green Bay.
Commercial fishing businesses were closing,
reportedly because of the loss of river and
bay fisheries due to pollution. Other wild-
Volume 84 (1996)
165
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 2. Attorney Meyer Cohen is recog¬
nized as the prime mover behind the cre¬
ation of the first municipal sewerage works
in Green Bay. Photo courtesy of the
Neville Public Museum, Green Bay.
life problems were occurring, including mas¬
sive die-offs of waterfowl at the Fox River
mouth.21 When commercial Fishermen com¬
plained to the Wisconsin Conservation
Commission that dead fish were found in
nets set in lower Green Bay in the winter of
1937— 38, 22 a state investigation was begun
with support from Progressive Party Gover¬
nor Phil LaFollette and State Senator
Kresky. A study began in September 1938
as a cooperative effort of the COWP, the
State Board of Health, and the GBMSD.
President-elect for the State Board of Health,
Green Bay physician Dr. W. W. Kelly, was
also a visible participant in the discussion.
For nine months, employees loaned from
agencies in other states studied the claims of
commercial fishermen.23 The Fishermen had
reported that the Fish were discolored and
appeared almost white and bleached. Lab
experiments exposed Fish to high concentra¬
tions of a major pulp mill effluent called
sulphite liquor, and the Fish did not become
bleached. The study therefore absolved the
pulp mills of allegations that fish were
bleached and tainted from mill discharges.24
However, the study did report that Fish
kills were due to low oxygen levels in the
waters, caused primarily by the sulphite li¬
quor of the pulp mills; the numerous paper
mills on the river were identified as much
smaller contributors to dissolved-oxygen
problems. According to the study, about 80
percent of the dissolved-oxygen problem was
due to pulp mill discharges, with the remain¬
ing 20 percent due to other business and
household discharges. The concept that low
levels of dissolved oxygen harmed Fish was
not new, but a quantified assessment of
sources was new.
The focus of public attention spurred in¬
dustry discussion of its previous efforts and
plans to deal with the problem. In July 1939
newspapers reported success by the Mara¬
thon Paper Company at its Wisconsin River
facility at Rothschild in capturing and us¬
ing wastes normally discharged to water. The
waste was used to produce the food flavor¬
ing vanillin and the “cheapest plastic mate¬
rial yet.”25 In the fall of 1939 the paper in¬
dustry announced formation of a major
research effort. The Sulphite Pulp Manufac¬
turers Research League (SPMRL) was cre¬
ated and funded by major pulp companies
on the Fox and Wisconsin rivers. Its major
research goal was to identify ways to recover
and reuse the waste materials being dis¬
charged to the waterways.26 Pulp and paper
industry executives had long been aware of
the seriousness of the waste discharge issue.
They had played a role in the politics of
1927 that formed the COWP and intro¬
duced a major expansion of government in¬
volvement in surface water quality issues.27
166
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WOZNIAK: Early anti-pollution efforts on the Lower Fox and East Rivers
Figure 3. Recreational canoeing played a role in the post-world War II debate to clean
up state rivers. Left to right are Fred Kaftan, Art Kaftan, and Don Soquet, who as col¬
lege students canoed Wisconsin rivers together. Soquet initiated the anti-pollution cru¬
sade after he canoed the polluted Fox River and was angered by the degraded condi¬
tions. (1939 photo from the collection of Arthur Kaftan)
World War II dampened efforts at waste-
water control. The debate was refueled by
returning war veterans , such as attorney
Donald Soquet, who worked to regain a
sense of place and home. Soquet recalls that
as a boy in the 1920s he caught perch, blue-
gill, and bass from the Fox River,28 often
from a pier in downtown Green Bay on his
way to school. At that time, desirable game
fish could not survive the summer months
in the lower Fox due to lack of dissolved
oxygen.29 During his college years in the late
1930s, Soquet and some high school friends
canoed Wisconsin rivers (Figure 3) and were
in fact camped on the banks of northwest
Wisconsin’s Flambeau River when the radio
reported the Nazi invasion of Poland.30 In a
few years, several of the crew would find
themselves in military service. In the post¬
war years, the vets returned to their previ¬
ous careers and found themselves unexpect¬
edly assuming leadership roles in water
protection efforts. The event that sparked
Soquet’s involvement in water politics was
a postwar canoe ride on the Fox River. The
serious pollution he observed led him to
write a letter-to-the-editor published in the
Green Bay Press-Gazette. He recalls that in
the letter “I spoke of what I had seen and
how disturbed I was, and the change in this
beautiful body of water and marsh and ev¬
erything into this cesspool.”31
That week, he received a call from a
stranger who had read his letter. Orrin Wil¬
son was a handicapped paper mill worker
from a mill upriver of Green Bay. Wilson
Volume 84 (1996)
167
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 4. Virgil Muench, Green Bay attor¬
ney and son of a commerical fisherman,
was a blunt-spoken advocate for strict
regulation of water pollution. Muench was
a leader of the Brown County chapter as
well as the state chapter of the Izaak
Walton League. (Photo from collection of
Jane Muench Burke)
drove to Soquet’s Green Bay apartment one
evening to persuade the lawyer to help form
a local chapter of a national conservation
advocacy group called the Izaak Walton
League (IWL).32 Soquet spoke to Virgil
Muench (Figure 4), a 44-year-old attorney
who happened to have an office in the same
building as Soquet in downtown Green Bay.
Blunt in speech with others, Muench had
recently been active as a proponent for small
businesses struggling with chain-store com¬
petitors.33 With a few others, Soquet and
Muench became the core of the Brown
County chapter of the IWL. Attorney A. D.
Sutherland of Fond du Lac, by then a long¬
time veteran in the IWL, wrote to encour¬
age the chapter to take action on local wa¬
ter pollution, which the group did.34
A change in state pollution regulation was
deemed critical in the mind of the attorneys
who led the new IWL chapter. Fred Kaftan
was recruited by his elder brother Art and
others to run for the state senate on the Re¬
publican Party ticket (Figure 5). 35 The sec¬
ond senatorial district seat was the same held
in the late 1930s by Cohen’s partner and wa¬
ter-quality advocate Kresky.36 To generate
voter support, the IWL recruited Harry
Tubbs, a Green Bay native who served as
Kaftan’s campaign manager and later as
communications adviser for the IWL.
Muench had been circulating a petition he
drafted, calling for government action on
water pollution.37 At an IWL meeting in the
fall of 1948, Tubbs was seated at the back
of the room in the downtown Green Bay
YMCA when he was asked by the presiding
chair what he thought should be done.
Tubbs suggested the signed petitions be de¬
livered to Republican Governor Oscar
Rennebohm who was on a campaign tour
and lodged across the street at the Northland
Hotel. 38 As a result of the meeting, the Gov¬
ernor arranged hearings of the Committee
on Water Pollution for December 1948 at
the Brown County Courthouse in Green
Bay (Figure 6). The hearings went on for
several days and were postponed for the
Christmas holidays, being resumed in Janu¬
ary 1949. Extensive newspaper coverage de¬
scribed the debate over the technical and
economic feasibility of controlling discharges
from pulp and paper mills as well as munici¬
pal sewage treatment plants. IWL attorneys
Virgil Muench, Arthur Kaftan, and Donald
Soquet led the call for immediate anti-pol¬
lution action and challenged the pulp mill
and municipal government representatives
on the witness stand. Charges of economic
blackmail were made when a paper mill ex¬
ecutive suggested that his plant might need
168
TRANSACTIONS
WOZNIAK: Early anti-pollution efforts on the Lower Fox and East Rivers
£&ec&
KAFTAN
tfr
Figure 5. Water quality advocates re¬
cruited and helped elect Fred Kaftan to
the Wisconsin State Senate in 1948. This
was a single-issue campaign focused on
improving regulation of industrial and sew¬
age treatment plant pollution. Kaftan drew
the news media’s attention in part be¬
cause it is unusual for a politician to criti¬
cize the major industry of his district.
(Campaign poster from collection of Fred
Kaftan.)
to leave town. The pulp and paper mills
were the economic mainstay of the commu¬
nity, and union representatives were re¬
cruited by the mills to attend and testify
against pollution control.
Among the surprises was testimony by the
Democratic State Senator recently defeated
by Republican Fred Kaftan. Former State
Senator Harold Lytie, a 51 -year-old barber,
told the hearing that paper mill executive
J. M. Conway had promised Lytie in 1939
that the water pollution problem would be
solved in two years. Lytie said this promise
was made to get Lytie to withdraw support
for stricter state regulations being discussed
in 1939 when Lytie was an assemblyman,
although Conway denied the promise was
made.39
The hearings extended longer than
planned, possibly in part because of the pub¬
lic attention drawn to them by the conser¬
vationists. A Green Bay Press-Gazette ad
campaign had been organized by Tubbs, and
a sympathetic WHBY radio announcer,
Mike Griffon, gave regular coverage.40 Daily
crowds of 150 or more were reported to have
daily attended the hearings, and the emo¬
tional level of the discussions was high.41
Economic loyalties were called upon, with
mill workers and others urged to oppose
water quality regulations. Soquet lost some
clients from his law Firm, as did Kaftan.
However, the losses were not financially sig¬
nificant to their law practice. Muench had
been living in large part from funds not re¬
lated to his law practice, and he gave up his
conventional case practice to devote his ef¬
forts more fully to conservation advocacy.
What is believed to be a small sample of
Muench’s speeches and correspondence with
conservationists across the nation is pre¬
served in state archives.42
In November 1948, the month before the
hearings, Fred Kaftan had been elected State
Senator. The campaign had emphasized a
personal hand-shaking campaign in small
towns based on a single issue: water pollu¬
tion control. Joining the Senate in 1949 with
the Green Bay hearings just completed, Kaf¬
tan began raising the water pollution issue
by authoring several legislative proposals, one
of which called for steep daily Fines on par¬
ties discharging pollutants.43 As a freshman
senator, Kaftan worked with only a few al¬
lies in the senate, one of whom was the fresh¬
man Democrat Senator Gaylord Nelson of
Dane County.44 Kaftan was noted by the
Volume 84 (1996)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Fifth of a Series
•OI.Lv ON
IT CAN BE DONE!
These Mills ARE treating sulphite waste
against pollution.
RAYONIER, INC.
Hoquiam, Wash.
INLAND EMPIRE PAPER CO.
Millwood, Wash.
PUGET SOUND PULP & PAPER CO.
Bellingham, Wash.
RAYONIER, INC.
Shelton, Wash.
WEYERHAEUSER TIMBER CO.
Longview, Wash.
NEW YORK & PENN. CO.
Johnsonburg, Pa.
HAMMERMILL PAPER CO.
Erie, Pa.
INTERNATIONAL PAPER CO.
York Haven, Pa.
ONTARIO PAPER CO.
Thorold, Ontario, Canada
INTERNATIONAL PAPER CO.
Gatineau, Quebec, Canada
MARATHON PAPER CO.
Rothschild, Wis.
FLAMBEAU PAPER CO.
Park Falls, Wis.
LAKE STATES YEAST CO.
Rhinelander, Wis.
9 MILLS IN SWEDEN
5 MILLS IN GERMANY
And others including mills in
England, France, and Switzerland
WHY ISN’T IT DDNE HERE?
CONCERNS YOU!
June 27, 1949, the State Committee on Water
Pollution issued orders directing Industries and
Municipalities to take steps to END POLLU¬
TION ON THE LOWER FOX RIVER.
The offending Paper and Pulp Mills were ordered
to submit preliminary plans by December 31,
1949, and to complete necessary installation
within 12 or 18 months thereafter, depending
upon the particular mill.
THE STATE COMMITTE OF EXPERTS
DECLARES THAT THESE ORDERS ARE
"REASONABLE AND PROPER AND
NECESSARY FOR THE PROTECTION
OF PUBLIC RIGHTS IN THE FOX
RIVER."
Municipalities and some industries have expressed
a willingness to "do their share" and are taking
necessary steps ho comply with these orders.
THE FOUR PRINCIPAL OFFENDING
PAPER MILLS WHOSE POLLUTION
CONSTITUTES 87.7% OF THE TOTAL,
NOW ASK FOR MORE TIME . . . AND
MORE DELAY!
"The state has been after us and pressing us for
years to solve this problem ever since I got into
it in 1924."
THE PUBLIC HAS WAITED 25 YEARS FOR
THESE MILLS TO END POLLUTION.
HOW MUCH LONGER?
Attend the Hearing at City Halt, Thursday, December 22, at 9 A. M.
POLLUTION CONCERNS YOU
Authorized and Paid for by the Wisconsin Fish Producers Association.
Figure 6. Advertising was one of the tactics used by the Izaak Walton League in its
effort to draw public attendance to the 1948 Green Bay state hearings on Fox River
pollution. Local advertising executive Harry Tubbs orchestrated an advertising and pub¬
licity campaign to elect Fred Kaftan and draw attention to his legislative agenda. (Ad
from Green Bay Press-Gazette, December 1948)
170
TRANSACTIONS
WOZNIAK: Early anti-pollution efforts on the Lower Fox and East Rivers
media for the bold step of publicly chastis¬
ing the major industry of his home district.45
Kaftan’s major accomplishment in the Re¬
publican-controlled state legislature was the
appropriation of funding for a director and
full-time staff for the COWP. Conservation¬
ists had argued that the COWP was ineffec¬
tive in enforcing existing laws and that lack
of staffing was part of the reason.
In July 1949, the COWP issued an or¬
der calling for the installation of wastewater
treatment facilities by municipalities and
paper mills on the Fox River by 1951. The
conservationists considered this order a sig¬
nificant victory. Some industry and munici¬
pal sewage treatment plants made efforts to
comply with the order, but delays occurred.
The interpretation of the order was that con¬
tinued good-faith progress needed to be
shown to the COWP.46 Hearings conducted
in later years addressed progress by specific
industrial and municipal sewage plants, and
attention focused on the still-declining eco¬
logical conditions.47
According to paper industry executives
interviewed in recent years, they had con¬
siderable sympathy with the goals of the con¬
servationists;48 they argue that the forces of
market competition and a lack of technical
knowledge and materials are what prevented
a quick cleanup of pollution. A central ar¬
gument at the time was that if state-man¬
dated pollution controls were required only
in Wisconsin, it would make Wisconsin pa-
permakers uncompetitive with manufactur¬
ers in other states.49
The manufacturers argued that some ex¬
perimentation in waste recovery had been
conducted by Wisconsin pulp mills between
the 1927 formation of the COWP and the
debates of the late 1940s. Two examples
were on the Wisconsin River. The Marathon
Paper Company, led by D. C. Everest, had
a pilot facility operating in 1939 to convert
a portion of pulp mill residues into a raw
material that could be converted to vanillin
extract for food.50 The Rhinelander paper
mill, whose president was Folke Becker, had
installed a pilot plant in 1948 that converted
some of the waste material into yeast. The
yeast was used as cattle food.51 Neither of the
experimental-scale facilities made major re¬
ductions in the waste discharge of the mills
at which they were located.
In the lower Fox River Valley, the 1949
order and other actions of the COWP led
to the construction of waste recovery facili¬
ties at the Northern Paper Company mill,
the Hoberg Paper Company mill, the Con¬
solidated Water Power and Paper mill, and
a Kimberly-Clark mill. Sulphite liquor was
used by Kimberly-Clark as an adhesive to
control dust on rural gravel roads. At Green
Bay’s Northern pulp mill and at Appleton’s
Consolidated Water Power and Paper,
sulphite liquors were burned in a boiler af¬
ter concentration by an evaporator. The
Charmin Paper Company bought the
Hoberg Paper Company mill in the 1950s
and used sulphite liquor to produce a yeast
food at the facility. The combined efforts of
these and other industries reduced oxygen-
depleting discharges into the Fox (and East
River in the case of the Northern mills). Yet
dissolved oxygen levels were not improved to
the point where sensitive fish could survive.
Work by the Fox Valley activists did not
end with the 1948-49 efforts, but these
events remain a defining moment in the
postwar conservation/environmental move¬
ment in northeastern Wisconsin. They are
also possibly the most influential actions by
the Fox Valley activists in terms of statewide
impact.52 The resulting actions by discharg¬
ers and government helped establish the
state’s progressive reputation among water
quality advocates. Although adequate levels
of dissolved oxygen in the lower Fox River
Volume 84 (1996)
171
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
were not immediately restored, the controls
advanced the national technical knowledge
base and the national political agenda on the
environment. In addition, the efforts raised
local public awareness about water quality
issues.
Water quality suitable for fish survival
was not restored until the late 1970s, follow¬
ing implementation of standards derived
from the 1972 Clean Water Act passed by
the U.S. Congress. This national law re¬
quired pulp and paper mills, as well as other
industries and municipal sewage treatment
plants, to meet specific minimum levels of
pollution control. By 1987 more than $300
million in water pollution controls was in¬
vested by Fox River dischargers, including
municipalities.53 As a result of these invest¬
ments, dissolved oxygen levels increased in
the lower Fox and East rivers, and many spe¬
cies of fish and other aquatic organisms re¬
turned from the cleaner waters of Green
Bay. With them returned recreational boat¬
ers and fishing enthusiasts and greater pub¬
lic and private investment in waterfront
properties.
Endnotes
'Oral history interview with Harry Tubbs, Fox/
Wolf Rivers Environmental History Project
(FWREHP) collection, State Historical So¬
ciety of Wisconsin (SHSW), stored at the
Area Research Center (ARC), University of
Wisconsin-Green Bay (UWGB). Interviews
are filed alphabetically by surname.
2Social research conducted from the late 1970s
through the early 1990s confirms that lower
Fox River Valley residents rate water quality
as a major, if not the major local environmen¬
tal issue. Relevant reports include: UWGB,
“Water: Environmental Optimism, Opinions
of Water Quality,” a report on a Title I Grant
by the U.S. Department of Health, Educa¬
tion and Welfare, 1979; Ron Baba, Per
Johnsen, Gerrit Knaap, and Larry Smith,
“Public Perceptions and Attitudes Toward
Water Quality Rehabilitation of the Lower
Green Bay Watershed,” Green Bay: UWGB
Center for Public Affairs, 1991; Steve Bennett
and Dotty Juengst, “Recommendations for
Improving the East River Priority Watershed
Urban Education Campaign,” prepared for
the Wisconsin Department of Natural Re¬
sources and the University of Wisconsin-Ex-
tension, 1993.
3The Sierra Club was founded by John Muir,
who was raised in the Upper Fox River Val¬
ley, and whose book, The Story of My Boy¬
hood and Youth, recounts the influence of
Wisconsin experiences. The Wilderness So¬
ciety was co-founded by Aldo Leopold, then
a professor at the University of Wisconsin-
Madison. Earth Day was the idea of U.S.
Senator Gaylord Nelson (Democrat-Wiscon-
sin).
4An excellent reference that discusses the work
of Wisconsinites in the legal expansion of
water protection is a 1963 Transactions article
“Water Policy Evolution in Wisconsin-Pro-
tection of the Public Trust,” Vol. 54, Part A,
(pp. 143-97) by Walter E. Scott of the Wis¬
consin Conservation Department. However,
this article does not detail activities at the
community level.
5In 1927 an advisory committee to the Mayor
of Green Bay undertook a fact-finding mis¬
sion to document, albeit anecdotally, the sour
condition of the river. This account was re¬
corded in the City Council Proceedings of
September 23, 1927.
6First Annual Report of the Green Bay Metro¬
politan Sewerage District, issued 1933.
7Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Garbage Dumping
Must Be Ended to Keep River Clean,” by
Stanley Barnett, Dec. 3, 1936.
8Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Garbage Dumping
Must Be Ended to Keep River Clean,” Dec.
3, 1936.
9 American City, “Sewage and Stream-Pollution
Problems in Eastern Wisconsin,” author not
identified, February 1935, 3 pp.
1()Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Mayor Out to Clean
172
TRANSACTIONS
WOZNIAK: Early anti-pollution efforts on the Lower Fox and East Rivers
River,” July 16, 1937; Oral history interview
with Art Decker, FWREHP/ARC/UWGB.
nOral history interviews with Art Decker,
Norman Ditzman, Don Soquet, Bill Ver-
heyen. FWREHP/ARC/UWGB.
12Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Thousands Visited
Beach on Sunday,” July 12, 1937.
13Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Bathing Banned at
Beach Park,” Aug. 4, 1942.
14 Stream Pollution in Wisconsin, Madison; State
Board of Health, 1927, 327 pp.
15 Laws of Wisconsin-1927, Chapter 442, pp.
633-41. The Committee on Water Pollution
was created as an inter-agency committee,
and it was not funded to conduct monitor¬
ing or other activities until Senator Kaftan’s
1949-50 legislative efforts.
Stream Pollution in Wisconsin, Madison, WI:
State Board of Health, 1927, p. 75.
,7City of Green Bay, Report of committee
chaired by George F. Nick, Council Proceed¬
ings of Sept. 6, 1927. The Public Service Co.
facility was a coal gas plant. A report in 1939
indicated that several other industries dis¬
charged oil into the East River. Published by
the Wisconsin State Committee on Water
Pollution and the State Board of Health in
collaboration with the Green Bay Metropoli¬
tan Sewerage Commission, it was titled, “In¬
vestigation of the Pollution of the Fox and
East Rivers and of Green Bay in the Vicinity
of the City of Green Bay.”
,8City of Green Bay, Report of committee
chaired by George F. Nick, Council Proceed¬
ings of Sept. 6, 1927.
19Second Annual Report of the Green Bay Met¬
ropolitan Sewerage District, published 1934.
20Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Tracing Source of
East River Smell,” June 13, 1936; “Green
Bay’s Rampaging River,” editorial, July 23,
1938.
21Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Botulism Killed
Ducks; But What Caused Disease?” Oct. 17,
1936; “Duck Deaths Are Blamed on Sew¬
age,” Oct. 20, 1936; “Ducks Dying in Bay
Again,” Sept. 8 1937; “Ailing Swans Treated
at Sanctuary Here,” April 18, 1939; “Fear
Disease of Ducks May Visit State Again,” July
25, 1940; “Game Biologist Has Ideas for Pre¬
venting Botulism in Ducks,” April 16, 1942.
22The locations of the nets were as far north
along the east shore of lower Green Bay as
Dyckesville, Sand Bay and Point Sable. Fish
kills were reported before and after this event.
In late summer 1937, “wagon loads” of perch,
musky, pike and 32 other species were col¬
lected between Appleton and Kimberly, ac¬
cording to a September 21 report in the
Green Bay Press-Gazette. In a May 1950 let¬
ter to Dr. David Charlton, Portland, Oregon,
Virgil Muench reported that fishermen had
recently lifted tons of dead fish from nets 36
miles from the Fox River mouth. Muench
reports making color movies of the dead fish,
but the survival of this film through the years
is not recorded. Muench collection, State
Historical Society of Wisconsin.
23The scientific work for the study was done by
Ben Williamson, a sanitary engineer for the
Kansas Board of Health, and by John
Greenbank, a biology doctoral student em¬
ployed by the Michigan conservation depart¬
ment. Green Ba y Press-Gazette, Nov. 2, 1938.
The final report was issued by the Wiscon¬
sin State Committee on Water Pollution and
the State Board of Health in collaboration
with the Green Bay Metropolitan Sewerage
Commission in 1939 as, “Investigation of the
Pollution of the Fox and East Rivers and of
Green Bay in the Vicinity of the City of
Green Bay.”
24Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Claim Pollution In
Fox River Is Caused by Mills,” by Stanley
Barnett, October 6, 1939.
25Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Mills Will Finance
Study of River Pollution Elimination,” Nov.
15, 1939; “New Products Force Marathon to
Expand,” July 13, 1939.
26Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Mills Will Finance
Study of River Pollution Elimination,” Nov.
15, 1929. Oral history interview with A.J.
Wiley, former technical director of the
Sulphite Pulp Manufacturers Research
League, FWREHP/ARC/UWGB. The sul¬
phite chemical process was developed in 1 874
to convert raw wood chips into a pulp usable
Volume 84 (1996)
173
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
in the paper industry. The city of Green Bay
had two sulphite pulp mills operating during
most of the twentieth century. Each mill op¬
erated under several different company
names. The last sulphite mill, operated by the
James River Corp., was closed in the early
1990s and replaced with a secondary pulp
mill fed by recycled office paper.
11 Stream Pollution in Wisconsin , Madison, WI:
State of Wisconsin, 1927, pp. 4-5. The ex¬
periment at Park Falls resulted from a Park
Falls pulp mill discharge that killed 25 to 30
tons of fish in 1925; this fish kill led to the
1927 statewide study of river and stream con¬
ditions.
28This account by Soquet highlights the fact that
game fish were able to survive in the lower
Fox at certain times of the year, despite the
report in the 1927 COWP study that fish
survival was poor during critical summer
months.
29 Stream Pollution in Wisconsin , p. 136.
30Oral history interview with Donald Soquet,
1995. FWREHP/ARC/UWGB.
31Oral history interview with Soquet, 1995.
FWREHP/ARC/UWGB.
32Oral history interview with Soquet, 1995. The
role of the state Izaak Walton League is de¬
scribed from a longer historical perspective by
Earl Finbar Murphy in Water Purity: A Study
in the Legal Control of Natural Resources ,
Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press,
1961.
33Virgil Muench was executive secretary of the
Green Bay Trade Independent Association in
the mid- 1940s. This group saw dire threats
from large interstate corporations out-
competing local small businesspeople. Most
pulp and paper mills in Wisconsin were lo¬
cally owned at this time. Muench was the son
of an Algoma lake fisherman who left that
work to become a gas station operator. Some
documents related to this group are found in
the Muench collection in the State Histori¬
cal Society of Wisconsin.
34Letter from A. D. Sutherland to Henry
Bredael, President of the Green Bay chapter
of the IWL, August 13, 1948, in the Virgil
Muench collection, State Historical Society
of Wisconsin, Madison.
35The Kaftan name was “known” in the Green
Bay community. The brothers Robert,
Arthur, and Fred Kaftan were attorneys
whose father (once a Brown County judge),
first set up law practice in Green Bay about
1905.
36The Second Senatorial District was later to
elect a third environmental advocate. Assem¬
bly person Robert Cowles, Jr. was first elected
to represent the 75th District East River
neighborhoods in 1982, and he went on to
assume the seat of the State Senate’s redis¬
tricted Second District in 1987. In another
echo of the East River debate, environmen¬
tal activist Rebecca Leighton was elected in
the mid-1980s to the Green Bay City Coun¬
cil from the same east side neighborhood as
Meyer Cohen was in about 1930.
37Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Rennebohm Talk
Slated Tonight,” Oct. 21, 1948; “Plan Probe
of Pollution Here,” October 22, 1948.
38Oral history interviews with Art Kaftan, Harry
Tubbs, FWREHP/ARC/UWGB.
39Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Sulphite Operators
Testify Yeast Plant Impossible Now,” Jan. 5,
1947. The hearing transcript from the 1948
hearings could not be found in state archives.
While the State Historical Society of Wiscon¬
sin has records of COWP hearings on many
river basins, the records from the lower Fox
River were not deposited by the Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources, according
to a staff librarian. Any reader knowing of an
existing copy of the transcript is asked to con¬
tact the author.
4()Harry Tubbs, “The Green Bay Story,” Outdoor
America, magazine of the Izaak Walton
League of America, February 1950. The pub¬
lication of five of Tubbs’ ads in the Press-Ga¬
zette were: Dec. 11, 15 and 31, 1948; Jan.
12 & 15, 1949.
41 Oral history interview with Tubbs, FWREHP
/ARC/UWGB; also personal communication
with Tubbs, October 1995.
42Virgil Muench collection, State Historical So¬
ciety of Wisconsin, Madison.
174
TRANSACTIONS
WOZNIAK: Early anti-pollution efforts on the Lower Fox and East Rivers
43 Capital Times, “Fox River is ‘Grossly Polluted’
Yet Committee Failed to Act,” Jan. 22, 1949.
Oral history interview with Fred Kaftan,
FWREHP/ARC/UWGB.
44Although they did not work closely together,
freshmen Senators Fred Kaftan and Gaylord
Nelson were noted for their individualism
and idealism. A Capital Times opinion col¬
umn on April 9, 1949 cited them as the only
two senators to vote for broadening the state’s
antitrust laws to cover the service industry,
including the law profession in which they
worked. Oral history interview with Gaylord
Nelson, FWREHP/ARC/UWGB.
45 Capital Times, “GOP State Sen. Kaftan Fights
Fox River Valley Paper Mills on Pollution,”
by John Hoving, Jan. 29, 1949.
46Oral history interview with Len Montie
(COWP Fox River basin engineer starting in
1950), FWREHP/ARC/UWGB; Green Bay
Press-Gazette, “Kaftan Asks Prosecution of
Non-Cooperative Papermills,” Dec. 10,
1952. Arthur Kaftan is cited as reporting that
425 COWP orders were issued in the state
between 1949 and 1952, with 65 completely
complied with and 56 other projects or plans
underway.
47Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Bay Pollution Ris¬
ing Sharply,” Dec. 1952, reports on a com¬
parison of biological conditions between
1938 and 1952; “Kaftan Asks Prosecution of
Non-Cooperative Papermills,” Dec. 10,
1952; “Paper Mill, Sewage Plant Men Reply
to Kaftan Charges,” Dec. 15, 1952.
48Oral history interviews with Richard Billings,
George Kress, Clyde Faulkender, (paper in¬
dustry executives), FWREHP/ARC/UWGB.
49 Milwaukee Journal, “On, Wisconsin: Industrial
Pollution,” April 7, 1940.
50Green Bay Press-Gazette, “New Products Force
Marathon to Expand,” July 1 3, 1 939.
51 Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Here Is the State of
the Fox River-Green Bay Pollution Problem
in Capsule Form,” January 7, 1940. Both
Everest and Becker had conservation sympa¬
thies that extended beyond water quality.
They were key Figures in establishing the pri¬
vately funded conservation organization
group today called the Trees For Tomorrow
Natural Resources Education Center. Estab¬
lished in 1944 as Trees for Tomorrow, the
organization was known for distributing free
trees to landowners for the protection of trout
streams and the control of soil erosion.
Everest has been inducted (and Becker nomi¬
nated) as a conservation hero in the Wiscon¬
sin Conservation Hall of Fame in Stevens
Point.
52Fox Valley activism played a role in another
major state natural resource issue. Virgil
Muench was involved in a lawsuit that helped
broaden the definition of affected parties in
river management. The Namekagon case in¬
volved the Flambeau River of northwestern
Wisconsin [see Muench v. Public Service
Commission, 216 Wis 492 (1952)], and it
expanded the doctrine of public trust to give
all Wisconsin citizens a voice in river protec¬
tion issues.
53Green Bay Press-Gazette, “Pollution from Mills
is Key Issue in Area,” Oct. 5, 1987. Invest¬
ment in water quality continued after 1987,
with a 1990 estimate by William Elman of
the Fox Valley Water Quality Planning
agency that more than $600 million would
be spent by projects then underway, Appleton
Post-Crescent, “Report Card Issued on Water
Quality Efforts,” Feb. 25, 1990.
Paul Wozriiak is research director for the Fox/
Wolf Rivers Environmental History Project, a
non-profit group active in northeast Wisconsin
history since 1989. Wozniak is coordinator for
the Wisconsin Academy's annual conference sec¬
tion, “ Environmental History of Wisconsin. ”
Address: 1 17 A South Broadway, De Pere, WI
54115
Volume 84 (1996)
175
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Executive Director LeRoy R. Lee
1994 Academy Council Officers
OdyJ. Fish, President, Pewaukee
Keith R. Sanders, President-Elect, Madison
Robert P. Sorensen, Past-President, Madison
Roger H. Grothaus, Vice President-Sciences, Racine
Gerard McKenna, Vice President-Arts, Stevens Point
Rolf Wegenke, Vice President-Letters, Madison
Judith L. Kuipers, Secretary, La Crosse
Gerd H. Zoller, Treasurer, Madison
Councilors-at-Large
Mary Lynn Donohue, Sheboygan
DeEtte Beilfuss Eager, Evansville
James S. Haney, Madison
Mildred N. Larson, Eau Claire
William J. Moynihan, Milwaukee
Howard Ross, Janesville
Linda Stewart, Milwaukee
Carl A. Weigell, Milwaukee
Councilor-at-Large Emeritus
John W. Thomson, Mt. Horeb
Your membership will encourage research, discussion and
publication in the sciences, arts and letters of Wisconsin.
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
1922 University Avenue
Madison, Wisconsin 53705
Telephone (608) 263-1692
/
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
1922 University Avenue
Madison, Wisconsin 53705
ISSN 0084-0505
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30?
W7X
N H
v^vTHSoyyl^
X
JAN 30
J I JR RI&S.
Wisconsin
Fiction
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Transactions
Volume 85 • 1997
Wisconsin Sesquicentennial Issue
Wisconsin
Fiction
Wisconsin Sesquicentennial Issue
Transactions
of the Wisconsin Academy
of Sciences, Arts, and Letters
Volume 85 • 1997
Editor
William J. Urbrock
Department of Religious Studies
University of Wisconsin Oshkosh
Oshkosh, WI 54901
Managing Editor
Patricia Allen Duyfhuizen
Department of English
University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire
Eau Claire, WI 54701
Guest Fiction Juror
Kyoko Mori
Department of English
St. Norbert College
De Pere, WI 54115
Guest Fiction Juror
Ronald Rindo
Department of English
University of Wisconsin Oshkosh
Oshkosh WI 54901
Guest Fiction Editor
Marshall Cook
Division of Continuing Studies
University of Wisconsin-Madison
Room 224 Lowell Hall
Madison WI 53703
Design Concept
Mary Macanek
Ann Rudawski
Carolyn Tarpey
Erin Oswell
Transactions welcomes articles that explore features of the State of Wisconsin and
its people. Articles written by Wisconsin authors on topics other than Wisconsin
sciences, arts and letters are occasionally published. Manuscripts and queries
should be addressed to the editor.
Submission requirements: Submit three copies of the manuscript, double-spaced,
to the editor. Abstracts are suggested for science /technical articles. The style of
the text and references may follow that of scholarly writing in the author's field.
Please prepare figures with reduction in mind.
© 1997 Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
All rights reserved
ISSN 0084-0505
For information on membership in the Academy,
call (608) 263-1692.
Cover art by Dagny Quisling Myrah
Front cover: Sidewalk , Sun and Shade , 1997
Back cover: Late Afternoon , 1997
This project is funded in part by the Wisconsin Sesquicentennial Commis¬
sion with funds from the State of Wisconsin and other individuals, organiza¬
tions, and the following corporate contributors:
Trailblazer contributors:
AT&T
S.C. Johnson Wax
The Credit Unions of Wisconsin
Voyageur contributors:
Firstar
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Wisconsin Manufacturers & Commerce
Founder contributors:
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Johnson Controls, Kikkoman Foods, Inc., Michael, Best & Friedrich,
Miller Brewing Company, Northwestern Mutual Life Foundation,
Robert W. Baird & Co. Inc., Snap-on Incorporated, Time Insurance,
and Wisconsin Power & Light Foundation
Badger contributors:
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Contents
From the Editor
"There are myriads of forms and hundreds of grasses throughout the entire earth ,
yet each grass and each form is the entire earth."— Dogen
This quotation from the 13th-century Japanese Soto Zen master Dogen's
Shobogenzo (or Treasury of the Eye of the True Dharma), his famous collec¬
tion of 100 essays, appeared on my "Little Zen Calendar" (Workman
Publishing) during the month of May. It struck me as an appropriate
response to the admirable selections of short fiction that appear in this
special anniversary issue of Transactions. Somewhat like Dogen's forms and
grasses, each of these fifteen stories, unique and limited in style and con¬
tent, is, at the same time, a revelatory microcosm of literary artistry and of
the human condition it seeks to represent.
Publication of Wisconsin Fiction has been timed to appear as the citizens
of Wisconsin begin to celebrate the 150th anniversary of Wisconsin state¬
hood in 1998. All who worked on the preparation of this commemorative
issue did so in hope of making a worthy contribution to the celebration. In
the spotlight, of course, stand the fifteen Wisconsin fiction writers them¬
selves, whom I wish to congratulate most heartily on behalf of the Wiscon¬
sin Academy and Transactions. As explained in the Foreword, they were
selected from a much larger contingent of Wisconsin writers who submit¬
ted their work for consideration and who, along with many others, are
keeping the craft of creative writing alive and flourishing both inside and
outside the geographical boundaries of our state.
Our two guest jurors, Kyoko Mori and Ron Rindo, are accomplished and
recognized writers in their own right.
Ron Rindo was born in Muskego, Wisconsin, earned his Ph.D. at the
University of Wisconsin Milwaukee, and currently lives in Berlin, Wiscon¬
sin. He teaches English at the University of Wisconsin Oshkosh and,
beginning in July 1997, serves as Associate Dean of Humanities and Fine
Arts. His two collections of short stories. Suburban Metaphysics and Other
Stories (New Rivers Press, 1990) and Secrets Men Keep (New Rivers Press,
1995), individually were awarded Outstanding Achievement Recognition
by the Wisconsin Library Association. Such recognition is extended to the
ten books judged most outstanding among those published each year by
Wisconsin writers. Ron is also a familiar figure throughout Wisconsin, in
neighboring states and elsewhere, because of his frequent appearances for
public readings of his works.
Kyoko Mori was born in Kobe, Japan, and has lived in the American
Midwest since 1977. She, too, earned her Ph.D. at the University of Wiscon¬
sin Milwaukee. Currently, she teaches at St. Norbert College in De Pere,
vii
Wisconsin. Her award-winning first novel, Shizuko's Daughter (Henry Holt,
1993) was characterized by the New York Times as "a jewel of a book, one of
those rarities that shine out only a few times in a generation." She has also
published another novel. One Bird (Henry Holt, 1996), a book of poetry
entitled Fallout (Tia Chucha Press, 1994), and a memoir. The Dream of Water
(Henry Holt, 1996), written after an extended visit to her native city of
Kobe. The Los Angeles Times Book Review found this memoir "astonishingly
beautiful." Kyoko also has published individual short stories and poems in
several other literary journals and magazines. Her book of personal essays.
Polite Lies , is forthcoming from Henry Holt.
Marshall Cook, professor in the Division of Continuing Studies at the
University of Wisconsin-Madison, graciously consented to act as our guest
fiction editor, working with our writers after the jurors had completed
their selections. Marsh studied creative writing with Wallace Stegner at
Stanford, where he received his M.A. He is the author of Writing for the Joy
of It (Will Beymer Press, 1990), is a frequent contributor to Writer's Digest ,
and edits Creativity Connection , a newsletter for writers and independent
publishers. His articles about writing appear regularly in hundreds of
magazines and have been widely anthologized. He has written short
stories for several literary magazines and, just this year, published his first
novel. The Year of the Buffalo: A Novel of Love and Minor League Baseball
(Savage Press, 1997). His Hometown Wisconsin (Savage Press, 1994) presents
vignettes of 20 small towns in Wisconsin.
The outstanding efforts of our managing editor, Patricia Duyfhuizen of
the University of Wisconsin Eau Claire, also deserve special appreciation.
This issue marks the fifth year of our collaboration as editors of Transac¬
tions. As always, I marvel at Tricia's abilities in editing and laying out such
handsome final copy. Readers also may be interested to know that Wiscon¬
sin Fiction afforded an unusual learning experience for the students in her
editing and publishing course. They worked in groups of five, running
through an entire mock publishing process for the stories. This involved
reading the manuscripts for minor errors, preparing an overall design for
the entire anthology and a partial layout of selected stories, and even
planning extra publicity and marketing efforts for the issue. Several of
their ideas were adapted for the finished volume.
Finally, I extend grateful acknowledgment to Faith Miracle, editor of the
Wisconsin Academy Review , for her valuable advice and collaboration, and
to Dagny Quisling Myrah, whose art graces the covers of this issue.
Preparation of this anniversary volume has been a challenge and a joy
for all of us who took part. We hope that all who read — and re-read! — this
Transactions anthology of Wisconsin Fiction during Wisconsin's sesquicen-
tennial year and in years to come will encounter "the entire earth" in these
stories and find here a continuing source of delight and insight.
Bill Urbrock
Foreword
Welcome to the Wisconsin Fiction issue of Transactions! This special
anthology of Wisconsin writers complements Wisconsin Poetry , a
special Transactions issue edited by Bruce Taylor in 1991, and appears as the
citizens of Wisconsin begin celebrations of the 150th anniversary of Wis¬
consin statehood (1848-1998). The publication of Wisconsin Fiction provides
evidence that organizations such as the Wisconsin Academy of Science,
Arts, and Letters, and the several organizations that have underwritten this
project, are keeping the home fires burning in support of arts and letters in
Wisconsin.
When Transactions editor William J. Urbrock and Wisconsin Academy
Review editor Faith Miracle asked us to serve as guest jurors for this vol¬
ume, we were pleased to be given the opportunity From beginning to end,
planning and carrying out the selection process has been an enjoyable and
rewarding experience. In April, 1996, a news release calling for submis¬
sions was sent to newspapers and other publications across the state and to
English departments at all of Wisconsin's four-year public and private
universities and colleges. By September 15, 1996, a box full of submissions
had accumulated in Bill Urbrock's University of Wisconsin Oshkosh office.
It contained over 100 stories by 95 Wisconsin writers, sent from all corners
of the state and from across the country.
When we defined what a "Wisconsin writer" was for this issue, we
decided upon a geographical, rather than metaphysical, definition. Writers
born here, writers born elsewhere who live here now, and writers who,
regardless of birthplace, lived here for awhile, all qualified as Wisconsin
writers. Many of the writers who submitted stories, and most of those
whose work appears here, fit the metaphysical definition of a Wisconsin
writer as well, which, to our mind, means that living here has profoundly
affected how they see, know, and experience the world. "Place," as Eudora
Welty has argued, "bestows on us our original awareness; and our critical
powers spring up from the study of it and the growth of experience inside
it. . . . It never really stops informing us, for it is forever astir, alive, chang¬
ing, reflecting, like the mind of man [or woman] itself. One place compre¬
hended can make us understand other places better." Obviously, some
writers have deeper roots in Wisconsin than others, regardless of when and
for how long they were planted here, yet all 95 of the fiction writers who
submitted stories for this issue are new branches in a family tree whose
roots take us back to tribal storytellers of Wisconsin Indian nations such as
IX
the Fox and Sac, Menominee, Ojibwa, Potawatami, and Winnebago,
through pioneer writers such as Laura Ingalls Wilder, Hamlin Garland,
and Zona Gale. Readers interested in Wisconsin's literary history should
consult William A. Titus's Wisconsin Writers (1930), or Jim Stephens' im¬
pressive three-volume anthology. The Journey Home: The Literature of Wis¬
consin Through Four Centuries (1989).
Upon receipt of this box of manuscripts by Wisconsin writers, then, we
went to work. We read all the submissions over the course of the next two
and a half months and made independent lists of the stories each of us
found strongest and liked the best. We read each manuscript at least once,
many two or three times. Most of the stories were set in Wisconsin, in our
cities and towns; our woods, lakes, or rivers; on farms or in suburban
backyards; and it was a pleasure to see so many areas of this beautiful state
set to fictional lyric. There is something special about encountering 1-94,
Marquette University, a Milwaukee neighborhood. Door County, Lake
Superior, or the Wisconsin River in a short story; it makes you feel as if
you've discovered a familiar face among strangers at a party. (Of course,
some stories, including a number of those you'll find here, were set in
other places.) At the end of this process, we compared lists, reread stories,
and talked through each of our choices — on the telephone and over e-mail
— to arrive at our final selections.
Because the names of the writers did not appear on the manuscripts, we
did not know who wrote them. We admit, however, that on a couple of
occasions, because of our familiarity with the work of writers we'd read
before, we made some guesses. We made no attempt to try to choose a
roughly equal number of stories by male and female writers (though by
chance that happened)) or to give each part of the state equal representa¬
tion (though that, to a lesser degree, happened also), or to choose only
"Wisconsin" stories (whatever those might be). In all cases, the stories we
selected simply had something the other stories did not — a captivating
voice, perhaps; characters that startled, surprised, or delighted us; a con¬
flict that pulled us in and held us; language so dazzling, elegant, or richly
detailed, we would have gone wherever it took us. In other words, we
chose the stories we felt were the strongest, and in the end, we agreed on
the fifteen you'll find here. While this collection is by no means compre¬
hensive, we believe it represents a remarkable range of quality work by
many of the state's finest writers. We hope you agree.
Many readers will be delighted, as we were, by the specific regional
detail in much of this work, particularly in those stories in which a Wiscon¬
sin setting is more than a simple backdrop for the story. Anthony Bukoski's
lovely story, "The KorporaTs Polonaise," for instance, documents
Bukoski's ongoing passion for Poland and Superior, Wisconsin, the old
country and the new, linked by the family history his characters so lov¬
ingly preserve. The story celebrates Polish Catholic immigrants and Supe¬
rior, but it also poignantly reveals the human costs of separation from
loved ones who remain an ocean, and a language, away.
The narrator of Gordon Weaver's "Saint Philomena, Pray for Us" begins
his story by chronicling a series of visits to Marquette University's dental
clinic in the 1950s. On each visit, before reaching the dental chair, he must
pass the grisly portrait of Saint Philomena, who had all of her teeth vi¬
ciously pulled from her mouth during her torturous martyrdom. Rarely
has the pain of dental work been so excruciatingly rendered as it is in these
opening scenes. But this story is not about dentistry; it is about faith and
death and religion, and in writing about these things Weaver is clear-eyed
and unflinchingly honest.
"Quick Bright Things," by Ron Wallace, takes us on a four-mile run
through the farm country near Richland Center in Southwestern Wiscon¬
sin. On a hot summer day while his wife and daughters are away in Mil¬
waukee, the protagonist Peterson— a history professor in his late
forties— tries to shake off his feeling of doom by running. The details of the
countryside — farm dogs, cabbage butterflies, crickets, locusts, and Queen
Anne's Lace — give a rich texture to Peterson's musings about his own
achievements and failures, his parents, wife, and daughters, and the
"inexplicable emptiness of dread" he struggles to overcome.
The two opening chapters excerpted from Tom Joseph's novel. Two
Points , provide more proof that detailed description can be as thrilling as
action. The first chapter takes us back to June of 1934, when the narrator's
grandparents, on their honeymoon, fell in love with the lakes of northern
Wisconsin. The second chapter evokes the joy and restlessness the narrator
feels on the first day of summer as his family prepares to head up north to
their summer home.
Other stories in this volume are set far away from here, in other states and
even other countries. Karen's Loeb's "How to Save a Cat and Fall in Love" is
set in Florida on a sultry summer night and features June bugs, cicadas,
plant life, a cat stranded in a tree, and trouble waiting to happen. The pro¬
tagonist, a plant specialist scheduled to depart for Alaska in the morning,
tries to win back his girlfriend's love by rescuing her cat. The story is full of
humor and suspense as we experience the protagonist's dizziness caused by
heights, love, confusion, and all the plant life around him.
The narrator of "Energy," by Julie King, is a former police officer shot in
the head in the line of duty, now living in Texas. He is a marvelous charac¬
ter, full of pain and longing, displaced by bad luck and circumstances
beyond his control. His wife wants a child he cannot give her, and his
narration of their imperfect, yet loving, life together sparkles with his
awkward tenderness. The lyrical ending is heartbreaking.
In Thomas Bontly's "December's Dreams," we find a Midwestern
couple stranded in France between the Italy and London legs of the
husband's sabbatical semester. The weather is much colder than expected;
the Kelseys have recently been robbed during a bird-watching trip. They
are at a low point of their "vacation," possibly of their marriage. The story
takes us on a tour of their marriage and the husband's resentment, guilt,
and frustration, into a moment of sudden joy.
xi
"Fatimata's Ancestors," by David Tabachnick, is about a land dispute in
the Guinea highlands between the Diallo family, who are nobles, and the
Bah family, their former slaves. We see the action through the eyes of
Sekou Traore, chief justice of the Supreme Court who grew up in a family
of wood carvers, and then through the eyes of Yacine, the patriarch of the
Bah family, and his independent-minded daughter Fatimata. The politi¬
cally charged plot is presented with a sense of the mysterious: witchcraft
patterns drawn in the sand, a single arrow with a cock's tail, and the rich
details of the food Fatimata cooks — "the richness of her sauce which sank
happily into fluffy grains of fonio. . . fresh squeezed orange juice, and after
dinner, cups of mint tea."
Regardless of setting, a good number of these stories are about human
relationships, marriage, or loss, the subjects of much — perhaps most —
contemporary short fiction published today. Martha Bergland's "Surface
Tension" maps this familiar terrain beautifully, charting the interior land¬
scape of someone thinking through his broken marriage. Even though this
story is excerpted from a longer work, the main character's emotional life
is fully drawn and as deep and clear as the water at the bottom of a well.
"Summer Snow," by David R. Young, is about a young boy sent to his
grandparents' house while his mother and father sort out the problems in
their marriage. It features a wonderfully eccentric aunt and a family secret,
and the narrative has the stark intensity of childhood memories.
In "Dining on Memories at the Starlite Cafe," by Marnie Krause, Vi
Watkins sits down to dinner with her husband, Ed, at a diner in a small,
Midwestern town. The food comes in due time, but Vi is starving for
companionship and love, which she can never get from her impatient
husband. The story is poignant and perceptive in its portrayal of a quietly
unhappy marriage in a small town where men and women live side-by-
side, never understanding each other. Seeing the sudden jovialness that
transforms Ed as he talks about crops and weather with other men, Vi
longs for the company of women.
Sometimes, a story's understatement strains against its dramatic subject
matter, creating palpable tension that is woven through every page. Carol
Sklenicka's "Putting Up Storms" is that kind of story, the title perhaps a
metaphor for our often futile desire to protect those we love from harm.
In Peg Sherry's "Sand Dollar," two women friends from high school —
now grandmothers — share a strained afternoon visit. The first-person
narration sheds light on the history of the friendship: the two were best
friends through high school and much of adult life, until the one who used
to stay home, Ann, got a job and became too busy for the narrator, a high
school history teacher. The narrator's nervousness, longing, and resent¬
ment ends in a gesture of grace involving a sand dollar from a vacation the
two shared in Florida years earlier.
Of course, stories of relationships and loss need not be told without
humor, as Margaret Benbow's and C. J. Hribal's stories prove well. In
"Bachelor Party," an excerpt from Matty's Wedding , Hribal introduces us to
xii
Matty, a no-nonsense Wisconsin woman who puts her grandchildren to
bed, goes in search of her fiance, Luther, and finds him "sitting in a cem¬
etery with a couple of doofuses on the eve of his wedding." One of the
doofuses is Luther's son, Norbert, and Luther is blind drunk and weeping
at the grave of his first wife. Hribal presents this situation with all the
pathos and comedy it deserves, complete with an amateur harmonica
player drunkenly accompanying a country and western song playing on
the car radio.
Finally, the opening two sentences of Margaret Benbow's "Marrying
Jerry" introduce us to a captivating first person voice we simply must
listen to, and that voice more than lives up to its promise in this wonderful
story, which delights with its language and its often wry, ironic tone.
We thank all of the writers who submitted stories for this special issue of
Transactions , and we are pleased to have been a part of this new contribu¬
tion to Wisconsin's literary heritage.
Kyoko Mori
Ron Rindo
Marnie
Krause
Dining on
Memories at the
Starlite Cafe
Vi Watkins, sitting across from her husband Ed in a booth at the Starlite
Cafe, looked over her shoulder at Mae Collins, who was entering the
restaurant with Dotty Gardner and Eleanor Webb. Vi had a smile ready in
case they looked her way, but they did not. She watched Mae toss a purse
ahead of her into a booth and then slide the heft she carried since child¬
hood over the red leatherette seat. She must have said something funny
because her companions laughed.
Vi envied them, though not in a begrudging way. In fact she was happy
for the women, admired their independence, wishing only that she might
share their company. For all I know, Vi thought, they envy me not being
alone, though after considering it a moment, she doubted any of the three
would put up with Ed.
Not wanting to stare, Vi settled for quick glances. She wondered if their
presence was a last minute decision, or if eating out on Thursday was a
matter of routine. She imagined receiving a call from Dotty. " We're going
to the Starlite. Eleanor's driving, pick you up at five-thirty." "Oh, good!" Vi
heard excitement in her fancied response. "I'll be ready." Mae fanned
herself with her hand and said something that caused more laughter.
"Cacklin old hens." Ed frowned. "Wouldn't surprise me if they all three
laid an egg."
His comment would have been comical, allowing Vi and him a share of
the evening's amusement, if it weren't so mean-spirited. She pictured Ed
saying the same thing to a group of his friends, how they'd laugh and
think him clever, but then he'd say it differently.
1
Mamie Krause
Vi looked at her husband. He sat hunched over, supported by an elbow
as he read the menu. The fingers of his right hand drummed silently. He
was seldom still. If he wasn't tapping a nervous rhythm, he'd likely be
jiggling his foot. When he drove, his head rocked from side to side as
though he were working a stubborn crick from his neck.
Vi glanced at the women, and Dotty said a belated, "Hello." Vi, smiling,
raised her hand. Ed paid them no mind. Instead he leaned back, crossing
his arms on his chest, and called, "Rosie!"
"Ready?" The waitress pulled her order pad from her pocket as she
approached.
"I want the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Don't be stingy with the
gravy."
"Green beans okay?"
"I guess."
"Vi?"
Vi studied the menu.
"C'mon, let's get going," Ed said. "Take the meatloaf."
"I don't think so," Vi said slowly. She didn't dare look at Ed but as¬
sumed there would be surprise on his face. Her usual response to his
pronouncements, especially in public, was, "All right. I'll have that too,"
hoping to make it sound like her idea all along. But she wasn't in the mood
for meatloaf. "I think I'll have the chicken."
Rosie nodded as she wrote. "Baked potato, coleslaw?"
"Yes, that will be fine," Vi said, handing over the menus.
Ed looked around the restaurant, more empty than not. Vi gave up
trying to hear what the three women discussed and followed his gaze.
"Business still isn't what it was," she said.
"What's that?" Ed said. He was a small, wiry man who had a way of
talking that had a bite to it, a tone that made him sound more important
than he was.
"I was just noticing how few people are here."
Ed turned to look at the empty booths behind them but said nothing.
Vi hesitated, then began again. "But folks do seem to be coming back."
She watched Ed arrange the sugar packets in their container and then line
up the salt and pepper shakers. She waited a few moments and said, "I still
think people like ..."
"They're at Hardee's," Ed interrupted.
Vi looked down at her hands, rubbing the thumb of one hand over the
knuckles of the other. She knew they were at Hardee's. She remembered
when it opened out at the crossroads, close enough to town, yet within
sight of travelers on Route Eight. The arrival of Wal-Mart a year later
sealed the fate of Woolworth's on Main Street, where Vi had worked part-
time in yard goods for almost forty years. Some Woolworth's employees
were hired by Wal-Mart, but Vi, already sixty and having never learned to
2
Dining on Memories at the Starlite Cafe
drive, had no way to get to the new shopping center. Ed could have taken
her, but he was semi-retired by then and wanted her around the house. The
demise of the five-and-dime ended what little fellowship, guarded and
tentative, she'd known.
Lots of things had changed in the five years since Hardee's came to
town. The bank had moved and a school was added. A bad storm up¬
rooted many trees on Vi's street, giving her neighborhood of older homes
the barren appearance of Sunset Meadows, the new area west of town
where trees were no taller than shrubbery.
In this changing scene, Vi's external life remained constant while her
thinking evolved. She had little opportunity to share her opinions, most of
which were generated by guests on the daytime talk shows. "Bunch of
freaks," Ed called them, and, yes, Vi had to admit, rather odd people were
often on the programs — certainly no one she cared to live next door to.
There were times the unpleasant relationships described on the shows
were more than Vi cared to know about, and she'd run through the chan¬
nels, seeking something less unsettling.
Recently she'd had the Starlite Cafe on her mind. Though rather de¬
serted these past few years, it would always serve a need, Vi decided. It
wasn't just that folks couldn't abide burgers and fries forever, or even that
a bowl of homemade soup and a lean pork chop done up golden brown
was better tasting. No, it was because places like the Starlite encouraged
people to linger, enjoy another cup of coffee, share a few words with Rosie.
That's what would bring them back. It was the very idea of "fast" in regard
to food that Vi believed folks would tire of eventually.
She was proud of her silent convictions. To her they were like math
problems done without paper. Her greatest disappointment was that she
never got to ask of friend or stranger, "What do you think?"
Dotty was telling Mae and Eleanor what had happened on Regis and
Kathie Lee. Vi wondered if Dotty's hearing was going, she talked so much
louder than the other two.
"Wouldn't be all that carrying on if Walter was around," Ed said, refer¬
ring to Mae's husband, who, needing more care than Mae could give, was
in a nursing home. "Them three come to eat or what?"
Vi knew better than to defend the women. She would have felt confident
saying, "I think they come for the company. For the food, too, but mostly
for the company." But she didn't. Instead she said, "I heard on the televi¬
sion that laughter is good for digestion."
"Y'watch too much TV," Ed said. He turned to find the waitress. "More
coffee over here."
Rosie refilled their cups.
"That meatloaf's taking long enough," Ed said.
"It's the chicken takes a little longer."
Ed gave Vi a look. "I figured," he said.
3
Mamie Krause
A grin replaced Ed's frown as he gazed beyond Vi toward the door. Vi
looked behind to see the Miller brothers. Bob and Stanley, wiping their
feet.
"Starting to rain," Bob said.
Before Vi could look back, Ed was up, coffee in hand, headed to where
the Millers were taking seats at the counter. Vi turned to see them better.
She wasn't interested in what they talked about — more than likely some¬
thing to do with cars, since the Millers ran the garage — but she was always
taken by the change that came over Ed in the presence of other men. Vi
observed him as he spoke, animated, giving Stanley a pat on the back. She
watched a bit longer as the men nodded their heads, lending authority to
some minor consensus.
Vi imagined herself joining the women. It would be a nice thing to do,
but would they welcome her? They never had before. In fact, nothing had
changed in Vi's relationship with Mae and Dotty and Eleanor since child¬
hood. There was a woman once, Margaret Barnes — Margaret Carter when
she came to town — a pretty divorcee who took a job at Woolworth's. She
was assistant manager within a year and a friend to all, including Vi.
Margaret never fell in with any of the several small groups of women who
cut themselves off from everyone else.
One day Margaret asked if Vi would like to take the bus to Milford to
see a movie. It was Breakfast at Tiffany's. Even after some urging Vi said no,
but Margaret teased, said Ed would never miss her, which was true.
"Come on, Vi. It will do you good," Margaret said, and finally Vi agreed to
go. They decided to see the early show the following Friday when Ed
would be busy.
On hearing her plans, he railed about the house, slamming doors,
throwing the newspaper. Vi couldn't remember what he'd said besides,
"She'll be leading you by the nose in no time," and the hurtful, "What's
she want with you, anyway?" In the end, Ed said no wife of his was going
to go running around with a divorced woman. Vi backed out of their date,
and Margaret never asked again.
"I'm sorry you're upset, Ed, but the movie sounds good, and Margaret
and I are going." That's what I should have said, Vi thought, put my foot
down for a change. Might have been no harder than ordering the chicken.
Vi glanced at the women and saw Mae staring at her. Vi quickly looked
away. She reached for her purse and removed a date book with an attached
pen. Paging through, she found a note for her dental appointment. She
wrote over the time, 10:30, several times before returning the book to her
handbag.
Turning toward the window, mirror-like in the growing darkness, Vi
saw reflected a slight, gray-haired woman with glasses, her back as
straight as a well-made seam, looking for all the world like an aged school
girl waiting to be told what to do. She relaxed a bit and leaned forward.
4
Dining on Memories at the Starlite Cafe
circling her cup with her hands, enjoying the coffee's warmth against her
palms. She was suddenly struck by the memory of a long forgotten girl¬
hood friend named Helen, who had come to town to stay with relatives
when her mother was ill. Cancer, or maybe a nervous breakdown. Vi
wasn't sure, but she knew it was serious. The girls, both shy thirteen-year-
olds, became close friends. One day in early summer, with windows wide
and a lilac-scented breeze stirring the curtain, they kissed — several times —
soft, pleasant kisses. Vi quickly took her hands from the cup, clasping them
on her lap. She looked at the women, expecting them to be staring back at
her.
After a moment, Vi let her mind travel back to that day. What had
prompted them to kiss? She couldn't recall, but they rarely played any¬
thing other than house. Most likely, it occurred to her now, Helen had been
the father, coming or going to work. The kisses were part of the game and
their innocence made Vi smile. She sipped her coffee, curious if kisses
between lesbians had that tenderness about them, or if they too had a kind
of urgency, ignited by desire, like that which drove Ed, making him hard
and demanding.
Though it made Vi wonder, she knew she wasn't apt to learn more about
it unless it was discussed on TV. And it could be, because you never knew
what might turn up on Montel or Sally Jessy Raphael. Lot stranger things
were talked about.
"Chicken and a baked," Rosie said, setting the order on the table, star¬
tling Vi.
She felt color rise on her cheek. "Thank you."
Ed slid into the booth, taking up his fork as the meatloaf was placed
before him.
"Enjoy," Rosie said.
Vi looked at her food. She was hungry when they arrived, but the coffee
had taken the edge off her appetite. She picked at the chicken, rearranging
more than eating it. She watched Ed as he ate, much too fast and with
conspicuous gusto, but neatly, gathering up gravy with bits of bread,
spearing green beans with swift sure jabs.
Vi held her fork poised to eat, but she turned toward the darkened
window, wondering what became of Helen. She might have been sickly
like her mother and died young, Vi thought, or she could be alive and well,
living no farther than Milford, with children and grandchildren.
What fun they'd had, sharing secrets, collecting magazine photos of
Tyrone Power, sitting on the stairs, eavesdropping on the travails of Mary
Noble , Backstage Wife , which Vi's mother listened to while doing house¬
work. Vi remembered the ironing board creaking as Mother worked
through the mounting tension of Mary Noble's complicated life. Vi and
Helen, meanwhile, just out of sight, fought giggles.
Both girls had been sweet on Clifford Peterson, the young man across
5
Mamie Krause
the street, two years older and as shy as they Unlike most of the boys, he
was polite and studious, with a talent for drawing. In high school Vi had
been hopelessly in love with Clifford. He never came back after going
away to school and settling in Kansas City, where, Vi once heard, he de¬
signed greeting cards. Clifford's kisses would have had that gentle quality,
Vi decided. They would have been tendered with a sensitive kind of love.
Her memories surprised her, coming as they did, unbidden, pleasantly
recalled, yet leaving her with a sense of sadness. Vi looked around the
Starlite, at its handful of customers. She found it appropriate somehow,
though she didn't know why, that her remembrances were being rekindled
there.
"Git movin," Ed said, reaching for the last dinner roll in the basket
between them, "I'm near half done."
Vi took a bit of coleslaw, but its vinegary taste, which normally didn't
displease her, tonight was strong and bitter. She sipped her water, speculat¬
ing on who she might be if she'd moved on, like Margaret and Helen and
Clifford, left her small community where, it occurred to her now, others
only saw people as they'd always been.
Laughter from Mae, Dotty and Eleanor, joined by Rosie, broke Vi's
reverie. She noticed Ed look over at the women and shake his head. Eating
was serious business to him. Vi knew he was getting irritated and would
likely suffer from an upset stomach later on.
When he finished, Ed laid his fork on the table next to his plate, just as
shiny, Vi noted, as a dish set before a hungry pup.
"Why'd you even order?" he said. "Looks like you didn't eat nothin."
"I'll take it home. Maybe you'll like it later."
"Yeah, well, forget the coleslaw."
Rosie returned with coffee. Seeing Vi's dinner, she said, "Anything
wrong?"
"Just ain't hungry," Ed said.
"I'd like to take it with me."
"Sure. I'll get a container."
"Bring a slice of apple pie while you're at it," Ed said.
As he ate his dessert, Vi again tried to see herself in different circum¬
stances. She couldn't, but it didn't matter. It was too late now. And com¬
pared to talk show women, who were battered or suffered men who were
drug users or carriers of all manner of disease, her complaints were trivial.
She knew Ed couldn't get along without her, yet she had no sense of
identity apart from her own; no feeling of worth or importance fostered by
what she saw reflected in the eyes of others.
It's what love should do, Vi thought. Real love, the sort one heart feels
from another. She'd long ago given up on the storybook variety she be¬
lieved in and hoped for as a young woman. It hadn't survived courtship, a
period of few romantic memories. Though there had been an incident that
6
Dining on Memories at the Starlite Cafe
held great promise; recalling it still warmed her. It was the day, nearly fifty
years ago, when Ed lifted her down from the Ferris wheel carriage at the
county fair. Two of his friends standing nearby hooted. "Go on," Ed said
good-naturedly, with a wave. Then, red-faced, he took Vi's hand as they
stepped from the platform. How happy she had been at that moment.
Ed picked up the last of the pie crust and popped it into his mouth. He
finished his coffee, pulled a paper napkin from the table dispenser, and
vigorously wiped his lips and chin. He took another napkin for his hands,
then used it to sweep together the crumbs around his plate. As Vi gathered
her things, she noticed him breathe deeply and sigh. She thought of Pepto-
Bismol, making a mental note to check the cupboard, to see they weren't
running low.
7
C.J.
Hribal
Bachelor
Party
Excerpt from Matty's Wedding,
a novel
Matty has a pretty good idea of where Luther is. While she is helping
put the boys down at Rose's — Charlie and Bill cling to her neck, ask
for stories, water, a trip to the bathroom, a song, please , Gramma , oh please oh
please oh please oh please oh please oh please! — she imagines Luther at the Y-
Go-By. He's keeping an eye on his son Norbert, who's burst in with Byron
Joe and Vernon Haight, Jr. and Leo Baumgarten, Augsbury's Mount
Rushmore of Indolence.
Luther would be there because he believes he can keep Norbert out of
trouble by keeping him company. He's been doing this for a week now. He
sits at the bar for an hour or three while the Mount Rushmore of Indolence
shoot pool and talk dirty, and when he's heard enough, he says, "Come on
home, son," as though the words "home" and "son" meant anything to
Norbert. And Norbert says, "Run along. Dad. I'll be along directly." And
the next day, when Luther's already up and running a hose over the
concrete barn slab, Vernon Haight, Jr.'s pickup or Byron Joe's party van- — a
phone company panel truck with an easy chair and a sofa bed thrown in
back — comes wobbling past, on their way to Vernon, Jr.'s to sleep away the
previous evening. The Purple Palace on Highway 10 has striptease till
three, and the private parties go on a lot longer than that. Four young
bucks with a wad of money could arrange for themselves quite an evening.
Norbert has already said he'd like to take Luther there for his bachelor
party. Luther rarely drinks, so even his feeble attempts at keeping up with
his son result in his weaving into the house like a drugged spider.
9
C. /. Hribal
The boys are down and Millie's forehead has been kissed — she needs
one Mmmwaaa! right over each eye before she'll go to sleep — and Matty's
stirring up pitchers of lemonade and iced tea for the family breakfast the
next morning. Tonight, Matty announces to Rose as she stirs, tonight she's
going after him.
Rose, from the living room, calls out seriously, "Be careful. Mom."
"Be careful?" Matty laughs. "Dear, I'm going to a bar, not a crack
house." She shoves a jar of pickles aside on the top shelf of the refrigerator
to make room for the iced tea.
"I know. Mom, but you seem so, I don't know, intense, earnest. You
practically drilled Millie with those kisses."
"OT howitzer lips."
"You know what I mean. I just think, I mean. I'm not saying to be careful
on account of your safety, okay?"
"Okay. You want I should put tea on for you?" Rose is sitting in her easy
chair with the lift seat so she can go from that to her wheelchair. Her
crutches are behind the chair by the window.
"No, I'll be okay. I'm just going to set here and let the beer percolate
through me. If I drink any tea. Joe'll come home and find me floating in my
own juices."
"He might like that."
"Mother!"
Matty leans over slightly to give Rose a kiss above each eyebrow. "There
you go, dear. If the boys or Millie wake up, you have some extras."
"Mom, be careful."
"I will, dear. Honestly, I will."
Her good mood lasts until she's in her own driveway — Luther's drive¬
way, really — putting on her turn indicator to signal a left into town (funny
how even going out of her own driveway she puts on her turn indicator —
this in a town where nobody signals because most everybody knows
where you're going anyway). She had driven home from Rose's just to
check if he's there. But the house lights are off, as are the barn lights, and
it's only the purplish white halo of the mercury lamp high on its pole that
lets you know you're in a circle of civilization, a safe spot on the edge of
the prairie. She decides, shifting into second and then third, that if she
finds Luther tipsy at the Y-Go-By, she will be furious. She'll sit with him for
a moment, order a club soda maybe, and then say under her breath, the
words cutting over her teeth so they reach him raggedly, grinding his ears
raw like sandpaper, "I'm not going to embarrass you by screaming, but
you get your fat ass off this barstool immediately and come home or
there's going to be hell to pay forever." Then she'll say brightly, "Thank
you, dear. I'll see you at the house in a while, okay?" and leave separately,
her purse clutched under her armpit.
But she barely goes a hundred yards when she crosses a rise near the
10
Bachelor Party
end of Luther's property and sees lights in the cemetery. She stops, her
elbow out the window, and, over the engine's idling, hears the plaintive,
off-key wail of a harmonica wielded by an amateur.
She drives down another quarter-mile to the stone and wrought iron
entrance gate and takes the winding gravel drive back to where she saw
the lights. It's near where Marion, Luther's first wife, is buried. There's a
small fire there, banked between two headstones. Byron Joe Gunther's
white whale is there, the phone company logo spray-painted over with
brown paint. It's his lights that are on and his car radio, tuned to the
country and western station in Appleton. A honey-husky woman's voice is
singing a very slow, tumbling version of "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry,"
accompanied on the radio by not much more than a slow-thrumming bass
and in the cemetery by Byron Joe's inept harmonica playing. A cat with its
tail pulled would produce less reedier wails.
Byron Joe is slouched against the van's grillwork, his belly hugely
pregnant with hops, his green sleeveless T-shirt not quite covering the
swell of belly flesh as it cascades like a hanging snowdrift over his jean
tops. He cuts his eyes at Matty and tries running a trill, but the effect is
more like the plaintive, saggy noise you might get from hurling a tabby at
an accordion.
A little ways off sit Luther and Norbert, their feet splayed, bottles rising
from between their thighs. Norbert's feeding the fire. It crackles like static.
Luther's face is streaked with tears; his eyes are glassy, gleaming. His
truck's behind him. In the three years since Herbert Tessen courted and
lost her, the word he painted on the driver's door panel hasn't faded quite
like the rest of the finish. The truck's a creamy, pastel green, the color of a
doctor's waiting room, and the dribbly WHORE Herbert painted stands
out in ghostly forest green. You can barely see it in daylight, but with
Byron Joe's headlights on it, it's like the name on somebody's boat: SEA
WITCH or CASSIE'S FOLLY or some other hideous monstrosity done up
in reflective black and gold letters. Why would anyone do such a thing?
Matty wonders, but the tableau of misery spread out before her would
seem to indicate people are capable of just about any stupidity. Remember¬
ing her two evenings with Porter Atwood when Ben was dying, she has¬
tens to include herself, but that was at the height of her grief. Luther is
sitting in a cemetery with a couple of doofuses on the eve of his wedding.
Byron Joe, true to form, cuts off his wailing and belches lewdly.
"Evenin' again, Matty."
"Good evening, Byron. Practicing, are we?"
He nods towards his van and the husky singing emanating from the
radio. "If she can do it, I can do it. It's never too late to be somebody in the
music business. Maybe in a few weeks I'll shy away to L.A. and be some¬
body. You wait and see." In his beefy, lard-like hands the harmonica looks
like one of those tin pipes you get in Cracker Jacks. It sounds like it, too.
11
C. /. Hribal
Unless he's trying to raise the dead, he's chosen a curious career path:
town loaf and inveterate trouble-maker makes good in L.A. as harmonica
player.
But Byron Joe is too big and frequently too violently drunk to make fun
of. "You keep practicing, Byron. You'll catch somebody's eye eventually."
"Caught the eye, the shoulder, the whole damn thing already," Byron Joe
says. He cocks his head towards his van a second time and calls, "Louise?
You ready?"
A giggle in reply from the van's insides. "Almost, Ronnie." It's not a
voice Matty recognizes.
"We were figurin' on doing this at your wedding," Byron says, and
tunelessly approximates "Here Comes the Bride" on his harmonica.
A blond woman in a Lincoln green teddy and a feathered Peter Pan hat
comes out the back of the van. Her heels wobble in the soft earth; she's
young, maybe nineteen. "Oh, hi, there," she says when she catches sight of
Matty. "I'm Louise. I'm a dancer."
"You are indeed," Byron Joe says and razzes on the harmonica. Louise
recognizes this is not the time or place for harmonica razzing or im¬
promptu dancing. She lets her eyes fall. "Ronnie said I could change here
and he'd get me back in time for my next show. I'm seventh at the Purple
Palace, shows at three and ten," she announces rapidly, like she's listened
to and believed too many carnival barkers. Then she adds, "We didn't
mean any harm. Ronnie's always pulling some stunt. He says I'm prettiest
when I look to be in trouble." She waits a second, and then her eyes lift.
"Are we in trouble?"
Matty shakes her head. "I'd like to put on a sweater at least, Ronnie,"
Louise says, and disappears inside the van. Through all of this Luther and
Norbert have not said one word. Occasionally a stick cracks, and Norbert
places the two ends in the fire. Shaking the sticks, he sends up a gussy of
miniature fireworks. They look like orange fireflies rising in squadron.
"Evenin', Matty," Norbert finally says. His intonation is even flatter than
Byron's.
"Good evening, Norbert. Have you and your father been out here all
day? If I didn't know better. I'd say you were." There's a pile of brown and
green bottles in the gap between them. Norbert removes a new one from
the case he's leaning against, and the empty nestles against its brethren
with a friendly clink.
"Pretty much. Me and Byron left for a bit to see about the Round 'Em Up
and fetch Louise between shows, but otherwise we've been keeping watch
with Luther here."
"Watch?"
"He said he needed to get away from the goings on at his place. Or your
place. Or whatever it is. He said he needed to think. Maybe he needs to
convene with Ma's spirit. Or Dana's. He's been talking about that, too.
12
Bachelor Party
Who the fuck knows?" He takes a glug from his Leinenkugel's and belches,
a single pop of air that doubles as punctuation.
Luther sits like a stone. He's staring straight out at the space between the
van and the truck, where it's purply black and the trees are greenly dark
and the gravesites look like baby teeth. It's a crowded space that's also
amazingly empty. Luther seems mesmerized. His cheeks are wet from
crying, and a fly crawls around an earhole. Matty squats on her haunches,
then places a hand on his shoulders. "Luther?" she says as though he were
asleep.
Luther slowly turns his head. His eyes are not blinking. The alcohol
must have short-circuited his normal bodily functions. When he turns his
head, it's like he's a robot. The voice, though, thick and gummy, is cer¬
tainly, plaintively Luther's.
"Marion says it's okay for us to marry. It's okay, she says. We can. Marry,
that is. It's okay, Matty. Really. We can. We can marry."
Even though he uses her name, it doesn't seem likely he's seeing her.
Perhaps when she first came up and Byron Joe and Norbert greeted her, he
heard the familiar bent of the syllables and the familiar stayed. But that's
not recognition. It's pressing something down in putty, meaningless. Does
the putty know it's received the impression? Does it know it's stretched,
accommodated, given way? Of course not. Another of Luther's body
functions is on vacation. He is — Matty shudders with revulsion — blind
drunk.
"Jesus, Luther, Jesus." She sits in the thick green carpet to stroke his
forehead. It's clammy. It's been hot all day, and the air is finally cooling off,
the water going out of it like a wrung washcloth. Almost immediately she
can feel the dew soaking into the seat of her sundress. Then she smells
something vinegary and acrid. She feels between his legs. Yes, he's peed
himself. Probably a belatedly inaccurate response to what he'd have liked
to have done when Byron first fetched Louise. Still another vacationing
body part. He pees when he wants to come. She only hopes he doesn't lose
control of his bowels. When she was little her own mother was quite old,
and as she slipped into senility, cleaning up after her incontinence became
a daily, horrifying ritual. She has an early glimmer of what future life with
Luther might be like, and it smells like pee.
"Jesus, Luther," she repeats. "Jesus. Norbert, help me here. Help me get
him up. Byron?"
Byron's nowhere to be seen. But the white whale begins to rock a little,
and over the twangy up-tempo Dolly Parton number, Louise's bell-like
voice is ringing like a cheerleader's until the van is shimmying like an
unbalanced washing machine.
They watch for a moment, dumbfounded. Fireflies are lighting up
outside the ring of the campfire like delinquent flares. Finally Matty says,
"I need to get him home, Norbert. Will you lend me a hand?"
13
C. /. Hribal
Once Luther's on his feet, he moves as though underwater. He has the
deliberate movements of one learning to walk again. Of one who remem¬
bers he used to remember, but isn't sure you need to remember or simply
do. The memory itself is maddening. As they pull even with the van,
something else — the guttural gruntings and exertions of Byron — is weav¬
ing itself into Louise's cheering. If a grossly overweight salmon urging
itself upstream were capable of sound, this would be its noise.
Even leading the somnabulatory Luther, Matty can't stop herself from
shouting, "Byron! Give her the top!" And then they hear a sound like the
slap of water underneath a pier, then a long grunted sigh, and they know
Byron's spent himself and is instantly asleep. Matty only hopes Louise was
either on top or is able to wriggle out from beneath his immenseness. She
can imagine the poor girl there all night, trying just to draw an even
breath. But then there's a metallic rustling from inside the van, the sound
of tools being scraped or dropped across metal, the inside light comes on,
and they can see Louise struggling into a jean jacket. Then she's holding up
a gargantuan pair of jeans and is rifling the pockets.
Matty doesn't need to see anymore. Louise will get what she needs.
And then they are past her, past him, and it is only the varieties of black
and green dark and the glow of the tombstones and the incandescence of
the fireflies through which they move.
He pees himself again as she's leading him up the porch steps. Norbert
helps her with Luther in the cemetery as far as the car door and then says
he needs to help Louise get back to work. Uh huh, Matty says. She can
imagine what that entails. Byron's is not the only pair of pants Louise will
be looking through this evening.
Once Luther's splayed out in the back seat, a blanket under him to
protect the fabric, she drives him straight home. No way is she going back
to the Round 'Em Up. Mercifully, the children are already gathered and
gone. And she's sure the adults have given up waiting as well. But then
she looks up, and her oldest son, Matthew, is sitting on the porch swing,
his position marked by the glow of his cigarette. When he inhales, it's like
a new kind of lightning bug. She opens the rear door and gets Luther out.
Bodily functions aside, he is more or less ambulatory, and Matty's doing
more leading now, less yanking and tugging. She means to get Luther into
the tub, clothes and all, and soak the stench of beer and urine out of him.
"I see you found him."
Between gritted teeth, "Ye-a-a-ssss."
"I see he's quite a prize." A half beat and then he says, "Mom."
They are on the porch proper now. The lightning bugs are still out,
flitting freely over the grass. Matty thinks of men with miniature jet packs,
trying not to collide. She decides that most men already have them.
"Matthew, come to the point." The exasperation in her voice is weighted
14
Bachelor Party
with fatigue. She was prepared to defend herself and Luther against any
objections by her children, but the onslaught, the rebuke is so slight, it's
like a feather landing at just the right moment on the heights of the walls of
Jericho. Matty sees how slight and fragile her defenses are, how frantically
hollow. If he were to say one more thing, she might burst into tears the
way Leona Griemerts does at any function that requires wailing.
Matthew uncrosses his legs and strides over to her. He props open the
screen door with a brick and, with her leading, propels Luther from behind
into the living room and up the stairs into the bathroom with the tub. He
knows where she wants him. They get his shoes off and one and a half
socks. They plop him down and begin running the water on top of him.
He's slumped asleep, and Matty turns the shower head so the spray hits
nicely into his chest. A long guttural "OH!" escapes him, but all he does is
turn on his side so the spray hits him in back, in his ribcage, just below the
shoulder. She flips the tub lever to let it fill, then pulls the curtains so she
won't have to look at him.
On the front porch Matty waits for Matthew to back out his station
wagon. They are not going to talk about this. There's this understanding
between them. Matty won't ask him about his evening — she wonders if at
any point his old flame Rita Sabo made an appearance — if he won't ask her
about hers. His elbow V's out the door. It's the gesture of driving common
in her family. Even in winter Keillors drive with their elbows V'd, an
unconscious ease of being behind a wheel. At least there's that. In the
mechanical world, at least, they are at ease.
"Ma," he says before he drives the three point eight miles to Amanda's,
where his wife Angie is waiting. "Go ahead and marry the guy. A man
who'd do this to you knowing what you'd be like in the morning is either
too brave, too unquestionably stupid to worry about, or too weak to give
you any trouble. You can easily handle him, Ma. Marry him. He beats the
stuffing out of Daddy in the weakness department."
15
Karen
Loeb
How to Save a Cat
and Fall in Love
It's one of those sultry Florida nights, hard to think of sleeping, hard to
enjoy the beer that has formed a puddle around the base of the bottle.
The suffocating weather is approaching intolerable when your beer bottle
sweats this late at night. The June bugs are crashing and buzzing against
the porch screen. All is not right with the world. Which means Greta isn't
here on the porch. Mike doesn't know exactly why that is. And now he
can't do much investigating because tomorrow he leaves for Alaska to
study summer plant life. He last saw Greta a week ago at her place: the
deluxe Snell Isle apartments where he thought he was staying over. He had
every reason to assume this because they had been staying over at each
other's places for two months. "Your bachelor pad/' she said, her voice
curling in derision when they had what Mike thought was a spat and now
realizes was probably more like a civil war.
"You're not reliable," she said. "Your work comes first, and now I think
it's someone else that comes first."
"I told you," he explained, pinching the bridge of his nose under his
wire-rimmed glasses, "that the woman who answered the phone that time
was a neighbor."
It was the truth. Valerie is a neighbor. She lives across the alley with a
passel of grown sons who ride motorcycles and all-terrain vehicles and
cultivate pit-bulls, and a husband — Warren? Wally? Wacky? — who mea¬
sures people's floors for linoleum and then goes on a bender before he can
cut and cement it. No wonder Valerie wanders the neighborhood in des¬
peration and brings pies over to Mike's house. Mike can't help it if she
17
Karen Loeb
fixes herself up to look pretty when she comes over. At forty-five, fifteen
years more than Mike, she has red hair that he guesses is still her natural
color and freckles even. The one time Greta met her, Valerie came over to
Mike's bungalow wearing short shorts and a tube top. When they had their
fight, Greta brought that up.
"You didn't have to ask her in," she said.
"She's my neighbor — she brought us a dessert."
"I somehow don't think she intended the French silk pie for me," Greta
said. "She was practically naked."
"What are you saying?" Mike asked.
"I'm saying that you're not making things clear. That here we are in¬
volved, and you let this woman in, and an hour later I realize she's not
going to leave. When I say, 'Mike, how about driving me home,' you
remind me that I have my own car at your house. I drive home with the
memory of you both sitting on the couch at one in the morning."
Mike takes a swallow of beer. In front of the porch, the rattling in the
bushes commences. It's the nightly run of the possum family. He leans
forward, glimpsing these animals that share his yard. He sinks back
against the canvas in the director's chair, missing Greta, wanting her to be
in the chair opposite his so he can reach over and touch the smooth skin on
her face and twist his fingers through her curly spring-loaded hair that
nestles on her head like an exotic fern. Asparagus plumosus, weaving
around his heart and soul.
The phone rings. His muscles tense, but he doesn't move to answer it
just inside the door. After the machine beeps, a woman's voice comes on
with a message. It's Greta, talking about her cat. Jonquil. It's one reason he
likes her. She has a cat named after a plant: Narcissus joncjuilla.
He leaps for the phone, not knowing he had that much leap left in him
at this hour. His hand plucks the receiver. She's still there. He finds that
he's extraordinarily happy, giddy, that her voice is wafting into his ear. At
first, he doesn't hear what she's saying. He's grooving on the lilts, the
intonations.
"Mike, is that you or the machine?"
"Me," he says. "What's this about Jonquil?"
He hears a catch in her voice when she tells him the cat hasn't come
home and asks what she should do. Would he come over and help her
search?
He thinks of the plane he has to catch from the Tampa airport in the
morning and determines that he probably isn't destined to get much sleep.
"Please," she says in a wispy voice.
"I'll get there as soon as I can."
It's a half-hour drive through city streets in St. Pete to her apartment.
The back end of his station wagon is open — tied down over the extension
ladder he grabbed from the garage. Lost cats and ladders seem like a good
18
How to Save a Cat and Fall in Love
combination. Besides, his father, who was Mr. Fix-it himself, always told
him he'd never go wrong if he had a ladder with him at all times.
They're walking around the yard, acreage really, which surrounds
Greta's huge Spanish-style apartment building. The moon lights their way
in silvery patches. Greta's hair is caught in clumps by each ear, and a
crooked part runs up the back of her head. She's wearing perfume with a
wild flower smell that is causing Mike to lose his reasoning. They've been
hiking in the yard for a half hour, whistling and calling, "Jon-quil, Jon-quil,
here kitty kitty."
"Thanks for coming over," she says. They stop under a banyan tree.
Ficus benghalenis. A streetlight from the alley makes her white T-shirt and
shorts glimmer. "I missed you," she says. "I thought it was time to end this
stalemate."
"I'm glad you called," Mike tells her. "I'm sorry you were so upset with
me." His hand on her shoulder eases her toward him. She presses into him,
her breasts flattening against his chest, her bare knees touching below his
bare knees. She feels electric to him, and if he were completely honest, he'd
admit he doesn't give a damn about her cat. He's glad the cat is missing if
that's what it took for her to call. He leans down to kiss her.
"Wait," she says. "What's that?"
"What's what?" He tries for the kiss, but she leans back.
"Listen."
All Mike can hear are the crickets and the million other insects rustling
about.
"It's Jonquil. I heard her."
"Are you sure? It could have been the wind," he says with hope crowd¬
ing his voice. The moment is over, and he feels desolate as she backs away.
She calls in cooing tones, "Jonquil, Jonquil, Jonquil."
Her persistence pays off. A loud meow startles them into holding hands
for a second. Mike takes this as a good sign even though Greta lets go
quickly. "Where is she?" she asks.
"Over that way." They walk quietly through the grass, listening. An¬
other meow. This time it's overhead.
"There she is, Mike. Oh, Jonquil, you poor kitty." She looks up, and he
follows her gaze. There's the cat, its puffy white fur visible for miles,
probably. It's a calico because of token orange and black splotches, but it's
mostly white. A true glow-in-the-dark cat.
"Jonquil," Greta calls. The cat meows in answer.
She's perched on a thin branch of a toothpick of an avocado tree, Persea
americana, about twenty to twenty-five feet up, Mike estimates, which is
just great because his ladder only extends to fifteen feet. Already he imag¬
ines himself shimmying up the rest of the way, grabbing at Jonquil, who
scoots just out of his reach, then losing his grip and falling to the soft
19
Karen Loeb
Bermuda grass below, Cynodon dactylon , which, when he hits it, will feel
like ice picks. As he lies there numb, with the pain of many broken bones,
he will see, through glazed-over eyes, a large white clump moving down¬
ward through the branches. He knows this is his fate, and he also knows
that, if he wants the woman, he has to go after the cat.
"Can't we call the fire department?" Greta asks.
"Sorry to disillusion you, but they won't rescue cats. It's an urban myth,
like alligators breeding in sewers and coming up through toilets. Wait here
and talk to Jonquil a minute. I HAVE A LADDER!" He bounds off, his long
legs sprinting over the grass. "Get the ladder, catch the cat," he chants.
He's elated that Greta is talking to him but dreading the climb because he
has never liked being more than a few feet off the ground.
Now he's on the ladder, which is stretched to the max. If he doesn't look
down, maybe the vertigo won't set in. He's peering into the shining, saucer
eyes of Jonquil, who is regarding him coolly from her branch five feet
above. "Come on. Jonquil, just a little closer," he pleads, reaching his long
arm as far as it will go, which is not far enough. Jonquil meows but doesn't
move. "Jonquil, you feline fiend," he says in what he hopes are dulcet
tones, "get your furry rat-chasing hide down here, dammit." He hopes
Greta didn't hear.
He descends half-way. Greta stands by the ladder, her face crimped in
distress. "I've got an idea," he announces. Until he says it, he hasn't a clue
of what to do next, but it sounds good and it buys time. "Get the basket,"
he says. "You know, the one you have your Ficus carica, your fig plant in.
I'll stay here and talk to Jonquil." She gives him a confused look. "The plan
is ... " He pauses. "To get the cat to jump into the basket." She doesn't
protest as she turns and runs toward the building.
Ten minutes later she's handing up to him the three-foot-tall basket
shaped like a tube. He grasps the straw handle on the side and climbs
higher, clucking to the cat.
As he approaches with the basket. Jonquil does something maddening.
She edges back on the branch, so she's no longer directly above him. Now
she's to the right, regarding Mike with terror, and, he suspects, some
amusement. He reaches the basket up and over, leaning as much as he
dares, his heart pumping, calling to Greta, "Keep the ladder steady."
The basket reaches within two feet. If this plan works, and suddenly
Mike thinks it will because the cat is perking up her ears and extending her
neck, then she will jump into the basket. What he has just realized and
Greta has no knowledge of yet, is that when the cat jumps, Mike will be so
off-balance that he won't be able to keep hold of the basket. It will fall,
feline cargo and all, to the ground. He's not sure how to tell her this and
maintain his balance and concentration, so he continues talking to Jonquil.
"Come on, kitty, pretty kitty. Jump, you rascal."
20
How to Save a Cat and Fall in Love
"Jon-quillll," Greta calls, anguish in her voice.
"Hold the ladder," he hollers as the cat jumps with a heavy, well-fed
thud straight to the bottom of the basket. It jolts out of his hands and
plunges through the skinny branches, crashing to the ground.
"Ohhhh, my poooor cat," Greta wails. She lets go of the ladder, causing
it to sway for a moment, sending dizzy waves through Mike, who's cau¬
tiously climbing down.
Once on terra firma he feels much better. Jonquil is crouching in the
basket, which is on its side. Greta has to reach in and disengage her claw
by claw. They're able to determine that the cat is traumatized but unin¬
jured. Greta holds her large bundle of cat like a trophy. The trophy bur¬
rows its head into the crook of Greta's arm and refuses to look at her
rescuer.
"I don't know what upset me more, the cat in the tree, or the cat careen¬
ing to earth," she says.
"I would have lost my balance," Mike explains. "I couldn't hold on to
the basket."
"I realize that," she says. "I didn't know if you knew that, and I know
Jonquil didn't know." They laugh. "Thanks so much. I know you have the
big Alaska trip, and it was asking a lot of you to come over. Jonquil thanks
you, too."
"She's a sweetheart," Mike lies, stroking her back, feeling skin twitch
beneath fur.
"What time is your flight?"
"The shuttle comes to my house at six a.m."
"I don't have my watch. What time is it?"
Mike glances at his wrist. The phosphorescent dial is lit up like a landing
strip. "It's almost three-thirty. Come on. I'll walk you to your door." He
grabs the basket and puts his arm around her shoulder and hugs her, and
the cat, to him as they walk toward the building. "You'll probably be able
to sleep in and do a half-day tomorrow," he says.
"No way. I have four new clients to interview in the morning. My boss
doesn't expect alert, but he does expect a body. Besides, you can't blow off
people who have appointments."
"They're not like plants," Mike says. They're at her door. "Why don't
you put the cat inside," he suggests.
"Good idea." She bends down, lets the cat cascade out of her arms, and
stands, facing him. "I'm glad we're talking," she says.
"Me, too. I missed you." They fit easily into each other's arms and kiss
for a long moment. "If I don't leave this instant," he tells her, "I'll do
something I'll regret, like miss the shuttle." They kiss again.
"Good trip," she says softly, brushing his chin with the back of her hand.
"I'll call you next week. Nope, I'll call you from the tundra mid-week."
"I'll look forward to it."
21
Karen Loeb
When she closes the door, he can hear her talking to Jonquil, who's
yowling about the momentary desertion.
He enjoys the drive home through the empty streets of St. Pete, still
tasting Greta's sweet lips on his. He smiles when he thinks of her prima
dona roomie. Jonquil. The Palmaceae are alive with wind, the fronds swish¬
ing and the trunks bending slightly.
At home, he's barely inside when he hears a knocking at the back door.
As he walks through the darkened house, he figures he has enough time
for a shower and shave and about an hour to relax. He opens the door to
find his neighbor, Valerie, her hand on the frame. He's vaguely annoyed
and is about to tell her how rushed he is, but even in the shadows, he can
see that her red hair is uncombed and that she has a black eye.
"You didn't get that walking into a cupboard," he says.
"No," she agrees. "I didn't."
He moves aside for her to come in. It's the first time she's visited with¬
out bringing a pie or cake. With his hand on her back, he guides her
through the house. His feelings for Greta rest neatly in his heart, right
below the wooden button on his shirt pocket. In the unlit bedroom he coils
his arms around Valerie, momentarily bemused about how this could be
happening. But she's here and needs him, and he isn't going to have time
to sleep anyway.
22
Martha
Bergland
Surface
Tension
A novel excerpt
One
When he hung up the phone the darkness had a new quality. Jack sat
up in bed and watched as the darkness was slowly revealed to be
jumping colors. Not just behind his eyelids but out there, too. The banging
of molecules against each other seemed visible to him. But why hadn't it
been clear to him from the beginning, when anyone who looks with two
eyes can see that darkness is made of motion? Jack sat in the middle at the
head of their bed, like some king he had read about who received his
subjects in his bed chamber. But in the dark? There's been a lot of kings.
Some king must have sat like this, only it was people around him, invisible
in the dark, indistinguishable from the other jumping colors. No subjects
here. No subject to contemplate but the dancing silence and darkness
which Jack sat watching.
Everything that had seemed still or solid or not there at all now seemed
liquid, active, full of motion and color, and, though he sat quiet in his same
bed and though he felt calmed somehow by his earlier unexpected tears,
he felt himself to be no longer a man whole and solid but made of millions
of tiny motions bounded only temporarily by the power of his will, which
at this moment felt no stronger than the surface tension that held water
over the rim of a glass. He felt that he would soon be overpowered by the
tiny, mass decisions of amoebae and cells and viruses and other inhabitants
whose names he didn't know-bright pointillist things that added up
accidentally to be Jack Hawn in Green Bay, Wisconsin. For a long time he
was unable to move. He was afraid that what he was would spill out and
that he would become someone else.
23
Martha Bergland
But why? Jack knew himself to be a reasonable man. The only thing that
had happened to him, he told himself, was that his wife had called and
said she wasn't coming back. This happened to men all the time. And Janet
hadn't even really left him. She'd said she would stay there in Illinois, in
Half Moon, to be where they grew up. She'd just said she thought they
both should be there. She loved him, she said. And she was not there to be
with his brother again. She was going to live in the old hotel where her dad
lived. Jack believed her, believed that she was not going back to Carl. She'd
asked Jack to go back to the farm and live with Carl, like brothers again,
she'd said. You need your brother back. And Carl needs you. His drinking
is bad; the farm is in bad shape. All Janet wants is for us to come back
where we started from, to come full circle, to come home.
Jack sat very still. The motion was outside of him and inside of him too,
the colors and bright unpredictable motion. All his reasoning did not quell
the terror that with one tiny slip he would lose himself to the darkness and
silence, merge with it. This is crazy, he told himself, but the fear stayed.
The motion, the dancing of the molecules of color, could not be willed
away with what he thought or didn't think, though he believed that any
false, sharp thought might set in motion a chain reaction that would end,
not in death, but in the dispersal of Jack Hawn.
After a while a picture came to him — black and white — from a movie in
grade school, a picture of ping pong balls in a chain reaction in some glass
chamber, and then the picture of himself flying apart like that made him
laugh, a short, sharp snort that made him have to wipe his nose and
startled the cat asleep on his feet. When Jack noticed the warmth and heft
of the big cat, he automatically swept it off the bed with his leg but imme¬
diately regretted it. Why did he do that? That's the same, he thought, as
automatically smashing the bugs he found around the house. Janet always
made a big deal about gathering them up in paper towels and shaking
them outside the door, even in winter. It irritated him — her prissy concern
for spiders. She would release them outside to a slow death by freezing; in
here they could get a nice quick squash and that's that. He'd even heard
her talking once to some damn bug: "Get behind the counter before Jack
sees you." How different they must be, he thought, if she had to talk to
bugs in the house, and he had to kill them. But cats shouldn't be on the
bed. They just shouldn't. It's unsanitary.
He was cold and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. It was the
goddamned air conditioner still going full blast. "Relieved. That's what I
am." He said that out loud. Then the fear was gone, only dimly remem¬
bered. He told himself again that she called from down in Illinois in the
middle of the night to ask him to go home, to say she's not coming back.
But he couldn't go home, and he didn't know why, and right now he didn't
want to know why, but he did know that now he wouldn't have to keep
his face together in front of her and see hers always in front of him.
24
Surface Tension
Jack got up and, shivering in his shorts, went into the living room, pried
out the stick that jammed the patio door closed, and opened the door to the
night air. He stepped out on the little balcony of their condominium and
found that it was cool enough now to shut off the air conditioner and open
the windows. Jack turned to go in, but, with his hand on the door, turned
back to see what there was to see in the middle of the night.
The greenish lights lit the grass already scorched in June. There was no
motion anywhere except moths and June bugs around the lights. No cars,
no people, no cats or raccoons. Just the sound of other people's air condi¬
tioners and, in the distance, the interstate. Jack stood a moment, feeling
foolish about his earlier fear, thought of the empty rooms behind him, and
decided again that relief was what he felt. Then he heard a train, not just
the whistle, but the engines and the freight cars passing over the rails, and
again he was amazed that the train could sound so close in the night, when
he knew the tracks to be almost a mile away. The sound always pleased
him, made him close his eyes in contentment. He hurried back into the
bedroom, shut off the air conditioner and opened the window wide. The
train was even louder. He got into bed quickly so he could begin to sleep
with the sound of the train. He was almost asleep when the sound faded
away, and there was a moment when he thought he might slide into some
fear again. Then Janet's big cat jumped up on the bed and curled at his
back where Janet used to.
As he slipped into sleep, he saw, as if from the ceiling. Jack and Janet
Hawn, husband and wife in bed. He saw them sleeping back to back,
touching only at the bases of their spines, holding an empty space between
them, a vase shape, a wedge of darkness. They were joined at the hips like
twins born out of the same belly, not connected at the head or the heart,
but joined by the accident of the place of their birth, their growing up
together, their being neighbors.
rattling sound woke Jack up the next morning. It was the goddamned
jljl cat prying at the kitchen cupboard where Janet kept the cat food.
"Cut it out!" Jack yelled, and the rattling quit.
He woke with an anger he figured he hadn't felt since the winter he and
Janet were married. The anger rose like lava into his throat and made him
feel heavy and breathless. He and Janet were married in October, so it must
have been that next February that he had realized there either was or had
been something between Janet and Carl. His own brother, his married
brother.
25
Martha Bergland
Carl and Shirley and the kids had come over for supper. Ed was there, too,
and Jack always wondered if Ed saw the same thing he did. He remembered
the bitter cold that evening, the sunset coloring the snow, yet leaving most of
the sky heavy and iron hard. He remembered the commotion of Carl and
Shirley and the three kids coming into the kitchen with all that cold air, the
confusion of the kids and coats and boots. And he remembered noticing a
tiny stillness in the middle of all that, a little eddy in a fast current, between
Janet and Carl, in the way they wouldn't look at each other or touch each
other even casually; it was in Carl's wary face and in Janet's attention to the
children, though her body was aware of where Carl was. Jack's pain was
instantaneous; he knew he was right. He grabbed up Carl's little boy, began
swinging him back and forth in the air in front of him — the boy screaming in
delight and fear, "Windshield wiper! See, Dad, I'm a windshield wiper!" —
back and forth, back and forth, to block out the sight of the two of them, to
keep back the waves of knowing. Back and forth and back and forth, until
finally the boy grew pale and clawed at Jack's hands and kicked. Jack let him
down amid the silence in the room. Ed took him aside, asked him what they
were going to do about the crack in the window over the stove.
He and Janet had made love that night, and afterwards he somehow let
her know he knew. But that made it worse. Then he wanted to leave her, at
least for a while, to walk out of the place where this pain dwelled, but that
night there was a blizzard, and for three days they were snowed in. Jack
wondered if he and Janet would still be married if it hadn't snowed that
night. She had tried to explain the next morning, but he hadn't let her. He
was afraid he would hear things that would make him feel even worse. He
was afraid he would hear what the silence between Janet and Carl enclosed.
He was afraid it was something still alive. Yet this feeling now was not as
bad as it had been all those years ago.
Again the cat rattled the cupboard door. It was late, almost 9:30. Jack got
up and went into the kitchen. He shoved the cat aside with his foot, got out
the cat food, fed the cat, and started coffee. He knew he would feel better
when the day was underway, when he was busy. This business with Janet
wouldn't be so bad if he were going to work this morning, if he got that job
in Sturgeon selling forklifts to the army.
After he had more copies of his resume made and put in his appearance at
the unemployment office. Jack went to the Hardee's Drive-Thru and ordered
two cinnamon raisin biscuits, a large coffee, and a large milk.
The voice came over the speaker: "We're not servin' breakfast no more!"
"'We're not serving breakfast any more!"' he said back. They all must have
heard him because there was a lot of amplified laughter. He ordered a sand¬
wich instead of the biscuits, and when he paid at the window, several people
were peering out to get a look at the wise guy. A sign in the window said
Hardee's was hiring. Would it come to that, working at Hardee's with retir¬
ees and high school kids?
26
Surface Tension
They used to go out for breakfast every morning. Jack and Janet,
Hardee's or some diner. Janet would meet him when she got off work at
7:00 after taking care of some sick old person all night, before he would
begin his day reading the want ads, writing letters, calling around. They'd
sit in a booth, and she'd be tired after her night's work. She'd want to talk,
but she'd want to talk about them, she said, about the two of them, their
problems, their plans — what they were going to do. But Jack couldn't talk
like that. He tried to explain to her once or twice that he couldn't talk about
a thing until he got a job, that his getting a job had to come first. Then there
might be some things to talk about, personal things, but in the meantime,
he couldn't talk about that stuff. He tried to tell her it felt like he was about
half choked all the time. But she never got it. So they'd sit here, and the
waitress would bring them coffee and take their order and go off to the
kitchen, leaving Jack alone with this woman who was about to ask him a
question that he couldn't answer or ask him a question that was really
another question that he couldn't answer. Like she'd ask him, "How are
Dave and Linda getting along?" Jack knew that it wasn't Dave and Linda
she was asking about. It was Jack and Janet; how were they getting along?
But she already knew the answer to that question: Lousy. So the real
question was. Why Lousy? And the real question under that was. What are
you going to do about it, meaning. How was he — Jack — going to change?
Janet never realized that he was a professional talker. He'd been a
farmer and a graduate student, a manager of all kinds of stuff, a working
stiff, a salesman, and an interviewee, and all those jobs took skill in keep¬
ing up a line of patter and steering talk in the direction you wanted it to go.
The poor girl never had a chance against him. And he felt bad about it. He
saw her face in his mind, and he felt bad about it. She still was pretty to
him, but her face seemed tighter and smaller every year. The skin around
her eyes looked fragile and papery. It was partly his fault; she would be
prettier if she didn't have to worry about him getting a job and about him
being a shit while he didn't have one.
Jack could see himself in a diner booth with Janet. He could see himself
start up the talk; he would seem to begin to answer her question, then one
thing would always lead to something else. He might start in about some
bastards who interviewed Dave and didn't hire him, and that would lead
to bastards who interviewed him and didn't hire him. And from there it
was on to bastards who'd fired him and bastards who'd fired Dave. Then
he might have a whack at the pricks who were running the country. The
goddamned governor. Congress, of course. The oil companies. The bail
outs. Then back to the bank they'd just pulled all their money out of
because of their stupid accounting. The condominium management. You
name it — there was no shortage of shit.
Jack would watch Janet's face as he talked. At first she followed him,
waiting for an opening, hopeful, alert, purposeful, pathetic. Then as his
27
Martha Bergland
wall of words got thicker and thicker, she'd begin to be both angry and
bored. Her face would begin to harden. She wouldn't even look at him;
she'd look at people at another table. She wouldn't be listening or even
pretending to listen. Now and then she would look toward him, but not at
his eyes. She would look at his mouth; she would watch it talk, as if it were
a disgusting rodent or something. Then he would begin to picture it him¬
self — his mouth opening and closing, the dark hole of it, the lips wiggling
around the words. He knew then that they both saw Jack Hawn as ridicu¬
lous — ridiculous and pathetic. Her face was grim and tight. And without
moving her mouth, without a word, she was saying to him. You are a shit.
Jack. It was as clear as if she had spoken right out loud. And she was right.
But he couldn't help it. He had to not talk about what she wanted to talk
about, and he had to say what he had to say. It always ended with Janet
grabbing the check, leaving too big a tip. She would be out the door while
Jack was still finishing his coffee.
Maybe she was right to go back to Half Moon; maybe she was right
about them, too. Maybe if they were to be together, it had to be there. She
was out of context here, too. And the questions were the same for her —
where and how do you live your life.
He wanted to drive, but not south to Illinois. Too many complications,
too many connections. He might go to Half Moon if just Janet were there,
or just Carl, or just Janet's dad. But the three of them created an invisible
force field that kept him away. Besides, the air there was thick with all the
past and everyone's disappointment in him. Each time he looked at a face
there, he saw that they saw what he could have been, standing right next
to what he was. He wanted to go someplace where only strangers breathed
the air — though he would have to take the damned cat. Somewhere the air
would be thin and clear, not thick and humid like in Illinois and better than
the air in Green Bay, which stank of the paper mills and the perfumed
dryer sheets they made not far away.
After he left Hardee's he took his lunch down to Bay Beach Park. Jack
thought of the time he and Janet had driven years ago to California to see
the Pacific Ocean. From where he had stood on the sand at the edge of the
continent. Jack had watched the sun go down into the water and waited to
feel something. But all he felt was too heavy, too pale, dressed wrong. He
was a Middle Westerner out of his element.
He parked the car and walked down to the shore of Green Bay, trying to
count the times he'd gone to a beach since they'd lived in Wisconsin,
within a mile or two of Lake Michigan or Green Bay. It wasn't very often.
After the first few times. Jack avoided the beach, using reasons like, the
sun is bad for you, or the sand makes you itchy, or there's nothing to do
down there anyway. But none of those was the real reason: The beach
made him feel awful. The beach in the summer had everything you could
want to make you at least temporarily happy— blue sky and white clouds.
28
Surface Tension
beautiful sparkling water, warm sand, and breezes — but it wasn't for him.
It made his ache worse and his bad luck more apparent. What business
does an old farmer have at the beach? Though the beach didn't cost any¬
thing, everything near the water sounded to him like money: the close little
breezes blowing rivulets of sand counted paper money, the waves fumbled
among coins, and the delicate change of hardware on sailboats was the
coin of a prosperous realm. He never had the right clothes or a tan, and
there was nothing he could take home from the beach but the small change
of sand in his pockets.
His steps were awkward on the dry sand beside the bay. His jeans were
too tight and hot. The walking worked his belly muscles and the muscles
in his calves and thighs. Jack sat on the sand beside some driftwood and
ate his sandwich.
There were only a few other people at the beach. A couple walked along
the sand, and a boy stood at the end of a rubble breakwater fishing in the
little waves.
When he finished eating. Jack got up and threw out the trash and then,
at the edge of the water, he stepped up on a block of the boulder-sized
rubble, balancing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. The water
under the concrete slabs made a hollow ringing he didn't know a word for.
He turned to the boy fishing and asked him what he was fishing for.
"Perch," the boy said. He wouldn't look at Jack. He'd been warned
about talking to strangers. But what the hell.
"Any luck?"
"Not yet." The boy's eyes darted around like fish. Jack thought, like
scared fish in a bowl.
Jack wanted to stick around in case the boy caught a perch so he could
see what a perch looked like, but this kid was too spooky. Jack walked back
up the beach.
Jack's father wouldn't fish with him and Carl. When asked, D. E. would
say, "Where the hell would we fish except at some 'bar' pit where you pay
two dollars to fish all day with niggers?" When they wanted to fish, they
would go over to Janet's dad's and, though he might be rigging the com¬
bine for beans, right then Ed would take Jack and Carl and sometimes
Janet over to the state park, where they fished with the dusty bamboo
poles Ed hauled down from the top of his garage. The fish they saw were
not much bigger than the wriggling grasshoppers they put on the hooks,
so they didn't catch anything, but Jack and Carl didn't care. They got to sit
on the bank, staring down into water as clear and brown as tea while long¬
haired weeds moved in slow circles. And they got to hear Ed's fishing
stories. They thought they'd heard all of Ed's stories, but if you got Ed in a
new situation, it called up a new batch of stories. The only one Jack re¬
membered was about one of Ed's uncles. He was "a drunk," Ed had said,
"an alcoholic, as we say now," but he wanted to quit drinking. He lived at
29
Martha Bergland
that time with his wife and children outside of Shreveport, Louisiana and
had a good job working for the gas company. To stop drinking he went
fishing after work every day for a year. He got in a little boat all by himself
and rowed out to the middle of Caddo Lake, where he fished until it was
dark and too late to buy liquor. He caught a lot of fish, and he did quit
drinking. At least that's what Ed said.
Since then, in the back of his mind Jack had held that spending time out
on a lake in a boat was a cure for lots of ills. Maybe for Carl's drinking. It
seemed a sane cure that would give you plenty of time to straighten your¬
self out and let others know you were serious. Jack wondered if it could
work on his bad luck.
Though Jack did not really believe in luck, he believed that you could
get stuck on a track that led only toward bad ends. It wasn't bad luck, he
would say, but a kind of stink you took on when things started to go
against you. At first you would be the only one to notice it, but after a
while, some expression around your nostrils or under your eyes or some
posture you thought disguised your fear made others look to see what you
were hiding. Then they began to notice it, too, and they ran like crazy in
the other direction. He knew that being unemployed for three years had
made him stink.
The sun was warm, but the breeze cooled him off. Jack sat down on the
sand. It would be nice to go fishing with Ed. Or Carl, the old Carl. One or
the other. Not both. Their presence wouldn't ask as many questions as
Janet's and everyone else's did. Even Janet's goddamned cat seemed to ask
questions he couldn't answer.
In the last few months. Jack had caught people looking at him funny,
asking something. Or else he was ignored by the ones who used to notice
him — most women and confident men— and now he was noticed by a kind
of person that had been invisible to him before.
People like the woman in that Greek diner in a strip mall — an old
woman, so old or so sick her skin was like ivory and tight on her bones.
She was walking out of the place supported between two big female
relatives in sweatsuits. As they slowly left the diner. Jack had a long time to
meet her gaze — a bald and startling stare, pure curiosity with no civiliza¬
tion in it, like a baby's stare. There could be no doubt that she found Jack's
face interesting, and this was interesting to Jack.
The strangest was the man filling the gumball machine in that same
diner later that week. The cafe was packed with the lunch crowd — men
and a few women from nearby offices, factories, and construction sites.
None of the customers spoke to him, but there was nothing wrong in that.
It was a busy place, and he was a stranger. He'd do the same. Look up,
classify the guy — salesman from out of town — then go back to eating the
meatloaf.
The man came in carrying a steel box. He set the box down beside the
30
Surface Tension
Lions Club gumball machine at the door. On the gumball machine he
unscrewed something quickly, then dumped all the coins into a metal jar
and put them into his steel box. Then he took out a rag and, squatting next
to the gumball machine — the man was big, as heavy as Jack was — he
wiped the gumball machine with the rag. Without looking at what he was
doing, he wiped the stand, the post, the base, and then the clear globe.
Then he started over and wiped it all again with the dirty rag, and he
didn't look at what he did; he looked around. He watched from down
under, invisible to everyone else; he looked around at the people in the
diner. Here was a man looking in from the outside. He squatted beside the
gumball machine, polishing and polishing. He met Jack's eye, no one
else's. He didn't smile or acknowledge Jack's seeing him. His eyes and his
smile could have been warm but didn't go that far; he only looked.
Through all the tables and talk and crisscrossing of waitresses and clatter,
he looked at Jack, and Jack looked at him. Where are we. Jack wondered.
Where am I going?
The sun had come around, and Jack's jeans stuck to his legs. He remem¬
bered he was wearing those red briefs Janet gave him; maybe they looked
like swimming trunks. Jack slipped off his jeans and walked down to the
green water. The mothers looked up but looked back to their children.
Slowly Jack waded into the water. Though he shrank from the cold water
at first, his arms and legs and then his torso gave in to it. His weight was
lightened. He swam to feel his borders blurring among the molecules of
water. He swam a long way out, thinking of the life that moved in the dark
water below him, and then he swam back looking at the land from behind
the ragged tops of waves.
When he trudged back up onto the sand, everywhere he looked he saw
water, just water. Clouds were water. The sky behind the clouds was the
color of water. Water was between each grain of sand at the hard edge of
the beach. The tracks of water were everywhere — in the miniature deltas in
the sand, on the satiny wood washed up, on the smooth stones and the
cracked ones. The light flashing off the surface of the bay might as well be
splashes, it was so watery. The leaves of the locust trees growing over the
bank were filled with water, and so were the trunks of the trees and every
blade of grass and every stalk of weed. And the gulls and the fish. The live
fish. Only the dead fish dried in the sand were not water. Nothing alive
wasn't water. Everywhere he looked he saw the watery newness of the
world, its sparkling, prickling moments held earth-to-earth with a fragile
force.
He was water. Ninety-some percent water. As he made his way over the
sand. Jack stopped and looked up. He turned all around. He was alone on
the beach. "Water!" he said to the sky. "What would it matter if this 190
pound sack of water didn't have a wife?"
31
Thomas
Bontly
December 's
Dreams
Joe Kelsey stood in the shelter of the little row of attached houses and
watched the rain slanting across a similar row of gray stone houses
across the street. Their doors and windows had all been shuttered, giving
them the forlorn look of structures abandoned forever by their owners. A
cold wind blew along the street, and Kelsey, bereft of his London Fog, had
only a sweater and light jacket to ward off the elements. But it wasn't much
warmer indoors, and he was enjoying one of the mild Cuban cigars he'd
picked up in Carcasonne.
Inside the house his wife was fixing supper, experimenting with French
herbs and spices, learning her way around the primitive kitchen with its
cheap crockery and mysterious utensils. Neither of them had been able to
work the awkward little contraption the French called a can opener. Actu¬
ally, they didn't know what the French called it, because neither of them
could speak more than a few words of French, in accents which brought
sneers to the faces of the waiters, shopkeepers and officials with whom
they dealt. Kelsey had finally hacked his way through the can of tomato
sauce with a jack-knife and pliers but suggested that they'd better avoid
canned goods from then on. Of course that meant daily trips to the market,
thirty kilometers off in Carcassone, but at least such excursions gave them
something to do.
The December dusk was settling in early, obscuring the muddy fields
and wooded hillsides that lay beyond the village, but the narrow cobble¬
stone lane was illuminated by tall vapor lights at either end of the block.
Almost as if people still lived here, Kelsey thought. Perhaps they did live
33
Thomas Bontly
here at other times of the year, when the village served as a bucolic retreat
for French city-dwellers, but in this bleak season, only three of the thirty or
so houses surrounding the hilltop chateau were occupied. The chateau was
dark, its windows shuttered, its gate chained, its gardens untended. Be¬
yond it lay the cemetery — its weathered crypts and tipsy monuments
overhung by weeping willows, overrun by moss and ivy. Kelsey rather
liked the cemetery, since there at least it was possible to imagine a spirited
assembly on moon-bright winter nights, a ghastly frolic that might have
passed for a social occasion.
Carolyn tapped on the kitchen window to let him know that supper was
ready. Kelsey flicked his cigar into the street and went inside. He wiped his
feet and hung his jacket by the stairs. Then he went to the kitchen and took
a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. "Seems a bit warmer in here now," he
said as he set about sinking the corkscrew.
"That's just because you've been outside," Carolyn said. "Or maybe the
stove is producing a little heat. The circuits broke again, so I had to turn off
the heat in the living room."
"Damn. I don't think this house was meant to be inhabited at this time
of year. The agency should have warned us."
"If you remember," Carolyn said, "our first several choices weren't
available after late November. That should have told us something about
the climate, don't you think?"
"Yes, another screw-up," Kelsey said. "I can't seem to do anything right,
can I?"
They had needed a place to spend a few weeks between the Italian
segment of their year and the English segment. The south of France had
sounded inviting, and Kelsey imagined balmy days on scenic beaches, a
nude sunbather or two just to liven things up. That was before he knew
about the mistral that cold north wind from the Baltic Sea that swept across
France and made it much too cold for sunbathing in December, with or
without clothes.
They sat at the kitchen table, and Carolyn lifted the cover of the frying
pan to reveal her lamb stew.
"Hmmm, smells good!" Kelsey said. "You're doing wonders in this
miserable excuse for a kitchen."
"It's something to do, anyway," Carolyn said as she dished up the stew.
"If only it would stop raining, we could get out and see something of the
country," Kelsey said.
"Where would we go? There don't seem to be any footpaths from the
village, and every field or woodlot I've seen has been fenced. Besides,
there's that pack of half-wild dogs to contend with."
"Well, maybe we could drive someplace — south toward the Pyrenees.
We might find some places to hike in the mountains."
Carolyn looked unhappy, and he remembered that she had recently
34
December's Dreams
developed a fear of heights. It was that detour through Switzerland, he
thought; he never should have taken some of those back roads.
"We wouldn't have to go all the way up," he said. "Just far enough to
find a park or something — a hiking trail that isn't patrolled by German
shepherds."
"If you want to," she said and began to carve the long loaf of crusty
bread.
He took a sip of wine and felt bits of cork on his tongue. Why was she
always so damn submissive? If she didn't want to go to the goddamn
mountains, she should tell him so.
"I'm just thinking of you," he said. "You want to see some birds, don't
you?"
She put down her fork and brought her napkin to her eyes, which,
Kelsey saw, were brimming with tears. "Joe, I don't think I want to see any
birds, ever again! Not after what happened to us in the Camargue!"
"Oh, come on," he said, reaching for her hand. "It wasn't your fault."
"I was the one who wanted to go there."
"You suggested it, but I agreed. I was all for it. And anyway, I was the
one who ignored the sign."
It had been a very small sign, hardly noticeable from the parking space
they'd chosen: Do not leave valuables in your car.
Kelsey heeded such warnings when it was convenient, ignored them
when it wasn't. Besides, he thought they were just going inside the Nature
Center to look at the exhibits. But Carolyn found a naturalist who spoke
English and suggested a nature trail that led past several ponds — only
seven-tenths of a kilometer. Kelsey never considered staying with the car.
He had forgotten about the sign. And after all, they had survived Rome,
the city of pickpockets, and Naples, the mecca of muggers. Who would
expect trouble way out in the middle of nowhere?
Later, they heard about the bands of gypsies who roamed the highways
of southern France and used the Camargue as their sanctuary, but at the
time he worried only because the walk was taking longer than they ex¬
pected. He did try to hurry Carolyn along a bit, but after all, it was her first
day of birding since they'd left Switzerland, and she had been very good
about the things he wanted to see. Kelsey did his best to take an interest in
the three or four mundane tits and larks they flushed from the wintery
underbrush.
Even when they came back up the road and saw the small red van with
its three swarthy, unshaven occupants barreling out of the lot — even then
Kelsey wasn't unduly concerned. But when he saw the Citroen's door ajar
and found its lock sprung, and when he looked into the formerly cluttered
back seat and saw an emptiness that sprang at him like a spiteful rebuke,
he realized that he should have heeded the warning on the sign.
As Kelsey swung the car around, Carolyn quickly checked beneath the
35
Thomas Bontly
seat and found her purse; their travelers checks and passports were safe, at
least. She clambered into the backseat and pulled up the cardboard shield
which hid the contents of the trunk. Their two big suitcases were also still
there. Nevertheless, Kelsey roared out of the parking lot and set off down the
narrow gravel road across the marshland in pursuit of the red van. He had
never been robbed before and was full of outrage, convinced that he could
run the red van into the ditch and throttle its occupants.
Carolyn tried to reason with him: "Please, Joe — don't drive so fast! What
will you do if we catch up with them?"
"I'll think of something," he said, but it was beginning to dawn on him
that he couldn't risk their lives in such a foolhardy endeavor. He pictured the
two of them in a muddy ditch, their throats cut, their eyes staring sightlessly
at the sky, and knew sadly that he couldn't afford to challenge the trio of
swarthy vagabonds.
They decided to drive into Arles and seek the assistance of the police. The
gendarmes would come to their rescue. They would form a posse, ride out
on the Camargue, track the culprits down. Or they would put out an all-
points bulletin for the red van, set up roadblocks, round up a set of likely
villains for Kelsey to identify.
But when they reached the city, they found that the gendarmery was
closed for the lunch hour. A young officer informed them politely but firmly
that their crime could not be reported until two p.m. then shut the heavy
door in their faces.
Kelsey found it hard to believe that the authorities could treat their loss in
such a cavalier manner. Not just his raincoat and his brand new carry-on, but
his camera, all his exposed film, his notes toward a new book on the Roman¬
tics in Italy, and good God, their tickets! Their train tickets back to Frankfurt,
even their plane tickets home to Minneapolis, had been in his bag. Carolyn
meanwhile was beginning to make her own inventory of losses: her make¬
up, her hair brush, her prescriptions and his, their vitamins and aspirins,
toothbrush and toothpaste, address books, and oh — their Italian souvenirs!
The little gifts she'd picked out for their friends in Germany. "Oh Joe," she
wailed, "it's all my fault. We never should have come here. I hate this place!"
Kelsey continued to hold and pat his wife's hand. "Hey, honey, for the
hundredth time, it wasn't your fault. I wanted you to see something besides
pigeons and starlings, remember? We agreed it was time to do something
different. And anyway, we're not going to let this spoil our whole trip, are
we?"
Carolyn wiped away her last tear and gave him a smile. "You've been
wonderful, Joe. You really have. The way you dealt with the police and the
insurance people and made all those phone calls — I couldn't have done all
that."
"Oh, sure you could have," Kelsey said, though in fact he had been rather
36
December's Dreams
impressed with his behavior. What Hemingway would have called " grace
under pressure/' He did what he had to do, fought his way through the
French bureaucracy, looked after details, made the decisions Carolyn was
in no shape to make. And most of all, he resisted the temptation to blame
their misfortune on her or her birdwatching.
Kelsey had never understood his wife's passion for birding but no
longer made light of it. Carolyn needed fresh air and open skies the way
some people needed a career, a religious experience, or an extramarital
affair. It was her hedge against time, against the loss of youth and the
departure of her children. Kelsey wondered what he had ever found that
could serve him as well as her birds had served her.
After supper they cleared the table and got out the cribbage board.
Carolyn was already three games ahead and nearly gained two more on a
skunk, but Kelsey came back strong, making it onto fourth street before she
pegged out. They polished off the wine as they did dishes. By now it was
just after seven, and Carolyn said she wanted to write some letters. Kelsey
had written to several people that morning, and he was still too discour¬
aged to try reconstructing his notes. Renaissance painting and romantic
poetry, what a shopworn topic; if he never wrote the damn book, who
would care?
He turned on the little black and white TV in the living room and
checked each of its three channels. Though they were all afflicted by some
form of interference, he managed to watch part of an old movie — aristo¬
crats in powdered wigs prancing around some eighteenth century ball¬
room — then turned to a soccer match. Barcelona versus Lyon. Somehow he
didn't greatly care about the outcome.
Shortly after eight, the doorbell rang.
Remembering the empty chateau and its spooky graveyard, Kelsey
looked through the peephole before unlocking the front door. A large
young man with wet black hair stood waiting on their doorstep. Kelsey
recognized Jean Michel, the son of the only family still resident on their
street. He quickly unlocked and opened the door.
"Hi, there. Come on in."
"Bonsoir, Monsieur," Jean Michel said with great dignity as he crossed
the threshold. "I have come to speak English with you."
On the day of their arrival, Jean Michel had introduced himself and
offered his services as a translator while they were staying in the village.
He had also shyly indicated that he wouldn't mind a chance to practice his
conversational English. He seemed like a nice boy — quiet, soft-spoken,
serenely confident in his opinions-— a bit like the Kelseys' own son, come to
think of it. They had encouraged him to drop by whenever he could.
Kelsey took Jean Michel back to the living room. "Look who's here,
honey," he announced. "We're going to have a little chat. Sorry it's so cold
in here, Jean Michel. We can't run more than one of these little heaters or
37
Thomas Bontly
we break the circuits. Could I get you anything — a Coke, maybe, or a glass
of wine?"
Jean Michel smiled at the offer of wine. "No, no, a Coca Cola would be
fine, please."
Somewhere Kelsey had heard that children were allowed to drink wine
in Europe but perhaps only at the family dinner table. He went into the
kitchen, got Jean Michel a Coke, and poured himself a stiff slug of cognac.
"So then," he said, sitting down across from the boy, "tell us about
yourself. Do you go to high school?"
"Yes, I attend the school in Castelnaudary," he said. "It is my last year.
Then I will go to the university."
"Ah, and what will you study?"
Jean Michel looked as if he had been asked this question too many times
before. "I am thinking between engineering and mathematics," he said.
And then, smiling, as if he had hit upon a more interesting topic: "Have
you had yet the opportunity to visit some of our many local attractions?"
"We spent a day in Carcassone," Kelsey said, "but the weather's been so
bad, we haven't been going out much. And we lost all our maps and
guidebooks in the robbery."
Jean Michel had heard about the robbery. "Voila!" he said, producing a
selection of maps and brochures from an inside pocket. "My parents
anticipated this need. Perhaps you would like me to suggest some interest¬
ing itineraries?"
For the next hour Kelsey followed Jean Michel's finger around southern
France and listened politely to his account of what each region had to offer
the tourist. He particularly recommended the old fortress at Foix — "a most
beautiful edifice," as he put it — and the drive from Foix to Quillan,
through the foothills of the Pyrnees.
"But won't those mountain roads be icy this time of year?" Carolyn
asked.
"I do not suppose it," Jean Michel said. "The weather is expected to
improve by tomorrow, and the scenery along that route is quite beautiful."
"Well, honey," Kelsey said after Jean Michel had gone home, "maybe we
ought to try it if the weather's halfway decent tomorrow. We really can't sit
here and feel sorry for ourselves all week, now can we?"
"No," she said. "I suppose we can go somewhere else and feel sorry for
ourselves." Carolyn did occasionally surprise him with her gift for irony.
Before they went up to bed, Kelsey turned off the downstairs heaters,
made sure the doors were locked, and closed and bolted all the shutters.
Their bedroom was bitterly cold. They turned the heater up as far as it
would go and piled blankets and comforters on the old brass bed. The bed
sagged in the middle so badly that they found themselves thrown against
one another, like two people trying to share a hammock.
38
December's Dreams
"I suppose we might as well make the best of the situation," Kelsey said,
slipping his hand beneath his wife's sweatshirt.
"Joe! not yet! Your hand is freezing!"
"Oops, sorry."
They lay in the darkness, waiting for their hands to warm up. "Do you
suppose we're feeling too sorry for ourselves these days?" Kelsey asked.
"Well, you are," Carolyn said.
"Thanks."
"I'm sorry, Joe, but you do keep second-guessing yourself. You've
rewritten our itinerary a hundred times, and you're always complaining
that we're not getting our money's worth, or that somebody's trying to rip
us off. Even before the robbery you were getting a bit tiresome; now you're
impossible."
"I try to learn from my mistakes."
"That's admirable," Carolyn said, "but at this point there's really no way
we can change our plans, and no way we can alter what's already hap¬
pened, so why keep torturing yourself?"
"There's always next time."
"Next time," Carolyn said with a little laugh, and Kelsey got the impres¬
sion that the next time he suggested they spend a sabbatical year in Eu¬
rope, she might have a few revisions of her own to propose — such as that
he leave her at home.
They were quiet for awhile, and Kelsey reflected on that aspect of his
character that could never rest satisfied with what life had given him. Last
winter, when his chronic disatisfaction with his career and accomplish¬
ments had led to a prolonged period of insomnia, he asked himself one
sleepless December night just what would make him happy. He came upon
this vision of Carolyn and himself, as free and footloose as a pair of college
students, ad-libbing their way around Europe, staying in old country inns
and rented cottages, going wherever their fancy took them, seeing what¬
ever there was to see. How soothing, and how motivational, that vision
had become. And yet, when he had finally, after much planning and
budgeting, made his dream a reality, during their first four months abroad
he had found a whole new field of things to complain about. He deduced
that dissatisfaction itself fueled the engines of his soul.
He was about to express some of these thoughts to Carolyn when he
heard her breathing deeply and knew she was already asleep. He rolled
over and, hooking an arm over the edge of the mattress to keep from
falling back against Carolyn, set his mind on sleep.
Sometime during the night Kelsey dreamt that he was attending a
costume ball in the chateau on the hill. He found himself dancing in a large
and elegant ballroom with a strange woman. Some quirk of light in the
mirrored room, the shifting shadows of the dancers all around them,
prevented him from seeing the woman's face, but he knew she was attrac-
39
Thomas Bontly
tive and charming and that dancing with her was a privilege. Perhaps she
was a former mistress of the chateau, risen from the cemetery to host this
gala ball, or perhaps she was an old flame from Kelsey's youth, come all
the way to France to haunt him.
In any case, he knew even as he held her in his arms that she was a
phantom who drew her power from the wickedness in his own heart. He
thought guiltily of his wife, still asleep in their cold bedroom, then spotted
Carolyn standing alone at the edge of the marble dance floor. She made no
protest, voiced no rebuke. She just watched sadly, forlornly, as he waltzed
his spectral partner around the room. Kelsey tried to concentrate on the
dance, to enjoy his evil freedom, but increasingly his heart rebelled. Wher¬
ever he turned his head, he now saw Carolyn watching him with her
sorrowful dark eyes. Filled with pity and remorse, he broke off the dance,
took Carolyn by the hand, and led her resolutely from the chateau.
Kelsey woke from his dream and lay in the cold darkness, listening for
suspicious noises. The old house creaked beneath the wind; its timbers
snapped from the cold; but Kelsey felt confident that no demons had
followed him home from the chateau. And he knew now why he had done
the right thing in bringing his wife to Europe.
The next morning the heavy layer of cloud that had covered the village
for three days began to tear apart. There were intermittent squalls but also
glimpses of sunshine and blue sky. Kelsey and his wife ate breakfast, then
packed a lunch and loaded the car with maps, guidebooks, birdbooks and
binoculars. They drove south toward Foix, and the country roads were dry
and lightly traveled. Bits of blue sky continued to appear overhead, and in
the fields, large pools of rainwater reflected the restless movement of the
clouds.
"So what birds are we looking for today?" Kelsey asked his wife, for
despite her disclaimer of yesterday evening, she was alternately scanning
the fields with her binoculars and paging through her Birds of Europe.
"Hard telling this time of year," she said. "We might see some larks or
sparrows, maybe a thrush or two. There's a buzzard right now, soaring just
beyond those trees."
"What's the best thing we could see?" Kelsey was inclined to go for big
game, birdwise — the rare, exotic birds most birders waited lifetimes to see.
"Well, a golden eagle would be nice, or a black kite. The best thing we
could see is a vulture called the lammergeier. It's extremely rare, found now
only in the Pyrenees." She showed him a picture from her book.
"Hmm, he's a handsome fellow, isn't he? Too bad we won't be going
high enough to find him."
Carolyn declined to comment.
They reached Foix late in the morning. Snow flurries alternated with
bright sunshine, but the roads were dry. They explored the city, found a
40
December's Dreams
place to park, and climbed the hill to the castle. Though not quite such a
"beautiful edifice" as Jean Michel had promised, it was a moderately
impressive hunk of military architecture. Perhaps because of the low
clouds, the mountains were not visible from the windy parapets. Only a
few ravens and magpies inhabited the castle grounds.
"The weather looks pretty good," Kelsey said as they returned to the car.
"Should we try that route Jean Michel showed us, through the foothills to
Quillan? We may find a few places to get out and walk."
"If you want to," Carolyn said — an answer Kelsey seldom found satis¬
factory, though in this case he decided not to query further. They ate lunch
in a little park beside the river and set out.
For the first five kilometers the road followed the river valley, then
veered to the east and climbed through a pine forest. A light mist began to
fall, and Kelsey turned on the windshield wipers. "Is it starting to get
slippery?" Carolyn asked.
"No, I don't think so. You just keep your eyes peeled for that
lammerskite, or whatever it is. I'll handle the driving."
Though Carolyn never criticized his driving, she had begun to send
signals that in her opinion he sometimes drove too fast, or inattentively. He
knew she was especially nervous with the more aggressive pace of Euro¬
pean traffic, but Kelsey considered himself a good driver and resented
hints to the contrary — especially since she now relied on him to do all the
driving.
They were crossing a high plateau, from which they could probably
have seen the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees if not for the heavy clouds to
the south. Ever since his first view of the Alps as a young man, Kelsey had
loved the mountains and found nothing more inspiring than a range of
snow-covered peaks. He hoped they would get at least a glimpse of the
Pyrenees before they veered off for home.
The road began to ascend in a series of switchbacks with steep grades.
The snow showers intensified, and Kelsey began to notice traces of white
along the roadside. He thought of turning back but knew they should be
starting down toward Quillan soon. This route, Jean Michel had assured
them, did not take them very far into the mountains. Still, he was surprised
at the persistence of their ascent and at the mountainous aspect of the
scenery.
At a turn in the road Kelsey touched the brakes, and the car began to
skid. It was quickly and easily corrected, but Carolyn felt it and released a
gasp. "Joe, are you sure it's not slippery?"
It was the gasp, more than the question, that annoyed Kelsey. "Would
you for Christ's sake please give me a fucking break? I'm doing the best I
can."
Too late he realized he had put too much bite in his voice, had used too
many gratuitous swear words. He wasn't really that annoyed, but now
41
Thomas Bontly
Carolyn thought he was. She retreated behind a wall of silence — her usual
way of dealing with his outbursts.
Now I suppose we won't be talking to each other for the next few days,
Kelsey thought grimly. As if they weren't isolated enough in that miserable
little village, in this cold and loveless country. He knew a quick apology
might spare them both the agonies of a protracted quarrel, but at the
moment he really needed to concentrate on his driving. The roadway had
turned gray in places with a film of icy slush; the snow was accumulating
along the shoulder and clinging to the windshield above the arc of the
wipers.
Kelsey cut his speed way down and sat upright, both hands gripping
the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. They were working their way
toward the top of a pass, and the terrain was barren and rocky. The wind
swept in gusts along the ridge. They passed a sign — "P 100 m." — indicat¬
ing a turn-out in one hundred meters. Kelsey thought it might be wise to
pull off the road and let this storm abate. Unless, of course, conditions got
worse. He was still debating when they crested the ridge and came in view
of a remarkable phenomenon. Though they were still in the midst of a
snow squall, the skies to the south had cleared, and there, in a vision too
abrupt and breathtakingly beautiful to seem real, Kelsey saw the snowy
peaks he had been longing for.
Brilliant white against a deep blue sky, the Pyrenees stood above the
storm like a serene and elegant dream. But far from pleasing Kelsey, these
majestic peaks only seemed to mock him with their distance, their
unattainability. Of course the mountains were there, and others had seen
them, had climbed them, had stood on their summits. But the Kelseys
would always confine themselves to the foothills and then risk their necks,
quarrel in the process, because that was the way they did things.
"Joe, watch out!"
Too late, Kelsey saw the sharp turn to the left. He stabbed the brakes,
and the car went into a skid. Thirty midwestern winters had taught him to
let up on the brake and work the gas pedal instead. He cramped the wheel
hard to the left as the guard rail loomed up before them, then dropped
away. He had no idea where the car was going. He couldn't hit the brakes
for fear of another skid, yet he couldn't go on sliding sideways down the
middle of a mountain road. Then he saw the entrance to the turnout to his
left and gunned the car onto its rough-graded surface. They bumped and
pitched and rolled to a stop.
"I think I'm going to be sick." Carolyn opened the car door and got out.
He watched her cross over to the low wall rimming the parking area.
Beyond was a steep drop-off, a swirling white void. The wind tore at
Carolyn's hair and billowed her jacket. She leaned over the wall, as if to
retch, and Kelsey thought he should go to her assistance. But his own legs
were still shaking, and he wasn't sure Carolyn wanted his help.
42
December's Dreams
He rolled down his window to call to her but found himself unable to
speak. He seemed at this moment to have been cheated of all sorts of
valuable and important things, and he asked himself if it wasn't his wife's
will, acting always as a counterforce to his own, which had kept their lives
so appallingly mediocre, so mired in the foothills, when something sub¬
lime had beckoned on the horizon.
For some minutes he sat hunkered down behind the wheel, relishing his
bitterness, and then, at the ghostly kiss of a snowflake on his cheek, he
remembered last night's dream — the mysterious chateau, the faceless
woman, the dance of death that had held him until he saw Carolyn watch¬
ing sadly from the sidelines. He covered his eyes with his hand and tried to
understand what the dream was telling him. Perhaps it was simply this:
that the only thief he had to fear was the greedy little culprit who lurked in
his own dreams, who wanted nothing less than to steal all he possessed
and leave him with with nothing.
He looked up, ready at last to go to Carolyn's assistance, but where was
she? The parking area before the low wall was as empty as the backseat of
their burgled vehicle — and as frightening. He leapt from the car and raced
across the slippery gravel, nearly tumbling over the wall himself. Bracing
himself on his palms, he saw that a trail led down among the rocks. Kelsey
started down this trail and soon came to his wife, just beyond a large
boulder.
Carolyn had her binoculars trained on a large dark bird circling above
them, then gliding out across the valley. Its vast wingspan held it steady
against the wind, and the brightening sky showed the golden-brown tone
of its breast and sharply tapered trunk.
"Is it — is it that vulture you wanted to see?"
"No, but it's almost as good," Carolyn said. "It's the golden eagle. Isn't
he magnificent?"
Kelsey could tell by her tone that their quarrel was forgotten. A valley of
considerable beauty lay spread below them, and the several small villages
in its folds seemed to come miraculously alive with color as the sunlight
moved across them.
"I told you I'd find you some good birds up here," Kelsey said. He put
his arms around his wife, holding her close as she continued to admire the
majestic bird. He knew that eventually she would let him look through her
glasses; in the meantime, he was happy with his chin on her shoulder and
her hair in his face, and he looked forward to another night in the village,
when they would find some way, he was sure, to outwit the sagging bed
and its many quilts.
43
Margaret
Benbow
Marrying
Jerry
I met Jerry at a time when I was suspecting I didn't have a life. This
happens periodically to people who read a lot. I met him at his health
food store, a little marvel of color and order. I would drag myself there on
the days when I felt parched and weazened, when life had been a bitch. I
would waveringly negotiate the step on the threshold, even the hem of my
tragic winter coat drooping with multiple deficiencies. The instant I was
inside, I was aware of the compact, humming heart of the store. Every
worker knew what to do. Fruits were sold only in their season, and faithful
customers like me understood why it would be wrong to carry strawber¬
ries home over ice and snow. We felt the sun-strength emanating from the
little round yolks of the fertilized eggs.
Jerry was scrubbed and sexy, in a working-stiff. Populist kind of way.
We became friends over the unfiltered honey vat, when nobody else was in
the store. The vat was glass, and he noticed a little brown thing in the
bottom, under the gummy honey-sea. He scrubbed his arm like a surgeon,
then said, "Don't take pictures, they'd close me down," and plunged his
arm up to the pit into the vat. His fingers closed on the brown object at the
bottom, and he brought it up, his other hand stripping honey from his arm
as it hit the air. He squinted at the twig-like thing. "It's all right," he said.
"It's a flower stem." I stared at the bronze animal hairs on his arm, all
glazed and matted with gold. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth,
witless with lust. I actually wondered if he would take it amiss if I offered
to lick the honey off his arm.
I did no such thing, of course. We became better friends, gradually. He
45
Margaret Benbozv
rototilled my garden without being asked, brought flowers unexpectedly,
and later on, cooked me big range breakfasts. He was also as good as he
could be, attending study groups at the local Unitarian church. This was a
special church where you didn't have to believe in God or Jesus but in¬
stead learned how to tread lightly on the earth. He studied parenting
methods in wolf packs, handed out MEAT IS DEAD stickers at his store,
and shared advice about how to treat your partner lovingly and caringly,
and without wasteful expenditure.
Jerry used to hand me out of his old pickup like a rich jewel.
One time I said something, very hesitantly, about my plain face. "It
doesn't matter," he said, so simply that I knew he meant it. "Besides, you
have such a beautiful body!"
So we were married. Jerry wrote the ceremony, in which we loudly and
repeatedly stated the immaculateness of our intent toward each other.
Our life continued quietly. I quit my job and began working at Jerry's
store. Evenings we would walk home hand in hand, and for supper Jerry
would make me magnificent sandwiches. I ate his Denver sandwiches with
butter running down my arm. I could hardly chew because of the big smile
I had on my face those days.
After about six months, Jerry decided that he believed in God and Jesus
after all and joined a new church. The members in this church referred to
the Bible as the Big Book, a term I'd associated with the AA manual.
My lack of faith bothered Jerry. On his birthday he asked me, sweetly
and tenderly, to read Genesis aloud to him as his gift. So I did. Then he
asked me to read him Exodus for Christmas, Leviticus for Valentine's Day,
and so forth. I realized that he intended to coax me by baby steps through
the entire Bible. I decided many of those Old Testament holy men were as
big a collection of bullying, lying, fornicating rogues and felons as I'd
always suspected, but I bit my lip. If my love for Jerry was true, I should be
willing to read him the Bible word by word to give him pleasure.
Around the time I reached Numbers, Jerry came home from Bible study
all excited. A new star was now heading the church, a famous evangelist
called Sister Lorna. Sister Lorna had recently published a book. Let the
Angels Call the Shots. Her theory was that each of us has an angel twin,
invisible but with dazzling powers. Our task is to learn to plug into this
personal angel. Our twin, having access to the wisdom of the ages, can tell
us what to do so we'll never be at a loss. We just have to learn how to keep
the passage between their mouth and our ear lubricated and clear.
Lorna had also given the study group some bold new information about
the old days, when the Big Book was being written. She said that the men
who wrote the Ten Commandments, including the seventh, "Thou shalt
not commit adultery," were all polygamists. Jerry seemed very struck by
this. In retrospect, it seems an ominous piece of information to stick in a
husband's mind.
46
Marrying jerry
Jerry invited Sister Lorna to dinner. She arrived on a plum-soft June
evening, in a big white Cadillac with a zebra-striped interior. She was a
large woman and wore a big white suit, with various tactful drapes over
her whopping bosoms and big butt. She had a sticker on her car that said,
MEAT WEEPS. Oh , shit , I thought, remembering the crown roast in the
oven. It smelled rendingly delicious.
"How is your name spelled?" she asked me when Jerry introduced us.
"B-e-l-l-e."
"May I call you Bella? B-e-l-l-e always makes me think of Belly." And
Lorna laughed ripplingly.
"Well, L-o-r-n-a always makes me think of freaking moron/' I said, but
only to myself.
Jerry was wearing broad purple suspenders I'd never seen before. He
was scrubbed so clean that his ruddy cheeks shone. When we sat down at
the table, he carved the roast. He looked doubtful and apologetic as he
offered it to her. "Do you eat meat? Will you have — "
"A slice of corpse? I think not," she said, and laughed merrily again. But
in the end she ate a lot of the roast. We drank a lot that evening. A pungent
aroma of smoke and blood filled the kitchen. The roast had been rare, the
kind that makes you remember that came , meat, is the root of carnal.
Lorna's beestung lips (siliconed, I thought) gleamed with oils and juices.
Very late in the evening I noticed how silent Jerry had become. He watched
as Lorna wrapped those lips around seared suet, hunks of Roma tomatoes,
the blue veins of soft-reeking cheeses. She noisily sucked and nibbled her
way through meaty bones, bulbs of green onions, bittersweet chocolate
leaves on the Queen of Sheba cake. I have to admit that woman knew how
to enjoy a meal. She put her whole back into it.
Jerry watched her. It had become very dark in the room, and I was
thinking I should turn on the overhead light when Jerry suddenly got up
and went to the counter. He put several small candles on a tray and lit
them. In the darkness he brought the candles to the table and set them
before Lorna like an offering of flowers. I was confused at being left in the
dark and by the dazzle of their two bright heads above the flares of light.
After that, Lorna would often swoop by on especially beautiful summer
evenings. She would accept iced tea and converse. Immaculately clad in a
white sundress with a sweetheart neckline, she made the wicker lawn
chairs creak. Once she laughed so hard at Jerry's jokes that her nose bled. I
think it was that evening that she bethought herself of some church busi¬
ness that needed Jerry's immediate attention, and she bore him off in her
white Caddy.
As she cropped up night after night, her wild Nordic head flaring in the
red dusk, I came to think of her as a Viking raider. It seemed to me that
those big, terrifyingly direct turquoise eyes were fixed on my one treasure.
But Jerry said Lorna only cared about God and Jesus and was obsessed
47
Margaret Benbow
with interpreting their will through her angel twin.
Five years before — hell, a year before — I would have laughed at the idea
of loving a man who could make a statement like that. But not now.
What is it for: this fierce particularity of yearning, which makes incan¬
descent one human object and no other?
Jerry had always had a wonderfully hot, carnal attentiveness. Now he
grew cool. He was increasingly silent and distracted and in the twilight
would look down the street in the direction Lorna's Cadillac might come.
He watched the street like a dog.
It was during this period that I found a press-on nail stuck to his under¬
wear.
I said nothing to Jerry about this. Instead, I spent a great deal of time
driving around in my car with the radio on. Country songs, the kind I'd
always made fun of, spoke directly to my condition. I know he doesn't treat
you right. I see the tears you try to hide. I changed the station and got Buddy
Holly singing "Slippin' and Slidin.,,/ Don't want to be your fool no more.
Some hope. I rotated the dial. It started to rain hard, and just then Bessie
Smith wailed suddenly, oh it was honey this and honey that and it was baby my
baby all the time. She also sang a song about a woman who murdered her
husband. He wallowed around and then he died. It seemed to me that this was
a good representation of the human condition in general. You wallowed
around, and then you died.
I thought a bookstore might cheer me up. The big Waldenbooks was
open. As it turned out, there was a huge pyramid of Lorna's best seller. Let
the Angels Call the Shots , in the front window. I picked up a copy and
looked at it. I was interested in the mental makeup of someone who
thought the angels told her to ball my husband. Thou shalt ball Jerry. Truly
God must be everywhere. I looked at the chapter headings. The one called
"Love Yourself Tender" caught my eye. I turned to it. Lorna was a big
believer in self-love, or more precisely, being crazy about yourself. You
deserved, she explained, the absolute best of everything and should al¬
ways think of yourself as the guest of honor at life's banquet. I thought of
Jerry buck naked on a huge silver trencher at her table, an apple in his
mouth. Lorna said that, to signify her complete self-love and self-accep¬
tance, she began every day by giving herself a great big hug. Everyone else
should do the same.
I put the book down. Tentatively, I encircled myself with my arms. Was I
doing it right? I felt thin. My heart beat gravely beneath my wrist. After a
moment, in a movement that felt irrepressible, my shoulders hunched and
my chin drew down to my chest. I closed my eyes. I stood there for quite
some time before realizing that people, a lot of them, were staring at me. A
man said in an interested voice, "That's the first time I ever saw anybody
sleep in the fetal position standing up."
I drove around for a long time, then bought a bottle and drove to the
48
Marrying Jerry
store. I let myself in. I got drunk. In fact, I hadn't been this drunk since
college, when one night I mistook my roommate's open bureau drawer for
the bathroom.
My memories of that night in the store are hazy, but I clearly remember a
moment toward dawn when I stood in front of the glass honey vat, with
my face over it. I was attempting to weep exactly three tears into the vat —
not two, and not four, but three, which for some reason I thought was the
appropriate number as laid down by fairy tales.
When I drove home that morning, I discovered Jerry and Sister Lorna in
the shower together. I reached in and turned off the cold water. Followed
by their tornado-siren shrieks, I walked into our bedroom, hauled the big
mattress off the bed and down two flights of stairs, and burned it in the
front yard. I was interested to see how quickly the police showed up. We'd
been robbed the month before, and that time it took them much longer.
The profoundly shaken, scalded Jerry demanded a divorce. At the
hearing, the judge left us alone for fifteen minutes to see if we could recon¬
cile. The reconciliation got off on the wrong foot. Jerry mentioned at once
Lorna's belief that, once in every generation, there is a reincarnation of the
Great Beast of Revelation. She thought I might be it. I responded that
Lorna was a moronic slut, and if she didn't keep her fat ass out of my life, I
would drink her blood like wine. Jerry looked horrified and yet oddly
satisfied. Apparently I had spoken exactly as a Great Beast should.
The remaining fourteen minutes and forty five seconds we sat in silence.
At the last possible instant, as Jerry got up, he looked at me and said, "You
may not believe it, but I'm sorry for you. I'm sorry you have nothing and
no one." Then he walked out of the room.
It was true that I had no one. Not a person in the world cared if I lived or
died.
But Jerry was wrong when he said I had nothing. A conference with
lawyers had been scheduled. Six hours into it, when all had been said and
done, when Jerry shouted until blood vessels burst in his eyes, and he
threw a leather armchair at me and stormed out of the room; when his
lawyer retired wordless and gutted, and my lawyer looked at me with
exhaustion, but great respect, and said, "Do you mind if I write this case
up for the Law Review?" —at the end of the day, when I walked out of the
courthouse alone, I owned the store.
49
Energy
Julie
King
My wife is terribly unhappy here; she sees herself in the smoky glass of
each skyscraper, and what she sees is a woman with spreading
thighs, low-slung breasts and a bad perm. That's how she explains herself
to me when she wants to move back to Wisconsin; these attributes are not
only acceptable but commonplace there. I know she compares herself to
the Dallas women, bedecked in turquoise belt buckles and eyelet blouses,
who can afford to have their nails tipped. And when she comes home from
shopping, I know she blames me for her blue moods. She doesn't actually
say it, but her actions do. She places my dinner plate a little too far away
from me, so succotash falls from my fork onto the table, and she sighs
loudly. I allow her this; I won't move the plate myself. She blames me for
the move to this transient city, for not making enough money to allow her
to have her toenails done even though she won't wear sandals. Her feet are
wide and knobby, she says. I suppose that's my fault, too. I'll take the
blame.
What my wife really wants I can't give her. She wants a child. We have
been married for eleven years, and every month for nine of those years she
has raged against the forces that gather blood inside her, only to release it
again in torrents. Sometimes I think she is dying by the number of bundles
tossed in the wastecan each month. Sometimes I think I am the one dying.
She refuses testing, refuses to discuss adoption, refuses to visit any friends
who have children. I suspect she refuses testing because she wants to be
able to blame me, my defective sperm. I'll take this blame, too.
I'd like to tell my wife we'll never have children, she'll never conceive.
51
Julie King
and each act of lovemaking doesn't have to be a desperate friction of skin,
a banging of pelvises, bruises over her thighs in the morning. I will never
tell her that I don't ejaculate anymore. A few moments into intercourse —
for that is what our making love has become — I soften but then grunt,
sweat a little, and kiss her neck with the pretense of pleasure. I know she
enjoys none of these animal acts. She doesn't care that she's not satisfied.
She only thinks of sperm tumbling and rolling toward her ready egg. I
think, when I watch her face, her eyes crunched shut, she is visualizing the
moment of conception, as if she can will it to happen, like a cancer patient
wills away the killing cells.
So this is how we live. I work as an apartment manager, posting tenants'
rents on the first of each month, patrolling the grounds every night. The
job is quiet, safe, but pays very little. In the small Wisconsin town from
which we moved, I was on the police force, still in uniform, ready to make
lieutenant. I quit after I was shot in the head by a man burglarizing a
laundromat. He was pounding a washing machine with the butt of his gun
when I walked in. I had wanted to buy sodas. Dr. Peppers, in bottles, not
cans, for me and my partner. I was thinking about rolling the smooth, cool
bottle against my neck when the burglar aimed his gun and fired. The
bullet hit my left temple, travelled under my skin, pushed its nose up
through my skin and back down again, finally nestling under my right
cheekbone, as if it had found its home. Doctors removed the bullet, but I
have a thick, red scar that itches when I eat corn on the cob or when I
smile. When I'm nervous, which is most of the time, I pick at the raised
edges of the scar until they bleed. I tell my wife I cut myself shaving.
My wife did not want to move. She said the chances of getting shot
again in our small Wisconsin town were a million to one. But I didn't take
her opinion personally, not thinking that she didn't care about me. After
my uncle offered me the job in Dallas, to manage one of his many build¬
ings, my wife and I sat at our little linoleum table, the one we bought when
we first married, a matchbook under one wobbly leg, and discussed our
possibilities. Long after two six-packs were emptied, long after we made
charts of the pros and cons of each choice on a pad of paper with an
Oxycodone logo in the corner, my wife laid her cheek against the table and
cried. The possibilities of us staying in our hometown were depleted. As
she cried, a belch began rising from the recesses of my gut. I swallowed
hard to squelch it, and she took my hand, mistaking my throat's movement
for grief.
Now we live life, waiting for it to be over. I wake at seven and watch my
wife sleep. She breathes so lightly, so silently, I wonder if she really sleeps
at all. I think she stares at the pimpled ceiling, memorizing its white vast¬
ness, and at three seconds to seven, before I glance over at her when I
wake, she closes her eyes. I place my feet on the floor and get my bearings,
studying the sparse black hairs around my nipples. The hairs wriggle and
52
Energy
crawl as I stretch, and still my wife has not made a sound or moved. If I
turn quickly, will I catch her studying my back, the back she used to lay
her cheek against every morning? I don't dare turn around, not wanting to
disturb the air.
I pour myself some day-old coffee, take in the early morning heat, and
wait for my nerves to sing. When I drink pots of coffee, I feel my head is
detached from my body, that my vision is sharper — lines of chairs, dishes,
the angles of my wife's cheekbones, are more pronounced. I feel my fingers
zing; if I spread them before my face, red flashes bounce from one finger to
the next. I feel I can see into the skulls of others around me, into the place
where thoughts begin, swells of colors, blues and reds, gathering into
images and equations and lines of poetry. I tried to explain this to my wife
one morning as we sat for breakfast. I told her I could see the formation of
her decision to either clean the kitchen or get her hair cut that day. She
clutched the handle of the coffee pot.
"Is this new age thought?" she asked.
"No, it's energy. Mine and everyone else's."
She sighed and looked out the window, hoping to see a new life coming
up the street in a Corvette. "Use some of that energy and cut the lawn."
Today I only drink four cups. I don't have a lot of work to do or the
desire to read others' thoughts. It's mid-month; all bills for the apartments
are paid, all rents are posted. I sit in my air-conditioned office, waiting for a
toilet to plug up or a wall to fall down. Hours later I note that I missed
lunch. I note my hands tremble with anticipation of work, of duty, for my
night rounds to begin.
At the moment day meets night, I see an explosion. The heavy weight of
darkness slams onto the cool weightlessness of light, and the friction
causes blue sparks. I don't tell this to my wife. I thought for a short time
that I was crazy when I'd have these thoughts, that the sameness of days
had upset the balance between mania and depression, that I was falling
more deeply into the latter. But the logic of my random thoughts became
clear to me when my wife and I watched television one night.
"Your scar is throbbing," she said.
"What?"
"It is. It's jumping up and down like a jumping bean."
I touched my scar, my blood raging there, and wondered if my scar
somehow allowed me to tap into another realm. I accepted the pattern of
my random thoughts from that point on.
Before my night rounds, I go home to my wife. She sits at the table,
perspiring, drinking coffee and swinging her foot. She had polished her
toenails, but the polish on her left big toe is chipped. The remaining polish
is an island floating on the expanse of pink skin. Steam lifts the covers of
pots on the stove, and she spoons carrots, broccoli, and corn. Her meals are
always colorful, always varying in shape and texture. When we first
53
Julie King
moved to Dallas, she used to dream of white dinners— turkey, mashed
potatoes, rolls with butter — and would wake up vomiting. When she knew
beyond the shadow of a doubt the vomiting wasn't morning sickness, she
planted a little garden in back of our apartment, in the middle of one sultry
night. I was the manager; she was allowed to dig up the grounds and plant
lettuce, tomatoes, whatever grew for her. Now she spoons orange, green,
and yellow onto pink plates. Our dishes are pink, placemats yellow, table¬
cloth splattered with tropical colors, peach and turquoise. I can't tell her
these colors put me on the verge of a migraine. I accept that this is where
she gets her energy, but I want to tell her that white — clean and stark —
would aid in digestion, would put her dreams at ease if she believed hard
enough.
I eat. My wife swings her foot. We have come to this. Soon it is time to
make my rounds of the apartment grounds. I love this time in the evening
when lights begin to turn on in the apartments, when my residents are
settled in for the evening, secure that the darkness will remain outside. My
apartment complex is populated with quiet, retired folk and young mar¬
ried couples, some with small children my wife avoids like the plague. No
frills here, just clean, safe places to live, with a clean, safe manager to
watch out for all. Many residents sit on their porches until I pass on the
first round. We chat about the Rangers. Heat. Lack of heat. Rain. Lack of
rain. Flowers. Wilting flowers. I like this, the pure cyclical nature of this.
Tonight is quiet. And hot. I see Mr. Bailey's head behind his shade in
silhouette. He and I share books and discuss them on my rounds. I pass
Bill and Tina's. They are newlyweds, not ready for the demands of mar¬
riage. Sometimes I see her crying, in the darkening, her life encased in
brick and cracking mortar. I want to tell her this will pass; she'll settle into
the pure lull of it all. But I know the buildings are breaking down, not from
weather or age, but from forces inside, emotions and screaming and si¬
lence. My own walls suffer hairline fractures from what is not said between
my wife and me.
A few curtains are not yet pulled in the half-night. Mr. Linden's are
partially open. The times when he sits on the porch, waiting for me, his
hand on the head of his cane trembling with the weight of old bones, I
shout to him. "I'm here! I'm here!" His head shakes violently, as if a mos¬
quito buzzed there. I know he can't hear me, but I scream anyway, exalted
by the vibrations in my throat. Then I put my hand on his, and he lifts his
in greeting. I stare into his eyes. He is blinded by blue films of cataracts. I
wonder if he sees outlines of the world within the blue, as if we're all
underwater, swimming aimlessly. I am afraid of this; I don't want him to
see me drowning.
Sometimes Mr. Linden's granddaughter sits outside with him. Eleanor is
a big blonde Scandinavian girl, a social worker whose thick teeth show
when she talks, which is all the time. She comes by his apartment three.
54
Energy
four times a week to relieve the live-in nurse, to clean, cook vegetarian
stews, read her grandfather thick, tattered novels she has kept from her
school days. Sometimes I sit on the steps while she reads, her voice smooth
as bottled glass, her thick teeth revealed when she lifts her blue eyes to me
and smiles. Sometimes she wears cut-off jeans, men's thin-strapped under¬
shirts, heavy breasts untethered, blonde hair soft under her arms. At times
like that, I want to crawl into her big, generous lap, to be blind in her arms.
Right now I want to see her, to feel the energy of the extra blood she
carries in her strong body. I don't want to look inside Mr. Linden's apart¬
ment, but the window emblazoned with light, the half-opened curtains
compel me to. I should knock on the door, but the promise of light means
the promise of Eleanor. The nurse, when she is there, reads in the extra
bedroom, using only a lamp, no other lights in the house. The nurse is
frugal; why turn on lights when Mr. Linden can't see? Eleanor revels in the
possibility that light may enter Mr. Linden's head and give him internal
sight, images floating on the inside of his cataracts, memories and dreams.
I need the light she provides; the darkness is smothering me. I am so close
to the window by this time that my toes butt against the building. My
hands clutch the windowsill. What I see inside dances before me until I am
dizzy with sheer speed.
Eleanor, naked and natural in the heat, crouches next to the table, her
chest slick with sweat, slowly spooning something into Mr. Linden's
mouth, something steaming with gravy. Her large breasts sway with each
motion, and the ends of her light hair tickle her pink nipples. She swivels
toward me, oblivious of everything but spooning the last morsel of nutri¬
ents for her grandfather, and I glimpse the soft curls of her vee, the pink of
her lips, a blooming rose. Mr. Linden's throat warbles with nourishment,
belly feeling the fullness, eyes blind to this beauty that I witness. I feel my
heart break.
I run to my apartment, willing cooler air into the fibers of my clothes. I
try to form words I will tell my wife, try to form them before they form
themselves in the center of my brain in purples and pinks. Images float in
the air: my wife rising from her bath, skin oiled, hair waving from the
steam. My wife working in her garden, hair waving from the humidity. I
love her at these times, when she doesn't know what a beauty she is. I've
never told her this. I want to tell her she is a beauty, leaning against the
counter, holding a cup of coffee whose steam blurs any hard edges on the
planes of her face. I can't form the words; I only stare, my scar throbbing.
She tucks her hair behind her ear self-consciously, her fingers small spades.
As her fingers run through her hair, creating even rows, I think flowers
will bloom there. I still stare, and she pours me some coffee, in a mug that
spells out her name in cartoon letters, and as I drink deeply, covering the
letters with my palms, I hold in the warmth, hold in the sparks of her
energy.
55
Carol
Sklenicka
Putting Up
Storms
Scott Conley stretches out on the rug across from Joe, his friend now
since seventh grade, and breathes in the steam from his cocoa. They've
finished putting up the Conleys' storm windows this blustery November
afternoon, work Scott enjoys because he loves the picture it gives him of
sheltering his family from the onslaught, the slashing pain of winter. With
good storms in place, a solid house like theirs might remain livable for
eight to ten hours after a furnace breakdown.
Scott's wife, Gail, made the cocoa as a way of asking them not to have
beer, and Scott wonders if Joe will comment about this. They're watching
the dreary end of a Badger game. Joe wonders out loud how some of these
ball players get mixed up with drugs. Scott shrugs.
"Listen for Amy," Gail interrupts. "I'm going to the store. She can have
her bottle if she wants." Gail has her coat on and her purse on her shoul¬
der, ready to make a run for it, before she adds, "She could be crabby —
she's slept a long time."
As the garage door grinds down, Amy erupts with a long, sad wail that
sounds like a train whistle coming closer in the night. Joe follows Scott to
the crib. In Scott's arms Amy is sweaty and sour and inconsolable, squirm¬
ing but clinging at the same time. On her back on the changing table she
looks at him from black-brown pools in the middle of her incredibly white
eyeballs and kicks her warm, fat brown legs. Amy is fourteen months old,
but Scott is still scared to death of her. Especially of the tenderness between
her thighs that always astonishes him — fat labial cushions ever so slightly
puckered by the diaper's dampness, a barely visible purpleness within. He
57
Carol Sklenicka
cleans her lightly, not quite looking at his hand. Joe's watching, and Scott
wishes he weren't.
"You don't deserve that little girl, you know," Joe says, apropos of
nothing. The remark makes Scott's arms weak and disorients him. It's
something he's thought himself, thought and rejected. His head is spin¬
ning.
He sees bruises on the pale thighs of that girl in ER last week, the blood
and feces on her panties. He raises Amy by the ankles, centers the clean
diaper under the wedge of her neat bottom, pulls it between her legs, tapes
it down snug, very snug.
Scott wants to put more than padding and plastic between Amy and the
world. He wants to put her into steel diapers and carry the key. He doesn't
mention this to Joe. Amy wails and thrashes so hard that Scott's enfeebled
arms can't get her legs back into the sleeper.
"Let me try," Joe says. "It's been a while, but — " and he's already slipped
one leg into the non-zipper side and worked the plastic foot over Amy's.
Joe crooks the other knee to insert it into the other pajama leg, and Scott
notices how he instinctively shields Amy's delicate skin from the vee of the
zipper. Joe holds her foot a minute, touches her toenails, which are thin
and translucent as fishscales.
"Un-fucking-believably beautiful, aren't they?" he says. Scott thinks Joe,
usually the perfect gentleman, swears to impress him. He first noticed this
when he returned from the war and Joe was still in college. A lot of college
kids began swearing like infantrymen at that time, as if they wanted to
have linguistically the experience of hell they'd otherwise avoided.
Joe puts his face on Amy's naval and makes a noise like a party whistle.
He toots her tummy button a couple times, and Amy stops crying long
enough to listen. She catches her breath. Lumpy scars on Joe's neck remind
Scott that when they were kids Joe had the worst acne.
Joe pushes Amy's second foot into the sleeper, zips her up like a suit¬
case, snaps the tab at her neck.
"Your baby, mister," he says, swinging her to Scott.
Scott takes her like a crystal vase. His forearms are so tense that he can
feel muscles twitching in them.
"Time for the flipperoo, old man," Joe declares.
"What's a flipperoo?"
The girl in Scott's mind is a 12-year-old rape victim, a late night call-out
for Scott. Usually he doesn't have to meet the victims with their clothes off,
but the ER room at St. Luke's was crowded, and the doctor had never done
a rape exam before, so Scott had to be responding officer, detective, and
nurse, all at once. The girl's mother's husband's uncle was the perpetrator,
and he'd violated this little girl pretty roughly, left Scott all the evidence
he'd need to put him away for a while— bruises, blood, semen. It was
58
Putting Up Storms
midnight before they finished, so Scott brought home the evidence kit
containing swabs and hair samples and the girl's soiled panties, white with
faded pink flowers. Because the night was warm, he stored the envelope
on a lower shelf of the refrigerator.
But in the morning when Gail reached for Amy's milk and asked what
was in that bag, he felt his mistake. Gail scalded the milk (a step they could
skip now), added water to cool it, and got Amy all set in her high chair
before she handed Scott the lidded yellow tippy cup and ran to the bath¬
room. Scott heard her retch several times and run water to clean up, but
she didn't say a word when she came out. She put her face against his
chest and hugged him around the waist. "Was it a bad one, honey?"
"Pretty bad," Scott said. Early in their relationship he told Gail he never
talks about his work, so she doesn't probe, but sometimes he wishes she
would. His co-workers in child abuse are women, and women cops tend to
act tougher than the men. They don't talk about what these investigations
do to them. All that day Scott was vexed by the thought of his daughter's
milk contaminated by that creep's jism.
"The flipperoo. First assignment in Parenting 201, buddy."
"Parenting? That some new Scandihoovian sport?" Scott hates pop-
psych words, and as a post-seventies cop, he's heard plenty of them. He
hates them because they don't account for the way that girl's crotch looked
in the ER. But Joe's credibility as a dad is fine — he has four kids now, one
girl already a junior at Divine Savior, the rest coming up through parochial
schools — good grades, sports, no problems.
"Those are the best kids you could ever want, all of them," Scott used to
tell Joe, but Scott didn't want kids. Before he had his own, he cared nothing
about other people's kids except professionally. "How's the rug rat," he'd
ask, and barely listen to answers that usually involved ear infections or
teething or strep throat. Who needs it? he said to himself. Something
relentlessly wholesome about young fathers bugged the hell out of Scott.
His own father was a drifter, first by occupation — he was a highway
construction worker who moved from job to job — but perhaps also by
nature. His mother owns a fuzzy black and white photograph, an enlarge¬
ment, that shows her sitting on a train holding Scott up for the camera: a
big baby wearing a knitted cap, legs flexed against her thighs, eyes dark
and bright even in that poor photograph. "That was when I was going to
visit your father in Alaska," she said. She had been married to him then,
but not for long, and, as Scott pieces the story together, his parents never
shared a residence after that visit to Alaska. There had been no picture of
his father in his mother's house, only this other one that represented his
father as a destination.
His mother told him his father lived with them on the top floor of a big,
blue Victorian house with a cupola when he and his sister were young, but
59
Carol Sklenicka
she said it with the same detailed, irrelevant wistfulness that marked her
rendition of walking to work when it was 20 below in Black River Falls or
of watching Kennedy get shot while she was tending bar and couldn't
even stop serving drinks long enough to have a good cry. For her, loss is
the motif of her own and everybody else's history, the only thing that
makes it real.
"How young were we, Ma, when Dad lived with us?" Scott used to ask
when he was about eleven, clinging to last shreds of boyhood. "Six? Five?
Was my sister even born yet?"
"Yes, she was born. We all four lived together, had dinners together,
went to the drive-in movies with you kids in the backseat in your paja¬
mas."
Maybe, but Scott has no memory of it. The few memories he's sure of
don't support his mother's stories. His sister was born in '49; he remem¬
bers that well enough because he was sent to stay at his grandparents' in
Door County. Why wouldn't he remember his father's presence?
A father's failings recur in his son, Scott suspects, and the psychology
he's studied doesn't contradict this. He knows he's not meant to be a
father.
Joe is never plagued by such uncertainties.
The worst thing Joe ever did in his life was get Marty pregnant a couple
of months in advance of the wedding. Joe was at Madison then, and he
stayed in school, working nights to support his family and refusing to let
Marty get a job out of the house. They managed the apartment building
they lived in. Scott was a rookie in the police department then and recover¬
ing from a disastrous post- Vietnam first marriage by sleeping around as
much as possible. A couple of times when he had a new girl to impress, he
brought her to Madison for the weekend and borrowed a semi-furnished
apartment from Joe and Marty. Marty even provided clean sheets. To repay
them, Scott would do a few hours of painting or cleaning on Sunday while
his lady friend checked out State Street. Marty kept her distance, but Joe
got a kick out of having Scott as his rogue friend. "Lady killer," he used to
call him. It didn't bother Scott, who figured it was natural for Joe to be
curious since he'd never had a single life himself.
When Joe's first daughter was about six, she noticed that the woman
Scott brought for the weekend wasn't the same one as the time before. Joe
pulled Scott aside and told him he wouldn't be able to borrow apartments
anymore. He tried to blame it on Marty, but his own distaste was evident.
"Maybe it's time you found a decent girl and settled down, Scott. Who
knows? Maybe it's not too late."
"Too late for what?" Scott said.
"Oh, you, know. To be satisfied with one woman, I guess. I don't know. I
never really understood guys like you."
60
Putting Up Storms
There was a hiatus in their friendship after that, half a dozen years or so,
the years in which Gail began deliberately turning his life upside down. Then
Scott broke the ice by inviting Joe and Marty to his wedding — without the
kids, but not without a certain "so thereness" intended.
By then Joe was a manager at Miller Brewing, and Marty seemed to have
discovered birth control. Joe and Scott drifted together again — for a beer after
work or to watch a game. When Scott moved to the child abuse section at the
MPD, Joe started peppering him with questions — what kind of families they
were, how the mothers let it happen, how anyone could prove anything. And,
mostly, how Scott got interested in the field. Joe's comments annoyed Scott by
making him feel that he was responsible for the crimes he investigated. Still,
Scott took them as he used to take Joe's curiosity about women he went out
with — as inquiries from a man whose own life had to be boring. Just knowing
somebody who dealt in that world of slime must be exciting for Joe.
When Gail and Scott bought their first house, a fixer-upper in Sherman
Park, Joe helped more than you'd expect. All three of them had fun together
then. Joe would bring over his free cases from Miller, which he said would go
to waste at home, and Gail drank right along with them. Joe would back Gail
up when she talked about the kids that would live in these rooms someday.
Once, after Gail left the room, Joe winked and said, "Don't deny her those
babies. Killer."
Now Scott wonders if, by spending all those hours drywalling and plumb¬
ing, Joe was escaping the pandemonium of Saturdays with four children.
That's hindsight about Joe. At the time Scott saw in Joe the perfect dad he
would never be himself.
Scott carries Amy to the family room; on screen they're doing post-game
wrap up. Joe hits the mute button and lies down on the floor and raises his
sock feet to form a pedestal in the air. "Okay, hand over that baby."
Scott looks at his friend's hands grasping for Amy, his wedding band and
clean nails, hands that have never been anywhere they shouldn't have been.
He feels Amy's well padded bottom on his own forearm, her sweet sour
breath in his face.
"I can do it, Joe. You just talk me through." Scott lies down on the floor next
to Joe, bends his knees, sets the baby on his stomach. He's the one in changing
table position now.
Amy has on a soft one-piece blanket sleeper, carnation pink with a design
of darker pink hearts and flowers embroidered over her own heart. The
sleeper is new; Gail commented on that when she buckled Amy in her high
chair for her Malt-o-Meal this morning. "We're not going to dribble all over
this pretty, new sleeper now, are we?" she'd said in the little voice they both
use when speaking to Amy. Because it's new, the sleeper is too large. Amy
looks tinier than ever, particularly where her surprisingly strong neck
emerges from the suit.
61
Carol Sklenicka
Joe stands over them like a coach. "Now, you just lay her stomach on
your feet and hold on to her hands." Scott raises his feet and places his
hands under Amy's arms, nearly circling her shoulders. She's balanced on
his feet. His heels are under her hipbones, and his toes press her ribs. Scott
would give anything to lose this anatomical response to other bodies, but
he knows he won't. He's already seen too many dead and damaged hu¬
man beings.
He's thinking this as Amy begins to laugh. To crow, really. "DaDa!
DaDa!" Her eyes are wide, and drool drops a silver line from her beautiful
wet smile to his shirt. Joe has quit coaching, but Scott knows what to do
next, as if his body remembers this from somewhere.
He sways his legs back and forth and envelops her tiny, warm sweaty
fists in his own bigger hands, holding tight enough so her hands can't slip
away but not so tight that he hurts her. Then he flips her. She spins in the
air and lands lightly on her feet above his head. She's still laughing as she
crawls to the other end of him to clamber up the mountain of his knees.
"Dada, do again!"
When Gail comes in with the groceries, they're still doing flipperoos.
"What a happy girl!" Gail says in the little voice. "What's Daddy's secret?"
The beeper goes off about eleven that night, after Gail and Scott have
snuggled in to watch a movie. St. Luke's again. Dead baby, suspicious
circumstances, more than suspicious bruises. Gail watches Scott get
dressed, brings him his gun from the locked cupboard. Together they check
on Amy. Scott bends far into the crib to kiss her forehead, then pats Gail's
rear end, which is maybe a little broader than it was before the baby.
Suddenly he's horny as hell and wants more than anything to stay home
and make love to this woman he's married against all odds, against all
personal wisdom and family history. He pulls Gail close to him and hopes
she'll feel his hard-on, takes a chance she won't be more shocked than he is
by this inopportune display of desire. He wants her to ask him to wake her
up when he gets home.
Instead Gail pulls him close to her and squeezes his butt in the way she
knows drives him crazy and she hardly ever does anymore. "Is there
time?" she says.
There could be. That baby's dead, after all. But Scott needs to see who¬
ever brought the child to the ER before they've realized what kind of
trouble they could be in.
"It'll keep," he tells Gail, knowing he won't have the heart to disturb her
the four or five hours from now it's likely to be.
The sun's glinting off the Milwaukee River as Scott drives home. He's
spent an extra hour at the station dictating his report so the D.A.'s office
can move quickly when the autopsy results come in Monday. He opens the
62
Putting Up Storms
Sunday paper on the table for Gail and loads the coffee maker for her. He
showers. Cleaner, naked, and exhausted, he stretches between their daisy-
sprinkled sheets and wonders how life goes on. He feels his penis stir
against the crisp cotton and knows. And wonders why
When Amy's morning cry breaks his sleep, Scott's having this dream: in
the house where he and his mother and sister used to live, that horrid
house with the asphalt siding on Franklin Street, he is a young boy, reach¬
ing up to repair a shower rigged above the claw-footed tub in that always-
cold bathroom. Pieces of pipe break off in his hands. Rust and sludge run
along his arms and into his armpits. A girl about twelve, looking as if she's
hidden small tangerines under her T-shirt, comes into the room. Takes the
old pipes from him. At her touch they turn into shiny, white, modern
tubing. The girl, who is Amy, repairs the shower and turns to him with a
smile. "It's all right now, Dada," Amy-in-the-dream says.
Scott reaches for Gail, who sits up and rubs his neck as she asks, "When
did you get home?" before she goes to lift the baby, who's crying into her
new day.
63
David R.
Young
Summer
Snow
It was June, and cotton from the roadside trees floated in the wind like
snow. My grandfather drove down from the ridge to meet me at the
station in a black Plymouth that was at least ten years older than any other
car in the parking lot. On the platform he struggled with two hard, boxy
suitcases my father had packed for me. These had been my father's suit¬
cases in college, and the leather grips were nearly worn through. There
was more clothing than I thought I would ever need.
I'd just come west on the B&O to Wheeling, West Virginia, and then, in
the afternoon, south through the hills and strip mines of southern Ohio. On
the way to Pendarvis I'd been humming train songs, the kind my father
liked to play — country and western songs — though he seldom played his
records in our apartment. My mother couldn't stand C&W, so he kept his
stack of LPs hidden away in the back of the hallway closet. Most of the
songs were about treachery. My grandfather had a few words outside the
depot with a dark-bearded man in new, stiff overalls and then climbed into
the Plymouth. The veins on his hands bulged as he gripped the steering
wheel. A thin man with a graying crewcut and narrow red face, my grand¬
father looked uncomfortable in the white shirt he'd worn to the station. He
said he was glad to have me visiting and said little more. I said I didn't
want to spend my ninth birthday alone on the farm, and I wanted to know
where my mother was.
The sunlight over the fields was soft and drowsy, and shadows of clouds
moved slowly. I slid over on the seat and sat as close as possible to the
door on my side, holding with both fists the bar between the open window
and the ventilator, tilted outward.
65
David R. Young
Above the noise of the rattling Plymouth, my grandfather spoke for the
second time.
"Your Aunt Caprice has made us a strawberry pie," he said, glancing in
my direction. His eyes were blue and watery, and I thought he might cry.
The man always seemed to have this expression, whether because of shy¬
ness or allergies or just the color of the eyes, I didn't know. "You remember
your Aunt Caprice, don't you, boy?"
Of course I did. Though on three previous visits, when I'd gone to the
farm with my parents. Aunt Caprice had chosen for the most part to stay in
her room. She was older than my father, but she lived at home with my
grandparents. My father would never tell me why. Aunt Caprice helped
with meals and set the dinner table, rarely speaking but occasionally falling
apart with an outburst of profanity, usually no more than a few words.
Then she would be quiet. It was her glasses I remembered best, thick as the
bottoms of soda bottles.
As we climbed away from the valley, I watched the world I had known
disappear. In time I would come to know the timothy grass, birdsfoot and
wild asparagus covered in dust by the side of the gravel road.
Near the top of the ridge, the steep hillside farm came into view. My
grandfather parked in a ditch, and I followed him through a wooden gate
to the small, two-story farmhouse, covered with brown asphalt shingles.
Grass grew between the red bricks of the sidewalk, and somewhere in the
yard hidden flowers smelled like the curry in my mother's kitchen. The
breeze, always busy on the ridge, stirred the leaves of two large maples.
My grandmother rose to greet me from an A-frame wooden swing on the
lawn by the grape arbor.
"Stevie, we've been waiting for you. We've got supper ready." She wore a
loose-fitting house dress with a pale floral pattern, the large collar open at
the neck. The dress fell to her ankles, above brown lace-up shoes. "You
must tell me all about your trip."
But I wasn't in the mood for talking. Intently, she leaned over to
straighten the collar of the white shirt my father had made me wear on the
train. My grandmother was a bony woman, with sharp features. She'd been
a schoolteacher in her younger days and remained stern in demeanor,
though the skin on her face was so tight she always appeared to be smiling.
She took my hand tentatively and led me into the yard through the
sweet-smelling shadows. My grandfather, in his white shirt and best pants,
was already back in the fields.
"Come inside," she said.
At the kitchen sink she pumped a large wooden handle until water
appeared in the spout. She washed her hands with a bar of rough, brown
soap. I was expected to do the same. Then my grandmother led me through
the tiny dining room where the table had been set with a white lace table¬
cloth and harsh blue china.
66
Summer Snow
The living room, facing west, was hot from the afternoon sun. A small
desk fan near the partially opened window barely moved the air.
"Why not take the rocker?" my grandmother said. "A long journey can
be wearying."
There were two caneback rocking chairs in the little room, but one was
occupied. Aunt Caprice rocked slowly. The dark, square frames of her
glasses hid her face, and her short brown hair looked thin and wiry. I
thought I heard her whisper my name and laugh, softly, in an embarrassed
sort of way For as long as Td known her, she had been far away and
unfocused, her eyes — blue, like my grandfather's — swimming behind the
thick lenses of her glasses.
My aunt's laugh was shy. It seemed there were many shy people in the
family, myself included. I'd come to think my uneasiness was a trait of my
father's people, for my father, too, appeared to be uncomfortable in social
situations, even when just talking to the other tenants in our apartment
building. He often seemed overwhelmed by the fast talk and high spirits of
my mother.
I sat down in the empty rocking chair, and my grandmother settled into
an overstuffed sofa.
After a long silence, my grandmother said, "Caprice, would you get this
young man a cool drink? Something to wet his whistle on?" She patted her
silvery hair, which was combed back into a tight bun.
Aunt Caprice did not reply and made no effort to stir.
"He's come many miles today," my grandmother continued. "All the
way from New York City."
"I know where he's from, Ruth," Aunt Caprice said. "You were in the
kitchen. Get it yourself."
When she realized that Caprice was not budging, my grandmother lifted
herself with the help of the sofa's armrest. She walked stiffly.
"Must you behave this way?" she said, walking out of the living room.
"Shit on you," Aunt Caprice said, barely above a whisper. I was hoping
the remark was meant for my grandmother and not me.
We sat rocking together, without speaking. The only sound was the desk
fan and the slow creaking of the rocking chairs on the braided rug. Sweat
was draining into my eyes. In the deepening silence I thought of the
brilliant, nervous laughter of my mother and of our trips across the East
River to Chinatown, where, in a one-room shop, she purchased the silk
dresses she liked to wear in summer. Sometimes a gentleman friend would
accompany us.
"What if a woman can't have no babies?" Aunt Caprice said. She
laughed quietly to herself. I never understood what she was talking about.
My grandmother returned with ginger ale and a few leaves of fresh mint
in a tall, perspiring glass. I looked around the living room. Little had
changed since my last visit to the farm, two years earlier. Only the portable
67
David R. Young
black-and-white TV set, a recent Christmas gift from my parents and now
situated on top of the radio cabinet, seemed new.
I turned toward my grandmother. "How long will I have to stay here?" I
asked.
" I don't know, Stevie," she replied, more sternly than she'd perhaps
intended. The world was still her classroom. "Your mother needs to be
away for a time, by herself. She needs rest."
"Where has she gone?"
"I don't think your father knows. That's the truth, son."
I remembered past evenings on the farm when we'd all listened to the
radio together. There had been the smell of hot speakers as the radio
warmed up. More often than not, the program had been the Grand Ole
Opry. Even my mother, with nothing else to do, listened in. My friends
back home in the neighborhood had never heard of Hank Snow or Kitty
Wells.
"She's gone to Old Lyme," I said at last, "to visit Grandmother Shaw.
They have a large house, with a view of the Sound."
"That's possible, son." My grandmother was fussing with her bun of
silvery hair, but I couldn't see it was making any difference. "She'll be all
right. Your mother always bounces back."
What she did not say was that the Shaws had not offered to take me in.
It was assumed I'd go to the farm.
"Your father needs some time alone, too. He's very, very tired." It was
disconcerting to see my grandmother smiling, but she couldn't help her¬
self. "Your mother isn't suited for a family. I don't think she means anyone
harm."
I'd heard it before. About how my mother had been banned from the
farmhouse kitchen ever since her first visit, before I was born. She had
reduced a tomato to pulp by slicing it the wrong way, the story went. My
grandmother said she'd realized early on that this young woman had
never been in a kitchen, and she wondered how my mother would ever
raise a family. I'd heard the story every time I'd visited the farm.
Of course, my mother became a wonderful cook. She liked Indian and
Chinese dishes. The story was ignorant and wrong, but that didn't stop
anyone from telling it over and over again.
"The Shaws never really thought your father was good enough for
them," my grandmother said. "That's no big secret, is it, Stevie?"
I wanted to run out of the house, just as, in other years. I'd run outside
during the long afternoons when my father worked with my grandfather
in the cornfields and my grandmother and Aunt Caprice prepared dinner.
On the farm my dad liked to wear a blue chambray work shirt, and his
wavy black hair was the color of crows. Sometimes, when I'd tire of run¬
ning, I'd return to sit by my mother in the A-frame swing. There was the
odor of concord grapes warmed by the sun and the bittersweet taste of the
68
Summer Snow
purple skin. We'd listen to the sound of the wind in the maple leaves, and
sometimes we'd talk.
"Your father and I come from different worlds," my mother said one
warm afternoon. She rubbed the fingers of one hand across the back of the
other. "All that Bible teaching. Thou shalt not do this, thou shalt not do
that. It drives a person crazy, Stevie."
She grew quiet. My mother must have remembered that I was serious
about church, just as my father was. I was a believer. Every Sunday I went
to church with my father, who always wore a dark suit and brown felt hat
and, in winter, a long overcoat, the same uniform he wore to the office in
Manhattan where he worked for my mother's family. Church was as
important to us as the country music we both loved to play at home when
mother was gone. We loved hymns by Roy Acuff and Webb Pierce. We
kept the windows closed when we played our records because we didn't
want our neighbors in Queens to think we were country people.
"Your father likes to pretend he's a saint," my mother continued, still
swinging in the arbor. She nervously lit a cigarette. "Well, that's the way
your grandmother treated him. Ed was always good. Caprice always bad.
Little Edward can do no wrong. Just like the Baby Jesus, he was."
We sat without talking, facing the breeze and looking out over the valley.
Below, we could see where strip mines had eaten away the distant hillside.
My mother's long, auburn hair, unbound like a gypsy's, stirred in the
sunlight. Supper on the farm was usually late, and this night, as on many
nights, we sat on the porch swing until the grass darkened in the yard.
"They're Puritans," my mother said. "All of them. You'll see, Stevie.
You'll understand when you're older."
Now my grandmother raised herself again from the sofa and left the
room, and Aunt Caprice followed. She had asked me if I wanted any more
ginger ale, but I'd told her I didn't want anything. In the kitchen they
would make final preparations for dinner. Alone, I rocked crazily in the tall
caneback chair.
The sun was low in the sky when my grandmother called me to dinner.
A glistening white lace tablecloth touched nearly to the floor at the corners
of the dark wooden table. The window was shut against the breeze on the
ridge, and the small dining room was stifling.
My grandfather was last to arrive, washing his hands in the kitchen
sink. He'd spent the last hour walking through the rows of corn in his
Sunday best. In the months ahead, sitting in the dirt in the hot sun. I'd do
my share of weeding in those same hillside fields.
Most evenings he would read verses from the Bible at the dinner table.
That first night he merely recited grace, hurriedly. It would take him
several weeks to get used to having me on the farm. The aroma of home¬
made sausage and hot buttery potatoes filled the small room. I thought
about the strawberry pie on the kitchen counter.
69
David R. Young
When Aunt Caprice had cleared away the dishes and served dessert, she
joined us again. We had coffee, my cup half-filled with hot milk.
"What would we do without Caprice?" my grandfather said, warmly, to
no one in particular. It was as though he felt obliged to say something,
anything. He looked embarrassed.
Aunt Caprice stared at the table.
"That's enough," my grandmother said.
"Tve always said Caprice would have made some man a perfectly good
wife," he added. "Of course, then we'd never have these wonderful des¬
serts here on the farm." He rubbed his gray crewcut with the palm of his
hand. "Now, Stevie, you won't be getting married anytime soon."
I didn't know if it was a question or a command.
"The boy has just arrived," my grandmother said. "Leave him in peace."
"When you do find the right girl," my grandfather continued, "you'll
know it. She'll wait until marriage. And afterwards, she won't run around.
It's unnatural."
"Charles!"
"Women are supposed to wait," he said firmly. "That way, the men
respect them. The men don't leave them waiting at the altar, huge as Santa
Claus. You know who Santa Claus is, don't you, Stevie?"
Aunt Caprice stood up and began to clear away the dessert dishes. My
grandfather stopped talking. He may not have spoken so many words,
outside of the Bible, in a month. I left my slice of strawberry pie half-eaten
and brought the plate out to the kitchen. I offered to help my aunt dry the
dishes, but she whisked me away. At moments I would see a living soul in
those blue eyes, behind the thick lenses, but just as quickly Caprice would
retreat.
In the living room my grandmother and I sat in the rocking chairs,
watching Jack Benny. She watched the program only so she could hear
Dennis Day sing. Since they'd acquired the TV, my grandmother had
discovered a weakness in herself for the crooning of Irish tenors, not so
different from the country music she'd always loved. Sometimes the
picture flickered, but the voice came through clearly.
My grandfather had fallen asleep on the sofa. In the evenings to come,
he'd soak his right foot — injured in the mines when he was a young man —
in a basin of warm milky water while he watched TV.
I didn't notice that Aunt Caprice had joined us in the living room until a
commercial break. "Red Skelton's much funnier," she said, just loud
enough to be heard. "Shit on Jack Benny!"
She turned and climbed the stairs to the bedroom I would share with
her, across the hall from my grandparents' room. I could hear her hesitate a
moment near the top of the stairs before she slammed the door.
My grandmother said she was ready for bed, too, and she awakened my
grandfather long enough to point him in the direction of the stairs.
70
Summer Snow
"She can be horrid," my grandmother explained to me. "But we must
learn to forgive her. She is paying for something she did when she was
very, very young."
My grandmother moved about the small house turning off the lights
before climbing the stairs. I knew I must follow, but I took a long time in
the bathroom downstairs, undressing slowly and brushing my teeth twice
before going up.
In the bedroom. Aunt Caprice was kneeling by the side of her bed.
When she heard me, she stopped reciting her prayers and whispered,
"You're the one like me, Stevie, more than the rest of them. You'll be part of
our family now." She climbed into bed in her flannel pajamas. The night
was much too warm for flannel.
Tired as I was from the train trip, I wouldn't sleep. I lay in my bed and
listened to my aunt's breathing. Then I moved to the ledge and opened the
window. The hillside breeze, softer now that the sun was down, whistled
lightly through a windowscreen clotted with snow. Through the white
patches I watched the farmyard darken. As night settled in, I could hear
but not see the wooden gate creaking in the wind and the quiet swashing
of maple leaves in the yard.
71
Sand
Dollar
Peg
Sherry
I started a new career of writing stories when I retired, so it has become
easy to believe in the unexpected. Still, Ann's phone call is such a
surprise that I answer in a silly singsong voice, "It's been such a long, long
time." Then, mockingly serious, I add, "Even your voice is unfamiliar."
Her words come quickly, with that breathy quality she uses that makes
you wonder if she might share an important secret. "Hello, you old retiree.
Is all your free time hanging heavy or have you read through the whole
library? Wouldn't you love to see Eric? He's ours for the weekend. I'll stop
by after I get him from daycare."
I breathe in and picture Ann's narrow face, her close-set brown eyes that
could turn cold on contact when someone she didn't like went beyond a
brief handshake. But suddenly I see her face, my friend from the past,
eyebrows arched, her wide mouth smiling its fullest at one of our ridicu¬
lous jokes.
I breathe out as her voice fills with hearty cheerfulness. "Guess who's in
charge today? Ed's home tomorrow, and you know how he takes over."
When we hang up, I poke through some dusty photograph boxes. A
cleaning-out mood has filled me since I retired. Each day I go through
drawers and closets.
"These old pictures of our trip to Florida might help with small talk
when Ann brings Eric," I tell Tom. "After today I'll toss them. We never see
Ed and Ann anymore."
My husband looks at me over his morning coffee cup. "Maybe you want
to keep them for old time's sake."
73
Peg Sherry
I jab the breakfast scraps into the garbage disposal. The sudden tears in
my eyes amaze me. "I used to think we'd still get together despite her job.
When I worked, I took time for our friendship."
I remember my calls to Ann at her new job.
"Sorry. She's in a meeting. Sorry, she's making a speech out of town.
May
I do something?" The secretary sounded efficient.
I wondered then if Ann might notice if I shouted, "Help! My job is
making me shake. Hooray, I'm retiring."
Ann never made it to my retirement party. She was at a conference.
Now I mutter, "Maybe we've shared all our old stories and haven't
made new."
As we look through the faded photographs, Tom teases. "There you are,
a lot younger, holding onto that sand dollar. You've never used your
wish."
I smile. "Haven't needed to." I glance at the bowl on the coffee table.
"But the sand dollar's in the shell bowl, just in case."
As Ann puts the baby on my family room couch and takes off his
sweater, I note her hair. She has tipped it. The clipped brown bob gleams in
the lamp light. Her blouse is a vibrant yellow silk that detracts from the
lines around her eyes. She used to like being our beauty advisor and was
determined to help us both stay young. When my hair started to gray, she
advised, "Stick
to colors that perk you up. Pink and rose or soft gray might highlight your
hair if you refuse to color it."
While she's busy settling Eric, I speak rapidly to fill the silence. "We
must be getting old. History is hitting everywhere." Trust me to jump right
in, speak in riddles.
In high school, she used to say, "Must you always be so obtuse?" Then
she'd arch her eyebrows and smile. "You eggheads are just that way, I
guess."
Ann isn't paying attention. She sets Eric on the rug, takes off his knit
cap, and smooths his dark hair. He smiles when she kisses the top of his
head.
I rattle the morning paper. "History Hits Mall. History Hits Mall!" I
repeat the headline as though she's hard of hearing. When she raises her
eyebrows, I keep going, "One of my ex-students has a theory that history
affects everything, even malls. He wrote this article about the mall on the
edge of town. It's closed, deserted." My words won't stop. "I must have
taught him something. He spelled deserted correctly."
Ann smiles absently.
On the way to the kitchen to get tea, I slow myself down by giving Eric
an old, well-used stacking toy from a chest drawer. I hear Ann settle into
74
Sand Dollar
her chair. She raises her voice and sounds cross. "How could you, the
smartest person in our class, end up teaching history, such a boring sub¬
ject?''
I bang the kettle, swoosh in the water, make my voice steady. "History
gives a perspective, you know, and a distance. For all we know, history's
being made this very moment/'
"Remember the little record shop that used to be in that mall?" she says.
"We got a signed Barbra Streisand LP at the opening."
"The manager gave you the display sample because they'd run out, and
he was afraid you'd throw a tantrum."
We'd told our stories this way many times, playing a familiar game that
began in high school when we each desperately needed a close friend. One
of us would start, and the other finish. "The Bobbsey Twins," classmates
would groan, "doing their duet." It became an automatic chorus that
ended in laughter. Now it feels like a tired script. If only Eric could speak,
he might give us a new topic.
I give Ann her tea and add, "Even that Streisand record, 'The Way We
Were,' would fit right into the theory."
"Theory?" Her voice asks the question.
"The history th ..." I stop as she thins her mouth. Her frown narrows
her eyes and deepens the lines.
We each start again with "My grandchild ..." then stop.
Ann looks at Eric playing and says firmly, "I must get toys for his visits,
but I never shop anymore. My job takes so much of my time."
Her thin shoulders straighten as though to bear the weight of her work.
"Long range planning, meetings, speeches, and the Mayor wants me on
the new council. I never imagined . . . But I'll stop. Other people's work is
tedious to hear about."
She glances at the yellowed photos I left by her cup but turns to examine
the wooden stacking stick in Eric's hand. Frowning, she rubs at the gray
discoloration of the old toy, then sets it aside. "How's your Tom? It's sad
we're all so busy. We never see you anymore, but then, I never see my own
husband." Her voice is flat.
She has a way of moving our talk as she did my hands when she tried
to teach me to knit booties for my babies. She'd click her tongue. "So smart,
but such a klutz." Then we'd unravel the yarn to start again. My children
would never have had homemade booties without her.
She clicks her tongue and continues. "Weren't those awful nights years
ago, you trying to knit, me learning bridge. You and the men had such card
sense, and I always lost. How I hated that game."
Eric pulls himself up by the coffee table and she smiles, her eyes shining.
His small, chubby hand pushes and pats the round glass bowl that holds
my shells. Leaning forward, he pokes at the glass, then licks it. We both
laugh as he turns and looks at Ann, then back at the bowl.
75
Peg Sherry
"Eric sees the pretty shells." In her normal voice, she says, "Mine
cracked when we moved. God, it seems we were always packing and
moving . . . into bigger and better . . . Ed's dream." She looks around the
room as though for the first time.
"Is that your same sand dollar, still unbroken? Remember the story you
wanted us to believe about the five doves hidden inside? And the wish?"
I point to the pictures beside her. "Tom and I were cleaning out drawers.
We found our old Florida pictures."
As Ann looks at the photos, I think about the ancient myth that promises
that if you find a perfect sand dollar and break it to free the five doves
hidden inside, you get your wish.
The year we visited Ann and Ed at their home in Florida, we searched
for sand dollars. Broken shells littered the beach. It made me sad to think
of all those wishes strewn through the ocean or pecked apart by shore-
birds. Finally Tom found a perfect shell.
"Let's all break it and wish together," Ann announced.
"What if something happens and I need my own wish?" I half believed
the words as I spoke."
"What could you possibly wish for?" She nodded at Tom searching for
other shells nearby, then frowned at Ed, who stood at a distance squinting
into the sun, "Who needs wishes when you have all of it — career, kids, a
husband that hangs around."
I hugged her and, blinking, stood looking far out to sea. "If wishes were
horses," I chanted. They all groaned, grabbed my arms, and pushed me
into the water. We dunked and splashed each other until we were soaked
and breathless.
Leaving the beach, Ann whispered, "If the sand dollar cracks on the way
home, you'll lose your wish, but I'll still be your friend."
"I'm not superstitious." I had laughed, so sure of everything.
"My God, how young we look." Ann examines one photo intently.
"Were our teeth really so white?"
She refuses to move the bowl of shells when Eric fusses about it. "He's
got to learn he's not in charge. We never moved things for our kids, did
we?" Her tone makes us conspirators who survived raising children. "The
old pan and wooden spoon will do the trick. Don't get up. I'll find them.
Talk to me about how you're filling time. How long has it been since you
retired?"
Her words continue from the kitchen. "I suppose you still collect
records. Don't tell me you bother with those good old oldies anymore."
I pour more tea and find a worn stuffed bunny for Eric, who immedi¬
ately chews at it. "We still listen to the LPs we like best but . . . actually,
we're into lots of new things since I retired."
Would she really care about my writing classes or tossing out the
76
Sand Dollar
spoons? One morning I picked up a coffee spoon at breakfast. It looked
discolored. I picked up another with a dark stain. As I pushed through the
spoon drawer, every one looked old and worn. I dumped them all in the
trash. The clatter was delightful.
I'm certain if I read her my poem about how retirement and tossing
spoons were alike, she'd laugh, "Riddles again," she'd say. "Anyway,
cleaning drawers is not my idea of retirement."
I hear drawers in the kitchen opening and closing. Was she reorganizing
my kitchen, as she used to when we cooked dinner together on the spur of
the moment?
Before she got her job, she'd call me at work. "Ed's middle name is
'tense' these days. Maybe we'll argue less if we have company. His plane
comes in at supper time. I'll bring the sauce. We'll do the spaghetti at your
place."
Her meals were masterpieces. Spaghetti became elegant with her secret
sauce. She made it seem so easy. Even my disorganized cooking space
came to order with her there.
Coming from the kitchen, she taps a wooden spoon on a pan. "Your
drawers and cupboards!" she accuses. "Everything's changed."
I swallow my cold tea as Eric drops the bunny and begins to tap the
glass jar with the wooden spoon. He hasn't gotten into a rhythm yet.
"Haven't you EVER wanted to break it?" Ann stares fixedly into the
bowl, then shows Eric how to pound the pan.
"You wouldn't believe what this child has meant to us. Ed spoils him to
death — the son he never had." She raises her voice above the clatter. "He
called from California to tell me he's had all his work sent home so he can
be there with his grandson. I have to give a speech, and with Ed home, I
can run to clean up my own desk work at the office. You know when it
piles up ... "
Eric pushes away the pan and taps again at the shell jar, but Ann is still
looking at the sand dollar. "Even when you choose to do it, work outside
the home is . . . consuming. I can almost understand about Ed, what he
goes through — so driven."
She sits back as though the lamp is too bright. "I simply can't save him
like I did you. Remember how I called you, to get you away from those
awful meetings, how many times I saved you?"
"Saved?" The word echoes inside my head.
She would phone me at work, her breathy voice urgent. "Don't tell them
it's a friend, so we can talk." She called when she was redoing the living
room, when her daughter went to live with a boyfriend, even the time her
roses froze.
"Saved me?" I feel so dense.
"Of course. You remember. You and my girls ... all needed me. And Ed
77
Peg Sherry
was away, always away. That's what made it all right, knowing I could
rescue you when you needed it. And then the girls grew up. My job came
just in the nick of . . . Now I'm not home even when Ed is. Isn't that a
switch?"
As a dam inside me breaks, Eric throws the spoon and cries wearily. Ann
struggles to put his sweater on him. "We'll have to go home. He's ex¬
hausted." She murmurs, as though to herself, "We're both exhausted."
"Wait." I can't seem to get my old teacher voice to work. "Ann, oh,
Annie, wait." It seems barely a whisper, but the sudden silence in the room
is astonishing. Our eyes meet.
Carefully I lift the sand dollar from the bowl. Stretching it high above
Eric, I give it to her. Under the thin shell, the doves wait to fly free.
78
Two
Points
Tom
Joseph
A novel excerpt
One - A Whisper and a Wink
This is how it's told in my family. Whether it actually happened this
way, I can't say. I wasn't around, wouldn't, in fact, show up for another
twenty-five years. I like to think, though, that even back then, I was
present in promise, a promise that had carried my newly married grand¬
parents up North to the middle of nowhere, then whispered, "You're
home." Who knows, maybe the story's just another of Grampa's bedtime
yarns. Would that really matter?
It was May of 1934. Gus and Tess Harriman were on a honeymoon they
had no time for and couldn't afford. They'd driven off from Chicago in
Grampa's 1929 Packard Roadster with no destination, only a direction.
North. Two bone-rattling days later, they found themselves somewhere in
far northern Wisconsin at a place appropriately named The Last Resort.
After spending the night in a cottage called the Honeymoon Deluxe, which
come morning proved identical to all the other empty cabins in every way
except for its extra two bucks per night charge, my grandparents stood on
the resort's dock, watching the sun rise over a glass-calm lake. A small
rowboat was tied up to the pier, and inside the boat were two fishing poles.
Grampa hadn't fished since he was a boy in Dubuque, Iowa. Gram never
had. But they both looked at the poles with the same attitude that had
brought them this far: Why not?
Palmer, the resort owner, gave them instructions on row-trolling a
sucker and on using a gaff hook. Then he pointed toward an opening
across the lake. "That there's the way to Musky Lake. If you don't catch
one on the way, find you a cabbage weed bed there. Be careful with your
79
Tom Joseph
oars. There's so many fish you're like to knock one in the noggin. Bring one
back and the missus'll cook it up for supper."
And so my grandparents trolled their sucker through the winding river
channel until they reached the next lake. Palmer hadn't exaggerated.
There, in a weedy bay between two pine-topped points of land, Grampa
caught his first musky — a whopper, over 45 inches, as the story goes. He
and Gram downed a couple beers in celebration, then found themselves in
need of a place to relieve themselves. The way Grampa put it, as newly¬
weds they were acquainted enough to sleep in the same bed, but not quite
ready to share the same watering hole. So Grampa Gus dropped Grandma
Tess off on one point of land and beached the boat on the other.
Grampa always swore the whole idea, if not yet the name, came as he
stood irrigating the great white pine. He realized right off it was a prepos¬
terous idea. They'd married late. He was over 30, and Tess was 28. They
were too old, too busy, and too strapped to consider such tomfoolery. Yet,
with the clear northern air, the monstrous fish, the cold beer, and the
release of his bladder, not to mention the afterglow from the wedding two
days earlier, Grampa was feeling so good that he plain didn't care. There
was something special about this place, something that sent all those
logical reasons against his sudden plan skimming like skipping stones to
the middle of the lake, where they slowed and sank out of sight.
He finished marking his territory, jumped to the giant pine's first
branch, and climbed up for a better look-see.
From his viewpoint high in the tree, Grampa could tell that the lay of the
terrain was even better than he'd hoped. The two points of land defining
the narrow, deep bay were part of a larger peninsula, roughly U-shaped,
which jutted into the thousand-acre lake. Somewhere up the shore was the
little town that Palmer told them had been named after the lake.
"Gus? Gus Harriman! Darn you, Gus, where are you?" Gram had fin¬
ished her own business and come tramping through the woods to find him.
"Up here."
"What in the dickens are you doing?"
"You won't believe what I can see from here."
"I don't believe what I can see from here. A grown man up a tree. Who
do you think you are, Tom Sawyer?"
"I tell you, Tess. It's like looking at a set of blueprints. It's all there."
"Well, you're not all there, that's for sure. Now get down from that tree
this minute. Talk to me with your feet on the ground."
Grampa climbed down and told Gram what he'd seen. The cabin — their
home — would go on the high, east-facing slope that promised a view of the
sunrise over the lake. The sheltered bay inside the U would provide a
perfect harbor for the fleet of boats they'd surely need. On the opposite
side of the property looked to be a good sand beach. There, the children
could play within earshot, but not so close that they'd interfere with his
80
Two Points
trolling between the two points. There was plenty of room in between for
outbuildings.
"Well, I have to admit, I saw something, too," Gram fessed up. She
showed Grampa a long, white-tipped feather. "It's an eagle's. Has to be."
She led him to the edge of the lake. "See that big pine on the other point?
That's the eagle tree. You can make out the nest from here."
"If the place is good enough for them," said my grandfather, "it's more
than good enough for us."
"The fishin's not bad," Gram said, glancing back at the weedy bay.
Grampa glanced, too. Suddenly, up to the surface bobbed all those
logical reasons. "We can't afford this," he said.
"It's too far north," Gram agreed. "We drove forever to get here."
"That's two points."
"Two very good points."
They stepped back into the boat and shoved off. Grampa made a few
pulls on the oars, then set them down. Gram and Grampa floated in the
bay for a long time. Finally, signaling toward the opposite shores with each
hand, Grampa broke the silence. "But those, those are two great points."
Gram reached up and took his hands in hers. A little breeze had come
up. In the wind they heard the whisper.
There's a lot more to the story that, for the most part, Grampa didn't
care to talk about. Eventually, though, they built Two Points pretty much to
a tee the way he mapped it out that first day.
So that's how it started. As it turned out, Grampa was right about the
children part, too. Dad was born nine months and a wink later. A quarter
century down the line. Dad passed that wink on to Mom, and I got started,
too.
Two - Arrival
It was easy, when I was twelve years old, to mark the day summer began.
It had nothing to do with the solstice. I knew that because we'd studied
it in science class. The solstice was when you stick a pencil through an
orange and walk in a circle around some kid's basketball. Then the teacher
tells you to stop and asks the class what they see, and some wise guy says,
"Juice dripping on the floor." Finally, someone notices that the pencil is
pointing directly at the basketball. That's the school version of the coming
of summer. Typical. It has nothing to do with the real world.
Neither did a change in weather announce the new season. Up North at
Two Points, it can snow in June. I've seen it. Even in Blaine, Illinois, where
we lived during the school year, you might go shirtless in March and need
81
Tom Joseph
your parka in May. If the thing about the weather were true, we'd have
about 158 seasons a year.
The answer was much simpler. Any kid could tell you. Summer began
the day school let out.
When, though, was the exact moment? The instant the last bell rang?
The second my feet flew off school grounds? Or minutes later, when I got
home and jumpshot, hooked and dunked all my spiral notebooks into the
bulging trash can as the imaginary crowd chanted, "Two points! Two
points!"?
Close. Yet, even those sweet moments were, in truth, no more than the
last twitching reflexes of the school year, the kind an animal has after it's
already dead, only its nervous system hasn't gotten the message. Summer
couldn't really begin while I was still the school-year Danny Harriman, the
math brain, the you-play-rightfield ballplayer, the kind of kid who's
always in the running for Citizen of the Year. Until something more solid
than daydreams came along to crack me open and bust me out of my
winter egghead eggshell, summer was still 400 miles away.
As far as I was concerned, the year was divided into two very unequal
portions. The first was B.S., the 42-week-long bore Before School let out.
The only ten weeks that mattered I called, simply, V. As in Victory. Or as in
Vacation. Take your pick. I couldn't wait for the miracle to come along to
end the B.S. and transform me into the summer me, free of responsibilities
and expectations and homework — heck, just plain free.
How lucky I was to have a miracle I could rely on year after year. It
showed up late the afternoon that school got out, as I was dragging the
homework-stuffed garbage can down to the curb. There it was, behind my
Dad's Olds 88. He towed it slowly past the house, halted, then reversed
direction and backed up the driveway. I let out a whoop, dropped the can,
and ran alongside. It pulled up in front of our garage. Poof, the school year
vanished.
It — the it — was the green trailer.
Dad had built the eight-foot utility trailer from two-by-fours and ply¬
wood and an axle from Grampa's original 1929 Packard. The trailer was a
hefty arrangement, with a drop-in gate too heavy for a skinny twelve-year-
old to lift. Its bulk was necessary, though, for it held all our summer needs.
Besides the assortment of bulging suitcases, there were our flannel sleeping
bags, the Scotch cooler. Mom's box of Saturday Evening Post double acros¬
tics (which she brought because newspaper crossword puzzles were too
easy), Nick's weight set, Angie's hamster cage. Gram's five-horse out¬
board, which Dad had rebuilt over the winter, new lawn chairs, a pallet of
charcoal briquette bags, a gross of lighter fluid, and a hundred other odds
and ends. The trailer held them all, and something more important yet: a
promise. It was the very same promise that had brought Gram and
82
Two Points
Grampa up North in the first place: Finally we'd be leaving the house in
the suburbs and heading for my real home at Two Points.
The trailer was more than the promise. It had survived its winter hiber¬
nation outside Dad's office at Harriman Drafting & Blueprinting, and I had
survived another winter in Blaine. It was the certain proof that summer
had finally come.
From hitch to tailgate, the trailer was painted the same shade as that
most beloved of Two Points' buildings which gave the color its name:
outhouse green. The truth was, the only finishes that had ever been used
on any of the grounds' buildings — and that included the garage, the
bunkhouse, the bathhouse where we changed into swimsuits, the boat¬
house, the screen pagoda and the little playhouse, even my grandparents'
house, which had once been a model home at the Chicago World's Fair—
were marine spar varnish and that deep, not quite forest shade of green.
But outhouse green was what we had always called it, and outhouse green
it would always be. Grampa must have had a fifty-gallon drum of that
paint. Every summer, one of our chores was to put a fresh coat on what¬
ever needed it.
Merely looking at the trailer took me halfway to Two Points.
Before the tires even rolled to a stop, I was over the side, flashing the V-
for- Vacation sign and bouncing on the trailer's floorboards to see how
they'd weathered the winter. Naturally, Dad had already seen to that, and
greased the bearings and overfilled the tires in anticipation of the heavy
load. He was anxious to get going, too. Dad barely pecked Mom's cheek on
the way to the basement, where most of our stuff was piled. He didn't
bother to take off his tie.
Emerging from the house hoisting two of the heavy suitcases, my
brother Nick was ready as well. At sixteen, Nick had muscles and loved to
use them, especially when people were watching. He wore his Blaine High
gym shorts and his prized University of Moscow sweatshirt with the cut¬
off sleeves.
Nick looked like the wrestler he was. He had short, thick legs and an
oversized torso with arms that hung a foot from his body even when he
wasn't carrying anything. He was sure no girl could resist the no-sleeve
look, though all it showed off were his tufts of curly brown pit hair. Nick
thought like a wrestler, too.
Lifting a suitcase into the trailer, he grunted, "Here you go. Hulk." Nick
liked to call me that when I was wearing my own favorite sweatshirt,
which showed the Incredible Hulk ripping his clothes to rags simply by
flexing. I loved that sweatshirt, half because my muscle-bound hero could
snap puny guys such as Nick like string beans, and half because of the
Hulk's outhouse green complexion.
With the trailer's arrival and all the excitement, I was feeling the Hulk's
power. I hefted the suitcase mightily. It barely budged.
83
Tom Joseph
"Shut up," I spat, looking down to see my brother grinning. I avoided
his eyes and dragged the suitcase, inch by inch, to the front of the trailer.
Sweat beaded on the three hairs under my arms.
I helped tote, wedge, cram and pile until the trailer resembled some¬
thing out of the Beverly Hillbillies. Dad tied everything down with about a
thousand half-hitches, finishing as the sun disappeared behind our
neighbor's house. We were ready to head up North.
But we wouldn't. It was part of the routine. We always left in the morn¬
ing. Tonight Dad would grill a steak, and we'd eat on paper plates. Mom
would spend all evening cleaning. "See how I'm leaving the house for you,
Isaac," she told my Dad, who commuted back and forth several times a
summer. "Try to keep it that way."
Dad knew not to cross her. Though Mom stood barely five feet, she was
a coiled spring, wiry and always ready to let loose. Her temper was as dark
as her eyes, which when she was mad became little dots of coal com¬
pressed so tight they sparkled like diamonds. Dad may have worn the
pants in our family, but Mom knew how to snap the belt.
Surprise. We ate steak on paper plates. After dinner I made a last inspec¬
tion. Rear end nearly scraping the ground, the Olds looked like a sled dog
on its haunches, poised for the command to mush. The heck with the load,
said the Olds, let's get on with it. I agreed. Why didn't we just leave? I
went to bed with the sure knowledge I'd never get to sleep.
The next thing I knew, I was woken from a dream of being attacked by
an orangutan, which turned out to be Dad's hairy forearm tickling me
awake. He was frisky in the morning and teased everyone, especially
Mom, who needed at least three cups of coffee to get going. But even she
relented the morning we left for up North, allowing herself to be poured
into the passenger side along with her second cup. We bid the house good¬
bye. I didn't look back. My eyes, the eyes of the summer me, focused
North.
Dad drove relaxed, with one hand on the wheel and the other stretched
toward Mom. As we approached a red light, he made a show of pressing
some button on the dashboard, and the light turned green. We flew
through a whole line of stoplights that way, with Dad never slowing down,
even though they were red up until the last second. "I know how he does
that," singsonged Nick, but when I demanded to know, Nick only sneered
and said, "When you're older." Then Dad swung us onto the tollway,
throwing the change in the machine as we coasted through. I was sure
we'd crash through the striped wooden gate. It lifted in the nick of time.
"Oops," Dad said as we sped up.
"What is it?" asked Mom, totally alert. A second before, she'd been a
million miles away in double acrostic land. It's amazing how moms spring
to attention when somebody says oops.
"Forgot we were dragging the trailer. We're supposed to go through the
84
Two Points
manual lanes." Dad checked his mirror for cops. But we were charmed. We
were heading up North. No one would dare to stop us.
Dad made sure of that. He carried an empty Clorox bottle in case one of
us had to go, which ensured that we didn't, even my six year old sister
Angie. We crossed the border in no time. Nick and I leaned over the front
seat, straining to be the first to get to Wisconsin, and blew air from one
state to the next.
We settled into traveling mode. Dad and I played license plate poker.
Nick slept. Mom chewed her pencil and occasionally entered something on
her page. Angie fondled her hamsters, Todd the First and Todd the Second,
and looked out the window for signs with the only word she could read:
E-A-T. When that got boring, she decided to dress one of the Todds in the
pink sweater Gram had knit for Wibbly Wobbly Woo, Angie's favorite doll.
Angie gave the uncooperative hamster a Mom-style tongue lashing: "Bad
boy. You're going to catch your death of cold if you run around without
your sweater on. Besides, don't you know how rude you're being? Wibbly
gives you her very best sweater, and you won't even try it on? Bad, bad,
boy."
We passed a restaurant, and Angie tuned in instantly. "E-A-T. E-A-T.
Stop. Oh, please," she pleaded. She should have known by now that we
always had lunch at the Blue Sky Supper Club on the Tomorrow River
outside Stevens Point. Dad said the place had special memories. Nick
agreed. As far as he was concerned, the triple decker club, a sandwich so
tall that even my big-mouthed brother could barely get his chops around
it, was the world's greatest memory.
Personally, I loved the Blue Sky for another reason — the bathroom
wallpaper. It was one restaurant where I never had to be reminded to wash
up, which gave me the excuse to take a leisurely look at the walls covered
with bra-and tutu-clad monkeys. I dreamed I was dancing in my Monkeyform
bra, read the caption next to each. Who knew why the monkeys needed the
bras? Their chests were as flat as the luckless half of the girls in my sixth
grade class who hadn't started developing. But there was something about
the lacy white cups I couldn't pry my eyes from, any more than I could
when seeing their outline, whether they were needed or not, through a
white blouse. I stood and gawked till my hands got red and wrinkly.
Outside of Tomahawk, we passed the first up North lake. Not the farm
ponds or shallow, grassy downstate basins, but the real northern McCoy,
bog-surrounded, lined with tamaracks and white birches. A pair of loons
drifted across the blue water. We'd entered the domain of up North.
It was still another torturous hour from Tomahawk. Neither license plate
poker nor car bingo nor a game of ghost could distract me. I watched the
odometer creep each tenth of a mile, heard every tick of the dashboard
clock. A pool of water seemed to lie on the road surface ahead of us, as if
our lake had come out to greet us; but the pool kept moving back, just out
85
Tom Joseph
of reach. It made me so anxious I nearly had to ask for the Clorox bottle. I
thought I'd deceived myself. Summer hadn't begun when the green trailer
arrived. It wouldn't start until we got to Two Points. We'd be driving
forever. We'd never get there.
Then we went over the bridge between Cross and Pickerel Lakes and
passed the Virgin Timber Inn and the airport. Then — finally — we turned.
Dad slowed to a crawl. We all opened our windows to smell the freshly-
scrubbed air. A blue heron fled from the swamp to our left, scolding us in
his hoarse squawk for interrupting his hunt in the shallows. To our right,
we caught a glimpse now and again of the lake through the trees and
underbrush, which in mid-June still had that just-reborn yellow-green
shade of spring.
The road curved to avoid a huge old white pine whose roots were
exposed along the eroding hillside. We made a right at the sign carved to
look like a cribbage board on which were burned the words "Two Points,"
then passed between the two giant rocks my cousins and I liked to slide
down. They looked smaller this year. We coasted down to the turnaround.
We were there.
86
Ron
Wallace
Quick
Bright Things
An excerpt from
a novel in progress
He couldn't shake the feeling that they were all going to die. It had
come to him unexpectedly, unbidden, as he was preparing his annual
lecture on the causes of the Vietnam War, in which he showed how the
United States had, with the best intentions, come to the aid of the French in
the 1950s, ignorant of the Vietnamese people's history or culture. What was
current events for Peterson was ancient history for his students, who had
been infants when the war finally ended. He remembered that day vividly,
driving home from work to Christine and Jennifer, hearing the announce¬
ment on the car radio that the war was officially over. It was as if a weight
had been lifted from him. If this war, this endless war, could be over, so
could Jennifer's problems, so could his difficulties with Christine.
But it meant nothing to his current students, who seemed more inter¬
ested in getting the highest grades with the least work so they could get
their MBA's and earn the most money. Maybe he could make some connec¬
tion between the current crisis in the Middle East; maybe he could get
them to see how they could all learn something from the lessons of history.
His thoughts drifted to Christine and Jennifer and Phoebe, how much he
missed them after only a few days. They had gone to visit Christine's
parents in Milwaukee for the long weekend and were due back this
evening. Peterson hadn't wanted to go — he had never liked Christine's
father — so he pulled out the old excuse of work and drove himself out to
their country place. It had been pleasant — the seclusion, the quiet, the
freedom to work on his lectures in peace. But this morning he'd woken up
with a pain in his chest, indigestion he figured, and all day he had been
uneasy, plagued with some inexplicable emptiness or dread.
87
Ron Wallace
Halfway into his lecture it hit him: they were all going to die — Christine,
Jennifer, Phoebe. He saw them in the Nova, rounding the circle of
Goodfellow Road and County Y in the blind spot where the town board
had made a gravel cut years ago, Christine, as always, driving too fast, as a
pickup truck of high school boys returning from Richland Center slammed
into them. The vision played itself over and over in his mind. It was ab¬
surd, he knew. But somehow, it was as real as if it had already happened.
"So quick bright things come to confusion," he thought, remembering a
line from Shakespeare.
He wished now that he had gone with them to Milwaukee. Christine
would have preferred that, he knew, and he could have done the little
work he had to do there. He wished he'd told Christine and the girls he
loved them before they left. He would tell them when they got back. Jenni¬
fer and Phoebe would be returning to college soon, summer vacation over,
and he vowed to spend more time with them when they got back from
Milwaukee.
If they got back, he found himself thinking again. He wouldn't get any
more work done this day, he decided, not with that violent image pulsing
before him. Maybe if he walked up to look at the cut, maybe if he ran the
four mile circle he hadn't run for years, he could shake off the anxiety that
filled him like a canyon of regret. He put down his lecture, found a T-shirt,
some shorts, and his old running shoes, and walked up the gravel road to
the cut.
The intersection was well-marked, he noted, peaceful and deserted. It
seemed impossible that anything could happen there, surrounded by the
neatly grazed hillsides, the draws of cottonwoods and boxelders. The corn,
after a summer of plentiful rain and record-breaking temperatures, looked
lush. At least they hadn't cut all the trees, he mused. And some scraggly
vegetation now softened the stark limestone walls. The sun was high
overhead, and it was almost unbearably hot. It had been over a hundred
for three days straight, and it looked like it would be that again today.
Perhaps he shouldn't run after all.
He had kept up his running only sporadically over the years; but he
remembered now how settling running had been, how the repetitive rhythm
of feet on pavement had always helped him think, had given him good
ideas. Christine had worried about his heart, his high cholesterol. It was but
another of the petty conflicts he wished he hadn't helped perpetuate.
He did some stretching exercises beside the road. He was in pretty good
shape, he thought, for a man nearing fifty. Although he could no longer
put his palms flat on the pavement, he could touch his toes with his finger¬
tips without straining his legs. "It's because your torso's so long, and your
legs are so short," Christine had teased. "Why people value athletic ability
so much. I'll never know," she had said.
The wires on the power pole overhead hummed like bees. He started
88
Quick Bright Things
slowly up the narrow black-topped road, pleased at how much better he
felt. The first fifty yards were uphill, and he negotiated the crest without
getting at all winded. From the top of the ridge he could look out over the
countryside across the fresh cut hay and alfalfa, the corn tassels patterning
the land like wide-wale corduroy or herringbone, as Christine had once
said, to the steeple of the Catholic church — the halfway point on the four-
mile circle — and then to the ridges and hills even farther off in the distance.
The immensity of the view had always surprised him, the blue sky stretch¬
ing for miles, the sense of serenity and well-being that unbroken landscape
provided. This was why he had bought the property in the first place,
away from the city with its crowds, cars, noise, and social demands, its
houses jostling each other for attention or looming over the superfluous
sidewalks.
As he began the slow coast down the first long hill, he felt a slight pain
in his lower back and the hint of a stitch in his left side. He remembered his
track coach in high school yelling, "Roll down those hills, Peterson. Roll
down them."
He rolled down the hillside past Goff's farm, remembering how Goff
had insinuated himself into Peterson's barn, shed, and meadow. "That's a
nice pasture you got there," Goff would say. "A guy could put some heifers
in that pasture. You gonna put any heifers in that pasture?" Peterson had
always felt guilty that he wasn't farming. He didn't want heifers or hay or
machinery on his place, but he couldn't think of any good reason to tell
Goff no. Just saying he didn't want them there, that he wanted an empty
barn, shed, and pasture, seemed somehow unfriendly. If he wasn't going to
use them for their intended purpose, why shouldn't Goff? He always
agreed — and then spent days resenting the manipulation. He hadn't talked
with Goff at all this season, and he wondered where Goff was keeping his
heifers, his extra hay and equipment now?
A tan and white foal grazed beside its mother in Goff's field. Phoebe
would like to see that, Peterson thought. Maybe she would see it from the
car on the way home later. He imagined her excitedly running to the house
to tell him all about it. They had called her "the finder"; she always man¬
aged to find things when no one else could — lost keys, money, morels. She
was lucky, everyone said. She was always winning raffles, cake walks,
coloring contests. She loved animals. Once, after a fight over something,
she "ran away" for a day and a night to the tent Peterson had pitched in
the woods at the end of their property. She was going to forage for a living,
she said. They had just seen A Midsummer Night's Dream at a local outdoor
theater, and she said she was going to live like Puck or like a deer.
He kicked a piece of baling twine and continued downhill. They had
called her "lucky," although she was the one who needed the bottle-thick
glasses at age seven — Christine's legacy — and the head gear and braces at
ten — Peterson's contribution. She got the nickname "Bean" for her skinny
89
Ron Wallace
body and stick-like legs. But she was talented, Peterson thought, compos¬
ing her own pieces on the violin, piano, and trombone. She had even won a
city-wide song writing contest.
The hill leveled out, and Peterson noted the yellow, diamond-shaped
road sign, with the silhouette of a cow walking into the road, a hole in the
cow's ass where some waggish hunter had taken target practice. Cotton¬
woods and sumac clustered in the draw. The pain in Peterson's lower back
sent an occasional pulse down his leg, and his side stitch threatened to
move up into his shoulder. "Run through that pain," his coach would have
yelled at him. "Goddamn it, just run through it." He jogged on.
If Phoebe had been the Puckish sprite, all angles and energy, Jennifer
was the beauty. When she was born the doctors discovered that her head
wasn't growing and concluded that she would be a microcephalic.
Peterson remembered the strain on him and Christine, how he'd nearly
had a breakdown, how they'd gone to Mexico to forget, how they'd mused
about a future in which the doctors were wrong and Jennifer turned out
not only to be normal, but beautiful and smart. "Not bad for a retarded
kid," they'd imagined themselves saying. And then the doctors were
wrong, or perhaps Peterson's prayers to the gods were answered. Shortly
after the Mexico trip, Jennifer's head started growing, and her develop¬
ment proceeded in textbook fashion from then on. She was living with her
friend, Lydia, now and was happier than he had ever seen her.
The road turned uphill again. The sun, aslant over the trees, was already
bubbling the asphalt as Peterson watched his feet plod uphill. The front of
his T-shirt was drenched with sweat, and his breath was coming hard. He
passed the old Thiessen place, where a large dog, chained to a makeshift
house, barked at him while dancing to the end of its chain and back. Years
ago Peterson had gotten to know all the dogs on the route. He had carried
a stick ever since the day Scout, Thiessen's beautiful springer spaniel, had
broken free of his chain, scampered down to the road, barking, and made a
pass at Peterson, biting him in the calf. It hadn't really hurt — "itched"
might have been a better way to describe it. He felt the tickle of hair on his
legs as he ran by, saw the flurry of tan and rust at his feet, and felt the itch
as the dog retreated to its front stoop.
He had never particularly liked dogs, from the black cocker spaniel his
father had brought home for him when he was five — a frantic dog that was
always knocking him over in its enthusiasm — to the terrier he had acciden¬
tally hit in the jaw with a baseball bat as a teenager when the dog, chasing
the pitched tennis ball, leapt up seemingly from nowhere. For years
Peterson had carried the memory of that dog — whimpering at his feet, its
jaw splintered — trying to persuade himself that it wasn't his fault.
When Thiessen's springer spaniel rushed him, he felt a surge of terror
and guilt and kept running until he saw two streams of blood flowing from
tooth marks on either side of his calf. He had felt more outrage than any-
90
Quick Bright Things
thing else. What right had that dog to bite him? He hadn't done anything
to it. It was the same kind of outrage he'd felt when that gangly retarded
fellow had thrown a cup of cold yogurt in his face as he and Christine were
walking home one night when they were first married.
After Scout's bite, the doctor in Richland Center had recommended that
Peterson get a tetanus shot and have the dog impounded, but he did
neither. Driving to town for the shot seemed too time-consuming, and
impounding the dog seemed unneighborly. He suspected that the neigh¬
boring farmers already resented his presence in the community — "the rich
city guy who bought the old Goodfellow place," he imagined them saying.
"No, he don't work none, far as I can see. Teaches at the University or
something."
As he passed the Thiessen place, a coon hound came up behind him,
crisscrossing the ditch on his right. He wished he'd thought to bring a
stick, but the dog didn't seem particularly interested in him and just kept
drifting lazily along in parallel, sniffing through the weeds. Peterson
reached the crest of the hill and ran more easily along the gentle dips in the
road that approached the Catholic church. He looked out over the hillsides,
where gray and silver silos glinted in the sun, and black and white Hol-
steins grazed against the robin's-egg-blue sky. Somewhere over the next
hill he could hear the huge ventilation fans roaring in a cow barn and the
motor of the vacuum milk tank puttering. Although the pain in his side
had abated, the pain down his left leg had become a dull pulse, and both
legs were beginning to feel a bit rubbery. Perhaps he would have to walk
the last mile or so. He was running straight up and down now, taking
inefficient little stutter steps. "Lean into it," his coach would have insisted.
"Stretch out."
He took several deep long breaths, the smell of silage and manure
assailing him. Several Holsteins looked up, half-interested as he passed,
and one calf followed him from inside the electric fence on his left for a few
dozen steps.
He could see the steeple clock on the Catholic church clearly now, its
hands stuck at twelve. He must be moving slowly today, he thought. In the
old days it was fifteen minutes exactly to the church. Today, by the church
clock, it had taken two hours. At this point in the circle he had inevitably
thought about his father. Just when Peterson felt like walking — wondering
what he was doing out in the hot sun, his T-shirt and shorts drenched with
sweat, his legs weak, his side aching, his head pounding — he'd thought
about his father slumped over in his wheelchair in the nursing home, his
gold front tooth gleaming through the crack in his half-smile. His father
couldn't lift his head or move more than a finger and would have given
anything to be able to run as Peterson was. For a man who could no longer
feel anything, the side stitch, the rubbery legs, the sweat, the shortness of
breath would have been an indescribable pleasure. Peterson's petty fatigue
91
Ron Wallace
was nothing compared to his father's incapacity, and this thought spurred
him on. At any moment, you could be paralyzed or dead. He quickened his
pace, the adrenaline flowing almost as it had when he was eighteen, run¬
ning cross-country in high school, his mother urging him on at the finish
line with the coaches and other fathers, where his father should have been.
He topped the hill by the church, its stone serenity unchanged. His
mother was still active in her church, Peterson mused. Eddie had turned
out to be a godsend for her after Peterson's father died. They still traveled
to Florida or Hawaii every winter and Canada or Minnesota every sum¬
mer. Peterson wished he had been more accepting of Eddie. Peterson's
hostility had distressed his mother unnecessarily, and it certainly hadn't
done his dead father any good for Peterson to remain morally outraged by
his mother's affair and hasty remarriage.
It might have made a good story, he supposed. Peterson's father had
wanted to be a writer. But the only things he had ever written, as far as
Peterson knew, were a short sociological study of Peterson's mother, for a
college intro class, and a "How I Live with a Disability" piece for Reader's
Digest. His sociology thesis — that his wife's rigid moral upbringing at the
hands of her father, a Lutheran minister, was counter-productive — seemed
to have been borne out in her sister Ida's alcoholism, her sister Martha's
escapades with a variety of men, her brother Wilford's sexism, and her
own affair during her husband's illness and her hasty remarriage after his
death. Or maybe it was just his grandfather's moralistic genes that had
determined Peterson's overreaction to his relatives' difficult lives.
The Reader's Digest piece was thin and cliche-ridden but sincere.
Peterson's father had responded to a call in Reader's Digest for first-person
stories. They offered $1,000, but it wasn't money or fame that interested
him. He believed that his account of his experience with multiple sclerosis
could help others. The article was never published but remained a yellow¬
ing typescript neatly folded in his father's metal strongbox where Peterson
found it after his death.
A rustling in the grass at the side of the road brought him back. He
glanced into the weeds, but his eyes were bleared with sweat, and he could
see nothing. Years ago, he had fancied that such rustlings were snakes.
They were probably no more snakes than was the piece of rope with which
his uncle Wilford had scared off the women at the family reunion. Wilford
had died not long ago, Peterson had heard, in his fishing boat, adrift on a
farmer's pond. His wife, Evelyn, had gone out looking for him late one
evening when he didn't come home. She found him in the moonlight, his
pole still in his hands, his line run all the way out as if he had finally
hooked into something big. She had waded out to the boat, cut the line,
and sat with him all night before calling the coroner to come and take him
home. Now she lived with Peterson's aunt Martha, who had finally given
up on men.
92
Quick Bright Things
Peterson fought up the steep incline to the old Hubble place, with its
shabby asphalt siding, its rusted tin roof, its unmown weedy farmyard —
all quack and burdock — its defunct gray windmill, its pile of trash. He had
always been appalled at the way some of the farmers just dumped their
trash into ditches and draws on their property or piled it in the yard. But
what were they supposed to do with it, he asked himself. He had always
taken his trash surreptitiously to town and found a dumpster.
He remembered how the Hubble's dog. Spike, had always chased after
him for fifty yards or so, barking menacingly. Now, as he turned the sharp
corner and began the long downhill before the last uphill section, he
caught sight of another dog, much like Spike, bounding from behind an
outbuilding. It was a mongrel, its black hair mangy and burr-ridden, the
dirty scruff around its mouth shaggy and wet with saliva. It snapped at
Peterson's legs and bottom, snarling, but then fell into place off to his side
in front of the more docile brown coon hound that had been accompanying
Peterson. He supposed if they were planning to bite him, they would have
done so by now, and he relaxed into a smoother downhill pace.
If the mongrel looked a lot like Spike, the coon hound was a dead ringer
for one the children had brought home years ago. "It just followed us.
Dad," they had said. "And I suppose you didn't encourage it?" he had
replied. "No," they'd insisted. "Did you discourage it?" "Well, no," they
admitted. Peterson had explained, somewhat abruptly, that the dog prob¬
ably belonged to someone else, that they would be sorry to lose it. "You
wouldn't want that?" he asked them. "No." They lowered their heads.
Although it was getting dark, he'd insisted that they walk the dog back to
the house where it had joined them. When they hadn't returned after an
hour, he drove off after them, half angry, half worried that something had
happened. When he found them on the road, with the dog at their feet,
they'd explained that no one was home, and every time they tried to leave,
the dog followed them. Phoebe was in tears. "We knew you'd get mad,"
she said, "if we brought the dog home again."
The pain had become fairly constant in Peterson's left side now, and he
was running, even downhill, with a slight limp. He would stop soon and
walk, he told himself, taking several deep breaths. A strong smell assailed
him, alfalfa and cows, yes, but some other smell he hadn't experienced for
some time, a sweet but rank smell, a musky, slightly sour, overpowering
odor, the odor, he realized, of something dead. The coon hound wandered
off in the weeds to investigate. These were the August days, Peterson
recalled, when families of raccoons and possums chose to cross the roads.
Phoebe, he remembered, was horrified by the deaths of animals. People
never affected her quite as much, but an animal, dead on the road or in a
book or a movie, could make her weep inconsolably. When she'd see
something in the road from the car, he'd assure her that it was just trash, a
paper bag, something that had dropped from a farmer's truck.
93
Ron Wallace
Three crows rose flapping from the weeds as the coon hound continued
circling. Peterson remembered a conversation he had had with Jennifer. Out
of the blue one day she'd said, "You know, it's a good thing people die."
"Why is that?" Peterson had asked.
"It gives you a reason to do things. If you were going to live forever,
why would you do anything?"
"If you're just going to die anyway," Peterson had baited her, "why
bother?"
"Everybody has something to accomplish. Some contribution, some
things you need to do. Death gives them some urgency ."
Not a bad little philosopher, Peterson had told Christine later. Not bad
for a retarded kid.
He was running on the valley floor now, through bottomland, flat and
even. Some of the pain had gone, and he could see the shade ahead where
the long final hill began. Maybe he could run the whole way after all, he
thought. He coasted along the road. Everybody has some thing to accomplish.
Some contribution. What had been his contribution? The past few years
seemed a blur of sameness — the history courses that he knew by heart, the
yellowing lectures he swore as a young professor he'd never resort to, the
gradual withdrawal from departmental affairs as younger colleagues
implemented changes in committee organization and degree programs, the
migration of his friends to better paying positions at more prestigious
universities, the failure to finish the books he had once hoped would make
his reputation.
Oh, there had been some high points — the first few years of teaching, the
publication of a few dozen articles and poems, the citation for excellence in
service to the College. But the older he got, the less interested he was in his
career.
And then, of course, there was Lissa ....
He passed into the shade at the bottom of the long hill. It was the first
shade he'd encountered on the run, and it eased him somewhat. The
hillside was in shadow, the sun having dropped behind the steep, treed
bluff. It was cooler in the shade, and he welcomed it, although the hill
would be difficult and long. Staring at the pavement now, pushing himself
to get up the long last hill, he heard the chirr of crickets and locusts and
saw the cabbage butterflies laying their eggs in the cracked asphalt at his
feet.
The white indentation of a tooth mark was still visible on the inside of
his calf as he forced his legs up the hill. He remembered his outrage years
ago as Scout scampered back to the porch yapping. It had taken old man
Thiessen a few minutes to notice Peterson out front shouting and pointing.
Peterson wasn't about to leave without letting Thiessen know what had
happened, but he couldn't approach the house with Scout stationed in the
way. When Thiessen finally saw him, he insisted that Peterson come in.
94
Quick Bright Things
have the wound treated, and have some breakfast. Thiessen was seventy
and hard of hearing. He apologized to Peterson as he shakily applied some
merthiolate and tried unsuccessfully to get a bandaid to stick to Peterson's
sweaty leg until Peterson finally dissuaded him. Peterson had ended up
staying so long to talk that Christine began to worry and came looking. "I
thought you'd had a heart attack for sure," she told him later.
He still had two scars from that bite. He remembered a storyteller who
had visited his fourth grade class— was it nearly forty years ago? — and
told stories about some of his scars. The storyteller then had the children
tell stories about their scars. When it got to Peterson, he had no scars to tell
about. After school, he'd run home to his mother feeling embarrassed and
deprived. "Don't worry," she'd told him. "You'll have your scars to tell
about soon enough."
He passed a road sign that had always amused him — steep, winding
curve, 15 mph — and joked aloud that he guessed he'd have to speed up.
He was running so slowly now that it was more like a walk, a slow motion
pantomime of running, as if the pavement were moving steadily away
from him with each step, his feet barely able to lift themselves under his
body to keep it from falling. He was almost back to the house now, just half
of the long hill to go. He thought of Jennifer and Phoebe playing badmin¬
ton, Christine humming at her loom, the goats clattering on the oak plat¬
form he'd built for them in the pen he'd constructed out of old gates he'd
found around the farm, the chickens poking through the new mown grass
for insects and scraps. He thought he could hear a dove cooing in the
boxelders, a phoebe calling its name from a fencepost, a bevy of gold¬
finches ringing their tiny bells high on the wires.
The cool breeze in the ridge's shadow chilled him, a shiver that started
at the nape of his neck, where his wet hair dripped, and trickled down his
spine, wrapping itself in tiny rivulets around his ribs and chest. And then
the rivulets were thin arms squeezing gently, pushing him toward the
unmowed roadside weeds, his legs and thighs trembling with the unend¬
ing incline, as he thought yes, a rest wouldn't be such a bad idea , yes , just a few
moments in the weeds , yes , as he stumbled into the Queen Anne's lace and
chicory, the ragweed and wild mustard, the goldenrod and coneflower,
and collapsed, dizzy, wheezing. It was peaceful in the weeds, a few bees
humming, three dogs circling, a cardinal red in the trees.
He remembered stories of Goff's wild dogs roaming the woods, attack¬
ing deer and cattle. He had heard their ghostly yelping across the hills on
starry evenings, the full moon illuminating the farmyard with milky light.
Now the mongrel that had followed him loomed lean and ominous, teeth
bared, mangy face thrust in his face. "Spike," he heard himself say.
"Spike." Now Spike was licking his cold forehead and cheeks, the dog's
rough tongue soothing as a massage. Now the brown coon hound had
joined him, and other dogs gathered around, cooing and warbling.
95
Ron Wallace
Christine would find him. She'd arrive home to an empty house, begin
to worry, and bring the car around. She'd chastise him for pushing himself
too hard. "What a foolish thing to do," she'd say. Off through the fillips of
Queen Anne's lace and chicory, he thought he could hear Phoebe and
Jennifer singing in the breeze. And was that Christine singing, too? They
had always made such wonderful spontaneous harmony. So quick bright
things, he thought. So quick bright things. Now all the dogs in the neighbor¬
hood were gathered, like Theseus' musical hounds, yipping, yapping, and
yodeling in unison some familiar tune. Now a howl, now a croon, now a
moan. Now the Queen Anne's lace and chicory. Now the wind without
measure or sound.
96
Gordon
Weaver
Saint
Philomena,
Pray for Us
Yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death . . .
Psalm 23
More than forty years ago, the sudden death of Kevin O'Leary, my
student, made me remember Saint Philomena, patron of dentists.
When I was sixteen, my mother remembered I had not seen a dentist since
I lost some baby teeth. "Why should I go to a dentist?" I said. "I brush."
"I have an appointment for you at Marquette," she said.
"Marquette? The college?"
"The university dental clinic. You get your work done by dental stu¬
dents."
"Why can't I go to a regular dentist? We're not Catholics."
"And we're also not made of money," my mother said.
So I began a regimen of treatment — prophylaxis, x-rays, a dozen serious
cavities drilled and filled, one difficult extraction, two gold crowns —
lasting nearly a year, a cycle of boredom and pain, the whole of it marked
in my memory by the image of Saint Philomena. I think of it now as a year
spent in exile, my innocent, unruly, resistant self banished intermittently to
dwell among hostile and exotic aliens: the Jesuits who walked the campus
in their black suits and dog collars; the dental students and instructors in
white smocks-— instructors identified by a red shoulder tab; the motley
community of destitute and semi-destitute patients I joined.
But mostly during these periodic exiles I lived in the casual torture of
pick, chisel, drill, extractor, with only the brief respite of only occasional
novocaine.
I ascended a staircase to the waiting room, past the mural-size portrait of
97
Gordon Weaver
Saint Philomena on the landing, checked in at a window like a bank
teller's, showed my card, took a seat on one of the long wooden benches,
as inhospitable as a church pew. I avoided all eye contact. We were a
shabby crew of unfortunates: Negroes, harried mothers and their crying or
screeching children, thin, unshaven men, clearly skid row winos.
Name called by a bored clerk, I rose and entered the clinic, a hall the size
of a basketball court, with row on row of dental chairs, the whirr and
whine and buzz of a hundred drills, a pervasive smell, vaguely medicinal,
faintly metallic, white smocks everywhere, walking briskly, bent over
patients, gathered at the counter where materials were dispensed.
I found my assigned chair — two rows in, seven down — and greeted my
assigned student. "Hi," I said, or, "Hey," or, "How you doing?" He never
spoke to me; I suspect he did not like juveniles and wonder if he liked
anybody. The plastic badge over his smock breast pocket said Styron. He
nodded, gestured me into his chair, and, after a cursory look at my x-rays
and chart, set to his work, the infliction of pain.
The pain — pain! — has dissolved over time into an amorphous cloud over
my otherwise quotidian teenagehood, one instance almost inseparable
from another. The probing of Styron's needle-pointed pick, releasing
mouthsful of warm, sweetish blood on my tongue, elides into the burn of
the slow-speed drill he seldom lifted to allow it to cool, merges with the
explosive jolt of nerve response stiffening my spine, rendering my muscles
rigid, freezing the grip of my fingers on the chair's armrests, melds with
the crack and crunch of his chisel deep in the shell of a tooth,
transmogrifies into my throat's spasms as I gagged on my saliva, is ab¬
sorbed into the shock of chill water rinse bestowed without warning, the
flood of cold air Styron squeezed from a rubber bulb to clear his view.
Perhaps the most intense pain was the sensitivity test. "We need a
sensitivity test on that before you bother with an amalgam," the red-tabbed
instructor told Styron. Styron wet a paper napkin, wrapped it around a
metal baton, and handed it to me to hold. From the baton, a thin cord ran
to a black box with a dial set in its face. From the box ran another cord,
ending in a wire he placed at the bottom of the cavity he had just drilled.
He flipped a switch, the current ran through my nerve, and I jerked in my
chair like an executed criminal. The tooth was live, could be saved
Instructors inspected each stage of the work during these two and three-
hour sessions. Styron went to get mercury and silver to blend fillings,
returning with a receipt for my mother's money. His rare breaks were
occasions for speaking to me. "I got to step out a sec," he'd say. When he
returned, his breath was rank with his just-finished cigarette.
He talked to his friend and fellow student working the next chair. (I
never learned his name.) "So how many inlays you done now?" Styron
might ask him. Five, or ten, or a dozen, his friend might reply. "Just shows
what a fucking prick you are," Styron would say, or, "You must be as lucky
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Saint Philomena, Pray for Us
as you're ugly, huh?" or, "Beats the living shit out of me." They spoke of
their various instructors, Styron calling them pricks, turds, bastards, sons
of bitches, ass-faces.
This year's regimen of pain, I am convinced, left me the physical coward
I have been the rest of my life.
The day's appointment done, I walked out of the clinic, through the
waiting room, always near-full with the destitute and near-destitute, all
awaiting their pain and boredom, down the flight of stairs, past the por¬
trait of Saint Philomena.
She was depicted in full color, on her knees, hands folded in prayer, a
yellow halo like a dinner plate surrounding her head. Her large eyes
turned upward in ecstatic search of the deliverance she presumably never
doubted. Her bloody mouth, lips collapsed inward, was stark against her
dead-white skin. Arrayed about her on the ground were all of her teeth,
torn from her jaws with pincers wielded by Moors before they martyred
her by fire. This was in north Africa, in the fifth century A.D.
As I came up those stairs to my appointment with Styron, this picture
terrified me with its promise of torment, but, descending, I could confront
her with something like smugness. I had not died, nor was I likely to — at
least not under Styron's indifferently harsh hand.
My family was nominally Protestant, most tenuously Lutheran. Ap¬
proaching Christmas, my mother topped our tree with an angel and ar¬
rayed a hand-painted creche at its base among the wrapped gifts. On
Christmas Eve, she took me to midnight services.
"Do I have to?" I complained.
"It won't hurt you," she said, "and it might even do you some good."
I asked my father, also compelled to go, if he believed in religion.
"It's all right to believe so long as you don't get all fanatic about it," he
said. He wore a Masonic ring, but I never knew him to attend any lodge.
He loved to laugh at Oral Roberts, then a Pentecostal working out of tents
in Oklahoma, who called on viewers to place their hands on their televi¬
sion sets to receive his healing. "Get a load of this!" he would shout. I
laughed with him. My mother tried to smile. I once watched my father
behave with great rudeness to a Jehovah's Witness who came to our door
with her small son, offering Awake! and The Watchtower for only a quarter.
When my mother insisted I enroll in a confirmation class, I appealed to
him. He shook his head in sympathetic disgust and said, "Grin and bear it
if it makes her happy, okay?" An icy-dour pastor with rimless spectacles
conducted the class, requiring us to memorize impossibly numerous
scriptures quoted in Luther's small catechism. When I dropped out, my
father stood with me against my mother's disappointed anger. "She'll get
over it," he advised me.
When I once asked him to explain Freemasonry to me, he told me about
99
Gordon Weaver
Hiram Abiff and the building of the temple. "It's sort of like a religion/' he
said. "You follow it, and it kind of takes the place of a religion. You can
make a lot of contacts."
Whenever I brought my mother to the edge of her patience and to the
verge of tears, she exclaimed, "Jesus H. Wept!"
When my father died, I was surprised to find he had asked in his will for
a Masonic funeral. I remember the strangers wearing their stylized carpen¬
try aprons while presiding at the ceremony but cannot recall anything they
said.
When my mother died, a Lutheran minister who never met her deliv¬
ered a eulogy derived from things I told him of her life.
I have not set foot inside any church for nearly half a century. I have
only recently begun to think so often about Saint Philomena.
After being educated at tax-supported institutions of higher learning, I
was hired to teach at Saint Bernardine College, run by Franciscan friars. I
was only mildly apprehensive. The dean who offered me the position.
Father Brian, sprawled in his swivel chair. I remember feeling a momen¬
tary fear he might expose a thigh or worse as he shifted, crossing and
uncrossing his bare legs and adjusting his robe, the beads at his waist
clicking. He did ask if I feared being proselytized and assured me nothing
of the sort would happen — the truth, for nothing of the sort did. I told him
I had no such fear, no feeling one way or the other concerning his religion;
I lied.
I enjoyed teaching at Saint Bernardine's. My students, all male, mostly of
Irish, Italian, and Polish descent, ninety-seven percent Catholic, were
eager, diligent, and docile, dedicated to their education as a certain vehicle
upward from their blue-collar origins. I exulted in the breaks their manda¬
tory retreats and feast days gave me.
My first class informed me it was customary to begin and end each
session with prayer. I told them, I hope without sneering, that, while I
could not, would not participate, I would appoint a class chaplain to
conduct the exercise while I stood by, looking out the window at the
manifest of each season expressed in the beautiful campus grounds.
I soon grew used to the crucifix in each classroom and learned to ignore
the initials they jotted in the corners of writing assignments submitted to
me — JMJ, for Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The opening and closing prayers
became a kind of bracket to each meeting. "Saint Francis," my designated
chaplain would lead, or "Saint Dismas," or "Saint Bernardine" — the choice
was the student chaplain's — "pray for us, now and at the hour of our
deaths," they chorused before the amen and genuflection.
I admired some of my Franciscan colleagues. Father Capistran pursued
serious secular philosophy and had a bishop's dispensation to read books
on the Index.
100
Saint Philomena, Pray for Us
I disliked others. Having taken his doctorate from Franco's Madrid,
Father Amadeus was a rabid anti-Communist and organizer of the Cardi¬
nal Mindzenty Club chapter. Father Giles had been Goering's confessor at
Nurenberg. Father Cyprian confessed John F. Kennedy aboard PT-109.
Father Peter confessed the wife of the state governor's director of taxation
and so could retail reliable insider political gossip.
Several of my colleagues, I later learned, reverted to their given names, a
few resigned their vocations, and at least one married in the aftermath of
John XXIII's Vatican II.
In my third and final year on the faculty of Saint Bernardine College, I
appointed Kevin O'Leary chaplain of one of my freshman composition
classes.
What can I trace to my childhood? Bits and pieces:
My friend Ronnie Makowski's parents invited me to eat supper with
them. In their dining room hung a cheap depiction of the Sacred Heart. His
parents talked, Ronnie talked, I ate my meat loaf and mashed potatoes in
silence, fascinated by the garish reds and golds, the heavy metal frame
above Mr. Makowski's head. Sometime after Palm Sunday, a yellowing
frond was tucked behind the frame to stiffen and wither. I of course did not
dare ask what all this was, what it might mean. Asked perfunctory ques¬
tions, I replied politely, as I had been taught by my parents. To question
another's religion, I understood, was as rude as staring at a blind man and
his dog or at a cripple's limp or crutches.
We — my nominally Protestant friends and I — called Catholics mackerel
snappers for the fish they ate on Fridays. Ash Wednesdays, they came to
school with smeared foreheads they were forbidden to wash. Questioned,
they joked, said they were angels with dirty faces.
Swimming at our neighborhood's municipal pool with my friend
Ronnie Makowski, I saw the scapular he wore on a thick string around his
neck. When we played basketball, Ronnie crossed himself before shooting
free throws. This was fashionable for some years but long ago disappeared
from the game.
When the husband of our seventh grade teacher, Mrs. Lillian Leet, died
suddenly, Ronnie Makowski brought her a prayer card when she returned
to our classroom after the funeral and a short period of mourning.
On his birthday, Ronnie Makowski treated me to a movie matinee; I do
not remember what movie we saw. He reached in his pocket for his money,
withdrew it; his rosary caught on his fingers and clattered to the pavement
in front of the ticket window. He picked it up, rolled it into a ball, stuffed it
back in his pocket. Instead of asking him what it was, I thanked him again
for treating me to the movie.
These bits and pieces come from scattered days, all before I saw the
portrait of Saint Philomena.
101
Gordon Weaver
Ronnie Makowski became a first-rate athlete. Marquette University gave
him a football scholarship. Preparing for his first varsity season, he worked
out in the university gym. He was doing situps, I read in the Journal sports
section, when he suffered a heart attack. He was found dead, stretched out
on his back on the floormat. The person who found him, the newspaper
reported, thought at first he was asleep.
This happened three years after my dental work was complete, when
Ronnie and I were no longer friends, when I had forgotten all about Saint
Philomena and the pain inflicted by the student named Styron.
What is more contemptible than contemporary religion?
My father hooted at a sweaty Oral Roberts, then a Pentecostal holding
revivals in circus tents, claiming to heal through television sets. Roberts
turned Methodist for respectability, and I watched him emcee slick variety
specials complete with Hollywood guest stars, hair-sprayed, attired in
designer suits, claiming to have spoken to a giant apparition of Jesus. I
could not transcend my disgust to laughter.
Cable channels bring us smarmy frauds — Bakker, Swaggert, the Crystal
Cathedral, a host of blatant swindlers and pitchmen and women — ad
nauseam. On prime time, the networks coddle the likes of Billy Graham,
Jerry Falwell, and the reactionary pope from Poland.
What could be more contemptible?
I find some solace in their inevitable humiliations. Their sham universi¬
ties and theme parks declare bankruptcy, they are compromised in sleazy
motels, they are strangled in lawsuits. Or they simply fade, are forgotten,
like aged rock musicians. Who remembers Bishop Sheen? Who mourns
Ezra Taft Benson?
Ichabod! Jeremiah would cry — if there were a Jeremiah among us today.
The Glory hath departed us.
And beneath contempt, unworthy of laughter, are the faceless ranks of
the mock-pious, the dressed-in-Sunday-best crowding fast food restaurants
and sports bars after services scheduled to conclude in time for lunch.
Drunkard's Mass, I heard my boyhood friend Ronnie Makowski call the
late worship permitting Saturday's revelers to sleep off their hangovers.
Oh yes, there are those who feed the starving, shelter the battered,
comfort the despised, march shoulder to shoulder with the outraged
dispossessed. But this is politics, of no interest to me.
In the end, there is precious little to laugh at, scarce sufficient cause for
righteous anger.
Kevin O Leary.
Kevin O Leary, class chaplain, led the prayer to open the semester's last
meeting before final exam week.
I did not think it was a good class. I was ready for the semester to end.
102
Saint Philomena, Pray for Us
anticipating summer, and so struggled, I think, to be enthusiastic, to in¬
spire my students to enthusiasm. And they, too, were tired of the semester
and anticipated the coming summer. I do not remember why we should
have been discussing poetry at this last class meeting. The poet was Emily
Dickinson, the poem her "Because I could not stop for Death." My students
sat, lethargic, indifferent, bored as I all but shouted the lines at them. I do
not know why I should have cared so much to generate some response to
this poem. There were only a few minutes left when I snapped my text
shut and scolded them.
"You think this has nothing to do with you," I said. "You think this is
some quirky old maid nattering away at you, and you couldn't care less,
right? Well, she's talking to you, and you should listen. You hear what
she's saying? She's telling you Death is coming for all of us, and you can't
stop it, and you don't know when it's coming, or how it's coming, but it's
coming. Not you, though, right? All you can think about is summer vaca¬
tion, getting out of here, going home, what you're going to be doing tomor¬
row and the next day, this summer. You're all bound up in your own little
lives, aren't you!"
My students did me the courtesy of pretending attention; I understood
very clearly I was having no effect at all.
"You just assume," I told them, "you'll wake up every morning, the way
you assume the sun's coming up, right? So you care less about Miss
Emily's little poem here, right? Well," I said, "you shouldn't." And when
there was no flicker of response to this, I looked at my watch, saw we were
only a minute from the bell, and said, "Shut us down one last time, Kevin."
Kevin O'Leary stood and led the closing prayer while I stared out the
window at the greening, blossoming late spring of Saint Bernardine's
campus. I was tired, momentarily disappointed in my students and myself,
glad the semester was over.
Which saint did Kevin O'Leary call upon to be with him and his class¬
mates, then and at the hour of their deaths? I cannot recall.
They come to me in a rush, a torrent, an illogical, incoherent flow:
Scapulars and prayer cards, rosaries and ashes smeared on foreheads;
bleeding hearts and crucifixes and holy candles and holy water, counterfeit
relics; the eyes of statues weep; the hands and feet of celebrated priests and
nuns ooze blood at Easter and Christmas; trees and windows and clouds
and even vegetable roots exhibit the likeness of Jesus or Mary; plastic
Christophers mounted on dashboards; love offerings shamelessly hawked
in exchange for tithes; Reverend Ike's prayer cloths guarantee prosperity;
crosses worn in the ears, dangled in cleavages; incense and gongs, Bud¬
dhas in all sizes; Muslims unroll their rugs in response to prayer calls
broadcast from skyscraper minarets; the earlocks of skull-capped Jews flop
to and fro as they rock in prayer against the wall; aboriginals gather at
103
Gordon Weaver
their totemic bamboo control towers and miniature airstrips to coax air¬
planes out of the sky; Mexican penitents crawl their knees bloody, scourge
their backs with thorns; Shinto monks clap hands to summon the spirits of
their ancestors; stone ruins of Aztec sacrificial alters; Indians chew peyote;
naked Dukhobors assemble to watch their homes burn; snake-handlers
and strychnine drinkers; speakers in tongues and recipients of Inner Light
epiphanies; bearded Amish in their buggies; Mennonites rebuild houses
destroyed by acts of God; hex signs on barns; hot cross buns baked on
Good Friday; Nostradamus's riddles; Masonic aprons; horoscopes and
polished lucky stones, rabbits feet and horseshoes ....
I once drank wonderful coffee, fresh-ground in the refactory, with the
faculty of a small Benedictine college in Louisiana; the view from the
picture window was the cemetery where they would all eventually join the
brothers gone before them.
Saint Philomena.
Late on the night of the first day of final exam week at Saint Bernardine
College, Kevin O Leary, having spent all day and evening cramming, left
his dormitory alone and walked off campus to the state highway. He
walked down the highway toward a convenience store, open twenty four
hours, to buy — what? A soft drink? Snack food? Cigarettes? He wore a
dark T-shirt, dark slacks, sandals. He walked on the right-hand side of the
pavement, just on the gravel road shoulder.
What might he have been thinking about as he walked? I can only
imagine. He might have thought how balmy the night air felt. If he looked
up, he saw no stars, for they were masked by cloud cover. He may have
thought about what he went to buy— soda, snacks, cigarettes? Perhaps he
thought about his final examinations, maybe even of questions about
poetry he knew he would find on my final examination.
Nothing is certain. He may have been humming, singing, talking to
himself, may have walked, hands in pockets, jingling coins, may have
strode, arms swinging, or strolled, even shuffled lazily. Pure speculation.
If he hummed or sang or spoke, he possibly did not hear the automobile
that struck him, killed him instantly, from behind. Did he not see its head¬
light beams cast on the pavement and gravel ahead of him? Did he walk
with his head down, lost in thought? Could his eyes have been closed just
in that instant? Why did he walk so close to the road?
Kevin O'Leary was struck, killed, thrown into the deep ditch running
alongside the state highway; he was hit so hard, his feet flew from his loose
sandals, found on the shoulder, marking his last steps.
That is all. There was of course a somber memorial gathering on the
campus of Saint Bernardine College, but final examinations were held on
104
Saint Philomena, Pray for Us
schedule. We opened my class's exam with the usual prayer, and an extra
prayer for the repose of the soul of Kevin O'Leary; for this I appointed a
new class chaplain, because, of course, I could not lead any prayer, could
not pray. That is all.
Kevin O'Leary. Ronnie Makowski. My mother and father. The priests
and ex-priests of Saint Bernardine College. The Benedictine brothers of that
small Louisiana college. Styron. I believe I could compose a very long list.
If there were ever to be such a list, I wonder who would add my name to
it? That is a vain, foolish thought!
What I truly wonder— and it is not foolish or vain! — is if there will be
anything I can hold in my hand, or any words I can speak, any name I can
call out to, when my hour is upon me.
105
David
Tabachnick
Fatimata's
Ancestors
Sekou Traore, chief justice of the Supreme Court, came from a family
of craftspeople. The Traore family specialized in wood and ivory
sculptures, and throughout Conakry, roadside vendors stacked their
sculptures on unsteady tables or set them out in orderly rows on indigo
cloths.
Lamine Traore was the chief designer at the family workshop. He in¬
vented a line of figures that were all knees and elbows and featureless
faces cocked attentively. He said that these figures represented contempo¬
rary Guineans — hollow men bereft of any commitment to the national
community. His workshop produced immaculate re-creations of Baga
ritual statues, one of them a three-foot long birdlike head with human
eyes. The Baga had been famous for their art and ceremonies in the French
colonial era, but the post-colonial dictator, now dead, had prohibited the
Baga from practicing their art and religion.
Lately Lamine had used some of Picasso's ideas in his work, delighted
that a man so influenced by African designs should in turn inspire an artist
in Conakry. "I need a room of my own and an open window," Lamine
would say.
Sekou Traore, like his brothers, could carve wood, but he chose law over
the family business. As a child he was permitted to go to school but re¬
quired to practice his woodcarving. He hadn't carved anything for years
but still woke sometimes with a block of wood in his hands, convinced that
his father was up and waiting to see what he had done. He became a
professor of law in Senegal and then moved back to Guinea after the death
of the old dictator.
107
David Tabachnick
The case before him had been in the courts for twenty years. Sekou
Traore had written out his ruling by hand and read it from the bench to the
lawyers and parties seated in the court. Some judges tease you with their
ruling, swaying the listener first one way, then the other, blasting at one
side and raising the hopes of the other, only to slip quietly into reverse and
rule in favor of the side so beaten and discouraged. Sekou's ruling started
with the punch line.
"This court finds in favor of the appellees and upholds the rulings of the
lower courts that have uniformly rejected the specious arguments of the
appellants for the past twenty years."
Sekou Traore paused and stole a glance at the audience. Murmurs
rippled. An elderly man sat erect, tears on his cheeks, young men on either
side whispering and exchanging glances.
"Twenty years ago," he continued, "the Diallo family, in a fit of greed,
ordered the Bah family off the land the two families had worked side by
side for over a hundred and fifty years. In former times, the Bah family
served the Diallos as their slaves. We are all aware that even today people
of the Guinea highlands, where this dispute occurred, still identify them¬
selves in terms of their social caste: noble or ex-slave. Nonetheless, such
social castes have no legal basis in modern Guinea. All Guineans, ex-slaves
and nobles, men and women, are equal before the law.
"In modern Guinea we have one law, the modern law of respect for all
individuals and for the rights of the individual to private property. The
Diallos argue that as nobles, they own the land worked by the Bah family
and can dispose of the land as they wish. The Diallos argue, in effect, that
they own the land because of their rights as nobles who conquered and
enslaved the Bahs, and that as noble owners they have no obligations to
the Bahs but may dispossess them at will. The Diallos are wrong on both
counts.
"Where do these ownership rights claimed by the Diallos come from?
Nobles never, even in ancient times, had the right to expel slaves at will
from the land they cultivated. Even in the days of slavery, slaves who
fulfilled their obligations to noble families had the right to continued
occupation of the land. The Diallos' ancient rights did not include an
absolute right to expel the Bahs. The state of Guinea, in adopting the
modern law of individual private property, has not added to the rights of
the Diallos and subtracted from the rights of the Bahs. Neither have the
Diallos added to their rights by paying the Bah family for the right to expel
them at will. Clearly the Diallos do not own such a right.
"In any case, the old regime of nobles is gone for good. For decades the
Bahs have worked peacefully and productively beside the Diallo family on
the land in dispute. It is in both the national interest and the interest of the
local community that those who work the land benefit from their labor and
be able to live in peace and security with their neighbors. Over these many
108
Fatimata's Ancestors
years, both families have acquired property rights in the land at issue. The
equitable solution, therefore, is to divide the land between the Diallos and
the Bahs.
"The court orders the Governor of the Labe region to mark out a divi¬
sion of the land forthwith so that the land may be planted with its first
crop in twenty years."
Sekou Traore vanished in a swirl of judicial robes.
"Eh, I gave it to them straight, Madame Camara," Sekou said as he hung
his robes in a closet. He came out of his office into the anteroom where she
presided over a manual typewriter.
"People can sort out their problems according to the old rules or come to
court and taste modern law," he said. "We have been held back too long.
It's time to do business!"
Outside the court the old man, still surrounded by young men, his tears
dried, shook hands with well wishers. Supporters of the losing side
pushed by, all hard shoulders and dark looks. From out of this clot of men
in suits there emerged another erect old man, dressed in sky-blue robes
threaded with gold. He paused before his counterpart, more plainly
dressed in a brown suit. He hitched his robes over his left shoulder.
"Yacine, you are looking well. We don't see much of each other, since
this trouble began. Now we are finished with courts." He suddenly held
out a purple nut in a gold brown hand. Yacine spoke, and one of the young
men beside him took the nut and threw it away. The elderly man hitched
his robes and smiled. "You still fear me. That is good. You know that slaves
do not own land." He walked on, and the two groups parted, gloom
settling over both.
Conakry is a gloomy city, most of the buildings made of whitewashed
mud speckled with patches of brown where the whitewash has worn off.
The wet heat softens the mud. Sometimes a little green wriggles up in the
courtyards of closepacked houses.
The morning after Sekou Traore handed down the court's decision,
Yacine left Conakry for his home in the Guinea highlands. He rode through
steamy lowlands on a red road that winds up forested hills into a temper¬
ate cool, where the French were inspired to plant acres of pines to be made
into railroad ties and two-by-fours. Yacine lived in a village about fifty
miles from Labe, the regional capital. He returned home to the sweet grass
glowing between the toes of downy goats and plaintive sheep. Voices of
the village bubbled up and floated, accompanied by baas, cock crows and
the blows of a hatchet. His home was set in the middle of a garden his wife
cared for. On a bend of path by a twisted stand of fruit trees, he found a
pattern marked out in the dirt before his house gate.
"Saran, come quickly!" His wife came out of the house and looked down
with him at the pattern. A square was outlined and sprigs of greenery
placed in each corner. A cigarette carton, a piece of glass, and a stone were
109
David Tabachnick
scattered in the square. A single sandal was turned over, its scratched sole
facing up. Fonio seeds were sprinkled over the upturned instep.
"Who could have done this?" Saran asked.
"Old man Diallo, no doubt. He threatened me at the court. If I go to the
fields to plant fonio, I will die. So much for the modern law of the court."
Yacine went into the house, Saran at his heels. With her help he carried
out a heavy water vase. They pushed it over on the square design, washing
away the order in the pattern.
"Tell your brother to have his sons patrol the village," Yacine said.
"Anyone connected to the Diallos should be escorted out. I am going to see
the Governor in Labe. I will stay with Fatimata. Since she kicked out her
husband again, she should have plenty of room for me."
The village had one beat-up Mazda at its disposal. Yacine headed back
out in this car, driven by his son Daouda, the suitcase he had taken to
Conakry unopened and still in the trunk.
When Yacine and Daouda arrived, carsick from the rough journey,
Fatimata was home from her job as cook and cleaning woman. She worked
for an American musicologist, Brenda Peters, who, like Fatimata, was a
woman living alone. Fatimata had lit the kerosene lamps. She had an
electric light in each room, but the city power was off till morning. When
Yacine and Daouda surprised her, she was already working on a pot of
fonio and a peanut sauce for herself. She soon had plates ready for every¬
one. Fatimata was known for the richness of her sauce, which sank happily
into fluffy grains of fonio. She served fresh squeezed orange juice and,
after dinner, cups of mint tea.
"I can't let Diallo think he can intimidate us," Yacine said to Daouda.
"Any bond between us was broken twenty years ago. A master without
servants is a ridiculous sight. Diallo is afraid of looking foolish."
Daouda glanced at Fatimata before speaking to Yacine. "Diallo is said to
be a powerful magician, protected by unknown spirits. I have heard that
he has a throw rug by his bed made of the skin of the army officer who
tortured his son-in-law Mamoudou. Even during the worst terrors of the
former regime, the government avoided confronting him."
"I have known Diallo since we were boys. He is the sort of man who
thrives on fear. He never did have a sense of humor."
"So what are you going to do, kill him with a joke?" Fatimata asked.
"Diallo acts like he is cock of the hill. Maybe the rooster protects him."
"Hush. Your brother and I are discussing a serious matter." Yacine
turned back to Daouda. "Tomorrow I will ask the Governor to accompany
us to the fields to mark out the division ordered by the court. If we are
swift, Diallo may not have time to cause trouble."
"You have waited twenty years for this moment. Why are you in such a
hurry?" Fatimata asked. "Perhaps Diallo needs some time to realize that he
must comply with the law,"
110
Fatimata's Ancestors
"Fatimata, even you pay no attention to the modern law. If you did, you
would still have a husband in your home."
"Amadou agreed that I would be his only wife. Then he took a mistress
and told me it is none of my business."
"Amadou is right. According to the Civil Code, a man may take a mis¬
tress without giving grounds for divorce, as long as he does not live with
her."
"I don't care what the Civil Code has to say. Amadou betrayed me. I
bring home my wages and he wants to spend them on clothes for his little
friend. That man told me school made me an immoral woman. When
Brenda heard this, she went off like a teapot. Hee yi."
"Father, Fatimata is better off without Amadou. She is saving her money
so she can start her own cloth dyeing business," Daouda said.
"Fatimata should raise her children. She has not even had a child. The
market women earn money to buy medicine and pay the school fees of
their children. For whom will Fatimata run a business? Will the business
care for her when she is old? I should have married her off after her first
menstruation, as her mother wanted, rather than sending her to school."
"You sent me to school because I pestered you to let me go. I even told
you that if I went to school, then I could help the boys with their school-
work. Now I am helping myself."
Fatimata had the dazzling black complexion that is brighter for being
darker, like bare branches against the sky. She moved with unhurried
grace. Maybe her stubbornness came from growing up the eldest child,
expected by her parents to supervise her siblings and by her siblings to
lead and champion them. Yacine was too tired to argue anymore. He went
to bed in Fatimata's room.
"So what do you think about Diallo?" Daouda asked Fatimata.
"I think it's a mistake to fight him on his own terms. We're better off
using the courts and government officials. We have gotten by without the
land so far. But I can't blame Father for being impatient after twenty
years."
"Suppose we do get into a fight? How do we counter Diallo's magic?"
"Maybe he does get his power from the rooster. Do you remember the
story of Soundjiata and the evil king Soumoro Kante? Soumoro Kante also
had a liking for throw rugs made of the skins of his enemies. They say he
would slip off his sandals and pad about in his bare feet on these rugs."
Fatimata made up sleeping mats for herself and Daouda. Daouda went
straight to sleep. Fatimata lay still, listening to crickets and the rumble of a
truck, and watched Daouda. His face was utterly untroubled, slender ears
and long eyelashes.
She got up and returned with a handful of rice. She sprinkled a few
grains around Daouda and did the same for Yacine, who was also fast
asleep.
Ill
David Tabachnick
She sat crosslegged on her blankets and again watched Daouda, her face
resting in her hand as she thought. She whispered the names of her grand¬
parents, now dead, of her great grandparents, of other deceased relatives
whose names she could remember, and she invoked those whose names
she had forgotten by referring to some famous deed still talked of in the
family: the lion killer. . . the friend of bees. . . the discoverer of water
springs. "Shield Daouda, who is too inexperienced to appreciate the
meanness of a Diallo. Shield Yacine, the first of your children entirely free
of noble rule." Fatima ta only slept after she was sure that she had the
attention of her ancestors.
The Governor's offices were in a rather dingy three-story building built
thirty years before and poorly maintained since. The mud brick walls were
eroded in spots, the paint chipped. Still the ceilings towered luxuriously
high. In the absence of electricity, light through eight foot wood window
shades filtered into the gloom of bare offices and hallways. This filtering of
light was a sensibly cool design thirty years ago but now seemed to age the
light instantly.
When Yacine and Daouda arrived, they were made to wait in a room on
the first floor along with an assortment of other people in varied states of
waiting. Several military men sat with their boots outstretched. A busy
man rushed through every so often, sometimes tugging loose from a
suppliant, sometimes leading someone out. Finally he stopped by Yacine
and Daouda and had them follow him to a second floor office.
"The Governor's assistant will speak with you." He disappeared, leav¬
ing them in the hall. They could hear voices behind the assistant's closed
door, so they waited. After a few minutes, they were allowed to go in.
"Peace be with you, Yacine. Is this your son?"
"Yes, Daouda is my youngest. Daouda, meet Mohammed Bobo Hitta."
"Pleasure meeting you, Daouda. I know your brother in the Public
Works Ministry. We've been to the nightclubs in Conakry a few times."
"Bobo," Yacine said, "I am sure you know of the court's decision order¬
ing the Governor to divide the land between us and the Diallos. I have
come to insist that the Governor act right away."
"The Governor is prepared to follow through on the court's order, but he
is sick with a bout of malaria. Give him two weeks, and then this matter
will be settled."
"I can't wait two weeks. Old man Diallo is determined to intimidate me.
He does not respect the court or the Governor. If I do nothing for two
weeks, he will find some new way of delaying the division of the land, as
he has for twenty years. In any case the planting season is almost over."
"If you go out to the fields without waiting for the Governor, there may
be violence. Be patient a little longer."
Yacine shook his head no, shook hands with Bobo, and left with Daouda.
In the courtyard of the Governor's offices, they met Diallo on his way in.
112
Fatimata's Ancestors
"Thanks for the fonio seed, Diallo. It'll come in handy when I start
planting this Saturday."
"You are not planting this Saturday, Yacine. If you go off to the fields,
they will have to carry you back in a cart, your head held low and your
feet dragging."
"You can't stop me any more than you can hold back the floods from
bringing silt onto the good bottomland."
"Water which can't be stopped can be diverted into irrigating my
fields," Diallo said, giving Yacine a push. Daouda caught Yacine and
swung at Diallo, but his fist seemed to pass through a ghost. Daouda
stumbled and saw Diallo standing several yards away. Yacine grabbed
Daouda, and they marched off. How do you fight someone who can
disappear and reappear just out of reach?
They returned to Fatimata's home and ate the evening meal, prepared
and served by Fatimata with her deliberate grace. The dishes cleared,
Daouda pondered his question by the yellow flicker of the kerosene lamp.
Daouda explained to Fatimata what happened earlier in the day. Fatimata
gave Daouda a long tail feather of a cock.
"Tie this to one of your practice arrows, one with a blunt tip. If Diallo
attacks, skewer his protecting spirit, and he'll realize how naked he is
under his robes."
The next day, Yacine and Diallo went to the Mosque within walking
distance of their villages but did not speak to each other. Yacine left imme¬
diately after services. Diallo stayed and sat with the council of elders, all of
noble families.
Saturday morning Yacine set off for the disputed fields, accompanied by
Daouda and a group of young men from the village. They carried ma¬
chetes and hatchets for clearing the fields and an assortment of shotguns,
some homemade from lengths of pipe bound with animal skins. The
morning was cool, clear of mist, the sky almost cloudless. They walked
over bushy, lightly forested hills and crossed streams where cabbage palms
sprouted leaves like Mickey Mouse ears beside feathery stands of bamboo.
Monkeys hooted warnings from the highest tree tops. They passed families
already out in the fields. Mothers placed their babies on blankets while
they hoed. People strolled around shaded by brightly colored umbrellas.
Kids ran back and forth or crouched under thatched shelters, keeping an
eye on foraging goats. Fields had been cleared and burnt over and the
earth, turned by hand, looked soft and evenly brown.
They filed down into a valley ringed by green hillsides patchy with
brown fields. The rich bottomland was thick with twenty years' growth of
timber twisting up from the undergrowth. They began to hack at the trees
but didn't get far before Diallo arrived with his group of young men,
machetes, hatchets and shotguns. One of Diallo's young men, a shotgun in
one hand, a machete in the other, ran angrily up to Yacine, who stood his
113
David Tabachnick
ground. The young man fired a shot and somehow missed Yacine com¬
pletely. He chopped at Yacine with his machete and opened a nasty gash in
Yacine's leg. Someone from Yacine's group shot at the attacker, wounding
him in the shoulder. People fell in the underbrush and fired blindly, most
of the shot rattling into trees.
Daouda had brought only his machete and bow and practice arrows. He
notched, drew back and shot the arrow trailing the tail feather of a cock at
Diallo, who was partly shielded by trees but still visible in his bright robes.
The arrow missed but whistled so close that the feather brushed Diallo's
cheek. A bead of sweat sprang out of his forehead and rolled down to the
tip of his nose. Quivering he ran back into the woods, followed by his
young men.
The wounded of both sides were brought to Labe, to the only hospital in
the region. Fatimata and Daouda sat with Yacine in his hospital room. The
doctors wanted Yacine to stay overnight, so Fatimata brought a pot of fonio
and peanut sauce. They could hear the police interrogating one of Diallo's
young men in a hallway outside their room. 'The blacks started it," the
man kept saying. Yacine said nothing. He sipped water, and ate, a long
pause between each bite. Daouda looked puzzled, as if disoriented by the
glassy hospital surfaces, the stuttering fluorescent lights.
Fatimata thought about an incident that happened to Brenda Peters'
sister. Brenda's sister had come from America for a visit and brought along
her new baby, which she carried in a harness on her back. They were all at
the market dickering over indigo cloth for Brenda's sister to take back
home. When they left, they had to walk a narrow road back to the car, a
road thronged with people but with no sidewalk, only an open drainage
ditch on either side. A taxi driven by a young man plowed through this
narrow road, forcing people to leap the ditch or climb down in it. The taxi
driver crowded Brenda's sister to the edge of the ditch and then snagged
the strap of her baby's harness on his side mirror. He did not stop, despite
Brenda's furious screams, despite her sister's attempt to run with the taxi
and free herself. Her sister was slowly pulled over and dragged and the
driver was only stopped when someone deliberately pushed a cart in his
path. Brenda's sister and baby were both unscathed, although terrified.
Fatimata could not stop thinking of the inexorable progress of the taxi
down the narrow street.
114
Anthony
Bukoski
The Korporal's
Polonaise
Looking one last time at the Polish Eagle painted on the bow of the
freighter Pomorze Zachodnie , we cursed the captain and scrambled
down the gangway. That November day Mr. Lasinski, who worked at the
four mill in the East End of Superior, never thought he'd be taking home a
family of sailors along with the cartons of Zyzuiec beer he'd gone to the
docks to buy from the crew.
After the newspaper articles, television reports, and INS interviews, a
few months later as we clean palms in the church basement, we recall it all
again for him, our sponsor. For a moment I think of the priest upstairs in
the sanctuary. We fear St. Adalbert's Church will close like the other
churches. Frightened of this, in confession later I will tell the priest why I
left the Old Country. He will tell me his own fears for the new country.
"Bless me. Father," I will say.
"What are your sins, Kazimierz Wroblewski?"
"Despair, Father."
"I despair, too," he will say. "We're both desperate."
Every Sunday since I've been here the priest has carried his grief and
mine to the altar. Tomorrow here and in the Old Country priests wear red
vestments during the mass and distribution of palms. Tomorrow Marcella
Dzikonski will play the organ in Superior, Wisconsin, the way my father
did for many years in the Church of St. Bartholomew in Poland.
Mr. Lasinski calls our story "immigrant history," saying we should
record it for future generations like Tomasz, my son's. "Will you tell
more?" asks Stanislaus Lasinski when my thoughts return to what I was
saying about a merchant seaman's life.
115
Anthony Bukoski
I tell him how, in Poland, my father will attend Palm Sunday mass.
Later, tucking the palm behind the portrait of my mother on the wall of
the room, he'll dream of her, then of me, Kazimierz, of Hedwig, my wife,
and of young Tomasz, all come to the Seaway Port of Superior. "When I
was very young, my own father carried me through the village like I
once did my Tomaszu. 'Precious Kazik/ he called me. He kept me close
to his heart," I tell Mr. Lasinski. "My father was organist at the church
when I was small. 'Pan Organist, 'Sir' Organist, people called him. This
was in 'the Land of Graves and Crosses.' This was my Poland. To byl moja
Polska .'
"This is the Poland you left with Hedwig, who was cook on the
Pomorze Zachodnie, and with your Tomasz?"
"Yes. Life is no good where we came from. The Communists. Speak
against them and you're a 'dwarf of reaction, karzel reakcji .' 'Social nox¬
iousness, spoleczna szkodliwosc,' they call it. For years we dreamt of
coming here. The northeast wind brought us."
Hedwig looks out the church's basement window at our nine-year-old
Tomasz playing in the schoolyard. Her eyes brighten. We need such joy
before I tell how we've abandoned my father. I wish I could send these
remarks to you in Poland , dear father, so you could hear me recall your death
and resurrection. Now you are so weary you must stop to rest your elbows on
the table. When you roll your sleeves, your arms, I imagine, will be thinner than
when I last saw you. My only hope is your dear smile so far away in Passion
Time. How I miss you and regret leaving. What could I do? I have my wife, my
boy. When you yourself once left me, can you now call your son, Kazimierz,
"cygan, gypsy," for leading his family to America?
Hedwig, who's been patiently cleaning the palms' silk threads and
listening, says, "When a musician passed through during the war, he'd
come to Kazimierz's house just as a visiting priest would look up a priest
in the village, or a teacher, a teacher, a butcher, a butcher. Wanderers
knew who lived where."
"I was very young, our Tomasz's age, when my father left. He joined
the Home Army. Overrun, Poland fought back in 1939. 'Ojciec, father,' I
remember crying, asking him not to leave."
Now as I think of him, the silence moves rapidly. What have I done?
When my dear father is at some distance from the son Kazimierz's heart,
I begin again, more composed. "After he put me to bed, saying he'd see
me in the morning. Pan Organist ducked into the forests. 'Where is
father?' I asked grandfather when the sun rose.
"'Gathering mushrooms,' he said.
"'When will he return?'
"If you only know, Mr. Lasinski!" Hedwig says. "The Russian filth
watched us then and now in 1985. Think of the Katyn Forest Massacre,
think of 'the Flower of Polish Youth' slaughtered there in World War Two
116
The KorporaVs Polonaise
by the Russians. The heart yearns for them, Mr. Lasinski. And God help us
what the Nazis did to Poland and the Jews."
"Now father had gone," I tell our sponsor from the flour mill. "I looked
for him by the woodpile, by the pools where leaves swirled above the fish,
by the church where no one practiced 'Bogarodzica Dziewica.' Occasionally
you'd hear whispered, 'An organist has come! An organist has come!' The
first time I ran so hard to the fields near home, I stumbled over the wagon
ruts but got up and kept on. It was the pattern I followed many times
during the war. Scanning the roads, going farther each time, I muttered,
'Where is my father? Has he deserted us? Why can't he stay and protect
me?'
"When father left, the house was silent. He's not praying for us. He's
gone. I'd begun to think."
"How sad it sounds now," Hedwig says. She's washed kneelers, dusted
windows, washed the church floor today. For Hedwig, who left only a
cousin and a distant uncle in Poland, it may be a little easier forgetting the
voyage. Nothing keeps me from remembering father today, however. The
thought of the vigil lamp on the altar of St. Bartholomew's in our village in
the Old Country — Christ's heart at the center of His church — keeps me
remembering.
"What our country has suffered," Hedwig says. "Go on telling it."
"Rumors circulate," I say. "They swirl about the eaves, sweep down
through the chimney. I remember how hard grandmother Babusia prayed
when the rumor that father had died came to our door. Mother fell to her
knees. People had heard it on roads, under trees, through open windows.
In the late afternoon, I ran off. The priest came looking for me. An old
country priest, he feared the devil and the forest. 'Think of your mother
and grandmother,' he said, summoning his courage. He was old like the
priest upstairs today. He'd borrowed Pomerinski's horse to come to get
me. 'You must return home, Kazimierz' he said, 'not stay in these woods.
You can't run away from truth.'
"'I'm waiting for father.'
"'What shelter do you have? asked the priest. 'You'll get cold. I don't
want to be like the moon bringing trouble to your hearth. Come here
tomorrow morning, but for now, please Kazimierz, I am old. I don't want
to stay. Come now, please take the reins. I fear for our souls in these
woods.'
"Mother rekindled the fire when we came home. 'Are you sure about the
rumor?' the priest asked. 'Look in the ashes!' grandfather said.
"For months the priest told me, 'We must serve out God's design. Don't
give up.' So I ran to the fields with hope and conviction. 'Have you seen
father? Please,' I asked wanderers, 'have you word? He is as tall as you
and strong. This korporai would be talking about playing the organ at the
Church of St. Bartholomew. I am his Kazimierz. Did you see the man
117
Anthony Bukoski
whose eyes are said to resemble mine? Why have we not heard from the
korporai?'
"Once I thought we had news. A fearsome-looking Russian whose black
eyebrows matched his eyes swore he'd tell me if I sang him 'Vlanka, the
Heartbreaker.' He said it 'Vlanka Kliuchnik' in Russian. When I sang, he said
he must have another song. I said I didn't know another Russian song. 'I
can't tell you my news then/ he said, laughing, walking off through the
fields.
"Another time a man selling trapped souls came by. The souls weren't
very heavy, but he was loaded down with them. They hung from his
shoulders and belt in little boxes. Animals' souls, Russians' souls,
everyone's souls. 'Get away. I don't want them loose on earth!' he said
when I ran up.
"'Do you have father? Where are you going to put him?'
"'I'll bury him, sell him, place him in a tree. On windy nights, the box
will sing to the tree:
Hi! Ho! Hi!
What a man am I!
Hi! Ho! Hi!
A valiant man am I!
"'Please can I see my poor father's soul so I may buy it from you for
three or four zfotys?"
'"You carry the box. Do no more than that. No peeking inside!'
"The man grunted. Sometimes he spit at my feet. His hair and face were
greasy, it looked like, with the grease of Russian engines and motors and
coal. This box was made of willow switches, clay, paste, string. I thought if
I could free father, maybe war would end. When we got to the village, the
man cursed me when I gave him the three-zlotys' reward for rescuing
father. 'There's a dog's soul, nothing else in that one, foolish boy. All the
miles you've sung to a dog's soul and now paid me for it. I even know its
name, 'Kurta the Dog.' I've tricked you. 'Hi! Ho! Hi! What a man am I!
Here Kurta! Here, Boy,' he called and whistled for the soul.
"The priest watched me, crying, hang the empty box in a tree to listen
for songs from the korporai when the wind blew. It was a silent country,
though. The soul was gone.
"As ashes are swept from a hearth, so after awhile was my father's
memory swept from the village. No one spoke of the korporai anymore. I
wondered each day, has father sent a rumor through the wind only to
make it look as though he's died? Is he buying a widow a loaf of Russian
bread or a wick for her lamp? I shall not pray for him, I decided. Let the
rumor go back that we're not praying for father whose kiss means nothing.
The korporal's embrace can mean nothing ever again.
"Bless me, I have sinned," I confess over and over to another 'father,' the
priest, in the Port of Superior. I've confessed here and at a church in
118
The KorporaVs Polonaise
Duluth. How can I have thought so of my father and at that age given my soul to
despair? In what past or future am I?
"'Have you other sins?' the priests ask.
"'Despair, sorrow, anger. We had to leave the ship. For Poles, a seaman's
life is not so bad under Communist regime, but nothing is as good as being
in your country in this northern port.'
"Then the priests ask, 'What other sins must you confess, Kazimierz
Wroblewski, merchant seaman? Hurry before churches all close.'
"Despair, loneliness. We can't go back to him.'
"'Hurry! Hurry, our closing is imminent.'
"Over and over I tell the priests that Hedwig and I are the rumors of
despair. Is our voyage worthy of retelling? Is it, when tomorrow my
father will go to mass alone thinking of mother who died long ago, then
thinking of the family that went to America? People will ask him after
church, 'When will your Kazimierz return?' Later, he'll place the lunch
bowl on the cloth, lie in bed, look out the window at the agent watching
the house. I have such images of a beloved father — white hair brushed
back, thin, white eyebrows over eyes closed on nearly a century of
struggle, nose curved at the bridge, white moustaches. Now he must
doubt me, his middle-aged son, and ask the Crucifix and the ashes in the
hearth, 'Where has Kazimierz gone with his soul? On what sea is his soul
tonight?'
"By midsummer, Mr. Lasinski (who has cared so well for us in America),
I'd tell mother, 'I won't be out long tonight.'
"'So the news, is it good news on the roads you walk looking for your
father?'
"'No, Mother,' I'd say, disappointing her. "No souls, though I sat with
the trap open.' This is the night she, too, will leave us. What will happen to me?
As the candle flickered, mother would open the latch door and, in the
starlight, sweep leaves from the doorstep.
"'Why were you sweeping?' I'd ask.
"'Couldn't sleep. The news, Kazimierz?'
"'No good news. Mother.'
"What I learned I kept to myself. I'd hang the box in a tree at night. Soon
I gave up believing I could trap father's soul; the twine that tied the willow
switches broke on the box, and the paste and glue gave way on the box
that trapped no soul.
"Now autumn and winter passed, and the long, cool spring of 1944 had
begun when one day, walking to Pani Grotnik's, I saw two young sisters
running toward me. 'An organist! An organist!' they cried. When they
grabbed my sleeve and insisted, 'Kazimierz, a rider saw him!' I paid no
attention.
"They were twelve years old. One of them had scuffed her knee. They
went running to neighbors' houses.
119
Anthony Bukoski
"'Who?' people called.
"'Out on the post road. Everyone come!' Zosia and Marta were saying.
'An organist.'
"I'd run to the roads one hundred times. Now in the mist I saw some¬
one. As Zosia and her sister ran, I dawdled, observing the pools of rain in
the wagon tracks, the clumps of grass. What excitement could compel me
to run? When I looked back, there stood grandfather at the cottage door.
"The priest trotting past on Pomerinski's horse was calling, 'Zprochu
pozvstales i w proch siq obrocisz. Dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return.'
The distant figure — there one minute, in the next he'd be lost in the
meadow blackthorns.
"How could a man be so haggard-looking? I wondered when he drew
closer.
"'Grimy fellow!' one of the village women said.
"His coat trailed around him in the mud. I wondered whether this
stranger would ask for 'Vlanka the Heartbreaker.'"
"War casts up odd, frightening people. Ghosts," Hedwig says.
"I'd come to hate the rags and filth of beggars — the embarrassment I
suffered when they passed through. Zosia, her sister, the priest on horse¬
back, the villagers — we kept watching this man stumble closer. Stopping a
moment to adjust the rags he'd wound around his neck, he caught his
breath, observed the millet fields, the old people who'd come out to see
him. 'Christ has come,' they said. But it was no Christ they wanted. They'd
been cheated.
"'Tell me of Korpomt Wroblewski,' I said. 'I'll show you a box. I'll sing
you an Easter song.'
"'A ghost!' Zosia said.
"'Do you know my father? Where is Korporai Wroblewski?' I asked.
"'Stand away,' said the priest, who started praying.
"'No one knows your father,' the man said. 'No one knows Korporai
Wroblewski, who's dead.'
"'Does the devil not know Korporai Wroblewski?' asked the priest.
"'Yes, the devil,' said the man. 'The devil and I know him!'
"The women wiped their tears. 'Jesu, no one even recognizes the devil
anymore!'
"'Hi! Ho! Hi! A valiant man am 1/ I sang, preparing to return home. 'I
know him. It's a trick. He'll ask for something, three ziotys, then tell you
nothing. Nie ma Ojca. I have no father.'
"Beneath the dirt where the wanderer's skin had peeled, the new skin
was white on his face. The dirt caked most of his forehead and cheeks. You
could hardly see his eyes. Sometimes his lips moved. No sound came out.
Bits of rags stuck to his hands, his fingers like crow's claws. 'I can go no
further,' he said.
'" Nie ma Ojca. What a valiant man am I without a father,' I said. Imitat-
120
The KorporaFs Polonaise
ing the slump of the man's shoulders, I circled him, repeated a rhyme from
the old children's game Raz, Diva, Trzy:
One, two, three.
The devil's watching, see?
Four, five, six.
Watch out for his tricks.
Another demon,' I said and struck him, struck the devil.
"Babusia was crying. 'O Boze. Not dead.' I saw her making the Sign of the
Cross. The priest, too, was whispering 'Christ!' Whoever it was. I'd been
embarrassed before by a man carrying a dog's soul and could not under¬
stand what this wanderer was whispering to us.
"But the villagers now started saying it. 'It is the Korporat Organista.' Ha!
I know the devil, I thought. No father leaves his son. The tricks this demon
uses. I had learned so much in the fields, you see, Mr. Lasinski, that now
my soul was trapped. You could write 'ANGER. SELFISHNESS. PRIDE.' on
the box that held my soul. I have brought it to America. It is small enough
to hold in the hand. I was a precious, selfish boy. I would not even recog¬
nize him that day or all during Holy Week, which now years later we
celebrate in a free country where my soul is trapped in new delusions to
help me forget.
"The whole week of his passion and resurrection I denied him until, one
day late in the month of March, 1944, 1 saw him sitting alone, resting in the
sun. He'd gained strength. He was smoking his pipe, smiling about some¬
thing. Nodding to me, he said, 'Aren't you happy I'm home, Kazimierz.
My little Kazik, I have been defending our country. Come, sing me a
Polonaise, hum the melody for your father.'
"He said it so softly, Mr. Lasinski. They were like the words of God.
Hearing them, I did as he said. He loved a Polonaise by Count Ogiriski.
'La-la-la-la-la,' I sang it. I could see tears form in his eyes. Wiping them
back for him, I went in the house then and buried myself in his coat. I
kissed the buttons for many years afterward." How selfish a youth I was in
Poland, Dearest Father Korporai. Forgive me. Sometimes I have the hope that l can
sing for you an Easter song, and we will be together. Then I know it's too late.
"But this box! Hedwig, can you bring it to us, the box from the Old
Country, the box with the Polonaise? It's delicate mechanism will play it."
"I'll get the music box upstairs, Kazimierz."
"Tomorrow the palms my father tucks behind mother's and
grandmother's portraits will wither, Mr. Lasinski. Look at the palms in our
church basement. Their scent reminds me of fields I ran through when
father returned. Then to come home to see his son bewitched and turned
against him. And to hear how his son thought he'd captured a soul! Today
in March, 1985, the lamp in the sanctuary burns; the Pascal Candle is in its
place in back of the church; Korporai Organista has come home to me again
in my tale of Passion Week. I could not tell him to his face that we were
121
Anthony Bukoski
planning to leave him last autumn. If I did, the despair would have been so
great, I could not have lived. The thought of my father, the korporat, alone
today — . Hedwig, bring the box! Play Ogiriski's 'Farewell to My Country.'"
"I'm coming, Kazimierz. Patience."
" Raz , Dwa, Trzy!" my son's voice interrupts me. He is teaching others the
"One, Two, Three" rhyme.
"Look, there's your Tomasz," Mr. Lasinski says.
In he walks just as I am finishing my story.
"Tomasz, son," Hedwig says. "Where have you been? Sing us Raz , Dwa ,
Trzy."
My boy's hair is tousled from the wind, his face wind-burned. He is
excited, happy. He's made friends at St. Adalbert's Polish grade school at
Twenty-Third Avenue East and East Third Street in the Seaway Port of
Superior. Let me have time with him before he too must grow up and
leave.
"Would you like to say something, Tomasz?" Mr. Lasinski asks. "We'd
like to hear your opinion on matters."
He catches us by surprise. Out of breath, my Tomasz says, "I don't want
to return to Poland. I want to stay in America."
"So do I, Tomaszu," I say, a merchant seaman from a village where my
father waits alone praying for our return. "I don't want to, either. There's
nothing but graves and crosses."
Now Hedwig, coming downstairs with a little box of music to trap
souls, says it. "There's nothing to go home for."
Above us, in a church that is to close, the priest prepares for his last
Palm Sunday as I open the music box on the table and find a lock of my
father's precious white hair. Now the Polonaise he loved begins to play,
but we cannot go back to him. We cannot return to the Old Country. All we
have are its graves and crosses.
122
Notes on
Contributors
Margaret Benbow is a life-long resident of Wisconsin who grew up in
Sauk County, three miles from Devil's Lake. She earned her B.A. at the
University of Wisconsin-Madison. Currently working on a collection of
short stories and a novel, she has published many works previously,
including much poetry, some short stories, and a novel. A prize-winner in
several national poetry contests, she has published two chapbooks entitled
Poems by Margaret Benbow (Quixote Press) and Bride and Bear (Quixote
Press). Her newest book of poems is entitled Stalking Joy (Texas Tech
University Press, 1997).
Martha Bergland has taught English at Milwaukee Area Technical College
for the past thirteen years. She earned her undergraduate degree at
Benedictine College in Atchison, Kansas, and two M.A. degrees at the
University of Illinois and the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Her first
novel, A Farm Under a Lake (1989), was published by Graywolf and Vintage
in the U.S., Great Britain, Sweden, and Germany. A second novel. Idle
Curiosity, just appeared (Graywolf Press, 1997). Bergland's short story
entitled "An Embarrassment of Ordinary Riches," first published in the
New England Review , has been reprinted in two Pushcart anthologies.
Born and raised in Wisconsin, Thomas Bontly received his B.A. at the
University of Wisconsin-Madison and his Ph.D. at Stanford University. For
the past thirty years he has taught at the University of Wisconsin-Milwau¬
kee, where he is Professor of English and Coordinator of the program in
Creative Writing. Bontly's published fiction consists of four novels (The
Competitor, 1966; The Adventures of a Young Outlaw, 1974; Celestial Chess,
1979; The Giant's Shadow, 1989) and twenty-two short stories. The latter
have appeared in McCall's, Esquire, Redbook, Denver Quarterly, The Sewanee
Review, Cream City Review, and elsewhere.
123
Superior, Wisconsin, is home in many ways to Anthony Bukoski. Born
and reared in Superior, he now teaches there at his alma mater, the Univer¬
sity of Wisconsin-Superior. His graduate degrees include the M.A. in
English from Brown University, and the M.F.A. in creative writing and
Ph.D. in English from the University of Iowa. Bukoski's short stories have
appeared in New Letters, The Literary Review, Quarterly West, and other
journals. He has published two collections of stories under the titles Twelve
Below Zero (New Rivers Press, 1985) and Children of Strangers (Southern
Methodist University Press, 1992) and is currently working on a third. In
1997 Bukoski was one of those featured in the Public Broadcasting System
video documentary, "A Sense of Place: A Portrait of Three Midwestern
Writers."
Born in Chicago, C. J. Hribal moved to Wisconsin when he was ten, grew
up on a farm, and received his B.A. degree from St. Norbert College in De
Pere, Wisconsin, and his M.A. at Syracuse University. A faculty member of
Marquette University, he teaches creative writing and English. He also
teaches fiction at The Warren Wilson College M.F.A. Program for Writers.
Hribal is the author of Matty's Heart (New Rivers Press, 1984), a collection
of short fiction, and American Beauty (Simon and Schuster, 1987), a novel.
Recently, he has published the novella The Clouds in Memphis in
TriQuarterly and short fiction in Witness and The Sycamore Review. A new
novel. War Babies, is forthcoming. He also edited and wrote the introduc¬
tion for The Boundaries of Twilight: Czechoslovak Writing from the New World
(New Rivers Press, 1991). He has been awarded a National Endowment for
the Arts Fellowship and a Bush Foundation Fellowship.
Tom Joseph grew up in Illinois but spent summers in northern Wisconsin.
Since 1991 he and his family have lived year round in Manitowish Waters.
He serves as the town of Manitowish Waters' municipal judge and is active
in developing the North Lakeland Discovery Center, a nonprofit organiza¬
tion dedicated to exploring the natural, cultural, and historic resources of
Wisconsin's northwoods. He holds a B.A. in psychology from Yale and a
J.D. from Lewis and Clark Law School. Joseph's stories have appeared in
Atom Mind and Parenting magazines, and his humor writing was honored
by the Wisconsin Regional Writer's Association. Recently completed. Two
Points is his first novel.
Born and raised in Milwaukee, Julie King earned degrees in creative
writing at the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay (B.A.) and the University
of Texas-El Paso (M.A.), and lived in Dallas, Shreveport, and San Diego
before returning to Wisconsin. She has taught writing and creative writing
at El Paso and at University of Wisconsin campuses in Green Bay, Oshkosh,
and Parkside. Much of King's writing reflects her own experience and
124
deals with the transplantation of a Midwesterner to other cultural and
geographical areas. Her stories have appeared in Wisconsin Review , Gulf
Coast , and The Bridge; her poetry has been published in many literary
reviews and in the 1997 Anthology of Magazine Verse. She was awarded a
Wisconsin Arts Board grant for fiction in 1994-95.
Marnie Krause was born and raised in Milwaukee and attended
MacMurray College in Illinois. A current resident of Michigan, she makes
Green Lake, Wisconsin, her summer home. Her writing interests range
from short stories to art plays. Krause is a member of the Michigan Play¬
wrights Association and the Dramatist Guild. Her play "Axel & Viv"
received an award from the Community Theatre of Michigan Association.
After working in Florida for eleven years, Karen Loeb moved to Wisconsin
in 1988 and has been teaching creative writing and other courses at the
University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. Her story collection Jump Rope Queen
and Other Stories was published by New Rivers Press after winning a
Minnesota Voices Project Award. She has published stories, poems, and
articles in magazines and newspapers, including Habersham Review, North
American Review, and South Dakota Review. Loeb is the recipient of two
literary fellowships and a grant from the Wisconsin Arts Board. Two of her
stories received PEN Syndicated Fiction awards.
Peg Sherry has called Wisconsin home for nearly fifty years since her
arrival as a student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where she
earned B.A., M.A., and Ed. Admin, degrees. She taught for twenty-five
years in the Madison schools, at Edgewood College, and in summer en¬
richment courses at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Her short stories
and creative nonfiction have appeared in several journals, most recently in
The Writer's Block. She published her chapbook collection of poems and
essays. Lines from My Life, in 1992. Twice she was awarded fellowships to
Ragdale, the celebrated writers' retreat in Lake Forest, IL. Now in her
"retirement" years. Sherry continues to write while volunteering in nurs¬
ing homes, running an estate sales business, and enjoying the barnwood
cabin she and her husband built in the woods near Briggsville.
Carol Sklenicka lives in Milwaukee, where she currently is researching a
biography of Raymond Carver. Her work has been published in various
magazines, including Iowa Woman, Confrontation, Sou'wester, and The South
Atlantic Quarterly. Her critical study, D. H. Lawrence and the Child, was
published by the University of Missouri Press in 1991. Sklenicka is the
recipient of a Wisconsin Arts Board first place award for fiction.
125
David Tabachnick has commuted between Africa and Wisconsin since the
age of eight, dreaming, he says, of hotdogs and marshmallows in Nigeria
and the sound of drums on the night breeze in Madison. He holds a
bachelor's degree from Hamilton College and degrees in law and sociology
from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His story "Mistral" won first
prize in a University of Wisconsin-Madison creative writing contest. A
number of Tabachnick's poems and a brief prose piece have been pub¬
lished in the anthologies Lonesome Traveller and The Glacier's Edge and in the
Wisconsin Poets' Calendar.
Ron Wallace divides his time between his forty-acre farm in Bear Valley,
Wisconsin, and Madison, where he directs the creative writing program at
the University of Wisconsin-Madison and edits the University of Wisconsin
Press Poetry Series. His Ph.D. is from the University of Michigan. Among
his nine books are Time's Fancy, The Makings of Happiness, and People and
Dog in the Sun, all published by the University of Pittsburgh Press. Wallace
is a widely published poet in The Atlantic, The New Yorker, The Nation, and
elsewhere. The recipient of two ACLS Fellowships and several Wisconsin
Arts Board Fellowships, he was also winner of the first Robert E. Gard
Wisconsin Idea Foundation Award for Excellence in 1990.
A native of Illinois, Gordon Weaver lived in Milwaukee from 1941 to 1961.
His earned his B.A. in English at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee,
the M.A. in English at the University of Illinois, and the Ph.D. in English
and Creative Writing from the University of Denver. After teaching at
colleges and universities in New York, Ohio, Colorado, Mississippi, and
Oklahoma, he returned to Wisconsin in 1995 and took up adjunct teaching
duties at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and Marquette Univer¬
sity. Some 90 of Weaver's stories have appeared in a wide variety of com¬
mercial and literary magazines. In addition, he has published four novels
and eight story collections, the most recent of which is Four Decades: New
and Selected Stories (University of Missouri Press, 1997). Recognition of his
work includes the St. Lawrence Award for Fiction, the O. Henry first prize,
two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships, and numerous other
citations and awards.
David Young has lived in Madison the past eight years and has taught at
Edgewood College the past three years. He completed his undergraduate
degree at Duke University and his M.F.A. at Indiana University. His short
stories have been published in Ploughshares, Indiana Review, Hawaii Review,
CutBank, Descant, and other journals. In 1990 Young was awarded a Cre¬
ative Writing Fellowship by the National Endowment for the Arts .
126
The Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters was char¬
tered by the State Legislature on March 16, 1870, as a member¬
ship organization serving the people of Wisconsin. Its mission
is to encourage investigation in the sciences, arts, and letters
and to disseminate information and share knowledge.
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Executive Director LeRoy R. Lee
1997 Academy Council Officers
Ody J. Fish, President, Pewaukee
Keith R. Sanders, President-Elect, Fort Atkinson
Robert P. Sorensen, Past President, Madison
Mark S. Boyce, Vice President-Sciences, Stevens Point
Gerard McKenna, Vice President-Arts, Stevens Point
Rolf Wegenke, Vice President-Letters, Madison
Judith L. Kuipers, Secretary, La Crosse
Gerd H. Zoller, Treasurer, Madison
Councilors-at-Large
Mary Lynne Donohue, Sheboygan
DeEtte Beilfuss Eager, Evansville
James S. Haney, Madison
Paul Hayes, Cedarburg
George C. Kaiser, Milwaukee
Mildred N. Larson, Eau Claire
William J. Moynihan, Milwaukee
Howard Ross, Janesville
Councilor-at-Large Emeritus
John W. Thomson, Mt. Horeb
Your membership will encourage research, discussion
and publication in the sciences, arts and letters of
Wisconsin.
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
1922 University Avenue
Madison, Wisconsin 53705
Telephone (608) 263-1692
Fax (608) 265-3039
http:// www. wise. edu./wisacad/
Contributors
V
Margaret Benbow • Martha Bergland • Thomas Bontly
Anthony Bukoski • C. J. Hribal • Tom Joseph
Julie King • Marnie Krause • Karen Loeb
Peg Sherry • Carol Sklenicka • David Tabachnick
Ron Wallace • Gordon Weaver • David R. Young
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
1922 University Avenue
Madison, Wisconsin 53705
ISSN 0084-0505
TRANSACTIO
of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Volume 86 • 1998
TRANSACTIONS
of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Volume 86 • 1998
Editor William J. Urbrock
Department of Religious Studies
University of Wisconsin Oshkosh
Oshkosh, Wisconsin 54901
Managing Editor Patricia Allen Duyfhuizen
Department of English
University of Wisconsin Eau Claire
Eau Claire, Wisconsin 54702-4004
Intern Ann Dybvik
Transactions welcomes articles that explore features of the State
of Wisconsin and its people. Articles written by Wisconsin
authors on topics other than Wisconsin sciences, arts and letters
are occasionally published. Manuscripts and queries should be
addressed to the editor.
Submission requirements: Submit three copies of the manu¬
script, double-spaced, to the editor. Abstracts are suggested for
science/technical articles. The style of the text and references
may follow that of scholarly writing in the author’s field. Please
prepare figures with reduction in mind.
© 1998 Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
All rights reserved
ISSN 0084-0505
For information on membership in the Academy,
call (608) 263-1692.
Contents
TRANSACTIONS
Volume 86 • 1998
From the Editor v
I. Oak Savannas and Woodlands
Overview of Midwestern Oak Savanna 1
Roger Anderson
Midwest savannas are a fire-dependent community that developed in the transition
zone between tallgrass prairies and eastern forests.
Some Historical Influences on Modern Views of Nature in America 19
Stephen Budiansky
Many widely accepted contemporary views of nature, which emphasize the idea that
human interference in ecological processes is invariably harmful, stem from the
historical circumstances under which the nature appreciation movement first arose in
the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.
Vegetation Changes Associated with Oak Wilt 35
in a Wisconsin Sand Savanna
Angela Collada and Alan Haney
Research on oak woodlands in the Central Sand region of Wisconsin revealed that
removal of canopy trees by oak wilt shifts vegetation toward that which is characteristic
of oak and pine barrens. The herbaceous vegetation in oak wilt patches, however,
consisted of significantly less warm season grasses and more sedges than a nearby
barrens that developed following a wildfire.
Incentives for Savanna Protection on Private Lands: 47
Past, Present, and Future
Linda DePaul and David Kopitzke
This article describes the importance of including private lands and landowners in
efforts to protect native savanna in Wisconsin. Incentives for landowners to do so are
discussed, including past successes and failures, current programs, and what the future
may hold.
Effects ofSericea Lespedeza Invasion on Oak-Savannas in Kansas 57
Thomas Eddy and Cindy Moore
The effects of sericea lespedeza invasion in clearings in Kansas oak savannas were
found to be of major importance in terms of biodiversity and forage.
Hi
63
Small Mammals of Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
James Evrard
Small mammals were sampled in four wildlife management properties located in the
pine barrens of northwest Wisconsin.
A Checklist ofCarices for Prairies, Savannas , 77
and Oak Woodlands of Southern Wisconsin
Andrew Hipp
The author identifies seventy-four members of sourthern Wisconsin’s prairie and oak
woodland sedge flora by reference to Wisconsin State Herbarium Carex collections,
providing habitat summaries for each species and lists of associate species as available.
Dispersal of Karner Blue Butterflies 101
at Necedah National Wildlife Refuge
Richard King
Release-recapture research was conducted to determine dispersal ability and patterns
of the Karner blue butterfly among suitable habitat patches on the Necedah Wildlife
Refuge in Wisconsin.
Woody vegetation survey of Sibley Burr Oak Grove Nature Preserve, 1 1 1
Ford County, Illinois
Vernon LaGesse, William McClain, and John Ebinger
Bur oaks dominate this morainal ridge grove with numerous open-grown individuals
exceeding 100 cm dbh.
Identifying Highly Restorable Savanna Remnants 119
Mark Leach and Thomas Givnish
Re-evaluating ideas regarding the nature of oak savannas will help conservationists
identify highly restorable remnants.
Black Soil Prairie Groves of the Headwaters Region 129
of East-central Illinois
William McClain, Vernon LaGesse, Richard Larimore, and John Ebinger
Bur oak-dominated groves occur on morainal ridges and differ significantly from
stream-side groves in central Illinois.
Restoration From the Perspective of Forest History 137
Jon Mendelson
The rationale underlying restoration efforts in northeastern Illinois woodlands has
overemphasized fire suppression and virtually ignored the long-enduring effects of
post-settlement logging and grazing, the damage from which may well be exacerbated
by the current management regime of continued abiotic disturbance.
IV
Gradient Responses for Understory Species in a Bracken Grassland
and Northern Dry Forest Ecosystem of Northeast Wisconsin
Scott Nielsen and Alan Haney
The distribution of groundlayer species at Spread Eagle Barrens in northeastern
Wisconsin was studied using logistic regression models. Groundlayer vegetation
was primarily sensitive to topography and associated edaphic variables, and
bracken fern and woody cover.
Disturbance in Wisconsin Pine Barrens:
Implications for Management
Neal Niemuth and Mark Boyce
Diversity and structure of woody vegetation in savanna habitat patches are strongly
influenced by type and frequency of disturbance.
Adaptive Management: A Solution to Restoration Uncertainties
Rebecca Power and Alan Haney
The complexity of social and ecological dimensions of ecosystems results in
uncertainty about responses to management activities. Adaptive management
provides a flexible, heruristic approach for systematically coupling good science to
social values to mitigate uncertainty.
Analyzing Forest Landscape Restoration Potential:
Pre-settlement and Current Distribution of Oak
in the Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
Volker Radeloff, David Mladenoff, Kristin Manies, and Mark Boyce
The pre-settlement distribution of oak savannas in the southwestern part of the
northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens indicates where low-intensity, but frequent
ground fires occurred.
Surviving Where Ecosystems Meet: Ecotonal Animal Communities
of Midwestern Oak Savannas and Woodlands
Stanley Temple
Midwestern oak savannas and woodlands support typical ecotonal wildlife
communities, with most animals associated primarily with either deciduous forest
or tallgrass prairie. The ecotonal characteristics of oak savannas and woodlands
have important implications for attempts to conserve and restore these ecological
systems.
Characterization of Dry Site Oak Savanna in the Upper Midwest
Susan Will-Wolf and Forest Stearns
Dry sand savanna and dry calcareous savanna differ enough in species composition,
structure, and landscape context that they must be treated separately for research
and management.
II. Wisconsin Sesquicentennial Feature Articles
A Sesquicentennial Look at Literary “Firsts” in Wisconsin 235
Richard Boudreau
Wisconsin’s early writers made literary history in a variety of forms, but following
careful scrutiny, several “firsts” in various genres cannot retain their particular
distinction.
Wisconsin s First Novel 243
Richard Boudreau
Though the 1875 book, Bachelor Ben by Ella Giles Ruddy, traditionally has been
considered Wisconsin’s first novel, there are a handful of earlier candidates. Difficulties
in determining identities of authors and residency in the state abound, but a novel
by Juliette Magill Kinzie seems the best choice for the honor.
III. Wisconsin Fauna
Deer Reproduction in Wisconsin 249
Keith McCaffery, James Ashbrenner, and Robert Rolley
Deer reproductive performance was documented at a time when regional populations
were close to prescribed density goals.
Black Bear Food Items in Northern Wisconsin 263
Neil Payne, Bruce Kohn, Ned Norton, and Gordon Bertagnoli
Sixty-eight foods eaten by black bears varied with each month of summer and
availability in various forest communities.
Effects of Trapping on Colony Density , Structure, and Reproduction 281
of a Beaver Population Unexploited for 19 Years
Michael Zeckmeister and Neil Payne
After 1 9 years of no harvest, heavy harvest of beaver (3.9/colony) caused a subsequent
increase in production insufficient to maintain the population size.
VI
From the Editor
Charles Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle, which chronicles
his nearly five-year journey of discovery around the world
in 1831-1836, is a classic both as natural history and as
literature. A section I return to often is Chapter XVII,
which records his amazing observations on the volcanic
islands of the Galapagos Archipelago in September and
October 1833. Here, for example, is his description of
Chatham Island:
Nothing could be less inviting than the first appearance. A
broken field of black basaltic lava, thrown into the most
rugged waves, and crossed by great fissures, is every where
covered by stunted, sunburnt brushwood, which shows little
signs of life .... The brushwood appears, from a short
distance, as leafless as our trees during winter; and it was some
time before I discovered that not only almost every plant was
now in full leaf, but that the greater number were in flower.
The commonest bush is one of the Euphorbiaceae: an acacia
and a great odd-looking cactus are the only trees which afford
any shade.
A few days later, after visiting Albemarle and Narborough
Islands, the first of which Darwin characterizes as “miser¬
ably sterile” in large stretches and both of which he pictures
as “covered with immense deluges of black naked lava,”
Darwin seemed almost relieved to finally note the presence
of real trees, “several being two feet and some even two feet
nine inches in diameter” on James Island.
How different are these scenes from typical September
and October landscapes in Wisconsin, where trees reign
supreme in their resplendent Fall costume!
As I write this editor’s column in early October, I feel
the lingering cold of today’s brisk wind on my nose and
cheeks. Inside my head I hear echoes of the fallen leaves
crunched beneath my steps as I walked from home to my
office. Traces of squashed fruit, fallen from the flowering
crabapples, rub off the soles of my shoes to leave their
tracemarks on floor tiles. Glancing through my window, I
am delighted to see clouds dappling a bright blue sky. As
they flee across the face of the sun, they alternately brighten
vii
and shadow the palette of colors displayed
by the deepening hardwoods: cascades of
crimsons and purples; bursts of red and
orange wreathed by browns, greens, and
pale yellows; and, here and there, the stip¬
pling of silver and gold.
I admit it. I’m a sucker for trees. They
carry a nearly mystical quality for me.
Outside our campus day care center stands
a great American elm, an unbowed survivor
of the devastating Dutch elm disease
infestation of some years back. On any
given day I, like a hobbit in a Tolkien
novel, fully expect it to lean down and
solemnly inform me in ancient Ent language
that it has observed my comings and goings
for the past 26 years. Then I will ask if it has
heard the many whispered one-way
conversations I have addressed to it and
whether I was correct to assume that, just
as I have prayed for its continued flourishing
year after year, it, too, has been interceding
for our campus community in its own
inscrutable way.
And then there is the Cameron oak, one
of the proudest trees in Oshkosh, entwined
by legends and rumored to have shaded
great native American council meetings in
past centuries. This genuine wonder, whose
wide-spreading lower boughs reached out
so many yards that they had to be propped
up to keep them from bowing all the way to
the ground, succumbed a few years ago to
a storm. Hundreds of Oshkoshians came
to see the last hours of the fallen giant,
driving past in funereal procession, silently
stopping to take farewell snapshots and
ship off branches as mementos, and gravely
conversing on the sidewalks about the
common loss. In my home I now have a
prized relic from this grand oak, a wooden
bowl turned from one of its limbs by a local
artist. One day, as I rub its burnished
surface, a genie is bound to leap out!
This issue of Transactions celebrates oak
trees and their habitat, specifically, the great
oak savannas and woodlands that once were
dominant ecosystem types over much of
central and southern Wisconsin prior to
European settlement. Now, due to agricul¬
tural development and fire suppression, these
oak habitats are becoming very rare.
The Memorial Union at the University
Wisconsin Madison was the site of the
1 997 Midwest Oak Savanna and Woodland
Conference, part of a series held every
other year, rotating among Midwestern
states. The meeting was organized by a
committee chaired by Alan Haney (UW
Stevens Point) and including Mark Boyce
(current Vice-President Letters of the
Wisconsin Academy), Nancy Braker, Gary
Eldred, John Harrington, Rich Henderson,
Mark Leach, Evelyn Merrill, and Bob
Wernerehl. Featured at the conference were
plenary sessions, paper presentations,
roundtable discussions, and field trips, all
devoted to sharing information about the
ecology, management, and restoration of
oak savannas and woodlands in Wisconsin
and the Midwest.
We are pleased to include in Transactions
eighteen articles arising from this
conference. All represent papers first
presented at the meeting, subsequently
revised and peer-reviewed for publication.
Special thanks are due to Mark Boyce, who
solicited the article submissions and helped
in identifying suitable reviewers for the
manuscripts. In addition, I know that all
the authors join me in expressing gratitude
and appreciation to the many reviewers
who, by their incisive critiques and helpful
comments, contributed substantially to the
final shape of these articles.
Other articles grace this issue of Trans¬
actions as well. Three deal with Wisconsin
fauna, namely, white-tailed deer, beaver,
viii
and black bears. The remaining two, which
centered on literary “firsts” in Wisconsin,
represent our special farewell to Wisconsin’s
Sesquicentennial celebrations.
We trust that you, the readers of the
1998 Transactions , will find within its
covers a landscape not at all resembling
those “miserably sterile” reaches Darwin
visited in the Galapagos. Rather, we hope
you will find a colorful array of informative,
challenging, and sometimes entertaining
articles on these pages. Like the trees putting
on their autumn displays in Wisconsin,
may they also carry seeds of new growth!
Bill Urbrock
ix
The Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters was
chartered by the State Legislature on March 16, 1870, as a
membership organization serving the people of Wisconsin. Its
mission is to encourage investigation in the sciences, arts and
letters and to disseminate information and share knowledge.
Roger C. Anderson
Overview of
Midwestern Oak Savanna
Abstract The eastern prairie-forest transition extended as a broad arc along
the eastern edge of the mixed and tallgrass prairies from the
Canadian provinces of Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba
southward into Texas and was a mosaic of prairie, savanna, and
forest. The three communities were not distinct, forming a
continuum of vegetation that ranged from prairies to forest through
the transitional savanna that shared species with forest and prairies.
Savannas had scattered to low densities of trees with an understory
that had a high component of species associated with tallgrass
prairie. A majority of the plant diversity occurred in the ground
cover. Savannas required landscape-scale disturbance (repeated
fires) for maintenance of diversity and stability. The origin of the
Midwestern savanna is recent. Savannas and prairies replaced
me sic forests 3,500 to 8,000 years before present during the
Hypsithermal, a warm, dry period associated with an increased
frequency of fires. Following the Hypsithermal the climate became
cool and moist. Stabilization of vegetation is credited to fires set
by native Americans and occasional lightning strikes under a
climatic regime that could support prairie, savanna, or forest. The
mosaic of vegetation types including prairie, forest, and savanna
that characterized the vegetation of the Midwest resulted from the
interaction of climate, topography, and fire. Nearly all historic
tallgrass savanna was lost as a result of agriculture, urban
development, and fire suppression at the time of European
settlement, which allowed conversion of many remaining savannas
to closed hardwood forests.
During the past ten years, there has been a growing inter¬
est in savannas expressed by scientists, persons working
with private and publicly supported conservation organizations,
as well as interested members of the general public. In many
instances, non-scientists were unaware of the extensive litera¬
ture available on savanna communities, including their origins,
distribution, and ecology. This has resulted in misunderstand-
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
1
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
ings of what savannas are and how they
should be managed. In this paper, I summa¬
rize some of the literature that considers the
natural history and ecology of Midwestern
savannas. This summary is intended to in¬
crease understanding of savannas and aid in
their management and preservation.
Distribution of Midwest Savanna
Midwestern savannas occurred on the east¬
ern edge of a large triangular-shaped grass¬
land that extended from the shortgrass prai¬
ries east of the Rocky Mountains into the
Midwest where tallgrass prairie was the
dominant grassland type (Risser et al. 1981).
At its eastern edge, the grassland became in¬
creasingly fragmented and interspersed with
forest and savanna, forming a broad transi¬
tion zone to the eastern deciduous forests
and conifer forest in the north. This eastern
prairie-forest transition (Figure 1) extended
as a broad arc along the eastern edge of the
mixed and tallgrass prairies from the Cana¬
dian Provinces of Alberta, Saskatchewan,
and Manitoba southward into Texas (Ander¬
son 1983). Within the transition zone, prai¬
ries decreased in importance from west to
east, whereas the importance of forests in¬
creased along the same gradient primarily in
response to changing climatic conditions.
From west to east, the climate becomes pro¬
gressively less suitable for the growth of C4
prairie grasses and more favorable for trees,
as periodic drought and low humidity dur¬
ing summer decrease and annual precipita¬
tion and its reliability increase (Borchert
1950, Risser et al. 1981). Savannas are a
Figure 1. The eastern-prairie-forest transition extended as a broad arc along the east¬
ern edge of the tallgrass prairie and was a mosaic of prairie, forest, and savanna
(adapted from Anderson 1983 and Nuzzo 1986).
2
TRANSACTIONS
ANDERSON: Overview of Midwestern Oak Savanna
transitional vegetation, sharing species with
the western grasslands and the eastern for¬
ested communities. The transition zone also
varies along its north-south axis as illustrated
by a continual change in savanna tree spe¬
cies composition and abundance. This
change is reflected in the dominance of
white, bur, and black oaks ( Quercus alba , Q.
macro carp a, Q. velutina) in the northern and
central regions, whereas post oak, blackjack
oak, and Texas hickory (Q stellata, Q.
marilandica , and Carya texana) are promi¬
nent in the cross timbers savanna of Kan¬
sas, Oklahoma, and Texas (Curtis 1959,
Rice and Penfound 1959, Anderson 1983,
Hogland et al. in press).
Eastward through the prairie-forest tran¬
sition, forest increasingly dominated the
landscape, and savanna and prairie occupied
less area. For example, in Wisconsin historic
oak savannas covered about 3,889,640 ha or
about 27.5% of the state, but they were con¬
centrated in southern Wisconsin where sa¬
vannas covered about 75% of the landscape
(about 2.3 million ha) (Curtis 1959, Leach
1996). Eastward from Wisconsin the occur¬
rence of savannas decreased, and only about
3.7% of the townships in Indiana had some
oak savanna at the time of the Government
Land Office Surveys (between 1799 and
1846). Oak savanna declined rapidly from
west to east in Indiana, with oak savanna
only occurring in the western third of the
state (Potzger et al. 1956). In Ohio, oak sa¬
vanna encompassed about 0.4% of the land¬
scape prior to European settlement (Gordon
1966). All of this savanna occurred on sands
in northwest Ohio (Fulton, Lucas, and
Wood Counties). However, Whitney and
Steiger (1985) reported that the Sandusky
Plain, to the south and east (Marion,
Wyandot, and Crawford Counties) of the
savannas mapped by Gordon (1966), his¬
torically was 48.2% savanna. Adding the
Sandusky Plains savannas, with fine textured
lacustrine soils, to that reported by Gordon
(1966) brings the total area of historic sa¬
vanna in Ohio to about 0.8% of the state.
Defining Savanna
Recently, there has been discussion about the
kind of vegetation that is described by the
word savanna. Some ecologists have defined
savanna as being grassland with trees (Packard
and Mutel 1997). Nevertheless, there is no
single definition for the word savanna that
would be accepted by a majority of ecologists.
The term is used to describe a variety of veg¬
etation types. Vegetation described as savanna
in one locality can be called by different
names in others. According to Kline (1997),
savanna is derived from the Spanish word
saban. Spanish colonists adopted the word
from a native Caribbean Island language in
the sixteenth century. They used it to de¬
scribe flat, grassy, treeless areas found on the
Caribbean Islands. By the end of the nine¬
teenth century, savanna became a name
widely used for tropical grasslands of many
types, with or without trees (Kline 1997). In
Illinois in the 1700s and 1800s, savanna re¬
ferred to grasslands with few or no trees. Im¬
migrants from Great Britain used the word
as a substitute for prairie (White 1994).
Several authors used savanna tree canopy
coverage as a criterion to separate savannas
from other vegetation types. Curtis (1959)
defined savannas to have more than one
mature tree per acre (2.5 trees/ha), but less
than 50% tree canopy cover. Prairies had less
than one mature tree per acre (0.4 trees/ha),
and vegetation with more than 50% tree
cover was classified as forest. By comparison,
the Illinois Natural Areas Inventory consid¬
ered savanna to have more than 10% cover,
but less than 80% canopy cover (White
1978), while The Nature Conservancy
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
(TNC) classified savanna as having 10-30%
tree canopy cover. In its classification
scheme, TNC also recognized prairie (less
than 10% cover), woodland (30—80% cover)
and forest, which had more than 80% tree
canopy cover (Taft 1997). Elsewhere, savan¬
nas were defined to have tree canopy cover
ranging from 10 to 30% in Missouri (Nel¬
son 1985) to complete canopy closure in
Ohio (Nuzzo 1986).
Nature of the Savanna Community
Prairie-Savanna-Forest Continuum
Prairie, savanna, and forest vegetation are
not distinctive vegetation types, but rather
they blend into one another, forming what
is termed a vegetation continuum (Figure 2)
(Anderson 1991 a). Savanna is the transi¬
tional vegetation type between the prairie
and forest. Open savannas, that is those with
low tree canopy cover, have a high compo¬
nent of species associated with prairies.
Along a gradient of increasing tree canopy
cover, the importance of the species with
high affiliation with prairie decreases, while
species associated with open forest increase
in prominence (Figure 3). Several studies
have demonstrated a gradual change in spe¬
cies composition across the environmental
gradient from open prairie to savannas with
increasing amounts of tree canopy cover to
closed canopy forests (Bray 1958, I960;
Curtis 1959; Pruka 1994^, 1994 b\ Leach
1994, 1996). Some species of plants and ani¬
mals reach their highest abundance in sa¬
vanna and are adapted to the heterogeneous
environment of savannas, with scattered
trees or clumps of trees interspersed with
open areas. Nevertheless, there are appar¬
ently few if any organisms that are restricted
solely to savanna (Curtis 1959, Leach 1996).
The varied definitions of savanna likely
result from the dynamic relationships occur¬
ring between forest, savanna, and prairie and
reflect the difficulty of separating a vegeta¬
tion continuum into discrete classification
units. In addition, regional variation affects
vernacular usage of terms to describe this
transitional vegetation. Barrens, oak open¬
ings, glades, or savannas are all terms that
have been used to describe the transitional
vegetation types containing elements of prai¬
ries and forests (Heikens and Robertson
1994). Barrens also included brush prairies,
sand barrens (that are similar to sand prai¬
ries in terms of herbaceous species compo¬
sition), and the Hill’s oak (Quercus ellip-
soidalis) and jack pine (Pinus banksiana)
barrens that occupied sandy soils in the cen¬
tral and northern portions of Michigan,
Minnesota, and Wisconsin.
Savanna Common Features
Despite the lack of a common usage for the
word savanna, vegetation described as sa¬
vanna in the Midwest share features in com¬
mon. They had open canopies, and the domi¬
nant trees were a few species of oak. The
ground cover often had a high component of
species associated with tallgrass prairie, and
a majority of the plant diversity occurred in
the ground cover. Savannas required land¬
scape-scale disturbance (repeated fires) for
maintenance of diversity and stability (Taft
1997). Trees in savannas have a characteris¬
tic open-grown form with broad spreading
crowns and large branch scars along their
trunks. Large branch scars result from the
lower branches remaining on the trees for an
extended period of time before they are self-
pruned. In contrast, lower branches of for¬
est-grown trees are shaded by adjacent trees
and contribute little energy to the tree
through photosynthesis. Consequently, these
branches are soon pruned, leaving small
branch scars that are incorporated in the bole
4
TRANSACTIONS
ANDERSON: Overview of Midwestern Oak Savanna
Figure 2. The prairie-forest continuum is characterized by continuous change in tree
density and canopy closure from the nearly treeless prairie through the transitional
savanna to closed-canopied forest. (Adapted from Packard and Mutel 1997 and granted
with permission from The Tallgrass Restoration Handbook, Stephen Packard and Cornelia
Mutel, eds., © 1997 The Society for Ecological Restoration. Published by Island Press,
Washington, D.C. and Covelo, CA.)
as the tree grows. Forest-grown trees have
narrow crowns with “clean boles,” because of
shading from adjacent tree crowns.
Oak grubs, a characteristic feature of some
savannas, were oaks with tops one to a few
years old but with root systems up to centu¬
ries old. Because of nearly annual fires, the
tops of these trees would be killed to the
ground, but shoots would sprout from the
root system. Over a period of years, a mas¬
sive root system, often with a large surface
root crown (basal plate), developed that sup¬
ported a shoot that would survive until the
next fire. The term “grub” is derived from a
German word gruben, which means to dig.
European settlers laboriously dug these mas¬
sive root systems from their agricultural fields,
hence the name oak grub (Curtis 1959).
Black oak is less fire resistant than bur oak
and was top killed by intense fire and
converted to oak grubs, whereas the shoots
of bur oaks develop thicker bark at an early
age that more effectively prevents fire damage
to the vascular cambium. In some historic
savannas, a few bur oaks per acre occurred
as scattered open-grown trees in a matrix of
prairie grasses and forbs. In addition, there
might have been a scattering of oak grubs,
often black oaks, which were mostly hidden
from view by herbaceous vegetation. These
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
PRAIRE-FOREST CONTINUUM
PLANTS
PRAIRIE SAVANNA WOODLAND FOREST
Echinaeca pallida
Amorpha canescens
Schizachyarium scoparium
Lupinus perennis
Baptisia leucantha
Andropogon gerardii
Smilacina stellata
Echinacea purpurea
Taenidia integerrima
Camassia scilloides
Dodecatheon meadia
Veronicastrum virginicum
Elymus hystrix
Elymus virginiana
Solidago ulmifolia
Geranium maculatum
Podophyllum peltatum
Eupatorium rugosum
Sanicula gregaria
Panex quinquefolium
Laportea canadensis
BIRDS
Bobolink
Meadowlark
Short-eared Owl
Prairie Chicken
Field Sparrow
Sharptailed Grouse
Eastern Kingbird
Bell's Vireo
Eastern Bluebird
Red-headed Woodpecker
Baltimore Oriole
Whippoorwill
Cooper's Hawk
Ovenbird
Red-eyed Vireo
Sharp-shinned Hawk
Figure 3. The continual change in species composition across the prairie-forest
continuum illustrated for selected plant and bird species. Lines for each species indicate
the portion of the continuum in which the species occurs. The species distributions
were generalized from the author’s field experience with plants. Bird distributions were
determined in consultation with Dr. Angelo Capparella (Department of Biology, Illinois
State University).
6
TRANSACTIONS
ANDERSON: Overview of Midwestern Oak Savanna
savannas, often called oak openings, had an
orchard appearance with scattered bur oaks
dotting the landscape (Anderson and Bowles
in press). Muir (1965) described oak opening
with oak grubs as a feature of historic oak
openings in Colombia County, southern
Wisconsin. Because “oak grubs” could be
very numerous, conversion from savanna to
closed forest occurred rapidly as the extensive
root systems gave rise to rapidly developing
shoots. The often massive open-grown bur
oaks would be surrounded by the younger,
narrow-crowned black oak shoots as the
forest developed (Cottam 1949, Curtis
1959).
Savanna Modal Species
Comparing studies that use different defini¬
tions of savanna potentially can create mis¬
understandings and confusion. For example,
Packard (1993) expressed some concern over
the paucity of modal species (nine) that
Curtis (1959) found in one type of savanna
in Wisconsin, the oak opening. Modal spe¬
cies for a community have their highest per¬
cent presence in a given community based
on quantitative data (Curtis 1959). The low
number of modal species in oak openings
indicates that few species of plants are more
frequently found in oak openings compared
with other communities and, as such, can
be used to characterize savanna vegetation.
However, Curtis (1959) categorized oak
openings, oak barrens, pine barrens, and ce¬
dar glades as types of savanna vegetation.
When these other savanna types are consid¬
ered there are considerably more modal spe¬
cies. Nineteen species were listed as modal
for oak barrens, pine barrens had 5 modal
species, and 24 modal species were recog¬
nized in cedar glades, so collectively savan¬
nas had 57 modal species. This does not
mean that these species occurred only in sa¬
vanna, but rather they occurred in savanna
more often than other types of plant com¬
munities sampled by Curtis. Furthermore,
the number of species that occur predomi¬
nantly in a community type is a function of
the portion of the prairie-savanna-forest con¬
tinuum that the community encompasses. If
Curtis’s definition of savanna was broadened
to include areas with as much as 80—90%
tree canopy cover, as with some definitions,
the number of modal species would have
been larger. Consequently, conflicting per¬
ceptions of the number of modal species
found in savannas appear more related to
definitions and semantics than to ecology.
In addition, Leach (1996) noted that sa¬
vanna vegetation was converted to wood¬
lands and closed oak forests following ces¬
sation of frequent fires at the time of
European settlement. Thus, some of the spe¬
cies that were prominent in historic savanna
may have been considered to be forest spe¬
cialists by Curtis (1959).
Origin of Midwest Savanna
Holocene Chronology
The savannas of the Midwest are of recent
origin developing following the Wisconsinan
glaciation. Analysis of Holocene fossil pol¬
len deposits provides a record of vegetation
change during the last 10-12,000 years and
documents the origin of savannas during this
time. Savannas leave pollen profiles that are
different from those of prairies or forests.
Savanna pollen profiles have a smaller pro¬
portion of hardwood pollen and a larger per¬
centage of herbaceous pollen than forests,
but a higher percentage of oak pollen and a
lower percentage of herbaceous pollen than
prairies (Griffin 1994).
Immediately following the Wisconsinan
glaciation, conifer forests occupied much of
the Midwest. Mesic hardwood forests
Volume 86 (1998)
7
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
replaced conifer forests 9,000—10,000 years
before present (BP). On mesic sites, shade-
intolerant oaks could not compete with the
shade-tolerant mesophytic trees (beech
[Fagus grandifolia ], sugar maple [Acer
saccharum ], elms [Ulmus spp.] and basswood
[ Tilia americana ]). Many species of oak
probably were restricted to sites with low
nutrient and moisture availability where they
would receive less competition from more
mesophytic species. Midwest savannas
originated during a relatively warm and dry
postglacial period known as the Hypsi-
thermal (Altithermal or Xerothermic in
older literature) that peaked about 3,500 to
8,000 BP. The actual time of the Hypsi-
thermal apparently varied within the
Midwest (McAndrews 1966; King 1981;
Baker et al. 1992; Griffin 1994; Winkler
1995, 1997). In Illinois, the drying trend of
the Hypsithermal began about 8,700-7,900
BP. Prairie influx into central Illinois
occurred a few hundred years later (about
8,300 BP) with a concomitant displacement
of mesic forests by oak forests in northern
Illinois. During the hottest and driest part
of the Hypsithermal in Illinois (about
8,000-6,000 BP) prairies occupied most of
the state (King 1981).
According to Griffin (1994), oak open¬
ings appeared in northern Illinois and south¬
ern Wisconsin about 5,500 BP. Pollen
record and charcoal deposits from Lake
Mendota sediments in southern Wisconsin
indicate that the climate was drier and hot¬
ter and fire frequency higher between 6,500
to 3,500 BP than it was in the early Ho¬
locene (Winkler et al. 1986; Winkler 1995,
1997). Oak savannas were associated with
the warm dry period during the Holocene,
but after 3,500 BP the climate became
cooler and more moist, and closed Quercus
forest dominated the landscape (Winkler et
al. 1986; Winkler 1995, 1997). This appears
to be in conflict with the generally held view
that oak savanna dominated southern Wis¬
consin immediately prior to extensive Euro¬
pean settlement (Curtis 1959, Leach 1996).
However, this may reflect the patchy nature
of vegetation distribution. The vegetation
influencing Lake Mendota pollen records
could have been locally dominated by closed
forest in a landscape in which savanna pre¬
dominated.
In northeastern Iowa, pollen records in¬
dicate that forest dominated from about
8,000 to 5,100 BP, and then it was replaced
by prairie (Baker et al. 1996). Replacement
of forest by prairie probably resulted from a
climatic shift that increased flow of arid Pa¬
cific air and increased frequency of fires. Oak
savanna appeared in northeast Iowa about
3,000 BP. These records would support
those from other regions in the Midwest
with replacement of forest by vegetation
(prairie) adapted to a hotter and drier cli¬
mate and increased fire frequency after 5,100
BP. Invasion of oak savanna after 3,000 BP
in a prairie-dominated landscape would sug¬
gest that the climate was becoming cooler
and more moist, consistent with the results
of other studies (Winkler et al. 1986;
Winkler 1995, 1997).
Landscape Level Changes
To explain the historic distribution of nearly
treeless mesic tallgrass prairies on level to
rolling landscapes, Curtis (1959) proposed
that during the early part of the Holocene
these sites supported mesic forest. The tree
species dominating these forests-— sugar
maples, beech, basswood, ironwood (Ostrya
virginiana), and others— were shade tolerant
but not fire resistant. Shade-intolerant oaks
were excluded from mesic sites because they
were unable to compete with the shade-tol¬
erant mesophytes. On droughty and/or low
8
TRANSACTIONS
ANDERSON: Overview of Midwestern Oak Savanna
nutrient sites, e.g., sites with sandy soil, steep
upper slopes, or sites with shallow soils over
bedrock, the mesophytes were unable to tol¬
erate the site conditions. In contrast to the
mesic tree species, most oaks are tolerant of
droughty, low nutrient environments, and
they probably dominated these locations
(Figure 4).
During the Hypsithermal the combina¬
tion of drought and fires eliminated mesic
species from all but the most sheltered sites,
and they were replaced by tallgrass prairie.
Most oaks have fire-resistant bark, and all
oaks have the ability to resprout after being
top-killed by fire (Stearns 1991, Abrams
1992). The hot, dry conditions and frequent
fires associated with the Hypsithermal were
unable to eliminate oaks, but repeated fires
kept their densities low, forming oak savan¬
nas and woodlands (Figure 4).
Following the Hypsithermal, and after
about 3,500 BP, the climate became cool
and moist, and there was a shrinking of the
area of prairie in the Midwest (Delcourt and
Delcourt 1981, King 1981). Stabilization of
vegetation is accredited to fires set by native
Americans and occasional lightning strikes
under a climatic regime that could support
prairie, savanna, or forest (Curtis 1959;
Anderson 1990, 1991 b). The mosaic of veg¬
etation types including prairie, forest, and
savanna that characterized the vegetation of
the Midwest resulted from the interaction of
climate, topography, and fire. The relative
importance of these interacting factors de¬
termined the prominence of these vegetation
types on the landscape.
Distribution of Savannas
on the Landscape
Fire frequency determined the occurrence of
the three vegetation types on the landscape,
and fire frequency was largely controlled by
topography. Fires spread rapidly on level to
gently rolling topography. On these land¬
scapes there were nearly annual fires, which
supported tallgrass prairies that required fre¬
quent fires for their maintenance in the cli¬
mate of the Midwest (Curtis 1959; Risser et
al. 1981; Anderson 1982, 1990). In dis¬
sected landscapes, the spread of fire was re¬
duced, permitting the establishment of trees.
Fires rapidly move up slopes, driven by ris¬
ing convection currents, but as fires move
down slope the rising convection current
moves against the direction of the fire (Fig¬
ure 5). Closed forest occurred in areas shel¬
tered from fires, such as ravines or along wa¬
terways that served as fire breaks. These
sheltered locations supported shade-tolerant
but fire-sensitive mesophytic tree species
such as sugar maple, basswood, and beech
in the eastern portion of the prairie-forest
transition. Fire-tolerant oaks dominated
woodlands and savannas in areas where fires
occurred less frequently than in the prairies,
but with shorter return time than in closed
mesophytic forests (Gleason 1922, Curtis
1959, Anderson and Anderson 1975,
Rodgers and Anderson 1979, Grimm 1984,
Anderson 1990, Abrams 1992).
Waterways also functioned as firebreaks.
The west side of streams and rivers tended
to be vegetated by prairie, because fires
tended to be carried by prevailing westerly
winds, whereas the sheltered east side of wa¬
terways supported forests (Gleason 1913).
Easterly winds could have carried fires to
eastern sides of waterways. However, east
winds originate from the back side of pass¬
ing high pressure systems and are associated
with low pressure systems that bring in high
humidity and precipitation that reduce the
likelihood of fire.
Using a map (Figure 6a) of the historic
distribution of forest/savanna and prairie in
Illinois (Anderson 1970) and a map of the
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Early Holocene Distribution of Vegetation
(9,000 to 10,000 Yrs.BP)A
Oak
Woodland
Shade Tolerant
Fire Sensitive
Mesic, Nutrient Rich Sites
Level to Rolling
Oak
Woodland
Mesic
Forest
Shade Tolerant
Fire Sensitive
Sheltered
Mesic Ravines
Hypsithermal (Dry and Warm) Frequent Fires
(3,500-8,000 Yrs. BP)
Figure 4. Possible change in vegetation distribution on the landscape from the early
Holocene when the climate was cool and moist to the Hypsithermal that was associated
with a warm, dry period with an increase in fire frequency.
10
TRANSACTIONS
ANDERSON: Overview of Midwestern Oak Savanna
average slope range for the state (Figure 6b),
Anderson (1991^) examined the relationship
between topographic relief and vegetation
patterns. Forests-savanna were areas de¬
scribed in plat maps associated with the
Government Land Office survey records as
being “timber” and included varying mix¬
tures of forest and savanna (Anderson and
Anderson 1975, Moran 1976). Average
slope range, given in three categories (2^1%,
4-7%, and >7%), was assumed to be a mea¬
sure of topographic relief. Most prairie veg¬
etation (82.3%) occurred on landscapes in
the 2-4% category (Table 1). Only 23% of
the forest-savanna vegetation was associated
with 2-4% slope category, and most of these
forests-savannas were on flood plains. In
contrast, 77% of the timbered vegetation
occurred on sites that had average slope
ranges greater than 4% (4—7% slope =
35.2% and >7% slope = 41.8%). Most of
these sites were associated with the highly
dissected portions of the Illinoian glacial till
plain, unglaciated areas, glacial moraines,
and waterways.
Dry Savanna
On extensive areas in the Midwest, savannas
and open woodlands also occurred on sites
that had sandy, acidic soils with low nutrient
availability and poor water-holding capacity.
These sites were associated with glacial
outwash plains (Curtis 1959, Pregitzer and
Sanders in press, Will-Wolf and Stearns in
press) and deep sand deposits in river flood
plains (Anderson and Brown 1986). These
sites supported herbaceous vegetation with
low fuel loading. However, they were prone
to fire, because the low water-holding
capacity of the soil resulted in frequent and
rapid drying of fuels that increased
INFLUENCE OF TOPOGRAPHY ON SPREAD OF FIRE
the spread of fire
Figure 5. Influence of topography on the spread of fires. Rising convection air currents
move fire rapidly up slope, but as fire move down slope the direction of the convection
currents works against the spread of the fire.
1 1
Volume 86 (1998)
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 6. The relationship between landscape dissection and vegetation in Illinois near
the time of European settlement from Anderson (1991 b).
susceptibility to fire. With frequent fires that
impeded the buildup of woody plant fuels,
the fires were of lower intensity than those
occurring on mesic sites with silt loam soils
that supported tallgrass prairies with high
fuel loading. These conditions permitted the
co-existence of a mixture of sand prairie
grasses and forbs and oak trees. Black oak
was a common savanna tree in southern
locations, and jack pine and Hill’s oak were
important trees in savannas in the northern
Great Lakes Region (Curtis 1959, Grimm
1984, Anderson and Brown 1986, Pregitzer
and Sanders in press, Will-Wolf and Stearns
in press).
Calcareous dry savannas occurred on sites
with thin soils over calcareous bedrock or
gravels. White oak and bur oak were
important tree species in these savannas that
tended to occur in small scattered patches
(Will-Wolf and Stearns in press). Cedar
glades were another type of dry calcareous
savanna that had an understory of dry prairie
species and scattered red cedar trees (Juni-
12
TRANSACTIONS
ANDERSON: Overview of Midwestern Oak Savanna
Table 1 . Percentage historic forest-savanna
and prairie vegetation occurring with
various slope-range categories in Illinois
from Anderson (1991b).
perus virginiana). These savannas usually
occurred on south- to west-facing slopes on
sites with shallow soils over limestone
bedrock. In the absence of periodic fires,
limestone glades tend to undergo vegetation
change forming nearly closed stands of the
fire-sensitive red cedar with little ground
cover vegetation. The open cedar glades
grade floristically into hill prairies or high
lime prairies (Curtis 1959).
Current Status of Savannas
Deep-soil (Mesic) Savannas
After European settlement, savannas on
mesic sites with deep soils rapidly degraded
as woody succession followed fire protection
and gave rise to closed oak forests (Cottam
1949, McCune and Cottam 1985, White
1994, Anderson and Bowles in press).
Consequently, most dry and dry-mesic oak
forests and woodlands occurring in the
eastern prairie-forest transition today were
derived from savannas. In some cases, the
derivation of oak forests/woodland from
savanna is indicated by the presence of large
open-grown trees surrounded by smaller
forest-grown trees whose origin dates to the
time of European settlement and fire
protection. Similarly, oak trees with multiple
stems that arise from a large root crown
often originated from oak grubs and provide
evidence of the former occurrence of savanna
on a site (Cottam 1949, Curtis 1959). On
some sites overgrazing by domestic cattle
nearly or completely eliminated understory
vegetation, while agriculture and urban¬
ization fragmented and destroyed remnants.
Thus, few, if any, intact savannas survive on
deep silt-loam soils in the Midwest (Curtis
1959, Madany 1981, Apfelbaum and Haney
1991, Packard 1991, Anderson and Bowles
in press). Nuzzo (1986) estimated that there
were about 1 2 million ha of original tallgrass
savanna in the Midwest, of which only
0.02% (2,607 ha) remained.
Dry Savannas
Successional processes that would convert
savanna to woodland and forest proceed at
a slower rate on xeric sites than mesic ones.
Additionally, agricultural development gen¬
erally results in lower returns on xeric savan¬
nas than on mesic ones so less development
tends to occur on xeric savannas. Conse¬
quently, savannas occurring on xeric sites,
such as deep sand deposits, or in areas where
there are shallow soils over bedrock, have a
somewhat larger percentage of the original
savanna remaining, albeit in an altered state,
than do the mesic savannas (Taft 1997). For
example, in pre-European settlement times,
jack pine barrens occupied about 20,000
km2 in northern Michigan, Minnesota, and
Wisconsin. Of the 920,000 ha of historic
pine barrens that occurred in Wisconsin
about 3,500 ha or 0.38% of the original bar¬
rens remain (Vora 1993, Pregitzer and Sand¬
ers in press). Pine barrens were lost through
lumbering, agriculture, and conversion to
red pine plantations. Successional processes
that resulted from fire cessation converted
the barrens to closed forests with increased
abundance of hardwoods, (e.g., white birch
[. Betula papyrifera ] , black cherry [ Prunus
Volume 86 (1998)
13
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
serotina\ , maples [Acer spp.] , and oaks
[ Quercus spp.]) and red and white pines
[Pinus resinosa and P. strobus ]) (Curtis 1959,
Vogl 1970, Pregitzer and Sanders in press).
Nevertheless, the potential to restore sub¬
stantial areas of these barrens to historic con¬
ditions remains.
Historic jack pine barrens had tree
densities less than 49/ha (20 trees/acre) with
the dominant trees in the historic barrens
being jack pine and Hill’s oak. The patchy
environment in the understory, which varies
from open areas to closed canopy conditions,
creates habitat for an unusual ground layer
vegetation. The flora includes sand prairie
and northern forest forbs, graminoids such
as big and little bluestems {Andropogon
gerardii and Schizachyrium scoparium ), wild
mountain rice ( Oryzopsis asperifolia), poverty
grass (Danthonia spicata), and sedges with
Pennsylvania sedge (Carex pensylvanica)
often being prominent. Important shrubs on
pine barrens are blueberries (Vaccinium
angustifolia) and sweet fern (Comptonia
pere grina) (Curtis 1959, Pregitzer and
Sanders in press).
Ecosystem Management of Savannas.
In the Midwest, few remnant savannas are
sufficiently large to be managed on a land¬
scape scale. An exception may be areas his¬
torically occupied by jack pine barrens in the
northern lower peninsula of Michigan. In
this region, the United States Forest Service
and the Michigan Department of Natural
Resources manage jack pine plantations to
produce wood products and habitat for the
federally endangered Kirtland’s warbler
(Probst and Weinrich 1993). Jack pine plan¬
tations are managed on a fifty-year rotation
with pines planted in a sine wave pattern to
create openings that are utilized by the bird
as nesting areas when the plantations are 5
to 20 years in age. The bird’s listing as one
of the first species protected under the Fed¬
eral Endangered Species Act was prompted
by a precipitous decline in the population
of singing males from over 500 in 1961 to
approximately 200 in 1971 (Weinrich
1995). Nevertheless, there was a marked in¬
crease in the number of male birds singing
on territories following a 10,000 ha (24,000
acres) wildfire (Mack Lake) in 1980, with
the highest number of males (765) being
counted in 1995. The number of singing
males declined slightly since 1995, 692 and
728 in 1996 and 1997, respectively, as the
area of the Mack Lake burn developed be¬
yond the stage of optimum nesting habitat.
The marked increase in birds following a
single large wildfire suggests that designating
substantial areas of potential jack pine
barrens solely to create habitat for Kirtland’s
warbler would benefit the bird more than
devoting all management areas to multiple-
use functions. Fire-return intervals in the
historic barrens were in the range of 25-50
years, and burns undoubtedly covered areas
that were more extensive than the area of the
Mack Lake burn (Curtis 1959, Vogl 1970,
Whitney 1986, Pregitzer and Sanders in
press). Management that stimulates historic
fire regimes would probably benefit the
warbler through the restoration of the
historic barrens and maintain ecosystem
processes to which the bird is adapted. Single
species management for endangered species
is likely to be less successful than manage¬
ment to restore ecosystem function and
structure to the historic landscape to which
the species is adapted. Moreover, ecosystem
management in units that are sufficiently
large to re-establish natural process, such as
fire, has the salutary effect of benefiting
organisms other than the target species that
are also dependent on this ecosystem
(Robertson et al. 1997, Taft 1997).
14
TRANSACTIONS
ANDERSON: Overview of Midwestern Oak Savanna
Conclusions
The savannas of the Midwestern United
States are of recent development, having
originated in the warm, dry, postglacial
Hypsithermal period about 8,000 to 3,500
years before present. Savannas are transitional
between eastern deciduous forest and tallgrass
prairie and contain species from both vegeta¬
tion types. There is no single definition of
savannas, and varied vegetation types are
called savannas. However, Midwestern savan¬
nas share several features in common. Savan¬
nas have a discontinuous tree canopy that is
dominated by members of the oak genus
Quercus. The ground cover often has a high
component of species associated with tallgrass
prairie, and a majority of the plant diversity
occurs in the ground cover. Historic savan¬
nas required landscape-scale disturbance (re¬
peated fires) for maintenance of diversity and
stability. Most of the historic savannas, espe¬
cially those on mesic sites, were destroyed at
the time of extensive European settlement
through agricultural development and cessa¬
tion of fires that allowed conversion of savan¬
nas to closed oak forests. The remaining rem¬
nant savannas are small, fragmented, and
have experienced loss of species due to fire
suppression, grazing by cattle, and invasion
of exotic species. Nevertheless, interest in re¬
storing remnant savannas to historic condi¬
tions has grown in the past decade, and
progress is being made on developing tech¬
niques for restoration and understanding the
nature of savanna ecosystems (Fralish et ah
1994, Packard and Mutel 1997, Taft 1997,
Anderson et al. in press).
Acknowledgments
I thank M. Rebecca Anderson and two
anonymous reviewers for reviewing the
manuscript.
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Roger C. Anderson is Distinguished Professor of
Plant Ecology in the Department of Biological Sci¬
ences at Illinois State University and a Fellow of
the Illinois State Academy of Science. He is a mem¬
ber of the Editorial Board of Restoration Ecology
and has served as a member of the Illinois Nature
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versity ofWisconsin-Madison Arboretum. Address:
Department of Biological Sciences, Illinois State
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61790-4120.
1 8
TRANSACTIONS
Stephen Budiansky
Some Historical Influences
on Modern Views of Nature in America
Abstract Many widely accepted contemporary views of nature, which
emphasize the idea that human interference in ecological processes
is invariably harmful, stem from the historical circumstances under
which the nature appreciation movement first arose in the late
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Nature was roman¬
ticized as the embodiment of perfection and a mirror of God, if
not the literal dwelling place of God. What moved early nature
admirers to seek out “ wild places ” was precisely the absence of man
and the sense of solitude that conferred. This view, which persists
today, has led many to ignore or denigrate the significant historical
influence that the North American Indians had on their
environment through extensive burning of forests and hunting of
ungulates; and, further, to adhere to an ahistorical paradigm of
strict nature \ 'preservation ” that opposes any active management
by humans, even for nonexploitive, ecological goals.
1
Francis Parkman, a great nineteenth-century popularizer of
cowboys, Indians, mountain men, and sundry other icons
of the romanticized American wild lands, portrayed the an¬
cient forests of the New World as vast, dark, and untrodden.
In “the depths of immemorial forests, dim and silent as a cav¬
ern,” “wrapped in the shadow of the tomb,” not a flicker of
sunlight ever touched the ground; they were “ancient as the
world,” to whose “verdant antiquity the pyramids are young.”
Only where Europeans had intruded was it otherwise. Between
the bits of rough civilization the settlers had carved out of the
virgin land lay “a broad tract of wilderness, shaggy with pri¬
meval woods” (Day 1953). A squirrel, it was said, might in
the days before the white man arrived have traveled from Maine
to Louisiana never once setting foot on the ground, but leap¬
ing from tree to giant tree.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
19
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
A very different metaphor came to the
mind of more than one early explorer who
actually set foot in America’s “primeval
woods.” A stagecoach, said one, might be
driven from the east coast to St. Louis with¬
out first clearing a road. “A man may gallop
a horse amongst these woods any waie, but
where creekes or Rivers shall hinder,” agreed
Captain John Smith of the Jamestown, Vir¬
ginia, settlement. If there is one point on
which the early European travelers and set¬
tlers who set down their observations of the
New World agree, it is that the forests of
eastern North America reminded them of
nothing so much as the carefully tended
parks of the great estates of their homelands.
An explorer in 1607 observed the trees
around present-day Portland, Maine, “grow¬
ing a great space asunder one from the other
as our parks in England and no thicket grow¬
ing under them.” In the early days of the Ply¬
mouth colony the Pilgrims found the woods
“thin of Timber in many places, like our
Parkes in England.” In New Jersey in the
mid-seventeenth century, the woods were de¬
scribed as “but thin in most places, and very
little Under-wood”; another explorer noted
an abundance of high grass and trees that
“stand far apart, as if they were planted.” In
such open, parklike wood, deer and turkey
could be seen a mile away, cattle three miles
(Martin 1973; Pyne 1982:46-47).
Parkman romantically portrayed the six¬
teenth century Italian navigator Verrazano
lying off the coast of New England espying
one of his mighty literary forests, full of
“shadows and gloom.” Yet Verrazano him¬
self told of marching inland fifteen miles
from Narragansett Bay, in what would be¬
come Rhode Island, and finding “open
plains twenty-five or thirty leagues in extent,
entirely free from trees or other hindrances.”
Where the explorer did encounter forests,
they grew so open and unencumbered by
underbrush that they “might all be traversed
by an army ever so numerous,” he marveled
(Maxwell 1910, Day 1933).
The Europeans marveled at these open
woods and meadows, but they did not have
to search far for an explanation. If the land
reminded them of carefully tended parks at
home it was for a good reason. One of the
earliest explanations was set down in 1632
by Thomas Morton, an English fur trader
and adventurer who traveled the backwoods
of eastern central Massachusetts and settled
in what is now Quincy, Massachusetts. (He
did not remain long. A free-thinker, he was
always in trouble with the local authorities.
After being repeatedly arrested, he was fi¬
nally expelled for licentiousness, selling fire¬
arms to the Indians, and penning a satiric
tract against the Puritans). Morton was a
keen observer, and his travels off the beaten
path gave him a first-hand knowledge of the
ways of the Indians. He explained that it was
deliberate management by the native inhab¬
itants that kept the woods as they were:
The Salvages [sic] are accustomed to set fire
of the country in all places where they come;
and to burn it, twize a yeare, vixe, at the
Spring, and at the fall of the leafe. . . . The
burning of the grasse destroyes the under¬
woods, and so scorcheth the elder trees, that
it shrinks them, and hinders their growth very
much. . . . And this custome of firing the
country is the means to make it passable, and
by that meanes the trees growe here and there
as in our parks: and makes the country very
beautifull, and commodious. (Bromley 1933)
The practice appears to have been ex¬
tremely widespread. In Virginia, through a
combination of burning and fuel-wood cut¬
ting, the Indians had managed to clear some
thirty or forty acres of land per capita at the
time the first Europeans arrived; three cen¬
turies later, although the total area cleared
20
TRANSACTIONS
BUDIANSKY: Some Historical Influences on Modern Views of Nature in America
was obviously much greater, it amounted to
considerably less per capita — only six or
seven acres of treeless land per person. The
dominant nineteenth and early twentieth
century view that the Indians were ragged
bands of backward savages incapable of hav¬
ing any significant impact on the land — and
the more recent view that they were intui¬
tive ecologists whose religious respect for
nature forbade them to tamper with it — -is
certainly called into question by the testi¬
mony of the early settlers.
Of course along with the open woodlands
and meadows there were certainly stands of
denser, older forest; the landscape was a
shifting mosaic through time and space, the
product of many competing forces. But the
accounts of early travelers and other evidence
suggests that Indian-set fires had a major ef¬
fect in shifting the balance toward younger
stands on a very broad scale. An analysis of
early land surveys concluded that at the time
the European settlers arrived in the Pacific
Northwest in the nineteenth century, stands
older than 200 years occupied only about 5
percent of southwest Oregon — hardly the
“sea of old growth” that modern environ¬
mental activists claim once existed (Zybach
1994). Even supposedly uninhabited regions
were frequented regularly by Indian war or
hunting parties that left their mark. In
southwestern Virginia William Byrd re¬
ported seeing the sky filled with smoke so
dense that it blocked out the mountains.
“This happened not from haziness of the
sky,” he said, “but from the firing of the
woods by the Indians, for we were now near
the route the northern savages take when
they go to war with the Catawbas and other
southern nations. On their way, the fires
they make in their camps are left burning,
which catching the dry leaves which lie near,
soon put the adjacent woods in a flame”
(Maxwell 1953). Other travelers reported
finding vast, open savannas far inland from
the heavily occupied eastern seaboard; the
only trees that they found growing there
were confined to low swamps or wet areas
along streams, which escaped the flames.
Fire scars left in the annual growth rings of
old trees in New Jersey confirm the settlers’
observations, testifying to fires every ten to
fifteen years (Little 1974). Careful studies of
the fire history of the Rocky Mountains of¬
fer convincing evidence for frequent Indian-
set fires in that region, too. When tree rings
of old-growth stands in western Montana
were analyzed, it became clear that fires were
much more frequent (once every nine years)
in areas that had been heavily used by Indi¬
ans, as compared to similar but more remote
sites (every 18 years). And more frequent
burning had major ecological implications:
Stands that burn every seven years or so are
dominated by tall ponderosa pines and a
grassy undergrowth. Older stands, by con¬
trast, become rapidly clogged with woody
shrubs, an understory of shade-tolerant
Douglas fir, and a build-up of insect and dis¬
ease pests (Barrett and Arno 1982).
Perhaps the most telling evidence for the
dominant role that Indian-set fires played in
shaping the American landscape is what hap¬
pened when the Indians were pushed off the
land. One early Massachusetts settler ob¬
served that “in some places where the Indi¬
ans dyed of the Plague some foureteene
yeares agoe, is much underwood . . . because
it hath not been burned” (Thompson and
Smith 1970:259). One of the great ironies
in the myth of the forest primeval is that the
dense, thick woods that later settlers did in¬
deed encounter and arduously cleared were
not remnants of the “forest primeval” at all.
They were the recent, tangled second growth
that sprung up on once-cleared Indian lands
only after the Indians had been killed or
evicted and the Europeans began to suppress
Volume 86 (1998)
21
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
fire. What later settlers took for the forest
primeval was in fact much closer to being
an abandoned ranch. “The virgin forest was
not encountered in the sixteenth and seven¬
teenth centuries,” writes one historian; “it
was invented in the late eighteenth and early
nineteenth centuries” (Pyne 1982:46—47).
2
What, then, explains this late-eighteenth and
early-nineteenth century urge to revise this
history, to romanticize nature, to reinvent
the American landscape as a virgin wildland
and the Indians as ecological saints who trod
softly on moccasined feet without snapping
a twig?
The admiration for nature that has
emerged as a prominent and broadly ac¬
cepted feature of Western culture over the
last 200 years or so finds little counterpart
in the previous 2,000 years of Western civi¬
lization. Cultural beliefs of course rarely
spring into existence fully formed; it is al¬
most always possible to find hints and
foreshadowings of any era’s characteristic
sentiments, beliefs, and ideologies; indeed it
is not uncommon to find certain beliefs and
their antitheses coexisting for thousands of
years, with one or the other predominating
at different times. There is much enthusi¬
asm among environmentalists today for trac¬
ing a human love of nature even to our
genes — it is, we are told, a “biophilia” that
reflects an evolutionary adaptation of stone
age man. Maybe so, and likewise perhaps a
love of freedom is in our genes, too. But that
tells us nothing about why American democ¬
racy arose when it did after centuries in
which kings and despots reigned. Similarly,
however ancient the roots of modern affin¬
ity for nature may be, the fact remains that
for most of recorded history, the dominant
mode of feeling toward nature expressed in
Western civilization was one of hostility.
Before the end of the eighteenth century,
mountains, when they were commented
upon at all, were generally described with
abhorrence. They were “warts,” “wens,” “the
rubbish of creation.” Dr. Johnson, in 1738,
expressed the opinion that the Scottish hills
“had been dismissed by nature from her
care.” Other seventeenth and early eigh¬
teenth century writers were hardly less spar¬
ing in their censure of mountains: The Alps
were “high and hideous,” “monstrous excres¬
cences of nature,” the place where nature
had “swept up the rubbish of the earth to
clear the plains of Lombardy.” An early visi¬
tor to Pike’s Peak wrote, “The dreariness of
the desolate peak itself scarcely dissipates the
dismal spell, for you stand in a confusion of
dull stones piled upon each other in odious
ugliness” (Rees 1973).
The very word wilderness was a term of
clear disapprobation. It meant an unim¬
proved wasteland, a place devoid of value, a
place to be shunned and hurried through.
Mountains were places of wolves, bears, ban¬
dits, bad roads, and violent and unpredict¬
able weather. The North American forests
harbored wild animals and hostile Indians.
To a farmer who needed to clear fields to
feed his family and graze his livestock, the
woods were a back-breaking obstacle; felling
trees and pulling stumps was the most ar¬
duous job a settler faced.
In Medieval Europe, affection for nature
carried with it the further suspicion of sac¬
rilege; axe-wielding monks leveled forests to
extirpate sacred groves or other sites of pa¬
gan nature-worship (Oelschlaeger 1991:70—
72). Landing at Plymouth, William Brad¬
ford beheld the New World — and called it
“a hideous & desolate wilderness, full of wild
beasts & wild men.” The forests of New
England were a “howling” and “dismal”
place, gloomy and sinister, full of evils real
22
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BUDIANSKY: Some Historical Influences on Modern Views of Nature in America
and spiritual. In 1653 the English historian
Edward Johnson described the forests of
North America as a “remote, rocky, barren,
bushy, wild- woody wilderness,” and he was
not being complimentary (Cronon 1983:5).
So, again, what explains the great change
of heart between the eighteenth century and
now? How did nature change from a place
of chaos, ugliness, and evil to one of order,
harmony, and beauty?
Rarely has there been such an abrupt and
sweeping transformation in dominant social
attitudes. Yet in its very abruptness lies the
explanation of how an ecologically unsub¬
stantiated and ahistorical belief in nature as
perfect, orderly, harmonious, and separate
from man came to be virtually synonymous
with a love for nature, and why even today
this special vision of the natural world holds
such a grip upon us. Nature — or at least the
Arcadian vision of nature as a place of tow¬
ering, ancient woods, majestic beasts, and
timeless hills, a place where man may enter
only as an intruder, observer, or worship¬
per — was an invention of the imagination of
man. To love nature, man first had to in¬
vent a nature worth loving. And in invent¬
ing nature he perhaps inevitably consulted
the romantic yearnings of his soul, not the
miserable experience of thousands of years
of grim reality. It was “the literary gentle¬
man wielding a pen, not the pioneer with
an axe” who could afford to romanticize na¬
ture (Nash 1982:44).
For the early nature appreciation move¬
ment was both self-conscious and self-con¬
sciously elitist. Those eighteenth century
aristocrats — for aristocrats they almost exclu¬
sively were — who suddenly and unexpect¬
edly began to express an admiration of
mountains and other natural scenery were
explicit in their belief that the ability to ap¬
preciate such beauty was not innate, but ac¬
quired. Nature was something that only the
cultivated, trained through an appreciation
of fine painting and landscape gardening,
could truly understand and value. It was a
sort of connoisseurship; one could no more
expect a ploughman to properly appreciate
the Alps than one could expect him to ap¬
preciate a glass of fine old port. As late as
1844, the poet William Wordsworth was
complaining in a letter to an English news¬
paper about a proposed railroad that was to
be built to the Lake District. His concern
was not, as a modern-day preservationist
might expect, that the railroad itself would
mar the countryside; the problem was rather
that it would bring trainloads of untutored
sightseers who were not equipped to value
what they were seeing. “The perception of
what has acquired the name of picturesque
and romantic scenery,” he sniffed, “is so far
from being intuitive that it can be produced
only by a slow and gradual process of cul¬
ture” (Rees 1975).
The tastes of the aristocratic nature lovers
of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries
were perfectly revealed in the English land¬
scape movement, which rejected the tame,
artificial symmetry and formality of tradi¬
tional gardens in favor of the wild and “natu¬
ral.” But the flowing landscapes that replaced
the rigid lines of trees in pots and clipped
hedges were an invented nature, an aesthete’s
nature. Every curve and vista was calculated
to offer “insights” and “subjects of medita¬
tion”; streams were dammed to form poetic
lakes, trees were set in artful clumps, and gar¬
den buildings were pressed into service as
moral or philosophical allegories. There was
a great truck in Classical and Gothic ruins,
real and synthetic. “English landscape was
invented by gardeners imitating foreign
painters who were invoking classical authors,”
mocks the character Hannah in Tom Stop¬
pard’s play “Arcadia,” and she has it about
right (Stoppard 1993:25).
Volume 86 (1998)
23
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
The carefully crafted landscapes of ruined
abbeys, jagged cliffs, unkempt trees (“every¬
thing but vampires,” Hannah says) betrayed
a motive that beclouds our thoughts about
nature to this day. The natural world’s abil¬
ity to stir the soul, even fill it with terror,
was the prime attraction. This was nature as
escapism — the place that “can stir you up as
you were made to be stirred up,” as the Si¬
erra Club’s David Brower would still de¬
scribe it two centuries later (Hamilton
1994). Much the same taste accounted for
the popularity of the Gothic novel; indeed
the English landscape garden was almost a
Gothic novel come to life, in crags and un¬
kempt trees and “druidical” huts. The eigh¬
teenth century English landscape architect
William Kent went so far as to plant dead
trees in Kensington Gardens “to give a
greater air of truth to the scene.” The idea
was to create a garden that looked old, as if
it had been neglected for centuries. In a few
particularly wonderful instances the Gothic
touches went completely over the top. The
owner of Pain’s Hill in Surrey had a hermit¬
age, complete with resident hermit, installed
on his redone grounds. The hermit signed
a seven-year contract at £700; he was sup¬
plied food, hassock, and hourglass, and un¬
dertook not to cut his hair, beard, or nails
and to eschew speech. It was perhaps only
inevitable that he was caught sneaking down
to the pub after just three weeks on the job
(Elliott 1994; Johnson 1979:226-27).
By the end of the eighteenth century, the
well-to-do English seekers of soul-stirring
experience were beginning to venture forth
from their libraries and gardens into the
genuine “wilderness,” too. They were doing
what seems perfectly commonplace now, but
what was an exceptional departure then.
English tourists began visiting Scotland and
its wild hills in significant numbers only
around 1810; it was in 1818 that the first
English-language guidebook to Switzerland
and the Alps was published. The motive of
these pioneering nature tourists was virtu¬
ally indistinguishable from that of the land¬
scape gardeners. In expressing a love of the
natural world, both were expressing a hun¬
ger for heightened experience, and it was
only a very particular and idealized concep¬
tion of nature that could fit that bill — a na¬
ture vast, ancient, eternal, separate, and awe¬
inspiring, a nature that at least presented the
illusion of being beyond the touch of man.
Such a wilderness proved the “ideal stage for
the Romantic individual to exercise the cult
that he frequently made of his own soul,”
as the historian Roderick Nash put it. But
it is telling that these connoisseurs of the
“sublime” — an odd word that came to be
used at the time to express the contradictory
emotion of fear and thrill (the notion also
crops up in a predilection for deliberately
contradictory phrases such as “delightful
horror,” “terrible joy”) — were as apt to visit
coal mines and quarries as mountains to sat¬
isfy this penchant (Rees 1975; Worster
1977:81-83; Nash 1982:47).
Again, we are dealing with degrees, not
absolutes. Not all of the early environmen¬
talists were aristocrats; John Muir notably
was of humble origins. But if one looks
through the rolls of the nature preservation
societies in Britain and America in the nine¬
teenth century the pattern is undeniable
(Lowe and Goyder 1983, B ram well 1989).
3
Indians only fit into the romantic picture of
a wild, untouched wilderness to the extent
that they could be seen as creatures of na¬
ture themselves, living in perfect harmony
with nature’s harmonious perfection. Many
modern-day nature lovers assiduously per¬
petuate the myth of the noble savage in par-
24
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BUDIANSKY: Some Historical Influences on Modern Views of Nature in America
allel to the myth of pristine nature. Ancient
hunter-gatherers, who lived in a state of “bal¬
anced and harmonious” existence, altering
“neither the natural firmament nor the ani¬
mals and plants that share the land with
them,” were the original lovers and worship¬
ers of nature, writes the environmental his¬
torian and philosopher Max Oelschlaeger,
for one (Oelschlaeger 1991:34).
Yet ecological and archaeological evidence
strongly suggests not only that Indians prac¬
ticed landscape management on a truly he¬
roic scale with the use of fire, but also that
they were perfectly capable of drastically al¬
tering the size and distribution of ungulate
populations, and even hunting a number of
species to extinction (Kay 1994). Estimates
of the pre-Columbian population of Amer¬
ica are notoriously uncertain, but credible
calculations place the number of people liv¬
ing north of the Rio Grande as high as 12
million (Dobyns 1966, Denevan 1992). Far
from being a small band of harmonious
stewards of the land, they dramatically
modified their environment. Camels, wood¬
land musk oxen, mammoths, mastodons,
stagmoose all vanished shortly after the first
major occupation of North America by man,
12,000 years ago. All were species that had
evolved for a million years in North America
in the absence of human hunters; the spe¬
cies that survived, by contrast (moose, elk,
caribou, deer), were all recent arrivals from
Asia and whose evolutionary history in¬
cluded defensive adaptations to human pre¬
dation (Pielou 1991:254-57).
The determination to ignore such un¬
comfortable facts and to idealize the Indi¬
ans as precocious environmentalists remains
strong and may explain the credulity with
which many have accepted and propagated
the now-famous speech of Chief Seattle, a
nineteenth-century American Indian whose
prophetic warnings of the coming ecologi¬
cal crisis first came to wide public attention
when they were used to narrate a 1972 tele¬
vision movie about pollution, called Home.
“This we know-— the earth does not belong
to man, man belongs to the earth,” the chief
declares in one of the many versions of the
speech that were subsequently reprinted.
“All things are connected like the blood
which unites one family. Whatever befalls
the earth befalls the sons of the earth. Man
did not weave the web of life; he is merely a
strand in it. Whatever he does to the web,
he does to himself.”
To a few experts on American Indians,
this all smelled a bit fishy. The real Chief
Seattle did make a speech in about 1855,
which was recounted thirty years later in a
newspaper article by an American who had
been in the audience; but according to this
account, Seattle merely praised the generos¬
ity of the “great white chief’ for buying his
lands and offered not a word of ecological
insight. (Seattle was also known to histori¬
ans for his dignified refusal to allow the
grateful white settlers to name their town
after him; he objected that his eternal sleep
would be interrupted each time a mortal ut¬
tered his name. The objection vanished
when the whites proposed levying a small tax
on themselves to provide the chief with some
advance compensation for his troubles in the
hereafter.) Nowhere was there any record of
Seattle as a prophet of environmentalism.
A little research eventually cleared up the
mystery. The reason Chief Seattle’s speech
sounded remarkably like the words of a
twentieth-century, white, middle-class envi¬
ronmentalist, it turned out, was because they
were the words of a twentieth-century,
white, middle-class environmentalist. Ted
Perry, a professor of film at the University
of Texas at Austin, had written the script for
the movie and had never claimed that the
words he put in Chief Seattle’s mouth were
Volume 86 (1998)
25
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
anything but fiction. But the truth has never
quite managed to catch up, and even though
the spuriousness of Chief Seattle’s speech has
been widely publicized, Seattle’s anachronis¬
tic warnings about the fragile balance of na¬
ture continue to be reprinted and quoted in
environmental magazines, sermons from the
pulpit, classroom study kits, posters, text¬
books, and bumper stickers. As a seemingly
far-seeing anticipation of the central credo
of modern environmentalism by a represen¬
tative of an ancient way of life, Chief
Seattle’s speech has attained the status of
what one admiring environmentalist
thinker — Theodore Roszak, a professor of
history at California State University — has
called “a piece of folklore in the making, a
literary artifact mingling traditional culture
with contemporary aspiration.” Roszak is
aware that the speech is a twentieth-century
concoction, and admits that he “initially had
some scholarly qualms about citing the
chief’ in his writings, but decided to go
ahead anyway: Seattle’s “semilegendary”
words, Roszak explained, “have become pre¬
cious to the environmental movement”
(Murray 1993; Roszak 1993:30,338-39).
4
There was another force that played a role
of great importance in converting new fol¬
lowers to a love of nature in the late eigh¬
teenth and early nineteenth centuries, and
that was religion. Petrarch climbed a moun¬
tain in 1336 and found himself “abashed”
at taking pleasure in nature, fearing that to
do so was sacrilege. Five centuries later the
American theologian Jonathan Edwards pro¬
posed a different solution to the conflict be¬
tween God and nature. Admiring nature was
permissible, even admirable, he argued, pre¬
cisely because nature was “God speaking to
us.” The feeling of sublime terror inspired
by wilderness was a reminder of God’s
power and wrath. Even the dirt that covers
everything and “which tends to defile the
feet of the traveler” is a salutary moral les¬
son from God, a reminder that “the world
is full of that which tends to defile the soul”
(Albanese 1990:43—45). Others were less
explicit about the precise moral lessons of
nature and began to suggest simply that sub¬
lime landscapes were suitable objects of con¬
templation as stirring reminders of God’s
magnificence and grandeur.
This was a significant departure from the
recent Puritan past. The wild and terrible in
nature was no longer the rubbish left over
from the creation or the unenlightened prov¬
ince of the devil. It was a testimonial to the
greatness of God. Climbing a mountain was
no longer an act of sacrilege, but an act of
moral instruction.
If it was not yet an act of worship, that
was coming. To Henry David Thoreau,
nature’s value was above all what it would
do for man’s soul. “I derive more of my sub¬
sistence from the swamps which surround
my native town than from the cultivated gar¬
dens in the village,” he wrote. “My spirits
infallibly rise in proportion to the outward
dreariness. . . . When I would recreate my¬
self, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and
most interminable and, to the citizen, most
dismal swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred
place, — a sanctum sanctorum.” His mo¬
tive was a “desire to bathe my head in at¬
mospheres unknown to my feet” (Emerson
and Thoreau 1991:94-100).
For Thoreau, nature’s chief value was that
it was not the town. The woods were an es¬
cape from social corruption, or, more to the
point, people. “Society is always diseased,
and the best is the most so,” he wrote in The
Natural History of Massachusetts. The con¬
ventions of social intercourse were stultify¬
ing. “Politics ... are but as the cigar-smoke
26
TRANSACTIONS
BUDIANSKY: Some Historical Influences on Modern Views of Nature in America
of a man.” Commerce was frivolous. Labor
was degrading, farming no better than serf¬
dom. Even man’s amusements were noth¬
ing but a sign of the depths of his despair.
“The greater part of what my neighbors call
good I believe in my soul to be bad.” The
word village , he said, comes from the same
Latin root as vile and villain, which “suggests
what kind of degeneracy villagers are liable
to.” Thoreau wanted to “shake off the vil¬
lage,” where men spent empty, monotonous,
vacuous, and spiritually impoverished lives.
“I confess that I am astonished at the power
of endurance, to say nothing of the moral
insensibility, of my neighbors who confine
themselves to shops and offices the whole
day for weeks and months, aye, and years
almost together,” he wrote. It was the free¬
dom that nature had to offer that was its
chief attraction. Thoreau went to live at
Walden Pond, he said, “to transact some
private business with the fewest obstacles.”
If nature’s value rested upon its being a
spiritual refuge from the evils of society, then
nature, by definition, meant its separation
from man and the absence of man. It was
the very fact that man and all his follies were
not to be found there that made nature esti¬
mable. What Thoreau disliked about man’s
presence was not that it would interfere with
or degrade critical biological processes; what
he disliked about man’s presence was its
presence. Thoreau likewise disapproved of
wealth, church, rules, voting, dinner parties,
and young men not as smart as he who
sought to join him on his walks. He would
tell the latter that he “had no walks to throw
away on company” (Emerson 1862, Steven¬
son 1880). The link between environmen¬
talism and escapism is an enduring one, and
Thoreau’s admiration of the wild as a place
to turn one’s back on the town can be heard
in the words of David Brower, Bill Mc-
Kibben, and other nature writers of our day.
Thoreau’s declaration that “in wilderness
is the preservation of the world” is one of
the most quoted in modern environmental
writing. Time and again it is cited in an ut¬
terly anachronistic fashion, however,
wrenched from the clearly spiritual context
of the passage in which it appears. When
Thoreau was talking about “the preservation
of the world,” he did not mean the physical
or ecological world at all, but rather the
spiritual world of man. Those who cite this
passage to lend authority to modern calls for
preserving tropical biodiversity are misun¬
derstanding what Thoreau was saying.
Thoreau’s spiritual aversion to society
readily explains some of the appeal that the
woods held for him. But nature’s stock was
rising at this time for other fundamentally
spiritual reasons, too. Many of the early
American nature worshippers, including
Thoreau’s fellow townsmen in Concord,
Ralph Waldo Emerson and Asa Bronson
Alcott, were deeply involved in many re¬
form-minded causes — temperance, abolition
of slavery, dietary reform, alternative medi¬
cine— -that were seen by their adherents
quite explicitly as a moral and spiritual re¬
jection of artificial evils and a return to the
uncorrupted purity of nature. Just as “natu¬
ral law” had shown Americans the falseness
of monarchy, slavery, and other political sys¬
tems that denied men their God-given
rights, so natural foods and natural healing
would show the falseness of alcohol and ar¬
tificial medicines that denied men their
God-given health. Rather than try to rise
above nature and the “brute” or “animal”
instincts, as Christianity had so long seemed
to urge, the message of these “Christian
physiologists” was that man must give up the
sinful luxuries and excesses of civilization
and return to nature (Albanese 1990:130-
42; Furnas 1969:441-42).
The point is not to suggest that nature
Volume 86 (1998)
27
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
lovers were cranks (though some certainly
were). But it is crucial to recognize that the
impulse that gave rise to such feelings for na¬
ture was fundamentally spiritual, not eco¬
logical. To these pioneering nature enthusi¬
asts nature was but a means to an end. The
spiritual ends they saw in nature were the
justification for paying attention to nature at
all. They were spiritual pilgrims first, bird¬
watchers second. And this attitude further
drove home the conviction that nature — de¬
fined explicitly for this purpose as the world
uncorrupted by man’s artificial evils- — em¬
bodied God’s perfection. Thoreau was surely
tongue-in-cheek when he and a few fellow
drop-outs from Concord society formed the
“Walden Pond Society” as an alternative
church for Sunday morning meetings and
proposed plucking and eating wild huckle¬
berries as a substitute for the more conven¬
tional sacrament of communion. But there
was no hint of irony in Emerson’s transcen¬
dental conviction that nature was the literal
dwelling place of God: “The aspect of na¬
ture is devout. Like the figure of Jesus, she
stands with bended head, and hands folded
upon the breast. The happiest man is he who
learns from nature the lesson of worship.”
Emerson believed that nature was both a
source of moral instruction and discipline,
and the holy of holies where man would be¬
come “part or particle of God” himself
(Emerson and Thoreau 1991:53,63-64;
Alcott 1872:42).
5
Such feelings toward nature are real and ear¬
nest and genuine. Thoreau and Emerson
and later, John Muir, struck a deep chord
that resonates yet. Those who fight for more
wilderness areas these days will speak of ex¬
periencing a sense of connection with some¬
thing greater than themselves, something
“primeval, threatening, and free of jarring
reminders of civilization” (Mardon 1993).
Satisfying human needs, including a need
for spiritual solitude, is a valid end. But what
is good for the soul is not always what is
good for nature. Some ecological goals are
consistent with a goal of wilderness-as-soli-
tude, but many are not. Setting a goal of
providing the experience of solitude tells us
nothing about what measures might be re¬
quired to manage an ecosystem effectively to
preserve endangered species, to reestablish
disturbance processes that have been lost or
suppressed by the advance of civilization, to
restore vanished ecosystems such as the
midwest oak savannas, to counter the effect
of exotics, or to keep ungulate populations
within the range of historical variation that
had obtained since the end of the Ice Age —
under the influence of heavy human preda¬
tion — until the genocide of the Indians and
preservationist policies allowed their num¬
bers to explode.
Of course there has long been a wide
spectrum of thought within the conservation
and environmental movements, and paral¬
leling the nature religion of Thoreau and
Muir there early on arose a scientific and
practical strand of thought represented by
Theodore Roosevelt, Gifford Pinchot, and
Aldo Leopold to name but a few. Many en¬
vironmentalists and conservation biologists
insist that environmentalism today has
moved beyond romantic sentiment and sim¬
plistic formulations about the “balance of
nature”; they insist that romanticism plays
little part in modern, scientifically based ad¬
vocacy for wilderness (Waller 1996). Unfor¬
tunately, one does not have to search very
hard to find simplistic, romantic notions
aplenty in contemporary debates over wil¬
derness. Fundraising literature from main¬
stream environmental groups regularly in¬
vokes the theme that human intrusion is
28
TRANSACTIONS
BUDIANSKY: Some Historical Influences on Modern Views of Nature in America
wrong and unnecessary, that wilderness is a
sacred concept, that excluding “jarring re¬
minders of civilization” is indeed what it is
all about. The “balance of nature” idea and
simplistic, deterministic notions of succes¬
sion and climax may be a dead letter among
scientists, but it is very much alive among
influential nature writers of our day. The
environmental historian Donald Worster,
for example, claims not only that nature lit¬
erally has a set order and purpose that man¬
kind has a moral duty not to interfere with;
he goes on to make the purely political ar¬
gument that scientists who point out the
simplistic myths embodied in the notion of
wilderness or the inherent balance of nature
should not do so because they are thereby
abetting “members of the Farm Bureau” and
other such “fierce private property and mar¬
ketplace advocates” who lack a proper “ethic
of environmental restraint and responsibil¬
ity” (Worster 1997). Worster elsewhere in¬
sists that ecologists must, on moral grounds,
adhere to concepts such as climax and suc¬
cession (which he sees as under siege by
modern “permissive” — his word — concepts
such as disturbance and patch dynamics)
because to abandon “climax ecology” “would
be to remove ecology as a scientific check on
man’s aggrandizing growth” (Worster 1993;
Worster 1977: ix-x, 240-42). The environ¬
mental writer Bill McKibben writes that
man’s intrusion in nature destroys its very
meaning, which is its “independence”
(McKibben 1989:70,73,104). Others have
criticized even ecological restoration on simi¬
lar grounds, arguing that the value of nature
rests solely and completely in its freedom
from “the domination of human technologi¬
cal practice” (Katz 1992).
Such thinking has had very real effects on
contemporary public debate and public
policy. Land managers who have attempted
to institute prescribed burns, carry out sal¬
vage logging to reduce fuel buildup, or, most
controversially, cull ungulates can testify that
nature romanticism is a force that is alive
and well, with a vengeance. Even in large
parks, forests, and wilderness areas, explo¬
sions of ungulate populations have wreaked
havoc on rare songbird species, on endan¬
gered plant populations, and on forest regen¬
eration, yet attempts to limit their numbers
have been repeatedly met by opposition
from environmental groups decrying any
“intrusion” into nature — and such views in¬
creasingly prevail (McLaughlin 1993, Mary¬
land Cooperative Extension Service 1994).
But even a number of prominent scien¬
tists who advocate expanded wilderness ar¬
eas on purportedly scientific grounds fre¬
quently invoke romantic arguments to
justify their position. The so-called “Wild¬
lands Project,” an audacious proposal to
convert as much as half the land area of large
regions of the United States into protected
wilderness, is based on a scientific analysis
of land areas required to sustain minimum
viable populations; yet these analyses con¬
tain huge uncertainties, and Michael Soule,
a biologist and project founder, has been
quoted as defending the project’s basis and
aims in explicitly spiritual terms — as provid¬
ing people with the experience of “wildness,”
“bigness,” and “Fierceness” (Mann and
Plummer 1993).
Likewise, Edward O. Wilson argues that
biodiversity needs to be protected because it
is critical for the human soul — that mankind
supposedly has an instinctive need to bond
with the rest of creation (Wilson 1991:330;
Kellert and Wilson 1993). Indeed, a num¬
ber of writers have recently argued quite ex¬
plicitly that spiritual feelings of peace and
solitude in undeveloped wilderness are the
prime case for protecting biodiversity; in¬
deed, that such spiritual feelings are one and
the same with the scientific case for preserv-
Volume 86 (1998)
29
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
ing biodiversity. Stephen Kellert, for ex¬
ample, equates his feelings of solitude and
escape from civilization during a walk in the
woods with a feeling of “intimate affiliation
with living diversity.” (Kellert, 1996). Part
of why this is so unconvincing is that the
feelings these writers describe in such rich
Thoreauvian prose have everything to do
with the romantic yearning for solitude and
essentially nothing to do with any actual
feelings that people might be able to sum¬
mon up for the insects, bacteria, fungi, para¬
sites, and other interesting life forms that
make up the overwhelming bulk of “living
diversity.”
There are many valid and important eco¬
logical goals which require management
practices that simply will not sit well with
those who nurture the romantic yearning for
“unspoiled” wilderness. Some of these man¬
agement practices are ugly and intrusive and
violent. Some of the important scientific
goals of ecological management are simply
not going to evoke feelings of reverence and
“intimate affiliation” with nature. I person¬
ally believe that protecting even very ugly
endangered species is an important goal, and
would hate to have to rely on romantic or
religious impulses to support it. As some as¬
tute critics have pointed out, there is a very
grave danger of confusing goals here. Cloak¬
ing what is fundamentally a political, senti¬
mental, or religious position in modern sci¬
entific trappings is ultimately corrupting to
science (Cronon 1995).
A more pressing problem is that a goal
of “protecting biodiversity” or creating
“wildlands” tells us no more about how to
set realistic ecological priorities than does a
goal of providing people with opportunities
to experience solitude. Wilson’s “theory of
island biogeography,” a simple formula re¬
lating species diversity to land area, has been
strongly criticized both for its biological in¬
fidelity and mathematical naivete (Connor
and McCoy 1979, Heywood and Stuart
1992, Budiansky 1994) and for diverting
attention from the studies that are actually
needed to help identify biodiversity hotspots
and to set priorities. A significant point is
that areas that people value for their “wild¬
ness” often do not correspond well with
biodiversity hotspots. Nor has a clear scien¬
tific case been made that vast contiguous
“wilderness” areas are always required for
preserving biodiversity effectively (Mann
and Plummer 1995). Daniel Simberloff, a
former student of Wilson’s who has con¬
ducted extensive research on this subject, has
written: “It is sad that the unwarranted fo¬
cus on island biogeography has detracted
from the main task of refuge planners, de¬
termining what habitats are important and
how to maintain them.” (Simberloff 1992).
Indeed, the only specific recommendation
that Wilson derives from his species-area
analyses is a proposal to halt “all” further
development of land in the world (Ehrlich
and Wilson 1991).
This seems unlikely to happen. In the
United States, which can afford to set aside
far more land than arguably any country in
the world, about 5 percent of land is in parks
and wilderness areas; about 70 percent is in
pasture, cropland, and producing forests
(Waggoner, Ausubel, and Wernick 1996).
Even under the most optimistic population
control scenarios, world population is likely
to reach about 10 billion sometime in the
next century before leveling off (Bongaarts
1994). It seems clear that achieving the eco¬
logical ends that are widely shared today —
such as preserving endangered species — will
require active management of many land
area that do not fit the definition of “wil¬
derness.”
Far from being compatible with the sci¬
entific demands of ecological management,
30
TRANSACTIONS
BUDIANSKY: Some Historical Influences on Modern Views of Nature in America
the tenaciously lingering romanticism to¬
ward nature is often at odds with what is
needed. True, if we could set aside half the
United States as “wildlands,” size alone
could accomplish a lot — -it could allow for
the establishment of large metapopulations,
capture natural disturbance processes on a
broader scale, and provide needed habitat for
certain endangered species such as grizzly
bears and wolves that need large individual
ranges. But even then there would be prob¬
lems that would demand active human in¬
tervention if our ecological goals are to be
met. Disturbance processes upon which
many species depend have been curtailed, if
not within parks or wilderness areas, then in
surrounding areas. Exotic species have in¬
truded. Animals’ migration routes have been
cut. And the part played by humans for eco¬
logically significant timespans would still be
eliminated from such “wild lands.” To have
a “functioning ecosystem,” we would have
to make it happen. Intrusion is ecologically
sound policy; “wilderness” is not.
Yet the resilience of an artificial view of
wilderness, with its deep historical roots,
may well explain why “hands-on” manage¬
ment of ecosystems, even for the purest and
noblest of environmental ends, so often
meets harsh resistance from those who
equate any intrusion of man with sacrilege
against the credo of nature’s perfection, its
unity, and its symbolic value as a critique of
the shortcomings of human society.
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BUDIANSKY: Some Historical Influences on Modern Views of Nature in America
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Stephen Budiansky is a Correspondent for The
Atlantic Monthly and the author of several books
about nature and animals, including Nature’s
Keepers: The New Science of Nature Manage¬
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Lane, Leesburg, Virginia 20176.
Volume 86 (1998)
33
Angela E. Collada and Alan Haney
Vegetation Changes
Associated with Oak Wilt
in a Wisconsin Sand Savanna
Abstract This study evaluates the effects of oak wilt , a disease caused by the
fungus Ceratocystis fagacearum on plant species abundance ,
composition, and structure in degraded oak barrens at Necedah
National Wildlife Refuge. Open patches created by oak wilt are
compared to degraded barrens immediately surrounding each
patch. Patches are also compared to Old Barrens, a savanna
community in the Refuge that has remained open since a wildfire
in 1936. Two soil associations predominate in the study area: the
better drained Plainfield-Friendship association supported
significantly more patches and more prairie /savanna species than
the poorly drained Meeha n -Newso n soils. As predicted, more
prairie /savanna species occurred in patches than surrounding
woods, but far more occurred in Old Barrens than in patches when
comparing within the same soil type. Total herbaceous cover was
higher in patches than Old Barrens, and deciduous shrub cover
was higher in Old Barrens than in patches ; total herbaceous cover
was also higher in patches than in woods. Total deciduous and
coniferous tree cover was lower in patches than woods, although
significant only when comparing patches to woods on Plainfield-
Friendship soil. Total herbaceous cover was negatively correlated
to total tree cover.
The dependence of savanna ecosystems on disturbance is
well known (Curtis 1959, Anderson 1982, Nuzzo 1986,
Haney and Apfelbaum 1991, Skarpe 1992, Heikens and
Robertson 1994, Huston 1994). Fire effects, the primary dis¬
turbance associated with savannas, have been studied exten¬
sively. Fire reduces the litter layer and canopy cover by killing
shrubs and small trees, thereby allowing more light to reach
the ground (Dyksterhuis 1957, Daubenmire 1968, White
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
35
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
1983, Hulbert 1986, Skarpe 1992, Huston
1994). Warmer soil temperatures and in¬
creased light, in turn, encourage the germi¬
nation and growth of fire-adapted and
shade-intolerant species (Daubenmire 1968,
Tester 1989, Huston 1994).
Depending upon intensity and the initial
successional stage of the savanna, grazing, in
conjunction with fire, also discourages the
invasion of woody species and alters species
composition in favor of those characteristic
of open sites (Dyksterhuis 1937, Dauben¬
mire 1968, Anderson 1982, Dyer et al.
1982). Effects of other forms of herbivory,
particularly by insects and soil fauna, have
yet to be studied (McPherson 1993). While
the ecological role of disease, in general, is
poorly understood (Burdon 1994, Castello
et al. 1995), the localized, host-specific im¬
pact of oak wilt is well documented (Gibbs
and French 1980, Menges and Loucks 1984,
Webber and Gibbs 1989).
Ceratocystis fagacearum, the fungus that
causes oak wilt, was first identified in Wis¬
consin over a century ago (Warder 1881).
The principle long-distance vector of the
fungus is the picnic beetle (Coleoptera:
Nitidulidae) (Buchanan I960, Gibbs and
French 1980, Webber and Gibbs 1989,
Bruhn and Heyd 1992), which is attracted
to wounded but otherwise healthy trees. Pic¬
nic beetles can transfer spores up to 1 mile
from an infected oak (Juzwik 1983 cited in
Bruhn and Heyd 1992). Local spread occurs
through root grafts (Kuntz and Riker 1961,
Bruhn and Heyd 1992), the fusing of the
roots resulting in functional vascular connec¬
tions (Graham and Bormann 1966), and is
the primary means of transmission (Gibbs
and French 1980). Root grafts account for
the patches of dead oaks that characterize an
infected area (Worf and Kuntz 1978, Gibbs
and French 1980).
The extent of root grafting varies by spe¬
cies and is influenced by soil (Gillespie and
True 1939, Graham and Bormann 1966,
Bruhn et al. 1991, Bruhn and Heyd 1992).
Red oaks (genus Quercus, subgenus Erythro-
balanus ), the dominant deciduous trees of
oak barrens (Curtis 1959, Whitford and
Whitford 1971), are especially prone to root
grafting (Worf and Kuntz 1978), and the
incidence of root grafts increases on sandy,
well-drained soils (Gillespie and True 1959,
MacDonald and Hindal 1981, Bruhn and
Heyd 1992).
Studies of C. fagacearum to date have
fallen into two broad categories: epidemio¬
logical studies, including the impact of oak
wilt on oaks (Henry et al. 1944, Struck-
meyer et al. 1954, Buchanan I960, Kuntz
and Riker 1961, Worf and Kuntz 1978,
Gibbs and French 1980, Jacobi and Mac¬
Donald 1980, MacDonald and Hindal
1981), and models of the spread of the
fungus (Menges and Loucks 1984, Menges
and Kuntz 1985, Appel et al. 1989, Bruhn
etal. 1991).
This paper examines the effect of oak wilt
on the vegetation in a successionally ad¬
vanced oak barrens at Necedah National
Wildlife Refuge (NNWR) in west central
Wisconsin. Barrens are a type of savanna
characterized by stunted trees and coarse or
shallow soils (Curtis 1959, Haney and
Apfelbaum 1991, Heikens and Robertson
1994). Curtis (1959) described the vegeta¬
tion of the Central Sands region as pine bar¬
rens, a true savanna dominated by scattered,
slow-growing oaks, primarily Quercus
ellipsoidalis and Q velutina and Pinus
banksiana and P. resinosa. Historically, fire,
in conjunction with disease and grazing by
both ungulates and insects, maintained the
unique physiognomy and structure of bar¬
rens; fire suppression at NNWR allowed the
barrens to develop into mixed oak and pine
woodlands.
36
TRANSACTIONS
COLLADA and HANEY: Vegetation Changes Associated with Oak Wilt
Speculation about the historical effect of
oak wilt as a natural disturbance (Anderson
1982, Warder 1991, Heikens and Robert¬
son 1994) as well as our own observations
of structure and the presence of open-site
species in oak wilt patches led us to hypoth¬
esize that the impact of oak wilt on barrens
communities was similar to the effects of
fire. We expected to see more savanna forbs
in the ground layer of patches than in the
woods. We also expected total herbaceous
cover in patches to approximate cover in
well-maintained barrens and to be higher
than in the surrounding woods. Carex
pensylvanica, a species of open, upland
woods, was expected to be the dominant
herbaceous species in the woods, and wood¬
land species in general were expected to be
less abundant in patches. We also predicted
that Pinus banksiana, an early successional
species, would be more common in the
ground, shrub, and tree layers in patches
than in the surrounding forest, comparable
to open barrens, reasoning that opening the
canopy through the loss of oak trees would
favor P. banksiana regeneration.
Methods
Study Site
The Necedah National Wildlife Refuge is
located in the Central Sands region of Wis¬
consin, in Townships 18-20 North, Ranges
2-3 East. The NNWR was established in
1936 and currently includes 18,21 1 ha that
are managed primarily for biodiversity and
recreation. Barrens restoration became a pri¬
ority in 1993 in response to concern over
the federally endangered Karner blue butter¬
fly (Lycaeides melissa samuelis) and other rare
species. Currently, 227 ha of mixed oak
woodland have been restored to savanna by
reducing canopy cover in woodlands from
about 90% to approximately 30% through
tree removal and fire. A total of 1,441 ha is
planned for restoration and management as
oak and pine savanna.
Oak wilt was first identified at NNWR
in 1975, and aerial photographs were taken
in 1978 to assess the extent of spread of the
fungus. Initial oak wilt research in 1 979 —
1 98 1 focused on methods for controlling the
spread of the fungus (J. Walters, unpub¬
lished report). No other research was con¬
ducted to determine the impact of oak wilt
on the NNWR, and we found no published
studies of the ecological effects of C.
fagacearum.
Two associations comprised the majority
of soils at our study site. Plainfield-Friend-
ship soils are well drained and located on
higher ground, typically a minimum of 1.5
m above the water table (Gundlach et al.
1991, D. Omernik, personal communi¬
cation). Meehan-Newson soils are poorly dr¬
ained and occur in lower lying areas. The
five soil series form a gradient from well-
drained ridges to poorly drained sedge
meadows.
Patch Selection and Sampling
Five of the 69 sections comprising NNWR
were randomly selected for sampling. Man¬
agement history of selected sections was re¬
searched, and sections were discarded if dis¬
turbed since 1968 by events such as fire,
logging, or hydrological change. All sections
included in the study contained a minimum
of seven oak wilt patches, of which at least
five were randomly selected for sampling.
Oak wilt patches were identified pri¬
marily by the proximity of several dead oak
trees, typically in a circular or elliptical
pattern. A minimum of three to four
adjacent dead oaks were required to qualify
an area as a patch. Areas with fewer than
three to four dead oaks qualified if wilting
leaves were present on at least one of the
Volume 86 (1998)
37
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
trees, indicating an active oak wilt site. Ten
patches were sampled in the first section to
ensure that sufficient data were collected,
and six patches were sampled in another
section because one patch was extremely
small. A total of 31 patches were sampled
in May and August 1993 and July 1996.
The center of each selected patch was
identified and line transects established along
0, 90, 180 and 270 degree azimuths from
the center. Transects began 1 m from the
patch center and extended a minimum of 50
m beyond the edge of the patch into the sur¬
rounding woods unless vegetation graded
into wetlands, pine plantations, or other
habitat unsuited for growth of oaks, at which
point transects were terminated. Soils were
identified for each 10 m segment along each
transect.
Percent cover for each species in the
ground layer (vegetation < 1 m tall) was es¬
timated using 1 m2 circular plots centered
at 10 m intervals beginning 1 m from the
center of the patch. The number of plots
varied with the length of each transect.
Coarse litter, fine litter, and bare soil were
also estimated. Bryophyte and lichen cover
was estimated but not evaluated.
Tree (> 1 m tall, > 5 cm dbh) and shrub
and small tree (> 1 m tall, < 5 cm dbh) cover
were recorded by species for each 10 m seg¬
ment using a line intercept method (Kent
and Coker 1992). Because hybridization of
Quercus ellipsoidalis and Q.velutina, both of
which are in the red oak subgenus, was so
extensive and rendered the two species vir¬
tually indistinguishable (Curtis 1959), these
trees were identified as their hybrid, Q.
paleolithicola (Gleason and Cronquist 1991).
Old Barrens, also located on Plainfield-
Friendship soil, is a floristically diverse unit
on the Refuge that appears to have been
maintained by oak wilt (R. King, personal
communication) since a wild fire restored it
in 1936. Vegetation at Old Barrens was
sampled by Refuge staff in 1995 using a
sampling protocol similar to ours. We com¬
pared their data to that we collected from
oak wilt patches on Plainfield-Friendship
soils.
Analysis was conducted at two levels: veg¬
etation in oak wilt patches was compared to
the undisturbed woodlands immediately
surrounding the patches, and comparisons
were made of vegetation on patches occur¬
ring on Plainfield-Friendship soils to vegeta¬
tion on Old Barrens. The distribution of
patches and woods across the two soil asso¬
ciations was examined using a chi-square
test. Preliminary analysis of vegetation data
indicated that even the most common spe¬
cies had skewed distributions; that and un¬
even sample size led us to compare the
abundance of species using the Mann-
Whitney U test (. P< 0.05) (Sokal and Rohlf
1981). We used the Spearman correlation
coefficient to determine the effect of canopy
cover on total herbaceous cover (Sokal and
Rohlf 1981). Designation of prairie/savanna
species is based on Gleason and Cronquist
(1991) and a list compiled by Will-Wolf
and Stearns (in press).
Results
Soils
Chi-square tests of the distribution of
patches and woods by soil type confirmed
( P< 0.0001) that most oak wilt patches are
on Plainfield-Friendship soils. Not only did
patches occur with much greater frequency
on the better drained soils, they also tended
to be larger (not significantly) on average.
Patches ranged in size from 22-78 m in di¬
ameter (mean = 52 m) on Plainfield-Friend-
ship soils while patches on Meehan-Newson
soils averaged 23—63 m in diameter (mean
= 40 m).
38
TRANSACTIONS
COLLADA and HANEY: Vegetation Changes Associated with Oak Wilt
Structure
Comparisons between Old Barrens and oak
wilt patches on Plainfield-Friendship soil of
the three strata (total ground, woody sapling
and shrub, and tree layers) revealed sig¬
nificant differences in the ground and shrub
layers (Table 1). Sedges, primarily Carex
pensylvanica, were almost twice as abundant
in patches as in Old Barrens (P < 0.0012)
whereas grasses were ten-fold more abundant
in Old Barrens (P < 0.0004). Deciduous
shrubs were more prevalent in Old Barrens
than in patches (P< 0.0214).
Comparisons of patches with surround¬
ing woods by soil type showed greater
structural variation at several levels (Table 2).
Significant differences (P < 0.05) in total
cover occurred only in the ground layer,
which was greater in patches than in woods.
Total forb cover was significantly higher on
Meehan-Newson soils, but total graminoid
cover was higher on Plainfield-Friendship
soils. Sedge cover was consistently higher on
Plainfield-Friendship soil, but grass cover,
which was low compared to sedges, dis¬
played no clear pattern in distribution across
soils or location. Total tree cover (P <
0.0082) and deciduous tree cover ( P <
0.0240) were both lower in patches than in
woods, as expected.
An examination of total ground layer
cover as a function of total tree cover verified
that herb cover decreased as canopy cover
increased (P < 0.001) (Figure 1). Ground
layer cover as a function of canopy cover in
Old Barrens and patches on Plainfield-
Friendship soil was not significantly different
{P< 0.303).
Individual Species Distribution
Standardized species richness, the average
number of species per 10 m transect, was
calculated to take into account the varying
unit sizes in the oak wilt study area and Old
Barrens (Table 3). Standardized richness was
significantly higher ( P < 0.0003) in Old
Barrens than in patches on Plainfield-
Friendship soil; there was no statistical
difference between patches and woods on
either soil type.
Table 1. Total mean percent cover and standard deviation for growth forms and sub¬
sets of growth forms for Old Barrens and patches on Plainfield-Friendship soil.1
Volume 86 (1998)
39
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 2. Total percent cover and standard deviation1, for growth forms and subsets of
growth forms by soil and location for oak wilt patches and woods.
Plain field-Friendship Soil Meehan-Newson Soil 1
Patches Woods Patches Woods
1 No significant difference was reported for any species; superscripts were applied without regard to possible
significance or insignificance between species on these sites.
2 Means with the same superscripted letter were not significantly different.
Thirty-seven species had significantly
different distributions (Table 4) when patches
on Plainfield-Friendship soil were compared
to Old Barrens. Of those 37 species, 18
occurred exclusively in Old Barrens and one,
Gaylussacia baccata, occurred only in the oak
wilt patches. With few exceptions, the species
listed (Table 4) are common to savannas.
Several species, including Rosa Carolina and
Pteridium aquilinum , were not reported in
Old Barrens, although we have observed
them there.
Comparisons of vegetation in patches
and woods by soil type revealed significant
differences in the abundance of 10 species
(Table 3), including Acer rubrum in all three
strata. Species such as Andropogon gerardii
and Pinus banksiana occurred exclusively on
Plainfield-Friendship soil. Carex pensylvanica
was more abundant on Plainfield-Friend¬
ship soil and in patches; Andropogon
scoparius , Achillea millefolium, Koeleria
cristata, Helianthemum canadense, Poa
pratensis, Sorghastrum nutans, and Solidago
spp., whose distributions were not signi¬
ficantly different, nonetheless, were more
abundant in the well-drained Plainfield-
Friendship soil. Gaylussacia baccata
was more abundant on Meehan-Newson
soil and significantly more abundant (P <
0.0043) in the patches than the woods on
that soil type. Pteridium aquilinum also was
more abundant on Meehan-Newson soil
and in woods than in patches, but differ¬
ences were not significant.
Discussion
Oak wilt is a localized disturbance which, as
it spreads, creates small scattered patches
throughout the woodlands that structurally
begin to resemble a barrens. We found that
oak wilt patches were intermediate to a well-
established barrens and surrounding wood-
40
TRANSACTIONS
COLLADA and HANEY: Vegetation Changes Associated with Oak Wilt
Figure 1 . Total ground layer cover as a function of total tree cover for all oak wilt open¬
ings and Old Barrens sites. Locations are identified as patches (P), Old Barrens (OB),
or woods (W), and soils are identified as Plainfield-Friendship (PF) or Meehan-Newson
(MN).
lands in both structure and composition.
Herbaceous cover in patches is much higher
than in the surrounding woods and, depend¬
ing on the soil type, was dominated by ei¬
ther forbs or graminoids. However, the
ground layer in patches contained more
weedy species such as Galeopsis tetrahit and
' Taraxacum officinale and far fewer prairie/
savanna species than Old Barrens. Total
shrub cover was consistently low across all
sites. Total tree cover in patches approxi¬
mated tree cover in Old Barrens and was
considerably lower in both than in the
woods. The cover of Pinus banksiana, which
we hypothesized would increase across all
strata in oak wilt openings, was significantly
higher only in the ground layer on
Plainfield-Friendship soil. Total herb cover
was negatively correlated to tree cover and
was similar in patches and Old Barrens.
Several factors may contribute to the re¬
sults we observed in this study. Soil type was
reported to be a significant factor in the oc¬
currence of oak wilt (Gillespie and True
1959, Bruhn and Heyd 1992), and this was
borne out in our study. Oaks in the shal¬
low, droughty, nutrient-poor Plainfield-
Friendship soil apparently experience a
Volume 86 (1998)
41
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 3. Average number of species by strata per 10 m segment by soil and location.
Table 4. Mean and standard deviation of percent cover for species occurring in Old
Barrens and oak wilt patches on Plainfield-Friendship soil.
1 Only species whose distributions were significantly different are listed.
42
TRANSACTIONS
COLLADA and HANEY: Vegetation Changes Associated with Oak Wilt
Table 5. Mean, standard deviation, and significant differences (P < 0.05) of percent
cover for species in oak wilt patches and woods.
Plainfield-Friendship Soil Meehan-Newson Soil 1
Patches Woods Patches Woods
1 No significant difference was reported for any species; superscript applied without regard to possible
signifcance or insignificance between species on these sites.
2 Means with the same superscripted letter were not significantly different.
higher incidence of root grafting, which in
turn affects the extent of oak wilt spread and,
consequently, patch size.
Most species occurring in Old Barrens are
fire adapted and shade intolerant. We hy¬
pothesize that the effects of fire, including
litter removal, nutrient release, increased
pH, warmer soil surface temperatures, in¬
creased nutrient availability, and reduction
of woody vegetation, will have a different
effect than oak wilt alone. We predict, more¬
over, that fire will have a synergistic effect
when combined with oak wilt.
Old Barrens, in addition to originating by
fire, is a relatively unfragmented 227 ha area,
whereas patches did not exceed 78 m in di¬
ameter (0.48 ha). The low richness of sa¬
vanna species in patches may be influenced
by both patch dynamics and fire; recruit¬
ment and proliferation of savanna species is
more likely to occur in large areas that have
existed for decades than in more recently es¬
tablished, small isolated openings scattered
throughout a woodland.
This study provides a preliminary frame¬
work for understanding the ecological im¬
pact of oak wilt on the vegetation of de¬
graded barrens. Oak wilt may restore some
savanna species by creating barrens structure
in small isolated patches, but other distur¬
bances, notably fire, are probably required
to restore a full complement of savanna spe¬
cies. We believe that studies of the interac¬
tion of oak wilt and fire will add greatly to
our understanding of the successional im¬
portance of oak wilt in savannas.
Acknowledgments
The Department of Defense Legacy Re¬
source Management Program and the Sand
County Foundation funded this project. We
wish to thank Rich King at Necedah Na¬
tional Wildlife Refuge for allowing us to use
the Old Barrens data. Tiata Barbieri assisted
with data collection. The authors appreci¬
ate the helpful suggestions of two anony¬
mous reviewers.
Volume 86 (1998)
43
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
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Will-Wolf, S., and F. Sterns. (In press). Oak sa¬
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and J. Baskin, eds. The savanna , barrens, and
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Angela Collada returned to graduate school fol¬
lowing several years in personnel management.
She completed her M.S. in forestry at UW-
Stevens Point in 1998. This paper was developed
from a portion of her thesis. Address: College of
Natural Resources, University of Wisconsin-
Stevens Point, Stevens Point, WI 54481.
Alan Haney is a Professor of Forestry at the Uni¬
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Volume 86 (1998)
45
Linda DePaul and David Kopitzke
Incentives for Savanna Protection
on Private lands: Past, Present , and Future
Abstract In Wisconsin , as in most parts of the eastern one-half of the United
States, about 80% of the land is owned by private individuals.
These owners may be individuals, families, businesses, and orga¬
nizations. Their diverse backgrounds, goals, and land ownership
sizes create a mosaic of diverse land conditions across the state and
present a challenge to landscape-level management. Yet, many of
the state 's rare species and their associated habitats occur on this
land, including prairie brush clover (Lespedeza leptostachya),
wooly milkweed (Asclepias lanuginosa), purple milkweed
(Ascelepias purpurascens), orchard oriole (Icterus spur ius), and log¬
gerhead shrike (Lanius ludovicianus). Considering the large per¬
centage of Wisconsin's land base that is privately owned, it is not
surprising that many of the known remnants of oak savanna eco¬
systems occur on privately held acreages.
Land ownership trends in the Great Lakes region indicate that
in the future, private holdings will be more fragmented and will
turn over more frequently (Sample et al. 1995). If these important
remnants of our once vast oak savanna ecosystems are to remain
part of Wisconsin s natural heritage, private land owners must be
motivated to play a significant role in their protection. Apart from
forestry and agriculture programs, conservation activities
traditionally have been largely the province of government agencies
or private environmental organizations. Recently, however, the
private landowner's contribution has grown in importance and is
being recognized. Usually this contribution has depended solely on
the goodwill and generosity of a small percentage of concerned
landowners.
Encouraging a larger percentage of landowners to commit
themselves to savanna restoration, management, and protection
requires more compelling incentives than have previously been
available. We have listed a variety of currently available incentives
offered by private conservation organizations and government
agencies, including legislation, technical assistance, payments, and
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
47
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
education. There is much that we can learn
from the past and current successes and failures.
We will discuss the relative success of each of
these methods and will also describe the
practical potential types of incentives that could
be instituted to encourage private landowners
to protect savannas. Continued research, local
involvement, and integrated approaches toward
savanna management on private lands are all
needed to protect this valuable ecosystem.
Birch (1994) states that close to 84% of
the land in Wisconsin is privately
owned, which is close to the 80% figure that
is frequently quoted for all states in the east¬
ern one-half of the United States. Even in
western states, rich in public land, usually
the majority of the land is privately owned.
Nor is this the case only in the United
States. In Australia, for example, 70% of the
land is in private ownership (Clairs et al.
1997).
It is not surprising, then, that many, if
not most, of Wisconsin’s rare species and
their habitats occur on private lands —
owned by individuals, families, businesses,
and organizations. This is certainly true of
oak savanna plant communities. If this very
rare group of plant communities is to remain
a healthy part of Wisconsin’s biota, then pri¬
vate landowners must play a significant role
in its protection.
We adopted a broad definition of a sa¬
vanna: a grassland with scattered trees. This
definition encompasses those communities
that John Curtis (1959) called oak openings,
scrub oak barrens, pine barrens, and cedar
glades. Curtis estimated that at the time of
settlement Wisconsin boasted 9,602,500
acres of savanna — more than 25% of the
state’s total area. Currently, estimates indi¬
cate that there are 1,920 acres of savanna,
only 0.02% of its former area and, of the
total state’s acreage, a mere 0.005% The fig¬
ures show clearly that savannas were once
among the most common of plant commu¬
nities in the state; now they are the rarest.
While some essentially intact oak savanna
communities occur on public land, this does
not automatically assure their protection or
long-term survival. Not all public land man¬
agers are trained to recognize savanna struc¬
ture and species, and oak savanna manage¬
ment techniques are by no means clear. Even
the most ardent of oak savanna enthusiasts
cannot always be sure if burning is indicated,
when to burn, which pesticides are best in
all cases, and which species to encourage or
discourage. Furthermore, there are not
enough public employees who are savanna
ecologists to manage all the potential sa¬
vanna habitat on public land.
This underscores the pressing need for
educating the public, especially landowners,
on how to identify, protect, and manage (as
well as we know how) savannas. In addition,
restoration projects are often expensive and
labor intensive for the landowner. If we re¬
ally want to see savanna communities main¬
tained or restored, we should assist the land-
owner at two levels, education and
implementation. What incentives have there
been to encourage landowners to take an in¬
terest in savannas? To answer this question
adequately, we must first look at the history
of conservation incentives for private land-
owners.
History of Government Incentives
Incentives to private forest landowners have
appeared in many forms and have a long and
rich history. In 1864, George Perkins Marsh
published an influential book entitled Man
& Nature. Nearly one-half of this book was
devoted to the ravages of the forest lands.
During 1872 the first set-aside of more than
two million acres of spectacular forest lands
48
TRANSACTIONS
DEPAUL and KOPITZKE: Incentives for Savanna Protection on Private Lands
for preservation from development occurred.
This was contrary to the government pro¬
grams of the day that were targeted at en¬
couraging homesteading. These types of pro¬
grams essentially gave land away for mining,
farming, and rural development.
In 1911 the first public forest policy was
passed to encourage specific practices on
lands owned by private individuals and busi¬
nesses. However, since large portions of the
American public would not support exten¬
sive federal domination on private lands, for¬
est managers and politicians were forced to
propose programs limited to “encouraging”
better management practices.
Over the last 220 years of our country’s
history, the acceptance of a larger role for
government on private lands has grown.
Some of the more important reasons for this
acceptance include increasing population
numbers, rising incomes and living stan¬
dards, increased competition for limited re¬
sources, broader education, wider suffrage,
and growing conservation and environmen¬
tal concerns. The broad goal of these envi¬
ronmental incentive programs has been to
protect the land values that society has de¬
termined to be important. Our nation has
only 7% of the world’s forests but 40% of
the world’s privately owned forests
(Moulton 1994).
The types of incentives that have evolved
over time all have both positive and nega¬
tive aspects associated with them and have
limited applicability. There has been no
single type of incentive that has proven ef¬
fective for the majority of landowners and
land situations, although attempts have been
made consistently to craft just such a pro¬
gram. The most notable type of incentive
program that has all too frequently been
misapplied is strict regulation by law. These
incentives gained much of their momentum
out the environmental era of the 1960s, but
did not remedy the situations they were cre¬
ated to protect. The basic problem, as
George Reiger (1992 ) states, is that “such
legislation . . . was based on the naive
premise that only the federal government is
big enough and fair-minded enough to deal
with problems created with the Corporate
State. Unfortunately, just the opposite is
true.”
Other types of incentives involve pur¬
chase of fee simple title, conservation ease¬
ments, lease and management agreements,
registry/awareness programs, and cost-shar¬
ing programs. With the large number and
types of incentive programs, most with dif¬
ferent enabling legislation, intended audi¬
ences, rules, and goals, it is not surprising
that the programs that were intended to ben¬
efit the environment sometimes overlap,
confuse, compete, and actually counter each
other.
Counterproduction Incentives
With the plethora of incentive programs ad¬
ministered by a variety of agencies, each with
a slightly different mission, at times these
incentives are diametrically opposed to each
other, as in tree planting versus prairie main¬
tenance or animal damage control. The nar¬
row focus or “quick fix” approach of the fol¬
lowing incentive programs has led to
numerous problems.
1. Tree Planting/Agricultural Planting on
Open Sites. Foresters, wildlife biologists, and
conservation specialists have historically fo¬
cused on establishing quick “cover.” Tree
planting recommendations frequently rely
on formulas for spacing and density that es¬
tablish “full stocking” and straight, clean tree
trunks. Such an approach has “fully stocked”
as its goal. If tree density falls below 400-
500 trees/acre, the planting is not considered
successful.
Volume 86 (1998)
49
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Wildlife and soil conservationists histori¬
cally have recommended cool season grasses,
exotics, and even aggressive exotics because
they can be quickly established. There are
known techniques to establish them includ¬
ing formulas for planting rates and utiliza¬
tion of fertilizers and lime. Thus, we have
treated natural resource management as an
agricultural problem to be fixed rather than
a complex community to be established,
maintained, or restored.
Landowners are the other half of the
equation. Because many landowners want
instant results and low maintenance, we have
more red pine plantations and alfalfa/clover
fields than ever before.
Another problem is the paucity of sources
of seeds and plants of native species. This
results in the high cost of seed/stock when
native materials are available. Ecologists en¬
courage landowners to use native species.
However, because of the cost, lack of ready
availability of plant material, and low de¬
mand, it is hard to get nurseries interested
in growing natives.
2. Fire Suppression. Public forest manage¬
ment agencies have done such a thorough
job of fire prevention and promotion of
Smokey the Bear, that every school child
knows fire is bad. Unfortunately, we have
concentrated on both human and natural-
caused fires with little regard to where they
occur or what threat they may present. At¬
tempts at instituting “let burn” policies and
prescribed burns have generally met with a
lack of acceptance by the general public. The
infrequent occasions when these fires have
escaped have received much negative public
attention. The result is that many fire-de-
pendent communities — communities that
have historically relied on maintenance of
their successional stage through fire — are
becoming increasingly rare.
Lightening-caused fires are infrequent in
Wisconsin, and most likely, the same was
true in the recent past. Because we know of
the presence of nomadic hunting tribes
throughout the state during most of the
postglacial period, we may assume that man¬
made fires were an important, if not the sole,
cause of forest, prairie, and savanna fires
(Curtisl959). By eliminating man-caused
fires, much of the former prairie and savanna
lands are succeeding to brush or forested
landscapes.
Some individuals maintain that fire-like
conditions can be accomplished without fire.
They cite herbicide use, grazing, and me¬
chanical disturbances as safer alternatives.
However, no herbicide, animal, or machine
can fully mimic the structural and chemical
changes a fire produces in the upper soil
layer and seed bank.
3. “Perverse” Incentives. One problem
that occurs when assistance programs are de¬
veloped by different government agencies
with narrow focuses and constituencies is
that the government ends up actually pay¬
ing landowners to destroy or damage valu¬
able resources. For years environmentalists
have pointed out that many government
policies encourage or subsidize activities that
lead to the loss of species and habitat.
For example, a study by the Environmen¬
tal Working Group found that U.S. Depart¬
ment of Agriculture (USDA) payments to
farmers totaled 108.9 billion dollars in ten
years between 1985 and 1994. Despite this,
agriculture remains the single largest con¬
tributor to water pollution and wetland con¬
versions (Opperman 1997).
For ten thousand or more years, many
North American terrestrial ecosystems were
periodically burned by indigenous peoples.
European settlers often continued this prac¬
tice, but such fires were halted shortly after
the turn of the century, mainly through the
efforts of the U.S. Forest Service (USFS). In
50
TRANSACTIONS
DEPAUL and KOPITZKE: Incentives for Savanna Protection on Private Lands
1908, Congress passed a law that effectively
gave the USFS a blank check for putting out
fires. When a fire did take place, the agency
could spend whatever it took to suppress the
fire with confidence that Congress would
reimburse the USFS at the end of the year.
It could be argued this law created a perverse
incentive that ended up doing far more dam¬
age to American forests than clearcutting.
No matter how remote the forest, no mat¬
ter how worthless the timber, Fires were
quickly suppressed. This radically altered the
vegetative composition of the forests
(Opperman 1997).
The USDA’s Animal and Plant Health
Inspection Service (APHIS) animal damage
control program conducts active and often
lethal campaigns against livestock predators
such as coyotes and other animals that may
damage agricultural interests. The APHIS
program for controlling prairie dogs has re¬
sulted in damage to other species as well.
There are an estimated 163 vertebrate spe¬
cies dependent on or closely associated with
prairie dogs, either as a food source or for
the habitat modifications that prairie dog
towns provide. These include several endan¬
gered species (Opperman 1997).
4. Taxpayer Double Burden. This cat¬
egory includes subsidies that promote habi¬
tat conversion or degradation as a “double
burden” because taxpayers must pay to sub¬
sidize a particular industry or activity and
then pay again to recover species and pro¬
tect them from the subsidized activities. Sub¬
sidized programs are those in which income
is directly or indirectly transferred from tax¬
payers, in general, to specific beneficiaries or
those in which the beneficiaries of a specific
policy do not pay full costs for a project, ac¬
cess to resources, or for a service. We feel
that many listed species on federal lands are
threatened by subsidized activities.
For example, a series of dams built by the
Bureau of Reclamation along the Missouri
River inundated 390,000 acres of wetlands
and oxbow lakes. These wetlands were
homes for several listed species. At the same
time 1.2 million acres of wetlands in the
Everglades were opened for agriculture or
development through the drainage and flood
control provided by the Central and South
Florida Project. Eighty percent of this
project was financed by the Federal govern¬
ment. Both of these subsidized projects de¬
stroyed wetlands, homes for many listed spe¬
cies (Clairs et al. 1977). While these
wetlands are being destroyed, the U.S. Fish
and Wildlife Service spends taxpayer dollars
to recover populations of rare species depen¬
dant on wetland habitats.
An indirectly subsidized activity that
poses degradation threats is recreation. Us¬
ers of recreation facilities on public lands
rarely pay the market value for their activi¬
ties. These types of activities, including off¬
road vehicle use, skiing, boating, hiking, or
climbing, all have been shown to affect na¬
tive species. Opperman (1997) states he dis¬
covered that 112 listed species found on fed¬
eral land were affected by recreation, and for
22 species, this was the only or most signifi¬
cant threat.
Current Incentives
Current incentives to initiate conservation
practices on private lands fall into two cat¬
egories. The first depends on the good will
of the landowner as it includes voluntary and
non-monetary incentives. These include in¬
formation, encouragement, recognition, and
sometimes management assistance. The sec¬
ond category, many examples of which are
described later, includes government pro¬
grams in which management costs are shared
between the government and the private
landowner.
Volume 86 (1998)
51
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Voluntary Programs
In 1991 the Wisconsin Department of Natu¬
ral Resources’ Bureau of Endangered Re¬
sources initiated its Landowner Contact
Project. Begun with a focus on the volun¬
tary protection of two federally listed species,
the dwarf lake iris (Iris lacustris) and the
dune thistle (Cirsium pitched), it has since
expended considerably. It now reaches out
to assist private landowners on whose prop¬
erties occur a variety of state and federally
listed rare species. It also includes habitat
protection for goat prairies and sand prairies.
The Landowner Contact project is simple
in conception, but often involves consider¬
able expenditure of time and effort to
achieve its goals. Basically, eight steps are
followed to achieve protection of rare natu¬
ral resources on private lands:
1. Determining species and habitats of con¬
cern;
2. Doing research using personal contacts
and the Natural Heritage Inventory on
sites where the resource has been ob¬
served;
3. Determining current land ownership at
the site;
4. Contacting the landowner via letter,
phone call and/or face to face visits of¬
fering information and management as¬
sistance concerning the rare resource;
3. Visiting the site with the landowner’s per¬
mission (and often in the company of the
landowner) to verify the presence and sta¬
tus of the resource;
6. Negotiating a voluntary protection agree¬
ment between the landowner and the
Bureau of Endangered Resources;
7. Recognizing the landowner with a certifi¬
cate and matted illustration;
8. Continuing regular contact with the land-
owner with offers of further information
and help.
So far, the Bureau of Endangered
Resource’s Landowner Contact project has
not focused on savanna protection, though
this is being considered.
The Blue Mounds Project uses much the
same approach; its goal is to protect native
species and their habitats, focusing on pri¬
vate lands in western Dane and eastern Iowa
Counties. This eastern edge of the Driftless
Area includes prairie, savanna, wetland, and
woodland sites occurring amid farms, resi¬
dences, and commercial woodlots. A key el¬
ement of the program is the offer of a free
four-hour hike over the land during which
the landowner learns what plant communi¬
ties and species currently may be found on
the property. Following this may be further
contacts during which management and na¬
tive habitat restoration may be discussed and
planned. Savanna remnants do occur in this
area, and the possibility of savanna protec¬
tion and restoration is always a consider¬
ation.
During the past few years, The Nature
Conservancy (TNC) has focused its atten¬
tion on a small number of biologically sig¬
nificant large-scale natural areas in the
United States. These “Last Great Places” are
defined as “the most important areas for
biodiversity remaining in the western hemi¬
sphere.” One of these projects, the Baraboo
Hills, occurs in Wisconsin. Though largely
forested, the bluffs also contain some prai¬
rie and savanna remnants. The Baraboo
Bluffs themselves are far too extensive and
expensive to be purchased by TNC. Certain
“biological gems” are being acquired, but the
majority of the bluffs will remain in private
ownership; conservation activities on these
private lands are being encouraged in sev¬
eral ways. Private landowners are being in¬
cluded in conservation efforts through edu¬
cational and informational meetings. To
augment these meetings, a publication en-
52
TRANSACTIONS
DEPAUL and KOPITZKE: Incentives for Savanna Protection on Private Lands
titled Baraboo Bluffs Forest Owners* Hand¬
book (The Nature Conservancy 1995) has
been widely distributed. TNG employees
working in the Baraboo Bluffs make special
note of savanna sites as well as other biologi¬
cally significant plant and animal commu¬
nities.
Yet another voluntary conservation op¬
tion is discussed in Technology Review
(Anonymous 1996), in which the author
discusses outright payments made to private
landowners who engage in specific activities.
These payments are funded by the conser¬
vation organization, Defenders of Wildlife.
Resources for such payments are clearly lim¬
ited, especially in the case of private organi¬
zations. Nevertheless, with especially rare
resources or resources threatened by unex¬
pected, sudden developments, this is some¬
times a suitable solution. An example of this
program is the use of Defenders of Wildlife
funding to pay for timber wolf damage to
livestock as part of the timber wolf reintro¬
duction in Yellowstone National Park.
In all these cases, benefits are multiplied
if cooperating landowners have adjacent
properties or the properties are clustered in
ways that allow for more natural movement
of plants and animals across political and
ownership boundaries. Exchange of genetic
material, adjustment to changing conditions,
insect pollination of plants, and recovery
from localized disturbances are all enhanced
if large numbers of properties located near
to each other are the sites of coordinated
conservation activities.
Cost-Share Programs
and Their Effects on Savannas
The variety of financial assistance programs
that have been developed over the years usu¬
ally focus on agriculture or forestry/ forest
production. None of the various programs
have focused specifically on savannas, and in
some instances, such programs have nega¬
tively impacted savannas (Haines 1995). A
brief run-down of the traditional programs
follows:
• Agricultural Conservation Program (ACP):
This is sometimes called the “granddaddy”
of USDA programs. Since the program
started in 1936, it has been instrumental
in the planting of more than seven million
acres of trees (Moulton 1994). Although
this program is no longer available, active
contracts still exist. The ACP was devel¬
oped to provide financial and technical as¬
sistance to help institute agricultural con¬
servation and solve environmental
problems.
• Forestry Incentive Program (FIP): Estab¬
lished in 1974, the primary objective of the
FIP is to increase the nation’s timber sup¬
ply. It focuses specifically on tree planting,
tree improvement, and preparation for
natural regeneration. By 1994, the FIP had
provided cost-share assistance to more than
126,000 private landowners. The empha¬
sis is on “productive” forest land.
• Managed Forest Law (MFL): This is a tax
incentive to encourage the management of
private forest lands for the production of
future forest crops for commercial use. Up
to 20% of the land enrolled in the MFL
program may be “non-productive,” while
80% must be capable of producing a mini¬
mum of 20 cubic feet of merchantable tim¬
ber per acre per year (Tlusty and Roberts
1991).
• Conservation Reserve Program (CRP):
This program takes highly erodible and
marginal cropland out of production. It
provides up to 50% cost-sharing for ap¬
proved practices during a 10-year (15 years
for hardwood trees) contract payment pe-
Volume 86 (1998)
53
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
riod. Approximately 36 million acres were
“retired” from crop production between
1983 and 1995 at an average rental cost of
$50 per acre. While it can be expensive, the
CRP has demonstrated benefits to endan¬
gered species by taking marginal and patch¬
ily distributed agricultural land out of pro¬
duction (Jelinski and Kulakow 1996).
Farmers are paid to retire highly erodible
lands for ten years and obliged to dedicate
this acreage to wildlife and watershed pro¬
tection. The CRP reaped numerous ben¬
efits for the flora and fauna of the Great
Plains states, including the recovery of
many bird populations (Opperman 1997).
• Stewardship Incentive Program (SIP): Es¬
tablished in 1990, SIP was intended to pay
part of the cost of a variety of multiple-re-
source activities. SIP has cost-shared food
plots for deer in areas where tree regenera¬
tion is already hard to achieve due to deer
browsing. SIP can also cost-share tree shel¬
ters to protect seedlings. Thus, SIP is an¬
other example of a program that sometimes
pays for diametrically opposed incentives.
• Environmental Quality Incentives Pro¬
gram (EQIP): This new program targets
livestock producers but encourages total re¬
source management.
• Wildlife Habitat Improvement Program
(WHIP): This is another new program that
has not yet been tested, but does offer some
hope for the future. In Wisconsin, threat¬
ened and endangered species have been
highlighted as a priority concern. Since the
WHIP program is so new, there is a chance
of adding communities into this category.
Future Management and Incentives
Simply getting landowners to commit them¬
selves to savanna restoration and manage¬
ment is only the first step in a longer pro¬
cess. Indeed, landowners will be hesitant to
commit themselves to savanna protection,
regardless of the incentives, until they are
fully informed about what specific manage¬
ment actions will take place on their acre¬
age. Furthermore, it is necessary to know
what management techniques are successful
and whether restoration of a degraded site
is possible. Currently, the state of our knowl¬
edge in this realm is still quite limited.
Some minimal amount of research on
management options would provide much
needed information for those committed to
protecting savannas, whether private land-
owners or public land managers. Some eco¬
logical questions that need good answers in¬
clude:
1. What are the best methods for clearing
overgrown savannas? Do these vary accord¬
ing to invading species, slope, aspect, time
of year, and surrounding land use?
2. Can mowing be an acceptable method for
maintaining savanna habitats? When
should this be done, how frequently, and
at what height?
3. How frequently should a savanna in Wis¬
consin be burned? How does this vary with
differences in overstory species, understory
species composition, and site history? Can
we assume that, like prairie burning, the
burning of savannas should sometimes be
in spring, sometimes in fall, and that it
should be done in a patchy, random fash¬
ion to allow for the survival of pollinating
insects?
4. Can grazing be a successful method for
maintaining savannas? Which species of
grazing animals are best for the plant com¬
munity, in what numbers, and how often
may they be released at a savanna site?
Once these questions are answered, plan¬
ning management activities and creating
new effective incentives will become easier.
54
TRANSACTIONS
DEPALJL and KOPITZKE: Incentives for Savanna Protection on Private Lands
Conclusions
Professional land managers do not have all
the answers, but we are moving in the right
direction. We must commit ourselves to do¬
ing careful and meaningful research. We
must be ready to learn from amateurs and
from landowners themselves. Following the
model of Integrated Pest Management, per¬
haps we can devise an Integrated Land Man¬
agement model that would take into ac¬
count the needs of savanna plant and animal
species along with the needs of landowners
for financial and other returns from their
property.
We need to continue to debate among
ourselves concerning the appropriate balance
of forests, savannas, prairies, agricultural
land, and land devoted to residences, busi¬
nesses and industry. Currently we are only
hurting ourselves by fighting for limited re¬
sources that benefit special interests rather
than concerning ourselves with the overall
resource base and its needs.
Resource professionals must commit
themselves to serving private landowners
who own savanna habitat. This includes
educating landowners about what a savanna
is, why it is important, and how to main¬
tain this rare habitat.
Creative use of existing incentive pro¬
grams can go far toward savanna protection
on private lands. But resource professionals
and conservation organizations must also
lobby for the enactment by governmental
units of newer and more ecologically sound
incentive programs. Ideally, a legislative pro¬
posal would provide incentives to protect
whole native plant and animal communities:
savannas, barrens, prairies, wetlands, and
forests. The more flexible these programs
are, the more likely they are to accommo¬
date protection of diverse habitats and the
flora and fauna existing there.
Government programs are only part of the
solution to the challenge of protecting savan¬
nas. Incentives can be regarded as a stimu¬
lus to initiate proper management on private
lands. Education and adaptive resource con¬
servation can keep management going. But
ultimately, the long-term survival of savanna
plant and animal communities will depend
on the goodwill, commitment, and intelli¬
gence of private landowners working coop¬
eratively with resource professionals.
Literature Cited
Anonymous. 1996. Species protection: new
incentives for landowners. Technology Re¬
view Oct: 17-19.
Birch, T.W. 1994. Private forest-land own¬
ers of the northern united states, 1995.
U.S. Department of Agriculture Forest
Service, Northeast Forest Experiment Sta¬
tion. Resource Bulletin NE-136.
Clairs, T., M. Young, and B. Howard. 1997.
CSIRO Commonwealth Scientific and
Industrial Research Organization Divi¬
sion of Wildlife and Ecology, Canberra,
[on-line] http://kaos.erin.gov.au/life/
general_info/biodivser_9/part_2/
appndl.html.
Curtis, J.T. 1959. The vegetation of Wiscon¬
sin. University of Wisconsin Press, Madi¬
son. 657 pp.
Haines, T. 1995. Federal and state cost-
share assistance programs: structures, ac¬
complishments, and future outlook. U.S.
Department of Agriculture Forest Service,
Southern Forest Experiment Station,
New Orleans. Research paper SO-295.
Jelinski, D.E., and P.A. Kulakow. 1996. The
conservation reserve program: opportuni¬
ties for research in landscape-scale resto¬
ration. Restoration and Management Notes
14:136-39.
Moulton, R.J. 1994. Sorting through cost-
Volume 86 (1998)
55
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
share assistance programs. Tree Farmer
Nov/Dec:24— 26.
The Nature Conservancy. 1995. Baraboo
bluffs forest owners’ handbook. The
Natural Conservancy Baraboo Office,
Baraboo, WI.
Opperman, J. 1997. The impacts of subsi¬
dies on endangered resources. The
Thoreau Institute, [on-line] http://
www. teleport. com/'-rot/opperman.html.
Reiger, G. 1992. Turning green. Field &
Stream 96:12—14.
Sample, V.A., A.S. Cheng, M.J. Enzer, and
M.A. Moote. 1995. Building partnerships
for ecosystem management on mixed
ownership landscapes: regional perspec¬
tives. The Forest Policy Center, Washing¬
ton, D.C.
Tlusty, W.G., and J.C. Roberts. 1991. How
Wisconsin woodland owners view the
managed forest law program: a 1991 sur¬
vey. University of Wisconsin Extension
Cooperative Extension Service, University
of Wisconsin, Madison.
Linda DePaul earned her degrees in forestry at
Northern Arizona University. In addition , she
earned an M.S. degree in Land Reclamation and
an both from the University of Arizona.
She has worked in the field of forestry in
Arizona , Colorado, Michigan, and, currently, in
Wisconsin with the Bureau of Forestry,
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.
Address: WDNR, P.O. Box 7921, Madison, WI
53707-7921.
David Kopitzke earned a B.S. degree in Biology
at Earlham College and an M.S. degree in Plant
Ecology at the University of Wisconsin in
Madison. His career includes work as Curator
of Botany at the Milwaukee Public Museum and
the operation of a native plant nursery. Currently
he works on rare species/habitat protection on
private lands for the Bureau of Endangered
Resources, Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources. Address: WDNR, P.O. Box 7921,
Madison, WI 73707-7921.
56
TRANSACTIONS
Thomas A. Eddy and Cindy M. Moore
Effects ofSericea Lespedeza
(Lespedeza cuneata (Dumont j G. Don)
Invasion on Oak Savannas in Kansas
Abstract Invasion of sericea lespedeza (Lespedeza cuneata (Dumont) G.
Don) into oak savannas in southeast Kansas altered the
composition , structure , and density of the native prairie component
of the ecosystem and reduced the number of invertebrate species.
Vegetation characteristics in clearings infested with sericea lespedeza
were compared with uninfested clearings during the summer of
1996. Eighty 1 m2 quadrats were randomly placed in each of the
2 site conditions. The number of grass species decreased from 12
in uninfested sites to 4 in infested sites. Native forb species declined
from 27 in the uninfested sites to 8 in the infested sites. Canopy
coverage ofsericea lespedeza in the infested sites was 84%. Mean
stem counts ofsericea lespedeza were 352/nd. Weight of clipped
native grasses and forbs from uninfested sites was 92% greater than
in infested sites. Numbers of invertebrate species declined from 65
at the uninfested sites to 24 at the infested sites. Implications of
vegetation changes on wildlife populations and forage for livestock
are considered.
Invasions of plants and animals have been occurring in North
America since the continents separated. Many of the
introductions of exotic species have resulted in the displacement
of native species and the disruptions of important ecological
processes. Exotic species are one of the greatest threats to native
species and to human-disturbed ecosystems in the world (Elton
1958, Fox and Fox 1986, Reid and Miller 1989, Whelan and
Dilger 1992, Noss and Cooperrider 1994, Hunter 1996).
Rangelands have proven to be especially vulnerable to exotic
plant invasions. Exotic grasses and forbs from Europe, Asia,
the Mediterranean, and the rest of the world have been a major
problem in the native ecological systems of North America
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
57
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
(Baker 1986). Sericea lespedeza (Lespedew
cuneata (Dumont) G. Don) is in the initial
stages of invasion of Kansas oak savannas
and adjacent grasslands and threatens to
destroy the quality and productivity of the
tallgrass prairie.
Sericea lespedeza, a drought-hardy peren¬
nial legume, was first introduced from Ja¬
pan in 1896 (Magness et al. 1971) and later
in the 1930s through the 1930s as a forage
crop for healing erosional scars on farm¬
lands, establishing cover on mine spoil
banks, and as cover for wildlife (Scott 1995).
The long-lived plants are leafy and erect,
standing from 0.5 to 1.5 m high. The leaf¬
lets are long, narrow and blunt at the ter¬
minals. The plant dies back in winter, and
new growth arises from crown buds in the
spring. It shows low tolerance for shade but
thrives in full sun. The current range of this
invasive plant has been estimated to be from
the Atlantic coast west to Texas and Kansas
and north to the Ohio River (Magness et al.
1971).
The invasive impact of this species on
Kansas agriculture was recognized in 1988
when the state legislature declared sericea
lespedeza a county option noxious weed
(Scott 1995). The county-declared option
allows the county to penalize land owners
who do not control infestations. By 1995,
52 out of 105 counties in Kansas had
declared sericea lespedeza a noxious weed.
The Pest Risk Analysis (Scott 1995) states
that the reported infestation has nearly
doubled every 2 years since 1990 in Kansas.
This increased reporting is generally agreed
to have been generated by the public’s
increased awareness. Woodson County,
where our study area is located, had a
reported 21,130 ha infested with sericea
lespedeza in 1995. The 1995 Pest Risk
Analysis indicates that annual economic
impact in the region would approach $29
million assuming a 75% reduction in quality
forage available to livestock (Scott 1995).
Many plant species invade apparently be¬
cause livestock grazing has changed the en¬
vironment rather than because they are in¬
herently better competitors (Elton 1958,
Noss and Cooperrider 1994). Sericea lespe¬
deza is unique in its ability to establish it¬
self in grazed and ungrazed tallgrass prairie
and oak savannas.
Our study assessed the changes in the
tallgrass vegetation in Kansas oak savannas
and associated macroinvertebrates resulting
from sericea lespedeza invasion. Vegetative
composition, canopy coverage, density of les¬
pedeza stems, yield, and macroinvertebrate
numbers in oak savannas clearings infested
with sericea lespedeza were compared with
uninfested clearings during the summer of
1996. The plant’s ability to invade and out-
compete the native flora has resulted in a
negative effect on the oak savanna ecosystem
where it has become established. Reductions
in overall species diversity, wildlife habitat
and diversity, and quality and quantity of for¬
age were observed in our study.
Study Area
Our study site is located in the Chautaqua
Hills, an undulating uplift extending from
the Kansas-Oklahoma border to Woodson
County, Kansas (Bare 1979). The hills are
dissected by deep ravines with occasional
sandstone bluffs along the major drainages.
Soils are sandy clays and loams with
sandstone outcrops of Pennsylvanian age.
The tallgrass prairie vegetation is inter¬
spersed with groves of blackjack oak ( Quer -
cus velutina Lam.) and post oak ( Quercus
stellata Wang). Local landowners reported
that the infestation of sericea lespedeza on
the 295.4 ha study area has occurred within
the last 5 to 7 years.
58
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY and MOORE: Effects of Sericea Lespedeza Invasion on Oak Savannas
Methods
Grid lines, 150 m in length and set at 25 m
intervals on north-south compass lines, were
located in the oak savanna clearings in the
295.4 ha study area. Eighty quadrats, each
measuring 1 m2, were randomly placed
along the grid lines in clearings infested with
sericea lespedeza and 80 quadrats were simi¬
larly distributed in clearings that were not
infested.
Using McGregor et al. (1986), grass and
forb species were identified and recorded in
each of the quadrats in the sericea lespedeza
infested sites and the uninfested sites during
mid-month in June— August 1996. Canopy
coverage of forbs and grasses in the infested
and uninfested sites were determined by the
Daubenmire (1959) method. The density
of sericea lespedeza stems in the infested
sites was determined by counts of stems in
the quadrats. Seedlings less than 6 cm in
length were not included.
Yields in g/m2 of vegetation from the
uninfested and infested areas were com¬
pared. Vegetation from ten randomly
selected 1 m2 plots from each of the sericea
lespedeza infested and uninfested plots was
clipped at a height of 6 cm, oven dried for
72 h, and weighed. Samples from the
infested plots were pooled and compared to
the pooled samples from the uninfested
plots.
Macroinvertebrates in the quadrats in¬
fested and those not infested were sampled
in mid July with 4 sweeps of a 14 inch-di¬
ameter insect net through the vegetation of
each quadrat in the middle of the day, fol¬
lowed by examination of the quadrats for
additional species. Each specimen was iden¬
tified to family and recorded.
Results
Eight forb species and four species of grasses
were identified in the clearings that were
infested with sericea lespedeza (Table 1). In
the clearings where sericea lespedeza was not
present, 24 forb species and 12 species of
grasses were identified. Not only did the
infested sites have fewer species, but those
species identified were of lower forage quality
and were generally considered to be weedy.
Canopy coverage measures were found to
be in stark contrast in the infested and
uninfested areas. While the greatest percent
coverage in the uninfested sites was due to
grass and forbs other than sericea lespedeza,
most of the percent coverage in the infested
sites was attributed to sericea lespedeza
(Table 2).
Yields of native forbs and grasses differed
between the sericea lespedeza infested areas
and the uninfested areas. The pooled clip¬
pings of native forbs and grasses from the
uninfested clearings had a yield of 388.8 g /
m2. The pooled clippings from the infested
clearings had a yield of 31.2 g/m2. The dif¬
ference between the areas represents a major
loss of desirable forage in the infested areas.
Counts of sericea lespedeza stems from
infested clearings ranged from densities of
141/m2 to 466/m2 (x = 352/m2). Recruit¬
ment was considered high. Beneath each
bunch of stems, many new sericea lespedeza
plants were emerging.
Macroinvertebrate species identified in
the infested and uninfested areas also
differed. While 65 total species, representing
30 families, were identified from the
uninfested areas, only 24 total species,
representing 14 families, were identified in
the infested areas (Table 3).
Volume 86 (1998)
59
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 1 . Native forbs and grasses identified in clearings infested with sericea lespedeza
and clearing not infested with sericea lespedeza June - August 1996.
60
TRANSACTIONS
EDDY and MOORE: Effects of Sericea Lespedeza Invasion on Oak Savannas
Table 2. Canopy coverage (%) in clear¬
ings infested vs not infested with sericea
lespedeza, June - August 1996.
Discussion
Exotic and native species compete for a va¬
riety of resources such as space, water, nu¬
trients, and light. Kalburji and Mosjidis
(1993^, 1993 b) have demonstrated that
growth inhibitors in sericea lespedeza resi¬
dues reduce root development in warm- and
cool-season grasses. But, there is no data that
demonstrate that forbs are also inhibited in
this way. An invading species, when it out-
competes the native species present, can al¬
ter a variety of ecosystem properties (Hunter
1996). Such is the case with sericea lespedeza
in the oak savannas in Kansas. This plant has
rapidly invaded the open prairie and oak sa¬
vanna clearings and altered the composition,
density, and vigor of the vegetation. Once
established, sericea lespedeza may inhibit or
prevent the restoration of native biodiversity.
The cost and difficulty of control, as well as
other biological issues, combined with lim¬
ited public understanding, are bound to
make control of this invading exotic plant
difficult (Westman 1990).
The sericea lespedeza infestation has also
reduced the quality and quantity of forage
available to livestock. Surviving forbs in
most infestation areas are of low nutritive
value and are associated with tallgrass prai¬
rie in fair to poor condition. Because the
plant contains 3-12% tannin, sericea lespe¬
deza has proven to be unpalatable to live¬
stock in most cases. When sericea lespedeza
is consumed by cattle, it is only at the earli-
Table 3. Families and numbers of species
of macroinvertebrates in uninfested clear¬
ings vs. infested clearings.
est time in the season, when the plants are
succulent and at their lowest tannin content
(Scott 1995).
The loss of native plant diversity that oc¬
curs when an area becomes infested by
sericea lespedeza also results in a loss of in¬
vertebrate diversity. Vertebrate diversity is
probably affected as well, and further inves¬
tigation is indicated. Grasses and forbs that
are displaced by sericea lespedeza are supe¬
rior in terms of shelter and food resources,
Volume 86 (1998)
61
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
which are of vital importance for wildlife.
The native vegetation is home to a rich di¬
versity of invertebrates that may serve as im¬
portant food sources for prairie wildlife. The
high stem density of sericea lespedeza in¬
fested areas presents an almost impenetrable
barrier to wildlife movement and essentially
eliminates the rich diversity of food and
cover provided by the native system.
The continued expansion of this exotic
species into the tallgrass prairie will pro¬
foundly alter the biota and severely damage
the region as a source of high quality forage
for livestock and as a habitat for wildlife. Al¬
though chemical treatments are available,
other methods of control must be identified
in order to preserve the prairie element of
the oak savanna ecosystem.
Acknowledgments
We would like to extend our thanks to the
Kansas Department of Wildlife and Park
and Scott Barlow for valuable assistance in
the field.
Literature Cited
Baker, H. G. 1986. Patterns of plant invasion
in North America. Pp. 44-57 in H. A.
Mooney and J. Drake, eds. Ecology of biologi¬
cal invasions of North America and Hawaii.
Springer-Verlag, New York.
Bare, J. E. 1979. Wildflowers and weeds of Kan¬
sas. The Regents Press of Kansas, Lawrence.
Daubenmire, R. F. 1959. A canopy-coverage
method of vegetation analysis. Northwest Sci¬
ence 33:43-64.
Elton, C. S. 1958. The ecology of invasions by ani¬
mals and plants. Methuen, London.
Fox, M. D., and B. J. Fox. 1986. The suscepti¬
bility of natural communities to invasion. Pp.
57-66 in R. H. Groves and J. J. Burdon, eds.
Ecology of biological invasions. Cambridge
University Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Hunter, M. L. Jr. 1996. Fundamentals of Con¬
servation Biology. Blackwell Science, Cam¬
bridge, Massachusetts.
Kalburji, K. L., and J. A. Mosjidis. 1993#. Ef¬
fects of sericea lespedeza root exudates on
some perennial grasses. Journal of Range Man¬
agement 46:312-1 5.
Kalburji, K. L., and J. A. Mosjidis. 1993^. Ef¬
fects of sericea lespedeza root exudates on
some cool season grasses. Journal of Range
Management 46:3 1 5-1 9.
Magness, J. R., G. M. Markle, and C. C.
Compton. 1971. Food and feed crops of the
United States. Interregional Research Project
IR-4, IR Bulletin 1. (Bulletin 828 New Jer¬
sey Agricultural Experiment Station.)
McGregor, R. L., T. M. Barkley, R. E. Brooks,
and E. K. Schofield. 1986. Flora of the Great
Plains. University Press of Kansas.
Noss, R. F., and A. Y. Cooperrider. 1994. Sav¬
ing Nature's Legacy. Island Press. Washington,
DC.
Reid, W. V., and K. R. Miller. 1989. Keeping
options alive — the scientific basis for conserv¬
ing biodiversity. World Resources Institute,
Washington, DC.
Scott, W. T. 1995. Pest Risk Analysis: Sericea
lespedeza. Plant Protection and Weed Con¬
trol Section, Plant Health Division, Kansas
Department of Agriculture.
Westman, W. E. 1990. Park management of ex¬
otic plant species: problems and issues. Con¬
servation Biology 4:251—60.
Whelan, C. J., and M. L. Dilger. 1992. Inva¬
sive, exotic shrubs: a paradox for natural area
managers? Natural Areas Journal 12:109-10.
Thomas A. Eddy is an associate professor of
biology at Emporia State University. Cindy M.
Moore is an M.S. student in Environmental
Biology at Emporia State University. Address:
Division of Biological Sciences, Emporia State
University, Emporia, KS 66801.
62
TRANSACTIONS
James O. Evrard
Small Mammals of
Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
Abstract Little is known of the small mammals inhabiting the endangered
-pine barrens ecosystem in northwest Wisconsin. Early small
mammal sampling, which began in 1950, was sporadic and at
times haphazard. Systematic sampling of small mammal
populations using snap traps throughout the pine barrens was
initiated by the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources in
1993. In 1995, the Great Lakes Indian Fish and Wildlife
Commission and the U.S. Forest Service joined the Department
of Natural Resources in an expanded coordinated effort to sample
four management properties, the Crex Meadows, Namekagon
Barrens, Douglas County , and Moquah Barrens Wildlife Areas,
located on a southwest/northeast gradient in the northwest pine
barrens. Nineteen small mammal species and subspecies were
captured using snap traps and pi fall and funnel traps associated
with drifi fences. Relative small mammal densities, expressed as a
catch/effort ( C/E) index, varied spatially and temporally and by
habitat type and capture technique. Responses to variables were
masked by problems associated with field identification of
Peromyscus spp., intrinsic small mammal population fluctuations,
and competition/ exclusion among small mammal species.
In the early 1990s, the focus of research conducted by the
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources (WDNR) be¬
gan shifting from single species to communities to ecosystems
(Gomoll et al. 1995). This focus included increased interest
in rare and threatened ecosystems such as the pine barrens.
Forest succession due to effective wildfire control and prima¬
rily red pine (Pinus resinosa) plantations have reduced early suc-
cessional stages of the pine barrens to only about 1% of the
original area in Wisconsin (Riegler 1995). Increased interest
in this endangered ecosystem was manifested in the sponsor¬
ship of a pine barrens workshop by the WDNR in 1993
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
63
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 1. Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens showing four properties studied.
(Borgerding et al. 1995). Developing a man¬
agement plan for the northwest pine barrens
was a major workshop recommendation.
Not much is known of the small mam¬
mals inhabiting the pine barrens in north¬
west Wisconsin (Figure 1). During 1950-57,
the Wisconsin Conservation Department
conducted small mammal surveys through¬
out the state using snap traps (Bole 1939,
Dice 1941, Stickel 1946, Hayne 1949). Two
trap lines were in the Crex Meadows Wild¬
life Area (CMWA) in western Burnett
County (N. Stone, Wisconsin Conservation
Department, unpublished data). A decade
later, Beck and Vogl (1972) reported results
from snap-trapping small mammals in the
CMWA in August 1967. In 1983, a student
intern from the University of Wisconsin-
64
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD: Small Mammals of Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
Stevens Point conducted a survey of small
mammals in the CMWA (Brockman 1983).
She used snap traps and pitfall traps designed
to capture reptiles and amphibians.
In 1978, another student from the Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-Stevens Point used snap
traps and pitfall traps to capture small mam¬
mals in a variety of habitats on the Nameka-
gon Barrens Wildlife Area (NBWA) in ex¬
treme northeast Burnett County (D. Jansen,
University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, un¬
published data). In 1986, additional small
mammal trapping in the NBWA was con¬
ducted by the WDNR using snap and live
traps (G. Dunsmoore and J. Riemer, Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources,
unpublished data). The methodology and
results of the past small mammal trapping
was poorly documented and varied consid¬
erably.
Part of a WDNR research project I initi¬
ated in 1993 involved comparing the effects
of clear-cutting and prescribed burning upon
pine barrens flora and fauna. In this study,
I focused on documenting small mammal
populations inhabiting pine barrens, their
habitat preferences, and their responses to
two major forces that shape the present pine
barrens ecosystem: logging and fire.
Study Area
The northwest Wisconsin pine barrens have
been described in detail by Curtis (1939),
Vogl (1970), Mossman et al. (1991), and
Niemuth (1995). Murphy (1931) described
the area as . . a long narrow strip of sand
where coniferous forest and open expanses
of sweet fern and grassy barrens dwarf into
insignificance the few evidences of man’s
present occupancy and use of the land. . . .
The grassy and sweet fern barrens. . . . are
desolate open tracts where only an occasional
charred stump, a cluster of jack pines, or a
scrub oak bush, breaks the monotonous
sweep of rolling, thinly clad ground surface
.... Almost every year forest fires sweep sec¬
tions of the Barrens. . .
Today, the effects of man on this land¬
scape are more evident. Much of the pine
barrens are managed for wood products in
private, county, state, federal, and industrial
forests. What remains in early successional
stages of the pine barrens is found primarily
in four areas managed with controlled fire
for sharp-tailed grouse (Tympanuchus
phasianellus) (Figure 1). The CMWA is
owned and managed by the WDNR. The
NBWA is managed by the WDNR on lands
leased from Burnett County as is the
Douglas County Wildlife Area (DCWA),
which is mostly leased from Douglas
County. The Moquah Barrens Wildlife Area
(MBWA) is owned and managed by the
U.S. Forest Service. Infrequent wild fires and
large clear-cuts resulting from salvage
logging due to jack pine budworm (Choris-
toneura pinus) outbreaks temporarily create
additional early successional habitat on
publicly and privately owned forest lands.
Methods
In a cooperation with the University of
Wyoming (Niemuth 1995), the WDNR
snap-trapped small mammals in seven study
plots in June 1993 and in five study plots
in July 1994. These plots were located in
burned and clearcut areas in county and in¬
dustrial forests in Burnett and Douglas
counties. Each 0.2-ha plot or grid consisted
of 50 snap traps (40 mouse- and 10 rat-size)
in 5 rows of 10 traps each. Both the rows
and the traps were located 7.6 m apart. The
traps were baited with peanut butter and
checked daily for 5 days, resulting in a total
of 1,750 trap nights in 1993 and 1,250 trap
nights in 1994. Results were expressed as an
Volume 86 (1998)
65
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
index to the population, the adjusted catch /
effort (AC/E) index, (Nelson and Clark
1973), which is corrected for sprung traps.
Mammals were identified to species in the
field. Due to difficulties in field identifica¬
tion of Peromyscus spp. (Hooper 1968,
Stromberg 1979, McGowan 1980, Long
and Long 1993), deer mice and white- footed
mice were generally recorded as one species.
These were the same trapping methods I
used in earlier research conducted managed
grasslands in St. Croix and Polk counties in
west-central Wisconsin (Evrard 1993).
Beginning in 1993, I initiated more in¬
tensive small mammal trapping in the study
area, using the same timing and methodol¬
ogy as in 1993-94. As part of research to
determine the impact of prescribed burning
and clear-cutting in the NBWA, nine grids
were trapped in three areas of jack pine
(Pinus bank si an a) l WWW oak (Quercus
ellipsoidalis) forest. Three grids were trapped
in an intermediate-aged, uncut forest, and
another three grids were trapped in a forest
that was clearcut in 1990-91 and 1994-93.
The final three grids were trapped in a
clearcut forest that was burned in late April
1996.
In 1995-97, I also trapped three grids
(forest, old burn, and new burn) in the
CMWA. The three areas sampled included
a mature Hill’s oak forest having a thin
shrub understory; an area of brush prairie
(Strong 1880) that was burned in the spring
one year prior to trapping; and an area of
brush prairie that was burned 6-8 weeks
prior to trapping. The brush prairie was lo¬
cated within a designated state natural area.
In a 1995 cooperative effort, three grids
were trapped in the DCWA (G. Kessler,
WDNR, unpublished data) and four grids
in the MBWA (P. David, Great Lakes In¬
dian Fish and Wildlife Commission, unpub¬
lished data). In 1996, the cooperative effort
was repeated with the exception of the
DCWA. Both properties were cooperatively
trapped in 1997.
The three areas sampled in the DCWA
included an open grassland burned in 1993
and dominated by sweetfern (Comptonia
peregrina); an area containing only hoary
puccoon (Lithospermum canescens) and a few
young aspen (Populus spp.) and willow ( Salix
spp.) that survived a fire in the fall of 1996;
and an area of tall grass containing shrubby
willow and young aspen burned in 1990.
The four areas sampled in the MBWA
included an area of young oak trees (oak for¬
est) with little understory had been lightly
burned in 1993; an area clearcut (old
clearcut) several years prior to 1995 and had
thick, brushy ground cover; a third area (old
burn) was burned in 1991 and had a well-
developed, brushy understory including
many berry-bearing species; and the fourth
area (new burn) was burned in the spring
of 1995 and had a thin ground cover.
Selected captured small mammals were
frozen for species identification confirmation
by Charles A. Long, Curator of the Univer¬
sity of Wisconsin-Stevens Point Zoological
Museum and Richard Bautz, WDNR Re¬
search, Monona.
In addition to snap-trapping, drift fences
(Vogt and Hine 1982) were also operated
in the CMWA, NBWA, DCWA, and
MBWA in 1996-97 to sample reptiles and
amphibians. Small mammals were captured
in pitfall and funnel traps (Imler 1945) as¬
sociated with the drift fences. Drift fences,
15.2 m in length, were constructed of 46 cm
high aluminum roof flashing in either a “T”
of “I” design adjacent to a wetland. Each
drift fence contained from 8-10 pitfall traps
and 2-5 wire-mesh funnel traps. The pitfall
and funnel traps were opened for four 6-day
periods from late April to early June follow¬
ing significant precipitation events. The
66
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD: Small Mammals of Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
small mammals drowned in water main¬
tained in the pitfall traps to prevent desic¬
cation of amphibians. Trapping results were
expressed as a C/E index since there was no
adjustment for “snapped” or unavailable
traps.
Thus, small mammals were sampled us¬
ing two different trapping methods in sev¬
eral habitat types from four core manage¬
ment properties located along a southwest/
northeast gradient in the northwest pine bar¬
rens (Figurel).
I compared the 1993-97 pine barrens
snap-trapping results with 1989-90 snap¬
trapping results in seven plots located in
managed upland grassland in St. Croix and
Polk counties (Evrard 1993). Trapping in
terms of timing and effort were equal in
both studies, although there were differences
in habitat sampled.
I used paired r- tests and 2-way and 3-way
ANOVA (SAS 1989) to compare AC/E and
C/E differences for small mammal species rela¬
tive abundance between trapping methods,
habitat types, and management properties.
Results and Discussion
Species Distribution
Nineteen small mammal species were cap¬
tured using snap traps and pitfall traps in the
CMWA, NBWA, DCWA, and MBWA
during the period 1993-97 (Table 1). The
masked shrew (Sorex cinereus), pigmy shrew
(Microsorex hoyi)f thirteen-lined ground
squirrel (Spermophilus tridecemlineatus), red-
backed vole ( Clethrionomys gapperi), meadow
vole (Microtus pennsylvanicus), and the
meadow jumping mouse ( Zapus hudsonius)
were trapped in all four properties. In addi¬
tion, the woodland deer mouse (Peromyscus
maniculatus gracillis) and the white-footed
mouse were trapped on all four properties.
The identification of Peromyscus spp., in¬
cluding the prairie deer mouse (Peromyscus
maniculatus bairdii) was verified from
Table 1. Small mammals captured in Wisconsin’s northwest pine barrens, 1995-97.
Volume 86 (1998)
67
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
voucher specimens identified by Charles A.
Long.
Some species were captured on only one
property. This included the arctic shrew
(Sorex arcticus) in the NBWA, the southern
bog lemming (Synaptomys cooperi) and the
woodland jumping mouse (Napaeozapus
insignis) in the DCWA, and the star-nosed
mole ( Condylura cristata) in the MB WA.
Due to the trapping methods used, the
red squirrel (Tamiasciurus hudsonicus),
shorttail weasel (Mustela erminea), and the
longtail weasel (M. frenata) were considered
accidental captures.
Three additional species, the northern
water shrew ( Sorex palustris), the Franklin’s
ground squirrel (Spermophilus franklinii),
and the pine vole (Pitymys pinetorum), were
recorded in the northwest pine barrens by
earlier workers. The northern water shrew
was reportedly trapped in the NBWA (D.
Jansen, University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point, unpublished data). Brockman (1983)
reported capturing the Franklin ground
squirrel and pine vole in the CMWA.
Population Indices
Seven species were snap-trapped in the pine
barren grids of Burnett and Douglas coun¬
ties in 1993-94 compared to four species in
1989-90 in the grassland grids in St. Croix
and Polk counties (Table 2).
The thirteen-lined ground squirrel and
red-backed vole were the most common
small mammals trapped in the pine barrens
grids while Microtus spp. (mostly meadow
voles with a few prairie voles, M. ochrogaster),
thirteen-lined ground squirrel, and Pero-
myscus spp. were the common species in the
more southern grasslands (Table 2). Despite
relative densities of small mammals, ex¬
pressed as AC/E, apparently being 4-6 times
higher in the managed grassland grids
examined in St. Croix and Polk counties
Table 2. Adjusted Catch/Effort3 for small mammals captured in snap traps in Burnett
and Douglas counties, 1993-94 and St. Croix and Polk counties, 1989-90.
Burnett/Douglas St. Croix/Polk
Adjusted Catch/Effort =
A (number animals trapped) x 100
TU (trapping interval x length of interval x number of traps)
- IS (total number of traps snapped)/2
(Nelson and Clark 1973).
b1 ,750 trap nights (7 grids x 50 traps x 5 nights).
C1 ,250 trap nights (5 grids x 50 traps x 5 nights).
68
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD: Small Mammals of Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
than in the early successional grids of the
pine barrens, the differences were not
significant (F= 1.528, P= 0.25).
Small mammal numbers varied by species
between the pine barrens properties trapped
during 1995-97 (F = 3.201, P = 0.005). In
1995, the AC/E for all species from snap¬
trapping in the DCWA was only half of that
for the CMWA, NBWA, and MBWA
(Table 3). In 1996, the small mammal in¬
dex AC/E for the CMWA, NBWA, and
MBWA grids declined from the previous
year. No trapping was conducted in the
DCWA in that year. Microtus spp. and
Peromyscus spp. decreased while thirteen-
lined ground squirrels increased. In 1997,
the AC/E for all small mammals snap-
trapped on the CMWA showed little change
from 1996 and increased for the NBWA and
MBWA. The 1997 index for the DCWA
could be compared only to that from 1995
which was higher.
While intended to capture amphibians
and reptiles, the C/E for some small mam¬
mal species captured in pitfall traps associ¬
ated with drift fences was comparable with
the AC/E for snap traps. In 1996, the drift
fence capture indices showed considerable
variation among the four properties (Table
4). From 1996 to 1997, the C/E for all small
mammals increased on all four barrens prop¬
erties. However, some species increased on
one property and decreased on another
property in the same year. In both years, the
C/E index was larger on the NBWA than
the other three properties. In 1996, the lead¬
ing species captured in the NBWA was the
red-backed vole and the meadow jumping
mouse. In 1997, red-backed voles decreased
and jumping mice increased.
Meadow jumping mice were captured in
only one year in one pine barrens property
using snap traps. In contrast, jumping mice
were captured in pitfall traps in all four
properties in both years of trapping. Pitfall
traps associated with drift fences captured
more masked shrews ( t - 2.332, P = 0.06)
than snap traps, while snap traps captured
significantly (t = 2.871, P = 0.03) more thir-
teen-lined ground squirrels than pitfall traps.
Differential vulnerability of some small
mammal species to different types of traps
has been reviewed by McGowan (1980) and
reported by Pendleton and Davison (1982).
Since jumping mice prefer wet, grassy
habitat (Jackson 1961), the location of drift
fences adjacent to wetlands may have been
responsible for the large number of jump¬
ing mice captured. The shrews may have
been attracted to the large numbers of in¬
sects trapped in the pitfall traps.
The C/E index derived from drift fence
captures probably underestimated changes in
relative small mammal population sizes. This
is due to the long trapping periods involved
(24-56 days) compared to the 5-day trap¬
ping period used for capturing small mam¬
mals with snap traps. Previous research (Bole
1939, Pelikan and Zejda 1962) has shown
that most of the resident small mammal
population in the trapped area are captured
during the first 3-5 days of trapping.
Habitat Preferences
When snap-trapped small mammals were
examined based upon habitat types (burned,
clearcut, and forested) across the four bar¬
rens properties, differences existed among all
small mammal species ( F = 17.64, P =
0.0001), years (F = 3.95, P= 0.03) and spe¬
cies/habitat interaction (F = 3.83, P =
0.0003). When only the four most common
species, Peromyscus spp., thirteen-lined
ground squirrel, meadow vole, and red-
backed vole, were examined, the same dif¬
ferences of species (F = 9.53, P = 0.002),
years (F = 4.57, P = 0.03), and species/habi¬
tat interaction (F = 5.36, P = 0.007) existed.
Volume 86 (1998)
69
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
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70
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD: Small Mammals of Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
aCatch/Effort = ydQQ (Nelson and Clark 1973)
b2,056 trap nights (2 drift fences x 20 traps x 56 nights). Data courtesy of Steve Hoffman, WDNR, Grantsburg.
c 1 , 1 52 trap nights (3 drift fences x 16 traps x 24 nights).
d660 trap nights (2 drift fences x 10 traps x 33 nights). Data courtesy of Greg Kessler, WDNR, Brule.
e780 trap nights (3 drift fences x 10 traps x 26 nights). Data courtesy of Peter David, Great Lakes Indian Fish
and Wildlife Commission, Odanah, Wisconsin.
In 1995, the AC/E for all small mammals
captured with snap traps in recently burned
areas in the CMWA, DCWA, and MBWA
was less than that for clearcut and forested
areas in the same areas (Table 5).
The following year, the AC/E for all small
mammals decreased somewhat for recently
burned areas in the CMWA, DCWA, and
MBWA but declined precipitously for the
clearcut and forested areas. This decline was
due primarily to declines in Peromyscus spp.
and red-backed voles.
In 1997, the AC/E for numbers of all
small mammals continued their decline in
the burned areas of all four wildlife areas, but
increased in the clearcut and forested areas
(Table 5). This increase was primarily due
to increased numbers of Peromyscus spp.,
most likely white-footed mice, and red-
backed voles. Meadow voles and thirteen-
lined ground squirrels also increased in the
clearcut areas.
There were several problems that compli¬
cated the analysis of information obtained in
this study, including the cyclic behavior of
voles {Micro tus spp.) (Krebs and Myers 1974,
Birney et al. 1976, Hansson and Henttonen
1988, many others) and fluctuations of
white-footed mouse (Peromyscus leucopus)
populations (Popp et al. 1989). This intrin¬
sic variation in numbers from year to year
and from location to location could mask
population responses by these species to dif¬
ferent habitat types or habitat changes.
Volume 86 (1998)
71
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
aAdjusted Catch/Effort (Nelson and Clark 1973).
bSeven burned grids (1 ,750 trap nights), 7 clearcut grids (1 ,750 trap nights), and 5 forested grids (1 ,250 trap
nights).
cSeven burned grids (1 ,750 trap nights), 4 clearcut grids (1 ,000 trap nights), and 5 forested grids (1 ,250 trap
nights)
dNine burned grids (2,250 trap nights, 4 clearcut grids (1,000 trap nights), and 6 forested grids (1,500 trap
nights).
There is also a tendency for some small
mammal species to compete and displace
other species (Kirkland and Griffin 1974,
Crowell and Pimm 1976, reviewed by
McGowan 1980, Vickery 1981, Adler et al.
1984, Swihart and Slade 1990, Nichols and
Conley 1981), also influencing habitat use.
Burning reduces forbs and woody plants
and debris, habitat that white-footed mice
(M’Closkey and Lajoie 1975, Kitchings and
Levy 1981, Kaufman et al. 1983, Clark et
al. 1987, McMurry et al. 1996) and red-
backed voles prefer (Gunderson 1959, Beck
and Vogl 1972, Yahner 1983). Burning also
reduces the litter layer that Microtus spp. pre¬
fer (Moreth and Schramm 1972, Kantak
1981, Snyder and Best 1988). Resprouting
of fire-killed woody plants and the accumu¬
lation of litter in years following fire appar¬
ently improves the habitat for white-footed
mice and red-backed and meadow voles.
However, deer mice numbers increase in
the year of the burn (Beck and Vogl 1972),
then decline to pre-burn levels in years fol¬
lowing the burn (reviewed by McGowan
1980, Peterson et al. 1985, Snyder and Best
1988, Garman et al. 1993), a response op¬
posite to that of white-footed mice. Since the
two Peromyscus species were lumped together
as one species in this study, their different
responses to fire could not be demonstrated.
Thirteen-lined ground squirrels were most
numerous in burned areas which agrees with
earlier findings of Vogl and Beck (1972) for
the northwest Wisconsin pine barrens.
Conclusions
The species composition of the small
mammal community sampled within the
northwest Wisconsin pine barrens varied by
location, habitat type, year, and capture
72
TRANSACTIONS
EVRARD: Small Mammals of Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
technique. Burning initially reduced the
numbers of meadow voles, Peromyscus spp.,
and red-backed voles, but increased the
number of thirteen-lined ground squirrels.
Small mammal indices in the clearcut and
forested areas were overall greater than in the
burned areas during the period sampled.
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank J. Hoefler and S. Hoffman,
Wisconsin Department of Natural Re¬
sources, for trapping assistance and data
from the Crex Meadows Wildlife Area, L.
Rantala, Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources, for trapping assistance in the
Namekagon Barrens Wildlife Area, G.
Kessler, Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources, for trapping data from the
Douglas County Wildlife Area, P. David,
Great Lakes Indian Fish and Wildlife
Commission, for trapping data from the
Moquah Baarrens Wildlife Area, P. Ras¬
mussen, Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources, for statistical assistance, C. A.
Long, University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point and R. Bautz, Wisconsin Department
of Natural Resources, for verification of
small mammal identifications, and E.
Anderson, University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point, and A. Wydeven, WDNR, for review
of the manuscript. Partial funding for this
study was provided by the Federal Aid to
Wildlife Restoration under Pittman-Robert-
son Wisconsin Project W-141-R.
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Beck, A. M., and R. J. Yogi. 1972. The effects
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Birney, E. C., W. E. Grant, and D. D. Baird.
1976. Importance of vegetation cover to
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Bole, B. P. 1939. The quadrat method of study
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sources PUBL-RS-9 13-94. 105 pp.
Brockman, K. M. 1983. Small mammal, reptile,
and amphibian survey at Crex Meadows.
Unpublished report. University of Wiscon¬
sin-Stevens Point. 13 pp.
Clark, B. K., D. W. Kaufman, G. A. Kaufman,
and E. J. Finck. 1987. Use of tallgrass prai¬
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Crowell, K. L. and S. L. Pimm. 1976. Compe¬
tition and niche shifts of mice introduced
onto small islands. Oikos 27:251-258.
Curtis, J. T. 1959. The vegetation of Wisconsin.
University of Wisconsin Press, Madison. 657
pp.
Dice, L. R. 1941. Methods for estimating popu¬
lations of mammals. Journal of Wildlife Man¬
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Evrard, J. O. 1993. Small mammal populations
of managed grasslands in St. Croix County,
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Res. Rendezvous, 19 Oct. 1993, Marine on
St. Croix, Minn, (abstract)
Garman, S. L., A. F. O’Connell, Jr., and J. H.
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Gomoll, J., S. Holtz, R. Isenring, M. Jesko, L.
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Komai, B. Les and W. McCown, eds. 1995.
Wisconsin s biodiversity as a management issue.
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources,
Madison. 240 pp.
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dynamics as a community process. Trends in
Ecology and Evolution 3: 195—200.
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Hooper, E. T. 1968. Classification. Pp. 27-69
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dentia). Special Publication No. 2, American
Society of Mammalogy. 593 pp.
Jackson, H. H. T. 1961. Mammals of Wiscon¬
sin. University of Wisconsin Press, Madison.
504 pp.
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ties in old fields and prairies of Wisconsin:
significance of the microhabitat. Ph.D. The¬
sis. University of Wisconsin-Madison. 134
pp.
Kaufman, D. W., S. K. Peterson, R. Fristik and
G. A. Kaufman. 1983. Effect of microhabi¬
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Microdistribution of small mammals at the
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of trapping results. Journal of Mammalogy
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two methods of estimating small mammal
74
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EVRARD: Small Mammals of Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
populations. Zoologicke Listy 1 1 :227— 42.
Pendleton, G. W.» and R. P. Davison. 1982.
Relative efficiency of three small-mammal
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J. A. Reinartz. 1989. Fluctuations of a
Peromyscus Leucopus population over a
twenty-two year period. Transactions of the
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences , Arts and Let¬
ters 77:97-100.
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rens recovery plan. Pp. 28—33 in E. A.
Borgerding, G. A. Bartelt, and W. M.
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Wisconsin: a workshop summary. Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources PUBL-RS-
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119:128-36.
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of techniques for assessment of amphibian
and reptile populations in Wisconsin. Pp.
210-17 in N. J. Scott, Jr., ed. Herpetological
Communities. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
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James O. Evrard is a wildlife research biologist
for the Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources at Grantsburg. A native of Wisconsin,
he received his B.S. and M.S. degrees at the
University of Wisco nsi n -Madiso n . His career has
included being a Peace Corps volunteer in Peru
and a National Park Service interpretive
naturalist. Address: Wisconsin Department of
Natural Resources , P. O. Box 367, Grantsburg,
Wisconsin 54840.
Volume 86 (1998)
5
Andrew Hipp
A Checklist ofCarices for Prairies,
Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
of Southern Wisconsin
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
77
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
“widespread and ecologically important gen¬
era of vascular plants” (Reznicek 1990). Yet
a lack of publication and field education has
contributed to a regrettable paucity of com¬
mon knowledge about the ecology of this
beautiful and pervasive genus.
Carex very likely makes up four to
seven percent of the groundlayer diversity
in midwest oak savannas (Delong and
Hooper 1996, McCarty in press). Work¬
ers in adjacent states (Voss 1974, Wheeler
and Ownbey 1984, Swink and Wilhelm
1994, Wilhelm 1995) have compiled
habitat information on the sedges of their
area by reference to herbarium specimens
and field research. Others have included
sedge species in more comprehensive
hypothetical oak savanna or prairie floras
derived primarily from bibliographic
records (Gould 1941, Bray I960, Packard
1988£, Bowles and McBride 1994, De¬
long and Hooper 1996, Ladd 1997) or by
a combination of bibliography and field¬
work (Curtis 1959, Hujik 1995, Leach
1996, Bader and Fifield-Murray in re¬
view). But many of the reports from
adjacent states do not completely accord
with field observations in Wisconsin,
because relatively minor shifts in geology
and climate may significantly alter the
habitat requirements of the plants studied
(see Discussion section below). Moreover,
field and bibliographic studies often treat
only those sedges with which the workers
are already familiar and occasionally
report seemingly inaccurate habitat
accounts without a satisfying explanation
of methods. Regrettably, The Vegetation of
Wisconsin (Curtis 1959) gives very in¬
complete information about the role of
Carex in the communities delimited and
studied, and the reports of Wisconsin’s
presettlement Carex flora are practically
nonexistent, suggestive though the few
direct accounts may be (e.g., Cheney and
True 1893).
I have sought to identify Carex species
of Wisconsin’s prairies, oak woodlands,
and oak savannas by reference to habitat
information recorded on the labels of
specimens housed at the University of
Wisconsin-Madison Herbarium (WIS).
While one cannot directly determine what
species were present in Wisconsin’s
presettlement savannas due to the almost
utter loss of habitat (Curtis 1959, Nuzzo
1986, Leach and Ross 1995, Leach 1996),
a summary of the known habitats of
Wisconsin’s carices may illuminate the
roles that those species played in the
presettlement landscape.
Methods
Unless otherwise indicated, habitats
presented in the Results section of this
paper are summarized solely from infor¬
mation available on labels of Carex
specimens housed at WIS. These speci¬
mens have been collected from through¬
out the state, mapped, and inspected by
multiple experts. Due to the diligent
caricographic work of Theodore S. Coch¬
rane and the late Dr. James H. Zim¬
merman, which began in the late 1940s,
the collection at WIS represents a re¬
latively complete and accurate portrayal of
the state’s Carex flora. I also searched the
herbarium of the Milwaukee Public
Museum for vouchers of rare species;
none of the species of interest were
represented in the collection.
I inspected all species known to occur
south of and within the tension zone as
identified by Curtis (1959) (Table 1), a
total of 133 species comprising around
8,000 vouchers; Cochrane’s meticulous
township maps of WIS collections were
78
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HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
Table 1. Species inspected. These are the specific epithets of carices that were
considered for inclusion in this paper. Two of therm (V) are not known to be members
of Wisconsin’s flora — but were inspected because of their inclusion in the Wisconsin
section of Ladd’s (1997) tallgrass prairie species list. Six ('*’) are introduced or adventive
species that probably were not present in Wisconsin before European settlement.
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
invaluable to this selection, and virtually
all references to species’ geographic
distribution are based on these maps.
Those species of which at least two
specimens are described by their collectors
as occurring in prairie, savanna, or oak
woodland were inspected with particular
care. Habitats and associates information
were transcribed directly from herbarium
labels, studied, and summarized, then
compared with other workers’ studies of
oak savanna and prairie sedges (cited
under habitat descriptions).
I have included in this paper only those
sedges that occur within the habitat
delimited in the introduction to The
Tallgrass Restoration Handbook (Packard
1997), excluding species particular to
sedge meadows or wetter habitats (thus,
for example, C. stricta ), and including
those of oak-dominated forests, which
may in some cases harbor savanna species
(cf. Packard 1988^). I exclude most
species that appear to occur only in
lowland forests, except where dominance
by oaks suggests sites that may once have
been lowland savannas (Hujik 1995);
because of the difficulty of distinguishing
between floodplain forests and savannas in
the habitat descriptions on the typical
herbarium label, some lowland savanna
species may have been overlooked. These
delimitations, like any such, are arbitrary,
rooted in this case primarily in the
research interests of the restorationists
with whose work I am most familiar.
In several cases, the habitats of species
reputed to occur in oak savanna appear in
this study despite their seeming absence
from Wisconsin’s prairies and oak eco¬
systems. Such are instances in which
another worker (always cited in the habitat
description) has made what I judge to be
a reasonable case for the species’ inclusion;
80
the habitat descriptions are still solely
from WIS specimens except as specifically
indicated in the text. I have not attempted
an exhaustive review of the relevant
ecological or taxonomic literature.
Associates are included only for sites
that fall within the limits of this study.
Associates should not be taken as repre¬
sentative of the full range of a species’
habitat tolerance, but rather as examples
by which to better understand the species’
habitat requirements within prairies and
oak ecosystems. The absence of associates
for a given species in the list generally
indicates a lack of good associate lists on
WIS labels for that species as it occurs in
prairies and oak ecosystems of southern
Wisconsin.
Results
I recognize a total of seventy-four species
as actual or probable inhabitants of
Wisconsin’s prairies and oak ecosystems
(Checklists 1 and 2). Of these, I recom¬
mend forty-four for planting in southern
Wisconsin (Table 2); of the remaining
thirty, I identify seven as rare (also
Checklist 1), three as exotic, and twenty
as marginal or speculative denizens of
prairies and oak ecosystems (Checklist 2).
The summary of habitat presence of
relatively common Carex species (Table 2)
may serve as a preliminary planting guide
for restorationists working in southern
Wisconsin. It is remarkable, though
perhaps unsurprising, that fully half of
these forty-four species may occur in wet
prairie (22 species), with lowland savanna
(14 species) ranking second and mesic
savanna and dry to mesic oak woods tying
for third (11 species). While the table is
at best a crude summary of almost purely
qualitative data, it is most likely a fair
TRANSACTIONS
HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
representation of the relative sedge
diversities of the various habitats, and a
confirmation of the mesophytic proclivity
of the genus (cf. habitat distributions of
carices listed in Curtis 1959, species list
at end of book). For caveats regarding use
of tables and lists as planting guides, see
discussion section.
The habitat descriptions that follow
(Checklists 1 and 2) represent the species’
habitat distributions throughout the state,
both north and south. In cases in which
I hazard a prediction of a species’ behavior
within oak savannas, I set the prediction
off clearly from the habitat as derived
from herbarium specimens. Species that
are rare, markedly restricted in geographic
distribution, or adventive in Wisconsin
are so indicated in the first line of the
habitat description. Associates are pre¬
sented only as they are recorded for
specimens collected in prairies or oak
ecosystems of southern Wisconsin.
Nomenclature throughout this paper
follows the Checklist of the vascular plants
of Wisconsin (Wetter et al., in review).
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 2. Summary of habitats of 44 relatively common species. The following summary
of habitats may be taken as a preliminary planting recommendation for restorationists
working in southern Wisconsin and adjacent counties. Anyone planting the following
species should first read the more complete habitat summaries in Checklist 1 and ad¬
here to any geographic restrictions that apply; while this table does not include rare or
highly restricted species, of. Reinartz’ (1997) guidelines to restoring rare or geographi¬
cally restricted plant species.
Dry lime prairie
eburnea
meadii
pensylvanica - infrequently; tending toward sandier
sites
richardsonii
rugosperma
umbel lata
Dry sand prairie
brevior
muhlenbergii
pensylvanica
rugosperma
siccata
tonsa
Mesic prairie
bicknellii
brevior
molesta
pensylvanica
Wet prairie
brachyglossa - especially in sand
atherodes - in wet swales or standing water
bebbii
bicknellii
buxbaumii
conoidea
emoryi - alluvial soils only
haydenii
hystericina
interior
laeviconica - alluvial, especially in swales
molesta
normalis
pellita
sartwellii
scoparia - especially in disturbed, sandy soils
stipata - transitions
tenera
tetanica
trichocarpa - alluvial
vesicaria - alluvial
vulpinoidea
Dry to mesic oak woods (sugar maple not dominant)
blanda
brevior- tending toward sandier, more open woods
cephalophora
gracillima - generally on richer soils
normalis
pensylvanica
radiata
rosea
sparganioides - primarily in sugar maple forests
sprengelii - primarily in sugar maple forests
Dry savanna
brevior - not commonly
eburnea - especially Juniperus glades
muhlenbergii — sand
pensylvanica
rugosperma
siccata
Mesic savanna
bicknellii
blanda
brevior
cephalophora
debilis var. rudgei
normalis
pensylvanica
radiata
rosea
tenera
vulpinoidea
Lowland savanna
atherodes - very open, in swales or standing water
bebbii - minimal shade
bicknellii - minimal shade
emoryi - alluvial soils only
granularis - calcareous soils
laeviconica - alluvial
lupulina - generally alluvial
normalis
projecta
stipata - transitions between woods and openings
tribuloides - alluvial
trichocarpa - alluvial
vesicaria - alluvial
vulpinoidea
82
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HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
CHECKLIST 1
Native species of southern Wisconsin prairies and oak ecosystems
Car ex albicans Willdenow ex Sprengel
var. emmonsii (Dewey ex Torrey) J. Rettig
(C. emmonsii Dewey ex Torrey)
Restricted to the bed of Glacial Lake Wis¬
consin. A rare and highly restricted species
of low, open, sandy woods, to sphagnous
woods, sandstone cliffs, and low prairies. In
a sandy jack pine-scrub oak community in
Wood County, it was reported as forming
50% of the ground cover, with Carex
pensylvanica, C. siccata , Gaylussacia, Litho-
spermum caroliniense , Lupinus , Myrica,
Oryzopsis pungens, Panicum, Prunus serotina,
and Vaccinium. Another population of
undescribed proportions was found in a pas¬
tured sand prairie/low aspen woodland in
Portage County, with Antennaria , Artemisia
campestris , Viola adunca , V labradorica,
Comandra, Vaccinium, Scrophularia, Lupi¬
nus , and Salix. Wilhelm characterizes this as
a species of sandy woods, often associating
with Quercus velutina, and to a lesser extent
of sandy prairies and beech forests.
Carex atherodes Sprengel
Most common in standing water to two feet
deep, ranging into wet, typically unshaded
soil without standing water; also in cattail/
bur-reed marshes, sedge meadows, willow
swamps, tamarack bogs, and occasional up¬
land areas. It was once reported in an up¬
land forest edge and adjacent old field with
low areas in Polk County; associates in¬
cluded Lysimachia quadriflora, Apocynum
androsaemifolium, Desmodium glutinosum,
Nepeta cataria, and Solidago sp. Hujik in¬
cludes this in his list of lowland savanna
plants, but does not analyze its sun and
moisture requirements.
Carex backii Boott
**Fairly rare in Wisconsin ; vouchers are from
only Oconto, Florence, Door, Dane, Ju¬
neau, and La Crosse counties. Most gener¬
ally in shady habitats, on sandy soils border¬
ing a river or creek. The species ranges in
southern Wisconsin from sandy upland or
hilltop oak woods (with Quercus velutina, Q.
alba ) to, less commonly, mesic or bottom¬
land forests. In northern Wisconsin, it is
more common in dry, rocky pine or oak
woods, or on rock outcrops in the same.
Delong and Hooper hypothesize that the
species occurs in Iowa’s mesic and clay-loam
savannas; in Wisconsin, it seems more likely
to range into open sandy woodland or sand
savanna, especially adjacent to rivers.
Carex bebbii Olney ex Fernald
Wet-mesic to low prairies and other open
wet areas, including marshes, ditches, stream
edges, lake shores, and old fields; in both
peaty and sandy soils; ranges occasionally to
fens, marlish sand, or white cedar swamps.
At a characteristic site, a low flat prairie in
Kenosha County bordering Lake Michigan,
the species associates with Agrostis gigantea,
Calamagrostis canadensis, Carex viridula
(common), Scirpus pendulus, S. atrovirens,
Juncus dudleyi, J. nodosus , Salix discolor, Rosa
blanda, Phlox glaberrima, Calamintha
arkansana, Hypericum kalmianum, Argentina
anserina, Lobelia spicata, Aster lanceolatus var.
simplex, and Solidago gigantea. The species
occasionally ranges into upland or, more fre¬
quently, wooded areas. It occurs often
enough under sparse shade to recommend
it as a potential species of very open or mod¬
erately shady lowland savanna.
Volume 86 (1998)
83
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Carex bicknellii Britton
Most common in mesic to wet-mesic prai¬
ries, but ranging from completely open prai¬
ries to moderate shade and from sedge
meadows to the tops of sandy moraines. The
species grows occasionally in sandy oak-
hickory woods, rarely in waste areas. On a
low, dry sandy ridge of the Wisconsin River
floodplain terrace, dominated by very abun¬
dant Sporobolus heterolepis, it was found with
Andropogon gerardii, Sorghastrum nutans ,
Scleria triglomerata , Lepedeza cap it at a. Po¬
lygala verticillata and P. sanguinea, Veroni-
castrum virginicum , Eryngium yuccifolium,
Prunus pumila, Euphorbia corollata, and
Euthamia graminifolia. It is reported from a
foot off of a trail through a Walworth
County white and red oak savanna, with
Trifolium pratense, T. repens, Achillea
millefolium, Hypoxis hirsuta, Dodecatheon
meadia, Rhus glabra. Hujik’s calculations
portray it as a species of wet, distinctly shady
sites within lowland savannas, though his
first year’s graphs (Hujik 1995, Appendix B)
indicate highest frequency in high light and
medium elevation. See Henderson (1995)
for recommended seeding rates.
Carex blanda Dewey
Most common in wet-mesic, lowland, and
mesic deciduous forests, especially on silt
loam soils; ranging to mesic or wet-mesic
savannas, brushy thickets, prairies, and open
or shaded waste areas. It generally associates
with such woodland species as Quercus alba,
Q. rubra, Q. macrocarpa, Carya ovata,
Desmodium glutinosum, Zanthoxylum ameri-
canum, Geranium maculatum, Ceanothus
americanus, Festuca subverticillata, Vitis
aestivalis, Amphicarpaea bracteata, Juglans ci -
nerea, and Carya cordiformis. The species is
identified by Bowles and McBride (1994) as
occurring in Illinois’ presettlement barrens
(defined, for purposes of their work, as more
or less brushy prairies on silt loam soils —
’’rich,” “productive,” fire-dependent systems
grown thick with Corylus americana or other
shrubs, Vitis riparia, Quercus, or other
grubs); it is known from such habitats in
Wisconsin as well, often with Zanthoxylum.
This is one of our weediest species, growing
in moist or shaded hollows of all kinds, gar¬
den beds, sawdust, jig tailings, roadside
gravel, and split railroad ties.
Carex brachyglossa Mackenzie
( Carex annectens Bicknell)
Commonly in wet prairies and other wet
sunny areas, especially where sandy; it is
generally found with such wet prairie species
as Blephilia ciliata, Lilium michiganense,
Phlox pilosa, Prenanthes racemosa, Silphium
terebinthinaceum, Scleria triglomerata,
Arnoglossum plantagineum, and Lobelia
spicata. The species is occasional in shaded
or upland sites — collected in wooded dunes
in La Crosse County and a partly wooded
west slope in Iowa County, as well as a few
dry sand prairies and fields — and in marsh
or sedge meadow. Tolerant of disturbance.
Carex brevior (Dewey) Mackenzie ex Lunell
Mostly in sandy, dry to dry-mesic prairies;
ranging into pine barrens, cedar glades, open
dry to mesic oak savannas (especially with
Quercus macrocarpa, but also sometimes with
Q velutina ) and oak woods; occasionally in
mesic soils, rarely to marshes or low prairies.
The species grows readily in sand blowouts,
fallow fields, road edges, suburban shrub
beds, fence rows, and other such disturbed
areas. Wilhelm (1995) notes that while its
habitat “is a little difficult to pin down
because wherever it is found there is
evidence of disturbance,” the species occurs
in both sandy prairies and dry woods of the
Indiana Dunes area. Associates of an
individual collected from a dry sand prairie
84
TRANSACTIONS
HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
in Richland County include Aristida tuber¬
culosa, Panicum virgatum, Digitaria cognata
var. cognata , Schizachyrium scoparium,
Eragrostis spectabilis, Koeleria macrantha,
Froelichia gracilis, Lechea intermedia,
Helianthemum bicknellii, Opuntia macro-
rhiza, Cladonia spp., Selaginella rupestris,
Rumex acetosella, Mollugo verticillata,
Lespedeza capitata, Monarda punctata,
Polygala polygama, Asclepias verticillata,
Oenothera biennis or parviflora, Euphorbia
corollata, Erigeron annuus. Ambrosia psilo-
stachya, Solidago nemoralis. Car ex siccata, C.
muhlenbergii, C. pensylvanica, and Cyperus
lupulinus ssp. macilentus. One Dane County
collection was made in a dry-mesic hard¬
wood stand under Quercus macrocarpa and
Carya ovata, with Antennaria plantaginifolia,
Hypoxis hirsuta, Sisyrinchium campestre, and
Poa palustris.
Carex buxbaumii Wahlenberg
Open wet areas, typically calcareous, though
it grows occasionally in bogs as well; most
frequently in wet prairies, sedge meadows,
and fens. When the species grows in the
immediate vicinity of trees, it is nearly
always in a boggy or sphagnous substrate
(e.g., “black spruce swamp” or “tamarack
bog”). One collection is from shallow
standing water at the shore of Lake
Michigan, in sandy crevices among dolomite
gravel. Typical low prairie associates include
Hypoxis hirsuta, Phlox pilosa, P. glaberrima,
Packera paupercula, Heuchera richardsonii,
Hypericum kalmianum, Pentaphylloides
floribunda, Lythrum alatum, Liatris pyc-
nostachya, Solidago ptarmicoides, Solidago
riddellii, S. rigida , S. ohioensis, Valeriana
edulis, Oxypolis rigidior, Aster ericoides, A.
novae-angliae, Thelypteris palustris var.
pubescens, Dodecatheon meadia, Pycnan-
themum virginianum, Galium obtusum ssp.
obtusum , Krigia biflora ssp. biflora.
Carex cephalophora Muhlenberg ex Will-
denow
Most common in mesic to dry-mesic or xe-
ric deciduous woods, but also in open areas,
prairie and old field alike, and in the partial
shade of Quercus alba, Q. macrocarpa, and
other oaks; often in more disturbed areas of
prairies and savannas, when present at all in
those habitats (personal observation).
Cheney and True (1893) cite habitat as un¬
specified “dry soil,” in which they noticed
it to be “rather common.” Bowles and
McBride (1994) identify this as a species of
Illinois’ presettlement barrens (cf. C.
blanda) .
Carex conoidea Schkuhr ex Willdenow
Most characteristically in wet prairies, occa¬
sionally ranging to sedge meadows, sphag¬
nous jack pine woodlands, and wet, ruderal
habitats; once collected from dry sand at a
Waushara County farm. Hujik identifies this
as a sedge of lowland savannas but does not
give details on light or elevation tendencies.
Wheeler reports that it is found (rarely) in
“thinly-wooded areas” in Minnesota. Prob¬
ably undercollected in Wisconsin. See asso¬
ciates list under C. buxbaumii.
Carex cumulata (Bailey) Fernald
** Restricted to the bed of Glacial Lake Wis¬
consin; rare in Wisconsin. Generally in wet,
sphagnous, sandy jack pine woods. One of
our collections is from a dry oak-poplar- pa¬
per birch-maple woods atop a Jackson
County bluff; another is from moist, sandy,
open ground in Monroe County, with Carex
deflexa. Wilhelm notes that while rare in the
Chicago area, the species occurs more fre¬
quently in pin oak savannas of Willow
Slough, Newton County (Illinois). May
have occurred in presettlement lowland or
perhaps upland sandy savannas and barrens
in the bed of Glacial Lake Wisconsin.
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Carex davisii Schweinitz & Torrey
**Rare in Wisconsin. Collections have been
made only in La Crosse, Trempealeau, Jack-
son, Columbia, and Dane counties, pre¬
dominantly in alluvial forest or wet to mesic
openings within the same. Of ten vouchers
deposited at WIS, eight are from riverside
forests or, less commonly, unshaded allu¬
vium. Though primarily of lowland forests,
its occasional presence in open or partly
shaded areas suggests that this species may
have grown in presettlement lowland savan¬
nas as well. Delong and Hooper (1996)
identify it as frequent in oak savannas of
Iowa.
Carex debilis Michaux var. rudgei Bailey
Concentrated in central Wisconsin (Jackson,
Wood, and Portage counties especially), but
ranging north to the Apostle Islands,
Douglas, Oneida, and Marinette counties.
Only two specimens at WIS were collected
south of northern Sauk County, and only
one of those from Dane County (in a
second- growth oak woods). The species
appears to do best under shade, in wet or
moist sandy ground with a peaty com¬
ponent. Typical habitats in Wisconsin
include sphagnous woods, bog edges, alder
thickets, and low, sandy oak or pine woods;
occasional in low sandy savanna, but has
probably never been common in much of
southern Wisconsin. The species was once
collected from a sandy to peaty low prairie
in Juneau County, on a site that grades to
groves of Quercus velutina (?), Pinus bank-
siana, and Acer rubrum, with Castilleja
co c cine a, Sorghastrum nutans , Viola lan-
ceolata, V sagittata. One Marquette County
collection is from a black oak woodland with
Quercus macrocarpa and Populus tremuloides ,
in a grassy opening filled with Rubus idaeus
var. strigosus and Poa pratensis, with Poten-
tilla simplex and Prunus serotina seedlings.
Carex eburnea Boott
A calciphilic, wiry sedge that forms mono-
typic mats in open or semi-shade of sandy
or limy prairies and savannas, or on exposed
limestone. The species is most commonly
known from cedar glades (Juniperus savan¬
nas) in the driftless area, though it is also
found in Ashland County, Michigan Island,
and in white cedar (Thuja occidentalis)
swamps on the shore of Lake Michigan
(especially Door County). Typical associates
in a Pepin County cedar glade include
Amorpha canescens, Andropogon gerardii,
Artemisia campestris, Asclepias viridiflora,
Aster azureus, A. ericoides, A. oblongifolius, A.
sericeus , Bouteloua curtipendula, B. hirsuta,
Coreopsis palmata. Euphorbia corollata,
Juniperus communis , J. horizontalis, Kuhnia
eupatorioides, Liatris aspera, L. cylindracea,
Linum sulcatum , Muhlenbergia cuspidata, M.
racemosa, Mirabilis hirsuta, Dalea Candida,
D. purpurea, Prunus pumila, Solidago
nemoralis, S. sciaphila. One population was
found atop a boulder under Juniperus
virginiana, with Aquilegia canadensis, Arabis
lyrata. Campanula rotundifolia, Pellaea
glabella, and Sporobolus vaginiflorus. The
species is also found in boreal forest in Door
County, and occasionally at trail edges in
sugar maple-red oak forest.
Carex emoryi Dewey
In wet prairies, standing water or muddy
sloughs, lowland forests (frequently within
openings), and occasionally on stream banks
or sandbars, always in alluvial soils; associ¬
ates with such species as Calamagrostis
canadensis, Glyceria striata. Iris versicolor,
Onoclea sensibilis, Packera aurea.
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Carex festucacea Schkuhr ex Willdenow
** Extremely rare in Wisconsin . The only
specimen at WIS with useful habitat infor¬
mation is from Avoca prairie, a wet prairie
on the Wisconsin river, where it associates
with Liatris pycnostachya, Allium canadense,
and Thalictrum dasycarpum. Likewise in
Minnesota, the plant is known from only
one location, the slightly raised banks of a
river running through a lowland forest
(Wheeler 1984). Rothrock, without consid¬
ering individuals growing in Wisconsin, ob¬
serves that C. festucacea “prefers moist, open
woods or brush,” favoring sites that are
shadier than those inhabited by C. longii ,
and “soils with less sand content than typi¬
cal for C. albolutescens and C. longii ”
(Rothrock 1991). Probably this was an un¬
common denizen of low prairies and open
savannas in presettlement Wisconsin.
Carex gracillima Schweinitz
Most typically in mesic or bottomland for¬
ests, often under Acer saccharum. Also on
apparently drier sites under oak-dominated
canopies (e.g., Quercus alba, Q. velutina :),
but these generally with a mesic forest ele¬
ment as well; usual associates include mesic
forest species such as Desmodium glutinosum,
Rubus occidentalis, Festuca subverticillata,
Brachyeletrum erectum, and Phryma lepto-
stachya. This common species seems to tend
toward drier and occasionally more open
sites in northern Wisconsin.
Carex granularis Muhlenberg ex Will¬
denow
Primarily in wet forests to moderately shady
wet areas, often in disturbed calcareous sub¬
strates. The species occasionally grows in
gravel roadsides, calcareous wet prairies, and
fens or bog-like areas, and very occasionally
in upland woods; it is extremely common in
a recently disturbed lowland marl at the
University of Wisconsin Arboretum in Dane
County, under partial shade (personal obser¬
vation). Hujik esteems this a species of low¬
land savannas, and it may find its way into
very occasional upland savannas as well, es¬
pecially on calcareous soils. For associates in
a typical low prairie, see Carex bebbii. It is
interesting to note that the type specimen of
Carex granularis var. haleana was collected by
T. J. Hale, with no information on the label
other than “Madison, Wisconsin — 1860.”
Carex haydenii Dewey
Typically in marshes, sedge meadows, wet prai¬
ries, and wet waste areas; it frequently grows in
soils with a sandy component. Associates from
a wet prairie remnant in Rock County include
Carex bicknellii, Comandra umbellata,
Dodecatheon, Houstonia caerulea, Hypoxis
hirsuta, Phlox pilosa, Polemonium reptans,
Sisyrinchium campestre, Zizia aurea. Individu¬
als are occasionally collected in riverbottom or
other rich forests, wet areas within otherwise dry
woodlands, or alder thickets in the north.
Within Dane County, one population was re¬
ported as growing in a second-growth oak
woods (Aastad et al. s.n). The species ranges
mostly south of a line from Milwaukee to
Oshkosh to Stevens Point and the Black River.
Carex hystericina Muhlenberg ex Will¬
denow
Very common in a variety of wet, open to
barely shaded, calcareous habitats; seems to
occur more often on peaty or sandy soils
than in loam. Common in fens and sedge
meadows, less so in conifer swamps; also on
shores and along ditches and streams. Indi¬
viduals occur occasionally in very wet prai¬
ries, perhaps especially those with spring-fed
soils or other fresh-water flow (personal ob¬
servation). Reported associates from a wet
prairie in Rock County include Gentianopsis,
Betula x sandbergii, Cornus, and Larix.
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Carex interior Bailey
Almost exclusively in open, calcareous wet¬
lands: sedge meadows, low prairies, fens.
Ecology overlaps that of Carex buxbaumii
and other wetland calciphiles. In northern
Wisconsin, forma, keweenawensis (Herm.)
Fern, may tend toward coniferous bogs and
swamps, but limited collections make this
difficult to know for certain.
Carex laeviconica Dewey
Uncommon in Wisconsin, where it is at the
northeast edge of its range (Hujik 1995).
Our populations are found in both open and
wooded wet areas, slightly more frequently
in the former than the latter; probably
without exception on alluvial soils. Occa¬
sionally it crawls up onto roadsides or
railroad embankments, which probably
simulate the alluvial shores on which it
naturally fares well. At Avoca Prairie on the
Wisconsin River, the species is known to
hybridize with Carex trichocarpa. Hujik
describes this species as a specialist on
moderately shady swales within lowland
savannas.
Carex lupuliformis Sartwell ex Dewey
**Very rarely collected in Wisconsin , and dif¬
ficult to distinguish ecologically from C.
lupulina , with which it co-occurs.
Carex lupulina Muhlenberg ex Willdenow
A species of wet to (less frequently) wet-
mesic forest, rarely in adjacent wet open
areas. Sometimes found in extremely wet
shrubby areas, in shallow standing water, or
on unshaded riverbanks; rarely in shaded
uplands. The species generally grows on
alluvial soils. It is known from “wet thickets”
in turn-of-the-century Dane county (Che¬
ney and True 1893). The species’ occasional
presence in lowland forest openings suggests
that it would probably do well in shady
microenvironments of lowland savannas or
in wet microenvironments within drier, oak-
dominated woods.
Carex meadii Dewey
Most typical of dry lime prairies, but
sometimes occurs in low prairies as well,
where it is easily confused with Carex tetanica.
Occasionally found in shrubby prairies or
beneath sparse oaks, and occasionally averred
to grow in sandy soil as well. A typical
Crawford County dry prairie collection, from
the upper quarter of a steep, west-northwest-
facing dolomitic hillside lists as associates: Poa
pratensis (dominant), Amorpha canescens, Aster
ericoides, Carex richardsonii, Celastrus
scandens, Comandra umbellata , Cornus
racemosa , Hypoxis hirsuta, Lithospermum
canescens , Pycnanthemum virginianum, Malus
ioensis var. ioensis, Ratibida pinnata, Ribes cf
hirtellum, Sporobolus heterolepis. The species
was once collected from a shallow ditch,
where it grew with Typha latifolia, Juncus
spp., etc. See Henderson (1995) for suggested
seeding rates.
Carex molesta Mackenzie ex Bright
Primarily in low to wet-mesic prairie, where
it may be found with Carex pellita, C.
scoparia, etc.; also in sedge meadows, wet
road edges, shaded river banks, and virtually
any other wet, unshaded, or moderately
shady area. Grows in sandy to clay soils.
Wilhelm notes that it occurs in swamps in
upland woods with Asclepias incarnata,
Glyceria striata , Quercus bicolor, and Packera
pauperculus. While primarily of open areas
in southern Wisconsin, the species probably
reaches into open lowland savanna.
Carex muhlenbergii Schkuhr ex Willdenow
One of the most typical sedges of sand bar¬
rens, dry sand prairies, and black oak savan¬
nas; less frequently on sandstone outcrops,
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HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
sand beaches, dunes, and dry (especially
sandy) oak woodlands. Tolerant of distur¬
bance. Associates on a typical sand prairie
in Richland County include Tephrosia
virginiana, Koeleria macrantha, Danthonia
spicata, Monarda punctata , Achillea mille¬
folium, Poa compressa, Ambrosia psilostachya,
and Plantago aristata. The species occurs
rarely on lime prairies with Carex meadii.
Two collectors report having found the plant
in marshes, and two others report it in prai¬
ries with darker, siltier soil.
Carex normalis Mackenzie
Generally in moist, wooded places, though
ranging to dry oak woods or wet prairies;
like many species, will grade to drier loca¬
tions in the shade than it will in the sun.
Voss describes its usual habitat as “moist
ground, damp fields, thickets, woods,” with
plants sometimes growing in “dry open
ground.” Wilhelm declares that it is “often
found in mesic savannas” with associates in¬
cluding (among a greater number of species
more typical of closed woodlands) Rosa
blanda, Veronicastrum virginicum , and Zizia
aurea.
Carex pellita Muhlenberg
(C. lanuginosa auct. non Michaux)
Common in wet, open or slightly wooded
areas throughout southeastern Wisconsin,
especially in sandy or disturbed soils;
sporadic to the north and west borders of
the state. The species frequently forms
rhizomatous clones in wet prairies, low
fields, sedge meadows and marshes, spread¬
ing readily to adjacent upland areas (as at
road edges, railroad embankments, slopes
leading up from lakeshores), where its
vegetative shoots are frequently noticed if
not usually recognized. While it is more
frequently found in unshaded habitats, the
species tolerates moderate shade, and reaches
into upland and lowland savanna and
forests; it very occasionally grows in a shady
woodland. One Marquette County collec¬
tion was made in a dry sand, scrubby black
oak savanna, the sedge undoubtedly slowly
invading from the adjacent extensive fen at
the base of the slope, with Equisetum
hyemale, E. laevigatum, Carex pensylvanica ,
Arabis lyrata, Smilacina racemosa, Amorpha
canescens, Asclepias syriaca, Galium boreale,
Aster oolentangiensis, Monarda fistulosa, and
Gaylussacia baccata.
Carex pensylvanica Lamark
Most typical in dry to dry-mesic woods and
prairies, especially in sand, though it ranges
into sugar maple or bottomland forests as
well, and very occasionally into lime prai¬
ries; one of our commonest species. In a
Richland County sand prairie and thin jack
pine-black oak woods, it is reported grow¬
ing with Vulpia octoflora var. octoflora,
Hudsonia tomentosa, Koeleria macrantha,
Opuntia compressa, Panicum virgatum, Rhus
glabra, Selaginella rupestris, and Tephrosia
virginiana. Wilhelm describes this as “a com¬
mon species of morainic savannas. . . . May
well have been one of the principal fuel spe¬
cies in our timbered lands.” Zimmerman
similarly describes it as a species of dry prai¬
ries, barrens, and oak savannas. No effort is
made here to discuss the segregate species or
varieties that have been proposed for this
species.
Carex projecta Mackenzie
Most typically in lowland or rich sugar
maple forests as well as swampy thickets and
shaded borders. Occasionally in lowland
savanna or unshaded wet areas, though
perhaps just the edges of these. Frequently
in sandy soils. This species is common
northward, where it occasionally strays from
conifer swamps or mesic forest into bogs,
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
moist depressions in sand dunes, shallow
standing water, or, rarely, sunny uplands.
Much collected in the Apostle Islands, where
it seems disproportionately frequent in open
areas, perhaps due to higher humidity near
the lake.
Carex radiata (Wahlenberg) Small
(Car ex rosea Schkuhr ex Willd., misapplied)
In a variety of wooded stands, from bottom¬
land forests to dry oak woods, most often
in relatively mesic or wet microsites; ranges
to forest edges, sparsely wooded or open
fields, and, infrequently, wet or dry prairie.
It is frequent under white oaks and butter¬
nuts in the University of Wisconsin Arbore¬
tum’s Noe Woods, with Carex pensylvanica,
Galium triflorum , Liparis lilifolia , Circaea
lutetiana ssp. canadensis. The species occurs
not uncommonly in shady or wet microsites
of mesic oak savannas (personal obser¬
vation).
Carex richardsonii R. Brown
Almost exclusively of dry, thin-soiled lime
prairies, though ranging to dry sandy prairies
and occasionally to calcareous wetlands.
Cochrane notes that the species is “not rare,
as previously thought, but undercollected
due to early seasonality, poor fruiting, and
resemblance to C. pensylvanica. L. J.
Musselman and [Cochrane] have taken it on
almost every dry prairie, dolomite or gravel,
as well as on some sand prairies, that either
has visited during the appropriate season.
Like Spiranthes magnicamporum , Solidago
ptarmicoides, and Litbospermum canescens,
also calciphiles, this sedge is occasionally
found in fens, not the type of habitat usually
ascribed to it” (personal communication plus
note on label of Cochrane & Cochrane
#5989). See Carex umbellata for associates.
Carex rosea Schkuhr ex Willdenow
(Carex convoluta Mackenzie)
Very common in deciduous woods, prima¬
rily in sugar maple forests, throughout the
state; also in oak woods, damp to dry, and
occasionally in prairies or wet pastures; leans
toward drier habitats than does the closely
related Carex radiata. Probably both species
were found in shady microsites in presettle¬
ment savannas. Associates in its typical habi¬
tat, a white oak-shagbark hickory woods in
Iowa County, include Carex hirtifolia (abun¬
dant), Arisaema tripbyllum, Crataegus sp.,
Cynoglossum officinale , Litbospermum lati-
folium, Mublenbergia scbreberi, Parietaria
pensylvanica , Podophyllum peltatum, Ranun¬
culus abortivus, R. bispidus var. nitidus, Ribes
missouriense, Sanicula canadensis , Zantboxy-
lum americanum.
Carex rugosperma Mackenzie
(C. umbellata var. umbellata sensu Fernald)
Primarily of open or partly shaded sandy soils,
especially dry; appears more shade tolerant than
the closely related Carex tonsa. Usually in jack
pine barrens, sand prairies, beaches and granitic
outcrops, uncommon in moist hemlock woods
and white cedar swamps.
Carex sartwellii Dewey
Most frequently in sedge meadow and other
wet, organic soil, including bogs; more
generally in alkaline than acid soils. It grows
invariably in open sun or barely shaded sites,
and ranges from wet prairie to standing
water in marshes, ditches, lake edges. The
species may be more common in wet prairies
than is suggested by the infrequency of
collections, as the closely studied prairies of
the University of Wisconsin Arboretum have
yielded the species in abundance, growing
with Stacbys palustris, Anemone canadensis ,
Calamagrostis canadensis , Liatris pycnostacbya,
and Hierocbloe odorata.
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HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
Carex scoparia Schkuhr ex Willdenow
Most common in open, wet, sandy soil,
occasionally in microsites that are more or
less bare of other vegetation. The species
ranges from shallow water (base of plant
submerged) to, rarely, dry sandy uplands,
and from sun to partial shade. Typical
habitat includes marshes, sedge meadows,
lake shores, ditches, wet prairies, sphagnum
bogs; aberrant on bluffs and in upland
woods. One collection was made in Iowa
County in moist loamy sand, from the
bottom of a disturbed moist depression in a
Quercus velutina-Pinus banksiana woodland,
with Carex tribuloides, Cyperus strigosus, Fim-
bristylis autumnalis, Scirpus cyperinus ,
Calamagrostis canadensis, ] uncus effusus, J.
tenuis, Onoclea sensibilis, Thelypteris palustris,
Ranunculus pensylvanicus, Potentilla simplex.
Spiraea alba, Verbena hastata, Hypericum
majus, Viola sp., Penthorum sedoides, Ly copus
americanus. Lobelia inflata, Conyza cana¬
densis var. canadensis, Eupatorium perfo-
liatum, Euthamia gymnospermoides, Bidens
cernuus, Erechtites hieraciifolia, Galium
tinctorium.
Carex siccata Dewey
(C. foenea, misapplied)
Prominently rhizomatous; most frequent in
dry sand prairies, sandy savannas (including
black oak and pine barrens) or sandy woods,
with such species as Stipa spartea , Comandra
umbellata, Lupinus perennis, Asclepias
tuberosa, Arabis hirsuta, Lithospermum
caroliniense , Coreopsis palmata, Artemisia
campestris, Antennaria palinii ssp.fallax, and
Lespedeza capitata. The species ranges to
mesic to wet prairie or even, very occa¬
sionally, sedge meadow. It is, for the most
part, limited to the southern half of the state,
with scattered individuals as far north as
Douglas and Marinette counties.
Carex sparganioides Muhlenberg ex Will¬
denow
Almost exclusively in rich sugar maple and
associated forests, though occasionally in
slightly lower, wet forests or dry to mesic
oak-dominated forests. Once found with
Poa pratensis in an open fallow field west of
Madison’s University Bay, seventy feet from
an oak wood. Found as well in oak leaf lit¬
ter in the “Bud” Jackson School Forest, a
dry-mesic southern oak forest on rolling to¬
pography, under Quercus alba, Q velutina,
with Prunus serotina, Carya ovata, Q.
macrocarpa, Ulmus rubra and Malus ioensis;
associated herbs include Smilacina racemosa ,
Geum canadense, Rubus rosa, Amphicarpaea
bracteata, Desmodium glutinosum, Geranium
maculatum, Parthenocissus vitacea, Vitis
riparia, Osmorhiza claytonii, Prunella vulgaris
ssp. lanceolata, Circea lutetiana ssp. cana¬
densis, Galium concinnum, G. circaezans var.
hypomalacum , and Phryma leptostachya.
Carex sprengelii Dewey ex Sprengel
Like Carex sparganioides, C. sprengelii grows
almost exclusively in rich upland or lowland
forest, with occasional individuals on rocky
outcrops; rarely in full sun. Once collected
in a dry-mesic forest with Quercus alba,
Populus grandidentata, and once in a white
oak-black oak-ash-shagbark hickory forest in
Brown County; the latter site is perhaps
drier than one in which I would expect to
find C. sprengelii growing in southern Wis¬
consin. Delong and Hooper report that this
species occurs infrequently in the savanna
region of Iowa, where it ranges from upland
woods to wet-mesic and dry-mesic prairie.
Carex stipata Muhlenberg ex Willdenow
Common throughout Wisconsin in a vari¬
ety of moist, often shaded habitats, such as
river or pond edges (especially at woodland
borders), transition zones between forest and
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open wetland, and the edges of logging roads
or trails through low moist woods; tolerant
of disturbance. Also in sedge meadows, sand
flats, and transitions between open upland
and open wetland. The species likely occurs
at the edges of ponds, streams, and open
wetlands enclosed by or abutting oak savan¬
nas. Typical associates include Car ex pellita,
C. trichocarpa, Allium canadense, Ranuncu¬
lus hispidus var. nitidus , Thalictrum dasy-
carpum, and many lowland weeds.
Carex tenera Dewey
Probably most common in wet prairies with
Sporobolus heterolepis, Calamagrostis cana¬
densis , etc., though collections derive from a
diversity of sites, ranging from mesic and dry
forest to mesic or, less frequently, dry sand
prairie. From a single site in Rock County,
the species was collected in both a rich, wet-
mesic prairie, with Andropogon gerardii, As-
clepias hirtella, A. purpurascens, Carex
bicknellii, C. buxbaumii, C. umbellata,
Cirsium discolor, Gentiana andrewsii, Sil-
phium integrifolium, S. laciniatum, S. terebin-
thinaceum, Sorghastrum nutans:, and the mesic
transition to an adjacent upland woods, with
Equisetum arvense, Poa pratensis, Carex pellita,
Geranium maculatum, Helianthus grosseser-
ratus, and Solidago canadensis. Wilhelm refers
to this species as one of wet to mesic savan¬
nas and their associated prairies.
Carex tetanica Schkuhr
A species of sedge meadows, wet prairies, fens,
and other open wet areas, typically marly or cal¬
careous, with such associates as Equisetum
arvense, Thalictrum dasycarpum, Pycnanthemum
virginianum, Veronicastrum virginianum,
Helianthus grosseseratus. According to Theodore
Cochrane, the species is frequent but under¬
collected. More or less limited to the southern
two-thirds of eastern Wisconsin, with one col¬
lection from Trempealeau County.
Carex tonsa (Fernald) Bicknell
(Carex umbellata wax. tonsa, C. rugosperma
var. tonsa)
In predominantly dry, sandy, unshaded or
only slightly shady habitats; apparently more
restricted in habitat than the less frequently
collected Carex rugosperma. Typical sand
prairie associates, from two Sauk County
collections are Liatris aspera, Aster ericoides,
A. sericeus, A. oblongifolius, Kuhnia eupa-
torioides, Cyperus lupulinus ssp. macilentus,
Hudsonia tomentosa (rare), Krigia virginica,
Solidago nemoralis, Antennaria planta-
ginifolia, Opuntia macrorhiza, Panicum
villosissimum, P. oligosanthes var. scrib-
nerianum, Koeleria macranthai Stipa spartea,
Carex muhlenbergii, Sisyrinchium campestre,
Arenaria stricta ssp. stricta, Viola pedatifida,
V. sagittata, Calystegia sepium, Polygala
polygama var. obtusata, Triodanis perfoliata.
Carex torreyi Tuckerman
**This extremely rare and restricted species is
near the east edge of its range here. Speci¬
mens from far western Wisconsin and other
states (from the southeast to the Rockies)
come from open to shady deciduous hard¬
wood stands. One Trempealeau County col¬
lection is from an open deciduous woods of
Quercus macrocarpa, Carya ovata, and
Populus tremuloides atop a high limestone
hill. Another is from a rich oak forest on the
slope of an esker in Waukesha County, with
Carex cephalophora, Liparis lilifolia, and L.
loeselii.
Carex tribuloides Wahlenberg
Primarily in riverbottom or floodplain
forests, but ranging occasionally to prairie
sloughs, wet fields, sedge meadows, sandbars
of the Wisconsin River, and upland wood-
lots; rarely to dry sand. The species is most
common in southwest Wisconsin (only two
specimens from Dane County at WIS) and
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probably more or less restricted to alluvial
soils. Cheney and True (1893) note that the
species was “rather common” in “low, wet
places” of Dane county at the turn of the
century. It may be that they confused this
species with the very similar C. project a,
which is not restricted to floodplains; for it
seems unlikely that C. tribuloides would be
so undercollected in the low, wet places of
modern Dane county. Carex tribuloides
appears rarely in oak openings bordering
marshy ground and seems a likely resident
of alluvial lowland savanna.
Carex trichocarpa Muhlenberg ex Will-
denow
Generally in open or partly shaded alluvial
soils, ranging occasionally to lowland forest
edges or interior. The species often forms
large vegetative colonies in marshes, sedge
meadows, the wettest of alluvial prairies or
low weedy fields, and on the banks of
streams and springs. In the transition
between a marsh and wet prairie in Rock
County, it is reported as associating with
Carex stricta, Salix spp., Phlox pilosa, Angelica
atropurpurea , Cornus racemosa , Zizia aurea ,
C a It ha palustris, Galium obtusum, and
Silphium terebinthinaceum. Some collections
have been identified as hybrids with Carex
atherodes (most often in cattail marshes (fide
Cochrane) or C. laeviconica, the latter
occupying habitats similar to those of C.
trichocarpa.
Carex umbellata Schkuhr ex Willdenow
(Carex abdita Bicknell)
Predominantly of dry lime prairies, but also
on sandstone or dolomite bluffs, sand dunes,
barrens, and related sites (e.g., trail edges in
dry pine stands). Like other calciphiles (c.f.
discussion under C. richardsonit ), the species
is occasional in calcareous wetlands (e.g.,
fens, sedge meadows, low prairies). Rarely in
deep soil prairie. Associates from a dry prairie
in Crawford County, two-thirds of the way
up a steep west-northwest-facing hillside, on
thin silt loam soil over Prairie du Chien
(Ordovician) dolomite, are Carex richardsonii
and C. meadii (both present nearby on same
hillside), Hypoxis hirsuta, Heuchera rich¬
ardsonii, Comandra umbellata , Oxalis vio-
lacea, Lithospermum canescens, Hypericum sp.,
Erigeron pulchellus, Dalea Candida , Rubus
idaeus , Solidago missouriensis, Cirsium hillii
(many plants, generally distributed), Trio-
steum aurantiacum. See Henderson (1993)
for recommended seeding rates.
Carex vesicaria Linnaeus
Sunny, wet areas, usually somewhat wetter
than wet prairie — common in swales of
Avoca Prairie, Iowa county — and usually on
alluvial soils, these ranging from peat to
sand; typically grows with such sedges as
Carex haydenii and C. sartwellii, though
often in wetter habitats than these two
species require. Other typical habitats
include lake shores, standing water, bogs and
sedge meadows, ditches. Occasionally found
in lowland forest edges or openings, some¬
times in alluvial forests. Hujik includes this
in his list of lowland savanna species.
Carex vulpinoidea Michaux
In marshes, wet forest edges, alluvial woods,
lake and stream edges, and wet areas gener¬
ally; often in sand, but less so than is the
closely related Carex brachyglossa. Occasion¬
ally found in wet prairies, and once found
on a sandy hillside. Infrequent in bogs and
standing water.
Volume 86 (1998)
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CHECKLIST 2
Exotic, marginal, or speculative species
The following species are not native to Wisconsin, barely fall within the range of habitats
delimited in the Methods section of this paper, or appear to have a proper place within
these habitats despite a lack of examples among WIS specimens. In the interests of space,
habitat descriptions may be cursory.
Car ex albicans Willdenow ex Sprengel
var. albicans
(C. artitecta Mackenzie)
**A very rare sedge in Wisconsin , the only
collections being from the immediate Devil’s
Lake area; more common south and east of
us. Fernald accounts it a sedge of “dry woods
and clearings.” Wilhelm describes the typical
locale as “dry, sandy woods, mostly in the
dune region [of the Chicago region];” and
Voss, similarly: “Deciduous woods of all
kinds except the wettest, especially on sandy
soils, in disturbed areas, along roads, and in
clearings.” In Wisconsin, known from dry
rocky woods on the west bluff of Devil’s
Lake, where still extant along a path in the
pines (Cochrane, personal communication),
and on talus slopes around the lake.
Car ex alopecoidea Tuckerman
A species of floodplain forests and open al¬
luvium. Perhaps occasional in presettlement
alluvial prairies and lowland savannas,
though not represented from these habitats
among recent collections. Wilhelm (1995)
and Wheeler and Ownbey (1984) both de¬
scribe this as a species of wet forests and
meadows/fields.
Carex bromoides Schkuhr ex Willdenow
Primarily wet to mesic forests, occasionally
to open fields, closed oak forests and, most
likely, lowland savannas.
Carex bushii Mackenzie
** Exceedingly rare , north of its historic
range. There is one known station in
Wisconsin for this species; the north edge
of its range passes through central Illinois.
Wilhelm recognizes this as “evidently
recently introduced [to Cook County]
from farther south,” the first collection
being in 1978 and all collections being
from eroded soils grown over with “weeds
and non-conservative natives.” According
to Flora of the Great Plains , the species is
“most common in ungrazed prairies,
occasional in ditches and margins of
wooded areas.” This accords with our only
documented site, in Iowa County:
undulating terrain near a small stream
course, originally high lime prairie on
Dodgeville silt loam soil, actively grazed,
with closest associates being Antennaria
neglecta, Cirsium hillii (200 plants),
Erigeron strigosus, Daucus carota , Medicago
lupulina, Phleum pratense, Trifolium pra-
tense , Solidago rigida, S. speciosa, and
Verbena stricta.
Carex communis Bailey
Primarily a northern species, with a few
populations in southern Wisconsin. Most
generally of sugar maple or other mesic
forests, but found once in a goat prairie,
and once in what the collector considered
a dry/dry-mesic forest with oaks.
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HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
Carex crinita Lamark; C. gynandra
Schweinitz
Both primarily in bottomland forests, often
alluvial, C. gynandra was once found at the
edge of a pool in an upland oak woods, and
C. crinita once found at the edge of a
lowland woods with Quercus bicolor. Possibly
these widespread species were formerly
found in lowland savannas.
Carex cristatella Britton
Bottomland forests, marshy cornfields, sedge
meadows, swales adjacent to wet prairies,
one or two erratics in upland forest — but
not a specimen from within good quality
low prairie. The species’ presence in what
appears to be degraded low prairies suggests
that it could easily occur in wet alluvial
prairies.
Carex deweyana Schweinitz; Carex digitalis
Willdenow; Carex hirtifolia Mackenzie
All three are found primarily in sugar maple
forest, and range only rarely into oak-
dominated forests.
Carex gravida Bailey
** Apparently adventive from the west. This
species is considered by Cochrane and
Zimmerman to be adventive from prairies
of the Great Plains, where it is common
(Cochrane, personal communication).
There is one record — no habitat infor¬
mation, label reading only “Madison,
Wisconsin” — from 1861; the next speci¬
mens were collected in the 1930s. The
species is most frequently found in open
disturbed habitats — roadsides, railroad
beds, ditches, etc. — but is very occasionally
found in prairies as well, especially dry,
ranging very infrequently to wet prairies,
marshes, fens and lake edges, and forest
edges.
Carex grisea Wahlenberg
(C. amphibola Steud. var. turgida Fernald,
misapplied)
Primarily of mesic to lowland, often alluvial
forests. Some specimens occur in open de¬
ciduous forests or lowland forest with Quercus
bicolor , perhaps supporting McCarty’s obser¬
vation that in Missouri this is a relatively con¬
servative species on closed and usually mesic
fire-dependent sites (McCarty in press). Perhaps
a lowland savanna species in Wisconsin.
Carex intumescens Rudge
Most typical of moist to wet woodlands.
Collected once in a dry oak-hickory woods
in Columbia County.
Carex lacustris Willdenow
Appears not to grade into wet prairies (more
typical of sedge meadows, marshes, and
other such wet habitats), but certainly in
sloughs within wet prairies.
Carex lasiocarpa Ehrhart
Typically found in sedge meadows, sphagnum
bogs, marshes, and lake edges, often in shallow
water. Very rarely in the wettest of prairies.
Carex leavenworthii Dewey
**Ve ry local in Wisconsin , where apparently
adventive , its native range being to the south.
The bulk of Wisconsin collections come
from a single location, a “weedy lawn” at the
base of Science Hall on the UW-Madison
campus’s Bascom Hill, where the first col¬
lection of the species from the state was
made in 1937; the population there is now
extirpated. This site, in a region of former
oak savanna, and a second collection from
a lawn shaded partly by Quercus macrocarpa
accord with Delong and Hooper’s assess¬
ment of the species as a denizen of “prairie,
woodlands, wooded bluffs” and mesic/ clay
loam oak savanna.
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Carex merritt-femaldii Mackenzie
Infrequent in Wisconsin, slightly more com¬
mon northward. Usually in low, sandy, open
disturbed areas, rarely in open woodlands.
This species might have been present in dis¬
turbed areas of low sand prairies before
settlement.
Carex muskingumensis Schweinitz
Always on alluvial soils, chiefly along the
Wolf, Wisconsin, and Mississippi Rivers;
primarily of lowland forests and transition
zones. Once recorded from a “ Carex spp.
bog or marsh” at the edge of a bottomland
woods with Quercus bicolor (litis #6058).
Other than this, it apparently has been
found only in shade, but it might occasion¬
ally grade into shady lowland savanna.
Carex sivanii (Fernald) Mackenzie
** This is one of Wisconsin s rarest sedges (four
collections at WIS, three of which are from
the southeast corner of the state), probably
at the northwest extent of its range here.
Wilhelm describes it as “a characteristic
species of black oak savannas in our eastern
and southern sectors,” but WIS specimens
are from a Waushara County alder thicket,
a sandy roadside in Kenosha County, and a
sugar maple forest in Waukesha County. In
other prairie-province states, C. swanii has
been found in rich, rocky soil beneath a
thick oak-hickory canopy (LeFlore County,
Oklahoma), in a prairie slough (Winnebago
County, Illinois), and in a dry, sandy logging
road through a forest clearing (St. Joseph
County, Indiana). This species may have
occasionally found its way into sandy oak
savannas before settlement, though its
seeming absence from sand savanna rem¬
nants and its extreme rarity in Wisconsin
render this doubtful.
Carex tuckermanii Dewey
Primarily in wet shaded woods, generally on
alluvial soils, occasionally in unshaded
sloughs, river banks, and wet pastures as
well, and at the edges of pools in alluvial or
otherwise wet woodlands. In the north, of¬
ten ranges to wet hardwood forests, and
sometimes to conifer bogs, alder thickets,
cedar swamps, marshes and wet grasslands.
This species may be occasional in very shady
lowland savannas, though such placement is
not strictly supported by vouchers inspected.
Carex typhina Michaux
A plant of floodplain forests, frequently grow¬
ing with Quercus bicolor. This species may oc¬
casionally move into lowland savanna.
Carex viridula Michaux
Primarily of wet sandy or rocky shores, cal¬
careous wetlands, and adjacent communi¬
ties. Thus collected once in a wet prairie ad¬
jacent to Lake Michigan (Kenosha County,
Cochrane et al. #1 1,279). Schneider (1994)
found this in a quarter of the Ohio fens that
he studied, and he accounts it, with Carex
interior , an obligate calciphile.
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HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
Discussion
Those who plan to utilize these checklists
and Table 2 as planting guidelines should
interpret the data with some care. The por¬
trayals of species’ environmental require¬
ments in this paper generally do not ad¬
equately represent the full range of their
tolerance and preferences across the range of
environments present in Wisconsin; Carex
richardsonii and C. tetanica, for instance, are
sufficiently undercollected that the breadth
of their behavior in Wisconsin prairies may
not be well understood. Conversely, the
ecology of some species pairs with markedly
overlapping habitats, such as Carex meadii
and C. richardsonii, tend to resemble one
another less than the habitat narratives in
this paper suggest. As is the case worldwide,
work on Wisconsin carices suffers from a
lack of knowledge of the species’ autecology
(Catling et al. 1990). Experimental plantings
and more sophisticated empirical studies are
required to both differentiate and sufficiently
represent the habitat requirements within
this genus (cf. Jordan et al. 1987, Leach
1996).
The distributions of a few species in this
study seem to support Bray’s hypothesis
(1958) that species of wet to wet-mesic prai¬
ries may move into shady sites of somewhat
drier uplands; Carex bicknellii , C. normalis ,
C. teneray and C. vulpinoideay for example,
all occur in both wet (open) prairies and
mesic to dry oak woods and savannas. On a
larger scale, a few species exhibit trends in
habitat requirements that support the obser¬
vation that several forest species of south-
central Illinois grade into more open savanna
toward the north and east, particularly in
Wisconsin (Delong and Hooper 1996). In
particular, Carex gracillimay C. pedunculatay
and C. sprengelii appear to gravitate toward
more open and perhaps drier habitats as they
move northward. Such geographic and habi¬
tat shifts surely affect other species as well.
Restorationists, many of whom are already
fully conscious of these trends, can contrib¬
ute greatly to the fine discrimination of spe¬
cies habitats through experimental plantings
and close observation.
Acknowledgments
This project would not have been possible
without continual help from the staff, cura¬
tors and director of the University of Wis¬
consin Herbarium, who have been fore¬
bearing and supportive since I first got
interested in Carex and started clogging their
already busy tables. Most especially, I thank
Ted Cochrane for his patience and expertise
in helping to identify prairie and oak wood¬
land carices at the onset of this project, for
access to his impeccable maps, for invaluable
feedback on a draft of this paper, and for
graciousness and generosity with his time
and knowledge. I thank Mark Leach for tak¬
ing time to look at an early draft of this re¬
port, both him and Brian Bader for insight
on the nature of this work, Dr. Robert
Freckmann for valuable suggestions on for¬
mat and content, and Ken Wood for comb¬
ing over the final draft. Thanks to Libby
Zimmerman for an advance copy of her
Carex keys and comments on the paper, and
the University of Wisconsin Arboretum for
funding an initial portion of this work. And
I am most grateful to my wife Rachel, both
for comments on the presentation that pre¬
ceded this paper and for encouraging me to
sit down and write.
Volume 86 (1998)
97
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Literature Cited
Bader, B., and M. Fifield-Murray. In review.
University of Wisconsin Arboretum oak
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HIPP: A Checklist of Carices for Prairies, Savannas, and Oak Woodlands
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Volume 86 (1998)
99
Richard S. King
Dispersal ofKarner Blue Butterflies
(Lycaeides melissa samuelis Nabokov)
at Necedah National Wildlife Refuge
Abstract Mark-release-recapture research was conducted to determine
dispersal ability and patterns of the Karner blue butterfly (Lycaeides
melissa samuelis Nabokov). Karner blue butterflies were marked
during the first and second flights of the 1995 field season. Two
hundred and three individuals were marked during the first flight ,
and 1,236 were marked during the second flight. The mean
distance traveled by males between locations was 456.9 m and
214.7 m during the first and second flights, respectively. The mean
distance traveled by females between locations was 69. 8 m during
the first flight and 359.2 m during the second flight. Inter-site
dispersers ( those individuals dispersing > 1,150 m to new sites)
represented 7.4% and 11.2% of the recaptures during the first and
second flights respectively. Only one individual (0.07%) was located
on a road corridor between suitable habitat patches. The percentage
of individuals making inter-site dispersals was markedly different
between sexes and among individual sites. Wind direction had no
detectable effect on emigration rates for any of the sites, although
significant differences in immigration rates were detected among
wind directions. The observed dispersal trends indicate that Karner
blue butterflies were able to disperse substantial distances (> 1, 150
m) frequently and that they rarely use corridors to do so.
Range-wide population declines of the Karner blue butter¬
fly ( Lycaeides melissa samuelis Nabokov) led to its listing
as an endangered species in December 1992 (Clough 1992).
Despite being one of the most studied butterflies of North
America (Dirig 1994), many information gaps exist regarding
the ecology of the Karner blue butterfly (Andow et al. 1994).
One of the most fundamental information gaps concerns
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movements and dispersal of individual
butterflies within and among populations.
Karner blue butterfly populations are
generally assumed to have metapopulation
dynamics (Givnish et al. 1988). However,
reviews of metapopulation literature reveal
that data supporting critical assumptions of
metapopulation theory are lacking for any
species (Harrison 1991). Central to meta¬
population dynamics theory is dispersal of
organisms between patches (Hanski 1991).
Few studies focusing on the dispersal of
Karner blue butterflies have been conducted.
A limitation common to all insect dispersal
research to date is the issue of decreasing
probability of detection with increasing dis¬
persal distances (Premo et al. 1994). All
Karner blue butterfly dispersal studies to
date fall into two major categories: studies
conducted on corridors (Lawrence and Cook
1989, Sfera et al. 1993, Bidwell, unpub¬
lished data) and studies conducted in for¬
ested landscapes with Karner blue butterfly
habitat patches (Fried 1987, Packer 1987,
Welch 1993). Without knowledge of indi¬
vidual Karner blue butterfly movements and
dispersal, development of management plans
aimed at safeguarding this species will lack
an important foundation.
Methods
This study was conducted during June, July,
and August (the Karner blue butterfly’s first
and second flight periods) of 1993 on three
populations on the Necedah National Wild¬
life Refuge (NNWR) in south-central Wis¬
consin (48°83'N, 90°10/W) (Figure 1). All
populations are on restored oak barrens
habitat (Curtis 1959) and are separated from
each other by 1,150, 1,550, and 2,250 m of
unsuitable habitat. Unsuitable habitat in¬
cluded water impoundments and wetlands
void of nectar sources and wild lupine
(Lupinus perennis) (the Karner blue butter¬
fly’s only known larval food source). The
populations all lie within an area dominated
by an open landscape with oak barrens and
wet meadow habitats abutting large water
impoundments.
Mark-release-recapture (MRR) was con¬
ducted throughout the entire study site ev¬
ery day of the first and second flight peri¬
ods regardless of weather conditions. MRR
began at 0800 and ended at 1530. The study
area was staked with 50 m x 50 m grids that
provided a reference to geographic location.
The grid system also was used to keep search
effort equal throughout the study area. Equal
time was spent in each 50 m x 50 m cell ev¬
ery day. This decreased the number of but¬
terflies that were captured but reduced bias
toward what observers considered suitable
habitat. Butterflies were captured with stan¬
dard aerial butterfly nets, and individuals
were given a unique three digit number on
their hind-wing with an ultra-fine point
“Sharpy” marker. Individuals were released
immediately after marking was completed.
The entire procedure usually took approxi¬
mately 15 seconds, and no mortalities were
observed during the study. The location,
condition, and sex of each individual were
recorded as well as date and time.
Data Analysis
Mean-distance-per-move (MDM) (average
of all distances between locations), mean-
distance-moved-per-day (MDD) (distance
moved, divided by the number of days since
the last location), total-distance-moved
(TDM) (the sum of all linear distances
between locations) and range-length (RL)
(linear distance between the two most
distant locations) were determined for male
and female Karner blue butterflies during
the first and second flights.
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KING: Karner Blue Butterfly Dispersal
Figure 1. Location of units and sub-units within study area boundary on Necedah
National Wildlife Refuge, Juneau County, Wisconsin.
Volume 86 (1998)
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All population parameters were estimated
using mark-release-recapture data. Popula¬
tion size (P.), total number of new animals
entering the population (B.), and survival
probability (F) were determined as outlined
by Pollock et al. (1990) using the using the
software “Jolly.” The total number of indi¬
viduals emigrating (E.) and immigrating (I.)
was determined from the dispersal data. The
total number of emigrating individuals dis¬
persing from a site was estimated as:
where m. is the number of animals marked
in the ith sample and nT.+] is the number
of those individuals that disperse out of the
unit by the I + 1th sample. Individuals were
assumed to have emigrated on the I - 1th
sample that they were observed on a
different site. The number of individuals
immigrating into a unit was estimated as:
*i = Eaa . i) + Eb(i . i)
where Ea , and Eb , are the number of in¬
i' l i-i
dividuals dispersing to that site from the two
other sites in the study area.
Wind direction was determined daily at
1300 (generally when maximum winds oc¬
curred) with a weather station (Forest Tech¬
nology Systems, Bellingham, Washington).
The weather station recorded wind direction
in degrees. These data where then converted
into eight classes (N, NW, W, SW, S, SE,
E, NE) for analysis.
A chi-square analysis was used to test
for differences in the proportion of
individuals making inter-site dispersals
(dispersal > 1,500 m) between sexes and
among units. A Kruskal-Wallis test was
used to test for differences in the dis¬
tributions of dispersal between the sexes
and flights. A Kruskal-Wallis test was also
used to test for differences in the dis¬
tributions of the emigration and immi¬
gration data among wind directions.
Means are reported ± SE. The results of
statistical procedures were regarded
significant at P < 0. 1 .
Results
Two hundred and three individuals were
marked during the first flight and 1,236
were marked during the second flight. Re¬
capture rates with data pooled by sex were
11.7% and 25.7% for the first and second
flights respectively, which were significantly
different (%2 = 21.64, df = 1, P = 0.0012).
The male recapture rate (25.8%) was signifi¬
cantly greater (%2 = 3.91, df = 1, P = 0.05)
than that for females (21.9%) with data
pooled over the flights.
Inter-site dispersal (movements be¬
tween sites) (ISD) represented 7.4% and
11.2% of the recaptures on the entire
study area during the first and second
flights respectively. Individuals first
located on the East Rynearson site had the
highest proportion of individuals making
ISD (40.0%). The proportion of Karner
blue butterflies making ISD was 22.4%
and 6.1% for individuals first located on
the South and North Rynearson Sites
respectively (Figure 2). The proportions
of individuals making ISD from the three
sites were significantly different (%2 =
41 .21 , df = 2, P - 0.001). Of all females,
15.3% made at least one ISD, which was
significantly more (%2 = 5.46, df = 1, P -
0.02) than for males (7.9%) (Table 1).
When pooling data by flight, males
moved significantly less between locations
than females (%2= 6.99, df = 1, P - 0.008).
Mean-distance-per-move (MDM) for first
flight males (456.9 ± 261.7 m) was not sig¬
nificantly more (%2 = 0.61 , df = 1 , P - 0.44)
than that for second flight males (x =214.7
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KING: Karner Blue Butterfly Dispersal
Figure 2. Emigration and immigration rates by day on the three populations studies
during the second flight of 1995, on Necedah National Wildlife Refuge, Juneau County,
Wisconsin.
Volume 86 (1998)
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Table 1. Summary of the number of individuals captured and recaptured by sex and
flight during 1995 on Necedah National Wildlife Refuge, Juneau County, Wisconsin.
9 Cf First Flight Second Flight
Recapture percentage represents the precent of individuals reptured on at least one occasion.
ISD = the percentage of individuals making at least one inter-site dispersal (> 1,500 m).
Table 2. Summary of dispersal statistics (x± SE) for Karner blue butterflies during the
first and second flights of 1995 on Necedah National Wildlife Refuge, Juneau County,
Wisconsin.
MDM = mean distance between all locations.
TDM = sum of all distance between locations.
DBR = days between recapture.
MDD = mean distance traveled divided by the number of days between locations.
RL = maximum distance between any two locations.
± 30.8 m). MDM for first flight females
(69.8 ± 17.3 m) was significantly less (%2 =
3.28, df = 1, P = 0.07) than that for second
flight females (339.2 ±27.3 m) (Table 2).
Taking elapsed time into consideration
(mean-distance-moved-per-day), females did
not move significantly (%2 = 1.55, df = 1, P
= 0.21) further than males when pooling
data by flight. MDD was 108.6 ± 32.7 m
and 119.5 ±7.5 m for males during the first
and second flight, respectively, which was
not significantly different (%2= 1.97, df = 1,
P = 0.16). Female MDD was also not sig¬
nificantly different (%2 = 0.26, df = 1, P =
0.61) between the first (x = 48.2 ±12.1 m)
and second ( x - 173.2 ± 13.1 m) flights
(Table 2).
Days-between-recapture (DBR) (the days
between original and subsequent recaptures)
was significantly different (%2 = 3.50, df =
1, P - 0.06) for males and females, which
explains the discrepancies that were observed
between the MDM and MDD data. First
flight male DBR (x = 2.6 ± 0.1) was nearly
identical to the second flight male DBR (x
= 2.5 ± 0.2) with no significant difference
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KING: Karner Blue Butterfly Dispersal
(%2 = 0.001, df = 1, P= 0.98). Spacing be¬
tween recaptures was significantly (%2 =
6.27, df = 1, P = 0.01) greater for second
flight females (x = 3.3 ± 0.3) than first flight
females (x = 1.4 ± 0.3). Unlike the MDM
and MDD data, a significant difference (%2
= 3.26, df = 1, P = 0.07) in the DBR data
was detected between the flights with data
pooled by sex (Table 2).
The maximum distance between any two
locations (range-length) was also signifi¬
cantly different between the flights (%2 =
3.03, df = 1, P = 0.03) with data pooled by
sex. RL was not significantly different (%2
= 0.02, df = 1, P = 0.90) between the sexes
when the flights were pooled. Mean RL was
73.3 ± 13.8 m and 613.7 ± 167.1 for first
and second flight females respectively,
which was significantly different (%2 = 3.17,
df = 1, P = 0.02). First flight male RL (x =
457.0 ± 261 .9 m) was not significantly dif¬
ferent (%2 = 0.40, df = 1, P= 0.53) than the
second flight male RL (x =373.6 ± 98.6 m)
(Table 2).
The total-distance-moved (TDM) was
not significantly different between the sexes
and flights. TDM was significantly shorter
(%2 = 4.67, df = 1, P = 0.03) between the
first (x =74.4 ± 5.0 m) and second (x =
433.1 ± 72.8 m) flights for females. First
flight male TDM ( x = 456.9 + 261.9 m)
was not significantly greater (%2= 0.001, df
= 1, P = 0.92) than second flight male
TDM (x= 277 A ± 39.7 m) (Table 2).
Emigration rates were not significantly
different among wind directions for any
site, but immigration rates differed sig¬
nificantly (%2 = 9.55, df = 4, P = 0.05)
among wind directions on the South
Rynearson Site. Similar results were seen on
the North Rynearson Site with immigration
rates being significantly different (%2= 8.05,
df = 4, P = 0.09) among wind directions.
Immigration to the North and South Ry¬
nearson sites peaked on days with a west
wind (Table 3). Sample size was too small
for analysis of the East Rynearson im¬
migration data.
Discussion
Karner blue butterflies studied on the
NNWR were able to move large distances
(>1,150 m), and exchange of individuals
among the populations was frequent.
Approximately 11% of all individuals
marked during the second flight were
eventually recaptured at sites other than
their original capture site (Table 1).
Distances between locations in excess of
1,500 m were common (7.5%, n = 429).
Limitations in the study design necessitate
viewing these figures as minimums. Al¬
though particular effort was given to detect
the long-range dispersers during this study,
Karner blue butterflies could have dispersed
outside of the study area boundary. If
detected, these long range dispersers would
Table 3. Immigration rates (reported as percent (x + SE) of population estimated to
have originated at a different site) for Karner blue butterflies during the second flight of
1995 on Necedah National Wildlife Refuge, Juneau County, Wisconsin.
Sample size was too small for the East Rynearson site to permit analysis of immigration rate data.
Volume 86 (1998)
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have increased the means of all the sum¬
mary statistics. Also, limitations of the study
design may have lowered the percentage of
individuals observed making movements in
excess of 1,500 m. MRR was conducted
over a large study area to make the study
sensitive to long distance dispersals. The
cost of this approach was that most indi¬
viduals were relocated only once. If MRR
had been conducted only in the areas of
highest concentration, the recapture rate
and summary statistics may have been
higher. Of the individuals that were located
greater than three times, movements in
excess of 1,500 m were even more common
(8.5%, n = 354).
Exchange of individuals among popu¬
lations required that individuals crossed >
I, 150 m of unsuitable (nectarless) habitat.
How this exchange occurred is unknown.
Of the 1,439 individuals that were marked
during the first and second flights, only one
(0.07%) was located on a road corridor
connecting the populations while a full
I I . 0% of the individuals made at least one
inter-site dispersal. Use of roadsides as
corridors can be assumed to be negligible
given that the roadsides received as much
search effort as any other part of the study
area. Prevailing wind does not provide an
answer either. Wind direction was a poor
indicator of emigration rates. Immigration
rates, the rate of individuals dispersing to a
site, appeared to be related to wind
direction for the South and North Rynear-
son sites (Figure 1). However, it can be
assumed that butterflies were not passively
carried by wind to these sites. Neither the
North nor South Rynearson sites had a
population source to the immediate west,
and yet immigration to both those sites
peaked on days with a west wind. There¬
fore, most of the immigration occurred
against prevailing winds.
All summary statistics indicate females
travel greater distances than males during
the second flight. The opposite was true for
the first flight, which could be a function
of small sample size. When pooling data by
flight, females (15.3%) were more likely to
make one inter-site dispersal of 1,150 m or
more than were males (7.9%) (Table 1).
The recapture ratio (1:1.2 females to males)
and the significant difference between the
sexes in days-between-recap ture (DBR) data
suggest that catchability and/or detectability
between the sexes may vary greatly with
Karner blue butterflies. Therefore, as with
many invertebrate species (Carothers 1973;
Begon 1979; Tabashnik 1980; Gall 1984^,
1984£; Murphy et al. 1986), it would be
advisable to determine population estimates
separately for each sex when using mark-
release-recapture methods. Differences in
detectability also could affect population
estimates of Karner blue butterflies when
using methods other than mark-release-
recapture.
All butterflies, regardless of sex, flight,
and population source, were able to move
around the study site easily. The study site
is atypical of Wisconsin’s Karner blue
butterfly habitat. Open canopy uplands and
wetlands comprised the entire study site.
Typically, Karner blue butterfly populations
are separated by closed canopy forests.
Although road corridors did not enhance
dispersal during this study, they could aid
dispersal through closed canopy forests.
During this study, all dispersals between
sites occurred across unsuitable habitat that
had no nectar sources. The presence of
nectar sources between the sites could have
enhanced inter-site dispersal. Further
research is needed to determine how Karner
blue butterfly dispersal is affected by nectar
sources between sites and the presence of
corridors in closed canopy landscapes.
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KING: Karner Blue Butterfly Dispersal
Acknowledgments
I thank the field technicians who worked on
this project: Chris Bosley, Jillene Summers,
Joyell Wilber, Heather Lambert, Jeffery
Berry, Patrick Molitor, Jeffery Johnson,
Ramona Berger, and Joseph Black. Thanks
to the National Fish and Wildlife Founda¬
tion, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and the
Forest Industry for funding of this research.
My special thanks are extended to Dr. Gene
Wood, Dr. Mark Boyce, Jenny Brown, and
the anonymous reviewers of this manuscript
who provided so many helpful comments.
Literature Cited
Andow, D. A., R. J. Baker, and C. P. Lane.
1994. Research needs for management and
recover Karner blue butterfly. Pp. 209-16 in
D. A. Andow, R. J. Baker, and C. P. Lane,
eds. Karner Blue Butterfly: Symbol of a
Vanishing Landscape. Minnesota Agricultural
Experiment Station 84-1994. University of
Minnesota, St. Paul.
Begon, M. 1979. Investigating animal abundance:
capture-recapture for biologists. University Park
Press, Baltimore. 97 pp.
Bidwell, A. unpublished data. Mark-release-re-
capture of Karner blue butterflies (Lycaeides
melissa samuelis) at Fort McCoy Military Res¬
ervation. Report submitted to U.S. Fish and
Wildlife Service. 46 pp.
Carothers, A. D. 1973. Capture-recapture meth¬
ods applied to a population with known pa¬
rameters. Journal of Animal Ecology 42:125-
46.
Clough, M. W. 1992. Endangered and threat¬
ened wildlife and plants: determination of
endangered status for the Karner blue butter¬
fly. Federal Register 57:59236-59244.
Curtis, J. T. 1959. The vegetation of Wisconsin.
University of Wisconsin Press. Madison. 657
pp.
Dirig, R. 1994. Historical notes on wild lupine
and the Karner blue butterfly at the Albany
Pine Bush, New York. Pp. 23-36 in D. A.
Andow, R. J. Baker, and C. P. Lane, eds.
Karner Blue Butterfly: Symbol of a Vanishing
Landscape. Minnesota Agricultural Experi¬
ment Station 84-1994. University of Minne¬
sota, St. Paul.
Fried, C. S. 1987. Dispersal of the Karner blue
butterfly {Lycaeides melissa samuelis Nabokov)
in the Albany Pine Bush. Report submitted
to the Endangered Species Unit of the New
York State Department of Environmental
Conservation.
Gall, L. F. 1984^. Population structure and
recommendations for conservation of the
narrowly endemic alpine butterfly Boloria
acrocnema (Lepidoptera: Nymphalidae).
Biological Conservation 28:1 1 1-38.
Gall, L. F. 1984 A The effects of capturing and
marking on subsequent activities in Boloria
acrocnema (Lepidoptera: Nymphalidae) with
a comparison of different numeric models
that estimate population size. Biological
Conservation 28: 1 39-154.
Givnish, T. J., E. S. Menges, and D. F.
Schweitzer. 1988. Minimum area require¬
ments for long term conservation of the
Albany Pine Bush and Karner blue butterfly:
an assessment. Report to the City of Albany,
New York. 105 pp.
Hanski, I. 1991. Single-species metapopulation
dynamics: concepts, models and observations.
Biological Journal of the Linnean Society
42:17-38.
Harrison, S. 1991. Local extinction in a
metapopulation context: an empirical evalua¬
tion. Biological Journal of the Linnean Society
42:73-88.
Lawrence, W. S., and A. C. Cook. 1989. The
status and management of Karner blue
( Lycaeides melissa samuelis) populations in the
Allegan State Game Area, Michigan. Report
submitted to The Nature Conservancy,
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Michigan Field Office.
Murphy, D. D., M. S. Menninger, P. R. Ehrlich,
and B. A. Wilcox. 1986. Local population
dynamics of adult butterflies and the con¬
servation status of two closely related species.
Biological Conservation 37:201-23.
Packer, L. 1987. Status report on the Karner
blue butterfly, Lycaeides melissa samuelis
Nabokov, in Ontario. Committee for the Sta¬
tus of Endangered Wildlife in Canada. 65 pp.
Pollock, K. H.; J. D. Nichols; C. Brownie; and
J. E. Hines. 1990. Statistical inference for
capture-recapture experiments. Wildlife
Monographs 107:197.
Premo, D. B., E. I. Rogers, S. I. Apfelbaum, and
K. F. Premo. 1994. A review of information
on the federally endangered Karner blue
butterfly Lycaeides melissa samuelis Nabokov
(Lepidoptera: Lycaenidae). Report submitted
to National Fish and Wildlife Foundation.
80 pp.
Sfera, N. J., D. N. Ewert, C. A. Clampitt, H.
E. Ballard, J. M. Aguiar, and T. Darnell.
1993. Management of oak savanna and oak
barrens habitat in Newaygo and Muskegon
Counties, Michigan. The Nature Conser¬
vancy, East Lansing, Michigan. 25 pp.
Tabashnik, B. E. 1980. Population structure of
pierid butterflies. III. Pest populations of
Colias philodice eriphyle. Oecologia 47: 175-83.
Welch, R. J. 1993. Dispersal and colonization
behavior in the Karner blue butterfly (Ly¬
caeides melissa samuelis) in central Wisconsin.
Report to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.
Richard King is the staff biologist at Necedah
National Wildlife Refuge. He received both his
bachelors and masters degrees from the Univer¬
sity of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. Address:
Necedah National Wildlife Refuge, W7996 20th
Street West, Necedah, WL 54646-7531.
1 10
TRANSACTIONS
Vernon L. LaGesse, William E. McClain,
and John E. Ebinger
Woody \Fgetation Survey of
Sibley Burr Oak Grove Nature Preserve,
Ford County, Illinois
Abstract Densities , basal areas, and average diameters were determined for
the woody overstory at Sibley Burr Oak Grove, Ford County,
Illinois. Consisting of two groves originally separated by a lake and
a sedge meadow, the woods consisted almost entirely of bur oaks;
only two other species with a total of 10 individuals entered the
canopy. In the largest area (13.75 ha) the bur oaks averaged 69.9
cm dbh, had a density of 38.8 stems/ha, and a basal area of 16.33
m2/ha. Most trees had broad, open-grown crowns characterized
by 2—7 main branches and low branches or branch scars within
a few meters of the ground. More than 60 bur oaks exceeded 100
cm dbh. The structure, size, and open-grown nature of the trees
indicates that the grove was a savanna or open woodland prior to
European settlement in the 1860s.
Prairie groves on morainal ridges were common in the Grand
Prairie Division of central Illinois in early settlement times
(Schwegman 1973). These groves were particularly common
in the headwaters region of east-central Illinois in Ford County,
(Headwaters Region Map 1871), where five river systems have
their origins (Figure 1). Numerous ponds, sloughs, sedge mead¬
ows, and other wetland communities occurred between the
morainal ridges. Some of these ridges supported small groves
dominated by Quercus macrocarpa Michx. (bur oak). These
“bur oak openings” existed because fires would not carry across
these wetlands in most years (Stout 1946). High intensity fires
undoubtedly burned through these wetlands and groves in
drought years.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
1 1 1
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 1 . Prairie groves of the headwaters region of central Illinois in 1871 (Headwaters
Region Map 1871).
112
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LaGESSE et al.: Woody Vegetation Survey of Sibley Burr Oak Grove Nature Preserve
Much of the prairie in Illinois, Indiana
and Ohio probably would have been re¬
placed by forest if not for the extensive fires
that regularly burned across these states
(Gleason 1912, 1913; McClain and Elzinga
1994). Most grasses and forbs were not ad¬
versely affected by these fires, which oc¬
curred mostly in late fall and sometimes in
early spring. In contrast, most woody spe¬
cies, particularly young individuals and spe¬
cies with thin bark, were easily killed (Ander¬
son 1983, Ebinger 1986, Ebinger and
McClain 1991). Resprouting of top-killed
individuals was common, but sprouts and
damaged individuals were also more suscep¬
tible to future fires and predator damage
(Hruska and Ebinger 1993).
Most of the prairie groves associated with
morainal ridges have been destroyed. One
of the few remaining examples is located
near Sibley, Ford County, Illinois. This
study was undertaken to determine the com¬
position and structure of the overstory veg¬
etation at the Sibley Burr Oak Grove.
Description of the Study Area
Located 1.5 km southeast of Sibley in west¬
ern Ford County, Illinois, Sibley Burr Oak
Grove Nature Preserve lies within the Grand
Prairie Section of the Grand Prairie Division
(Schwegman 1973). This grove (S 35 & 36
T25N R7E), located on a ridge and not as¬
sociated with any stream, was described on
November 29, 1823, by Elias Rector, a Gov¬
ernment Land Office (GLO) surveyor, as an
oak-hickory forest with an undergrowth of
hazel (GLO field notes Vols. 231, 243 and
343).
The grove is 252 m above sea level with
a local relief of 4 m. The soils of the grove
have developed on shallow loess (less than
1 m thick) on calcareous glacial till of Wis¬
consin age. These Blount Silt Loams, which
occur on nearly level ground, are somewhat
poorly drained and occur as irregular areas
at higher elevations on moraines. The avail¬
able water holding capacity and organic con¬
tent are both moderate, while the depth of
the seasonal water table is more than 1 m
(Fehrenbacher 1990).
European settlement of the Sibley area
began in I860 when Michael Sullivant pur¬
chased 40,000 acres around the grove and
started a farming operation. Originally, the
village of Burr Oak was located in the grove,
but it was moved about 1.5 km to the north¬
west in 1868 to be adjacent to the Illinois
Central Railroad. During Sullivant’s occu¬
pancy, Burr Oak Farms was the world’s larg¬
est farm and was featured in Harper's Weekly
Magazine in 1871. Due to two consecutive
droughts Michael Sullivant was forced to
sell, and by 1879 Hiram Sibley owned the
farm. At that time the town’s name was
changed to Sibley. From the 1860s until
1930 the grove was used as a staging area
for farming operations and for the grazing
of livestock. From 1930 until I960 the grove
was part of a hog farm operation, hogs be¬
ing allowed to roam throughout the woods.
After I960 the grove was not grazed, result¬
ing in the development of a dense under¬
story of Crataegus mollis (Torrey & Gray)
Scheele (red haw), Prunus serotina Ehrh.
(black cherry), Maclura pomifera (Raf.)
Schneider, and Celtis occidentalis L. (hack-
berry). In the fall of 1995 the grove was do¬
nated to The Nature Conservancy, and res¬
toration efforts were started.
At the present time the grove consisted
of two tracts, an eastern tract of 13.75 ha
(34 acres), and a small western tract of 1.62
ha (4 acres). Between the two was a culti¬
vated field about 50 m wide, that, accord¬
ing to early records, was originally a small
pond and sedge meadow. Presently the ex¬
otic and weedy woody understory species
Volume 86 (1998)
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have been removed from the grove, and
parts of the grove have been subjected to
ground fires. The small pond and sedge
meadow that originally existed between the
two tracts have been restored. This involved
the removal of 65 cm of mineral soil that
had accumulated over the original Hough¬
ton Muck.
Materials and Methods
The number, size, and species of all living
and dead standing canopy and subcanopy
species (25 cm dbh and above) were re¬
corded during the summer of 1996. From
these data the relative dominance, relative
density, importance value (IV), average di¬
ameter (cm), density (stems/ha) in broad di¬
ameter classes, and the basal area (m2/ha)
were calculated for each species. The IV de¬
termination is the sum of the relative values
for each species with a total possible of 200
(McIntosh 1957). The percent cover was
determined by photographing the canopy
from below (16 points) and calculating the
percent of the area covered using a 100 point
dot matrix. Nomenclature follows Mohlen-
brock (1986).
Results and Discussion
Of the 66 1 canopy and subcanopy trees re-
corded in the grove, 651 were bur oaks
( Quercus macrocarpa Michx.), nine were
black walnut (Juglans nigra L.), and one was
a white oak (Q. alba L.) (Table 1). Bur oaks,
which dominated all diameter classes, were
characterized by open-grown crowns having
2-7 main crown branches (Table 2). Most
individuals had low branches or branch
scars; the first branch or large branch scar
averaged 3.3 m above the ground. Bur oak
diameters ranged from 30.0 to 139.9 cm
dbh. There were 170 bur oaks that had di¬
ameters greater than 80 cm, and 61 that had
diameters in excess of 100 cm dbh. No at¬
tempt was made to age the living bur oaks,
but one dead individual, with a dbh of 96
cm, was aged at 330 years.
The data on the two separate tracts of the
grove (east and west areas) were kept sepa¬
rate (Table 1). The 13.75 ha eastern tract
had an average of 39.34 stems/ha, and a
basal area of 16.59 m2/ha. The average di¬
ameter of bur oaks was nearly 70 cm, with
2.4 stems/ha less than 40 cm dbh, and 4.07
stems/ha above 100 cm dbh. The small west¬
ern tract (1.61 ha in size) had a average of
74.08 stems/ha, and a basal area of 24.75
m2/ha. Here the average diameter of bur
oaks was nearly 63 cm dbh, with over 71
stems/ha being less than 80 cm dbh. In this
section the canopy was essentially closed
with 85% cover, while the eastern section
was more open with 67% cover.
The dense understory of red haw, black
cherry, and hackberry was removed during
the past two years. Tree rings of cut stumps
indicate that both red haw and osage orange
were present in the preserve more than 90
years ago. In contrast, the other understory
exotic and weedy woody species have only
been present for the past 35 years, after the
hog operation ceased. Bur oak seedlings were
occasionally encountered in unburned parts
of the grove, but very few saplings of this
species were found.
Most of the prairie groves found in
central Illinois are associated with streams
and rivers. These streamside groves are
usually large; many are more than 5 square
miles in size. They also have a high woody
species diversity with more than 20 species
reaching the canopy. Most of these groves
have high densities of Acer saccharum Marsh,
(sugar maple) and other thin-barked, fire-
sensitive species. Oak and hickories are
present, and except for white oak, have low
114
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LaGESSE et al.: Woody Vegetation Survey of Sibley Burr Oak Grove Nature Preserve
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Volume 86 (1998)
1 15
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 2. Average crown diameters (m) by
broad diameter classes of the bur oaks at
the Sibley Burr Oak Grove Nature Pre¬
serve, Ford County, Illinois.
IV’s, bur oak being a minor component
(Boggess 1964, Boggess and Bailey 1964,
Boggess and Geis 1966). In contrast, Sibley
Burr Oak Grove has only three canopy
species with bur oak being, by far, the
leading dominant (Table 1). Its overstory
closely resembles that of the bur oak
openings of Wisconsin, Minnesota, and
Michigan (Stout 1946, Curtis 1959).
Sibley Grove is but one of the many
groves, consisting primarily of bur oak, that
were common in Ford County at the time
of European settlement. Some contained an
occasional white oak and Carya ovata (Mill.)
K. Koch (shagbark hickory), but bur oak
dominated according to the GLO survey
notes. Presently most of these groves have
been destroyed, and the few that remain have
been highly modified by grazing, cutting,
exotic species invasion and fire suppression.
Literature Cited
Anderson, R. C. 1983. The eastern prai¬
rie-forest transition — an overview. Pp.
86—92. in R. Brewer, ed. Proceedings of the
Eighth North American Prairie Conference.
Western Michigan University, Kala¬
mazoo, Michigan.
Boggess, W. R. 1964. Trelease Woods,
Champaign County, Illinois: woody veg¬
etation and stand composition. Transac¬
tions of the Illinois State Academy of Sci¬
ence 57:261-71.
Boggess, W. R., and L. W. Bailey. 1964.
Brownfield Woods, Illinois: woody veg¬
etation and change since 1925. American
Midland Naturalist 7 1 : 392—40 1 .
Boggess, W. R., and J. W. Geis. 1966. The
Funk Forest Natural Area, McLean
County, Illinois: woody vegetation and
ecological trends. Transactions of the Illi¬
nois State Academy of Science 59:1 23-33.
Curtis, J. T. 1959. The vegetation of Wiscon¬
sin. An ordination of plant communities.
The University of Wisconsin Press, Madi¬
son, Wisconsin, xi + 657 pages.
Ebinger, J. E. 1986. Sugar maple, a man¬
agement problem in Illinois forests?
Transactions of the Illinois State Academy
of Science 79:25-30.
Ebinger, J. E., and W. E. McClain. 1991.
Forest succession in the prairie peninsula
of Illinois. Illinois Natural History Survey
Bulletin 34:375—81.
Fehrenbacher, D. J. 1990. Soil survey of
Ford County, Illinois. United States De¬
partment of Agriculture, Soil Conserva¬
tion Service. Soil Report 128. Washing¬
ton D.C. 131 pages + maps.
Gleason, H. A. 1912. An isolated prairie
grove and its phytogeographical signifi¬
cance. Botanical Gazette 53:38—49.
Gleason, H. A. 1913. The relation of forest
distribution and prairie fires in the middle
west. Torreya 13:173-81.
Headwaters Region Map, 1871. Atlas of Il¬
linois Counties (LaSalle, Grundy and
Livingston). Warner, Higgins & Beers,
Chicago.
Hruska, M. C., and J. E. Ebinger. 1995.
Monitoring a savanna restoration in
east-central Illinois. Transactions of the Il¬
linois State Academy of Science 88: 1 09-1 7.
1 16
TRANSACTIONS
LaGESSE et al.: Woody Vegetation Survey of Sibley Burr Oak Grove Nature Preserve
McClain, W. E., and S. L. Elzinga. 1994.
The occurrence of prairie and forest fires
in Illinois and other midwestern states,
1679-1854. Eugenia 13:79-90.
McIntosh, R. P. 1957. The York Woods. A
case history of forest succession in south¬
ern Wisconsin. Ecology 38:29-37.
Mohlenbrock, R. H. 1986. Guide to the vas¬
cular flora of Illinois. Southern Illinois
University Press, Carbondale, Illinois.
Schwegman, J. 1973. Comprehensive plan
for the Illinois Nature Preserves System.
Part 2. The Natural Divisions of Illinois.
Illinois Nature Preserves Commission,
Rockford, Illinois. 32 pages + map.
Stout, A. B. 1946. The bur oak openings in
southern Wisconsin. Transactions of the
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and
Letters 36:141-61.
Vernon L. LaGesse, a land steward for the
Nature Conservancy in central Illinois , is in¬
terested in wetlands and forest restoration.
Address: The Nature Conservancy, Eureka,
Illinois, 61530.
William E. McClain , a natural areas
project manager with the Division of Natu¬
ral Heritage, is interested in the composition
and structure of plant communities in Illi¬
nois. Address: Division of Natural Heritage,
Illinois Department of Natural Resources,
Springfield, Illinois, 62701.
John E. Ebinger, an emeritus professor of
Botany at Eastern Illinois University, has
studied Illinois forests for 35 years. Address :
Botany Department, Eastern Illinois Uni¬
versity, Charleston, Illinois, 61920.
Volume 86 (1998)
1 17
Mark K. Leach and Thomas J. Givnish
Identifying Highly Re storable
Savanna Remnants
Abstract The restoration of Wisconsin's native oak savannas has become a
conservation priority. It is our opinion , however, that thousands
of acres of highly restorable oak savannas have been overlooked
because of flawed ideas regarding their structure and composition.
Commonly, savannas are defined as having a specified ‘ 'percent
canopy" and a prairie-like groundlayer. Percent canopy is a flawed
indicator of restorable oak savanna because it does not account
for canopy dynamics nor spatial heterogeneity and because, by itself,
percent canopy is a poor measure of light penetration to the
groundlayer — the home of most plant species. Likewise, the presence
of prairie-like groundlayers is not a good indicator of species-rich
savanna remnants, especially on more productive soils. We suggest
two elements that are both characteristic and diagnostic of highly
restorable oak savannas: the presence of historic open-grown oaks
and a groundlayer vegetation rich in native plant species in both
sunny and shadier locations.
Land survey records from the 1830s indicate that Wiscon¬
sin oak savannas occupied 42% of the land below the Ten¬
sion Zone (Curtis 1959, Hole 1976). Oak savannas with intact
groundlayer vegetation are now considered extremely rare in
Wisconsin and the Midwest (Curtis 1959, Nuzzo 1986, Leach
and Ross 1995). Oak savanna undoubtedly occurred on a wide
range of soil and moisture conditions, on sites with varying fire
frequency, and with a concomitant variation in species compo¬
sition and structure (Curtis 1959, Will-Wolf and Montague
1994, Leach and Givnish in press). John Curtis (1959) in The
Vegetation of Wisconsin recognized three primary kinds of oak
savanna, based on canopy composition and soil conditions. Oak
barrens occupied sandy or gravely substrates on upland sites and
were dominated by shrubby, multi-stemmed Hill’s oak (Quercus
ellipsoidalis) or black oak (Q. velutina). Oak openings occupied
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
1 19
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
mesic, loamy soils on upland sites and were
dominated by large, single-stemmed bur oaks
(Q. macrocarpa), although white oak (Q.
alba ) and black oak were sometimes com¬
mon. Lowland oak openings occupied flood
plains and glacial lake beds and were domi¬
nated by swamp white oak (Q. bicolor ), al¬
though bur oak may have also been common.
In recent years the ecological restoration
of oak savanna has become a conservation
priority of many public and private land
managers (e.g., Kline 1992, Henderson
1995, Leach and Ross 1995, Ross 1997). In
Wisconsin, the Fish and Wildlife Service,
the Forest Service, the Army, the Depart¬
ment of Natural Resources, the Nature Con¬
servancy, and many local governments are,
in many cases, doing a wonderful job pro¬
tecting and restoring degraded savanna rem¬
nants. Ecological restoration is the practice
of reconstructing damaged or degraded eco¬
logical systems. However, ecologists often
lack detailed information on the historic na¬
ture of these systems prior to their degrada¬
tion. Oak savannas, especially on more pro¬
ductive sites, presumably changed rapidly
after settlement (Curtis 1959), well before
modern ecologists could study them
(Packard 1988 a). The geographic extent of
savannas and the paucity of ecological infor¬
mation set the stage for lively disagreements
on the nature of savanna vegetation (Leach
and Givnish in press). Although conserva¬
tion agencies for many years have been aware
of the recovery potential of degraded savan¬
nas, in our view the opportunity for savanna
recovery may be much greater than gener¬
ally recognized.
We contend that many highly restorable
oak savannas have not been conserved be¬
cause their recovery potential has gone un¬
recognized. Perhaps hundreds of thousands
of acres have been overlooked. This prob¬
ably was due to several factors. The early
heritage inventories relied too strongly on
Curtis’s overly simple models of intact sa¬
vannas. For many years, little was known
about how to “set back” succession in over¬
grown savannas, which were often valued as
forests. Grazed savannas were assumed to be
of little conservation value. Thus degraded,
but in many cases retrievable, sites were not
considered for conservation or were con¬
served as forests. More recently, we suspect
that commonly used search images missed
highly recoverable sites, because such search
images find some kinds of recoverable savan¬
nas but not all.
In this paper we critique commonly used
definitions of oak savanna that are based on
tree canopy measurements and the presence
of prairie-like groundlayers. We suggest con¬
servationists consider alternative search im¬
ages when inventorying for savanna pre¬
serves. We hope this discussion provokes
interest in savanna ecology and accelerates
the identification and recovery of savanna
remnants. Evaluation of both the tree and
groundlayer strata is important; however, for
convenience we discuss the two separately.
Canopy
Curtis (1959) viewed savanna as transitional
between prairie and forest. To classify stands
into vegetation types, Curtis made arbitrary
(and he clearly called these arbitrary) distinc¬
tions among prairie, savanna, and forest. By
his definition prairie has less than one ma¬
ture tree per acre, forest has greater than
50% canopy cover, and savanna lies be¬
tween. Canopy cover is the portion of sky
over an area intercepted by canopy projected
downward from above (Nuttle 1997).
Classification of continuously spatially
variable vegetation requires setting arbitrary
cut-off points (Klijn 1994). In addition to
Curtis’s definitions, several classification
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LEACH and GIVNISH: Identifying Highly Restorable Savanna Remnants
schemes used in the Midwest rely on per¬
cent canopy (e.g., United Nations Educa¬
tional, Scientific and Cultural Organization
1973, White and Madany 1978, Faber-
Langendoen 1993). Classification aids com¬
munication but can cause problems when
arbitrary definitions are used, not to de¬
scribe, but to prescribe.
In our view, using percent canopy to
identify remnant savannas presents at least
four serious problems:
1. Percent canopy can be a misleading
measure of direct sunlight reaching the
groundlayer (Chan et al. 1986, Nuttle
1997), which houses the bulk of plant di¬
versity. Light penetration greatly influences
the composition, diversity, and reproduction
of plants in the groundlayer (Bray 1935,
1958, 1960; Curtis 1959; Pruka 1994,
Hujik 1995, Leach 1996, Leach and Givnish
in press). Used alone, percent canopy ignores
the influence of canopy height on light pen¬
etration (Figure 1). Measuring percent
canopy by outlining a tree crown perim¬
eter — its drip line — also neglects the variable
amount of light passing through tree crowns.
In contrast to the relatively dense shade of
oaks grown on productive sites, an oak
growing on a drought-prone, nutrient-poor,
or otherwise stressful site allows 20% or
more of direct sunlight through its sparser
foliage (Leach, unpublished data). In con¬
trast to measuring canopy cover, several re¬
cent savanna studies (Pruka 1994, Hujik
1995, Leach 1996, Leach and Givnish in
press) have used computer analysis of hemi¬
spherical photographs, which more appro¬
priately estimate light penetration (Chazdon
and Field 1987, Nuttle 1997, Valladares et
al. 1997).
2. Savanna trees have long been noted for
their spatial heterogeneity, with trees
arranged in clusters, groves, peninsulas, or
transitions (Gleason 1913, Bray 1955,
Curtis 1959, Pruka 1994). Percent canopy
is a kind of average spatial description for a
stand. Like other averages, percent canopy
loses meaning in heterogeneous stands
(Figure 2).
3. The percent canopy of a stand de¬
scribes the present condition, but not past
conditions. The suppression of once-com-
mon wildfires (Leach and Givnish 1996) al¬
lowed many oak savannas to rapidly change
into thickets, woodlands, or forests (Ellarson
1949, Curtis 1959, McCune and Cottam
1985, Pruka 1994).
4. Generally, the systems for classification
using percent canopy fail to give operational
definitions. We assume that those using per¬
cent canopy measures are making visual es¬
timates in the field or by inspection of aerial
photographs.
For the above reasons, percent canopy is
a flawed measure and therefore is of ques¬
tionable value as a criterion for identifying
highly restorable oak savannas. In our expe¬
rience, a much simpler and much more ef¬
fective clue to the presence of historic oak
savannas is simply the presence of open-
grown oak trees. (The inspection of old air
photos is also useful.) An oak tree grown in
an open, fire-maintained, and therefore
high-light environment develops a character¬
istic form with large horizontal branches
(Bray 1955). Such open-grown oaks are still
common in pastures, fields, urban parks, and
other places where a fresh growth of trees has
been kept in check. However, in most such
sites (with the occasional exception of those
on steep slopes), much of the native
groundlayer flora has been lost. Relict, open-
grown trees are common in our southern-
Wisconsin woodlands and forests where
many younger trees have filled in the
canopy. Increased shade has caused lower
branches to die, leaving dead limbs or trunk
scars as evidence.
Volume 86 (1998)
121
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 1 . The often-used measure “percent-canopy” does not adequately describe light
penetration to savannas groundlayers. By vertical projection, both stands A and B have
percent-canopies of 40%. The trees in A are half the height of those in B. At noon on a
clear August day the groundlayer in A receives 55% of the potential direct sunlight,
while the groundlayer in B receives 40%.
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LEACH and GIVNISH: Identifying Highly Restorable Savanna Remnants
Figure 2. This plan view shows a typical aggregation of savanna trees. The percent-
canopy for the area shown is 30%, but varies among sub-areas: A - 36%, B - 72%, C -
5%, and D - 9%. Obviously, the benefits of using percent-canopy as an objective
ecological parameter must be weighed against the capriciousness of the areas’
boundary.
Groundlayer
While there has been little argument over the
canopy composition of historic oak savannas,
there has been considerable debate regarding
the nature of savanna groundlayers (Packard
1988*, 1988 £, 1993; Anderson 1991; Pruka
1994; Leach 1996; Leach and Givnish in
press). Bray and Curtis emphasized the simi¬
larity of the savanna flora to that of the prai¬
ries. This emphasis is commonly echoed in
the description of savanna as “prairie with
trees” (e.g., Tester 1995). Specifically, Curtis
described the groundlayers of oak barrens as
“largely dry-mesic prairie or sand barrens
grassland.” Similarly he described oak open¬
ings as usually a mixture of “bur oak and
mesic prairie” or, for the lowland types, a
mixture of “swamp white oak and wet-mesic
prairies” (p. 326). Curiously, having de¬
scribed the nature of lowland savanna
groundlayers, a page later Curtis wrote, “no
stands on either wet or wet-mesic sites were
found which were not pastured; hence no in¬
formation is available on these types, except
for their tree compositions.”
In the 1940s and 50s other researchers
working in Curtis’s Plant Ecology Labora-
Volume 86 (1998)
123
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
tory had learned that cattle grazing severely
altered the composition of native prairie veg¬
etation, including the loss of certain grasses
and forbs (Dix 1955, Neiland and Curtis
1956, Curtis 1959). To avoid sites that were
damaged by cattle grazing, Bray (1955,
1958, I960) selected study sites based on
their abundance of warm-season grasses and
other prairie plants. Leach and Givnish (in
press, Leach 1996) have suggested that
Bray’s site-selection criteria — his search im¬
age — were responsible for his failure to lo¬
cate savannas “with intact groundlayers” on
moister, more productive sites and for
Curtis’s statement that none could be lo¬
cated to study. Leach and Givnish (in press)
used three site-selection criteria that were
unbiased regarding the presence of prairie
plants: (1) a canopy of open-grown oaks, (2)
a groundlayer dominated by native species
in both sunny and shaded microsites, and
(3) a history of fire during the past 10 years.
They found on moist, productive sites, ex¬
cept in the brightest microsites away from
trees, that the groundlayer vegetation lacked
the warm-season grass and other character¬
istic prairie plants sought by Bray.
In recent years other conservationists
looking closely at the groundlayer have
found savanna remnants with a great poten¬
tial for recovery in lightly grazed oak groves
(Martin 1981, Bronny 1989, Rich Hen¬
derson, pers. comm.).
Alternate Search Image
We suggest that conservationists seeking
highly restorable savannas abandon concern
with present canopy conditions and the
abundance of prairie species. They should
seek evidence of past (and restorable) savanna
physiognomy, either by the presence of his¬
toric open-grown trees or from old air pho¬
tographs. They should seek an abundance
and diversity of native plants of any kind.
There are now several lists of plants associ¬
ated with savannas to help the field biologist
become familiar with this flora (Packard
1988#, \98Sb; Pruka 1994, 1995; Leach
1996; Packard and Ross 1997; Hipp 1998).
By using these simple search images we
have located dozens of savanna remnants
that are rich in plant species. Several of these
sites contained regionally rare species includ¬
ing wild hyacinth (Camassia scilloides), late
corral-root (Corallorhiza odontorhiza), oval
ladies’- tresses (Spiranthes ovalis), cream gen¬
tian (Gentiana alba), and little grape-fern
(Botrychium simplex). In fact, in just 22 sites
totaling 42 ha, we found 507 native vascu¬
lar plant species (Leach and Givnish in
press), 27% of the total vascular floral di¬
versity of Wisconsin.
Of course, not all sites are equally rich in
species, and the species that are present vary
in their rarity and, hence, in their contri¬
bution to conservation goals. Many sites
dominated by native plants are populated
primarily of Pennsylvania sedge (Carex
pensylvanica), poison ivy (Toxicodendron
radicans), or other outbreak species. Our
assumption is that such sites are not easily
restorable without extensive plantings (see
Glass 1988, 1989; McCarty 1998), but this
is an area requiring new research.
Our recommended search image is
admittedly simplistic. However, there is not
enough information on the composition of
the various kinds of oak savanna to justify a
more complex search image at this time.
One may be tempted to speculate that high
quality savannas should contain mixtures of
plants from the prairie and the forest along
with savanna specialists. However, the
composition of any savanna is most likely
dependent on its landscape context: greater
diversity of prairie species in savannas
surrounded by prairies, greater diversity of
124
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LEACH and GIVNISH: Identifying Highly Restorable Savanna Remnants
forest species in savannas surrounded by
forests. The number of true savanna special¬
ists is probably low in any case. As conser¬
vationists become more experienced in
locating species-rich savanna remnants and
more information becomes available on their
constituent flora, we may develop search
images using indicator species. Pruka (1995)
provides a tentative list of indicators for
Wisconsin.
Conclusion
The ability to locate species-rich savanna
remnants for conservation can be considered
a test of our ecological ideas. Many species-
rich, restorable savanna remnants have been
overlooked because of the wide acceptance
of two flawed ideas: (1) that savannas fit
neatly into a range of canopy percentages
and (2) that savanna vegetation is essentially
prairie with trees. Re-setting our search im¬
ages to seek historic open-grown trees with
native-plant groundlayers (regardless of the
abundance of prairie plants) is helping iden¬
tify important stands for conservation. We
hope new search images will spark greater
interest in locating additional sites before
their restoration become too costly if not
impossible.
Acknowledgments
Research contributing to this paper was sup¬
ported in part by NSF grant DEB-9107379
to T.J.G., and by a grant from the Friends
of the (University of Wisconsin-Madison)
Arboretum to Thomas J. Givnish and Mark
K. Leach. We thank Bill Jordan, Andrew
Hipp, Steve Packard, and Roger Anderson
for their comments on other versions of this
paper, two anonymous reviewers for their
useful suggestions, and Vickie Lynn Vander
for the illustrations.
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Survey Biological Notes No. 15:1 87-89.
McCarty, K. 1998. Landscape-scale restoration
in Missouri savannas and woodlands. Resto¬
ration and Management Notes 16:22-32.
McCune, B., and G. Cottam. 1985. The suc-
cessional status of a southern Wisconsin oak
woods. Ecology 66: 1270-78.
Neiland, B.M., and J.T. Curtis. 1956. Differ¬
ential responses to clipping of six prairie
plants in Wisconsin. Ecology 37:355-65.
Nuttle, T. 1997. Densiometer bias? Are we mea¬
suring the forest or the trees? Wildlife Society
Bulletin 25(3) :6 1 0 — 1 1 .
Nuzzo, V. 1986. Extent and status of Midwest
oak savanna: presettlement and 1985. Natu¬
ral Areas Journal 6:6—36.
Packard, S. 1988#. Rediscovering the tallgrass
savanna of Illinois. Article 01.14 in A. Davis
and G. Stanfore, eds. The prairie : roots of our
culture: foundation of our economy. Proceed¬
ings of the 10th North American Prairie Con¬
ference, Denton, Texas.
Packard, S. 1988 b. Just a few oddball species:
restoration and the rediscovery of the tallgrass
savanna. Restoration and Management Notes
6(1 ) : 1 3 — 20.
Packard, S. 1993. Restoring oak ecosystems. Res¬
toration and Management Notes 1 1:5-1 6.
Packard, S., and L. Ross. 1997. Restoring rem¬
nants. Pp. 63-88 in S. Packard and C. F.
Mutel, eds. The Tallgrass Restoration Hand¬
book for Prairies, Savannas, and Woodlands.
Island Press, Washington, D.C.
Pruka, B.W. 1994. Distribution of understory
plant species along light and soil depth gra¬
dients in an upland oak savanna remnant in
126
TRANSACTIONS
LEACH and GIVNISH: Identifying Highly Restorable Savanna Remnants
southern Wisconsin. M.S. Thesis (Land Re¬
sources), University of Wisconsin-Madison.
Pruka, B.W. 1995. Lists indicate recoverable oak
savannas and open oak woodlands in south¬
ern Wisconsin. Restoration and Management
Notes 13(1): 124-26.
Ross, L. 1997. The Chicago Wilderness. Resto¬
ration and Management Notes 1 5(1): 1 7-24 .
Tester, J.R. 1995. Minnesota s Natural Heritage.
University of Minnesota Press.
United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cul¬
tural Organization (UNESCO). 1973. Inter¬
national classification and mapping of vegeta¬
tion, Series 6, Ecology and Conservation.
UNESCO, Paris, France.
Valladares, F., M.T. Allen, and R.W. Pearcy.
1997. Photosynthetic responses to dynamic
light under field conditions in six tropical
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prairies in southern Wisconsin. Pp. 97-102
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and R. Szafoni, eds. Proceedings of the North
American Conference on Barrens and Savan¬
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fice, Chicago, Illinois.
Mark Leach is the ecologist and research
program manager for the University of Wis¬
consin-Madison Arboretum. His current research
projects involve the re-establishment of savanna
and prairie vegetation and the effective control
of pest plants. Address: University of Wisconsin-
Madison Arboretum , 1207 Seminole Highway ,
Madison, WI 5371 1-3728.
Tom Givnish is professor of botany and envi¬
ronmental sciences at the University of Wiscon¬
sin-Madison. He has authored many scientific
papers on evolution, ecology, and conservation.
Address : Department of Botany, University of
Wisconsin-Madison, Madison, WI 53706.
Volume 86 (1998)
127
William E. McClain, Vernon L. LaGesse,
Richard L. Larimore, and John E. Ebinger
Black Soil Prairie Groves of the
Headwaters Region of East-Central Illinois
Abstract Prairie groves associated with morainal ridges were relatively com¬
mon plant communities within the Grand Prairie Division of Il¬
linois. The composition and structure of the overstory of four groves
were examined during this study. All were on morainal ridges with
depressions to the north and west that originally contained wet¬
land communities. The few remaining groves are dominated by
open-grown Quercus macrocarpa Michx. (bur oak), sometimes
along with Carya ovata (Mill.) K. Koch (shagbark hickory), and
rarely a few other species. Heavily grazed until the middle of the
twentieth century, these groves lack the herbaceous and woody un¬
derstory of presettlement times.
At the time of European settlement the most prominent
landscape feature of Illinois was extensive tallgrass prairie
that covered 61% of the state (Iverson et al. 1989). Within
this grassland of the Grand Prairie Division were scattered prai¬
rie groves along with extensive tracts of timber along rivers and
streams (Schwegman 1973). The species composition and
structure of these forested tracts was determined by topogra¬
phy, climate, soils, and extensive fires that regularly burned
across the region (Gleason 1912, 1913; Ebinger and McClain
1991; McClain and Elzinga 1994).
During pioneer times, two common types of prairie groves
were found in the Grand Prairie Division of Illinois: (1) stream-
side groves associated with water courses and (2) isolated groves
on morainal ridges that were somewhat protected from fires
by sloughs. The streamside groves were usually extremely large,
some extending over an area of five or more square miles
(Boggess and Bailey 1964, Boggess and Geis 1966). Gleason
(1913) suggested that these groves had been cut off from larger
forest areas by attrition from repeated fires. In contrast, based
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
129
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
on Government Land Office (GLO) survey
notes, the prairie groves on morainal ridges
were much smaller and rarely exceeded one
square mile in size.
Large remnants of these extensive stream-
side groves, modified by disturbance and fire
suppression, still exist. A few have been stud¬
ied, including the Funks Grove Natural Area
along Timber Creek, McLean County
(Boggess and Geis 1966, Cox et al. 1972),
Trelease Woods (Pelz and Rolfe 1977), and
Brownfield Woods (Boggess and Bailey
1964), the last two being remnants of the
“Big Grove” along the Salt Fork River in
Champaign County. In these forests 20 or
more tree species entered the canopy, the
majority being thin-barked, fire-sensitive
species such as Acer saccharum Marsh, (sugar
maple), Ulmus spp. (slippery and American
elms), Tilia americana L. (linden), and Celtis
occidentalis L. (hackberry). Oaks were im¬
portant components, Quercus alba L. (white
oak) being common, Q. macrocarpa Michx.
(bur oak), and Q. velutina Lam. (black oak)
usually present as scattered, large-diameter
trees. The presence of the thin-barked, fire-
sensitive species suggests that the interiors of
these large groves only occasionally burned.
Based on GLO survey notes, presettlement
forest vegetation along the Mackinaw River
valley in central Illinois was highly diverse
(16 species) with many thin-barked species
(Thomas and Anderson 1990). White, bur,
and black oaks were important on the ter¬
races where fires were more intense.
In contrast, the isolated prairie groves on
morainal ridges were small, closely resem¬
bling the “bur oak openings” of Wisconsin,
Minnesota, and Michigan (Stout 1946,
Curtis 1959). Sometimes described as natu¬
ral parks (Curtis 1959), these groves were
composed almost exclusively of bur oaks that
were “all broad-topped and so spaced that
seldom are the branches of two trees inter¬
locked” (Stout 1946). These communities
were probably subjected to occasional, in¬
tense fires, as the dominant bur oaks were
mostly open-grown. Thin-barked, fire-sen¬
sitive trees seldom occurred here.
In Illinois the vegetation of the prairie
groves on morainal ridges has rarely been
studied. The few groves that remain have
been extensively degraded by grazing, cut¬
ting, exotic species invasion, and fire sup¬
pression. This study was undertaken to de¬
termine the present composition and
structure of the overstory of some of these
groves and to determine their similarity to
other forests of the Grand Prairie Division
of Illinois.
Description of the Study Areas
The groves studied are located within what
is referred to as the “headwaters region” of
Ford County, Illinois (Anonymous 1871).
Five rivers have their origins here: the
Mackinaw, Vermilion, Sangamon, and
Middle Fork Rivers, and Spring Creek, a
tributary of the Iroquois River. None of the
groves were located next to a stream, all be¬
ing on morainal ridges with depressions to
the north or west that originally contained
sloughs and sedge meadows. Presently these
depressions are cultivated fields, but soil
cores show that two to six feet of top soil
covers the Houghton muck that was present
in the wetlands at the time of settlement.
The soils of these groves are silt loams that
developed in shallow loess on calcareous gla¬
cial tills of Wisconsin age (Fehrenbacher
1990). Surrounding are dark clay loams to
silty clays that developed under prairie veg¬
etation. Except for one section corner, where
two bur oaks were listed as witness trees, the
GLO survey notes give little indication of
species composition or structure of these
groves.
130
TRANSACTIONS
McCLAIN et al.: Black Soil Prairie Groves of East-Central Illinois
Beeset Bur Oak Grove. About 2 km north¬
east of Roberts, Illinois (S 1 1 T25N R9E),
this grove is located on a long morainal ridge
with an extensive lowland to the west and
northwest. About 7 ha in size, sections of the
grove had been recently disturbed by cut¬
ting, and a house with out-buildings was lo¬
cated in the eastern quarter. A part of the
grove, 4.61 ha in size, was relatively undis¬
turbed and was surveyed during this study.
According to the headwaters map (Anony¬
mous 1871), the grove covered about one-
quarter of a section.
Sibley Burr Oak Grove Nature Preserve.
Located 1 km southeast of Sibley, Illinois (S
35 & 36 T25N R7E), this grove is on a
broad morainal ridge with wetlands to the
north and west. It was described in the GLO
survey notes as an oak-hickory forest with
an undergrowth of hazel approximately one-
third of a section in size. The grove is di¬
vided into two parts separated by a slough:
an eastern section of 13.75 ha, and a west¬
ern section of 1.62 ha.
Wildcat Bur Oak Grove. Located about 4
km southwest of Sibley, Illinois (S 8 & 17
T24N R7E), the grove is on a narrow mo¬
rainal ridge with wetland depressions to the
north and west. Presently the grove is 4.78
ha in size with an east/ west county road tra¬
versing the southern quarter. A farm house
is located within the southeastern part of the
grove, the yard dominated by large bur oaks.
According to the headwaters map (Anony¬
mous 1871) the grove covered nearly one-
fifth of a section.
Materials and Methods
All of the remaining isolated groves in Ford
County were visited, and those that showed
the least evidence of recent cutting or other
major disturbance were selected for study.
The size of each grove was determined by
measuring the area using aerial photographs
to determine the number of hectares present.
During the summer of 1997 the number,
size, and species of all living canopy and
subcanopy trees 25 cm dbh and above were
recorded at each grove. From these data the
density (stems/ha) in broad diameter classes,
basal area (m2/ha), relative density, relative
dominance, importance value (IV), and av¬
erage diameter (cm), were calculated for each
species. The IV determination is the sum of
the relative density and relative dominance
for each species with a total possible of 200
(McIntosh 1957). Nomenclature follows
Mohlenbrock (1986).
Results
In the groves listed below, bur oak was, by
far, the dominant species, accounting for
most of the density and basal area (Table 1).
Most of the trees had broad, open-grown
crowns, characterized by 2—7 major crown
branches rather than a single trunk. Most
also had low branches or branch scars within
1-4 m of the ground.
Beeset Bur Oak Grove. The overstory of this
grove averaged 75.4 stems/ha with a basal
area of 18.55 m2/ha (Table 1). Bur oak and
shagbark hickory were the important com¬
ponents with IV’s of 162 and 32 respec¬
tively. Bur oak averaged 59.4 stems/ha, a
basal area of 15.54 m2/ha, and averaged 56.7
cm dbh. Of the 274 individuals of this spe¬
cies in the grove, all but 12 had diameters
less than 80 cm dbh, suggesting past cutting.
Coppice bur oaks averaged 2.4 trees/ha. In¬
dividuals of shagbark hickory were scattered
throughout the grove, averaged 14.5 stems/
ha, a basal area of 2.45 m2/ha, and no cop¬
pice individuals.
Volume 86 (1998)
131
Table 1 . Diameter classes, relative values, importance values and average diameters of the woody overstory species in the bur
oak groves of Ford County, Illinois. _ _
Basal Average
_ Diameter Classes (cm) _ Tote/ Area Relative Relative Diameter
Species 25-40 40-59 60-79 80-99 100-119 120+ #/ha rrf/ha Density Dom. IV (cm)
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
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132
TRANSACTIONS
McCLAIN et al.: Black Soil Prairie Groves of East-Central Illinois
Sibley Burr Oak Grove Nature Preserve. In
the large eastern grove the woody overstory
averaged 39.5 stems/ha with a basal area of
16.59 m2/ha (Table 1). Of the 540 canopy
and subcanopy trees recorded, all but eight
were bur oaks. The average diameter for bur
oak was 69.9 cm dbh, and 170 individuals
had diameters greater than 80 cm. Of these,
61 had diameters in excess of 100 cm dbh.
Coppice individuals were extremely rare. In
the small western grove, overstory density
averaged 74. 1 stems/ha with a basal area of
24.75 m2/ha (Table 1). Bur oak dominated,
accounting for nearly all of the IV; of the
120 individuals encountered, 118 were bur
oaks. Bur oaks averaged 63 cm dbh, with
over 71 stems/ha being less than 80 cm dbh.
No coppice stems were encountered.
Wildcat Bur Oak Grove. Overstory density
averaged 55.4 stems/ha with a basal area of
21.02 m2/ha (Table 1). Bur oak accounted
for nearly all of the IV. Of the 260 individu¬
als of bur oak encountered, 202 were less
than 80 cm dbh, and only 17 exceeded 100
cm dbh. Coppice bur oaks averaged 5.6
trees/ha, with an average of 2.19 stems/tree.
Discussion
All of the groves studied had relatively
high tree densities, ranging from 39.5
stems/ha in the eastern section of Sibley
Grove to 75.4 stems/ha in Beeset Grove.
Except for scattered openings where trees
had recently died, these groves were closed
forests where individual tree crowns usu¬
ally overlapped. These tree densities are
low compared to streamside groves of cen¬
tral Illinois (Boggess and Bailey 1964,
Boggess and Geis 1966, Cox et al. 1973,
Pelz and Rolfe 1977) where densities av¬
eraged 300 stems/ha. Before European
settlement these groves on morainal ridges
were probably more open. As these groves
had wetland communities to the north
and west (sloughs and sedge meadows)
some prairie fires did not reach the groves,
allowing for high litter loads. Fires that
crossed these wetlands during drought
years resulted in the death of many small
diameter bur oaks as well as any thin-
barked trees that were present.
Most of Ford County was described in
the GLO survey notes of 1823 as “2nd
rate prairie, land gently rolling.” The oc¬
casional grove was usually described as an
oak-hickory forest. Other than the men¬
tion of an “undergrowth of hazel,” no in¬
formation was given on the understory of
these groves. Presently the understory con¬
tains many weedy and exotic woody spe¬
cies, the most common being Prunus
serotina Ehrh. (black cherry), Crataegus
mollis (Torrey & Gray) Scheele (red haw),
hackberry and Lonicera maackii (Rupr.)
Maxim. (Amur honeysuckle). Sometimes
bur oak and hickory reproduction occurs,
particularly in canopy openings and at the
grove margins. The herbaceous layer is
dominated by Eurasian, cool-season
grasses along with numerous introduced
and weedy annuals and perennials. Occa¬
sionally a few native woodland grasses and
sedges are encountered, and rarely a few
perennial prairie species.
Many of the trees in these groves were es¬
tablished long before European man settled
the area. The settlement of Ford County did
not begin until the railroads came in the
1860s. The numerous sloughs and sedge
meadows of the region presented major
drainage and transportation problems, and
human diseases helped to make this area very
unattractive to settlers. A few dead bur oaks
in the groves were cut, and individuals be¬
tween 85 and 145 cm dbh had from 225 to
330 growth rings.
Volume 86 (1998)
133
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Conclusions
These bur oak-dominated groves are open,
averaging between 39 and 73 trees/ba. Most
of the bur oaks have branches or branch
scars within 4 m of the ground. In the past
fire was undoubtedly responsible for main¬
taining the open conditions of these groves,
as well as the very low species diversity of
the canopy. This community type is distinct
from the streamside forests and groves of the
Grand Prairie Natural Division of Illinois.
In the streamside forests and groves, tree spe¬
cies diversity is high, tree densities usually
exceed 300 stems/ha, and many thin-bark,
fire-sensitive species are important forest
components.
Only a few of the groves associated with
morainal ridges remain, and these have been
highly modified by cutting, fire suppression,
and exotic species invasion. Due to the ease
of clearing these sites, as well as the very
productive soil, 14 groves in Ford County
have been cleared since the early 1960s
(Robert Reber, personal communication).
Literature Cited
Anonymous. 1871. Atlas of the state of Illinois to which
is added an atlas of the United States, maps of the
hemispheres. Warner, Higgins &C Beers, Chicago.
Boggess, W. R., and L. W. Bailey. 1964. Brownfield
Woods, Illinois: woody vegetation and change since
1925. American Midland Naturalist 7 1 :392 — 40 1 .
Boggess, W. R., and J. W. Geis. 1966. The Funk For¬
est Natural Area, McLean County, Illinois: woody
vegetation and ecological trends. Transactions of
the Illinois State Academy of Science 59:123-33.
Cox, D. L., M. Miller, and J. A. Hostetler. 1972. Suc¬
cession in and composition of a central Illinois
prairie grove. Transactions of the Illinois State Acad¬
emy of Science 65:33-4 1 .
Curtis, J. T. 1959. The vegetation of Wisconsin. An
ordination of plant communities. The University of
Wisconsin Press, Madison, xi + 657 pages.
Ebinger, J. E., and W. E. McClain. 1991. Forest suc¬
cession in the prairie peninsula of Illinois. Illinois
Natural History Survey Bulletin 34:375-81.
Fehrenbacher, D. J. 1990. Soil survey of Ford
County, Illinois. United States Department of
Agriculture, Soil Conservation Service. Soil Report
128. Washington, D.C. 131 pages + maps.
Gleason, H. A. 1912. An isolated prairie grove and
its phytogeographical significance. Botanical Ga¬
zette 53:38-49.
Gleason, H. A. 1913. The relation of forest dis¬
tribution and prairie fires in the middle west.
Toney a 13:173-81.
Iverson, L. R., R. L. Oliver, D. P. Tucker, P. G.
Risser, C. D. Burnett and R. G. Rayburn. 1989.
The forest resources of Illinois: an atlas and analy¬
sis of spatial and temporal trends. Illinois Natu¬
ral History Survey Special Publication 1 l:vii +181.
McClain, W. E,. and S. L. Elzinga. 1994. The oc¬
currence of prairie and forest fires in Illinois and
other midwestern states, 1679-1854. Erigenia
13:79-90.
McIntosh, R. P. 1957. The York Woods. A case his¬
tory of forest succession in southern Wisconsin.
Ecology 38:29-37.
Mohlenbrock, R. H. 1986. Guide to the vascular flora
of Illinois. Southern Illinois University Press,
Carbondale, Illinois.
Pelz, D. R., and G. L. Rolfe. 1977. Stand structure
and composition of a natural mixed hardwood for¬
est. Transactions of the Illinois State Academy of Sci¬
ence 69:446-54.
Schwegman, J. 1973. Comprehensive plan for the Il¬
linois Nature Preserves System. Part 2. The Natu¬
ral Divisions of Illinois. Illinois Nature Preserves
Commission, Rockford, Illinois. 32 pages + map.
Stout, A. B. 1946. The bur oak openings in south¬
ern Wisconsin. Transactions of the Wisconsin Acad¬
emy of Sciences, Arts and Letters 36:141-61.
Thomas, R. and R. C. Anderson. 1990. Presetdement
vegetation of the Mackinaw River valley, central
Illinois. Transactions of the Illinois State Academy
of Science 83: 10-22.
134
TRANSACTIONS
McCLAIN et al. : Black Soil Prairie Groves of East-Central Illinois
William E. McClain , a natural areas project
manager with the Division of Natural Heritage,
is interested in the composition and structure of
plant communities in Illinois. Address: Division
of Natural Heritage, Illinois Department of
Natural Resources , Springfield, Illinois 62701.
Vernon L. LaGesse, a land steward for the Na¬
ture Conservancy in central Illinois, is interested
in wetlands and forest restoration. Address: The
Nature Conservancy, Eureka, Illinois 61530.
Richard L. Larimore is currently an intern in
wetland ecology at the Center for Wildlife
Ecology, Illinois Natural History Survey.
Address: Illinois Natural History Survey,
Champaign, Illinois 61820.
John E. Ebinger, currently an emeritus professor
of Botany at Eastern Illinois University, has
studied Illinois forests for 35 years. Address :
Eastern Illinois University, Charleston, Illinois
61920.
Volume 86 (1998)
135
Jon Mendelson
Restoration from the Perspective
of Recent Forest History
The woodlands of northeastern Illinois, particularly those
associated with the Valparaiso, Tinley, and Lake Border
Moraines that encircle Chicago and extend northward through
Kenosha and Racine counties in Wisconsin, are extensive,
constituting substantial remnants of the original forests of the
area.1 Oak dominated, they are similar in species composition
from north to south. The soils that developed under them,
principally the alfisols Morley and Blount silt loam, are also
widespread, extending from Indiana well into southern
Wisconsin (Hole 1976, Mapes 1979). These woodlands
typically occupy north- and east-facing morainic slopes, and,
as has often been noted, they are best developed on the east
sides of streams (Gleason 1909, Woodard 1925, Bowles et al.
1994). Perhaps the large amount of forest in the area is related
to the north-south orientation of many of its rivers, including
the DuPage, the DesPlaines and the North Branch of the
Chicago.
As Cowles (1901) pointed out almost a century ago, the
landscapes occupied by these woodlands are among the most
dynamic in the region. It is here that post-glacial stream
dissection and the consequent maturation of drainage basins
is most advanced. This maturation is expressed in the ravine
topography characteristic of these woodlands, the “broken”
lands of the Public Land Survey notes, and is largely a function
of the interplay of forest and stream in these landscapes. The
forest, once established, provides a land surface more conducive
to stream development than does prairie sod. Resulting channel
1 I am using the terms “woodland” and “forest” interchangeably, not as
distinct community types separated on the basis of density, canopy
closure, basal area, etc. There is some question as to the value of making
this distinction for northeastern Illinois woodlands.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
137
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
lengthening and valley widening provide not
only avenues for forest advance, but an
increasingly diverse set of interior forest
habitats, ranging from floodplain and
terrace, to mesic ravine slopes, to dry
uplands and wet depressions as yet un¬
affected by stream dissection.
It is this assemblage of woodlands, all rec¬
ognizably similar in physiognomy and com¬
position but each subtly different from the
others, that has become the principal target
of restoration efforts during the last decade.
Forest History
Because forested landscapes, alone among
terrestrial communities, have a readable
history, we have the unique opportunity to
place ecosystem processes in an historical
context. This history can be read not only
in Public Land Survey descriptions, but in
tree rings, in fire scars, in changing species
composition between canopy and under¬
story, in size and age distributions. The
meticulous reconstruction of Henry and
Swann (1974) is an example of what can be
done in this regard. Other studies in forest
history are reviewed in Peterken (1996).
Beyond the inherent value of such studies,
it is critical for those of us interested in the
morainic forests of northeastern Illinois to
devote more time to their history, to
understanding the forces that shaped them,
and to the expression of these forces in the
present-day forest. I say this because I believe
the existing assumptions about forest history,
the assumptions that are presently guiding
restoration activities in these woodlands, are
simplified at best, badly flawed at worst.
Pre-settlement History
First, I think we need to reevaluate some
of our assumptions about historic dis¬
turbance patterns in northeastern Illinois.
To begin with, we need to analyze critically
the idea that these woodlands have some
evolutionary relationship to fire, that they
have “evolved [with fire] over the eons”
(Packard 1993:8). As Hunter (1996) has
pointed out, the time period since de¬
glaciation, -12,000 years, is not long
enough for the evolution of species, no less
the community-level evolutionary response
to fire that has been suggested. Griffin
(1994) makes the same point in reference
to the origin and development of savannas
about which similar evolutionary claims
have been made. Moreover, the data that
supports the frequent recurrence of fire is
entirely anecdotal. We have no information
on fire scars from the few pre-settlement
trees still present in these woods. Fire or its
effects are rarely mentioned in the Public
Land Surveys, even though most were
conducted in pre-settlement times in this
region. Perhaps we need to approach the
question of disturbance regimes from the
perspective of the pre-settlement forest
itself. For example, unpublished data on the
size distribution of witness and line trees,
79 in all, from the 1834 Survey of Thorn
Creek Woods in Will County, one of these
morainic woodlands, includes individuals
ranging in size from 7” (17.3 cm) to 24”
(60 cm) in dbh, with all intermediate sizes
represented. This distribution suggests an
all-aged forest existing on the site prior to
settlement. Anderson and Anderson (1975)
found the same pattern in the forests of
Williamson County in far southern Illinois.
The implication of an all-aged structure is
continuous recruitment, and this, in turn,
suggests low levels of disturbance during
what appears to be a relatively long period
of forest establishment. Clearly, these results
are preliminary, but I think they are
sufficiently at variance with established
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MENDELSON: Restoration from the Perspective of Recent Forest History
conceptions of pre-settlement fire-fre¬
quency, conceptions that are driving present
day restorations in these same woodlands,
that the whole subject might profitably be
revisited.
Although we have much to learn about
pre-settlement conditions, I believe we should
focus most of our attention on post-settle¬
ment forest history, agricultural history,
patterns of land use in the forest in the 1 60—
170 years since settlement. These topics are
more mundane perhaps than the romance of
a pre-settlement Eden, but they are, at the
same time, more germane to the organization
of the forest we now see. The post-settlement
agricultural period in northeastern Illinois has
in recent years come to be characterized as
nothing more than a misguided era of fire
suppression (Packard 1993). By doing so, we
have ignored two other factors — logging and
grazing — whose impact on these forests was
of equal or greater significance during the
same period and whose long-enduring effects
explain much about the structure of today’s
woodlands.
Logging
The trees of the pre-settlement forest, with
few exceptions, are gone from northeastern
Illinois woodlands. Most have been logged
off, probably within the first eighty years or
so of settlement. The principal legacy of
logging, presumably in concert with early
fire suppression, has been the emergence of
the even-aged canopy we see in these
woodlands today, a canopy composed
almost exclusively of post-settlement trees or
those of immediately pre-settlement origin.
Cowles’ (1901) photographs of typical
morainic woodlands show two of these even-
aged, second-growth stands as they appeared
almost 100 years ago (Figures 1 and 2). At
the present time, this canopy, whose success
was made possible by the removal of the
original forest, is now in full maturity region
wide, approaching old-growth status in age.
Early plats show that many of the larger
woodlands — Thorn Creek, Plum Creek and
Messenger Woods in Will County, for
example — were subdivided into numerous
small (10-23 acre) woodlots owned by
prairie farmers (Figure 3). A similar pattern
was found in La Salle County, Illinois
(Fuller 1923). Differences in the degree to
which these woodlots were harvested created
a mosaic of disturbance in these forests.
Adjacent woodlots, for example, may have
had wholly different histories of exploitation.
The imprint of these differences are still
detectable in present-day forests.
The implications of the post-settlement
origin of our woodlands goes beyond simply
the replacement of one generation of trees
by another. There has most certainly been
an increase in tree density, for example, even
in the larger size classes, and with that, a
change in tree form, individuals developing
a straighter, more forest-grown shape.
Restoring the pre-settlement woodland is
impossible: the pre-settlement forest is gone.
It is not there to be restored. The real
management issue is whether it is desireable,
or even possible, to recreate a pre-settlement
facsimile from the existing forest, given the
changes that have occurred.
Grazing
The effects of grazing on these woodlands
have been equally profound and equally
overlooked. Dairy farming in northeastern
Illinois was restricted to morainic landscapes,
the very same landscapes that supported
extensive tracts of forest (Duddy 1929). I
think we have underestimated the ubiquity
of grazing in these woodlands. In 1925, for
example, just prior to the period of rapid
Volume 86 (1998)
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Figure 1. An even-aged post-settlement stand in 1901. The trees appear to be about
40 to 50 years old. Only the stump in the foreground and possibly the larger tree in the
upper left remain from pre-settlement times. Beverly Hills is in southwestern Cook County.
Photo courtesy of the University of Chicago Press.
decline in regional agriculture, 92% of
23,000 acres of woodland in Cook County
had been or was being grazed; similar
percentages were recorded for DuPage, Lake,
and Will Counties (Telford 1926, Duddy
1929). A survey of 430 northern Illinois
farmers taken during this same period
revealed that over 90% grazed their woods
(Telford 1926).
The effects of livestock grazing in wood¬
lands are varied, depending on the intensity
and duration of the practice. These include
soil compaction, which in extreme conditions
results in stag-headed trees, and the replace¬
ment of the woodland herbaceous layer by
bluegrass sod, Canada thistle, and other alien
invaders. The stages of forest degradation
under increasingly severe grazing pressure
were outlined by DenUyl and Day (1939).
The subject was recently revisited by Dennis
(1997). One result emerges above all others:
protracted grazing results in the elimination
of the existing woody understory (Figures 4
and 3) and in the cessation of woody plant
recruitment (Marks 1942, Dambach 1944,
DenUyl 1962). Fuller and Strasburgh
(1919:271) concluded that, as a result of
grazing “. . . not over 5% of the oak and
bottom forests show reproduction in pro¬
gress” in La Salle County, Illinois. In the
present-day forests of northeastern Illinois the
most striking imprint of past grazing is the
gap in the size distribution of virtually every
species of tree in these woodlands (Men-
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MENDELSON: Restoration from the Perspective of Recent Forest History
Figure 2. Another even-aged stand in 1901 . Note the high stem density and the straight,
slender forest-grown form of the trees. The tree on the left with the crooked trunk may
be the only pre-settlement survivor. Photo courtesy of the University of Chicago Press.
delson 1994). The gap represents the period
when, as a result of grazing, tree recruitment
essentially ceased.
Recovery of the forest presumably also
depends on the previous duration and inten¬
sity of utilization. Complete recovery may
be slow. Curtis (1959:154-5), who suggests
that soil compaction might be the most
damaging and the most permanent effect,
mentions a lightly grazed red oak stand pro¬
tected from cattle in 1932 whose recovery
was still incomplete 25 years later. It is in
this recovery phase that the woodlands of
northeastern Illinois are today, and the de¬
gree to which they have recovered is in¬
versely proportional to the severity of past
disturbance.
Recovery
The most direct response to the cessation
of grazing has been the explosive growth of
the understory of these woods, beginning
in the 1920s with the regional decline in
agriculture. The understory that has
emerged is clearly delimited from the older,
canopy generation by a spatial gap: middle-
sized trees of middle-age are largely absent
from these woods. The regeneration of the
forest which this understory represents may,
at first glance, appear chaotic. We have been
made all too aware of its less desirable as¬
pects, particularly the inclusion of non-na¬
tive, sometimes aggressive elements like
buckthorn, multiflora rose, honeysuckle,
Volume 86 (1998)
141
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Figure 3. 1873 plat of the northeastern portion of Crete Township, Will County, Illinois,
showing the forest along Plum Creek subdivided into many small woodlots. Note the
sawmill in the northwest quarter of section 18. The map is from the Atlas of Will county
published in 1873 by Thompson Bros, and Burr.
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MENDELSON: Restoration from the Perspective of Recent Forest History
Figure 4. This photo is from “A Manual of Woodlot Management” by C. J. Telford,
published in 1926. The woodlot is located in northern Illinois. Photo courtesy of the Illinois
Natural History Survey.
Volume 86 (1998)
143
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 5. Grazing continued in some forest preserves even after acquisition. This photo
is from 1921. Deer Grove Preserve is located in northwestern Cook County. Note the
browse line in the background and the virtual absense of understory. The plants in the
right foreground appear to be Canada thistle. Photo courtesy of the Cook County Forest
Preserve District.
and others in the emerging community.
The distribution of most of these alien spe¬
cies, however, seems closely associated with
the degree of past disturbance: to a large
extent, they have invaded the most dis¬
turbed sites, those which are also slowest to
recover. Moreover, most of the aliens are
shrubs or small trees. None have the capac¬
ity to become part of the upper canopy.
Species having canopy-forming potential in
these woodlands are all native, and all are
participating to various degrees in forest re¬
generation. The early stages in the recov¬
ery from grazing are, first, the spread of ex¬
isting thorny or unpalatable species, of
which hawthorn is usually most prominent,
which is followed by the arrival of light-
seeded and bird-disseminated tree species:
ash, slippery elm, sugar maple, basswood,
and black cherry, among others. Oaks gen¬
erally appear later in the process (Den Uyl
and Day 1939, DenUyl 1962). This se¬
quence seems to describe very well the pat¬
tern of species appearance in northeastern
Illinois woodlands, where white ash, slip¬
pery elm, and black cherry are frequently
found beneath a much older, oak-domi¬
nated canopy, and where once vigorous
stands of hawthorn are already in decline.
The spread of sugar maple from ravine en¬
claves onto the more mesic of upland sites
has been widely commented upon. Maples
are still largely absent from dry uplands,
which are equally open to invasion, suggest¬
ing that edaphic factors, particularly avail¬
able soil moisture, may be limiting. A re¬
cent reexamination of Illinois Natural Areas
Inventory sites originally sampled in 1976
indicates an increase in sugar maple in the
smallest size class on oak-dominated sites,
but virtually no growth into larger size
classes during the last 20 years (Bowles et
al. 1998 a).
Why oaks are slow to reestablish in pre¬
viously grazed settings is not clear. It would
seem to be related in part to soil compac¬
tion, the most persistent legacy of grazing,
and its effects on germination and seedling
1 44
TRANSACTIONS
MENDELSON: Restoration from the Perspective of Recent Forest History
establishment. Certainly the extreme sensi¬
tivity of mature oaks in northeastern Illinois
to soil compaction, as witnessed by their
high mortality rates around construction
sites, has been ajmply demonstrated (Ware
and Howe 1974).
There seems to be fairly general agree¬
ment that oak populations can be self-sus¬
taining on dry sites (Clark et al. 1996,
Fralish, 1997). This seems to hold true for
northeastern Illinois woodlands as well, es¬
pecially where grazing appears to have been
light. For example, at the Illinois Natural
Areas Inventory (INAI) site in Thorn Creek
Woods (Bowles et al. 1998 b), an area that
was apparently lightly grazed and has no his¬
tory of fire, oak seedlings were present in
numbers estimated between 2,500 and
6,500/ha.
In places we see the beginnings of an all¬
aged structure in these woodlands, with the
establishment of a variety of canopy species,
including oaks, beginning perhaps 60-70
years ago and continuing today.
These are only a few of the many changes
that have come about since the cessation of
grazing, changes that are still unfolding, and
about which we still have much to learn. To
dismiss these complex developments as
nothing more than forest deterioration due
to fire suppression is a misreading of the past.
Restoration
Such a misreading would be of only aca¬
demic interest were it not the main justi¬
fication for restoration efforts in these
woodlands, efforts aimed almost exclusively
at altering or removing the understory, at
reversing the degradation that this out¬
pouring of vegetational energy is supposed
to represent. At first, reintroducing fire, the
process under which these woodlands
allegedly evolved, was the principal method
employed. Now, woody species in the
understory are routinely cut or girdled first,
and then treated with herbicide, usually
prior to the application of fire. The latest
device to come into use is the Seppi mower,
a variant of the brush hog, which leaves a
litter of wood chips, and almost certainly
compacts the soil of the forest floor,
mimicking, in an ironic way, the hooves of
cattle. Lack of a sufficient fuel load, and
hence the inability of these woodlands to
carry a fire hot enough to do its job, is
usually offered as the explanation for
employing these increasingly severe methods
of control. Species that are removed include
not only aliens like buckthorn and honey¬
suckle, but many natives as well: ash, elm,
black cherry, sugar maple, and basswood.
Most of these are early colonizers after the
cessation of grazing.
Reintroducing chronic disturbance into
these woodlands has had some unpleasant
results. One is the reappearance of species
that thrived under heavy grazing. White sna-
keroot, which can form virtual monocultures
in restored woodlands, is an example (Marks
1942). More alarming is the recurrence in
restored woods of some of the most perni¬
cious agricultural weeds: Canada thistle, bur¬
dock, and mullein among others. This is
particularly evident in parts of Swallow Cliff
Forest Preserve, Cook County’s currently
most ambitious restoration. These species
are found only in the most degraded of
woodland pastures and are eventually elimi¬
nated as the forest recovers. They are never
part of a healthy woodland flora. Thus in
many cases, we appear to be replacing what
have been deemed aggressive woody species,
including many natives, with equally aggres¬
sive herbaceous ones. This is not surprising:
with disturbance-based management come
disturbance-adapted species, and many of
these are aggressive competitors.
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
It has been suggested that garlic mustard,
the latest scourge of our woodlands, also
may be favored by disturbance-based man¬
agement (Anderson et al 1996). Frequency
of garlic mustard was significantly higher in
burned INAI sites than in those that had not
experienced Fire management (Bowles et al.
1998 a). Fire may open seed beds, thus fa¬
cilitating the spread of this species.
More dangerous than the spread of un¬
desirable species, a process which presum¬
ably would be reversed with the cessation of
disturbance, is the permanent effect resto¬
ration is having on forest structure. Under
current management practices, we continue
to widen the age gap between an increasingly
elderly canopy and what will forever be an
immature understory. We are, in other
words, prolonging the even-aged condition
which itself is an artifact of post-settlement
logging and grazing. This takes on particu¬
lar significance when we consider that some
canopy species, notably red and black oak,
may be approaching, at 150-180 years of
age, the end of their life span. If oak repro¬
duction is not enhanced by current manage¬
ment — there is yet little evidence that it has
been — and we continue to remove almost
every other native tree species, we may be
having impacts on these woodlands more
damaging and more permanent than those
of the preceding agricultural period. These
unexpected effects are the result of our one¬
dimensional interpretation of recent forest
history, and our failure to take into account
the sequence of changes that follow the re¬
moval of livestock from the land.
I think it is fair to ask, therefore, whether
it is wise to continue to impose disturbance-
based management on woodlands that have
so recently emerged from a long post-settle¬
ment period of disturbance. After all, in their
entire post-glacial history, these woodlands
had never before been cut. Nor had they ex¬
perienced as intense a period of grazing as
they have since settlement. Given this his¬
tory, might it not be equally appropriate to
let biotic interactions, particularly interspe¬
cific competition, in this emerging forest
determine ultimate forest structure? If so,
then management should emphasize stabil¬
ity and reduce chronic abiotic disturbance.
The successional trajectory under these con¬
ditions may never return us to pre-settle¬
ment structure or composition. But then,
neither will current management practices:
these forests have gone too far down a dif¬
ferent road. What we will have, if we man¬
age for stability, are all-aged woodlands,
woodlands with greater species diversity in
the canopy than we see at present, wood¬
lands that have developed under the natu¬
ral disturbance regime of this time and place.
Acknowledgments
I would particularly like to thank Judith
Dolan Mendelson for sharing her many in¬
sights into forest ecology. Thanks also to
John Yunger and Nina Mendelson for help¬
ful comments on this manuscript, to Mar¬
lin Bowles for graciously providing unpub¬
lished data, and to Steve Aultz, Dave
Mauger, Tim Bell, and Jim Marzuki, all of
whom have influenced my thinking about
northeastern Illinois woodlands. Thanks,
too, to Dick Burd, Larry Lewis, and Suzanne
Oliver for preparing the figures, and to
Nancy Shlaes for guiding me through the
intricacies of modern literature searches.
Literature Cited
Anderson, R. C., and M. R. Anderson. 1975.
The presettlement vegetation of Williamson
County, Illinois. Castanea 40: 345-63.
Anderson, R. C., S. S. Dhillion, and T. M.
Kelley. 1996. Aspects of the ecology of an in-
146
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MENDELSON: Restoration from the Perspective of Recent Forest History
vasive plant, garlic mustard (Alliaria petio-
lata), in central Illinois. Restoration Ecology
4(2): 18 1-91.
Bowles, M. L., M. D. Hutchison, and J. L.
McBride. 1994. Landscape pattern and struc¬
ture of oak savanna, woodland, and barrens
in northeastern Illinois at the time of Euro¬
pean. Pp. 65-73 in J. Fralish, R. C. Ander¬
son and R. Szafoni, eds. Proceedings of the
North American Conference on Savannas and
Barrens. Illinois State University, Normal, IL.
Bowles, M. L., J. McBride, C. Dunn, M. Jones,
and T. Bell. 1998^. Twenty-year woody veg¬
etation changes and groundlayer species richness
in northeastern Illinois upland forests. The
Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.
Bowles, M. L., J. McBride, C. Dunn, and T.
Bell. 1998 A Twenty-year woody vegetation
changes in four Will County, Illinois Forest Pre¬
serves. The Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.
Cowles, H. C. 1901. The physiographic ecology
of Chicago and vicinity. Botanical Gazette
31(2): 73-108, 31(3): 145-82.
Clark, J. S., P. D. Royall, and C. Chumbly.
1996. The role of fire during climate change
in an eastern deciduous forest at Devil’s Bath¬
tub, New York. Ecology 77(7) :2 148-66.
Curtis, J. T. 1959. The vegetation of Wisconsin.
University of Wisconsin Press, Madison.
Dambach, C. A. 1944. A ten-year ecological
study of adjoining grazed and ungrazed
woodlands in northeastern Ohio. Ecological
Monographs 14(3): 257-70.
Dennis, A. 1997. Effects of livestock grazing on
forest habitats. Pp. 137-342 in M. W.
Schwartz, ed. Conservation in highly fragmented
landscapes. Chapman and Hall, New York.
DenUyl, D. 1962. The central region. Pp. 1 37 —
77 in J. W. Barrett, ed. Regional silviculture
of the United States. The Ronald Press, New
York.
DenUyl D., and R. D. Day. 1939. Woodland
livestock carrying capacities and grazing in¬
jury studies. Purdue University Agricultural
Experiment Station Bulletin no. 391.
Duddy, E. A. 1929. Agriculture in the Chicago
region. University of Chicago Press, Chicago.
Fralish, J. F. 1997. Community succession, di¬
versity, and disturbance in the central hard¬
wood forest. Pp. 234-66 in M. W. Schwartz,
ed. Conservation in highly fragmented land¬
scapes. Chapman and Hall, New York.
Fuller, G. D. 1923. An edaphic limit to forests
in the prairie region of Illinois. Ecology 4:
135-40.
Fuller G. D., and P. D. Strausburgh. On the for¬
ests of La Salle County, Illinois. Transactions
of the Illinois Academy of Sciences 1 2: 246— 72.
Gleason, H. A. 1909. Some unsolved problems
of the prairies. Bulletin of the Torrey Botani¬
cal Club 36: 265-71.
Griffin, D. 1994. Pollen analog dates for
midwestern oak savannas. Pp. 91-94 in J.
Fralish, R. C. Anderson, J. E. Ebinger and
R. Szafoni, eds. Proceedings of the North
American Conference on Savannas and Barrens.
Illinois State University, Normal, IL.
Henry, J. D., and J. M. A. Swan. 1974. Reconstruct¬
ing forest history from live and dead material —
an approach to forest succession in southwest
New Hampshire. Ecology 55:772-783.
Hole, F. D. 1976. The soils of Wisconsin. Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin Press, Madison.
Hunter, M. 1996. Benchmarks for managing
ecosystems: are human activities natural?
Conservation Biology 10(3): 695— 97.
Mapes, D. R. 1979. Soil Survey of Du Page and
part of Cook County, Illinois. Illinois Agri¬
cultural Experiment Station Report no. 108.
Marks, J. B. 1942. Land use and succession in
Coon Valley, Wisconsin. Ecological Mono¬
graphs 12(2): 113-33.
Mendelson, J. 1994. Age structure of trees in
Thorn Creek Woods. Pp. 103-06 in J.
Fralish, R. C. Anderson and R. Szafoni, eds.
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Packard, S. !993. Restoring oak ecosystems. Res¬
toration and Management Notes 11(1) 3-16.
Peterken, G. F. 1996. Natural Woodland. Cam¬
bridge University Press, New York.
Telford, C. J. 1926. Third report on a forest sur¬
vey of Illinois. Bulletin of the Illinois Natural
History Survey 16(1): 1-102.
Telford, C. J. 1927. A manual of woodlot man¬
agement. Bulletin of the Illinois Natural His¬
tory Survey 17(2).
Ware, G., and V. K. Howe. 1974. The care and
management of native oaks in northern Illi¬
nois. Plant Information Bulletin of the Morton
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tribution of tree vegetation in Champaign
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Jon Mendelson received his Ph.D. in Zoology in
1972 from the University of Wisconsin-Madi-
son. He currently is Professor of Environmental
Science at Governors State University, where his
research interests continue to be the ecology of
northeastern Illinois woodlands. Address: Divi¬
sion of Science, Governors State University, Uni¬
versity Park, Illinois 60422.
Scott E. Nielsen and Alan Haney
Gradient Responses for Understory
Species in a Bracken Grassland
and Northern Dry Forest Ecosystem
of Northeast Wisconsin
Abstract Spread Eagle Barrens , located in Northeastern Wisconsin , occupies
an area of pitted outwash created during the late Wisconsin
glaciation. This irregular topography forms a heterogeneous
landscape influencing both site characteristics and associated plant
communities. Today the dominant plant communities, which often
occur in a mosaic pattern, consist of both bracken-grasslands and
northern dry forests. It is in this landscape that we investigated
the distribution and position of 35 groundlayer species along six
environmental gradients and one competitive gradient. These
include slope position, site severity index, canopy, soil nutrient
index, organic matter, pH, and bracken fern frond densities. The
presence or absence of each species, along with environmental data,
were recorded in random 1 m2 quadrats placed throughout the
Sand Lake Region. Probability responses of individual species along
measured gradients were then determined through logistic
regression. Response shapes of species across gradients were often
non-linear, with both quadratic and cubic functions being
common. Results indicate that topoedaphic factors, canopy and
bracken fern all influence species distributions. Overall, however,
canopy was the single most important gradient examined. Bracken
fern frond densities also showed strong significance for many species
indicating the important role it plays on the landscape.
Additionally, as predicted by competition theory, bracken fern was
also found in the center of environmental gradients where the
strongest competitors are thought to dominate.
Savannas are one of the most extensive and socioeconomi¬
cally important ecosystems on the planet, covering over 18
million km2 or 14% of the earth’s surface (Botkin et al. 1984,
Perry 1994). In Wisconsin one type of savanna, called pine
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
barrens, once occupied a large portion of the
state covering over 947,000 ha at the time
of European settlement (Curtis 1959). To¬
day, however, many of our native Midwest¬
ern savanna communities are rare (Nuzzo
1986) due to fire suppression and associated
woody encroachment (Abrams 1992). The
situation for pine barrens in Wisconsin is no
different. Only about 20,000 ha currently
remain of both oak and pine barrens
(Mossman et al. 1991).
Two distinct forms of pine barrens can
be recognized based on the groundlayer
composition, perhaps reflecting soils,
topography, and location to tension zone
(Vogl 1970). The first type, prairie-like
barrens, tend to occur in coarse sands, gentle
topography, and are geographically close to
prairies. The second type, non-prairie
barrens, tend to occur in loamy sands and
sandy loams, have more topographic varia¬
bility, and are relatively isolated from prairies
or the tension zone. The latter community,
which rarely has received attention, also
includes that which has been referred to as
depauperate bracken-grasslands (Vogl
1964^). These bracken-grasslands were
initially assumed to be secondary com¬
munities in Wisconsin resulting from
logging and fire. However, based on both
ecological studies of northern Wisconsin
(Curtis 1959, Vogl 1964^) and European
records, it appears that the bracken-grassland
community was indeed part of the state prior
to settlement, although in relatively small
coverage. It since has expanded due to
anthropogenic causes.
Today, these bracken-grassland com¬
munities are often integrated into a mosaic
of other communities in northern Wis¬
consin, particularly northern dry forests. In
some instances, many can even attain the
appearance of an aspen parkland, with the
dominant woody species being aspen
(. Populus tremuloides and P. grandidentata) .
Once bracken-grasslands are established,
they are fairly resilient and do not appear
to require fire for their maintenance (Vogl
1964^), unlike other savanna communities
of the Midwest (Bray 1955; Curtis 1959;
Vogl 1964 b, 1970; Kline and Cottam
1979; Grimm 1984; Haney and Apfelbaum
1990; Leitner et al. 1991; Abrams 1992).
Possible mechanisms responsible for this
maintenance are competition and micro¬
climate.
Competition between tree seedlings and
bracken fern may inhibit or limit succession
(Curtis 1959, Vogl 1964a). Bracken fern
( Pteridium aquilinum L. Kuhn), which is the
most widely distributed plant in the world
(Page 1982), has an excellent ability to com¬
pete for moisture, nutrients, and light. In
addition to direct competition for resources,
bracken fern can also inhibit plant establish¬
ment and growth through allelopathy
(Ferguson and Boyd 1988). Bracken fern
rhizomes also quickly invade or re-establish
following disturbance (Conway 1952).
Many of the bracken-dominated systems of
the world today are associated with distur¬
bances such as fire, timber harvesting, or
grazing. In Finland, Oinonen (1967) was
able to positively correlate clone sizes of
bracken fern to time of last fire, with ages
of clones going back to the years of 1300
(old fortress at Sulkava) and 1318 (Turku
raided) and clone sizes exceeding 200 m in
diameter.
The second factor potentially influencing
the stability of bracken-grasslands, at least in
Wisconsin, is the microclimate (Curtis
1959, Vogl 1964^). In many areas where
bracken-grasslands dominate, the landscape
(pitted outwash) promotes drastic changes
in temperature, including the frequent frost
formation as a result of cold air drainage and
re-radiation (Figure 1, Table 1). These frosts
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NIELSEN and HANEY: Gradient Responses for Understory Species
Figure 1 . Minimum temperature patterns between a kettle (frost pocket) at the study
site and nearest (c. 6 km) weather station (Iron Mountain) for the summer of 1996.
may then be referred to as a form of distur¬
bance, which restricts recruitment of woody
species in low areas of the landscape. Inter¬
estingly, bracken fern is also frost sensitive
and restricted from the low kettles and val¬
leys (Nielsen 1997). Therefore, bracken fern
itself cannot influence the relative openness
and stability of frost pockets (Vogl 19 64a).
It is likely that both competition and ex¬
tremes in temperature exert an influence,
with bracken fern competition acting ac¬
cording to an inhibition model of succession
(Connell and Slayter 1977) and the micro¬
climate functioning as a factor influencing
recruitment based on frost sensitivity.
Because bracken-grasslands have rarely
been studied (however, see Vogl 1964#),
particularly in relations to the surrounding
communities, first understanding which spe¬
cies are present to an area and why, may
prove essential in understanding the com¬
munities’ origins, ecology, and possible fu¬
ture management. In other Midwest savan¬
nas, variables such as soils, topography, and
canopy have been found to be important
determinants of species distributions (Bray
1958, Ware et al. 1992, Leach 1994, Pruka
1994, Hujik 1995). It is our objective here
to determine patterns of plant species dis¬
tributions along the major environmental
gradients of canopy, soil organic matter, pH,
soil nutrient index, slope position, and site
severity index. Additionally, since the impor¬
tance of bracken fern in this system may be
quite substantial, responses of plants to den¬
sities of bracken fern fronds are examined.
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 1. Minimum temperature (°C)
patterns for Iron Mountain Weather Station
and two data loggers located in a frost
pocket and ridge top at approximately a
30 m difference in elevation. Data loggers
were located at a 0.5 m height and placed
out between 22 June and 24 August of
1996 (n = 58).
* Means ±SE are not significantly different if labeled
with the same letter
Methods
Study Site
Field research was conducted at Spread
Eagle Barrens State Natural Area, located
c. 7 km southeast of Florence, Wisconsin
(45°52/N, 85°10/W). This landscape size
Natural Area occupies 3,580 ha, being
bordered by the Menominee River to the
east and approximately dissected in half by
the Pine River. An ecological classification
of the site in Ecoregions of North America
(Bailey and Cushwa 1981) identifies Spread
Eagle Barrens as a humid temperate
domain, humid warm-summer continental
division, and Laurentian mixed-forest
province. The climate of the area is
intermediate between lake moderated and
continental, with a mean annual tem¬
perature of 5.2°C and a median frost-free
period of 113 days. Mean annual preci¬
pitation is 739 mm with an average annual
snowfall of 1,595 mm.
Elevations of the study area range from
385 to 320 m and form a distinct hum¬
mocky appearance. This topographic varia¬
tion, called pitted outwash, was caused by
collapsing sediment of proglacial streams
deposited on stagnant glacial ice (Hadley
1976, Clayton 1986). The glacial advance
responsible for this formation has been aged
at approximately 12,300 years ago and is
called the Early Athelstane Advance. This is
a Silver Cliff member of the Kewaunee
Formation of the late Wisconsin glaciation
(Clayton 1986). The depths of these
Pleistocene sediments vary from 76 m
around Sand Lake to 16 m near the Meno¬
minee River. Soils are Spodosols with
textures varying from sandy loams to loamy
sands and characterized by a low pH (|I =
4.87 SE± 0.02).
Historically, prior to European settle¬
ment, Spread Eagle Barrens was dominated
by Populus tremuloides (quaking aspen),
Firms banksiana (jack pine), and Betula
papyrifera (white birch) (Table 2) (Nielsen
1997). Today, however, many of the sites
have been converted through management
(logging and prescribed burning) to large
homogenous bracken-grasslands, originally
intended to optimize habitat for sharp-tail
grouse. One region that escaped much of
this management is the area surrounding
Sand Lake. This area still maintains a rich
mosaic of northern dry forests and bracken
grasslands, perhaps because a wildfire swept
the area in the late 40s or early 50s.
Research was concentrated in the area
surrounding Sand Lake because the exis¬
tence of bracken-grasslands was not a
function of management and because of the
large variability there in site characteristics
and competition across the landscape. In
that vicinity we could investigate species
responses to the landscape variables without
having to account for recent management
related effects.
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NIELSEN and HANEY: Gradient Responses for Understory Species
a Survey point frequency represents the frequency of tree species to survey point. Since the survey points had
between 2 and 4 witness trees, the sum of the frequencies exceed 100%.
b It appears that the surveyor did not distinguish between Picea glauca and Picea mariana.
c It appears that the surveyor did not distinguish between Acer saccharum and Acer rubrum.
Field Methods
In investigations dealing with distribution
patterns of populations, a systematic grid
design may allow for greater precision in
analyses (Brown and Ruthery 1993). There¬
fore, in the summer of 1996, within the
Sand Lake region of Spread Eagle Barrens,
six 230 m2 cells were randomly selected from
an overlaying grid on a United States
Geological Service 7.3 minute quadrangle.
Within each of these six cells, 50 random
observation points were chosen for sampling,
producing a sample size of 300. Sites were
sampled once between the dates of July 10 th
and August 20th of 1996. Each sample
consists of a 1 m2 circular herbaceous
quadrat centered over the random position
previously determined. Within this quadrat
all living ground-layer plant species (<1 m
height) were recorded for presence or
absence based on taxonomy following E. G.
Voss (1972, 1985, 1996). Along with plant
presence or absence, the number of live
bracken fern fronds was counted within each
quadrat. To determine canopy coverage of
a site, the line intercept method was used
over a 10 m transect, which was centered
over each quadrat (Haney and Apfelbaum
1994). In this method, a vertical plane was
projected from the transect with the starting
and stopping positions of tree species
recorded.
Soil characteristics of each sample point
were based on a composite soil sample from
around each quadrat by combining four soil
cores, each being 2 cm x 1 5 cm in size, from
the major cardinal sectors of the quadrat.
Samples were analyzed by the University of
Wisconsin-Marshfield Soil and Forage
Analysis Laboratory for organic matter, pH,
P, K, Ca, and Mg. For the cations (P, K,
Ca, and Mg), an index (nutrient index, NI)
was created in order to reduce both the
number of variables and the multi-collinear-
ity between variables. This was done by
ranking (ascending) each soil variable and
summing the rank values.
The influence of topography was ad¬
dressed by two complex gradients. The first
Volume 86 (1998)
153
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
is an index relating aspect and slope to
incoming solar radiation. In both temperate
and boreal zones, both aspect and slope
combine to influence vegetation patterns
caused by differences in solar radiation. Solar
radiation has not only been found to
influence vegetation patterns (Haase 1970,
Fralish 1988, Bonan and Shugart 1989), but
also soil moisture and forest productivity
(Beers et al. 1966). Therefore, an index was
created for this study called “site severity
index” (SSI), which takes into consideration
both aspect and slope, thereby representing
the amount of direct solar radiation and
heating of a site in relation to flat surface.
This index was modified from one
created by Beers et al. (1966), which is
based on a sine wave varying according to
aspect. This gave maximum values for
northeast slopes (productive forests) and
minimum values for southwest slopes
(unproductive forests). Other studies within
the Midwest (Ware et al. 1992, Thomas
and Anderson 1993) have used this func¬
tion to investigate the influence of aspect
on vegetation. In this study, however, the
Beers’ equation was modified so that a
southwest slope received the highest value
and a northeast slope the lowest, while
being scaled between +1 and -1, repre¬
senting xeric to mesic sites respectively. In
addition, the function was scaled to take
into account the amount of slope. As slope
decreases from a high of 45%, the wave
dampens toward zero, representing a flat
surface. In the field, slope was recorded with
a clinometer, while aspect was determined
with a compass. Using these values, the site
severity index was determined through the
equation SSI = sin(A + 225) x (% slope/45),
where A represents degrees from polar north
and % slope from horizontal.
The second topographic variable exam¬
ined was slope position. For this, each
sample location was placed into one of six
slope positions based on a visual inspection
of the landscape. Slope position categories
were as follows: frost pockets and valley bot¬
toms (5), lower one third of slopes (4),
middle one third of slopes (3), upper one
third of slopes (2), narrow ridge (< 50 m
wide) (1), and lastly a broad ridge or plain
(> 50 m wide) (0).
Statistical Analyses
To determine species responses along
examined gradients, logistic regression was
used on presence/absence data of common
(>10% frequency) ground-layer species in
1 m2 quadrats (Appendix A). The logistic
regression statistic is similar to linear
regression except that the dependent
variable (Y) is binary (1 or 0, hence present
or absent) instead of continuous (Sokal and
Rohlf 1995). Logistic regression then relates
the proportions of a dependent variable to
an independent variable. This independent
variable can be continuous or discon¬
tinuous. Significance was considered at the
level of P < 0.10 for the chi-square statistic.
The modeling technique used here is one
variant of GLM (general linear modeling)
and is similar to analyses of Eucalyptus
species in Australia by Austin et al. (1990).
For logistic regression modeling, a total
of 34 species were tested in order across all
six gradients of interest (canopy, NI, soil
organic matter, pH, slope position, and SSI).
In addition to the standard linear responses,
which represent an increase or decrease in
probability of that species across a variable,
additional combinations were tested by
adding quadratic and cubic functions. The
quadratic function would indicate a Gaus¬
sian or Normal distribution, which is
expected in ordination analyses. This type
of response has been called Gaussian logistic
154
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NIELSEN and HANEY: Gradient Responses for Understory Species
regression (GLR) by ter Braak (et al. 1986).
The cubic function would verify a more
complex response, such as bimodal distri¬
butions. All gradients were examined for
each species in histograms, in order to
determine if these higher order functions
were appropriate in the logistic model.
After modeling, probability responses for
every significant species were plotted across
the selected gradient. These gradients were
then subjectively divided into sections to
determine guilds of species (Table 3a). For
these divisions, canopy was the only variable
that was not segmented into equal pro¬
portions, in order to correspond to existing
abstract community definitions based on
canopy amounts (Table 3b). Since species
are responding across gradients in a con¬
tinuum fashion, these segmented divisions
are to be used only for generalizations.
Results
Canopy
The canopy variable examined was the most
important gradient overall, as determined
by chi-square significance tests. All 34 spe¬
cies examined showed significant responses
to this inferred light gradient. The major¬
ity of species response models were linear,
followed by quadratic, and finally cubic
functions (Table 4, Figure 2a). Along this
gradient, four main segments were arbi¬
trarily stratified for determination of opti¬
mal position according to community clas¬
sifications following canopy amounts. Most
species modeled were forest species, fol¬
lowed by the grassland guild, woodland
guild, and savanna guild. The species that
optimized their probabilities in the canopy
range associated with the savanna classi¬
fication include Apocynum androsaemi-
folium, Comandra umbellata, Comptonia
peregrina, Prunus pumila, and Vaccinium
pallidum (Table 5).
Nutrient Index (NI)
Nutrient Index represents the combinations
of the relative ranks of available nutrients
P, K, Ca, and Mg. This was the least
predictive gradient in describing species
responses; only 14 species were significantly
related to it (Table 4). Of the significant
models, most were linear, followed by a few
quadratic, and only one cubic function
(Figure 2b). Optimal positions tended to
occur at the high end of the nutrient index,
with a few in the middle and a few at the
low end (Table 5). One of the species that
optimized low nutrient sites, Comptonia
peregrina, is a non-Leguminosae nitrogen
fixer and perhaps an important early
Volume 86 (1998)
155
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
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Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 2. Responses of significant species, as determined by logistic regression, show¬
ing shape, optimal position, and distribution patterns of species across the gradients
of canopy (a), nutrient index (b), soil organic matter (c), pH (d), slope position (e), site
severity index (f), and bracken frond densities (g).
158
TRANSACTIONS
NIELSEN and HANEY: Gradient Responses for Understory Species
Figure 2, continued.
Volume 86 (1998)
159
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
successional species for nutrient accumu¬
lation in these nutrient poor sandy soils.
The significant Vaccinium species also
maximized their position in these sites,
which corresponds to the general patterns
of Ericaceae species world wide.
Soil Organic Matter
Half of the species modeled were signifi¬
cantly affected by this gradient (Table 4).
Species response models were primarily
quadratic and linear, with only one being
cubic (Figure 2c). Species optima tended to
occur in both the mid and high ranges of
the gradient, with only a few occurring in
the low portion (Table 5). The species most
likely to occur in low soil organic matter
sites were the species Campanula rotun-
difolia, Danthonia spicata, and Trientalis
borealis, while species such as Corylus
cornuta, Hieracium aurantiacum, Maian-
themum canadense, Prunus pumila, and
Schizachne purpurascens tended to optimize
probabilities in high soil organic matter.
There does not appear to be any patterns
between the two guilds.
pH
Most species were significant along this
gradient (Table 4). For this variable,
however, both logarithmic scaling and
arithmetic equivalents were used. The
species response types, then, turned out to
be balanced between linear and quadratic
functions (Table 4, Figure 2d). The
majority of species had optimal positions in
the high pH range with only a few species
in both the mid and low ranges, such as
Apocynum androsaemifolium, Trientalis
borealis, and Vaccinium myrtilloides (Table
5). The species occurring with optimums
in the high pH range were those associated
with fairly open canopies (|I = 10.5% SE ±
7.4, n = 10) representing savanna com¬
munities, while species associated with low
and mid pH ranges occurred in higher
canopies (JLL = 82.9% SE ± 7.4, n = 12)
associated with forest communities.
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NIELSEN and HANEY: Gradient Responses for Understory Species
Slope Position
This variable contained a high majority of
significant models, indicating the importance
of topography (Table 4). The response
functions were again primarily quadratic and
linear, with some complex cubic responses
(Table 4, Figure 2e). Interestingly, most of
the species had optimal positions in either the
frost pocket/valley bottom or upland plains
(Table 5). The upland plains’ guild includes
species such as Apocynum androsaemifolium,
Calystegia spithamaea, Comptonia peregrina,
Gaultheria procumbens, Maianthemum c ana-
dense, Oryzopsis asperifolia, Pteridium aqui -
linum, Vaccinium angustifolium, and Wald-
steinia fragarioides. The frost pocket guild
included such species as Agropyron trachy-
caulum, Aster cilia to us, Bromus kalmii,
Danthonia spicata, Hieracium aurantiacum,
Poa spp., Schizachne purpurascens, and Viola
adunca.
The apparent difference between these
two guilds is that the first guild (upland) is
characterized by species typically found in
northern dry forest and boreal communities
(77.8%), while the second guild of species
(frost pockets) are representative of a
bracken-grassland communities (100%).
This would point to the possibility that the
topography variable of slope position may be
critical in determining which community
will occupy a site. Bracken-grasslands are
found primarily in the kettles and valleys of
pitted outwash, while forests tend to occupy
the more upland positions.
Site Severity Index ( SSI)
Site Severity Index was significant in explain¬
ing distribution patterns for many of the spe¬
cies (Table 4). A fairly balanced distribution
of linear, quadratic, and cubic model func¬
tions were used (Table 4, Figure 2f). Opti¬
mal response patterns revealed that most spe¬
cies occurred on the mesic end of the gradi¬
ent (SSI = -1), while a few species used the
xeric (SSI = 1) and mid portions (Table 5).
The xeric guild included the species Comp¬
tonia peregrina, Danthonia spicata, Lysimachia
quadrifolia, Prunus pumila, and Rubus
allegheniensis, which are common species to
pine barrens and bracken-grasslands. The
mesic guild contains species common to bo¬
real forests, northern dry mesic forests, north¬
ern dry forests, and bracken-grasslands.
Bracken Fern
The change in bracken fern frond densities
proved to play an important role in deter¬
mining species distributions, with most spe¬
cies being significant (Table 4). Species re¬
sponses were primarily cubic, with a fair
number of both quadratic and linear func¬
tions (Table 4, Figure 2g). The cubic re¬
sponse may point to the complex interaction
bracken fern may present to other species,
with a set of interactions including allelopa¬
thy, nutrient competition, and light inter¬
ception. Another possibility that may pro¬
mote the unusually complex responses of
species are that bracken clones are not at an
equilibrium with the landscape. The clones
are constantly invading outward with under¬
ground rhizomes at least 1 m in advance of
emergent fronds (Watt 1940).
Regardless of bracken fern dynamics, a
few species seem to respond positively to
increasing bracken densities, which is
interesting since bracken fern is thought to
be an effective competitor and inhibitor
(allelopathy). Most of the species showing
positive responses to bracken densities
(Table 5, Figure 2g), were also species that
tended to have optima in high canopy
conditions (JLL = 72.5% SE ± 12.1, n = 1 1),
while those that were negatively associated
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
with increasing bracken densities tended to
have optima in low canopy conditions (jLL =
22.7% SE ± 16.6, n = 6). Thus, many
typical forest species (northern dry forest) are
located in the open bracken-grasslands. This
distribution may partially be a function of
bracken fern densities, with interception of
light acting as a type of canopy. This, then,
may infer advantages for species that can
photosynthesize under low light conditions
and hence may able to out compete species
normally associated with the grasslands.
Discussion
Results indicate that canopy, topoedaphic
variables, and bracken fern are all significant
factors accountable for distribution patterns
of plant species at Spread Eagle Barrens.
Canopy appeared to be the most influential
predictor for many species. Since canopy is
also the easiest of the gradients to manipu¬
late, a potential exists for management of
desired species under certain conditions.
Based on other environmental conditions,
responses of species should be able to be pre¬
dicted from logistic regression equations.
Topographic variables (slope position and
site severity index) are often ignored. We
found them to be key factors in determin¬
ing both plant and community distributions.
For instance, slope position influenced both
community species patterns and individual
species distributions. In particular, bracken
fern, a keystone species, was most signifi¬
cantly related to slope position, presumably
due to its frost sensitivity. Of the edaphic
variables examined, both soil pH and % or¬
ganic matter were influential for a number
of species. However, the nutrient index cre¬
ated for the study was not related to the dis¬
tribution of a majority of species.
Bracken fern had a cubic response in dis¬
tribution models for many species. These
responses suggest a complex relationship be¬
tween bracken fern and other species, with
the interactions of allelopathy, nutrient com¬
petition, and light interception being impor¬
tant. It was initially assumed that both al¬
lelopathy and competition would result in
negative responses for many species, but our
results indicate that the reverse was true.
This may be explained by the fact that most
positively associated species were those that
would be classified as “forest” species, per¬
haps pointing to the importance of light in¬
terception by bracken fern.
According to Austin and Gaywood
(1994), the ecological responses of species
will be increasingly skewed toward the far
ends of a gradient, representing the in¬
creasing role of physiological tolerance, while
the center of the gradient will be dominated
by responses of species occurring due to the
increasing role of competition. The more
superior competitors should then be found
in the center of a gradient, resulting in high
dominance and low diversity (Austin and
Smith 1989). If this were the case, bracken
fern, a noted competitor with high domi¬
nance, should be found in the center of
direct gradients. This seems to be occurring
for the variables of nutrient index, organic
matter, pH, and site severity index at Spread
Eagle Barrens. Removing or controlling
bracken fern might produce an associated
shift in species composition due to the
releasing of competitive interactions.
Bracken fern influence on species responses,
including factors that influence bracken fern,
are important considerations in the manage¬
ment of Midwestern Savannas. In fact, by
selectively harvesting the woody species
based on site characteristics that promote
domination by bracken fern or within a frost
pocket, maintenance may occur through
competitive inhibition or the microclimate,
instead of intensive management.
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NIELSEN and HANEY: Gradient Responses for Understory Species
Appendix A. Species selected for logistic regression modeling based on frequency of
occurrence (> 10%) within 1 m2 herbaceous quadrats at Spread Eagle Barrens. Curtis
fidelity represents the number of native communities, out of 34 identified, in which the
species was found. The community maximum describes which plant community a
species achieved maximum presence (Curtis 1959).
Volume 86 (1998)
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Acknowledgments
This research was supported by the Depart¬
ment of Defense Legacy Resource Manage¬
ment Program and the Sand County Foun¬
dation. We would like to thank the
UW-Stevens Point Oak Savanna Legacy
crew, in particular Angela Collada, for both
field and logistical support. In addition,
guidance by Mark Boyce, James Cook, and
Evelyn Merrill was much appreciated in the
analytical phases of this project.
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Austin, M. P., and M. J. Gaywood. 1994.
Current problems of environmental gradients
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Bailey, R. G., and C. T. Cushwa. 1981.
Ecoregions of North America. Washington,
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Beers, T. W., P. E. Dress, and L. C. Wensel.
1966. Aspect transformation in site pro¬
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92.
Bonan, G. B., and H. H. Shugart. 1989.
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Volume 86 (1998)
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Wisconsin pine barrens. Pp. 175-209 in
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Scott E. Nielsen is currently an ecologist for the
Sand County Foundation. He has been studying
pine barrens and savannas within the Midwest
since 1994 , when he began working for the Oak
Savanna Legacy Project. He has both a B.S. and
M.S. from the University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point in biology and forest ecology. Address:
Sand County Foundation , 201 Waubesa Street ,
Madison , WI 53704.
Alan Haney is a Professor of Forestry at the Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. An ecologist,
he has published widely on community structure.
He is a leading authority on Midwest oak sa¬
vannas. His recent book (1997) on ecosystem
management, edited with Mark Boyce, was pub¬
lished by Yale University Press. Address: College
of Natural Resources, University of Wisconsin-
Stevens Point, Stevens Point, WI 54481.
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Neal D. Niemuth and Mark S. Boyce
Disturbance in Wisconsin Pine Barrens:
Implications for Management
Abstract We compared cover, structure, and diversity of woody vegetation
in three types of early successional habitat patches in the pine
barrens of northwestern Wisconsin. Patch disturbance types
included repeated prescribed burning, crown fire, and clearcutting.
All three disturbances set back succession, but with distinct
differences in vegetation structure and composition. Vegetation in
patches created by crown fire had greatest tree density, diversity of
structure and composition, and cover by jack pine and large woody
debris. Differences in woody vegetation among disturbance types
may influence the success of savanna restoration and landscape
management projects at providing habitat for savanna wildlife
species in the pine barrens.
Timber harvest is frequently alluded to as a surrogate dis¬
turbance for fire in forested ecosystems because both re¬
duce vegetative structure and/or create habitat harboring similar
animal communities (e.g., Urban et al. 1987, Hansen et al.
1991, Hunter 1992, Sharitz et al. 1992, Vora 1993). Yet the
relative effects of timber harvest on plant and animal commu¬
nities are rarely quantified (but see Hansen et al. 1991,
Fitzgerald and Tanner 1992, Greenberg et al. 1993).
In Wisconsin pine barrens, large-block timber harvest has
been proposed as a landscape-level management tool that
would create large habitat patches for area-sensitive grassland
and shrubland bird species (Niemuth 1995, Parker 1995,
Strand and Epperly 1995). Many grassland and shrubland bird
species readily accept early successional habitat created by
clearcutting in pine barrens (Niemuth 1995), although the rela¬
tive effects of fire and clearcutting on pine barrens vegetation
structure and composition are largely unknown.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
167
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Fire is the primary natural disturbance
in the region (Curtis 1959), although pine
barrens are also subject to catastrophic
windthrow (Canham and Loucks 1984), ice
storms (Vora 1993), and infestations of jack
pine budworm ( Choristoneura pinus ; Volney
and McCullough 1994). Before fire control
began in the 1 920s, recurrent fires swept the
pine barrens, creating extensive openings
largely devoid of trees (Norwood 1852,
Murphy 1931, Curtis 1959, Vogl 1970).
Because of fire control and tree planting,
most of the region is currently forested, and
timber production is the primary land use.
Timber harvest is the dominant vegetation-
removing disturbance in the pine barrens,
as most wildfires are quickly extinguished
and are limited in extent. However, early
successional habitat is maintained in the
region at four savanna reserves larger than
1 ,000 ha, along with several smaller reserves
and fuelbreaks. Reserves are managed
primarily to provide habitat for sharp-tailed
grouse (Tympanuchus phasianellus). Early
successional vegetation is maintained at
these reserves through frequent prescribed
burning, which, over time, creates a
vegetation community that may differ
considerably from pre-settlement con¬
ditions (Mossman et al. 1991, Parker
1995).
We compared characteristics of woody
vegetation in 40 patches created by crown
fire, clearcutting, and repeated prescribed
burning in northwestern Wisconsin pine
barrens. We focused on structure of woody
vegetation because woody vegetation is an
important nesting and foraging substrate for
wildlife (Niemuth 1995). In addition,
structure of woody vegetation will be
determined largely by management prac¬
tices and disturbance type rather than by
plant species’ range and response to site
characteristics. Our goal was to show how
woody vegetation structure differed among
disturbance types, as well as provide
direction for future experimental analysis of
vegetation response to disturbance in the
pine barrens.
Materials and Methods
Study Area
Sampling took place during July of 1993
and 1994 in Burnett, Douglas, and Bayfield
counties in northwestern Wisconsin (Figure
1). Pine barrens in the region are delimited
by xeric, outwash sand soils; predominant
tree species included jack pine (Pinus
banksiana), red pine (P. resinosa )y quaking
aspen (Populus tremuloides), big-toothed
aspen (P. grandidentata) and red, Hill’s, and
burr oak ( Quercus rubra , Q. ellipsoidalis, and
Q. macrocarpa). Oak, hazel ( Corylus spp.),
and cherry ( Prunus spp.) shrubs were
common in the openings we sampled.
Typical ground cover included blueberry
( Vaccinium spp.), sweet fern (Myrica
asplenifolia ), bluestem {Andropogon spp.),
and sedge ( Carex spp.). The surrounding
landscape primarily was forested, with
timber production and recreation being the
primary land uses.
Study Sites
Selection criteria included (1) location on
outwash sand soils; (2) mean vegetation
height visually estimated to be < 1.2 m; (3)
creation or maintenance of opening by fire
or clearcutting, rather than other manage¬
ment practices, frost, or edaphic conditions;
(4) > 1 year since site was clearcut or
burned; and (5) well-defined patch with
forest > 5 m tall surrounding 90% of site.
All known crown fire sites (n = 4) and
savanna reserves (n = 11) within the region
168
TRANSACTIONS
NIEMUTH and BOYCE: Pine Barrens Vegetation
Figure 1. Location of sample sites. Squares represent savanna reserves; triangles
represent openings created by wildfire; circles represent clearcuts. (Inset) Distribution
of historic Wisconsin pine barrens, after Curtis (1959). Study took place within region
bounded by square.
Volume 86 (1998)
169
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
that fit these criteria were sampled. Known
clearcut sites within the study region
meeting selection criteria were stratified by
size, and 25 were randomly selected (Figure
1). All sample sites were > 1 km apart.
Sampling Methods
Woody vegetation was sampled using the
line intercept method (McDonald 1980).
Intercept lines were 250 m long, although
shortened intercept lines were used in seven
patches that were too small to contain a
250-m sample line. Sampling of sites was
proportional to patch size (n = 2 * log [es¬
timated patch area in ha]), with the num¬
ber of lines per patch ranging from one to
eight. In patches containing multiple lines,
sample lines were randomly placed off a sys¬
tematically divided baseline with a random
starting point. Height and intercept length
were recorded for eight variables: percent
cover by oak, pine, cherry, hazel, willow
{Salix spp.), aspen, large woody debris, and
dead standing trees of any species. Only
woody vegetation > 0.5 m in height, length,
or width was recorded. In addition, all live
and dead trees >12 cm diameter at breast
height and within 10 m of the transect line
were counted. Diversity of woody vegeta¬
tion was calculated for each site using the
Shannon-Wiener diversity index:
H' = -fdpilnpi
1 = 1
where k is eight and p is the proportion of
line intercept coverage found in each of the
eight woody vegetation covertype catego¬
ries. Horizontal patchiness was calculated as
the number of times woody vegetation
cover types were encountered along a 250-
m transect.
Statistical Analysis
We used direct discriminant analysis (SPSS
Inc. 1990) to maximally differentiate line
intercept data for the three patch types. We
treat the discriminant analysis as descriptive,
rather than a test of null hypotheses concern¬
ing differences among treatments because of
inequality of the discriminant function vari¬
ance-covariance matrices, lack of experimen¬
tal control, and unknown management his¬
tory (e.g., agricultural use, fire interval,
pre-settlement vegetation, logging history).
Descriptive statistics are presented to aid in
understanding differences in woody vegeta¬
tion among management types.
Results
The discriminant function created a two-di¬
mensional ordination showing relative scores
for the three patch types. The first discrimi¬
nant function (Figure 2) accounted for
56.9% of the total variation in the data set
and showed that greatest tree density, woody
debris cover, and jack pine cover occurred
at crown fire sites (means and standard de¬
viations in Table 1). Savanna reserves scored
lowest for these variables, and clearcuts were
intermediate. The second discriminant func¬
tion accounted for 34.2% of the total varia¬
tion in the data set and showed that great¬
est height variation and Shannon-Wiener
diversity were found in crown fire patches.
Clearcuts scored lowest for these variables;
savanna reserves were intermediate (Figure
2). Horizontal patchiness was greatest at sa¬
vanna reserves and lowest in clearcuts.
Greatest correlation between variables in¬
cluded in the discriminant analysis was 0.42.
Category classification success in the dis¬
criminant analysis ranged from 75% to
92%, with an overall correct classification
rate of 87.5% (Table 2).
170
TRANSACTIONS
NIEMUTH and BOYCE: Pine Barrens Vegetation
INCREASING JACK PINE COVER - ►
INCREASING WOODY DEBRIS COVER - ►
INCREASING TREE DENSITY - ►
t
z
o
<
DC £
< t
> </>
DC
O >
££
LLI DC
— LLI
y z
LL LU
° z
tl
52 <
LU X
I if)
CD CD
(/) CO
< <
LU LU
DC DC
O O
Figure 2. Woody vegetation discriminant function scores for 15 clearcut patches, 11
savanna reserves, and 4 wildfire-created savanna patches in northwestern Wisconsin
pine barrens. Solid symbols represent centroids for each group. Triangle with *
represents the Loon Lake wildfire, which burned twice in 1 1 years.
Discussion
Relative Effects of Disturbance Type on
Vegetation Structure and Pine Barrens
Wildlife
The most obvious difference among the
three patch types was greater density of trees
at crown fire sites than managed or clearcut
sites. Trees, whether dead or alive, are an
important habitat component in the pine
barrens. For example, tree density is a sig¬
nificant predictor of Eastern bluebird (Sialia
sialis) and tree swallow (Tachycineta bicolor)
presence in Wisconsin pine barrens savanna;
conversely, other savanna species such as the
horned lark (Eremophila alpestris) and ves¬
per sparrow (Pooecetes gramineus) prefer ar¬
eas of lower vegetation (Niemuth 1995).
Differences in tree quality for nesting and
foraging may also exist among the three
disturbance types. The few trees that remain
at savanna reserves are generally oaks and red
pine that are sufficiently large to survive
Volume 86 (1998)
171
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 1. Mean (± standard error) of vegetation and structure variables at three patch
types in Wisconsin pine barrens.
Disturbance Type
Variable Wildfire Clearcut Reserve
Table 2. Classification results for predicted group membership of three patch types
based on discriminant analysis. Percent correct for each group in parentheses; 35
(87.5%) of 40 cases were correctly classified.
repeated prescribed burns (pers. obs.). But
crown fire patches were dominated by
injured and dead trees, which typically have
different physical attributes than live trees.
Sloughing bark on dead trees provides cover
for invertebrates and foraging sites for bark-
gleaning birds, and rotting wood hosts
invertebrates and simplifies excavation by
primary cavity nesters (Evans and Conner
1979, Cline et al. 1980, Mannan et al.
1980).
Woody debris is also an important com¬
ponent of pine barrens vegetative structure.
Woody debris provides escape cover, forag¬
ing habitat, and perch sites for many bird
species (Mossman et al. 1991). Nests of
Brewer’s blackbirds (Euphagus cyanocephalus)
and brown thrashers (Toxostoma rufum) are
frequently associated with woody debris in
pine barrens, and black bears (Ursus ameri-
canus) regularly turn over and tear apart large
woody debris in search of food (pers. obs.).
Woody debris is also an important substrate
for fungi and provides cover for invertebrates
and small vertebrates (Zappalorti and Burger
1985, Gillis 1990, Hansen et al. 1991,
Haim and Izhaki 1994). In addition to pro¬
viding cover for wildlife, woody biomass is
an important nutrient reservoir in pine eco¬
systems (Boerner 1982). The relative scar¬
city of woody debris at managed sites is ap¬
parently caused by repeated prescribed burns
with relatively little time for regeneration of
woody vegetation between burns.
Density of jack pine varied greatly among
the three patch types. Jack pine density was
greatest at crown fire sites, where serotinous
cones opened in response to fire. Some jack
pine cones in the region open in response
to high ground temperatures (D. Epperly,
pers. comm.), allowing jack pine regenera¬
tion in many clearcut patches. Repeated
172
TRANSACTIONS
NIEMUTH and BOYCE: Pine Barrens Vegetation
bums eliminate age cohorts of jack pine be¬
fore regeneration can occur (Anonymous
1931, Vogl 1970), explaining extremely low
jack pine densities at managed savanna re¬
serves. Curtis (1959) described the jack pine
as the most usual tree on the pine barrens,
yet management practices intended to per¬
petuate savanna have virtually eliminated
jack pine from savanna reserves.
Fire frequency strongly influences struc¬
ture and composition of vegetation at a site.
For example, the Five-Mile Fire burned ap¬
proximately 5,400 ha of jack pine-domi¬
nated forest in northwestern Wisconsin in
1977 (Gregg 1987). Jack pine quickly regen¬
erated following the fire, and most of the
area was soon covered with dense growth of
jack pine saplings. Without further distur¬
bance, jack pine at the site would have
grown to maturity. But in June 1988, the
Loon Lake Fire burned a portion of the Five-
Mile Fire. Jack pines were eliminated from
that patch, and the Loon Lake Fire became
a brush prairie, with characteristics similar
to clearcuts in the area (Figure 2).
Fire frequency also affects densities of
blueberries, which provide food for wildlife
and humans. Blueberry cover was greatest at
crownfire sites and lowest at managed sa¬
vanna reserves (Niemuth 1995). Burning
stimulates blueberry growth (Murphy 1931,
Vogl 1970), but Buell and Cantlon (1953)
found that blueberry cover decreased at their
New Jersey study site when burns became
more frequent than every three years.
Clearcuts had reduced Shannon-Wiener
diversity and height range of woody vege¬
tation, which may negatively impact many
savanna wildlife species. For example, species
richness and density of savanna birds along
transects are positively correlated with Shan¬
non-Wiener diversity of woody vegetation in
early successional habitat in the pine barrens
(Niemuth 1995).
Management Implications
Altering management practices can address
some of the differences in which clearcuts
and savanna reserves differed from crown
fire patches. For example, tree density can
easily be increased in clearcuts by leaving
dead and live trees during timber harvest.
Diversity of woody vegetation in clearcut
patches could be increased by discontinuing
management practices that reduce diversity
such as release of young pines by removal
of deciduous shrubs. Lengthening the return
interval for prescribed fires at savanna re¬
serves will allow added growth of woody
vegetation and, over time, potential for more
woody debris. With a longer fire return in¬
terval, trees can (1) grow larger and develop
thicker bark, better enabling them to survive
fire (see Vogl 1970) or (2) survive long
enough to produce seed, permitting seed¬
lings to regenerate even if parent trees are
lost to fire.
Landscape-level management could add
a dimension of spatial and temporal variabil¬
ity that is largely absent from present dis¬
turbance in the pine barrens. Presently, most
clearcuts are small relative to proposed man¬
agement (Parker 1995, Strand and Epperly
1995), leading to habitat fragmentation.
Also, savanna reserves in Wisconsin pine
barrens are spatially static, and vegetation is
burned approximately every five years.
Temporal variation in disturbance was
noted by Vogl (1964), who observed that
“brush prairie savanna undoubtedly reverted
back and forth from brush to forest and
forest to brush again, depending on the
absence or presence of fire.” Depending on
the time of observation, a site might
accurately have been described as brush
prairie, pine savanna, or forest. Indeed, such
variation would have influenced the pre-fire
vegetation at crown fire sites we sampled,
Volume 86 (1998)
173
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
influencing post-fire characteristics to which
we compared vegetation at prescribed burn
and clearcut sites.
Of course, fire is not the only factor
shaping the pine barrens. Vogl (1970:200)
noted that “all factors including soil type, soil
fertility, topography, climate, drought, and
fire are inseparably linked. . . . Fire is one of
the essential ingredients . . . but the critical
factor ... is not so much fire, but the
presence of sandy plains; sites with low
fertility that lend themselves to droughts and
fires of the proper intensities and frequencies
to produce a vegetational structure and
composition called barrens.” The myriad
forces that shape pine barrens vegetation are
too complex and variable for managers to
duplicate, illustrating a key problem exper¬
ienced at many nature reserves: trying to
preserve that which changes (White and
Bratton 1980).
The influence of disturbance on other
processes and taxa in the pine barrens must
also be considered. Our analysis demon¬
strated that disturbance type can influence
the structure and composition of woody veg¬
etation persisting after disturbance occurs.
But disturbance size and intensity can also
alter the trajectory of succession, influenc¬
ing composition and growth form of vegeta¬
tion established following disturbance
(Canham and Marks 1985).
Duplicating pre-settlement conditions
will be difficult, if not impossible, when the
“natural” disturbance regime is unknown,
but through active adaptive management
and simulation modelling, habitat quality on
managed landscapes can be improved (see
Walters and Holling 1990, Boyce 1993,
Hansen et al. 1993). An understanding of
the range of vegetation types and distur¬
bances in a dynamic ecosystem can guide
management (Sprugel 1991). Management
of the pine barrens, whether through tim¬
ber harvest or prescribed burns at dedicated
reserves, must reflect the dynamic nature of
the ecosystem.
Acknowledgments
Support was provided by the American
Forest and Paper Association, Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources, and a
George E. Menkens, Jr. Memorial Scholar¬
ship from the University of Wyoming
Department of Zoology and Physiology. L.
H. Niemuth and L. Rantala assisted with
sampling. We thank W. L. Baker, K. Gerow,
J. R. Loworn, J. O. Evrard, D. H. Knight,
V. Radeloff, and one anonymous reviewer
for helpful comments on earlier drafts of this
paper.
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Rebecca L. Power and Alan Haney
Adaptive Management:
A Solution to Restoration Uncertainties
cosystem management has encountered two diametrically
1 1/opposed areas of resistance, each with some merit in their
arguments. On one hand, many prominent ecologists have
argued that ecosystems are more complex than we understand
(Egler 1977), and some believe that we lack sufficient
knowledge to make good restoration decisions (Haney and
Boyce 1997), at least when uncertainty is high. On the other
hand, many natural resource professionals consider ecosystem
management an affront to their ability to make proper
management decisions (Rudzitis 1996). The latter believe they
have been managing ecosystems well for decades and cite
evidence of commodity increases, such as timber volume, or
game numbers to justify past decisions. Those who argue that
their management decisions have been within the limits of
sustainability will usually acknowledge a lack of data pertaining
to ecosystem processes or structure, including biological
diversity. They may also point out that ecologists often disagree
on the importance of various measures of sustainability, such
as diversity. Baskin (1994), for example, concluded that the
risks associated with biodiversity loss were largely unknown.
More recently, Tilman (1997) reported both direct and indirect
evidence that ecosystems become less functional as diversity is
lost. We (Haney and Power 1996) previously suggested that
adaptive management is an excellent model for guiding
ecosystem decisions. Here, we offer an adaptive management
model to guide ecosystem restoration. Adaptive management
not only helps us address uncertainty, it offers an opportunity
to validate and improve good management practices, including
decisions not to intervene in natural processes.
This paper was developed from research supported by the Department of
Defense Legacy Resource Management Program funded through the
Sand County Foundation.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
177
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Restoration generally requires a more
complex set of decisions than other types of
management. For example, one is imme¬
diately confronted with the decision of
whether to intervene, how, and to what
extent, either by modifying natural processes
or altering human impacts. Because they
typically involve greater shifts in ecosystem
processes or structures, these decisions tend
to be more value-laden and controversial
than those associated with ongoing eco¬
system management. Consequently, a high
level of social input is often needed to
support the successful implementation of
restoration plans. Aldo Leopold demon¬
strated remarkable foresight when he wrote
in an unpublished essay in 1935 that “the
inevitable fusion of these two lines thought
[social science and natural science] will,
perhaps, constitute the outstanding advance
of the present century” (Bradley 1997). The
adaptive management model proposed by
Walters and Holling (1990) melds social
issues with good scientific methods. We
further develop it here for guiding ecosystem
restoration decisions. We believe the
adaptive management model, as we have
applied it, addresses the concerns of those
who might otherwise use a priori arguments
to oppose ecosystem restoration, and other
forms of ecosystem management.
Inventory and Information Exchange
Figure 1 is modified from our previous adap¬
tive management model (Haney and Power
1996). High quality information and effec¬
tive communications comprise the founda¬
tion for all management decisions (Figure 1).
During the process of gathering and com¬
municating information, goals and objec¬
tives for ecosystem management begin to
emerge. Information is needed not only to
set goals, but also to guide the acquisition
of additional information. Managers must
be creative in searching for sources of infor¬
mation; technical literature, historical docu¬
ments, maps and survey notes, interviews,
and focus groups are examples. It is espe¬
cially important to solicit and involve stake¬
holders (those groups or individuals with a
vested interest in management decisions)
throughout the process.
The success of restoration, like other
genres of ecosystem management, is depen¬
dent on the attitudes and agendas of people
(Gunderson et al. 1995). Stakeholders are a
storehouse of useful information for resource
managers. This does not mean that resource
managers should undervalue their own pro¬
fessional expertise. Exchanging information
with stakeholders is an integral part of the
process; however, using information wisely
is probably the greatest art in ecosystem
management.
Goals and Objectives/
Desired Future Condition
Goals and objectives are based on available
information, including opinions and atti¬
tudes of stakeholders and assumptions or
hypotheses to be tested. The Ecological So¬
ciety of America Committee on Ecosystem
Management identified clear operational
goals and sound ecological models and un¬
derstanding as the highest priorities in de¬
veloping a comprehensive ecosystem man¬
agement system (Christensen et al. 1996).
For the purposes of this paper, goals are the
overarching principles and guiding vision for
proactive management (Figure 1). They are
the desired future toward which manage¬
ment is directed. Objectives are the concrete
actions that need to be taken to achieve
goals. Goals determine the direction we will
move, or where we will move, to achieve a
desired condition. Objectives determine how
178
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POWER and HANEY: Adaptive Management
AND OBJECTIVES
MODEL
AND
HYPOTHESIS
DEVELOPMENT
PRESCRIPTION
FORMULATION
AND
IMPLEMENTATION
HYPOTHESIS
TESTING
AND
MONITORING
INVENTORY AND INFORMATION EXCHANGE
a§: :;#A-tt:iS$dt|RCHS [
HISTORIC DOCUMkti'l :s : CUM A It | BIODIVERSITY I ABORIGINAL CULTURES
Figure 1. A conceptual model of adaptive management. Information is the foundation
supporting the overarching goals and desired future conditions. The process, which
stems from information and goals, involves model and hypothesis development,
prescription formulation and implementation, monitoring, and hypothesis testing, in a
continuous process.
we will move (U.S. Department of the In¬
terior Fish and Wildlife Service, Division of
Refuges 1996).
One should not worry excessively that
insufficient information is available for set¬
ting goals and objectives. In fact, it is often
the case that more information leads to
greater uncertainty. For example, in over¬
grown savannas, canopy reduction results in
an increase in total diversity and herbaceous
diversity (Vogl 1964, Nuzzo 1986, Haney
and Apfelbaum 1990, Stritch 1990), but
there is much less information about the
relative effects of different approaches to
canopy reduction. Is timber harvest or mow¬
ing as effective as fire when the goal is to re¬
store the herbaceous layer? What differences
occur with annual fires of low intensity com¬
pared to less frequent intense fires? How
does grazing compare to Fire or mowing?
How does fire affect various invertebrate
populations? These and dozens of other
questions arise continually as managers con¬
sider infinite alternative management ap¬
proaches.
When information about stakeholder
opinions is added, uncertainty increases even
more. For example, managers have believed
for years that fire is the best tool for
maintaining savanna ecosystems. However,
some stakeholders oppose Fire (Swengel
1996). This dichotomy of opinions can be
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
restated as one or more hypotheses, and the
experiments to test the hypotheses can be
incorporated into management plans (see
Model and Hypothesis Development).
Difficulties arise, not from acting on
assumptions, but from lack of information
about the validity of assumptions. Admin¬
istrators, scientists, and other stakeholder
groups may have different assumptions about
the way that components of an ecosystem
will respond to a treatment. In a roundtable
discussion on biological diversity convened
by the Chequamegon and Nicolet National
Forests, Crow et al. (1994) found that an
effective way to reach consensus, or at least
diffuse potentially volatile disagreements, was
to reduce points of contention to testable
hypotheses. If stakeholders are involved in
stating the hypotheses and designing the
experiments to test them, they are more
likely to become partners in the management
of the ecosystem, rather than antagonists.
Because ecosystems provide many services
for many constituencies (Daily 1997),
inevitable conflicts of interest will arise.
Gunderson et al. (1995) pointed out that
consensus building is an essential part of
adaptive management. Costanza and Folke
(1997) laid out a 12-step process for
consensus building leading to development
of a scoping model that is helpful in showing
how social values are related to ecological
objectives. These steps are the primary tools
for relating information to stakeholders.
Stakeholders, in turn, often can contribute
information useful in understanding an
ecosystem or setting goals. For example,
some may recall historic events of impor¬
tance or conditions that once existed in the
ecosystem. In soliciting this input, managers
typically gain cooperation necessary for
ecosystem management. The most obvious
stakeholders are those who visit and use the
ecosystem, but others include adjoining
property owners, other neighbors, environ¬
mental and conservation groups, local
schools, and staff who work on the property
or for the managing organization.
People are sometimes fearful that mis¬
guided goals may lead to irreparable damage
to the ecosystem. This is usually an exag¬
gerated concern. Consider, for example, that
most of the national forest land in eastern
United States was once cleared and pastured
or cultivated, then abandoned in lieu of
taxes. Some of these acres are now wilder¬
ness, and most support productive forests
(MacCleery 1993). Patric (1995) reported
another remarkable illustration of ecosystem
resilience. Two watersheds in West Virginia
were matched for a study in which one was
clearcut and kept barren for five years with
regular application of herbicides. Now, 30
years later, essentially no difference in
diversity or soil fertility can be found
between the clearcut and herbicide-treated
ecosystem and the control. Conversely, there
are examples where goals and objectives not
supported by sufficient information and
monitoring have led to management deci¬
sions that compromised ecosystem sustain¬
ability. For example, doing nothing to
counter successional degradation of savannas
may result in long-term ecosystem damage,
perhaps much more than inappropriate
intervention. Apfelbaum and Haney (1991)
reported that degraded mesic savannas in
northern Illinois were losing topsoil in excess
of 50 tons per acre per year. When restored,
these savannas lost less than 5 tons of soil
per year and supported plant and animal
diversity that was approximately 10 times
greater than unrestored savannas. This
example also demonstrates the importance
of coupling baseline data to continuing
monitoring (Goldsmith 1991).
The inevitable uncertainties that cloud
our view of the future necessitate testing hy-
180
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POWER and HANEY: Adaptive Management
potheses. Hypotheses and models will guide
selection of the management alternatives
that best accomplish desired outcomes.
Model and Hypothesis Development
Assumptions can be formally stated as
hypotheses, then organized as models to
indicate how the manager believes the
system will respond. Model and hypothesis
development is supported by information;
they are part of the structure that supports
goals and objectives (Figure 1). This is where
sound science is coupled to restoration.
Good management requires that we take
time to state assumptions, develop under¬
lying hypotheses, and design prescriptions to
test those hypotheses. Every time a manage¬
ment decision is implemented, it is an
experiment. A heuristic approach to manage¬
ment leads to a more objective basis for
evaluating responses of the ecosystem. Often
this is simply a matter of replicating
treatments (prescriptions) and leaving
controls, thereby providing a stronger
statistical basis for evaluating responses and
separating the influence of confounding
factors, such as site histories and yearly
variation in weather patterns (Goldsmith
1991). Through this process, science is
employed to increase knowledge about the
way the ecosystem responds. Furthermore,
managers who participate in the scientific
process will usually find willing scientists to
partner with them; scientists who engage in
dialogue with managers become more aware
of management concerns and limitations.
In the adaptive management model,
assumptions, which follow from uncer¬
tainties, are restated as hypotheses and
models; these, in turn, drive prescriptions,
and all drive monitoring. Therefore, the
following issues need to be addressed during
hypothesis formation.
System Components
The three primary elements that make up
ecosystems being restored or managed are
composition, structure, and function (Crow
et al. 1994). Composition refers to the units
that are present in a system. They can take
the form of genes, species, cover types, cul¬
tures, communities, and ecosystems. Struc¬
tural considerations address the size, shape,
and patterns of distribution of compositional
elements across space and time. Fire patches,
return intervals, and how fire creates succes-
sional patterns at landscape scales are struc¬
tural questions that might be addressed
when developing savanna restoration mod¬
els and hypotheses, for example. The func¬
tional elements of a system are process ori¬
ented. In the broadest view of ecosystems,
we need to consider both the human and
non-human components. Thus, predator-
prey relationships, the dynamics of stake¬
holder interactions at public meetings, the
way that disturbances such as insect out¬
breaks and disease influence fire return in¬
tervals and intensity, and carbon and nitro¬
gen cycling are all functional aspects of
ecosystems. Our management success is of¬
ten more dependent on the social compo¬
nents than the non-human elements and
should not be neglected. The ecosystem
components are the framework around
which models and hypotheses are developed.
Scale
Hypotheses can be formulated that address
several scales of time and space. The concept
of scale can be thought of as a nested
hierarchy (Allen and Star 1982), with
managers choosing to address different issues
at different points, depending on their goals
and objectives. The compositional, struc¬
tural, and functional components of natural
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
systems can be examined at the genetic,
species, community, ecosystem, and land¬
scape levels. The scale that managers choose
significantly affects the information that
results. For example, Knopf and Samson
(1996) found that maximizing site (alpha)
diversity may reduce regional (gamma)
diversity in birds in western riparian areas.
When diversity was low, river corridors
supported species that were regionally less
common. When diversity was higher,
corridors supported a greater number of
generalist species, sometimes to the detri¬
ment of rarer species. Likewise, local
populations of bird species vary with
vegetation structure (MacArthur and Mac-
Arthur 1961, Anderson and Ohmart 1977)
and floristic composition (Holmes and
Robinson 1981, Rotenberry 1985, Wiens
1989). This variation can be significantly
affected by single disturbance events such as
fire or flooding (Knopf and Sedgwick 1987).
If hypotheses address only site diversity,
population changes occurring at longer
temporal scales can be obscured (Knopf and
Sedgwick 1987). Therefore, both spatial and
temporal scale must be considered when
asking questions about ecosystems. Hypo¬
theses can test for movement toward desired
future conditions (goals) that encompass a
range of conditions, rather that those that
occur at one set point in time (Morgan et
al. 1994).
Keystones or Indicators
The concept of keystones or indicators up
until recently has been confined to organ¬
isms (Mills et al. 1993). Keystone species
have wide-ranging effects on ecosystem com¬
position, structure, and function, often
greater that their numbers would suggest
(Noss and Cooperrider 1994). There has
been debate about the usefulness of the key¬
stone species concept because of the poten¬
tial to lose sight of the complexity of eco¬
logical interactions (Mills et al. 1993). How¬
ever, deMaynadier and Hunter (1997) have
expanded the keystone concept to include
keystone ecosystems such as large rivers that
serve as a fire breaks in savanna landscapes,
and Holling (1992) discusses biotic and abi¬
otic processes that have disproportionately
large effects on ecosystem function. For ex¬
ample, in northern hardwood forests in the
eastern United States, spruce budworm
populations cycle every 30-40 years (Mor¬
ris 1963). This cycle is driven by an inter¬
action among the budworm, insectivorous
songbirds, and trees (Holling 1988). The
changes that occur in the forest as a result
of this interaction cannot be understood by
looking at spruce budworm population dy¬
namics alone; understanding the dynamics
of the northern hardwood forest ecosystem
is contingent upon understanding the key¬
stone process.
Prescription Formulation
and Implementation
The best prescription will result from the
most desirable outcome with the greatest
probability of occurrence (Walters and
Holling 1990). After hypotheses have been
developed, management prescriptions
should be written in a way that facilitates
hypothesis testing. In the adaptive manage¬
ment process, a framework of goals and
information supports both hypothesis
development and prescription formulation.
To ensure reliable knowledge, an experi¬
mental approach should be taken in develop¬
ing and implementing prescriptions, using
controls and replication as much as possible.
If necessary, consult with scientists or
statisticians within your own organization or
develop a working relationship with aca-
182
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POWER and HANEY: Adaptive Management
demic institutions that can offer the appro¬
priate technical assistance. Involvement of
scientists supports the objectivity of manage¬
ment decisions and reassures stakeholders
who question the goals or methods being
implemented.
Initially, data are gathered to establish
baseline conditions or provide background
that is useful for setting goals. Baselines are
often important to assess shifts in popula¬
tions and processes and will be the founda¬
tion of the monitoring program. Therefore,
presume that inventories will be repeated and
develop protocols to facilitate re-surveying.
Partnerships may be useful, and oppor¬
tunities to cultivate them should not be
overlooked. Good working relationships
often emerge from involvement of stake¬
holders. Faculty or students from local
schools, environmental groups, or citizens
from surrounding neighborhoods can assist
in gathering and compiling information. For
example, students and faculty from the
University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point are
involved in a regional savanna restoration
project involving six different restoration
sites in Wisconsin and Illinois, working with
both public and private agencies. The
students collected information for long-term
restoration monitoring and conducted
separate research projects related to the goals
and objectives of their respective sites.
Partnerships like this refine understanding
of savanna restoration techniques, facilitate
communication, enhance interest in the eco¬
system, and add educational value to the
project.
If the rest of the adaptive management
process has been done well, the implemen¬
tation of prescriptions is the most straight¬
forward task in restoration. Involving stake¬
holders in restoration activities such as
prescribed fire, brush and noxious weed re¬
moval, and seed harvesting help promote
understanding and teamwork as well as get¬
ting the job done.
Even when stakeholders have agreed on
ecosystem goals, they may differ in how best
to achieve them. For example, we (Haney
and Power 1996) hypothesized that the use
of the oak wilt fungus (Ceratocystis faga-
cearum) might be used to reduce tree cover
during oak savanna restoration (Collada and
Haney, in press), but many stakeholders
would strongly object to using it. Gypsy
moths are effective in reducing woody
vegetation, but neighbors and resource
managers alike would likely object if these
insects were introduced into a degraded
savanna. Ideally, the majority of stakeholder
groups should understand the ecosystem,
share their opinions, and be involved in
deciding future conditions and management
actions. If necessary, employ conflict
resolution to resolve differences before
proceeding. Creative solutions are often
possible. For example, timber sales followed
by fire can be used to reduce woody biomass
in overgrown savannas, thereby recovering
economic value in the process and providing
benefits to stakeholders who may otherwise
object to restoration (Haney and Power
1996).
Although many stakeholders will have
opinions about prescriptions, it is ultimately
the responsibility of the manager to decide
how to proceed. This is the art of ecosys¬
tem management. An implementation index
is a way to assess the applicability of a pre¬
scription to a particular management situa¬
tion. Table 1 is an example of an implemen¬
tation index for treatment options for
barrens restoration at Necedah National
Wildlife Refuge. The political feasibility,
technical feasibility, and efficacy ratings are
based on conversations with stakeholders
and past management experience. It is a
model representing our best understanding
Volume 86 (1998)
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Table 1. Implementation index. Alternative treatments are evaluated according to political
feasibility, technical feasibility, and efficacy. Values may be weighted to correspond to
individual management situations.
of the way these treatment options interact
with the current political climate, the
Refuge’s technical and logistical capabilities,
and the composition, structure, and function
of the ecosystem. The implementation in¬
dex, /, is calculated as
1= ( PF + TF) x E
where PF = political feasibility, TF = tech¬
nical feasibility, and E = efficacy. In the
Necedah model, timber removal and pre¬
scribed fire had the highest indices and
therefore were the preferred options. In ad¬
dition, we know through previous manage¬
ment experience that these two treatments
work better in combination than separately.
I can also be calculated for combinations of
treatments, when appropriate, as
1= [(. PF \ + PF2) + (7F, + TF)] x {Ex + E)
For more discussion on the use of this in¬
dex, see Haney and Power (1996).
Monitoring
Monitoring methods follow directly from
the models and hypotheses being tested.
Once restoration has begun, monitoring re¬
sponses of the ecosystem to management
activities facilitates the improvement of
management techniques, increases under¬
standing of the ecosystem and how it func¬
tions, and facilitates sharing objective results
with stakeholders.
The adaptive management model is par¬
ticularly useful in sorting through the
myriad issues surrounding monitoring.
Monitoring can address different scales of
time and space, from the effects of heat on
seeds in the soil at a particular point during
a fire, to the survival of a cover type over an
entire landscape. Monitoring programs have
more rarely addressed the human dimen¬
sions of resource management. Stakeholder
opinions and effects on the landscape both
need to be included to achieve a sustainable
desired future condition. (For more infor¬
mation about choosing variables to monitor,
see Model and Hypothesis Development).
Noss and Cooperrider (1994) listed three
types of monitoring necessary for adaptive
management. Implementation monitoring
keeps track of whether managers accom¬
plished what they said they would. Unfor¬
tunately, some agencies do not get beyond
implementation monitoring, which is rarely
pertinent to hypothesis testing. Effectiveness
monitoring, on the other hand, answers the
question “Did the prescription meet its
goal?” Validation monitoring goes farther
184
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POWER and HANEY: Adaptive Management
and answers the question ”How well did the
prescription meet its goal?” It is this level of
monitoring that is most useful for testing
hypotheses. For example, songbird popula¬
tions on a restored savanna were hypoth¬
esized to increase 10% because of an increase
in structural diversity. Although effectiveness
monitoring revealed that songbird popula¬
tions did increase by 10%, validation moni¬
toring indicated that the reason was actually
an increase in the cover of warm-season
grasses.
Issues of efficiency are also important
when designing a monitoring program.
Linking monitoring to hypothesis testing is
the best way to make the use of limited
resources. This ensures that the questions
that need to be addressed to meet goals and
objectives are first priority. Choosing key¬
stone or indicator variables to monitor and
integrating the elements of a biological
monitoring program into nested units also
increases efficiency. For example, we
developed a biological monitoring strategy
for Necedah National Wildlife Refuge
(Figure 2). It integrates the monitoring
components that we hypothesized were
important for monitoring long-term change
over time, as well as provides information
about savanna habitat and associated species
of concern. Monitoring plots will be
randomly located in savanna habitats across
the Refuge. Plant, invertebrate, avian, soils,
and fire effects monitoring plots are all
located around a single plot origin point.
This strategy saves time and energy in
N t
50 m
r
0m
Figure 2. A biological monitoring plot at NNWR. Monitoring needs to provide the infor¬
mation necessary to test hypotheses, as well as evaluate responses of ecosystems to
management activities.
Volume 86 (1998)
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documenting and traveling to plot locations,
especially if field technicians vary from
season to season. It also provides a clear,
concise framework for explaining the
program to others, especially to admin¬
istrators for whom efficient use of time and
money is a primary consideration. However,
not all monitoring variables can be linked
in this way, especially those dealing with
human dimensions or rare species.
The final step is analyzing the data and
sharing it with stakeholders. This begins the
next cycle. At the very least, this increases
the knowledge and understanding of stake¬
holders. In some instances information from
monitoring may cause us to reconsider our
goals, develop new models and hypotheses,
modify prescriptions, and involve additional
stakeholders. Thus, the adaptive manage¬
ment cycle is a continuous, integrated pro¬
cess that generates information and guides
management decisions.
Summary
Ecosystems are far more complex than we
can understand. Moreover, extraneous vari¬
ables such as climate, exotic species, disease,
and public opinions are changing constantly
and cannot be predicted well. Adaptive man¬
agement is a model to guide ecosystem man¬
agers in dealing with uncertainty; it recog¬
nizes that ecosystems are resilient, and that
we can adjust our management as we learn
more about the ecosystem or as goals change.
Adaptive management is an ongoing process
that couples social values to ecological
knowledge using consensus building and
good science.
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deMaynadier, P., and M. Hunter, Jr. 1997. The
role of keystone ecosystems in landscapes.
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tainable forest and wildlife resources. Yale Uni¬
versity Press, New Haven and London.
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est, Norfolk, CT.
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London.
Gunderson, L, C.S. Holling, and S. Light, eds.
1995. Barriers and bridges to the renewal of
ecosystems and institutions. Columbia Univer¬
sity Press, New York.
Haney, A., and M. S. Boyce. 1997. Introduc¬
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eds. Ecosystem management: applications for
sustainable forest and wildlife resources. Yale
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Haney, A., and S. I. Apfelbaum. 1990. Struc¬
ture and dynamics of Midwest oak savannas.
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of dynamic ecosystems. North Central Section,
The Wildlife Society, West Lafayette, Indi¬
ana.
Haney, A., and R. L. Power. 1996. Adaptive
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(6):879-86.
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outbreaks, tropical deforestation and migra¬
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species preference of foraging insectiverous
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Oecologia 48:31-35
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MacCleery, D.W. 1993. American Forests: a
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Humphries, M.M. Moore, and W.D. Wil¬
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health in the inland west. Hawthorne Press,
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biodiversity. Island Press, Washington, D.C.
Nuzzo, V. 1986. Extent and status of Midwest
oak savannas: presettlement and 1985. Natu¬
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Patric, J.H. 1995. Forest ecosystem recovery
from induced barrenness. American Forest
and Paper Association, TB 95-3, Washing¬
ton, D.C.
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Rudzitis, G. 1996. Wilderness and the changing
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Stritch, L.R. 1990. Landscape-scale restoration
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Notes 8:73-77.
Swengel, A.B. 1996. Effects of fire and hay
management on abundance of prairie but¬
terflies. Biological Conservation 76:73-83.
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function. Pp. 93-112 in G.C. Daily, ed.
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D.C.
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etational composition of bracken grasslands.
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scale management experiments and learning
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Rebecca L. Power is an interpretive specialist and
biologist for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service at
Necedah National Wildlife Refuge. She is the field
station coordinator for the development of the
Refiugels Comprehensive Conservation Plan ( CCP),
a strategic adaptive management plan. She is also a
consultant to the University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point in the development and instruction of a course
that explores connections between personal wellness,
community, and ecosystem sustainability. Address:
Necedah National Wildlife Refuge, U.S. Fish and
Wildlife Service, Necedah, Wisconsin 54646.
Alan Haney is a Professor of Forestry at the
University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. An ecologist,
he has published widely on community structure.
He is a leading authority on Midwest oak savannas.
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edited with Mark Boyce, was published by Yale
University Press. Address: College of Natural
Resources, University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point,
Stevens Point, Wisconsin 54481.
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Volker C. Radeloff, David J.MIadenoff,
Kristen L. Manies, and Mark S. Boyce
Analyzing Forest Landscape
Restoration Potential: Pre-settlement
and Current Distribution of Oak in
the Northwest Wisconsin Pine Barrens
Abstract Ecosystem restoration and management requires knowledge of the
species composition , ecological processes, and structure of natural
landscapes. Current forest landscapes of Wisconsin are the result
of over a century of human use. Certain ecological processes , such
as fire, cannot be studied in the current human-dominated
landscape. Our study objective was to reconstruct the historical,
large-scale pre-European landscape of the Pine Barrens in
northwestern Wisconsin and to compare the extent and abundance
of the oak component to its current importance. Our questions were
(1) does the current distribution of oak resemble pre-settlement
conditions and (2) did oak savannas exist at pre-settlement times,
which would indicate a high frequency but low intensity fire
disturbance regime. We used a species-level satellite image
classification to map the current distribution of oak. The pre¬
settlement conditions were reconstructed using the U.S. General
Land Office (GLO) surveyor notes dating from 1847—59 in a
geographical information system ( GIS).
Our results indicate that oak increased in the Pine Barrens
landscape over the last 150 years. The increase is particularly strong
where nineteenth-century surveyors mentioned oak understory. Fire
suppression may have contributed to the oak increase by permitting
these understory oaks to reach canopy height. Oak savannas were
not widespread in the pre-settlement landscape, but likely did exist
in the south-central part of the Pine Barrens, where larger,
dispersed bur oaks were noted by the surveyors. Our study
demonstrates the value of the GLO data for the broad scale
reconstruction of pre-settlement vegetation and disturbance
characteristics. These historical data can provide managers with
additional information about ecosystems and can assist in
restoration management.
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Ecosystem restoration and management
requires knowledge about the species
composition, structure, and processes of the
system under consideration. This poses a
challenge, because very basic information can
be difficult to obtain for current landscapes
in Wisconsin due to changes imposed by over
a century of land use by European settlers.
Our study focuses on the Pine Barrens re¬
gion in northwestern Wisconsin (Figure 1).
The Wisconsin Department of Natural Re¬
sources (DNR) chose this ecoregion as the
first in Wisconsin to be assessed as a regional
ecosystem. In 1993, the DNR workshop
“The Future of Pine Barrens in Northwest
Wisconsin” (Borgerding et al. 1993) summa¬
rized current understanding of this ecosystem
and identified some information gaps regard¬
ing the structure and composition of the pre¬
settlement forest landscapes. For example, the
amount of open habitat and forest density
present prior to 1840 was a point of discus¬
sion. This question is important for ecosys¬
tem management of the Pine Barrens; an an¬
swer requires study of historic data sources
because of ecosystem changes during the last
130 years of European settlement.
The Pine Barrens ecosystem is located on
a glacial outwash plain with extremely coarse
and nutrient-poor sandy soils. The excessive
drainage makes the region prone to drought
and frequent forest fires (Curtis 1959). In
pre-settlement times, these factors favored
tree species such as pine and oak that are
adapted to frequent fire. Jack pine (Pinus
banksiana) has serotinous cones that are
Figure 1 . The counties of the Pine Barrens region in northwest Wisconsin.
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RADELOFF et al.: Forest Landscape Restoration Potential
sealed with resin. High intensity fire melts
the resin and opens the cones, releasing the
seeds. Regeneration usually follows on the
exposed mineral soil. Mature red pine (P.
resinosa), bur oak (Quercus macro carp a), and
to a degree white pine (P. strobus), are pro¬
tected by thick bark from damage by less in¬
tense surface fires. Northern pin oak (Q.
ellipsoidalis) and bur oak are able to resprout
if their stems are killed by fire (Curtis 1959).
Very few descriptions exist of the Pine
Barrens vegetation before European settle¬
ment during the second half of the nine¬
teenth century. Geological surveyors wrote
that “in the ‘barrens’. . . the trees are either
scrub pine (P. banksiana), or black-jack oaks
( Q. ellipsoidalis), averaging in diameter about
three or four inches and in height not over
fifteen feet. In some places . . . the trees are
at considerable distances from each other”
(Sweet 1880). Some portion of the Pine Bar¬
rens “are covered with scrub pine to the ex¬
clusion of all else save underbrush. . . . Other
areas are covered with burr, black, and even
white oak bushes, with occasional trees of
these species” (Strong 1877). Finley, in his
analysis of the General Land Office (GLO)
surveyor notes, classified the region as “jack
pine, scrub (Hill’s) oak forests and barrens”
(Finley 1951).
All these sources describe forests of low
density that contained pine and oak to vary¬
ing degrees. However, these sources do not
provide details about spatial variability of
forest composition and structure across the
Barrens landscape. Did soil differences affect
the pattern of forest structure? Did meso-cli-
matic differences (e.g., the lake effect in the
North) result in different forest types? Were
the southern parts of the Barrens, being
closer to the prairie border, more open?
These questions are highly relevant for
ecosystem management, but answering them
is difficult. Changes during the last 1 50 years
due to logging, farming, and forestry make
it difficult to assess what the pre-settlement
ecosystem looked like and how it functioned
in relation to past disturbance regimes.
Logging, starting around 1850, focused
first on white pine and later red pine
(Murphy 1931). Loggers were followed by
settlers because the sandy soils were easy to
plow (Vogl 1964). Intense forest fires in¬
creased due to the slash from the logging op¬
erations and also opened the forests. Around
1910, jack pine logging began after technol¬
ogy became available to use jack pine wood
for pulping. At this time, the combination
of logging and farming probably created
more open habitat than ever before. In the
1930s, the economic depression and the
depletion of the inherently nutrient-poor
and droughty soils caused many farmers to
abandon their land. Much tax-delinquent
land became the starting point for creating
county forests, timber industry holdings, and
the Chequamegon National Forest (Vogl
1964). Civilian Conservation Corps work¬
ers planted large tracts with jack pine, and
the Wisconsin Conservation Department
began fire suppression programs. These de¬
velopments created the present-day forest,
which may be much denser than before Eu¬
ropean settlement.
Our research questions are: what was the
relative importance of oak throughout the
Pine Barrens, and did oak savannas and
woodlands exist in the Pine Barrens before
the advent of European settlers? How did
the oak component in the landscape change
since European settlement?
Savannas are best defined structurally;
they have less canopy coverage than forest.
Any distinct boundary between savannas
and forests is somewhat arbitrary; we follow
Curtis (1959), who suggested less than 50%
canopy coverage as a threshold to define
savanna.
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Currently, oak is common in the region,
especially in the northern and southern
parts. Restoration efforts in the Pine Barrens
have focused on open Barrens habitat (Vogl
1964, Vora 1993). Our study investigates
whether the existence of oak savannas in pre¬
settlement times suggests we should discuss
their restoration also.
We analyzed the Pine Barrens pre-settle¬
ment vegetation using the U.S. General
Land Office survey notes in a geographical
information system (GIS). We compared
these data with the current forest cover as
mapped from Landsat satellite imagery. Be¬
cause the GLO data were not recorded for
scientific purposes, they contain some bias.
For instance, some surveyors favored certain
species over others as witness trees. In some
areas, different surveyors mapped the town¬
ship boundaries (exterior lines) and the
township area (interior lines). Nevertheless,
the GLO data set is one of the best data sets
available for reconstructing pre-settlement
vegetation (Galatowitsch 1990, Manies
1997) and for studying pre-settlement veg¬
etation in relationship to soils (Whitney
1982, Delcourt and Delcourt 1996), fire
(Lorimer 1977, Kline and Cottam 1979,
Grimm 1984), and windthrow (Canham
1984). A number of studies used GLO data
to examine landscape changes (Stearns 1949,
Mladenoff and Howell 1980, Iverson and
Risser 1987, Iverson 1988, White and
Mladenoff 1994, Whitney 1994). Studies
that analyzed the GLO data on an individual
witness tree level usually examined areas no
larger than a few townships (Thomson and
Fassett 1943, Delcourt and Delcourt 1996).
For some Midwestern states, generalized
maps of the pre-settlement vegetation have
been generated (Finley 1951). However,
these maps required a classification of the
witness tree data into general cover classes,
thus losing much detail.
Methods
GLO Data analysis
Wisconsin was initially surveyed around the
middle of the nineteenth century. The land
was divided into townships (6x6 miles),
sections (lxl mile), and quarter-sections
(0.5 x 0.5 mile) so that it could be sold to
homesteaders and logging companies. To
establish the location of each township, sec¬
tion, and quarter-section, survey posts were
placed at each corner (all referred to as cor¬
ners in the following). The surveyors
marked 2—4 witness trees in the vicinity of
each corner. In their journals, the survey¬
ors recorded the species, diameter, and dis¬
tance from the corner for each tree. Some¬
times, they also described understory
vegetation.
Our study is one of the First to analyze
GLO witness tree data in a GIS for a large
ecoregion. The advantage of the GIS-
based approach is that a high level of de¬
tail can be maintained for extensive areas.
The data set is part of a larger database
of the entire state of Wisconsin currently
under development at the Department of
Forest Ecology and Management at the
University of Wisconsin-Madison in co¬
operation with the Wisconsin DNR
(Manies 1997). For our analysis, we used
only the witness trees at township, sec¬
tion, and quarter corners and disregarded
trees along section lines and at so-called
meander corners, where survey lines in¬
tersected water bodies. The data set con¬
tains point information for 5,086 corners
with a total of 11,153 trees in the Pine
Barrens. For each corner, we calculated
the mean distance traveled from the cor¬
ner to record the witness trees. We did
not interpolate between the corners to
derive forest type polygons, but rather
analyzed the complete data set.
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RADELOFF et ah: Forest Landscape Restoration Potential
Satellite image analysis
- To compare the GLO data with the current
vegetation cover, we utilized a species-level
satellite image classification previously
derived for northwest Wisconsin (Wolter et
al. 1995). A number of studies have used
satellite imagery to map forest cover (Hop¬
kins et al. 1988, Moore and Bauer 1990,
Hall et al. 1991, Bolstad and Lillesand 1992,
Woodcock et al. 1994). Image processing
software uses reflectance differences between
tree species to classify raw satellite data into
land cover maps (Lillesand and Kiefer 1994).
The distinction of deciduous from coni¬
ferous forest usually can be achieved with an
accuracy greater than 85%. However,
differentiating among deciduous species is
difficult and less accurate when only a single
satellite image is used. For instance, the
reflectance of sugar maple (Acer saccharum),
trembling aspen (Populus tremuloides), and
red oak ( Q. rubra) are not different during
the peak of the growing season. Single¬
species classification accuracy can be
improved by analyzing a suite of images
throughout the time of senescence and leaf
flushing (Wolter et al. 1995). Peak fall colors
for red oak are about two weeks later than
for sugar maple. In spring, trembling aspen
leafs out about one week earlier than other
hardwoods. Satellite imagery captured at
these different points can identify the
distribution of various species. Using a total
of five satellite images, Wolter et al. (1995)
were able to classify nineteen types of forest
cover and eight other land cover types with
an overall accuracy of 83.2%.
In the satellite image classification, red
oak occurs predominantly in the northern
half and pin oak in the southern half of the
Pine Barrens (Plate 2b; see p. 201). For red
oak, the producer’s accuracy of the classi¬
fication was 86.7% and for pin oak 81.6%.
Producer’s accuracy indicates what percen¬
tage of the pixels on the ground was
correctly identified in the classification. The
user’s accuracy was 84.8% for red oak and
100% for pin oak. User’s accuracy indicates
what percentage of the pixels in the classi¬
fication is actually that species on the
ground. For example, all pin oak on the map
is pin oak on the ground, but 18.4%
(100%— 81.6%) of all pin oak on the ground
was mapped as other classes in the image
classification. The satellite image classifi¬
cation does not identify bur oak because
there were not enough pure stands of this
species to use as references for the classifi¬
cation algorithm (Wolter et al. 1995).
Data integration
Examining landscape changes by comparing
GLO data to a satellite image classification
is not straightforward. The two data sets
have very different data capture methods and
spatial resolutions. The GLO surveyors
mapped points at 0.5 mile distances. They
sampled between one and four trees,
commonly two, in the vicinity of the corner.
The species chosen were not necessarily the
dominant canopy species. In contrast to the
GLO data, the satellite image classification
contains a continuous grid with a 28.5 x
28.5 m pixel size. Each pixel is classified
according to its dominant canopy species,
thus containing only one tree species.
Processing was required before the two
data sets could be compared. Each GLO
corner location falls within a single pixel of
the satellite image classification. However,
the surveyors chose witness trees from a
larger radius than 14.25 m, which is half of
a pixel (28.5 m). Therefore, we recorded
presence or absence of oak in the satellite
classification in circles, or buffers, around
each corner. This operation was performed
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
three times with different buffers (5, 9, and
21 pixel) to evaluate the effect of different
buffer sizes on our analysis (Figure 2). We
re-classified the GLO data to represent the
presence or absence of oak at each corner,
thereby making the two data sets com¬
patible. In the integration of GLO data and
the current classification, each corner was
classified as either (1) oak present only in the
GLO data, (2) oak present only in the
satellite image classification, (3) oak present
in both data sets, or (4) oak not occurring.
For a general comparison of data sets, we
calculated the relative occurrence of oak in
comparison to other tree species in the GLO
data set and the satellite image classification
of single pixels. In the GLO data we sum¬
marized how often the surveyors found each
tree species and calculated percentages for
each species. The calculation of relative oc¬
currence of tree species in the satellite im¬
age classification was based only on forest
classes because classes such as water or settle¬
ments were not recorded in the GLO data,
but classified in the satellite image. The
comparison of relative occurrences is inde¬
pendent of buffer sizes.
Results
GLO data
The distribution of pre-settlement forest
vegetation derived from the GLO data
suggests that the Pine Barrens was not a
homogenous region (Plate la; see p. 200).
The northern part in the Bayfield Peninsula
was dominated by red pine, intermixed with
white pine, red oak, and jack pine.
The central part of the Barrens in
Douglas County was covered predom¬
inantly by jack pine. Red pine occurred
largely along the edges of the outwash plain
or in the vicinity of natural firebreaks such
as lakes. The central part also contained a
3 -km long patch where no trees were
recorded by the surveyors. Their field notes
mention that charred sticks were used as
corner posts in this patch, indicating a
recent fire.
The southern part of the Barrens, in
western Burnett and in Washburn Counties,
was characterized by a north-south gradient,
with jack pine dominating in the north and
red pine, oak, and white pine dominating the
south. Pin oak and bur oak often occurred
Figure 2. Different buffer sizes used to estimate oak presence around corners in the
satellite image classification.
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RADELOFF et al.: Forest Landscape Restoration Potential
close to lakes, which are particularly abun¬
dant in this area (Plate lb).
The extreme southwestern part of the
Barrens, in southwest Burnett and northwest
Polk Counties, showed a similar north-south
gradient, though the surveyor of the town¬
ships in Polk County (H. Maddin) did not
distinguish among pine species. Bur oak was
the most common oak, occurring along the
valley of the St. Croix River and the edge of
the outwash plain. Corners where no trees
could be found were located in marshy areas.
Oak diameters in the GLO data were not
randomly distributed across the Barrens
(Plate lc). In the north and central Barrens,
most of the oaks were small (10-30 cm di¬
ameter), with some trees as large as 30 cm.
The largest oaks, up to 85 cm in diameter,
were recorded in the southern and south¬
western parts, usually in close vicinity to
lakes and streams.
A characteristic of savannas is their low
tree density. Large distances between a cor¬
ner and its witness trees in the GLO data
indicate low relative tree density (Plate 2a).
The largest distance class (231-2000 m) rep¬
resents corners where surveyors found very
few trees due to recent fires or marshes. The
distribution of these points follows no clear
pattern except in one patch in the central
Barrens mentioned above. The corners in
the smaller distance classes (<25-250 m)
demonstrate a strong northeast-southwest
gradient of the forest densities. Forest den¬
sity was highest in the northeast and much
lower in the southwest of the Pine Barrens.
Comparison of GLO and satellite data
The abundance of oak region-wide increased
between pre-settlement times and today.
The apparent amount of increase is partly
dependent on the buffer size used for detect¬
ing oak in the satellite image classification.
Table 1. Number of corners where oak
was present or absent in 1850 and 1987
depending on the buffer size used for
detecting oak by satellite classification.
Larger buffers will always result in a greater
increase (Greig-Smith 1983). However, even
with the most conservative five-pixel buffer,
the oak increased from 1850 to 1987 by
198% (9 pixel: 253%; 21 pixel: 371%).
The absolute number of corners where
oaks occurred only in 1987 increased by 720
(48%) when the buffer size is increased from
5 to 21 pixels (Table 1) and conversely, the
number of corners without oak decreased by
722 (19%). For corners with oaks in the
GLO data, 53% also had oak in the satel¬
lite image classification when calculating a
buffer of 21 pixel, but only 29% when a
buffer of 5 pixels was used.
Many changes in oak occurrence are
rather local (Plate 2c). We present only the
increase estimated with the largest buffer
size; maps from the two smaller buffer sizes
reveal the same areas of oak increase. Espe¬
cially in the south, there are many cases
where a given corner contained oak only in
the GLO data and the neighboring corner
had oak only in the satellite image data.
These changes are most likely due to local
patch dynamics.
In the north, there are fewer corners where
oak occurred only at pre-settlement times,
and many of the corners contained oak in
both data sets. There is also a strong increase
in oak throughout Bayfield County. The cen¬
tral part of the Barrens experienced the small¬
est increase of oak (Figure 3). The areas where
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oak was mentioned in the understory from
GLO surveys are the same areas where a
strong increase of oak occurred by 1987.
The relative occurrence of oak versus
other cover types as represented in GLO
data and the satellite image classification of
the Pine Barrens region as a whole agreed
with the results obtained with the buffer
analysis (Figure 4). Out of the total area
covered by forest, oak and pine combined
occupied about 62%. However, oak alone
increased from 8 to 23%, and pine decreased
correspondingly.
Discussion
Ecosystems are dynamic entities, and study¬
ing them at only one point in time (e.g., the
GLO survey date) provides an incomplete
picture. Disturbance events, like large crown
fires, alter the environment drastically over
short time periods. A study that analyzes only
data taken before the fire is likely to under¬
estimate the influence of fire, while a study
based on data captured after the fire might
carry the opposite bias.
Furthermore, ecosystems adapt to long-term
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RADELOFF et al.: Forest Landscape Restoration Potential
■ Oak
El Pine
■ Other hardwoods
□ Other Conifers
1
1850 1987
Figure 4. Relative amounts of tree species groups in the forests of the Pine Barrens
ecoregion as calculated from GLO data and satellite image classification.
environmental changes. Climate has changed
throughout the Holocene, and with it, vegeta¬
tion cover has changed (Davis 1986, 1993,
Webb et al. 1993). Predicting how the vegeta¬
tion would have changed since 1850 in the ab¬
sence of European settlement is problematic.
The pre-European settlement vegetation
was not entirely natural or free of human al¬
terations. Native Americans deliberately
burned parts of the landscape to increase
berry production and hunting opportunities
(Murphy 1931), but the magnitude of
ecosytem changes by Native Americans is dif¬
ficult to assess, particularly in northern for¬
est regions (Lewis and Ferguson 1988, Clark
and Royall 1996).
The GLO data are not equivalent to the
potential natural vegetation. When ana¬
lyzing the pre-settlement vegetation, these
limitations have to be kept in mind. We do
not consider the vegetation cover suggested
by the GLO data as a necessary goal for re¬
source managers, nor do we advocate resto¬
ration of the landscape to a specific point in
time. However, the pre-settlement vegeta¬
tion cover was certainly less altered by hu¬
mans than the current forest cover. Analyz¬
ing the pre-settlement vegetation provides a
unique opportunity to study ecosystem com¬
position, structure, processes and variability
in relatively more natural conditions. Pre¬
settlement vegetation data are highly relevant
where ecosystem management is being at¬
tempted, because they provide evidence of
vegetation patterns at another point in time
and under different disturbance regimes.
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The importance of surveyor bias con¬
tained in the GLO data has been discussed
in various publications (Bourdo 1956,
Delcourt and Delcourt 1974, Grimm
1984, Iverson and Risser 1987). Opinions
range from “the information recorded by
the surveyors provides an unbiased sample
of vegetation cover as it existed in pre¬
settlement days” (Vogl 1964, p. 1 6 1 ) to
much more conservative analyses of sur¬
veyor bias and attempts to quantify it
(Bourdo 1956, Delcourt and Delcourt
1974, Manies 1997). The species recorded
at a given location may have been a singu¬
lar occurrence. Also, absence of a tree spe¬
cies does not necessarily indicate that the
species was absent from the landscape. The
ability of surveyors to identify tree species
correctly is variable. In Polk County, in the
southern Barrens, the surveyor (H.
Maddin) recorded only ‘pine’ without fur¬
ther distinction. The occurrence of black
oak ( Quercus velutina) in the Pine Barrens
is very unlikely, because its northern range
does not reach this region. However, sev¬
eral surveyors recorded black oak (Plate
lb), probably referring to the black oak
group that contains northern pin oak,
northern red oak, and black oak (Curtis
1959). The raw information of the surveyor
notes needs to be interpreted carefully be¬
fore ecological conclusions can be drawn.
The scale of the GLO data limits its
minimum mapping resolution (Delcourt
and Delcourt 1996). This makes analysis of
small areas, such as single townships,
questionable. However, the resolution of
the GLO data appeared to be adequate to
interpret regional trends at the scale of the
Pine Barrens landscape (450,000 ha).
Regional trends can be concealed when data
are classified and aggregated before the
analysis. The use of a GIS allowed us to
handle the large amount of detailed infor¬
mation, without classifying it initially. This
was essential for our approach to compare
species occurrence at each section corner.
Despite potential problems, the GLO
data contain a vegetation sample of tre¬
mendous value. The data were collected
during a relative short time period. The
survey of the Pine Barrens was completed
in twelve years (1847-1858), and 68% of
the data were collected in two years (1855—
1856). During these few years the Pine
Barrens landscape presumably did not
experience major changes. The brief survey
period of the Barrens ensures that spatial
vegetational differences reflect environ¬
mental gradients and not temporal changes.
The data collection was standardized,
and single surveyors covered large areas. For
instance, three surveyors (H.C. Fellows, E.
Sears, and A.C. Stuntz) surveyed 74% of all
corners in the Pine Barrens. The small
number of surveyors minimizes the impact
of personal bias.
The sampling scale of the GLO survey is
uniform, which makes regional comparisons
possible. There are no other detailed pre¬
settlement vegetation data available for large
regions. The value of the GLO data for veg¬
etation analysis, despite all constraints, be¬
comes apparent when examining the species
composition of the Pine Barrens (Plate la).
The occurrence of red pine and oak through¬
out the Barrens is associated with soil, topo¬
graphic, and hydrologic features that influ¬
enced fire patterns. Slight differences in soil
quality, topography, and hydrology are re¬
flected in the GLO data. Detailed soil maps
for the Pine Barrens are not available, but the
mapping of Landtype Associations by the
Wisconsin DNR provides a coarse picture of
soil productivity (Figure 5). On the poorest
soils, jack pine forms pure stands. Slightly
more productive soils carried mixtures of red
and white pine. The best soils in the Pine
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RADELOFF et al.: Forest Landscape Restoration Potential
Figure 5. Soils of the Pine Barrens ranked according to their soil productivity (Wiscon¬
sin Department of Natural Resources).
Barrens supported oaks. The forests in the
northwestern Pine Barrens are dominated by
red pine, despite the poor soils. The higher
precipitation, lower summer temperature,
and lower evapotransporation due to the lake
effect might have limited Fire in this area.
Furthermore, the rolling topography of the
Bayfield Peninsula provided microhabitats
where trees other than jack pine found favor¬
able growing conditions.
Stand densities reveal a strong gradient,
generally being lower in areas closer to the
forest-prairie border region (Plate 2a). The
recorded values in the southern Pine
Barrens, which are often between 25 and
250 m, indicate landscapes of open forest
and solitary trees. For comparison, in mesic
hardwoods the average distance between
corners and witness trees is about 1 1.6 m (K.
Manies, unpublished data).
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Plate 1. (a) Dominant tree species in the GLO data, (b) oak species distribution in the
GLO data; (c) average diameter of oak in the GLO data.
■ Red pine and
White pine
■ Jack Pine
a Oak
■ No tree
Other
species
Oak
■ ’Black' oak
a Bur oak
■ Red oak
■ Pin oak
SO Km
■ > IQ-
30
cm
> 30 -
50
cm
>50-
85
cm
>85 cm
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RADELOFF et al.: Forest Landscape Restoration Potential
Plate 2. (a) Average distance between witness trees and corners; (b) oak occurrence
in the species level satellite image classification; (c) changes in the oak distribution
from pre-settlement to today when examining the satellite image classification with a
21 pixel buffer (compare Figure 2).
■ < 25 m
26 - 50 m
51 - 250 m
- 251 - 2000 m
■ Red
m pin
■Oak only in 1850
Oak only in 1987
■ Oak at both times
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Conclusions
Our GLO data analysis suggests that oak
savannas were not widespread, but possibly
existed as localized patches in the southern
and southwestern Pine Barrens. In these
regions, soil quality, stand densities, the
presence of bur oak, and the relatively large
tree diameters in the GLO data match the
characteristics of oak savannas.
The increase of oak from pre-settlement
times to today was detectable with different
methods, and increases were particularly
strong in areas where the GLO data con¬
tained oak as an understory species. This in¬
crease of oak is probably related to pine log¬
ging and fire suppression, which allowed oak
sprouts to grow until they became part of
the canopy.
What are the implications of our results
for ecosystem management of the Pine Bar¬
rens? First, the Pine Barrens were not uni¬
form in terms of oak occurrence. The sur¬
veyors mentioned red oak only in the
northeastern Barrens. Pin oak was mostly re¬
corded in the south-central Barrens and bur
oak in the southwestern part of the Barrens.
The poorest soils in the central Barrens
probably did not contain much oak in pre¬
settlement times. This general distribution
of oak species still occurs in the current land¬
scape, but oak has increased overall.
The strong northeast-southwest density
gradient at pre-settlement times (Plate 2a),
when forests were more open in the south¬
west and denser in the northeast, diminished
as forest came under management and fires
were suppressed. Landscapes in the central
part of the Pine Barrens were probably
shaped by high intensity crown fires with
return intervals of less than 50 years
(Givnish 1995). Jack pine dominated this
area as the Fires and droughts prevented
other species from dominating. If restoration
of the pre-settlement conditions is attempted
in this area, management should focus on
large patches of open habitat that can re¬
semble openings of fire origin. These open
patches might shift in the landscape, and
their features could be partially achieved by
clear-cutting (Niemuth 1995). Upon the
creation of a new, large open patch, a pre¬
vious patch could be regenerated with jack
pine. This management could mimic typi¬
cal jack pine regeneration after Fire for some
habitat purposes. However, all processes
typical of the Fire-controlled landscape
would not be duplicated with only logging.
Areas of low tree density and substantial
open areas (mean tree-corner distance of
0.25 - 2 km) also occurred within the jack
pine-dominated central Barrens, on the
poorest soils.
The northern Barrens in Bayfield County
contained more diverse forests with a species
mix of jack pine, red pine, white pine, and
red oak. These mixed forests were relatively
dense. The ecosystem in this area would
probably benefit from forest management
that maintains all species in the landscape.
Large-scale disturbances were much less com¬
mon in this area, but smaller, intense distur¬
bance patches can be assumed due to the
complete lack of trees at some corners.
In the southern and the southwestern
Barrens, extensive crown Fires were probably
rare due to a higher density of lakes that
functioned as Fire breaks. In this region, red
pine, white pine, and oak were interspersed
with jack pine, but Fires with lower inten¬
sity, although perhaps higher frequency, al¬
lowed oaks to reach diameters of 50 cm and
more. The average distance between witness
trees and the surveyed corner was often more
than 50 m. This is the region where we as¬
sume local oak savannas occurred. Given
that fire is a stochastic process, locations of
oak savanna were not stationary. One area
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RADELOFF et al.: Forest Landscape Restoration Potential
with repeated low intensity fires might have
become a savanna. Another area, after no
fires for several decades, might have experi¬
enced a crown fire exposing mineral soil and
creating conditions favorable to dense jack
pine regeneration.
Ecosystem management and landscape
restoration needs to take such natural varia¬
tion into account, aiming for a constantly
changing and heterogeneous mosaic at broad
scales. Ideally, conservation efforts and res¬
toration attempts should not focus on single
sites but rather on the landscape as a whole,
permitting all stages of natural vegetation
types to exist. Such efforts need to be coor¬
dinated among landowners to be feasible at
large scales, which can be difficult. However,
it offers a chance to manage forests and to
generate revenues while preserving ecosys¬
tem characteristics and varied habitat values.
For example, during the harvest of a jack
pine stand with an oak component, a re¬
source manager may leave sparse cover of
oaks and use prescribed burning in subse¬
quent years to prevent jack pine regenera¬
tion. This stand could be maintained as an
oak savanna for a few decades before the oak
is removed and jack pine is seeded again.
Such a savanna would not be identical to a
pre-settlement savanna; its origin does not
resemble a natural process. However, such
management alternative may provide habi¬
tat as well as revenues in areas where large-
scale prescribed burns are difficult.
We do not understand the Pine Barrens
ecosystem enough to explain fully the influ¬
ence of species composition and structure on
long-term sustainability. However, our
analysis helps us to know the general struc¬
ture and species composition of the Pine
Barrens at pre-settlement times even with¬
out a full understanding of the ecosystem’s
complexity. These conditions were the re¬
sult of an evolution of the Pine Barrens over
thousands of years. When we think about
the future of the Pine Barrens, the past can
contribute useful guidelines.
Acknowledgments
We appreciate comments on the manuscript
from G. Bartelt, T. Gower, R. Guries, J.
Kotar, J. Kovach, R. Scheller, S. Weber, D.
Zastrow, and one anonymous reviewer. This
research is funded by the Wisconsin Depart¬
ment of Natural Resources, in part by funds
from the Federal Aid in Wildlife Restoration
Act, Pitman-Robertson Projects #W-l60-P
and W-160-R; and by the College of Agri¬
cultural and Life Sciences, University of
Wisconsin-Madison, Mclntire-S tennis
Project #3885.
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Volker C. Radelojf is a research assistant in the
Department of Forest Ecology and Management,
University of Wisconsin-Madison. His current
research focuses on fire and jack pine budworm
disturbance in the Pine Barrens landscape at pre¬
settlement times and today. Address: Dept, of Forest
Ecology and Management, UW-Madison, 120
Russell Laboratories, 1630 Linden Drive, Madison,
WI 53706-1598.
David ]. Mladenojfis an associate professor in the
Department of Forest Ecology and Management at
the Unive sity of Wisconsin-Madison. His interests
and research are particularly in the area of
landscape ecology and northern forests. Address:
Dept, of Forest Ecology and Management, UW-
Madison, 120 Russell Laboratories, 1630 Linden
Drive, Madison, Wl 53706-1598.
Kristen L. Manies quantified surveyor bias in the
General Land Office data in her master's project
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Mark S. Boyce is the Vallier Chair of Ecology and
Wisconsin Distinguished Professor in the College of
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54481.
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
206
TRANSACTIONS
Plate 1 . A reconstructed depiction of a landscape scene in the oak savanna-woodland ecotone prior to development
by European settlers (courtesy of The Nature Conservancy).
Stanley A. Temple
Surviving Where Ecosystems Meet:
Ecotonal Animal Communities of
Midwestern Oak Savannas and Woodlands
Abstract The animal communities associated with Midwestern oak savannas
and woodlands have a typical ecotonal character. They are
relatively rich in species , but they are composed mostly of species
that have the centers of their geographic ranges in either the
deciduous forest biome to the east or the prairie biome to the west.
Few species have ranges centered on the transition zone (or ecotone)
between these major biomes. Within the ecotone , species show
individualistic patterns of habitat selection, with most species
associated with a particular habitat type within the ecotone’s
complex mosaic of patches, ranging from prairies, through savannas
and woodlands, to forests. The characteristics of the landscape
surrounding a remnant patch of oak savanna or woodland (its
context) influence the composition of the animal community in
the patch, in some cases even more strongly than the characteristics
of the patch itself At a large biogeographical scale, most species in
the ecotone are near the edges of their ranges, and it is likely that
their fitness is lower than it is nearer the centers of their ranges.
At a smaller landscape scale, the patchy mosaic of habitats in the
ecotone produces ecological phenomena, such as edge effects, that
can reduce fitness of some species. Populations of species near the
edges of their ranges or in relatively small habitat patches are often
sink populations that require subsidies of dispersing immigrants
from source populations either nearer the center of the range or in
larger patches of forest or prairie habitat to remain viable. The
remnant patches of oak savanna and woodland in the Midwest
are now small, degraded, isolated and out of context. Scale and
context (both regional and local) are, therefore, important
predictors of the composition and viability of animal communities
in these remnant patches. Current efforts to manage and restore
remnant oak savannas and woodlands must address these needs
of the animal community if they are to truly reproduce the
characteristic diversity of species associated with the ecotone.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
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The debate over whether Midwestern oak
savannas and woodlands are a biome (a
discrete regional ecosystem) or an ecotone
(a transitional zone between the deciduous
forest biome to the east and prairie biome
to the west) has so far focused almost exclu¬
sively on characteristics of the associated
plant communities (e.g., Curtis 1959 versus
Packard 1988), but the outcome also has
important implications for animal commu¬
nities and biodiversity conservation efforts.
The following quote from the “Midwestern
Oak Savanna and Woodland Recovery Plan”
highlights the debate: “[This] controversy
may be the single most important scientific
issue that must be resolved if we are to rec¬
ognize and preserve oak savannas — or, as a
practical matter, reconstruct them. . .
(Fralish et al. 1994). The distinction be¬
tween a biome and an ecotone is more than
ecological semantics. It influences strategies
for preservation and restoration, and it may
affect animals more than plants. In the case
of Midwestern oak savannas and woodlands,
I will show that the 'inimal communities as¬
sociated with these ecological systems have
typical ecotonal characteristics and, there¬
fore, present special challenges for conserva¬
tionists.
Ecologists have recently focused renewed
attention on phenomena associated with the
transition zones between adjacent ecological
systems (di Castri et al. 1988). Whether they
are continental-scale transitions between
biomes or landscape-scale transitions be¬
tween different vegetation patches in a mo¬
saic, these ecotonal situations are usually as¬
sociated with dynamic gradients in the
physical environment (Gosz 1993). Across
these environmental gradients there are par¬
allel gradients in the structure and compo¬
sition of the biotic community (Risser
1993). These biotic changes are in part re¬
lated to the fact that many organisms reach
distributional limits in or near transition
zones (Hansen and di Castri 1992). In
biome ecotones many species typical of the
communities in the adjacent biomes reach
the peripheries of their geographic ranges,
and in patch ecotones many species reach
edges of their home ranges where habitats
change (Gosz 1993).
In contrast, within a biome or within a
vegetation patch, environmental and species-
compositional gradients are not as steep, and
the composition of the biotic community
tends to be relatively homogeneous. To some
extent, it is the homogenous character of
within-biome and within-patch communities
that defines these ecological systems. In con¬
trast, it is the relatively rapid changes in com¬
munity composition that occur across eco¬
tones that define them (Risser 1993).
Ecotones are often inhabited by an un¬
usually rich-but-delicate diversity of species
(Hansen and di Castri 1992). Transition
zones between ecological systems often pos¬
sess some biotic and environmental charac¬
teristics of both adjacent systems, as well as
a few characteristics that are unique to the
ecotone. The overlap of these normally seg¬
regated elements contributes to the biologi¬
cal richness of ecotones. In the case of biome
ecotones, some species whose geographic
ranges are centered on adjacent biomes, as
well as a few species endemic or nearly en¬
demic to the zone of transition, are found
together in the ecotone (Gosz 1993). In the
case of patch ecotones, species from adjacent
habitat patches, as well as “edge species” that
preferentially occupy the interface, have
home ranges that overlap in the transition
zone (Gosz 1993).
The maintenance of this unusual assem¬
blage of species within an ecotone often de¬
pends on the proximity of adjacent biomes
or patches that support demographically
healthy populations. Without these “source
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populations” near the core of their range or
habitat, peripheral “sink populations” near
the edges of their range or habitat may be
unable to maintain themselves intrinsically
(Fahrig and Merriam 1985, Temple and
Cary 1988, Hansen and Urban 1992). For
those species populations at the edges of
their ranges or habitat, persistence may de¬
pend on subsidies of dispersing individuals
that immigrate from source areas (Mc¬
Cullough 1996, Wiens 1996,). Without
these subsidies, marginal sink populations
have difficulties persisting in an ecotone.
This reduction in fitness near the edge of the
range or habitat is one of the fundamental
premises of biogeography (Brown and
Gibson 1983, Cox and Moore 1993).
These patterns associated with ecotones
have important implications for conserva¬
tion and restoration of ecotonal communi¬
ties (Holland et al. 1991; Risser, in press).
Because many species will be at the limits
of their distribution in a biome ecotone, they
may be marginal in terms of demographic
viability. Already coping with less than ideal
conditions in marginal environments, they
are especially vulnerable to the types of en¬
vironmental swings (Figure 1) that often
characterize ecotones (Gosz and Sharpe
1989).
Within the Midwestern oak savanna-
woodland ecotone, a good example of such
a variable environmental feature is precipi¬
tation (an important ecological factor in the
Spatial Location
Figure 1. General trends in environmental conditions within biomes and across the eco¬
tone that separates them.
Volume 86 (1998)
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oak savanna- woodland region), which is
more variable year to year in the ecotone
than it is in either the prairies to the west
or the forests to the east. This pattern is con¬
firmed by a continent-wide analysis of co¬
efficients of variation in annual precipitation
during June, July, and August, 1979-1996.
Within the Midwestern oak savanna-wood-
land ecotone (as mapped in Figure 2), coef¬
ficients of variation for 2.5-degree blocks
were in the range of 0.3-0. 5, whereas they
were in the range of 0. 1-0.3 over both the
eastern deciduous forest and the tallgrass
prairie regions (J. Foley, personal commu¬
nication).
Preserving sink populations as members
of the ecotonal community can be very chal¬
lenging. Persistence of marginal populations
in a biome ecotone may depend crucially on
immigration from source populations nearer
the centers of species’ ranges in adjacent
biomes. If those source populations are not
ECOTONE-CENTERED RANGE
CONTINENT-WIDE RANGE
Figure 2. Overlapping geographic ranges of four groups of species found in the
Midwestern oak savanna-woodland ecotone (which is indicated by the stippled area of
the map).
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thriving, centrifugal dispersal movements
may be inadequate to maintain peripheral
populations in the ecotone. As a result, the
presence and persistence of a species in a
biome ecotone may depend as much, or
more, on conditions in adjacent biomes than
on conditions in the ecotone itself (Wiens
et al. 1985). As an example, the Dickcissel
(Spiza americana) has its geographic range
centered on the tallgrass prairie biome, but
its range extends into the Midwestern oak
savanna-woodland ecotone. Basili et al.
(1998) have shown that populations near the
center of the range have better reproduction
and population stability than the peripheral
populations in the upper Midwest.
Parallel patterns exist at the landscape-
scale in ecotonal patches (Holland et al.
1991). The richness of species and the com¬
position of the community in a patch eco¬
tone depends importantly on the character¬
istics of the species pools in adjacent habitat
patches (Temple et al. 1979). The size of a
habitat patch can be a powerful predictor of
the types and number of habitat specialists
found in it (Harris 1984, Shafer 1990). An
ecotone between two small patches should,
therefore, have fewer species than an ecotone
between larger patches. Furthermore, in a
landscape in which one patch type domi¬
nates, the composition of the community in
patch ecotones can be expected to be heavily
biased towards fhe species from the domi¬
nant patch type.
The viability of populations of habitat
specialists within a habitat patch may de¬
pend on the size of the patch and its prox¬
imity to other patches of the same habitat.
A landscape composed of a mosaic of small,
isolated habitat patches and their associated
patch ecotones should support few source
populations of habitat specialists. In such a
landscape, many habitat specialists may be
represented by sink populations incapable of
producing a surplus of individuals that leave
prime habitat in the core of patches and
settle into marginal habitat in ecotones be¬
tween patches.
Midwestern Savannas and
Woodlands as Biome Ecotones
If the Midwestern oak savannas and wood¬
lands represent a biome, there should be
characteristic animal species with geographic
ranges centered on the region. Alternatively,
if they represent a biome ecotone between
forests and prairies, there should be few
species with ranges centered on the region
and many with ranges centered on adjacent
biomes. I examined the biogeographic
affinities of 186 vertebrates (all species of
amphibians, reptiles, birds, and mammals)
and 224 invertebrates (a subset of well-
studied Lepidoptera and Orthoptera) that
are found in the region that has been
described as oak savanna and woodland
(Nuzzo 1986). The lists were prepared by
the Midwest Regional Office of The Nature
Conservancy based on the distributional
data in the Natural Heritage Inventories for
the 10 states (MN, WI, MI, IL, IA, IN,
MO, NB, OK, TX) that contain examples
of the ecotone. Inspection of a variety of
range maps for these well-studied animal
species (e.g., Opler et al. 1995, Sauer et al.
1996) allowed me to assign them to four
groups: those with broad transcontinental
ranges and those with the geometric centers
of their ranges located in either the prairie
biome, the deciduous forest biome, or the
oak savanna- woodland region (Figure 2).
The results are shown in Table 1, which
reveals a clear pattern. Only 0.4% of these
animals have geographic ranges centered on
the oak savanna-woodland region. The
largest component (50% of the sample
animal species in the oak savanna-woodland
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 1 . Biogeographic affinities of 410 animal species found within the oak savanna-
woodland region of the Midwest. The four distributional categories are illustrated in
Figure 1.
region) has biogeographic affinities with the
deciduous forest biome. These 410 species
are obviously just a sample of the fauna of
the region, but distributional data are not
readily available for other groups of lesser-
known animals. The pattern, though based
on a biased sample, is so compelling that it
is difficult to believe it is merely an artifact
of the taxa examined.
Many of the species found in the oak sa¬
vanna-woodland region reach the limits of
their geographic ranges there or nearby.
Even allowing for the possibility that some
species endemic to the oak savanna-wood¬
land region may have been extirpated before
modern biogeographers documented their
ranges, the distributions patterns are consis¬
tent with the conclusion that animals of the
oak savanna-woodland region form a typi¬
cal ecotonal community.
Within a biome, the spatial diversity of
vegetation patches is relatively low, but
within a biome ecotone the diversity of
patches is higher (Figure 3). Although we
have few depictions of the landscape of the
original oak savanna-woodland region, the
eye-witness accounts and reconstructions
based on them (Leach and Ross 1993) paint
a picture of a landscape composed of a
patchy mosaic of prairie, savanna, woodland
and forest (e.g., Packard and Mutel 1997; see
Plate 1). This landscape pattern is consistent
with the oak savanna-woodland region be¬
ing a biome ecotone rather than a biome.
Animal Communities of
Midwestern Ecotonal Patches
At the landscape scale, the oak savanna-
woodland ecotone is composed of a mosaic
of patches of vegetation (typically tens to
thousands of hectares in size), ranging from
open prairie grasslands through closed-
canopy forests (Figure 4). If one assumes
that patches with less than 10% woody cover
are true prairie and patches with more than
65% woody cover are true deciduous forest,
the remaining areas with 10—65% woody
cover can be considered ecotonal patches
(see Leach and Ross 1995 for a discussion
of these criteria). These three landscape ele¬
ments form complex mosaics across the oak
savanna-woodland region of the Midwest.
Animal species in the region show indi¬
vidualistic patterns of habitat selection
within this mosaic (Herkert 1994, Swengel
1994, Panzer et al. 1995). The animal com¬
munities within patches of either prairie or
forest tend to be composed of typical habi¬
tat specialists, but the composition of the
communities in ecotonal oak savannas and
woodlands tends to be a much more vari¬
able mix of species, reflecting both the veg¬
etation structure of the patch ecotone and
the surrounding landscape.
This variability can be seen in the
composition of the bird communities in 4
patches of prairie, 14 patches of oak
savanna-woodland, and 8 patches of
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Figure 3. Spatial diversity of habitat patches within biomes and the ecotone that
separates them.
Figure 4. The range of habitat patches found in the Midwestern oak savanna-woodland
ecotone and how four categories of species are distributed among patches differing in
canopy cover.
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
deciduous forest in southern Wisconsin.
Bird species lists for these 26 sites (ranging
from 19 to 54 ha in size) were assembled
during multiple visits during the breeding
season. Reflecting the relatively small size of
the sites, the number of bird species detected
on the oak savanna-woodland sites ranged
from 19 to 46, out of a potential total species
pool of about 70 species recorded in the
ecotone. The percent woody cover at the site
and the surrounding landscape (within 1 km
of the site) was assessed on air photos. Each
species of bird was assigned an “affinity
value,” ranging potentially from 0 for species
with strong prairie affinity to 100 for species
with a strong forest affinity. These affinity
values were based on the percentage of the
species’ geographic range that lies within the
deciduous forest biome, determined from
range maps prepared by Sauer et al. (1996).
An overall “bird community index” was
calculated as the mean affinity value for all
of the bird species recorded at a site.
As expected, the prairie sites had lower
bird community indices (<55) than the for¬
est sites {>70). Among oak savanna and
woodland sites with intermediate indices,
there was a significant correlation between
the % woody cover at a site and the bird
community index (Figure 5), indicating that
as an ecotonal patch became more woody it
was inhabited by birds with a stronger affin¬
ity to forest. The coefficient of determina¬
tion for this relationship was 0.202.
In a second analysis of these bird data, I
examined the relationship between each
site’s bird community index and the percent
woody cover on the landscape surrounding
Forest 80
Affinity
70
X
0
T3
c
| 60
E
o
O
■p
S
50
Prairie
Affinity 40
Figure 5. Biogeographic affinities of the bird communities in 26 patches of habitat in
Wisconsin that varied in percent woody cover at each site.
0 10 25 65 100
% Woody Cover at Site
214
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TEMPLE: Ecotonal Animal Communities of Midwestern Oak Savannas and Woodlands
the site. Among oak savanna and woodland
sites, there was a significant correlation be¬
tween the percent woody cover on the sur¬
rounding landscape and the site’s bird com¬
munity index (Figure 6). But, in this case,
the coefficient of determination was 0.804.
These results highlight how important the
context of an ecotonal patch can be in de¬
termining the composition of the animal
community. At least for birds, it appears that
the composition of the community in an
ecotonal patch is influenced more by char¬
acteristics of the surrounding landscape than
by characteristics of the ecotonal patch it¬
self. Entomologists who have collected
widely around the Midwest also report a
similar pattern in the composition of the
lepidopteran communities associated with
oak savannas and woodlands (L.A. Ferge,
personal communication). Hence, two iden¬
tical patches of oak savanna-woodland could
have very different animal communities, de¬
pending on whether the surrounding land¬
scape is dominated by closed (forest) or open
(prairie) conditions. This relationship rein¬
forces the view that the animal community
associated with patches of oak savanna and
woodland can be highly variable depending
on landscape context.
Population Dynamics in Biome
Ecotones and Patch Ecotones
If, as I have predicted, ecotones are often
inhabited by sink populations of species
from adjacent ecosystems, there should be
evidence of reduced fitness among indi¬
viduals living in transition zones (i.e., sub-
Forest 80
Affinity
70
| 60
E
o
O
"O
50
Prairie
Affinity 40
Figure 6. Biogeographic affinities of the bird communities in 26 patches of habitat in Wis¬
consin that varied in the percent woody cover on the landscape within 1 km of each site.
0 10 25 65 100
% Woody Cover on Landscape
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
standard rates of reproduction and survival
in ecotones as compared to biomes or
patches). Using data that my students and I
have collected for several species of birds that
breed in the oak savanna- woodland region
of Wisconsin, I find just such evidence at
both the biome scale and the landscape scale.
For a few birds that have the centers of
their geographic ranges in either the decidu¬
ous forest or prairie biomes, but have the
margins of their ranges in the Midwestern
oak savanna-woodland ecotone, there is use¬
ful information on geographic variation in
reproductive performance. Basili et al.
(1998) studied the breeding biology of Dick-
cissels throughout their geographic range
(Figure 7), which is centered on the tallgrass
prairie but extends into the oak savanna-
woodland ecotone of the Midwest. They
documented longer nesting seasons, larger
clutches, higher nest success, and higher pro¬
ductivity in the core of the Dickcissel’s range
than at the periphery. Nolan (1978) stud¬
ied the breeding biology of the Prairie War¬
bler, which, despite its name, has its range
centered on the deciduous forest biome (Fig¬
ure 8). Comparing his data on nesting suc¬
cess near the core of the range with data
from the North American Nest Record Card
Program for the periphery, it appears that
nesting success is below average for this spe¬
cies at the Midwestern edges of its range: 1.6
young per pair in Illinois, Missouri, and Ar¬
kansas (n = 46) versus 2.2 young per pair in
Dickcissel Spiza americana
S 1 ini if
Figure 7. Geographic range of the Dickcissel during its breeding season in North
America (from Sauer et al. 1996).
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TEMPLE: Ecotonal Animal Communities of Midwestern Oak Savannas and Woodlands
southeastern Indiana (n = 129). It is diffi¬
cult to know whether or not the patterns
shown by these two species are typical of
other birds because few studies have exam¬
ined geographic variations in reproductive
performance throughout the ranges of ap¬
propriately distributed species.
There should also be evidence that spe¬
cies characteristically associated with eco-
tones (endemics to biome ecotones or edge
species in patch ecotones) have high levels
of fitness in transition zones. For the few
birds that have portions of their geographic
ranges centered on the Midwestern oak sa¬
vanna-woodland ecotone (e.g., Bell’s Vireo),
there are too few data on reproductive per¬
formance across their range. Hence, I can
not demonstrate that their fitness is higher
in the ecotone.
Within the Midwestern oak savanna-
woodland ecotone there are useful data on
how important vital rates vary among
patches and their associated ecotones, espe¬
cially how nesting success of birds varies be¬
tween closed (forest) and open (grassland)
habitats and across the transition zones be¬
tween them. Over the years, my students
and I have accumulated relevant data on the
nest success — calculated using the Mayfield
(1961) method — of 22 species of songbirds
that nested in Midwestern habitats that
ranged from patches of closed forest to
patches of open grassland. I categorized these
birds as either forest birds (Acadian Fly-
Figure 8. Geographic range of the Prairie Warbler during its breeding season in North
America (from Sauer et al. 1996).
Volume 86 (1998)
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catcher, Eastern Wood-pewee, Wood
Thrush, Red-eyed Vireo, Ovenbird, Scarlet
Tanager, Rose-breasted Grosbeak), grassland
birds (Dickcissel, Savannah Sparrow, Grass¬
hopper Sparrow, Bobolink, Eastern Mead¬
owlark, Western Meadowlark), or edge birds
(American Robin, Brown Thrasher, Gray
Catbird, Yellow Warbler, Northern Cardi¬
nal, Indigo Bunting, Rufous-sided Towhee,
Field Sparrow, Song Sparrow, American
Goldfinch), depending on the habitat where
they normally nest.
Forest birds had higher nest success when
the area within 50 m of the nest had over
65% woody cover (54%, n = 112) than in
areas with a lower percent woody cover
(21%, n = 46). Grassland birds had higher
nest success when the area within 50 m of
the nest had less than 10% woody cover
(48%, n = 195) than in areas with more
woody cover (16%, n = 104). Edge birds al¬
most always nested where there was 10-65%
woody cover within 50 m of the nest, so
comparisons between forest, oak savanna-
woodland, and grassland were impossible.
Proximity to the edge of a habitat patch
and patch size are strong predictors of the
success of bird nests. Temple and Cary
(1988) have shown that nesting success of
Midwestern forest songbirds declines when
nests are in small patches of forest near an
edge between forest and open habitat.
Johnson and Temple (1986, 1990) have
shown that nesting success of Midwestern
grassland birds declines when nests are in
small patches of prairie near a wooded edge.
These impacts of patch size and proxim¬
ity to edges on nest success and the varia¬
tions in nest success across a range of habi¬
tat conditions highlight the problems that
many species of birds encounter in a land¬
scape composed of a complex mosaic of
habitat patches. For many of the birds that
nest in the mosaic of patches typical of the
Midwestern oak savanna- woodland ecotone,
fitness is reduced in small patches of their
preferred habitat and where that preferred
habitat is near an ecological edge.
Unfortunately, relevant population
data have been collected for few of the ani¬
mal species that occur in the Midwestern
oak savanna-woodland ecotone. An avian
bias is unavoidable because most of the rel¬
evant data are available for birds. Nonethe¬
less, the available evidence is consistent with
the proposition that in this biome ecotone —
and the ecotonal patches within it — species
that have geographic ranges centered on ad¬
jacent biomes and habitat preferences for
large contiguous patches of either forest or
prairie have reduced fitness. It is difficult to
know if this situation pertained in pre-settle¬
ment times, but recent events in the ecotone
and adjacent biomes have exacerbated the
problems of maintaining viable populations
in the Midwestern oak savanna-woodland
region. As source populations in the decidu¬
ous forests and tallgrass prairies have suffered
the consequences of habitat loss and frag¬
mentation, and as the landscape within the
oak savanna-woodland ecotone has been ex¬
tensively altered, many species at the edges
of their ranges have declined in the Midwest
(Leach and Ross 1995). The result of these
changes is that the animal communities of
the Midwestern oak savanna- woodland eco¬
tone have different patterns of richness and
composition today than they had in the past.
Scale and Context Are Crucial
for Preservation and Restoration
Midwestern oak savannas and woodlands are
among the most endangered ecosystems in
North America (Haney and Apfelbaum
1990, Leach and Ross 1995). Central goals
of conservationists concerned about them
are to preserve and restore examples of these
218
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TEMPLE: Ecotonal Animal Communities of Midwestern Oak Savannas and Woodlands
special environments that can support the
rich biotic communities typically associated
with the ecotone. Much has been written
about restoring and managing the ecotone’s
plant communities (e.g., Fralish et al. 1994,
Leach and Ross 1995), but relatively little
has been written about the animal com¬
munities. There is clear evidence that some
of the best remaining examples of oak
savannas and woodlands, many already
protected as nature reserves, have severely
deficient animal communities. The 14
patches surveyed in this study collectively
supported less than half of the potential bird
species associated with the habitat. Further¬
more, the methods for restoring an intact
animal community to oak savannas and
woodlands — and then maintaining it — have
yet to be developed.
Borrowing a line from a recent Holly¬
wood movie, I believe conservationists have
been exhibiting the “Field of Dreams Syn¬
drome.” Conservationist have naively as¬
sumed that “if you build it, they will come.”
That is to say, if you carefully restore the
plant community, the animal community
will spontaneously reoccupy the site. But
today’s remnant oak savannas and wood¬
lands are unnaturally small, isolated, de¬
graded, and out of their natural context, and
it will be very difficult for the typical ani¬
mal community to either reassemble itself or
maintain itself over time. Few of the key
components of the community (i.e., ecotone
specialists, prairie specialists, or forest spe¬
cialists) will thrive under current conditions.
Small, isolated patches of oak savanna
and woodland will be unlikely to support
viable populations of ecotone endemics,
regardless of whether they have survived as
relics or have been reintroduced. Without
adjacent or nearby source populations of
forest and prairie habitat specialists, the
richness and composition of the animal
community in an ecotonal patch of oak
savanna or woodland will not be typical
because these species will not persist. The
full community can only exist when an
ecotonal patch receives dispersing
individuals from source populations of both
forest and prairie. Some remnant oak
savannas and woodlands are adjacent to
patches of either forest or prairie, but few
have both nearby. Furthermore, in the
highly fragmented landscape of today’s
Midwest, most patches of forest and prairie
are too small to support source populations
that can enrich the communities of oak
savannas and woodlands. Small patches of
oak savanna and woodland, therefore, lose
their typical animal community and, instead,
have communities that mirror the species
associated with surrounding disturbed lands.
What do the findings presented in this
paper mean for efforts to preserve the bio¬
logical diversity of these ecological systems?
First, ecotonal patches of oak savanna and
woodland managed for conservation should
be as large as possible, and preserving and
restoring the largest remnants should be the
highest priorities. These will be the sites
most likely to retain viable populations of
the endemic animals of the ecotone and to
have potential for their successful reintro¬
duction. Many, perhaps most, of the sites
being managed and restored today encom¬
pass only tens or hundreds of hectares and
appear to be too small to support many ani¬
mals that are typical of the ecotone. Second,
ecotonal patches of oak savanna and wood¬
land should be situated in a context of ad¬
jacent large patches of prairies and forests in
order to maintain their full complement of
animal species. Oak savannas and woodlands
with only forest or prairie patches nearby can
be expected to have an animal community
skewed towards a species composition re¬
flecting the adjacent habitat. Small, isolated
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
sites surrounded by developed lands will
have an animal community dominated by
generalists. Third, efforts to restore oak sa¬
vannas and woodlands must include more
reintroductions and intensive management
of wildlife; it is not enough to merely restore
the plant community and leave the animal
community to chance. The methodologies
for managing these wildlife species remain
to be perfected. Finally, conservationists
should identify — and focus their efforts
on — those rare sites around the Midwest
where the requisite combination of scale and
context either occurs or can be recreated. It
is there that the best opportunities exist for
recreating the rich biological diversity of this
ecotone by accommodating its animals as
well as its plants.
Acknowledgments
Some of the data on bird populations that I
used in my analyses have been collected by
my students, B. Ambuel, G. Basili, M.
Brittingham, B. Fevold, D. Flaspohler, R.
Johnson, M. Mossman. The Wisconsin De¬
partment of Natural Resource shared data
on bird communities at several Wisconsin
State Natural Areas. The Midwest Regional
Office of The Nature Conservancy provide
data on species distributions and allowed me
to use the painting shown in Plate 1. L.A.
Ferge shared information from his extensive
inventories of Lepidoptera at sites around
the Midwest oak savanna/woodland eco¬
tone. Research that generated data used in
my analyses has been supported by the Ag¬
ricultural Experiment Station of the College
of Agricultural and Life Sciences at the Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin-Madison, the U.S. Fish
and Wildlife Service, the U.S. Forest Service,
The Nature Conservancy, the National Fish
and Wildlife Foundation, the Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources, and the
Beers-Bascom Professorship in Conservation
(which is held by the author). Two anony¬
mous reviewers made useful suggestions that
improved the manuscript.
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the North American Conference on Barrens and
Savannas. U.S. Environmental Protection
Agency, Great Lakes National Program Of¬
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Holland, M.M., P.G. Risser, and R.J. Naiman,
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boundaries in the management and restoration
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habitat quality for birds nesting in fragmented
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Johnson, R., and S.A. Temple. 1990. Nest pre¬
dation and brood parasitism of tallgrass prai¬
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Oak Ecosystem Recovery Plan: A Call to Action.
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and wildlife conservation. Island Press, Wash¬
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Nolan, V. 1978. The ecology and behavior of
the Prairie Warbler. Ornithological Mono¬
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Nuzzo, V. 1986. Extent and status of Midwest
oak savanna: presettlement and 1985. Natu¬
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Opler, P.A., H. Parulaan, and R. Sanford. 1995.
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(http://www.npwrc.usgs.gov/resources/distr/
lepid/bflyusa/bfyusa.htm) .
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toration and the rediscovery of the tallgrass
savanna. Restoration and Management Notes
6(1): 13-20.
Packard, S., and C.F. Mutel, eds. 1997. The
tallgrass restoration handbook. Island Press,
Washington, D.C.
Panzer, R., D. Stillwaugh, R. Gnaedinger, and
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dependence among the prairie- and savanna-
inhabiting insects of the Chicago Region.
Natural Areas Journal 15 (2): 10 1-1 6.
Risser, P.G. (in press). Understanding and man¬
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Georgia.
Risser, P.G. 1993. Ecotones at local to regional
scales from around the world. Ecological Ap¬
plications 3:367-68.
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95.1. Patuxent Wildlife Research Center,
Laurel, Maryland.
Shafer, C.L. 1990. Nature reserves: island theory
and conservation practice. Smithsonian Insti¬
tution Press, Washington, D.C.
Swengel, A.B. 1994. Conservation of the prai¬
rie-savanna butterfly community. Pp. 1 33—
38 in J.S. Fralish, R.C. Anderson, J.E.
Ebinger, and R. Szafoni, eds. Proceedings of
the North American Conference on Barrens and
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mented landscape. Conservation Biology
2:341-47.
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Society for Conservation Biology and Chairman
of the Wisconsin Chapter of The Nature
Conservancy. Address: Department of Wildlife
Ecology, University of Wisconsin-Madison,
Madison, WI 53706.
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Susan Will-Wolf and Forest Stearns
Characterization of Dry Site
Oak Savanna in the Upper Midwest
Abstract Oak savanna vegetation on dry sites in the upper Midwest can be
divided into two groups based on current literature. Dry sand
savanna is found on low-nutrient, well-drained sandy soils, over
sand, sandstone, or other acidic parent material. Trees are usually
black oak group species. “Brush prairie, ” “scrub oak, ” or stunted
“oak grove” structure is more characteristic than scattered single
trees. Historically, dry sand savanna occurred in relatively large
patches in the landscape. In contrast, dry calcareous savanna occurs
on extremely thin or excessively well-drained soils with low water
availability but moderate nutrient status, over calcareous or inert
parent material. Trees are usually white oak group species, found
as scattered single trees or small groves. Historically, dry calcareous
savanna occurred as scattered small patches. Little bluestem,
Pennsylvania sedge, and leadplant are common ground layer plants
of both groups. Heath family species, lupine, sand fame-flower and
goat's rue are examples of characteristic ground-layer plants of dry
sand savannas. Snow berry, the horse-gentians, and tick-trefoils are
examples of ground-layer plants found in dry calcareous savanna.
The two types of dry site savanna must be distinguished for
research, restoration, and management planning.
Savanna vegetation associated with dry, low productivity sites
in the Great Lakes region (Figure 1, Chapman et al. 1997)
can be divided into two general groups (Figure 2) based on a
review of current literature (including much “gray literature”
that is difficult to access). Dry sand savanna is found on low
nutrient sandy soils with low water holding capacity or over
sand or other acidic parent material. Dry calcareous savanna
occurs on extremely thin or excessively well-drained soils with
moderate nutrient status and medium to fine texture, overlying
calcareous or insoluble parent material. Oak species of the
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
223
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 1. Distribution of dry soil oak savanna in the Great Lakes region, indicating the
geographic area within which each vegetation type occurs. The location of the regional
vegetation transition zone is approximated by the southern boundary of oak-pine North¬
ern Sand Savanna. For dry calcareous savanna, sections delineated by a heavy solid
line suggest the areas in which they occur. The largest and most western of these ar¬
eas is the Driftless Area (see text). Map copyright Cambridge University Press, reprinted
from Figure 8-1 of Will-Wolf and Stearns (in press) with the permission of Cambridge
University Press.
subgenus Erythrobalanus, the black oak
group, are characteristic of dry sand savanna,
while oak species of the subgenus Lepi-
dobalanus, the white oak group, dominate
the tree layer of dry calcareous savanna.
Thin-soil white oak-complex savanna and
sandy soil black oak-complex savanna both
grade into bur oak (Quercus macrocarpa)
and/or black ( Q. velutina) and white oak ( Q.
alba) savanna on deeper, higher nutrient,
and less droughty soils (Figure 2). In
southwestern Ontario dry calcareous savan¬
na (“limestone savanna”) and dry sand
savanna (“sand barrens”) remnants were
clearly separated based on species compo¬
sition (using principal coordinates ordina¬
tion and cluster analysis, Catling and Catling
1993). These two savanna types have not
been formally separated in the western Great
Lakes region, but such an analysis would be
useful.
Our distinction of dry site oak savanna
types is useful for research, restoration, and
management planning in several ways: (1)
dry sand savanna and dry calcareous savanna
differ floristically, so investigation of dis-
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WILL-WOLF and STEARNS: Dry Oak Savanna in the Upper Midwest
Savanna
thin, dry
calcareous
soil
Hill's oak
and hybrids,
plus
jack pine (north)
high
fire impact
dry gravelly
morainal
Figure 2. Distribution of tree species and savanna physiognomy along soil nutrient and
fire frequency gradients for upper Midwestern dry savanna sites. Only dry site
environments are represented in this diagram. However sites at the extremes of the
soil nutrient gradient are also usually drier than those in the middle. Great Lakes alvar
communities (see text) may fit into the dry calcareous, low fire impact region of this
model.
tribution and composition should be
separated, and planting lists and composi¬
tion goals for management should differ; (2)
management goals and expectations for
structure and physiognomy should differ; (3)
landscape design of preserves can differ.
Since historically dry calcareous savanna sites
were small and isolated, small preserves will
probably be adequate to conserve rare
species. Conversely, because many dry sand
savannas were once extensive, species
requiring large areas were part of the
community. Large preserves are needed to
maintain that suite of area-sensitive species.
We focus in this paper on presenting species
lists for different dry site oak savanna types.
Vegetation physiognomy and species
composition in the Great Lakes region are
related closely to interaction of Fire fre¬
quency and intensity (as influenced by land¬
scape structure and climate, Grimm 1983,
Leitner et al. 1991, Will-Wolf and Mon¬
tague 1994) with broad edaphic gradients
(Grimm 1984, Bowles and McBride 1994).
Vegetation classification, which is com¬
monly used to define vegetation units for
Volume 86 (1998)
225
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
mapping and for management, often incor¬
porates the assumption that site environ¬
ment determines site vegetation composition
and structure. Recent savanna classifications
for the upper Midwest have emphasized that
variation in disturbance regime, especially
fire, has a strong influence on vegetation
structure and composition that can be inde¬
pendent of site environment (Homoya
1994, Faber-Langendoen 1995, Haney and
Apfelbaum 1995). Vegetation-environment
relationships (see Roberts 1987) that appear
to be static and deterministic in dry sand sa¬
vanna complexes (e.g., Botts et al. 1994)
may result from artificially uniform distur¬
bance regimes operating over relatively short
time scales in the recent past. The shifting
mosaic model of vegetation dynamics (Shuey
1994, Will-Wolf and Stearns in press),
which emphasizes the importance of distur¬
bance for vegetation structure and compo¬
sition, appears a more useful model for guid¬
ing conservation and restoration practices.
Species lists and summaries of species rela¬
tive importance should thus always be used
as guidelines rather than as firm restoration
targets or measuring sticks for restoration
and management success.
We compiled preliminary lists from lit¬
erature with species characteristic of dry sand
savanna (with two subgroups) and dry cal¬
careous savanna (Tables 1 and 2). A “char¬
acteristic” species was reported in most of
the relevant studies spread across the range
of a savanna type, but was absent or found
irregularly in other types. Several common
ground-layer species appear to be character¬
istic of all types of dry site oak savanna and
woodland (Table 1), for example little
bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium), Penn¬
sylvania sedge ( Carex pensylvanica), and lead-
plant (Amorpha canescens). Many of the spe¬
cies characteristic of either major group
(Table 1) are relatively uncommon.
Dry Sand Savanna
Distribution
Dry sand savanna is associated with sandy
(85-95% sand), acidic (pH 4. 3-6.0), low
nutrient (420-1,025 ppm C, 628-1,500
ppm N), droughty (AWC 14-60%) soils
(Curtis 1959, White 1983, Anderson and
Brown 1986, Udvig 1986, Tester 1989,
Leach 1996). These soils are usually found
on outwash plains, sandy lake beds, and
dune systems relatively near former glacial
margins. In the early 1800s, dry sand oak
savanna covered large areas in the western
Great Lakes region. Today there are scat¬
tered large and small remnants present
(Will-Wolf and Stearns in press).
A vegetation transition zone (the “tension
zone” in Wisconsin, Curtis 1959) passes
through Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michi¬
gan, trending northwest to southeast. North
and east of this zone, mixed conifer-decidu¬
ous tree vegetation grows under a climate of
cool summers and long winters with con¬
tinuous snow cover. South and west of this
zone, deciduous trees predominate, the cli¬
mate has warm summers, and winters often
have only sporadic snow cover. The general
location of the transition zone coincides with
the southern limit of oak-pine Northern
Sand Savanna (Figure 1).
For dry sand savanna, scrub oak and
“brush prairie” structure (open herbaceous
areas interspersed with dense clumps of
short-statured trees or shrubs) are more char¬
acteristic than is classic savanna structure
(scattered stately trees with wide crowns).
The black oak group species characteristic of
sand savanna are relatively more fire sensi¬
tive than white oak group species, and they
grow slowly on low nutrient sites. Frequent
or intense fire can produce scrub oak struc¬
ture, which was common at the time of Eu¬
ropean settlement (Rodgers and Anderson
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WILL-WOLF and STEARNS: Dry Oak Savanna in the Upper Midwest
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
1979), but since has become much less com¬
mon with fire suppression (Curtis 1959,
Bowles and McBride 1994).
Subdivision
Haney and Apfelbaum (1995) divide Great
Lakes region dry sand savanna into North¬
ern Sand Savanna and Eastern Sand Sa¬
vanna. These groups differ in general geo¬
graphic location within the Great Lakes
region, with overlap in Wisconsin and
Michigan (Figure 1). Northern Sand Sa¬
vanna, in the northern and western parts of
the region, characteristically has Hill’s or
northern pin oak ( Quercus ellipsoidalis) and
hybrids, as described later. Eastern Sand Sa¬
vanna, in the southern and eastern parts of
the region, has black oak as the characteris¬
tic tree species, and Hill’s oak is absent or is
a minor component. In contrast, Pruka and
Faber-Langendoen (1995) include all dry
sand savanna south of the climate transition
zone and east of Michigan in a single “Black
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WILL-WOLF and STEARNS: Dry Oak Savanna in the Upper Midwest
oak-lupine” savanna type. Faber-Langen-
doen (1995) combines black oak and Hill’s
oak sites for most woodland and savanna
groups, which are then subdivided by physi¬
ognomy and characteristic ground-layer spe¬
cies. We have chosen Haney and Apfel-
baum’s (1995) classification for several
reasons: (1) it recognizes the similarity of dry
sand oak savanna north and south of the
vegetation transition zone and emphasizes a
floristic distinction between the northern
and western vs. the southern and eastern
parts of the Great Lakes region ( not follow¬
ing the traditional vegetation transition
zone); (2) Northern and Eastern Sand Sa¬
vanna appear to be distinguished by a suite
of species, not just black vs. Hill’s oak; (3)
it provides a model for comparing North¬
ern Sand (oak) Savanna and jack pine bar¬
rens where they both occur in the northern
part of the western Great Lakes region. Jack
pine barrens likely result from a disturbance
regime of infrequent (25-40 year) intense
fires, with oak present as scattered small
shrubs. Oak dominates under a regime of
frequent, less intense fires or European man¬
agement regimes including fire suppression
and loss of jack pine seed source (Whitney
1987, Pregitzer and Saunders in press; Will-
Wolf and Stearns in press).
The dry sand savanna groups share sev¬
eral common characteristic ground-layer spe¬
cies, such as huckleberry (Gaylussacia
baccata), bracken fern (Pteridium aqui-
linum), and blueberry (Vaccinium angusti-
folium). They also share several uncommon
characteristic species (Table 1). Some of
these are state-listed for conservation: wild
blue lupine (Lupinus perennis), sand fame-
flower (Talinum rugospermum), and goat’s
rue (Tephrosia virginiana). Most of the
ground-layer species characteristic of either
Northern or Eastern Sand Savanna (Table
2) are relatively uncommon.
Northern Sand Savanna Composition
Northern Sand Savanna (Figure 1) occurs in
the western Lake States. The most charac¬
teristic tree, Hill’s oak (Table 2), hybridizes
extensively with black oak south of the
vegetation transition zone (Curtis 1959) and
with northern red oak (Q rubra) north of
that zone (Gleason and Cronquist 1991).
White oak and bur oak are also found
occasionally. Jack pine (Pinus banksiana) is
frequently found in low density north of the
vegetation transition zone. Characteristic
ground-layer species of Northern Sand
Savanna include beaked hazelnut (Corylus
cornuta), two native hawkweeds (Hieracium
kalmii and H. longipilum), orange dwarf-
dandelion (Krigia biflora), and a goldenrod
(Solidago ptarmicoides), in addition to four
species with primarily western North Ameri¬
can distributions and several state-listed
species (Table 2). The herbaceous com¬
ponent of Northern Sand (oak) Savanna is
moderately similar to that of jack pine
barrens in the northern part of the region
(Curtis 1959).
Eastern Sand Savanna Composition
Eastern Sand Savanna is found in northern
and central Illinois, southern Wisconsin, and
southern Michigan (Madany 1981, Pruka
and Faber-Langendoen 1995, Rabe et al.
1995), northwestern Indiana (Homoya
1994), northwestern Ohio (Gordon 1966,
Brewer 1989), and in southeastern Ontario
(Catling and Catling 1993). Black oak is the
characteristic tree, with other oak species
present (Table 2). Dry sand savanna in
central Illinois often has mostly blackjack
oak fQ. marilandica), but is otherwise
similar to other Eastern Sand Savanna sites
(Anderson and Brown 1986). Ground-layer
composition includes a short list of charac-
Volume 86 (1998)
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TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
teristic species including shining sumac
(Rhus copallinum), staghorn sumac (Rhus
typhina), Aster Linariifolius, Virginia dwarf-
dandelion ( Krigia virginica) , and two
pinweeds ( Lechea mucronata and L. pul-
chella ), with three state-listed species (Table
2). Additional species are shared with other
dry soil savanna types (Tables 1 and 2).
Dry Calcareous Savanna
Distribution
Dry calcareous savanna, like dry sand sa¬
vanna, is edaphically restricted, with soils
that have moderate nutrient status, are neu¬
tral (pH 7.0— 7.5), have loam and silt loam
texture, but are thin (8—30 cm) or exces¬
sively drained (Lange 1989, Catling and
Catling 1993, Armstrong 1994). It is found
throughout the region (Figure 1), in mostly
small areas within complex savanna-wood-
land-dry prairie landscape mosaics. Ex¬
amples are found on dolomite ridges in the
unglaciated Driftless Area of Wisconsin, Il¬
linois, Minnesota, and Iowa (Figure 1;
Faber-Langendoen 1995, Anderson et al.
1996), on thin soils over quartzite bedrock
(acid, but insoluble by groundwater) in the
Baraboo Hills of southern Wisconsin
(Lange 1989, Clark et al. 1993, Armstrong
1994) , and on well-drained gravelly calcar¬
eous morainal ridges in the Kettle Moraine
area of eastern Wisconsin (Henderson
1995) . Thin soil over limestone on flat low¬
lands supports remnants of once more ex¬
tensive dry calcareous savanna in southeast¬
ern Ontario (Szeicz and MacDonald 1991,
Catling and Catling 1993).
Dry calcareous savanna is more likely
than dry sand savanna to have classic sa¬
vanna structure; the oak species are relatively
fire tolerant, and slow buildup of herbaceous
biomass reduces the likelihood of intense
fires. The density and cover of woody veg¬
etation have increased as fire frequency de¬
creased. However, severe edaphic conditions
have allowed remnants to persist (Will-Wolf
and Stearns in press).
Composition
White and bur oak are the most charac¬
teristic tree species, while chinquapin or
yellow oak (Q. muehlenbergii) occurs at
either end of the range (Mississippi River
valley and southeastern Ontario). Shagbark
hickory (Carya ovata) is another char¬
acteristic species (Table 1). Of the charac¬
teristic ground-layer species (Table 2),
snowberry ( Symphoricarpos spp.) is common
(Will- Wolf and Stearns in press), while
most other species, like the tick-trefoils
(Desmodium spp.) and the horse-gentians
( Triosteum spp.), are relatively less common.
Several are state-listed (Table 1). The
Wisconsin sites share many herbaceous
species with dry lime prairies of the same
region (Anderson 1954). Ontario dry
calcareous savanna (Catling and Catling
1993) has 40% of the prevalent species of
Wisconsin oak openings (Curtis 1959) and
also shares many species with Great Lakes
alvar communities (areas of extremely thin
soil over flat limestone or marble bedrock,
with sparse, mostly treeless plant cover;
Catling and Brownell in press).
Several state endangered, threatened, or
special concern species occur on Wisconsin
dry calcareous savanna sites as well as dry
lime prairie, cliff communities, and cedar
glades. They are round-stemmed false
foxglove (Agalinis gattingeri), churchmouse
three-awn or poverty grass (Aristida dicho-
toma)y purple milkweed (Asclepias purpura-
scens), purple shooting star (Dodecatheon
radicatum), creamy gentian (Gentiana
flavida), violet bush clover (Lespedeza
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WILL-WOLF and STEARNS: Dry Oak Savanna in the Upper Midwest
violacea), slender bush clover (Lespedeza
virginica ), brittle prickly pear (Opuntia
fragilis), broomrape (Orobanche uniflora),
prairie parsley (Polytaenia nuttallii), cliff
goldenrod (Solidago sciaphila), and prairie
fame-flower (Talinum parviflorum) (Clark
et al. 1993, Anderson et al. 1996). One rare
rush species (Juncus secundus) was found on
an Ontario savanna (Catling and Catling
1993).
Summary
Dry sand savanna and dry calcareous
savanna in the Great Lakes region differ
enough in site characteristics, species
composition, and structure that they must
be treated separately for research, restoration
and management planning. We separate dry
sand savanna into two subgroups (classi¬
fication of Haney and Apfelbaum 1993),
emphasizing a strong east-west component
to floristic differences. This may be as
important for dry sand savanna as the more
commonly recognized north-south differ¬
ences between plant communities in the
region. The dry sand savanna subgroup
classification is preliminary and needs to be
confirmed as useful. We welcome comments
on the general lists presented here and
elsewhere (Will- Wolf and Stearns in press)
and additions to the studies surveyed (send
to senior author), to facilitate updates of the
lists.
Acknowledgments
We thank participants in the 1997 Midwest
Oak Savanna and Woodland Conference
for suggestions that have improved the
species lists we present here. The manu¬
script has benefitted from comments by
Roger Anderson, Ted Cochrane, and an
anonymous reviewer.
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Haney, A., and S.I. Apfelbaum. 1995. Charac¬
terization of midwestern oak savannas. In F.
Stearns and K. Holland, eds. Proceedings of
the Midwest Oak Savanna Conference.
February 20, 1993. Chicago, Illinois. U.S.
Environmental Protection Agency. Internet
document: http ://www.epa. gov/ glnpo/ oak
Henderson, R. 1995. Oak savanna communi¬
ties. Pp. 88-96 in Wisconsin’s biodiversity
as a management issue. Wisconsin Depart¬
ment of Natural Resources, Department of
Natural Resources, Madison.
Henderson, N.R., and J.N. Long. 1984. A
comparison of stand structure and fire
history in two black oak woodlands in
northwestern Indiana. Botanical Gazette
145:222-28.
Homoya, M.A. 1994. Indiana barrens: classifi¬
cation and description. Castanea 59: 204-
13.
Kline, V.M., and T. McClintock. 1994.
Changes in a dry oak forest after a third
prescribed burn. Pp 279-84 in J.S. Fralish,
232
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WILL-WOLF and STEARNS: Dry Oak Savanna in the Upper Midwest
R.C. Anderson, J.E. Ebinger, and R. Szafoni,
eds. Proceedings of the North American
Conference on Barrens and Savannas. October
15-16, 1994, Illinois State University,
Normal.
Lange, K.L. 1989. Ancient rocks and vanished
glaciers: a natural history of Devil's Lake State
Park, Wisconsin. Worzalla Publishing Com¬
pany, Stevens Point, Wisconsin. 154 pp.
Leach, M.K. 1996. Gradients in groundlayer
composition, structure and diversity in
remnant and experimentally restored oak
savannas. University of Wisconsin-Madison.
Ph.D. dissertation.
Leitner, L.A., C.P. Dunn, G.R. Guntenspergen,
F. Stearns, and D.M. Sharpe. 1991. Effects
of site, landscape features, and fire regime on
vegetation pattern in presettlement southern
Wisconsin. Landscape Ecology 5:203—17.
Madany, M.H. 1981. A floristic survey of
savannas in Illinois. Pp. 177-181 in R.L.
Stuckey and K.J. Reese, eds. Proceedings of
the Sixth North American Prairie Conference,
Ohio Biological Survey. Biological Notes No.
15.
Maxwell, J.A., and T.J. Givnish. 1995.
Research on the Karner blue butterfly at Fort
McCoy, Wisconsin: Progress report for the
1994 field season. Report submitted to the
U. S. Fish and Wildlife Service and the
Department of the Army.
Post, T.W. 1989. Sand savannas of Indiana. In
W. L. Howenstine, ed. The Ninth Northern
Illinois Prairie Workshop Proceedings. Uni¬
versity of Northeastern Illinois, Chicago.
Pregitzer, K.S., and S.C. Saunders. (In press).
Jack pine barrens of the northern Great
Lakes region. Chapter 21 in R.C. Anderson,
J.S. Fralish, and J. Baskin, eds. The Savanna,
Barrens, and Rock Outcrop Plant Com¬
munities of North America. Cambridge
University Press, New York.
Pruka, B., and D. Faber-Langendoen. 1995.
Sample conservation and recovery plans for
three midwestern oak savanna and woodland
types. Appendix B in M.K. Leach and L.
Ross, eds. Midwest oak ecosystems recovery
plan: a call to action. Midwest oak savanna
and woodland ecosystems conference,
Springfield, Missouri. Environmental
Protection Agency, Chicago Office.
Rabe, M.L., P.J. Comer, and D. Albert. 1995.
Enhancing habitat for the Karner blue
butterfly: restoration of the oak-pine barrens
in southwest Michigan. In F. Stearns and K.
Holland, eds. Proceedings of the Midwest Oak
Savanna Conference. February 20, 1993.
Chicago, Illinois. U.S. Environmental
Protection Agency. Internet document:
http://www.epa.gov/glnpo/oak/
Roberts, D.W. 1987. A dynamical system
perspective on vegetation theory. Vegetatio
69:27-33.
Rodgers, C.S., and R.C. Anderson. 1979. Pre¬
settlement vegetation of two prairie penin¬
sula counties. Botanical Gazette 140:232-40.
Shuey, J.A. 1994. Dancing with fire: oak
barrens/savanna patch dynamics, manage¬
ment, and the Karner blue butterfly. Pp
185-89 in J.S. Fralish, R.C. Anderson, J.E.
Ebinger, and R. Szafoni, eds. Proceedings of
the North American Conference on Barrens
and Savannas. October 15-16, 1994, Illinois
State University, Normal.
Szeicz, J.M., and G.M. MacDonald. 1991.
Postglacial vegetation history of oak savanna
in southern Ontario (Canada). Canadian
Journal of Botany 69: 1 507-19.
Tester, J.R. 1989. Effects of fire frequency on
oak savanna in eastcentral Minnesota.
Bulletin of the Torrey Botanical Club
116:134-44.
Udvig, T.T. 1986. Acid sensitive soils: the
effects of red pine (Pinus resinosa) on
converted oak sites. Southern Illinois
University, Carbondale. M.S. thesis. 64 pp.
White, A.S. 1983. The effects of thirteen years
of annual prescribed burning on a Quercus
Volume 86 (1998)
233
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
ellipsoidalis community in Minnesota.
Ecology 64:1081-85.
Whitford, P.B., and K. Whitford. 1971.
Savannas in central Wisconsin, U.S.A.
Vegetatio 23:77-87.
Whitney, G.G. 1987. An ecological history of
the Great Lakes Forest of Michigan. Journal
of Ecology 75:667-84.
Will-Wolf, S., and T.G. Montague. 1994.
Landscape and environmental constraints on
the distribution of presettlement savannas
and prairies in southern Wisconsin. Pp. 97—
102 in J.S. Fralish, R.C. Anderson, J.E.
Ebinger, and R. Szafoni, eds. Proceedings of
the North American Conference on Barrens
and Savannas. October 15-16, 1994. Illinois
State University, Normal.
Will-Wolf, S., and F. Stearns. (In press). Dry
soil oak savanna in the Great Lakes region.
Chapter 8 in R.C. Anderson, J.S. Fralish,
and J. Baskin, eds. The Savanna , Barrens ,
and Rock Outcrop Plant Communities of
North America. Cambridge University Press,
New York.
Susan Will-Wolf received her Ph.D. with Dr.
Edward Beals at the University of Wisconsin-
Madison, where she is now Lecturer and Assis¬
tant Scientist in the Department of Botany. Her
professional interests include ecology and man¬
agement of Midwestern oak forest , savanna , and
lichen community ecology. Address: Dept, of
Botany , University of Wisconsin-Madison, 430
Lincoln Drive, Madison, WI 53706-1381.
Forest Stearns received his Ph.D. with Dr. John
Curtis at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
He is now Emeritus Professor of Biological Sci¬
ences, University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, and
he volunteers with the United States Forest Ser¬
vice Landscape Ecology project in Rhinelander,
Wisconsin. His professional interests include
landscape ecology, forest history, and wetland
ecology. Address: Forestry Sciences Center, North
Central Forest Experiment Station, USDA For¬
est Service, 5985 County Highway K, Rhine¬
lander, WI 54501.
234
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Richard Boudreau
A Sesquicentennial Look
at Literary “Firsts” in Wisconsin
In the century and a half since statehood, writers from Wis¬
consin have reached out from purely local to regional
audiences, then on to national, and in some instances, world
audiences. Along the way they have garnered prestigious awards
in this country, including Pulitzer Prizes and National Book
Awards, as well as various citations and recognitions
internationally. The state’s presses, both small and commercial,
and its long-standing literary organizations and support groups
have fostered and continue to foster writing of all kinds,
underscoring Kentucky poet Jesse Stuart’s assessment of
Wisconsin as the “writingest state in the union.”1 In celebration
of our state’s sesquicentennial, it seems particularly appropriate
to step back in time and review once more and in depth the
antecedents of this rich literary heritage.2
Wisconsin’s literary beginnings predate even territorial
times: the oral traditions of the Native Americans were already
centuries old before European contact. But the first actually
taken down were orations, recorded by translators or scribes
or witnesses at treaty parleys and truces, the earliest dating back
nearly three centuries,3 and including several councils con¬
ducted by the Americans as they began taking over the area
following the War of 18 12. 4 One of the most moving speeches
came not from a treaty conference but from a formal surren¬
der, the so-called death-song of the Winnebago chief, Red Bird,
at the Portage in 1827. 5 Besides orations there were songs:
dream, war, love, hunting; chants, nearly all from religious ritu¬
als; and tales, both secular and sacred, particularly from the
Ojibwa, Menominee, and Winnebago, who still maintain their
dominance in the area. These were collected over the years by
various ethnologists, beginning with Henry Rowe Schoolcraft,
who married an Ojibwa mixed blood, his most important in¬
formant, and including work by Walter James Hoffmann with
the Menominee, Paul Radin with the Winnebago, and Frances
Densmore with the Ojibwa.6
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
235
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
With the inundation of the Americans
into what became part of Michigan Terri¬
tory came the printing press and almost im¬
mediately after, the newspaper. The first
press was located in the oldest white settle¬
ment, Green Bay, and the first newspaper,
The Green Bay Intelligencer , began its life
there December 11, 1833. The first book¬
let published in what would be Wisconsin
was an Ojibwa almanac, printed in 1834 on
the Green Bay press,7 not, as generally be¬
lieved, Increase A. Lapham’s study of the
plants and shells on the west shore of Lake
Michigan, published two years later in Mil¬
waukee8 on what was the third printing press
in Wisconsin.9 Lapham’s Wisconsin Gazet¬
teer, published in 1844, however, was the
first book with “durable binding” printed in
the Territory.10 But the earliest book writ¬
ten by a “Wisconsinite” was Dr. William
Beaumont’s account, published in 1833, of
his famous experiments with Alexis St. Mar¬
tin, whose unhealed wound to the stomach
allowed for Beaumont’s remarkable research
on human digestion.11
Such achievements in publishing in a new
territory were not remarkable, perhaps, but
in June 1842, The Garland of the West, ap¬
peared — and it was remarkable. It was the
first literary magazine in the entire North¬
west Territory.12 Started by Edward Young
and Julius H. Kimball in Southport (later
Kenosha), it attempted to bring literature,
particularly poetry (sentimentality reigned
supreme) to the frontier. Its editors had good
writers (one, L. P. Harvey, became Civil
War governor of Wisconsin, tragically
drowning on a visit to the front in 1862;
another, Michael Frank, editor of the
Southport newspaper, became known as
“the father of the free school system” in Wis¬
consin) and great expectations — but little
chance of success. By the third issue, that for
August, Young was alone as the editor, and
after some delay, he brought out the Sep¬
tember and October issues combined as one,
signalling difficulties. “Somewhat bleached
and cut short of its fair proportions by the
fall frosts,” the Milwaukee Courier wryly
noted.13 Young then relinquished it to the
Sholes brothers, Charles C. and C. Latham
(later inventor of the typewriter), who
changed the name to Wisconsin Monthly
Magazine, promising to shift its focus to
“useful reading matter instead of lovesick
trash.”14 Their attempt, however laudatory,
failed, but, since no copies are extant, it is
not known when the magazine ceased pub¬
lication.
Newspapers, however, thrived. Besides
news of all and sundry, they were filled out
with trivia, both informative and humorous,
as well as with sketches, tales, and, particu¬
larly, verse. Newspapers were most impor¬
tant in fostering poetry in the new territory
and state. They printed numerous single
poems, called “waifs” by ambitious versifi¬
ers, most of whom were women. Famous
names among Wisconsinites were Carrie
Carlton (Mary Booth Chamberlain of
Beloit), Ada F. Moore (Ellen E. Hall Phillips
of Stevens Point), Nellie A. Mann (Helen
A. Manville of La Crosse), and Nellie Wild¬
wood (Mary Elizabeth Farnsworth Mears of
Oshkosh). Each of them eventually legiti¬
mized their “waifs” by gathering them into
collections published in the ’60s and ’70s.
Despite all of their activity, however, what
has been considered the first collection of
Wisconsin poetry was written by a man.
Adolf Schults, a self-proclaimed exile from
Germany, published Lieder Aus Wisconsin in
1848, but his ties to Wisconsin are suspect.15
If not Schults, either Hiram Alvin Reid of
Beaver Dam or Orpheus Everts of Hudson,
seem to be candidates with collections of
poems published in 1836, but their resi¬
dency seems suspect as well.16
236
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BOUDREAU: A Sesquicentennial Look at Literary “Firsts” In Wisconsin
That would seem to give Mary Elizabeth
Farnsworth Mears the distinction of publish¬
ing the first book of verse in Wisconsin, a
claim that has often been made.17 Her long
poem, Voyage ofPere Marquette and Romance
of Charles de Langlade or, The Indian Queen,
was printed in Fond du Lac in I860. The
long historical narrative has sometimes been
referred to as Wisconsin’s first “epic.” But
there was a much earlier claimant even to
that title: The History of Black Hawk, with
which is interwoven a Description of the Black
Hawk War and other Scenes in the West by
E. H. Smith, published in Milwaukee origi¬
nally in 1846. Two years later Elbert (or
Egbert) Herring Smith re-published the
book with extensive alterations under the
title MA-KA - Tai-Me-She-Kia-Kiak; or, Black
Hawk, and Scenes in the West.18 Other edi¬
tions followed, and he evidently spent the
rest of his life trying to make a living from
his “epic.” And since neither Smith’s nor
Mears’s books are collections of poems and
since the three male writers mentioned prob¬
ably do not qualify as Wisconsinites, the
honor of the first collection of poetry appar¬
ently belongs to Mary Booth Chamberlain
(Carrie Carlton); her Wayside Blossoms ap¬
peared in 1862.
With drama the past is murky and incon¬
clusive. The first play published in the state
seems to have been The Drummer, or New
York Clerks and Country Merchants, edited
by a Mrs. Partington and published in Mil¬
waukee in 1851. 19 But Mrs. Partington, a
sort of Yankee Mrs. Malaprop, was a fic¬
tional creation of Boston printer and jour¬
nalist, Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber.20 And
since the action of the play takes place in
New York City with no apparent tie-in to
Wisconsin and since its supposed author was
a resident of Boston, it should probably be
discounted. The first Wisconsin drama ac¬
tually performed in Wisconsin, as far as we
know, is the one written by the ubiquitous
Mrs. Mears. Her play, Black Hawk, held the
stage for a run of three weeks in Madison21
about the time of the onset of the Civil War,
but it is not known when she wrote it or
whether she ever published it.
The first memoir, it has long been as¬
sumed, was the still popular and oft-pub¬
lished book by Juliette Magill Kinzie, Wau-
Bun, The Early Day in the Northwest, 1856.
It is primarily the account of her two and a
half years at the Portage, 1830-33, with her
husband, John Kinzie, Indian Agent to the
Indians gathered in the vicinity of Fort
Winnebago. More than that, it presents a
sympathetic treatment of her nearest neigh¬
bors, the Indians, especially of the women.
And the memoir delineates the last months
of their sojourn there during which the
Kinzies share in the restricted rations and
near starvation of their neighbors. Written
in a lively, engaging style, it is a moving, re¬
markable account.
But, as it turns out, it is not the first
memoir. That achievement belongs to a
Dominican priest, Rev. Samuel Mazzuchelli.
Shortly after his ordination in 1830 this Ital¬
ian missionary traveled extensively in the ter¬
ritory from Mackinac Island to Prairie du
Chien, serving both Indian and White, Prot¬
estant and Catholic. Among other duties he
served as chaplain to the second session of
the Wisconsin Territorial Legislature which
met in Burlington, Iowa, in 1836. On a trip
back to his homeland after 12 years in the
territory he wrote an account of his labors:
Memoirs, Historical and Edifying Among
Various Indian Tribes and Among Catholics
and Protestants in the United States of
America.11 It was published in his home¬
town, Milan, Italy, early in 1844, about the
time he returned to his missionary field in
territorial Wisconsin.23
If we consider Mrs. Kinzie’s book a mem-
Volume 86 (1998)
237
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
oir rather than an autobiography, then the
first autobiography in Wisconsin literature
was The Life-Line of the Lone One by War¬
ren Chase, published in 1857. 24 Though
Chase is the subject of his autobiography,
he refers to himself throughout in the third
person (as did Rev. Mazzuchelli in his Mem¬
oirs) or as the Lone One. He uses his birth
year of 1813 as a starting point and arranges
each chapter to cover one decade in his life.
It is in the third chapter, 1833-1842, that
he arrives in Southport in territorial Wiscon¬
sin, nearly destitute, with a very ill wife and
a sickly first born. But his fourth chapter is
of utmost interest: during that decade he
joins a Fourierite socialist group, eventually
becoming its leader, establishing in 1844 the
communal settlement of Ceresco on land
incorporated into the later village of Ripon.
While he served as the leader of the “Wis¬
consin Phalanx,” he also became a delegate
to both constitutional conventions in Madi¬
son and was elected to the first state senate.25
The Ceresco community disbanded in 1850,
perhaps the only utopian community of that
era to finish in the black. Chase became a
spiritualist minister and moved further west,
finally settling in California where he died
in 1891.
The first novel in Wisconsin has for years
been considered Bachelor Ben by Ella Giles,
published in 1875, but there are a number
of earlier claimants to that distinction. The
first novel printed in Wisconsin was pub¬
lished “by a citizen of Milwaukee” in 1857.
But with the story set entirely in New York
State, it seems reasonable to assume it was
written well before the “citizen” moved to
Milwaukee. The next novel published was
Walter Ogilby by Mrs. Kinzie of Wau-Bun
fame. It appeared in 1869. That too is set
in the East with no tie-ins with Wisconsin.
But her second novel, Mark Logan , the
Bourgeois, published posthumously in 1871,
is set in what would become Wisconsin,
along the Fox-Wisconsin river route the
summer of 1 827 (Mark Logan witnesses the
surrender of Chief Red Bird). Because the
author is certainly a writer with strong Wis¬
consin ties and because the story is the first
involving the state as setting, it would seem
to be the clearest choice for Wisconsin’s first
novel.26
Determining what could be called the
first Wisconsin short story would be a
monumental, if not impossible task. Copy¬
right laws in the United States were confus¬
ing, largely ignored, and generally unen¬
forceable; international copyright laws were
not in place until much later. That meant
that editors could, in effect, reprint tales and
stories from any source whatever, including
the best writers of the day. Nor, in fact, did
the term, short story, exist; it did not come
into use until the 1890s. If the first short
story by a Wisconsin writer cannot be iden¬
tified,27 we can at least suggest a couple of
collections that might qualify for the title of
the first book of short stories. Both are by
George Wilbur Peck: Peck's Sunshine, in
1882, which includes some of his longer hu¬
morous tales, and Peck's Bad Boy and His Pa,
in 1883, made up of short episodes in the
life of the “Bad Boy.” With illustrations al¬
ternating almost equally with the text, the
latter could also be considered the precur¬
sor of the comic strip.28
A sesquicentennial seems an ideal time for
a reconsideration, and in the review just
completed, we have evidence that alters a
number of assumptions about our literary
past. Increase A. Lapham’s booklet of 1836
was not the first pamphlet published in the
state, though his Wisconsin Gazetteer of 1 844
was certainly the first book published here.
And the first book written by a Wisconsin¬
ite, William Beaumont’s treatise of 1833,
can be added to the list of literary firsts. The
238
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BOUDREAU: A Sesquicentennial Look at Literary “Firsts" In Wisconsin
Garland of the West, 1842, is a remarkable
first — the first literary magazine in the en¬
tire Northwest Territory. The first memoir
is clearly that of Rev. Mazzuchelli even
though written in Italian and published in
Italy in 1844. Mrs. Mears loses two firsts at¬
tributed to her, for a book of verse and for
the “epic,” but gains another, the first play
by a Wisconsinite presented in the state.
Mrs. Kinzie loses one first, that of autobi¬
ography or memoir, but gains a new one, the
first novel by a Wisconsinite, Mark Logan,
published in 1871. And humorist/ governor,
George Wilbur Peck, appears to have title
to the first short story collection published
in the state.
With literary antecedents such as these
stretching back into the earliest years, how
could Wisconsinites fail to recognize and to
honor such auspicious beginnings and the
prodigious outpouring of writing that has
ensued in the last century and more in their
state? Perhaps there is no better way to ac¬
knowledge such a rich literary heritage than
to take note of, and to honor, our present
day writers and to search out, read, and cher¬
ish good books by Wisconsin authors of
whatever era.
Endnotes
'As quoted by Clarice Chase Dunn, in “Wiscon¬
sin Writes,” Wisconsin Academy Review, June
1983, pp. 26-27.
2The best source to begin such a review is Orrilla
T. Blackshear’s Wisconsin Authors and Their
Books: 1836-1975 (Madison: Wisconsin De¬
partment of Public Instruction, 1976).
3"The Cass Manuscripts,” republished in Wiscon¬
sin Historical Collections, Vol. III., (Madison:
The State Historical Society, 1836), pp. 1 52-
33, contain short speeches by Fox, Sauk, and
Winnebago spokesmen at a parley with the
French in 1726.
4See, for example, the speech of Sau-sa-man-nee
in Wisconsin Historical Collections , Vol. X, pp.
143-45. Native American orations are scat¬
tered throughout the volumes of this invalu¬
able collection.
5"After a moment’s pause, and a quick survey of
the troops, and with a composed observation
of his people, he spoke, looking at Major
Whistler, and said: ‘I am ready.’ Then, ad¬
vancing a step or two, he paused and said, ‘I
do not wish to be put in irons. Let me be free.
I have given away my life — (stooping and tak¬
ing some dust between his finger and thumb
and blowing it away) — like that’ (eyeing the
dust as it fell and vanished), then adding, ‘I
would not take it back. It is gone.’” From
Moses M. Strong, “Indian Wars,” Wisconsin
Historical Collections, Vol. VIII (Madison:
The State Historical Society, 1879), pp. 262-
63. Red Bird died in prison soon after his sur¬
render.
6See Henry Rowe Schoolcraft, Algic Researches,
1839; Walter James Hoffman, “The Meno-
mini Indians,” The Fourteenth Annual Report
of the Bureau of American Ethnology, 1896;
Paul Radin, numerous books, selections of
which form the volume, The Winnebago Tribe
(Bison Books: University of Nebraska Press,
1970); and Francis Densmore, Chippewa Mu¬
sic I & II, Bureau of American Ethnology
Bulletin 53, 1913, and Menomonee Music,
Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 102,
1932.
7The booklet is referred to in the biography of
Rev. Samuel Mazzuchelli by Jo and J.
Alderson, The Man Mazzuchelli: Pioneer
Priest (Madison: Wisconsin House, 1974),
Chapter 5 (no page nos.), and again in the
Aldersons’ article on Mazzuchelli in the Wis¬
consin Academy Review, Summer, 1998. Only
one copy of the booklet is known to exist; it
is located in the Library of Congress. The
only other reference to its being the first pub¬
lished in Wisconsin is found in footnote 13,
Volume 86 (1998)
239
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
page 87, of the Positio, or A Documentary Ac¬
count of His Life, Virtues and Reputation for
Holiness used as the basis for consideration in
the Roman Catholic Church for Rev. Mazzu-
chelli’s beatification, published in Rome in
1989.
8See Henry Eduard Legler, “Early Wisconsin
Imprints: A Preliminary Essay,” Wisconsin
Historical Society Proceedings, 190 4, p. 119;
See also Paul G. Hayes, “Increase A. Lapham:
A Useful and Honored Life,” Wisconsin Acad¬
emy Review, Spring, 1995, pp. 10-15. Of
course, it still is assumed to be the first sci¬
entific treatise published in Wisconsin.
9Legler, 119.
10See Legler, p. 120: Increase A. Lapham, Geo¬
graphical and Topological Description of Wis¬
consin (Milwaukee: P.C. Hale, 1844). This
was popularly known as the Wisconsin Gaz¬
etteer.
1 ’William Beaumont, Experiments and Observa¬
tions on the Gastric Juice and the Physiology of
Digestion (Plattsburgh, New York: Allen,
1833). Dr. Beaumont was stationed at
Mackinac Island in 1822 when he began to
treat St. Martin’s wound. Dr. Beaumont then
served at Fort Howard, Green Bay, from
1826-28, and at Fort Crawford, Prairie du
Chien from 1828-1832, where, from 1829
on, the majority of his experiments were car¬
ried out.
,2See M. M. Quaife, “Wisconsin’s First Literary
Magazine,” Wisconsin Magazine of History,
Vol. 5, 1, 1921-22, 43.
13Quaife, 47.
14Quaife, 47.
15See Oscar Wegelin, “Historical Fragments:
Wisconsin’s First Versifiers,” Wisconsin Maga¬
zine of History, Vol. 1, 1921-22, pp. 64-67.
The book, written in German, was published
in Germany (byj. Badecker of Elberfeld and
Iserlohn); it’s possible that Schults never lived
in Wisconsin or that he visited here for a
short time only.
16" Hiram Alvin Reid, The Heartlace and Other
Poems (the author, 1856)” according to
Blackshear, but the book was published in
Davenport, Iowa, that year, and he claimed
many years later that it was the first book of
poetry printed in Iowa, not Wisconsin.
“Orpheus Everts, Onawequah, An Indian Leg¬
end and Other Poems, (Hudson: Times Print¬
ing Office, 1856)” according to Blackshear,
but the book was published that year in La
Porte, Indiana, not in Wisconsin. He was a
member of the law firm of Tuttle, Reymart
& Everts in Hudson from 1859 to 1861.
Though Reymart became prominent in Wis¬
consin, Everts disappeared from sight.
17Among many others over the years, Legler, p.
121. But even as recently as Janet Ela’s
“Sculptor Helen Farnsworth Mears” in Wis¬
consin Academy Review, March, 1986, that
claim was repeated. The Helen Farnsworth
Mears of the article title was one of Mrs.
Mears’s three talented daughters.
18See Oscar Wegelin, “Historical Fragments:
Wisconsin’s First Versifiers,” Wisconsin Maga¬
zine of History, Vol. 1, No. 1, 1918. Written
“by a Western Tourist” this book was pub¬
lished in New York in 1848 and was the one
Legler discounted because he did not think
the author had residency in Wisconsin. But
in an interesting aside, the whole story of the
“Wisconsin Bard” is rendered in The Chron¬
icles of Milwaukee by A. C. Wheeler, 1861.
Smith, a teacher in a rural school near
Southport, took himself seriously as a poet.
He was apparently led on by others in what
they intended as a massive joke which boo-
meranged when Smith began to profit from
his “epic.”
19Oscar Wegelin, “An Early Wisconsin Play,”
Wisconsin Magazine of History, Vol. 1, No. 4,
pp. 307-8.
2()This is all very curious. Wegelin was apparently
aware of the “true” Mrs. Partington because
he mentions Shillaber, though Wegelin de-
240
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BOUDREAU: A Sesquicentennial Look at Literary “Firsts” In Wisconsin
cides Shillaber had nothing to do with the
piece. Since there is no other information
available, we can only conjecture: the manu¬
script was written by Shillaber and printed by
a friend; the manuscript was pirated; the
manuscript was written and printed by per¬
sons unknown who might or might not have
lived in Wisconsin.
21 Publius V. Lawson, “Mary Elizabeth Mears:
‘Nellie Wildwood,’” Wisconsin Historical So¬
ciety Proceedings , 1916, p. 255. The claim is
actually made by her daughter, Mary Mears,
in a letter she wrote to Lawson shortly after
her mother’s death.
21Memorie Istoriche ed Edificanti dun Missionario
Apostolico del'Ordine dei Predicatori fra Varie
Tribu di Selvaggi e fra I Cattolici e Protest anti
negli Stati-Uniti dAmerica (Milano: Bonardi-
Pogliani, 1844).
23Alderson, Chap. 10 and “Sources,” at the end
of the book. His Memoirs were essentially
unknown to Wisconsinites until their trans¬
lation in 1915 by Sister Mary Benedicta
Kennedy, O.S.D., the order that Rev.
Mazzuchelli founded, headquartered at
Sinsinawa. The book was reprinted in 1967.
Rev. Mazzuchelli founded many parishes in
southwest Wisconsin, eventually settling in
Benton, Wisconsin, where he served as pas¬
tor until his death in 1864.
24Warren Chase, The Life-Line of the Lone One;
or Autobiography of the World's Child (Marsh,
1857).
25For a succinct account of his life see Dictionary
of Wisconsin Biography (Madison: The State
Historical Society of Wisconsin, 1960).
26See Richard Boudreau, “Wisconsin’s First
Novel,” Transactions of the Wisconsin Acad¬
emy of Sciences, Arts and Letters 86, 1998. Two
other books in Blackshear appear to be pos¬
sibilities: Teone by Rusco (Mary Ann Smith,
Milwaukee, 1862), and The Friar's Curse by
Michael Quigley (Milwaukee, 1870). But
neither is a novel; both are long narrative po¬
ems in the style of medieval romances.
27But in Publius V. Lawson’s article, “Mary
Elizabeth Mears: ‘Nellie Wildwood,”’ in Wis¬
consin Historical Society Proceedings for 191 6,
daughter Mary Mears claims that her mother
“was the author of many fugitive poems and
stories which appear in editions of the early
newspapers of Wisconsin.” If so, Elizabeth
Farnsworth Mears may hold another first: the
writer of the first Wisconsin short story.
28The first collection of short stories about which
there would be no argument is that of Capt.
Charles King: Starlight Ranch, and Other Sto¬
ries of Army Life on the Frontier (Lippincott,
1890).
Richard Boudreau, Professor Emeritus, UW-La
Crosse English Department, is co-editor of The
Critical Reception of Hamlin Garland, 1891-
1978, and editor of The Literary Heritage of
Wisconsin, Volumes 1 and 2. He holds degrees
from St. Mary's College, Winona, Minnesota,
Marquette University, Milwaukee, and Univer¬
sity of Wisconsin-Madison. Address: 2132
Winnebago Street, La Crosse, WI 54601.
Volume 86 (1998)
241
Richard Boudreau
Wisconsin’s First Novel
What was the first “Wisconsin” novel? The answer to that
question has traditionally been Bachelor Ben , by Ella
Augustus Giles, published in 1875. That assumption has gone
unchallenged for years, even in two lengthy books published
for the state’s centennial in 1948: The Story of Wisconsin Women
by Ruth de Young Kohler (76) and The Wisconsin Story by H.
Russell Austin (478). But in this year of Wisconsin’s sesqui-
centennial, it’s time to set the record straight: The Giles novel
clearly is not the first. A close review of Wisconsin Authors and
Their Books, 1836—1975, by Orilla Blackshear, turns up around
20 possible candidates for that honor. A few of these can be
eliminated for various reasons when cross-checked in The Na¬
tional Union Catalogue, but ten possibilities survive.
Even with the shorter list, however, there are still difficul¬
ties; it is not a simple task to define what a “Wisconsin” novel
should be. Though any definition will probably prove less than
satisfactory, let us try one that is at least simple and workable.
This would be two-fold: (1) that the writer at the time of com¬
position was or had been a resident of the area and (2) that
some part of the novel be set in the area and/or draw to some
extent on experiences from that residency, however tangential.
In other words, that both the writer and his/her artistic pro¬
duction reflect a Wisconsin connection. With this in mind let
us take a closer look at the possibilities.
Two books from the final list turn out not to be novels.
The entry in the Blackshear bibliography for Mary Ann Smith’s
book, Teone; or, The Magic Maid, published in Milwaukee in
1862 by the pseudonymous “Rusco,” is a long narrative poem
in the style of the medieval masterpiece, The Pearl. Strange
enough to be published in frontier Milwaukee, but even
stranger is that it purports to be told around the bunkhouse
stove in a Maine logging camp by one of the loggers. And its
story of magic, involving the lovely maid, Teone, a prince, a
Green Knight, a time frame of a year and a day, and a three
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
243
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
days waiting period before the final settle¬
ment of accounts, echoes the famous long
poem, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. But
this story in book form stretches to over
5,000 lines, double that of its model. And
the rest is silence: Who was Mary Ann
Smith? How did this book come to be writ¬
ten? How did it come to be published on a
Wisconsin press?
The second non-candidate is Trimsharp’s
Account of Himself, published originally in
1873, and including a handful of poems at
its end. The book is not poetry, however,
nor is it finally fiction, but, as its title sug¬
gests, an autobiography, though published
under a pseudonym. Not an autobiography
of an ordinary man — at the time of its writ¬
ing its author, Harvey A. Fuller, was only
38 years old. Born in upstate New York near
Lake Ontario, he grew up on the frontier,
first in New York, then in Ohio and Indi¬
ana. At the age of 20 he became deathly ill
with cholera, and through complications
and lingering illness, lost sight in both eyes.
After his recovery he attended the newly
opened Institution for the Blind in New
York City, where he became acquainted with
the inspirational Laura Bridgman, who
though blind, deaf and mute, lived a full life
(Fuller quotes an extensive passage from
Charles Dickens’s American Notes concern¬
ing this remarkable woman). After several
more adventures he entered Hillsdale Col¬
lege in Michigan, graduating in 1868. At the
urging of his friend, Wisconsin poet Will
Carleton, Fuller moved to Milwaukee a few
years after his autobiography appeared, and
lived the rest of his life there, publishing a
play and three books of poetry.
With Amanda: A Tale for the Times, by
W. H. Brisbane, M. D., we begin our look
at bona fide novels. Published in Philadelphia
in 1848, it is the tale of a beautiful young
woman of Cincinnati who exchanges prom¬
ises with her brother’s college friend, James
Ballou of Charleston, South Carolina. Along
the way she unknowingly arouses lust in one
of his classmates, Jack Dundas — the villain.
He arranges an elaborate plot of drugging,
kidnapping, and transportation to enslave¬
ment in New Orleans to achieve his ends.
Amanda herself is led to believe she is part
Negro, daughter of a slave. But both brother
and betrothed, each separately, discover her
whereabouts, free her, and have Dundas ar¬
rested. Though the preface suggests an attack
on “the wickedness of certain Federal and
State laws and Judicial Decrees,” the story is
merely an adventure-romance. And though
published as a book, at 12,500 words it is
hardly a long short story. William Henry
Brisbane (1803-1878) was an active aboli¬
tionist in the 1840s, a member of the Ameri¬
can and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society. In later
years, well after the publication of his tale,
he lived in Arena, Wisconsin.
Julia, or Sister Agnes, is certainly a novel,
but it is also a tract, first on living a good
Christian life and more narrowly a Catho¬
lic life (with strong overtones of Jansenism),
written by the Rev. John W. Vahey of Mil¬
waukee. Two Irishmen with their young
families emigrate to America in 1844, set¬
tling as farmers in central Illinois. But the
heart of the story is the wooing of Julia, the
properly raised daughter of Richard Burke,
by John, the atheistic son of James Moran.
He is headed for a bad end — corrupted by
the public schools, by the university (where
he worked on a law degree), and by his in¬
heritance of money. Her God-fearing par¬
ents see what he is and will be and forbid
Julia further contact with him. Frustrated,
Julia elopes to St. Louis, and with his prom¬
ise to become a Catholic, she marries him.
Of course it does not work out: he submits
her to a life of misery, heightened by his
drunkenness, his hypocrisy, his rages, and his
244
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BOUDREAU: Wisconsin’s First Novel
dissipation of the inheritances of both his
parents and hers. After five years of hell, Julia
is delivered — her husband expires in the
throes of delirium tremens. Penniless, she
becomes a laundress, eventually enters the
convent she had considered entering long
before, and dies there at the age of 45. Dis¬
cerning readers will note that since she was
born just prior to her family’s departure for
America, she must have died in 1889, 14
years after the time of the appearance of the
book. That’s writing for the eternities! The
narrative is not well told: characters, particu¬
larly Julia, are manipulated beyond belief.
Dialogues are stilted and often turn into dia¬
tribes. Even so, the story is a novel, and it
appeared in the same year as Ella Giles’s
Bachelor Ben .
Charles Herbert Richards’s novel, Will
Phillips , or, The Ups and Downs in Christian
Boy-Life, appeared in 1873. The publisher —
not listed in Blackshear (505) — was D.
Lothrop of Boston, and the book, catego¬
rized as juvenile fiction, was one of 32 titles
in the company’s Young Folks series. The
Union Catalogue contains no entry for the
book, though it does for other of his writ¬
ings. Of the two libraries with copies, nei¬
ther would release it for interlibrary loan.
Oddly enough, there is no copy of it regis¬
tered in the Library of Congress. A Congre¬
gational minister, Richards (1839-1925)
lived his last years in Madison, quite likely
well after this book was published. In any
case the exact year of his move to the state
raises the question of whether he could be
considered a Wisconsin author at the time
of the book’s publication.
Several Lives by Thomas Marshall, was
published in 1874 under the strange pseud¬
onym, Fasyl Stamford. It is an out and out
temperance tract — common enough in that
era — and at first sight seems to be a collec¬
tion of such stories. But it is more than
that — or less. It contains the parallel lives of
two Chicago men from birth to death. Each
chapter contains two parts, one devoted to
one man at a particular time in his life, the
other to the other man at the same time, the
chapter ending, usually ironically, with items
from the local newspapers. Albert Smythe,
son of a successful businessman, grows up
to live the good life, then through his own
success becomes an alcoholic. Dick Donner,
the son of a drunkard, doomed to alcohol¬
ism, late in life after his health has been de¬
stroyed by drink, becomes a reformer. The
book ends up qualifying as a novel, some¬
what unusual in its telling and always with
the failings of character and motivation
found in tracts, temperance or otherwise. It
also contains a curious appendix: a collec¬
tion of reports for the first months of 1874
of the women’s crusade against drink
throughout the United States, particularly in
the upper Midwest. Thomas Marshall was
a resident of Milwaukee at the time of its
publication.
Minnie Hermon: or, The Night and Its
Morning by Thurlow W. Brown, published
in 1854, would seem to be a prime candi¬
date for the first Wisconsin novel. Though
it is a temperance tract, a cautionary tale, it
is for all that clearly a novel. Thurlow W.
Brown was a New York native, a fervid “dry”
who edited the temperance newspaper, Ca¬
yuga Chief, beginning in 1849, when he was
30. In 1854 he moved to Hebron, Wiscon¬
sin, for his health, and two years later be¬
gan editing his paper in Fort Atkinson. In
1857 he changed its name to Wisconsin Chief
and began including abolitionist Elimina¬
tions as well. His style of delivery both writ¬
ten and spoken was “vehement, sarcastic,
and vitriolic” (Dictionary, 53), and perhaps
for that reason he was successful in reviving
the ailing temperance movement in the state.
The setting for the novel was upstate New
Volume 86 (1998)
245
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
York; that would not disqualify it, but
Brown notes in the preface that the story
“was commenced two years ago in the
American Temperance Magazine , but aban¬
doned,” and further that “detached chapters
. . . appeared in the Chief’ — all of this prior
to his move to Wisconsin.
There is only one Tucker noted in the
Blackshear listing: Mary Eliza Perine
Tucker, followed by various pseudonyms
and a reference to La Crosse (596). Her
novel, Confessions of a Flirt: “An Over True
Tale , ” under the pen-name of Ella Leigh,
published in 1865, would seem to qualify
as an early Wisconsin novel. The citation,
however, does not show that the place of
publication was Milledgeville, Georgia. Fur¬
ther research reveals that she was married
first to a John M. Tucker and later to a
James H. Lambert. Her second husband
worked for “Brick” Pomeroy on his New
York Democrat , and for a few months on
Pomeroy’s La Crosse Democrat as well. The
La Crosse city directory for 1868-69 lists
Lambert as assistant editor of the Democrat.
It was Mrs. Lambert’s 1868 biography, Life
of Mark M. Pomeroy, editor of the La Crosse
Democrat and a leader of the Copperheads
during the Civil War, that led to complex
confusion. David O. Coate, English profes¬
sor at the La Crosse normal school, assumed
that the author of the Pomeroy biography
was the La Crosse Mrs. Tucker who had
published the book, Hawthorne Dale, in
1869 (71).
But the La Crosse Mrs. Tucker’s given
names were Elizabeth Letitia, and it is cer¬
tain that she was the mother of Blanche
Roosevelt, a moderately successful opera
singer and writer, who was born in 1854 in
Ohio, shortly before they moved to La
Crosse. Thus if she was “Ella Leigh,” she
would have been scarcely 16 at the time of
the birth of her daughter and lived not only
in Ohio and Wisconsin but also in Geor¬
gia — not impossible, but certainly improb¬
able. The evidence seems overwhelming:
Mary Eliza Perrine Tucker, “Ella Leigh,”
cannot be considered a Wisconsin author.
But Elizabeth Letitia Tucker of La Crosse
can be. Her book, Hawthorne Dale, is, how¬
ever, neither fish nor fowl, spending 200
pages on English country life and another
200 pages on Masonry (including a descrip¬
tion of the first Masonic funeral in La
Crosse). The book, not listed in Blackshear
at all, is certainly not a novel and so must
be disqualified.
Another writer not mentioned by Black¬
shear and not included in the list of ten re¬
ferred to earlier is Mrs. E. D. E. N.
Southworth, an enormously popular novel¬
ist of the mid-nineteenth century. As a
young bride she lived in Prairie du Chien
from 1841 to 1844 and taught school in
Platteville during that time (Campbell, 187).
She seems to have used the three year expe¬
rience on the frontier in only one novel, In¬
dia, or The Pearl of Pearl River, 185 6. Seri¬
alized three years earlier in The National Era
(the magazine in which Harriet Beecher
Stowe’s Uncle Tom's Cabin appeared), it
originally bore the title, Mark Sutherland, or
Power and Principle. Though the frontier
setting provides the background for about a
third of the novel, Mrs. Southworth did not
locate the site in Wisconsin but along the
Mississippi in Illinois somewhere above
Rock Island. Neither her residency nor the
setting of her novel, then, are adequate to
mark her book as the first Wisconsin novel.
Stronger candidates are two novels writ¬
ten by Juliette Magill Kinzie, who is well
known to Wisconsin readers. Her husband
was appointed Indian Agent at the Portage
in 1830, and the couple lived there for two
and a half years. Her memories of that era
are beautifully told in her book, Wau-Bun,
246
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BOUDREAU: Wisconsin’s First Novel
the Early Day in the Northwest, first pub¬
lished in 1856 and republished many times
since. Following the years at the Portage,
they lived in Chicago, and Mrs. Kinzie, be¬
sides raising a family, continued her writing.
The novel, Walter Ogilby, appeared in 1869;
Mark Logan the Bourgeois, in 1871 (the 1887
edition in Blackshear is a reprint, 342), a
year after Mrs. Kinzie’s death. The first was
set in New York state (not “at Fort Winne¬
bago” as the Dictionary of Wisconsin Biogra¬
phy has it, 208); the second, an adventure
novel, is set in what was then Michigan ter¬
ritory — in Green Bay, along the Fox River,
and at the Portage. The narrative is compe¬
tently written, though the story, concerning
an affluent young man masquerading as a
voyageur is derivative. Mrs. Kinzie makes
good use of her knowledge of the settings.
Is two and half years enough to qualify a
writer as a native? We would certainly balk
at not calling Wau-Bun anything other than
a Wisconsin book.
But the strongest candidate for the honor
of the first “Wisconsin” novel seems to be
the book, Garangula, the Ongua-Honwa
Chief: A Tale of Indian life Among the
Mohawks and Onondagas Two Hundred
Years Ago. Published in Milwaukee in 1857,
its title page claims that it was written by a
citizen of that city. The book is certainly a
novel — about 60,000 words in length.
Commentary about the book in an article,
“Early Wisconsin Imprints,” in Wisconsin
Historical Society Proceedings for 1 903 ( 1 20-
21) reveals nothing further about the author.
The subject matter and setting are obviously
New York, but in the early days of Dutch
settlement. It is, primarily, a love story in¬
volving Katrine, “a beautiful, plump, rosy-
cheeked, black-eyed” girl, and Diedrich, a
stalwart Dutch boy. They are caught up in
the border wars, allies of the Mohawk but
enemies of the French. Through all the mis¬
understandings and hair-raising adventures,
love finally wins out, and handsome Died¬
rich in the end marries the beautiful Katrine,
and they all live happily ever after. Because
of his/her intimate knowledge of the area
around Schenectady, the author must have
been raised there. So important questions
remain: When did he/she write the book?
When did he/she move to Wisconsin?
And then there is Bachelor Ben. That, too,
is set in New York, but in the city. Benjamin
Grant, a bachelor of about 30, finds an
abandoned babe on his doorstep at mid¬
night. The following day he adopts the little
girl, naming her Bertha. Later he befriends
a young boy by the name of Harry, takes
him under his wing and sends him to school.
Of course love develops between the two
youngsters, and following college Harry will
marry Bertha. Then there are revelations:
Bertha and Harry are said to be brother and
sister! A few bad moments — but the confu¬
sion is finally cleared up. They marry and
live happily ever after with Bachelor Ben
helping them set up an orphanage in the
mansion of his former partner, the real fa¬
ther of Bertha. That was the first, but not
the only novel by Ella Giles, later Ruddy.
She continued her career in writing, both
fiction and poetry, but the date of that first
novel is finally too late to stand unchallenged
as the first in Wisconsin.
What we have left after this curious — and
curiouser — walk- about among the musty
pages of the past are six possibilities:
Garangula, 1857, is the earliest published —
if only we knew something definitive about
the author. Walter Ogilby, 1869, and Mark
Logan, 1871, were the next earliest, and
though it is a book for boys, we can’t just
ignore Will Phillips, whose date of publica¬
tion, 1873, puts it midway among these sur¬
vivors. Several Lives, 1874, is another possi¬
bility, but it just barely qualifies as a novel.
Volume 86 (1998)
247
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Julia shares the publication date of 1875
with Bachelor Ben , but like that novel, it is
not set in the state, though both Rev. Vahey
and Ella Giles are certainly Wisconsin au¬
thors. Not one is a perfect candidate.
Garangula should, without question, be
cited at the first novel published in Wiscon¬
sin, but since it seems likely that its author
wrote the story before coming to the state,
it cannot be considered the first “Wiscon¬
sin” novel. That leaves the novels of Juliette
Magill Kinzie, whose ties to Wisconsin were
short though strong. Her first novel, Walter
Ogilby, set elsewhere, does not reveal any ties
to the state, and so misses on one of our cri¬
teria. But her second novel not only takes
place primarily in what would become Wis¬
consin, but makes vivid use of her actual ex¬
periences in the area. Mark Logan , then,
seems the best and firmest candidate for the
honor of being called the first “Wisconsin”
novel.
Works Cited
Austin, H, Russell. The Wisconsin Story: The
Building of a Vanguard State. Milwaukee,
Wisconsin: The Journal Company, 1948.
Blackshear, Orilla T. (ed.). Wisconsin Authors
and Their Books, 1836-1975. Madison, Wis¬
consin: Wisconsin Department of Public In¬
struction, 1976.
Boyle, Regis Louise. Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth,
Novelist. Washington, D.C. Catholic Univer¬
sity of America, 1939.
Campbell, Henry C. Wisconsin in Three Centu¬
ries, IV. New York: Century History Com¬
pany, 1906.
Coate, David O. “Some Early La Crosse County
Authors.” La Crosse County Historical Sketches,
Series Six, Albert H. Sanford (ed.). La Crosse,
Wisconsin: La Crosse County Historical So¬
ciety, 1942; 51-72.
Dictionary of Wisconsin Biography. Madison: The
State Historical Society of Wisconsin, I960.
Kohler, Ruth de Young. The Story of Wisconsin
Women. Kohler, Wisconsin:The Committee
on Wisconsin Women for the Wisconsin
Centennial, 1948.
Legler, Henry Eduard, “Early Wisconsin Im¬
prints: A Preliminary Essay.” Proceedings of
The Wisconsin Historical Society, 1903; 118-
38.
National Union Catalogue, pre-1956, 685 vol¬
umes. London, England: Mansell, and Wash¬
ington, D. C.: Library of Congress, 1968-81.
Richard Boudreau, Professor Emeritus, UW-La
Crosse English Department is co-editor of The
Critical Reception of Hamlin Garland, 1891-
1978, and editor of The Literary Heritage of
Wisconsin, Volumes 1 and 2. He holds degrees
from St. Mary's College, Winona, Minnesota,
Marquette University, Milwaukee, and UW-
Madison. Address: 2132 Winnebago Street, La
Crosse, WI 54601.
248
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Keith R. McCaffery, James E. Ashbrenner,
and Robert E. Rolley
Deer Reproduction in Wisconsin
Abstract White-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus) reproductive
information was obtained during 1982—87 from 1,686 does.
About two-thirds of all does were pregnant in all regions except
the Southern Farmland Region where about three-quarters were
pregnant. The incidence of fawn pregnancy ranged from 3% in
the Northern Forest Region to 51% in the Southern Farmland
Region and appeared to vary with deer density relative to estimates
of maximum carrying capacity. Statewide, the number of fetuses
per pregnant doe averaged 1.65 ± 0.02 (S.E). Mean litter size of
yearlings and adults was generally lower in the forested regions
than in the farmland regions. The sex ratio for all fetuses observed
was 109 males per 100 females. In utero productivity of does
increased with age until 2.5 years old and declined after does
reached 8.5 years of age. Estimates of in utero productivity for
regional populations ranged from 1.10 fawns per doe in the
Northern Forest Region to 1.26 in the Southern Farmland Region
and correlated with the percentage of yearlings among does and
with antler development of yearling bucks.
The Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources (WDNR)
is responsible for balancing the positive benefits (hunting
and non-hunting recreation, economic expenditures, etc.) and
negative impacts (deer-vehicle accidents, crop damage, etc.) of
Wisconsin’s white-tailed deer resource. The WDNR uses regu¬
lated harvests to manage deer populations at established popu¬
lation goals. Proper harvest management involves balancing
mortality rates with reproduction. However, deer reproductive
potential has not been well documented in Wisconsin. Earlier
research had limited sample size (Dahlberg and Guettinger
1956:84) or restricted geographic distribution (Hale 1959).
Additionally, reproductive rates of white-tailed deer are den¬
sity-dependent (McCullough 1979), and deer densities in the
farmland regions have increased considerably since these ear¬
lier studies.
TRANSACTIONS
Volume 86 (1998)
249
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Our objectives were to determine age-
specific reproductive rates and fetal sex ratios
for the major physiographic regions in the
state. Additionally, we compared estimates
of the productivity of regional deer popu¬
lations to several indices that are currently
used to monitor deer reproduction.
Physiographic Regions
Wisconsin is divided into over 120 deer
management units. For our analyses, deer
management units were grouped into 5
physiographic regions based mainly on land
use (Figure 1).
Northern Forest Region
This region lies above 45° latitude in the east
and 46° in the west. Severe winters (causing
significant direct mortality of deer) occur on
average once per 3 to 4 years (Kohn 1972,
McCaffery 1987). Most units within this
region are 73 to 95% deer range (patches >
4 ha [10 acres] of commercial and non¬
commercial forest land, reverting brushy old
Fields, plus a 100 m [330 ft] perimeter
extending from this permanent cover into
agricultural fields [McCaffery 1988, Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources
1994]) and forested mainly with northern
hardwoods (mostly Acer spp.), aspen ( Popu -
lus spp.), balsam fir ( Abies balsamea ), pines
(Finns spp.), and swamp conifers (mostly
Picea mariana, Thuja occidentalis, and
balsam fir) (Spencer et al. 1988). Topo¬
graphy is gently to moderately rolling. Soils
include stoney glacial till, pitted outwash
sands, and peat.
Deer densities from 1982 to 1987
averaged about 6.7 deer/km2 (17/mi2) of
deer range, which is close to the established
goal of 6.9 (18/mi2). Winters are the main
variable affecting annual variation in
carrying capacity in northern Wisconsin.
The winter severity index for northern
Wisconsin (Creed et al. 1984:256) averaged
62 for the 6 years of the study compared
to the long term (1960-89) average index
of 68 (Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources 1994:12). Severe conditions for
deer occur when the index exceeds 80.
Thus, sampling occurred under repre¬
sentative deer densities and winter con¬
ditions.
Central Forest Region
This region experiences severe winters for
deer an average of once in 6 years (Kubisiak
1979). The primary landuse is forestry and
cranberry production, although dairy and
truck farming exists on the perimeter of this
region. The land is generally flat and is 70
to 88% deer range, which includes open
marshes and forests that are mostly oaks
(Quercus spp.), pines, and aspen. Soils are
mainly sands, sandy loams, and shallow
peats. Deer populations in the Central
Forest Region averaged about 12.3 deer/km2
(32/mi2) of deer range during the study,
which is somewhat above the goal of 10.6
(28/mi2).
The Farmland Regions
The Eastern and Western Farmlands,
separated by the Central Forest Region, lie
above latitude 44° and below the Northern
Forest. These regions experience significant
winter losses of deer infrequently (1967 and
1979 from 1960-90), whereas winter losses
are even less frequent (only 1979 from
1960-90) in the Southern Farmland
Region which is between 42°30" and 44°
latitude. In all 3 regions, upland forests are
mainly central hardwoods (oaks, maples,
hickories [Cary a spp.]) and pines, while
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McCAFFERY et al.: Deer Reproduction in Wisconsin
Figure 1. Regions sampled during the 1982-87 deer reproduction survey in Wisconsin.
The Northern Region lies north of a line from the cities of Grantsburg to Spooner in the
west and from Cornell to Marinette in the east. The Southern Farmland Region lies
generally south of a line from LaCrosse to Oshkosh.
wetlands are represented by marshes, shrub-
carr, and lowland hardwoods (mainly
Fraxinus s pp. and Acer sacch annum). Deer
range comprises 25 to 75% of most units,
lower in the southeast. Topography varies
from gently rolling in the east to steep-
walled valleys (mostly 100-200 m [330-
660 ft] of relief) in the west. Soils are
mainly silt loams and sandy loams. Dairy
farming is the primary land use. Overwinter
deer populations during this study averaged
close to the 1986 goal of about 9 deer/km2
(23/mi2) of deer range (Wisconsin De¬
partment of Natural Resources 1994:28).
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Methods
Wildlife managers throughout the state
were provided instructions for collection of
reproductive observations from dead deer
(mostly road-killed). Observers removed the
uterus to determine presence, number, and
sex of fetuses. Presence or absence of
lactation was noted when fetuses were
absent. Observations were restricted to 1
February through 1 June to facilitate
determination of sex of fetuses. Observers
were instructed to examine deer systema¬
tically and not to choose only those that
were obviously pregnant.
Ages of deer were initially assigned in the
Field as fawn, yearling, or adult using a
modification of tooth wear and replacement
criteria (Severinghaus 1949). The age
assigned was the age at the time the deer
would have been bred. To confirm field
assigned ages and to obtain specific ages of
adult does, incisors were collected from each
doe, and cementum annuli were counted
on thin sections (Low and Cowan 1963,
Gilbert 1966, Kuehn 1970). When annuli
on tooth sections of young deer were
indistinct, the field assigned age was used
as suggested by Howe (1980).
In utero productivity of regional popu¬
lations was estimated by multiplying the
estimated proportion of the doe population
in each age class by the respective pregnancy
rate and fetuses per pregnant doe. The
proportion of yearlings and adults for each
region was determined using age data
obtained from harvested animals (Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources,
unpublished data). The proportion of fawns
was estimated from summer roadside
observations of fawns and does in the
forested regions, an assumed fawn:doe ratio
of 1.2 for the farmland regions, and the
observed fetal sex ratio of 109 males per 100
females. The resulting age distribution of
females ranged from 28% fawns, 20%
yearlings, and 32% adults in the Northern
Forest Region to 36% fawns, 27% year¬
lings, and 37% adults in the Southern
Farmland. Estimates of in utero herd
productivity were compared to 3 potential
indices of reproductive performance: (1)
summer roadside observations of fawns per
doe (Rusch 1986), (2) antler development
of yearling bucks (percentage with forked
antlers), and (3) the percentage of yearlings
among does > 1.5 years old (Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources, un¬
published data).
Regional pregnancy rates of fawns were
compared to regional deer densities relative
to estimated maximum deer carrying
capacity. Estimates of regional deer carrying
capacity were based on observed rates of
population increase (post-harvest to sub¬
sequent preharvest or Lambda2) relative to
deer population size (Keith 1988; Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources
1994, 1995); i.e., K = D/2-L where D is
the 13-year (1981—93) mean deer density,
L is the mean (1981-93) Lambda2, and 2
was assumed to be the maximum instan¬
taneous rate of increase for any region
(McCullough 1979, Keith 1988, Me-
Caffery 1989, Wisconsin Department of
Natural Resources 1995: Appendix C).
We used two-way ANOVA to test for
age and region effects on mean litter size
and made multiple-comparisons with the
Duncan’s Multiple Range Test. Because
litter size is count data, we used a square
root transformation (Snedecor and Cochran
1967). These procedures were also used to
test for effects of doe age on in utero
productivity. Log-linear analyses of three-
way contingency tables and chi-square
analysis of two-way contingency tables were
used to examine the effect of age and region
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McCAFFERY et al.: Deer Reproduction in Wisconsin
on pregnancy rate. The relationship of preg¬
nancy rate and relative population density
was assessed with Spearman rank correl¬
ation as were the relationships of estimated
herd productivity with the 3 indices of
reproduction. Fetal sex ratios were tested for
deviation from a 1 : 1 ratio using a chi-square
goodness of fit test, and chi-square con¬
tingency tables were used to compare fetal
sex ratios among age classes and litter size.
Results
During 1982-87, 1,686 does and 1,895 fe¬
tuses were examined. Though not specifi¬
cally solicited, no observers reported discov¬
ering mummified or decaying fetuses. Over
94% of the deer were killed by vehicles on
roads. Although samples were sought
throughout the state, almost three-fourths of
the total sample came from farmland regions
(Table 1) because of the high frequency of
roadkills there.
Pregnancy Rate
Pregnancy rates differed among age classes
in all 5 regions (%2 = 68.01-215.12, 2 df, P
- 0.001), much lower for fawns than for
yearlings and adults (Table 1). Among
yearlings and adults, the effect of age was
consistent among regions (%2 = 1.42, 4 df,
P= 0.84), lower for yearlings than adults (%2
= 23.71, 1 df, P < 0.001).
The effect of region on pregnancy rate
differed among age classes (%2 = 31.92, 8 df,
P < 0.001). Pregnancy rate did not differ
among regions for adults (%2 = 2.22, 4 df,
P - 0.70) or yearlings (%2 = 3.56, 4 df, P -
0.47). However, pregnancy rate of fawns
differed among regions (%2 = 85.41, 4 df, P
= 0.001); lowest in the Northern Forest,
intermediate in the Central Forest and
Eastern and Western Farmland regions, and
highest in the Southern Farmland. Regional
fawn pregnancy rate was negatively correlated
(r = -1.00, n = 5, P < 0.001) with relative
Table 1. In utero productivity of female white-tailed deer by age class (when bred) for
5 regions of Wisconsin, 1982-87. Values shown ±1 standard error.
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population density (percent of estimated
regional carrying capacity) and positively
correlated with regional carrying capacity
(r = 0.90, n = 5 , P = 0.04, Table 2).
Mean Litter Size
Among the 1,152 litters examined, 39%
contained a single fawn, 57% contained
twins, and 3% contained triplets. Only two
sets of quadruplets were encountered during
the study, both from farmland regions.
Statewide, the mean (± SE) litter size
(number of fetuses per pregnant doe) was
1.65 ± 0.02 (Table 1). The effect of region
on mean litter size differed among age classes
(F = 2.61; 8, 1,136 df; P = 0.008). For adult
(> 2.5 yrs when bred) does, mean litter size
varied among regions (F = 3.46; 4, 551 df;
P < 0.008), lower in the Northern Forest
than in the Eastern and Western Farmland
regions. Mean litter size of yearlings also
differed among regions (F = 6.03; 4, 371; P
<0.001), lower in the Northern and Central
Forests than in the 3 farmland regions.
Because of the low fawn pregnancy rate in
the Northern Forest, sample size was too
small (n = 2) for reliable estimation of mean
litter size. Therefore, we excluded the
Northern Forest from the regional com¬
parison. Mean litter size for fawns did not
differ among the 4 remaining regions (F =
0.24; 3, 213 df; P= 0.87).
Productivity versus age
In utero productivity (fetus/doe, including
does that were not pregnant) varied among
ages (F = 168.88; 9, 1,653 df; P < 0.001),
increasing with age for fawns, yearlings, and
2 year old does (Figure 2). Productivity did
not differ among 2-8 year old does (P >
0.05), but productivity of 9+ year old does
was lower than for 3-6 year old does (P <
0.05). The oldest doe observed during the
present collection was 1 8 years old and was
carrying one fetus.
Fetal Sex ratios
Sex was determined for 1,803 of the 1,895
fetuses examined. The sex ratio was 109
males per 100 females, which was nearly dif¬
ferent from 1:1 (%2 = 3.29, 1 df, P = 0.07).
Fetal sex ratios did not vary among doe age
class (%2 = 1.62, 2 df, P = 0.45), litter sizes
(%2 = 1.14, 3 df, P = 0.77), or region (%2 =
3.16, 4 df, P= 0.53).
Regional Population Productivity
Estimates of in utero productivity for re¬
gional populations ranged from 1.10 fawns
per doe in the Northern Forest to 1.26 fawns
per doe in the Southern Farmland (Table 3)
and correlated well with the subsequent per¬
centage of yearlings among does >1.5 years
(r = 0.97, n = 5, P - 0.005) and the per¬
centage of yearling bucks with forked ant¬
lers (r = 0.90 , n = 5, P = 0.04). The per¬
centage of yearling does and the percentage
of yearling bucks with forked antlers also
were correlated (r = 0.97, n = 5, P - 0.005,
Table 3). However, the mean fawn: doe ra¬
tio from roadside observations did not cor¬
relate with regional in utero productivity (P
= 0.28), percent yearling does (P= 0.22), or
antler forking (P = 0.19).
Discussion
Among the reproductive parameters we mea¬
sured, fawn pregnancy rate showed the
strongest regional differences. The low fawn
pregnancy rate in the Northern Forest (3%)
during our study was similar to that reported
for northern Wisconsin by Hale (1959), for
northern Michigan by Friedrich and Hill
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McCAFFERY et al.: Deer Reproduction in Wisconsin
Table 2. Incidence of fawn pregnancy and recent deer herd status (deer/km2) relative
to estimated maximum average carrying capacity (K) in 5 regions of Wisconsin.
a Average (1981-94) biological carrying capacity (K) by zone: K = D/2-Lambda2, where D is the average
overwinter deer density (1981-94), 2 is the assumed maximum instantaneous rate of increase for any region,
and Lambda2 is the average (1981-94) observed rate of herd increase from postharvest to subsequent
preharvest. Note that 2 - Lambda2 = %K/100.
6 Mean overwinter deer density estimate (1981-87) by region from Wisconsin Deer Database (WDNR 1989).
c Percent of fawns pregnant from Table 1 .
Table 3. Comparative indices to deer reproduction in the 5 regions of Wisconsin.
a In utero productivity of regional population based on age-specific fetuses per doe and age composition of
females.
b Six-year means (1982-87) of fawns/doe from Summer Deer Observation Survey (McCaffery 1992).
c Percent yearlings among does >1 .5 yr. (1983-88) and percent of yearling bucks with forked antlers (1982-
87) from WDNR unpublished data.
(1982), and for northern Minnesota by Bill
Berg (Minnesota Department of Natural
Resources, unpublished data).
We estimated a 17% fawn pregnancy rate
in the Central Forest; however, our sample
size was relatively small. Prior research in this
region found only 3 of 40 fawns (8%)
necropsied during late-winters of 1968-72
contained fetuses, and only 3 of 38 yearling
does (8%) with corpora albicantia (indicat¬
ing prior pregnancy) between 1979-84
(John Kubisiak, Wisconsin Department of
Natural Resources, unpublished data). Hale
(1959) reported 16% fawn breeding in his
West Central Area, which included both
Central Forest and farmland counties. We
retabulated his data for our Central Forest
Region, and only 6 of 79 fawns (8%) were
bred. Our estimate of fawn pregnancy rate
for this region was not statistically different
from these earlier estimates (%2 = 2.88, 2 df,
P- 0.24).
Fawn pregnancy rates were at intermedi¬
ate levels in the Eastern and Western Farm¬
land and highest in the Southern Farmland
Region. The 51% fawn pregnancy rate in
the Southern Farmland Region was lower
than the 65 to 74% reported for Iowa
(Haugen 1975), but similar to southern
Minnesota (45%, Ingebrigtsen 1988) and
Volume 86 (1998)
255
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Figure 2. Average fetuses per doe by age class in Wisconsin during 1982-87. Numbers
denote total does in sample and vertical bars show 95% confidence limits.
southern Michigan (51%, Friedrich and Hill
1982:Table B, and Verme 1991).
Deer reproductive performance is affected
by nutritional condition, which in turn is
influenced by density relative to carrying ca¬
pacity (McCullough 1979 and 1984, Verme
1983, Teer 1984:274). Fertility of the
youngest does (fawns and yearlings) is most
affected by environmental variables (Hessel-
ton and Jackson 1974). McCullough
(1979:61) and Downing and Guynn (1983)
indicated that fawn breeding would not gen¬
erally occur when population densities ex¬
ceed 60% of carrying capacity.
Local deer carrying capacity is affected by
habitat quality, but on a larger scale it is also
affected by climate (Strickland et al.
1994:451). The incidence of fawn breeding
in Wisconsin increased with decreasing lati¬
tude (climatic effect of milder winters and
longer growing seasons). Also, the availabil¬
ity of agricultural crops, with high nutrient
quality, increases with decreasing latitude.
Thus, carrying capacity was much higher in
the southern regions of the state. Deer popu¬
lation goals are roughly similar across regions
(-7-10 deer/km2, 18-28/mi2). As one
moved south, the lower deer densities rela¬
tive to carrying capacity resulted in increased
fawn breeding. Regional differences in mean
litter size of yearlings and adults also sug¬
gested lower reproduction in the forested
regions than the farmland regions.
In utero productivity increased with age
through 2 years of age, was stable for 2- to
8-year-old does, and then declined (Figure
2). This pattern was very similar to that re¬
ported for the eastern United States by Sileo
(1966:Figure 2) and a large dataset from
Michigan (Friedrich and Hill 1982).
Our statewide fetal sex ratio (109 males/
100 females) was similar to other sex ratio
estimates for the Lake States, which range
from 107 to 119 males/ 100 females (Mc-
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McCAFFERY et al. : Deer Reproduction in Wisconsin
Cullough 1979, Verme 1985, Ingebrigtsen
1988, Paul Friedrich, Michigan Department
of Natural Resources, unpublished data). A
number of factors have been hypothesized
to influence in utero sex ratios including age
of the doe (Severinghaus 1984), litter size
(Verme 1983), nutritional status (Verme
and Ullrey 1984:99, Verme 1985), deer
density (McCullough 1979:68), and timing
of breeding (Verme and Ozoga 1981).
Verme (1983) and Ozoga and Verme (1986)
also indicate that primiparous (first preg¬
nancy) does, whether fawns or yearlings,
have disproportionately more male off¬
spring. Despite considerable variation in
regional carrying capacity and relative
population density, we detected no regional
variation in fetal sex ratio. Likewise, we
found no effect of maternal age or litter size
on fetal sex ratio.
The factors that affect sex ratio may vary
by region and year, and some factors may
be compensatory. But precise and accurate
measurement of sex ratio differences requires
huge sample sizes. Following their review of
the literature, Woolf and Harder (1979)
concluded that many observed departures
from a near 1:1 ratio may be “mere local¬
ized aberrations.” Based on our findings and
other research in the region, it seems reason¬
able to believe that the fetal sex ratio tends
to favor males in Wisconsin.
Despite the large regional differences in
some age-specific reproductive parameters,
estimates of population productivity (fawns/
all does) were relatively similar among re¬
gions ranging only from 1.10 fawns/doe in
the Northern Forest Region to 1.26 in the
Southern Farmland Region. This similarity
was caused by the higher proportion of fawn
and yearling does in the population, which
produce at lower rates than adults, in the
South. Although population productivity
was relatively similar among regions, south¬
ern herds had a much higher rate of popu¬
lation increase (mean Lambda2 of 1.72 for
the Southern Farmland Region vs. 1.33 for
the Northern Forest Region when herds are
at goals [Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources 1995:191-92]). This was due in
part to the higher proportions of does in the
population in the South as a result of higher
harvest rates of bucks. In addition, recruit¬
ment of fawns to the fall population is a
function of both reproduction and neona¬
tal survival. Neonatal survival is likely lower
in the North due to inadequate maternal
nutrition (Verme 1977).
Regional estimates of population produc¬
tivity were strongly correlated with the per¬
centage of yearlings among does, which is
routinely measured in harvested samples.
However, variable over-winter mortality as¬
sociated with winter severity may limit the
usefulness of yearling age composition for
evaluating annual variation in fawn produc¬
tion, especially in the forested regions. Ant¬
ler development of yearling bucks has been
demonstrated to correlate with production
in New York (Severinghaus and Moen
1983) and was significantly correlated with
both population productivity and yearling
age composition of does. Yearling antler de¬
velopment is annually monitored through
mandatory registration of harvested deer and
shows promise for monitoring annual as well
as regional variation in reproduction.
The Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources has collected roadside observa¬
tions of fawns and does since the early
1960s. Kohn (1976) reported a negative re¬
lationship between fawn:doe ratios in the
Northern Forest and an index to winter se¬
verity. The lack of correlation between
roadside fawmdoe ratios and regional popu¬
lation productivity, percentage of yearlings
among does, and antler development of
yearling bucks in this study raises questions
Volume 86 (1998)
257
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
about the usefulness of this index. Addi¬
tional research should assess the validity of
this index of deer reproduction, especially in
the farmland regions.
Recently, some have expressed concern
about the effect of high adult buck harvest
rates on deer social behavior and herd pro¬
ductivity (Miller et al. 1995). Hale (1959)
indicated that the annual firearm hunting sea¬
son in November did not seem to impair
pregnancy rates in Wisconsin at the time of
his study. Deer populations and adult buck
mortality rates in Wisconsin farmland have
increased during the past 30 years. The high
incidence of pregnancy among farmland does
suggests that pregnancy rates are near normal
(Harder 1980) despite adult buck mortality
rates of 85 to 90% in many units due mostly
to late November gun hunting (Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources 1989:IV).
The peak of conceptions tends to occur in
mid-November prior to Wisconsin’s firearm
hunt, however much of the fawn breeding
occurs during December (Hale 1959) by sur¬
viving adult bucks or pubertal buck fawns
(L.J. Verme, pers. comm.).
The results of this study have led to two
modifications to WDNR’s deer population
model. First, the fawn sex ratio is now as¬
sumed to be 110 males per 100 females
statewide rather than the region-specific es¬
timates of 1 1 1-135:100, based on harvested
samples of fawns that were used prior to
1986. Second, we have suspended the use
of annual data from the summer roadside
fawn/doe index in farmland regions, using
long-term constants instead.
Since these data were collected, deer
populations have increased substantially in
the Northern Forest and farmland regions
(ratio of mean 1994-96 population esti-
mates:mean 1982-87 population estimates
= 1.66, 0.93, 1.36, 1.49, and 1.45 for the
Northern Forest, Central Forest, Eastern
Farmland, Western Farmland, and South¬
ern Farmland, respectively). While we sus¬
pect that fawn pregnancy rates have de¬
clined in some regions with the increases in
deer density, direct measures of deer repro¬
duction (in utero fetal counts) are not avail¬
able for recent years. Other indices of re¬
production (roadside fawnidoe ratios,
percentage of yearlings among does, and
antler development of yearling bucks) do
not show consistent declines that can be at¬
tributed to these higher deer densities. But
roadside observations and age composition
of harvested does combine data from all age
classes of does masking the contribution of
fawn does. Because yearlings and adults are
affected less by nutritional stress than are
fawns, these indices are relatively insensitive
to changes in density. Additionally, annual
variation of all 3 indices in the forested re¬
gions is strongly affected by variation in
winter severity, which complicates the de¬
tection of density-dependent declines in re¬
production within these regions (Mc¬
Cullough 1990).
Deer populations during 1994—96 were
well above prescribed population goals. Ag¬
gressive harvest strategies and back-to-back
severe winters (1996 and 1997) in the North
have greatly reduced herd levels. We expect
that the reproductive rates observed during
this study would be representative of popu¬
lations near goal.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks are due to all field personnel
who did the sometimes unpleasant task of
necropsying bloated dead deer. Thanks are
also offered to Dr. Lyle Nauman (UW-
Stevens Point) for coordinating the prepa¬
ration and reading of tooth sections by stu¬
dents. We also acknowledge Harry Hill and
Paul Friedrich (Michigan DNR) for provid-
258
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McCAFFERY et al.: Deer Reproduction in Wisconsin
ing tabulations of Michigan data to compare
to our own. This manuscript was improved
following reviews and comments on earlier
drafts by W.A. Creed, L.J. Verme, G.A.
Bartelt, R.T. Dumke, and anonymous ref¬
erees. The study was funded in part by Fed¬
eral Aid to Fish and Wildlife Restoration,
Pittman-Robertson Project W-141-R.
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Spencer, J.S., Jr., W.B. Smith, J.T. Hahn and
G. K. Raile. 1988. Wisconsin’s forth forest
inventory, 1983. U.S.D.A. Forest Service
Research Bulletin NC-107. 158 pp.
Strickland, M.D., H.J. Harju, K.R. McCaffery,
H. W. Miller, L.M. Smith, and R.J. Stoll.
1994. Harvest management. Pp. 445-73 in
T.A. Bookhout, ed. Research and manage¬
ment techniques for wildlife habitats. The
Wildlife Society, Bethesda, MD. 740 pp.
Teer, J.G. 1984. Lessons from the Llano Basin,
Texas. Pp. 261-90 in L.K. Halls, ed. White¬
tailed deer ecology and management. Wildlife
Management Institute, Stackpole Books. 870
pp.
Verme, L.J. 1977. Assessment of natal mortality
in Upper Michigan deer. Journal of Wildlife
Management 41 (4) :7 00-08.
Verme, L.J. 1983. Sex ratio variation in
Odocoileus: A critical review. Journal of
Wildlife Management 47(3):573-82.
260
TRANSACTIONS
McCAFFERY et al . : Deer Reproduction in Wisconsin
Verme, L.J. 1985. Progeny sex ratio relationships
in deer: theoretical vs. observed. Journal of
Wildlife Management 49 ( 1 ) : 1 34-36.
Verme, L.J. 1991. Decline in doe fawn fertility
in southern Michigan deer. Canadian Journal
of Zoology 69:25-28.
Verme, L.J., and J.J. Ozoga. 1981. Sex ratio of
white-tailed deer and the estrus cycle. Journal
of Wildlife Management 45(3):7 1 0 — 1 5.
Verme, L.J., and D.E. Ullrey. 1984. Physiology
and nutrition. Pp. 91-1 18 in L.K. Halls, ed.
White-tailed deer ecology and management.
Wildlife Management Institute, Stackpole
Books. 870 pp.
Woolf, A., and J.D. Harder. 1979. Population
dynamics of captive white-tailed deer herd
with emphasis on reproduction and
mortality. Wildlife Monographs No. 67. 53
pp.
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.
1989. Management workbook for white-tailed
deer. Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources, Madison 53707. Looseleaf.
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.
1994. Wisconsin’s deer management pro¬
gram: the issues involved in decision-making.
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources,
PUBL-RS-9 11-94. 31 pp.
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources.
1995. Deer population goals and harvest man¬
agement environmental assessment. Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources, Madison,
WI. 305 pp.
Keith McCaffery is a forest-wildlife research
biologist whose major work since 1963 has been
on deer and rujfed grouse habitat relationships
and deer population monitoring. Address :
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources,
P.O. Box 576, Rhinelander, WI 54501.
James Ashbrenner is a research technician who
has major responsibility for coordinating
statewide forest wildlife surveys including
collecting and analyzing tooth sections and
reproductive tracts. Address: Wisconsin Depart¬
ment of Natural Resources, P.O. Box 576,
Rhinelander, WI 54501.
Robert Rolley is a wildlife population ecologist
with special skills in population analysis,
statistics, and modeling. He oversees the
development and improvement of Wisconsin s
wildlife surveys and databases. Address:
Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources,
1350 Femrite Drive, Monona, WI 53716.
Volume 86 (1998)
261
Neil F. Payne, Bruce E. Kohn, Ned C. Norton1 and
Gordon G. Bertagnoli
Black Bear Food Items
in Northern Wisconsin
Abstract We identified 68 black bear (Ursus americanus) food items in 967
scats collected during May through August 1976—79. Frequency
of occurrence and volume composition indicate that seasonally
important foods were grasses (Gramineae), sedges (Carex spp.),
sweet cicely (Osmorhiza claytonii), and quaking aspen (Populus
tremuloides) in May; grasses, sedges, ants (Formicidae), jack-in -
the-pulpit (Arisaema triphyllum), and sweet cicely in June; ants,
tree and shrub fruit, and wild sarsaparilla (Aralia nudicaulis) in
July; ants and tree and shrub fruit in August. Plants were found
in 100% of the scats, insects in 47%, and other animals in 15%.
Of 13 forest communities examined, important bear foods
appeared to be more abundant in boreal, aspen, wet mesic, and
wet communities.
Black bear food habits have been reported elsewhere in re¬
cent studies (Beeman and Pelton 1980, Irwin and
Hammond 1985, Rogers 1987, Hellgren and Vaughan 1988,
MacHutchon 1989, McClinton et al. 1992, Hellgren 1993,
Boileau et al. 1994). Seasonal changes in diets of black bears
are related to availability of foods, preference, and physiological
needs (Tisch 1961, Landers et al. 1979, Beeman and Pelton
1980). Availability of foods has been reported to influence
reproductive success and the localization of activities within
home ranges (Rogers 1976, 1987; Lindzey and Meslow 1977;
Novick 1979; Beecham 1980; Young 1980). Thus, the
identification of principal and alternate food sources is an
important aspect of black bear ecology.
This paper is the compilation of 2 studies (Norton 1981,
Bertagnoli 1986) designed to identify the important summer
(May-August) food items for black bears. The compilation
provides the most comprehensive list of black bear foods for
1 Deceased, June 20, 1993, at age 43 from Lou Gehrig’s disease. This paper
is dedicated to him and the memory of his sense of humor and his
professionalism, especially his contribution to black bear biology.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
263
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Wisconsin. The information can be used to
help understand differences in bear produc¬
tivity within the Great Lakes region and to
identify potential impacts of forest manage¬
ment activities on bear habitat quality.
Study Area
The 995-km2 study area was located in west¬
ern Iron County, Wisconsin, which borders
Lake Superior and the Upper Peninsula of
Michigan (Figure 1). Kohn (1982) estimated
a population of 255 black bears (1 bear/3.9
km2) in the study area. A series of hills (the
Penokee Range) divides the area into north¬
ern and southern zones. The northern zone
comprises 25% of the study area and has
moderately fertile loams and sandy loams
(Soil Conservation Service 1972), with for¬
estry and agriculture the major land uses.
The southern zone soils are typically clay or
sandy loams representing the Gogebic and
Wakefield series (Curtis 1959), with forestry
and forest-related recreation the major land
uses.
Hardwood and coniferous forest types
(Curtis 1959) dominate the study area. For¬
est reconnaissance data from 1978 (Wiscon¬
sin Department of Natural Resources files)
showed a composition of 43% northern
hardwoods, 25% aspen {Populus spp.), 21%
conifers, and 8% cleared land. Municipali¬
ties and lakes comprise 3% of the study area.
Dominant tree species include sugar maple
(Acer saccharum), yellow birch (Betula lutea),
and American basswood (Tilia americana) in
the northern hardwood type. Quaking aspen
(Populus trremuloides) and big-tooth aspen (P.
grandidentata) constitute the aspen type.
Coniferous forests consist of 3 associations:
(1) white spruce (Picea glauca) and balsam
fir (Abies balsamea) are dominant in the bo¬
real or upland type; (2) northern white ce¬
dar (Thuja occidentalis) and balsam fir domi¬
nate in the wet-mesic, or swamp conifer
type; (3) black spruce (P. mariana) and
tamarack (Larix laricina) dominate in the
wet forest type (Curtis 1959). Cleared land
includes areas under active cultivation and
abandoned farmlands. Both provide sodded
openings and a source of domestic apples
( Pyrus spp.). Common crops are corn, oats,
potatoes, and hay. Many streams, lakes,
ponds, and bogs occur in the area.
Weather patterns in the area are influ¬
enced by Lake Superior. Summer tempera¬
tures are lower and precipitation is generally
higher than in other areas of the state. Snow
cover usually exists from mid-November
until mid-April with an annual accumula¬
tion of over 279 cm. Length of the growing
season is 110-120 days.
Methods
This study was conducted in conjunction
with a bear population study by the Wiscon¬
sin Department of Natural Resources (Kohn
1982). Food habits were determined by ana¬
lyzing fresh scats (fecal droppings) collected
daily during May through August, 1976-
1979. Scats were placed in plastic bags, la¬
beled (date, location), and frozen to main¬
tain color, texture, and aroma of food items.
Laboratory procedures described by
Adams (1957) and Korschgen (1969) were
used to analyze the scats. Food items were
identified by comparing scat fragments with
plates in Symonds (1963) and Montgomery
(1977), reference materials collected on site,
plant keys, and herbarium specimens. Mam¬
mal remains were identified with the hair
key developed by Adorjan and Kolenosky
(1969) and by comparing bone and hair
samples with museum specimens. An ocu¬
lar estimate of the percent composition of
solid material in each scat was recorded:
trace, 2-5%, 6-15%, 16-50%, 51-75%,
264
TRANSACTIONS
PAYNE et al.: Black Bear Food Items in Northern Wisconsin
Lake
Figure 1 . Location and major features of the Iron County study area in Wisconsin.
Volume 86 (1998)
265
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
76-100% (Clark 1957, Tisch 1961, Beeman
1971). Food use was summarized monthly
by percent composition and frequency of
occurrence in the scats. Forage importance
values (frequency of occurrence x percent
composition) also were determined for each
food item (McCaffery et al. 1974). Percent
composition values for all food items eaten
each month were compared among all years
by using Z-tests (Neu et al. 1974).
Availability of bear foods within forest
types was estimated by using data from the
original field sheets of Curtis (1959) in the
Plant Ecology Laboratory, Department of
Botany, University of Wisconsin-Madison.
The percentage of study plots in which
Curtis (1959:79) observed a plant species in
each forest community was used to estimate
availability of that plant species. Similarities
between forest communities relative to avail¬
ability of plant foods were determined by
using indices of similarity (Curtis 1959:83).
In 1978 and 1979, the relative importance
of a forest community as a source of plant
foods for black bears was estimated from the
percent occurrence of each plant food found
in the community and from the forage im¬
portance value (determined by scat analysis)
for that food.
Results
Sixty-eight black bear food items were iden¬
tified from analysis of 967 scats collected
during May through August 1976-79.
Nineteen percent of the scats were collected
in May, 38% in June, 23% in July, and 20%
in August. Plants occurred in 100% of the
scats, insects in 47%, and other animals in
15%.
Foods of black bears were identified and
ranked by their forage importance (FI) val¬
ues (Table 1). Plant material dominated the
diet in frequency and volume, with grasses
and sedges having the greatest forage impor¬
tance value (1,151). Grasses and sedges were
combined and identified as 1 food item be¬
cause of the difficulty in separating families,
genera, and species. Of the black bear foods
identified from scats, 32 had low (<10) for¬
age importance values. Some unidentifiable
material occurred in all scats examined.
Members of the Rosaceae had relatively
high forage importance values: apple {Pyrus
malus and Pyrus spp.), raspberry (Rubus
spp.), cherry ( Prunus spp.), juneberry
( Amelanchier spp.). So did blueberry (Vac-
cinium spp.). Excluding fruit, quaking aspen
leaves and catkins were the most important
tree parts used by black bears in this area.
Colonial insects (mainly ants) were the
most important of the animal remains iden¬
tified. Snowshoe hares (Lepus americanus)
had the highest forage importance value of
all other animal foods. The remains of hares,
consisting of small amounts of hair and
bone, could have represented scavenging or
predation. White-tailed deer (Odocoileus
virginianus) remains were observed at low
levels. The remains consisted of hair and
bone chips, the result of scavenging or pre¬
dation. We observed 12 occurrences of black
bear remains in black bear scats.
In all months a variety of foods was eaten,
but only a few had high monthly forage im¬
portance values (Table 2). The general pat¬
tern in food habits for bears in northern
Wisconsin was as follows: (1) In May,
grasses, sedges, sweet cicely, and aspen cat¬
kins and leaves were most important. Ants,
skunk cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus), com¬
mon dandelion (Taraxacum officinale ), cow
parsnip (Heracleum maximum), clover ( Tri¬
folium spp.), hemlock (Tsuga canadensis)
needles, and cranberries ( Vaccinium spp.)
were important as some of the diet for most
bears or most of the diet for some bears. (2)
In June, grasses, sedges, ants, jack-in-the
266
TRANSACTIONS
PAYNE et al.: Black Bear Food Items in Northern Wisconsin
pulpit, and sweet cicely were most impor¬
tant. Skunk cabbage, common dandelion,
and aspen leaves and catkins were important
as some of the diet for most bears or most
of the diet for some bears. (3) The diets of
black bears seemed to be the most diverse
in July. Ants, tree and shrub fruits (especially
Rosaceae: Rubus s pp., blueberry [ Vaccinium
spp.], wild sarsaparilla, and apple) and jack-
in-the-pulpit were most important. Com¬
mon dandelion, grasses, sedges, and sweet
cicely were important as some of the diet for
most bears. (4) In August, ants, tree and
shrub fruit (especially Rubus spp., cherry,
mountain holly [Nemopanthus mucronatus] ,
red-osier dogwood [Cornus stolonifera], and
apple) were most important. Grasses, sedges,
clover, wild sarsaparilla, jack-in-the-pulpit,
and bees (Vespidae) were important as some
of the diet for most bears or most of the diet
for some bears. The occurrence of Vespidae
in scats probably indicates the use of honey
and honey bees (Apis mellifera), both wild
and commercial, in the diet. In Wisconsin,
bears often raid apiaries, resulting in nui¬
sance complaints.
Type and pattern of food use were simi¬
lar during all 4 years, but differences (P <
0.03) were noted in the number of occur¬
rences of some foods. The use of apples,
blueberries, blackberries ( Rubus alleghe-
niensis ), and juneberries and the farm crops
of corn and oats reflected annual differences
in their availability. Jack-in-the-pulpit,
skunk cabbage, red-osier dogwood, sweet
cicely, wild sarsaparilla, and common dan¬
delion were important in the diet in 1976
and 1977, but were not eaten in 1978 and
1979. Only 10 of the 68 bear food items
were present all 4 years.
Of those foods common all years, ai^ts
(Z= -3.19), buds (Z = -11.45), blackberries
(Z = -2.87), clover (Z = -3.95), grasses (Z =
-8.41), juneberries, raspberries, and snow-
shoe hares occurred more (P < 0.05) in 1978
and 1979 than in 1976 and 1977. Occur¬
rences of aspen catkins (Z = 2.2 6), cherries
(Z = 4.08), and mountain holly (Z = 2.60)
were greater (P < 0.05) in 1976 and 1977
than in 1978 and 1979.
Plant foods used by black bears were
present in every forest community of the
study area in 1978 and 1979 (Table 3).
With > 26 food items in wet mesic, > 25 in
boreal, and > 25 in aspen communities,
these communities appeared to contain the
greatest number of plant foods and have the
greatest community forage importance val¬
ues (Table 4). Most (> 65%) of the plant
foods in the wet mesic, boreal, and aspen
communities occurred in > 25% of the
stands examined by Curtis (1959).
Although sample sizes were low, differ¬
ences (P < 0.05, 12 df) existed between avail¬
ability and use of grasses (%2 = 79.8),
red-osier dogwood (%2 = 64.8), sweet cicely
(X2 = 134.1), raspberry (%2 = 102.2), cherry
(X2 = 75.0), wild sarsaparilla (x2 = 183.2),
juneberry (%2 = 84.2), aspen leaves
(X2 = 76.8), blueberry (%2 = 115.7), clover
(X2 = 69.9), water arum (%2 = 63.2), black¬
berry (%2 = 74.7), moss (Lycopodiales,
X2 = 137.2), and gooseberry ( Ribes spp., X2 =
75.0) throughout the 13 forest communities.
A chi-square test of frequency indicated a
positive relationship (P < 0.05) between
availability of plant foods and use by black
bears in the forest communities studied
(Table 5). Dry mesic, mesic, wet mesic, wet,
aspen, sedge, and bracken communities pro¬
vided more (P < .05) grasses than other com¬
munities. Similarly, wet mesic, wet, aspen,
and alder communities provided more (p<
0.05) red-osier dogwood than other commu¬
nities. In general, of the 13 forest commu¬
nities examined, important bear foods
appeared to be more abundant in boreal, as¬
pen, wet mesic, and wet communities.
Volume 86 (1998)
267
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Discussion
Plants and insects were the most important
bear food items found in this study. The
importance of plant material for black bears
has long been recognized (Cottam et al.
1939). The relatively small number of im¬
portant plant foods indicates that black bears
rely on certain key foods to meet their nu¬
tritional needs (Rogers 1976, 1987).
Grasses and sedges, sweet cicely, and the
catkins and leaves of quaking aspen were the
most important bear food items from the
time of den emergence until 30 June. Early
fruiting shrubs ( Ribes spp. and Vaccinium
spp.) also were important food items dur¬
ing this period.
Ants (Formicidae) had the highest forage
importance value of all food items in July
and were important in all 4 months. Fruits
of raspberry, blueberries, and wild sarsapa¬
rilla also were important food items in July.
Although jack-in-the-pulpit is mildly toxic
(Gleason and Cronquist 1963), it too was
eaten often in July.
Tree fruits ( Prunus spp. and Pyrus spp.)
constituted a major portion of the August
diet. Tree fruits were dominated by a single
species — black cherry (Prunus serotina).
When abundant, black cherries were pre¬
ferred to other fruits. Bears foraged for black
cherries on the forest floor or climbed the
trees for them. Branches of fruiting trees
along opening edges and roadsides often
were broken by bears. Preference for black
cherries might be responsible for the reduced
frequency of shrub fruits in the diet. Bears
in the nonagricultural portion of the study
area appeared to supplement their diet with
mountain holly when black cherries were
not abundant.
Domestic oats also provided an alternate
food source. Farmers in the study area re¬
ported that bear damage to oats crops was
highest when black cherries and blueberries
were scarce; damage was nonexistent or low
when the fruits were abundant.
White-tailed deer were not an important
food item of bears during this study. But
Anderson and Fleming (1994) reported that
7 of 12 radio-tagged fawns killed by preda¬
tors in their study area (only 40 km west of
ours) were killed by bears. They thought that
most of the bear predation was due to chance
encounters with fawns less than 2 weeks old,
but noted that bears were known to be pur¬
posely hunting fawns on several occasions.
Most of the principal foods used by bears
in this study were produced by shade intol¬
erant plants as defined by Curtis (1959). In
Wisconsin, these are abundant in grassy for¬
est openings, road rights-of-way, recent
cutovers, canopy gaps, natural wetlands,
pine openings, and the aspen and aspen-bal¬
sam forest types. In addition, all of the rot¬
ting logs in the sodded forest openings on
the study areas were visited by bears in
search of insects. Except for sweet cicely and
a few mature black cherry trees, northern
hardwood stands provided limited amounts
of bear food items in the study area.
Wisconsin’s black bears are among the
largest and most productive in the country
(Reneau and Reneau 1993, Kessler 1994).
This undoubtedly reflects the quality of the
current habitat.
268
TRANSACTIONS
Table 1. Annual black bear food habits in northern Wisconsin as determined from 967 scats collected during 4 summers (May,
June, July, August) 1976-79.
1976 1977 1978 1979 Average '
PAYNE et al. : Black Bear Food Items in Northern Wisconsin
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Corylus spp.
Pinaceae (cone scales)
Thuja occidentalis (cones)
Picea glauca (needles)
Abies balsamea (needles)
PAYNE et al.: Black Bear Food Items in Northern Wisconsin
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TRANSACTIONS
Table 2, continued.
PAYNE et al.: Black Bear Food Items in Northern Wisconsin
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Thuja occidentalis (cones)
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TRANSACTIONS
Table 3. Percent of stands in each forest community in northern Wisconsin (Curtis 1959 and Plant Ecology Laboratory, Univer¬
sity of Wisconsin-Madison) in which black bear foods were observed in summer 1978 and 1979.
Dry Mesic Wet Wet Boreal Aspen Alder Sedge Bog Bracken Dry Northern Mesic
Food Mesic Mesic Meadow Grassland Weed Pasture Weed
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TRANSACTIONS
Table 5. Communities in northern Wisconsin where a positive relationship (P < 0.05) existed between availability and use of plant foods
comprising > 2% frequency of occurrence in black bear scats, summer 1978 and 1979.
Graminae Cornus Osmorhiza Rubus spp. Prunus Aralia Amelanchier Populus Vaccinum Trifolium Calla Rubus Lycopodium Ribes
stolonifera claytonii (raspberry) spp. nudicaulis spp. tremuloides spp. spp. palustris allegheniensis spp. spp.
Dry mesic Wet mesic Dry mesic Dry mesic Dry mesic Dry mesic Dry mesic Dry mesic Dry mesic Boreal Bog Dry mesic Dry mesic Dry mesic
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Volume 86 (1998)
277
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Appendix A. Forest community terminology used in this study for northern Wisconsin.
aWisconsin Department of Natural Resources.
278
TRANSACTIONS
PAYNE et al.: Black Bear Food Items in Northern Wisconsin
Acknowledgments
The Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources and the Wisconsin Trappers
Association provided funding. R. W.
Freckman, University of Wisconsin-Stevens
Point, helped identify food items. G.
Cottam, University of Wisconsin-Madison,
helped identify forest communities. W. A.
Creed and K. R. McCaffery, WDNR,
provided advice. M. J. Lovallo and T. Ryan,
graduate students at University of Wis¬
consin-Stevens Point, combined tables of
data from the 2 studies involved. B. Howe
and referees reviewed the manuscript.
Literature Cited
Adams, L. 1957. A way to analyze herbivore food
habits by fecal examination. Transactions of the
North American Wildlife Conference 22: 1 52-59.
Adorjan, A. S., and G. B. Kolenosky. 1969. A manual
for the identification of hairs of selected Ontario
mammals. Ontario Department of Lands and For¬
ests. Research Report (Wildlife) 90. 64 pp.
Anderson, R. K., and K. C. Fleming. 1994. Dynam¬
ics of black bear populations on unhunted Stock-
ton Island and hunted mainland Wisconsin. Wis¬
consin Department of Natural Resources. 1994
Progress Report. 9 pp (mimeograph).
Beecham, J. 1980. Population characteristics, denning,
and growth patterns of black bears in Idaho. Ph.D.
thesis. University of Montana, Missoula. 101 pp.
Beeman, L. E. 1971. Food habits of the black bear
in Tennessee. M.S. thesis. University of Tennes¬
see, Knoxville. 81 pp.
Beeman, L. E., and M. R. Pelton. 1980. Seasonal foods
and feeding ecology of black bears in the Smoky
Mountains. Pages 141-47 in C. J. Martinka and
K. L. McArthur, eds. Bears — their biology and man¬
agement. Morges, Switzerland.
Bertagnoli, G. G. 1986. Availability and use of foods
by black bears in Wisconsin. M.S. thesis. Univer¬
sity of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. 42 pp.
Boileau, F., M. Crate, and J. Huot. 1994. Food habits
of the black bear, Ursus americanus, and habitat
use in Gaspesie Park, eastern Quebec. Canadian
Field-Naturalist 108:1 62-69 .
Clark, W. K. 1957. Seasonal food habits of the
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Cottam, C., A. L. Nelson, and T. E. Clarke. 1939.
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in George Washington National Forest. Journal
of Mammalogy 24:25-31.
Curtis, J. T. 1959. The vegetation of Wisconsin. Uni¬
versity of Wisconsin Press, Madison. 657 pp.
Gleason, H. A., and A. Cronquist. 1963. Manual of
vascular plants of northeastern United States and
adjacent Canada. Van Nostrand Reinhold Co.,
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Hellgren, E. C. 1993. Status, distribution, and
summer food habits of black bears in Big Bend
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Hellgren, E. C., and M. R. Vaughan. 1988. Seasonal
food habits of black bears in Great Dismal
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305.
Irwin, L. L., and F. M. Hammond. 1985. Managing
black bear habitats for food items in Wyoming.
Wildlife Society Bulletin 13:477-83.
Kessler, G. P. 1994. Black bear reproductive biology,
denning biology, habitat use, and movements in
northern Wisconsin. M.S. thesis. University of
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Kohn, B. E. 1982. Status and management of black
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Korschgen, L. J. 1969. Procedures for food habits
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Landers, J. L., R. J. Hamilton, A. S. Johnson, and
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Volume 86 (1998)
279
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Lindzey, F. G., and E. C. Meslow. 1977. Population
characteristics of black bears on an island in Wash¬
ington. Journal of Wildlife Management 41:295-
319.
MacHutchon, A. G. 1989. Spring and summer food
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1974. Summer foods of deer in northern Wiscon¬
sin. Journal of Wildlife Management 38:21 5-19.
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Richierson. 1992. Food habits of black bears in
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Montgomery, F. H. 1977. Seeds and fruits of plants
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technique for analysis of utilization-availability
data. Journal of Wildlife Management 38:54 1-45.
Norton, N. C. 1981. Food habits, growth, and cover
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ship on social behavior, movements, and popula¬
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Neil F. Payne is professor emeritus of wildlife
at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point and
author of two comprehensive techniques books on
wildlife habitat improvement. Address: College
of Natural Resources, University of Wisconsin-
Stevens Point, Stevens Point, WI 54481.
Bruce K Kohn is wildlife research biologist with
the Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources,
specializing in bears, furbearers, and wolves.
Address: Wisconsin Department of Natural
Resources, Rhinelander, WI 54501.
Ned C. Norton , deceased, was manager of
Sandhill Wildlife Area for the Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources, and later
Assistant Vice President of the Environmental
Resource Management section of Northland
Cranberries in Wisconsin Rapids, WI.
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ity Systems for Universal Foods in Milwaukee,
WI. Address: 187 W. Oak Grove, Juneau, WI
53039.
280
TRANSACTIONS
Michael T. Zeckmeister and Neil F. Payne
Effects of Trapping on Colony Density,
Structure , and Reproduction of a Beaver
Population Unexploited for 19 Years
Abstract A trapline system for beaver (Castor canadensis) occurred on
Sandhill Wildlife Area during 1981, 1982, and 1983 to harvest
populations unexploited for at least 19 years. We censused 48
beaver colonies (1.301km2) in 1981, 38 (1.03/km2) in 1982, and
18 (0.49/km2) in 1983. Ground counts indicated that 22% of
the colonies were missed in aerial counts. A winter harvest of 3.9
beaver/colony in 1981 resulted in a 21% decline in active colonies
in 1982; subsequent harvest of 3.2 beaver/colony in 1982 caused
a 53% decline in 1983. In 1981 and 1982, 89% of the beaver
harvest was achieved during the first 16 days of the season and
involved 64% of the trapping effort. Mean age decreased after
harvest began, from 2.9 years in 1981 to 2.2 years in 1982.
Average colony size was 4.2 in 1981 and 3. 1 in 1982. Single
and pair colonies occurred as 9% of all colonies trapped in 1981
and 22% in 1982. Family colonies averaged 5.6 beaver in 1981
and 5.2 in 1982. Lack of exploitation might have delayed sexual
maturation and dispersal and increased the number of non¬
breeding adults. In 1981, 35% of the females (N = 51) had
placental scars, fewer than the 80% (N = 25) found in 1982.
Breeding females averaged 3.1 placental scars in 1981 (N = 56)
and 3.6 in 1982 (N - 72). Yearlings reproduced after 1 year of
harvest when about 79% of the available colony sites were
occupied. The estimated 34%) mortality for the unharvested
population seemed high, perhaps due to dispersal and tularemia.
Some effects of trapping have been reported for beaver ( Cas¬
tor canadensis) colonies experiencing short (4- or 5-year) sea¬
son closures (Parsons 1975, Parsons and Brown 1978, Boyce
1981 a, Payne 1982). No combined effects of trapping on
colony density, structure, and reproduction have been studied
on beaver populations with long-term season closures.
TRANSACTIONS Volume 86 (1998)
281
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Nordstrom (1972) and Boyce (1981^) com¬
pared the population dynamics and density
between trapped and untrapped beaver
populations. Parsons (1975) and Parsons
and Brown (1978) investigated effects of a
4-year closure on beaver trapping in New
York, as did Payne (1982) after a 5-year clo¬
sure in Newfoundland. This study was un¬
dertaken to determine the influence of trap¬
ping on colony density, structure, and
reproduction of a beaver population un¬
exploited for at least 19 years.
Study Area
Sandhill Wildlife Area, in central Wiscon¬
sin, has a 2.5-m high deer-proof fence en¬
closing 37 km2. The area is managed by the
Wisconsin Department of Natural Re¬
sources as an experimental and demonstra¬
tion area with emphasis on wildlife habitat
and managed hunting. No furbearer trap¬
ping occurred on the area since the state
bought the land in 1962; historical furbearer
harvest records were unavailable. Habitat
composition and forest management on
Sandhill were described by Kubisiak et al.
(1980). The property has 419 ha of surface
water, including 16 impoundments, 39 km
of drainage ditch and a 0.8-km segment of
stream, which enters and leaves Sandhill.
Five drainage ditches, remnants of farming
attempts of the early 1900s (Grange 1949),
drain out of Sandhill. Drainage ditches and
impoundments are major sources of perma¬
nent water. Not all are suitable beaver habi¬
tat because annual freezeouts occur com¬
monly in many shallow impoundments,
which are 0.6-0. 9 m deep; drainage ditches
average 1.2 m deep. Low marsh fertility was
reported by Baldassarre and Nauman
(1981), who described vegetation cover types
of emergent and submergent species in 2
major impoundments on Sandhill.
Methods
A trapline system for beaver (Payne 1980)
occurred on Sandhill during December
1981, 1982, and 1983. Each year, 8 trap¬
pers were assigned exclusive traplines and
required to report numbers of trapnights and
beaver caught in each colony daily. Carcasses
were tagged through the tail with self-lock¬
ing, numbered tags, and returned skinned
the next day.
Tag numbers were attached to or placed
with the jawbones and reproductive tracts.
Reproductive tracts were preserved in 10%
formalin and examined (Hodgdon 1949,
Leege and Williams 1967). Ages of beaver
were determined by basal closure and ce-
mentum annuli of teeth (van Nostrand and
Stephenson 1964, Klevezal’ and Kleinenberg
1967, Larson and van Nostrand 1968).
In fall 1981 before the first trapping sea¬
son, we conducted an aerial census with a
Cessna 337 Skymaster to determine the
number of active beaver colonies on San¬
dhill and an adjacent harvested area of 31
km2 (Hay 1958, Payne 1981). We con¬
ducted an aerial census again in fall 1982
after the first trapping season. In fall 1983,
after the second trapping season, the cen¬
sus consisted of complete ground coverage
alone, without aerial census. Ground checks
also were conducted on Sandhill in 1981
and 1982 to assure complete coverage and
to verify colony sites on Sandhill, but
ground checks were not conducted on the
adjacent area. We used the correction fac¬
tor between aerial and ground censuses on
Sandhill to estimate overall colony density
on the adjacent harvested area. Beaver popu¬
lation density was expressed in colonies/km2
due to the relatively flat terrain and numer¬
ous wetlands and impoundments (Hill
1982).
Selection of beaver colonies to be corn-
282
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ZECKMEISTER and PAYNE: Beaver Response to Trapping
pletely trapped each year was based on nui¬
sance activities associated with the colony
site. Wisconsin prohibits beaver trapping
within 4.6 m of the lodge and/or dam. This
restriction was lifted on these selected colo¬
nies to facilitate removal of all beaver from
the colony to determine colony size, age, and
sex structure. Complete removal was deter¬
mined by placing a piece of quaking aspen
(Populus tremuloides) through the ice near
the lodge entrance; evidence of gnawing on
the branch indicated the presence of addi¬
tional beaver (Payne 1982). Trappers pro¬
vided additional information regarding pres¬
ence of beaver activity.
We used chi-square analyses to test for
difference between data sets. P values < 0.05
were considered significant.
Results
Colony Density and Harvest
We observed 48 colonies (1.30/km2) in
1981, 38 (1.03/km2) in 1982, and 18 (0.49/
km2) in 1983 on Sandhill. In 1981 and
1982 our aerial census missed 22% of the
colonies on Sandhill counted on the ground.
Thus, the 13 colonies aerially censused on
the adjacent harvested area were adjusted
22% higher, i.e., to 15 colonies (0.48/km2).
After the second trapping season on San¬
dhill, the colony density was similar to that
on the adjacent harvested area.
The beaver harvest was 1 82 in 1981, 116
in 1982, and 4 in 1983. In 1981 and 1982,
89% of the beaver harvest was achieved dur¬
ing the first 16 days of the season and in¬
volved 64% of the trapping effort, although
the season was 31 days long and each of the
8 trappers had an exclusive trapline. All bea¬
ver were removed from 11 of 23 colonies
scheduled to be completely trapped in 1981,
and from 12 of 25 colonies in 1982. Dur¬
ing 1983, only 2 colony sites were recolo¬
nized after all beaver were removed from
them in 1981 and 1982. In 1981, 137 bea¬
ver were removed from 35 incompletely
trapped colonies (x = 3.9/colony), and 81
were removed from 25 incompletely trapped
colonies in 1982 ( x= 3.2/colony).
Colony Size and Structure
In 1981 and 1982 the sex ratio of 75 bea¬
ver (97 males: 100 females) from 23 com¬
pletely trapped colonies, and 223 beaver (85
males: 100 females) from incompletely
trapped colonies, did not differ. Mean age
decreased after harvest began, from 2.9 years
in 1981 to 2.2 years in 1982 (Table 1).
Average colony size was 4.2 from 1 1 colo¬
nies trapped out in 1981 and 2.9 from 12
colonies trapped out in 1982, averaging 3.5
both years (Table 2). But in 1982, more bea¬
ver/colony were trapped from the 25 incom¬
pletely trapped colonies (3.2) than from the
12 completely trapped colonies (2.9). (One
colony was not trapped in 1982.) Thus, the
average colony size on Sandhill in 1982 was
at least 3.1 ([81 beaver trapped from incom¬
pletely trapped colonies + 35 beaver trapped
from completely trapped colonies] + 37 to¬
tal colonies trapped). More single (1 beaver)
and pair (2 beaver) colonies existed in 1982
than in 1981 (Table 3). Single or pair colo¬
nies occurred as 9% of all colonies trapped
in 1981 (N = 46) and 22% in 1982 (77 =
37). The average size of completely trapped
family colonies was 5.6 beaver from 7 colo¬
nies in 1981 and 5.3 from 4 colonies in
1982, averaging 5.5 both years.
Of 35 family colonies incompletely
trapped, at least 26% had 2. 5-year-olds in
1981 (N = 35) and 0% in 1982 (N = 25).
In 1981, 2 family colonies completely
trapped had > 4 beaver >2.5 years old. Each
of these colonies had 2 or 3 beaver 2.5 years
old. Of the 1 1 family colonies completely
trapped, 3 (27%) had 3 beaver >2.5 years
Volume 86 (1998)
283
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Table 1. Age structure of beaver trapped
after 19 years of no harvest (1981) and 1
year after harvest (1982) on Sandhill Wild¬
life Area.
a Beaver normally disperse at age 2.5 years.
Table 2. Average colony size from beaver
colonies completely trapped on Sandhill
Wildlife Area, 1981-82.
aNo beaver were harvested during the previous 19
years; in 1981 , in addition to the 46 beaver trapped
from these 11 colonies, another 136 beaver were
trapped from 37 other colonies.
old. Yearlings occurred in 8 of the 9 pair
colonies completely trapped both years.
In 1981, one colony had 14 beaver re¬
moved. Six age classes were present: three
kits, four yearlings, three 2. 5 -year-olds, two
3.5- year-olds, one 8.5-year-old, and one
10.5- year old. Reproductive tracts from two
females indicated previous parturition.
Reproduction
All 1 1 completely trapped family colonies
contained kits. In 1981, all 7 family colo¬
nies completely trapped had 15 kits (2.14
kits/colony); in 1982, all 4 family colonies
had 12 kits (3.00 kits/colony). Of the bea¬
ver trapped from all colonies, kits comprised
34% in 1981 and 58% in 1982.
In 1981, 35% of the females (N = 51)
had placental scars, fewer than the 80% (N
= 25) found in 1982. Number of breeding
female yearlings was 0 in 1981 and 2 in
1982. Excluding yearlings, 58% (N = 31)
had placental scars in 1981, fewer (P < 0.05)
than the 86% {N = 25) in 1982. Breeding
females averaged 3.1 placental scars in 1981
(N = 56) and 3.6 in 1982 (N = 72). A dif¬
ference existed between the 2 means when
the breeding yearlings were excluded.
Logarithmic regression of female age (kits
and other barren females omitted) and mean
number of placental scars/female resulted in
a correlation coefficient of 0.563 (N = 51)
in 1981 and 0.579 (N = 25) in 1982. No
females younger than 3 years bred in 1981;
yearlings and 2-year-olds bred in 1982.
Mortality
In 1981, the average colony size (4.2) times
the number of colonies (48) indicated a
population of 202 beaver, of which 182
(90%) were harvested. In 1982, the average
colony size (at least 3.1) times the number
of colonies (38) indicated a population of at
least 118 beaver, but 116 were harvested,
probably indicating some inaccuracy in
population estimates and almost 100% re¬
moval, although 18 colonies were censused
in 1983.
If the population were stationary in 1981
because no previous harvesting or other un¬
usually high mortality occurred, then life
table analysis (Payne 1984#) of the sample
284
TRANSACTIONS
ZECKMEISTER and PAYNE: Beaver Response to Trapping
Table 3. Number of single, pair, and family beaver colonies trapped on Sandhill Wild¬
life Area, 1981-82.
aNo beaver were harvested the previous 19 years; in 1981, 46 beaver were trapped from 11 completely
trapped colonies, and another 136 beaver were trapped from the other 37 colonies.
from 1981 indicated an annual mortality of
34%. Because the population in 1981 had
been unharvested previously, the 34% annual
mortality represents the natural mortality of
previous years, when no harvest mortality
occurred, assuming balanced rates of ingress
and egress. In 1981, the 2.1 kits/colony and
the 3.1 placental scars/breeding female indi¬
cated a mortality rate of 32% for kits from
parturition until the trapping season.
Discussion
Colony Density and Harvest
Beaver colony density throughout North
America varies widely, from 0.13 to 4.6/km2
(Novak 1987), and depends on habitat qual¬
ity, trapping intensity (Larson and Gunson
1983), and mutually exclusive territories
(Semyonoff 1951, Nordstrom 1972, Ber-
gerud and Miller 1977, Busher et al. 1983,
Buech 1985, Nolet and Rosell 1994). Avail¬
ability of suitable sites for lodge and cache
construction, adequate forage, and geomor¬
phology influence distribution of colonies
(Boyce 1981 b, Johnston and Naiman 1990,
Fryxell 1992). For example, beaver popula¬
tions increased in Ontario when active for¬
est management replaced conifers with de¬
ciduous trees (Ingle-Sidorowicz 1982).
After 19 years of closure, the beaver
colony density of 1.30 colonies/km2 was
high on Sandhill compared to an adjacent
trapped area (0.42/km2). Unexploited popu¬
lations in Alberta indicated 1.06 colonies/
km2 in 1976, 1.07/km2 in Manitoba during
1973-80 (Larson and Gunson 1983), and
0.34/km2 in Newfoundland (Payne 1984£)
where habitat quality for beaver is marginal
(Payne 1984#, 1984£). Comparison of
trapped and untrapped populations indi¬
cated higher densities without trapping in
New Brunswick (Nordstrom 1972) and
New York (Parsons and Brown 1978).
Parsons and Brown (1981) reported a
harvest of 2.0 beaver/ colony, resulting in a
39% decline of active colonies with a 37-day
February-March trapping season in New
York. Similar seasons appeared to stabilize
the population at the reduced level. During
a 14- to 1 6-day February season resulting in
a harvest of 1.8 beaver/colony in New York,
number of colonies declined 27% initially;
similar seasons increased the original beaver
population level (Parsons and Brown 1981).
Trapping season length accounted for an¬
nual variation in Missouri beaver harvests
(Erickson 1981). Reduced season length
would reduce the harvest, but the reduction
must be substantial, perhaps greater than
50%, to compensate for harvest effort con¬
centrated into the shorter season (Erickson
1981). On Sandhill, for example, the har¬
vest would have had to have been less than
16 days long, because 89% of the harvest
occurred in the first 16 days.
Volume 86 (1998)
285
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
After 19 years of closure, winter harvest
intensity of 3.9 beaver/colony in 1981 re¬
duced the colony density by 21% in 1982;
winter harvest intensity of 3.1 beaver/ colony
in 1982 reduced the colony density by 33%
in 1983. Colony density during 1983 was
reduced to levels found in the trapped popu¬
lation censused outside Sandhill in 1981,
which had similar habitat.
Ground counts of colonies exceeded
aerial counts with a Cessna by 22% on San¬
dhill, compared to a Newfoundland survey
(Payne 1981) in which ground counts ex¬
ceeded aerial counts with Super Cubs by
39% and with helicopters by 19%. Cache
surveys are reliable in indicating population
size or trend of beaver when the average
colony size is known (Swenson et al. 1983).
Colony Size and Structure
Exploitation of beaver on Sandhill reduced
the mean age and number of adults. The
mean age of 2.9 years for the 1 1 completely
trapped colonies in 1981 is similar to the
2.98 years that Boyce (1974) found for 11
completely trapped colonies in Alaska, but
differs from the 3.81 years that Payne (1982)
found for 1 1 completely trapped colonies
previously unharvested in Newfoundland.
Nordstrom (1972) found that untrapped
populations contained more adults than
trapped populations did and that higher bea¬
ver density in untrapped populations results
in reduced productivity and fewer beaver in
the younger age classes.
Social organization of beaver colonies
seems more variable than often assumed
(Busher et al. 1983). More single and pair
colonies were found on Sandhill the year af¬
ter trapping than the previous year, as Payne
(1982) found, but the proportions varied
from the 14-19% single, 13-24% pair, and
39—68% family colonies in populations re¬
ported by Gunson (1970), Payne (1982),
and Peterson and Payne (1986). Changes in
the proportion will affect census results
based on colony counts (Swenson et al.
1983). Young populations will have a
smaller average colony size because more pair
and single colonies occur, and family colo¬
nies are smaller. Also, nuisance colonies of¬
ten are smaller than normal because they are
trapped out repeatedly, leaving no time to
expand (Peterson and Payne 1986). This
situation might have occurred on Sandhill,
resulting in a smaller than average colony
size, after some nuisance colonies were
trapped out.
More yearlings occurred in pair colonies
on Sandhill the first year, a possible result
of high colony density (Payne 1982). The
average colony size decreased after exploita¬
tion due to harvest mortality and dispersal
of beaver >2.5 years old. Family colonies
normally do not contain 2.5-year-olds due
to normal dispersal of juveniles when they
are 2 years old (Leege 1968), although 2.5-
year-olds usually are found in colonies fur¬
ther north (pers. comm. M. Boyce, Univer¬
sity of Wisconsin-Stevens Point). Failure to
disperse has been attributed to lack of colo¬
nization sites and high colony density
(Novakowski 1965, Nordstrom 1972,
Bergerud and Miller 1977, Payne 1982).
Individuals delaying dispersal could be larger
and behaviorally more prepared for future
dispersal (Novakowski 1965). Delayed dis¬
persers could therefore have a selective ad¬
vantage over younger dispersers at high
population densities when suitable colony
sites are limited (Boyce 1981 a, Molini et al.
1981).
Reproduction
An increase in the pregnancy rate, mean
litter size, and percentage of kits trapped
suggests compensatory reproduction in
beaver on Sandhill after 1 year of exploita-
286
TRANSACTIONS
ZECKMEISTER and PAYNE: Beaver Response to Trapping
tion. The adult (> 2.5 years) pregnancy rate
(86%) in 1982 after 1 year of harvest on
Sandhill was similar to the 87% in north-
central Wisconsin reported by Peterson and
Payne (1986) for a regularly harvested
population. The pregnancy rate (58%) in
1981 was similar to that of a lightly
harvested beaver population in South
Dakota (62%) in 1986 (Dieter 1992), but
low compared to unexploited populations in
Newfoundland (71%) (Payne 1984£),
Massachusetts (87%) (Lyons 1979), and
New York (86%) (Parsons and Brown
1978). In Newfoundland, pregnancy rates
of exploited (70%) and unexploited (71%)
beaver populations were similar (Payne
198 Ab). Reduced pregnancy rates after fall
harvest have been reported in Idaho (Leege
and Williams 1967), Maine (Hodgdon and
Hunt 1955), and Minnesota (Longley and
Moyle 1963) due to potential disruption of
the dominant breeding pair. The increased
pregnancy rate on Sandhill during 1982
suggests replacement of a dominant breeder
by a delayed disperser (Brooks et al. 1980,
Payne 1984£), because the percentage of
colonies with such breeders was high and
probably density dependent (Molini et al.
1981). Correlation coefficients suggest a
weak relationship between progressive age of
females and increased productivity, as Payne
(1984£) found.
Delayed sexual maturation might have
reduced reproduction of beaver before ex¬
ploitation. After exploitation, yearlings bred
and the number of non-breeding adults de¬
creased. Lack of exploitation of beaver can
delay age at first reproduction (Lyons 1979,
Boyce 1981#) and increase the number of
non-breeding adults (Nordstrom 1972). No
yearlings bred in a lightly harvested popu¬
lation in South Dakota (Dieter 1992). Par¬
sons and Brown (1979) found little or no
yearling reproduction when more than 40%
of the potential colony sites were occupied.
Unexploited populations have available
colony sites saturated with territorial adults;
fewer dispersers can colonize them (Boyce
1981#). Payne (1975) found about 6% of
the yearlings bred on a 179 -km2 island in
Newfoundland, which contained 60 colo¬
nies after 5 years of no harvest, of which
90% occurred on only 27% of the 190 lakes
and ponds (Payne 1989). But Payne
(1984£) found that 24% of the yearlings
bred from exploited populations. Probably
most or all available colony sites were oc¬
cupied on Sandhill in 1981 after 19 years
of unexploited growth. In 1982, yearling
reproduction was found after 1 year of har¬
vest when about 79% of the available colony
sites was occupied. Although uncommon in
beaver, if many yearlings disperse and estab¬
lish colonies, yearling reproduction can be
important to beaver population growth
(Payne 1982, 19 84£). Beaver productivity
is characterized by low average litter size and
pregnancy rates for young and old beaver,
with peak production during middle years
(Payne 1984£). Despite increased reproduc¬
tion in older and potentially more produc¬
tive beaver, the population declined after 2
years of intensive harvest on Sandhill when
harvest mortality apparently exceeded the
capability for compensatory reproduction
and immigration.
Mortality
Estimated population levels and the heavy
harvest intensity indicated substantial immi¬
gration of beaver into Sandhill in 1982 and
1983, as well as the documented increase in
reproduction. Although colony density ap¬
peared substantially lower in the adjacent
trapped area, dispersal probably occurred
into the heavily trapped Sandhill area. Al¬
though only 1 1 colonies were definitely
documented to have been trapped out, with
Volume 86 (1998)
287
TRANSACTIONS of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
46 beaver removed, 136 beaver, or 3.8/
colony, were trapped from the other 36 colo¬
nies trapped. (Two additional colonies were
untrapped.) Because colony size of the 1 1
trapped out colonies was 4.2, the 3.8 bea¬
ver trapped/colony from the other 36 colo¬
nies indicates most of the 36 colonies also
were trapped out in 1981. Yet in 1982, 38
colonies occurred.
The estimated annual mortality (34%)
before 1981 for the unharvested beaver
population on Sandhill seems higher than
the 28% from unharvested and 27% from
harvested populations in Newfoundland
(Payne 1984^), and the 31% calculated from
those exploited in Saskatchewan (Gunson
1970). The higher rate on Sandhill might
be due to higher egress than ingress of dis¬
persing juveniles from an unharvested popu¬
lation on Sandhill to adjacent harvested
populations. During winter 1981, tularemia
(Francisella tularensis) was identified in bea¬
ver on Sandhill and might have increased
mortality above normal. Four beaver colo¬
nies were eradicated by tularemia in 1981.
Tularemia epizootics have been linked to
overpopulation in beaver (Banfield 1934).
Tularemia outbreaks were not documented
on Sandhill before 1981. If the beaver popu¬
lation were decreasing from tularemia before
1981, then the population would not have
been stationary, and the mortality estimate
of 34% would have been low (Caughley
1977).
Many of the shallower impoundments
and associated wetlands freeze solid in win¬
ter on Sandhill, resulting in inaccessible
browse piles and possible starvation of the
colony, which might be limiting. Other
studies in the Northwest Territories
(Aleksiuk 1968) and Alaska (Boyce 1974)
found that winter starvation might be lim¬
iting or at least it might limit sites that can
be occupied longer than 1 season.
Management Implications
Beaver populations often attain nuisance sta¬
tus with human encroachment of beaver
habitat, which usually results in efforts to
control beaver populations. However, the
number of beaver trappers in Wisconsin has
declined because pelt prices have declined.
Reduced competition also has resulted in
more nuisance beaver complaints (Payne and
Peterson 1986), as fewer beaver are trapped,
and some trappers “farm” their areas to leave
breeding stock for future years. With inter¬
ested, dedicated trappers, a trapline system
of harvest can be effective in achieving popu¬
lation control and a high annual harvest of
beaver (Payne 1980).
Beaver trapping in Wisconsin in late fall-
early winter, when pelts are less prime but
still valuable, could increase trapping effort
and beaver harvest due to milder tempera¬
tures, open water or less ice, and more bea¬
ver activity around the lodge compared to
later or long beaver seasons. A harvest of
more than 3.0 beaver/colony might be
needed in saturated populations to exceed
capability for compensatory mortality and
reproduction the first year; perhaps lower
harvests thereafter would then produce re¬
duced beaver populations (Payne 1989).
Eliminating trap restrictions that prohibit
trapping near the lodge would facilitate com¬
plete removal of nuisance colonies. Removal
of an adult after freeze-up but before the
breeding season will reduce pregnancy rates.
Replacement of a dominant breeder by a su¬
badult probably will result in smaller litters
and lower survival of offspring.
Maintaining beaver populations at re¬
duced levels would lower the minimum
breeding age and would prevent females
from reaching ages of optimal productivity
(Payne 1984£)- Regular harvest without
complete removal would maintain territories
288
TRANSACTIONS
ZECKMEISTER and PAYNE: Beaver Response to Trapping
and prevent dispersers from recolonizing va¬
cant colony sites. Colonization can be inhib¬
ited by constructing artificial scent mounds
around potential beaver sites (Welsh and
Miiller-Schwarze 1989). Maintaining coni¬
fers or advanced serai stages of vegetation
along water would deter colony site selec¬
tion, spacing, and reproduction (Boyce
1981 b). Other methods can be used to re¬
duce beaver populations (Hammerson
1994).
Acknowledgments
J. W. Hardin, S. D. Van Horn, M. S. Boyce
and anonymous referees reviewed the manu¬
script. The Wisconsin Department of Natu¬
ral Resources supported and cooperated
throughout the study, especially). C. Haug,
J. F. Kubisiak, N. C. Norton, and others.
This project would not have been possible
without the cooperation and knowledge of
the participating trappers.
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Michael T. Zeckmeister is Superintendent of the
Sandhill-Meadow Valley Work Unit, Wisconsin.
Address : Sandhill Wildlife Area, Wisconsin
Department of Natural Resources, Babcock, WI
54413 .
Neil F. Payne is professor emeritus of wildlife
at the University ofWisconsin-Stevens Point and
author of two comprehensive techniques books on
wildlife habitat improvement. Address: College
of Natural Resources, University of Wisconsin-
Stevens Point, Stevens Point, WI 54481.
Volume 86 (1998)
291
Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters
Executive Director LeRoy R. Lee
1998 Academy Council Officers
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Nancy Noeske, Milwaukee
George Parker, Janesville
Ann Peckham, Middleton
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Thomas Terry, Madison
Coun ci lo r-at-La rge Emeritus
John W. Thomson, Mt. Horeb
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