Learning New Things All the Time

 One of the attractions of the western edge of Progreso is its healthy dune system, home to native plants adapted to salt and wind and capable of holding soil in this difficult environment. 

In this, it is very different from eastern Chixculub, subject of a 2018 blog post critical of what I thought represented poor siting choices. In some places, houses are barely above the high tide line and facing serious erosion.

    What I learned this week is that the beaches of Chixculub were not being lost to the Gulf at the time most of the houses were built. Instead, much of the erosion on that section of this spit of land resulted from the construction of the Progreso Pier, which extends some four miles into the Gulf of Mexico. This extensive human construction has changed water movement and sand deposition patterns.

    It is unquestionable that the world's longest pier has been an economic boon to this area. Inshore waters here are shallow, too shallow for large boats. At low tide, I have seen people walking in water barely above their knees a hundred feet from shore. Because the pier extends so far into the Gulf, massive cargo ships now unload in Progreso's harbor, along with every drop of gasoline consumed in the state of Yucatan. (Fossil fuels create their own problems, but electric car infrastructure does not yet exist here to any great degree.) Cruise ships can now dock in Progreso, bringing thousands of visitors (and the money they spend) to the downtown area and nearby attractions every month. Local entrepreneurs have created small businesses to serve all these visitors, the city has used the tax dollars to upgrade services used by locals and tourists alike, and the presence of so many restaurants, shops, and interesting people has led some of us to spend months at a time here. And of course there are the beaches themselves.

There's a lot to be said for miles of this as an escape from some of the craziness of the world.

    But as with most things designed by humans, there was a price to be paid. This area west of the world's longest pier has benefited, but the dunes in a long stretch west of town are long gone. 

    I wonder how long it will be before some unfortunate folks' beach houses vanish as well.

The best-laid plans. . .

    I really did intend to do useful things this winter--more blogging, finish a project for a church committee, more research on pollinators--and I almost certainly will do those things, but my first two weeks in Yucatan have found me doing a lot of more or less nothing. Given that this is the view from my apartment, the reasons for that nothing are probably obvious.

There is the beach road to walk, not to mention the malecon if I want to see humans, and the neighborhood tiendas to visit. (It may not be A Good Thing that a panaderia with pay de queso and brownies is only two blocks away, though there is also a tiny fruteria.) There are squadrons of pelicans flying overhead at sunrise (which is generally gorgeous, and visible from the rear terrace), occasional frigate birds drifting by, grackles and hummingbirds in the palms, and sunset off the front terrace. There are passionflowers blooming along the path,

along with morning glories if I drag myself out early enough.

Alice Walker's fictional philosopher Shug Avery noted that the universe is always trying to please humans by creating bits of beauty. In her words, "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it." We certainly wouldn't want that, would we?

    The project will get finished. But probably not this morning. 

New Year in a New Place

     Almost two years after leaving as the pandemic began, I am back in Progreso for the winter--at least, unless some hideous new variant arises and travelers are called home again, or Mexico decides to throw all the snowbirds out. And honestly, I would not blame them. Cases are up 600% in the last two weeks (coinciding with the arrival of massive numbers of winter refugees from the US and Canada), though some of that increase may be due to holiday gatherings, when I suspect most people did not socially distance. Despite the spike, the infection rate here is less than one-tenth that of my rural Ohio county. The likely reasons for that are a whole 'nother subject.

    This time I am trying a different neighborhood, about five miles west of the elegant beach house rented with friends the first two years. Most of the homes there had been built by well-to-do residents of nearby Merida, who use them only in the summer and rent them out in the winter to clueless gringos who do not realize that no one swims in the Gulf before Easter (shades of my Florida girlhood). This is an ordinary neighborhood of mostly year-round residents, though some enterprising souls (like the delightful young couple from whom I am renting) have created accessory dwelling units to bring in extra income. Not elegant, but centrally located for exploring places I have never been.

The lure of this particular apartment, however, is its exact location.  At the end of our short side street, a right turn leads to the International Malecon, a paved biking/jogging trail that meanders along the dunes, now being revegetated, to downtown Progreso and ends at a favorite beach club. (Once in a while one wishes to sit under a palapa and have nice people bring fruity drinks.), A left turn leads along the calle playa, a sand road that eventually narrows to a path leading to a sea turtle nesting area and eventually, the city marina and yacht club. 

While both are useful, anyone who knows me can probably imagine which I prefer for non-utilitarian purposes.

My plan for this winter is to explore different neighborhoods, but for now, a picture of some of the neighbors, out and about on New Year's morning.

Stay tuned for further adventures.

Autumn All-Stars

 The fall color extravaganza of the trees has not quite gotten started here in southern Ohio, but the flower show is continuing, with all the pollinator activity that entails. Goldenrods are the #1 native perennial for lepidoptera, but for some reason, none would cooperate by posing on that particular plant this week, and the goldenrods in the neighborhood have faded in unexpected October heat.

Other plants are soldiering on, including some I did not expect to still see blooming, like the anise hyssop (Agastache foeniculum) that has been a star attraction at the pollinator habitat since at least July.

Its cousin, clustered mountain mint (Pycnanthemum muticum), was in full bloom by mid-July, and at the beginning of the second week of October was still attracting native bees.

The ragged flowers and wandering ways of wingstem (Verbesina alternifolia) are not to everyone's taste--indeed, I have heard these enthusiastic plants referred to as "weeds"--but they are popular with bumblebees and other long-tongued pollinators

and host the caterpillars of the lovely silvery checkerspot. Admittedly, they do produce more seed than is needed in most civilized landscapes, but there is something to be said for any plant that feeds goldfinches, perhaps especially one that manages to camouflage both the gold of the male and the drabber green of the female. For entertainment, I do recommend watching the finches seem to disappear while feeding on this plant.

Hardy ageratum (Conoclinium coelestinum) has also been accused of thuggish tendencies , but it is another star of any native plant garden. Short and bushy enough to hide the naked stems of taller plants, it asks for little and attracts a range of pollinators, including this migrating monarch.

And asters, of course, are essential to any planting of fall flowers. Ohio has at last count thirty-five species of native aster, and except for the ubiquitous New England aster (which really needs a different name, given the size of its range), I confuse many of them. They also attract butterflies,

bees,

and probably every other pollinator except the hummingbird. The exceedingly prolific small-flowered white asters that bloom in shade have been covered with multiple species of wasps and hoverflies this week, though I have managed not to get a photo of any of them. An aster that I love despite its tendency to colonize any available patch of anything that resembles dirt is this blue-flowered beauty, probably the blue wood aster. (I am opting to skip the scientific names of asters as they seem to change frequently, becoming ever-more-difficult to spell or pronounce.) It blooms in nearly any light condition and keeps blooming long after other flowers have given up, literally sometimes into mid-December in sheltered locations.

This specimen was just beginning to bud on October 8.

Late-blooming flowers are essential to migrating monarchs and songbirds, providing nectar, pollen, and seed. Of course, they feed nonmigratory species as well, and their dried stems can provide homes for overwintering insects, particularly solitary bees. 

And, usefulness aside, sometimes a person just wants to enjoy color before the landscape turns to brown, grey, and white.

O frabjous day!

 Whatever that delightful word invented by Lewis Carroll was meant to mean, it does convey a sense of exhilaration, and yesterday's planting of Phase Two of our riverbank habitat and Phase One of a nearby butterfly garden definitely left its volunteer workers with that sense (though maybe coupled with a bit of exhaustion). As recently as April, the riverbank was a giant swath of black plastic, while the area adjoining a brick sidewalk in a historic business district was home to some nice daffodils, a lot of weeds and scruffy, hard-to-mow grass, and not much else. Today, the situation is very different.

Phase One viewed from the river trail

Phase One, planted in May, is thriving, and yesterday nearly twenty volunteers at different times planted a 200-foot stretch of riverbank with a mix of Ohio native forbs and grasses and that neglected sidewalk bed with over 200 seedlings of bee balm, butterfly weed, and coneflower. The day was genuinely a community effort, with people from the neighborhood, other parts of town, two churches, a college, and a master naturalist group joining forces for several hours. The ages of the volunteers ranged from eight to seventy-plus, and the day's tasks included wrestling with the last of the solarization plastic

and digging a LOT of holes.

 Phase Two does not look particularly exciting at the moment,

The view from the steps

The view from below

but we anticipate a lot of activity a few months from now. The neighborhood bees, skippers, and finches have been making themselves at home for some time, and this year's South-bound monarchs have used the riverbank as a way station.  

With three species of milkweed planted yesterday and more to come, next year these iconic insects will be able to complete their life cycle on our little patch of riverbank, and human visitors to Historic Harmar will be able to enjoy these pockets of wildness while strolling our little town.

Happenings at the Habitat

 Our little riverbank pollinator habitat has come a long way since Phase One was planted back in May. There is very little bare soil (well, mulched soil) visible now because the plants have done so well (though we did lose one liatris and something that was moved when its neighbors became too enthusiastic). This has replaced the weedy tangle of last year and the black plastic that covered the site through the winter.

The human neighbors report being happy with the progress, and our table at a recent festival drew lots of positive comments, along with an expanded volunteer list. Even more importantly, the site is drawing lots of pollinators and other small living things. 

While they have refused to pose for a photograph, goldfinches are regular visitors to the zinnia patch, where they scarf down the seeds. We expect the liatris and echinacea to start getting some avian attention soon, but in the meantime, they are popular with insects.

This was a popular plant that morning.

Skipper on liatris

Some creatures I with which I was unfamiliar have found their way to our little patch of riverbank. This noble scolid wasp (Scolia nobilitata) is supposedly common and widespread, but I had never noticed one before. Its larvae feed on beetle grubs, so I suspect they will find plenty of food in the turfgrass planted next to our site.

And while leafhoppers can be a problem in some settings, this little guy (possibly a candy-striped leafhopper, though there are several species that look basically alike to an eye as untrained as mine) struck me as ridiculously cute. 

You never know who will be out for a stroll.

Changes

 Today I discovered that Finch Field is no more. Oh, the field is still there, 

and it was plenty lively, with lots of bees, a scattering of butterflies, and even this adorable ailanthus webworm moth,

but not the hordes of goldfinches that led me to give this portion of the Wildwood Metropark meadow its name. I think I know why, and the reason is not necessarily one to lament. 

In prior years, the walking path through this particular field was lined with thistle, a giant, utterly gorgeous pollinator magnet with finch-loved seeds and thistledown for the making of finch nests.

Thistle buds are among the loveliest of immature flowers, in my humble opinion.

However, it turns out that most of the thistles most commonly found in Ohio in fact originated in Europe, and even though they have made themselves at home and a variety of our native birds and insects have made use of them, non-native thistles are now listed as invasive plants, even as noxious weeds. I don't know if the Metropark system deliberately eradicated some of its Cirsium or if natives like the ironweed and Joe-Pye that are currently proliferating simply outcompeted the European biennial, but more native flowers and grasses in a public preserve are always a good thing.

The goldfinches will adjust. I am reasonably certain they predate the European conquest of Ohio.