Goldfinches and Pheasants and Brook Trout, Oh My

You've seen the colorful license plates, adorned with cheerful goldfinches and wild roses, or bald eagles, bucks, pheasants, or maybe even the rare brook trout. Heck, if you're reading this you probably already have one of these license plates.  They are "Natural Resources" license plates, formerly known as REAP (Resource Enhancement and Protection) plates, and they are another way citizens can contribute above and beyond to support Iowa's natural resources.

Projects funded by REAP--including the Sycamore
Greenway--are enjoyed by those with two, three, and four legs.

These decorative plates cost an additional $45 for the initial purchase and $25 per year for renewal; funds go towards the REAP program as well as the Wildlife Diversity Program (which also receives funds from the Chickadee Checkoff discussed last week). The goldfinch is far and away the most popular, chosen by 3/4 of those who purchase the Natural Resources plates. 

In addition to the license plate fees, REAP is funded by state lottery and gaming receipts. The funds are distributed annually according to a standard formula, and administered through four state departments: Department of Natural Resources, Department of Agriculture and Land Stewardship, Division of Soil Conservation, Department of Cultural Affairs, State Historical Society, and Department of Transportation.

The benefits of the REAP program are concrete: since its inception in 1989, Johnson County alone has received over $7 million to support more than 250 projects. In 1999, Iowa City received $200,000 in REAP funding for the South Sycamore Greenspace. Other local projects that benefited from REAP funds include the Terry Trueblood Recreation Area ($200,000 in 2011), and Ryerson's Woods ($65,000 in 1993).

I confess I have lived here for over a decade and neglected to purchase a Natural Resources plate. Until now! I just ordered my very own pheasant plate, and I can't wait to join the fleet of vehicles doing just a little bit more to support our lovely state. 

Sources/Additional Resources:

• Natural Resources/REAP License Plates 
• REAP History 
• State map showing funding distribution (PDF) 
• Overview of Johnson County REAP programs (PDF) 
• Detailed breakdown of Johnson County REAP allocations since inception (PDF) 

Iowa DNR REAP banner

Tax Season!

Ah, late January. The holidays have passed, and instead of Christmas cards or Christmas bills, we begin receive our 2016 tax documents!

 

Now first, a confession: I love paying taxes. Seriously. I see it as a civic duty and privilege to contribute my hard-earned dollars to the betterment of my city, state, and country. It tickles me to see public parks, snow plows clearing streets, and public schools serving all students, knowing that I am helping pay for them. The construction and recent completion of the First Avenue underpass made me giddy.

 

Remember the Chickadee
Checkoff at tax time!

I may not agree with the way every tax dollar is spent; I understand there is waste and subsidies of things of which I disapprove. But the same way I can't fritter away my paycheck on candy and toys, I understand that I can't just direct my federal taxes to support the National Park Service and USAID (although that doesn't stop me from imagining it to be the case).

 

When legislators in Des Moines and Washington decide that taxes oppressive and commit to cut them at all costs, what's a tax-and-spend-happy citizen like me to do?

 

One easy option is to contribute to the Chickadee Checkoff, a line near the end of Iowa 1040 tax form labeled "Fish/Wildlife." This little line allows you to add an additional donation to your taxes; the funds are directed to the Wildlife Diversity Program through the DNR in support of non-game wildlife through research, conservation programs, and education. 

 

The donation can be deducted from your refund, if available, or you can tack it on to your tax bill if you owe. You can give as little as a dollar, or as much as you'd like--you can even just round your taxes due up by a couple dollars (or your refund down) to make it a nice, even amount.

 

Simply put, when you love something and believe in it, you invest in it. If you want a quality product, you need to fork over the cash for quality materials. If you want to live in the greatest country in the world, you can't expect to run it on the cheap. I am happy to live here, and more than willing to contribute my share to make this a great place for all its citizens. 

 

Resources:

• DNR's Chickadee Checkoff page 
• More about the Wildlife Diversity Program 
• Information about Iowa wildlife with several nice fact sheets about Iowa species 

Solving a Mystery...Kind of

Walking near the South Sycamore Wetlands recently I came across a plant I hadn't noticed before on the Greenway. It was off the main paths, in a clump of shrubby trees down near one of the ponds. After all the goldenrod and thistle, this plant's tall spike of whorled flowers was downright exotic.

Whorls of flowers

Unfortunately in the winter there isn't always much available to identify a plant. The flowers have long since dried up and lost their color, petals and leaves having dropped off. The stem was obviously square-shaped, which made me think "mint family." I took a few photos and went home to see what I could find.

 

First stop: the books. Many are organized based on flower color, which was no help in this particular case. Instead I paged through quickly, looking for a flower that matched the general appearance of my stranger. American Bugleweed? Has a square stem and whorled flowers and is "common in wet, marshy areas," but the description says they are "tiny"; my whorls seemed about the size of a quarter. Field Mint (Mentha arvensis) seems very close, but I don't feel good about a positive ID with so little to go on.

 

Off to Google! Image search: square stem whorled flowers iowa. Result: a lot of colorful flowers that look nothing like my stranger. Take off "iowa" replace with "winter." And scroll through hundreds of photos. Wait--what was that? Pennyroyal? The image of a winter inflorescence looks exactly right, but on further review pennyroyal is much smaller, only about a foot tall. Not to mention its distribution map shows a big empty space between populations on both coasts. Definitely not pennyroyal.

The square stem

 

When books and Google fail, I always turn to one of the many online forums full of fellow plant enthusiasts. How lucky are we to have a worldwide population ready and willing to help answer our questions? I post my photo with general details (description, where it was found) and wait a few hours. The first response was...looks like pennyroyal, but much too big. Well, it was good to have that confirmed. The next response suggested Motherwort (Leonurus cardiaca), an invasive found throughout much of the continental U.S.

 

So now I've got two possibilities:Field Mint, a native, and Motherwort, invasive. My somewhat depressing rule of thumb is to go with the invasive when given a choice, simply because the areas I frequent tend to be those disturbed places where non-native plants tend to thrive. Add on the size difference--Motherwort being closer to the 2'-3' height of my mystery plant, compared to 1' or so for the Field Mint--and I feel pretty comfortable calling it Motherwort. I will make a note to return to the area next summer to confirm, when presumably it will be in full bloom with leaves and flowers to make a positive ID. 

 

Following a Path

There is something primal about following a path. The narrow trail of dirt worn by countless hooves or feet, or the vague darkening in the grass where stems have been tamped down and broken. Snow makes camouflage impossible as feet in a variety of shapes track back and forth along the same natural highway.

Whether made by deer, rabbits, or people, there is an expectation that a trail goes somewhere: a cozy hideaway to hunker down for the night, or a watering hole, or a place by the shore where the fishin' is good. There may be a point where you have to turn back, because that isn't a trail meant for you. But you can be sure that if something passed that way often enough to leave a trail, there is something worthwhile at the end of it.

 

You place one foot directly in front of the other, watching carefully for ankle-twisting holes or rocks. In warmer months add snakes, insects and other critters to the hazards. You may need to avoid low branches, poison ivy, scat or the gruesome remains of someone's recent meal. It is a lesson in mindfulness, for if your attention wanders you may inadvertently end up with a rabbit's-eye view of your surroundings.

At the South Sycamore Wetlands, paths criss-cross the grasses and reeds surrounding the basins. Being human, I default to assuming they were made by other humans: birdwatchers visiting the waterfowl that hang out, or city workers doing a bit of maintenance. It is also easy to imagine deer, having seen ample evidence of them out and about in the area. The identities of other trailblazers that may share these pathways--rabbits, beaver, foxes?--I must leave to more experienced naturalists for the time being. 

 

The trails bring me down close to the water, closer than I've ventured in the summer, when the soft, sloggy ground drives me back with a never-fulfilled promise to return with better shoes. One path branches off into a clump of trees that looks, to my sheltered eye, as if it would be a comfy place to stay out of the cold. Here and there I am forced to prance gracelessly over a deep fissure, or mince around a clump of thorny stems.

 

Path walks are an engaging way to move about as humans did in the fairly recent past, and as our animal friends still do. You will probably get a little dirtier than you would on a sidewalk, and you will almost certainly find yourself dispersing seeds from a variety of plants into your home upon your return, but the little adventure of following a trail "there and back again" is a certainly a satisfying way to spend the afternoon.

Sunrise

Walking the Greenway one morning earlier this week, I was kicking myself for leaving the camera at home and failing to capture the spectacular sunrise; bright magenta clouds shaded with lavender laying low on the horizon. So I vowed to rise before dawn and head out, sans dog, to capture what I had missed with a long, leisurely trawl along the trail.

The early bland

I was able to witness the first glow of dawn in the east; a rather bland orange-to-blue gradient utterly devoid of the glamour of the previous sunrise. I convinced myself that this plain-Jane sunrise was, in fact, the more charming. It wasn't trying too hard like that tacky, New York businessman's penthouse of a sunrise the other day.  

This sunrise took a little effort to appreciate, like the winter Greenway. Without the extravagant colors to draw the eye, one must look for textures and contrasts; the way the twisting branches of a tree stand out against the eastern glow, or the observation that the orangey glow due east transforms more into a rosy-purple as your eyes scan towards the south.

As the minutes pass, however, the colors grow more intense. What had been a leaden streak of clouds in the northeast is set aflame, first a soft blush, then lit from below with a heady glow as the sun awakens. I turn around and see the rippled wall of clouds in the west has changed to violet, a softer reflection of the drama opposite. Forget that insipid oatmeal sunrise from a few minutes ago...this is what I came for.

 

Wetlands Triptych

By the time I reach the Wetlands, the clouds create a heavenly frame over a pale cerulean sky, glowing both above and below. The reflection on the water is magical, a play of light and color that an amateurish camera lens like mine could not capture with any justice. 

A few scant moments later, the sun makes its appearance and the show is over. The flaming orb itself is rather a letdown after the fraught anticipation its coming renders on the sky above. The colors flee, and the harsh light penetrates a bit too deeply the eye that had grown accustomed to the earlier soft glow. The world changed, imperceptibly, minute by minute: from a bland, chilly darkness to a blazing dawn to an unremarkable chilly morning. The entire spectacle would pass unnoticed from inside  the house.

The rosy west

Every day, every place this happens. Sometimes, when we may make an effort to see it; we may notice a particularly colorful reflection on the neighbor's patio doors that drives us out to the deck for a better look. More often, we go about our business and are content to catch it those few weeks during the year when its coming coincides with our morning dog walk or commute to work. The sun rises. Some days it is plain; some days it is thoroughly hidden; some days it is magnificent. Every day it is wonderful.