Sand Prairie

 

I’ve had the pleasure of visiting two beautiful sand prairies in Iowa over the past year: Corriell Nature Preserve, a Bur Oak Land Trust property near Atalissa, and Big Sand Mound Nature Preserve, near Muscatine. Both preserves have restricted access to the public; the visit to Corriell was part of an Iowa Master Naturalists outing, and Big Sand Mound has a field day every few years where the public is welcomed to visit and learn about the unique ecosystem and its inhabitants (IMN was also treated to a “herp field trip” at Big Sand Mound this summer).

Sand prairies can be formed when sand is carried out of nearby river valleys by winds and deposited, often forming hills (known as aeolian sand hills, “aeolian” pertaining to the actions of winds), the sand having been initially left in the wake of melting glaciers. The dry substrate can allow unique plants to flourish, and both Corriell and Big Sand Mound had an abundance of attractive and charismatic flowering plants including Whorled Milkweed, Spotted Bee Balm, and Opuntia Cactus. They can also serve as a safe haven for threatened animals; Big Sand Mound monitors populations of mud turtles and wildlife surveys at Corriell have revealed it is inhabited by endangered bats.

Having learned about these uncommon types of prairie, I was intrigued to learn more about Iowa City’s own Sand Prairie, less than a mile away from the Sycamore Greenway.  

Iowa’s City’s Sand Prairie, acquired by the city in 2005, is a 38-acre remnant that was protected from development by local activists (development of a nearby subdivision proceeded, displacing a population of around 50 Ornate Box Turtles, which were moved by the Iowa DNR to make way for the houses). It is believed to be a prairie remnant, one of those rare scraps of land in our state that managed to escape the plow (though it likely was grazed and mined for sand).

"Not your neighborhood Honey Locust"

Sloping from just west of Wetherby Park down to S. Gilbert near Napoleon Park, the park is edged with woods along its perimeter and pocked with a variety of shrubs—including numerous stumpy Honey Locusts. Not your familiar, neutered neighborhood Honey Locusts standing tall and tidy in front of a house, oh no. These are your wild, feisty locusts sporting hundreds of menacing pointy red thorns as long as your finger. These and other scrubby woody plants could be controlled with burns (Sand Prairie was burned in 2015 in fact, though it seems overdue for another!).

Tall spikes of yellow-flowered Common Mullein abound; this velvet-leaved non-native has made itself at home here. There is also copious poison ivy blanketing the grass in many areas, with no mowed paths or trails; not a place for a casual jaunt but suitably pantsed and bootsed one can wander to the heart’s content.

Tall spikes of Common Mullein abound

Despite these challenges, Sand Prairie is enchanting. Once you venture over the hill and out of sight of Gilbert St., it feels secluded and quiet. Although overcome by invading grasses and scrub, there are pockets of small flowers that have maintained a foothold. Humongous bumble bees make the rounds of the Bee Balm, and to my delight grasshoppers and katydids abound. During my visit a pair of American Kestrels passed overhead and a tiny Ruby-throated Hummingbird perched on a tree branch as an unseen Field Sparrow sang in the distance.

Tune in to the Sycamore Greenway Friends Facebook or Instagram pages this week to see some of the floral and faunal neighbors making their home in this Iowa City gem.

 

Sources/Additional Reading:

• Iowa City South District Plan (2015)
• Iowa City Natural Areas Inventory and Management Plan (2018)
• Iowa City Natural Areas: Inventory, Management Needs and Assessment (February, 2016)

Grasshopper Mindfulness

Walking along the Sycamore Greenway, or other trails through natural areas, has always been calming. "It's cheaper than therapy!" I've chirped on more than one occasion when discussing my outings. On days that are particularly calm and sweltering, when the birds are loafing hidden in the shade and there isn't much going on in the flowers, I snap on the macro lens and shift gears into a walking "grasshopper meditation."

In the summer, almost every step in the grass sends tiny critters hopping or flying for cover. I walk slowly, watching my feet, and following one of the tiny hoppers with my eyes. Then slowly, carefully, I drop into a deep squat and inch closer...closer...closer until the lens is right up on the hopper and snap photos.

I notice the tiny nubs of wings indicating it's not yet an adult. I notice the speckled compound eyes and the segmented antennae. I see the fine downy hairs on its face and body, and the delicate pads on its feet flanked by itty-bitty pointed hooks that help the nymph cling to foliage. I see their powerful hind legs poised to launch the hopper 20 times the length of its little body, and I see the slender tibiae of those legs armed with an array of pointed spines that can be used for defense if a predator gets too close.

While I'm down there, I listen to the rhythmic buzz of a nearby katydid, hear the wind rustle through dogwood leaves, feel the sun on my skin as it peeks out from a passing cloud. I look around and see other grasshoppers clinging to the tips of blades of grass, or a quick beetle awkwardly scuttling through a mass of plantain leaves toward cover, or a diligent weevil digging at a leaf with its marvelous snoot. 

I see the speck on a rough, broad Prairie Dock leaf that turns out to be a slender moth, with metallic patterned scales glinting on its neatly arranged wings. I inspect a leaf with holes chewed around the veins, searching in vain for the insect that caused the damage. Sweat trickles down my back as I drop one knee to the ground to lean closer, looming in with the invasive lens until my target leaps away, or I start to feel silly snapping dozens of photos of the same motionless hopper and force myself to stand.

Then on to the next grasshopper, this one green with a dark stripe flanking its back on either side. As it attempts to hide behind a blade of grass, peeking out first one side, then the other, I smile at how clever and effective this simple evasion tactic is. When it tires of peekaboo, it springs away to safety. 

I can't identify the different grasshopper species I see. There are little brown ones, and little green ones. There are the "gravel" hoppers with their mottled brown and gray coloring to blend in perfectly with rocky gray alleys. There are grasshoppers with round, bulbous heads and grasshoppers with angular, slanted heads. I can see the same type of grasshopper over and over again, and each encounter is new. 

While I'm stalking grasshoppers, I'm not thinking about all the ills of the world, or the work task looming in a few days, or the chores left undone at home. I'm not thinking about anything at all, really, except this moment in time, with this one grasshopper that I'll never see again. Am I the only human it will encounter this closely? Will this little nymph survive to reproduce, or will it be snatched up and eaten by a bird later that day? 

It's a type of walking meditation, a lesson in mindfulness combined with communing with the minuscule individuals that are, any other day, overlooked as nothing more than a hopping speck swept aside by an unaware, unhesitating step.