The Mountain in June

Paula Whyman
June 12, 2024

Geek out with me about critters and plants on a mountaintop in Virginia. I’ll share what I’m learning as I try to bring native plants back on 200 acres of old farmland and tell stories from my encounters on the mountain.

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In this issue

Mean Mr. Mustard: a California curse
Field notes: the welcome and the unwelcome
Poodle, predator
Signs of life: good news/bad news
Questions for YOU
Recommended reading: info/inspo

I’ve written a book about what I’m doing and what I’m discovering here on the mountain:

BAD NATURALIST: One Woman’s Ecological Education on a Wild Virginia Mountaintop

It’s coming from Timber Press/Hachette Book Group on January 7, 2025. I can’t wait to share my story with you!

Mean Mr. Mustard: An unwanted plant proliferates in California

Ruth, a reader who lives in Agoura, California, alerted me to an invasive plant that’s gobbling up real estate all over the state. I’m talking about black mustard, or Brassica nigra. Ruth says that where she lives it grows as tall as 8-10 ft, and after a rain, it just keeps “growing and growing.” Although black mustard prefers to take over low-lying and coastal lands, the plant has even been found at 7000 feet. The plant has invaded places all over North America, but its impact has been most devastating on the West Coast.

The mustard plant blankets the landscape with its yellow flowers—a picturesque scene, until you realize that in those vast fields of yellow, little else can grow. A mustard field in California is a food desert for local birds and butterflies that need native plants to survive. Like some other successful invasive plants, black mustard is allelopathic—it releases toxins that prevent other plants from growing nearby.

A wide field of yellow flowers with people walking in the distance

That’s a lotta mustard. A field in Half Moon Bay, California

Photo by David Yu https://www.flickr.com/photos/davidyuweb/51014172673/in/datetaken/

Black mustard was introduced in California by Spanish colonizers; there is no evidence of its existence in North America before 1769, the start of the Mission era. Missionaries are said to have intentionally spread its seeds so they could follow the path of the yellow flowers, but this story hasn’t been verified.

Worse yet, the plant ignites easily and encourages fire to spread. Once it burns up, its seeds are left to sprout where fire has wiped out the competition.

Good news? Sorta? The mustard plant is edible—the brassica genus includes broccoli, bok choy, and Brussels sprouts; but cows should be careful not to overindulge, because too much of the stuff can prove toxic for them. (Note: this mustard is in the same family as the garlic mustard I complained about in the May newsletter.)

I’m relieved that this is one invasive plant that has not yet made its way to the mountain. (I know, I just jinxed it.)

As for the Beatles song, “Mean Mr. Mustard,” John Lennon wrote it while in India; he didn’t think it was a very good song. (“Crap” was the word he used.) Judge for yourself.

Field Notes

It’s that time of year when I begin to see more and more butterflies fluttering by. On the mountain right now, that means the Great Spangled Fritillary (Speyeria cybele). Its common name, from the Latin fritillus, is inspired by its pattern of spots. Fritillus means “dice-box.”

This fritillary decided to air itself on a can of wood stain in the garage. Maybe it’s drawn to the familiar colors?

Close up of a great spangled fritillary with its wings open, perched on a can of wood stain. The butterfly is orange with black spots and bars, but not as deep orange as the monarch

The great spangled fritillary lays its eggs near native violets. These are the only plants its caterpillar can eat. The adults are not so picky, and I often see them gathering nectar from milkweed flowers and even some nonnative plants, like nodding thistle (see “Signs of Life” below).

Shortly after the fritillary flew off, I spotted this critter. It’s small enough to fit in my hand, although I didn’t test that. It has a slightly fuzzy tail, a white belly, white feet, small rounded ears, and large eyes. Yes it’s a mouse, but it’s not a house mouse or a field mouse, it’s a white-footed mouse, also known as a deer mouse.

Cute, right?

small gray mouse sitting on its hind legs, one large black eye visible and one small round ear. White paws. Tuft of grass in foreground.

The deer mouse has the distinction of being a primary vector for the Lyme parasite. Ticks in the larval and nymph stages especially like dining on this mouse. When these “baby” ticks bite the mouse, the parasite is transferred to the tick, which goes on to hitch a ride on deer and other warm-blooded creatures, like you and me. The mouse is immune to the effects of the parasite, and unlike other creatures, it doesn’t attempt to remove the many, many ticks that manage to find a berth on its hide. Sounding less cute now?

Given that it lives for less than a year in the wild, it’s understandable that the mouse’s focus is on reproducing (which it can do every four weeks or so) and not on grooming. Grooming would also require it to sit still, which is dangerous when you’re a mouse on a mountain full of hungry snakes, raptors, foxes, and coyotes. I snapped the photo when it paused for a split second to figure out how to get away from me.

The deer mouse is not picky about its environs and can live just about anywhere, which may explain why some say it’s the most common mammal in North America.

I’m not so happy to see this creature hanging around. But I’ll tell you who is happy:

Cleo, the Official Mountain Poodle.

She’s 5 years old now, but at the tender age of 9 weeks Cleo was already very fast, and she caught one of these mice, even though they are also very fast. The mouse was still alive and apparently unhurt (if traumatized). Cleo’s interest in rodents and varmints continues unabated. She recently caught a squirrel. All I can say is, the mice are duly warned.

When Cleo was a pup, she also “caught” our watering can, which, although it was stationary, drew her attention because we were ignoring her to water plants. I don’t want to tell you how long it took to get it back.

Fluffy black poodle puppy with gray snout, holding watering can in its mouth. Can is nearly half the height of he dog. Dog stands in the grass with ground cover and a large hosta in the background

Cleo at 6 months, with stolen watering can

Signs of Life

The good news: Bluebirds on my shoulder

The eastern bluebird was in decline for years, until the work of bluebird societies nationwide helped bring it back from the brink. The cause was a combination of habitat loss, pesticides, competition from introduced species like starlings and house sparrows, and getting eaten by domestic cats that wander outdoors.

I wanted to see if I could bring bluebirds back to the mountain. The Virginia Bluebird Society connected me with a man who builds hundreds of bluebird nest boxes every year and sells them at cost. In the winter, we installed 4 of the boxes. In early spring, I noticed that three pairs of bluebirds were checking out the accommodations.

Now, I can confirm that bluebirds moved into three of the four boxes. We watched them come and go, gathering juicy caterpillars to feed their nestlings. The fourth box was also inhabited, but not by bluebirds. I spotted a small bird with a light belly, a black neck ring, and black mask darting in and out of the box. I guessed it was a Carolina chickadee, but it was too fast for me to get a photo.

Nest box on a metal pole with a silver baffle beneath it, standing in grounddcover with meadow around it and backdrop of distant silhouetted blue ridge mountain range.

Scenic accommodations

In case you’re wondering what the big metal baffle below the nest box is for—that’s to keep black snakes from slithering up and turning the nest box into a diner.

The bad news: A nod to nodding thistle

Meet Carduus nutans—you can call it by one of its common names, nodding thistle or musk thistle, if you want; I’ll just call it Spike. Spike is spiny all over. I’ve seen it reach six feet tall on the mountain, but it can get even taller. Spike is an invasive weed often found in pastures. When it’s open, the flower will look like a big round fuchsia Brillo pad, and it appears to “nod” in a breeze. It’s pollinated by undiscriminating generalist bees and butterflies (see eg, the adult fritillary), and each flower can produce more than 10,000 seeds.

a "flower" made up of a circle of many layers of spiked green petals, with a deep fuchsia center. Below, the stem is also covered with spines

The nodding thistle displays its armor before it flowers

There are more of these on the mountain than I’d like to see, but I admit I haven’t wanted to try pulling them.

Questions for YOU

What do you see growing in your area this month— in a park near where you live, or in your own yard or window box? Send me a photo, if you like.

Do you listen to nature-oriented podcasts? Read any good books lately? Send me your recommendations, and I’ll share them.

The Mountain in June

In this issue

Mean Mr. Mustard: An unwanted plant proliferates in California