Category: Creatures

Return of the sponges

It was a bad afternoon for a river expedition. A light rain had started to fall, pushed by a gusty breeze. But this was about sponges, and it couldn’t wait. By tomorrow morning, the remnants of Hurricane Ida would sweep into Potomac country. Heavy rains would flood the river, producing swift currents that would scour away anything not firmly anchored to the bottom.This would be my last chance this year—perhaps forever—to see my delicate and enigmatic creatures.

The thrill of discovery. I call them “my sponges” because I had found them in 2011, the first sighting of sponges in the main stem of the upper Potomac River. I also call them “creatures,” because a lot of people don’t realize that they are animals, not plants, and are moreover the first animal to emerge on earth, possibly an astonishing 890 million years ago.

The most lively thing about D. radiospiculata are its jumping jack-like spicules. Otherwise it just sits there like a head of cauliflower.

I was thrilled by that discovery 10 years ago, and even more so when the sponge expert at the Smithsonian Institution identified the sponge as a species rarely found along the eastern seaboard. Its scientific name was Dosilia radiospiculata for the delicate radial structure of its skeletal parts. I proudly signed a release to donate my specimen to the Smithsonian collection.

I felt a kinship with the legendary naturalist explorers of former times, whose exploits I so admired. Now I had exploits of my own. But I quickly I learned that not all scientific discoveries are equal. A person can live their entire life without thinking even once about a freshwater sponge. When I told one person about my sponges, her response was, “Let’s go see what’s on the buffet table.”

Then the sponges disappeared, also after a flood, like the one that was threatening to hit now. In the following years I searched for them, all up and down the river, but found no trace.

But even though my discovery was perhaps not very interesting, it was significant. Look at Darwin and his earthworms! As it turned out, my discovery and the events that followed would transcend the subject of sponges, and help me to better understand the world and our place in it.

Here my guide would be Potowmack the Trickster, the spirit of the river, who excelled in exposing our foibles and puncturing our pride, particularly as regards our place in the natural world.

A nice afternoon for my son and his family of mucking around in the river turned into another chapter in the sponge saga.

Sponges redux. And now, after 10 years of absence, the sponges reappeared. I had taken my son Matt and his young family out for a Potomac afternoon of getting wet and muddy. As we were preparing to leave, Matt casually remarked, “Hey Dad, isn’t that one of those sponges you told me about”? I was astounded.

We were in a little cove, its water murky from the silt we kicked up boarding the canoe. But we could still make out the bottom and its tufts of algae, dead leaves, and smoothed river stones. And the sponges, a whole colony of them.

By now everyone was settled in the canoe and clearly anxious to be on their way. I snapped off a couple of more photos, and off we went. I would return as soon as I could to spend some quality time with these long lost creatures.

One last encounter. Now here I was by myself, paddling hard through the rain and the weeds and around the rock ledges. I heard some distant rumbling to the west, imagining that Hurricane Ida was already arriving. It turned out to be aircraft making their approach to Dulles Airport, some of them probably carrying Afgan refugees. Most of the world was focused on the Afgan evacuations, or the hurricane, or covid-19. My mind was on sponges.

I angled across the river heading for a gravel bar, a spot where you can still find remnants of the canal that George Washington built to skirt the rapids. I wondered if Washington also saw the sponges. Would he have cared?

The gravel bar was already occupied by an increasingly agitated flock of Canada geese. They bobbed their heads and honked and cackled and pooped and then took to the air, flying low over the water, still honking and pooping.

I pulled my kayak up on the shore, picking my way around the piles of goose droppings. The water was a little discolored, but clear enough to see.

Crushed and confused, I search the little cove for any sign of sponges.

The trickster returns. But there was nothing to see. The sponges had vanished, once again gone without a trace.

I was disappointed, but at the same time intrigued. No doubt about it. Here was Patowmack the Trickster at work once more.

What happened? I had read somewhere that ducks will eat sponges. I’d guess that geese eat a lot of the same things as ducks. I imagined a flock of geese coming upon a colony of sponges, and in no time devouring them all—but with an exception. For along with the sponges the geese also pick up the sponges’ gemmules, those tiny spherical reproductive bodies. The geese fly off and land somewhere else, always honking and pooping, and depositing the gemmules. If the current is swift, the gemmules just become part of the organic soup that washes downstream to who knows where. But if the geese land in some protected cove or back water, the gemmules could produce a new colony of sponges come next season.

I later asked my son Matt what he thought of my scenario. After all, he was the one who found the sponges. He also has a doctorate in ecology, so he should know about such things.

Matt listened politely to me, and then came up with a more prosaic explanation. The sponges looked pretty shopworn, he remembered, and they smelled bad. Later he had to wash his hands over and over to get out the stink. Probably the sponges were just dying, he said. Their season had come to an end, like the leaves starting to fall from the trees or mushrooms turning black and slimy. The bits and pieces of their bodies—including the gemmules—those tiny time capsules—probably lay  among the algae and dead leaves in that same little cove. With any luck, the gemmules could produce another colony when the conditions are right. I later learned that scientists describe this stage in the sponge’s life cycle as “gemmulation and degeneration.”

River keeps its secret. I like both explanations. I like mine because it illustrates the lengths the human imagination will go in finding a cause for anything and everything, even in the absence of any real evidence. The more complex the cause, even if it enters the realm of the conspiratorial, the greater its allure. Taken to the extreme, a search for causes could inspire elaborate myths and liturgies and the creation of priestly hierarchies. (If it seems like I’m straying a little far from a pooping goose, blame Potowmack the Trickster.)

In contrast, Matt’s explanation looked at the disappearance of the sponge from the standpoint of the sponge. The life cycles of natural creatures operate independently of our assumptions and expectations. It’s the creatures that are calling the shots, whether we like it or not.

Whatever actually happened in that little cove is the river’s secret, at least for now. I don’t have the persistence to figure it out, and Matt is mainly focused on getting tenure.

Let’s just call it a thought experiment. We can name it Schrödinger’s Sponges. It’s as if the sponges were locked away in a box, just like the famous physicist’s imaginary cat. Is the cat dead or alive? Unless we open the box to see, it occupies both states at the same time. The same goes for the fate of the sponges. Until we have data based on observation, all explanations are valid.

I think this would be good problem to leave to some graduate student with a lot of time for research and little interest in public recognition. 

Peaceful and easily overlooked, a little cove branching off from the river probably holds the answer to the mystery of the sponges.

An orgy down by the river

I was checking things out along the C&O Canal towpath just upstream from Pennyfield lock when I heard a terrific splash. It seemed to come from the lagoon between the canal and the river.

Was it an osprey slamming into the water in pursuit of a fish? Or a beaver sounding a warning with a powerful whack of its tail? Or a leaping carp crashing back into the water?

Then came another splash, followed by a third. This was odd.

More splashes, and I began to realize that something major was happening in that normally placid swath of water. Next to the grass-lined shore on the far side something big rolled up into view and then submerged again. Then in the open water the surface churned and exploded.

I climbed down to take a closer look, and almost at my feet two dark forms left wakes as they circled and then met in another splash.

Action was fast and furious
in the lagoon by the river.

It turned out that this muddy backwater was full of snapping turtles, many of them with shells more than a foot across, with thick necks and powerful legs, splashing, churning, crisscrossing this way and that. It was like an aquatic tank battle.

As you have already guessed, they were mating.

Thank goodness for Google. I stood absorbed by the scene, not noticing that my running shoes were slowly sinking into the swampy grass. Surely I was witnessing yet another of nature’s dramas, but what was the backstory?

A naturalist in former times would have stumbled on such a scene armed only with binoculars, a little notebook, and an expression of wonderment. If he had any questions, he’d be out of luck. Today naturalists have iPhones. In just a few minutes of searching snapping turtle reproduction I had found the following:

  • Snappers will mate from April through to November, although peak time is May and June.
  • While not picky as to mating season, snappers prefer warmer weather to complete their reproductive cycle. For this reason, the female can store the male’s semen in her body for months after mating, only allowing her eggs to be fertilized when the temperatures are just right.
  • Semen storage also enables females to colonize other water bodies where no snapping turtle are currently in residence. Once in her new home, she  fertilizes her eggs with sperm from her long-forgotten mate, and a new colony is born.
  • When ready to lay her 30-60 eggs, the female digs a hole with her hind feet to create a nest. Then she leaves. If raccoons and foxes don’t find the eggs, the hatchlings return to the water. The baby turtles are also vulnerable to predators. But the adults have little to fear except man and his taste for snapping turtle soup.

On this last subject I also checked out Google for turtle soup recipes. Most began with instructions to cut off the creature’s head and then nail the body to a tree by its tail to let it bleed. This is where I would stop reading.

Herons and hawks

I went running on the towpath at Carderock today, and the first thing I saw were patches of spring beauties poking up through the fallen oak leaves. Years ago I dug up some of the plant’s tiny tubers to verify their edibility. It was a culinary experiment that won’t be repeated.

Efficient predator with a taste for
whatever it can swallow.

Further along I saw five Great Blue Herons stalking fish in a part of the canal where it widens. Four of the leggy birds were facing each other, cocking their heads to track the movements of the little sunfish that were emerging from their winter lethargy. Every couple of minutes one of the herons would unleash its rapier bill and come up with a wriggling fish in a garnish of detritus. If this were a National Geographic nature video I would expect to learn that the birds were acting cooperatively by bunching the fish together to make them easier to catch, the way a pack of wolves herds elk. Actually, I think the four of them were just there because the fish were there.

Watching all of this was a hawk in a tall tree overhead. My glasses were back in the car, but I could still make out a band across the bird’s light colored breast that marked it as a Red-tail Hawk.

I continued my run. As usual my pace was so slow that I might just as well be out looking for someone to strike up a conversation.

“Did you see the hawk?” the man asked. He gave me a friendly smile under the brim of cap with the name of a US military ship.

“Yes, I think it was a red-tail,” I replied.

“No,” he corrected me. “the tail was too short to be a red-tail. It was a red-shouldered.”

He had also seen the herons, and informed me of their scientific name. “Ardea herodias,” he said. “‘Ardea’ is heron in Latin,” and ‘herodias’ is “heron” in Greek. So ‘heron heron.'” Still smarting from getting called out on my hawk identification skills, I made a note to shun people who flaunt their knowledge of scientific names.

On the way back I saw that the hawk was gone. But nearby I heard the unmistakable “cree, cree, cree” call Red-shouldered Hawks make in staking out their territories. But I still think the one in the tree was a red-tail.