Photos from the field: The Great Western Woodlands.

The Great Western Woodlands (GWW) form the largest tracts of temperate woodlands left on Earth. They hold approximately 30% of Australia’s Eucalypt species, and close to 20% of Australia’s plant species overall. This is truly an overlooked gem of Australian biodiversity. Last Spring I was lucky enough to visit for my work on pollination in our native plants.

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My target there was Eremophila, a genus of approximately 250 species largely confined to arid and semi-arid Australia. The GWW represents one of the centres of diversity for the genus, and so I chose it as a likely spot to set up a new study contrasting bird and insect pollination.

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Eremophila alternifolia was one of about 15 Eremophilas I saw flowering despite the drier than average conditions.

I was joined by perhaps the best kind of field assistant: a trained and accomplished professional ecologist who also happens to be my beautiful wife. After driving 2800km from Melbourne to field sites near Norseman, Western Australia, we spent a little under two weeks observing pollinators, surveying and mapping populations of plants, and collecting samples for population genetics.

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One of the many viewpoints south of the Nullarbor Plain.

I left in awe of the scale of these woodlands, in love with the peace and isolation they offer, and a bit concerned over their insecure future. Fully 60% of the GWW is tenured “unallocated Crown land”, unmanaged and open access. With more visitors, and more appreciation of the value of these vast woodlands, I hope we can find a way to secure more of it into ongoing reserve for future generations.

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The bluebush understory contrasts dramatically with red sand in many areas. Front left is one of my study species Eremophila scoparia.

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The whole region is dotted with salt-pans.

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As predicted from the small, violet flowers, Eremophila scoparia was visited by a host of native bees.

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Eremophila decipiens has characteristic bird-adapted flowers.

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Camera traps being expertly arranged by Samantha. Footage revealed that E. decipiens was being visited by a range of honeyeater species.

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Eremophila calorhabdos

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This spectacular Grevillea hid a massive bloom of flowers underneath it

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The inflorescences are held on stems that grow along the ground underneath the shrub. The very long style with pollen-presenter is suggestive of adaptation to birds, but mammals might not be out of the question.

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Eucalyptus loxophleba with daggy botanist for scale

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Majestic Salmon gum (Eucalyptus salmonophloia) with Samantha for scale.

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The serenity of wandering amongst giant Salmon gums at dusk was magic.

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Gleaming bark on Eucalyptus salubris

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Elevating on Lake Cowan. Photo: S. Vertucci.

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For the second half of the trip I was joined by collaborator and all-round legend Dr. Renee Catullo. I made us walk 10km to collect camp gear following a single poor decision.

Stay tuned as research results emerge. The study should tell us about the way pollen moves under bee and bird pollination, and how those fine scale patterns play out on a grand landscape level.

Photos from the field: Northern Sand-plains, WA

Peaceful woodlands of widely spaced gnarled Eucalypts lie in mosaic with spiny, scratchy, shrubby heath on the sand-plains north of Perth. They form one of the most floristically diverse regions on earth, with estimates of over 60 species of plant per 0.01 ha (an area smaller than half an an IMAX screen).

With so many species packed on top of one another, it is perhaps not surprising that in the effort to co-exist, some plants have been forced to flower outside the traditional Spring-flowering window. Winter in the sand-plains, while often wet and cloudy, is therefore anything but dull. While daily insect activity is very low, resident birds and honey possums must still feed, and so there are a comparatively high number of vertebrate-pollinated species in full flower at this time of year.

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Omphalina chromacea in its diminutive but sulphureous glory

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Bird-pollinated Astroloma glaucenscens excludes insect visitors with a tiny corolla-tube opening

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Pterostylis sanguinea: a sexually-deceptive trap-pollination orchid

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Astroloma stomarrhena, bird-pollinated. This individual has curiously short corolla tubes.

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Calothamnus sanguineus mixed in with Conostephium

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Calothamnus sanguineus

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An early-flowering Caladenia latifolia

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Diuris corymbosa

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Tiny pgymy Drosera

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One of the most common orchids in the area, but I’ve never seen it flower. Pyrorchis leaf.

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Very rare, and while this specimen is a little tired late in the season, the winter-flowering Cleopatra’s Needles (Thelymitra apiculata) is a stunning contrast of hues.

First video of bird pollination in Astroloma stomarrhena

I’m thrilled to share this never-before seen sequence of birds feeding on Astroloma stomarrhena, a winter-flowering shrub endemic to Western Australia.

Earlier this year, I decided A. stomarrhena looked like a perfect candidate for my new study on pollinators and gene flow. What I needed was a bird-pollinated species of plant, closely related to an insect-pollinated species. This one seemed to match all the criteria I needed, except there was no evidence that it was bird-pollinated. But with those long, tapered corolla tubes, and that pink-red coloration, I believed that birds absolutely had to be the pollinator.

The danger was, that while birds might be visitors, the plant could be somewhat “generalized”, and also use insects. This is pretty common, especially in places like Australia where European Honeybees (Apis mellifera) have invaded ecosystems that evolved in their absence, and honeybees will visit absolutely everything whether the plants are adapted to bees or not.

By deploying a new camera-trapping method that I am developing to record insect visitation, I was able to gather several days of pollinator observations, despite some very bad weather. After initially being baffled as to what honeyeater might visit such a low ground-hugging shrub, I got my answer after day one, when I captured video of my new favourite bird: the Tawny-crowned Honeyeater (Gliciphila melanops) feeding on the flowers. Furthermore, the recordings of honeybee fly-bys are sufficient to rule them out as pollinators.

This little result is a win on two fronts: a successful trial of new pollinator-monitoring cameras, and vindication of predicting pollinators from flower morphology.

Click here for the full HD video.

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Bumping into old floral friends, and pollination with a hug.

Rare plants nurseries are like second hand bookshops. It’s always so tempting to browse on the off chance you find that little treasure. I recently visited a charming rare plants nursery in Mt Macedon (boutique-y town outside Melbourne, Australia) where I discovered these for sale:

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Hello old friend! (Hesperantha coccinea)

The last time I saw this elegant iris, it was flowering on stream banks 10,000 km away in the Drakensberg Mountain range in South Africa. There in its natural habitat, it is pollinated in some areas by a very special butterfly: the Mountain Pride (Aeropetes tulbhagia). In other places, it is pollinated by the amazing long-tongue fly (Prosoeca ganglbaueri). The two forms are a wonderful example of “pollination ecotypes”, where different populations are undergoing adaptation to their unique pollinators. The fly-serviced ones are a pink hue with narrow petals, while the butterfly-pollinated ones are much redder with broader petals.

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Hesperantha coccinea at home in South Africa with its pollinator (Prosoeca ganglbaueri).

Fast forward two weeks, and I’m home walking the dog in my quite unremarkable Melbourne suburb, when who should I see?

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Hello old friend! (Diascia sp.)

It’s winter here, with very little in flower, but these brilliant little pink blooms volunteering themselves from underneath a fence in suburban Melbourne really made my day. The last time I saw a Diascia, it was growing amongst the boulders on creek beds and on cliffs in the Drakensberg Mountains. These are Diascia, or “twinspur” and its this common name that alludes to their fascinating pollination story.

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Hug-pollination by oil-collecting bee (Rediviva sp.) in Diascia.

Diascia have two spurs on the back of the flower, which is distinct from the usual arrangement of a single nectar-spur. The difference is that these flowers don’t reward pollinators with sugary secretions, instead they provide oil to specialised oil-collecting bees in the genus Rediviva. The bees use this oil to line their nests and provision their young. In order to collect the nectar, they must reach deep into the twin spurs with their lanky forelimbs, and comb it out. In so doing, they effectively hug the reproductive parts of the Diascia flower and effect pollination.

In Spring, I plan to take some cuttings from this little Diascia. Keeping species with special personal significance is a deeply satisfying part of cultivating plants. A plant can be kept like a souvenir or memento marking a time in one’s life, just like a photo or trinket. But plants have an advantage over these inanimate reminders. Because biological reproduction requires the physical donation of part of the mother’s cells to the daughter cells, my keepsake plant can be viewed as a physical part of the plant that appears in my fond memory. If I could see in four dimensions, I could literally look down the line of cell-divisions all the way back to where the Hesperantha in the nursery physically intersects as the same individual with the Hesperantha I observed flowering in the Autumn sun of the Drakensberg Mountains in South Africa.

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The Drakensberg Mountains, South Africa, Autumn 2014.

 

Photos from the field: East Gippsland, Victoria

I recently began a brand new project with the University of Melbourne. The beginning of a new project is filled with equal parts excitement and trepidation—excitement at the novelty, the blank canvas, the potential, and trepidation at not wanting to put a foot wrong in critical early decisions that will affect the outcome of a career-defining opportunity.

Here the photos from a first foray into East Gippsland, surveying sites for bird-pollinated Prostanthera walteri.

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Mt. Elizabeth

 

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Snowy River National Park

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Prostanthera walteri

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Prostanthera hirtula

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McKillops Bridge

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The Snowy River

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The Snowy River

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Prostanthera walteri

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Snowy River National Park

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Gippsland waratah – Telopea oreades

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Floral diversity in Prostanthera

 

The Toadlet Diaries 2: Gulf country.

In 2010 I was fortunate to accompany herpetologist Dr. Renee Catullo on a trip through Australia’s Top End collecting little brown frogs. Here are some of my field notes along with photography. While my photography has vastly improved, I’m not sure I’ve felt so inspired to write since that trip. I hope this series of vignettes communicate some of the flavour and excitement of the wet season in Australia’s monsoon tropics.

(Part one here)

31 January 2010

I was relieving myself a stone’s throw from the inundated Carpentaria Highway when I saw my first Brolga. Its lanky form drifted indolently against a pastel sky as the tropical sun poured out late afternoon’s final slanting blaze. I finished my business, picked up my binoculars and shovel, tucked the bog roll under my arm, snatched a nearby burrowing frog with my free hand and wandered back to where Steve had left our hired Landcruiser: bogged up to the axles in the soft roadside sludge.

We had been following a map to the “Lost City”, scrawled on a take-away order pad by a gnarly-toothed cook at Cape Crawford’s “Heartbreak Hotel”. (This sentence is entirely true and gives me great pleasure to write). I had hoped to see the exceedingly elusive Carpentarian Grass-wren there, but like Grass-wrens, Lost Cities are difficult to find. Renee planned to make a 200 km push down and back the Tablelands Highway that night so our search for the Lost City was truncated in favour of beginning the evening’s driving. Our U-turn was truncated on the shoulder of the highway, which had been under floodwater for the last 3 or 4 days and needed little persuasion to engulf the hired Landcruiser.

We had been stalking 300 kms of the Carpentaria Hwy for the last two nights and had seen one car in that time. It was 5.30pm on Sunday and we had enough food and water in the car to last us a few nights should it come to that, but in a great fluke of variance the next 30 minutes sent us three different cars. Our eventual saviour rocked up in a big old Landcruiser. As a spry indigenous woman jumped out of the passenger seat to retrieve a rope from the tray, a man as weathered, wide and red as our fair country hopped out of the driver’s seat. Our saviour was in a hurry, the rope quickly linked our cars back to back and he barked some instructions to an unsure Steve behind the wheel of our stricken vehicle. Soon wheels were spinning as his truck revved and squealed, switching about like a hooked barramundi. Steve eventually found 4WD, low range, reverse and our steed was yanked backwards from the muck.

Impeded on the Carpentaria Hwy

Impeded on the Carpentaria Hwy

That was the beginning of one of the most eventful evenings of the trip. We were now running a bit late, but counted ourselves lucky to have gotten away with an hour delay. The drive ahead saw us traveling south down the Tablelands Highway, a road that splits rocky cliffs of rust red upon which the ivory white bark of eucalypts is thrown into dramatic contrast by the light from the setting sun. We stopped on a vast flat grass plain after dark and watched the moon rise, a giant languid yellow disc that was to light the rest of our evening.

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It is worth mentioning that I only refer to the roads by name because there are so damn few of them here in the Top End. Each road takes on a character through its interaction with the elements, the lansdscape, and the idiosyncrasies of the disparate roadhouses, towns and remote communities it links across vast distance. These bitumen ribbons of country and the hours spent on them forms a large part of the Top End experience for residents and visitors alike.

Soon after dark the animals started throwing themselves in front of the car. A remote wet season highway at night is chaos. I’ve never seen so much wildlife ever, and you’ll be pleased to know most of it survived. Bustards, nightjars, owls and curlews appear in the headlights, I brake and they make a flapping flash in my periphery as they fly within centimetres of the windscreen. Agile wallabies bound in groups across the road ahead, or sometimes they just stand on the road shoulder, waiting for us to drive closer before darting out into our path. The road is littered with frogs, only discernable as the car drives on over them. But one can’t look out for them as it is much more important to spot the groups of Brahman cattle from a distance safe enough to slow down. At several points we’re slowed to sub 10 km/h as dozens of cows slowly bumble down the road in front of you for hundreds of meters. There is nothing to do but travel along behind until they find a spot to vacate the bitumen. In addition to the fauna there’s water to watch for, the road is flooded in some points up close to a meter, and the floods have dragged onto the road a flotsam of logs, branches and general crap to drive around.

Tablelands Hwy denizen with biologist for scale - Black-headed python

Tablelands Hwy denizen with biologist for scale – Black-headed python

When we swapped drivers I had run over what I was horrified to hear Renee later estimate as a total of 30 burrowing frogs. At the wheel, Steve the frog lover perhaps avoided a few more than I did, but unfortunately he was unable to avoid a nail tail wallaby. The nail tails are beautiful creatures up close, covered in soft, fine light caramel fur with faint white markings. A dark dorsal line runs from the back of their neck down their spine to the nail protruding from a spray of thick black bristles at the end of the tail.

That was one day in gulf country, out near Boroloola.

The Toadlet Diaries 1: Trench warfare frogging.

In 2010 I was fortunate to accompany herpetologist Dr. Renee Catullo on a trip through Australia’s Top End collecting little brown frogs. Here are some of my field notes along with photography. While my photography has vastly improved, I’m not sure I’ve felt so inspired to write since that trip. I hope this series of vignettes communicate some of the flavour and excitement of the wet season in Australia’s monsoon tropics.

3 February 2010

Birds, wind, insects, all still, all silent. An atmosphere of exhaustion settles in as the temperature draws near 40. Wanda Inn roadhouse sits baking between red clay and the azure expanse of the outback sky. This would be home for the night, and we’d best get some sleep before tonight’s activities.

Littoria caerulea find respite from day's dry heat by hanging out in the toilets.

Littoria caerulea find respite from day’s dry heat by hanging out in the toilets.

The area hadn’t seen rain for a while but on dusk the moodily flashing cumulus clouds in the distance promised a change in the weather. Soon after dark we find ourselves in frogless country, standing on the roof of the Landcruiser captivated by the lightshow of distant electrical storms. As time passes the breeze blows harder, and we drive closer to its origin. Soon we are buffeted by a stiff cool wind, petrichor fills the air, fat drops of rain spatter and we are surrounded on all sides by the intermittent discharge of three kinds of lighting. Coruscating bolts crack somewhere between us and the horizon, leaving their jagged after-image in negative on our retinas, snaking fingers of electrical tracery race bifurcating and branching in the clouds overhead, and distant bolts diffused through cloud and rain suddenly bathe the land in white, turning puddles into mirrors for the silver sky before plunging us back into darkness. The weather is completely in character for the Northern Territory: at once utterly romantic and dangerously thrilling.

We stop periodically to stand on the car and take pictures of the gathering storm (still no frogs calling) but when a blinding bolt cracks too close for comfort we quickly curtail our roof-standing. Discouraged by the lack of frogs, the talk turns to gin and tonic at our next stop, but when we get there, rather than a refreshing drink, the distinctive chip of the Stonemason toadlet greets us and the frogging is on.

And so the wind blows, fat drops spatter our skin as we stride through waist high grass and negotiate ankle-twisting holes, boot-sucking puddles, and mud that cakes to the mud that’s caked on the mud caked on our boots. We wiggle between the slick ground and barbed wire fences while the sky flashes chaotically, rumbling and booming, and we stalk around pools thronging with the disorientating din of burrowing frogs, occasionally glimpsing the wide eyes of the other when the land in an instant becomes awash in the white of a nearby burst of lighting. This was trench-warfare frogging.

Top End storm

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Plant pollinator interactions in the South African flora

The slides from my recent departmental seminar at the ANU are below.

The first half of the talk concentrates on plant-pollinator interactions, floral guilds and floral evolution. The second half is a slideshow of vistas, creatures and plants I encountered in my work.

My bruised human ego

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This is the best photo I got of a group of baboons who gave me quite an experience the other day.

On a sandy fynbos trail, I rounded a corner obscured by vegetation and came abruptly face to face with a troupe of seven of these creatures. The closest member was only 3 metres from me. All of them were stopped, standing or sitting,  looking at me as I did the same. My first reaction was one of awe, these creatures are impressively muscular and intimidating up close. One of them, a very large male, was wearing a radio collar. My second instinct was to take advantage of the photo opportunity, but my camera was in my backpack.

My only close experience with monkeys comes from Indonesian macaques, and extrapolating from the damage these ones wreak on tourists’ belongings I was not keen to get the baboons interested in anything I owned. I was also aware that some baboon troupes in the Cape have a reputation for raiding. Bins, bags, picnics, cars, houses are all fair game. They have overcome their fear of humans and are now a famous nuisance requiring full time management.

My bag therefore remained zipped and in place on my back. I raised my arms and hissed, to try and persuade them off the trail. One of the leaders began to advance on me, and the others stood up to follow suit.

Finally, I was forced to concede the path to the baboons. I back-stepped into the bush beside the track, allowing them a 2 metre thoroughfare which they calmly took in an orderly and nonchalant fashion. Only after passing me, when their backs were exposed, did they pick up speed into a quick trot for a dozen metres to put some distance between us.

 

Red Hill fynbos track

Kleinplaas Dam fynbos track

 

A most engaging mantid

Recently, I was fortunate enough to spend eight days in Ndumo Game Reserve, where for several hours a day I remained perched above clusters of large flowers smelling rather like a long-drop toilet. Tagging along as help on a study of Stapelia gigantea promised to be a chance to see a new South African biome and the wonderful creatures that come along with it.

The carrion flower (Stapelia gigantea, bottom right) in rural Zululand aloe country.

Driving to and from the field site every day we would encounter giraffe, wildebeest, nyala, impala and warthogs going about their daily activities. At dusk we’d sit in a bird hide, count waterfowl and watch crocodiles cruise on by. Our nights were serenaded by the wailing bush baby, the guttural grunting of wildebeest, the booming-bass of hippos and occasionally the manic whinny of a hyena, while the porch light drew in a bewildering buffet of invertebrate curiosity.

Croc on dusk, silently sweeping past the bird hide.

But perhaps the most endearing animal found all trip was one of the most captivating mantids I have ever seen. She is a cryptically coloured Hymenopodidae, belonging to the same subfamily as the spectacular orchid mantis. Unlike other mantids I have encountered she is very easy to handle and shows no desire to flee the hand or captivity. She is a voracious feeder and any moth or fly introduced to her enclosure scarcely lasts 5 minutes before straying too close to her raptorial forelimbs. On her second night in our field accommodation she had already laid a small ootheca.

She also displays a charming and unusual shadow boxing routine complete with weaving, jabs and feints.

Edit: I have since learned that she belongs to genus Oxypilus, a group of mantids called “Boxer mantis”, for reasons made obvious in this video. (Thanks Mantidboy for the ID).

The above video was shot with a Canon 500D, Canon 100mm f/2.8 macro in an improvised stove-top studio. A piece of white paper provided the background, the camera was stabilized on a bag of rice. This left my hands free to experiment with the lighting, provided by a cheap head torch.