Have you noticed recently the scratchy, long-lasting, insect-screech coming from the trees? If you stop to think about it and actually pay attention to the sound, you’ll realize it’s completely different than the weird whirring space-ship sound of the 17-year periodical (Brood X, in our neck of the woods) cicadas that emerged in late spring. What you hear are annual circadas.
Indeed, if you pay attention, you’ll not only realize it’s a completely different call than the Brood X cicadas, but you’ll also recognize it as a reliable and comforting sound of summer. In fact, these little buggers who show up reliably every single year when the summer months are at their hottest and muggiest are also appropriately known as dog-day cicadas.
When I was growing up, this was the sound that heralded lazy, hazy days so hot and muggy that the best thing to do was find some shade, secretly snag a couple pillows from the living room, and lose yourself in a good book. A tall glass of iced tea (Nestea instant tea, back in the day) added to the perfection.
Yes, the signal for embarking upon such a literary adventure was the distinct sound of the annual cicadas. They’re shy guys, it seems. They mostly seem to ‘ghost’ us with their light brown shells, left behind when they shed. It’s much more rare to see an annual cicada than the hordes of 17-year cicadas we just enjoyed (or endured, depending upon your perspective).
Annual Cicada – Photo: L. Weikel
Bird Issue Update
All of this talk of cicadas reminds me that there seems to be some connection being drawn by ornithologists connecting the periodical (17-year, Brood X) cicadas with the sclurge that’s been afflicting songbirds.
Luckily, it sounds like that nastiness is starting to abate. The birds that were getting sick and dying seemed to be located within the zones where the Brood X emerged. Was it caused by the birds eating cicadas that were harboring the zombie-creating cicada fungus?
Wassup? – 17 year Brood X Cicada – Photo: L. Weikel
Stuff of Nightmares
I don’t know about you, but I’m missing the whirring purr of the Brood X 17-year cicadas that emerged from the ground in droves this past May. As of today, I didn’t hear the distinctive call of a single periodical cicada. The silence made me sad. As I’ve said before, the whirr emitted from the males’ tympanae mesmerized me. And the occasional <clang clang clang> reminiscent of one of those wind up stuffed monkeys with cymbals would interject unexpected color to the otherworldly hum. I loved it all. Two days ago, though, I heard the high pitched screech of an annual cicada. Only a few hours later I discovered an article that is the stuff of nightmares.
Turns out the stars of these nightmares feast only on annual cicadas. I’d say they haven’t acquired a taste for the 17-year brood, but it’s more likely that they simply haven’t had a chance to try that flavor.
Brood X Cicadas Swirling in the Sunlight – 23June2021 – Photo: L. Weikel
Cast of Characters
In order to avoid any confusion in this entymologically-heady discussion, permit me to identify the cast of characters about which I’m writing.
The 17 year Brood X periodical cicadas
These are the ones that emerged in our area in May of this year. After munching on the roots of bazillions of trees in our area for the past 17 years, they burrowed to the surface, shed their exoskeletons, and then engaged in some intense, red-eyed, cacophonous mating rituals. The males, of course, were the attention-seeking noise-makers. The females, after selecting and allowing their mates to have their way with them, laid their eggs in slits in the bark of deciduous trees. They conked out shortly thereafter. Toward the end of July, those eggs will develop into pupae that will drop to the ground and burrow into the dirt, ready to latch onto the roots of their home trees and go through 5 stages of metamorphosis over the next 17 years, only to re-emerge in 2038.
As we pretty much all learned this year, Nature’s survival strategy for these periodic cicadas was to unleash vast waves of these creatures upon the environment. So many emerged from the ground that their predators essentially ate until they made themselves sick of cicadas. Birds, dogs, snakes, you name it: it was All-U-Can-Eat Cicada Summer ’21.
Annual Cicadas
Also known as ‘Dog-day Cicadas,’ these are the larger, very green cousins of those that emerge after 17 years of underground recon. These cicadas are the ones that we hear every year – the very high pitched buzz that starts slow but builds to a piercing whine – starting when the weather becomes oppressive, usually in July and definitely in August. Those hot, muggy days are known as the ‘dog days’ of summer, but the cicadas’ name also derives from the fact that the so-called ‘Dog Star,’ Sirius, is distinctly visible in the night sky during this time of year. You an always tell when summer is settling in and getting long in the tooth when the cicadas start their droning.
It’s interesting that the so-called ‘annual’ cicadas do not arrive on the scene, have rampant sex, and then die – all of a piece in one single season. No. The annuals cicadas are rather erroneously named, since they live an average of 2-6 years. They’re definitely the far less flashy and dramatic of the species.
These are the creatures I referred to above as the stuff of nightmares. Follow this link and take a look at these beasts. Those are some nasty looking flying artillery. But honestly? Even worse is the description of what these cicada killers do to their prey. It’s hideously awful. They essentially drug one of the big Dog-day lugs and frantically drag it into the array of tunnels it created in its barely weeks-long life span. And there, rather horrifically, these cicada killers cannibalize over time the annual cicadas they’ve drugged, but haven’t actually killed. Yet.
It sounds like a horrible way to go.
The only good news, I suppose, is that these so-called cicada killers won’t sting us with their massive stingers unless actively provoked. Nah – they’d rather save that anesthetic for their cicada slaves that they stuff into their basements for their nymphs to feast off of for months. Ew.
I spoke in my post yesterday about the awe-inspiring artistry that unfolded before my eyes yesterday as Spartacus and I walked off our adrenaline. It was as if Pachamama (the Creative Essence known as Mother Earth) was determined to reward me for maintaining my cool in the midst of a volatile situation. She wooed me with her ever-changing cloud formations, which was by the two Red-tailed Hawks that screeched at me along the way. The clouds, though…
It’s hard to convey how the clouds, mere pockets of water vapor shape-shifted and held aloft by unique atmospheric conditions could take my breath away. But they did.
Tonight I’m posting the photos of the last portion of yesterday’s walk because I need to share them with you. They are too beautiful for me to just shrug off and forget about.
Another factor, as you can see, is that they appear so drastically different than the earlier photos; it’s rather astonishing that they were all taken within minutes of each other.
Merging – Photo: L. Weikel
Glad I Waited
I’m glad I waited to post them. Today’s weather mostly sported a blanket of overcast very high above, so I have to admit, the joy factor just wasn’t emanating from the sky as it had yesterday. And it was tangible.
There’s so much rancor and division everywhere we look. I feel like we all need to grab the wonder of being alive right now wherever we can find it.
For instance, today I took a walk with a dear friend. I drove to her home and when I stepped out of my car, I literally became mesmerized by the sound of the cicadas filling the trees surrounding her home. She only lives three miles from my house, but the abundance of the surrounding forest has apparently encouraged an immense horde of the creatures to burrow up and out of their 17 year homes. The ‘guys’ are just singing their hearts out to woo their girls.
I wonder why the forest around High Rocks isn’t whirring in this manner. We’re so close – and yet the aural proof of their emergence is drastically different. Regardless of ‘why,’ the fact remains that I was transfixed when their other-worldly hum engulfed my senses.
I recorded them, but it the recording didn’t do them justice. Maybe I’ll try my hand at recalling how to post things on my YouTube account and at least post what I have. But it pales in comparison.
I’m going to need to return to that forest setting soon just to sit with them. Their unique artistry calls to me.
I don’t especially remember Brood X and its emergence 17 years ago. Since 2004, which I truly do not recall being a dramatic experience, the best I can recollect seeing a few more cicadas than usual was the brood that emerged in 2013 (Brood II). To be honest, that was not a particularly noteworthy experience either. (In other words, I was disappointed.)
I’ve been a little confused by Brood X and the maps I’ve seen as to where they’re to be expected to ‘arrive.’ But in finding the link to the map of the different broods for this post, I realize that in our portion of eastern Pennsylvania, there’s actually a crosshatch over us – indicating ‘multiple broods.’ That makes a little more sense to me, as I do recall hearing about (and experiencing somewhat) Brood II in 2013, as I mentioned.
They’re Emerging Now
I have a friend who lives only about 15 minutes north of me and she’s remarked and posted on FB for at least a week or ten days about the emergence of her cicadas. I was starting to think we’d missed the boat entirely and that the cicadas around here just weren’t going to live up to the hype. That’s how I felt in 2004 for sure. But I’m delighted to say that they are emerging now.
I saw a couple on Monday, the first tip-off being the discarded exoskeletons lying crushed on the flagstones underneath one of our Maples. Of course, that made me go on the hunt for those that had shed their shells, and I was rewarded with discovering two.
While I was sitting outside today, though, I started seeing them flying across the yard. I called Karl outside to show him, and we had to laugh because it wasn’t entirely clear whether we were seeing a couple different ones buzzing from tree to tree or whether it was the same one just going back and forth.
Of course, I later figured out there must be more hatching because I marveled when I saw a Downy Woodpecker snatch one of the clumsy flyers right out of the air and start munching on it. The mid-air capture was impressive. Then Spartacus pounced on something and I realized he, too, had discovered one. Poor guy – I made him give it up.
I’ve only heard a couple males singing so far. While I realize their calls can become deafening, I have to admit I’ve never experienced that many around me at one time to feel overwhelmed by them. I’m hoping this year yields more cicadas than either 2004 or 2013.
Cicada 2 -Photo: L. Weikel
Tracking the Broods
Of course, being the Nature Nerd that I am, I downloaded the app Cicada Safari, which is used to track the emergence of the cicadas and note the differences between broods, as well as a variety of other variables. I’ve submitted two of the photos in this post to them for their records and have yet to hear back whether they will be accepted and noted on the app’s map.
It’s interesting to note that, predictably, scientists are tracking the disappearance of some broods. I’m hoping that perhaps the members of Brood II (2013) and Brood X (2004 and 2021) will be making a strong comeback this year.
And as I prepare to do my Perelandra Biodiversity Program protocol on June 1st, I am pondering whether purposely working to bring balance to our land and bolster the resilience of the biodiversity here will have any discernible impact on the cicadas. Obviously, I’m hoping every little bit any of us can do to promote the long term excellent health of our ecosystems is helping.
