Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, October 23, 1995 TAG: 9510240001
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A-9 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: WILLIAM T. SAMPSON
DATELINE: MOWLES SPRING PARK, SALEM. LENGTH: Long
I recall a small clearing there, where the road dips down into a lush, green valley with a meandering stream and a splendid view of the distant mountains. In the clearing, I hope to find the solitary picnic table where I sat that long-ago day at dawn, watching the first fingers of the morning sun poke playfully among the trees.
Basking there in the golden light, I found what I had come in search of: solitude - and a respite from the everyday press of the business world. In truth, I might have dozed off had it not been for the morning chorus of bird song - and an underwing moth returning from its nightly rounds. At first I mistook it for a butterfly, its showy, black-and-orange wings flashing brightly as it fluttered through here-and-there shafts of sunlight.
The underwing made several circuits of the clearing, always flying directly over the picnic table, almost as if he were trying to get my attention. At one point, he came perilously close to an orb spider's web, a masterpiece of engineering hung among the lower branches of a dogwood tree. But at the last moment he sailed up and over it with consummate ease. He then seemed to set his sights on one of the more prominent oak trees, and, without further ado, flew directly to it.
The instant he alighted on the tree trunk he disappeared from sight. Keeping my eye firmly on the spot where he'd touched down, I walked over and found him with ease. Yet, so perfect was his camouflage he might have been carved from the very bark upon which he sat, his folded forewings now covering the colorful underwings which give the moth its name.
The only flaw I could find in his deception was the fact that some of the lines in the cryptic, barklike pattern of his forewings were perpendicular to - rather than in line with - the vertical crevices in the bark of the tree. But no sooner had I formed that hasty opinion than my little friend turned himself clockwise precisely 90-degrees - and simply vanished. From a distance of 3 feet, he was invisible.
Something told me I had just seen a miracle. Nothing earthshaking; not the sort of thing to bring people running from near and far; but a miracle, nonetheless. For no matter to what extent genetics may explain such behavior, Someone had to do the programming.
At any rate, one moment my moth was there, the next he was gone. Or so it seemed. And so it must seem to all the various predators who stalk the underwings of this world. There are at least a hundred species of these moths indigenous to North America, all of which belong to the genus Catocala. At the time, I had no idea which this one was, but I have since tentatively identified it as C. ilia.
Catocala moths may have red, orange, yellow, blue or black hindwings which become partially or entirely hidden when the moth is at rest. Many of these creatures are capable of jumping quite vigorously, often confusing would-be predators by disappearing as I have described, or by springing away from a tree trunk with a startling display of unexpected color. Even the larvae of underwing moths are adept at hiding themselves and employing camouflage to elude their enemies.
But that extraordinary bit of fine-tuning my underwing friend put on his vanishing act that long-ago morning left me with a new sense of wonder at the precision, the complexity, the sheer beauty of the way the natural world is put together. And the wonder has never diminished. So I have returned to this woods, not seeking a repeat performance - it's too late in the season for that anyway - but pursuing a nostalgic urge to find that particular oak tree.
Instead, I find the road no longer reaches the clearing where the picnic table stood. There before me is a mountain of hardpacked earth, replete with bulldozer tracks, a specter that looms starkly against a suddenly bleak horizon. Since my first visit here, the entire valley has been incorporated into an adjacent municipal landfill.
But the forest is intact, the oaks standing taller and more stately than ever. And I am confident there is still a good supply of the stuff from which miracles are made: orb spiders who build their very first webs as if they'd been at it for a thousand years; insignificant little looper worms who, through the process of metamorphosis, are transformed into magnificent, new creatures - some of which are underwing moths who are not only masters of camouflage, but who sometimes improvise by aligning themselves with the crevices in lichen-covered tree bark.
I hope the city of Salem will reclaim the Mowles Spring area in an aesthetically pleasing and ecologically sound manner. For it is not in forests alone, but in all outdoors, that nature's interwoven wonders operate.
Today, more than ever, it is imperative that man learn to live in harmony with his environment. If he can manage to do so, then in the fields and woods and waters of this world there will continue to be miracles - both great and small - for all who have eyes to see.
William T. Sampson of Roanoke is a member of the Valley Chapter of the Virginia Writers Club.
by CNB