Outdoor Humans: November 2024, Rising Waters Edition 🛶
See all this mess? Let's go outside and pretend it doesn't exist.
In this month’s issue:
A deep dive into the sweater-wearing caterpillars that may or may not help you predict winter weather
If you like mushy fruit that only ripens when it’s cold outside… wow, do I have a foraging find for you
What’s that sound? No, not the internalized dread bubbling up — it’s probably just a pack of coyotes
Your reader questions answered: Here’s why you didn’t find any walnuts last month (whomp whomp)
Plus a few other nature notes.
Hello, friends!
When it came time to draft this month’s issue of Outdoor Humans, I felt somewhat at a loss. “Mentally exhausted with a heaping side of writer’s block” hardly describes it. Even picking the right day for the newsletter to arrive in your inbox felt daunting (with the way things are going, who’s going to even read this?). It’s been a long slog through this U.S. election cycle, and none of it has felt good.
I arrived at the polls drenched on Election Day, the second day of non-stop rains that caused the waterways in St. Louis to surge. While my home is safely nestled in the woods, the nearby river that carved the surrounding protective hillsides moved into major flood stage, cutting off my access to the outside world. I’ve spent the past few days tucked into a temporary island, watching the murky waters swirl (don’t worry, I have a boat!).
The timing is cosmically suspect — at a time when I’m turning inward to cope with the election results, I’ve been experiencing a visible ecological reminder that there is only so much I can control in the world. There was nothing I can do to silence the river gauges as they roar to a crescendo. No amount of sandbags would keep floodwaters from seeping uncomfortably close to home. But I realized I could observe the data, watch with my own eyes, and prepare for much of this flood’s effects. I have the strength and ability to be an island in rising waters. I can soothe my nerves by aiding others in my community who are experiencing the same, and by making plans for the inevitable recurrence after this river returns to its banks.
My first draft of this month’s introduction harped on gratitude, and how it’s good for our brains (forgive me — it’s an easy theme to speak to with Thanksgiving approaching). That’s well and good, but in this moment, I hope you’ll venture outdoors to seek a little inner peace. Watching my environment adjust to this huge change gave me reason to pause, and frankly, not think about anything else for just a few moments. I observed ducks gliding across their expanded ponds, curiously watched spiders and crickets cling to rocks and trees to escape the chilly water, and spotted a mole swimming at impressive speed (I didn’t know they could do that). I became squirmy at the amount of impressively sized night crawlers seeking dry land.
Exposure to nature builds calmness, resilience, and mental fortitude. It’s the opposite of doomscrolling. The weeks and months ahead of us will likely bring their own metaphorical flood waters, and finding ways to seek comfort in the outdoors, even for just a few moments, can strengthen your resolve to withstand the rising tide.
I’ve also danced in my muck boots to The Lonely Island’s 2009 hit “I’m On a Boat” this week. That sort of helps, too.
This month, outdoors
A few ideas of how you can enjoy what nature has scheduled for November
🐛 The Curious Case of Weather-Predicting Fuzzy Wuzzies
I absolutely adore November and its gloomy, blustery days. On the darker afternoons, I’m reminded of a core childhood memory from a November past: I’m back in the late ‘90s, tucked indoors where it’s delightfully warm, watching through the window as bare trees slap their crowns together in the wind. The TV is set to A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, and I’m wearing a cozy sweater. All is right in the world.
Perhaps that love of being snug as a bug is why I enjoy seeing woolly worms as fall carries on. These little insects are dressed for dropping temperatures, wearing their own thick sweaters of prickly brown and black hairs. Each season, I scoop them into my palm to gently pet them, trying to remember the folk tale about which of their color patterns predicts a bad winter ahead. I’m not the only one — turns out Americans have been observing these little critters since the colonial era, using them as weather prediction tools. Is this legit? Probably not, but woolly worms are still fascinating insects in their own right. Here’s what you should know about these cozy little creatures.
All About Woolly Worms
First off, woolly worms aren’t actually worms. Some regions call them woolly bears; sorry to break it to you, but they’re not bears, either. They’re caterpillars, a juvenile form of the Isabella tiger moth (Pyrrharctia isabella).
While typically seen in autumn, woolly worms are active most months of the year. In spring to early summer, woolly worm eggs hatch and grow into caterpillars, feasting on all the greenery they can find before building their cocoons and transforming into moths. That first generation lays eggs in late summer and early autumn that quickly grow into the caterpillars we humans see wiggling about in cooler weather.
The second group of woolly worms gets the unfortunate responsibility of surviving through winter’s harshness so they can lay spring’s eggs, though these little critters are amazingly equipped to do so. Surely, the sweater-like hairs keep them warm from December through April, right? Not really. Woolly worms produce a substance called glycerol, a natural version of antifreeze. This chemical allows them to safely hibernate under rocks or tree bark, weathering temps as low as -90° Fahrenheit. Their faux fur, called setae, helps the caterpillars freeze slowly so they can withstand the process and reduces damage from thawing and refreezing as temperatures swing up and down throughout the season.
Move Over, Punxsutawney Phil
How woolly worms became the prognosticators of winter weather isn’t clear, though the myth got something of a second life in the late 1940s. Dr. Howard Curran, then the curator of entomology for the American Museum of Natural History, ran a tiny study in 1948 featuring a mere 15 woolly worms. His wintertime predictions picked up press coverage, and for about a decade after, Curran’s annual autumnal trek up a New York mountain to observe woolly worms was a popular newspaper feature.
Today’s scientists point out those limited sample sizes weren’t large enough to prove (or disprove) the caterpillar myth. Like all things in nature, woolly worms and their patterns have incredible variability — no two caterpillars are alike, even in the same season. Not to mention that not every fuzzy-looking caterpillar is an Isabella tiger moth — some similar species are entirely black, yellow, or white, which can skew the results. Getting an idea of whether or not these critters can really predict weather would mean collecting hundreds to thousands for observation each season, which sounds cute, but also tedious.
Still, I think there’s something good-natured and fun about asking woolly worms their thoughts on the incoming cold season — we do the same each spring with a giant rodent, after all. Here’s how you can interpret the little fuzzy caterpillars you find in your habitat:
Look at the colors: Isabella tiger moths will have black and rust-brown bands of setae. Black supposedly indicates severe weather, while brown represents mild conditions.
Observe the placement: Isabella tiger moth caterpillars have 13 body segments, which humans have interpreted as being one for each week of winter. A thicker brown stripe suggests more weeks of calm weather, while caterpillars with more black and a thin stripe of brown predict a harsher winter ahead. If you really want to go all in, you can use a magnifying glass to get a close look at each body segment make your weather predictions for each week of the season.
Return your new friend to a safe spot: Woolly worms are lovely to interact with — they don’t bite or sting — but like all living creatures deserve kindness and respect. Be sure to return any you capture to a safe place near a tree or rock where they might burrow and rest for winter. Come spring, you may just see them again, albeit in their new fluttery yellow suits.
🍊 Are These Fruit Rotten? No, They’re Really Supposed to Look Like That
Persimmons may be one of the more overlooked wild foods by humans, considering they ripen at a time we begin hunkering down indoors. Meanwhile, deer, turkeys, squirrels, and birds (among other animals) eagerly await these fruits that only ripen once a chill has settled in the air. But why let wildlife have all the fun? Persimmons are easy to harvest and edible right from the tree, even if their soft appearance can give off a “should I really eat this?” vibe. Because, yes, you really should.
When to hunt: October and November
Persimmon trees (Diospyros virginiana) fruit throughout fall, though October and November tend to provide the best pickings. Around the first frost of the season, the palm-sized fruits slowly transform from a shade of green to an orange hue (some turn slightly red). Persimmons also soften to the touch, which is the best indicator of ripeness. The fruit may develop some small wrinkling in particularly blustery temperatures, but that doesn’t mean they’re inedible; I’d compare it to how apples stored in the refrigerator develop a softer skin, except this fridge is outside.
How to harvest: Collect from the trees and ground
As persimmons soften, they’re easy to pull directly from the tree. Some experts will recommend you use pruners, though the wild trees I’ve harvested have easily let go of their fruits without tools. You’ll likely find many persimmons on the ground, and there’s no reason to waste them. Collecting windfall persimmons will quickly fill your basket (just be sure they’re not rotten or stepped on).
Harvested persimmons can be stored in the fridge until you’re ready to use, but don’t wait long. Like all fresh fruit, these tiny, tasty globes have a short shelf-life of just a few days. They’re incredibly sweet, containing as much as 34% sugar content. You can turn them into persimmon pudding, dry them for snacking, or enjoy them fresh — just don’t let them linger.
Foraging notes you should know
Here’s the deal with persimmons: you’ll never forget the first time you’ve had one that wasn’t quite ready. Before they’re fully ripe, persimmons have a particularly astringent flavor that tastes not so great. The tannins in the fruit can make your mouth pucker and feel disgustingly dry. It makes for a particularly successful prank to pull on younger siblings who don’t know any better (hello, fellow elder sisters).
Arrivals, departures, and other nature notes
What to look for on this month’s outdoor adventures
Daylight saving time doesn’t just affect humans. Americans have a love-hate relationship with daylight saving time, though we’re not the only ones feeling its impact. In many urban areas, animals change their behaviors to avoid us, so when we turn back the clock, we shift their schedules, too. Increased artificial lighting is great for us, but can interrupt animals’ circadian rhythm and sleep, migration, and even when they mate. Adding more human drivers out on the road after dark also increases the odds of colliding with deer, opossums, and other nocturnal critters. Watch out for their sake (and because car insurance premiums are already too damn high).
Halloween has passed, but these witchy blooms are just getting started. American witch hazel (Hamamelis virginiana) puts on a show in late autumn, perking up the quieting woods with its bright yellow buds. The vibrant hue makes it easy to spot, especially in areas where deciduous trees have dropped nearly all their leaves. Witch hazel shrubs can be found in the eastern half of the country, stretching as far north as Minnesota and down into Texas. If you find one on your next woodland adventure, pause to observe it for a few moments. You might just catch this plant’s amazing way of spreading seeds. They’re lighter than a grain of rice, but the pods are so pressurized that when they burst, the seeds rocket out at high speeds, launching up to 30 feet away in about half a millisecond.
Yip, yip, hooray. Coyotes get a bad rap — many people who’ve never seen one imagine coyotes as massive, wolf-like creatures waiting in the shadows to stalk and pounce. In reality, these canines are dog-sized, standing about 2 feet tall and rarely weighing more than 30 pounds. However, their off-putting barks and shrieks sound larger than life, and concerningly like screaming humans. Coyotes can make nearly a dozen vocalizations, often heard at night or before turbulent weather. Listen out this fall, but don’t panic — the sound of their yips and yowls can travel up to three miles.
Ask the Woods Witch: Your nature questions, answered 🔮
November’s question comes from a few people I’ve spoken with about last month’s guide to walnut harvesting.
Why didn’t my walnut trees produce any walnuts this year?
Join the club. All fall I’ve been gazing upward at the massive walnut trees around my house, and scouring the ground for any nuts that may have fallen. Unfortunately, I have failed to spot one single walnut hull. A few friends and family members let me know they too, had slim to no pickings of walnuts this year. Why? There’s a few reasons, but the largest is how walnut trees do their thing.
Walnut trees are biennial bearers, meaning they produce a heavy crop of fruit one year with a substantially lighter (or nonexistent) yield the next. Climate also plays a role. We’ve had a tough weather year where I’m at in St. Louis; a soggy spring could have impacted pollination, and the blistering summer heat waves and ensuing drought aren’t necessarily supportive. The trees have been through it, y’all.
So if you, too, had no walnuts this year, don’t panic. There’s a perfectly good chance next autumn’s harvest will have you filling baskets with ease.
Have a nature question? Submit your outdoor query and receive a thoroughly researched answer in an upcoming issue of Outdoor Humans. If I don’t know the answer, I’ll reach out to biologists, outdoor enthusiasts, and other experts to get you a solid explanation.
Shameless plugs for my work around the web
Ready to fight with your family members about the election results this Thanksgiving? Just kidding. Instead, I’d recommend a different topic, say whether sweet potato or pumpkin pie is the better holiday choice. You can pick up some sweet potato trivia from this piece I wrote about how they’re not actually potatoes. (But to be honest, if it doesn’t matter to Ms. Patti LaBelle and her pie recipe, it doesn’t really matter to me, either.)
That’s it for this month’s edition of Outdoor Humans. We’ll chat again in early December about the Christmas Bird Count and other wintertime outdoor activities.
Thanks for reading, but now, more than ever, please go the heck outside.
Nicole Garner Meeker