Authors of today’s Ramble report: Linda and Don. Comments, edits, and suggestions for the report can be
sent to Linda at Lchafin (at) uga.edu.

Today’s emphasis: Remembering and celebrating the life of Dale Hoyt. From Don’s Facebook page: “Seventy-two Ramblers gathered for today’s Nature
Ramble. It was a solemn event, as we remembered the recent passing of Dale
Hoyt, one of the original Ramble leaders. We took a short ramble through
the International, Heritage, and Flower Gardens, as we made our way to the 10:00
a.m. memorial service at the Garden’s Day Chapel. It was a wonderful service,
with family and friends, sharing memories of Dale and later, enjoying a PowerPoint
slide show of over ten years of our rambles with Dale, while more memories were
shared.”

All
the photos
that appear in this report, unless otherwise credited, were taken by Don
Hunter. Photos may be enlarged by clicking them with a mouse or tapping on your
screen. Not all of Don’s photos from today made it into the ramble report, so be sure to
check out his Facebook album at this link. Don’s Facebook photos are open to all, so even if you don’t have a Facebook account you can still click on the link and view his photos.

Ramblers admired the view of the Flower Garden from the Overlook Terrace

Reading: Linda read the March 14 entry in Donald Culross Peattie’s Almanac for Moderns, a favorite nature book of Dale’s.

“March Fourteenth: I set forth on this high-promising day for the hills, but the slope of the land drew me downward; the brook, running toward the river, led me on, and I walked as a man who knows the day has something in store for him, something it would disclose. Before very long, I was at the lowest level in this neighborhood, on the springy turf of the the river meadows. The sunlight hung in the misty willows. Pee-yeep…pee-yeep came the sweet metallic clink of the spring peepers, but when I tried to stalk them, ever so quietly, I was forestalled, surrounded by silence, a man alone on the wild bottom land, under the remote skies that arched above the marsh and me. Pee-yeep… like the horizon, the sweet melancholy sound receded or closed up behind me. Among a penciling of last year’s reeds upon the very margin, I stood and saw the frog’s eggs in the water. Laid only today, perhaps, the dark velvety globules in their sphere of silver jelly shine softly up a me, remind me that a year ago I was seeing them in the same pond, and proposing to have their secret.”

Leopard Frog’s eggs in an ephemeral pool in the floodplain; each black dot is a single egg. Photo by Emily Carr

On March 1, 2018, ramblers observed some “dark
velvety globules in their sphere of silver jelly” in a shallow pool in the
right-of-way. Dale wrote about it in the Ramble Report for that week:

“Ephemeral pools form in
low lying areas as a result of heavy rains…These small wetlands are temporary
and, depending on weather, last from a few weeks to a month or two. One such
pool regularly forms in the lower power line right of way on the west side
between the path and woods. In early February of this year this pool formed and
immediately attracted at least three kinds of amphibians: I heard the calls of
Southern Leopard frogs, American toads, and Spring Peepers. Males arrive first
and begin shouting their characteristic mating vocalizations. The leopard frogs
make a grunting, chuckling noise from under water. American toads issue a
lengthy trilled call and the spring peepers produce a whistled
“peep.” Frogs face some difficult decisions in selecting a place to
breed. Permanent bodies of water are dangerous. They contain fish and dragonfly
larvae, both of which prey on tadpoles. Ephemeral pools are safer because they
are not permanent. When they dry up all the living inhabitants either die or
enter a resting stage. Fish don’t have such abilities and neither do dragonfly
larvae. But the trade-off is that the ephemeral pool is impermanent. It may not
last long enough for the tadpoles to complete metamorphosis. Additional dangers
arise from where the eggs are laid. If the water is too shallow the egg masses
will be exposed and dry out before they can hatch. That has been the fate of
many Leopard frog egg masses that we have seen deposited in this pool over the
years. The mortality rate is high and only a small percentage of tadpoles
survive through metamorphosis into frogs or toads.”

Below is a selection of the readings that family, friends, and ramblers gave at the memorial service.

Maggie Fowlkes, Dale’s granddaughter, said: “Grandpa wrote the two pieces I am going to share. The Nature Ramblers
always start their walks by sharing a poem or a reading for inspiration. These
were two of his own compositions.”

“Spring: the stirring of tree leaves emerging from their buds, April 17, 2014

Gazing in the distance you will now see a long-awaited green mist,
the stirring of tree leaves emerging from their buds. Soon we will be able to
hear them rustling in the wind and this soft sound signals a change in the
short life of the ephemeral flowers on the ground below. The closing of the
canopy deprives them of sunlight and they must rush to produce their fruits and
seeds and then retire until next spring.”

“Ginkgo
tree,  November, 2012

 Autumn
has an abundance of dreary, drizzly days when everything is drained of color
and the chill penetrates to the bone. On such days it’s difficult not to be
depressed and the gray sky just reinforces that absence of cheer. But
fortunately, there is one joy that overcast skies cannot diminish: the Ginkgo
tree. As fall begins, the Ginkgo starts to absorb all the green from its
fan-shaped leaves. They become yellow at their base and the border between
green and yellow gradually advances to the edge of the fan, as if all the green
is being inhaled into the tree itself. Then the tree seems to hold its breath,
as if waiting for some sign. When that mysterious signal arrives, the tree
suddenly exhales and all the lemon colored leaves cascade to the ground within
a few hours. If you’re lucky enough to be standing under a Ginkgo at that very
moment you can experience the joy of their soft pelting – summer sunlight and
air made palpable – as in their twisting descent they brush against your head
and hands, casting your shadow on the earth beneath. Their brilliant yellow
defies the drab autumnal
sky and, for a moment, you can imagine you see the sun reflected in the pooled
leaves beneath the naked branches above.”

Andy Fowlkes, Dale’s grandson, read three of Dale’s favorite quotes that explain his wide interest in natural history and teaching.

From a Senegalese conservationist, “In the end, we will conserve only
what we love, we will love only what we understand, and we will understand only
what we are taught.”



And an excerpt from “An Almanac for Moderns” by Donald Culross Peattie, found
on the back of the program: “the name of a bird is nothing but the opening of a door to knowledge: it is
not knowledge in itself, and the pleasures of study consist in making one’s
self a Sherlock Holmes, intent upon every trace and detail of one’s subject’s life.”

David Fowlkes, stepson, read “Why I Started a Blog,” written by Dale.

“In
the fall of 2011, I started regularly attending the group now known as Nature Ramblers. We meet every Thursday morning at the State
Botanical Garden and ramble for about 1 1/2 to 2 hours. From the beginning I
shared what I knew about the things we saw each week and, in 2012, Hugh Nourse,
who had taken over the duties of leader, asked me if I would be interested in
becoming a co-leader. About that time, one of the participants asked me if I
would write down some of my commentary. In early September, 2012, I started to
email a document with my remarks to all the ramblers on our email list. I think
that there were 35 names on the list at that time. (The current list has 143
names and we regularly have 20-25 ramblers show up each week. The first reports
I sent as PDF files or shared on Google Docs and sent the link. It gradually
occurred to me that I was writing something like a nature journal and that each
ramble account could be a blog entry. After a couple of weeks or so of fiddling
around with Google’s blogging platform, I created the first blog post on April
11, 2013.

I
wanted to do more than just make a checklist of things we noticed on each
ramble. To my way of thinking, a list of names is just the beginning. Every
organism has a tale to tell, whether we know what it is or not. For many, even
the majority, we don’t know their story. But even lacking that specific
knowledge, it is possible to comment on the relationships between organisms and
unappreciated aspects of general life styles. For example, to name just a few:
the difference between shade leaves and sun leaves, the unseen parts of fungal
organisms, mushrooms as fungal flowers, why Spring ephemerals are ephemeral,
mycorrhizal fungi and their association with plants. I also wanted to explain
these things in a way that someone without a lot of biology in their background
would understand and appreciate. That is, not just a description of a
relationship, but an explanation of its significance, its importance.”

Don, Hugh, and Dale

Emily read “The Snake Story,” a
presentation that Dale gave to Rabbit Box in September, 2012. When he
posted it on the Nature Ramble blog, he included this introduction: “Rabbit Box, for those unfamiliar with it, is a monthly gathering
in which
eight people tell a personal story related to the theme for that month.
The
Athens edition of Rabbit Box began sometime in 2012 and I appeared, I
think, in
September. Each story teller is limited to no more than eight minutes
and must
tell their story without visual aids or notes. Each person interprets
what the
theme means to them. The theme for the month I presented my story was
‘Origins.’ My idea was to tell my personal story of becoming a
herpetologist. Telling a personal story in a short period of time is not as easy
as you might think, especially in front of a large group of strangers. Plus, a
story has a beginning, middle, and end and lives are not so cleanly divided;
they have multiple beginnings and ends, and the middles are often muddled. Here’s my story as I remember telling it.”

The Snake Story

When I was three, I saw something so exciting that the memory of it is as
fresh and vivid in my mind today as it was 70 years ago. I was sitting on the
back stoop of our house in Shawnee Mission, Kansas, watching my mother do
laundry, when something on the sidewalk caught my eye. It was long and brown.
When I got up to take a closer look it suddenly wriggled into the grass and
vanished. I shouted out the only thing I could think of: “Worm – Worm!!” My
mother came running. I told her what I had seen and she told me it wasn’t a
worm – it was a snake!

By the time I was nine I had decided, in succession, to be a fireman,
lion-tamer, or magician. And then I read the book that changed my life – Thrills
of a Naturalist’s Quest, by Raymond Lee Ditmars. Ditmars was the curator of
reptiles at the Bronx Zoo. In his book he described his amazing adventures
catching dangerous snakes in the jungles of Trinidad. Reading it, I learned
that some grownups study reptiles and amphibians for a living. They’re called
herpetologists. And I learned that you could actively seek out animals in their
habitats. You didn’t have to passively wait for a random encounter. I knew then
that I was going to be a herpetologist when I grew up!

My obsession with snakes continued through grade school. I caught them in
the woods and the abandoned rock quarry near where we lived. All my classmates
in grade school knew about my passion for snakes and thought me rather strange
because of it. One weekend the phone rang and I answered it. A girl’s voice
said: “They’re selling snakes on Nall Avenue.” I could hear other girls
sniggering in the background. Knowing that it was prank call, I hung up. But
then my obsession overcame logic. “What if,” I thought, “someone was really
selling snakes. If I didn’t check it out I would really regret it.” And I ran
out of the house, down the street to Nall Ave. I looked both way on Nall Avenue
and didn’t see anything, but, by now, I was captive. I ran three blocks down
Nall Avenue before reality grabbed me and I returned home, humiliated.

In high school I was still the only kid who wanted to be a herpetologist
(and there were over 2,000 students at Shawnee Mission High School). When I told
people I planned to be a “herpetologist” I got mystified looks. When I
explained what a herpetologist was, the looks changed from mystified to
incomprehension or disgust. I quickly learned to avoid the “h” word. “I’m going
to be a scientist” seemed to be the best answer, especially for the parents of
the girls I occasionally dated.

After high school I enrolled at the University of Kansas and in my
sophomore year I got a job as a field assistant for Professor Henry Fitch. Dr.
Fitch was a real herpetologist. He studied the ecology of the snakes on the
Natural History Reservation outside of town. There he had established a number
of trap lines to capture snakes and these had to be checked daily. My job was
to accompany him and record the data on each snake that was captured. Dr. Fitch
would open the trap, remove the snake, make various measurements and then mark
the snake by clipping a unique pattern on the tail scales, if it had not been
previously marked. (We marked snakes so they could be identified if caught
again. Data on recaptured snakes allowed us to determine their growth rate and
also how far they moved.) Snakes do not like having their scales clipped and
have to be restrained while you are doing it. You not only have to control the
tail to count its scales, you also have to control the head end to keep from
being bitten. Easily done when the snake is small.

As Dr. Fitch measured and clipped each snake, I dutifully recorded the
data in his field book. This was pretty exciting at first but I soon wanted to
handle the snakes myself. I suggested to him that if I could measure and mark
the snakes to his satisfaction then I could run the trap lines, freeing him for
other work. Dr. Fitch agreed and, as we approached the next trap said, in his
mild-mannered way, “Why don’t you start with this one?” The trap held a very
large and very irritated Blue Racer. When given the opportunity, most snakes
will flee from a human being, but a Racer will often hold its ground and strike
aggressively. This one was no exception. On seeing the Racer in the trap I was
simultaneously filled with eagerness and hesitation. It was a large Racer,
perhaps 3 to 4 feet in length, and I had no wish to be bitten while measuring
or marking it, so I asked, “How would you mark this one?” He replied, “Well,
with a big snake like this, I usually grip its head between my knees and then
stretch it out to count the scales.” Before I could blink he had the head of
the Racer gripped between his knees and the body stretched out with the tail
scales readily visible. “If you just stretch it out that makes it easy to count
the scales”, he said. “Now you try it.” With that he dropped the snake to the
ground saying: “Don’t let it get away.” 

I
scrambled after the snake and just managed to grab the tail as it was
disappearing into the grass. By now the Racer was far beyond angry and
determined to get loose, but I managed to get a good grip on its neck as well
as the tail, but the body between was thrashing and whipping around and I could
feel my grasp on the neck slipping. I certainly didn’t want to lose face with
Dr. Fitch and I didn’t want to lose the snake either, so, emulating what I had
seen Dr. Fitch do, I released my grip on the head and swung the snake by its
tail between my legs and clamped my feet together. But I forgot one crucial
thing – I am bow-legged and when my feet are together there is a considerable
gap between my knees. I had also miscalculated the length of the snake and about
one foot of the head end was behind me. Before I could react, the Racer bit me.
On the ass. Three times.”

Blue Racer

Cali Player, Dale’s granddaughter, read a poem written by Sara Hoyt, Dale’s daughter.

Hunting Snakes

by Sara Hoyt

When I was nine,

My father and I trekked along the path to the field,

Past the place where horses grazed and

The electric fence stung.

We searched for the flat sheets hidden in the grass—

Old siding, discarded, beaten wash boilers pressed out flat.

We’d creep close,

Standing in the weeds, I stifle a sneeze, eyes stinging,

And clutch the bag trembling.

My father says, “hush,” holds his finger to his lips —

Flings the flat sheet up —

Grabs the snake —

So fast I could hardly see,

Thrusts it down into my open bag —

My eyes closed, screwed up tight,

Arms outstretched as far away from me as I can put them.

My father grins, says, “ Look, Sara!”

Opens his hand again, and there is a tiny snake,

Jetty black, tiny rippling-flickering tongue.

“A baby snake!”

He puts it in my timid hand, too small to bite.

I stroke the tiny snake, and feel its slick dry skin.

Oh, to be nine and

Hunting snakes!

Bob Ambrose read his poem “The Eternal News of Early June, in memory of Dale Hoyt.”

Come, my friend, just one last time 

and
walk me down a Garden path 

reliving
a ramble in early June 



when
once again a hummingbird house 

is
wound in silk and saliva. Describe 

how
it’s layered with lichens and leaves 



then
show where it hides 

high
in a white oak 

cloaked
in a canvas of green. 



Come
weave a tale of hungry toads 

hunting
the musty leaf-littered dampness 

under
the air-dance of damselflies. 



Then
mimic the trill of a Leopard frog 

and
the plucked glunk of its Green cousin 

calling
from a froggy shore. 



Now
talk me through the gruesome fate 

of
zombie bugs riddled with fungus 

clinging
to leaf-tip graves. 



Speak
of the hidden lives in soil – 

of
thousand-gendered mycelia 

and
subterranean slime-mold sex. 



Then
show me the home of chanterelles 

where
gold funnels grow 

on a
green moss floor.



Bring
on the air of an early summer 

bounding
through a boyhood day 

recalling
the ways of wonder 



and
watch me shed my decades 

like
the sloughed skin of an aging snake 

baking
in the noonday sun.



Come
the twist of eternity 

let
us idle outside the gates of heaven 

to
drift in the peace of a warm summer breeze.

Kathy Stege shared this memory of Dale:

“On a late fall ramble about five years ago, Dale remarked how beech trees
had cigar-shaped leaf buds. I asked why beeches had leaf buds in the fall
and other trees didn’t. He looked at me with the funniest dumbfounded
look and said ‘you have never really looked at a tree’ and promptly
took us all to many different trees to see the leaf buds. With that
simple kindness, I started really looking at nature in all its complexity,
which he understood so well. It was a great gift to me, and he was a
gifted teacher. I’ve
been missing him the past couple years, but oh, now, so much more.”

Letter from James (Ronnie) Wanzer to Dale. A message from James’s mother, Martine, to Emily is below.

Dear Emily, James (Ronnie) and I
cherish our memories of Rambles with “Mr. Dale.” Dale didn’t just tolerate a
child among his adult rambling group; he interacted joyfully with “Ronnie” to
share his knowledge with his young rambler to encourage an abiding wonder in
the natural world. James will carry forward priceless memories of examining
many beetles, toads, snakes, and plants with Dale. As James continues to “seek
what he finds,” he is better for having known Dale. With
deepest sympathy, Martine
Wanzer

Emily read a message from Daniel Promislow, a geneticist at UGA in whose lab Dale volunteered. 

Dear Emily, I was terribly saddened to learn this morning of Dale’s passing. I am so very
sorry for your loss.
When I think of the 18 years I spent in Athens, Dale and you were such an
important part of that time. Dale’s presence in my lab was such an unexpected
gift. I was just starting out my career, and thanks to an introduction from
Marc Tatar, in coming to my lab meetings every week, Dale added a deep passion
and knowledge for all things biology—the natural history, the concepts, the
people, and the history of the field. He was a consummate teacher, and helped
me to be a better one in those lab meetings. Dale had long left behind his
career as a biology teacher, and fortunately for all of the people in my lab,
he brought his experience and deep care as a teacher to those weekly meetings.
He shared his own interests, and was always excited to learn new things from
the students in the lab. Dale was the consummate lifelong learner, as no other
person I have ever encountered. Dale was a dear friend. When I think of him, I picture his smile and the
sparkle in his eye, that was always shining light on the warmest, kindest,
gentlest person that was Dale.
May his memory always be a blessing in your life. Fondly, Daniel

Larry Dendy sent this message to Emily.

“Emily, I know that words, no matter how well meant, do little to ease the
grief of loss.  Nevertheless, I want to send you my sincerest
condolences.  I was mostly around Dale on Bot Garden rambles and
occasionally at the nature center. But I was always in awe of his encyclopedic
knowledge and loved his passion and joy for sharing that knowledge.  I
learned much from him in person and much more from his detailed reports of
rambles, which were gems of information and insights on nature. The twinkle in
his eye and his knack for a quip or wry comment conveyed that while he was a
serious scholar and scientist, he was also a man of warmth and humor.  I
consider his friendship a gift and a privilege. 

My
love and good wishes to you and your family. Larry”

Linda Chafin read a message she sent to Dale in June 2022 when he stepped down from leading Rambles due to vision problems.

“Dear Dale, in all the talk yesterday about
finding someone to fill your Nature Ramble role, what went unsaid and that I
want to say now, is that while we may find some guest leaders, no one will ever
replace you. Your erudition, humor, and gift for teaching  – combined in one
person – is not likely to come our way again. The way you explain things so
clearly, but without dumbing anything down, and with just the right amount of
awe, has inspired so many people, from young Nathan and Ronnie to a whole lot of
world-weary retirees. I have been more than inspired – you have opened a wider
world of science and nature to me. I am eternally grateful. Like I said
yesterday, I admire your honesty and self-awareness in retiring at this point,
but I will hugely miss you in your role as nature ramble leader. And every time
I look with wonder at an insect or listen with happy recognition to an American
Toad trilling in the swamp, I will think of you and be thankful. Linda”

Closing words, by Jerry Dusseau, read by Emily, who said: “We met Jerry and
Jannie Dusseau on a trip to Namibia in 2007 and bonded quickly. We traveled
together yearly until 2019 and met three times since then. We last met in North
Carolina in October 2023. This is a letter I received recently. I think it is
an appropriate closing for today.”

“Dear Emily,
No words are adequate when you lose your best friend. But Dale is not lost in
my heart or in my memory. We will continue to walk in the woods together and
talk about nature and what we see; to laugh and kid one another; I’ll see his
mischievous smile; and maybe most importantly, he will listen and allow each of
us space to think and consider, gifts from Dale that will always walk with me. My sympathy and love,
Jerry”