Rambutan

Following are three things you shouldn’t do:

1. Don’t take marital advice from someone who has been married and divorced six times. 
2. Don’t follow me into the precious metals market.
3. Don’t order rambutan online and have it shipped to your house.

Rambutan is a weird little fruit native to Southeast Asia. The fruit is small, somewhat egg-shaped, and covered in a hairy, reddish, or yellowish skin that resembles a lychee. Beneath the skin lies a translucent, juicy, and sweet flesh that has a mildly acidic flavor, often likened to a grape. At the center of the fruit is a large seed, which can be easily separated from the flesh. The seed is typically not consumed due to its bitter taste.

Both Desiree and I were craving rambutan after a conversation somehow turned to them. Following that, Desiree plowed through some purchasing options on the internet and then ordered a few rambutan that were grown in Mexico and shipped from California. Unfortunately, it was a failed experiment. The fruit arrived in pretty tough shape, and only something near one in four were edible.

Good Rambutan

Our Internet Rambutan

—Mitchell Hegman

The Search

The place where the sapphires were formed no longer exists, but the sapphires remain. Massive ancient floods scoured them from their geological place of origin and then deposited them along a dozen-mile stretch of what is now the Missouri River near Helena, Montana (the very region where I built my house). Today, the sapphires are found in alluvial gravel deposits and terraces called bars.

Sapphires were first discovered by gold miners in 1865, who were confounded by the clear, mostly blue stones clogging up their bold sluices. Today, several small sapphire operations glean sapphire gravel from the bars here alongside the Missouri River. Yesterday, I visited one of the local sapphire mines and purchased a couple of bags of sapphire gravel. Last night, Desiree and I processed some of the gravel in an ongoing quest to find our own large stone for a ring for Desiree.

Our Sunroom Processing Area

Sapphire Gravel in the Light Box

Sapphires!   

—Mitchell Hegman

Licking Rocks

I am not opposed to licking a rock now and then.  My reason for doing so is much more practical than the practice of licking poisonous toads to experience a psychedelic trip.  And I am not alone in the habit of licking rocks.  In fact, an Ig Nobel prize was recently rewarded for “research” in the matter of licking rocks.

If you are unfamiliar, the Ig Nobel Prize is something of a parody of the more widely known Nobel Prize.  Ig Nobel prizes are awarded annually to celebrate unusual or trivial achievements in scientific research.

Among the 2023 winners was Jan Zalasiewicz of Poland who earned the chemistry and geology Ig Nobel prize for explaining why scientists like to lick rocks.  “Licking the rock, of course, is part of the geologist’s and paleontologist’s armory of tried-and-much-tested techniques used to help survive in the field,” Zalasiewicz wrote in The Paleontological Association newsletter in 2017. “Wetting the surface allows fossil and mineral textures to stand out sharply, rather than being lost in the blur of intersecting micro-reflections and micro-refractions that come out of a dry surface.”

See, that’s it.  I also lick rocks to better assess them as a specimen for my collection. And some don’t taste particularly bad.

—Mitchell Hegman

Migrating Butterflies

While driving across the north valley yesterday, I witnessed something I don’t ever recall seeing before. I saw dozens of butterflies flying southward just above the tall prairie bunchgrass and fields of alfalfa. I also saw a handful of them flitting past my house. The butterflies appeared brown on the underside of the wings and orange on the upper side, with a dark border along the edge.

I tried to catch a close look at one of the butterflies, but they seemed obsessed with pushing across the expanse, as if completely caught up in migration mode. None of them ever alighted near me. A bit of online research led me to Montana Field Guide and a page featuring the California tortoiseshell butterfly. I think that’s our critter. The tortoiseshell migrates west and south in September and October, but I have never noticed them before yesterday.

PHOTO: Wikipedia

—Mitchell Hegman

Our Mountain Drive

Following a quick stop at the cabin, Desiree and I veered north into the high elevations above Lincoln, Montana. The roads there tend to twist back on themselves and throw you from side to side, but the views at some open turns are handsome enough that you need to stop and simply take them in.

I love Montana’s landscapes. My love runs deep for the high-bucking mountains, the long plains, and the rivers lashing through it all. “There is little I enjoy more than driving these mountain roads,” I told Desiree as we ascended a long incline dappled with shadow and light.

“I love it, too,” Desiree responded.

The thing is, my island girl meant it. Though she has been here for less than two years, the landscape has already grasped something deep within her. She captures images of each mountain range as we drive from place to place. Every wildflower within view is studied appropriately.

Today, I am sharing photographs I captured on our latest mountain drive.

—Mitchell Hegman

Naked Man Orchids

Not everyone appreciates seeing a naked man. In fact, you may count me in on that mix. But what if a pretty flower were comprised of a collection of naked men? Might that change your tune?

Turns out there is an orchid (always a strange family of flowers) called the “naked man orchid” that fits the bill here. Orchis italica is a species native to the Mediterranean region and is known for its flower's remarkable resemblance to a tiny naked man, with outstretched arms and legs. It thrives in rocky or grassy habitats, typically blooms in spring to early summer, and relies on solitary bees and wasps as its primary pollinators.

Apparently, solitary bees and wasps like a naked man. Go figure.

I have posted a short video featuring naked man orchids. You are welcome to thank me later.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJfX0jUmo-w

Fall Rain

Here in my corner of the Prickly Pear Valley, annual rainfall stumbles and falls flat on its face before reaching 12 inches. That’s pretty sparse for moisture, especially when you consider the average annual rainfall across the U.S. mainland measures in at around 30 inches. Montana, as a whole, ranks as the 6th driest state in the contiguous collection, capturing a mere 15.2 inches of moisture annually. At the other end of the scale, Louisiana is the rainiest of the lower 48 states, raking in some 56.9 inches of rainfall (4.7 inches monthly).

I bring this up in light of the rain I recently captured in my rain gauge. Yesterday morning, I found nearly 1½ inches in my gauge, all collected in the two days previous. That’s a lot for us and it's a welcome start for fall, which officially arrived just yesterday. In addition to making the plants happy, the rain cleared the air of smoke from nearby prescribed burns.

After the Rains

My Rain Capture

—Mitchell Hegman

Sources: https://a-z-animals.com, https://www.currentresults.com