November. November. Hmmm. I keep searching for something that distinguishes this month in the natural history calendar. I’ll admit, it’s not easy. To me, November is characterized more by its voids and lacks than by what it does have.
Gone are most chances of rain that lingered from monsoon season into September and October. Some years the entire state of Arizona has seen absolutely no rain in this parched month. Still far away, it seems, are the unpredictable rains and occasional snow dustings of winter. If the November skies let loose a relative deluge, it may trigger an astounding bloom of spring wildflowers. That is one reason why such displays wind up adorning calendars—they are as rare as November rain.
The lack of moisture this month calls to mind the painful march to moisture that is June. Although there’s no heat to suffer in November, the dry dusty days, with what seems like decreasing chance for rain each winter, prey upon my soul. I have heard vague and distant rumblings about a possible El Niño event this winter. I’ll believe it when we get a large serving of warm November rain as a prelude.
The combination of this dryness with the likelihood of a number of frosts puts the collective kibosh on the vast majority of flowers. Perhaps a lingering desert broom might last into November, but don’t hold your breath. Few to no flowers means far fewer invertebrates, as well. Rare indeed, for example, are the lepidopterans—butterflies and moths that ply the nectarless November sky. The daily hordes of insects that together fascinate, thrill, scare, and baffle us seem a distant memory. Largely lacking this food resource, flycatchers, warblers, orioles, and vireos have mostly vanished. True, we’ll have an influx of wintering birds, especially sparrows, but we all know it’s a long time until another beautiful bird blitzkrieg balances our baleful brains.
Freezing temperatures, if they come in November, may instigate mesquites and cat claw acacias to begin dropping their leaves. However, despite occasional night time freezes, November does bring some of our nicest temperatures of the year. This is when human snowbirds—the kind who are loathe to suffer our warmer temperatures—show their collective wimpy heads back in southern Arizona.
Reptile sightings, other than the odd tree lizard and snake, are notably down from October. Along with a fair number of small rodents, they begin to hibernate, waiting out the cold, lean times until late winter or early spring.
November is a time of seeds. Many of the plants that prospered under the care of monsoon season and a seedsetting time in October, now tender their embryos to the wind, passing animals and bird digestive tracts. The fluffy white seeds of desert broom may create such large piles as to inspire the label “desert snow!” Two-pronged Bidens embryos (otherwise called bur marigolds, cobbler’s pegs, Spanish needles, and stickseeds) assault all who recklessly pass their way. Various four-o’clocks glue themselves to our clothes and even skin. Devil’s claws cling tenaciously to our shoes. Phainopeplas and mockingbirds devour netleaf hackberry fruits and dispense them everywhere. The plant world travels any which way that the vagaries of natural selection take it.
Don’t let November’s “have nots” bring you down. Seek out a mountain top with stunning views. Sit by a stream, listening to its music, watching the light. You’ll see that November has plenty of charms.