Mosquitoes killed thousands of people. Ohio has many species.

 

An Asian tiger mosquito taps human blood/Jim McCormac

Mosquitoes killed thousands of people. Ohio has many species.

Columbus Dispatch

September 20, 2026

NATURE

Jim McCormac

This is a column about the second most dangerous animal on Earth, and the most dangerous to humans (who now hold the No. 1 most dangerous animal spot). Mosquitoes kill about 700,000 people annually by spreading diseases such as dengue fever, yellow fever and malaria. The latter alone kills over 600,000 people annually.

Fortunately for Americans, malaria is very rare here. Perhaps six to seven people fall victim to it a year. Contrast that with Africa, where 95% of all malaria cases occur. Dengue fever is also very rare, and yellow fever is now unknown, although it was a significant problem until the early 1900s, when scientists learned about its biology and how to eliminate it.

In America, at least, mosquitoes are now more nuisance than existential threat. But not so long ago, mosquitoes were our No. 1 predator, by a long shot. Nothing has even come close to the tiny insects in dispatching humans.

Mosquitoes appeared around 100 million years ago, and females evolved to suck the blood of various creatures, both cold-blooded and warm-blooded. When humans finally emerged, the bloodthirsty insects had had lots of easy pickings.

Since the dawn of Homo sapiens perhaps 300,000 years ago, we have produced about 108 billion people. To put our short tenure into context, the Earth is estimated to have formed around 4.5 billion years ago, and mammalian animals have existed for 225 million years.

Approximately half of ALL humans over the existence of our species have died due to mosquito bites. That’s over 50 billion people. Now, in the United States, there are perhaps an average of 200 mosquito-related deaths annually. As always, it is diseases spread by the bugs that do us in, and the big one now is West Nile disease. It accounts for over half of those deaths.

While mosquitoes now rarely kill Ohioans, we have plenty of the buzzing suitors seeking our blood. About 60 species have been documented in the Buckeye state, but only a relative handful of species are doing most of the biting.

While only some of our native mosquitoes bother us, their ranks have been bolstered by several non-native species that have greatly increased. One is the Asian tiger mosquito (Aedes albopictus), pictured with this column. A common native biter is the floodwater mosquito (Aedes vexans), which ranges over much of the globe.

I realized that I needed a good mosquito photo for the column, so I enticed Shauna into the backyard to be my model. My claim was that I could not operate the camera efficiently while photographing myself getting bitten, and I stand by that. Within a few minutes, I had the shot and Shauna had an itchy welt. The protagonist? The Asian tiger mosquito.

There was another sound scientific reason that Shauna was the mosquito decoy. She apparently radiates much more carbon dioxide than I do. Mosquitoes track potential blood donors by tracking their CO2 emissions, and she apparently emits lots more than I. Field trip tip: Take along a heavy carbon dioxide emitter to draw the biting crowd.

Due to all the rain in central Ohio, mosquitoes have been prolific this year. They can breed successfully in even ephemeral puddles. The life cycle for many species is astonishingly rapid, often only a week or two from egg to flighted adult.

I’m not naïve enough to try and sell the public on the virtues of mosquitoes, but I would make a few observations. For many organisms – frogs, fish, turtles, insects such as dragonfly larvae and much more – mosquito larvae are a huge food source. They are a base layer of aquatic food chains.

Adult mosquitoes are preyed upon by bats, birds such as swallows, adult dragonflies, spiders and others. Furthermore, the adults – especially nonbiting males (only female mosquitoes bite) – seek flower nectar and collectively represent a significant group of pollinators.

Pointing out any virtues will not quash our urge to eradicate mosquitoes through chemistry. While some larvicides may target only mosquito larvae, others are nonspecific and kill all or most insects that they contact. Adulticides are chemicals targeting flighted adults, and these are typically sprayed from low-flying aircraft or from tanks on mosquito-fogging trucks.

Adulticides are broad-spectrum chemicals that kill all or most insect species that they encounter. Mosquito-foggers are rolling entomological Armageddons for the six-legged crowd, and the collateral damage involves scores of insects vital to food chains such as butterflies, moths, lady beetles, dragonflies and lacewings.

We’d do well – for our own species and scads of other animals – to rid the world of nonspecific mosquito-fogging. It’s a blunt force bomb, when what is called for is surgical precision targeting mosquitoes. Mosquito-fogging is surely a significant reason for overall insect declines in some areas.

A simple solution for homeowners is a “mosquito dunk.” A common, easily implemented control is the “bucket of doom.” Simply acquire a packet of mosquito dunks – dissolvable tablets – and plop one on a 5-gallon bucket of water.

Place it in your yard, and most female mosquitoes will lay eggs in the bucket. Chemicals will kill the larvae, thus greatly reducing the ranks of biting adults.

Naturalist Jim McCormac writes a column for The Dispatch on the first and third Sundays of the month. He also writes about nature at jimmccormac.blogspot.com.

A blood-engorged eastern treehole mosquito on a snapping turtle. Mosquitoes don't just bite people/Jim McCormac

Fire ants

 

The distinctive conical mounds of red fire ants (Solenopsis invicta). On a trip to southeastern Texas last January, Shauna and I saw scores of these ant high-rises.

This South American insect was accidentally introduced into Alabama in the 1930’s and had spread to Texas by the 1950’s. They’re everywhere now.

Photo: Shauna Weyrauch

Your narrator lies along the verge of a seldom-traveled road through (or near) Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge (Newly rebranded as the Jocelyn Nungary NWR. I used Anahuac as that's still the much better-known name). I was down there to speak at the annual Sadie Gwinn Environmental Conference, put on by the River Oaks Garden Club. It was a great and very well-attended event in Houston, and my talk was about caterpillars and their importance.

Anyway, after driving past the umpteenth giant fire ant nest, I had to stop and work them. That's what I'm doing in the above photo. The Cleveland Clinic describes their sting thusly: "A fire ant sting causes an immediate, intense burning sensation, followed by red bumps, itchy welts, and characteristic white-fluid pustules within a day".

I poked the bear (nest), if you will, to better see the ants. Tiny, but with disproportionately large head and mandibles. Two of them got on my finger, which allowed me to better inspect them, but fortunately they didn’t bite and sting. I had no real desire to be covered with burning pustules that persist for days.

Sorry I couldn't do better with the ant photos. One, they're always racing around and I should have used a flash to help freeze movement. Two, I didn't feel I had very much time to be in such close proximity to them without getting some bites. But I would note that they did not get aggressive, although that may have been soon to come.

While many problems caused by fire ants are human-centric, such as chewed and shorted electrical lines, crop damage, and harm to livestock, they also can lay waste to native species such as indigenous insects completely unadapted to these voracious predators, lizards, birds that nest on the ground, and others.

But bad as they are, fire ants are here to stay from what I can see and will probably continue to expand. They have made it north nearly to Kentucky, and I imagine that one day they'll make it to Ohio.

Peck's Skipper, an invasion?

 

A Peck's skipper (Polites peckius) dangles acrobatically from a mistflower plant in my front yard. I have seen up to 15 of the gorgeous little skippers at once in the past month - by far the most that I've ever seen here. They love the mistflower (Conoclinium coelistinum), as do many other species of butterflies. This plant is really easy to grow - one may even have to occasionally rein it in - and it is a butterfly magnet.

September 8, 2026, Worthington, Ohio.

'Living dinosaurs' can be found in Ohio wetlands

 

A massive, ancient adult snapping turtle/Jim McCormac

'Living dinosaurs' can be found in Ohio wetlands

Columbus Dispatch
NATURE

Jim McCormac
September 6, 2026

The snapping turtle, which is common throughout Ohio, is probably the closest thing to a dinosaur that we have left. Fossilized “snapper” relatives dating to 60 million years ago are essentially indistinguishable from the snappers that occupy Ohio’s wetlands today.

Turtles clearly have one-upped the dinosaurs in the longevity department. Most dinosaurs vanished during a mass extinction event during the Cretaceous period, about 65 million years ago. The tyrannosaurus rex, triceratops, stegosaurus and other massive reptiles that once wandered North America were killed off by the Chicxulub asteroid event.

When that asteroid slammed into the Yucatán Peninsula of Mexico, the resultant chaos wiped out about 75% of Earth’s flora and fauna. Most dinosaurs did not survive.

But tough turtles did. The order Testudines, which includes all turtles, arose during the Triassic period, about 220 million years ago. The ancestors of the 200 turtle species found worldwide today rubbed elbows with dinosaurs and all manner of ancient life that got erased by the massive asteroid.

Ohio is currently home to 11 turtle species, and the protagonist of this column, Chelydra serpentina, is likely the best-known. Snapping turtles might turn up in any wetland in the state and are present in every county. Those with a fondness for turtle soup certainly know the big, armored beasts. My grandfather used to set out baited trotlines in a small farm pond, the hooks skewered with old beef or chicken chunks.

I have vivid memories of Granddad carrying huge snapping turtles back to the house, then dispatching them with a quick beheading by ax. The resulting turtle stew was thick and rich, spiced with tomatoes and various vegetables. He considered it a culinary delight. Even then, your young narrator appreciated the living turtles much more.

The accompanying photo shows a baby snapper, perhaps a month old. I encountered it last summer at Cedar Bog near Urbana and temporarily detained it for photos. If all goes well for the little fellow, it might outlive everyone reading this column. An especially massive snapping turtle in Ontario, named Grace, was thought to be about 125 years old when she died in 2022. Grace’s shell was about 16 inches in length and she weighed 26 pounds.

While Grace may be the oldest-known snapper, she doesn’t hold the weight record. Some exceptional beasts exceed 35 pounds – heavier than the dumbbells used by many gymgoers. The record is 98 pounds, the famous Big Snap Daddy at Schramm Education Center in Nebraska.

The odds of reaching Grace-like longevity are not great. Female snapping turtles lay large clutches of eggs, over 100 in some cases. Such reproductive fecundity tells us one thing with certainty: Predations rates are sky-high. They must lay large numbers of eggs to better ensure that at least a few hatchlings survive the predatorial gauntlet.

It takes about 12 years for a snapping turtle to reach sexual maturity, but most will never reach that milestone. Probably only a few percent of them reach adulthood. Young turtles have legions of predators, and the eggs are coveted by raccoons and skunks who dig them from the ground. Great blue herons, otters, large-mouthed bass and many other predators eat the hatchlings.

If the turtle can survive to adulthood, it has few worries other than the world’s most dangerous predator, Homo sapiens. And even many a person has been cowed by the large ill-tempered reptiles. When confronted on land, a snapper holds its ground, and snaps menacingly at the interloper. They can certainly draw blood, but the impacts of bites are mostly greatly exaggerated. They can’t snap broom handles in half and normally don’t amputate fingers or break bones. Nearly everyone who does get bit is behaving stupidly toward the turtles. Just give them space. Interestingly, when in the water, snapping turtles seldom, if ever, attempt to bite. They do their best to swim away from the threat.

Snappers are generalist feeders, consuming everything from algae and plants to fish to crayfish, worms, small mammals and birds. Such a catholic diet helps them live in diverse habitats and is a major reason for their success.

I must confess to ruing snappers’ habit of taking waterfowl chicks. The big turtles pull them under the water and wolf down the flightless fuzzies. But turtles have been eating waterfowl for millennia with no substantive impacts. But it is enough of a threat that underwater snapper raids have led to an interesting defensive adaptation by a few duck species, most notably the common merganser.

The ducklings often ride on the hen’s back, as they’re safe from turtles when so ensconced. An issue for the ducklings is that not all of them can fit up there at once, so it is often a constant battle of ducklings pushing their siblings off so they can hop aboard.

Snapping turtles are an age-old part of Ohio’s biodiversity, fascinating living fossils and one of the longest-lived vertebrate animals. Every effort should be made to protect these armored Methuselahs.

Naturalist Jim McCormac writes a column for The Dispatch on the first and third Sundays of the month. He also writes about nature at jimmccormac.blogspot.com.

A baby snapping turtle, perhaps a month old/Jim McCormac