waterlily

A Visit to Kawing Crow

2012-01-26T11:47:00.000-05:00

January 21, 2011
Kawing Crow Awareness Center
Greenfield Center, NY

It is not merely crow calling to crow,
For it speaks to me too.
I am part of one great creature with him:
If he has voice,
I have ears.

HDT's Journal, January 12, 1855

Today was our visit to Kawing Crow Awareness Center, for a trackingworkshop sponsored by our local Audubon Chapter. After a largely snow-lessmonth, we received a few inches of very fluffy flakes on the day before ourvisit. Now we might see some actual tracks!
Then, on the morning of our visit, it snowed again -- just an inch or so, butit was very fine and granular. Any tracks from last night would be filled-in bythis sort of stuff.

Conditions that morning were slippery, and our little convoywas on the roads before the sanding trucks. Kawing Crow is on the high ridge of GreenfieldCenter. Once there, Vince greeted us andwe spent some time inside the Nature Center, discussing all manner of outdoorthings. For many of our group it was their first visit.

Vince is a woodsman extraordinaire, and his love for natureshines through. His wife Erica shares this love and his plans for a sustainablelifestyle.
They are the proud parents of Mavia, a pretty mellow little girl whois going to have a very interesting childhood.
[I am not sure how to spell her name, so my apologies to her parents. It could be Mavia (an arab queen?) or a variation of Maeve (legendary irish faery queen?) or Maevia (a north american jumping spider?) Only time will tell which of these she comes to favor!
The Nature Center is full oftaxidermied examples of the localwildlife. While we were discussing canines, several of these preserved critters were on the tablebefore us. Vince was holding Mavia in the crook of his arm, as she gently reachedout to pat the head of the red fox.

After lunch, we hit the trail. No showshoes were necessary, butthe day was penetratingly cold. I hadgotten chilled sitting indoors for so long, and just could not build up anybody heat once we were outdoors. As soon as we started seeing and learningabout animal signs in the snow, it was sointeresting that cold fingers and toes were temporarily forgotten.

Vince’s family joined us for a short time on the hike. Erica had bundled up Mavia, who travelled in style.

We had all been fussing over her as much as the specimens !
Butthen, as I was taking yet another photo of her terminal cuteness,
she shot meThe Look.

THE LOOK !

I knew it well, from my days as a photographer for PCAcorporation.
I had an immediate flashback to those days.

They were long and arduous days,travelling each week to a different department store in the Tri-State area, staying in the cheapest of hotels, lugging the entirecontents of a portable studio in my VW bug. This included a cash register,signs, scenic background screens, camera, props etc. They were ten-hour days of taking portraits, mostly ofbabies. People would line up to spend 88 cents for a photo, especially aroundholidays. After a long wait in one ofthese lines, even the most serene of babies will reach the point when dimplesturn to frowns … and at that fragile tipping point, you get The Look. Tears are sure to follow.

Well, Mavia was in good hands, however, and she and Ericaleft the trail for warmer climes.

The rest of us continued on, stopping now and again to readthe Book of the Woods. Vince doesn’t just dish out answers, he makes you puzzlethings out.

All in all, it was a great time outdoors with like-mindedfolks.
Vince's trails lead across some beautiful swampland, which would be wonderful to visit in other seasons.

A special thanks to SouthernAdirondack Audubon for organizing this excursion.

Visiting the Grasslands

2012-01-18T11:59:00.000-05:00

January 15, 2012
Fort Edward Grasslands, NY

I rejoice that there are owls.

HDT Walden, “Sounds”

Hmm, what to do on a bitterly-cold and breezy Sundayafternoon? What about a trip to open country !

Along with mountains, lakes and river scenery, we areblessed with having an area not too far from here that is a true grasslandenvironment. The Fort Edward Grasslands are unique in that they attract manybirds with specific open-space preferences.

In winter, this area is known to be frequented byShort-Eared Owls, which are classified as endangered in New York state. Theseowls come down from the Artic to spend the winter in the northern U.S.

I had never seen one, so today Jackie and I turned to theEast, and took a ride over there.

The owls usually show themselves right around sunset, and wespent some time driving around the back roads, getting glimpses of otherraptors known to favor this sort of terrain. Those include dark-phase Rough-legged Hawks and Northern Harriers.

It was almost impossible to get any photos of thesecreatures, since we were bundled up from head to toe, and taking photosinvolved struggling out from the seatbelts, jumping out briefly, and hopping backinto the car. It was THAT cold. Jackie wore her coat she calls “The SleepingBag.” But it was still windy enough tomake your eyes water, as you held the binoculars or camera up.

It was like travelling back in time, to see farms perched onthe hillsides of this beautiful open country.

The future holds many threats ofdevelopment, so that this type of grassland can also be considered “endangered.” There are big threats on the horizon asdevelopers eye this tempting, relatively flat scenery.
Thanks to several local organizations, and private property owners, certain placeshere are set aside as Protected Areas for the birds.
For an overview, click here.

After our driveabout, the sun finally began to sink below the horizon.
We were both frozen butheaded back to the spot where our birding pal Lindsey suggested was the bestplace to see an owl.

After some time sitting in the chilly car, I was about readyto head home, but we decided to stay juuust a few moments longer.
For as Thoreau notedin his Journal, when you continue just past that turnaround point, that is when you really seethings.

Lo and behold, two other cars appeared and parked nearby onthe dead-end road. We got out to chat with them.

They had already spotted an owl ! For the next ten minutes,we watched two or three owls rise ghostly out of the tall grasses in thedistant field. They flapped like bats, with changing wingbeats. It was too dim to even think oftrying to get a photo, the owls were twofields away, and we were all intently watching through binoculars, anyway.

Besides, one of the other watchers had a camera with a HUGElens, mounted on a tripod. Upon seeinghis setup, I was briefly overcome with an acute case of lensvy (= lens envy).
But I got over it when he introduced himself as Gordie Ellmers. Gordie is alocal photographer and wildlife observer par excellence. I have admired his amazing photos for years,so it was a thrill to meet him. He was the one to get photos of our feathered quarrytoday, and here is one that he shared with us afterward:

[photo by Gordon Ellmers, used with permission]

You can see more of his stunning photos on this page createdby our local Audubon Chapter. Here, in fantastic detail, you will see all three of the raptors thatwe saw in fleeting glimpses today.

In ten minutes, the owl show was over. We all headed back toour cars. My hands were frozen in theBinoculars Up position. Jackie was going to stop along the river, on her wayback home to the south. She captured the final beauty of the day, as you can see by her own blog here.

I however, was done exploring, and with my frozen clawedhands on the steering wheel, steerednorthward to home. There was a lasagnadinner waiting for me, and I didn’t make any scenic stops at all !

Afterward, I just couldn’t get warm. These are the times Imiss the ol’ woodstove of my Vermont days. It was so-ooo nice to curl up in a chair near the stove and feel the warmth justooze into you.
I live in a small apartment now, so that is not an option anymore.
But, here you see me, sitting cozy before a fire...?

(OK, it’s really just a dvd that I found for fifty cents atthe last library book sale -- how could I resist?)

In the glow of the virtual flames, I browsed through my new and altogether excellentCrossley’s bird guide.
Later, in Thoreau’s Journal, I found agood description of the Bird of the Day:

At midday (3 p.m.) saw an owl fly from toward the river
andalight on Mrs. Richardson’s front-yard fence.
Got quite near it, and followedit to a rock on the heap of dirt at Collier’s cellar. A rather dark brown owlabove
(with a decided owl head (and eyes), though not very broad), withlongitudinal tawny streaks (or the reverse),
none transverse, growing lighterdown the breast,
and a length clear rusty yellowish or cream-color beneath andabout feathered feet. Wings large andlong, with a distinct black spot beneath;
bill and claws, I think, black. Sawno ears. Kept turning its head and greatblack eyes this way and that when it heard me, but appeared not to see me.
Sawmy shadow better, for I approached on the sunny side.
I am inclined to thinkit the short-eared owl,
though I could see no ears, though it reminded me of whatI had read of the hawk owl.
It was a foot or more long and spread about threefeet.
Flew somewhat flappingly, yet hawk-like.
Went within two or three rods ofit.

HDT Journal, December 8, 1853

Eagle Ogling

2012-01-06T14:13:00.001-05:00

January 2, 2012
Various places in Saratoga County, NY

Today was a day to look for eagles ! It was clear, cold and breezy.

Last Friday, both Jackie and I attended the latest Eagle Watch at Moreau Lake State Park.

Led by Gary Hill, the watches are held throughout the winter, to survey wintering eagles who come down from

Canada

. What attracts them are the dams in this section of the Hudson River which keep the nearby water open when all else is frozen over. The group stops at four places along the river to make observations. This section of the Park is designated as an Important Birding Area by the state.

The watches can be an exercise in patience, since they involve a lot of standing still and watching, in weather fair and foul.
You can go for several weeks and not see an eagle.

The last stop, at the Spier Falls boat launch, is where you are usually rewarded with a sighting. Most of the winter eagles we’ve spotted over the years have been at this bend of the river.

On Friday, the group saw two eagles in full adult plumage, which was pretty exciting to those who were seeing their first bald eagle.

Both Jackie and I thank our lucky stars that we live in such an interesting place. We are grateful every day. But sometimes we get a little greedy too – so today we met with the intention of doing our own Eagle Watch at several places in Saratoga County.

We decided to meet first at the southern end of the Betar Trail. It’s a pondy stretch of the river, upstream from the dam (and falls) of South Glens Falls. We nixed our original plan of just walking along the Path, keeping an eye out for birds of any sort. It’s a very pleasant walk in warmer weather.
This morning, although it was almost 40 degrees, there was a stiff west wind cutting across the water, right into our faces. Kinda hard to look for birds with tears streaming down your cheeks! And most birds were lying-low in this sort of weather, anyway.

But not the eagles.

The moment I pulled over to park at the meeting-place, a shadow passed overhead. It was an eagle !

[My camera has a decent zoom-lens, but I’m not so good at catching a photo of a bird on the fly. The cropped shots in this blog are awfully grainy.
So you’ll just have to trust me that these ARE eagles.]

The adult eagle circled over me in lazy loops, slowly gaining altitude. With binocs, I could see that although he had a white head, his wings underneath were flecked brown and white. So he was not in full adult plumage.
Then he caught into a high tail-wind, and zoomed away downriver.

Just then, Jackie pulled up. I was sorry that she had missed Eagle Number One. After a short shivery walk, we opted to go back to the boat launch, further upriver, where we had seen the eagles on Friday.

As we arrived, we met Pat and her dog Nugget. Pat had found a nice spot out of the wind, and had been observing an eagle that was perched across the cove. She’s a local eagle enthusiast, and had been there for hours this morning. Nugget, however, was not so interested in bird-watching, and he barked out a greeting to us. A short while later, the eagle decided to put more distance between us, and left his perch to fly upriver with slow wingbeats, out of our sight. That was Eagle Number Two.

Back to our cars, and I followed Jackie as she led the way to a place that Pat had mentioned; another place she’d seen eagles this week.
We stopped at Stafford Bridge, which crosses Fish Creek.

Fish Creek ! Where I grew up in Pennsylvania, a creek was something you could step across.
Here, where the Creek flows east from Saratoga Lake, it seemed more like a wide river to me. We stepped out of our warm cars, and walked toward the bridge for a better view. Within moments, a dark shape was soaring low – Eagle Number Three! It was clearly a juvenile, head and tail both still dark. (It takes an eagle about five years to reach the familiar full adult coloration.)

The pigeons near the bridge scattered at his approach, but he didn’t go after them.

There were mallards in the shallows nearby, and it was funny to see them all tip-up at the same time. Duck and cover !

They weren’t hiding, though, they were feeding. The eagle had already looped up and away, toward the outlet of Fish Creek, where the creek joins the Hudson River in Schuylerville.

Schuylerville was our last stop, though we didn’t see any more eagles there.

It’s great to be able to say that we saw "only" three of them today!

A Segment of the Rainbow

2011-12-31T23:19:00.000-05:00

December 31, 2011
New Year's Eve

Little did I realize that the end of my previous blog, "See You in 2012" would almost be true -- the past three weeks have been a whirlwind. The workdays are longer, and the natural days are shorter. Time to get outside, and to journalize, has been at a premium, but tonight, on this last evening of the year, there's a moment to sit and reflect on the past year, and contemplate the future.
In 2011, I spent many happy hours outdoors -- walking old trails, exploring new places, spending time rambling with kindred souls. Hours spent enjoying the many gifts that Nature bestows on us which such seeming abandon. I am grateful for all these things.
Of course, all I can do is offer some some photgraphic bits and pieces, mere glimpses into the past year.
And as for words -- once again, I leave them to Mr. Thoreau:

If the day and night are such
that you greet them with joy,
and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet-scented herbs,
is more elastic, more starry, more immortal, ...
That is your success.
All nature is your congratulation,
and you have cause momentarily to bless yourself.
The greatest gains and values
are farthest from being appreciated.
We easily come to doubt if they exist.
We soon forget them.
They are the highest reality. ...
The true harvest of my daily life
is somewhat as intangible and indescribable
as the tints of morning or evening.
It is a little star-dust caught,
a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.
Walden, “Higher Laws”

Frostweed Follies

2011-12-07T11:16:00.001-05:00

Various days in November 2011
Mud Pond, Moreau Lake State Park, NY

In the shade of the wood,
on the hillside just west of the cold pond,
I am surprised to see
the frost of the cistus not in the least melted.
HDT Journal, November 11, 1858

I was happy to lead three hikes at Mud Pond -- small excursions to try to catch the Helianthemum canadense (Rockrose, in the Cistus family) living up to its common name, Frostweed. (for the story of frostweed, see this link to an earlier blog).

It’s an ephemeral fall event that I look forward to every year. While it’s not hard to predict – the recipe calls for a cold clear night in early November – it can be difficult to predict exactly when those particular conditions will occur.
This year has been no exception -- and it has been unusually warm for months now. So we scheduled the walks for the most likely dates.

The first hike was scheduled for November 5th – and the conditions were perfect ! It was below freezing the night before, and it dawned clear that morning.
Unfortunately, no one signed up for that one. They missed seeing a great patch of frostweed “flowers.”

The next two walks, on the following Tuesdays, had several interested participants, but alas, the temperatures for both days were in the sixties. All I could do was show them where the plant grows (it is quite nondescript and plain when not in bloom) and hope that some folks would be able to return, to see it making frost-flowers.

I did see it again, late in the month, when the cool nights returned. The frostweed was just about done for the year, but it did manage to put on one more show.

Here are photos from throughout the month – of some things we saw on those various Frostweed Walks.

On most of these cool mornings, you can see the more familiar forms of frost, which make everything seem sugar-coated:

On one warm morning, something caught my eye --
could possibly that be frostweed?

Nope! a glance upward reveals the source:

All summer I have walked beneath this branch and never knew of the hornet's nest above.

Thoreau referred to the late-turning oaks on the hillsides
as the "roses" of autumn. Now I can see why.

The black birches are getting a lot of attention from what appears to be an expanding beaver family at Mud Pond. You could smell the wintergreen scent from the freshly-gnawed trees along the shore.
This attracted some insect attention, as well -

Does anyone know what these are? My guess is some sort of fungus-gnat:

On the second walk, some young folks joined us. Along the way, we met some of the regulars of Mud Pond - including the unofficial Trail Mascot:

a dog named Derpy ! Here getting oodles of attention:

Too bad the kids weren't with me on the day I saw THIS critter, who was taking advantage of the warm sunny sandbank - they would have loved it!

At the end of his musings on Frostweed that day, Thoreau wrote:

This, at least, is an evidence
that cold weather is come.

Despite the fluky warm spells this year, at some point,
Winter will eventually appear.
There is other evidence that it's on the way:
Shadows are lengthening-

and one definite sign that summer is really, REALLY over:

Giving Thanks

2011-11-24T21:38:00.001-05:00

November 24, 2011
Queensbury, NY
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone !

[an excerpt from Thoreau's Journal, August 17, 1851:]

I am not so poor --
I can smell the ripening apples --

the very rills are deep --

the autumnal flowers, the Trichostema dichotoma --

not only its bright blue flower above the sand
but its strong wormwood scent
which belongs to the season --
feed my spirit --
endear the earth to me --
make me value myself & rejoice --

the quivering of pigeons' wings
reminds me of the tough fibre of the air which they rend.

I thank you, God.
I do not deserve anything.
I am unworthy of the least regard
& yet I am made to rejoice.
I am impure & worthless --
& yet the world is gilded for my delight

and holidays are prepared for me --

& my path is strewn with flowers.

A Tale of Two Lodges

2011-11-20T19:00:00.002-05:00

November 12, 2011
The Fen near Glen Lake, NY

I derive more of my subsistence from the swamps
which surround my native town
than from the cultivated gardens in the village.
HDT Walking

It’s been waaay too long since my last blog post, so today we will zoom forward in time, to more recent days.
Never fear, there will be posts to come that speak of the days between – those golden autumn days – but for now, come with me to a local place called The Fen.

Inspired by my friend Jackie’s recent paddling excursions, and the return of unseasonably warm weather, I dragged the ironically-named “Swifty” kayak back out of his den in my storage bin.

Jackie and I had tried to paddle the Fen in August, but there was a bit too much plant life growing in the channel, making paddling a strenuous exercise.

Today, we decided to give it another try. Much of the growth has died back, curled up, or sunken below, making a fairly clear pathway into the Fen. Still a little messy in places, but it was better than last time.

Water willows are now brown arches, sheltering new construction by one of the local muskrats.

It was indeed a beautiful day, if chilly at first. I was thankful that I had put on longjohns and gloves against the morning breeze.

The sun was out, though the rays were weakened and at a low angle.
It made all the swamp plants glow wonderfully.
Thoreau was particularly fond of leatherleaf:

these little leaves are the stained windows
in the cathedral of my world,
he wrote in his Journal on April 19, 1852.

We made our way toward the area where the fen begins, where it curves around Route 9 and originates on private property. It is not wilderness, but a little wild-spot nestled between an amusement park, roads and houses.

Unfortunately, it is downstream from said amusement park (in the summer you can hear people screaming on the roller-coaster), and downstream from their newest addition, an indoor water-park/hotel. Said hotel is styled like a big faux-Adirondack “Lodge.” Oh well, I suppose the tourists like it well enough.

Meanwhile, we puzzled over this mysterious aqua-colored pool of water, in the middle of the stream, as we headed in that direction.

It was definitely a strange swimming-pool color. (Any ideas, Al ??)

We pressed on, further into the swamp than I have ever gone. We rounded a bend and drifted out into a secret pond. Here was a TRUE Adirondack Lodge !

We turned about at a small beaverdam, where the flow seemed to peter out, and went back to poke around in the pondy area. There was one active-looking lodge, and several older ones nearby.

Here on a floating log, mounds of mud seem carefully patted into place. At the near end, what looks like some plants, purposely set out to dry in the sun. Maybe it will be used for bedding in the lodge?

No sign of the residents, however. It sure looks like prime turtle-basking territory as well.
Can’t wait to come back here in the spring.

As we headed back the way we came in, we saw several rustic duck-blinds in the reeds (but no hunters,)
bog rosemary,

a dead cormorant, a live osprey,
bunchberry growing in a new place,
some cool fungus,

a still-red pitcher-plant,

And possibly the last lily-bud of the season.

It’s great to have a pal who doesn’t mind putting gloves on and going out into a swamp in November!

Sometimes I Stay

2011-10-31T19:13:00.007-04:00

September 24, 2011
Cape Ann, Massachusetts

My life is like a stroll upon the beach,
As near the ocean’s edge as I can go;
My tardy steps
its waves sometimes o’erreach,
Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.
[From The Fisher’s Boy, a poem by HDT]

Before I come back inland to the wonders of Autumn in upstate New York,
there's time for one more entry about those days along the Shore !
I linger now as I lingered then,
on the morning we left for home.
Here are a few more photos of what I saw in our last two days on Cape Ann.
Let your other senses add in -- the smell of the air, the touch of the constant breeze, and that continuo of the waves which underlies all other sounds.

On our rainy museum-day in Salem, this sign outside of a church caught my attention.

Ah yes, the wonderful story of when the Lion lies down with
... the Gazelle.

And there's time for a visit to Gloucester too.
This is Half Moon Cove in Stage Fort Park. You could hear the foghorns mooing in the distance on this foggy day.

In Gloucester, the Boulevard runs right along the edge of the sea. It's where the famous Man at the Wheel statue is, and other interesting sights.
After bending down to read this plaque, I straightened up --
and saw a ghost ship drift by.

I'd never seen a boat with such a peculiar-shaped stern before.

Turns out it was the Ardelle, a pinky schooner built in the historic shipyard of nearby Essex. They've been building vessels over there for about 300 years. You can learn about her and her builders here and see a fascinating of her side-launch here.
She certainly looked splendid on the water.

In the outskirts of Manchester, I discovered a wonderful county trail system to explore on future visits. One went across a swamp!

Back in foggy Rockport, here is just another charming dooryard, this one by the inner harbor...

...Where the fishermen's skiffs brighten up the day.

Last morning. One last sunrise over the town. You can see it from the balcony of the hotel (on the right), but I've already strolled over to the beach.

One last walk along the beach.
In addition to the far-off scenery, there's so much to see close at hand, if you stop to look. All sorts of strange new life-forms have been cast up by the waves.

Now it's really time to leave. Can't put it off any longer.
Time to brush the sand off my toes, and put on shoes again. Sigh.

Back at the beach, I heard an echoing sigh.
Seems I'm not the only one who wants to stay...

Halibut Point

2011-10-09T20:09:00.003-04:00

September 21, 2011
Rockport, Masssachusetts

Rockport well deserves its name--
several little rocky harbors
protected by a break water.
The houses at Rockport village
backing directly on the beach.
HDT Journal, September 23, 1858

Despite being up for an hour conversing with the Moon last night, I awoke promptly just before dawn. At sunrise here, the sun beams right onto your pillow!

It’s only a short walk to town proper and a good breakfast.
Past the quiet inner harbor.

Then it’s up to the Headlands -- to look out to sea,
and glance back at the village of Rockport.
Eider ducks were ready for a break,

while lobstermen were just beginning a day's work.

Today Mom and Dennis went their own ways, while Jackie and I visited Halibut Point State Park.

It’s a former quarry, which must have been a noisy, steamy place in its heyday.

Now it is home to many interesting trails, and only the sound of the sea remains.

Near the Visitor Center, there are sculptures made from hunks of granite that were formerly cast aside.

We called this one "UTI Man," for reasons of our own.

We looked forward to botanizing in a new type of environment, so we headed out on the trail that circles the deep quarry-lake.
Right away, Jackie found a grass she had been searching for – here she is getting up close to it.

Her eyesight may be weakening, but her Vision certainly is not.
(As one can see by visiting her beautiful blog.)

A few steps away were some Ladies’ Tresses,

(the Nodding variety, according to Newcomb’s.)

Meanwhile I was off chasing butterflies -
cabbage whites and yellow sulphurs were everywhere.

Among the goldenrods, still in hearty bloom here, I saw an equally hearty bee - a Neanderthal version of our little bumblebees. It was much larger, with thick hairy legs and a bald spot on the back – the Eastern Carpenter Bee.

Roses were long-past, but the bristly hips were pretty in their own way.

At an overlook, we met some visitors from Great Britain, who were botanizing, too.

We turned onto a trail that led down through
bayberry,
barberry,
blueberry
and briers

To the sea.

I thought I espied our British acquaintances, lolling on the rocks like contented seals, watching the tide come in.

That seemed like a great idea. So we took pause to look out over the endless sea, as we sat among giant slabs of granite.

Here we are, at the farthest tip of Cape Ann herself !
To paraphrase Thoreau in Cape Cod:
A woman can stand there
and put all of America behind her.

Cape Ann Expedition

2011-09-30T01:22:00.000-04:00

September 20, 2011
To Rockport, Massachusetts

A clear cold day-- wind N W
Salem to Cape Ann expedition
Leave Salem for the Cape on foot
HDT Journal, September 22, 1858

We travel along the back roads as much as possible, and today we were on our way to Cape Ann for our annual September vacation. As you can see by the quote above, Henry Thoreau also visited here in late September.

He took a train to Salem, then walked from there to Rockport, on the first day of what he called his “Cape Ann expedition.”

Our usual route takes us through southern Vermont. Just three weeks ago, Tropical Storm Irene caused much havoc, turning placid brooks into raging torrents. The waters have receded, but the brooks sure don't look like they used to.

It’s remarkable how quickly some roads and bridges have been repaired. Well, most of them. This is the detour around the Main Street of Jamaica, Vermont.

Besides the urgency of getting basic services restored for its residents, Vermont is also thinking of the upcoming Foliage Season, which is a large part of her economy.
Despite the damage, people seem to have kept their sense of humor (from the Halloween display at a popular farm stand)

Unlike the weather for Thoreau's expedition, it was unusually warm for this time of year. It was raining lightly today.
When we finally arrived in Rockport, Mom and I were ready to sit and relax, after driving most of the day on pleasant but winding roads.
Jackie and Dennis would be joining us for several days,
for their first trip to Cape Ann.
Jackie and I were looking forward to some seashore botanizing.

They had taken another (faster) route, but arrived moments after we did.

Let the vacation begin !

We got settled into our rooms at the hotel, which sits overlooking Front Beach.

Rockport is indeed rocky, but this small stretch of sand is a great place for beachcombing.

Our lodging is a small room at an older sixties-style motel, but it is kept beautifully by the owners, who are friendly and helpful.

When you stay there, you realize the truth of the old saying,
“Location, location, location.”

We sat awhile on the balcony, drinking in the view, and being entranced by the splashing of the waves that are a constant on this beach.
The sound usually keeps me up the first night, and by the third night, you can’t imagine being able to sleep without it.

Just before we walked down to the Square for dinner,
the clouds parted, and a bit of sunshine peeped through.

Later, I awoke in the middle of the night.
The little waves were still tossing themselves down,
and the stars were out.

What woke me was the moon's light shining on my face.
It was just rising over the part of town called Bearskin Neck.

There’s no escape possible from Nature here.
Nor would it be wise to ignore her, for those who venture out onto the Ocean.

The Sun may rule the land, but it is the Moon who rules the sea.

Windfalls

2011-09-02T14:19:00.003-04:00

August 28, 2011
Queensbury NY

When I awake
I hear the sound of steady heavy rain.
A southeast storm.
Our peach tree limbs are broken off by it.
It lasts all day, rains a great deal,
and scatters many elm boughs and leaves over the street.
The wind does damage out of proportion to its strength.
The fact is, the trees are unprepared
to resist a wind from this quarter and,
being loaded with foliage and fruit,
suffer so much the more.
There will be many windfalls,
and fruit will be cheap for awhile.
HDT Journal, September 16, 1858

The Hurricane arrived on schedule Sunday morning. Thankfully, she was downgraded to "just a Tropical Storm" at that point. True to form, she was different than what everyone expected, in every way.

A gentle but steady rain was falling. I sat indoors, luxuriating in the possibility of electricity -- for as long as it was going to last.
I thought I would be catching up on lots of things, but what I ended up doing was sitting glued to the TV watching the Weather Channel. There were occasional couch-based forays later in the afternoon, to Channel 10, our only local station to stay on with weather coverage.
The others contented themselves with a mildly-intrusive crawl section at the bottom of the screens.
Despite being employed in the TV-listings business, I don't watch much TV. But today I could not look away !

For a while the rain got heavier. In my part of town,
we had no concerns about flooding. I was more concerned about high winds, and when things got gusty during the afternoon, I scurried about unplugging my computer. But we never lost power, even for a moment.

The trees out back thrashed around, but held steady.
[Meanwhile, a few miles on the other side of town, a microburst was destroying a large section of trees near West Mountain, causing heavy damage to houses and powerlines.]

Once or twice I peeked out the back door, trying to catch the essence of the storm with the camera.

I picked up the phone, and tried reaching my friend Rick back in Vermont. For many years we lived together, and the best years were in a village just north of Brattleboro. No answer. Hmm. He’s not one to get easily excited over things like weather forecasts. Of the two of us, I was always the Chicken Little.

And today the sky really WAS falling, at least on Vermont.
That beloved, rocky, hilly land.
That place where all the roads pretty much follow streambeds,
which makes for some fabulous scenic Sunday drives.

Hours later, Rick finally called back. He had been on a very interesting Sunday drive himself, almost getting stranded between washouts along the way. I’m still mad at him for taking such a risk.

In his defense, he said that he had no idea the conditions were so bad when he left the house with his pal Floyd, and headed for a shop in a village to the north, by way of the road to Saxton’s River. [Apparently neither of them watch tv or listen to the radio.]

But they could have both gotten into big trouble! That’s how Hurricanes, as big and obvious as they are, kill people – people underestimate them.

He and Floyd got back safely, but had to make many detours just to get home again, as the little brooks turned into raging torrents, moments after they passed by.

Rick, having seen some of this first-hand, is now catching up on all the media coverage. He just emailed me a link to a video of a car being swept down a river in Vermont.
That could have been you, ya fool ! I’m still mad at him.
But happy he’s alive.

That evening, things settled down, but it was still too gusty to risk taking a walk down the road to check on little Halfway Brook. Too many trees and wires to walk under. The power was still on, so I turned on the laptop, and worked on my backlog of photos. It was indeed a Dark-and-Stormy night.

OK, to me, that’s just the name of my latest favorite cocktail.
Such was my good fortune today, to be able to sit and enjoy a mug of it, while watching disaster unfold on TV in the comfort of my own apartment. Just before sunset, the sun peeked out for the briefest moment,
as tattered storm clouds sheared away.

Other folks meanwhile, were having a truly dark and stormy night.

By now, if you read or watch even a minimal amount of the news, you know what happened in Vermont.

Not to downplay what happened in other states, including my own
– the wind and water has affected millions of people along the East Coast –
plucky little Vermont seems to have gotten the worst of it.
My heart and prayers go out to all who have suffered the effects of this storm.

The Calm Before the Storm

2011-08-31T11:19:00.012-04:00

August 27, 2011
Queensbury, NY

Over the past few days, there has been news of a hurricane heading up the east coast, straight for the Adirondacks! It is due to arrive within hours as I write this. Hopefully, by the time it scrapes its bottom on New York City and the Berkshires, it will have toned down to “just” a tropical storm.

People at work are joking about it and not doing much to prepare. I mean, what can happen, up here in the mountains? They chuckled at my suggestions to prepare - saying instead, those it's those folks at the coast who had better watch out. Besides, those forecasters always exaggerate !

But having sat through several small brushes with small hurricanes, (including one memorable canoe-camping trip during which Hurricane Bob came to visit Lake Umbagog), I know they can be fickle and changeable, a thing which can also make them dangerous to underestimate.

So, in between working extra long hours at work (God forbid anyone should be made to miss their newpaper’s TV listings!)
I made my preparation list:

Gas up the car -- check
Replace batteries in flashlights and lanterns -- check
Make extra ice cubes -- check
Charge up all camera, phone batteries -- check
Have plenty of toilet paper on hand -- check
Spam and peanut butter in cupboard? -- check
Remove things from our apartment balcony that could turn into projectiles in a gale -- check
Get together a “go-bag” in case apt. roof blows off
and we have to leave. -- check (well I didn’t tell Mom about that one, she thought I was crazy just getting out the lanterns!)
Yummy new book ordered from the library, waiting to be read -- check
Check the levels on my bottle of Gosling’s. -- check and double-check!

Feeling now as prepared as possible, without incurring further ridicule, I went for a short walk after dinner. We’d probably be confined to quarters on Sunday, if not longer.

It has been hot and muggy all week, but tonight was the muggiest.
The air, very still and oppressive. Ringlike clouds were already moving in from the south. I looked to Nature herself, for signs of impending doom.

At the cornfields, I wondered if the stalks would be knocked over by the high winds that are forecast for tomorrow. Farmers in the next county are worrying about their apples.

The pink clover peeked out cautiously, as if hiding.

It was hours before sunset, but a bumblebee was already hunkering down nearby.

I walked quickly, being hounded for the first time in weeks by very aggressive mosquitos. The last supper??

Along the path, a Cottontail darted out of the bushes. He seemed pretty twitchy, and unsure of where he wanted to be. Maybe the mosquitoes were bothering him, too.

The last sign was pretty unusual. I was on a path where I regularly see snails – er, slugs, actually – especially after a rain. You have to crouch down low to admire them as they crawl painstakingly on the ground or lower vegetation.

I saw a Common Sunflower, about 4 feet tall, with a lump at the top. Being in Bug-Watching Mode these days, I of course stopped to investigate.

It was a slug, on top of the flower. How he got up there, or how long that took him, I’ll never know.

But he was heading for higher ground -- and who are we, to scoff at his sage advice??

Ice, Twice

2011-08-21T21:16:00.003-04:00

August 13, 2011
Ice Meadows of the Hudson River

After a week, I returned to the Ice Meadows, this time with my friend Marie, who is interested in local plants, medicinal herbs in particular.

It was a bit different than the last time we were here together, back in January !

This time it was not too cold to linger, and we could take as much time as we wanted to do some exploring.
But summer has turned the corner, as the now-spotted sarsaparilla leaves told us.

And the cranberries are juuuuust beginning to blush.

We visited both sides of the river today, but the west side was the most pleasant and fruitful.

Here, water meets land to form a unique environment.

Marie found yet another Smaller Purple Fringed Orchis, in fresher condition than the scraggly one I found here a week ago.

And I was surprised to see Ladies’ Tresses (just one plant),
about to bloom – I thought it was a late-season plant.
I didn't know that there was more than one variety, (silly me)
and the flowers were not quite open yet - so can't say which it would be, though Nodding Ladies' Tresses is the most likely.
Complicating the identification is the fact that this was a bonsai version of others I have seen elsewhere.

As we walked along the river’s edge, I showed Marie the
“oil slicks” that occur naturally here and are the result of bacterial action, not pollution.

Today I was determined to get a closer look at the frogs who inhabit the little puddle-ponds among the rocks, but what caught my eye was the COLOR of them.
This is a green frog, but he was really, really GREEN – as if spray-painted with model paint!

Could this have something to do with that oily sheen ?

Or some sort of algae?
As if to add to the puzzle, I spied another frog – this one bright turquoise !
(he's hiding in the center of the photo)

I got a closer look at him. He was a copper-patina, Statue-of-Liberty color.

What’s going on here – does anyone have a clue?

Browsing

2011-08-17T00:55:00.001-04:00

August 4, 2011
Ice Meadows of the Hudson River

I am still a learner, not a teacher,
feeding somewhat omnivorously,
browsing both stalk & leaves.
HDT letter to H.G.O. Blake, 1856

I love browsing --but not the kind one does in a retail store. That’s not my idea of fun at all. But a trip to the Ice Meadows – with the Thursday Naturalists – now that’s more like it !

It was a long way for them to travel, but for me it is just over a half- hour’s drive up the road. Unfortunately, I had only an hour or two to spend there, since it was a work day for me. Still, there was plenty so see & learn.

The Ice Meadows is a special plant community. Things grow here that are found much further north. Plants one sees commonly a few miles away may be unrecognizable, due to their adaptations to the harsh environment. Things bloom here earlier -- or later -- than elsewhere. So it’s always full of surprises.

Like this Smaller Purple Fringed Orchid, hiding inside a clump of stunted alder. It was a bit tattered, but still a novelty. They are long-past blooming, a few miles downriver.

Purple seems to be the season’s next dominant flower color.
The first to greet us was a flock of Kalm’s Lobelia. They are very small cousins of the showier Cardinal Flower.

Next to them were the larger Harebells. (this one had some sort of beetle in it. Not sure what is going on there...)

Then again, the yellow flowers - formed in the heats of July - seemed to be holding their own. We stepped gingerly past a profusion of the tiny stalks of Yellow-Eyed Grass.

And past the more robust sunflowers, this host to a Pennsylvania Leatherwing, a valuable pollinator.

There were many little rocky pools, where sundews spread their sticky hands -

This morning, I got my wish -- having waited a whole year now -- of seeing the Canadian Burnet, so common here, in soft-spikey bloom.

And I saw plenty of critters, too –

Damselfly (Eastern Forktail)

Dragonfly (a Rusty Snaketail, I think)

Syrphid fly - one of those little bee-imitators

Grasshopper

And another hopper - not sure whether this is a green frog or a mink frog - green, methinks, seeing that dorso-lateral fold & leg stripes-

The group of Naturalists spread out, and contentedly explored the riverside, resembling more than anything a family of deer browsing.
We had been given the gift of a beautiful summer day, one to be savored.

A Book

2011-08-09T10:40:00.021-04:00

August 9, 2011
Inside a Book

How many a man has dated a new era in his life
from the reading of a book!
The book exists for us, perchance,
that will explain our miracles
and reveal new ones.
The at-present unutterable things
we may find somewhere uttered.
HDT, Walden, "Reading" chapter, 1854

Today is the day that Walden was published back in 1854.
It’s not the only book that has changed my life, or that has shown the way along interesting trails over the years – but today is a day to celebrate nonetheless !

We can be thankful that Mr. Thoreau saw fit to try again,
after the commercial failure of his first book, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. He had printed that book at his own cost, having been unable to find a publisher willing to take a chance on an unknown author.
He joked bitterly in his Journal -

[October 27, 1853]:
For a year or two past, my publisher,
falsely so called,
has been writing from time to time
to ask what disposition should be made of the copies
of "A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers"
still on hand, and at last suggesting
that he had use for the room they occupied
in his cellar.
So I had them all sent to me here,
and they have arrived to-day by express,
filling the man's wagon, --
706 copies out of an edition of 1000
which I bought of Munroe four years ago
and have ever since been paying for,
and have not quite paid for yet.
The wares are sent to me at last,
and I have an opportunity to examine my purchase.
They are something more substantial than fame,
as my back knows,
which has borne them up two flights of stairs
to a place similar to that
to which they trace their origin.
Of the remaining two hundred and ninety and odd,
seventy-five were given away, the rest sold.
I have now a library of nearly nine hundred volumes,
over seven hundred of which I wrote myself.

Fortunately for us, he tried again with a second book, and after several years and eight revisions, sent the final manuscript of Walden to another publisher, where it was slightly more successful.
Now, 157 years after that first book rolled off the press, there have been over 200 editions, and the book has been translated into at least 50 languages.

At this very moment, a friend many thousands of miles away is laboring at a desk, laboring with love on a translation of Walden into yet another language, a translation for new readers, far across the sea.
With his second book, Thoreau wasn't necessarily publishing it to make money.
There are other measures of success, as the book itself so aptly points out.
He had something to say. And I'm glad he said it.

Let me ask you, dear readers,what books have initiated new eras in YOUR lives ?

Where is the Artist?

2011-08-02T13:23:00.001-04:00

August 2, 2011
The Fens

[Here's something from 'way back in April,
rediscovered while sorting out a summer's worth of photos
on an afternoon that was too hot for doing anything else.
There was snow on the trail, back on that day !
It's always nice to run into auld acquaintances, even though we didn't recognize each other at first.]

I would see painted
a boundless expanse of desert, prairie or sea,
without other object than the horizon.
The heavens and the earth,
-- the first and last painting, --
where is the artist who shall undertake it?
HDT's early Journal, April 30, 1839

Many Happy Returns

2011-07-20T13:27:00.010-04:00

July 12, 2011
Moreau Lake State Park

Today, the twelfth of July, is the birth-day
of Henry David Thoreau.
Many Happy Returns of the Day to you sir!

When we walk we naturally go
to the fields and woods;

what would become of us
if we walked only in a garden
or a mall?

Even some sects of philosophers
have felt the necessity
of importing the woods to themselves
since they did not go to the woods,
"They planted groves and walks of Platans"
where they took subdiales ambulationes
in porticoes open to the air.

Of course, it is of no use
to direct our steps to the woods,
if they do not carry us thither.

I am alarmed when it happens
that I have walked a mile into the woods bodily,

without getting there in spirit.

In my afternoon walk I would fain forget
all my morning occupations,
and my obligations to society.

But it sometimes happens that I cannot easily
shake off the village.

The thought of some work will run in my head,

and I am not where my body is;

I am out of my senses.

In my walks I would fain return to my senses.

What business have I in the woods,
if I am thinking of something out of the woods?
HDT, Walking

True Freedom

2011-07-13T13:52:00.003-04:00

July 4, 2011
Cole's Woods

But it chanced the other day that I scented a white water-lily, and a season I had waited for had arrived.
It is the emblem of purity.
It bursts up so pure and fair to the eye, and so sweet to the scent, as if to show us what purity and sweetness reside in,
and can be extracted from, the slime and muck of earth.
I think I have plucked the first one that has opened for a mile. What confirmation of our hopes
is in the fragrance of this flower!
I shall not so soon despair of the world for it …

From Thoreau’s speech at Framingham, July 4 1854,
later published as Slavery in Massachusetts

It’s the day in 1845 that Henry Thoreau officially moved in to his little house by Walden Pond, to spend the next two years there in his own experiment in Independence.

Nine years later, just as Walden was about to be published, Thoreau was invited to speak at a large Abolitionist Rally to be held in Framingham, Massachusetts. It was advertised in the Boston papers as a "Meeting for True Freedom on the Fourth of July." Due to recent events, such as the Anthony Burns Affair (see links below,) feelings were running high. Abolitionists spoke out against state and local governments who had laws supporting slavery. After speaking at the morning session, William Lloyd Garrison, editor of The Liberator, burned the Constitution in protest !

(It helps to understand that said Constitution would not be amended to outlaw slavery until eleven years later, in 1865)

Thoreau’s turn to address the crowd of 2,000 came in the afternoon –
after rousing speeches by Wendell Phillips and Sojourner Truth.Tough acts to follow !

Click here and here for two fascinating accounts of that day.

(If anything, it shows that, contrary to what many think of him today, Thoreau was no hermit, but was actively involved in social issues of his day.)

***

My Independence Day was a somewhat quieter than Henry’s was back then.

After a very busy week at work, it was nice just to have a few hours to relax.
I went for a walk in the woods with a friend.
It was my hope to find two particular plants, seen recently in Moreau Lake State Park, in a Warren County location. What I needed was dry sandy soil, and open sunny areas -- like those under powerlines.

There is a place like that in Cole’s Woods, a green gem set in the middle of Glens Falls. It is forested, with Halfway Brook meandering through its many acres, and also has a scruffy powerline section, with just the conditions I was looking for.

At the very last minute, I stopped at the house of my friend Ruth, who considers this woods her special place.

She enthusiastically joined me, and led me right to the sort of place I was looking for.

Along the way, the butterflies were flitting here and there –

And the slugs nodded to us as we walked past.

Very soon, we did see the first plant I was seeking – a wood lily !

Ten minutes after that, the second plant almost tripped us up as we walked by it – a clasping milkweed !

We found others of their kind out onlong the powerline trail.

I was very happy to find these new plants, and to be able to anticipate where they might be found. Just lucky, I guess.

We rambled along the powerline trail, finding other treasures.

Like ripening black raspberries.

Tonight there are many celebrations of our Nation’s birth-day planned,
most of them involving fireworks and other noisy explosions.
And lots of flag-waving.

My patriotism is of a different sort. Probably not in line with today’s definitions of it.

The United States as a nation has come a long way, and still has a long way to go toward her ideals. But I do love America. In that long-ago summer when I travelled to Alaska and back, camping all across this country, I came to love the land itself. From sea to shining sea.

So it’s three cheers

for the Red

Black Raspberry

White

Enchanter's Nightshade

and Blue-green !

Ebony Jewelwing
And yellow…

Canada Lily

And green …

Solomon's Seal
And orange …

Butterfly weed

Expansions

2011-07-07T13:23:00.001-04:00

July 2, 2011
Pyramid Lake, NY

Near the lake, which we were approaching with as much expectation as if it had been a university, -- for it is not often that the stream of our life opens into such expansions, -- were islands, and a low and meadow shore with scattered trees.
HDT, The Maine Woods

Today I happily returned to Pyramid Lake, for an excursion organized by Jackie Donnelly to explore the plant life in this Adirondack setting. Pyramid is a retreat center, and on this summer weekend, there were youth groups enjoying the great outdoors here too. This is one of Jackie's special places - she volunteers here - and she delighted to share it with us.

Just one hour's drive from my front door, I can step out onto land so wild and interesting, it's like visiting another planet.

At the lake, our morning party consisted of Jackie, myself and Ruth Schottman. Once again it was my pleasure to follow in their footsteps – er, in this case, paddle-dips – and learn something new.

The center sits along a small portion of the northern shore, and the rest of the lake and surrounding forest is classified as Adirondack wilderness.

In the first cove, we spotted Rose Pogonia – we would see much more of it throughout the day.

Water lobelia, water-lilies and irises were all out and looking beautiful.
No pickerel-weed flowers yet -- it seems late this year.
We saw a cove full of mini-lilies, 2-inch replicas of the familiar sweet white lily. Are they a separate variety?

Tiny sundew plants sparkled on fallen logs, in terrarium-like mixes here and there.

Jackie led us to the far end of the lake, where a cedar swamp contained some treasures she hoped to share with us.

It is remarkable how little these important gates to a lake are blazoned. There is no triumphal arch over the modest inlet or outlet, but at some undistinguished point it trickles in or out through the uninterrupted forest, almost as through a sponge.
HDT, The Maine Woods

A sponge, indeed ! We put ashore and gingerly stepped (or stumbled) among tree-roots, onto deep sphagnum moss covered with delicate bog-loving plants.

And, lacking a "triumphal arch," Jackie and Ruth wisely brought along orange survey-tape, to mark our trail, so that we could find our way back to our boats. It made me think of Hansel and Gretel in the dark spooky forest, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. (And we all know how THAT turned out.)
This was bushwacking at its finest.
I kept nervously checking over my shoulder at our backtrail, for this cedar- swamp was so thick that it would have been very easy to get lost.

Just as I was thinking about that possibility – who would ever find us ? and when ? – I saw deer fur and some bones. Only the shadow of this deer remained. Perhaps she went peacefully, and just became one with the swamp ... ? My timid mind considered other possibilities.

But I soon got over it. My companions kept pointing out so many plants that were new to me. At our soggy feet was spread an amazing assortment of green treasures.

Dalibarda--

One-sided Pyrola, Twinflower, Snowberry, and Wood sorrel --

Though Jackie did not find the one particular plant she had hoped to show us here, we didn’t care. The mosquitoes were surprisingly lackadaisical, and we could take our time exploring.

I could see my own reflection in a glistening dewberry -

With the loss of the usual visual cues, the cardinal points became ...
less obvious.
Lines between things became blurred.
After just a few minutes in this emerald forest, it was difficult to discern what was land, and what was water.
What was sky, or what was earth.

It was a pleasant, slightly hypnotic feeling.
The Sirens of the swamp are very real.

All this time, we were never more than fifty feet from where we put ashore!

Back in the boats (which we had a little spot of trouble locating, even WITH the orange tape), we continued around the far side of the lake, in the lee of Bear Mountain, which rises steeply above with water.

Under the gaze of the Lady of the Lake,

we floated past giant pinkish boulders covered with green and white lichens.

And giant fishing-spiders !

Damselflies were everywhere, clasping in courtship. Ruth had several of them hitch-hiking on her kayak. I even saw two of them hooking up underwater.
Glub. Glub.

There was fireweed (complete with teensy fly on the left)

and a basking water-snake -- right at eye level !
I think I put the camera up more to protect my face, than to take his picture.

We came ashore back at camp for lunch, and sat at a deck overlooking the beach cove. Entertainment was provided by a large snapping turtle, who was trying unsuccessfully to make friends with the girls on the swimming-float.

At lunch we met up with the fourth member of our boating party, Nancy Slack, an expert on mosses and lichens. She had just missed us in the morning, and had done some solo botanizing on the lake. If she had been with us, we would probably still be in that swamp, learning our mosses. She joined us for the afternoon paddle into the swampy outflow of the lake.

It was a lovely day, and despite seeing more lovely things in those shallows - things like salamander eggs and sheep laurel --

-- I physically ran out of gas soon after lunch, having worked late the evening before.
It was time to call it a day.
Once again I am grateful to accompany such knowledgable friends, who lead the way to (formerly) spooky places like impenetrable swamps, and expand my horizons.

Ruth shared her field-notes with us later, and it is strikingly similar to one of Henry’s lists from The Maine Woods. Here is what he noted on one of his trips:

The prevailing flowers and conspicuous small plants
of the woods, which I noticed, were:
Clintonia borealis,
linnæa,
checkerberry (Gaultheria procumbens),
Aralia nudicaulis (wild sarsaparilla),
great round-leaved orchis,
Dalibarda repens,
Chiogenes hispidula (creeping snowberry),
Oxalis acetosella (common wood-sorrel),
Aster acuminatus,
Pyrola secunda (one-sided pyrola),
Medeola Virginica (Indian cucumber-root),
small Circæa (enchanter’s nightshade),
and perhaps Cornus Canadensis (dwarf cornel).

Thoreau always sniffed at Emerson’s suggestions to join him at the Philosopher’s Camp (click for link) in the Adirondacks; preferring the wilds of Maine instead.

But I think he would have liked this place.

Good Intentions

2011-06-26T10:20:00.002-04:00

June 25, 2011
A half- mile up the road

I have just been through the process
of killing the cistudo for the sake of science;
but I cannot excuse myself for this murder,
and see that such actions are inconsistent
with the poetic perception,
however they may serve science,
and will affect the quality of my observations.

I pray that I may walk more innocently and serenely through nature.

No reasoning whatever reconciles me to this act.
It affects my day injuriously.
I have lost some self-respect.
I have a murderer’s experience in a degree.
-- HDT Journal, August 18, 1854. He had been working with naturalist Louis Agassiz, providing specimens of local flora and fauna.

Today I am driving down Meadowbrook Road, and up ahead, I see a turtle slowly walking across the road. It is a small snapping turtle, several years old. She is heading for a large puddle of water on the other side of the road.

It is heartening to see her, since this month -- the month of turtle-nesting -- I have seen more dead turtles by the roadside than living ones.
In fact, I have "rescued" several turtles who were crossing a road. This year, I have gone so far as to keep garden-gloves (for handling smaller turtles) and a small plastic shovel (for turtles who are too large for me to want to put my hand anywhere near them) in my car. Nature Girl to the Rescue is the title of the self-congratulating movie now playing inside my head.

My joy turns quickly to alarm, as it becomes apparent that this will be an almost impossible journey for her, given the number of cars going to and fro at this spot.

So, lover of turtles that I am, I pull over as soon as possible, to the nice wide shoulder of the road, next to the spot where she is trundling across the pavement toward the other side. I throw the car into park and get out. I know another car is approaching right behind me, and there isn’t much time.

Fortunately, the turtle has made it as far as the yellow center line of the road. It seems she is at least safe from that car behind me.

But as that next car comes swiftly along, it doesn’t slow down, but instead swerves away a little bit, and

whump whump

That sickening sound – as the car passes,
the turtle is now belly up and most certainly dead,
and I am jumping up and down in the middle of the road,
yelling at the unseen driver “you ass ! you stupid ASS !”
though by now the car is a mile down the road,
and it is myself who is the ass.

All too late I realize that the car must have swerved to avoid ME,
that if I had not been standing there, that turtle might have LIVED.
In my efforts to help it, I killed that turtle,
as surely as if I had run over it myself.

I slowly put on my garden-gloves.
My heart is a heavy, heavy stone.
I walk out morosely between oncoming cars, whose drivers stare uncomprehending at me,
and carry what’s left of the turtle
over to the water she had been seeking.

It is a costly lesson.

Like Thoreau, I cannot excuse myself.

But can you tell me, has this sort of thing ever happened to any of you?

Meeting on the Musketaquid

2011-06-22T14:31:00.004-04:00

June 3, 2011
Concord, Massachusetts

The Musketaquid, or Grass-ground River, though probably as old as the Nile or Euphrates, did not begin to have a place in civilized history, until the fame of its grassy meadows and its fish attracted settlers out of England in 1635, when it received the other but kindred name of CONCORD from the first plantation on its banks, which appears to have been commenced in a spirit of peace and harmony. It will be Grass-ground River as long as grass grows and water runs here; it will be Concord River only while men lead peaceable lives on its banks.
-- HDT, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers

While in Concord, I had hopes of meeting a friend from the Blogosphere who lives near there, Suasco Al, aka Trashpaddler. In his spare time, he patrols the rivers he loves, and picks up what trash he can. Over the years he has removed thousands of pieces of litter from the waters, quietly and without a lot of fuss. (You can follow his exploits at Trashpaddler.com)

He’s one of my real-life heroes, and keeps me inspired to improve my environment, in ways however small. Dixit et fecit, indeed !

He sometimes travels far afield, and so I wasn’t at all sure we would be able to connect.

We emailed before my trip, and it so happened that he would paddling right in his own home waters, on the Sudbury and Concord Rivers, with Erik, a blogging friend of his from Rhode Island. (That blog is ekilson.blogspot.com) They would be scouting that stretch of water in preparation for a paddle trip that Erik was leading the following week.

In his email, Al gave me a rough estimate of when they might be passing by the Lowell Bridge, so Friday after noon, Jackie and I took our lunch at the Calf Pasture.
We sat on a bench with a fine view of Egg Rock, where the Assabet and the Sudbury rivers meet to form the Concord River. It was the site of important councils between the Native people and the first settlers.
Rivers come together, people come together.
It is a natural meeting-place.

We tidied up a little patch of waterline, in anticipation of their arrival. Didn't want them to land upon a trashy shore ! Jackie was happy to find lance-leaved violet growing along the soggy banks of the river.

Being without internet access back at our B&B, I had to resort to using my new and hardly-ever-used cellphone, and calling the number that Al had given me in our last email. Well, I’m a convert now as to their usefulness.

Standing on the bank of the river, with the water lapping at my feet, I dialed the number and pushed SEND.
Al promptly answered – from his kayak !

“Excuse me a moment, my hat just blew off.”

He was some distance upriver on the Sudbury, and said they would soon be passing by Egg Rock.

Ahoy ! Here they are ! paddling against the wind.

Erik comes in for a soft landing.

It was great to meet them at the very spot where the rivers also come together. To meet friends from the internet, from hundreds of miles apart, and to affirm that we live in more than just 2 dimensions.

We chatted a while, as the guys stretched their legs ashore.

Al and I talked trash.
I marvel at his methods of stowing things on the boat.
He sorts things into recyclables, non-recyclables, and trash.
This is just the overflow:

We even got to see him spring into action, as a beer bottle floated past us, down the middle of the river. It soon joined the other trash that Al had pulled from the river that day. His year-to-date count is approaching 3,000 items.

Erik lined us up for a group photo, which he posted on his blog –
yes, for a brief moment in time, we were
The Four Musketaquideers.

(Without apologies, I share Thoreau’s weakness for dreadful puns.)

Then it was time for them to continue on their journey, and we on ours.
We stood on Lowell Bridge to wave goodbye.

It was a beautiful day to be anywhere near the river.
And the river, a little more beautiful than before,
thanks to people like Al and Erik.
Great to meet you, guys !

And congratulations, Al, on winning a well-deserved
River Stewardship Award at the 2011 Riverfest the following week.

Nothing makes the earth seem so spacious
as to have friends at a distance;
they make the latitudes and longitudes.
--HDT letter to Lidian Emerson, May 22, 1843

Pictures of Paradise

2011-06-13T01:05:00.002-04:00

June 2nd and 3rd, 2011
Framingham, Massachusetts

Painters are wont, in their pictures of Paradise,
to strew the ground too thickly with flowers.
There should be moderation in all things.
Though we love flowers,
we do not want them so thick under our feet
that we cannot walk without treading on them.

HDT Journal, June 15, 1853

Thoreau would have had a hard time of it, then, at the Garden in the Woods, which is just a short distance from Walden. It’s a fantastic place for anyone remotely interested in native plants, and it’s chock full of botanical wonders.

I had never been there, and it was my great fortune to be invited on this field trip by Jackie and several of the Thursday Naturalists.

We all ended up staying at the B&B in Lincoln, where I usually stay when visiting Walden. Ed, Ruth and Nan would be staying only one night, but Jackie and I stayed a little longer. All were charmed by the house and by our host Barbara, who makes everyone feel right at home.

We spent the better part of 2 days at the Garden, and did not get to all the trails. Plants are labeled (huzzah!) and arranged by habitat. There were guided tours available, but I had the best guides possible in my knowledgeable companions.

To say we were like kids in a candy store, is an understatement!

The first stop was to the Rare Plants section. Since I am relatively new at this, I don’t know enough to even know if a plant is rare or not. And it was a little confusing in this section, since many of the plants, listed as rare in New England, were fairly common in upstate New York. Which, I suppose, is good news for us.

Still, I was seeing plants I never expected to see – I lost count at how many were new to me.

We were not the only flower afficionados here, either.

My companions were calling out to one another at each new discovery. They huddled frequently, their quiet discussions peppered with Latin. It was fun to watch them parse out an unfamiliar plant.

They were very patient in answering my endless questions.

A high point for me was that at one section of a trail, Ed called me over to look at something that was well-hidden along a shady path, something he knew I was looking for: Lygodium palmatum, Thoreau's Climbing Fern !

For an interesting article about Thoreau and those who successfully re-discovered this fern in Concord, click here.
Mostly what I learned is that even folks who know an AWFUL lot about plants can still see new and exciting things, in any walk. Their enthusiasm is certainly contagious.

As I followed along the paths, seeing all the labels, I wondered, what sort of plants would each of US be?

Well, let’s see,
there’s Jackie: loves poor soils (for therein lie riches), likes bright open canopies, not showy

Ed: a perennial, evergreen in all seasons, slightly spicey

Nan: grows on the “wild side,” known to favor mountain slopes

Ruth: low-growing, tenacious and hardy

ALL of them would be listed as rare treasures in my book.

And me, I’m just a water-lily, floating along.
I like bogs and frogs and turtles.

Which was my favorite habitat section of the Garden.

While standing in the sun, watching the dragonflies, I saw a school group coming along the boardwalk. One teacher was reading a sort of scavenger-hunt list to the kids; I heard her say, “… and find something beautiful.”

A little boy by her side eagerly pointed here and there,
repeating each time:
“ I found something beautiful,
I found something beautiful …”

Joy and Consolation

2011-05-28T21:32:00.009-04:00

May 21, 2011
Moreau Lake State Park

The frog had eyed the heavens from his marsh,
until his mind was filled with visions,
and he saw more than belongs to this fenny earth.
He mistrusted that he was become
a dreamer and a visionary.
Leaping across the swamp to his fellow,
what was his joy and consolation to find that
he too had seen the same sights in the heavens,
he too had dreamed the same dreams !
HDT Journal, May 21, 1851

Today, one hundred and sixty years to the day from the Journal entry above, was a day eagerly anticipated by many. Some would-be prophet had predicted May 21, 2011 to be the Day of the Rapture, the end of the world as we know it, the beginning of a new spiritual existence. It was even specified that this would occur at exactly 6 p.m. !

Well it so happens that at exactly 6 p.m. today, I happened to be in my favorite place with a treasured friend, on a twilight paddle on Moreau Lake. I did not disappear. Nor did any of my companions. Was it the Rapture?

At the very least, it did seem a vision of something wonderful.
Yet the fenny earth remains.

It had rained for days, including today, and there were only four of us who set off from the boat launch - Gary, Jim, Rick and myself. As if by magic, just before 6 p.m., the skies cleared and the water was smooth as glass.

Some folks renting the cabin sat outside, enjoying the evening as we glided past.

The water is still high in the lake, and we floated right over
the Sandbar at the Beach.

There is the main lake, and then another section I call
the Back Bay, on the far side of this little fishing bridge.

Which was a tight squeeze to get under, especially
for someone tall like Jim!

At the beaver lodge, which is largely underwater at the moment,
we met a painted turtle who was unusually calm.
She stayed put, even as we talked to her.

Unlike this fellow, who quickly plopped into the depths after I got a little too close. Look at those long front claws, which is a clue that this might be a male.

What a fantastic evening - the water, clouds, the mountain -

and we mere mortals floating on reflections of heaven.

This was just a brief blessing of good weather, with more rain already on its way. So we took our time, knowing it was a gift.
There was even a glimpse of a rainbow. It lasted just a minute or two.
I think that only Rick and I saw it.

How many wonders, large and small, have he and I been witness to!

[from the same Journal entry:]The revelations of nature are infinitely glorious
and cheering,
hinting to us of a remote future,
of possibilities untold;
but startlingly near to us some day we find a fellow-man.

In What Book

2011-04-24T20:50:00.003-04:00

April 7, 2011
Spring Run Trail, Saratoga Springs, NY

It is only when we forget all our learning
that we begin to know.
I do not get nearer by a hair’s breadth to any natural object
so long as I presume that I have an introduction to it from some learned man.
To conceive of it with a total apprehension
I must for the thousandth time approach it as something totally strange.
If you would make acquaintance with the ferns
you must forget your botany.
You must get rid of what is commonly called knowledge of them.
Not a single scientific term or distinction is the least to the purpose,
for you would fain perceive something,
and you must approach the object totally unprejudiced.
You must be aware that
no thing is what you have taken it to be.
HDT’s Journal, Oct 4, 1859

Today’s quotation is full of irony. After all, I have just begun to “make acquaintance,” slowly filling a bookshelf with all sorts of field guides, and trying to learn whatever I can about the things I see in my walks.
It would be nice if I could use the scientific terms instead of saying,
“That pointy thing on the flower.”
(Are there courses in Botany as a Second Language?!)

And I consider it a great pleasure and honor to accompany “learned men”
(and women),
which is what I did today.
I went a-walking with the Thursday Naturalists !

The meeting place was at the fairly new Spring Run Trail.
Jackie introduced me all 'round to these folks, who are energetic and knowledgeable.

Leading the walk was Ruth Schottman, famously wise in the ways of plants – yet as we pointed them out along the trail, she greeted each one with the enthusiasm of someone seeing it for the first time.

She carried a book which was well-worn, but obviously loved.

It was one of those days so rare this spring -- above freezing, and sunny. Despite the snow lining the path, there was plenty to see and marvel at.

Hazel trees were bursting with tiny pink stars, and alders stood loaded with dangling yellow catkins.

Ah yes, we must determine exactly WHICH type of alders they were.

Last year’s burdock stood along the brook,

the hooked burrs looking to hitch a ride to anywhere.

This trail is a recent addition to the fine system of local trails in Saratoga County.
Along the way, a reminder of how brooks were once treated.

Nowadays things are different, and abandoned waysides like these are coming to life in a new way.

As if to prove the point, we saw stumps, vigorously sprouting.

Beside a small brook, skunk cabbage was melting the snow with its chemically-created body-heat.

Sheltered inside, one of spring’s first flowers – though it hardly looks (or smells) like one.

One skunk cabbage looked more like an eggplant, squatting there amongst the liverwort.

Which itself is an interesting thing to see, with its lizardy cell structure.

Just as we did when we were nine years old, we played happily in the brook.

By the time we returned to the parking area, the scent of skunk-cabbage was forgotten as we got a whiff of something much more pleasant - the wood-fired grill of a local hot-dog vendor!

We dined al fresco in the warm sunshine.

It was a fine day to be outdoors, to meet some very interesting people, and to see some signs of spring – including coltsfoot, which Jackie described as “the first spring flower to actually LOOK like a flower.”

It's a beautiful sight. A little bit of sunshine at your feet.

I think maybe I understand what Thoreau is saying. Of course, he also started out learning in the traditional way. A Harvard graduate (Class of 1837), he perused ancient Roman texts on the natural cycles of the year, consulted the few field guides that existed back then (Gray's Botany, 1848 edition), gathered specimens for Agassiz (both plant and animal, something he later regretted), and was among the first to read and champion Darwin. Yes, he listened eagerly to the “learned men” of his time.

He also spent many an hour talking with neighbors. He not only participated in the stimulating Conversations at Ralph Waldo Emerson’s home, but also sought the advice of the local old-timers –- farmers, muskrat trappers, Canadian wood-choppers. On his Maine excursions, pummelled his Penobscot guides with questions.

Some of his most treasured books were not science books, but volumes on Hindu and Asian scriptures, gifted to him by a friend. He built a custom-fitted box for these books, using driftwood gathered during his paddles on the Concord River.
As years went on, he didn't care to join organizations, and rather starts to sound a lot more zen in his attitude toward nature.

Above all he trusted his own direct experience. Throughout his life, he explored that balance point between the poetic and the scientific outlooks. He seems to say here that you can be tilted too much toward one extreme or the other -- that you need to stay open for new experiences, and let the heart lead the way, sometimes.

[same Journal entry, continued right where we left off:]
In what book is this world and its beauty described?
Who has plotted the steps toward the discovery of beauty?
You have got to be in a different state from common.
Your greatest success will be simply
to perceive that such things are,
and you will have no communication to make
to the Royal Society.

Looking for Mayflowers in April

2011-04-13T14:11:00.002-04:00

April 3, 2011
Back Bay, Moreau Lake State Park

In the summer, greenness is cheap,
now it is something comparatively rare,
and is the emblem of life to us.
HDT's Journal October 4, 1859

It was a sunny Sunday, and I could take a nice long walk today.
Time to check on conditions at Moreau Lake.
During the heart of winter, the ice gets to be a foot thick here.
Today – April third - it is still frozen over.
No picnicking or swimming today !

Although it was melting at the edges.

Just as in the beginning of winter, I’m irresistibly drawn
to the meeting-place of ice and water.

To watch the transition from one state of matter to another.

The ice has melted and refrozen in interesting patterns -
did Monet ever paint ice, as well as water-lilies?

Despite the beauty of the ice,
it’s also a joy to see the water moving freely again.

Turns out I’m not the only one attracted to such a place.

There were newts, which evaded the camera, as I peered into the water and cast shadows on their sunny underwater forest of dead leaves.

There were minnows, flirting with the sandy shallows.

They played peekaboo at the small holes in the ice.

While I was watching the minnows, Jackie hailed me. She had come here today too, to see if she could find the trailing arbutus.

It should be budding by now, being one of the earliest flowers of the year.
Another name for it is Mayflower.

Despite extensive snow cover still on the ground today, there were some areas near the back bay that had melted back in recent days.

So that’s where we headed, to a place where we had spotted this plant before.

The past few weeks have been a test of our not-so-abundant patience,
as winter has seemed to linger on and on.
But it seems important, somehow, to be there when things happen.
Even if it's to check on the progress of a shy and retiring plant.

We are grasping for ANYthing green.

And when you find it, it brings you to your knees in gratefulness.

It may look as if she is praying – and indeed there are many forms of prayer.

It’s a relief to know that despite the apparent lateness of certain phenomena on the calendars we keep so faithfully,

Nature is still moving along, although on her on time and schedule.

What is a Raven?

2011-04-06T14:19:00.001-04:00

March 30, 2011
Warren County Bike Path

Welcome to "Jeopardy" !
Now for 100 dollars, here is the clue: It’s our largest songbird.
(Jeopardy theme music plays here -- doo doo doo doo, etc.)
Time's up ! If you answered “What is a Raven?” – you are correct !

They are indeed, classed as songbirds, so I guess there is hope for all of us.
Around the world, they mean many things to people of different cultures.
To some they are evil, harbingers (or even hasteners) of death.
Being carrion-eaters doesn’t help their reputation. Warriors of old noticed who was first to show up on the battlefield , when the fighting was over.

To others, they are gods, or messengers from the gods. Or messengers TO the gods, like the pair Huginn and Muninn, who sat on Odin’s shoulder and informed him of the doings of mortals far below. (Click on all of the green words, to follow a link.)

Spies. Conspirators. Tattlers. One term for a group of ravens
is “an unkindness.”

They have one of the largest brains, proportionally, of any of the birds. Researchers, like my hero Bernd Heinrich, have collected stories and data which show ravens using wolves and human hunters to locate food for them. They have been observed using tools (the famous meat-on-a-string experiment) , and making toys with sticks, and playing.

Bringers of fire, according to an Abenaki story. In a similar Lenape story, from people who lived just south of the raven’s range , the hero is Rainbow Crow, who like the Raven, burned his beautiful feathers in stealing fire to bring to the People. In the Pacific Northwest cultures, Raven the Trickster steals the Sun itself, and pays a price.

( Haida clan crest )

Usually a nest site is chosen for remoteness, as a protection from predators, both animal and human. Many generations of ravens learned the hard way not to nest too closely to farms and houses. So most nests are found high up on rocky cliffs, far from our eyes and weapons.

In short, we humans have a complicated relationship with these creatures.

I love ravens. When they call, it feels like
they are calling to me.
Lookout ! Lookup !
Who really knows what they are saying? Researchers have identified at least 30 different vocalizations, including a fascinating “gong” noise that sounds just like someone hitting a metal flagpole.

Today I took a short walk at the bike trail nearby, to check on the Frog Puddle. A year ago, the ground was clear of snow, and in this puddle, woodfrogs were gathering. Today, that puddle is still frozen over, so there would be no “qwacking” heard today !

Instead, I heard croaking of another sort, and paused to find the source. Then a hearty Rrrrrwhaaaa! rang out, and I knew it was a raven.
That “crazy-lady scream” is unmistakable. It was coming from some tall white pines, over by an electric substation.

The trail passes close enough to this station for me to see large black birds, swooping around one of the metal pylons. Over the hum of electrical currents from the transformers, I could clearly hear the ravens calling.
Look over here !

And there they were, one raven perched on the farthest pylon, next to a pile of sticks. They seemed to be building a nest, right out there in the open, close to several busy roadways. In the middle of an electrical substation !

So at first I did not believe my eyes. What a rare treat ! And one easily observed with just a pair of binoculars, standing there just yards from the car.

It seemed an odd place. After looking about , I observed that there is plenty of pine woods, water and all the fast-food dumpsters one might wish for, close at hand. (or, wing). No irate farmers standing by with shotguns – just cars going by, the drivers intent on getting bargains at the mall.

The first raven was just hanging out, enjoying the view, perhaps. What shall we have for lunch today? Long John Silver’s, or Golden Corral?

The other raven , cawing as he flew, was coming back from a dead standing pine nearby, and was carrying a twig in his beak. They called loudly to each other. They weren’t being sneaky at all. That was a sharp contrast to crows, whom I have seen building a nest in eerie and uncharacteristic silence.

When the second raven alighted next to the other, some quiet croaking conversation passed between them. Little clucks, urps, chuckles.
A young couple setting up house. They are believed to mate for life.

I wish these two the best of luck.

First Day of Spring

2011-04-04T14:25:00.001-04:00

March 21, 2011
Outside my window

The bluebird carries the sky on his back.
Thoreau's Journal, April 3, 1852

Ah ... a leisurely stretch, as the last dreams of the night fade,
and I open my eyes to welcome this morning,
and see … snow.

Pretty little white flakes, drifting down.
Again.
Don’t they know that Winter is officially over?
Well, there are other ways to celebrate the first day of Spring,
besides picking posies. (I’d have to go to a garden center greenhouse, in order to do that !)

It’s a day for a walk, at the very least.
Just to see what’s going on outdoors.
As I pull on my boots, Mom calls me to the window.

A bluebird is sitting just outside.
He’s chirruping softly, but seems confused by the snow.
He hunkers down on a neighbor’s wind-ornament,
which proceeds to slowly spiral around,
with the bird riding on it!
(if you turn up the volume, you can hear very faint chirrups.)

If that bluebird could flap his little wings and fly due east,
and magically fly for many many hours,
he would look down through the clouds
and see some of my Friends celebrating the New Year
on this day.

For the moment, this bird seems to be content
with spinning around,
quite vividly bringing the words of Thoreau to life:

I no sooner step out of the house
than I hear the bluebirds in the air, and far and near, everywhere except in the woods,
throughout the town you may hear them, --
the blue curls of their warblings, --
harbingers of serene and warm weather,
little azure rills of melody trickling here and there
from out of the air,
their short warble trilled in the air reminding me
of so many corkscrews
assaulting and thawing the torpid mass of winter,
assisting the ice and snow to melt
and the streams to flow.
HDT Journal, March 18, 1853

Many Happy Solar Returns

2011-03-21T11:25:00.003-04:00

March 9, 2011
Meadowbrook Road

Today was my birthday ! It’s the day I consider the start of a New Year.
Where I grew up, in southeastern Pennsylvania,
the daffodils would be in full bloom on my special day.
There was greenness,
and a warm wind blowing.

Where I live now – er, it’s snowing.
On top of the other snow.

My birth-day is my signal,
even as the flakes drift down,
to be alert for the first signs of spring.
When I awoke this morning, I realized that the previous post
was my One Hundredth Blog!
So here is Blog Number One Hundred and One.
The theme for today: So Happy I’m Here.

Despite my sighs for the flowers of long-ago,
There is so much to be thankful for, here and now !

As I celebrate my personal New Year,

and watch,
and listen – the red-wings return.

I see and hear a red-wing.
It sings almost steadily on its perch there,
sitting all alone, as if to attract companions
(and I see two more, also solitary,
on different tree-tops within a quarter of a mile),
calling the river to life
and tempting ice to melt and trickle
like its own sprayey notes.
Another flies over on high, with a tchuck
and at length a clear whistle.

The birds anticipate the spring;
they come to melt the ice with their songs.
HDT Journal, March 11, 1859

Temperate Tantrums

2011-03-09T10:22:00.002-05:00

February 28th, 2011
Location 43 degrees N, 73 degrees W

Thoreau’s Journal, January 30, P.M.

The winter, cold and bound out as it is,
is thrown to us like a bone to a famishing dog,
and we are expected to get the marrow out of it. …
Some desert the field and go into winter quarters in the city.
They attend the oratorios,
while the only music that we countrymen hear
is the squeaking of the snow under our boots.

Well, it has finally hit, even though I thought I might be immune to this special event of every winter season.

Cabin Fever is here!

It sneaks up on you unawares. A first symptom is impatience, usually while performing a small task. Or you utter a snide remark to a good friend. You peruse seed catalogs with a loud sigh at the turn of every page. You remember looking up in the Fall, at the geese flying south – and wish you had gone with them.

In the acute phase, you are snarling at your loved ones, whose only mistake was to share the same residence with you.

(at the food store with "Saint Mom")

Yes, that’s just some of the wonderfulness we in the north country call Cabin Fever. It’s an ailment that seems limited to those of us in temperate climates. Oh, sure, that snow was pretty back in December, when it was pure and white and fluffy. But now ...

(yes, there IS a car in that driveway...)

The result is an overwhelming urge to be done with winter, and to move on to another season. And lots of acting-out.

Sure, modern scientists have found numerous causes, and so-called cures, and given it new and cute names (e.g., S.A.D.),

(but I’ll bet most of those scientists live in California, or other season-less place. Hmmph.)

Even those of us who LOVE winter, and get out in the snow as much as possible, can be infected. True, getting outdoors in the pale winter sunlight can be an effective vaccine, but even a mild version of Mal de Cabane can turn you into a truly unpleasant version of yourself.

And for anyone trying to live mindfully, and to stay in the present moment, it’s another temptation to overcome. Sooner or later, your thoughts will drift to visions of frogs and flowers, of not going to bed with wool socks on your feet, of other times, anytime but “Now.”

Some folks dream of other places, and then proceed to go to some tropical place for a week. (I can’t tell you if that helps, having never done it. Hmmph.)

Do people in California spend their Februaries wishing for something to change, and sighing about how boring it is to have 75 degrees and sunshine every single day ?

Some of us give in to primordial urges,

urges that go back to the days when humans had to almost hibernate to get through the winter.
We slack off, we make caveman choices.

I go window-shopping at the Beverage Stores.
(Enlarge photo to see a vision of my car filled to the brim !)

Most of us make it through OK. If you’ve grown up with it, you know it’s just a matter of riding it out. Nature does provide its own cure.

Many cultures have come up with their own attempts to distract us from the Fever.

Think of Valentine’s Day, Mardi Gras, Contra Dances, and something I just saw the other day:

(p.s.- not a Mets fan --Go Red Sox!)
You probably have some distractions of your own – I’d love to hear of them !

My personal favorite is the extraordinary timing of Town Meeting Day.
This is New England’s great expression of true democracy. (Imagine the ancient Roman senators wearing wool plaid instead of togas.)
It comes at a time when Cabin Fever is at its peak.

(Norman's Rockwell's Freedom of Speech, 1941 - from the Four Freedoms )
And you can read a good article about modern-day Town Meeting here.)

From out of their warm caves, here come all the grumps to assemble in one place, for a day of harangues and curmudgeonly oratory.
How fitting that the list of discussion topics which is posted in advance is called a Warning.

It’s a blend of catharsis and exorcism -- great entertainment, by the way! – and, somehow, town business does get done.
And at the pot luck dinners afterward, where the food has been cooked with love, everyone is chummy again.

(Journal entry, continued:)

But the winter was not given to us for no purpose.
We must thaw its cold with our genialness.
We are tasked to find out and appropriate all the nutriment it yields.

If it is a cold and hard season,
its fruit, no doubt, is the more concentrated and nutty.
It took the cold and bleakness of November to ripen the walnut,
but the human brain is the kernel which the winter itself matures.
Not till then does its shell come off.

The seasons were not made in vain.
Because the fruits of the earth are already ripe,
we are not to suppose that there is no fruit left
for winter to ripen.

It is for man the seasons and all their fruits exist.

The winter was made to concentrate and harden
and mature the kernel of his brain,
to give tone and firmness and consistency to his thought.

Then is the great harvest of the year,
the harvest of thought.

Strictly For the Birds

2011-02-20T14:19:00.012-05:00

February 1 and 2, 2011
Close to Home

If the race had never lived through a winter,
what would they think was coming?
HDT Journal, 1850

On the last day of January, I took a short walk along the river on the Betar Path. It was so cold that tears were streaming down my cheeks, though the air itself was still.
There's no way I could have been more bundled up, and still able to walk. We are usually experiencing a January thaw by now – where is it?

The little brooks that cross the path were still in the icy jaws of winter, as was the River, which has thawed and refrozen several times now.

It was the sort of day to walk briskly, just to avoid freezing in place. Stopping at a river overlook, I turned to face the sun, and became a windowsill cat, happy to feel the sun.

The forecast for the next two days was for a large winter storm to come barreling up from the south.

With that in mind, I went a-walking on that cold – but sunny ! – day.

Not much company today on the path -- not even the usual dog-walkers. (and windowsill cats are smart enough to have trained humans to set up litter-boxes !)

Not a good day for a picnic, either.

So I strode along, swinging arms and legs, knowing I’d be hobbled indoors for the next day or two.

***

The first day of February began with dark clouds and freezing-rain.
“A louring sky,” Thoreau would have called it. The day was more dreary than bad, but this was just the precursor to the bigger storm.

The radio and tv had been blatting about it constantly, calling the coming storm a “potential snow-i-cane.” As if we had never seen a snowstorm before.

“Oh, all that hype is strictly for the birds,” my Mom would say.

(I had never thought twice about this frequent family expression, but here’s some interesting history on it.)

Speaking of the birds, we were concerned about them finding food on this sleety day and the days to follow.

Mom and I been putting out suet for the birds on our little apartment balcony, and leftover popcorn when we have it. We’re not supposed to have bird feeders, according to my lease, but we can’t resist hanging one little suet cage in the winter. The birds who visit us provide endless entertainment. We call it The Bird Channel.

Today we had nothing but odd leftover pieces of various loaves of bread – so I came up with an experiment, to while away the time indoors.

It was not especially scientific.
(hey, it’s been many moons since Biology 101)
(and I was a Fine Arts Major, anyway).
There were tons of variables (noted in retrospect) that were not accounted for.

But here’s what I did – I put out samples of three types of bread, cut into small squares:

Hannaford in-store bakery marble rye

Panera sourdough,

And Arnold country oat bread.

[Let it be hereby noted that I did not, nor shall ever receive, any payments or compensation of any kind for the perceived avian endorsements or pseudoscientific analysis to follow.]

There was a lull in the precipitation, and so I popped out onto the balcony, and set out the specimens.

Which sample would be consumed first?

The hardy juncos – true snowbirds – stood before these offerings for a while, deciding. Perhaps the pieces were too large for them.

Down swooped a bluejay, who had no problem loading up five pieces at a time and jetting back to the woods’ edge.

After only ten minutes, it was apparent that the Hannaford bread just wasn’t cuttin’ it with any of the birds.

Quite unscientifically, I changed the position of the samples, thinking that the position relative to the usual food source might be affecting the results.

Nope. Same trend continued.

The Panera was gone in about 20 minutes.
The Arnold came in second,
and the Hannaford bread was still there an hour and a half later,
when the snow began to come down in earnest
And some visiting sparrows decided they’d rather have the good ol’ suet.

Draw your own conclusions. Birds, after all, have different food preferences than we do.
But I know which bread I’ll be buying more regularly in the future…

The January Sunsets

2011-02-11T08:55:00.002-05:00

January 30, 2011
Ice Meadows on Hudson River

Today I went with Jackie and Marie upriver to the Ice Meadows. They are marvelous places to explore and botanize in the summer, but it’s this time of year that they earned their name. For here is where the combination of terrain, waterflow and climate all combine to allow formation of frazil ice.

I’m still not exactly sure what it is; it’s a type of ice that flows like a liquid and seems to congeal and break up at a whim. Unfortunately, I was about 2 weeks too late to see the fresh crop of it this year. It has snowed heavily since then. Still, you could see the wrinkles and folds in the river created by this frazil backing up and reflowing.

The trail there is well-trodden at this time of year, making snowshoeing fairly easy.

Unless you try bushwacking it out to the river's edge...

Marie came along because one of her archaeology buddies had sent her a pretty cool video about frazil ice. (google "Yosemite Frazil" to find it on YouTube.)

We all made another stop upriver at The Glen, where we walked out on a bridge where the road crosses the Hudson. Here is the Frazil Factory of the river.

The bridge vibrated as Sunday ski-traffic went whizzing by, and I didn’t linger there!

Later on, Jackie and I rode north, looking for other river vantage points. Clouds came in, the road began to whiten, and we were running out of daylight. I suggested we head back. We pulled over onto a side road to turn around.

The first unusual sight was a phone booth. Wow, haven’t seen one in so long … must record for posterity …

Across the street was a small lane. It led down to what looked like a millpond.

All at once, the sun came out, though snow was still falling –
without a word,
we both jumped out of the car and walked down the lane,
cameras in hand.

It was a charming sight. We stood on a much smaller bridge this time,
no cars whizzing by,
just the sound of snowflakes falling.

After some time just gazing at this scene, we headed home.
Even from the Northway, the sunset was something to behold.
Jackie was snapping photos out the windshield
while I gamely kept the car between the lines,
catching only glimpses of the colors of the west.

The sunsets, I think, are now particularly interesting.
The colors of the west seem more than unusually warm,
perhaps by contrast with this simple snow-clad earth
over which we look and the clear cold sky, --
a sober but extensive redness,
almost every night passing into a dun.
There is nothing to distract our attention from it.
…The January Sunsets.
HDT Journal, January 11, 1856