An Unexpected Pleasure

Wow! What an unexpected gift of warmth this late in the season. Today was as balmy as yesterday was frigid, and I'll bet you can guess how I spent the afternoon. I had meant to put my canoe in the basement, but I sure am glad it was still tied to my car. So off I went to the river. Not a cloud in the sky and only a wisp of wind now and then, perfect for just ambling along under the banks, where the sunlight danced in reflected ripples on the rocks and the trunks of trees.

I noticed a lot of saplings had been gnawed right off, and soon I came to a pile of fresh-cut limbs arranged against the bank. Must be a beaver family is starting to build a new home.

Remember that tiny fluffy fly I showed a few posts back? Well, here is a clump of Wooly Alder Aphids at another stage of development. At first, I wondered if this was a lichenous growth, until I looked close and saw that the clump was made up of tiny writhing creatures.

Here's a closer shot of some of the individual aphids.

How quickly the sun heads down these late fall afternoons! It seems I had hardly been on the river an hour before the surrounding mountains began to shadow the opposite bank. But today, because it was so warm, even the shadows seemed lovely. I saw another paddler out there, taking in this exquisite scene.

A Frosty Hunt for Frostweed

Brrrrrr! It was COLD today. Frost covered everything. And that was a very good thing, because my friends Sue and Jackie and I had arranged to go in search of Frostweed at Mud Pond in Moreau Lake State Park. On these first freezing days of autumn, this unprepossessing little plant does a most amazing thing: it exudes through its splitting stems a vapor that immediately freezes into curls and clouds of evanescent gauzy ice. Very, very pretty. But you have to get up early to see it. As soon as the sun touches it, it's gone. But we got there in time, and here are a couple of photos to prove it. (For more information about Frostweed, see Sue's blog Water-lily, where she also includes Thoreau's journal entry about this plant, including his sketches of it.)

See how the frozen vapor forms curls around the stem.

Here you can see the frothy texture, like angel hair or cotton candy, of some of the frozen vapor.

Another interesting ice form was one that crunched underfoot: needles of ice that pushed up through the sandy soil of the path.

Everywhere we looked was something enchanting, with every stem and leaf and blade aglitter.

Some of the frost had formed in tiny spikes and needles that gave the leaves a prickly appearance.

Our Frostweed goal accomplished, we continued our walk around Mud Pond, stopping every few feet, it seemed, to examine some other nature find.

I don't know the official name of this little fungus, so I'll call it Dixie Cup.

It took me a while to figure out these berries were the fruit of Canada Mayflower.

Tiny Pixie-cup lichens share a steep bank with the club moss called Running Pine.

We also just sat and gazed out at the beauty of the pond on this clear frosty morning, listening to a cluster of Hooded Mergansers making their distinctive growls as they swam about in a hidden bay. (Sue's blog presents a recording of this remarkable sound.)

We soon heard the honking of geese far up in the sky, and watched as the flock soared over the pond, then continued on to land on some other water beyond our sight.

We kept hearing another gobbling and clacking sound that made us think that turkeys must be somewhere near, but we never saw them. Sue went off into the woods to investigate the source, and soon called to us to come along. We found her with her ear pressed to the trunk of a tall Pitch Pine. Somewhere up in the crown of the tree, branches were rubbing together, creating sounds that were amazingly animal-like. I almost expected to see a hornbill perched up in the canopy. Here, Jackie listens while Sue tries to photograph the source of the sound.

Nearly as frozen as that Frostweed vapor, we made our way to the park headquarters to warm up a bit, then walked around one bay of Moreau Lake before heading off to the Peppermill in South Glens Falls for lunch. I can't imagine a happier, more satisfying way to spend a day: enjoying this amazing park in the company of fine friends, sharing knowledge and enthusiasm and poems and stories and laughs and a meal, and above all, a sense of wonder about our ever-changing, always astounding, natural world.

Update on the Dead Osprey

It wasn't a rifle shot, but rather the talons of another raptor that brought this Osprey down.

I heard today from Moreau Lake State Park naturalist Gary Hill, who told me that state Department of Environmental Conservation pathologists had conducted an autopsy (Correction: necropsy. See comment.) on the dead bird my friends and I found on the beach October 23. Their examination revealed that the puncture wounds on the Osprey's belly and leg were caused not by a bullet but by the talons of another raptor, possibly a Bald Eagle or another Osprey.

I confess I hate the thought of such avian animosity, but I hate the thought of the senseless shooting of birds by humans even more. So I guess that was good news, even though it still makes me sad. But I'm glad to know that the DEC folks care enough about the death of a single bird that they would make the effort to find out how it died. Thanks, you guys.

The Season Winds Down on the River

Today's bright sunny morning turned dark and cloudy before noon, and I almost chucked my plans for a paddle on the Hudson. Then I checked the forecast and saw that the rest of the week would bring rain and cold, maybe even SNOW! Boy, I better get out on that river while I can! And you know what? The river was lovely! Very little wind, and the sun even shone through the clouds a bit now and then. It was such a delight to move silently across that smooth water, visiting favorite coves, surprising a few waterfowl, just breathing the sweet cool air of the late-autumn day.

Even though the trees are mostly bare now (not counting the oaks, which hold their brown leaves through much of the winter), there was still much beauty to find along the banks. Here are some examples of what I saw.

Witch Hazel unfurls its yellow ribbons against the dark backdrop of the woods.

Bright Winterberry will hold its pretty fruits well into the winter.

The ripples from my passing canoe set the reflections ashimmer.

The bronze leaves of baby beeches contrast with the dark stark verticals of taller trees' trunks.

Meadowsweet clumps brighten the banks with their vivid yellow-orange leaves.

I didn't expect to encounter any other paddlers today, but who should I meet but my friend and fellow nature nut Laurie? She was out with another friend who also lives nearby. Of course, being girls, we had to stop and gab a while, comparing notes about what we'd all seen along the river. While visiting with Laurie, I noticed a single bright-yellow tree in a sea of brown oaks on the mountainside across the river. Do you see it over there?

Here's a zoom shot of it.

It's kind of sad to think that the next time I visit the river, these russet banks may be dusted with snow. But then, each season has its own beauty and fascination. Soon the Frostweed will be curling its frozen-sap ribbons, and the animals' tracks will reveal their adventures in new-fallen snow. But I hope I can still get a few more paddles in before ice forms at the edge of the river. That's when the boat goes into the basement, and the snowshoes come down from the attic.

A Backyard Amble

My tiny inner-city backyard is actually a National Wildlife Federation Certified Wildlife Habitat. And I have a plaque to prove it. But all you have to do is look around at the overgrown weeds and unkempt flowerstalks to know that the plants grow wild back here. But do wild animals also live here? Yes, if you count the squirrels and rabbits and Viburnum Leaf Beetles that destroyed most of the native shrubs I planted last year to qualify for certification. But lo! Some shrubs have grown back! I'm especially pleased to see the Red Chokeberry, which provides such vivid late-season color to its corner of the yard. As well as a few red berries for the birds to eat late in the winter.

To the left of the chokeberry bush, a Trumpet Honeysuckle has also revived after a rabbit slashed it down last winter. Maybe next year it will flower and then set fruit. On the right, you can see the dried seedheads of Giant Purple Hyssop and Great Lobelia, favorites of the bumble bees in summer, and source of food for birds when winter comes. Unlike tidy gardeners who would clean up all this "mess," I leave all the spent flower stalks until spring.

These spent flower heads are like none I have seen before. I don't know the name of this plant; it's some kind of anemone that's not native to this part of the country but which bears big pale-pink blooms late into the fall, so I welcomed it into my otherwise "all native" border. Most of the plant's seedheads are like little hard balls, but a few are encased in puffs of fluff that are dotted with seeds like a strawberry is.

You can peel the fluff back like cotton batting, and there's a hard little green ball inside. Very curious. I'll be watching to see if the rest of the seedheads develop this cottony wadding.

Another flower that blooms way late in the fall, and keeps blooming well past frost, is the beautiful Monkshood. What a vivid blue!

I thought it would never bloom. August came, no flowers. September passed, same thing. The stalks grew taller and taller and taller, but still just closed tight buds until late in October, and then ka-boom! They burst into bloom! And promptly all fell over, sprawling across the grass. Next summer I'll stake them or something to keep them upright. That goes against my policy of benign neglect, but hey, these flowers are so lovely, I'll grant them just a little cultivation. They reward us with splendid color when all other flowers are gone.

I hope these Flowering Dogwood buds are still here come the spring. The tree was covered with them this last spring, and just as they were starting to bloom, the squirrels snipped them all off. Every single one! I didn't have one flower. Which means I didn't have one single berry to feed the birds this fall.

Next spring I'm going to do what my friend Ellen suggested to save the buds from the squirrels: mix talcum powder and cayenne pepper and put it in an old sock, then hit the sock with a wooden spoon and dust the buds with this mix. Now, I love my squirrels and don't wish to do them harm. But I must confess I shall feel a certain glee when I see them frantically wiping their snouts after they get a snoot full of cayenne from snipping my dogwood buds.

Late Season at Pyramid Lake

What a bright shining day today, not too cold, little wind -- just perfect for a late-season paddle. Except, darn it all, my boat had a leak! In the summer, who cares if your seat gets a little soggy? But this time of year, that water is mighty COLD! So up north I drove, carrying my Hornbeck boat up to Hornbeck Boats in Olmstedville. They told me they could fix it while I waited. And they did. The nicest guys in the whole wide world run that place. (And the nicest golden lab in the world lays her head in your lap while you visit.) If you're looking to buy a canoe or a kayak, you should check out their website here. And do go visit.

So anyway, there I was, just a few miles away from my favorite place in the whole wide world, Pyramid Lake, which lies about midway between Schroon Lake and Ticonderoga. And my boat was all fixed and ready to paddle. So off I went to Pyramid Life Center, a retreat center where I volunteer and which offers the only access to this isolated wilderness lake. The center is now closed for the season, so there was not another soul around as I slipped my boat into the water and headed out, keeping close to the shore where the sun warmed the banks and sent golden ripples of light up and down the trunks of the pines and birches. I stopped paddling and just drifted a while, straining my ears to hear any sound, just ANY sound but that of my own breathing. Absolute silence! Not a cricket, not a bird, not the wind in the trees nor the splash of tiny wavelets against the shore. I think there are very few places on earth where one can experience such silence.

How quickly the sun sinks behind the mountains this time of year. It soon fell behind the island, backlighting the hills and trees, which stood in stark profile against the late afternoon sky.

It was time to head home, an hour's drive away, so I paddled quickly back toward shore. Only to rest my paddle and watch, as a doe and her fawn browsed the shrubbery near the beach. Probably the same pair my friends and I saw last week, when we stopped by here in the rain.

Sometimes I can hardly believe my good fortune: to have free access to a place of such pristine beauty, to have such a dear little boat that carries me easily into the heart of wilderness, to have at my age the health and strength to enjoy it all, and the freedom to seize whatever gorgeous days come my way in every season. And to top it all off, my way home was lit by a rose and orange sunset off to the west, and a huge and golden Hunters' Moon rising in the east.

Late-fall Finds Around Mud Pond

The clouds today were low and dark, and the wind was whipping the last of the autumn leaves off the trees on my city block. Not such a nice day to be outdoors, you might think. And you would be wrong. It wasn't raining, it wasn't cold, so a nice brisk walk around Mud Pond at Moreau Lake State Park was really very pleasant. The beeches and oaks were still ablaze along the sandy trail, and down by the water where beavers had worn their trails between the woods and the pond, the wind was moving in waves through the silvery grass.

In the sandy open areas where Bear Oaks grow, the ruby-red leaves of Dewberry covered the ground. Here and there, late-blooming asters presented puffs of lavender flowers.

I have no idea what to call these pewter-grey little mushrooms. Other than "lovely," that is.

The fuzzy green tufts of Running Cedar (Lycopodium clavatum) stood out against the tobacco-brown oak leaves littering the ground.

I love this stump. With its decorations of moss and mushrooms and scattered oak leaves. it reminds me of a birthday cake. Like one that was made for woodland elves and fairies. Or chipmunks and little red squirrels.

Hazelnut shrubs abound in the sandy areas under the power lines, and a few dried nut clusters still cling to the twigs. I gathered a pocketful, brought them home, and tossed them out to where I feed the birds and squirrels. I wondered if my city squirrels would know what to do with them.

And of course, they did.