Welcome Winter!

Today, on Winter Solstice, the shortest and darkest day of the year, the sun begins its journey back to warm us. Moment by moment, day by day, its light will shine brighter, its rays will grow stronger, its presence will last measurable minutes longer.  And yet, each day, as the winter goes on, the cold will grow deeper, along (so I hope) with the snow.

I do love winter.  Especially ones with deep cold and deeper snow.  I want the lakes and the river bays to freeze thick and hard, so that I can safely cross their frozen expanses and make my way back into the swamps and marshes and bogs too muddy for exploring in summer.  I want the snow deep and soft in the woods, so that I can marvel at how many creatures pass there, coyotes and minks and foxes and fishers and bobcats and more, animals I would never know lived in these woods, if not for their tracks and trails.  I want nights so cold and clear I can see all the way to heaven, with stars so bright they pierce the eye, and sub-zero days with deep-blue skies and frost-spangled air that glitters with sequin snowflakes.

So yes, I do celebrate the return of the light and the promise it holds of warmer seasons to come.  But I also delight in all of the beauties of winter.  Here are just a few of them.

Without winter's cold, I could never find hoarfrost stars exploding from the surface of clear black ice.

Splashing brooks are lovely in every season, but only in the coldest winters can I find crystal chandeliers overhanging the banks.

And along the brook's edges, organdy-sheer plates of ice are surrounded by frozen froth.

Trumpets of glassy ice dangle from overhanging branches, and they glisten and gleam as light plays among their bells.

If we're lucky, the lake ice will freeze clear as crystal, revealing bubbles stacked like silver coins.

In the woods, mice embroider the snowy drifts with their dainty trails.

The warmer seasons gift us with a riot of colors, from the earliest spring flowers through midsummer's multicolored meadows to autumn's glorious display. By contrast, winter offers mostly a monotone palette of blacks, grays, and whites, like this full-color photo of a crabapple covered with snow.

All the more powerful, then, is the brilliant red of Winterberries, glowing through the snow. What a jolt of joy to behold!

I wish all my friends many jolts of joy as we celebrate this holiday season, whether you spend it cozy and warm by an indoor fire, or warmed by the effort of huffing and puffing through snowbanks. Here's one more photo to remind me of the pure beauty and exquisite silence of a snowy woods, when even at midday, the sun casts lengthening shadows across the snow.

Happy Solstice to All!  And a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and a Happy Whatever Winter Holiday you celebrate.  And a Happy New Year, too. But most of all, a happy Winter, enjoying all the delights the season has to offer.

The Ice Has Arrived!

Or it surely must have, my friends Sue Pierce and Dan Wall and I believed, when we met at Moreau Lake this past Friday, following several nights that were well below freezing.  But we found that most of the lake was still wide open, ice-free enough as yet to welcome large flocks of waterfowl.  A thin border of ice lined the shore, but it will be some time yet (and take much lower temperatures) before any ice fishermen can start auguring holes out on the lake's frozen surface, when the ice grows thick enough to bear their weight.

 

Ah well. . . .  At least recent rains and several inches of snowmelt had set Zen Brook to rushing again, as it tumbled down the mountainside.  Perhaps we would find some crystalline ornamentation along its banks.  We could hear the brook splashing merrily along as we approached.

And sure enough, as the water rushed along, it threw up enough spray to create dangling tongues of ice on overhanging branches.

Where mini-cascades splashed over rocks, fringes of icicles ornamented the mossy roots of creekside trees.

As we ascended the mountain slope, the brook's energy increased, as did the beauty of whitewater tumbling over and among craggy boulders.

We each of us stopped every few feet to observe and photograph the brook's both fluid and crystalline beauty.

The brook's bankside mosses and other vegetation were festooned with shining baubles and glittering icicles.

Overhanging branches grew heavy with multiple accretions of ice.

This fern frond was completely encased in crystal.

Tiny pools of crystal-clear open water bore floating bubbles that reflected the images of the sky and treetops above.

We later descended the mountain slope to walk along the shore as close as we could get to the water's edge.

The thin sheet of ice along the shore bore crinkles and swirls on its surface, and bubbles of different sizes had risen from below to be trapped in transparent crystal.

This photo reveals how utterly transparent was the ice along this shore. And also that we could not yet safely walk on it.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas!

Well, it was for a day or two, anyway, following several inches of snowfall in Saratoga County.  The snow will probably all disappear this week as rain and rising temps arrive.  But for just a brief time, the woods and the waterways looked as pretty as a Christmas card.

A footpath at Saratoga Spa State Park was truly a winter wonderland!

The snow-dusted trees on the forested mountains along the Hudson River at Moreau were rendered twice as lovely when reflected in the still water.

This Christmas-tree-green frond of Marginal Wood Fern decorated the snowy ground in the woods at Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs. A brown leaf remnant shaped like a star added an especially seasonal touch.

In a swamp near the summit of Mount MacGregor, snowy mounds amplified the brilliance of Winterberry's scarlet fruits.

Wishing all my friends and followers a truly joyous holiday season, as well as a perfect winter of deep snow and safely-thick ice for enjoying all the marvels that this beautiful season can offer.

Ring, Christmas bells!

On the Rocks!

Our thirsty earth got a nice big drink this week, with two rainy days (one of them a long slow soaker) after weeks and weeks of no rain at all. This drought was so prolonged, even the spring-watered cliffs that line Spier Falls Road at the foot of the Palmertown Mountains had been looking really dry.  I treasure these cliffs for providing a perfect habitat for some of our region's most beautiful mosses, lovely masses of greenery that persist in their beauty throughout the year, even after most other plants have withered and dried or are buried beneath heaps of snow. This recent rain must surely have brought refreshment to these beautiful bryophytes.

 

 A true beauty-queen of these mosses, Marsh Cardinal Moss (Ptychostomum pseudotriquetrum) thrives on these spring-watered rocks, where the water's constant dripping adorns each star-shaped leaf-cluster with sparkling droplets.  

In the winter I have found Marsh Cardinal Moss looking quite red, both its leaves as well as the translucent stalks of its sporophytes.  I wonder if this seasonal redness suggested the "cardinal" part of Ptychostomum pseudotriquetrum's vernacular name. Marsh Cardinal Moss sure is easier to spell than that scientific name!

In this photo, the Marsh Cardinal Moss (center) is crowded on all sides by a second water-loving moss, Spring Apple Moss (Philonotis fontana, also known as Fountain Moss). I believe both mosses prefer a calcareous habitat, and I wonder if the springs that normally wet these rocky cliffs are delivering lime to the habitat. I am not sure if the rocks themselves are rich in lime. 

The vernacular name "Spring Apple Moss" relates both to the wet habitat that Philonotis fontana prefers, as well as the round, apple-like shape of its spore capsules, which often can be seen emerging from the mossy clumps in May.

There's another moss, called Bartramia pomiformis, that shares this same spring-watered rocky cliff, and it is in the same family (Bartramiaceae) as Philonotis fontana. This delicate-looking moss has longer and more slender leaves than Philonotis pomiformis, but it also produces round "apple-shaped" spore capsules, hence its vernacular name Apple Moss. I was lucky to find some to photograph while it was fruiting in the spring:

Common Haircap Moss (Polytrichum commune) can tolerate drier conditions, but it also can share the damp habitat of these rocky cliffs.  I loved the contrast between the spiky-leaved green moss and the rough, dark, lichen-dappled rock of the ledge it was growing on.

Wherever there's rock, there's likely to be Rock Polypody Ferns.  And like the mosses that share this site, they persist in their green state on these rocky ledges all winter. 

I am not sure whether this is the Appalachian Polypody (Polypodium appalachianum) or the Virginia Polypody (P. virginianum), since P. appalachianum is a relatively recently described species that refined the description of Polypodium virginianum.  Since the New York Flora Atlas describes the habitat of P. appalachianum as "rims of cliffs, ledges, tops of boulders in forests, and talus slopes on thin mesic soil over rocks,"  I'm going to bet that this bunch of Polypody Ferns is Appalachian Polypody. The habitat  certainly seems right.

During the growing season, these cliffs are also home to many beautiful flowering plants as well.  (See this post from a visit in May for proof of that.) But the same plant, Early Saxifrage (Micranthes virginiensis), that turns these cliffs into a gorgeous rock garden in May, also beautifies them all winter long, with elegant rosettes of evergreen leaves with purple ruffled edges.

And then, when Winter arrives in earnest, the springs keep dripping and ice takes over the role of roadside beautification!

Natural Consolations

I am very much aware that I haven't posted a blog since November 7.  That was the day I learned that a convicted felon, serial adulterer, pussy-grabbing sexual predator, habitual liar and business cheat who was considered incompetent to serve by nearly all who worked for him in his last go as President would be our President once again.  And that's not the worst of it.  Of all his faults (and who doesn't have faults?), the worst is his failure to give a damn about climate change, as he promises to withdraw from international efforts to address this emergency and urges fossil-fuel industries to "drill, baby, drill!" His only concern for the natural world seems to be how businesses can make a buck from destroying it.  I confess to feeling so hopeless and fearful, I could not focus on blogging.

Meanwhile, we in the northeast are suffering from prolonged and serious drought, with wildfires raging in New Jersey and along New York's Hudson Valley.  Thankfully, some rain is finally falling today, which helps to contain those fires, and also gives me a good excuse to stay indoors and finally try reviving this blog. I have ventured out to some of my favorite places, although I was often saddened by how our unnaturally hot and dry weather has altered what I expected to find there.  Fungi and fruits are few this fall, and frost came late. But still, I did find solace in what remained.

The Hudson Crossing Trail near Schuylerville

This is a pleasant easy-walking trail that is bordered by the Hudson River on one side and an old barge canal on the other. Scenic views of both waterways abound, and informational placards tell about  both the natural and social history of this place, where significant events of America's Revolutionary War occurred.  All is peaceful now, with benches situated for overlooking the river.

Remains of old structures contribute a picturesque beauty to this trail.  My dear friend Sue came with me this day, but we did not tarry here long, since Sue was concerned about the health of her mother, who lived with her. Sad to report, her mother did die this same week, so I'm glad we had these few pleasant moments together. May Sue find comfort in the love of family members and her many friends.

We were quite intrigued by these "toothpick-like" projections on many of the shrubs that line the trail. Since we have explored this trail many times and know by name most of the plants that thrive here, we were puzzled that we couldn't immediately put a name to this shrub.

Ah, but then we saw these pods!  Of course!  The shrubs were American Bladdernut (Staphylea trifolia), a native shrub that produces these hollow pods.  The pods contain hard seeds that rattle around inside when the wind sways the dry pods.

 

I opened one pod to examine the hard seeds.

Powerline at Mud Pond, Moreau Lake State Park

Was November 13 our latest date for a hard frost at this site?  I'm not sure, but that was the first date this year that seemed cold and still enough to visit this powerline in hopes of finding the wildflower called Frostweed (Crocanthemum canadense) doing the thing that suggested its vernacular name.  Before I even set eyes on the Frostweed, I was struck by how frost-free all the low plants appeared to be, despite the sub-freezing temps.  In other years, all the plants would be sparkling from the frost crystals that spangled all the twigs and blades and leaves.  But our prolonged drought had desiccated the sandy soil here as well as the air, so no moisture rose from the soil nor condensed on the ice-cold plants.

 

But I did see abundant examples of Frostweed doing its frosty thing: when frozen, the stems split lengthwise, and the plants' internal moisture escapes through these splits, immediately freezing in frothy curls around the stems. The frothy curls did seem a bit puny, though, not nearly as robust as in other years.

Here's a closer look at those diaphanous curls of frost:

(To see a more typical first-frost morning along this same powerline, when frost spangled everything that grew, come visit this blogpost from 11 years ago.)

Flocks of Canada Geese were resting on the quiet still-open water of Mud Pond, muttering and hooting to each other with cacophonous music.

Shore Walk at Moreau Lake State Park

Although moderately warm, this day was evenly overcast, lending both sky and lake a silvery cast. I convinced my husband Denis to walk the shore with me, assuring him that I would not stop every few feet to take a photo or try to ID a plant or insect. Most flowers are faded by now, and most insects have fled.  Note how the beach has widened since Spring.  Moreau Lake is a kettle lake that depends for its water mostly on rainfall and snowmelt, both of which have been in low supply this past year.

Ah, but the multi-colored shoreline rocks were lovely, especially when adorned with these small evergreen Wild Strawberry leaves (Fragaria virginiana). Even Denis stopped to examine the colors and textures of the rocks (see photo above).

This fading Heath Aster (Symphyotrichum ericoides) was almost as pretty in seed as it was in bloom.

And Blue Vervain (Verbena hastata) maintained a stately appearance with gracefully curving tawny seedpods.

I was amazed to see that the ribbon-like petals of Witch Hazel (Hamamelis virginiana) had already fallen, since this is ordinarily a late-fall blooming tree.  The four-pointed calyx lobes maintain their yellow color all winter, though, giving the impression that the tree is still blooming with tiny yellow flowers.

We did not walk all around the lake, but retraced our steps to go home.  As we turned around,  this scene of still water reflecting the forested mountain and sandy shore seemed somehow both comforting and distressing to me.  I am aware that climate change has already affected the eons-long weather patterns and life-cycles of plants and insects in this part of the world, and that this lovely landscape will be altered in the decades to come because political leaders around the world have not and probably will not rise to the challenge of addressing this climate emergency with the urgency it requires.  But if I am lucky, I might have ten years left to live, time enough to still be consoled by such life-enhancing beauty as this.