Midsummer Along the Powerline

This Common St. John's Wort (Hypericum perforatum) bloomed right on time:  on the Feast of St. John the Baptist (June 24), a date that also relates to the Summer Solstice, the beginning of summer. Because this European-native wildflower's peak bloomtime coincides so closely with both events, it has historically been celebrated across many cultures, with bonfires and festivals and the gathering of garlands to honor beneficial spirits while keeping evil spirits away. Well, my friend Sue Pierce and I have a Summer Solstice tradition all our own, for the blooming of Common St. John's Wort tells us it's time to go look for some other flowers that grow along a familiar powerline above Mud Pond at Moreau Lake State Park.  It's Wood Lily Time Along the Line!

And we were not disappointed!  As soon as we entered the powerline from a small parking area off Spier Falls Road, this cluster of bright-orange blooms met our delighted eyes. The Wood Lily (Lilium philadelphicum) is the native wildflower that truly announces the start of summer for us. And this powerline is where we go each year, in hopes we will find them blooming.

Nearby was another cherished find:  a tangle of native American Climbing Bittersweet vines (Celastrus scandens) that for years had only spread across the ground has produced a vine that has found a trunk to climb on.  Since the non-native invasive species of bittersweet has supplanted most of our native bittersweet, it has become more and more difficult to find this native species anywhere. I have been observing this patch of our native species for over 10 years, but this is the first year I've seen it finally achieving some height. I hope this bodes well for its future. The vines did have terminal clusters of flowers this year, but I fear a late frost might have caused them to fall before they could produce fruit.

Surrounding the mass of bittersweet vines was an abundant patch of Whorled Loosestrife (Lysimachia quadrifolia), each plant bearing whorls of four small yellow flowers in the tiers of four whorled leaves.

As we proceeded down the sandy path that follows the powerline, we were delighted to find a large population of Green Rock Cress (Borodinia missouriensis) along the way.  Although the plants were past blooming, we could easily identify this state-listed Threatened species by its distinctively arching narrow seed pods.

The presence of Green Rock Cress and several other rare and otherwise protected plants along this powerline convinced the management staff of Moreau Lake State Park to request that the power company cease applying herbicide under this limited section of lines, with the park assuming responsibility for the necessary removal of trees that could grow tall and interfere with the lines (See this blogpost from 2022). This has been wonderful for the many native plants that thrive in just this kind of sun-drenched, sandy-soiled habitat, as is now evident by how the woody plants have burgeoned.  As Sue and I continued our way along the path, we sometimes had to push through abundant growths of American Hazelnut shrubs (Corylus americana) that crowded in from both sides.

The hazelnut shrubs were hung with abundant clusters of ripening nuts, their ruffly green bracts sparkling with water droplets left over from the preceding night's rains.

Such sparkling drops of water transformed even the weediest-looking plants into marvels of beauty. (I believe this plant with its whorls of spiky leaves was a species of some kind of lettuce.)

The entire underside of a Spreading Dogbane leaf glittered with crystalline droplets.

The candy-striped Spreading Dogbane flowers (Apocynum androsaemifolium) did not need any sparkling droplets to enhance their beauty.

As the bur-laden stems of Sweet Fern (Comptonia peregrina) brushed against our legs, they released their delightful fragrance.

Descending from the powerline to the shore of Mud Pond, we were amazed to see how low the water had fallen, unusual for this early in summer. The beavers who live in this pond had created wide troughs of deeper water that allowed them to swim around the pond.

Flowering shrubs, such as this Black Elderberry (Sambucus nigra ssp. canadensis), adorned the shore of Mud Pond.

Gray Dogwood (Cornus racemosa)  bore clusters of small white four-petaled flowers.

Returning to the powerline path, we were greeted by this colorful cluster of Butterfly Weed (Asclepias tuberosa).  What a punch of brilliant orange! And not even yet fully in bloom!

After ascending a rise to reach a wide meadow-like area, I was struck by a large patch of these strictly upright sporestalks of Running Clubmoss (Lycopodium clavatum).

And here was another large patch of plants, and we were certainly delighted to find them.

A whole big bunch of Lowbush Blueberries (Vaccinium angustifolium), just loaded with sweet ripe fruit! Time for a little snack. A nice big handful, in fact. Rainwashed and ready to eat. Yum!

These tiny black beetles with pointy rears were enjoying their own rainwashed snack, some nectar and/or pollen of New Jersey Tea flowers (Ceanothus americanus).  Searching Google for "small black bugs that dine on New Jersey Tea flowers," the most likely name that came up was Tumbling Ragdoll Beetles, a species of the Mordella genus. I tested the "tumbling" part of their name by reaching my hand into the blooms, and sure enough, the little beetles did tumble off instead of flying aloft.  Here's a LINK to a wonderful article about such tumbling beetles.

As we neared the road that marked the end of this stretch of powerline, we were sad to not find the numerous Wood Lilies that used to thrive in this flat open area. But since this once-open area is now crowded with oak and pine saplings, it seems the lilies no longer favor it.  Nor will most other sun-loving wildflowers if the woody plants are allowed to grow.  They're not tall enough yet to interfere with the powerlines, but they are well on the way to creating a forested habitat that the very wildflower species we'd hoped to protect from herbicide applications would not favor either. I decided to stop by the park office to raise my concerns. Perhaps a brushhog could mow the area after frost. Or a boyscout troop with saws could be enlisted. I, personally, would be happy to help, too.

I WAS happy to find this plant we always have found here, the unusual species of milkweed called Bluntleaf Milkweed (Asclepias amplexicaulis). Although it, too, was being crowded by sapling pines, and we found fewer plants than in the past.

Here's a closer look at its opening florets.

And yay!  We did find ONE Wood Lily in this area where we once found dozens. I sure hope this won't be the last one we ever find here.

There was one more little treat in store for me today.  We simply crossed Spier Falls Road to where the same powerline continued east, and in the hottest, dryest, sandiest stretch of baked dirt, this charming little flower was blooming away. It's called Dwarf Dandelion (Krigia virginica), but unlike that similarly named lawn weed, this is a native wildflower.  Adoringly cute.  I love it.

It's very hard to get the whole plant of Dwarf Dandelion in one photo.  But I did have this nearly successful one in my photos files, and I'm posting it here:

Along the River and Into the Woods

One of the best reasons to join the New York Flora Association is the chance to join expert botanists on forays to some of the richest botanical sites in the state.  On June 14, I enjoyed just such a trip to a remarkable site along the upper Hudson River, the Warren County Fish Hatchery just north of Warrensburg. Our trip leader was the (now-retired) chief botanist of the New York Natural Heritage Program, Steve Young, who took this photo of participants, eager to start exploring a shoreline known to be one of the richest sites for native plants in the state. And we also explored a dense forest teeming with more ferns than we'd ever seen in one place.

Photo by Steve Young

Here's Steve himself (blue and white plaid shirt) helping fellow plant enthusiasts identify some of the shore's fascinating finds.

Just imagine this stretch of the Hudson River shore heaped with enormous piles of a frothy-appearing ice called frazil, the piles so high sometimes that they push well into the riverside forest, toppling trees and not completely melting until well into June.  As a result, this particular stretch of shoreline has acquired the name "Ice Meadows," and the effect of all that weight and that cold has created a habitat distinctively suited to some of our state's rarest and most interesting plants.

Here is a partial list of some of the plants we found this day.

A budding vine of Carrion Flower (Smilax herbacea) with its beautifully curving tendrils and still unopened flower buds. Male and female flowers are carried on separate plants, and both sexes of flowers emit the stench that suggested this native plant's common name, attracting the pollinators that would naturally be drawn to the smell of rotting carrion. Lucky for us, the unopened flower buds remained odor-free!

The beautiful yellow, orange-anthered flower of Canada Frostweed (Crocanthemum canadense), abundant this time of year along these shores. To experience how this flower acquired its vernacular name, visit it after the first sub-freezing days of autumn to see the delicate curls of frosty ice that extrude from the plant's split stems.

Rose Pogonia (Pogonia ophioglossoides), one of our state's prettiest and most abundant native orchids.

A gorgeous and fragrant, low-growing wild rose with a solitary bloom. Our most knowledgeable botanists spent quite some time attempting to ascertain this rose's species.  Was it Rosa carolina? Maybe.  Apparently, wild roses can be difficult to identify for sure.  Ah well, remember Shakespeare's timeless adage, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

In the dampened flats close to the river's edge, the first tiny flowers of Creeping Spearwort (Ranunculus flammula var. reptans) had started to crawl across the mud.

The first time I saw this tall, very erect flowering plant some years ago, I thought it must be some kind of strawberry on steroids.  But no, I learned that this plant was instead Tall Cinquefoil (Drymocallis arguta). But later I learned that strawberries and cinquefoils are actually quite closely related.  Both belong to the Rose Family and the Potentilleae Tribe, making them botanical cousins.  Sorry to say, though, I have never found any juicy sweet berries on this Tall Cinquefoil. Only beautiful flowers.

Another orchid! These Shining Ladies' Tresses (Spiranthes lucida) were just beginning to open their florets enough to display their yellow lower lips, a distinctive trait for this earliest of the Spiranthes species to bloom.

In addition to the many pretty wildflowers that thrive at this site, there are many interesting grass-like plants that grow here, too.   Two sedges are especially remarkable.  This one, called Brown Bog Sedge (Carex buxbaumii), is a Threatened species in New York, and even rarer in most New England states.

This second sedge, called Whip Nut Sedge (Scleria triglomerata), is even rarer throughout the northeast, considered Endangered throughout most of the region.  You could never guess its rarity, from how it thrives abundantly along this stretch of the Hudson.

After a sun-lit morning exploring the river shore and a break for a picnic lunch at a Fish Hatchery pavilion, we set out for a long walk through dense forest, tall trees towering over our heads and providing welcome shade from the afternoon's heat.

In addition to finding those few blooming wildflowers typical of an early-summer, canopy-shaded woods, we were amazed and delighted to walk among vast acres of woodland ferns, more ferns in one place than I have ever experienced.  These tall Ostrich Ferns provided a leafy backdrop to spreading masses of Maidenhair Ferns

I was grateful to a fellow explorer for pointing out to me the distinctive pattern of spore-producing sori on the pinnae of the Maidenhair Ferns.

Ah, but here was the prize of the day:  a majestic specimen of Goldie's Wood Fern (Dryopteris goldieana). This is the largest of our native Dryopteris species and one of the largest of all ferns native to eastern North America.

The presence of this fern is said to be an indication of a mature, undisturbed forest with rich, moist, humus-heavy soils.  Although this species has been reported from nearly every county in New York State, many botanists still consider finding it a cause for celebration. This might have as much to do with the rarity of mature, undisturbed forests as it does with the rarity of the fern itself.  How lucky we are to have such habitats available to us.  And also, to have such generous botanists willing to accompany us to them.  Thanks, Steve Young, for leading us to these remarkable sites and enlarging our knowledge about the inhabitants.  And thanks, too, to our friend and expert botanist Skye Vanderlaan, who found that solitary Goldie's Fern in a forest already full of other remarkable ferns.  What a find! And what a day!

Back to the River Again (Whew!)

There's a section of the Hudson River at Moreau that is more than just an ordinary waterway among others for me. For this serene stretch of the river between the Spier Falls and Sherman Island dams is where I first carried my new little solo canoe and set off on my own, to paddle at a pace that would let me linger as long as I liked, inches from shore, enamored by the beauty of the forested banks and the glorious flora that prospered there. I found many plants here I had never seen before, inspiring my desire to learn the names of every wildflower I encountered, at first only those in this stretch of the river, but eventually all the wildflowers I found growing anywhere.  This river, this beautiful unspoiled section of it, was truly the birthplace of my passion to learn the names of all the plants I encountered anywhere! And thereafter, my boat also became my personal zendo, my place of silence and solitude and peace.

Here, the surrounding forested mountains fall directly to the water's edge, no houses or docks protruding into the river, disrupting my fantasy that I could be the first person to pass this way, alone in my little canoe.  How blessed I felt, to have such a marvelous place to paddle, so close to home, and possessing a perfect little craft that allowed me to access every inch of the cove-contoured shoreline that stretched for several miles between the two dams.

Ah, but late last fall, my sense of blessing was shattered! With advancing age and aching post-surgery knees, my ease about entering and exiting my canoe began to feel a bit compromised.  And the last time I paddled, on a small Adirondack lake where the wind was whipping up whitecaps, while trying to rise and step out of my boat into shin-deep water, struggling to hold the boat level while gripping the gunwales, a large wave rocked my canoe and over I went. Never in all the nearly 30 years I'd been paddling this boat had I toppled it! Oh no! Would this mean my days of solo canoeing were over? Had I grown too old and weak to manage access to it? At that point in the year, with increasing cold weather, I could not find the courage to test my strength again and counter my fears, and so I stowed my boat for the winter.

But now, the weather and water have warmed. I knew I had to restore my confidence about entering and exiting my canoe. I may be old (I'm now 84), but paddling is more than just a hobby for me, it's an essential way I maintain my strength and also feed my soul and exercise my mind.  And now, my dear friend and fellow paddler Ruth Brooks has returned from wintering down south and could accompany me and help me should I falter.  At any rate, Ruth's presence gave me courage and must have also given me strength to get into and out of my boat, and off we went together, to explore the Hudson's beautiful banks once more.  Here's Ruth, a moss enthusiast, examining some mosses that thrive on a riverside boulder.

Tiny Azure Bluets (Houstonia caerulea) decorated a maze of weathered roots at the water's edge.

Here's a closer view of the Azure Bluets' pretty sky-blue flowers.

Among the most abundant flowers we found today were the fragrant Canada Mayflowers (Maianthemum canadense) blooming amid the shoreline rocks.

Among the special floral treats was this trio of Shining Ladies' Tresses (Spiranthes lucida). The yellow lower petal is the most distinctive trait of this species, in addition to being the earliest of the Spiranthes species to bloom.

Rows of Black Huckleberry shrubs (Gaylussacia baccata) lined the banks, dangling deep-red flowers.

Here and there, solitary stalks of our native Northern Blue Flag (Iris versicolor) raised large beautiful blooms.

And at one location, a large patch of Northern Blue Flags was arrayed quite beautifully against the dark shade of the background forest:

We found occasional patches of Long Beech Fern (Phegopteris connectilis) dangling graceful fronds across the banks, but this dense patch of the ferns crowded among the rocks looked quite dramatically beautiful.

Impressive mounds of bedrock rise from the water's edge along this stretch of the Hudson.

A trio of shrub-covered islands dot the river here. A few pines remain of the many trees (mostly birches and oaks)  that 25 years ago forested these islands. Beavers and higher water levels destroyed most of those trees, changing the islands' habitat from shady forest to sunlit meadow.

The center island of this trio used to sustain dozens of Early Azalea shrubs (Rhododenron prinophyllum), but this year I saw only one, remaining in the limited shade of the few surviving trees. In former years, the fragrance of these beautiful blooms would reach all the way across the water to the river's edge

Sure, I feel some sadness over the change of island habitat that appears to have lessened the presence of these Early Azalea shrubs.  But my joy at now knowing that I can still climb into and out of my boat and still be able to paddle out to this island and other delightful locations along this stretch of the Hudson, has certainly outweighed any sadness I felt before. Now I can't wait to see what plants will thrive to replace the ones that were lost. Here's hoping I still have a few years of paddling left to me.