Same Pond, Same Date, Some Disappointments

West Vly, 9/20, 2024

My friend Ruth Brooks and I paddled West Vly in northern Saratoga County yesterday (9/20/24), exactly the same date as we paddled there one year ago.  Although we still found many similar beauties to behold, it seems our over-hot summer hastened the bloom and decline of a number of the plants we delighted in just a year ago.  I especially missed the ruby-red sparkling leaves of Spatulate Sundew surrounding the miniature forests of yellow-flowered Humped Bladderwort on the mudflats.  Thankfully, the Sheep Laurel shrubs had once again put out some second-bloom flowers, and the Marsh St. John's Wort seedpods and leaves were as vividly colorful as usual.  But many other plants were so faded, I found my photos so disappointing I felt no desire to post a new blog about our explorations at West Vly this year.  But then my Facebook Memories reposted on my Facebook timeline the blog about visiting West Vly I posted here on 9/20/23, with many beautiful photos.  And I thought: Why not re-post that very same blog, adding a few comments (in red) about how things have changed this year? And that's what I'm doing here.

Late-summer Pleasures Paddling a Pond (9/20/2023)

How to choose a favorite season of the year? As a naturalist, I feast so thoroughly in what natural wonders each season has to offer, I always feel ready to move on to the next "course." But oh my, I do think late summer-early autumn is especially delightful. High-summer's sweltering heat has given way to mornings when a sweater feels comforting and the midday warmth is welcome.  The explosion of autumn's brilliant foliage is still a few weeks away, but the berry bushes are heavy with colorful fruits and the meadows appear like tawny seas as the wind moves in waves through the tufted grasses. I can't think of any better way to enjoy this season than paddling a quiet Adirondack pond.   Especially the pond my friend Ruth Brooks and I chose to paddle this week, a beaver-formed pond in northern Saratoga County, with a varied shoreline that offers several diverse habitats: sedge meadow, forested rocky banks, muddy shallows, and boggy shores.

Sedge-meadow Shore

A bright overcast sky turned the pond's quiet surface to liquid silver as we set off along the sedge-meadow shore, where a wide swath of sedges, rushes, and low shrubs stood between the water and the vast forest that surrounds the pond.

West Vly, 9/20/2023

It was obvious from our first paddle strokes that this pond itself was once forested land, before the beavers dammed its outlet stream at its northeastern end.  Dotting the shallows are numerous stumps of long-drowned and toppled trees, the woody remains now populated by marvelous mixes of mosses, lichens, fungi, and flowering plants.

The most colorful of those flowering plants right now are masses of Marsh St. John's Wort (Hypericum virginicum), with pink-tinged lime-green leaves, scarlet stems, and glossy ruby-red seedpods.

Ruth is an avid student of mosses, so she found much to engage her interest in the mosses that carpeted the stumps.

I was grateful to have Ruth's tutelage, for although I admired this velvety green moss with its spiky reddish sporestalks, I did not know what name to call it by until Ruth told me it was Dicranum flagellare, also known as Fragile Broom Moss.

Ruth was also able to put a name to this fluffy-looking lime-green moss that carpeted another stump: Aulacomnium palustre, or Ribbed Bog Moss.

At least I did recognize this spiky denizen of many stumps, the carnivorous insect-eating pads of the wetland-dwelling wildflower called Round-leaved Sundew (Drosera rotundifolia). Those spiky "hairs" are tipped with a sticky fluid that is attractive to insects, who land on the pads expecting a snack, only to become the plant's meal when the pad folds over the now-trapped insect and digests it for its own nutrients.

Update, 2024:  Sadly, we could barely detect the shriveled remnants of this or a second species of Sundew (Spatulate-leaved) on either these stumps or the mudflats this year.  I'm afraid that this summer's heat had either forced them to complete their lifecycle and promptly fade,  or else be baked to death.

Along this shore, wide swaths of Carex lasiocarpa (also known as Slender Sedge) fill the shallows between the forest and the open water.  That vernacular name is so descriptive of this lovely grass-like sedge, with its gracefully curving slender tips.  It is soft and fine, not stiff like many other sedges, so it is almost constantly swaying either slowly or briskly, according to how gentle or strong is the wind that sets it to dancing.

The Slender Sedge's tawny monoculture is livened by occasional patches of Marsh St. John's Wort, with its leaves of an almost incandescent hot-pink.

Update, 2024: I am happy to report that this species of Marsh St. John's Wort was just as beautiful as ever this year.  As were the Slender Sedge and the Canada Rush, pictured below.

Not a ridged-stem sedge but rather a round-stemmed rush, Canada Rush (Juncus canadensis) was bearing dark-maroon spikelets that stood out against the background of pale Slender Sedge.

Wetland shrubs like Leatherleaf and Sweet Gale punctuate this sedge meadow, and we were astounded to find this Hornworm clinging to a Sweet Gale twig, its body covered with the pale larval cocoons of a parasitic wasp, most likely the wasp Cotesia congregata.  Sometime earlier, the wasp used her ovipositor to lay her eggs inside the Hornworm, where the larvae hatched and fed on the insides of the caterpillar.  Eventually, the larvae emerge onto the caterpillar's skin, where they attach and spin cocoons from which the next generation of wasps will emerge. Of course, this eventually kills the Hornworm, but it still looked very much alive on this Sweet Gale leaf. Poor thing!  Very interesting, of course.  But still . . .!

Behind the sedge meadow, thousands of acres of state forest spread for miles. I photographed this short stretch of the forest because I was intrigued by how so many of the typical conifers of the Adirondacks were clustered here along the shore. The two small trees are Balsam Fir (left) and White Pine (right), while a tall skinny Tamarack (yellowish needles) rises left of center. I am pretty sure the darker conifers include both Northern Hemlock and Black Spruce, but I could not get close enough to examine their needles for positive ID.

Forested Rocky Banks

We soon turned into a quiet bay that offered quite a different, steeply rocky forested shoreline that directly met the water's edge with no intermediate strip of shoreline sedges. At the far end of this bay stretched a long beaver dam, an impressive construction of logs and branches and rocks and mud that held back all but a trickle of the pond's entire water.  A few years ago, we could not paddle this pond because this dam had been breached, and the water in the pond was too low to paddle on. But beavers didn't earn their epithet "busy" for nothing,  and that dam was soon repaired.

We could paddle right up to the edge of the dam, the top of which stood at least eight feet above the wet meadow that lay below.

The beaver dam allowed enough of the pond's water through to feed the small creek that flowed away toward the woods.

As we paddled very close along the rocky banks of this bay, we were startled to see abundant patches of Narrow-leaved Gentians, fading now but still vividly blue. This species of closed-flowered gentian (Gentiana linearis) started blooming at least a month ago, and the now-browning flowers attested to the aging of these plants.

It amazed us, though, to see the quantity and brilliance of blue the flowers retained.

Update, 2024: We managed to detect one remnant of this Narrow-leaved Gentian at this same site, but its flowerhead was almost completely brown, with only the slightest tinge of faded blue.

Just as amazing was the presence of newly blooming flowers on the shrubs of Sheep Laurel (Kalmia angustifolia) that grew right at the water's edge.  This species of laurel first blooms in late June/early July, but it does occasionally bloom again in the fall.

And the presence of these tightly folded Sheep Laurel buds were an indication that this shrub still had some blooming to do!

Update, 2024:  We did find a few open flowers on the Sheep Laurel this week, but many fewer than last year, and none of these folded buds at all.

Muddy Shallows, Sphagnum Bog 

Proceeding around the pond, we came to an area so shallow that each paddle-pull lifted mud and released the gagging swamp-smell of methane gas.  I sometimes had to push my canoe instead of paddling it, to creep a little closer to these mats of ruby-red glistening Spatulate-leaved Sundew (Drosera intermedia) that were studded with the bright-yellow tiny flowers of Humped Bladderwort (Utricularia gibba). I have seen these species of sundew and bladderwort individually on other sites, but it is only on this pond that I have ever seen this truly delightful combination. Worth the struggle, for me!

Here's a closer look at the tiny blossom of Humped Bladderwort, revealing how it might have acquired its vernacular name.  This is a bladderwort species I have always found firmly embedded in mud, even when protruding from the water, not freely floating as some other Utricularia species do.

Update, 2024: We did find a scattering of the Humped Bladderwort flowers this year, but many fewer than last year.  And I was hugely disappointed to see them protruding from water instead of decorating mud flats and being surrounded and their beauty enhanced by the sparkly ruby-red leaves of the Spatulate-leaved Sundew, which was nowhere to be seen.

We were right on the edge of a vast Sphagnum bogmat, where masses of Cottongrass waved their white terminal tufts in the now-stiff breeze. The Cottongrass was waving so wildly, none of my photos of it were in focus.  I did manage to spy another typical denizen of bogs right at the edge of the mat, sheltered enough from the wind that it sat quietly for the picture-taking. A Pitcher Plant (Sarracenia purpurea), its now-aging flower still held aloft above its vase-shaped carnivorous leaves. These leaves hold water, along with digestive enzymes, so that any insect that happens to fall in will be drowned and digested.

Update, 2024:  We did not see a single stalk of Cottongrass swaying above the bogmat.  Not a ONE, where thousands danced here a year ago.  What could have happened to them? I know that they persist well into October, which is when I took this photo of another bogmat where they are known to bloom:

Heading Home

Growing a bit tired from pushing against both mud and a stiffening wind, Ruth and I headed back toward where we'd launched our canoes.  I felt a moment's panic as I surveyed the far shore and could not detect our put-in place.  But then I recalled that we had lingered there to admire some berry-laden shrubs, the likes of which we had not seen anywhere else on our circuit around the pond.  So all we had to do was look for the raspberry-red fruits of Wild Raisin (Viburnum cassinoides).

Near that Wild Raisin was an Arrowwood shrub (Viburnum dentatum) that bore blue-black fruits

And a lower-growing shrub called American Bush Honeysuckle (Diervilla lonicera) bore leaves that had already turned wine-red, and each twig held clusters of brighter-red seedpods of a most amusing shape, like something that Dr. Seuss might have invented.

Update, 2024: We found not a single fruit nor seedpod remaining on any of these three shrubs this year, nor could I find the pedicels that might have held such fruits and seeds. That makes me wonder if they ever did bloom and fruit this summer.  Or if they did bloom, could the  too-early heat have caused them to bloom out of sync with their flowers' pollinators and thus the flowers did not produce fruit? I truly fear that climate change will seriously affect the pollination of native flowering plants.

Those three colorful shrubs served as very reliable guideposts, and we easily found our trail to where we had parked our cars.  Nature saved one last treat to top off our already wonder-filled time on this pond.   As we lifted our canoes to dry land, right there in the shoreline grasses was a gorgeous Ladies' Tresses Orchid (Spiranthes sp.), shining so white, like a beacon. 

How could we have missed this beautiful flower when we first launched? I think we were focused on what wonders awaited us on the water, and we overlooked a marvel like this that was growing on land. This orchid was like a perfect dessert that crowned a delicious feast!

Update, 2024: We did not find a trace of this lovely white orchid near the shore this year.  But orchids can be fickle like that, failing to bloom in the same place as they did other years.  We did find this year the spent flower stalk of a single Spiranthes specimen further up the trail toward the parking area, but in a spot where we found at least four of them last year.  And they were all in full beautiful bloom on 9/20 a year ago.  This year, that single specimen was so shriveled and brown we hardly noticed it.

Before I leave this recap-and-update post, I do want to add a few photos from this year's paddle on West Vly.  First of all, I was struck by how advanced the trees were in turning their autumn colors, quite a bit more vivid than they were on this date last year.  As kids, were were told it was Jack Frost who painted the trees like this, but I'm wondering now if it's more heat than cold that does it.

I did find a plant there this year -- Swamp Candles (Lysimachia terrestris) --  I had never noticed at West Vly before, especially when it had formed its reproductive structures called bulbils.  These little red wormy growths that form in the leaf axils are neither buds nor seed pods, but rather they are the plants' clonal organs, which eventually fall off into the mud to produce genetic clones of the plants where they land.

We were struck as we paddled through Water Lily pads how the pads looked almost frosted by the white molted skins of small greenish bugs that were crowding the surface of the pads. I wondered if these bugs might be an instar of the nymphs of Water Lily Planthoppers (Megamelus davisi) that feed exclusively on Water Lily and Pond Lily pads. But so far, Google has not located any source that could confirm this.  Anybody want to chime in?