Five Years of Woods and Waterways

As I sat to compose an entry to start this new year, 2014, I realized I've been keeping this blog for five years now, having posted well over a thousand entries.  I went back to see how I started out on January 1, 2009, and what I wrote then rings as true to me now as the day I first posted it.  Let me share it again.

A Snowy Day on the River

New Year's Day 2009, new snow, blue sky, and cold, cold, cold -- cold enough to keep that new snow fluffy and dry, perfect for a walk in the woods at my favorite place on earth:  the forested banks of the Hudson River at Moreau Lake State Park in Saratoga County, New York.

I've been exploring this stretch of the river for over ten years, by canoe and on foot, in all seasons and weathers, keeping a journal of all the plants I could name and animals I have seen (or found signs of by their tracks and scats and calls), and I've learned that there's always the chance I will find something new each time I visit. 

For one thing, the terrain is always changing.  This section of river lies between two dams,  Spier Falls upstream and Sherman Island downstream ( a stretch of about three miles), and the water level changes several times a day, creating a shoreline that is sometimes a mud flat, sometimes completely immersed up to steep rocky banks or flooded back into the woods.  Both banks of the river are forested mountains that come straight down to the shore, the trees overhanging the water. 

Approaching the Sherman Island dam, the shoreline grows ever more interesting, as the river runs around islands and past rocky promontories and into quiet coves and occasional marshes watered by tiny rills that trickle down from surrounding hills.  

It's that stretch of the river I'm visiting today on snowshoes, to start this record of a year in the woods and on the water.

We enter the woods at the  end of Potter Road in Moreau,  taking a path down to the river and a rocky point I have named Bear's Bathtub for its large depression about ten feet across and more than six feet deep that fills up with water from time to time.  No water today with the temperature around 15 degrees (F) and the river here completely frozen over.  But it's not safe to walk on today.  With the rising and falling of the water levels, the ice breaks at the edge and water comes over the top.  Also, ice is formed at varying water levels so the shoreline is a jumble of broken shards and  plates -- not a pleasant place for a walk on the ice.

But many creatures have walked on the ice today or last night when the snow was new-laid -- mostly coyotes I'm guessing, leaving prints like those of large dogs.  There are places in the woods where many prints all lead in the same direction,  and we follow those to a large hole in a pile of rocks that appears to be a den.  [I later learned that this was an otter den.] More prints lead through the woods to a promontory I call Rippled Rocks Point that juts out into the river, a sun-washed spot where Lowbush Blueberry and Black Chokeberry thrive in the summer.  Today the rocks are covered with snow, revealing the path of the creatures who apparently congregated here today or last night, on this high open platform of ice and stone, exposed to the sky and the profile of mountains rising above the far shore.  Do coyotes howl at the moon?  There was a beautiful crescent moon last night, sharing the early evening sky with a brilliant Venus.

Other prints we found were those of a mouse, like trapunto stitching across the snow as it wandered about a bit before scurrying to safety beneath a fallen log.  Also, Red Squirrel prints.   I had hoped to find signs of otter here, near open areas of water near the shore.  I had seen their scat on rocks out in the water last summer and their tobogganing trails through the snow in winters past,  but today I didn't.  We did see a hunter, though, hoping to bag a coyote.  Why? He said he wanted to make himself a coyote suit to wear while hunting.  I didn't tell  him where we had found the den.

[A few days later I added another post about this same section of the river: ]

Across a bay from Rippled Rocks Point on the Hudson River at Moreau stands this lovely little rocky mound of an island, crowned by three tall white pines.  I call it Three Pine Island although it is also forested with smaller pines, hemlocks, Chestnut Oaks, Black Tupelo, Paper Birch, and one small, very crooked White Ash growing out of a crack in a boulder.  It is surrounded by a marshy area that runs a hundred yards or so back into the woods.  Both the bay and the marsh are frozen solid today, allowing me to explore on snowshoes an area I can barely creep into by canoe in the summer.

Prominent across the snowy ice are these tracks (see photo above),  which at first, all excited, I thought must be otter, this bound-and-slide so typical of that animal's track.  But no, the slides are too narrow, barely three inches across, and the pawprints as small as those of a cat.   Must be mink.  A couple of them, it seems, making a beeline across the bay, into the marsh all the way to an open stream that forms this marsh's boundary, where they disappear into the water.

On days like this and in places like this, I feel like a 12-year-old kid, like a kid in a candy store with a hundred bucks in my pocket.  Most people I know love to travel to foreign places and visit exotic sights.  I've done some of that.  But all  the time I was passing through it felt like I was only looking at places through glass.  I didn't know how to truly inhabit them.  But here . . .  here on this river . . .   I've  been here at least fifty, sixty, maybe more than a hundred times, in all seasons, weathers, times of day;  I know the names of just about everything that grows and lives here, flora and fauna;  I know what plants are good to eat and where the orchids grow; and yet,  every time I visit, it all seems terra incognita. 

I never know what I  might find.  One spring morning I nearly stepped on a tiny brand-new fawn curled in the grass at my feet, so close I could sense its breath pass in and out of its nostrils.  One autumn evening I watched a young beaver drag a twig to the water's edge and heard him gnaw on it. One cold but brilliant January afternoon I saw a pair of bluebirds high in a tree,  their rosy breasts the only color in the winter landscape.   And one day . . . .  Some day . . . .   Just one of these days I know I will see an otter.  

* * * 

January 1, 2014: Indeed, I HAVE seen an otter, or at least a few glimpses of one, and so many, many other amazements, too, in the five years since I started this blog.  Also, as a direct result of keeping this blog, I have made the most wonderful friends, folks who share my love for the woods and waterways and who happily share their knowledge of plants and animals and introduce me to the marvelous places where they may be found.

First mention has to go to my friend Ellen Rathbone, once the nature educator at the Adirondack Visitors' Interpretive Center in Newcomb whose own blog, Adirondack Naturalist, inspired me to consider starting my own. After some months communicating through each other's blogs, we finally got together in the woods and on the waters for many fun adventures.

Sad to say, the VIC in Newcomb eventually closed, and Ellen had to leave her beloved Adirondacks to move to my own home state of Michigan, where she now serves to educate Michiganders about the wonders of their own woods and waterways.  I miss her companionship dearly, but I also enjoy following her adventures in Michigan, both through her continued personal blog (now called An Adirondack Naturalist in Michigan) and also through the informative blog she maintains for the Dahlem Nature Center where she now works.

I had never in all my life experienced a genuine sphagnum bog until I was taken to one -- and then to many more -- by Evelyn Greene, a fellow Hornbeck canoe enthusiast who knows all the lost ponds and secret bogs of the Adirondacks as if they were in her own backyard,  Which, in many ways, they are.  To get some sense of the many adventures this intrepid lady has led me on, just type her name into my blog's search bar, and prepare to be amazed.

Evelyn is also an expert in the formation of frazil ice, a particular kind of fluid, snow-like ice that forms in the turbulent river and is deposited in huge heaps along the shore, creating a distinctive habitat that supports the growth of many rare species of plants.  Before I met Evelyn I had never experienced this remarkable phenomenon, nor visited such a rare-plant habitat as the stretch of Hudson River called the Ice Meadows, upstream from Warrensburg.

Evelyn also introduced me to her good friend Bob Duncan, another nature enthusiast and font of knowledge about all kinds of plants, including knowledge about where to find the rarest of the rare.  Bob's knowledge is matched by his genial willingness to escort me to lay my own eyes on these rare plants, including the almost extirpated Hooker's Orchid Bob is photographing here.

Another habitat I had never experienced before I started this blog was the alpine habitat above the treeline of the high peaks of the Adirondacks.  Because of my blog, I came to know Steve Young, chief botanist with the New York Natural Heritage Program, who led botanical excursions to the summit of Whiteface Mountain and invited me to join them.

Each time I went, I was able to add many species of rare plants to my life list.  These trips also helped to cement my friendship with Steve, who has granted me permission to collect specimens of plants that have not been recorded for Saratoga County, thus updating the botanical record.  Steve is also my go-to guy when I find a plant I can't identify.  Just this past year,  he confirmed that an unusual Mountain Mint I had found on the shore at Moreau Lake was indeed one of New York's most endangered plants, Pycnanthemum verticillatum var. verticillatum (Whorled Mountain Mint), with only four other populations currently known to exist in all of New York State.  Quite an exciting find for me, an amateur wildflower hobbyist!


I have gained quite a number of botanical go-to guys and gals during the course of my keeping this blog, and the ones topping that list would be my friends in the Thursday Naturalists, especially Ed Miller and Ruth Schottman, both of them walking encyclopedias of botanical information.  Not to mention, darn good company on a nature walk.

This photo shows Ruth and Ed on the Ice Meadows along the Hudson River during a field meeting of the American Botanical Society (Northeast Section) organized by Ed last summer.  I would have to write a book to explain the wealth of knowledge Ed and Ruth have shared with me on our many excursions together, all of that knowledge imparted with generosity and delight.  Any amateur wildflower lover would be blessed to have either of these two as a teacher, and I can't believe how lucky I am that they have invited me to join them on their weekly explorations of nature preserves throughout the region.


Also topping that list of gracious botanical experts I can always call on is Nancy Slack, ecologist, professor, and author of several books on plant-related subjects.  She is also a member of the Thursday Naturalists, and we can always count on her to answer any questions about mosses, lichens, and liverworts, an area of special interest to her.  But she knows a lot about a lot of things, including how to tell one aster from another, as she is demonstrating during a nature walk last fall.

When I started this blog, I thought I might gain a few readers among the nature lovers of Saratoga County, since this was the area I planned to focus on.  I was absolutely astounded then, when, a month or two later, I discovered my blog had attracted readers from all over the world.  I soon found myself connecting with other nature writers through their own blogs, and before long, we started communicating through comments and emails, and friendships began to grow.   One of the strongest of these friendships occurred with a young botanist from Ohio, Andrew Gibson, whose own blog, The Natural Treasures of Ohio, showcases his home state through splendid photography and enthusiastic, deeply informed writing.

I soon learned of Andrew's passion for orchids when I posted an entry about finding large numbers of White Fringed Orchids in a bog I had visited.  Andrew's excitement about that find was so intense (this orchid is very, very rare in Ohio), I just had to invite him to come out the following year to go orchid-hunting with me in person.  Well, we had such a wonderful time, finding every single orchid on his wanted list plus many other flowers, that we agreed he would have to come back the next spring, to look for some earlier blooming species.  What amazing, marathon sessions of botanizing we had both times!  I've recorded some of our adventures in blogs I wrote about Andrew's visits, one in 2012 and again in 2013.  I revisit these posts often, not only to recall the great time we had together, but also to remind myself once again of the amazing variety of botanical treasures that surround us here in northeastern New York.

Although most of my new friends have been wildflower enthusiasts like myself,  I also count myself truly blessed to have come to know Vince Walsh, wilderness guide, expert animal tracker, and all-round nature guru.  Proprietor of the nature education center Kawing Crow, Vince has enhanced the winter woods for me forever by teaching me how to identify the tracks of many of our forest inhabitants.  And not just to know their names, but also to read of their fascinating dramas in the snow.  (Vince also led me on a pilgrimage to Black Tupelo trees that have been dated to 800 years old!)

If I've saved this final tribute for last, it's because I'm afraid that once I start talking about my almost constant nature companion, Sue Pierce, I won't be able to stop.  Every nature lover should have such a friend to walk with, one who can really SEE all the wonders that surround us, who knows how to really look, and most importantly, how to linger and pay close attention.  I can't count all the treasures I would have missed if Sue had not pointed them out to me.  In this photo she is holding that rare Mountain Mint I mentioned above, a treasure I just had to share with her.  When I first found it, I counted about 15 plants, but with Sue and her gift for discovery along, we located more than 50!

Sue is a longtime and dedicated student of Henry David Thoreau, and she brings a Thoreauovian sensibility to all she observes in nature,  a sensibility she also brings to her own beautiful blog, Water-Lily.


Such wonderful friends, so many amazing adventures, a burgeoning store of nature knowledge,  connections to nature lovers and gifted bloggers all over the world:  all these I would never have acquired if I had not started my blog five years ago.  I think I'll continue to keep it for another year.

To all my friends and loyal readers and fellow bloggers, I wish you health and happiness as we start the new year, and for many years to come.  Be sure to let nature contribute to your sense of wonder in life.

Scenes of Christmas Love

Each year at this time, I set up a little shrine to dear Santa and gather around him all the woodland creatures who live in the North Woods -- or at least as many creatures as I can find models of.  Of course, many of these creatures would be hibernating at Christmas time or would surely be prey for the predators among them, but we trust that Santa's love for them has cast its spell of warmth and peaceableness over them, so all would be safe and well. Since I last posted this scene on my blog two years ago, he's acquired a few new friends: otter, skunk, beaver, snowshoe hare, cottontail rabbit, bobcat, snowy owl, bald eagle, and (highly improbably!) one tiny little penguin, who must have hitched a ride on Santa's sleigh as it passed over the South Pole.   The penguin and the rabbit and the Mallard hen were all gifts this year from our friend Jennifer, who also gave me the canoe-toting Santa many years ago, when she lived next door to us and saw me toting my canoe to the river almost daily.  So this is a shrine to friendship, as well as to Santa-the-spirit-of-giving and also to all the woodland creatures who represent the amazing diversity of life on our fragile planet.

Of course, because it is Christmas, I also have another shrine set up to honor the birth of the Child whose entry into human existence has transformed human history.  I would guess you don't have to believe in Jesus' divinity to acknowledge he had such an impact.  Or to marvel at the stories that tell of his birth.  I composed the following meditation on these stories a few years ago, and I share it again this year.

Yes, Virginia, There Really WAS a Baby Jesus

Christmas Eve. The time has arrived to deck the halls and light the lights and arrange the creche sets in their places of honor. What a beautiful story they tell, even to those who cannot believe that Jesus was divine, or even to those Christians (like me) who turn to these infancy narratives more for their symbolic truth than for any historical fact.

Here's a tale about how God comes to us wherever we are and in whatever circumstances we find ourselves. Whether Mary actually gave birth in a stable or not, it doesn't matter. We who have endured the duress of childbirth can imagine how terribly stressful that would have been. My creche sets show Mary all clean and combed, with her flowing robes pristine. How was she able to take a bath in that barn? Our hearts go out to her -- and to all who suffer, frightened and filthy and far from home. And what does the image of baby Jesus, lying there where the animals feed, tell us about where God can be found? Right there (right here!) among the earthiest of all God's creatures, in whatever kind of shelter we can find.

Religion and its accretions have prettied up this narrative so, that I think we forget what low-lifes most shepherds were at the time when Jesus was born. Pretty much the dregs of society, no doubt, and they probably smelled bad, too. (Like the homeless guys who hang out in the library, getting warm.) The notion that God would send angels to them, that they would be the first to know about such a miraculous thing -- it's just too unlikely, isn't it, to be believed!? Unless God was trying to tell us something about the least of our brethren.

And what about those Three Kings? Can you imagine how surprised they must have been, to find not a prince in a palace but a little babe in a humble home? They came all that way for this? And what use could the infant Jesus have possibly had for gold, frankincense, and myrrh? Could it be they were symbols of the wealth and power and pomp that the grown-up Jesus had no use for, either?

As I said before, it's a wonderful story -- even better, I think, than the one about Santa Claus, the Santa that one little girl named Virginia was once reassured was real. Well, I love the story about Santa, too. So I have a little shrine set up for him as well -- albeit with a few accretions that reflect my own heart's desires: note his lightweight canoe and abundant woodland friends.

 * * *

May the peace and love that we celebrate in these Christmas stories be with you and yours not only at Christmas, but all through the year.

The Light Shines in the Darkness

As Solstice arrives tomorrow, the light will start to return to us in these northern climes.  But today I am grieving a light that will not return to me ever again, the light that my dear Uncle John brought into my life from the day I was born.  He died today, so far from me that I could not bring any comfort to him in his last days.  I think it is that that I grieve today, more than his passing, for he had been ill for many months and I am comforted that his dying was neither painful nor prolonged.  But I think of all the comfort and joy he brought to me all my days, and I am sad that I could not have been with  him as he died.

My Uncle John was just 12 years old when I was born, and he lived just up the hill with my Grandma and Grandpa.  So he was more like a wonderful older brother to me than an uncle.  He taught me to swim and to paddle when I was just a little girl, he taught me the names of the plants and the trees and the animals, and he was always kind and patient with me and fun to be with.  We lived on a lake, with surrounding meadows and woods, an incredible playground for a girl and her big-brother uncle to frolic in.  On Christmas mornings, I looked forward more to his arriving than I did to all the presents under the tree.  Imagine that!

I loved his children, and then later, he loved mine, showering them with enthusiastic appreciation for all that they were and teaching them some of the very things he had taught me as a child:  love of nature, love of music, and how to be loving and kind.  He was a fine musician, and boy, could he tell a good story! 

We hadn't spent Christmas morning together since I was still in high school, way back in the 1950s.  But that sense of joy and excitement that's still attached to how I feel about Christmas morning has much to do with how much I loved my uncle and rejoiced in his company.   Now and for all the rest of my days I rejoice in that memory.

YAY! SNOW!

 Ohboy ohboy ohboy ohboy!  SNOW!  And LOTS of it!  More than we've had in one snowfall in years!  And it was perfect snow, soft and light and airy, the kind you can walk right through without snowshoes, even if it comes almost up to your knees.

As soon as I got my car dug out, I drove out to the south edge of town to the Saratoga Spa State Park.  That's where I took the rest of these photos.

There were lots of folks enjoying the park today, including these young women who'd come whizzing down the hill on skis.   Megan (the one on the ground) had made it all the way down before taking a tumble, to the amusement of her friends Braiden (lending Megan a hand) and Molly.  All three are relatively new residents of Saratoga Springs, in the process of discovering many of the delights their new hometown has to offer.  Especially when it snows!

Where's OUR Snow?

Aw geez!  States far to the south of us get over a FOOT of snow, and what do we get? Oh, maybe an inch!  I'd be out of luck if I needed to photograph a snowy landscape for a Christmas card, but we do have a few pretty scenes around here that look a little bit wintery.  I went over to the Hudson today and was struck by how absolutely beautiful the river appeared, with snow-dusted forested banks rising steeply above the dark still water, misty clouds resting on the very tops of the mountains.

This emerald-green Wood Fern looked very Christmassy,  resting its fir-tree-shaped fronds on the bright-white surface of the snow.

Hobblebush buds -- both flowers and leaves -- are all snug in the furry coats that will keep them safe through the sub-zero months of winter.

What could look more holiday-festive than a marsh-full of brilliant-red Winterberry shrubs?

Some of the berries even wore a tiny cap of snow.

A Winter-weeds Walk at Bog Meadow

I keep hearing reports of terrible weather all over the country, but here in Saratoga County, all remains temperate and calm.  We had a little snow last night, but by noon not a trace was left, with temperatures well above freezing.  A nice deep snowfall sure would add some interest to a woodswalk about now,  relieving the monotony of the dull browns and grays that color the forests and swamps.  I almost have to push myself out the door these days, since there's little out there that is calling to me.  I always find many rewards, however, as I did on a walk at Bog Meadow Nature Trail today.

 I hadn't walked here in quite some time, even though this wetland trail lies only a couple of miles east of my home in Saratoga Springs.  The last time I stopped by, the trail was underwater, due to beavers clogging the culverts that channel the water under the trail.   But thanks to the diligent efforts of trail steward Geoff Bourneman and other volunteers from Saratoga PLAN (the land-conservation group that supervises the maintenance of this trail), the clogs have been cleared and impediments put in place to discourage further beaver interference.  For the time being, anyway.  We all know how resourceful those beavers can be!

This trail is only about two miles long, but it's home to many marvelous native plants that thrive in just such a wetlands environment.  I set myself a little exercise today, trying to name some of these plants in their winter disguises. 

One of the most abundant inhabitants here is the Flat-top Aster (Doellingeria umbellata), and its fluffy seed-heads could be easily seen all over the marsh.

I love how the pods of Wild Bean (Apios americana) twist in a spiral, revealing the reddish bean-like seeds within.  Another name for this climbing vine is Groundnut, referring to the edible tubers that form among the roots.

Virgin's Bower (Clematis virginiana) has some of the most beautiful seed-pods of all, great fluffy clusters of swirling silvery threads that suggest this native vine's alternate name of Old Man's Beard.

The tall skinny stalks of Thimbleweed (Anemone virginiana) are topped by thimble-shaped seedpods that have now split open to offer their fluffy seeds to the wind.

Northern Willow Herb (Epilobium ciliatum ssp. glandulosum)  has tiny pink flowers that turn into long skinny seed pods that split open and then turn all twisty-curly, reminding me of the touseled locks of a towhead.

I just could not get all the seedpods of this carousel of Canada Lilies (Lilium canadense) included in one well-focused photo.  There's yet a sixth pod soaring above these five.  All were soaring well above my head on a tall thin stalk.  When these flowers bloom, they dangle down like bells, but eventually the brilliant flowers of red or yellow or orange turn upward as they go to seed.

Here's a closer look at the Canada Lily's seedpod, revealing the delicate stitchery that holds the three parts of the pod (now empty of seeds) together.

 I have no idea what plant produced these paired white bracts dangling from stems that were crowded on the same hummock as these slender green leaves growing out of the frozen water.  The fact that they're dangling on stalks rules out most other marsh plants I could think of, like Skullcaps or Bellflowers.  Guess I'll send this photo to some plant experts I know, but I sure would welcome any guesses in the meantime.

Update:  In his comment to this post, Andrew Gibson weighs in for Mad-dog Skullcap (Scutellaria lateriflora), which was my first guess, as well.  But I was put off by the length of the pedicels, since when blooming, the flowers appear to be stalkless.


I had no trouble at all recognizing the bright red fruits of Winterberry (Ilex verticillata) leaning over the frozen water of the open marsh.

Rivaling that Winterberry for redness were the ripe hips of a wild rose.   I'm guessing that this is Swamp Rose (Rosa palustris), since I remember that fragrant species blooming at or near this very site during the summer.  Another clue is the lack of thorns on most of its twigs.

While pushing my way through a streamside thicket, I was glad that this Poison Sumac (Toxicodendron vernix) advertised its species by its dangling clusters of white berries, so that I could avoid grabbing its branches when I broke through the frozen mud.  Even though I seem to have outgrown my sensitivity to the toxins of Poison Ivy, Oak, and Sumac,  there's no sense pushing my luck about it.  Happily, birds are immune to the toxins and will devour the fruits before spring.

Skunk Cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus) already has a jump on spring by sending up spathes even before winter arrives. The actual spathes are protected from winter's ravages by the pale-green winter bracts that encase them.

It's not hard to recognize Red Osier Dogwood (Cornus sericea), with branches that live up to its name in every season of the year.  Some other dogwoods may also have reddish branches, but none as richly ruby red as these.

Here's another plant, a liverwort called Frullania,  that looks about the same, no matter what season of the year.  At least, its leaves do, those dark-brown spidery branches that spread across the bark of trees.  But those reddish bumps could be fruiting bodies, and I don't recall ever seeing them before. Nor am I certain they ARE fruiting bodies.

  I confess that my knowledge of liverworts is very scant.  I certainly couldn't tell you the species name of this Frullania, of which there are several hundred, I've been told.   I do know that these dark, almost black liverworts grow abundantly in almost every woods I walk in, but until my friend Evelyn Greene pointed them out to me a couple of years ago, I never noticed them.  And now I see them everywhere.  In every season of the year.

As Winter Nears

There's ice on Mud Pond now, from shore to shore.  And although flocks of geese still fly in to float on what's left of open water on Moreau Lake, the back bay and shallow coves of the lake are solidly frozen.   Or were, the last time I looked, a couple of days ago.  Today was rather balmy, as December days go, with temperatures up in the 40s all day.  It was quiet, too.  No wind.  Nice day for a walk along the river, which is where I went, to my favorite place where the Hudson runs back behind an island and into sheltered coves.  The coves were covered with ice, but I could see open water out on the river's main channel.

I love it back here in these quiet coves, especially one bouldered, pine-needle-carpeted island where the rocks are cushioned with moss and the banks are spread with the evergreen leaves of Wintergreen and Trailing Arbutus.  When I come into this peaceful grove, I feel I have entered a holy sanctuary.

The shards of multi-layered ice next to the shore reveal how the river rises and falls with dam operations, breaking the grip of the ice where the water meets the banks.

Although we've had several hard freezes,  the leaves of Pale Corydalis looked as fresh and green as ever.

I even found one fading flower still dangling from the leaves.

This little island is forested with many small trees, including a number of Highbush Blueberry shrubs.  There were several new shoots on one blueberry shrub, the bright green of the twigs providing a beautiful foil for the bright red buds.

This time of year, I cherish whatever color I find in the woods, including the vivid stripes of this Turkeytail Fungus.

Oh, but the days are growing so short!  It was only mid-afternoon, and already the sun was sinking behind Three Pine Island, laying a golden path across the frozen surface of the bay.