Around the Ice-free Pond

The sun returned to us Friday, and the balmy temperatures persisted.  Not as crazy as that 80-above on Wednesday, but into the nice mid-50s -- perfect for a walk around Mud Pond at Moreau Lake State Park.  And look:  all the ice is gone from the pond!  I wonder if this sets some record for the earliest day for ice-out.

I'll bet it's close to the earliest date for American Hazelnut flowers.  I do have  in my files one photo of these tiny red female flowers dated 3/12/12, but most of my photos are dated later in March or early April.  I usually think of this as the second flower of spring, after Skunk Cabbage.  But when we looked for Skunk Cabbage on Wednesday this week, its spathes were still tightly closed, and the muddy ground where they grew was still quite frozen.

As I walked around the pond today, I did not expect to find any other flowers starting to bloom, but I did enjoy revisiting many of the flowers I'd enjoyed in bloom last summer, trying to recognize them from their wintered-over remains.  Maleberry was one of those, easily recognized by its little hard fruits that always remind me of miniature hot-cross buns.

It's also easy to recognize the remains of Marsh St. Johnswort from the cinnamon color and tulip shape of its seed capsules.

The puffy little seed pods of Ditch Stonecrop persist through the winter virtually unchanged, other than blanching from rosy pink to almost white by the time spring arrives.

Beautiful Wintergreen always looks the same, spring, summer, winter, or fall, with glossy green leaves and plump red berries that can persist even when the plants come into flower in the summer. Oh look what else shares this mossy patch with the Wintergreen:  A seed capsule of Starflower, chalk-white and centered within a star, held on a fine wiry stem.

One bank of Mud Pond was almost completely carpeted with the leathery green leaves of Trailing Arbutus, and a closer look revealed an abundance of flower buds just waiting to bloom.  This is one of our earliest spring flowers, and one of our prettiest, too, with waxy white or pink blooms that are as fragrant as they are beautiful.

Here was a lovely mound of Haircap Moss, with its tiny splash cups starting to form.  Soon, they will be filled with sperm to be splashed out by spring rains and washed to waiting females.  Moss sex!

As I completed my circuit of the pond, the sun was spreading a warm golden light on the eastern bank, where flocks of geese and ducks were paddling about on the mirror-still water, filling the air with their clamor.

I took the long way home, taking Spier Falls Road over the mountain and along the Hudson River, stopping at the Spier Falls Dam to examine the boulders that line the road there.   In just a few weeks these rosettes of Early Saxifrage leaves will produce masses of white flowers, sprouting from mounds of lovely multi-colored mosses.  It will be a gorgeous sight.  But so are these rosy leaves and plump mosses, still fresh even after spending the winter under coatings of ice.

Eighty Degrees in Early March!

What crazy weather!  Still in the 40s on Monday, but by Wednesday this week the temperature in Saratoga hit at least 80 degrees.  What a great day for my friend Sue to have off from work (it was her birthday!), so we could go for a nice walk along Bog Meadow Nature Trail.  I'm recovering from cataract surgery I had on Monday, so I'm not supposed to exert myself strenuously for a while, and Bog Meadow offers easy walking along a straight level trail.

Of course, we were looking for signs of spring, but the first thing that caught our eye was a plant left over from last year that had made it through the winter with its (empty!) seed pods intact.  Sue spotted it first (my vision is still quite blurry from the surgery), and noted that it seems to have grown from a bulb-like base.  Well, neither one of us recognized what its flowers might have been, but we're hoping maybe one of my blog readers might recognize it.  I can't believe I never noticed it when it was blooming.  The pods are kind of orchid-like.  Maybe Helleborine?

UPDATE:  This is an orchid, all right, but not Helleborine, as I wrongly surmised.  Our dear friend Andrew Gibson has suggested this is most likely Liparis loeselii, also known as the Yellow Wide-lipped Twayblade Orchid.  Orchids are Andrew's botanical passion, so if anyone would know, he sure would.  I've never seen this plant before, so I'll be careful to search for it when it's in bloom.  

For being such a warm sunny day, things were oddly quiet along Bog Meadow Trail.  The unseasonable warmth got our hopes up, but truly, we were not surprised to find the Skunk Cabbage spathes still tightly closed, nor did we hear any Wood Frogs or Spring Peepers.  The standing water remained quite solidly frozen in many places.  But if the temps stay above freezing this week, I bet it won't be long before spring things start to happen in a hurry.



Thursday, while balmy, was not as warm as Wednesday, and it also rained most of the day.  But just a nice misty rain, the kind that doesn't interfere with taking a pleasant walk through the park.  That's what Goretex is good for.   Congress Park in downtown Saratoga Springs looked rather pretty veiled in fog.

I noticed the boughs of a big Silver Maple were laden with swelling flower buds, so I pulled a branch down to take a closer look.

Oh yes, these are the stamen-loaded male flowers of Silver Maple (Acer saccharinum), the anthers already protruding and preparing to bring misery to allergy sufferers everywhere.  Not to me, though, since I am not allergic to tree pollen.  I'm one of the lucky ones who can delight in the beauty of tree flowers, all of them deserving of a closer look.

This Robin Red-breast caught my eye just before I left the park.  We used to always think of the Robin's return as a sure sign of spring, but now these birds often stay around all winter, traveling in flocks among backyard crabapple trees.  But a solitary Robin, running across the grass and cocking his head to search for worms, still rings all kind of spring chimes for me, so I share his photo with you.

Big Falls, Little Falls

Another bright, cold, blue-sky day today, and I started out to visit Orra Phelps Nature Preserve in Wilton.  I was curious to see if any Skunk Cabbages had begun to swell their spathes in the muddy swales out there, but an even more compelling curiosity grabbed me as I passed the intersection of Parkhurst and Greenfield Roads, recalling a spectacular waterfall that plunged through a gorge nearby.  Sure, I told myself, let's go see if there's water plunging though it today.  And there sure was!  I could hear it roaring as I parked my car near Strakos Road, where the Snook Kill runs under the highway.  I could see it, too, as I clambered over the roadside barrier and started down the steep embankment.  Oh look!  Some thoughtful person has strung a rope down the precipitous slippery descent.  A very good idea!  Wouldn't want to slide into that freezing cataract today!

I actually did not use that rope to descend the bank, but carefully inched my way, clinging to trees as I went, to a small promontory that provided me with a good, clear view of the falls.  This is a gorgeous waterfall!  (Kind of a scary one, too!)

I was glad I had thought to stop to view the beautiful Snook Kill Falls, but I'm also glad I continued on to Orra Phelps, where I found another beautiful waterfall, only this one in miniature.  Coincidentally, this little stream that runs through the Orra Phelps Nature Preserve is called the Little Snook Kill.

At a point near the eastern border of the nature preserve, a second stream joins the Little Snook Kill. (I don't know the name of this second stream.)

I was struck today by the fact that this second stream appeared to be completely clear of ice.

While the Little Snook Kill was still thickly encrusted with white honeycombed ice.  I wonder why the difference?  Is the Little Snook shallower?  Is the second stream deeper and more rapid, so that ice never formed there this winter?  Just at a glance from where I stood on the bank, I could not see much difference. Hmmm . . . .  A new mystery to ponder.

I will ponder this mystery while I rest up for the next couple of days.  I've having cataract replacement surgery tomorrow (Monday) morning, and I'm supposed to take it easy for a little while.  So think good thoughts about my eyeballs, dear friends, so I can be back out again promptly, looking for signs of spring as the predicted warmer weather moves in on us.

A New Trail to the New Lake

We've had a nice string of cold but clear days this past week, tempting me to abandon my lap cats and get outdoors.  My bum knee still somewhat limits my options to relatively level trails, so on Friday I started over McGregor Mountain, intending to walk along Spier Falls Road to enjoy some Hudson River views. But I never got there.  Mid-way over the mountain I spied a large area recently cleared of trees, and I was compelled to pull over to investigate.  Could this be the new parking area for the future Lake Bonita trails?

There was no way that cars could park here yet, with the area still littered with tree limbs and not yet graded, but while walking the perimeter I discovered a series of pink flagging tapes that indicated a possible route for a future trail down to the lake.  Did I follow it?  Of course I did -- bum leg be darned, even though the as-yet-ungroomed trail required some cautious scrambling in places.

Zig-zagging down steep embankments, the trail did lead directly to the shore of this pretty lake, which was recently acquired by Moreau Lake State Park, along with many acres of surrounding forest and mountainous regions. Following the pink flags, I proceeded along the southern shore of the lake, occasionally gaining views of the ice-covered waters and bright-blue sky.  Although the lake still appeared to be solidly frozen over,  no one should dare to venture out on that unsafe ice, weakened by unseasonable thaws and torrential rains of the last few weeks.

It was a delight to explore this untrammeled forest and lakeshore, the trail crossing a number of charming small brooks and also passing beneath monumental bouldered walls that were carpeted by a wondrous variety of mosses and liverworts and watered by little springs.

I followed the flags to the far eastern end of the lake, stopping when I reached this energetically rushing stream that flowed through a steep ravine.  I saw more pink flags leading beyond the stream, most likely to continue completely around the lake and eventually to connect with other trails in the Palmertown Mountains.  What a gorgeous new acquisition to this already wonderful state park!  I can't wait to return in warmer weather to document the plants of both forest and lakeshore that certainly must thrive here.

For the moment, I content myself with delighting in what beauty can be found in this still-wintry world, like the frozen ripples at the edge of a stream . . .

. . . or the hoarfrost that formed around an opening that led deep into the earth.  Could this be the den of some creature whose warm breath has crystallized around the entrance of its home?

I stopped to take in one last wide view of this lovely lake before making my way back the way I had come.

A Walk on the Beach

 Last week, when my husband and I went to Florida, we never got to the beach.  But this past Sunday, when the weather in upstate New York turned nearly Florida warm, I went to my favorite local beach, at Moreau Lake State Park.  What a pleasure it was, strolling along the soft sun-warmed sand, enjoying the sound of tiny ripples washing ashore where the ice had retreated,  and scanning the water's edge for the sight of basking newts or the runic trails of underwater snails.  Added to those pleasures were the friendly greetings from many dogs, out to enjoy this spring-like day with more people than I'd seen at the park in many months. Yes, it sure felt as if spring were truly on its way.

It was obvious from deep gullies gouged in the sand that we'd had torrential rains during the days  we were gone, which also explains why this little creek was rushing and tumbling all the way to the lake.  Its bed had been dry most of the winter, and even in spring and summer this creek often runs dry, whatever waters it carries seeping into the sand long before it reaches the lakeshore.

Of course, no flowers are blooming as yet, but I always enjoy testing my knowledge of flowers' remains.  I pondered and pondered this little clump, unable to put a name to it until I sniffed its papery husks and caught the distinctive maple-syrup scent of Sweet Everlasting.

I knew right away what these small prickly pods were, because I visit them often in every season, to monitor their population. This is Whorled Mountain Mint, one of our state's rarest plants, but one that thrives quite happily along this shore.  As desiccated as the pods appear, they are still strongly fragrant of mint, and I plucked one to breathe in its summery scent as I continued my walk. (Note: the seeds had already dispersed, so I was not endangering the plant by taking a single seedhead.  But please do not ever pick any wildflowers while they are still blooming or setting seed.)

This past summer and fall, the water level of Moreau Lake had fallen lower than anyone could remember, revealing wide swaths of sandy beach where in other years, the water would have reached the treeline.  It's been interesting to see what plants have taken hold in these stretches of dry sand that once were underwater.  On one shore, I found dozens and dozens of plants of Blue Curls emerge where none had been seen before.  The tiny royal-blue flowers of this plant are delightful, and so are the dainty little papery cups that held the flowers' seeds, now long since dispersed.

Moving back into the woods, I could still find patches of snow persisting among the boulders, but the startling pink of Striped Maple twigs assured me the season of spring was inexorably on its way.

I  can't take the lovely reticulated leaves of Downy Rattlesnake Plantain for a sign of impending spring, however, since this orchid's leaves are this gorgeously green and white all winter long. But I loved seeing them again, as they reminded me of the native orchids we have in abundance in New York State.  I learned just recently that the state of Florida has only three species of native orchids, while we in New York have nearly 60 native species.  Who would have guessed that?  Of course, Florida has many introduced species other than its natives.  I can think of only one we have in New York.

These furry leaves of Foamflower, too, have been hiding out under snow and ice all winter, so they can't really be thought of as harbingers of spring.  But that lovely dusty pink certainly adds a welcome dash of color to the still-brown forest floor.  As do the gorgeous greens of clumps of moss.

Ah, but THIS is a sign that spring is definitely on its way!  Skunk Cabbage does send up tight green spathes in the fall that persist throughout the winter, but now those spathes are beginning to relax and swell and take on the speckled reds and yellows that indicate new growth.  We may yet have zero nights and heaps of snow in the weeks to come, but this, our genuine first flower of spring, will not be dissuaded.  It can even produce enough heat on its own to melt the snow around it.

Folks, I had a feeling we were not in New York anymore.

 No, indeed, we were in Winter Park, Florida!  But to tell the truth, if we hadn't gone to a lush and incredibly beautiful botanical garden there, it would have been hard to locate exactly where we were on the planet.  Of course, the vegetation told me we were definitely in the tropics:

There were Live Oaks draped with Spanish Moss.

I saw palm trees with orchids of many colors sprouting from the tree trunks.

Glossy-leaved shrubs were loaded with heavy blooms of lovely camellias.

The irises came in colors I had never laid eyes on before.

Yes, the botanical beauties certainly told me we must be somewhere "Down South."  And the homes and hotels in Winter Park quite often displayed a distinctive Spanish-style architecture, built mostly of masonry and ornamented with elaborate wrought iron.  But I was struck by how much is just the same as anywhere else in America, with the same Dunkin' Donuts and Starbucks and IHOPs and other American chains lining the boulevards.  I couldn't find any place where I could get a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and here we were in the heart of Orange County, where most of America's Minute Maid or Florida Natural OJ comes from.

But that's OK.  We were here to visit dear family members, all of us more and more aware that the opportunities to be together are growing rarer and more difficult as age and disability encroach. And we did have a wonderful time, just being together, enjoying my brother-in-law's terrific cooking, and watching a smile spread across my sweet sister-in-law's face as she recognized someone who loves her.  We also got to meet the newest member of the Donnelly clan, a cheerful chubby little guy who delighted in shouting for joy.  And of course, the soft balmy Florida air certainly added to our pleasure.

I hadn't been to Florida in many years, and each time I visit I recall how my family came  every winter when I was just a small girl, back in the 1940s and early 50s, driving down to St. Petersburg Beach from southern Michigan, where my father was a Chris-Craft dealer.  Occasionally, he'd be hauling a motor yacht (Chris-Craft used to build their big boats in Algonac, Michigan) to deliver to a customer in Florida.  We would then stay in Florida for some weeks, since my father's marina didn't have much business during a Michigan winter.

We'd head south out of Michigan through Indiana, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia before reaching Florida,  a three-day trip traveling two-lane blacktops that took us through every town and hamlet along the way.  This was long before interstate highways or chain restaurants or motels, and we spent the nights in tourist homes or roadside cabins that I, a small child, found delightfully cute but which often horrified my mom with their inadequate housekeeping.

In pre-McDonald's America, local food was definitely distinctive to each region. There was country ham in Kentucky, hard and salty, with red-eye gravy for sopping your breakfast biscuits.  We definitely knew we'd arrived "down south" when grits appeared with our breakfast eggs even though we'd not ordered them.  My dad couldn't wait to hit Tennessee, when we'd all have to keep alert for signs advertising "Genuine Pit Bar-B-Q!"  Georgia meant roadside pecan stands, where we could find coconut candy and peach preserves as well as pecan pralines, and Florida brought citrus groves where we would get fresh-squeezed OJ as well as sticky hands and faces from gorging on sweet Temple oranges.

My dad would launch the yacht at a marina on Tampa Bay, and I recall docks encrusted with barnacles and sentried by pelicans perching on every pier post.  There were mud flats aswarm with fiddler crabs that disappeared down their holes in a flash at the slightest footfall, and dockside cats that actually went in the water after fish, so their fur was stiff with salt.  We could get fish fry or shrimp and hush puppies at lots of dockside shacks, and my grown-up palate still longs for those sweet crispy shrimp that I have never been able to find again.  I also recall that Tampa was then the center of Cuban life in America, and we feasted there on Garbanzo-bean soup, Cuban sandwiches, and coconut ice cream.

Yes, it definitely seemed back then that Florida was far away from home.  I'm glad we can get there much more quickly now, but the fast-food stands in the airport sure can't match the culinary adventures of driving there in the 1940s on local roads through every town and eating at local diners with local folks.