A Break in the Weather

We had a few hours of clear blue sky this week between days that were soggy and gray, and lucky for me, my friend Sue had that day off from work to come play with me outdoors.  When we got to Moreau Lake on Friday morning, that sky was radiantly blue from horizon to horizon, and the ice-free lake was filled with noisy throngs of ducks and geese.  What a day to take a walk all around the lake!

We took our time wandering the wooded western shore, puzzling over big trenches some animal had plowed among the dry leaves of the forest floor (a big dog, to judge from the dirty pawprints leading into and out of the  mess it made).  By the time we passed the swimming beach and crossed the bridge to approach the back bay,  a rumpled blanket of clouds had begun to move in from the west, eventually to cover the sky completely.

But even though we had lost our sunshine, the day continued pleasant and calm, without a breath of wind to disturb the perfect reflection of mountains and trees in the still-open sections of quiet water. Sue calls this her Mt. Fuji, and I know exactly what she means.

That neutral gray sky proved to be great for viewing a trio of Bald Eagles high, high up in the air.  According to Sue (who can see far better than I can), the trio consisted of one adult and two juveniles, with the juveniles whirling about as if they were playing tag, she said.  I had to take her word for that.  I could barely see three tiny indeterminate specks, which I struggled to differentiate from the other black specks that constantly float across my disintegrating vision.  But I shared her elation, nevertheless, at having a three-eagle day.

It was also a many-hundreds-of-geese kind of day, with honking hordes sending up a great clamor from time to time and then inexplicably falling silent once more.  And then, here came a solitary Bufflehead drake, a speck of white against the dark water, trailing a wake, not making a sound.

There remained enough snow along the shore to capture the trails of animals who had passed this way.  The small size of these prints and the shoreline habitat suggested immediately that these tracks were laid down by a muskrat making its way from its den to the water.

My guess was immediately confirmed when the creature's trail reached the once-slushy frozen surface of the bay, which captured the tracks of the muskrat's skinny tail as well as those of its dainty feet.

Parts of the bay were covered with a milky-colored opaque ice, which displayed numerous branching "spiders" of darkly transparent ice, so clear that they looked as if they were filled with open water instead of the glass-clear ice that filled those branching arms.  The solidity of this clear ice became even more evident when we could see the track of a waddling goose move directly across the dark ice.

My friend Ed Miller has told me that these ice spiders are caused by snow weighing down the ice cover and causing water to flow up through weak spots in the ice.  I'm not completely satisfied with this explanation, especially when we've had so little snow covering the surface of the ice.  At any rate, there were certainly a lot of these ice formations all over the back bay's ice.

We found a few other mysterious events on our walk this day, including small poplars completely stripped of their bark by some unknown creature that left no tracks (mice? birds?),  and also this pretty little cocoon or egg case attached to a Shadblow twig.  I'm assuming the maker was some kind of insect, but the vessel was so cunningly made, I could imagine some tiny fairyland potter turning it out on her miniature potting wheel.

It also seemed there was magic at work behind the various ice formations we found along the shore.  Of course, we know that all these intricate structures can easily be explained by the laws of physics, but nevertheless, we still found their beauty enchanting.

Back to Brown

 Well, that snow didn't last long! It rained a little, warmed up for a day, and now we're back to cold air and bare brown earth. There wasn't much about the day today to tempt me outdoors, except that I hadn't been out for a walk since before Thanksgiving, what with holiday feasting and then hostess duties over the weekend.  So I went to Woods Hollow Nature Preserve in Ballston Spa.  There are many nice trails there, through several habitats, from sandplain to piney woods to woodland pond.

Entering the preserve through an open wet meadow (now frozen), the first thing I noticed (see photo above) was a whole miniature forest of baby White Pines in the middle of what I always think of as a huge wildflower field.  The photo below shows the same meadow in summer, full of goldenrods, bonesets, daisies, Black-eyed Susans, and other flowers tall enough to hide those little pines.  I'm afraid those pines will soon grow tall and begin to shade out this wonderful wildflower profusion.

As for today, there certainly weren't any wildflowers blooming to add any color to the landscape, only the tawny browns of fallen leaves and the dark green of the conifers.  Even the sky grew colorless, as clouds moved in.

But it was still pleasant to walk the trails at an easy pace, breathing the sweet cold air and admiring the swirling patterns of ice on the woodland pond that lies at the center of this nature preserve.

Here and there I found little patches of green -- such as these ruffly evergreen leaves of Dalibarda -- to remind me of what a fine place this is for hunting wildflowers during growing season.

Tucked in among the glossy purple-tinged leaves of Wintergreen were fat red berries that would cling to the plants all winter.

Here was a colorful surprise!  A bright-yellow rosehip still clung to its thorny branch.  What an unexpected color, since rosehips are usually red.  But what else could this be?

Update:  My friend Lois Klatt from the Thursday Naturalists group had suggested what else this could be, and I believe she is absolutely right.  This looks exactly like the yellow fruit of Horse Nettle (Solanum carolinense), a prickly plant of sandy soils.  A survey of Google Images confirmed Lois's suggestion.   Thanks, Lois.


A young willow tree along the path bore these galls that look very much like furry pinecones.  They are caused by a larva that will winter over within the gall, escaping in spring by pushing open the scales of the gall.

It's always a treat to find Earthstar fungi growing on the sand, accompanied by these tiny Pixie Cup lichens.  Curls of Sweet Fern leaves were scattered across the same ground.

Although Sweet Fern loses many of its leaves in winter, clusters of these graceful mahogany-colored curls remain on the ends of the branches,  where tightly closed male catkins also cling to the stems, already in position to puff out with pollen when spring arrives.  Here's another delightful thing about Sweet Fern:  even brown and dry as they are, those leaves are still filled with fragrant resin and will release their delicious scent when rubbed between your fingers.

How many times have I posted photos of these Virgin's Bower seed heads?  Probably as many times as I've stopped to delight in those gracefully curling tendrils  of feathery fluff.

Thanksgiving Album

On Thanksgiving Day 2014, I was thankful for so many things.

For the newly snow-cleared roads over the mountains on our way to join our dear family in Vermont.

For the gracious hospitality of our hosts Keith Balter and Liz Young, who opened their beautiful mountainside home to dozens of family members and friends.

(Their converted barn serves as a spacious gathering place for spectacular feasts, as well as comfortable accommodations for overnight visitors.)

For the deep soft snow that enhanced an already gorgeous landscape of mountains, valleys, meadows, and trees.

For a kitchen-full of excellent cooks and willing helpers who prepared the delicious many-coursed Thanksgiving meal.

(Our darling daughter Jane [white apron] and her sister-in-law, our excellent hostess Liz Young)

For long sloping hillsides, groomed by our host for optimal sledding so that guests could work up a good appetite in the clear cold air and sparkling snow.

For the delighted shrieks from our son Peter and his children as they sailed down the hill.

For my son-in-law's brother, Keith Balter, turkey carver extraordinaire and incredibly generous host, who year after year has brought our multitudinous families together to celebrate Thanksgiving under his most accommodating roof.

For the Thanksgiving feast, an amazing array of delicious food lovingly prepared by many hands and happily devoured by many thankful diners.

For the long comfy couches and big-screen TV for watching the games and resting up after the feast.

For the clear cold blue light of evening, where I could stand out under a crescent moon and gaze at the sky as well as the beckoning golden light spilling out of the windows onto the snow.  In all that splendid silence,  I breathed my prayers of gratefulness.

With my loving husband beside me all these years (and this day was his birthday!), with all our children and their children and in-laws gathered for this special celebration,  and with so many amiable friends delighting in each others' company here in this special place, how could I not feel blessed?

Snow!

Just as predicted, the snow started falling this afternoon and it's falling still as the day grows dark, piling up in marshmallow mounds on the branches, while it melts almost as fast as it falls on the still-warm earth.  We are hoping the roads will be clear tomorrow when we head to Vermont to join extended family for Thanksgiving.  Today's snowy day was a good day to be home baking the pies I will be bringing to the feast.  All are now out of the oven, the dishes washed, and the floury mess cleaned from the counters and floor.  Time to gaze out at the transformed landscape now turning blue as the day declines.  And time to read Mary Oliver's lovely poem about snow, "Walking Home from Oak-Head," from her collection Thirst, published by Beacon Press.

Walking Home from Oak-Head

There is something
   about the snow-laden sky
      in winter
         in the late afternoon

that brings to the heart elation
   and the lovely meaninglessness
          of time.
                Whenever I get home -- whenever --

somebody loves me there.
   Meanwhile
         I stand in the same dark peace
                 as any pine tree,

or wander on slowly
    like the still unhurried wind,
          waiting,
                as for a gift,

for the snow to begin
    which it does
           at first casually,
                  then, irrepressibly.

Wherever else I live --
    in music, in words,
           in the fires of the heart,
                 I abide just as deeply

in this nameless, indivisible place,
    this world,
          which is falling apart now,
                 which is white and wild,

which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith,
   our deepest prayers.
         Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home.
                Red-cheeked from the roused wind,

I'll stand in the doorway
     stamping my boots and slapping my hands,
            my shoulders
                  covered with stars.

Dear friends, I wish you all the happiest of Thanksgivings, filled with many blessings and safe travels.  And I also hope that, whenever you get home, somebody loves you there.

One Warm Day

What strange weather we're having!  A week ago, I was freezing my fingers while taking photos of Frostweed curls,  while today I was walking around in the woods in a tee shirt.  If I hadn't already stowed my canoe for the winter, I might have considered a paddle on the Hudson, but I did head to the river anyway, thinking to walk along the banks close to the water.  But as I was driving along on Spier Falls Road, the sight of this waterfall splashing and bounding down the mountainside inspired me to stop and climb up its course through the forest.  With the sound of the rushing water, the exuberant green of the mossy rocks, and the soft balmy air that must have been close to 70 degrees, it felt more like spring today than just a few days before Thanksgiving.

The boulders that tumble down this mountainside are home to an amazing variety of beautiful ferns and mosses, especially along the course of the stream where mist often dampens the rocks.  I have a hard time remembering the names of different mosses, but I believe this bright green clump in the photo below is that of the aptly named Fountain Moss, which thrives in damp habitats like this.

I'm often surprised to find Sphagnum Moss so far away from its more expected bog habitat, but here it was growing abundantly up on the mountainside.  A few tufts of Tree Moss were sprouting out of the clump.

Starbursts of spiky  Haircap Moss decorated this patch of Delicate Fern Moss.

Another patch of Delicate Fern Moss was ornamented by a plume of evergreen Wood Fern and a tangled cluster of gray-green Reindeer Lichen.

On this rock grew Broom Moss, Rock Polypody ferns, and a foliose pale-green lichen I do not know the name of.

One of the wonderful things about all these mosses, ferns, and lichens is that they stay fresh and green all winter, bringing much beauty and texture to a woods walk at any time of year.  I have felt that way about Winterberry shrubs, too, which usually hold onto their blazing-red fruits until winter is almost over.  That's why I was so surprised and disappointed today when I stopped by a swamp where I knowWinterberry abounds, and found just these gray bare branches.

Compare what this very same patch of swamp looked like almost exactly one year ago.  I know that it's often the case that a year of abundant fruiting  can be followed by a subsequent year of scarcity, but I hadn't expected to find such a contrast as this.

No Snow Here

Oh, those poor folks out in Buffalo!  Five feet of snow in one day, and up to three feet more to come!  But here in Saratoga County, the inch or so we got on Monday was promptly washed away by rain, so that now we have just a few traces left in spots where the sun never shines.  Well, the sun shone all day today (Wednesday), tempting me up to Moreau Lake State Park to walk the broad sandy beaches around the lake.   We've had so little precipitation this fall, the beaches are broader than ever I've seen them before.


As the above photo shows, there was no ice at all out on the main body of the lake, despite temps in the 20s the last few nights.  But back in the coves and quiet bays, a thin sheet of ice has covered the surface from shore to shore.

The southern shore of the cove was still covered with a thin layer of snow, which captured these prints of a beaver heading out onto the ice.  I'm always astounded by how big the beaver's hind feet are, as big as my hand, and I'm also curious why I can't make out the webbing between the toes.

Despite a cold wind, my walk was quite pleasant, as I kept up a brisk pace that took me all the way around the lake (although not the back bay).  I love this stretch of sandy trail that passes under towering White Pines and Pitch Pines, with views of the lake and back bay to either side.

The vast blue sky over the lake was in constant motion as flocks of Canada Geese came winging in or taking off.

I am always astounded to see the Shadblow shrubs opening buds of tiny green leaves this time of year.  The tender little leaves will surely freeze and drop to the ground in the wintry blasts to come.  And yet they do this every year.    What purpose could this possibly serve? Is it simply the organism's response to light levels equal to those that awaken new growth in the spring?

The Striped Maples have also formed their buds, elegant scepters of scarlet atop emerald twigs circled with gold.  But those waxy red bud scales will stay tightly closed until spring, when they'll then fall away to reveal tightly folded leaves of velvety pink.

Most of the Witch Hazel flowers have dropped their flowers, but here and there I still find a few long ribbon-shaped petals unfurled. The yellow bracts will remain on the twigs all winter, causing the shrub to appear to still be in bloom throughout the darkest, coldest time of year.

Those darkest, coldest days are fast approaching, as the sun sinks earlier and earlier every day.  It was not yet four in the afternoon when the lowering sun cast this golden light on the frozen surface of the cove.