I’ve been around the ecological and proverbial block a few times. In fact so many times that I occasionally feel dizzy. This constant orbiting of ecosystems, plant communities, and natural processes is never tiring, but I do sometimes wonder why I never seem to learn it all. For starters [...]]]>

Maple leaf viburnum

I’ve been around the ecological and proverbial block a few times. In fact so many times that I occasionally feel dizzy. This constant orbiting of ecosystems, plant communities, and natural processes is never tiring, but I do sometimes wonder why I never seem to learn it all. For starters I’m not that smart. By that I mean, as a human I have severe inadequacies. Our loss of instinct is a monstrous handicap. Putting that aside, and that is no easy matter, I have realized that I often spin my wheels in the mud; not going anywhere. Perhaps I’m  trying too hard and getting no results.

I have come to the conclusion that “understanding” the natural world is nearly impossible given my human impediments. My most potent talent seems to be the power of observation. Noticing something doesn’t take smarts but it does require good reporting skills. That is if anyone else is to benefit from that which I have noticed.

Indian cucumber

The natural world in its present state is the result of four and a half billion years of evolution. Where we are now is the result of countless and random successes and failures. As the planet has changed, new life forms have zig-zagged through the evolutionary process with only one goal; survival. That we can stand here today to observe, record, and process information with rational thought is beyond astounding. There are really no words to describe this never ending transformation of the natural world.

Oh sure, with modern genetics we can study, at least in part, the evolutionary path of all that is living. And we can better understand any living organism by doing so. We have a more difficult time understanding the essence of our planet. The complex and intra-dependent nature of every single element on Earth may be beyond the scientific method. Many aboriginal cultures understood the “thread” that connected everything on this planet. The energy that pulls us all together; water, animal, plant, mineral, and the atmosphere. “Completely unscientific” some would say. To which I would respond “only because science has not yet taken us there!’ Food for thought, if nothing more.

Canada mayflower community

Recently I was studying a small stand of Canada mayflowers in the forest. I got on my and knees and looked at it as close as I could. I tried different angles. I lied on my belly and examined the plant community profile. I stood over it for a better look of its overall form. I bent the stem of an individual plant and examined the underneath of the flower. I touched the stem and flower to understand its texture. I smelled the plant. I captured the plant’s image with a camera. I wrote some notes in my “Rite in the Rain” yellow notebook. And I still could not, in any way, reproduce the essence of this natural wonder. Of course, the same could be said of any encounter with a plant, animal, rock, or even a breath of air. Human perception is somewhat limited to our five physical senses within our western way of thinking. We never really experience the entirety of what we observe.

Single canada mayflower

I am a lover of our domestic canine partners. I have spent countless hours with my hounds in the woods. They do not possess my intellectual capacities, although it would be a huge mistake to even think we understood how they process information. They have talents and capabilities that we can only dream of. My bloodhounds smell in some sort of strange rendition of olfactory technicolor. There scent capabilities are thousands of times more powerful than that of any human. They literally “see” the world through their powerful ability to smell. And more impressive is they still have powerful instincts; the ability to know something without having learned it. They process what they experience primarily not through any intellectual part of their brain but with the full power of instinctual awareness. They have “knowledge” instantly after a good snort of a track. This is a wonderful world that I will never experience. What my hounds know about the wilds without thinking is far more than I will ever learn from books, experiential learning in the field, or any other instructional device available to me.

And speaking of our canine friends, many years ago I was in the woods with a friend from the city. I had let my dogs loose and they found a track to follow. They bayed loudly and quickly disappeared out of site. My friend stopped and said something that I thought was kind of funny.

“That’s a really stupid behavior that hounds have!”

“How so?” I inquired.

“They can’t possibly expect to catch anything when they are barking loudly and notifying the animal they are chasing exactly where they are!”  he exclaimed indignantly.

“And yet they still do it!” I retorted.

“Yes, its stupid!” he shot back.

“Have you wondered why they do it?” I asked.

“Why would I, its stupid!” he replied

“They do it because it does work. If it didn’t work they would have lost this behavior eons ago.”

“How could it work?” he wondered, now realizing I had him on the ropes.

“One possible explanation is that the constant baying disorients the animal they are chasing. It adds a level of stress that it can’t adjust too. Stress tires an animal and helps it to make poor decisions. Hounds can out run almost any animal in the forest over the long haul. They can run day and night without stopping. Perhaps evolution has provided that they bay because it is a very effective tool!”

He thought about this, just shaking his head. It was difficult for him to imagine that this behavior which intellectually seemed so ineffective to him was, in fact, a brilliant evolutionary strategy.

There is more out there, in the natural world, than meets the eye, or any of our other senses.

And what do we know about how a tree in the forest (or any other plant in their natural environment) experiences the world? Many humans assume that plants do not experience life in a “significant” way. It is true that they don’t have brains. They don’t think in the way that animals do. They don’t have a verbal language. And they certainly aren’t mobile. But it would be a nearly unforgivable error to not give them credit for what we do not know about them. Trees live longer than humans, survive the harshest of weather that nature can throw their way, move (by wind spread seed and utilizing seed spreading animals) when the climate becomes intolerable, communicate using pheromomes for reproduction and other survival issues, and orient themselves to the sun to produce food for themselves. All superior adaptations for a “unintelligent” plant species.

False Solomons seal

Perhaps people are just too myopic. I often wonder if our inability to see the world through nonhuman experience isn’t our most significant limitation. Even when interacting with other humans we often only see the world through just our own eyes. How restrictive is that?

There’s something to be said for osmosis. Plants use osmosis to absorb energy, water, and make food. If we humans absorbed the natural energy around us, assimilated it into our way of thinking, and used that information to understand our planet we would all be a lot better off. If we cleared our minds, just sat still devoid of intellectual processes, would it possible to just let some of the natural world bleed into our brains?  A new found respect for all of the living and nonliving entities of our Earth might become more apparent. To my way of thinking becoming “one” with our foundation and environment is essential to human survival.

Thinking back, when I held that Canada mayflower in my hand and looked into the depths of this living miracle, that is the moment I should have recorded. The feeling that it conveyed. The weight of the mystery that this plant held. The essence of experiencing the mayflower in my hand.

And now that moment is gone.

Woodland starflower

This article is dedicated to Dorothy Grimes, the mother of a good friend, a faithful reader of www.wildramblings.com and someone who I think will fully understand what I’ve written here. A very happy 90th birthday to a dedicated reader.  Thanks Dorothy!

Written for www.wildramblings.com in May 2012.

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The stream bank behind me is steep, deeply eroded, and unstable. I am standing on the lower, nearly level, part of the new stream bank that is the result of a devastating storm. The remnants of Hurricane Irene brought more than eleven [...]]]>

Note the sorted gravel at the top indicating the former stream bottom level.

The stream bank behind me is steep, deeply eroded, and unstable. I am standing on the lower, nearly level, part of the new stream bank that is the result of a devastating storm. The remnants of Hurricane Irene brought more than eleven inches of rain to this area at the end of last August and the damage was monumental. At this particular location, which is directly across the road in front of our house, the stream cut away a chasm of earth lowering the stream bed by nearly five feet. The brook bed is comprised now of material from God knows where and the yards and yards of material that used to support this stream was washed far away. Some of the heavier rocks and cobbles likely ended up in the down gradient North and Deerfield Rivers. Medium weight soil particles might have been held suspended until they reached the mighty Connecticut River. And the lightest soil particles that turned the clear waters to a gray and brown slurry likely reached the vast Atlantic Ocean. A long trip indeed from this location in western New England.

Down cut stream, note rocks on right showing location and level of Taylor Brook prior to Hurricane Irene.

As I turn around to examine the steeply cut stream bank I can see a most interesting morphology. This vertical slice in the earth reveals much. I can see the top horizon of the soil, referred to as an “A” horizon, that is primarily formed from organic material. It is about 10 inches thick, deep, dark, and rich. Below it there is a deep layer of round cobble; stones of various sizes but all smooth and worn from years of tumbling. This tells me that the stream channel used to be further to the north, and after some great storm event like the one we just had it moved to the south by six or seven yards. Beneath the smooth stone cobble there is a deep gray layer of silt. The gray color tells me it was long saturated; remaining wet enough to color strip the iron out of the soil resulting in this slate color that glistens with water in the morning sun. This condition likely reflects the water level of the old stream bed. The present stream bed, at which I stand at the edge of, is nearly four feet lower. The layer of gray silt is deep. The soil texture and color on this cut bank are consistent right down to where my feet stand at the edge of the new stream bed. This silt gray soil likely extends all the way until it meets bedrock; perhaps 30 or 40 feet beneath the bottom of my feet.

I have lived along this stream for 38 years. As a casual observer I have witnessed many small changes over this time period. I have witnessed the undercutting of banks, trees toppling into the stream as the soil is slowly eroded beneath the tree’s roots, and the relocation of moderate sized boulders, smaller cobble, and the bed load of the stream in the many storms over the years. In 1987 we had a major flood and washout that cut away large areas of the banks after 9 inches of rain on an April night. The flood was severe enough that it devastated out our road and the down stream bridges. For quite a while after the storm we used to dive our old Land Cruiser across the streams where the bridges were washed out to get to civilization where we could buy groceries and sundries for our family. My oldest son Brendan was four years old at the time and I remember how he used to shriek with glee from his car seat as the Land Cruiser went down the steep bank, through the shallow stream, and climbed the bank on the other side only to continue down what was left of the road and do it all over again at the next stream crossing where another bridge was washed out. In his four year old mind nothing could be more fun. But even in that storm the stream did not cut down into the underlying soils like it did in the late August storm of 2011.

A slice of the newly exposed soil profile, note gray soils indication hydric soils that were formerly below stream channel.

These thoughts bounce around my mind like the round ball in the old 1980′s Pong computer games. I realize that I have to adjust the way I think about stream morphology. I always assumed that streams change shape and form slowly; a millimeter at a time over many years. It now occurs to me that these streams, at least the smaller ones like Taylor Brook, are shaped by cataclysmic events like Irene last summer. What I thought would take thousands of years to occur, the down cutting of a stream by nearly five feet, took place in about 16 hours. That the force of nature can change a landscape so quickly and so dramatically is truly mind boggling. Having witnessed this event in person makes it easier to comprehend. I will never forget standing with Maureen in what was left of the road watching the raging stream. The rushing water and tumbling boulders were deafening. Gigantic boulders as big as ten feet across could be seen careening down this narrow stream channel. The constant and loud banging they made as they collided with each other was downright scary. That water in this small stream could carry enough energy and fury to move boulders that weighed tons and tons was truly awesome. It seemed to be natural anarchy at its worse. We dared not stay watching for too long for fear of a boulder jumping the banks and taking us out. Even from our house two hundred and fifty feet away the constant rumble and roar was frightening. Savage nature at its worse.

My pondering all of this is interrupted by my sudden realization that I am surrounded by a cloud of black flies. These tiny flies seek my blood for reproduction. They are beyond persistent and will stop at nothing to forage on what I have to offer. Their mere presence is a mystery to me. Black flies lay their eggs on the stones and cobble in the stream. There the pupae develop over about a year and eventually mature into the terrestrial fly that we are all familiar with. What bothers me is that there is likely not one single stone, soil particle, cobble, or boulder that was here last summer. It seems to me that the black fly larvae in this stream should all be crushed, washed away, or transported far, far away. The only answer that I can conjure up in my mind is that I am experiencing black flies that emerged from larvae transported here by the storm. What are the chances that the eggs could have stayed attached to the rocks and gravel as they were tumbled down a raging stream where it seems as if nothing else survived.. The bed load of soil particles, rocks, and boulders were so forceful that it stripped all of the bark off of a tree that fell into the tree and got lodged between two boulders. How could black fly eggs stay attached and alive in the midst of all that power and force? It occurs to me that someone ought to look into the substance that the black flies use to attach their eggs to the rocks. My memory seems to remember that it is a spit-like material that they produce from chemicals in their own body. Beyond velcro and rivaling super glue it may have valuable uses for humans.

Photo of Taylor Brook's new position on the landscape, north and lower than before Irene in August of 2011.

My original reason for coming down to look at the stream was to see if I could see any brook trout. For those of you haven’t witnessed these fish that locals call “square tails” they are one of the most beautiful fish in North America. These fish are not true trout but rather members of the related char family. Like all char the basic background color of the fish is dark (trout are light). The brook trout has many yellow and pink spots on the upper body. The lower body is salmon pink, tangerine, and white. The fins are generally pink with a beautiful white outline along the edge of the fin. They are native to these parts of New England. They crave cold, clean water and are a sign of a pristine environment. I have been wondering if any survived the storm and the aftermath. The waters remained cloudy and murky, signs that they were carrying soil, for about 6 weeks. Irene was followed up by another 30 inches of rain over this period. The streams remained full. They were sediment loaded. Both a dangerous condition for a fish that loves clean, pure water.

I had heard from acquaintances that some brook trout have survived. Based on my earlier theory of their being little of no remaining macroinvertebrate forage in the stream I wondered what they would eat. This new stream bed down cut is at the base of a newly formed miniature waterfall. Two large quartzite boulders got wedged into the stream channel resulting into an upstream pool and a downstream plunge cut. I am standing in front of the plunge cut where there is enough oxygenated water to support an entire colony of brook trout. I reach into my vest pocket and pull out a tin that contains some worms harvested from our compost bin. I throw one into the outside of dark water where I see it settling towards the bottom. Before it even gets to the bottom I see a dark shadow zip to the worms position, snatch it up, and retreat to the cover of an over hanging rock. Brook trout possess amazing aquatic athletic abilities. They are hydrodynamic and incredibly fast. They can swim, seemingly effortlessly, against strong currents and they can jump over high barriers while swimming upstream. This particular trout harvested to worm so quickly it was barely visible. These char had survived!

Did they hide in the recesses of bank undercuts during the storm thereby avoiding the most dangerous forces? And how had they survived the month and a half of silt laden water without it plugging their sensitive gills? Had they found small out-of-the-way areas where the water remained clean enough for them to survive? Or had they migrated into the very small streams that feed these larger brooks where cleaner and less violent water prevailed until the water receded and allowed them to return at a time when conditions were better and more appropriate for their survival? I just don’t know, but given the fury of this stream it seems nothing short of a miracle to me that they are here at all.

I toss in another worm. Same results, but a smaller fish. I find myself smiling, from ear to ear, as I think about how wonderful it is that this fish could survive such terrible and threatening conditions. I love the surprises that the natural world has in store for us. They seem endless and far beyond the reaches of my imagination!

New hobblebush leaves!

I look downstream. About 100 yards away the bank is not nearly as incised. The brook bed, although still down cut, is closer to its original elevation. It is a good place to exit the stream bed as I start to wander back to my house. The round stones are slippery and a challenge to the neuropathy in my feet that I experience since back surgery. I slide and stumble several times but manage to stay on my feet. My rubber boots have adequate tread and I stay upright. And that is a good thing considering the water temperatures is still in the lower 40 degree (Fahrenheit) range.

There is a naturally graded intermittent stream channel where I exit. It makes the perfect ramp and leaving the stream is easy. Tall white ash trees and sugar maples fill the woods along the road. As I start to walk away from the stream I see a good stand of ostrich fern just breaking the surface of the rich soil from which it grows. The fronds are still wound into a tight coil; shaped like a nautilus. They are ripe for the picking and a take a few for dinner. I am careful to leave the majority behind so that future generations may still grace this stream corridor. I clean the lint out of my vest pocket and tuck the fiddleheads into the enclosure for safe travel back to the house.

I am leaving this stream and this moment with a good meal, a new knowledge of stream dynamics, and many unanswered questions about the relationship between the biota of this stream and the mechanisms they hold and use to survive cataclysmic events. Like all my trips in the wild I emerge with more questions than answers.

Perhaps these questions are the only constant in a natural world that changes at will and without my full understanding.

At the top of the Deerfield River watershed, the Green Mountain National Forest and Somerset Reservoir.

Written for www.wildramblings.com in April of 2012

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Jeff sat in the other end of the 15 foot fiberglass water craft. It was an early evening during late May near the shores of Lake Ogascanon in the Abitibi-Temiscaming area of western Quebec. I was having difficulty seeing Jeff in the other end of [...]]]>

Jeff sat in the other end of the 15 foot fiberglass water craft. It was an early evening during late May near the shores of Lake Ogascanon in the Abitibi-Temiscaming area of western Quebec. I was having difficulty seeing Jeff in the other end of the boat. From my vantage point I could see a fuzzy outline of the perimeter of his body. My face was covered with a veil no-see-um netting. This veil was part of the bug suit that I was wearing and it only partially obscured my vision; the real culprits were the thousands of black flies that filled the air.

Smitty squirmed in the middle of our fishing craft that day. I could see him fairly clearly slapping bugs as he tried to rig a new stick bait on his fishing line. I began to hum the old camping song “slap, slap, slap, the bugs are biting, cheer up camper I’ve got one.”

It is hard to imagine so many bugs unless you have actually encountered them. In this wilderness there was no shortage of black flies on that evening. Only our bug suits and the oncoming night could save us. Black flies go away when the black shroud of darkness covers the sky. They are usually replaced by hordes of mosquitoes who can be every bit as troublesome. We weren’t going to stop fishing. The walleye were striking for the first time on this trip so between casts we brushed the black flies off of our hands trying to keep the bites to a minimum and reeled in what fish we could. We would keep a few walleyes for our next meal, but most would be returned to the cold water in hopes that fishing for future generations would be just as productive as it was on this day.

Black flies are a curious feature of the outdoors. Outdoor enthusiasts often pretend that there are few bleak moments in their wilderness adventures. Those who travel significantly north, especially those who travel north of the 45^th parallel and beyond, know that insects can be a serious problem, particularly in the spring. Some areas in the far north are known to be uninhabitable at certain times of the year because the insects are such a nuisance that they can create a serious impact on not only the enjoyment of the wilds, but the health of the person enjoying them. Millions of insects can hatch nearly simultaneously under the right circumstances and cover the landscape in a blanket-like fashion in search of the blood of animals.

Black flies require moving water. Here they lay their eggs. Moving water carries a lot of oxygen which provides critical habitat for the larval and pupae stage of the black fly. Black fly larvae can be found attached to rocks, vegetation, sticks, old decaying leaves, and all kinds of other debris as long as the water carries a lot of oxygen. It is mostly the individual species of black fly that will determine which larva is found on which medium. There are literally hundreds and hundreds of black fly species, each having its’ own requirement.

The larvae anchor themselves to some sort of debris with silk threads. They actually migrate downstream by producing a long strand of thread allowing movement within a stream bed to more favorable conditions. Sometimes there are a few individuals attached to a single thread, and sometimes there are thousands of individuals; again this is dependent upon the type of species utilizing the ecosystem. In most cases the larvae are attached to a rock or other debris at the end of their abdomens. Their head faces downstream and they use mouth brushes to filter food out of the moving water.

The larvae can go through multiple stages, gradually maturing until they form a pupa, the final transformation stage before they emerge to the surface as an adult black fly. Black fly larvae can stay in the larval stage anywhere from a few weeks to many months, depending upon the species. When it is time for the adult to emerge from the pupal case, it hitches a ride on an air bubble and when the bubble reaches the surface the adult fly emerges into its new environment above the surface of the water for a short stint in the open air.

The adult black fly has a short time in this new environment, usually limited to only a few weeks. During this time only the female bites larger animals for their blood. She actually slits the skin with her mouth, administers an anticoagulant, and drinks as much blood as she can. Blood has some use in reproduction, but recent research has shown that some species can reproduce with no blood at all. Female black flies of different species have different blood preferences. Some prefer humans, while others may prefer particular birds, livestock, or members of the deer family. After the male and female breed the female returns to her watery origin and lays eggs on some sort of debris in the moving water.

The prolific numbers of black flies in the north country may be, in part, due to an abundance of clean moving water that favors this tiny fly. Wilderness areas, with only small areas of human influence that could degrade water quality, seem to be some of the best environments for this petulant little insect. It is ironic that as humans have cleaned moving waters near civilization in an effort to improve the environment black fly populations have responded to the this new found environment with burgeoning populations.

As filter feeders, black fly larvae likely have a positive effect on water quality. Black flies are also an important source of forage for many insectivores.

Many species of black flies prefer cooler weather and don’t do well in warm weather conditions. As the sun gets higher in the sky and the days get longer black fly populations drop off to a point where they are negligible.

Dusk approaches as the sun sinks below the horizon on the opposite side of Lake Ogascanon. The palate of colors disperses as an absence of light starts to consume the sky. The black flies are finding their way to shore and resting in the vegetation along the banks. I can now see more than Jeff’s silhouette in the bow of our boat. He is fiddling with a tangled reel. He is still fully sheathed in his bugsuit. Smitty, in the middle seat of our boat, unzips the veil of his bug suit. He is seeking freedom from the restrictions of the bug armor we are forced to wear. For one brief moment I forget and think we are home free. Just one moment without the aggravating nuisance of bugs would be greatly welcomed. Without warning the buzz of a mosquito is heard, and then another, and then many more. Smitty zips his bugsuit veil shut, swears to himself, and the onslaught of a new invader is about to begin. I begin, once again, to hum, “slap, slap, slap, the bugs are biting” as I cast into the dark waters before me.

Originally written for the Heath Herald in May of 2009.

Lyrics to “Cheer up Camper”

Slap, slap, slap the bugs are biting

Cheer up camper I’ve got one.

Well I’ll punch him in the snout,

and I’ll pull his teeth all out,

and he’ll never bite a camper ever again!

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This time of year, the intersection of winter and spring, is a most opportune time to reflect on what was and what might be. The landscape on this day holds a blend of snow and stark bare ground. Northern slopes still hold full snow cover while south facing slopes and flat land are [...]]]>

Clintonia

This time of year, the intersection of winter and spring, is a most opportune time to reflect on what was and what might be. The landscape on this day holds a blend of snow and stark bare ground. Northern slopes still hold full snow cover while south facing slopes and flat land are a patchwork of white and brown. The landscape reveals a dovetail pattern of last winter and the upcoming spring. Melting snow has formed rivulets on bare ground. Finger like patterns created an undulating edge that has both coves and peninsulas. Faint hues of green can be seen blended in with the dry, dead grass. It is as if I am looking forward and backward simultaneously. As winter slowly retreats the first signs of spring peek out from underneath layers of weathered duff.

This past winter was exceedingly mild and somewhat dry. There is no deep snow pack to melt and refill our streams, ponds, and groundwater supplies. If the water in these natural vessels are to reach normal spring capacity than we will have to rely on wet weather ahead. In order to achieve what was not given to our region this past winter season we will need to look forward to many gray, rainy days. And this might sound depressing to some but the idea of going into summer with insufficient groundwater is a much more daunting thought. Our forests need ample amounts of water in our soil to remain healthy and vibrant. Wildlife is inextricably linked to adequate water supplies, both on the surface and in the earth. And in rural areas where each of us have own private well, clean and ample ground water is paramount to our daily lives. No, an adequate number of rainy days this spring isn’t a bad thing at all. What we need are slow, steady, and enduring rains; the kind that soak in to our soil, replenish our surface water, and does not create havoc with flooding and erosion.

Blueflag Iris

The mild winter was very favorable to larger mammals and most overwintering birds. Vegetative forage was easier to access. Large mammals did not have to expend huge amounts of energy wading through deep snows and breaking through icy surface crusts. Birds were able to forage at ground level for much of the winter. At our homestead we noticed that our bird feeders were not well utilized except when winter storms were approaching or had just passed. Evidently the birds that normally dine at our feeders found natural food throughout our forests and fields. Some small mammals had a very tough winter! Native mice and voles that normally tunnel around underneath the snow in search of seeds and other vegetative forage, were left exposed to the elements and predators by our mild winter. This coupled with last years nonexistent acorn crop will likely lead to a sharp decline in small rodent populations. This will have a domino effect on larger predators who rely on rodent population for food. Fox, coyotes, fisher, bobcat, owls, and hawks will all suffer in the long run if rodent populations experience a steep drop. Changes in predator populations as the result of poor forage on rodent populations would likely lag by about a year.

Partridgeberry

These connections between climate, wild animal and plant populations, and humans should remind us of the importance of each and every part of our natural ecosystem. Every element, both living and nonliving are linked and interdependent. Alterations outside of the natural and expected scheme of our planet will likely have consequences. Consequences that could prove to be more than inconvenient and, in fact, difficult to live with.

Yellow Birch

I will miss the solemn winter walks in the forest. There are tracks in the snow to be found. Trails to be followed. Trees and shrubs to be identified. But it is just the quiet woods that I enjoy the most. Perhaps it is during these winter walks when I am most reflective, most astute. A harsh winter day, with a frigid wind blowing into my face and the biting cold nipping at my fingertips, can be bleak reminder of how fragile life is. It makes me appreciate not only the moment but what has been. On those days when I am alone in the woods my memories are clear; my childhood, my family, my adventures, and all those days in the wild come alive. It is somehow ironic that a white, quiet landscape can lead to such life in my thought. It is the reason that I generally exit the winter woods with a smile on my face.

Spring Brook

I will look forward to spring. The first yellow colts foot pushing up through last years leaves on the ground and revealing its beautiful flower; a vibrant contrast to all the nonliving around it. I will look forward to spring brook trout flirting with the sunlight along the edge of a dark, sparkling pool in a freshwater brook. I will look forward to soft rainy mornings and bright sunny afternoons. I will look forward to wearing just a T-shirt and feeling the warm sun on my skin. I will look forward to the feeling of hope, a feeling endemic to the spring season. I will look forward to deer fawns, baby rabbits, and spring peepers. And I will look forward to the first days in the vernal forest; the first delicate plants decorating the forest floor, leaf buds on branches about to burst open, and the singing of birds, in my mind the best music in the world.

Loon

This time of year has a rhythm, almost a heart beat. I want to feel each thump. I want to hear the gentle cadence. I want to see the throb of life and I want to smell each pulse. With every cell of my body and through the pores in my skin, I want to absorb all that this time of year has to offer. I want to experience the end of winter and the beginning of spring.

This time of year, the alliance of the beginning and end. The union of death and life. The coupling of all that ever was and ever will be. It is a time that should be held gently in my arms while I take in the sweet breath of what is. It is a time to look beyond the obvious and search for the not so apparent. It is a time to behold.

Originally written for the Heath Herald in March of 2012.

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Since man has been recording temperatures in this region never has the month of March been so warm. Temperatures well into the 70′s, about 30 degrees above average, have consumed the entire week. Our flora has been fooled into thinking spring has arrived and has responded with flowers, buds, and the greening of [...]]]>

Fireweed

Since man has been recording temperatures in this region never has the month of March been so warm. Temperatures well into the 70′s, about 30 degrees above average, have consumed the entire week. Our flora has been fooled into thinking spring has arrived and has responded with flowers, buds, and the greening of grass. Next week promises to take back this fantasy. The weather forecasters predict highs in the lower 30′s in mid-week, with lows in the teens.

Labrador Tea

This type of deep freeze will wreak havoc on those plants that were fooled. Flowers will be lost, the future of fruits born from these flowers will be dashed. Leaf buds will suffer, but are better prepared for the unpredictable nature of a New England spring. If buds have not broken, the leaves will likely form in a semi-normal state. The buds that have broken, a good example being the ubiquitous red maple, will yield damaged leaves. The leaves may recover with time and fully perform their photosynthesizing function, even if a little misshapen from the damaging freeze.

Bloodroot

Sheep laurel, lichen, bedrock

The local newspaper interviewed a scientist at the University of Massachusetts Climate System Research Center. This fellow pointed out that one year does not make any affirmative statements about global warming or climate change. He went on to say that it is the body of evidence over a long period that will help us to make conclusions. I was a bit surprised that he failed to mention that we have nearly three decades of information that support this climate change idea. But as a scientist I knew he was trying to portray himself and his colleagues as the objective observers; those that will wait for all of the data before declaring the result one way or the other.

Bunchberry Dogwood

As an ecologist who spends time in the field and not in some god forsaken laboratory I must admit I’m a little more forward on these matters. In the past decade I’ve witnessed painted turtles sunning themselves on floating logs in February when the ice should have been several feet thick. I’ve seen vernal pool species like spotted salamanders scurrying across dry land in search of breeding habitat in the end of February in 50 degree weather in contrast to previous years there was three to four feet of snow on the ground. In my travels along stream corridors I’ve experienced black flies in early April; a full month before they should emerge from the stream beds in which the larvae inhabit. I’ve stumbled upon one of the earliest woodland wildflowers, spring beauty, well before March 21^st and a full month before they traditionally bloom. And I’ve spied black bears emerging from dens in February because of rising temperatures with no substantial spring food on the horizon for weeks if not months. These are but a few of the illustrations I’ve witnessed that make me wonder.

These are merely casual observations. I store them in my head. Within the pure mechanisms of the scientific method I should not draw any conclusions from these encounters. They are simple examples of evidence. To assume they are connected to the changes in weather patterns would be premature.

But still, I can’t help wondering.

What the hell is going on?

Lady Slipper and Bunchberry

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