Since November, newly minted Maine Master Naturalist Dawn Wood and I have co-led a program we call Wednesday Wanders for Loon Echo Land Trust in Bridgton, Maine. This past week, channel 8 WMTW reporter Jacob Murphy and his videographer Ethan joined us for a tramp into a vernal pool at LELT’s Tiger Hill Community Forest in Sebago.
Here’s the clip: Hometown Maine: Sebago
Take a listen as Aurora, Marie, and Henry comment on the experience. It’s this and soooo much more.
Somehow we thought the rain wouldn’t fall upon our hike today, until it did. And so we sat in the truck for about 15-20 minutes, waiting for the drops to slow down, which they did.
The rain, however, enhanced everything. And as the sun came out, the water and warmth combined to create a Black Fly Festival, one which will last for several more weeks.
But, April/May showers do bring May flowers, and I sooo love the pastel colors that Hobblebush produces, its non-fertile showy flowers on the edge meant to entice insects to visit about a hundred tiny fertile flowers preparing to bloom in the center.
In wet seeps, Round-leaf Yellow Violets did show off their cheery faces, with violet-veined runways showing the way to the nectary, much like lights at an airfield that aid landings.
And fortunately My Guy didn’t question the fact that I was taking more photos of Red Trillium, for I’ve hardly reached the trillion I intend to take. Really though, in a few weeks our attention will turn toward his beloved Lady’s Slippers, and there are comparatively fewer trilliums than slippers in the forests through which we wander.
Because of the rain, Lungwort, a foliose lichen consisting of a fungus and a green algal partner living together in a symbiotic relationship with a cyanobacterium, showed off its greenliness since the alga had kicked into action to provide food for the fungal structure. It’s sensitive to air pollution and habitat loss, so spotting it is always a treat and reminds us of why we love living here in western Maine.
Below the summit, we paused to share lunch with the Black Flies and take in the view of the mountains, though many were obscured by the cloud cover.
On our descent, there were more hues of green to add to the art palette in the form of the larger Rock Tripe, an umbilicate foliose lichen, and Rock Tuft Moss scattered in its midst.
At a beaver pond, we noted several beaver lodges that looked abandoned and a long dam, but it was the reflection of the sky and clouds that also garnered our attention. The day had transformed as was visible both above and below.
Back at home, I wandered out to the vernal pool to check on the activity. A few days ago I realized that tadpoles were beginning to emerge from egg masses, and today’s warmer weather brought even more into the picture, which in this case included both what I could see under water, as well as the reflection of trees and sky upon the water.
It was when I stopped looking into the depths, however, and focused upon the scene before me, that I realized I was seeing something I’ve never noticed before.
As I had approached the pool, I saw that it had a coating of Birch and Maple pollen and thought with a smile of a fourth grader spotting such last year and looking confused as he asked me if it was ice. No Daniel, it’s not ice. But his initial reaction made sense.
What I noticed today was that the pollen added a rainbow to the water’s surface as the sun got lower in the sky. Yellow by the far shore, orange, red, purple, blue, and green.
So, what caused this rainbow to appear? I’m a huge fan of taking a stick to a Balsam Fir blister to gather some resin and then tossing it into a puddle or still water to watch the natural resins or essential oils appear. Was that happening here?
Maybe this was from decaying vegetation and the sun being at the right angle?
Maybe it had something to do with the pollen as well as the sun’s angle?
I don’t know, but certainly it was fun that this day which began with rain, and showed off a variety of vibrant colors during our five-mile hike, should end somewhere under the rainbow.
In case you are missing snow, I thought I’d bring you some today. But only because about a month ago, the day after Palm Sunday and a major snowstorm here in the north country, My Guy and I went to Diana’s Baths in Bartlett, New Hampshire, to hike.
It was the first of two storms in a matter of less than two weeks that dropped almost two feet of snow each and transformed Lucy Brook into a winter wonderland. Here’s a bit of history from northconwaynh.com: In the 1860s, after building a house and barn on the banks of the brook, George Lucy built a water wheel powered sawmill. In the 1890s, George built a 12-room boarding house for tourists to visit the site. In the 1930s Chester Lucy built a concrete dam with a water feed and turbine system to replace the water wheel used to power the sawmill. Both the rooming house and sawmill were eventually sold to the US Government and have become part of the National Forest land. Due to the deterioration, the buildings were eventually removed from the site in the 1960s. Remnants of the site can still be seen today including the old cellar holes and parts of the dam system, feed tube and turbine gears used to power the sawmill.
Today, it looked much more summer-like in appearance, but still so much water flows due to snow melt in the surrounding mountains, and it’s BRRRRR.
As we ventured forth, I spotted many a boulder experiencing the bad hair day of Common Polypody Fern and every once in a while try to teach My Guy a wee bit about a species. I tell him that someday he can co-lead a nature walk with me. He, of course, guffaws. But ask him what poly and pody mean and he may remember many and feet, for the fern fronds grow from creeping rhizomes.
Last year’s sori (group of spores) were still visible on the underside of some leaves. The sori located in rows on each side of the mid-vein, are circular, orangish brown and not covered by tissue (indusium).
Because we were in a damp environment beside the brook, False Hellebore leaves, with their pleated presentation, brightened the morning. And held raindrops signifying yesterday’s weather.
We also encountered numerous Hobblebush shrubs, some even featuring flowers preparing to open into what will be a fantastic display on another day. On this day, it was enough to see their accordion leaves beginning to unfurl, and those flowers presenting like a bunch of worms crawling over each other as if to say, “Me first. Me first.”
We crossed tributaries several times though we didn’t actually cross Lucy Brook as originally intended for the water was still too high for us to manage safely. But . . . we bushwhacked for a bit before sitting upon some tree roots to take a lunch break.
It was while My Guy sat there, that I poked around and discovered this–Wall Scalewort, a leafy liverwort. Liverworts differ from mosses in that the leaves are typically arranged in rows of two with a possible third row below, while moss leaves whorl around the stem. And most mosses have mid-ribs, which liverworts lack.
That said, the Wall Scalewort closely resembles Shingle Moss, which I spotted along this same tributary in March.
But a closer look today made me realize that I could see the leaf arrangement was succubous where the bottom edge was visible, as opposed to incubous. Succubous arrangement is like roof shingles that don’t let the rain in, while incubous leaves are arranged so the top edge is visible and do let the rain in. Thank you Sue Alix Williams in Mosses & Common Liverworts of the Northeast for that explanation.
Eventually we reached a turn-around point and came up with Plan B for the rest of today’s hike as we made our way out. While I was able to cross with my high leather hiking boots, My Guy chose to take his boots and socks off and watch his feet turn red from the chill. Thankfully, his better half, ahem, that would be me, had packed a towel because we suspected this could be the case.
Now you might find this as odd, but since our discovery of the new privies last month, we’ve been quite taken with the artwork completed by Kennett High School art students in 2023.
Unbeknownst to us at the time, the paintings were a perfect segue from one trail to another.
And so we drove down the road to Echo Lake State Park and tried to convince the warden that even though we live in Maine, our hometown is just over the border and we should be able to hike the trails for free as New Hampshire Seniors don’t have to pay. He kindly informed us that the park isn’t officially open yet, as so it was free, but if we return in a couple of weeks, it will cost us $4 each. Not bad in the scheme of things.
Before us stood White Horse Ledge, one of the trails we had considered if we’d been able to cross Lucy Brook from our earlier destination. We were green with envy as we looked across at it.
But about half way around the lake, we found a different trail to the summit and decided to follow it. That said, we found several trails to the summit and the first we chose led us astray as it eventually petered out.
Despite that, we were thrilled. Okay, maybe it was me rather than we. Semantics.
And so today I celebrated my first meeting of 2024 with Sessile-leaf Bellwort, aka Wild Oat. And where there was one, there were a million, the subtle yellow bell dangling quietly below.
And then . . . and then, I spotted a Stinking Benjamin, or Red Trillium almost in flower.
And a few steps away . . . full flower mode. Trillium is a reference to the fact that the floral parts of the plant occur in threes: three leaves, three petals, three sepals.
Going forth, I’m sure I’ll honor a trillion trilliums, but these were the first and therefore the most special.
As we made our way back to a better trail, the leaves of Trout Lily caught my attention and then much to my delight I found two in flower. The leaves are maroon-mottled and the nodding flower features petals and sepals bent backwards to expose six brown stamens. This one is such a treat for me because I only meet it when I least expect to do so.
Once on the actual trail upon which we had to scramble to climb toward the ledgy summit, I spotted another that only grows in such habitats.
Take a look at the black arrow in the photo. That is one hairy stalk rising from a rosette of basal leaves.
This native perennial wildflower, Virginia Saxifrage, grows out of cracks in rock, and has been known as a rock breaker even though it doesn’t actually break rocks, but rather, likes to grow in those fractures. It’s such a sweet little flower that is easy to overlook.
From the ledges above, we had a great view of Echo Lake, and the mountains beyond, with Cranmore’s Ski Area showing the last of the melting snow.
That brings me back to the snow of a month ago. I took it upon myself to figure out a way to make people smile.
And today, we did the same, though not with snow like this. But rather, with our actual smiles and friendly hellos as we greeted each hiker we met. Even if they weren’t smiling or making eye contact with us at first, we got them all to return the greeting and had some nice chats with a few.
I told My Guy that it kinda reminded me of our New York adventure last weekend, when I made it a point to try to make eye contact with each person we passed on the sidewalk or trail and to always leave them with a smile. A few actually looked at me and turned on a smile, which seemed to surprise them.
This was indeed a smile of a Mondate . . . on so many levels.
I love to venture off and explore other places but more and more I feel drawn to just head out the back door and see what this land of field and forest and vernal pools and puddles has to offer. And so I do. Almost daily.
It’s land where the Red Maples are in full flowering mode, this cluster being male, each with five to ten slender stamens.
As beautiful as the flowers are, one of the real reasons I head out so often right now is that the vernal pools are full of egg masses, both Wood Frog and Spotted Salamander. Somehow, this year, except during Big Night, I missed the Wood Frog activity in the pools I frequent, but by the amount of egg masses, I know they were there.
What cracks me up is that it isn’t just vernal pools that are used for the canoodling ritual. Sometimes, if there’s a rut on the way to the pool and he decides to start calling, and she responds, well, you know how it goes.
And so it must have, for this one mass is in the rut pictured above.
It reminded me of the two sets of Wood Frogs we had to gently move off the road during Big Night. They couldn’t even wait until they found a rut.
It’s only been about two or three weeks since the eggs were laid and fertilized, and already the embryos are taking on their tadpole shape.
In another location, I spotted a Spotted Salamander egg mass that was also deposited about two weeks ago, at a time when snow melt and rain were the norm. We’ve had some rain since then, but the tide is quickly going down in the pools. Wait. There is no tide in these. Being rain/snowmelt dependent, the water is quickly evaporating and this mass probably will become food for something rather than turn into 100 or so salamander tadpoles.
But in “My” vernal pool, where I put “My” in quotes because I don’t actually own the land upon which it is located, I just think I do, the salamander embryos are also taking form.
Of course, when one is stooped over and staring into the water, there’s more to see like this Water Strider. Water Striders are so cool as they skate along the surface thanks to some hairs at the ends of their legs that we can’t see. At least I can’t. Those hairs don’t get wet and instead attract water molecules. I placed an arrow on the photo because the shadow a strider creates with what appear to be larger than life feet speaks to this adaptation.
And in this case, the arrow points to a Water Boatman. I love how his tiger-like body design, though not intentionally, mimics the oak leaf above which he swam. Unlike the skating strider, a Water Boatman uses its hind legs as oars.
In one of the shallowest pools I know of outback, Mosquito and Caddisfly Larvae move about, the first suspended in the water column just below the surface, breathing air through tubes at the end of the abdomen. The Northern Case Maker Caddisflies took advantage of all the plant material, including a Red Maple flower to add a bit of class to its house.
When I wasn’t looking into water, I did notice a few other things like about five or six Greater Bee Flies frequenting one area. The cool thing about bee flies is that they do look like bees, but don’t sting. While they feed on nectar, they also parasitize the nests of solitary bees and I have to wonder if that was what their behavior was about.
Several Six-spotted Tiger Beetles with their metallic green coloring, dashed here and there, always on the move as they looked for other insects to devour. Here’s the thing about these beetles–not all have six white spots, or even any spots.
Speaking of spots, I love the violet-blue markings on a Mourning Cloak Butterfly. This species overwinters under tree bark and other protected places as adults, so they are one of the earliest for us to encounter in the spring, along with Question Mark and Comma Butterflies. And then we get to enjoy a second brood in the autumn that will hibernate as adults.
So it’s not all about insects, though I suspect if I look hard enough I will find one in this photo. But it was the first Bluet of the season that I needed to note. Sure, they’ll be commonplace soon, but this one is the harbinger. And it was enhanced by the contrasting red caps of some British Soldier lichens.
As I walked toward home this afternoon, this Turkey Vulture rode the thermals and I took its photo to honor my neighbor for she alerted me Monday to the fact that she’d spotted some vultures and a Bald Eagle in our ‘hood, and we met on Tuesday afternoon to search for a kill site in an orchard behind some other houses. We didn’t find anything, but I love that she was curious. And that occasionally we share natural occurrences with each other and sometimes walk the same stretches of land. Thank you, Karen.
Back home, I was surprised to find these two sharing a feeder, a female Purple Finch on the left and male Cardinal on the right. She would squawk at other finches, but not at the Cardinal. And so they fed simultaneously for a while. If only we could all take a lesson from them.
As a self-confessed home body, I love how the land that surrounds my house and beyond has been my classroom for so long now (30+years), and that it has taught me to celebrate the extraordinary found in everything ordinary.
I remember when we’d take our young sons to cities and I’d hold a tighter than tight grip on their hands, or maybe it was their wrists, as we walked along sidewalks thronging with people. I can’t hold their hands in quite the same way anymore, and in fact, in their presence in a city (the older in Boston and the younger in Brooklyn), since that’s where they’ve both chosen to make their homes at the moment, their confidence and poise and graciousness make me feel comfortable. And they have become incredible tour guides.
And so it was that this past Friday, My Guy and I flew to LaGuardia Airport and began another New York City journey.
We were met at the airport by P, who drove us to the Prospect Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn, where his girlfriend, M, was waiting and had ordered pizza because one of my wishes for the weekend was for a NY-style pie. Well, really, I wanted New Haven style, given my roots, but NY is the next best thing.
The apartment belongs to M’s mother, D, who graciously offered it to us as a home base for our weekend adventure. The view of the Manhattan skyline garnered our attention each morning and night, and we knew the Knicks had won their game Saturday because the Empire State Building showed off their team colors.
For as long as P has lived in Brooklyn, we’ve heard of Prospect Park, which encompasses over 500 acres in the midst of the city and offers habitat and respite for critters of all shapes and forms, including humans.
We had signed up for a two-hour tour with the well-informed Corinne as our guide. Designed in 1865, she explained that the park is considered Frederick Law Olmsted’s and Calvert Vaux’s masterpiece, Olmsted pictured on the left and Vaux on the right. Here, unlike in Central Park, they took advantage of the natural elements, though I was disappointed to learn that they’d filled in kettle holes created by glaciers.
We entered via the Endale Arch, which was built in the 1860s and restored within the last ten years. It was during the restoration when paint and wood panels that had been added because of rain damage were removed, that pine and walnut paneling was discovered.
It’s almost like passing through the welcoming doorway of a church.
I could have spent hours meeting trees in the park, but this was not the time, and so I reveled in the few we did get to know, such as this Camperdown Elm, whose branches grow more or less parallel to the ground giving it a gnarly bonsai appearance. The tree, grown from the Earl of Camperdown’s Scottish estate, was planted here in 1872, but neglected years later until in 1967 Marianne Moore wrote this poem to save it:
I think, in connection with this weeping elm,
of ‘Kindred Spirits’ at the edge of a rockledge
overlooking a stream:
Thanatopsis-invoking tree-loving Bryant
conversing with Thomas Cole
in Asher Durand’s painting of them
under the filigree of an elm overhead.
No doubt they had seen other trees—lindens,
maples and sycamores, oaks and the Paris
street-tree, the horse-chestnut; but imagine
their rapture, had they come on the Camperdown elm’s
massiveness and ‘the intricate pattern of its branches,’
arching high, curving low, in its mist of fine twigs.
The Bartlett tree-cavity specialist saw it
and thrust his arm the whole length of the hollowness
of its torso and there were six small cavities also.
Props are needed and tree-food. It is still leafing;
still there. Mortal though. We must save it. It is
our crowning curio.
Though she passed about fifty years ago, the tree, thanks to Miss Moore, lives on.
Another that struck my fancy was the Osage Orange, though apparently I should be thankful we didn’t visit in the autumn when its softball-sized fruits fall. Then it might not be my fancy that is struck, but rather my head.
Though we only had a moment to glance at tiled ceilings, they were the masterpiece of Spanish engineer Rafael Guastavino. I can only wonder if a sunflower or some other composite flower was the inspiration for this one.
Much to our delight, as we followed the path, a Black Squirrel scampered along the ground and then up a tree. The Black Squirrel is a color phase of the Eastern Gray Squirrel (Sciurus carolinensis), also known as a melanistic variant due to a recessive gene that causes abnormal pigmentation. Do you see it peeking at us?
While our bird sightings were many, especially of Robins and Sparrows, we spotted one male Cardinal, one Mallard, and this one Cormorant swimming in murky water.
The species of the most abundance, however, was the Red-eared Slider Turtle. Though outlawed for sale today, Red-eared Sliders are the most common turtles kept as pets. They live long lives and need ever increasing habitat and food, thus many have been abandoned–their owners slipping them into the waters of the park unceremoniously in a practice that is illegal.
Thanks again to the generosity of our hostess, we also visited Brooklyn Botanical Gardens where Cherry Blossoms and an array of colors wowed us and thousands of others.
It was fun to glimpse over the shoulders of two artists and notice how their work reflected the scene.
Though these tulips each had a name, I would have called this spot the ice cream stand for the flavors seemed to abound.
Beside water, Horsetails or Equisetums did grow.
As did the almost ready to unfurl crosiers of Cinnamon Ferns. I love their woolly coats.
It was here that I had a brief encounter with another tree new to me, a Horned Maple. Acer diabolicum leaves are five lobed and coarsely toothed. The common name comes from paired horn-like projections from the seeds, but we were too early to spy these. We did get to see it in flower, though I think I’m the only one who noticed.
And I kept wondering where all the pollinators were, though we didn’t get too close to the Cherry Blossoms, but the Honeysuckles lived up to their names and were abuzz with activity.
If I had to name a favorite, it would probably be the Hybrid Magnolia based on its color and form. Simply a masterpiece.
We spent an hour enjoying a masterpiece of another sort, worshiping with others at St. John’s Park Slope, an Episcopal Church with a heavenly choir and an organ that filled the rafters with music both old and new.
And then we took a trip into Manhattan via P’s new truck. Haha. Yes. That is a Tesla truck. Just not my idea of a truck. And no, we did not travel in it, but rather M’s car.
P showed us the large office he works in where ads and films, but mostly ads these days, are produced and edited. And clients are wined and dined in situ. There’s even a staff chef.
And now, when he says he’s working from the office, we can imagine him in this space.
It’s located two doors away from the birthplace of Teddy Roosevelt.
Not being shoppers, we only stepped into a Yeti store, where of course, My Guy announced that he has the products on his shelves back in Maine. And he peered into a closed hardware store, cuze no trip of ours is ever complete without visiting one or two. But then again, no trip of ours is ever complete without stepping along a wooded pathway and noticing the flora and fauna.
But the main purpose of our trip was to visit. Family. And friends. And meet this little powerhouse who knew how to command the crowd.
My Guy was in instant love. And she was so chill.
We loved spending time with one of M’s brothers, her sister and niece, plus M and P. of course. We did meet up with M’s other brother, but somehow I neglected to take a photo. Sorry R.
Over the course of the weekend, world problems were solved and sporting events analyzed by these two.
And one of the highlights was our opportunity to attend their softball game, which they won because we were there, the good luck charms that we are.
He scored a home run, another run, and I can’t remember his other stats, though I’m sure My Guy and P have it in their brains.
M also walloped the ball and got on base each time.
And scored as well. We were mighty impressed because we saw the results of a slide she made into a base last week and how she could run this weekend was beyond our understanding.
At last Monday dawned and P stopped by the apartment to pick up laundry and say goodbye.
Until we meet again, thank you M & P, and D, and all the gang, including P’s colleagues who played in the game or came to cheer on the softball team.
We had a fabulous weekend thanks to all of your planning, and I just finished a bagel that followed us home. Family. Food. Oh, I didn’t even mention Frankies Spuntino and the delish eggplant marinara. And fun.
We love New York. Especially through the eyes of P & M. And then we love returning to Maine.
At the start of today’s hike I met a rock. A rock covered in soft green broom mosses. A rock that invited a caress. And so I did. Repeatedly.
When I mentioned that it was the perfect pet rock to My Guy, he reminded me that it wouldn’t fit in my pocket. Details. Details.
And so our hike continued through a wet area where we gave thanks for the boardwalk system. And for the opportunity to change out our hiking uniform from winter to spring. Oh, we had Muck boots in the truck, but welcomed the opportunity to wear hiking boots, and summer hiking pants, and sweatshirts, and baseball caps instead of winter gear.
The wetland wasn’t so wet, but the water swirled around rocks just below an old mill as we crossed a bridge over the brook known as . . . Mill Brook.
In its lower reaches, we paused to rejoice in how the water swirled around and over and under the boulders and reveled in the fact that their faces were smoothly carved as can only happen in places where so much H20 has flowed for eons.
Leaving the water behind for a time, we met some friends. Beech Trees. Particular American Beech Trees. American Beech Trees more commonly known to us as Bear Claw Trees. And in this case, an oft-visited Bear Claw Tree.
Where there is one there is usually another. And another. And another. We found several, but imagined that many more exist given how many claw marks we found on these trees.
About two miles or more from the trailhead, we followed the spur trail to North Ledge (aka Lunch Ledge) and sat down to dine. Below stood a forest of hardwoods that we’d passed through and we had to wonder how many more Bear Claw Trees we might find if we actually took the time to go off trail and look. One of these days.
I did take time to examine a few fruticose lichens growing on the bark of a hemlock overlooking Lunch Ledge, this one being a Boreal Oakmoss, which is actually a lichen despite its mossy name.
And a Bristly Beard Lichen, with its short bristles decorating each branch.
From North Ledge, it’s at least a mile and a half across the mountain, with ups and downs and all arounds to get to the other side. Including snow. Given that we’d had two spring snowstorms, with the first being March 24, and both dumping a couple of feet upon the landscape, it was no surprise. Should we have donned our Muck boots?
Nope. I poked my hiking pole in at one point and discovered there was at least a foot of snow left in spots, but it was soft and easy to hike through and so we did.
At last we reached the southern side, where the trail turned and hugged the edge of the mountain. It was downhill from there.
But first, a quick break at the outlook, where we actually met the only other person who was on her way out as we were on our way in. Looking west, we could see snow showers in some surrounding mountains, but our day consisted of a few raindrops, sunshine, clouds, and a breeze. Perfect for hiking.
Also perfect for hiking: a delayed dessert of Dark Chocolate McVities! A favorite of mine since 1979 when I devoured their biscuits on a regular basis while attending school in York, England.
Downward we hiked and then we met Mill Brook again as it cascaded forth.
And forth.
And continued forth some more.
We followed as it flowed between a crevasse in the boulders–headed as you might note toward . . . My Guy.
And admired it repeatedly along its course.
Occasionally it fanned out over boulders in its midst.
And plunged into pools.
It was a lot of water and we were thrilled to hike beside it and are still exclaiming over what a fun hike it was. Oh, there was mud. And ice. But those were secondary condtions. So far, we agreed, this was our favorite hike of the year.
Where were we? Where bears of all types roam, including this crazy Bruin, who is usually a Maine Black Bear.
And no, we did not fall, though I know a few of you were wondering because you know my ability to do so at inopportune times. It was the waterfalls that we followed that made this Fall After Fall Mondate at Long Mountain so special.
Thanks as always to Mary McFadden and Larry Stifler. Through their generosity, many trails in the area are open to the public. And through the work of their employee, Bruce Barrett, those trails are well maintained.
It was a dark and dreary night. Repeat. It was a dark and dreary night. Repeat. It was a dark and dreary night.
While most folks would choose to stay inside curled up by the fire while drinking a hot toddy, a number of intrepid community scientists ranging in age from 3 to 70+, donned rain gear (even waders) and reflective vests, cleansed hands of soap and moisturizer, grabbed flashlights and headlamps, and met at 7:30pm in the pre-determined locations.
Their mission each night was the same: Help us help frogs and salamanders cross the road to avoid getting squished by vehicles.
The names and ages of participants changed each night, but the leadership remained the same. As Maine Master Naturalists, Dawn Wood (who took the lead on organizing these events and recording data–a daunting task in the rain and dark and with people spread out and shouting numbers and species at her), Hadley Couraud, and I led the way, all three of us providing information about the different critters and their behavior as the evening progressed. All of this was under the umbrella (pun intended–though no one actually had an umbrella) of Loon Echo Land Trust in Bridgton, Maine. Thank you to Maggie Lynn for creating the sign-up forms, advertising the events, and keeping us posted.
The technique was easy. Once we reached the location of the vernal pool, to which amphibians return each year from their upland habitat, we started scanning the road with our lights. It’s amazing how the mica, small rocks, sticks, and lichens can fool us.
It’s equally amazing how much tiny Spring Peepers resemble small rocks. And how stone cold they are when we lift them up. And how they’d rather stay in our hands than return to the cold earth.
We always noted the direction in which they were headed and that’s the side of the road we took them to, even if it didn’t make sense to us. They knew what they were up to and we were there only to try to keep them alive so they could canoodle for a few nights before heading out of the pools and back to the forest.
Meet a Spring Peeper up close and personal. Note those little toes, which are actually suction cups of a sort, the better to climb vegetation, especially at the edge of or in a wetland, and then to sing their high-pitched songs that announce the males intention of finding a date. Because of the toe pads, peepers were originally thought to be closely related to Tree Frogs but they have since been reassigned as chorus frogs in the genus Pseudacris, which comes from the Greek pseudes (false) and akris (locust) (think of our Dog Day Cicadas and their raspy love songs in the summer).
The species name, crucifer comes from the Latin cruces, meaning “cross,” so named for the dark X or cross on the frog’s back.
A really cool thing happened that first night. A teenager who lived in the neighborhood where we were scanning the road came out to ask what we were doing. And then he joined us, eager to learn as his family had recently moved here from out of state.
After a Spotted Salamander was saved, he ran home to get his camera and stayed until we finally departed. We had hoped he’d join us the next night at a different location, but wonder if he stayed home to help those on his road instead. Whether or not he did that, we loved his enthusiasm and desire to learn.
It soon became clear on the first night that we’d parked in the wrong spot, however right it may have seemed because we could get our vehicles off the road. As people started to leave, we all did a check underneath from all angles to make sure tires would not run over any critters by accident.
And sure enough . . . out crawled a Spotted Salamander. Of course, photo calls came first, and then help was offered to get to the other side.
Even teeny, tiny Spring Peepers had to be saved. And we all commented that we didn’t want to know if we did happen to drive over something. Added to that, we noted most of the vehicles only made it a few feet down the road, before the driver stopped and another amphibian was saved. That and the driving was rather erratic since everyone had gained a new understanding of how much action there is on a rainy night.
The second night found us in a different location that we actually walked about three quarters of a mile to reach, thus lowering our chances of hitting the critters right near the pool which is located directly beside the road, with a vast wetland on the other side of the street.
Wood Frogs, with their dark masks, typically headed toward the pool, where they’ll spend the next two weeks or so, singing for a mate, embracing her in a technique called amplexus, fertilizing her eggs, and trying again and again, until it’s time to hop out and head into the forest for the next 50 weeks.
Because it was dark, the Wood Frogs didn’t seem to mind our presence too much. Some still sang, or rather “wruck, wrucked” their love songs, and others floated in anticipation or chased each other in hopes of finding a female. We even noted a few egg masses clinging to branches, telling us this pool had been busy for a few days already.
Part of the fun in hosting such an event is sharing it with other people who might not typically head out the door after dark. And then seeing smiles on faces as they encountered the critters for the first time.
A cool find on this night was an Eastern Newt crawling across the road. Perhaps because the pool dries up each summer, this one had overwintered either in the wetland or even the upland before returning on this particular night. It felt like an unusual find on the road, though from what I’ve read, it’s not rare. I have seen many Red Efts, the juveniles of this species, their bodies squished by vehicle tires, on this very road in the fall.
Yet again, it was the Spring Peepers who garnered much of our attention.
And some Spotted Salamanders, though not as many as on the first night.
That said, we were thrilled with each find. And found an easy way to help them was to place the laminated ID card created by Maine Master Naturalist Michael Boardman under their bodies. Now don’t you think this guy is crawling onto the card in search of his ID?
As we prepared to walk back to our vehicles that night, Officer Hammond of the Bridgton Police Department happened along. No, he wasn’t going to arrest us for J-walking, though that’s essentially what we did. He was just stopping by because we’d ask Maggie to let the department know of our whereabouts in case anyone wondered what we were doing, but didn’t slow down to ask us. Traffic was high each of the nights. I’ve been doing this for about 22 years, and this year I felt like we had the most traffic. Most drivers were considerate when they saw the cones (courtesy of Hayes Ace Hardware) and vehicle flashers, plus our headlamps and flashlights. And we were all good at yelling “CAR” each time we saw approaching lights, but there were a few who were annoyed and one even had to lean on the horn after passing through the section of road we walked upon.
Night three was the warmest, with temps in the 50˚s and little to no rain. In fact, by the time we were heading home, the moon and stars were visible.
But still, the critters crossed and once again we showed new participants of all ages how to ID them and then help them cross the road.
On this final night, we had several teenagers along for the journey. Two of them had actually driven past us on the first night, slowed down, rolled down the window, and asked if we were okay. When we showed them a photo of a Spotted Salamander, they went home and signed up for a chance to help. Their enthusiasm was incredible.
We peered into the pool again and were amazed at the number of swelled Wood Frog egg masses in their communal cluster–as is the Wood Frog fashion. perhaps to take advantage of being warmer when crowded together, and thus evolve quicker. It’s the swelling that told us they’d been laid a few days before as initially their egg masses are maybe the size of a golf ball, but swell as they absorb water over the days to come.
The action was constant and I encourage you to see how many frogs you can find in this photo. It’s almost like the Hidden Picture of Highlights magazine, or Where’s Waldo?
And twice we spotted Spotted Salamanders swimming in the pool, though I really wanted to see a “congress” of salamanders conducting their mating dance. One of these nights.
As we walked out on the third night, about ten feet from each other we spotted two sets of Wood Frogs in amplexus! They couldn’t even wait to find a room, or pool, for that matter!
We quickly, if awkwardly, helped them off the road because we heard that familiar “CAR!”
One night, two nights, three nights . . . turned into one incredible and extended BIG NIGHT migration.
Our results:
April 10, 2024
21 Spotted Salamanders
40 Spring Peepers
April 11, 2024
7 Spotted Salamanders
102 Spring Peepers
75 Wood Frogs
3 Red-backed Salamanders
1 Eastern Newt
April 12, 2024
13 Spotted Salamanders
268 Spring Peepers
62 Wood Frogs
4 Red-backed Salamanders
2 Green Frogs
1 Eastern Newt
For a grand total of 599 critters helped to the other side of the road. We saw a number of squished ones and had to constantly remind ourselves that they will become food for others.
Thank you to the 39 people who joined us during these three nights--you were incredible and we loved hearing stories of how you want to share this with other members of your family and you are already planning to join us next year.
To go out on a rainy night and help amphibians cross the road is special–for the critters and for us. Thank you to Hadley, Dawn, and Maggie–for being the cool swamp critters that you are! And for letting me be part of the club.
BIG NIGHT 2024–one for the books.
For the fourth time in the last few years, Lake Region Television has featured wondermyway.com. Thanks to producer Evan Miller and station manager Chris Richard for working on this project with me. And to Evan for the original music that accompanies it.
Why not pour your favorite beverage, sit in a comfy chair and watch it here.
Thank you so much for stopping by! I hope you enjoyed the show.
My Guy and I had no idea what our plans were for today. We just knew that we wanted to find a place to enjoy the solar eclipse.
And then the invitation came and friends made connections and wrapped us in their tapestry and welcomed us into their midst so that we might enjoy the celestial event in one of the most beautiful places on Earth in the community of others.
This morning’s sunrise felt a bit like Christmas and so I arose early in anticipation of what was to come. I hope you did the same.
And then a few hours later after an hour and a half drive upta camp, we were welcomed to this place of peace.
The plan was for My Guy and two buddies to head off on their sleds for a few hours while I explored the area via snowshoes before others joined us for the afternoon celebration.
And they were off.
So was I. Who knew that they’d be sledding on April 8 and I’d be snowshoeing. As it turned out for me, it was actually the best snowshoeing adventure of the season, so firm was the snowpack.
Please don’t tell my sister, for I was given some directions about old logging roads and did some zigging and zagging and, of course, checked my GPS frequently, but I really had no idea where I was. And yet . . . I felt completely at home.
I found ledges filled with old friends tucked among the seams like Yellow Birch and Hemlocks growing where most other trees can’t take root.
And Broom Mosses . . .
and architecturally designed spider webs among the offerings.
There were kissing cousin trees . . .
and Striped Maple twigs showing off their growth rings and buds . . .
plus a few offering chandeliers of seeds.
I was told that when I reached the blue blazes, I should turn left to head back to the trail and so I did.
But still there was more to see, including the camp that served as today’s headquarters in view from my location.
Along the way, the flattened, antler-like portrayal of Boreal Oak Moss.
And one of my favorite finds: Beaked Hazelnut catkins.
And maybe the creme de la creme: Beaked Hazelnut flowers in bloom! So tiny. So sweet. So beautiful.
And then . . . and then . . . I discovered this fairy path through the evergreens and I knew there would be riches at the other end.
At the other end I was honored for there stood Alanna demonstrating the phase of today’s solar eclipse with the help of an Oreo cookie. And then she ate it.
Those who had gathered began to play with the shadows as the sun slipped behind the moon and we were all in awe of finger shadows that resembled tree frog’s suction cupped toes.
And crescents formed as the light filtered through tree shadows.
Darkness began to descend in the middle of the afternoon and we all watched the sky change and felt the temperature drop. Suddenly, we were cold again.
It was as if the sun had set, when indeed it still stood high in the sky.
Totality of the solar eclipse lasted about two minutes and we were a group of about 20 ranging in age from about 6 to, um, senior citizens, and every one of us was in total awe.
Before and after totality we watched the light dance on the snow in a way never experienced before.
We checked the tree shadows again, and noted how they had changed as the sun started to appear again.
Thank you to Alanna and Jason for inviting us to your special family place and to Brian for transporting My Guy’s sled. Celebrating this phenomenal event in community served as icing on the cake for an extra special day, with snowmobiling and snowshoeing being the base layers.
Solar Eclipse 2024. One for the books.
Kinda excited to have a post from wondermyway.com published in the spring issue of Maine Natural History Observatory’s Observer Field Journal. Thank you to Celeste Mittelhauser for making it happen again.
You can read the entire article and journal here:
We were in the area. It’s spring. (Until Wednesday that is, when winter is scheduled to return, and here’s the latest from the National Weather Service out of Gray, Maine:
…WINTER STORM WATCH IN EFFECT FROM WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON THROUGH
LATE THURSDAY NIGHT…
And so we headed to Wolfe’s Neck State Park this afternoon cuze we kinda have a love affair with this place in Freeport, Maine.
It’s a place where the forest meets the sea, or at least Casco Bay, and so it brings our two loves together and always gives us a chance to refill the innermost recesses of our lungs with salt air, while still enjoying the woodland trails.
What immediately became clear, however, was the extent of damage the coast has endured this past year due to intense storms. Erosion was evident in so many places. Sadly.
The landscape was also ransacked by the force of the wind. Trees were uprooted–some falling south, others, east, a few west, and even north. We could almost feel the harsher than normal gusts even though we weren’t present for any of these episodes.
And the trails are scattered with pine twigs and needles, which though they soften each footstep, really just bring the destruction closer to our eyes and minds.
There were some, however, or perhaps many, who took advantage of the uprooted trees as great places to think they were hiding from us–the great predators that we are.
Those who work for the park have had a lot of work “cut” out for them and they’ve cleared tree after tree from blocking the trail and our kudos to them.
In almost five miles of hiking trails, we only found a few obstacles, this one being the most difficult to conquer. And really, it wasn’t that difficult, but more inconvenient. And we know that they’ll take care of it soon. They probably just need to give their chainsaws and muscles a brief break. Really. I cannot explain the amount of devastation. It happens every year, but I don’t think we’ve ever seen it to this extent.
But there were other things to notice, such as this Red Squirrel midden that must have been an incredible cache back in the fall, and I wished I’d seen it then.
And the sweet buds of Trailing Arbutus waiting to make their 2024 debut.
But our best sight of the day: Lady’s Slippers in bloom. Oh my. Everything is early this year, but we definitely didn’t expect to find these friends so soon.
Eyeing the ladies is something My Guy loves to do.
Oh, we found a few seed capsules along the way.
And we did see these flowers . . . on the kiosk.
But the photo I took of a Lady’s Slipper dates back to last spring. I hope I gotcha for a moment.
Happy April Fools Day 2024!
Easter came early this year and at our church a spring snowstorm that dumped up to two feet of snow meant that last weekend’s Palm Sunday service had to be held via ZOOM. But with a new rector on board, Reverend Annette went with the flow and then during the week, she was able to offer Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and finally today’s Easter celebration all in person.
It was a week of reflection, as it should be. And a week of searching, like this Winter Stonefly that emerged from a freshwater brook and journeyed up and down and around the obstacles of the forest and snow fo seek a tree. Particularly, the bark of a mature tree. Species mattered not.
The aquatic immature stage of a Winter Stonefly, aka naiad, crawls from the rocky bottom home of the brook where it has spent the last year or more maturing (going through as many as thirty molts)and shredding falling leaves, climbs up through crevices in the snow that covers the brook, finds a plant or some other spot to emerge as an adult, and leaves behind its shed skin, much like a dragonfly or damselfly.
Stoneflies have hammer-like structures on their abdomen that make noise when thumped against a surface, like a tree trunk or a twig or even the ground. This is a mating call. The males drum, and the females drum back, and voila, they find each other and canoodle.
I heard not the drumming for it is not for us to hear, but I have faith that this insect with its veined wings that serve no flying function was successful.
The venation of the Winter Stonefly’s wings was not lost on me as I saw stained glass in their presentation. And was struck by the same when I peered into a quick flowing stream that transported melting snow and noticed the amazing lines and shapes as the water twirled around a rock.
And on both sides of the stream I spotted the prints of one who passes in the night, working behind the scenes and leaves only a trace of its presence. But still, because I recognized these prints, I believed the Bobcat was nearby, perhaps even so close that it kept watch over me without my knowledge. As it should be.
Turkey prints were much more prevalent, but today it was the shape of such that garnered my attention and I could imagine the cross and a being upon it.
The cross theme was equally created in the form of telephone poles leading to the most powerful mountain in New England. Who knew? Light and communication sizzled across the wires for all of us who choose to partake.
An equally power-filled force, some of which is also harnessed for electricity, this swollen river flows to the ocean as waves break over boulders. I see not its full path from source to sea, but trust in its immanence.
And on this day, with the snow melting under bright sun and 50˚ temps, the White Crocus with its lilac-colored runway lines, suddenly bloomed–and the Alleluias are heard ringing across the landscape.
A Purple Crocus added its soprano voice to the Alleluia chorus.
When I spotted this heart upon one of the paths I followed this weekend, I was reminded that hope and awe and wonder and love are captured within my heart and I gave great thanks.
Christ is Risen. A new day has dawned. Alleluia. Happy Easter 2024.
The hype for a predicted snowstorm today kept providing various amounts, rising one hour, falling the next, over the last couple of days. And so I made my own prediction: 1 inch – 12 inches possible.
What I didn’t predict was the number or variety of species that would choose our yard to dine. The snow started to fall during the wee hours of the morning and the birds began visiting before 7am, including this Goldfinch and many of its kin.
I was probably most thrilled to have a male and female Bluebird return. It’s been a couple of months since my neighbor and I have spotted them. Here’s hoping they soon use the nest boxes she has made available.
A male Downy Woodpecker found the suet, frozen as it was.
His female counterpart did a curious thing–she walked across the bottom of the feeder before righting herself to dine where he had been a few minutes prior. I’ve yet to figure out why she chose that approach.
There were territorial wars on the ground, at the feeders, and in the air.
Nothing major came of it, yet . . . but oh what drama.
And an exchange of roles as a Song Sparrow pretended to be a squirrel and dine on the corn . . .
while a Gray Squirrel pretended to be a bird and dine at the feeder.
Both the female and male Cardinals were frequent visitors, and she looked especially dashing today.
As did a Tufted Titmouse and the yard was filled with songs of “Peter, Peter, Peter,” as has been the case lately.
Toward the end of the day Purple Finches showed up and spent lots of time hanging out between one of the feeders and a Quaking Aspen tree.
And a couple of times the Mourning Doves paused on a branch. She winked. At least I think it’s a she and a he because the other day one chased the other and they are always together.
Then they both looked at me as if I’d caught them in a secret moment. Did I?
I love that snow and rain bring in more birds than usual and today was no different.
What was different was that we finally got a real snowstorm on this 23rd day of March. An hour ago the total was over a foot, exceeding my prediction, and it’s still snowing.
Ah March in Maine.
Update: March 24, 7:30am. Twenty-one inches of fluffy snow! Ah March!
You might think of it as a homecoming; a return to that time of year when all begins again. Slowly. Ever Evolving.
A time when one needs to stand watch and listen. And so My Guy and I did yesterday when we heard this Red-bellied Woodpecker before we finally spotted it. And for the first time I could actually see the red belly for which it is named.
A time when I start visiting vernal pools and can be found with my hands on my knees as I lean forward to peer into the water.
A time to be in shock at spying such large Fairy Shrimp on this date, March 19. There were dozens and they were at least an inch and a half long. I have never seen such big Fairy Shrimp and can’t help but wonder the size of those I hope to see in other pools going forward. In the past they’ve been about a half inch long in April, and might grow close to an inch by May.
A time for catching a dash of a look at a Predaceous Diving Beetle heading for cover to avoid becoming prey in my presence.
A time to notice the minute, such as this wee bright orangey-red water mite that could easily be mistaken for a spider.
A time to return home and walk the path of the now snow-free labyrinth I created a few years ago.
A time to visit the vernal pool on a neighbor’s land and notice that only the edges are ice-free.
A time to peer into the water along those edges and watch a multitude of larval mosquitoes wriggling as is their custom.
A time to poke a Balsam Fir blister with a stick to get some sticky resin on the tip and then place it in a puddle along the path and watch the essential oils form rainbow designs.
A time to look up before heading indoors and realize that the Quaking Aspen flower buds are starting to fluff out much like Pussy Willow buds.
A time to realize that this spring’s season opener officially begins at 11:06 tonight, but the Fairy Shrimp suggest it may have started earlier than normal.
Not necessarily a good thing. Not at all. But . . . if you are looking for me in the next few months, you know where I’ll be. Somewhere near water.
Happy Vernal Equinox 2024.
Stump: the base of a tree that has been chopped down or fallen, but is still connected to its roots.
Snag: a standing dead or dying tree; or part of a tree that is dying.
To visit a stump presumed dead
is to find life that comes in many forms.
Mosses and lichens colonize in a manner all their own,
and saplings find a new spot upon which to grow.
British soldiers crowd the scene,
their red caps marching toward the future
with fruiting spores planning to form
more of the same.
In their midst
others who are deflated,
the papery remains of puffball fungi
having already spread their wealth.
And a tiny White Pine
who chose this spot
upon which to germinate
at least seven years ago.
Stopping beside another stump,
it is not the residents who call this home
that attracts my attention,
but rather the sign of another who had paused here.
Beaver nip sticks, a source of winter food,
were on display,
the trees from which they came
now skinny stumps in the background.
And growing on this stump,
scaly-surfaced trumpets
blaring Irish tunes
for all to lichen.
The next stump in my survey
had rotted from the inside out
and humus formed within
its castle-like chambers.
It even had an arched doorway
for leprechauns to enter
or pass into the next world
and the stump itself was leading the way.
There was another,
which though the wood had already decomposed,
offered a substrate for a few
to set up housekeeping.
I was struck by the contrast
of a small clump of British Soldiers
on this one, whilst its neighbor
supported an entire army.
And only one small clump
of Four-tooth Moss,
decorated with raindrops
in a salute to our March weather.
It's when one takes
the time to look,
that the tiniest residents
make an appearance.
And so I watched this tiny spider
works its magic
of building guide lines
and creating a snare in hopes of a grand capture.
Not all stumps in this river-side location
were the result of man's intervention,
for old beaver works
highlighted tree spirits in the curvature of the lines.
Switching my attention to snags
brought the vision
of more artwork
upon the skeleton of a tree trunk.
And a display of the (w)holiness of this place,
for such were the portals
carved by beeltes in the past
that had breached the bark.
Finally, I stood by one mighty snag
that is a marvel of this natural world,
so much of it decomposed
yet replenishing the soil.
Looking skyward from within,
one can see branches
and marcescent leaves above
speaking to the xylem and phloem still in operation.
What bark is left,
serves as armor for this old oak,
and as scaffolding
upon which mosses and lichens can grasp.
It's what I spy inside,
however, that takes my breath away.
Oddly enough, it is named
for the breathing structure of another.
And when I compare it to
the nose of my oldest son's furbaby,
I can see the resemblance, sorta.
Dog Nose Fungus.
As for stumps and snags, I must give thanks
for they are hardly useless in the landscape,
but rather hosts of many a forest life,
and I'm sure St. Patrick would approve.
Snow. Slush. Mud. Water. Flurries. Wind. Sun. Clouds. They were all on today’s menu. It’s a March thing. And so we decided to embrace it and head to a spot we usually avoid this time of year.
Our destination was a country lane beside the Old Course of the Saco River in Fryeburg, Maine. During the winter, this road is part of the snowmobile system. In spring, summer, and fall, it sees a fair amount of traffic. But . . . because of current conditions and the fact that a portion of the road washed out a few months ago and another portion is under at least six inches of water, the gates are closed and the only traffic is via foot. Perfect conditions in our book.
I love to walk roads like this because they always have something to offer and today it was the discovery of a bunch of rather dramatic winter weeds known as Roundhead Bush-clover. Bristly, spiky flower heads. Curly leaves with nooks and crannies.
The sky was equally dramatic and ever changing as we viewed it while walking southeast with the ridge line of our beloved Pleasant Mountain forming the backdrop.
We managed to easily get around a major washout, but then encountered this and it is not a puddle. The water is flowing across the road and we could feel the current as we were determined to get to the other side.
We are both here to report it was at least six inches deep in the deepest spots. We were feeling pretty darn smart for thinking to wear our muck boots.
Just over a mile in we reached the coveted spot: Hemlock Bridge. The bridge has spanned what is now the Old Course of the Saco River for 167 years. Built of Paddleford truss construction with supporting laminated wooden arches, Hemlock Bridge is one of the few remaining covered bridges still in its original position.
Peter Paddleford of Littleton, New Hampshire, created this design by replacing the counter braces of the Long-style truss bridge, creating an unusually strong and rigid structure. During three seasons, you can still drive across it.
Yes, we’d seen a lot of water on the road and in the field and noted how high the river was and flooded the fields were, but it really struck home when we noted the short distance between the bridge and the water. And a memory popped into our heads simultaneously.
Today we never would have been able to kayak to Kezar Pond as we did in August 2023. If you look at the cement support on the left and scroll back up to the previous photo, you get a sense of how high the water is right now. And that’s not the highest it’s ever been. Not by a long shot. But you must keep reading to learn more about that.
Once on the bridge, there’s plenty of graffiti to examine, or not. I prefer to take in the views and love how the boards create a frame–this one looking in the direction of Kezar Pond.
And this toward Saco River. Both are a bit of a paddle, but a fun paddle.
Exiting the other side of the bridge, we discovered we weren’t the only ones to have passed this way. Perhaps we were the only humans, but raccoons had also been out for a walk, or rather a waddle.
After spending a few minutes looking around and scaring off Wood Ducks, it was time to turn around.
On the way out, it was the silhouette of one large and statuesque American Elm that captured my heart as it always does.
And we could see snow squalls in the mountains, while a few flurries fell on us.
At last we finished up where we’d started. And that’s when we saw the owner of the land we’d passed through coming down his son’s driveway. The legendary Roy Andrews is a storyteller of the past and we were delighted that he stopped his truck to chat with us. He told of stories passed on to him about logging operations and situations, especially when the river reverses flow during high water events and once a huge amount of logs were lost until they could haul them out individually in the summer. And he told us that the highest he has ever seen the river is three feet above the floor of the bridge. “Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” he said. “It was 34 inches high.”
This was a reflection Mondate as Roy reflected upon the past and we did the same, both recalling different times we’ve traveled this way, via skis and snowmobile and vehicle and foot and we are so grateful that we can continue to enjoy the past and present. And hope for the same in the future.
They say it’s hard to do and usually I feel the same, but this year has been different, and suddenly the time has come. Letting go though, that’s the part that causes me the most struggle.
Then again, six days ago I knew the end was near.
And today, the denouement became clearly obvious.
How things can change in only a matter of time i’ll never understand.
My heart grieved for all that has been lost.
But warmed by what I found instead.
And when I stooped over to peer into the shallow depths, I knew I was going to be okay.
The end had come, but new beginnings awaited.
Goodbye Winter. I’m breaking up with you, though honestly, I think you broke up with me this year. You’ll always hold a place in my heart, but this year you didn’t seem to kindle the usual flame.
Hello spring! Thanks for reaching out in the form of Common Polypody Ferns, Mayfly Larvae by the hundreds, and even the Woolly Bear caterpillar. By the bits of debris on her bristly hairs, it was obvious that she’d just emerged from under the leaf litter where she’d overwintered and was frantically crawling along the road in search of a place to form a cocoon and metamorph into the Isabella Tiger Moth she’ll soon become.
I’ll always love you, winter. But right now, I’m already smitten with spring.
I love that I can step out the back door and explore hundreds of acres of woods or follow a path, cross a road, and step into a town park protected with a conservation easement. Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time in the park, for starters because I love to spot the Mallards and look for Winter Stoneflies, but also because I’m working on getting to know bryophytes and lichens better. Of course, I could to that anywhere because mosses and lichens grow everywhere. And do not harm the substrates upon which they grow. In fact, they may actually help as in the form of mosses retaining water.
So, I invite you to step across the Bob Dunning Memorial Bridge and into Bridgton’s Pondicherry Park. Sixty-six acres of forest beside Stevens and Willet Brooks, with stonewalls, an old spring, and carved trails, including one that is ADA accessible, though in the current conditions, it’s icy and micro-spikes are the best bet for staying upright.
I’m almost certain these two ducks are named Donald and Daffy, but what I do know is that they laugh. A lot. Or at least that’s what it sounds like when they quack.
Finally, the reason I invited you along for this journey. One of my favorite little mosses. Meet Ulota crispa, or Crispy Tuft Moss (and Curled Bristle Moss and Crisped Pincushion . . . and probably several other common names). This moss is an acrocarp in form, meaning that the main stem generally grows upright and the capsules and seta or stalks that hold the capsules grow from the tip of the main stem. Usually, they grow upright that is, but in the case of Ulota crispa, they orient horizontal to the ground.
On this tree trunk, you might notice the pale green crustose lichen (crustose meaning crust-like and tightly pressed to the surface of its substrate) and the brown spiderwebby structure of a Frullania liverwort. Like mosses, liverworts are also considered bryophytes–meaning they don’t have a vascular system like plants and trees; nor do they produce flowers or seeds.
Ulota crispa grows in little tufts between the size of a nickel and a quarter. On some trees you might find one or two and others, such as this one, there are many.
My walk in the park was actually a self-assigned quiz because a friend and I had visited a few days prior and I wanted to make sure I could identify species on my own. As I always say when I’m tracking by myself, I was 100% correct in my ID.
But actually, this quiz did give me time to slow down and notice features, such as the thickness of the Brocade Moss, aka Hypnum imponens. This one is a pluerocarp in form, because the moss grows mostly prostrate, has many branches, and the capsules and seta (stem supporting capsule) arise from a side branch rather than the tip like that of the acrocarp.
I found one downed tree (and I’m sure there are many others under the snow) that looked as if it was covered with a carpet, a Brocade carpet. Given that a brocade fabric has a raised design, this common name seems to fit, though my research informs me that the Latin Imponens is the root for “imposter.” Apparently it can have different looks. That’s something I’ll need to pay attention to in the future.
Delicate Fern Moss, or Thuidium delicatulum, is another pluerocarp species. The fronds really do look like miniature fern fronds, in fact, twice-cut in fern lingo. But that’s a topic for another day.
I found the Delicate Fern Moss growing on a tree trunk, but also on a rock. Mosses don’t have actual roots, because remember, they are non-vascular plants. Instead, they have rhizoids, which look rather root-like, that anchor the plant to the substrate.
So how do they get water and nutrients? Via their leaves. And they have the unique ability of being able to dry out completely and stop growing, but pour water on them, or visit them on a rainy day after a dry spell, and they’ll begin growing again and turn from brown to green as photosynthesis kicks back into action.
If you been in the park, then you may now this stream below the Kneeland Spring. And you realize that I’d probably already spent an hour on the path and hadn’t moved very far. The old joke that I can still see my truck in the parking lot doesn’t work this time though because I had walked there. But I could still see the parking lot.
What attracted me to the stream was the sense of color. On a bleak winter day, the view was breathtaking in a subtle way.
In particular, the bright green of a plant that isn’t a moss or liverwort, but rather a vascular plant known as Watercress. It grows in natural spring water, thus its abundance below the spring from which this water flows.
While I was admiring the Watercress, I met a moss that I swear I’ve never laid eyes on before, but don’t think I’ll ever forget going forward: Willow Moss, aka Fontinalis antipyrectica. Its one that prefers to be submerged, thus its location. When the water is warmer, I need to get to know it better, but it almost looked like the leaves were braided.
The funny thing about this spot is that as I was looking down, a young couple walked along the trail above me. In an instant, the young man and I made eye contact and at once recognized each other as we are neighbors. He said, “I wondered who was down by the stream.” He wasn’t at all surprised.
Because the snow is beginning to melt, I finally saw an example of the poster child for acrocarpous mosses: Common Haircap Moss or Polytrichum commune. Here are a couple of easy ways to ID it from other haircap species: when dry, the leaves don’t twist as they fold upward toward the stem and the leaves have reddish tips.
Mixed in with the mosses were some little structures that actually remind me of caterpillars. They are also non-vascular and are associates of mosses, these being liverworts. Bazzania trilobata does not have a common name as far as I know. That’s probably a good thing because it forces me to learn the scientific name.
A small piece may have followed me home and stuck itself under the microscope. Liverworts are also small and where a moss has leaves arranged in more than three rows, a liverwort has two rows, like this one. That said, some have a third row underneath. Another key is that while mosses often feature a midrib, liverworts as you can see by this example do not. There’s more, but that’s enough to get started.
Mosses and liverworts aside, I had been looking for examples of this foliose lichen upon a previous visit, and finally found this one. It’s one of the ribbon lichens, but I haven’t yet figured it out to species. And I don’t know if it grows on anything other than Eastern White Pines, for that is where I see it.
Lichens come in four forms. Earlier I mentioned crustose: crust-like or pressed against the substrate; foliose–foliage-like or leafy; fruticose: upright and pendant, think grape branch; and squamulose: with little raised scales.
So, which form is this? Ah, the quiz is now in your hands. Crustose, Foliose, Fruticose, or Squamulose. I’ll tell you it isn’t the latter. Of the first three, which is it?
The little black discs or bumps are its reproductive structures.
Here’s a great take-away from Joe Walewski’s Lichens of the North Woods: “Successional stages of lichen communities on rock progress from crustose lichens, to foliose lichens, and then on to fruticose lichens. In contrast, successional stages for lichen communities on tree bark follow an opposite pattern. Many crustose lichens are a sign of an older successional lichen community.”
If you answered my question above as the form being crustose, you would be correct. Common Button Lichen or Buellia stillingiana.
This next one pictured above is among my favorites. Maybe it’s because though I find it on other trees, I love how it appears between the “writing paper lines” on the ridges of Eastern White Pine bark. Known as Common Script Lichen, or Graphis scripta, you might see it year round as white spots on trees but the squiggly apothecia (reproductive or spore-producing structure) appear only when it gets cold enough.
And here again: same crustose form, different crustose colors. Do you see at least three colors? Two shades of green surrounded by a blueish-grayish white? The white fringe is called the prothallus, a differently colored border to a crustose lichen where the fungal partner is actively growing but there are no algal cells. Though named the Mapledust Lichen, Lecanora thysanophora, it grows on several species of trees just to keep us all questioning ourselves.
The final lichen of this journey, and believe me, there could be a million more, or maybe not quite that many, but . . . anyway, is the Common Green Shield. I’m realizing just now that I don’t have a fruticose lichen to share, but that I’ll leave for another day. This Flavoparmelia caperata demonstrates the foliouse form. One that my lichenologist friends, Jeff and Alan, describe as one you can easily ID while driving 60 mph. Of course, you should be looking a the road and not at the lichens or your cell phone, but should you glimpse it out of the corner of your eye, you can easily remind yourself that it is a Common Green Shield.
While finally making my way homeward, I was stopped by a sight that always invites a look. You may be tired of seeing it, but I hope I never am. The debris left behind by a Pileated Woodpecker.
There are at least two packets worth examining in this mess, and if you know what I mean, see if you can find them.
The tree was one rather gnarly Eastern White Pine and it grew near one of the old boundaries for the park was originally three different properties that were combined to create such an open space. You can read about that in Pondering the Past at Pondicherry Park. I suspect its growth pattern had something to do with being a boundary tree in an otherwise open area.
Do you see the bird’s excavation site?
And did you find this scat in the debris? Staghorn Sumac had been part of this bird’s diet prior to visiting the tree.
But carpenter ants were on the menu as well. Vegetable, Protein, Fiber. The perfect meal.
When I arrived home, it was time to do some organizing of my moss collection, some of these which I’d collected in the past and kept in Ralph Pope’s Mosses, Liverworts, and Hornworts: A Field Guide to Common Bryophytes of the Northeast.
The book is warped because, of course, most of these were damp when I placed them in it.
Here’s the thing about collecting mosses: only take just enough to study. Mosses can take a long time to grow, so you only need a small piece for closer inspection. As for lichens, if you need to, collect from those that have fallen off trees. Otherwise, let them be. They take even longer than mosses to grow.
And I encourage you to spend some time trying to get to know what you meet up close and personal. Looking through a loupe and sketching help me.
Slowing my brain down and noticing. I love that I am finally making time to do this again. And taking topics that had often stymied me and trying, trying, trying to get to know them better.
While I was pondering once again in Pondicherry, I did notice that someone was pondering about me. I went with the expectation of possibly seeing an owl while spending time quizzing myself on all of these species, and indeed I did. See an ice owl that is.
I’m kinda excited because I found the guts the other day to submit an article to the Maine Natural History Observer (MNHO) for publication this spring, and received notification this afternoon that it was accepted and will appear in the next issue. It’s about vernal pools. That’s all I’m going to tell you. But the timing seemed right.
On this snow-eating fog kind of day, it was news most welcome.
Two years ago I also found the courage to send in an article and was again surprised that it was accepted for publication. That one was about an afternoon I spent with a Buttonbush at Lakes Environmental Association’s Holt Pond Preserve and all the insect activity the shrub supported.
There was one error in the article (well, probably more than one) and it’s an insect ID. See if you can figure out which one. I actually had corrected it in my blog post, but somehow it slipped past my editing when I hit send to MNHObserver. Humbling to say the least.
Anyway, here’s a link to the 2022 publication and you’ll find my article, entitled “The Otherwordly Buttons” on pages 50 – 53. Plus there are other great article to read.
Winter’s not over yet, at least I’d like to think that is true, but even when it does come to a close, there’s so much more awaiting careful observation and I can’t wait to see what I shall see.
Knowing it was going to be warmer today, we decided to venture to a local park where the snow pack would be less. That doesn’t sound right coming from this snow queen, but we didn’t feel like postholing or having snow stuck to the bottoms of our snowshoes.
This is a place where we know beavers are active. And I, of course, went with expectations. And convinced My Guy that we should begin and end at the bog.
And bingo–a beaver-chewed tree that had probably been munched upon this past fall based on the color of the sapwood greeted us immediately.
But do you see the lodge in the background?
Here’s a closer look. Fully iced in and no mud on the exterior. This one had been active for several years, but today we learned that that is no longer the case.
Still, as we moved past it, there was another tree (on the left) that had been equally munched upon this past fall, while the color of the wood on the tree to the right indicated activity from a previous year.
There was even a dam, but I was beginning to lose hope. And to kick myself for coming with expectations. When will I ever learn?
Because we were in a park, there were structures and behind one close to the path, we found an Eastern Phoebe nest upon a platform placed there for the very bird to set up housekeeping each spring.
The cool thing was that the Phoebe wasn’t the only structure dweller, for directly below her nest a Funnel Weaver Spider had constructed an intricate home. I love all the guylines meant to keep the web intact, in fact it worked so well, that the winds of the fall and winter didn’t seem to have touched it. Well done, spider!
As we continued on, I thought about the gems this place offers, including this beautiful old Yellow Birch standing on stilts. As I noted in Becoming Tree Wise, the seeds of Yellow Birch, like Eastern Hemlock, struggle to germinate on the forest floor, but give them a moss-covered rock, or tree stump, or nurse log, and bingo, a tree grows on it. As it continues to grow, the roots seek the ground below and if it is upon a stump or log that eventually rots away, you have a tree in the forest that appears to stand on stilted legs. Tada!
Our trail was sometimes bare and other times snowy or icy, so we did don microspikes, which turned out to be the perfect choice most of the time.
At the summit of what is known as Lookout Trail, the view is of the forest beyond, but we did look down at the picnic table and discovered mushrooms growing on the wood. The cap was like a tapestry of oranges and yellows and rosy browns.
It was the underside, however, that aided ID: Gloeophyllum sepiarium (Rusty-gilled Polypore or Conifer Mazegill).
Occasionally there were brooks to cross and icicles to admire and sounds of percolating water flowing beneath the ice to encourage stopping for a few minutes to take it all in.
Heading downhill, in a boulder field below a granite ledge we discovered the territory of one very busy Red Squirrel. Middens covered numerous rocks.
And I could only imagine what the original cache had looked like. Since it takes two years for pinecones to mature, next year this squirrel may not be so fortunate, but living in the here and now, life is good.
At last we reached the lake for which the park is named and for the second year in a row, it did not freeze this winter. Being the second largest lake in Maine, it covers 45 square miles and at its deepest hole is over 300 feet in depth.
We backtracked a birds trail along the water’s edge and found our way to the perfect lunch spot.
The view from lunch rock found us dining with few words shared as we took in the vastness of this space while small waves broke along the shoreline and we realized we could have been at the coast.
Back on the trail, we hiked a couple more miles before returning to the bog’s opposite shoreline. Surely, the beaver would not let me down.
And there is was. The lodge that is. With mud on it. That meant a family could have overwintered in this one.
Wouldn’t you feel warm and cozy inside that building?
And there was evidence that another tree had been dined upon in the fall. But . . . no signs of smaller trees being cut for a food supply. Are they still home? I do not know, but maybe another visit in a month or so will reveal the truth.
There was, however, lots of sign that humans had been cutting trees: to clear trails so people like us could enjoy them.
And we did as we journeyed the West Side of Sebago Lake State Park.
So you must be wondering why this was an Oopsy of a Mondate. No, I didn’t fall. Nor did My Guy.
In fact, we had a wonderful time exploring and loved every minute of our adventure.
But . . . there was some logging going on and it wasn’t until we got home and I looked at the Sebago Lake State Park website that I discovered this message: February 25, 2024 | Campground infrastructure improvements begin tomorrow, Monday 2/26/2024. While heavy trucking activities occur, State Camping Rd. in Naples will be closed to foot-traffic for public safety. However, the Day Use Area, found at 11 Park Access Rd. in Casco will remain open to visitors. Thank you for your patience and understanding while these improvements occur.
Oopsy. Don’t follow our footsteps, but rather go to the Day Use Area instead.
wondermyway 
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