My ability to look into a crystal ball and predict the future is non-existent–especially when it comes to the natural world.

And today was a perfect example. I headed out along the cow path following the deer who had traveled this way during the night.

They know the entry gate to my secret hiding place and don’t hesitate to pass through. I thought for sure that this would be the day I’d see them again. It’s been a couple of weeks and usually they are too fast for me to capture in a photo.

And when I located this red squirrel castle, I was sure I’d see one about. Its tracks showed equally abundant movement and this stump is obviously a place where it enjoys dining, but . . . all was quiet on the squirrel front as well.

So, I continued on, ever mindful of the water hazards.

The snow is slowly piling up and after stumbling about yesterday, I donned my  old snowshoes today–traveling was much easier.

My crystal ball told me that if I sat quietly for a while I just might be rewarded with the sight of another type of snowshoe–a hare.

I found a stump and cleared it off before plunking myself down.

And I waited–ever sorta patiently. As sunlight hit the upper branches of the evergreens, snow dust floated down upon me. And snow plops landed all around–adding confusion to the prints before me. Still I waited.

While I waited, I noticed dozens of turkey prints–balsam fir style.

There were balsams with snowy tips.

Balsam flowers.

Balsam star fish.

And even a balsam octopus–minus a leg or two.

Maybe my problem was that my crystal ball was made of ice crystals sitting in a balsam cup. Or maybe it was that I kept snapping the camera. I tried to sit still and take in the moments, but . . . my bum got cold and I needed to move on. I’ll save my snowshoe hare siting for another day–as if I have a choice.

I wandered some more and came across two sights I don’t usually see in these woods–rather than snowshoes, I found horseshoes.

And then I moved out of the land of the white evergreens.

And into the land of early succession, where gray birch and red maple dominate the community. To the gray birch I turned–taking in the orangeyellowburgundybrownpinktanwhite with a dash of gray bark of immature trees. And the squiggly vertical lines intercepted by the raised horizontal lenticels that allow these trees to breath.

The gray chevron or triangle shows where the branch meets the trunk.

Similar in shape, a few toothy, triangular leaves folded unto themselves dangle still. Or not so still, as they swayed in the slight breeze.

Pointed brown buds protect future leaves from this week’s chillier temps.

Catkins are visible on some of these trees.

I did find a few with last year’s fruits consisting of tiny two-winged nutlets and three-lobed scales or fleur de lis in alternate layers; both detach from the central stem in winter. Many have already spread their seeds, but some like this one are waiting for the right moment. I know I certainly can’t declare when that will be.

The other thing I can’t predict is when or where I’ll see snow fleas, aka spring tails. As I headed home, I found many along the barn’s drip line. It’s a sheltered spot and the sun was shining, so conditions were apparently to their liking. Who knew? Not me.

It seems we’re best at predicting the future after the fact. And so, I predict that today I won’t see deer or red squirrels or snowshoe hare. But there will be a zillion other little things that draw my attention and put a smile on my face. Worth a wonder.

 

 

We love a friendly challenge and today’s Mondate posed just such an opportunity.

Our destination: Province Pond via the Province Brook Trail in South ChatHAM, New Hampshire. About a year ago we passed this way and decided it was worthy of another visit. Though the sign on South Chatham Road indicates that there is trail parking ahead, the gate is closed and so we parked on the road and began our journey from there. It’s a 2.5 mile upward hike to the trail head. Easy enough given that it’s a forest road and is usually used by snowmobiles–not so this year. We found less snow here than in nearby western Maine.

And then began our challenge to each other. The last time we hiked this way, we found bear claw marks on a beech tree. Both of us pictured the tree in our mind’s eye, but exactly where? We had no idea. So . . . after passing through a hemlock grove and into a beech/hardwood forest, we moved off the trail and began searching high and low.

Guess who found it first. My guy, of course. I saw it and wondered, but he was steps ahead of me and credit goes to him.

Bingo! We had our tree. And then the idea of another challenge struck us. Friends Pam and Bob live in this neck of the woods during the summer months. They wanted to know where this tree was after we located it last year. So . . . we decided to challenge them. Going forth, Pam and Bob, this one’s for you. And anyone else who passes this way.

Clue #1: The bear tree is right above this paper birch that leans over the forest road at about two miles from the gate.

And it’s right before this rock. We hope you are up for the challenge because we have some other natural items for you to locate–and just for fun they are not necessarily in the order we found them.

A pileated tree. Clue: It’s not too far from the bear tree as you head toward the trail head.

The world’s largest squirrel drey. Clue: It’s on the opposite side of the road, but not opposite the bear tree.

Not a clue, though the touch of spring did make us smile. The trail head at last.

Tree over rock. Clue: Yellow birch tree, blue-gray crustose lichen giving both an aqua hue.

Tinder conks on old snag. Clue: Though it would be fun if you could find this exact tree, you will find horse-hoof shaped fungi throughout this forest.

Split stone. Clue: This statue stands beside the trail–to your right as you head toward the pond.

Tangle of roots. Clue: Look to your left for a yellow birch with spindly legs–a reference to  another tree that nursed this one to life.

Polypody. Clue: Rock with bad hair day. Today, the temp was in the 20˚s with a breeze so the fronds have curled inward. During the summer, they won’t be so curly.

Bear face. Clue: So this one may be a real challenge, but it looked like the face of a bear to me. It’s on a hemlock above a couple of trail-side rocks that are slanted. Across the trail, we found the perfect lunch rock.

Now we’ll take a brief challenge break. Lots of mammal tracks, but we were looking for this and not disappointed. Moose print.

Moose bed. We found three. The back of the moose is at the top of the photo, head above my mitten and legs to the lower right.

Moose hair. Within the bed, where the body heat turned the snow to ice, moose hair got stuck.

Ah, scat. Moose scat. I find it humorous that it’s located below a hobblebush that’s been left untouched.

Moose skid. Even the moose are slipping and sliding on the ice below the snow. They need my micro-spikes.

Hobblebush. We were in the land of one of the moose’s favorite treats. These leaves and flower bud have been overlooked for the moment.

Back to the challenge: Moose browse. Hobblebush and red maple trees along the way show plenty of browse. Several moose frequent the area. Look for tags like this. Moose don’t have upper incisors. Instead, they rip buds with their lower incisors and a hardened upper palate–leaving a “tag,” which is their calling card. Deer do the same. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell which of the two ungulates has dined. Your challenge is to find examples of browsing.

Between a rock and a hard place. Clue: hemlock growing on/between two rocks, not far from Province Pond.

Another challenge interruption. Province Brook below the dam at Province Pond.

Province Pond looking toward Mount Shaw. If you look closely, you’ll see the moose tracks leading up from the lower left and moving along the dam, where they turned left again and headed off into the woods.

Province Pond looking toward the shelter on the far shore–snow on the roof.

Return to the challenge. Trail blaze on a rock. Clue: Between the dam and shelter.

Hemlock growth. Clue: On the way to the shelter. I’m not sure it’s a gall, but it’s certainly a rosette type of growth on the outer bark.

Decaying paper birch. Clue: On the shore trail to the shelter. Notice how time has treated this tree.

My guy reading the shelter messages. Clue: Province Pond Shelter. Find this man ;-)

Carved messages. Clue: Shelter floor. Can you find this exact location? The walls were painted last summer, but the floor was left alone.

Another brief break. Shelter view looking back toward the dam and Peaked Hill.

Gall on meadowsweet. Clue: Robin’s pincushion gall on meadowsweet found near the shelter.

Sensitive Fern. Clue: Near the shelter. This is an easy find for you and a treat for me. I don’t often see sensitive fern leaves in their winter formation as they are usually flattened beneath the snow.

Sweet Fern. Clue: Again, near the shelter. You won’t find it in this form when you arrive in the summer, but it’s worth a look.

Feather. Clue: Attached to the shelter. I’d love to know if you find it there. Grace-filled in the breeze.

Artists’ conks. Clue: On the trail above the shore trail, not far from the shelter.

Red-belted polypores. Clue: Umm, on the way back. And on a hemlock, of course.

Lungwort. Clue: I didn’t see any on the way up, but found a lot of this on the way back down the trail. Always a good sign of forest health.

Couldn’t resist. Clue: Porcupine Pee. Go as you go. While my guy waited patiently, I followed the trail for a bit, but never found the den. Let me know if you find it.

Mossy maple polypore. Clue: In a crack of a maple tree. ;-)

Take your time. We both did. Have fun looking for these wonder-filled sights along the way.

And by the way PB–aka Pam and Bob–and anyone else who accepts this challenge (I know a few friends who would love to join you and their names begin with “J”)–invite us along and we’ll provide lunch. You know what we’ll pack. PB&J, of course.

What a day. While the temperature was probably in the 40˚s, when the sun poked out from behind the clouds, it felt like 70˚. To celebrate, my guy and I left one truck on Grist Mill Road off Fosterville and drove the other to the Bald Pate trail head.

We skipped the climb to the summit and instead opted to follow the two-mile Town Farm Brook Trail to the pond.

Others had used this trail. We decided to leave snowshoes behind and threw our micro-spikes into the backpack. There they stayed. The snow and ice were so soft that it turned out to be an excellent decision. Otherwise, we would have felt like we were walking on high heels as the snow would have clumped up, and heaven knows–neither one of us are the high heel type.

Since we were traveling downhill, I raced to keep up with my speed demon. But . . . he stopped for me when I spotted a large patch of common scouring rush.

The evergreen stems stand tall in these winter woods.

And so my guy sat on a rock and waited patiently while I knelt before this specimen. Check out that pointed cone at the tip.

And those rough, sand-papery textured ridges on the stem. During pioneer days, this plant was used to scour pots, pans and floors, thus its common name.

But . . . when is a rush not a rush? When it’s common scouring rush (Equisetum hyemale affine), which is actually a horsetail. Horsetails are closely related to ferns (take a look at the spores on the cone). This is where it all gets mind-boggling. Both horsetails and ferns were common during the Carboniferous period (280-345 million years ago), when tree-sized specimens occurred. I’m staggered by that thought, but rejoice that I took the time to take a closer look.

Notice how the whorls of tiny, scale-like leaves are fused together at the stem nodes, forming sheaths that are about as long as wide. The sheaths have a dark-toothed upper band, ashy gray middle band and dark lower band.

We left them behind, crossed Fryer’s Field and walked down Fosterville Road to slip into the Holt Pond Preserve, where no one had carved the trail–just the way we like it.

When I saw the wee bit of a slide under the downed tree and took a closer look at these tracks, I was transported back in time. I think our twenty-something sons were 8 & 10 and we were in this same spot with Bridie McGreavy when we saw a similar slide created by a mink–back then, it was a first for me.

This afternoon, I turned and saw more defined prints and the diagonal bounding pattern. Yes, indeed.

Chivalry is still alive–my guy dusted the snow off lunch rock. I guess he was hungry for that PB&J.

Where the trail briefly offers a glimpse of the pond, we paused and looked toward the quaking bog directly across the way.

Our next glimpse was near the end of the Southern Shore Trail.

As is the way of things around here, we had to walk on Chaplin Mill Road for a bit, which is where we saw this beaver statue–about three feet from the road and perhaps the reason for the flagging tape.

A few minutes later, we reached the Emerald Field, an entry way back into the preserve. Emerald–perhaps, but also red, white, green, gold, gray and every shade between.

Among the bramble in the field–milkweed pods that have almost completed their seed release.

The Muddy River has never been so open at this time of year.

Though there are bog bridges across most of the wet spots, occasionally we had to channel our inner hare and take a leap.

Much to his dismay, I never take ice for granted. Well, I should rephrase that. He doesn’t take ice for granted either. Nor does he spend hours admiring its arty presentation.

We’d left our paddles and pfds home, so a canoe adventure will have to wait for another day.

Through the red maple swamp, we suddenly found ourselves following the steps of others as we moved along the boardwalk.

And then we stepped out to the Muddy river for one last glimpse–looking east, then west.

At the quaking bog, we felt the heat of the sun as we reflected on the beauty of the day.

Then we retraced our steps across the bog and headed through the hemlock groves as we completed our seven-mile tour.

It was time to go home after enjoying a super Sunday together. And now we’re watching the game–especially for the commercials.

A white wash of snow and everything appears fresh and immaculate once again.

All morning long, the goldfinches partook in a feeding frenzy.

Meanwhile, from the nearby lilac bush, a chickadee waited patiently for its turn at the feeder.

But goldfinches like to hang out, so the chickadee settled for some suet instead.

Later in the day, I made time for a walk. I thought I’d need snowshoes, but discovered they weren’t necessary. While the trees are well coated, we only received about four inches–which equates to less in the woods right now, given that the evergreens and hardwoods are holding the snow. As I write, however, I can hear the wind blow and trust that tomorrow the world will look different.

Because it had snowed, I couldn’t resist noticing the different ways it sticks to trees and plants. While the mature pines in our woodlot indicate that the storm came in from the north, these pine saplings don’t give any clues about direction. Their presentation is more ornamental–like bobbles on a Christmas tree.

Or spiring up a pine, offering a stairway to heaven.

As I walked along, I stopped frequently to appreciate how the flakes clasped the woody weeds like steeplebush,

asters and

evening primrose.

Even the delicate papery capsules of the Indian tobacco provided a resting place for a few flakes.

By a patch of sensitive fern spore stalks I made a discovery that has alluded me in the past. I always admire the beady fruiting structure of this fern. Each bead encapsulates many round spore cases and each case contains the dust-like spores.

What I never noticed until this afternoon is that once those spore cases have opened, the structure takes on a lacy look.

I thought only the gray squirrels had ventured out during the storm until I came upon the prints of this other bounder–a weasel that made its way to a stone wall where little brown things probably became a feast-de-résistance.

Turkeys had also passed through these woods. Six had been frequenting our neighborhood, but the other day I saw seven in our yard and yesterday nine crossed the field.

I’d followed the silent snowmobile trail for a ways and after looking down at the turkey tracks, I looked up and noticed the sun shining on the trees above.

Suddenly, it was a world of contrasts.

Going off trail found me pausing by ferns, which grow aplenty in this wetland paradise. Again, it was the snowflakes gathered on their leaves that pulled me in for a closer look. Crystals juxtaposed against veins.

The light was changing as I came upon the spent spore-heads of interrupted fern.

And then I realized I was at a second vernal pool I’ll visit periodically over the next few months. Today, in the soft colors of the setting sun, I discovered snow pillows that remind me of the amphibians who inhabit this place. A glimpse into the future.

As I made my way home, bushwhacking, or rather snow stumping, and then retracing my steps, I came upon this sweet moment–a snow doughnut. And then I saw that deer had been playing, their prints on top of mine. I never heard them and yet . . . we were in such close proximity. And the weasel had crisscrossed the path several more times. One of these days I’ll sit still and watch.

But today as the critters and I moved about, the snow provided a dose of silence that was appreciated by all.

This is our best issue yet, but then again–I’m a wee bit biased.

Book of May

The book of May is actually any book by Edwin Way Teale. I read A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm several years ago and felt like I was tramping along the farm paths right beside him and his wife, Nellie. Maybe it’s because my Mom’s name was Nellie, though she preferred to be called Nell and I’ve always loved that name. It’s that and more–he welcomes me into their world.

It’s the sense of solitude and peace and wonder that come through his writing. It’s the realization that he didn’t have all the answers either and that was just fine. On the second to last page he writes, “Given our outlook and our interests, it has been our closeness to nature, our daily existence on the edge of wildness that has made the most profound impression. Here we bought sunrises and violets and whippoorwills as well as woods and pastures. If you wonder if this life’s original sweetness did not wear away as time went on, if this life did not become more tame and dull with closer acquaintance, I have news, and the news is good. After a decade and a half, this life is still as satisfying, still as near the heart’s desire, the last minute as fine as the first. Our acres remain filled with freshness and surprise as though we were visitors, newcomers, rather than long-time owners of the land.”

As I typed that paragraph, I thought of my friends, Jinny and Will, and their love for their land (that I covet) and how their daily encounters are filled with freshness and surprise.

Currently, I’m reading Springtime in Britain and traveling along on the hedge-lined roads with Edwin and Nellie. As is my habit, I turn up the bottom corners of pages that contain words, sentences, even paragraphs that sing to me. I’ve also been known to write in margins.

From Springtime in Britian: “The song of a bird may be an enticement for a mate. It may be a warning to trespassers on its territory. But why so musical? Would not barring notes or guttural sounds or shrill and piercing whistles achieve as well these ends? Why does the enticement and the warning have to be so melodious, so moving, so beautiful? All we can say with our sense of wonder aroused, is that it, like the delicate perfume of the wildflower, is part of nature’s endless employment of beauty to achieve its utilitarian ends.”

My May Day Celebration comes to mind, but what I also love is that this man who knew and understood so much, questioned everything and acknowledged wonder.

A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm, 1974, and Springtime in England, 1970, by Edwin Way Teale. They are difficult to come by, unless you know the proprietors of Bridgton Books, who will do their best to locate any title.

We were together all day, but in my mind our Mondate didn’t officially begin until we ate lupper at a small harbor-side restaurant on Commercial Street in Portland. Fish. Fresh fish–always a treat. So lupper it was at about 3:30 pm, such was the day. I’m willing to bet you’ve never heard of lupper before. I have–occasionally. It goes well with a Maine IPA. Lupper–lunch and supper. OK, so it’s late and I’m tired. After dining, we drove to Crescent Beach State Park in Cape Elizabeth–a combo of sandy beach and the rocky coast of Maine.

So true. And not something I always heed. I can’t tell you how many things I’ve collected over the years.

We had to park by the gate and walk in. Along the way, the Speckled Alders let us know that spring has sprung at the coast. Still a week or two away in western Maine, but here, the catkins are singing with joy. The shift has begun–from burgundy to yellow.

Dancing in the breeze, these distended male catkins send their pollen a-flying.

Meanwhile, just down the stem, the rather petite females, red in color, stand quietly nearby–ready to receive. OK, enough of the birds and the bees.

The beach, the Atlantic Ocean, McKenny Point to the left and Richmond Island to the right.

McKenny Point.

The crescentness of the beach. So I made up another word. It’s what I do–the liberty of the word smith.

Take only pictures. 

I did. And in the process, my childhood along the Connecticut coast kept calling to me. Memories of collecting mussels from among  jetties and using them as crab bait–many a crab we caught.

And quahog shells. These we learned to feel for under our feet. But the empty shells also became the canvas of art projects. Here in Maine, and I haven’t actually seen these,  there are historic middens of quahog and oyster shells. Actually, I remember a pile in Guilford, CT, at Chello’s Oyster House. Or were those oyster shells?

Seaweed salad. How many, many hours we used to spend popping seaweed bubbles–the precursor of bubble wrap?

The common slipper shell–formerly the home of a sea snail.

Razor clams. This one is empty, but I remember finding them whole when mucking about at low tide was my common habit.

Let’s hope someone enjoyed a little crab meat supplied by this arthropod.

A reminder that it isn’t all seashells and seaweed. The  ubiquitous red oak also shares this place.

Remember the sign at the beginning of this beach walk? The one stating that trees, shrubs, flowers, wildlife, grasses and rocks are part of the park and need to be left there? It didn’t mention sea glass. Yes, I will happily share this sample with you–all you need to do is ask.

Looking around, I was mesmerized by foamy water.

Designs in the sand.

Layers of rocks.

Breaking waves.

A snow fence.

And bird tracks.

We were almost at the end of our visit.

Someone else created this message on the beach, but it was Monday, a Mondate, and we just happened to be there. It didn’t matter that our date was late. What mattered was the message in the sand.

Always something to wonder about–thanks for happening along.

Sightings Along the Snowmobile Trail.