This lesson began on Black Friday, but I was waiting for a sloggy snow day to finish the assignment and today was such. Three more inches of snow and then, of course, rain. Ugh!
But, Black Friday was bright and brisk and while many people spent dollars and dollars shopping for the perfect Christmas gifts at supposedly discounted prices, some peeps from the Maine Master Naturalist Program and I joined Jeff Pengel and Alan Seamans for a Moss Foray in New Gloucester.
Among other things, they reminded us that mosses are divided into two groups based on their reproductive structure, and this I think I now know. Pluerocarps form spore capsules from side branches while Acrocarps are not as branched and the capsules arise from the tip of the stem or main branch.
We’d hardly walked fifty feet from the parking lot when the first subject was introduced. I love its common name: Electrified Cat-Tail Moss. This was a new one for me and the real quiz will be if I can find it on my own once the snow melts (though I do hope we get some more snow first).
The guys introduced us to a variety of mosses and a few liverworts, but . . .
one of my take aways was gaining an understanding of this blue-green growth under the arrow. I always thought it was algae. Not so. This is protonema, or germinating moss spores all tied together with filaments. We could not identify them to species yet, but their mossy leaves were starting to emearge here and there. Now I can’t wait to spot this again–and meet it all over for the first time.
As we moved along, and I think we determined in the end that we had traveled less than a quarter of a mile in the few hours we were together, I collected some specimens I wanted to get know better. Damp as they were, they put my all-weather field book to the test, and it’s now a bit warped. Ah, but so worth it.
Fast forward to today. The mosses found their way from the field book to petri dishes and all were labeled with common and scientific names. I’m feeling so efficient. For a brief moment.
And then it was on to a somewhat deep dive and so out came a 10X and 20X loupe, as well as the microscope. Let the fun begin.
Taking photos through the scope is an acquired skill and I’m working on it.
Up first: Electrified Cat-tail Moss, Rhytidiadelpus triquetrus. I can remember the common name, but am going to have to practice the scientific. Though the leaves grow outward in so many directions, thus giving it an electrified look, even as a dry specimen, it feels rather soft and fuzzy.
This is a pluerocarp that likes wet soil. The take aways for me are the orange stems and shaggy appearance.
Under the scope, I could see the pleats on leaves, which is another identifying feature.
Along a stream we found the next species, growing in another shaggy manner, though more upright than the Electrified Cat-tail. This is Lipstick Thyme Moss or Mnium hornum. It is an acrocarp.
I’m fascinated by the leaf cells that are equal-sided and look like snakeskin. Along the toothed margin the cells are elongated.
Though the common name of this next species is Tree Moss, it grows in moist areas and not on trees. But Climacium dendroides does resemble a tree in its growth form.
The leaves of this pluerocarp are overlapping and toothed.
They are so tighhtly arranged and didn’t let much light into the photo.
This next species has two common names: Wrinkled Broom Moss and Bad Hair Day Moss. I think I prefer the latter because that’s me every day.
The stems have conspicuously whitish or reddish tomentose (lots of filamentous rhizoids or hairs) and hold water.
Dicranum polysetum actually has more common names: Waxy Leaf and Wavy Leaf moss. It seems to fit all of its descriptors.
The final species was Delicate Fern Moss, Thuidium delicatulum. We found it, as is often the case, growing on a rotting stump. The leaf structure is very fern-like, thus making this one easy to identify even without Jeff and Alan as guides.
As a pluerocarp, the sporophytes would have formed in this curved capsule. In the fall, the operculum or lid covering on the capsule opened, releasing spores. Visible at the tip is the one ring of teeth located inside the mouth of the capsule and known as peristome.
Looking through the lenses and microscope offered a great way to get to know these mosses better, but slowing myself down to do some sketches may be the thing that solidifies them in my mind.
Even my guy noted that it’s been a while since I’ve actually made time to sketch. The real test will be if I can meet these friends in the wild and greet each one by name. I think I should earn bonus points if I can remember both the common and scientific names. Fingers crossed. And practice needed.
One needs eagle eyes to really learn the idiosyncrasies of bryophytes such as mosses, those tiny green plants with rhizoids, rather than roots, and no true vascular system.
As it was, on Black Friday, an immature Bald Eagle greeted us when we returned to the parking lot, all grateful for the time spent together learning from each other, and especially from Jeff and Alan.
A perfect ending to the perfect classroom shopping expedition.
Today’s wander begins at the end because it can in my book of life. And by the end, I think you’ll understand why I made that choice. But don’t scroll ahead cuze then you’ll ruin the surprise.
Our deer friends are feeding on bird seed and corn right now about ten feet from the back door. Meanwhile, the fairies are flittering about behind this doe. Do you see their twinkling wands at work?
Actually, all the lights are kitchen reflections on the door window.
This, of course, has nothing to do with the rest of the day, but I do love our deer friends and like to honor them when I can.
Now on to the nitty gritty of the rest of the story. My friend Dawn and I are Maine Master Naturalists as you may know. And because of that, we must volunteer time to teach others about the natural world. An unpaid job that is hardly a hardship because it’s so much fun.
Right now, we are in the midst of offering a program every other week for Loon Echo Land Trust in Bridgton. And the winter focus is tracking. Not easy to do without snow or mud. Wait a second. The animals are always on the move, and without the snow, we must look for signs. And so we did.
The first, a special offering left on top of a rock that Dawn actually noticed this past weekend when her son and daughter-in-law were visiting, and which she complety embarrassed him by taking photographs of it.
Out came my scat shovel today and everyone took a look. By its form, size, and location, we determined Red Fox.
Our real mission today, however, was to explore the territory of a Red Squirrel. No, this is not my friend Red, but another who has established a territory in a different space that’s also been blessed with an abundant amount of pine cones this year.
We wanted the partipants to take a close look at the scales where the seeds the squirrel sought had been stored. They got right into it.
After locating caches and middens created by said squirrel, we taught the ladies how to use a loupe, aka hand lens, by holding it close to their noses and bringing the object closer until they could focus on it.
To say it opened up a whole new world is possibly an understatement.
Discovering the tiny seeds the squirrel consumes would have been enough, but there was more. In one section of this squirrel’s habitat we found numerous mushrooms upon branches, placed there by the rodent to dry. Talk about being in a food pantry.
And then . . . and then . . . we spotted hoar frost between a couple of stacked logs . . . and surmised that our little friend was living in the space below. How cool is that? Wicked, in these parts of the woods.
What we learned is that this particular squirrel’s territory is located between two downed trees and a wetland, about the size of half a football field.
At the edge of the wetland, it was time to turn our attention from the squirrel to another rodent.
Yes, a Beaver. Once our eyes cued in, just like spotting the squirrel’s mushrooms, beaverworks made themselves known.
And so we encouraged partipants to channel their inner Beaver and try to chop down carrot trees.
Like any Beaver, they were eager to shout, “TIMBER.”
And rejoiced when their tree stumps matched the Beaver’s sculptures.
Finally, we took them along a path that led to more Beaver works, where we noted how its the cambium layer that this rodent seeks for its nutritional value. The rest is left behind, rather like a squirrel’s midden.
And so the inner Beaver channeling continued, this time with pretzel sticks and they were challenged to only remove the outer layer.
The competition was stiff, and a couple of Beavers broke their sticks so we’re not sure they’ll survive the winter.
But at least one was super successful.
While only one Beaver fells a tree, the family may help to break that downed tree into smaller pieces and there are at least three sections like this indicating that they’ve worked on it–maybe one at each spot. We don’t know for sure, but that’s the picture we like to imagine.
Below where we stood, we spotted the dam and talked about construction.
And then located the lodge. Another cool thing–more hoar frost at the top where a vent hole exists and is not covered with the mud that insulates the rest of the structure.
By evidence of the frost, we suspected the family was gathered within, probably consisting of mom and dad, at least two two-year-olds who will move on in the spring, and maybe a few youngsters.
As we walked beside a trail on our way to check out another lodge we determined wasn’t active, one among us discovered a kill site. So here’s the thing. When we first met in the parking lot, that same participant pointed to a Bald Eagle that flew just above the trees.
Could the eagle be the predator of what had been a duck? We suspected so.
The blood was fresh.
Nearby a Mallard had been quaking and we thought it was laughing at us and our enthusiasm and inquisitiveness. But perhaps it was lamenting the loss of a mate. Or at least trying to locate the mate that had become a meal–providing energy for another to carry on.
Yes, it’s sad. But this is nature. This is how it works.
After two delightful hours of discovery and learning, we said goodbye to everyone, dropped in at Loon Echo Land Trust’s office, and then went on a reconnaissance mission at another local spot, trying to determine if we should use it for a class we’ll teach for Lake Region Lifelong Learning, another volunteer venture.
And it was there, that just after we’d talked about being in hare territory and knowing that the lack of snow meant that a hare would stand out amongst the leaves, that . . . Dawn spotted a Snowshoe Hare.
We were so excited about how the morning had unfolded and spying the hare was a grand reward.
Can you track mammals without any snow. YES!
Wednesday Wanders, oh my! So much to learn. So much to share.
This story begins . . . at the beginning. Okay. Early morning, not enough coffee, humor. Rather, this story begins at a bird feeder located about twenty feet from our back door.
Birds, like this Tufted Titmouse, frequent it, especially on rainy days, which seems to be the norm this December. In fact, this year. Sadly.
But, there’s another visitor, who thinks its a bird. If it had the membrane that stretches from the wrist of a front paw to the ankle of a rare paw, we could at least call it a Flying Squirrel. It does not. It just thinks its entitled to the bird feeder selection, despite the fact that I spread plenty of seed on the ground and have a dangling corn feeder intended for such uses.
Eventually, it did resort to normal Gray Squirrel behavior and fetched an acorn, then frantically searched for a spot to cache it. And taught me a lesson.
I realized I’ve never paid particular attention to a Gray Squirrel caching acorns, one here, one there, for future food sources, or a future oak sapling if not dined upon. I knew they did that. But what I didn’t realize is that much consideration goes into location of said single cache. The squirrel moved through two gardens, across the yard, and paused about three feet from the back door to dig, all the while holding the acorn between its lips.
And in the end, that wasn’t the right spot and so it moved on.
And I stepped out the door. The hole was just deep enough and wide enough for that single acorn, but the last I saw of the squirrel , it still hold the nut tight as it pranced along the stone wall and then into the field beyond. Funny thing is that when I returned home an hour or two or three later, there was a second hole excavated but equally empty. Why dig here twice and not make a deposit?
The Gray Squirrel’s activity inspired me to step into our woods and check on the activity of my friend Red. He doesn’t disappoint and each day that I visit I notice new middens (garbage piles of discarded cone scales) and new cones added to the cache (food cupboard).
My favorite cache is now a foot tall and the cool realization is that he doesn’t dine upon this pile. Like the Gray Squirrel burying his acorns for future consumption, Red is dining on plenty of pine cone seeds, but saving up for that day when we have so much snow (will that day ever come again?) that he has a food supply available and doesn’t have to tunnel through the white stuff in search of a meal. Considering how many pine cone seeds he must consume each day, I have to wonder how long this source will last and will it grow taller and wider in the coming weeks?
On the other side of the cow path, for that is where the tall pile is located, I realized he’s started another cache, this one located under some discarded garden fence left behind by previous owners of the land. It’s actually a great spot in my squirrely mind, for its beside the wall so he can easily access it from a dry spot within and the fencing and sticks and leaves have created a shelter.
Much to my delight, I spotted Red on a pine branch, a perfect high spot on which to dine and keep an eye on invaders of his domain, such as me. My presence, however, did not stop him from peeling each scale to seek the two seeds tucked close to the cob.
And as is the custom, its only the seeds that he cares about, scales discarded because their usefulness is no longer important.
The base of the tree shows just how many scales he’s discarded over the last few months as his midden contiunes to grow. Considering this year was a mast pinecone production year for Eastern White Pines in western Maine, this is one well fed squirrel.
Another tree that produced a mast crop is the Northern Red Oak and the abundance of acorns has been a food source for the squirrels, especially the Gray, Porcupines, and White-tailed Deer.
The tree behind our barn is massive, with a coppiced base and therefore three large trunks. Our sons once built a fort in that space between.
At about 4:15pm the day before, our youngest son, his gal, and I watched Bandit, the local porcupine come from the acorns to a puddle beside the herb garden and pause for about five minutes as he sipped from it. That was another first for me. And them as well. In fact, for his gal, just seeing a porcupine in the wild was a first.
Then he waddled off to the woods on the other side of the stone wall, and probably found an Eastern Hemlock upon which to dine for the night. I found a few trees with downed twigs, but none that cried out, “I’m Bandit’s food source,” so I suspect I need to expand my search on another day.
Instead, I made a different discovery. We know that Bandit has spent time under the barn, and he’s left tracks when we did have snow that led to a neighbor’s shed, but I have wondered about the old oak tree and the hollow within its three trunks And today, I spied evidence that he has inspected the hollow. Do you see it?
How about now? Quills! I found them on both sides of the trunk.
And on the ground below.
About two inches in length, and some were longer, I love how his brownish hue is similar to that of the bundle of dried pine needles.
The hollow is dark and deeper than my camera could see. The curious thing is that there is no scat. Yet. You can rest assured that I will keep an eye on this spot.
I decided to hang out not too far from the tree and barn as day turned to dusk in hopes of spotting Bandit emerging. Much to my surprise, an Eastern Chipmunk appeared on the wall behind the tree. Wait. What? Shouldn’t he be in torpor? Yup. But chipmunks will make an occasional appearance on warmer days and we’ve had way to many of them this year.
A doe and her two skippers also appeared and watched me from the edge of the field, or at least listened to my movements, which I tried to minimize as much as possible, but those ears were on high alert.
About a month ago, when we did have snow, I discovered blood beside her tracks on this side of the wall and knew that she was in estrus. A day later, I noticed a young buck in the field and by the way he kept his nose to the ground and moved frantically, I knew he was on a mission to find her. Did he? Is she with child? Only spring will tell.
In the meantime, her twin skippers are still with her. They ran off before I headed in, but I suspect it wasn’t long before they returned under the blanket of darkness and munched on a bunch of acorns.
Bandit never did appear during the time that I waited. Who knows? Maybe he had spent a night and day or two in the hemlock of his dining choice. I’ll continue to search for evidence of his activities because it’s what I most enjoy doing.
There’s always something wild going on outside our back door, rain or shine or snow or sleet, and I’m grateful for each lesson they take the time to teach me. I am a forever student, naturally.
The spirit of the season has settled upon me at last, though it isn’t snowing and the Grinch actually turned our hopes of a White Christmas into forty shades of green. But still, today I was reminded of a time when our youngest asked, “Mom, are you Santa?”
He’d held onto the belief for far longer than any of his classmates. And for that reason, I too, couldn’t let go. And so that day as we drove along I reminded him that though the shopping mall Santas were not real, we’d had several encounters that made believers out of all of us.
The first occurred over thirty years ago when I taught English in Franklin, New Hampshire. Across the hall from my classroom was a special education class. And fourteen-year-old Mikey, a student in that class, LOVED Santa.
Each year the bread deliveryman dressed in the famous red costume when he made his final delivery before Christmas break. To Mikey’s delight, he always stopped by his classroom. That particular year, a raging snowstorm developed. The bread man called the cafeteria to say that he would not be able to make the delivery. School was going to be dismissed after lunch, but we were all disappointed for Mikey’s sake.
And then . . . as the lunch period drew to a close, Santa walked through the door and directly toward Mikey, who hooted with joy as he embraced the jolly old elf. As swiftly as he entered, Santa left. I have no doubt that that was Santa.
And about nineteen years ago, as the boys sat at the kitchen counter eating breakfast on Christmas Eve morning, we spotted a man walking on the power lines across the field from our house. We all wondered who it was, but quickly dismissed the thought as he disappeared from our view, until . . . a few minutes later he reappeared. The second time, he stopped and looked in our direction. I grabbed the binoculars we kept on the counter for wildlife viewings. The man was short and plump. He wore a bright red jacket, had white hair and a short, white beard. The boys each took a turn with the binoculars. The man stood and stared in our direction for a couple of minutes, and then he continued walking in the direction from which he’d originally come. We never saw him again. I have no doubt that that was Santa.
Another incident occurred about seventeen years ago, when on Christmas Eve, our phone rang. The unrecognizable elderly male voice asked for our oldest son. When I inquired who was calling, he replied, “Santa.” He spoke briefly with both boys and mentioned things that they had done during the year. I chatted with him again before saying goodbye. We were all wide-eyed with amazement. I have no doubt that that was Santa.
Once I reminded our youngest of those stories, he dropped the subject for the time being. I knew he’d ask again and I also knew that none of us wanted to give up the magic of anticipation for those special moments we know as Christmas morning, when the world is suddenly transformed.
I also knew it was time he heard another story–that of Saint Nicholas, the Secret Giver of Gifts. It goes something like this . . .
The nobleman looked to Heaven and cried, “Alas. Yesterday I was rich. Overnight I have lost my fortune. Now my three daughters cannot be married for I have no dowry to give. Nor can I support them.”
For during the Fourth Century, custom required the father of the bride to provide the groom with a dowry of money, land or any valuable possession. With no dowry to offer, the nobleman broke off his daughters’ engagements.
“Do not worry, Father. We will find a way,” comforted his oldest daughter.
Then it happened. The next day, the eldest daughter discovered a bag of gold on the windowsill. She peered outside to see who had left the bag, but the street was vacant.
Looking toward Heaven, her father gave thanks. The gold served as her dowry and the eldest daughter married.
A day later, another bag of gold mysteriously appeared on the sill. The second daughter married.
Several days later, the father stepped around the corner of his house and spied a neighbor standing by an open window. In shocked silence, he watched the other man toss a familiar bag into the house. It landed in a stocking that the third daughter had hung by the chimney to dry.
The neighbor turned from the window and jumped when he saw the father.
“Thank you. I cannot thank you enough. I had no idea that the gold was from you,” said the father.
“Please, let this be our secret,” begged the neighbor. “Do not tell anyone where the bags came from.”
The generous neighbor was said to be Bishop Nicholas, a young churchman of Myra in the Asia Minor, or what we call Turkey. Surrounded by wealth in his youth, Bishop Nicholas had matured into a faithful servant of God. He had dedicated his life to helping the poor and spreading Christianity. News of his good deeds circulated in spite of his attempt to be secretive. People named the bishop, “The Secret Giver of Gifts.”
Following Bishop Nicholas’ death, he was made a saint because of his holiness, generosity and acts of kindness. Over the centuries, stockings were hung by chimneys on the Eve of December 6, the date he is known to have died, in hopes that they would be filled by “The Secret Giver of Gifts.”
According to legend, Saint Nicholas traveled between Heaven and Earth in a wagon pulled by a white steed on the Eve of December 6. On their doorsteps, children placed gifts of hay and carrots for the steed. Saint Nicholas, in return, left candy and cookies for all the good boys and girls.
In Holland, Saint Nicholas, called Sinterklaas by the Dutch, was so popular for his actions, that the people adopted him as their patron saint or spiritual guardian.
Years later, in 1613, Dutch people sailed to the New World where they settled New Amsterdam, or today’s New York City. They brought the celebration of their beloved patron with them to America.
To the ears of English colonists living in America, Sinterklaas must have sounded like Santa Claus. Over time, he delivered more than the traditional cookies and candy for stockings. All presents placed under a tree were believed to be brought by him.
Santa Claus’ busy schedule required he travel the world in a short amount of time. Consequently, as recorded in Clement Moore’s poem, “The Night Before Christmas,” a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer replaced the wagon and steed.
Since Saint Nicholas was known for his devout Christianity, the celebration of his death was eventually combined with the anniversary of Christ’s birth. December 24th or Christmas Eve, began to represent the Saint’s visit to Earth.
Traditionally, gifts are exchanged to honor the Christ Child as the three Wise Men had honored Him in Bethlehem with frankincense, gold and myrrh.
One thing, however, has not changed. The gifts delivered by Saint Nicholas or Santa Claus, or whomever your tradition dictates, have always and will continue to symbolize the love people bear for one another.
Though they are now adults, my continued hope for my sons is that they will realize the magic of Christmas comes from the heart and that we all have a wee bit of Santa in us. Yes, Patrick, Santa is real.
May you continue to embrace the mystery and discover wonder wherever you look. And may you find joy in being the Secret Giver of Gifts.
I did a thing. Years ago I wrote a children’s story. Well, a bunch of them actually. And I tried to sell this particular one to publishing houses. No takers. Then, a couple of years ago I purchased a Fairy Coloring Book created by the one and only Solana, teenage daughter of the Fly Away Farm Wards in Lovell and Stow, Maine, and approached her about illustrating my fairy tale. She took on the task and did an amazing job. Then I asked copyeditor Pam Marshall to wave her magic wand over it. And finally a few weeks ago I asked graphic designer Dianne Lewis to use some fairy dust and turn it into an actual book. I always said I’d never self-publish a book. And tada: I did just that.
Aisling, a fairy who lives on Sabattus Mountain in the western Maine village of Lovell, has a vision during the Midsummer Eve celebration.
Twinkles, flitters, a bit of fairy dust and some tsk-taking are necessary to make Aisling’s vision a reality.
You and your children will delight in the story accompanied and the colorful and whimsical illustrations created by artist Solana Ward.
Marita Wiser, author of Hikes and Walks in and around Maine’s Lakes Region had this to say about the book, “The fairies in The Giant’s Shower will captivate children with their merry life in the forest. It’s not all magical though, as they moved from New Hampshire to Sabattus Mountain in Maine to avoid a certain devil. At least they thought the giant was a devil, but the situation wasn’t what it seemed at first. Both the writing and the detailed illustrations capture many features of the woods of northern New England, and the fun of fairy life and houses.”
A naturalist and writer, many of you know that I hike frequently in Maine and New Hampshire, and those adventures inspired this story. I feel the fairies’ magic whenever I’m among moss-covered ground and tree stumps.
Included in the book are directions to the two featured settings, Sabattus Mountain and Arethusa Falls. Both are easily accessible for young hikers who might experience some magical moments while exploring.
Also included is a list of character names and their explanations, as well as instructions to create fairy houses and fairy dust.
The Giant’s Shower is available for $16.99 at Bridgton Books, Hayes Ace Hardware, Fly Away Farm, or by contacting me: thegiantsshower2023@gmail.com.
Those who know me know how excited I was to wake to snow. So excited in fact, that I awoke early, saw that certain glow in the sky through the window above our bed, and jumped up, not wanting to miss the day dawning.
At just before 6am, I turned on an outside light for a minute and opened the door to receive the quiet that the flakes created.
It snowed for a couple more hours before turning to rain and by the time I shoveled the driveway it was heavy cement.
But still the world glowed. Especially the beech trees that are like spots of sunlight on a gloomy gray day.
Into the woods, I trudged, though I didn’t plan to go far because I suspected hunters would be as excited since they could more easily track deer, so decked out in blaze orange as I was, I stayed in our woodlot, with the intention of checking on my friend, Red. His caches have grown this past week, so I knew he had food in the pantry.
What I didn’t expect to spy along the way was this: White Pines foaming at the mouth! What really occurred: sap salts and acids that had accumulated on the bark’s surface mixed together in the dripping snow and formed soapy suds or pine soap.
Pine soap on the tree and snow disturbed by plops of falling snow at the base of the tree offered a contrast of textures.
Much as I’m mesmerized by fire, I’m equally mesmerized by water, and especially in the form of droplets. I’m actually surprised I eventually dragged myself home.
But first, I had to watch the droplet elongate.
And eventually (which was only seconds later), fall free. Although, was it really a free fall?
I suppose it was, but it landed on another section of the bark and continued the process of mixing with the sap salts and acids.
The other cool thing about the pine soap–its hexagonal forms–worth a natural engineering wonder.
As it turned out, it wasn’t just the pine soap that was flowing down the bark. Some trees had started peeing. Do trees really pee? It’s actually sap and I think given the temp, that rather matched a March day, sap was flowing, giving the melting snow a yellowish tint.
Eventually I reached my friend Red’s favorite hangouts and though the snow conditions had deteriorated from the point of view of a mammal tracker, he’d left plenty of sign on top of the white surface to tell me he had dined.
A lot. But then again, every scale on the cone protects two tiny seeds and one needs to eat a lot to attain nourishment from them. That’s why he has to create caches or piles of cones to last throughout the winter.
I didn’t actually see Red today, and surmised that he’d decided to make an early day of it and was probably snuggled in somewhere under the wall, using the snow and leaves as insulation. I know from watching 315 15-second game camera videos a few Christmases ago, that Red Squirrels rise with the sun, follow much the same routine all day long, eating pine seeds, dropping scales, leaving behind the cobs, dashing along to the next cache, returning to the first, dining again and repeating this activity over and over again during the course of the day, before disappearing about a half hour before sunset. Each day. Every day.
On this eve of Thanksgiving 2023, I recall some sketches I did in 2019 at a workshop at Hewnoaks Artist Residency in Lovell, Maine. The presenter offered us a variety of materials to work with as we saw fit. My fascination with squirrels and pine cones is not new and that day I chose to sketch one in three stages and then highlight the scales of the opened cone with pieces of mica.
In the end, I give thanks for being present for today’s discoveries of pine soap inspired by snow, and tree pee (that reminded me of yellow topaz), knowing full well that not every moment is as bright and shiny as muscovite mica. And snow does melt. But here’s hoping more will fall. And I’ll head out the door and be present again. And again.
May you also have plenty of reasons to give thanks.
I walked up two stone steps beside one of our pollinator gardens this afternoon and when I looked up, which wasn’t really up, but rather a few feet ahead instead of at my feet, I was startled.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed.
My sudden companion didn’t even make a peep, which in hindsight is surprising, because its brethren are known to make some various squeaks in different occasions, but it did turn quickly so that its back was facing me, such is its defense weapon.
Yes, in the middle of the day I met a porcupine. If you are a frequent flyer on wondermyway.com, you know that I’m fascinated by these large quilled rodents. And their quills. And especially their scat!
By turning its tail toward me, my friend was ready to go on the defense should I try to get too close. Notice how the 30,000 quills on its back side were raised–a message to me that I should beware.
No, a Porcupine cannot send its quills aflying, but if I nudged it, which I chose not to do, the barbed hairs would have detached easily and I would have been screaming for help.
Instead, my friend decided to move away from me. And I decided to follow at a reasonable distance, giving it some space.
Our property is bordered again and again by stonewalls, some once used to mark boundaries, others to keep animals in or out, and still others served as garden walls, their double-wide structures the garbage pail for small stones that popped up each year during the spring thaw.
My friend had a single wall to conquer and that’s when today’s lesson began.
Actually, it was a few lessons. Maybe the first was noting the coloration of my buddy. We are used to variation in colors of our local Porcupines, but typically they are either black, or black with a lot of white, or brown. This guy seemed to bear the “coat of many colors,” embracing all of the above.
Not only that, he donned a white mask, the opposite of a Raccoon’s black mask. Today that mask earned him a name. From this day forward, he shall be known as Bandit.
The second lesson Bandit taught me is that because his sense of sight is not as prime as his sense of smell, once he was on the stonewall, he had a difficult time making the move down to the next stone.
I moved to the other side of the wall, and watched in awe as he raised his front legs in the air and stood upon his hind legs, rather bear-like in stance it seemed. Okay, so he even looks like a mini bear.
I began to realize that I sometimes channel my inner porky when I’m hiking down a trail. Going up is rather easy, despite the increase in elevation and sweat effort. But coming down. That’s a different story and I need to know where to place each foot. Especially in this autumn season when American Beech and Northern Red Oak leaves are slippery and hide obstacles.
Bandit continued to test his next move for a few minutes. Of course, some of that may have included my presence, and perhaps he was also sensing my odorous being. I have to admit that I hadn’t showered this morning, and for one who has a keen sense of smell, I was probably a bit of a mystery since I didn’t smell like a Fisher or a Bobcat. Those are a Porcupines finest predators–going for the soft hairs on his face or stomach.
Eventually Bandit took a step of faith. I know the feeling because I’ve done the same frequently on a hike and it brought to mind descending South Baldface in Evans Notch, and thinking that I couldn’t possibly lower my body from one ledge to the next, especially given that I couldn’t see a safe spot to place my foot. Or any spot, for that matter. I thought that perhaps I should just wait for a rescue mission, but My Guy did what he does and patiently waited and then talked me over the edge. Bandit talked himself over the edge and that worked for him.
And then I watched him waddle through our woodlot, lifting first the legs on his left side, and then his right.
He traveled close to the stone wall that borders our land and our neighbor’s field and I worried he’d cross over and she’d let her dogs out and quills would fly. Well, not really fly, but you know what I mean.
Thankfully, she wasn’t home yet. And . . .
Bandit had a different idea. He started to climb an Eastern Hemlock on our side of the wall.
Higher and higher he climbed and I noted that like me, he much prefers going up to coming down.
Knowing that he was going up the trunk and would be looking for a place to settle down, and probably wouldn’t go anywhere else for the time being, I decided to leave him be for a bit and check on my friend Red.
I’ve actually been checking on Red frequently these past few weeks and today I noted that he’d finally started to really build up his caches in several places. Cold temperatures have triggered his need to grow the pantry.
And in the meantime, he needed to eat to maintain his stamina.
I also checked on the Northern Red Oak beside another stonewall behind our barn. I suspected that prior to our meeting, Bandit had been feasting upon the abundant acorn crop the tree had produced.
I scanned the acorns for scat, but haven’t turned up any sightings yet. That said, I’m sure it’s there and don’t worry. I’ll continue to search, because, after all, scat happens.
I also intend to keep an eye on a hollow within the tree, which in the past has served as a Raccoon’s retreat. Maybe this year Bandit will do some housekeeping in this place. Or under our barn. Or somewhere else, for the options are endless in our neck of the woods.
Finally, I headed out to the field on our neighbor’s side of the wall and up in the Eastern Hemlock spotted Bandit. Do you see him? I say “him” because males typically are the ones we spot during the day.
I’ve been waiting for such a sighting because it is the time for Porcupines to switch from a summer diet in a field or orchard to a winter diet of acorns and hemlock cones and buds.
Today I give great thanks once again for living in a place where I can spy wildlife frequently and always there is a lesson to be learned. Porcupine as teacher, as it should be.
My Guy and I took in an old fav from a different perspective today. That’s because I always thought that the Micah Trail at Loon Echo Land Trust’s Bald Pate Mountain Preserve was for Camp Micah only. This morning I learned that anyone can begin the ascent via this sweet trail and so we made it our mission to do so this afternoon.
There is room for about four vehicles to park at the trailhead on the left-hand side of Moose Pond Cove Road off Route 107 in South Bridgton, Maine. Maps are available at the kiosk located a few steps in from the parking area.
Afew more steps and we met new bog bridging, always a welcome sight and so we crossed and then continued on up the trail, pausing frequently to search for bear claw trees among the American Beeches.
No such luck in the bear claw department, but we were serenaded by a flock of Chickadees singing their rather wispy fall songs, if they are songs indeed.
And a Hairy Woodpecker or two did what woodpeckers do . . . it pecked. This is a male as you can see by the hint of red at the back of its head. And he’s all puffed up, in reference to the brisk temperature of the day. Trapping air between his feathers helps him to warm up. Wearing several layers helps us do the same.
Once we reached the South Face Loop Trail, it was a quick ascent to the summit. Just before the summit, we paused to honor the bonsai tree–which is really a Pitch Pine. The summit of the pate is home to a Pitch Pine Forest. Though these trees can stand straight and tall, on mountain tops they take on a contorted structure.
The “pitch” in its name refers to its high resin content, thus making it rot resistant.
The needles are bundled in packets of three–making it easy to remember its name: Pitch–three strikes you’re out!
Another easy way to identify Pitch Pine is to look for needles growing right out of the bark–both on the trunk and branches.
Pitch Pine cones take two years to mature and upon the tip of each scale is a pointed and curved prickle.
They open gradually but depend upon fire for their seeds cannot be released until they are heated to an extremely high temperature.
That being said, this is the only native pine that will re-sprout when damaged.
I was told this morning that there had been some view openings and we were thrilled to discover a couple of them, includng this one overlook Peabody Pond with Sebago Lake in the distance.
And no visit to the summit is complete without paying homage to our friends Faith and Ben by taking a photo of their beloved Hancock Pond.
You may note the difference in the sky view from one pond to the next–snow showers are in the forecast for tonight so as we looked to the west, we could see the front moving in. No accumulation is expected, but any day now it will be most welcomed by us.
Though most of our foliage has dropped to the ground, another view at the summit included the scarlet colored blueberry leaves turning any day into a cheery one.
A quick loop we made next around the Bob Chase Trail, noting that we could almost see Mount Washington located in the saddle of our other beloved: Pleasant Mountain. On a clear day, this view is spectacular.
At last it was time for us to return to the South Face Trail and continue to follow the loop down. This section of trail we don’t often use so we did have to backtrack once and locate the orange blazes again.
You might think that upon our descent it would be the ice needles that gave us a difficult time. The six-sided slender ice constructions form in moist soil and can take on a variety of presentations from straight to arching curves. And yet, they grow perpendicular to the ground’s surface.
But, they were no bother and only crunched under our feet if we stepped on such in the trail.
The leaves, however, offered a different story. We had to make sure we weren’t fooled by the fact that many American Beech leaves still have some greens and bronze hues.
And others, though dried up, will wither on the trees until spring as they are marcescent (mar-CESS-ent). Some trees, such as the beech, especially those that are younger, choose to hang on to their leaves until spring.
Most deciduous trees drop their leaves in autumn, when cells between the twig and the leaf’s petiole create an abscission layer, thus causing the leaf to fall off. Not so in the case of marcescence, and I know that many will rattle and initially startle me all winter long. But, they also provide another hue in the winter landscape.
Northern Red Oaks also do the same, though in my observations, many are loosing their leaves with November winds, but some will remain throughout the winter.
Today, three seemed to play Tic-Tac-Toe on the trail before me.
So, young beech may retain their leaves, but look toward the sky and you’ll notice bare branches and look at your feet and you’ll see where they have all landed. A word of warning if you are hiking in New England right now–these leaves make for a very slippery slope, especially upon your descent. Hike with caution. Even My Guy has learned to do this.
As our hike came to a close, I noticed two trees close to the trailhead that I’d missed on the way in. An Eastern White Pine and a Paper Birch. Do you see what I see?
They had found a way to grow in the same space and actually fused together. Wind must have caused frequent branch movement. It probably took many years for the surfaces to gradually abrade, with the cambium of the trees touching and forming an adhesion, necessary for a graft union, and the trees fused.
It always strikes me when trees do this, especially those of different species. My Guy and I had been on a slippery slope on this Mondate, but the world seems to be on an even slipperier slope these days.
Maybe we all need to be like the trees and figure out a way to live together without so much conflict.
When My Guy looked out an upstairs window this morning, he noticed an anomaly in the field. I looked with binoculars and confirmed his suspicions. A carcass.
Last night, at about 5:15, we heard a single gunshot. Closer than any I’ve heard in the past. The gunshot itself is not unexpected in these woods as it is deer hunting season in Maine. And based on the date, hunters had until 5:50pm on November 4th to take down an animal.
Was it mere conincidence that we heard that single shot and today discovered a carcass on the other side of the wall? My first inclination was anger at the hunter. I assumed before I actually approached the site, that he/she had taken the deer down in our woods, then dragged it to the field to dress. And all that happened while I was inside reading in a room closest to the field. But . . . we never saw any lights or vehicles and so I had to wonder how the person carried the meat out.
Mind you, I don’t have anything wrong with hunting. In fact, I have huge admiration for hunters because they know the natural world better than most and they don’t have to go to the grocery store to purchase processed meat. Theirs is the finest and freshest.
It wasn’t until a couple of hours later that I realized it was a kill site. And so the questions changed: Had the hunter injured the animal and another animal took advantage? Or was the animal ill or elderly and a predator did what they do and preyed upon it, such is life in the forest.
If you are still reading, please be aware that some photos are kinda gruesome. But it’s nature in its rawest form.
This is the site that greeted us, and made us realize a full meal had been devoured last night. It’s amazing to think that this occurred so close to home and yet we heard no howling. Or . . . we were so tired from yard work that we slept right through it?
I promised you gruesome and didn’t want to let you down. Here’s the thing. By the head, you can see it was a doe. Had she been entered from the hind. So it seems. Who would do that. Well, coyotes and bobcats both do. And bobcats also go for the back of the neck, but that wasn’t the case.
I started to look around for more evidence. And found that there had been a struggle and the doe had been dragged around the field as you can see by the bloodstained grass.
Tufts of hair highlighted the tussle and I can just imagine how awful it must have been for the doe.
As is the case at any natural buffet, the entrails had been left behind.
Also on display was the rumen and other chambers of the stomach. This article from Wildlife Online helps explain how a deer’s stomach works: “Deer are ruminants, which means that they “chew the cud”. Indeed, the word ruminant stems from the Latin ruminatus, meaning “to turn over in the mind” or “chew the cud”. Cud is thought to have roots in the Old English cwidi, meaning “what has been chewed”. More specifically, deer are “foregut fermenters”, so-named because the fermentation chamber is ahead of the “true” stomach. Overall, the stomach is compartmentalised into four chambers, each of which has a different role in the digestive process and, in order from the oesophagus to rectum, these are the rumen (sometimes called the “paunch”), reticulum, omasum (“manifold”), and the abomasum (“true” or “glandular” stomach), which empties into the small intestine, which joins the large intestine and finally the rectum. Despite how this list might make it appear, the rumen and reticulum are essentially sections of the same the same functional space (chamber), because material moves back and forth between the two as it’s regurgitated for chewing and re-swallowed. Hence, some authors collectively refer to the two as the reticulorumen.”
Northern Red Oaks are masting in our area this year and so the acorn crop is abundant and after fermenting with microorganisms in the stomach, they begin to turn to a pasty cud. Don’t you want to regurgitate that?
When I looked at the ribs, I noted that they’d been gnawed off in a ragged manner and not one was left on this side of the doe. If she gets turned over tonight, I will check her other side. Think of it as a meal of spare ribs. Or at least rare ribs. Very rare. As in raw.
Crows visited the site several times today, but I scared them away each time I went out the door. What I did find on the carcass was a Blow Fly that I believe to be a Common Green Bottle Fly. Tom Murray, author of Insects of New England and New York states that their “normal food source is carrion.”
All the evidence I found was within about 20 X 20 feet and as I said, just over the wall from our house. I still can’t believe we didn’t hear any of the action.
Still thinking the hunter had taken that shot in close proximity to our property, I scanned the field looking for a gun shell, especially along the herd path, but found nothing. My neighbor thought the shot was taken farther out in the woods. I don’t know. It certainly sounded close, but that noise does carry.
Standing at the far edge of the field, I continued to look for evidence.
And that’s when I spotted several bobcat prints in the mud. Yes, the toenails are showing, for those who track with me, but . . . it was slippery mud and so they were needed for traction.
Bobcat. Maybe that’s why we didn’t hear anything. If it was coyotes, we would have heard the family howling to announce the feast.
And remember the ribs–with ragged breaks. That’s typical of bobcats. Did one bobcat eat all that meat? They are known to be solitary. I didn’t find a cache anywhere, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. And I did spot a large amount of scat, but for some reason didn’t photograph it. I’m losing my touch.
For a brief relief from the hard core deer carcass photos, because I wandered the field and woods looking for evidence, I noticed that Red has been active this last week, creating small caches that I hope I’ll be able to watch grow.
The Crows may not have cooperated and let me watch them dine, but Red did. And I began to wonder if he knew that a predator was nearby last night. Did he shiver in his sleep?
As for the doe, her sleeping days are over. May she rest in peace.
While she was a dear one, last night this deer lost. But others gained.
As my peeps know, I felt like it was a gift–Kill Site. Practically in my back yard. Did I interpret it correctly? We may never know, but I had fun trying to pull the story together.
And now, our neighbor has a game camera focused on it and we can’t wait to find out the rest of the story.
It’s been two years since we’ve spent time together, and to be honest, I kind of doubt this is my friend from 2021, but perhaps an offspring. Anyway, what I do know is that last year was not a mast year in my woods and so there wasn’t much food available–the type my friend prefers to survive the winter months. But this year–pine cones and acorns abound.
As I headed down the cowpath that marks one of the boundaries of our property here in western Maine, I knew instantly by the chortling that greeted my ears that things had changed for the better.
You see, my friend is a Red Squirrel. And he spotted me before I spotted him. And then he let me know in no uncertain terms that I was not welcome. What kind of friend is that?
As I looked at the rocks along the inside path of the cowpath, I began to notice garbage piles Red had created, or middens as we prefer to call them, full of cone scales and the inner core or cob.
They were located in high places where Red could sit and eat in peace . . . that is until someone like me comes along, or worse . . . a neighboring squirrel, or even worse, . . . a predator. Given that a cone on this rock was only partially eaten indicated he’d been interrupted mid meal.
Maybe that’s why he continued to chastise me as he climbed higher up the tree.
It takes at least two years for an Eastern White Pine cone to mature. And once they do, Red has a habit of squirreling his way out to the tips of twigs, gnawing the cone stem and letting it fall to the ground. If you spot a pine cone with closed scales such as this, count the number of scales and then multiply that number by 2. That’s the number of pine nuts the cone offers.
And trust that all are still tucked inside.
Pine cones are in a way like Common Polypody ferns and Rhododendrons in that they predict the weather. If it’s dry, the scales on cones will open. If rain and humidity are in the air, the former being today’s weather, the scales will close tightly, overlapping and sealing the seeds from the outside world.
While wet weather dampens seed dispersal, dry windy days are best and that allows the seeds to be carried away from the mother tree.
In the photo above, you can see where the two seeds had been tucked in, close to the the cob, while the lighter shade of brown indicates where the wings or samaras that help carry the seeds were attached to the outer scale.
And I can attest that the sap on the scales is still sticky even though this cone no longer had any seeds stored inside. The sap coats the cones because its the tree’s reaction of placing a bandaid on a wound when its been injured or in this case had a fruit gnawed free.
One would think that Red’s face and whiskers would be covered in sap, and that does happen, but just as it stuck to my fingers initially, eventually it wore off. And Red is much better at grooming than I’ll ever be.
To get to the seeds, Red begins by holding the cone with both front paws, and turns it in a spiral, tearing off one scale at a time. Quickly! And gnawing each tiny seed packet open. The seeds may be small, but they are highly nutritious.
He continued to watch, vocalizing constantly, as I explored his territory below.
Upon every high spot, including tree stumps, there was at least a midden, but also a few cones for possible future consumption, though I did have to wonder if some went uneaten because he realized they were open and thus not viable.
More of the same I found upon some of the cut pine stacks we created long ago that serve as shelter and . . .
Storage! I’ve been looking for a cache for the past few weeks, a squirrel’s food pantry, and today I located a few small ones that I know will grow in the coming weeks. Cool. moist locations like among the logs, but also in the stone wall, offer the best places to keep the cones from drying out.
As he backed up but still chattered at me, one thing I noticed about Red, which will help me to locate him in the future, is that he not only has a reddish gray coat, but between his back and white belly there is a black stripe. Maybe he’s disguising himself so he can go trick-or-treating this week and his neighbors won’t recognize him.
So here’s the thing. Red is an omnivore. And though we associate him with pine cones, especially in the winter, he also eats flowers and insects and fungi and even smaller mammals if given the chance. And acorns. And this year is also a mast year for acorns in our neck of the woods.
He’d peeled the outer woody structure away and had started to dine, but again, something or someone, and possibly I was the culprit, had interrupted his feeding frenzy.
That said, I was delighted to find the acorn shell fragments because already in my collection I had samples from a Gray Squirrel and a Porcupine. Now I have all three and you can see by the tape measure how they compare in size, as well as the manner of stripping. As you can see, Red’s fragments are about a quarter inch in size, while Gray’s a half inch or so, and Porky’s are about three quarters of an inch. And the latter are much more ragged in shape.
Red. My Squirrel Friend. He just doesn’t know it. Maybe by the end of the winter he will because I intend to call upon him frequently to see what else he might teach me.
It rained. And rained again. And rained some more. All spring. Seemingly all summer. And then we had a wee bit of a break as summer turned to fall. But . . . as important as rain is to trees, they didn’t necessarily appreciate so much of it. At least, that’s been the case for some species, in particular Sugar Maples.
Typically, the leaves on this Sugar Maple in our front yard don an orangey-yellow hue and add a glow to our front rooms in mid-October. Not this year. I took this photo on October 1, and as you can see, many of the leaves had dried up and fallen off prematurely.
The reason. The rain. Well, not the rain but related to the rain. Between all that water saturating the roots, high humidity, and warmer than normal temperatures, fungal spores attacked the leaves, causing them to turn brown and dry up since their photosynthesis had been slowed and they no longer had the energy to carry on into foliage season.
Probably adding to this particular tree’s stress was the fact that it had produced prolific fruits. It did look rather odd to see so many samaras dangling and nary a leaf. But, the silver lining, the fruits speak to future generations and next year’s buds are present and ready to overwinter for emergence in the spring.
That said, the front yard doesn’t look all that pretty with a pile of dried up leaves, but the chipmunk hole tells me that some local residents are thrilled–they’ve had leaves available for longer than is the norm to fill their nursery/bedding chambers and now that the seeds are finally dropping, they have an abundance of food as well.
With that in mind, my mind has formed a negative take on this year’s foliage. Oh, it’s been pretty in little pockets, but nothing to rave about and I was getting frustrated with Peak Foliage Reports telling leaf peepers how beautiful it is.
And so I wondered as we headed across a boardwalk to Long Mountain this afternoon, what we might encounter for color on our climb.
During much of the hike, Mill Brook babbled insistently . . .
flowed intensely . . .
and even roared immensely.
So much water, mimicking spring run-off, was the result of several more inches of rain that fell this past weekend.
Accompanied by the sound of the rushing water, and perhaps calmed by it as well, I began to notice the colors that surrounded us.
And when I looked down, there were jewels to be admired, like this Red Maple. Notice the V I added to the gap between the leaf’s pointed lobes? Red Maples offer a V-shape in the gap because they are VERY abundant in the Maine woods.
Fortunately, the Sugar Maples in this forest faired better than the ones on our road, which made me happy. So . . . how to tell the difference between the Red and the Sugar. The U-shaped gap can be thought of as a scoop. Get it? A scoop of sugar?!
Maple-leaf Viburnum, a shrub in the understory, had its own hues to offer. Usually I see these leaves in their mulberry shade, but either we were too late today, or this one decided to be much more pastel in hue. It doesn’t really matter because it was still beautiful, had fruits left for wildlife, and bright red buds preparing for the future.
It is a bit early for Northern Red Oaks, but some in the understory had given up their need to continue to produce energy and change is in the air, or at least along the veins.
A Quaking Aspen with its flat petiole (stem), was the greenest of the species we encountered today.
I think one of my favorites was the Quaking’s cousin, a Big-tooth Aspen, which also features a flat petiole. Oh, and what big teeth along the leaf’s margin.
I was reminded as I looked at this leaf that yesterday we learned of a man who when in kindergarten many decades ago, was allowed to use only one color of crayon. I suppose the same teacher also told him to stay within the lines.
As the Big-tooth Aspen can attest, nature is a much better teacher in that and so many other regards.
Okay, so I called the Big-tooth my favorite, but then I spotted an Elm. It didn’t feel quite like an American Elm to me lacking as it was that gritty sandpaper feeling, but being with My Guy, I didn’t have time to look around for more leaves or locate the tree. One day I will. The other choice is a Slippery Elm, but this isn’t actually their habitat. But then again, another lesson or two from nature–she doesn’t always read the books and there are no absolutes.
The cool thing, besides the tie-dyed coloration of this leaf’s edge, is the asymmetrical base, one side dipping longer down the petiole than the other.
And then there was the Indian Cucumber Root. I think what caught my eye as much as the red on the leaves and the fruits waiting for a critter to dine, was the negative space between the upper tier of leaves, creating a five-pointed star. Maybe they always look like that and I’ve just never noticed before.
Today’s hike began to give me a change of heart about the foliage. Whether at our feet . . .
or flying above us . . .
or forming a tapestry before us . . .
it was beautiful in its own way . . .
and I’m grateful that this turned into a Not Dissing Fall Foliage Mondate.
We’ve traipsed through these woods before, My Guy and I, but always, there’s the old to see and the new to appreciate. And so today we visited both.
By the shape of the forest road we walked, I could have driven another mile before parking. But . . . I like to walk. And besides, you can’t appreciate all the beauty that surrounds you on a wet autumn day if you fly in at 60 miles per hour. Or even at 20!
And because we walked, we found an off-shoot trail that led us to a sweet spot we’d not visited before along Great Brook, where we stood for a few moments watching and listening and smelling as the water cascaded over the rocks.
Once we got to the trailhead after passing around a gate, we followed another old road for a ways, up and down over a few little hills, and then, because memory was on our side, as the road curved to the right and the stonewall began on the left, we knew it was time to turn and begin a bushwhack up a road that hasn’t seen much use in decades. It was there that we spied the first witness. A tree standing over a marker. By the way the tree is growing around the sign, it’s obvious that it’s been keeping watch for decades.
So if that was the witness post, where was the survey marker? Atop a rock at the base of the witness tree. And 1965 would be the year that the sighting was first made.
Eventually we reached the first of the foundations because even when we are what seems to be deep in the woods, we’re in the middle of a place that was once somewhere — someone’s neighborhood. In this case, according to the 1858 map, we were visiting the Durgins.
My friend, Jinnie Mae (RIP), was an historian and tech guru and years ago she overlaid part of the bushwhack we did today on an 1858 map. You can see the name E. Durgin on that.
One of my favorite things about the Durgin cellar hole is the cold storage. In the cold to come, it will still serve as storage, so witnessed by the findings within today.
For the back corner has long provided protection from the elements for a porcupine, given the scat pile.
Because we were there, we decided to check on the Durgins who hang out a ways in the woods behind their former home and followed a stonewall to their locale.
Three of them were still there. Sarah, daughter of Anna and Ephraim (E. Durgin on the map), died in 1858 at age 22.
Beside her stood Mary, wife of Sumner Dergin, who died before Sarah in 1856, also at age 22.
Our best guess is that Sarah and Sumner were siblings.
Ephraim, father of Sarah and Sumner, and husband of Anna, died in 1873 at age 81. Did you notice the difference in stone from the 1850s to 1870s? Slate to cement. And the name change–Dergin vs. Durgin. We’ve learned through geneology research that spellings often differ. I found the following a few years back on RootsWeb.
8. ANNA3 FURLONG (PATRICK2, JOHN1) was born 1791 in Limerick, Maine, and died 1873 in Stoneham, Maine. She married EPHRAIM DURGIN June 18, 1817 in Limerick, Maine14. He was born April 13, 1790 in Limerick, Maine, and died in Stoneham.
Children of ANNA FURLONG and EPHRAIM DURGIN are: i.OLIVE4 DURGIN, b. 1811, Stoneham, Maine; m. DUNCAN M. ROSS, April 11, 1860, Portland, Maine. ii.SALOMA DURGIN, b. 1813. iii.ELIZABETH DURGIN, b. 1815. iv.SALLY DURGIN, b. 1817. v.SUMNER F. DURGIN, b. 1819, Of Stoneham, Massachusettes; m. MARY ANN DURGAN, July 11, 1853, York County, Maine; b. Of Parsonsfield, Maine. vi.CASANDIA DURGIN, b. 1821. vii.EPHRAIM DURGIN, b. 1823. viii.FANNY DURGIN, b. 1825.
Sarah isn’t listed above. But . . . Sally and Sarah were often interchangeable.
We ate lunch with the family as we looked out at the view they enjoy every day–possibly once called Durgin Hill, and then maybe Sugar Hill.
After lunch, our journey continued a wee bit further until another witness stopped me in my hiking boots. It took me three bear hugs with arms fully outstretched to completely circle this ancient Sugar Maple. Can you imagine the tales stored inside this great, great, great grandfather?
And at his feet, a wee one to appreciate –a Many-fruited Pelt Lichen, the many fruits being the brown fruiting bodies or apothecia.
A few steps away, we reached the Willard family foundation. Two large granite slabs are visible in the back and I had to wonder if they originally formed the roof of another cold storage.
Again, I referred to Jinnie Mae’s research. By 1880, the Willards house was occupied by the McKeens. And the Durgins were no longer living there, which makes sense given that Anna and Ephraim both died in 1873. The Rowlands had moved in to their home.
A newer member of the neighborhood, a Striped Maple, may not have known any of these occupants, but despite the full canopy of evergreens and maples and birches, it sure knew how to produce large leaves to increase its chances of survival.
Eventually, we turned west and followed an old road way bordered by stonewalls on either side. I remember when few trees grew there, but now one has to move through like a ball in a pinball machine, ricocheting off this tree and that rock along the way.
It’s well worth the effort because it leads directly to Willard Brook, which flows southward toward Great Brook , where we first began our journey.
Though I know the first part of the trip well, I sometimes get a bit mixed up with the second part and such was the case today. That said, as we scrambled up and down the sometimes steep hillside beside the brook, we came upon these wheels and bingo. We knew them as old friends we’d met on a previous trip.
There is so much history tucked away in these woods, and I gave thanks for two more witnesses, who despite their differences, stood together and supported each other.
We live in unceded Wabanaki land and I’ve come to some understanding of the Native American presence that once existed here in this place between Great Brook and Willard Brook. And I’m sure still does.
After witnessing the past, we walked back down the road as raindrops fell. A perfect hush to end the journey.
It takes us several months to toss ideas around, set up and conduct interviews, and then let the writing process play out. The latter is among my favorite activities because it takes work to figure out how to present the topic and because people are passionate about their subject and share a lot more in an interview than we need, as writers we have to get to the gist of it and then hone, and hone, and hone some more. Even the final published piece is not really the final draft because always, at least when I read what I’ve written, there are things I would change or other words I wished I’d used or examples I wish I’d given. But . . .
With all that said, I present to you the Fall/Winter issue of Lake Living magazine, which is in its 26th year of publication (and I give great thanks that I’ve been privileged to write for and work on the magazine staff since 2006).
And the table of contents:
The cover photo and lead article were written by Marguerite Wiser, a young woman of many talents. Marguerite has written several articles for Lake Living in the last few years and it’s great to have her voice in the mix.
Tear Cap, as you’ll discover upon reading the article, is about a collaborative effort that celebrates community in an old mill in Hiram, Maine.
Editor and publisher Laurie LaMountain has written about Ian Factor’s studio in Bridgton in a previous issue, but now Ian has taken his work a step further and you can read all about what he’s bringing to Fryeburg Academy students in Fryeburg, Maine.
Laurie wrote several other articles as you can see from the table of contents, one about the Magic Lantern and their STEM programs, and another about an interesting painter who captured her whimsy with his own sense of whimsy. When we chatted on the phone after she’d interviewed Dwight Mills, I could tell she most jazzed about the man.
A new contributor to this issue was Mollie Elizabeth Wood. When I heard about her topic, my gut reaction was, “Really? For Lake Living?” But, you’ve got to read this article. It’s incredibly well written and brings death to the forefront, because, after all, it’s on the horizon for all of us.
One of my articles is about a new building currently under construction at the Rufus Porter Museum in Bridgton, Maine. If you are a long time follower of wondermyway.com, you may recall the day the community walked the Church Building at the museum down Main Street. If you are new to wmw.com or have a memory like mine, here’s the link: Walking with Rufus Porter. Now, the campus is growing and it’s an exciting addition to town.
Pre-pandemic, when advertisers were more abundant, and publishing costs were lower, we published Lake Living four times/year and in the fall and spring issues you could find book reviews from the owners and staff of Bridgton Books, an independent book store. Above are Justin Ward’s picks from the bookshelf.
Now, we only publish two issues, so in each one you can see what they recommended each time you pick up a copy of the magazine. These are Perri’s Preferences.
This last article resonated with me because it’s about two people from different sides of the table who sat down to chat and realized they have a lot in common and figured out a way to work together. Rex Rolfe of Rolfe Corporation in Bridgton, owns an aggregate /excavation business, and Erika Rowland is the former Executive Director at Greater Lovell Land Trust, where I also work.
This past summer, a small group of us stood in one of Rex’s pits that abuts land trust property, and the two shared their story. It’s what got me thinking that we need to educate others about this topic.
Oh, and that pile of sand behind Rex–it’ll help keep you from sliding on local roads when the snow finally flies this winter as town trucks have been going in and out recently to fill their storage facilities.
When we came up with the editorial list for this issue I thought, “Well, this one doesn’t seem to have a theme,” but as Laurie wrote in her editor’s notes on page 4, “Community, connection, collaboraton, creativity–these are the concepts that thread through this issue of Lake Living . . . they are the hallmarks of where we live . . . ”
And on October 10, Laurie received this message from a reader:
I leave you all with an image of Rex Rolfe’s toy collection and hope that you’ll take the time to brew a cup of tea and sit down with the magazine and enjoy all that is within its covers . . . and then support the advertisers so we can continue to bring this to you for free!
I walked out the door this morning and wandered down one trail and then another and intended to go farther into the woods, but as often happens, I was stopped in my tracks.
On granite at my feet, covered as it was with lichens of the crustose and foliose sort, I spied a rather large specimen of scat. High point. Center of trail. Classic.
Based on the size and hair and bones packed within, I knew the creator: a coyote. If I awake during the night I can sometimes hear the family members calling to each other, the youngsters learning to hunt so they’ll be ready when they disperse.
The trail narrowed by a small stream and I was wearing my muck boots so proceeded at will. It’s been a few months since I’ve traveled this way and was surprised at how grown in it had become this summer. While the Sugar Maples do not like wet feet from all the rain we’ve had, other species have thrived, including the Red Maples, and this shrub that bordered each side of the trail.
It’s leaves still entact showed off that they are doubly toothed in a rather random order. So each little “tooth” is like the edge of a saw, but if you look closely, you’ll note that there are bigger teeth made up of a series of smaller teeth before the leaf margin cuts in toward the main vein and then heads out again to form the next bigger tooth made up of smaller teeth. And those veins in between the main vein and those that lead to the margin–reminded me of the crinkles on an apple doll person, since it is apple season.
The leaf buds, which form in the summer for next year, are hairy and have only two scales. Because of recent warm weather, at least one decided to jump the gun and open now rather than waiting until next spring. I’ve seen that with other plants of late, including Blueberry, Daylily, Sheep Laurel, and Partridgeberry.
Others who best not jump ahead are the catkins of this species, the longer green and red being the male pollen carriers that will slowly elongate over the winter and turn more yellowish red in the spring. The female flowers are tiny magenta catkins located just above the males.
Once the females are wind pollinated, the males will drop off and the females will form into a fruit that resembles a cone.
The name of these shrubs, if I haven’t already spilled the beans, is Speckled Alder, so named for the white dots (think lenticels for gas exchange) that populate the bark. These shrubs love wet feet, which is why they are growing on either side of that small stream.
Some of the Speckled Alder cones hide beneath tongues imitating piles of snakes stretching out, made from galls caused by an infection to increase the surface for spores from a fungus to spout. It’s a smart strategy.
I also found a few Lady Beetles today, including one larval form. They were on these shrubs for one reason.
That reason being the Woolly Alder Aphids who live a complex life in which they alternate between a generation reproducing asexually (no guys, just gals), and one reproducing sexually with both males and females adding to the diversity of the gene pool. The males and females fly to Maple trees to canoodle, but those found on the Alders are all female.
They live such a communal life as they suck sap from the shrub, that one might think this entire mass is just one insect. Hardly. And do you see all that waxy wool that covers their bodies? If you watch these insects for even a few seconds, you’ll note that the hairs move independently. It’s almost otherworldly.
Since they’ll overwinter, I think of the wool as providing a great coat. In the summer, ants, and now Lady Beetles, and even a few other insects farm them to get the aphids to excrete honeydew from the sap.
The aphids don’t harm the the shrubs, but I saw so many today that that fact is hard to believe. I gave up on counting branches but over one hundred played host.
That said, there was another character in the mix. Do you see the top branch that leans out to the right?
The sweet honeydew I mentioned forms a substrate for a nonpathogenic fungus called sooty mold that blackens leaves and bark beneath colonies of aphids. The mold is known scientifically as Scorias spongiosa or, my favorite and drum roll please . . . Beech Aphid Poop-Eater: A fungus that consumes the scat (frass in insect terms) of a Beech Blight Aphid (not the same as Beech Scale Insect that causes Beech Bark Disease). Alders are in the Beech family.
As I left a few Autumn Meadowhawk Dragonflies flew ahead of me on the path. They’re days are numbered, so I’m always thrilled to see them flying and posing.
Omnivore, Herbivore, Insectivore, Oh MY! And all of this within a ten-foot stretch of the trail.
The morning began as Tuesdays do in my current world, with a visit to a Greater Lovell Land Trust property accompanied by a group of curious naturalists we know as docents who love to do deep dives on every little thing that we encounter and in the midst we share a brain. A collective brain is the only kind to have, in my opinion, because we each bring different knowledge or questions to the plate.
And so it was when we first encountered what could have been a hair ball of sorts and then discovered this hair-filled scat about a yard beyond. And near it another “hair ball.” Based on size and structure we determined the scat belonged to a bobcat, and thought that the hair balls made sense as maybe the cat had to cough up some of the hair of the mammal consumed. What did it eat? Well, we know both snowshoe hare and deer frequent this place and so it could have been either.
A little further down the trail we reached a beaver lodge that some of us had seen under construction in August 2022, and gathered game camera photos over the course of time, and spotted all kinds of sign of activity each time we visited, until that is, May. When it rained. And rained. And rained. In a torrential manner. And the dam the beavers had built was breached. And they disappeared. And we know not their fate.
But the beauty of a beaver pond is that once breached, change happens and other critters take advantage of the space and there’s so much possibility and we can’t wait to watch how this space, one in which we could walk prior to August 2022, will evolve and other flora and fauna may move in until another beaver family takes up residence and changes it again.
About an hour or so after departing, a call came. Well, really, it was a typed message. But as my morning peeps know, shout, “Kill site,” and no matter what I might be focused upon, I’ll come running.
The message included a few photos of a mammal skeleton and a thought that it might be a beaver that had become the meal because it was located close to another beaver pond. Beaver ponds are plentiful in the landscape of western Maine.
After a few messages back and forth, the writer and I agreed to meet and walk to this site. Take a look. The meal this skeleton became had been consumed months ago, I suspect in the winter, given how much was missing, including the head. And even after any hide and meat had been eaten, the bones continue to provide calcium for rodents seeking such.
Since my guide suspected beaver, I knew I had to slow my brain down and assess the evidence. My, what long toe nails. And though some were broken, it seemed obvious to me that they were all oriented to the front of the foot. Plus, there was no evidence of webbing.
A bigger clue was observed with a closer look. Barbed quills sticking into the spine. I pulled one out and we examined it.
And about a foot away, a pile of quills, with vegetation growing through them adding to the age of the kill site.
And hiding there also, as if stuck into the ground, a quilled tail.
Did you know that porcupines have a variety of hair? For winter insulation, they have dark, wooly underfur. In addition, there are long guard hairs, short, soft bristles on the tail’s underside, stout whiskers, and then there are those pesky quills.
They aren’t pesky to the porcupine; just us and our pets and any animal that might choose to or accidentally encounter a porcupine.
Overall, a porcupine sports about 30,000 quills, and within one square inch on its back, you might count up to one hundred, as demonstrated by my jar of toothpicks.
The quills are 1 – 4 inches in length and lined with a foam-like material composed of many tiny air cells, thus their round, hollow look. There are no quills on the porcupine’s face, belly, or inside its legs.
Look at that nose. Soft hair indeed. As is the stomach. A fisher, which is a member of the weasal family and not a cat, will attack the porcupine’s face repeatedly.
Fishers and bobcats also have been known to flip a porcupine onto its back and then go for the belly. That doesn’t mean that they don’t get quilled, for in moments of danger, the porcupine instinctively raises its quills and positions itself with its back facing the predator, showcasing its formidable defensive strategy. but the predator does get a meal.
This dinner had long ago been consumed as I said. But was it a fisher or a bobcat who scored this meal? We’ll never know, but I give great thanks to Dixie and Red and their best friend Lee, for being such great scouts and sharing the results of their hunt with me.
Found a kill site? Give me a shout and I’ll come running.
Whether wandering along the board walks at Holt Pond for six hours with a friend, or . . .
hiking up the new Patterson Hill Trail with My Guy, there’s always something to look at.
One of the most beautiful, and also most difficult to spot, is the Phantom Crane Fly, so named for its black and white markings. As it floats through the air, for I swear it looks like a little box adrift rather than an insect that is flying, its presence is so subtle that it is easy to miss because it blends in with both light and shadows. Shady edges of wetlands are its preferred habitat and that’s exactly where this specimen and a bunch more were spotted . . . at least in the moment. Finding them to photograph is not easy.
While the black and white coloration seems to help the crane fly disappear into its landscape, the White Admiral Butterfly, who utilizes those same colors, but with a different pattern, plus a few other hues in the mix, is hardly inconspicuous. And by the tattered wings, it seems this insect has escaped becoming a meal on more than one occasion. That, in itself, is reason to celebrate.
Of course, if you are a follower of this blog, you are hardly surprised to spy a dragonfly. It’s Meadowhawk Season, for those who thought the season is actually autumn. And take my word for it because you can’t see it, this is a Cherry-faced Meadowhawk, one of the most common species, along with White-faced Autumn, and Ruby Meadowhawks.
If you near water, be on the lookout for a bunch of pairs in tandem flight as he continues to grasp her behind her head while she dips her abdomen on the surface of water in the act of ovipositing eggs. Sometimes, many tandem pairs will oviposit simultaneously, for there is safety in numbers.
In addition to the Phantom Crane Flies, I’ve been looking for this species, a Pale Green Assassin Bug for months, and tada, a nymph makes an appearance. While its name sounds intimidating, this is actually an insect to admire for it eats flies, wasps, aphids and other small insects that you might consider pesky things.
This was another for whom I’ve been searching, stalking actually, as I pace around gardens. And then, the other day a colleague invited me to join her behind our land trust office, and there Charlotte was, writing a message in her orb-shaped web. Now to find Wilbur. But he’s probably busy getting ready for the Fryeburg Fair.
And today, it was this big Bumblebee that surprised me for though it moved its antennae and abdomen, it seemed to remain in one spot on the Gooseneck Loosestrife.
In fact, it stayed so still, that I was able to get into its face, without worry of being stung. Did an Ambush Bug have hold with its claws? Or was a Crab Spider somehow involved? I walked away several times and returned to find it in the same spot, unlike all its other cousins who were busy as . . . bees! But, on a final visit, it had disappeared. I looked under the plant and on the ground below, thinking it might just be a skeleton if a predator had sucked its guts, but found nothing, so can only assume that it finally flew.
The next two photos are of flowers and not insects. Actually, there are fewer and fewer flowers in bloom right now as we enter the early phase of autumn, but Witch Hazel has started to show off its ribbony display and that made me happy to think that all is right with the world.
Until, that is, I arrived home a few days ago and found a Day Lily blossoming in mid-September, which is quite late, especially considering all of its brethren had had their day in the spotlight back in early July. Houston, we have a problem. (And maybe sending more aircrafts into space isn’t the wisest decision.)
That said, dear readers, I leave you with something that I hope will bring a smile to your face as it did to mine. My Guy returned from a business trip toward the end of last week and said he had a gift for me. He opened his backpack and pulled out this box of Jelly Slugs! For those who know me, you’ll know that he knows me as well!
It’s been a week of wonders indeed, and though these are only a few samples, I’m grateful for every little thing that captures my attention.
I had only one intention when I stepped onto the patio this afternoon, but that changed quickly when I spotted a Great Black Wasp behaving in what I thought was a peculiar manner . . . until it wasn’t.
Rather than flying around the flowers, where I usually find these large wasps, who may be aggressive in terms of flying at me to let me know I need to take a step back, but never actually stinging me, this Great Blue was walking frantically through the grass. Well. we call it grass. I guess I should say “across the lawn,” but that sounds too fancy for our yard.
Do you notice something strange about the wasp? It was actually carrying a spider. I was stymied at first, until I read that they bring home treats for larvae to feed on. This I wanted to see.
What I observed was that the wasp dropped the spider on the edge of the patio and then the wasp scrambled around on the ground for a bit before flying off. The spider stayed dead still . . . cuze it was dead! Apparently, the wasp won the struggle, if there was one, and paralyzed the spider.
Since the wasp had flown off, I decided to give it some time, though I was curious to know if it would return. Dragonflies defend territories, but do wasps know where they dropped a meal?
Instead, I turned my attention to the flowers that are still in bloom, including this Oregano I let go to flower because though I love its flavor, I equally love the insects it attracts, like this Thread-waisted wasp.
That got me to thinking how I often see the insects in situ, but don’t get to follow their daily lives.
That said, I poked around some more and found Bumblebees on Sedum,
Great Blue Lobelia,
Plus Turtlehead . . . going in,
And backing out.
There was even a Green Stink Bug trying to trick me into thinking it was just part of the leaf.
But I let it know that I was aware of its existence.
There were even a couple of canoodling wasps who flew out of the herb garden and landed on a window screen before moving on.
I, um, moved with them to the corner of the house, where they frantically walked across the ground as well. But when they finally flew off toward the driveway, I decided to give them some space.
(Note: Do you see the brown maple leaves? Who would think that after last year’s drought we’d have too much rain this year, but that’s exactly what happened and the Sugar Maple leaves in some places are drying up and dropping. Fall foliage? I’m thinking it’s not going to be as spectacular a show as we’d like.)
When I returned to the spider’s location, I noticed that the wasp had returned but was behaving in an odd manner . . . or so it seemed to me. Its legs on the right side appeared to have collapsed.
Eventually, however, it stood on all six and walked back toward the spider.
I was amazed to think that this insect had flown off, but knew where it had left the intended meal. All I can think of is that there has to be a scent involved.
The wasp proded the spider with its antennae before grasping it again.
And then the two headed off in the same direction of travel as I’d earlier observed (north). Until, that is, the wasp passed under the dandelion leaves and somehow dropped the spider. Off the wasp flew, but again, a minute or two later, it returned to the exact spot and located the spider that I couldn’t even see.
Then the march began again and I followed the two until the wasp reached the edge of another garden. It climbed over the granite stone, taking the spider with it, and then disappeared below the foliage and that’s the last I saw of them.
I’d gone outside originally to sit on the patio and start rereading a book I read about 30 years ago. That never happened.
And I don’t know the rest of the story for the Great Black Wasp, but I sure wish I did. I wish I knew what happened between the wasp and the spider because I imagine that would have been a great show. And I wish I knew where the wasp’s hole was and its larvae were waiting for a meal, as I assumed.
One of these days, I’ll open that book and maybe the rest of the wasp’s story will be revealed or another story will attract my attention.
We’ve journeyed to Nova Scotia several times before, my guy and me, but it’s one of those places that beckons for a return adventure, and so we heeded the call and went forth.
The first leg of the trip found us tailgating in the parking lot for The Cat in Bar Harbor. When we had gone inside to pick up our tickets, we realized we couldn’t take tomatoes or bananas into Canada and so we put them on the lunch menu.
Our yacht was a wee bit late arriving, but at last we spied it pulling in to the dock. Given that, we still had to wait a bit more to board so others could disembark and pass through USA customs.
At last it was our turn and we rolled up the ramp and into the parking lot of this huge catamaran ferry with Yarmouth, Nova Scotia our destination, 3.5 hours away. Somehow we scored a table and chairs in the bow and sat down to enjoy the international cruise. I don’t have photographs to prove this, so allegedly we saw dolphins off the port side and even a whale just starboard shy of center that the boat drove over (remember, it’s a catamaran)–and might possibly have made contact with for we felt a thump.
At Canadian Customs we offered to give up the tomatoes and bananas and were told not to worry.
The first night found us at a hotel in Yarmouth and then we began our journey north the next morning, pausing at a spot a woman in the Liverpool information center suggested we visit: Cosby’s Garden Centre. It’s home not only to an amazing display of plants, but also the imaginative artwork created by Sculptor Ivan Higgins.
Around every corner of the path that weaves through the woods, there are plantings and sculptures waiting to surprise, all made of wire and concrete.
My Guy is not exactly a garden-type-kinda guy, but he absolutely loved all the discoveries we made and at one point we split up and he couldn’t wait to show me what he found. Ahhh, but I’ll wait until the end of this post to share that. Don’t skip ahead cuze you’ll ruin the surprise.
This one was one of my favorites. Do you see it?
How about now? I snuck up on this guy who was hiding behind the trees. There are acrobats and dragons and all kinds of wonders to locate and if you are driving by on the road, you really have no idea what is hiding in the woods behind the garden centre.
Our next stop was St.John the Evangelist Anglican Church in Eagle Head. The last time we visited, My Guy’s (MG) second or third cousin gave us a tour of the church and said that if MG had been at the service the day before, he would have pointed to almost everyone in the parish and said, “You are related to him, and her, and her, and . . . ”
We visited the gravesite of MG’s great-great grandparents and then continued up the road to West Berlin , where we stopped in to visit his relative’s widow. (RIP Borden)
After sharing our condolences because Borden passed away two years ago, and catching up with her, we went for a walk up the lane to follow the route MG and Borden’s great-greats used to traverse to their home. Only the ell is left now, the rest of the house having burned many moons ago, but still.
It was here where they toiled as they farmed the land by the ocean and we felt like we were breathing some of the same air they used to breath.
And then it was another 45 minutes or so to our “hometown” of three nights as we’d rented a chalet overlooking the town of Lunenburg.
Ours was the cabin in the middle, complete with kitchen, living room with woodstove, bedroom, and kitchen, plus deck with bench and grill, and plenty of firewood, and sorta an ocean view being the Oceanview Chalets. It was a delightful place to stay, clean, comfortable, and quiet. Plus, this is a dark-sky -friendly property and on the third night there was no cloud cover and we enjoyed the celestial view.
Though we didn’t tour the Bluenose II, it gave us pause each time we walked past it, for it’s one handsome schooner that was built at a local shipyard to honor the legacy of the original Bluenose that struck a reef off of Haiti in 1946. The present day boat was constructed in 1963 by some of the same shipbuilders as the first.
Wind and a few raindrops, but mostly wind, gusty wind, blowing at at least 25 miles per hour, were the name of the game on our first full day in Lunenburg. We drove to Ovens National Park in Riverport and walked the ocean-side cliff trail to explore the sea caves. I followed MG down into Tucker’s Tunnel, a natural cave that was extended during the 1861 Gold Rush! Yes, there’s touted to be gold in this area and though we didn’t do it, you can rent a pan and go gold panning!
Opposite the overlook at Indian Cave, where as the story has it, the cave was “named after an ancient legend wherein a M’Kmaq native paddled his canoe into the cave emerging near Blomidon on the other side of the province,” we noticed something we’ve never viewed before.
If you look closely at this photo, you may see small white balls floating in the air. The wind was so strong that as waves crashed below, balls of foam rose like silly snowballs rising rather than falling.
Walking along, we began to get a sense of the force of nature and reason it’s called Ovens Natural Park, for the caves look rather earth-oven-like in shape, much the way an Ovenbird builds its ground nest in the same shape.
In Cannon Cave, we climbed all the way down and in, and I was sure we were going to get washed away each time a wave roared in. The wave action really does create a resounding boom and it’s much more dramatic than Thunder Hole in Acadia National Park, at least in our opinions.
From Riverport, we drove to Mahone Bay, a sweet little town of shops and known for its three church spires. But for us, it was the rail trail that attracted our attention, so after lunch at Oh My Cod, we planned to find the spot where three trails meet and walk a portion of each. Somehow that plan changed without us even realizing it, and instead we followed the Dynamite Trail for 11K each way (6.8 miles each way) and honestly, had beat feet by the end.
But, in the midst of it all, we stumbled upon this art display: High Tide contructed by Erin Philp, a local artist, woodworker, and shipwright. According to a plaque at the site, the sculptures are based on the classic Lunenburg Dory design, historically used in combination with Grand Backs Schooners, like the Bluenose, to fish the Atlantic Coast. “The High Tide collection . . . elevates the vessels into a new and surprising relationship with their environment, highlighting and celebrating these simple, yet enchanting boats.” Indeed!
At our turn-around point on the Dynamite Trail we literally stopped in our tracks when we spotted a deer ahead and it mimicked our behavior. Look at those ears on high alert. The three of us spent a little time together, and then it continued across the trail while we turned to head back.
A few minutes later we spotted two more, this one licking its chops after enjoying some buds and leaves.
At home, we love to watch deer from the kitchen windows, but it’s an equally fun sighting when we are somewhere else.
The next day we realized that we’d skipped a planned hike after visiting Ovens National Park, and so we headed to Hirtle’s Beach and Gaff Point in Dayspring. In contrast to the rail trail, this was a combination of beach, forest, and rocks, and much more comfortable under our weary soles.
Again, the winds were strong, which enhanced the wave action.
After circling the point, MG skipped a few stones, channeling his inner child.
You might say we are glutons for punishment, but after lunch at the chalet, we walked down the road and found another rail trail, the Back Harbor Trail. This time, however, we only walked about two miles on the trail, coming out at the other end of town. Rhonda the Snake was waiting to greet us and so we admired her unique skin pattern.
Walking back through town, I spotted this Basswood tree in full fruiting form. The fruits are nutlets borne on a stem bearing a persistent bract, or modified leaf–note its lighter green coloration. Somehow the bract aids in the wind dispersal of the fruit.
It was on this day’s journey that I also met Jointed Charlock, aka Wild Radish. Apparently, it’s an invasive species, so I should be grateful we hadn’t met before.
Our time in Lunenburg came to an end, so then we drove northwest to Amherst. Okay, so here’s where I have to tell the story of my mistake. When I first booked our next chalet, I saw that it was two miles out of Amherst, and thought that was perfect. We’d be on the Bay of Fundy and yet only two miles from town.
Ahem. Wrong. I failed to read the rest of the sentence until we arrived and grabbed a late lunch. Two miles out of town, and then 25 more miles to Lorneville on the Northumberland Strait.
It’s a good thing we did some grocery shopping before driving north to Amherst Shore Country Inn. Despite the distance to the Bay of Fundy, our little place, with a living room, dining area, kitchenette, bedroom with jacuzzi, and small bath was perfect. And the deck, also with a grill and adirondack chairs, offered a spendid view of the gardens and waterfront of this 20-acre property.
It also offered a splendid view of Craneflies for so many hung out on the windows. I spent at least an hour one morning watching them walk as if on wobbly stilts, occasionally fly, canoodle, and even lay eggs on damp vegetation.
Our first full day dawned foggy, but still we made the long drive to the cliffs of the Bay of Fundy. After realizing we were a wee bit too early for the Joggins Fossil Cliffs museum to open, so we instead drove to Eatonville in Chignecto Provincial Park to go for a hike.
A couple of miles in, we realized that even when we reached the coast, the fog would be too pea-soupy and so we retraced our steps.
On the way out, we did stop for a walk along a red sand beach, so colored because the sand eroded from rocks with significant iron content.
We decided that rather than retrace the drive back to Joggins, we’d follow a loop, which turned out to be a mistake for a detour spit us back out opposite where we wanted to be and cost us some time. We missed the last guided tour at the fossil cliffs, but climbed down to the beach and began searching for signs of the Coal Age.
One of our finds was possibly a calamite fossil, a type of horsetail plant that lived in coal swamps of the Carboniferous Period.
It was back to Chignecto the next day because we really wanted to explore more of the park. A park ranger mapped out a trail for us and off we went. We only had time for about five or six miles, but would love to someday explore more.
I think one of my favorite sights occured there as well as everywhere else we traveled in Nova Scotia, a sea of goldenrods and asters.
My other favorite sight was the color of the water. We’ve never been to Bermuda, but somehow based on photographs I’ve seen, I’m pretty sure we discovered the Bermuda of the North.
Though we never did see the tides I was hoping for because I’d not read the directions for the chalet fully, we could see the effects of erosion everywhere, and had to wonder how much longer this spruce will hold its ground.
Next stop on the agenda, not that we had such, was Cape D’or Lighthouse, erected to warn mariners of the tidal rip. Though the history of a fog horn and then lighthouse date back to 1875, the current concrete structure was built in 1965.
As we stood out on the point and looked back, I was rather grateful that it was low tide and we could get a real sense of the topography.
Our final trek that day was to the Three Sisters Sea Stacks. So . . . it turns out that when we were hiking in the fog the previous day, we weren’t all that far from the sea stacks. And it also turns out that while we might not have had a good view of them in the fog, arriving late in the day also didn’t offer a spectauclar one from a camera’s point of view because the sun was setting right behind them and my photos came out overexposed. That said, I did want to share The Fissure, a large crack in the underlying bedrock that occurred as a result of extreme faulting and lifting 325 million years ago. Can you see the large rock suspended over the beach?
In our Chignecto Park hikes I spotted a few flowers also new to me including Herb Robert and this one, Large-leaved Avens, which is said to grow from the Arctic south to Northern USA.
And back at Northumbria Strait, Cormorants cooled off by spreading their wings.
All right, so if you’ve stuck with me this long, I promised when we were at Cosby’s Sculpture Garden Centre that I’d show you what My Guy spotted and took me to see: Momma Bear reading to her three sleepy cubs. It was a foreshadowing . . .
Of the best kind, for on that foggy day as we left Chignecto and eventually made our way to Joggins, we allegedly spotted momma bear and a cub cross the road. As I reached for my camera, a second cub crossed the road. I told My Guy to not start driving again because I thought we might see a third cub, and Bingo! He scampered out of the woods and racced up the road as if saying, “Hey guys, wait for me.”
wondermyway 