Pycnanthemum torreyi

Torrey’s Mountain Mint (Pycnanthemum torreyi)

Seven species of mountain mint (Pycnanthemum spp.) are found in New York. Of these, four are state listed as either threatened or endangered. These mountain mints include: blunt (P. muticum), whorled (P. verticillatum var. verticillatum), basil (P. clinopodioides), and Torrey’s (P. torreyi). Outside of New York, only the last two are widely regarded as rare.

Range & Protective Status

Torrey’s mountain mint currently ranges along the Appalachians from northern Georgia to New Hampshire. A southern arc extends from this same chain to the western reaches of Kentucky, Tennessee, and southern Illinois. There are only around 35 extant occurrences of this species. With such low numbers, it receives a G2 rating of “imperiled” on the global conservation scale. It is state endangered. While always rare, habitat loss caused by both development and succession, along with deer browse, has considerably reduced its range over the years. In New York, it is confined to the southeastern portion of the state where it continues to hold on in a few strongholds, such as in the southern Hudson Highlands.

Habitat

This species favors upland environments and can most frequently be found inhabiting dry, open woods or along forest margins. It performs best in sun-dappled conditions and can attain a height of over a meter. Plants situated in full sun are often stunted and the lack the lushness and vigor of those in shadier locales. At first glance, these stunted plants that can easily be mistaken for Virginia mountain mint (P. virginianum).

Juniper Hairstreak.

Identifying Characteristics

Since many species in the genus Pycnanthemum look similar and possess relatively minor distinguishing characteristics, not to mention their often-great morphological variation and propensity to easily hybridize, it can be a challenge to positively identify this species. Recent work cataloging herbarium specimens has revealed that numerous specimens identified as Torrey’s mountain mint have been mislabeled. Most of these erroneous classifications have proven to be P. torreyi’s closest congener, whorled mountain mint (P. verticillatum).

The prime identifying feature of Torrey’s mountain mint is its narrow lanceolate calyx teeth which range between 1.0-2.0 mm in length. Some sources indicate these are typically 1.0-1.5 mm; others, 1.5-2.0 mm. The calyx is actinomorphic or radially symmetric (not bilabiate). Whorled mountain mint has shorter, broader calyx teeth deltoid in shape that measure 0.5-1.0 mm. The florets of Torrey’s mountain mint usually have strongly exserted pollen-rich stamens, in contrast to the shorter and often abortive stamens of whorled mountain mint. Plants are in bloom from late June through September.

Lanceolate calyx teeth 1.0 – 2.0 mm in length. Actinomorphic or regular (radially symmetric) calyx. Pollen-rich, strongly exserted stamens.

Another diagnostic feature is that the stem is covered with fine, uniformly distributed hairs on both the faces and angles. Other species have glabrous or densely hoary stems, or those with hairs more prominent on the stem angles. What’s more, the top of the leaves of P. torreyi are glabrous (vs. the canescence of P. verticillatum). The bottoms of the leaves are sparsely pubescent, usually following along the midvein. The leaf margins may be entire or possess a few low teeth. Narrow, lanceolate leaves are borne on short petioles. Leaf width does not surpass 1.5 cm. Whorled mountain mint generally has slightly wider leaves than P. torreyi.

Fine hairs uniformly distributed. Glabrous upper leaf surface. Short petiole. A few low teeth on leaf margins. Leaf width of less than 1.5 cm. A few fine hairs on the midvein. Each floret bears tiny purple polka dots. Mountain mints are pollinator magnets.

Anne Hutchinson is one of the only important figures of early colonial America who was female. Throughout her nine-year residence in the New World she found herself constantly mired in controversy for her religious beliefs, eagerness to share them, and ultimately, the threat she posed to the established order. During her storied life she bore more than her fair share of criticism. Maligned to the extreme she had been labelled by New England elite “a dayngerous Instrument of the Divell raysed up by Sathan.” Her reputation has improved over the years, her name now synonymous with toleration and religious freedom. Where she lived and died statues have been erected and highways named in her honor. But unlike other famous figures from that era, few of us possess more than a cursory knowledge of who this woman was and what she stood for.

In America, Anne’s story begins in 1634 in the heart of Puritan controlled Massachusetts. A recent emigrant from England, Anne and her husband William Hutchinson, a wealthy cloth merchant, settled in Boston. They lived in a spacious house directly across the street from the colony’s governor, John Winthrop. From the moment she boarded the ship that would take her across the Atlantic, Anne began voicing strong opinions that would eventually land her in court years later. During her ocean voyage, Anne’s unorthodox beliefs were overheard by a minister, and once landing in Massachusetts, she found herself having difficulty gaining admittance to the Puritan Church. But after reassuring church officials that she was, in fact, of like mind, they opened the doors to Anne and her family. In little time, however, she again began voicing opinions contrary to church dogma.

Anne Hutchinson, like all Puritans, believed in the doctrine of predestination—that prior to birth God had chosen those who would be granted entry to heaven. The main staple of Puritan belief was the “Covenant of Grace.” Simply put, it stated that certain people were chosen or “elected” by God for salvation and there was nothing one could do to affect that either way. On the flip side, was the “Covenant of Works” which stressed that salvation could be earned by performing certain deeds or “works.” The latter covenant applied to biblical Adam, who, agreeing to abide by God’s laws, would be granted everlasting life as a reward—so long as he fulfilled his obligations. It was purely conditional. After the fall of Adam, this type of salvation went out the window, God alone now choosing who would receive salvation. This is the gist of Puritan belief in its simplest form and seems relatively straightforward. A working Puritan theology, however, is dizzyingly convoluted and complex and, at its surface, can be downright paradoxical. The Puritans set up a form of worship that tried to harmonize the two differing covenants.

The Puritans believed that the “elect” were granted inherent grace, but there was an understanding that it was conditional, insomuch that the elect would be faithful to God and his laws. An elect, it was believed, was supplied by God with the wherewithal to fulfill the necessary obligations of faithfulness and obedience to keep the compact. In essence, a person was saved regardless of their actions, but there was a degree of human responsibility (even if God himself supplied it). The Reverend Cornelius Pronk, an expert on Puritan theology, writes, “For the Puritans the covenant of grace was both conditional and absolute and ultimately dependent upon the sovereignty of God’s action. Needless to say, this concept of a conditional yet absolute covenant created tensions.”

These ideas were unsettling to many. If deeds truly have no bearing on one’s salvation then what incentive is there for people to make a conscious endeavor to act decently and moral if everything is already planned out as if a cosmic play? The Puritan Church decided to come up with a system to rectify this and detect the elect, and in the process, ensure order as the community strived to see if they were one of the lucky few to have received God’s grace. In effect, this also harmonized both covenants. Your salvation—or lack thereof—was chosen for you, but through industriousness of labor and diligence to church doctrine and scripture (works) it was hoped glimpses of one’s predetermined destiny would come to light through personal introspection. It was reasoned this process would help ease societal angst by providing individuals with something to strive for, thereby giving them a degree, however slight, of control over their lives. Everyone was eager to prove to themselves (and the community) that they were among the elect.

Anne Hutchinson thought the church overly stressed the importance of these tenets, which she believed was tantamount to preaching a covenant of works. She believed that all one needed was an active faith that could be accessed inwardly by speaking directly to the Holy Spirit that resided in an elect’s heart and soul (this itself was revolutionary and heretical) and that salvation was purely unconditional. The reliance on churches, ministers, and scripture therefore weren’t needed to detect or “work” towards one’s salvation. The elect were simply guided by the voice of God within themselves; as such, they were not bound by laws or human institutions, but rather their own intuition and conscience. The church found this to be dangerous as it diminished their role and threatened the diligent works that were the pillar of Puritan society. John Winthrop thought this not only dangerous, but lazy, recording “it was a very easy and acceptable way to heaven—to see nothing, to have nothing, but wait for Christ to do all.”

Anne’s harboring of these beliefs was disconcerting, but what landed her in hot water with the clergy was the influence she had on her peers. In 1636, Anne started to host meetings at her home with fellow parishioners. Here, she discussed and criticized sermons delivered by local ministers. As she accumulated standing and influence among society, she became emboldened and more freely began preaching her own ideas of salvation. At first only women were in attendance, but later men started visiting as well, including the newly elected governor, Henry Vane. At her peak, she held two meetings a week and attracted up to 80 people at each meeting.

Eventually, the Puritan Church decided that something needed to be done about Anne before she caused a full-on schism. She was charged with 80 counts of heresy and put on trial in November 1637. John Winthrop presided over the hearing, having recently defeated Henry Vane for the governorship. Unlike his predecessor, Winthrop was no fan of Anne.

The Trial

Winthrop laid the charges before Anne Hutchinson: “her ordinary meetings about religious exercises, her speeches in derogation of the ministers among us, and the weakening of the hands and hearts of the people towards them.” Anne’s first mistake was just preaching in general—in Puritan society women were not allowed to instruct in any religious matter hearkening back to Timothy 2:12, a biblical verse that states: “But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.” Out of all Christian denominations Puritans clung to scripture perhaps the most. Thus, it was a violation of the word of God for her to teach religious matters in any capacity. Anne followed through by quoting the example of put forth in Titus, saying the older women should instruct the younger. “All this I grant you,” Winthrop acknowledged, adding “But you must take it in this sense that elder women must instruct the younger about their business and to love their husbands and not to make them to clash.” Anne was stirring up trouble in regard to the patriarchy by making women disobedient to their husbands, and this could not be countenanced. Aside from the fact that she was a woman, the court took issue with her radical views. After the trial Winthrop would write that Anne’s meetings were “the pretence to repeat sermons, but when that was done she would comment upon the doctrines, and interpret all passages at her pleasure, and expound the dark places of Scripture.”

Eventually, the court asked Anne directly her views on salvation, but she demurred by rather boldly stating “I did not come hither to answer questions of that sort.” While her beliefs were undoubtedly a major issue, court transcripts seem to place more concern on Anne’s insolence when it came to authority. Hutchinson’s tarnishing of the reputations of the clergy was one of the main charges brought forth. In her home meetings, Anne made them appear to be, as Winthrop put, “not able ministers of the gospel.” Her criticism was that most of the Puritan ministers were completely incapable of preaching a covenant of grace—amounting to saying they were not so misguided as they were inept. This would not be tolerated, and the court told her to “lay open yourself”—that is acknowledge her sins and ask for forgiveness. She did not. By the end of the second day of proceedings, in which Anne obviously became more bitter, she lashed out with an outburst in which she characterized herself as a prophet—and it was this that ultimately sealed her fate. 

In a rather lengthy address Anne proceeded to say that the Lord “did open unto me and give me to see that those which did not teach the new covenant had the spirit of the antichrist… he hath let me see which was the clear ministry and which the wrong.” All of this she had been shown “by an immediate revelation” from God. Coming from anyone this would be highly implausible, but the court found it even more absurd that the Almighty would reveal himself to a mere woman and not a minister, magistrate, other influential male member of Puritan society. At the end of her address she issued a dire warning: “if you go in this course you begin, you will bring a curse upon you and your posterity,” concluding with “and the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.”

After listening to this the deputy governor, Thomas Dudley, issued an admonishment: “I am fully persuaded that Mrs. Hutchinson is deluded by the devil.” The governor was in agreement that this was a “delusion,” and after a vote among the members of the court, Anne was found guilty of the charges against her and banished from the colony. She was, as Winthrop put it, “a woman not fit for our society.”

Before she was sent away Anne was placed under house arrest for several months until a second trial took place. This time she was excommunicated from the Puritan Church. Shortly thereafter, Governor Winthrop sent word for her to depart. In late March 1638, Anne and her family, along with around 30 other families who held similar religious views, headed south where they settled on Aquidneck Island in Narragansett Bay. Anne Hutchinson and her adherents, along with Roger Williams, who resided north in Providence, helped forge the religiously tolerant colony of Rhode Island. Here, Anne continued preaching. She remained there until 1642 when the harassment of Massachusetts officials became too much. Anne was informed that Massachusetts was looking to expand their boundaries, and would in little time, exert influence and control over her nascent colony. Scared of the threat of undergoing the same ordeal, if not worse, as before, she and her husband decided to uproot their large family again. William Hutchinson began scouting for a suitable location to settle in New Netherland, another religiously tolerant colony that was run by the Dutch. Far removed from the meddlesome hands of their harassers, they had hoped they would finally be free.

The Hutchinson family briefly settled in Brooklyn. While here, they purchased a property in the northern Bronx and began improving the land. But before things were finished, William Hutchinson died suddenly in the fall of 1642. This left Anne with seven children to raise by herself. Despite the loss, Anne pushed forward and took over the running of things at the burgeoning homestead. Not long after her husband’s death she contracted a young carpenter by the name of James Sands and his partner to construct the family home.

One day while Sands was working by himself, his partner having been sent on an errand to obtain more provisions, a group of rowdy Indians came calling. The house was merely framework at this time. The company made a loud commotion in an unknown tongue and proceeded to gather up the tools, placing an axe on Sands’ shoulder and other tools in his hands and then made motions for him to leave. They then departed to the nearby shore to collect clams and other shellfish. Undaunted, the carpenter resumed his work. A short while later, the Indians returned, gathering up the tools once more and making the same gestures for him to leave. Putting the tools down, he went back about his business with the Indians still there. They lingered awhile longer and then left without any further accostment to the carpenter. Eventually, Sands appeared to have taken the very clear message to heart, and after informing Anne of the situation, promptly departed, leaving the house unfinished. Anne simply hired another to complete the job and moved in. 

It is said that while in Rhode Island Anne had friendly relations with the local tribes and probably because of this she downplayed the incident. In any case, even if this did instill her with fear, she put her trust in God and continued things as usual.

Massacred By Indians

One morning in the latter half of August 1643, an Indian “professing friendship” visited the family and, upon seeing the defenseless nature of farm, scurried back to his tribe to gather a handful of companions. They returned later that day, and obviously, professing friendship once more, convinced a person within the household to tie up the dogs. No sooner had the animals been restrained, the Indians began a massacre that ultimately resulted in the deaths of 16 people. Anne, her son-in-law, and all her children, save one, and some other individuals associated with the family, were brutally murdered. One account claims that a daughter “seeking to escape” was caught “as she was getting over a hedge, and they drew her back again by the hair of the head to the stump of a tree, and there cut off her head with a hatchet.” After the attack, the Indians piled the bodies into the house and set the dwelling on fire. The livestock were similarly corralled into the barns and these, too, set ablaze. The historian, Otto Hufeland, notes that the “whole settlement being so completely obliterated that up to the present time, no one has ever been able to locate even the site.”

Now you might be asking, what brought about this terrible attack? It’s important to understand that Anne could not have picked a worse time to settle in New Netherland. Shortly after arriving to the colony, a conflict known as Kieft’s War erupted that brought significant enmity between the Indians and Dutch. The inept governor Willem Kieft first created tensions by demanding tribute payments from the local tribes, something that the Indians understandably rejected. Later, the killing of a settler by the Indians drove the governor to seek vengeance in which, ultimately, an entire village was mercilessly slaughtered by the Dutch at Pavonia in February 1643. Various tribes in the surrounding areas united against the Dutch and waited until after the harvest to seek significant retribution. Anne Hutchinson and her family may have been hapless casualties of war, or, possibly targeted for other reasons.

Conspiracy?

There are conflicting accounts regarding the possession of the land on which the Hutchinsons resided—several say the Indians received no payment for the land and this is why the natives removed the settlers. However, records show that the Dutch government had paid the Indians for the land in 1640. Be that as it may, it’s possible these documents are fraudulent—essentially transactions committed to paper in which the Indians gave no consent. Whatever the case, the Indians claimed no payment was made. From these muddied waters, it’s hard to get a coherent grasp of the situation. Robert Bolton, the historian who wrote two volumes to Westchester County history, believed accounts contesting the legality of Dutch owned lands “looks…like a collusion between the New England authorities and the Indians.” In other words, New Englanders wanted the land held by the Dutch and used the unrest brought about by Kieft’s War as a pretense for a land grab. The Indians who undertook the attack were under the leadership of the preeminent sachem Uncas, a man “who had always been the unscrupulous ally of the English.”

The war between the Dutch and Indians was one way to clear the land and make it available to properly devout Englishmen. The troublesome Anne Hutchinson and her heretic followers were considered enemies, same as the Dutch. The detailed account of the massacre helps give credence to this plot. Edward Johnson, the man who wrote the graphic account a decade after the massacre, was a military leader of the Massachusetts Bay colony. The firsthand knowledge makes it seem he, or another fellow Englishman, was at the scene of the attack. According to most accounts, the only survivor, aside from the Indians, was Anne’s daughter, Susanna. She was taken, legend has it, at Split Rock, and did not witness the massacre. Even if she had been present, she was an Indian captive for years, and it’s hard to believe such a detailed knowledge would be transmitted to Johnson, a family enemy. Johnson writes that another person from the household escaped “to tell the sad newes” of the massacre. John Winthrop’s journal entry refutes this (he had constantly been keeping tabs on Anne since the Massachusetts trial). Perhaps Johnson or a compatriot was the one who “fled” to relate the “sad” news.

The author stands inside the cleft of Split Rock.

All of this casts doubt on the notion that the Hutchinson massacre was a random attack. It superficially appears that the raid was orchestrated by New Englanders bent on weakening the Dutch, deterring English dissidents from settling in New Netherland (and showing rather shrewdly what happens to heretics by the hand of “God”), all with the hope in mind that this would eventually shift dominion of the land to the authority of the English. This is all speculation, of course, but it is possible a cover up between the most influential men in Puritan New England took place. Unfortunately, from the scant evidence that exists, we’ll likely never know for sure.

It’s believed that the Siwanoys, a branch of the Mohegans, were the ones that attacked the settlement that fateful late summer day. Wampage, a local leader, is said to have personally killed Anne Hutchinson. He later adopted a corruption of her name as his own, signing documents as “Ann Hoock.” Supposedly, it was a common Native American custom to change one’s name to commemorate an important or respected victim. He probably spared Susanna Hutchinson’s life because of her vibrant red hair, something which the Indians had never seen before. Legend dictates that Susanna was out picking blueberries at the time of the attack, and when she realized what was transpiring, hid in the sizable cleft of the nearby Split Rock, a prominent glacial erratic, or boulder. Despite the concealment, the Indians located her nevertheless, took her captive, and eventually adopted her as a member of the tribe. Purportedly, they called her “Fall Leaf” on account of her fiery locks. A journal entry of John Winthrop from July 1646, notes that when peace was concluded Susanna was returned to the Dutch. He notes that “She was about 8 years old when she was taken… and she had forgot her own language, and all her friends, and was loath to have come from the Indians.” In 1651, Susanna married the Bostoner John Cole, and like her mother, bore many children—11 in all. A few famous descendants include Presidents Franklin Roosevelt and the Bushes, along with the portrait painter John Singleton Copely.

The site of the Hutchinson homestead has long been a mystery. For years, it was believed to have been very near the site of Split Rock in the northern part of present-day Pelham Bay Park, and at one time, a plaque on the boulder stated this. However, a number of theories place it at alternate locations. Robert Bolton wrote that the residence “appears to have been situated on Pelham neck, formerly called Ann’s hoeck, literally Ann’s point or neck.” Because Wampage adopted Anne’s name as his own, and his grave is said to be in a mound on the southeastern tip of Pelham Point, along with that of another important sachem, Chief Ninham, it’s likely the land was named after the Indian, rather than having an association with the actual Anne Hutchinson. Otto Hufeland, in his 1929 work, Anne Hutchinson in the Wilderness, has convincingly shown that Anne’s homestead sat southwest of Split Rock in the present-day site of Co-op City, though its exact location is unknown.

A view of Co-op City in the distance from the pedestrian footpath leading to Split Rock.

In May 1911, a bronze plaque was installed at Split Rock stating among other things that Anne Hucthinson “Sought Freedom from Persecution in New Netherland Near this Rock.” The funds for the plaque were raised by the Colonial Dames of the State of New York. Over 100 people attended the unveiling ceremony that included a handful of speakers, one of them being a descendant of Joseph Weld, the man who owned the house that Anne was imprisoned in while awaiting her second trial. The plaque was stolen in 1914, and although it was supposedly replaced, it is conspicuously missing today. A shallow rectangular hole on the boulder marks its placement.

Split Rock was almost destroyed in 1958 as Interstate 95 was being constructed, the east bound lane being set to pass directly through the famous landmark. However, a historian and a group of concerned citizens ultimately persuaded the engineers to move the path of the highway a few feet to the north. While the landmark has been saved it now sits isolated on a small triangular traffic island between I-95 and an exit ramp of the Hutchinson River Parkway. A neglected footpath that passes under I-95 is the only legal way to access it. It receives few visitors. Though it is periodically tagged with graffiti, those who care for this stone and its storied past, meticulously remove the paint and restore it to its former glory. Standing at Split Rock today inhaling potent diesel fumes and listening to the swooshing of heavy traffic as cars and trucks speed furiously by, it’s difficult to imagine how pleasant this spot once actually was. Images from the 1800’s and early 1900’s show dapper gentleman in suits and ladies in opulent dresses standing beside or atop the boulder. Some came here for picnics, others to take in the history or gawk at the mighty boulder and wonder what fantastic force of nature could have cleaved it asunder. Many activities that were once able to take place here are now as the ghosts that are reputed to roam around Split Rock and the Pelham Bay Park.

Legends & Lore

A newspaper article titled “Legends of Pelham” from 1901 says Anne’s oldest son managed to escape from the massacre “only to be burned at the stake in front of Split Rock.” The glow of the fire and screams of the tortured spirit were, in times past, said to sometimes present themselves to passersby during dusk.

The entire park and surrounding area is saturated with legend and lore. On the eastern flanks of the park down by the shores of Long Island Sound is Cedar Knoll. Before the area was colonized by Europeans, a “severe and sanguinary battle” between the Matinecocks and Siwanoys took place here, resulting in the defeat of the latter. The victors reputedly decapitated their enemies. Headless Indian spirits now eternally roam the scene of their defeat. A report from an elderly woman in early 1900’s stated she saw these ghosts with her own eyes during her childhood, after which, she never ventured back to the haunted Cedar Knoll. She described them as being “the most awful ghosts you can possibly imagine.” They only appear during the full moon. She recounts: “There were more than a score of them, and they had no heads unless you count the heads which they were carrying in their hands…They formed in a big ring, and began to dance…Then, they threw their heads in the centre of the ring and danced around them.”

To many Native American tribes split rocks or those with conspicuous fissures in them were often reputed to be a portal to the spirit world. Several other similarly sized monoliths in the surrounding area were said to be of spiritual or religious importance, such as Grey Mare on Hunter Island. While no documentation exists as to Split Rock’s status, it’s likely it did serve as a focal point of worship to local Indians.

                                                            According to legend, Susanna Hutchinson hid in this crevice.

Split Rock Road, now fragmented by I-95, was once the scene of the Battle of Pell’s Point on October 18, 1776. Patriot forces hid behind stone walls along the road to surprise British and Hessian forces. The Americans slowed down the enemy enough for a successful retreat by George Washington and his troops, where they were ultimately able to regroup at White Plains. The phantom sounds of running feet are sometimes heard along the Siwanoy Trail, thought to be the ghost of an Indian girl that ran up Split Rock Road to inform the Americans of the British approach.

Pelham Bay Park may have some contemporary ghosts as well. The isolated nature of the park and vast stretches of marshland make it a perfect area to conceal murder victims. From 1986-1992 more than 40 bodies were recovered from the park. Animal sacrifices are also routinely performed here as well by practicers of Afro-Caribbean religions. Some police officers theorize that the vast quantity of Indian burials throughout the park are partially responsible for drawing in both murderers and worshippers. Perhaps the spirits are trying to attract additional companions.

Today we remember Anne Hutchinson more for her courage than her religious beliefs. It’s hard not to admire this woman who underwent so much tribulation for something she believed in. Rather than be silenced she spoke her mind regardless of the consequences. Despite being banished from Massachusetts, her persecution never stopped, and she eventually met with the ultimate misfortune because of it. New England elite and aggrieved Native Americans tried to obliterate all traces of Anne Hutchinson. They partially succeeded, but like a soul or an idea, some things are impossible to kill. She split, she fractured, the status quo—perhaps it’s fitting we associate Anne with the gargantuan Split Rock. What else could be more fitting a tombstone for a woman larger than life?

Getting There:

The only legal way to access Split Rock (40.886512, -73.815017) is by following a pedestrian footpath that passes underneath and along Interstate 95. The entrance to the path is located directly across the street from 3480 Eastchester Place, Bronx, NY 10475. Follow the path for a third of a mile to the landmark.

Habitat fragmentation is posing challenges to hummingbirds when it comes to meeting their daily quotas. It is therefore imperative that homeowners, landowners, and anyone else with a little extra space do what they can to alleviate the increasing strain. While putting up feeders is a good start, it’s better yet to plant flowers that hummingbirds commonly visit. Aside from the latter option being decidedly more natural, native plants support protein-rich insects. Like nectar, insects are an important component of a hummingbird’s diet. Nectar provides much needed energy, but furnishes none of the protein necessary to forge muscles and the like.

While there are numerous species of hummingbirds across America, only the ruby-throated hummingbird ranges east of the Mississippi River. Lucky for us, this species also happens to be one of the most attractive. Males of the species, true to their name, boast a vibrant ruby to garnet colored gorget that covers most of their diminutive throats.

Feeding Ruby-throated Hummingbird Female ruby-throated hummingbird feeding on cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis)

Hummingbirds are most attracted to long, tubular flowers that have a red, pink, or orange coloration. Flowers don’t have to be particularly fragrant, as these birds are drawn to color rather than scent.

Many species sporting red flowers are especially adapted for pollination by hummingbirds—the sleek, slender beaks of these birds fit perfectly into many of the blossoms, allowing access to deep nectar reserves which few other creatures can obtain without cheating the system. In this case, both plant and animal have coevolved, thus a decline in one will invariably result in a reduction of the other.

Take red columbine (Aquilegia canadensis) for instance. Flowers of this species are like dangling bells—only hovering creatures with exceedingly long tongues stand a chance of obtaining the rich, yellow nectar at the end of inch-long spurs. This common and often prolific wildflower is one of the most important plants for ruby-throats as they migrate north in the spring. So important, in fact, that their ranges in the eastern U.S. closely overlap. These hummingbirds have a difficult time colonizing areas where columbine is absent, as acceptable food supplies during the early days of the year are often severely limited.

Red Columbine 2 Red columbine (Aquilegia canadensis)

In addition to planting flowers of the correct coloration and shape, it’s best to clump rather than widely space. Aggregations are more readily spotted and prevents the birds from having to furiously zig-zag across the garden, expending time and energy in the process. Moreover, keeping the hummingbirds in one place for a longer duration proves especially useful if you’re keen on watching them as they feed.

The ideal hummingbird garden is one that is in continuous bloom, providing nectar from May to September. Selecting species that will enable the garden to provide for birds over a wide temporal period is the best way to help ensure at least a bird or two will stay put in your area and not just pass through. If you provide most of their caloric needs, there’s often little reason for them to leave your floral oasis until they must migrate back south towards the end of summer.

Below, I’ve provided a list of species that support hummingbirds in the Northeast. It’s far from exhaustive but does highlight some of the most relished plants. I would caution against exclusively selecting hybrids and cultivars. In many cases, flowers of these provide less nectar than the straight species. When it comes to ‘Fan Scarlet,’ a hybrid of cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis) and great blue lobelia (Lobelia siphilitica) that resembles the former in appearance, there’s an 80% reduction in nectar than that found in natural populations of L. cardinalis. The cardinal flower cultivar ‘Fried Green Tomatoes’ also has nectar levels below that of the straight species. As you can see, one must be wary when choosing plants for anything other than just general appearance. To ensure nectar production remains relatively consistent, be sure to have at least a handful plants in the garden that are straight species, thereby creating high genetic diversity. While some plants will produce less, others will produce more, which means the population will have a stable average. Aside from doing meticulous research into the nectar production of each cultivar, this is the only sure way to guarantee that you’re adequately providing for our tiny avian friends.

Spring:

*Red columbine (Aquilegia canadensis)

Indian paintbrush (Castilleja coccinea)

Redbud (Cercis canadensis)

Tuliptree (Liriodendron tulipifera)

Fly honeysuckle (Lonicera canadensis)

Virginia bluebells (Mertensia virginica)

Moss phlox (Phlox subulata)

*Azaleas (Rhododendron spp.)

Early Summer/Mid-Summer:

*Trumpet creeper (Campsis radicans)

Fireweed (Epilobium angustifolium)

Lilies (Lilium spp.)

*Honeysuckles (Lonicera spp.)

*Oswego tea (Monarda didyma)

Wild bergamot (Monarda fistulosa)

Beardtongues (Penstemon spp.)

Rosebay rhododendron (Rhododendron maximum)

Late Summer/Early Autumn:

*Jewelweeds (Impatiens capensis & pallida)

New England blazing star (Liatris novae-angliae)

*Cardinal flower (Lobelia cardinalis)

*Those marked with an asterisk are especially favored.

Oswego tea (Monarda didyma)

Limber honeysuckle (Lonicera dioica)

Spotted Jewelweed Spotted jewelweed (Impatiens capensis)

Ruby-throated Hummingbird

Northern Hardwood Ephemerals

Though the initial signs of spring are at first slight, the dead and dull landscape quickly transforms into a vibrant patchwork of multi-hued color upon the first significant warm spell. From the latter half of March to early May, depending on the weather and climate of the area, the first bit of color to emerge is among the upper reaches of the forest. Buds of various species begin to swell with the increased warmth and typically display dullish tints of red or red-brown, that as the early spring season progresses, produces a haze that hangs over the landscape. 

Red maples produce the most vibrant show by means of their tiny, yet vivid red—and to a minor extent—yellow flowers. When it comes to our native trees, few associate them with flowers, except, of course, when it comes to the showy dogwoods, redbuds, and tulip trees. But most trees do put on a floral show, though most are rather inconspicuous. While the flowers of the red maple are small, many tree species have even tinier blossoms that lack much in the way in pigment and are pale green or yellow, and also lack the general shape of what the average person would consider a flower. Walking under a red maple and gazing up at the branches, one can see thousands of roundish clusters that look like dots in some abstract painting of the pointillistic type. Closer inspection reveals these "dots" are made up of multiple blossoms. This species produces separate male and female flowers. While most red maples bear flowers of only one sex, some trees do possess both, though each gender is typically confined to a separate branch.

Male Red Maple Flowers

The larger, more perfectly round clusters are male. Each individual flower contains at least a dozen pollen-bearing anthers. At first emergence the anthers are pale red, but as they gradually rise up, supported atop a long, wiry filament they turn yellow from the exuded pollen. Females, by contrast, are compact. While less obvious from a distance, close-up, they rival their male counterparts in elegance. The stigmas of the females are a rich red and have a texture of the purest velvet. 

Female Red Maple Flowers Spicebush, a shrub of moist lowlands, matches red maple in terms of the hazy effect of its blossoms. In the right setting spicebush often forms expansive thickets. When in bloom, massed shrubs produce a yellow haze in the understory that contrasts wonderfully amid the otherwise stark surroundings. It’s increasingly being used as a native alternative to forsythia and is the prime host plant of the adorable spicebush swallowtail larvae.

Spicebush While the majority of pollination in flowering plants takes place by aid of insects, trees widely rely on the wind for pollen transfer, hence the often times small and unassuming flowers. Vibrant and scented blossoms evolved directly to draw insects. Without a need for pollinators the plants will not waste energy to create a showy floral display. Instead, wind pollinated trees use their resources to create vast quantities of pollen. Such hefty amounts are needed simply because this type of delivery method is unreliable. Imagine trying to deliver a letter to someone in your neighborhood. If you expect to have the letter land on a particular doorstep by throwing it into the wind, you’re probably going to need thousands to millions of extra copies in order to ensure it arrives at the desired spot. Insect pollination is equivalent to using a postal service. It's just much more efficient. Thus, plants that utilize insects produce significantly smaller quantities of pollen.

Wind pollination increases in frequency as latitude increases. First, it's generally windier in northern locales. But more importantly, the diversity of trees is much lower in higher latitudes. For the best odds of fertilization, it's necessary to have as few impediments as possible. In the north, where there are comparatively few species, pure stands of a single species often exist and pollen transfer is readily guaranteed. But in the tropics, where diversity is high, and plants of the same species may be extremely scattered, pollen given to the wind would likely never reach its intended target. 

Conifers, along with some angiosperms, utilize this primitive pollination system. It can be seen best in the Adirondacks, White Mountains, and other northern reaches of the region that are occupied by boreal and transitional forests. In late spring it's a mistake to park your car beneath these pollen-laden trees. Only a handful of them are needed to create billowing sheets of golden fog that thickly coat everything around when spring gusts rush through the branches. Oaks, willows, and alders are also wind pollinated. These deciduous species have pollen attached to long, drooping flower clusters called catkins which dangle from the ends of branches. Red maples are primarily pollinated by insects, but pollen is also carried by the wind to a minor extent.

Pussy Willow

Shortly after the first trees begin to awaken, the wildflowers of the understory are also roused from their long slumber, eager to bloom before the overarching trees leaf out and steal precious light. In quick succession, woodland spring ephemerals put on displays as magnificent as a 4th of July firework show. Those who wish to view this anticipated and fleeting spectacle must be quick about getting out. Some species are in bloom but a day or two before the wind and rain takes the petals away, as is the case with the fragile bloodroot.

Spring ephemerals, like most plants, follow a regimented blooming pattern that varies very little from year to year in terms of sequence. 

The first to make an appearance is the unimpressive skunk cabbage. Apart from lacking flowers with any remarkable éclat, crushed portions of the plant emit an unpleasant odor much as the name implies. While skunk cabbages usually make an appearance during the latter half of March, sometimes they appear significantly earlier. I've seen this plant poke its head out along the edges of mucky streams during early February in the midst of the most minor of thaws. This may seem highly unusual for the normally dainty wildflowers, but the skunk cabbage isn't like other spring ephemerals. The flowers, which are partially hidden inside a cone-like structure called a spathe, are merely tiny dots studded across what resembles a rotten egg, both in sight and scent. For this, "the plebian skunk cabbage...ought scarcely to be reckoned among true flowers," according to Neltje Blanchan, an early 20th century wildflower expert. They also exhibit a unique trait in the plant world known as thermogenesis, which is why it's possible for such an early bloom date when other plants are still trapped below the frozen ground. This trait allows skunk cabbages to produce heat, similarly to warm-blooded animals. With generated temperatures rising to 90° F, it's easy for them to melt their way through standing snow and ice. 

Skunk Cabbage The next to emerge is the non-native coltsfoot, bearing bright, cheery yellow flowers that could be mistaken for dandelions if they were to appear in front yards—they rarely do. Coltsfoot is fond of soggy or muddy roadsides usually scant of vegetation. The scaly stem and initial lack of leaves differentiate this species from its much-despised lawn destroying cousin. 

Hepatica usually opens its buds just after coltsfoot appears. Despite the nearly concurrent displays, these species are rarely seen together. Hepatica grows among the interior of moist woodlands. Its multiple color morphs ranging from pure white to pink to the deepest violet stand out among the stark environs of the leaf-littered understory. "When at the maturity of its charms, it is certainly the gem of the woods," the naturalist John Burroughs once admiringly wrote. Two forms of hepatica exist in the eastern U.S., primarily differentiated by leaf shape. Blunt-lobed hepatica has rounded, or blunt leaves, while those of the sharp-lobed variety come to a point at the tip. Apart from physical characteristics, habitat preferences differ as well. The blunt-lobed form typically inhabits upland environments with acidic soil; sharp-lobed hepatica is found more often in moist lowlands, containing richer and more neutral soil. These two varieties, or subspecies, were once considered to be distinct species, but over the years taxonomists have revised their opinions, deciding that these differences aren't substantial enough to warrant a completely separate classification. 

Blunt-lobed Hepatica

Right around the time hepatica is in bloom the mottled leaves of the trout lily start to emerge along gravelly riverine plains and throughout damp forests generally not far from a wetland or other water source. While the leaves appear early, the yellow flowers lag behind a couple weeks, blooming usually around the middle of April. Trout lilies, like numerous other spring ephemerals, are able to produce blossoms so early in the spring season through use of the energy reserves stored in the root-like corms. Expansive, long-lived colonies often develop. The average age of most colonies is about 150; some have been recorded to be as much as 1,300 years old. Though these plants often carpet the forest floor in the thousands with their artsy leaves, don't expect to come across a sea of yellow flowers. It's been estimated that only 1% of plants will bloom. This is probably because trout lilies rely more on vegetative propagation than reproducing by means of seeds. 

Up until the early days of the 20th century, this plant boasted a plethora of names, a few of which, really didn't fit the plant at all. "It is a pity that this graceful and abundant flower," John Burroughs lamented, "has no good and appropriate common name." "Dog-tooth violet" and "adder's-tongue" were most frequently used. He put forth a flurry of theories as to why these names were bestowed. In terms of the dog-tooth violet appellation, he theorized that the color and shape of the unopened buds resembled canine teeth; yet the violet part puzzled him, as it "has not one feature of a violet." Others have suggested it was so-called due to the shape of the plant's corms. Adder's-tongue, he thought, derived from the "spotted character of the leaf," because it vaguely resembles the patterns on the skin of some snakes. Neltje Blanchan, on the other hand, proposed that the name came about from the "sharp purplish point" of young plants as they first emerge above ground, clearly resembling a little serpentine tongue.

Burroughs propounded the name trout lily, and is generally credited with its now widespread use. In his book, Riverby, he concisely stated: "It blooms along the trout streams, and its leaf is as mottled as a trout's back." He was also fond of "fawn lily" too—again, in relation to the spotted nature of the leaves.

Trout Lilies

Before the blossoms of the trout lily can be seen gently nodding in the early spring breezes, seemingly still drowsy from their winter torpor, arguably the most stunning ephemeral of the spring season rises quickly and gracefully from the newly softened ground. Bloodroot, whose ivory petals surround a bright, golden center is one of the most short-lived of our wildflowers. Within a day or two of surfacing, the single bud produced by each plant opens, and senescences within a similar time frame. Seed pods soon develop and swell, sitting atop the stem like an inverted watermelon.

Like several other spring ephemerals, bloodroot uses ants as a means of seed dispersal, a technique known as myrmecochory. Attached to each tiny seed is a fleshy appendage called an elaiosome that’s rich in protein and lipids, but serves no direct impact to the seed’s survival. Like the sweet nectar of a flower, these elaiosomes are tempting treats to insects. Ants, in particular, are readily enticed to collect them. Once dragged back to the colony, the energy-laden accessory is removed for consumption, and the hard seed body is dumped in waste pits that provide an enriched medium for growth. In this way, bloodroot is able to colonize new locales away from the parent plant and ensure optimal germination. While new colonies are formed from seeds, and preexisting ones receive a supplemental boost, tightly knit colonies are a result of vegetative propagation, another form of reproduction which produces clones by extension of rhizomes. 

Myrmecochory Large colonies, or drifts, will sometimes form in areas of especially prime habitat, consisting in the hundreds—and rarely thousands—of individuals. More often than not, they will be found along some type of waterbody, be it a river, lake, or even a temporary rivulet born of snowmelt. While these colonies are normally significantly smaller than those formed by trout lilies, an almost synchronous blooming elevates them to another level.

The large blossoms, as well as the glaucous, almost succulent leaves, create a striking scene among the withered foliage and broken stems of last year’s growth. A particularly large, showy colony is easily spotted at a considerable distance and visually eclipses other ephemeral populations that attain a similar size. There’s something entrancing and fairy-like in the demeanor of these somewhat uncommon flowers, with their unique ability to pop-up seemingly overnight, transforming the landscape like magic. Such vigor and color contrasts greatly with the bleak debris that surrounds, creating an image of unsurpassed beauty that’s sure to be emblazoned in memory and sought out year after year.

As the name portrays, these plants do indeed possess crimson roots. Moreover, this species bleeds the same as any injured animal. A broken leaf or stem causes the plant to exude a fluid alarmingly similar to blood. It stains anything it touches, and has been used in years past as a dye by both Native Americans and colonists.

Bloodroot Colony

Wild violets are perhaps the least appreciated of our wildflowers. Though often distracted by other showier and perhaps rarer flowers, the common, yet regal violets, are a fascinating genus to delve into, and shouldn’t automatically be dismissed solely due to their profusion. While many violets share numerous similarities and are extremely difficult to differentiate from one another, it has been estimated that there are, in fact, between 500-600 species worldwide, approximately 85 of which can be found growing in North America. There’s tremendous variation among the community, with many varieties garnering oxymoronic names, such as round-leaved yellow violet and sweet white violet. While a majority do live up to their names in appearance, there’s more than a few that are anything but violet, being completely white, and even the brightest shade of yellow, with numerous combinations and levels of mixing.

Yellow violets appear to be the most primitive, with their flowers being the first shift away from the ancestral green. Purple, in contrast, is thought to be one of the most advanced colors. Evolution in progress can be witnessed in the Canada violet, a native to Canada and the eastern U.S. Many botanists speculate that the mostly white flower, often dabbed with minor purplish tingeing on the back of the petals, is transitioning from entirely white to “violet.”

Canada Violets Violets fall into two general categories: those that are stemmed and have leaves and flowers protruding from them, and those that are stemless, having appendages emanating directly from the roots, with flowers being supported on a thin and usually low, leafless stalk. Breaking it down further, certain species, in addition to having showy blossoms, possess a trait known as cleistogamy, meaning they are capable of self-pollinating by means of tiny, barely noticeable flowers that resemble unopened buds.

Once fertilization has occurred by means of insects or self-pollination, the seeds are ready for an explosive dispersal. After the seeds are fully developed, the pods they’re stored in slowly dry out, with the pod gradually tightening around the seeds, building up tension in the process, similarly to the action of a spring. Later, when the pods are disturbed, or sometimes just randomly, the pressure becomes too great and the seeds are shot out like miniature cannonballs. Amazingly, seeds are capable of being flung up to 15 feet away from the parent plant.

Insects aren’t the only ones to appreciate the tasty nature of the violet. Nearly all parts of the plants are edible for human consumption. The leafy greens can be collected to create a salad that’s high in vitamins A and C, superseding that of an equal quantity of oranges. Beginning in the 19th century, candied violets gained favor as a dessert garnishment and were widely served. Though their popularity has decreased over the years, in some circles they're still a favorite topping for sweet dishes of cake or ice cream. Traditionally, a syrup was also made by boiling the flowers in a concoction of sugar. Apart from sweetening the lips, the syrup is useful as a substitute for litmus paper. The solution turns red in the presence of an acid, green for a base.

Long-spurred Violets Red trillium, while lovely in sight, with its three or tri-petaled (hence trillium), maroon-hued flowers, shares traits in common with the less beloved and odiferous skunk cabbage. Unlike other spring ephemerals whose blossoms are sweetly scented or have no scent at all, this trillium stinks like a wet dog. Called wake-robin by some because of its appearance when robins are migrating back north, it also garners the more piquant name of "stinking Benjamin." The putrid scent appears to have evolved to attract flies for pollination—the same that normally feast on dead and decaying animals. The coloration of trillium, along with the that of the skunk cabbage's spathe, are similar in hue to carrion, which also appears to help draw in flies. This plant often grows alongside trout lilies and bloodroot, but is more tolerant of shade. Flowers appear from the latter half of April through the first half of May. The more beautiful and sweet-smelling painted trillium inhabits cooler locales, frequently of higher elevation, and is more common northward.

Red Trillium Wild ginger is likely to go unnoticed unless the passerby recognizes the leaves, which form lush moderately-sized colonies, often right alongside hiking trails. Each plant bears a single small, stubby flower that hides beneath the foliage and lies on the ground, or is elevated just above it. Like red trillium, the dark purple to maroon hue is identical to that of newly thawed carrion and attracts flies for pollination. Though not related to the ginger sold in grocery stores, the root of this plant reportedly has a taste very similar to it. It is also reported to have mild antibacterial properties. It was used by regional Indians to prevent meat from spoiling. When it comes to fishing, it’s reputed that the root, when applied to bait, strongly enhances its performance.

Wild Ginger Marsh marigold is perhaps one of the finest flowers of spring, at least when it comes to watery environs. As its name implies, it prefers saturated soil, common to marshes, swamps, and other perpetually damp areas. Blooming amid masses of newly greening skunk cabbages and the withered remains of last year’s growth, the flowers brighten up the often gloomy surroundings like a handful of gold coins tossed onto the muck, shimmering radiantly with even the smallest bit of light.

Marsh Marigold One of the most unusual of the spring ephemerals to be seen is the comically named Dutchman’s breeches that happen to resemble an upturned pair of outdated pantaloons. It’s been conjectured that the odd-looking flowers are useful for safeguarding the precious pollen and nectar from the harsh spring elements. With the nectar sequestered at the very top of the flower, it’s also protected against small insects which might otherwise steal the sweet reward without pollinating the plant. Only insects with exceedingly long tongues, such as bumblebees, can reach the nectar and effectively aid in pollination. Some thieving insects will bypass this clever design by chewing a hole through the flower, however.

Dutchman's Breeches The foliage of the mayapple is on par with the beauty of its flowers. Resembling green umbrellas, dual leaves stand firmly erect sheltering a rather robust white blossom beneath. Plants typically form dense colonies that can take over sizeable swaths of the understory, shading out all other plant life by means of its expansive leaves. It makes an attractive groundcover. While the flowers bloom in May, the fruit, or “apple,” will not appear until August or September. The fruit is edible when ripe, supposedly tasting like a tart lemon. All other parts of the plant are extremely toxic, including unripe fruit. Native Americans used the root as a means to commit suicide. Despite the encompassing size of some colonies, mayapple is a rather uncommon plant whose scarcity in our woods is increasing.

Mayapple The last of the spring wildflowers to bloom is the fiery red columbine, beginning its display in mid-May and lasting until the closing of June. The chandelier-like blossoms, which are mostly red, but sport a rich, golden underside, have been described to possess an “elfin charm” and a splendor which isn’t anything less than “magical and audacious.”

Red columbine is a wide-ranging perennial that occupies the eastern half of the United States. Flowers are typically 1.5 inches long and borne on plants growing 1-2 feet tall. This species has an affinity for slightly alkaline to neutral soil. It’s able to thrive in places most other plants can’t even gain a minor foothold. It’s not uncommon to find a copious profusion of flowers sprouting from a vertical cliff face. The roots are able to penetrate the tiniest of cracks and subsist on the barest amounts of soil. Columbine is also likely to be found gracing spongy beds of moss within open and somewhat sunny forests.

Red flowers throughout temperate forests are usually rather scarce. In many cases, this color appears to have evolved to attract hummingbirds. The long, tubular structures of the columbine flowers attest to this. Nectar is sequestered at the base of each lengthy tube; only creatures with long beaks or tongues are able to reach it. It has been speculated that the yellow underside is a mechanism to guide potential pollinators to the sweet reward. Apart from hummingbirds, bumblebees are probably one of the few other pollinators able to access it. Some insects, however, may cheat the system and chew a hole through the flower to rob it of nectar, similarly to Dutchman’s breeches—in such a case, flowers fail to be pollinated. 

Red Columbine The spring ephemerals just described are some of the more commonly encountered throughout the region, but the list is far from complete. A thorough inventory mentioning each species is too lengthy to include here. There are other interesting species worth simply noting, however. 

It's wise to be on the lookout for the tightly clustered bluets, which true to their name are mostly of an azure or sky-blue hue and often grace sunny pastures and meadows, along with sprouting along the edges of woodland hiking trails where abundant light penetrates to the ground. And then there's the delicate dwarf ginseng, which closely resembles its rare and exploited relative, American ginseng. The dwarf is exceedingly more common, on account of it lacking the size and potency of its larger cousin, and thus never having been collected in meaningful numbers. On high hills and low mountains, the tall corydalises thrive on dry, rocky ledges. Pink flowers are borne on the common species, golden on the rare.

Plants with an affinity for alkaline soils are generally rarer than their acid loving brethren in the Northeast. Part of the reason for this is that alkaline habitats are relatively scarce, a result of the underlying geology of the region. The wild purple clematis, a delicate flowering vine producing blue-purple flowers with a crepe paper look, prefers to vegetate around damp rocky habitats, such as talus slopes and cliff sides that possess more basic or alkaline pH. Twin-leaf, a plant in many ways identical to bloodroot, except for its higher pH preference and that each leaf is bisected and looks like a pair of butterfly wings, is rather rare and is on the threatened or endangered plant lists of New York and New Jersey.

As the spring ephemerals wrap things up for the season, the shrubs and trees begin their leafy show, draping all the landscape in the soft verdure that we that we take delight in seeing, knowing the warm and pleasant days of summer can't be far behind. Shrubs are the first to leaf out after the herbaceous layer of the understory. A layering effect takes place, with the lowest awakening first and the highest last. Come the height of summer when the canopy is fully expanded, sunlight reaching the secondary layers gets progressively smaller as one continues to descend. It's been estimated that only between 1-5% of solar radiation penetrates through to the forest floor. Plants of the understory compensate for the lack of summer light by gaining a head start in the spring. Unfortunately, the earliest shrubs to begin leafing are exotic species, such as Japanese barberry and honeysuckle. This is detrimental to some ephemerals who are shaded out prematurely by the often times prolific invaders that not only block light, but steal nutrients and considerably alter the environment in other ways.

Foamflower Sugar Maple Flowers Squirrel Corn & Spring Beauty Rhodora

 

 

 

 

 

Hessian Lake

In the Northeastern U.S. leaf change begins during the early days of September in the high peaks and northernmost reaches of the region. It can come about quite suddenly from the often-unstable weather, while in the more temperate south the landscape is more languid in its acquisition of color. A frustratingly slow blush in this zone may not cause the forests to peak until late October or November.

Some years the forests are especially vibrant and explosive, others from some difference in the ever-changing climate, we find them to be relatively lackluster. The best displays result from a season with ample, but not excess, precipitation (lest the colors be muted). But this comes with a catch—it’s important that skies during the day be bright and clear, while nights cool and crisp. These conditions allow for the best degradation of chlorophyll, the pigment that masks the yellows and oranges already present in the leaves. While our accustomed reds and purples come about from the development of anthocyanin, a pigment formed from sugars in the leaf during sunny autumnal days. Fierce winds and drenching rains from a powerful storm can easily strip trees of the leaves and mar the autumnal show. In this respect, the leaves are somewhat like the showy spring ephemeral wildflowers. Blink and you may miss out. Despite the erratic nature of the environment, the Northeast easily boasts some of the most impressive foliage displays, not only in the U.S., but in the world. Only portions of Japan rival it.

North Point in Autumn Despite Europe having a relatively similar climate and also possessing temperate deciduous forests, fall spectacles tend to remain relatively sober, forests mostly tinged a yellow-brown. The Western U.S. has somewhat similar attributes, though things do tend to run slightly more pronounced. In the high altitudes of saw-toothed mountain ranges in Colorado and surrounding states, the land is beset with seemingly endless undulating waves of yellow aspens, whose quaking leaves make the infinite landscape appear as a fluid sea of gold. Yet, even these charms pale in comparison to the potent explosion of color that takes hold of the Northeast each autumn. We have not only the common yellows and golds, but bold purples, mauves, and maroons, unchanging evergreens, and perhaps most exquisite of all, flaming reds and oranges that blaze out even more intensely than the sweetest sunset imaginable.

Maple-leaf Viburnum Glow To those not accustomed to the fall scenery of the Northeast, an immersion for the first time can be a rapturous, otherworldly experience. Henry David Thoreau, the poet-naturalist, and life-long resident of Concord, Massachusetts, penned a stirring essay on the changes that take place during this magical season. In “Autumnal Tints” he recounts how he encountered a man, who, upon leaving a New England city for the first time in his life during the late fall season, was mesmerized even by the lingering remnants of the foliage he encountered. While this person was “a fortnight too late for the most brilliant tints,” he “would not believe that there had been any brighter,” Thoreau recalls. Such incredulity continues to be commonplace to those isolated in cities or sections of the world not graced with such breathtaking displays. They need to be seen firsthand to be believed, hence the “leaf peepers” that migrate to the Northeast every year from all across the globe.  

North Point Sunburst Red Maple Sky Minnewaska Colors of Fall

When it comes to plants and botany, the average person normally has difficulty in rousing more than a cursory interest. Compared to wildlife, our leafy cousins are hard to relate to. They don’t breathe or eat in the same sense as you and I, you can’t pet or train them, and they don’t move. A pine or maple certainly won’t be showing off aerial acrobatics like a shifty bat or majestic eagle. And even the most beautiful spring ephemerals—the ivory petaled bloodroot whose large, showy blossoms herald the end of winter—red trillium with its deep maroon petals and hypnotizing multiples of three—or the dainty bluets whose azure tints emulate the sky—can’t dish out a shot of adrenaline on par with a bear or rattlesnake encounter. As a botanist, it’s often disheartening to find this unique group of organisms neglected and not given their due. While it’s undoubtedly true they lack many electrifying attributes, they are far from dull.

When I talk to people about a unique shrub, a threatened species of milkweed, or the intricate network of underground mycorrhizal fungi that connect many plants in a similar vein to our internet, I receive either a suppressed chuckle or the half-hearted “Mhmm… that’s interesting” response. In such cases, I feel myself slowly slipping into esoteric obscurity. But when I bring up the topic of orchids, things drastically change. Even those who don’t garden or enjoy a walk in the woods find them charming. Orchids have a reputation of being exotic and refined, standing as a class of their own and being rather discriminating.

Most orchids are indeed finicky plants that, true to their reputation, only grace an area with their presence if all of their conditions are met absolutely perfectly.

We find common ground with orchids. And for that I am grateful. For while I try to love all groups of plants equally, my heart, like most people, has an especial fondness for these exquisitely beautiful primma donnas. 

Orchids are tailored for a unique (and narrow) set of environmental conditions and, many times, pollinators. If the pH or light conditions are slightly off, an orchid will not grow. Some have evolved to be pollinated by very specific insects. Prairie fringed and roundleaved orchids are pollinated almost exclusively by long-tongued hawk moths. If these creatures are absent, or dwindle for some reason, the orchids in question will not be found in a particular area. But most importantly, the dust-like seeds of orchids lack endosperm, a material that nourishes a fledging plant (think of a meaty acorn). Lacking sustenance, they must obtain it via fungi. Many orchids have formed a mutualistic association with fungi from a particular genus or even a single species. If the right fungi are absent, no orchids. So, everything needs to fall into place perfectly for an orchid to survive and thrive—even the smallest problems could have disastrous consequences. For this reason, orchids are bioindicators of habitat health and vigor.

While individual orchid species are confined to strict habitat types, as a group, they occur over a vast area, from sunny bogs and wetlands to open fields and twilight forests.

Bogs are one of the best places to search for these magical plants. Vivid roseate and magenta hues of the rose pogonia, grass-pink, and dragon’s mouth stand out amid quaking lime-green peat mats like torches. Ghostly white-fringed orchids also make an appearance during the decline of summer.

Grass-pink

Grass-pink (Calopogon tuberosus)

Rose Pogonia

Rose pogonia (Pogonia ophioglossoides)

Dragon's Mouth Orchid HabitatArethusa bulbosa

Dragon's mouth orchid (Arethusa bulbosa)

Platanthera blephariglottis

White fringed orchid (Platanthera blephariglottis)

Fens, the neutral to alkaline cousin of the acidic bogs, are home to showy lady’s slipper, ladies’-tresses, and bog candles.

Showy Lady's Slipper

Showy lady's slipper (Cypripedium reginae)

Shining Ladies'-tresses

Shining ladies'-tresses (Spiranthes lucida)

Bog candle (Platanthera dilatata)

Moist fields are home to ladies’-tresses and the ragged fringed orchid.

Southern Slender Ladies'-tresses 2

Southern slender ladies'-tresses (Spiranthes lacera)

Ragged Fringed Orchid

Ragged fringed orchid (Platanthera lacera)

Ragged Fringed Macro

Ragged fringed orchid (Platanthera lacera)

Forest swales and streamsides are lined with yellow lady’s slippers, purple fringed and club-spur orchids.

Large yellow lady's slipper (Cypripedium parviflorum var. pubescens)

Greater Purple Fringed OrchidPlatanthera grandiflora

Large purple fringed orchid (Platanthera grandiflora)

Little Club-spur Orchid (Contrast)

Little club-spur orchid (Platanthera clavellata)

Forest floors with acidic soils may find themselves dotted with pink lady’s slippers, rattlesnake plantains, roundleaved orchids, parasitic coralroots, and large and small whorled pogonias.

Pink lady's slipper (Cypripedium acule)

Downy Rattlesnake Plantain Woodland

Downy rattlesnake plantain (Goodyera pubescens)

Downy Rattlesnake Plantain Macro

Downy rattlesnake plantain (Goodyera pubescens)

Small Whorled PogoniaSmall Whorled Pogonia (Isotria medeoloides) is one of the most imperiled orchids in North America.

This plant has gained the nickname,"the rarest orchid east of the Mississippi." It's a federally threatened species. In New York, however, where this specimen was photographed, it's listed as endangered. A single population, consisting of a mere 6 individuals, is all that's known in the state.

Small whorled pogonia (Isotria medeoloides)

Large whorled pogonia (Isotria verticillata)

Autumn Coralroot

Autumn coralroot (Corallorhiza odontorhiza)

When it comes to the roundleaved orchids, there are two types: the greater (Platanthera macrophylla) and (P. orbiculata) lesser. The greater has marginally more robust leaves and flowers. The main distinguishing characteristic between the two comes down to the size of the nectar spur. The lesser roundleaved orchid possesses spurs that are 26 mm or less in length; its close relative’s ranges from 28-46 mm. It is speculated that differing spur lengths have come about from the availability of pollinators. Both species are pollinated by long-tongued hawk moths. However, the most effective pollinator for the greater roundleaved appears to be the wild cherry sphinx moth, which happens to be larger (and has a longer tongue) than the typical moths that visit the lesser roundleaved.

The greater roundleaved orchid has a narrower range, calling only the Northeast home, whereas the lesser roundleaved orchid spans from New England to Minnesota and south to North Carolina. There is ongoing debate among botanists as to whether the two are merely varieties of one species, the more common P. orbiculata. I tend to be a splitter, rather than a lumper, and recognize them as distinct species. Whatever your feeling on the matter, measuring the spurs of one out in the woods will make you appreciate the rich diversity of life in all its many shapes and forms.

Greater Roundleaved OrchidPlatanthera macrophylla

Greater roundleaved orchid (Platanthera macrophylla)

Greater roundleaved orchid (Platanthera macrophylla)

Northern MonkshoodAconitum noveboracense

Various species of monkshood can be found vegetating in residential gardens, valued for their uncommon beauty. Their slender form, interesting flower morphology, and bountiful raceme of purplish-blue flowers, make this genus among the most spectacular of North American wildflowers. One species, however, which cannot be bought and planted—owing to its federally-threatened status—is northern monkshood (Aconitum noveboracense), most of the Northeast's only native species. Three widely disjunct populations exist. Two are located in the Mid-West (in Iowa and Wisconsin and another grouping in northeastern Ohio), while our Northeastern individuals are confined to the Catskill Mountains of New York. Few are those who have ever seen this species alive in the wild, especially in our region. Only a handful of documented sites exist and are either on private property or are in areas so rugged and remote that only experienced bushwhackers can access. Hopefully more populations are yet to be discovered. 

Northern monkshood is a glacial relict, a plant whose range has dramatically declined since the end of the last ice age. This species is now restricted to isolated pockets mimicking the cool, damp conditions that were once ubiquitous during, and shortly following, glaciation. The species grows on damp cliffs, among shaded seepage springs and talus slopes, and along wooded wooded streamsides rich in mosses, ferns, and other shade tolerant plants. All sites have either year-round cool air- or water-flow and routinely both. Plants can grow in areas with very little soil and, like red columbine, are adept at colonizing rock crevices. Sometimes along streams plants sprout from rock ledges only inches from the waterline. Such precarious placement has been to the detriment of the species in recent years, as larger and more frequent storms have caused severe flooding which has scoured this rarity away. Increased deer browse from unchecked herds has also been leading to significant declines. 

While unlikely to be encountered by chance, this species is unmistakable when in bloom and can easily be seen on an opposite bank of a stream or brook even amid the darkened environs of a dense northern hardwood forest, its typical haunts. The flowers resemble the bowed heads of pious monks enrobed in medieval-style hoods, and stud the erect flower stalks that can rise to a height of four feet. But what really catches the eye is the color. Its enchanting amethyst or royal purple hues radiate from the monochromatic forest like glowing nuclear fuel rods or the faint, yet distinct ghostly displays of fungal foxfire. It's certainly one plant that's not easily overlooked.  

It's important to note that like a radioactive element or specter, it's best to keep your distance. Despite monkshood's charming physical attributes, it conceals qualities which aren't so attractive or as innocent as this species' common name suggests. All parts of the plant contain extremely potent toxins, which grievously affect the heart and nervous system. Ingesting even minute amounts can prove fatal within hours; absorption of the toxins via the skin can be equally problematic. Northern monkshood's European cousin, Aconitum napellus, has been used for millennia by a diverse audience, from trained assassins to farmers trying to rid themselves of troublesome animals like wolves—hence its other name, wolfsbane. While the toxins are most concentrated in the roots, there have been reports of sensitive individuals being affected by merely taking a whiff of the alluring, siren-like blossoms. 

Studies comparing the genetic make-up of northern monkshood to Columbian monkshood, a species native to the western U.S, have shown little genetic variation. As a result, some botanists lump the two species together. One thing is for certain, the Catskill population has likely been isolated for many thousands of years and deserves protection. A recovery plan devised by the Fish and Wildlife Service in 1983 states: "Like the search for a rare bird, the search for northern monkshood is the pursuit of a special quarry for many outdoor enthusiasts and nature photographers. These people are enriched by its very presence as a rare, wild thing."

Northern Monkshood along a Catskill BrookAconitum noveboracense

Northern Monkshood BrookAconitum noveboracense Aconitum noveboracenseNorthern monkshood

Northern Monkshood & SwallowtailAconitum noveboracense Northern Monkshood PollinatorAconitum noveboracense

Bunches of Indian pipe, one of the most frequently encountered species, when first beginning to push their way up from the leaves of the forest understory from June to August look like the curled fingers of a body poking out of the soil. If the ghostly white flowers are plucked, they soon devolve into a gelatinous, jet-black mess. It's from these unsettling attributes that this plant has also been nicknamed the corpse flower. Fully erect and mature flowers are quite elegant, however; graced with fine scale-like leaves on the stem that stick out like the feathers of a peacock.

It's easy to see how this species received its more common moniker, looking like an old-fashioned kaolin clay pipe. While these "pipes" are curved down towards the ground initially, successfully pollinated flowers eventually straighten out and point skyward as the seed pods develop. The dried remains of blackened flowers are long lasting and frequently haunt the woods for some time, often remaining erect for a year or more in tight clusters.
The withered remains of beechdrops, a parasite of beech trees as the name suggests, possess a similar, if not more prolonged durability. 

Indian Pipe Dusk

Indian pipe sustains itself by tapping into an underground network of thread-like roots of a mycorrhizal fungus, known as a mycelium, that is itself bound to the roots of a tree. The fungus and the tree have a mutualistic relationship, where each receives something from the other. The tree gets crucial nutrients, while its fungal partner is gifted with sugars produced by the autotroph. But unlike this beneficial arrangement, Indian pipe siphons away sugars and nutrients from the fungus—and indirectly the tree—without giving anything back in return. 

Native Americans believed Indian pipe to be a remedy for sore eyes. Referring to dried plants, an early American pharmacopoeia listed it as an "excellent substitute for opium."

Pinesap, a close relative of Indian pipe, obtains its resources in a near identical manner. It falls into the genus Hypopitys, which translates to "under the pines," giving an indication where this species is commonly encountered. But it's by no means restricted to areas beneath evergreens. I've seen populations thriving under oaks, close to Indian pipes and other plant parasites, without a pine in sight. Despite its exceedingly widespread range, which encompasses a majority of the North American continent, pinesap is rare to find. 

Unlike its ghostly cousin which produces only a single flower, pinesap boasts an infloresence of up to a dozen flowers haphazardly, even messily, clustered near the top of its stem that bear at least a modicum of color. There are two color morphs: pale golden yellow and light to vibrant red, which to some are considered distinct species. The yellow form appears to be more common and generally blossoms from June to early July; the red variety from late August to October.

Hairy Pinesap

Perhaps one of the most ecologically important parasitic plants out there is the truly bizarre looking squawroot. Having an appearance of a pinecone or a half eaten, decaying corn cob, squawroot definitely wins no awards in the beauty department, but it does possess an important talent. Its contribution as a food source to hungry wildlife cannot be overstated. Up to 10% of a black bear's diet is made up of this plant. Being high in fiber, it plays an especially helpful role in the spring to bears recently awakened from hibernation by getting their sluggish intestinal tract running properly again. It's also a favorite of white-tailed deer, and may be foraged upon by mice, chipmunks, and squirrels. Seed dispersal is needless to say largely mammalian in nature, with seeds getting transported to new locales via the gut of these creatures. The abundance of squawroot is directly correlated with wildlife populations—as it also is with the presence of certain tree species.

Dispersed seeds need to find the right tree for successful germination. Squawroot is a parasite of oaks and the occasional beech and is more likely to be encountered in older forests. Plants have a lifespan of around a decade. For the first four years of its life an individual will remain below ground, developing a thick root that wraps itself around a host tree. Indian women, or "squaws," are said to have used the stalk and root of this plant to facilitate childbirth, induce menstrual bleeding, and alleviate the symptoms of menopause. 

Anyone passing through a grove of American beech trees from August to October should be on the look-out for the purple and white striped flowers of the beechdrops. This species is one of the most colorful and decorative of our root parasites. Numerous tubular flowers are borne along thin, wiry stalks. Each plant may issue multiple stalks emanating from a central root base, making the cluster in some cases resemble a small, leafless shrub. These plants, like many parasitic plants, steal nutrients—in this case from a beech tree—by inserting their haustoria, or modified roots, into the roots of a host. Beechdrops do little damage to trees even though they may severely wrap around and constrict a host's roots. The reason for this is simple: as annuals, beechdrops die at the conclusion of the growing season releasing the tree from its grip. Beechdrops are obvious among the forest understory, growing up to a foot and a half tall. While these grow wherever beech trees are present, they are especially prevalent in the northern half of the Northeast where beeches constitute a significant portion of the forest community.

Beechdrops

Numerous other parasitic plants abound. Some, like the various dodder and mistletoe species have severed their connection with the ground. The stringy and messy dodders can be seen draped over the tops of their hosts, looking as if someone tossed a heap of spaghetti carelessly about. After climbing up herbaceous vegetation or low shrubs in vine-like fashion and tapping into a plant's vascular system, its below ground roots disappear. The sickly-hued yellow-orange dodders then feverishly engulf all surrounding vegetation, indiscriminately spreading from plant to plant in areas of dense growth.

Dwarf mistletoe, on the other hand, perhaps the most harmful of the plant parasites, is bolted to the upper branches of evergreens. This species is particularly damaging to black spruce in the northern reaches of the region and may actually result in the death of infested trees. Before succumbing, trees often develop a structure known as a "witches broom," a lush and bushy patch of branches on an increasingly spindly looking tree. This is where the parasites can be found. Sugars and nutrients that normally flow uninterrupted throughout the entirety of the tree are selfishly redirected here by the mistletoe. Explosive seed pods can expel seeds upwards of 50 feet away. Landing in the branches of nearby trees, seeds withstand being shaken, blown, and washed away by being coated in a sticky and viscous material that literally glues them to their new host.

Even the revered orchids sometimes engage in parasitism. Those from the genus Corallorhiza, the coralroots, make a living similarly to Indian pipe and pinesap. The demure autumn coralroot which blends in among the newly fallen leaves is perhaps the best representative of a parasitic orchid. In contrast, the yellowish-green early coralroot, which blooms in spring, produces moderate quantities of chlorophyll and is known as a hemiparasite, as it both photosynthesizes and steals resources. 

Despite the negative connotation of parasites, these plants play a vital role in the health of an ecosystem. The most obvious and flower-like among them distribute resources to a broad array of creatures like a forest Robin Hood. The nectar of beechdrops, the protein-rich pollen of Indian pipes, and the starchy corn cob-like fruiting structures of squawroot provide insects and other wildlife with resources that would ordinarily become the leaves and woody tissue of trees, transforming an inaccessible food source into one readily available. All parasitic plants play their part, even when it comes to the insidious dwarf mistletoe. Forest gaps resulting from the die-off of black spruce and other evergreens by the parasite enable additional species to gain a foothold, while also allowing a new generation of trees to arise, so that the forest is comprised of individuals of all ages—the very the foundation of a healthy climax community.

The first Europeans to arrive to eastern North America were greeted with what some have recently called the "Great American Forest." This mainly uninterrupted wall stretching from the Atlantic to the Great Plains was composed of trees of every shape and dimension, from tiny saplings and mid-sized individuals, that we're accustomed to seeing in our forests today, to truly titanic and venerable specimens, some of which seemed to be as ancient as the very earth itself. The lushness, fecundity, and diversity of the scene overwhelmed the senses to those coming from the exhausted and overly tilled countryside of the Old World. While looked upon as a verdant Eden by some, to many of the early settlers, this untamed land, beset with wild animals and Indians, and where even at noon, a perpetual twilight held sway underneath the dense and lofty canopy, was a fearsome wilderness that needed to be brought to heel and cultivated to satisfy their Christian ideals. 

Adrien van der Donck, an early resident of New York, was enraptured by every feature of his new home, from the native plants and wildlife, to the geology and even culture of its aboriginal inhabitants, documenting his experiences in his treatise, A Description of New Netherland. Despite his obvious love of the land, he quickly dismissed those who thought it prudent to make more liberal use of the forests, as he believed they contained "such an abundance of wood that it will never be wanting." He further mentions that it was a common exercise of settlers to construct huge bonfires of wood, just because the material was in their way. The cornucopia appeared to be endless and inexhaustible. And so the slaughter began. 

While later generations would prove to be less wasteful of natural resources as quantities did inevitably begin to dwindle, this didn't stop the razing of forests. Trees were cut for the production of boards and paper, with larger individuals, especially the exceedingly tall and lank white pines being used for ship masts; hemlocks were stripped of their tannin-rich bark for the leather industry; and a variety of trees were axed simply for use as firewood, hickory being especially prized.

Even the most ancient of trees weren't spared. Early reports document eastern forests being filled with grand and stately trees of dimensions most Americans have never seen and can scarcely visualize. The naturalist William Bartram in the late 1700's described encountering a grove of black oaks in Georgia, some of which "measured eight, nine, ten, and eleven feet diameter five feet above the ground." In the same area he encountered tulip trees and beeches that "were equally stately." White Pines in Maine and elsewhere attained heights of 200 feet of more. A grove in Pennsylvania supposedly had some that hit the 230 foot mark. And the mast producing chestnut trees prized by everyone for its tasty nuts occasionally reached diameters of a dozen feet in moist and rich soils of sheltered mountain hollows. Forests took on a cathedral-like atmosphere.

Additionally, the scents that emanated from the forests and meadows possessed a potency that surprised newly arrived explorers. A member of Henry Hudson's 1609 expedition sailing up the river that would later be named in his honor, described it thus: "The Lands they told us were as pleasant with Grasse and Flowers, and goodly Trees, as ever they had seene, and very sweet smells came from them." Over a century later the taxonimist Peter Kalm would report a "most odoriferous effluvia" wafting in from a flower filled river bank. 

Iona Island WildflowersIona Island, Bear Mountain State Park. -Marsh mallow (pink), cardinal flower (red), and sneezeweed (yellow) Over the years, logging and the clearing of land for crops and pasture gradually reduced forest cover by as much as 80% in the Northeast. By the 1850's the damage was mostly complete. The elimination of forest and the ravenous killing of majestic apex predators, such as wolves, bears, and mountain lions, which were largely, if not wholly extirpated from the sunny and open confines of Henry David Thoreau's hometown of Concord, MA, made him lament the destruction wrought by his ancestors and contemporaries. He felt as though he was cheated and robbed. To him, such action was akin to desecrating a poem, in which his "ancestors have torn out many of the first leaves and grandest passages, and mutilated it in many places." As a result, his "wish to know an entire heaven and an entire earth" was unable to be met.

Today around only one-half of one percent of original, untouched forest remains in the Northeast. These fragmented patches of old-growth forest are often located in inaccessible locations where it wasn't possible or worth the trouble to clear the land. New York holds the largest quantities of old-growth, the majority of it located in the Adirondack Preserve, followed behind by Maine, and then Pennsylvania. 

***

There is no single definition of what classifies as old-growth; opinions between ecologists and foresters differ wildly. While the former see old-growth as being defined as forests largely untouched since European arrival, composed of many trees which are normally hundreds of years old and reaching the end of their lives, some foresters classify old-growth as stands which are between a mere 80-120 years old. The reason for this is simple: many trees at this age begin to slow their growth, and shortly thereafter may develop features which are detrimental to the timber industry, such as heartwood rot and crown shrinkage. From an economic standpoint, these types of forests are typically of less value than those that have reached their "peak." But in ecological terms, forest growth comprised of declining giants is of more value. Older forests are stabler, contain significantly higher rates of biodiversity, and play more vital roles in the environment.

For our purposes here we will be going with the definition generally agreed upon by ecologists. The exact criteria used to determine whether a forest is truly worthy of old-growth status falls upon the following:

1. At least half of the trees making it to canopy height must be more than half the maximum age of the species. Also, at least a few trees nearing the maximum age are present.

2. Lack of human disturbance. -No stone walls are seen passing through the forest; trees have not been cut; nor any other significant alteration made.

3. Multilayered and uneven forest. -Discrete canopy, understory, and herbaceous layers. Trees of all different sizes and ages are present, from seedlings to towering giants. Canopy gaps exists.

4. Late successional or climax species species are dominant. These vary based on the region and are usually shade-tolerant. Hemlock, American beech, and sugar maple are but a few typical species found at lower elevations.

5. Understory is full of decaying trunks and limbs in various stages of decay. Pit and mound topography is also present—shows where uprooted trees have pulled up soil into conspicuous mounds. Woody debris and the uneven forest floor topography shows the forest has attained a great age.

6. Larger trees possess few limbs on lower trunk. -This is an indication that trees started their lives in a forest with a high canopy.

7.  Mosses, lichens, and fungi are prominent. -These organisms take a long time to develop and thrive in stable, long-lived ecosystems.

***

As the years dragged on, the serious adverse effects of logging on the landscape became more profound and unignorable. In New York's Adirondacks and surrounding mountain ranges, clear-cutting denuded entire mountains. Without roots and vegetation to hold down the soil, erosion washed tremendous amounts of sediment into surrounding streams that eventually funneled into the Hudson River. This waterway was of grand importance for commerce and travel. The influx of sediment decreased the depth of the river and aided in the proliferation of sand bars which posed serious problems for transportation. 

Erosion was far from the only problem. As the trees fell, the ubiquitous sponge-like moss that draped the forest floor withered and died with the increased sunlight and exposure. This moss, according to prominent Adirondack surveyor, Verplanck Colvin, was in spots knee deep on the sides of the mountains and held many times its weight in water. With its absence, innumerable streams ran dry. In summer, terrible droughts gripped the region and the passage on the Hudson was further impacted. But in early spring, as the weather warmed, the opposite occurred and massive flooding took place. Heavy winter snows exposed to direct sunlight quickly melted, streaming prolifically down the mountains and into the narrow valleys. Dense forest once shielded the snow and it melted gradually, with sheets of thick moss absorbing huge quantities of runoff, releasing it slowly in the warmer months. With the removal of these buffers all protection evaporated as quickly as the scant moisture now clinging to the denuded mountain slopes in summer.

Only when economics came into play, when property damage and loss of revenue increased dramatically, did any meaningful action take place. In 1885, after vehement outcries by the local populace, New York legislators devised and approved the Adirondack and Catskill Forest Preserves to safeguard the watersheds of the Hudson. It ensured the protected land would remain "forever wild." Today, the Adirondack Forest Preserves consists of 2.6 million acres of state owned land, with the Catskill Forest Preserve boasting a smaller, yet still highly significant 286,000 acres. Logging is completely banned throughout both. Not even dead woody debris can be removed or destroyed within their bounds.

Right around the time these preserves were born, reforesting on a larger scale began to take place throughout the entire region. While the creation of parks and preserves assisted with this movement, natural societal shifts proved to be the main driving force. As the West opened up, farmers tired of their comparatively small plots of stony land in the glaciated Northeast, relished an opportunity to ply their trade in the flat and expansive plains of the vastly fertile Mid-West. Abandoned farms in little time reverted back to their original state. The countless stone walls the criss-cross many shady forest interiors are lingering reminders of the region's agricultural past. Logging companies, likewise, migrated away after depleting lumber supplies, finding significantly richer stores along the West Coast, where truly gargantuan trees, such as the imposing redwoods and sequoias, dominated the landscape. Despite rampant development and commercialization, there's more forested area throughout the region today than there was a century ago.

While total forest cover has rebounded quite significantly throughout the Northeast, irreparable harm has been done and continues to hamper our sylvan communities. The introduction of invasive species has seen to this. Exotic insects and fungi are the main pests responsible for the plummeting diversity that's presently being witnessed all across the country. 

Chestnut

One of the most devastating and heartbreaking losses is that of the American Chestnut. Once widespread throughout much of the eastern half of the country, and comprising as much as 25% of some forests (mainly in the Appalachian Mountains), this species is now largely absent thanks entirely to the Asian fungus, Cryphonectria parasitica. First documented infecting trees in New York City in 1904—the result of a contaminated shipment of Japanese chestnuts—within a few decades it spread by means of microscopic spores throughout the American chestnut's entire range, killing off an estimated 4 billion trees, or 99% of the population. The fungus kills infected trees by destroying the cambium layer, mainly by the production of toxic compounds that lowers the pH to levels that are deadly to cells. Over a period of approximately 2-4 years the fungus encircles the trunk, effectively girdling the tree. Tiny orange-brown patches on the outside of the bark, which eventually form into expansive cankers, indicate the fungus's presence.

Once lively forests quickly became skeletal versions of their former selves. The highly rot-resistant wood ensured their bare frames would remain to haunt the woods for years to come. After their disappearance other species claimed the chestnut's lost territory, dramatically reshaping forests. In the southern tier of the Northeast, Oak-Chestnut forests, dominated by these two genera, were most common, but eventually morphed into Oak-Hickory forests. The disappearance of this important mast-producing species, which each autumn covered the forests floors with copious quantities of large, meaty nuts left wildlife scrambling to find alternate sources of food. While the oaks and hickories both provide valuable nuts, they are neither as large, nor as reliable, as the chestnut. Acorn and hickory crops are erratic; some years they're plentiful, others nearly non-existent. Chestnuts, by comparison, consistently provided prolific bumper crops every year. 

These trees lived in a variety of habitats, but flourished especially well in rocky hills and mountains with thin soil, gaining a solid foothold and thriving where few other trees could. Average heights ranged from 60-80 feet, but often achieved far larger dimensions. In an open pasture in Sheffield, MA, one observer noted the presence of a tree with a 30 foot circumference. Such trees were greatly prized by farmers. The nuts were an economically important crop. And the wood, being relatively lightweight, resistant to decay, and straight-grained, was utilized in the construction of homes, furniture, and fence posts, among other uses. In the spring, cream-white flowers studded along numerous floppy catkins at the ends of branches, looked, from a distance, like fog or snow draped across the undulating landscape, the trees being present in such lush profusion. It was a vastly impressive sight. For all of these reasons, the American chestnut was declared to be "one of the most magnificent trees of our woods" by a nineteenth century author. 

Despite the chestnut blight toppling this tree as a canopy species, it has not been fully eliminated. They continue in some areas to live on as sickly shrubs of the understory. The fungus attacks above ground portions of the plant, yet leaves the roots alone. Chestnuts are capable of regenerating by root sprouts. Fortunate individuals will rise perhaps as many as 30 feet before the fungus once again topples them. The highest concentration of these resprouts I've encountered in the region is in Connecticut along the Appalachian Trail on the slopes of the craggy and boulder strewn Schaghticoke Mountain. Here, in certain areas, chestnuts still do constitute at least a quarter of the trees present. And a small fraction actually fruit, although the nuts produced are generally abortive and undersized.

While the loss of the chestnut is the most extreme example of the negative impacts wrought by invasive species to date, this could soon change. Hemlock and ash trees are facing the prospect of destruction to a similar degree. 

Hemlock

The eastern hemlock, finally recovering from its long exploitation by the leather industry throughout the 19th century, now faces an even graver threat than the axe. This time it comes from an insect whose destruction is far more encompassing and complete. The culprit is the hemlock woolly adelgid. This tiny, aphid-like insect, feeds on sap of young branches, stealing crucial starches that are necessary for the growth and maintenance of the tree. Fuzzy white egg sacs coat the underside of branches of infected trees. Typically within a period of 4-10 years, the trees, sucked dry, are unable to recover and die. The old adage, "those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it" is most appropriate here. As with the chestnut blight, these pests arrived from Japan, first being detected in the eastern U.S. in Virginia during the early 1950's. Since then it has been creeping north and west by about 15 miles a year.

Currently, most infestations are limited to the southern half of the Northeast. Northern reaches of the region, as of yet, will be difficult to colonize, as the adelgid is cold intolerant. In the future, warmer and less severe winters driven by climate change may allow the pests access to the evergreen-rich north.

Some of the most ancient of our trees are hemlocks. This slow growing species can attain an age of 800 years or more. The oldest ever recorded was purportedly nearing its 1,000th birthday. Size can be deceptive when it comes to age. A 6 foot tree living in a shady understory might be as much as 60 years old. Rapid growth occurs when a canopy gap floods the lower levels with light. Until then, trees patiently wait for a fortuitous overhead disturbance. 

Hemlocks require damp and fertile soil. They are frequently located in dark ravines and north facing mountain slopes, where streams are present or moisture is prone to linger. Once a grove is established the unusually dense canopy ensures even less evaporation takes place. More moisture is also retained though the thick mats of moss which are apt to accrue in these conditions. Unlike the chestnut, hemlocks lack the ability to regenerate after being damaged. Due to lack of regeneration, their slow growth rate, and the fact that hemlock is a climax species that can only take hold later in the line of forest succession, hemlock forests take ages to recover. When they disappear they are likely to be replaced with forests of birches and oaks or those compromised of beech and sugar maple, depending on latitude. 

A widespread loss, similar to what we're now experiencing, did occur once before, beginning approximately 5,500 years ago. Based on pollen samples recovered from bottoms of bogs and other wetlands that have been stratified in distinct layers, it's possible to determine the species composition and abundance surrounding these areas during a specific time frame. The samples indicate a quick and catastrophic event all but eliminated these trees from the eastern U.S. Over the years, some have blamed this loss on disease, insect pests, changing climate, and various combinations of the three. Recent research shows that the larvae of the hemlock looper, a type of moth, was most likely responsible for the bulk of the damage. The larval inchworm stage feverishly devours hemlock needles, causing near total defoliation that can kill trees in as little as a year. These pests have also been described as "wasteful feeders," by their habit of taking only a bite or two of individual needles before moving onto the next. Large outbreaks periodically occur in localized areas that can result in the deaths of hundreds to thousands of trees.

It has been theorized that up until the great decline, hemlock loopers were absent in the east. Both an eastern and western variety exist: it's thought that loopers from the Pacific Northwest somehow managed to journey east. They arrived to a land peppered with hemlocks bearing almost no resistance. Not until 2,000 years later did populations begin to rebound, when the few survivors that did possess some level of defense slowly managed to repopulate the region. Hemlock concentrations still fall below what they were at before their precipitous decline. The lagging numbers have been attributed to climatic differences, most notably a shift to drier conditions.

It is likely our present problem with the adelgid will follow a similar course. Hemlocks will be reduced to fractions of their former numbers but will ultimately mount a resurgence. Too bad it will take millenia to accomplish. 

Ash

In 2002, the first recorded instance of the emerald ash borer—yet another invasive insect—was documented in the U.S. for the first time in Michigan. Since its discovery it has spread throughout a sizable swath of eastern and central North America. This Asian pest targets members of the genus Fraxinus. All native ash species are susceptible.

The emerald ash borer is a striking insect, boasting an iridescent, metallic green exoskeleton. Attractive adults cause only minor damage to ash trees by feeding on foliage. The grubby larvae, on the other hand, swarm throughout the inner bark, leaving behind serpentine galleries, or pathways, that disrupt water and nutrient transport. Eventually, the bark is girdled by these passages and the tree succumbs. Large individuals will die after 3-4 years on infestation; young trees in as little as a single year. 

Apart from peeling back the bark to look for larval galleries, D-shaped holes in the outer bark is a telltale sign that indicates the insect's presence. These holes are created as newly metamorphosed adults exit the tree. In areas with abundant woodpecker populations, infested trees can be seen at a distance stripped of their bark. These birds on their quest to locate their next meals fastidiously tear it off, sensing a cornucopia of wealth beneath. The entirety of the outer bark, from base to crown, is frequently stripped off, with significant piles seen littering the forest floor beneath the tree. This can make the forest appear significantly sicker than it actually is, especially in locations comprised primarily of ashes. Woodpeckers play a role in diminishing emerald ash borer concentrations, but only to a minor extent, as these insects are in too prodigious quantities to meaningfully combat. 

Certain regions, such as New England, will be minimally impacted, as ash trees generally make-up only around 1-2% of forests. New York's forests, by contrast, average roughly five times that amount. Certain western areas of the state possess much higher percentages, with ash comprising in some cases over a quarter of the tree population. In this respect, the loss of the various ash species will be felt as intensely as that of the once prevalent chestnut. 

It's been said that ash is second only to oak in terms of usefulness when it comes to trees of North America. Ash is a valuable lumber source, prized for its strength, hardness, and elasticity. Baseballs bats, tool handles, and a wide variety of furniture is made from its wood. Native Americans used and still use it to construct baskets. And to the Penobscot tribe, the ash is pivotal in their creation myth.

Ecologically speaking, ashes are important for their role in providing shelter and food for wildlife. Large diameter trees often form spacious trunk cavities when damaged. These are used as nesting sites by squirrels and various birds, most importantly woodpeckers, wood ducks, and owls. Seeds are eaten by birds and small mammals; foliage is browsed by deer; and bark is occasionally chewed by beaver and porcupine.

While the invasives just addressed are causing some of the most severe problems in our region, they are by no means the only to daunt us. The Asian longhorned beetle is another nasty exotic insect wreaking ecological harm, killing off scores of maples and other hardwoods. There's also the gypsy moth, white pine blister rust, and Dutch elm disease. While we work diligently to address these and other problems, new issues are always cropping up to bombard and overwhelm. Often it makes one question whether it's worth all the effort to attempt to correct these mistakes.

We can't let apathy take over, though. We're making real progress in certain instances. Biological control, or biocontrol, for short, is increasingly being used with promising results. This involves using armies of living organisms to wage the war for us. It has already been successful with diminishing the exotic purple loosestife in wetlands. We're now using tiny beetles that feed exclusively on the woolly adelgid to help save the hemlocks. In a similar vein, crossbreeding and genetic engineering techniques are now in play to help make the American chestnut blight resistant. As long as we continue to care about these plants we will find a way—if one exists. But, as the sagacious Erasmus once said: "Prevention is the best cure."

Trailing Arbutus

One morning as he rose from bed ready to undertake his daily collection of fuel, he noticed his joints were unusually sore. This was cause for concern, for despite having been on this earth more years than a mature oak has leaves, he almost always enjoyed a pain-free existence, numbed to a degree as one would be just before experiencing frost bite. Over the coming weeks, the pain became more excruciating until he could hardly move a dozen steps before collapsing in agony. No longer able to gather the necessary allotment of firewood to keep his lodge heated, he feared he would freeze to death. The howling winter winds which ceaselessly tore through the cracks in the rickety structure always ensured a rapid decline of the woodpile he labored so intently to acquire. As his pile dwindled and he threw the last log onto the fire, he uttered a prayer to the Great Spirit that he should not perish from the cold. 

In the evening when all that remained  in the hearth was a smoldering pile of glowing coals, there was a knock at the door followed by the entry of a maiden of incredible beauty. Extending from the top of her head to the bottom of her back were finely braided chestnut-brown tresses, adorned with colorful and exotic arrays of wildflowers. Her smiling face had beaming features as comely and welcoming as the spring sun. Each blushing cheek was burnished with the color of a fiery rose, and her gentle eyes were a delicate, fresh green, of a hue identical to that of newly awakened vernal forests. The material of her clothing consisted of sweet grasses and fragrant ferns. In place of traditional shoes, her feet were swaddled in a type of pouch-like orchid known as the pink lady's slipper. And wrapped around her wrists were bracelets fashioned from the pliable limbs of the fuzzy pussy willow.

After the old man looked over her unusual attire and finding himself curious of her story, invited her to join him by what remained of the fire. Introducing himself, he declared: "I am Manitou. When I shake my hair snow falls across the landscape; wherever I walk the harsh winds follow close behind, sending the animals scurrying into their holes; and when I blow my breath at rivers and lakes they become hard and stand still."

The young maiden responded, "When I breathe, warm air pours from my mouth—streams gleefully awaken, and frogs begin carousing. As I speak the birds utter their lively songs and fill the silent woods with joy. When I braid my hair the rains come and turn the lands a verdant green. And wherever I saunter across the hills, grasses and wildflowers jut from beneath the thawed earth. I, too, am Manitou."

As the two further discoursed the lodge gradually increased in temperature until their was no need for a flame, the result of the warmth issuing from the maiden's heated lungs. The old man, meanwhile, grew more relaxed as they continued to speak. By the time the lodge took on a spring-like atmosphere he had drifted into a deep and unshakable sleep.

The maiden then placed a hand over the old man's face. As she did this small streams of water began to flow from his mouth and he began to shrink in size until he gradually disappeared altogether. When all that remained was his robe of fine furs, she placed her hand over it, transforming this relic of winter into a heap of leathery, green leaves. Taking from her braided hair the most precious white flowers she possessed, she hid them among the leaf pile. Softly breathing into the new creation, she whispered, "I give you all my virtues and purity. Whoever shall wish to admire your beauty, inhale your scent, or pluck you from the earth, will do so on bended knee." From here she exited the lodge and proceeded to head north, the leaves opening on her approach, the birds singing her praises as she passed by. Everywhere she stopped, and nowhere else, the trailing arbutus grows.

Violets

To check out my article in the April/May issue of the Conservationist, follow the link below:

http://www.dec.ny.gov/pubs/105674.html

Trout Lilies

From April until the early days of May arrays of trout lilies decorate the understory of rich, moist forests and along gravelly floodplains. While this common spring ephemeral often forms large colonies consisting of the hundreds or thousands of individuals, its waxy, mottled leaves and unique nodding blossoms endowed with a cheery sun-yellow hue are sure to delight whoever happens to encounter them during the first half of the spring season. Nothing is lost in the abundance. These elegant and graceful, almost sculpture-like flowers, greatly supersede the similarly colored weedy dandelion that's apt to rear up its unwanted head around the same time.

The yellow trout lily (Erythronium americanum), aside from being "the earliest of the lilies" is also "one of the most pleasing," according to the naturalist John Burroughs. Along with its "most beautiful" physical appeal, it's also layered in a cloak of intrigue, with its many curious traits which aren't always readily understood. In this respect, he most emphatically voiced that the "botanist, or nature-lover, will find here a field for original research." 

While the anatomy and habits of the trout lily at times both perplexed and astounded Burroughs, the nomenclature of this species perhaps made him scratch his head the more. Up until the early days of the 20th century, this plant boasted a plethora of names, a few of which, really didn't fit the plant at all. "It is a pity that this graceful and abundant flower," Burroughs lamented, "has no good and appropriate common name." "Dog-tooth violet" and "adder's-tongue" were most frequently used. He put forth a flurry of theories as to why these names were bestowed. In terms of the dog-tooth violet appellation, he theorized that the color and shape of the unopened buds resembled canine teeth; yet the violet part puzzled him, as it "has not one feature of a violet." Others have suggested it's so-called due to the shape of the plant's corms. Adder's-tongue, he thought derived from the "spotted character of the leaf," because it vaguely resembles the patterns on the skin of some snakes. The wildflower expert, Neltje Blanchan, on the other hand, proposed that the name comes from the "sharp purplish point" of young plants as they first emerge above ground, clearly resembling a little serpentine tongue.

E. americanum has also been called lamb's-tongue, snakeroot, yellow snowdrop, yellow bells, yellow lily, among other similarly descriptive monikers. Burroughs propounded the name trout lily, and is generally credited with its now widespread use. In his book, Riverby, he concisely stated: "It blooms along the trout streams, and its leaf is as mottled as a trout's back." He was also fond of "fawn lily" too, once again in relation to the spotted nature of the leaves.

Trout lilies, like many other spring ephemerals, are able to produce blossoms so early in the spring season through use of the energy reserves stored in the root-like corms. Expansive, long-lived colonies often develop in areas of prime habitat. The average age of most colonies is about 150; some have been shown to be 1,300 years old. Though these plants often carpet the forest floor with their mottled leaves, don't expect to come across a sea of yellow flowers. It's been estimated than only 1% of plants will bloom. This is probably due to the fact that trout lilies rely more on vegetative propagation than they do by means of seeds. 

Trout Lily Macro

Only older plants that have two leaves possess the capability to bloom. It generally takes between 4-7 years for these lilies to fully mature. Each year the corms grow slightly larger and creep downward through the soil. Digging some up for inspection, John Burroughs discovered that the corms of young plants were barely two inches deep, in contrast to the flowering individuals that had progressed to a depth of 8 inches.

Trout lilies are dimorphic when it comes to their pollen-bearing anthers. The more common variety has lemon-yellow anthers, while the variant, Erythronium var. rubrum bears a set that's red-brown. The latter type, according to Oliver Farwell, is additionally, "one third to one half larger in all its parts." He further mentions slight differences of the stigmas. "The smaller one," he notes, has "mostly entire stigmas," while the red-anthered variety's "stigma is usually three-lobed."

Compared to other spring ephemerals the blossoms of the trout lily are fairly demure, nodding towards the ground as if still drowsy from its long winter slumber beneath the chilled ground, rather than bursting with exuberance like hepatica, bloodroot, and spring beauty, that eagerly and unabashedly push their heads high to all the world. Though these plants boast a seemingly unenthusiastic demeanor, having its flowers point downward is actually a clever tactic that ensures higher rates of reproductive success. By facing down, each blossom acts as a miniature umbrella, keeping valuable pollen from being washed away during the frequent rainstorms that are apt to inundate the early spring landscape. And secondly, it prevents unwanted insects that play no role in pollination from stealing the precious nectar and pollen. "Crawling pilferers," Neltje Blanchan explains, "rarely think it worth the while to slip and slide up the smooth footstalk and risk a tumble where it curves to allow the flower to nod." 

Trout lilies are highly ecologically valuable. Colonies play a vital function with cutting down on erosion—masses of long, tangled roots, keep soil held in place, and the numerous leaves that dot the understory lessen the impact of falling water, by acting as a leafy shield. Plants are also excellent at absorbing and sequestering the important nutrient, phosphorus. In mid-summer when the plants go dormant, the withered leaves release this element back into the soil, essentially fertilizing it. And lastly, along with providing for insects, black bears also gain a meal from trout lily colonies by digging up and stuffing themselves with the starchy underground corms.

While wildlife such as bears relish the roots, this is one species not for human consumption. Medicinally, the corms have been used in years past as a powerful emetic (causes vomiting). Native Americans collected the corms to use as a poultice for ulcers, tumors, and skin inflammations, such as hives. The leaves were also brewed into a tea supposedly useful for treating hiccups. An 1828 medical botany text by Constantine Rafinesque says that "fresh roots and leaves" that are "stewed with milk and applied to... scrofulous sores [tuberculous infections of the neck]” will be quickly healed. While little, if seldom used, for any of these purposes now, it's good to know that if the need for such a remedy ever arises while out among the wilderness, it can easily be found quietly thriving among the understory of freshly greened forests.

Abundant and widespread, trout lilies inhabit the entire eastern half of the country, from the Atlantic Coast to the Mississippi River, from southern Georgia to Canada. It's therefore not difficult in the least to come across one of these impressively beautiful and "dainty little lilies" imbued with a "faint fragrance that suggests a tulip." But, similarly to the other spring ephemeral wildflowers, trout lilies have fleeting lives so it's necessary not to delay a trip to the woods in the early spring. Come the height of summer not even the artful mottled leaves remain, the plants having gone entirely dormant until the following year. Robert Herrick reminds us of the importance of this in the first stanza of his well-known poem: 

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,

  Old Time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day

  To-morrow will be dying.

Nodding Trout Lilies

Icy Bash Bish Falls

Hugging the border of New York and Massachusetts lies a raging cataract sequestered in a steep and rugged, yet sublimely beautiful ravine. The unusual titled Bash Bish Falls is Massachusetts highest waterfall, rising to 60 feet. Located in the extreme southwest of the state, it's easy for residents of New York to make a day trip, many of which, despite its presence in New England, classify it as a natural landmark of the Hudson Valley. For as long as records have been kept (and actually much longer than that) people have made pilgrimages to this spot to seek out and bask in the mighty and awe-inducing power of nature.

There are conflicting reports of how this waterfall came to be named. Some say it's so-called due to a supposed Indian witch being executed at the spot, her name being Bash Bish. While the other, more believable explanation, derives, according to a 19th century author, "from an Indian onomatopoetic name," or in other words, garnering its name from the sound that falling water makes. In any case, it's certainly a unique name that most people are not likely to forget (with the exception of possibly reversing the order of the words).

Before the colonization of the continent by Europeans, Native Americans undoubtedly visited the falls regularly, as these sites were believed to be the sacred abodes of spirits, a place to commune with the other side. The only direct evidence that exists which attests to their reverence of the place is a Mohican legend, if it is indeed genuine and not something crafted during the 19th century by romantic-style writers. The sad tale tells of multiple deaths occurring at the waterfall by supernatural forces (the story is appended at the end).

When this sequestered spot become relatively accessible in the 1800's upon the introduction of the railroad, crowds of curious visitors would make the trip up from New York City to spend a day in the charming Taconic-Berkshire range. Numerous magazines and traveler's handbooks made mention of the area and, of course, the famous waterfall. "Bash-Bish... is one of the finest points of observation between New York and Montreal," the author of Health and Pleasure on "America's Greatest Railroad" stated in his passage of the falls, one of numerous natural features he detailed. The nearby station at the Copake Iron Works allowed passengers to disembark, walk up the winding road to the falls on foot, and be back in the metropolitan bustle of the city by nightfall. Despite the close proximity of the falls to the station, one guide book warned that "one requires a good foot, a strong hand, and a clear head" to those unaccustomed to the ruggedness of the area, which was significantly more extreme before the aid of modern roads and an improved trail system. 

Several publications also urged, or at the very least, described in vivid detail wild expeditions through parts of the upper ravine that park officials today would most likely discourage for safety concerns. One of the most sought after features was that of the "Eagle's Nest." This lofty viewpoint, a "blackened crag," towers "more than three hundred feet into the air" and "broods over the abyss." The journey up it was recorded as "perilous in the extreme" by one intrepid adventurer in the 1850's that also recalled that "scarce a foot-hold could be obtained, and we clung to the straggling plants in terror as we went." Despite the difficulty of reaching the spot, an unrivaled view emerged of the ravine and surrounding countryside. Standing on the edge of the precipice and looking down towards the falls, the people below resembled the miniature "Lilliputians of Gulliver's Travels."

"Profile Rock," a rock edifice resembling the face of a man, and the "Look-Off," another viewpoint of "high rocks on the south bank of the gorge," adjacent to the "Eagle's Nest" attracted additional visitors seeking an adventure. 

As excitement best describes the overhanging crags and ledges, so does beauty and "majestic loveliness" most aptly portray Bash Bish. Apart from the impressive height of the falls, what's really eye-catching about the scene is the titanic boulder that sits at the very edge of the cliff and diverts the flow of the raging brook. The water is divided as it tumbles over the edge, and then powerfully reunites into a single powerful stream again just before entering the swirling, emerald tinted plunge pool that "seethes and boils and bubbles like a great cauldron." Its elegance supersedes other waterfalls of the region.

And like the unusual gap in the brook caused by the island-like boulder, the narrow ravine briefly disappears below the falls, expanding into a spacious glen—a fortuitous feature that enhances the scene and allows nature's remarkable handiwork to be adequately viewed. Crowds can gather in the natural amphitheater to simply take in the view, to photograph, and in years past to paint, all while enjoying ample space to freely move about. The heavy mist that exudes from the falling water is refreshing on a hot summer's day as it's gently blown this way and that by the fragrant mountain breezes that sweep down the ravine, similarly to the cool flowing water of the foaming brook.

Bash Bish Falls

Over the years, many have compared the beguiling intensity of the spot to the forces of magic. These "fairy falls" and surrounding countryside, endowed with Elysian qualities, seemed too surreal to simply house common arrays of wildlife, such as squirrels and deer. Rather, fanciful imaginations populated the region with supernatural entities, from phantoms of Indian myth to "fairy queens" that lived in "elfin palaces beneath the earth" imagined by 19th century romantics.

Enraptured visitors were often at a loss of words. "I feel the paucity of description for delineating such scenery," one professor unabashedly admitted.  Another "longed for the language of a poet" in attempt to express his elated emotion. And yet others felt the scene was practically indescribable. Not content that the present words of the English language would do it justice, one adventurer wished that "someone would invent a new vocabulary" for the purpose.

And there were those who required no words to convey Bash Bish's grandeur. Painters flocked to the falls in substantial numbers throughout the 1800's. The Hudson River School artist John Frederick Kensett, produced perhaps the finest rendering in 1865. The painting shows a darkened glen, with summer storm clouds amassing overhead, adding yet another layer of wildness and intensity to the scene.

Other notable individuals who paid homage to Bash Bish consisted of the abolitionist and clergyman Henry Ward Beecher, along with the Transcendentalists Henry David Thoreau and William Ellery Channing. "I would willingly make the journey once a month from New York to see it," Beecher wrote. While little documentation survives of Thoreau's visit, the prolific writer did make a brief mention of it in his work, A Yankee in Canada. This set of falls made an obvious impression on him; when he spoke of "interesting" waterfalls of the Northeast, he noted only two: Kaaterskill Falls and Bash Bish.

The entire area surrounding the ravine is ideal "as a botanical hunting ground." Numerous uncommon to rare plant species are scattered along the brook and throughout the nearby forests. The combination of shade, dampness, and a variety of soil types has resulted in the presence of rare mosses, orchids, and other flowers. The unusual conditions of the mountain slope provide key habitat for species which would otherwise be absent in the more typical forest regimes of the region.

Indian Moccasin WoodlandIndian moccasin, aka pink lady's slipper Little rivulets which continually stream down the cliff-like slopes that encircle the plunge pool feed mats of plush mosses that densely coat the rock. On a typical day water drains off these mats like water streaming off the hair of someone just exiting the shower. One enterprising botanist had enough luck with finding rarities here that she wrote an article for inclusion in a botanical journal titled "Rare Mosses of Bashbish Falls." 

In May and June one traipsing through the "upper end of the gorge" may be fortunate enough to stumble upon small clusters of the wild blue clematis. This delicate flowering vine is often found in open light twisting around riparian trees or clinging to talus or rock ledges imbued with a hint of calcium. Orchids populate the shady forest interior, adding bursts of yellow, pink, and purple to the drab leaf litter of the understory. 

Before the introduction of a deadly exotic fungus in the early 1900's, impressive specimens of the American chestnut once graced the mountains here. "Chestnut formed a good percentage of the lower level growths and yearly yielded large crops until the disease made its appearance," Sereno Stetson wrote in the botanical publication, Torreya in 1913. "These beautiful trees," he continues, "two to three feet in diameter, are now decaying masses." While these mammoth and stately trees that provided tasty nuts to the area's people and wildlife alike no longer rise into the upper reaches of the canopy, traces of them can still be seen. Some roots from infected trees have survived, and it is not uncommon to see resprouts. However, as soon as they emerge above ground the fungus once again begins its insidious attack. Chestnut trees nowadays almost never achieve heights of more than 30 feet.

While a majority of visitors seek out the mountains of western Massachusetts to see this popular set of cascades, it's important not to be overtaken by tunnel vision and miss out on the rest of the scenery. An "endless variety of attractions" await those who do even the most minor of exploring of the area's eclectic environs. Just be mindful of the rugged terrain while doing so. Along with being one of the most beautiful waterfalls of the Northeast, it's also one of the most deadly. Over 25 deaths have been recorded around Bash Bish during the last 100 years. Let's not add another ghost to the already crowded bunch. Although, I could think of places much worse to spend eternity than near this divine waterfall.

***

The Legend of Bash Bish

Deemed guilty of adultery, a young woman by the name of Bash Bish was condemned to die by members of her tribe. The Mohicans viewed this act as an unpardonable crime, despite the allowance of polygamy and divorce in their society. Because she was well-liked, and no one in her tribe could bear the thought of being personally responsible for causing her demise, it was determined to consign her fate to the forces of nature. Her unusual execution was to take place at the site of a large, rapidly flowing waterfall in the western Taconics. She was to be strapped into a canoe and sent to plunge over the falls, where she would undoubtedly be dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks below, afforded little protection from the thin-skinned birch bark canoe she was destined to ride in.

At sunrise of the execution day, Bash Bish was tightly bound into the canoe, and only moments away from being launched into the foaming brook, when a dense fog quickly swept down the narrow ravine, obscuring everything. Out of view, Bash Bish somehow managed to undo her restraints and free herself. Knowing that she could never return to her friends or family, and finding the idea of having to start anew elsewhere absolutely repugnant, she decided to accept the punishment of death. However, it was to be done on her terms. 

Just as she clambered to the top of a massive boulder sitting at the edge of the precipice that divides the falls, the fog dissipated as quickly as it had arrived, and Bash Bish was once again in full public view. Everyone from her tribe was in attendance, gathered around the edge of the deep plunge pool at the base of the falls, including her infant daughter, White Swan. 

As she stood atop the crag silently gazing down at her people, a mass of butterflies, as numerous as the individuals congregated to watch her die, appeared seemingly from thin air and began to encircle her head like a crown. With every pass they picked up speed. What began as light fluttering quickly intensified into a frenzied swarm of activity. When the shocked onlookers half-expected a tornado to erupt from the ceaseless and turbulent rotation, Bash Bish leapt off the cliff, with the butterflies following her into the mist of the raging cataract. Though a long and thorough search of the plunge pool took place, her body was never recovered. Because of the sudden fog, prolific and strange behavior of the butterflies, and her vanishing without a trace, people began to suspect that Bash Bish was a witch.

***

Despite her mother's tarnished reputation, White Swan managed to do quite well for herself. She had grown to become as lovely as mother had been. Upon reaching adulthood, she married the son of the tribe's chief. For years they lived in near perfect contentment. As time wore on, however, things took a turn for the worse when it became obvious that White Swan would never be able to bear her husband any children. Needing an heir to carry on his family's legacy, he was forced to take an additional wife. 

Overcome with sadness and needing an escape from the village, she began to take long walks into the wilderness. One day her aimless wandering brought her back to the fateful waterfall, a spot she hadn't visited since her days as an infant. Her relatives did all in their power to keep her away from the area, which since the odd occurrences of her mother's botched execution, was regarded with an equal mixture of awe and apprehension. 

That night as she lay in a deep sleep, her mind was overcome with a vivid dream of her mother beckoning for her to return to the site of the waterfall. In the morning she did as the dream commanded and visited the spot again. In her society, dreams were not to be dismissed; rather, they were thought to be divine revelations that were to be carefully analyzed and heeded.

Day after day, White Swan sat along a boulder at the brim of the falls, dangerously close to the swift current, awaiting another message from Bash Bish, as the dream foretold would come to her at this very spot. Her husband worried with the depressed and fixated state of his wife—who he still loved with all his heart—did everything in his power to improve her spirits. Each day as she hovered at the edge of the cliff despondent, and mindlessly staring into the churning water below, he would bring her a new gift from the forest, a small token of his affection. 

On the tenth day, he came across a rare find. In a grove of cardinal flowers a pure white butterfly was alighted on one of the fiery blossoms. With the stealth that was natural to his race, he quickly crept up to the insect unnoticed and clutched it, imprisoning it in the hollow of his hands. Instantly, he set off to present his proud catch to White Swan. No sooner had he given the rare insect to her, she began to hear her mother's voice echoing from the plunge pool below. In a beautiful, intoxicating tone, Bash Bish urged her daughter to join her in the spirit world, where no worries or strife, she promised, could ever touch her. White Swan obeyed and stepping off the ledge, disappeared into the mist, the white butterfly trailing close behind. Her husband rushed to pull her back, but it was too late. In his eagerness to save her he had disregarded his own safety and, slipping on the slick, moss covered rocks, tumbled down the falls. As happened with her mother before her, no trace of White Swan was ever found. Her husband's badly battered and broken body, however, was cast up from the emerald-tinted pool and washed ashore. 

Visitors to the falls today, especially on drab, foggy days occasionally report encounters with the supernatural. Smiling faces are said to be seen in the foam of the plunge pool, while alluring, siren-like voices sometimes whisper from the spray of the tumbling water. A number of the numerous deaths that have occurred in the vicinity over the years have been attributed to these ghostly manifestations. Some say that they're the mischievous workings of an evil witch; others, that they're derived from melancholy spirits who dwell beneath the water, eager to acquire new companions to assuage their own loneliness. Either way, this curious waterfall is one best approached with a healthy dose of caution and trepidation.

Bash Bish Falls (Winter) "Towards evening I left Bash Bish, feeling that although I had visited higher mountains than the Taconic range, and explored deeper ravines, yet I never saw so much wildness of scenery comprised within the same limits that I did here."  -M., Supplement to the Courant, 1854

North PointNorth Point following a thunderstorm.

The Hudson River has been described as an "arm of the sea." As a tidal estuary imbued with salt water and marine organisms that penetrate far inland from the Atlantic, this description is decidedly fitting. The Hudson is certainly one of the more unique water bodies in America. From New York City, the tidal portion of the estuary penetrates 153 miles inland where it abruptly ends at the Federal Dam in Troy. Along its lengthy career from the flat and sandy coastal plains of the Atlantic to the hilly interior of the Capital District that fringes upon the Berkshires and Adirondacks, the river is amazingly steadfast in direction, varying little in its north-south orientation, and essentially being as straight as an arrow, compared to the bulk of the country's other winding waterways. Traveling up it one encounters an unparalleled diversity of habitats and environments that often bewilders those making the trip for the first time. There's little wonder then that Henry Hudson thought this singular river might have been the fabled Northwest Passage leading to the Orient.

The Hudson we know today began its life at the end of the last Ice Age. As a massive, miles-thick glacier advanced southward from Canada, the tremendous weight of the ice and accompanying debris it carried with it bulldozed and scraped the ancient landscape into its present configuration. Lofty mountains were planed and deep gorges were scoured in the bedrock. Over time, as the climate improved and temperatures steadily rose, the southern terminus of the ice sheet began to melt and slowly retreat, approximately 21,000 years ago. Flood waters from the ice streamed into the large basin that would become the Hudson. Tremendous amounts of glacial outwash (mostly sand and gravel) were carried by the powerful waters into the channel where they filled in the deep chasm, reducing its depth considerably. 

The steep and narrow passage through the Hudson Highlands, where precipitous mountains abruptly rise from the river's edge, is by far the most dramatic of the Hudson's scenery. This section is actually a fjord, similar to those of Norway and other Scandinavian countries. Despite having several hundred feet of gravelly sediment lining the bottom of the canyon-like fjord, the Highlands section is still significantly deep. At West Point, near a treacherous bend in the river's otherwise linear course, known as World's End, the bottom extends 175 feet below the surface of the water, and is the deepest spot of the river. 

View from Bear Mountain

The Hudson Highlands are part of the ancient Appalachian Mountain Range, dating back to the Precambrian Era and contain rock a billion years old. The Appalachians were once higher than the towering Himalayas. Over the eons, the forces of erosion progressively wore them down to mere stumps of their former selves. This is the only instance in its 2,000 mile stretch where a river cuts through the mountain chain down to sea level.

The Hudson experiences two high and two low tides per day that affect the entire estuarine portion of the river. If it wasn't for a dam spanning the Hudson in Troy, the river would continue its tidal action farther north. Above the dam the Hudson ceases to be an estuary. While the salt front doesn't penetrate as far as the tides, some marine organisms do make it all the way up to Troy. The tasty blue crabs are among them. The maximum extent of the salt front rarely ventures past Newburgh, although drought and high levels of precipitation will push it farther north or south, respectively.

The greatest tidal range (the variation between average high and average low tides) occurs at Troy (around 5 feet), while the smallest range occurs at West Point (around 3 feet). Tidal flow in the Hudson is best described as water sloshing around in a bathtub. As one end goes up, the other goes down, with little variation happening in the middle. While both the lower and upper ends of the Hudson River experience extremes, in terms of water height, the Highlands and part of the Mid-Hudson are comparatively stable. 

Simply put, tides are driven by the gravitational pull of the sun, and to a much larger extent, the moon, along with the rotation of the planet. The alignment of these astronomical bodies determines the times and amplitude of the tides. Surrounding geographical features also dictate their strength and duration. In estuaries, tidal range increases as the basin becomes shallower and narrower. Tidal waves are forced to slow down as a result, thereby accentuating the tide. This is why Troy has the greatest tidal range—153 miles inland the river is exceedingly constricted and quite shallow compared to many other sections of the lower estuary.

Early Spring along the HudsonBlack Creek Preserve

Estuaries, generally speaking, are the most productive ecosystems on earth. A plethora of both marine and freshwater organisms cohabit an estuary's brackish (mixture of salt and fresh) water, leading to an exceptionally high diversity from a fusion of habitats. Moreover, estuaries are able to support such prodigious quantities of life by receiving nutrient-laden runoff from terrestrial environments. For marine organisms especially, estuaries are vitally important. Apart from containing richer water than the open ocean, these shallow and protected inlets offer a high degree of protection and abundant food for their offspring. While some marine creatures do not live here year round, they will return to spawn. Juveniles of innumerable species will thus start their lives in estuaries, such as the Hudson, and remain until adulthood before migrating to the ocean. Striped bass, American shad and other herrings (alewife, blueback), are but a few creatures that return to the Hudson at the start of spring to spawn. These types of fish are anadromous; whereas, the American eel, which spends most of its life in freshwater or estuaries, and returns to the sea to mate, is a catadromous species.

These migrants were an especially important food source to the native peoples that once inhabited the Hudson Valley. By use of nets and intricately designed traps called weirs, large numbers were easily captured. They would often mark their arrival by the blooming of the shadbush.

The Hudson River Estuary has been known throughout history by a variety of names. From its current appellation, derived from the first recorded European to ever sail up it, the names descend into a dizzying array of titles. Called the Rio San Antonio, Rio de Montaigne (River of Mountains), Mauritius River, Great River, Orange River, North River, and finally Hudson River, this glacially scoured tidal basin has seen its name change nearly as frequently as the reversal of its tides. But perhaps the most significant sobriquet is its first, bestowed to the river by the Native Americans. They called it the Muhheakantuck, "the river that flows both ways." 

Long Dock Sunset

View of Hook MountainCroton Point

View of Glasco

One of my favorite shots of this winter season is a scene of a thawing Hudson River, just as the very last rays of the sun slip behind a horizon filled with distant mountains and gently sloping hills dotted with historic riverside dwellings and bold architecture. Taken at Long Dock Park in Beacon, NY, one of the most heavily visited acquisitions of the environmental organization, Scenic Hudson, the site is one of the best spots to engage in Hudson River photography anywhere in the region. Apart from the stunning features of the park, visitors are allowed to remain past sunset, unlike most of the surrounding state parks that have strict policies that prohibit lingering for even a moment after dark. This generous laxity on the part of Scenic Hudson ensures the mesmerizing sunsets and idyllic twilight scenes are adequately captured. 

In the foreground of the image is the "dock" that lends the park its name. Upon acquiring the property, Scenic Hudson renovated the once derelict pier, transforming it into not only a work of art, imbued with wonderful symmetry and modern refinement, but giving it a more utilitarian use that harkens back to a time when the structure played a prominent role in the town's industrial past. Not visible in the image is a canal-like kayak launch that diagonally bisects the pier. 

The lights seen on the opposite shore of the Hudson belong to the town of New Windsor and the city of Newburgh. On the hill to the right, the one with the outline of tall buildings piercing the sky, George Washington was once stationed for over a year towards the end of the American Revolution. His headquarters were located on the brow of the once significantly less crowded hill. From here, he could gaze uninterruptedly to the soft shores of where I now stood and then peer beyond to the rugged Hudson Highlands at my back. Both the picturesque and sublime—a consummate and rare combination—often intermingle along these shores, and is what lent such inspiration to artists of the Hudson River School, a group that made capturing scenic landscapes a prominent and respected art form. 

The water of the estuarine Hudson is imbued with a silky texture from the moderate ice floes sweeping north as the tide rushes in. Taken during an early February thaw, most chunks of ice were little bigger than the size of a tire and were most densely clustered towards the pier and eastern shore. Dark, highly reflective ice-free zones can be seen toward the center of the river. A long exposure time resulted in a complete blur of the ice, giving it pleasing twilight hues that are brighter and more varied than the colors of the sky. The angular ice magnifies and scatters the light. Its charms are most set off when it emulates liquid and flows, yet possesses a greater luster and radiates richer and more vibrant qualities than typically drab liquid water. Longer exposures mix the two forms and seemingly create a new, unique state of matter.

Camera: Nikon D7200

Camera Settings:

Mode: Manual

Exposure/shutter speed: 15 seconds

Aperture: f/16

ISO: 100

Format: RAW

To get the shot I used an 18-140 mm lens capped with a neutral density filter (Hoya NDX8) to reduce light intensity and ensure a total blurring of the ice without an overexposure of the image. On the pier I set up my tripod and began shooting in manual mode. I choose a standard aperture (f/16) and ISO (100) for landscapes. Due to the low light conditions and wanting to get the desired silky texture of the ice, I set the exposure time to 15 seconds (this would have been shorter if the sun was higher in the sky). And to allow for a fine degree of editing, I shot in RAW, which is my default setting.

In Photoshop, I altered the colors somewhat to reduce the prevalent deep azures and pale yellows to a less clashing color scheme by tinting the photo purple, thereby providing more pastel hues. The various altered shades, ranging from crisp violet to soft lilac is more in tune with the ideals of a charming twilight scene. While natural sunsets with similar color regimens to the finished image do occur like this here, on the night of my photo shoot, intensely vivid colors were lacking. Photographers, like all types of artists, are given a fair degree of artistic license to create the scene as they wish it to be and not as it actually is—thus is art.

Winter photography is often challenging. Dull monochromatic hues dominate a withered and subjugated landscape, with only the bare skeletal remains of the environment left to greet you. You are then therefore tasked to become creative. The team over at Light could be the solution to some of these challenges with their new camera technology. Its imaging engine allows for you to get beautifully-lit photos, even as the day's light begins to fade.

Indian Brook Falls (Autumn)

At the base of a deep and secluded ravine in the craggy confines of Putnam County, where the Hudson Highlands form an indomitable rolling wall of granite that makes even a short trip seem like a wild expedition, a small brook glides among jumbled boulders and the decaying trunks of hemlocks on its way to the Hudson River. About half a mile north of its terminus with the river, a sublimely beautiful 25 foot waterfall enlivens the tranquil, low-light surroundings. Indian Brook Falls has attracted countless visitors over the years, many of which, after glimpsing the wild grandeur of the spot, have been inspired to record the remarkable scene through paintings, verse, and prose (and now photography). Now residing on parkland, the falls are a protected treasure that will continue to offer its peaceful respite to all that require a momentary escape from the bustle of everyday life.

Flowing into a marshy cove of the Hudson, known as Constitution Marsh, the area surrounding the outlet of Indian Brook was occupied for thousands of years by Native Americans, who had a minor settlement in the vicinity. Waterfalls were sacred places to most native peoples, believing these spots were the abodes of spirits. It is therefore unquestionable that these Wappinger Indians, a subtribe of the more encompassing Lenape, regularly journeyed to the falls to pray and conduct other religious ceremonies. 

The falls were once simply known as "Indian Falls," but the name was later changed during the 20th Century to "Indian Brook Falls," probably to help distinguish it from the myriads of others bearing identical names across the country. 

Throughout the 1800's, numerous descriptions of the waterfall and associated treks out to it were published in both books and magazines. These writings reached a zenith during the Romantic era, a period in which emphasis was placed on aesthetic experiences derived most notably from the raw and sublime forces of nature. The writings are prolifically descriptive and vivid, eliciting the same level emotion that a mesmerizing photograph today provides. High profile writer-adventurers, such as Nathaniel Parker Willis and Benson J. Lossing, were among those that helped catapult the site to fame.

The noted essayist and author, Nathaniel Parker Willis, provides a singular description of the falls in his classic book, American Scenery, published in 1840. In his opening lines he calls Indian Brook Falls "a delicious bit of nature... possessing a refinement and an elegance in its wildness which would almost give one the idea that it was an object of beauty in some royal park." Further in his narrative, he documents an excursion out to the falls with a group of local residents aboard a wagon fashioned in the old Dutch style. To view the waterfall required travel on a rugged, and as he would later discover, dangerous road. The road was "in some places, scarce fit for a bridle-path," and so clogged with imposing rocks "which we believed passable when we had surged over [them]—not before." Eventually, a wide and level section of the road appeared; the driver then became “ambitious" enough to push the horses into a gallop, but being "ill-matched" in strength they jostled the fragile wagon in such a way as to detach several important features that sent the passengers flying to the floor. The mayhem was put to an end at a sharp turn in the road where the uncontrollable horses "unable to turn, had leaped a low stone wall." After salvaging one unbroken champagne bottle from "the wreck," the mostly uninjured party continued to the falls on foot and enjoyed a pleasant afternoon there.

Indian Brook Falls (Winter) Despite the unpleasantness of the journey before modern improvements made access easier, a visit to the falls was consistently undertaken by crowds of people in all temperaments and levels of physical ability. Though the Hudson Valley held many additional spots of attractive natural splendor, Indian Brook was described to contain "the most beautiful of its scenery." Aside from the pleasing cascade, the uncontaminated wildness of the spot drew crowds hoping to glimpse a portion of the country that hadn't yet been altered by progress and still held the same untouched features that its native inhabitants once viewed. Elsewhere in the valley, logging and farming had tamed the land and turned much of it into a quaint pastoral setting. But in the rugged Highlands, the land, as an article writer for The Ladies' Repository described, was "self-defended by the integrity of nature" with its "palisadoed inaccessibility," and that the "hardiest engineer will know it is not 'worth while' to delve amidst these rocks." Here, people could come and romanticize about Indians and days of old in the proper setting, without having to travel to equally pristine settings out West or to the northern extremes of the state, like the Adirondacks. 

The area not surprisingly became "a favorite subject with artists." Numerous paintings and engravings exist from the 19th Century that render the locale in near perfect likeness, and served as a simple photograph would do today in a newspaper or feature article. Others, however, show more free rein by the artist, boasting exaggerated features that are in tune with the particular inclinations and feelings of the era. The various depictions are useful for peering into the minds of the past and being able to witness firsthand the impressions the location made on these first intrepid nature seekers.

Another valued feature of the spot was its ability to act as a panacea, or restorative, to both the mind and body. "Tourists are always in raptures with the Falls," the editor of Dollar Monthly Magazine wrote in 1864, "because the sound of the moving waters is pleasing to the senses, soothing those who have tender nerves, and creating a feeling of delicious happiness." In a similar vein, another advocate of the potential healing powers of Indian Brook rapturously exulted, "May the heart, the spirits, the soul be here refreshed and refined!" Clearly, just as the Indians before them, the early residents of the Hudson Valley viewed powerful sites like these in a sacred manner. The unspoiled surroundings resembled to them an Eden, and they appropriated their time there accordingly. At the base of the plunging falls is a deep, expansive basin filled with transparent water and edged with a soft gravelly bottom, appropriately named the Musidora Pool (translated to "Gift of the Muses"), which according to Willis, "Nature has formed it for a bath." One has to wonder how many visitors over the years have cleansed themselves in the crisp water of the pool, similarly to the ablutions of a baptismal font. 

While during the day Indian Brook was the epitome of Hudson Valley beauty, as night overtook the already blackened ravine, the surroundings rapidly put on a gloomy demeanor as darkness and a diverse assemblage of shadows proliferated in the steep sloped and narrow chasm. This now lonely and increasingly fearful spot became the perfect haunt for spirits. A mixture of both reverence and apprehension undoubtedly swirled around the minds of those on their way to Cold Spring or Garrison as they crossed the tiny stone bridge that spanned the brook only a short distance downstream of the falls. 

Legends and ghost stories held in distant memory, were quickly dug out from the dusty recesses of the mind and recalled in perfect detail. Unable to think of anything else, these thoughts took on a life of their own. Was the sound echoing out of the inky darkness upstream the melancholy weeping from the ghost of a jilted Indian maiden who took her own life rather than deal with the loss of her lover, or was it simply the potent roar of the falls obscured and dwindled by the wind rushing through the valley? Was the trembling figure crouched amid the bushes, the protective spirit of a dog still doing his master's bidding even in death, or was it merely a prostrate log, given an animal resemblance by the pale luster emanating from the full moon overhead on a clear late-fall evening?

The latter ghost was said to be the mastiff of Captain Kidd. A somewhat outrageous legend claims that Kidd burnt his ship in the vicinity around West Point to avoid capture by authorities. And by rowboat, he brought a portion of his secreted treasure to the mouth of Indian Brook where he promptly buried it. Before covering it up, he killed his dog and placed the body atop the pile of gold, so that the creature would guard it until his return. He never did make it back, though, having later been seized in Boston, transported to England for trial, and finally hung for piracy in 1701. 

As crazy as it might seem to have the infamous Captain Kidd sailing through the Hudson Highlands, he did have roots in the area. He made his home in New York City and had legal privateering expeditions financed by his associate Robert Livingston. It was said that he and his crew were sailing for Livingston Manor in the upper Hudson Valley the night the ship was lost.

Numerous other legends abound as to the supposed location of his loot. Some say his ship sunk at the base of Dunderberg Mountain across from Peekskill and most of his gold still lies beneath the waters of the Hudson. Others attest it's hidden on the precipitous slopes of Crow's Nest Mountain behind a massive, unwieldy boulder called "Kidd's Plug Rock." And an even more unlikely tale tells of him transporting it west to the Shawangunk Mountains, where it was hidden in a remote cave among impenetrable pitch pine barrens.

An 1880 editorial in the Putnam County Recorder claimed that "the dog's haunts are around the bridge that spans the chasm, just below the falls, sometimes being seen on one side, sometimes on the other." It further goes on to mention that one night as a carriage approached the haunted area at around "ten o'clock with six persons" aboard, a member of the party jokingly said, "'Now let us look for the dog.'" Almost immediately after uttering those fateful words a wild looking mastiff materialized alongside the wagon and began to make menacing gestures. The driver having a gun on his person, pulled it out and fired six shots into the beast. The bullets had absolutely no effect, and the phantom dog held his ground until the terrified group had quickly proceeded on their way.

Indian Brook Falls (Winter) 2 Though the old bridge still stands and provides access for the curious visitor eager to view the stunning scenery surrounding Indian Brook Falls, a modern arch bridge now spans the rim of the ravine 200 feet above the murmuring brook and farther downstream than its predecessor, keeping heavy Route 9D traffic away from the scene. Since travelers at night no longer pass by for a possible encounter with the supernatural, the area has been given a greater degree of solitude than it has seen in a long while. The tranquility and unblemished wildness, so prized by those of an earlier era, remains intact and welcomes the wanderer with the same delights first witnessed by its aboriginal stewards.

***

"At every turn of the brook, from its springs to its union with the Hudson, a pleasant subject for the painter's pencil is presented. Just below the bridge, where the highway crosses, is one of the most charming of these 'bits.' There in the narrow ravine, over which the tree tops intertwine, huge rocks are piled, some of them covered with feathery fern, others with soft green mosses, and others as bare and angular as if just broken from some huge mass, and cast there by Titan hands."  -Benson Lossing, 1866, The Hudson, from Wilderness to the Sea

***

Legend of “Indian Brook Falls”

Legend has it that during Henry Hudson's 1609 expedition, the Half Moon anchored one day near the mouth of Fishkill Creek. On a foray into the countryside, the crew stumbled upon clusters of wild grapes which they eagerly began collecting, hungry for anything other than a mouthful of stale sea rations. Intent upon the task at hand, they were unaware a group of Indians had arrived and surrounded them. Eventually, a crew member happened to notice something moving in the nearby bushes and walked over to investigate, at which time a volley of arrows were launched at the intruders. Having left a majority of their weapons back on the ship, there was little to be done except retreat. During the brief skirmish, the Dutchman Jacobus Van Horen was struck by an arrow and promptly captured. Assuming their compatriot was dead, the Europeans sailed on, never to return to so hostile a spot.

Jacobus was transported south and presented to the sachem of the tribe. Intrigued by this strange white man, the first he had ever seen, he instructed his people to properly care for the prisoner. Over time, Jacobus was able to gain their trust, and was incorporated into the tribe. Meanwhile, the sachem's daughter, Manteo, quickly become enamored with the Dutchman and eventually asked her father permission to marry him. He happily agreed to the request and a wedding was set for the following summer.

Over the following months Manteo and Jacobus would often meet at a secluded waterfall, sacred to her people, at the bottom of a deep and shaded ravine. Sitting beside the cascading waters that in little distance poured into a marshy cove of the Hudson, Manteo would muse with her lover about their upcoming nuptials and future together. Jacobus smiled and reciprocated the kind words, but inwardly he deeply missed his homeland and secretly prayed for deliverance.

One spring day his prayers were answered. While out on a hunting trip, the deafening report of a gun noisily echoed through the still woodlands. Jacobus in an instant dropped everything and ran towards the direction of the shot. He eventually came to the shores of the Hudson, and spotted only a few hundred yards away an anchored ship flying a Dutch flag. Jumping into the water without the least hesitation, he swiftly swam up to the vessel and was taken aboard. And from there he disappeared.

Manteo was heartbroken with this sudden departure, receiving not so much as a good-bye from the one she thought deeply loved her. Not long after, she too, disappeared. A few days later her body was discovered at the base of the waterfall she had spent so much pleasant time beside with Jacobus. Grieved beyond all consolation, it appeared she had taken her own life.

Croton Point Sunset

"Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe?" Ralph Waldo Emerson penned in the opening lines of his landmark essay, Nature. In it, the father of transcendentalism laments the fact that so many of us blindly follow the path of others, relying little on our own experience because we feel it is unnecessary or impossible to adequately obtain. Instead, he argues, that we should forge a "religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs." Essentially, he's saying that the prophets of the past should not hold an exclusive monopoly on pivotal adventure and insight; and that we cannot not solely rely on the judgment of these lucky sages, while disregarding our own. Transcendentalism stressed that each individual uncover their own truths by spending time in the heart of nature. By doing so, it's indeed possible to enjoy an "original relation to the universe," and extract wisdom more personally valuable than what we find in even the most revered passages of sacred texts or the utterances of our elders. Nature is living religion where we get to imbibe straight from the Source.

Emerson was amazed how nature possesses the singular ability "to deify us with a few and cheap elements." Crimson rays of light, thin evening clouds, freshly budded trees, and crisp evening air might not amount to much individually, but pieced together naturally in the landscape and they form a moving and inspirational scene that teaches us about the nature of beauty, if nothing else. And beauty, Emerson was convinced, equated directly to truth. "Truth, and goodness, and beauty, are but different faces of the same All." By knowing nature and appreciating its many forms, figures, and arrays of varied color, it's possible to directly glimpse the face of the "Universal Being" and have its currents circulate through us. This is our revelation, our understanding of life's questions, and will serve a better guide than any second-hand account that hasn't been tailored to us. The landscape is more valuable for the impressions it makes upon the mind than by the quantity of natural resources it contains.

Gertrude's NoseView from along the Gertrude's Nose trail (Minnewaska State Park, NY).

When we destroy nature, we deface the artwork placed before us. Will the torn and smudged scene ever make the same impression as before? When we lose nature, we lose beauty, and hence a portion of its refined essences, as morality and virtue, and all other positive attributes that inevitably derive from it. "All things are moral... shall hint or thunder to man the laws of right and wrong," Emerson preached, continuing, "this ethical character so penetrates the bone and marrow of nature, as to seem the end of which it was made." While we find peace and solitude and a respite from all noxious worries in the woods, and seem to think it akin to the feeling bestowed to us from a good night's sleep or calming medication, it in fact soothes not so much from us resting, as from stimulating that which has been slumbering in an unhealthy torpor for too lengthy a time.

Moreover, nature offers commodities of more importance than the base-ic necessities of a more tangible nature, such as lumber, ore, or crops. Our language and habits of speech are closely related to our natural surroundings, and invariably so are our thoughts. We most frequently speak in analogies tied to elemental forms. "Light for knowledge" and "heat for love" are but a couple analogies of common vernacular that show how we prescribe natural elements to human thought. Their directness and simplicity are understood by all. But when we begin to use language for "secondary desires," selfishly applying words or phrases that show the significance and splendor of nature to hollow goals or strivings in order to increase our standing in some way, society as a whole takes a loss, as these words lose all their potency and fall flat, and in turn, nature becomes valued less, cheapened by attachment to vain longings, as riches, power, or praise. Emerson was sure that the "corruption of man is followed by the corruption of language," for as he observed "a man's power to connect his thought with the proper symbol, and so to utter it, depends on the simplicity of his character, that is, upon his love of truth." The poet in his estimation was the foremost of men. Poetry is language in its purest format and those who truly and dutifully ascribe words in such a way share a kindred relation to the influences of the natural world.

Art is an imitation of nature and even a minor look throughout the artificial world we've created forcefully demonstrates the level of thirst we possess for it. Art thoroughly surrounds us, just as the forests and the vast sky arching overhead does. "'A gothic church,' said Coleridge, 'is a petrified religion.'" Analogy runs deeper than speech; it inspires and excites passionate action. We seek to bring nature closer to ourselves. These creations keep us attached to it even when far removed from the fields and forests. 

Church DoorsOld Dutch Church, Sleepy Hollow, NY

***

With all of this philosophy in mind, Henry David Thoreau, the promising pupil and adherent of Emerson, also cultivated ideals thoroughly suffused with a nature-centric dogma. He similarly, and perhaps even more staunchly, believed in the value of the individual forging a life built atop the foundations of personal experience, rather than tradition. In his most prominent work, Walden, he insists "No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof."

Thoreau informed his readers that instead of living through the eyes of others, it was possible to saunter into the "Holy Land" simply by taking a walk outside and roaming through the wilderness. Unlike Europe which had long ago exhausted its soils and littered the landscape with dwellings, the U.S. in comparison was a vast oasis of original splendor. This open and pristine country was equivalent to what existed in Europe hundreds to thousands of years ago, before the "foundations of castles" were laid, "famous bridges" created, and heroic fables told. Thoreau viewed Americans as being extremely fortunate in having a new template to work upon and learn from. To him, modern times were "the Heroic Ages itself" in which contemporary society was forging tales that would probably someday be revered the same as those from the past which are now commonly held in esteem. Most people have difficulty in perceiving this because "the hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men." In short, the quantity of open and unaltered space we possess, is proportional to the amount of unique experiences we can have. By preserving nature—saving expansive mountain tops and cramped valley hollows, thick verdant forests and slow moving rivers, the playground of the universe is also preserved, providing us with unending opportunities and delights.

And what of our rapidly shrinking world? With land being heedlessly sold, subdivided, and with what Thoreau described as "walking over the surface of God's earth" being "construed to mean trespassing," how are we to get the most out of what currently remains in more developed areas?—simply view the landscape from afar. This, too, will satisfy many desires and similarly move and impress. The view of the whole, the larger picture, is ultimately of more worth. To this, men's "warranty-deeds give no title." The abstractness of the scene, far from solid and dictating, allows us to obtain what we ourselves determine to be valuable from it (i.e. the higher secreted qualities). But according to both Emerson and Thoreau, only those who have a keener and more subtle vision than the rest, "can integrate all the parts" and thus, unlock the items of value. Such vision, that which allows the sun not merely to illuminate the eye, but also "shine into the heart" belongs to those who understand the true purpose and nature of Nature, the poetically minded. 

Winter Sunset

Thoreau elegantly put it like this:

"I have frequently seen a poet withdraw, having enjoyed the most valuable part of a farm, while the crusty farmer supposed that he had got a few wild apples only. Why, the owner does not know it for many years when a poet has put his farm in rhyme, the most admirable kind of invisible fence, has fairly impounded it, milked it, skimmed it, and got all the cream, and left the farmer only the skimmed milk."

Individual components are only as important as the level in which they blend into the landscape in a harmonizing way, as individual letters help form coherent words that give rise to sentences. The inseparable unions of rhythm and order, beauty and truth, only arise when we combine and expand our perceptions on a universal scale, and not, rather, constrict them to the microscopic view of what's directly before our eyes. Emerson concisely sums it up: "In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds some[thing] as beautiful as his own nature."

North PointNorth Point following a thunderstorm.

Curious Deer

Southern New York is dominated by Oak-Hickory forests, which as the name implies, are primarily composed of members of these two mast-producing genera. The nuts produced by various oaks and hickories are an invaluable resource that generously provides for the region's wildlife, and is the prime reason our forests boast such a prolific and eclectic array of species. Squirrels, of course, feast on them, but so do many other creatures. Turkeys, blue jays, raccoons, rabbits, chipmunks, and deer regularly browse on fallen nuts. Scratch marks and associated mounds of leaves often dot the understory in mature forests where hungry animals have rooted around in the detritus to uncover those meaty morsels that have become concealed by natural or deliberate means. Bears consume them as well; and in addition to scavenging those among the understory, can be seen in late summer and into early fall taking a more active collection method by ascending even the narrowest of trees to strip clusters of nuts directly from the branches. Seemingly cumbersome and awkward, bears are actually quite agile and appear to have little difficulty in their acrobatic endeavors. Snakes and raptors benefit indirectly from the nutty profusion by feasting on the hefty rodent population that abounds nearby.

Black Bear in Tree

Before an exotic fungus was accidentally introduced to the U.S. in the early 1900's, the American chestnut comprised nearly a quarter of the trees in what was then known as Oak-Chestnut forests. Tree mortality rate from the resulting blight was nearly 100%. And with this lethal invasive fungus still hanging around on chestnut root resprouts, these once lofty trees will probably never return as a canopy species. Far larger and meatier than most other nuts, the loss of the chestnut was a major blow to wildlife and radically reshaped the composition and health of our forests. For decades as the blight swept across the land, trees quickly sickened and toppled like dominoes within 2-3 years of infection, turning once robust ecosystems into skeletal versions of their former selves. Forests are still recovering.

Drinking Rattlesnake 2

Human short-sightedness almost also caused another cherished feature of America to forever vanish.

Up until relatively recently, spotting a bald eagle in the Hudson Valley, or anywhere in New York or the country for that matter was a rare sight indeed. Populations of our national icon began to precipitously decline during the first half of the 20th Century, a result of the use of pesticides flooded with the noxious chemical DDT. Primarily affecting the viability of eggs by thinning shells to fractions of their former thickness, DDT nearly wiped out these majestic creatures for good. But with this harmful substance finally banned in 1972, populations have rebounded significantly over the past several decades, and seeing one gliding gracefully overhead or regally perched among the uppermost branches of an imposing tree has become commonplace in some areas.

In February 2013, during one of several winter surveys I annually participate in to determine eagle abundance at various sites along the Hudson, I can recall counting slightly over 140 of these birds in a single evening as they retreated back to a roost site on an east facing mountain slope directly across the river from Peekskill. Though uncommon to have such a high density of eagles in one area, their numbers are plentiful enough overall for this species to no longer require protective status under the Endangered Species Act.

Though less emblematic than this rebounding raptor, other Hudson Valley wildlife may prove to fill us with a similar level of awe and respect if watched as intently. Far too often we only care because it's rare. We should appreciate and protect our natural resources when they are robust and thriving, and not, rather, only give them notice as they begin to slip away. The damage cannot always be reversed. 

Box Turtle

Mouse Portrait

Carnivorous Sundew

Sundew

Wetlands exist in many forms, the most common of which are lakes, swamps, and soggy riparian areas surrounding streams and rivers. Rarer types include bogs and fens. This latter class comprises only a small fraction of wetlands found throughout the Hudson Valley. Both are outliers, and if placed on a Bell curve would fall on opposite ends of the spectrum. Bogs contain highly acidic water, while fens possess more neutral to alkaline conditions. These wetlands have drastically declined over the last few centuries, a result of the misinformed belief that they are little more than smelly, detrimental mosquito breeding grounds. Many were dammed off and transformed into more usable ponds and lakes; others buried to make way for agriculture and development. These disappearances are a great loss. Bogs and fens alike contain many one of a kind organisms that are specially adapted to survive in extreme conditions and are found in few other places. Despite their often times small size, the diversity of life they contain is quite high. 

In the Northeast, bogs are more plentiful than their alkaline counterparts. These peaty wetlands, normally occupying glacially scoured depressions, receive an unusually low pH by effectively being bottled up and stewing in a broth of humic acid released by the degradation or organic matter. The primary inflow of water is from precipitation. Comparatively small influxes of water, in conjunction with little run-off, results in acidic conditions that inhibit decay. Dead plant matter rapidly accumulates, forming thick layers of peat that keep valuable nutrients imprisoned within. Certain plants have circumvented the nutrient-poor conditions by taking on a feature characteristic of animals—carnivory. Pitcher plants, sundews, and bladderworts, have evolved specialized mechanisms to capture and digest insects to obtain key elements like nitrogen and phosphorous. Along with these plant oddities, bogs are dominated by quaking mats of sphagnum mosses and heaths (highbush blueberry, azalea, leatherleaf). Fleeting displays of rare orchids routinely add a touch of vibrancy to the scene, often serving as the highlight of a visit to those lucky enough to encounter them in bloom.

Carnivorous PlantsPitcher plants atop a bed of sphagnum moss

Pitcher Plants & Sphagnum Moss

Rose Pogonia

Rose Pogonia

Aside from having a vastly different pH, fens differ from bogs by receiving significant water inputs from groundwater sources as well as precipitation. Upwelling springs and small braided streams supply a bulk of the moisture. Alkaline conditions are imparted to the system from the underlying rock strata, which in the case of our regional calcareous fens is normally limestone. The largest concentrations of these alkaline wetlands occur in Dutchess and Columbia counties. Due to a greater abundance of available nutrients, plant communities here contain a higher number of species than can be found in their acidic cousins. Unlike bogs that are clustered with shrubby heaths, the most prominent members of fens are grasses and sedges, making them resemble moist meadows. Several orchid species thrive among the knee-high vegetation, in addition to the "calciphiles," uncommon to rare plants tolerant of high calcium levels that live almost exclusively in limy soils. The reclusive bog turtle, an endangered species and smallest native turtle in America, also primarily makes its home in places such as these, despite its misleading name. Calcareous fens are one of the rarest natural communities on the continent and normally occupy no more than a handful of acres. 

Calcareous FenRoger Perry Preserve

Calcareous Fen

Bog Turtle in FenEndangered species

Bog Turtle

Bedewed Fringed Gentian

Fringed Gentian

Grass-of-Parnassus & Great Blue Lobelia

Grass-of-Parnassus & Great Blue Lobelia

The term "invasive species" is defined as a non-native organism that has a tendency to rapidly and prolifically spread throughout an environment, causing ecological upheaval and degradation. Essentially, invasives cause damage to everything they touch, from evicting important native species locally (ultimately causing their widespread decline) to more immediate pecuniary matters, such as dropping property values by creating tangled, unsightly messes. It's a major problem that will not improve anytime soon. As someone who's immersed himself in researching and implementing new invasive control methods, I know firsthand that even the most advanced techniques are mediocre at best. Invasives are hardy, and above all, prolific. When human armies of volunteers hand pulling vines or uprooting shrubs isn't enough, we switch to armies of insects to defoliate them, but these, alas, can only eat so much. Take the Asian mile-a-minute vine (Persicaria perfoliata), for instance. A lightning fast grower in the plant world, capable of reaching lengths of 30 feet a year, this is a species that can't be adequately controlled by the typical manual hand-pull. Instead, we have switched to releasing biocontrol agents, namely, in this case, a tiny weevil that hails from the same exotic location as mile-a-minute and consumes nothing but it. The checks and balances that once kept invasives in line in their homeland cannot often be introduced to the U.S. to combat these leafy invaders for obvious reasons—few of these invasive predators confine themselves solely to one species, and could possibly become invasive themselves if imported. Only through intensive and vastly expensive research can we derive these mildly effective strategies to rid ourselves of invasives. It seems then, that prevention is the best cure.

Mile-a-Minute Weevils (Rhinoncomimus latipes)

New York has recently enacted regulations to curb the further introduction of invasives by outlawing the sale of several particularly noxious species. A majority of these plants have been used in decorative landscaping in the past, escaping into the wild most frequently via seed scattering wildlife. What makes them so damaging is their propensity to exploit and thrive in disturbed or degraded environments better than most natives. Their quick colonization gives them an edge by providing a defensive position; beleaguered natives, in contrast, must try to reconquer their lost land against a more numerous and robust enemy. Increased awareness to the problem and stricter regulations regarding the distribution of these damaging organisms by retailers is a step in the right direction.

Unfortunately, the landscape is already greatly sickened, suffering from an unending illness that daily drags it further into dismay. Facing an onslaught of environmental disasters such as habitat destruction, global warming, acid rain, among numerous others, the addition of invasive species into the mix on a level higher than what it currently stands at could be what pushes things over the edge. While we can reduce our carbon emissions to ameliorate climate change and acidification, and restore habitat by revegetating it, it is impossible to wholly remove non-native species from the environment. It's a quandary akin to the opening of Pandora's box.

And like the released sufferings of mankind, we are constantly bombarded by an invasive presence. They tauntingly thrive along forest edges, open fields, and in our own yards where unplanted. Startlingly, most roadsides boast a higher composition of alien species than they do natives. While many of these fall into the Old World weed category (dandelion, chicory, mullein, etc.) and aren't especially detrimental, they are nevertheless alien, and have supplanted an important native plant. 

But why should we particularly care that invasives have taken hold, especially when many are imbued with an exquisite beauty on a level surpassing their native counterparts? While it's true that in terms of showiness invasives can, and do, compliment the landscape by adding bursts of color where otherwise dull monochromatic hues dominate, they typically upset the intricacies of an ecosystem. While I admire the pleasing tints given to a wetland by dense arrays of the invasive purple loosestrife, whose long spires cloaked in splendid deep evening hues turn the earth into a twilight wonderland, my overall opinion of the scene is one of dismay. Beyond the hazy smokescreen of color lies a litany of problems. Increased biomass input results in waterways becoming clogged, which given enough time will fill in with sediment and the remains of decaying plants so that the system ages prematurely, transitioning into a drier habitat centuries or millennia ahead of its destined time. Blankets of loosestrife which can top out at 10 feet tower above other plants shading them out, which when rare, helps to extinguish a species from existence. To me, there's nothing more beautiful and impressive than a healthy and well-functioning ecosystem that operates flawlessly to provide for the thousands of creatures, both large and small, that inhabit it. An invasive plant throws a ratchet into the gears. 

Some will argue that since many non-natives are now firmly established they should be left alone, given some of the benefits they do in fact offer. It's true, invasives, in certain cases, can positively affect an ecosystem by providing shelter or food to organisms in need. The negative consequences, however, as already noted, generally outweigh the positive attributes. I often lump critics of invasive control with those who feed wildlife, such as geese or deer. They often mean well, but their misguided beliefs ultimately cause more harm than good in the long run. 

Multiflora rose (Rosa multiflora) is one such invasive that offers both nourishing food and heavy cover. In late May or June the shrub produces copious quantities of white flowers that provide a tasty meal to insect pollinators; while during the fall and winter its saccharine rose-hips are feasted on by birds. Moreover, it expands quickly and in short time resembles something similar to an unruly tumbleweed. It's capable of towering well above head height and growing to lengths of over 15 feet. Its tangled branch-like canes are excellent for concealing smaller sized birds that will frequently choose the thick shrubs as nesting sites. Small mammals, such as rabbits, often use the groundcover to avoid predators, quickly fleeing to the safety of the thorn filled mess upon the slightest sign of danger. 

Multiflora Rose

When these roses spring up in old fields or pastures, which they are apt to do, they make it difficult for ecological succession to occur. The denseness of the shrubs tightly packed together exclude trees from gaining a foothold. Normally as the trees mature and gain in height their lofty branches shade out the shrub layer and make way for a proper forest. Extraordinary shrubs, like multiflora, inhibit this natural succession by keeping the old field environs in a quasi-pasture state, where it remains in a sickly adolescence indefinitely. Apart from the ecological ramifications of this, these briar patches are a great nuisance to farmers and landowners who have their properties overrun by endless snarls of shrubs that scratch and bite the passerby with their fishhook-like thorns.

Hikers and anyone else who happens to spend a good deal of time outside has surely endured the tedium of navigating through a patch of multiflora, always on the alert to avoid getting tangled in the wiry canes and ultimately cut up. When patches encroach on hiking trails or ecologically sensitive habitat it becomes necessary to remove them, not by means of herbicide or biocontrol insects, but by good old fashioned manual labor. I've endeavored many a time to scrub land clean of these noxious pests, which, by the way, is a Herculean task on par with descending into bowels of perdition to extinguish the ubiquitous hellfire by means of a squirt-gun. It's slow, tedious, and above all, painful work. Even the thickest clothing and leather gloves will soon gain such a riddling of holes as to become useless, as the 1/4 inch thorns relentlessly probe the garments, similarly to a mosquito's quest to draw blood. And it's not enough to simply clip the canes, the roots must be dug out as well, or they will regrow back with a vengeance. It is for all these reasons that multiflora is by far my least favorite invasive, though by no means the most damaging of the bunch.

Multiflora Thorns

I can't stress enough the importance of removing multiflora, or any other invasive for that matter, when they're still young and controllable. Left to grow unchecked and what was once a mild problem will balloon into what can best be described as a malignant tumor spreading its contagion throughout the rest of a once otherwise healthy system. For example, if a modest specimen of multiflora is allowed to go to seed it can produce a million seeds a year, each of which possesses the capability of surviving in the environment for up to 20 years! This type of fecundity is the norm for most invasives.

What is most worrisome in this crusade is the public's abysmal plant identification skills. That so few people can correctly identify a plant, let alone decipher whether it's native or alien is alarming. If we are to succeed in stymieing their further establishment and proliferation it is imperative we can distinguish friend from foe, and uproot the latter whenever encountered. The worst offenders, at the very least, should be put into the pot of common knowledge via amendments to course curricula, public service announcements, and broadcast in a variety of other similar means. Moreover, to avoid introducing additional seeds and new species into the mix we must alter our ways when it comes to the types of species utilized in garden projects and landscaping. The traditional array of plants used in years past now belong to a bygone era. Instead of sticking by these garish and cliché cultivars, more plastic in nature than plant-like, natives which blend into and become a part of the landscape, vigorously provide for local fauna, and demonstrate ecological awareness and sensitivity should be put to use instead. Nurseries specializing in native flora are rapidly proliferating and provide every element needed to make a yard or property wholesome and alluring.

Japanese Barberry

I've always been especially captivated by the early descriptions of the New World by explorers hailing from the crowded environs of Europe. Compared to the exhausted and overly tilled countryside of their homeland, America was a verdant paradise, an Eden. What they found and recorded was almost too fantastic to be believed by their countrymen overseas. And unfortunately for contemporary society, these renditions are now equally as foreign to us. Forests stretching uninterruptedly into the distant horizon gave credence to the belief that these tracks of wild land contained "such an abundance of wood that it will never be wanting." How impressive and dominating the landscape must have appeared for this thought to arise! The ravenous consumption of wood back in the Old World was something that couldn't be ignored, and yet, despite this, American forests appeared to be endless and inexhaustible, comprised of titanic and ancient trees of every shape and dimension that overwhelmed the senses. Such a vast and seemingly boundless wilderness, one teeming with bear and wildcats, swarming with sky-blackening flocks of passenger pigeons that feast on a rich and eclectic diet of vivid berries and meaty nuts, and an understory lined with sweet smelling grasses and flowers that perfume and permeate the air, is now but a distant memory that continues to grow fainter every day as habitat destruction erases the last degraded pieces that remain and link us to the past.

To prevent our new world from becoming the same as the old we can partially restore (albeit modestly) what has been lost. Everyone has the capability to make a difference, and like most things, these changes first begin at home. Hedges of multiflora, Japanese barberry, and forsythia can be substituted with rows of native bayberry or highbush blueberry. In terms of climbing vines, why use English ivy, silverlace vine, and porcelainberry, when the equally beautiful wild clematises, with their delicate white or purple blossoms, and the groundnut with its sweet-scented chocolate-hued flowers, can bestow a similarly lush and sophisticated looking drapery? And lastly, those garden beds—instead of populating them with ostentatious and yawn producing aggregations of tulips and daffodils, plant flowers with more depth and intrigue, such as the underappreciated violets, ivory petaled bloodroot, and vivid red columbine. See where I'm going with this? Any non-native ornamental can easily be replaced with a more unique and essential native. Renew the landscape. While much of what has been lost is irrecoverable, let's take back as much as we can. Why should we be content to leave the best wonders consigned to the pages of some musty book? 

Woodland Hepatica

To those weary of winter the first bit of relief can be found sprouting amid heaps of decaying leaves at the end of March or the beginning of April. Hepatica, one of the earliest arriving wildflowers and harbinger of the spring season, emerges from bleak forest floors to decorate the surroundings with vivid arrays of pastel purple, lavender, pink, and white. It's an exotic departure from the monotonous hues of winter that have heavily dominated the landscape for months. Though somewhat small, these flowers pack a rather large punch and remind us that renewal is close at hand.

"When at the maturity of its charms, it is certainly the gem of the woods," the naturalist John Burroughs once admiringly wrote. To him, its colorful and delicate features were "enough to hold and arrest the dullest eye." Hepatica with all its refined beauty and lively charms certainly does supersede the flowers of the smelly and unappealing skunk cabbage, whose tiny and concealed blossoms are technically the first of the year to appear, driven to an exceedingly early start by this species ability to generate heat, a process known as thermogenesis, and is literally able to melt its way out of the snow. Notwithstanding this unique trait, "the plebian skunk cabbage...ought scarcely to be reckoned among true flowers," according to Neltje Blanchan, an early 20th Century wildflower expert. 

Hepatica has its own defense against the cold and erratic weather of the early spring season. Each bud and stem is coated with a fine layering of white hair that functions as what one author has described as a "fur overcoat." Apart from retaining residual heat, this fuzz creates a barrier that keeps ice from forming on the plant. What's more, its leathery leaves are imbued with antifreeze-like properties that enable it to photosynthesize all year long. These evergreen leaves allow hepatica to sequester additional energy which will later be utilized to gain a head-start in the first days of spring. Unlike hepatica, many spring ephemerals do not possess the necessary reserves to blossom so early, as they quickly wither down to the rootstock after flowering and setting seed, ultimately hibernating until the following season. They are therefore slower to produce flowers, needing to accumulate resources as they go, rather than by prudently securing them ahead of time as hepatica does.

The chilly conditions of early spring sometimes pose another problem to hepatica. A seasonal low abundance of pollinating insects frequently results in lonely flowers devoid of any beneficial visitation. Plants, luckily, have the ability to self-fertilize if necessary. While not as useful as cross-pollination, this strategy ensures an adequate quantity of seeds is still produced. Each tiny seed comes packaged with a nutrient and lipid rich appendage called an elaiosome. This structure encourages insects, primarily ants, to scatter the seeds to a new location. Once the seeds have been transported back to the colony, the elaiosome is promptly excised and the seed body discarded in waste pits, usually a fair distance from the parent plant. This strategy is not unique to hepatica; many other spring ephemerals utilize this or similar techniques to colonize new locales by use an ant host, a tactic called myrmecochory.

Hepatica
Two forms of hepatica exist in the U.S., differentiated primarily by leaf shape. Blunt-lobed hepatica (Hepatica nobilis var. obtusa) has rounded, or blunt leaves, while those of the sharp-lobed variety (Hepatica nobilis var. acuta) come to a point at the tip. Apart from physical characteristics, habitat preferences contrast as well. The blunt-lobed form typically inhabits forested upland environments with acid soils; sharp-lobed is found more often in moist lowlands, containing richer and more neutral soil. Hepatica ranges all along the east coast and up into Canada, continuing westward to the states just beyond the Mississippi. These two varieties, or subspecies, were once considered to be distinct species, but over the years taxonomists have revised their opinions, deciding that these differences aren't substantial enough to warrant a completely separate classification. 

It is difficult to pin down where a particular color form might reside. Some forests contain plants all bearing an identical hue; others possess numerous shades and varying levels of intermixing and may have plants growing side by side sporting vastly different colors. Some observation has gone into attempting to discover the root of these various color morphs. Research by the Torrey Botanical Club documented that brighter colors are likelier to arise in the blunt-lobed type, and that white flowers are more closely associated with its counterpart. Comments made by John Burroughs confirm this observation. After examining "hundreds of specimens" of sharp-lobed hepatica, he notes that "the white ones...were largely in the ascendant." 

In terms of scent, reports are somewhat more conflicting. Burroughs was perplexed by how some flowers exuded a rich odor while others were more demure and scentless, and how it all varied from year to year. One season after a harsh winter nearly all the flowers he came across possessed a "most delicious perfume." Other seasons, however, proved considerably bland, and scented individuals were more irregular in distribution. He believed that white flowers of "both varieties" occurred to be sweet scented most often. Remarks in an 1885 edition of Vicks Monthly Magazine, on the other hand, indicated that blunt-lobed hepatica was more odiferous, though this was noted only in relation to those "transplanted into gardens." It seems that this is a mystery that still needs unraveling.

The unusual etymology of this species comes about from its leaves resembling the lobed outline and sometimes color of a liver, and is derived from the Greek word for the organ, hepatikos. It has also been called liverwort and liverleaf. Under the doctrine of signatures, an outdated belief that a plant's physical appearance was a sign for its usefulness in treating correlating human body parts, hepatica plants were steadily employed as a cure to fix an ailing liver or hepatic system. 

One report from a 19th Century review of drugs and medicines startlingly details the voracious level of hepatica leaf consumption for medicinal tonics and home remedies. The author reports that in 1883 "one state alone... supplied more than 30,000 pounds." When American suppliers could no longer meet the overwhelming demand, German sources were eagerly sought (similar subspecies grow throughout much of Europe). In the same year it was estimated that "an aggregate of more than 450,000 pounds was imported and gathered for our home market" and that "the demand is still on the increase." Not surprisingly, collection led to the plant "becoming scarce over some sections of our country." This trend continues today, although over the years hepatica has rebounded significantly more than the similarly exploited American ginseng, which was also, and still is, hunted to near extinction. Hepatica, by contrast, is little used today for anything more than decorating the occasional garden.

Though hepatica was soon discovered to be as "utterly unmedicinal as the grass of the field," this is one plant whose presence at the conclusion of winter is surely able to uplift the spirits at least. Spotting one of hepatica's dainty flowers rear its colorfully proud head to the cheery light of a warm spring day easily infuses us with the "tonic of wildness," deemed by Thoreau to be so necessary to our continued well-being.

Woodland Hepatica

Asters

The end of summer is often marked by decline—trees lose their youthful and lively green, leaves plummet like rain similarly to the temperature, and sensitive vegetation begins to wither. But there's more to the early fall season than just decay and loss. It should rather be marked by the burgeoning color that expands across the landscape—not in relation to the autumnal leaves—but rather of late blooming wildflowers. Starting in August and lasting until the late days of October or even early November, asters and goldenrods enliven the fields and forests with bursts of floral grandeur. The asters in particular are the stars of the season, quite literally.

In Latin, aster directly translates to star. It's a fitting description for a plant that possesses innumerable tiny blossoms, which are often white, and when seen growing together in a meadow or roadside are usually in such profusion that one cannot help but admire their uncanny resemblance to the overhead fixtures of the night sky. The naturalist Henry David Thoreau was impressed enough with their brilliance to poetically describe them as "a starry meteoric shower, a milky way, in the flowery kingdom." Even he admitted that just when "you thought that nature had about wound up her affairs... now, to your surprise, these ditches are crowded with millions of little stars." Asters are especially resistant to cold, and will continue to bloom until a severe frost or snow stymies their vigorous growth.

In North America there are approximately 150 distinct species of aster, many of which superficially look nearly identical to one another. To add to this dizzying array of form, species often interbreed, forming countless hybrids. All of this together can make a positive identification incredibly difficult even to botany experts. Despite the complexity, these flowers are perfect for studying the intricacies of evolution. As an authoritative aster expert put it "the very quality which makes the genus so vexatious to the searcher after quick and certain definitions of species, makes it full of keenest interest to the student of variation. Variation... reaches a maximum development in Aster."

While asters are most often viewed in open areas such as fields and roadsides, due to the accessible nature of these areas to us, asters grow in every habitat imaginable, from the deep and shaded understory of hardwood forests to limestone cliffs and even in mucky salt water marshes that are regularly submerged by tides. Plants are adapted to the unique set of conditions of their habitat. In open, sunny expanses, species often have thin, sometimes needle-like leaves, such as stiff (Ionactis linariifolia) and bushy (Symphyotrichum dumosum) asters. A leaf shape such as this helps reduce evaporative stress to plants constantly subjected to the desiccating force of direct sunlight. The white wood aster (Eurybia divaricata), by contrast, which thrives amidst shady forest floors possesses long, broad leaves that ensure even the most minimal spattering of sunlight that makes it to the understory is put to use.

Bushy Aster (Symphyotrichum dumosum)

White Wood Aster White Wood Aster (Eurybia divaricata) 

Asters belong to the Composite family, a hugely successful and expansive group of plants that consists of around 24,000 species worldwide. In terms of flowering plants, only the Orchidae, or orchid family, rivals it in quantity of species. Sunflowers, coneflowers, and daisies are also composites. This family is special in the fact that each flowerhead is composed of numerous smaller flowers called florets, which bunched together form a single entity normally regarded as the "flower." Additionally, the asters have evolved an ingenious arrangement of the male and female florets to maximize cross-pollination. Female florets are located on the outer portions of the flower, while the pollen-bearing males are sequestered near the center. Pollinating insects have a tendency to first land on the edge of a flower and work their way inward before moving onto another blossom. In this way, pollen picked up at the middle one plant will be transferred to the edge of a different blossom, therefore ensuring genetic diversity. Another unique mechanism these plants possess is their ability to direct insects to unfertilized flowers. Newly opened flowers have yellow florets, but quickly morph to a reddish brown after pollination. This color change ensures insects don't waste time and deposit pollen on flowers that are already in the process of developing seeds.

Calico Asters Calico Aster (Symphyotrichum lateriflorum)

When it comes to petal color, there is, not surprisingly, also considerable variation that goes way beyond ghostly shades of white. One of the most magnificent aster species is the New England aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae), which, with its amethyst hued petals surrounding a bright golden floret-filled center could scarcely be improved upon. "No plant is more lavish of its charms than the New England Aster," wrote Charles Raddin, a turn of the 20th Century essayist. While the name may portray this species to be a denizen of the Northeast, it's exceedingly more cosmopolitan, ranging all along the east coast westward to the Mississippi and beyond. The name allegedly is derived from the fact that early New England colonizers found it particularly appealing. Raddin writes that "on many occasions, books handed down from revolutionary days, have been found to contain dried specimens of the flowers." The craze supposedly began by John and Priscilla Alden, a prominent Massachusetts couple who arrived to the country via the Mayflower and were the first to make it their "chosen flower." Centuries later, in the 1940's, a consensus of American naturalists agreed that the New England aster was indeed a flower to use as a hallmark, voting it the 3rd most beautiful wildflower in the country.

New England Aster (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae)

Other asters are endowed with pastel purples, bluish, almost ultraviolet tints, or garner the occasional pink blossom. The color scheme is even greater in the many cultivated varieties that are now commonplace gracing businesses and home gardens. There are hundreds of cultivars from our native stock, most originating from the showiest of the bunch—New England and New York (Symphyotrichum novi-belgii) asters. Many of these cultivars still retain essences of their wildness, but possess traits that have been artificially exaggerated. Chrysanthemums, or "mums" for short, belong to the aster family and show the greatest level of alteration from centuries of cultivation, and are hence more "refined." These popular fall flowers originate from Europe and Asia. Compared to American asters and their cultivars, mums often offer few rewards to bees and other insects, having been meticulously honed to produce ornate aggregations of petals and little else. A healthy autumn garden would do well to be populated with a selection of natives that produce abundant quantities of pollen and nectar for beneficial pollinators.

New York Aster New York Aster (Symphyotrichum novi-belgii)

A majority of asters are perennials, so they will continue to reappear year after year. They spread by expansion of rhizomes, or roots, as well as by seeds. Native asters are prolific seed producers. Their tiny seeds are a late autumn food source for a variety of wildlife, most notably birds, which heavily rely on them for sustenance after other sources have been exhausted.

Over the years asters have gained much in the way of lore and superstition throughout all civilizations they dwell in. To the Greeks, asters were referred to as the "many-eyed," and were employed to adorn the altars of their gods. Burnt leaves were also reputed to have the power to drive away snakes. In Germany, the European capital of mystic philosophy, they were used in divination charms by the enamored to see if their love was likely to be reciprocated or not. And in North America, various Indian tribes would smoke dried aster roots as a method to attract game (the smoke purportedly mimicked animal scents or pheromones).

Additionally, plants were believed to possess certain medicinal qualities. The smoke of white heath aster (Symphyotrichum ericoides) was used by Mid-western tribes to revive the unconscious. A concoction of aster tea brewed from both leaves and flowers was also reputed to be efficacious in eliminating headaches, fevers, congestion, and a variety of other ailments. The list of possible uses goes on and on. In essence, asters were a panacea, or cure-all.

A belief that asters could be utilized to combat illness was not confined to Native Americans. An 1839 edition of the New England Journal of Medicine printed a letter that detailed several instances of (not surprisingly) New England asters curing the supposedly incurable. It was reported effective in treating particularly debilitating cases of eczema by use of "a strong decoction of the herb," used not only in washing the affected area, but ingesting it as well. As the author states, "a tea made from barley malt, sarsaparilla and this aster (the tops and flowers), and so bittered with fumitory as to resemble beer in some measure, I consider a useful drink while curing eruptive disorders." Kidney ailments were similarly treated.

Be it their physical beauty in color, shape, and form, or by their utility in numerous tasks ranging from medicine to magical divination, the ubiquitous asters which span the globe in their 250 varieties, are truly a gift for all humanity. The ancient Greeks believed the flowers arose from Astraea, goddess of innocence and purity. After the gods had left earth once humanity had entered a dark and sinful period, she alone remained, endeavoring to restore peace and order. But, eventually, she also retreated, making her home among the stars where she became known as the constellation Virgo. After a vengeful Zeus had exacted a terrible retribution on the people of earth by issuing an epic flood, Astraea returned and visited the summit of Mount Parnassus, the one spot that had been untouched by the floodwaters, and sowed the seeds of a new type of plant that reflected her mission of purity. These flowers took the name of Aster. And so that all the races of men might be reminded of her ideals, Zephyrus, god of the west wind, scattered the seeds to every corner of the earth.

Stiff Aster 2 Stiff Aster (Ionactis linariifolia) 

Dark Hollow FallsDark Hollow Falls (Shenandoah National Park) Dark Hollow Falls (Shenandoah National Park)

There’s something deeply captivating about waterfalls. The raw and intense power each wields as it drops its silvery contents from headlong height, where its forceful tumbling on rocks below produces a potent roar that from a sufficient distance morphs into a gentle, soothing voice that carries with it cool and damp restorative breezes, is something grand and enthralling. We can’t help but revere these uncommon natural splendors, not only for the visual and audial thrill, but as the landscape painter and writer Thomas Cole indicated, by the impression they make on the mind. In his essay "American Scenery," Cole expresses that “in gazing” on these natural artworks, “we feel as though a great void has been filled” so that “our conceptions expand” and “we become a part of what we behold!”

Apart from the romantic qualities of waterfalls, there’s also, at least in part, a scientific reason as to why we feel relaxed and rejuvenated near them. Cascading water, as it turns out, is excellent for producing negative ions, which are said to improve mood and increase energy and awareness. Electrons wrenched away from air particles by the force of falling water as it churns and aerates, form negatively charged ions upon reattaching to other molecules in the air. Negative ion levels can be as much as 50 times higher here than in other places lacking any type of swiftly moving water.

Verkeerderkill FallsSam's Point Preserve

Verkeerderkill Falls (Sam's Point Preserve)

Doodletown Brook FallsBear Mountain State Park, NY Doodletown Brook Falls (Bear Mountain State Park)

Sassacus FallsStone Church Brook (Dover Plains, NY) Fern Glen Falls (Dover Plains, NY)

Indian Brook Falls (Autumn) Indian Brook Falls (Garrison, NY)

Indian MoccasinIndian moccasin, aka pink lady's slipper

Pink Lady's Slipper

Loved for their peerless beauty, delicate sculpture-like form, and seemingly exotic attributes, orchids are often revered above all other wildflowers. Witnessing one thrive in the wild, whether a common or rare species, is an exhilarating experience not soon forgotten, especially when one comes to know and appreciate the complex mechanisms at play behind their existence.  

Orchids are finicky plants, growing only when a narrow set of environmental conditions are properly met. Any small deviation from their stringent requirements, such as when it comes to soil type and pH, among other abiotic and biotic factors, and they will fail to grow or disappear from where they’re already established. Every species has different needs, with some inclined to grow in the understory of deeply shaded woodlands, while others call only the most acidic of bogs or other open wetlands home. No matter the habitat type, one thing all orchids require at some point in their life is a fungal partner.   

Unlike most other plants whose seeds are provided with an energy-rich food source to help nourish the young seedling upon germination, the dust-like seeds of orchids completely lack this crucial medium. Instead, orchid seeds form a mutualistic association with soil fungi to gain the necessary nutrition for propagation. Fungi, in return, are able to siphon off additional nutrients when the plants mature. Many species will retain this symbiosis for the rest of their lives. To make matters even more complex, usually not just any particular fungi will do, but rather fungi from a particular genus, or even a single species is required. As most soils do not contain the correct variety, orchids are almost impossible to successfully transplant. They are, therefore, best left in the wild.

Rose Pogonia 4

Rose Pogonia

The Hudson Valley is home to numerous native orchids, along with several non-natives. Nearly every habitat type is sure to harbor at least a few varieties, if you know where and when to look. Similarly to the spring ephemerals, these flowers often have fleeting lives. 

Our greatest claim to fame resides deep in the understory of a regenerating forest in Orange County, where lies a small population of what has been called “the rarest orchid east of the Mississippi.” Small whorled pogonia (Isotria medeoloides), up until its rediscovery in 2010, was believed to be extirpated from the state, when the last known specimens disappeared from Onondaga County in the 1970’s.  

Small Whorled PogoniaSmall Whorled Pogonia (Isotria medeoloides) is one of the most imperiled orchids in North America.

This plant has gained the nickname,"the rarest orchid east of the Mississippi." It's a federally threatened species. In New York, however, where this specimen was photographed, it's listed as endangered. A single population, consisting of a mere 6 individuals, is all that's known in the state.

Small Whorled Pogonia

The Hudson Valley population consists of a mere 6 individuals and fluctuates constantly. Not every individual emerges on a yearly basis. Oftentimes plants will lay dormant due to poor environmental conditions, needing to recuperate from a previous year’s energy-intensive blooming, or an unknown stress. Small whorled pogonia is exceedingly rare throughout all its range, and has been listed as a federally threatened species as a result.  

Small Whorled Pogonia WoodlandSmall Whorled Pogonia is one of the most imperiled orchids in North America.

This plant has gained the nickname, “the rarest orchid east of the Mississippi." It's a federally threatened species. In New York, however, where this specimen was photographed, it's listed as endangered. A single population, consisting of a mere 6 individuals, is all that's known in the state.

Small Whorled Pogonia

Downy Rattlesnake Plantain Woodland

Downy Rattlesnake Plantain

                                                                                                                                                                        Little Club-spur Orchid (Contrast)

Little Club-spur Orchid

To view more orchid photos, visit the "Rare and Unusual Plants" album under the galleries tab.

Iona Island WildflowersIona Island, Bear Mountain State Park. -Marsh mallow (pink), cardinal flower (red), and sneezeweed (yellow)

During the latter half of the summer season flowers of the genus Lobelia first make their appearance, adding gaudy splashes of color to the overwhelmingly verdant surroundings that take hold of the landscape after the last of the vibrant spring ephemerals have faded away and before the tawny autumnal tints arrive. Coming in an unusually varied and vivid bunch, the hues garnered by this genus can easily be mistaken as originating from some foreign or tropical locale, particularly when it comes to cardinal flower and great blue lobelia, the brightest and showiest of the group, which resemble imported garden escapees. But, in reality, these vibrant reds and blues that glow as brightly as neon lights in our seemingly tempered forests and wetlands are in fact native to the U.S.

Awarded the honor of “America’s favorite” by Roger Tory Peterson in his wildflower field guide, it’s easy to see why the fiery-red cardinal flower has gained such an impressive reputation. Standing between 2-5 feet tall with a color brighter than even the bird endowed with the same name, it’s unlikely to go unnoticed. Moreover, each plant usually bears a dozen or more blossoms along the plant’s slender spike that rises above all surrounding herbaceous vegetation; such floral extravagance “dazzles you,” as Thoreau voiced. John Burroughs, another poet-naturalist, in upstate New York, was similarly impressed with the species—enough so to write a poem about the cardinal flower in which he described the vivid plant a “heart-throb of color.”

Cardinal Flower

This color comes in handy for attracting ruby-throated hummingbirds, the cardinal flower’s chief pollinator and sole hummingbird species native to the Northeast. As one of the few northern plants possessing red flowers—the hummingbirds color of choice—it’s the main reason these birds have been able to successively colonize our region. Both species find themselves mutually reliant on one another, and, not surprisingly, therefore have closely overlapping ranges. A decline of either species will inevitably result in a similar loss for the other.

The shape of the tubular flowers have evolved to facilitate pollination by long-tongued creatures. Aside from hummingbirds, butterflies appear to be the only other pollinator capable of extracting the deeply sequestered nectar.

The derivation of the plant’s name is not what you might think. While it’s tempting to conclude that the flower was named after the scarlet bird, or vice-versa, the naming of both actually harkens back to Europe. Clerics of the Catholic Church, called cardinals, wear cloaks of an identical hue—whence comes the name.

On the other side of the color spectrum lies the great blue lobelia, a plant hardly less impressive than its scarlet-tinted cousin, sporting flowers imbued with a twilight azure of fading evening skies. Eloise Butler, an early 20th Century botanist, describes it filling late summer meadows “in such opulence” that the surroundings morph into an artwork seemingly “gemmed with lapis lazuli and rimmed with goldenrod.” This species is smaller, but more robust than the slender 3-6 foot tall cardinal flower, having its inch long blossoms more tightly packed and condensed. With these concentrated features its color presentation is dramatic and indeed gem-like.

Great Blue Lobelia

As red attracts hummingbirds, blue, it seems, is the prime color to draw bees. Evolutionary speaking, it’s generally thought to be the most advanced flower color. Green emerged first, and then with a linear progression, white and yellow, red, and lastly the deep and enigmatic blues, developed. While bees are the main pollinators, hummingbirds will pay the occasional visit, although the stouter flowers favor pollination by the former.

The plant’s Latin name, siphilatica, is in reference to it having been used in years past as a treatment for syphilis. Native Americans held its efficacy in high enough esteem that enterprising colonizers had it exported overseas. European physicians, however, failed to find it of any use.

Various tribes also believed it to possess magical qualities. Legend has it that if L. siphilatica is dried, ground into powder, and thrown into the winds of an approaching storm, it has the power to render them benign. The Iroquois steeped the plant in hot water and drank a concoction of it at night to ward off spells and other bewitchments.

Lobelia inflata, commonly known as Indian tobacco, is another related species which has been used for a multitude of restorative purposes. Unlike the name suggests, the plant was not recreationally used; it was smoked only occasionally for medicinal purposes. Aboriginal inhabitants employed it mainly to treat asthma and other lung ailments. Ironically, modern research has shown the plant contains an alkaloid which has the potential to help smokers quit.

Its other chief use was as an emetic, meaning it induces vomiting. Other names for the plant consist of gagroot, puke and vomitweed. The plant has such an acrid taste that even the most ravenous livestock will avoid it. The ever-curious Thoreau himself tried the plant once noting that “tasting one such herb convinces me that there are such things as drugs which may either kill or cure.” A tea made from the leaves is so potent that in 1879 a Canadian farmer was confident enough in the plant’s ability to cause vomiting that he was recorded as humorously betting a team of horses that drinking the liquid would do the trick. Numerous historical accounts attest to its efficacy for such purgative purposes.

Indian tobacco’s diminutive ¼ inch long flowers are studded along the length of the upright spike with a density much lower than the lobelias already described and bear a purple pastel coloration. Due to these factors, it’s by far the most frequently overlooked in the bunch, although its distinctive inflated seed pods, similar in appearance to small unripe grapes, make it easy pick out among a mass of vegetation. Though prized more for its medicinal merits than its beauty, an up-close look at its finely crafted blossoms is sure to draw admiration and respect.

All three plants can be found in bloom from August to September. Indian tobacco arrives a bit sooner, sometimes as early as mid-July and thrives in drier woodland habitats less conducive to its soggy-dwelling brethren. It’s not unusual to spot individuals growing in thin soils along rocky trails on the sides of mostly xeric mountains. Cardinal flower and great blue lobelia, in contrast, prefer much moister environs, usually inhabiting the borders of streams, rivers, and other perpetually damp areas offering abundant sunlight.

It’s certainly not much of a challenge to find these plants in areas in which they grow. All stand tall and erect with an air of confidence, matured from the flowers of spring that barely rear their shy heads above the detritus of the forest floor. As the year progresses each successive burst of flowering plants must reach higher than their predecessors if they wish to be seen and pollinated. They must keep in step with the ever-rising herbaceous vegetation that surrounds, consisting mostly of grasses and weeds, which by the time the lobelias put forth flowers can reach waist height or higher. With all the energy these plants have to expend to outcompete their duller competitors, it would be a shame to have such visually impressive displays be for naught. Get out there and search—it takes only a fraction of the time to find these common beauties than it would to locate rarer species endowed with a similar level of elegance.

Other local lobelias:

                                                            Pale-spiked lobelia (Lobelia spicata)

                                                           Kalm's Lobelia  (Lobelia kalmii)

Groundnut

The groundnut (Apios americana) is a rather unusual specimen in the plant world, possessing an eclectic set of characteristics rarely seen bundled together in a single species. The roots, or rather tubers, have been used as a staple food source for millennia by the various indigenous tribes of North America. The adventuring naturalist, Henry David Thoreau, who partook in some wild specimens dug along the sloping sides of a sunny railroad embankment regarded it as a “fabulous fruit” with a “sweetish taste” that was “better boiled than roasted.” Its dark red or chocolate colored blossoms not only impress visually, but have one of the most fragrant scents of our native wildflowers. The delicate compound leaves, moreover, make an excellent groundcover that provides protection for a myriad of beneficial pollinating insects. The plump tubers also enrich the soil through a series of chemical and microbial reactions by a process known as nitrogen fixation. In short, groundnut, is one of the few native plant species that will satisfy the strictest requirements of even the most demanding gardener or plant enthusiast.

This long-lasting perennial vine prefers full sun and very moist, acidic soil. It has a wide distribution, occupying 2/3 of the country, ranging from Maine westward to Colorado. Under the right conditions, plants can proliferate to provide an expansive groundcover, or if grown near a trellis or other similar upright structure, a dense wall of decorative foliage. Plants, generally speaking, do well grown at home, as long as the proper moisture conditions are met. The quickest way for a population to become established is to utilize tubers rather than seeds. Tubers should be harvested in the fall when plants go into dormancy. Seeds from the bean-like seed pods can also be collected at around the same time, although propagation is often difficult. Whatever method preferred, space individuals 12-18 inches apart, as to leave ample room to expand.  Groundnuts can be grown around other similarly dense herbaceous plants or shrubs, such as violets, raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries. With the added nitrogen groundnuts put into the soil, surrounding plants receive a nutrient boost that helps increase size, and, if fruit producing, crop yield.

Despite groundnut’s prodigious resume, its widest accolade is undoubtedly its ability to be used as a wild edible. It has a fine taste resembling a potato. Tuber size is variable, with some younger specimens being no larger than a peanut; on rare occasions, that they can attain sizes comparable to an apple or even a melon. Nutritionally speaking, the groundnut is one of the richest wild plants. It’s high in carbohydrates and protein levels are found in three times the proportion as an equal quantity of potatoes. Historical reports indicate that nearly every indigenous culture within the distribution of A. americana used it as a source of food on some level. The Pilgrims were taught of its value by the natives of Massachusetts, which undoubtedly helped them survive their first harsh winter in the New World. Despite their value, groundnuts have never successfully proliferated as a staple crop. With plants taking a minimum of 2-3 years to produce tubers large enough and in sufficient quantities to gather, while potatoes can be harvested in a single season, it doesn’t make sense to grow commercially. Additionally, plants have a tendency to grow outward in every direction, making cultivating them in straight rows rather tricky.

The atypical flowers of the groundnut make this species a curiosity to behold in any setting with its vastly unique shape, color, and scent. “The crumpled red velvety blossoms,” as Thoreau described, exhibit an inflorescence, often occurring in tall, upright clusters containing a dozen or more flowers that are thrust several inches above the foliage. The maroon-brown flowers which bloom from June to September are imbued with a delightful fragrance that permeates the air, and is somewhat similar in scent to violets, though much more potent and lasting (unlike the fleeting scent of the violet which contains a compound that temporarily inhibits smell receptors). A horticulturist at the turn of the 20th century pithily remarked that the groundnut “pays its tithe in fragrance, and brings into uniformity much that would be otherwise, unsightly, straggling growth.”

Fall Swamp

It’s often forgotten that every natural object is imbued with an inherent beauty—that there’s more to a pleasing outdoor scene than delicately manicured lawns and gardens lined with gaudy phalanxes of tulips and plush beds of the ubiquitous daffodils or other accustomed garden denizens. That even the mundane when placed into its proper setting, as a rivet or bolt is positioned in a machine, has its purpose and importance. The lone and asymmetrical stone, aggregations of mushrooms, and swarming insects, give greater depth and fuel the scene at hand. Artificial displays excised of anything other than that reared by man can only drive my thoughts so far, leaving but the shallowest and most transitory of impressions. The unkempt and broad splendors of the natural world, in contrast, leave more than lingering awe, continuously driving curiosity and excitement as a new scene of wonder constantly unfolds before me.

Among the forests, atop the woody hills and harsh mountain summits, and in every other wild place where nature reigns rather than lurks, a divinely intoxicating influence suffuses the air as thickly as fog, as intensely as light. It humbles, it inspires, it enraptures. The mind becomes more volatile and effervescent, whimsical even. All subjugating thoughts are lifted and evaporated into the crisp air. No longer preoccupied and worried by trivial matters, where a long standing bout of perennial tunnel vision has caused all peripheral sights to be glossed over, the landscape expands—trees can be picked out of the forest line, and individual leaves and blades of grass inspected among the mass of green, the eye drawn by subtle spotting or unusual coloration. Detail is at last seen. Curiosity buds. We become as nimble as a fox, as eagle-eyed as a raptor. We are in our element. A kindred sympathy develops between all surrounding life and matter encountered. The interpenetrating complexity overwhelms, shattering our egos and sense of understanding; all we can do is marvel at the surrounding beauty.

Witch-hazel

The experiences I’ve had where not even the most minor trace of humanity could be detected have been the most remarkable and memorable. The lapse of time separating me from these events of significance often stretch back years, but I have little difficulty remembering where it matters. Vivid sunsets and even the poignant smell of a wildflower have been enough to imprint the day in full detail into memory.

In these instances where nature latches onto us, however slight, the undiluted energy of nature is easily absorbed. Its power cannot be easily contained. Try as you will, but it can’t be hoarded or sequestered for long. It’s eager to be transferred to the nearest object, like an electric spark, making the full rounds of the earth. It floods and expands in the body like lightning shooting from cloud to cloud, forming vast networks as comprehensive as those created by the roots of plants. Man is its surface conduit. From him it radiates by tendrils, which grasp and climb everything within reach, elevating man, and granting him new and inspiring views of both sight and thought.

No longer disconnected, bouncing around as some rattling and discordant component, we now humbly assist with the workings of this grand machine, that we call Nature.

***

Men vainly strive for a greater purpose, thinking only of advancement, the attainment of power and exerting influence—always on the move and shamefully hiding their heads if they’re surpassed by those more adroit than themselves. A life of hectic devotion to such disgraceful tenets of the modern era is an affront to the simplicity and beauty of the world, taking us farther away from the true goals that should pervade our lives.

We should rather follow the example of the woodland spring ephemerals. Though diminutive in stature, with some barely able to rear their heads above the leaf litter, they freely share their gifts to all with an air of unpretending humility. When we finally have sense enough to see that this is as high a purpose as one need to strive to attain, we shall with ease command a different sort of success, attracting a steady following of those reverencing kind and radiant virtues, as a hidden flower has its loyal pollinators. There’s meaning and wealth in everything, regardless of position or stature. While those hidden among the detritus of the forest floor will be seen and respected only by a portion of the population, they will reside solely among the best company, having had unworthy visitors winnowed by the grate of the forest.

Woodland Hepatica

WaldenThoreau's cabin site, Walden Pond State Reservation, Concord, MA

Kane Mtn. Firetower

Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life? We are determined to be starved before we are hungry. Men say a stitch in time saves nine, and so they take a thousand stitches today to save nine tomorrow. As for work, we haven’t any of consequence. –Henry David Thoreau

Thoreau was a man who valued time. Not in the monetary sense, as we are apt to envision today by the adage of “time is money,” but rather viewed it in broader, more cosmological terms, equating it with the eternal and divine. “Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in,” he says in Walden. “I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.” Time is the gateway, the buffer, to the underlying force that imbues life with meaning and purpose. Squandering time as but a means to accumulate wealth, as Thoreau viewed it, was an act as profane as despoiling a church. How can we foster a relationship with the divine when we devote a majority of our time tirelessly working to accumulate possessions which will “moth and rust?”

Our restless nature, devoted to toiling day in and day out for a “pecuniary reward” with the added benefit of keeping us busy and out of trouble, couldn’t be more base and uneducated. This misdirected work ethic doesn’t arise so much from greed as that “our vision does not penetrate the surface of things.” We view time, like the water in Thoreau’s metaphorical stream, as a commodity to be traded and sold, and not as the holy water that it truly is.

Thoreau wetted his fingers in the current to obtain his victuals and other “necessaries of life,” but certainly didn’t immerse and drown himself in it as most of us commonly do today. A couple dabs a week was sufficient to sustain him. He sought focus on more important matters.

Mountain Laurel Over a Tannin-laced Stream

He understood moderation and sobriety. Instead of copiously imbibing in mostly fruitless work until he was too fatigued to accomplish anything of personal value, he substituted it for leisure and endeavors closer to the heart which no quantity of money could measure up to. He noted that most are “occupied with factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors” to the point where one has “no time to be anything but a machine” insomuch that the “finer fruits cannot be plucked.” The route that Thoreau pursued was one devoted to seeking out the mystifying and inspirational qualities of Nature, recording his unique sights and thoughts in poetry and prose. This was his divine life. To others it’s something else, just as personal and individualistic. We can’t aspire to this “higher and more ethereal life” without shifting our perception and giving up what society has solidified as bedrock. We must burrow beneath or soar above it.

By living simply and attuned to the natural world Thoreau discovered that our main focus should be placed on the intangible. New experiences and opportunities are the “marrow of life.” Toys and technological gadgets which increasingly provide our main sources of extracurricular entertainment distract us by placing our time into purely external vectors that yield no dividend. Even the highest or most refined strain of materialism can’t replicate or supersede the benefits of an inherently humble, natural life. “The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening,” Thoreau rapturously mused. “It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.”  

The relentless pursuit of wealth clouds the eyes, robbing us of the beauty and simplicity of nature. The “commercial spirit” which was the gospel and ruling force of Thoreau’s day and still animates and drives us at present, leads to an ingrained belief that commerce surmounts all else; without which the world would stagnate and collapse. Thoreau loathed this was of narrow way of thinking, ultimately upending it in his Harvard commencement speech in which he defiantly stated:

“Let men, true to their natures, cultivate the moral affections, lead manly and independent lives; let them make riches the means and not the end of existence, and we shall hear no more of the commercial spirit. The sea will not stagnate, the earth will be as green as ever, and the air as pure. This curious world which we inhabit is more wonderful than convenient; more beautiful than it is useful; it is more to be admired and enjoyed than used.”

North PointNorth Point following a thunderstorm.

Similarly, Thoreau was appalled to see how easily his contemporaries could be bought “off from their present pursuits” by “a little money or fame.” Chasing the almighty dollar over personal passions, he reasoned, cheated men from situations that were much more profitable to individual growth and understanding the larger, universal picture of existence. “To have done anything by which you earned money merely is to have been truly idle or worse.”

Thoreau excelled at turning things upside down, making someone revisit a situation from a fresh angle or vantage point to see that there exists more than one way of thinking or interpretation. The accustomed standard of success rests upon following a set and tried formula. Plug in variables into the equation and take out a known logarithmic return. It works. Thoreau didn’t devise some entirely new scheme to circumvent this process, but instead, as he was rather fond of doing, simplified the equation to suit his particular tastes. We can best see his razor logic at work in this passage:

"Not long since, a strolling Indian went to sell baskets at the house of a well-known lawyer in my neighborhood. 'Do you wish to buy any baskets?' he asked. 'No, we do not want any,' was the reply. 'What!' exclaimed the Indian as he went out the gate, 'do you mean to starve us?' Having seen his industrious white neighbors so well off — that the lawyer had only to weave arguments, and, by some magic, wealth and standing followed — he had said to himself: I will go into business; I will weave baskets; it is a thing which I can do. Thinking that when he had made the baskets he would have done his part, and then it would be the white man's to buy them. He had not discovered that it was necessary for him to make it worth the other's while to buy them, or at least make him think that it was so, or to make something else which it would be worth his while to buy. I too had woven a kind of basket of a delicate texture, but I had not made it worth any one's while to buy them. Yet not the less, in my case, did I think it worth my while to weave them, and instead of studying how to make it worth men's while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling them. The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one kind. Why should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the others?"

The ideas developed and touted by Thoreau and other Transcendentalists have often been described as too quixotic and impractical, that idealism can’t be a firm substitute for the realities of a harsh world. While some are indeed whimsical, crafted for purposes of morale and inspiration, a significant portion are practical to integrate into our daily routine. Thoreau wasn’t a man who preached hollow ideals; instead he staunchly embraced the words he uttered and demonstrated them to be true through experience, evinced by his experiment at Walden Pond. During his two year stay in the woods he conclusively proved that it was possible to throw off the yoke of society and still live a rich and meaningful life following one’s particular bent. The hard part was not getting away, but altering thought processes to ensure the allure of “civilized life” wouldn’t, like the sirens’ call, draw one towards the rocks. He was convinced “that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely.”

Abstract Art (Spatulate-leaved sundew)

Hepatica

A terrarium is a world within itself, a tiny ecosystem capable of surviving almost entirely without human assistance. Add plants to a glass enclosure, sprinkle in a bit of soil and water, and ensure the system receives adequate sunlight, and a self-regulating system emerges. Creating one and watching it thrive bottled up amidst a harsh artificial human environment is a rewarding experience that provides a greater appreciation of the fortitude of nature. Adding a terrarium to the home or work space can help brighten up the surroundings in a natural and low-cost way that supersedes cut floral arrangements and prosaic static wall paintings. These elegant systems are living artwork, as it were, and continually morph before your eyes into a novel and inspiring mural of unique form and color.

Terrariums are relatively easy to construct and require only a handful of basic supplies. To start out you’ll need a glass container (with or without a lid depending on whether you want an open of closed terrarium), medium sized river rocks (1-1.5 inches in length), coarse sand, and rich soil. The glass containers can typically be found at larger craft stores. Michaels and Hobby Lobby have a wide selection at low cost.

It’s important to include three substrate layers when building a terrarium in order for it to remain healthy. I add river stones to the bottom, sand on top of that, and finally soil above the sand. Thickness wise you’ll have to gauge for yourself depending on the size of the container. I use a ratio of 2:1:3—two parts stone, one part sand, and for the largest addition, 3 parts soil.

Unlike potted plants, a terrarium lacks drainage holes in the bottom of the container. Excess moisture will cause a whole slew of problems, especially if it has a lid. Watering is therefore a delicate task. The jumbled rocks on the bottom serve to help mitigate the inclusion of extra water by acting as a reservoir. Rocks of medium size work best because the spaces among them hold a fair amount of water and allow you to see exactly how damp the system is. The sand serves as a buffer between the two other layers and helps facilitate drainage.

When it comes to choosing plants, there’s an extremely wide variety that can be grown successfully in a terrarium. Traditionalists tend to use small and slow growing species for closed terrariums and succulents or other plants that do well with minimal moisture for open ones. As long as the plants don’t grow excessively tall you can essentially include anything. I personally enjoy incorporating native flowering species into the mix, though they do frequently require a bit of effort to maintain.

If you’re after a stable, long-term terrarium, I would suggest sticking primarily to ferns, mosses, and other non-flowering plants. On the other hand, if you desire something more visually striking, and can handle a system that is relatively short-lived, an optimal addition would be spring ephemeral wildflowers.

Violets, hepatica, red columbine, spring beauty, rue anemone, and trailing arbutus are among the multitude of small to medium sized ephemerals that can survive the rigors of confinement in a container. They should be added in the early spring just as the foliage begins to appear. Plants will remain in flower for a month at most, after which they should be taken out. They can be replanted in an outdoor garden until the following spring. Ephemerals can make do in a closed system in the beginning, but as the plants prepare to flower they will often exceed the height of the lid and it must be removed.

Spring ephemerals can sometimes be bought at nurseries, but more often than not, they will be difficult to track down. Seeds can be purchased online for harder to find varieties. Of course, plants can also be collected in the wild, but this should only be undertaken if they’re in abundance or are threatened with imminent destruction.

Once your chosen plants have been placed inside and a layer of soil tightly packed around the bases to make everything level, it’s time to add the final touches. For a lush and verdant look, as well as to keep the top layers of soil and roots sufficiently damp, it’s important to use moss as a covering for bare soil. What grass is to lawns, moss is to terrariums. Any type will work. A thick layer is probably best, as it lends a feeling of fecundity and age to the miniature ecosystem. Moss is also useful for indicating whether the system is properly hydrated. It should always be slightly damp to the touch.

A closed terrarium is a microcosm of earth. The glass dome traps incoming solar radiation the same way our atmosphere does, producing a greenhouse effect. As the system warms, plants gradually draw water from the soil and rocky reservoir, transpiring it into the air above where it condenses on the glass, and either drips or slides back down the walls to continue the cycle. A properly constructed terrarium will require only the occasional maintenance.

Bloodroot

Quickly after the last of the winter snow has dissipated and a flattened, tawny earth emerges to greet the first rays of the spring sun, certain streamsides and other moist areas throughout our region find themselves covered once more with a dense layer of white. This time the cloak originates from beneath the newly warmed ground, rather than the upper reaches of the chilled atmosphere. Bloodroot, an uncommon spring ephemeral, whose ivory petals surround a bright, golden center, is one of the earliest wildflowers to be awakened by even the most minimal of April heat, eager to bask in the untapped reserve of sunshine now flooding every nook and cranny of the understory.

As the name portrays, these plants do indeed possess crimson roots. Moreover, this species bleeds the same as any injured animal. A broken leaf or stem will cause the plant to exude a fluid alarmingly similar to blood. It stains anything it touches, and has been used in years past as a dye by both Native Americans and Colonists.

Additionally, root extracts have historically been used to treat a wide variety of ailments ranging from cancer to lung disease to sore throats. And up until recently, it was even employed as an ingredient in Viadent toothpaste to combat gum disease and the build-up of plaque. At the moment, though, the efficacy of bloodroot on anything health related is dubious at best. Numerous sources relate that the root is toxic, and even coming in contact with its juices can cause dermatitis, similarly to poison ivy. It’s hard to believe it was ever consumed—the root’s taste is so acrid that a minor quantity can induce vomiting. Some concoctions were once made more palatable by adding copious quantities of sugar. This is probably one plant that should be appreciated by sight alone.

When it comes to habitat, plants prefer moist, rich soils, having an inclination to grow along gently sloping banks. More often than not, they will be found along some type of water body, be it a river, lake, or even a temporary rivulet born of snowmelt. While one of the loveliest flowers of the early spring, it also lives up to the category of wildflowers it’s grouped into exceedingly well (spring ephemerals). Trying to locate an intact specimen requires razor-sharp precision time-wise. With flowers usually lasting no more than a few days, it certainly is imbued with a fleeting nature. Plants will only produce a single blossom, which once lost, will not attain another until the following spring. Typical bloom dates are from mid-April to early May.

Like many other spring ephemerals, bloodroot uses ants as a means of seed dispersal, a technique known as myrmecochory. Each tiny seed is equipped with a lipid-rich appendage called an elaiosome. This tempting morsel entices ants to transport the seed back to their nest where they remove the elaiosome and discard the seed body in waste pits that provide an enriched medium for growth. In this way, bloodroot is able to colonize new locales away from the parent plant and ensure optimal germination.

Usually found in small groups or clusters, large colonies can develop, containing in excess of several hundred individuals, the result of vegetative propagation, another form of reproduction which produces clones by extension of the rhizomes, or roots.

Bloodroot 2

With bloodroot awakening much sooner than other plants, the large blossoms, as well as the glaucous, almost succulent leaves, create a striking scene among the withered foliage and broken stems of last year’s growth. A particularly large, showy grove is easily spotted at a considerable distance and visually eclipses other ephemeral populations that attain a similar size. There’s something entrancing and fairy-like in the demeanor of these uncommon flowers, with their unique ability to pop up seemingly overnight, transforming the landscape like magic. Such vigor and color contrasts greatly with the bleak debris that surrounds, creating an image of surpassing beauty that’s sure to be emblazoned in memory and sought out year after year.

Bloodroot Colony

Amid the briar copses, of sunny vales   

And moist streamsides; awakened        

As suddenly upon the beat of quails,           

A purity surpassing newly fallen snow       

Richly carpets the earth—a beauty,    

I thought I’d surely never know.        

A lingering moment viewing,

Singular works as these,         

Stops all worthless ruing 

And fills the heart with ease.

Those cheerful, ivory blooms

Whose being is a smile,  

Sweep away better than a broom,

Debris of cluttered forest aisle,

And like the crimson dye

That lends the plant its name,

It stirs the blood of every passerby

And is more worthy of fame—

Than ordinary garden denizens.

Spring Brook

People throughout all ages and cultures not residing in the ever-balmy tropics have been of a similar vein of mind when it comes wishing the woes of winter away and rejoicing at the prospects that blow in with the warming winds. It is therefore not surprising in the least, that spring, the season of rebirth and new beginnings, has been disproportionately memorialized in legend and lore by innumerable cultures. Like most mythology, the most well-known tale comes from Greece:

The ancient Greeks believed the changes of the seasons were brought about by the moods of Demeter, the goddess of grain and growth. As legend has it, long ago, autumn and winter were non-existent, and the world was blessed with perpetual summer. This abruptly changed when Demeter’s attractive daughter, Persephone, was abducted by Hades, the god-king of the underworld, who had long admired her from afar, and now wished to make her his bride. The disappearance of Persephone did not sit well with Demeter, who like any good mother, strove to locate her missing daughter. She literally searched both heaven and earth for an answer; and in the process, neglected her godly duties of tending to the world. Crops failed, vegetation withered, and a cold snap the likes of which hasn’t been witnessed since overtook the earth. Scores of people starved or froze to death.

Eventually, Zeus, the king of the gods, could no longer countenance the destruction levied upon his dominion. He begrudgingly revealed to Demeter what had taken place (he actually played a role in the abduction), telling her he would instruct his brother Hades to release Persephone from the underworld.

Hades agreed to the return, knowing a refusal would bring upon him the full and uninhibited wrath of the almighty Zeus, a mercurial god who was not to be disobeyed. Before doing so, however, he gave Persephone some pomegranate seeds to eat, well knowing this tiny acceptance of food would bind her to him and she would eventually be compelled to come back.

Demeter, overjoyed with the reunion, once again smiled. Warmth and fecundity returned to the desolate landscape, resulting in the first spring.

Royal FernsRoyal ferns and trout lilies

The situation was bittersweet. As the two caught up, recounting the trials each had experienced over the preceding months, Demeter was distraught when she heard mention of the pomegranate seeds her daughter had consumed. It was then realized that things would never again be the same.

Zeus decreed that by accepting food from Hades, and thus having had her lips stained by the ruby fruit of the pomegranate, Persephone had blemished herself—a stipulation for her return to earth was to be as pure as the day she had left, a condition she had clearly violated.

Knowing that the world would be imperiled if Persephone was forced to always remain sequestered in the underworld, a compromise was struck by Zeus. For half the year Persephone was to spend her time with Demeter, while the other six months of the year she would remain with Hades, reigning as Queen of the Underworld.

When Demeter smiles, having the company of her beloved daughter by her side the world rejoices, surrounded by the lush, verdant grandeur of summer. But when she mourns the loss of Persephone to Hades, and is heavy with grief, winter again sweeps across the earth. 

Winter Sunset

Skunk Cabbages North PointNorth Point following a thunderstorm. Fall PathMillbrook Mountain (Minnewaska State Park, NY)

Doodletown Brook FallsBear Mountain State Park, NY

Nature today is an element which we find ourselves as a society increasingly thirsting for as our lives become more disconnected and removed from the environment. It’s no coincidence that in the last several decades the environmental movement, hiking, backpacking, “going green,” and other similar activities and trends have proliferated. When we extricate ourselves from the natural world we begin to wither and degrade in the same manner as if we were suffering from a tangible vitamin deficiency or ailment. To ameliorate this, as Henry David Thoreau noted, “We need the tonic of wildness;” that it’s necessary from time to time to escape into nature and “wade sometimes in the marshes where the bittern and meadow-hen lurk… to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary foul builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.” Essentially, for this rejuvenating tonic to be effective one must completely surround and immerse themselves in the wild and untamed influences of nature.

Thoreau found that everlasting vigor and contentment was not to come from the amalgamation of noxious compounds forged together in a dank and congested lab, like the folly quest of an alchemist in search of some magical elixir, but that a real fountain of youth, a naturally occurring panacea, already exists and can be extracted from the earth as easily as an inhalation of breath into the lungs—taking a walk outside and imbibing in the fresh air and surrounding beauty is all that’s required. Such a simple discovery—yet one commonly overlooked by most who happen to believe happiness, health, and wealth can only come about by human innovation. He freely shared his keen insights, hoping to better a world he saw as following a “descending and darkening” path.

“Our vision does not penetrate the surface of things,” Thoreau records in Walden, pithily adding, “We think that that is which appears to be.” This is a man who possessed a remarkable power of observation and was able to look at even the seemingly most mundane of objects or situations and take away a grand or universal message. As he aptly put it, “The question is not what you look at, but what you see.” Reading his deeply insightful revelations today, many appear to be common sense logic—that anyone should be able to take away the same messages from viewing these things, yet few would be able to come upon the same conclusions before first becoming acquainted with Thoreau’s passages. It’s startling how superficial our outlook can be sometimes.

“While almost all men feel an attraction drawing them to Society, few are attracted strongly to Nature. In their relation to Nature men appear to me for the most part, notwithstanding their arts, lower than the animals. It is not often a beautiful relation, as in the case of the animals. How little appreciation of the beauty of the landscape there is among us! We have to be told that the Greeks called the world Kosmos, Beauty — or Order, but we do not see clearly why they did so, and we esteem it at best only a curious philological fact.”

Storm King Mountain

Thoreau enjoyed discussing perception and drilling straight through things thought to be of adamantine strength, upending centuries or millennia of tradition with a simple sentence. He demonstrated that it’s necessary to constantly reposition ourselves to a new angle, allowing us to gain a clear line of sight into crevices which had once been obscured by our peripheral glances.

In his essay, Walking, Thoreau extols the virtues and benefits of sauntering outside on a regular basis, comparing a stroll through nature as a pilgrimage through the “Holy Land.” He didn’t see walking as a purely recreational hobby or a way to stay in shape, but viewed it as a vector to the divine. “The walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise,” he casually warns.

The diversity, richness, and beauty of the outdoors always offers up something new and exciting to those who take the time to view the works of nature. No matter how long an individual devotes to seeking out its mysteries there are always more to uncover. It’s something that can never be exhausted or lead to a dull monotony. You can focus on the landscape as a whole, or you can zoom into individual parts, which are no less detailed than the largest objects. “Nature is full of genius, full of divinity, so that not a snowflake escapes its fashioning hand.”

Red Milkweed Beetle

The other main reason Thoreau enjoyed rambling into the depths of primitive forests and summiting lonely peaks with majestic vistas was to withdraw from a society that stifled and frustrated him. “I love Nature,” Thoreau records in his journal, “partly because she is not man, but a retreat from him. None of his institutions control or pervade her… He is constraint, she is freedom to me. He makes me wish for another world. She makes me content with this.” In the woods he was buffered from prying eyes and would forget his “obligations to society.” Here he could unwind in a manner agreeable to himself. Many of us today can relate. Who after a foray into the woods hasn’t felt reinvigorated after the tension and accumulated stress of daily life gradually diminishes and fades away almost altogether?

Additionally, nature or “wildness,” as Thoreau was apt to describe it, is the spring-source of “absolute Freedom.” It offers up a fecund bounty free for the taking, whether of intangible experiences and opportunities or supplying all the “necessaries of life.” It doesn’t charge exorbitant entrance fees or monthly rent—rather, all who perambulate and harbor an earnest appreciation of the surroundings are entitled to a portion of its vast wealth. It doesn’t know of, nor respects, any imaginary boundary lines. An individual has free range of this “widespread garden” and can travel as far, or climb as high, as his own limits will allow. There are no laws to obey other than those of the universe.

An intimate relation to the bare and primitive elements, to those “forces not bound to be kind to man,” raw and uninhibited matter at its finest, removes all trivialness from the equation. We can see things as they truly are. Vain aspirations and undue pride evaporate as quickly as evening dew in front of the expanding morning sun. Facing such sublimity and wonder we “stand in awe,” and as Thoreau admittedly voiced, “I would fain return to my senses.” Amid a grove of gnarled soughing pines, jumbled heaps of stone, and stinging mountain air, we momentarily lose ourselves and observe that only the simple necessities have any true worth and permanent value.

Spring Brook

A trip in the summer of 1846 to the craggy and windswept summit of Mt. Katahdin, a dizzyingly remote and lofty peak in Maine, provided Thoreau with a revelation exceedingly more profound than what he was normally dealt on his daily walks. Similarly to Moses who ascended Mt. Sinai and was bequeathed the Ten Commandments, Thoreau was also ordained a divine message that he would share with the world, one that reinforced and solidified what he already felt to be true about the necessity of pure, undiluted nature. He found Katahdin “a specimen of what God saw fit to make this world,” rhapsodically continuing:

“What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see a myriad of particular things, compared with being shown some star's surface, some hard matter in its home! I stand in awe of my body, this matter to which I am bound has become so strange to me. I fear not spirits, ghosts, of which I am one, — that my body might, — but I fear bodies, I tremble to meet them. What is this Titan that has possession of me? Talk of mysteries! — Think of our life in nature, — daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, — rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? where are we?”

Nature can be singularly congenial or it can be decidedly harsh, yet nevertheless, it always imparts a sense of wonder and divinity that can’t be located on such an encompassing level elsewhere, even in our most sanctimonious chapels and cathedrals. As Thoreau prophetically discovered, if you would converse or commune with God, it must be done face to face, in the open air. “Heaven is under our feet and as well as over our heads.”

Thoreau wished to take as much out of life, and live as close to the bone, as was humanly possible. When life’s conclusion approached he didn’t want to be among the discontented multitude that possessed heavy regrets and looked back to see that life had not been lived to the fullest. Instead, he aspired to “live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life.” In the forests and the fields and anywhere else where nature resided, he journeyed to in order glimpse those eternal mysteries that imbue men with perennial youth. He has provided perhaps the most implicit and succinct reason coined to date that sums up of the pursuit of the wild—“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.” It’s as simple as that.

O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir, -
To be a meteor in thy sky,
Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed,
Or in the woods, with leafy din,
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do, -
Only - be it near to you!

For I'd rather be thy child
And pupil, in the forest wild,
Than be the king of men elsewhere,
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn,
Than share the city's year forlorn.

~Henry David Thoreau

Fiddlehead

Shadbush

After the cold of winter has subsided and the earth has had a chance to slowly warm for several weeks, shadbush, also known as serviceberry, illuminates the grayness of the torpid and bleak forests of the region by producing an explosive array of cream-white flowers in late April. While some of the notable spring ephemeral wildflowers nestled among the shifting leaves and detritus of forest floor make an earlier appearance, they may not be noticed until practically stepped on. In contrast, this tree which rises in height to 10-25 feet is sure to be seen, even at a considerable distance. Its billowing puffy floral clusters draw the eye the same as a lone cloud piercing the azure monotony of the sky.

Shadbush is so-called by the use it served to Native Americans. The highly visible and well distributed tree served as an important temporal marker. Its blooming coincides with the yearly spring arrival of shad in regional estuaries. These fish were a vital staple to the Indians’ diet, having consumed most of their winter food reserves by the time of shad’s return. The resilient wood was also supposedly used for making arrow shafts.

Serviceberry, another popular name, has a more depressing derivation. The bloom date of the tree indicated to settlers of New England that the ground was sufficiently thawed to allow for grave digging to commence for the deceased who had passed during the winter, whereby burial “services” could finally be conducted.

Shadbush Blossoms

A month after the trees have produced the last flowers, a tasty and handsome fruit not unlike the blueberries which can often be found sprouting copiously from the understory beneath in many cases, appear in dense, drooping clusters. Berries tend to ripen toward the end of June, giving way to yet another name, Juneberry. Thoreau was rather fond of collecting the rather obscure fruit, and pronounced “them a delicious berry, nearly equal to blueberries and huckleberries,” further adding, “they are perhaps the sweetest bush berry, and they need only to be more abundant to be generally appreciated.” Many local Indian tribes utilized the berries in a variety of ways. Apart from drying and storing them for winter use, fresh berries would be crushed and added with nuts, fat, and meat to create an energy and protein rich pemmican. There are a number of medicinal uses recorded as well, ranging from ameliorating liver ailments to treating constipation.

Several different shadbush species are native to the Northeast, garnering such names as downy, mountain, and lovely shadbush, among numerous others. Many varieties are quite similar, and have a propensity to interbreed when clumped together. The tendency for hybrid versions to emerge oftentimes makes a concrete identification difficult, stumping even the most astute botanist. For the casual observer who has little interest in delving into taxonomic complexities, the generic “shadbush” suffices.

In October, the tree once more becomes breathtakingly beautiful, though a glance this time may bring about feelings more reflective than jubilant. Instead of its showy blossoms forecasting countless warm, sunny days ahead, filled with a promise of a myriad of multi-hued wildflowers and summer verdure, inflamed autumnal leaves rather portend a dip in seasonal fortune, marked by pressing cold and uniformity. The fiery appearance of the shadbush, which directly echoes a bonfire in both color and visual intensity, encourages the viewer to prepare and stock up on fuel for the coming winter.

Shadbush Foliage

Though shadbush is a pretty tree to admire while among the woods, its reverence has come about more by the utilitarian use it serves. Whether informing of the arrival of shad, or the proper time to begin burial services, or simply providing a sweet treat or durable wood, this tree is always there to lend a hand. With this in mind, it’s easy to see why it has been held in such high esteem since the early days of humanity.

Without a doubt, the first, and most prolific life to be found, is the wood frog. This species has a wide distribution in the U.S., occupying most of the east coast north of Georgia and continuing westward to Minnesota. Frogs also inhabit a majority of Canada and Alaska. On a cold day just before a warming rain, these pools are empty, aside from the innumerable leaves and branches lining the bottom, and are nothing extraordinary to behold. After the water begins to penetrate the leaf litter and sink into the ground, the frogs burst from their hiding places in unison during the night if the ambient temperature spikes to at least 40° F. They appear in the thousands or millions in a rain swept area. Drivers will have to be mindful of the roads during these times as the frogs recklessly journey across the pavement in migration to their watery mating grounds, often those in which they themselves were born.  The following day a return visit to the pools morphs into a lively spectacle, complete with a cacophony of sound that resembles a mix begin the quacking of a flock of ducks and the buzzing of a bee hive—the mating call produced by males.

Wood Frogs

Wood Frogs

Wood frogs are able to make a speedy exit from the confines of their winter hibernacula. Rarely do they burrow into the earth more than a few inches. They frequently lie just below the leaf litter in a zone that offers protection from the physical elements, such as snow, harsh winter winds, and predators, but doesn’t quite ensure adequate insulation from the penetrating cold. The frigid weather that would easily kill most amphibian species doesn’t seem to bother the wood frogs—their bodies are actually capable of freezing solid during the winter and thawing out in the spring, the result of special proteins that keep cells from being damaged by ice crystals.

At a short distance from the pools the deafening calls drown out all other forest sounds; but upon reaching the borders the noise instantly ceases giving way to an uneasy silence, only interrupted periodically by the occasional splash from individuals too closely approached. In some of the larger ephemeral pools it may be difficult to spot the wood frogs, with most blending into the inky waters; some females being the exception, cloaked instead in a ruddy pink. A thorough scan of the water may reveal a male statically floating atop the water, with all appendages spread out, similarly to one pinned to a dissection board. Their eyes are tightly fixed on your position for the duration of your stay. Only those males who have a locked onto a female and are in competition for the privilege to mate seem to be too enraptured on their goal to pay any notice to a nosy human. Some splashing might attract your attention, where a bloated female being harassed by multiple males is spotted, all trying desperately to attach themselves to her body—it’s not uncommon to see 4 or 5 in pursuit of the same female. In the process of them trying to clasp themselves to her, the flailing of their legs propels the lot around the pond, as if a motorized boat. In such cases, it’s quite easy to walk up to them without the frogs scrambling away, and, if you so choose, pluck one from the water. In this state mating becomes more important than endeavoring to avoid predators.

Wood Frogs

Wood Frogs in Amplexus

Each female lays about 1,000 eggs, all congealed into one solid jelly-like mass that is usually attached to some sort of aquatic vegetation or detritus. The black dots seen within the cluster are individual eggs, which, within a month, will hatch and morph into tadpoles.  Egg masses are rarely solitary; normally all females of the pond group them together in only one or two areas, forming vast clusters, or aggregates that can be quite thick, reaching from the bottom of the pool to the surface. As the weather warms, algal blooms within the ephemeral pool usually coat the eggs, making the floating mats resemble pond scum. This is a rudimentary cloaking device that keeps the eggs hidden from sight, and ensures the slimy, green masses remain an unsavory meal choice for any animal that can peer through the deception.

Ephemeral Pool Eggs

Wood Frog Egg Masses

If all goes well and the pools remain filled with water, within two months the diminutive tadpoles will fully transform into terrestrial adults. Once mature, they will exit their natal ponds and join their parents in the forest until the following spring, when the end of winter rains gently nudge them out of their hiding places and encourage the frogs to take part in the cyclical vernal migration.

Wood frogs may be the most visible species to utilize ephemeral pools, but they are far from the only ones that rely on them for breeding. Numerous salamander and newt species, decked out with vibrant colors and abstract mottling also journey to these places to mate. Spotted, blue-spotted, tiger, marbled, and redback salamanders, with their aptly descriptive names, can be found in these localized pools for a brief duration. The red-spotted newts, the plebian dwellers of these environs, are usually the only amphibian species aside from the frogs that are somewhat easily viewed. Most of their salamander cousins are rather elusive and are rarely seen, with their eggs being the only trace giving hint of their presence. Each species’ egg mass differs in shape, coloration, and number of eggs contained within. Identifying species by egg clusters alone is normally how biologists are able determine the amount of biodiversity within a given area.

Newt

Red-spotted Newt

Along with frogs and salamanders, the occasional turtle can be seen roaming about the pools before they dry up; various aquatic insects plying the surface and some traversing the depths swarm throughout; and the fairy shrimp, a crustacean similar to “sea-monkeys” (brine shrimp) know of no other home. In short, these pools though small and transient occupy a significant niche in the landscape. The size of these water bodies, however, often leads to their demise. Individuals who lack a knowledge of the importance of ephemeral pools too often view them as nothing more than mosquito breeding grounds. They fail to get close enough to them in body and mindset to witness the beauty and biologically rich array of life within, and thus, frequently set out to rid their property of these bits of so-called swampland. Unless unusually significant in some way, most pools garner no legal protection, being well under the required wetland size of 12.4 acres (5 hectares) to qualify for protective status in New York. Ephemeral pools, as their name suggests, may be just that—ephemeral—as they are quickly vanishing from our forests, a result of continued sprawl and apathetic attitudes towards the environment.

Spotted Salamander 2

Spotted Salamander

As their name implies, spring ephemerals have fleeting lives, blooming at most for only a handful of weeks before they disappear until the following year. As such, they’re quite easy to miss. Years may pass before a person witnesses the full variety or is lucky enough to stumble across a particularly showy patch. I’ve made tracking these flowers down much easier by compiling my own sightings across the Hudson Valley. The best places to view various ephemeral species are marked on this map:

https://www.google.com/maps/d/edit?mid=zqyCu_saj0u4.kxBSGVFZAjQ4

Hepatica

Blunt-lobed Hepatica 2

Hepatica is one of our earliest blooming ephemerals, debuting in late March or early April. The delicate purple pastel blossoms are usually the first bit of color dished out to the newly awakened forests, although coltsfoot does arrive earlier on occasion. Plants prefer rich, open woodlands.

Hepatica is divided into two subspecies, based on leaf shape: blunt-lobed and sharp-lobed. The blunt-lobed variety is more common throughout the Hudson Valley.

The fuzzy hairs seen on the stem appear to be a mechanism to retain heat on frigid nights, along with helping to prevent frost accumulation.

Coltsfoot

Coltsfoot

Reminiscent of the weedy dandelion, coltsfoot is a plant easily misidentified. It appears much earlier in the season than its lawn-destroying cousin. Its bright sun-like discs are eagerly awaited, cheerfully announcing that the icy and monotonous days of winter are finally at an end. Plants inhabit woodland edges and waste areas.

Bloodroot

Bloodroot Colony

Bloodroot is as uncommon as it is beautiful. Flowers generally last only a day or two before the wind or rain removes the petals. Plants begin blooming in mid-April; usually by May the last of the ivory blossoms disappear. Bloodroot has a preference for moist soils, and can often be found residing along the banks of rivers or other water bodies.

The unusual name is derived from the bright red liquid that exudes from the stem and root if broken. Native Americans and colonists used it as a dye. It stains readily.

Trout Lily

Trout Lilies

Similarly to bloodroot, trout lilies tend to grow near water, especially within the flood plains of streams and rivers. The plant’s name is derived from its association with riparian areas that contain its piscine namesake, which anglers are apt to pursue right around the time the flowers open in mid to late April. The mottling of the leaves also resembles the patterns found on certain trout species.

These plants tend to aggregate together, producing large groves containing hundreds or thousands of individuals. Despite the prevalence, over 90% won’t bloom in a given year.

Spring Beauty

Spring Beauty

Blooming during the first half of April the pink-white flowers of the spring beauty make for a remarkable sight. Size-wise these plants aren’t very impressive, but their profusion is. This species forms expansive colonies with flowers as numerous as blades of grass. In certain areas it may be nearly impossible to avoid stepping on them during a woodland walk. The frail looking flowers tremble in the slightest wind and quickly close when the sunlight slips behind approaching clouds or the evening horizon.

Red Trillium

Red Trillium

Named for having leaves, petals, and sepals, among other parts, in groups of threes, or trios, red trillium is a plant fond of symmetry. Its large crimson blossoms are sure to be noticed in the understory of rich woodlands in April and May. While visually attractive, this is one plant not to be smelled. The odor emanating from the blossoms has best been described as resembling a “wet dog.” The distasteful smell, in addition to the flower's color, which is similar to that of carrion, draws flies for pollination.

Dutchman’s Breeches

Dutchman's Breeches

One of the most unusual of the spring ephemerals to be seen is the comically named Dutchman’s breeches that happen to resemble an inverted pair of outdated pantaloons. It’s been conjectured that the strange looking flowers are useful for protecting the precious pollen and nectar from the harsh spring elements. With the nectar sequestered at the very top of the flower, it’s also protected against small insects which might otherwise steal the sweet reward without pollinating the plant. Only insects with exceedingly long tongues, such as bumblebees, can reach the nectar and effectively aid in pollination. Some thieving insects will bypass this ingenious design and simply chew a hole through the flower and obtain the nectar that way.

Dutchman’s breeches can form large colonies, often doing so in rockier sections of woodlands. They bloom from mid-April to mid-May.

Violets

Bicolor Trio

http://adamovicnaturephotography.zenfolio.com/blog/2015/2/violets

Marsh Marigold

Marsh Marigold 2

Marsh marigold is perhaps one of the finest flowers of spring, at least when it comes to watery environs. As its name implies, it prefers saturated soil, common to marshes, swamps, and other perpetually damp areas. Blooming amid masses of newly greening skunk cabbages and the withered remains of last year’s growth, the flowers brighten up the often gloomy surroundings like a handful of gold coins tossed onto the muck, shimmering radiantly with even the smallest bit of light.

Plants are in flower from mid-April to mid-May.

Wild Ginger

Wild Ginger

This is one ephemeral that is likely to go unnoticed unless the passerby recognizes the leaves, which form lush moderately-sized mats, often right alongside hiking trails. The small, stubby flower is hidden beneath the foliage and actually lies on the ground, or just above it. Like trillium, the dark purple to maroon hue is identical to that of newly thawed carrion and attracts flies for pollination. Though not related to the ginger sold in grocery stores, the root of this plant has a taste very similar to it, hence the name. The root is reported to have mild antibacterial properties. It was used by the Indians of the area to prevent meat from spoiling. It’s also believed to be a strong bait enhancer for catching fish.

Wild ginger blooms from mid-April to the end of May.

Wild Geranium

Wild Geranium

Beginning in late April and throughout the entirety of May keep an eye out for the splendid pinkish-purple flowers of the wild geranium. Unlike many other spring wildflowers, wild geranium is one relatively easy to find, not being unusually picky when it comes to a habitat type, although it does prefer rich, moist soils. Within forests its distribution is cosmopolitan, equally populating the deep shaded interior as it does the sunny edges. The plant is capable of attaining a height of over a foot and a half and sports multiple blossoms.

Rue Anemone

Rue Anemone

Seemingly the most delicate of the spring ephemerals, the dainty flowers of the rue anemone shake violently with even the slightest breeze. Though forcefully blown in all directions with a single gust the plant always rebounds to an erect position the moment the wind subsides. The thin wiry stem, that easily bends, yet never breaks, is a clever design feature that enables the plants to do without insect pollinators. It relies on the wind to shake loose the pollen and transport it other nearby flowers that often pop-up in clusters along the base of trees.

Plants are in bloom from mid-April to mid-May.

Mayapple

Mayapple

The foliage of the mayapple is on par with the beauty of its flowers. Resembling “green umbrellas,” dual leaves stand firmly erect sheltering a rather robust white blossom beneath. Plants typically form dense groves that can take over sizeable swaths of the understory, shading out all other plant life by means of its expansive leaves. While the flowers bloom in May, the fruit, or “apple,” will not appear until August or September. The fruit is edible when ripe, supposedly tasting like a tart lemon. All other parts of the plant are extremely toxic, including unripe fruit. Native Americans used the root as a means to commit suicide. Despite the encompassing size of some groves, mayapple is a rather uncommon plant whose scarcity in our woods is increasing.

Pink Lady’s Slipper

Indian Moccasin WoodlandIndian moccasin, aka pink lady's slipper

The pink lady’s slipper or Indian moccasin is probably one of the most common orchids in the northeast, but that’s not to say it's abundant. While they have a lifespan of over 20 years, their growth and reproductive rate is extremely slow. Orchids are very choosy when it comes to picking a location to vegetate, preferring highly acidic soils (with a pH below 5) in partially shaded areas of pine stands or well drained deciduous forest. Unlike most plants, the seeds of this orchid do not contain a food supply to help with germination. Instead, orchids form a mutualistic relationship with a fungus from the genus Rhizoctonia that will help germinate the seeds and supply them with the necessary nutrients for growth. As the plants mature, the fungus will be rewarded by being able to siphon back the nutrients it has provided to the seedling, with additional interest.

Look for them in May and June.

Red Columbine

Red Columbine Woodland

http://adamovicnaturephotography.zenfolio.com/blog/2015/2/red-columbine-aquilegia-canadensis

Forget-Me-Not

Forget-Me-Not

A species of muck and swampy areas, this riparian flower imbued with the essence of a crystal clear sky, is not one easily forgotten. Though individual flowers are diminutive, each plant is capable of producing dozens of the gem-like blossoms. There are numerous legends detailing how this plant received its unusual name.

Flowers first appear in May. Plants may continue blooming until early July.

Winter Sunset

During the height of winter when the snow’s piled high, and there’s not even the slightest encouraging sign that temperatures will rise anytime soon to usher in the splendors of spring, it’s depressing to think how much more will have to be endured before things improve. While our present storms may seem especially intense and inconvenient, they are nothing compared to what the colonial inhabitants of the Northeast, and New England in particular, had to deal with one winter season almost three centuries ago. The winter of 1716-1717 was especially severe, producing the largest quantities of snow the eastern seaboard has received in recorded history. A series of snowstorms in late February and early March of the latter year produced a blanket of snow of truly biblical proportions, which henceforth went down by the name of the “Great Snow of 1717.”

The previous months of winter before the destructive storms arrived compounded the situation even more. By the end of December five feet of snow had already fallen; by the first week of February drifts were noted to have reached the 25 foot mark in some places. So when the storms part of the “Great Snow” began rolling through on February 18th, and continued almost unabated until March 9th, the entire countryside was devastated. Business and communication came to a standstill, and even church services—a staple of New England more important than food to the mostly Puritan inhabitants—were cancelled. By the end of it the snow lay on a level 10, 15, or even 20 feet deep!

Snow drifted to such heights as to completely bury shorter one-story houses. In certain instances even the lofty chimneys became engulfed by the ever-shifting snow. Henry David Thoreau details in Walden how a settler’s home in Sutton, Massachusetts was nearly entirely concealed. If it wasn’t for a passing Indian who “found it only by the hole which the chimney’s breath made in the drift” the occupants might have met an ignonimous end. Numerous other families faced identical predicaments of being trapped inside, unable to shovel out of the icy prison. Rescue parties were sent to help locate and dig out the elderly and infirm. In one instance, before rescuers arrived and relieved the home of a widow and her children, she had been forced to burn a substantial portion of her furniture to ensure that her family didn’t freeze to death.

Frozen Art

Livestock and wildlife fared even worse. Multitudes perished as the snow slowly buried the animals alive. Even the protection offered on the leeward sides of buildings, where drifts have difficulty forming, wasn’t enough to stymie the deluge of snow. Cotton Mather, a resident of Boston, famous for his treatises on witchcraft and the supernatural, wrote one of the most detailed accounts of the storms. “Vast numbers of Cattel were destroyed in this Calamity,” he writes, further adding that in the spring after the snow had melted sufficiently to reveal the damage some “were found standing dead on their legs, as if they had been alive many weeks after.” One wealthy landowner had lost upwards of 1,100 sheep.

Despite the rampant fatalities, this isn’t to say there weren’t tales of “strange survivals.” While digging out a flock of about a hundred sheep, two were miraculously found alive, buried for 28 days. These lucky (or unlucky) creatures depending on your take on it, had managed to survive by “eating the wool of their dead companions.” Similar amazing stories of rescue abound. Groups of pigs lost beneath the snow for identical amounts of time had managed to stay alive by eating a little tansy that remained on the ground, rather than feasting on their compatriots.

Wild animals were pushed to the coastline, the only relatively snow free place around. Deer that had managed to escape succumbing to the weather congregated on the shore, only to be devoured by the wolves and other predators that were similarly drawn to the coast by a promise of open space and a luxurious fare of food. It is estimated by Mather that “not one in twenty [deer] escaped.” For many years after the storm certain persons called “deer-reeves” were annually elected to manage the remaining deer populations to ensure their continued survival and reestablishment.

The storms were of such a severity that even “Indians near a hundred years old, affirmed that their Fathers never told them of anything that equaled it.” During the whiteout conditions mail delivery (and essentially all communication between towns) was impossible. Even after the snow had subsided the postriders were greatly delayed, having to trade in their horses for snowshoes. On the advent of spring, March 25th, a postboy noted that it took him 9 days to cross between Salem, MA, and Portsmouth, NH, a distance of 40 miles. In the woods the snow was measured to still stand at 5 feet, with drifts rising to between 6-14 feet. What’s more, bodies couldn’t be interred to the grave, people in taller houses had to make an exit through second-story windows or dig tunnels from house to house, and orchards were decimated. With the snow rising to such heights and later garnering a firm icy cuticle, it was possible for animals to graze on the uppermost tops of fruit trees, which never was able to occur before the storm. Cattle were observed to traipse over the tops of snow drifts of a dozen feet where they “fed upon ye Trees as very much to damnify them.”

While it’s easy to dismiss these harsh storms as a fluke, since nothing of this magnitude has presented itself to the Northeast on such an encompassing scale in 299 years, as history shows, natural events such as these tend to repeat themselves sooner or later. It has been surmised that the potency of this event was aided by an abnormally high amount of dust in the atmosphere caused by numerous volcanic eruptions in the Pacific during 1716. In the future, global warming could potentially enhance our storms in a similar vein. They aren’t predicted so much as to increase in frequency, as they are to become more severe. We may one day, too, find ourselves dating important events as occurring before or after the “Great Snow of 20--.”

Icy Armor

Bicolor Trio

As winter fades away and spring arrives, the ground is quickly populated with a lively tapestry of wildflower species that dazzle the eye with innumerable colors, shapes, and varying hues, all born and withered before the surrounding overarching trees fully expand their own buds and greedily snatch up the sunlight. Exploding from the ground in rapid succession, each floral expansion is a colorful burst on par with a miniature firework, a stroll through the understory providing a captivating show. Though often distracted by other showier and perhaps rarer flowers, the common, yet regal violets, are a fascinating genus to delve into, and shouldn’t automatically be dismissed solely due to their profusion.

While many violets share numerous similarities and are extremely difficult to differentiate from one another, it has been estimated that there are, in fact, between 500-600 species worldwide, approximately 85 of which can be found growing in North America. There’s tremendous variation among the community, with many varieties garnering oxymoronic names, such as round-leaved yellow violet and sweet white violet. While a majority do live up to their names in appearance, there’s more than a few that are anything but violet, being completely white, pink, and even the brightest shade of yellow, with numerous combinations and levels of mixing.

Downy Yellow Violet

Yellow violets appear to be the most primitive, with their flowers being the first shift away from the ancestral green. Purple, in contrast, is thought to be one of the most advanced colors. Evolution in progress can be witnessed in the tall white violet (Viola canadensis), a native to Canada and the eastern U.S. Many botanists speculate that the mostly white flower, often dabbed with minor purplish tingeing on the back of the petals, is transitioning from entirely white to “violet.”

Violets fall into two general categories: those that are stemmed and have leaves and flowers protruding from them, and those that are stemless, having appendages emanating directly from the roots, with flowers being supported on a thin and usually low, leafless stalk. Breaking it down further, certain species, in addition to having showy blossoms, possess a trait known as cleistogamy, meaning they are capable of self-pollinating by means of tiny, barely noticeable flowers that resemble unopened buds. Once fertilization has occurred by means of insects or self-pollination, the seeds are ready for an explosive dispersal. After the seeds are fully developed, the pods they’re stored in slowly dry out, with the pod gradually tightening around the seeds, building up tension in the process, similarly to the action of a spring. Later, when the pods are disturbed, or sometimes just randomly, the pressure becomes too great and the seeds are shot out like miniature cannonballs. Amazingly, seeds are capable of flying up to 15 feet away from the parent plant.

Once on the ground, the seeds are further disbursed by ants. Attached to each tiny seed is a fleshy appendage called an elaiosome that’s rich in protein and lipids, but serves no direct impact to the seed’s survival. Like the sweet nectar of a flower, these elaiosomes are tempting treats to insects, and ants in particular, are readily enticed to collect them. Once dragged back to the colony, the energy-laden accessory is removed for consumption, and the hard seed body is dumped in waste pits where they may ultimately sprout. The dual dispersal techniques of the violets, such as those just described, that utilize both physiological mechanisms and biological organisms for seed movement, proves itself to be an extremely effective evolutionary strategy, ensuring rapid and prolific colonization of new locales.

Common Blue Violet

Insects aren’t the only ones to appreciate the tasty nature of the violet. Nearly all parts of the plants are edible for human consumption. The leafy greens can be collected to create a salad that’s high in vitamins A and C, superseding that of an equal quantity of oranges. Beginning in the 19th Century, candied violets gained favor as a dessert garnishment and were widely served. Though their popularity has decreased over the years, in some circles they're still a favorite topping for sweet dishes of cake or ice cream. Traditionally, a syrup was also made by boiling the flowers in a concoction of sugar. Apart from sweetening the lips, the syrup is useful as a substitute for litmus paper. The solution turns red in the presence of an acid, green for a base.

To the Iroquois and other eastern Native Americans, the flower is revered as a symbol of love. An Iroquoian myth, one akin to the tragic Shakespearian play of Romeo and Juliet, tells of how two lovers of warring tribes were slain while trying to elope, and where each drop of blood hit the ground, a violet sprouted to commemorate their boundless passion.

While on the topic of romance, it’s also interesting to note that violets used to be the traditional flower of Valentine’s Day. Almost all bouquets bequeathed to loved ones sported purple rather than red. It wasn’t until the 1930’s that violets began to be supplanted by the thorny rose.  

Violets were substantial money-makers during the early part of the 20th Century. Like other popular flowers today that are added to bouquets or home gardens, these plants began their lives in greenhouses where they were prodigiously cultivated in the millions. Rhinebeck, a quaint, pastoral town located near the shores of the Hudson River in southeastern New York cornered this unusual market. By shipping flowers down to New York City where there was an especially high demand, a sizeable profit was to be made, rivaling that of any better known cash-crop. Rhinebeck’s close proximity to New York City, and its easy access to the railroad that paralleled the Hudson, made it ideal for becoming the “Violet Capital of the World.” At its peak, hundreds of greenhouses were routinely cranking out thousands of violets per day in the spring—a fast worker could pick up to 5,000 during a single shift.  Eleanor Roosevelt, who, with her presidential husband, occupied a spacious river-front estate in Hyde Park, a village just to the south of the violet hotbed, would often purchase copious amounts of various exotic cultivar varieties from nearby nurseries to line her gardens or decorate herself with.  Frequently she was seen wearing intricate arrangements, making it a habit to do so at her husband’s numerous inaugurations.

Next time you’re outside in April, May, or early June it might be wise to keep your eyes open for the cosmopolitan violets, which really can be found growing just about anywhere—from open and sunny backyards to rich, sheltered woodlands and even in the dampest wetlands. Though small and unassuming, they nevertheless provide a cheerful reminder of the fecundity and diversity of the spring season. As Bern Williams succinctly sums it up: “We pass violets looking for roses. We pass contentment looking for victory.”

Striped Cream Violet

Headless HorsemanSleepy Hollow, NY

The Old Dutch Church of Sleepy Hollow and its accompanying burial ground made famous in Washington Irving’s iconic short story, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, still hold the same rustic charm as when they were penned into his work almost two centuries ago. While the surrounding towns and cities have exploded in size and population, this historic site, along with many others detailed by Irving, have been preserved and only the closest inspection of the surroundings will reveal traces of the current century. As Irving noted in relation to the area, “while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by… unobserved.” His description is still mostly accurate, at least when it comes to the “bewitched” and “haunted” land of the churchyard and its deeply forested environs.

The land on which the church now sits was utilized by the Dutch settlers as a cemetery perhaps as far back as 1645, although the earliest readable gravestone dates to 1755. Many of the first burials had wooden markers which have long since rotted away. The exact details of the construction of the church are somewhat nebulous. The undertaking most likely began around 1685, and by 1697, the structure was fully completed. It holds the special distinction of being the oldest extant church in New York State.

Old Dutch Church (1697)Sleepy Hollow

Frederick Philipse, a wealthy New Netherland landowner and merchant, is credited with the church’s creation, building it only a couple hundred yards away from a nearby mill he owned and operated. Philipse acquired a vast fortune during his lifetime and ranked as one of the wealthiest men in the province. A substantial portion of the land which now comprises southern Westchester was under his dominion, stretching from Spuyten Duyvil Creek in northern Manhattan to the Croton River. He managed to obtain most of this through a combination of advantageous marriages and his shrewd business acumen; first dabbling in selling household wares and then delving into the slave trade. Labor for the construction of Old Dutch Church was at least partially undertaken by slaves Philipse owned.

Lore dictates that during construction a powerful storm raged throughout the lower Hudson Valley causing the Pocantico River—the same on which Philipse’s mill was situated along—to grievously overflow its banks and damage the mill’s operations. Philipse pulled hands away from the erection of the church to repair the washed out dam, making it even stronger than before. Shortly thereafter, another flood ravaged the dam again, and work on the church was halted once more. One of the slaves eventually came forward and informed Philipse that night after night he had dreamt that God was displeased that the fixing of the dam took precedence over the construction of the house of worship. The slave informed him that once the church was completed all would be well and the dam would permanently hold. Finding the string of recurring floods unusual, he heeded the slave’s advice. A team was quickly dispatched to finish the church. After its completion, the Pocantico never again rose to a height high enough to cause any serious harm.

ChurchyardOld Dutch Church (1697), Sleepy Hollow

Apart from renovations in 1837, in which the entrance was moved from the south wall to the west, and rectangular box windows traded in for wide gothic arches, the church still holds the same charm it did throughout the colonial era. Many of the furnishings are original, or at the very least near identical reproductions, such as the preacher’s pulpit. The black oak and ebony inlay communion table produced in Holland during the 17th Century still graces the interior, willed to the church by Philipse’s wife upon her death. In the front of the church, beneath the table lies a crypt in which numerous members of the Philipse family repose. The bell in the steeple is also original. Cast in 1685, it bears, in Latin, the motto: “If God be for us, who can be against us?” Behind it, a patinaed copper weathervane incised with Frederick Philipse’s brand mark shows the motion of the wind. Despite resembling a museum to some extent, services are still held in the church to this day, though limited, occurring only throughout the summer and select holidays.

Old Dutch Church InteriorSleepy Hollow, NY

Washington Irving describes the scene in his Legend:

“It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace.”

The locusts and elms are long gone, though a massive and towering tulip tree now takes their place at the north end of the building.

From his eloquent description, and the fact that the churchyard played a prominent role in his famous tale, it’s apparent that Irving carved a special place in his heart for the history and lore laden grounds. It was documented, that in his later years, he was often caught wandering around the unkempt burial ground, then casually referred to the as “Old Yard.” “It was much neglected and rank with bushes and briars” up until the mid-1800’s, one source notes, “but Irving loved it even as it was, often loitering and musing on a summer’s day beneath the shade of large trees.”

He would eventually choose to have his own burial spot located only a short distance away from the church. On a low hill in the nearby and unaffiliated Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, he determined to have his final resting place situated next to a large oak tree that overlooked the sights he had immortalized through his writing. Today, this stately and umbrageous oak still remains, standing like a sentinel over Irving’s grave and family plot. A white marble tombstone of simple design marks the spot.

Irving's GraveAuthor of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."

It’s worth the while to take a stroll through the Burying Ground. The stones are richly decorated on a level surpassing any contemporary design. Many of the older stones, especially those made out brownstone, are fancifully incised with whimsical shapes and figures. The ubiquitous plump-cheeked soul effigies adorning the tops are exceedingly well crafted, demonstrating the remarkable skill and craftsmanship of the artists. Due to a Dutch founding, several of the more ancient stones are inscribed in the native tongue of the first settlers. This, however, doesn’t take anything away from the scene. As the author of The Old Dutch Burying Ground of Sleepy Hollow notes, “its eleven surviving inscriptions in Dutch are eloquent even to those unable to read them.”

Dutch GravestoneOld Dutch Burying Ground, Sleepy Hollow, NY.

The epitaphs are intriguing, to say the least. Apart from listing name, birth and death dates, a significant percentage have brief poems at the base, most glorifying God, while some simply reminding the passer-by of our own mortality. One melancholy stanza reads:

Call and see as you pass by

As you are now so once was I

As I am now so you must be

Prepare for death and follow me.

Moreover, numerous stones are quite blunt, divulging intimate details about the death of the individual.  In one instance the name of a murderer is applied to the stone of his victim; and in another, a short description makes mention of how a child just shy of her second birthday passed away “after a few hours severe, occasioned by her clothes taking fire.”

The Boisterous WindsOld Dutch Church burial ground, Sleepy Hollow

In mid-spring when the quick growing grass reveals the first traces of the greenery of the season, and the flowering trees strategically studded throughout the 2-acre yard expand their colorful and showy blossoms beside the gently murmuring Pocantico, one cannot help but truly admire the tranquility that emanates throughout. It takes little effort to understand how Irving came to be so enamored and bewitched by the place. Despite the depressing revelations made known by many of the gravestones, it’s impossible to be brought down, buoyed aloft by the surrounding beauty.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

Irving incorporated two surnames located in the burying ground into his stories, though changing the spelling of both slightly. A handful of “Van Tessel” gravestones are located in the churchyard. Irving applied this name to the charming heiress Katrina, whom Ichabod Crane fruitlessly pursued. The other now well known name belongs to a “Van Winkel,” though only a single stone bore that surname. The whereabouts of the marker are unknown, it last having been documented in 1933, when a single rubbing was made of it.

Marker

Another famous landmark spans the brook near the base of the knoll which the church crowns. The Headless Horseman Bridge, the unfortunate location where poor Ichabod met an uncertain fate at the hands of the Horseman, draws crowds of curious visitors seeking to visit the spot “famous in goblin story” where, “according to rule,” the Galloping Hessian of the Hollow should vanish “in a flash of fire and brimstone” upon crossing. A NYS historical marker on the bridge denotes this as the place. However, the real bridge that’s mentioned in the story was actually situated slightly further upstream. It no longer exists. A replica of it can be seen 1/3 of a mile upstream from Route 9 in the interior of the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.

Headless Horseman BridgeSleepy Hollow Cemetery.

The current 4-lane concrete structure isn’t without legend. According to the author of Chronicles of Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow, “some untoward influence occasionally manifests itself at the new bridge.” He cites two examples of unwitting pedestrians being grabbed by an invisible force and then dragged across the bridge. One unlucky individual had the misfortune of being “flung over the high parapet into the water of the Pocantico, where he swam for some time, being miraculously unable to find the shore.” Such is the haunted realm of Sleepy Hollow.

The Old Burying Ground and the adjacent Sleepy Hollow Cemetery aren’t as dreary as some would suppose. While they hold the dead, they’re of more use to the living. The gravestones and attractive grounds are a window to the past, a way of remembering our country’s colorful history and traditions in a setting ideal for lively contemplation. Irving first fell under the arresting influences in his childhood: “I have sported within its sacred bounds during the interval of worship; chasing butterflies, plucking wildflowers, or vieing with each other who could leap over the tallest tomb-stones.” The impact of these scenes and youthful experiences were great, inspiring him as an adult to masterfully weave them into his immortal tale. His presence can still be felt here. There’s a bit more life stirring in the Old Yard than meets the eye…

Irving's GraveAuthor of "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."

Old Dutch Church DoorsSleepy Hollow, NY

Church InteriorOld Dutch Church (1697), Sleepy Hollow

Sleepy Hollow Tombstone

Sleepy HollowSleepy Hollow, NY

Stone Church Spring

Likened to a “cathedral of medieval times,” the Dover Stone Church, a natural and picturesque cavern carved slowly through the millennia by a crystal mountain brook running down the precipitous slopes of West Mountain in Dover Plains, NY, has attracted and inspired all who have made a pilgrimage to this revered spot for as long as records have been kept. Changing hands various times over the past three centuries, the Stone Church was acquired by the town of Dover in 2002, and promptly transformed into a community park to ensure continued and unabated access to this stunning natural curiosity.

Situated at the bottom of a steeply sloping ravine about half a mile distant from the busy Route 22 that bisects the town, the sides of this tight gorge are covered in thick, verdant mountain herbage, reminiscent of the northern Adirondacks. The opening of the Church is burrowed into a vertical metamorphic rock wall. The entrance very much resembles a “mouse hole” or arch chewed through wall molding, though of a much grander scale, standing 20 feet high. The interior is spacious and surprisingly well lit, and though the stream runs through the center of it, enough rock covers the bottom, similarly to a loose cobblestone road, to allow unimpeded access. During the drier months, the inside is especially easily traversed. At the very back of the main room where the stream penetrates through the cavern, a small waterfall cascades to the left of a massive slab of rock appropriately named the “Preacher’s Pulpit.” As this passage is situated almost directly due west, in the afternoon, bright sunny rays filter through the narrow fissure in the ceiling, illuminating the spray and dust of the chamber, transforming the drab surroundings into a scene as glorious and spectacular as any found in any man-made church with panes of stained glass, hence it’s given name.

Interior of the Dover Stone ChurchDover Plains, NY

                                                                                                                                                 Stone Church Interior    

One of the first historical references to make mention of the Stone Church dates to around June 1637. Sassacus, the sachem, or chief of the Pequot tribe of Connecticut, reportedly took refuge in the cavern with a small band of followers to escape attack by another tribe of natives. He had originally been forced to flee westward when the last remnant of his people were exterminated by the English. Upon passing through Dover Plains on his long retreat, his group was unfortunate to encounter a hostile hunting party of Mohegans. After a fierce battle that inflicted significant harm to the Pequots, they retreated once more, this time to the craggy confines of the nearby Stone Church, where they remained hidden for a week until the Mohegans had departed.

By the 1830's the Stone Church was a well known natural feature and myriads visited annually. The proprietors of the Stone Church Hotel, located only a short distance from the cavern, recorded in 1832 that from June 1st-December 1st, “there were about eleven hundred visitors.” Throughout the remaining years of the decade the numbers increased even more. An eloquent 1838 article in the Poughkeepsie Casket greatly advertised the benefits of making a pilgrimage to this site, comparing it to a holy temple worthy of worshipping in. The author remarks that the Church “is admirably calculated to inspire the contemplative mind with devotional feelings, and to lift the thoughts of the great ARCHITECT of the universe, beside whose works the pigmy creations of proud man are merely atoms.”

Numerous adventurers of the past have left their marks upon the interior of the Church. In many spots along the lower walls can be found historical, and now, unfortunately, modern graffiti.  Names and dates meticulously chiseled into the resistant stone date back to the mid-1800’s. One detailed individual from 1873 even went so far as to record the time of day. While these historic scribblings add a bit of intrigue to the scene, it’s important not to further despoil this remarkable place by the addition of contemporary marks.

Maher

This carving was created by David and Joseph A. Maher, members of a prominent family in Dover Plains in the latter half of the 19^th Century. The History of Dutchess County published in 1909, records Joseph as having been “the first and only boy from the parish of Dover Plains who ever embraced the priesthood.”  After graduating from Fordham University in 1876, “he spent four years in Rome where he was ordained priest.” Twenty years later, in 1893, David would return to the Stone Church and make another carving, but this time without his brother. Father Maher suffered an untimely death in 1886.

As it can probably be surmised, based on the beauty and natural splendor of this sanctified cavern, the Stone Church has hosted numerous weddings over the years. Its close proximity to town, in addition to the path that leads up to it being relatively level and traveled with ease, endows the Church with ideal qualities for hosting nuptials. It’s difficult to envision a more perfect wilderness locale for such a union.

Few people realize that there’s actually another much grander waterfall directly above the Church, rising to perhaps 30 feet. Situated further upstream, in the wilder and more treacherous confines of the ravine, Fern Glen Falls, as it’s known, dashes over colossal chunks of rock detached from the steep walls, now jumbled and haphazardly strewn in every direction in the narrow valley. Reaching this place is arduous, and though it’s possible to gain a perfect glimpse of the falls, it’s nearly impossible to physically reach it. Fern Glen Falls plummets into a circular pit as deep as the falls are high, with no clear route to climb in or out of. Following the brook further westward reveals several additional smaller waterfalls and rapid cascades. A quarter mile trek will bring you into a stately grove of old growth eastern hemlocks.

Sassacus FallsStone Church Brook (Dover Plains, NY)

Fern Glen Falls

With trees towering to heights well over 100 feet tall and a trunk diameter massive enough to escape being fully embraced by even the largest person, these giants are several centuries old. Hemlocks are capable of attaining an age of 800 years. This species has one of the longest lifespans of any tree in the northeast, and is also extremely slow growing, sometimes taking 250, or even 300 years, to reach full maturity. They do exceedingly well in shade and growth can actually be inhibited, especially in seedlings, by direct sunlight.  Old growth trees in this part of the country are quite rare, most having been logged long ago for lumber or the tannin-rich bark that was used to process leather.

Stone Church Brook Pool

Small waterfall and accompanying deep pool 1/4 mile above the Church

This is one of the few places in the area still not infested with the invasive hemlock woolly adelgid, a deadly insect accidentally introduced from Japan that superficially resembles a white fungus. These majestic trees managed to escape the ax, yet still may succumb in the future to a pest not much bigger than the head of a pin; felled not by human might, but rather, by human stupidity.

The preservation of the Stone Church, in contrast, demonstrates remarkable prudence. The many conservators and agencies engaged in making the purchase of this treasure possible must be applauded for their dedication. There are few other natural wonders in Dutchess County steeped in as much history and legend as this. The Church and its tranquil surroundings are sure to soothe the tired minds and bodies of all who sneak away from the modern world and its many distractions. This peerless retreat has been described as “an admirable place for pic-nics” as well as a prime destination to enjoy “the great work of nature.” Now that it’s protected the Dover Stone Church will uninterruptedly be able to offer the same sense of awe and comfort it provided to the first visitors, going three centuries back to the time of Sassacus and his band of wearied refugees.

Sassacus Falls Ravine

Fern Glen Falls & Ravine

Icy Armor

On the slopes of West Mountain

View from the Inside of the Dover Stone ChurchDover Plains, NY

Peering out of the Stone Church

Dover Stone ChurchDover Plains, NY

Dover Stone ChurchDover Plains, NY

Roger Perry PreserveRoger Perry Preserve

In extreme eastern Dutchess County, on the lower slopes of East Mountain, a long, linear formation part of the Taconic Range that separates New York from Connecticut, sits a narrow limestone shelf buoyed atop and surrounded by a tough crust of metamorphic rock. During the course of the most recent glacial period the vast ice sheets that once covered the region with ice nearly a mile thick gouged and sculpted the landscape. The resulting shallow depressions and undulating ridges provided a refuge for organisms that are especially adapted to alkaline rich soil and water produced from the fractured limestone. The 120 acre Roger Perry Preserve, managed by the Nature Conservancy, boasts globally rare calcareous fens and other unique geological formations that exist nowhere else in the Hudson Valley.

The most immediate and stunning sight to be witnessed is a collection of white sand dunes, consisting of a purity akin to granulated sugar. The whole area inherently feels like a shoreline, despite being a hundred miles from the ocean. These sandy outcroppings pockmarked across the preserve are a result of the erosion of soft limestone, which easily crumbles now exposed to the elements.  It has been surmised that the town (Dover Plains) in which the preserve resides, received its name from these formations, as it reminded arriving colonial immigrants of the chalk cliffs of Dover, England.

The main trail through the preserve is a mile long loop that passes through some of the largest sand outcroppings on the property. The most spectacular is situated towards the center of the loop, where an extensive opening in the woods along a small cliff gives sweeping views of the summit of East Mountain, which from this vantage point rises into what looks like a stationary tidal wave at full crest, the density of trees crowning it so great, the foliage is reminiscent of a decadent bed of moss, the same as those typically found buried deep in the shady forest interior on some lonely rock slab or half-decayed trunk.

One is likely to notice that the forest within the preserve is of a slightly different hue of green than what’s seen cloaking the mountains in the distance. Most of the property consists of red cedars, an evergreen species which constitutes perhaps upwards of 90% of the tree bulk here, with cottonwoods and aspens mostly making up the difference.

In sandy areas containing little vegetation, mostly in the sunny openings, diminutive white flowers known as Carolina whitlow grass strew the ground in the spring, often in such prodigious numbers it’s almost impossible not to step on any—which is a shame, considering they’re quite rare. Even many segments of the narrow trail are populated with these beauties, which cannot be adequately admired without crouching down. Often mingling between these plants are wildlife tracks perfectly preserved in the fine sand, the detail of many especially exquisite if it happens to be mildly damp. Deer, pheasant, and turkey tracks are most abundant, although traces of coyotes which prowl the grounds in search of the birds also turn up somewhat frequently.

The real gem, biologically speaking, is the modestly sized calcareous fen that sits in the center of a narrow valley, or hollow, just off the eastern side of the loop trail. One of the rarest wetland types on the continent, fens normally only occupy a handful of acres. What sets them apart from bogs or other stagnant water bodies that receive water almost exclusively from precipitation, is that there’s a constant flow of water into the system from both surface runoff and groundwater sources. The constant influx of new water flushes out material that would otherwise build up and acidify the system. Another defining characteristic is that the pH of the water tends to reflect the rock strata that underlie it, as the water is free flowing and passes through the stone. Fens are surrounded by rock containing calcium carbonate, or other alkaline substances. The limestone of the preserve, in addition to both an inward and outward water flow, has imparted an abnormally high pH to the soil and water.

Calcareous FenRoger Perry Preserve

These unique chemical conditions provide the perfect habitat for many species which have evolved an affinity for thriving in calcium rich environments.  Apart from fens, habitats containing alkaline soil within the Northeast, in general, are uncommon; and as a result, several of the “calciphiles” that are located here are seldom seen elsewhere. The most spectacular of these are the fall wildflowers. In late September and early October the fen is draped in a dazzling display of color. Tall and slender fringed gentian is the showiest of all, being graced with a refined sculpture-like figure and a cerulean to light amethyst hue. It tends to pop up in the firmer sections of the fen, surrounded by high grasses. The short, attractive, nodding ladies’ tresses, a type of orchid, with numerous white flowers spiraling around a central stalk, forms clusters around the rivulets that feed the fen with runoff.  Interspersed somewhat randomly throughout are purple pastel specimens of the wiry Kalm’s lobelia, and aggregations of grass-of-Parnassus, whose flowers resemble stars in shape and color. Among these uncommon varieties can also be found a broad sampling of cosmopolitan flowers, such as asters, goldenrods, and cinquefoil.

Ethereal AzureFringed Gentian

The fen is substantially longer than it is broad, and possesses a mild incline, which, in conjunction with its situation in a narrow valley is endowed with a perpetual source of seeping or trickling water. Comprised of mostly grasses and sedges, almost entirely devoid of all woody vegetation, except with a straggling shrub here and there, the wetland resembles a meadow. On all sides it’s flanked with nearly impenetrable cedar copses. Only the overgrown side trail that attaches to the main loop offers access.

Nodding Ladies' Tresses Wetland

On the fringes of the property are small ponds, some the result of quarrying that was done here in the 19th century to extract the valuable limestone and marble that underpins the preserve. In and around these, in addition to the fen itself, can be found several rare animals, most notably wood turtles and eastern spadefoot toads. Numerous odonate species (dragonflies and damselflies) bounce throughout the wetter areas, further adding a splash of color and liveliness to the scene. While relatively common to the state, black rat and garter snakes also have a rather hefty presence here, usually seen around the sand pits. Normally they’re easy to spot, contrasting greatly with the bright sand. The black rat snakes in particular can grow quite large (in the 5-6 foot range at their maximum) but are non-venomous and essentially harmless.

Black Rat Snake

 No matter the season it’s worthwhile to pay the Roger Perry Preserve a visit. Geological oddities, refreshing views, intriguing and beautiful plants, and an active assortment of wildlife keep visitors coming back. The sandy trails of this Taconic Mountain hideaway not only offer novelty, but a chance to relax and unwind in an unconventional format. And with its close proximity to NYC and other major Hudson Valley hubs it’s easily accessible. Why not make a day trip of it in the near future?

Kalm's Lobelia & Nodding Ladies' Tresses

Fringed Gentian & Fall WildflowersWhile the spring holds the distinction of hosting the largest bloom of wildflowers of any season, it’s in the early fall that one of the showiest and loveliest flowers of the year makes a vibrant and elegant appearance that puts other many well known species to shame. Fringed gentian, an ethereal blue to light amethyst flower, standing 2-3 feet tall, capable of producing up to 100 2-inch long flowers, typically blossoms from mid-September to early October. Its level of admiration and praise by poets and naturalists alike is uncanny.

William Cullen Bryant penned a stirring poem solely dedicated to this species which he described as “Blue—blue—as if the sky let fall/A flower from its cerulean wall.” “It is too remarkable a flower,” Thoreau once mused, “not to be sought out and admired each year, however rare.” The Catskills naturalist, John Burroughs, shared similar thoughts, believing it to be “the most beautiful of our fall flowers,” adding further, “it lures and holds every passing human eye.”

Red Columbine

In late spring, shortly after the woods have attained a fresh layering of youthful green and marches toward the mature days of summer, red columbine buds from the understory and makes a striking appearance, adding a dash of crimson to the verdant sea that surrounds. Out of all the spring ephemeral wildflowers, this delicate plant is most likely to capture the attention of a passer-by with its unrivaled beauty and vibrant color scheme. The chandelier-like blossoms, which are mostly red, but sport a rich, golden underside, have been described to possess an “elfin charm” and a splendor which isn’t anything less than “magical and audacious.”

Red columbine is a wide ranging perennial that occupies the eastern half of the United States. Flowers are typically 1.5 inches long with the plants growing 1-2 feet tall. This species has an affinity for slightly alkaline to neutral soil. It’s able to thrive in places most other plants can’t even gain a minor foothold. It’s not uncommon to find a copious profusion of flowers sprouting from a vertical cliff face. The roots are able to penetrate the tiniest of cracks and subsist on the barest amounts of soil. Columbine is also apt to be found gracing spongy beds of moss deep within open and somewhat sunny forests.

Red Columbine Woodland

Plants begin blossoming in mid-May and continue blooming until latter part of June. Red flowers throughout temperate forests, typical to the eastern U.S., are usually rather scarce and appear to have evolved to attract hummingbirds, in most cases. The long, tubular structures of the columbine flowers attest to this. Nectar is sequestered at the base of each lengthy tube; only creatures with long beaks or tongues are able to reach it. It has been speculated that the yellow underside is a mechanism to guide potential pollinators to the sweet reward. Apart from hummingbirds, bumblebees are probably one of the few other pollinators able to delve all the way inside. Some insects, however, may cheat the system and chew a hole through the flower to rob it of the nectar—in such a case, flowers fail to be pollinated. 

Red Columbine Underside

Large and dense aggregations of plants are most frequently found situated on rock outcroppings, opposed to those inhabiting woodlands, which often repose in the darker environs individually and are spaced out more regularly. In favorable locations, clusters containing dozens to hundreds of plants are routinely spotted. Flowers, supported on thin and wiry stalks, tremble in the slightest wind. One is likely to envision flames from these more sizeable populations, especially at a distance when individual flowers morph into a wavering mass of red, and dart about in a fashion almost identical to a blazing inferno swept up by an airy gust. The sight resembles a scene from a more sultry and volcanic locale, where flames erupting from bare rock in some remote tropical crater wouldn’t be out of character. But here in the more tempered north, the sight mesmerizes and momentarily transports one to another hemisphere.

Red Columbine Cliff

It’s not surprising that a flower of such extraordinary beauty also boasts and impressive amount of lore. Native Americans believed the columbine to possess the power to assist in achieving a long lasting love, and appropriately used it to concoct love charms. A man would crush the seeds and rub the powder onto his hands, and by grasping the hand of his intended lover, would ensure the attainment of his pursuit. Europeans on the other hand, believed quite the exact opposite. It was an insult to a woman if she should receive a bouquet of columbines. Such a gift usually symbolized infidelity or the departing of a lover. For men, being given some was just plain bad luck, and a sign that troubles were probably soon to follow, similarly to other equally portentous superstitions, such as breaking a mirror or walking under a ladder.

Despite conflicting lore, columbines are ideal to add to a home garden. The seeds are relatively simple to propagate and plants live up to 5 years. Also, as the leaves are toxic and unsavory to most mammalian herbivores, such as deer and rabbits, no effort has to be undertaken to protect plants from woodland raiders. But, if you do enjoy having the avian variety visit, columbine is one species sure to draw the dainty ruby-throated hummingbirds to your yard. Columbine also goes by the nickname of “wild honeysuckle,” as the nectar reservoirs located at the top of the flowers offer a saccharine treat if imbibed. Be it by taste or by sight, red columbine is likely to leave an indelibly sweet impression on all those who are lucky enough to encounter it.

Red Columbine along the Hudson

Small Whorled PogoniaSmall Whorled Pogonia (Isotria medeoloides) is one of the most imperiled orchids in North America.

This plant has gained the nickname,"the rarest orchid east of the Mississippi." It's a federally threatened species. In New York, however, where this specimen was photographed, it's listed as endangered. A single population, consisting of a mere 6 individuals, is all that's known in the state.

Click the link below to visit my article in the Conservationist detailing a small population of the federally threatened and NYS endangered orchid known as small whorled pogonia in the Hudson Valley. This diminutive beauty has been described as the "rarest orchid east of the Mississippi."

http://www.dec.ny.gov/docs/administration_pdf/0814whorledpogonia.pdf

Ellenville Ice Caves

Check out my article on the Ellenville Ice Caves of Sam's Point Preserve:

http://www.trailgroove.com/issue13.html?autoflip=57

Carnivorous PlantsPitcher plants atop a bed of sphagnum moss

When the average person thinks about a bog—if any thought is put to them at all—images conjured in the mind often descend onto stereotypical pictures of dismal swamps, ripe with swarms of mosquitoes and unholy smells, and of course, the singular home of Hollywood “swamp monsters.” Few would list any positive attributes, mostly, because, so few have actually spent anytime near these places, other than the occasional drive-by. These important wetlands have been much maligned over the years. The fact of the matter is, most who actually take the time to visit a bog, or other similar place will come to appreciate them for their uncanny beauty, and the rich assortment of unusual life they contain. Yes, bogs, like other wetlands, are undoubtedly somewhat smelly and often contain stagnant water that isn’t the most visually appealing, but the same can be said about the various cheeses of the world, some that not only unsightly—and sometimes purposefully contain mold—but also possess a scent that makes us wish we could sandblast our nose from our face, after imbibing a rancid whiff. Despite these unpleasant airs, we still crave and copiously devour them. So, why should we be so quick to dismiss the similarly misunderstood bogs, which make up for their so-called faults in other ways, too?

Bogs, like other wetlands, are absolutely amazing places. Their importance cannot be overstated. These drowned parcels of land contribute greatly to the continued health and well-being of the environment, acting as the lungs and liver of the earth, as it were. Much of the waste that we aloofly flood our planet with, from noxious atmospheric emissions to pesticides and other industrial chemicals, ultimately find their way into these various mucky sponges where they are graciously filtered and broken down or sequestered by complex interactions between microbes and plants. We may much prefer to have a pristine lake on our property that matches the azure tint of the sky and teems with abundant arrays of fish; but dingy, shallow wetlands, are a far more valuable natural resource.

These wetlands fall into four main categories: swamps, marshes, fens, and bogs. Swamps are dominated by trees, while marshes are characterized by non-woody herbaceous vegetation, such as cattails and reeds. Fens and bogs in the Northeast are usually rarer and are exceptionally rich in organic matter, often forming dense layers of peat.  They are alkaline and acidic, respectively. Fens receive replenishment mostly from flowing groundwater sources. Their pH reflects that of the surrounding strata, which usually happens to be limestone, a highly alkaline rock. Plants inhabiting fens include mostly grasses, sedges, and reeds. Bogs, on the other hand, receive almost all their water from rainfall. With only minor additions of water—none from free-flowing sources—organic matter within the bog acidifys the surroundings, resulting in an unusually low pH that creates the perfect habitat for strange, alien looking plant species. Bogs contain sphagnum moss, heaths, and certain other shrubs. The elusive cranberries also call these spots home; a walk through them in mid-October reveals a remarkably Christmas-like display of beauty, with plump ruby ornaments attached to stalks whose leaves closely resemble evergreen needles, all tucked among soft, lime-green mats of moss that gently float atop the stagnant water. The display of color and attractive sights are not solely confined to autumn, however. At the peak of summer there are equally attractive sights arising from the blooming of carnivorous plants.

American Cranberry

Carnivores

Contrary to what most people believe, there are, in fact, several species of plants which have an insatiable hunger for flesh. Although, their idea of a hearty meal isn’t that of pork chops or a steak, but rather of smaller prey, namely insects. “Carnivorous plants” is an appellation much more terrifying than these organisms actually are (at least for anything other than an insect!). Nevertheless, the plants are impressive to behold.  Their ingenious mechanisms for capturing prey demonstrate the remarkable power of evolution to shape life to overcome all impediments. Carnivorous plants have evolved to trap insects to survive in an environment that’s nutrient poor, lacking primarily in nitrogen and phosphorous. The pH in bogs is so low as to inhibit the decomposition of plant and animal matter, thus keeping these important elements locked up. In most other environments they are easily recycled and plants do just fine obtaining their necessary requirements by more mundane means (i.e. absorbing them via the roots from fertile soil). Nitrogen and phosphorous are richly abundant in animals, and these select plants have done well to exploit it from the crawling and flying sources of fertilizer that abound nearby.

In this part of the country, the most common and easily visible plants that capture insects are sundews and pitcher plants. Unfortunately, the well-known and archetypal “venus fly-trap,” is absent from northern bogs, being restricted to a narrow range in the southeast. Sundews and pitcher plants capture prey by very different means.

Sundews snare their prey by use of a sweet smelling attractant with glue-like properties that’s exuded from the tip of thin hairs on tiny round or oval shaped leaves. Any insect that happens to wander across a leaf in search of the tempting treat gets stuck on the gleaming bristles, ultimately perishing mired down in the faux nectar. After a short time the leaves slowly bend and wrap around the insect, digesting it by use of special enzymes whereby it may extract the precious nutrients.

Sundew Macro Carnivorous Sundew

Pitcher plants don’t snare insects, but entrap them in their cavernous “pitchers.” Like the sundews, these plants secrete a sweet nectar that’s present on the lip of the funnel. Insects are drawn by the smell and by the shape and color of the pitchers, which happen to somewhat resemble an opened flower. Pitchers vary considerably in color, some being entirely green or red, others with numerous combinations of mixing. The ruddy hues in particular draw insects; some think it’s a brightly colored flower, while flies, are inclined to believe it to be the exposed flesh of carrion. Once at the lip of the pitcher many insects either fall or purposely dive into the interior. Either way, they are unlikely to make an exit once at the bottom. The upper portions of the pitcher are waxy and slick, while further down towards the base the sides are lined with downward pointing hairs. It’s almost like a lobster pot—creatures have little difficulty in getting in, but are at a loss when it comes to escaping. Enzymes excreted by bacteria coalesce at the base creating a solution sometimes with a pH as low as 2, easily liquefying whatever happens to fall in.

Pitcher Plants Insect Trapped in Pitcher PlantCarnivorous Plant

Diversity

Growing alongside these oddities, though almost always at greatly diminished numbers, are the fairer and more refined orchids. Often, they stand out in a swamp like a torch does in the blackness of night. They are quite vibrant with an elegancy that overshadows all surrounding plant life, making even the flowers of the carnivores look vapid and uninspiring. Several different species of orchids that exclusively flourish in boggy habitat are scattered across the Northeast, almost all of them extremely rare. The “Dragon’s Mouth Orchid” is among the finest, living up to its name in appearance and sprucing up the bog with purple-pink flashes of “fire” emanating from its ephemeral blossoms.  Other similar looking species include “Grass Pink” and “Rose Pogonia.” Not all bogs contain this class of plants. Countless hours may be devoted to combing through wetlands looking for rarities such as these. Making it even more difficult is the fact that most bog orchids bloom for only a short duration during the early days of summer. Orchids are also among the pickiest plants, growing only where the environmental and biological conditions are absolutely perfect, even the slightest variation resulting in their absence. The main factor responsible for their establishment is the presence of a specific type of fungus that orchids form a mutualistic relationship with.

Now when it comes to animal life, these places are nearly as rich in diversity as the assortment of plants they contain. Innumerable species of dragonflies and damselflies-- the odonates, zig zag back and forth between the open water and quasi-terrestrial environments of the floating mats and dense stands of sedges and reeds, alighting momentarily from time to time on any piece of vegetation that stands alone, or is higher than the rest, seeking out a vantage point similarly to what a hiker does while climbing a scenic mountain. It’s an ever-changing kaleidoscope of color and shape that’s enhanced and magnified by the reflection of the water. From time to time these insects repose on one of the sundews that line the edges of the sphagnum mats, and may succumb to the sticky leaves; most, however, at least the larger dragonflies, have strength enough to overcome the force of the miniscule droplets of glue and take to the air again where they may become prey for avian marsh species. 

Dragonfly Captured by Spatulate-leaved Sundew

Lining the fallen logs that lie partially submerged throughout the bogs, sometimes for decades before they disappear by decay or sink entirely, are the turtles who bask themselves in the warmth of the sun to thermoregulate and kill parasites and algae. Being cold-blooded, turtles must adjust their own core temperature by spending the appropriate amount of time in sun and shade. Like almost everything else inhabiting these wetlands, uncommon to rare varieties are located here. Bog and wood turtles, two closely related species that are the only members of their genus, are only infrequently found outside this habitat type.

Wood Turtle

In the ripeness of summer white-tailed deer are apt to venture into the murky water and swim out to the mats to raze the flowers of the pitcher plants from their lengthy stalks, their movements easily being seen where their narrow legs have compressed the moss, sometimes having punched through entirely to the water. Bears, too, also make the occasional foray. With their tremendous weight and not so graceful lumbering, they tend to stick the edges, enjoying huckleberries and highbush blueberries that exist in copious profusion in many areas. The berries having an ample supply of moisture, regularly become twice the size of those found atop dry and rocky mountain summits. Despite bogs being nutrient poor, there’s a cornucopia of biodiversity to be found within them that surpasses typical forest environments.

Pitcher Plant Blossoms 2

Supernatural Evening

When night creeps in on these places man usually beats a hasty retreat to the safety of more hospitable venues. For millennia, only the bravest of souls tempted fate by lingering in these so-called haunted locales, where countless superstitions told of the restless souls of the departed who roamed the melancholy bogs in penance for their earthly sins. It was also firmly believed that demons and vengeful spirits took abode here, nightly attempting to lure passersby to their doom in the quicksand-like mire by emitting beacons of light that would draw humans to their demise like unwitting moths.

As the sun begins to set and the mists slowly settle heavily over the swampy plains, the last notes of songbirds subside giving way to a silence only periodically interrupted by the rustling of the sedges and creaking of dead branches. Shadows grow and multiply from what little light remains from the nearly extinguished sun. A calming influence overtakes the viewer temporarily. But, anyone who remains for any length of time at this twilight hour peering into the murky abyss will begin to become unsettled upon hearing what sounds like broken strains of human voices carried in on the gusts of wind. The imagination ripe with remembrances of ghostly tales begins to overtake reason. As primal fear and uncertainty multiply and quicken the pulse, a brief but robust flash of light penetrates the darkness from the far side of the bog. Another burst soon goes off. Is this an exceptionally large firefly? Swamp gas? Or is it something more sinister?—Could it be a demonic will-o’-the-wisp looking for some hapless victim to accompany it for eternity on its nightly scourings in the chill and dampness of the acid sphagnum? There’s only one way to know for sure…

Perhaps this is one secret best left alone.

Abstract Art (Spatulate-leaved sundew)

North Point Sunburst

Check out my article in TrailGroove:

http://www.trailgroove.com/issue15.html?autoflip=15

Fringed GentianWhile the spring holds the distinction of hosting the largest bloom of wildflowers of any season, it’s in the early fall that one of the showiest and loveliest flowers of the year makes a vibrant and elegant appearance that puts other many well known species to shame. Fringed gentian, an ethereal blue to light amethyst flower, standing 2-3 feet tall, capable of producing up to 100 2-inch long flowers, typically blossoms from mid-September to early October. Its level of admiration and praise by poets and naturalists alike is uncanny.

William Cullen Bryant penned a stirring poem solely dedicated to this species which he described as “Blue—blue—as if the sky let fall/A flower from its cerulean wall.” “It is too remarkable a flower,” Thoreau once mused, “not to be sought out and admired each year, however rare.” The Catskills naturalist, John Burroughs, shared similar thoughts, believing it to be “the most beautiful of our fall flowers,” adding further, “it lures and holds every passing human eye.”

While the spring holds the distinction of hosting the largest bloom of wildflowers of any season, it’s in the early fall that one of the showiest and loveliest flowers of the year makes a vibrant and elegant appearance that puts other many well known species to shame. Fringed gentian, an ethereal blue to light amethyst flower, standing 2-3 feet tall, capable of producing up to 100 2-inch long flowers, typically blossoms from mid-September to mid-October. Its level of admiration and praise by poets and naturalists alike is uncanny.

William Cullen Bryant penned a stirring poem solely dedicated to this species which he described as “Blue—blue—as if the sky let fall/A flower from its cerulean wall.” “It is too remarkable a flower,” Thoreau once mused, “not to be sought out and admired each year, however rare.” The Catskills naturalist, John Burroughs, shared similar thoughts, believing it to be “the most beautiful of our fall flowers,” adding further, “it lures and holds every passing human eye.”

Fringed Gentian MacroWhile the spring holds the distinction of hosting the largest bloom of wildflowers of any season, it’s in the early fall that one of the showiest and loveliest flowers of the year makes a vibrant and elegant appearance that puts other many well known species to shame. Fringed gentian, an ethereal blue to light amethyst flower, standing 2-3 feet tall, capable of producing up to 100 2-inch long flowers, typically blossoms from mid-September to early October. Its level of admiration and praise by poets and naturalists alike is uncanny.

William Cullen Bryant penned a stirring poem solely dedicated to this species which he described as “Blue—blue—as if the sky let fall/A flower from its cerulean wall.” “It is too remarkable a flower,” Thoreau once mused, “not to be sought out and admired each year, however rare.” The Catskills naturalist, John Burroughs, shared similar thoughts, believing it to be “the most beautiful of our fall flowers,” adding further, “it lures and holds every passing human eye.”

Growing from Canada to northern Georgia and west to North Dakota, this species has a wide range over eastern North America, with population densities the highest in the northeast, and lowest in the south. Despite this encompassing distribution, fringed gentian can be notoriously difficult to find, possessing a strict and narrow set of acceptable growing conditions. Preferring moderately damp environments, plants are often found rooted around fens, swamps, and other moist locales that are relatively open and offer abundant light. Moreover, these locations must be neutral to slightly alkaline in nature, usually being underpinned with limestone, serpentine, or rock rich in magnesium. Alkaline habitats are sparse within the plant’s natural range. Over the years wetland destruction has substantially dwindled the number of these previously uncommon refuges. Many states now have gentians listed as protected species due to their increasing rarity.

Plants are biennial, vegetating their first year as low basal rosettes, and the next finally sprouting vertically to produce the enticing azure blossoms that emulate the sky. A successful pollination will result in each flower producing hundreds of seeds. Once seeds have matured the plant will die off. Since individual gentians are short-lived, populations therefore may widely fluctuate on a yearly basis and are fully dependant on a strong seed base. With tempting blossoms readily picked and seeds frequently flushed out of their choice habitat by seasonal freshets, a result of their low lying dwelling, populations can be vigorously abundant one year and completely absent the next. Fringed gentian’s fussiness and fleeting nature can make locating a specimen a tricky challenge.

It’s definitely worth the time and effort to find these dazzling autumnal plants. Poking their graceful blossoms above the rapidly withering grasses and falling leaves, they’re the lively gems of the autumnal season that seem to ignore the impending cold and darkness,  heroically running into battle with winter, while their compatriots have beat a hasty retreat until more favorable times appear.

Fringed Gentian BurstWhile the spring holds the distinction of hosting the largest bloom of wildflowers of any season, it’s in the early fall that one of the showiest and loveliest flowers of the year makes a vibrant and elegant appearance that puts other many well known species to shame. Fringed gentian, an ethereal blue to light amethyst flower, standing 2-3 feet tall, capable of producing up to 100 2-inch long flowers, typically blossoms from mid-September to early October. Its level of admiration and praise by poets and naturalists alike is uncanny.

William Cullen Bryant penned a stirring poem solely dedicated to this species which he described as “Blue—blue—as if the sky let fall/A flower from its cerulean wall.” “It is too remarkable a flower,” Thoreau once mused, “not to be sought out and admired each year, however rare.” The Catskills naturalist, John Burroughs, shared similar thoughts, believing it to be “the most beautiful of our fall flowers,” adding further, “it lures and holds every passing human eye.”

If you’re lucky enough to find a flower, hold onto some of the patience that’s gotten you this far. Unlike most other plants which are apt to display their flowers gaudily, fringed gentian is slow to reveal its secrets. It’s in no rush to vulgarly or conceitedly show its beauty, and does so in only the most refined manner. Flowers close each night and not until the day warms and brightens sufficiently will they slowly unfurl again. During damp and cloudy weather the flowers will remain tightly twisted shut, sometimes for the whole day, undoubtedly a mechanism to protect the precious nectar and pollen within.

I’ve often visited these sites on cool fall mornings and found the plants seamlessly sealed like oysters or clams, yet draped in a sparkling pearly dew, and was not disappointed with I saw. Nothing about this plant is mundane. The unopened buds and shut flowers still dazzle and impress like no other. And if you have time enough to wait for the day to advance, it’s well worthwhile to stay and witness these fragile plants open to reveal their four delicately fringed petals, each endowed with the texture and softness of silk. The elegant sophistication and superiority of these flowers, along with its regal hues, makes fringed gentian the undisputed ruler of the fall wildflowers—and perhaps of the entire year’s.

Fringed Gentian Macro

Fringed Gentian & Fall WildflowersWhile the spring holds the distinction of hosting the largest bloom of wildflowers of any season, it’s in the early fall that one of the showiest and loveliest flowers of the year makes a vibrant and elegant appearance that puts other many well known species to shame. Fringed gentian, an ethereal blue to light amethyst flower, standing 2-3 feet tall, capable of producing up to 100 2-inch long flowers, typically blossoms from mid-September to early October. Its level of admiration and praise by poets and naturalists alike is uncanny.

William Cullen Bryant penned a stirring poem solely dedicated to this species which he described as “Blue—blue—as if the sky let fall/A flower from its cerulean wall.” “It is too remarkable a flower,” Thoreau once mused, “not to be sought out and admired each year, however rare.” The Catskills naturalist, John Burroughs, shared similar thoughts, believing it to be “the most beautiful of our fall flowers,” adding further, “it lures and holds every passing human eye.”