Slide Up, Spring Down

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended,

From "Reluctance" by Robert Frost

 The air was humid and dank and clung to me like a jacket that was too small. My boots made dull thuds on the damp, fecund soil of the trail as I wended my way through the forest. I was in the woodlands that cloak the feet of Franconia Ridge in New Hampshire. It had been nearly five months since last I put boot to stone in the White Mountains. Then it had been snowshoe to snow and ice on Cannon Mountain with my young friend Mark. That frozen landscape now a memory, the woods were everywhere clad in greens and browns this early July weekend.And the air was warm, and quite humid actually. Snowflakes had been flying when Mark and I climbed Cannon, mow it was mosquitoes. I distinctly preferred the snowflakes.



Standing Stone. Before Native Americans, before the coming of Europeans, before the birth of our country, for millennia, this boulder has stood witness in the forest on the mountain.

  The White Mountains are made of rock and stone thrust and shattered by gargantuan geologic forces. For eons since, they have been irresistibly ground and weathered by wind, water, and ice. Though appearing timeless to the casual human eye, the forests that cloak their shoulders and flanks are ephemeral by comparison. Add to that thought how fleeting are our own mortal lives. In such places we walk through a timescape that has many disparate components. In the course of this hike, I would feel as young as an infant, and as old as father time. That is how every hike should make you feel, that you are alive!

Shortly after leaving the parking area the trail crosses a brook. Whitehouse Brook and Cascade Brook are confluent here, but I do not know which appellation is in effect at this point.

Today I planned to hike over two 4,000 footers I had never hiked before, Mt Flume and Mt Liberty. These two peaks make up the southern end of the magnificent Franconia Ridge. This ridge runs north and south on the western border of the beautiful Pemigewasset Wilderness. The more notable peaks on this ridge are Lincoln and Lafayette. I have hiked those peaks previously, a year or so before. To the west of the ridge lies Franconia notch and Route 93, which in turn is bordered by Kinsman Ridge with its well known ski area on its northern terminus, Cannon Mountain.

On the metal railings of the bridge crossing Whitehouse/Cascade Brook, were many butterflies called "White Admiral," (Limenitis arthemis). These delicate creatures were "mineralling," gathering minerals from the rusting metal. This mineraling of butterflies can often be seen on mud as well as on scat... ya, scat.

My chosen route would take me up the southernmost of the two peaks first, Mt. Flume, along the trail known as "Flume Slide Trail." The approach to the "slide" is mostly an easy walk in the woods. The problem with climbing mountains is, well, you have to climb. So anytime an approach trail is easy and relatively level for an extended stretch it means you will have to pay for that ease later with long steep sections of trail. Of course you should always be aware of the nature of the trail before you set out along it. The old saying "Ignorance is bliss" is often true, but not in the wilderness. In wilderness, ignorance is frequently dangerous.

The trail approaching the beginning of the "slide" is an easy walk through the woods.

So I was cruising along this sylvan way at a pretty good clip. The warmth and humidity had caused me to sweat freely, but my energy and strength usage was minimal. There seemed few people on this trail today, which was fine with me. I do enjoy meeting people along the way, but I also enjoy long periods of solitude. As I walked these low elevations many Red-eyed Vireos sang their slow repetitive songs. Few songbirds will continue to sing throughout hot summer days, but Red-eyed Vireos are one which will. As I approached the lower end of the slide the trail started to climb past mountain streams. These streams are fed by the slow shedding of melted snows from the previous winter augmented with rainwater that followed. These mountain streams are often quite cool to downright cold. At one point, after eating an early lunch, I rinsed my hands in the stream and they came away almost numbed by the icy water!

The icy cold mountain stream caused the moist warm air above it to condense, resulting in a misty "smoke" along the surface.

Soon after eating lunch I reached the slide's base. The "slide" is a remaining scar of a long ago landslide that ripped through the forest on the mountain's flank. There are many of these in the White Mountains, and they are often visible from many miles away as stone colored vertical slashes rent in the green forest cloak. Some now have prominent trails that run right up them. This scar on Mt Flume is one such "slide trail." I have taken many trail photos over the years and I have found it to be nearly impossible to actually capture in photos how steep some trails are or how dangerous they can sometimes be. This slide is not the most difficult by any means, but it does offer ample opportunity to fall with potential serious injury resulting. Some hikers will not climb such slides when they hike solo. I will, I'm part Irish. That makes me hard headed and stubborn. At least that is the excuse I frequently use. Maybe it would be more accurate to say "I'm stubborn and hard-headed" and leave off the "... because I'm Irish!" bit. Maybe.

Looking back down part of the slide. It's steeper and more slippery than it looks in photos.

As I climbed I frequently had to use hands and knees to scramble up some sections. It wasn't long before I had a few scares (and new scars) as one of my feet slipped out  from under me time and again. There is an old adage when climbing, "three points of contact." That means of your two hands and two feet, at any given moment only one of the four of them should not be attached to what you are climbing. It's a good adage, frequently ignored. And not just by me. When one of your feet suddenly no longer is where you planted it, you usually get reminded what it feels like to have adrenaline shot into your bloodstream. At those moments, the usefulness of a solid hand-hold really strikes home.

Looking up the slide. This section was a scramble. I left some of the skin on my shins on these rocks

Along the upper end of the slide I started to hear female voices ahead of me. It wasn't long before I caught up with three pretty young ladies and their dog, Raleigh (or maybe "Rollie?" I didn't ask the spelling, so I'll go with Sir Walter - it's more romantic). The girls where concerned because Raleigh had slipped and tumbled down part of the slide a short time before. He looked fine to me when I looked him over but the girls were anxious that the event should not be repeated. Therefore they were taking their time and using a long leash on the dog and carefully picking their way upward to ensure it would not fall again. I helped them find a way around a difficult stretch and then headed on. I knew I would see them again on the ridge.

After finally reaching the ridge line, the trail heads off toward Flume's summit.

A hiker should always be prepared to turn back if he or she feels unable to safely finish a planned hike. As yet, I have never had to do so. However as I neared the end of the difficult and hot climb up the slide, I felt much more spent than I should have. At that point the thought of continuing the planned hike seemed daunting and I was surprised how tired I felt. This may have been the first time I have ever felt that my physical condition was so much less solid than it should been for the effort spent. It was a relief when I finally stepped onto the ridge trail and I soon recovered physically and spiritually. The thrill I always feel when about to climb above the tree line returned with vigor.

Mt. Liberty as seen from the trail below Flume's summit. Franconia ridge runs off northward and upward from Liberty.

Mt. Flume's summit.

A short pleasant hike along the ridge trail found me on Mt Flume's summit. In the White Mountains, there are 48 peaks called "4,000 footers" by Appalachian Mountain Club. Many hikers set a goal to climb all 48 at least once in their lives. Mt. Flume was my personal 40th of these. Only eight more summits to complete them all. Of course I have sumitted several of the peaks that I have climbed more than once but I have not yet summitted all of the 48. My goal is to finish this year. Then I will have to start working on round two. I have no intention of stopping.

Mt. Liberty seen from Mt. Flume. To the left, across Franconia Notch, lies Kinsman Ridge. To the right, Franconia Ridge climbs northward.

Across Franconia Notch, with Rte 93 running north and south far below, Mt. Moosilauke forms the far horizon's apex. I had last climbed that beautiful mountain two years earlier with a dear friend.

On Flume's summit I noticed an immature Common Raven was hanging around. The corvid was drinking standing water from a cavity formed by fractures in the stone. It was easy to age the bird as the plumage had brown tones (instead of the glossy black of adults) and the gape, the flesh at corner of its "mouth", was pinkish instead of the blackish color a mature bird would display. It was also easy to age due to its behavior. Adults very rarely allow such close approach by humans, nor do they show such poor landing skills as this youngster. Whenever it alighted from a short flight it looked quite new at the game, in a word, awkward. Very soon the three young ladies and Raleigh joined me on the summit.

An immature Raven drinks water from a fracture in the stone on the summit of Flume.

Raleigh and his three lovely companions reach Flume's summit.

I spent nearly a half an hour luxuriating in the beauty that lay in all directions. To the west lay Kinsman Ridge. To the North lay the rest of Franconia Ridge. To the east lay the Pemigawssett Wilderness and many more of the White Mountains. To the south lay the gap where the Kancamagus Highway runs, the Osceolas, Mt. Tecumseh, the town of Lincoln, Loon Mountain Ski Area, and more. At my feet lay the delicate beauty of Mountain Sandwort. Literally adding spice to all this was a young hiker couple who generously shared their Trader Joe's Chipotle Mango chips with me. Though admittedly the young man wasn't too happy with his ladies choice of trail food! If only I had a nice ice cold India Pale Ale or two to wash them down with...

Mountain Sandwort. This delicate looking montane beauty is a very hardy denizen, growing wherever a little soil has collected on the mountain.

I still had another summit to climb and then a hike out to do, so after a while I headed further northward on the ridge trail towards Liberty. The girls and Raleigh left a little earlier and were somewhere between the two peaks when I headed on.

The ridge trail between Flume and Liberty drops back into the trees. North of Liberty, where I would not be hiking today, the trail climbs out of the trees for good and offers magnificent 360 degree views all the way to where it finally descends the north slope of Mount Lafayette.

One of the common insects hikers encounter in the New Hampshire woods is the "Hover Fly." I do not know the correct name for the species and there is likely more than one species involved as well. These little guys do not bite but  they do hover over the middle of the trail and create a high frequency buzz that is reminiscent of a mosquito flying near your ear. I believe the buzz may be either to attract the opposite sex or to establish territorial rights. They also sit on branches and create this high pitched buzzing. Curious little entities.

A "Hover Fly" along the trail.

It wasn't very long at all before I was approaching Mt' Liberty's summit. Just below the summit, I found the girls trying to figure out how to get Raleigh up over a particularly high boulder that formed an obstacle for Raleigh where the trail passed between two steep walls of stone. The only easy way was to pick him up and scramble up to where he could be put on top of the boulder. So that is what I did. This was the first time I have every hiked in the White Mountains carrying a dog, another life experience! The girls thanked me. Raleigh did not. All of us were soon on Liberty's crown.

The "arch cairn" on Mt. Liberty's summit.Many summits have small cairns that serve no purpose other than to express the  joie de vivre of their creators. This one expresses that joy more artistically than most!

Cannon Mountain, with its summit tower, lies at the north end of Kinsman Ridge. Seen from Mt. Liberty's summit. The "bumps" in the ridge line running to the left of Cannon Mountain are called "The Cannon Balls".

Kinsman Ridge as seen from Mt. Liberty. The left peak is South Kinsman and the right peak is North Kinsman. In the distance lies Vermont.

Looking downslope. The transition line from deciduous trees on the lower slope to a mix of deciduous and conifer up higher is obvious.

Looking eastward into the Pemigewasset Wilderness. In the foreground is Owl's Head Mountain. Beyond are the Bonds, and on the horizon, Mount Washington rises towards the clouds.

Franconia Ridge running northward from Liberty.

The day was beautiful and the views spectacular, so I was in no hurry to leave Liberty's summit. The girls had pushed on with the intent to camp at the AMC's Liberty Springs campsite, a little below the summit cone. Several species of butterfly were flitting about the summit area I was lounging on. A Canadian Tiger Swallowtail came and went. The Swallowtail's presence was objected to by a Mourning Cloak that constantly chased it whenever the Swallowtail ventured too close. Regrettably Black Flies were also present in  the summit area and my ankles were particular targets of these little demons. I frequently counsel people to not assign human qualities to wildlife, but these little scourges often bring me to the point of momentary fury and certainly cause me to at least think foul language. I will admit on this occasion to vocalizing many words you wouldn't use if your mom was in earshot.

Mourning Cloak (Nymphalis antiopa). This individual sits on its favorite perch, from which it repeatedly chased a Canadian Tiger Swallowtail.

When it came time to press on, I retied my boots, scratched the bites on my ankles viciously, condemned every Black Fly and its relatives to eternal misery in Hades, shouldered my pack, and hiked on. I stopped to take one last set of photos before plunging back into the trees.

Mt. Liberty's cone, seen from the north side.

I would be hiking Liberty Springs Trail back to my car in the Notch. This trail is much easier than the Slide Trail I took up to the ridge. It also passes by Liberty Springs Campsite where Raleigh and the girls were camping tonight. I have never camped with a dog in the mountains but I would think it would be fun. It wasn't long before I passed the site. The caretakers at these AMC sites all seem to have the same military surplus type tents. They are quite spacious and comfortable, which is good since the caretakers spend most of their summers in them.

A pretty new trail sign at the junction with Liberty Springs Trail, my path down to the Notch.

The caretaker tent at Liberty Springs Campsite.

The rest of the hike was uneventful. I like to set a fast pace on the last downward leg of a hike. This means I pass most other hikers. I had reached the lower stretch of the trail and only had about a mile of fairly level trail left when I encountered a solitary hiker who was also headed out. I passed him and exchanged a few friendly words as I usually do with the hikers I pass. But this time the solitary hiker clearly wanted to continue a conversation rather than just have a brief "How are you doing?". So I slowed my pace and fell in beside him. We had a pleasant conversation as we covered the last mile of the day. His name was Joe and he was from Massachusetts. I certainly enjoyed his company and I enjoyed swapping stories with him. At the parking area we shook hands and headed to our respective vehicles. I stripped off my sweaty shirt and poured clean water over my head. Popping a clean dry shirt on felt wonderful! It had been a good day, "sliding" up and "springing" down. And I got to carry a dog named Raleigh. Briefly. Though I have to admit, I enjoyed it more than he did.

Openly Hidden

"One who deceives will always find those who allow themselves to be deceived." - Niccolo Machiavelli

"Nothing is so difficult as not deceiving oneself" - Ludwig Wittgenstein

The forest floor in Nehantic State Forest, Lyme, CT.

In both the natural world and in human behavior, deception is common and takes many forms. In human nature, it is for the most part a destructive behavior. Whether for personal gain, or for avoiding responsibility for our actions, deception is often used by one person against another. Worse yet is self-deception, our frequent and seemingly endless inability to see how our actions or decisions harm ourselves or the ones we love. It is often said that it is easy to see the mistakes of others but very difficult to see the ones we make ourselves. Personal experience makes me a believer of this, it has always been easier to see my kid's mistakes than to see my own! I'm sure they would corroborate that. Luckily I have friends that are able to remind me that I'm an idiot. It seems to me that the wisdom that comes with age is simply the result of managing to survive our own foolish behavior for much longer than we have deserved to survive. However, in the natural world, deception is often necessary for survival. Elaborate behaviors and camouflages have evolved to allow successful hunting, or more to the point of this posting, to successfully avoid being the hunted. Deceptions often follow patterns. Discern the patterns, look for the tiny flaws in the patterns of nature, and you may see what is openly hidden.

Take another look at the photo above. The pattern of the forest floor is an orderly chaos of browns and greens. There are many random shapes formed by scattered debris and surface topography. There are also many shades of brown dominating the pattern. In the lower right hand corner is one slightly darker round shape. It is an American Toad hunkered down and looking rather like a clump of dirt. I nearly missed it as I walked the forest this day, but the slightly darker color and round shape caught my eye just as I was passing it by. Here is a closer shot of the little fellow:

Openly hidden. An American Toad (Bufo americanus) uses colors and shapes, coupled with lack of movement, to deceive the eyes of any predators.

A closer look at the Toad's face reveals a bit of leaf debris protruding from its mouth. This is likely the result of the Toad having just eaten something that failed to remain hidden.

The term camouflage come from the French word camoufler, meaning disguise. Many organism have evolved visual or behavioral deceits to avoid predators. Visual camouflages can sometimes be less than optimally effective. If the toad above hops onto a paved road it will stand out quite distinctly. It will stand out even more so if it gets run over by an automobile, but at that point it will no longer be overly concerned about predators. The Gray Tree Frog below has evolved a camouflage that resembles tree bark. In this particular frog's case, its perch is not the best for blending in. At night, I have found Gray Tree Frogs on pavement a number of times, and they can be surprisingly difficult to spot on that surface in the dark even with a flashlight.

Gray Tree Frog (Hyla versicolor). Photo by Hank Golet.

Many predators that do not necessarily use camouflage to hunt will still utilize it for their own protection against other predators. This is true of many of the smaller owl species. In the photo below, an Eastern Screch Owl's pluamge pattern and plumage features (the "horns" are formed by feathers) and its choice of daytime roost site, allow it to be openly hidden.

Eastern Screech Owl (Megascops asio) roosting in tree cavity. Photo by Hank Golet.

Interestingly, some individuals of this species sport a reddish plumage. There are some trees that have reddish bark, and this individual (in the photo below) would be better served to be perched in just such a tree, but to my knowledge there seems to be no preference by these birds to do so. The fact that this reddish color is less common than the gray suggests that the red causing genes have been "selected" for survival less often than the gray genes.

Eastern Screech Owl, red morph. This individual is likely the mate of the gray bird shown above as it was photographed roosting in the same cavity about a month later. Though there are red tones in the tree's bark, this bird clearly stands out more than the gray plumaged bird.

The ground nesting Whippoorwill has evolved a plumage that closely resembles the leaf strewn forest floor where it places its nest. It further enhances this camouflage through behavior. It will often sit motionless when a threat approaches, and only fly off at the last possible moment. This bird's plumage is wet and slightly darkened by rainfall.

Whippoorwill (Caprimulgus vociferus). Plumage darkened by rain. Photo by Hank Golet.

Here is the same bird photographed with dry plumage.

The same bird but dry. Photo by Hank Golet.

Even the Whipporwill's eggs have evolved a camouflage. The white and brown pattern, as well as the indistinct nest site, make these future Whippoorwills safer from a predator's detection.

Whippoorwill eggs in the "nest". Photo by Hank Golet.

In addition to the Gray Tree Frog and American Toad shown above, other amphibians have evolved visual patterns to help avoid detection. The Wood Frog in the picture below blends in nicely.

Wood Frog (Rana sylvatica) amid the leaves. Photo by Hank Golet.

It isn't just woodland floors or tree bark that is imitated by organisms. The sands of barrier beaches are where the Piping Plover, an endangered species, has evolved to nest. The plumage color of the bird allows it to nearly disappear into its surroundings. Sadly, this camouflage plumage does not help the species avoid the loss of their nests to humans walking or driving the barrier beaches. Nor does it help them avoid the human's dogs. Piping Plover nests were once given human assistance by having metal cages placed over them to stop predation by Gulls, Night-Herons, or Crows. This unfortunately lead to raccoons and skunks learning that these cages held food, and the use of the cages had to discontinued once these scavengers associated the cages with something to eat.

Piping Plover (Charadrius melodus) on nest.

Deception is defined as "To cause to believe what is not true; mislead." Deception in the natural world, when used defensively, helps organisms mislead predators. It is one of the survival strategies evolution has devised.  As humans, we can appreciated the intricate beauty these deceptive patterns create. But to do so, we need to first actually see these little deceivers. So the next time you are out of doors, keep you eyes peeled for those things that are indeed, openly hidden.

Brown Dragon Rising

"The mind is everything. What you think you become." - Buddha

Brown Dragon, Indian Turnip, Devil's-ear, Swamp turnip, Bog onion, Wake Robin, Lords-and-ladies. These are just some of the appellations that have adorned the plant which we now simply call, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Arisaema triphyllum.

Jack-in-the-Pulpit. Arisaema triphyllum. Nehantic State Forest, Lyme, CT.

 I was hiking Nehantic State Forest in Lyme, Connecticut on a sunny May morning when I came across Jack-in-the-Pulpit. This plant is one of the little treasures one can find in the woodlands of New England. It is a perennial plant that grows from a corm. What is a corm? Well, if you are a birder, it's slang for a cormorant. However that's not what we're talking about here. This flower is not growing from the body of a bird buried in the forest! Though admittedly it would be fun to try and convince one of my kids that it is, but they're too old to buy that kind of stuff anymore, alas. A corm is simply a spherical tuber, or "bulb," similar to the flower bulbs many people plant around their homes.

The classic structure is formed by a "spathe" enclosing a "spadix." A spathe is simply a modified leaf, or bract. A spadix is a spike infloresence, and an infloresence is simply a group of flowers arranged on a stem. The spadix has both male and females flowers. Jack-in-the-Pulpits are variable, and the specimen I photographed below is handsomely patterned. 



Here a stick is used to genlty lift the spathe up to expose the spadex and the plant's colorful pattern.

This beautiful plant contains calcium oxalate and eating any raw part of it causes a buring sensation or possibly a reaction which could interfer with breathing and thus be life-threatening. Proper preparation allows the bulb to eaten (though why you would want to destroy such a lovely thing for a snack nowadays I don't know) and Native Americans did indeed utilize it in their diet. There is a legend among the Meskwaki Indians that they spiked meat with bits of the raw plant and left the meat to be consumed by their enemies, thus disabling or killing them. I can't imagine this could have been a signifcantly successful form of warfare however. Normally enemies would be suspicious of sustenance left about by the opposition, I should think. Reportedly the root was thought to be a contraceptive as well. A dose of the dried dried herb mixed with cold water was supposed to prevent conception for a week, while two doses mixed with hot water caused permanant sterility. I can imagine the first part having a kernel of truth based in one dose of an improperly prepared herb making a woman ill. Nothing like being sick to take the edge off amourous adventures! As for permanant sterility, maybe two doses of improperly prepared herb could kill you, which would permanently lower your chances of procreation.

A closer view of the "Brown Dragon"

There are many wonders to be found while walking through the woodlands of New England. I try to watch the ground, the trees, and the sky, all at the same time as I hike along. I realize it can make me look a bit paranoid but I don't want to miss anything. This plant is iconic to those of us who grew up in its range and chanced upon it as we walked through the woodlands of our childhood. The magical memory is still there for me whenever I encounter the Brown Dragon rising from the forest floor.

Snowshoe Here

"Having a wider heart and mind is more important than having a larger house" - Venerable Cheng Yen

January 12th, 2011. The snow along the roadside was a good two to three feet deep. Few people were driving this back road in East Lyme Connecticut because the season's first major snowfall was just wrapping up. The people who were driving were going slowly and trying to avoid sliding off the road. Not me. When I approached the forest road that leads into Nehantic State Forest I gunned it and pointed my truck at the snow bank. With a soft but solid thud I buried my truck in the snow. Then I reached for my snowshoes.

Buried in the snow. My truck "parked" in a snow bank.

 It is rare to have enough snow to use snowshoes in southeastern Connecticut. During most years here I have seen snowshoe tracks on snow that was so shallow that hiking boots were more than enough to keep the walker warm and dry. Evidence that someone owned snowshoes and wanted to get some use out of them even if they were unnecessary. Understandably human of course. I also own snowshoes, but mine are designed for narrow trails on mountainous terrain more than for wide open flats. I did not ever really expect to use them in Connecticut where we are now experiencing milder and milder winters. Still that was short sighted of me. Climate change is resulting in more moisture in the atmosphere, and consequently, more significant storms. So here I was, in East Lyme Connecticut, strapping on my snowshoes that I thought I would only ever use in the mountains. Over the coming week or so I would snowshoe three different times in the unusually white forests of my home state.

The entrance to the East Lyme unit of Nehantic State Forest. In summer Cerulean Warblers can be heard here. Now a cold stillness blanketed the forest.

As I adjusted my gear at the entrance, I once again was struck by the stillness that pervades a northeastern forest after a deep snowfall. Much like how the soft edges of an owl's feathers kill sound and allow the bird to silently approach its prey, snow that covers the forest floor and clings to trees and undergrowth also deadens sounds. The result is a silence and solitude that is more perceptual than real. But humans are creatures of perception, so the solitude felt very real to me, though I knew I was not far from roads and houses.

Self portrait showing snowshoe gear. Mountain trail snowshoes, trekking poles with snow baskets, gaiters. The cotton jeans are a clear indication I'm not dressed for backcountry but more for a stroll.

As I headed into the forest my snowshoes sank deeply into the soft powder. We had about 10 to 12 inches of new snow, and it was too dry and too new to really support my weight on my narrow snowshoes. That was okay with me today because I really just wanted to enjoy the forest and get a little workout to prepare for a planned 15 mile hike in the White Mountains later in the season.

The snow clad forest seemed silent and bereft of life. Silent it was but bereft it was not.

 I plodded along in the snow and each time my snowshoe came up its tail threw powder on my nether region. I soon adjusted my stride and pace to eliminate that uncomfortable occurrence. There is an old saying in mountain lore, "cotton kills." It is a reference to cotton quickly absorbing moisture and losing all insulating properties. Wool on the other hand, actually increases in insulating value when it gets damp. Maybe that's why sheep have wool instead of cotton. As I was wearing cotton jeans, I did not want to end up with a cold wet butt, so I adjusted my stride accordingly.

As I walked through the deep snow, at a blistering pace of about 1 mile per hour, I listened to the forest. It seemed nearly birdless. Many of the wintering songbirds would now be clustered around feeding stations at human residences. I did hear a few though. The call of a Red-bellied Woodpecker rang distantly. I can not help but compare the stark differences in spring and summer deciduous woodland noises against the winter. So much life can be heard in the warmth and so little in the cold. That doesn't mean life isn't there, it just means much less of it is avian.

Watching the snow for tracks I saw abundant sign of the seemingly ever present Gray Squirrel. These tracks often start and end, not surprisingly, at the base of trees. I did not see or hear a squirrel during my walk, and by that, one could be forgiven for thinking they were not here. But the myriad trails of their prints spoke in silent eloquence of their numbers. At one point I found ridges poking up out of the snow like the bulging veins on a body builder's arms. These were tunnels of a small mammal, perhaps a Short-tailed Shrew or a Masked Shrew. Shrews are voracious little predators eating their own body weight or more every day, and the Short-tailed (Blarina brevicauda Say) has the unique adaptation of a neurologically toxic saliva. Yes, that would be poison spit. Not to mention it emits ultrasonic sounds for echolocation. Good thing they're not the size of a dog, they'd make a Black Bear look like Winnie the Pooh.

Tunnels in the new snow, Short-tailed Shrew?. A little difficult to see the tunnels in this un-enhanced image.

Here, by enhancing the image's contrast, you can clearly see the meandering sub-surface movement of the foraging animal.

  The trees were plastered with the wind driven snow. Each species of tree seemed to take on the snow in accordance with the texture of its bark. Birches and Beeches grabbed the snow in solid blankets while Ashes and stately Tulip Trees only held the snow in the deep grooves between their ridges. Even fallen logs were heavily blanketed in the new snow. Very soon this snow would fall or be blown off, indeed as I walked I was occasionally showered by mini avalanches as this process was already underway.

The bark of the Tulip Tree (Liriodendron tulipifera), or Yellow Polar, held the snow in the recess while the ridges were mostly scoured clean.

Simple winter beauty.

The light was fading and the snow hadn't completely stopped when I finally returned to my truck. I experienced a new life first by shoveling snow while wearing snowshoes to extricate my truck. It had been a very enjoyable walk, with the benefit of physical exertion. I drove home on the still very snowy roads. I managed to only slide off the road and bounce off a snow bank once on the way.

On January 17th I headed to Pleasant Valley Preserve in Lyme for another bout of Connecticut Snowshoeing. I didn't know what the trail conditions would be so I also packed my cross country skis. I figured the snowshoes would still be preferable at this point but one never knows. I timed my hike to extend into the night as the sky was clear and the waxing moon was nearing full. I love the forest at night and frequently hike in the dark.

Pleasant Valley Preserve sign and map in Lyme, Connecticut.

Once I parked I scoped out the snow/trail appearance and decided that indeed it snowshoes and not skis today. Once geared up, I headed in and quickly was reminded just how many seldom seen animals are present in our deciduous forests. In a small field a large brush pile has been built up, presumably for wildlife. It certainly was working. Around this pile, in the snow cover, were the tracks of Cottontail Rabbits that clearly showed the entry holes into the brush pile that the rabbits were using for shelter. These were either the tracks of the introduced Eastern Cottontail (Sylvilagus floridanus), or the greatly diminished New England Cottontail (Sylvilagus transitionalis), but I could not be sure. You can separate the species in a number of subtle ways but field researchers are now heavily relying on DNA determination in the droppings. Yup, you are what you poop. The New England Cottontail needs transitional habitat, cleared land that is reverting to dense brush. The Eastern Cottontail is able to exploit a larger variety of habitats, and thus out-competes the native New England. The State of Connecticut is doing studies to try and help the remaining populations of New England Cottontails, one of which is at Bluff Point Coastal Reserve in Groton. Some individuals of both species have been out-fitted with radio transmitters to better understand their dynamics. A rabbit with a white waistcoat and pocket watch has nothing on a bunny with a transmitter. Apologies to Lewis Carroll. In addition to the rabbit tracks, White-footed Mice tracks also abounded, not to mention the searching tracks of the Eastern Coyote (Lupis latrans).

Cottontail tracks around brush pile and at rabbit hole entrance. White-footed Mouse tracks can be seen at upper left.

There is a nice stand of Red Cedar in an open field on the preserve. I wanted to search for Saw-whet Owls in the stand before dark so I continued on. You need to walk under each tree and look up into it to find these diminutive little owls. I spent about a half hour doing so to no avail. I could easily have missed one of these winter visitors though, they can be tough to spot when properly tucked into the tree.

Northern Saw-whet (Aegolius acadicus). Photo by AJ Hand

 Feeling I had given it the ole college try, and by ole college try I mean a half-hearted quick look, I followed some White-tailed Deer tracks down to the Eight Mile River which borders the preserve. The river was largely frozen over and the snow, ice, and moonlight were gorgeous on this marvelous stream. A winter's stream frozen in crystal and white under a silver disc.

The nearly full moon over the Red Cedars of Pleasant Valley.

The frozen Eight Mile River in the moonlight.

The day had nearly ended and night was falling on Pleasant Valley. I love being in the forest at night, did I mention that? Now was time to just walk and enjoy. I climbed back up to the Cedar field and as I prepared to hike the forest I noticed the tracks of what I believe was a White-footed Mouse crossing the snow. White-footed Mice will cross the snow surface and then dive into the snow and tunnel. Here was clear evidence.

The tracks of what was likely a White-footed Mouse end at a hole created when the Mouse decided to return to tunneling under the snow.

I had brought a headlamp with for when the daylight failed. However the nearly full moon on the snowy forest floor was more than enough light to see my way. The rest of my hike was in the silence and the dark. It was superb.

Beauty, silence, cold, a nocturne most wonderful.

January 22, 2011. It was time for a more serious walk. The weather had produced another snowfall on top of the unusually deep base here in southeastern Connecticut. But it also rained briefly during the storm. So I knew there would be a layer of crust, wet snow that had refrozen dense and hard. This meant little compression under the snowshoes. So a long hard walk was in the offing. And another night walk. This time I headed for the Lyme Unit of Nehantic State Forest. The last night hike I had done here had been during the summer and I had the sound of Flying Squirrels to accompany me throughout the walk. None of that tonight.

Arriving at the forest road I found it unplowed, so dropping my truck into four-wheel drive, I plowed through to the parking area. From this small gravel (now snowy) lot I have started many a walk in the forest. Tonight I saw that someone had already been both snowshoeing and cross country skiing here. As part of my hike would be on forest trail and not just forest road, I chose snowshoes.

Someone had beaten me to it. I was not the first to snowshoe the forest road.

This was to be a roughly three and one half mile jaunt. Once again the night was still and beautiful. The moon was now passed full and would not rise till I was done. So I had my headlamp with me, but as usual I would resist using it till the last possible moment. As I traversed this now very familiar hike, I was struck by the plethora of tracks in the snow. Distantly a pair of Barred Owls called. First the deep "Who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-you-all," of the male, then shortly after the higher pitch of an answering female. I have never failed to hear these wonderful birds in Nehantic at night, though oddly I have not succeeded in seeing them here. I have seen a Chuck-wills-widow in this forest, a very uncommon night bird from the south, related to a Whippoorwill, but I just haven't laid eyes on the common Barred Owl in this forest. Life is chance, is it not? 

Barred Owl (Strix Varia) in Connecticut. By AJ Hand 2002

As I cruised along my mind wandered, as it usually does on long hikes, though this wasn't really a long hike. However tonight I kept being brought up short by tracks in the snow. Gray Squirrel, White-footed Mouse, shrew tunnels, White-tailed Deer, Coyote, Red Fox, human, and dog. The forest floor spoke of many passages while the silence suggested otherwise. Silent does not mean empty, clearly. At one point a pack of Coyotes howled and yipped briefly, and yet again I felt the thrill of hearing these wild carnivorans.

The trail of a White-footed Mouse showing tail prints as well.

A closer look

The tale of the tracks. Old showshoe prints overlaid by new snow and then cross country skis on top. To the right is the straight track of a Red Fox.

Tunnels, probably shrew, Short-tailed most likely but possibly Masked? Gray Squirrel jumping through.

The night was getting very cold as I hiked, nothing better illustrated this than the energy bar in my pack being frozen solid when I stopped to eat it. It was the better part of two and a half hours when I finally returned to the parking area. One more exquisite night hike in a forest. As I paused before stripping off gear, I looked at the night sky. My breath turned to silver mist that swirled and twisted upward like a dissipating spirit. The stars shone intensely bright and clear with shreds of wispy clouds stretched between. How bereft of romance, how dead to the beauty of the world, how soulless must a person be, to be able to look at the night sky bespeckled with the countless points of light from our galaxy on a still winter's night, and not be left in awe?