
The rain has stopped. At last!
It’s a misty, moody morning, but the sun is coming out, and the rhododendrons are blooming.
Life is good.

Snow fleas? That’s a thing?!?! Yes, you read that correctly. Yesterday my bride, my beast (a perennially curious and wanderlusty Labrador Retriever) and I explored some soggy-but-still-snowy woodlands along the western shore of Lake Champlain with John Davis (The Rewilding Institute) and Jon Leibowitz (Northeast Wilderness Trust). It would be difficult to find a more interesting duo with whom to muck about on a balmy late December day, celebrating oak and shag bark hickory trees and pondering wild critter tracks.
In this melting eden we stumbled upon the snow fleas…
Does it look like someone sneezed pepper on the snow? Is the pepper bouncing around? You’re probably looking at springtails, also known as snow fleas. Don’t worry, they aren’t real fleas — they just bounce around in a similar way. (Source: WIRED)
That description, pepper sneezed on snow, is pretty much spot on. Bouncing pepper.
Springtails are incredibly abundant — there can be 250,000,000 individuals per square acre. They are active year round, but usually are hidden away under leaves or your favorite flowerpot. It’s a good thing to see springtails in and around your garden and woods. They are found where there is rich organic soil, and they help make more soil by snarfing up fungal spores, insect poop, and other debris. They rarely cause plant damage. (Source: WIRED)
Did you get that? Despite the assurance to the contrary by pest control companies, springtails are not bad guys. In fact, they’re good guys!
Springtails are not parasites; they feed on decaying organic matter in the soil (such as leaf litter) and, therefore, play an important part in natural decomposition. (Source: EcoTone)
Snow fleas are wingless insects, incapable of flying. They move by walking, and also by jumping. But unlike other famous jumping arthropods (like grasshoppers or jumping spiders), snow fleas don’t use their legs to jump… [They] catapult themselves into the air by releasing a spring-like mechanism called a furcula, a sort of tail that’s folded underneath its body, ready for action.
(Thus the name springtail.) When the furcula releases, the… [insect] is launched several inches, a considerable distance for such a tiny bug. It’s an effective way to flee potential predators quickly, although they have no way to steer.(Source: What Are Snow Fleas? All About Winter Springtails)
[Springtails] are able to withstand the bitter temperatures of winter thanks to a “glycine-rich antifreeze protein,” as reported in a study published in Biophysical Journal. The protein… binds to ice crystals as they start to form, preventing the crystals from growing larger. (Source: EcoTone)
And this intimate look at springtails courtesy of Mark Fraser (www.naturewalkswithmark.org) offers up the perfect wrap up to this first-and-probably-last post about snowy flea-like cousins to the other jumper pepper grounds…
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VjLKzogOj8Q&w=550]
Thanks, John Davis, Jon Leibowitz, and Mark Fraser!
Welcome to springtime in the Champlain Valley, a glorious but slightly schizophrenic transition — sun, rain, wind, hot, snow, sleet, etc. — when springtails make way for dandelions.
This visual meditation captures the haltingly springlike transformation of a small corner of Rosslyn’s back acreage over the last three months. A meadow’s margin. A fallen tree. A setting sun…
The video was made by compositing photographs from a trail cam captured between March and May 2018. Unlike most of my previous trail cam galleries and videos, this series is thin on wildlife. For some mysterious (and a bit unsettling) reason, wild critters appear to have been less abundant than usual. Or more savvy to the presence of my camera? Nevertheless the seasonal transformation offers a soothing, meditative perspective on the end of winter and the arrival of spring. I hope that you enjoy it.
If you missed previous posts with photographs from the wildlife/trail cam, check these out:
Now that I’ve downloaded the most recent image I’m pondering where to place the camera this summer. Watch the garden grow? Document the orchard’s fruity bandits? Spy on the waterfront for minks, ducklings, and my water-loving Labrador Retriever?
John Davis, our good friend and Rosslyn’s conscientious wildlife steward, contacted me this weekend with an excited update.
Good photos on your cell cam last few days, including a Gray Fox, I think, January 11. We rarely see those.
I’d just been reviewing recent images from the camera he referenced, a Reconyx, cellular-enabled camera that is tethered to my Verizon account, enabling real time oversight of our rewilding efforts at Rosslyn. I had paused on the three images John mentioned, but I had concluded they were an Eastern Coyote, a much more frequent subject for our wildlife cameras. Had I judged too hastily? When I told John that I was curious why he thought the handsome wild dog a Gray Fox rather than a Coyote he pointed what I’d overlooked.
I may be wrong, but that canid looks a bit small to me and has black top tail, as Gray Foxes oft do.
John confirmed that he thought he’d seen fox tracks in that same location on Sunday. Nevertheless nature’s narrative can be mysterious…
I offered to Photoshop the image to see if I could improve identification, and he suggested magnifying the image. The originals didn’t offer excellent data to work from, but here’s what I came up with after attempting to manipulate two separate photographs.
Although the two images are blurry and pixelated, offering little improvement over the orginals, the black tail marking is definitely evident. (If you’re wondering about the subtle difference in the second image, it was taken from this original.)
I admitted to John that I’m still uncertain. It seems to me that, given the diverse pelage (Thanks for teaching me that word, John!) of our native coyote population, it doesn’t seem to me impossible that the healthy canid in the photographs *could* be a smaller coyote. Of course, I sure hope that it’s a Gray Wolf.
John reached out to our friend and Adirondack neighbor, conservation biologist, and wildlife photographer extraordinaire, Larry Master, to see what he thinks.
Looks like a Gray Fox to me! Note dark dorsal side of its tail and relatively short legs. — Larry Master
For comparison, here’s a far more legible photograph captured by the inimitable Larry Master.
To really appreciate not only Larry’s breathtaking photography, but also this exceptional photo documentation of the Northern Gray Fox (and countless other species), visit that link and start clicking through his photographs. The hour hand on your clock will likely turn into a high speed fan!
Rosslyn’s wildlife sanctuary, an informal but earnest effort that has been evolving for well over a decade, is increasingly diverse, but we’ve not yet witnessed a Gray Fox. In other words, I’d really like for John’s and Larry’s assessments to be accurate. We’ll keep watching, and I’ll update this post if there’s news.
In the mean time, here are some relevant insights that John published recently in a post for the Adirondack Council.
Gray foxes are the more arboreal of our two native foxes. Indeed, gray foxes can climb trees and sometimes den in trees. They can often be distinguished from red foxes, if not by color, by their shorter legs and thinner fur. Red foxes are the more likely to be seen in fields, where they often pounce on rodents.
[…]
Both red and gray foxes are masterful hunters of rodents, making them beneficial to limiting the spread of Lyme and other tick-borne diseases. –— John Davis (Source: Adirondack Council)
So what do you think? Do we have a verdict? Has the Rosslyn wildlife camera documented a Gray Fox (Urocyon cinereoargenteus) or an Eastern Coyote (Canis latrans var)?
I’ll close with the last of the three photos in the sequence above. If you squint you just might see that dark tail vanishing near top right of the photograph. Hopefully more soon!
This handsome bobcat (Lynx rufus) was photographed with game camera in one of our meadows on January 2, 2016. Friend and Essex neighbor John Davis mounted the camera about a month ago. In addition to photographs of deer, turkeys, and rabbits he discovered four images (from two separate occasions) of this healthy bobcat. In fact, he thinks it might possibly have been two separate bobcats.
“What joy to have such lovely creatures on our lands!” ~ John Davis
It truly is absolutely wonderful. I can’t believe that this sly feline has been slinking around in our back woods/meadows, and yet I’ve never one spied him/her. Not even a footprint. Here’s the sequence of three consecutive photographs as the bobcat walked past the trail camera.
I look forward to other surprises over the course of the winter. Thanks, John, for another Rosslyn safari installment!
Wondering about the elusive, rarely witnessed but apparently [increasingly] common bobcat? I did. I do. How does Lynx rufus traverse our wild (and not-so-wild) places without being more frequently documented?
The bobcat is crepuscular. It keeps on the move from three hours before sunset until about midnight, and then again from before dawn until three hours after sunrise. Each night it will move from 2 to 7 mi (3.2 to 11.3 km) along its habitual route. This behavior may vary seasonally, as bobcats become more diurnal during fall and winter in response to the activity of their prey, which are more active during the day in colder months. (Source: Wikipedia)
[Update: I revisited this post on the Essex on Lake Champlain community blog with a few ruminations and evolutions.]
Crepuscular is a cool (but decidedly un-onomatopoetic) word for the gloaming. Twilight. Cocktail hour… And this, neighbors, might have something to do with the bobcat’s invisibility. Although cocktail hour also seems to be the most oft reported Champy sightings, so maybe my logic is off! Maybe the peripatetic… behavior of Lynx rufus is a more likely explanation for infrequent sightings. Always on the move. Sly. Stealthy. (Source: Lynx rufus (Bobcat) Sighting in Essex)
Hoping to learn more about the habits of our local bobcats, and possibly (fingers, arms, and eyes crossed) we’ll even get lucky and report another bobcat sighting…
I’m slowly catching up on a backlog of game camera photographs from last winter. Today I’d like to share new bobcat images from January 2017, though I’m not 100% certain when the handsome cat prowled our meadows because I failed to reset the time/date stamp when I installed the camera. (Note that the default date shown in the images is incorrect.)
It fascinates me to think that these toothy predators occasionally visit us, and yet I’ve never laid eyes on one in person. Some day…
If you missed last winter’s bobcat sighting, then here’s the highlight photograph.
This handsome bobcat (Lynx rufus) was photographed with game camera in one of our meadows… I can’t believe that this sly feline has been slinking around in our back woods/meadows, and yet I’ve never one spied him/her. Not even a footprint. (Source: Bobcat Sighting)
Bobcats in our area like rocky hills for dens and sunning places, woods and meadows for hunting rodents and rabbits, swamps for hunting Muskrats, and frozen ponds, for patrolling edges where small rodents may appear. They can live fairly near people but generally avoid getting too close to us. Perhaps because they’ve evolved a fear of tool-wielding bipedal mammals, they are most active at night and dawn and dusk…” (“Lynx rufus: Our Resilient Bobcat”)
Wildways scout John Davis has written multiple articles on the Essex on Lake Champlain blog about local wildlife, including these two about bobcats: “Lynx rufus: Our Resilient Bobcat”and “Why Bobcats Should Be Protected.” If you want to learn more about our wild neighbors read through his accounts!
There are also some other local bobcat sightings depicted on the Essex Blog including this “Adirondack Bobcat Sighting” and a “Chimney Point Bobcat.”
As Lake Champlain freezes and thaws and freezes again, trying to create a seamless skateable expanse between the Adirondack Coast and Vermont, Rosslyn’s boathouse bubbler offers the wild ducks welcome refuge. It’s a veritable mallard jacuzzi! Or a bald eagle buffet? The shrewd raptors observe from the trees nearby, waiting…
The sounds and sight of our wild duck neighbors enjoying the midwinter sunrise is mesmerizingly agreeable. Hypnotic even. So the sudden disruption of a predator upsetting this morning meditation is unsettling to say the least. But the bald eagle buffet is a fact of nature, right? And so I resign myself to the bittersweet battle at work in these bucolic moments.
Perhaps this video captures the mallard jacuzzi magic.
A cooold jacuzzi, but it’s the best match for these cold weather acclimated fowl. An icy bubble path to jumpstart the day (and keep these mallards alert to threats lurking nearby…)
While others have witnessed the baldies snatching confit de canard from the frigid “pond” in front of Rosslyn’s boathouse, I’ve never actually experienced it myself. But I’m keeping an eye out from my office, wondering if this will be the newest Rosslyn safari.
A couple of weeks ago I shared another walking stick photograph on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter with this accompanying haiku.
A walking stick and
miniature companion
gossip in the shade.
My walking stick haiku makes more sense if you actually look closely at the photograph.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CDogBYJpIs8/
Can you discern the walking stick’s miniature companion? Is it a spider. Definitely not a yellow garden spider, but I’m not certain if it’s another arachnid or another spidery insect.
The walking sticks were photographed while perching on lawn furniture and a fence posts. Different but not distant locations. There’s another notable difference. Or two. Can you spot it/them?
Today’s snapshot (the one at the top of this post) appears to be the same variety of walking stick (maybe even the very same bug), but s/he appears to have lost a rear leg. And a green arm or half of a pair of Pinocchio proboscises?
Unfortunate. Losing limbs unlikely offers a survival advantage. And yet this walking stick remains agile despite the impairment.
I realize I’ve never shared a “Friend or Foe” post about walking sticks, so I’m adding it to the already endless punch list of future posts. It’ll be the perfect excuse to learn a little more about this bizarrely beautiful bug.
It turns our that walking sticks (aka “ghost insects”?!?!) are somewhat phantasmagorical, er, rather Phasmatodea. You with me?
The Phasmatodea (also known as Phasmida, Phasmatoptera or Spectra) are an order of insects whose members are variously known as stick insects, stick-bugs, walking sticks, or bug sticks. They are generally referred to as phasmatodeans, phasmids, or ghost insects. (Source: Wikipedia)
Walking sticks perplexing and intriguing. And, in a slightly bamboo way, they are beautiful. Well, at least the ones I’m sharing in this post. I admit that I know little about these quirky insects, so it’s a time to pursue curiosity down the proverbial rabbit hole (or bug hole?!?!) It’s time to learn more about the Phasmatodea…
You can file this next tidbit in your quirky-to-the-point-of-being-cool folder. (You have one of those, right? Right!) If you think that walking sticks — as well as other “stick and leaf insects” in the phasmid species such as Chitoniscus sarrameaensis — are worth more than just a fleeting glance, I suggest you check out Phasmatodea.com.
Phasmatodea.com… started as a project funded by the phasmid experts, Oskar Conle and Frank Hennemann, with the clear aim to provide an extensive source of information, photos and possibility for the identification of species of this fascinating insect order, not only for scientists but also for breeders and anyone interested in these insects. Now we’re the world’s leading website about phasmids, having the largest photographic gallery and the most comprehensive content about this insect order. (Source: www.phasmatodea.com)
Welcome to the wacky, wonder-filled world of walking sticks. Off to learn more, maybe even enough to some day share a a “Friend or Foe: Walking Sticks” post. Stay tuned. Or, better yet, teach me what I need to know before I get gobbled up by a walking bamboo stick. Thanks.
Perhaps a purist will scoff, a musicologist for example, when I hitch a rainbow (a double rainbow) to resonance. But I’ll claim poetic license long enough to sneak past the physics police or whoever else patrols these matters. Rainbow resonance isn’t just a pleasantly alliterative title for this post. It’s an observation. Rainbows — witnessed in person, via image, or in words — resonate. They reverberate. Visual reverberation, visual resonance. I’ll defer to the more scientifically inclined to explain why this phenomenon is true. I’ll simply assert it. Rainbow resonance is real. Spy a rainbow, and you instantly want to convey it through some form of communication.
“Hey, look. A rainbow!”
Or you snap a photo, text it to your beloved.
Maybe you pen a poem or paint a watercolor or compose a song…
On August 18, 2020 I witnessed and romanced this rainbow from Rosslyn’s lawn and then from our waterfront. I snapped a photo and typed a quick haiku. And then I shared them. Rainbow resonance. It’s real.
Here’s the arresting impossibility of a double rainbow distilled into as few words as possible, lest the words occlude the vibrant arcs.
Iris arcing her opulent salutation ‘tween earth and ether.
Perhaps this is a nod to Pablo Neruda.
Dónde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon? — Pablo Neruda, Libro de las Preguntas (Book of Questions)
Or perhaps this is just a haiku nodding at a double rainbow…
Sometimes a thought, image, or video posted onto social media drifts briefly and then vanishes. Short lived. A non event. A message whispered into the chasm, swallowed by the wind and water and a mesmerizing murmuration.
Once in a while a message is timely or touching, a lucky capture, or for some other mysterious reason finds its target. Again and again. Reverberating. Resonant. These moments can be affirming and beautiful.
When I shared the rainbow over Lake Champlain photograph at the top of this post (and below) on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter on August 18, 2020 I was pleasantly surprised with the feedback. I include all three posts as an effort to interweave some of the most compelling comments. Enjoy.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CEDew4QJG4i/
https://www.twitter.com/RosslynRedux/status/1295915240421502977
Click on this Facebook link to view the original FB post (or add the following URL into your browser.)
https://www.facebook.com/rosslynredux/photos/a.193160807397700/3188013817912369/
Thanks!
I remember, as a boy, seeing a mature bald eagle sitting in this oak tree. It must’ve been 1984 or 1985. My mother was driving us from Rock Harbor to Plattsburgh, where we went to school. It was less common to see bald eagles back then. They were present in the Champlain Valley, but less abundant than today. So it was a big deal to come upon one unexpectedly. My mother slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road, cautious because there was very little room to pull out of the lane without getting stuck in a ditch that divided the road from the adjoining field. We sat a few minutes — my mother, my brother, my sister, and I — observing the majestic bird. Substantial in size and commanding in posture and intensity. It may have been the first time I saw this iconic raptor up close, and it made an enduring impression on me.
It was late winter, as I recall, and the monumental oak was bare, damp from rain, imposing. It seemed the perfect perch for such a majestic bird. A tree with dignity, with gravitas. And yet, I yearned for the eagle to spread his wings and soar. We asked my mother to honk the horn. She declined, reminding us that the eagle had been there first, that startling him would disrupt him unnecessarily. I suspected that she too wished the eagle would fly. But she slowly pulled back onto the road, and we continued our commute.
Since returning to the Adirondack Coast in 2003, I’ve made a point of stopping to appreciate this handsome tree during jogs, in the early years, and bike rides, over the last decade. I’ve never spotted another bald eagle presiding over its gnarled limbs, but some day I might. In the meantime I honor the tree — vibrant leafed, laden with acorns, rusting in autumn, bare but for snow frosting — enduring across decades but otherwise virtually unchanged.
Dripping after rain,
a vast acorn nursery,
lone oak towering.
— Geo Davis
When I shared this lone oak photograph and haiku on July 23, 2021, our friend and Essex neighbor, Tom Duca, surprised me with a previously unknown detail about this tree.
“You know Sally Johnson saved that tree. Look close. She had a cable strung between the two big limbs so they would not split apart.”
I had not known. But knowing has added to my affinity for this lone oak. A quiet, timely, essential act of kindness by an admirable woman to honor and preserve an iconic tree, our Adirondack horizon’s sentry.
Let me start by saying that we don’t have a duck pond. We have a lake. Lake Champlain.
And although it pains me slightly to say it, we also don’t have any ducks. Not personally, at least. Lake Champlain, on the other hand, has plenty of ducks. And when the lake freezes and the ducks run out of water to swim and eat, we offer them a small “duck pond” in front of Rosslyn boathouse to tide them over until spring. Or at least that’s our current practice.
The origin of our “duck pond” is less duck-centric. When we purchased Rosslyn in the summer of 2006 the boathouse perilously teetering on a failing timber and stone crib. The whole peninsular folly was one ice flow away from the grave. In fact, all four buildings were suffering the advanced stages of disrepair. We had to prioritize our attentions that first winter, and the house won out. In the hopes of preserving the boathouse until we could begin rehabilitation, we purchased an Ice Eater to reduce ice damage. It was a long shot. But it worked. The Ice Eater agitated the water at the end of Rosslyn boathouse, preventing ice from forming. It also created a perfect refugee for the ducks. (And the hawks and eagles, but that story for another day…)
The following winter my bride (and many of our new neighbors) insisted that we install the Ice Eater again to ensure that the ducks would have open water. I obliged. Despite the fact that the boathouse now how a solid foundation and is [hopefully] less likely to succumb to ice damage, we continue to maintain a winter “duck pond” each year.
Unfortunately in late January pack ice was blown into shore clogging the Ice Eater and eventually sheering both of the propeller blades that agitate the water to prevent freezing. Temperatures were bitterly cold and the lake froze sans “duck pond”. My bride and I were out of town at the time, but concerned messages began to fill my email account.
“Since George has not installed his bubbler this year the Essex ducks are cooperating to keep a pond churned with 100 constantly circling webbed feet. Their pond is a few hundred feet north of George’s boathouse…” ~ S. B.
“Greetings from ‘cool’ Essex. All those mallards are hoping you will turn on your bubbler as the ice is closing in on them and they really don’t want to leave. I was surprised to find them in my yard under the oak tree eating acorns a couple of afternoons. Never knew that could be part of their diet…” ~ D. L.
I ordered a replacement propeller for the Ice Eater and hustled home to make repairs. By the time I arrived the lake had tightened up (regional expression for frozen solidly) except for the ferry channel where the ducks were congregating, flying up with the comings and goings of the ferry, and then settling back down into the frigid water.
Doug assisted me in repairing the Ice Eater and breaking a small hole in the ice, not much larger than those used by ice fishermen. We suspended the Ice Eater in the hole and plugged it it. It whirred to life, pumping a steady stream of warmer water from the bottom up onto the ice. Within hours the hole had grown large enough to attract some of the ducks. Over the next few days the churning water swelled the hole larger and larger, finally expanding the open water enough to once again qualify as our “duck pond”. As I write this post, literally hundreds of ducks are bobbing wing to wing, beaks into the wind.
That’s the good news.
Can you anticipate the bad news?
Found him! Birdwatchers from across the United States studied the elusive golden-winged warbler as part of the 12th Annual Adirondack Birding Celebration June 6 at an Essex thicket. The golden-winged warbler is a “species of special concern,” said trip leader Brian McAllister. Populations have declined precipitously during the past 45 years due to a loss of breeding habitat and the expansion of the blue-winged warbler into the former’s range. (Denpubs.com)
I was meandering joyfully if absentmindedly along Lake Shore Road recently when I came upon a half dozen vehicles tucked into the tall grass at the intersection of Lake Shore and Clark Roads. I slowed. As I idled forward I passed at least another half dozen cars and then a “flock” of birders…
Actually, at first I didn’t know they were birders. I asked. They laughed. Apparently everyone who passed was asking them the same question.
“We’re birdwatchers,” one man explained.
“We’re looking at a golden-winged warbler,” a woman added. Or maybe she said, “We’re looking for golden-winged warblers.”
“Neat,” I said and pulled out my smartphone to document the occasion. Needless to say, I snapped a photo of the golden-winged warbler watchers and not the birds themselves.
At the time I was pretty sure that the crowd of binocular wielding birdwatchers were spying on one or more golden-winged warblers in a thicket near Webb Royce Swamp. But when I mentioned it to John Davis, intrepid explorer of wild places and critters, he was surprised. Really surprised.
“You mean they actually saw a golden-winged warbler?” He was excited if slightly incredulous.
“I think so,” I offered, suddenly uncertain.
“They weren’t just looking for it?”
Hmmm… Not such a subtle distinction, but suddenly I wasn’t 100% certain what I’d been told.
So I checked my phone to see if I could find any indication from the photo whether or not the birdwatchers were seeking or celebrating. No photo. I looked again. I know I took the photo, maybe even two photos. But I must have inadvertently deleted the evidence. Or, perhaps the elusive golden-winged warbler is behind this mystery!
Have you witnessed a golden-winged warbler in the Adirondacks’ Champlain Valley?