Rosslyn boathouse at sunrise (Digital doodle: virtualDavis)
“Coffee? You don’t even drink coffee,” Susan said.
“I know. I know it doesn’t make any sense. But I’m walking through Rosslyn early in the morning with a steaming cup of coffee…”
I hadn’t drunk coffee since college, and I’d obviously never wandered around Rosslyn at the crack of dawn either. But I kept having this vision.
“It’s just barely sunrise. You’re still sleeping. I’m up, drifting from room-to-room, slowly, haltingly, studying the way the sunlight illuminates each room. And those green walls in the parlor? They vibrate in the morning light, like new maple leaves in the springtime.”
I described the shaft of sunlight stretching across the workshop floor. I described the calm, the quiet except for an occasional creaky floorboard. I described Tasha, our Labrador Retriever, padding along with me, anxious for breakfast.
“Tasha sighs and lies down each time I stop. And I stop a lot… to watch the morning unfolding, to watch the sunlight shimmering on the rippled lake, to watch the boathouse clapboards glowing yellow orange for a few minutes as the sun rises above the Green Mountains.”
“I was imagining the boathouse too,” Susan said. “Not like today, but like it was ours, like we lived at Rosslyn. I was thinking, the boathouse’s just begging for a hammock. Don’t you think? A big, two-person hammock in the open-air part, under the roof. Can you imagine lying in a hammock in the evening, listening to the waves?” Susan paused, lost in the idea. “And think of the dinner parties,” she continued. “A table set for four. White linens and candles and sheer curtains billowing in the breeze…”
Spring Dance: deer crossing trail camera during spring 2017 (Source: Geo Davis)
One trail cam. One location. Three months, give or take. Deer. Coyotes. And the transition from winter to spring in the Adirondacks’ Champlain Valley.
Spring Dance: coyote crossing trail camera during spring 2017 (Source: Geo Davis)
The perspective, situated near a fence opening at the transition of scrub forest and meadows offers a glimpse of the dance between ungulates (white tailed deer) and native canids (Eastern coyote). From awkward youngsters to healthy adults to slightly mangy elders, this short series of photographs taken with a relatively unsophisticated trail cam illuminates the springtime interplay of two increasingly ubiquitous species in our local ecosystem.
Oh, yes, there are a couple of human spottings in the video (slide show) above. Who are they? Unfamiliar to me. And unclear what they were were doing wandering this fence line…
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…
Lots and lots of springtails in December 2017 (Source: Geo Davis)
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.
Lots and lots of springtails in December 2017 (Source: Geo Davis)
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)
Lots and lots of springtails in December 2017 (Source: Geo Davis)
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)
Lots and lots of springtails in December 2017 (Source: Geo Davis)
Lots and lots of springtails in December 2017 (Source: Geo Davis)
[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…
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?
I mentioned the other day that frosty, persistent midwinter is the perfect time to get Rosslyn’s lawn and field equipment serviced so that it’s ready for prime time once the snow retreats and the dandelions bloom.
A few days before the tractor was picked up, the folks at Mountain View Equipment (formerly Giroux Brothers) retrieved the John Deere “truckling” for a top-to-bottom Gator service. The machine is a couple of years old, and this is the first time we’ve sent it in for a checkup. The battery has been running down between uses; the left rear side panel is cracked from an encounter with the backhoe teeth; and fluids, filters, etc. were due for a change.
Gator Service & Home Again, Jiggety-Jig
As it turns out, the battery hasn’t been charging since the day we took ownership of the Gator. The in-line fuse that enables the battery to get charged was never installed at the John Deere factory. Hmmm… Quality control?
The v-belt was ready for replacement ($60, ouch!) and the fuel sender was giving inaccurate readings. Not mission critical, but it would be a pain in the posterior to be working in the back meadows and find out that the Gator was out of gas despite a full gauge reading. And the replacement panel was installed. All of the routine maintenance (filters, spark plugs, fluids, etc.) was undertaken including a pressure wash and spit shine. Well, minus the spit, I hope.
Gator service complete.
Gator Service Done, We’re Ready for Spring
With a freshly spruced up Gator, all we need is for the snow to melt and the temperatures to double. And – as if on cue – a blast of warm weather spoiled us on Tuesday (when the Gator was dropped off) despite a blizzard forecast.
In this age of mobile connectivity we’re never far from up-to-the-moment weather advisories and alerts. This winter storm warning interrupted me this morning.
Alert: Winter Storm Warning Winter storm warning now in effect until 11 pm EST this evening. The national weather service in Burlington has extended the winter storm warning for heavy snow and mixed precipitation until 11 pm EST this evening.
Locations The northern Adirondacks of New York as well as central and southern portions of Vermont.
Hazard Types Heavy wet snow and mixed wintry precipitation.
Accumulations Total storm snow accumulation of 8 to 16 inches of heavy dense snow along with around a trace of ice. Locally higher accumulations possible across the higher elevations.
Maximum Snowfall Rate Up to 1 inch per hour mainly this afternoon through evening.
Timing Light snows and occasional light mixed precipitation this morning will become steadier and heavier by this afternoon into this evening.
Impacts Travel conditions will remain difficult to hazardous due to snow covered roads and visibilities occasionally dropping below one half mile. In addition the weight of the snow and light ice accumulations may lead to additional scattered power outages. Snow amounts will vary by elevation with temperatures near freezing and road conditions will be highly variable.
Winds North 5 to 15 mph with gusts up to 30 mph.
Temperatures Steady from the upper 20s to the mid 30s.
The winter storm warning is abbreviated here to avoid the doomsday implications regarding “Precautionary/Preparedness Actions”. An early season heavy snow can be exciting. It might even offer us an opportunity to x-country ski before heading off to Santa Fe in a couple of days. (I’m feeling excitement tempered with the hope that this winter storm warning doesn’t delay our departure… Fingers crossed for the good without the bad!)
Winter storm damage throughout Rosslyn’s woods and meadows.
My enthusiasm for an early season blizzard was rewarded (punished?) severalfold. Be careful what you wish for! Remember the section about potential winter storm damage in my last post?
Impacts Travel conditions will remain difficult to hazardous due to snow covered roads and visibilities occasionally dropping below one half mile. In addition the weight of the snow and light ice accumulations may lead to additional scattered power outages… (via National Weather Service, Alert: Winter Storm Warning)
The weight of the snow was significant not only because of how much snow fell, but also because of how unbelievably wet and dense the snow was. It reminded me of spring snow. Heavy!
The good news is that it looks beautiful. Postcard perfect. Except when you notice the destruction wrought by the weight of the wet snow. That’s the bad news. So many trees were overwhelmed by the snow load. Massive limbs snapped off of numerous white pines. The majority of the birch trees are doubled over. Some will recover. Others will remain bowed forever. And, sadly, a few will snap.
Swinger of Birches
I can’t help but draw upon one of my favorite poems, “Birches” by Robert Frost, albeit with a shadow of sadness. Here are a couple of the most relevant lines. First, this chummy setup.
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do… (The Poetry Foundation)
And then Frost’s melancholic realization that the trees will never reach for the stars again.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. (The Poetry Foundation)
Surveying the Winter Storm Damage
My wish for a x-country ski outing before departing for the holidays was granted, though I might have thought it through more thoroughly before hurling my pipe dream into the falling flakes.
[pullquote]But as we glided into the first wooded area we realized how many trees were broken.[/pullquote]
Susan and I enjoyed the first leg of our ski, from house past the barns and through the orchard. Proceeding through the gates in across the first meadow we were still excited about the fresh snow which so completely blanketed everything.
But as we glided into the first wooded area we realized how many trees were broken. We skied all around the perimeter, and I even attempted a few inner loops. Everywhere devastation. At one point I even had to remove my skies to climb through twisted limbs completely obstructing the trail. Susan waged a valiant war against the limbs still laden but not yet snapped, poking and prodding with her pole to release the snow so the branches could spring up. But there were so many trees and there was so much snow. As darkness fell we glided back to the house with spirits sagging.
I’ll revisit this in a couple of days, perhaps in more detail. Or perhaps just with additional photos. For now I must hustle to get packed…
Sometimes it seems words can get in the way of our will and our wants. Often even. Sometimes words blur or over-focus or misrepresent… But they’re what we’ve got. And so it is that my morning words today, “Midwinter Mending”, endeavor to broadcast my will and want without blurring or over-focusing or misrepresenting. Allow, if you will, that these words are optimistic and matter-of-fact. An apt title for a tiny clutch of poetry that, like a seed perhaps, might germinate and flourish.
Midwinter Mending Haiku
A tiny building on Rosslyn’s waterfront. A tiny poem on a tiny moment like a threshold — midwinter, mid-repair — captured in a snapshot from a close friend. Probably a phone photo. A delicately distorted photo, watercolor-like in it’s impressionist abstraction, not altogether unlike stained glass that offers a fresh perspective on the familiar.
I hope that this haiku will fertilize the Rosslyn boathouse rehab, accelerating its already delayed completion before Lake Champlain’s winds and rising waters and, possibly soon, her ice begin to battle with the dock house. I hope…
Sometimes meteorologists get it right. And Rosslyn’s winter wonderland 2019 just might become Exhibit A in the Meteo Defense column. Thank you, snow gods!
Winter Wonderland 2019: Rosslyn buried in 20-24″ of fresh snow. (Credit: P.M.)
Winter storm warnings wander across our radar often enough this time of year that we become a little meteorology skeptical. Not cynical. Just suspicious that promised snowstorms won’t quite measure up to the hype. Sort of a wait-and-see approach to meteorological forecasting…
But this winter storm was different!
With 20″-24″ of magnificent white stuff blanketing Rosslyn, it’s proof positive that sometimes their predictions are spot on.
Winter Wonderland 2019: Rosslyn’s front entrance buried in 20-24″ of fresh snow. (Credit: R. P. Murphy)
Winter Wonderland 2019: Rosslyn’s carriage barn and ice house buried in 20-24″ of fresh snow. (Credit: R. P. Murphy)
Winter Wonderland 2019: Rosslyn’s “backside” buried in 20-24″ of fresh snow. (Credit: R. P. Murphy)
Winter Wonderland 2019: Rosslyn’s boathouse buried in 20-24″ of fresh snow. (Credit: R. P. Murphy)
Winter Wonderland 2019: Essex ferry approaching Rosslyn’s boathouse. (Credit: R. P. Murphy)
Winter Wonderland 2019: Rosslyn’s stone walls buried in 20-24″ of fresh snow. (Credit: R. P. Murphy)
Spectacular, right? This snowfall reminds me of the snowfalls I remember from my Adirondack childhood in the 1970s and 1980s. Such massive mounds of powdery bliss! I sometimes wonder if my memory has been kidnapped by my imagination, but this winter wonderland is proof that epic snowfalls are real. And magnificent. Time to go outside and play.
I associate amaryllis with the winter holidays. An exotic flower for us, gifted when we’re fortunate, and occupying a central and highly visible perch, usually in the kitchen. Not sure why the kitchen except that there’s water handy, and life revolves around the kitchen this time of year, so the progress — from voluminous bulb to strappy leaves and robust stems to extravagant blooms — is omnipresent. We comment on the the rising and the unfolding, each time surprised by how much grandeur can explode out of that bursting bulb.
And like so many blooms that we cultivate, that we await and monitor and celebrate, the amaryllis is part of the elusive collection-cum-constellation I’ve been attempting to corral, the ingredients for a home. My home. For homeness. My homeness. What makes a house a home? Well, somewhere high on the list are plants. And this time of year there may be no more regal reminder of how beholden I am to these exuberant houseguests.
Today, I’ll defer to these blooms, a gift from our friend, Jennifer Isaacson, and the words of three poets who’ve grappled with the mysterious amaryllis. I’ll start with the two middle stanzas from Connie Wanek’s “Amaryllis”.
Months ago the gigantic onion of a bulb
half above the soil
stuck out its green tongue
and slowly, day by day,
the flower itself entered our world,
closed, like hands that captured a moth,
then open, as eyes open,
and the amaryllis, seeing us,
was somehow undiscouraged.
It stands before us now…
— Connie Wanek, “Amaryllis” (Source: Poetry Foundation)
Superb! This is the procession of anticipated joys, first small, then larger, then bigger than life. From this literal, accessible, potently visual poem of Wanek’s I turn to two separate section in Henri Cole’s “My Amaryllis” that speak to this current journey in ways I can only cite and not explain. Not yet at least. Hopefully soon.
Like my amaryllis, I need a stone in my pot
as a ballast.
— Henri Cole, “My Amaryllis” (Source: The Atlantic)
The enigmatic push-pull I’ve been grappling with lately, this relationship with Rosslyn that has outlived our original expectations fourfold and yet that nurtures us and revitalizes us, the recognition that this ballast rights us in heavy seas, buoys us in a storm, this conundrum cloaked in an evening gown simultaneously whisks me off my feet and holds me steady. Where from here?
Midwinter Amaryllis (Photo: Geo Davis)
At present, the where resolves itself by slipping down a few lines to this.
Vain as Picasso,
mechanical as a beetle, I want to make
a thing I haven’t made that says,
Look how he’s evolved.
— Henri Cole, “My Amaryllis” (Source: The Atlantic)
I’ll step aside and let this stand on its own. Well done, Henri Cole!
Midwinter Amaryllis (Photo: Geo Davis)
And for my last point of reference, my final poetic meditation on the enchanting amaryllis, I refer you to “Amaryllis” by Glen Mott. Of the three, this poem is at once the most complex and the most intoxicating. I’ll spare Mott my clumsy scalpel, resist the temptation to cull lines that resonate, and instead crib the writer’s observation about the poem.
“Desert nightfall in a border town, an evening of estranged emotions at the edge of articulation, harder to name than pliant happiness. Something in the form of an epitaph for lapsed solemnity. A mendicant’s bouquet.” – Glenn Mott (Source: Academy of American Poets)
It’s not often that a footnote to a poem carries the same muscle, music, and mystery as the poetry it seeks to clarify, but there it is. Plaudits, poet.
Midwinter Amaryllis (Photo: Geo Davis)
I imagine that the work of a mosaic artist might not always involve compelling fragments to coalesce around the artist’s vision. I imagine that sometimes it is enough to gather the ingredients, to push them into proximity with one another, and then to retreat. This evening I will test out this theory. Either I will succeed. Or I will fail.
In either case a new blossom is opening, and the midwinter amaryllis will be even more exhilarating tomorrow.
Griffin Considers Winter Solstice: December 22, 2013 (Photo: Geo Davis)
Welcome to day one of the Adirondack Coast‘s coldest season. Today is the winter solstice, the first official day of winter, and — more importantly for the likes of my mother and others who favor longer days and shorter nights — the threshold between the briefest day and the most prolonged night and imperceptibly-but-steadily lengthening daylight. If you live in the North Country it seems peculiar that winter should only have just begun given several weeks of wintery weather. Seasonality, in these parts, might suggest a slightly earlier autumn-to-winter transition, closer to Thanksgiving than to Christmas.
But the choice is ours to remark and not to make, so we soberly observe this hibernal milestone with tempered optimism that sunnier days await us on the other side. And, for the astronomically exuberant, it’s time to celebrate. Cheers!
If you’re longing for more sunlight, Wednesday is a day to celebrate: Dec. 21 is the winter solstice, the shortest day and longest night of the year — and first day of astronomical winter — in the Northern Hemisphere. It’s a sign that longer, brighter days are upon us. (Source: Justin Grieser, “First day of winter: Shortest day, longest night on December 21 solstice“, The Washington Post, December 21, 2022)
But, as with most tidy transitions, this threshold isn’t actually so tidy. Winter solstice may mark the shortest day and the longest night of the year, but the sunrise and sunset equation is slightly more muddled.
The bottom line: mornings will get a bit darker until early January, but we’ve already gained a few minutes of evening light. On balance, daylight will start to increase after Dec. 21, even as winter’s coldest days still lie ahead. (Source: Justin Grieser, “First day of winter: Shortest day, longest night on December 21 solstice“, The Washington Post, December 21, 2022)
So let’s focus on the lengthening days. And, if those increasingly cold days ahead bring snow, then let’s focus on that as well. After all, winter — proper, snowy winter — is one of our four favorite seasons of the year at Rosslyn! It’s a time for dog adventures, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, alpine and telemark skiing, bird feeders flush with avian wildlife, and that unique flavor or crystal clarity that only a subzero morning can catalyze.
Winter Solstice & Onward: December 21, 2022 (Image: Dark Sky)
And speaking of colder days ahead, this screenshot from Dark Sky appears to corroborate the generalization, albeit with a curious exception on Friday. Winter is here, and it looks probably that we’ll be able to enjoy a white Christmas (unless Friday’s warm weather melts the existing snow and delivers rain instead.)
In closing, note that the handsome Labrador retriever atop this post is not Carley, our current dog, but Griffin, a prior pal-o-mine. We lost him just over two years ago, and the ache hasn’t subsided. Maybe with longer, colder days ahead…
