Tag: Seasons

Persimmons & Seasonality
Fuyu Persimmon (Photo: Geo Davis)

I’ve waxed whimsical on autumn before, and I’ve celebrated wonder-filled winter aplenty, but what of the blurry overlap between the two? Well, today I’d like to pause a moment betwixt both current seasons. Or astride the two, one foot in autumn and the other in winter. To borrow a morning metaphor from my breakfast, let’s pause for persimmons (as a way to grok — and hopefully embrace — our present seasonality.)

What?!?!

For the time being let’s sidestep the vexing fact that almost a dozen years into cultivating three persimmon trees in Rosslyn’s orchard we’ve never produced a single edible persimmon. Instead let’s look at persimmoning in terms of this morning’s sweet and sour, ripe and rotten persimmon episode.

Fuyu Persimmon, Sliced (Photo: Geo Davis)

I’ve been monitoring two pretty persimmons in the fruit bowl. I’ve been checking them daily for ripeness. Firm, firm, firm, less firm, slightly supple, soft, ready! Or so I thought this morning. I lifted the first much anticipated fruit in the lightless shadows of 5:00am. If felt perfect. I gathered the second and grabbed a small cutting board. I prefer to allow my mornings to illuminate naturally, calibrating by circadian rhythms holistically, so I generally avoid turning on the lights, even this time of year when 5:00am is still shoe polish dark. As I prepared to plunge a knife into the first persimmon, I detected something unsettling. The slick surface of the persimmon had a fuzzy spot about the size of a quarter. I turned on the light, low, but enough to show that I’d missed my moment with the persimmon. It was rotten. Moldy. Both. I’d literally been checking daily, often lifting both fruit from the bowl to examine them, but somehow this previously perfect fruit had suddenly become rotten. The second fruit showed not fuzzy rot spot. I carefully cut out the leafy stem, and sniffed the inside of the persimmon. Perfection. Somewhere between the consistency of gelatinous custard and viscous liquid, the persimmon was divine.

Fuyu Persimmon, Sliced (Photo: Geo Davis)

At this point seasoned persimmon aficionados are aware that I’ve been recounting an experience with hachiya persimmons (rather than fuyu persimmons), and the photos portray the latter. You are correct astute reader/persimmon connoisseur. And as my prologue likely betrays this morning’s experience was not well suited to photography. But it did remind me of a previous persimmon apropos of the actual topic I’d expected to explore in this post (but have so far mostly skirted.) And that memory, of a similar morning anticipating and then partially enjoying a persimmon is what lead me to these photographs. Why partially, I can hear you think. I partially enjoyed that persimmon, a fuyu persimmon, because the first few slices were ripe and delicious. But partway though the small fruit the sweet turned to astringent. And this puckering experience is a sure sign that the fruit is not yet fully ripe. Now, lest I’m misleading you again, I’m sorry to say, the photographs in this post are not of that persimmon either, though they are, in fact a fuyu persimmon. And, as a discerning eye might note, this photographed persimmon was delicious throughout.

So why all the persimmoning? The memories of this morning’s fruit and the part ripe, part unripe fruit a year or two ago, offer me a glimpse into the sort of autumn-into-winter transition we’re in right now. Almost ready, almost ready, over ready! And sometimes ripe and unripe at the same time. And, as I understand it, persimmons are often culturally associated with joy, good fortune, and longevity. I am hopeful that our present season change, still in limbo, but creeping closer and closer to that transition from autumning to wintering, from autumn vibes to winter vibes, might — like persimmons in the best of circumstances — may portent joy, goof fortune, and longevity for the rehabilitation projects underway in the icehouse, the boathouse, and our home.

1-1/2” ZIP System insulated panels reading for installation (Photo: Hroth Ottosen)

Willing Winter Away a Little Longer

There’s something meditative about this time of year, a marginal meditation on interstices, on the span between autumn and winter, harvesting and larder hunting, biking and skiing, Thanksgiving and Christmas,… This liminal space is tied with winter-to-spring for most dramatic transitions in the circle of seasonality. And yet some years, this year, the switch is far from binary. There are moments when we appear to be on the crux, the hinging moment between the most abundant season and the leanest season. And other moments we’re currently in both concurrently. Ripe and rotten. Well, not rotten, really, but in terms of exterior carpentry, the going gets exponentially more challenging once snow arrives and temperatures plunge.

And so, for a while longer, we’re willing winter away. Tomorrow we’ll be installing the first round of spray foam insulation inside the icehouse, and we’ll *hopefully* begin installing the ZIP System paneling outside the icehouse. In other words, we’re getting really close to having the icehouse ready for winterier weather. The boathouse isn’t really winterizable, however, and temperate conditions are a huge boon as we forge ahead. At the risk of temping fate I’ll admit that it’s almost as if nature is holding her breath, stalling between autumn and winter. With luck, we’ll be able to take advantage of a little more borrowed time. But she can’t hold her breath forever, and we’re all aware of that…

Autumning: haiku
```
Contented, hearthside,
contemplating afternoon,
crackles mesmerize.
```
This non-harvest, autumning haiku was born of Carley‘s lethargic mid-morning siesta by the fireplace. Contentment, canine style. It’s a tough life.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CljJSOFgoFV/

Wintering: unhaiku
```
Between blushing vegetation
and gingerbread outbuildings,
what name for this season?

Hustling pre-hibernation and 
melting flurries with breath,
what post apple appellation?
What pre skating designation?

I echo my own refrain again
into the autumn interstices
ringing with wintering song.
```
Willing Autumn Linger Longer

Like ripening persimmons, the transition from unripe to overripe happens whether we’re watching for it or not. Likewise fall vibes have been exiting gradually, and winter’s stark contrasts have been insinuating themselves into the autumnless voids. It’s inevitable that winter will arrive, and it will be glorious in its own right when it does. But here’s hoping fortune smiles upon us a little longer, that we can dwell in this construction-centric liminality for another week or three. Or right up until Christmas!
December 4, 2022
Bobcat Blurring

I spy a bobcat blurring brookside, loping contentedly across a path padded with pine needles. Do you see what I see? S/he’s pretty well camouflaged in the range of rusty hues filling the majority of this image. But look for the lean, well muscled legs, the bobbed tail, and the pointy ears with a spray of white fur behind and below each tuft. Now do you see the bobcat blurring up the trail from left to right, ascending just swiftly enough to challenge the wildlife camera’s focus.

Bobcat Blurring (Note: date should be 2022) (Source: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)

It’s been a while since we’ve observed a bobcat blurring or otherwise, so this hind quarter, fleeting glance will have to do for now. From what I can see, she’s (yes, I’m committing, perhaps erroneously, but she strikes me a lithe and feminine!) a slender but healthy wild cat patrolling her territory, wayfaring the wildway, perhaps pursuing a mate, or perhaps just hunting for lunch. Perhaps all of the above…

We’re fortunate to share Rosslyn’s fields and forests with so many wild neighbors, and this is due in no small part to the conscientious efforts of our close friend and Rosslyn’s wildlife steward, John Davis (@wildwaystrekker), who patrols these acres year round monitoring the health and wellbeing of the the flora and fauna. I share this post today in part as a retrospective on recent bobcat sightings, but foremost to reiterate our gratitude to John for his gentle vigilance and guidance. His collaboration has catalyzed our hopes of rewilding much of Rosslyn’s land, ensuring a welcoming and safe wildlife sanctuary not only for bobcats, but for all of the wild neighbors that enrich our North Country life.

And, with respect to the bobcat blurring image above, we thank you, John, for checking the wildlife cameras on your final day of freedom before entering hip replacement surgery. Certainly you have more pressing priorities, but you took the time and made the labored effort (given the condition of your hip) to hike deep in to Rosslyn’s backland to check cameras. Thank you! May your recovery be swift and 100% successful.

Backward Review of Bobcats Past

Given the recent laps in bobcat (Lynx rufus) images, I’d like to gather some previous fortunate captures into a quick retrospective.

On January 13, 2016 I shared a bobcat sighting in Rosslyn’s forested backland, and then a week later shared a Chimney Point bobcat sighting on the Essex on Lake Champlain community blog. Roughly a year later, in the winter of 2017, I shared more bobcat images from one of our trail cameras.

About that time I shared another post on the Essex blog that has mysterious vanished, a bit like our wild feline neighbors who allow us but a fleeting glimpse — and then only if we’re exceptionally fortunately — before dissolving into their immediate surroundings. What does remain from that blog post is a poetic pull that I excerpted elsewhere.

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)

Perhaps it’s the bobcat’s wandering ways that accounts for the fine reward when we’re actually able to set eyes upon this miniature housing of the mountain lion.

In March of 2016 I encouraged John to amplify our understanding of Lynx rufus, and he obliged with a pair of posts on the Essex blog that are well worth a read. Here’s a compelling introduction to the first post.

Imagine your housecat at her finest, add fifteen pounds of muscle and brain, make her even more symmetrical and athletic, shorten her tail, enhance her beauty, and you have the basic image of a Bobcat. — John Davis (Source: Lynx rufus: Our Resilient Bobcat)

John offered a more concerned perspective and context in his second post.

Many of the once great wildcats of North America have been persecuted to extinction or have had their numbers dramatically decreased. In my previous post, “Lynx rufus: Our Resilient Bobcat,” I explained how the Bobcat has persevered in our region; however, some are pushing to begin or extend killing seasons on this predator who plays an important role in the wild. — John Davis (Source: Why Bobcats Should Be Protected)

Now’s a perfect point to abbreviate this post, but to balance the bobcat blurring above, I’ll remind you of a few other recent wildlife photos that I’ve shared on Instagram over the last couple of years. Enjoy these majestic cats, starting with this March 3, 2021 post.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CL9gCnNA0wg/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

It’s hard not to see a big of a tiger in that robust cat. Here’s another image that I shared on March 14, 2021.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CMa9lzTAE-K/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

Earlier this year, on February 19, 2022, this sturdy bobcat made a few appearances.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CaKvnfmuNpL/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

And the next set of images that I posted on February 23, 2022 appears to show a different bobcat.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CaV6-GquRSo/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

One small takeaway from this series of bobcat images captured in Rosslyn’s fields and forests is that the best bobcat images are captured when the environment is snowy. Perhaps the cameras trigger better? Certainly the cats’ coats stand out better when photographed against a snowy backdrop. And this, of course, is good news as we head into snowier and snowier months along the Adirondack Coast. I will hope to have some new images to share with you soon.

December 23, 2022
February Swim in Lake Champlain

February Swim: Griffin’s late February 2017 “polar bear plunge”. (Source: Geo Davis)

February swim, anyone? In Lake Champlain?!?!

[pullquote]Griffin “polar bear plunges” in 35° Lake Champlain… mid-winter swimming bliss![/pullquote]

Griffin, our now almost nine year old Labrador Retriever, was thrilled with to chase some throw-toys in the chilly lake today despite the fact that it’s February 19 and the water temperature is exactly three days above freezing… 35° of mid-winter swimming bliss!

Here’s a fuzzy but joyful glimpse into one of about a dozen of Griffin’s “polar bear plunges”.

We just returned to Essex and were quite excited about the recent snowfall. Last year’s virtually snowless winter was a bummer. No skiing in winter followed by alarmingly low lake levels due to unusually low levels of spring melt and runoff. Up until the last couple of weeks this winter has been similarly snow-free, so having a chance to spend the morning cross country skiing around Rosslyn’s woods, trails, and meadows with my bride and dog was a welcome change. And the perfect warm-up for Griffin’s February swim…

February 19, 2017
Bobcat Sighting

Bobcat Sighting on January 2, 2016 in Essex, NY.

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.

Bobcat photographed on Rosslyn trail cam January 2, 2016.

Bobcat photographed on Rosslyn trail cam January 2, 2016.

Bobcat photographed on Rosslyn trail cam January 2, 2016.

I look forward to other surprises over the course of the winter. Thanks, John, for another Rosslyn safari installment!

Bobcat Behavior

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…

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January 13, 2016
Seasonality
Seasonality: Autumn (Source: Geo Davis)

Seasonality might strike you as a strange menu for organizing a blog (and an even stranger way to navigate a narrative.) But in many respects it may well be the *only* useful way to structure a circular story that’s slim on plot, chronically achronological, and deeply immersed in the poetics of place.

Summer’s End

As if on cue, rain,
frost, acrimonious wind
summon summer’s end.
— Geo Davis

I often romance sunrise and to a lesser degree, sunset, powerful circadian rhythm markers. There are likewise singularly potent seasonal markers along our Adirondack shore of Lake Champlain that punctuate notable transitions, from summer-to-autumn, for example. Some are relatively fluid such as hauling and winterizing the boats, removing the docks, and the colorful drama of our much anticipated fall foliage. Each of these examples are determined approximately by the calendar but more precisely by weather changes, prevailing temperatures, the scheduling particularities of our protean paths through life, etc. Less fluid examples of seasonality during this same period include harvesting ripe apples in the orchard, first hard frost of the autumn, and the mysteriously consistent Labor Day weekend meteorological shift. With respect to this last marker, most years we enjoy a lengthy “Indian summer”, but Labor Day — with startling predictability — plunges us into chilly, usually rainy weather as if on cue.

Seasonality: Winter (Source: Geo Davis)

What Is Seasonality?

The concept of seasonality is often cited in the context of business (i.e. financial market and sales forecasting) and healthcare (i.e. patient and virus fluctuations), but let’s consider the idea of seasonality in a less confined context. Let’s look at the root of the word, for starts. Season. I imagine we’re all pretty clear what we mean when referencing the annual rhythm of the seasons, the periodic ebb and flow of monthly rituals, and even their fluctuations in variations. Seasonality is those periodic patterns, variations that recur at predictable or semi predictable intervals year after year.

Seasonality: Spring (Source: Geo Davis)

Rosslyn Seasonality

Our mind easily conceives of seasonality’s periodic points, references for rhythm and repetition, but I think we might need to do a little more work to grok the idea of seasonally recurring events and transitions at Rosslyn, so let’s push a little further.

In keeping with my goal to curate and convey the narrative of our Rosslyn years I’m essaying to distill and disentangle, gather cohesive collections, often thematically tied, sometimes chronologically structured, and often enough coalescing around seasonality. Excuse the clunkiness. It’s a work in progress.

I have remarked elsewhere that Susan and I aspired to recalibrate our lives when we moved from Manhattan to Essex. It was a desire to embrace the art of a slow living. Part intentionality and part immersion in the here and now. We yearned to savor the unique gifts of each passing period of the year. It was a comprehensive paradigm shift away from our habitual efficiency and productivity and busyness, and it wasn’t an easy shift. It was a paradigm shift toward creativity not only in the most active sense of making, but also in the embrace of essentialism. A mindfulness focused on learning and appreciating and investing ourselves in the many microscopic moments of homeownership and rehabilitation and adaptation and outdoor living and gardening and sporting recreation and… living fully and intentionally all of the magnificent processes of our new existence. Yielding to seasonality meant rebooting our lives and our work from New York City to upstate New York, from the quintessential metropolitan hub to its veritable antithesis. It meant homemaking in the North Country, only 5+ hours away by car but a world away in terms of the rhythms and rituals, and even many of the values.

So, what sorts of seasonality, what specific rhythms help punctuate our Rosslyn lifestyle?

I will try to jumpstart your navigation through Rosslyn seasonality with prior posts that offer glimpses into precise instances of seasonality. I will continue to update this post as I revisit and revise older posts and as I compose new ones. If you’re inclined to seasonality as a way of organizing your own experiences, please bookmark this post and reference it in the future as a window into our Rosslyn adventure. (And if you find the idea too contrived or too procrustean for your taste, rest assured, there are a great many other ways for you to navigate this mosaic-memoir.)

Seasonality: Summer (Source: Geo Davis)

Try These Posts

Consider this an evolving outline of my posts explicitly or implicitly treating the topic of seasonality. I will revisit and update when helpful.
- December 2014: “In recent years December has given us our first real blast of winter. A premature blast usually because early December snows have usually melted by Christmas…”
- De-Icing the Duck Pond: “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.”
- Winter Wonderland 2019: “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…”
- February Swim in Lake Champlain: “February swim, anyone? In Lake Champlain?!?! Griffin, our now almost nine year old Labrador Retriever, was thrilled to chase some throw-toys in the chilly lake today despite the fact that it’s February 19 and the water temperature is exactly three days above freezing… 35° of mid-winter swimming bliss!”
- Spring Dance: Coyotes and White Tail Deer: “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 Meditation 2018: “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.”
- Moist May 2017: “The Lake Champlain water level is ever-so-slowly dropping, but it’s premature to rule out the possibility of hitting (or even exceeding) flood stage. At present, there’s about a foot of clearance between the bottom of Rosslyn boathouse’s cantilevered deck and the glass-flat water surface. Windy, wavy days are another story altogether.”
- Spring Soggies & Blooms: “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.”
- First Peaches: “It’s but a month and a day after Independence Day and we’re eating our first peaches of the season. Eureka! So memorable a moment each summer when I savor the first bites of the first peaches of the season that I’ve begun to wonder if we might need to create a floating holiday. It’s hard to conceive of a better cause for celebration.”
- Septembering: “September 1 should logically be indistinguishable from August 31. But it’s not. Seasonality along the Adirondack Coast is irrefutable, and possibly no season-to-season transition more apparent than the one we’re now experiencing. “Septembering” is neither sly nor subtle.”
- Undocking: “Once upon a time undocking referred to a boat pulling away from a dock, a ship disembarking from a pier. At Rosslyn we also use the term to describe the annual autumn removal of docks (and boat lift) from Lake Champlain…”
- Waterfront Winterization: “There comes a time each autumn when summer has faded and winter is whispering over the waves. Or when work, travel, something eclipses the languid stretch of fall boating and watersports. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, and as inevitable and bittersweet as fall foliage, waterfront winterization is an annual ritual that braces us practically and emotionally for the North Country’s frosty November through February.”
- Autumn Aura on the Adirondack Coast: “An autumn aura is descending upon the Adirondack Coast. Autumn colors, autumn lighting, autumn sounds (think southward-flying Canada Geese), autumn textures (think crisp leaves eddying and frosted grass underfoot), autumn smells, and autumn flavors…”
- October Wind, Canada Geese and Essex DNA: “Despite the on-again-off-again Indian Summer that we’ve enjoyed this autumn, there have been some bracing days, many like the one captured in these photos. Picture perfect. Bluebird skies and sunshine. But crisp. And windy.”
September 9, 2022
Leaf Peeping in the High Peaks

Adirondack Fall Foliage

On Wednesday afternoon my bride and I departed Essex and headed south on Interstate 87. Driving one of the Adirondack highway’s most handsome stretches always affords decadent views, but yesterday spoiled us with near peak Adirondack fall foliage.

It was breathtaking despite overcast conditions. The flat light desaturated autumn’s cacophonous palette, rendering a landscape more nuanced than the scenes typically conjured up on postcards, calendars and television cutaways. This was especially true in higher elevations of the High Peaks where damp leaves and wispy mist intensified my melancholic, almost nostalgic longing.

Leaf Peeping and Longing

But a longing for what? For High Peaks hiking and climbing and camping and fly fishing, perhaps. Or canoeing lazy Adirondack rivers, the crystal clear water at once reflecting fiery leaves on the surface and revealing those that have drifted down to the pebbled bottom, a sort of autumnal double vision. Or is the longing more abstract? An invitation to flip through dusty photo albums of autumns past, or an unanticipated, uninvited glimpse of mortality, the bittersweet knowledge that today’s bounty is tomorrow’s compost.

Adirondack Chair (Photo: jeffsmallwood)

It is all of this, I suspect. And more. Autumn is a welcome reprieve from heat and humidity and — for a few fleeting weeks — the weather and light reinvigorate me like an old country elixir that makes me happy and alert and energetic. After months of nursing seedlings, weeding vegetables, pruning fruit shrubs, trees and vines, fall is the long anticipated harvest. It is a time of abundance in so many tangible and intangible ways. Ever since my school days fall has marked the end of carefree summer adventures, but at the ripe old age of forty I have discovered that it also marks the beginning of some of the best sailing and windsurfing and waterskiing and cycling, luxuries I couldn’t enjoy when school blotted out all these activities. If Norman Rockwell had developed a theme park it would have looked and felt and smelled and tasted an awful lot like Adirondack autumn.

Removing ourselves from familiar environs inspires reflection, reminding us what is unique about the place we live. Wednesday’s visual banquet was no exception. Living in Essex, Lake Champlain influences many aspects of our life, autumn among them. Unlike the Adirondack High Peaks, Essex remains temperate longer in the fall. Our growing season is extended. In fact, the USDA recognized this fact during the last year and actually changed the hardiness zone for the Champlain Valley to Zone 5. Whether climate change or just the “lake effect” resulting from Lake Champlain’s immense, slow-to-cool thermal mass, Essex enjoys a unique microclimate.

Essex Leaf Peeping

For this reason, the leaf peeping in Essex trails the rest of the Adirondacks. The towering maple trees in front of Rosslyn remain vibrant green except for a slight blush on a few leaves. Wandering through the back meadows a couple of days ago I was hard pressed to identify any trees that were already flaunting their fall wardrobes.

Fall into Autumn (Photo: hsuyo)

In many respects a quintessential Adirondack village, leaf peeping in the High Peaks reminded me of yet another Essex exception. While most are quick to focus on Essex’s historic and architectural distinction, our climate is often overlooked as are the ways that nature and agriculture are affected by our often milder weather. The richness of life in Essex in no small part hinges upon the proximity to both.

Adirondacks vs. Adirondack Coast

I close this meandering reflection on Adirondack fall foliage with a forty five minute bicycle ride I enjoyed mid-day on Monday. I had pedaled away from Essex shortly after lunch, headed due west toward the Adirondack foothills. The weather in Essex was sunny and warm with a light breeze. There were clouds in the sky but not indication that I would encounter adverse weather conditions.

The Day the Gingko Leaves Fell (Photo: G.G. Davis, Jr.)

But I did. As I gained in altitude the temperature dropped steadily and the wind increased. The clouds thickened and I became more and more aware of the humidity. I was bicycling quickly, laboriously uphill, so the dropping temperatures were compensating for my overheating body. And then it began to rain. Not a downpour, but a steady, cold drizzle. Wind in my face. Colder still. I reached the furthest point in my loop and turned southward and then eventually eastward back toward Essex.

When I dropped in elevation and swapped woods for fields, the rain and wind subsided. The clouds thinned. Sunshine made it’s way through enough to restore vibrant autumn colors to the landscape. As I rode past Full and By Farm I realized that the temperature had also changed. The air was warming. Was I imagining it? I paid closer attention. By the time I started my final descent into Essex from the intersection of Middle Road and NYS Rt. 22 it was clear. The air was growing warmer the closer I got to Lake Champlain. In just over a dozen pedaled miles I had witnessed a range of at least 10 degrees Fahrenheit.

No wonder our Essex fall foliage is a week or two behind the High Peaks!

September 28, 2012
Essex-Charlotte Canal

Ever seen the Essex-Charlotte Canal? Snapshot from an icy ferry crossing on February 19, 2014.

The Essex-Charlotte Canal offers a chilly commute, but it sure beats 3-4 lanes of traffic jammed, coffee guzzling, angry drivers on a thruway…

It’s not every winter that we get to enjoy the ferry commute between Essex, New York and Charlotte, Vermont (remember when the Champlain Bridge was closed for demolition/replacement?), but the “landlocked” winters certainly do make us appreciate it when Lake Champlain Transportation keeps the ferry open. And this winter has provided plenty of ice to make it challenging, but the boat, captains and crew have endured. Thank you for creating and maintaining the Essex-Charlotte Canal!

Essex-Charlotte Canal Confusion?

By the way, if you’ve discovered this post by mistake, you’re probably looking for the Champlain Canal, not the Essex-Charlotte Canal. The former has been in existence since 1823, about the same time that Rosslyn was constructed (and probably one of the ways that non-local materials were transported to Essex for construction, furnishing, etc.). The latter, the “Essex-Charlotte Canal” I reference in this post, is a figment of my icy imagination. And the collective experiences of the LCT captains and crews, and most every ferry commuter who’s crossed Lake Champlain in the last month or so! But you won’t find it on any maps…

February 19, 2014
Mallard Jacuzzi

Mallard Jacuzzi, February 9, 2014 (Photo: Geo Davis)

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…

Ducks at Dawn on Icy Lake

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…)

Mallard Jacuzzi or Bald Eagle Buffet

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.

February 9, 2014
Fall Foliage

Fall Foliage 2022 (Credit: R.P. Murphy)

Pam captured the boisterous drama of fall foliage currently at Rosslyn. The Adirondack Coast tends to lag the High Peaks and other more central regions of the Adirondacks. Many of those cooler interior zones are predicting peak fall foliage this weekend. Others have already peaked. But at Rosslyn we’re still straddling the verdant afterglow of summer and the brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows of mid autumn.

[Fall foliage] leaf peeping in Essex trails the rest of the Adirondacks. The towering maple trees in front of Rosslyn remain vibrant green except for a slight blush on a few leaves. (Source: Leaf Peeping in the High Peaks – Rosslyn Redux)

With Lake Champlain functioning as an immense heat sink, cooler temperatures are moderated, and fall foliage colors the canopy a little later.

Icehouse with Fall Foliage 2022 (Credit: Hroth Ottosen)

The perspective of Hroth’s icehouse rehab with fall foliage backdrop tied together two highlight of Rosslyn’s current transition. The gaping aperture’s in the icehouse, the ladder, and the blushing maple tree tell a story. If you listen, you may well discern the plot.

Barns with Fall Foliage 2022 (Credit: Hroth Ottosen)

Another perspective photographed reminds us that fall is here. Autumn vibes abound in this image made west of the barns, looking eat at the back of the carriage barn and the icehouse, still early in rehabilitation process.

Fall Foliage 2022 (Credit: Hroth Ottosen)

Walking further west, toward the setting sun, away from Rosslyn’s barns, Hroth took another photo combining the still blooming annuals beds with the maple trees. Layers ion layers of autumn colors…

I close with a hat tip to Pam and Hroth for capturing the spirit of this transitional time. With peak foliage soon upon us, and then the steady journey toward winter, progress on the icehouse rehab, boathouse gangway, and waterfront stairway will be increasingly important. We’re racing against the elements! (But there’s always time to slow down and appreciate the magnificent world of change around us.)

October 12, 2022
Need a Hand?
Rosslyn boathouse in distance, upended 16′ dock section in foreground

“Hey!” I looked up toward Route 22 and saw C.G. Stephens climbing over the guardrail. “Need a hand?”

It was the first time since our boathouse and waterfront had been submerged that anyone had offered assistance.

“Thanks. I really appreciate it,” I answered. I wanted to run up the hill and hug him, tell him how good it felt to be asked. But I didn’t. I was waist deep in thirty eight degree lake water, propping a portable dock up on the stone terrace to keep it from floating away. “Actually, I’m pretty good now. But thanks.”

Two sections of aluminum docking had gotten twisted and battered by waves and floating logs, and this morning the larger of the two had been knocked over the lowest stone retaining wall and lay upended on the submerged beach. Because the water’s now over my head on the beach and my waders only reach up to my chest, I had to work carefully from the terrace above the beach, slowly hauling the dock back up, waves and gravity working against me.

Can’t fight nature! Doorless, flooded Rosslyn boathouse.

Before recovering the docks I waded through the boathouse. We’re no longer able to shut the main door because the water has swollen the bottom half too much to fit in the doorjamb. The water’s now thirteen inches deep inside, covering the first step and part of the second step leading up to the second floor. The two louvered doors leading out to the pier on the lake side had been battered all night by the waves, and the hinges were ripping. The temporary fastener we’d used to secure the doors was gauging the waterlogged wood. I released the doors and opened them wide, holding one side back with a rope and the other side back with a large stone. Now the water is surging through the inside of the boathouse, still tugging the doors against their restraints, but hopefully the damage will be less severe with them open.

C.G. and I stood on the bank for a few minutes, talking about the water level, the flooding and the beautiful morning. He said goodbye and headed back up to his big pickup truck idling on the shoulder of the road.

“Thanks for stopping,” I said as he left.

I took a few photos and headed back up to the house to find my bride.

“I’ve just had one of those Ah-ha! moments,” I explained. I told her about C.G. stopping and offering to help. “I finally realize what’s been bugging me; nobody’s offered a hand.”

I’ve been practically morose for the last few days as Lake Champlain water levels climbed and climbed and climbed. I assumed it was just an emotional reaction to watching our dreams and hard work getting swallowed up by floodwaters. An investment under water. After all, it was the boathouse that had pulled my imagination ever since I was a boy. It was the boathouse that had seduced us and won our hearts each time we visited the house with our realtor. It was the boathouse which had provoked a disproportionate amount of anxiety during renovation, which had posed three years of permitting and engineering and construction challenges, which had drained our coffers and strained relationships with contractors. It was the boathouse that most represented the lifestyle choice which compelled us to leave Manhattan and begin a new life in Essex. It was the boathouse which starred in recent memories of swimming and waterskiing and windsurfing and kayaking with our nieces, nephews, family and friends. It is the boathouse that is celebrated by local artists in exhibition after exhibition. It is the boathouse that adorns postcards and book covers and brochures and newspaper articles over the last hundred years. It is the historic boathouse that was resuscitated by the inspiration and perspiration of so many people over the last few years. Obviously watching the water swallow it up is unnerving. And waking up in the middle of the night, hearing the wind, worrying that the waves will unleash a floating log like a battering ram against the walls or the columns or the railings…

But three words, “Need a hand?”, illuminated the lightbulb for me. Literally hundreds of friends and strangers have stopped to photograph the submerged waterfront and boathouse. Emails, Facebook messages, Twitter tweets and photographs have flooded in. Sincere condolences and flip observations have lightened the mood. Even a few aesthetic and philosophical reflections have attempted to reframe the scenario. “But until C.G. stopped, nobody’s offered assistance. Is that strange to you?”

My bride listened. She agreed. She’d noticed the same thing.

“And, CG, though I’ve known him for at least twenty years, maybe more, isn’t even a particularly close friend. He’s more of an acquaintance, not somebody I would’ve bothered with a request for help.”

Susan told me that on Friday night over pizza at Dogwood, one of her closest friends had dismissed the flooded boathouse with a cavalier, “Oh, you can always rebuild it.”

Right. We can always rebuild it.

Rosslyn boathouse with Kestrel

Only, we can’t. Rosslyn’s boathouse is historic, built most likely in the late 1800s. It is a part of the historic architectural heritage of Essex, NY. History can not be rebuilt. It can be replaced with a facsimile.

Only, in the case of Rosslyn’s boathouse, it probably could not. Having been through the complex, multi-authority permitting needed for our original rehabilitation of the boathouse, I can say that if it were dismantled beyond repair, it is very likely that we would not be granted permission to rebuild it. New structures of this sort in the Adirondack Park have been disallowed for many years, and depending on the degree of damage to the structure, rebuilding is not a foregone conclusion.

And even if it were, the time, labor and material resources alone would be prohibitive. Flood insurance has not been an option. It is a boathouse after all. And even though there is absolutely no historic precedent for Lake Champlain to flood this high, insurance does not offer the safety net that it might for our house or carriage barn.

And then there is the human capital that it took to rehabilitate this structure. Mine. My bride’s. Several engineers. Between three and four dozen contractors, carpenters, laborers, painters and landscapers. Literally thousands and thousands of hours. Sweat and patience and dreams. People working in some of the most challenging conditions — forming and pouring concrete in freezing water; steel construction in snowy, windy winter; roof shingling and copper flashing in scorching summer — to save and restore a building that has greeted Essex residents and visitors for well over a century.

In other words, we can’t “just rebuild it.” And the notion that a close friend who witnessed Rosslyn’s rehabilitation from beginning to end wouldn’t see that surprised us both.

Why the self-pitying post?

Actually, it’s not self-pitying. Or, hopefully it’s not. I realize I’ve flown pretty close to the woe-is-me frontier, but I’ve tried to stay out of the No Fly Zone. I’m not asking for pity. Frankly, I’m not asking for a hand. Not yet. I’m keeping my fingers crossed and my psychic energy focused like a laser beam on dry, windless days until Lake Champlain’s water level drops two feet.

We’re resilient. A boathouse is a luxury, a folly, a non-essential, but we’re confident and optimistic that our funny little building on a pier in Essex will endure the flood, take on a handsome weathered patina and slip soon into the realm of “Remember when…”

So, if this isn’t a self-pitying post, what’s the take-away? If you’re a corporate speak aficionado, the take-away is empathy trumps apathy. Every time. And consider offering a hand when your friends might need it, even if you think they’ll decline, even if you’re not sure how you can help. Intention needs no translation.

On that note, if you’re anywhere near Essex, NY or Westport, NY consider offering a hand to the Old Dock Restaurant, Essex Shipyard & Rudder Club, Essex Marina, Normandie Beach Resort, Westport Marina and Camp Dudley. All of them are coping with Lake Champlain flooding, and even if they decline your offer of assistance, I suspect they will be genuinely flattered that you offered.

And, to close on a less preachy note, here are some of the more unique messages that I’ve received over the last few days:
- “Global warming.” ~ Charlie Davis
- “People pay a lot of money to have an indoor pool… I hope it’s heated.” ~ Michelle Rummel
- “I got some great photos with the ducks swimming by, though. It’s all in the name of art…” ~ Catherine Seidenberg
- “So sorry about your boathouse! Those pictures were so beautiful and so sad!” ~ Elena Borstein
- “Maybe you can start your own ferry service – is it time to ski to Charlotte?” ~ Bobbi Degnan
- “I suppose the bright side is that you can fish inside it…” ~ Paul Rossi
- “I am all for starting a nice water taxi service, the Venice of the Adirondacks…” ~ Linda Coffin
- “Still a beautiful boathouse even underwater.” ~ Matilde Busana
- “Let’s all move to Flagstaff!” ~ Chris Casquilho
- “I always thought it would be cool to live in that boat house with the lake and all… never quite meant it so literally though…” ~ Kevin Cooper
- “Sad. But maybe there’s a children’s book there?” ~ Amy Guglielmo
- “George is using him mind control on the lake. Watch it recede as he uses his awesome powers.” ~ Kathryn Cramer
- “Heck, Catherine and I canoed through your boathouse today… We were very careful!” ~ Tom Duca
May 1, 2011
Orchard Harvests
Recent nights are feeling more September than August, and even some of the days. Dry heat (trending cooler) during the daytime, and crisp-to-chilly at night. This bodes well for apples, pears, grapes,… And so my mind is in the orchard.

Orchard Harvests (Source: Geo Davis)

Holistic orcharding has forged a gradual, intimate familiarity with my trees and with their habits. Harvest time offers confirmation and encouragement, but also occasional frustration and puzzlement. A bountiful harvest. A meager harvest. Coloration. Flavor. Texture. Orcharding and gardening hone appreciation for seasonality, serving is delightful reminders to remain humble and grateful, but also to aspire and stretch and explore. I am struck by the fact that no to harvest are identical. We cannot map one growing season onto another without blurring the picture.

Orchard Harvests Haiku
```
Orcharding seasons
overlaid year upon year,
harvests offset, fugue.
                      — Geo Davis 

   
  
 
 
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```
August 29, 2022
October Rain
October Rain (Source: Geo Davis)

Sometimes it’s as if frames from two different films overlap. For a moment. Sometimes longer. Occasionally the overlapping images complement one another, but often the experience is jarring. Confusing. Unsettling.

Seasons bleed into one another playfully, testing our agility, our resilience. Far-flung geographies, domiciles, and life stages muddle, merge, and drift apart again. Our worlds intermingle. For a moment. Sometimes longer.

October Rain, Wordy
```
Tell me a story
of prism pocks on pears.
Sing me a song 
of raindrops on apples.
Pen me a poem
of flickering daylight,
flirting with nightfall;
of sleepless longing
for toil-oiled muscles
and limber limbed spring;
of sauntering through
my cherished orchard
in sultry summer,
still oblivious to
the dreary drama
of October rain.
```
October Rain, Visual

Sometimes poetry leans on language, word bricks and word mortar, to sculpt a song or a story. Sometimes vision is enough to free the singing underneath…

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CjYQvj3AtKY/

October Rain, Singalong

Another perspective on October Rain just might wiggle it’s way into your mental repeat. I happened upon the subtly hypnotic jingle by Robin Jackson, and now it’s continuous looping like a subconscious 8-track tape in my graying gray matter.

Mostly October is crisp and clear along the Adirondack Coast. Quintessential autumn. But exceptions and rules are made in mysterious ways…
October 6, 2022