Plain as cuspid skull, winter’s lumbering bandit, furred, furtive, no more.
Sometime poems, even haiku, compose themselves. Or nearly so.
When I reached out to ask if anyone recognized the skull that appeared mysteriously behind the carriage barn recently, I received several helpful responses. Joel (@mountain_man_fur) and Heather (@evergreen_lakeside_living) were the most prompt and the most decisive. Raccoon. The skull was once the proud noggin of a raccoon (Procyon lotor). Some quick research cross referencing visuals, and I agreed.
This sent me digging back into our trail cam photos and videos from last fall, winter, and spring.
Rosslyn Raccoon (Source: Geo Davis)
I included a mini video on Instagram. Portly raccoon swaggering, lumbering into and past the camera.
At root, this is a memento mori, of sorts. A reminder of the fleeting gift of mortality. Won’t dwell in that further now. Instead I’ll close with the first visual to confirm the raccoon hypothesis.
Year End Yearling (Photo: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)
This whitetail deer yearling (or a precocious fawn perhaps?) is as curious about one of our wildlife camera as the camera is about her. Okay, I’m not 100% confident this year-end yearling is a doe, but those eyes, those eyelashes, that movie star gaze. She’s beguiling for sure!
Whitetail Deer Yearling
Year End Yearling (Photo: Rosslyn Wildlife Camera)
A whitetail deer (Odocoileus virginianus) in its first year is considered a fawn, and until it turns two years old it is considered a yearling. A “year-end yearling”, if born in late May or early June as whitetail deer in the Adirondacks typically are, would be about eighteen months old.
She’s one of several adolescent and mature whitetails that have been mugging for the camera lately. And plenty of Eastern Coyotes too, so a year-end yearling like this beauty had best keep herself alert and energetic at all times!
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.
Lone Oak Haiku
Dripping after rain, a vast acorn nursery, lone oak towering. — Geo Davis
Sally & Sentry
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.
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. ~ Henry David Thoreau
I’ve never successfully grown sweet corn at Rosslyn. Not until this summer, and the reward has been as much psychological as gastronomical.
One of those trademark tastes of summer. Corn on the cob. Fresh out of the garden!
As a boy my family grew sweet corn. I don’t recall it being a challenge. I do recall the splendor of towering stalks and flowing silks. Mostly I remember the joy of walking through the sweet corn “forest” and choosing the ripest ears. I remember sitting in our “stone sitting room” (and area of our front lawn with sofa-style bench seats made out of stone arranged within a rectangle of stone walls) husking corn, growing excited each time I started a new ear, witnessing the shiny kernels, their size, their rows. Sometimes I nibbled uncooked corn as I worked, sweet, crunchy and cool despite the summer sun.
Most of all I remember the taste of eating something delicious – closer in my young mind to a dessert than a vegetable – a taste that had taken months to transform from a withered and lifeless kernel into a delicious treat. Magic. Every time.
But since coming to Essex and gradually revitalizing Rosslyn’s gardens and meadows I’ve shied away from growing sweet corn.
Gardening at Rosslyn
During the first couple of summers, the garden was still too small to accommodate a corn patch. And my gardening hours were too rationed to undertake more than the essentials: tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, lettuce, spinach, carrots, and radishes (French Breakfast Radishes!) But each summer the garden grew and the variety of vegetables we planted increased. Sweet peppers and hot peppers. Eggplant. Peas. Green beans. Watermelons. Cantaloupe. Brussels sprouts. Leeks. Onions. Cabbage. Artichokes. Beets. Kale. Swiss chard.
But no corn. Not until last summer.
Rosslyn Sweet Corn
In the spring of 2012 I decided that we finally had enough space and time to plant sweet corn.
I remembered that staggering the planting was helpful to avoid having the entire crop ready to eat at the same time, so I planted a couple of rows.
Within a couple of days the squirrels and chipmunks and crows had picked every last corn kernel out of the ground. So I replanted a single row, and this time I lay boards on top of the seeded row. I planned to lift the board daily, inspecting for sprouts, and when they began to emerge I’d move the boards and plant another row, proceeding gradually until all of the corn was planted.
The sprouts emerged, and I rolled back the boards. Unfortunately they were near enough to the edge of the garden that an overly hungry lawnmower savaged the entire row!
I gave up. Until this year.
Rosslyn Sweet Corn, Round #2
When I returned to Rosslyn in May from a Santa Fe roadtrip, I discovered that the generous neighbor who accidentally mowed the corn down last summer had grown and delivered several flats of 12″ to 15″ tall sweet corn plants. I counted almost five dozen plants ready for me to transplant into the garden. Which I did.
And despite June’s incessant rains, every single plant survived. Most were stunted from the water volume, but all have produced sweet corn. And for about a week now I’ve been eating corn on the cob.
Each bite is a gift. But all gifts come to an end sooner or later.
Racoons Love Sweet Corn
The first sign that racoons had gotten into our sweet corn.
A couple of nights ago a family (perhaps an entire clan, considering their impact) of raccoons held a late-night picnic in our sweet corn patch. The images capture the mess, but overlook their efficiency. At first I was stung by the injustice of it all, after sooo many attempts to grow and eat corn.
But then I began to notice how meticulous the racoons had been. They selected only the ripest ears, plucked them from the towering stocks, feeling perhaps a bit like I did as a child. Thrilled with anticipation in the linear corn forest. The peeled the husks down expertly, and then ate the kernels off of the cob directly as we do. I imagined their little hands and eager mouths. And my disappointed waned. After all, they didn’t take all the corn. And these meadows had belonged to them for half a century. I suppose they still do.
They ate 37 ears of corn.
And last night they came back for me. Only a couple dwarfish ears of sweet corn remain.
Perhaps next summer I’ll skip planting sweet corn. For now I’m mostly hoping that our neighborhood raccoons don’t develop an appetite for tomatoes. Or melons…
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.
In the Beginning…
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.
2015 Ice Eater Foibles
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.
Reopening the Duck Pond
2015 Duck Pond
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.
Really… Okay, am I giving away too much? Probably. That’s the way of the storyteller!
Make Way for Ducklings cover via Amazon
There was something about those illustrations — simple unselfconscious line drawings halfway between representational sketches and cartoons — that captivated me, that compelled me to try and draw ducklings wandering and swimming. And the tidy little tale about a family of country mallards unfortunately (serendipitously?) hatching and growing up in obviously inhospitable urban Boston.
A quirky story with a dark edge and a lighthearted plot.
So yesterday when Lorri and Carmen — lovely local ladies planting lilies behind Rosslyn’s carriage barn — called to me, I came running with my camera. I had to witness the mother mallard and her entourage of well behaved ducklings, Lorri urged. “Come quickly. They’re almost down to the driveway.”
The duck family (absent father) had appeared suddenly in the meadow near them, and were heading toward the house. I set out to intercept them on the driveway to see if I could shoot a short bit of video before they startled and deviated course.
Sure enough, as I walked up the shaded back driveway I saw the parade bound directly toward me. I turned on the camera and waited, wondering how close they would come before getting nervous and retreating. But this beautiful, proud and totally undaunted momma duck walked right up to me with her parade of ten fuzzy ducklings. Then right past and on toward Lake Champlain. I followed and played crossing guard to make sure that all eleven made it across NYS Route 22, and before long they were all paddling away on the still flooded lake!
That matriarch had promised her brood a swim in the lake, and she was going to deliver on that promise come flood, gawking homeowner or speeding pickup trucks. And deliver she did. My rough video footage, “Ducklings on Parade” only hints at the confidence and determination of the momma mallard.
Cute. Darling. Nostalgic. Right? Wrong! Well, at least partly wrong. Sure, I’m human, and these fuzzy peeps did instantly soften the edges of an otherwise rough week. But cute, darling and nostalgic is only part of the equation. What, there’s more? Oh, yes, there’s more. There’s irony!
You see, over the last year or two I’ve gotten excited about the idea of raising ducks. I did some research, found a catalog, ogled the pictures, read the descriptions, circled my favorites and told me wife. Emergency brake! “What? Raise ducklings so the coyotes and foxes can eat them? Are you crazy?”
Needless to say, she’s not too keen on the idea. There’ve been a couple of heated conversations. I’ve demurred but repressed the desire. At least for now.
So my first thought as these eager swimmers paraded off to Lake Champlain was, my ducklings! Funny how things work out…
I share with you a bald eagle omen, courtesy of my mother.
Bald eagle by your boat house. Saw this elegant creature as I went to massage and he was still there when I returned. May be a sign of something good? ~ Melissa Davis
Rosslyn’s boathouse is often frequented by bald eagles, hawks, and other raptors, but I’m choosing to embrace my mother’s most recent sighting as an important symbol.
When an eagle appears, you are on notice to be courageous and stretch your limits. Do not accept the status quo, but rather reach higher and become more than you believe you are capable of. Look at things from a new, higher perspective. Be patient with the present; know that the future holds possibilities that you may not yet be able to see. You are about to take flight. (Source: pure-spirit.com)
I’m digging deep, summoning courage, and shifting my perspective!
From eagle we learn that life looks different from an aerial perspective. We need to take a new view on the challenges in our lives. If we don’t readily find solutions it may be because our vision is too limited to see the solutions that are so glaringly obvious. ~ Ina Woolcott (Source: Shamanic Journey)
It’s time for a fresh vantage point — personally, professionally, politically — so I’m grateful for this bald eagle omen. I’m reminded that my vision may indeed have become too limited, too myopic. Time to shift and amplify the view. Time to prepare for flight!
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…
December 2014 Raptors
Early in December 2014 I walked Rosslyn’s woods and meadows to make sure our cross-country ski trails were clear of trees and brush. The good news was that with a little maintenance everything was ready for our first snowfall.
[pullquote]Perhaps you can help identify the hawk and owl species?[/pullquote]
The even better news was that I encountered two handsome raptors at close range. Near the beginning of my walk a hawk allowed me to approach and photograph him from directly beneath the limb where he sat. Later in the afternoon an owl was no more than fifteen feet from me when I spied him. He too sat patiently and allowed me to snap photos. Unfortunately the camera in my mobile phone offers only a hint of the grandeur of this birds of prey.
Perhaps you can help identify the hawk and owl species?
Enormous hawk hunting in Rosslyn’s back meadows.
Enormous hawk hunting in Rosslyn’s back meadows.
Owl perched quietly in Rosslyn’s Hickory Hillock.
Owl perched quietly in Rosslyn’s Hickory Hillock.
December 2014 Snow
And then the snow arrived. On the 10th of December 2014 we had our first real taste of collecting snow (as opposed to flurries that melt once they land.)
Another curious happening. The Essex-Charlotte ferry seemed to have stalled in front of Rosslyn boathouse. (Can you spot it in the photos?) It drifted for an eerily long time, so close to the boathouse that I grew concerned. At last it managed to rumble off to the Essex ferry dock.
Essex-Charlotte ferry adrift perilously close to Rosslyn boathouse on 10 December 2014.
Essex-Charlotte ferry adrift perilously close to Rosslyn boathouse on 10 December 2014.
Snow, Snow, Snow: 10 December 2014
Once the snowflakes ceased to fall Rosslyn had been blanketed in over a foot of beautiful snow. Beautiful but super moist and heavy. Unfortunately what looks picturesque in the black and white photo below turned out to be bad news for many of our trees.
Winter started out with a deep, heavy, wet snowfall in early December 2014.
The photographs below tell the less picturesque story of what happens when lots of heavy, wet snow collects. Pretty. But potentially devastating.
Winter started out with a deep, heavy, wet snowfall in early December 2014.
Winter started out with a deep, heavy, wet snowfall in early December 2014 that buried the grill.
Many of our trees were damaged during the early December 2014 snowfall.
Many of our trees were damaged during the early December 2014 snowfall.
Many of our trees were damaged during the early December 2014 snowfall.
Many of our trees were damaged during the early December 2014 snowfall.
But no sense closing on a down note. Instead I’ll wrap up with this wonderful snapshot of Griffin saying goodbye to his snowy home before setting off on a Christmas road trip. Griffin loves snow!
Bald eagle surveying Lake Champlain near Essex, New York.
While returning to Essex from Elizabethtown this afternoon I spied this handsome bald eagle perched 20 to 30 feet above Whallons Bay. He was surveying the glass-flat, frigid (37° isn’t quite freezing, but it’s not far off) waters of Lake Champlain, head pivoting jerkily. Although he never took flight, never plunged down to grab a lake trout or a salmon, I’m pretty certain he was hunting for his supper. Or posing for passersby.
The photo above and the video below were shot on my iPhone, so they’re grainy and don’t fairly capture the regal raptor. But they’re better than a flock of letters, “You wouldn’t believe the bald eagle I watched this afternoon…”
Bald Eagle Back Story
If you’re intrigued by bald eagles, you may enjoy a few of my earlier posts that showcase our local population of bald eagles (or semi-subtly incorporate “bald eagle cameos”). I suggest you start with these:
And next time you’re in the neighborhood, tilt you head back. You just might catch sight of an alabaster hooded, yellow beaked, ferocious-taloned bald eagle. Good luck!
I few evenings ago I remembered that I’d left my iPhone on the runabout, so I headed down to the waterfront before dinner to grab it.
As I stepped out onto the dock, I noticed an energetic mink playing around on the rocks. I froze.
Would he vanish if he saw me?
He continued to explore the rock pile undisturbed. If only I had my phone I could take a photo or shoot a video. But it was in the boat.
For several minutes I stood motionless, and then I started taking slow steps toward the boat whenever he turned away. Eventually I realized that he wasn’t concerned with me at all. I unsnapped the boat cover and fumbled around in the failing light for my camera. The mink continued to play.
This is the video sequence I shot with most of the repetitive stuff edited out. Sorry it’s still a bit long, but couldn’t bring myself to erase his antics after he’d tolerated mine…
American Mink
From what I can ascertain, this was an American mink (Neovison vison), a semiaquatic carnivore which is inclined to dine on fish, frogs and crustaceans like crayfish. And, yes, it is the source of the fabled fur more valuable globally even than sable and silver fox.
I’d first titled this post “Summer Evening Mink” because it conjured up all sorts of dramatic (if slightly misleading) images. It sounded like a scene from a Merchant Ivory film. Too much. Besides, I knew it would ruffle my bride’s animal-centric feathers.
“Are you suggesting that someone should turn that beautiful wild creature into a collar?”
“Nope. Just liked the sound and imagery…”
“The imagery? Of slaughtering defenseless animals?”
Rosslyn’s American Mink
I know how this conversation goes. And besides, “Rosslyn’s American Mink” — although a bit presumptuous since this sleek fellow no more belongs to Rosslyn than Lake Champlain or that handsome moon does — gets right to the point of the matter. My bride likes that.
And my bride does not like mink coats. Not American mink or sable or silver fox or any other fur. She’s a big advocate for the critters. No eating or wearing critters for her. For me? I’m a carnivore, a bit like the American mink, I suppose, though my tastes are perhaps a bit more diverse. Oh, and I wear fur. Not American mink fur, but my own fuzzy pelt. Fortunately there’s little demand globally for my fur.
Update:
Leanne Hobbs Bula contacted me via Facebook to share a pair of mink photos that she took near Isle la Motte, Vermont.
Minks, by Leanne Hobbs Bula
“I also have an American mink at my home. She has 6 babies too! Scared the heck out of me the first time I saw her. She doesn’t like my dog… They are a bit far away because I ran away screaming bloody murder… we haven’t seen the babies in a few weeks, only the mom. We now have a pair of bald eagles and an eaglet? … We suspect the bald eagles may have snacked on the baby mink. Nature can be cruel but it certainly makes me less nervous when I am tanning myself lakeside!” ~ Leanne Hobbs Bula
Great photos, Leanne! Thanks for passing them along. I wonder if Rosslyn’s American mink has babies hiding away somewhere. I’ll keep my eyes peeled, but judging from all of the healthy ducklings growing into ducks along our waterfront, I suspect that there may only be the one lonely American mink I spied.
Meet our Yellow Garden Spider (Argiope aurantia). This morning this awesome arachnid greeted me from a flower bed planted with Shasta daisies, lupine, and irises. She’s dazzling and, I’ll admit it, a little daunting.
Although I’ve come across these visually impressive pest predators before I needed a little refresher. Here’s what I found.
Yellow garden spiders are large, orb-weaving arachnids, meaning they spin a circular web… In females, the top side of the abdomen is black with symmetrical patches of bright yellow. The legs are reddish brown at the base and black toward the tips. Males are less striking in appearance—they are smaller with brownish legs and less yellow coloration on their abdomens. Females average 0.75 to 1.1 inches (19 to 28 millimeters) in body length, which is up to three times larger than the males. (Source: National Wildlife Federation)
Obviously a female, this yellow garden spider was definitely on the laaarge end of the spectrum.
If you look closely you’ll see a zigzag pattern woven into the web. I wondered about that. A repair?
The web of the garden spider contains a highly visible zigzagging X-shaped pattern called a stabilimentum. The exact function of the stabilimentum is unknown, but its purpose may be to alert birds to the presence of the web so that they don’t fly through and destroy it by mistake. (Source: National Wildlife Federation)
Wow! Clever spider.
By Any Other Name…
It turns out this savvy lady has intrigued her bipedal admirers enough to inspire a parade of names (Source: Wikipedia) including:
yellow garden spider,
black and yellow garden spider,
golden garden spider,
writing spider,
zigzag spider,
hay spider,
corn spider, and
McKinley spider.
I think that my favorite is “writing spider”. Time for a little etymological archaeology to disinter the backstory for that name. 
Lest your onboard warning system went into high alert when your eyes distinguished the yellow garden spider from the iris spears and other distractions in the photograph above, I have some good news.
These spiders may bite if disturbed or harassed, but the venom is harmless to non-allergic humans, roughly equivalent to a bumblebee sting in intensity. (Source: Wikipedia)
While few of us favor a bumblebee sting over, say, a slice of refreshing watermelon on a hot August day, it’s far from lethal (for most of us, anyway). So, despite the yellow garden spiders arresting appearance, you may consider her a friend rather than a foe. Especially if you’d like to prevent pesky insects from eating your plants!
I close with a curious coincidence. A neighboring farmer shared his discovery almost concurrently. They. Are. Everywhere.
One is a large cottonwood with a pair of fallen locusts hung up on it. The beaver (Castor canadensis) has already gotten a pretty good start, and the tree is laaarge and disconcertingly close to Rosslyn’s boathouse.
We contacted the neighbor in the hopes that they would take a look at their earliest convenience (i.e. before the cottonwood and gravity conspire against the boathouse!) I suggested the possibility of wrapping the tree with steel mesh/screen to inhibit further damage. This isn’t the most sightly solution, but it tends to be effective.
