Another Sunny Monday

Fair weather is hard to come by here in the winter, but Monday dawned another sunny morning, so I decided laundry could wait (it's still waiting) - we were going for an explore.

I grabbed T's harness and my camera, and we hopped in the car for a short drive over to the LefGlen sanctuary.

 

This is one of those sites about which I have heard so much (like Nan Weston), so I was eager to see what the fuss was all about.  Granted, most of the fuss is apparently caused by the spring wildflowers, which, even though it's been a very mild winter, are not blooming yet - it is, after all, only mid-February.

While I had great expectations for seeing some amazing things, what I did NOT expect to see was a beaver!  This isn't beaver country.  Muskrats, yes, but beavers, no.  So imagine my surprise to find this tiny beaver in the path.  Knowing it was out of place, I gently tucked him into my pocket to relocate him to a more appropriate location.  

LefGlen is a little pocket of woodland that is surrounded by farms.  Big farms.  Well, big in my opinion, but I suppose on the scale of mid-western agriculture they are pretty small.

And the people of Michigan, or at least this part of Michigan, take their deer hunting seriously. Back in the 'dacks, people actually "hunted" for deer - skulking around the woods, following trails.  In Central NY it was common to see tree stands - a few slats nailed to the side of a tree and a very rudimentary (and small) platform maybe 10-15 feet up.  Here, however, the deer blinds are on par with some tree houses and ice fishing shanties I've seen!

A small shed/shack was tucked away in the woods.  A shelter built by Lefty or Glenna as a retreat in the woods?

The snow was simply littered with tracks!  Plenty of fox and squirrel, mouse and rabbit, and of course deer.  I was surprised a bit to discover how many of the tracks were made by cats, though.  As in house cats. 

Along the edge we found a frozen pond - probably an ephemeral pond that stays at least damp most of the year.  The ice was covered with tracks, all converging on the drain pipe.  HM...

As I suspected, on mild days this was a source of open water.  All the tracks lead right here - no doubt the owners of the feet looking for a place to get a drink of water.  Although it was sunny, the day was young enough that the sun's warmth hadn't yet worked its magic here - the water was still frozen.

 We were following the Blue Diamond Trail, which was well-packed by critters and at least one person.  But then the person took a detour off the trail and into the woods.  Soon Toby and I were on our own.  In a couple spots we (that is, I) had to search a bit to find the next trail marker.  We were now high on a ridge.  The presence of a bluebird nest box in the woods gave me pause.  Bluebirds prefer open areas.  And judging by the evidence at the opening, it's not birds who are making use of this shelter.

I was just tickled pink to see American beeches.  And not just beeches, but HEALTHY beeches.  No evidence of the beech scale necrosis that is wiping out the beeches back east.  It is, of course, only a matter of time before the disease gets here, though.  And Michigan has lost all its ashes to the emerald ash borer.  

After we came down the switchbacks off the ridge, we reached a T-intersection.  Which way to go?  We went right, and soon came across this sign.  

The well-worn trail continued, though, so we followed it another hundred feet or so, and saw irrefutable evidence of our trespass:  another deer stand (this one more like the ones back home).  So we turned around and went back the other way.

I love how winter makes evident to our otherwise unseeing eyes all the nests built the previous year.  What is so obvious now is amazingly invisible when the leaves cover the trees and shrubs.

Toby was in seventh heaven on this walk, his nose glued to the ground gathering the scents of dozens of animals.  This log was apparently a major "sign post."  We were here checking it out for a while.

I, on the other hand, need more visible signs of animal activity to appreciate all that is going on in the woods.  For example, something had a good dig going on here.  Deer?  Rover?  The tracks were too jumbled to tell.

The removal of bark on this twig is a little easier to explain - no doubt a small mammal (rodent) removed the bark for the nutrition it would find in the thin inner bark layer.

The trail we were following had now looped back on itself and we were retracing our earlier steps.  While seeing a place from the other direction can make it look completely different, I had hoped to not have to walk down the same path we followed out.  Luck was on our side, for we were doubling back only a short distance when the Pink Diamond Trail split off...it took us down a gentle slope and around the hill we had climbed earlier in the morning.

Evidence on this downed log indicated that this trail was commonly used - plenty of claw marks indicate where small mammals (fox?  cats?  fox squirrels?) have jumped on top before crossing to the other side.

As we rounded the base of the hill, the Pink trail rejoined the Blue trail, and soon we were back at the car.

We had a good two hour jaunt on the trails of LefGlen, and I know I will return this spring to see what flowers call this sanctuary home.

Robins and Weasels and 'Possums, oh My!

 Well, you'll have to take my word for it, but mere moments before this photo was taken, this crabapple tree, which is in front of our offices at work, was filled with robins, happily eating away at last year's shriveled fruits.  While we all know that many robins do not migrate (or perhaps only migrate a short distance), we still like to cling to the idea of robins as harbingers of spring.  I know I certainly do.

 And therefore, since I can't wow you with a crabapple full of robins, how about some mystery tracks we found out back during my Winter Wildlife Signs class today?

This is a series of small prints of an animal loping.  Loping, in the horse world, is essentially a canter.  But in tracking we call it a lope.  There's one foot print, then two in the middle (sometimes so close together that they look like one), and finally a fourth print.  This set of four is followed by a space, and then they repeat, ad nauseum or until the animal changes its mind and its gait.

Now, were I back in the Adirondacks, these are the animals that would immediately come to mind when I see this pattern:  fox, coyote, fisher.

We don't have fishers here, at least not in this part of Michigan, and these tracks are just way too small (and too close together) to have been made by a coyote or even a fox.

Snow had been falling most of the day, so any evidence of actual footprints was gone.  Even so, my mind kept trying to put five toes into the prints I could see.

Based on size (and the marginally possible toe prints), I was leaning toward this being one of the smaller members of the weasel family: either the mink or the large-tailed weasel. 

Now, large-tailed weasels are not large animals.  In fact, they don't even qualify in my book as medium-sized animals, but everything is relative.  Even if we were to think of them as medium-sized, their feet are still quite small.  These tracks really were just too big to belong to this weasel.  This is even taking into account the fact that they (the tracks) look bigger than they really are. (When measuring tracks, you want to measure the minimum outline, which is what would appear in the base of the track, made by the pads of the foot; you don't want to measure the length and width of the whole track, for that takes into account fur, melt, and even the poofing-out of snow as the foot falls, giving you a falsely large set of numbers.)

So, this left me contemplating a  mink.  The size of the footprints were about right, but the space between the groups of four tracks just seemed too small.  Maybe this animal was loping slowly, though.  The other thing that bothered me, when considering mink, was that the tracks were not all that close to water.  In fact, they were closer to the building than the stream.  However, although minks are quite often found in or near water, it is not unheard of for them to head out across the woods or even open spaces when hunting, or when traveling from one body of water to another.


Based on all these thoughts, I'm sticking with mink.

When the tracking class ended, several of the participants headed to the gift shop and exhibit space, and they were tickled to see our resident opossum at the feeders.  An hour and a half later, it was still there, so I got out my camera and went stalking.

It wasn't too happy when I came crunching along.  Was I a threat?  Was I going to try to eat it?

Ever so slowly, it decided to begin preparations for escape.   First, it lifted one paw...and held it there for a couple minutes.

 Then it crossed that foot in front of the other and stood ready for a "quick" get away...just in case.

It's a good thing, really, that I wasn't interested in catching this critter except with the camera, for "hasty retreat" didn't seem to be within its abilities.  Note also, the rounded pink tip on the tail - a casualty to frostbite.

The snow was good and packy, making some fine imprints of the 'possum's feet. 

 And off it trundled, past the birdseed bin and into the woods.  It'll be back, either tonight or tomorrow, to feast once more beneath the feeders.

All in all, a pretty good day. 

This may be the last tracking chance for a while, for rain and even thunderstorms (and flooding) are in the forecast starting sometime late tomorrow.  Ah...the joys of living in southern Michigan!

Saturday Morning on the Hudson

As I lay there in bed Saturday, with the sunlight streaming through the window and a gentle, cool breeze blowing, I told myself that this was the day I would actually get my canoe out on the water.

I've been wanting to explore the Hudson River downstream from the pump house, so I called a friend and she was eager to drop her laundry and come paddling with me.

Once we launched our boats, we paddled upstream. I've been wondering just how far one can go in this direction. Every spring I can hear the roar of the rapids, but I had no idea how far away they were.


My guess would be that they are less than a quarter mile away. Lots of rocks and a bit of water still flowing through them.


The flow was just enough that Monica got pinned against a couple rocks as she tried to cut across.


So, we headed back downstream.

Unlike my paddling adventures with Jackie, we didn't do any botanizing. About the only things I could see blooming along the shores were goldenrod and asters.

Mostly we were there for the scenery.

I was excited to see these tracks, though. The inner banks of the river's curves were often exposed expanses of mud - perfect for taking tracks. Based on the size and shape, I was pretty sure these were beaver tracks.


And just down the shore a bit further, we found this channel leading to the river. A beaver trail going toward a food source?


How beautiful the Hudson is up here. Folks from down below are amazed at our little river. I know that I find it equally amazing when I've seen it at its other end. At least our end still has a bit of its wildness in tact.



We never did get as far as the rapids, which means I'll have to come back another day! But the clouds were really rolling in and the sky was getting very dark. The wind had whipped up mightily, and I knew Monica was probably getting chilled, thanks to her unintended dip in the river. So we headed back upstream. With the wind pushing us and our determined paddling to get back before it rained, we were at the pump house in about a third of the time it took us to paddle downstream.

For others interested in paddling this part of the Hudson, I say give it a go! When the water is high, you might have a bit of a challenge paddling back up to the put-in point, but those who want to brave some pretty intense rapids and a carry or two can continue on down to the bridge on 28N.

Early Morning Tracks

I was the first person in to work yesterday morning, and after two days of being closed, the only tracks on the driveway were those left by animals passing in the night. What a treat to see such beautiful clear footprints in the frozen slush.

Fox and raccoon - a nice combination.

I'm always delighted to see raccoon tracks. Around here, where the winters can be brutally cold at times, raccoons only come out when the weather turns mild. When we have a warm night (warm, of course, being a relative term) we pretty much know that the raccoons will be out and about.



Raccoon tracks are always so easy to identify: they look like tiny human hand prints. Five toes, front and back. And when they walk, they place a hind foot next to a front foot, leaving a perfect impression of each, side-by-side.

This raccoon was headed toward the building, so I followed its tracks to see where it went. I suspected it was headed to the back deck and the suet (we bring the birdfeeders in at night, but the suet stays out). I was surprised to find the suet still in tact. It seems the raccoon had other things on its mind, for it made a beeline past the building and down the hill.

This is about the time of year raccoon mate, so we speculated that perhaps this was a male going in search of a female. Whatever its mission, it was nice to see its tracks.

Ancient Trees and Otter Antics

On Sunday last I joined a group of curious nature folks for an "Ancient Trees" hike with Vince Walsh of Kawing Crow Awareness Center in Greenfield, NY. I had blue sky and sunshine when I left Newcomb, but by the time I got down from the mountains, the sky had closed in and heavy wet snow was falling.

The first thing I noticed at Kawing Crow was this phoebe nest perched on the wing of Vince's emblem. It was a good sign for treasures to come.


After a short introduction, we donned our snowshoes and headed down the trail. Literally. The first part is about a 45' drop. Fortunately, Vince has installed ropes along the incline to facilitate our descent (and later the climb back up, which was actually a lot of fun).

Once we all made it down the hill, we forged out across the boardwalk Vince built across his swamp. What a great asset a boardwalk is to a wetland.

The wetland was so still.

Our first track of the day was this otter slide, leading towards the north end of Vince's swamp.

Here's the footprint inside the slide. I was able to count five toes and could almost picture webbing between the toes. This otter was to take up a good deal of our time as the day progressed. We tracked it until we found where it disappeared under the ice at a third swamp about three hours hence.

To me, this tree was one of the most interesting finds of the day. According to Vince, this damage was caused by the Sirex woodwasp, an invasive species that is wreaking havoc on our native pines, firs and spruces. [Update: I did a little research on Sirex noctilio (including an email exchange with two Sirex entomologists), and what I discovered tells me that this is not Sirex damage. The Sirex woodwasp primarily attacks pine trees, although spruces and firs are sometimes targets as well. This is a maple. Hardwoods are not on the menu. I will follow up some time in the future with a post about this invasive wasp, what to look for, and what our prognosis is with regards to its arrival. Based on other information Vince shared with our group about this patch of forest, I'd be willing to hazard a guess that this tree initially suffered from some sort of logging trauma (skidder damage, perhaps?), which provided the opening insects and fungi (et al) needed to begin their own invasions of this host tree.]

The otter reappeared at this stream. You can see where it came up the stream bed, through the slush, then out along the shore.

As we made our way through the woods, we passed this wigwam that Vince made with some kids last summer. Wigwams are the type of house the native people in the northeast used. Teepees were strictly a plains Indian dwelling.

Here's a close up of the wigwam. These houses are made by first creating a framework of bent saplings. Then the outside is covered with slabs of bark. Elm is the best bark for this outer layer, but these days not readily available.

The second swamp we encountered was dotted with great blue heron nests. Vince said he's counted upwards of 40 nests in this swamp. Such nesting collectives are referred to as rookeries.

It was a perfect day for snowfleas! From the moment we started our trek, snowfleas kept us company. In the woods, out in the swamps, the "fleas" were everywhere! As noted in previous posts, snowfleas are very primitive creatures, and are technically springtails, not fleas. They are quite tiny and look like pepperflakes sprinkled on top of the snow. I was able to capture these two with my macro lens.

We made our way carefully across the snowy top of a beaver dam. We had to watch our step, for the snow hid many a hole where the unwary snowshoer could (and did) fall through. Fortunately, it was usually just one foot that went down, not the whole snowshoer.

There were lots of mink tracks to either side of the beaver dam. Here we have a pair of slides, one next to the other. Was it the same animal, or were there two?

Here you can see the mink's feet, side-by-side, in the bottom of its slide.

These closely spaced tracks led away from the beaver dam and towards the shore. They didn't look like any tracks we'd seen before, so we wondered whose they were.

The tracks came down to another bit of open water, went in and came back out. But in the shallow water, there was another clue to the identity of this animal.

Vince scooped up something on a stick and passed it around for us to sniff. Hm...smelled kinda fishy to me. It was otter scat.

In case you are dying to know what otter scat looks like, here it is. It is often a rather formless mess, thanks to the fishy diet these animals consume.

We sort of followed the otter from the swamp, and re-encountered it as is slid down this stream bed. It really seemed to be enjoying itself here - lots of sliding with only the occasional push of the feet.

After we crossed this little stream, we found a small pool that was still open. The otter(s) found it, too. Note all the slides in and out. It was shortly after finding this that we crossed the stream again and I fell through. Well, one foot went through the ice and slush. Three cheers for wool and Gor-tex, for my foot did not get cold until the drive home. A bit later on, when we were looking at where the otter's tracks ended (it dove beneath the ice in a third swamp), I kept thinking I smelled something fishy...really close by. I looked at my hand, the one that went down when I crashed through, and noticed it had a brownish tinge. I sniffed. Fish. I must've placed it in some otter scat while struggling to extract myself from the stream. Ick.

It was after 3:00 when we reached our primary destination: the swamp with the Ancient Trees. These trees are black tupelos, or black gum (Nyssa sylvatica). Just how old is ancient? Well, some of these trees have been cored, and they range from 500 to 800 years old. That would be dating back to the 1500s, or even the 1200s. Long before Europeans set a toe on this continent.

Note the hole near the base of this tree.

One of my favorite tree books, and one that I use as a primary source for any tree research, is Donald Culross Peattie's A Natural History of Trees, written in 1950. Here's are a couple passages from his entry about tupelos:

“When to the amusement of Creole society, the tall and emaciated General Andrew Jackson leaped beside the short and immensely fat Mrs. Jackson, at a ball held after the battle of New Orleans, it was to the jig tune of “Possum up a Gum Tree.” The ‘possum, we may suppose, goes up the Gum tree in fall to get the fruit – or perhaps is merely treed there by hounds – but that does not make it clear why this species is called a Gum. Nowhere on the American continent has anyone ever expressed from this dry and disobliging vegetable one fluid ounce of any sort of gum. Yet lumbermen and foresters insist on the name.”

“To the Black Gum, as a timber tree, the pioneers said anathema with every abhorrence. For its fibers are not only interbraided but cross-woven. It is as easy to split across as lengthwise – that is, it can’t be done at all, even with wedge and sledge.”

The latter explains why these trees were allowed to grow to such a ripe old age: they are near impossible to cut. Therefore, they have little value to the lumberman.

Here's a peek inside the hollow opening near the base of the tree. Most tupelos are hollow, at least at the base. The trees, however, are still alive. This is because the living tissue of trees is the part that runs just below the bark, where the phloem and xylem transport food, water and nutrients up and down the tree. The bulk of the tree's trunk is dead wood, whose primarily purpose is to provide structural support to the branches up above.

Here is a shot looking straight up from inside the hollow. The tree is hollow for about six feet up.

Vince reached into the hollow and pulled out a handful of fine brown powder. This was decomposed porcupine poop. A few pellets still remained, but it has been a while since porkies used this particular den.

Digging through the snow at the base of the tree, Vince uncovered the remains of a porcupine scat pile. This is very typical outside porcupine dens.

Look at just how chunky that bark is! These are enormous plates, with crevices in between almost a finger-length deep.

Another characteristic of these ancient trees is that on one side, the heavy craggy bark is practically smooth. No one seems to know why this is. A couple of us speculated if it was because of animals travelling up and down this side of the tree, but it is only the oldest part of the tree (the base) that is "worn down." It remains a mystery.

As seen from a distance, the tupelos look like perfect Halloween trees - gnarly, twisted, and full of character. Apparently, these trees die from the top down, so many have abbreviated trunks with large branches reaching beyond the terminal end.

The fruits of the tupelo are called drupes. A drupe is "a more-or-less fleshy fruits with one compartment and one or more seeds" (Longman's Dictionary of Environmental Science). Examples are cherries, plums and other fruits that are considered "stone" fruits. A few tupelo fruits still clung to the branches.

I liked the burl on the side of this tupelo: it was basically a donut. I, unfortunately, am vertically challenged enough that you can only juuuust see the hole in the middle (it looks like a small layer of snow).

This old tupelo has seen better days. For some reason, the local beavers girdled the tree, and even gnawed the hard wood beneath. I wonder if tupelo dulls beaver teeth with its toughness? There was much discussion among the group about why beavers girdle the tupelos. Jackie sees this all along the Hudson where "her" tupelos are growing. Are the beavers just trying to open up the canopy? If so, why single out the tupelos? Vince suggested that somehow the beavers know that tupelos suck up a lot of water with their roots, so perhaps by girdling (and killing) the trees they are attempting to prevent water drawdown within their ponds.

This lovely orange jelly fungus was growing on the side of one of the tupelos. I love orange jellies, for they add a dash of color to the landscape.

We came across this really nifty witch's broom on a highbush blueberry. None of us had ever seen brooming on a blueberry, so this was a neat discovery. What causes the brooming? On some plants it is insects, on others bacteria or fungi. On blueberries? I have no idea...maybe someone out there has studied it and has an answer.

At the end of the day the sky cleared and the sun shone brightly. Heading back across the beaver dam, the swamp took on a different look than it had when all overcast. An hour or so later, as I pulled out the driveway and started the long drive home, the weather had changed once more, and rain started to sprinkle on the windshield. It was a long day, but well worth the adventure.