Dark-eyed Juncos Arrive!

I saw the first dark-eyed junco of the winter season on Saturday morning! Two or three of them were flitting around the tangled edge of the woods, possibly with a white-throated sparrow or two as well, though I didn't get close enough to confirm that.

The timing of the arrival of the juncos is pretty normal. Sometimes I've seen them as far as a week earlier, occasionally as late as a week later, but Saturday's sightings were right at the expected time. They haven't found my feeders yet, but they will. I don't have them here by the dozens yet either. That will take another few weeks.

For those of you who know birds, you know that the little bird that blends in with the color of the yellow leaves in the photo on the left is not a junco. It's a Carolina wren that was busily scolding something from its perch in a tree 12-15 feet away from me. And no, I don't think it was scolding me.

The fall color here at Roundtop is at its peak right now. The next gust of wind or a few drops of rain will bring all the leaves down pretty quickly. The weather has also been a bit hazy the past few days, which doesn't promote exceptional photography, but at least the colors are much prettier than last year, when they were the worst I'd ever seen them.

Fall in the Forest

Fall isn't just about beautiful color change on the trees. Here's a photo of the forest floor and its own color change.

Deer are in rut right now, and as a result driving at and after dusk consists a lot of hoping not to hit one. I find that using my fog lights helps to spread my light from my headlights out to the edges of the roads. Then I look for eye shine and slow down as soon as I see it.

A few nights ago, I was driving near Roundtop and saw a car coming towards me in the opposite lane. As we were on an already narrow road, I slowed down since even his non-high headlights were nearly blinding. So I wasn't noticing the edges of the road. Suddenly a decent sized buck that I hadn't noticed leapt across the road between the two of us, but closest to me. Never saw it. Another few feet and I would have had a deer hood ornament.

The same night, as I pulled in to Roundtop and neared the cabin three deer danced across the road by the pond, like so many ballerinas moving to the edge of the stage. Likely, they'd been down at the pond for water.

This morning, Dog and I saw three deer, probably the same three, on our pre-dawn walk, a doe with two fawns. I couldn't see much of the deer themselves, just their eyeshine in my headlamp, and the two of the eyeshines were considerably lower than than the third, hence my conclusion that it was a doe with two of this year's fawns. They trotted across the lane ahead of us. Dog wanted in the worst way to give chase.

The deer followed the edge of the road, stopped and looked back at us. We walked closer and were within 20 feet before they moved slowly off and into the woods, much to Dog's disappointment. They certainly weren't afraid of us, probably thinking they were invisible in the dark.

2006 Roundtop Bird Sightings

I took this photo last night over by Roundtop's new pond. I like this view. I've posted other photos looking down this same trail, but I think I've finally gotten it when the color change is as intense as it's going to get this year.

This morning, I started looking over my 2006 bird list for Roundtop, and like the weather this year, it is turning out to be an odd one. Although the year still has 2+ months to go, migration is already slowing down, so I can no longer expect too many more new species. My current running total is 74 species for the year, lower than is typical by more than 10 species. I’ve seen a few birds that I rarely see here—most notably a Common raven in February. But I haven’t seen plenty of species at all this year that in the past I could always count on.

My warbler season, both spring and fall, was terrible. There’s no other word for it. Actually, the warbler season was beyond terrible. I often have a decent run of warblers on Roundtop, though it’s never been a warbler hot spot. This year I haven’t seen a single redstart here, when in many years they have been almost as common as yellow-rumped warblers. I didn’t have a single vireo either, and that’s the first year in 15 years here on the mountain that has happened.

The hawk migration never really materialized over Roundtop—at least not while I was at home.
Eastern towhees were less commonly seen and heard than usual, as were Indigo buntings. I love hearing the song of the Scarlet tanager in a summer evening. Usually, that’s a fairly common event here, but not this year, when I only heard them four times and only saw a single female.

A few species that I see occasionally turned out to be common this year. I had more Eastern kingbirds hanging out on the slopes this summer than I’ve ever seen before. I know of three nesting pairs, all of which seemed to breed successfully and fledge at least 2-3 young apiece.

American goldfinch, which are common, turned out to be abundant this year. I had 50 separate sightings, usually of multiple birds in each sighting. That’s not quite twice the number of sightings I can expect in a year.

I have to say that I haven’t yet found a reason or reasons to explain the unusual results. It’s certainly nothing as straightforward as seeing more southern-ranged birds and fewer northern species. If you pressed me on this, I would likely say that my migration sightings were way lower than usual. My fall migration sightings were close to non-existent, which makes me question breeding success further north, but I need to hear results from lots of other sites before I come to that conclusion. Even my resident birds posted some unusual results. For now, I’m just going to say I’m having an odd year and hope it’s nothing more than that.

Foggy Morning

This morning the fog was so thick when I walked the dogs before sunrise that even the headlamp didn't help very much. I felt lost on a trail I thought I could walk in my sleep. Is this where I turn? Is that where the trail splits?

Dog eyed me oddly, not understanding my hesitation. To him, with his keener eyes and much keener scent, the way no doubt was obvious. I was surprised to be even momentarily confused, surprised that someplace I know so well still held any new surprises for me. I moved on, trusting that my path would become clear as I stepped forward, but not actually sensing that it was so. It is the same kind of trust that makes me believe the sun will come up in the east each morning, even though a cloudy day brings no sense that it is there.

Sometimes, trust is all we have to move us forward through a day or a life, too. We trust that the brakes won't fail or the body won't fail today. We trust that somehow we'll find the way to keep on moving. It helps, sometimes, to have a good companion there beside us to wait patiently while we pause and then urge us gently forward and into the darkened woods ahead.

First Frost

I haven't blogged for a few days (as you can plainly tell). The weekend was so beautiful that I was outside enjoying the beautiful fall weather for as long as I could be, not inside at the computer. I could easily have spent even more time outside but the days were too short. And yesterday I was away for work, so it is only now that I'm catching up again.

I had the season's first frost on Friday and Saturday nights. Despite global warming and this an El Nino year, albeit a mild one, the first frost in this area was precisely at the normal time. Traditionally, the first frost here is October 15, and this year the first frost fell on the 13th and 14th. A nitpicker might even try and call that "early" but it is so minutely early that I won't be one of those. The first killing frost is traditionally the end of October, so I still have 10+ days to go before I know if this year will be normal for that, too.

The autumn leaf changes progresses, but I am officially prepared to declare this season to be a bit odd. Many of the trees have turned color or even dropped their leaves. But at least half of the trees are still very green. As a result, the impact of the fall color is much diminished over years when the color change hits all the trees at the same time. I don't know what has caused this disparity in the leaf change. It isn't trees species and doesn't appear to be tree location, as one tree is in full color, while its neighbor of the same species is still green. I suspect the difference is moisture/root system related but I have no way to prove it, and I am open to new evidence.

Today the forest is enjoying a cold fall rain that already has dropped many of the leaves that have turned color. Leaves begin to litter the drive, though the leaf drop still has a long to go to be complete. This morning Baby Dog pounced on the leaves that the wind skittered away from her while the rain was still a sprinke. She thought them a great new toy or perhaps some strange living creature that was trying to escape her notice. She was like a cat, bouncing from one wind-tossed leaf to the next, oblivious to anything I said to her or even to the realization that the motion was nothing but a leaf. Last fall she was a tiny puppy, so in some ways this is the first fall she can explore and enjoy.

Dog, predictably, ignores the leaves but is intent on strange new scents. Last night he broke away from me briefly when something ran in front of us. I suspect it was a fox, as Dog ignores cats and is familiar with the raccoons and opossums. For him to get so wound up that he would pull the lead out of my hand suggests it was something more exciting. I saw only a pair of eyes reflected in my headlamp, low enough that I could tell it was not a deer (which also wind him up).

What a Difference a Day (or Two) Makes!

I took this photo last evening on a nice, long and brisk walk with the dogs. It's almost the same view as the one I posted a few days ago, but in this version you can see how much the color change has progressed. The valley colors are further along than those on the mountain tops, but I expect that to even out in the next day or so. Last night I was within 3 degress of frost and tonight it's to be colder, so I'm anticipating the season's first frost tonight.

I haven't turned my heat on yet, though I will likely do that this evening. Last night the cabin was warm enough without it. This morning, the temperature was 58, which isn't bad with a sweater, but since it isn't supposed to get very warm today, the house likely won't warm up enough during the day to be comfortable this evening.

The second view is looking up my lane. Again, it's almost the same view as one I took a few days earlier this week, but now the color change in this spot is probably at its peak.

Baby Dog and I walked up one of the slopes last evening, and for all the anxious skiers out there, I took this picture on Drummer Boy. No, we don't have snow yet, but getting rid of all those green leaves is the first step in that direction. The leaves are still on the trees, but they are no longer green!

Moving Indoors

With the arrival of the last night’s cold front, the fall has deepened and turned even further away from summer, though I don’t yet feel a pull towards winter. I was forced to bring the last of the houseplants inside the cabin, and now I feel a bit cramped. This is partly because the plants have all grown during their time outside and so are larger than when I put them outside. But mostly it is because the cabin is small and adding three large plants and a half dozen more smaller ones takes up a fair amount of my already small space.

The largest of the plants is the ficus tree I’ve had for 10-12 years. The photo on the left is how it looked out on the front deck a week or so ago. The tree is now so large that moving it anywhere is very difficult, though a plant caddy on wheels helps. The tree is much taller than a single story, reaching almost up to the stovepipe cap on the 2-story high ceiling. At the moment, while the tree made it inside safely, it is not yet in its final winter location, simply because I don’t know where that will be. Where I had it last year is no longer suitable. For now it stands in front of the TV and the fireplace while I try to decide where it will end up.

Several of the smallest plants are almost as difficult to find winter homes for as the tree. I have three pretty nice ferns that I have to keep away from the cats, as they will eat them right down to the ground. The problem is when I put them someplace where the cats can’t get them, they end up so out of the way that I forget they’re there too, and then they rarely get watered. I need to find homes for them that are away from the cats but in my face so I don’t forget them.

That's Ben, the cat who should be named Total Destruction, just to the left of the tree's pot. He's a Maine Coon cat and is eyeing that pot with a look that scares me a little.

Falling Colors

My latest fall photos, taken just last evening and the day before, are already out of date. Although the night wasn't very cool, this morning as I was driving out of Roundtop, I saw how much more intense the colors have become since yesterday. Unfortunately, the morning is also gray and foggy--and not in a good way photographically.

In the good news / bad news category: this weekend should be the color peak for the leaves. But, the weather forecast for tonight and through Friday is for rain and possibly even snow flurries, which I'm afraid will bring the leaves off the trees before I really get to see them at their prettiest.

But in the words of someone else, the world moves as it will and not as you and I would have it. So if the leaves comes down before they are at their prettiest, that's just the way it will be. For me, leaves on the ground will mean I will again have a view out the back of the cabin, instead of the sea of green that surrounds me during the growing season. And, it also means my television reception will improve from 1.5 channels to 4 or 5. I say I have 1.5 channels in the summer because I have one usually good channel and one half-decent channel. However, the half-decent channel is never the same one, so I can't plan to watch anything on it, I just have to check it out and see which one is the half-decent channel that evening.

Considering that it might snow in two days, last evening was very warm. The rising moon was as orange as many of the leaves. The pond was so still that it looked more like a mirror than I think I have ever seen it. Lots of moths gathered around my porch light, and I was also visited by this nice-sized walking stick. They won't last once that weather comes through.

I have not yet seen the first junco of the season, though I expect them at any moment. A time or two I thought I saw the distinctive white edge tail that they carry, only to discover it wasn't a junco at all. Mama raccoon and her single, still rather small baby are nightly visitors to the outside cats dish. Baby Dog announces their arrival each evening with howls of outrage, but then she's always been a bit mouthy.

Emily Jane Loves winter!

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

Emily Jane Brontë

Who'd have thought that Emily Jane was a lover of snow and winter? It's not quite time for snow here, though this weekend might produce some flurries if the forecast plays out.

I took this photo just out of the forest when I come down from Roundtop. I posted a view from here in the spring, too, when the little orchard in front was blooming. I always enjoy this broad horizon and wide expanse. This region is very hilly, and the hills usually block broad views of anything, but this is one spot where I get a nice look.

Colors on Neff's Hill

Sunday was a spectacular fall day here at Roundtop. I would have loved to spend the day outside hiking. So naturally, yesterday was my first working day at Roundtop for the new ski season. No, we don't have snow yet.

I work in Guest Services, and most of our work is done before the season opens. We take photos and print employee badges, and do the same for season passes and discount cards. Since folks need those things before they can ski, that's what we work on.

Once the season opens we get a big crush of people who didn't send us photos or come in pre-season to get their photos taken. That lasts a few weeks. After that, though the ski season is in full-swing, our own work tapers off. We still are the first stop for information, we maintain the voluminous lost and found, serve as a secondary ticket window, and always have a few late season photos to do, but it's still quieter for us than during the pre-season crush.

The photo today is looking west over to Neff's Hill, taken fairly early Sunday morning. The color change is progressing, but there's still a lot of green on that hill. The mountain looks a little bit like a tweed fabric right now.

Flying South

Last night I heard the sound of Canada geese flying south. I heard hundreds of them. Thousands. This morning, before dawn, I still heard them, the sound far away as they are flying very high.

This morning a ruby-crowned kinglet strikes the window in front of my computer. It wasn't a hard strike. The bird simply moved back several feet and sat on a twig, twitching its tail for a few seconds before moving deeper into the forest. My foster kitty Patience was thrilled by the encounter. She spent 3 months in a cage in a kill shelter without any access to windows before coming to foster here. Since then, she spends all her time looking out one of my windows. This week her favorite spot is on top of the computer, which placed her about 4 feet away from the kinglet.

Last evening the sky was filled with starling and grackles, a scene reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. Throughout the day, corvids (blue jays and crows) were moving south. Over at the pond, I found this killdeer, more geese, several mallards.

The trees are changing color, though many still have a ways to go. Although the color this year is pretty good, certainly better than last fall, the trees aren't all turning at the same time, so I don't know if the impact of the colors will be as dramatic as usual.

The cooler weather makes the dogs wild. Baby Dog charges around, dashing from one thing to the next, always at full speed. Dog wants to run too, and last night we played "chase" in the driveway. First, I chased him, then he chased me. It's his favorite game at the moment.

Only Yesterday

It really was only yesterday (wasn’t it?) when the redbud’s delicate pink dusted this tree, when the dogwood burst into blooms of pure white held on spindly branches, reminding me of baby’s breath in a floral arrangement. Only this was nature’s floral arrangement, and on a much grander scale.

It really was only yesterday (wasn’t it?) when I was young and ideas flowed like late-night cups of coffee, when the future stretched out ahead of me in an endless parade of days and possibilities.

And now the fall colors are here, and the season moves inexorably towards winter, gaining momentum towards that end with each passing day.

And now my days seem short, and the possibilities limited.

It really was only yesterday (wasn’t it?)

Night Walk

I love many things about living on the mountain, but near the top of my list is the quiet. At night, when I most like to walk, the quiet is even deeper and more profound than during the day. At night, the only bird I hear is the sound of a distant great-horned owl or perhaps the brief staccato of a startled killdeer. The nearest public road, half a mile away, is never very busy. It’s not uncommon for half an hour or more to pass without a car traveling on it. At night, this time increases, perhaps to hours without a traveler.

At night, my sight, too, is limited by the blanket of darkness around me. In a way, this helps to still my mind, to relax after a busy day. At night, I can see fewer things that look interesting, fewer things to distract my attention, to disturb my thoughts. As long as the moon is half or more full, I will walk without a light, even in the woods, though I know the path. In the winter, when the leafy canopy is gone, I need no moon at all, as long as the stars are out, to light my way. I like to walk without a flashlight, when I can. It makes me feel invisible, as though I am passing without a trace. I feel a part of the woods, not like an intruder or a visitor but simply another resident.

This night, as fall settles in on the mountain, the only sound is that of a few tree frogs or “spring” peepers, raising a soft chorus perhaps for the last time this season. Their chorus sounds a bit sad and much diminished over the multitude of froggy voices that greets the first warm night of spring.

Beside me, Dog suddenly tenses and comes up onto his toes. I feel this more than I see him do it. He sees or hears something that is imperceptible to me. I stop, peer into the darkness and listen, but sense nothing. Perhaps it is a deer or rabbit, perhaps a fox or merely a flutter of leaf. After a few seconds, he relaxes. It, whatever It is, is gone or at least not the threat he first imagined.

To my eyes, the movement that caught his attention will be forever invisible, and I am reminded again of a valuable lesson. My own perceived “invisibility” is hardly complete.
Though other humans can’t see me on my nightly walks, other species, whose own senses are better tuned to the darkness, watch me pass. They will be safe and still in some hiding place or perhaps even standing in the open too far away for me to see. To them I am visible, and my feeling of invisibility is nothing more than just another false, human conceit.

Dog and I walk on, deep in the darkness of the night. In the distance, I see a car’s headlights. Dog and I are still far from the road. The evening is warm, and I hear music booming from the car radio. In the warmth of the night, the driver likely has his or her windows rolled down, enjoying that feeling perhaps for the last time this season. The car passes, its lights and its noise diminishing as quickly as it appeared. Dog and I are too far away for the driver to ever know we were there, watching him pass. I feel invisible again, almost as invisible as I imagine myself to be when I walk in the night.

Golden Afternoon

Yes, I know it's the lowly goldenrod, but how can you say that's not pretty? Heck, I’m no Grand Canyon or Giant Sequoia myself. If I wasn’t a human, I’d be just as honored to be something that looks this pretty once a year. Just because a goldenrod is common doesn’t mean it isn’t worthy of attention and praise every now and again.

Random happenings--I am now 100% convinced that there is some kind of cosmic law that causes the sky to be cloudy anytime there’s a half decent chance to see aurora borealis this far south.

Now that the weather is cooler (thank you!) both dogs are wilder. I thought it was my skill and work with them that was making the difference in their behavior. But I have decided it was only summer that caused them to behave, as misbehaving apparently just took too much energy in the heat. Now that it is cooler they are both back to their antics. Baby Dog runs in circles and has more energy than the Energizer bunny. Even Dog, who is now 5 years old and should be old enough to be sedate, if not staid, has been kicking up his heels.

So far, my hope of increasing my Roundtop bird year list during fall migration hasn’t worked out. September, which has usually been a prime time for seeing species I missed in the spring, has turned up no new species for me on the mountain. There’s still time to add to my list, but the warblers have now mostly passed, leaving me only with hopes of waterfowl, shorebirds and possibly a few late season raptors. That’s the way it goes.

Slipping into Fall

The forest is slipping into autumn at the speed of a runaway freight train. I can see more colors from morning to morning, sometimes even from morning to night.

The change is happening so fast right now it is a bit shocking to me. For weeks, the changes have been miniscule. I had to look hard to find one small thing that was changing. Summer felt static, lulling me into a pattern of searching for changes that moved glacially. Now, if I've been inside the cabin for a few hours I swear I see more color whenever step outside.

The view you see here was taken Saturday morning, in the rain. My lane is already more colorful this morning than yesterday. I am only waiting for the sun to climb a bit higher to take a new photo, so I can compare the two and examine the difference in detail.

I am starting to bring my plants in for the cold weather ahead. I have already brought in the ferns and several Christmas cactus that have set buds. I leave them outside in the summer, under a shrub to protect them from the heat and sun of summer. Two other Christmas cactus hadn't set buds as of yesterday, but it was cooler last night, and perhaps the buds will show this morning.

Fall, After the Storm

Two tornados came through the area last night, one to the north of me and one to the southeast. All is fine here at the cabin, though it was fairly exciting, weatherwise, for a few hours.

This morning, black, gray and white clouds are racing across the sky; the wind is from the northwest, and the temperature is about 10 degrees cooler than it was yesterday. In other words, it really feels like fall this morning.

Last evening, a great blue heron dawdled at one of the ponds. This morning I saw two double-crested cormorants heading south as I drove across the Susquehanna River to work. I see Monarch butterflies constantly, all moving south. I expect now that the storm has cleared that today will be a big migration day for hawks, especially sharp-shinned hawks. In the fall, in the east, northwest winds the day after a storm always brings higher numbers of migrants. I wish I was sitting on a hawkwatch someplace, instead of working, but such is life. Tomorrow will bring more possibilities, I hope.

Aurora Watch!

Be on the lookout for aurora borealis on September 29 and 30. A solar wind storm is approaching and may trigger Northern Lights tomorrow and Saturday. I am ever hopeful, though I'm starting to think there's some kind of cosmic rule that keeps skies overcast whenever the aurora forecast is high.

I took this photo last evening looking up my lane. The color change has started, but it's not very far along just yet.

Still Here!

Not all the summer residents have left the mountain just yet. I snapped this eastern phoebe last night. Many of the 73 frogs I counted a few weeks ago over at the new pond are still diving into the pond just ahead of my steps. They are almost like synchronized swimmers, one just half a leap ahead of the next.

In Between

With every day that passes, fall progresses a little more, a little deeper into the season. Each morning I find another leaf, another branch that bears some color, though I am still several weeks away from the peak. If you look closely in the photo, you can see a little twinge of color on the tree in the foreground.

This is a time when the summer residents have left, but the winter ones haven’t yet arrived. I no longer hear eastern pewees, even on the weekend mornings when I am home and could hear them if they called. The eastern kingbirds are gone. The barn swallows are gone. I still see monarch butterflies, but they are always heading south.

It is still too early for the skeins of Canada geese or tundra swans to fill the sky. They are only just now leaving their northern grounds. It is still too early for the first juncos to arrive. The white-throated sparrows aren’t here yet, either. Activity at the birdfeeder by the year-round bird residents is picking up, a sure sign it won’t be long before the winter birds are here.

It is another in-between time or is it just that almost every time is an in-between time? The natural world is always moving. Even deepest winter is between fall and spring, though sometimes the deepest weather, no matter if it’s the hot end or the cold end, seems never-ending. Right now, I am somewhere in between the first signs of fall and height of fall. But exactly where I am, in between, is always a moving target.

Misty Morning

A foggy morning is beautiful in a landscape, though unfortunately, foggy is also a bit how I feel this Monday morning. I took this photo Sunday morning, just at sunrise as I was coming back to Roundtop after running out to get a Sunday paper.

After a busy weekend, I need a weekend where I have nothing to do but relax and enjoy the beauty around me. Instead, my weekend felt like a battle plan, with missions to accomplish and activities scheduled hour by hour. Missions accomplished; I got through it, but with no time to relax or enjoy.

I can report that Baby Dog had her first recorded encounter with a toad and survived to tell the tale. With luck, her encounter will keep her from attacking toads for the rest of her life, though with Baby Dog this isn’t really a sure bet. Saturday evening we’d taken an after dark walk down to the end of the lane and were almost back to the cabin when Baby Dog tugged hard on the leash and went after something. She had her mouth on it before I could see anything or stop her. Just about then I saw a large toad hop away, presumably unscathed.

Toads secrete a substance that causes dogs to salivate excessively if they try to eat or catch the toad. Baby Dog spent the next half hour salivating and trying to get rid of that substance. Flushing a dog’s mouth with water will help them get rid of it quicker. The substance isn’t dangerous to the dog, unless you live in Colorado or Texas where certain kinds of toads are really poisonous to dogs.

Every dog I’ve ever owned has had one toad in their history, but only one. I think it’s a little like kids sticking their fingers in a light socket. No matter how small the kid, once is all that’s needed for them to learn never to do that again. I hope Baby Dog has learned her lesson.

A Howlfest

Baby Dog has claimed an old round patio table (see picture) that came with the cabin, and which is now shoved into a corner of the back deck, as her own special spot. When she’s on it, she can see over the deck fence and into the woods. Since the deck is 6-7 feet above ground level, she can’t jump out.

When Dog was an only dog, and had the cabin to himself, I hardly ever heard him howl. But now that Baby Dog has joined the household, I am treated to a howlfest at least once a week. Sometimes a visit to the front deck by mama and baby raccoon will start it off. Sometimes it’s the arrival of a delivery truck. Last night, my neighbor came home from work after dark, drove past my cabin and up to his own, and that set them off.

Sometimes a quick word from me will break their concentration and end the display. Other times this doesn’t work, and they just have to howl themselves out. The howling doesn’t usually last very long, just a minute or so. Actually, I kind of like it, as long as it doesn’t go on for too long. Their howling is a very primal sound, very wolf-ish. It takes me back to what it must have been like when packs of wolves ran the forests of the Appalachians.

I’ve heard the deep howl of wolves in the Yukon, and I’ve heard the “yippier” and higher pitched howls of red wolves in North Carolina. I wish Dog and Baby Dog would howl, at least once, when I am some distance away, perhaps over by the new pond. I would like to hear their howls echo through the trees. That’s as close as I’ll ever get to hearing wild wolves in Pennsylvania, but I would like to have the memory of hearing something close to that sound, just once.

Angry Sky

I took this picture over at what I call "the new pond" that Roundtop put in a year or so ago. The sky had that angry October/fall look to it for the first time this season.

Overnight, the temperature dropped into the mid-40's for the first time, and this morning I can already see more color change to the leaves. I'm going to step out on a figurative limb here and predict that I think the fall colors wil be extra nice here this year. The rain two weeks ago really plumped up the foliage again, and I believe the timing of it was right so that the fall colors should be strong.

Spotted touch-me-not

I'm pretty sure this bloom is a spotted touch-me-not. An entire row of these plants is growing as thick as a hedge for 8-10 feet along a seasonal stream at the bottom of my lane. The blooms are small, no more than half an inch each. I like how they are the colors of fall in the days just before fall arrives. The plants are about 2 feet high, and they are just covered with these tiny blooms. I'm guessing there must be 100 blooms along the little stream, if not more.

The flowers and seeds are supposed to explode when touched, hence their name. I'll have to try that when I get home tonight, though the flowers are so pretty that I hate to ruin one. The "explosion" is how the plant distributes its seeds, which is a pretty clever adaptation. I enjoy finding any blooms this late in the season. Nearly everything else has long since faded and disappeared, so finding anything, let alone something this striking, is a treat.

As pretty as this little plant is, even with a row of these plants to look at, they are also easy to walk by. In fact, if I didn't have the whole row of them to look at, I'm not sure I would have noticed them at all. The plant looks a bit weedy, and the blooms are best seen when I'm crouched next to them. To me, the blooms look like an orange, miniature lady's slipper. Nature's show isn't always about majestic rocky mountains and grand canyons. The little things all have their own stories, if you take the time to listen for them.

The Trail Ahead

I took the photo looking down a trail that winds off the side of the mountain and into the wooded valley that lies between Roundtop Mountain and the next one over. It’s a trail I walk frequently, both with and without the dogs. Although you can’t see it in this photo, I am already starting to see a few leaves here and there that have some touch of fall color to them. I’m pretty sure these aren’t changes brought about by drought or insects. I’m seeing the color mostly on smaller trees, the ones that are only a few years old—perhaps the sap simply has less distance to travel.

I saw the constellation Orion this morning, high in the pre-dawn sky. It was a brief sighting, with both Orion and the slivered moon poking in and out of morning fog. To me, seeing Orion again is like the return of a good friend I haven’t seen in a while. Orion is the “star” of the winter sky, a huge sky-filling warrior that makes other constellations look puny. It first makes an appearance in the evening in early November. The constellation throws its leg over the eastern fence (apologies to Robert Frost), marches across the sky of winter and disappears into the west sometime in March. But today it is up there as a morning sight, high overhead, two months before I can see it in the evening.

Today, a cold rain, tasting of fall, of seasons passed and seasons to come.

Let the bird feeding begin!

To be politically correct, I should call the bird in the feeder, a chickadee species. I live in a narrow band where both Carollina and black-capped chickadees are found. Scientists are now suggesting that where both are found, the two alleged species will interbreed, and so telling them apart is problematic. They used to say the calls were diagnostic, but no longer. I've never been politically correct; it's a black-capped chickadee. I can see differences in the chickadees that come to the feeder. The Carolina is smaller, and the white behind the ear is slightly grayer or less distinct. The black-capped is just a tad larger and has a bright white patch behind its ear. And usually, their wings are also edged with white,

I set up my bird feeder this weekend. Some people are surprised that I don’t feed the birds all year around. I would if the birds came to the feeders all year, but starting around April, the number of birds coming to the feeder drop way down. Add in a little rain, and the food will mold before it gets eaten. So I just stop feeding.

Mid-September is usually when I start feeding again, though even now I don’t expect many birds yet. Still, I’ve had chickadees, titmice, white-breasted nuthatch, cardinals so far. I just bought some peanuts in the shell, which the blue jays love, so as soon as I add that, I expect they will come too.

I use a food called “Woodpecker.” The same company has one called “Chickadee” too, but my even chickadees like the Woodpecker mix better. The Woodpecker mix is mostly nuts, some quite large, but that doesn’t keep chickadees and titmice from hunting for the biggest nut and taking it back to their favorite tree for eating.

I also add extra sunflower seed and the peanuts, and later in the season, I’ll add a suet cake. I get a great variety of birds to my feeders. Woodpecker is an expensive mix, but little of the food goes to waste, unlike with the cheaper mixes where the birds throw out half or more of it. Most of the cheaper brands of bird seed have lots of cracked corn and millet, which most birds don’t like. That stuff is cheap, though, so they are commonly added to mixes.

It’s been my experience that a better quality of bird seed brings a better quality and variety of birds to the feeders. The only bird that eats cracked corn is mourning doves, and most of them don’t come this deep into the woods. The average bird doesn’t care for cracked corn. I read a study once that showed sunflower seed to be the second favorite seed of virtually every species of bird that will visit a feeder. For cardinals, it was the first choice. So plenty of sunflower seed are a good base for a feed mix.

Rain, no broadwings

The photo is of raindrops on white pine needles. Today was supposed to be clear. Heck, yesterday was supposed to be clearing and mostly nice. It's still raining.

I’m starting to think my idea of a diminished food source as the cause for the early broadwing migration in the east was premature. So far today is still foggy and misty. In other words, it’s not very good migration weather. I’m already doubting the “clear” forecast for tomorrow.

So perhaps the real answer to the reason for the early migration is a prolonged bout of poor weather, and the birds felt compelled to move when they knew it was clear. This, naturally, begs the question of how birds in northern Canada know that the east coast of the U.S. is going to be weathered out for the next week, when forecasters with computers can’t?

I’m pretty good at watching the sky and telling when bad weather is going to arrive, but once I’m in the middle of the bad weather, I find few clues to tell me when it’s going to end. When bad weather is moving in I can see the first clouds appear on the horizon and march across the sky until it’s completely cloudy. I can tell, usually, if the storm will be a fast-moving one or one that’s going to be here for a long time. I can tell if the storm will be strong or weak. But when I’m surrounded by low, thick clouds or in the middle of rain or snow, I can’t tell when it’s going to end. And that’s the point I’m at right now. But those broadwings know!! So they flew before all this settled in.

Broadwings

Broadwings never do what they're "supposed" to do. Despite the early date, yesterday Hawk Mountain counted over 7000 broadwings, the fifth largest count ever. A few miles to the east at Bake Oven Knob, over 4000 were counted. I only saw one other site that counted over 1000 hawks, the other 30+ sites I checked results for rarely had over 100. So what's going on??

Also, though the wind was largely calm (which broadwings like), when there was a breeze yesterday it was from the south (which broadwings hate). Wind from the south means these birds are moving with a headwind, which means they have to use more energy on their already long and arduous trip down into central and South America.

Interestingly, to me, the Great Lakes hawkwatch sites that often count broadwings in the tens of thousands really haven't seen much yet. In other words, their broadwings so far seem to be arriving (or not) on schedule. So why so many birds in the east this early in the season? Boy, don't I wish I could answer that one.

So I'm going to make a few semi-educated guesses. Although the weather will block migration for the next 3 days, the front is supposed to clear out by Friday and have good skies for flying after that. On the surface of it, the birds shouldn't need to fly in these numbers this early. Something else must be making them want to move early. That something else, in my opinion, is likely food.

I suspect that their food source in the north either wasn't as plentiful as usual, or perhaps it's been cold up north so their food source is vanishing earlier than usual. It's liable to take weeks/months to get a reasonable answer to this mystery. But trying to figure out the "whys" of migration is one of the reasons I find it so fascinating.

The Moon When the Birds Fly Away

Native Americans measure the year in moons, not in months, as is well known. At least one tribe calls what we name September as the Moon When the Birds Fly Away. I am really seeing the truth of that this week. Looking out my office window the past two days I see flocks of starlings and others that I can’t identify without binoculars swirling around the sky, like so many spots of pepper.

I’ve heard reports of large warbler fallouts—not at the cabin, unfortunately. A warbler “fallout” is when large numbers and many species of these tiny and beautiful birds all end up in the same place at the same time. A fallout most often happens on tops of mountains or on both sides of a large body of water that the poor things have to fly over. A fallout on the shore before a big water flight is to fuel up with insects, rest and perhaps to work up the nerve to start. A fallout after a big water flight is to rest and eat. Sometimes, the birds are so exhausted they all but fall out of the sky when they finally reach land. Fallouts on tops of mountains are rest stops and eating stops. It probably takes less energy to drop just a few hundred feet in altitude and refuel on the top of a mountain than it does to fly into a valley. It’s kind of like a gas station right at the on/off ramp of an interstate.

Broad-winged hawk reports for yesterday in this area were pretty impressive for so early in the season. Several of the local hawkwatches tallied more than 1,000 broadwings. The timing of the broadwing hawk migration is usually quite predictable, weather permitting. In my area of southern Pennsylvania, it you want to see broadwings, you should be on a lookout on the 17-18th of September. Historically, those are the days most likely to be the big migration days for this species. This is not to say you won’t see them a week before or after these dates. But the biggest flight is usually on these days.

Weather does affect the migration. One of the biggest flights ever in this area was September 12, 1978 at Hawk Mountain when more than 12,000 birds flew past. But this amazing result preceded 10 days of serious rain and poor flight conditions. Those birds pretty much had no other window of flight opportunity, and they knew it, so they migrated early.
This year, the prediction is for poor flight conditions through Friday (the 15th) but clear weather is predicted after that, so the 1,000+ birds seen at several lookouts yesterday is a little surprising to me. The other interesting pattern was that the flight was better to the west than in the east. Waggoner’s Gap near Carlisle had 1,300 broadwings, while Bake Oven Knob in Schuykill County (or is it Berks??) had 1,100. The Philadelphia region hawkwatches had less than 100 broadwings. This is likely due to the lack of northwest winds this week. The birds haven’t been pushed to the east and have been able to follow a more direct flight path. Of course, that might change after the rain finally clears the region.

Then

On this cloudy and foggy day, I find I can’t get my mind away from the thought of a beautiful and crystal clear September morning five years ago. How is it that I remember what the weather was like? Is it because the weather was so at odds with the darkness of what happened that day? ?

I have no words that explain or console. It was not a day for words. At least not for mine. I found little comfort anywhere, though I have found some since. I continue to find it as I see the seasons progress, as migrations continue, as life goes on. That things will never be the same is a given, but some things never change and in a small way, knowing that comforts.

Quiet Weekend

It's been a quiet weekend at the cabin. Summer is gone, but fall isn't quite here yet. Two inches of unpredicted rain fell Friday night, and some of the greenery has rebounded almost to spring's bright green.

Now that I could take my morning walks with dogs in daylight, I've discovered the pewees are still here. I heard a screech owl this morning, just after sunrise. It's the first I've heard them since spring.

So far, I haven't seen any sign that the summer birds have left, nor have I seen the winter residents appear yet. Sometimes I think much of the year is simply an in-between time. In-between winter and spring, in-between summer and fall, after fall but before winter. Shouldn't we have more seasons? Why only four?

Harvest Moon (...and other round things)

Tonight’s full moon is the Harvest Moon. Sometimes Harvest Moon is in September, sometimes in October. It’s always the full moon that falls closest to the equinox and this year that means it’s September’s full moon. I’d almost forgotten about it. It’s been so gray and overcast here for nearly 2 weeks that I haven’t seen the moon once since the first quarter a week ago.

Last night, well after dark, I was walking Baby Dog and when I came out of the forest, I was nearly blinded by the rising moon. A full moon is a fast way to lose the night vision I gained when I was walking in the woods. But with the sky clear and the moon so close to full that I couldn’t tell the difference, I didn’t really need it.

I found this mushroom near one of the old snow-making ponds when I was walking the dogs last evening. It’s a nice one, though can’t compare to the monster ‘shrums I saw in the rainforests of southeast Alaska. Those were nearly knee high, with caps the size of dinner plates. But this one is still pretty (though deadly).

The Downside

I am now taking my morning walk with Dog a good 45 minutes before sunrise, long before even the eastern pewees are up. Occasionally, as on this morning, we startle some sleeping bird as we walk past where they are roosting. This morning it was a killdeer who was startled and responded with their familiar call.

The lack of morning light affects my birding in other ways too. I have records going back a good many years of the dates when different species arrive in the spring. But my records of when they leave in the fall are pretty bad. Right now I'm just leaving the cabin and heading to work when I first hear the morning pewees call. In another week I will be leaving before they call. When do they head south? I won't know they are gone until some weekend when they aren't around. It's a shame that work has to interfere with good birding.

Last evening I saw the season's first large group of common grackles, several hundred at least. That's actually not a large group, but large enough. Down in Maryland and sometimes in this area, the flocks will be in the thousands, perhaps even the tens of thousands. In addition to the noise, the mess is pretty extreme as well. In this area, the birds hang out in one area for a few days or a week and then move someplace else. In Maryland and further south, sometimes the flocks hang together in the same area all winter. I hope I never have to see that near me.

Hawkwatching

I did a little hawkwatching yesterday, which for those who don’t know, usually entails sitting on a mountain and looking into the sky with binoculars. I guess in some ways it’s a bit like fishing. It’s relaxing but often requires a fair amount of waiting and sitting. On good days it’s like winning the lottery when I see lots of hawks up close or a rare species. On bad days, I hope for good weather and a decent view. And perhaps some good conversation with fellow hawkwatchers.

After being a hawkwatcher for 20+ years, I can pretty much tell which days are going to be productive ones. Unfortunately, telling where the best place to be to see the hawks that fly past is more difficult. That’s why hawkwatching, especially broadwing hawk hawkwatching, is also a bit like gambling. Some hawk species migrate along ridges, but broadwings fly first where the wind takes them and then correct their path to take them where they want to go. So they can show up almost anywhere in this region, and trying to figure out where the wind has placed them is as much art as science, at this point. I “win” just often enough to keep me coming back for more, but I lose a lot too.

Yesterday turned out to be a good day for what is still the early migration season. By Sunday, Hurricane Ernesto cleared the region, and it was one day before more bad weather. That meant birds interested in heading south only had Sunday to do so or wait for the next favorable weather pattern.

As it turned out, I didn’t see as many broad-winged hawks (known as broadwings to hawkwatchers) as I’d hoped. But I did see osprey, sharp-shinned hawks (sharpies) and red-tailed hawks (redtails). I also saw plenty of turkey vultures and a few migrating black vultures. The vultures turned out to be the only ones close enough for photos.

Another enjoyment of hawkwatching is looking at other things that fly by, even when they aren’t hawks. Of these, the best were ruby-throated hummingbird, migrating monarch butterflies, and a first year or female Cape May warbler in the pines below my seat. I also saw small, loose flocks of starlings and grackles that were either migrating or preparing for that by grouping together and flying around.

The big broadwing flight in this area won’t occur for at least another week and more likely not for about 12-13 days. The best variety of hawks, up to 14 species in this area, is coming in mid-October, usually October 20-23. After that hawkwatching requires perseverance and a good wardrobe to brave the cold weather and greet the late season migrants.

The Season Changes

Ernesto's rain has ended, but as you can see the sky is still dark and dreary, and the light for photography is pretty bad. So naturally, I came across a large, probably female, red-tailed hawk sitting on a wire as soon as I left the cover of the woods yesterday.

Hurricane Ernesto was a season-changing kind of storm. From here on, the weather won't likely get as hot as mid-summer, though it's still possible to get a few more hot days.

The storm also started birds moving in a way that I hadn't yet seen before it. As soon as the storm cleared, I started seeing loose flocks of small birds headed south. Most were starlings or finches, but it's the first time I've seen birds in flocks since summer started. This morning I saw a south-bound dragonfly. Yes, they migrate too. Tomorrow is to bring more rain, so I'm optimistic that today will bring a good early-season hawk migration. I'm heading off to a hawkwatch to enjoy the show.

I did manage to get one better and closer picture of Ms. Redtail sitting on the wire.

Rainy Saturday

Hurricane Ernesto turns out to be an odd little storm. The 3-5+ inches of rain that were predicted haven't really materialized, though I've had about 2 inches and it's still raining, though not very heavily. The winds, which weren't supposed to be a factor, brought down 2 trees into the lane below the cabin. So before any of us who live along the lane could get out this morning, those had to be taken care of. One we just moved by hand, as it wasn't that big.

And now it's a raining Saturday afternoon, and all the animals are snoozing. I should be too.

Calm Before the Storm

The calm before the storm is a real phenomenon, not just a cliché. Last night as I walked the dogs for the last time, the leaves were as still as those in a painting. It’s as though the forest is holding its collective breath. Even the crickets and the cicadas were silent.

Hurricane Ernesto is going to sweep up through Roundtop and past my cabin today and tonight. I’ve seen quiet like this before. I’ve seen it after the one tornado that careened past the base of the mountain came through. I saw it the day before a winter hurricane dropped 3 feet of snow on the mountain and blasted by with 70 mph winds. It’s as though these big storms suck away all the air flow in an entire region, pulling it into their own storm system. The result creates this area of calm ahead of them.

The current forecast for my area doesn’t sound terrible, but I’m wary. The last time the forecast was for 3-5 inches of rain, I ended up with 15” of rain. My basement was good for the first 11”. After that I was in trouble, especially when the sump pump broke at 13” into the storm. So last evening I bought a new sump pump and all the necessary accoutrements. I also bought a battery-powered pump in case the electricity goes out. I’m as ready as I can be.

If the storm stays within its predicted rain level, I (and my basement) will be fine. I might even be out looking for “hurricane birds.” Birds (and likely other animals as well) respond to the lowering air pressure by heading inland and to safety. It’s not uncommon to find coastal birds on the Susquehanna River or on area ponds during big storms. It’s one of the few benefits these storms can bring with them. This morning, I’ve been seeing many small flocks of common birds floating around, no doubt seeking food and shelter and being far more active than is typical for this time of day.

In the meantime I’m waiting for the storm, trying to create my own area of calm ahead of its path. Waiting and watching is all I can do.

Today is the Day

Today was the day. It is a gray, misty and foggy morning. I needed the headlamp when I walked Dog this morning. The only sounds were crickets and a few frogs. Dog and I walked down the lane surrounded by darkness. Even when the trees ended, in a small open area, it was still too dark to do without the light. We walked back into the cover of the woods again. A slight breeze tickled the leaves and the sound of rain dripping to the ground was added to the few sounds around me.

We continued our walk, emerged again from the forest, and this time I did turn off my light. No bird sounds accompanied us. For the first time since spring, our walk was devoid of singing, calling birds. It made the pre-dawn darkness seem eerie, even a little dangerous.

We reached the far limit of our morning walk, turned and headed back to the cabin. And then, a killdeer called. Apparently, we startled it as we walked on the gravel road, and it sounded the alarm call. We walked further, and now I heard a blue jay scold. We were almost back to the cabin when the first pewee announced the day. In the distance, a crow called, too. Morning arrived.

Dark Morning

Each morning, as the year’s dark side encroaches on the start of the day, I see and hear fewer birds as I take my 6:00 a.m. walk. This morning I was down to three species: crows, a cardinal and the eastern pewee. I notice the change most on Monday mornings, as on the weekend I usually sleep half an hour later than on work days. Soon, the only bird I hear will be the hoot of an owl, as the pewees will head south and even the crows and the cardinals won’t be awake.

This Monday, when I first left the cabin, I nearly turned around to retrieve a headlamp, but after I stood with Dog for a moment or two, my eyes adjusted enough that I thought I could do without it for another day, at least. But I know the headlamp is only a day or two away from necessity. At first, I will only need it until I emerge from the canopy of the forest. Once I have open sky above me, even nearly black open sky, I will be able to see my way for the walk. But that is only a temporary respite. When we return to standard time, I might be able to forego it again, briefly. When the leaves fall and open the forest to the sky’s light, I might have another respite. But respite is all these temporary adjustments will bring. The night is closing in.

Fallen Leaves

These leaves probably look like the first leaves of autumn but they're not. It hasn't been cool enough to start that process yet. Until this weekend, it has been very dry here, and many leaves, especially ones in the understory and on smaller trees, have turned yellow. The much-needed rain showers over the weekend caused many of those already-dying leaves to drop, where they now litter the driveway and the lane in a kind preview of fall.

It has really just been in the past week where I've noticed how severe the withering has become. Saplings and vines are the most affected. About half of everything that is 5 feet or under has yellowing leaves. And even on larger trees, it isn't unusual to see a branch with yellowing leaves, though that might be caused by insect damage.

Foggy Morning

I feel as though I have been living under a gray blanket this weekend. At 7:30 this morning it was almost as dark as dawn. Fog blanketed the mountain, and it has been overcast all weekend.

Overnight, finally, a little rain, less than half an inch, though at this point even a little will help. The forest isn't turning color with autumn's colors, but many leaves, especially in the smaller plants of the understory, are turning brown, falling off, and littering the driveway just as if they were fall's discards.

The woods are heavy with moisure and quiet. No wind rustles the leaves. It is as though the woods are still with anticipation. Of what? I don't know, but I whisper, as though my voice needs to be nearly as silent as the trees. I don't want to disturb the silence.

The Memory of Unnamed Things

An evening walk in late summer is a lovely thing. The heat of mid-summer is past, though still strong enough a memory to make me appreciate an evening cool enough for comfort.
More changes, another shift in what I see around me and in the woods is underway, though the move towards fall is still a slow one. Nonetheless, the transition is inexorable, and each new day brings new changes.

Last night I saw common nighthawks, an early migrant. I was walking around the new pond, the light already dull with the gray of a cloudy evening, when I saw a shape I haven’t seen for a year. Several birds flew low and close past the pond, somewhat falcon-ish with their pointy wings, but far slimmer.

Nighthawks! The shape of them triggered the word in my thoughts, an automatic response without my conscious search or even a known desire to put a name to the shape. And with the word came pictures of other nighthawks, other sightings, better sightings where the light was bright and every detail could be seen. It was a joy to see them again, and I felt surprise at how effortlessly the word came to me, seemingly without my volition. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen nighthawks, or even thought of them, and still the word was right there, ready to be placed with the shape.

And yet, this morning, I can still picture the birds as they flew past me, unnamed, in that moment before the name burst inside me. Something magical is lost with the naming of things. Beauty lives in an unnamed moment, as surely as memory creates its own. But memory’s beauty is different than the beauty of unnamed things that sweep by like nighthawks in an evening sky.

Late Summer

Last evening on my walk I found a cardinal flower, a sure sign of late summer if ever there is one (and of course there are many). This sign is only the latest.

These spectacular wildflowers are growing happily in a marshy area that drains into one of the snowmaking ponds. The flowers don't bloom until late August, so when it blooms, summer is truly on the wane. The cardinal flower grows 2-4 feet tall; this one is on the short side of that. They are related to bluebells and fall into the category of beautiful but deadly. Well, who would want to eat one anyway?

This flower and its not-yet-blooming neighbor are surrounded by green grass, right along the road and couldn't be missed by anyone who has his or her eyes open. Which, of course, makes me worry about its safety. Still, I've seen people drive right by 40 wild turkeys sitting in my parent's open yard and within a few feet of the road and never see a thing. So I hope two little wildflowers, even two as spectacular as these manage to pass unnoticed by those who would pluck it or dig it up.

Peace and Quiet

Ah, peace and quiet! It’s good to have the mountain return to normal after the noise and excitement of this past weekend. Last evening I took a long and peaceful walk, including a streatch around the new pond. It was a sunny day, and the evening was calm and warm, though not hot.

I was hoping to find a few shorebirds at the upper and shallower end of the pond, though the water level turned out to be too high for that. I startled a single mallard; that was all.

And then the first frog squeaked and leaped into the pond just a few feet in front of my steps. It was followed a second later by another squeak and a second frog, then a third, and fourth. It was like watching that human “wave” thing at sporting events. One frog after another squeaking and leaping into the pond just ahead of my steps.

I started to count the frogs--15, 16, 17. There went a very large frog, no doubt a bullfrog, followed by 3 more, smaller frogs. Another step and this time 5 or 6 frogs hit the water, the next only a moment behind the one in front of it--32, 33, 34.

I am surprised at the number of frogs. For one thing, this is a new pond. It was only filled for the first time last summer. So these frogs are either all transplants from other ponds or this year’s production.

I keep walking and frogs keep leaping ahead of me—46,47,48. The new pond is about half a mile around. My plan for the evening is to walk the full length of the pond but then to cut into the woods and eventually head back to the cabin. My walk by the pond will only last for perhaps a quarter of a mile.

More plops. That time the frogs all jumped at once, and I’m not sure I’ve counted all of them. I’m glad to see so many. Acid rain has changed the ph of the streams and ponds in this state and has resulted in low or no reproduction for many amphibians. I’ve read several articles and heard stories from biologists about how the numbers of amphibians are cut in half or worse as a result of the lower water ph.
I kept walking. Frogs kept plopping. In the short stretch of my walk along the pond’s shoreline, I counted 73 frogs. And I know I missed some. I think I have never seen so many frogs at once in my life. It’s a good day.

Baby Dog is One Year Old

This weekend Baby Dog celebrated her first birthday. I can't believe she's a year old already, but she is. The First picture was taken the day I brought her home.

She was rescued from somewhere down in the Hurricane Katrina area. From the pictures I have and what I've been told, I think she was in already in a shelter (and just 10 days old) when the hurricane hit. I have a picture of her being bottle fed at at 14 days old, and she was already out of the worst of the hurricane's path then. So she was either moved out of that area before the hurricane hit or she was moved out very quickly afterwards. I don't know exactly where she was then, only that she was in that region.

I got her a wiggley-giggly toy for her birthday. These are the toys that make odd noises when a dog rolls them around. She has completely ignored it. So much for that idea. Another $10 down the drain.

When the Purple Door festival started, she barked everytime someone hit a drum extra hard or if the vacals were unusually loud. Then Dog would join in, and I had two dogs barking every few minutes. Dog didn't really care about the noise from the festival. He was only paying attention to Baby Dog's barking. The festival was half over before she stopped barking at every sound.

The second picture is the way the little goofball looks today.

The festival is fun, but I'm glad it's over, and peace has returned to the mountain. I'm looking forward to a nice long walk with the dogs this evening, without encountering traffic, hordes of people or hearing the bands all day long.

Something Completely Different

Once a year Roundtop plays host to the Purple Door Festival, and about 10,000 people show up to listen to a weekend of hard rock music, played by more than 20 bands. The festival is supposed to be a Christian rock festival, but to my ears the music doesn't sound any different than any other hard rock music. Perhaps the lyrics have a religious content but since I can't understand most of the words, I have no idea.

Anyway, since I live so close, and entry/exit from the cabin is difficult during the weekend, the organizers always send me a free pass to the festival. The festival boasts four stages, food stands, a literary journal, art gallery, bookstore, lots of band vending stands and probably other stuff too.

The concert stages start showing up in pieces on trucks on Wednesday. By Thursday evening the roadies have pretty much set up all the stages. The bands show up from all across the country early on Friday to get settled and start their sound checks. The second photo is from a sound check. I don't know the name of the band for this one.

By mid-afternoon on Friday, the kids, most of whom seem to have license plates from Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia, start lining up at the gates, which open at 6 p.m. The music starts shortly after the gates open.

I can hear the bass line of the music from the smaller stages at my cabin. When the festival moves to the biggest stages, I can hear all the music. It's kind of like having the stereo on low all weekend. When I'm outside, the music is louder, but since it's good music I don't mind. It's a fun weekend and only happens once a year. I might not enjoy it as much if it happened every weekend.

Baby Dog can't figure the entire thing out and she barks periodically to warn me of impending danger. Dog is oblvious unless Baby Dog's barking takes a more persistent tone. Then he barks too, though he's barking in sympathy with Baby Dog. He's been through this before, and to him the music no big deal, but when one dog barks, another simply has to join in. That's a rule.

The third picture was taken at the smallest stage. I don't know the name of this band either. It is one of the winners of the new band contest.
The action moved to the main stage after dark. The last photo I'm goig to post today is from the group Copeland. They have a modern hard rock sound and put on a good show. Their sound, and especially the lead singer's voice, reminds me of Huffamoose and one of their sons, James. Most of the bands only play for 20-30 minutes, so more bands can fit on the schedule. The headliners play for an hour or so, but none of the bands play for a really long time. So if there's something you don't like, go get something to eat and when you come back, it will be a different band.