Flat Rock Trail

I know I was supposed to be bio-blitzing this weekend. Sorry, I went hiking instead. I'll make it up soon.

Until I do, here are a few photos from my hike on the Flat Rock Trail in Colonel Denning State Park in Cumberland County (or is it Perry?). Anyway, it's a state park northwest of Carlisle, PA.

Two of my friends brought their dogs, I brought Baby Dog, and we all went for a hike on the most beautiful, crystal clear day I've seen in months and months. The temperature neared 70, the humidity was low, and if the weather could have been any more perfect than this day was, I wouldn't know where to begin to improve it.

Flat Rock Trail is a short but very steep trail (5 miles round trip). The first 50 yards or so are flat. After that it climbs steeply for a mile, gaining about 1000 feet in altitude in that mile. Then it levels off somewhat. The first photo is from the start of the hike. The second photo is my friend Teresa and her dog Tula (who looks a lot like Baby Dog but is half her size). That's Baby Dog's tail in the foreground.

Coltsfoot in Full Bloom

The coltsfoot plant I photographed the other day is now in full bloom. The overcast sky that has darkened the day for weeks has now cleared, and today is clear and warm. The result is that spring is about to explode.

Instead of the baby steps of the past few weeks, the speed of the new season will now likely move so quickly, I won't be able to see or note it all. It will suddenly just be here in full force, probably by tomorrow morning. I am certainly ready for something to change. It feels as though I've been living in November since, well, November.

Gee, it's Friday, and the sky is clear. I have two days to enjoy the outdoors and the forest. Let the weekend begin!

Gloomy Day

Yesterday’s sunshine turned out to be only momentary. That such a brief appearance of sunshine was cause for my celebration is just one more indication how gloomy it has been here for I-don’t-even-remember-how-long now. This morning the gloom is back (see photo).

My own gloom these days extends beyond the weather and off the mountain. Each spring brings another destruction season (as I call it), with more open land, farmland, woodland razed to build ever more houses (or housing units as developers prefer to call them). I can already see the signs of this season's destruction--tapes around trees, stakes in fields, the path of a bulldozer through a wood lot.

I am starting to feel like an endangered species myself, though it is my lifestyle that's endangered. Suburbia moves ever closer and the people who come are interested in things like curbs and street lights. I will never understand why people who move to places with open air and open land want nothing more than to make where they move to look like the cities they are escaping. But that's just me. Obviously.

Coltsfoot and Other Insanities

If you want a better indication of how late this spring is arriving, today’s photo is it. This is coltsfoot, which is typically the first wildflower to appear each year. In fact, this flower is so anxious to bloom that it blooms before its leaves appear. As you can see in this photo, the plant is not yet (quite) blooming as the flowers haven’t opened up yet.

It is not uncommon for me to first see a blooming coltsfoot around the first week of April. I wouldn’t be surprised, in some years, to find it before the end of March. I have also seen it in bloom when patches of snow were still around. But this year, today will be its blooming day. It is no exaggeration to say that it is blooming about 3 weeks later than usual.

The coltsfoot, as I have only just found out to my dismay, is not native to North America but to Europe, where it was used to treat asthma and colds, usually in a tea sweetened with lemon. It is also, apparently, smoked in a pipe to treat asthma, which to a modern sensibility seems like a contradiction in terms.

Spring continues its slow progress, though the speed of the season is beginning to increase. Last night, as I drove past the old snowmaking pond, several tree swallows skimmed along its surface—another first of the year!

And this morning, for at least several seconds, I was briefly convinced I’d overslept. Dog and I were walking along one of the ponds when I saw brightness in the east and was momentarily blinded. The sun! If the sun was up, it could only mean that I was late for work because when Dog and I walk it is still dark. In fact, it was dead dark only yesterday on our walk, and it doesn’t go from dark to sunny in one day when we walk at the same time each morning, so…Oh, wait. The sky is clear this morning. The sun is supposed to be rising now. It’s only because it’s been so flippin’ overcast for the past two weeks that I couldn’t see morning was rising to greet us on our walks. Okay, so I’m not late. Deep breath.

Spring Beauty

This morning, after the worst of the nor'easter cleared out, I went out into the front forest to look for more signs of spring and found one! Here is the first spring beauty of the spring. Each spring my driveway and front forest area is lined with these tiny flowers. They are always the first flowers I see in the spring.

Now that the first of these beauties has arrived, I expect the first eastern blue butterflies to appear momentarily. Usually these two appear at the same time here on Roundtop.

Spring is still slower and further behind than is typical here. Every spring a few "volunteers" from long-gone Easter baskets reemerge and brighten the area around the front deck. Yesterday, the first of these was now just half an inch or less through the ground. That's close to 10 days behind normal. These escapees are are still weeks from blooming, which I don't expect now until around the end of the month, at least.

Here on the mountain I have yet to see any sign of trees leafing or redbud reddening. To me, one of the interesting things about forests, or indeed any plant growth, is how much spring temperatures promote or hinder new growth without apparent ill effects to the ecosystem as a whole. Animals and birds seem to be much more likely to be adversely affected by timing issues than the forest itself. The plants of the forest simply bloom earlier or later, zen-like, in response to whatever the weather is doing. The forest is really the master at going with the flow. And in other ways, as well.

Spring Nor'easter

The strong nor’easter that pummeled the, uh, northeast made its presence felt here on Roundtop, too. I have had several inches of rain, “trapping” me in the cabin for most of Sunday. I’m currently worrying through strong winds that kept me awake for much of the night. To be fair, it wasn’t just the wind that kept me awake. Whenever, anything fell on the roof or the decks and made a noise, Baby Dog was forced to bark at it. I had a mildly wet basement from the rain, but it was nothing my little battery pump couldn’t handle. So far the winds have dropped limbs and branches but no wires or trees.

Before the storm hit, Saturday was overcast but calm and almost warm. I saw a pair of ruby-crowned kinglets darting through the trees, but that was my only new migrant of the weekend. By now I should have at least 10 mores bird species than I’ve recorded.

I’m starting to see some new growth on the forest floor, but it’s still minimal compared with most years to this time. And what has started growing is still too small for me to identify the species. For plants, I need more than ¼ to ½ inch of growth before I can identify them. I have finally seen the first butterfly of the new season—a cabbage white. Typically, I have seen at least 3-4 other species by now.

I expect that once this nor’easter has blown through that spring will explode almost overnight. As you can see from today’s photo looking across the valley and towards the next ridges, it still doesn’t look much like spring here. The grass is green, but the orchard isn’t even close to blossoming yet.

I guess all years have their own seasonal oddities—too much rain, too little, too cold, too warm, etc.,--but this year is one of the most unusual I can remember. I suppose you could say I find it intellectually interesting, but emotionally concerning. Too many odd years in a row have serious consequences for wildlife, migrants and the forest itself. I can do little about it but watch and document what I see.

Clouds of Change

After getting an inch of rain, the sky is now clearing. Clouds race across the horizon, first in shades of gray, then white puffs with hints of blue behind them, and finally dark and threatening gray again. The wind roared across the mountain last night. Branches dropped onto the cabin roof, and called Baby Dog to barking.

This morning, the wind is strong but no longer roaring. The vultures were airborne as soon as it was light enough to see. Perhaps they were lured into such an early flight because they were ground-bound by the rain yesterday. Perhaps they also know that a nor’easter is due tomorrow and could bring snow back to the area. Today will be the only day they have, probably, to search for food, and they want to take advantage of every minute.

To me, the weather feels like late October or early November. If it was, I’d be proclaiming it “golden eagle weather” and would try to put myself on a hawkwatch someplace. But northwest winds in spring are just the opposite of good migration weather.

With this year’s weather so unusual, I’m afraid the spring migration, when it happens, will be over in a day or two. Somewhere, further south, the spring birds are backed up by this weather, waiting for it to improve before attempting the flight north. Those who have the furthest to go will likely fly for long hours and may well overfly this area without stopping.
For now, I have a phoebe calling—after silence for several days—and the towhee’s song to fill the woods. Tomorrow’s snow is still a day away.

Foggy, Soggy Morning

It’s been kind of a quiet week here on the mountain. The cool weather has slowed migration and new plant growth. This morning is foggy and soggy, just a few degrees above freezing at Roundtop, so it feels chilly and raw. It’s the kind of day that makes me wish I could have stayed home, slept a few hours later than usual and then woke up to a few hot cups of orange tea.

Alas, the alarm went off as usual, the dogs needed walked, and the day moved ahead. By the time I’d walked the dogs, I was damp and chilled. Dog behaved perfectly this morning, which scares me. He walked on a loose lead like a perfect gentleman. This will likely mean that on our next walk he will be a perfect hellion. That has been the pattern since he was a puppy. I used to say that he was either the perfect puppy or the puppy from hell. Now that he’s a dog, the pattern hasn’t changed all that much. I have hope, sometimes, that the extremes of this pattern are dissipating, but when he’s as perfect as he was this morning, I expect trouble to follow.

Baby Dog is still a work in progress, though she seems to have a more laid back nature than Dog. On our morning walks, she takes forever to decide on an appropriate spot for her bodily functions. Multiple spots need smelled, and when a particularly good smell attracts her, she forgets entirely what she is out there to do. Then when she eventually does find the right spot, she has to circle it, just to make sure. Her record for this circling is 18 times. This morning, with the rain pounding down, she took even longer than usual.

Rain, chill, no new birds, no sprouting plants, canine issues—at least I can still have a hot cup of orange tea to ease me into the day.

Green

No, this isn’t my grass. I don’t have grass at the cabin. This is some of the grass around the ski area. Isn’t that some of the brightest green you’ve ever seen? I love the bright green of spring grass and leaves. I don’t have any bright green leaves to look at yet, but finding spring’s bright green anywhere, even in grass, is nearly as good.

It almost hurts my eyes to look at the green of spring. It’s a green that shouts, “I’m here!” It’s a green only found during the early part of spring. Quickly enough, this brightness will fade into a richer shade of elegant green that means summer has arrived. And by mid-August or so the green will turn dull and dark, not pretty at all. But for now, it’s spring and the green is bright and fresh with new growth.

Misty Mountains

Winter was late arriving, but now so is spring. Here on the mountain, I have had snow showers every day for the last 4-5 days. Some were just a few flurries, others were full-fledged squalls. On Saturday, the temperature never got above the mid-30’s. I have yet to see a butterfly, and the arrival of summer birds has slowed. Spring growth on the mountain is almost non-existent, but when I drive off the mountain and down into the valley, growth is much further along.

The late spring might be a big boon for warblers—at least I hope so. Before global warming, warbler arrival was well-timed to match the appearance of spring leaves and insects. The past several years, the early warming means the leaves were out and the hatching insects already dispersed, leaving little food for the birds on the trip north or on their nesting grounds. Warbler populations have plummeted, and though early springs aren’t the only cause for this, it is one of the major factors. Perhaps a “late” spring that’s actually closer to the normal spring of years past will help their reproductive success and population this year.

I took the photo this morning looking towards the mist-shrouded hills to the east of Roundtop. It was below freezing and chilly this morning—though at least the blustery wind of the weekend has calmed.

Fox and Fungi

I never thought I'd say this, but I guess even I’m ready for spring. I groaned at the sight of snow squalls this morning and am starting to be jealous when other nature bloggers around the country wax poetic about spring flowers and butterflies—none of which have appeared here at Roundtop yet. This is just what a 40° drop in temperature in 24 hours will do to me.

The suddenly cooler weather does not seem to matter to the dogs. I made the mistake this morning of not putting on a jacket when I took Baby Dog outside, figuring a sweatshirt would be good enough. So the wind kicks up, and I’m suddenly cold. Baby Dog was taking forever to find the proper spot to complete her assignment so we can go back inside. Just when I thought she was going to oblige, some smell distracted her, and she forgot why she was out there in the first place. The spot needed to be smelled, extensively, and this was far more important than any bodily function.

Dog and I heard a fox calling last night. It was close enough to the cabin to pique Dog’s interest and make me wonder what the wild little canine was up to. The fox call is a single bark that is repeated over and over. When Baby Dog heard it her hackles went up, and she started to bark too. Here's a link to a site with fox calls on it. Check out the one called call.wav. That's what we heard last night. It's kind of a spooky sound when it's 10:30 p.m. and no more than 50-75 yards away. At least Baby Dog thought so. Dog was interested enough for his ears to perk up, but he wasn't about to start barking back at it.

My photo today is simply a downed tree with a lot of neat fungus on it. I love the bright red fungus in the middle. It is the most colorful thing in the woods right now.

Awakening

Today I’m not very happy with my photo but it’s what I have, so there it is. It’s gray, chilly and rainy this morning, and I’m already missing the sunny weather of yesterday. In fact, it’s because it’s gray and rainy today that the photo I was hoping to get didn’t work. Such is life. Such is April.

Last evening, knowing that it would be the last warm day for a while, I sat outside on the front deck and watched and listened as the day turned first to evening and then to night. Just before sunset I heard the call note of an Eastern Towhee, my first of the season. The lone bird called its familiar chip note, but I have yet to hear its song. I realized as I drank my coffee that I’d heard the bird chipping for a minute or two before I became aware it was a towhee.

The same thing happens to me every year, with towhees and phoebes and others. Suddenly my brain wakes up from whatever else it has been doing and announces to me, “hey, that’s a towhee!” And so it is, the name of the bird rising from some slumbering depth of my wintering brain, its call (eventually) reawakening my awareness to the presence of its owner. For a few moments, before I’m aware of it, I have no name for the sound or for the bird. I’m not searching for either; the sound simply hasn’t yet penetrated my consciousness to the point of naming. And then my awareness kicks in, the connection is made, and both the sound and the bird are “in there” again, the sense memory reawakened, like a muscle long unused. Like riding a bicycle. Only for me, it’s the naming of a towhee.

Open Water

The sound of rushing water is my background music right now. The ground is releasing its winter moisture, and every gully and depression is full and flowing, though it hasn’t rained in days. The sound of rushing water nearly overpowers the song of spring peepers in the evening and the soft call of the great horned owl in the early morning hours. It’s a gentle constant. For now.

Tomorrow April reasserts its variable self and will bring me rain and thunderstorms. The sound of rushing water will likely turn into a gush of water, only to be followed once more by winter’s silence. After—or perhaps during--the storms, the temperature will drop, snow might reappear but colder temperatures and ice certainly will reappear for another week or so.

The change of seasons never progresses slowly or even continuously. Seasons change in fits and starts—the old season fighting with the new for dominance, but the new season always wins, eventually.

The Warm Light of April

April, if not the “cruelest” month, is certainly the most fickle. Some days, like today, are warm and inviting. But by the end of the week, the nights will again be below freezing and the days cold and windy. That’s just April. For now I will enjoy the warm morning glow against the still slumbering trees, but I’ll keep a sweater handy for later.

Perhaps because it was chilly, overcast and damp this weekend, signs of spring’s progress are a bit hard to come by. So far, I have seen no new growth on the forest floor, not even skunk cabbage, which is usually the first new growth I find. And I usually have seen the first butterflies by now and I haven’t found a one. Saturday was Pennsylvania’s opening day of trout season, a day when I usually see the first Eastern Blue butterflies—not this year.

The thistly raspberry bushes have tiny buds, but that’s the closest thing to spring greenery I’ve found so far. The longer it goes without many signs of spring, the more likely it is that one warm day will suddenly bring an explosion of new growth. I just don’t know when that day will be.

March birding Recap

Now that March is over, so I’ve been running through my monthly bird list to compare the species I saw this March with the Marches of previous years. First off, the good news. I counted 39 species this year, up from 34 last year. I even had one species I’ve never before seen here at the mountain in 15 years—a small group of double-crested cormorant migrating north. This sighting puts me at 129 species total for species I’ve seen at or around the cabin.

The bad news? It’s not really bad news, it’s just species that I should have had in March and didn’t see. Into this category falls wild turkey (where are they this year??), kingfisher (I thought I heard one but it was distant and I might have been mistaken so I didn’t count it), and eastern towhee. I usually have nice numbers of towhees arriving after the 20-somethingth of March, and this year I’ve had none. So that’s a little concerning but might correct itself soon.

This year I didn’t hear the first phoebe until March 23. Last year the first one announced itself on March 13. Average arrival date here is March 15-17. Likely the last snowfall contributed to this year’s late date.

The ring-necked ducks that spent more than a week on one of the snowmaking ponds were a nice addition to my list, as was the small flock of golden-crowned kinglets I saw the other day. This year I also haven’t seen a red-winged blackbird here yet, but the mountain top isn’t really their kind of habitat, so that’s not a major surprise.

I started my April list today—nothing great or unusual to report for it. April is tied with June as the second “birdiest” month of the year, after May of course.

My photo today was not taken here on Roundtop. It was taken down at my parents' farm on Saturday. My mother has been planting daffodils for years, and now she never knows where they're going to show up next. Here on the mountain I see few signs of the oncoming spring. The wild raspberry bushes are starting to get buds, but that's it. I don't even have any growing skunk cabbage yet, and that's usually the first thing to appear.

Blue Sky

The forest trees are still bare, and I can't see any signs of imminent bud-popping on them. These are the two largest trees in my "front forest." My driveway passes between these two lovely beech trees. The clear blue sky is typical in this area of an early spring sky. In spring, when it's not raining, the humidity is usually low, the skies clear. By summer, the skies will turn hazy with humidity.

I have been clearing brush in my back forest this week. Last summer thorny undergrowth took over, and I couldn't walk behind or past the cabin into the forest. Likely, having the cabin here in the first place is what created the edge habitat that favored the appearance of the thicket. Even though my little cabin sits between trees, several trees had to be cut down to have room to build it. And that cutting created open sky and let in more sun than elsewhere in the forest. That extra sun favors the thorny undergrowth. Normally, I am profoundly in the "let nature take its course" camp, but two things happened to make me think the area was getting a little out of hand.

The first clue (that I ignored at the time) was when a Northern waterthrush appeared on my deck railing. Waterthrush are secretive birds that prefer deep underbrush with water running through it. The water, in this case, came from my basement drain after inches of rain. The fact that a waterthrush was on my deck railing was a hint that the underbrush was getting pretty thick. This bird spent several days making odd little noises and teasing the cats before moving on to another spot.

The second thing happened in August, during a dry spell. The thorny thicket was now growing up, snaking its thorny fingers between the deck fence that's a good 6 feet above the ground. Obviously, this thicket was now getting to be a fire hazard too, but in the heat of August I wasn't about to start trying to cut it back then. So I held my breath and hoped my luck would hold until the weather broke. But fall turned into a time when family obligations prevailed. Then winter came and with it work at the ski resort, also eventual snow cover. So it is only now that I am cutting down the thicket, at least enough so that I can walk behind the cabin.

The only sign of spring greenery that I have yet seen at the cabin is the buds on this thorny stuff, so I know I'm not a moment too soon in starting to clear it out. I work at it a little each night, only 20 minutes or so at a time. On the south side of the large oak tree out back, I have cleared a buffer of 8-10 feet. The north side still needs work--there's only room enough for a path so far. This is the area where the waterthrush appeared, and I am a bit reluctant to attack it with more vigor. How many people have waterthrush on their deck railings? I really liked that part.

Hawkwatching 101

Maybe I shouldn't call this post Hawkwatching 101 as I'm not going to give you any hawk identification tips. This is more in the realm of "how to hawkwatch."

First off, one of the nice things about hawkwatching is that unlike, say, warbler watching, you don't have to get up at 5 a.m. to do it. You can sleep in, go out to breakfast, walk the dog(s) and then get to a hawkwatch in plenty of time to see the flight. Of course, since places to hawkwatch are often good spots to see other birds you still can go early if you want to see them. Just don't expect to see any hawks then. On most days, 9 a.m. is plenty early enough to start your hawkwatching day.

If you decide to go hawkwatching, be prepared to sit and wait. So, a chair or a cushion are good things to take with you, depending on where you plan to hawkwatch. When I watch at Roundtop, I'll take a chair or sit in the car with the front window facing southwest (in spring). When I go up to Hawk Mountain or Waggoner's Gap, the walk is a bit far for a chair so I take a cushion and hope to find a comfortable rock.

Other good things to take with you: food and water -- Snacks are always a good way to fill the times when the birds aren't flying. Binoculars -- for hawkwatching I prefer 10x binos. Extra clothing--this can be in the form of a rain jacket, an extra sweater or whatever depending on the season. Brimmed hat--don't leave home without this. It's as important as the binos. Sunscreen --ditto. Sunglasses--ditto.

If you're hawkwatching in the spring, wait for a day when the wind is 1) calm or better yet 2) from the south. If you're hawkwatching in the fall, wait for northwest winds, preferably the day after a storm.

I've gotten to the point where I avoid hawkwatching on days that are perfectly clear. Bluebird skies are what I call this. Staring into an all-blue sky all day long plays havoc on your eyes. Worse, if there are no clouds to keep the birds at a lower altitude you'll be looking for spots in the sky, instead of seeing close-up hawks.

My favorite days are those with high hazy clouds but lots of gray or white cumulous clouds are okay too.

Hawks fly at lower altitudes in the morning, get pretty high to invisible by noonish and then drop down lower again later in the afternoon when they lose their lift. I often stop hawkwatching around noon when my time is limited. Usually, the birds stay lower longer in the morning than in the afternoon anyway.

Today's photo is a shot I took this morning looking towards the last of the snow left on Roundtop Mountain. It's going to be a bluebird sky today.

Good Morning!

I found this killdeer this morning in a parking lot at Ski Roundtop. Now that skiing is over for the year, the killdeer have moved in. This one looks as though it's eyeing up those stones as a potential nesting site. It wouldn't be the first time these birds have nested in the stones at the edge of this parking lot.

Yesterday, my morning of hawkwatching was a productive one. I saw harrier, sharp-shinned hawk, Cooper’s hawk and red-tailed hawk. It’s a bit early for broadwings, but it won’t be long before they show up.

I’ve become a lazy hawkwatcher. I used to race to Hawk Mountain, a 1.5 hour drive, then race the mile up the hill to the North Lookout. But no matter how much I raced, it was still 2 hours from leaving the cabin until I was officially looking for hawks. Now, I’m lucky if I have 2 hours total on a given day to watch hawks, and I’m not going to spend that driving. So I just go to one of the upper parking lots at Ski Roundtop where I have a good view of the open sky to the south and where the added altitude raises me at least several hundred feet above the valley floor. It’s not the world’s best hawkwatching site, but it can be pretty good and has the advantage of being close.

I had just driven back into the cabin from my hawkwatching when I saw a small bird flitting in the top of one of the beech trees at the end of the driveway. My first thought was that it might be a blue-gray gnatcatcher, an early bug-eating migrant. I raised my binoculars and quickly discovered something else. It was a golden-crowned kinglet instead—another early bug-eating migrant.

I started to walk slowly towards the end of the driveway, hoping for a closer view of this bird. This is a species that I don’t see every year at Roundtop, though they are likely around. These little birds are easy to miss, and since I have to work away from the cabin during the day to keep the roof over my head, I am likely simply not always here when they are.

But yesterday I was home. So as I was walking towards the first bird, I saw another little flit in a tree to my left. Another golden-crowned kinglet! I stopped and started scanning all the trees in this section of the woods, and I found a total of 6 golden-crowned kinglets. It’s likely there were even several more. I can be sure of 6 separate birds, so that’s my official number.

Spring has arrived!

Spring is Moving In

Last night I heard the first spring peepers here at Roundtop, though I’ve been hearing them down in the valley for a few days longer. This morning I heard, but have not yet seen, the first eastern phoebe of the spring. Two days of rain over the weekend has eliminated 12” of snow cover. The only snow that remains is a few piles or a bit of it that was protected from the rain—the underside of logs, the sheltered under-edge of a rock.

It is very muddy, of course, and with snow cover only gone by 48 hours, no spring growth is yet visible. So it is brown and wet here in the forest, though the air is already tinged with the warmer air of spring. I no longer hurry to close both the front and storm doors when I go out. I have even opened a few windows a bit and am surprised, as I am every year, by how much sound that lets into the cabin.

The birds are starting to sign in earnest now. The cardinals sing almost non-stop. Enough robins are here that their dawn chorus is fairly loud. This northern mockingbird was displaying his repertoire, which included the song of a whip-poor-will. I have never heard a whip-poor-will here on Roundtop, and though I have heard them nearby none of the songs were recent. Apparently, this mockingbird has been somewhere where he heard them.

Geese are still moving through, mostly Canada geese now. They fly mostly after dark. I hear them long before I see them, and when I do see them they are high and tiny against a dusky sky.

Today, the morning wind is from the south, so I am planning to do a little spring hawkwatching. Spring hawkwatching in this area is always chancy and rarely superb, but that never deters me. The rewards of a few broadwings or an eagle are always worth it.

Sunny Day

My snow is melting fast. I would not be surprised to discover it gone when I get home from work today. The forecast is calling for 60 degrees, and even when the daytime high only reaches the mid-40's the amount of melting from morning to evening verges on the shocking.

The snow is rapidly being replaced with mud, an unhappy result as far as I'm concerned. I happily wander through a snow-covered forest, but once I start losing shoes and ruining boots in the mud, I refuse to enter until the ground beneath me is solid again. So for me, mud season is the one where I am least active and least in the woods. I'll be happier when I'm not sinking.

I'm still adjusting to this earlier daylight savings time. I just can't equate snow on the ground with stays-light-until-7:30 p.m. I can't say I dislike it, but I just can't get past the weirdness of it. Maybe next year.

Early Morning with Snow

Today is the official first day of spring, and I have 8-10 inches of snow left, though the snow is starting to melt fast. The sun of mid-March is stronger than the sun of mid-winter, so even when the temperatures are the same, on a sunny day I will see more melting now than in February.

Today, the sun was just poking through the trees as I headed out onto the public road, and it seemed a good photo for an equinox day. Here, where the road allows more sun to strike the edges of the forest, the snow cover is already far thinner than it is up my lane. A little more sunlight makes a lot of difference.

Although it is too soon to tell, it is possible that this snowfall was this area's onion snow. I'm not sure the term is a universal one, but around here an onion snow is the last snow of the season, after which it's considered safe to plant your onions. Naturally, it's a little difficult to say with certainty when a snow is the season's last snow, so the question of whether it will be or won't be the last snow is the kind of thing neighbors jaw about over the fence.

After the Snow

After the snow stopped, bird activity really picked up around the cabin. I took this photo of a pretty song sparrow taking advantage of the dirt kicked up by the stuck plow truck and front end loader to find a little grit.

I saw 29 species of birds around the cabin over the weekend. My best sighting was the secretive brown creeper. I only see this little bird several times a year as it doesn’t announce itself or make a show when it arrives. It is easy to miss, though I’m sure it’s around virtually all the time. I also saw a long overdue American goldfinch. Usually they swarm my niger seed feeder all winter long but they were strangely absent until yesterday. I also saw the first northern flicker of the season, a sign that winter is losing its grip.

Down off the mountain, sightings of Eastern Phoebe are becoming common, but I haven’t seen any up here yet.

If you think winter is a slow time for birding, all you have to do is spend a few minutes sitting quietly in the woods. I am fortunate to have several large picture windows where I can observe birds and animals even when the weather is too poor to make sitting outside comfortable. A minute never goes by without having something fly or flit by close enough to me to see them. Usually, several species are within sight at once.

I often see animals this way too, as being in the cabin hides my scent from them. On Saturday, two deer bounced by the cabin, leaving the confines of one nearby thicket for one just a little further away. Likely, they’d cleared the browse from the first and simply moved to the second for better foraging.

High Drama with Snow

I am not exactly snowed in today, but the hassle of getting out and then getting back in to the cabin again is pretty high, so the result is much the same as if I was snowed in. I had 12-13 inches of new snow, a goodly amount for this late in March, though not a record. The last big late March snow was in 1993, another El Nino year where 2+ feet fell on the 20-something of March. So this snow can’t compete with that one, but it was still a pretty good amount.

I took this photo yesterday while it was still snowing, so if it doesn't look like 12 inches, that's why. I think it had snowed 7-8 inches by the time I took the photo.

Last night my driveway killed one of Roundtop’s plow trucks. My driveway is very deceptive. It looks flat, but it isn’t. It’s narrow, with a curve and there’s quite a lip where the driveway meets the lane. Last night one of the regular plowers got hung up in front of the cabin and started to slide off the driveway. Then, when he tried to go forward again, he hit a small pile of ice left over from the last snow and couldn’t go over it.

Since the resort is supposed to close tomorrow, it was this man’s last night of work for the year on the hill. So sometime after 10 p.m. he and I are out in the snow, looking under the truck with my big flashlight, to the accompaniment of howling dogs. It was pretty obvious right from the start that a little digging with my snow shovel wasn’t going to do the trick. He put in a call on the radio to one of the plowers running the smaller front end loader. That loader was in use clearing one of the nearby parking areas, so the loader showed up in front of the cabin within a few minutes. After several attemps and much struggling, it became obvious the little loader just wasn’t heavy enough to pull out the pick-up.

So another call was placed to the man running Roundtop’s big front end loader, which was then out on the public road along the power line pulling the mountain manager out of a ditch. But eventually, that equipment showed up, and this time they were able to hoist the truck sideways enough to get it back onto the drive.

Then they discovered the truck would no longer move forward, though it would move backward. So the truck backed out the driveway but promptly got itself stuck again where the driveway meets the lane. Fortunately, the loader hadn’t disappeared down the lane yet, so the two men chained the truck to the loader bucket again and hauled it down the mountain and into the shop, suffering from some kind of serious, possibly fatal, transmission problem.

As a result of all this, my driveway is pretty messed up. They said another vehicle would come eventually to finish my driveway and clean up the lane so my neighbor up the mountain can get in and out of his cabin. For now, both of us are parked down off the hill in one of the resort’s parking areas.

It was midnight before I got to bed—waay past my bed time and with way more drama in the evenings than I’m used to. Who said life in the woods is quiet and peaceful? Well, not last night.

The Visitor

Spring continues to make its presence known, both in what I see and how the forest and the weather feels.

I knew I had an evening visitor last night when Baby Dog used her outside voice while staring out the front door. Yesterday it was nearly 70 degrees, so I let the front door open with only the storm door to create a barrier between the inside and the outside. This gives the cats and dogs more to look at. The cats seem to enjoy this a lot. Baby Dog finds that the increased field of view also allows her to find more things to bark at.

It didn't take long for one of the local raccoons to make an appearance. It was momentarily deterred by Baby Dog's outside voice, but it soon learned to ignore that. I caught this photo of it when it was still in the cautious stage.

Tundra swans and C anada and snow geese continue to move north. Likely raptors and songbirds are moving, too, but I don't get to see many of the daytime migrants. I get to hear and sometimes to see the migrants that move near or after dark. So far, I see no sign of new green growth. This is actually a good thing, as cooler weather will return in another day or so, and by the end of the week I will likely have snow again. March is nothing if not variable.

Migrants are Here!

Last night as I passed an old snowmaking pond on the way back up to the cabin, I found this handsome pair of Ring-necked Duck on it. I almost missed them. The pond is usually populated by a menage a trois of mallards--two males and a female that return every spring. So when I first saw two ducks on the pond, I barely turned my head to look but when I did, I soon realized they weren't mallards.

I lived at the cabin for many years before I saw my first pair of ring-necks here. But in the last two years I've suddenly had three sightings of them. I don't know if this means there are more ring-necks around, if their migration route is suddenly taking them past Roundtop, or even if the larger new pond is an attractant, even though they weren't sitting on it. The birds were very calm, ignoring a pair of Roundtop employees taking their after work walk around the pond, as well as the skiers nearby on the bunny slopes, not to mention me, screeching the car to a halt to photograph them.

Last night I hear another flock of snow geese but the most common sound was the near constant honk of Canada geese flying north well after dark. I went outside several times last evening and heard them each time. Spring is coming.

Last of Winter

Winter is over, despite the bit of snow that remains in this photo. I know that winter is over because the snow geese are moving north.

On Friday night I was walking Baby Dog for the last time when I heard a soft and familiar hooting in the distance. It was a warm night, with that balmy feel that often precedes rain. I looked for the geese in the overcast sky, not really expecting to see them. And then, there they were, the first of several skeins appearing like apparations over the cabin. They were bright against the cloudy night sky, bellies illuminated by the reflection from the lights on the ski slopes, aglow in the night like something out of a myth. It was almost too amazing and too beautiful to be true. The first group was 50-75 birds, the second several hundred, the third a smaller family group, all heading north, all calling as they flew, heading home.

So, I can no longer deny it. Winter is over. The geese told me so.

The rain that came the next day removed 90% of the snow cover, and now mud season has begun. I can't call it spring. To me the word spring sounds so chipper, and the reality of the new season is anything but. The reality is heavy and mud-covered, with rain. I am not yet ready for this, but the memory of the snow geese flying north helps ease the way.

Stopping by Woods

This beautiful old stone bridge is near the bottom of Roundtop Mountain, just before I emerge from the shelter of the forest on my morning drive to work. I have often walked along this old road, but I don’t start my walks at this spot. I pick up the road another half mile or so deeper into the woods and closer to my cabin. This morning, the trackless snowy road and the bridge called to me, so I jumped out of the car and took a picture in the early morning light.

I suspect this bridge once stood at the entrance to a summer camp, the remains of which I’ve seen down in the valley. All that’s left now is a portion of one bath house and a caved-in stone swimming pool. I have no idea how long ago this camp was last used. The ski resort has been on the mountain for 40 plus years, and I suspect the old camp was abandoned long before that. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn the camp was last used in the World War II era. I don’t know when it opened or what the name of the camp might have been. Even an old topographical map I have of the region doesn’t show it.

Deeper in the forest, the old road follows a stream, passes a small pond and then continues along the stream, eventually emerging on the other side of the mountain as a public road that is marked as a "dead end" on that side of the mountain. It's not really a dead end road, but the public portion of the road does end at a farm where the forest ends (or begins depending on your point of view).

Perhaps it is only the freedom of the upcoming weekend calling to me, but I'd have given a lot this morning to throw off the day's work obligations and follow this old road through the woods, making tracks in the trackless snow.

Snow Games

Winter is not yet dead. Five inches of snow fell here yesterday, and because the temperature is barely reaching the teens, it was the nice powdery kind of snow, not the concrete snow that fell two weeks ago. Dog and Baby Dog are both thrilled. For some reason, they seem to think that if it’s white outside, they don’t need to listen. Or in fact even hear me. They are so excited by snow that their doggie brains go on overload.

Last night Baby Dog raced from one end of the driveway to the other, back and forth, back and forth. She must have done that 8-10 times until she was panting so hard she had to stop. Dog, who is 6, is calmer but he still finds running with his nose under the snow great fun. I worry that he will run into a stick or a stone hidden by the snow and bang himself up, but so far that’s never happened.

The raccoons are out of hibernation, as they have been visiting the dish of cat food on the front deck, much to the outrage of Baby Dog. Cardinals, and even juncos, are singing in anticipation of spring. So far, the only sign of spring I see is in the lengthening daylight and the western march of the constellation Orion.

All Tied up

Even more than the lack of cold weather in the early part of the season, for me what stands out most about this winter has been the wind. First it’s from the north, then it’s from the south, but whichever, 20-30 mph winds have been nearly constant. The wind has been calm on only a few days this winter.

So when I saw this tree wrapped like a maypole with a vine, it seemed like an appropriate picture for the day, though for the life of me I can't explain why. Perhaps it's just that I feel constrained by the brutality of the wind. Perhaps it's because first I'm blown one way and then the other and end up feeling like I am all tangled up in it.

Last night the wind howled at more than 40 mph all night long. And so did Baby Dog.

Every time a twig or a branch or a limb fell onto something and made a bumping noise, Baby Dog barked. This happened I don’t know how many times throughout the night. And once she started, Dog had to join in.

Baby Dog is a mutt with enough chow in her lineage that it’s her most identifiable breed. She has a black tongue and could be a sister to at least two other dogs I know who are also half or at least part chow. Chows were bred essentially as alarm dogs who would awaken the palace guards at the first sign of trouble. Baby Dog has retained this characteristic. Unfortunately, her version of trouble and my version of trouble are two entirely different things.

To her trouble is a raccoon calmly eating cat food on the front deck. She will stand at the front door, staring outside for hours just waiting for the raccoon to arrive so she can bark at it. And even removing her from the spot doesn’t stop her from barking.

Trouble is also the sound of a foot-long branch hitting the cabin roof and rolling off it. Every Time It Happens. All Night Long. I didn’t get much sleep last night. And neither did Baby Dog, though at least she is likely asleep right now.

The Old Orchard

These old apple trees were pulled up a week or so ago. They reached the end of their productive life, so the orchardman is making way for new trees. Each tree in a viable orchard has to produce a certain amount of fruit to sustain the orchardman, so when the trees fall below that point, the old trees have to go.

The land will likely lie fallow for a year before new trees are planted. Behind the old trees you can just see a few of the new trees that were planted last year to replace the batch of old trees that used to grow in that area.

I grew up a farmer’s granddaughter, and an orchardman’s daughter in later years, so I understand how this cycle has to work. But I’ve never gotten over wishing that it didn’t have to be so. It seems wrong to me to pull up living trees, though I’ve never been able to think of an alternative. The amount of land isn’t unlimited, after all, and the orchardman has to eat. Non-productive trees deplete the soil without producing anything. But still….I just can’t get past the idea of it. Perhaps it’s simply the sight of the old trees, roots above ground, that bothers me. I certainly enjoy seeing the new trees take root and grow when they are planted. I will get over this. I always do. Perhaps it’s just the dreariness of an early March day that has captured me. Once the new trees are planted, once the first blossoms appear I will greet them warmly.

Further in the background is Roundtop Mountain, still well-covered with snow.

Sorry, no photo

No photo today. It’s so foggy this morning that my photo was all gray, unrelieved by any outlines. It is that foggy. So far, the rain here has produced stream flooding, but my basement was damp but not deep when I got up this morning, so I am relieved and happy about that.

I can’t see much, so I can’t really tell yet how much the rain hurt the snow pack. I inched my way off the mountain this morning, glad I knew the road. Once off the mountain the fog lifted slightly, at least enough that I could tell the local streams were very high. One bridge I cross is usually 10 feet above the stream below. This morning it was about 18 inches, perhaps less, above the stream.

At the cabin, I could hear water rushing down the little seasonal stream at the bottom of my lane. It sounded like a waterfall. And yet, the actual rainfall was only somewhere between 1-2”, and for the most part it seemed like a fairly gentle rain. It could have been a lot worse.

Seasons Change

Melting snow changes unidentifiable lumps and bumps in the forest to identifiable objects. This old log is newly visible this morning. Each morning of this week has brought some new object into view, as the snow is melting a little each day.

This morning I also saw and heard the first robin of the new season, followed by a sighting of several killdeer (though I’d first heard one the day before). Spring is on the way, and if I had any doubts of that, rain is in tonight’s forecast, not snow or ice.

Tonight’s rain, which will fall atop the snow and ice, will likely bring a new season’s set of problems—basement flooding. So last evening I was outside where my basement drain hose is, first trying to locate it under several inches of snow and then chopping the snow and ice away from it. Then I dug out my battery-powered sump pump (useful if I lose power) and my electrically-powered sump pump in anticipation of tonight’s weather.

With so much snow cover on the mountain, an inch or two of rain will dissolve a lot of it and that often causes my basement to flood when the ground gets saturated (or is still frozen as is the case today). So over the years I’ve accumulated an arsenal of equipment to deal with it. Keeping track of what’s going on in the basement is still more labor-intensive than I like, but it’s still preferable to manually bailing out this small area, which I’ve also had to do.

Living in a cabin in the woods has many joys but anyone contemplating such a move should also anticipate having to deal with things most town and city dwellers don’t think about. I’ve found that each season has its own set of worries. Losing electricity in the summer isn’t a big deal, but losing electricity in winter (or when the basement is flooding) is another matter.

So the change of season brings out a new set of equipment. Gone are the snow shovels and the ice melt. Ready for action are the sump pumps. I hope I won’t have to use any of my equipment tonight, but at least I’m ready. I hope.

Patterns in the Snow

It’s starting to feel like late winter here at Roundtop. The snow is starting to melt in spots that get direct sunlight. Where the sunlight is filtered, or blocked by trees, the snow cover is still complete.

I am starting to take slightly longer walks again with the dogs. There is still too much ice and snow for the long walks of summer, but we are now able to get out and around a little bit more. I’m sure the dogs appreciate that as much as I do. I must be one of the few people who can get “cabin fever” when I’m outside but can’t go for long walks. Perhaps “driveway fever” or “lane fever” is a more accurate description than cabin fever.

The temperature for this time of year is near normal, though on the underside of normal. The wild swings of 20 degrees above and followed by days of 20 degrees below average have disappeared. As a result, the weather feels calmer right now than it’s been for months, and that brings me a sense of relief, as though I’d been holding my breath without realizing it.

February Birding

I know I said I wouldn't post any more ice storm photos but when I was going through my photos I found this one, and I couldn't resist it. How about that hairdo on this blue jay??

Spring is coming. I know this because I heard the first killdeer this morning. I think I will call this is the first official sign of the oncoming season. I suppose I could count cardinals’ singing as a “sign,” but cardinals will sometimes sing on sunny days in January too, so I don’t count them. I think cardinals start looking for spring as soon as the first snow hits the ground, and their singing is more a sign of optimism and anticipation than of impending spring.

Now that the end of February is near, I’m starting to look through my 2007 February bird list that I keep of sightings around my Roundtop cabin and compare it with lists from previous years. The 2007 version of my list has so far recorded slightly fewer species than average, though I can’t say I find this surprising. My February bird lists are very tied to the weather of each year. When February is mild or at least not snow-covered, my list is larger.

For example, winter robin sightings are missing from my 2007 list. I think the ice drove them south or at least away from here. As soon as the ground is mostly free of snow and especially ice, I will see them. I haven’t seen flickers this winter either. These birds don’t really migrate, but I’ve noticed that they leave the mountain and head downhill to more sheltered areas during winter. As soon as the weather warms a few degrees they will show up and start drumming territory on the electrical transformers again.

Goldfinches have been in especially short supply here this winter. I haven’t heard anyone one else mention this, so it’s likely just a local variation. Another oddity for my February sightings, or the lack thereof, are sparrows. I typically have white-throated, song, maybe fox or white-crowned sparrows in some numbers. Not this year. Sightings of any sparrow other than the junco have been few and far between so far. Yesterday I had one sighting of one song sparrow.

Each year of birding and tracking the species I see brings its own pattern of unusual sightings, late sightings, early sightings, etc. Each year has its own oddities and commonalities. In that, at least, this year is no different. It’s why I enjoy it so much.

Bright Night

Another week, another snow/ice storm. This one wasn’t nearly as bad as last week’s storm. The ice isn’t inches thick, which made the biggest difference.

Last night, as the storm was ending, I was outside with the dogs, and I was surprised by how light the night was. This storm came with a little fog, low clouds, snow already on the ground, and I suppose it was that combination that made the night so bright. I could have read a book outside without a flashlight around 9-10 p.m. Okay, it probably would have needed to be a large print book, but still…

This was a busy weekend on the mountain. One of the local boy scout troops did their annual winter camping requirement in the paintball area at Roundtop. I could sit on my bed and see their campfires on both Friday and Saturday nights. I’m not used to having that many people so close to the cabin, but as far as I could see it all came off without a hitch. Except that Baby Dog barked whenever she heard a voice from that area. She isn’t used to that much activity so nearby either.

6th Time's the Charm!

It took six times but I finally got to to see the Scott's oriole that has been hanging out eating fruit in a subdivision near me. It's not a great picture. I don't care! I got to see the bird, so I'm happy.

I headed out early on Saturday morning, not so much because I expected to see the bird that early but because I expected hundreds of people to show up to look for it, and I didn't want to park a mile away. I arrived around 7:30 a.m. and was able to park closer than I expected. As I was walking towards the house I saw perhaps a dozen people, binos up, all looking in the same direction. So I figured they were on the bird, which they were. So after 5 times of not seeing the bird at all, this time I walked right up to the spot where the others were, raised my binos and spotted the oriole.

The second photo is just a few of the other early morning birds who showed up to see this first Pennsylvania record of this bird. Until Saturday morning, the homeowner's logbook had tallied 60 people. How many more they got on Saturday I have no idea.

My joy at finding this bird and seeing it in Pennsylvania is tempered by the idea that the prognosis for this bird is rather grim. If it stays in the region, it will never find a mate. The poor thing will have to find its way back to Texas, New Mexico or Arizona to find one. And I had more snow today, which can't make a bird from the warm southwest very happy. The homeowner has been diligent about feeding this bird orange slices (and also strawberries), which is keeping it from starving in this cold weather. I hope it is able to withstand today's snow, as anything that has been such a joy for the people seeing it should be able to have a little happiness of its own, as well.

Scott's Oriole

Sorry for the light posting this week. And for no photo today. My extra time has been spent about 6 miles from the cabin in a nice, mature subdivision trying to see a Scott’s oriole.

For those of you who are birders, yes, you read that correctly. A Scott’s oriole. For those of you who aren’t birders, a Scott’s oriole is a beautiful yellow and black oriole, unlike our beautiful local Baltimore orioles that are orange and black. What makes the Scott’s appearance in a nearby subdivision so remarkable is that this bird is only resident to a small area of the far southwestern U.S. And it supposedly doesn’t migrate. This is the first time it’s ever been in Pennsylvania, and apparently only the third time it’s been east of the Mississippi.

So what is it doing in the middle of winter (such as it is) in Pennsylvania? That’s the $64,000 question. Who knows? Anyway, the thing is here.

I haven’t seen it yet.

In some ways, I am not surprised that I haven’t seen it, though I am disappointed. I’m not surprised because the sightings of the bird have mostly been in the mid-morning, a few in the mid-afternoon. My attempts to see the bird have been in the early morning before work and the late afternoon after work. I’m also not surprised because my track record at seeing rare birds is pretty dismal. It’s one of the reasons I first gave up chasing.

But when a bird this good is only half a mile off my normal commute path, I just can’t let it go.

Unlike Pennsylvania’s megabirders, who are either retired or can apparently forego work at the drop of a hat to go chasing something interesting, I am restricted to birding before and/or after work or on weekends. I am not alone. I’ve made 5 trips or passes by the area where the bird hangs out in the past 3 days. I’ve met some very nice folks, mostly young men, who are also searching for this bird.

The local residents have been extrememely nice about having people milling around their carports, though I think they are a bit stunned by the excitement. They haven't seen what is likely to happen tomorrow when most birders have off work and are likely to try for the bird. It will make the crowds from Saturday morning garage sales look like nothing.

I will try again tonight to see the bird. And probably on Saturday (if the bird is spotted today) when I will at least be able to be present during the time of day when it is most likely to be seen. But I’m still not optimistic. My history of not-seeing rare birds is simply too strong. But i won't be able to resist showing up.

Ice Damage

Yesterday the temperature rose well above freezing, and the ice started to melt. For me, that meant I could actually get beyond the icy surrounds of the cabin and explore the edges of the woods a little.

As you can see from this early morning photo, here are two trees where the weight of the ice-covered branches ended up splitting the trees. I also lost a juniper bush or tree that came with the cabin. I'm sure I'll find many more downed trees when I can finally get deeper into the woods.

Nonetheless, I am glad to see this ice start to melt. I love snow, but ice and I don't mix well. Dog and I almost had a half-decent walk this morning, marred slightly by a fall I took on a small patch of ice that I didn't see in the pre-dawn gloom. Dog rushed over to make sure I was okay (I was), and licked my face, which was thoughtful but didn't do much to help me get to my feet again.

With the melting ice comes mud, which ranks perhaps one step below (or is that above?) ice on the list of things I don't care for. Anyway, ice is #1 on my list of things I don't like, but mud is #2. I think I'd put wind at #3 (high winds in the forest can make for a scary situation). Mud ranks especially high on my annoyance meter, though it doesn't come with the danger of ice and wind. Mud and ice together are the worst, which is what I have at the moment. Sometimes the joys of cabin life are a bit dimmed by the weather, but I still wouldn't trade it for anythhing.

Dog Tangled

Dog loves the snow, though he usually manages, as here, to tangle himself up when he's outside playing in it. I think it's because he's so excited by the snow that he doesn't pay attention to where he is and what's happening around him until he's completely tangled and immobile. Such was the case when I took this picture. He has that surprised expression, as though to say, "how did *this* happen?"

If I was off work today, which I'm not, I would attempt to be watching hawks today. I have found that hawks will migrate, or at least move northward, on the first warm day of February. And since it's supposed to reach 40 degrees today and because the wind, such as it is, is vaguely from the south, I expect hawks will be on the move.

I have already seen an American kestrel sitting on its preferred wire overlooking the nearby orchard. And, the local redtails have been spotted hunting and soaring over the woods at Roundtop.

Hawk migration won't be in full force until mid-late March, and broadwings won't peak until the 3rd week of April or so, but that won't stop a few hardy souls from moving today.

More Ice photos

Take a look at this poor little junco, surrounded by icy branches. This gives you a small look at the kind of ice that I had around the cabin late last week.

My father, who's 81, said he'd never seen such ice in his entire life. I know I've never seen anything like it.

I am finally "out" but not yet parking up at the cabin. I am currently parking below the ice line that still cuts across the mountain, so I am walking up to the cabin, which makes things like grocery shopping and trips to/from the laundromat kind of interesting (and long). I didn't get the car dug out until Thursday afternoon, and even so I needed the help of three strong men to push me over the ice. The car looked as though I'd driven it into a pond and let it freeze there. I had to pour hot water on the doors to get in, and it took 3-4 hours with the heater and defroster on high to completely clean it off.

The birds cleaned me out of bird seed, necessitating a trip for seed (and carrying the 30-lb bag of seed back up to the cabin). I was glad to see a Carolina wren at the feeders throughout the storm. These little things roost in holes at the base of trees. After a 2-foot snowstorm in the '90's, all the local Carolina wrens perished. I was afraid this ice would seal the little thing into whatever location it roosted in, but wherever it's roosting, it survived.

I'll leave you with one last ice photo, and then I hope I won't have to mention it again for a while. I'm kind of sick of ice at the moment.

Icy Downy

Boy, I have never seen such ice in my life! Four inches of solid ice. The car looked as though I'd driven it into a lake and let it freeze there.

Apparently, the rain soaked through the several inches of powdery snow and just congealed on the ground. I spent three hours getting the car out and de-iced this morning, but I still can't drive anywhere. The lane has been plowed but the cinder truck hasn't been by yet. In another words, it's a mess.

My back door has frozen shut, and since it's only 13 degrees right now, it's unlikely I will get it open today. The good news is that the wind is much diminished, though at this temperature any wind is stronger than I'd like. Because I can no longer get out my back door, I've abandoned the bird feeder out there. Instead, I am just tossing the seed out onto this concret snow/ice mix by the front door. It took the birds less time to find the new "feeder" location than it took for me to walk from the back to the front of the cabin.

My photo today is of a downy woodpecker surrounded by icy twigs.

Ice Storm!

Have you ever seen it rain when it's 17 degrees outside? Neither had I--until last night.

My photo today is of a small pine tree that's bowed over from the accumulation of ice on it. That's how the whole forest looks right now.

Yesterday, the snow arrived as predicted and continued as expected until I had about 5 inches or so. Then it started to rain.

I was outside with Baby Dog when that happened. It felt like lots of bee stings on my face. Overnight, I didn't get much sleep. The sound of ice pelting the windows was loud. Occasionally, I'd hear a tree limb break and crash to the ground, once or twice hitting the roof as it did so. That was usually enough to set the dogs to barking.

This morning, everything is coated with ice. What's scary is that later today the wind will rise, and all this ice will come crashing off the trees, and the woods will be filled with flying ice daggers. Or, the trees will break from the weight of the ice. If that happens, it's almost inevitable that something will fall on a power line. Then, I'll be out of power. But for now, I'm still here!

Snow on the Way!

No, I didn't take this photo this morning. New snow has already started to fall this morning, with storm predictions ranging anywhere between 6-12 or even 16 inches. I didn't take a new photo this morning as I left for work while it was still dark, with the idea that I can then leave work early and get home this afternoon before so much snow has fallen as to make the drive home difficult (And, truth be told, to have some time to shovel/run dogs/play in the snow before it gets dark).

Up until now, this area has had less snow than has ever been recorded to this point in the year. For late December and the first half of January, it was simply too warm to snow. I recorded less than 2" of snow so far this year, the city even less than that. The previous least amount for January was 8", so this year didn't just break that record, it shattered it. Since then, the weather has been more than cold enough to snow, but no storms have come through to drop any.

This morning, I filled the bird feeders with extra seed as I expect the snow will bring a feeding frenzy of birds. I'll be surprised if the feed now in the feeders lasts past noontime. With luck, I will be home by then to refill it. I haven't had any exotic feeder birds this year, or even any semi-exotic feeder birds, but my regular birds are as demanding of their expensive blend of seed as any pampered pooch.

The tufted titmice are especially fun to watch. At least one of them has a preference for peanuts in the shell (which I originally got because the blue jays prefer them). This titmouse will carefully select the biggest double-peanut it can find in the feeder and fly away with it. The peanut shell alone is the same size as the titmouse's head, but that doesn't deter it.

Winter temperatures finally arrived several weeks ago. Now, the winter snow is finally catching up, too.

Long Shadows

Ah, the weekend! I finally had the time and daylight for a walk in the woods. It was chilly, but no longer frigid. The wind was diminished since earlier in the week when it pummeled me with its brute force. In the weekend’s sunlight, the breeze constantly reminded me of its presence but didn’t leave me feeling battered.

Dog and I explored the edges of the forest, stopping to try and decipher tracks of animals that had gone before us. This was complicated by the age of the snowy tracks, which were starting to look a lot alike.

We went fairly early in the morning, after dawn but before the skiers were out in force. Dog thinks skiers are Things That Should Be Herded, so it’s better for all of us if I don’t take him along when he might be distracted by too many of them, even if they are in the distance.

On a winter’s morning, the forest is a quiet place. We didn’t walk near open water, where we might have seen birds. We didn’t walk along brushy edges, where we might have seen the fox or one of the scolding squirresls. Instead, we walked among the miles of slumbering trees, where we occasionally had a view but mostly we had trees. That was more than good enough for Dog, whose daily rambles have been shortened recently by the cold, the wind, and the early darkness. And it was more than good enough for me, who has been feeling a bit deprived of the outdoors, as well.

In a way, feeling deprived of the outdoors when I live in the forest sounds a bit ridiculous. But seeing the forest is not the same as being out in it, even when that forest comes right up to the cabin’s doors. In the winter it is only on the weekends when I can really get out into the forest to explore. True, I could stumble around the forest in the dark (and I have done that), but that can’t begin to compete with a sunny weekend ramble. Even a short ramble through the woods rejuvenates me and helps ready me for the week ahead. We didn’t see anything exotic. We didn’t do anything extreme. It was wonderful.

Sunlight

I didn’t take this photo on Roundtop mountain, though I did take it this morning. For the past few days on my way to work I’ve been crossing the Yellow Breeches Creek at Bowmansdale just as the morning’s first light was striking this cottonwood tree. For whatever reason, until this morning I haven’t been able to stop and try to capture the shot.

Down off the mountain, there isn’t enough snow to call it a covering. Up on the mountain, I only have an inch of snow on the ground, but it does cover pretty much everything. The weather continues to moderate, if slowly. This morning’s temperature was 14°, which was Monday’s high temperature. By the time the weekend is over, some areas may reach the freezing mark.

I am just hoping that I can stand in the sun for a few minutes sometime this weekend, preferably without feeling any wind. Oh, and the poor dogs need a decent run, too.

Siren Song

My photo this morning is of an old-two track road that I pass each morning as I’m heading out from my cabin and off to work. The road heads west, down off the mountain and into the valley between Roundtop and the mountains in the distance. It is a trail I often hike, and the morning light tempted me again this morning, though the need to continue on to work (and the chill wind) kept me from yielding.

A stream runs through the valley, which is blessedly forested, with no access to it other than by foot or perhaps mountain bikes. No roads, except for this one, cut through it until you reach the base of the next mountain over (here shadowed behind the closer trees). And beyond that road are no others until you reach the far side of the mountains. There, farmlands and houses replace the forest.

But from here to there, the forest is still a forest—untrimmed, unmanaged and wonderfully unkempt. It lures me down into it, again and again. Even now, as I look at the photo, I am drawn to it, as surely as the sirens of myth drew sailors.

How is it that I can be so entranced by what lies further along this path, when so many others see only timber or potential housing lots or perhaps, simply nothing beautiful or interesting about it? Am I just a dinosaur in this modern world? The rest of humanity, perhaps, has moved on, while I am left behind, trying to live a life that others willingly abandon. I am the like the deer in a development’s cul-de-sac, maybe, trying to eke out a living on backyard grass where once a field stretched before me. Perhaps I am the last bear at a garbage can, where once I found honey in a tree. Perhaps I am a wolf, long gone from these woods, howling at the moon.

Snowy Morning

It was a balmy 11° degrees this morning, warm enough that the water pipes didn’t freeze again, warm enough that the car felt like a car again instead of a stiff old lady, warm enough that the dogs got a bit of an actual walk. In other words, it is a beautiful morning.

With below zero temperatures and a 20-25 mp wind, my water pipes froze twice on Monday. This happened despite keeping the faucets dripping and with that electric tape around the pipes. So I am now keeping the light on in the basement and the taps are closer to running than dripping. This seems to have helped, though the diminishing of that wind and the warmer temperatures may well have been the biggest part of the improvement.

I came home to the sound of no water dripping on Monday after work and then spent the next half an hour or so in the basement with my trusty hairdryer before the pipes opened up again. So when I went to bed on Monday night, the faucets were dripping even more than before, and the basement light was on, in the hope that would create at least a little warmth down there.

I captured as much of the dripping water as I could—hating to waste it and not daring to turn them off again. All the plants got a good watering. The dog bowls were filled to the brims. I filled water jugs and bottles.

I woke up around 1:30 a.m. to the sound of no dripping faucets again. So out into the frigid night air I went, as the basement door is only accessed from the outside. Fortunately, this time the pipes opened up quickly but afterwards I never really fell back asleep soundly again.
So the slight moderating of the temperature and especially the diminishing of that wind is most welcome.

Overnight, a little more snow carpeted the woods again. It is soft and fluffy stuff with virtually no moisture. I broomed off the front deck, sending snowflakes high into the air with little effort on my part.

A Little Cold

It was -1° at the cabin this morning, with a brutal 15-20 mph wind. The forecast promises it won’t warm up very much for at least the next week. I don’t mind the temperature, though I could do without the wind.

Readers of this blog must know by now that weather’s affect on the forest around me often creeps into my writing. So it should come as no surprise that I am often thinking about weather. So it was this morning as listened to the forecast. I know from that forecast that this spate of cold weather will persist for a week or so, but the coldest days are likely to be today and tomorrow. And then I thought about how recent that kind of information is. It’s only been 100 years or so that my area has had official forecasts and less time than that since computers and radar gave forecasters much information to create accurate forecasts from.

So on this cold and windy morning, I got to thinking about what it must have been like, say 150 or so years ago, when people had no idea how long a cold spell would last. It must have been a great source of anxiety for them—would the wood last, would feed for the stock last, how long could they keep the water open? Here and now, I worry about the water pipes freezing too, but at least I have some idea how long I’m going to have keep the faucets dripping and when the weather will moderate. It wasn’t all that long ago that this information didn’t exist, and that’s a little hard, now, even to imagine.