A coming storm

Does today’s photo suggest anything to you? Let me give you a hint. It’s about the weather.

The leaves in this morning’s photo are turned inside out or upside down or however you wish to describe it. In any event, you are mostly looking at the underside of the leaves. Where I’m from, this is a sign of rain. Maybe it’s a sign of rain where you are from too or perhaps this is one of those signs that is only well-known in my region. I can’t answer that one.

I’ve heard various explanations for why this happens. I’ve heard that updrafts ahead of a rain cause it. I’ve heard the underside of leaves are more porous to gulp moisture out of the air. I have a slightly different theory of my own that I’ll get to in a bit.

First, the porous explanation: I have no idea. It sounds a little off to me. Unless the weight of the leaves is different from the top side to the bottom, I can’t figure out how this would work.

Second, the updraft theory. This says that right before a rain you get a change in wind direction or updrafts that moves the leaves this way. This one sounds sort of okay to me, except that I often see this phenomenon hours before the rain hits and not just moments or minutes before rain.

Here’s my own theory. It’s the addition of extra moisture in the air. On dry days when you have a breeze, the leaves and twigs just bend and flow with the breeze. But when the air is moist, the air is also heavier with that moisture and this affects how the leaves blow. This explains why you will sometimes see upside-down leaves even a day or so ahead of the rain, if the moisture is in the air ahead of the upcoming storm.

News from Roundtop: I will be offline for a few days to hike with kids from Adventure Camp and introduce them to a little nature study. See you next week (and maybe before but don’t count on it).

East wind

An east wind blows across Roundtop this morning. Easterly is the least common of the wind directions here on the mountain, and it always brings moisture from the Atlantic. The ocean is several hours away to drive the distance, but even that’s not enough to overcome how far moisture from the ocean can travel.


It isn’t raining here yet, though it’s likely that it will before the day is over. The morning breeze is both cool and damp, making a temperature in the mid-50’s feel cooler than it really is. The distance to the ocean is too far, apparently, to actually smell salty air but not too far for the air to have the ocean’s chill to it.


The cabin is still warm and cozy from several days in the 70’s, and the easterly chill won’t insinuate itself inside for at least another few days. By then, the easterly breeze will likely be gone again.

Visitors to the cabin

I never intended to enthrall moths this weekend. It was only after I turned off my bedroom lamp on Saturday evening that I realized I hadn’t turned off the porch light. But I was already sleepy and didn’t feel like waking up enough to get up and go turn it off. So I didn’t.

I was surprised when I got up on Sunday to discover the side of the cabin covered with a nice selection of moths. So I went and got the camera.

The moth in this morning’s photo is a silkworm moth, I believe, a cecropia species. I think it’s the Columbian silkworm, but don’t hold me to that one. The moth’s wings aren’t open and never were when I was around, so I can’t tell exactly how they would look while open. It’s a big moth, at least 4-5 inches across.

The other moths I saw were even more problematic in their identities. I was sure I’d be able to identify one from its unusual way of holding its wings but that hasn’t been the case. The other moths were all smaller and even more difficult—at least for me. One was completely white but most of the other 8-10 moths were various shades of beige and brown, usually in a camouflaged-type pattern that would make the moth invisible on the bark of a tree.

The most-reported way of keeping moths around until morning is to drug them with alcohol and something sweet, often reported as rum and sugar or molasses. But leaving the light on all night seems to work just as well, as long as you get up fairly early in the morning.

Fiery Hangbird (aka Baltimore Oriole)

This pretty boy appeared quite close to me as I was picking up my mail yesterday. I’d seen a Baltimore oriole in the same spot a week or so ago, also while I was picking up my mail, but that bird disappeared before I could haul out my camera. This time the bird was cooperative and didn’t flyaway for long enough for me to grab a quick shot or two.

I took several other shots but the bird moved so quickly up and down that fence rail that I usually only captured its hind end in the photo. The bird would be sitting atop the rail, I’d snap a photo but before the shutter clicked the bird was hanging along the edge of the rail and I didn’t have much to show for it. Finally, the bird sat still long enough for me to snap it sitting still before it flew off. It was only later when I zoomed in a bit on the photo that I realized what Mr. Oriole had been doing bobbing up and down that fence. See the bug in its mouth? Apparently, it was finding delicious little wormy things in that split rail fence.

If you’ve been birding as long as I have, you’ve lived through several name changes for a good many species. I first learned this bird as Baltimore oriole, then its name was changed to northern oriole and now it’s back to Baltimore oriole again. The bird also has several non-official names, including both hangbird and fiery hangbird. The fiery hangbird really fits, and this bird’s antics made me realize just how well that name fits.

Happy Friday!

Enough soup already!

The soupy weather is back. Today’s photo was taken in my driveway the morning. My area had some very severe weather yesterday, though fortunately none of it was directly over my cabin. Today, more severe weather is forecast. I hope my luck holds, and the worst of it misses me again.

The forest is starting to creep over the driveway, looming over it a little further all the time, inch by inch. Leaves flutter along the edge of the car as I drive in or out. The jungle is trying to take back the man-made driveway, but until the weather dries a bit I won’t be able to battle back.

The western and southern U.S. both have temperate rainforests, and given how my area looks right now, it got me to wondering just how close my own area might be to qualifying for that status. And wouldn’t you know, even the definitions don’t agree. For example, Australia defines a temperate rainforest as one where the closed canopy of trees excludes at least 70% of the sky. Trust me, I pass this one. Also, the forest must be composed of mainly of tree species that can regenerate under shade and natural openings. I have that one too. However, I don’t live in Australia.

Here in North America, a temperate rain forest is defined as one where the mean annual temperature is between 39 and 54 degrees F. Mean temperature in my area is 53 degrees in Harrisburg, so I qualify for that one. Here on the mountain the mean temperatures is several degrees cooler, and the area around the cabin falls around the 49-50 degree mark

In North America a temperate rainforest is also supposed to get 1400 mm of rain per year. This amounts to about 55 inches. That’s where I miss the mark in most years. I get something over 40 inches on average, usually around 45 inches. Using this criteria a few very small areas of PA would still qualify as temperate rainforests. A bit of Monroe County and somewhere around the border of Westmoreland and Somerset counties fit that restriction. The rest of the state does not. I never hear of those areas being called temperate rainforests, so perhaps they’re ashamed.

I suppose I could just declare myself a protectorate or a territory of Australia, but there’s probably paperwork involved with that, so I don’t think I’ll bother. And frankly, as rainy as May and June have been, I’m kind of glad I don’t qualify as a temperate rain forest. I don’t want to think about what another 10 inches of rain would mean around here.

What will I do for an encore when the day starts like this?

It took four thunderstorms and a bout of hail, but the weather is much improved this morning. The temperature is about 10 degrees cooler, and the atmosphere has gone from soupy to every-day run-of-the-mill hazy.

As a result, both Dog and I were in the mood for a decent walk this morning. The sky was still reddish at sunrise, which may not bode well for the weather later in the day, but for now it is nice. We headed down the lane, and near the bottom of the hill I was suddenly almost over-powered by a scent so wonderful, so strong and exotic that it’s hard to believe I wasn’t in some wonderful tropical jungle. What was it? Why, today’s photo tells the tale. It’s honeysuckle, of course.

Now honeysuckle is a perfectly fine name, but even it doesn’t do justice to the scent that emanates from this plant. It’s the only floral scent that one-ups a rose, in my opinion. And it’s a wild plant, not some hot house, imported sissy that faints outside of perfectly controlled conditions. How’s that for amazing?

Now for the science purists in the audience, I should report a bit of the techie stuff associated with the plant, so here it is. Worldwide, so far more than 180 species of honeysuckle are found, with more than 100 of those species native to China. North America and Europe can only boast about 20 species of the plant. Most have berries that are described as mildly poisonous, which seems an odd phrasing to me because any kind of poisonous isn’t something I would ever associate with the word "mild."

I could have stood there all day, getting high or at least well-blissed on that scent. The particular bush that enraptured me today is good-sized and well-covered with blooms, but I still wouldn’t have expected the scent to linger for some 50 feet beyond the plant but it did. That alone is amazing. Who needs some distant tropical jungle when the honeysuckle is in bloom? Not me, that’s for sure.

Soup's On!

Hazy, humid and hot. Those three words for summer have arrived here for the first time this season. The air is thick with it. An early morning thunderstorm woke me up as it rumbled north of me, for once not passing over my cabin. But it was a clear warning of what to expect later today.

I am starting to see a few yellowing leaves on some of the forest plants. I’m guessing they’ve had enough of rain and no sunshine, too. The heavy air seems to hold scents better than drier air. When I walk the dogs, they start dancing and sniffing as though something is quite near, and then I’ll see a deer standing way up on the slope. Normally, something that far away wouldn’t bother them, but in this air, the scent must seem closer than it really is.

Birds are noisy around the cabin—the Carolina wren is especially vocal right now. Ovenbirds and wood thrush have quieted somewhat, no doubt performing nest duties. I still hear them occasionally at dusk or dawn, but it’s nothing like the constant singing of just a few weeks ago. I see deer occasionally but as yet no fawns. Perhaps they are still too small to be doing much traveling with the doe. Still, usually I’ve seen them by now, and this year I haven’t.

Today’s photo is of the old stone bridge that crosses Beaver Creek at the bottom of the mountain. I’ve shown this photo before, usually in fall or winter. I think this is the first time I’ve shown it in a green season.

Around the mountain

The forest is starting to dry out, though it won’t get far with that before more storms come through later today. Mud is still prevalent, though as of yesterday afternoon, it was a more solid kind of mud, as opposed to the quicksand kind. It’s not much of an improvement, but I’ll take my improvement wherever it can be found.

The rain and somewhat warmer temperatures have brought out mosquitos, those unwelcome summertime visitors. I worry that this will be a bad year for them, partly because of the rain, of course, and partly because bats with white-nose syndrome have been found in Pennsylvania. So far, I have heard little about how wide-spread that might be. Likely, no one knows the answer to that question at this point. The news is worrisome enough as it is. Roundtop has no shortage of bug-eating birds, but nothing can tackle those mosquitos the way bats can. And with west nile virus also prevalent here, this isn’t the year to be running a bat shortage.

My other choice, of course, is to cover myself with bug goop every time I stick a toe outside. I don’t favor that option. Bug goop stains clothing and smells terrible. I use it when I must, but I don’t want to spend an entire summer living in the stuff. Usually, when I do wear it, the first thing I do when I come back inside is to shower it off. Since I’m in and out multiple times a day, it’s simply not practical to shower each time. Better not to have so many mosquitos. It’s a bit too soon to know just how bad they will be, as I’m only just seeing the first few. The signs aren’t good, though.

Fleabane

Fleabane is common around the forest right now. This one, I believe, is common fleabane or Erigeron philadelphicus. Philadelphicus tends toward the pink or lavendar, as this one is, and it doesn't have much in the way of leaves.

There’s not much variation in how common fleabane, daisy fleabane (Erigeron strigosus) and annual fleabane (Erigeron annus) all look. The colors vary from white to pale lavender. They don’t keep fleas away.

Annual fleabane is often called daisy fleabane instead of annual fleabane even in some books. The difference between all of them lies in the tiny hairs on the stem and to some extent in the number of leaves, but even that isn’t noticeable unless the plant you are looking at is an especially healthy one. So just fleabane is good enough as far as I’m concerned.

Fleabanes, even the one called daisy fleabane, are really asters.

So let’s recap: they don’t keep fleas away and the daisy fleabane isn’t a daisy. So much for descriptive names. They are all pretty, however, or at least I think so. Several plants will often grow close together, so it’s not unusual to find a small patch filled with 50 flowers within a few feet of each other, one of nature’s living bouquets.

I’ve never been one to understand why people prefer grass to, well, just about anything else, so I will freely admit that I could never think of fleabane as a weed, the way many seem to. If it flowers and turns the edge of the woods or the pond pink with such tiny and delicate little blooms, how could it be a weed? Not in my book, anyway.

Guilty pleasure

Today’s photo is another one from Sunday’s walk down the mountain and through the valley. This one was taken in a more open area, where the forest isn’t as dense as it is along Beaver Creek or even as dense as most of the mountain. The little woods road itself partly to blame, but it’s not just that. The trees grow further apart and are fewer and smaller right in this spot than elsewhere. In a few steps, in fact, you can even see where the forest grows denser again up around the slight curve.

Through most of the forest, the undergrowth is so dense that I couldn’t walk through it during the green seasons without a machete or the old woods road to follow. So I am grateful for the woods road, which allows me to walk easily through the forest and explore its many delights. To be politically and environmentally correct, I should probably lament the existence of the road, but I can’t bring myself to do that.

I know I would not explore here if I had no path to follow, except perhaps in winter. I can’t see myself armed with a machete or bushwhacking my way through this much underbrush, ripping my clothing, getting scratched, stumbling over uneven ground and rocks. And missing the riot of growth and ferns and birds that thrive in this density of greenery would be a pity. How would I ever know the pleasures of the forest if I couldn’t walk through it and explore it for myself? So I am grateful for this little road that lets me explore easily and at my leisure.

The photo is already "old news," I'm afraid. The rain is back, dropping another inch on Tuesday, half an inch yesterday, and the forecast is promising another 1-1.5 inches today and tonight. The moisture-loving plants must love it. I, however, am not a moisture-loving plant and could use a bit of a respite from the 2 a.m. storms and the rain. This forest is already green enough, don't you think?

Where the sun rarely shines

The weather kept me away from venturing very far into the woods for longer than I like. Actually, any time the weather keeps me from venturing into the woods is longer than I like, but even I have come to understand that heavy downpours don’t make for good hiking. That’s been a hard lesson for me to learn, and I have many pairs of ruined shoes to attest to it.

So it had been a while since I’d been down in the valley between Nell’s Hill and Roundtop. The last time I was down before this past Sunday, spring was springing but not yet in full regalia. This long introduction is just my way of warning you to expect another day with a photo and a story about my walk.

The valley between these hills is narrow, and sun only fully penetrates for a brief spell in the afternoon, especially at the upper end of the valley, where I took this photo. A bit further to the west the valley opens up a bit where Nell’s Hill ends. There, the forest is sunnier throughout much of the afternoon. Mostly, though I only come down here in the afternoons simply because mornings and the dense forest don’t offer enough light for good photos. Even in this photo, taken nearly in mid-afternoon on a bright and sunny day, you can see that deep forest darkness.

No shadows dapple the woods down here, even when the sun is but a few weeks from reaching its highest point in the sky. The forest canopy is too thick and the valley too narrow for sunshine during most of the year. Some time, I’d like to keep track of just how few days of actual sunlight do penetrate into this upper valley. I’ve seen sun down here in March before the leaves come out, and I also think I’ve seen it briefly in late afternoon just after all the leaves have fallen. But I also know I’ve been down here in early winter, near the winter solstice on a sunny day, only to find this end of the woods as shadowless as a gray day.

My walk in the woods

Finally, the rain and gray skies have cleared here on Roundtop. After giving the woods a day for the rain and mud to settle, on Sunday I headed down to the bottom of the mountain for a walk along the normally quiet Beaver Creek.

I was lucky. The valley tends towards wetness even when a season is dry, and I was worried my walk would be stopped by yards of mud. I did find wet spots, of course, but not so much so that I needed waders. And the normally sleepy and nearly still Beaver Creek was, for once, a loud and very pretty little stream.

Baby Dog accompanied me on this foray, to her delight and my relief that the mud and water didn’t cause her to brace like a balky horse refusing a fence. Baby Dog hates to get wet. She wouldn’t even take a drink from the creek because it would mean getting her toes wet.

We headed down the mountain along an old woods road, which takes us to the bottom of the mountain, where we followed another woods road along the valley and along the creek. We saw no one and none of the large forest residents either. Bird song surrounded us—orioles, tanagers, the pewees, wood thrush and ovenbirds. The forest is thick enough already that spying the singers was almost impossible, even when the sound came from a tree nearby.

As you can see from the photo, the creek is running full, and the valley is bright with spring greens. I came across three species of ferns within 5 feet of each other—sensitive, Christmas and Lady. The three species abound this year.

The sun was finally out, dappling everything in green-tinged sunshine. The loudest sound was the creek, which carried everywhere, sometimes blocking out the sound of the singing birds. Even as we climbed up the mountain again, the sound lingered and followed us all the way back to the cabin.

Just a "little" rain

Last night I had 4 inches of rain.

This morning I have water in the basement and a collapsed chicken tarp. But it could be worse.

The water in the basement amounted to about an inch. I pumped it down to about .25 inch or thereabouts. The pump can’t work with less than that.

The chicken coop is still covered by the chicken wire, if no longer quite as secure as previously. The tarp is still held up on two ends. The chickens were unperterbed by the events of overnight. I’d cut a slit in the tarp to drain rain water and so it wouldn’t puddle, but I guess I need more slits for four inches of rain.

The good news? I can forget about that 4 inch rain deficit.

I slept through most of the event and certainly didn’t realize how much it was raining until I got up this morning. That’s when I saw the lane and my driveway, which now will require a four-wheel drive vehicle to get in and out or up and down the mountain. Fortunately, I have one of those.

Well, at least it’s Friday. Presumably, the chickens will remain okay until I can get another tarp tomorrow. The forecast is for scattered showers today. I hope the scattering isn’t over my cabin. Saturday is supposed to bring clearing skies, and I’m ready for those.

This morning as I was leaving the cabin I found this fern, still rain drops still in place. It’s a sensitive or bead fern (onoclea sensibilis in case there’s a different common name for it in your area). The woods look lovely this morning, raindrops on everything. The greenery is so thick that a jungle pales in comparison. Funny, I never thought I’d ever get to live in a rain forest.

Ruminations on a foggy morning

Mist, fog, rain, humidity are the watchwords around the cabin right now. Plants that don’t need sun are thriving. Some of the more sun-loving foliage is starting to look a little starved.

For me, ambition to work outside the cabin when the weather is like this is flagging. Even when it’s not raining, I return inside soaked just from walking around the perimeter of the cabin. Holding back the edges of the greenery that creeps ever-closer turns into a major chore. Easier to just wait for the eventual reappearance of the sun and a day of drying than to attempt something today. Or so I tell myself as the forecast for more of the same stretches further into the days ahead.

This is the kind of weather where my observational techniques for weather forecasting do little good. I can’t see any sky, as it is hidden by dense fog. Studying the sky for clues about weather to determine when a storm is coming or what the day ahead may hold works fine, but I have to see the sky to do that. Often, I can tell what the weather is going to be a full day, sometimes even longer, ahead of it actually arriving.

When I’m in the middle of fog or even rain or snow, I’ve found it impossible to tell when it’s going to end by looking overhead. By the time I can see the sky again, I know the weather is going to clear. But when I’m in the middle of the event, I can’t see the end of it. That’s where modern radar has a real advantage over the old ways.

Today, even the modern forecast doesn’t help much. Clearing weather is still at least two days away, and even that seems to be a moving target. Still, it’s something. I take for granted having that radar and those satellite photos, but both are quite modern advances. I try to imagine a farmer’s worries in the days before them. Or how it must have felt in winter a thousand years ago during a blizzard. Will it end in an hour or three or will this storm rage for days? That must have been a whole other level of anxiety that I don’t have. Thankfully.

Waiting for the sun

Roundtop is encased in mist and rain right now. Last night was so chilly that I briefly toyed with the idea of turning on the heat again. But I resisted the impulse, dug out a sweater I’d put away a few weeks ago and tossed another blanket on the bed. That worked well enough, even though the temperature in the cabin dropped down to 59 degrees.

The reason it was so chilly is that the bedroom window is open a bit so I can hear the chickens squawking in case anything attempts to breach Ft. Knox. Normally, I close the window when I go to work, but yesterday, perhaps out of practice after three days off work, I forgot to close it.

It’s not just mist and rain that encases me right now. The leaves are weighted down by the rain, lowering sometimes down into my face when I leave the cabin. Even with a rain jacket I can’t keep entirely dry. In my darker moments I am tempted to buy a machete.

The rain covers the sounds of many of the forest residents, though perhaps there simply aren’t as many sounds as on clear days. I am not seeing the usual number of rabbits, raccoons, deer or even the fox as usual. Maybe they are hunkered down, waiting for the sun to reappear, as am I.

Random ruminations

I’ve decided, at least in part, why I don’t particularly care for summer.

Fall is a lot different from summer. The leaves change color, turning beautiful shades of red, orange and yellow. Eventually they fall off the trees entirely. The temperature grows noticeably cooler week by week, and the sky can be clear blue, change to blue and white and then to threatening and gray--all before noon.

Winter is a lot different from fall. The temperature is cold. We (sometimes) get snow and ice. A whole range of fun outdoor activities can only be done in the winter and are possible again. The trees are bare.

Spring is a lot different from winter. The snow melts, the temperatures warm. The forest starts to grow again and soon everything is green. The temperature warms week by week. Rain is common.

And then there’s summer. It’s pretty much the same as spring, except hotter and more humid, perhaps with a bit less rain. Where’s the difference? Well, there isn’t much of one. I think part of my dislike for summer is simply that it doesn’t look much different from spring. I’m bored, I think. Summer, ho-hum, more of the same. At least that’s my theory for today.

This weekend, I had both spring and summer—hot and cool, sun and rain, thunder and lightning. The chickens are still well and safe.

News from the cabin

Last night I decided to make a run to get some chicken wire to cover the top of the chicken pen. The tarp is great for shade and to keep the girls dry, but I kept thinking that if a smart (and heavy) fox jumped on top of it, it may well give way. Hence, the chicken wire idea.

So I pick that up at the local feed store, figuring I’ll get an early start on Saturday morning to further securing the chicken pen. Later that evening, I take Dog outside for his final run of the night, and I no sooner open the door but that I hear one of the local foxes barking. The fox was close, somewhere around the end of the lane.

So I go back outside, now armed with my headlamp and what turns out to be the world’s dullest pair of wire cutters, to secure the chicken pen, all the while serenaded by the barking fox. The barking continued for well over half an hour, perhaps even 45 minutes. Sometimes it was a little closer, sometimes a bit further away. When a fox barks, it usually doesn’t mean, "Hey, over here! Free food." It’s more a "Where are you? I am here" call to the mate or kids so the separated foxes can reunite. Still, it’s not the kind of thing I want to hear that close to the chickens.

The girls, asleep in their domed litter box, seem unperturbed during the entire tarp-covering process. Eventually I get the wire cut and the tarp covered with chicken wire. I still need to do something more around the bottom of the pen, but I think I’m okay for now. When I went back inside, the fox was still barking.

My photo this Friday is the view from my cabin of the mountain to the west. Can’t see it? Neither can I. Hopefully it will still be there in the fall. Oh, and you can just see the edge of the chicken wire-covered pen in the lower, left-hand corner of the photo.

Sunny day ahead

For the moment at least, the weather on Roundtop is settling somewhere around normal again. No more frosts or near-frosts, no more chilly April rains in mid-May, and summer’s heat and humidity hasn’t found me yet. A three-day weekend edges ever closer. The fox didn’t make an appearance near the chicken coop last night either, so my mood is nearly as sunny as this morning.

I am eager to have an extra day to spend exploring the spring season deeper into the forest than a weekday allows. Dog and Baby Dog both need to be tired out on a long walk, or at least an attempt made in that direction. My little vegetable garden needs some attention, too.

This morning the local Canada geese were getting an early start to the holiday weekend, taking the five young ones on a trip to the new pond, marching them across the access road, down a lane and through the paintball fields. They were in a hurry too, just like the drivers on the highways of my commute.

The forest canopy is nearly as thick as it will get, which means I can no longer see the view to the west, or in any other direction for that matter. My view of the sky is reduced to little pinpricks of light. To see what’s going on with the weather, I have to walk out to the intersection of my driveway and the lane. Even out there, I only get a little view of the sky, just enough to see a few clouds. So that doesn’t give me the whole picture. For that, I need to walk to the end of the lane, where the trees give way to open sky at the old pond.

Until the denseness of the leafy canopy starts me feeling a bit claustrophobic, which likely won’t kick in until the hot days of July or August, the privacy afforded by the forest has its advantages. I’m not sure I will tell you what they are. You can come up with your own ideas. Let me just say that a person could pretty much do anything they wanted to and no one could see them doing it. And sometimes the idea of being able to do that is just as good as the reality of actually doing it.

Now here’s another something I don’t see every day—an eastern kingbird on the ground. The kingbirds at Roundtop usually ply the air for insects over the grassy ski slopes. When they sit, it’s usually on a lift cable or fence railing. This one was actually bouncing around on the ground, which I’m sure is a first for me to observe.

Also this morning, one of the local foxes has now seen my chickens. This morning when Dog and I left the cabin for our walk, Dog’s nose suddenly went into the air. He started prancing on tiptoe—both a sure sign that he didn’t like something. I didn’t see anything, and since Dog’s attention may be caught be anything from a fox to a deer to a skunk, we continued on our way. It was only when we were coming back to the cabin that I knew what he had sensed.

At the end of our walk, we went over to the chicken pen. The girls were all out performing their morning dirt scratch when a bit of movement caught my eye. Perhaps 30 feet into the forest I saw the fox, quietly moving away. It stopped and stared for a bit before eventually disappearing into the woods.

I hope the chain link fence is enough to keep him out. The tarp that is tied down to the top of the 4’ fence may not survive a fox jumping on top of it, though I don’t know if a fox can or could do that. I am reasonably sure the fox can’t dig his way in. The earth is a hard-packed driveway, covered with a thick layer of stones. Nothing has grown in the spot, that’s for sure.

The chickens, I am reasonably sure, never saw the fox as they weren’t panicked. Even with a near-frost two nights ago, I have been sleeping with the bedroom window open so I can hear the chickens in case something tries to get at them at night. I’m not there during the day, though. Fox usually move primarily at the edges of daylight. I hope this one knows that.

May evening

Last evening was beautiful—sunny, calm, great visibility, perhaps a tad cool but that’s splitting something at least as fine as a hair. I was off the mountain for much of the evening. Although that means I didn’t get to sit on the deck, coffee in hand and watch the sun set, I did get to enjoy the sights around the area, which was nearly as enjoyable.

The night brought near-record cold for this time of year and threatened a frost, though I didn’t see any. I tossed an old blanket over the litter box/chicken coop, gave the girls a hot water bottle and hoped all would be well. This morning the chickens all seemed fine. Last night’s chill marks the end of chilly weather for a bit. Warmer weather and sun is on the way for the next several days, which my mini-container garden will much appreciate, I’m sure.

The last of the summer migrants—the peewees--have arrived now. I love their little "pee-a-wee" call. They are the first and last singers of the day, their haunting call carries and echoes through the forest when it is nearly fully dark. At that time of day, their call is often the only sound I hear. No distant vehicle or people noises, no sounds of other birds or animals. That’s why their song carries so well and is heard over a long distance.

The rest of the forest is asleep when the peewees call. They sing before everyone and everything else is awake or after the bustle of the day is over. Perhaps because they are such tiny birds, evolution favored them a little when their call didn’t compete with other sounds and songs. In any event, now that they are here, spring migration is officially over on Roundtop. Oh, perhaps some stray warbler will still pass, but all the regular species are now accounted for, and the forest symphony is reaching its crescendo.

The comets are out!

Today I’m posting a photo of my chickens, which are now grown large enough to be outside. For the past 5 weeks, I’ve had them in a hamster cage in my bedroom, growing them from day-old chicks under a brood lamp to the 5 week old babies you see here. They are laying hens; the breed is Golden Comet.

I am hoping to get eggs from them later this summer, my own little homegrown hedge against the economy and high food prices. Currently, I have eight, which is more than I will need to keep me in eggs. I expected to lose a few and figured having a few extra would be smart. So far none of them have died, but they have only been outside since Saturday, and going outside is a big step.

Another part of my chicken experiment is that I didn’t want to spend a lot of money for my chicken arrangement. In the first place, as peeps, the chickens cost $2, and spending lots of money on $2 chickens doesn’t seem smart. Plus, if the chickens or their set-up cost more than the eggs they will hopefully lay, that wouldn’t be smart either.

So, I used a chain-link dog run that the dogs hated for their outside pen, covered with a tarp. I did buy a $10 brood lamp, and a waterer and feeder ($2 each). Plus I’m currently using a fancy cat litter box with ramp, ($21) which they love, and an ordinary covered litter box, which they hate, both filled with straw from my dad’s barn. I will have to come up with something better for them by winter, but that gives me some time yet to hopefully scavenge something suitable.

My arrangement should keep out raccoons and fox, hopefully. The hawks shouldn’t be able to get at them. Weasels would have a field day, but I’ve never seen a weasel here, and I hope they stay away long enough for me to find a semi-decent chicken shelter. For now, all is well, at least it was when I left the cabin this morning.

Geraniums in bloom

I know I’ve already posted a photo of wild geraniums this spring, but I couldn’t resist another one. The geraniums are especially nice this spring, and this bunch is huge, much larger than is typical. Geraniums prefer dry conditions, which it was here for most of the spring, if not at the moment.

Sometimes, weather conditions favor what best suits one species. Just like in certain years strawberries are wonderful, and the next year they aren’t, the same is true of the forest’s plants. This year is particularly good for wild geraniums. The jury is still out on the strawberries.

An evening in spring

The recent rain on Roundtop has finally booted the ferns into action, and is likely responsible for helping this morel along too. I found it growing in my front forest last evening, camouflaged so nicely that I almost missed it.

The change from tinderbox to reasonably well-watered forest also brought a common garden toad into my driveway last evening, much to Dog’s delight. Dog knows well enough to keep his mouth shut around toads, but he can’t avoid nosing them when they jump. That’s simply too tempting.

Last evening the forest was filled with the usual after-dark noises—a great horned owl down in the valley, a wood thrush that simply couldn’t settle for long after the sun was down, a deer stepping delicately if not silently across the leaves. The usual noises of a woodland night are ones I find comforting and relaxing. I sit outside in the warm evening. The darkness veils my sight and I focus instead on the sounds that tell much. The woods sound at peace, and I go back inside.

A quiet night

Today’s photo is the bloom of a mayapple, of which I have millions around the cabin. Okay, perhaps not millions, but really a lot. As the flowers are under the umbrella-like leaves, I have to get down on the ground, all the while avoiding the ubiquitous poison ivy (also seen here), to photograph these lovely flowers. The umbrella leaves are so thick that the flowers are easy to miss, which is a shame, as they are the equal of any hothouse flower sold in the local nurseries.

Last night it was a quiet as the grave around the cabin, which immediately makes me suspicious. Even after dark, night noises are the norm, and when I can’t hear any sound I know something is up. The mostly likely explanation is a predator that is hidden by the dark. Often, like last night, I never find out what is going on, but I’ve learned over the years that when the woods are silent, it is time to pay extra attention when I am outside.

When the woods are quiet, I tend not to wander far from the cabin in the dark, as I sometimes do on other nights. Perhaps that is an over abundance of caution, but so be it. Paying attention to the ebb and flow of life in the woods hasn’t steered me wrong yet, and I’m not going to start to ignore the signs now. If I start ignoring the signs when it’s likely nothing important, I may accidentally ignore something that is important. So I pay attention.

Another thing I don't see too often...

Living here on the mountain means I have a ringside seat to observe the goings on in the woods around me. As woodland habitats go, Roundtop is great. It is not, however, a place where I normally see many sandpipers.

Several places nearby are decent for shorebirds. The Susquehanna River serves as a major migration route. The nearby Pinchot Lake can also be decent for shorebirds. Roundtop Mtn. doesn’t fall into the decent range for shorebirds. Roundtop does have a few small ponds, though, and perhaps that and its proximity to decent shorebird paths combines to occasionally bring me a sandpiper to look at.

Today’s photo of a spotted sandpiper is one of the few I semi-regularly get to see here. The birds never stay long. This is just a pit stop for them. This bird has been here since at least Saturday and will likely disappear in another day or so. In the fall, I might get to see them again.

Spotted sandpipers are common and the kind most likely to be found around little ponds like those at Roundtop. Most self-respecting sandpipers wouldn’t deign to stop here, let alone dip their toes in the waters of ponds this small. Spotted sandpipers seem comfortable in small ponds or in the woods. I’ve seen them sitting on logs sticking up out of lakes. Other sandpipers probably think they’re odd.

Black snake and other summer residents

I don’t see many snakes here at Roundtop. I have often gone a year or more without seeing any at all. At least 95% of the ones I do see are black snakes, like this handsome one that I found yesterday. I’ve never seen a poisonous snake here, though I know they’re around. This one was about 4 ft. long, a decent length, though it was slimmer than some I’ve seen.

Probably the weather this spring hasn’t been easy on reptiles. It’s dry, it’s wet. It’s hot, it’s cold. The changes are annoying enough for us warm-blooded creatures. I can’t imagine how the cold-bloods are doing with it.

Yesterday was pleasant but cool, and I first found this snake at the corner of the dirt lane and my driveway. I pulled the car into the driveway, grabbed the camera, returned to the spot and in that short time the snake had moved. I thought my photo opportunity was past, but I slowly checked around and found the snake again, this time on the opposite side of the lane, just off the road. I grabbed a few shots and then let it alone.

This clearing weather has brought a lot of new arrivals to my woods. The Canada geese have launched five new babies. The Eastern kingbirds have arrived on the slopes.

On Sunday morning a pair of scarlet tanagers were curiously eyeing the dogs as we were all out on the back deck. Tanagers usually nest at Roundtop but often they are further down the slope of the mountain. That I saw a pair of them right overhead makes me hope they will nest close enough to keep an eye on them while they do it. I’ve certainly heard the male singing all around the cabin this weekend. Having them next close enough to see them regularly would be exciting.

At this point, I think the only spring arrival I’m missing are the peewees, the latest of the summer residents. And they will be here soon. The rain held everything up for at least a week, but once that storm system cleared, that also cleared the way for the summer residents to show up and step out.

Mom's dogwood

Rain clears from the distant peaks

Dew glistens frostily.

Moonlight glazes the front of

My ivied hut among the pines.

How can I tell you how I am,

Right now?

A swollen brook gushes in the valley

Darkened by clouds.

- Daito (1282-1334)

This 800 year old poem seems appropriate to me today. I found it on the daily zen site for May 8.

The photo was taken at my parents' farm. Mom's pink dogwood tree is especially lush this year.

Rain, rain go away (...and Wild Geraniums)

Another .75 inch of rain fell on the mountain yesterday, most of it last evening. I managed to quickly snap a few photos of the wild geraniums around the cabin before the next round of rain hit. Right now, the geraniums are the most prevalent of the local wildflowers. I can’t walk along the side of the cabin without having to dodge them. There are dozens of them around the cabin right now.

Lest you think that living in a cabins in the woods is all peace, quiet and wildflowers, the rain is forcing me to deal with a flooded basement. Even on a mountain, such things happen. In my case the water enters around the well casing. I’ve had plumbers look at it but none have yet come up with a good solution. It’s ground water from soaked ground, and even if I managed to completely block it at this entry point, the water would only go someplace else and the someplace else could be worse than where it goes now. Or so they say.

As a result, over the years I have armed myself with a variety of pumps. My basement is nothing more than a small space that houses the hot water heater and the electrical panel—all of which are raised off the floor of the basement. The little space can quickly get several inches of water in it. If it’s been dry, it takes a good many inches of rain to flood it. In spring, I often get a flooded basement when the snow melts off the mountain. This rain, which has been going on since Saturday, has the mountain pretty saturated, and I wasn’t surprised to discover an inch of water in it this morning.

I have both battery-powered pumps and an electric pump. The electric pump is a workhorse but requires a bit of work to set up. The battery-powered pumps are small, lightweight handheld things, originally designed for small sport boats. They are good for small jobs and have the advantage of working when the electricity is out. That wasn’t the case this time around, but it was after one such instance when my electric pump was useless that sent me looking for something that would work when I didn’t have power.

This morning, I set up both battery-powered pumps, and both were sucking air within an hour. I still have a slightly wet basement. None of the pumps will pump when the depth is much less than .25 inch. At least I shouldn’t get any more rain today. Tonight, perhaps a few showers but apparently nothing measurable is expected to fall, for which I am grateful.

Second verse, same as the first

I’d thought of making today’s post a Wordless Wednesday, since the headline says it all, but I guess I’m chattier than that. Rain continues here at Roundtop and will continue through around Saturday. Even a gentle rain can cause flooding if it lasts for a week, and that’s about the point we’re reached here on the mountain.

The area needed rain. The gentle rain was much needed and appreciated. But now I feel like shouting, "enough, already!" In the space of a few days, the woods has gone from a tinderbox to a rain forest. The air is so moist that even I can identify the animals floating around the cabin by their smells.

The skunk, of course, is an easy one. But the soupy, moist air also holds the scent of the fox, the raccoons and deer. The dogs, whose noses are far superior to mine, can scent without touching nose to track. They walk with noses in the air, excited and misbehaving with the mix of scents that must be overwhelming to them. To me, with a human’s notoriously weak sense of smell, the air makes scenting the different species possible. I can now tell what’s been around, but I’ll never be able to trail by scent the way the dogs can.

That said, it’s still an interesting experience to notice so many smells when that’s not usually possible to do. Even though I can’t trail by scent, I do notice when a scent grows more or less intense, at least in a general way, as we walk along the lane. I guess this is as close as I will ever get to understanding how a dog trails. It’s not very close, I’m sure, but it’s certainly closer than usual. I think I’d prefer a little sunshine, though.

Today's photo was taken off the mountain but looking up towards one bump of it. This morning I am living in that mist, which is even thicker up where I am.

Not my favorite thing

My favorite kind of evening at the cabin is one where I can sit outside on the deck after dinner, perhaps with a newspaper or a cup of coffee. I can listen to the forest goings on, watch the sky, perhaps see an interesting bird or watch the fox pick its way across the landscape.

Last evening was not that evening.

Instead it rained, quite a bit actually. The rain was gentle enough most of the time, but after 3 days of it, even a gentle rain amounts to quite a bit. Worse, at least from my point of view, I really didn’t spend the evening at the cabin. Indeed, I spent perhaps 10 minutes of the evening there. so my photo today was not taken at Roundtop. Instead, I took a photo of Beaver Creek flooding a meadow on the way to my evening event.

This morning the rain has stopped for the moment, though the sky still looks as though it could start again at any time. I’ve learned over the years that once the ground gets saturated, as it is now, even a respite of a few hours with no rain is a good thing.

April showers in May

April-like showers covered the mountain this first weekend in May. It’s been a good rain, the kind that soaks in, not the kind that runs off in rivulets. Sometimes the rain was hard enough to keep me inside, sometimes it was just a comfortable sprinkle. Always the landscape was misty or foggy, with ever more greenery coloring the woods.

Ovenbirds have now arrived, to join the chorus with the wood thrush, whose lovely song carries throughout the forest. I’ve often wondered why that song seems to carry through the trees so well, and now I’ve learned the answer.

I was sitting out on the front deck during one of the weekend’s rain free episodes when a wood thrush landed in a low tree just over my head. I didn’t move, so I wouldn’t scare it and was rewarded when it began to sing, I almost had to put my hands over my ears. When that bird is close, the song is loud, very loud. It’s still beautiful, of course, but another 10-15 feet of distance wouldn’t have hurt the beauty of the song one bit.

The rain has finally kicked the ferns into new growth. They were looking pretty bad this spring. Some hadn’t even produced fiddleheads yet, but now they all seem to be growing again. For the moment, I have no new flowers around the woods, just more of the ones I’ve already photographed. That will soon change, probably as soon as the sun comes out again for a day or so, which might not be until next week. Are we sure this isn’t April? It sure feels like it, despite the calendar.

Dogwoods in the spring

Flowering dogwood has now started its annual blooming, a process that tends to last at least a little longer than the glorious burst of color that appears during the leafing of the redbud trees. Unfortunately, this year the dogwood flowering appears less abundant than usual, while the redbuds are spectacular. It looks like redbud soup right now.

Perhaps the redbuds simply got pushed to bud all at once by the heat earlier this week. Dogwoods have always had a somewhat variable level of flowering, with some years naturally better than others. With this spring so dry here, that may be a reason for it. The reason may also be the "dogwood disease," a fungus really, that has caused the deaths of many of the trees throughout the east and the rest of the nation.

The dogwood fungus first appears as brownish spots on the leaves, usually seen in late May or early June. The fungus eventually affects the tree’s stems and branches, killing them over time. Trees can take up to three years to die.

Last year around Roundtop, I didn’t see any trees that appeared to be affected with the spots, though I confess I did not examine every tree I could find. I am hoping that this year’s diminished flowering is simply due to the dry spring.

Spring here wouldn’t be spring without dogwood.

Violets outside my door

The cooler weather of today feels much more comfortable than the sudden shock of hot weather I had earlier in the week. So far, cooler weather hasn’t seemed to slow the galloping greenery that the hotter temperatures instigated. Now that it’s almost May, I suppose nothing will slow it for long.

The latest wildflowers to appear outside the cabin door are these "common blue violets," also known by the names of meadow violet and woods violet, among others. I guess if you see them in a meadow, it’s safe to call them meadow violets, but if you see the same thing in a forest, you can call always those woods violets. Like people, they can live in a lot of different places and can be happy in sun or shade.

These violets are literally right outside my front door by the edge of the last step off the porch, and I have to be careful not to step on them. I have to make sure the dogs don’t clumber over them, too, when we go in or out of the door, because they could care less about pretty little violets. This particular patch has been in the same spot ever since I moved into the cabin. It’s a nice little clump of them, but they are common so it’s not the only one. Common doesn’t mean they aren’t pretty, though.

Losing the view

Last evening was hot and the windows of my cabin were all open. The sun was down but hadn’t been down for long, and the evening had not yet cooled. I was thinking it would be hours before the evening felt comfortable enough for sleep. And then I heard a distant sound and stopped what I was doing to listen.

The wind was rising. The front that was to cool down the weather was on its way, the more distant trees of the forest already announcing its arrival. I went around the cabin, starting to close windows, thinking the wind would also bring rain or thunder.

The sound of wind racing through the trees grew ever louder until it reached the trees around the cabin. The wind was cool. Instantly, the temperature dropped and the evening felt fresh. No rain or thunder came with this front, just the wind. Spring is back.

But while summer was here for a brief, early visit, the woods changed dramatically and overnight. I am already losing my winter view, as you can see by this morning’s photo. I hope the return to spring temperatures will slow this progress a little, but I’m not going to count on it. Soon, I’ll be encased in greenery again and won’t see the distant mountain again until fall when the leaves drop.

Spring mornings with Baby Dog

The redbud is budding right now. Yesterday morning this tree was barely pink, and this morning, well, as you can see. Two days of 90 degree heat have acted like rocket fuel to push the greenery at a speed almost impossible to believe. Since I’ve seen it happen, I know it’s not impossible, but still. Boy, that was quick.

This hot spell is supposed to end when a storm passes later today, and I’ll be glad to see it end. I’m not ready for 90 degrees just yet (not that I ever really am ready for it), and I’m really not ready for it when I still had the heat on as recently as last Thursday. I still have sweaters in my dresser drawers, for heaven’s sake, and I have no idea where my shorts are at the moment.

Dog and Baby Dog are shedding so much that not only do I have a fur carpet, but I can’t believe they can have any hair left on their bodies. Baby Dog is not yet used to having the door open, and every sound she hears is cause for barking. A car a quarter of a mile away needs barked at. A dead branch falling from a tree 100 yards away needs barked at. The cabin is tight enough that during winter we can’t hear many outside noises. Now that the windows are open, and the screens down, lots of little and unimportant noises are heard again. Baby Dog has to bark at them all, even the blue jays scolding outside the door or the great-horned owl calling from further up the mountain early in the morning. Yelling at her doesn’t make her stop. The only way she stops barking is for me to go to the door, look outside and confirm that there’s nothing to worry about. Then she stops barking at that but soon, very soon, Something Else needs barked at.

I hope she gets over this before long or it’s going to be a very long summer.

Spring explosion

The mountain has reached that point in the spring where the greenery has exploded. Of course, the unseasonably warm temperatures that neared 90 degrees over the past two days had a lot to do with that.

Even early last week (or mid-week when I took this photo) the mountain was stuck in early spring, with just a little greenery here and there. Today, my view of the mountain to the west is disappearing as the greenery thickens. Many of the summer’s bird residents are also returning. On Friday evening I heard the first wood thrush song, and that was distant enough I had to listen carefully to make sure I really did hear it. By Saturday morning, the wood thrush were outside my front door, singing their lovely song throughout the woods.

I’ve also seen a few warblers—butterbutts (yellow-rumped warblers for those who insist on proper names) and black-and-white warblers. Likely, there were more species, but it’s not always easy to get binoculars on those little devils, and I have poor hearing in the range where they sing, so I can’t readily identify them that way.

So spring is now fully arrived. Only the song of the pewees, the last of the summer residents, is yet missing from the dawn chorus. The chorus itself is not yet as loud as it will be in another week or so. The summer residents are here, though not yet in their full numbers.

I am ever surprised, even after living through so many season changes, at how much a change the seasons really bring. Spring really is like living in a different place from winter or fall or even summer. Perhaps the changes are less pronounced to those who live in cities. Surrounded by the forest, as I am, the seasons are so profoundly different from each other that sometimes it feels as though I am living in an entirely different place from one to the next. It’s like I have four different living places or that I live in four different states throughout the year. It’s a bit of a variation on "take a trip, never leave the farm." In my case, I never leave the cabin, but you get the idea.

Every day is earth day

If we really lived as though every day was Earth Day, I believe the world around us would today look a lot different.

First, if every day was Earth Day, all of us would know more about our earth. Earth Day wouldn’t be a one-day event. The information that is disseminated (and often too soon forgotten or put aside) on Earth Day would be added to every day. People would start to connect the dots that, say, recycling is better than tossing things out and that, perhaps, not buying that case of plastic water bottles in the first place is better than recycling. And that’s just a single example. The knowledge base increase would be huge and that can only be to the good.

If every day was Earth Day, we would treat the earth better. That would be second nature to us. Once you’ve seen a lady’s slipper blooming in your woods, could you cut down the woods where they grow? What would it look like today if we treated the earth as well as we treated our family’s pet cats or dogs?

If every day was Earth Day, I don’t think we’d have many lawns any more. I think we’d allow the forest or the prairie or to grow right up to our doorsteps. We would share the natural landscape, not try to dominate it or destroy it.

If every day was Earth Day, we wouldn’t need books like Last Child in the Woods. Kids would be in the woods and the streams and the prairies and meadows and playing in their front forests and sharing their front forests with the what normally grows and lives there.

If every day was Earth Day, I think we’d understand that have a whole other range of things to consider when we are choosing building sites. Maybe we’d still build that factory, but we might choose the site differently. And we’d be a lot more aware of and willing to properly dispose of whatever waste industry created.

If every day was Earth Day, maybe we’d still build that house, but we’d place the driveway so it wouldn’t disrupt the lady’s slipper, because we’d know the lady’s slipper was there.

Ah, if only every day was Earth Day.

Rain with white pine

Rain, a good soaker, moved across the mountain yesterday. With a nearly 6 in. precipitation deficit, the rain is welcome. Although I like sunshine as much as the next person, a rainy cycle with a day or so of sun in between the next rain is what this area needs for a few weeks.

The problem with rain is that it’s rare to get the kind of rain you really need. You might get too much or too little. It might fall in a torrent and all run off. Too much or too little and the crops are ruined, the berries burst or shrivel. It’s amazing anything ever turns out right, though somehow it usually does.

This rain so far is doing okay. I say so far because it’s still raining and the result could still go the other way. But for now it’s a decent rain, a tad on the heavy side but it could be worse. The rain is bringing out the silliness in the local birds. A flower pot base left outside becomes an impromptu bird bath that tempts titmice and cardinals alike. They flap and roll and splash and seem to be having a wonderful time. I know from long experience that if I go out and buy an actual birdbath, the birds will ignore it all summer.

Day of glory

So much happened around the cabin this weekend that I should have enough topics for this blog for two weeks. But this being spring, tomorrow is likely to be just as busy as two beautiful and warm spring days this past weekend.

But to start, the bloodroot is blooming. This year the blooms lasted almost two days, so I suppose the flowers qualify as a two-day wonder this year. I counted the blooms I saw at the cabin and came up with 33 blooms yesterday. The odd thing is that the flowers are concentrated in one area not far outside the cabin door. I virtually never see the plant outside of this one small spot, though since the blooms don’t last very long, perhaps I am just missing them elsewhere.

On Sunday I went out for a little hawkwatching, accompanied by Dog. The sky was right but the wind turned more easterly than I expected. Still, I saw a few hawks, though no Broad-winged hawks, which is what I was hoping for. I did have a nice sighting a little later of 6 loons, likely common loons. Since I live on a mountain, in the middle of eastern deciduous forest, I see loons only during migration. Still, as I was on my back deck when I saw them overhead, I do put them on my "yard" bird list. If I can see them from my property they count—at least on my list.

What else? Well, I had everything from a group of wild turkeys crossing the road, stopping in the middle and deciding to lay down on the warm macadam for a while, oblivious to my desire to proceed along the road. Then I had a large snapping turtle crossing the road a few miles from the cabin, which stopped traffic in both directions for a while. The two little deer that ate my juniper bushes in late winter were back, still chewing, still at the juniper bush.

The towhees have arrived, as have the blue-gray gnatcatchers. The pileated woodpecker is investigating large holes in standing trees. In short, it was a busy weekend around the cabin. After the slowness of winter, this much activity is almost overwhelming. I don’t mind. It just takes a little getting used to.

Weekend Nature events around here

As anyone who reads Roundtop Ruminations regularly knows, I rarely post on weekends. That’s when I’m spending as much of my time outside as I can (and when I’m not near a high-speed internet connection). But I’ve decided to try something different, thanks to the magic of scheduled posting. I’m going to post a listing of upcoming nature and outdoor events in southcentral Pennsylvania.

I’ll post whatever I can find, though I know it’s not a comprehensive list. Each week I routinely check out the events at places around my area to see what's going on, and after a mere almost 4 years of blogging, it suddenly occurred to me: why not post these events on Roundtop Ruminations? So that's what I'm going to do.

If you or your organization has something you’d like posted, let me know, and I will add it. For now, let’s just say I’m going to try and post events through the summer.

Local Nature Activities: weekend of April 18

April 17-19

"A Visit with Hendry David Thoreau," sponsored by the Ned Smith Center and the Gamut Theatre Group featuring actor Kevin Radaker. Strawberry Square, Harrisburg. For ticket and show information see http://www.gamutplays.org/thoreau.php

April 18 -19
Gifford Pinchot State Park. Sailboat races starting at 10 a.m. at mooring area #2

April 19
Wicked Big Puddles, King’s Gap Environmental Education Center, 2-3:30. Free. Explore the murky waters of vernal pools. Meet at the Pine Plantation parking lot

Buffalo Ridge Loop Hike, Little Buffalo Sate Park, 1-2. Meet at the state in the park’s East Day Use Area

Spring Beauties

Ah, the spring beauties are up. This most delicate of woodlands flowers is often the first to bloom around my cabin in the spring. All at once, I am seeing them everywhere in the woods. They weren’t there yesterday morning, but by the time I arrived home last evening, I found dozens of them.

The trout lily has bloomed as well, though maddeningly for me the flower seems to close whenever I have my camera in hand. The bloodroot was close to blooming last evening, so it might bloom today. As it is a one-day wonder, all the shouting might be over with by the time I get home tonight. I hope not. I hope I will get to see it whenever its day of glory is this year.

So the woods are starting to awaken again. For today, I am just happy to have clear skies and a warm sun again. It’s been too long since I’ve had that, even for a winter-loving woman like me.

Warbler hopes

Although warmer weather is called for today, up until today warm weather has been in short supply here on Roundtop this spring. And that could turn out to be a good thing for warbler watching in another week or so. At least that’s what I’m hoping.

For the past few years, winters were mild and spring came early. The trees leafed out early but the beautiful spring warblers that migrate through arrived at their regular times. Their inbred sense of migration timing tells them when they should arrive to catch the bugs that appear at the same time as the leaves begin to open. But, by the time the warblers arrived, the leaves were long open, the bugs gone and the warblers blew on through like their tails were on fire. They kept heading north, trying to find that sweet spot where bugs and leaves match their own needs.

The result for me is that for the past few years I haven’t had many warblers to look at. Now even in a good year, warblers are usually beautiful little frustrations. They are often high in the trees, often hidden behind a leaf, usually moving faster than the hand can move binoculars. Ah, but sometimes, they are so sweet. On those rare occasions, these little jewels are close, out in the open, they sit still and I can look at those lovely, tiny little birds for hours.

Over the years, I’ve had some memorable warbler mornings. One year I came home from working the night shift, pulled into the driveway and was surrounded by a dozen or more chestnut-sided warblers, most at head level and all rather put out that I was attempting to drive into my own driveway, which after all, didn’t I know belonged to them? Another time I stepped out onto the front deck and found a hooded warbler calmly bouncing in the driveway, just a few feet away. Or the time a flash of yellow zoomed past the window and when I went outside to investigate I found a pair of Kentucky warblers.

Most years aren’t that spectacular, though it is a rare year when I don’t see something interesting or uncommon. Last year and the year before fell into that category. In any event, the slower start to this spring’s leafiness has me hoping that 2009 might turn out to be a decent or even an average year for warblers here on the mountain. I’ll let you know how that turns out. We’ll still have to wait a week or two or maybe three to know the answer to that one.

My photo today was taken on one of the trails around Roundtop. The understory is starting to show signs of greening up, though I didn't find any flowers or fiddleheads just yet. Perhaps in another day or so.

Experiment #2

Sunset photos have been difficult to come by lately. Overcast skies, rain or simply heavy cloud cover has foiled several attempts to get one. This photo was taken April 10, 20 days after my previous entry in this year’s experiment #2. My plan for experiment #2 was simply to document how the location of the sunset changes over time. My first photo was taken a month or so after winter solstice, which is the day the sun sets at its most southern spot. The summer solstice will be where it sets at its most northerly spot.

In all the years I’ve lived here at the cabin, I’ve been vaguely aware that the sun sets in different spots, but frankly I never paid too much attention to it. I knew it set far to the south in the winter and much further to the north in the summer but that was about it. So this year I just wanted to pay attention to how the sun’s setting position changes over a few months time.

So far, I’ve been surprised at how much the sun set changes over a short period of time. The second photo today is the first photo I took back in February. Then, the sun set has now moved the whole way across the distant mountain and is starting to edge up along the nearer one. The nearer mountain wasn't even visible in my first post.

The final photo today is the one I took back on the vernal equinox in March, 20 days earlier than today's photo. It's quite a difference!