Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Early April at Trail Wood
Writer’s note: Edwin Way Teale, Pulitzer Prize nature writer was content at his Trail Wood farm. On the 6th day of April he wrote: “So this sixth day of April comes to its close. First the sunset voice of the robin. Then the peaceful feeding of the cottontail. Then the sky song of the woodcock. Then night.”
Next day: “ Two hawks, redtails, wheel in a climbing spiral over the western meadow. With only an occasional wing beat, they soar up and up, riding on an invisible elevator of ascending air. Watching their slow spin against the burnished blue of the sky we see their revolving forms grow gradually smaller…”
Next day: “ Two hawks, redtails, wheel in a climbing spiral over the western meadow. With only an occasional wing beat, they soar up and up, riding on an invisible elevator of ascending air. Watching their slow spin against the burnished blue of the sky we see their revolving forms grow gradually smaller…”
Monday, March 30, 2009
Teale's observation
Trail Wood #62 by Earl Plato
Edwin Teale was a great observer of nature. In an early April log he wrote the following:” The live and let-live nature of the rabbit. Have you ever considered it? For some time I have been thinking about the aspects of its life as I lean against the old stone wall. Something I see below me has brought it to mind.
Hopping about in search of lush grass ot succulent herbaceous plants, a rabbit exhibits none of the weasel’s bloodlust, none of the fox’s predatory intensity. Its movements are relaxed, its attitude inoffensive. It poses no threat to its fellow creatures.”
Writer’s note: That setting - on that July 1st, 2007 - the old stone wall was virtually covered with grape vines - a great place to seek refuge for cotton tails.
Yes, I want to return to Trail Wood some day.
Edwin Teale was a great observer of nature. In an early April log he wrote the following:” The live and let-live nature of the rabbit. Have you ever considered it? For some time I have been thinking about the aspects of its life as I lean against the old stone wall. Something I see below me has brought it to mind.
Hopping about in search of lush grass ot succulent herbaceous plants, a rabbit exhibits none of the weasel’s bloodlust, none of the fox’s predatory intensity. Its movements are relaxed, its attitude inoffensive. It poses no threat to its fellow creatures.”
Writer’s note: That setting - on that July 1st, 2007 - the old stone wall was virtually covered with grape vines - a great place to seek refuge for cotton tails.
Yes, I want to return to Trail Wood some day.
The Odd Couple
Trail Wood # 61 Earl Plato
Writer’s note: Ed teale on an early April
Walk in Trail Wood sees a strange sight.
“ Coming out into the fields I catch sight of two odd acquaintances, incongruous companions from a farmhouse down Kenyon Road. A beagle dog and a large, yellow cat are trotting side by side. I often see these two animals sitting close together in the dooryard of the farm, Apparently the cat grew up with the beagle. I knew from the time it was a small kitten. It seemed to fancy itself another dog or its companion another cat. I watch the two-the beagle plodding stoically along. The cat with mote dainty steps keeping pace now beside it, now just behind. … Wherever the beagle pauses the cat rubs itself against it. Now it rubs its back under the beagle’s chin. …I follow the advance of this oddly assorted pair. I see hem disappear from sight into the edge of the woods where Fern Brook flows.
Writer’s note: Ed teale on an early April
Walk in Trail Wood sees a strange sight.
“ Coming out into the fields I catch sight of two odd acquaintances, incongruous companions from a farmhouse down Kenyon Road. A beagle dog and a large, yellow cat are trotting side by side. I often see these two animals sitting close together in the dooryard of the farm, Apparently the cat grew up with the beagle. I knew from the time it was a small kitten. It seemed to fancy itself another dog or its companion another cat. I watch the two-the beagle plodding stoically along. The cat with mote dainty steps keeping pace now beside it, now just behind. … Wherever the beagle pauses the cat rubs itself against it. Now it rubs its back under the beagle’s chin. …I follow the advance of this oddly assorted pair. I see hem disappear from sight into the edge of the woods where Fern Brook flows.
The Seat
Trail Wood #60 Earl Plato
Writer’s note: We reconstructed the Marcy seat on Little Hemlock Trail at Marcy Woods. Ours was anchored between four huge basswood trees. A good place to rest and/or eat lunch.
Ed Teale had a plank seat nailed between two trunks. The day we visited Trail Wood back in 2007 I looked for that seat.
Teale wrote: “ At the head of a small woodland glen, I stop by Whip-poor-will Spring; Its flow of clear, cold water tumbles from an opening in a precipitous bank, dropping into a miniature pool, flowing away down the valley to join the pond at Whip-poor-will Cove. For some time leaning back against a tree where a plank seat is nailed between two trunks…”
Writer’s note: We reconstructed the Marcy seat on Little Hemlock Trail at Marcy Woods. Ours was anchored between four huge basswood trees. A good place to rest and/or eat lunch.
Ed Teale had a plank seat nailed between two trunks. The day we visited Trail Wood back in 2007 I looked for that seat.
Teale wrote: “ At the head of a small woodland glen, I stop by Whip-poor-will Spring; Its flow of clear, cold water tumbles from an opening in a precipitous bank, dropping into a miniature pool, flowing away down the valley to join the pond at Whip-poor-will Cove. For some time leaning back against a tree where a plank seat is nailed between two trunks…”
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Killdeer Time - Spring is Here!
Trail Wood #59 Earl Plato
Writer’s note: My wife, Elaine, and I will drive the countryside this week looking for pussy willows. We will clip some branches and bring them home. We immerse them in a vase of water and watch the “pussies” develop. This has been a spring ritual for years. Edwin Teale made this comment in his log one early spring day at Trail Wood.
“ My walk this morning is among pussy willows and little fairy pools set amid green mosses. … High overhead somewhere beyond the trees unseen in the sky, the first killdeer of the year. It repeats its plaintive, lonely cry. A new voice for the new season. How pleasant it is to set down all these varied signs of spring!”
Writer’s note: My wife, Elaine, and I will drive the countryside this week looking for pussy willows. We will clip some branches and bring them home. We immerse them in a vase of water and watch the “pussies” develop. This has been a spring ritual for years. Edwin Teale made this comment in his log one early spring day at Trail Wood.
“ My walk this morning is among pussy willows and little fairy pools set amid green mosses. … High overhead somewhere beyond the trees unseen in the sky, the first killdeer of the year. It repeats its plaintive, lonely cry. A new voice for the new season. How pleasant it is to set down all these varied signs of spring!”
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Spring is Alive at Trail Wood
Trail Wood #58 Earl Plato
Teale takes his daily walks in his North Woods. “ Two mourning cloak butterflies whirl in a woodland glade, following one another as though riding an aerial merry-go-round. Redwings call incessantly from the swamp below, two white breasted nuthatches from the hill above. And from somewhere between the two comes a soft, nodding, soporific sound,the early voice of a mourning dove. Accompanying my every step is the smell of spring, the rich woodland scents of loam and leaf in this time of moisture and growing warmth. Such things I encounter along the way. It seems to me on this day I absorb them without effort as a plant absorbs nourishment from the soil.”
Teale takes his daily walks in his North Woods. “ Two mourning cloak butterflies whirl in a woodland glade, following one another as though riding an aerial merry-go-round. Redwings call incessantly from the swamp below, two white breasted nuthatches from the hill above. And from somewhere between the two comes a soft, nodding, soporific sound,the early voice of a mourning dove. Accompanying my every step is the smell of spring, the rich woodland scents of loam and leaf in this time of moisture and growing warmth. Such things I encounter along the way. It seems to me on this day I absorb them without effort as a plant absorbs nourishment from the soil.”
Thursday, March 26, 2009
2007 at Trail Wood - the late Ed Teale
We were to Trail Wood and Edwin Way Teale’s cabin. I drew a quick sketch. I noted the Catalpa tree planted in 1959.
Here’s a photo of Pulitzer Prize nature writer - Edwin Way Teale.
Here’s a photo of Pulitzer Prize nature writer - Edwin Way Teale.
It's Butterfly Time at Trail Wood
Trail Wood #57 Earl Plato
Teale’s Log end of March: “ Today we are off for the North Woods to search for the blue butterfly. Each year as March draws to a close and the earliest days of April arrive, Nellie and I wander along the mossy trails, in open glades, down the Old Woods Road, our eyes roving ahead and besides our paths, alert for a glimpse of the small gay insect that for us symbolizes the return of spring/ An elfin creature, it flies on diminutive wings of blue tinged with violet. Carl Linnaeus bestowed upon it the scientific name it still bears: Lycaenopsis argiolus. Commonly this early butterfly is known as the Spring Azure.
The dusky-hued Mourning Cloak butterfly hibernating as an adult appears even earlier in the year. We sometimes see it abroad during thaws late in Winter.’
Teale’s Log end of March: “ Today we are off for the North Woods to search for the blue butterfly. Each year as March draws to a close and the earliest days of April arrive, Nellie and I wander along the mossy trails, in open glades, down the Old Woods Road, our eyes roving ahead and besides our paths, alert for a glimpse of the small gay insect that for us symbolizes the return of spring/ An elfin creature, it flies on diminutive wings of blue tinged with violet. Carl Linnaeus bestowed upon it the scientific name it still bears: Lycaenopsis argiolus. Commonly this early butterfly is known as the Spring Azure.
The dusky-hued Mourning Cloak butterfly hibernating as an adult appears even earlier in the year. We sometimes see it abroad during thaws late in Winter.’
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Peepers and more Peepers
Trail Wood #56 Earl Plato
Ed Teale’s Walk March 31sa-
As we turn up Hampton Brook and follow it to the waterfall, we leave the voices of this little band of calling hylas (spring peepers) behind. But as we draw near the waterfall we hear louder and louder, the great chorus of another pond on a neighbor’s land beyond the Old Colonial Road. The mingled voices of hundreds of peepers rise in a clamor so great we hear it above the sound of the falling water when we stand in reach of the cataract. When we come to the edge of the larger pond, the chant becomes nearly deafening. Individually the calling of the peeper is a frail, sweet, lonely sound. But this vast intermingling of a multitude of little voices rises in swelling waves, a shrill, commingled din that beats against our eardrums.
It follows us far into the darkened woods as we come home. With it this clamor of the mating hylas brings a sudden awareness of all that overpowering rush of fertility, that renewal of life in infinite variety, that is the gift of every Spring.”
Ed Teale’s Walk March 31sa-
As we turn up Hampton Brook and follow it to the waterfall, we leave the voices of this little band of calling hylas (spring peepers) behind. But as we draw near the waterfall we hear louder and louder, the great chorus of another pond on a neighbor’s land beyond the Old Colonial Road. The mingled voices of hundreds of peepers rise in a clamor so great we hear it above the sound of the falling water when we stand in reach of the cataract. When we come to the edge of the larger pond, the chant becomes nearly deafening. Individually the calling of the peeper is a frail, sweet, lonely sound. But this vast intermingling of a multitude of little voices rises in swelling waves, a shrill, commingled din that beats against our eardrums.
It follows us far into the darkened woods as we come home. With it this clamor of the mating hylas brings a sudden awareness of all that overpowering rush of fertility, that renewal of life in infinite variety, that is the gift of every Spring.”
Monday, March 23, 2009
"Other peepers join in
Trail Wood #55 Earl Plato
Edwin Teale marvelled about the little spring peepers at Trail Wood late March.
“ It is always a source of wonder that so tiny a creature as the small frog with the markings of a cross on its back, a creature that appears no larger than my thumbnail, the smallest frog we have that can produce so far carrying a sound. Other peepers join in. At first they all seem to be giving the same identical call. But as we listen intently we notice little variations. One add a a sort of trill at the end. And while most of the hylas give the single ringing call; the pitch may vary with individuals.”
Edwin Teale marvelled about the little spring peepers at Trail Wood late March.
“ It is always a source of wonder that so tiny a creature as the small frog with the markings of a cross on its back, a creature that appears no larger than my thumbnail, the smallest frog we have that can produce so far carrying a sound. Other peepers join in. At first they all seem to be giving the same identical call. But as we listen intently we notice little variations. One add a a sort of trill at the end. And while most of the hylas give the single ringing call; the pitch may vary with individuals.”
Spring Peepers at Trail Wood
Vernal Pools 2 Earl Plato
So where did the vernal pool inhabitants go this winter? The Vernalis report says, “ Well, some flew south, some are taking a nap, and others are active all around us; even under the ice. You an be guaranteed that when the spring rains and warm sun return, so will the life that makes vernal pools seem so magic.”
What about vernal pools at Trail Wood?
Teale in a March log wrote: “ From the edge of the pond, as the dusk begins to deepen, rises the round, clear, musical call of he tiny frog, he spring peeper, hyla crucifer. First one, then another, then another. To me the spring peepers always sound like creatures of a dawn world, inhabitants of the earth in the first days of creation-so innocent, so round-eyed, so born yesterday. They give the impression of something tentative, frail and vulnerable. Theirs seems to be the voice of innocence, Not born yesterday-born today. Their bright calling- a kind of “Spring! Spring!”- will chant through the nights of the weeks ahead.”
So where did the vernal pool inhabitants go this winter? The Vernalis report says, “ Well, some flew south, some are taking a nap, and others are active all around us; even under the ice. You an be guaranteed that when the spring rains and warm sun return, so will the life that makes vernal pools seem so magic.”
What about vernal pools at Trail Wood?
Teale in a March log wrote: “ From the edge of the pond, as the dusk begins to deepen, rises the round, clear, musical call of he tiny frog, he spring peeper, hyla crucifer. First one, then another, then another. To me the spring peepers always sound like creatures of a dawn world, inhabitants of the earth in the first days of creation-so innocent, so round-eyed, so born yesterday. They give the impression of something tentative, frail and vulnerable. Theirs seems to be the voice of innocence, Not born yesterday-born today. Their bright calling- a kind of “Spring! Spring!”- will chant through the nights of the weeks ahead.”
Saturday, March 21, 2009
March 21, 2009
Vernal Pools Earl Plato
Where did everyone go? The Spring 2009 edition of Vernalis gives us some answers. To the north of Marcy Woods pond there are a series of vernal pools. They dry up come summer. However, Marcy’s pond shrinks but remains a viable pool. The Painted mud turtles will temporarily occupy those vernal pools to forage for food. Come winter they will seek deeper more permanent pools like the Marcy pond. They bury themselves in the mud on the bottom and remain dormant until spring.
Many snails burrow themselves into the sediment when freezing occurs. They make their homes in the mud, It provides them with enough humidity to survive. They also secrete a mucous membrane over their shell opening to help lock in the moisture, Come spring these snails will emerge from the mud and continue with their life,
Don’t forget the wood frogs, eh.
Where did everyone go? The Spring 2009 edition of Vernalis gives us some answers. To the north of Marcy Woods pond there are a series of vernal pools. They dry up come summer. However, Marcy’s pond shrinks but remains a viable pool. The Painted mud turtles will temporarily occupy those vernal pools to forage for food. Come winter they will seek deeper more permanent pools like the Marcy pond. They bury themselves in the mud on the bottom and remain dormant until spring.
Many snails burrow themselves into the sediment when freezing occurs. They make their homes in the mud, It provides them with enough humidity to survive. They also secrete a mucous membrane over their shell opening to help lock in the moisture, Come spring these snails will emerge from the mud and continue with their life,
Don’t forget the wood frogs, eh.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Downy & the Goldenrod
Trail Wood #53 Earl Plato
Spring comes to us this Friday. It has already about to come to Edwin Teale’s Trail Wood. He wrote: “ On this morning in the wake the quiet storm, Nellie and I wade on a wandering course through woods, along the brook, and across the fields. We take our time. The sun shines. The day grows warm. The calling of a titmouse and redwing charges the air with the emotion of spring. Twice on the way we stop beside the stems of last years goldenrods. Each stem exhibits a round, balloon like swelling and each time the swelling has been punctured by the chisel of a downy woodpecker. On a cold winter day in winter the bird had excavated the round, bevelled hole and had extracted the pupa within the sphere of the goldenrod gall. This handiwork of the little woodpecker trvives in my memory an experience that I relate as we cross the final field toward home. In a French restaurant just off Times Square in New York an elderly lady at an adjoining table had talked earnestly to a companion about woodpeckers and then about other phases of natural history. She read daily from the Encyclopaedia Britannica. She said, “ You know if anyone does as I have done and reads the encyclopaedia a little each day, it is possible to learn many interesting things.”
Spring comes to us this Friday. It has already about to come to Edwin Teale’s Trail Wood. He wrote: “ On this morning in the wake the quiet storm, Nellie and I wade on a wandering course through woods, along the brook, and across the fields. We take our time. The sun shines. The day grows warm. The calling of a titmouse and redwing charges the air with the emotion of spring. Twice on the way we stop beside the stems of last years goldenrods. Each stem exhibits a round, balloon like swelling and each time the swelling has been punctured by the chisel of a downy woodpecker. On a cold winter day in winter the bird had excavated the round, bevelled hole and had extracted the pupa within the sphere of the goldenrod gall. This handiwork of the little woodpecker trvives in my memory an experience that I relate as we cross the final field toward home. In a French restaurant just off Times Square in New York an elderly lady at an adjoining table had talked earnestly to a companion about woodpeckers and then about other phases of natural history. She read daily from the Encyclopaedia Britannica. She said, “ You know if anyone does as I have done and reads the encyclopaedia a little each day, it is possible to learn many interesting things.”
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
One Spring Day at Marcy's Woods
Marcy Woods on a Spring Day Earl Plato
What a difference a few days in Spring makes. Warm days and warmer nights made the difference. On a Spring Tuesday a few years ago my wife, Elaine, daughter ,Allison, and her two small girls, Kiara and Ashlyn headed out mid-morning to Marcy Woods. A faint misting but the children had boots and raincoats. We took the road through the kennels to Marcy Woods. There they were - a few yellow-headed Coltsfoot’s flowers showing up. Yes, to our left in the wetlands the sound of Chorus frogs. This was going to be a good day. A fine mist fell but not enough to deter our mission. That was Marcy pond and hopefully Wood frogs. No Wild leaks yet. A huge nest was to our left a hundred feet in or so. I focused my bird glasses. No globular squirrel nest but a nest well constructed of twigs - Red Tail hawk or a Horned owl? We’ll keep an eye on it. Further along the Lower Trail we saw the buds appearing on the Spice bushes. Soon delicate little yellow flowers will appear. Allison spied a Spring Beauty plant with its delicate little white flower. We rounded the Lower Trail and headed south toward the pond.
Kiara, the three year old, wanted to be ahead of us. We were approaching the pond. We asked her to be quiet and hear for the frogs. Last week Neil Reichelt and I heard none. Listen. We could hear the high pitched sounds of the Spring peepers. Not many. Then the sound of the Chorus frogs in greater number. Run your finger over a stiff comb. That’s something like its sound. Then as we approached quietly to the pond. We heard that to many is not a typical frog sound. Two - three - ten - perhaps twenty “quacks”. Yes, the Wood frogs were here. Not too many but Marcy pond once again served as home. Little Ashlyn, only two, was probably confused. For her “Quacks” meant ducks.
It started to sprinkle but we continued on to the cabin. Strange to see no seats outside the porch. Our rest seats inside are all gone- sold at an auction. No let up in the sprinkle so across the Willwerth bridge we went. Fallen trees - go over or under. Be careful. Down the wet and slippery steps. My old arches were aching. Guess what? Elaine, Allison and the kids wanted to see the lake. They did. I headed for the car and waited. Getting old. Three things I appreciated this day. Spring unfolding at Marcy Woods. Seeing the Wood frogs once again. Having my youngest grand daughter, Ashlyn Kells, walk all the way that day. Amazing. Thank you Creator.
What a difference a few days in Spring makes. Warm days and warmer nights made the difference. On a Spring Tuesday a few years ago my wife, Elaine, daughter ,Allison, and her two small girls, Kiara and Ashlyn headed out mid-morning to Marcy Woods. A faint misting but the children had boots and raincoats. We took the road through the kennels to Marcy Woods. There they were - a few yellow-headed Coltsfoot’s flowers showing up. Yes, to our left in the wetlands the sound of Chorus frogs. This was going to be a good day. A fine mist fell but not enough to deter our mission. That was Marcy pond and hopefully Wood frogs. No Wild leaks yet. A huge nest was to our left a hundred feet in or so. I focused my bird glasses. No globular squirrel nest but a nest well constructed of twigs - Red Tail hawk or a Horned owl? We’ll keep an eye on it. Further along the Lower Trail we saw the buds appearing on the Spice bushes. Soon delicate little yellow flowers will appear. Allison spied a Spring Beauty plant with its delicate little white flower. We rounded the Lower Trail and headed south toward the pond.
Kiara, the three year old, wanted to be ahead of us. We were approaching the pond. We asked her to be quiet and hear for the frogs. Last week Neil Reichelt and I heard none. Listen. We could hear the high pitched sounds of the Spring peepers. Not many. Then the sound of the Chorus frogs in greater number. Run your finger over a stiff comb. That’s something like its sound. Then as we approached quietly to the pond. We heard that to many is not a typical frog sound. Two - three - ten - perhaps twenty “quacks”. Yes, the Wood frogs were here. Not too many but Marcy pond once again served as home. Little Ashlyn, only two, was probably confused. For her “Quacks” meant ducks.
It started to sprinkle but we continued on to the cabin. Strange to see no seats outside the porch. Our rest seats inside are all gone- sold at an auction. No let up in the sprinkle so across the Willwerth bridge we went. Fallen trees - go over or under. Be careful. Down the wet and slippery steps. My old arches were aching. Guess what? Elaine, Allison and the kids wanted to see the lake. They did. I headed for the car and waited. Getting old. Three things I appreciated this day. Spring unfolding at Marcy Woods. Seeing the Wood frogs once again. Having my youngest grand daughter, Ashlyn Kells, walk all the way that day. Amazing. Thank you Creator.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
It's a matter of territory
Trail Wood #52 Earl Plato
Note: As I had written - chipmunks were cute little guys lacking animosity. Not so at Trail Wood on Teale’s late March report.
“ A few feet under the protection of a highbish cranberry, a cottontail rabbit watches the strife with mildly interested eyes. Rabbits keep out of foreign wars and private quarrels. As the linked bodies of the two fighting chipmunks come crashing down among the dry weed stems, the cottontail makes two leisurely hops and takes up a new position farther from the battle. But the fight is almost over. While the rabbit and I watch as spectators the chipmunks break apart. One turns and streaks away with the chittering victor in close pursuit.”
Note: As I had written - chipmunks were cute little guys lacking animosity. Not so at Trail Wood on Teale’s late March report.
“ A few feet under the protection of a highbish cranberry, a cottontail rabbit watches the strife with mildly interested eyes. Rabbits keep out of foreign wars and private quarrels. As the linked bodies of the two fighting chipmunks come crashing down among the dry weed stems, the cottontail makes two leisurely hops and takes up a new position farther from the battle. But the fight is almost over. While the rabbit and I watch as spectators the chipmunks break apart. One turns and streaks away with the chittering victor in close pursuit.”
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Chipmunks at Trail Wood
Trail Wood #51 Earl Plato
Writer’s note: I have watched chipmunks play at the family farm. At Marcy Woods they would run up and down the fallen trees on the forested sand dunes. I have a photo of naturalist Ernie Giles feeding a Marcy Woods chipmunk. What Ed Teale wrote in his March log is about chipmunks too but a different scenario - territory!
“ Black and white and tawny red swirl and streak above the carriage stone across the lane. Two chipmunks with territories that overlap are locked in a struggle for possession. They leap. They tumble. They roll. They spin in violent whirls of attack and counterattack. Their striped bodies clash and merge and break apart. From one side of the arena to the other the struggle follows its zigzag course. With only the briefest pauses for breath the little lightweights battle on. They reach the edge of the carriage stone and the violence of their conflict sends them tumbling off together into the weeds below.”
Note: To be continued.
Writer’s note: I have watched chipmunks play at the family farm. At Marcy Woods they would run up and down the fallen trees on the forested sand dunes. I have a photo of naturalist Ernie Giles feeding a Marcy Woods chipmunk. What Ed Teale wrote in his March log is about chipmunks too but a different scenario - territory!
“ Black and white and tawny red swirl and streak above the carriage stone across the lane. Two chipmunks with territories that overlap are locked in a struggle for possession. They leap. They tumble. They roll. They spin in violent whirls of attack and counterattack. Their striped bodies clash and merge and break apart. From one side of the arena to the other the struggle follows its zigzag course. With only the briefest pauses for breath the little lightweights battle on. They reach the edge of the carriage stone and the violence of their conflict sends them tumbling off together into the weeds below.”
Note: To be continued.
A Walk in a Spring evening - Trail Wood
Trail Wood #50 by Earl Plato
Teale wrote, “down the lane to the brook.” I remember crossing Hampton Creek by car. The drive up to the house was uphill. A walk down to the creek in an evening was not difficult, however, ascending the hill would take a little energy. I believe that the Teales led a very active life and were in good shape.
“ A riddle represented by a lonely voice in the sky brings this day to a close. After an evening reading by the fireplace, Nellie and I walk down to Hampton brook and back. There is almost no wind and except for the murmuring of the stream, the night is very still. We are standing near the brea in the wall opening into Firefly Meadow when our ears catch, coming down from the star-filled heavens, a sweet, plaintive, plover like call. It is repeated half a dozen times, growing fainter and fading away, What unknown bird of passage are we hearing?”
Teale wrote, “down the lane to the brook.” I remember crossing Hampton Creek by car. The drive up to the house was uphill. A walk down to the creek in an evening was not difficult, however, ascending the hill would take a little energy. I believe that the Teales led a very active life and were in good shape.
“ A riddle represented by a lonely voice in the sky brings this day to a close. After an evening reading by the fireplace, Nellie and I walk down to Hampton brook and back. There is almost no wind and except for the murmuring of the stream, the night is very still. We are standing near the brea in the wall opening into Firefly Meadow when our ears catch, coming down from the star-filled heavens, a sweet, plaintive, plover like call. It is repeated half a dozen times, growing fainter and fading away, What unknown bird of passage are we hearing?”
Friday, March 13, 2009
At the Bridge at Trail Woo Pond
Trail Wood #49 Earl Plato
Edwin May Teale continues his walk along Trail Wood pond. As I said before on our visit there we found the pond larger than we had thought - a delightful setting.
“ While I lean on the rail the little turtle tilts downwards toward one of the debris-filled hollows. It pushes its head under the decaying leaves then claws its way deeper and deeper into he mass of rotten vegetation. I see its hind feet disappear. The sediment it has stirred our drifts away. The painted turtle has returned to a last segment of its winter sleep. By chance I have been standing here on the bridge at the precise time of this short break in its inactivity.
The month of March, so temperamental in its changes from sunshine to storm, has veered to a milder day.
Edwin May Teale continues his walk along Trail Wood pond. As I said before on our visit there we found the pond larger than we had thought - a delightful setting.
“ While I lean on the rail the little turtle tilts downwards toward one of the debris-filled hollows. It pushes its head under the decaying leaves then claws its way deeper and deeper into he mass of rotten vegetation. I see its hind feet disappear. The sediment it has stirred our drifts away. The painted turtle has returned to a last segment of its winter sleep. By chance I have been standing here on the bridge at the precise time of this short break in its inactivity.
The month of March, so temperamental in its changes from sunshine to storm, has veered to a milder day.
Meeting the little turtle
Trail Wood #48 Earl Plato
Writer’s note: A week before Spring’s arrival Marcy Woods pond is still covered with ice. Ed Teale takes us for a walk along the ice free edges. Of his Trail Wood pond in the first full week of spring. Join us. “ Just as I start on again I am halted by a movement almost directly below me. A small painted turtle about the size of my palm comes swimming slowly in and out among the algae clouds. Its body is clean, its colours brilliant. Every part of its shell seems burnished. Even its claws shine. I can rarely recall seeing so beautiful a painted turtle. It is the only sign of animal life I see. I am observing its first swimming after so many months of torpid activity.
Writer’s note: A week before Spring’s arrival Marcy Woods pond is still covered with ice. Ed Teale takes us for a walk along the ice free edges. Of his Trail Wood pond in the first full week of spring. Join us. “ Just as I start on again I am halted by a movement almost directly below me. A small painted turtle about the size of my palm comes swimming slowly in and out among the algae clouds. Its body is clean, its colours brilliant. Every part of its shell seems burnished. Even its claws shine. I can rarely recall seeing so beautiful a painted turtle. It is the only sign of animal life I see. I am observing its first swimming after so many months of torpid activity.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The "V"
Trail Wood #46 Earl Plato
Before nine o’clock this morning 200 Canada geese fly-pass over the village two miles to our south. In one great flock strung out in a long V with unequal legs they cleave across about 300 feet above the ground, their rising and falling wings catching the sun, the far-carrying clamour of their voices a sound of untamed wilderness in the air, they drive steadily into the north. Over the white houses, over the sugar maples along the main street, over the high, shining spire of the white church, then out over the open country, above side roads, over Hampton Brook, above out Trail Wood fields and woods, the long wedge of the flying birds pushes on. The story their passing tells us of melting ice on northern lakes, of the sure advance of spring. As one of our neighbours said in the village yesterday, when a smaller fkock went through: “ Other signs may fail but you Trail Wood #46 Earl Plato
Before nine o’clock this morning 200 Canada geese fly-pass over the village two miles to our south. In one great flock strung out in a long V with unequal legs they cleave across about 300 feet above the ground, their rising and falling wings catching the sun, the far-carrying clamour of their voices a sound of untamed wilderness in the air, they drive steadily into the north. Over the white houses, over the sugar maples along the main street, over the high, shining spire of the white church, then out over the open country, above side roads, over Hampton Brook, above out Trail Wood fields and woods, the long wedge of the flying birds pushes on. The story their passing tells us of melting ice on northern lakes, of the sure vance of spring. As one of our neighbours said in the village yesterday, when a c smaller fkock went through: “ Other signs may fail but you can't fool a goose. can’t fool s goose.
Before nine o’clock this morning 200 Canada geese fly-pass over the village two miles to our south. In one great flock strung out in a long V with unequal legs they cleave across about 300 feet above the ground, their rising and falling wings catching the sun, the far-carrying clamour of their voices a sound of untamed wilderness in the air, they drive steadily into the north. Over the white houses, over the sugar maples along the main street, over the high, shining spire of the white church, then out over the open country, above side roads, over Hampton Brook, above out Trail Wood fields and woods, the long wedge of the flying birds pushes on. The story their passing tells us of melting ice on northern lakes, of the sure advance of spring. As one of our neighbours said in the village yesterday, when a smaller fkock went through: “ Other signs may fail but you Trail Wood #46 Earl Plato
Before nine o’clock this morning 200 Canada geese fly-pass over the village two miles to our south. In one great flock strung out in a long V with unequal legs they cleave across about 300 feet above the ground, their rising and falling wings catching the sun, the far-carrying clamour of their voices a sound of untamed wilderness in the air, they drive steadily into the north. Over the white houses, over the sugar maples along the main street, over the high, shining spire of the white church, then out over the open country, above side roads, over Hampton Brook, above out Trail Wood fields and woods, the long wedge of the flying birds pushes on. The story their passing tells us of melting ice on northern lakes, of the sure vance of spring. As one of our neighbours said in the village yesterday, when a c smaller fkock went through: “ Other signs may fail but you can't fool a goose. can’t fool s goose.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Loneliness Bird
Trail Wood #46 Earl Plato
Writer’s note: Edwin Teale from his Trail Wood cottage-” The Loneliness Bird”
“ A friend of mine, George Peters, a climber of mountains years ago as a young man worked one summer in a lumber camp in the Adirondacks.”
Writer’s note: I have ascended mile high plus Mount Marcy, Blue Mountain and others. I can appreciate George Peters setting in that mountain range.
"All through the woods from morning until night, beginning in the light of early dawn and continuing into the crepuscular light of evening, the song of some small bird he never identified and never saw clearly went on and on. He used to lie in his bunk when he awoke in the gray light of dawn and listen to the moving strains that wove themselves into all his memories of that time. The singer seemed to represent the voice of the solitary wilderness. He called the unknown vocalist then and always remembered it afterward as “The Loneliness Bird.” It was not until years after he discovered that the disembodied voice that had filled those days belonged to the little white-throated sparrow. How fine it is, in dawns like this, to begin our Trail Wood day with this pure, deeply moving song of The Loneliness Bird.
Writer’s note: Edwin Teale from his Trail Wood cottage-” The Loneliness Bird”
“ A friend of mine, George Peters, a climber of mountains years ago as a young man worked one summer in a lumber camp in the Adirondacks.”
Writer’s note: I have ascended mile high plus Mount Marcy, Blue Mountain and others. I can appreciate George Peters setting in that mountain range.
"All through the woods from morning until night, beginning in the light of early dawn and continuing into the crepuscular light of evening, the song of some small bird he never identified and never saw clearly went on and on. He used to lie in his bunk when he awoke in the gray light of dawn and listen to the moving strains that wove themselves into all his memories of that time. The singer seemed to represent the voice of the solitary wilderness. He called the unknown vocalist then and always remembered it afterward as “The Loneliness Bird.” It was not until years after he discovered that the disembodied voice that had filled those days belonged to the little white-throated sparrow. How fine it is, in dawns like this, to begin our Trail Wood day with this pure, deeply moving song of The Loneliness Bird.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
"Oh Canada"
vTrail Wood #45 Earl Plato
Edwin Teale wrote this in his log the first week at Trail Wood.
“ Glowing light is all around me as I walk out into he misty dawn. Minute by minute the silvery sheen grows brighter as the sun climbs among the treetops. Trees and bushes beside the brook are shrouded and indistinct. From somewhere among them, unseen, a small bird gives voice to a strain pure, clear, pensive, touched with sadness, as though with overtones of some age-old lament. It is the song that has been put into the words: “ Oh Canada, Canada, Canada” - the song of the white-throated sparrow. That song of the white-throated sparrow, the song that among all the voices of the birds affect me most deeply.”
Writer’s note: Thank you Edwin. As a Canadian who walked some of he paths of Trail Wood I am glad that bird’s song imprinted you with those words, “Canada.” Thanks.
“Such dawns as this perhaps reminding the little singer of the misty forests of its northern home, always seem to stimulate the singing of the whitethroat.”
“ Glowing light is all around me as I walk out into he misty dawn. Minute by minute the silvery sheen grows brighter as the sun climbs among the treetops. Trees and bushes beside the brook are shrouded and indistinct. From somewhere among them, unseen, a small bird gives voice to a strain pure, clear, pensive, touched with sadness, as though with overtones of some age-old lament. It is the song that has been put into the words: “ Oh Canada, Canada, Canada” - the song of the white-throated sparrow. That song of the white-throated sparrow, the song that among all the voices of the birds affect me most deeply.”
Writer’s note: Thank you Edwin. As a Canadian who walked some of he paths of Trail Wood I am glad that bird’s song imprinted you with those words, “Canada.” Thanks.
“Such dawns as this perhaps reminding the little singer of the misty forests of its northern home, always seem to stimulate the singing of the whitethroat.”
Edwin Teale wrote this in his log the first week at Trail Wood.
“ Glowing light is all around me as I walk out into he misty dawn. Minute by minute the silvery sheen grows brighter as the sun climbs among the treetops. Trees and bushes beside the brook are shrouded and indistinct. From somewhere among them, unseen, a small bird gives voice to a strain pure, clear, pensive, touched with sadness, as though with overtones of some age-old lament. It is the song that has been put into the words: “ Oh Canada, Canada, Canada” - the song of the white-throated sparrow. That song of the white-throated sparrow, the song that among all the voices of the birds affect me most deeply.”
Writer’s note: Thank you Edwin. As a Canadian who walked some of he paths of Trail Wood I am glad that bird’s song imprinted you with those words, “Canada.” Thanks.
“Such dawns as this perhaps reminding the little singer of the misty forests of its northern home, always seem to stimulate the singing of the whitethroat.”
“ Glowing light is all around me as I walk out into he misty dawn. Minute by minute the silvery sheen grows brighter as the sun climbs among the treetops. Trees and bushes beside the brook are shrouded and indistinct. From somewhere among them, unseen, a small bird gives voice to a strain pure, clear, pensive, touched with sadness, as though with overtones of some age-old lament. It is the song that has been put into the words: “ Oh Canada, Canada, Canada” - the song of the white-throated sparrow. That song of the white-throated sparrow, the song that among all the voices of the birds affect me most deeply.”
Writer’s note: Thank you Edwin. As a Canadian who walked some of he paths of Trail Wood I am glad that bird’s song imprinted you with those words, “Canada.” Thanks.
“Such dawns as this perhaps reminding the little singer of the misty forests of its northern home, always seem to stimulate the singing of the whitethroat.”
Monday, March 9, 2009
The end of the story at Trail Wood
Trail Wood #44 Earl Plato
Teale wrote: “Our scent means nothing to the calling frogs but any sound or sight of our approach alarms them. There are times when he breaking of a twig or the scraping of a shoe is enough to silence their chorus. Now with the wind carrying any small noises we may make to the rear we are able o work, little by little, nearer the pond. We see the water swirling with constant movement. We hear the confused, hush commingling of the voices. Through our glasses we see the frogs floating quietly, darting ahead in sudden rushes, sending rings of ripples spreading outward when they call. We note the brownish-black mask running back along the side of the head above the whitish jaw stripe. Then. I the impatient one, move a little closer for a better view, and the curtain drops on the show before us. Sound and action cease.”
Teale wrote: “Our scent means nothing to the calling frogs but any sound or sight of our approach alarms them. There are times when he breaking of a twig or the scraping of a shoe is enough to silence their chorus. Now with the wind carrying any small noises we may make to the rear we are able o work, little by little, nearer the pond. We see the water swirling with constant movement. We hear the confused, hush commingling of the voices. Through our glasses we see the frogs floating quietly, darting ahead in sudden rushes, sending rings of ripples spreading outward when they call. We note the brownish-black mask running back along the side of the head above the whitish jaw stripe. Then. I the impatient one, move a little closer for a better view, and the curtain drops on the show before us. Sound and action cease.”
More Wood Frogs, Eh!
Trail Wood #43 by Earl Plato
I have taped the calls of wood frogs, spring peepers, and chorus frogs almost every spring at Marcy Woods for many years. As we descended the hill to the pond amidst a great quacking of wood frogs. Then as the vibrations of our walking reached the frogs all went silent.
Old scenario. Stand still and wait. Minutes passed and then a quack, another and then a chorus. I taped this spring happening again. Ed Teale experienced the same at Trail Wood as recorded in his March 26th entry. Here is what he wrote:
“So vocal now the creatures (wood frogs) will remain almost entirely silent during the rest of the year. Coming just after their release from winter ibernation this is their great gala time, compressed into a few days amid the chill waters of this swampy pool. Then these wood frogs will disperse, They will scatter through out he woods, leaving behind thousands of eggs floating just below the surface of the water.”
I have taped the calls of wood frogs, spring peepers, and chorus frogs almost every spring at Marcy Woods for many years. As we descended the hill to the pond amidst a great quacking of wood frogs. Then as the vibrations of our walking reached the frogs all went silent.
Old scenario. Stand still and wait. Minutes passed and then a quack, another and then a chorus. I taped this spring happening again. Ed Teale experienced the same at Trail Wood as recorded in his March 26th entry. Here is what he wrote:
“So vocal now the creatures (wood frogs) will remain almost entirely silent during the rest of the year. Coming just after their release from winter ibernation this is their great gala time, compressed into a few days amid the chill waters of this swampy pool. Then these wood frogs will disperse, They will scatter through out he woods, leaving behind thousands of eggs floating just below the surface of the water.”
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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