The first of January, a new year, a new day, a new weather system approaching, a perfect day for a walk on Spruce Hill, but then any day of the year is a perfect day for a walk there, no matter what the weather. There is always something interesting happening weather-wise on Spruce Hill, which juts 400 feet up from the valley floor below, and today was no different. The sun hangs low in the sky, but still gives light in its typical weak, wintry way here in southern Ohio. Clouds scuttle along in front of the approaching storm as the flat, broad Paint Creek Valley funnels it straight at the base of the hill.
I begin my hike at the SE corner of the isthmus, having crossed over Baum Hill Road and the orchard and two farm fields to get there. The weather is cool, high 40’s. The snow that had piled up over the last few weeks has all melted away in the last day or two, not even a snowball nestled or tucked in on the north sides of trees. The long quiet vista of the hilltop field is broken by the loping flight of a pileated woodpecker and the boundings hops of white-tails. The true winter colors of Spruce Hill are all here…browns, golds, muted yellows, more brown, greys, purples, bright greens, wait, what? Purples, greens, golds? Mardi Gras on Spruce Hill on New Years Day, you say?
Absolutely!!! Just take a minute and gaze around you and it is all there.
The gold I see is in the side meadows and field—in every shade and hue and tint. The vibrant greens are concentrated on the north sides of the trees and flaunted by the moss and lichens as well as by the lovely, slender leaves of the orchids that decorate the forest floor and the persistent rosettes of garlic mustard. Purples, where are they? ---in the raspberry canes, of course. No spring leaves or summer berries detract from this brilliant wash of color displayed by these canes wearing their dusty winter wrappings.
I hike through this winter palette of color down to the parking lot, teased and serenaded along the path by the sight and sound of golden-crowned kinglets. (Yes, there is gold here, too.) The salamanders at the farm pond still sleep--no activity yet. The water level at this farm pond is surprisingly good compared to the vernal pool at the top. That pool suffers mightily in the dry summers we’ve had recently. Perhaps the difference in level now can be explained by rainfall. I’ve seen it rain on top of the hill and not a drop fall in the valley below, and vice versa. I’ve seen snowfall 4 inches deep on top of Spruce Hill, with only a dusting in the valley.
Ascending the east side of the hill from the parking lot, I hear a heavy, strong sighing in the treetops as the wind collides with the west side of the hill, rushes up, rolls and tumbles over the hilltop, and finally breaks over the eastern edge in the treetops above me. By the time I move into the protective copse of trees at the vernal pool, a skyful of mist and wind now enshrouds Spruce Hill in a wild jumble of gray. I look back to see those mists and clouds slowly swirling across the point of that arrow-shaped field and embracing me as I walk. I am tempted. The weather woos me, bewitches me, stay it says, be with me, be part of me. My heart agrees---my head counsels otherwise. I turn back again, I hesitate then walk on to return another time.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
2010 hikes
The year of 2010 was an extra busy year for the ARC, so I only took 4 walks on Spruce Hill that year. As I review the four hikes I did get in, it gives me a sense of how the seasons change over time and how it affects the appearance of Spruce Hill. January comes with its brittle clarity and cold ice grottos. February follows with heavy, clinging wet snows. April explodes onto the preserve with its wildflower displays. Each season, month, day, hike has its treasures.
The 3rd of January was sunny, cold, highs only in the teens with a wind of 10-20mph. I crossed Baum Hill Rd, the orchard and the two farm fields to enter the preserve at the isthmus. Fifteen Canada geese passed overhead, honking gently as they winged their way southwest in search of more open waters. They are regular visitors to Paint Creek. The resident northern harrier cruises over the hilltop field. I visit the ice grotto on the southwest side, a regular feature this time of year. A small creek has sliced through the sandstone and dribbles and trickles over the edge of the hilltop; the ice sculptures along the steep streambed are awesome.
On the sixth of February, a heavy snow had fallen in the area, places up to 6 inches deep, the snow is always the deepest here on top of the hill. I hiked early just after the snow fell, and there was no wind, so the snow was piled up on the storm side of the tree trunks and on top of the branches 4-6 inches high. The winter wonderland did not last long, as the snow stacks were so fragile and delicate. They immediately started falling as soon as the breeze stirred. But pictures I took and the memories I have of that walk will stay with me forever.
In anticipation of the Wildflower Pilgrimage hike on Spruce Hill, I walked the preserve on the 14th of April. Everything looked in order; the wildflower bouquets and displays are all in place for the pilgrimage participants.
On the 18th of April, Mr. John Jaeger guided us as a group of twelve hikers on the Spruce Hill Preserve took part in the Arc of Appalachia’s Wildflower Pilgrimage hosted in April of each year in Highland County, Ohio.
The 3rd of January was sunny, cold, highs only in the teens with a wind of 10-20mph. I crossed Baum Hill Rd, the orchard and the two farm fields to enter the preserve at the isthmus. Fifteen Canada geese passed overhead, honking gently as they winged their way southwest in search of more open waters. They are regular visitors to Paint Creek. The resident northern harrier cruises over the hilltop field. I visit the ice grotto on the southwest side, a regular feature this time of year. A small creek has sliced through the sandstone and dribbles and trickles over the edge of the hilltop; the ice sculptures along the steep streambed are awesome.
On the sixth of February, a heavy snow had fallen in the area, places up to 6 inches deep, the snow is always the deepest here on top of the hill. I hiked early just after the snow fell, and there was no wind, so the snow was piled up on the storm side of the tree trunks and on top of the branches 4-6 inches high. The winter wonderland did not last long, as the snow stacks were so fragile and delicate. They immediately started falling as soon as the breeze stirred. But pictures I took and the memories I have of that walk will stay with me forever.
In anticipation of the Wildflower Pilgrimage hike on Spruce Hill, I walked the preserve on the 14th of April. Everything looked in order; the wildflower bouquets and displays are all in place for the pilgrimage participants.
On the 18th of April, Mr. John Jaeger guided us as a group of twelve hikers on the Spruce Hill Preserve took part in the Arc of Appalachia’s Wildflower Pilgrimage hosted in April of each year in Highland County, Ohio.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
At last, my favorite time of year is once again unfolding up on Spruce Hill. The green leaves have turned to gold and fallen to cover summer’s scars, and as I hike I can see for miles and miles from the hilltop.
A three hour jaunt takes me from the southeast corner of the isthmus, around the hilltop, down the northeast side and back up into the field where I walk along the mowed path, past the milkweed packets, on to the pond and to the southwest corner of the isthmus.
The weather is overcast, in the 50’s, with occasional light drizzle.
I enter the preserve and am greeted by severed limbs and the whine of heavy equipment and chainsaws as I realize that the neighboring property to the southeast of the preserve is being logged. I had been hearing equipment and was worried about which property was being cut. Now I know…it is the one that borders Spruce Hill along the southeast corner and north to Cuckoo Point. So sad to see these empty spaces where grandparent trees once stood. I wonder if these stumps suffer from ‘phantom limb’ pain, much like humans who have had a body part amputated. How disturbing to think that that may be the case with trees, as well as us. Another thought intrudes—what about that empty space above the stump? What happens when this space, so long occupied by living, solid, tree mass, suddenly loses its identity? Is there a ‘tree soul’…perhaps a ‘tree sprite’….that still hovers in that space? It seems somehow like it would be a sacred space, at least for a while until the neighboring trees adjusted to the loss, wouldn’t it? It feels sacrilegious to invade that vacuum with something as untreelike as my hand. I don’t cross the boundary; I journey on, still wondering what dimensions exist beyond my feeble senses, for I know there is something here I cannot comprehend.
Fortunately for the Spruce Hill complex, when the property was first acquired, I was urged by the director to pay close attention to the boundaries and mark them carefully and often. Fluorescent pink ribbons festoon trees every 50-100 ft. I walk the boundary, at least relieved to see there have been no incursions onto the preserve by the logging activity. The grandparents’ siblings still live.
The trails along the field edge are much less travelled by four wheelers than I have ever seen them. Of course, the fallen foliage helps to cover the scars, but most of the oldest 4 wheel scars are completely grown over with grasses. Very encouraging development!
The remainder of my hike is uneventful with the exception of the sighting of a northern harrier cruising low and slow over the preserve hilltop, just northwest of the pond. It sails, dips down to pounce, fails and swoops back up and around to settle in a small tree and preen. With binoculars, I can see the gray, black and white markings, and from the predominance of the gray, I would judge this one to be a male, but I cannot get close enough before my approach forces it to take flight.
The pond area is rich with bird activity, particular woodpecker types, but the only bird I can catch sight of and identify is a lovely, little bluebird. What a visual treat! The pond level is way down and the edges heavy with thick mud. Turkey baths and places where they have been scratching around the pond are evident.
A three hour jaunt takes me from the southeast corner of the isthmus, around the hilltop, down the northeast side and back up into the field where I walk along the mowed path, past the milkweed packets, on to the pond and to the southwest corner of the isthmus.
The weather is overcast, in the 50’s, with occasional light drizzle.
I enter the preserve and am greeted by severed limbs and the whine of heavy equipment and chainsaws as I realize that the neighboring property to the southeast of the preserve is being logged. I had been hearing equipment and was worried about which property was being cut. Now I know…it is the one that borders Spruce Hill along the southeast corner and north to Cuckoo Point. So sad to see these empty spaces where grandparent trees once stood. I wonder if these stumps suffer from ‘phantom limb’ pain, much like humans who have had a body part amputated. How disturbing to think that that may be the case with trees, as well as us. Another thought intrudes—what about that empty space above the stump? What happens when this space, so long occupied by living, solid, tree mass, suddenly loses its identity? Is there a ‘tree soul’…perhaps a ‘tree sprite’….that still hovers in that space? It seems somehow like it would be a sacred space, at least for a while until the neighboring trees adjusted to the loss, wouldn’t it? It feels sacrilegious to invade that vacuum with something as untreelike as my hand. I don’t cross the boundary; I journey on, still wondering what dimensions exist beyond my feeble senses, for I know there is something here I cannot comprehend.
Fortunately for the Spruce Hill complex, when the property was first acquired, I was urged by the director to pay close attention to the boundaries and mark them carefully and often. Fluorescent pink ribbons festoon trees every 50-100 ft. I walk the boundary, at least relieved to see there have been no incursions onto the preserve by the logging activity. The grandparents’ siblings still live.
The trails along the field edge are much less travelled by four wheelers than I have ever seen them. Of course, the fallen foliage helps to cover the scars, but most of the oldest 4 wheel scars are completely grown over with grasses. Very encouraging development!
The remainder of my hike is uneventful with the exception of the sighting of a northern harrier cruising low and slow over the preserve hilltop, just northwest of the pond. It sails, dips down to pounce, fails and swoops back up and around to settle in a small tree and preen. With binoculars, I can see the gray, black and white markings, and from the predominance of the gray, I would judge this one to be a male, but I cannot get close enough before my approach forces it to take flight.
The pond area is rich with bird activity, particular woodpecker types, but the only bird I can catch sight of and identify is a lovely, little bluebird. What a visual treat! The pond level is way down and the edges heavy with thick mud. Turkey baths and places where they have been scratching around the pond are evident.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
10Mar2009
I had an assignment to check Spruce Hill for wood frogs so for a change of pace, I parked in the parking lot and walked up the footpath to search the vernal pool for signs of wood frogs. But before I struck out for the hilltop, I was greeted by Igor and Jasmine, who appear to be setting up for vulture daycare in the old home place at the parking lot. Eastern towhee, chickadee and tufted titmouses flit around the farm pond which pulses with wood frog eggs, salamander eggs and salamander young.
Red ramps are unfurling all along the footpath, along with trout lilies and garlic mustard rosettes. The ice storm has deposited much debris onto the footpath, and the only deterrent to 4w traffic is a collection of several large trees too large to drive over. Below the point where the path is blocked to 4w traffic, that is the most abundant track---that of ATVs. Above that point, the most plentiful tracks are those of the deer families, coming and going up and down the hill.
Where the footpath pierces the rock wall, blue jays eat ice wine remnants and red winged black birds call. A mature bald eagle soars and dips his way across the narrow neck of the field and disappears behind the line of trees on his way to Paint Creek. I can hear a faint 'skree, skree' as I search with my binoculars for a sighting through the bare trees, but I can't decide if the sound I hear is that of eagle joy or tree love. Maybe in Nature-ese, they are one and the same.
Five turkey vultures ride the thermals above the pond, each daring the other to flap. Despite the vernal pool level being drastically low, it, too, seethes with masses of wood frog eggs. I can almost see the masses expand as I watch. I sit quietly, waiting for the turtles, downy woodpecker, rusty blackbirds and song sparrows to settle and resume their pool activities.
My reverie is broken by the sudden realization that the edge of the vernal pool has been turned into muddy ruts by the wheels of a crazed ATV'er. This past weekend, a Moose Racing event took place on a neighboring property. I could see muddy ATV tracks crisscrossing the field. Now, highly suspicious of what I might find, I checked the northeast face of Spruce Hill, and that is when I sadly discovered the Moose mud racing track. I had seen trailer loads of mud covered ATV's and quadrunners leaving the neighboring Browning property on Sunday evening, but never suspected the damage that has been done to our Spruce Hill. It was Spruce Hill mud that they were carrying away on their muddy ATVs, after all. The muddy trail cuts deep onto preserve property, then veers back onto private neighboring property. The damage will take many, many years to heal, if ever. The Earth is totally pulverized in places; it looks like it has been run through a meat grinder, from repeated runnings in the mud by the racers. The ruts are dug into the soil to depths of 2 feet in places. From the bottomlands at Black Run Creek, an ATV path has been carefully and deliberately laid out on preserve property, running parallel and just inside the property line that preserve volunteers had so carefully marked with boundary markers last year. The Arc of Appalachia staff had gone to great lengths last year after that year's invasion by Moose Racing, to ensure that we did not see a repeat this year of their lawlessness. Even a surveyor had come through and donated his time to remark this particular property line in efforts to clearly show where the preserve boundary was. Negotiations had been completed, and we had been assured by the race promoter and property owner that we would not see a repeat---yet here it is, staring us in the face! They left behind the scarred Earth, beverage cans, marker flags nailed to trees and yellow Moose Racing ribbons.
Red ramps are unfurling all along the footpath, along with trout lilies and garlic mustard rosettes. The ice storm has deposited much debris onto the footpath, and the only deterrent to 4w traffic is a collection of several large trees too large to drive over. Below the point where the path is blocked to 4w traffic, that is the most abundant track---that of ATVs. Above that point, the most plentiful tracks are those of the deer families, coming and going up and down the hill.
Where the footpath pierces the rock wall, blue jays eat ice wine remnants and red winged black birds call. A mature bald eagle soars and dips his way across the narrow neck of the field and disappears behind the line of trees on his way to Paint Creek. I can hear a faint 'skree, skree' as I search with my binoculars for a sighting through the bare trees, but I can't decide if the sound I hear is that of eagle joy or tree love. Maybe in Nature-ese, they are one and the same.
Five turkey vultures ride the thermals above the pond, each daring the other to flap. Despite the vernal pool level being drastically low, it, too, seethes with masses of wood frog eggs. I can almost see the masses expand as I watch. I sit quietly, waiting for the turtles, downy woodpecker, rusty blackbirds and song sparrows to settle and resume their pool activities.
My reverie is broken by the sudden realization that the edge of the vernal pool has been turned into muddy ruts by the wheels of a crazed ATV'er. This past weekend, a Moose Racing event took place on a neighboring property. I could see muddy ATV tracks crisscrossing the field. Now, highly suspicious of what I might find, I checked the northeast face of Spruce Hill, and that is when I sadly discovered the Moose mud racing track. I had seen trailer loads of mud covered ATV's and quadrunners leaving the neighboring Browning property on Sunday evening, but never suspected the damage that has been done to our Spruce Hill. It was Spruce Hill mud that they were carrying away on their muddy ATVs, after all. The muddy trail cuts deep onto preserve property, then veers back onto private neighboring property. The damage will take many, many years to heal, if ever. The Earth is totally pulverized in places; it looks like it has been run through a meat grinder, from repeated runnings in the mud by the racers. The ruts are dug into the soil to depths of 2 feet in places. From the bottomlands at Black Run Creek, an ATV path has been carefully and deliberately laid out on preserve property, running parallel and just inside the property line that preserve volunteers had so carefully marked with boundary markers last year. The Arc of Appalachia staff had gone to great lengths last year after that year's invasion by Moose Racing, to ensure that we did not see a repeat this year of their lawlessness. Even a surveyor had come through and donated his time to remark this particular property line in efforts to clearly show where the preserve boundary was. Negotiations had been completed, and we had been assured by the race promoter and property owner that we would not see a repeat---yet here it is, staring us in the face! They left behind the scarred Earth, beverage cans, marker flags nailed to trees and yellow Moose Racing ribbons.
23Feb2009
This is the time of year between the last gasp of winter and the springtime chaos. My favorite season of the year on Spruce Hill is fast coming to a close, and I needed to hike the hill once more to get a feel for it before it changes dramatically over the next few months.
The trees that encircle the hilltop field carry fresh scars from the ice storm---yellow gashes stand out against the dull winter landscape. Several dozen robins flashed through the woodlands, dining happily on ice wine grapes. The view to the east of Knockemstiff Hollow where it spills out onto the Paint Creek plains glows golden with scattered shafts of sunlight slicing through the cloud cover. A fruit-covered sumac has fallen onto the path, which is now strewn with bits and pieces of diners' red crumbs.
No salamander evidence yet at the farm pond. At Orchid point, I gaze out over the valley…no snow remains anywhere in the valley below, yet the Earth under my feet remains blanketed in the white stuff. As I and my companions begin the walk across the hilltop field on the NPS path, a northern harrier cruises low over the field northeast of the pond. Then my canine companion sniffs the air suspiciously. I turn and look in the direction she points. A dark, low, hefty canine form glides stealthily and silkily through the tall weeds, fading quickly into the cover of the distance. I'm sure I would have missed its passage, had I not been tipped off by Taku. No chase ensues; there is mutual respect for the domestic and wild barriers.
After some investigation, this is what I discovered about eastern coyotes. They typically weigh 30-50 lbs. and are 48-60 inches long, almost twice the size of their close relative, the western coyote. They have long legs, thick fur, a pointy snout, a drooping bushy black-tipped tail and range in color from a silvery gray to a grizzled, brownish red. Though coyotes are often mistaken for a domestic dog hybrid, recent genetic research has attributed the eastern coyote's larger size and unique behavioral characteristics to interbreeding with Canadian gray wolves. Unlike the wolf or domestic dog, coyotes run with their tail pointing down.
The final gift of the day lay at the end of my walk where the southwest corner of the isthmus rock wall overlooks Paint Valley towards Bourneville. The setting sun peeks out between fast-moving storm clouds, painting the valley with a golden-pink wash and turning the hills and ridges that gorgeous, smoky, blue-ridge color. It's been one of those special Spruce Hill days, once again.
The trees that encircle the hilltop field carry fresh scars from the ice storm---yellow gashes stand out against the dull winter landscape. Several dozen robins flashed through the woodlands, dining happily on ice wine grapes. The view to the east of Knockemstiff Hollow where it spills out onto the Paint Creek plains glows golden with scattered shafts of sunlight slicing through the cloud cover. A fruit-covered sumac has fallen onto the path, which is now strewn with bits and pieces of diners' red crumbs.
No salamander evidence yet at the farm pond. At Orchid point, I gaze out over the valley…no snow remains anywhere in the valley below, yet the Earth under my feet remains blanketed in the white stuff. As I and my companions begin the walk across the hilltop field on the NPS path, a northern harrier cruises low over the field northeast of the pond. Then my canine companion sniffs the air suspiciously. I turn and look in the direction she points. A dark, low, hefty canine form glides stealthily and silkily through the tall weeds, fading quickly into the cover of the distance. I'm sure I would have missed its passage, had I not been tipped off by Taku. No chase ensues; there is mutual respect for the domestic and wild barriers.
After some investigation, this is what I discovered about eastern coyotes. They typically weigh 30-50 lbs. and are 48-60 inches long, almost twice the size of their close relative, the western coyote. They have long legs, thick fur, a pointy snout, a drooping bushy black-tipped tail and range in color from a silvery gray to a grizzled, brownish red. Though coyotes are often mistaken for a domestic dog hybrid, recent genetic research has attributed the eastern coyote's larger size and unique behavioral characteristics to interbreeding with Canadian gray wolves. Unlike the wolf or domestic dog, coyotes run with their tail pointing down.
The final gift of the day lay at the end of my walk where the southwest corner of the isthmus rock wall overlooks Paint Valley towards Bourneville. The setting sun peeks out between fast-moving storm clouds, painting the valley with a golden-pink wash and turning the hills and ridges that gorgeous, smoky, blue-ridge color. It's been one of those special Spruce Hill days, once again.
28Jan2009
28Jan2009: On the morning of the January ice storm, as the trees creaked, groaned and growled under their burdens of ice, I struck out into the teeth of the storm, much to the consternation of my sons, who envisioned their poor deranged mother crushed beneath ice-covered, woodland behemoths. Yet I cannot think of a better way to fully experience the power of weather than to be out in it.
To see the silent sawyer at work on Spruce Hill is worth having to trudge 4 miles in a dangerous ice storm. The ice works to seal every single twig, branch and blade of grass in its wintry envelope. The wind rises and rolls across the flatlands east of the pond and when it collides with the tree line at the eastern field edge, entire trees crackle in unison under the added stress. Some shed their icy bindings, some shed themselves of what weight they must, and some--no longer able to hold on--crash to the Earth in a shattering, splintering, exploding collapse of wood and ice.
In the hour it took to walk from the county road to the ridge top fields, the precipitation had changed states 3 times. The freezing rain had stopped, snow squalls came and went, and just before the snowfall started again in earnest, a cloud of dense fog rolled across the ridge top and encased my world in a cloud so thick and white, I lost sight of the line of trees in the fencerow at the isthmus, only a couple hundred yards away…another example of how magical the Spruce Hill microclimate can be.
To see the silent sawyer at work on Spruce Hill is worth having to trudge 4 miles in a dangerous ice storm. The ice works to seal every single twig, branch and blade of grass in its wintry envelope. The wind rises and rolls across the flatlands east of the pond and when it collides with the tree line at the eastern field edge, entire trees crackle in unison under the added stress. Some shed their icy bindings, some shed themselves of what weight they must, and some--no longer able to hold on--crash to the Earth in a shattering, splintering, exploding collapse of wood and ice.
In the hour it took to walk from the county road to the ridge top fields, the precipitation had changed states 3 times. The freezing rain had stopped, snow squalls came and went, and just before the snowfall started again in earnest, a cloud of dense fog rolled across the ridge top and encased my world in a cloud so thick and white, I lost sight of the line of trees in the fencerow at the isthmus, only a couple hundred yards away…another example of how magical the Spruce Hill microclimate can be.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
1Jan2009
Gun hunting season during much of December has put a damper on my enthusiasm to be out in the wilds of Spruce Hill. I had wanted to do a public, winter solstice day hike that would encompass the entire hilltop trail, the two neighboring hilltop fields to the south, my orchard, across Baum Hill Road and encircle my 165 acre parcel--amounting to a 4-5 hour public hike, but that did not materialize. Even with the landowners' permission, the concern over it being gun-hunting season was enough to set aside that idea.
But what a joyous way to start the new year! So when the first of the year wheeled around, I thought it a great opportunity to finally check out the route. We started before sunrise on January 1st, at 18 degrees F, circled our property, and crossed Baum Hill Road by 830am, where we got our first glimpse of the sun's warming rays and the resident pileated woodpecker. Traversing the orchard and the two hilltop farm fields that abut Spruce Hill on the south end, we crossed onto preserve property at the southeast corner by 930. Within the next hour, we had ringed the Spruce hilltop and were back at the southwest corner of the isthmus and home by 11. This hike basically takes you from one end of the Spruce Hill Ridge complex to the other, crossing four individual parcels that total almost 1,000 acres and stretching south from Paint Creek at Bourneville towards Camelin Hill at the other end.
I couldn't help but notice that our 4W invaders have definitely been inconvenienced by the huge stack of trees and branches that our friendly and sympathetic neighbors have piled at the northeast corner of their farm fields--where a major 4W crossing brings the riders from the preserve property at the isthmus onto the farmers' field. This popular thoroughfare is now completely blocked to motorized traffic. We will have to wait and see how the 4W enthusiasts handle this new obstacle course.
As I hiked across the orchard near the pond dam, I witnessed what I thought initially was a tropical paradise magically transported atop Baum Hill. Spots of bright red and bright blue, punctuated with bright white and dark gray flashes immediately caught my eye. What could it be? I threw up my binoculars and there it was---eight to ten male northern cardinals, a dozen eastern bluebirds, pairs and pairs of juncos on the southeastern face of the earthen dam---all enjoying the first rays of the rising sun, clustered in an area perhaps ten by thirty feet, warming themselves and enjoying a morning sip, where there was plenty of vegetative cover that broke the icy surface and created tiny unfrozen pools. It was one of those moments that can only be witnessed by being out in the wilds at just the right time---what a perfectly lovely, visual treat on that gray and frozen landscape.
But what a joyous way to start the new year! So when the first of the year wheeled around, I thought it a great opportunity to finally check out the route. We started before sunrise on January 1st, at 18 degrees F, circled our property, and crossed Baum Hill Road by 830am, where we got our first glimpse of the sun's warming rays and the resident pileated woodpecker. Traversing the orchard and the two hilltop farm fields that abut Spruce Hill on the south end, we crossed onto preserve property at the southeast corner by 930. Within the next hour, we had ringed the Spruce hilltop and were back at the southwest corner of the isthmus and home by 11. This hike basically takes you from one end of the Spruce Hill Ridge complex to the other, crossing four individual parcels that total almost 1,000 acres and stretching south from Paint Creek at Bourneville towards Camelin Hill at the other end.
I couldn't help but notice that our 4W invaders have definitely been inconvenienced by the huge stack of trees and branches that our friendly and sympathetic neighbors have piled at the northeast corner of their farm fields--where a major 4W crossing brings the riders from the preserve property at the isthmus onto the farmers' field. This popular thoroughfare is now completely blocked to motorized traffic. We will have to wait and see how the 4W enthusiasts handle this new obstacle course.
As I hiked across the orchard near the pond dam, I witnessed what I thought initially was a tropical paradise magically transported atop Baum Hill. Spots of bright red and bright blue, punctuated with bright white and dark gray flashes immediately caught my eye. What could it be? I threw up my binoculars and there it was---eight to ten male northern cardinals, a dozen eastern bluebirds, pairs and pairs of juncos on the southeastern face of the earthen dam---all enjoying the first rays of the rising sun, clustered in an area perhaps ten by thirty feet, warming themselves and enjoying a morning sip, where there was plenty of vegetative cover that broke the icy surface and created tiny unfrozen pools. It was one of those moments that can only be witnessed by being out in the wilds at just the right time---what a perfectly lovely, visual treat on that gray and frozen landscape.
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