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.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
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.
29Nov2008
Freezing temperatures and the prospect of foreign landscapes pry me out of my warm farmhouse and nudge me into the Spruce Hill climate once more. I spend the next 5 hours, observing and recording impressions.
It's hunting season; Minnie, Ralph and hunter orange are my shields.
Diagonal patterns at the isthmus---trees all fall in line with the raging winds that sluice up the ravine from Paint Creek Valley.
Frosted patches, brown leaf blankets, pileateds, sea of dried seedheads.
Copse of shrubby trees, deer-colored haunts; four white tails bound across the field, bellies tickled by dried goldenrods.
Plastic ribbons--artificial green; orchid leaves--real green, ferns, too--all on brown palettes with horizons broken by hefty sandstones.
Down the footpath, out to Orchid Point, woods with that unique exposure, oh the orchid leaves, many, many.
To the parking lot--glint of red, silver, metal. What? Hunters? No--gatherers, gathering for a National Park Service tour. I pass by barely noticed, audience enthralled by Hopewellian culture tales.
It's hunting season; Minnie, Ralph and hunter orange are my shields.
Diagonal patterns at the isthmus---trees all fall in line with the raging winds that sluice up the ravine from Paint Creek Valley.
Frosted patches, brown leaf blankets, pileateds, sea of dried seedheads.
Copse of shrubby trees, deer-colored haunts; four white tails bound across the field, bellies tickled by dried goldenrods.
Plastic ribbons--artificial green; orchid leaves--real green, ferns, too--all on brown palettes with horizons broken by hefty sandstones.
Down the footpath, out to Orchid Point, woods with that unique exposure, oh the orchid leaves, many, many.
To the parking lot--glint of red, silver, metal. What? Hunters? No--gatherers, gathering for a National Park Service tour. I pass by barely noticed, audience enthralled by Hopewellian culture tales.
23Sep2008
A six hour tour, a Tuesday, and it is once again, unseasonably warm for this time of year. My trail on this day started at the SE corner of the isthmus, then led diagonally across the open field to the pond, along the NPS path to the neck, down to the parking lot, back up the pathway, and along the eastern edge of the hilltop field and exited by the way I came. The forest floor is littered with leaves and branches(many the trimmings from the cicada hatch this year) from the winds of the remnants of Hurricane Ike that roared through Paint Valley over the last few days.
I wade through the field of spent glory, angling towards the pond, my path graced by New England asters, monarchs, goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace, mountain mint, false boneset, goldenrod and thistle up to my shoulder, scarlet poison ivy leaves, bursting milkweed pods and white asters. A tree at the pond has been laid over by the winds, and there is a bright yellow, softly convoluted fungus clinging to the newly exposed split wood. Recently, waves of warblers have been moving through the area, and I saw my share of them along the footpath by the old farm pond near the parking lot. I did not have my bird guide with me but am now positive in my identification of a hooded warbler, and somewhat less positive about a prairie warbler. Others gathered with them are tufted titmice and catbirds, and later along the footpath, a pair of eastern wood pewees traded calls.
I wade through the field of spent glory, angling towards the pond, my path graced by New England asters, monarchs, goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace, mountain mint, false boneset, goldenrod and thistle up to my shoulder, scarlet poison ivy leaves, bursting milkweed pods and white asters. A tree at the pond has been laid over by the winds, and there is a bright yellow, softly convoluted fungus clinging to the newly exposed split wood. Recently, waves of warblers have been moving through the area, and I saw my share of them along the footpath by the old farm pond near the parking lot. I did not have my bird guide with me but am now positive in my identification of a hooded warbler, and somewhat less positive about a prairie warbler. Others gathered with them are tufted titmice and catbirds, and later along the footpath, a pair of eastern wood pewees traded calls.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
24Aug2008
Spruce Hill on Sunday, midday, in the middle of August is definitely the place to be to gain an appreciation for its true beauty and strength. Having spent the last week driving several thousand miles, it was such a relief to be able to get out and just walk with little direction or time constraints.
The 500 acre parcel south of Spruce Hill has changed ownership this year. The new owners have drilled in a crop of soybeans in both hilltop fields. I was amazed to see how much butterfly weed was blooming in the midst of the soybeans, and the plants were replete with monarchs, zebras and swallowtails. Cup plant and mist of the meadow remain in bloom as I step from the cool glade of the isthmus to the southern edge of the open field.
Out of habit and the human tendency to turn right, at this juncture, I normally follow the eastern edge of the field path. This time I veered to the northwest and crossed the open field to the western edge. This strip is shaded from the morning sun by the mature trees along the isthmus. As a result, the plants in that shade grow taller than normal. The boneset towers over my head, the tallest I've ever seen. Goldenrod, jewelweed, ironweed, smartweed, ragweed, Queen Anne's lace, horseweed(all those magnificent weeds!!!), fleabane, thistle, susans, agrimony, wingstem, virgin's bower and a profusion of trumpet vine pods decorate the field edges despite the mowing of late last summer. There is a particularly aromatic goldenrod that blooms where the field starts to narrow on the west side, much favored by the butterflies and bees.
Though it remains brutally hot and humid as I walk the field path, there is always a gentle breeze at the crest of the footpath where it meets the field edge at the northern tip-- a perfect place for refreshing green tea and a snack of homemade raisins.
Wildlife sightings: Turkey vulture, white tail deer, goldfinch
The 500 acre parcel south of Spruce Hill has changed ownership this year. The new owners have drilled in a crop of soybeans in both hilltop fields. I was amazed to see how much butterfly weed was blooming in the midst of the soybeans, and the plants were replete with monarchs, zebras and swallowtails. Cup plant and mist of the meadow remain in bloom as I step from the cool glade of the isthmus to the southern edge of the open field.
Out of habit and the human tendency to turn right, at this juncture, I normally follow the eastern edge of the field path. This time I veered to the northwest and crossed the open field to the western edge. This strip is shaded from the morning sun by the mature trees along the isthmus. As a result, the plants in that shade grow taller than normal. The boneset towers over my head, the tallest I've ever seen. Goldenrod, jewelweed, ironweed, smartweed, ragweed, Queen Anne's lace, horseweed(all those magnificent weeds!!!), fleabane, thistle, susans, agrimony, wingstem, virgin's bower and a profusion of trumpet vine pods decorate the field edges despite the mowing of late last summer. There is a particularly aromatic goldenrod that blooms where the field starts to narrow on the west side, much favored by the butterflies and bees.
Though it remains brutally hot and humid as I walk the field path, there is always a gentle breeze at the crest of the footpath where it meets the field edge at the northern tip-- a perfect place for refreshing green tea and a snack of homemade raisins.
Wildlife sightings: Turkey vulture, white tail deer, goldfinch
2Aug2008
The second day of August was a pleasant but rather warm day. At Spruce Hill, 44 hikers, including donors, former area residents and locals gathered at the foot of the hill along with a National Park Service Ranger for a public hike. This was sort of a celebratory hike in that Spruce Hill is now 'officially' in the joint custody of the Arc of Appalachia Preserve System and the Ross County Park District. Wooohoooo!!!
We walked the footpath to the hilltop, then along the eastern edge of the field halfway to the isthmus, then cut east across the field to the pond where Ranger Bruce gave a detailed presentation about the short, but very convoluted, history of this unique acquisition. All in all, a very pleasant way to spend 5 hours of our day!
We walked the footpath to the hilltop, then along the eastern edge of the field halfway to the isthmus, then cut east across the field to the pond where Ranger Bruce gave a detailed presentation about the short, but very convoluted, history of this unique acquisition. All in all, a very pleasant way to spend 5 hours of our day!
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