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.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
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.
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