Posts Tagged ‘Adirondacks’

Fragrant Water Lily

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Thursday, September 22nd, 2011

Location: Lake Clear, Adirondack Park, NY

I’ve never sniffed a fragrant water lily (Nymphaea odorata), though I’ve seen many of them just beyond sniffing distance, a mere foot above their brilliant white or pink blooms. When I paddle my kayak in shallow water, I often see their large leaves, sometimes up to a foot in diameter, floating on the surface. They are a common aquatic plant throughout most of the Lower 48.

The flowers of the fragrant water lily reach the air on separate straw-like stalks from its leaves, opening in the morning sun then closing in the afternoon shade. Unlike land-based plants, its stomata, the tiny openings on the leaf through which it absorbs carbon dioxide, are on the upper, shiny side of the leave rather than the underside.

I was surprised to see several fragrant water lilies still blooming on Lake Clear on September 14th. By mid-September in the Adirondacks, most water based flowers have faded and broadcast their seeds. Fragrant water lilies propagate by seed, too, and by sending out shoots from rhizomes on the bottom of the lake or river.

Apparently fragrant water lilies not only smell good, but taste good too, at least to some creatures. Muskrat, beaver, waterfowl and deer dine on them. Like other aquatic plants, they also provide shelter for invertebrates, which are in turn eaten by fish, amphibians, water fowl and other water-loving birds and mammals. While water lilies don’t look appetizing to me, and I’m not likely to risk tipping over to smell one, I’m happy to have them brighten up many a shoreline and backwater where I paddle.

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Post-Hurricane Trail Changes

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Thursday, September 8th, 2011

Location: Lyon Mountain, Adirondack Park, NY

The day before Hurricane Irene reached the Adirondacks, the State of New York closed all of the campsites in the Adirondack Park, sending hundreds of disappointed families home early from their long anticipated vacations. The backcountry was effectively evacuated and closed. It was the first time I remembered that happening. I thought everyone was grossly over-anticipating Irene. After all, many hurricanes, blizzards, ice storms, microbursts and other dramatic weather events touch this region. Turns out, the state was wise to take such drastic steps.

Hurricane Irene will go down as one of the most memorable weather events in my life. I watched it ferociously pound Lower Chateaugay Lake from the window of my house, praying my boat would withstand the endless battering by relentless whitecaps. I mopped the stubborn stream of water until late at night that kept pooling in my laundry room and under my desk where I often write this blog. Rain hammered down from 8:30 a.m. until midnight. By morning, my beach was under 18 inches of water.

After the trauma subsided, I wondered if the trails were impassable on Lyon Mountain, my favorite hike near my house. I decided to check it out. If I tired of clamoring over fallen trees, I would turn back. Interestingly, only three trees blocked the 3.2-mile trail, though more than that had fallen, often peeling their entire root system off the bedrock. I was impressed by this particularly large wall of roots.

In thin mountainside soil – in this spot, the soil was perhaps two inches thick – bedrock blocks trees from forming deep root systems. Instead, their roots spread in a large mossy mat. Apparently, this impressively large mat was not enough to support the 30-foot trunk that protruded from its middle, and the neighboring canopy was too thin to brace from above. The result was instant erosion.

When a large root system suddenly peels off, soil adjacent to the spot becomes more susceptible to erosion as well. As water flows, either as a slow undetectable dribble or as a fast temporary stream, it will carry more and more soil away, exposing more of the slab underneath. Hikers will increase the effect, literally walking off with dirt in the treads of their hiking boots.

Any place there’s foot traffic in the mountains, eventually the soil will wear off, though it might take decades. It’s impressive to see how a hurricane with the strength of Irene can wreak the same change in a few hours.

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Wild Strawberry

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Tuesday, July 26th, 2011

Location: Chateaugay Lake, Adirondack Park, New York
“Check out the strawberries!” shouted my son. I gave him a curious look from the deck of our lake house. He stood on the lawn between the house and the edge of the water. Virginia strawberries (Fragaria virginiana) grow only a few inches tall, but our weekly domestic lawn mowing must surely cut off any hope for wild fruit.
Many years ago, Virginia strawberries, also known as Common strawberries and Wild strawberries, were hybridized with a species from Chile to create the domestic ones in the grocery store. It’s hard to believe the parent is related to the child. The fruit from the bulbous garden variety is larger than a Lindt chocolate ball with only a vague strawberry taste. Native to North America, the berry from the wild variety is no bigger than the tip of my pinky finger with a delicately sweet yet intense flavor.
I trotted down the lawn to check out my son’s discovery. Sure enough, a number of tiny red berries drooped toward the earth, ripe for the munching. Wild strawberries thrive in sunny locations. Though they tend to bloom in mid-spring, this patch still had quite a few plants with white, five-petalled flowers scattered about. But I was much more interested in the fruit. I plucked a half-dozen deep crimson berries from their hairy stalks and popped them in my mouth. I savored the strong strawberry flavor which lingered a moment or two after I swallowed the soft, juicy nubs.
In less than a minute, my son and I had eagerly consumed all of our wild strawberries. Lucky for me, they are perennial, spreading mainly by sending runners off their roots. Perhaps my little patch would grow to a more than a bite-sized harvest in a year or two

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Ducklings

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Tuesday, July 12th, 2011


Location: Chateaugay Lake, Adirondack Park, NY
Each year around the summer solstice, I return to my cottage on Chateaugay Lake in the northern Adirondack Park. And each year, when I walk onto the deck the first morning, coffee steaming in my favorite mug, a mother mallard and her young brood swim to my little strand of sand welcoming me back.
Momma mallard has a tough time keeping her dozen offspring corralled. The curious yellow fluffballs swim here and there around the fingers of lake grass a dozen feet from the shoreline. One little fellow follows a waterbug a few feet away from the pack, realizes he has strayed, then skitters across the water back to the brood. I counted a dozen three-day-old ducklings this year, which is within the norm (8 to 13 ducks) for a nest of mallards.
Baby ducks can swim as soon as they hatch. They’re curious about their world, but imprinting on their mother hen keeps them close to her for warmth and life’s lessons, but mom can only protect her big brood to a certain point. And father Mallard is rarely in attendance. After the mating season in early spring, dad abandons his mate to either sire more eggs or hang out with his fellow green heads, leaving mom to raise the kids.
I think a dozen ducklings is more than a mother duck can handle. Each morning, the mallard family swims past my beach, diving for food and poking around on the sand and grass as they cruise the shoreline. And each morning I instinctively count them. At two weeks old, the family is now only six little ones. The others have become sustenance for the larger bass or pike in the lake and the wily red fox that slinks onto my beach now and again after dark. The mother in me feels twinges of grief for the mother duck’s loss, but the naturalist in me knows this is the way of the animal kingdom. I wonder if she misses her young that have succumbed early or if she simply focuses on the ducklings that are left.

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Artist’s Conk

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Thursday, March 10th, 2011

Location: Avalanche Pass, Adirondack Park, New York

Whenever I go snowshoeing or skiing in the woods in New England or the Adirondacks, I often see piles of snow atop the Artist’s Conks (Ganoderma applanatum) that hang like rounded shelves on older deciduous trees. I’ve held a fascination with this sizeable, inedible fungus since I was a kid. It’s aptly named. I used to whittle sticks to a point then scratch a picture into the whitish side of the fungus. The lines would quickly turn to dark brown, resembling wood-burning art. At least, it was art to me, though my mother thought otherwise. Over the summer, as my woodland explorations increased, my collection of conk art eventually took over my family’s patio. By the end of September, my conk creations mysteriously disappeared along with the deck furniture, which my parents put away for the winter. I didn’t mind. By then, I was too distracted making huge piles of leaves to jump in.
Now, as an adult, I don’t draw on Artist’s Conks any more, but I’m still interested in them. They can grow into impressive shelves, over 15 inches across on their host trees, becoming hard and woody as they age. They commonly help decompose beech and poplar, though I’ve also seen them on alder, elm, maple and oak. This wood-decaying fungus feeds on dead heartwood, but it will also thrive on live trees, which is not particularly healthy for the tree since it saps its sapwood.

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Canada Goose Migration

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Tuesday, November 16th, 2010

Location: Adirondack Park, New York

In northern climes, some creatures hole up for the winter, others carry on fending off the cold however they can, and the rest just leave. Earlier this week, I did some preliminary fending off of the cold myself, closing up my lake house in the Adirondacks for the winter, though about 1,000 other visitors to the lake on those two chilly days, were leaving. Their honking kept me awake all night as flight after flight of Canada geese (Branta canadensis) landed on the water, jostled for position, took off and then landed again. They fed constantly, diving for aquatic plants and yanking up grass on my lawn, which got a good pre-snow fertilizing in the process.
Native to North America, Canada geese breed in Canada and the northern United States in the spring, raise their young then fly south for the winter. They need open water. As lakes, ponds and rivers freeze, they continue south, returning the following spring. However, this migratory instinct has disappeared in many populations of Canada geese. Since the latter half of the 20th century, the Canada goose population has grown substantially with many becoming year-round pests. The reason is two-fold: Their natural predators (coyotes, fox, wolves, owls, and eagles) diminished in many regions; and man-made bodies of water on golf courses, in parks and in planned communities abound, so food is available year-round, including human food. Though geese prefer grasses and grains, they’ll aren’t above scavenging trash.
Luckily, there are no “garbage geese” on the lakeshore where I rake leaves and move deck furniture. The fall chores take a little longer than expected. I can’t help but watch each grand flying V as it passes over the lake, breaks formation, then drops to the water’s surface with a controlled grace that belies a bird weighing up to 15 pounds. They can fly over 55 miles per hour and travel more than 600 miles in a day! I’m glad my little spot in the Adirondacks is an annual rest stop on their great migration.

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