Woodland Orange

For three days I've been spotting an unusual orange deep into the middle slough woods, but it was early, rainy, and the mosquitos had finally blossomed. On the fourth day I traveled down the Alwin trail looking to take some photos and confirmed what I tried to dismiss -Laetiporous sulphureus.

Not only is this appearance unusually early, it is also in an unlikely location. The log has been down for years, is partially decomposed, covered in moss, and completely surrounded by water. Because I didn't act quickly, the mushroom received a couple of rain soakings, but it was completely bug free -a benefit of its island location?

Our two woodland sloughs have been steadily filling with more and more water, often independent of rainfall. It is an unusual occurrence that we feel may be connected to the partial filling of the gravel pit adjacent to the west side of the property. Rex was concerned that this change would raise the water table, and his concern appears to have been legitimate. In the back slough, nearly every tree has died -there is one old, large ash surviving the inundation. All the shrubs that were green in prior years are grey. The trail that was always accessible along the western edge is now completely submerged and invisible so that a new path will need to be cut much closer to the property line.

We do not want the trees in the middle slough to die off from inundation or fall in a storm because of soggy soil. The increased sunlight will advance an army of buckthorn well positioned on the south slope and already making headway in the middle slough. If it does not begin to drain we are likely to dig a drainage, or rather enhance the drainage that already exists. Any action of this magnitude will have consequences, but we cannot consider our woodlands as anything but altered or unalterable -it is a place completely transformed.

Ephemeral Woods

The first wave of ephemeral flowers is waning, including the last of the Bloodroot, above, now replaced by a single, giant leaf for capturing the diminished sunlight of the greening woods.

Now, Wood Anemone, Anemone quinquefolia, can be seen in clusters, although not always in flower.

Here, a pink-hued Wood Anemone flower next to the inflorescence of Pennsylvania Sedge.

 And here, in white.

I am most excited to find large patches of Cutleaf Toothwort, Cardamine concatenata, on the northeast facing slopes, under the dying oaks and growing sugar maples.




I've become critically aware of the value of dying trees and fallen timber to the continuity of all life within the woods.

A tree growing for over a century dies (I've counted rings). The loss of leaves allows sunlight and additional moisture.

Maybe the tree is blown down in a violent summer storm or felled by constant gusts behind a strong winter cold front. As it falls, its massive, dense wood contorts and dismembers younger trees on its way down, creating an even bigger hole in the canopy.

Seeds that have moved via wind, runoff, or even more so by insects and small animals may be well placed, lying in wait for this opportunity to sprout. But you didn't notice because all that concerned you was the giant that came crashing down. A couple of years or more later, the presence of the fallen giant less prominent, there in the clearing is something new.

Findings

I'd like to tell you what kind of Oak this impressive bark belongs to, but in age, among oaks, it is a challenge without leaves. No matter, this old, large oak is anchored near a clearing made by wind of storms and pressure of fungus and disease.

On the bark of a giant that had fallen last summer, I place garlic mustard just pulled. I keep it off the soil so that it properly desiccates, a lesson learned a year ago. Now committed to the project of eradicating the weed, I think of it as gardening, a task with its own time, that I can accomplish while out photographing the woods, searching for mushrooms or ramps, or completing some other woodland project. Away from fallen logs or large stones, I make piles so the mustard remains obvious to me later, as I check on its desiccation or dispose of it. Officially known as Garlic Mustard, Alliaria petiolata, I've pulled enough acreage of it now to refer to it as "skunk mustard," because its garlic-onion odor reminds me more of that mammal's funk. Click here for a concise and useful journal article on all things problematic with garlic mustard in North America.

This upland spot was (still is?) an oak and sedge stronghold for quite some time. Now cleared of its main shade oak, what may grow in these changed conditions? Its slopes are partially covered with Pennsylvania Sedge, Carex pensylvanica, and some Virginia Waterleaf, Hydrophyllum virginianum. I found these native strawberries, Fragaria virginiana growing in patches, too. A straight line trail runs through this location, with plenty of soil disturbance from quadrupedal hooves and nosing through leaves and soil for food. Maybe I could intervene beyond pulling weeds by giving some complementary plant a foothold. We tend to avoid plants consumed by deer and in this way we consume them by exclusion.

While pulling skunk mustard I stumbled upon this snake, a common Eastern Garter, Thamnophis sirtalis. Its reaction to my sudden presence was no reaction at all.

As I continued to hover, pushing my fingers into the dried leaves to pinch-grab below the prostrate brassica stems, concern took over. I let it be, moving on around a tree to grab more mustard.

Then I spotted two more, one with coloration slightly dull compared to the other, sunning themselves near their burrow. My leaf rustling was too much antagonism and the one to the right took off. Minnesota isn't known for its snakes, although I am happy to see them here in our woods. Along with our frogs and salamanders, they are an important indicator of the land's well-being.

It's been very dry so far this spring (and despite constant snow cover, the winter was short on snow). In our new climate reality, we anticipate extended dry periods along with excessive rains from thunderstorms. Because of the lack of runoff from non existant spring rains, I was able to navigate the entire small wetland, plodding across acres of dried, sun-bleached naples yellow grasses. I witnessed the garlic mustard making inroads into the wetland as well as an arm or two of Creeping Charlie, Glechoma hederacea. I also spotted considerable patches of Stinging Nettle, Urtica dioica growing among the garlic mustard, but also several feet farther into the wetland. There is a tree, likely an ash, rooted at the edge of the wetland but fallen into it that has continued to send up branches along its trunk. Under the tree's crown there is a muddy circle where only the plants, above, are growing. At first glance I thought "Marsh Marigold?" Maybe not. Thoughts?

I did make a soggy-footed attempt into the great wetland on the south side. I wanted to see the willows -the first pale greening of spring, up close, but I didn't make it far enough in to be truly rewarded. Underneath those grasses were channels and ponds of water still draining from a much larger supply of slopes than the little wetland to the north. I did see evidence of Swamp Milkweed, Asclepias incarnata, about twenty five feet from the wood's edge. The exploration of the wetlands, our sunny places, compels me to engineer a boardwalk (literally -cut logs, debarked and placed longitudinally, with boards run lengthwise between them). Future projects.

Closer to the house, on the dry slopes bloom Bloodroot, Sanguinaria canadensis. Maybe these can be planted in the clearing among the wild strawberries?

There have been many sightings of hawks, vultures, eagles, sandhill cranes, turkeys of course, and others to make seeing the more common birds seem, well, common. Yet the first robin of spring was worth pausing for, as well as bluejays and cardinals hanging together.

And while squirrels aren't on anyone's favorites list, they have yet to cause us any trouble, likely because their habitat is still largely intact. They do not come toward the house and didn't mess with last year's garden. This bounding fellow has a red head, feet, and tail. I wonder if it this one, from last fall, or a relative.

Spring Chorus

You cannot see them, but they are there, near any body of water. They know when you are there, even though they are concealed under leaf litter, and will hush on your approach. If you wait, silently, they will begin playing their combs once again. They are the Chorus Frogs of March. See here for the group experience.

The Woods Today

Back in NYC I might take a walk from time to time, but more often than not it was for the purpose of getting somewhere that I might find myself on a walk. Today, after gaining some ground on research for my (other, new) summer course Shipwreck of the Minotaur at the Mayapple Center for the Arts and Humanities, I chose to take a walk through the woods with some purpose in mind, but mostly to get out of doors for an hour. I did need to check on the sap buckets, as cooler weather has extended our sap season, and also to check on my Easter day's garlic mustard eradication project around the back slough.

I've kept my eye on the Tradescantia spp. that I transplanted from Brooklyn last year in a new garden where the old lilac used to dwell. It looks to have survived. The same garden is now home to the old Brooklyn 'New Dawn' climber rose (a rose that has seen four different yards over its years), a sedum I found growing here in the woods, Dicentra eximia from Brooklyn too, and whatever else was growing there that we've decided to allow (and hopefully not that horseradish I did my best to dig out).

In the front yard, all varieties of garlic are now soaking up the sun. Incidentally, these are not German Hardy, but an artichoke variety, possibly with 'giant' in the name, that were shipped gratis, likely because of poor size thanks to drought and fire in the garlic seed producing region. There are as many commas in that sentence as garlic in this row, but my point is that the sign is a stand in.

I headed into the woods, although the wind made for a biting chill and a hazardous walk through the ready-to-fall. So much dead wood squeaking and creaking like a brig on the open seas, I hesitated to pause for the earliest of ephemerals like Virginia Waterleaf, Hydrophyllum virginianum or the mystery plant, below, that caught my eye as I hiked off path to navigate a significant enlargement of the water line in the back slough.

I was motivated to get back to the slopes of the slough to check on the garlic mustard that I chose to spray with a low percentage mix of glyphosate and water last Sunday. Spring is the time to deal with garlic mustard, particularly March and the earliest of April. Virginia Waterleaf, ramps, some rosa species, a few asters, and other early, less pernicious weeds are coming up and I have no desire to affect those in the act of ridding the woods of garlic mustard. In these zones hundreds, probably thousands, of garlic mustard seedlings are sprouting from the seed bank. It was not an easy decision to spray, especially within a yard of the slough's water line. And I am frustrated to report that after six days the results were not significant. Most leaves were mottled, but the plants were not in the state of distress I would have expected. I've considered that I may need to apply a second course, although I am not happy about that. It was necessary to do so, even with a much higher percentage of glyphosate, on the buckthorn "hedge" growing alongside the garage pad. What I have to consider is the compression of the wet soil in spring. It appears to me the less foot steps, the better, especially after the frost heave has done such a nice job of loosening, aerating, and draining the soil surface.

In the past I thought garlic mustard didn't do well in flooded soil, and maybe it won't if the slough remains flooded. However, what I've seen is that in early spring the ice melts and freezes and this heave extracts the garlic mustard from the mucky soil. It then floats, roots and all, in the spring melt water, preserved in a cool water bath until conditions improve. At the water's edge the leaves and stems of garlic mustard are bluish gray to the deepest purple and often hard to spot against the dark water. The garlic mustard a foot or two away, on drier land, have some purple to the stems, but the leaves are quite green. So green, in fact, that it is a little painful to pull or spray at this time where you find yourself longing for the green of spring.

So what happens to this water's edge garlic mustard? Does it die? I don't think so. Many of the plants, some of which I simply scooped out of the water and some which were easily pulled from the muck, had the biggest roots. Garlic mustard is a biennial, so last year the seedlings emerged and grew strong, despite the waterlogged soil, and this year they are ready to grow and set seed. I'm not willing to wait for the sake of observation, yet I am sure many will escape my vision or reach, and I will be a witness to their success.

As I make my way around the slough, eyes to the ground, I think much about what good the garlic mustard could be doing. What species make use of it for cover or for food? Does it stabilize the soil on the wooded slopes? Is balance achievable? Is garlic mustard simply symptomatic of a woods so degraded by other culprits (err, humans, for instance)? In other words, how necessary is the work I've begun, and am I causing more harm than good? And, you know, I like questions.

If you would like to see more photographs of the woods, follow me on Instagram @frankmeuschke where I post regularly under the hashtag #thewoodstoday.

Winter Mind

Winter has finally come to us. Temperatures below 20 degrees F, snowfall, car doors frozen shut with the last freezing rain, the clinkeling of ice crystals shed at forty five miles per hour. Despite this wintry attitude, we here at PrairieWood have work to do. The new shop is now standing with roof and ceiling. It never occurred to me that I would work into the night, outdoors, at just a handful of degrees above zero, but I did just that last Sunday so that we could get the wiring in before the ceiling closed out our access.

While I've been able to put most house projects on hold until springtime, one thing is still weighing heavily on my mind -the woods. What once went concealed by countless leaves is now made obvious by the contrasting wet bark and newly fallen snow. If I could sum up its appearance in one word, it would be diagonal. What is it about a wood of slanted trees that is so disturbing? Is our sense of order satisfied by horizontal ground and vertical columns of trees? Is the removal of angled wood a goal of a "clean" woods? 

What we need here is a plan, a forest plan, to guide us in the care of these woods. But wait. Why do the woods need our care at all? Isn't that awfully anthropocentric? Couldn't the woods take care of itself as it has for thousands of years?

Why is it so hard to look at the woods and see ourselves in it? We entertain the woods as a medium of passage. We experience the woods, but are not a part of it. Our aim is to be out-of-the-woods. We are beasts of clearings where a few selected trees may stand sentry. Why not the woods? Is it a blow to our ego to be among such large beings? Or is it the inherent danger of a sustained presence in the woods, the mashup of life and limb? Maybe this is the most practical tack, that a life in the woods is a life fraught with falling timber. Even among the trees there is danger. No elderly tree gives way without taking or scarring those around it. The falling of a great old tree reverberates through the forest, destroying the order, remaking communities, providing opportunities for well placed upstarts. 

I've realized how easy it is to make a metaphor of the woods, but the questions are more difficult. In our short time here we've had to ask many, and no answer is quite right. Any intervention is yet another question, or string of questions. We cannot extract ourselves from the story of the woods; people created it and we are living it. 

I regret to speak so abstractly, but somewhere in this line of thinking is a better perspective that may be teased out in writing. I understand intuitively that we have a role in this mess, that we are the aliens among the trees, roadsides, and fields. We cast dispersions on the plants and animals that take advantage of sensitive niches, but were it not for us this would hardly be the case. We are the aliens, the agents of drastic change. We project it onto others (plants, animals) while claiming our place. There would be no buckthorn, no garlic mustard, no barberry or burning bush if it weren't for our own invasive nature. Can we make it right? Can you take it back? Can you undo the done? 

This is a defining aspect of our culture. We invade a place, instigating the consequences that we see all around us and then tell ourselves that it is the others' fault, it is their doing that has created the mess and maybe, just maybe, we'll commit resources to cleaning it up, and it will be ongoing, forever perhaps. The productive citizen looks away; it's just easier that way, isn't it? We can spend a life throwing resources at a problem that traces back to exactly where we stand. Is it rational to label plants and animals invasive and yet completely ignore our responsibility for it? 

In the woods I see the paradigm of our conflict, one as much with the natural world as it is with other human beings. I am left asking you if an answer, one that can never be fully right, is to look away or to commit the resources to try to correct the damage, forever, perhaps. And what to make of the trying, because trying isn't necessarily accomplishing anything other than assuaging one's conscience of total responsibility. 

I don't mean to be melodramatic. It's simply that so much of what appears to ail us today is hindered by our unwillingness to take responsibility, or at the very least, to understand our responsibility. I am not personally responsible for the rampant buckthorn in the woods, but I sure can see how it came to pass and how I've benefited from our ancestral migration to this place. 

Ignorance (in the sense of not knowing, but also ignoring) leads to bad decisions, or self-centered ones, and consequences difficult to ameliorate. For instance, water holds in the middle swale, in the back woods, and leads to ponding, mosquitoes, and to water-logged roots which can bring an untimely death to the trees there, fallen timber, more sunshine, and then faster buckthorn spread. I considered trenching a drainage so that the captured water could drain into the great wetland. Autumn came and I saw that some trees at the center of the middle swale remained green-leafed long after the rest went yellow.

Upon investigation, the bark and leaf, below, spoke. These are silver maple, Acer saccharinum, the fast growing, brittle-wooded tree of wet areas in the Eastern Forest.

I can only guess that silver maples living at the boundaries of its range put the species under pressures not necessarily found near its core. So I came to an understanding of this middle swale. I will not dig a trench to help drain it, yet I will dig deeper into what else is growing, and dying, in this area, and attempt to understand it before acting or, quite possibly, not acting at all.

The questions of how to act and what sustained gestures are both possible and effective, are for our winter mind. What can be done that limits the rampant buckthorn and doesn't undermine the fragile species under threat from its able fecundity? We spent a quantity of time pulling garlic mustard from the drainage stream connecting the northern, small wetland to the great, southern wetland. Our work was effective, but it also appeared to me that there was a significant reduction in jewelweed in the very same area. I'm working on memory, now, but I thought it was more prolific in that region in past years. So I wonder, was it the garlic mustard that reduced the jewelweed population to nearly zero, was it natural swings in population due to unusual temperatures or flooding, or was it our trampling feet that inhibited its seed from sprouting? 

Every action has consequences, so many of which are unknown. I recall how, as a child, certain people were inclined to spray pesticides into the tall oak trees to bring down gypsy moth caterpillars. Our camp director screamed, during lunch, that by God he was not going to allow those trees to die! Our neighbor brought in a pump truck, unannounced in summer time, and sprayed his trees. I am still haunted by the overwhelming bitter smell of the pesticide, the sticky residue dripping from the trees, the dead birds and squirrels on the ground. His trees didn't die, nor did the camp's, but then, neither did the vast majority of unsprayed trees.

Each of us who is responsible for a part of the woodlands at the edge of the prairie has to choose for ourselves whether to act, or look away, to spray herbicides and trample, or do nothing. There is no mandate, we operate independently of our neighbors and yet nature cares little for these arbitrary boundaries.

I am inclined to act, yet feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of what is necessary to be effective. We hesitate to spray herbicide, usually in two or more applications, but pulling is incredibly time consuming, physical and often, incomplete. Should we adjust to the new, simpler woods, make peace with the knowledge that we brought this thicket on ourselves? Could there be a middle ground where buckthorn and garlic mustard and all the others are accepted to a degree, where we do not look away but effectively manage the woods?

*all photos are from October, showing yellow-leafed sugar maples along with the green understory of buckthorn -low growing, young plants spread north while the large shrubs reside on the south facing slope.

Winter's Gift

Storms came through with significant rains, and November thunder, and wind. It happened this way and was expected after such a long and pleasant autumn. Now, it is not rain, or sprinkles or mist, but flurries or squalls of snow. The ground is not yet frozen, nor could it be, but unstirred water is now ice.

The change is apparent in our behavior, the humans, the deer, the bluejays and crows. Bald eagles and red tail hawks circle together, coyotes climb fallen trees, chipmunks vanish.

The turkeys march daily, on their chirping and pecking tour. They are fond of our place where there is little to concern them, and after the rains the eating is good.

So many tasks left unfinished, and others that must go on despite the turn to below freezing temperatures. If I were to list the whirlwind of projects I've accomplished since May, it would be long and dull and yet one must consider that a life worth living is full of unsung activities that bolster the praiseworthy. Now that we have returned to frozen, I can look forward to the limits set by it, and push those limits at times; limits set more so by people unaccustomed to the relative warmth inherent in temperature than the temperatures themselves.

On days with high winter temperatures of thirty or more, I can fix on the plank repair for the bridge across the great wetland or cut dead wood for trail edging, and if the wood chips are not too frozen, spread them along the trails.

It is this trail work that Rex loved. Fitting, then, that on this day, the one year anniversary of his death, of his willingness to let go, as I sat in his rocker in the adjacent room, that I consider his work my work, that his work was accomplished and praiseworthy and that so much of what becomes praiseworthy goes unsung, including the gift, the conveyance of appreciation, from one human being to another, of value.

Autumn in the Woods

This...

becomes that.

Felling and Bucking

This, nine months ago, seemed a good spot for my garlic patch. It's gently sloping, south facing, and clean. Trees would need to come down. The garlic has been shipped, a bit late I think, no doubt due to the raging fires surrounding the garlic growing regions of Washington. One of my favorite suppliers had nothing to offer this season thanks to drought and fire.

What made this spot the obvious choice for my growing also made it the obvious choice for an outbuilding. At the Minnesota State Fair we spoke with a manufacturer of these buildings and they came out to the site. Last Friday, we signed. This January they start building.

My job is to make sure the site is cleared and excavated, plans and permits submitted, and the extra components -gravel, concrete, electrical and heating all get done in a coordinated fashion.

Whether it be garlic or a structure, felling trees is necessary. It's is not something we take lightly. Betsy's dad never cut a live tree, but he never had too. His old property was sculpted long ago and this new one is a work in progress.

A chainsaw wielding neighbor has done all the trees larger than four inches. Together we chip the branches and pitch the bucked logs into his truck. Dragging sixteen foot long leafy branches to the chipper, tangled as they are with other branches, over ankle twisting logs and stumps is rugged work and physically draining. Most I can do is three hours at a time.

Nothing shall be wasted. The black cherry and hickory limbs have been chipped for smoking meats. The firewood logs are partial payment to the chainsawing neighbor. We've saved several eight to twelve foot logs for lumber: hickory, black cherry, sugar maple, red oak, ironwood, and basswood. The Minneapolis College of Art and Design has a furniture program with a saw mill that goes relatively unused. We are affiliated with the school now and may take advantage of this idle tool. 

Basswood, Tilia americana, are weak-wooded trees that can grow to great heights. In other words, fairly dangerous for buildings and even people. I had one come down right in front of me last March, on a perfectly still day. I lucked out -the sound of trickling water distracted me from my path. Then, snap, and a sixty foot tree leaped from its trunk, landing just were I would have been had I not been the type to be distracted by burbling freshets. This one was, and two others will be, cut to prevent any interaction with our new building. With hesitation we are sparing a very tall cluster between the back yard and the new building because it provides some shade and screening between the house and the outbuilding. Are we sparing the monster?

The Vermeer. It eats wood for lunch.

I did all that I could to figure a way to spare this sexy red oak, Quercus rubra. These trees have strong wood, and stand for years after they have died. And they are dying, thanks to the oak wilt fungus, Ceratocystis fagacearum. Our woods is a chaos of wind fallen trees and branches, woodpeckers and other bark boring birds and insects. This damages the oaks (and other trees) and makes them susceptible to the insects that carry the fungus. The trees, once infected, die rapidly -usually a month or two, and it's dead by July. Felling trees must happen in the cool season or winter, branches chipped or burned. The logs need to be bucked and split for firewood. Drying them apparently puts an end to the fungus. Yet, we're not fooling ourselves -the red oaks are dying and we won't be able to stop it.

I didn't know there were small patches of hickory in our woods, but since identifying this one, I've found two clusters of more substantial trees. I haven't yet discerned whether these youngish trees are shagbark or bitternut, but I will let you know. The branches of this hickory have been chipped for smoking, a log saved for milling, and the rest went to firewood.

Sling the rope over the top.

And pull in the direction you hope it will fall.

Finally, there is limb work outsourced to an arborist with a cherry-picker. 

He will also tackle a couple of wilt-dead oaks from a few years back and this dangerous limb hanging from a very old sugar maple.

Later, maybe, we'll get to the several large oaks and basswood that have fallen throughout the woods in 2015. It appears to me that all the older trees are dying; a changing of the guard. What will these sunny clearing produce? Multitudinous sugar maples from the north, invasive buckthorn from the south, and whatever it is we have to say about it.

Hog Peanut

Amphicarpaea bracteata, the Hogpeanut, is common in our woods. It grows in sunny patches or where mature trees have fallen. By that measure, its habitat is expanding since so many trees have come down this year.

These flowers will produce small seeds in pods. The "peanut" of its name is a seed produced at or below ground by this plant's other self-fertile, closed flowers. These seeds are quite edible.

Hog peanut is a vine, although it does not have tendrils, and plays well with others outside of a garden. It scrambles along the ground in the woods, but arrives on the scene quite late, well after most ephemerals have retreated back under the soil. It also contributes as an uncommon, woodland nitrogen fixer.

Off Season Woods

Summer is the off season in the woods. This is because the field and home require attention while the weather is right, but also because mosquitos own the woods at this time of year. There is, however, one draw and that is mushrooms. 

There had been an explosion of Jelly fungus on cut logs downslope near the north wetland. It has, by now, yellowed with age, but still a fascinating fungal mass. Mosquitos be darned, in the woods with the camera I took a stroll to see what else was going on.

 A mysterious white fungus or mycelium between two logs.

An incredibly striking red slime mold on upright cut log faces. Anything this red within the green understory grabs your attention.

The channel connecting the north wetland to the southern, great wetland runs with rain water. We cleared this area of most garlic mustard two months back and the Jewelweed is beginning to take off. Now, let me get out there and clear those branches.

Recent storms haven't been terribly windy. Still this large limb, about two feet in diameter at the base of the break came down. It's Basswood, Tilia americana, not the strongest of trees, and prone to hollowing of the stem at height. One nearly came down on me as I walked the woods in March. Just pop and drop! Lucky for me I was distracted by the sound of running water which altered my path. A minute later I watched the large, single stem tree break about 12 feet up and fall over onto the path I was about to walk.

In the back woods I find another Basswood down (that's three this year alone). Those that have fallen are the oldest of the Basswood in our woods and two have been large, multi-trunked trees. Basswood can be easily identified by its multi-stem growth habit -its the sure fire way to ID the tree in winter, when young, or with similarly barked trees. We're not big fans of Basswood trees, largely because of their weak wood and propensity to fall without notice (a local woman died under this tree species recently). Incidentally, the tree reminds me of my former position in an architecture lab where basswood was the model building wood of choice. I'll take oaks, ash and maples over bass any day.

The back swale hasn't had time to drain down with all the recent heavy rains. It appears this area will be wet year in and year out and I should rethink my attitude towards it. Several years of heavy rains have kept the soil water logged and the trees standing in water that aren't already dead are only hanging on by a thread. When cold weather comes we may have to tackle some of the larger standing trees, leaving woodpecker stumps that won't fall immediately, but when they do they shouldn't take anyone out.

Snake In The Grass

Creeping Bellflower, Campanula rapunculoides, I have discovered via the Internet, not by my own untutored observation, is a terrible weed of gardens and elsewhere. Such a lovely blooming plant, apparently a devil in angel's garb. Yet another plant to eradicate. Phooey.

Woodpecker Pie

Like most kids of my generation, my first involvement with any woodpecker, let alone a Pileated, was through Woody Woodpecker cartoons. It took moving here to recognize that the jungle call I had heard during every summer visit was coming from this bird. Although about to leave and running late, the rare close-to-the-ground sighting required a quick photo.

Inside this woodpecker stump (or some other such name for the bottom twelve feet of a felled Red Oak left behind for wildlife) an agglomeration of carpenter ants. This tasty cache left the bird so focused that I was able to get close enough for a shot without any zoom -a rare moment, indeed.

The Scarlet

Our neighbor, a Pennslyvanian by birth with farmer cred and a seasoned Three Rivers Parks employee, mentioned a few month's back that our woods was the only woods in the area where he had seen a Scarlet Tanager, Piranga olivacea. I took note. 

Now that spring has long past us, we've taken to having coffee on the screened, back porch in the morning. Much to our surprise, and with great luck, the scarlet bird flitted onto the old bird feeder, derelict as it is near the red oak that once supported it. I learned early on not to sit with a camera for just these surprises as I may not accomplish much else. Unlike many of the creatures that surprise us here, the tanager didn't flee, even as I pried open the swollen stuck screen door to take his picture. 

My compact Olympus quickly came to life for a few shots as the Tanager ascended to safer heights. Although perched rather distant for a limited zoom and small sensor, it is evidence enough. 

The black wing contrasts well with the brilliant red body, possibly one of the most stunningly colored birds of the Eastern Forest. Our visitor stayed in the surrounding trees long enough to clue us into his call, a blurred chirrup that sounds a bit like a coarse robin's call. 

Now we'll know when they are in town, by sound if not by sight. The Scarlet Tanager visits only for the breeding season, for which the male erupts into scarlet feathers, then shifts back into an olive and black coloration, something more suitable, maybe, for a winter in South America.

Brave New Habitat

I could hardly believe the words coming out of my mouth -mosquito h a b i t a t. Yet that's what I said to the young lady in hot pink sweat jacket (ahem, hoodie) that loped out of the north (formerly little) wetland after I announced myself with a stern good morning.

The Metropolitan Mosquito Control District makes regular, unannounced visits to our wetlands. I have yet to be unsurprised by their presence or put in other words: they do not knock, call, or in any way let you know they are there (unless you see their truck; in this case it was parked on the road). I asked her to let us know that they would be present by simply knocking on the door, that the woods are dangerous (I hope that didn't sound like a threat :-\) and the mosquito surveyors need to be careful of falling trees, and by all means -please use the trails instead of trouncing the understory. 

This was the second time this spring that I've asked them not to spray because things need to eat and they eat mosquitoes, and even more so -the spray kills indiscriminately. When I ask why they are spraying, this is mosquito habitat (there it is) after all, they toss up the usual suspect -West Nile Virus. To which I've got a handful of retorts, and they then see that I am less than hospitable to this "public service." 

What we have here is a major home to countless frogs and toads, dragonflies that we love, bats, birds, and so much more. Mosquitoes bother the humans, don't get me wrong -I am thoroughly annoyed by them, but there is maybe 20 humans around these wetlands. West Nile Virus is not deeply concerning to me (maybe you, I can't say) but it is to me a "worrying tactic" used to nudge people into being agreeable to spraying. The truth is, or rather my truth is, that I believe they are spraying because mosquitoes are a nuisance and people just wish they were gone. 

Great. Now I am a proponent of mosquito habitat. I probably just broke the Fox News whacko meter. 

The helicopters fly just over the tree line in order to dump BTI, Bacillus thuringiensis subspecies israelensis, into the wetlands. I accept this practice as a compromise measure between myself and the mosquito-agitated public, although it seems an exorbitant use of funds for such spotty coverage. I can't say I've noticed a difference between post-BTI spread periods and untreated periods (but then, I'm biased -science please!).

The spraying of adult pesticides is done via backpack by day and likely by truck fogger at night (you may have seen this in NYC). I've continually asked surveyors to report back to their managers that we do not accept spraying on this land, even if our neighbors do. Apparently we need to get onto some sort of "do not spray" list. I have yet to find out how to do that, but I will, eventually.


O wonder!
How many godly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in't.

 —William Shakespeare, The Tempest

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I've begun posting on Facebook, at MOUND, and if you click the link at the upper left it will take you to my new page. Consider following me there, too, because I have begun using it for all the short form pictures and posts that never make it into this journal.

In This Cornahh -Garlic Mustahhd!

The fight against garlic mustard, Alliaria petiolata, will be a long one. Above, you see a partially cleared area to the east of the drainage stream and an uncleared zone to the west (right side). Below you see the waterway and woods we are trying to protect.

Jewelweed, Impatiens capensis, is a native inhabitant of this part of the woods but comes to rise late as it is quite frost intolerant. It's also a lovely plant in leaf, flower, and remedy. I love this part of the woods and do not want to see it over run, but that's what's in store without our management. Sadly, we'll have to create some compaction damage in order to pull garlic mustard. With that in mind, keen observation is drumming up some techniques that keep us pulling only once a year until the seed bank is exhausted. This area has now been completely cleared (but not of buckthorn, another day).

In all, we cleared about 1 acre of garlic mustard. That's a drop in the bucket, but we had to start somewhere. Above, you see it gaining a foothold among our rare wild-growing ferns. Garlic mustard is a biennial that outcompetes everything around it by growing before winter loses its grip. It also leaves chemical compounds that help establish its foothold.

From Wikipedia:
"Garlic Mustard produces allelochemicals, mainly in the form of the cyanide compounds allyl isothiocyanate and benzyl isothiocyanate,^[16] which suppress mycorrhizal fungi that most plants, including native forest trees, require for optimum growth.^[17] However, allelochemicals produced by Garlic Mustard do not affect mycorrhizal fungi from Garlic Mustard's native range, indicating that this "novel weapon" in the invaded range explains Garlic Mustard's success in North America.^[18] Additionally, because white-tailed deer rarely feed on Garlic Mustard, large deer populations may help to increase its population densities by consuming competing native plants. Trampling by browsing deer encourages additional seed growth by disturbing the soil. Seeds contained in the soil can germinate up to five years after being produced (and possibly more).^[19] The persistence of the seed bank and suppression of mycorrhizal fungi both complicate restoration of invaded areas because long-term removal is required to deplete the seed bank and allow recovery of mycorrhizae."

And above, another reason it's so pernicious. Like the monster in a movie, just because you gave it a good whack doesn't mean its dead! All my piles of garlic mustard turned their growing tips upward after a day or so, continuing to flower and set seed! You cannot compost these unless it is well before, well before, flower formation. Don't think chopping them up is good either, and stay clear from the weed whacker if you find yourself falling behind -it will just distribute the very viable seed. I found that even picking up piles created great opportunities for the seed heads to get stuck to my muddy shoes and transport elsewhere.

I am no fan of Monsanto, nor pesticides of any kind. That said, I am considering the use of glyphosate during a dry period of early or late winter when there is no snow and the garlic mustard is green. It is about the only thing that is up at the time and from what I understand (considering how everyday the use of this product is on our food crops) it will have little obvious effect on plants dormant at that time. I will test this theory, and be considerate as can be.

I am sad to say I did not get to every major patch of garlic mustard growing this year. The back swale comes to mind, and everything over the bridge was completely untouched by us. Now that the woods are summering, the mosquitos prevalent, and the seed heads likely to break, I may just leave the thousands that remain until autumn.

May Flowers

It is the season of the oak gall wasp, bungeeing caterpillars, and relentless paper wasps. At night its June bugs bouncing off screens and, tonight, the first lightning bugs. We have been miraculously without mosquitoes -no one's complaining.

In the woods Red Columbine, Aquilegia canadensis, bloom.

It's a bit regal

In its dusty crown.

The first sight of the Woods Geranium, Geranium maculatum, is always a surprise in the shadowy under-canopy.

Geranium grows throughout the woods, but only one here, two there. In the area I call the council circle (laughably and yet to be introduced here) the geranium grow profusely.

Virginia Wetleaf, Hydrophyllum virginianum, has been in flower for over two weeks now.

It's pale purple mass of flowers create glowing, floating dollops wherever it grows (and that is nearly everywhere).

Open Season Fungus

These morels were brought to us by our hunter. He foraged them from our woods after a couple hours of chainsaw work clearing old timber fall on the trails. We dried them for future cooking.

Now that it is raining, mushroom season opens in earnest. Oysters and jelly fungus are appearing, and soon enough there'll be chickens on oak timbers.

The lilac in the back has been blooming for a few weeks now, for about as long as we've been busy getting the estate sale ready. Now that is done, the weather was perfect and we sold quite a few of Rex's old things. The dealers and collectors, they came early or last, buying up Americana for upselling or decorating their homes with wood, fabric and cast iron. Our place, hidden from the road as it is, wasn't great for pulling in customers, although those brave enough to turn in were treated to woods normally seen from without and at a distance.

Spring Ephemera

Too much woods and too little time.

I am excited to find ordinary ramps, Allium tricoccum, the kind that grows in dense matts, has larger leaves, and reddened stems in a far corner of the woods, just below the road, next to an ash tree, Virginia Wetleaf and Wood Anemone. I've looked in all corners by this time, and this appears to be the only patch making the common ramp the rarer of the two in our woods!

In other ramp news, this patch of A. burdickii appears to have been chomped by deer with good taste.

At the edge of the north slope, Large-flowered Bellwort, Uvularia grandiflora. Could its wilted appearance be a defense against browsing deer?

According to Illinois Wildflowers: "The presence of this plant in a deciduous woodlands is an indication that much of the original ground flora is still intact." That's good news, but it's not the whole story in our woods. I do think this bellwort is another worth trying to cultivate.

The quantity of Viola species makes identifying them a hassle, at least for busy guys like me. They grow everywhere -in the lawn, in the gardens, in the woods, on the old farm roads and paths. They are lovely. This one might be Northern Bog Violet, Viola nephrophylla.

We have blue, white, lavender, purple and yellow violets growing all around. Above, Downy Yellow Violet, Viola pubescens.

Jack In The pulpit, Arisaema triphyllum, are coming up throughout the woods.

Jack can change to Jackie from year to year, depending on reproductive success in the prior year. According to Minnesota Wildflowers: "Males tend to be smaller than females and have a small hole at the bottom of the spathe which allows pollinators to escape (with their pollen) more easily. Female plants lack the hole and pollinators are more likely to become trapped, better ensuring successful pollination." Pollination leads to the multicolored fruit seen here.

Wood Anemone, Anemone quinquefolia, growing in the drier, upslope woods near the old tractor road. 

In another, forgotten location, a pink variety of Wood Anemone.

I spotted this from across the bridge. Lousy phone photo, but maybe you can help ID it. The leaves are reminiscent of Red Elderberry. It is a pretty weak specimen, looks to be damaged by limb-fall, and is growing under a canopy of cottonwoods.

Walking the old tractor road, pulling buckthorn, I leaned in to pull this one until my vision kicked in to halt me.

A nest of baby spiders, no idea what kind, but possibly an orb weaver type. An ephemeral of another kind -off into the world younglings, and do your good work.

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The greatest, visible threat to the woods and its ephemerals is the invasion of the biennial herb Garlic Mustard, Alliaria petiolata, and the shrub or small tree known as Common Buckthorn, Rhamnus cathartica.

In this fine looking scene it is easy to forget that it is greened with an army of mustard only a week away from blooming. I've begun pulling it out as I walk through the woods, but this process eats time quickly and there is always more mustard to be found! I may have to wholesale cut them back with a weedeater or sickle just to stem the tide. As is so often the case with strong weeds, these break at the root only to regrow. Any gardener knows what happens then -it simply grows back even faster, setting flower and seed on a smaller, harder to pull plant. Garlic Mustard has a 5-7 year seed bank, but it should get a little easier each year.

Garlic Mustard is bad, but nothing in our woods is as challenging as Buckthorn. Every fallen tree is another opportunity for this plant. While this corner has been a Buckthorn stronghold for many years, it really took off after a great White Oak toppled in a bad thunderstorm four years ago. It now grows on the trail as much as to the north and south of the trail.

Buckthorn can become an impenetrable thicket above and below ground. A tangle of fibrous, tough roots chokes out plants below the soil and a dense cover of leaves smothers ephemerals and low growing shrubs from above. Although many young saplings die back in winter, each sprouts new leaves from the lower stem and ground each spring. I hand pull up to 1/4-inch diameter twigs in advancing areas, but in established "groves" larger shrubs and twigs must be dug out, doing further harm to the plants that may have coexisted thus far.

Within the great wetland, large Buckthorn grow on the slightly higher ground occupied by the beautiful Red Osier Dogwood and Pussy Willow. Its seed is dropped by perched birds, which then sprout and overtake the dogwoods and willows. I haven't seen it to go head to head with cattails or get a sure foothold in the ephemeral pond of the back swale. In fact, after last year's flooding, I see many small upstarts didn't sprout this spring. Can we flood them out? If not water, then I love the idea of burning them out, although this would be hard to do safely.

Forestry experts, ecologists, park managers, and many others often discuss the advancing Buckthorn and Garlic Mustard as an ecological issue, a problem of "native" forest habitat. Surely it is, but for me this is a gardening problem. Intellectually, I agree with the experts, but my motivations are less than pure. I simply don't like the look of a Buckthorn monoculture and prefer to be able to see through the woods. I like surprises, yet Buckthorn and Garlic Mustard offer none other than the ability to show up in a previously unheard of location. It may be that ecological problems are more easily taken on when we believe we act for our own interest.