Cooking Local


Allium tricoccum var. burdickii, prepped for cooking, common to our woods (99.5% are this variety) and delicious. They are milder and I think sweeter than the more common, larger-leafed, red stemmed ramp. I've made ramp pizza, pasta with ramps, stew with ramps, eaten them raw, put them in nearly everything. One of my favorite spring dinners is asparagus and eggs. Why not add ramps to the mix?


First, I made some polenta in our rice cooker.


Six organic eggs from our local farm park.


Fried some naturally cured bacon from the very same local farm park.


First layer asparagus and ramps, then eggs, and more ramps on top, cover, cook and flip once.



Stack polenta, bacon, egg, asparagus and ramp mixture. Add grated Parmigiano reggiano and black pepper to taste and I like to drizzle Arbequina olive oil over the top.



Solar Gardening


We're looking into solar. 


We belong to a electric utility cooperative. What this means is that we are members of a regional electricity distribution network that buys power from other producers (what they call -upstream supply). As members we have access to an opportunity to participate in a solar garden.

What's a solar garden? It is a small field, an acre give or take, that has been set up with a solar array. The coop pays for the installation of the solar array with member dollars who opt to prepay for their "share" of electricity. Each panel installed in the garden is worth a set amount of annual kilowatt hours. You can pay for your whole home electricity needs or just a portion of its needs. You may purchase 20 years of your electricity outright (and therefore pay nothing more for your monthly usage over that 20 years) or pay a predetermined KwH rate for that 20 year period that averages on par with the conventional electricity rate. In other words, no matter how you pay for it, your electricity rate is flat over 20 years.

The "garden" is shared among any cooperative members who buy in. The electricity is delivered over the cooperative's electric lines already in place. This way you do not need to install any panels on your home, cut down any trees for efficiency, or disturb your roof or even worry about damage (insurance is included in the rate). The panels in the garden are installed in the optimum position for maximum light gathering.

You may be thinking, isn't it cold and snowy in Minnesota for solar power? It is, but we have other advantages. Solar panels are more efficient in the cold than they are in, say, the heat of an Arizona desert. We also have exceptionally long summer daylight hours, so the panels make energy for longer periods than in a place closer to the equator. So, while our efficiency decreases in winter due to lower light levels, we make up for it with our cooler, longer summer days. The panels will be maintained by the cooperative who have so far shown to have first rate service (I've had them over twice for service -I did not pay for this and they were generous and courteous).

I'm very excited by the idea of cooperative electricity. Now, if only the giant upstream producers had less legal pull in the state capitals, we could build more of these solar gardens. As it is, the cooperative must get permission to build the gardens, and does not get to own them outright. The machinations of power are complex, it appears, something I hardly understand enough to discuss. At this time the coop has 50,000 members but there are only 400 solar garden members. This needs to change.



What About The Garlic?


 Some of you may be wondering what has happened to my garlic farming since the move.


It has been put on hold until we can get established. However, Betsy did hastily plant some garlic in the front yard last October and it appears to be doing exceptionally well with little work on my part.



The French Grey Shallots are doing very well, as are most of the garlic varieties. 

I will only have enough for our kitchen this season and will need to decide soon what I plan to do for the next. We do not have agricultural land here in the woods. In fact, the front yard is becoming our vegetable plot since it is the only flat land that receives enough sun for summer produce.


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.




Bard Of The Woods

We become aware of birds by sound.

The Barred Owl, Strix varia, amongst the trees just south of the small wetland. Perfectly blended with the contrasty shadows and light of the cool season forest -elusive by design.


This owl, flying just overhead, eyed my friend and I as we maneuvered the 24 foot moving truck through the woods out to the road in the midst of a snow squall. He said it was his first owl sighting. The owl probably thought, new humans. Although it has no difficulty floating amongst the tangle of branches, I've spotted the owl using the drive as a flyway. The Barred Owl is at home in the woods, mid-canopy, and by my observation, never high up in the trees. It is rare to see the owl in situ, only shadowy, swooping, grey glimpses, if at all.


There are two in the woods, probably nest mates, that I hear calling to each other at night. Their call, Who looks for you. Who looks for yoooahahah, is a soulful incantation. Not long ago, I saw them swooping together.



The Greening


The greening of the woods is upon us. We will soon shift from an ambiguous space of light and shadow to a mysterious green blue underworld. By the time you read this, the great wetland and back woods will no longer be visible from the yard.



What The Duck

How much wood would a wood duck quack, if a wood duck could quack wood? 


Be honest, what's my best side?


My left?

My right, right?

Alright, enough quacking jokes about ducks. Two Wood Ducks, Aix sponsa, flew up into the oak trees outside our attic window. Striking to see ducks in trees, especially such good looking ducks, I grabbed my great camera with the poorly-qualified*, 30 year-old Minolta manual zoom. This pair has likely been hanging out in the ephemeral pond in the back swale, and possibly nesting in one of our many dead trees. The female lays ten to fifteen eggs each spring, which means we may see ducklings at some point.

Wood Ducks are legally hunted in Minnesota and from what I understand, have a pleasant mild duck flavor. I don't think we'll be hunting our ducks, although hunting requests have been stacking up on the answering machine and sometimes at our doorstep. That, however, is a post for another day.


*all my bird shots are made with this combination, often through windows and screens, leaving us with useful if not stellar imagery of birds.




Gardening at the Boundary


That day, maybe a week ago, it really came down.


I know nothing about late spring snow. Nothing. When I was a child, in New York, it snowed during our Easter break -it was early April. The day prior was warm, even the day it snowed it was warm, so much so that I was out riding my bike in the street with my brother. Although it was cloudy, the big, wet flake snow came without warning.


This snowfall is different, intermittent pellets and flakes. It was windy too, driving the pellets hard. As is often the case, the snow did not stick. The snow was not the trouble at all. It was the cold that presented itself the following night. 


I woke to find a frost on the little wetland.


 Crystals coated all the leafed out, saturated-looking plants in the early sun.



The parsley I had just planted showed crystallization along its veins (interesting that this happens, no?).


The  cilantro.


The Virginia Wetleaf succumbed (but recovered) to the eight or so hours well below freezing.

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The last frost date for our location is roughly May twenty. I do not think anyone would suggest that the last two months have had ordinary temperatures, we haven't. Since March, we have had days that topped out at 10ºF and 82ºF, although most have been in the forties through the sixties. Our March monthly average high temperature was nearly 46ºF and the April average so far is 59ºF. Daytime temperatures have long suggested I should be growing things that California is having trouble providing. Think twice. I watch the trees and the vegetable gardens. Only this week are the oaks beginning to show the chartreuse of spring and there has been zero garden activity.

Warm air masses, heated by their descent from the Rockies and Great Plains, move in from the south and west, and locally there is sunlight warming the thermal mass of land without the cooling influence of great bodies of water. The day warms nicely. At night, however, without the moderating influence of clouds, radiational cooling is strong. I recall a typical temperature differential in NYC to be about 15 degrees. Here, in Minnesota, I have seen 20+ as the norm. Beyond nightly cooling, there is always the threat of a cold airmass coming down from the north whenever the jet stream decides to do something funky. Minnesota is the common entry point for cold air, it is the reason people think this state is cold. 


Which brings me to another weather detail. I noticed the window box of just planted pansies was bone dry. What? I had watered it in, deeply, just the day before. Hmm. Something unusual had happened -dry air, exceptionally dry air. Two days after the snowfall, and the day of the overnight freeze, our relative humidity had dropped to 12%, twelve percent! Our dewpoint was nearly 1ºF by the late afternoon. Meanwhile, our high temperature was 55ºF and the winds were up. The water simply evaporated. Despite this, the pansies toughed out the freeze and drought, as those in the pot above attest.



The dry air, the sudden cold from the north, the high temperatures, the wind, no rain, and of course, heavy rain are all typical. We live at a climactic boundary with little to moderate each influence. This is the education of a gardener.



The Peat Land


The squatting tree, a landmark on the way to the western flank of the great wetland, is flowing once more. I don't think I need to explain why it has been given this name. It appears to drain the ephemeral waters of the back swale into the great wetland. 


I spot the fluffy white tail of a deer, although nothing more. Probably taken down by coyotes, or scavenged by them, this disembodiment leaves me to reflect on the intimacy of the woods, its sheltering of life and death.



About to cross the once sound, but now quite risky, sawed log, timber beam and pallet bridge. It will need be the first of several woodland structures to be upgraded if we (or any interlopers, coyote included) want to keep crossing with dry feet.


On the other side, more remains.



And nettle, stinging nettle. The western flank of the great wetland is over run with nettle.



It is also a hummocky, low lying peat land of a couple of acres.



I have a general understanding of how peat is formed, but here it is a bit of a mystery. My guess is that it formed when the great wetland was even wetter, covering this flatland at the edge of the slope with water and limiting decomposition of organic matter. As the wetland filled with sediment and organic matter and the water table lowered somewhat, the peat became exposed and the trees and shrubs began taking hold.



Painting Weir


This little painting will be included in the Weir Farm National Historic Site 25th anniversary exhibition. The show, I think, includes only past artists-in-residence, although certainly not all one hundred and fifty of them!

An artist friend of mine recently suggested I always lean toward beauty. Now beauty is a complex subject, particularly for artists, but I will say I was leaning toward my kind of beautiful in this work, a collapsing of distance and intimacy, the mood suggested by the light. Artists tend to be suspicious of the concept of beauty. In a nutshell, because it suggests convention, formal entrapment, taken farther -even patriarchy. If you've ever wondered why much heralded contemporary art is so often visually, um, vomitous, it is often because the artist wants to escape the beauty trap. Of course, I work within the landscape form, have always dealt with hard line reactions to it, and find navigating convention and discovery quite challenging.

If you happen to be in the Wilton or Ridgefield, Connecticut area after May first, consider dropping by to see the exhibit. The studio and house of J.A. Weir will be open as well as the grounds and walking trails. Visit the Weir Farm NHS site for more info (although nothing there about the exhibit).

Ramp On

Ramps! I'd forgotten about them, curious as that is because I did have plans to plant them at some point in the future. As with any forage, I questioned my instinct, and kneeled down for a leaf tear. Unmistakable onion scent, however more, um, woodsy, earthy, funky even, with the slightest floral essence.  The taste? Earthy, mild onion and exceptionally sweet (especially after our 30 degree nights). Our ramp is Allium tricoccum var. burdickii, a contested species or variation of the Allium tricoccum found at ramp festivals of Appalachia and farmers' markets of the North American east.

I stood admiring my patch, how wonderful the woods can be, until the creaking timbers above my head urged me on. As I continued my walk I discovered another four or five small patches. A number low enough to recall each without resorting to markers or maps. Consistent preference for slopes (prompting Betsy to humorously suggest it as another origin of its name) and well-shaded, summering sites suggested that they should have blanketed our shady, sloping woods.



The next day, cool and damp after a decent rain, I stepped into a woods of rain softened, pliable leaves under foot. I floated. Squirrels and chipmunks went about their business unaware of my approach, but wary were the ducks that fluttered into flight the moment the chorus of frogs went silent. No matter, I wasn't out in soft shoes and sweater to see the ducks, I was out to collect a few ramps for dinner.

I began to spot more and more ramp colonies, in all corners of the woods, although mostly out back and along the south-facing side slope. They grew under most species of trees, often near the trunk, nearly always on a slope, yet in one instance on a flat near the great wetland. In all cases an abundance of leaf litter, and in none was there any garlic mustard (although prevalent nearby in at least a couple of locations). There are so many patches that I, like a squirrel forgetting his buried nuts, can hardly remember a portion of them. This is for the best, as there is plenty for the two of us, and we must ensure the continuance of the species.



Our ramps belong to the variation burdickii. The common ramp grows in dense colonies, with relatively large leaves, and most strikingly shows red or purple coloration just above the bulb along the lower stem. A variation burdickii colony shows fewer individual plants, has somewhat shorter, more slender leaves, and does not show purple coloration on its all-white stem. Burdickii flowers significantly earlier than its counterpart and is also more likely to reproduce from seed due, in part, to the colony's open habit.

Along with the popularity of ramps in restaurants and home kitchens, they have become abundant at New York area farmers' markets and on foragers' tables. New York State has declared Allium tricoccum var. burdickii as endangered, placing it on its protected native species list. It cannot be legally wild-harvested, although Allium tricoccum is still open to harvesting (for now). Given the rarity of burdickii, it is unlikely that you will find much of it in New York, but if you do, don't harvest.

If you find yourself salivating over a patch of ramps, check for a dense colony habit, then pull away some soil to look for purple coloration on the lower stem. If you're sure you've got the right ramp, only pluck a few whole plants from each colony, or better, just clip a single leaf from several plants. Ramps take several years to mature, and several more if the colony is severely depleted, so please contain your harvest zeal. The bulbs may be four inches below the soil surface, so dig deeply with a long, slender trowel without disturbing or severing several neighboring bulbs. Do not trample ramps or other plants on your way to them and be mindful of seedlings along the edges of the colony. Finally, beware of causing soil erosion on the wooded slopes ramps prefer.

In our woods we will tread lightly, doing what we can to minimize competitors like garlic mustard, Alliaria petiolata, and take a measured harvest. Tomorrow I'll cut a few new leaves to eat with eggs. Sure, I cook, but here's a local chef with the real ramps recipes.



Bloodroot and Other Ephemera


The march of spring ephemerals is on. One of the first is Bloodroot, Sanguinaria canadensis. I spotted this one near the driveway and waited for it to open.



Morning to evening, I always missed open hours.



Another day, I found a group on the north slope, just off the old tractor road.



Brilliant. Bloodroot (above), sedge, ramps (not blooming, but edible), and Cutleaf Toothwort are up and doing their ephemeral thing. The last one, Cardamine concatenata, is new to me. It has finely cut foliage and delicate four petal flowers. It is a lovely plant. Should its leaves hold on as the season progresses, it may be a good candidate for a garden bed.



The Minnesota Wildflowers site helped me identify this one -first reported a couple of weeks ago. It's name is Virginia Wetleaf, Hydrophyllum virginianum, and native to the eastern woodlands of which we are on the very western edge.



It is so much easier to identify plants with their flowers and, as is so often the case, guides use bloom time to categorize species. Not knowing when this plant was going to bloom added to the challenge. So, I simply clicked on every spring blooming wild flower link until I found a leaf that roughly matched. The match had leaf markings that my original image did not show. I went out and looked at them again. The telltale markings, the source of the common name, were now apparent. With flower pictures to complement the ID, I also recalled seeing these flowers around the woods in June. Wonderful.


Of course, new things are popping up all the time.



All the while the leaves on the trees are a ticking clock that soon strikes shade.




The Buckthorn and The Squill


These are squill, Siberian squill, wood squill, Scilla siberica in the woods. My father in law loved them, and no doubt had many on his old, family property. These escaped from the perennial garden planted in the driveway roundabout and were likely pushed to this spot by a misguided snowplow. They're lovely in spring, and they spread. It's hard to know how to treat them. Is our woods pure? Absolutely not, so why remove something so pleasing to our eyes. To some degree I accept this quandary as part of who we are. How, then, do I pick and choose which "invasion" to sustain and which to eradicate? What is nature? I do not believe it is a world without humanity, but then I do believe that we can be terribly short-sighted.

We have to accept that we are the Earth's most active agent of change and  that we are not in control. Things get out of hand, we lose interest, we cannot manage every outcome. Amid the chaos, there are lovely things and terrible things, there is squill and there is buckthorn. We disparage the buckthorn and admire the squill, while doing little about either or choosing one over the other because it charms us. This weakness keeps us interesting. We despise buckthorn because it is so bland, so visually unpalatable, as much or more than for its aggressive growth. Then, we justify time consuming, expensive, aggressive eradication with ennobling gestures toward native purity.

The radical streak in Nature abhors a museum. We are nature. The way we change the land is nature while we are here, and for some years after. We are the buckthorn and the squill amongst the oaks and the orchids.



Say It With Carex


Sedge, Carex pensylvanica, grows in tufts in the woods. While sedges look like grasses from a distance, close inspection reveals their differences. This sedge prefers the broken canopy of a large white oak or disturbed sites like the old farm road in our woods.


The inflorescence is like no grass I've known, and flowering super early, unlike the grasses that have only recently been greening up.



The Chorus

I would be lying if I said that I was perfectly at home in our new environment. It took nearly four months for me to use the word 'home' to describe where we return to. It's not that the land isn't beautiful, clearly it is, or that I am not grateful for the house inherited by us, because I am. I think that it's largely the overwhelming change: leaving our home of nearly fifteen years, all of our ritualized attractions, each place taken in to distract from problems or ourselves, to quiet the disquieting internal dialogue. We've left friends and family (although some family is here) and the reassuring comfort they bring. We've removed ourselves from the network of artist acquaintances that, at the very least, gave us the sense we are part of an art "world." Finally, we left our university positions -my wife, adjunct professor at several universities, and myself, university adjunct professor and staff. Like nearly all artists we know, we also must work to pay life's expenses and do the things we want to do. About our move to Minnesota, work is the great, looming question.

At times it feels that it may be easier to land a position as CEO of a corporation than a university professorship. Despite the odds, my wife, with great fortitude, luck, and experience has made it to the final four in a local university faculty search. I acknowledge my bias, but it is well known across a spectrum of university administrators, students, faculty and artists that she is a great professor, artist and role model. She'll be interviewing with several people and giving demonstrations next week. There will be dinners with faculty, lunches with students, campus walk and talks. The whole process is an interview. Although one candidate of four, she may just have a fifty fifty shot at getting the call. If selected, we can move forward here with greater confidence.

If you pray, put in a word for her, us. If you cross fingers for luck, now's a good time to cross 'em. After next week, the months worth of work she has put into this application will be done and we wait. By May, possibly sooner, we'll know.

In the lull I offer the male Western Chorus Frog*, Pseudacris triseriata. singing their greatest hit, "Looking for love in all the wet places..." and the chuckling quack of the Wood Frog, Lithobates sylvaticus, who can hardly take it.





*The species may be the Boreal Chorus Frog, Pseudacris maculata. There are minor physical differences, like slightly shorter legs, that account for differences in species or subspecies nomenclature of North American Chorus Frogs. They are easy to hear and hard to find, and I'm perfectly okay with being mostly right on this one.

A Subtlety


We returned at midnight from a week-long trip to southern New Mexico and Arizona. The following morning, the sun reflected not grey or brown of twigs and branches, but emergent bright green leaves of the lilac. Later, strong southwesterly winds carried thunderstorms and heavy rain and a chorus of frogs heralding the arrival of spring.



The following day, in the great wetland, shrub willows bloom. Although the oaks reserve their enthusiasm, there are buds or blooms on red maples, willows, and basswood.



 Colorful catkins decorate the woodland floor.



The earliest and predominant herb is garlic mustard, Alliaria petiolata. Invasive precisely for this reason, getting it's start before the snow has departed, gaining ground in the leafless sunshine of early spring. The woods is an impeccable example of humanity and forest, neither untouched or wholly impaired, unintentionally altered to the benefit of some species over others. Should we remain here, its condition will be the project of my days. 



It will be helpful to identify some of the earliest plants, some of which may be detrimental to the spring ephemerals and some that may be the ephemerals. Minnesota shares several native plants with New York, so I am not completely out of my league, however at the earliest stages of growth, identification becomes quite a bit more difficult. This plant, above, is growing in the sunshine, in the garlic patch, in the woods, everywhere! It has blue-green, mildly glaucous leaves and reddened glaucous stem. My first guess is in the direction of buttercup, Ranunculaceae. Does anyone recognize it? Please, comment if you do.



Another early riser, looking more like columbine or possibly a meadow rue, Ranunculaceae?



This looks familiar, but I haven't found a good web source for early growth characteristics, Minnesota woodland plants, etc. etc.  Only so much time in a day.



Not garlic mustard, but what?



Ahh, something a different, lanceolate grey-green leaves. Asteraceae?



This grass, throughout the woods but primarily on paths, has been up since early March. Clump forming and flowering now, I'm guessing a sedge, maybe Carex pensylvanica.

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Understanding what lies underfoot, what calls over the wetland, what tree is more likely to fall is quite a bit of my task now. Despite having visited here for a dozen years, although mostly in winter, I have yet to witness much of what happens. For this reason I temper my big ideas and ambitious projects, settling instead to witness the changes before me. Time is short, yes, but I keep asking myself if the ideas I do have would be any better than what is already there. So I watch, taking in as much as I can, and see my own ideas transformed in the process.