Looking for a relatively close, new hike for this spring afternoon, I decided on the Mineral Point Trail. It’s a four-mile out-and-back along Lake Pend Oreille through forested habitat. The trail courses up and down through inland temperate rainforest, pine forests, and mixed forests along the bluffs high above the lake.

Recent All Trails reviews of the Mineral Point Trail overwhelmingly mention the wildflowers and mosquitoes, and recommend bug spray. There was a nice breeze initially, enough to deter flying insects. As the trail took us through hot sunshine and cool shade, we found some mosquitoes. They weren’t bad, and I never broke out the bug spray. However, I’m comparing this to a Wisconsin summer where I have to make a mad dash from the car to the cabin and still end up with a few welts!

The variety and number of wildflowers on this spring hike were an unexpected delight. Each turn and elevation change in the trail altered the microclimate enough that new species flourished. Small patches of western ginger blooms hug the ground beneath towering red cedar trees. The sunny, open hillsides are carpeted in joyful yellow balsamroot flowers.

Heartleaf arnica flower petals twirl artfully in part-shade.

Southern-facing rocky cliffs provide the perfect home for bush penstemon. All along the wooded trail, bead lilies are budding.

Diminutive hooked spur violets dot the grassy areas. Saskatoon service berry bushes burst with a confetti of white blossoms along the edges of the understory. The variety of flowers is more than I could’ve imagined.

One small section has the rare combination of soil, light, and wind to host a dense cluster of delicate fairy-slipper orchids. Another small localized spot has a cluster of dramatic shooting stars.

The fireworks of aptly-named paintbrush keep stopping me in my tracks. The tips of their leaves appear as if dipped in paint, outshining the tiny, ordinary flower.

Delicate fairybells hang under their broad, flat leaves in shadier sections. Yellow swamp violets, craving moisture, cluster in one damp, shady spot in the rainforest. Western meadow rue flowers appear as a showerhead of stamens. Their seedheads, once the flowers fade, are equally remarkable.

All this art of nature is accentuated by periodic viewpoints across Lake Pend Oreille to snow-capped mountains. Views that make me feel like I’ve stepped into a postcard. It was a perfect spring afternoon hike. I’m still marveling at the beauty of wildflowers on the Mineral Point Trail: all flowers and few mosquitoes.

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The post Mineral Point Trail Wildflowers appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

The Herbivores

In Yellowstone National Park, bison begin calving in early spring. Their young, colloquially known as “red dogs,” are the first wildlife babies, usually appearing in Lamar Valley and Little America in April. By early June, when I visited, it seemed like a full one-third of the bison in these vast herds were accompanied by a calf.

The size of the herds moving across the valley is nothing short of unbelievable. It’s hard to believe that the United States plains once looked like this – as far as the eye could see. They are such a big part of the ecosystem, from soil health to plant dispersal, habitat creation, and interaction with predators. The landscape is barren without them.

Twenty to thirty percent of the offspring will not survive their first year succumbing to accidents, predation, or winter stresses. They provide essential food for various wildlife; ravens, wolves, bears, mountain lions, coyotes, and more. For now, the red dogs, like all kids, run and play, spar with each other head-butting like bulls, and running off youthful energy in frenetic circles across the valley floor.Earlier this spring, a well-intentioned person “rescued” a bison calf from the Yellowstone River. It was separated from the herd and appeared to be drowning. It’d be hard to watch, but his intervention didn’t save a life. Rangers attempted to reintroduce the calf to the herd without success and, unfortunately, had to euthanize it. In another misguided encounter several years ago, tourists put a stray bison calf in the back of their minivan and drove it to a ranger station, hoping to find help. I thought I was about to witness a similar interaction in Lamar Valley. It turns out this red dog is actually a red dog!

Elk

Elk calving season comes next from May through June. They usually give birth to a single calf. Elk leave their scentless, camouflaged calves hidden in the sage until they are big enough to keep up with the herd at about 16 days of age.

I’d seen an elk cow-calf pair along the northern entrance road the last two mornings. There’s not a good place to stop there, so this evening after dinner, I went out looking. I drove along Old Yellowstone Trail just outside of Gardiner and quickly came upon a small group of elk with young. Like the bison calves and all kids, the spindly-legged, awkward, spotted elk play – running in circles and chasing each other. The elk’s individualities show in these interactions. Differing parenting styles and varying personalities are obvious.

The smallest/youngest of the three calves here stays by her mother’s side, never more than a few steps away (picture below).The boldest one roams out of sight of their mother. Periodically, her mom stops grazing to glance up and locate her calf. If the pair were out here alone, she might be more vigilant, but as it is, there are quite a few adults around keeping watch. Her little one keeps going over a hill to visit with another calf, pausing to look back to make sure it’s okay with mom.

Eventually, all of the calves come running to rejoin their mothers, where they are greeted nose to nose. The then routine repeats itself.

Meanwhile, as my attention was out the left side of my car, the rest of the group had been moving along the road, and this guy was suddenly near my passenger door!

Moose

Moose in Yellowstone usually give birth to one calf in late May or June. In other parts of their range, twins can be common. The Yellowstone National Park moose are Shiras moose, the smallest of the four North American subspecies. The moose subspecies are the Eastern (Vermont, Maine, New York, and eastern Canada), Alaskan (Yukon, Alaska), Western (Upper Midwest and British Columbia), and Shiras (Rocky Mountain states, Washington, Oregon, Utah, and southwest Canada).

Unlike most deer species, moose are solitary and, despite their size, are hard to see in the woods and willows they prefer. In Yellowstone, they are most often seen along Soda Butte Creek around the northeast entrance and near Silver Gate and Cooke City.

Pronghorn

Pronghorn are the last of the big herbivores to calve in the Yellowstone spring. This may be part survival strategy because the wolf packs are already following the bison and elk, looking for a weakness and opportunity there. When I arrived three days ago (June 6th), I saw a couple of pregnant pronghorn, but I hadn’t seen any fawns yet. Pronghorn fawns, like deer and elk calves, also bed down away from their mothers for their first 2-3 weeks of life. Just past Pebble Creek Campground, I noticed a pronghorn doe on the hillside licking her new fawn. I pulled off and set up my tripod, watching a doe, buck, and fawn. Pronghorn don’t generally congregate in family groups like this. The bucks tend to go off on their own outside of the rut. So I’m not sure what the dynamic is here.  I watched as the tiny fawn on wobbly, somewhat contracted legs from having been wrapped up in the womb not long ago, moved determinedly away from the adult pair. The adults eventually grazed in the opposite direction once the baby was tucked down safely in the grass.

Only her ears and eyes were visible once the fawn laid down, and then only because I’d watched her settle in.

This sighting completed a quartet of spring Yellowstone herbivore babies. I’m amazed and blessed to have seen them all on this short trip. Stayed tuned for more spring wildlife watching in Yellowstone stories.

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The post Spring Wildlife Watching in Yellowstone National Park appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

I didn’t expect to find myself in the middle of spring bird migration in Anchorage in late April. But that is exactly what happened. I guess when summer only lasts three months before the snow flies again, you’d better be here when it starts.

I arrived on April 19th for a two-week stay to piles of gray snow on the roadsides and the last of winter dripping off rooftops. It’s a late melt, but the birds don’t wait. The last week of April and the first weeks of May hold the most promise for varieties of songbirds and waterfowl coming home to summer in Anchorage or passing through to their arctic breeding grounds.

Waterfowl

In my quest to find moose, I visited many rivers, ponds, lagoons, and wetlands. I saw bird species I’d never seen before and witnessed elaborate courtship rituals. Birds take the prize when it comes to wooing techniques. First, their brilliantly colored, bedazzled breeding plumage lies in stark contrast to their drab, camouflaged winter look. Who else but humans adorn themselves so elaborately for a potential partner? Then there are the displays. The dances, preening, showboating, puffed out chests, and waving tail feathers. Ungulates roll in stink and spar with other suitors. Canids and bruins fight other males for the privilege of begging a female to accept them. Birds have a dance contest and then build a home singularly to please their mate.

These five male goldeneyes wooed and courted this hen almost the whole time I was at Westchester Lagoon. She did her best to play it cool. 

Just before I left, the chosen one chased off one last interloper, and the new couple swam off into the sunset together. They look quite proud.

Grebes rear up out of the water, paddling upright in a choreographed duet. These red-necked grebes were no exception. Their dance was short-lived. One of them abruptly flew off. There’s must’ve been an unseen faux pas.

Lesser Canada geese congregate at the pond’s edge, looking for handouts. They aren’t “lesser” than our well-known Canada geese, just smaller. Noticeably so – a petite version of our ubiquitous honkers.

A couple of ring-necks quietly paired off. 

A lone bufflehead takes a break from the social scene for a bite to eat.

Songbirds

Songbirds are here, too. Magpies are nest-building in every park – and in every parking lot where pine trees grow. This colorful corvid, related to ravens and crows, is highly intelligent and a delight to watch. Although living among us, they can often be too smart for their own good.

Warblers flit quickly through the treetops chasing insects and each other. Their manic movements through the branches and leaves make them tough to photograph (especially if you’re distracted by rusting dilapidated old cars).

Arctic terns, at the southern edge of their circumpolar summer range, shoot past where I stand at the edge of Potter’s Marsh. They successfully scoop tiny fish from the water’s surface without a hitch in their flight. They dip their lower bill into the water so subtly that I had been watching them for a bit before I realized they were snagging fish at almost every pass. Arctic terns have the distinction of having the longest migration of any animal on earth. Every year they fly from the Arctic Circle to the Antarctic Circle—a round-trip journey of about 30,000 kilometers (18,641 miles). I’ve never seen one before. I feel in the presence of greatness.

Along the Palmer-Moose creek trail chickadees are excavating nesting cavities just feet off this heavily trafficked path.  They aren’t disturbed by me, cyclists, joggers, or dogs.  They have work to do.  Popping out and flying off with a beak full of shavings to drop away from the nest and then back for another go.  The pairs take turns, each sharing in the work.

There’s always something new to be found in an adventure into the wilderness. Even when that wilderness is within the Anchorage city limits. Nature provides endless fascination. Don’t forget to stop and look.

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The post Spring Bird Migration in Anchorage appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

Last year, I’d heard about the black bears in the Albemarle-Pamlico Peninsula on the coast of North Carolina.  “How is it that I’m just learning this now?” I mused.  I researched and found that these bears don’t hibernate because there is ample food year-round. That’s how they get so enormous.  I immediately planned a trip.

The Refuge

Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge is also home to river otters and the last remaining population of critically endangered red wolves in the world.  The refuge encompasses 152,000 acres of cropland, marshes, bogs, and swamps.  Many of the agricultural fields are flooded through a canal system each spring and fall to provide habitat for migrating waterfowl.

First Look

We arrived on a Thursday evening in mid-April (2019), got settled into our Air BnB in Mateo, and took an evening drive through the refuge. Water-filled roadside ditches (canals) provide habitat for all sorts of wildlife; wood ducks, shy great blue herons, white egrets, water snakes, muskrat, and turtles.  Driving slowly, looking out both sides of the car, we were able to see a lot of wildlife in our slow-moving blind.  Most of the animals seem used to the traffic.  A stopped vehicle, however, is cause for concern.

We drove the mazes of hard-packed gravel main roads and soft, sandy backroads looking and listening.  In an open field, a tom turkey strutted in full display in front of three hens who couldn’t be less interested. Deep into the refuge, I spotted an adolescent black bear grazing on the short grasses lining a defunct soft, sandy lane.  She stood up twice to get a better look. With the wind at her back, her nose was no help in making sense of us.  We froze in silence. She went back to grazing her way around the bend and was gone.

Back near the heart of the refuge in the fallow fields, an enormous black bear was lying carelessly in the grass eating.  We watched him for a while before he stood up, revealing his true size.  Shockingly large.  He was several hundred yards from our car and wandering further away.  The light was fading, and we headed back to town.

Wildlife Trails and Pea Island

Friday, we were at the refuge at sunrise.  We passed a dilapidated, wooden hunting cabin sitting slightly askew at the edge of the marsh on our way to the Sandy Ridge Wildlife Trail that follows part of a canoe trail into the swamp.

We’re here hoping to find river otters since the bears seem to be sleeping in this morning.  Palamedes Swallowtail Butterflies are everywhere.  More of the usual birds. No otters.  We drove over to Nags Head for breakfast.  Two coffees, an omelette with hash browns and toast, and two eggs with a biscuit with gravy for $13.  On Nags Head Island!  It was wonderfully good.

After breakfast, we drove down the barrier island chain to Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge.  Come May, it will be bustling with migrating birds and people.  It’s a huge bird migration hotspot.  A stiff wind is blowing off the ocean, pushing sand across the road in an effort to reclaim it.  Birds fight to remain aloft in the gusts.  There are few other visitors here today.  A diversity of turtles fills the first small pool I see. A Florida Cooter, Spiny Softshell, Yellow-bellied Slider, and Common Snapping Turtle are basking or floating in the still, shallow water.  The trail passes through a tight tunnel of multi-trunked, branching, bushy, propped-up trees before popping us out into the open expanse of the north pond.

Blue-wing Teal, Canada Geese, Gulls, Red-winged Blackbirds, and a muskrat are paddling, dabbling, or calling nearby.  Coots are bobbing and pulling up seagrass en masse moving along in a synchronized ballet of feeding. I’m so entertained.  They joyously bounce forward and then spring back upright as if over-buoyed for the task.  A racer snake basks just off the path.  The spring breeze is cool, but the heat of the sun promises the change of season.

In the evening, back out in the refuge, we watched two more black bears foraging in the distance. Easily seen in detail through binoculars, they were too far for any decent photography.  We enjoyed them for a while and then drifted on.  A red-cockaded woodpecker darts around in the trees hardly sitting still for a moment. I’ve never seen one before.  A chicken-sized pileated woodpecker startles us as he shoots past.  Vivid yellow prothonotary warblers, those denizens of swamps all over the US, flit around the forest.

Otters and Turtles

Strong storms spinning out tornadoes affected most of the state overnight but dissipated before reaching the coast.  The refuge is transformed by all of the rainfall.  Roadside ditches are flooding into the wetland forests covering the bushy green undergrowth with a silky smooth, shimmering darkness. With the higher water levels, it’s easier to see the water’s surface from the road. A volunteer at the visitor’s center had told us about an otter family that had recently been seen in these ditches.  “Look for bubbles,” she advised.

We inched along.  Each intensely focused on the water.  There! Further down the ditch just coming around the bend are three otters swimming towards us!  We slowly and quietly got out of the car and found a spot along the side of the ditch that provided an unobstructed view and knelt to watch.

The otters continued to close the distance between us.  They have poor eyesight, and although they’ve looked directly at me a couple of times, they don’t seem to see me.  Until they do.  They dive and scatter.

The parents took a culvert to the other side, leaving the full-grown pup alone downstream on our side. He is swimming back and forth, calling for them in high-pitched chirps.  We immediately retreated.  It was a stressful, tense couple of minutes before they reunited swimming in circles around one another. Later, we would see one lope across the road in front of us.  I’d never had the opportunity to watch wild river otters before. What other surprises can this refuge have in store?

With the night’s deluge, the turtles are in heaven. A petite Yellow Spotted turtle warms itself on the sunny, sandy road.  Yellow-bellied Sliders cross from one ditch to another with surprising speed whenever I stop to try to photograph them.

A pair of snapping turtles in the water tumble and roll in slow-motion in a tangle of feet, noses, and carapace edges.  It took me a moment to make sense of what I was looking at.  Their thick, outstretched muscular legs are immense.  Then they’d stop with just a nose above the water to rest for a while before starting up again.  Cold-blooded animals aren’t known for their stamina.

Mid-day, we walked the Creff Cut Trail, hoping to find some snakes basking in the sun. This asphalt trail winds between a cattail marsh to the north and the barren fields to the south.  Two racers in the grass quickly slither off at our approach. Masters of concealing themselves, the snakes disappear right before our eyes.  Past where the asphalt ends and an old, unused gravel road begins, an alligator is hauled out resting at the cattails in the middle of the marsh.  That’s an unexpected sight.  Alligators are notoriously difficult to count or census, so their numbers are unknown.  They do know that there are far fewer than there used to be, and sightings are rare.

In the evening, we saw a couple more black bears off in the fields and listened to two or three owls calling back and forth from the woods.

A Final Surprise – Wolves!

Sunday morning, our last day, we’re up and out at the refuge early again.  I’ve seen (or heard in the case of the owls) everything that I thought I had a reasonable chance to find here.  I’ve secretly been thinking that we’ll see a wolf on our last day, but I haven’t dared utter the thought aloud.  This refuge is home to the critically endangered red wolf.  Only 15-20 individuals remain in the wild.  A reintroduction effort began in the 1990s and then stalled.  There are problems with poaching, interbreeding with coyotes, insufficient habitat, and the vociferous, ever-present Little Red Riding Hood anti-wolf contingent.

Our first stop was along Bear Road to watch a little black bear far off moving along the treeline. We lingered along a field while I inspected and marveled at the architecture of insect galls on last year’s stems.

As we meandered toward the main road, we slowed to peer down a mowed levee.  Three (!!!) wolves are trotting away from us on the path with the rising, golden sun highlighting their thick coats.  One is radio-collared. They are far away. I watched them through my binoculars, grinning from ear to ear until they became hazy in the distance and disappeared from sight.  I can’t believe my luck.

It was a full weekend. I’m so glad that I made the trip. And that I saw so much.  I want to come back again a little bit later in the spring when the year’s cubs will be out, but before the throngs of summer vacationers crowd the area.  The peace of wandering through this thick, lonely wilderness is part of its charm.

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We are in the midst of the all-time wettest May on record in the Chicago area.  And it’s only May 19th.  The previous May precipitation record of 8.25″ set just last year. This is a symptom of our warming planet.  Warmer air holds more moisture and when that air cools it dumps all of its moisture at once.  What has been problematic for the people has been a boon for a lot of the pond life in my yard.

A Daily Record Busted

It started raining Thursday morning, a soft, soaking mist that lasted most of the day.  A peek of the sun in the late afternoon sent temperatures and humidities soaring before the rain returned. By nightfall, the rain gauge showed 1.25 inches.  Heavy storms, wind, and thunder rumbled throughout the night.  By Friday morning, another 3.25″ had fallen.  Four and a half inches were in the rain gauge within 24 hours.

The culvert was overwhelmed, to say the least, and my backyard pond was in flood.  Our small fishing boat canted precariously, its taut line tethered to the submerged dock and its buoyancy fighting to keep it afloat.  There are two fishing rod holders on the dock that rise three and a half feet from the deck.  They are completely submerged. Even if I could navigate through the dark water and find the dock, my hip waders wouldn’t be enough to keep the cold water at bay.  I will not be rescuing the boat.  I can only hope the water will recede before it swamps.

Late in the afternoon as the waters started to recede, Rob waded out to the dock, with only a few inches to spare on his hip waders, to pull the boat ashore.

Pond Life Takes Advantage

My neighbors’ dock floated away buoyed by the rising waters.  It took off with his canoe and johnboat attached. The Great Blue Heron appreciated the new vantage point.

It was a heydey for the waterfowl.  Both Canada Goose families hung around all morning, venturing further up into the yard without having to stray from the safety of the water. 

Another Great Blue Heron had a lot of success fishing from the lawn. Every time I walked past the window, it seemed like he was eating again. 

A thick bullfrog sought refuge atop crabapple clippings in the burn pile.  In the afternoon, the biggest Painted Turtle I’ve ever seen was sunning himself on my neighbor’s displaced canoe. There usually aren’t any good haul-out spots for sunbathing.  I’ll have to see what I can do to create something on a more permanent basis.

A pair of American Toads got together on a rain-soaked path.  And our resident muskrat took the opportunity to forage further away from the pond up in the woods.  All of the pondlife is taking advantage of the new environment.

The Songbirds are in Trouble

All of the songbirds that hunkered down through yesterday’s deluge are making up for lost time at the feeders today.  The cold, wet spring has been hard on birds, especially the insectivores.  In this weather, the insects simply aren’t out.  The resultant hunger is bringing birds to backyard feeders in astounding numbers, and sightings of rare backyard birds like scarlet tanagers and indigo buntings are on the rise.

With today’s warmth fueled by all of the rain, I think I can see the garden (and the weeds) growing in real-time.  This afternoon is ideal weather for mushroom hunting.

Sunday, another 2.75″ of rain fell in an all-day cold, gray drenching.  This time the culvert handled the runoff from the saturated, squishy ground. 

We’ve had three times the average rainfall for May and two weeks left to go in the month. I’ve got to refill the feeders and put out more oranges to help my feathered friends make it through.

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The post Record Spring Rainfall appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

Mayapple

Colonies of mayapple are starting to push through the leaf litter. They erupt like pale green fat fingers.

As the stem grows taller, the leaves unsheath and begin to unfurl. They are wound tightly on the stem like a folded umbrella hugs its handle.  The green flower bud leads the way, pointing to the sky.  It’s not until the stem has almost reached its full height that the leaves open up. 

Plants in their first year will have one leaf, while those in their second year have two.  It is only the two-leaved mayapples that produce flowers.  Their white flowers, which as you may expect, bloom in May and hang downward underneath the palmate leaves above.  If you see a photographer lying on their belly in the woods this spring, it’s probably a wildflower photo they’re after.

Dutchman’s Breeches

Bloodroot and hepatica are followed closely by Dutchman’s Breeches. Pairs of pantaloons line up on arching stems above fern-like mounds of leaves. The flowers glisten as if perpetually dewy.  These flowers seem exotic in the midwest hardwood forests.

Spring Beauties

Aptly named spring beauties are petite pink striped flowers with grass-like leaves. The stripes are often called Bee Lines because they guide bees to the nectar. These flowers conserve their energy and only open on warm, sunny days when pollinators are likely to be active. On cold, gray days, their flowers are closed into tight, tiny buds barely noticeable on the forest floor. These are one of my favorite early ephemerals.

The snaking grass-like leaves of this plant drew me to photograph these

Petite Spring Beauty Blossom and Bud

Trout Lily

Carpets of mottled spear-shaped pairs of leaves in greens and burgundy foretell the delicate white trout lily. Dangling buds appear on a single stalk that arching sharply at the top.  These lilies will open facing the ground.

The petals often have a pink cast, especially when young. As the flower opens, the petals curl back up to the sky, giving the plant the recognizable monkshood lily shape. The leaves appear in early spring with the buds soon to follow. However, the full flower doesn’t usually appear until mid to late spring.

Up and Coming

The red trillium are up next, their buds waiting at the center of three mottled leaves. Next week they will be open. The Virginia bluebells, violets, bellwort, and phlox also aren’t far behind. Between now and early May, there are bright surprises in the woodlands right outside your door. Get out, recharge, and take in some of the hope of spring.

Bonus Images

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The post Woodland Ephemerals: Hope Springs Eternal appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

Leaving the parking lot and visitor’s center chaos, we start along a wide, wooden boardwalk. Soon, the terrain is completely snow-packed. There are tall stakes along the trail marking the way. Where the trail begins to rise ahead of us, people are slipping and sliding in every direction. This snow has been here all winter and now, under the heat of the spring sun, it melts and compacts during each day and freezes again each night, making a particularly slick surface. Fortunately, it is still soft enough that most of my steps drive through the crust into softer, wet snow that holds my foot in place. But just when I think I have the hang of it and work up to a normal pace, I slip and have to slow back down. My walking a stick is all that kept me upright on this trek.

Following the masses and more intent on the ground before me than my surroundings, we climbed up a steep, bare, narrow, rocky ridge. The whole time I’m thinking to myself, “How am I ever going to make it back down this?!?” As the ridgeline spread out in front of us, narrower and higher, we decided to turn back. Only then did we realized that this ridge was not part of the trail.

The trail snuck around the leading edge of this ridge (to the left in the picture) and continued on relatively flat ground. Rob skitched down the bare rocky side slope on his feet, squatting and using his hands to sort of control his quickening slide over rocks and small boulders letting gravity and momentum carry him to the bottom. A risky move, but he was no worse off for it. I took the same side route down, but at an angle to the incline slowly placing each foot carefully and securely before lifting the other.

Word back on the main trail (Oh, I see the trail marker now!) was that the overlook wasn’t very far and it was easygoing from here. The density of people on the trail seemed somehow to have thinned out.  So we decided to continue on.

Through some trees, the boardwalk reappeared. We lingered at a brook flowing into a shallow lake surrounded mostly snow-covered tundra. There’s a path that sort of heads toward a distant peak whose slope is adorned with snaking ski tracks cut into the snow. Who hikes through waist-deep snow to ski on dangerous, forbidden areas? Not me, that’s for sure.

Columbia ground squirrels (ironically native to western Montana) are active all around – wary but close by and out in the open.

It feels good to sit on the sun-baked rocks that line the path which has become a rivulet of melting snow. The scenery is humbling – mountain tops go on in every direction. The views take my breath away. I feel tiny and closer to my heart.

The overlook is a few hundred flat, wet yards further. Its platform is thick with people taking pictures, taking selfies, taking in the view. Blue ice floats on the arched lake below us at the foot of towering, rocky, sharp, craggy, snowy mountains that reach into the sky.

The path down to the lakeshore (my original destination) isn’t even a consideration now. Unmarked, untrodden and steeply downhill, even the locals abandoned the thought.

We lingered and found our solitude in the crowd enough to enjoy the wilderness views. Overheard on the hike back, “I can’t believe they’re letting us hike this trail. You’d think it’d be closed.” Sometimes you have to take responsibility for your own safety. There was a lot of sledding without sleds and childlike wonder amongst the visitors young and old – many with southern accents. Totally worth it!

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I collect my camera, change into my hiking boots and head out.  The three deer that passed by the cottage are still right here at the edge of the tree line.  I stop to watch them watch me.  They are so curious, moving their heads up and down, side to side, to check me out around the branches and limbs that separate us.  They can’t be twenty feet away. They aren’t tame, but I think they’re as tame as wild deer get.  They resume browsing, and I move along.

There are old relics here from the middle of the last century when the house was built and from before that when this was part of a large dairy farm.

As I round the first bend, carpets of mayapple, budding but not in bloom, greet me.  Bluebells and spring beauty also dot the understory, where invasive buckthorn, honeysuckle, and vinca are taking hold. And then I hear the creek.  The sound of the gently flowing water tumbling over rocks and through turns washes over me, bringing a soothing calm like a deep, full breath or a luxurious massage can.  

Lingering here to relish in the moment, I hear a rustling overhead.  A gray squirrel moves through the treetops, jumping from one thin branch to another like an expert acrobat.

At the stream, raccoon prints decorate the sandy banks.  Their little handprints are all that remains of last night’s party here.  Oh, how I’d love to set my trail camera up here!  If I rented the cottage overnight, I would definitely bring the trail cam!

I should note that this trail I am following has far more deer prints than anything else. In addition to counting cars at the cottage, I think the local deer can read the trail signs.

Across the creek, birdsong fills the air form white-crowned sparrows, bluejays, cardinals, a catbird.  It’s a testament to the attraction of moving water.  It calls in migrating birds like a siren song.  A Northern Waterthrush (a first for me!) hops along a natural bridge during its stopover on its way northward.  The flighty white-crowned sparrows never stop long enough for me to catch a picture and the catbird is deep within the leaves.

A brilliant pink redbud peeks above the canopy at the edge of a small meadow.  Two beautiful dryad’s saddle mushrooms are accented by lush moss in the dappled sunlight at a turn in the trail.

There are quiet spaces tucked away around the property to sit, listen, observe and let the wildlife come to you.  If I were a cottage guest, that’s how I’d spend a day.

In the heart of the woodland, the native spring ephemerals are thriving—first, a clearing of thick bluebells accompanied by bright green unfurling ferns. 

A few steps further, the wild ginger is taking back the land overrun by vinca.

Any almost everywhere – jack-in-the-pulpits.  I have never seen so many!  They are thriving here. 

Approaching the next creek crossing, I notice the tallest, widest mayapples I’ve ever seen. Moreover, it’s a large colony.  Also, interspersed with bluebells and, of course, more jack-in-the-pulpits.

As I move uphill from the creek to check out a tree house, the forest quiets.  Ninja, a resident cat, comes trotting out to greet me.  She solicits some petting and then politely goes about her busy day.   The tree house is well-built, screened in and has three chairs inside—another good spot to sit a spell.

Back at the creek is a cluster of skunk cabbage, another Illinois native, growing in the flood plain.  Here, there is a flurry of bird activity. A pair of cardinals is foraging in the muddy banks.  Also, this appears to be the warbler’s favorite spot. I spent a fair amount of time watching them hopping through the bushes and flying about, plucking insects mid-air.  A confident, curious pair of American Redstarts (another first for me!) would come and perch about 6 feet away from me, cocking their heads to one side, then the other in quizzical regard.  Another warbler is busy feeding here, a white-capped sparrow flits about the brambles/bushes/detritus and a thrush is exploring the leaf litter.  If I were a cottage guest, I would spend another day sitting here.

I rounded out my tour by visiting the gardens (impressively fortressed against the deer), the ducks, and the old barn. I feel so refreshed by the wonder that this spring woodland held for me today.

You can plan a visit, too, for the day or overnight and find your wonders here.

If you’re interested in purchasing or licensing any images you see here, please email me at SNewenham at exploringnaturephotos.com, and I’ll make it happen.

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The post Springbird: An Oasis of Nature appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

This week, the ground here at Johnson’s Mound forest preserve is carpeted in the snowdrops of false rue anemone accented by red trillium the umbrella-like leaves of mayapple.

In a preserve known for its spring beauty, we’ve timed our field trip here perfectly for the flower display. The topic of the naturalist-led hike is woodlands and they said they try to keep it from becoming a wildflower walk. But look at it! It’s a wildflower walk.

Both blue cohosh and the hairy violet are uncommon in Illinois. Their presence at this preserve is an indication of the health of the native ecosystem. The blue cohosh is named for the fruit that will appear later in the season.

I love the bellwort for its droopy elegance. Its been an prolific year for the woodland phlox, that stands tall, like the bluebells, above the forest floor.

There was, as promised, naturalist interpretation beyond the flowers. Our experts, Pam Otto and Valerie Blaine from the Kane County Certified Naturalist program, flipped rocks and dug in decaying wood to find examples of the little guys. This toad is a male, identifiable by the callouses on the bottoms of his front feet. The females feet are smooth. You’d have to gently and adeptly pick one up to identify their sex. But you Can admire them as the sit on the ground in their red, brown, amber and black textured skin.

The post A Spring Woodland appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.

Our host, Adrienne, had recommended the Pulaski Trail (they pronounce it “Pul-Ski” here) in Wallace, Idaho.  It follows the Placer Creek up to an old mining tunnel where Edward Pulaski and his men took refuge as the historic Great Fire of 1910 engulfed everything around them.   In total, the blaze burned 3 million acres and killed 87 people.  It remains one of the largest and deadliest fires in US history.  Although the fire sucked the oxygen out of the tunnel as it passed, Pulaski, and 45 men that trusted him in that tunnel survived.  I’d read the compelling book, The Big Burn by Timothy Egan, about this fire and life in the American West.  I loved the story, so I was excited to visit this historic, reverent site.

Adrienne said it was an easy, pretty hike.  The online picture showed a paved trail with interpretive displays along it. I opted for my hiking shoes instead of my boots.  Mistake number one.

We arrived at the trailhead in Wallace just before 9am.  The trail begins at  2700 feet elevation and ascends 800 more feet over its two miles.  As it turns out, only the first 200 feet of that two miles are paved.

In the shady woods, where the pavement ends, there is some snow.  Just enough to make it a little slippery, but not a big deal.  I chose my steps carefully.  A wooden bridge took us over the fast-moving, lower river.  I stopped to dip my hand.  It’s literally ice cold.  It’s beautiful and crystalline, but loud as it crashes over rocks in its speedy descent.

Part of…well, a lot of…finding wildlife is about hearing a leaf crunch, a rustle in the grass, bird calls or birdsong suddenly silenced.  There will be none of those cues today.  Just the rush of a spring flooded river running down Pulaski mountain.

We ascend at a moderate incline through the spruce and fir forest.  The trees are gouged by pileated woodpeckers hunting bugs.  We are walking within the gorge, varying 10-30 feet above the river and anybody’s guess how far below the ridge of the ravine.  I prefer my trails a little bit wider, especially those that are slippery and along a precipitous ledge.  We pass over some snow-free areas on the pine needle-cushioned path where we move faster.  I am ever-hopeful that eventually we will round a bend or crest a hill and walk out of the snowy shade.

We approach another bridge.  The snow is deeper on this flat, wood-planked span.  We balance on the sides to avoid the compacted, sloped and slippery middle worn by so many footfalls that came before ours.  (Note about bravery or lack thereof: This bridge crosses a  rivulet to the side, not the roaring, rushing danger of the Placer). It’s apparent now that there will be no end to the snow today.  I think to myself about turning back.  I’m not sure-footed, I’m afraid of heights, the roar of the river drowns out any conversation and I don’t expect to find any wildlife here.  But I can’t think of something I’d rather be doing than exploring this mountain today, so I carry on.

Over the next mile, the snow is deep.  We are post-holing.  This is no longer the hard-packed spring snow, it feels more like freshly fallen fall snow.  The good news is that when my foot is plunging through a foot or two of substance, there is little room for slippage.  The bad news is that the snow is falling into my shoe at the bottom of each hole and melting.  On each step. My right foot is wet. It is on the uphill side where the deeper snow won’t support me.  My left rarely plunges into the snowpack and when it does, it doesn’t go far.  Luckily it’s warm out, so there’s no danger of hypothermia.  Contrarily, the seasonable temperatures and my exertion have left me thirsty. I left my full water bottle in the car. Mistake number two.

Some of the snow has a firm crust on top from the freeze-thaw cycles and is marked with the frozen indentations from previous hikers.  I walk tentatively, with light, quick steps sometimes staying on top, sometimes jarringly falling through. I am hugging the cliff side of the trail where the snow is heavier instead of walking along the more exposed trail edge where the ground drops away steeply to the river.  Rob is walking here.  He is sure-footed, and his socks are dry.

We finally arrived at the top.  I stepped off the trail to grab some handfuls of clean snow and plunged hip deep.  That’s far enough. With my thirst quenched I laid down on a dry interpretive sign that is usually waist high, but today is level with the ground.

It overlooks the tunnel opening.  Rob hiked around to read all of the plaques while I rested.  And experienced some hip-deep post-holing of his own.  High above the roar of the creek, it’s quiet and peaceful.  I can see through a break in the trees to another, distant snow-capped mountain.

We rested here, talking about Pulaski and his men, how crazy it was that they survived way down in the tunnel and marveling at the pictures of these desolate hills.  Then we started back down the way we came.  The surface of the snow is warming in the sun now.  If I stop at all, the snow will melt under the pressure of my shoe produces a slippery puddle.  As long as I keep moving, it’s not too slick.  There is less post-holing, but it’s also less predictable and therefore jarring.  I step with my right foot and plunge almost knee deep, my left leg buckled in the surprise of the drop.  I am now sitting on the snow, and my right leg is stuck.  The snow, even though soft-enough for my weight to push through it, is like concrete now.  I cannot pull my foot out.  I squatted on my left leg to get the angle right and worked my right ankle around to find just the right spot where it had slid in, and I was out.  There was a fleeting moment of real concern.  This snow would be hard to dig out.  I understand now how easily avalanches trap people.  It might be a powder that comes sliding down, but its readily compacted hard as a rock when it stops.

The last few hundred feet before we rejoin the pavement has melted to form a slick of water and ice.  It’s as slippery as an ice rink but bumpy and uneven.  Thankfully the trail here is pretty flat and level with the river, so a fall isn’t so dangerous.  There was much slipping and some sliding, but no falling.  Had we started up this way now, I would have immediately turned back.   The family of four, a mother walking with a child and a father carrying a child, have no such concerns.  I’m a flat-lander and out of condition for these “easy” mountain hikes!

Off to buy a pair of flip-flops at the gas station, ring out my socks and try the Huckleberry Shandy at Wallace Brewing.

The post The Pulaski Trail: Spring Snow in the Mountains appeared first on Exploring Nature by Sheila Newenham.