Exploring Nature Blog

For ten years growing up, I lived on Long Island, a vast expanse of suburban sprawl intermixed with parks, malls and “sumps”. What on Earth is a sump, you might ask. I will explain. Long Island had a water table so shallow that when it rained hard (which it did a lot) all the sewer drains would overflow and the water would run like small rivers down the sides of suburban streets. Most towns of that era had “sumps,” large football field-sized depressions that were fenced in and served as water overflow areas in many neighborhoods.

They also turned out to be breeding grounds for unwanted goldfish. Apparently people who had outgrown their pets, would toss them into the sumps where they did quite nicely, some growing to astonishingly large sizes. They could live there for quite a while fattened up on insects and debris. Then there would be a hard rainfall and the water would overflow from the storm sewers and sumps and flow down the streets, along with… the goldfish.

When we were kids these goldfish-laden streams would run down our streets right in front of our houses. We would use any tool and container available to collect them. The favorite was the tennis racket and mixing bowls full of rainwater would was ad hoc holding tanks. As the goldfish came flowing by, we would net them with the tennis racket and whip them into the mixing bowls. Game, match, point. In an average rainstorm we could collect upward of fifty goldfish of varying sizes.

All the kids on the block took part in the collection, it was like a carnival game where you actually got to keep the goldfish. Except that most parents didn’t let their kids bring the fish home afterward. They called them sewer fish. We, however, being an equal opportunity wildlife collection household, were allowed to keep ours. We also inherited the goldfish catch from all the kids on the block.

The goldfish would go into a large fish tank in the den where we kept them until they died off, one by one, probably from depression since this relatively small box was not the large, mucky sumps to which they had grown accustomed.

This brings me to the real reason for this trip down memory lane. The concept of Rain Gardens. This is a relatively new concept that, from my previous story I realize, has been around in practice for a long time — though rain garden sure sounds more romantic than sump!

The idea of a rain garden is simple. It is a garden you plant in your yard with water-loving native plants to which you direct all the water that runs off your roof, driveway, and lawn. It collects like a little pond for a few hours and then drains away into sandy soil and safely back into aquifers (underground water sources) avoiding storm water flooding.

This is useful for several reasons, but the main one is that storm water running off of roofs, sidewalks, parking lots and other hard surfaces carries pollutants and litter and washes it all into our waterways - rivers, lakes and the ocean.

Many communities have discovered that small rain gardens can virtually eliminate storm water flooding in their neighborhoods. Developers have begun to catch on and are adding these to newly constructed communities because they can actually save money on storm water drainage systems. Don’t you just love win win situations?

If you are interested in developing a rain garden in your yard here is about the best reference I have found to date, though there are many out there: http://www.uri.edu/ce/healthylandscapes/raingarden.htm

Let is rain… Let is rain… Let it rain!

I’m not much of a swimmer, even in the best of times, but the idea of floating free in cool water on a hot day sounds pretty good about now. So this week we headed up to Connery Pond, a wild, isolated little haven in the shadow of Whiteface Mountain, to see how I would do in the water.

This is a beautiful spot, so even if you are just floating around in a mindless stupor, you have an unobstructed view of the top of Whiteface and all the surrounding Sentinel Range at which to gaze. There are a pair of loons that breed on the lake so you can catch glimpses of them and hear their occasional calls as you float by. Sometimes you might even find yourself being checked out at close range by the unexpectedly large waterbirds and their disconcerting red eyes. There are also osprey and kingfishers calling on Connery and I once saw a bald eagle being pursued by crows not far from the dock.

But this time, when I approached the dock to try my first swim of the summer, I was not looking at the scenery. I was looking at the looming steps, the uneven rocky terrain, the wooden dock (aka splinters), and all the other potential disasters a hopping person thinks about. (I won’t even describe the comical dance involved in getting into a bathing suit on one leg.)

Yet finally I was suited up and on the dock, where I scrambled, crab-like, across to the edge and launched myself out into space landing with a splash into deep water. A floating devise, in this case a half surf board decorated with the “hot wheels” logo, was generously tossed my way and with my arms firmly wrapped around it, I began to carefully paddle away from the dock.

It felt like… well… (sorry to be trite) the way you might imagine a butterfly feels when it finally sheds that tight, hot, uncomfortable chrysalis, stretches its stiff limbs and flies away. I felt free, unfettered by gravity, my healing ankle gently rotating in the cool water almost like it used to. I paddled and paddled. I was careful, of course, but still, it felt… amazing.

The freedom of deep water is that you can kick your feet like a spastic idiot and never have to worry about hitting the bottom — which for a healing break would be… um… bad. So I floated and sighed and whirled around like an amphibian, letting time pass and ignoring any comments from shore about the weather coming in. Finally after the clouds blocked the sun and a sharp wind started blowing and my husband suggested that blue lips and chattering teeth were a pretty good sign that swim time was over, I head back into shore.

When I felt the gentle touch of sand on my good foot, I inched forward to the dock and using one hand for support hopped in until I was high enough to scoot up onto the dock. I wrapped a warm towel around myself and sighed.

I was back on land and subject to the rules of gravity again, but for just a couple of hours I had been the whole, healthy person I was before the broken ankle. With luck, I would be there again in a few months, but for now I would just have to visit the memory via dog paddle on hot days in Connery Pond.

Along a forested track on the way to the dock to swim, I discovered a rather small garter snake trying to consume a plum-sized wood frog, who was, alarmingly, screaming (in frog speak). The snake, who had a good grip on one of the wood frog’s back legs, was hauling it through the bushes at an impressive rate. I couldn’t help thinking that even unhinged, its jaw could never engulf this frog, who was so much larger than it was. Yet it seemed, by all appearances, to be quite confident that it could eventually subdue and swallow the large amphibian.

All my nieces and nephews and some in-laws stopped to observe this brutal show and comment on the cruelty of nature. Some debate ensured about rescuing the frog, but “the snake has to eat” was mentioned several times and trumped the many “poor frog” comments. Eventually we all deserted the scene for the dock.
Later, when we went back to check, both were gone. I have thought of it several times since, wondering about to whom the frog was calling. Did he hope to scare off the snake with his loud protestations? Or maybe to attract a predator that might prefer snake to frog as a meal? Was he calling out last instructions to his mate - I left the flies simmering on the stove! Would other frogs recognize the call and flee? Or gang together and come to his aid? (Now there’s a picture for you.)

Supposedly amphibians form no mate or parenting bonds. They don’t build a nest or defend a territory. The males call to females and the females answer – but any female will do. They are driven by instinct and instinct alone. They do hop away when humans try to catch them, but they hop away at any motion near them. Again – instinct. So do they experience fear?

And, I can’t help asking, to whom was that little wood frog calling? I will never know.

After another week passed in my adventure of trying to be patient and heal, my poor, suffering husband decided to take me to a trail that was described in the guide book as flat and perfect for handicapped outdoor enthusiasts. A description that definitely suits me now, though I am not all that enthusiastic about not doing it on two feet. However, for the sake of not whining and because if I whine any more, my fore mentioned husband will probably misplace me in one of those bogs where they find almost completely preserved woolly mammoths and cavemen from eons ago.

The trail, called the Charles Lathrup Nature Trail, was located about an hour south outside of Warrensburg, NY. We drove down on a sunny June day not knowing what to expect, but hoping for a little outdoor adventure. The first thing we ran into was about 6,000 people on motorcycles.

It was motorcycle jamboree in Lake George – that yearly event that draws mobs of motorcyclists from all over the country, who get together and roar around the North Country in leather pants. These are not easy rider bikes either. Some of them look more expensive than my minivan, with side compartments for luggage, tall comfy seats and sound systems. They even have headsets so they can chat with the Mrs. riding shotgun.

It was in the midst of this ongoing parade of roaring engines that we searched out and found the dirt road to the much anticipate nature trail. We parked and my husband pulled out my new travel contraption – the roll-a-bout. The idea is that you kneel on the contraption with the broken ankle leg and push along with the good leg steering standing up, as you go down the trail. It worked pretty well too except for a few unanticipated… um… incidents.

First, I had been incapacitated indoors for so many weeks that I had just plain forgotten about the terrible thing that happens in June in the Adirondacks – the mosquitoes attack. As long as we kept moving, they didn’t have a chance to land and sink their eager little proboscises into us. But stop for even a few seconds to examine a trillium or Indian cucumber and they found every inch of bare skin and latched on to it with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. Needless to say I huffed and puffed along at a pretty good clip.

The trail was perfect for a roll-a-bout but I don’t think it would have been easy for a wheel chair. For one thing, tree roots ran across the trail here and there and would have made for a bumpy ride. There were also a lot of bridges that were fun to cross and look off of (as long as you didn’t stop for more than the three seconds or so it took the mosquitoes to find you), but there was also a pretty good bump getting on and off the bridges. It would have been a challenge if not for the fancy ATV wheels of my trusty roll-a-bout.

The other thing was that much of the trail ran through wet woods and even some boggy areas, which were green, lush and beautiful, but in June were also flooded across the trail in a few places. Again, I was glad for the tough wheels and my husband’s willingness to wait and make sure I didn’t get bogged down in the middle and need rescuing.

The only real incident that had the potential to be tragic happened when I got over zealous and pushed myself along at such a gallop that I got ahead of my husband who was photographing wildflowers (for my collection even). There was a bridge with a short down hill leading up to it, so I opted to sit on the roller and just glide on down. It worked okay until I reached the other side and started up a mild incline. Seated, I could still push myself along, unless the hill got too steep – which it did, very quickly. So I did the first thing that came to mind – I panicked. I tried to quickly stand on my good leg and lift up my broken ankle to set my knee back in place properly. It would have worked too, if only there was no gravity on Earth.

As soon as I stood, the roll-a-bout slipped back away from me, pulling my arms around so that I was off balance, hopping on one leg, in the middle of the trail, my broken ankle swinging in the air like a basket of eggs. More panic ensued and I think a loud shriek that echoed through the hemlocks and startled nesting birds and small children.

I let go of the contraption, which catapulted backward down toward the bridge and I made a panicked, but adrenaline powered leap toward a yellow birch on the side of the trail. It was a good idea, except that I only managed to swing around it like a deranged square dancer and flew past it, landing on my back in the leaf litter.

Luckily there was a lot of leaf litter, so as I hit the dirt (literally) I didn’t hear any cracks or feel any sharp stabs of reshattering bones. I was, amazingly and most gratefully, fine.

I lay there for a minute staring up through the budding trees and blessing the biological process that produced soft forest floor duff. Then I slowly sat up and looked around. My roll-a-bout was now fifteen feet down the trail resting against the bridge like I’d parked it there and gone off on a mad hopping spree. I could get up using the yellow birch as leverage, but I didn’t think I could safely hop down the hill to collect the cart. Then suddenly I realized that I could hear buzzing. The mosquitoes were zeroing in on my heat signature.

Don’t panic, I thought. It raises your body temperature. More buzzing. I slapped my throat. Then I slapped my cheek. I craned my neck to look back down the trail. Where was my husband? By the time he happened along I could be a dried out, bloodless husk. Remain calm, I reminded myself. This was nothing. My husband would be along in just another minute or two and we would have a good laugh over this. I laughed out loud at the thought and just then a large mosquito flew into my mouth and and I swallowed it. There was really only one thing to do after that – I started shrieking.

My husband came along very quickly then and after a confused double take, between the cart and my prostrate body, shook his head and rolled the contraption up the hill and patiently held it for me while I climbed back on. To give him credit, he only slightly rolled his eyes.

After that I kept my speed in check and didn’t get too far ahead. My adventurous, exploring urge would have to wait until all bones were healed. We finished the mere mile and half and I collapsed, sweaty and leafy in the front seat, while my husband stowed our gear.

It was good to be outside, even with the bugs, mud and run away cart. Maybe next time I’ll get really wild and try a stream crossing. Happy trails!

Being someone who has always struggled to sit still, I have been surprised to discover that sitting quietly out on the porch watching the light change from dawn to morning, one can see some things that you otherwise miss in the constant motion of normal life.

For one thing, the subtle differences in greens that identify trees is amazing. The deep green-blue of white pines, the gray green of balsam poplar, the kelly green of sugar maples… and don’t get me started on the different colors of grass.

I also discovered that we have far more bird species around than I realized. I would hear them singing but could never distinguish most bird songs. Oh, I know crows and chickadees and pileated woodpeckers and even the random white-throated sparrow, but everyone else just sounded like so much twittering. It was lovely, but unidentifiable.

So imagine my surprise when, sitting like “the thinker” on my porch, I started seeing ruby crowned kinglets, catbirds, yellow-shafted flickers, bluebirds, bluejays, flocks of goldfinch and I even saw my cat stalk, pounce on  and murder a mole. Was this all happening out there the whole time, while I was too busy to notice?

Sitting quietly, doing nothing except looking may be difficult for most people (including me) unless you are a yoga instructor, field biologist or construction flagman. There is just too much to do. Yet, as you may have read in my last blog, I am sporting a broken ankle (among other things) and have been told that if I don’t sit still and elevate my ankle for the next few weeks I may never hike again. Something about this has finally impressed me enough that I am trying. But, it’s just not as easy as it sounds.

So I am trying to relax and watch the world go by and maybe – when this is all over – besides for a healed ankle, I will have a new sense of the things going on around me while I was too busy to notice.