January 5: For winter

Woodpecker holes from summer

filled now with squirrel's stash:

seven acorns.

Posted with Blogsy

August 24: There and back again on the Georges Highland Path

Out:

Hiking Ragged Mountain--

I can't slow down 

or mosquitoes will catch up.

Back:

In the deep damp woods

I lose my shadow.

Wood-pewee whistles it back.

December 13: Hazy shade of winter

Snowing in the pass--
in the old horse pasture
turkeys forage, unfazed.

August 19: In the woods

I was up on Ragged Mountain today helping with some boundary work on a property Coastal Mountains Land Trust hopes to conserve. Indian Pipe (or Ghost Plant), a parasitic flower often associated with beech trees and now in bloom, was scattered throughout the forest understory.

Mountain understory--
dropped acorns and ghost plants
haunt last year's beech leaves.

October 20: After they saw the Wizard of Oz exhibit at the Farnsworth Museum

My mom and I took my two young nieces up the chair lift at the Camden Snow Bowl this morning, to enjoy the view from on high on Ragged Mountain: burnished golds of the foliage, glimpse of the bay and its islands.

She had to wear
her shiny new red shoes
up the mountain.

[Information on the Farnsworth's Wizard of Oz exhibit, which I haven't yet seen, here.]

March 3: Sun and snow

The sky brightens at Owls Head Lighthouse, as we look across the water toward the Camden Hills, where snowfall veils the summits of Bald and Ragged Mountains, and clouds hang heavy over Megunticook and Mount Battie. With spotting scopes we find offshore one loon beginning to get its spotted breeding plumage back, some guillemots, and a lone Razorbill.

Lone loon afloat on cold seas,
lowering clouds.
Our light won't last.

August 13: Summer afternoon

I'm standing on the edge of lawn and field looking up at the green slopes of Ragged Mountain. At the lawn's edge, blooming gladioli stand at glorious attention, and faces of tiger lilies peer through greenery. Hummingbirds chatter and buzz around the flower beds. Goldfinches rise and dip over the fields, singing non-stop, swarming the seed feeders. Overhead, birch trees against a blue sky. Butterflies flit in little circles around me, and in the distance, a family of bluebirds gathers on a branch. Tomorrow night we're having a party here, and at this moment, I can't imagine a more perfect place to be.

Butterflies, bluebirds,
birdsong--is this a set for
a Disney movie?

May 23: Young deer

The highlight of a bird walk I led this morning on Ragged Mountain wasn't a bird, although there were several cool birds--singing wood thrush, singing rose-breasted grosbeak, singing towhee, woodcocks flushed from a nest, a bluebird in a nest cavity, several warblers... As we walked up the woods road, a deer stepped out in front of us and looked our way. I thought at first it was a big doe, warm brown in her new summer coat. But looking through my binoculars, I could see it had little velvety nubs of horns: a young buck. His big ears swiveled as he tried to figure out what we were. We must have been downwind, because he began to slowly walk toward us, seemingly curious. We held still and watched, but not silently. He flicked his white tail but didn't bolt. Eventually he must have decided we were beneath his notice, and he melted into the woods. We never heard a sound, even as we walked past where he had entered the shelter of green leaves.
 
More aware than we
of all those birds in the leaves--
young deer, still fearless.

March 18: Into the woods

With temperatures in the 70s, a hike was in order. And apparently it was in order for everyone else in town, too, because my first choice for a hike--Bald Mountain--was over-booked, with cars spilling out of the parking lot and up the street. So I headed to one of the Ragged Mountain trailheads and happily found myself alone there. Well, with no human company, anyway, unless you count the guys training their bird dogs in a nearby field down the road.

I brought binoculars because with weird warm weather like this, I didn't know what new spring arrival I might come across. I was hoping for a phoebe or perhaps a fox sparrow. Instead, the first bird I saw was a Bohemian waxwing--a boreal breeder that often strays southward during the winter months. A small flock of seven birds hung out in the treetops near the parking area. As with the snowy owl I saw on Friday, they've been observed by many birders this winter. I just hadn't managed to come across any until today. I'm really pushing the envelope with my winter bird sightings this year. It made me feel that I was diverted to the other trail for this good reason alone: to appreciate the beauty of these winter visitors and enjoy their soft trills, even as I could also hear a brown creeper singing his sweet, clear spring song and a pileated woodpecker calling loudly from deep in the woods.

A red-tailed hawk soared over the parking area as I set off up the trail, probably one of the resident birds I see every time I come to this part of the mountain. I enjoyed a mellow walk through the awakening woods, relishing the almost-sensuous sunlight, the soft flapping of last year's clinging beech leaves, the clear, unfrozen stream, and a sense of peace among trees slowly stirring back to life. The occasional bird sang from amid still-bare branches, and I sometimes lost the path in my distraction, wandering here and there amid stands of slender trunks shining in the sunlight until I found another blue blaze.

Hiking down the trail--
everything looks different
than when I went up.

January 25: Turkeys in the woods

Hiking on Ragged Mountain this morning, we followed several lines of turkey tracks up a dirt road. Judging from the tracks, which proceeded straight up the road, these were determined turkeys who knew where they were going, no wandering out of line or straying into the woods. We saw no actual turkeys (though we did flush a grouse), just their tracks and scat--what they left behind.

Later, tromping around on the snowy crust in the woods, we came upon a fungus known as turkey tail looking particularly colorful against the snow, much as actual turkey feathers would have. This clump is barely larger than the size of one turkey track:

These colorful, layered fans are only a small part of the entire fungus, with most of the organism hidden within the bark of the tree on which it's living. Also, I think it's a little unusual to see a turkey tail in "full bloom" surrounded by snow, just as it would be to see a tom turkey fanning his tail this time of year. As with the birds and the simple etchings of their tracks, what we're seeing is not the whole story. 

Written on the snow:

beginnings of wild stories

about wild turkeys.

October 23: Conclave of Ravens

This morning I joined a group of friends for brunch atop Ragged Mountain. We rode up the chairlift two-by-two, with bags of bagels, a box of coffee, and sundry bagel spreads, and found a spot in the sun for our picnic. The sunlit fall foliage looked brighter, the bay sparkled in the distance, and we felt fortunate to have picked such a beautiful day for our outing.

View from Ragged Mountain to Penobscot Bay, Mount Battie 

At one point I noticed a swirl of dark birds in the sky above the summit of Ragged, to our northwest. I figured they were a kettle of vultures, which live in these mountains and are often seen soaring over the ridge line. This was, after all, a perfect day to ride thermals. But they weren't vultures, they were ravens. While ravens also live in the Camden Hills, it's unusual to see such a large group of them all together, hanging out, as it were. This time of year it could be a family group, or it could be a flock of young birds gathered to spend the winter together in a little corvid conclave. They were joined by a red-tailed hawk, which didn't seem to be interacting with them in an aggressive way. Rather, the birds seemed to be enjoying the unseasonably warm morning air together, much as we all were down below on the sunny ledge.

Twelve humans observe
nine ravens, all enjoying
sunny mountaintop.

August 29: Last Bird in the Woods

After work I went for a trail run on Ragged Mountain, starting at the Snow Bowl. It's been a while since I've done a trail run. My lungs weren't quite up to the first stage, following the trail partway up the mountain before turning south into the woods. But once I could catch my breath, I settled in to enjoy the softness of the damp forest floor beneath my feet, the familiar earthy smells of leaf litter, mud, and moss, the punctuation marks of mushrooms after the weekend's rain, and the rocks and roots forcing me to pay attention to where I placed each foot. The recent storm had left a lot of branches strewn across the trail, as well, including one large, nut-laden beech branch.

It was only 6:00 pm but the woods were already darkening when I set out. The sun has begun to set noticeably sooner these days, with just a few days left in August. I couldn't tell if my few stumbles on my return run (it was an up/out-and-back/down route) were a result of not being able to see the shadowy trail so well or my general tiredness from bouncing off bumps and hillocks. The "come here" whistle of a pewee beckoned me onward. That was the only bird I heard so late in the day. But running that late was well worth it if just to see, as I reached the bottom of the mountain again, Bald Mountain green and glowing in the last sunlight, a lush backdrop for a field full of young soccer players.

Near the end of my run I also startled a woodchuck traversing across the ski slope. It paused to watch me for a moment, then bounded with surprising speed into the woods. Maybe instead of pretending I'm a deer or a wild cat on my trail runs, I should be emulating a woodchuck instead.

Pewee's low, clear call
summons me out of the woods
just before sunset.

August 24: The Little Things

>My naturalist friend Kirk is particularly fond of mushrooms, slime molds, and things in-between. His Vinalhaven Sightings Reportwhich features wildlife of all kinds seen on that Penobscot Bay island, is heavy on the fungus among us. His interest (and interesting photos) has made me take a closer look at the mushrooms around me when I walk in the woods--especially in late summer when the birds are quieter so I'm not looking up all the time.

Today while hiking off-trail on Ragged Mountain I was paying more attention to the ground in front of me just to see where I was going. I was surprised by how many mushrooms dotted the forest floor, especially a tiny, bright orange mushroom that looks like something you'd see in the garden of a gnome house. It's so cute that I've photographed it on several different occasions, including today. I thought to share my photo with Kirk, who quickly responded: "The cute little orange guys are so cute that they are the cover species on George Barron's 'Mushrooms of Northeast north America' book. They are Chanterelle Waxy Caps, which are in no way chanterelles at all. They are an adorable find, and as you already know, have a solid presence in the woods this time of year. One of my favorites to find." Now that I know what they are, I'll probably photograph them more than ever.

Chanterelle Waxy Caps

I noticed other intriguing mushrooms, including a pretty lavender one that Kirk says is from the Cortinarus genus, some turkey tails (the fungus, not the bird parts), some ruffly orange ones that might have actually been chanterelles, and a big puffy white one being eaten by a slug. The "Corts," says Kirk, have a mycorrhizal relationship with trees, which is complex enough that I'm just going to send you to Wikipedia to read about it, but basically means that the mushroom and tree mutually benefit one another.Not only did I have fun spotting all these various fungi, but I learned something too.

Besides mushrooms, I also discovered other little things: quite a few Indian pipes poking up through the leaf litter here and there, bunchberry berries, a teeny yellow flower that I haven't been able to ID (some kind of dwarf aster?), spectacular patches of reindeer lichen, deer scat, a couple of turkey tail feathers (bird parts this time, not the fungus), wide, spongy beds of sphagnum moss, and, in one place, scattered clusters of black and white feathers pointing to the demise of what was once probably a black-and-white warbler.


Trees, yes, and forest,
but also, tiny mushrooms,
berries, slugs, feathers.

August 3: Kettle

Hiking down the ridge of Ragged Mountain this afternoon, just below the communications tower, I looked out to see a kettle of about a dozen turkey vultures soaring on a thermal. The combination of billowing clouds and hot sun must have produced the perfect ride for these big raptors. They circled higher and higher as I watched, until the birds at the top of the swirling column began to drift off, one by one, and head toward the mountain, toward me. Because I was so close to the summit at that point, they were almost at eye-level. There are few birds that make me wish more fervently for the gift of flight.

The couple I was hiking with had gone on safari in Botswana last year, and they told me how soaring vultures are a sign there of lions on prey. When you see the vultures start to drop down and land, that's a sign that the lions have gone; the vultures are moving in to pick at what's left of the carcass. As we watched the vultures in their glorious group flight, we couldn't help but joke that perhaps there were lions somewhere below them.

No lions' prey here.
Heat rising off the mountain
brings vultures this joy.

July 12: Celebration

I walked home from work exultant this afternoon, having landed a big grant for an important land conservation project on Ragged Mountain. Not only did my grant make the cut in a highly competitive funding round, but we got the full amount we asked for, which doesn't often happen these days. My hard work had paid off in a most satisfying way, giving the project a big boost.

So in an uplifted mood I strolled the short, wildflower-lined stretch of road along the river to my house. And in an uplifted mood I heard the piercing cry of an osprey. I looked up and there it was, soaring in lazy circles way above Mount Battie, chirping loudly. I felt attuned to its mood; I think it was calling out into the hazy summer sky simply for the sheer thrill of being a bird in flight. A big bird with strong wings and a beautiful, fish-filled bay stretching out below.

High as the osprey
wheeling above Mount Battie,
I want to shout too.

January 16: View from the Chairlift

Recently I participated in a team-building exercise in which nine of us had two illustrations each that together made up an eighteen-page sequence. Looking only at our own two pictures and then describing them to the group, we had to lay them face-down on the floor in what we thought was the correct order. The end result was a pictorial narrative that began with a view of Earth from space and ended with the face of a chicken from the cover of a book being read by a kid on a cruise ship (with many other steps in-between). The goal was obviously to develop communication skills as a group, but the fun of it was in the unexpected perspective shift that telescoped (actually, "microscoped" would be more appropriate) from something literally universal down to the most minute detail.

I was reminded of that exercise while riding the chair lift at the Camden Snow Bowl. The view of the snow-covered Camden Hills on the way up Ragged Mountain is spectacular, especially the near view of craggy Bald Mountain. I kept looking over my shoulder, wanting to take it all in. I love living in such a beautiful place. About half-way up, however, I heard a high-pitched noise that I first dismissed as the chairlift pulley running through the tower. But it really sounded like a golden-crowned kinglet. And sure enough, I heard it again as a tiny bird flew into a nearby tree. As it landed below my dangling skis, its crown flared brightly. In that one instant, my attention shifted from the mountains to the tiny head feathers of a bird smaller than a chickadee--each sight breath-taking in its own way.

Mountains surround me,
but the kinglet's bright gold crown
is what draws my eye.

November 4: Flying Leaves

And the season starts to shut down. Yesterday morning I woke to the first heavy frost, rime on the lawn and a carapace of white lingering like snow on the neighbors' roof. I had to scrape my car windows for the first time since last winter. This morning before the rains began, the slopes of Ragged Mountain, where I was walking, were burnished deep bronze, the russet of dying embers, just one tone removed from dead brown. Birch bark shone starkly amid branches bared to the wind. Crisp oak leaves leapt through the air like small birds, skipping on unseen eddies and currents in the sky. Small birds, juncos, scattered amid the dry leaves. Things were aswirl in the calm before the storm. So the appearance of two ravens, hoarsely cawing and dipping amid the loose leaves, fit the day's mood. They flew swiftly overhead as if whipped by the wind, but they knew exactly where they were going.

Leaves skitter like birds,
birds scatter like leaves. Two black
ravens ride the wind.

October 17: Ragged Mountain Brunch

A perfect fall morning, which was lucky for a group of nine of us who'd planned to ride the Snow Bowl chairlift up Ragged Mountain to enjoy a bagel brunch at the top. With backpacks loaded up with goodies, we slowly rode the lift in pairs, enjoying the fall color that seemed to have miraculously spread over the landscape since the previous days' storm. At the top of the lift, we gathered on a ledge with our decadent spread, which included a box of Rock City coffee, orange juice, bagels of all kinds from the Bagel Cafe, cream cheese, smoked salmon, various jams (including one made from some exotic Japanese citrus), Nutella, lemon curd, some ingeniously wrapped fried (and home-grown) eggs, apples, and chocolate hazelnut espresso cake.

After such a filling moveable feast, is it any wonder that we felt the need to hike a bit further up the mountain? Our hike was short but rigorous (and a bit muddy, given that more than four inches of rain fell on Friday and Saturday), as we were on a quest for a good view. I think we found it:

View from Ragged Mt. to Mt. Megunticook and Mt. Battie

Bright red maples and some glowing yellow striped maples punctuated the evergreen forest near the summit. Colorful leaves created picturesque tableaux where they had fallen amid still-green Christmas ferns, ruddy blueberry plants, moss, and hen of the woods mushrooms. Two vultures soared overhead, and a red-tailed hawk seemed to hover motionless on a thermal. A merlin shot past. In the distance, Penobscot Bay shone like a mirror in the sunlight, and we tried to name all the islands we could see.

When we stepped out onto a broad ledge near the summit, several of us exclaimed aloud as the breathtaking, panoramic view suddenly opened before us. A few in our party were from out of town, and one of them asked, a bit surprised, if we hadn't been up there before. Oh yes, we said. Many times. But it's just as amazing each time. 

Bald Mountain from Ragged Mountain

This view, this beauty.

Gold leaf the size of my head,

whole glowing mountain.

October 6: Local Color

On this dark, bleak, rainy night, I'm thankful we figured out earlier why our furnace hasn't been working for a few days. Now the heat's back on, but that's not enough to satisfy my soul. My hair's still wet. I'm wearing black. My husband's wearing black. What I really need are light and color.

There's something about the warm colors of fall that nourish the spirit as the forest begins to shut down for winter. They keep us going. Yesterday I took a few photos on sunlit Ragged Mountain of some fallen leaves and a group of bright orange, pixie-sized mushrooms. The mushrooms reminded me of one of my favorite pieces of clothing, a tangerine-colored down jacket that I wear almost year-round. I'm not sure what it says about my personality that what was once my least favorite hue--orange--is now one of those I'm most drawn to. I think the jacket's color warms me as much as the garment itself.

And favorite jacket aside, it was a cool-looking little cluster of fungi tucked amid fall's first tossed off bits of clothing. Soon enough the trees will be stark, naked, with only the remnants of their hot attire strewn riotously about. The autumn forest is a wild party.

Fall's a wild party,

one last orgy of color

leaving all naked.

Guess these leaves are inspiring--my friend Brian coincidentally posted a similar photo with his blog post today too.

October 5: Fall Fowl

As I was leaving work tonight, ducks quacked, flying past me up the river. I felt I'd come full circle since the morning.

My day began with a huddled cluster of roadside turkeys, presumably chowing down on fallen acorns. Five turkey vultures flushed from a tree over my car, as well, their dark, bulky bodies making it easy to understand how the bird got its name. Until it starts soaring, it looks an awful lot like a turkey. Once it takes wing, though, the vulture possesses a grace that the more gangly fowl just can't muster.

On a brief morning hike with a co-worker among the beeches and maples of Ragged Mountain, I heard a flock of geese pass overhead. Though leaves shielded the birds from sight, the sound alone was stirring (though it reminded my co-worker of a skirmish he'd had this morning with his ornery rooster).

Back at the office, we found a lone Canada goose hanging out on the lawn. It let me approach quite closely, not hissing at me like a typical wild goose would. Concerned that it might be ill, despite looking well-fed and moving easily, I called Ken Bailey, Lake Warden and Executive Director of the Megunticook Watershed Association. I explained that we had acquired a pet goose at the office and were wondering if it was a happy goose or not. "Oh, it's a happy goose alright," he replied, in a tone that let me know I was in for a good story. Apparently this particular goose had been taken to Avian Haven, the bird rehabilitation facility in Freedom, because it was found weak and emaciated on Freedom Pond. The young goose had some parasites, but was quickly nursed back to good health. When the time came to release it, however, Diane and Marc of Avian Haven didn't want to take it back to Freedom Pond. The goose--as we saw at my office--had become very used to people and would not have survived long on the well-hunted pond. So the decision was made to release it on the Megunticook River, where hunting is not allowed. Ken suggested that the best thing to do would be to herd the bird back into the river. So after I hung up, I went out and walked behind the goose, which calmly allowed me to herd it across the lawn, over the bank, and into the water. Hanging out on the lawn with a goose gave me pleasant flashbacks to my childhood, when I spent a lot of time with my grandparents' pet domestic goose Max. But even Max would peck at my legs and hiss at me on occasion. This goose was very mellow. As it silently drifted upriver, I wished it luck, told it to find some fellow geese and learn how to be wild again, and went back in to work.

Near the end of the day the goose was back on the lawn, feeding in the grass at the edge of the office parking lot. A co-worker shooed it back into the river. Hopefully some other geese will come along soon, adopt this youngster into their flock, and honk some sense into it.

Once more, geese fly south.
Their honking sounds jubilant.
So why am I sad?