Blue bird, blue sky

A brilliantly blue sky might be the only thing bluer than an Eastern bluebird. Here on Roundtop, bluebirds may be the most common species found year-round. Chipping sparrows and American robins are more common during summer, but they don’t spend the full year here. Chickadees and tufted titmice are pretty common, too, though they are spread out all over the place, so actual numbers for them are difficult to determine.

Bluebirds are both numerous and easy to quantify. They are easily visible as they ply the grassy ski slopes of summer. It’s not uncommon for me to count 20 of them in a single evening just along the mountain’s western slopes. No nesting boxes are found here. The dead or hollow branches these birds like are also numerous, as evidenced by the one in the background of today’s photo. It’s just as well no one has placed nest boxes for them here at Roundtop. There’s already plenty of them, and more might just result in over-crowding.

In winter, when the slopes are covered with snow, the birds still remain here, though they can be harder to find then. Often, they join up with other species, sometimes with the few over-wintering robins, to forage in winter flocks. They are quick to find any open water or wet spot, and I may see a dozen or more around the tiniest. I routinely put out fruit for them in winter, but truthfully I’ve never had one show up at my feeders. I think the cabin sits too deep in the woods for them.

Near the cabin, but at the bottom of the lane, I often see them in early morning heading out of their roosting tree, where they all seem to sleep. The tree is about 100 yards from the ski slopes, along the power line. Usually, I hear them before I see them. They don’t seem to emerge all at once, though they usually leave within a few minutes of each other. Then they head back to the slopes again, commuting, as it were, back to the grass and then returning each night to their sleeping tree.

Glorious

This summer the weather here has been amazing. If all summers were like this, I’d like them a whole lot better. So far not one day has reached 90, let alone topped that figure. Best of all, the humidity remains low, with only a few forays into that higher, more uncomfortable realm.

The nights dip into the upper 50’s by morning, and I’ve needed that fleece throw by 2 a.m. on most nights. I’m spoiled, I know, and I keep telling myself not to get used to it because August or 2010 will certainly not be like this.

And in case you haven’t yet heard, the El Nino effect is getting underway again, which is likely to affect the northeast U.S. this year or next. In my area, El Nino tends to make the winters warmer and wetter than average, a bad combination for skiers and winter sports enthusiasts like me.

Still, that’s in the future, maybe, and I won’t let that diminish my enjoyment of the weather today. Glories like this can’t be expected to last forever.

Quiet in the summer woods

Roundtop’s woods were quiet this weekend. I didn’t see any life-and-death dramas, find any rare birds or see anything unusual. That means it’s mid-summer, that nearly-static time of the year where nothing much happens.

The black raspberries are over, a few leaves on the poison ivy are already turning red, the great-horned owl still calls from deep in the forest. The promised storms brought a few sprinkles of rain but no major downpours. The sound of thunder slid past to the north, the storm never reaching the cabin. Quiet on the mountain seems to be the rule of the day. Or perhaps the week.

I tell myself to enjoy the lull, to appreciate the quiet, but I’m finding it hard to do. I don’t think I’m geared for quiet. I have trouble getting past the idea that now is simply boring. I know the quiet won’t last, and I also know that at some point I will long for quiet but for some reason that doesn’t help me now.

The forest itself doesn’t mind the quiet. The oaks don’t long for wind or storms or change. The forest residents take the quiet moments as they come. Perhaps, in some future year, I too will learn this skill, this ability to accept the day for what it is. It’s a lesson I am still working on.

Friday morning

Friday’s flower is a native species—one with many names. I think this is Philadelphia fleabane, also known as Philadelphia daisy and sometimes also daisy fleabane. All are from the aster family, and many species are similar enough that differentiating among then is challenging. Just when I think I’ve got it, another similar species makes me wonder. This patch was particularly thick with flowers yesterday afternoon, basking in the warm sunshine.

The individual flowers are about half an inch across or perhaps a bit larger, and the plants are 2-3 feet tall. Yesterday afternoon the patch was alive with honey bees, a welcome sight. Before colony collapse disorder was in the news, I can’t say that I paid much attention to the number of bees around, so I can’t be sure what a ‘normal’ number of bees should be. That said, my impression is that I have a decent number of bees around this year, so I think at least the very local population of them is doing okay.

Here on Roundtop, the forest is starting to look a bit dry. It’s been nearly two weeks since any rain has fallen, after weeks of near-daily rains in June. Rain is predicted for tomorrow, so the dryness won’t last much longer. It’s interesting to me how little time it takes for a soaked forest to dry up, but that’s what’s happened. Wouldn’t you think that nearly 10 inches of June rain would keep things moist for longer than two weeks? Guess not.

Not again! (oh, yes)

When will it ever end? I’m starting to think there are few truly native plants around. Today’s photo is of the mullein, a common wild plant with many medicinal uses and cool common names. But, as I seem to discover All The Time, it is not a native plant.

Does that surprise you? It sure as heck surprised me, and I’m getting tired of it. I’m starting to wonder just what this landscape around here might have looked like before all these non-native plants were released. And those non-native plants are so sneaky, too. They are very good at finding a foothold and pretending they have always been here.

Take the mullein for instance. It’s got a whole host of common names that make it sound as though it has always been around—Quaker Rouge, for one. The Pennsylvania Dutch call it Wolla or Wolla Graut (they smoke it). Native Americans used it regularly, usually for congestion, which brings me to one of its most common names—lungwort. Supposedly, one way to use the plant is to take its fresh leaves, pour boiling water over them and then inhale the infusion. I think I’ll give that one a try myself, perhaps tonight. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Of the plant’s many common names, my personal favorite is My Lady’s Flannel. Flannels were an older name for wash cloths and refers to the soft, velvety leaves of the plant.

So I think I’m going to make a mid-year resolution. I hereby resolve that I’m no longer going to post photos of non-native wild plants anymore. Gee, I hope that doesn’t mean I’ll have to give up posting photos. Stay tuned.

Slow down

The forest around me is already beginning to take on the look of mid-summer. That surprises me a little. For one thing, the season is only two weeks old. For another, this region has not yet had a 90-degree day this year (Note: I am not complaining about this at all. I’m just mentioning it because it’s highly unusual). So I wouldn’t have expected the woods to be taking on that vaguely dull shade of green, nor for the wild grains at the forest edges to have ripened to shades of brown just yet. But both those things are happening.

The forest has entered the time of year where growth and change slows down dramatically. It’s not really a static time—no time is in the natural world—but it feels pretty close to that. After the blinding speed of spring’s explosion, any slowdown is going to feel very slow, much slower than it actually is.

In any event, that point of slowdown, both the perception of it and the reality, is here. Ideally, I should be a little like the forest and slow down myself. In spring, a morning of not paying attention or a day lost to rain can mean I might not see something for another full year. Not now. Whatever it is will still be there tomorrow.

But the habit of running around is hard to break, at least for me. Sitting still? What’s that? Sometimes it feels as though sitting still for five minutes means 20 other things won’t get done. Eventually, usually, I am able to down shift my gears, occasionally. Hasn’t happened yet. I’m still working on it. Maybe a 90-degree day would help.

Inside, outside

Inside, looking out.

Inside, a cabin in the woods is still inside.

A view of the forest without is not the same as being in the forest.

All windows open, tantalized by birdsong.

Earthy aromas sneak inside like winter mice.

But even with all that, it is still 'inside.'

The distance four thin walls creates is vast.