What a difference one weekend will make! I took this photo last weekend up at Michaux State Forest. This weekend I will be deep into getting ready for Hurricane Sandy, a gal I’m already not liking very much. I’ve heard too much about her already and she’s still almost four days from appearing on my doorstep.
For me, the wind will be likely be the biggest worry. Anyone who lives in a forest worries about that. Doing without power is no fun but that’s nothing compared to a downed tree on the cabin. Water in the basement is no fun either, but that’s why I have pumps, both electric and battery-powered (though the battery-powered one might not be up to handling the water from this kind of storm).
Whatever plans I thought I might have for this weekend will be put on hold, both because of getting ready for the storm and paying attention to where the storm is going to go and when. The animals are blissfully unaware of anything other than getting their dinner. I sort of wish I could be, too.
So, if blogging ceases for a bit, it’s because I’m out of power and/or internet. I hope to still be online for Monday, but I’m taking no bets for after that.
I’ve been trying to ignore the Hurricane Sandy information for the past two days, hoping that the storm won’t, after all, turn into a Major Event here on Roundtop. But as time passes, the storm looms pretty large as a probable Major Event to arrive sometime early Monday morning.
As a result, I am in full hurricane-preparedness mode at the cabin. For me this means everything from battening down the hatches on the chickens, to making sure I have plenty of water available, not to mention food that doesn’t need to be cooked or cooled. Electrical outages here are common during minor events, let alone during Major Events.
Hurricanes often bring birds that normally live along the coast inland, to shelter away from the storm. The most common species I see during these times are Caspian terns, but those come with summer hurricanes. The terns have already headed to Florida for the winter. With a pending hurricane this late in the year, I don’t know what might appear.
For now, it’s too soon to think about birding when I have so much else to take care of first. It’s time to get busy and get ready for some rough weather.
I fear that the display of fall colors is already past its not-so-wonderful prime here on Roundtop this year. For a day or so I was hoping it was only a respite, a lull, before the last burst of color. But this year is not like a fireworks display, and there will be no grand finale. With rain in the forecast both sooner and later, I suspect the leaves will soon be down around my ankles or my shins. As long as it’s only leaves and not rain around my ankles and my shins, I’ll be happy.
I seem to be in a holding pattern, weather- and season-wise this week. The temperature has warmed up a few degrees, which is pleasant. It’s not so warm as to feel unseasonable, just warm enough to feel like early October instead of after the middle of the month.
Except for nightly raids by a foraging raccoon, I haven’t seen many indications of the colder weather to come. I have no juncos to report as yet, though in some years I would have seen them already. I have no huge flocks of Canada geese, sprinkled with loons, honking across a chilly and overcast sky to report either. By now I’m thinking the geese flew on a different path this year or were perhaps simply too high under a clear sky for me to even hear them.
And so I wait for something new or different to catch my eye, for the leaves to fall and reveal the open sky and the mountain to the west, for the juncos to arrive or the pine siskin to pay a visit. For now none of that is happening. It’s just me, waiting.
Yesterday evening I tried to get some autumn photos of the color change here at Roundtop. This is not a great year for fall leaves. Too many are turning brown, shriveling and falling without ever turning yellow or orange or gold. Adding to the lack of pretty leaves has been the lack of good light. Instead, the light has been flat, the sky overcast (but not in a good way), the views hazy with fog that never quite dissipates. It’s discouraging. Fall doesn’t last nearly long enough in a good year, and every day with poor visibility and bad lighting makes the season feel even shorter.
So last evening I took a few shots but found myself unhappy with all of them. Daylight was fading fast, and the fog and the light gave no indication either would improve in the few moments before sunset. I started back up the trail, deciding instead to focus on a few individual leaves instead of trying for a long landscape shot.
And then suddenly the sun broke through the clouds and lit up the trees around me. It was too late to go back for the long view (and the fog wasn’t likely to disappear, anyway). For a few seconds, and only for a few, the sun turned even the brown leaves to magical shades of orange and yellow. A few clicks of the shutter and then it was gone. The evening was sweet but oh, so short.
If a day has gone by this week without seeing at least 10-12 deer, I must not be looking—deer along the roads, deer in the roads, deer standing by the edge of a trail and staring at me. Deer are everywhere this week. The dogs are thrilled. They think like predators and are sure they can catch one.
This morning one doe stood not 20 feet from Baby Dog and me and stared at us. Baby Dog didn’t see it at first. I’m taller than she is and had the benefit of a headlamp to catch the reflection of her eyes. When she saw the deer, Baby Dog stopped and stood for a few seconds and then bounced on both her front feet, trying to get a reaction. The doe didn’t move right away. I think she thought we couldn’t see her in the darkness. Then Baby Dog gave a quick bark, and the doe trotted off into the brush.
These early morning and early evening encounters are commonplace. The deer are starting their rutting season, and the muzzleloader hunters are probably pushing them around a bit, too. I’ve heard two shots this week, both late in the day. Those long rifles make a big sound, echoing throughout the mountain and the valley. I can’t tell where the shots originate, though I haven’t seen a hunter or a vehicle parked nearby. The shots are loud enough to make me think the hunter is right behind the cabin, but I know that’s not the case.
Last night I also heard the sound of a lost, lone Canada goose. I didn’t hear or see a big migrating flock, but I know the particular sound of a goose that’s been separated from a flock, and this was one of those. They call and call, hoping they will hear the flock respond, and those answers will help them rejoin their group. This one wasn’t having much luck. No calls answered it that I could hear. But the sound made me think that waterfowl are on the move to the south. The time is right for that.
I hope I get to see or hear one of those big flocks this year. There’s little else that says “fall” to me like the sound of a flock of 300 or 500 Canada geese. Often several flocks are overhead at the same time, and the sound of their honking goes on for an hour or more, a new flock sounding from the north before the sounds of the old one disappears to the south. That’s what fall sounds like, hundreds or thousands or geese honking high overheard, moving south away from the approaching winter.
This little patch of daisy fleabane likely won’t last much longer. Neither will the four brown-eyed susans I saw this morning, nor the very last of the evening primrose. Tonight will come the first freeze of the fall season. Not merely a frost, either, which would be more common this time of October, but an actual freeze.
I am hopeful the freeze will also spell the end for stinkbugs, mosquitoes and ticks, though I’m probably overly hopeful about that. The freeze should also move the color change along a bit faster. To my eye, the forest looks more dry than colorful at the moment.
In fall, the trees “bloom” with nature’s color, like giant flowers. Spring’s colors are beautiful, too, but on a much tinier scale. Tiny rue anemone or wild geranium dot the forest floor with small spots of color like well-hidden Easter eggs. In fall, the color is all encompassing. That part just hasn’t happened here yet.
What is that brilliant fiery orb gracing the eastern sky this October morning?
Look quickly. It will be gone by tomorrow. Enjoy its glory for the moment that is today. Revel in its brightness and heat. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.
Tomorrow the rains will return and autumn will take off its lightweight jacket and settle in with some real fall weather, the kind that means a fire needs lit, the hot chocolate needs brewed and that old, comfortable sweater needs dusted off for another year’s duty.
This morning migrating birds are on the move, small finches move in small flocks, trying to get further south before the coming storm. Birds that aren’t migrating are busy foraging with the first real urgency of the season. The short break in the weather has all the forest in action again, after days of inactivity.
Even the monarch butterfly migration is picking up again this morning, the frail, little bits of orange somehow managing to withstand the dangers of travel to migrate long distances. Their trip to Mexico takes about two months. The ones that survive will winter there and head back in the spring, but those oldsters will only make it back about halfway before the next generation completes the spring journey.
On their travels monarchs like to roost overnight in the same spot, replicating in temporary miniature the swarms of them that winter at the same few trees in Mexico. This year, reports are that in the East large numbers of monarchs are migrating, but not many have been seen in the drought-plagued Midwest. That’s already prompted some researchers to wonder just how many will make it to Mexico, as the eastern butterflies have a longer trip, and it’s thought fewer of them survive the hazards of migration. Last week monarchs arrived at the first three overnight roosts in Texas, where numbers were reported to be fewer than 50 at each roost.
This link takes you to a great website where monarch migration is tracked week by week so you can see where they are on maps and learn how many are showing up in the southern roost sites. The weekly news is updated every Thursday until the monarchs arrive in Mexico.
Fog and drizzle is starting to be a broken record here on Roundtop Mtn., though the forecast promises an end by the weekend. I’m starting to find the lack of visibility annoying. The gloom of the fog only serves to make the shortened hours of daylight feel even shorter.
Bird activity is depressed. I’m not sure if it’s just that I can’t see them or if they simply aren’t out and about. I suspect it’s the latter. Even the Carolina chickadees and Tufted titmice that visit my feeders are fewer in number and nearly silent when they do appear. Instead of their near-constant chatter, they arrive quietly, grab a seed or two and disappear back into the fog.
This morning Baby Dog and I nearly stumbled over one of the deer that frequents the tiny patch of grass at the bottom of the lane that runs up the mountain. I stopped, the doe stopped and looked, and Baby Dog couldn’t see the deer at all, though it was only the width of the lane away from us. It wasn’t until the doe bobbed her head, probably trying to figure out what we were, that Baby Dog noticed. Her single bark was more than enough to put the deer into a run and disappear.
Are the colors changing on the trees? I can’t tell.
Are avian migrants on the move? I can’t tell.
Are enough leaves down that I might see the curve of the mountain to the west again? I can’t tell.
For all I know the ski resort might have disappeared in the past week. It’s simply too foggy to see much of anything, and the woods aren’t talking.
Any day now, the big flocks of Canada geese will fill the air over Roundtop. Last night for a few minutes I thought I heard the first group of them heading south. I changed my mind after I listened for a few minutes. It was only the local geese fussing or feeling antsy. Soon, they all took flight and moved to a different pond on the mountain, circling all around a time or two before they set down. The local geese don’t migrate, but the urge to move is still there in fall and they fly with little provocation. It’s as though October sings in their wings, even when there’s no place to go.
October started off on a very foggy note this morning. I couldn’t see the mountains. I could barely see to drive. Oddly, the only spot that was less foggy was the lowest point on my morning travels, down by the old stone bridge at the foot of Roundtop Mtn. After I took this photo I also noticed that the trees down here seemed a lot more green than up where I live.
Up on the mountain most trees are showing at least a few leaves that are displaying the colors of fall, though the trees with the most color are still no more than half-changed. Most show color on about 10-20% of the tree. Breezes have already forced more leaves off the trees and onto the forest floor than I would expect. That makes me wonder if the leaf change won’t look like much this year.
The forest is most beautiful when the trees all show their colors at about the same time. If a few leaves show color now, fall during the first breeze and then that cycle repeats, the leaves that remain on the trees are always the ones that are greenest. The leaves that are on the trees will grow ever fewer, but the dramatic colors of an all yellow and red forest never quite happens. I hope that’s not the case this year but if it is, it wouldn’t be the first time. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what happens.