As the kaleidoscope of our Fall season inexorably turns, the once-bright autumnal hues, which only recently seemed stunningly immutable and starkly in-our-face, have changed their tune. Now they speak to us in more muted, darker tones of faded yellow and orange, rich browns, and disintegrating greens. I’m almost afraid of what they’re trying to say. I think it’s something like: “Winter is coming! Get used to somber shades, people!”
A MUTED RAINBOW
Our fall continues to wind down. Most leaves have colored and fallen, though a few stubborn hangers-on still cling to their branches. We’ve gone from the peak of the season—when not only the trees seemed to represent the full spectrum, but every kind of creature persisted in their presence: birds, insects, mammals large and small—a full species-spectrum, as it were.
Temperatures have been seasonable, alternating between cool and warm, with a few early frosts and several sixty-degree days. Perhaps now that we’ve had a hard frost, that magical, warm, and colorful mini-season known as Indian Summer will make an appearance.
At times, a steady breeze parts leaf from branch, creating that distinctive, crisp (and aptly named) fall-like windchill. I wouldn’t dare guess what our future holds weather-wise—there are too many variables. Admittedly, I’m hoping for a mild winter for my own reasons (mostly hiking and working outdoors).
Historically, our water tables are replenished by spring snowmelt, and most recent years we’ve been lucky to get ample spring rains once the ground thaws. The truth is, winter will do what it wants, and we’ll either adapt or go south. Hmm. There’s an idea—be a snowbird. Nah, been there, done that.
The reality is, I always end up adapting to our beautiful winter of muted grays and browns—the season of (mostly) subtle colors. After a childhood in Labrador and Maine, where winter lasted far longer (ice not leaving the lakes until May), I’ve come to appreciate our relatively balanced three-month-long seasons.
One curious thing about writing these Notes is that they often take me a week or more to complete—and in dynamic, transitional times like fall or spring, everything can change drastically from the day I start writing to the day I finish.
FAUNA & FLORA
Since my last Note, much has gradually—and not-so-gradually—changed. The last straggling Monarchs have finally made their way to their winter forests in Michoacán, as Milkweed pods burst open and release their parachute-like seeds. Most other insects have faded out, though a few hardy ones will still emerge on warm, sunny days—moths, houseflies, and lady beetles among them.
The cricket chorus now consists solely of crickets, and even they are slowing down. The final Green Darner dragonflies have, well, dragon-flown south for sunnier skies.
I haven’t seen our larger rodents lately—Cottontail rabbits (technically lagomorphs, with skeletal differences from true rodents) and Woodchucks. But we’ve still got plenty of gray and red squirrels, and no shortage of small rodents like Deer and White-footed mice and Meadow voles.
Our moles and short-tailed shrews—also lagomorphs, classified in the order Eulipotyphla—might not care what they’re called, though I’m sure the neighborhood red fox doesn’t either when deciding on dinner. (I do wonder: do rodents taste different from lagomorphs?)
Bears are still very active. I thought there were enough acorns and beechnuts for local bears to fatten up on for the winter, but maybe not as I’m hearing daily reports of our ursine friends raiding garbage cans. This proximity to humans can lead to tragedy – usually more so for Ursus Major (“A fed Bear is a dead Bear”- NYSDEC). In the same vein, please remember that black bears love birdseed and can smell it for miles with their extraordinary sense of smell, so hold off on putting out bird feeders. The DEC recommends waiting until at least November 30.
Our wintering red-shouldered and red-tailed hawks are around, and the crows, as usual, are bickering about everything. When a hawk enters their territory, the crows go berserk, mobbing it with their loud protests. The hawk, seemingly unimpressed, just shrugs as if to say, “Whatever,” and either stays or glides away.
At least one Great Blue Heron still lingers, and the wild turkeys are starting to gather in thickets for the winter—keeping wary eyes on the local eastern coyotes.
“Ranger” Dave Holden is a New York State DEC-licensed hiking guide. Send correspondence to
woodstocktrails@gmail.com.
