Category: Cultures

Ithaca’s Charming Details: Stories Woven in the Landscape

Ithaca reveals its rich history through small details, from architectural features to historical plaques, intertwining past and present vibrantly.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

During my walk around the Cascadilla Gorge rim, I found myself drawn to small, intricate details of the city, details that tell stories of the town’s rich past and its lively present. Ithaca’s history felt close, touchable, woven into each corner and each unique encountered feature.

This sign in front of the former Post Office on Aurora Street marked the founding of the Town of Ithaca in 1821. Standing there, I imagined the early days of the town, its growth and change over the decades, all captured in a few lines on a sign beneath the green, now lightly browned leaves. The sign, a quiet guardian of Ithaca’s origins, holding a reminder of how the town started from the nearby Town of Ulysses and grew into the community it is today.

Climbing Buffalo Stret, above me was a brick doorway, framed by red ivy climbing toward the top. The arched doorway, with its rich wood and surrounding vines, as though it fell from a storybook. The dark bricks contrasted with the soft greens and reds of the foliage, giving the building a personality—stoic yet welcoming, suggesting secrets held within its walls. There was a warmth to the old architecture, a tangible connection to the hands that crafted it.

A metal plaque dedicated to Simeon De Witt, the surveyor-general, stood amidst the yellow autumn leaves. Weathered with age, the sign seemed to fade into the colors of the season. De Witt played a pivotal role in shaping both New York State and Ithaca itself; as the surveyor-general during and after the Revolutionary War, he was responsible for mapping much of New York, shaping towns, and setting the stage for westward expansion. A visionary in his own right, De Witt saw Ithaca’s potential as a town and became one of its founding figures. The juxtaposition of the modern-day hustle of the town with this nearly forgotten tribute spoke to the layers of history that live here, often unnoticed. Here was a reminder of a man who helped lay the literal groundwork for the state, his legacy now largely a quiet one, tucked among the turning leaves.

Exploring Dewitt Place, I came across a staircase leading up to a house, decorated for Halloween. Pumpkins with carved faces sat proudly on each step, their grins adding a playful spirit to the scene. Bright red shrubs framed the path, a bold contrast against the deep gray siding of the house. Here, past met present, with the timeless ritual of Halloween adding a touch of whimsy to the historic porch.

Nearby, I noticed a vine-covered wall where vibrant red leaves cascaded down toward the stone base. The color was striking—a reminder that, even as autumn wanes, nature’s palette reaches its most intense. The bright red vines against the textured gray stone created an almost painterly effect, as if nature itself had brushed the wall with strokes of crimson.

A lush patch of ornamental grass along Cascadilla Park Road caught my eye, standing out among the other plants with its vibrant green leaves. The grass retained a fresh, lively color, unfazed by the autumnal transition around it. Its dense, narrow blades added an unexpected texture to the scene, a unique counterpoint to the fiery fall foliage nearby. This little patch of green seemed to bring its own charm to the autumn landscape, a reminder of the botanical diversity that characterizes Ithaca.

Lastly, I came across a carefully constructed stone wall. The stones were stacked with precision, weathered yet sturdy, each rock fitting neatly into the next. The craftsmanship spoke of a time when walls were built to last, their durability a testament to the hands that built them and the care given to each detail.

These small, unique details—signs, doorways, decorations, plants—combined to give a fuller picture of Ithaca. The town’s essence felt wrapped up in these seemingly simple features, each contributing a layer to Ithaca’s story, rich with history and imbued with a present-day warmth that invites exploration and appreciation.

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The Enchantment of Autumn Over Cascadilla Gorge

Join me for a serene autumn walk in Ithaca, appreciating nature’s beauty, impermanence, and the calming rhythms of life.

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

A few days before Halloween, I found myself on the rim of Cascadilla Gorge, Ithaca’s autumnal crown jewel. The air had that crisp October quality, each breath carrying a hint of the colder days to come yet still tempered by the lingering warmth of early fall. A breeze carried a scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a rich, organic aroma that signaled the turning of the seasons. The path beneath my feet was a tapestry of fallen leaves—russet, gold, and burnt orange—a natural carpet leading me through a world suspended between vibrancy and rest.

Golden Canopy over Buffalo Street Sidewalk

Continuing up Buffalo Street, I marveled at the trees, their branches thick with yellow and gold leaves, creating a canopy above. The leaves shivered with every gust, whispering the ancient secrets of the forest. The air was infused with the sweet, woody fragrance of maple and oak, mingling with the faint scent of chimney smoke from nearby houses. The sunlight filtered through, casting a dappled pattern on the sidewalk, a fleeting mosaic as the leaves danced in the wind. A sense of impermanence struck me; soon, these leaves would be gone, leaving bare branches silhouetted against a winter sky.

Scene from Dewitt Place toward South Hill and Ithaca College

Crossing the Stewart Avenue bridge, the Cascadilla Gorge came into view, a steep wall of stratified rock layers standing guard over the gently flowing stream below. The contrast between stone and foliage was breathtaking—the hard, unyielding rock juxtaposed with the softness of leaves in full autumnal bloom. The earthy scent of wet stone mixed with the crisp aroma of the flowing water, creating a sensory tapestry unique to the gorge. The colors seemed to intensify against the gray and brown of the cliff, each leaf like a brushstroke on nature’s canvas, celebrating the season’s final flourish before surrendering to winter.

Below footpath along the gorge rim, the creek wound through, its banks littered with leaves that had completed their journey from branch to earth. They floated on the water’s surface, spinning gently in the current as though reluctant to leave this last dance. The sound of the water was a steady undercurrent, soothing and rhythmic, as it tumbled over stones and carved its way through the gorge. I paused to watch, entranced by the way water and rock, ephemeral and eternal, seemed to coexist in a kind of harmony.

I stopped at a lookout point and surveyed the town sprawled out below, nestled amidst the fiery colors of the surrounding hills. The architecture of Ithaca’s buildings peeked through the trees, each roof and spire framed by the season’s palette. This was a town embraced by nature; its rhythm dictated as much by the seasons as by human hands. The sight stirred a sense of gratitude within me; here was a place that reminded you to slow down and observe, to notice the subtle shifts in light, in color, in the way a single gust of wind could change a landscape.

I continued along the rim, passing a small waterfall that spilled over the rocks with a quiet insistence. The water had carved smooth pathways in the stone, evidence of its long journey and persistent power. The sunlight hit the spray just right, casting a fleeting rainbow that shimmered and then disappeared as I moved. I felt a sense of companionship with the water—both of us moving forward, shaped by the paths we traverse, yet always adapting to whatever lay ahead.

The last part of the trail led me through a dense thicket of trees, their branches hanging low, forming a natural archway. The air was heavy with the musky scent of fallen leaves and the spicy aroma of pine needles underfoot. Here, the light was softer, muted by the thick canopy overhead. The quietness enveloped me, broken only by the occasional rustle of a squirrel in the leaves or the distant caw of a crow. It was the kind of silence that feels sacred, where each sound, no matter how small, becomes profound.

Entering Cascadilla Gorge from Linn Street

Emerging from the shaded path, I took one last look back at the gorge. The scene was both familiar and new—a blend of natural beauty and the nostalgia of seasons past. I felt a sense of peace, grounded by the cycles of the earth, by the ebb and flow of life around me. In this moment, on the brink of Halloween, the world felt both hauntingly beautiful and reassuringly steadfast, a reminder that even as the leaves fall and the days grow shorter, there is a promise of renewal in the quiet persistence of nature.

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Ode to a Snapping Turtle

In homage to Pable Neruda and chance encounters

MichaelStephenWills15 Comments

O ancient wanderer
of Sapsucker Woods,
armor-clad and quiet,
you lumber forth,
carved from the earth itself,
sculpted from mud
and pondweed dreams.

October’s afternoon light
paints you with golden shadows,
each leaf fallen,
each branch broken
a whispered testament
to the slowness
of your path,
steady as a heartbeat
unmoved by haste.

You bear the centuries
in the lines of your shell,
grooves and valleys
where stories settle,
tales of reeds and minnows,
and the deep-rooted knowing
that life is best met
with patience, with pause.

O creature of edges and silence,
you bridge water and wood,
the line between stillness and stride.
What weight you carry,
not of burden, but of presence—
a shell that holds
the weight of stars,
the bones of ancient rivers,
and the soft clay of Sapsucker’s floor.

In your slow, silent passing,
the trail bows to you.
Leaves make way,
and the earth beneath you
settles a little deeper,
reminded of the strength
that moves without noise,
the wisdom that crawls
in the path of shadows.

Turtle,
you who wear the world’s patience,
I watch you disappear,
an ambassador of ponds and pools,
a silent architect
of marsh and moss.
May your journey be long,
your pauses endless,
and your shell a testament
to the beauty of age,
carved by time,
blessed by the sun.

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Healing Through Nature in Sapsucker Woods

An autumn walk for healing, resilience, and gratitude.

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

On this autumn Sapsucker Woods afternoon, the world seems crafted to soothe. Sunlight filters through the canopy, setting leaves ablaze in rich reds, golden yellows, and softened greens, the seasonal palette reflecting nature’s grand finale. Today, the woods are a sanctuary for healing, a space where steps are measured not by speed but by strength, each one a testament to resilience.

Pam stands before the wide, outstretched wings painted on the wall at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, wings so vast that they dwarf her. She smiles, resting against her hiking poles, the Condor wings an emblem of a journey toward reclaiming freedom. Her recent hip replacement surgery has given her back this independence, a reminder that recovery is not just about physical mending, but about lifting the spirit to soar once again.

The trail unfolds gently, bordered by cattails and still waters that mirror the sky—a bright blue canvas mottled with soft clouds drifting in and out of the reflections. Fallen leaves float upon the pond’s surface, creating patches of color that seem suspended between water and sky. Nearby, lily pads, green stepping stones over shadowed depths, their edges lit by glittering sunlight. Geese glide by, unbothered, embodying a calm flowing outward, wrapping the whole scene in peace.

Each step Pam takes is deliberate, accompanied by the steady rhythm of her poles striking the ground. It is the kind of walk that invites contemplation, where time slows, and even the smallest detail—a single yellow leaf spiraling down, a ripple breaking the pond’s surface—feels like an invitation to pause and breathe. She moves from the open path toward a shaded arbor, draped with twisting vines. The vines climb upward, winding around the wooden beams, their leaves creating a soft veil that frames her view of the water beyond. Through this leafy curtain, she gazes upon the pond, where autumn’s reflection glows, offering a quiet moment of solitude, of healing drawn from nature’s persistence.

Just beyond, a bare tree stands, its trunk hollowed by years, its exposed wood testament to the life that has passed through it. In its decay, it offers a home to the creatures of the marsh, a structure among reeds and grasses that sway with the wind. The tree reminds Pam of her own journey, how resilience is often found in adapting, in letting time and life shape you.

At last, we reach a bench overlooking the pond, a perfect place to rest and reflect. She settles in, feeling the quiet thrill of accomplishment. The woods are still, save for the sound of a breeze rustling the reeds and the occasional bird song piercing the silence. In this moment, with the vast sky overhead and the world reflected below, she feels a profound sense of gratitude—not only for the beauty around her but for the strength within her. Sapsucker Woods are a personal cathedral, a space where nature and recovery intertwine, offering peace in every step, in every breath.

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From Ground to Sky: A Reflective Climb

Experiencing joy and memory.

MichaelStephenWills9 Comments

Here, on the playground,
the morning stretches wide—
a sky so blue it swallows you whole.
And you, a small figure, climbing
the red pillar, moving hand over hand
up the ropes that knot and twist
like veins, like lifelines.

I watch from below,
the ground a familiar place
where footsteps fall and scatter—
but you, you are ascending,
breath held in the still air.
Nothing is simple in this moment,
yet everything is—

the cord that bends beneath you,
the thrill in your chest,
the boots pressed firm against braided paths.

If I could speak, if words were clear as the day,
I’d tell you how these small victories—
climbing high, standing above—
are etched into the bones of memory.
Someday, you’ll look back and wonder
at the web of ropes,
the pillar red against autumn’s burn,
and the vastness that carried you up,
into light, into air,

where fear gave way to joy,
and the sky leaned close,
just to watch you rise.

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A Journey Through Autumn Colors at Taughannock Falls

Taughannock Falls State Park offers stunning autumn views, vibrant colors, and serene natural beauty.

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

As I set foot on the Falls Overlook at Taughannock Falls State Park, I was greeted by a symphony of autumn colors in their full glory. The vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows of the trees framed the scene, setting the stage for a perfect fall day. I lingered, taking in the view of cars nestled among the foliage, their colors almost merging with the rich autumn hues surrounding them. The sign for the “Falls Overlook” hinted at the journey ahead.

The overlook offered a breathtaking view, a gentle reminder of nature’s power as Taughannock Falls cascaded far below, framed by rugged cliffs and vibrant trees. Through gaps in the golden leaves, I could catch glimpses of the waterfall, a delicate white ribbon against the slate-gray rock. The sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows and illuminating leaves like stained glass, painting the landscape in a thousand shades.

I began my ascent up the North Rim Trail, where the path twisted beneath a tunnel of golden branches. The trail was carpeted with leaves, crunching underfoot with each step. The air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of decaying leaves and moist earth. Sunlight poured through gaps in the canopy, lighting up patches of ferns and casting long shadows on the rocky path. Here and there, the yellow and brown hues gave way to a burst of crimson, the leaves vivid and almost glowing in the sunlight.

The trail led me along the cliff’s edge, where the river carved its path below. Pausing on the footbridge to the south rim, a former railroad, I looked out over the gorge, admiring the mosaic of colors stretching as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the sound of the falls drifted up to me, a soft, continuous roar that lent the forest an almost mystical air. It was hard not to feel a sense of awe at the raw beauty of the scene.

Eventually, I made my way down the South Rim Trail. There were ample distractions from the glorious foliage. A lone mushroom, golden and nestled in a bed of moss, caught my eye—a small reminder of the forest’s quiet life. I bent down to examine it, marveling at its delicate cap and the way it seemed to glow against the lush green moss. The trees here were denser, casting cool shadows that contrasted with the sun-drenched north side. The leaves here were thicker underfoot, their earthy scent more pronounced, grounding me in the moment.

As I reached the lower section of the trail, I noticed an old stone staircase winding up through the trees to the north rim—a relic from another time, adding a touch of mystery to the path. Each step was worn smooth by countless feet, each one a reminder of the generations that had walked these trails before me. The stairs climbed through a cathedral of trees, each trunk tall and straight, as if standing guard over the trail.

On my way around I passed by a historical marker, a blue and yellow sign commemorating the camp site of Captain Jonathan Woodworth, a Revolutionary soldier who camped here in June 1788. It was a reminder that these trails, this land, had been cherished long before my steps fell upon it.

After reaching the base of the South Rim Trail, I looped back up the North Rim. The trail now felt familiar, yet the changing light gave it a new character. The sun was lower, casting a golden glow across the tops of the trees.

As I returned to my starting point, the sun cast a soft, warm light across the landscape, bathing the park in an ethereal glow. With one last look over the falls and the vivid tapestry of trees, I felt a sense of gratitude. Taughannock Falls State Park in autumn is an experience, one that leaves an indelible mark, reminding us of the beauty and timelessness of the natural world.

On the drive home I paused to admire a neighbor’s maple tree’s full autumn glory.

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Nature’s Role in Recovery: October at Treman Park

Pam’s recovery from hip replacement unfolds in Upper Robert H. Treman State Park, intertwining personal resilience with nature’s healing beauty.

MichaelStephenWills14 Comments

On a crisp October afternoon, October 3, 2024, Pam and I reveled in Upper Robert H. Treman State Park, a serene oasis nestled in Tompkins County. This visit was particularly special for us, a step in Pam’s recovery from her August hip replacement. I remember the sound of her hiking pole tapping the ground as we walked together, feeling grateful for her progress since surgery. The air was cool, and the leaves, turning gold and orange, whispered in the breeze, providing the perfect backdrop for our outing that day.

Our path followed the creek, the same creek that winds through the heart of the park, framed by layers of stone and lush vegetation. In one of the first photos I took that day, you can see the creek reflecting the soft autumn light, its bed dotted with rocks and fallen branches. The vibrant greens of the undergrowth juxtaposed with the golden leaves made the scene feel timeless, as though nature itself was participating in Pam’s recovery, offering healing in its quiet, enduring beauty.

The view upstream just before the creek enters The Gallery. Robert H. Treman State Park, Enfield, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State.

We paused to take in the quiet hum of life around us. There was a sense of history in the park that seemed to blend with our personal story. As we wandered deeper, we reached the foundation of the old Budd House, its stone blocks now barely a shadow of the past but still carrying echoes of life lived long ago. The placard described Charles Budd, a village blacksmith and postmaster, and his wife, Deborah, who continued to serve the community after his passing. Standing there, I reflected on how these stones, much like Pam’s journey, represented resilience and the passage of time.

Site 2: The Budd House The stone blocks set in the lawn here outline the subsurface remains of the home of Charles Budd and his family. Budd was the village blacksmith and postmaster. Before the Industrial Revolution introduced cheap, mass-produced goods, blacksmiths crafted all manner of metal implements, re-shoed horses, and repaired carriages. Below to the left is a photo of a blacksmith shop in Tompkins County. As the Enfield Falls postmaster, Charles Budd ran the post office out of the parlor (similar to a living room) of his house. He held this position until his death in 1896. His wife, Deborah Budd, then faithfully served as postmaster until the post office closed in 1902. Did you know? Step into the foundation outline. The size of the Budd House is typical for a 19th century middle-class house. How many rooms of your home would fit in the footprint of the Budd’s entire house? In the 19th century, rural community members picked up their mail once a week at post offices like Budd’s. These post offices were closed with the United States Postal Service’s transition to “rural delivery”—the nationwide delivery of mail directly to everyone’s doorstep. We still enjoy this service over 100 years later. In the 19th century, voluminous mail-order catalogues by companies like Sears & Roebuck and Montgomery Ward sold everything from clothing to home and farm supplies to buyers across the nation. Packages took days or weeks to arrive, and customers would have eagerly checked with postmasters to see if their order had been delivered. This excitement and anticipation are reflected in the musical number “The Wells Fargo Wagon” in the Broadway musical The Music Man set in 1912 Iowa. A free walking tour brochure, Archaeology in the Park, is available on the main floor of the Old Mill. Upper Treman. Robert H. Treman State Park, Enfield, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State.

As we stood by the foundation, we met another couple. The woman shared her own story of recovery, a tale of resilience that resonated deeply with us. She had fallen and suffered a spinal injury, becoming paralyzed from the neck down, while traveling. Thanks to surgery and rehabilitation, she regained full mobility. There was a moment of understanding and connection between us. We offered to take a photo of them, and they returned the favor, capturing the two of us—Pam leaning lightly on her cane, smiling, surrounded by trees whose leaves were beginning to fall. That picture, one of my favorites from the day, symbolizes not just Pam’s strength but also the support and shared experiences that come with recovery.

We are taking a walk through upper Treman Park during Pam’s recovery from hip replacement. This was taken by a couple we met.

The park offered us a space for reflection and a sense of continuity. The trees, some towering over us with roots gripping the earth, had seen many seasons of change, and now they watched over us as we walked beneath them. In the clearing where picnic tables stood, we sat for a while, simply absorbing the moment. The afternoon light filtered through the branches, casting long shadows on the grass.

One of the final photos I took that day captures the creek from another angle. The water, calm and clear, reflects the yellow hues of the trees, while the rocks and roots along the bank seem frozen in time. It’s a peaceful image, one that reminds me of the quiet strength that Pam has shown throughout her recovery.

Here Fish Creek, a tributary of Enfield Creek joins the flow just below the pavilion of Upper Treman.

We left the park that day feeling both uplifted and grounded, the layers of history and personal resilience blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. Upper Robert H. Treman had become had become a part of Pam’s recovery story, a testament to the healing power of both nature and community.

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Capturing Fall’s Beauty: A Journey of Healing

During a reflective walk, the author parallels the beauty of autumn his wife’s healing journey post-surgery, celebrating transformation and resilience.

MichaelStephenWills12 Comments

As I waited for Pam to finish her 30-minute physical therapy session at the Northeast Ithaca medical complex, I decided to capture moments of the fall season through my camera lens while walking. There’s something about this time of year—the crispness in the air, the vibrancy of the colors—that invites reflection, especially with the significance of Pam’s recovery following her hip replacement. These moments, both large and small, weave together to form the tapestry of life, and today, I felt a strong pull to observe, to pause, and to appreciate.

The first scene that caught my eye was a delicate scattering of maple leaves over smooth, weather-worn stones. The contrast between the rigid rocks and the soft, decaying leaves reminded me of life’s cyclical nature. The bright red and pale pink hues of the leaves, now beginning their slow decomposition, seemed to symbolize the passage of time—how even in their decay, they added beauty and texture to the scene. The leaves, having served their purpose on the tree, now danced with the wind, finding a new purpose in creating a natural mosaic. Much like how Pam’s healing journey is both the end of one struggle and the beginning of a new phase in our lives.

As I continued walking, I came upon a maple tree, standing tall with its branches adorned in fiery reds. The vibrancy of the foliage against the sky reminded me of strength in adversity. The tree had begun its seasonal transformation, shedding its leaves as it prepares for winter—a time of rest before the renewal of spring. I thought about how Pam, too, is in a season of transformation. Her body is adjusting, healing from the surgery, and preparing for new movement and freedom that will come in time. Watching the wind gently tug at the leaves, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for her resilience.

Nearby, a slender birch tree stood out, its bark a striking white against the greens and golds of early fall. The birch, with its smooth and peeling bark, fascinates me. It exudes a quiet elegance, standing firm and graceful; a symbol of quiet endurance, a steadfast presence amidst the ever-changing landscape. Much like the birch, Pam has weathered the storm of surgery with grace, moving through pain and discomfort with a quiet determination. The sound of a gentle stream nearby only added to the serenity of the scene, offering a soft, meditative backdrop to my thoughts.

Further along, I encountered clusters of green crabapples hanging heavily from a tree. Their small, round forms were imperfect, dotted with blemishes and signs of wear, yet there was beauty in their abundance. These fruits, while not perfect, are a testament to the tree’s efforts throughout the year, a reminder that growth and effort often result in the imperfect. Pam’s recovery isn’t without its challenges, but each step, each small victory, is a testament to her effort and determination. The crabapples reminded me that perfection is not the goal—progress and perseverance are.

On another tree, I found its branches laden with bright red berries, their glossy surfaces shining in the light. These berries, hanging so densely, added a sense of richness to the landscape, a vibrant contrast to the yellowing leaves of nearby trees. In many cultures, red berries symbolize vitality and protection, and in this moment, I thought of Pam’s vitality, her strength to heal and return to her daily life. The image of the berries will always remind me of this chapter of her recovery—a time where her strength was most evident.

As my walk continued, I marveled at another maple tree, its colors starting to fade into yellows and oranges, the leaves slowly dropping to the ground. The fallen leaves created a soft blanket around the tree, a reminder that letting go is a natural part of life. We often hold on to things, ideas, or even pain, long after they have served their purpose. Watching these leaves fall, I thought about Pam letting go of the pain and limitations she’s carried for months. Her body, much like this tree, is learning to release, to move forward.

On the ground, I noticed a close-up of more fallen leaves, these ones touched with both vibrant and fading hues, each in a different stage of its journey. Together, they formed a beautiful, textured layer over the soil, offering nutrients to the earth below. Even in their end, they contribute to new life. It struck me that even in difficult times, there is always a sense of renewal and growth. Pam’s healing is part of a larger cycle—one of renewal and transformation.

The final images of my walk were close-ups of a tree trunk covered in moss and lichen, and then the cones of a towering spruce tree. The moss, a soft green against the rough bark, seemed like nature’s way of nurturing the tree, offering protection and a touch of life in an otherwise harsh world. The cones, hanging in abundance from the spruce, signified a sense of continuity, of life moving forward even as the seasons change.

As I made my way, I realized this walk had been a meditation on Pam’s recovery, on the beauty of change, on the lessons nature offers in every season. Just as the trees prepare for winter and eventual rebirth, Pam too is in a season of healing, and I am grateful for every step she takes toward renewal.

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Exploring Autumn’s Beauty on the Finger Lakes Trail

The hike through Robert H. Treman State Park reflects nature’s cycles of life, decay, and renewal, intertwined with human history.

MichaelStephenWills5 Comments

The wind is cool, carrying the first real bite of autumn as I step onto the Finger Lakes Trail from Woodard Road, entering Robert H. Treman State Park. The sounds of rustling leaves underfoot remind me that the season is in full swing, and soon, this vibrant foliage will be a memory. But today, the trees still hold their colors—greens tinged with yellow, brown, and red—forming a canopy that seems to glow in the soft morning light.

The trail is quiet, save for the occasional chirping of birds and the subtle creaking of the trees as they sway in the wind. It’s a perfect time for reflection, and with each step, I feel myself sinking deeper into the peace of this place. Ahead of me, a fallen tree lies on the slope, now part of the earth, slowly being reclaimed by the forest. The log, dotted with moss and fungi, seems like a work of art created by time and nature. I stop to admire it, my fingers grazing the rough bark, now softened with age and decay. It’s a reminder that everything in nature moves in cycles—growth, death, and rebirth.

A few steps further and I find something even more intricate—another log, this one completely overtaken by a delicate layering of lichens and shelf fungi. The growth covers the bark like an elaborate tapestry of greens, grays, and soft whites. It’s beautiful in its own quiet way, and I take a moment to kneel beside it, studying the intricate patterns. Nature has a way of turning even decay into something stunning. I wonder how long it took for these fungi to establish their hold, slowly breaking down the wood, contributing to the endless cycle of life in the forest.

Moving onward, I come across a tall stump—remnants of a once-majestic tree, now shattered. The splintered wood reaches upward like jagged teeth, still sturdy despite the obvious trauma it endured. The raw power of nature is always humbling; trees like this seem so strong and permanent, yet even they can be brought down in an instant. It’s a reminder of life’s fragility, and I feel a sense of reverence standing in its presence, imagining the forces that felled it.

Continuing along the trail, I soon reach a clearing. There, nestled in the grass, is a plaque mounted on a large stone. It marks the site of the Civilian Conservation Corps (C.C.C.) Camp SP-6, Company 1253, which operated here from 1933 to 1935. I pause to read the inscription, which commemorates the young men who lived and worked in this camp during the Great Depression. They carried out public works projects, including improvements to Enfield Glen, Buttermilk Falls, and Taughannock Falls. I imagine the sense of purpose and camaraderie these workers must have felt, building something that would outlast them, even in the midst of hardship.

C.C.C. Camp SP-6, Company 1253, 1933-1935 During the Depression, Civilian Conservation Corps camps were established across America to provide employment for the relief of needy families. On this site, 200 young men lived and worked under the supervision of U.S. Army personnel. They carried out camp-wide and nearby construction and public works projects. Youth from Camp SP-6 worked on improvements in Enfield Glen, Buttermilk Falls, and Taughannock Falls State Park.

The plaque is a poignant reminder of the connection between humans and nature. Just as the trees here are part of a larger cycle, so too were the men of the C.C.C. They left their mark on this land, shaping the trails and structures we now take for granted. And yet, like everything in nature, their work is being slowly reclaimed by the forest. The wooden signs marking distances and directions are weathered, moss creeping up their bases, as if the forest itself is gently pulling them back into the earth.

As I cross a small wooden footbridge, recently replaced on the Finger Lakes Trail, I stop to look down at the creek below. The water moves steadily, reflecting the gold and green hues of the trees above. Small waterfalls tumble over rocks, their gentle rush filling the air with a peaceful sound. I watch the water for a while, feeling the pull of time and nature’s persistence.

View from the bridge, upstream Fish Creek

Standing there, I’m struck by how everything I’ve encountered today, from the fallen trees to the CCC plaque, tells the same story—nature’s quiet persistence, its ability to adapt, reclaim, and renew. I breathe deeply, knowing that while time moves forward and everything changes, the beauty and wisdom of places like this will always remain, if we just take the time to notice.


View from the bridge, downstream Fish Creek

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Exploring Rincon Peak: Hiking Adventures in Arizona

As we stood atop Rincon Peak, the sky darkened with the approach of a sudden thunderstorm. Below us, the San Pedro River valley sprawled, with the Mae West Peaks to the left and the legendary Dragoon Mountains straight ahead. This photograph captures that exhilarating moment—standing on the summit with the world at our feet and the wild Arizona sky closing in. Curious about how we got there and our race against nature’s fury? Join me on the blog to delve into the full adventure and explore more stunning images from the heart of the Rincon Wilderness.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

The Rincons are one of 42 Sky Island mountains isolated from each other due to gradual warming and drying climate changes since the last ice age, 10,000 years ago. While this marvelous environment of oak and pine forests is accessible only on foot and with significant effort, it is visible from every point of the Tucson valley, home to a million inhabitants.

The name ‘Rincon,’ Spanish for ‘corner,’ reflects the mountains’ shape as they enclose a space on the west and northwest. This area, formerly used for ranching, is now being developed for tract housing. In contrast, the mountains themselves are preserved as wilderness, with parts designated within the Saguaro National Park and the Coronado National Forest.

In the past 51 years, I have been lucky enough to visit the Rincon Wilderness interior four times, shouldering different style backpacks onto the mountain and walking in different boots. My first trip was during college in the 1970s, when a party of six of us left from the end of Speedway, heading up the Douglas Springs trail. The climb was an exercise in desert survival that several friendships did not survive, replaced by new friends met on Mica Mountain. I have no photographs from that experience, only memories and the backpack.

Decades later, reconnecting with Arizona in 2004—thirty-one years after that first experience—I took no chances. This time, my attempt on Rincon Peak was a success. I reduced risk and effort, though not eliminating them, by hiring a guide for the four-day trip. We reached Rincon Peak via the Turkey Creek Trail out of Happy Valley, climbing a mountain buttress with views that widened and lengthened with every step.

Capturing these moments, I took several photographs during that experience. Two years later I added a landscape of the peak at sunset.

Along the Turkey Creek trail, Sego Lilies bloomed among a stricken oak and drying grasses, offering a vivid glimpse into the region’s delicate ecosystem. It is the winter rains that trigger such a bloom.

Sego Lilies -- CLICK ME!!!!

Enthralled by their beauty, we paused while I unpacked my gear to photograph the Sego Lilies growing along the trail.

Sego Lilies -- CLICK ME!!!!
Sego Lilies -- CLICK ME!!!!

When we reached Deer Head Spring at the top of Turkey Creek Trail on April 27, 2004, it was a moist spot with no accessible water. With only about a gallon of water each remaining, we pressed ahead to Heartbreak Ridge and climbed into Happy Valley Saddle, where, thankfully, the creek—though low and full of algae—was usable. It was here that I caught my first glimpses of Rincon Peak, looking across the aptly named Heartbreak Ridge and Happy Valley Saddle.

Distant View of Rincon Peak-- CLICK ME!!!!
Telephoto view of Rincon Peak -- CLICK ME!!!!

From Rincon Peak, the view to the south was breathtaking. The white rocks at the lower right formed the Valley of the Moon wall. Below lay the San Pedro River valley, with the Mae West Peaks at the left margin and the Dragoon Mountains with Cochise Stronghold at the center. I took this photograph around 12:30 PM on April 28, 2004, just as a thunderstorm was approaching.

View from Rincon Peak -- CLICK ME!!!!

Rotating the camera to the south-southwest, the view stretched over the Valley of the Moon to the eastern Tucson Valley and the Sky Islands of the Whetstone Mountains (Apache Peak), with the Santa Ritas behind them. In this vast landscape, the works of man are overpowered by sky, rock, and distance.

View from Rincon Peak -- CLICK ME!!!!

We made a hasty departure ahead of the thunderstorm. Attempting the peak that day had been a touch-and-go decision, but we reached the summit with moments to spare.

On the morning of April 29, 2004, the day after reaching Rincon Peak, I set up my tripod near our Happy Valley Saddle camp. In the serene early morning sunlight, I captured images of Rincon Peak, reflecting on the previous day’s ascent.

Rincon Peak from Happy Valley Saddle, dawn -- CLICK ME!!!!

On the day we descended to the X9 Ranch via the Rincon Creek trail, we were granted a unique opportunity. My guide’s grandfather had a homestead at the X9, and his access to the trailhead through private lands opened this ro ute for us. That evening, I took a photograph of the sunset on Rincon Peak from the X9 Ranch, looking east from the ‘Rincon’—the corner formed by the massifs of Rincon Peak, Mica Mountain, and Tanque Verde Ridge.

The X9 ranch sits in the Rincon (spanish for corner) made by the massifs Rincon Peak, Mica Mountain and Tanque Verde ridge.

Two years later, on the evening of November 2, 2006, I climbed the Tanque Verde trail in Saguaro National Park East for about 30 minutes to reach a vantage point of Rincon Peak. Intending to capture the peak bathed in golden light, I waited until just before the sun set behind the Tucson Mountain. Afterwards, I raced the sun hiked back to the car. In my hurry, I tripped on a stepped turn and dove headfirst into a large prickly pear cactus. It was a very painful experience. Large spines pierced my face, while tiny, pesky spines covered my chest and back. The large spines, not being barbed, came out easily, but I needed to visit a physician to remove the rest.

Click me for a framed version of this photograph
Rincon Peak from the X9 Ranch-- CLICK ME!!!!

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