Category: Ithaca

A Visit from Rose-Breasted Grosbeaks

On a serene May morning, a small flock of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks graced the author’s yard, showcasing their vibrant plumage and bringing beauty to the tranquil scene of nature.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments


It was a gentle May morning, the kind that seems to hush even the wind, as though nature were holding its breath for something wonderful. Through the kitchen window, just past the black iron gate entwined with the fresh green of climbing rose, I spotted them—feathered heralds of spring’s deepening promise—perched like jeweled notes on a musical staff.


The Rose-breasted Grosbeaks had arrived.

May 3, 2025 Four Male Rose Brested Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Not one or two, but a small flock, draped in raindrops, feathered in contrast and charm. They gathered around our backyard feeder like guests invited to a familiar table. At 5:56 a.m., the camera captured the first image: two males on the feeder and one each on fence and chair, a bold bib of crimson splashed across snowy chests, huddled against the gray of the feeder, their plumage brilliant even in the diffused dawn light. I couldn’t help but smile. This was a scene of quiet splendor, a symphony for the eyes and soul.


The males, unmistakable in their attire, wore tuxedos of black and white, with the defining rose-red marking on the breast that gives the species its common name. Their scientific name, Pheucticus ludovicianus, is less poetic but equally telling. “Pheucticus” comes from the Greek pheuktikos, meaning “shy” or “avoiding,” reflecting their reclusive habits in forested nesting grounds. “Ludovicianus” refers to Louisiana, an early French colonial name for a vast region including their breeding range—a nod to their North American roots.


At 5:58 a.m., the lens captured more details: a male with slightly mottled wing feathers, suggesting he was a younger bird, still dressing up in adult finery. The trio clung to the feeder’s edge, their heavy, conical beaks—perfect for cracking seeds—clearly visible. That oversized bill gives them the name “grosbeak,” from the French gros bec, literally “large beak.” Functional beauty, you might say.

May 3, 2025 Three of the Four Male Rose Brested Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Then, at 6:08 a.m., came the contrast—the female. Subtly adorned in warm browns, with creamy streaks and a wash of yellow near the wings, she perched beside her flamboyant mate, as if to say: elegance need not shout. The two birds looked momentarily toward each other, and I was struck by their balance—his flair and her grace. Her eyebrow stripe, called a supercilium, lent her a composed, alert expression. While the male might catch the eye, the female commands attention in her own, quieter way.

May 3, 2025 Male and Female Rose Breasted Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.


Rose-breasted Grosbeaks are migratory, long-distance travelers who winter in Central and South America and return each spring to North America’s deciduous and mixed woodlands to breed. Here in upstate New York, our yard is a brief rest stop on their northward journey—or, if I’m lucky, a summer home. They often nest in dense foliage, and their song, a melodic, whistled warble—like a robin who’s taken voice lessons—is often the first clue to their presence.


This morning, no song was needed. Their silent presence was enough.


Watching them, I felt time slow, the kind of moment when the ordinary yard becomes cathedral. Watching them, I felt time slow, the kind of moment when the ordinary yard becomes cathedral. The wet fence and chair under the feeder, even the crumpled leaf bag—everything was blessed by the company of these birds. Rain softened the world, and the birds brought color to its hush.


Later that day, reviewing the photos with metadata timestamps from my iPhone—each image like a verse in a poem—I marveled at what I had witnessed. These weren’t just birds. They were stories in flight, living punctuation marks in the sentence of my morning.


Nature gives us these moments, brief as birdsong and just as sweet. You only have to be still, and ready to receive them.

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References

  1. Pheucticus ludovicianus (Rose-breasted Grosbeak). Cornell Lab of Ornithology – All About Birds.
  2. Jobling, James A. The Helm Dictionary of Scientific Bird Names. London: Christopher Helm, 2010.
  3. Merriam-Webster Dictionary: Etymology of “Grosbeak.”
  4. iPhone 14 Pro Max image metadata (May 3, 2025; 5:56 a.m. to 6:08 a.m.; Ithaca, NY).

Discovering Trillium Species: Beauty in Diversity

A reflective springtime journey through Robert H. Treman and Fillmore Glen State Parks reveals the quiet beauty and botanical mysteries of red and white trilliums—exploring their species differences, color shifts, and the wonder of their ephemeral blooms.

MichaelStephenWills41 Comments

Click me for my Getty flower photography.

Late April – Robert H. Treman State Park

I follow a winding trail through hemlock and maple woods, the air cool and earthy after a spring rain. Under the canopy of budding leaves, I spot a flash of deep burgundy among the moss. Kneeling, I find a red trillium blooming at the base of an old oak. Its three velvety petals are a rich wine color against the green moss and damp leaf litter. A faint musky scent wafts from the flower – no wonder some call it “Stinking Benjamin.” Nearby stands another trillium, but this one is a pristine white star facing upward toward the light. Its broad petals have a gentle wavy edge and no noticeable odor. The red flower droops modestly while the white one opens itself to the sky. Different in color and posture, I realize these are two distinct species1 sharing the same springtime stage.

Red trilliums (Trillium erectum) and white trilliums (Trillium grandiflorum) thrive side by side on the mossy roots of a tree. The maroon “wake robin” flowers nod toward the earth, while the white blooms stand upright to catch the light.

Seeing the red and white blooms side by side feels like meeting two woodland siblings – each unique yet part of the same family. The white trillium is almost luminous in the forest gloom, while the red trillium blends into the shadows with its dark hues. Both emerge from the soil after long, cold months, timing their bloom for the brief sunny window before the trees fully leaf out. Knowing how slowly these perennials grow and how long they live makes their yearly return even more special to witness. Their resilience in coming back each spring fills me with quiet awe.

Early May – Fillmore Glen State Park

A week later, I wander the lush gorge of Fillmore Glen. The trail is alive with birdsong and the rush of a creek. Dappled sunlight slips through the greening canopy, illuminating patches of the forest floor. Rounding a bend, I catch my breath — the hillside ahead is blanketed with hundreds of white trilliums, a breathtaking constellation of blooms across the ground that feels almost sacred. Careful not to tread on any, I step closer to admire them at eye level.

Up close, one large white trillium reveals a surprise: a delicate wash of pink across its aging petals, as if it were blushing. It’s known that after pollination the snow-white petals of Trillium grandiflorum often turn rose-pink with age2. Indeed, many blossoms here wear a faint pink tint, especially those that have been open for a while. This blush of maturity gives the colony a quietly celebratory air – fresh ivory blooms mingling with older siblings tinted softly rose.

The petals of a white trillium take on a soft pink blush as the flower ages, adding a new hue to the spring palette. Fresh white trilliums bloom in the background while older ones show a rosy tint.

In a shaded nook at the edge of the colony, a lone red trillium blooms among the white. I wonder if the red and white trilliums ever hybridize. I see no intermediate colors and recall that the white trillium rarely hybridizes with other species3. The red trillium, by contrast, can swap pollen with certain close relatives, yielding various forms elsewhere. But a true red–white cross never occurs here – each species keeps to its own.

Trillium bloom April through May in central New York State. I found these blooming on the rim of Fillmore Glen near Owasco Lake and the town of Moravia.

The red trillium even has a rare white-petaled form4 easily mistaken for its white-flowered cousin. I linger a bit longer among these graceful “trinity flowers,” my questions answered and my appreciation deepened. As I turn to go, a sunbeam breaks through and illuminates one last trillium by the trail, its white petals touched with pink. I smile, grateful for the chance to witness this woodland wonder.

Click me for another Trillium posting

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Footnotes

  1. Different species: Red trillium and white trillium are separate species (Trillium erectum and Trillium grandiflorum, respectively), distinguished by traits like flower orientation and petal shapeidentifythatplant.com.
  2. White petals turn pink: The large white trillium’s petals are pure white upon opening but gradually develop a rose-pink or purple tint as the flower agesnj.gov.
  3. Rare hybridization: Unlike some trilliums that hybridize readily, Trillium grandiflorum (white trillium) is not known to form hybrids with other speciesen.wikipedia.org. Trillium erectum can hybridize with its close relatives, but a red–white trillium cross is not observed in nature.
  4. White form of red trillium: Trillium erectum (normally red) has a variety with white petals, classified as T. erectum var. album, which can be mistaken for a white trillium at a glancemidatlanticnature.blogspot.com.

Among the Trout Lilies in Sapsucker Woods

On April 22, 2025, a wanderer discovers a trout lily, representing nature’s cycles, patience, and the interconnectedness of life through blooming, pollination, and nutrient cycling.

MichaelStephenWills9 Comments

On the bright afternoon of April 22, 2025, I wander slowly through Sapsucker Woods, last year’s oak leaves soft underfoot and the smell of damp earth in the air. The trees stand bare, and somewhere a woodpecker drums as I search the ground for any sign of spring. A flash of gold catches my eye at the mossy base of a tree. Kneeling down, I find among the leaf litter a small wildflower glowing yellow.  It is a trout lily – Erythronium americanum – a solitary, nodding bloom on a slender stem. Six delicate petals flare backward, golden with a few reddish freckles near the throat; long stamens dangle beneath. Two lance-shaped leaves hug the ground, green marbled with burgundy-brown. Their mottled pattern looks like a brook trout’s flank. This flower is known by many names: “trout lily” for its fish-like leaves, “dogtooth violet” for its pointed white bulb 1, and “adder’s tongue” for its tongue-shaped leaf tip.

Its formal name, Erythronium americanum, comes from the Greek for “red”2—odd for a yellow bloom until one remembers the purple dogtooth violets of Europe. Americanum simply marks it as native here. I soon realize these trout lilies are not alone – dozens of dappled leaves carpet the damp earth around me. Most show no blossom at all, only a single freckled leaf standing alone. Only the older plants with two leaves manage to lift a yellow flower. In fact, they often form extensive colonies on the forest floor. I’ve learned a trout lily may wait seven years to bloom its first time3. Seasons of patience pass unseen underground, and then one spring it earns the chance to unfurl a golden star. That slow, patient rhythm of growth fills me with wonder.

A tiny black bee—or maybe a fly—lands on the trout lily’s bloom, drawn by its promise of pollen. It disappears into the flower’s downturned bell, brushing against the dusting of pollen inside. In early spring, few other blossoms are open, so this little lily is a lifeline for hungry pollinators4. There is even a solitary “trout lily bee” that times its life to these flowers5. Flower and insect share an ancient pact: the lily feeds the visitor, and the visitor carries the lily’s pollen onward to another bloom.

Within a week, the trout lily’s golden star will wither. By the time the canopy closes overhead, the flower will have curled into a green seedpod that splits open by early summer, releasing its seeds6. Each seed carries a tiny parcel of food irresistible to ants7. Ants haul the seeds to their nest, eat the morsel, and abandon the seed in their tunnels—unwittingly planting the next generation. The name for this circular ecological dance is myrmecochory. Over time, the colony inches across the forest floor, guided by these tiny gardeners. During its short life above ground, this little lily helps the forest. Its roots soak up nutrients from the damp soil, keeping them from washing away in spring rains8. When the plant dies back, those nutrients return to the earth as the leaves decay, nourishing other life. In this way, a patch of trout lilies forms a quiet bridge between seasons—capturing nutrients in spring and returning them by summer’s end. I touch one cool leaf, feeling connected to this cycle.

I rise and take a final look at the little yellow lily. Its brief bloom reminds me that life’s most beautiful moments are fleeting yet return each year. This blossom will vanish in a few days, a blink of the season, but it will come back next spring as faithful as hope. In its patience and generosity, I sense kinship. Like the trout lily, we too have long periods of waiting and rare moments of blooming. We also rely on small kindnesses to help us thrive—like a friend in hard times or a community that carries our dreams to fertile ground. And we are part of a larger cycle, giving and receiving, leaving something of ourselves to nurture the future. As I continue down the trail, I carry the image of that humble flower with me—a gentle assurance that even the smallest life can leave a lasting impression, and that hope will always return with the spring.

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Footnotes

  1. wildadirondacks.org Trout lily’s common names: “Trout lily” refers to the trout-like mottling on its leaves, while “dogtooth violet” refers to the tooth-like shape of its underground bulb (despite not being a true violet). It is also sometimes called “adder’s tongue.” ↩
  2. en.wikipedia.org The genus name Erythronium comes from the Greek erythros, meaning “red,” originally referring to the red-purple flowers of the European dogtooth violet (Erythronium dens-canis). The species name americanum denotes that it is native to America. ↩
  3. peacevalleynaturecenter.org Trout lilies often grow in large colonies and most individuals in a colony are non-flowering. A plant typically needs about seven years of growth before it produces its first bloom. ↩
  4. peacevalleynaturecenter.org Spring ephemeral wildflowers like the trout lily provide crucial early nectar and pollen for pollinators (bees, flies, butterflies) emerging in early spring. ↩
  5. appalachianforestnha.org The trout lily miner bee (Andrena erythronii) is a solitary bee whose life cycle is closely tied to the trout lily; it forages primarily on trout lily flowers, making it a specialist pollinator of this species. ↩
  6. wildadirondacks.org After pollination, trout lily flowers are replaced by seed capsules that ripen and split open to release the seeds in late spring. ↩
  7. atozflowers.com Erythronium americanum seeds have a small fleshy appendage called an elaiosome, which attracts ants. The ants carry the seeds to their nests, aiding in dispersal in exchange for the food reward, a mutualism known as myrmecochory. ↩
  8. pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov By growing and taking up nutrients during the brief spring season, trout lily plants help retain important nutrients (like potassium and nitrogen) in the ecosystem. When the plants die back and decay, those nutrients return to the soil, contributing to the forest’s nutrient cycle. ↩

Explore Louisa Duemling Meadows: Nature and Conservation

The Louisa Duemling Meadows celebrate conservation and biodiversity, showcasing vibrant flora and honoring Louisa Duemling’s legacy as a steward of nature.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

The Louisa Duemling Meadows, nestled within the expansive embrace of Sapsucker Woods, offers a vibrant tableau of life, brimming with opportunities for exploration and a sense of wonder. This new trail, winding through golden fields and punctuated by bursts of wildflowers, whispers tales of the land’s natural and cultural heritage.

Louisa Duemling: A Steward of Nature
Louisa Duemling, the meadows’ namesake, was a dedicated conservationist and philanthropist who supported the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s mission to protect birds and their habitats. Her legacy lives on in these serene fields, where her commitment to preserving the environment is reflected in every thriving plant and songbird.

Black-eyed Susans: The Meadow’s Golden Treasure
Dominating this summertime landscape with their radiant yellow petals and dark central disks, Black-eyed Susans (Rudbeckia hirta) are a hallmark of the meadows. These cheerful blooms are a delight to the eye, a cornerstone of meadow ecosystems. As members of the Asteraceae family, their composite flowers serve as a rich nectar source for pollinators like bees and butterflies, ensuring the vibrancy of these fields.

Historically, Black-eyed Susans have been used in traditional medicine by Native American tribes for their putative anti-inflammatory properties. Their ability to thrive in diverse conditions also makes them a symbol of resilience and adaptability.

A Symphony of Green and Gold
Walking through the trail, one is greeted by the harmonious interplay of goldenrods (Solidago spp.), milkweeds (Asclepias spp.), and asters (Symphyotrichum spp.). Goldenrods, with their feathery clusters of yellow blooms, are often mistaken as allergenic culprits, though it is the inconspicuous ragweed (Ambrosia artemisiifolia) that deserves this reputation. Milkweeds, with their milky sap and delicate pink or white flowers, are vital to monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus), serving as the sole food source for their larvae.

Among these botanical wonders, the birdhouse stands as a sentinel, a reminder of the intricate relationship between flora and fauna. These wooden structures provide safe havens for cavity-nesting birds like Eastern Bluebirds (Sialia sialis) and Tree Swallows (Tachycineta bicolor), fostering biodiversity within the meadow.

A Horizon Framed by Pines and Clouds
The open meadow trails, flanked by clusters of Eastern White Pines (Pinus strobus) and punctuated by the azure sky, invite reflection and renewal. This is a place where the human spirit can align with the rhythms of nature, where each step reveals new layers of beauty and discovery.

Embracing the Spirit of Discovery
To wander the Louisa Duemling Meadows is to immerse oneself in the timeless dance of life. The trail, carefully marked yet wild in essence, invites visitors to lose themselves in its beauty while finding solace in its quietude. This is not just a path through nature—it is a journey into the heart of conservation and a celebration of the life that thrives under Louisa Duemling’s enduring legacy.

As you leave the meadow, carry with you not just the memory of golden flowers and vibrant skies but the inspiration to cherish and protect the natural world. The Louisa Duemling Meadows are not only a gift to those who walk its trails but a reminder of the profound impact one can have in preserving our planet’s fragile beauty.

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Monarch Chrysalis: A Symbol of Nature’s Resilience

On a September day, a Monarch chrysalis symbolizes resilience amidst environmental threats, prompting reflection on stewardship and hopeful change.

MichaelStephenWills12 Comments

On a warm September afternoon, 2024, Pam and I passed a planting of shimmering grasses along the Cayuga Lake shore, the tips of their feathery plumes swaying in a gentle breeze. Amidst the verdant tapestry, my eyes caught a flash of delicate green—a Monarch chrysalis, hanging like a precious jewel beneath one of the seed heads. It was an unexpected encounter, a moment of grace that felt almost otherworldly. The chrysalis, pale jade with gold accents, looked like something born of magic rather than biology. For a moment, time paused.

The only Monarch chrysalis we found in 2024, notable for the absence of caterpillars around our home. Tompkins Park, Ithaca, New York, Finger Lakes Region

I knelt carefully, mindful not to disturb the fragile life suspended before me. As I leaned in closer, I marveled at the perfection of its design. The intricate gold dots along its casing seemed impossibly precise, as though a divine hand had painted them there. Yet, this chrysalis was also a paradox: it was a shield of stillness, promising the coming transformation of a creature known for motion and migration.

The significance of this discovery didn’t escape me. Just two years ago, the International Union for Conservation of Nature officially classified the Monarch butterfly as “endangered.” Habitat destruction, pesticide use, and climate change have decimated their numbers. Monarchs, once so plentiful they seemed a seasonal certainty, now teeter on the edge of disappearance. To find this chrysalis was to witness a quiet rebellion against those odds, a solitary emblem of resilience in a world fraught with loss.

I thought of their epic journey—a migration that spans thousands of miles, linking Canada to the forests of central Mexico. For generations, these butterflies have followed ancestral paths with unerring precision, defying every obstacle in their way. How can something so small carry the weight of such immense journeys? And how, in a world that seems to grow harsher each year, do they still persist?

This chrysalis, tucked in the grasses of Stewart Park, felt like an answer to those questions. It was a reminder of the resilience of life, the determination of nature to continue despite all that works against it. And yet, it also felt like a fragile promise. The Monarch’s survival is no longer assured; its future, like the butterfly within this chrysalis, hangs by a thread.

As I rose and continued our walk, I carried the image of the chrysalis with me, letting its quiet beauty settle in my mind. I thought of the interconnectedness of all things: the milkweed plants that sustain Monarch caterpillars, the winds that guide their migrations, and the people whose choices shape the landscapes they traverse. Stewardship is not just a responsibility; it is a privilege—an opportunity to ensure that these miraculous creatures continue to grace our skies.

By the time I left the park, the sun had sunk toward the west, its light no longer graced the grasses. I looked back one last time, hoping that this chrysalis would complete its transformation safely. In its stillness, I saw not just hope, but a call to action. The Monarch’s story is not just about survival; it’s about the courage to evolve and adapt, even when the odds seem insurmountable. And perhaps, in witnessing this moment of metamorphosis, we too are reminded of our capacity to change—to become better stewards of the world we share.

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Exploring Art with Toddlers: A Day at Johnson Museum

In October 2017, a family visit to the Johnson Museum of Art enriched bonds through art appreciation and nature exploration with toddler Sam.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

On a crisp October morning in 2017, I was on the cusp of retirement with leisure time to explored the Johnson Museum of Art at Cornell University, with my grandson Sam and his grandmother, Pam, my wife. We were attending a “Let’s Look Baby” event—a wonderful opportunity to introduce young children to art and the world around them. Sam was a toddler at the time, curious and full of energy, and I was eager to share this moment of discovery with him.

The day started on the museum’s upper level, where expansive windows offered breathtaking views of Ithaca, Cayuga Lake, and the surrounding hills. I lifted Sam so he could take it all in, his little hands gripping my arm as he gazed out at the vibrant autumn landscape while Pam captured the moment. The trees were in early stages of autumn—fiery reds, golden yellows, and rich browns—while Cayuga Lake shimmered in the distance, its deep blue surface reflecting the clear October sky. Sam pointed out toward the horizon; his eyes wide with curiosity. I told him about the lake, the hills, and the valley, trying to capture the beauty of it all in words simple enough for him to understand.

The architecture of the Johnson Museum itself framed the experience perfectly. Designed by I.M. Pei, the building’s clean, modern lines allowed the landscape to take center stage. Standing there with Sam, I felt a profound sense of gratitude—for the view, for the moment, and most of all, for the chance to share it with Sam.

Looking southwest over Cornell University and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. West Hill is to the right. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

As part of the event, we explored the museum’s galleries, moving from one exhibit to the next. The “Let’s Look Baby” program was designed with young children in mind, blending art appreciation with sensory exploration. While Sam was too young to fully grasp the meaning behind the pieces, he was fascinated by the vibrant colors and the textures of the displays. At one point, we stopped by a ceramic vase. Its elegant curves caught Sam’s attention, and I used the moment to talk to him about shapes and forms, pointing out how it was similar to the roundness of a pumpkin or the arc of a rainbow.

Looking South / Southwest over Cornell University and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. Ithaca College is to the left on South Hill. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

Throughout the visit, I found myself narrating the world to Sam, drawing connections between what we saw in the museum and the beauty of the natural world outside. It reminded me how much there is to learn and how much joy there is in teaching, even if the lessons are as simple as noticing the colors of leaves or the shape of a cloud.

Looking southwest over Cornell University’s Lib Hill and Ithaca, down the Cayuga Lake Valley. West Hill is to the right. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

We returned to the large windows overlooking Ithaca more than once. From there, I pointed out the landmarks of the city—downtown Ithaca with its steeples, the rolling hills, and the peaceful expanse of Cayuga Lake stretching toward the horizon. Sam listened quietly, his small fingers pointing to whatever caught his attention. I wondered what he was thinking, but I knew this experience, even if he wouldn’t remember it fully, was shaping his view of the world.

Looking to the North / Northwest over Cornell University and Cayuga Heights to Cayuga Lake. West Hill is to the far left. Along the southern lake shore is Stewart Park, the lighthouse, New York State Marina and Cass Park. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

The day wasn’t just about what we saw—it was about the connection we shared. Holding Sam in my arms, I felt the simple, deep joy of being present in the moment. This was a chance to see the world through his eyes, to notice the details I might otherwise overlook, and to marvel at the way something as simple as a vase or a view could spark his curiosity.

Looking to the North / Northwest over Cornell University and Cayuga Heights to Cayuga Lake. West Hill is to the far left. Along the southern lake shore is Stewart Park, the lighthouse, New York State Marina and Cass Park. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region of New York State

As the October sun swept over the landscape, casting warm golden light, we left the museum. Sam was getting sleepy, his little head resting on my shoulder Pam and I shared a quiet contentment. That day at the Johnson Museum is a memory to treasure, a reminder of the beauty in both art and the natural world, and most importantly, the joy of sharing it with someone you love.

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Ecological Significance of False Solomon’s Seal

In Taughannock Falls State Park, False Solomon’s Seal captivates with its beauty, ecological role, and historical medicinal uses.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

The trails of Taughannock Falls State Park always hold surprises, and on that July day, they did not disappoint. As I paused to take in the tranquility of the woods, my gaze fell upon a plant whose graceful arch and clusters of berries demanded attention. Its broad, lance-shaped leaves alternated along the stem, framing the stem’s terminal cluster of small green berries. Recognizing the plant as Maianthemum racemosum, commonly known as False Solomon’s Seal, I took a moment to admire its understated elegance.

False Solomon’s Seal, scientific name Maianthemum racemosum, is common in the Finger Lakes Region. I found this specimen during a walk with the grandchildren in a local fen among the post-glacial terrain of the Finger Lakes Region. Eames Memorial Natural Area, Cornell Botanic Gardens, Town of Dryden, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State

Characteristics of the Plant

False Solomon’s Seal is a perennial herbaceous plant belonging to the asparagus family (Asparagaceae). It can grow up to three feet tall, its arching stems giving it a unique and recognizable silhouette. The leaves are broad and lance-shaped, with prominent veins running their length, arranged alternately along the stem. At the tip of each stem is a cluster of tiny, spherical green berries, which later in the season ripen to a speckled reddish hue. The plant blooms in late spring to early summer, producing delicate, star-shaped white flowers before transitioning to its fruiting phase.

Found throughout much of North America, Maianthemum racemosum thrives in moist, shaded woodlands, making the lush forests of Taughannock Falls State Park an ideal home. Its ability to grow in the dappled light beneath the forest canopy highlights its adaptability to varying light conditions.

Etymology of the Name

The genus name, Maianthemum, comes from the Greek words “mai” (May) and “anthemon” (flower), reflecting the plant’s tendency to bloom in late spring or early summer. The species name, racemosum, refers to the plant’s inflorescence, which forms a raceme—a cluster of flowers or berries along a single stem. Its common name, False Solomon’s Seal, derives from its superficial resemblance to Solomon’s Seal (Polygonatum spp.), though the latter has bell-shaped flowers hanging beneath its stems, in contrast to the terminal clusters of Maianthemum racemosum.

History and Folklore

False Solomon’s Seal has long been valued for its medicinal and culinary uses by Indigenous peoples and early settlers. The young shoots were harvested and cooked as a vegetable, while the ripe berries were sometimes used in jellies or preserves, though their slightly bitter flavor limited their appeal. Medicinally, teas made from the roots and leaves were used to treat a variety of ailments, including digestive issues, coughs, and sore throats. The roots were also applied as poultices for cuts and bruises, reflecting the deep understanding of natural remedies held by those who lived in harmony with the land.

The plant’s name has sparked legends. While the “false” in its name denotes its distinction from Solomon’s Seal, some folklore suggests that the plant was used to counterfeit the medicinal properties of its namesake. Others believe that its graceful arch and persistent berries symbolize resilience and adaptability, qualities often attributed to those who lived in its native habitats.

Uses and Ecological Role

Although not widely cultivated, Maianthemum racemosum is a valuable plant in its native ecosystems. Its flowers provide nectar for pollinators such as bees and butterflies, while the berries are a food source for birds and small mammals. Its rhizomatous roots also play a role in stabilizing soil in forested environments, preventing erosion and supporting the health of the woodland floor.

For those contemplating harvesting these plants be advised that collection of plants from New York State Parks is prohibited to protect natural resources and maintain ecological balance. According to the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation (OPRHP) regulations, “No person shall… remove… any… plant life” within state parks without proper authorization. Therefore, collecting plants in state parks without explicit permission is not allowed. If you have a specific research or educational purpose, you may contact the park administration to inquire about obtaining the necessary permits. However, for casual visitors, it’s best to enjoy the flora from a distance. False Solomon Seal ecological contributions are significant. In addition to its pollinator support and soil stabilization, the plant’s presence is an indicator of a healthy woodland ecosystem.

A Moment of Reflection

As I rose from my crouched position, having taken in the details of Maianthemum racemosum, I felt a quiet gratitude for the opportunity to encounter such a plant. False Solomon’s Seal, with its graceful leaves and unassuming berries, serves as a reminder of the interconnectedness of life in the forest. Its role in the ecosystem, its history with humans, and its understated beauty all speak to the richness of the natural world.

Walking onward, I carried with me a sense of awe for the intricate web of life that thrives in the woods. The False Solomon’s Seal, standing quietly among the ferns and leaf litter, seemed to embody the resilience and balance of the forest—a gentle presence in a vibrant community.

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Hylodesmum glutinosum: Characteristics and Ecology

The author reflects on hiking at Taughannock Falls State Park, discovering the Large-Flowered Tick Trefoil’s beauty and ecological significance.

MichaelStephenWills1 Comment

It was a high summer day as I enjoyed a customary hike around of Taughannock Falls State Park on the South and North Rim trails. Here sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, dappling the forest floor with shifting patches of light. Along the trail, my attention was drawn to a cluster of pink blossoms rising on slender, upright stems. Intrigued by their delicate beauty, I crouched down for a closer look. The plant rose above the forest floor, its trifoliate leaves broad and prominently veined, each leaflet slightly larger than I would have expected. These leaves seemed to anchor the plant to the shaded understory, while its flowers reached upward, as though eager to catch the fleeting rays of sun. I captured the plant in this photographs, later used it to identify Hylodesmum glutinosum, or Large-Flowered Tick Trefoil.

Characteristics of the Plant

The Large-Flowered Tick Trefoil is a striking member of the pea family (Fabaceae). Its pink, pea-like flowers are arranged in graceful racemes along the upper portions of its stems, their vibrant color contrasting beautifully with the green foliage around them. The leaves, broad and trifoliate, lend the plant its distinctive appearance. The name “tick trefoil” refers to the plant’s seed pods, which are flat and segmented, equipped with tiny hooks that cling stubbornly to passing animals or hikers, hitchhiking their way to new locations.

The plant is native to eastern North America, including the forests and trails of New York State. Its preference for rich, well-drained soils in partially shaded woodlands makes it a common sight in places like Taughannock Falls State Park. Blooming from mid to late summer, it provides an essential nectar source for bees and other pollinators, playing its part in the intricate web of the forest ecosystem.

Etymology of the Name

The genus name, Hylodesmum, was established only twenty-five years ago when the plant was reclassified from the genus Desmodium to a new genus within the tribe Desmodieae. The name reflects its forested habitat, with “hylo” derived from the Greek word for “wood” or “forest.” Previously described in 1802 as Hedysarum glutinosum and later placed in Desmodium, the species name glutinosum remains unchanged, meaning “sticky” in Latin. This aptly describes the plant’s seed pods, which adhere to anything that brushes past them. Together, these names encapsulate both the botanical structure and the unique dispersal strategy of this plant.

History and Folklore

Native Americans and early settlers were intimately familiar with tick trefoils. The plant’s seeds, notorious for clinging to clothing and fur, earned it a reputation as a nuisance, but its resilience and utility could not be overlooked. Indigenous peoples utilized various parts of the plant for medicinal purposes. The roots and leaves were brewed into teas to treat fevers and digestive ailments, while poultices made from the leaves were applied to wounds to promote healing. Such uses highlight the depth of knowledge early inhabitants had about their environment.

The plant’s sticky seed pods also became the subject of folklore. Children in rural communities would playfully call it “hitchhiker’s weed,” competing to see who could collect the most seeds on their clothing during outdoor adventures. These seeds, so adept at attaching themselves to passersby, were seen as symbols of persistence and adaptability, traits that many admired.

Uses and Ecological Role

While Hylodesmum glutinosum is not commonly cultivated, its ecological contributions are significant. As a member of the Fabaceae family, it has the ability to fix nitrogen in the soil through a symbiotic relationship with rhizobia bacteria in its root nodules. This makes it a valuable plant in maintaining soil fertility in its native ecosystems. Its flowers attract pollinators like bees and butterflies, ensuring that the forest remains vibrant and full of life.

In addition to its ecological importance, the plant’s seeds have a curious modern use: they’ve been studied for their ability to help detect movement in the environment. Researchers have examined the sticky pods’ structure as a natural model for creating adhesives and tracking devices, proving once again that even the smallest details in nature can inspire human ingenuity.

A Moment of Reflection

As I rose to my feet, brushing the leaf litter from my hands, I felt a renewed sense of wonder for the intricate lives of the plants surrounding me. The Large-Flowered Tick Trefoil, with its vivid pink flowers and ingenious seed pods, seemed to embody the essence of the forest: a harmonious blend of beauty, resilience, and interconnection.

Walking away, I carried with me not just the memory of its vibrant blooms, a deep respect for its role in the natural world. In the quiet of Taughannock’s wooded trails, Hylodesmum glutinosum had shared its story, a tale of persistence, adaptation, and the hidden wonders that flourish when we take the time to notice.

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The Myths and Beauty of Wood Anemones

The wood anemone, Anemone nemorosa, symbolizes beauty and resilience, captivating observers with its elegant blooms and rich folklore.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

As I wander through our yard, my gaze is irresistibly drawn to a mesmerizing carpet of white blossoms, illuminated by the dappled sunlight filtering through the graceful boughs of our hemlocks. Each bloom, delicate and intricately ruffled, resembles a cluster of tiny, pure clouds resting gently atop a vibrant sea of green. These are Anemone nemorosa, affectionately known as wood anemone or windflower. This particular patch, adorned with a double-flowered variety, owes its presence to the thoughtful hands of our parents, who landscaped the property during the 1970s and 1980s. Their vision continues to bloom each spring, as the cascading petals exude an understated elegance that feels both luxurious and unpretentious—a living legacy woven into the fabric of this place we call home.

The wood anemone is a perennial plant, its rhizomatous growth weaving an intricate tapestry under the dappled sunlight of the forest floor. Each flower arises on its slender stem, surrounded by finely divided trifoliate leaves, their fresh green hue amplifying the purity of the blossoms. The flowers themselves, with their many layers of petal-like sepals, are a marvel of nature’s design, combining elegance and resilience.

The scientific name, Anemone nemorosa, carries echoes of ancient understanding. The genus name Anemone originates from the Greek word ánemos, meaning “wind.” According to classical mythology, these flowers were said to spring forth from the tears of the goddess Venus as she mourned the death of Adonis. The appellation of “windflower” ties to this myth, suggesting that the blooms open only at the bidding of the wind. The species name nemorosa comes from the Latin nemorosus, meaning “of a wooded grove,” aptly describing its preferred habitat.

There is a certain humility in the way the wood anemone thrives—spreading slowly but persistently through deciduous woodlands, forming colonies that greet the spring with their pristine blooms. While the double-flowered variety lacks the simplicity of the single-layered wild form, it retains all the grace that has inspired poets and naturalists alike. It is as if each bloom whispers its secrets to the passing breeze, stories of centuries gone by when druids and herbalists revered the plant as a symbol of protection and healing.

Culturally, the wood anemone has deep roots. In folklore, it was believed to bring luck to those who carried it, while others regarded it as a harbinger of illness if picked prematurely. The flowers were said to close tightly in response to rain, a trait lending them an air of sentience as they interact with their environment.

In medieval herbalism, the plant was thought to possess medicinal properties, though its potent compounds also rendered it toxic if mishandled. It was used cautiously to treat ailments such as rheumatism and respiratory issues. Modern understanding has largely relegated these medicinal uses to history, but the plant’s ability to captivate the senses remains undiminished.

Looking at this verdant patch before me, I am reminded of the transient beauty of spring. Anemone nemorosa emerges briefly, a fleeting celebration of life before retreating into its quiet dormancy beneath the soil. It thrives in the undisturbed spaces of the world, reminding us of the importance of preserving the ecosystems that allow such delicate wonders to flourish.

Today, as the soft May sunlight streams through the trees, illuminating each ruffled blossom, I am filled with gratitude for the enduring gift left by our parents, who lovingly planted these flowers decades ago. The wood anemone, whether viewed as a mythological symbol, a natural marvel, or a fleeting delight, offers a gentle reminder to cherish the beauty that surrounds us. Its ephemeral blooms, returning each spring, stand as a testament to nature’s quiet yet profound artistry—a living masterpiece and a poignant connection to the legacy of those who shaped this cherished landscape here in Ithaca, New York.

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Eternal Beauty: Landscapes that Bind Time

MichaelStephenWills16 Comments

Beneath the burdened boughs, where birches bend,
And rivers rush through rocks that time has torn,
The shadowed cliffs, their crowns with pine trees pinned,
Stand sentinel, proud guardians of the morn.

Through chasms carved by countless, ceaseless years,
The water whispers tales of days gone by;
Its misty breath, a shroud for winter’s tears,
A silver veil beneath the leaden sky.

Each trickling stream sings sonnets to the stone,
And echoes dance through chambers cold and vast;
Where silence dwells, a realm of moss and bone,
As sunlight lingers, fleeting, yet steadfast.

The waterfall, a weeping wall of light,
Cascades its crystal chords with thund’rous grace;
An argent arc, a marvel for the sight,
That draws all souls into its soft embrace.

The river curls, through curving cliffs confined,
Its molten silver sculpts the winter’s skin;
While gnarled roots from ancient oaks entwined
Grip granite walls where life dares to begin.

Upon the path, where earth and echoes meet,
The fragile frost dissolves with fleeting flame;
Beneath bare limbs, our footsteps firm and sweet,
Trace tales that timeless, towering stones proclaim.

The afternoon, aglow with golden hue,
Finds stillness stitched in shadows soft and deep;
For here, in late-day’s light and lucid view,
The earth exhales her secrets slow to sleep.

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