Category: Clouds

A Whitewashed Memory on Inishmore

I reflect on traditional Aran cottages while journeying to Dún Aonghasa, emphasizing the beauty of simplicity and lasting memories.

MichaelStephenWills27 Comments

It was the kind of overcast morning that seems to cradle the island in a blanket of mist, a gentle hush falling over the land as though even the Atlantic held its breath. Pam and I had arrived by ferry at Kilronan, the main settlement on Inishmore (Inis Mór), the largest of the Aran Islands nestled in Galway Bay. There, amid the bustle of arrivals and greetings, we found our driver—a wiry, weather-worn man with a soft brogue and kind eyes—and his horse trap, a simple two-wheeled carriage with room enough for three and the sounds of hooves to accompany our journey.

We set out up Cottage Road, the stone-paved track winding westward from the harbor. The sea fell away behind us as we climbed, a gray shimmer stretching to the hazy outline of Connemara’s mountains on the far side of the bay. Our destination was the dramatic cliffside ringfort of Dún Aonghasa, a place older than memory. But it was the unexpected moments in between—the ones not printed in guidebooks—that linger longest in the mind.

As we rounded a bend flanked by low stone walls, wildflowers blooming defiantly in the cracks, our driver pulled the reins gently and pointed with his crop.

“There,” he said, nodding ahead, “is a fine example of a traditional Aran cottage.”

And there it was—a vision from another time. The thatched roof curved softly like a that blanket itself, straw golden against the brooding sky. The walls were whitewashed to a perfect matte sheen, gleaming in spite of the cloud cover. A crimson door and two window frames punctuated the front façade like punctuation in a poem. Just to its right, set further back on the hill, stood a tiny replica of the same cottage, identical in every feature. I blinked, half believing it was an illusion.

Click the link for my Getty IStock photography of the Aran Islands
This thatched cottage with matching child’s playhouse is on Cottage Road out of Kilronan Village on the Aran island, Inishmore, County Galway, Ireland.

We only stopped briefly—it was a private residence—but the sight of it left a kind of imprint. I turned in the trap seat to keep it in view as long as I could. The cottage was perfectly placed, facing Galway Bay with a commanding view. I imagined the light pouring across the line of mountains, catching the glint of sea and sky.

“There’s a name for that finish,” I said, recalling something I’d read, “whitewash, or lime paint.”

Our driver nodded. “That’s the old way. Made from slaked lime. We’d call it ‘whitening’ when I was a lad.”

Whitewash differs from paint in the most elemental of ways. It becomes part of the stone, absorbed into the very surface. Like a memory of bone. And yet, it requires care. Apply it to a wall not properly cleaned or moistened, and it flakes, pulls away like a broken promise. But done right, it lasts, breathes with the building.

Upon our return, researching “whitewash,” if found this photograph from the Yarloop railway workshops Yarloop, Western Australia. There, on a shelf, where three old boxes sat like relics: DURABLO, WESCO, and CALCIMO. All contained kalsomine—the powdered form of lime paint. CALCIMO promised to “beautify walls and ceilings” and was proudly marked “LIME PROOF.” There was something quietly heroic in that. Lime-proof, as though against time itself.

Yarloop railway workshops Yarloop, Western Australia Kalsomine, wall ceiling plaster powder. Source: Wikipedia article on White Wash. Author: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Gnangarra

Looking at the box of Calcimo, a product of the Murabo Company of Australia, I was struck by how far the tradition had traveled. From island cottages in the Atlantic to distant corners of the Southern Hemisphere, the language of whitewash—of simplicity and purity—had touched the world.

We returned by the same road, past that same cottage, the small one still keeping watch beside it like a child beside a parent. And I knew then that the islands hadn’t just given me sights—they had offered stories, silent ones written in thatch and stone, in lime and wind.

Sources for this post: search wikipedia for “White Wash”. White wash photo author: Wikipedia commons user Gnangarra

Click me for the first post of this series, “Horse Trap on Inishmore.”

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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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The Mesa Light Captured Them

A father and son journey to Eagle Mesa, experiencing its beauty and silence, reflecting on its history and significance within Navajo culture as the day fades.

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

They came north out of Chinle with the day already leaning west and the sun fallen low into the drag of horizon dust and the road ran flat and empty past rust hills and mesquite country until, turning into the sun at Mexican Water, after a long hour, at last they pulled into Kayenta where the streets lay quiet under the heavy sun and the windows of the store fronts cast their amber light out across the sand drifting across sidewalks and the wind stirred only faintly and then was still.

They left their bags in the room and turned north again without speaking. The son drove. A man, his father, sat quiet beside him and the sun slid low through the windshield and the sky was pale and cloudless and wide beyond reckoning.

The land began to rise and the road bent and climbed and fell again and then it came into view. Not slowly. Not like a curtain rising. It was simply there.

A shape in the far desert.

Like a ship that had grounded in a sea long vanished. A sheer mesa the color of blood and ochre and fire where the last of the day spilled westward and caught the rock face and made it burn.

He told the son to pull off. They stopped the car and got out and the sound of the engine fell away, the desert made no sound at all.

The man stood in the road and turned slowly. Eagle Mesa lay before him and the land stretched off in every direction and the fenceposts ran on into silence and the sky seemed to rest upon the buttes as if tired.

There were names for these places. Old names. Navajo names that spoke of eagles roosting and trees once there and water that came and went and did not come again. The mesa they called Wide Rock. The place where spirits go. He did not know the words but he knew the feeling.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Navajo County, Arizona. Eagle Mesa is situated 4.5 miles (7.2 km) northeast of Oljato–Monument Valley, Utah, on Navajo Nation land. It is an iconic landform of Monument Valley and can be seen from Highway 163.Precipitation runoff from this mesa’s slopes drains to Mitchell Butte Wash and Train Rock Wash which are both part of the San Juan River drainage basin. Topographic relief is significant as the summit rises 1,100 feet (335 meters) above surrounding terrain in 0.6 mile (1 km). The nearest higher neighbor is Brighams Tomb, 2.05 miles (3.30 km) to the east. This landform’s toponym has been officially adopted by the United States Board on Geographic Names. Navajo names for the mesa are “Wide Rock”, “Where the Eagles Roost”, “Water Basket Sits”, and “Trees Hanging from Surrounding Belt” because there were once numerous trees here. In Navajo mythology, Eagle Mesa is a place where spirits of the deceased may go. Eagle Rock Spire is a 300-ft tower on the northern tip of the mesa which requires class 5.9 climbing skill to reach the summit.Navajo names for this spire which resembles a perched eagle include “Eagle Alongside Mesa”, “Big Finger is Pointed”, and Tsé Łichii Dahazkani (Elevated Red Rock Sitting Up). The first ascent of the spire was made on April 23, 1970, by Fred Beckey and Eric Bjornstad. Geology Eagle Mesa is a mesa composed of three principal strata. The bottom layer is Organ Rock Shale, the next stratum is cliff-forming De Chelly Sandstone, and the upper layer is Moenkopi Formation capped by Shinarump Conglomerate. The rock ranges in age from Permian at the bottom to Late Triassic at the top. The buttes and mesas of Monument Valley are the result of the Organ Rock Shale being more easily eroded than the overlaying sandstone.

The son came and stood beside him and did not speak. The man lifted the camera and took a photograph and then another. The road behind them shimmered with the last heat of day. He took another picture his son, dressed in black, his arms at rest and the red mesa rising behind him and the shadows of their bodies cast long across the gravel and the shoulder of the road.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Behind Sean are the landforms Eagle Mesa and behind it Setting Hen, Bringham’s Tomb, to the right. Navajo County, Arizona

They took turns with the camera. The son caught him midstride and smiling lit by sunlight, the land stretching out all around. A man small in a world not made for men.

There was no sound but the click of the shutter and the dry whisper of wind among the sage.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Behind Mike are the landforms Eagle Mesa and behind it Setting Hen, Bringham’s Tomb to the right. Navajo County, Arizona

Later he would read that the rock was born of Organ Shale and De Chelly Sandstone and Moenkopi topped with Shinarump. He would know the spire they saw was first climbed by men named Beckey and Bjornstad and that it was called Tsé Łichii Dahazkani by those who’d named it before it ever had another name. He would know the mesa rose eleven hundred feet in less than a mile and that its runoff fed washes that fed rivers that fed nothing now.

But then he only stood and watched and knew it for what it was.

Not a monument to anything but time.

A stillness like prayer. A place that waits.

They lingered until the sun went and the sky turned iron blue and the shadows of the rock reached out across the valley floor and touched them where they stood. Then they climbed back in the car and drove south again and the road unwound behind them black and a single star above and the silence of the place held on inside them long after the valley was gone.

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Aerial Wonder: Capturing the Essence of Flight

Engines roar as planes await departure, soaring into vibrant sunsets. The sky transforms with colors, revealing a reflective world as night gradually takes over.

MichaelStephenWills23 Comments


Bright was the sky as the engines awoke with a rumble of thunder,
Rolling the tarmac in echoes of journeys yet destined for wonder.
Cloudbanks assembled in towering billows of silver and shadow,
Lifting their faces to heaven, where sunlight had painted them golden.

Far on the edge of the runway, the steel-winged vessels lay waiting,
Southwest and Delta, their banners aloft in the warm evening fading.
Emerald-liveried Aer Lingus, a voyager bound to the island,
Glided in grace on the threshold of travel through luminous currents.

Wheels left the earth with a whisper, a moment of weightless suspension,
Gravity yielding to flight as the city unrolled far beneath us.
Golden horizons drew rivers of fire through infinite heavens,
Burning the clouds into embers that drifted in luminous torrents.

Upward we soared, where the world lay in pools of cerulean mirror,
Lakes interwoven like jewels, reflections of sunfire descending.
Billows of vapor, like castles of foam on the rim of creation,
Tumbled and rolled into canyons of mist in the twilight’s dominion.

Flame on the wings, where the heavens ignited in hues of vermilion,
Rays from the sun, like a god’s final whisper, embracing the skyline.
Shadows arose in their silence, dissolving the last glow of daytime,
Stars in their vigil awakened as night claimed the realm of the heavens.

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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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Discovering Fogbows: A Coastal Wonder

I had a haunting experience at Cocoa Beach, witnessing a rare fogbow—a ghostly arc formed by fine mist—evoking emotions and reflections on nature’s beauty.

MichaelStephenWills19 Comments

The fog haunted Cocoa Beach for days, softening the edges of the afternoon. I had been walking along Cocoa Beach, feeling the cool ocean breeze on my face, when I noticed a change in the light. It was a little after four, the sun drifting lower in the western sky, its warmth fading into a hazy glow. The air smelled of salt and mist, and waves lapped gently at the shore, their rhythm unbroken by the deepening fog.

And then I saw it.

A pale arc stretched across the horizon, a ghost of a rainbow bending above the waves. At first, I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me—where were the usual bright bands of red, orange, and violet? But no, the arc was real, a fogbow, forming where sunlight met the fine sea mist. Unlike the rainbows that appear after summer storms, this one was almost entirely white, as if the ocean had conjured it from air and silence.

Sailors once whispered of such things—a white rainbow at sea, a sign of hidden land or wandering souls. Some believed it to be a bridge between realms, a fleeting passage where the living and the lost might momentarily brush against one another. Others saw it as an omen, a spectral warning of treacherous fog ahead. I wondered what the mariners of old might have thought, standing at the bow of a ship, watching a pale arc rise from the mist, its edges dissolving like breath against glass.

I stood still, watching, as the science of the moment unfolded before me. Unlike traditional rainbows, which form when light bends through large raindrops, fogbows are born from infinitesimally smaller droplets, often less than 0.1 millimeters in diameter. Their size diffuses the light, scattering it so finely that the colors blend together into a spectral whisper rather than a vibrant shout. The physics of it fascinated me—this was diffraction in action, nature bending light in a way that rendered it nearly colorless.

The effect was surreal. The fogbow arched over the breaking waves like something out of a dream, a halo of sea and sky, momentary yet timeless. It seemed to pulse in the shifting mist, visible one moment, fading the next, as if deciding whether to reveal itself fully or slip back into the fog’s embrace.

For several minutes, I just stood there, taking it in. The world felt different inside that mist, quieter, more reflective. The fog dampened the usual sounds of the beach—the calls of shorebirds, the laughter of distant walkers—leaving only the hush of the waves and the distant hum of the ocean’s breath.

I knew that fogbows were rare, requiring just the right balance of thin fog, moisture, and a low-angled sun. I was lucky to be in the right place at the right time, a witness to something subtle yet profound.

And just as silently as it had appeared, the fogbow began to dissolve. The mist thickened, swallowing its arc, the sky shifting back to its usual muted gray. But the memory of it lingered—a white rainbow over the sea, ephemeral and elusive, like a secret the ocean had briefly chosen to share.

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Exploring the Vision of Arcosanti

In the Arizona desert, structures harmonize with nature, embodying creativity and purpose while inviting reflection on balance and coexistence.

MichaelStephenWills14 Comments

Approaching Arcosanti from afar, a cluster of forms rising from the Arizona desert like a mirage of human imagination. Against the cobalt sky, the buildings seemed to breathe with the land itself, their curves and edges echoing the undulations of the hillside. From this distance, the structures were both distant dream and solid reality, their symmetry a whispered promise of order amidst the chaos of the wild.

As I moved closer, the buildings revealed their intricate secrets. Circular windows stared like unblinking eyes, portals to a world shaped by creativity and purpose. Towers and cubes jutted confidently into space, their bold geometry softened by the earthen hues of concrete and weathered wood. These materials, neither foreign nor intrusive, seemed born of the very soil beneath my feet. There was an undeniable rhythm to the place—a harmony where art, function, and the timeless desert converged.

I walked among the structures, their forms towering above me like sentinels of some ancient philosophy reborn for a modern age. The elevated walkways beckoned with a quiet invitation, connecting one sanctuary of thought to another. Circular motifs repeated like a mantra, reminding me of the cycles of life, of the sun and the moon, of the unbroken circles that hold us together. Here, design was not merely a tool but a hymn, sung in concrete and glass.

Then, I turned my gaze outward, to the land that cradled this creation. The desert was alive, though its voice was quiet and deliberate. Rocks, worn smooth by the patient hand of time, rested among tufts of sage and grasses that swayed in the breeze. The light played its own game, casting shadows that danced across the ground, a choreography as old as the sun. Paths meandered through this terrain, their curves a gentle suggestion rather than a command, inviting me to wander but not to conquer.

Arcosanti

The trees stood tall and still, their presence both steadfast and serene. The cypress trees, their slender forms reaching toward heaven, seemed like exclamation points on the landscape, their verdant green cutting through the sky’s azure expanse. Beside them, olive trees spread their silvered arms, their gnarled trunks telling stories of endurance and quiet strength. One cypress, in particular, caught my attention—so perfectly straight, so impossibly regal, as if it had been planted by the hand of a god.

Beneath the olive trees, I paused, tracing my fingers along the bark’s intricate patterns. The sunlight filtered through the leaves in golden shards, dappling the earth beneath with shifting shapes. The air carried the scent of something ancient and vital—a blend of dry earth, sun-warmed bark, and the faintest hint of blooming life. It was a reminder that even in this place of human creation, nature reigned supreme.

I wandered to the edge of a canyon, its rugged walls carved by time’s relentless flow. The raw power of the landscape stretched out before me, a tapestry of stone and shadow that humbled and awed. Here, the boundaries between human vision and natural grandeur blurred. The olive and cypress trees, so carefully placed, seemed less an intrusion and more a part of the desert’s rhythm. They were a bridge, a whispered conversation between what is made and what simply is.

Finally, the paths called me back, their winding lines leading me deeper into reflection. Each step felt deliberate, as though I were tracing the lines of a poem etched into the earth. The trails curved gently, like the desert’s own breath, and I followed, not as an intruder but as a guest. The buildings now stood behind me, a testament to the balance we strive for—between the ephemeral dreams we build and the eternal landscape that cradles them.

This place is a meeting of stone and sky, a meditation: reminding us that, if we listen, the land will teach us how to live in harmony. Here, in the desert’s embrace, I found space to ask better questions, my heart as open and unbroken as the endless horizon before me.

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The Autumn Tapestry of Cayuga Lake: A Journey on the Treman Park Lake Loop

MichaelStephenWills10 Comments

Autumn’s Arrival Along Cayuga Lake

In Autumn 2024, the Treman Park Lake Loop of the Cayuga Waterfront Trail in Ithaca, New York, unfurled a vibrant display of seasonal transition. The natural landscape, adorned with fiery hues of reds, oranges, and yellows, reflected in the rippling waters of Cayuga Lake, creating a harmony of color and light. This is a scenic journey through stories of plant and animal life that call this place home—including the majestic Osprey (Pandion haliaetus) that nests along the shore.

The Osprey’s Watchtower

A sight to greet visitors is the solitary osprey nest perched high on a pole. Used by Osprey families during their breeding season, this nest stands as a testament to their remarkable recovery in the Finger Lakes region. Ospreys, once declining due to pesticide use, have rebounded significantly following conservation efforts.

With a wingspan of up to 6 feet, these raptors are expert fish hunters, often seen diving talons-first into the lake to snatch their prey. During autumn, as their young take flight, the nest remains an empty marker of the summer’s success—a reminder of the cyclical nature of life along the lake.

Did You Know? Ospreys are often referred to as “fish hawks” because fish make up 99% of their diet.

The Meadow and Its Golden Touch: Reedbeds and Goldenrod

Surrounding the osprey pole, expansive meadows of grasses and reeds sway with the breeze. Among these are stands of Common Reed (Phragmites australis), a tall grass with feathery plumes that catch the sunlight. While Phragmites can sometimes be invasive, they provide crucial shelter and food for various species of birds and insects.

Intermixed with the reeds are patches of Goldenrod (Solidago spp.), whose bright yellow flowers are a signature of late summer and autumn in the Northeast. Goldenrods are critical for pollinators, offering nectar to bees, butterflies, and migrating insects like the Monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus).

Ecological Note: Goldenrods are often mistakenly blamed for allergies; the real culprit is ragweed (Ambrosia artemisiifolia), which blooms at the same time but releases airborne pollen.

A Lake Alive with History and Beauty

The shimmering blue waters of Cayuga Lake form the centerpiece of this trail. The lake, stretching nearly 40 miles, is the longest of the Finger Lakes and steeped in geological and cultural history. Its name is derived from the Cayuga Nation, part of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, who inhabited the region for centuries.

The striking red lighthouse in the water serves as a vivid counterpoint to the natural surroundings. Built to aid navigation, it now stands as a picturesque focal point for photographers and nature enthusiasts alike.

Cayuga Inlet Light Beacon

In the distance, a sailboat glides across the lake—a serene reminder of the recreational draw that Cayuga Lake holds year-round.

West shore with sailboat and lake houses

The Forest Fringe: A Kaleidoscope of Color

The forests that fringe the meadow and the lake present an explosion of autumn color. Trees such as Sugar Maple (Acer saccharum), Red Oak (Quercus rubra), and Black Cherry (Prunus serotina) dominate the canopy, their leaves transforming into brilliant oranges, scarlets, and deep burgundies. The Sugar Maple, in particular, is renowned for its vibrant golden-orange foliage, a hallmark of the northeastern fall.

The Ithaca Yacht Club lies south of Maplewood Point

Closer to the ground, the understory hums with the activity of migrating birds and foraging mammals. Squirrels can be seen gathering acorns, preparing for the winter months ahead, while chickadees flit among the branches, calling their cheerful “fee-bee” notes.

Historical Fact: The Finger Lakes were carved out by retreating glaciers over 10,000 years ago, leaving behind these deep, elongated lakes and fertile soil that supports rich biodiversity.

A Path Through Time and Nature

Walking the Treman Park Lake Loop is a sensory journey—the crispness of the autumn air, the rustling of reeds, and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore combine to evoke a timeless tranquility.

From the vibrant meadows to the osprey’s lofty perch and the quiet expanse of Cayuga Lake, this section of the Waterfront Trail encapsulates the beauty and diversity of the Finger Lakes ecosystem. Whether for quiet reflection or active exploration, it remains a treasured destination in every season.

Closing Thoughts

As autumn deepens, this landscape prepares for the dormancy of winter. Yet the stories it holds—from the osprey’s nest to the goldenrod’s bloom—remain alive, waiting to be rediscovered with each new season. The Treman Park Lake Loop is not just a trail; it is a canvas of life, change, and history painted by nature’s hand.

Reflection: To walk this trail is to connect with a land shaped by glaciers, nurtured by waters, and home to countless species that continue to thrive amid the ever-turning wheel of the seasons.

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Where Waters Meet and Leaves Turn: A Journey Along the Cayuga Waterfront Trail

The Cayuga Waterfront Trail beautifully showcases autumn’s colors, history, and ecological significance through its landscapes and trees like Sugar Maples.

MichaelStephenWills4 Comments


Where Fall Creek Meets Cayuga Lake
Here, where Fall Creek flows gently into Cayuga Lake, the merging waters reflect the season’s colors like a painter’s palette. Across the shimmering surface, Renwick Woods of Stewart Park stands as a quiet sanctuary of mixed hardwoods and wetlands. The reflections capture our trees together with the essence of autumn’s stillness.

Dominating the shoreline, you can spot Silver Maple (Acer saccharinum) and Cottonwood (Populus deltoides), trees that thrive in damp soils. Silver Maples, with their elegant, deeply lobed leaves, are perfectly suited for this riparian environment. The cottonwood, recognizable by its broad, triangular leaves, plays a vital role in stabilizing streambanks.

Quick Fact: Cottonwoods are among the fastest-growing trees in North America, capable of sprouting leaves within weeks of being washed ashore as driftwood.

Steamboat Landing: A Glimpse of History
The wooden docks at Steamboat Landing, now home to the bustling Ithaca Farmer’s Market, speak of bygone eras when steamboats ferried goods and people across Cayuga Lake. Today, as golden foliage cloaks the hills in the distance, this spot remains an anchor for community and connection.

A meeting place for friends and conversation

Foregrounded in the photos are plants like Grape Vine (Vitis spp.), with their sprawling, hardy stems turning yellow as temperatures drop. Grapevines, both wild and cultivated, thrive along the lakeshore and remind us of their agricultural importance in the Finger Lakes.

Also visible are some shrubs of Virginia Creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) turning crimson, their vibrant hues climbing posts and fences as they embrace autumn’s spotlight.

Did You Know? Steamboat Landing was part of Ithaca’s rich lake commerce history during the 19th and early 20th centuries, connecting travelers to destinations far and wide.

The Crimson Canopy: Japanese Maple
This photo highlights a stunning Japanese Maple (Acer palmatum), its feathery, scarlet foliage cascading delicately in front of the pavilion. Native to East Asia, Japanese Maples have found a beloved place in landscapes across the world for their graceful form and brilliant seasonal displays.

Alongside its boughs, weathered benches and stone pathways invite rest and reflection — a beautiful marriage of human craftsmanship and nature’s artistry.

Fun Fact: Japanese Maples are often pruned meticulously in Japanese gardens to emphasize their architectural shape, turning them into living sculptures.

The Treman Park Lake Loop: Autumn’s Golden Finale
Our journey concludes with this sweeping landscape from the Treman Park Lake Loop. The towering Sugar Maples (Acer saccharum) dominate the view, their crowns now a rich, golden orange — a signature of northeastern forests. Known as the tree that gives us maple syrup, Sugar Maples are quintessential symbols of autumn in the Finger Lakes.

To the right, bare branches of earlier-shedding trees stand in contrast, whispering the arrival of winter. The sky above, painted with soft clouds, completes the scene of a serene seasonal transition.

Interesting Note: Sugar Maples can live for over 300 years, their wood prized for furniture and instruments, and their sap a sweet gift of the forest.

Closing Thoughts
From the quiet confluence of Fall Creek and Cayuga Lake to the historic docks of Steamboat Landing and the golden maples of Treman Park, autumn on the Cayuga Waterfront Trail is a symphony of color, history, and ecological wonder. Whether you’re strolling, photographing, or simply pausing to take it all in, these moments capture both the grandeur and subtlety of the season.

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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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