As I wander the paths of the Cornell Botanical Gardens near the Nevin Welcome Center, a towering sculpture arrests my attention, rising well over ten feet into the bright autumn sky. At first glance, it’s unmistakable—a pair of massive allium blooms crafted from steel and glass, an artistic tribute to the very flowers my wife, Pam, has come to love. This creation, titled Double Allium, is the work of British artist Jenny Pickford, completed in 2019. Made of robust steel and translucent purple glass, it stands proudly among the greenery, capturing both the delicacy and boldness of allium flowers.
A few summers ago Pam planted several allium in sunny locations, which exploded into violet firework-like blooms, each sphere teeming with tiny star-shaped flowers that clustered together into one massive, round bloom. When the alliums blossomed, they attracted a small frenzy of bees, and it became a shared delight for us to watch our garden transform into a pollinator’s paradise. Pam was captivated by the plants’ structure and beauty, as well as their ecological role in supporting bees—a small, vibrant ecosystem within our yard. Standing before Double Allium, I’m reminded of those summer days and the quiet joy we both found in observing our garden.
Bees and Allium in our summer garden, 2024
The scientific name for alliums, Allium giganteum (for the larger ornamental varieties), links them to a vast genus that includes onions, garlic, and leeks. These plants have been cultivated and revered by humans for thousands of years, not only for their culinary value but also for their symbolism in various cultures. In ancient Egypt, alliums were believed to represent eternity; their spherical form and concentric layers were thought to mirror the eternal nature of life. Even today, they bring a sense of timelessness to gardens worldwide, their tall stalks and spherical blooms defying gravity, standing tall against the changing seasons.
As I study Pickford’s sculpture, I’m struck by how faithfully it captures this essence of alliums—strength paired with grace, structure married to elegance. The steel stems curve gently yet rise powerfully from the ground, while the glass petals shimmer in the light, giving an almost ethereal quality to the blooms. Pickford, born in 1969, is known for her botanical-inspired sculptures that explore the intersection of nature and art. With Double Allium, she’s created a piece that feels alive, as if the blooms might sway in the wind or burst into real flowers at any moment.
For Pam and me, this sculpture pays homage to a beautiful plant; it’s a connection to our own experience with nature, a reminder of those summer mornings watching bees dance among our alliums. Standing beneath Double Allium, I feel a sense of continuity—a link between the art and our own small garden, between our life and the ancient cultures that cherished these plants, between the permanence of steel and the fleeting beauty of each summer bloom.
In this towering sculpture, Pickford has given us a mirror that reflects nature as well as our personal connection to it. “Double Allium” is a celebration of growth, strength, and beauty, qualities that Pam and I cherish in the alliums we tend and that we find echoed in this remarkable work of art.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I walk through the plantings around the Nevin Center at Cornell Botanical Gardens, a vibrant, eye-catching display catches my attention: the unmistakable Lantana camara. This plant, with its clusters of small, multicolored flowers, radiates warmth and liveliness, thriving among other garden residents in a riot of pink, orange, and yellow hues. Lantana is a plant with a rich, complex story—one that intertwines scientific discovery, historical intrigue, and enduring appeal in gardens worldwide.
Scientific Name and Origins
Lantana camara, commonly known simply as lantana, belongs to the Verbenaceae family. Originating in the tropical and subtropical regions of the Americas, particularly Central and South America, lantana has now spread globally. Its adaptability and resilience have allowed it to thrive in diverse environments, from warm Mediterranean climates to more tropical locales. The name Lantana comes from a genus of unrelated plants in the honeysuckle family, with which it shares a similar floral structure, while camara refers to a type or variety within this diverse genus.
Historical Journey and Spread
The journey of lantana around the world is one of both horticultural fascination and ecological caution. European explorers and botanists first brought lantana to Europe in the 17th century, where it quickly became a prized garden plant for its vibrant blooms and robust nature. By the 19th century, lantana had spread to various British colonies, including those in Africa, Asia, and Australia, as part of ornamental landscaping efforts. However, lantana’s success came with a downside: in regions with no natural predators or competition, it rapidly became invasive, outcompeting native plants and disrupting local ecosystems. Today, lantana is still admired for its beauty, but in some countries, it’s also carefully managed or controlled.
Garden Favorite and Common Uses
Despite its invasive tendencies in certain climates, lantana remains a beloved plant in gardens worldwide. Known for its drought tolerance and ability to bloom continuously in warm weather, lantana is a favorite for adding color and vibrancy to gardens and landscapes. Gardeners prize lantana for its resilience in hot, sunny locations and its ability to attract butterflies and other pollinators. The flowers emit a light fragrance and produce tiny berries, which, while attractive, are also toxic if ingested. Thus, lantana brings both allure and a hint of danger, drawing in pollinators while repelling those who might threaten it.
Medicinal and Cultural Uses
Historically, lantana has also been used medicinally in various cultures. In traditional folk medicine, parts of the plant have been used to treat ailments such as fevers, respiratory infections, and skin conditions. Indigenous communities in its native regions would often make poultices from the leaves to apply to wounds or inflamed areas. Though some of these traditional uses persist today, modern science advises caution due to the plant’s potential toxicity, especially to livestock and humans if ingested in significant quantities.
A Double-Edged Beauty
Lantana camara is a plant of contrasts. Its cheerful flowers and pollinator-friendly nature make it a joy to behold in controlled garden settings, like those around the Nevin Center. But its spread across continents and the ecological impact in sensitive regions remind us of nature’s unpredictability. Lantana’s resilience, beauty, and storied history make it a plant to admire—and respect. Whether as a garden ornament or an object of scientific curiosity, lantana captures the complexity of human interaction with nature, bringing a colorful reminder that beauty often comes with responsibility.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I step into Cascadilla Gorge from the Linn Street entrance, I’m greeted by the soft rustling of leaves and the constant, soothing rush of water. The air this Halloween Day is warm, the autumn colors vibrant against the cool blue sky. I know Cascadilla Gorge is part of the Cornell Botanical Gardens, but the immediate beauty of this natural sanctuary makes it easy to forget I’m still within the city limits of Ithaca. The sounds of the gorge draw me in, as if whispering there’s more to see, more to explore. With a deep breath, I begin my journey up the trail, eager to discover what lies ahead.
Just a short way in, I notice the First Church of Christ, Scientist perched on the corner of University Avenue and Cascadilla Park Road. The architecture of the church is both quaint and elegant, with its light-colored facade framed by dark trim and roof. Surrounded by foliage, it feels like the church belongs here, as much a part of the landscape as the trees and rocks. The sight of this historic building nestled so close to the gorge reminds me that this wild and ancient place is woven into the fabric of Ithaca’s community life.
I move further along the trail, and the terrain begins to shift. Fallen leaves create a golden carpet along the path, their crisp shapes overlapping like nature’s confetti celebrating the season. Each step crunches underfoot, adding my own rhythm to the symphony of sounds. The trees overhead are a kaleidoscope of colors—deep golds, fiery oranges, and the occasional flash of red from Virginia Creeper vines (Parthenocissus quinquefolia). Together, the trees create a canopy that filters sunlight, casting dappled patterns on the gorge walls. It’s an ever-changing play of light and shadow, one moment bright and the next subdued, adding a layer of magic to the experience.
As I follow the trail upward, the gorge narrows, and I find myself surrounded by towering walls of rock. Here, layers of siltstone and shale formed more than 300 hundred million years ago are exposed, a testament to the forces of water and time that carved this place across mere millennia of recent geologic time. The rock formations are fascinating, with the water flowing over them in gentle cascades, finding every groove and crevice. There’s something humbling about standing in a place shaped by forces so much larger and older than myself. I pause, letting the rush of water and the stillness of stone fill my senses.
Along the way, I come across an interpretive sign provided by the Cornell Botanical Gardens. They tell the story of Cascadilla Gorge, how it was formed from the bedrock of sandstone and shale that eroded from mountains to the east, in the Devonian era when an ancient inland sea covered the region. The signs also introduce Robert H. Treman, a philanthropist who saw the beauty and educational value of the gorge. Thanks to him and the efforts of many, this natural wonder is preserved for all to experience. Knowing this adds depth to my walk; it’s a reminder that places like this exist not only by chance but because people cared enough to protect them.
The sandstone staircases along the trail are a marvel in themselves. Some sections are steep, winding up the gorge in a series of steps that seem to have been placed with precision, blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. The steps are covered with leaves now, making each ascent feel a bit like climbing through a fairy-tale forest. The chains along the path provide a comforting grip, especially as I climb higher. I look back and see how far I’ve come, the creek below winding its way over rocks and around bends, each step a small journey of its own.
I pass several small waterfalls, each one unique in its character. Some are gentle trickles, while others pour over the rocks with more force, their sound reverberating off the gorge walls. I stop frequently, entranced by the way the water carves its path, eternally moving, adapting, wearing down even the hardest stone. Leaves float down from above, landing in the creek and swirling in miniature whirlpools before being carried downstream. It’s mesmerizing to watch nature at work in such a quiet, persistent way.
Further up the gorge, the views open up, and I can see the layers of rock descending in terraces, each level a little cascade of its own. I watch as the water flows across these steps, catching the light as it moves—a silvery ribbon winding through the golden autumn landscape. The tranquility of the scene is meditative. Around me, the trees stand as silent witnesses, their branches bare in places but still adorned with clusters of leaves clinging through the last days of fall.
Finally, I reach one of the larger waterfalls, framed by a graceful stone arch bridge that crosses high above. The scene is something out of a painting. Water pours over the rocks, gathering in pools below before spilling onward. I pause on the bridge, looking down at the gorge below and the trail I’ve followed, grateful for the journey.
Along the way, artists are positioned along the path, each lost in the beauty of Cascadilla Gorge. They stand or sit in quiet reverie, brushes or pencils in hand, capturing the gorge’s unique character. Some focus on the play of light over the water’s surface, while others seem intent on the rugged details of the rock formations. Their presence adds a contemplative depth to the scene; it’s as if each artist has uncovered a hidden aspect of the gorge that I have overlooked in my journey upward.
I slow my pace to take it all in, appreciating how the artists interpret this natural wonder through their own eyes. Their canvases reveal layers of colors that shift as the sun filters through the leaves, casting vibrant golds and subtle greens on the cascading water. The scene feels almost collaborative—nature and human hand creating art together, each reflection of the gorge as unique as the individual capturing it. I’m tempted to pause beside them, to see how they choose to frame the towering walls, the stone bridge arching above the water, and the gentle curves of the creek as it meanders downstream. I can imagine each artist’s work holding a different piece of this place, like fragments of a memory.
Bridge View looking up Cascadilla CreekBridge View looking back the way I came
As I continue, the sound of rushing water grows louder, drawing me towards another cascade that tumbles in steps down the gorge. The rocks are layered in angular formations, giving the water a zigzagging path to follow. Leaves are scattered across the stones, their colors—yellows, browns, and the occasional splash of red—standing out against the dark, wet rock. There’s a timelessness here, a feeling that this scene has remained unchanged for centuries, save for the shifting leaves and the ever-present flow of the creek. The thought makes me feel like a small part of something much larger, a guest in an ancient place shaped by nature’s slow, steady hand.
The path narrows again, following the edge of the creek where the water has worn smooth channels into the stone.
Moving forward, the trail climbs steeply, and I find myself surrounded by tall rock faces on either side. The walls are layered and weathered, a geological history book open to the forces that shaped this land. It’s humbling to see how this place puts everything into perspective, how it reminds us of our place in the natural world.
Columns of sedimentary rock
Ahead, the path becomes more rugged, the air feels cooler here, shaded by the gorge’s high walls, and the sounds of the city are long gone, replaced by the steady rhythm of water and the drift of leaves. The layers of ancient limestone that form these towering walls give shape to our landscape and ecosystem. As rainwater falls and seeps through the porous rock, the limestone raises the pH of the water, neutralizing its natural acidity. This subtle alchemy nurtures the flora and fauna, fostering a unique biome that thrives in the gorge. The artists fade from view as I move further into the solitude of the trail, but their presence lingers in my mind. Each turn of the path reveals another scene worthy of capturing, another moment that seems to call out for remembrance.
Looking back toward the way I came
The trail steepens, and I press onward, the sound of the water intensifying as I near a grand waterfall framed by the impressive stone steps leading up to the College Avenue Stone Arch. Each step is littered with leaves, their colors vivid against the worn stone—golds, russets, and the occasional brilliant red, like embers scattered along my path. The waterfall beside me spills down in steady streams, each cascade creating rivulets that catch the light as they flow downward.
The gorge walls rise sharply on either side, embracing the path in rugged layers that tell stories of geological time. I feel as if I’m climbing a passage through history itself. These rocks, these trees, the very water carving its way through the stone—all have been here far longer than I can fathom, shaped by forces beyond my understanding. There’s a certain thrill in being among such enduring elements, a reminder of how small and fleeting we are in the face of nature’s grandeur.
Reaching the next tier of the trail, I pause to take in the sight of the massive stone arch spanning the gorge above. The bridge is a striking feature, its wide arch perfectly framing the sky and the last vibrant colors of autumn. It feels like a gateway, a fitting culmination to the journey. Standing beneath it, I’m struck by how well it harmonizes with the gorge, the careful craftsmanship of its stonework complementing the rough beauty of the surrounding cliffs.
The sunlight flows around the arch, illuminating the leaves that cling to the branches above, casting a warm glow over the scene. I feel a sense of reverence here, a quiet acknowledgment of both human artistry and the relentless beauty of nature.
I paused to capture this video of the moment.
Sights and Sounds of Autumn
The final ascent is graced by a bench where a stone plaque catches my eye. It’s a tribute, etched with words that resonate in this place: “Joy to all we love the best, love to thee, our fair Cornell.” A gift from a family whose lives intertwined with Cornell, it serves as a reminder of the deep connections people have to this landscape, to the university, and to the memories rooted in these trails and gorges. I pause, reflecting on my own connection to this path, which has taken me through an ever-unfolding tapestry of nature and history.
The last stretch of steps is leaf blanketed, their shapes and colors a beautiful final mosaic before I emerge from the shaded coolness of the gorge. The sun filters down through the thinning trees, illuminating the stone buildings of the Cornell campus that peek through the branches ahead. With each step, I feel the transition, moving from the curated wildness of Cascadilla Gorge and its trail to the structured beauty of the university grounds.
Myron Taylor Hall, Cornell Law School from the gorge.
As I reach the top, the Schwartz Center for the Performing Arts comes into view, its modern architecture a contrast to the ancient rocks I’ve left behind. Here, in this space where art, education, and nature converge, I take a last look back into the gorge and a journey, a gem in the heart of the Finger Lakes, a place that holds stories, both old and new, and invites every visitor to become a part of them.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
During a reflective walk, the author parallels the beauty of autumn his wife’s healing journey post-surgery, celebrating transformation and resilience.
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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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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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Walking along the Finger Lakes Trail in Robert H. Treman State Park, I come across something that makes me stop—maple leaves, caught mid-fall, suspended in a delicate spider web. Time itself seems to pause with them, as if the leaves, in their slow descent, had found a way to defy gravity. Yellow, brown, and green, they hang like fragile ornaments, arrested in motion. For a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath.
Maple leaves caught in freefall by spider web. Finger Lakes Trail, Robert H Treman State Park, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
This brief suspension of nature’s inevitable course is uncanny, a moment frozen between one season and the next. These leaves, so close to their final rest on the forest floor, now seem to defy their fate, held up by threads too fine to see. I’m tempted to reach out and free them, to let them continue their journey down to the earth, but something stops me. It’s as if the web, like a clock halted mid-tick, has granted me the rarest gift—a chance to stop the flow of time.
In this moment, I reflect on how life itself is always in motion, how we are carried forward whether we like it or not. But here, in this quiet pocket of the forest, these leaves offer a small rebellion against that forward push. They hang, caught between what was and what will be, suspended between summer and winter, life and decay.
I snap a photo, knowing it’s just an echo of the real thing, a poor attempt to capture a miracle of nature. The leaves will eventually fall, the web will loosen, and time will move on. But for now, in this moment, they remain suspended, as do I—caught in the beauty of a moment where time, for once, seems to stand still.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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.
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.
Enthralled by their beauty, we paused while I unpacked my gear to photograph the Sego Lilies growing along the trail.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Seen from Stewart Park, these lakefront homes line the southern shore of Cayuga Lake. Tompkins County, Ithaca, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region
On a warm June morning, with the early summer sun casting a golden glow across the shores of Cayuga Lake, Pam and I set out for a walk around Stewart Park. The soft lapping of the water against the shore mixed with the calls of distant birds, and the familiar hum of life in the park settled into a rhythm that has long been a part of this place. As I strolled along a familiar path, a flash of orange caught my eye—the unmistakable brilliance of the Hemerocallis fulva, the Tawny Daylily, in full bloom.
A Glimpse of the Familiar
At first glance, the orange petals of the daylily seemed like small flames scattered across the green of the park, their brightness undimmed by the heat of the day. The sight was both familiar and captivating, for these daylilies are common in garden, parks and roadsides around Ithaca and much of New York State. Despite their prevalence, each encounter feels fresh, like meeting an old friend who always has something new to share.
I knelt closer, letting my eyes follow the curve of the petals, which unfurled gracefully from a vibrant yellow throat. The delicate lines streaked down the petals like rays of sunlight. Though each flower lives only a day, I felt the quiet confidence of this plant, as though it knew its bloom was fleeting, yet still essential in the tapestry of summer.
The Resilience of a Traveler
The daylily’s ubiquity belies its status as a traveler from distant lands. Hemerocallis fulva is not native to New York, nor to any part of North America. It came to these shores from Asia, introduced by gardeners who admired its hardiness and vibrant color. Over time, the daylily escaped the bounds of cultivated gardens, spreading to roadsides, fields, and yes, even here, to the edges of Stewart Park.
I find myself reflecting on the journey of this plant, which began in the faraway lands of China, Korea, and Japan. In its homeland, daylilies have long been symbols of devotion and motherhood, their roots used in traditional medicine, their blooms celebrated in art. Now, as I stand in Stewart Park, I marvel at how far the Hemerocallis fulva has come, adapting to new lands and naturalizing in the wild corners of the American landscape.
The irony of its “wild” appearance does not escape me—this orange beauty, so deeply associated with our rural and parkland settings, is still very much an outsider. And yet, in the soft breeze of the morning, it feels as though this plant has always belonged here, as much a part of the park’s landscape as the willows by the lake or the ducks bobbing in the water.
Nature’s Balancing Act
As lovely as they are, daylilies are not without their complications. The very same traits that make Hemerocallis fulva such a beloved garden plant—its resilience, its ability to thrive in poor soil, and its spreading rhizomes—also make it an unintentional invader. Without careful tending, these plants can spread aggressively, pushing out native species and altering the ecological balance of the areas where they take root.
Here in Stewart Park, where cultivated gardens meet the untamed edges of the lake, the daylilies are a reminder of nature’s delicate balance. They offer nectar to bees and butterflies, providing sustenance to the creatures that flit through the morning air and also represent challenge to the native wildflowers that have long called this place home.
I wonder what plants might have once thrived in this very spot before the Hemerocallis fulva arrived. Perhaps native species, like the delicate Asclepias tuberosa—Butterfly Weed—or the sturdy Rudbeckia hirta, the Black-eyed Susan, held court here, their blooms attracting the same bees now drawn to the daylilies.
The Fleeting Bloom
Despite its role as a naturalized non-native, the daylily has a fleeting grace that draws me in. By tomorrow, these orange blooms will have withered and fallen, replaced by new blossoms that will unfurl in their place. Each bloom’s brief life is a reminder of the ephemerality of beauty, and I find myself appreciating the daylily all the more for its transient nature.
We continue our walk, leaving behind the patch of daylilies but taking with me a sense of quiet reflection. As invasive as they may be, these plants offer a meditation on the impermanence of life and the ways in which non-native species can become a part of the landscape’s fabric, for better or worse. The Hemerocallis fulva may not belong here by birthright, but it has made a place for itself, a symbol of survival and adaptation in the ever-changing world around it.
A Lesson from the Daylily
As I near the edge of the lake, watching the sunlight dance across the water’s surface, I think about the lessons that the daylily offers. Life is fleeting, yes, but also full of color and vibrancy, no matter how brief the bloom. And in that brief bloom, there is the possibility of resilience, growth, and belonging, even in a place far from home.
Much like the daylily, we too find ourselves in unfamiliar places at times, learning to adapt, to thrive, and to leave our mark on the world—if only for a day.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Crossing the footbridge in Stewart Park, I encountered the graceful yet invasive Flowering Rush. Its delicate beauty hides a deeper story about nature’s resilience, human impact, and the fragile balance of our ecosystems.
While crossing the suspension footbridge over Fall Creek in Stewart Park, there’s a sense of stepping into a world that’s more peaceful and attuned to nature. The bridge is familiar to me—a steady, quiet companion—but each visit feels new, as though the park has secrets it only reveals in small whispers. In this photograph the green steel beams rise like sentinels, standing tall against the backdrop of shifting autumn colors. Below, the water reflects the vibrant reds, golds, and greens of the trees, creating an illusion of depth that draws me in.
Footbridge to the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, Stewart Park, Ithaca, New York, October 2012
This past summer I stopped midway across, leaned against the railing, just listening. The creek moved slowly, like time itself decided to pause here for a while. That’s when I saw them: delicate pink blooms rising up from the water’s edge, their petals small and star-shaped, catching the light as they sway in the gentle breeze. There’s something striking about these plants—graceful, elegant, almost otherworldly in their simplicity. They reach up, as though trying to escape the confines of the water and the muddy banks.
My subsequent research revealed these to be Flowering Rush, or Butomus umbellatus. I often see them now, their soft pinks and slender leaves creating a quiet beauty that’s hard to ignore. They’re beautiful, but I have come to know they don’t belong here. This is one of those moments in nature that gives me pause—a reminder that not everything lovely is innocent.
Flowering Rush Growing in Fall Creek, Stewart Park, June 2024
Flowering Rush, a European import from centuries ago, was not meant to take root here. Brought to North America for ornamental ponds, its allure quickly became its danger. It spread, silently, like a secret carried on the wind, slowly overtaking the native species that have long called these waters home. And yet, standing here now, I cannot help but admire its tenacity, its quiet determination to thrive. Nature, in all its forms, has this incredible will to survive, even if that survival sometimes comes at a cost.
My mind drifts to the plant’s history. In its native lands Flowering Rush, or Grass Rush, was useful—its roots, though bitter, were harvested for food, and its fibrous stems woven into mats and ropes. How interesting that something as delicate as this has a rugged, practical side. This contradiction makes perfect sense when I think of the plant’s journey across continents, carried over oceans by human hands and curiosity. We are responsible for its presence here, and now, like so many other invasive species, it’s become a fixture of this landscape.
I think about the dual nature of this invasion. Flowering Rush is beautiful—there is no denying that. Its soft, pink flowers contrast sharply with the darker tones of the water and the dense green of the grasses that surround it. But its beauty masks a quiet destruction. It chokes out the native plants that once thrived here, altering the ecosystem in ways we cannot always see. I wonder what fish and aquatic life struggles beneath the surface, their food sources slowly disappearing. What birds find fewer insects and fewer safe places to nest?
And yet, is this plant a villain? Flowering rush is doing what it was meant to do—grow, spread, survive. That is what everything in nature does, after all. It does not have malice or intent; it just is. It is humans who have changed the balance, who introduced this species to a place where it didn’t belong, setting off a chain reaction we’re still trying to fully understand.
Today, as I walk across the bridge, heading toward the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, path ahead invites quiet reflection, the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves providing a peaceful soundtrack. But the Flowering Rush lingers in my mind. It reminds me of how interconnected everything is, how one small action—a plant brought from a distant land—can ripple out and affect entire ecosystems. It’s a lesson in responsibility for those willing to listen.
As I step into the sanctuary, the air feels lighter, filled with the sound of birds that dart between the trees. I think of the delicate balance of life here, and how easily it can be disrupted by the presence of something foreign, something invasive. Yet, there is a strange comfort in knowing that nature, for all its fragility, has its own resilience.
The Flowering Rush, with its roots deep in the muddy banks of Fall Creek, is a testament to that resilience. It may not belong here, but it has found a way to adapt, to make this place its home. And in that, I find both a warning and a kind of hope—hope that we, too, can learn to live more thoughtfully, more in tune with the world around us, before we upset the balance any further.
For now, though, I simply walk, grateful for the beauty around me, even if it comes with complications. Each step takes me deeper into this world, and I am reminded once again of the profound connection we have to the land, the water, the plants, and the creatures that share this space.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
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