Category: Rivers, Streams, Creeks

Autumn Reflections: The Majesty of Acer Rubrum

On a serene autumn afternoon by Beebe Lake, a solitary red maple stood out against the backdrop, showcasing its vibrant colors and resilience, symbolizing autumn’s fleeting beauty.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills25 Comments

It was one of those serene autumn afternoons that linger in memory, the kind where the sky seems impossibly clear, the air crisp and gently scented with fallen leaves. I stood at the edge of Beebe Lake, my gaze first drawn to the textured concrete dam holding back the water, its weathered facade contrasting sharply with the soft reflections shimmering across the lake’s calm surface. Beyond, the wooded hillside rose gently, a tapestry woven with the warm hues of autumn—golds, greens, oranges, and reds mingling like brush strokes on a canvas.


An October Glory, turning before all others

Yet amidst this collective beauty, one tree captured my attention, singular in its brilliance—a solitary red maple standing proudly on the lakeshore. Its leaves had turned a vivid crimson, blazing brightly as though defying the muted earth tones surrounding it. Even from a distance, framed and partially obscured by larger trees, its vibrant reflection cast a fiery echo on the water, rippling softly in the afternoon breeze.

The maple, Acer Rubrum, seemed perfectly at home here, thriving robustly at the water’s edge. I remembered reading how adaptable red maples are, able to flourish in conditions ranging from dry uplands to swampy shores. This spot, near the edge of the tranquil Beebe Lake, seemed to showcase its resilient character perfectly.

Up close, the maple’s glow was even more striking. Its leaves cascaded in fiery clusters, hues deepening from bright scarlet at the tips to a darker maroon closer to the branches. This dramatic gradient seemed symbolic of autumn itself—beautiful, fleeting, and subtly tinged with the melancholy reminder of winter’s approach.

The Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) to tolerant of diverse conditions, making it a perfect choice for this spot on the short of Beebe Lake.

A memory surfaced of early spring in the Finger Lakes region, a time when maples, including this red maple, generously share their sap. Though not traditionally tapped like its sweeter cousin, the sugar maple, this species’ sap can indeed be boiled down into syrup, a surprising sweetness hidden within its sturdy trunk. Standing in its shadow, imagining those early spring days, it seemed astonishing that the same tree could offer both the delicate sweetness of syrup and the fierce beauty now on display.

Curiously, the transformation of the tree appeared methodical yet whimsical—it changed colors from the top down, its upper branches already bare, exposing slender twigs pointing skyward. Like an artist carefully removing layers to reveal something deeper beneath, the maple unveiled its upper bare bones first, as though reminding observers of the quiet strength supporting its autumn splendor.

This Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) turns from the top down and has already bare for most top branches.

As I lingered, taking in this turning tree, joggers passed by along the path, their rhythmic footsteps a gentle percussion beneath the rustling leaves. Briefly, they glanced toward the vivid maple, perhaps drawn, like me, by its striking contrast to the surrounding foliage. It felt like we shared a secret admiration for this singular tree, recognizing in it a quiet assertion of individuality amidst conformity.

Eventually, I viewed the maple once more from afar, framed now by broader sweeps of branches and leaves, partially obscured but no less vivid. Through layers of leaves and dappled sunlight, it glowed like a distant flame, a beacon that seemed to encapsulate the entire mood of the season—warm yet cool, bright yet transient.

The Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) is the first to flower in spring and the first to turn in autumn.

Walking away, the image of that maple lingered, its reflection shimmering gently in the afternoon sun, a moment suspended between summer’s lush vitality and winter’s bare stillness. Beebe Lake had offered scenic beauty, a quiet meditation, a reflection mirrored not only on its tranquil surface but in the heart of an observer captivated by a single tree’s fleeting glory.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Buttonbush: The Secret Geometry of Wetlands

Discover the Buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis), a wetland shrub of spherical blooms, sustaining pollinators, birds, and waterfowl while reminding us of life’s enduring cycles

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills9 Comments

In the quiet wetlands of late summer, when cattails lift their brown torches above the reeds and dragonflies skim the still water, there is a shrub that speaks in spheres. Its language is not the pointed spear of grass or the broad fan of lily pads, but the perfect symmetry of globes—round, intricate, and startling in their precision. This is the Buttonbush, Cephalanthus occidentalis, a native of swamps, pond margins, and the soft, yielding soils where water shapes the land.

At first glance, its clusters might be mistaken for something fashioned by human hands: spiky balls arrayed along slender stems, each one a small planet bristling with tiny cells. Only in memory can we recall their summer incarnation, when each ball was a constellation of snowy blossoms, white tubular flowers extending like delicate pins from a spherical center. Bees and butterflies crowded them then, drunk on nectar, wings glinting in the sun. Hummingbirds darted in as though drawn by an unseen magnet, their beaks fitting perfectly into the narrow blossoms, a partnership written long ago in the shared script of evolution.

Buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis) at Sapsucker Woods, Cornell Lab of Ornithology

Now, in August’s waning light, those blossoms have folded back into seed, transforming into the russet orbs captured in the photograph. What was once nectar is now promise—food for ducks, shorebirds, and the small lives that depend on wetlands for sustenance. In the hands of buttonbush, time itself is circular. Flower becomes fruit, fruit becomes seed, seed becomes shrub, and the cycle spins quietly on, just as the spheres themselves suggest: complete, unbroken, eternal.

A Wetland Companion

Buttonbush is rarely alone. It thrives where cattails whisper, where pickerelweed thrusts up spikes of purple bloom, where the air holds the scent of waterlogged earth. Its roots grip the muck at the edges of ponds and rivers, holding soil against the restless tug of currents. In doing so, it becomes part of the unseen architecture that holds wetlands together, slowing erosion, filtering water, providing shelter for fish in the shade of its stems.

Pickerelweed (Pontederia cordata) at Sapsucker Woods, Cornell Lab of Ornithology

This shrub, unassuming in stature, is an engineer of stability. It creates thickets where red-winged blackbirds perch, where frogs crouch in shade, where turtles bask on half-submerged branches. The wetlands of North America would be poorer without its presence, for it provides not just beauty but the scaffolding upon which entire communities of life depend.

The Human Thread

To the human eye, the buttonbush’s spherical blooms are so striking that they demand metaphor. Some have called them pincushions, others tiny planets, others fireworks arrested in mid-burst. Native American peoples, however, looked beyond metaphor to medicine. The bark and roots were used in remedies for ailments ranging from headaches to fevers, though with caution, for the plant holds mild toxicity when consumed raw. It is a reminder that many gifts of the natural world are edged with danger, and that wisdom lies in balance.

Today, gardeners and conservationists plant buttonbush intentionally. It is welcomed into rain gardens, where its thirst for moisture makes it a perfect ally for absorbing stormwater. It is used in wetland restoration projects, where its deep roots anchor new life. And it is cherished by those who walk the edges of ponds and discover in its round blossoms a geometry that feels both wild and deliberate, a gift of design from the living earth.

Fourth of July, 2019, Stewart Park

The Sphere as Symbol

Rachel Carson once wrote that in nature, “nothing exists alone.” The buttonbush embodies this truth with clarity. Its spheres are invitations, junctions where plant and pollinator meet, where flower and bird share a moment of mutual necessity. They are offerings to the eye as well, challenging us to see patterns where we might otherwise see only happenstance.

Standing before a buttonbush in bloom, one feels an almost childlike wonder: how could such symmetry arise unbidden from soil and sunlight? Yet this is the miracle of evolution, that order may spring from chance, that beauty may serve survival, that what pleases our senses also sustains life.

A Closing Reflection

In the wetlands, where water mirrors the sky, the buttonbush offers its own reflection of completeness. Its seed heads persist through autumn and winter, small orbs clinging even when leaves fall, reminders that the cycles of life turn steadily beneath the stillness.

To linger with buttonbush is to be reminded of nature’s quiet insistence on wholeness. It speaks in forms: round, repeating, enduring. To walk away from it is to carry a sense of connection, to know that in the pattern of its blooms we glimpse a truth both humble and profound—that life is not a line but a circle, and in every turning there is renewal.

For Further Reading

USDA NRCS. Plant Guide: Buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis L.). United States Department of Agriculture, Natural Resources Conservation Service. Available online: https://plants.usda.gov
– Provides detailed information on identification, habitat, and ecological role.

Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. Cephalanthus occidentalis (Common Buttonbush). Native Plant Information Network. Available online: https://www.wildflower.org/plants/result.php?id_plant=ceoc2
– Covers botanical features, bloom time, wildlife value, and landscape use.

Dirr, Michael A. Manual of Woody Landscape Plants: Their Identification, Ornamental Characteristics, Culture, Propagation and Uses. 6th Edition. Stipes Publishing, 2009.
– Authoritative horticultural reference on Buttonbush and other shrubs.

Peterson, Roger Tory, and Margaret McKenny. A Field Guide to Wildflowers: Northeastern and North-central North America. Houghton Mifflin, 1968.
– Classic field guide covering buttonbush’s wetland habitat.

Carson, Rachel. Silent Spring. Houghton Mifflin, 1962.
– Source of the quoted passage: “In nature nothing exists alone.” (Chapter 2, “The Obligation to Endure”).

Moerman, Daniel E. Native American Ethnobotany. Timber Press, 1998.
– Comprehensive reference documenting traditional medicinal uses of Buttonbush among Native American peoples.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Historical Wonders of Ashford Castle and Its Natural Surroundings

At Ashford Castle, swans glide on the Cong River’s glassy waters, weaving together myth, history, and cinema in a timeless reflection of Ireland’s enduring spirit.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills9 Comments

Headed south from Cong Village, past the venerable Cong Abbey then Saint Mary’s Church of Ireland, the road bends into the Ashford Castle estate. Time seems to shift here. The stonework of the abbey lingers in memory, only to give way to manicured parkland, ancient trees, and the shimmer of water. The road itself, aptly named Ashford Castle, carries the traveler to a place where history, nature, and imagination meet.

I do not recall passing a guard box on my first visit, though one now stands firmly on the roadside, manned and proper, as though the estate were never meant to be entered without ceremony. In truth, Ashford Castle has always carried the air of a threshold—between village and wild, past and present, myth and reality.

Soon the road brings one to the banks of the Cong River. Here the water widens, flowing calm and sure, and across it rises the battlemented silhouette of Ashford Castle itself. Its towers, turrets, and stony walls seem to grow from the riverbank like something inevitable, a fortress transformed into elegance. The castle’s mirrored reflection on the water doubles the grandeur, as though the real and imagined castle exist side by side.

It is no wonder filmmakers found inspiration here. Scenes from the classic 1952 film The Quiet Man—the tale of Sean Thornton, played by John Wayne, and the fiery Mary Kate Danaher, embodied by Maureen O’Hara—were shot on the far bank of this very river. To watch them walking by these waters is to see Ashford Castle woven into Hollywood’s Irish dreamscape, a backdrop both romantic and enduring.

Yet long before cinema, the river was already a stage. The Cong River is a natural marvel. It emerges from the same Carboniferous limestone that shapes the Burren of County Clare—an austere landscape of limestone pavements etched with fossils and caves, where rare alpine and Mediterranean plants thrive among ancient tombs. Through fissures in this ancient bedrock, the waters of Lough Mask find their way underground before rising again at Cong. This subterranean journey, through stone filters laid down some 350 million years ago, leaves the water clarified, luminous, and cold. By the time it slides past Ashford Castle, it has the purity of glass.

It is in this clarity while walking the opposite bank on a different morning I found a parent swan and its cygnet feeding. The adult glided, immaculate, its long neck bowed as drops of river fell from its beak. At its side, the cygnet paddled with earnest strokes, gray down still clinging, a fragile shadow of what it would one day become. Together they traced a quiet path across the water, ripples fanning behind them.

Few images so perfectly match their setting: a medieval castle, guardian of centuries, reflected in the same waters where these swans carried on their timeless rhythm of nurture and growth. It was as if the river itself composed the scene—a blending of stone, water, bird, and sky that belonged nowhere else but here.

The swan has long been a symbol in Irish lore. The Children of Lir, cursed to live as swans for nine hundred years, are among the most haunting figures of Celtic mythology. To see the white bird with its offspring before Ashford Castle was to glimpse that myth breathing still, alive on the Cong River.

Photographers know the difficulty of capturing water and stone without losing the life between them. On that morning, however, the river gave freely—its surface alternately smooth as glass and dappled with breeze. Stones at the water’s edge appeared like stepping-stones into history. Each frame revealed another face of the estate: the wide reach of the Cong, the castle framed by trees, the play of cloud shadows across the current.

The castle itself, though reshaped as a luxury retreat, still speaks of older times. Founded in the 13th century by the Anglo-Normans, Ashford passed through centuries of conquest and change before becoming, in the 19th century, a romantic Victorian pile. Today its battlements remain picturesque rather than defensive, but the sense of continuity—of lives unfolding along these banks—has not faded.

Standing there, camera in hand, I was struck by the layered meaning of this place. The Cong River flows from unseen caverns, purified by limestone older than memory. It nourishes swans, reeds, and trout alike. It reflects both a castle and a sky. Along its opposite bank, legends of cinema and Celtic lore alike find footing.

As the swan and cygnet drifted slowly downstream, I thought of them as part of the same enduring thread. Parent and child mirrored castle and village, past and future, permanence and change. The ripples they left widened until they touched both banks, an unbroken gesture across centuries.

Click this link to read another Ireland story “The Cloigtheach of Glendalough.”

Click this link to read another Ireland story “Killeany Bouy.”
Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Carved by Time: Exploring the Virgin River and Cross-Bedded Sandstone in Zion’s Narrows

A quiet moment along the Virgin River reveals the artistry of nature—where water, stone, and time shape Zion’s majestic Narrows in subtle, surprising ways.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills

In Zion National Park, where towering sandstone cliffs rise from the desert floor, the Virgin River weaves a persistent and graceful thread through deep canyons carved over millennia. The river is the creative force behind Zion’s signature landscape, sculpting stone with a patient hand. Among its greatest achievements is the Narrows—a sinuous gorge where water and light perform a timeless duet. The two photographs shown here draw us into an intimate corner of that realm, where water flows past a rock face marked by both subtlety and drama.

At first glance, what stands out is the unusual structure on the wall behind the river—a feature that at a distance could easily be mistaken for a man-made stairway. But closer observation reveals this to be a natural element, the result of erosion acting upon cross-bedded Navajo Sandstone. The texture and linearity of these formations are remnants of ancient sand dunes hardened into rock nearly 190 million years ago, during the Jurassic period. What looks like precision carving is, in fact, the legacy of sedimentation, lithification, and the scouring action of water over time.

In the first photograph, the scene is bathed in soft, diffused light, lending a quiet tone to the flowing water and the weathered rock face. The surface of the Virgin River becomes a silky sheet, its motion captured with long exposure so that it seems to glide effortlessly past the cluster of smooth stones in the foreground. Here is a deep calm—the kind that can be heard in the hush of water over stone and felt in the breathless silence of a canyon morning.

Click each photo for a larger view
Taken using the Kodak DCS Pro SLR/c mounted with a Canon EF 50mm f/1.4 USM lens

The second photograph, taken under brighter conditions, reveals the same scene with different character. The increase in light clarifies the water’s transparency, the greens of moss and lichen on the wall, and the golden tones of the sandstone. What you see is a pattern formed by layers of wind-blown sand, once part of vast dunes, now standing as a stone ledger of time. The river, its bed visible beneath the shallow flow, seems to read this text as it passes—century by century, pebble by pebble.

The Virgin River begins high in Southwestern Utah, at the Navajo Reservoir in the Dixie National Forest north of Zion National Park and travels over 160 miles to join the Colorado River, carving through layers of sedimentary rock as it descends. In the Narrows, the canyon walls rise up to a thousand feet while the corridor narrows to just 20–30 feet across in places. The intimacy of the Narrows contrasts with the vast openness elsewhere in Zion, enclosing the traveler in a world of water and stone, shadow and echo.

Walking the Narrows means walking in the river itself—an experience that engages body and spirit alike. The water is rarely still, and neither is the trail. Slippery rocks and ever-shifting current demand attention and balance. Yet, this very immersion invites a deeper kind of awareness. You are observing nature from within it, shaped by nature, and held by nature.

What the photos capture so eloquently is that Zion is a place where the work of nature can appear deliberate, even architectural. The illusion of stairways in the sandstone, carved not by hands but by wind, gravity, and time, is a reminder of how little separates the human sense of design from the forms nature produces. We recognize rhythm and repetition, elevation and flow, and are drawn to interpret meaning from these patterns.

But perhaps the meaning lies not in what we impose, but in what we receive. The Virgin River’s passage through this sculpted corridor teaches patience, resilience, and the beauty of gradual transformation. Its waters do not fight the rock; they yield, swirl, and persist—until the rock, by degrees, gives way. What results is a landscape both eternal and ever-changing.

Zion’s grandeur is easy to admire its many amazing overlooks, but its soul is found in quiet places like this—where sandstone walls, smoothed by water and time, speak not in shouts but in whispers. Here, beside a seeming stairway that leads nowhere and everywhere, we come face to face with the artistry of the Earth.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Exploring Sims-Jennings Preserve: A Nature Lover’s Delight

A walk through Sims-Jennings Preserve unveils ancient cliffs, vibrant bird calls, and the quiet wisdom of maples and waterfalls along Cayuga Lake’s forested edge.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills15 Comments

I arrive early, the sun still climbing its slow arc, brushing the eastern sky in pastels as I step into the Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs. The trailhead, tucked neatly along NYS Route 34B, is a doorway into an ancient chapter of the Finger Lakes—one rich with the scent of moss, the hush of leaf-dappled silence, and the layered echoes of stone and birdsong.

The first thing that strikes me is the expanse of mowed meadow, rimmed with goldenrod and patches of milkweed. From here, the land rolled gently westward until it ends abruptly in cliffs that plummeted toward Cayuga Lake. A map at the entrance speaks of the Sherburne and Renwick Formations, shale and siltstone laid down when the land was covered in warm Devonian seas. The cliffs themselves stand like watchmen over time, protecting 4,000 feet of lakeshore from erosion, whispering tales older than mammals.

A side trail leads to this mowed meadow and Cayuga Lake overlook

On the meadow edge is this Carya ovata, or shagbark hickory, unmistakable from its elongated leaflets and distinctive bark that peeled in long, curled strips. The leaves shimmered in the breeze, their green etched with pale speckles of recent rain, as if nature herself had hand-painted them.

Shagbark Hickory on the edge of meadow.
Leaves of the Shagbark Hickory
Shagbark Hickory bark / trunk

I follow the yellow-blazed trail into a thicket where tall sugar maples—Acer saccharum—arched overhead. Their leaves caught the morning light, each palm-sized blade glowing like a shard of stained glass.



Throughout the preserve I find large holes like these in a pine tree snag, the work of a Pileated Woodpecker.

A sudden fluting note from the trees stops me in my tracks. “Ee-oh-lay,” the Wood Thrush sang, its call cascading through the forest like water over stone. Moments later, the rapid, accelerating trill of an Ovenbird joins in—a sound like “teacher-teacher-teacher” echoing from the understory. The forest is alive.

Watch on YouTube for the best experience.

I descend into the shade. A narrow stream runs over the flat gray ledges of the Ludlowville Formation, forming delicate waterfalls no taller than a man but intricate as lace. One fall, framed by a colonnade of black cherry and beech trees, poured over stone like a ribbon of silk. The water’s voice changed with each ledge—first a murmur, then a chuckle, then quiet confidence as it wound through the woods.

Here, a Scarlet Tanager flashes like flame through the canopy, its red feathers shocking against the sea of green. Above, the Eastern Wood-Pewee calles its own name from a high perch—“pee-a-wee”—a humble herald of summer. Lower down, a Tufted Titmouse flits from branch to branch, a gray blur with a whistle like curiosity incarnate.

Further along, a looping vine coils around a pair of trees like an ancient signature. Possibly a native bittersweet, its woody stem thick as a child’s arm. It reminds me of how all life here is entangled—flora, fauna, stone, and stream woven into one vast web.

I pause at the overlook, where the trail skirts the cliffs. From this height, the view opened to Cayuga Lake, vast and gleaming in the morning light. Across the water, the hills of the western shore softened into a watercolor horizon.

Crowbar Point on the west lake shore is visible, partially hidden by trees. Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs, Finger Lakes Land Trust on a May morning 2025, Lansing, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region

On the walk back, a robin sings its measured phrases from a nearby hawthorn, and I think how common birds often hold the deepest solace. The robin’s voice rises above the silence, not grand, not rare, but reassuring in its familiarity—like a good friend’s greeting.

A shale ledge, Renwick Formation (?)

I leave the preserve changed gently, like the soft indent of a footstep in moss. The Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs is a place that reminds you to listen. To the birds, to the trees, to your own breath. And in listening, you remember what it means to be wholly present in the world.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

On The Edge of Time Above Taughannock Gorge

Perched above Taughannock Gorge, a moss-covered ledge and cascading falls reveal ancient stories—where Devonian seas once flowed and time’s layers whisper through stone and water.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills5 Comments

The morning sun had only just breached the rim of the gorge, sending long slants of golden light across the forest floor. Walking the South Rim Trail of Taughannock Falls State Park, I came upon a quiet, unassuming spot—just a few paces off the path—where the forest seemed to pause in reverence. What greeted me was a small marvel of persistence and time.

There, rooted precariously atop a slab of brittle shale, was a tenacious shrub rising from a bed of moss, its spindly frame etched in sharp contrast to the soft, green sprawl beneath it. The moss had taken hold on a shelf of rock cantilevered over the gorge like a green tongue of earth defying gravity. Cracks traced the shale’s surface like veins, silent records of the forces that shaped this place—heat, ice, pressure, time. Together, the moss and the bush formed an improbable community, surviving against odds, bound together by the thin soil cradled in stone.

This ledge, suspended over the abyss, seemed less a part of the earth than a question it asked—how much life can cling to the edge before the edge itself gives way?

Beneath this living fragment, the gorge dropped away. Layers upon layers of shale revealed themselves, stacked like a collapsed library of time. Here, the Devonian Period lies exposed to wind and rain, and to those willing to pause and wonder. Each stratum holds the fossil whisper of ancient seas, where trilobites scuttled and coral reefs once stood. This gorge was not carved quickly. It was not born of a moment, but of many—countless raindrops, millennia of ice melt, the slow, sure work of water over stone.

From this natural balcony, I looked out and down to the gorge floor where the creek shaped the land with an artist’s patient hand. The falls, seen from above, no longer thundered—they danced. Spread like the folds of a fan, water curled over smooth stone in steps of white silk. From here, the cascade looked deliberate, choreographed—an elemental performance halfway between gravity and grace.

How many times had this water flowed, reshaped, receded? How often had it carved these grooves, smoothed those ridges, erased the footprints of what came before? Looking at the exposed rock, one could trace the signature of ancient glaciers, feel the memory of long-gone floods. It was humbling—this intersection of change and continuity.

Above it all, the trees stood still. Pine and oak, rooted well back from the edge, offered a kind of sentinel presence. Their shadows stretched long and angled, tracing the contours of both earth and memory. For a moment, I let go of all thought and simply listened—to the murmur of wind through leaves, the faint rush of water far below, and the silence that presses in when the land itself seems to be remembering.

This spot—so easily missed by a hurried hiker—offered a parable of resilience and impermanence. The moss did not grow with certainty, nor the shrub reach with confidence. They survived on the edge because they adapted. They made do with less. They took root where others could not. There was no security in that place, only presence. Only the now.

And isn’t that a lesson worth carrying?

We so often seek stability, firm ground, a clear path. Yet, some of the most beautiful things live just beyond comfort—on ledges, in cracks, in the margins of the known. To pause here was to acknowledge that life thrives not only in sheltered valleys but also at the edge of what seems possible.

As I stepped back onto the trail and continued along the South Rim, the image of that mossy outcrop stayed with me. I carried it in my thoughts like a talisman—proof that even on the brink, life finds a way. And that from above, the most chaotic falls can appear as ordered motion, as a flow toward something larger.

Later, when the sun climbed higher and the light lost its slant, I would look back on this moment not as a spectacular highlight but as something more intimate: a quiet encounter with nature’s subtle artistry, its layered truths, and its enduring invitation to look closely, feel deeply, and walk softly.

For here, above the gorge, at the edge of earth and time, even a whisper leaves a mark.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

Discovering Stillness in Nature’s Embrace

A bench beside a cedar, unchanged through time, stirred memory and gratitude—reminding me that some places wait quietly, holding space until we find them again.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills13 Comments

A lingering memory hovers over this spot. The soft crunch of gravel beneath my boots, the filtered light through pine and oak, the scent of warm stone and moss—all of it felt at once familiar and distant, like a half-remembered tune that returns in full when you hear the first few notes. I hadn’t thought about the simple bench until I turned the bend this summer day on the South Rim Trail.

It was still there. The same humble bench nestled beside a cedar, its weathered frame now bearing the patina of years. The tree remained slightly bowed as if in silent conversation with the bench it had embraced.. The space between them, still and shaded, seemed to invite reflection without demanding it.

Welcome Summertime Shade

I sat down, letting the moment settle around me. In the gorge below, water moved quietly through sculpted shale, the same layered gray that once caught my attention through a camera lens long packed away. From this overlook, the view had scarcely changed: stone and water, green clinging to cliff, sky rolling in above it all. My photograph captures it now just as it might have then—perhaps from the same angle. The gorge unfolding in a graceful arc, with trees perched impossibly along the sheer face.

It struck me, not as a grand revelation but with quiet certainty, that very few places in life offer such stillness. So much shifts in the world—landscapes erode, trails are rerouted, lives move forward. Yet here I was again, sitting in the same spot, as though the intervening decades had folded in on themselves.

The Why for the Bench

Back then, I had rested here out of curiosity, pausing to take in the view, enjoy a respite. Now, I sat with a deeper kind of stillness. The second photograph holds the space as I found it—quiet, dappled with shadow, edges softened by time. The fence beyond it remains, unchanged, a modest boundary between the trail and the deep gorge beyond.

I don’t remember what thoughts filled my mind that first time. But today, a kind of gentle gratitude rose instead. Gratitude for the bench, yes—but also for the path that led me here again, for the act of remembering, and for the rare gift of finding something familiar, something steady.

Left Behind or an Offering?

A final image frames just the bench, its surface worn smooth, its structure slightly leaning now. A single flower petal had fallen on the wood—a quiet grace note in the morning light. I stood and took that last photo as a way of holding the moment, though I knew no picture could fully capture what it meant to find something that had waited without fanfare.

As I turned and walked back along the rim, I felt lighter. Not because time had reversed or been conquered, but because it had been witnessed—and somehow, that was enough.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

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.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

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

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

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.

The Secret Life of Early Meadow-Rue in Forest Ecosystems

Discover the delicate beauty of early meadow-rue (Thalictrum dioicum) along the Gorge Trail at Robert H. Treman State Park. Explore its unique spring blooms, cultural significance in Native American traditions, and the poetry of its quiet role in the woodland ecosystem.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills8 Comments


April 28, 2025 – Robert H. Treman State Park, Ithaca, NY. I step lightly along the damp stone stairs of the Gorge Trail, hemmed in by towering rock walls and the whisper of waterfalls. There, at a turn in the path, I encounter an unassuming woodland plant waving in the breeze. Its delicate green foliage could be mistaken for a young fern or columbine, but from its arching stems hang dozens of tiny yellow tassels, swaying like fairy lanterns. This is a male Thalictrum dioicum – commonly known as early meadow-rue, or more whimsically, quicksilver-weed. One of the earliest wildflowers to emerge in spring forests of the Northeast, it offers a subtle spectacle: golden anthers dangling in the cool April breeze, each tiny stamen a pendulum of pollen.

Delicate Botany of a Woodland Rue


At a glance, Thalictrum dioicum might not shout for attention – standing barely one to two feet tall – yet a closer look reveals intricate beauty. Each male plant is a miniature chandelier of blossoms, the flowers having no petals at all but instead a simple fringe of sepals and a flurry of stamens. In fact, the male flowers are the showiest part of this species, with numerous slender, dangling yellow stamens that earn meadow-rue a second look. These dangles are the anthers – pollen-bearing organs – swinging freely to release golden dust on the wind. Female plants, on separate nearby stalks, are more reserved: their flowers hold up clusters of pale pistils like tiny green stars, which, if wind-blessed with pollen, will swell into achenes (dry fruits) later in the season. The separation of sexes in different “houses” is the trait that gives the species its name dioicum, meaning “of two households” in Greek. Early meadow-rue’s foliage is equally enchanting. The leaves are twice or thrice divided into lobed leaflets that resemble the herb rue (Ruta) – hence the common name “meadow-rue”. A misty green above and silvery underside, the leaflets have a rounded, almost columbine-like form with soft scalloped edges. As botanist Eloise Butler once noted, casual hikers often exclaim “what a pretty fern!” upon seeing the airy foliage before noticing any flowers. Indeed, the plant’s fern-like grace and early spring timing give the forest understory a verdant, lacy trim well before the summer plants take over.

What’s in a Name (Etymology and Lore)

Even the name of this humble wildflower carries poetry. The genus Thalictrum harkens back to the Greek word thaliktron, a term used by the ancient physician Dioscorides to describe plants with finely divided leaves. It’s a fitting nod to the meadow-rue’s delicate foliage. The species name dioicum, as mentioned, translates to “two houses,” nodding to its dioecious nature – male and female flowers on separate plants. As for “quicksilver-weed,” an old folk name, one can only imagine it arose from the plant’s ephemeral shimmer: appearing quickly in spring and perhaps glinting with dew like liquid silver. Early meadow-rue also earns its “early” title by being among the first woodland perennials to bloom as the snow melts – a true harbinger of spring in the eastern North American woods. The “rue” in meadow-rue is a bit of a misnomer botanically (meadow-rue is in the buttercup family, not related to true rue). However, the moniker stuck because of a shared appearance – those divided leaves echo the shape of true rue’s foliage. There’s no strong odor or bitterness here, though. Instead, Thalictrum dioicum is gentle in aspect and entirely non-toxic, making it a welcome companion in shady gardens and wild places alike. Gardeners sometimes cultivate it for its graceful foliage and dangling blooms, a little wild treasure in cultivated shade gardens.

A Quiet Role in the Forest Understory


In its native habitat, early meadow-rue lives a low-key life in the understory. It thrives on dappled woodland slopes, often on rich, rocky soils near streams – exactly the sort of place the Gorge Trail winds through. Preferring partial shade, it is comfortable in both moist and well-drained sites. As a spring ephemeral, it takes advantage of the window before the canopy fully leafs out, unfurling its leaves and flowers in April and May, then quietly dying back by midsummer to wait out the year’s end. This strategy allows it to catch the sunlight of early spring and avoid competition later on. Unlike showy wildflowers that beckon bees and butterflies, meadow-rue’s pollinator is the breeze. Being wind-pollinated (anemophilous), it has no need for bright petals or nectar rewards. Instead, those dangling stamens tremble with each gust, shedding pollen into the air – a dance of chance that some of it will drift over to a waiting female flower nearby. The light, swinging tassels are perfectly adapted to this purpose, increasing the odds of pollen dispersal with every sway. Even without offering nectar, early meadow-rue still contributes to its ecosystem. Its tender leaves provide an early snack for rabbits and deer venturing out after winter. A few specialized moth species also use it as a host plant in their caterpillar stage, nibbling on the foliage. By going dormant in summer, meadow-rue returns nutrients to the soil and opens space for later-emerging plants, maintaining the ebb and flow of diversity in the forest floor community. In autumn and winter, only its fibrous roots and a small caudex (rootstock) persist under the leaf litter, ready to send up new growth when spring returns.

Roots in Culture and Folklore

This demure wildflower has also found its way into human stories and herbal traditions. Native American communities, especially in the Northeast, knew and used early meadow-rue in subtle ways. Though not a superstar of indigenous medicine, it had its roles. Cherokee healers brewed tea from the roots to treat diarrhea and stomach troubles, and to ease vomiting. In Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) lore, a decoction of meadow-rue roots was used as a wash for sore, tired eyes, and even taken to steady a palpitating heart – perhaps the gentle plant lending calm through belief or mild effect. Beyond medicine, Thalictrum dioicum tiptoes into the realm of romance and harmony.

According to ethnobotanical notes, young Blackfoot women in the northern Plains would weave the pretty tassels or seed clusters into their hair, believing it would help them attract the attention of a desired young man – a bit of springtime love charm from the wilds. Among some eastern Woodlands tribes, such as the Ojibwa and Potawatomi, the seeds of meadow-rue were a secret tool for domestic peace: slipping a pinch of seeds into the food of a quarreling couple was thought to help dispel discord and restore harmony to the relationship. Whether through mild pharmacological effect or sheer faith, one imagines it brought a hopeful smile to those administering this folk remedy.

Early meadow-rue even made a brief appearance in early colonial folklore. In Canada, it’s said that some of the First Peoples used the crushed roots to treat venomous snake bites, likely as a poultice. The plant’s leaves were also dropped into spruce beer – the fermented drink made by settlers and Natives alike – perhaps as a flavoring or tonic ingredient. Interestingly, despite these uses, meadow-rue never became a staple in European-American herbal medicine. 19th-century herbal texts noted that American Thalictrums were largely ignored by formal medicine, overshadowed by their European cousins. This lends our Thalictrum dioicum an aura of a plant mostly known by those who dwell close to the land – a quiet ally in the forest, employed in pinch when needed and otherwise simply appreciated for its beauty and symbolism.

Reflections on a Spring Encounter

A close-up of Thalictrum dioicum male flowers, often called “quick-silver weed” for the way these golden tassels catch the light. The plant’s lack of petals is evident – instead, dozens of pollen-laden stamens dangle, ready for the wind’s call.

Encountering this early meadow-rue along the gorge felt like stumbling upon a small secret of the woods. In the waterfall haunted gorge, with slate-gray cliffs towering overhead, these frail yellow tassels swayed and twirled as if performing for an unseen audience. There was a breezy playfulness in that moment – the plant nodding in the wind, pollinating by dancing rather than by the busy work of bees.

I was struck by how ancient and new it all felt: this same species blooming every April for thousands of years, used by generations of indigenous peoples for healing and hope, yet to me on that day it was a delightful surprise, as fresh as the spring itself. As I crouched to take a closer look, I imagined the threads of history and myth that early meadow-rue carries. Its presence here is a sign of a healthy, layered woodland. It whispered of resilience – how something so delicate survives the torrents of spring rain and the deep freezes of winter underground, year after year. In the golden afternoon light of the gorge, those dangling blossoms were like drops of quicksilver sunlight, fleeting and brilliant.

I felt grateful to have noticed this little plant, to share a moment of connection across time and cultures. The next bend of the trail would lead me on, but the image of quicksilver weed in bloom stayed with me – a reminder that even the quietest corners of nature are filled with stories waiting to be noticed.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.

References

Thalictrum dioicum (Early Meadow-rue) – Wikipedia
Friends of the Wild Flower Garden – Early Meadow-rue (Thalictrum dioicum) plant description and naming
henriettes-herb.com
Institute for American Indian Studies – Medicinal Monday: Early Meadow Rue, blog post (Jan 22, 2024)
Henriette’s Herbal – Thalictrum dioicum excerpt from Drugs and Medicines of North America (1884-1887)
henriettes-herb.com
Friends of the Wild Flower Garden – Eloise Butler’s note on Early Meadow-rue (1911)

Taughannock Falls State Park: A Geological and Ecological Marvel

Taughannock Falls, a majestic 215-foot waterfall, showcases nature’s beauty and power, intertwining geological history with vibrant ecosystems in New York.

View post to subscribe to the site’s newsletter.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments


Introduction
Nestled in the heart of the Finger Lakes region of New York, Taughannock Falls stands as a testament to the delicate balance of power and beauty in nature. This iconic waterfall plunges 215 feet—one of the tallest single-drop waterfalls east of the Rocky Mountains—into a gorge whose story is written in stone. The park surrounding this natural wonder offers a symphony of sights, from towering cliffs to lush greenery, inviting visitors to explore its ancient secrets and vibrant life.

View of taughannock Falls from the South Rim Trail. Taughannock Falls New York State Park, Trumansburg, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region

A Story Written in Stone
The rocks of Taughannock Falls tell a story that stretches back 380 million years to the Devonian Period, a time when the region was submerged beneath a shallow inland sea. Layer upon layer of shale, sandstone, and limestone formed as sediment settled to the ocean floor, preserving the fossils of marine life that once thrived here. These rocks have endured the passage of eons, but the gorge itself is a far more recent creation.

Limestone Steps on the South Rim Trail descend to the gorge floor.

It was the retreat of the mighty Laurentide Ice Sheet, approximately 10,000 years ago, that set the stage for Taughannock’s grandeur. As glaciers melted, torrents of water carved the U-shaped valleys that now cradle the Finger Lakes. Taughannock Creek, a tributary of Cayuga Lake, began its work, etching its path through ancient rock, sculpting the gorge we see today. In just 10,000 years—a fleeting moment in geological time—the relentless force of water carved its way 3/4 of a mile upstream, creating the awe-inspiring chasm and waterfall that continue to evolve even now.

Taughannock Creek carved this landscape over thousands of years.

The Gorge’s Living Tapestry
Beyond its geological wonders, Taughannock Falls State Park bursts with life. Along the North and South Rim Trails, Eastern Hemlocks (Tsuga canadensis) stand tall, their evergreen branches weaving shadows that dance across stone stairways and forest floors. These silent sentinels are habitats for myriad creatures and protectors of the delicate ecosystem.

Wildflowers were planted by park staff at the Falls Overlook. The bright yellow of Black-eyed Susans (Rudbeckia hirta) and the vibrant purple of Coneflowers (Echinacea purpurea) attract bees and butterflies, their nectar fueling the intricate web of life that thrives here. Along the trail, on the forest floor, mosses and ferns cling to rocks, softening the edges of the gorge with their verdant touch.

Cone Flowers
Cone Flowers gone to seed
From a walk around Taughannock Falls State Park “Rim Trails” October 22nd, 2024. Trumansburg, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State.

The Fall’s Eternal Dance
At the heart of the park is the waterfall itself, its roar both a hymn and a whisper of time’s passage. The view from the North Rim Trail reveals the waterfall framed by steep cliffs, their striations like pages in a book written by water, wind, and time. The plunge pool below, shimmering in sunlight, seems almost sacred—a place where the forces of nature meet in harmony.

Viewed from the North Rim Trail on a summer morning. Taughannock Falls New York State Park, Trumansburg, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region

Even as we marvel at its beauty, the falls are a reminder of the earth’s constant transformation. Each drop of water that cascades down the cliff face carries away tiny fragments of rock, continuing the slow, deliberate work of reshaping the land. What we witness today is but one moment in an ongoing process—a fleeting glimpse of a masterpiece in progress.

A Place of Wonder
To stand at the edge of Taughannock Falls is to feel both small and connected. The cliffs, formed over hundreds of millions of years, whisper of ancient seas and forgotten worlds. The gorge, carved in the blink of an eye by geological standards, speaks to the power of water and time. And the vibrant life that fills the park reminds us of nature’s resilience and beauty.

As the sun filters through the trees, illuminating the mist that rises from the falls, it’s easy to believe that this place holds magic. Perhaps it’s in the way the water sparkles like diamonds in the sunlight or the way the breeze carries the scent of pine and earth. Or maybe it’s in the knowledge that here, in this park, we are witnesses to a story billions of years in the making.

Conclusion
Taughannock Falls State Park is a place of wonder where geology, ecology, and history converge. It invites us to reflect on the immense forces that shape our world and to cherish the fleeting beauty of each moment. Whether you come to marvel at the towering waterfall, walk among the hemlocks, or simply stand in awe of the gorge, Taughannock Falls leaves an indelible mark on the heart—a reminder of nature’s power, resilience, and enduring grace.

Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.