Category: Flowers

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.

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.

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Autumn Trail Adventures: Nature’s Colorful Showcase

The Cayuga Waterfront Trail showcases autumn’s beauty through vibrant plants like pokeweed, oak, Virginia Creeper, and New England Asters.

MichaelStephenWills4 Comments

A Flash of Red: The Mysterious Pokeweed

Our explorations along Ithaca’s Cayuga Waterfront Trail begins with the striking Pokeweed (Phytolacca americana), its ruby-red stems rising like sentinels against a sea of green leaves. At a glance, it’s bold, almost tropical, yet this native plant is a quintessential autumn feature in the Northeast. Those drooping clusters of berries (not yet ripe here) are food for birds like robins and mourning doves — though toxic to us, pokeweed adds a bit of danger to its beauty.

Nature’s Note: While visually stunning, pokeweed’s ripe purple berries were historically used as dye. Early settlers and Native Americans knew its power, though caution is always the rule here!

The Mighty Oak: Sentinel of the Trail

Next, we imnagine the cool shade of an oak tree, its lobed leaves silhouetted like green lacework against the clear blue sky. The photogenic Oaks are ecosystem powerhouses. Supporting hundreds of species of moths, butterflies, and birds, oaks quietly hold the fabric of nature together.

In autumn, these leaves will transform, dropping gently to create warm beds for overwintering insects. Stand beneath its branches long enough, and you’ll swear it whispers stories of the seasons gone by.

Quick Fact: Oaks produce acorns that are a favorite food of squirrels. Ever notice a squirrel “planting” them? That’s nature’s accidental reforestation plan in action.

Reflections of Autumn’s Palette

We reach the water’s edge, where the serene surface where Fall Creek joins Cayuga Lake mirrors the fiery splashes of red Virginia Creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) winding through the trees. This climbing vine, with its scarlet fall foliage, is like nature’s ribbon tying the forest together.

The reflection — a perfect painting — blurs the boundary between land and water. Here, quiet reigns, save for the soft ripple of a fish or the rustle of leaves overhead.

Curious Note: Virginia Creeper is often mistaken for poison ivy. The secret? Virginia Creeper has five leaflets, while poison ivy wears three — nature’s rhyme: “Leaves of three, let it be.”

Aster Alley: A Burst of Purple Beauty

On the trail’s side, a cheerful gathering of New England Asters (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae) steals the spotlight. These vibrant purple flowers, with their golden centers, are late-season treasures. As most blooms fade, asters feed pollinators like bees and butterflies in their final push before winter.

Walk by slowly, and you might catch a bumblebee lazily humming its thanks — a last sip of nectar before the chill sets in.

Did You Know? Asters get their name from the Greek word for star. Fitting, don’t you think?

Nature’s Quilt: Pine Needle Carpet

Finally, we tread across a textured carpet of pine needles, blanketing the ground in warm, earthy hues. Beneath this seemingly simple scene lies a story of renewal. As pines shed their needles, they enrich the soil with organic matter, providing a soft bed for new life to sprout in the spring.

The crunch underfoot feels both nostalgic and meditative — a gentle reminder that every fallen needle is part of nature’s endless cycle.

Fun Observation: Pine needles, often called “nature’s mulch,” are slightly acidic, which helps pine trees thrive while keeping competition at bay.

Closing Thoughts

From the bold reds of pokeweed to the mirrored waters adorned with Virginia Creeper, and the twinkle of asters amid the foliage, autumn along the Cayuga Waterfront Trail is a celebration of nature’s resilience and beauty. It’s a quiet reminder that even as the seasons shift, the world remains vibrant — a living, breathing tapestry stitched together by trees, plants, and reflections.

So, walk slowly, listen closely, and let the stories of leaves, stems, and waters guide your journey.

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Jenny Pickford’s Double Allium: A Tribute to Nature’s Wonders

The Double Allium sculpture symbolizes nature’s beauty and personal connection, reflecting the artist’s homage to alliums and cherished memories.

MichaelStephenWills8 Comments

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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The Colorful Journey of Lantana: From Garden to Invasion

Lantana camara is a vibrant, adaptable plant with a rich history, celebrated for its beauty but noted for its invasive tendencies.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

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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Vibrant Blooms of Zinnias and Gazanias at Cornell Botanical Gardens

Join me in admiration of these Zinnias and Gazanias at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, highlighting their vibrant beauty and rich botanical history.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

As I stroll around the Nevin Center at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, my eye is drawn to a bed of bright, cheerful flowers that seem to beam with personality. Here, amidst the lush plantings, Zinnias and Gazanias bring their vivid colors to life, each bloom a tiny celebration of nature’s artistry. These flowers, from a family spanning two continents, share a surprising harmony that only the language of color and form could convey.

The Zinnias (family Asteraceae), little fireworks exploding in hues of yellow, red, pink, and orange. They belong to the daisy family, which includes many well-known wildflowers and ornamental plants. Native to the warm regions of Mexico and Central America, Zinnias were first documented by Dr. Johann Gottfried Zinn, an 18th-century German botanist. Dr. Zinn initially set out to study human anatomy, but he turned to botany after inheriting the job of garden inspector at the University of Göttingen. His study of these cheerful flowers was eventually immortalized when the genus was named in his honor. Every time I see a Zinnia, I think about Dr. Zinn’s unexpected journey into botany and how these resilient, sun-loving flowers carry on his legacy.

Growing alongside them are Gazanias (family Asteraceae as well), which, despite their similarity in form, come from an entirely different part of the world. These stunning blooms are native to South Africa, thriving under the intense African sun. Also known as “treasure flowers,” Gazanias have radiant, striped petals that look like they’ve been painted by hand, with shades of fiery orange and deep red. The name Gazania honors Theodorus Gaza, a 15th-century Greek scholar who translated many important botanical works from Greek into Latin. I can’t help but feel that these flowers, with their bold, jewel-toned colors, live up to the name “treasure,” each one a small gem in the landscape.

As I stand here, admiring these blooms, I’m struck by the way they bring a sense of vibrancy and warmth to the Nevin Center. Both Zinnias and Gazanias are sun-worshippers, thriving in full sunlight and well-drained soil, making them ideal for this bright spot. Their colors seem even more dazzling against the verdant greens of the surrounding plants, and they attract bees and butterflies, adding another layer of life to this already lively space.

In a way, the planting here feels like a dialogue between continents, with the Zinnias representing the New World and the Gazanias embodying the spirit of Africa. It’s a conversation that reminds me of the global heritage of our gardens, how each plant carries a story, a name, and a lineage across borders and centuries. Here at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, they’ve found a new home, far from where they first bloomed, but as vibrant as ever.

I leave the Nevin Center with a sense of joy and gratitude for these botanical ambassadors. Zinnias and Gazanias, each named for pioneers in botany, remind me that discovery often comes in unexpected forms, just as beauty does. They teach us to look closely, to celebrate color and form, and to appreciate the living history all around us.

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Exploring Rincon Peak: Hiking Adventures in Arizona

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

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sego Lilies -- CLICK ME!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Exploring Lime Hollow: Nature Walks with My Grandsons

Enjoy a memorable visit to Lime Hollow Nature Preserve by a grandfather and his grandsons, exploring nature, observing wildlife, and connecting through shared experiences, fostering curiosity and appreciation for the environment.

MichaelStephenWills4 Comments

The October sunlight was gentle as we entered Lime Hollow Nature Preserve from Gracie Road, my grandsons, Sam and Rory, bursting with excitement beside me. Sam, the eldest, took the lead, confidently striding ahead along the Sunset Trail while Rory, his younger brother, stayed close to my side, his eyes wide with wonder at the forest around us.

Descent to the Pond


The trail wound through the woods, dappled with the golds and reds of early autumn. Sam spotted a squirrel darting between trees, and Rory pointed to the sky, “Look, Grandpa, a woodpecker!” I smiled at their enthusiasm, feeling grateful for these moments of connection to nature and family.

We descended toward the pond via the Pond View Trail, the sound of trickling water drawing us closer. As we approached, the landscape opened up, revealing the calm, reflective surface of the water, bordered by reeds swaying in the light breeze. I remembered bringing the boys here last spring, how different the pond looked then—brimming with life as frogs leapt from the banks and dragonflies zipped across the water’s surface. Today, the scene was quieter, but no less magical.

Rory, ever the adventurer, crouched by the pond’s edge, watching for frogs. Sam, too, paused to observe but soon grew restless, his curiosity pushing him onward. “Come on, Grandpa! Let’s see what’s next!” His voice echoed through the trees as he darted back onto the trail, Rory quick to follow.

Encounter with the Giant Fungus


The path led us deeper into the forest, and soon we turned onto the Brookside Trail, which merged with the High Ridge Trail. Here, the air grew cooler under the dense canopy of trees, and the forest floor softened beneath our feet with layers of leaves. It was then that we stumbled upon the most magnificent sight of the day: an enormous bracket fungus, its wide, layered shelves clinging to the trunk a hoary snag.

Rory gasped in delight, running over to inspect it more closely. “Look how big it is!” he exclaimed, his small hands hovering just above its ridged surface. Sam, never one to be outdone, knelt beside it, carefully touching the spongy layers. “It’s a staircase for squirrels,” he said, grinning up at me.

Turkey Tail bracket fungus (Trametes versicolor) is a common wood decay fungus found on dead and decaying hardwoods. Named for its concentric, colorful bands resembling a turkey’s tail, it plays a vital role in forest ecosystems by breaking down lignin, facilitating nutrient recycling. It’s also valued for its medicinal properties. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, Cortland County, New York State. Finger Lakes Regions

As I watched them, I couldn’t help but think back to all the times I had wandered these trails alone before they were born. Now, these woods had become a classroom for them—full of discoveries that sparked their curiosity and wonder. It was a beautiful moment of generational connection, this passing on of my love for the natural world to Sam and Rory.

Fascinating Beech Tree Roots


On the way out, we took the Brookside / Pond View / Sunset trails once again, but this time, this intricate network of roots from a massive beech tree fascinated us. The roots twisted and coiled across the path like veins, in our imaginations the gnarled shapes snagged our feet. Sam, ever the explorer, stepped cautiously along the roots, balancing himself as if walking a tightrope. Rory followed suit, his giggles filling the air.

An American beech (Fagus grandifolia). These trees are quite common in northeastern forests.
The beech tree is known for its smooth smooth, gray bark, which can become marked with scars or etchings as the tree ages. Additionally, its leaves are typically dark green, with serrated edges, and turn yellow to bronze in the fall, often staying on the tree through winter. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, New York State

“These roots are older than us,” I told them. “Beech trees can live for hundreds of years. Just think, this tree has seen many more seasons than we ever will.”

Sam’s eyes widened at the thought, while Rory gave the tree a gentle pat, as if to thank it for its wisdom. I marveled at how something as simple as a root system could captivate their imaginations and bring the lesson of time and growth to life.

Reminiscing on the Chicago Bog

In the 1830’s there was a village named Chicago along Gracie Road, which gives it the name we have today. The Chicago Bog is home to many carnivorous plants, including sundew, the pitcher plant, and more. The deepest depth of the bog is about 7.2 ft. The bog is along the Phillips Memorial Trail, which can be found on Gracie Road. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, New York


As we walked, my mind wandered back to a visit we had made to the Chicago Bog just a year before. I remembered the day clearly—how we had trekked through the wetland on a warm June afternoon, the ground soft beneath our feet, alive with the buzzing of insects and the vibrant green of new growth.

The chalk-fronted corporal (Ladona julia) is a skimmer dragonfly found in the northern United States and southern Canada.
Juveniles of both sexes are light reddish brown, with white shoulder stripes and a black stripe down the middle of the abdomen. As they mature, males develop a white pruinescence on the top of the thorax and at the base of the abdomen, while the rest of the abdomen turns black. Females become almost uniformly dark brown, with a dusting of gray pruinescence near the base of the abdomen; a few develop the same color pattern as the males.
Chalk-fronted corporals often perch horizontally on the ground or on floating objects in the water, flying up to take prey from the air. They are gregarious for dragonflies, and are commonly seen perching in groups. They readily approach humans to feed on the mosquitoes and biting flies that humans attract.

It was there, by the edge of the bog, that we had encountered a dragonfly, a Chalk-fronted Corporal, resting on a fallen log. Its dark, iridescent wings shimmered in the sunlight, and Sam had been mesmerized by its delicate beauty. He had asked so many questions that day—about how dragonflies flew, what they ate, and where they lived. I had done my best to answer, but truth be told, I learned as much as he did in that moment.

Nearby, a meadow of buttercups had stretched out before us, their yellow blooms dancing in the breeze. Rory had run through them, his laughter ringing out as he tried to catch a butterfly that flitted between the flowers. The memory of that field of gold still brought a smile to my face as we made our way through Lime Hollow today.

A Day to Remember


As we neared the end of our hike, the afternoon light filtering through the trees, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment. These outings with Sam and Rory had become more than just walks in the woods—they were opportunities to share, to learn, and to make memories that I knew would last a lifetime.

“Grandpa, can we come back?” Rory asked, his face flushed with excitement.

“Of course,” I said, smiling. “We’ll always have time for another adventure.”

Cayuga Lake’s Daylilies: A Symbol of Survival and Adaptation

In Stewart Park, the Hemerocallis fulva, or Tawny Daylily, blooms vibrantly.

MichaelStephenWills10 Comments


Stewart Park, Cayuga Lake, Ithaca, New York

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

Exploring Ancient Wisdom in Today’s Healing Practices

As I waited during my wife’s physical therapy session, the connection between ancient healing traditions and modern medicine revealed a journey of resilience and hope.

MichaelStephenWills7 Comments

Standing in the cool autumn sunlight, I find myself pacing beneath the sturdy Doric columns of this medical campus in Northeast Ithaca, waiting as Pam undergoes another session of physical therapy. The simplicity of the columns strikes me—clean, white, and unadorned. They hold up the building with a kind of timeless grace, a quiet reflection of ancient design.

The architecture of the Medical Office Campus of northeast Ithaca is graced by doric columns arrayed in a row forming a portico colonnade. The original Greek Doric columns were fluted, and had no base, dropping straight into the platform on which the temple or other building stood. The capital was a simple circular form, with some mouldings, under a square cushion that is very wide in early versions, but later more restrained. Here the form of the capital is mirrored in the base. 20 Arrowwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State

Doric columns are symbols of strength and stability. In this moment, they remind me of the quiet resilience I’ve seen in Pam throughout her recovery. Each column, solid and unwavering, reflects the foundational principles that underpin both architecture and the healing arts. Just as these columns have withstood the passage of centuries, modern medicine, too, stands tall on the legacy of ancient knowledge.

As I lean against one of these pillars, I think about the deep connections between ancient civilizations and the medicine we practice today. The origins of healing reach back to the Egyptians, who understood anatomy with remarkable precision. They would have been familiar with the use of medicinal plants. It’s remarkable to think that the surgeries performed back then, basic as they were, have evolved into the complex procedures of modern times, procedures like the one that replaced Pam’s hip with the efficiency of a machine through the care of skilled hands.

10 Brentwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State

I look up at the sky, tracing the outline of the roof these columns support. The Greeks, with their reverence for observation, would have appreciated the rational design of this building. Hippocrates, the father of medicine, laid the groundwork for clinical observation, a method still used by the doctors caring for Pam. They probe, ask questions, and observe her movements, trying to decipher the hidden ailments within her body, much as the ancient physicians did centuries ago. It’s in this continuity that I find comfort—knowing that the doctors and physical therapists here are part of a long tradition, stretching back to Galen, who wrote about anatomy and physiology in ways that informed medical students for generations.

Modern medicine, like these columns, is a blend of the old and the new. Acupuncture, an ancient Chinese practice, is now commonly recommended for pain relief, a reminder that even today we rely on wisdom passed down through millennia. Pam’s therapists blend tradition with cutting-edge technology, using machines that track her progress and exercises that help her regain strength. Yet, at the heart of it, the human body heals the way it always has—with time, patience, and care.

As I walk the perimeter of the building, past patches of sunlight falling on the sidewalk, I’m struck by the parallels between the construction of this space and the body’s own repair. Both depend on a solid foundation. Roman innovations in public health, sanitation, and the idea of hospitals have shaped the spaces where we now seek healing. And here, in this modern medical facility, the connection to those roots feels tangible, much like the stones beneath my feet.

The name Aster comes from the Ancient Greek meaning “star”, referring to the shape of the flower head. ‘Aster’ species are used as food plants by the larvae of a number of Lepidoptera species. These asters grew wild on an otherwise landscaped medical campus. Found on an eaqrly autumn morning near 10 Brentwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State

Asters, blooming nearby, sway gently in the breeze. They too are resilient, much like Pam. Their purple blossoms remind me of the hope that pervades our journey. The columns stand as sentinels of a kind of knowledge that is both ancient and ever-evolving—a blend of science, history, and faith in the power of the human spirit to endure.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

Beauty and Struggle: Flowering Rush in Stewart Park

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.

MichaelStephenWills2 Comments

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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