Under a strong early spring desert sun I turned from Arcosanti Road, a ribbon of asphalt threading through the arid Arizona landscape. Ahead, the architectural vision of Paolo Soleri emerged like an oasis of ideas etched into the barren desert. My mind drifted back to the 1970s, to the University of Arizona lecture hall where Soleri, full of vigor, had introduced us to his concept of “Arcology.” That hour left an indelible mark—a vision of dense human habitation harmonizing with the environment, reducing our ecological footprint toward a sustainable whole.
Arcosanti detail
That memory had stayed with me, a beacon of idealism. Over the years, Soleri’s Arcosanti had grown, not with the speed of cities, but with the deliberate rhythm of an organic organism. Today, after decades of curiosity and connection, I found myself at its gates.
Click any photograph to visit my “Arizona” online gallery.
Pam checking her equipment before a Summer 2008 visit
The first steps into Arcosanti struck me with a sense of balance. A sign, simple yet bold, announced the name: ARCOSANTI. It was embedded into a wooden facade, juxtaposed with the rugged modernity of concrete forms. Below, soft plumes of desert grass swayed, echoing the harmony Soleri envisioned—a human footprint gently integrated into the natural world. The sunlit entrance spoke of the potential for design to soothe rather than overpower.
Entrance and a Tower of the Crafts III building
Inside, the bold lines and unique details captivated me. In one space, I craned my neck to admire a ceiling adorned with terracotta-colored circular forms, each embedded in angular panels radiating like the sun’s rays. These circular elements acted as focal points, their symmetry grounding the expansive, textured design. The play of light and shadow across the surface was mesmerizing, a reminder of Soleri’s mastery in turning the utilitarian into the poetic.
Ceramics Apse Sand Cast Panels I
Each space in Arcosanti seemed crafted to evoke reflection. A splash of ochre-red pigment adorned another portion of the ceiling, forming a half-circle bordered by precise ridges. It was more than architectural detail—it was an abstract sun, warm and full of energy, radiating from its place above. The deliberate asymmetry, the interplay of form and texture, seemed to breathe with the desert itself.
Ceramics Apse Sand Cast Panels II
Ceramics Apse Sand Cast Panels III
Walking further, I encountered an outdoor arch framing a bell, its heavy bronze form suspended against a panel of sky-blue. The simplicity was striking: a geometric dialogue between the natural and the constructed, a kind of meditative pause within the bustle of ideas. I lingered, allowing my thoughts to settle as the bell swayed gently in the wind.
Bell and Panel from the Colly Soleri Amphitheater
Bell Casting was and continues to be a major source of income.
Each turn at Arcosanti revealed yet another viewpoint, another carefully composed alignment of architecture and nature. The sweeping views of the Arizona desert, framed by bold circular cutouts, were a reminder of our smallness in the grand scheme of things. The cypress trees standing tall against the rugged cliffs offered a contrast of textures—natural and man-made—that felt uniquely Solerian. His vision was alive in every corner: the terraces, the staircases, the unassuming balance between the earth’s rawness and humanity’s imagination.
View from the East Housing complex to the East Across Arcosanti
As I stood gazing through one of the monumental circular frames at the horizon, I reflected on how Soleri’s ideas, abstract in the present, are also tangible, concrete, and inspiring—literally and figuratively. Despite his passing, the project he began decades ago continues to evolve, a living experiment in how we might reimagine our relationship with the planet.
View to the South with Cypress Trees from a Portal of the Crafts III Building
The journey to Arcosanti is a physical one and a rediscovery of ideals. Soleri’s Arcology—a fusion of architecture and ecology—reminded me of our potential to create something not only functional but also deeply meaningful. Here, amidst the Arizona desert, was proof of a life’s work that still speaks to humanity’s potential for coexistence and creativity.
As I prepared to leave, the weight of Soleri’s vision stayed with me, much like that lecture hall memory from all those years ago. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the concrete forms. Arcosanti stood resolute, a tribute to one man’s dream and a reminder to all of us: change is not instantaneous, but with patience, vision, and humanity, it is possible.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Approaching Arcosanti from afar, a cluster of forms rising from the Arizona desert like a mirage of human imagination. Against the cobalt sky, the buildings seemed to breathe with the land itself, their curves and edges echoing the undulations of the hillside. From this distance, the structures were both distant dream and solid reality, their symmetry a whispered promise of order amidst the chaos of the wild.
As I moved closer, the buildings revealed their intricate secrets. Circular windows stared like unblinking eyes, portals to a world shaped by creativity and purpose. Towers and cubes jutted confidently into space, their bold geometry softened by the earthen hues of concrete and weathered wood. These materials, neither foreign nor intrusive, seemed born of the very soil beneath my feet. There was an undeniable rhythm to the place—a harmony where art, function, and the timeless desert converged.
I walked among the structures, their forms towering above me like sentinels of some ancient philosophy reborn for a modern age. The elevated walkways beckoned with a quiet invitation, connecting one sanctuary of thought to another. Circular motifs repeated like a mantra, reminding me of the cycles of life, of the sun and the moon, of the unbroken circles that hold us together. Here, design was not merely a tool but a hymn, sung in concrete and glass.
Then, I turned my gaze outward, to the land that cradled this creation. The desert was alive, though its voice was quiet and deliberate. Rocks, worn smooth by the patient hand of time, rested among tufts of sage and grasses that swayed in the breeze. The light played its own game, casting shadows that danced across the ground, a choreography as old as the sun. Paths meandered through this terrain, their curves a gentle suggestion rather than a command, inviting me to wander but not to conquer.
Arcosanti
The trees stood tall and still, their presence both steadfast and serene. The cypress trees, their slender forms reaching toward heaven, seemed like exclamation points on the landscape, their verdant green cutting through the sky’s azure expanse. Beside them, olive trees spread their silvered arms, their gnarled trunks telling stories of endurance and quiet strength. One cypress, in particular, caught my attention—so perfectly straight, so impossibly regal, as if it had been planted by the hand of a god.
Beneath the olive trees, I paused, tracing my fingers along the bark’s intricate patterns. The sunlight filtered through the leaves in golden shards, dappling the earth beneath with shifting shapes. The air carried the scent of something ancient and vital—a blend of dry earth, sun-warmed bark, and the faintest hint of blooming life. It was a reminder that even in this place of human creation, nature reigned supreme.
I wandered to the edge of a canyon, its rugged walls carved by time’s relentless flow. The raw power of the landscape stretched out before me, a tapestry of stone and shadow that humbled and awed. Here, the boundaries between human vision and natural grandeur blurred. The olive and cypress trees, so carefully placed, seemed less an intrusion and more a part of the desert’s rhythm. They were a bridge, a whispered conversation between what is made and what simply is.
Finally, the paths called me back, their winding lines leading me deeper into reflection. Each step felt deliberate, as though I were tracing the lines of a poem etched into the earth. The trails curved gently, like the desert’s own breath, and I followed, not as an intruder but as a guest. The buildings now stood behind me, a testament to the balance we strive for—between the ephemeral dreams we build and the eternal landscape that cradles them.
This place is a meeting of stone and sky, a meditation: reminding us that, if we listen, the land will teach us how to live in harmony. Here, in the desert’s embrace, I found space to ask better questions, my heart as open and unbroken as the endless horizon before me.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
In Autumn 2024, the Treman Park Lake Loop of the Cayuga Waterfront Trail in Ithaca, New York, unfurled a vibrant display of seasonal transition. The natural landscape, adorned with fiery hues of reds, oranges, and yellows, reflected in the rippling waters of Cayuga Lake, creating a harmony of color and light. This is a scenic journey through stories of plant and animal life that call this place home—including the majestic Osprey (Pandion haliaetus) that nests along the shore.
The Osprey’s Watchtower
A sight to greet visitors is the solitary osprey nest perched high on a pole. Used by Osprey families during their breeding season, this nest stands as a testament to their remarkable recovery in the Finger Lakes region. Ospreys, once declining due to pesticide use, have rebounded significantly following conservation efforts.
With a wingspan of up to 6 feet, these raptors are expert fish hunters, often seen diving talons-first into the lake to snatch their prey. During autumn, as their young take flight, the nest remains an empty marker of the summer’s success—a reminder of the cyclical nature of life along the lake.
Did You Know? Ospreys are often referred to as “fish hawks” because fish make up 99% of their diet.
The Meadow and Its Golden Touch: Reedbeds and Goldenrod
Surrounding the osprey pole, expansive meadows of grasses and reeds sway with the breeze. Among these are stands of Common Reed (Phragmites australis), a tall grass with feathery plumes that catch the sunlight. While Phragmites can sometimes be invasive, they provide crucial shelter and food for various species of birds and insects.
Intermixed with the reeds are patches of Goldenrod (Solidago spp.), whose bright yellow flowers are a signature of late summer and autumn in the Northeast. Goldenrods are critical for pollinators, offering nectar to bees, butterflies, and migrating insects like the Monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus).
Ecological Note: Goldenrods are often mistakenly blamed for allergies; the real culprit is ragweed (Ambrosia artemisiifolia), which blooms at the same time but releases airborne pollen.
A Lake Alive with History and Beauty
The shimmering blue waters of Cayuga Lake form the centerpiece of this trail. The lake, stretching nearly 40 miles, is the longest of the Finger Lakes and steeped in geological and cultural history. Its name is derived from the Cayuga Nation, part of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, who inhabited the region for centuries.
The striking red lighthouse in the water serves as a vivid counterpoint to the natural surroundings. Built to aid navigation, it now stands as a picturesque focal point for photographers and nature enthusiasts alike.
Cayuga Inlet Light Beacon
In the distance, a sailboat glides across the lake—a serene reminder of the recreational draw that Cayuga Lake holds year-round.
West shore with sailboat and lake houses
The Forest Fringe: A Kaleidoscope of Color
The forests that fringe the meadow and the lake present an explosion of autumn color. Trees such as Sugar Maple (Acer saccharum), Red Oak (Quercus rubra), and Black Cherry (Prunus serotina) dominate the canopy, their leaves transforming into brilliant oranges, scarlets, and deep burgundies. The Sugar Maple, in particular, is renowned for its vibrant golden-orange foliage, a hallmark of the northeastern fall.
The Ithaca Yacht Club lies south of Maplewood Point
Closer to the ground, the understory hums with the activity of migrating birds and foraging mammals. Squirrels can be seen gathering acorns, preparing for the winter months ahead, while chickadees flit among the branches, calling their cheerful “fee-bee” notes.
Historical Fact: The Finger Lakes were carved out by retreating glaciers over 10,000 years ago, leaving behind these deep, elongated lakes and fertile soil that supports rich biodiversity.
A Path Through Time and Nature
Walking the Treman Park Lake Loop is a sensory journey—the crispness of the autumn air, the rustling of reeds, and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore combine to evoke a timeless tranquility.
From the vibrant meadows to the osprey’s lofty perch and the quiet expanse of Cayuga Lake, this section of the Waterfront Trail encapsulates the beauty and diversity of the Finger Lakes ecosystem. Whether for quiet reflection or active exploration, it remains a treasured destination in every season.
Closing Thoughts
As autumn deepens, this landscape prepares for the dormancy of winter. Yet the stories it holds—from the osprey’s nest to the goldenrod’s bloom—remain alive, waiting to be rediscovered with each new season. The Treman Park Lake Loop is not just a trail; it is a canvas of life, change, and history painted by nature’s hand.
Reflection: To walk this trail is to connect with a land shaped by glaciers, nurtured by waters, and home to countless species that continue to thrive amid the ever-turning wheel of the seasons.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The Cayuga Waterfront Trail beautifully showcases autumn’s colors, history, and ecological significance through its landscapes and trees like Sugar Maples.
Where Fall Creek Meets Cayuga Lake Here, where Fall Creek flows gently into Cayuga Lake, the merging waters reflect the season’s colors like a painter’s palette. Across the shimmering surface, Renwick Woods of Stewart Park stands as a quiet sanctuary of mixed hardwoods and wetlands. The reflections capture our trees together with the essence of autumn’s stillness.
Dominating the shoreline, you can spot Silver Maple (Acer saccharinum) and Cottonwood (Populus deltoides), trees that thrive in damp soils. Silver Maples, with their elegant, deeply lobed leaves, are perfectly suited for this riparian environment. The cottonwood, recognizable by its broad, triangular leaves, plays a vital role in stabilizing streambanks.
Quick Fact: Cottonwoods are among the fastest-growing trees in North America, capable of sprouting leaves within weeks of being washed ashore as driftwood.
Steamboat Landing: A Glimpse of History The wooden docks at Steamboat Landing, now home to the bustling Ithaca Farmer’s Market, speak of bygone eras when steamboats ferried goods and people across Cayuga Lake. Today, as golden foliage cloaks the hills in the distance, this spot remains an anchor for community and connection.
A meeting place for friends and conversation
Foregrounded in the photos are plants like Grape Vine (Vitis spp.), with their sprawling, hardy stems turning yellow as temperatures drop. Grapevines, both wild and cultivated, thrive along the lakeshore and remind us of their agricultural importance in the Finger Lakes.
Also visible are some shrubs of Virginia Creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) turning crimson, their vibrant hues climbing posts and fences as they embrace autumn’s spotlight.
Did You Know? Steamboat Landing was part of Ithaca’s rich lake commerce history during the 19th and early 20th centuries, connecting travelers to destinations far and wide.
The Crimson Canopy: Japanese Maple This photo highlights a stunning Japanese Maple (Acer palmatum), its feathery, scarlet foliage cascading delicately in front of the pavilion. Native to East Asia, Japanese Maples have found a beloved place in landscapes across the world for their graceful form and brilliant seasonal displays.
Alongside its boughs, weathered benches and stone pathways invite rest and reflection — a beautiful marriage of human craftsmanship and nature’s artistry.
Fun Fact: Japanese Maples are often pruned meticulously in Japanese gardens to emphasize their architectural shape, turning them into living sculptures.
The Treman Park Lake Loop: Autumn’s Golden Finale Our journey concludes with this sweeping landscape from the Treman Park Lake Loop. The towering Sugar Maples (Acer saccharum) dominate the view, their crowns now a rich, golden orange — a signature of northeastern forests. Known as the tree that gives us maple syrup, Sugar Maples are quintessential symbols of autumn in the Finger Lakes.
To the right, bare branches of earlier-shedding trees stand in contrast, whispering the arrival of winter. The sky above, painted with soft clouds, completes the scene of a serene seasonal transition.
Interesting Note: Sugar Maples can live for over 300 years, their wood prized for furniture and instruments, and their sap a sweet gift of the forest.
Closing Thoughts From the quiet confluence of Fall Creek and Cayuga Lake to the historic docks of Steamboat Landing and the golden maples of Treman Park, autumn on the Cayuga Waterfront Trail is a symphony of color, history, and ecological wonder. Whether you’re strolling, photographing, or simply pausing to take it all in, these moments capture both the grandeur and subtlety of the season.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The Cornell Botanical Gardens blend ecological education and African American history through diverse plant life, creating a vibrant, engaging experience.
As Pam and I wander near the Nevin Welcome Center at the Cornell Botanical Gardens on a bright, early autumn day, my eye catches on a cluster of verdant, broad-leaved foliage. The sunlight filters through the leaves, casting a luminous green glow, while hints of red and burgundy add warmth to the scene. The plants here have a presence, a boldness that draws me in, and as I approach, I notice an array of information signs, thoughtfully placed to explain the rich tapestry of flora surrounding me.
The first sign I encounter is titled “A Ditch That Cleanses Water.” It immediately piques my curiosity. In just a few sentences, it describes how this landscape is designed to capture and cleanse stormwater runoff, turning what might otherwise be a simple drainage area into a living, breathing ecosystem. Instead of funneling water into a standard drainpipe, a filter strip and bioswale—a kind of vegetative trench—work in tandem to trap silt and pollutants. There’s a delicate choreography happening here, as water flows from the parking lot into river stone beds, slowing down, and then into the plant-lined filter strip, which encourages suspended particles to settle out.
The bioswale itself is lush and resilient, filled with hardy, native plants that thrive in both wet and dry conditions. The sign explains that these plants are carefully chosen varieties such as Switchgrass and flowering perennials—sneezeweed and Joe Pye weed among them—that provide color through the seasons. Small trees like winterberry and American hornbeam add height and structure, giving this ecological marvel both function and form. I’m struck by how much thought has gone into something as mundane as stormwater runoff, transforming it into a process that supports the environment but also creates a pleasing view. Here, the bioswale captures the stormwater, filters it, and releases it cleaner than before, a quiet miracle of natural engineering.
Moving on, I find another sign titled “Seeds of Survival and Celebration: Plants and the Black Experience.” This sign feels more intimate, as it dives into the deep history of plants brought from West Africa during the transatlantic slave trade. I’m reminded that gardens can be repositories of history, culture, and resilience. Plants like watermelon, okra, and black-eyed peas were brought by enslaved Africans who tended them near their quarters, ensuring a piece of home remained with them, even under unimaginable conditions. These plants became the foundation of African American culinary traditions, and I can almost taste the sweet potatoes and other foods that have become part of our shared heritage. The sign even nods to holistic healing herbs like elderberry, which were used to promote health and well-being, demonstrating how enslaved Africans maintained aspects of their culture through the plants they grew.
As I reflect on the stories woven into these signs, I find myself surrounded by a stunning mix of bold, leafy plants in vibrant greens, reds, and yellows—an almost tropical display that stands defiant against the approaching cold season. Banana leaves, elephant ears, and coleus fill the garden beds, their leaves large, showy, and unabashedly lush. The scene feels alive, a burst of tropical splendor amid the Finger Lakes. These aren’t plants native to upstate New York, yet they’ve been incorporated here with care and skill, bringing a hint of warmth as the days grow shorter. Their wide, smooth surfaces reflect the sunlight, catching my eye with every slight breeze, and they create an atmosphere that is both exotic and inviting.
This day, the Cornell Botanical Gardens have offered Pam and I beauty along with education. The signage has guided us through ecological engineering, the resilience of African American foodways, and the artistry of landscape design, blending these narratives into the landscape itself. Each sign, each plant, tells a story, and as I walk away, I carry these tales with me, reminded that gardens are not merely for looking—they are for learning, for remembering, and for celebrating the resilience of life in all its forms.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I wander the paths of the Cornell Botanical Gardens near the Nevin Welcome Center, a towering sculpture arrests my attention, rising well over ten feet into the bright autumn sky. At first glance, it’s unmistakable—a pair of massive allium blooms crafted from steel and glass, an artistic tribute to the very flowers my wife, Pam, has come to love. This creation, titled Double Allium, is the work of British artist Jenny Pickford, completed in 2019. Made of robust steel and translucent purple glass, it stands proudly among the greenery, capturing both the delicacy and boldness of allium flowers.
A few summers ago Pam planted several allium in sunny locations, which exploded into violet firework-like blooms, each sphere teeming with tiny star-shaped flowers that clustered together into one massive, round bloom. When the alliums blossomed, they attracted a small frenzy of bees, and it became a shared delight for us to watch our garden transform into a pollinator’s paradise. Pam was captivated by the plants’ structure and beauty, as well as their ecological role in supporting bees—a small, vibrant ecosystem within our yard. Standing before Double Allium, I’m reminded of those summer days and the quiet joy we both found in observing our garden.
Bees and Allium in our summer garden, 2024
The scientific name for alliums, Allium giganteum (for the larger ornamental varieties), links them to a vast genus that includes onions, garlic, and leeks. These plants have been cultivated and revered by humans for thousands of years, not only for their culinary value but also for their symbolism in various cultures. In ancient Egypt, alliums were believed to represent eternity; their spherical form and concentric layers were thought to mirror the eternal nature of life. Even today, they bring a sense of timelessness to gardens worldwide, their tall stalks and spherical blooms defying gravity, standing tall against the changing seasons.
As I study Pickford’s sculpture, I’m struck by how faithfully it captures this essence of alliums—strength paired with grace, structure married to elegance. The steel stems curve gently yet rise powerfully from the ground, while the glass petals shimmer in the light, giving an almost ethereal quality to the blooms. Pickford, born in 1969, is known for her botanical-inspired sculptures that explore the intersection of nature and art. With Double Allium, she’s created a piece that feels alive, as if the blooms might sway in the wind or burst into real flowers at any moment.
For Pam and me, this sculpture pays homage to a beautiful plant; it’s a connection to our own experience with nature, a reminder of those summer mornings watching bees dance among our alliums. Standing beneath Double Allium, I feel a sense of continuity—a link between the art and our own small garden, between our life and the ancient cultures that cherished these plants, between the permanence of steel and the fleeting beauty of each summer bloom.
In this towering sculpture, Pickford has given us a mirror that reflects nature as well as our personal connection to it. “Double Allium” is a celebration of growth, strength, and beauty, qualities that Pam and I cherish in the alliums we tend and that we find echoed in this remarkable work of art.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I step into Cascadilla Gorge from the Linn Street entrance, I’m greeted by the soft rustling of leaves and the constant, soothing rush of water. The air this Halloween Day is warm, the autumn colors vibrant against the cool blue sky. I know Cascadilla Gorge is part of the Cornell Botanical Gardens, but the immediate beauty of this natural sanctuary makes it easy to forget I’m still within the city limits of Ithaca. The sounds of the gorge draw me in, as if whispering there’s more to see, more to explore. With a deep breath, I begin my journey up the trail, eager to discover what lies ahead.
Just a short way in, I notice the First Church of Christ, Scientist perched on the corner of University Avenue and Cascadilla Park Road. The architecture of the church is both quaint and elegant, with its light-colored facade framed by dark trim and roof. Surrounded by foliage, it feels like the church belongs here, as much a part of the landscape as the trees and rocks. The sight of this historic building nestled so close to the gorge reminds me that this wild and ancient place is woven into the fabric of Ithaca’s community life.
I move further along the trail, and the terrain begins to shift. Fallen leaves create a golden carpet along the path, their crisp shapes overlapping like nature’s confetti celebrating the season. Each step crunches underfoot, adding my own rhythm to the symphony of sounds. The trees overhead are a kaleidoscope of colors—deep golds, fiery oranges, and the occasional flash of red from Virginia Creeper vines (Parthenocissus quinquefolia). Together, the trees create a canopy that filters sunlight, casting dappled patterns on the gorge walls. It’s an ever-changing play of light and shadow, one moment bright and the next subdued, adding a layer of magic to the experience.
As I follow the trail upward, the gorge narrows, and I find myself surrounded by towering walls of rock. Here, layers of siltstone and shale formed more than 300 hundred million years ago are exposed, a testament to the forces of water and time that carved this place across mere millennia of recent geologic time. The rock formations are fascinating, with the water flowing over them in gentle cascades, finding every groove and crevice. There’s something humbling about standing in a place shaped by forces so much larger and older than myself. I pause, letting the rush of water and the stillness of stone fill my senses.
Along the way, I come across an interpretive sign provided by the Cornell Botanical Gardens. They tell the story of Cascadilla Gorge, how it was formed from the bedrock of sandstone and shale that eroded from mountains to the east, in the Devonian era when an ancient inland sea covered the region. The signs also introduce Robert H. Treman, a philanthropist who saw the beauty and educational value of the gorge. Thanks to him and the efforts of many, this natural wonder is preserved for all to experience. Knowing this adds depth to my walk; it’s a reminder that places like this exist not only by chance but because people cared enough to protect them.
The sandstone staircases along the trail are a marvel in themselves. Some sections are steep, winding up the gorge in a series of steps that seem to have been placed with precision, blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. The steps are covered with leaves now, making each ascent feel a bit like climbing through a fairy-tale forest. The chains along the path provide a comforting grip, especially as I climb higher. I look back and see how far I’ve come, the creek below winding its way over rocks and around bends, each step a small journey of its own.
I pass several small waterfalls, each one unique in its character. Some are gentle trickles, while others pour over the rocks with more force, their sound reverberating off the gorge walls. I stop frequently, entranced by the way the water carves its path, eternally moving, adapting, wearing down even the hardest stone. Leaves float down from above, landing in the creek and swirling in miniature whirlpools before being carried downstream. It’s mesmerizing to watch nature at work in such a quiet, persistent way.
Further up the gorge, the views open up, and I can see the layers of rock descending in terraces, each level a little cascade of its own. I watch as the water flows across these steps, catching the light as it moves—a silvery ribbon winding through the golden autumn landscape. The tranquility of the scene is meditative. Around me, the trees stand as silent witnesses, their branches bare in places but still adorned with clusters of leaves clinging through the last days of fall.
Finally, I reach one of the larger waterfalls, framed by a graceful stone arch bridge that crosses high above. The scene is something out of a painting. Water pours over the rocks, gathering in pools below before spilling onward. I pause on the bridge, looking down at the gorge below and the trail I’ve followed, grateful for the journey.
Along the way, artists are positioned along the path, each lost in the beauty of Cascadilla Gorge. They stand or sit in quiet reverie, brushes or pencils in hand, capturing the gorge’s unique character. Some focus on the play of light over the water’s surface, while others seem intent on the rugged details of the rock formations. Their presence adds a contemplative depth to the scene; it’s as if each artist has uncovered a hidden aspect of the gorge that I have overlooked in my journey upward.
I slow my pace to take it all in, appreciating how the artists interpret this natural wonder through their own eyes. Their canvases reveal layers of colors that shift as the sun filters through the leaves, casting vibrant golds and subtle greens on the cascading water. The scene feels almost collaborative—nature and human hand creating art together, each reflection of the gorge as unique as the individual capturing it. I’m tempted to pause beside them, to see how they choose to frame the towering walls, the stone bridge arching above the water, and the gentle curves of the creek as it meanders downstream. I can imagine each artist’s work holding a different piece of this place, like fragments of a memory.
Bridge View looking up Cascadilla CreekBridge View looking back the way I came
As I continue, the sound of rushing water grows louder, drawing me towards another cascade that tumbles in steps down the gorge. The rocks are layered in angular formations, giving the water a zigzagging path to follow. Leaves are scattered across the stones, their colors—yellows, browns, and the occasional splash of red—standing out against the dark, wet rock. There’s a timelessness here, a feeling that this scene has remained unchanged for centuries, save for the shifting leaves and the ever-present flow of the creek. The thought makes me feel like a small part of something much larger, a guest in an ancient place shaped by nature’s slow, steady hand.
The path narrows again, following the edge of the creek where the water has worn smooth channels into the stone.
Moving forward, the trail climbs steeply, and I find myself surrounded by tall rock faces on either side. The walls are layered and weathered, a geological history book open to the forces that shaped this land. It’s humbling to see how this place puts everything into perspective, how it reminds us of our place in the natural world.
Columns of sedimentary rock
Ahead, the path becomes more rugged, the air feels cooler here, shaded by the gorge’s high walls, and the sounds of the city are long gone, replaced by the steady rhythm of water and the drift of leaves. The layers of ancient limestone that form these towering walls give shape to our landscape and ecosystem. As rainwater falls and seeps through the porous rock, the limestone raises the pH of the water, neutralizing its natural acidity. This subtle alchemy nurtures the flora and fauna, fostering a unique biome that thrives in the gorge. The artists fade from view as I move further into the solitude of the trail, but their presence lingers in my mind. Each turn of the path reveals another scene worthy of capturing, another moment that seems to call out for remembrance.
Looking back toward the way I came
The trail steepens, and I press onward, the sound of the water intensifying as I near a grand waterfall framed by the impressive stone steps leading up to the College Avenue Stone Arch. Each step is littered with leaves, their colors vivid against the worn stone—golds, russets, and the occasional brilliant red, like embers scattered along my path. The waterfall beside me spills down in steady streams, each cascade creating rivulets that catch the light as they flow downward.
The gorge walls rise sharply on either side, embracing the path in rugged layers that tell stories of geological time. I feel as if I’m climbing a passage through history itself. These rocks, these trees, the very water carving its way through the stone—all have been here far longer than I can fathom, shaped by forces beyond my understanding. There’s a certain thrill in being among such enduring elements, a reminder of how small and fleeting we are in the face of nature’s grandeur.
Reaching the next tier of the trail, I pause to take in the sight of the massive stone arch spanning the gorge above. The bridge is a striking feature, its wide arch perfectly framing the sky and the last vibrant colors of autumn. It feels like a gateway, a fitting culmination to the journey. Standing beneath it, I’m struck by how well it harmonizes with the gorge, the careful craftsmanship of its stonework complementing the rough beauty of the surrounding cliffs.
The sunlight flows around the arch, illuminating the leaves that cling to the branches above, casting a warm glow over the scene. I feel a sense of reverence here, a quiet acknowledgment of both human artistry and the relentless beauty of nature.
I paused to capture this video of the moment.
Sights and Sounds of Autumn
The final ascent is graced by a bench where a stone plaque catches my eye. It’s a tribute, etched with words that resonate in this place: “Joy to all we love the best, love to thee, our fair Cornell.” A gift from a family whose lives intertwined with Cornell, it serves as a reminder of the deep connections people have to this landscape, to the university, and to the memories rooted in these trails and gorges. I pause, reflecting on my own connection to this path, which has taken me through an ever-unfolding tapestry of nature and history.
The last stretch of steps is leaf blanketed, their shapes and colors a beautiful final mosaic before I emerge from the shaded coolness of the gorge. The sun filters down through the thinning trees, illuminating the stone buildings of the Cornell campus that peek through the branches ahead. With each step, I feel the transition, moving from the curated wildness of Cascadilla Gorge and its trail to the structured beauty of the university grounds.
Myron Taylor Hall, Cornell Law School from the gorge.
As I reach the top, the Schwartz Center for the Performing Arts comes into view, its modern architecture a contrast to the ancient rocks I’ve left behind. Here, in this space where art, education, and nature converge, I take a last look back into the gorge and a journey, a gem in the heart of the Finger Lakes, a place that holds stories, both old and new, and invites every visitor to become a part of them.
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During my walk around the Cascadilla Gorge rim, I found myself drawn to small, intricate details of the city, details that tell stories of the town’s rich past and its lively present. Ithaca’s history felt close, touchable, woven into each corner and each unique encountered feature.
This sign in front of the former Post Office on Aurora Street marked the founding of the Town of Ithaca in 1821. Standing there, I imagined the early days of the town, its growth and change over the decades, all captured in a few lines on a sign beneath the green, now lightly browned leaves. The sign, a quiet guardian of Ithaca’s origins, holding a reminder of how the town started from the nearby Town of Ulysses and grew into the community it is today.
Climbing Buffalo Stret, above me was a brick doorway, framed by red ivy climbing toward the top. The arched doorway, with its rich wood and surrounding vines, as though it fell from a storybook. The dark bricks contrasted with the soft greens and reds of the foliage, giving the building a personality—stoic yet welcoming, suggesting secrets held within its walls. There was a warmth to the old architecture, a tangible connection to the hands that crafted it.
A metal plaque dedicated to Simeon De Witt, the surveyor-general, stood amidst the yellow autumn leaves. Weathered with age, the sign seemed to fade into the colors of the season. De Witt played a pivotal role in shaping both New York State and Ithaca itself; as the surveyor-general during and after the Revolutionary War, he was responsible for mapping much of New York, shaping towns, and setting the stage for westward expansion. A visionary in his own right, De Witt saw Ithaca’s potential as a town and became one of its founding figures. The juxtaposition of the modern-day hustle of the town with this nearly forgotten tribute spoke to the layers of history that live here, often unnoticed. Here was a reminder of a man who helped lay the literal groundwork for the state, his legacy now largely a quiet one, tucked among the turning leaves.
Exploring Dewitt Place, I came across a staircase leading up to a house, decorated for Halloween. Pumpkins with carved faces sat proudly on each step, their grins adding a playful spirit to the scene. Bright red shrubs framed the path, a bold contrast against the deep gray siding of the house. Here, past met present, with the timeless ritual of Halloween adding a touch of whimsy to the historic porch.
Nearby, I noticed a vine-covered wall where vibrant red leaves cascaded down toward the stone base. The color was striking—a reminder that, even as autumn wanes, nature’s palette reaches its most intense. The bright red vines against the textured gray stone created an almost painterly effect, as if nature itself had brushed the wall with strokes of crimson.
A lush patch of ornamental grass along Cascadilla Park Road caught my eye, standing out among the other plants with its vibrant green leaves. The grass retained a fresh, lively color, unfazed by the autumnal transition around it. Its dense, narrow blades added an unexpected texture to the scene, a unique counterpoint to the fiery fall foliage nearby. This little patch of green seemed to bring its own charm to the autumn landscape, a reminder of the botanical diversity that characterizes Ithaca.
Lastly, I came across a carefully constructed stone wall. The stones were stacked with precision, weathered yet sturdy, each rock fitting neatly into the next. The craftsmanship spoke of a time when walls were built to last, their durability a testament to the hands that built them and the care given to each detail.
These small, unique details—signs, doorways, decorations, plants—combined to give a fuller picture of Ithaca. The town’s essence felt wrapped up in these seemingly simple features, each contributing a layer to Ithaca’s story, rich with history and imbued with a present-day warmth that invites exploration and appreciation.
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A few days before Halloween, I found myself on the rim of Cascadilla Gorge, Ithaca’s autumnal crown jewel. The air had that crisp October quality, each breath carrying a hint of the colder days to come yet still tempered by the lingering warmth of early fall. A breeze carried a scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a rich, organic aroma that signaled the turning of the seasons. The path beneath my feet was a tapestry of fallen leaves—russet, gold, and burnt orange—a natural carpet leading me through a world suspended between vibrancy and rest.
Golden Canopy over Buffalo Street Sidewalk
Continuing up Buffalo Street, I marveled at the trees, their branches thick with yellow and gold leaves, creating a canopy above. The leaves shivered with every gust, whispering the ancient secrets of the forest. The air was infused with the sweet, woody fragrance of maple and oak, mingling with the faint scent of chimney smoke from nearby houses. The sunlight filtered through, casting a dappled pattern on the sidewalk, a fleeting mosaic as the leaves danced in the wind. A sense of impermanence struck me; soon, these leaves would be gone, leaving bare branches silhouetted against a winter sky.
Scene from Dewitt Place toward South Hill and Ithaca College
Crossing the Stewart Avenue bridge, the Cascadilla Gorge came into view, a steep wall of stratified rock layers standing guard over the gently flowing stream below. The contrast between stone and foliage was breathtaking—the hard, unyielding rock juxtaposed with the softness of leaves in full autumnal bloom. The earthy scent of wet stone mixed with the crisp aroma of the flowing water, creating a sensory tapestry unique to the gorge. The colors seemed to intensify against the gray and brown of the cliff, each leaf like a brushstroke on nature’s canvas, celebrating the season’s final flourish before surrendering to winter.
Below footpath along the gorge rim, the creek wound through, its banks littered with leaves that had completed their journey from branch to earth. They floated on the water’s surface, spinning gently in the current as though reluctant to leave this last dance. The sound of the water was a steady undercurrent, soothing and rhythmic, as it tumbled over stones and carved its way through the gorge. I paused to watch, entranced by the way water and rock, ephemeral and eternal, seemed to coexist in a kind of harmony.
I stopped at a lookout point and surveyed the town sprawled out below, nestled amidst the fiery colors of the surrounding hills. The architecture of Ithaca’s buildings peeked through the trees, each roof and spire framed by the season’s palette. This was a town embraced by nature; its rhythm dictated as much by the seasons as by human hands. The sight stirred a sense of gratitude within me; here was a place that reminded you to slow down and observe, to notice the subtle shifts in light, in color, in the way a single gust of wind could change a landscape.
I continued along the rim, passing a small waterfall that spilled over the rocks with a quiet insistence. The water had carved smooth pathways in the stone, evidence of its long journey and persistent power. The sunlight hit the spray just right, casting a fleeting rainbow that shimmered and then disappeared as I moved. I felt a sense of companionship with the water—both of us moving forward, shaped by the paths we traverse, yet always adapting to whatever lay ahead.
The last part of the trail led me through a dense thicket of trees, their branches hanging low, forming a natural archway. The air was heavy with the musky scent of fallen leaves and the spicy aroma of pine needles underfoot. Here, the light was softer, muted by the thick canopy overhead. The quietness enveloped me, broken only by the occasional rustle of a squirrel in the leaves or the distant caw of a crow. It was the kind of silence that feels sacred, where each sound, no matter how small, becomes profound.
Entering Cascadilla Gorge from Linn Street
Emerging from the shaded path, I took one last look back at the gorge. The scene was both familiar and new—a blend of natural beauty and the nostalgia of seasons past. I felt a sense of peace, grounded by the cycles of the earth, by the ebb and flow of life around me. In this moment, on the brink of Halloween, the world felt both hauntingly beautiful and reassuringly steadfast, a reminder that even as the leaves fall and the days grow shorter, there is a promise of renewal in the quiet persistence of nature.
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Michael Stephen Wills Photography 