Walking along the Finger Lakes Trail in Robert H. Treman State Park, I come across something that makes me stop—maple leaves, caught mid-fall, suspended in a delicate spider web. Time itself seems to pause with them, as if the leaves, in their slow descent, had found a way to defy gravity. Yellow, brown, and green, they hang like fragile ornaments, arrested in motion. For a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath.
Maple leaves caught in freefall by spider web. Finger Lakes Trail, Robert H Treman State Park, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
This brief suspension of nature’s inevitable course is uncanny, a moment frozen between one season and the next. These leaves, so close to their final rest on the forest floor, now seem to defy their fate, held up by threads too fine to see. I’m tempted to reach out and free them, to let them continue their journey down to the earth, but something stops me. It’s as if the web, like a clock halted mid-tick, has granted me the rarest gift—a chance to stop the flow of time.
In this moment, I reflect on how life itself is always in motion, how we are carried forward whether we like it or not. But here, in this quiet pocket of the forest, these leaves offer a small rebellion against that forward push. They hang, caught between what was and what will be, suspended between summer and winter, life and decay.
I snap a photo, knowing it’s just an echo of the real thing, a poor attempt to capture a miracle of nature. The leaves will eventually fall, the web will loosen, and time will move on. But for now, in this moment, they remain suspended, as do I—caught in the beauty of a moment where time, for once, seems to stand still.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As we stood atop Rincon Peak, the sky darkened with the approach of a sudden thunderstorm. Below us, the San Pedro River valley sprawled, with the Mae West Peaks to the left and the legendary Dragoon Mountains straight ahead. This photograph captures that exhilarating moment—standing on the summit with the world at our feet and the wild Arizona sky closing in. Curious about how we got there and our race against nature’s fury? Join me on the blog to delve into the full adventure and explore more stunning images from the heart of the Rincon Wilderness.
The Rincons are one of 42 Sky Island mountains isolated from each other due to gradual warming and drying climate changes since the last ice age, 10,000 years ago. While this marvelous environment of oak and pine forests is accessible only on foot and with significant effort, it is visible from every point of the Tucson valley, home to a million inhabitants.
The name ‘Rincon,’ Spanish for ‘corner,’ reflects the mountains’ shape as they enclose a space on the west and northwest. This area, formerly used for ranching, is now being developed for tract housing. In contrast, the mountains themselves are preserved as wilderness, with parts designated within the Saguaro National Park and the Coronado National Forest.
In the past 51 years, I have been lucky enough to visit the Rincon Wilderness interior four times, shouldering different style backpacks onto the mountain and walking in different boots. My first trip was during college in the 1970s, when a party of six of us left from the end of Speedway, heading up the Douglas Springs trail. The climb was an exercise in desert survival that several friendships did not survive, replaced by new friends met on Mica Mountain. I have no photographs from that experience, only memories and the backpack.
Decades later, reconnecting with Arizona in 2004—thirty-one years after that first experience—I took no chances. This time, my attempt on Rincon Peak was a success. I reduced risk and effort, though not eliminating them, by hiring a guide for the four-day trip. We reached Rincon Peak via the Turkey Creek Trail out of Happy Valley, climbing a mountain buttress with views that widened and lengthened with every step.
Capturing these moments, I took several photographs during that experience. Two years later I added a landscape of the peak at sunset.
Along the Turkey Creek trail, Sego Lilies bloomed among a stricken oak and drying grasses, offering a vivid glimpse into the region’s delicate ecosystem. It is the winter rains that trigger such a bloom.
Enthralled by their beauty, we paused while I unpacked my gear to photograph the Sego Lilies growing along the trail.
When we reached Deer Head Spring at the top of Turkey Creek Trail on April 27, 2004, it was a moist spot with no accessible water. With only about a gallon of water each remaining, we pressed ahead to Heartbreak Ridge and climbed into Happy Valley Saddle, where, thankfully, the creek—though low and full of algae—was usable. It was here that I caught my first glimpses of Rincon Peak, looking across the aptly named Heartbreak Ridge and Happy Valley Saddle.
From Rincon Peak, the view to the south was breathtaking. The white rocks at the lower right formed the Valley of the Moon wall. Below lay the San Pedro River valley, with the Mae West Peaks at the left margin and the Dragoon Mountains with Cochise Stronghold at the center. I took this photograph around 12:30 PM on April 28, 2004, just as a thunderstorm was approaching.
Rotating the camera to the south-southwest, the view stretched over the Valley of the Moon to the eastern Tucson Valley and the Sky Islands of the Whetstone Mountains (Apache Peak), with the Santa Ritas behind them. In this vast landscape, the works of man are overpowered by sky, rock, and distance.
We made a hasty departure ahead of the thunderstorm. Attempting the peak that day had been a touch-and-go decision, but we reached the summit with moments to spare.
On the morning of April 29, 2004, the day after reaching Rincon Peak, I set up my tripod near our Happy Valley Saddle camp. In the serene early morning sunlight, I captured images of Rincon Peak, reflecting on the previous day’s ascent.
On the day we descended to the X9 Ranch via the Rincon Creek trail, we were granted a unique opportunity. My guide’s grandfather had a homestead at the X9, and his access to the trailhead through private lands opened this ro ute for us. That evening, I took a photograph of the sunset on Rincon Peak from the X9 Ranch, looking east from the ‘Rincon’—the corner formed by the massifs of Rincon Peak, Mica Mountain, and Tanque Verde Ridge.
The X9 ranch sits in the Rincon (spanish for corner) made by the massifs Rincon Peak, Mica Mountain and Tanque Verde ridge.
Two years later, on the evening of November 2, 2006, I climbed the Tanque Verde trail in Saguaro National Park East for about 30 minutes to reach a vantage point of Rincon Peak. Intending to capture the peak bathed in golden light, I waited until just before the sun set behind the Tucson Mountain. Afterwards, I raced the sun hiked back to the car. In my hurry, I tripped on a stepped turn and dove headfirst into a large prickly pear cactus. It was a very painful experience. Large spines pierced my face, while tiny, pesky spines covered my chest and back. The large spines, not being barbed, came out easily, but I needed to visit a physician to remove the rest.
Seen from Stewart Park, these lakefront homes line the southern shore of Cayuga Lake. Tompkins County, Ithaca, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region
On a warm June morning, with the early summer sun casting a golden glow across the shores of Cayuga Lake, Pam and I set out for a walk around Stewart Park. The soft lapping of the water against the shore mixed with the calls of distant birds, and the familiar hum of life in the park settled into a rhythm that has long been a part of this place. As I strolled along a familiar path, a flash of orange caught my eye—the unmistakable brilliance of the Hemerocallis fulva, the Tawny Daylily, in full bloom.
A Glimpse of the Familiar
At first glance, the orange petals of the daylily seemed like small flames scattered across the green of the park, their brightness undimmed by the heat of the day. The sight was both familiar and captivating, for these daylilies are common in garden, parks and roadsides around Ithaca and much of New York State. Despite their prevalence, each encounter feels fresh, like meeting an old friend who always has something new to share.
I knelt closer, letting my eyes follow the curve of the petals, which unfurled gracefully from a vibrant yellow throat. The delicate lines streaked down the petals like rays of sunlight. Though each flower lives only a day, I felt the quiet confidence of this plant, as though it knew its bloom was fleeting, yet still essential in the tapestry of summer.
The Resilience of a Traveler
The daylily’s ubiquity belies its status as a traveler from distant lands. Hemerocallis fulva is not native to New York, nor to any part of North America. It came to these shores from Asia, introduced by gardeners who admired its hardiness and vibrant color. Over time, the daylily escaped the bounds of cultivated gardens, spreading to roadsides, fields, and yes, even here, to the edges of Stewart Park.
I find myself reflecting on the journey of this plant, which began in the faraway lands of China, Korea, and Japan. In its homeland, daylilies have long been symbols of devotion and motherhood, their roots used in traditional medicine, their blooms celebrated in art. Now, as I stand in Stewart Park, I marvel at how far the Hemerocallis fulva has come, adapting to new lands and naturalizing in the wild corners of the American landscape.
The irony of its “wild” appearance does not escape me—this orange beauty, so deeply associated with our rural and parkland settings, is still very much an outsider. And yet, in the soft breeze of the morning, it feels as though this plant has always belonged here, as much a part of the park’s landscape as the willows by the lake or the ducks bobbing in the water.
Nature’s Balancing Act
As lovely as they are, daylilies are not without their complications. The very same traits that make Hemerocallis fulva such a beloved garden plant—its resilience, its ability to thrive in poor soil, and its spreading rhizomes—also make it an unintentional invader. Without careful tending, these plants can spread aggressively, pushing out native species and altering the ecological balance of the areas where they take root.
Here in Stewart Park, where cultivated gardens meet the untamed edges of the lake, the daylilies are a reminder of nature’s delicate balance. They offer nectar to bees and butterflies, providing sustenance to the creatures that flit through the morning air and also represent challenge to the native wildflowers that have long called this place home.
I wonder what plants might have once thrived in this very spot before the Hemerocallis fulva arrived. Perhaps native species, like the delicate Asclepias tuberosa—Butterfly Weed—or the sturdy Rudbeckia hirta, the Black-eyed Susan, held court here, their blooms attracting the same bees now drawn to the daylilies.
The Fleeting Bloom
Despite its role as a naturalized non-native, the daylily has a fleeting grace that draws me in. By tomorrow, these orange blooms will have withered and fallen, replaced by new blossoms that will unfurl in their place. Each bloom’s brief life is a reminder of the ephemerality of beauty, and I find myself appreciating the daylily all the more for its transient nature.
We continue our walk, leaving behind the patch of daylilies but taking with me a sense of quiet reflection. As invasive as they may be, these plants offer a meditation on the impermanence of life and the ways in which non-native species can become a part of the landscape’s fabric, for better or worse. The Hemerocallis fulva may not belong here by birthright, but it has made a place for itself, a symbol of survival and adaptation in the ever-changing world around it.
A Lesson from the Daylily
As I near the edge of the lake, watching the sunlight dance across the water’s surface, I think about the lessons that the daylily offers. Life is fleeting, yes, but also full of color and vibrancy, no matter how brief the bloom. And in that brief bloom, there is the possibility of resilience, growth, and belonging, even in a place far from home.
Much like the daylily, we too find ourselves in unfamiliar places at times, learning to adapt, to thrive, and to leave our mark on the world—if only for a day.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
The wind carries the rhythm of the waves as clouds drift across the sky, their reflections shimmering on the sand. A lone feather lies half-buried, a quiet reminder of nature’s gentle yet untamed beauty. In the midst of winter’s rawness, there’s a peaceful stillness, inviting you to pause and take in the moment.
There’s a magic in the embrace of a winter afternoon at Cocoa Beach, where cold northern winds rush down, meeting the Atlantic’s gentle roar. A brush has stroked the heavens; a sky painted with clouds, each towering and shifting, soft yet mighty. With weight and grace, they hang in the sky; some laden with the promise of rain, others light and carefree, echoing the ever-changing rhythm of the sea below. As the sun dips, its rays break through, illuminating the clouds and casting reflections on the wet sand, where the ocean’s kisses linger before retreating back to the deep.
The wind tugs at my clothes, my hair, my thoughts. It whispers its secrets, telling stories of distant places, of journeys. With patterns chaotic yet somehow harmonized; waves, frothing and white, crash in sync with the wind’s song. They stretch their fingers onto the shore before retreating, playing an endless game of tag with the land. The sand, smooth and glistening, mirrors the clouds above, creating an ephemeral connection between earth and sky. Both are locked in a fleeting dance, destined to dissolve with the tide.
Amid the sound of wind and water, the sight of a lone feather caught my eye. Half-buried in the sand, its delicate barbs were still intact, though weathered by the elements. It was a remnant of life, a testament to the flight of some seabird now long gone. This feather, in its stillness, speaks volumes—of resilience, of the endless passage of time, of moments lost to the wind yet immortalized in the quiet present. Its grooves, like fine lines etched in sand, tell the story of its journey through the air, carried by forces unseen yet deeply felt.
The feather, lying motionless yet deeply expressive, becomes a symbol of the paradoxes that fill this beach: the immensity of the ocean, infinite in its expanse, and the simplicity of a single object, caught and held for just a moment. The windswept beach feels vast, stretching endlessly before me, yet each step I take reveals intricate details, like the delicate curves and patterns of shells half-buried in the sand, or the ephemeral foam left behind by retreating waves. Each part of this landscape tells a story—the grand and the intimate, the eternal and the fleeting, all coexisting in perfect harmony.
Standing here, enveloped by the wind and the sea’s whispers, I am reminded of the power of nature to humble and uplift. It strips away the noise of everyday life, leaving only the raw, untamed elements that have been here long before us and will remain long after. There is something deeply spiritual about this place, this moment—where the only sounds are the natural rhythms of the world, unbroken by human intervention. The beach, with its vast openness, encourages introspection, a reflection not only on the external beauty but also on the inner landscapes of the mind.
The wind, relentless and free, stirs a sense of renewal in me. It is a force that clears the air, both literally and figuratively, sweeping away stagnant thoughts and opening space for new ones to emerge. The crispness of the cold air invigorates, reminding me that even in the depths of winter, life continues—whether in the ceaseless movement of the ocean or the endurance of the small feather resting in the sand. There is beauty in the starkness, in the way the beach in winter feels both desolate and alive, silent yet full of sound.
As I walk along the shore, I realize that this windy January afternoon on Cocoa Beach is an experience to feel deeply. The wind, the waves, the sky, the sand—all are part of a larger, connected whole, a living tapestry that, though ever-changing, remains constant in its presence. There is comfort in knowing that no matter how many times I return to this beach, it will always offer something new, yet familiar.
In the end, the beauty of this moment lies in its simplicity and grandeur, in the way it invites contemplation while remaining indifferent to whether or not we notice. The ocean will continue its dance with the shore, the wind will carry its stories, and the feather will eventually be swept away. But for now, in this moment, it is all here, waiting to be seen, felt, and cherished.
On a crisp September morning, a grandfather leads his grandsons on a nature walk, discovering the mysteries of the forest. Together, they encounter a curious caterpillar and uncover the wonders of the natural world.
Unseasonably warm September morning air gently stirred the leaves as I guided my grandsons, Sam and Rory, through our woods near Freeville. Our boots crunched softly on the damp earth, and the sounds of nature enveloped us like an old, familiar melody. Today we were on a mission of discovery, with Mother Nature as our guide.
“Grandpa, look at this!” Sam called, excitement radiating from his face. Rory, always close behind his older brother, crouched down, his bright eyes scanning the ground for any movement. I smiled. Sam’s sharp curiosity and Rory’s quiet attentiveness reminded me so much of myself at their age, exploring the woods.
We stopped at a patch of earth, where the boys had found a small hole in the ground, evidence of something recently disturbed. “Do you think it’s a mole, Grandpa?” Rory asked, his voice a mix of wonder and uncertainty.
“Maybe,” I said, leaning down beside them. “Or it could be something larger, like a chipmunk. These woods are full of surprises.”
As they explored further, I glanced at the trees, their trunks coated in a rich tapestry of moss and lichen. Then, something caught my eye—a familiar white and black figure on the bark of a young tree, I’ll call it a hickory.
“Hey, boys, come over here for a second. I’ve got something to show you,” I called, my voice calm but laced with excitement. Sam and Rory, ever eager, bounded over. “Look at this caterpillar.”
Their faces lit up when they spotted it. “Whoa, it’s so fuzzy!” Sam exclaimed.
“Yeah, but don’t touch,” I warned gently, kneeling to get a better look. “This little guy is called a Hickory Tussock Moth Caterpillar. See those long white hairs? Some of them can irritate your skin. Always good to admire from a distance.”
Rory looked up at me, wide-eyed. “What does it turn into?”
I smiled. “That’s the magic of it. This caterpillar will eventually become a moth, a Hickory Tussock Moth, in fact. But right now, it’s preparing for a long journey. In just a few weeks, it’ll spin itself a cocoon and wait all winter before emerging as a moth in the spring.”
Sam squinted at the caterpillar, studying its every bristle. “So it’s it’s going to sleep for the winter?”
“Exactly,” I said, pleased with his understanding. “It’s one of nature’s ways of resting and preparing for something new.”
The boys stared at the caterpillar in silence for a moment, and I could tell their young minds were spinning with thoughts. Maybe they were thinking about their own journeys—how each season brought something new to learn, something new to experience.
As we moved on from the caterpillar, deeper into the woods, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of gratitude. These moments, small as they may seem, were the kinds of memories that last a lifetime. I was passing down not just knowledge but a love for the natural world, a connection to the earth that I hoped would stay with them long after I was gone.
We finished our adventure with planting two oak saplings. The boys dug in the rich soil, each working carefully as we prepared a young sapling to take root. I watched as they placed the sapling into the earth, their hands gentle yet sure. Together, we packed the soil around its base.
“You know,” I said softly, “these oaks will grow just like you two. Stronger every year. And one day, you’ll bring your own children here to see it.”
Sam and Rory exchanged a look, a flicker of understanding passing between them, and I knew the lesson had landed. Nature has a way of teaching us that growth, whether in a tree or in ourselves, takes time and patience.
As we packed up to leave, I glanced back at the hickory tree where the caterpillar still clung, a tiny, determined creature, preparing for the change to come. In that moment, I felt the same sense of wonder I’d seen in the boys’ eyes earlier. Even after all these years, nature never ceased to amaze me.
“Come on, boys,” I said, with one last glance at the woods. “Let’s see what other adventures await us.”
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
On a sunny September morning along the shores of Cayuga Lake, I encountered the vibrant Chicken of the Woods fungus. Its striking colors and intriguing history make it a fascinating discovery in nature’s ongoing cycle of life and decay.
It was a crisp, sunny September morning when Pam and I set out for a leisurely walk along the shore of Cayuga Lake in Ithaca, New York. The lake shimmered in the morning light, framed by the early hints of fall colors on the surrounding hills. We had been walking for some time, enjoying the peaceful rhythm of nature, when something unusual caught my eye—a cluster of bright yellow-orange growths on the trunk of an apparently hale White Willow tree.
Curious, I approached the tree, and upon closer inspection, I realized these growths were something special, took these photographs of the vibrant clusters and later researched them to be Laetiporus sulphureus, commonly known as Chicken of the Woods. The striking colors of the fungus, a combination of deep orange and golden yellow, stood out in stark contrast to the gnarled, dark bark of the willow. It was a discovery that sparked a deeper interest in learning about the fascinating history and characteristics of this unique fungus.
The Vibrant History of Chicken of the Woods
Laetiporus sulphureus has been known to mycologists and naturalists for centuries, and its distinctive appearance has earned it a place among the most recognizable fungi in the world. Its common name, Chicken of the Woods, stems from the texture and flavor of its flesh, which, when cooked, is said to resemble that of chicken. This has made it a popular edible mushroom among foragers, particularly in Europe and North America, where it often grows on hardwood trees such as oak, cherry, and, as I found, occasionally on willows.
The fungus was first scientifically described by German mycologist August Batsch in 1789. Since then, it has been the subject of numerous studies, particularly due to its unique ability to grow on living trees, decaying wood, and sometimes even on dead trunks. This dual nature makes it both a decomposer and a potential pathogen, depending on the health of its host tree.
Historically, Chicken of the Woods has had various uses, ranging from culinary to medicinal. In traditional folk medicine, it was used for its antibacterial properties, and some cultures believed it could help heal wounds or infections when applied as a poultice. Today, research continues into its potential medicinal applications, including its possible role in supporting immune function and its antioxidant properties.
A Friend to Some, a Foe to Trees
While Laetiporus sulphureus may delight foragers and mushroom enthusiasts, it is not always welcomed by the trees it inhabits. The fungus is classified as a saprotroph, meaning it feeds on dead or decaying organic matter. However, it is also capable of acting as a parasite, attacking the heartwood of living trees. Over time, the fungus can cause brown rot, a form of decay that weakens the tree from the inside out. For trees already compromised by age or environmental stress, an infestation of Chicken of the Woods can be the final blow, leading to their eventual death and collapse.
The willow tree I encountered by Cayuga Lake had clearly seen many seasons, its twisted trunk and sprawling limbs a testament to decades of life along the shoreline. The presence of the fungus, while beautiful and intriguing, could also be an indicator that this tree was in decline. Still, the symbiotic relationship between the tree and the fungus was a reminder of nature’s cycles—of life, decay, and renewal.
Culinary and Medicinal Uses of Chicken of the Woods
One of the most interesting aspects of Chicken of the Woods is its edibility. Foragers and chefs alike prize the young, tender fruiting bodies for their chicken-like texture and mild flavor. When prepared properly, the fungus can be sautéed, fried, or even used in stews, providing a nutritious and flavorful addition to a variety of dishes. However, caution is required, as some individuals may experience allergic reactions or gastrointestinal upset after consuming it. Additionally, older specimens of the fungus can become woody and less palatable.
Beyond the kitchen, Chicken of the Woods has a history of medicinal use. In some cultures, it has been used to treat ailments ranging from respiratory infections to digestive issues. Modern research is beginning to explore the bioactive compounds present in the fungus, with preliminary studies suggesting that it may have antibacterial and antioxidant properties. These potential health benefits add yet another layer of intrigue to this already fascinating species.
An Essential Role in the Ecosystem
As well as serving human needs, Chicken of the Woods also plays a vital role in the ecosystems it inhabits. As a decomposer, the fungus breaks down dead and decaying wood, returning valuable nutrients to the soil and promoting the growth of new plant life. In this way, it contributes to the cycle of life and death that sustains forest ecosystems. Various insects and animals, including beetles and birds, may also use the fungus as a food source or shelter, further highlighting its ecological importance.
A Lasting Impression
As Pam and I continued our walk along Cayuga Lake, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for the serendipitous discovery I had made that morning. The sight of the Chicken of the Woods clinging to the willow tree was a vivid reminder of nature’s endless capacity for surprise and wonder. Though this fungus may be humble in its origin, its history, uses, and ecological significance elevate it to a position of great interest and value in the natural world.
In that quiet September morning light, standing beside the lake with the colors of early autumn beginning to emerge, I realized that moments like these—moments of connection with nature—are what keep me returning to the trails and shores of Ithaca, always eager for the next discovery.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Amid the rolling hills and meadows of the Finger Lakes, Queen Anne’s Lace stands tall, its delicate white blooms weaving a tapestry of nature’s resilience and beauty. Discover the rich history, legends, and ecological importance behind this elegant wildflower.
In the Finger Lakes region of New York State, fields come alive with the delicate beauty of Queen Anne’s Lace—a wildflower that embodies nature’s elegance. Scientifically known as Daucus carota, its flowering umbels resemble intricate lace, lending poetic charm to the landscapes it graces. Beyond aesthetics, the history and mythology behind Queen Anne’s Lace, combined with its ecological importance and cultural significance, reveal a plant deeply intertwined with both nature and human culture.
The Name and Its Myths
The name Queen Anne’s Lace derives from English legend. According to the tale, Queen Anne, consort to King James I, was challenged to create lace as beautiful as the flower. While sewing, she pricked her finger, and a single drop of blood stained the lace—represented by the tiny purple floret at the center of many Queen Anne’s Lace blossoms. This intricate network of white flowers surrounding a central floret mirrors the lacework attributed to Queen Anne, giving the plant a royal and historic association.
Scientifically known as Daucus carota, Queen Anne’s Lace is also known by several other common names, including wild carrot and bird’s nest, the latter inspired by the way the flower head curls inward as the seeds begin to develop, resembling a nest. The flower is closely related to the cultivated carrot, and its roots, though much smaller and woodier, share the familiar carrot scent. In fact, Queen Anne’s Lace is considered the wild ancestor of the domestic carrot, with a lineage stretching back thousands of years.
In the meadows of the Brock-Harvey Forest Preserve, Queen Anne’s Lace thrives among the native flora, showcasing its delicate beauty. The function of the central dark florets of D. carota has been subject to debate since Charles Darwin speculated that they are a vestigial trait. It has been suggested that they have the adaptive function of mimicking insects, thus either discouraging herbivory, or attracting pollinators by indicating the presence of food or opportunities for mating. Research conducted in Portugal suggests that the dark central florets of Daucus carota mimic insects, attracting pollinators like the varied carpet beetle (Anthrenus verbasci). Inflorescences with more dark florets experienced increased visitation, indicating these florets may enhance pollination efficiency.
Queen Anne’s Lace in Finger Lakes Ecology
Beyond its rich mythology, Queen Anne’s Lace plays a significant role in the ecology of the Finger Lakes region. Throughout the expansive landscapes of the Finger Lakes, from lush meadows to roadsides, Queen Anne’s Lace stands tall, its delicate blossoms dotting the green with clusters of white. This wildflower can be observed in various stages of its life cycle, from budding umbels to the intricate ‘bird’s nest’ formation.
The fields around the Finger Lakes, often framed by rolling hills and ancient forests, offer the perfect habitat for Daucus carota. The plant thrives in well-drained soils and open sunlight, often outcompeting other flora. Its deep taproots, a characteristic inherited from its cultivated cousin, the carrot, allow it to flourish in the rocky soils of the region.
In these fields, Queen Anne’s Lace performs a vital ecological role. The plant attracts a variety of pollinators, including bees, butterflies, and beneficial insects like lacewings, which help to control aphid populations. The wide, flat umbels provide an ideal landing platform for these insects, who in turn pollinate the flowers, ensuring the plant’s continued spread.
A History of Use
The plant’s ecological importance is matched by its historical uses throughout human civilization. Queen Anne’s Lace has long been a part of human history, both for its beauty and for its practical applications. The plant’s medicinal uses stretch back to ancient times. The seeds and roots were used by the ancient Greeks and Romans as a natural remedy for a variety of ailments, including digestive issues and inflammation. The seeds, when chewed, were believed to prevent conception and were used as a natural form of birth control.
For Native American tribes in the Finger Lakes region, Queen Anne’s Lace was a valuable plant. The roots were often used in the preparation of poultices to treat minor wounds and skin irritations. Additionally, the seeds were used for their diuretic properties, often in teas to help with urinary tract issues. The plant’s close relation to the domestic carrot also meant that its roots could be used as food, though they required careful preparation due to their tough texture and strong flavor.
A Symbol of Resilience and Elegance
The symbolism of Queen Anne’s Lace is steeped in both the fragility and strength it represents. Like the lace it mimics, the flower appears delicate and ephemeral, yet it is a hardy species that thrives in even the most inhospitable conditions. Its deep taproot enables it to survive droughts and poor soil, symbolizing resilience and perseverance in the face of adversity.
In Cayuga County, near Fillmore Glen State Park in Moravia, New York State, farm fields are often adorned with the intricate blooms of Queen Anne’s Lace.
Each summer, the fields of the Finger Lakes burst forth with Queen Anne’s Lace, their towering stalks reaching upward, crowned with intricate blossoms that sway gently in the breeze. As the season progresses, the once-flat umbels curl inward, forming a tight bird’s nest—a final act of elegance before the plant disperses its seeds to ensure future generations.
In capturing the essence of this flower in photographs that accompany this essay, the delicate yet persistent nature of Queen Anne’s Lace is evident. Whether standing tall against a backdrop of green hills, or growing alongside weathered hay bales, Queen Anne’s Lace offers a moment of reflection on the intersection of beauty, history, and nature. Its quiet presence in the Finger Lakes is a reminder that even the smallest, most unassuming plants can carry with them deep histories, enduring stories, and a legacy of utility and elegance.
As golden hues of sunset bathe the rolling hills of the Finger Lakes, the ethereal silhouettes of Queen Anne’s Lace stand as a testament to the region’s natural splendor. Whether admired for its aesthetics, revered for its medicinal uses, or simply appreciated for its ecological role, Queen Anne’s Lace remains an iconic and beloved part of the Finger Lakes’ wildflower tapestry.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
As I walked the quiet medical campus, a dying ash tree caught my eye. Its bark revealed the intricate, destructive galleries left by the relentless Emerald Ash Borer, telling a silent story of loss.
Feeling the need for air, for motion I walk the grounds of a medical campus in Northeast Ithaca, New York, as my wife undergoes physical therapy following her total hip replacement. The sun is high, casting long shadows across the neatly trimmed lawn and scattered trees. There’s a certain calmness here, a space to reflect amid the quiet hustle of the healthcare world.
One tree stands out from the others. I immediately sense that something is not quite right. The branches, bare and brittle, reach out like skeletal arms against the blue sky. It’s summer—this tree should be lush, green, full of life. Yet, here it stands, a stark silhouette among the healthier trees nearby. My curiosity draws me closer, and as I circle the tree, my suspicions are confirmed: it’s an ash tree, Fraxinus americana, dying from an all-too-familiar enemy, the Emerald Ash Borer (Agrilus planipennis).
A dying ash tree on the medical campus off Warren Road, Northeast Ithaca.
The first clue is a thinning canopy. Ash trees, in their prime, have such graceful foliage, creating broad umbrellas of shade. But when they fall victim to the Emerald Ash Borer, their decline is swift and merciless. The branches I see now are devoid of leaves, save for a few stragglers clinging on in vain. The bark tells an even clearer story. Large chunks have sloughed off, revealing a labyrinth of winding, S-shaped galleries just beneath the surface. These are the telltale signs of the larvae, relentlessly feeding on the inner bark, severing the tree’s lifeline as they go.
The tunnels left by the Emerald Ash Borer (EAB) are called galleries. These S-shaped galleries are created by the larvae of the EAB as they feed on the inner bark and cambium of ash trees. The galleries disrupt the tree’s ability to transport nutrients and water, eventually leading to the tree’s death.
I pull out my phone to capture some close-up shots. The gnarled, crisscrossing tunnels that wind through the exposed wood are mesmerizing in a way, almost like a natural etching carved by the tiny jaws of the Emerald Ash Borer. They’ve created a kind of grim artwork on this dying tree, though there’s nothing beautiful about the destruction they leave behind. I know that underneath this bark, the tree’s circulatory system—the xylem and phloem—has been disrupted, no longer able to transport water or nutrients. Slowly, the tree has starved.
It’s strange how, in the middle of waiting for my wife’s recovery, I find myself thinking about life and loss in this quiet moment with the ash tree. In some ways, this frail giant mirrors what my wife has been going through. The breakdown of something once strong and vital—be it bone or tree—doesn’t happen overnight. It’s gradual, unnoticed at first, until the damage becomes too great to ignore. But while my wife’s new hip will give her strength and mobility once more, there’s no hip replacement for this ash tree. The damage here is irreversible.
I circle the tree again, and the more I look, the more I notice the signs of decline. The bark peels away easily, almost like paper, exposing more of the damaged wood beneath. In some areas, there are what look like D-shaped exit holes, where the adult Emerald Ash Borers have chewed their way out to fly off and start the cycle anew. This is what makes the battle against this invasive species so frustrating—they are small, almost insignificant in size, but the sheer numbers in which they attack, combined with their ability to spread so quickly, make them nearly impossible to stop.
Just as I’m about to walk away, a thought crosses my mind: how many more ash trees will fall to this same fate? The Emerald Ash Borer, a native of Asia, arrived in the United States sometime in the early 2000s, hitching a ride in wooden packing materials. It quickly spread across states, leaving devastation in its wake. Here in New York, the effects have been nothing short of catastrophic. Entire forests of ash are being wiped out, and this tree, standing alone on the edge of the medical campus, is just one more casualty.
I turn back toward the building, the rhythmic crunch of my footsteps on the path feeling heavier now. As my wife works to heal and rebuild her strength inside, I think about the resilience of the human body, its ability to repair, to bounce back after trauma. But for the ash tree, there is no such recovery. Without intervention—chemical treatments that are costly and often impractical on a large scale—this tree will eventually become firewood, its wood too damaged to be of much use for anything else.
It’s a sobering thought, but also a reminder. Nature’s battles, much like our own, are often unseen, quiet struggles that unfold slowly over time. Sometimes, we win, as my wife will with her new hip, but other times, like the ash tree and its silent battle with the Emerald Ash Borer, the fight is already lost.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Contemplate the quiet sorrow of a summer without monarchs. Click on the photo to read the full story and reflect on this profound sense of loss on my blog.
This past summer, an absence visited our garden—a loss more profound than the quieting of wind. It was the virtual silence of an empty sky where monarch butterflies should have danced. Each day, we waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of those delicate wings, vibrant with orange and black, fluttering above the milkweed. But the familiar sight never came.
Monarch butterflies, those ethereal creatures that once graced our summers, seemed to have forgotten us.
Macro of the Monarch butterfly chrysalis. The black stalk attached to the silk pad is call a cremaster.
The photograph of the monarch chrysalis, a delicate gem hanging on a thread of life, speaks to the fragility of nature itself. Each chrysalis is a promise—a quiet, patient promise of transformation and renewal. Yet this summer, those promises vanished, leaving us to wonder where the monarchs had gone, what changes in the world pulled them away from our home in the Finger Lakes.
Our first monarch butterfly of 2023 just after emergence from the chrysalis and after wing expansion. This female will hang for several hours while the wings dry.
Another image from a time not so long ago, yet now seeming distant, shows a monarch caterpillar nestled among the milkweed blossoms. This was a time when our garden was alive with their presence, each caterpillar a testament to the cycle of life that once thrived here. The sight of them devouring the leaves was a sign of hope, a prelude to the transformation that would soon unfold. Now, that vibrant energy has vanished, leaving behind a quiet that speaks of loss and absence.
We are left to reflect on this silence, on the empty milkweed leaves and the air where monarchs once flew. The memories of summers past, when the monarchs filled our garden with their grace, are bittersweet now. They remind us of a time when the connection between the earth and its creatures was still intact, when the balance of nature had not yet been so precariously tipped.
In their absence, the monarchs leave behind a message—a reminder that their delicate beauty is not guaranteed, that the balance we once took for granted can be lost. The summer without monarchs urges us to look inward, to consider what must change, what must be protected, so that future summers may once again be filled with the fluttering of wings and the promise of life renewed.
The garden absence this year is a call to action, a plea from the earth itself to remember the delicate threads that connect us all. May we answer that call, so that this summer of loss will not reach into the future, but will be a pause, a moment of reflection before the return of the monarchs, and with them, the return of hope.
Request to my North American readers: leave comments exploring your experiences of Monarch butterflies the summer of 2024
Here are links to more Monarch photographs and videos.
In the final bloom of the season, a honeybee’s delicate dance with the Queen of the Night captures the fleeting beauty of nature’s cycles. Discover the profound connection between flower, bee, and life’s rhythms.
The Epiphyllum oxypetalum, commonly known as the Queen of the Night, is a remarkable plant. Native to Central America, this epiphyte is known for its large, fragrant flowers that bloom only once a year and last just for a single night. The fleeting nature of its bloom makes it a symbol of transience and beauty in many cultures. For me, this flower is a quiet, intimate connection to the rhythms of nature that play out around our home in Ithaca, New York.
The images you see include the last flower of the season, a white starburst of delicate petals encasing a universe of intricate details. As the day progresses, the flower remains open, revealing the next chapter in its life cycle—the possibility of forming fruit. This potential is entirely dependent on pollination, a process that is both beautifully simple and astonishingly complex.
A honeybee, a tiny yet essential participant in the grand scheme of things, hovers and lands delicately on the flower. In the first image, the bee appears tentative, exploring the outer fringes of the flower’s central structures. Its wings are still, as if it has just touched down after a careful, deliberate approach. The stamens, like a thousand arms extended in welcome, offer their pollen. Each grain of pollen is a promise, a potential seed, carried with the hope of propagation. The bee is the flower’s messenger, moving from one bloom to another, ensuring the continuity of life.
As I observe the bee’s actions through these photographs, I can’t help but reflect on the importance of these small creatures. Their work often goes unnoticed, yet without them, our ecosystems would collapse. The honeybee, in particular, has been a focus of concern in recent years due to declining populations, largely attributed to human activities. But here, in my garden, this bee is simply going about its day, unaware of the broader implications of its existence. It is focused on the task at hand, a model of mindfulness in action.
In the second and third images, the bee has moved deeper into the flower, its body now dusted with pollen. It is fully engaged in its work, undeterred by the enormity of its task. The pink style of the flower contrasts sharply with the white petals and the yellow stamens, creating a vibrant tableau of life. The bee’s body is now part of this scene, its presence both functional and aesthetic. It is not just a visitor; it is an integral part of the flower’s story.
The fourth and fifth images capture the culmination of the bee’s efforts. Having gathered what it came for, the bee is ready to move on, its job done here. The flower, too, has fulfilled its role for the season. The energy it expended to produce this magnificent bloom will now be directed towards forming fruit, provided that the pollination process is successful. If it is, this single flower will give rise to a new generation of plants, continuing the cycle of life.
But there is another, more personal layer to this story. This is the last flower of the season. It carries with it the weight of finality, the knowledge that soon the plant will rest, conserving its energy for the next year’s bloom. As I contemplate this, I am reminded of the cycles that govern not just plant life, but all life. There is a time for blooming, a time for fruiting, and a time for rest. Each phase is essential, each one a preparation for the next.
A bonus view of the honeybee in action
In allowing this flower to form fruit, I am participating, in a small way, in this cycle. We are stewards of the natural world, responsible for nurturing and preserving the life forms that share our planet. The honeybee, the flower, and I are all connected in this intricate web of life, each playing our part in the unfolding drama of existence.
These photographs are a meditation on life, a reminder of the beauty and fragility of the world around us. They capture a moment in time, brief encounters between a flower and a bee, but they also speak to something larger, something timeless. The Epiphyllum oxypetalum may bloom for just one night, but its impact, like that of the honeybee, reverberates far beyond that brief window. And in that, there is a profound lesson for all of us.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 