Experience the thrill of descending into Utah’s White Canyon—slickrock trails, driftwood ladders, and stunning views await at Sipapu Bridge in Natural Bridges Monument.
The final descent into White Canyon to view Sipapu Bridge, Natural Bridges National Monument near Blanding, Utah
Final Step
Here is a photograph of the final stage of our descent into White Canyon. Here the trail traverseed a type of sandstone called “Slickrock.” For Pam and I the surface was like sandpaper and, for the right type of shoes, provides great traction.
That day I wore Lowe hiking boots with a harder sole and these could slip at times. I’d recommend a different shoe for the trail, but my boots come over the ankle and provide great support. Plus, the canyon bottom is sandy, so high boots prevent sand from falling into the shoe. A perfect choice for this trip is a high boot that provides support, with a softer sole on a hard and light shank (to protect you against sharp rocks).
What is Slickrock?
Slickrock was named by the first settlers and explorers who discovered their iron shod horses lost footing on the steep slopes of this sandstone.
This was another feature of Pam and my descent into White Canyon. The sandstone weathers in a way that produces steep slopes over which the trail must pass and the traveler navigate. I chose this image as a Fine Art print (part of a series featuring Natural Bridges National Monument) because this part of the trial is strange and beautiful.
The hard rock cliffs are resistant to wear and, in this climate, weather to provide rounded surfaces. The cliff face is scalloped and marked with desert varnish striations that “pop out” from the red rock. Then, there is the clear light and bright morning sky on a summer morning that promised thunderstorms.
Gratitude
Then, there are the personal memories of that iron railing drilled into the rock and that marvelous looking ladder created from driftwood found in the canyon. That ladder is a work of art!! The photograph does not reproduce the feeling Pam and I had at that point of the descent. I needed to climb down the ladder backwards (facing out) and holding on .
We were both grateful to reach the sandy stream bed in White Canyon.
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Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Cushendun (from Irish: Cois Abhann Doinne, meaning “foot of the River Dun”) is a small coastal village in County Antrim, Northern Ireland. It sits off the A2 coast road between Cushendall and Ballycastle.
It has a sheltered harbor and lies at the mouth of the River Dun and Glendun, one of the nine Glens of Antrim. The Mull of Kintyre in Scotland is only about 15 miles away across the North Channel and can be seen easily on clear days.
In the 2001 Census it had a population of 138 people. Cushendun is part of Causeway Coast and Glens district.
SONY DSC
Here are several of the information placards near the harbor explaining some local history.
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Ballyteerin townland, where Shane O’Neill was killed, is on the road to Torr Head.
Reference: Wikipedia, “Cushendun.”
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A walk through Sims-Jennings Preserve unveils ancient cliffs, vibrant bird calls, and the quiet wisdom of maples and waterfalls along Cayuga Lake’s forested edge.
I arrive early, the sun still climbing its slow arc, brushing the eastern sky in pastels as I step into the Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs. The trailhead, tucked neatly along NYS Route 34B, is a doorway into an ancient chapter of the Finger Lakes—one rich with the scent of moss, the hush of leaf-dappled silence, and the layered echoes of stone and birdsong.
The first thing that strikes me is the expanse of mowed meadow, rimmed with goldenrod and patches of milkweed. From here, the land rolled gently westward until it ends abruptly in cliffs that plummeted toward Cayuga Lake. A map at the entrance speaks of the Sherburne and Renwick Formations, shale and siltstone laid down when the land was covered in warm Devonian seas. The cliffs themselves stand like watchmen over time, protecting 4,000 feet of lakeshore from erosion, whispering tales older than mammals.
A side trail leads to this mowed meadow and Cayuga Lake overlook
On the meadow edge is this Carya ovata, or shagbark hickory, unmistakable from its elongated leaflets and distinctive bark that peeled in long, curled strips. The leaves shimmered in the breeze, their green etched with pale speckles of recent rain, as if nature herself had hand-painted them.
Shagbark Hickory on the edge of meadow.Leaves of the Shagbark HickoryShagbark Hickory bark / trunk
I follow the yellow-blazed trail into a thicket where tall sugar maples—Acer saccharum—arched overhead. Their leaves caught the morning light, each palm-sized blade glowing like a shard of stained glass.
Throughout the preserve I find large holes like these in a pine tree snag, the work of a Pileated Woodpecker.
A sudden fluting note from the trees stops me in my tracks. “Ee-oh-lay,” the Wood Thrush sang, its call cascading through the forest like water over stone. Moments later, the rapid, accelerating trill of an Ovenbird joins in—a sound like “teacher-teacher-teacher” echoing from the understory. The forest is alive.
Watch on YouTube for the best experience.
I descend into the shade. A narrow stream runs over the flat gray ledges of the Ludlowville Formation, forming delicate waterfalls no taller than a man but intricate as lace. One fall, framed by a colonnade of black cherry and beech trees, poured over stone like a ribbon of silk. The water’s voice changed with each ledge—first a murmur, then a chuckle, then quiet confidence as it wound through the woods.
Here, a Scarlet Tanager flashes like flame through the canopy, its red feathers shocking against the sea of green. Above, the Eastern Wood-Pewee calles its own name from a high perch—“pee-a-wee”—a humble herald of summer. Lower down, a Tufted Titmouse flits from branch to branch, a gray blur with a whistle like curiosity incarnate.
Further along, a looping vine coils around a pair of trees like an ancient signature. Possibly a native bittersweet, its woody stem thick as a child’s arm. It reminds me of how all life here is entangled—flora, fauna, stone, and stream woven into one vast web.
I pause at the overlook, where the trail skirts the cliffs. From this height, the view opened to Cayuga Lake, vast and gleaming in the morning light. Across the water, the hills of the western shore softened into a watercolor horizon.
Crowbar Point on the west lake shore is visible, partially hidden by trees. Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs, Finger Lakes Land Trust on a May morning 2025, Lansing, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region
On the walk back, a robin sings its measured phrases from a nearby hawthorn, and I think how common birds often hold the deepest solace. The robin’s voice rises above the silence, not grand, not rare, but reassuring in its familiarity—like a good friend’s greeting.
A shale ledge, Renwick Formation (?)
I leave the preserve changed gently, like the soft indent of a footstep in moss. The Sims-Jennings Preserve at Cayuga Cliffs is a place that reminds you to listen. To the birds, to the trees, to your own breath. And in listening, you remember what it means to be wholly present in the world.
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Perched above Taughannock Gorge, a moss-covered ledge and cascading falls reveal ancient stories—where Devonian seas once flowed and time’s layers whisper through stone and water.
The morning sun had only just breached the rim of the gorge, sending long slants of golden light across the forest floor. Walking the South Rim Trail of Taughannock Falls State Park, I came upon a quiet, unassuming spot—just a few paces off the path—where the forest seemed to pause in reverence. What greeted me was a small marvel of persistence and time.
There, rooted precariously atop a slab of brittle shale, was a tenacious shrub rising from a bed of moss, its spindly frame etched in sharp contrast to the soft, green sprawl beneath it. The moss had taken hold on a shelf of rock cantilevered over the gorge like a green tongue of earth defying gravity. Cracks traced the shale’s surface like veins, silent records of the forces that shaped this place—heat, ice, pressure, time. Together, the moss and the bush formed an improbable community, surviving against odds, bound together by the thin soil cradled in stone.
This ledge, suspended over the abyss, seemed less a part of the earth than a question it asked—how much life can cling to the edge before the edge itself gives way?
Beneath this living fragment, the gorge dropped away. Layers upon layers of shale revealed themselves, stacked like a collapsed library of time. Here, the Devonian Period lies exposed to wind and rain, and to those willing to pause and wonder. Each stratum holds the fossil whisper of ancient seas, where trilobites scuttled and coral reefs once stood. This gorge was not carved quickly. It was not born of a moment, but of many—countless raindrops, millennia of ice melt, the slow, sure work of water over stone.
From this natural balcony, I looked out and down to the gorge floor where the creek shaped the land with an artist’s patient hand. The falls, seen from above, no longer thundered—they danced. Spread like the folds of a fan, water curled over smooth stone in steps of white silk. From here, the cascade looked deliberate, choreographed—an elemental performance halfway between gravity and grace.
How many times had this water flowed, reshaped, receded? How often had it carved these grooves, smoothed those ridges, erased the footprints of what came before? Looking at the exposed rock, one could trace the signature of ancient glaciers, feel the memory of long-gone floods. It was humbling—this intersection of change and continuity.
Above it all, the trees stood still. Pine and oak, rooted well back from the edge, offered a kind of sentinel presence. Their shadows stretched long and angled, tracing the contours of both earth and memory. For a moment, I let go of all thought and simply listened—to the murmur of wind through leaves, the faint rush of water far below, and the silence that presses in when the land itself seems to be remembering.
This spot—so easily missed by a hurried hiker—offered a parable of resilience and impermanence. The moss did not grow with certainty, nor the shrub reach with confidence. They survived on the edge because they adapted. They made do with less. They took root where others could not. There was no security in that place, only presence. Only the now.
And isn’t that a lesson worth carrying?
We so often seek stability, firm ground, a clear path. Yet, some of the most beautiful things live just beyond comfort—on ledges, in cracks, in the margins of the known. To pause here was to acknowledge that life thrives not only in sheltered valleys but also at the edge of what seems possible.
As I stepped back onto the trail and continued along the South Rim, the image of that mossy outcrop stayed with me. I carried it in my thoughts like a talisman—proof that even on the brink, life finds a way. And that from above, the most chaotic falls can appear as ordered motion, as a flow toward something larger.
Later, when the sun climbed higher and the light lost its slant, I would look back on this moment not as a spectacular highlight but as something more intimate: a quiet encounter with nature’s subtle artistry, its layered truths, and its enduring invitation to look closely, feel deeply, and walk softly.
For here, above the gorge, at the edge of earth and time, even a whisper leaves a mark.
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A bench beside a cedar, unchanged through time, stirred memory and gratitude—reminding me that some places wait quietly, holding space until we find them again.
A lingering memory hovers over this spot. The soft crunch of gravel beneath my boots, the filtered light through pine and oak, the scent of warm stone and moss—all of it felt at once familiar and distant, like a half-remembered tune that returns in full when you hear the first few notes. I hadn’t thought about the simple bench until I turned the bend this summer day on the South Rim Trail.
It was still there. The same humble bench nestled beside a cedar, its weathered frame now bearing the patina of years. The tree remained slightly bowed as if in silent conversation with the bench it had embraced.. The space between them, still and shaded, seemed to invite reflection without demanding it.
Welcome Summertime Shade
I sat down, letting the moment settle around me. In the gorge below, water moved quietly through sculpted shale, the same layered gray that once caught my attention through a camera lens long packed away. From this overlook, the view had scarcely changed: stone and water, green clinging to cliff, sky rolling in above it all. My photograph captures it now just as it might have then—perhaps from the same angle. The gorge unfolding in a graceful arc, with trees perched impossibly along the sheer face.
It struck me, not as a grand revelation but with quiet certainty, that very few places in life offer such stillness. So much shifts in the world—landscapes erode, trails are rerouted, lives move forward. Yet here I was again, sitting in the same spot, as though the intervening decades had folded in on themselves.
The Why for the Bench
Back then, I had rested here out of curiosity, pausing to take in the view, enjoy a respite. Now, I sat with a deeper kind of stillness. The second photograph holds the space as I found it—quiet, dappled with shadow, edges softened by time. The fence beyond it remains, unchanged, a modest boundary between the trail and the deep gorge beyond.
I don’t remember what thoughts filled my mind that first time. But today, a kind of gentle gratitude rose instead. Gratitude for the bench, yes—but also for the path that led me here again, for the act of remembering, and for the rare gift of finding something familiar, something steady.
Left Behind or an Offering?
A final image frames just the bench, its surface worn smooth, its structure slightly leaning now. A single flower petal had fallen on the wood—a quiet grace note in the morning light. I stood and took that last photo as a way of holding the moment, though I knew no picture could fully capture what it meant to find something that had waited without fanfare.
As I turned and walked back along the rim, I felt lighter. Not because time had reversed or been conquered, but because it had been witnessed—and somehow, that was enough.
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From the commanding location of Dún Aonghasa, looking northeast across Inishmore, the logic of the ancients becomes clear. No better vantage could be found—land unfurling like a hand toward Galway Bay, cottages nestled in green folds, clouds billowing above like sails caught mid-journey. A place of presence. A place of permanence.
Perched high on the cliff’s edge, the fort behind, the Atlantic at the back, the wind carried stories—unwritten, unspoken, but felt in the bones. Below, stone walls divided the island into patterns of memory. Fields outlined in rock, laid long ago by hands familiar with hardship and patience. The sea’s pulse echoed faintly in the distance, as steady and unfathomable as time itself.
No words were needed in that moment. Just the hush of sky and stone. Cottages, bleached bright by limewash—kalsomine, the old name still whispered by some—stood resilient against the elements, each one a witness to generations. Each one seemed to carry a personal reverence, a tenderness carved into the landscape.
Paths led gently inland, where wind slowed and voices from distant homes rose faintly through the open air. Along those paths, the rhythm of island life could be read in hoof prints, scattered wool, and the sharp, clean edges of hand-cut stone. There, among the hedges of limestone and wild grass, the living and the lost felt close.
The cloud cover shifted constantly. Shadows passed like thoughts across the land. Toward the shore, the sky opened wide. A silence filled the lungs, as bracing and deep as the Atlantic itself. Time seemed to slow, the mind slipping into the rhythm of the land.
Limestone pavement, rough beneath the boots, told its own tale of erosion and survival. That the earth here could sustain even the most modest farming seemed improbable. Yet here it was: a testament to stubborn hope and quiet ingenuity. In that quiet, ancient energy rose—something older than the fort, older than language. A pulse shared with the rock and wind.
The fort eventually came back into view—perched as if grown from the cliff itself, curved walls enclosing nothing but air and sky. I perceived no defensive bluster, only presence. And what a view it commanded. On days like this, the clouds formed towering cathedrals overhead, white and gold in the sun. Below, the cottages and fields seemed miniature, perfect, enduring.
The wind played echoes of prayer, lullaby, and laughter mingled with the call of seabirds. The thought came that nothing here was ever truly lost—only layered. Generation upon generation, each leaving some trace: a stone placed just so, a wall mended one final time, a cottage roof patched for another winter.
Here, even the air speaks. It moves gently but insistently, brushing the cheeks and stirring something ancient within the chest. Beneath it, the island breathes: not loudly, not urgently, but with the slow, deep rhythm of the tides.
As the sun dipped slightly westward, light changed across the fields, cottages glowing warm against darkening green. The wind softened. The clouds drifted, still massive but no longer looming. Time to return. A glance back offered one last communion with sky, stone, and silence.
Inishmore, on that day had been absorbed. Understood not with the mind, but with something quieter. Something that listens without need for words.
It was the kind of overcast morning that seems to cradle the island in a blanket of mist, a gentle hush falling over the land as though even the Atlantic held its breath. Pam and I had arrived by ferry at Kilronan, the main settlement on Inishmore (Inis Mór), the largest of the Aran Islands nestled in Galway Bay. There, amid the bustle of arrivals and greetings, we found our driver—a wiry, weather-worn man with a soft brogue and kind eyes—and his horse trap, a simple two-wheeled carriage with room enough for three and the sounds of hooves to accompany our journey.
We set out up Cottage Road, the stone-paved track winding westward from the harbor. The sea fell away behind us as we climbed, a gray shimmer stretching to the hazy outline of Connemara’s mountains on the far side of the bay. Our destination was the dramatic cliffside ringfort of Dún Aonghasa, a place older than memory. But it was the unexpected moments in between—the ones not printed in guidebooks—that linger longest in the mind.
As we rounded a bend flanked by low stone walls, wildflowers blooming defiantly in the cracks, our driver pulled the reins gently and pointed with his crop.
“There,” he said, nodding ahead, “is a fine example of a traditional Aran cottage.”
And there it was—a vision from another time. The thatched roof curved softly like a that blanket itself, straw golden against the brooding sky. The walls were whitewashed to a perfect matte sheen, gleaming in spite of the cloud cover. A crimson door and two window frames punctuated the front façade like punctuation in a poem. Just to its right, set further back on the hill, stood a tiny replica of the same cottage, identical in every feature. I blinked, half believing it was an illusion.
This thatched cottage with matching child’s playhouse is on Cottage Road out of Kilronan Village on the Aran island, Inishmore, County Galway, Ireland.
We only stopped briefly—it was a private residence—but the sight of it left a kind of imprint. I turned in the trap seat to keep it in view as long as I could. The cottage was perfectly placed, facing Galway Bay with a commanding view. I imagined the light pouring across the line of mountains, catching the glint of sea and sky.
“There’s a name for that finish,” I said, recalling something I’d read, “whitewash, or lime paint.”
Our driver nodded. “That’s the old way. Made from slaked lime. We’d call it ‘whitening’ when I was a lad.”
Whitewash differs from paint in the most elemental of ways. It becomes part of the stone, absorbed into the very surface. Like a memory of bone. And yet, it requires care. Apply it to a wall not properly cleaned or moistened, and it flakes, pulls away like a broken promise. But done right, it lasts, breathes with the building.
Upon our return, researching “whitewash,” if found this photograph from the Yarloop railway workshops Yarloop, Western Australia. There, on a shelf, where three old boxes sat like relics: DURABLO, WESCO, and CALCIMO. All contained kalsomine—the powdered form of lime paint. CALCIMO promised to “beautify walls and ceilings” and was proudly marked “LIME PROOF.” There was something quietly heroic in that. Lime-proof, as though against time itself.
Looking at the box of Calcimo, a product of the Murabo Company of Australia, I was struck by how far the tradition had traveled. From island cottages in the Atlantic to distant corners of the Southern Hemisphere, the language of whitewash—of simplicity and purity—had touched the world.
We returned by the same road, past that same cottage, the small one still keeping watch beside it like a child beside a parent. And I knew then that the islands hadn’t just given me sights—they had offered stories, silent ones written in thatch and stone, in lime and wind.
Sources for this post: search wikipedia for “White Wash”. White wash photo author: Wikipedia commons user Gnangarra
On a serene May morning, a small flock of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks graced the author’s yard, showcasing their vibrant plumage and bringing beauty to the tranquil scene of nature.
It was a gentle May morning, the kind that seems to hush even the wind, as though nature were holding its breath for something wonderful. Through the kitchen window, just past the black iron gate entwined with the fresh green of climbing rose, I spotted them—feathered heralds of spring’s deepening promise—perched like jeweled notes on a musical staff.
The Rose-breasted Grosbeaks had arrived.
May 3, 2025 Four Male Rose Brested Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.
Not one or two, but a small flock, draped in raindrops, feathered in contrast and charm. They gathered around our backyard feeder like guests invited to a familiar table. At 5:56 a.m., the camera captured the first image: two males on the feeder and one each on fence and chair, a bold bib of crimson splashed across snowy chests, huddled against the gray of the feeder, their plumage brilliant even in the diffused dawn light. I couldn’t help but smile. This was a scene of quiet splendor, a symphony for the eyes and soul.
The males, unmistakable in their attire, wore tuxedos of black and white, with the defining rose-red marking on the breast that gives the species its common name. Their scientific name, Pheucticus ludovicianus, is less poetic but equally telling. “Pheucticus” comes from the Greek pheuktikos, meaning “shy” or “avoiding,” reflecting their reclusive habits in forested nesting grounds. “Ludovicianus” refers to Louisiana, an early French colonial name for a vast region including their breeding range—a nod to their North American roots.
At 5:58 a.m., the lens captured more details: a male with slightly mottled wing feathers, suggesting he was a younger bird, still dressing up in adult finery. The trio clung to the feeder’s edge, their heavy, conical beaks—perfect for cracking seeds—clearly visible. That oversized bill gives them the name “grosbeak,” from the French gros bec, literally “large beak.” Functional beauty, you might say.
May 3, 2025 Three of the Four Male Rose Brested Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.
Then, at 6:08 a.m., came the contrast—the female. Subtly adorned in warm browns, with creamy streaks and a wash of yellow near the wings, she perched beside her flamboyant mate, as if to say: elegance need not shout. The two birds looked momentarily toward each other, and I was struck by their balance—his flair and her grace. Her eyebrow stripe, called a supercilium, lent her a composed, alert expression. While the male might catch the eye, the female commands attention in her own, quieter way.
May 3, 2025 Male and Female Rose Breasted Grosbeaks visited our backyard bird feeder during spring cleanup.
Rose-breasted Grosbeaks are migratory, long-distance travelers who winter in Central and South America and return each spring to North America’s deciduous and mixed woodlands to breed. Here in upstate New York, our yard is a brief rest stop on their northward journey—or, if I’m lucky, a summer home. They often nest in dense foliage, and their song, a melodic, whistled warble—like a robin who’s taken voice lessons—is often the first clue to their presence.
This morning, no song was needed. Their silent presence was enough.
Watching them, I felt time slow, the kind of moment when the ordinary yard becomes cathedral. Watching them, I felt time slow, the kind of moment when the ordinary yard becomes cathedral. The wet fence and chair under the feeder, even the crumpled leaf bag—everything was blessed by the company of these birds. Rain softened the world, and the birds brought color to its hush.
Later that day, reviewing the photos with metadata timestamps from my iPhone—each image like a verse in a poem—I marveled at what I had witnessed. These weren’t just birds. They were stories in flight, living punctuation marks in the sentence of my morning.
Nature gives us these moments, brief as birdsong and just as sweet. You only have to be still, and ready to receive them.
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References
Pheucticus ludovicianus (Rose-breasted Grosbeak). Cornell Lab of Ornithology – All About Birds.
Jobling, James A. The Helm Dictionary of Scientific Bird Names. London: Christopher Helm, 2010.
Merriam-Webster Dictionary: Etymology of “Grosbeak.”
iPhone 14 Pro Max image metadata (May 3, 2025; 5:56 a.m. to 6:08 a.m.; Ithaca, NY).
A reflective springtime journey through Robert H. Treman and Fillmore Glen State Parks reveals the quiet beauty and botanical mysteries of red and white trilliums—exploring their species differences, color shifts, and the wonder of their ephemeral blooms.
I follow a winding trail through hemlock and maple woods, the air cool and earthy after a spring rain. Under the canopy of budding leaves, I spot a flash of deep burgundy among the moss. Kneeling, I find a red trillium blooming at the base of an old oak. Its three velvety petals are a rich wine color against the green moss and damp leaf litter. A faint musky scent wafts from the flower – no wonder some call it “Stinking Benjamin.” Nearby stands another trillium, but this one is a pristine white star facing upward toward the light. Its broad petals have a gentle wavy edge and no noticeable odor. The red flower droops modestly while the white one opens itself to the sky. Different in color and posture, I realize these are two distinct species1 sharing the same springtime stage.
Red trilliums (Trillium erectum) and white trilliums (Trillium grandiflorum) thrive side by side on the mossy roots of a tree. The maroon “wake robin” flowers nod toward the earth, while the white blooms stand upright to catch the light.
Seeing the red and white blooms side by side feels like meeting two woodland siblings – each unique yet part of the same family. The white trillium is almost luminous in the forest gloom, while the red trillium blends into the shadows with its dark hues. Both emerge from the soil after long, cold months, timing their bloom for the brief sunny window before the trees fully leaf out. Knowing how slowly these perennials grow and how long they live makes their yearly return even more special to witness. Their resilience in coming back each spring fills me with quiet awe.
Early May – Fillmore Glen State Park
A week later, I wander the lush gorge of Fillmore Glen. The trail is alive with birdsong and the rush of a creek. Dappled sunlight slips through the greening canopy, illuminating patches of the forest floor. Rounding a bend, I catch my breath — the hillside ahead is blanketed with hundreds of white trilliums, a breathtaking constellation of blooms across the ground that feels almost sacred. Careful not to tread on any, I step closer to admire them at eye level.
Up close, one large white trillium reveals a surprise: a delicate wash of pink across its aging petals, as if it were blushing. It’s known that after pollination the snow-white petals of Trillium grandiflorum often turn rose-pink with age2. Indeed, many blossoms here wear a faint pink tint, especially those that have been open for a while. This blush of maturity gives the colony a quietly celebratory air – fresh ivory blooms mingling with older siblings tinted softly rose.
The petals of a white trillium take on a soft pink blush as the flower ages, adding a new hue to the spring palette. Fresh white trilliums bloom in the background while older ones show a rosy tint.
In a shaded nook at the edge of the colony, a lone red trillium blooms among the white. I wonder if the red and white trilliums ever hybridize. I see no intermediate colors and recall that the white trillium rarely hybridizes with other species3. The red trillium, by contrast, can swap pollen with certain close relatives, yielding various forms elsewhere. But a true red–white cross never occurs here – each species keeps to its own.
Trillium bloom April through May in central New York State. I found these blooming on the rim of Fillmore Glen near Owasco Lake and the town of Moravia.
The red trillium even has a rare white-petaled form4 easily mistaken for its white-flowered cousin. I linger a bit longer among these graceful “trinity flowers,” my questions answered and my appreciation deepened. As I turn to go, a sunbeam breaks through and illuminates one last trillium by the trail, its white petals touched with pink. I smile, grateful for the chance to witness this woodland wonder.
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Footnotes
Different species: Red trillium and white trillium are separate species (Trillium erectum and Trillium grandiflorum, respectively), distinguished by traits like flower orientation and petal shapeidentifythatplant.com.
White petals turn pink: The large white trillium’s petals are pure white upon opening but gradually develop a rose-pink or purple tint as the flower agesnj.gov.
Rare hybridization: Unlike some trilliums that hybridize readily, Trillium grandiflorum (white trillium) is not known to form hybrids with other speciesen.wikipedia.org. Trillium erectum can hybridize with its close relatives, but a red–white trillium cross is not observed in nature.
White form of red trillium:Trillium erectum (normally red) has a variety with white petals, classified as T. erectum var. album, which can be mistaken for a white trillium at a glancemidatlanticnature.blogspot.com.
On April 22, 2025, a wanderer discovers a trout lily, representing nature’s cycles, patience, and the interconnectedness of life through blooming, pollination, and nutrient cycling.
On the bright afternoon of April 22, 2025, I wander slowly through Sapsucker Woods, last year’s oak leaves soft underfoot and the smell of damp earth in the air. The trees stand bare, and somewhere a woodpecker drums as I search the ground for any sign of spring. A flash of gold catches my eye at the mossy base of a tree. Kneeling down, I find among the leaf litter a small wildflower glowing yellow. It is a trout lily – Erythronium americanum – a solitary, nodding bloom on a slender stem. Six delicate petals flare backward, golden with a few reddish freckles near the throat; long stamens dangle beneath. Two lance-shaped leaves hug the ground, green marbled with burgundy-brown. Their mottled pattern looks like a brook trout’s flank. This flower is known by many names: “trout lily” for its fish-like leaves, “dogtooth violet” for its pointed white bulb 1, and “adder’s tongue” for its tongue-shaped leaf tip.
Its formal name, Erythronium americanum, comes from the Greek for “red”2—odd for a yellow bloom until one remembers the purple dogtooth violets of Europe. Americanum simply marks it as native here. I soon realize these trout lilies are not alone – dozens of dappled leaves carpet the damp earth around me. Most show no blossom at all, only a single freckled leaf standing alone. Only the older plants with two leaves manage to lift a yellow flower. In fact, they often form extensive colonies on the forest floor. I’ve learned a trout lily may wait seven years to bloom its first time3. Seasons of patience pass unseen underground, and then one spring it earns the chance to unfurl a golden star. That slow, patient rhythm of growth fills me with wonder.
A tiny black bee—or maybe a fly—lands on the trout lily’s bloom, drawn by its promise of pollen. It disappears into the flower’s downturned bell, brushing against the dusting of pollen inside. In early spring, few other blossoms are open, so this little lily is a lifeline for hungry pollinators4. There is even a solitary “trout lily bee” that times its life to these flowers5. Flower and insect share an ancient pact: the lily feeds the visitor, and the visitor carries the lily’s pollen onward to another bloom.
Within a week, the trout lily’s golden star will wither. By the time the canopy closes overhead, the flower will have curled into a green seedpod that splits open by early summer, releasing its seeds6. Each seed carries a tiny parcel of food irresistible to ants7. Ants haul the seeds to their nest, eat the morsel, and abandon the seed in their tunnels—unwittingly planting the next generation. The name for this circular ecological dance is myrmecochory. Over time, the colony inches across the forest floor, guided by these tiny gardeners. During its short life above ground, this little lily helps the forest. Its roots soak up nutrients from the damp soil, keeping them from washing away in spring rains8. When the plant dies back, those nutrients return to the earth as the leaves decay, nourishing other life. In this way, a patch of trout lilies forms a quiet bridge between seasons—capturing nutrients in spring and returning them by summer’s end. I touch one cool leaf, feeling connected to this cycle.
I rise and take a final look at the little yellow lily. Its brief bloom reminds me that life’s most beautiful moments are fleeting yet return each year. This blossom will vanish in a few days, a blink of the season, but it will come back next spring as faithful as hope. In its patience and generosity, I sense kinship. Like the trout lily, we too have long periods of waiting and rare moments of blooming. We also rely on small kindnesses to help us thrive—like a friend in hard times or a community that carries our dreams to fertile ground. And we are part of a larger cycle, giving and receiving, leaving something of ourselves to nurture the future. As I continue down the trail, I carry the image of that humble flower with me—a gentle assurance that even the smallest life can leave a lasting impression, and that hope will always return with the spring.
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Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Footnotes
wildadirondacks.org Trout lily’s common names: “Trout lily” refers to the trout-like mottling on its leaves, while “dogtooth violet” refers to the tooth-like shape of its underground bulb (despite not being a true violet). It is also sometimes called “adder’s tongue.” ↩
en.wikipedia.org The genus name Erythronium comes from the Greek erythros, meaning “red,” originally referring to the red-purple flowers of the European dogtooth violet (Erythronium dens-canis). The species name americanum denotes that it is native to America. ↩
peacevalleynaturecenter.org Trout lilies often grow in large colonies and most individuals in a colony are non-flowering. A plant typically needs about seven years of growth before it produces its first bloom. ↩
peacevalleynaturecenter.org Spring ephemeral wildflowers like the trout lily provide crucial early nectar and pollen for pollinators (bees, flies, butterflies) emerging in early spring. ↩
appalachianforestnha.org The trout lily miner bee (Andrena erythronii) is a solitary bee whose life cycle is closely tied to the trout lily; it forages primarily on trout lily flowers, making it a specialist pollinator of this species. ↩
wildadirondacks.org After pollination, trout lily flowers are replaced by seed capsules that ripen and split open to release the seeds in late spring. ↩
atozflowers.comErythronium americanum seeds have a small fleshy appendage called an elaiosome, which attracts ants. The ants carry the seeds to their nests, aiding in dispersal in exchange for the food reward, a mutualism known as myrmecochory. ↩
pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov By growing and taking up nutrients during the brief spring season, trout lily plants help retain important nutrients (like potassium and nitrogen) in the ecosystem. When the plants die back and decay, those nutrients return to the soil, contributing to the forest’s nutrient cycle. ↩
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 