Tag: environmental impact

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

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

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Stewart Park, Cayuga Lake, Ithaca, New York

Seen from Stewart Park, these lakefront homes line the southern shore of Cayuga Lake. Tompkins County, Ithaca, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region

On a warm June morning, with the early summer sun casting a golden glow across the shores of Cayuga Lake, Pam and I set out for a walk around Stewart Park. The soft lapping of the water against the shore mixed with the calls of distant birds, and the familiar hum of life in the park settled into a rhythm that has long been a part of this place. As I strolled along a familiar path, a flash of orange caught my eye—the unmistakable brilliance of the Hemerocallis fulva, the Tawny Daylily, in full bloom.

A Glimpse of the Familiar


At first glance, the orange petals of the daylily seemed like small flames scattered across the green of the park, their brightness undimmed by the heat of the day. The sight was both familiar and captivating, for these daylilies are common in garden, parks and roadsides around Ithaca and much of New York State. Despite their prevalence, each encounter feels fresh, like meeting an old friend who always has something new to share.

I knelt closer, letting my eyes follow the curve of the petals, which unfurled gracefully from a vibrant yellow throat. The delicate lines streaked down the petals like rays of sunlight. Though each flower lives only a day, I felt the quiet confidence of this plant, as though it knew its bloom was fleeting, yet still essential in the tapestry of summer.

The Resilience of a Traveler


The daylily’s ubiquity belies its status as a traveler from distant lands. Hemerocallis fulva is not native to New York, nor to any part of North America. It came to these shores from Asia, introduced by gardeners who admired its hardiness and vibrant color. Over time, the daylily escaped the bounds of cultivated gardens, spreading to roadsides, fields, and yes, even here, to the edges of Stewart Park.

I find myself reflecting on the journey of this plant, which began in the faraway lands of China, Korea, and Japan. In its homeland, daylilies have long been symbols of devotion and motherhood, their roots used in traditional medicine, their blooms celebrated in art. Now, as I stand in Stewart Park, I marvel at how far the Hemerocallis fulva has come, adapting to new lands and naturalizing in the wild corners of the American landscape.

The irony of its “wild” appearance does not escape me—this orange beauty, so deeply associated with our rural and parkland settings, is still very much an outsider. And yet, in the soft breeze of the morning, it feels as though this plant has always belonged here, as much a part of the park’s landscape as the willows by the lake or the ducks bobbing in the water.

Nature’s Balancing Act


As lovely as they are, daylilies are not without their complications. The very same traits that make Hemerocallis fulva such a beloved garden plant—its resilience, its ability to thrive in poor soil, and its spreading rhizomes—also make it an unintentional invader. Without careful tending, these plants can spread aggressively, pushing out native species and altering the ecological balance of the areas where they take root.

Here in Stewart Park, where cultivated gardens meet the untamed edges of the lake, the daylilies are a reminder of nature’s delicate balance. They offer nectar to bees and butterflies, providing sustenance to the creatures that flit through the morning air and also represent challenge to the native wildflowers that have long called this place home.

I wonder what plants might have once thrived in this very spot before the Hemerocallis fulva arrived. Perhaps native species, like the delicate Asclepias tuberosa—Butterfly Weed—or the sturdy Rudbeckia hirta, the Black-eyed Susan, held court here, their blooms attracting the same bees now drawn to the daylilies.

The Fleeting Bloom


Despite its role as a naturalized non-native, the daylily has a fleeting grace that draws me in. By tomorrow, these orange blooms will have withered and fallen, replaced by new blossoms that will unfurl in their place. Each bloom’s brief life is a reminder of the ephemerality of beauty, and I find myself appreciating the daylily all the more for its transient nature.

We continue our walk, leaving behind the patch of daylilies but taking with me a sense of quiet reflection. As invasive as they may be, these plants offer a meditation on the impermanence of life and the ways in which non-native species can become a part of the landscape’s fabric, for better or worse. The Hemerocallis fulva may not belong here by birthright, but it has made a place for itself, a symbol of survival and adaptation in the ever-changing world around it.

A Lesson from the Daylily


As I near the edge of the lake, watching the sunlight dance across the water’s surface, I think about the lessons that the daylily offers. Life is fleeting, yes, but also full of color and vibrancy, no matter how brief the bloom. And in that brief bloom, there is the possibility of resilience, growth, and belonging, even in a place far from home.

Much like the daylily, we too find ourselves in unfamiliar places at times, learning to adapt, to thrive, and to leave our mark on the world—if only for a day.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

Beauty and Struggle: Flowering Rush in Stewart Park

Crossing the footbridge in Stewart Park, I encountered the graceful yet invasive Flowering Rush. Its delicate beauty hides a deeper story about nature’s resilience, human impact, and the fragile balance of our ecosystems.

MichaelStephenWills2 Comments

While crossing the suspension footbridge over Fall Creek in Stewart Park, there’s a sense of stepping into a world that’s more peaceful and attuned to nature. The bridge is familiar to me—a steady, quiet companion—but each visit feels new, as though the park has secrets it only reveals in small whispers. In this photograph the green steel beams rise like sentinels, standing tall against the backdrop of shifting autumn colors. Below, the water reflects the vibrant reds, golds, and greens of the trees, creating an illusion of depth that draws me in.

Footbridge to the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, Stewart Park, Ithaca, New York, October 2012

This past summer I stopped midway across, leaned against the railing, just listening. The creek moved slowly, like time itself decided to pause here for a while. That’s when I saw them: delicate pink blooms rising up from the water’s edge, their petals small and star-shaped, catching the light as they sway in the gentle breeze. There’s something striking about these plants—graceful, elegant, almost otherworldly in their simplicity. They reach up, as though trying to escape the confines of the water and the muddy banks.

My subsequent research revealed these to be Flowering Rush, or Butomus umbellatus. I often see them now, their soft pinks and slender leaves creating a quiet beauty that’s hard to ignore. They’re beautiful, but I have come to know they don’t belong here. This is one of those moments in nature that gives me pause—a reminder that not everything lovely is innocent.

Flowering Rush Growing in Fall Creek, Stewart Park, June 2024

Flowering Rush, a European import from centuries ago, was not meant to take root here. Brought to North America for ornamental ponds, its allure quickly became its danger. It spread, silently, like a secret carried on the wind, slowly overtaking the native species that have long called these waters home. And yet, standing here now, I cannot help but admire its tenacity, its quiet determination to thrive. Nature, in all its forms, has this incredible will to survive, even if that survival sometimes comes at a cost.

My mind drifts to the plant’s history. In its native lands Flowering Rush, or Grass Rush, was useful—its roots, though bitter, were harvested for food, and its fibrous stems woven into mats and ropes. How interesting that something as delicate as this has a rugged, practical side. This contradiction makes perfect sense when I think of the plant’s journey across continents, carried over oceans by human hands and curiosity. We are responsible for its presence here, and now, like so many other invasive species, it’s become a fixture of this landscape.

I think about the dual nature of this invasion. Flowering Rush is beautiful—there is no denying that. Its soft, pink flowers contrast sharply with the darker tones of the water and the dense green of the grasses that surround it. But its beauty masks a quiet destruction. It chokes out the native plants that once thrived here, altering the ecosystem in ways we cannot always see. I wonder what fish and aquatic life struggles beneath the surface, their food sources slowly disappearing. What birds find fewer insects and fewer safe places to nest?

And yet, is this plant a villain? Flowering rush is doing what it was meant to do—grow, spread, survive. That is what everything in nature does, after all. It does not have malice or intent; it just is. It is humans who have changed the balance, who introduced this species to a place where it didn’t belong, setting off a chain reaction we’re still trying to fully understand.

Today, as I walk across the bridge, heading toward the Fuertes Bird Sanctuary, path ahead invites quiet reflection, the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves providing a peaceful soundtrack. But the Flowering Rush lingers in my mind. It reminds me of how interconnected everything is, how one small action—a plant brought from a distant land—can ripple out and affect entire ecosystems. It’s a lesson in responsibility for those willing to listen.

As I step into the sanctuary, the air feels lighter, filled with the sound of birds that dart between the trees. I think of the delicate balance of life here, and how easily it can be disrupted by the presence of something foreign, something invasive. Yet, there is a strange comfort in knowing that nature, for all its fragility, has its own resilience.

The Flowering Rush, with its roots deep in the muddy banks of Fall Creek, is a testament to that resilience. It may not belong here, but it has found a way to adapt, to make this place its home. And in that, I find both a warning and a kind of hope—hope that we, too, can learn to live more thoughtfully, more in tune with the world around us, before we upset the balance any further.

For now, though, I simply walk, grateful for the beauty around me, even if it comes with complications. Each step takes me deeper into this world, and I am reminded once again of the profound connection we have to the land, the water, the plants, and the creatures that share this space.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

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Life Unraveled: An Encounter with the Emerald Ash Borer

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.

MichaelStephenWills14 Comments

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

Observations of Beach Erosion at Cocoa Beach, January 2024

Nature’s artistry unfolds on the shores of Cocoa Beach, where the ever-changing tides leave intricate patterns in the sand. This captivating display of erosion hints at a fragile coastline, urging us to act for its preservation.

MichaelStephenWills12 Comments

Initial Observations

Standing on the sandy shore of Cocoa Beach in January 2024, I observe firsthand the effects of erosion along this stretch of Florida’s coastline. The scenes captured in my photographs show significant changes to the beach’s contours and composition. The shimmering foam, soft sand ripples, and exposed shells are testament to the relentless activity of the sea. Each wave carves away at the beach, leaving patterns in the sand that tell the story of erosion.

Erosion Patterns and Sea-Level Rise

The photographs vividly display the intricate, almost artistic designs formed by erosion. In one, the ripples in the sand reflect the movement of the water, indicating the direction and flow of the tides. The sea has steadily eaten away at the shoreline, pulling the sand away with each ebb and flow.

Macro, erosion patterns in beach sand.

Studies show that Florida’s Atlantic coast is particularly susceptible to rising sea levels due to its low-lying nature. The Florida Climate Center notes that sea levels have been rising at an average rate of about 1 inch per decade, with projections estimating further acceleration. April 27, 2024 The Washington Post published, “Where Seas are Rising with Alarming Speed,” showing a map with Cape Canaveral / Cocoa Beach showing a 6 – 9 inch sea rise since 2010. This rise compounds the effects of erosion, causing beaches like Cocoa Beach to recede.

Impact on the Beach

I notice shelves of beach sand formerly above the tide now washed over by high tide. New channels forming, cutting across the sand with each tidal cycle. The erosion reveals underlying shell beds and deposits, hinting at the rapid loss of the finer, upper layers of sand. This accelerated erosion poses a significant risk to the stability of the coastal area.

The erosion is not just cosmetic. It impacts local ecosystems and property lines, potentially leading to habitat loss and increased vulnerability to storm surges. Coastal development also exacerbates the problem by interfering with natural sediment replenishment.

Reflections and Future Prospects

The view across the horizon, where the deep blue sea meets the sky, is a stark reminder of nature’s power and the urgent need for mitigation. As Florida’s beaches face the twin challenges of rising seas and intensifying storms, the communities here must find ways to adapt. Cocoa Beach is a vivid reminder of the coastal fragility and the importance of sustainable management practices.

From a personal perspective, seeing this change compels a deeper reflection on our relationship with nature. The beaches we walk on today may not be here for future generations unless we act decisively to combat climate change. Efforts to build resilience into coastal infrastructure and adopt environmentally friendly practices will play a critical role in preserving this natural beauty.

Conclusion

In summary, Cocoa Beach’s erosion is a direct consequence of rising sea levels and changing environmental conditions. The patterns etched in the sand speak of nature’s resilience and power, while also sounding an alarm about the future. As stewards of the coast, it is our responsibility to take meaningful actions that preserve these shores for generations to come.

References

“Florida’s Sea-Level Rise: The Science and the Solutions,” Florida Climate Center.

“Where seas are rising with alarming speed”, Washington Post, April 29, 2024.”

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

Reeds of Resilience: A Tale of Growth and Survival

Discover the hidden world of Phragmites australis, the common reed: a story of resilience, beauty, and ecological significance, told through the eyes of the wetlands.

MichaelStephenWills4 Comments

On the southern shore of Cayuga Lake, where waters mirror the ever-changing sky, I found this common reed, Phragmites australis, a plant of unassuming grace yet profound influence. This tale unfolds at the broad boarders of earth and water, a refuge and kingdom to countless beings.

Phragmites australis, a reed both simple and complex, begins its journey as a whisper in the mud. From the soft, fertile earth, it bursts forth into the world, a slender shoot reaching for the heavens. Its growth is steady and assured, fueled by the sun’s embrace and the water’s caress. In time, it stands tall, a sentinel in a sea of green, its feathery plumes, called panicles, wafted by the breeze.

This reed, you see, is a cornerstone of its ecosystem, a master architect, shaping its environment, crafting homes and havens for creatures great and small, in keeping with the genus name “Phragmites.” The Greek word “phragma” translates to “fence” or “hedge”, derived from the verb “phrassein”, meaning “to enclose.” Within that realm tiny creatures find refuge. From dragonflies and damselflies to grasshoppers and beetles are found by careful, patient observers. Insects play essential roles in pollination and nutrient cycling. Birds use the dense vegetation for shelter and foraging, you might find red-winged blackbirds, marsh wrens, and rails among the stems. Frogs, toads, and salamanders find refuge in reedy marshes. They lay their eggs in the waterlogged areas, and their tadpoles thrive amidst the reed stems. Phragmites australis is a giver of life, a source of sustenance and protection for many.

Yet, the tale of Phragmites is also one of struggle and resilience. In lands far from its native soil, it is often seen as an invader, a usurper of territories, spreading with a zeal that can overwhelm native flora and alter habitats. Its spread, unchecked, can lead to monocultures, diminishing biodiversity. But in its essence, Phragmites does not seek conquest but survival, thriving in spaces both gentle and harsh, adapting with an elegance that commands admiration.

As seasons turn, the reed undergoes a transformation, its green turning to gold, then to the brown of the earth from which it sprang. But even in decay, it nurtures life, its fallen stalks a shelter for the small and the silent, its seeds a promise of renewal. And when spring whispers anew, Phragmites rises once more, a cycle unbroken, a circle complete.

In the tale of Phragmites australis, we find a narrative of life itself—growth and decay, beauty and conflict, resilience and adaptation. This common reed, standing tall among the waters of the world, is a testament to the enduring power of nature, a reminder of the intricate tapestries of life that flourish in the quiet corners of our planet.

Click Me for another posting on the Common Reed.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

The Impermanence of Human Constructs and the Forces of Nature

Discover the fleeting artistry of sand castles and the mighty forces of tides sculpted by the moon’s dance. Explore the impermanent intersection of human endeavor and nature’s rhythm.

MichaelStephenWills4 Comments

 

 

Introduction


The photographs of a sand castle at Cocoa Beach, Florida, present a clear depiction of the transitory nature of human-made structures in the face of natural forces. This discourse will explore the before and after states of a sand castle through high tide, examining the interplay between human endeavors, the tides influenced by the moon’s phases, and the inevitable passage of time.

The Sand Castle: A Testament to Human Creativity


The initial photograph captures a sand castle in its pristine condition, with detailed turrets, walls, and the decorative placement of shells. This creation is a testament to human creativity, ingenuity, and the desire to imprint our presence on the natural world. Sand castles, often built by children or families, represent the joy of craftsmanship and temporary beauty.

Tides and the Moon: Celestial Influence on Earth’s Waters


Tides are long-period waves that move through the oceans in response to the gravitational pull exerted by the moon and sun. The gravitational forces of these celestial bodies generate tidal forces, which cause Earth—and its water—to bulge out on the side closest to the moon and the side directly opposite. This bulging of water results in high tides.

The moon’s phases, from new moon to full moon and back, play a crucial role in the magnitude of tides. During the full moon and new moon—times known as spring tides—the sun, moon, and Earth form a line, resulting in the combined gravitational pull of the moon and sun, causing higher than average tides. In contrast, during the first and third quarters of the moon, or neap tides, the sun and moon are at right angles to each other, which moderates the tidal effect.

The High Tide: Reclaiming and Reshaping


The second photograph shows the aftermath of a high tide on the sand castle. The rising water has eroded the structure, diminishing its form and washing away its distinct features. The tide does not discriminate in its impact; it is a natural, cyclic event that reshapes coastlines and affects human and ecological systems alike. The high tide symbolizes nature’s reclaiming of human-made imprints, demonstrating the impermanence of our works against the relentless forces of nature.

Passing Time: The Ultimate Sculptor


Time is the ultimate sculptor, working incessantly through agents like wind, water, and biological processes. The eroded sand castle in the second photograph is a reminder of the ephemeral nature of all things. The structures we build, no matter how strong or well-designed, are subject to decay and dissolution over time. The sand castle’s fleeting existence underscores the concept that time, coupled with natural forces, will eventually return human creations back to their elemental forms.

Conclusion


The before and after states of the sand castle serve as a poignant illustration of the dialogue between human endeavors and the immutable forces of nature. While the tides, governed by the moon’s gravitational pull, are predictable, their effects are a constant reminder of the transient nature of human constructs in the grand scheme of time and nature’s cycles. As we appreciate the beauty of temporary creations like sand castles, we also learn to respect the power of the natural world and the passage of time that shapes our existence.