The Finger Lakes region, renowned for its natural beauty and changing seasons, put on a stunning performance on October 24, 2024. From the vibrant reds of a Japanese maple (Acer palmatum) to the golden hues of oak leaves (Quercus spp.), this photographic journey through our home captures the essence of autumn in upstate New York.
A Panoramic Tapestry
In the first photograph, the landscape unfolds like a watercolor painting. Hills dressed in fiery oranges and golds stretch across the horizon, with hints of evergreen pines (Pinus spp.) providing contrast. The sky, dotted with wispy clouds, serves as a serene backdrop, while the foreground frames the scene with bare tree limbs—a reminder that autumn is both a celebration of life and a prelude to winter’s dormancy. This image evokes a sense of timelessness, connecting us to the rolling hills that have witnessed countless seasons of change.
View from our porch across Ithaca to East Hill, Cornell University, Ithaca Falls on an October 2024 afternoon. Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State
Japanese Maple: A Crimson Jewel
The next series of images focuses on the Japanese maple (Acer palmatum), a tree whose vibrant red foliage becomes a magnet for admiration in autumn. One close-up reveals delicate leaves, their intricate lobes illuminated by the afternoon sun. The interplay of light and shadow transforms each leaf into a tiny stained-glass window. Another photograph showcases the tree in its entirety, a commanding presence against the verdant lawn. It is a poignant reminder of nature’s artistry, where every branch and leaf contributes to the symphony of color.
Firebush and Japanese Maple in autumn colorsJapanese maple leaves and samara in autumn colors. From our yard October 2024Japanese maple leaves and samara in autumn colors. From our yard October 2024
Home Amid the Foliage
Nestled within this autumnal palette is our home, a mid-century structure that seems almost inseparable from its surroundings. The expansive lawn, a lush carpet of green, contrasts with the fiery colors of nearby oak (Quercus spp.) and maple trees (Acer spp.). In one angle, the house appears almost tucked away, sheltered by Eastern Hemlock (Tsuga canadensis) and junipers (Juniperus spp.) that add a sense of permanence to the scene. This juxtaposition of human habitation and natural splendor underscores how our lives are intertwined with the land we call home.
Our oak trees in autumn colors
Oak Leaves: A Study in Texture
A close-up of oak leaves (Quercus spp.) showcases their rugged beauty, with jagged edges and deep veins that seem etched by time itself. Their colors—ranging from deep amber to burnished copper—are a testament to the richness of autumn’s palette. These leaves, clinging tenaciously to their branches, remind us of resilience and the fleeting beauty of the season.
Our oak tree in autumn colors. Helmock backdrop
Hydrangeas in Transition
The hydrangea bushes (Hydrangea paniculata) by the house present a softer side of autumn. Their once-vivid blooms have faded to pastel pinks and creams, lending an air of nostalgia. These flowers, in their gentle decline, mirror the transition of the season, where vibrancy gives way to a quieter beauty. The hydrangea blooms seem to whisper the story of the summer past, offering a delicate contrast to the bolder hues of the surrounding trees.
Our oak tree in autumn colors. Pam’s hydrangia.
The Resilient Shrubs
Creeping Juniper (Juniperus horizontalis), here in the foreground, provides a grounding element in the composition, with a steadfast green the reminder of life persisting even as deciduous leaves fall. The dense shrubbery near the house creates a protective cocoon, framing the building with a sense of natural security. The dynamic interplay between these evergreens and the changing foliage of maples and oaks reflects the layered complexity of this landscape.
Reflections on an Afternoon
As I wandered through these scenes with camera in hand, I was struck by the interplay of light, color, and texture. Each photograph captures a fleeting moment, a slice of a season that, despite its predictability, never fails to surprise and inspire. Autumn in the Finger Lakes is a time of reflection, a reminder to pause and appreciate the world around us.
These images, taken on a single afternoon, tell a story of a landscape alive with color and character. From the steadfast junipers to the delicate hydrangea blooms, from the fiery maples to the enduring oaks, they invite us to celebrate not just the beauty of nature but also our place within it—a home nestled among trees that have stood for decades, witnessing the rhythms of the earth.
Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.
Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
In Autumn 2024, the Treman Park Lake Loop of the Cayuga Waterfront Trail in Ithaca, New York, unfurled a vibrant display of seasonal transition. The natural landscape, adorned with fiery hues of reds, oranges, and yellows, reflected in the rippling waters of Cayuga Lake, creating a harmony of color and light. This is a scenic journey through stories of plant and animal life that call this place home—including the majestic Osprey (Pandion haliaetus) that nests along the shore.
The Osprey’s Watchtower
A sight to greet visitors is the solitary osprey nest perched high on a pole. Used by Osprey families during their breeding season, this nest stands as a testament to their remarkable recovery in the Finger Lakes region. Ospreys, once declining due to pesticide use, have rebounded significantly following conservation efforts.
With a wingspan of up to 6 feet, these raptors are expert fish hunters, often seen diving talons-first into the lake to snatch their prey. During autumn, as their young take flight, the nest remains an empty marker of the summer’s success—a reminder of the cyclical nature of life along the lake.
Did You Know? Ospreys are often referred to as “fish hawks” because fish make up 99% of their diet.
The Meadow and Its Golden Touch: Reedbeds and Goldenrod
Surrounding the osprey pole, expansive meadows of grasses and reeds sway with the breeze. Among these are stands of Common Reed (Phragmites australis), a tall grass with feathery plumes that catch the sunlight. While Phragmites can sometimes be invasive, they provide crucial shelter and food for various species of birds and insects.
Intermixed with the reeds are patches of Goldenrod (Solidago spp.), whose bright yellow flowers are a signature of late summer and autumn in the Northeast. Goldenrods are critical for pollinators, offering nectar to bees, butterflies, and migrating insects like the Monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus).
Ecological Note: Goldenrods are often mistakenly blamed for allergies; the real culprit is ragweed (Ambrosia artemisiifolia), which blooms at the same time but releases airborne pollen.
A Lake Alive with History and Beauty
The shimmering blue waters of Cayuga Lake form the centerpiece of this trail. The lake, stretching nearly 40 miles, is the longest of the Finger Lakes and steeped in geological and cultural history. Its name is derived from the Cayuga Nation, part of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, who inhabited the region for centuries.
The striking red lighthouse in the water serves as a vivid counterpoint to the natural surroundings. Built to aid navigation, it now stands as a picturesque focal point for photographers and nature enthusiasts alike.
Cayuga Inlet Light Beacon
In the distance, a sailboat glides across the lake—a serene reminder of the recreational draw that Cayuga Lake holds year-round.
West shore with sailboat and lake houses
The Forest Fringe: A Kaleidoscope of Color
The forests that fringe the meadow and the lake present an explosion of autumn color. Trees such as Sugar Maple (Acer saccharum), Red Oak (Quercus rubra), and Black Cherry (Prunus serotina) dominate the canopy, their leaves transforming into brilliant oranges, scarlets, and deep burgundies. The Sugar Maple, in particular, is renowned for its vibrant golden-orange foliage, a hallmark of the northeastern fall.
The Ithaca Yacht Club lies south of Maplewood Point
Closer to the ground, the understory hums with the activity of migrating birds and foraging mammals. Squirrels can be seen gathering acorns, preparing for the winter months ahead, while chickadees flit among the branches, calling their cheerful “fee-bee” notes.
Historical Fact: The Finger Lakes were carved out by retreating glaciers over 10,000 years ago, leaving behind these deep, elongated lakes and fertile soil that supports rich biodiversity.
A Path Through Time and Nature
Walking the Treman Park Lake Loop is a sensory journey—the crispness of the autumn air, the rustling of reeds, and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore combine to evoke a timeless tranquility.
From the vibrant meadows to the osprey’s lofty perch and the quiet expanse of Cayuga Lake, this section of the Waterfront Trail encapsulates the beauty and diversity of the Finger Lakes ecosystem. Whether for quiet reflection or active exploration, it remains a treasured destination in every season.
Closing Thoughts
As autumn deepens, this landscape prepares for the dormancy of winter. Yet the stories it holds—from the osprey’s nest to the goldenrod’s bloom—remain alive, waiting to be rediscovered with each new season. The Treman Park Lake Loop is not just a trail; it is a canvas of life, change, and history painted by nature’s hand.
Reflection: To walk this trail is to connect with a land shaped by glaciers, nurtured by waters, and home to countless species that continue to thrive amid the ever-turning wheel of the seasons.
Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.
Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I step into Cascadilla Gorge from the Linn Street entrance, I’m greeted by the soft rustling of leaves and the constant, soothing rush of water. The air this Halloween Day is warm, the autumn colors vibrant against the cool blue sky. I know Cascadilla Gorge is part of the Cornell Botanical Gardens, but the immediate beauty of this natural sanctuary makes it easy to forget I’m still within the city limits of Ithaca. The sounds of the gorge draw me in, as if whispering there’s more to see, more to explore. With a deep breath, I begin my journey up the trail, eager to discover what lies ahead.
Just a short way in, I notice the First Church of Christ, Scientist perched on the corner of University Avenue and Cascadilla Park Road. The architecture of the church is both quaint and elegant, with its light-colored facade framed by dark trim and roof. Surrounded by foliage, it feels like the church belongs here, as much a part of the landscape as the trees and rocks. The sight of this historic building nestled so close to the gorge reminds me that this wild and ancient place is woven into the fabric of Ithaca’s community life.
I move further along the trail, and the terrain begins to shift. Fallen leaves create a golden carpet along the path, their crisp shapes overlapping like nature’s confetti celebrating the season. Each step crunches underfoot, adding my own rhythm to the symphony of sounds. The trees overhead are a kaleidoscope of colors—deep golds, fiery oranges, and the occasional flash of red from Virginia Creeper vines (Parthenocissus quinquefolia). Together, the trees create a canopy that filters sunlight, casting dappled patterns on the gorge walls. It’s an ever-changing play of light and shadow, one moment bright and the next subdued, adding a layer of magic to the experience.
As I follow the trail upward, the gorge narrows, and I find myself surrounded by towering walls of rock. Here, layers of siltstone and shale formed more than 300 hundred million years ago are exposed, a testament to the forces of water and time that carved this place across mere millennia of recent geologic time. The rock formations are fascinating, with the water flowing over them in gentle cascades, finding every groove and crevice. There’s something humbling about standing in a place shaped by forces so much larger and older than myself. I pause, letting the rush of water and the stillness of stone fill my senses.
Along the way, I come across an interpretive sign provided by the Cornell Botanical Gardens. They tell the story of Cascadilla Gorge, how it was formed from the bedrock of sandstone and shale that eroded from mountains to the east, in the Devonian era when an ancient inland sea covered the region. The signs also introduce Robert H. Treman, a philanthropist who saw the beauty and educational value of the gorge. Thanks to him and the efforts of many, this natural wonder is preserved for all to experience. Knowing this adds depth to my walk; it’s a reminder that places like this exist not only by chance but because people cared enough to protect them.
The sandstone staircases along the trail are a marvel in themselves. Some sections are steep, winding up the gorge in a series of steps that seem to have been placed with precision, blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. The steps are covered with leaves now, making each ascent feel a bit like climbing through a fairy-tale forest. The chains along the path provide a comforting grip, especially as I climb higher. I look back and see how far I’ve come, the creek below winding its way over rocks and around bends, each step a small journey of its own.
I pass several small waterfalls, each one unique in its character. Some are gentle trickles, while others pour over the rocks with more force, their sound reverberating off the gorge walls. I stop frequently, entranced by the way the water carves its path, eternally moving, adapting, wearing down even the hardest stone. Leaves float down from above, landing in the creek and swirling in miniature whirlpools before being carried downstream. It’s mesmerizing to watch nature at work in such a quiet, persistent way.
Further up the gorge, the views open up, and I can see the layers of rock descending in terraces, each level a little cascade of its own. I watch as the water flows across these steps, catching the light as it moves—a silvery ribbon winding through the golden autumn landscape. The tranquility of the scene is meditative. Around me, the trees stand as silent witnesses, their branches bare in places but still adorned with clusters of leaves clinging through the last days of fall.
Finally, I reach one of the larger waterfalls, framed by a graceful stone arch bridge that crosses high above. The scene is something out of a painting. Water pours over the rocks, gathering in pools below before spilling onward. I pause on the bridge, looking down at the gorge below and the trail I’ve followed, grateful for the journey.
Along the way, artists are positioned along the path, each lost in the beauty of Cascadilla Gorge. They stand or sit in quiet reverie, brushes or pencils in hand, capturing the gorge’s unique character. Some focus on the play of light over the water’s surface, while others seem intent on the rugged details of the rock formations. Their presence adds a contemplative depth to the scene; it’s as if each artist has uncovered a hidden aspect of the gorge that I have overlooked in my journey upward.
I slow my pace to take it all in, appreciating how the artists interpret this natural wonder through their own eyes. Their canvases reveal layers of colors that shift as the sun filters through the leaves, casting vibrant golds and subtle greens on the cascading water. The scene feels almost collaborative—nature and human hand creating art together, each reflection of the gorge as unique as the individual capturing it. I’m tempted to pause beside them, to see how they choose to frame the towering walls, the stone bridge arching above the water, and the gentle curves of the creek as it meanders downstream. I can imagine each artist’s work holding a different piece of this place, like fragments of a memory.
Bridge View looking up Cascadilla CreekBridge View looking back the way I came
As I continue, the sound of rushing water grows louder, drawing me towards another cascade that tumbles in steps down the gorge. The rocks are layered in angular formations, giving the water a zigzagging path to follow. Leaves are scattered across the stones, their colors—yellows, browns, and the occasional splash of red—standing out against the dark, wet rock. There’s a timelessness here, a feeling that this scene has remained unchanged for centuries, save for the shifting leaves and the ever-present flow of the creek. The thought makes me feel like a small part of something much larger, a guest in an ancient place shaped by nature’s slow, steady hand.
The path narrows again, following the edge of the creek where the water has worn smooth channels into the stone.
Moving forward, the trail climbs steeply, and I find myself surrounded by tall rock faces on either side. The walls are layered and weathered, a geological history book open to the forces that shaped this land. It’s humbling to see how this place puts everything into perspective, how it reminds us of our place in the natural world.
Columns of sedimentary rock
Ahead, the path becomes more rugged, the air feels cooler here, shaded by the gorge’s high walls, and the sounds of the city are long gone, replaced by the steady rhythm of water and the drift of leaves. The layers of ancient limestone that form these towering walls give shape to our landscape and ecosystem. As rainwater falls and seeps through the porous rock, the limestone raises the pH of the water, neutralizing its natural acidity. This subtle alchemy nurtures the flora and fauna, fostering a unique biome that thrives in the gorge. The artists fade from view as I move further into the solitude of the trail, but their presence lingers in my mind. Each turn of the path reveals another scene worthy of capturing, another moment that seems to call out for remembrance.
Looking back toward the way I came
The trail steepens, and I press onward, the sound of the water intensifying as I near a grand waterfall framed by the impressive stone steps leading up to the College Avenue Stone Arch. Each step is littered with leaves, their colors vivid against the worn stone—golds, russets, and the occasional brilliant red, like embers scattered along my path. The waterfall beside me spills down in steady streams, each cascade creating rivulets that catch the light as they flow downward.
The gorge walls rise sharply on either side, embracing the path in rugged layers that tell stories of geological time. I feel as if I’m climbing a passage through history itself. These rocks, these trees, the very water carving its way through the stone—all have been here far longer than I can fathom, shaped by forces beyond my understanding. There’s a certain thrill in being among such enduring elements, a reminder of how small and fleeting we are in the face of nature’s grandeur.
Reaching the next tier of the trail, I pause to take in the sight of the massive stone arch spanning the gorge above. The bridge is a striking feature, its wide arch perfectly framing the sky and the last vibrant colors of autumn. It feels like a gateway, a fitting culmination to the journey. Standing beneath it, I’m struck by how well it harmonizes with the gorge, the careful craftsmanship of its stonework complementing the rough beauty of the surrounding cliffs.
The sunlight flows around the arch, illuminating the leaves that cling to the branches above, casting a warm glow over the scene. I feel a sense of reverence here, a quiet acknowledgment of both human artistry and the relentless beauty of nature.
I paused to capture this video of the moment.
Sights and Sounds of Autumn
The final ascent is graced by a bench where a stone plaque catches my eye. It’s a tribute, etched with words that resonate in this place: “Joy to all we love the best, love to thee, our fair Cornell.” A gift from a family whose lives intertwined with Cornell, it serves as a reminder of the deep connections people have to this landscape, to the university, and to the memories rooted in these trails and gorges. I pause, reflecting on my own connection to this path, which has taken me through an ever-unfolding tapestry of nature and history.
The last stretch of steps is leaf blanketed, their shapes and colors a beautiful final mosaic before I emerge from the shaded coolness of the gorge. The sun filters down through the thinning trees, illuminating the stone buildings of the Cornell campus that peek through the branches ahead. With each step, I feel the transition, moving from the curated wildness of Cascadilla Gorge and its trail to the structured beauty of the university grounds.
Myron Taylor Hall, Cornell Law School from the gorge.
As I reach the top, the Schwartz Center for the Performing Arts comes into view, its modern architecture a contrast to the ancient rocks I’ve left behind. Here, in this space where art, education, and nature converge, I take a last look back into the gorge and a journey, a gem in the heart of the Finger Lakes, a place that holds stories, both old and new, and invites every visitor to become a part of them.
Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.
Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
O ancient wanderer of Sapsucker Woods, armor-clad and quiet, you lumber forth, carved from the earth itself, sculpted from mud and pondweed dreams.
October’s afternoon light paints you with golden shadows, each leaf fallen, each branch broken a whispered testament to the slowness of your path, steady as a heartbeat unmoved by haste.
You bear the centuries in the lines of your shell, grooves and valleys where stories settle, tales of reeds and minnows, and the deep-rooted knowing that life is best met with patience, with pause.
O creature of edges and silence, you bridge water and wood, the line between stillness and stride. What weight you carry, not of burden, but of presence— a shell that holds the weight of stars, the bones of ancient rivers, and the soft clay of Sapsucker’s floor.
In your slow, silent passing, the trail bows to you. Leaves make way, and the earth beneath you settles a little deeper, reminded of the strength that moves without noise, the wisdom that crawls in the path of shadows.
Turtle, you who wear the world’s patience, I watch you disappear, an ambassador of ponds and pools, a silent architect of marsh and moss. May your journey be long, your pauses endless, and your shell a testament to the beauty of age, carved by time, blessed by the sun.
Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.
Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
On this autumn Sapsucker Woods afternoon, the world seems crafted to soothe. Sunlight filters through the canopy, setting leaves ablaze in rich reds, golden yellows, and softened greens, the seasonal palette reflecting nature’s grand finale. Today, the woods are a sanctuary for healing, a space where steps are measured not by speed but by strength, each one a testament to resilience.
Pam stands before the wide, outstretched wings painted on the wall at the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, wings so vast that they dwarf her. She smiles, resting against her hiking poles, the Condor wings an emblem of a journey toward reclaiming freedom. Her recent hip replacement surgery has given her back this independence, a reminder that recovery is not just about physical mending, but about lifting the spirit to soar once again.
The trail unfolds gently, bordered by cattails and still waters that mirror the sky—a bright blue canvas mottled with soft clouds drifting in and out of the reflections. Fallen leaves float upon the pond’s surface, creating patches of color that seem suspended between water and sky. Nearby, lily pads, green stepping stones over shadowed depths, their edges lit by glittering sunlight. Geese glide by, unbothered, embodying a calm flowing outward, wrapping the whole scene in peace.
Each step Pam takes is deliberate, accompanied by the steady rhythm of her poles striking the ground. It is the kind of walk that invites contemplation, where time slows, and even the smallest detail—a single yellow leaf spiraling down, a ripple breaking the pond’s surface—feels like an invitation to pause and breathe. She moves from the open path toward a shaded arbor, draped with twisting vines. The vines climb upward, winding around the wooden beams, their leaves creating a soft veil that frames her view of the water beyond. Through this leafy curtain, she gazes upon the pond, where autumn’s reflection glows, offering a quiet moment of solitude, of healing drawn from nature’s persistence.
Just beyond, a bare tree stands, its trunk hollowed by years, its exposed wood testament to the life that has passed through it. In its decay, it offers a home to the creatures of the marsh, a structure among reeds and grasses that sway with the wind. The tree reminds Pam of her own journey, how resilience is often found in adapting, in letting time and life shape you.
At last, we reach a bench overlooking the pond, a perfect place to rest and reflect. She settles in, feeling the quiet thrill of accomplishment. The woods are still, save for the sound of a breeze rustling the reeds and the occasional bird song piercing the silence. In this moment, with the vast sky overhead and the world reflected below, she feels a profound sense of gratitude—not only for the beauty around her but for the strength within her. Sapsucker Woods are a personal cathedral, a space where nature and recovery intertwine, offering peace in every step, in every breath.
Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.
Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I set foot on the Falls Overlook at Taughannock Falls State Park, I was greeted by a symphony of autumn colors in their full glory. The vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows of the trees framed the scene, setting the stage for a perfect fall day. I lingered, taking in the view of cars nestled among the foliage, their colors almost merging with the rich autumn hues surrounding them. The sign for the “Falls Overlook” hinted at the journey ahead.
The overlook offered a breathtaking view, a gentle reminder of nature’s power as Taughannock Falls cascaded far below, framed by rugged cliffs and vibrant trees. Through gaps in the golden leaves, I could catch glimpses of the waterfall, a delicate white ribbon against the slate-gray rock. The sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows and illuminating leaves like stained glass, painting the landscape in a thousand shades.
I began my ascent up the North Rim Trail, where the path twisted beneath a tunnel of golden branches. The trail was carpeted with leaves, crunching underfoot with each step. The air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of decaying leaves and moist earth. Sunlight poured through gaps in the canopy, lighting up patches of ferns and casting long shadows on the rocky path. Here and there, the yellow and brown hues gave way to a burst of crimson, the leaves vivid and almost glowing in the sunlight.
The trail led me along the cliff’s edge, where the river carved its path below. Pausing on the footbridge to the south rim, a former railroad, I looked out over the gorge, admiring the mosaic of colors stretching as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the sound of the falls drifted up to me, a soft, continuous roar that lent the forest an almost mystical air. It was hard not to feel a sense of awe at the raw beauty of the scene.
Eventually, I made my way down the South Rim Trail. There were ample distractions from the glorious foliage. A lone mushroom, golden and nestled in a bed of moss, caught my eye—a small reminder of the forest’s quiet life. I bent down to examine it, marveling at its delicate cap and the way it seemed to glow against the lush green moss. The trees here were denser, casting cool shadows that contrasted with the sun-drenched north side. The leaves here were thicker underfoot, their earthy scent more pronounced, grounding me in the moment.
As I reached the lower section of the trail, I noticed an old stone staircase winding up through the trees to the north rim—a relic from another time, adding a touch of mystery to the path. Each step was worn smooth by countless feet, each one a reminder of the generations that had walked these trails before me. The stairs climbed through a cathedral of trees, each trunk tall and straight, as if standing guard over the trail.
On my way around I passed by a historical marker, a blue and yellow sign commemorating the camp site of Captain Jonathan Woodworth, a Revolutionary soldier who camped here in June 1788. It was a reminder that these trails, this land, had been cherished long before my steps fell upon it.
After reaching the base of the South Rim Trail, I looped back up the North Rim. The trail now felt familiar, yet the changing light gave it a new character. The sun was lower, casting a golden glow across the tops of the trees.
As I returned to my starting point, the sun cast a soft, warm light across the landscape, bathing the park in an ethereal glow. With one last look over the falls and the vivid tapestry of trees, I felt a sense of gratitude. Taughannock Falls State Park in autumn is an experience, one that leaves an indelible mark, reminding us of the beauty and timelessness of the natural world.
On the drive home I paused to admire a neighbor’s maple tree’s full autumn glory.
Enter your email to receive notification of future postings. I will not sell or share your email address.
Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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.
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
To receive email notification of new blog posts enter your email and click the subscribe button.
Discover the timeless beauty of two towering Cottonwood trees along the shores of Cayuga Lake. Explore their natural history, cultural significance, and how they’ve shaped the landscape of Stewart Park for generations.
Walking with Pam in Stewart Park, the shores of Cayuga Lake shimmer under the bright September sun, offering a serene setting for reflection. Ahead, two towering Cottonwood trees stand in quiet majesty, their branches spreading wide, casting long shadows over the grass and walkway. Drawn toward them, I find myself in awe of their presence—these two trees, ancient sentinels by the water, who have silently borne witness to the changing world around them.
View Facing East/Southeast, September 10, 2024
Cottonwoods, scientifically known as Populus deltoides, are members of the poplar family and are among the tallest trees in North America. The ones before me have thrived for decades, their thick, furrowed trunks a testament to the endurance of life on the edge of the lake. It’s remarkable to think of all the storms and seasons they’ve weathered—their roots digging deep into the moist earth, nourished by the lake’s constant ebb and flow. I feel as though these trees, standing side by side, companions, connected through the unseen networks of roots beneath the soil. Their relationship to one another seems profound, they have grown up together, providing support and strength as they aged. Their canopies overlapping as though embracing one another.
There’s an undeniable symmetry to their relationship, both in form and function. One can imagine them as silent witnesses to the changing landscape around them—the gradual expansion of the park, the families that come and go, the laughter of children playing nearby, and the quiet conversations of couples walking hand in hand. These trees have become part of the fabric of Stewart Park, deeply entwined with the human history that unfolds here every day.
View Facing East, September 10, 2024
The branches reach skyward, their leaves shimmering in the breeze, producing the characteristic fluttering sound of Cottonwoods. There’s something deeply soothing about this rustling—the way the wind seems to dance through the leaves, creating a rhythm that feels eternal. It reminds me that these trees have long been part of human experience, a backdrop to countless strolls, picnics, and quiet moments of contemplation here at Stewart Park.
Cottonwoods are fast-growing, often found near bodies of water where their shallow roots can tap into consistent moisture. And yet, their rapid growth comes with a trade-off; their wood is soft and brittle, prone to breaking in high winds. But in Stewart Park, these two trees have found a perfect balance, their large, sweeping canopies offering shade and shelter without suffering too much damage from the storms that blow through the Finger Lakes. Their resilience is remarkable—a reminder of nature’s ability to thrive in challenging conditions.
Historically, Cottonwoods have played a significant role in the lives of the people who encountered them. Native Americans once used the bark for medicinal purposes and fashioned the wood into canoes. Early settlers appreciated the trees for their rapid growth and ability to provide shade and timber in otherwise open expanses of the Midwest and Northeast. Even today, their legacy endures as they continue to offer shade and shelter, albeit more for leisure than for survival.
I notice how the pathway itself bends gently to accommodate the Cottonwoods. The paved trail, so clearly designed with these majestic trees in mind, arcs around their broad bases as if to honor their presence. In a world where nature is so often bent to human will, it’s refreshing to see this small, quiet gesture of deference—a reminder that in our modern parks, nature can sometimes lead the way.
View Facing West, June 25, 2024
The path doesn’t cut through or impose upon these trees. Instead, it respects their claim to the land, curving around them in a way that feels organic, almost reverent. The roots of these Cottonwoods must reach far beyond what I can see, extending outward in all directions beneath the soil, beneath the path itself. It’s as though the trees and the human-made elements of the park have reached a compromise—a harmonious balance where both can coexist without either having to sacrifice too much.
In their wisdom, the planners of this park understood that these trees had already laid their claim long before the park’s paths were laid out. It’s a small but profound testament to the enduring power of nature and the foresight of those who designed this space. As I walk along the path, I feel the subtle shift in the landscape—the way the curve of the trail encourages a more leisurely pace, inviting visitors to pause for a moment and take in the grandeur of these ancient trees.
The curve itself creates a sense of flow, as if the path is gently nudging us toward a deeper appreciation of the Cottonwoods. There’s no rush here. The trees stand in their place, rooted and steadfast, while we are invited to move around them, to change our course slightly in order to make space for something larger than ourselves. The path becomes a metaphor for our relationship with nature—we must sometimes bend and yield to its greater forces, rather than insist on our own straight and rigid lines.
This curved path speaks to the broader theme of adaptability—how both nature and humanity have learned to accommodate one another. The Cottonwoods have withstood the test of time, their roots dug deep into the soil, while we have found ways to move alongside them, adjusting our course to allow for their growth. It’s a quiet but powerful reminder of the importance of coexistence and respect, of making space for the natural world rather than always seeking to dominate it.
As we pass by, I notice the texture of their bark—deeply furrowed and rough, a tactile reminder of the passage of time. Each ridge and crevice holds the story of countless seasons—of dry summers, harsh winters, and everything in between. I reach out and touch one of the trunks, feeling the coolness of the bark under my hand. There’s a vitality here that can only be sensed up close, a quiet hum of life that pulses just beneath the surface.
Yet, despite their imposing size and age, the Cottonwoods remain humble in their role. They do not demand attention like a flowering dogwood or a brightly colored maple. Instead, they offer something more enduring—a quiet, steady presence that provides shelter and shade without fanfare. Their leaves turn a brilliant yellow in autumn, adding to the kaleidoscope of colors that make up the Finger Lakes’ fall landscape. But even in winter, when the leaves are gone, their bare branches stand against the cold sky, offering a stark beauty all their own.
As I step back to take in the full view of these two Cottonwoods, I am filled with a sense of gratitude. Their lives, so intimately tied to this place, remind me of the interconnectedness of all living things—the way nature, time, and humanity overlap in ways both seen and unseen. These trees, growing together on the shores of Cayuga Lake, are not just part of the landscape—they are part of the story of Stewart Park and, in a broader sense, the story of this region. They remind me that, like them, we are all shaped by our surroundings, by the people and places that stand beside us as we grow. And in that way, we are never truly alone.
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
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.
