Tag: Ithaca

Exploring Malloryville Preserve: A Hidden Glacial Wetland Gem in New York’s Finger Lakes

Explore the O.D. von Engeln Preserve at Malloryville, a hidden Finger Lakes wetland where glacial eskers, kettles, and springs reveal the deep story of ice and water.

MichaelStephenWills20 Comments

In the heart of upstate New York, the Finger Lakes region stretches out like a handprint left by the last great ice sheets—long, narrow lakes aligned north to south, their steep-sided valleys feeding into a lattice of creeks, waterfalls, and wetlands. It is a landscape defined by water and time: glaciers grinding south, then melting back north some 12,000 years ago, carving deep troughs, piling up ridges of gravel and sand, and leaving behind a terrain that is anything but simple.

The O.D. von Engeln Preserve at Malloryville, near the small village of Freeville, is one of the quiet places where that story is written most clearly on the land. It doesn’t shout like Taughannock Falls or Ithaca’s famous gorges. Instead, it whispers—through the curves of its hills, the softness of its ground, the unexpected appearance of a spring at the base of a gravel ridge. Here, in a relatively compact area, you can see how ice and water worked together to shape the Finger Lakes region we know today.

Overflow from a Kettle Pond threads through a meadow before feeding Fall Creek. The O.D.von Engeln Preserve at Malloryville.

By the time the preserve officially opened in 1997, the name O.D. von Engeln was already familiar to anyone curious about local geology. His classic book on the Finger Lakes helped generations of readers understand that the scenery around them was not random, but the result of powerful, understandable processes. Reading von Engeln, the rolling hills and quiet valleys near Freeville become more than background—they become evidence: of buried ice, rushing meltwater, and the slow settling of sediments into the forms we walk on now.

Malloryville is an outdoor classroom for that lesson. The preserve is built around a cluster of glacial landforms—eskers, kames, and kettles—that create a three-dimensional mosaic of ridges and hollows. Eskers, those long, winding gravel ridges left by rivers that once flowed inside the glacier, snake through the forest like frozen currents of stone. Kames—steep, irregular hills of sand and gravel—rise suddenly from the surrounding lowlands. Kettles, the depressions left behind when buried ice blocks melted away, now cradle wetlands and pools.

Beneath and between these features, groundwater is constantly on the move. It seeps through layers of sand and gravel, emerges as cold springs at the foot of slopes, and spreads out into swamps, fens, and marshes. In the Finger Lakes, water is always telling a story; at Malloryville, it’s simply easier to hear. Follow the trail and you move through a succession of wet worlds: a seep-fed fen with delicate mosses and sedges, a shrub swamp where skunk cabbage thrusts up in early spring, a cattail marsh that hums with birds and insects in summer.

For my family, the story of Malloryville began even before the preserve had a name. We lived nearby along Fall Creek, itself a thread in the larger fabric of the Cayuga Lake watershed. My son and I camped for the first time on top of an esker just beyond our front door, our tent perched on what I would later learn was the remnant of a stream that once tunneled through the base of a glacier. At the time, it was simply a magical narrow ridge in the woods. Only later, with von Engeln’s guidance and the preserve’s interpretive signs, did that ridge become a sentence in a much older, longer narrative.

That is one of the great gifts of the Finger Lakes: the chance to move from simple admiration—“this is beautiful”—to understanding—“this is how it came to be.” The steep slopes along Cayuga, Seneca, or Skaneateles; the drumlin fields near the north ends of the lakes; the hanging valleys and waterfalls; and the quiet wetlands of places like Malloryville are all chapters in the same glacial chronicle. Once you learn to read one place, you begin to read them all.

Walking into the O.D. von Engeln Preserve, you enter that story at a small, intimate scale. The parking area and trailhead give way quickly to a world where the ground feels different—sometimes firm and gravelly, sometimes soft and yielding underfoot. Wooden walkways and narrow paths thread through shady forest and open wetland. Each bend offers a subtle shift: a new plant community, a change in water clarity or flow, a small sign explaining what lies beneath your feet.

Fall Creek meanders through the esker fields of the Malloryville Preserve. Here is the view from an abandoned railroad bridge. The preserve is near Freeville in the Finger Lakes Region of New York State.

This is not grand scenery in the postcard sense; it is something quieter and deeper. Malloryville invites you to slow down and notice. To ask why a particular ridge is so narrow, why water emerges here but not there, why one hollow is filled with shrubs and another with moss and sedge. In learning those answers, you gain not only an appreciation for this modest preserve but also a richer understanding of the entire Finger Lakes region.

The Trout Lily (Erythronium americanum) is named for the mottled brown leaves resembling marking on trout.

In the end, the O.D. von Engeln Preserve at Malloryville is a lens—a way of seeing. Through it, the familiar landscapes of central New York—valleys, hills, streams, and lakes—come into sharper focus as the lasting work of ice and water. Stand on an esker, look across a kettle wetland, listen to the quiet trickle of a spring, and you are standing inside the very processes that shaped the Finger Lakes.

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The Mathematical Beauty of Autumn Leaves

Here I reflect on the mathematical beauty of falling leaves from two trees, revealing order amidst perceived chaos in nature’s patterns.

MichaelStephenWills17 Comments

Standing before these two trees on a unseasonably warm autumn day, I am struck by the intricate patterns of their fallen leaves. Against the vibrant green of the grass, the golden leaves form halos around the trunks, as if nature herself were sketching mandalas. There’s something profoundly mathematical about these arrangements—a quiet order amidst what might initially seem like chaos.

The first tree, its barren branches reaching skyward, stands on a carpet of yellow that radiates outward in near-perfect symmetry. The leaves have fallen in such a way that their density decreases as the distance from the trunk increases. It reminds me of the inverse square law—a principle in physics that governs how light, gravity, and sound diminish with distance. Here, instead of energy dispersing, it’s the leaves thinning out, their graceful scatter dictated by the wind’s whims and gravity’s pull. There’s an undeniable harmony in this seemingly random process, a convergence of natural forces creating an elegant gradient.

Stewart Park, Ithaca, New York

The second tree presents a different story, yet one equally mesmerizing. Its leaves, still clinging in part to the branches, form a looser ring at the base. The distribution is uneven, hinting at prevailing winds or the sheltering influence of nearby buildings. But even in this asymmetry, I see fractals—the self-similar patterns that repeat at different scales throughout nature. Look closely, and you’ll notice clusters of leaves mimicking the broader structure of the canopy above. It’s as if the tree’s essence is echoed in the ground below, a reminder of how deeply interconnected every part of a system can be.

Robinia pseudoacacia, commonly known as the black locust

These patterns invite reflection on the mathematical principles governing our world. Fibonacci sequences, golden ratios, and fractals—abstract concepts are not confined to textbooks. They are etched into the fabric of existence, visible in the spiral of a sunflower’s seeds, the curve of a nautilus shell, and the fall of leaves beneath a tree. Even the chaos of autumn is underpinned by order, a dance choreographed by countless variables: the angle of the branches, the strength of the wind, the moisture in the air.

I find myself wondering about the unseen forces at play. How many leaves fell straight down, obeying only gravity? How many were carried aloft by a breeze before settling farther afield? Could we model these patterns with algorithms, tracing the arc of each leaf’s descent? Would the data reveal a perfect equation, or would it remind us that some mysteries resist full comprehension?

As I stand here, I feel a deep gratitude for these natural equations. They ground me in the present moment while also connecting me to the infinite. The pattern of leaf fall is a reminder of life’s balance: chaos and order, randomness and structure, fleeting moments and timeless principles. The trees, now shedding their golden crowns, invite me to pause, observe, and marvel at the beautiful mathematics of autumn.

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Autumn Reflections: The Majesty of Acer Rubrum

On a serene autumn afternoon by Beebe Lake, a solitary red maple stood out against the backdrop, showcasing its vibrant colors and resilience, symbolizing autumn’s fleeting beauty.

MichaelStephenWills25 Comments

It was one of those serene autumn afternoons that linger in memory, the kind where the sky seems impossibly clear, the air crisp and gently scented with fallen leaves. I stood at the edge of Beebe Lake, my gaze first drawn to the textured concrete dam holding back the water, its weathered facade contrasting sharply with the soft reflections shimmering across the lake’s calm surface. Beyond, the wooded hillside rose gently, a tapestry woven with the warm hues of autumn—golds, greens, oranges, and reds mingling like brush strokes on a canvas.


An October Glory, turning before all others

Yet amidst this collective beauty, one tree captured my attention, singular in its brilliance—a solitary red maple standing proudly on the lakeshore. Its leaves had turned a vivid crimson, blazing brightly as though defying the muted earth tones surrounding it. Even from a distance, framed and partially obscured by larger trees, its vibrant reflection cast a fiery echo on the water, rippling softly in the afternoon breeze.

The maple, Acer Rubrum, seemed perfectly at home here, thriving robustly at the water’s edge. I remembered reading how adaptable red maples are, able to flourish in conditions ranging from dry uplands to swampy shores. This spot, near the edge of the tranquil Beebe Lake, seemed to showcase its resilient character perfectly.

Up close, the maple’s glow was even more striking. Its leaves cascaded in fiery clusters, hues deepening from bright scarlet at the tips to a darker maroon closer to the branches. This dramatic gradient seemed symbolic of autumn itself—beautiful, fleeting, and subtly tinged with the melancholy reminder of winter’s approach.

The Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) to tolerant of diverse conditions, making it a perfect choice for this spot on the short of Beebe Lake.

A memory surfaced of early spring in the Finger Lakes region, a time when maples, including this red maple, generously share their sap. Though not traditionally tapped like its sweeter cousin, the sugar maple, this species’ sap can indeed be boiled down into syrup, a surprising sweetness hidden within its sturdy trunk. Standing in its shadow, imagining those early spring days, it seemed astonishing that the same tree could offer both the delicate sweetness of syrup and the fierce beauty now on display.

Curiously, the transformation of the tree appeared methodical yet whimsical—it changed colors from the top down, its upper branches already bare, exposing slender twigs pointing skyward. Like an artist carefully removing layers to reveal something deeper beneath, the maple unveiled its upper bare bones first, as though reminding observers of the quiet strength supporting its autumn splendor.

This Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) turns from the top down and has already bare for most top branches.

As I lingered, taking in this turning tree, joggers passed by along the path, their rhythmic footsteps a gentle percussion beneath the rustling leaves. Briefly, they glanced toward the vivid maple, perhaps drawn, like me, by its striking contrast to the surrounding foliage. It felt like we shared a secret admiration for this singular tree, recognizing in it a quiet assertion of individuality amidst conformity.

Eventually, I viewed the maple once more from afar, framed now by broader sweeps of branches and leaves, partially obscured but no less vivid. Through layers of leaves and dappled sunlight, it glowed like a distant flame, a beacon that seemed to encapsulate the entire mood of the season—warm yet cool, bright yet transient.

The Red Maple (Acer Rubrum) is the first to flower in spring and the first to turn in autumn.

Walking away, the image of that maple lingered, its reflection shimmering gently in the afternoon sun, a moment suspended between summer’s lush vitality and winter’s bare stillness. Beebe Lake had offered scenic beauty, a quiet meditation, a reflection mirrored not only on its tranquil surface but in the heart of an observer captivated by a single tree’s fleeting glory.

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Monarch Butterfly Life Cycle: Egg to Adult (Danaus plexippus) with Photos

From milkweed egg to striped caterpillar, jade chrysalis, and fluttering monarch, witness metamorphosis, migration, and our role in protecting Danaus plexippus across North America today.

MichaelStephenWills17 Comments

On the underside of a milkweed leaf, the world begins small enough to miss unless you kneel and look closely. In this first photograph the newborn is still a whisper of life, a pale pinhead egg collapsed into a glistening scrap, the tiny caterpillar beside it like a gray comma punctuating the green. It has just eaten the soft shell that cradled it—its first meal, its first thrift. The leaf’s pale roads of veins radiate around the hatchling; within that simple map lies all the geography it needs.

By the second photograph appetite has taken its proper throne. These pilgrims wear a uniform of warning: bands of yellow, black, and white—stripes as bright as hazard tape, a heraldic banner advertising the bitterness borrowed from milkweed. Each bite draws down defensive latex; yet the caterpillars feed undeterred, pausing to snip the leaf’s veins to quiet the flow. Their black, threadlike “tentacles” nod as they travel, and their peppery pellets—frass—collect like midnight hail. Five times they will outgrow themselves, shrugging off skins to reveal wider, hungrier versions within. The room is strewn with green rib and ragged edges; the air has the gentle smell of cut stems. All the while, milkweed’s poisons, the cardenolides, pass into growing bodies and become their bodyguard.

At last a hush. A final meal, a purposeful wander. The caterpillar chooses a high eave of the world—a stem, a stick, the corner of your rearing tent—and hooks itself into a downward J. Within hours the skin splits like a soft zipper; the striped creature pours itself out of itself and seals into a smooth chrysalis.

Here, the caterpillar has attached itself to a silk pad from which it hangs. Underneath the skin, the caterpillar is transforming to the chrysalis. In these photographs the silk pad and chrysalis attachment from a previous transformation are in the foreground.
Macro of the Monarch butterfly chrysalis. The black stalk attached to the silk pad is call a cremaster.

The following photograph and video catch the moments into becoming: the jade lantern has become transparent, darkening, its gold studs glinting like constellation points, and through the thinning walls the folded wings show, orange smoldering under smoke. Inside, old tissues have dissolved into a living broth; imaginal discs—tiny blueprints carried since the egg—have flowered into legs, eyes, and flight. To call it “metamorphosis” is correct; to call it mystery is truer.

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When the case opens the butterfly backs into the bright. It clings while the crumpled wings fill and flatten, hemolymph pumping life into every cell. In the next image the adult drinks from a petunia trumpet, a jeweled ember with white-spotted hems. The monarch—Danaus plexippus—tests the wind with new, purposeful wings. Its scientific name nods to ancient stories: Danaus after the Greek mythic king of Argos, a father who fled with his fifty daughters across the sea; plexippus for Plexippus, a figure of the same old tales—his name carried forward into this wanderer of the sky. The English name “monarch” is said to honor both its regal size and domain, and, some say, the orange-and-black of William of Orange. Kings and myths gathered like cloak and scepter around a creature that weighs less than a paperclip.

No butterfly has entered human life more completely. Schoolchildren cradle jars of milkweed sprigs and tape handwritten labels to chrysalides lined like seed pearls along a classroom window. Taggers kneel in September light, add a tiny disc to a wing, and write down time and place so the journey south can be traced. In the mountains of Mexico, where oyamel firs hold winter like a secret, people fold the monarch’s return into the Days of the Dead, believing that souls ride home on those wafers of flame. Gardeners tuck swamp milkweed into narrow beds and call their yards “waystations.” Photographers, such as myself, record the stories that happen leaf by leaf.

In early July a Monarch caterpillar revels in milkweed flowers.

Yet our touch is not simple. Fields simplified by herbicides have shaved milkweed from fencerows; tidy mowing removes nectar from roadsides in the tender weeks of migration; captive rearing in vast numbers, though done with reverence, may carry unintended risks of disease and weakened orientation. The monarch asks us to enlarge our sense of home beyond the fence: to let patches of milkweed lift their pale crowns in rough corners; to choose late-blooming asters and goldenrod; to keep a few ditches shaggy until the travelers pass. Conservation, like metamorphosis, is work that happens inside ordinary days.

Watch the cycle again in my images—egg to appetite, appetite to stillness, stillness to wing—and hear what it whispers in the steady voice of milkweed leaves and soft fall air. Rachel Carson wrote that “those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.” Here beauty wears stripes and beads of gold, sips from garden petals, and threads a continent with its frail insistence. The monarch’s life is a ribbon we can follow with our eyes and, if we are willing, with our hands—gentle hands that leave room for milkweed to rise, for caterpillars to feed, for a chrysalis to darken and a window to fill, one bright morning, with wings.

On a personal note, this season was a success. Monarchs visited our milkweed patch several times allowing me to save/harvest nineteen eggs/caterpillars and raise them until release.

Selected references
Carson, Rachel. The Sense of Wonder. New York: Harper & Row, 1965. (Reissued: HarperCollins, 1998; Open Road Media e-book, 2011.) The quoted passage (“Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth…”) appears early in the book; the Open Road edition places it on p. 41.
Wikipedia contributors. “Monarch butterfly — Etymology and taxonomy.” (useful overview with primary citations).
Oberhauser, K. S., and M. J. Solensky, eds. The Monarch Butterfly: Biology and Conservation. Cornell University Press, 2004.

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Buttonbush: The Secret Geometry of Wetlands

Discover the Buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis), a wetland shrub of spherical blooms, sustaining pollinators, birds, and waterfowl while reminding us of life’s enduring cycles

MichaelStephenWills9 Comments

In the quiet wetlands of late summer, when cattails lift their brown torches above the reeds and dragonflies skim the still water, there is a shrub that speaks in spheres. Its language is not the pointed spear of grass or the broad fan of lily pads, but the perfect symmetry of globes—round, intricate, and startling in their precision. This is the Buttonbush, Cephalanthus occidentalis, a native of swamps, pond margins, and the soft, yielding soils where water shapes the land.

At first glance, its clusters might be mistaken for something fashioned by human hands: spiky balls arrayed along slender stems, each one a small planet bristling with tiny cells. Only in memory can we recall their summer incarnation, when each ball was a constellation of snowy blossoms, white tubular flowers extending like delicate pins from a spherical center. Bees and butterflies crowded them then, drunk on nectar, wings glinting in the sun. Hummingbirds darted in as though drawn by an unseen magnet, their beaks fitting perfectly into the narrow blossoms, a partnership written long ago in the shared script of evolution.

Buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis) at Sapsucker Woods, Cornell Lab of Ornithology

Now, in August’s waning light, those blossoms have folded back into seed, transforming into the russet orbs captured in the photograph. What was once nectar is now promise—food for ducks, shorebirds, and the small lives that depend on wetlands for sustenance. In the hands of buttonbush, time itself is circular. Flower becomes fruit, fruit becomes seed, seed becomes shrub, and the cycle spins quietly on, just as the spheres themselves suggest: complete, unbroken, eternal.

A Wetland Companion

Buttonbush is rarely alone. It thrives where cattails whisper, where pickerelweed thrusts up spikes of purple bloom, where the air holds the scent of waterlogged earth. Its roots grip the muck at the edges of ponds and rivers, holding soil against the restless tug of currents. In doing so, it becomes part of the unseen architecture that holds wetlands together, slowing erosion, filtering water, providing shelter for fish in the shade of its stems.

Pickerelweed (Pontederia cordata) at Sapsucker Woods, Cornell Lab of Ornithology

This shrub, unassuming in stature, is an engineer of stability. It creates thickets where red-winged blackbirds perch, where frogs crouch in shade, where turtles bask on half-submerged branches. The wetlands of North America would be poorer without its presence, for it provides not just beauty but the scaffolding upon which entire communities of life depend.

The Human Thread

To the human eye, the buttonbush’s spherical blooms are so striking that they demand metaphor. Some have called them pincushions, others tiny planets, others fireworks arrested in mid-burst. Native American peoples, however, looked beyond metaphor to medicine. The bark and roots were used in remedies for ailments ranging from headaches to fevers, though with caution, for the plant holds mild toxicity when consumed raw. It is a reminder that many gifts of the natural world are edged with danger, and that wisdom lies in balance.

Today, gardeners and conservationists plant buttonbush intentionally. It is welcomed into rain gardens, where its thirst for moisture makes it a perfect ally for absorbing stormwater. It is used in wetland restoration projects, where its deep roots anchor new life. And it is cherished by those who walk the edges of ponds and discover in its round blossoms a geometry that feels both wild and deliberate, a gift of design from the living earth.

Fourth of July, 2019, Stewart Park

The Sphere as Symbol

Rachel Carson once wrote that in nature, “nothing exists alone.” The buttonbush embodies this truth with clarity. Its spheres are invitations, junctions where plant and pollinator meet, where flower and bird share a moment of mutual necessity. They are offerings to the eye as well, challenging us to see patterns where we might otherwise see only happenstance.

Standing before a buttonbush in bloom, one feels an almost childlike wonder: how could such symmetry arise unbidden from soil and sunlight? Yet this is the miracle of evolution, that order may spring from chance, that beauty may serve survival, that what pleases our senses also sustains life.

A Closing Reflection

In the wetlands, where water mirrors the sky, the buttonbush offers its own reflection of completeness. Its seed heads persist through autumn and winter, small orbs clinging even when leaves fall, reminders that the cycles of life turn steadily beneath the stillness.

To linger with buttonbush is to be reminded of nature’s quiet insistence on wholeness. It speaks in forms: round, repeating, enduring. To walk away from it is to carry a sense of connection, to know that in the pattern of its blooms we glimpse a truth both humble and profound—that life is not a line but a circle, and in every turning there is renewal.

For Further Reading

USDA NRCS. Plant Guide: Buttonbush (Cephalanthus occidentalis L.). United States Department of Agriculture, Natural Resources Conservation Service. Available online: https://plants.usda.gov
– Provides detailed information on identification, habitat, and ecological role.

Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center. Cephalanthus occidentalis (Common Buttonbush). Native Plant Information Network. Available online: https://www.wildflower.org/plants/result.php?id_plant=ceoc2
– Covers botanical features, bloom time, wildlife value, and landscape use.

Dirr, Michael A. Manual of Woody Landscape Plants: Their Identification, Ornamental Characteristics, Culture, Propagation and Uses. 6th Edition. Stipes Publishing, 2009.
– Authoritative horticultural reference on Buttonbush and other shrubs.

Peterson, Roger Tory, and Margaret McKenny. A Field Guide to Wildflowers: Northeastern and North-central North America. Houghton Mifflin, 1968.
– Classic field guide covering buttonbush’s wetland habitat.

Carson, Rachel. Silent Spring. Houghton Mifflin, 1962.
– Source of the quoted passage: “In nature nothing exists alone.” (Chapter 2, “The Obligation to Endure”).

Moerman, Daniel E. Native American Ethnobotany. Timber Press, 1998.
– Comprehensive reference documenting traditional medicinal uses of Buttonbush among Native American peoples.

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The Secret Life of Woodland Plants: Jack-in-the-Pulpit Insights

In the hush of the forest, Jack-in-the-Pulpit speaks—not with sound, but with form and patience, reminding us that some sermons rise quietly from the earth.

MichaelStephenWills19 Comments

You could walk past it a hundred times and never notice. There, beneath the low canopy of midsummer, where light is sifted through green, Arisaema triphyllum stands with the discretion of a shadow. Jack-in-the-Pulpit, they call it—a name as strange and gentle as the plant itself. But neither common name nor scientific binomial quite captures the feeling that you are being addressed when you encounter one.

A young Jack-in-the-pulpit under its leaf canopy along the gorge trail of Filmore Glen.

A mature Jack-in-the=pulpit flower with purple trillium, Fillmore Glen.

Earlier in the year, it raised a hooded spathe above the forest floor, curving protectively over a pale central spadix—the “Jack.” It looked like a figure delivering a sermon to the moss and littered leaves. Now, that sermon has passed, and the speaker has fallen silent. What remains is a column of tight green berries, glinting softly in the dappled light. They are not yet ripe, but the promise is there. In time, they will glow red like embers in the undergrowth.

Summertime, Sapsucker Woods. I might use a colloquialism and call this plant a “Jill”….and the real twist? Jack might’ve started out giving sermons but give them a good season and a strong root system, and Jack becomes Jill. It’s sequential hermaphroditism at its finest—Mother Nature’s version of career flexibility.

There is something ancient about this plant, as if it remembers a forest before our footsteps came. Its roots delve deep, not just into the soil, but into time. A corm, nestled beneath the leaf mold, waits out the harsh seasons, unseen but enduring. It is not a showy plant. It is a plant that trusts quiet. That survives on patience.

A closer look at the unripe berries.

The forest is full of these secret lives—beings that do not shout to be known. Jack-in-the-Pulpit speaks softly, in a dialect of leaf and shade and seasonal return. It is a plant you find when you have slowed down enough to belong again to the forest’s rhythm, when you’ve traded the voice in your head for the breath of leaf litter underfoot.

From Fillmore Glen

Some would call it just another spring ephemeral, a curiosity among many. But to walk away from it without feeling a kind of reverence would be to miss the point. It is not there to impress. It is there to remind.

That not all things are revealed at once.
That sermons come in many forms.
And that in the hush of the forest, something is always speaking—if only we remember how to listen.

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Discover the Bold Jumping Spider: Nature’s Agile Hunter

Small in size but vast in charisma, the Bold Jumping Spider hunts with precision, agility, and a gaze that almost seems to return your own.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments


There, pressed into the grain of the boardwalk like a dark fleck of forest lint, the Bold Jumping Spider (Phidippus audax) waits—motionless, yet alert. To the untrained eye, it may seem insignificant, even nondescript. But a closer look reveals a creature of fine design and surprising charisma: a compact body cloaked in velvety black, adorned with pale markings like runes, and forward-facing eyes that gleam with eerie intelligence.

Unlike the orb weavers and net-spinners of spider lore, Phidippus audax does not rely on traps. It is a hunter in the truest sense—an animal that lives by leaping toward its future. With eight powerful legs and a muscular abdomen, it can launch itself many times its own body length, arcing through the air toward an unsuspecting moth or beetle. Yet it does not leap blindly. It trails a single silken thread behind it—a safety line, a commitment to survival. It is an act of courage tethered to caution.

Most remarkable are its eyes. A quartet of simple lateral eyes scan for motion, but the two large, front-facing principal eyes are something more—a rarity among arthropods. They grant it acute vision, with the ability to detect detail, movement, and even depth. When it turns its gaze toward you, you feel seen—not just registered, but regarded.

Found lurking in a joint of wood frame enclosing a trail map. Sapsucker Woods, Cornell Lab of Ornithology, on a summer afternoon\.

These spiders are active thinkers, decision-makers. They test their environment with movements that can almost be described as exploratory. They do not walk so much as prowl, stepping into shadow and light with an awareness that seems out of scale for their size.

And though they are often met with fear or disdain, Phidippus audax poses no threat to humans. It asks only for a few square inches of wood or leaf to stake its claim. In return, it offers a glimpse into a different kind of grace—an agile, silk-spinning daredevil, leaping with acute precision.

To observe one is to witness the meeting of design and instinct, form and function, in perfect miniature. In the vast, humming network of woodland life, the Bold Jumping Spider may be a small player, but it performs its role with flair. If the trees are the spires of the forest cathedral, and the ferns its leafy congregation, then Phidippus audax is a kind of sacred rogue—silent, swift, and utterly unconcerned by our towering presence.

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Unveiling the Ancient Beauty of Interrupted Ferns

In the hush of Sapsucker Woods, Interrupted Ferns unfurl their ancient green with quiet grace—guardians of time, rooted in myth, memory, and moss.

MichaelStephenWills13 Comments


In a shaded hollow of Sapsucker Woods, where the hush of ancient time lingers like mist among the trees, the Interrupted Fern rises from the soft, damp floor with a quiet grace. Its fronds, broad and arching, seem less grown than unfurled—as if unrolling a memory held for millions of years.

The plant’s name, Osmunda claytoniana, carries echoes of two worlds. “Osmunda,” perhaps once spoken in the sacred groves of northern Europe, is thought to honor a forgotten god—Osmunder, one of Thor’s names, a guardian of strength and storm. The species name pays tribute to John Clayton, an early colonial botanist who walked Virginia’s forests centuries ago and recognized in this fern a quiet marvel worth remembering.

And so this plant, whose lineage reaches back more than 200 million years, is rooted not just in soil and stone, but in language and lore.

The fern’s common name—Interrupted—describes the curious habit of its fertile fronds, which rise briefly in midsummer, dark and beadlike, then wither and vanish, leaving a ghostly gap midway up the blade. It is as though the plant had paused mid-sentence, letting silence speak where others would persist. In this interruption, the forest itself seems to take a breath.

The roots of Osmunda claytoniana twist into fibrous mats beneath the soil. These rhizomes, dense and springy, were once harvested as osmunda fiber, prized by horticulturists for cradling delicate orchids—a gentle reminder of how often nature’s strength serves human fragility. And though the Interrupted Fern is not celebrated in pharmacopeias, its kin were used by Indigenous peoples as poultices for wounds, or brewed into mild tonics to ease internal aches—suggesting a long, quiet partnership with humankind.

Forest Floor in Sapsucker Woods on a summer afternoon

There is little need for blossoms or fragrance here. The beauty of this fern is in its restraint. Its fronds do not shout, but rather whisper of deep time, of shaded ravines and glacial meltwaters, of forests that once stood where oceans now roll. Some said ferns were touched by magic—that they bloomed only on Midsummer’s Eve and vanished before the eye could see. The Interrupted Fern, with its appearing and disappearing fronds, might well have inspired such tales.

And so, in the filtered light beneath the canopy, this ancient fern lives on—not as a relic, but as a quiet thread in the fabric of the living forest. To stand in its presence is to feel a kind of reverence—not for what is rare, but for what endures.

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Explore Louisa Duemling Meadows: Nature and Conservation

The Louisa Duemling Meadows celebrate conservation and biodiversity, showcasing vibrant flora and honoring Louisa Duemling’s legacy as a steward of nature.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

The Louisa Duemling Meadows, nestled within the expansive embrace of Sapsucker Woods, offers a vibrant tableau of life, brimming with opportunities for exploration and a sense of wonder. This new trail, winding through golden fields and punctuated by bursts of wildflowers, whispers tales of the land’s natural and cultural heritage.

Louisa Duemling: A Steward of Nature
Louisa Duemling, the meadows’ namesake, was a dedicated conservationist and philanthropist who supported the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s mission to protect birds and their habitats. Her legacy lives on in these serene fields, where her commitment to preserving the environment is reflected in every thriving plant and songbird.

Black-eyed Susans: The Meadow’s Golden Treasure
Dominating this summertime landscape with their radiant yellow petals and dark central disks, Black-eyed Susans (Rudbeckia hirta) are a hallmark of the meadows. These cheerful blooms are a delight to the eye, a cornerstone of meadow ecosystems. As members of the Asteraceae family, their composite flowers serve as a rich nectar source for pollinators like bees and butterflies, ensuring the vibrancy of these fields.

Historically, Black-eyed Susans have been used in traditional medicine by Native American tribes for their putative anti-inflammatory properties. Their ability to thrive in diverse conditions also makes them a symbol of resilience and adaptability.

A Symphony of Green and Gold
Walking through the trail, one is greeted by the harmonious interplay of goldenrods (Solidago spp.), milkweeds (Asclepias spp.), and asters (Symphyotrichum spp.). Goldenrods, with their feathery clusters of yellow blooms, are often mistaken as allergenic culprits, though it is the inconspicuous ragweed (Ambrosia artemisiifolia) that deserves this reputation. Milkweeds, with their milky sap and delicate pink or white flowers, are vital to monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus), serving as the sole food source for their larvae.

Among these botanical wonders, the birdhouse stands as a sentinel, a reminder of the intricate relationship between flora and fauna. These wooden structures provide safe havens for cavity-nesting birds like Eastern Bluebirds (Sialia sialis) and Tree Swallows (Tachycineta bicolor), fostering biodiversity within the meadow.

A Horizon Framed by Pines and Clouds
The open meadow trails, flanked by clusters of Eastern White Pines (Pinus strobus) and punctuated by the azure sky, invite reflection and renewal. This is a place where the human spirit can align with the rhythms of nature, where each step reveals new layers of beauty and discovery.

Embracing the Spirit of Discovery
To wander the Louisa Duemling Meadows is to immerse oneself in the timeless dance of life. The trail, carefully marked yet wild in essence, invites visitors to lose themselves in its beauty while finding solace in its quietude. This is not just a path through nature—it is a journey into the heart of conservation and a celebration of the life that thrives under Louisa Duemling’s enduring legacy.

As you leave the meadow, carry with you not just the memory of golden flowers and vibrant skies but the inspiration to cherish and protect the natural world. The Louisa Duemling Meadows are not only a gift to those who walk its trails but a reminder of the profound impact one can have in preserving our planet’s fragile beauty.

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Monarch Chrysalis: A Symbol of Nature’s Resilience

On a September day, a Monarch chrysalis symbolizes resilience amidst environmental threats, prompting reflection on stewardship and hopeful change.

MichaelStephenWills12 Comments

On a warm September afternoon, 2024, Pam and I passed a planting of shimmering grasses along the Cayuga Lake shore, the tips of their feathery plumes swaying in a gentle breeze. Amidst the verdant tapestry, my eyes caught a flash of delicate green—a Monarch chrysalis, hanging like a precious jewel beneath one of the seed heads. It was an unexpected encounter, a moment of grace that felt almost otherworldly. The chrysalis, pale jade with gold accents, looked like something born of magic rather than biology. For a moment, time paused.

The only Monarch chrysalis we found in 2024, notable for the absence of caterpillars around our home. Tompkins Park, Ithaca, New York, Finger Lakes Region

I knelt carefully, mindful not to disturb the fragile life suspended before me. As I leaned in closer, I marveled at the perfection of its design. The intricate gold dots along its casing seemed impossibly precise, as though a divine hand had painted them there. Yet, this chrysalis was also a paradox: it was a shield of stillness, promising the coming transformation of a creature known for motion and migration.

The significance of this discovery didn’t escape me. Just two years ago, the International Union for Conservation of Nature officially classified the Monarch butterfly as “endangered.” Habitat destruction, pesticide use, and climate change have decimated their numbers. Monarchs, once so plentiful they seemed a seasonal certainty, now teeter on the edge of disappearance. To find this chrysalis was to witness a quiet rebellion against those odds, a solitary emblem of resilience in a world fraught with loss.

I thought of their epic journey—a migration that spans thousands of miles, linking Canada to the forests of central Mexico. For generations, these butterflies have followed ancestral paths with unerring precision, defying every obstacle in their way. How can something so small carry the weight of such immense journeys? And how, in a world that seems to grow harsher each year, do they still persist?

This chrysalis, tucked in the grasses of Stewart Park, felt like an answer to those questions. It was a reminder of the resilience of life, the determination of nature to continue despite all that works against it. And yet, it also felt like a fragile promise. The Monarch’s survival is no longer assured; its future, like the butterfly within this chrysalis, hangs by a thread.

As I rose and continued our walk, I carried the image of the chrysalis with me, letting its quiet beauty settle in my mind. I thought of the interconnectedness of all things: the milkweed plants that sustain Monarch caterpillars, the winds that guide their migrations, and the people whose choices shape the landscapes they traverse. Stewardship is not just a responsibility; it is a privilege—an opportunity to ensure that these miraculous creatures continue to grace our skies.

By the time I left the park, the sun had sunk toward the west, its light no longer graced the grasses. I looked back one last time, hoping that this chrysalis would complete its transformation safely. In its stillness, I saw not just hope, but a call to action. The Monarch’s story is not just about survival; it’s about the courage to evolve and adapt, even when the odds seem insurmountable. And perhaps, in witnessing this moment of metamorphosis, we too are reminded of our capacity to change—to become better stewards of the world we share.

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