Tag: nature photography

Hepatica at Fillmore Glen: Quiet Wonders Beneath the Leafless Trees

On a quiet April walk in Fillmore Glen State Park, I found Hepatica acutiloba blooming beneath leafless trees—small, luminous flowers that turned the still-brown woods into a meditation on patience, renewal, and grace.

MichaelStephenWills11 Comments

On April 11, 2026, I walked Fillmore Glen State Park beneath trees still bare, their branches opening the woods to the cool, unguarded light of early spring. The forest had not yet put on its full green speech. Last year’s leaves still covered the ground in shades of russet and tan, and among them, close to the earth, I found Hepatica acutiloba beginning to bloom.

These are flowers that ask for slowness. No one hurrying through the woods would fully see them. I had to kneel, lower myself into their world, and let my eyes adjust to their scale. Only then did they begin to reveal themselves: first as closed buds, pale and self-contained, then as opened white blossoms shining from the leaf litter like small votives in the dim cathedral of the spring woods.

This flower was a light lavender blossoms, still closed, rising from the forest floor on a delicate stems. The sun had reached in, and I made the image handheld, steadying the camera on the ground. Even unopened, it seemed to hold light within itself, as though the day had touched it but not yet persuaded it to unfold. I have always loved that about hepatica. It does not fling itself into spring. It listens first. It waits with an old intelligence, answering warmth and brightness in its own time.

Lavender Hepatica Blossoms, closed

A second cluster of closed blossoms rested among evergreen fern fronds, which appear to be Christmas fern, Polystichum acrostichoides. Their leathery green pinnae, carried through the winter, formed a fitting companion to these early flowers. Together they seemed to embody one of the quiet truths of the April woods: that renewal does not come as a sudden trumpet blast, but by degrees. First the fern still holding its winter green. Then the bud. Then the opening. Then the day when the whole hillside begins to feel like a promise being kept.

White Hepatica Blossoms with Christmas Fern

The last three photographs showed the same group of white hepatica blossoms growing on a south-facing slope beneath a tree root. By then I had placed the camera on my Manfrotto BeFree tripod, and I worked more deliberately, grateful for the patience that such flowers invite. One image was made in sunlight; the others when the sun had passed behind a cloud. That change mattered. In the sun, the white blossoms seemed almost to ring like little bells of light. Under cloud, they grew quieter, softer, more inward. The mood deepened. The exposed root above them became a rough shelter, a woodland lintel, and the blossoms beneath gathered into a hidden chapel of spring.

Hepatica acutiloba in sunlight on an early spring afternoon. Fillmore Glen New York State Park, Cayuga County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State. April 2026

I stood there for a long while, looking not only at the flowers but at the place that had made their blooming possible. A south-facing slope gathers warmth earlier in the season. The root held the bank in place and offered a small measure of protection. The leaf litter insulated the soil. The ferns kept their green nearby. Nothing in such a scene is accidental. The woods are full of these small negotiations between light, temperature, shelter, and time. Hepatica, for all its delicacy, is a master of them.

Here a cloud hid the sun, the blossoms in side view.

We call these flowers spring ephemerals, and the name is true in one sense. Their season of bloom is brief. Before long, the trees overhead will leaf out, and the bright interval in which they thrive will begin to close. Yet “ephemeral” can sound too fragile a word for a plant so well adapted, so seasoned in its timing. Hepatica does not merely appear and vanish. It endures. Its leaves persist through winter. Its flowering is tuned to a narrow ecological opening, one shaped by the still-bare canopy of the deciduous forest. For a few precious weeks, before shade deepens, it steps into the light and makes use of what the season offers.

The sun still hidden by a cloud, the blossoms face on.

Perhaps that is why hepatica has so often found a place in literature and nature writing. It carries a symbolism that feels earned rather than assigned. It arrives when the world still bears winter’s austerity, and so its bloom seems less decorative than revelatory. Generations of observers have seen in such flowers a sign that the year turns first in whispers. Not through spectacle, but through fidelity. A small flower opening under bare branches can change the whole moral weather of a walk.

That was how it felt to me at Fillmore Glen. The woods were still mostly brown and gray, still waiting for leaf and shade and birdsong in full chorus. Yet these blossoms had already crossed some invisible threshold. They were spring in its purest form: not abundance, but inception. Not the full choir, but the first clear note.

Photography, in such moments, becomes for me an act of receiving. The changing light, the choice of aperture, the longer exposures when the sun went behind a cloud, the shift from handholding to bracing to tripod—all of it asked for attention. Hepatica does not yield itself to haste. It asks me to be present enough to notice what kind of light it is standing in, what kind of slope it has chosen, what old leaves still surround it, what green companions remain from winter. The camera only deepens that act of seeing.

I left Fillmore Glen feeling that I had witnessed something both small and immense. These flowers were no larger than a coin, yet they altered the whole forest around them. The leaf litter no longer seemed merely dead, but sheltering. The bare trees no longer seemed empty, but expectant. In the presence of hepatica, the woods felt poised on the edge of utterance.

That may be the lasting wonder of these early blooms. They do not overwhelm. They steady. They remind me that beauty often comes close to the ground, half-hidden, speaking softly. In the leafless woods of April, that soft speech can feel like grace.

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Lucifer Falls in Winter: Traversing Ice Chutes Along Ithaca’s South Rim Trail

A careful winter walk along the South Rim reveals Lucifer Falls transformed—ice chutes, frozen veils, and flowing water beneath stone, inviting patience, attention, and quiet awe.

MichaelStephenWills15 Comments

January pares the gorge to essentials. Color withdraws, sound sharpens, and the land reveals its underlying grammar—stone, water, cold, and time. Reaching Lucifer Falls by the South Rim Trail on a winter morning feels less like an initiation, a careful passage through ice-chutes and shadowed ledges where the creek rehearses its ancient work in a new key.

Wintertime scene along the South Rim Trail of Robert H. Treman State park. The trail is solid ice. Ithaca, Tompkins County New York State

The trail begins quietly, a soft crunch underfoot where snow thins to leaf litter. Hemlocks hold their breath. The gorge opens in increments, not all at once, and the creek’s voice arrives in fragments—first a whisper, then a steady insistence. Winter edits the landscape with a clean hand. The clutter of summer understory is gone; what remains is structure: stratified shale stacked like a book left open to a single, patient chapter. Every footfall demands attention. Ice slicks the stone where seeps cross the path, and the trail teaches a winter gait—short steps, weight centered, the quiet confidence of traction earned rather than assumed.

As the rim narrows, the air cools perceptibly. The gorge walls rise higher, their layered faces stippled with frost and snow. Icicles form a punctuation along ledges, commas and exclamation points caught mid-sentence. In places, the trail descends into ice chutes—steep, polished corridors where meltwater has glazed the rock. Here, the body listens more closely. Boots test, then commit. Hands brush the cold bark of a leaning tree, a borrowed handrail. There is pleasure in this concentration, the way winter insists on presence. You cannot hurry. You cannot drift.

Below, the creek widens into a quiet pool, its surface a muted mirror. Thin plates of ice drift and collide, sounding a faint porcelain clink. The sound carries upward, amplified by the gorge’s acoustics, a delicate counterpoint to the deeper hush of falling water. The trail curves, and suddenly the falls announce themselves—not in full view, but as a white presence beyond the bend, a brightness lodged between walls of stone.

The trails this day were solid ice. I arrived via the South Rim Trail, the only way to access this site. Robert H. Treman State Park, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State

Approaching from the South Rim offers a measured reveal. First the upper cascades appear, water fanning across rock that has become a winter canvas. Ice has claimed the margins, building ribs and curtains that thicken day by day. The falls do not stop in January; they change. Water threads through ice, slips behind it, emerges again in translucent veils. Gravity persists, but its expression is altered—slower, more deliberate, sculptural.

At the base, Lucifer Falls stands transformed. The familiar plunge has become a tiered architecture of frozen flow, a stepped amphitheater where icicles hang like organ pipes and snow pillows settle into hollows. The water still moves, a silver ribbon finding its way down the left flank, while the right side has grown into a cathedral of ice. The gorge walls close in, amplifying the sound—a low, resonant murmur that feels as much felt as heard.

The cold sharpens every sense. Breath fogs, then clears. Fingers tingle through gloves as the camera comes out, metal biting through insulation. Framing becomes an act of translation: how to honor motion when much of it has paused; how to suggest the hidden currents beneath the frozen skin. A short video will later catch what stillness cannot—the soft shiver of water behind ice, the way the falls breathe even in winter—but for now, the eye lingers on texture and line. Shale layers echo the ice’s striations. Time repeats itself in different materials.

Standing there, it’s impossible not to feel the weight of deep history. These rocks remember glaciers and warmer seas; this creek has been at work since before memory had a word. January merely adds a chapter. Snow feathers the ledges. A stray sunbeam slips into the gorge, briefly igniting the ice, and then is gone. The falls return to their monochrome palette, as dignified as an old photograph.

The return along the rim is lighter, the path now familiar, confidence earned. The ice chutes yield more easily on the way back, as if acknowledging the careful passage. Above the gorge, the forest resumes its quiet, and the trail leads out into the open day. What lingers is the sense of having witnessed something intimate and exacting—a winter conversation between stone and water, conducted without haste, inviting those willing to slow down and listen.

January asks little and gives much. Reaching Lucifer Falls by the South Rim is a reminder that beauty is not diminished by cold; it is clarified.

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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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On The Edge of Time Above Taughannock Gorge

Perched above Taughannock Gorge, a moss-covered ledge and cascading falls reveal ancient stories—where Devonian seas once flowed and time’s layers whisper through stone and water.

MichaelStephenWills5 Comments

The morning sun had only just breached the rim of the gorge, sending long slants of golden light across the forest floor. Walking the South Rim Trail of Taughannock Falls State Park, I came upon a quiet, unassuming spot—just a few paces off the path—where the forest seemed to pause in reverence. What greeted me was a small marvel of persistence and time.

There, rooted precariously atop a slab of brittle shale, was a tenacious shrub rising from a bed of moss, its spindly frame etched in sharp contrast to the soft, green sprawl beneath it. The moss had taken hold on a shelf of rock cantilevered over the gorge like a green tongue of earth defying gravity. Cracks traced the shale’s surface like veins, silent records of the forces that shaped this place—heat, ice, pressure, time. Together, the moss and the bush formed an improbable community, surviving against odds, bound together by the thin soil cradled in stone.

This ledge, suspended over the abyss, seemed less a part of the earth than a question it asked—how much life can cling to the edge before the edge itself gives way?

Beneath this living fragment, the gorge dropped away. Layers upon layers of shale revealed themselves, stacked like a collapsed library of time. Here, the Devonian Period lies exposed to wind and rain, and to those willing to pause and wonder. Each stratum holds the fossil whisper of ancient seas, where trilobites scuttled and coral reefs once stood. This gorge was not carved quickly. It was not born of a moment, but of many—countless raindrops, millennia of ice melt, the slow, sure work of water over stone.

From this natural balcony, I looked out and down to the gorge floor where the creek shaped the land with an artist’s patient hand. The falls, seen from above, no longer thundered—they danced. Spread like the folds of a fan, water curled over smooth stone in steps of white silk. From here, the cascade looked deliberate, choreographed—an elemental performance halfway between gravity and grace.

How many times had this water flowed, reshaped, receded? How often had it carved these grooves, smoothed those ridges, erased the footprints of what came before? Looking at the exposed rock, one could trace the signature of ancient glaciers, feel the memory of long-gone floods. It was humbling—this intersection of change and continuity.

Above it all, the trees stood still. Pine and oak, rooted well back from the edge, offered a kind of sentinel presence. Their shadows stretched long and angled, tracing the contours of both earth and memory. For a moment, I let go of all thought and simply listened—to the murmur of wind through leaves, the faint rush of water far below, and the silence that presses in when the land itself seems to be remembering.

This spot—so easily missed by a hurried hiker—offered a parable of resilience and impermanence. The moss did not grow with certainty, nor the shrub reach with confidence. They survived on the edge because they adapted. They made do with less. They took root where others could not. There was no security in that place, only presence. Only the now.

And isn’t that a lesson worth carrying?

We so often seek stability, firm ground, a clear path. Yet, some of the most beautiful things live just beyond comfort—on ledges, in cracks, in the margins of the known. To pause here was to acknowledge that life thrives not only in sheltered valleys but also at the edge of what seems possible.

As I stepped back onto the trail and continued along the South Rim, the image of that mossy outcrop stayed with me. I carried it in my thoughts like a talisman—proof that even on the brink, life finds a way. And that from above, the most chaotic falls can appear as ordered motion, as a flow toward something larger.

Later, when the sun climbed higher and the light lost its slant, I would look back on this moment not as a spectacular highlight but as something more intimate: a quiet encounter with nature’s subtle artistry, its layered truths, and its enduring invitation to look closely, feel deeply, and walk softly.

For here, above the gorge, at the edge of earth and time, even a whisper leaves a mark.

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Guardians of the Plateau: Brigham’s Tomb, the Stagecoach, and the King on His Throne

Here is a journey to Brigham’s Tomb in Monument Valley, reflecting on the land’s timelessness, silent presence, and the profound connection between the observer and natural formations.

MichaelStephenWills14 Comments

He did not come seeking answers, nor was he lost. The road had summoned him—as it had summoned others before him—and he followed its arc with the steadiness of one who does not hurry time. The sun was descending behind him, slow and inevitable, casting long golden blades across the plateau. That was how it wanted to be seen, and he did not interfere.

He had come this way before in dreams, further south where the great stone mittens reached into the sky. There, the land had risen in clarity, each formation distinct in its declaration. But now the evening had deepened, and the land changed its tongue. It spoke more slowly. With greater weight. And he listened.

The air was thin with silence. Even the wind moved differently here—more cautious, more reverent. And then the shapes came into view. Not suddenly, but as if they had always been there and were only now permitting themselves to be noticed.

Here stood Brigham’s Tomb.

On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Navajo County, Arizona. Brigham’s Tomb. On the way to Monument Valley Tribal Park as the sunset for this view on Sullivan Road (Route 163). Navajo County, Arizona. Brighams Tomb is situated six miles (9.7 km) northeast of Oljato–Monument Valley, Utah, on Navajo Nation land. It is an iconic landform of Monument Valley and can be seen from Highway 163. Precipitation runoff from this landform’s slopes drains into the San Juan River drainage basin. Topographic relief is significant as the summit rises 1,000 feet (305 meters) above the surrounding terrain in 0.25 mile (0.4 km). The mountain’s name refers to Brigham Young, the first governor of the Utah Territory. This landform’s toponym was officially adopted/revised in 1988 by the United States Board on Geographic Names after having been officially named “Saddleback” from 1964 through 1987. Some older maps will still show the Saddleback name. Geology Brighams Tomb is composed of three principal strata. The bottom layer is slope-forming Organ Rock Shale, the next stratum is cliff-forming De Chelly Sandstone, and the upper layer is Moenkopi Formation capped by Shinarump Conglomerate. The rock ranges in age from Permian at the bottom to Late Triassic at the top. The buttes and mesas of Monument Valley are the result of the Organ Rock Shale being more easily eroded than the overlaying sandstone..

It rose alone, square and solemn, its flanks pressed by the last warmth of the day. The light traced every fracture, every line of sediment like the spine of something ancient and vast. It had no vanity. Its strength was in endurance, in the simplicity of mass. The world had spun uncounted times around this throne of stone, and still it stood—unmoved, unwitnessed except by sky and the slow-growing desert at its feet.

He paused there—not because he was uncertain, but because the monument required it. Some things must be received in silence.

Their topographic relief is significant: Stagecoach rises 900 feet (274 meters) above the surrounding terrain in 0.35 mile (0.56 km), while King-on-his-Throne rises 565 feet (172 meters) in 0.2 mile (0.32 km). Each butte’s toponym has been officially adopted by the United States Board on Geographic Names—Stagecoach is named for its resemblance to a stagecoach, and King-on-his-Throne is said to resemble a monarch surveying his domain. Stagecoach’s first summit ascent was made in 1995 by John Middendorf, Carl Tobin, and Dan Langmade; King-on-his-Throne’s first was in 1967 by Fred Beckey, Marlene Dalluge, Joe Brown, and Don Liska.

To the southeast, past a stretch of ochre earth and sagebrush, rose two more forms. The King on His Throne, upright and proud, shaped as if he had emerged from the stone itself to bear witness. An artifact of erosion, also a sovereign presence—crowned in shadow and wind. There was no question of who he was. His seat was eternal, and no rider passed without first meeting his gaze.

Beside him stood The Stagecoach. Its resemblance to the name was almost too perfect, as if the form had stepped from the myth fully formed. But he knew better. It had not become a stagecoach. The coach had become it. The names were backwards, as names often are. The land had come first. All else was echo.

The giants stood together across the basin, their red-gold skin kindled in the last light. Their arrangement was no accident. One rose alone. Two more aside, bound by rhythm but not repetition. Together they formed a sequence—pause, proclamation, passage.

He walked the trail slowly, camera at his side but silent for a long while. There were things beyond framing. This was not a scene to be taken. It was a truth to be approached.

At the edge of the frame—a photograph not yet taken, but inevitable—the fence stretched taut across the scrub. Old wood. Rusted wire. Man’s line scratched against the land’s permanence. It held nothing. It said nothing. But it was there, and so he acknowledged it, as one acknowledges a child’s drawing pinned beside a mural.

Overhead, the sky was deepening into steel. But the earth still burned, even gently. The buttes and mesas were not dimmed by dusk. They only leaned inward, as if the heat of the day had carried them toward some great remembering.

He had seen many monuments in his life, but these were not monuments in the human sense. These were not built. They were born. They had no need for marble or inscription. Their gospel was in their silence, their liturgy the erosion of time itself.

He stood long, unmoving.

Not lost. Not searching. Just witnessing.

As the light slipped and the forms began to release their edges to shadow, he turned once—not away, but forward. The road still called. And the giants behind him did not diminish. They merely remained, as they always had, and always would.

Waiting.

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A Serene Walk in Glendalough: Nature and History Unite

Find here a serene visit to Glendalough, highlighting the ancient beauty of its landscape, monastic history, and the deep sense of peace felt among the gravestones.

MichaelStephenWills20 Comments

We arrived in Glendalough on a bright spring morning, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of grass and distant water. Even before stepping out of the car, I sensed something ancient in the air, as though the centuries themselves lay waiting among the stones. The peaks of the Wicklow Mountains rose around me, their slopes draped in verdant forests that whispered of forgotten tales. In the distance, shimmering like a secret, the Upper Lake beckoned under the watchful hush of rugged hillsides. I took a deep breath and started my wander.

One of the lakes for which the valley is named, above the headstones in the mid-distance

Walking through the monastic settlement, I felt enveloped by a hush both reverential and oddly comforting. The path led me to a cluster of gravestones leaning gently askew, each marked by Celtic crosses standing guard over the memory of those buried below. One cross, carved from sturdy stone, immediately drew my attention with its intricate knotwork etched deep into the surface. The front of it bore swirling designs reminiscent of interwoven vines—symbols of eternity, continuity, and faith. I found myself imagining centuries of pilgrims, each pausing here, hands gently resting on the weathered carvings, offering up their prayers and hopes.

Memorial from a mother to her 6 year old son and husband

A bit farther on, I came upon a small grouping of headstones bowed in silent unity. Ferns and moss carpeted the ground in bright greens, creating a natural tapestry that wove together life and memory. The slightly overgrown grass softened the entire landscape, allowing each stone to stand quietly yet firmly in the earth. From behind these markers, I caught my first glimpse of the shimmering lake, framed perfectly by the slopes of the valley. The water’s surface reflected the sky’s azure brilliance and accentuated the gentle hush that fell upon the graveyard like a comforting quilt.

As I paused to take a few photographs, I felt a hint of magic floating through the air—an indefinable sense that beyond what my eyes perceived, an age-old spirit thrived. The Celtic symbols on the headstones seemed alive, their swirling knots hinting at the cycle of life and death, the oneness of the world, and the bridging of earthly existence with the mystic realm. I found myself recalling old Irish legends: stories of saints who could converse with animals, of spirits dwelling in hidden glades, of holy wells that healed weary travelers. It felt as though those tales were all around me, wrapped in the tapestry of this timeless valley.

Looking out toward the remains of the stone church—its walls crumbled yet proud—my imagination conjured the chanting of monks, their voices echoing off the surrounding hills. The same forest that sheltered me now would have encircled them all those centuries ago, shifting from season to season. It was easy to picture them gathering by the lake’s edge, cups of cold, clear water cupped in their hands, or moving reverently among the graves of those who had come before them. Here, time seemed an illusion. The line between past and present faded as I stood among these enduring stones.

Winding paths of grass guided me to another section of the cemetery, where weathered inscriptions told the stories of families, lineages, and deep connections to the land. Some headstones were so old that the lettering had nearly eroded, but others still proudly bore legible names and dates. Names like Power, Byrne, and Keane were etched in memory, followed by poignant words of affection and devotion. The place felt both solemn and comforting at once—a harmonious interplay of remembrance, reverence, and the gentle pulse of nature.

Valley walls are dramatic and steep

A sudden breeze rippled through the trees, setting the leaves to dance and carrying the lilt of birdsong across the valley. I turned to admire the view once more, and there, between towering yew trees, the lake glowed like a polished mirror. Soft clouds glided overhead in a pale blue sky. The entire scene seemed woven from a single, unbroken strand—mountain, forest, gravestone, lake, and sky merging in a spellbinding harmony. It was the kind of moment that invited awe, a moment in which to lose oneself and yet feel more fully found.

I left the cemetery with a deeper sense of peace than I had known in some time. The photographs I took may capture the beauty of Glendalough’s ancient crosses and serene landscape, but it’s the intangible hush of centuries and the gentle brush of magic that remain with me. With every step back toward the car, I felt the warmth of timelessness, and as the day’s golden light enveloped the stone monuments behind me, I carried away a tiny spark of the valley’s enchantment—a reminder that some places are truly touched by the divine.Look closely at the carved scroll at the foot of the cross.

For more background of this site, see my posting “The Cloigheach of Glendalough.”

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A Finger Lakes Afternoon: An Ode to October Splendor

The Finger Lakes’ autumn beauty is vividly captured in photographs showcasing vibrant foliage, intertwining nature and human presence in October 2024.

MichaelStephenWills17 Comments

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 colors
Japanese maple leaves and samara in autumn colors. From our yard October 2024
Japanese 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.

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The Autumn Tapestry of Cayuga Lake: A Journey on the Treman Park Lake Loop

MichaelStephenWills10 Comments

Autumn’s Arrival Along Cayuga Lake

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.

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Ginkgo and Sycamore: Nature’s Beauty Amid Climate Change

On Thanksgiving 2023, I reflected on climate change’s impact while observing contrasting ginkgo and sycamore leaves during the Turkey Trot.

MichaelStephenWills1 Comment

The air was soddenly warm that Thanksgiving morning in 2023, carrying a foreboding of climate change. Standing on the grounds of Ithaca High School, I couldn’t help but feel the incongruity of the unseasonable warmth. The annual “Turkey Trot” was unfolding around me, an event filled with cheerful camaraderie, yet beneath the surface of this tradition, the world itself seemed to whisper a warning. My attention drifted from the runners to the ground, where fallen leaves painted a story that echoed this uneasy tension.

The ginkgo leaves, their vibrant golden hues glowing against the damp grass, seemed almost out of place in the humid air. Ginkgos are ancient survivors, trees that have witnessed millennia of change, yet even they now face a future shaped by the rapid pace of human disruption. Their fan-like shapes, so delicate and timeless, carried an irony—symbols of endurance scattered on a landscape where the seasons no longer held the predictability they once did. That morning, their luminous beauty felt like a quiet plea, a reminder of nature’s fragility in the face of human indifference.

As a spectator of the 2023 “Turkey Trot” on Thanksgiving Day I found these Ginko and Sycamore leaves at Ithaca High School, Ithaca, Tompkins County New York. Finger Lakes Region

Among them, the sycamore leaves lay darker and more rugged, their broader forms curled and weathered by the elements. The sycamore is a resilient tree, often thriving in difficult conditions, yet its leaves bore a somber note against the warmth of the day. Together, the ginkgo and sycamore leaves formed a poignant tableau—a meeting of strength and delicacy, both subject to the same unrelenting forces of change. As I stood there, the leaves seemed to whisper their own story, a testament to survival amidst an increasingly uncertain world.

Ginko Leaves and Honey Locust Pods, Stewart Park on a December 2023 afternoon

The Turkey Trot unfolded with its usual energy—children dashed ahead with gleeful abandon, adults paced themselves in cheerful determination, and older participants moved with quiet dignity. The warmth seemed to amplify the human vibrancy of the event, yet it also cast a shadow of dissonance. This race, this celebration of resilience and community, was happening against the backdrop of a world in flux. The warmth of the morning was a reminder that even cherished traditions like this might one day feel the strain of climate shifts.

I crouched to capture the leaves in a photograph, drawn by their interplay of color and form. The ginkgo leaves glimmered like gold coins scattered across the ground, while the sycamore leaves added a depth and weight that anchored the scene. Together, they reminded me of the cyclical nature of life, the beauty and decay that coexist within the same space. Yet this year, the warmth in the air added an unsettling layer to the story. These leaves, so central to the rhythm of seasons, were now falling in a world where those rhythms seemed increasingly disrupted.

Bare Ginko tree with leaf pattern, Stewart Park on a December afternoon 2023

As the sunlight broke through the clouds, it illuminated the edges of the ginkgo leaves, making them shimmer with an almost otherworldly light. I lingered in that moment, feeling the weight of its quiet truth: life is fleeting, but its beauty endures in the connections we foster and the memories we hold. That Thanksgiving, the humid warmth of the air reminded me that we live in a time of profound change, yet even amid uncertainty, there is still wonder to be found beneath our feet. It is a wonder worth preserving.

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The Enchantment of Autumn Over Cascadilla Gorge

Join me for a serene autumn walk in Ithaca, appreciating nature’s beauty, impermanence, and the calming rhythms of life.

MichaelStephenWills18 Comments

A few days before Halloween, I found myself on the rim of Cascadilla Gorge, Ithaca’s autumnal crown jewel. The air had that crisp October quality, each breath carrying a hint of the colder days to come yet still tempered by the lingering warmth of early fall. A breeze carried a scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a rich, organic aroma that signaled the turning of the seasons. The path beneath my feet was a tapestry of fallen leaves—russet, gold, and burnt orange—a natural carpet leading me through a world suspended between vibrancy and rest.

Golden Canopy over Buffalo Street Sidewalk

Continuing up Buffalo Street, I marveled at the trees, their branches thick with yellow and gold leaves, creating a canopy above. The leaves shivered with every gust, whispering the ancient secrets of the forest. The air was infused with the sweet, woody fragrance of maple and oak, mingling with the faint scent of chimney smoke from nearby houses. The sunlight filtered through, casting a dappled pattern on the sidewalk, a fleeting mosaic as the leaves danced in the wind. A sense of impermanence struck me; soon, these leaves would be gone, leaving bare branches silhouetted against a winter sky.

Scene from Dewitt Place toward South Hill and Ithaca College

Crossing the Stewart Avenue bridge, the Cascadilla Gorge came into view, a steep wall of stratified rock layers standing guard over the gently flowing stream below. The contrast between stone and foliage was breathtaking—the hard, unyielding rock juxtaposed with the softness of leaves in full autumnal bloom. The earthy scent of wet stone mixed with the crisp aroma of the flowing water, creating a sensory tapestry unique to the gorge. The colors seemed to intensify against the gray and brown of the cliff, each leaf like a brushstroke on nature’s canvas, celebrating the season’s final flourish before surrendering to winter.

Below footpath along the gorge rim, the creek wound through, its banks littered with leaves that had completed their journey from branch to earth. They floated on the water’s surface, spinning gently in the current as though reluctant to leave this last dance. The sound of the water was a steady undercurrent, soothing and rhythmic, as it tumbled over stones and carved its way through the gorge. I paused to watch, entranced by the way water and rock, ephemeral and eternal, seemed to coexist in a kind of harmony.

I stopped at a lookout point and surveyed the town sprawled out below, nestled amidst the fiery colors of the surrounding hills. The architecture of Ithaca’s buildings peeked through the trees, each roof and spire framed by the season’s palette. This was a town embraced by nature; its rhythm dictated as much by the seasons as by human hands. The sight stirred a sense of gratitude within me; here was a place that reminded you to slow down and observe, to notice the subtle shifts in light, in color, in the way a single gust of wind could change a landscape.

I continued along the rim, passing a small waterfall that spilled over the rocks with a quiet insistence. The water had carved smooth pathways in the stone, evidence of its long journey and persistent power. The sunlight hit the spray just right, casting a fleeting rainbow that shimmered and then disappeared as I moved. I felt a sense of companionship with the water—both of us moving forward, shaped by the paths we traverse, yet always adapting to whatever lay ahead.

The last part of the trail led me through a dense thicket of trees, their branches hanging low, forming a natural archway. The air was heavy with the musky scent of fallen leaves and the spicy aroma of pine needles underfoot. Here, the light was softer, muted by the thick canopy overhead. The quietness enveloped me, broken only by the occasional rustle of a squirrel in the leaves or the distant caw of a crow. It was the kind of silence that feels sacred, where each sound, no matter how small, becomes profound.

Entering Cascadilla Gorge from Linn Street

Emerging from the shaded path, I took one last look back at the gorge. The scene was both familiar and new—a blend of natural beauty and the nostalgia of seasons past. I felt a sense of peace, grounded by the cycles of the earth, by the ebb and flow of life around me. In this moment, on the brink of Halloween, the world felt both hauntingly beautiful and reassuringly steadfast, a reminder that even as the leaves fall and the days grow shorter, there is a promise of renewal in the quiet persistence of nature.

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