Ithaca’s bedrock, formed 370 million years ago, deeply influences its landscape, neutralizes rainwater’s acidity, and carries a story of Earth’s resilience and transformation.
In Ithaca, New York, the story of the land is deeply rooted in its geology. Beneath the vibrant autumn leaves and along the path of Lick Creek lies a bedrock formed 370 million years ago. This ancient foundation, once the sediment of a vast inland sea, now forms the solid base upon which the city stands.
The bedrock here is a silent witness to Earth’s long history. Originating in the Devonian period, it marks a time when vast seas covered much of the Earth’s surface. Within these ancient waters, life flourished, leaving behind sediments that, over eons, transformed into the layered rock beneath Ithaca.
These layers are more than just historical records; they actively shape the landscape. The bedrock influences soil composition, affects plant growth, and directs the flow of streams. Lick Creek, with its clear waters, is one such stream that interacts intimately with this bedrock.
In autumn, the beauty of this interaction is vividly displayed. The red and yellow maple leaves create a striking contrast against the grey-blue backdrop of the bedrock, a blend of the vibrant present with the ancient past. These fallen leaves, over time, decompose and enrich the soil, continuing a cycle of life that this bedrock has supported for millions of years.
This bedrock also plays a crucial role in water chemistry. As acidic rainwater percolates through it, a remarkable transformation occurs. The bedrock naturally neutralizes the acidity of the rainwater. By the time the water emerges as streams, it is buffered to a neutral pH. This process is vital for maintaining the ecological balance of the area. The streams that flow out, including Lick Creek, support diverse ecosystems thanks to this natural filtration process.
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The bedrock on which Lick Creek flows formed 370 million years ago from sediment of a vast inland sea, making a soothing grey-blue backdrop to this year’s autumn foliage.
The neutral pH water is crucial for the flora and fauna of Ithaca. It sustains the forests, the wildlife, and the natural beauty that defines the region. This water, once acid rain, purified by the ancient bedrock, now nurtures life in its journey.
In Ithaca, the bedrock is a testament to the enduring nature of our planet. It reminds us of the continuous cycle of transformation that defines the Earth. The contrast of the autumn leaves against the bedrock is not just a scene of ephemeral beauty; it symbolizes the dynamic interplay between the living and the geological, between the present and the deep past.
The bedrock of Ithaca, with its ability to neutralize acidic water, highlights the interconnectedness of natural processes. It shows how the Earth self-regulates and sustains life in intricate ways. As the buffered, neutral pH water of Lick Creek flows over this bedrock, it carries with it the story of a planet that is constantly renewing and sustaining itself.
In this landscape, the past is not just a memory; it is an active participant in the present. The bedrock, the autumn leaves, and the flowing streams tell a story of resilience, continuity, and the beauty of nature’s balance. This is the legacy of Ithaca’s bedrock, a legacy of endurance, transformation, and life.
In the gentle embrace of the Finger Lakes region of New York State, the crisp post-Thanksgiving air is a mix of woodsmoke and the faint whisper of winter on the horizon. The earthy scent of fallen leaves, damp from the morning dew, begins to permeate the atmosphere, beckoning families outdoors to partake in the timeless ritual of leaf gathering.
The landscape is a canvas of russet and gold, painted by the hands of autumn. In one of the many serene backyards, framed by the skeletal silhouettes of trees now slumbering after their fiery display, a mound of leaves becomes the center of joyous activity. Here, a child, bundled in the cozy layers necessary to fend off the chill, is immersed in the simple, yet profound act of play. The leaves, a tapestry of oaks and maples, become her castle, her sea, her world to explore.
Her laughter rings clear, a melodic counterpoint to the rustling leaves as she is lifted high by loving hands only to descend into the crunchy embrace of her leafy playpen. A grandfather, his face etched with the smile lines of countless summers and autumns past, becomes the orchestrator of this joy. His flannel shirt, a patchwork of reds and greens, reflects the colors of the season, and his hands, weathered from years of tending to the earth and its cycles, now tenderly guide the child in her play.
The rake, usually a tool of labor, becomes a wand of magic, directing the leaves into heaps that rise and fall with each jump and dive. The child’s mittened hands grasp at the leaves, each one a different hue, a different shape, a different story. They fly up around her like a flock of birds taking flight, then settle back into their collective, creating a soft rustling symphony that speaks of the changing season.
The photographs of this gallery are by Soraya Leathers
As the sun begins to dip lower, casting elongated shadows across the yard, the child’s energy wanes. The vibrant activity gives way to tranquil moments of rest, with the child now lying still among the leaves, her eyes reflecting the vastness of the sky above, clear and blue, a window between the earthly and the infinite.
The day wanes, and the leaf-gathering winds down. A final tableau shows the child, now indoors, cocooned in the warmth of a blanket that mirrors the plaid of her grandfather’s shirt, the same colors now muted and soft. Her eyes are heavy with the weight of a day well spent, her dreams surely filled with the laughter and the leaves and the boundless love that turns even the simplest act into a treasure of memories.
This is the essence of leaf gathering in the Finger Lakes after Thanksgiving – not just the collection of what has fallen, but the gathering of family, of joy, and of moments that will be cherished and recalled long after the last leaf has been tucked into the earth’s winter bed. It’s a time when the harvest is not just of the land’s bounty but of the heart’s. Each leaf, a reminder that even as the world prepares to sleep beneath the snow, life is rich, full, and evergreen in the hearts of those who share it.
The Catskill Mountains are not mountains. The Catskills started as a high plateau. Over eons, before the first humans, water, the sun, and wind carved high steep peaks: rounded, forested and teeming with life.
October 2008, on a return trip from family on Long Island, we traveled the winding road called “Route 17”, through the high autumn hillsides.
As the sun passed over the western hills we stopped to explore a place called “Fishs Eddy”, a town on the banks of the Delaware River.
Delaware River view at Fishes Eddy
On the east side, facing sunset is a formation that would be a cliff if it was not for the hardwood trees growing from every available nook, crevice. Everywhere a root could be sunk, roots fed trees that, one late October afternoon, made a hill bright with autumn.
Turkey Habitat
Turkeys live in this type of habitat. We took a trail, barely a road that climbed past failed farms and hunting shacks.
On a level place, in front of a ruined home, we came upon a Tom (male) turkey and his four hens. The hens fled at the sight of us. With barely time to raise the camera I caught Tom and the last hen as she fled into the bushes.
Tom Turkey Defiant
I say she, because Tom stayed behind. He stood erect, all three feet of him, defiant and strutting in a direction opposite from the hens.
This is the bird Benjamin Franklin proposed as the national emblem of the new United State of America (the bald eagle won that competition).
Hunted into almost oblivion, across the United States the wild turkey is making a dramatic comeback in many places, including the forests and farmland of rural New York State
This fellow made no noise. His strutting posture and head bobbing said it all.
We left Tom Turkey in peace to his domain and hens.
In this third part, we continue hiking Treman gorge, approaching Lucifer Falls, viewing another waterfall further downstream and returning to the trailhead.
Tiny Trumpet, unknown
I have never achieved a satisfactory capture of the waterfall in the Devil’s Kitchen, a place where the creek flow is diverted south by a projecting ridge. Less than 100 feet later the easterly direction is regained where the water plummets over Lucifer Falls.
The annual in fall of rock in Devil’s Kitchen uproots and crushes plants growing there. There is scant soil, the roots of this shiny purple trumpet bloom took hold in a microscopic crack. The plant is so thin, the flower so tiny it is lucky my gaze found it.
After searching all my plant identification references, this plan is unknown to me. Please help with identification. The bloom is 1/4 inch long.
Not far away, these asters grow from a slightly wider crack. Pam pointed them out to me. I was drawn by the striking color difference of the heads growing from a single stalk.
As trail winds around the ridge a stone wall rises on the right and for good reason. The stream shortly reaches the brink of Lucifer Falls, 115 feet high. Gorge walls fall away, the trail steepens. Here is the view from the trail next to the brink.
At hand, on the right, a growth of ferns has survived many seasons. Flowering plants are, in geological time (across billions of years), a relatively recent development compared to these non-flowering ferns. The first flowering plants appears 120 million years ago compared to the first ferns, 360 million years ago. Oddly enough, the spread of flowering plants affected evolution of ferns, an increase of fern speciation in parallel to the rise of flower plants.
While descending the stairs next to the falls brink, look to the right to see this ecosystem, a result of water seeping from the sedimentary rock stratification.
Here you can see how, at lower flow levels, the inactive sections of the fall lip become a garden. In our climate, the entire brink is active for rare and brief intervals during spring thaws. Note how, closer to the active brink, the grasses give way to mosses. Where grasses grow the brink is almost never active.
The trail wall is a lighter color than the cliff, this is how you can see, on the right, the steep trail descent.
Pam and I turned around here. This is some work I did August 2014 of a notable fall downstream from Lucifer. I used the 24 mm Canon lens here, cropping the image. My goal was to include the stair, for interest, with sunlight on the upper stairs; the water in shade.
Myrtle borders the trail as it rises from the gorge entrance.
Tree trunks fallen from the gorge walls are left to decay, restoring the soil. The trunks are covered by moss among a thick growth of myrtle and a few ferns.
To finish, here is an image that may broaden your understanding of sunflowers. These smaller, ornamental sunflowers are, at first, difficult to place. Look carefully at the center, composed of many tiny flowers (florets). In crop sunflowers each of these becomes a seed. In this image, shiny beetles are feasting.
In part 2 of this series, we return to the starting point. Siting of a water mill requires immediate access to the potential energy of falling water, something called “head.” Upper Treman Park was once a prosperous hamlet with the mill as the kernel. Today, the head that drove the mill is a lovely cascade behind the substantial and intact mill building. Easy walking distance from parking, this is a well-known park feature.
Here are three versions of a portrait of Mill Falls using different lenses for varying effects. All were taken in the same season and approximate time of day, being early evening.
This is the uncropped image used in part 1 of this series. I found the secondary cascade a distraction. Exposure of the secondary is difficult to balance against the primary and more shaded primary.
Let’s return to where part 1 left off, the stone bridge across the eastern side of the gorge entrance gallery.
This segmental arch is an illusion, the beautiful stone work is the facing of the concrete structure that carries to load of the stone, itself and visitors.
My composition emphasizes the mass of rock wall above the bench and into which it is placed. The limestone slabs are from a different source, they are not built from the material removed from the cliff.
Seeds and Flowers
A dandelion on steroids. If you can help with identification of this plant, please post a comment.
Many first time visitors do not look back to appreciate these scene. When we give advice, our recommendation is to return on the same gorge trail. The different viewpoints make for a fresh experience.
Mr. Toad
Toads hide from passing feet at the base of step risers, among the plants and dried leaves.
They are like people, sitting there. Kenneth Graham’s genius, in writing “Wind in the Willows”, was to recognize the likable characteristics of the toad. I find myself concerned about their survival, although they must survive. Earlier in the season they are pea sized. I resist an inclination to move them to what may be a more promising location, preferably with a stone house and chrome brilliant motor car.
Over the weekend the handle of our 60 year old Delta brand kitchen faucet broke off, since we moved here I rebuilt it once and replaced the stainless steel sphere, the central control of the mechanism. The stem of the sphere must have been faulty because it snapped. Monday, I visited Lowes and the sphere was not in stock. Just wanting to fix the faucet, I skipped the usual vetting of a new product and grabbed the exact same Delta faucet which was, just like the sphere that broke, made in China. The next step up in (questionable) quality was three times the price.
Running Water
Yesterday I installed a new faucet in the kitchen sink, a straightforward and unpleasant task that took most of the day. Late afternoon, while resting up, I brought up the idea of a hike and Pam reminded me we had another clear September day. Last week, I headed out to capture the Mill Creek waterfall of upper Treman Park at the perfect time of day. It was a day such as this, warm, a cloudless sky, minimal breeze.
Pam reminded me this evening I was trying to capture the Mill Waterfall of Upper Treman Park at the perfect moment when the sunlight glazes the pools.
I need to get in place a bit earlier. Previously, I used a 24 mm wide angle lens and, today, mounted the EF 70-300mm f/4 – 5.6L USM lens on the Canon EOS 1DS MarkIII. Did not have time to sort through the ND filters, so left the UV on. The waterfall is in a glen, shaded from direct light at this time of day, sun low in the west. Given the low light, to save time, I decided to set ISO to a low value (125), set lens to the widest angle (70 mm), and frame the shot using the heavy Manfrotto tripod with ball head.
Needed to crop the image for the above result, still not perfect. I am seeking to full the entire pool in that glow.
Towards the end of her life, my Mom waited for us on this bench while we walked. She enjoyed the sound of the creek, watching and chatting with passerbys. There some out of focus goldenrod right foreground. I frames the shot to catch the flowers and crop out a tree trunk.
Hiking the Gorge Trail
Instead of putting the gear away, I carried that heavy setup on the hike. The strap around the neck is a lot of stress if it hangs. With the gear cradled in the crook of my arm it is bearable.
The creek is spanned at several points by these stone footbridges, the work of the Civilian Conservation Corps, as are all the gorge trails. This bridge was restored last year. It leads to a marvelous grove of Sycamores.
Needless to say, the pace was sedate. Pam spent most of the time walking ahead and refusing to be in any shots. These past weeks, rainfall was light, so the creek is low. This low flow is a necessary element to a perfect waterfall image.
A single stem of goldenrod, ther are hundreds of species of this relative of the aster.
I get some great macro shots with that lens. With just the UV filter, it is quite fast.
The gorge wall rises to the right of the path.Very little of the gorge walls do not support thick growth of mosses, lichen, ferns, flowering plants of all kinds. I don’t know offhand the name of the cnetral plant growing from the base of the wall.
In the Gallery
Shaped by whirlpools during high flow, the curves recall flowing water.
A memorable feature of upper Treman Park is the dramatic gorge entrance. When the glaciers melted, 10,000+ years ago, enough water flowed through this watercourse to wear away several hundred feed of sedimentary rock to form a gallery, or hall, with towering, crumbling, walls on either side.
This evening the light was low, the water seemed dead in that it was clear and did not glisten or ripple. I used these conditions in the above shot to emphasize the structure this pool. Located at the foot of a waterfall, at high water, the falls fill channel and this pool is carved by river stones carried in the current. At lower water, the pool is exposed.
Spanning the eastern side of the gallery entrance of the gorge.
The footbridge, above, is most often photographed from the western side of a long gallery formed by the gorge carved by the creek. This is a shot that explores the fine stonework.
The post explores the symbolism of Lucifer and the Tiger Lily, suggesting that beauty and pride can lead to downfall, reminiscent of Lucifer’s narrative.
A reader’s comment to this blog, thank you “Urban Liaisons,” prompted me to explore the word, Lucifer. “Lucifer”, in Christian tradition, refers to the devil as it was in a time of glory before the fall from grace. The original, ancient meaning of Lucifer is the planet Venus as it rises just before the sun at dawn. In this sense, the name refers to the bright beauty of the spot. The effect is heightened at midday when the hiker passes from the relative gloom of Devils Kitchen to the full light and sweep of the waterfall chasm.
Standing next to the falls on the Gorge Trail, the stone wall of the Rim Trail Overlook is overpowered by the grandeur of the 300+ foot cliff. The falls photographs were taken from behind the wall.
Occasionally, we have experienced individuals climbing over the wall to stand on the other side. “Why?”
Summertime thick stands of tiger lilies flourish on the cliff face. Can you find the withered leaves?
I must delve into symbolic interpretations to explore the connection between Lucifer and the Tiger Lily. Lucifer, traditionally associated with rebellion and the fallen angel in Christian theology, symbolizes a break from divine order and beauty tainted by pride. On the other hand, the Tiger Lily is often seen as a symbol of wealth, pride, and prosperity in various cultures. The connection lies in the shared symbolism of pride and beauty. Just as Lucifer was a beautiful angel before his fall, the Tiger Lily is a strikingly beautiful flower, often associated with pride. This juxtaposition creates a metaphorical link, suggesting that beauty and pride, while alluring, can lead to downfall, mirroring Lucifer’s story.
This session I finally “cracked” the puzzle of the Devil’s Kitchen Waterfall. I posted the results to the online gallery yesterday, for your enjoyment. Click the link to go there.
The post describes a photographic expedition featuring a sunflower field and maples at Frear Memorial Park, and explores the notable Frear family’s history in Ithaca, New York.
Descending Hayts Road toward Cayuga Lake in the course of a photographic scouting expedition I spotted a mature linear maple tree planting forming the western edge of Frear Memorial Park. This day Pam and I headed out at day’s end, stopping here to capture the turning maples.
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A sunflower field was a hidden surprise. The 24 mm “wide angle” lens was mounted on a Canon EOS 5D Mark IV dslr on a light carbon fiber tripod.
The Frear family has a notable presence in Ithaca, New York’s history. One significant member was William Frear, a well-known businessman who lived his entire life in Ithaca. He ran a candy store and a photograph gallery, and was involved in the county fair. William passed away in 1915 at his daughter’s home on East Buffalo Street in Ithaca.
In terms of the Frear family’s broader historical context, the name was found in the USA, the UK, Canada, and Scotland between 1840 and 1920, with the most Frear families in the USA recorded in 1880. Remarkably, in 1840, about 67% of all recorded Frear families in the USA were living in New York, indicating a significant concentration of the family in the state.
The family tree of William Frear includes his parents Baltus Frear (1793–1881) and Lavina Westerveldt Frear (1800–1868), his spouse Ann Amelia Hopkins Frear (1838–1906), and his children Baltus W Frear (1865–1885), Donna Frear Luker (1868–1929), T Wilbur Frear (1874–1874), and Edward Hughson Frear (1876–1910).
This snapshot of the Frear family in Ithaca provides a glimpse into their lives and contributions to the local community during the 19th and early 20th centuries.
Additionally, there is a Frear Park in Troy, New York. Donated by the family of William H. Frear in June, 1917, Wright Lake and Bradley Lake, located in the park were named for members of the Frear Family. The Frear Family was originally from France where the name was as Frere. The Frere’s moved to England to escape prosecutions, where the spelling of the name was changed to Frear. The family was founded in the United States by Joseph Frear, Grandfather of William H. Frear of Troy, New York.
Here we have the harmony between humans and nature, represented through woodland shelters like lean-tos and birdhouses. It portrays these shelters as spaces of coexistence, mutualistic masterpieces blending function, form, and aesthetic in nature.
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…vines running free.
In the dappled sanctuary of the woodlands, where the rustle of leaves is a constant whisper and the breeze carries the secrets of the earth, there lies an unspoken harmony between the realm of the rooted and the realm of the roving. Here, the art of shelter is not just necessity but poetry—a dialogue between man and nature, bird and branch, leaf and sky. It is in the woodland shelters—those humble lean-tos and the charming birdhouses—that this conversation finds its most enchanting expressions.
A lean-to, a simple structure, a slant of sanctuary against the embracing trunk of a venerable oak or the crook of a steadfast pine, rises like an ode to minimalist refuge. It is both a testament to human ingenuity and a bow to the grandeur of the forest. Constructed from the very bones of the woods, with limbs that have fallen in the last tempest’s dance, it is clad in the textures of the wild—a tapestry of bark, a patchwork of leaves. It does not impose but rather suggests, whispering, “Here, rest awhile, where the earth holds you and the canopy cradles the sky.”
Within this woodland embrace, the lean-to is the hermit’s haven, the hiker’s pause, the dreamer’s alcove. It is the place where one can commune with the murmur of the brook, the chitter of the squirrel, and the silent flight of the owl at twilight. It is here that the smoke of a small fire mingles with the mist of dawn, where stories unfold to the rhythm of the crackling embers and the forest listens.
And what of the birdhouses, those quaint dwellings that pepper the woodland tableau? They are not mere shelters but the grand stages for the aerial ballet of wings and the morning serenades of feathered minstrels. Each is a mansion of possibility, an invitation etched in wood and lovingly placed among the boughs. They are the outposts of avian dreams, where the pulse of tiny hearts beats in time with the dripping of rain and the warmth of the sun’s caress.
The birdhouse is a symbol of the generosity of the woodsman’s spirit, a gift to the skyborne, a token of respect to the delicate denizens of the firmament. Here, the chickadee, the finch, the nuthatch, and the wren find respite and nurture the next generation of sky dancers. Each hole is a portal to a home, each perch a threshold to the warmth within, and every departure and return is witnessed by the vigilant trees, the silent sentinels of the forest.
Lean-tos and birdhouses, these woodland shelters, are the chorus of the sylvan symphony, the unseen chords that bind human to habitat, life to life. They are proof that in the quiet places of the world, where humanity treads lightly and the wild holds sway, there can be a beautiful coexistence, a mutualistic masterpiece painted on the canvas of the wilderness. They stand as symbols of the beauty that arises from the marriage of function and form, purpose and aesthetic, the innate and the crafted.
In the woodland shelters, there is a rhapsody played in the key of nature—a song of simplicity, of connection, of the perpetual dance between the earth and its many children. It is here, in the lean-tos and birdhouses, that the heart of the woods beats strongest, beneath the watchful eyes of ancient trees and the endless sky.
Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved MichaelStephenWills.com
Hartung–Boothroyd Observatory is a leading educational facility, aiding in the study of astrophysics, tracking asteroids, and fostering diverse academic collaborations.
Perched on Mount Pleasant in the town of Dryden, New York, the Hartung-Boothroyd Observatory (HBO) stands as a testament to the celestial curiosity that Cornell University has nurtured for decades. It is a gateway to the stars, a place where the heavens unfold in wondrous detail to the eyes of astrophiles and the lenses of powerful telescopes.
The observatory is home to a reflecting telescope, one of the largest in New York State dedicated to both education and research. This remarkable instrument, housed under a retractable dome, has provided students and researchers with direct experience in astronomical observations since its establishment in 1974.
HBO isn’t just an observatory; it is a bridge between the terrestrial and the cosmic. It represents an educational philosophy that values direct engagement with the subject of study. Undergraduates, graduates, and faculty members flock to the facility to engage in projects that range from studying variable stars and exoplanets to tracking asteroids. Here, theoretical astrophysics meets the tactile world, allowing for an integrated understanding of the universe’s complexities.
Are images are from a handheld Apple Iphone 14 ProMax, raw files edited on camera and then from Adobe Lightroom.
It is used mainly as a Cornell University (Ithaca, New York) teaching facility for upper-level astronomy classes. The observatory is named financial contributions of M. John Hartung ’08 (chemical industrialist and donor) and in honor of the labor of Samuel L. Boothroyd (founding professor and chairman of astronomy 1921–1942). The telescope construction began in the 1930s and the observatory was dedicated in 1974. It contains the James R. Houck 60 centimeter telescope and various instruments.
View east from Cornell University’s Hartung–Boothroyd Observatory
The James R. Houck telescope at HBO was a project initiated by its namesake in 1972, using optics and a lightweight tube which had been fabricated in the late 1930s by Samuel T. Boothroyd, Cornell’s first astronomer, and a mounting constructed by George Gull ’72 as his senior design thesis in Mechanical Engineering.
View southwest toward Ithaca College
The telescope, control electronics and instruments are largely the result of work done by undergraduates since 1970. It was manufactured by the students at the Tompkins, Tioga and Seneca BOCES and by Therm, Inc., with mirror coatings by Evaporated Metal Films corporation, all in Ithaca. The latter corporation was founded by members of Boothroyd’s scientific team, as he pioneered the use of evaporated metal coatings in astronomical optics. The telescope and observatory were dedicated in 1974.
View southwest toward Ithaca College I zoomed in to see the residential towers.
The primary mirror is made of Pyrex from the Corning Glass Works and is in fact from a 1/8-scale test pour by the Corning company in preparation for the making of the 200″ Palomar mirror. It is 0.635 m (25 inches) in size, but the outer half inch is masked. The focal length of the mirror is 2.5m (100″) or f/4.
View southeast toward Hammond Hill
The Cassegrain design of the James R. Houck telescope is a combination of a primary concave mirror and a secondary convex mirror, often used in optical telescopes, the main characteristic being that the optical path folds back onto itself, relative to the optical system’s primary mirror entrance aperture. This design puts the focal point at a convenient location behind the primary mirror and the convex secondary adds a telephoto effect creating a much longer focal length in a mechanically short system.
View south
The secondary is an 8″ mirror made of Cervit (a low thermal coefficient material). In combination with the primary, it yields a final f/13.5 beam to the nominal focus, which lies 18.5″ behind the primary mirror’s vertex. At nominal focus, the plate scale is about 24 arcsec/mm, with an effective focal length of 8.57 m.
View southwest toward Ithaca College
The telescope, control electronics and instruments are largely the result of work done by undergraduates since 1970. It was manufactured by the students at the Tompkins, Tioga and Seneca BOCES and by Therm, Inc., with mirror coatings by Evaporated Metal Films corporation, all in Ithaca. The latter corporation was founded by members of Boothroyd’s scientific team, as he pioneered the use of evaporated metal coatings in astronomical optics.
The dome itself, like all professional observatories, is unheated. The telescope and instrumentation can be controlled from a neighboring control room which is heated and offers standard amenities plus several computers for simultaneous data reduction.
The observatory was founded by James Houck and managed by him through 2006. The principal contact is Don Barry, who managed the facility from 2006-2015, and taught Experimental Astronomy using the facility.
“Graduates” of the HBO project are now senior engineers and technical managers as well as graduate students, research associates and faculty at major universities.
Moreover, the observatory is a beacon for interdisciplinary collaboration. It’s not uncommon to find astronomers working alongside computer scientists, engineers, and educators. This cross-pollination of ideas enhances the potential for innovation, fostering new techniques in data analysis, instrument design, and educational methods. The observatory’s role extends beyond its primary function; it is a hub of convergence for diverse academic disciplines, all under the umbrella of exploring the unknown.
HBO also contributes to the global astronomical community through its research. The data collected here feed into larger networks of observation and analysis, aiding in the collective endeavor of mapping and understanding the universe. Its strategic location in upstate New York, away from the light pollution of large urban centers, grants it relatively clear night skies, making it an invaluable resource for both optical astronomy and astrophotography.
In an era where space exploration has captured the public imagination like never before, observatories such as the Hartung-Boothroyd are more crucial than ever. They serve as terrestrial launchpads, propelling minds into the realm of scientific inquiry. Here, the vastness of space becomes approachable, the mechanics of the cosmos decipherable, and the mysteries of the universe a little less mysterious.
As the night falls and the stars emerge, the Hartung-Boothroyd Observatory continues its silent vigil over the heavens. It stands as a beacon of knowledge and discovery, an educational catalyst, and a gateway to the stars. For the students and astronomers who work from this dome on Mount Pleasant, HBO is more than an observatory—it is a vessel navigating the infinite ocean of the night sky, a journey that begins in the heart of Cornell University and extends to the edges of the observable universe.
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 