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.
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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Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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.
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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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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As I step into Cascadilla Gorge from the Linn Street entrance, I’m greeted by the soft rustling of leaves and the constant, soothing rush of water. The air this Halloween Day is warm, the autumn colors vibrant against the cool blue sky. I know Cascadilla Gorge is part of the Cornell Botanical Gardens, but the immediate beauty of this natural sanctuary makes it easy to forget I’m still within the city limits of Ithaca. The sounds of the gorge draw me in, as if whispering there’s more to see, more to explore. With a deep breath, I begin my journey up the trail, eager to discover what lies ahead.
Just a short way in, I notice the First Church of Christ, Scientist perched on the corner of University Avenue and Cascadilla Park Road. The architecture of the church is both quaint and elegant, with its light-colored facade framed by dark trim and roof. Surrounded by foliage, it feels like the church belongs here, as much a part of the landscape as the trees and rocks. The sight of this historic building nestled so close to the gorge reminds me that this wild and ancient place is woven into the fabric of Ithaca’s community life.
I move further along the trail, and the terrain begins to shift. Fallen leaves create a golden carpet along the path, their crisp shapes overlapping like nature’s confetti celebrating the season. Each step crunches underfoot, adding my own rhythm to the symphony of sounds. The trees overhead are a kaleidoscope of colors—deep golds, fiery oranges, and the occasional flash of red from Virginia Creeper vines (Parthenocissus quinquefolia). Together, the trees create a canopy that filters sunlight, casting dappled patterns on the gorge walls. It’s an ever-changing play of light and shadow, one moment bright and the next subdued, adding a layer of magic to the experience.
As I follow the trail upward, the gorge narrows, and I find myself surrounded by towering walls of rock. Here, layers of siltstone and shale formed more than 300 hundred million years ago are exposed, a testament to the forces of water and time that carved this place across mere millennia of recent geologic time. The rock formations are fascinating, with the water flowing over them in gentle cascades, finding every groove and crevice. There’s something humbling about standing in a place shaped by forces so much larger and older than myself. I pause, letting the rush of water and the stillness of stone fill my senses.
Along the way, I come across an interpretive sign provided by the Cornell Botanical Gardens. They tell the story of Cascadilla Gorge, how it was formed from the bedrock of sandstone and shale that eroded from mountains to the east, in the Devonian era when an ancient inland sea covered the region. The signs also introduce Robert H. Treman, a philanthropist who saw the beauty and educational value of the gorge. Thanks to him and the efforts of many, this natural wonder is preserved for all to experience. Knowing this adds depth to my walk; it’s a reminder that places like this exist not only by chance but because people cared enough to protect them.
The sandstone staircases along the trail are a marvel in themselves. Some sections are steep, winding up the gorge in a series of steps that seem to have been placed with precision, blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. The steps are covered with leaves now, making each ascent feel a bit like climbing through a fairy-tale forest. The chains along the path provide a comforting grip, especially as I climb higher. I look back and see how far I’ve come, the creek below winding its way over rocks and around bends, each step a small journey of its own.
I pass several small waterfalls, each one unique in its character. Some are gentle trickles, while others pour over the rocks with more force, their sound reverberating off the gorge walls. I stop frequently, entranced by the way the water carves its path, eternally moving, adapting, wearing down even the hardest stone. Leaves float down from above, landing in the creek and swirling in miniature whirlpools before being carried downstream. It’s mesmerizing to watch nature at work in such a quiet, persistent way.
Further up the gorge, the views open up, and I can see the layers of rock descending in terraces, each level a little cascade of its own. I watch as the water flows across these steps, catching the light as it moves—a silvery ribbon winding through the golden autumn landscape. The tranquility of the scene is meditative. Around me, the trees stand as silent witnesses, their branches bare in places but still adorned with clusters of leaves clinging through the last days of fall.
Finally, I reach one of the larger waterfalls, framed by a graceful stone arch bridge that crosses high above. The scene is something out of a painting. Water pours over the rocks, gathering in pools below before spilling onward. I pause on the bridge, looking down at the gorge below and the trail I’ve followed, grateful for the journey.
Along the way, artists are positioned along the path, each lost in the beauty of Cascadilla Gorge. They stand or sit in quiet reverie, brushes or pencils in hand, capturing the gorge’s unique character. Some focus on the play of light over the water’s surface, while others seem intent on the rugged details of the rock formations. Their presence adds a contemplative depth to the scene; it’s as if each artist has uncovered a hidden aspect of the gorge that I have overlooked in my journey upward.
I slow my pace to take it all in, appreciating how the artists interpret this natural wonder through their own eyes. Their canvases reveal layers of colors that shift as the sun filters through the leaves, casting vibrant golds and subtle greens on the cascading water. The scene feels almost collaborative—nature and human hand creating art together, each reflection of the gorge as unique as the individual capturing it. I’m tempted to pause beside them, to see how they choose to frame the towering walls, the stone bridge arching above the water, and the gentle curves of the creek as it meanders downstream. I can imagine each artist’s work holding a different piece of this place, like fragments of a memory.
Bridge View looking up Cascadilla CreekBridge View looking back the way I came
As I continue, the sound of rushing water grows louder, drawing me towards another cascade that tumbles in steps down the gorge. The rocks are layered in angular formations, giving the water a zigzagging path to follow. Leaves are scattered across the stones, their colors—yellows, browns, and the occasional splash of red—standing out against the dark, wet rock. There’s a timelessness here, a feeling that this scene has remained unchanged for centuries, save for the shifting leaves and the ever-present flow of the creek. The thought makes me feel like a small part of something much larger, a guest in an ancient place shaped by nature’s slow, steady hand.
The path narrows again, following the edge of the creek where the water has worn smooth channels into the stone.
Moving forward, the trail climbs steeply, and I find myself surrounded by tall rock faces on either side. The walls are layered and weathered, a geological history book open to the forces that shaped this land. It’s humbling to see how this place puts everything into perspective, how it reminds us of our place in the natural world.
Columns of sedimentary rock
Ahead, the path becomes more rugged, the air feels cooler here, shaded by the gorge’s high walls, and the sounds of the city are long gone, replaced by the steady rhythm of water and the drift of leaves. The layers of ancient limestone that form these towering walls give shape to our landscape and ecosystem. As rainwater falls and seeps through the porous rock, the limestone raises the pH of the water, neutralizing its natural acidity. This subtle alchemy nurtures the flora and fauna, fostering a unique biome that thrives in the gorge. The artists fade from view as I move further into the solitude of the trail, but their presence lingers in my mind. Each turn of the path reveals another scene worthy of capturing, another moment that seems to call out for remembrance.
Looking back toward the way I came
The trail steepens, and I press onward, the sound of the water intensifying as I near a grand waterfall framed by the impressive stone steps leading up to the College Avenue Stone Arch. Each step is littered with leaves, their colors vivid against the worn stone—golds, russets, and the occasional brilliant red, like embers scattered along my path. The waterfall beside me spills down in steady streams, each cascade creating rivulets that catch the light as they flow downward.
The gorge walls rise sharply on either side, embracing the path in rugged layers that tell stories of geological time. I feel as if I’m climbing a passage through history itself. These rocks, these trees, the very water carving its way through the stone—all have been here far longer than I can fathom, shaped by forces beyond my understanding. There’s a certain thrill in being among such enduring elements, a reminder of how small and fleeting we are in the face of nature’s grandeur.
Reaching the next tier of the trail, I pause to take in the sight of the massive stone arch spanning the gorge above. The bridge is a striking feature, its wide arch perfectly framing the sky and the last vibrant colors of autumn. It feels like a gateway, a fitting culmination to the journey. Standing beneath it, I’m struck by how well it harmonizes with the gorge, the careful craftsmanship of its stonework complementing the rough beauty of the surrounding cliffs.
The sunlight flows around the arch, illuminating the leaves that cling to the branches above, casting a warm glow over the scene. I feel a sense of reverence here, a quiet acknowledgment of both human artistry and the relentless beauty of nature.
I paused to capture this video of the moment.
Sights and Sounds of Autumn
The final ascent is graced by a bench where a stone plaque catches my eye. It’s a tribute, etched with words that resonate in this place: “Joy to all we love the best, love to thee, our fair Cornell.” A gift from a family whose lives intertwined with Cornell, it serves as a reminder of the deep connections people have to this landscape, to the university, and to the memories rooted in these trails and gorges. I pause, reflecting on my own connection to this path, which has taken me through an ever-unfolding tapestry of nature and history.
The last stretch of steps is leaf blanketed, their shapes and colors a beautiful final mosaic before I emerge from the shaded coolness of the gorge. The sun filters down through the thinning trees, illuminating the stone buildings of the Cornell campus that peek through the branches ahead. With each step, I feel the transition, moving from the curated wildness of Cascadilla Gorge and its trail to the structured beauty of the university grounds.
Myron Taylor Hall, Cornell Law School from the gorge.
As I reach the top, the Schwartz Center for the Performing Arts comes into view, its modern architecture a contrast to the ancient rocks I’ve left behind. Here, in this space where art, education, and nature converge, I take a last look back into the gorge and a journey, a gem in the heart of the Finger Lakes, a place that holds stories, both old and new, and invites every visitor to become a part of them.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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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On a crisp October afternoon, October 3, 2024, Pam and I reveled in Upper Robert H. Treman State Park, a serene oasis nestled in Tompkins County. This visit was particularly special for us, a step in Pam’s recovery from her August hip replacement. I remember the sound of her hiking pole tapping the ground as we walked together, feeling grateful for her progress since surgery. The air was cool, and the leaves, turning gold and orange, whispered in the breeze, providing the perfect backdrop for our outing that day.
Our path followed the creek, the same creek that winds through the heart of the park, framed by layers of stone and lush vegetation. In one of the first photos I took that day, you can see the creek reflecting the soft autumn light, its bed dotted with rocks and fallen branches. The vibrant greens of the undergrowth juxtaposed with the golden leaves made the scene feel timeless, as though nature itself was participating in Pam’s recovery, offering healing in its quiet, enduring beauty.
The view upstream just before the creek enters The Gallery. Robert H. Treman State Park, Enfield, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State.
We paused to take in the quiet hum of life around us. There was a sense of history in the park that seemed to blend with our personal story. As we wandered deeper, we reached the foundation of the old Budd House, its stone blocks now barely a shadow of the past but still carrying echoes of life lived long ago. The placard described Charles Budd, a village blacksmith and postmaster, and his wife, Deborah, who continued to serve the community after his passing. Standing there, I reflected on how these stones, much like Pam’s journey, represented resilience and the passage of time.
Site 2: The Budd House
The stone blocks set in the lawn here outline the subsurface remains of the home of Charles Budd and his family. Budd was the village blacksmith and postmaster.
Before the Industrial Revolution introduced cheap, mass-produced goods, blacksmiths crafted all manner of metal implements, re-shoed horses, and repaired carriages. Below to the left is a photo of a blacksmith shop in Tompkins County.
As the Enfield Falls postmaster, Charles Budd ran the post office out of the parlor (similar to a living room) of his house. He held this position until his death in 1896. His wife, Deborah Budd, then faithfully served as postmaster until the post office closed in 1902.
Did you know?
Step into the foundation outline. The size of the Budd House is typical for a 19th century middle-class house. How many rooms of your home would fit in the footprint of the Budd’s entire house?
In the 19th century, rural community members picked up their mail once a week at post offices like Budd’s. These post offices were closed with the United States Postal Service’s transition to “rural delivery”—the nationwide delivery of mail directly to everyone’s doorstep. We still enjoy this service over 100 years later.
In the 19th century, voluminous mail-order catalogues by companies like Sears & Roebuck and Montgomery Ward sold everything from clothing to home and farm supplies to buyers across the nation. Packages took days or weeks to arrive, and customers would have eagerly checked with postmasters to see if their order had been delivered. This excitement and anticipation are reflected in the musical number “The Wells Fargo Wagon” in the Broadway musical The Music Man set in 1912 Iowa.
A free walking tour brochure, Archaeology in the Park, is available on the main floor of the Old Mill. Upper Treman. Robert H. Treman State Park, Enfield, Tompkins County, Finger Lakes Region, New York State.
As we stood by the foundation, we met another couple. The woman shared her own story of recovery, a tale of resilience that resonated deeply with us. She had fallen and suffered a spinal injury, becoming paralyzed from the neck down, while traveling. Thanks to surgery and rehabilitation, she regained full mobility. There was a moment of understanding and connection between us. We offered to take a photo of them, and they returned the favor, capturing the two of us—Pam leaning lightly on her cane, smiling, surrounded by trees whose leaves were beginning to fall. That picture, one of my favorites from the day, symbolizes not just Pam’s strength but also the support and shared experiences that come with recovery.
We are taking a walk through upper Treman Park during Pam’s recovery from hip replacement. This was taken by a couple we met.
The park offered us a space for reflection and a sense of continuity. The trees, some towering over us with roots gripping the earth, had seen many seasons of change, and now they watched over us as we walked beneath them. In the clearing where picnic tables stood, we sat for a while, simply absorbing the moment. The afternoon light filtered through the branches, casting long shadows on the grass.
One of the final photos I took that day captures the creek from another angle. The water, calm and clear, reflects the yellow hues of the trees, while the rocks and roots along the bank seem frozen in time. It’s a peaceful image, one that reminds me of the quiet strength that Pam has shown throughout her recovery.
Here Fish Creek, a tributary of Enfield Creek joins the flow just below the pavilion of Upper Treman.
We left the park that day feeling both uplifted and grounded, the layers of history and personal resilience blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. Upper Robert H. Treman had become had become a part of Pam’s recovery story, a testament to the healing power of both nature and community.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The wind is cool, carrying the first real bite of autumn as I step onto the Finger Lakes Trail from Woodard Road, entering Robert H. Treman State Park. The sounds of rustling leaves underfoot remind me that the season is in full swing, and soon, this vibrant foliage will be a memory. But today, the trees still hold their colors—greens tinged with yellow, brown, and red—forming a canopy that seems to glow in the soft morning light.
The trail is quiet, save for the occasional chirping of birds and the subtle creaking of the trees as they sway in the wind. It’s a perfect time for reflection, and with each step, I feel myself sinking deeper into the peace of this place. Ahead of me, a fallen tree lies on the slope, now part of the earth, slowly being reclaimed by the forest. The log, dotted with moss and fungi, seems like a work of art created by time and nature. I stop to admire it, my fingers grazing the rough bark, now softened with age and decay. It’s a reminder that everything in nature moves in cycles—growth, death, and rebirth.
A few steps further and I find something even more intricate—another log, this one completely overtaken by a delicate layering of lichens and shelf fungi. The growth covers the bark like an elaborate tapestry of greens, grays, and soft whites. It’s beautiful in its own quiet way, and I take a moment to kneel beside it, studying the intricate patterns. Nature has a way of turning even decay into something stunning. I wonder how long it took for these fungi to establish their hold, slowly breaking down the wood, contributing to the endless cycle of life in the forest.
Moving onward, I come across a tall stump—remnants of a once-majestic tree, now shattered. The splintered wood reaches upward like jagged teeth, still sturdy despite the obvious trauma it endured. The raw power of nature is always humbling; trees like this seem so strong and permanent, yet even they can be brought down in an instant. It’s a reminder of life’s fragility, and I feel a sense of reverence standing in its presence, imagining the forces that felled it.
Continuing along the trail, I soon reach a clearing. There, nestled in the grass, is a plaque mounted on a large stone. It marks the site of the Civilian Conservation Corps (C.C.C.) Camp SP-6, Company 1253, which operated here from 1933 to 1935. I pause to read the inscription, which commemorates the young men who lived and worked in this camp during the Great Depression. They carried out public works projects, including improvements to Enfield Glen, Buttermilk Falls, and Taughannock Falls. I imagine the sense of purpose and camaraderie these workers must have felt, building something that would outlast them, even in the midst of hardship.
C.C.C. Camp SP-6, Company 1253, 1933-1935
During the Depression, Civilian Conservation Corps camps were established across America to provide employment for the relief of needy families. On this site, 200 young men lived and worked under the supervision of U.S. Army personnel. They carried out camp-wide and nearby construction and public works projects. Youth from Camp SP-6 worked on improvements in Enfield Glen, Buttermilk Falls, and Taughannock Falls State Park.
The plaque is a poignant reminder of the connection between humans and nature. Just as the trees here are part of a larger cycle, so too were the men of the C.C.C. They left their mark on this land, shaping the trails and structures we now take for granted. And yet, like everything in nature, their work is being slowly reclaimed by the forest. The wooden signs marking distances and directions are weathered, moss creeping up their bases, as if the forest itself is gently pulling them back into the earth.
As I cross a small wooden footbridge, recently replaced on the Finger Lakes Trail, I stop to look down at the creek below. The water moves steadily, reflecting the gold and green hues of the trees above. Small waterfalls tumble over rocks, their gentle rush filling the air with a peaceful sound. I watch the water for a while, feeling the pull of time and nature’s persistence.
View from the bridge, upstream Fish Creek
Standing there, I’m struck by how everything I’ve encountered today, from the fallen trees to the CCC plaque, tells the same story—nature’s quiet persistence, its ability to adapt, reclaim, and renew. I breathe deeply, knowing that while time moves forward and everything changes, the beauty and wisdom of places like this will always remain, if we just take the time to notice.
View from the bridge, downstream Fish Creek
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Walking along the Finger Lakes Trail in Robert H. Treman State Park, I come across something that makes me stop—maple leaves, caught mid-fall, suspended in a delicate spider web. Time itself seems to pause with them, as if the leaves, in their slow descent, had found a way to defy gravity. Yellow, brown, and green, they hang like fragile ornaments, arrested in motion. For a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath.
Maple leaves caught in freefall by spider web. Finger Lakes Trail, Robert H Treman State Park, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
This brief suspension of nature’s inevitable course is uncanny, a moment frozen between one season and the next. These leaves, so close to their final rest on the forest floor, now seem to defy their fate, held up by threads too fine to see. I’m tempted to reach out and free them, to let them continue their journey down to the earth, but something stops me. It’s as if the web, like a clock halted mid-tick, has granted me the rarest gift—a chance to stop the flow of time.
In this moment, I reflect on how life itself is always in motion, how we are carried forward whether we like it or not. But here, in this quiet pocket of the forest, these leaves offer a small rebellion against that forward push. They hang, caught between what was and what will be, suspended between summer and winter, life and decay.
I snap a photo, knowing it’s just an echo of the real thing, a poor attempt to capture a miracle of nature. The leaves will eventually fall, the web will loosen, and time will move on. But for now, in this moment, they remain suspended, as do I—caught in the beauty of a moment where time, for once, seems to stand still.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Enjoy a memorable visit to Lime Hollow Nature Preserve by a grandfather and his grandsons, exploring nature, observing wildlife, and connecting through shared experiences, fostering curiosity and appreciation for the environment.
The October sunlight was gentle as we entered Lime Hollow Nature Preserve from Gracie Road, my grandsons, Sam and Rory, bursting with excitement beside me. Sam, the eldest, took the lead, confidently striding ahead along the Sunset Trail while Rory, his younger brother, stayed close to my side, his eyes wide with wonder at the forest around us.
Descent to the Pond
The trail wound through the woods, dappled with the golds and reds of early autumn. Sam spotted a squirrel darting between trees, and Rory pointed to the sky, “Look, Grandpa, a woodpecker!” I smiled at their enthusiasm, feeling grateful for these moments of connection to nature and family.
We descended toward the pond via the Pond View Trail, the sound of trickling water drawing us closer. As we approached, the landscape opened up, revealing the calm, reflective surface of the water, bordered by reeds swaying in the light breeze. I remembered bringing the boys here last spring, how different the pond looked then—brimming with life as frogs leapt from the banks and dragonflies zipped across the water’s surface. Today, the scene was quieter, but no less magical.
Rory, ever the adventurer, crouched by the pond’s edge, watching for frogs. Sam, too, paused to observe but soon grew restless, his curiosity pushing him onward. “Come on, Grandpa! Let’s see what’s next!” His voice echoed through the trees as he darted back onto the trail, Rory quick to follow.
Encounter with the Giant Fungus
The path led us deeper into the forest, and soon we turned onto the Brookside Trail, which merged with the High Ridge Trail. Here, the air grew cooler under the dense canopy of trees, and the forest floor softened beneath our feet with layers of leaves. It was then that we stumbled upon the most magnificent sight of the day: an enormous bracket fungus, its wide, layered shelves clinging to the trunk a hoary snag.
Rory gasped in delight, running over to inspect it more closely. “Look how big it is!” he exclaimed, his small hands hovering just above its ridged surface. Sam, never one to be outdone, knelt beside it, carefully touching the spongy layers. “It’s a staircase for squirrels,” he said, grinning up at me.
Turkey Tail bracket fungus (Trametes versicolor) is a common wood decay fungus found on dead and decaying hardwoods. Named for its concentric, colorful bands resembling a turkey’s tail, it plays a vital role in forest ecosystems by breaking down lignin, facilitating nutrient recycling. It’s also valued for its medicinal properties. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, Cortland County, New York State. Finger Lakes Regions
As I watched them, I couldn’t help but think back to all the times I had wandered these trails alone before they were born. Now, these woods had become a classroom for them—full of discoveries that sparked their curiosity and wonder. It was a beautiful moment of generational connection, this passing on of my love for the natural world to Sam and Rory.
Fascinating Beech Tree Roots
On the way out, we took the Brookside / Pond View / Sunset trails once again, but this time, this intricate network of roots from a massive beech tree fascinated us. The roots twisted and coiled across the path like veins, in our imaginations the gnarled shapes snagged our feet. Sam, ever the explorer, stepped cautiously along the roots, balancing himself as if walking a tightrope. Rory followed suit, his giggles filling the air.
An American beech (Fagus grandifolia). These trees are quite common in northeastern forests. The beech tree is known for its smooth smooth, gray bark, which can become marked with scars or etchings as the tree ages. Additionally, its leaves are typically dark green, with serrated edges, and turn yellow to bronze in the fall, often staying on the tree through winter. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, New York State
“These roots are older than us,” I told them. “Beech trees can live for hundreds of years. Just think, this tree has seen many more seasons than we ever will.”
Sam’s eyes widened at the thought, while Rory gave the tree a gentle pat, as if to thank it for its wisdom. I marveled at how something as simple as a root system could captivate their imaginations and bring the lesson of time and growth to life.
Reminiscing on the Chicago Bog
In the 1830’s there was a village named Chicago along Gracie Road, which gives it the name we have today. The Chicago Bog is home to many carnivorous plants, including sundew, the pitcher plant, and more. The deepest depth of the bog is about 7.2 ft. The bog is along the Phillips Memorial Trail, which can be found on Gracie Road. Lime Hollow Nature Center, Cortland, New York
As we walked, my mind wandered back to a visit we had made to the Chicago Bog just a year before. I remembered the day clearly—how we had trekked through the wetland on a warm June afternoon, the ground soft beneath our feet, alive with the buzzing of insects and the vibrant green of new growth.
The chalk-fronted corporal (Ladona julia) is a skimmer dragonfly found in the northern United States and southern Canada. Juveniles of both sexes are light reddish brown, with white shoulder stripes and a black stripe down the middle of the abdomen. As they mature, males develop a white pruinescence on the top of the thorax and at the base of the abdomen, while the rest of the abdomen turns black. Females become almost uniformly dark brown, with a dusting of gray pruinescence near the base of the abdomen; a few develop the same color pattern as the males. Chalk-fronted corporals often perch horizontally on the ground or on floating objects in the water, flying up to take prey from the air. They are gregarious for dragonflies, and are commonly seen perching in groups. They readily approach humans to feed on the mosquitoes and biting flies that humans attract.
It was there, by the edge of the bog, that we had encountered a dragonfly, a Chalk-fronted Corporal, resting on a fallen log. Its dark, iridescent wings shimmered in the sunlight, and Sam had been mesmerized by its delicate beauty. He had asked so many questions that day—about how dragonflies flew, what they ate, and where they lived. I had done my best to answer, but truth be told, I learned as much as he did in that moment.
Nearby, a meadow of buttercups had stretched out before us, their yellow blooms dancing in the breeze. Rory had run through them, his laughter ringing out as he tried to catch a butterfly that flitted between the flowers. The memory of that field of gold still brought a smile to my face as we made our way through Lime Hollow today.
A Day to Remember
As we neared the end of our hike, the afternoon light filtering through the trees, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment. These outings with Sam and Rory had become more than just walks in the woods—they were opportunities to share, to learn, and to make memories that I knew would last a lifetime.
“Grandpa, can we come back?” Rory asked, his face flushed with excitement.
“Of course,” I said, smiling. “We’ll always have time for another adventure.”
Seen from Stewart Park, these lakefront homes line the southern shore of Cayuga Lake. Tompkins County, Ithaca, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region
On a warm June morning, with the early summer sun casting a golden glow across the shores of Cayuga Lake, Pam and I set out for a walk around Stewart Park. The soft lapping of the water against the shore mixed with the calls of distant birds, and the familiar hum of life in the park settled into a rhythm that has long been a part of this place. As I strolled along a familiar path, a flash of orange caught my eye—the unmistakable brilliance of the Hemerocallis fulva, the Tawny Daylily, in full bloom.
A Glimpse of the Familiar
At first glance, the orange petals of the daylily seemed like small flames scattered across the green of the park, their brightness undimmed by the heat of the day. The sight was both familiar and captivating, for these daylilies are common in garden, parks and roadsides around Ithaca and much of New York State. Despite their prevalence, each encounter feels fresh, like meeting an old friend who always has something new to share.
I knelt closer, letting my eyes follow the curve of the petals, which unfurled gracefully from a vibrant yellow throat. The delicate lines streaked down the petals like rays of sunlight. Though each flower lives only a day, I felt the quiet confidence of this plant, as though it knew its bloom was fleeting, yet still essential in the tapestry of summer.
The Resilience of a Traveler
The daylily’s ubiquity belies its status as a traveler from distant lands. Hemerocallis fulva is not native to New York, nor to any part of North America. It came to these shores from Asia, introduced by gardeners who admired its hardiness and vibrant color. Over time, the daylily escaped the bounds of cultivated gardens, spreading to roadsides, fields, and yes, even here, to the edges of Stewart Park.
I find myself reflecting on the journey of this plant, which began in the faraway lands of China, Korea, and Japan. In its homeland, daylilies have long been symbols of devotion and motherhood, their roots used in traditional medicine, their blooms celebrated in art. Now, as I stand in Stewart Park, I marvel at how far the Hemerocallis fulva has come, adapting to new lands and naturalizing in the wild corners of the American landscape.
The irony of its “wild” appearance does not escape me—this orange beauty, so deeply associated with our rural and parkland settings, is still very much an outsider. And yet, in the soft breeze of the morning, it feels as though this plant has always belonged here, as much a part of the park’s landscape as the willows by the lake or the ducks bobbing in the water.
Nature’s Balancing Act
As lovely as they are, daylilies are not without their complications. The very same traits that make Hemerocallis fulva such a beloved garden plant—its resilience, its ability to thrive in poor soil, and its spreading rhizomes—also make it an unintentional invader. Without careful tending, these plants can spread aggressively, pushing out native species and altering the ecological balance of the areas where they take root.
Here in Stewart Park, where cultivated gardens meet the untamed edges of the lake, the daylilies are a reminder of nature’s delicate balance. They offer nectar to bees and butterflies, providing sustenance to the creatures that flit through the morning air and also represent challenge to the native wildflowers that have long called this place home.
I wonder what plants might have once thrived in this very spot before the Hemerocallis fulva arrived. Perhaps native species, like the delicate Asclepias tuberosa—Butterfly Weed—or the sturdy Rudbeckia hirta, the Black-eyed Susan, held court here, their blooms attracting the same bees now drawn to the daylilies.
The Fleeting Bloom
Despite its role as a naturalized non-native, the daylily has a fleeting grace that draws me in. By tomorrow, these orange blooms will have withered and fallen, replaced by new blossoms that will unfurl in their place. Each bloom’s brief life is a reminder of the ephemerality of beauty, and I find myself appreciating the daylily all the more for its transient nature.
We continue our walk, leaving behind the patch of daylilies but taking with me a sense of quiet reflection. As invasive as they may be, these plants offer a meditation on the impermanence of life and the ways in which non-native species can become a part of the landscape’s fabric, for better or worse. The Hemerocallis fulva may not belong here by birthright, but it has made a place for itself, a symbol of survival and adaptation in the ever-changing world around it.
A Lesson from the Daylily
As I near the edge of the lake, watching the sunlight dance across the water’s surface, I think about the lessons that the daylily offers. Life is fleeting, yes, but also full of color and vibrancy, no matter how brief the bloom. And in that brief bloom, there is the possibility of resilience, growth, and belonging, even in a place far from home.
Much like the daylily, we too find ourselves in unfamiliar places at times, learning to adapt, to thrive, and to leave our mark on the world—if only for a day.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
Michael Stephen Wills Photography 