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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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
The Cayuga Waterfront Trail beautifully showcases autumn’s colors, history, and ecological significance through its landscapes and trees like Sugar Maples.
Where Fall Creek Meets Cayuga Lake Here, where Fall Creek flows gently into Cayuga Lake, the merging waters reflect the season’s colors like a painter’s palette. Across the shimmering surface, Renwick Woods of Stewart Park stands as a quiet sanctuary of mixed hardwoods and wetlands. The reflections capture our trees together with the essence of autumn’s stillness.
Dominating the shoreline, you can spot Silver Maple (Acer saccharinum) and Cottonwood (Populus deltoides), trees that thrive in damp soils. Silver Maples, with their elegant, deeply lobed leaves, are perfectly suited for this riparian environment. The cottonwood, recognizable by its broad, triangular leaves, plays a vital role in stabilizing streambanks.
Quick Fact: Cottonwoods are among the fastest-growing trees in North America, capable of sprouting leaves within weeks of being washed ashore as driftwood.
Steamboat Landing: A Glimpse of History The wooden docks at Steamboat Landing, now home to the bustling Ithaca Farmer’s Market, speak of bygone eras when steamboats ferried goods and people across Cayuga Lake. Today, as golden foliage cloaks the hills in the distance, this spot remains an anchor for community and connection.
A meeting place for friends and conversation
Foregrounded in the photos are plants like Grape Vine (Vitis spp.), with their sprawling, hardy stems turning yellow as temperatures drop. Grapevines, both wild and cultivated, thrive along the lakeshore and remind us of their agricultural importance in the Finger Lakes.
Also visible are some shrubs of Virginia Creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) turning crimson, their vibrant hues climbing posts and fences as they embrace autumn’s spotlight.
Did You Know? Steamboat Landing was part of Ithaca’s rich lake commerce history during the 19th and early 20th centuries, connecting travelers to destinations far and wide.
The Crimson Canopy: Japanese Maple This photo highlights a stunning Japanese Maple (Acer palmatum), its feathery, scarlet foliage cascading delicately in front of the pavilion. Native to East Asia, Japanese Maples have found a beloved place in landscapes across the world for their graceful form and brilliant seasonal displays.
Alongside its boughs, weathered benches and stone pathways invite rest and reflection — a beautiful marriage of human craftsmanship and nature’s artistry.
Fun Fact: Japanese Maples are often pruned meticulously in Japanese gardens to emphasize their architectural shape, turning them into living sculptures.
The Treman Park Lake Loop: Autumn’s Golden Finale Our journey concludes with this sweeping landscape from the Treman Park Lake Loop. The towering Sugar Maples (Acer saccharum) dominate the view, their crowns now a rich, golden orange — a signature of northeastern forests. Known as the tree that gives us maple syrup, Sugar Maples are quintessential symbols of autumn in the Finger Lakes.
To the right, bare branches of earlier-shedding trees stand in contrast, whispering the arrival of winter. The sky above, painted with soft clouds, completes the scene of a serene seasonal transition.
Interesting Note: Sugar Maples can live for over 300 years, their wood prized for furniture and instruments, and their sap a sweet gift of the forest.
Closing Thoughts From the quiet confluence of Fall Creek and Cayuga Lake to the historic docks of Steamboat Landing and the golden maples of Treman Park, autumn on the Cayuga Waterfront Trail is a symphony of color, history, and ecological wonder. Whether you’re strolling, photographing, or simply pausing to take it all in, these moments capture both the grandeur and subtlety of the season.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
Our explorations along Ithaca’s Cayuga Waterfront Trail begins with the striking Pokeweed (Phytolacca americana), its ruby-red stems rising like sentinels against a sea of green leaves. At a glance, it’s bold, almost tropical, yet this native plant is a quintessential autumn feature in the Northeast. Those drooping clusters of berries (not yet ripe here) are food for birds like robins and mourning doves — though toxic to us, pokeweed adds a bit of danger to its beauty.
Nature’s Note: While visually stunning, pokeweed’s ripe purple berries were historically used as dye. Early settlers and Native Americans knew its power, though caution is always the rule here!
The Mighty Oak: Sentinel of the Trail
Next, we imnagine the cool shade of an oak tree, its lobed leaves silhouetted like green lacework against the clear blue sky. The photogenic Oaks are ecosystem powerhouses. Supporting hundreds of species of moths, butterflies, and birds, oaks quietly hold the fabric of nature together.
In autumn, these leaves will transform, dropping gently to create warm beds for overwintering insects. Stand beneath its branches long enough, and you’ll swear it whispers stories of the seasons gone by.
Quick Fact: Oaks produce acorns that are a favorite food of squirrels. Ever notice a squirrel “planting” them? That’s nature’s accidental reforestation plan in action.
Reflections of Autumn’s Palette
We reach the water’s edge, where the serene surface where Fall Creek joins Cayuga Lake mirrors the fiery splashes of red Virginia Creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) winding through the trees. This climbing vine, with its scarlet fall foliage, is like nature’s ribbon tying the forest together.
The reflection — a perfect painting — blurs the boundary between land and water. Here, quiet reigns, save for the soft ripple of a fish or the rustle of leaves overhead.
Curious Note: Virginia Creeper is often mistaken for poison ivy. The secret? Virginia Creeper has five leaflets, while poison ivy wears three — nature’s rhyme: “Leaves of three, let it be.”
Aster Alley: A Burst of Purple Beauty
On the trail’s side, a cheerful gathering of New England Asters (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae) steals the spotlight. These vibrant purple flowers, with their golden centers, are late-season treasures. As most blooms fade, asters feed pollinators like bees and butterflies in their final push before winter.
Walk by slowly, and you might catch a bumblebee lazily humming its thanks — a last sip of nectar before the chill sets in.
Did You Know? Asters get their name from the Greek word for star. Fitting, don’t you think?
Nature’s Quilt: Pine Needle Carpet
Finally, we tread across a textured carpet of pine needles, blanketing the ground in warm, earthy hues. Beneath this seemingly simple scene lies a story of renewal. As pines shed their needles, they enrich the soil with organic matter, providing a soft bed for new life to sprout in the spring.
The crunch underfoot feels both nostalgic and meditative — a gentle reminder that every fallen needle is part of nature’s endless cycle.
Fun Observation: Pine needles, often called “nature’s mulch,” are slightly acidic, which helps pine trees thrive while keeping competition at bay.
Closing Thoughts
From the bold reds of pokeweed to the mirrored waters adorned with Virginia Creeper, and the twinkle of asters amid the foliage, autumn along the Cayuga Waterfront Trail is a celebration of nature’s resilience and beauty. It’s a quiet reminder that even as the seasons shift, the world remains vibrant — a living, breathing tapestry stitched together by trees, plants, and reflections.
So, walk slowly, listen closely, and let the stories of leaves, stems, and waters guide your journey.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I wander the paths of the Cornell Botanical Gardens near the Nevin Welcome Center, a towering sculpture arrests my attention, rising well over ten feet into the bright autumn sky. At first glance, it’s unmistakable—a pair of massive allium blooms crafted from steel and glass, an artistic tribute to the very flowers my wife, Pam, has come to love. This creation, titled Double Allium, is the work of British artist Jenny Pickford, completed in 2019. Made of robust steel and translucent purple glass, it stands proudly among the greenery, capturing both the delicacy and boldness of allium flowers.
A few summers ago Pam planted several allium in sunny locations, which exploded into violet firework-like blooms, each sphere teeming with tiny star-shaped flowers that clustered together into one massive, round bloom. When the alliums blossomed, they attracted a small frenzy of bees, and it became a shared delight for us to watch our garden transform into a pollinator’s paradise. Pam was captivated by the plants’ structure and beauty, as well as their ecological role in supporting bees—a small, vibrant ecosystem within our yard. Standing before Double Allium, I’m reminded of those summer days and the quiet joy we both found in observing our garden.
Bees and Allium in our summer garden, 2024
The scientific name for alliums, Allium giganteum (for the larger ornamental varieties), links them to a vast genus that includes onions, garlic, and leeks. These plants have been cultivated and revered by humans for thousands of years, not only for their culinary value but also for their symbolism in various cultures. In ancient Egypt, alliums were believed to represent eternity; their spherical form and concentric layers were thought to mirror the eternal nature of life. Even today, they bring a sense of timelessness to gardens worldwide, their tall stalks and spherical blooms defying gravity, standing tall against the changing seasons.
As I study Pickford’s sculpture, I’m struck by how faithfully it captures this essence of alliums—strength paired with grace, structure married to elegance. The steel stems curve gently yet rise powerfully from the ground, while the glass petals shimmer in the light, giving an almost ethereal quality to the blooms. Pickford, born in 1969, is known for her botanical-inspired sculptures that explore the intersection of nature and art. With Double Allium, she’s created a piece that feels alive, as if the blooms might sway in the wind or burst into real flowers at any moment.
For Pam and me, this sculpture pays homage to a beautiful plant; it’s a connection to our own experience with nature, a reminder of those summer mornings watching bees dance among our alliums. Standing beneath Double Allium, I feel a sense of continuity—a link between the art and our own small garden, between our life and the ancient cultures that cherished these plants, between the permanence of steel and the fleeting beauty of each summer bloom.
In this towering sculpture, Pickford has given us a mirror that reflects nature as well as our personal connection to it. “Double Allium” is a celebration of growth, strength, and beauty, qualities that Pam and I cherish in the alliums we tend and that we find echoed in this remarkable work of art.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I walk through the plantings around the Nevin Center at Cornell Botanical Gardens, a vibrant, eye-catching display catches my attention: the unmistakable Lantana camara. This plant, with its clusters of small, multicolored flowers, radiates warmth and liveliness, thriving among other garden residents in a riot of pink, orange, and yellow hues. Lantana is a plant with a rich, complex story—one that intertwines scientific discovery, historical intrigue, and enduring appeal in gardens worldwide.
Scientific Name and Origins
Lantana camara, commonly known simply as lantana, belongs to the Verbenaceae family. Originating in the tropical and subtropical regions of the Americas, particularly Central and South America, lantana has now spread globally. Its adaptability and resilience have allowed it to thrive in diverse environments, from warm Mediterranean climates to more tropical locales. The name Lantana comes from a genus of unrelated plants in the honeysuckle family, with which it shares a similar floral structure, while camara refers to a type or variety within this diverse genus.
Historical Journey and Spread
The journey of lantana around the world is one of both horticultural fascination and ecological caution. European explorers and botanists first brought lantana to Europe in the 17th century, where it quickly became a prized garden plant for its vibrant blooms and robust nature. By the 19th century, lantana had spread to various British colonies, including those in Africa, Asia, and Australia, as part of ornamental landscaping efforts. However, lantana’s success came with a downside: in regions with no natural predators or competition, it rapidly became invasive, outcompeting native plants and disrupting local ecosystems. Today, lantana is still admired for its beauty, but in some countries, it’s also carefully managed or controlled.
Garden Favorite and Common Uses
Despite its invasive tendencies in certain climates, lantana remains a beloved plant in gardens worldwide. Known for its drought tolerance and ability to bloom continuously in warm weather, lantana is a favorite for adding color and vibrancy to gardens and landscapes. Gardeners prize lantana for its resilience in hot, sunny locations and its ability to attract butterflies and other pollinators. The flowers emit a light fragrance and produce tiny berries, which, while attractive, are also toxic if ingested. Thus, lantana brings both allure and a hint of danger, drawing in pollinators while repelling those who might threaten it.
Medicinal and Cultural Uses
Historically, lantana has also been used medicinally in various cultures. In traditional folk medicine, parts of the plant have been used to treat ailments such as fevers, respiratory infections, and skin conditions. Indigenous communities in its native regions would often make poultices from the leaves to apply to wounds or inflamed areas. Though some of these traditional uses persist today, modern science advises caution due to the plant’s potential toxicity, especially to livestock and humans if ingested in significant quantities.
A Double-Edged Beauty
Lantana camara is a plant of contrasts. Its cheerful flowers and pollinator-friendly nature make it a joy to behold in controlled garden settings, like those around the Nevin Center. But its spread across continents and the ecological impact in sensitive regions remind us of nature’s unpredictability. Lantana’s resilience, beauty, and storied history make it a plant to admire—and respect. Whether as a garden ornament or an object of scientific curiosity, lantana captures the complexity of human interaction with nature, bringing a colorful reminder that beauty often comes with responsibility.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I stroll around the Nevin Center at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, my eye is drawn to a bed of bright, cheerful flowers that seem to beam with personality. Here, amidst the lush plantings, Zinnias and Gazanias bring their vivid colors to life, each bloom a tiny celebration of nature’s artistry. These flowers, from a family spanning two continents, share a surprising harmony that only the language of color and form could convey.
The Zinnias (family Asteraceae), little fireworks exploding in hues of yellow, red, pink, and orange. They belong to the daisy family, which includes many well-known wildflowers and ornamental plants. Native to the warm regions of Mexico and Central America, Zinnias were first documented by Dr. Johann Gottfried Zinn, an 18th-century German botanist. Dr. Zinn initially set out to study human anatomy, but he turned to botany after inheriting the job of garden inspector at the University of Göttingen. His study of these cheerful flowers was eventually immortalized when the genus was named in his honor. Every time I see a Zinnia, I think about Dr. Zinn’s unexpected journey into botany and how these resilient, sun-loving flowers carry on his legacy.
Growing alongside them are Gazanias (family Asteraceae as well), which, despite their similarity in form, come from an entirely different part of the world. These stunning blooms are native to South Africa, thriving under the intense African sun. Also known as “treasure flowers,” Gazanias have radiant, striped petals that look like they’ve been painted by hand, with shades of fiery orange and deep red. The name Gazania honors Theodorus Gaza, a 15th-century Greek scholar who translated many important botanical works from Greek into Latin. I can’t help but feel that these flowers, with their bold, jewel-toned colors, live up to the name “treasure,” each one a small gem in the landscape.
As I stand here, admiring these blooms, I’m struck by the way they bring a sense of vibrancy and warmth to the Nevin Center. Both Zinnias and Gazanias are sun-worshippers, thriving in full sunlight and well-drained soil, making them ideal for this bright spot. Their colors seem even more dazzling against the verdant greens of the surrounding plants, and they attract bees and butterflies, adding another layer of life to this already lively space.
In a way, the planting here feels like a dialogue between continents, with the Zinnias representing the New World and the Gazanias embodying the spirit of Africa. It’s a conversation that reminds me of the global heritage of our gardens, how each plant carries a story, a name, and a lineage across borders and centuries. Here at the Cornell Botanical Gardens, they’ve found a new home, far from where they first bloomed, but as vibrant as ever.
I leave the Nevin Center with a sense of joy and gratitude for these botanical ambassadors. Zinnias and Gazanias, each named for pioneers in botany, remind me that discovery often comes in unexpected forms, just as beauty does. They teach us to look closely, to celebrate color and form, and to appreciate the living history all around us.
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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
As I step into Cascadilla Gorge from the Linn Street entrance, I’m greeted by the soft rustling of leaves and the constant, soothing rush of water. The air this Halloween Day is warm, the autumn colors vibrant against the cool blue sky. I know Cascadilla Gorge is part of the Cornell Botanical Gardens, but the immediate beauty of this natural sanctuary makes it easy to forget I’m still within the city limits of Ithaca. The sounds of the gorge draw me in, as if whispering there’s more to see, more to explore. With a deep breath, I begin my journey up the trail, eager to discover what lies ahead.
Just a short way in, I notice the First Church of Christ, Scientist perched on the corner of University Avenue and Cascadilla Park Road. The architecture of the church is both quaint and elegant, with its light-colored facade framed by dark trim and roof. Surrounded by foliage, it feels like the church belongs here, as much a part of the landscape as the trees and rocks. The sight of this historic building nestled so close to the gorge reminds me that this wild and ancient place is woven into the fabric of Ithaca’s community life.
I move further along the trail, and the terrain begins to shift. Fallen leaves create a golden carpet along the path, their crisp shapes overlapping like nature’s confetti celebrating the season. Each step crunches underfoot, adding my own rhythm to the symphony of sounds. The trees overhead are a kaleidoscope of colors—deep golds, fiery oranges, and the occasional flash of red from Virginia Creeper vines (Parthenocissus quinquefolia). Together, the trees create a canopy that filters sunlight, casting dappled patterns on the gorge walls. It’s an ever-changing play of light and shadow, one moment bright and the next subdued, adding a layer of magic to the experience.
As I follow the trail upward, the gorge narrows, and I find myself surrounded by towering walls of rock. Here, layers of siltstone and shale formed more than 300 hundred million years ago are exposed, a testament to the forces of water and time that carved this place across mere millennia of recent geologic time. The rock formations are fascinating, with the water flowing over them in gentle cascades, finding every groove and crevice. There’s something humbling about standing in a place shaped by forces so much larger and older than myself. I pause, letting the rush of water and the stillness of stone fill my senses.
Along the way, I come across an interpretive sign provided by the Cornell Botanical Gardens. They tell the story of Cascadilla Gorge, how it was formed from the bedrock of sandstone and shale that eroded from mountains to the east, in the Devonian era when an ancient inland sea covered the region. The signs also introduce Robert H. Treman, a philanthropist who saw the beauty and educational value of the gorge. Thanks to him and the efforts of many, this natural wonder is preserved for all to experience. Knowing this adds depth to my walk; it’s a reminder that places like this exist not only by chance but because people cared enough to protect them.
The sandstone staircases along the trail are a marvel in themselves. Some sections are steep, winding up the gorge in a series of steps that seem to have been placed with precision, blending seamlessly into the natural landscape. The steps are covered with leaves now, making each ascent feel a bit like climbing through a fairy-tale forest. The chains along the path provide a comforting grip, especially as I climb higher. I look back and see how far I’ve come, the creek below winding its way over rocks and around bends, each step a small journey of its own.
I pass several small waterfalls, each one unique in its character. Some are gentle trickles, while others pour over the rocks with more force, their sound reverberating off the gorge walls. I stop frequently, entranced by the way the water carves its path, eternally moving, adapting, wearing down even the hardest stone. Leaves float down from above, landing in the creek and swirling in miniature whirlpools before being carried downstream. It’s mesmerizing to watch nature at work in such a quiet, persistent way.
Further up the gorge, the views open up, and I can see the layers of rock descending in terraces, each level a little cascade of its own. I watch as the water flows across these steps, catching the light as it moves—a silvery ribbon winding through the golden autumn landscape. The tranquility of the scene is meditative. Around me, the trees stand as silent witnesses, their branches bare in places but still adorned with clusters of leaves clinging through the last days of fall.
Finally, I reach one of the larger waterfalls, framed by a graceful stone arch bridge that crosses high above. The scene is something out of a painting. Water pours over the rocks, gathering in pools below before spilling onward. I pause on the bridge, looking down at the gorge below and the trail I’ve followed, grateful for the journey.
Along the way, artists are positioned along the path, each lost in the beauty of Cascadilla Gorge. They stand or sit in quiet reverie, brushes or pencils in hand, capturing the gorge’s unique character. Some focus on the play of light over the water’s surface, while others seem intent on the rugged details of the rock formations. Their presence adds a contemplative depth to the scene; it’s as if each artist has uncovered a hidden aspect of the gorge that I have overlooked in my journey upward.
I slow my pace to take it all in, appreciating how the artists interpret this natural wonder through their own eyes. Their canvases reveal layers of colors that shift as the sun filters through the leaves, casting vibrant golds and subtle greens on the cascading water. The scene feels almost collaborative—nature and human hand creating art together, each reflection of the gorge as unique as the individual capturing it. I’m tempted to pause beside them, to see how they choose to frame the towering walls, the stone bridge arching above the water, and the gentle curves of the creek as it meanders downstream. I can imagine each artist’s work holding a different piece of this place, like fragments of a memory.
Bridge View looking up Cascadilla CreekBridge View looking back the way I came
As I continue, the sound of rushing water grows louder, drawing me towards another cascade that tumbles in steps down the gorge. The rocks are layered in angular formations, giving the water a zigzagging path to follow. Leaves are scattered across the stones, their colors—yellows, browns, and the occasional splash of red—standing out against the dark, wet rock. There’s a timelessness here, a feeling that this scene has remained unchanged for centuries, save for the shifting leaves and the ever-present flow of the creek. The thought makes me feel like a small part of something much larger, a guest in an ancient place shaped by nature’s slow, steady hand.
The path narrows again, following the edge of the creek where the water has worn smooth channels into the stone.
Moving forward, the trail climbs steeply, and I find myself surrounded by tall rock faces on either side. The walls are layered and weathered, a geological history book open to the forces that shaped this land. It’s humbling to see how this place puts everything into perspective, how it reminds us of our place in the natural world.
Columns of sedimentary rock
Ahead, the path becomes more rugged, the air feels cooler here, shaded by the gorge’s high walls, and the sounds of the city are long gone, replaced by the steady rhythm of water and the drift of leaves. The layers of ancient limestone that form these towering walls give shape to our landscape and ecosystem. As rainwater falls and seeps through the porous rock, the limestone raises the pH of the water, neutralizing its natural acidity. This subtle alchemy nurtures the flora and fauna, fostering a unique biome that thrives in the gorge. The artists fade from view as I move further into the solitude of the trail, but their presence lingers in my mind. Each turn of the path reveals another scene worthy of capturing, another moment that seems to call out for remembrance.
Looking back toward the way I came
The trail steepens, and I press onward, the sound of the water intensifying as I near a grand waterfall framed by the impressive stone steps leading up to the College Avenue Stone Arch. Each step is littered with leaves, their colors vivid against the worn stone—golds, russets, and the occasional brilliant red, like embers scattered along my path. The waterfall beside me spills down in steady streams, each cascade creating rivulets that catch the light as they flow downward.
The gorge walls rise sharply on either side, embracing the path in rugged layers that tell stories of geological time. I feel as if I’m climbing a passage through history itself. These rocks, these trees, the very water carving its way through the stone—all have been here far longer than I can fathom, shaped by forces beyond my understanding. There’s a certain thrill in being among such enduring elements, a reminder of how small and fleeting we are in the face of nature’s grandeur.
Reaching the next tier of the trail, I pause to take in the sight of the massive stone arch spanning the gorge above. The bridge is a striking feature, its wide arch perfectly framing the sky and the last vibrant colors of autumn. It feels like a gateway, a fitting culmination to the journey. Standing beneath it, I’m struck by how well it harmonizes with the gorge, the careful craftsmanship of its stonework complementing the rough beauty of the surrounding cliffs.
The sunlight flows around the arch, illuminating the leaves that cling to the branches above, casting a warm glow over the scene. I feel a sense of reverence here, a quiet acknowledgment of both human artistry and the relentless beauty of nature.
I paused to capture this video of the moment.
Sights and Sounds of Autumn
The final ascent is graced by a bench where a stone plaque catches my eye. It’s a tribute, etched with words that resonate in this place: “Joy to all we love the best, love to thee, our fair Cornell.” A gift from a family whose lives intertwined with Cornell, it serves as a reminder of the deep connections people have to this landscape, to the university, and to the memories rooted in these trails and gorges. I pause, reflecting on my own connection to this path, which has taken me through an ever-unfolding tapestry of nature and history.
The last stretch of steps is leaf blanketed, their shapes and colors a beautiful final mosaic before I emerge from the shaded coolness of the gorge. The sun filters down through the thinning trees, illuminating the stone buildings of the Cornell campus that peek through the branches ahead. With each step, I feel the transition, moving from the curated wildness of Cascadilla Gorge and its trail to the structured beauty of the university grounds.
Myron Taylor Hall, Cornell Law School from the gorge.
As I reach the top, the Schwartz Center for the Performing Arts comes into view, its modern architecture a contrast to the ancient rocks I’ve left behind. Here, in this space where art, education, and nature converge, I take a last look back into the gorge and a journey, a gem in the heart of the Finger Lakes, a place that holds stories, both old and new, and invites every visitor to become a part of them.
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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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Copyright 2024 All Rights Reserved Michael Stephen Wills
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
As I waited during my wife’s physical therapy session, the connection between ancient healing traditions and modern medicine revealed a journey of resilience and hope.
Standing in the cool autumn sunlight, I find myself pacing beneath the sturdy Doric columns of this medical campus in Northeast Ithaca, waiting as Pam undergoes another session of physical therapy. The simplicity of the columns strikes me—clean, white, and unadorned. They hold up the building with a kind of timeless grace, a quiet reflection of ancient design.
The architecture of the Medical Office Campus of northeast Ithaca is graced by doric columns arrayed in a row forming a portico colonnade. The original Greek Doric columns were fluted, and had no base, dropping straight into the platform on which the temple or other building stood. The capital was a simple circular form, with some mouldings, under a square cushion that is very wide in early versions, but later more restrained. Here the form of the capital is mirrored in the base. 20 Arrowwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
Doric columns are symbols of strength and stability. In this moment, they remind me of the quiet resilience I’ve seen in Pam throughout her recovery. Each column, solid and unwavering, reflects the foundational principles that underpin both architecture and the healing arts. Just as these columns have withstood the passage of centuries, modern medicine, too, stands tall on the legacy of ancient knowledge.
As I lean against one of these pillars, I think about the deep connections between ancient civilizations and the medicine we practice today. The origins of healing reach back to the Egyptians, who understood anatomy with remarkable precision. They would have been familiar with the use of medicinal plants. It’s remarkable to think that the surgeries performed back then, basic as they were, have evolved into the complex procedures of modern times, procedures like the one that replaced Pam’s hip with the efficiency of a machine through the care of skilled hands.
10 Brentwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
I look up at the sky, tracing the outline of the roof these columns support. The Greeks, with their reverence for observation, would have appreciated the rational design of this building. Hippocrates, the father of medicine, laid the groundwork for clinical observation, a method still used by the doctors caring for Pam. They probe, ask questions, and observe her movements, trying to decipher the hidden ailments within her body, much as the ancient physicians did centuries ago. It’s in this continuity that I find comfort—knowing that the doctors and physical therapists here are part of a long tradition, stretching back to Galen, who wrote about anatomy and physiology in ways that informed medical students for generations.
Modern medicine, like these columns, is a blend of the old and the new. Acupuncture, an ancient Chinese practice, is now commonly recommended for pain relief, a reminder that even today we rely on wisdom passed down through millennia. Pam’s therapists blend tradition with cutting-edge technology, using machines that track her progress and exercises that help her regain strength. Yet, at the heart of it, the human body heals the way it always has—with time, patience, and care.
As I walk the perimeter of the building, past patches of sunlight falling on the sidewalk, I’m struck by the parallels between the construction of this space and the body’s own repair. Both depend on a solid foundation. Roman innovations in public health, sanitation, and the idea of hospitals have shaped the spaces where we now seek healing. And here, in this modern medical facility, the connection to those roots feels tangible, much like the stones beneath my feet.
The name Aster comes from the Ancient Greek meaning “star”, referring to the shape of the flower head. ‘Aster’ species are used as food plants by the larvae of a number of Lepidoptera species. These asters grew wild on an otherwise landscaped medical campus. Found on an eaqrly autumn morning near 10 Brentwood Drive, Ithaca, Tompkins County, New York State
Asters, blooming nearby, sway gently in the breeze. They too are resilient, much like Pam. Their purple blossoms remind me of the hope that pervades our journey. The columns stand as sentinels of a kind of knowledge that is both ancient and ever-evolving—a blend of science, history, and faith in the power of the human spirit to endure.
Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved
