The Majesty of the Saguaro: Sentinel of the Sonoran Desert

Step into the heart of the Sonoran Desert with me, where the saguaro cactus stands as a timeless giant, a symbol of resilience and beauty. This majestic sentinel of the Southwest is not just a plant; it’s a vibrant ecosystem and a cultural icon, embodying the spirit of endurance. Let’s explore its centuries-long journey, its role as a haven for desert wildlife, and its deep significance to the indigenous peoples. Join me in celebrating the saguaro’s enduring legacy, a narrative of survival and the profound beauty of life in the harshest conditions.

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Glimpses of the Moon

Join me in exploring the depths of “Hamlet,” where the phrase “revisits thus the glimpses of the moon” unveils a world where the supernatural meets the mysterious moonlight. Let’s unravel this imagery together, reflecting on life’s transient beauty, seeking understanding, and contemplating the cycles of change under the moon’s spell.

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The Three Laughers of Tiger Glen

The Sound of Laughter Among Friends

In the midst of a pine forest

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Reflected Sunset

An evening at Cayuga Lake Inlet, home to the Cornell University Crew, is depicted as a serene haven for reflection. The Collyer Boathouse, vital to the local lore, sits across the inlet holding a rich history of crew camaraderie and competition.

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Hands of Frogs and the Innocence of Babies

Autumn leaves whisper,
By the calm inlet they dance,
Maple’s red embrace,
History in every branch,
Nature’s heart in silent chant.

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Delicate Brushwork

Whispering ice threads,
Sunset paints the silent sky—
Autumn’s breath grows cold.

As the sun dipped lower, casting its farewell in hues of amber and soft gold, Pam and I stood beside the serene Cayuga Lake Inlet, gazing westward. The stillness of the evening was a quiet symphony, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of water against the shore. It was November 5th, and the world seemed to hold its breath in the golden hour, that perfect moment minutes before the sun would bid its final adieu for the day.

Above us, the sky was a canvas of nature’s delicate brushwork – the Cirrus fibratus. These high-altitude clouds, ethereal and wispy, stretched across the sky like strands of silken thread. The cirrus clouds, the feathery remnants of far-travelled storms, are the poets of the atmosphere, telling tales of weather yet to come. Their presence was both a testament to the day’s tranquility and a harbinger of change looming on the horizon.

Cloud Lore

Cirrus fibratus clouds, in their striated splendor, often signal the approach of a warm front and are associated with the shifts in weather patterns. As we stood there, the clouds seemed to be etching the sky with messages in a cryptic script, hints of the coming days. These clouds, so high in the sky, are formed from ice crystals, and their very existence speaks of the coldness of the upper atmosphere, as the days down here by the lake inlet lengthen towards the winter solstice.

The days of early November, with their crisp air and the promise of winter, bring a change in the light, a deepening of colors, and a certain clarity to the world. The skies seem grander, a vast dome of ever-changing artistry, and the Cirrus fibratus are our guides to the imminent transformation. They remind us that the earth is tilting away from the sun in our hemisphere, pulling us into the cooler seasons.

Eternal Change

These cirrus formations, while signaling the shifts in weather, also play with the light of the lengthening days. The sun’s rays, ever lower on the horizon, catch the ice crystals, creating a prism effect that can result in sundogs, those bright spots of light that occasionally grace the sky at solar dawn or dusk. They add a mystical quality to the already enchanted time of day.

As the twilight deepened, the Cirrus fibratus began to glow with the sun’s final touch, turning from white to shades of pink and fiery orange. This spectacle was a gentle reminder of the passage of time, the cycles of nature, and the endless dance between the earth and the sun. The clouds foretold of cooler weather, perhaps a sign that we should cherish these last vestiges of autumnal warmth.

As night began to embrace the sky, the clouds slowly faded from our sight, but the memory of their beauty and the secrets they carried lingered. They are not just ice and air; they are messengers, carrying the stories of the atmosphere from one part of the world to another, connecting us with the rhythms of the earth in their ceaseless journey.

Signs and Wonders

In the coming days, we would watch the sky, taking note of the cirrus and the subtle cues they offered. Would there be rain, a storm, or perhaps a clear day that belies the cold snap in the air? Only time would tell, but for now, we stood in silent appreciation of nature’s grace, feeling the profound connection to the world around us that only a sunset watched together can bring.

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Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com

Thayer Preserve: Autumn Still Life 5

Ithaca’s bedrock, formed 370 million years ago, deeply influences its landscape, neutralizes rainwater’s acidity, and carries a story of Earth’s resilience and transformation.

In Ithaca, New York, the story of the land is deeply rooted in its geology. Beneath the vibrant autumn leaves and along the path of Lick Creek lies a bedrock formed 370 million years ago. This ancient foundation, once the sediment of a vast inland sea, now forms the solid base upon which the city stands.

The bedrock here is a silent witness to Earth’s long history. Originating in the Devonian period, it marks a time when vast seas covered much of the Earth’s surface. Within these ancient waters, life flourished, leaving behind sediments that, over eons, transformed into the layered rock beneath Ithaca.

These layers are more than just historical records; they actively shape the landscape. The bedrock influences soil composition, affects plant growth, and directs the flow of streams. Lick Creek, with its clear waters, is one such stream that interacts intimately with this bedrock.

In autumn, the beauty of this interaction is vividly displayed. The red and yellow maple leaves create a striking contrast against the grey-blue backdrop of the bedrock, a blend of the vibrant present with the ancient past. These fallen leaves, over time, decompose and enrich the soil, continuing a cycle of life that this bedrock has supported for millions of years.

This bedrock also plays a crucial role in water chemistry. As acidic rainwater percolates through it, a remarkable transformation occurs. The bedrock naturally neutralizes the acidity of the rainwater. By the time the water emerges as streams, it is buffered to a neutral pH. This process is vital for maintaining the ecological balance of the area. The streams that flow out, including Lick Creek, support diverse ecosystems thanks to this natural filtration process.

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The neutral pH water is crucial for the flora and fauna of Ithaca. It sustains the forests, the wildlife, and the natural beauty that defines the region. This water, once acid rain, purified by the ancient bedrock, now nurtures life in its journey.

In Ithaca, the bedrock is a testament to the enduring nature of our planet. It reminds us of the continuous cycle of transformation that defines the Earth. The contrast of the autumn leaves against the bedrock is not just a scene of ephemeral beauty; it symbolizes the dynamic interplay between the living and the geological, between the present and the deep past.

The bedrock of Ithaca, with its ability to neutralize acidic water, highlights the interconnectedness of natural processes. It shows how the Earth self-regulates and sustains life in intricate ways. As the buffered, neutral pH water of Lick Creek flows over this bedrock, it carries with it the story of a planet that is constantly renewing and sustaining itself.

In this landscape, the past is not just a memory; it is an active participant in the present. The bedrock, the autumn leaves, and the flowing streams tell a story of resilience, continuity, and the beauty of nature’s balance. This is the legacy of Ithaca’s bedrock, a legacy of endurance, transformation, and life.

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Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com

Harvest of Memories: A Finger Lakes Leaf Gathering Tale

A child and grandfather create lasting memories during a post-Thanksgiving leaf gathering ritual.

In the gentle embrace of the Finger Lakes region of New York State, the crisp post-Thanksgiving air is a mix of woodsmoke and the faint whisper of winter on the horizon. The earthy scent of fallen leaves, damp from the morning dew, begins to permeate the atmosphere, beckoning families outdoors to partake in the timeless ritual of leaf gathering.

The landscape is a canvas of russet and gold, painted by the hands of autumn. In one of the many serene backyards, framed by the skeletal silhouettes of trees now slumbering after their fiery display, a mound of leaves becomes the center of joyous activity. Here, a child, bundled in the cozy layers necessary to fend off the chill, is immersed in the simple, yet profound act of play. The leaves, a tapestry of oaks and maples, become her castle, her sea, her world to explore.

Her laughter rings clear, a melodic counterpoint to the rustling leaves as she is lifted high by loving hands only to descend into the crunchy embrace of her leafy playpen. A grandfather, his face etched with the smile lines of countless summers and autumns past, becomes the orchestrator of this joy. His flannel shirt, a patchwork of reds and greens, reflects the colors of the season, and his hands, weathered from years of tending to the earth and its cycles, now tenderly guide the child in her play.

The rake, usually a tool of labor, becomes a wand of magic, directing the leaves into heaps that rise and fall with each jump and dive. The child’s mittened hands grasp at the leaves, each one a different hue, a different shape, a different story. They fly up around her like a flock of birds taking flight, then settle back into their collective, creating a soft rustling symphony that speaks of the changing season.

As the sun begins to dip lower, casting elongated shadows across the yard, the child’s energy wanes. The vibrant activity gives way to tranquil moments of rest, with the child now lying still among the leaves, her eyes reflecting the vastness of the sky above, clear and blue, a window between the earthly and the infinite.

The day wanes, and the leaf-gathering winds down. A final tableau shows the child, now indoors, cocooned in the warmth of a blanket that mirrors the plaid of her grandfather’s shirt, the same colors now muted and soft. Her eyes are heavy with the weight of a day well spent, her dreams surely filled with the laughter and the leaves and the boundless love that turns even the simplest act into a treasure of memories.

This is the essence of leaf gathering in the Finger Lakes after Thanksgiving – not just the collection of what has fallen, but the gathering of family, of joy, and of moments that will be cherished and recalled long after the last leaf has been tucked into the earth’s winter bed. It’s a time when the harvest is not just of the land’s bounty but of the heart’s. Each leaf, a reminder that even as the world prepares to sleep beneath the snow, life is rich, full, and evergreen in the hearts of those who share it.

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Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com

White House Ruin

In 2003 and 2008, the author visited and photographed White House Ruin in Canyon de Chelly, observing changes in landscape.

In November 2003, my son Sean and I journeyed up Route 191 from Petrified Forest National Park, arriving in Chinle on a crisp autumn afternoon. My photography equipment at the time was modest: a Sony Point and Shoot 5 MP camera with filters, a purse-like over-the-shoulder bag, and a basic tripod from Kmart.

We reached the White House trailhead in Canyon de Chelly and began our hike. The trail was quiet, and as the sun set at 5:20 pm, we found ourselves virtually alone. A dense growth of Russian Olive trees dominated the wash at that time. In the dimming light, I captured a distant shot of the White House Ruin, whitewashed, set against the backdrop of autumn-hued Russian Olive foliage. Nearby, a grove of Cottonwoods, still green, stood near the canyon wall.

By the time Pam and I returned in July 2008, four years and nine months later, the landscape had changed. The invasive Russian Olives had been removed, and the White House Ruin was no longer painted white.

The same Route 191 that Sean and I had taken in 2003 led us through the Four Corners region of Northern Arizona. Pam and I had traveled from Colorado, arriving in the late afternoon. This time, the Navajo Reservation’s adherence to daylight savings time meant the sun wouldn’t set until 8:33 pm. My aim was to photograph the White House Ruin that I had missed years earlier.

That July day the sun set 8:33 pm as the Navajo Reservation observes daylight savings time. My goal was to photograph the White House Ruin I missed in 2003. We arrived at the trail head. My photography kit was expanded from 2003, now included a Kodak DSC Pro slr/C, the “C” meaning “Canon” lens mounting, a Sony 700 alpha slr (I only use a variable lens), Manfrotto tripod with hydrostatic ball head, and the backpack style Lowe camera case. With the tripod it is over 25 pounds.

With this on my back I was prepared to boogie down the trail. At the height of tourist season there were many more people at the trailhead. Pam, being a friendly person, started a conversation while I ploughed ahead along the flat canyon rim. It is solid red sandstone, beautiful, generally level with enough unevenness to require attention. When Pam saw how far ahead I was she tried to catch up, tripped, fell hard.

I backtracked to Pam and we decided what to do. She thought, maybe, the fall broke a rib. We decided to proceed and descended, slowly, together. Here we are in front of the ruin. The sun, low in the sky, is moving below the south canyon wall. This is a perfect time, and I used both cameras.

The sweep of cliff and desert varnish was my intent to capture. Here it is through the Canon 50 mm lens.

Click link for this White House photograph in my Online gallery.

I captured this version with the Sony Alpha 700 slr, the variable lens set to widest angle.

Click link for this White House photograph from my online gallery.

Here the camera setup waits out the sun…..

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Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com

Autumn Evening Hike, turning home

through Devil’s Kitchen to Lucifer Falls

In this third part, we continue hiking Treman gorge, approaching Lucifer Falls, viewing another waterfall further downstream and returning to the trailhead.

 Tiny Trumpet, unknown

I have never achieved a satisfactory capture of the waterfall in the Devil’s Kitchen, a place where the creek flow is diverted south by a projecting ridge. Less than 100 feet later the easterly direction is regained where the water plummets over Lucifer Falls.

The annual in fall of rock in Devil’s Kitchen uproots and crushes plants growing there. There is scant soil, the roots of this shiny purple trumpet bloom took hold in a microscopic crack. The plant is so thin, the flower so tiny it is lucky my gaze found it.

Click link for my fine art print “After the Rain: Showy Lady Slippers.”

After searching all my plant identification references, this plan is unknown to me.  Please help with identification. The bloom is 1/4 inch long.

Not far away, these asters grow from a slightly wider crack.  Pam pointed them out to me. I was drawn by the striking color difference of the heads growing from a single stalk.

Click link for my fine art print “Purple Asters.”

As trail winds around the ridge a stone wall rises on the right and for good reason.  The stream shortly reaches the brink of Lucifer Falls, 115 feet high.  Gorge walls fall away, the trail steepens.  Here is the view from the trail next to the brink.

At hand, on the right, a growth of ferns has survived many seasons.  Flowering plants are, in geological time (across billions of years), a relatively recent development compared to these non-flowering ferns.  The first flowering plants appears 120 million years ago compared to the first ferns, 360 million years ago.  Oddly enough, the spread of flowering plants affected evolution of ferns, an increase of fern speciation in parallel to the rise of flower plants.

While descending the stairs next to the falls brink, look to the right to see this ecosystem, a result of water seeping from the sedimentary rock stratification.

Here you can see how, at lower flow levels, the inactive sections of the fall lip become a garden.  In our climate, the entire brink is active for rare and brief intervals during spring thaws.  Note how, closer to the active brink, the grasses give way to mosses.  Where grasses grow the brink is almost never active.

The trail wall is a lighter color than the cliff, this is how you can see, on the right, the steep trail descent.

Pam and I turned around here.  This is some work I did August 2014 of a notable fall downstream from Lucifer.  I used the 24 mm Canon lens here, cropping the image.  My goal was to include the stair, for interest, with sunlight on the upper stairs; the water in shade.

Click link for my fine art print “Woodland Falls.”

Myrtle borders the trail as it rises from the gorge entrance.

Tree trunks fallen from the gorge walls are left to decay, restoring the soil.  The trunks are covered by moss among a thick growth of myrtle and a few ferns.

To finish, here is an image that may broaden your understanding of sunflowers. These smaller, ornamental sunflowers are, at first, difficult to place. Look carefully at the center, composed of many tiny flowers (florets). In crop sunflowers each of these becomes a seed. In this image, shiny beetles are feasting.

The End of this Evening Hike in Treman Gorge

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Copyright 2023 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved http://www.MichaelStephenWills.com