It looks like alien blood!

Map lichen on Wright Peak

Few summers have been as dreary as the one we suffered in 2009, and no summer has made me appreciate sunshine more. The grey finally took a day off, affording me the privilege of embarking upon a warm, clear-sky, cool-breeze hike up Wright Peak in late August. To my delight, I found something more stunning than a superb view patiently awaiting my arrival atop the mountain’s rocky summit.

As the sun made its way closer to the tops of the rugged ranges of the western Adirondacks, I was zipping up my wind breaker and catching one last glimpse of Mt. Colden’s slides before heading off of Wright’s summit. I removed my sunglasses so I could see the features of the steep rock better and there it was—what had once appeared as dark blotches leapt from every slab of anorthosite in a brilliant display of lime green. “My God,” I uttered. “It looks like something with green blood was slaughtered up here!”

From a distance, Rhizocarpon geographicum, or map lichen, looks like green splatter marks with a black spore border. It dots every exposed surface of the rock on Wright Peak in various size splotches; some are over a foot across and others barely an inch. In places where several splotches have converged, the green coloration coupled with a darker border gives it the appearance of continents on a map. Up close, it has a dry, scaly look and it is surprisingly brittle to the touch, especially considering the harsh environment it calls home. No stranger to the elements, map lichen favors cold, open areas of rock, making the exposed alpine zones of the High Peaks prime territory for this species.

Mt. Marcy from the alpine zone on Wright

Research is showing that the environment map lichen lives in might not be quite as harsh as expected. Climatologists consider healthy patches of map lichen to be an indicator of good air quality, and also use them to estimate the age of glacial deposits, a technique called lichenometry. The technique is based on the fact that crustose lichens, of which map lichen is a part, can live for more than 4,000 years.

Map lichen’s ability to grow old gracefully is truly a testament to the resiliency of the species. They are so resilient, in fact, that when the European Space Agency sent map lichen into orbit around Earth in 2005 and exposed it to outer space for 15 days, it returned virtually unaffected.

It is as if this species only criteria are conditions deemed inhospitable by other species. Despite the struggles surviving in such locales must entail, the map lichen just sits there, biding its time and giving an otherworldly brilliance to alpine regions world wide.

Time to Listen

Cedar waxwing resting on a branch

I always hear them before I see them. Their soft, charming songs echo throughout the forest and eventually reach my ears. They flutter at the branches of fruit-bearing trees to nab a tasty snack. They are cedar waxwings, and to me, they are the most marvelous birds there are.

 I’m not positive why I love them so much – it’s just one of those things. The birds aren’t rare in our parts; they aren’t flashy or remarkably colorful, yet I always get excited when I spot one.

 I feel that cedar waxwings are very much underrated. Cardinals get a lot of attention; everyone recognizes the bird when they see it. But a cedar waxwing… what is that?

 Allow me.

Cedar waxwings can be found across the United States all year, and make their way to Canada in the summer. Acclimated to the cool weather of the North Country, cedar waxwings sometimes remain in the area during the winter. Although they do migrate south, the birds generally follow a nomadic migration pattern, moving where the food is. They feed mainly on fruits and berries, but they eat insects as well.

The cedar waxwing, scientifically labeled Bombycilla cedrorum, is a medium-sized bird with a brown head and chest; it blends in. The color fades from brown to a light gray on the wings, which are tipped with bright yellow droplets. The subtle hues of earth tones adorned by the bird enable it to hide and go unnoticed.

Their bellies are lemon-yellow, a trait that distinguishes cedar waxwings from their relatives, Bohemian waxwings. Sporting a black mask neatly traced in white, the birds strike me as very mysterious, which is perhaps why I find them so fascinating. Atop their heads, the birds are crowned with subtle crests, appropriate of the modest creatures.

Perhaps because the cedar waxwing appears to be so simple – an average Joe, if you will – I can relate to the bird so strongly. It doesn’t want attention. It just wants to live and let live.

I feel that in general, people tend to be in such a rush these days that they don’t “stop to smell the roses,” to be cliché. But I find this also applies when lending an ear to the lovely notes of a songbird.

They may not be extraordinary, unusual, or the most strikingly beautiful birds of the forest, but cedar waxwings should not be overlooked because of their normalcy; they deserve a little recognition once in a while. I think it’s about time we listen.

Range map: Yellow - summer range; Green - all year range; Blue - winter range

Missed Connections

Photo by Jessica Dubé

I was a tomboy as a kid. Seriously. My mom believed that children should play outdoors unless it was raining or unbearably hot, and my dad always preferred to live in secluded areas in the country, so I spent most of my non-school hours entertaining myself (with the help of Chewy, a somewhat wild pit-bull mix). I was a tree-climbing champion who didn‘t mind dirt or bugs.

Now, well, not so much. Unfortunately, with age also came laziness (I’m still working on that wisdom thing). As a college student, I spend hours upon hours looking at a computer screen or reading every week. I do not spend too many hours outdoors enjoying nature, which is a shame. I mean, I chose a school in the Adirondacks. I planned to go hiking, or white-water rafting, or even just walking the trails in beautiful Point-au-Roche State Park. I just… got caught up in things. I forgot to make time and enjoy my surroundings, and it was all too easy to disconnect.

So I propose this: I’m going to do something outside. Not just, you know, walking to class or sitting on the bench in front of my dorm. I want to do something that puts me out of my element.  I can’t believe I’ve never hiked Poke-O-Moonshine! A lot of students have done that during their freshman year.

Now, I don’t want to sound all “city-girl-goes-North-Country,” but I’m from Syracuse. I’m a beginner, and my goal is simple– I just want to feel close to nature again. I would love to remember what it felt like to come back home smelling like the outside, and with all the opportunities the Adirondacks are putting on the menu, there’s no better time.

Got any suggestions or challenges? Let me know.

Get Lost!

A basic Google map showing roads and steams.

Recently there was another incident in the Adirondack Park that has raised safety concerns about the absence of cell phone towers. According to an article published in the Press Republican, a woman in her 60s got her car stuck after walking her dog in Duane, N.Y. It seems that when she went for help, she became lost and was eventually found hours later near the entrance to the Paul Smith’s visitor’s center.

            A passing motorist saw the woman and attempted to call 911 for help, but the call was dropped, even though it was just a mile from Verizon’s new tower. The lost woman suffered frostbite and hypothermia in the 8 degree weather.

            Now, I’m not about to sit here and debate whether or not there should be more cell phone towers in the Adirondacks or to place blame on the woman who was lost. I would like to make this an opportunity to discuss some basic outdoor safety.

            Having been lost in the woods myself, I know that it can be a bit nerve-racking, but it can also be an opportunity for fun and excitement. The old Boy Scout motto of “be prepared” is a bit cliché these days, but it is absolutely true. I’m not suggesting that you need 70 lbs of survival gear in your rucksack. In fact, the best survival tools weigh nothing at all; they’re the knowledge you carry out into the woods.

            For starters, make sure you are dressed appropriately for the weather, not just where you are, but where you are going, since many mountains can be much colder at the top than at the bottom.

            Also, whenever you embark on an outdoor excursion, alone or with friends, make sure that you tell someone where you are going and when you should be back. It can be a neighbor, a friend or a relative. They can even live in California, as long as you call them when you get home. That way, if you aren’t back by your designated time, someone will know to start looking for you.

A topographical map showing mountains and streams. Courtesy of Google

             Next, take a few minutes before you leave to study a map of where you are going. It doesn’t have to be a topographic surveyor’s map, though that will do just fine, any map from Google will work. All you need to look for are roads and streams or other bodies of water, as these make the easiest and most obvious landmarks to use as reference points.

            It is also every easy to get disoriented or to follow the wrong trail, particularly if you hiking on a trail you are either not familiar with or at a different time of year than you normally would. One time I got lost on the east side of Lake George when I accidentally began following a well used deer run that looked enough like the trail I was on. To make matters worse I was following a compass that being thrown off by massive iron ore deposits. Although that is not a typical problem, it is something to consider.

            There are ways to roughly determine north, and from there decide which way you came into the woods so you can backtrack to your car. On that particular day, I knew that the road I had parked on was west of the trails so I walked towards the late-afternoon sun. I’ll admit it didn’t work quite as well as I thought it would, but it got me to a road that I could follow out.

            I’ve since learned that the sun can be used as a more accurate compass than I’d ever imagined. According to “The Backpacker’s Field Manual,” by Rick Curtis, you can use your watch to determine a basic direction. To do this, point the hour-hand at the sun and south will be halfway between the hour-hand and the 12. Although this method is not super accurate, it is better than nothing.

            All of this advice is useless, however, if you panic. Having a proper positive attitude is essential for any survival situation, as panic can lead to hasty decisions that can be fatal. If you have trouble doing this, pretend you are a kid again on a backyard adventure. Sure it’s silly, but at least you’ll increase your chances of survival.

            This blog is far too small to list everything you need to know to survive being lost, but hopefully it inspires you to do a bit more digging of your own. At the very least, maybe if you are lost someday, my words on the subject come back to you in your time of need.

            If you are interested in knowing more about hiking and survival, I highly recommend “The Backpacker’s Field Manual,” by Rick Curtis, director of Princeton’s Outdoor Acton program for basic hiking info. Then for survival information there is “Tom Brown’s Field Guide to Wilderness Survival,” which is an indispensable source on the subject.

Good luck out there.

A lesson in self preservation

The weather in the mountains mirrors human emotion in a dynamic way.  Its mood can shift with a bipolar quality that is startling and seemingly unpredictable, yet there are usually warning signs that can urge even the most intrepid hiker to turn back.  A failed attempt at Porter Mountain last summer made me realize that even under the best of conditions, it is often wise to heed what a temperamental sky is trying to tell me.    

My drive to the Porter Mountain trailhead took place during the most ideal of mornings.  I remember looking up and seeing large, puffy white clouds framed by an open, deep blue sky.  It made me feel welcome, like an inviting smile.  “Come.” it said to me.   “Get to know me today.”  The air was warm and the breeze was telling the black flies to stay away, protecting me from annoyance and pain.  Everything felt right, and I decided it was a good day to take my time.

The thickening gray above Giant. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

Approaching Porter from the Marcy Airfield requires an ascent of a rugged little cobble called Blueberry Mountain.  It probably took over an hour for me to reach the first of Blueberry’s many open rock stretches, and as I turned to enjoy the view I noticed some pale gray clouds collecting in the sky to the south.  I interpreted this as some late afternoon showers, something I was prepared to cope with on the final leg of my return.   It was nothing to worry about, because the skies above were still compelling me to come closer.

Several vistas later I was standing atop Blueberry scanning the ridge I was to follow up Porter, whose summit was now in clear view.  Up above clouds were racing by, the way thoughts pass through the anxious mind in a moment of panicked frenzy.  My mind, however, was calm.  So far the day had been superb, so it seemed a shame to turn my back on the mountain.  There was, after all, still a backdrop of blue in the sky, and the distance I had to cover was a mere two miles.  In hindsight I realize I had ignored obvious warning signs.  This was no passing mood—the sky was telling me to stay away, that today would not be my day.

It took me a little while to find the faded paint blaze that marks where the trail reenters the forest.  After I finally discovered the opening, I took one last look over my shoulder and noticed I could no longer see the rocky top of Giant Mountain across the valley.  Thin wisps of mist had cloaked the summit and were beginning to stretch down into the great cirque that characterizes Giant’s western flank.  I now only had memories of the view that once was.  Common sense dictated a retreat, and the thought had crossed my mind, but for some reason I couldn’t stop.  I had to try to go a little farther, just in case the weather miraculously improved. 

Turning my back on logic, I began the steep descent into the soggy col that separates Blueberry from Porter.  Entering the vegetation at the bottom of the col is like walking into the throat of some tremendous beast.  It is extremely wet and dense, and it gives a true sense of being closed in.  I caught few glimpses of the sky as I fought my way through this miserable stretch, and was shocked by what was waiting for me on the other side. 

My mind snapped into focus, and I immediately turned around and began a speedy retreat.  I plowed through the throat of the beast, ignoring the sharp branches that tore at my skin and whipped my face.  Upon returning to Blueberry’s naked dome, I saw that the stage had been set for a full-scale downpour.  Everything to the south had been consumed by darkness and a flash of lightning, quickly followed by a burst of thunder, reaffirmed that I was now in the wrong place at the wrong time.  The mountain which lies just east of my vantage point, the aptly named Hurricane Mountain, was also beginning to vanish.  I was being surrounded by the storm.  The good times were over, I had my fun.  It would be a mad dash to safety from here on out.

Charging down Blueberry, my objective became simple—get past the exposed sections of trail before the lightning could punish me for my lack of reasoning.  The entire experience was frightening, as every bolt that split the sky was closer and every shout that followed was more deafening than its predecessor.  The frequent views I had previously enjoyed now instilled fear.  The sky above was no longer amicable, it was enraged.  There were no signs of wildlife; no chirping birds, no scurrying chipmunks.  Even the trees were different; they were swaying violently and I could hear their branches clacking together.  It was as if everything that was good on this adventure was turning against me, and I longed to be back in the shelter of the valley below.

Looking south from Blueberry. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

The descent became a race against the elements.  The details are scattered, and all I clearly remember is jogging across every exposed section of trail, hoping my haste didn’t cause an injury.  The forest below never seemed as close as the lightning, my breath never seemed as heavy as the wind, and my heart never beat as loud as the thunder.  I was running out of time.

When I finally set foot onto flat ground, I felt a surge of delight fill me.  I was finally off of the mountain, but I still had a half mile to go.  As I approached a brook the sky lit up and crackled, refreshing my memory that lightning does strike trees, and I was surrounded by them.  I could hear rain, but it was not upon me yet.  I switched from a jog to a run, with nothing but the sound of the impending downpour to keep me focused on the task at hand. 

Minutes later, I was standing at the trailhead.  I was almost there, but there was one more obstacle to overcome.  Between me and my car was about 100 feet of dirt parking lot.  I was now a lightning rod.  Raindrops began slapping against the ground and the wind was fierce.  It was cursing me, mocking me.  The tiny mountain on the other side of the valley was the only feature I could see—everything behind it was gone.  I removed my keys from my backpack and got ready to run.  I took a deep breath and FLASH!  A bolt of lightning struck the backside of the tiny mountain and I was off before the last grumble of thunder echoed into oblivion. 

I wasted no time getting into the sanctuary of my car, where I rested, quiet and relieved.  The full brunt of the storm hit and I just sat there, enjoying its brilliance and waiting for it to pass me by.  From this vantage the lightning was stunning, and the thunder no longer seemed to be clapping in anger.  Instead, I felt like it was applauding me.  I sighed, and realized I had learned my lesson the hard way.  Sometimes it is better to appreciate the intense nature of things from a safe place.  In life, as in with the mountains, there is no shame in turning your back on something that can only bring you harm.

An outsider’s view

Sunset on Lake Champlain. Photo from freedigitalphotos.net

I have lived in Vermont all my life and have been fortunate to call a small peak overlooking Lake Champlain my home. Not far from there, I have found, nestled among the brambles of the precarious shore, something I treasure very dearly: my happy place.

Ever since I was little, I would walk or bike the one mile to the shimmering shoreline of Lake Champlain. Sure, it wasn’t much of a beach. The sand was riddled with broken glass, sharp rocks, the occasional pile of bones and decomposing fish, and a beachgoer had to beware of poison ivy. With high water, it was really more of a lakeside parking spot than a beach, but to me, it was the most wonderful place I could imagine.

The perfect vantage point it provided me made this beach so special. Out across the choppy water, the sun would lazily dance toward the waves, painting the sky a vibrant yellow-orange, and eventually a shade of grapefruit red before tucking itself behind the Adirondacks.

As I watched the sun set one evening, it occurred to me that many people across the lake never get to witness this masterpiece. I pondered this awhile and came to the conclusion that I am stealing, in some way, shape, or form. It’s like an artist’s work is on display, but I am the only one to see it.

Of course, this observation never stopped me from returning to my beach and stealing glances at the western shore. Call me a thief, but I won’t hesitate to do it again. There is some satisfaction in gaining such delight from the distant mountains without being able to touch them. I only hope, as a matter of fairness to my neighbors across the lake, that the sunrise over the Green Mountains also holds the capacity to take one’s breath away.

What’s a nor’easter?

You know when one is about to hit. Grocery stores swell with shoppers stocking up on bottled water and canned goods. Municipal snowplows make preemptive sanding runs through the quiet streets. Nothing sends North Country folks into a tizzy quite like a good nor’easter. What is it that makes these unholy blizzards that blow from the wrong way so powerful?

Nor'easter image courtesy of National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

Nor’easters are known to bring enormous amounts of precipitation and wind gusts upwards of 50 miles per hour. In the winter, which seems to be most of the time here, all of that wind and rain translates into a lot of snow and ice. A nor’easter is basically a wet and windy storm that blows up the East Coast. Although these storms can occur anytime of year, the prime season is from September to April when frigid artic air blows southeast from the Canadian plains and meets northbound warm air on the Gulf Stream. This collision of warm and cold air masses creates a cyclonic storm off the coast that equates to the winter version of a tropical storm.

These storms occur often and usually aren’t very strong, but when they do get big, they can pack a wallop. Burlington is still digging out from the nearly 3 feet of snow it picked up in early January, but that was an isolated total. Most of the Adirondacks got only 6 inches so.

Most storms occur as the result of warm and cool air masses collide, and the more extreme the difference between temperatures of the air masses, the more powerful the storm. We just happen to live in a part of the world where extremely cold air blows down from Canada to collide with warm air moving up the East Coast.

The art of solitude

Last summer, I successfully climbed 15 High Peaks and countless smaller mountains. Having grown weary of trying to convince others to join me, I spent the majority of my time exploring the Adirondacks alone.  People hear this and are quick to show their surprise at such an endeavor.  “You mean, you spent that much time, out there, alone?”  Yes, I did, and it taught me the difference between loneliness and solitude.

Looking toward the Flowed Lands from Mount Colden. Photo by Shaun Kittle.

In my mind, finding something that truly brings joy is a precious thing.  Hiking has that effect on me; I am always happy when I am in the woods.  It was lonesome at first, seeing all of this beauty and having no one to share it with, and yet I felt drawn to it.  I came to terms with the fact that if I wanted to be out there, I had to go no matter what.

The first few solo hikes were strange.  I found myself hurrying along to give myself more time just in case something happened.  I became nervous when I saw clouds rolling in, and every skinned knee felt like a warning that next time, it could be my skull bouncing off that rock.  Arriving at my destination brought a sense of accomplishment, until I realized that the journey was only half over.  I still had to make it back. 

Persistence is a terrible disease of mine.  I could not let fear, or loneliness, stop me from being close to something that felt so good.  Spring melted into summer, and I continued to hit the trails.  As the days grew longer, I discovered that I was no longer calling everyone I could think of, looking for a partner.  My pace on the trails slowed, affording me the opportunity to look around, into the forest  instead of at the obstacles at my feet.  I was becoming comfortable out there, and it felt good.

As I opened up to my surroundings, they welcomed me in the gentlest of ways.  Life began to spring forth from every granite stone, every rotten snag, every fern grove.  It swam in the waters, dove from the sky, and peeked at me from the most unlikely of places.  There I was, surrounded by nature, standing waist deep in John’s Brook with the hot summer sun warming the frigid water that was dripping down my chest.  I had found my peace, but the loneliness of solitude remained.

It was sometime in July when I decided to make the 12-mile loop over Mount Colden. The day was pleasant and warm, with occasional bands of clouds slowly rolling by overhead.  I made the summit and relaxed, facing the Flowed Lands as I wrote and enjoyed the view.  Over the course of an hour, the clouds thickened, and I decided it was time to head back.  As I descended Colden’s smaller summit, I stopped to take a drink and noticed there was an inchworm on my shoulder.  A stowaway!  I let it climb onto my finger and watched as it crawled along.  It was then that I realized that I was not alone.  I set the inchworm down and saw my surroundings in a new light.  I no longer just looked at the life around me, I recognized it.  

As I continued walking back, toward Adirondak Loj, every turn of the trail put me in touch with something familiar.  At the time I was unable to identify them by name, but they were there.  The smell of balsam fir, the trillium that add artist’s strokes to the forest floor, the knock knock knock of the pileated woodpecker.  There was a hint of rain in the air, and I could hear the leaves above me shivering.  I have always felt an uncanny sense of energy in the forest, and as I made my retreat, I realized why.  The energy does not come from me; it comes from the life that surrounds me. 

So now, when people tell me they can’t join me on my next excursion, I tell them it’s OK.  I no longer tell them I’ll be going alone.  Instead, I tell them I’m going to visit a few close friends, and I’m fine with that.  My pace on the trail has slowed considerably, and I now find myself enjoying every nuance of the forest.  Sure, the view at the end is inspiring, but it is the experience of being in nature that I find most rewarding.  I am forever indebted to the Adirondacks because they have taught me something I will never forget: With so much life around us, we are never truly alone in this world.

Greenbacks for being green

As carbon emissions increase and the economy declines, the stock market isn’t the only place doing trading these days. Carbon credits are traded among power plants and industries as part of a regulatory scheme to lower greenhouse-gas emissions. One carbon credit is roughly equivalent to one ton of carbon dioxide that would be released into the environment.

Adirondack forests store a huge amount of carbon.

Carbon credits can be bought by polluting companies, but they also can be earned if the companies protect forestlands or replant forests that can help filter out the carbon they emit. Every stand of trees that can filter out carbon is a “carbon sink” and can contribute carbon credits to that company.

But as carbon credits were doled out across the North Country and Adirondacks, no one thought to give municipalities credits for the sinks within their borders—until now. In some Adirondack towns, more than 70 percent of the land is in the forever-wild Forest Preserve. In short, the towns are huge carbon sinks. If these carbon sinks had been owned or protected by a power plant, the plant would earn carbon credits.

In an interview with North Country Public Radio, Adirondack Council spokesman John Sheehan suggested that in today’s turbulent economy, perhaps Adirondack towns should be compensated with carbon credits, just as companies are. They could then trade these credits to polluting plants and perhaps boost their local economies. (Click here to listen to the interview.)

In effect, local government could make money off of the policies they’ve been living with for decades, leading me to think that maybe Kermit was wrong: maybe it is easy being green.