The Heart and Sole of Mud Season

A muddy path

Winter has passed, but spring hasn’t quite started yet. We are in the transitional period that results in that fifth season, known all too well by North Country residents: Mud Season.

As a child, this was by far my favorite “season.” My mother would no longer be nagging me to button up and put a hat on. I could slip into my (very fashionable) classic black rubber boots with red soles, to which I had formed a rather strong attachment. To me, those boots meant adventure, the freedom to explore beyond the fair-weathered limits to which my sneakers confined me.

I would romp around in the puddles and wallow in the mud like a little pig. Well OK, maybe I didn’t wallow per se, but I really liked to play in the mud. I loved the sounds my boots would make when I walked through a particularly deep patch. I fought with the soggy soil to keep my boots, even though the ground tried to suck them right off my feet.

A young pig playing in the mud

Sometimes I lost the battle. North Country mud puts up a good fight, mind you, and at times can be too much for a youngster. On a few of my wild expeditions, I can recall walking faster than my boots, and I would therefore out-step them, planting my exposed toes straight into a slimy mud pit. I’d look over my shoulder, as if I were doing something wrong, and silently slide my muddy foot back into my boot and carry on like nothing happened.

But that’s the beauty of rubber boots. They are designed to get dirty. When they are covered with mud, inside and out, the simple remedy is to blast them with the garden hose and hang them upside down to dry. In those days, it was always so simple.

Since then, I’ve taken quite a different view of Mud Season. I no longer envision slimy days of play and adventure, but rather annoyance at never being able to keep my car clean. I tire of raking up the clumps of mud that inevitably make their way into the house. I finally understand why my mother would get so upset when I accidentally walked inside before taking off my muddy rubber boots.

Muddy ruts in a North Country field

That’s how I discovered that I’m finally growing up. I’m not a little kid anymore, and those days of muddy adventures are over. They always told me to enjoy it while I could, and as much as I’d like to be able to say I made the best of it, I’m sure I could have squeezed a little more fun and excitement out of my childhood.

But for now, as a testament to my youth—and a strong resentment toward my adulthood—I’m going out to buy a pair of rubber boots. They will not be pink with purple polka dots, or anything as fashionable as that. I want a solid black pair, with red soles, of course.

On the Road (Again)

Over the past few years, I’ve driven the Northway dozens of times. I’ve braved the open roads in every type of weather imaginable– clear skies to torrential downpours so heavy I couldn’t see the flashers from the car 10 feet ahead of me. I’ve driven it alone and with friends, with time to dawdle or in a rush, with great tunes coming from my radio, and once, in an unbearable, droning silence when my radio just couldn’t last any longer. Now, I’m not going to bore you with proper road etiquette or anything like that. I guess this is just my musing, from the best of my memory,  as I enjoyed the drive on I-87 today.

My view from the passenger's seat

The ride has been “my thinking time.” It’s almost five uninterrupted hours where I can bounce thoughts around in my head, or just get into the driving zone. It’s been therapeutic, it’s been relieving, it’s been exciting. No matter what it’s been, it’s been one of the most influential experiences I’ve had in the Adirondacks. After all, most of my views of the Adirondacks have been through the glass of my windshield.

I can recall my first impression of the Adirondacks, as I made my first trip up to Plattsburgh. I was in that in-between state of sleep and wakefulness, as my mother navigated through the mountains. I can remember the enormous gray shadows of mountains looming in the distance behind a light fog, their summits rounded  like the bellies of sleeping giants.  It didn’t impress me much, but the dozens of rides since then have changed that.  I love, love, love driving through the mountains now; it’s so familiar, yet so new each time. I’m amazed by the changes the forest makes as the year transitions.

I remember sunny, cool, autumn days when the forest was on fire with the gorgeous colors of fall foliage and the view looked like something off a post card. I tried once, with little success, to capture the awe-inspiring vistas on my camera phone. Autumn is always my favorite time of year to drive through because, honestly, what better time is there?

I can still feel the sticky humidity of summer drives where I rolled the windows all the way down, turned my music all the way up, and gave thanks to the trees when their shadows provided a cool relief from the sun’s relentless beating on my car. The smell of summer is always so rich and fresh, intensified as I zip by the road markers and the grass and earth baking under the sun.

I can recall the most atrocious snowstorm during an evening two years ago, and the only time I ever went off the road in my lucky old ‘98 Dodge Stratus. The feeling of having the open road to myself in the huge Adirondack Park as evening approached wasn’t so great,  nor was the frustration of losing my cell service every time I called 911 to ask for help. That was the only time the road ever betrayed me. Its black ice was undetectable, unlike the dent left in my door as a reminder that even a slow crawl in a snow storm can be too fast.

But today, as I made my way back to school from my hometown four and a half hours away, the ride was different. Usually, I am the driver, but the untimely death of my beloved car meant that this time I caught a ride back with a friend. As the passenger, the ride was so familiar, yet still unrecognizable, like a family member you haven‘t seen in years. I thought back on all the time I’d spent racing along, counting white lines pass by. I overlooked all of the landmarks I used to gauge my distance in favor for the details I missed out on while I was focusing on the road, like the waterfalls that gushed out exuberantly from the craggy rock walls lining the road.

It was an incredibly different experience, and it reconnected me to how beautiful the park is, even when it’s muddy and the sky is gray, like it was today. I loved coasting over miles and miles of pavement and being able to just enjoy the environment. It gave me an odd, wonderful sense of satisfaction.

Tweet, tweet, tweetly-tweet!

It’s heeeeeere! Well, almost. Even though temperatures have been rising recently, getting into the mid-fifties, even the low sixties in some places,  I can’t say that spring has sprung just yet. There’s one thing I’m waiting for.

I’m giddy like a little kid for a personal tradition that I look forward to ever year: spotting the original early bird, the red-breasted American Robin. Every year, I can’t wait to see my first Robin.

As symbols of the end of winter and the coming of spring, the American Robin (turdus migratorius), is one of the first indicators to me that the long, snowy (or not, this year) winter is over. When the Robin is out, singing and darting around hunting for worms, I start to anticipate spring.  Soon it’ll be time to work on the garden, pull my bike out of the shed, and do the dreaded yearly overhaul my mom cheerfully calls “Spring Cleaning.” But let’s not think about that for now.

American Robin photo by Wikipedia user Mdf

Also called the North American Robin and the Red-Breasted Robin, the migratory songbird is a type of thrush, which explains its scientific name (turdus meaning thrush, migratorius meaning migrating). Even though it’s named after the European Robin, the American Robin is a completely different species, of which there are seven hazily-defined subspecies.

With gray-brown feathers and distinctively reddish orange chests and bellies, the American Robin is one of the most easily identifiable birds.  The head of the bird is darker than the body, the bill is yellow, and the belly and underside of the tail are white or light gray. There is a vague distinction between the sexes; females are usually lighter, compared to males.

According to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, the American Robin is  “the largest of the North American thrushes.”  Because they are so easily recognizable, they’re a good starting point for beginning birdwatchers. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology also says, “Robins make a good reference point for comparing the size and shape of other birds, too.”

Robins are known as early birds for several reasons, the most obvious being that they are one of the first birds to be seen after the winter. Surprisingly, even though they migrate to breed, Robins can be found in our area year-round. They are just more likely roosting in the trees than on the ground searching for berries, fruit, insects and earthworms. In the spring, birdwatchers have a better chance of seeing the bird engage in its quirky “running and stopping” behavior, another of the Robin’s distinguishing characteristics.

Because Robins are so well-known, it’s no surprise to find their many inclusions in our culture. The Robin is the state bird of Connecticut, Michigan and Wisconsin, and there’s even a crayon named for the color of their eggs, Robin’s egg blue. If you haven’t gotten the tune of  “Rockin’ Robin” by Bobby Day stuck in your head yet, well, it won’t be long. And if you have, click here to listen.  Even Robin of Batman fame is clearly inspired by the American Robin; his red shirt isn’t just a coincidence. I’m sure there are countless other references to the Robin in pop culture.

One of my favorite things about Robins is their song. They provide the soundtrack to spring. There is nothing like throwing open the windows on a sunny spring day, and letting the breeze and melody of the Robin float into your home. Whether it’s a warning call, or their clear, lilting song, I’m listening. Since Robins are starting to be more active, I know that even if I haven’t seen one yet, I’ll probably hear them announcing spring’s arrival soon.

Have you seen the American Robin yet?

I Want to Ride My Bicycle

A riding trail in spring

Pump your tires and grease your chains, folks, biking season is upon us! 

The change in seasons can be an invigorating time that inspires us to spring into outdoor activity and take on nature at full throttle. My favorite way to enjoy spring is by breaking out my mountain bike. 

It can be tempting to pick up your riding where you left off when the snow started flying back in November, but believe me, a lot has changed over the last four months with your bike, your body and the trails. Here are a few tips on how to get you and your bike ready to open the riding season with as little suffering as possible. 

If you’re anything like me, your bike has probably been sitting in the corner collecting dust and laundry since last fall. Although it is tempting to drag it out and take a spin around the block as is, it’s not a great idea if you plan on getting the most out of your bike this season. 

At the very least, you’ll need to grease your chain and pump your tires. If you have some degreaser handy, use it to clean the chain with an old towel before you apply new lubricant. 

Chances are your tires have lost a lot of air in their hibernation, so you’ll have to refill them, but be sure to check the recommended pressure on the sidewall. Most mountain bike tires have a recommended pressure of 55-65 PSI, or pounds-per-square-inch, which usually can’t be achieved with an average foot or hand pump. Grab some quarters and take it to your local gas station and use their pump. Stewart’s Shops usually have free air, but if you don’t live near one, make sure you bring some extra quarters to the gas station, just in case your time runs out mid-fill. 

Warning: Don’t ride your bike to the gas station, walk it or drive instead. Riding with low tires is an easy way to get a pinch-flat, or roll the whole front end on a turn, which can lead to injury and bent rims. Bent rims are worse.

Of course, you can avoid all of that and just take your bike to the shop for an annual tune-up. For around $50 in the beginning of the season, you can save the time, stress and expense of dealing with crooked wheels, slacked chains and loose shifting cables that will end your season by June. I also highly recommend getting your bike to the shop as soon as possible. If you wait until there’s a problem, not only will it cost more to fix, but come summer, the average bike shop has a two or three week backlog of repairs. That’s a lot of riding to miss out on.

After your bike is ready to go, the next problem to overcome is saddle-sore. Over the last four months, the nerves in your seat have regenerated and it’s time to kill them again. I’ve found that there are two ways to deal with getting your riding seat back. You can buy a pair of riding shorts with a padded seat to keep the bruising to a minimum, or you can just ride everyday for two weeks until you can’t feel it anymore. Either way, it’s the biggest obstacle to overcome, so make it your prime objective of the pre-season. Don’t worry about getting your hard learned skills back from last season; by the time your saddle-sore is gone, a lot of your skills will be back. It’s just like riding a bike.

Not only have you and your bike change over the winter, no doubt your favorite trails have too. The path you knew like the back of your hand last fall could be much different in the spring, thanks to downed limbs, fallen rocks and overgrown brush. Before you go gung-ho on your usual loop, take a slow ride on it and reacquaint yourself with the terrain. A good way to shorten your riding season is to fly down your favorite hill into a blind curve that may have a fallen tree at the bottom. This slow pre-season ride is also a good time to take a long a few grooming tools as well. Some hedge-clippers, a pack-saw and a few strong friends should be able to clear anything from the trail.

Not only have the trails changed, the rules may have too. The Adirondack Park has an extensive trail system, with an extensive set of regulations for hikers and bikers. Of the Adirondack Park Agency’s 15 classifications for land use, only seven apply to public lands, and only four of those apply to recreational users. The APA classifies these lands as wilderness, canoe, primitive and wild forest. Mountain bikers are only allowed to ride on trails in the wild forest areas and although this seems unfair, the wild forest area makes up over a million acres of the Park and has countless miles of trails to ride. So be sure you check to make sure your favorite trails are still “legal” to ride on.

 The last thing we should brush up on is some basic trail etiquette. According to the book, Mountain Biking in the Adirondacks, by Gary Thomann, mountain bikers in the Adirondacks have no right-of-way, and you should yield to pretty much everyone. It’s easy to scare the daylights out of hikers when flying down a mountain trail. Keep your eyes and ears alert for hikers, dogs, horses and anyone else who may be on the trails and try to stay to the right when you come to them. Although four-wheelers and dirt-bikes aren’t allowed on most trails in the park, that doesn’t mean you won’t come across one, so stay alert.

 Spring riding can be a muddy affair, but as any Adirondack hiker knows, some trails have mud holes year round. When it comes to these, ride through the middle. It’s better to make a mud hole deeper than wider, and if you’re using a proper biking technique you should be dirty anyway.

As with any other activity, there is countless advice to give, but hopefully this will get you started on the right track. There is nothing worse than ending your riding season before it begins with a broken bike or body part. Enjoy the season and your bike, and I hope to see you on the trails.

Oh, and wear a helmet.

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